ReVival 86

A blocky red armchair sits in front of a beige wall, fuzzy at first before coming into focus. It’s empty for a few seconds.

…

Then we hear slow, deliberate footsteps across a tile floor, the kind of loud footsteps you might expect from some of the finer dress shoes.

And then, he enters the frame wearing a tucked-in black tee, black slacks, and a teal belt with yellow plastic sunglasses over his eyes. His movements are stiff and slow. He awkwardly and rigidly turns to the side to slip into his seat, not allowing his head to turn independently from his neck and torso.

His arm is in a sling.

…

FLAMBERGE: Alors, hello friends. This, eh, this is not the sort of thing that is normally in my bag, but it was important to me that you heard this from my lips and from no one else. Worse would be a headline in a news article, or even worst of all, the Rumor Mills.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. We catch a hint of a grimace out of the corner of his mouth that he stifles by clearing his throat.

FLAMBERGE: I must be away for a time.

He lightly bobs his slinged arm.

FLAMBERGE: I have been diagnosed with the UCL tear, and a bit scarier for me at the moment, I have not succeeded in passing the concussion protocols. These are both against my wishes, and frankly, I am the furious about it….but I want to clear some airs about this, here, publicly, for the world.

FLAMBO uses his good hand to remove his sunglasses. His left eye has a moderate subconjunctival hemorrhage.

FLAMBERGE: While I am furious to be told I am too unwell to redeem myself following my double defeats at Culture Shock, I am not furious with Cecilworth Farthington. I am not even upset with him, which, ouais, yes, I sobbed like the baby after submitting to his Article 51. You would have too, armchair wrestlers at home. You would have too. You build a thing up so large in your mind for months, years even, you give it everything you have even to the point of the body itself shattering to the pieces, only to fail – it crashed over me like the ocean wave.

He looks over at his slung arm, almost with a sense of pity for the limb that ended up pushing itself just a bit too much.

FLAMBERGE: That explains this. The second bit, the concussion…I do not blame Cecilworth for this either. To be honest, I do not even know when it happened, if it was the piledriver, if it was earlier in the night, or even if it was from Night One. All I know is what I was told days later, which is that I tried to storm out of the back to try to fight again, even though our match was done and another match was taking place. I do not have the memory of this. I do not even remember hearing the ring bells from our match ending, which is concerning. Joe says he has a video, which I refuse to watch…I do not want to know how ugly I got. I have heard enough to know it was troubling. More troubling is just the blanks of my memories of that night which I cannot…

Something catches him, maybe tears in his throat, maybe a sense that he’s revealing too much, but he stops, breathes, collects himself, and places the sunglasses back over his eyes.

FLAMBERGE: What did I say at the start of 2026? I said, no matter what happens, Glue will be on top. And it is, and it will continue to be. Glue friends stick together. So, necks of PRIME – enjoy this temporary reprieve from the infamous wrath of the Neck Collector, but do not get too comfortable and do not think you are capable of toppling the Glue Boiz in my absence. I will be back, and I will be itchy.

He stands up stiffly and departs as we cut to…

It’s the start of ReVival 86, and that means one thing… SIGNS.

CONGRATULATIONS TO CRASH AND FELIX MULLEN FOR BECOMING INTRUDERS #3 AND #4!
DIAMOND VS EMERALD! A SCIENTIFIC STUDY IN A PRIME RING!
SAGE VS PEPPER! A CULINARY STUDY IN A PRIME RING!
CRUMBLOOD 4 PRESIDENT
IF YOU ARE READING THIS SIGN EVERYTHING IS OKAY AND THE RED ARMY WAS NOT FEATURED IN THE COLD OPEN
SEE FLAMBERGE LIVE ON THE ACE NEWTWORK
I WOULD BE HOLDING THIS SIGN BUT I CAN’T BECAUSE MY HANDSOME CHILD HAS STRAINED MY ELBOW FROM WHEN I LIFTED HIM
OMG THAT’S DISGUSTING. WHERE DID HE POST THOSE? IVAN STANISLAV FEET PICS ONLINE? DISGUSTING. WHERE DID HE POST THOSE? THERE’S SO MANY OF THOSE SITES! WHICH ONE?!
IF TEAM STANISLAV CAN’T MAKE IT IN THIS CRAZY WORLD, WHAT HOPE IS THERE FOR THE REST OF US
IF TAL WAS A BRAIN IN A MECH SUIT, HE’D BE THE KRANGLO LUCHADOR
PRIME MUSCLE GIRL BAR WHEN?
WE SHIP ROSEPEPPER
I DROVE 97000 MILES TO WATCH JILES GET RANDALLPLEXED THROUGH THE COMMENTARY TABLE
I DROVE 97000 MILES TO WATCH RANDALL GET JILESPLEXED THROUGH THE COMMENTARY TABLE BUT THEN I REMEMBERED KENNY IS FACING QUINN FLEETWOOD AND LMAO
I JUST WALKED 500 MILES THEN I JUST WALKED 500 MORE JUST TO BE THE MAN WHO WALKED 1000 MILES TO FALL DOWN AT YOUR DOOR, BUT IT TURNS OUT IT WAS VICKIE HALL’S DOOR SO NOW I’M RUNNING BACK LIKE I’M FORREST GUMP
I ONLY HAD TO DRIVE 97 MILES TO GET HERE, SUCKERS!
I TOOK THE BUS
I HAD AN AWESOME SIGN WITH A BUNCH OF WORDS BUT SECURITY CONFISCATED IT, APPARENTLY IT WAS TOO BIG AND DIDN’T FIT IN THE STATE
BALAAM LIVES SAYS THE DONKEY
I AM 100% AMERICAN CITIZEN. IT COST ONLY 1,497,506 RUBLES TO HOSPITALIZE ROBIK NEPTUNE? THIS IS STEAL! I AM SORRY, NOT RUBLES, 20,000 AMERICAN US DOLLARS!
$20,000??? WOW WHAT DID BOBBY NEPTUNE HAVE, A HANGNAIL?
I SAW DAYTONA DIAMONDS TRYING TO FIGHT ANTHONY FROM ANTHONY’S JEWELERS BECAUSE HIS SUIT OUTSPARKLED THE RHINESTONE COWBOY’S
DAYTONA DIAMONDS THOUGHT A STUFFY WAS A RHODE ISLAND HOOKER AND GOT REAL EXCITED BEFORE FINDING OUT IT WAS FOOD
I WAS STUCK IN TRAFFIC ON THE WASHINGTON BRIDGE, WHEN’S ADAM ELLIS VS. HARLEY WALKER?
I’VE SEEN POTHOLES BIGGER THAN TONY GAMBLE
LET IVAN, CHANDLER, BOBBY, AND SCOTT FIGHT IN THE OLD SMOKEY BONES ON BALD HILL ROAD, YOU COWARDS
IF THE GRIN WERE ONLY A SKELETON, HE’D BE BONY GAMBLE
IF THE GRIN WERE A HORSE, HE’D BE PONY GAMBLE
RHODE ISLAND LOVES TONY GAMBLE! ALL 5 OF US!
GET YOUR INFLATABLE CASTLE FROM THE “PROFESSIONALS” AT CLASS-ACTION STUART’S BOUNCY HOUSE EMPORIUM
DUAL HALO ON TOP OF THE OLD APEX BUILDING, OR ARE YOU PEOPLE YELLOW-BELLIED
I HEARD THE WHORESMEN ARE HOSTING LEGGS N EGGS AT THE FOXY LADY BEFORE REVIVAL
WALT’S ROAST BEEF > LE MOO’S FINE SANDWICHES
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF LENIN LEAVE IVAN’S TESTICLES ALONE TONIGHT!
THEY’RE OUR TESTICLES, WE’LL DO WHAT WE WANT WITH THEM
A CRISP FIVE DOLLAR BILL TO WHOEVER CLAIMS IVAN STANISLAV’S TESTICLES!
IF IVAN WANTS TO TALK SHIT ABOUT RHODE ISLAND, HE CAN MEET ME IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE OLD BENNY’S NEAR WHERE ALMACS USED TO BE AND SAY IT TO MY FACE

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

Nick Stuart: Quinn Fleetwood will be taking on Kenny Freeman here in our opening bout. Have any thoughts, Rich?

Richard Parker: Well Freeman definitely has the experience advantage. Quinn has the size. Gonna be interesting to see how it plays out, because both guys wrestle in a style I’m appreciative of.

Nick Stuart: Blatant cheating?

Richard Parker: I prefer to call it strategic maneuvering around the rules.

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

Vince Howard: In the ring, from New Orleans, Louisiana! Weighing in at 228 pounds… QUUUUUIIIINNNN FLEEEEEETWOOOOOD!

A trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays over throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage, looking maybe a bit less confident in his chances of winning the match at hand than he normally would…and perhaps some of that has to do with Randall Schwartz standing beside him, rather than a certain Russian Giant. The crowd boos the Master of the Moscowverse as Kenny walks to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Kenny has been at odds with Ivan Stanislav over the former’s treatment towards Bobby Neptune. Maybe the giant can get that sorted out in the main event. But for now, Kenny has other problems to worry about.

Richard Parker: You’re telling me! Look at the size of Quinn! What the hell is Kenny even gonna be able to do against a finely tuned athlete such as him?!

Nick Stuart: Finely tuned might be going a bit too far, Rich.

Arriving at the ring, Kenny steps through the ropes, Randall staying at ringside to cheer his long time tag partner on!

Vince Howard: Entering the ring, from Los Angeles, California! Weighing in at 160 pounds… “K-FREE” KEEEEEEEEENNY FREEEEEEEEMAN!

Before Vince can find his way out of the ring, Quinn barges over and snatches the mic from his hand.

Quinn Fleetwood: WAIT, I THOUGHT HIS NAME WAS KEVIN?!

The ring announcer simply shrugs. Before Quinn can use his detective skills (which, let’s be real, probably rival his culinary skills), Kenny blasts him in the back with a dropkick, sending Fleetwood stumbling forward! Jimmy Turnbull quickly signals for the bell!

DING DING

Kenny moves quickly to stay on Quinn, slamming a few forearms across the bigger man’s back. Though Fleetwood’s knees buckle ever so slightly, he manages to stay on his feet. Into the corner they go, Freeman firing off a few chops that leave Quinn grasping at his chest while sucking deep for air. K-Free grabs a wrist and looks to whip his opponent across the ring. But Fleetwood plants his feet and uses his free hand to clutch the top rope. Another try, still no movement. Freeman kicks the arm clutching the rope, drawing a yelp from Quinn and breaking his grip.

One more try at the Irish whip, but Quinn throws a wild forearm forward instead of heading to the other corner! Kenny ducks under and when Fleetwood turns around, K-Free grabs him in a collar and elbow tie up. They jockey for a moment before Quinn uses his superior size to shove Kenny off and down! And of course The Faulty Spark Plug shoots a double bicep towards the crowd in celebration.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure such a move is worthy of being that boastful.

Richard Parker: Are you kidding?! Did you see the technique there?! The masterful use of leverage! Quinn Fleetwood is going places, I’m telling you!

Nick Stuart: Well it won’t be to the pay window, if he’s not careful.

As Kenny climbs to his feet, Quinn takes a moment to think before slapping on a sloppy headlock. He cranks on it for a second before raising one of his arms to, again, pose towards the crowd. Kenny manages to slip his foot in front of Fleetwood’s, pushing his younger opponent over it and right onto his face. While Quinn clutches at his nose, Kenny steps onto the downed man’s back, standing there and having his own gun show. The Adult Toddler throws a bit of a fit until Kenny steps off him with a smirk.

After Quinn pushes up to his feet, he’s immediately in the face of referee Jimmy Turnbull. Fleetwood complains of tight pulling. Turnbull shakes his head emphatically. A pantomime of a hair pull? Still no dice with Jimmy. Maybe an eye poke? Still not buying it. At this point, Randall Schwartz climbs onto the apron to complain about Fleetwood’s complaining. Turnbull moves over to order The Entertainer down, Quinn still whinging the entire time. Freeman walks up behind the young man and taps him on the shoulder. When Fleetwood turns around, he’s met with a swift poke to the eye before Kenny secures a small package! Randall immediately scrambles off the apron and Jimmy Turnbull flies over to make the count!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: There’s an example of immaturity biting Quinn Fleetwood in the butt.

Richard Parker: That’s terrible officiating! But pretty smart move by Kenny at the same time.

Nick Stuart: You’re going to be like this the whole match, aren’t you?

Richard Parker: I have no idea what you mean.

Both men get to their feet, Fleetwood more than a bit discombobulated. The spinning wheel kick Kenny catches him with doesn’t help clear Quinn’s fog any. K-Free hits the ropes and drops a jumping elbow drop on the chest of Fleetwood. Then another. Then another. After the third, Kenny pops to his feet and throws his arms in the air.

YAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Huh. Seems the crowd is behind Kenny Freeman here.

Richard Parker: Can you blame them?! Kenny is a pretty loveable guy!

Nick Stuart: I think it has less to do with Kenny and more to do with Quinn getting battered.

Kenny waits for Quinn to slowly drag himself up. Off to the ropes Freeman goes, rebounding back with a slingshot elbow! But Fleetwood ducks! Or collapses. It’s hard to tell, but the result is the same regardless. Kenny clutches at his head and neck while Randall pounds on the mat for encouragement. The Death Valley Ass Blaster doesn’t recover quickly, but when he does, it’s obvious Quinn is upset. He rains down stomps on the prone Freeman, doing so aggressively enough that Jimmy Turnbull has to pull him back for a break.

Kenny clutches at the ropes, using them to get himself vertical. His legs wobble as Fleetwood pulls him away, scooping the California native up and planting him down hard with a body slam. Kenny writhes in pain on the mat, but he’s not there long as Quinn impatiently tugs Freeman to his feet. K-Free doesn’t stay standing as Fleetwood drops him right back down with a vertical suplex.

Richard Parker: You know what bugs me, Nick?

Nick Stuart: What’s that, Rich?

Richard Parker: In Japan, they call that a brainbuster. That ain’t a brainbuster, it’s a vertical suplex! What the hell is that about?!

Nick Stuart: Are you really asking that? Right now? There’s multiple people you could ask. You could google it! Why, in the middle of this match, are you–THERE’S A COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Quinn is quick to slap his hands together in frustration, unhappy with Jimmy Turnbull’s count cadence. Sure, he didn’t hook the leg. Yeah, he was positioned more towards Kenny’s stomach than his chest. And okay, he wasn’t exactly using a great amount of weight to keep Freeman down. But this bitch session? Totally justified. Grabbing the back of Kenny’s tights, Quinn drags his opposition to his feet. Waistlock and The One True Fleetus tosses K-Free backwards. No bridge, all impact. That was the plan, at least. Kenny landing on his feet ruined it.

Before Fleetwood can get his bearings, Freeman blasts him with a jumping knee to the back! Quinn propels forward, his upper body hitting the middle rope. Kenny heads to the corner, climbing up top before flying off with a leg drop that sends the younger man flopping on the mat while clutching his throat! Kenny reenters the ring, walking over to the still smarting Fleetwood. A couple of swings of his arms…

Nick Stuart: I think Kenny is looking for Follow The Freeman!

Richard Parker: Hoo boy, things aren’t looking good for Quinn…

Before K-Free can run off towards the ropes, Fleetwood desperately claws at Kenny’s legs. Freeman tries to shake him off, but Quinn is nothing if not persistent. Kenny looks more annoyed than concerned, leaning down to pull Quinn up to his feet. Fleetwood continues thrashing like a scared toddler… and catches Kenny in the eye with one of his hands. Freeman is quick to release Quinn, clutching at his eye. Turnbull goes to assess the injury, but Randall Schwartz bounds onto the apron, loudly complaining.

Jimmy goes over to order Randall off the apron once more. Quinn gathers his wits as best he can. Kenny is struggling to see. Schwartz and Turnbull are distracted. This timing? Perfect. Still on his knees, Fleetwood scuttles over and throws his forearm into an uppercut right into Freeman’s groin!

BOOOOOOOO!

Quinn staggers to his feet. He grabs Kenny’s arm, pulling it between his legs into a pumphandle position. Up Freeman goes…

Nick Stuart: Down Quinn Flames! Down Quinn Flames! That pumphandle sitout slam! I can’t believe this!

Richard Parker: I can! Say what you want about Quinn Fleetwood, he’ll take advantage of whatever opportunities he gets!

Quinn covers Kenny, though even with the leg hook it looks more like an approximation of good technique rather than actually being so. Turnbull has managed to get Randall back onto the arena floor and slides into position for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Quinn Fleetwood flops back onto the mat, weakly raising his arms in victory.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that was entirely earned, but somehow, someway… Quinn Fleetwood is victorious.

Richard Parker: Look, Nick… There may have been a bit of luck involved here. But the fact is Quinn Fleetwood has won! Give the man some credit!

Nick Stuart: I’d really rather not.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… QUUUUUIIIINNNN FLEEEEEETWOOOOOD!

…Previously On…

…The News…

Max stares at the empty NEWS HOOK on the WON ACTION NEWS SET.

Max Kael: … where the hell is that boy…

With a shake of his head Max turns around and walks away in disgust.

And so the NEWS HOOK remains unfilled, empty and uninspired.

When will it be refilled?

… stay tuned?

–

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

That intense NEWS music blares out as we’re taken to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE where the NEWS THRONE continues to dominate the set.

However, unlike usual, there is no Max Kael on the throne. In fact there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the stage at the moment, just that massive NEWS THRONE.

Max Kael: WORMS OF PRIME, I am sorry I can not be on the stage at the moment.

The disembodied voice of Max Kael cuts over the stage though his presence remains absent.

Max Kael: At present I am on a pressing investigation so please accept these stand in Max Kaels for the moment.

About six men amble out onto the stage, each of them dressed as Max though decidedly not lookingly like. There is a short fat one, an old man who might be Joe Biden dressed as Max sniffing the fat one, there is a handsome one who looks like a cross between Jon Hamm and Tilda Swanson, there’s a child in an oversized suit, a woman who is pretending to be a man pretending to be Max Kael and finally a muscular black man in a suit two sizes two small.

Max Kael: As you might have noticed the NEWS NOOK has been empty recently.

The six Max Kaels’ all point toward the NEWS NOOK and its empty nookery.

Max Kael: My son, Sutler Reynolds-Kael was supposed to be there reporting on the SPORTS NEWS but recently he’s been distracted… been drawn away from SPORTS NEWS, which is absolutely ridiculous. So I’ve taken it upon myself to FIND where my dear son has gone.

The six Max’s begin an intricate, involved dance as Max’s disembodied voice continues. The short fat one and the old man move to the sides, their arms waving in the air wildly. The other four engage in their performative, artistic dancing, somewhere between a bag in the wind and various squids attempting ballet.

Max Kael: I will uncover this mystery… I will FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SON!

The dance continues as Max’s voice echoes slowly into silence. “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes blares out afterward as the six Max’s break down into a wild rave scene.

This too fades into the darkness.

–

We cut back to see Sutler Reynolds-Kael standing in the backstage area with his phone in hand. There is a soft alert as a text message pops up. Sutler smiles and looks up.

His eyes light up as he sees someone off camera, his smile spreading wider.

Sutler Reynolds-Kael: … hey.

And with that we cut away to darkness once again.

We find ourselves in the hallways on the lower level of the Amica Mutual Pavilion and inside the locker room of “The Lighthouse” Blaze Claymore, having just set his equipment bag down.

“Alright. Come on, Blaze. Tonight’s the night.”

Blaze rubs at his chest, wincing at the spot where he crashed into the barricades at Culture Shock, before reaching out to his locker and opens it — and stares.

Claymore blinks rapidly and then closes his eyes, opening them wide as he reaches in and pulls out a coat.

White fabric. Check.

Red lining. Check.

Glitter. Check.

But it’s not his cloak. No flames. No “Lighthouse” lettering. Instead there’s a LOT of white fur.

SLAM!

Blaze spins around to find a boot-print on his now open door, an unamused Anna Daniels standing in his doorway, and his cloak in her hands.

Anna Daniels: What the hell is this?

Blaze looks down at the cloak in his hands and suddenly everything clicks.

Blaze Claymore: It’s not what it looks like.

Anna Daniels: It’s not?

She looks at the cloak in her hand. She looks at the cloak in his hand. She looks right at Blaze and tilts her head ever so slightly.

Anna Daniels: Well, let’s see. This looks like one of two things. Number one, you’re still upset you couldn’t get the bounty on Daytona and decided to steal our coat to do something dumb. Which would be quite understandable considering we were stapling wigs to people’s asses. Dumb begets dumb.

She lifts a finger.

Anna Daniels: Or option two: it’s a mixup. That would be quite strange since we’re not even scheduled for a match tonight. Dreadfully disappointing, given we made Jiles relevant for the first time in several months. But apparently, humiliating this roster on a bi-weekly basis is–

Air quotes!

Anna Daniels: –”bad for business”. Either way, you can perhaps understand why we don’t believe you.

Contrary to any real suspicion of malice on her part, the Muse simply strolls up to Blaze and looks at the lettering.

Anna Daniels: And how much money are you getting paid to promote a lighthouse anyway, not-Flamberge?

Blaze Claymore: Hah hah. Where have I heard that one before? Oh, yeah, everyone. I would have thought a—

Air quotes!

Blaze Claymore: —“Time Lord” would have the good sense to at least get some new material.

Blaze reaches out and snatches his cloak away from Anna’s hands and replaces it with her coat with a some sort of mix of a sigh and a grunt of frustration.

Blaze Claymore: “There. Happy?”

Anna laughs.

Anna Daniels: Buddy, did you forget where you are? New material is never appreciated here. The tired, the low hanging fruit, the boring. That’s what teases the cocks! Oh, but you also can’t be too boring either. Such is the maddening paradox in trying to find the balance between what you need and what they want.

With that, she shakes off the Blaze cooties from the faux-fur and slips it on like a second skin.

Anna Daniels: And who pissed in your cheerios anyway? Are you that upset at getting caught in the act? Being both a shit practical joker and a bad sport is not very becoming for a face, doll.

Blaze shakes his head.

Blaze Claymore: Like I said, it’s not what it looks like. The jacket was in my locker when I got here. Someone must have thought yours was mine and mine was yours. Not sure how they made that mistake given how much room you need for all those chips you’re carrying on your shoulder.

Blaze turns his back to Anna and slides on his cloak, the glimmer of white and red sequence catching in the light as the word “BLAZE” in the shape of a light house unfurls over his back.

Blaze Claymore: (sighing) Why is a Time Lord interested in a place like PRIME, anyways? Seems like it’s just making you angry… and costing you friends.

Anna Daniels: Has it? Honestly, we think three’s enough.

Anna grins as she leans on the locker.

Anna Daniels: See, here’s where a lot of people screw up. They see “Time Lord that happens to be wrestler” when it’s been the other way around for over two decades. And it’s only ‘Time Lord’ by technicality. Truth is we came here to fight the alleged best and…well, best them. Still haven’t found them yet. That would piss off any warrior worth their weight.

She looks at his back.

Anna Daniels: Better question is why are you here? Would you, by chance, be running away from–

A finger traces over the Lighthouse’s…lighthouse. Somewhere in the distance, it launches a hundred or so fanfics.

Anna Daniels: –this?

Blaze jerks out of the way before Anna can finish, eyeing her cautiously as he turns away to dig into his bag for the rest of his gear.

Blaze Claymore: Christ. You sound just like her.

Anna places her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised.

Anna Daniels: Is she a sassy little bitch too?

Blaze shoves the bag away in frustration and marches toward Anna who doesn’t budge, even as The Lighthouse is now mere inches away.

Blaze Claymore: I’m here because someone gave me a second shot I didn’t deserve. A lot of someones, actually. And I may be running, but it’s not away from anything. You don’t need to be a Time Lord to know fate catches up with us all some day… and I, for one, want to be looking it in the eye when it comes for me.

Blaze steps backward, giving Anna more space as he runs a hand through his hair, eyes begging her to come back at him with another witty retort. And you know damn well she’s about to. But as her hands slide into her pockets, the cheeky emotion shifts into confusion.

Anna Daniels: Huh. Okay.

There’s a bit of fishing involved given everything else that fills her pockets, yet the slender fingers finally capture it and pull it to the surface. It is a paper. A drawing, in fact. And it clearly should not have been there. The Muse takes a quick gander at it then looks right back at Blaze. She closes the distance with one big step.

Anna Daniels: Apparently, we’re not the only one who thinks you’re a little bit full of shit, Nathan.

Anna gently shoves the paper into Blaze’s chest.

Anna Daniels: You might wanna hurry up.

With that, she backs up with a shrug before heading out the door.

Blaze holds the paper in his hands and looks at it, his eyelids dropping with his shoulders as he carefully folds it before sliding it into an interior pocket of his cloak.

By the time he looks up, Anna has already vanished.

Blaze Claymore: Well, shit.

Most transitions back to the ring on any given ReVival are the usual fare. You get Nick Stuart and Richard Parker saying some stuff, you get Vince Howard making some announcements, and then somebody’s music hits on the PA system and the next few words are spent on people walking to the ring.

Yeah, we don’t have that here.

Nick Stuart and Richard Parker are both frozen in sheer confusion. Maybe a little terror. I would be terrified too.

Miguel is already in the ring, and he’s done a lot of work during the commercial break and all of the segments between the Fleetwood/Freeman match and now. The ring looks less like a ring and more like the scene of a murder about to be committed. A transparent blue tarp is placed over the top of the ring mat. A booth has been assembled in one of the corners, and a tub of fresh grain lies next to it. Referee Ashley Barlow is so bewildered by the scene that she’s standing in that she has absolutely no idea what to make of any of this information, and this is the same woman who’s officiated some of PRIME’s dumbest goddamn matches.

Miguel’s theme music is still playing, by the way. Which is to say that we’ve been getting serenaded by the Gipsy Kings version of “Hotel California” tonight.

This is still wrestling, right?

Well, if you ask us, if it happens in a ring, it’s wrestling!

Well, let’s challenge that theory with a bit of “Sandstorm” by Darude.

Feel the power of the 1990s in your soul.

After a few moments, Steve Lemieux is literally shoved out of the curtains. He makes a heroic(?) effort to not fall flat on his face as Rick Hardbody and Ollie Cade immediately come through the curtains behind him – as though they’re the ones who pushed Steve out. Behind them is Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., a man who definitely has both a doctorate and passed the bar.

It’s also quite clear that underneath Steve’s khaki pants, there is an adult diaper just waiting to get filled.

Vince Howard, in the ring, surveys the scene before him. He’s seen a lot of very dumb nonsense in the years since the ReVival Era of PRIME began. And he’s such a goddamn professional that he’ll read off “total combined height” with a straight face. Tonight is no exception.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest…

Oh no, he’s pausing. He’s shutting down.

He looks down, clearly contemplating the life choices that brought him to this moment. Over the course of his Hall of Fame announcing career, he’s rarely broken like this. He looks back over his shoulder at Miguel, who is pacing in the ring in his ridiculous costume and looking like he’s ready to enact justice against a sandwich man.

He then catches sight of another man at ringside.

Fred Dick is outside looking like an impatient soccer dad ready to yell at the referee at the first juncture, and then yell at Miguel for being bad at soccer. The order of that doesn’t matter.

Nick Stuart: I have no idea what’s going on.

Richard Parker: I don’t think anyone out here does.

Vince turns to see the approaching circus of dipshits approaching the ring, closes his eyes, counts to fuck, and does his damn job.

Vince Howard: …is scheduled for one fall. Already in the ring, representing the Lasagna Boys… MIGUEL!

Miguel raises his arms into the air. He has that look on his face like he’s ready to take a good, sweet sandwich boy and turn him into something beautiful. And delicious.

Steve Lemieux is perturbed as he enters the ring, to say the very least. He’s trying very hard to put on a brave face as he enters the ring/slaughterhouse, but “brave face” and “Steve Lemieux” are two statements that seem like nonsense when put together.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Peoria, Illinois! He weighs in a one hundred and eighty-three pounds… STEEEEEVE LEEEEEEMIEEEEEUUUUUUX!

The moment Vince is done enunciating that last syllable, he gets the hell out of the ring because there’s about to be a slaughter going on. Ashley Barlow resigns herself to what she has to do to get her paycheck tonight, and rings the bell.

DING DING

Normally, in a regular professional wrestling match, you’d see stuff like a collar-and-elbow tieup. Maybe an armdrag. Maybe even a suplex if we’re feeling frisky or if we’re a Brandon Youngblood and it’s the first sixteen things that come to mind in a wrestling encounter.

Yeah.

Do you expect any of that from Steve Lemieux and Miguel? I mean, honestly.

No. That’s not what happens here.

Steve Lemieux and Miguel meet in the center of the ring and they start exchanging bombs.

Now, you might ask yourself, “What do these bombs look like?”

You must observe what’s going on with your eyes unclouded by hate.

Steve Lemieux and Miguel are, in fact, throwing the types of bombs you might see in a schoolyard during recess over a Pokémon card. Like, not even one of the good ones. Probably just a regular-ass Charizard. The point is, they’re both throwing little baby slaps at each other like they’re paddling upstream and trying to avoid actually taking a hit. It’s an act that’s probably set professional wrestling back like ten years. Like total gas leak era stuff.

Richard Parker: I see that we’re setting a land speed record on how fast we can go from zero to stupid.

On the outside of the ring, Rick Hardbody decides that he wants to get him some. He circles around the ring and talks that sweet, sweet shit to maybe the last person at ringside that you’d want to talk shit to.

That being Fred Dick.

Fred Dick is minding his own business, enjoying a salty treat. Popcorn. Popcorn is what we meant. Rick Hardbody decides that he wants to get some Dick. Fred Dick is what we meant. He marches over to Fred, and he slaps the popcorn right out of his hands.

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t seem like a good idea.

Fred Dick has been angrier before, believe us. But there’s just some things you don’t do. You don’t spit in the wind, tug on Superman’s cape, and slap popcorn out of Fred’s hand. And if you did any of those things around Fred Dick, you’d make an enemy for life.

Rick throws a punch at Fred.

Fred Dick is many things, but the very last thing you ever want to do with Fred is try to fight him.

SLAP!

OOOOOOOOOHHHH!!!

Rick’s punch never even makes it to Fred before Fred hits him with a slap so hard that Rick drops immediately.

Fred casually stomps on Rick’s head a little bit, and now let’s go back to the ring.

Both Steve Lemieux and Miguel are hunched over, hands on their knees, and panting heavily. The act of trying to slap each other like children has exhausted the both of them.

This would be a fine time to check on Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.

Richard Parker: No, it’s not.

Too bad.

Dr. Zeke is currently ordering the construction of a skunk-a-pult to deal with this Miguel fellow. To no one in particular. A very exasperated cameraman, perhaps. Cade’s on the other side of the ring with his arms crossed, not getting involved in any-damn-thing.

Back in the ring, Steve Lemieux actually executes a basic wrestling move. He does it the same way he does anything seemingly competent – it’s by complete accident. Steve simply trips and grabs the first thing he can to prevent himself from falling on his face, and that happens to be Miguel’s head. And thus, Steve Lemieux manages to execute a perfectly cromulent side headlock!

Nick Stuart: You don’t see that from Steve Lemieux every day.

Richard Parker: You know that old adage about how a broken clock is right twice a day? Well, sometimes, someone does a wrestling move and it’s weird.

Even weirder is that Miguel has no idea how to get out of his current situation. You would think that a Lasagna Boy who frequently finds himself in these sorts of situations would eventually pick up on the nuances of how professional wrestling works, but ha ha! Nope! That’s what happens when you get yourself all enthralled by the Fred Dick.

Speaking of the Fred Dick, let’s check in on him.

Ah, yes.

He is still stomping the absolute dogshit out of Rick Hardbody, as though Rick’s body was perfectly made to have mudholes stomped into it by a man and his (presumably fake) Jordans.

Cool!

Richard Parker: I don’t want to be that guy.

Nick Stuart: Me neither.

In the ring, Steve Lemieux has no idea what he’s doing.

That’s his natural state, of course. Steve has no idea that he’s performing an actual wrestling move just as much as Miguel has no idea how to actually get out of it. There’s a bit of flailing going on. Some jostling of positioning. Eventually, Miguel does the unthinkable. He manages a counter. Granted, that counter is just moving Steve into the ropes to force an increasingly confused Ashley Barlow to remember that there’s actually a wrestling match going on and not a wad of spit being launched at the grave of pro wrestling.

Steve Lemieux is horrified at numbers being aggressively shouted at him, and he manages to figure out how to release a side headlock. We’re all very proud of him for figuring that out.

We’re a little less proud of what he tries to do next.

Steve Lemieux sees the box and the grain in the corner. We have no idea how he didn’t make the connection to begin with, but his eyes grow as wide as saucers and he’s in a full-blown panic.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh, I think someone’s flight-or-fight response is in turbo mode.

Richard Parker: With the sandwich man, it’s flight-or-big flight.

Steve tries to flee. Miguel grabs him, and it’s a real back and forth as you’ve got two really powerful athletes jostling for position near the ropes. Or, hear me out, it’s just two very awkward dudes having very different ideas about how this is supposed to work. Eventually, however, Miguel maneuvers Steve towards the box with all of the grace of a man trying to wrangle a hog with his bare hands. He shoves him inside the box, and picks up a handful of the grain.

And then he feeds him.

He fucking feeds him the grain.

Richard Parker: This is definitely someone’s fetish.

Nick Stuart: Stop.

Now, to be honest, fans are more excited about Fred Dick getting exhausted from kicking Rick Hardbody to death and going to pick up a steel chair to beat him to death some more than they are over anything going on in the ring.

The first chairshot hits like a shotgun.

SMACK!

This causes Steve Lemieux, who is not even the victim of said chairshot because that’s Rick Hardbody and he deserves it, to choose the “flight” response and break off the fucking knob while he’s at it. He tries to run away in a full sprint. He manages to break out of the box, but forgets entirely that a professional wrestling ring has these things called “ropes” that generally keep the action within it.

So what I’m saying is that Steve Lemieux runs full-on into the ropes, and doesn’t do the thing professional wrestlers instinctively know to do, which is to turn and hit the ropes with their backs. No. Steve hits the top rope with his fucking face and bounces backwards into the waiting clutches of Miguel.

I’m sorry, did I say “waiting clutches?”

What I mean to say is that he bounces back, and Miguel just happens to be there. He’s thoroughly unprepared for the back of Steve’s head to hit him right in the jaw, and he falls over like a tree after a round of lumberjacking. The grain in Steve’s mouth gets spat out in a viscous display, very gross, and both men fall to the ground in a heap.

It just so happens that Steve lands on top of Miguel in a sort of Bob Ross-esque happy accident. Ashley Barlow, maybe the most confused a referee’s ever been, makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

There’s a lot of confusion and booing after this farce of a match, but eventually, Vince Howard has to reluctantly make the call.

Vince Howard: Um.

Oh no, hang in there, Vince.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… Steve Lemieux?

The question mark is not simply because he’s confused about who won, but how he managed to win.

Ollie Cade reluctantly pulls Steve out of the ring and starts dragging him backstage. By the foot. Dr. Zeke is disappointed that no one built a skunk-a-pult for him in his time of need, but he eventually gets escorted back.

Fred Dick looks up, sees what’s happened, gets mad about it, and kicks Rick Hardbody in the face one more time.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what any of that was.

Richard Parker: Let us never speak of this again.

Nick Stuart: Agreed.

And thus, we will never speak of this again.

ReVival 86 moves on!

Ok, now that we’re done selling stuff, it’s time for some hard-hitting ACTION.

Ah, I’m being told it’s time for an interview.

Time for some hard-hitting TALKING.

One of those talkers is none other than Angelica Brooks, who’s always dressed to the nines, always cutting through spin, and always at the ready. She raises her mic.

Angelica Brooks: Welcome back to ReVival 86. We’re live backstage with one of the competitors in tonight’s main event, Ch—

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Whether he wins, loses, or vomits all over himself like the Celtics in games 5 and 6, the fans just…do that. The Pavlovian Tsonda response shakes Amica Mutual Pavillion, leaving our interviewer with an anti-climatic ending point for her introduction.

Angelica Brooks: ….andler Tsonda. Chandler, welcome.

Chandler Tsonda: Happy May Day, Ange. Up the workers.

PRIME’s lead interviewer has been around long enough to know that, even when he’s being sincere, Tsonda simply loves to derail an interviewer. She lets a flash of whatever cross her face, and then continues with her regularly scheduled questioning.

Angelica Brooks: You’ve got a tough test in the main event tonight against the members of your Squad Goals team. How do you prepare to compete against three men you just recently fought alongside?

Chandler Tsonda: I was on the same side of the ring as Ivan, but everybody and their momma nem knows I’ve never been “alongside” him. Scott and Bob, those guys aren’t half-bad. A quarter bad? A third bad? Two fifths bad? Maybe thirteen thirty-sevenths b—

One does not professionally spend time around Chandler Tsonda without understanding when interruption becomes necessary. He will just keep going.

Angelica Brooks: The Intense Title isn’t on the line, and you seem to really only have it out for one of your fellow competitors. So what’s at stake here tonight?

Chandler Tsonda: I’m done talking about me losing. And I’m done talking about being done talking about it. I need to take care of business. Simple as. I don’t mind grounding a space cadet or wrangling Florida Man if that’s what it takes. And of course…

The grin that is being studied for its very real potential in reversing aging, and curing several rare disease.

Chandler Tsonda: I’d never say no to the chance to put a blemish on the win-loss record of the world’s highest-piled sack of Soviet shit.

Angelica Brooks: Speaking of, your rivalry with Ivan is the stuff of PRIME legend. There may still be blood stains on the ring from your match at Ultraviolence last year, and you quickly followed it up with a classic in the Almasy semifinal. Are we seeing a resumption of hostilities after a relatively quiet six months?

Chandler Tsonda: If you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready. I wake up in the morning, count my blessings, brush my teeth, and then I think one vile thought about what I hope happens to Alexei Ruslan and his golem. But that’s not my main focus. I’m out for number one tonight.

Brooks nods, and seems a little taken aback by the relatively serious focus from the Model Citizen.

Angelica Brooks: You reunited with long-time ally and friend Bryan Dawkins last week. The Foot Soldiers defeated you two, but many were pleasantly surprised to see you two back on the same side again. Any chance he’s going to be in your corner tonight?

Chandler Tsonda: Dawkins knows where I stand with him. But no. It’s just me out there.

Angelica Brooks: Fair enough. Any comment on Ivan Stanislav’s vicious attack on Bobby Neptune?

Chandler Tsonda: I reiterate, as always, my solemn offer to Bobby that whether or not he’s my forever-bestie, if he’s looking to even the score with the Putinistas, he knows who to call.

Angelica Brooks: Final question: looking ahead to Ultraviolence, what should we expect from Chandler Tsonda?

Chandler Tsonda: I think it’s only fair that you gotta earn your spot on a card like Ultraviolence. With wins. So let’s see how things go for Uncle Chan out there tonight and then we’ll talk.

The scion of PRIME’s journalistic arm exhales.

Angelica Brooks: Thanks for the time, Chandler.

Chandler Tsonda: This was nice, wasn’t it?

Angelica Brooks: Significantly less unhinged than some of our previo—

Chandler Tsonda: Ok, so did you hear about these coked up sharks they found in the Caribbean? All sorts of them. Tiger sharks, nurse sharks, lemon sharks, all with significant amounts of cocaine in their bloodstream. And some people think drug runners have been tossing stuff that the sharks bite into, and others are like oh it’s from wastewater off cruise ships, but I talked to a guy and he—

Brooks pinches the bridge of her nose and a merciful cut to elsewhere cuts off the truth that the lamestream media doesn’t want you to know.

Shifting backstage, we see The Anglo Luchador walking, looking at a note, walking with his head alternating between said note and looking ahead of him.

TAL: Honestly, it feels funny that I got this paper memo from production instead of through text, but, I mean, it can’t be any worse than the time I was tricked into getting thrown through drywall by Ivan.

He shakes his head after saying the oddly specific line to no one in particular but himself as he looks around for any clue to where he needs to be headed. Finally, a figurative light shoots on over his head.

TAL: A-ha! There it is.

He ambles over to a steel door with the word “storage” written crudely on it in red paint. He exhales and shakes his head.

TAL: Here goes nothin’…

KNOCK KNOCK

A few moments pass before the door slowly creaks open to reveal a certain short-statured figure with facial scarring.

TAL: Jesus Christ, I’m outta here.

Before he can turn to leave, Tony Gamble shoves the door open and slams it against the opposite wall. Behind him, a drooping banner can be seen – clearly reused and hastily modified – it reads HAPPY RETIREMENT in uneven and sloppily painted purple letters. One corner is already peeling away from the wall, held up by a single strip of tape struggling to keep its grip.

Tony Gamble: SURPRISE!!

The Luchador stands dumbfounded, jaw agape, eyes suddenly moving to a thousand-yard stare.

Tony Gamble: Come on in, PAL, we’ve been waiting for you to get the party started.

The Luchador barely moves at Gamble’s jostling.

TAL: What the hell? I told you, I’m not retiring or retired. Has Alexei been yapping at you so much that you’re deaf now too?

Tony waves his hand in a dismissing nature.

Tony Gamble: I know you just said that because you don’t want the word to get around, but I can see the scoreboard behind those tired eyes of yours and it’s obvious the game is over.

Gamble steps to the left and more of the”party” room can be seen. It’s just like many other conference rooms, cramped and windowless with of white walls that have seen better decades. A long folding table sits awkwardly against the back wall, a thin plastic tablecloth that doesn’t quite reach the edges on top of it.

Tony Gamble: Come on, get in here!

The Luchador walks in and takes in the paltry accommodations. The folding table contains an opened sleeve of Pringles, three jars of queso, and a cake with “Happy 11th Birthday, Zechariah” written on it. The many folding chairs, empty. No one milling in the corners. The only souls alive in the room are The Anglo Luchador and Tony Gamble.

TAL: This is…

He leers at Gamble.

TAL: Not surprising. Insulting, but not surprising.

Tony Gamble: Hey, I sent invites through DM to everybody, but I just got a bunch of “eat shit Tony” and “stop being an asshole Tony” replies. It’s like no one cares about you, but me.

Tony shrugs.

Tony Gamble: Hell, one of the “eat shit” replies was from your son.

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: Who’d you DM? I want names, and I don’t think you’re telling the truth when it comes to my son.

He turns his head for a moment and then goes back to facing The Grin.

TAL: You know what? It doesn’t even matter. Like, it’s my fault. All you do is sow discord and misery, and I’m the one who fell for it. I should’ve seen it coming when you bumped into me two weeks ago, that something like this was going to happen. But I fell for it.

The Luchador goes over to the cake, furiously jams his hand into it, scooping a fistful into his mouth before spitting it out in utter disgust.

TAL: UGH! What flavor did you get? This tastes, oh my god…

Tony Gamble: I don’t know. I stopped by Pizza Marvin and took it off a table while the family was scarfing down their pie.

He stares down at the mess TAL made, clearly upset.

Tony Gamble: I feel like you’re not understanding the whole “It’s the thought that counts” concept of the situation though. I spent two whole hours putting this all together, and that… much like my invites… is not a lie. And yet, you’re standing here complaining about the taste of a cake.

The Grin grabs a handful of cake for himself.

Tony Gamble: It’s CAKE!!!

Gamble shoves the handful into his mouth, and immediately spits it out.

Tony Gamble: Oh damn, you’re right, that’s awful. Kind of reminds me of your matches lately, good thing you’re retiring.

The Luchador shakes his head and sighs heavily.

TAL: Just shut the fuck up, Tony. Please.

If Tony could wipe the smile from his face,  he would.

Tony Gamble: That’s kind of rude, especially after I took all this time and effort to put this together, and was the only one to show up.

Wiping his hands with a napkin, the Permascar Superstar shakes his head.

Tony Gamble: If I’m being honest though, the real party is going to start after you retire. That’s when we can celebrate PRIME finally getting rid of something that should’ve been thrown out years ago.

He tosses the napkin on the table.

Tony Gamble: You’ve been clinging onto this job for so long it’s basically life support, and the sad thing is… even that isn’t keeping you relevant.

He walks over and opens the door, pausing briefly.

Tony Gamble: I can’t wait to stop pretending that you actually matter here.

The door slams. The Luchador looks deflated.

TAL: Whatever.

He grabs another handful of cake and tastes it.

TAL: You know, it kinda grows on you, I guess.

We move elsewhere… TO HELL.

See  AAAAAAAAAHHH you scream internally because you haven’t gotten used to Satan Jones’ face suddenly filling up your TV screen. But there he is, horned and oiled and shouting.

Satan Jones: What’s up my little devils!

That is a genuine goddamn cheer you hear inside of the arena. By God, the people are warming up to this idiot.

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

Satan hears the positive reaction and can’t help but let loose a little shoulder shimmy.

Satan Jones: And we have a very special guest today. He is a PRIME mainstay, Indiana’s finest outsourced crop, and the reason Ivan Stanislav hates the color blue. He is NATE! COLTON!

Satan moves the phone to reveal Nate Colton. The New Diamond, looking all snazzy in the Lads’ official “Pure of Heart, Dumb of Ass” t-shirt (available now on their website!) And hey, is that a brand new satin jacket? Why, yes it is. That or his mom’s really good at stitching.

Nate Colton: How’s it going, everyone?

Satan Jones: Doing really well, but probably not as well as you. You made your grand return from injury at the last show, so that brings me to my first question: how does it feel to beat somebody so bad they change their whole personality?

Nate Colton: Heh.

A broad smile spreads across Colton’s face. It’s pretty clear how he feels, but he’ll tell us anyway.

Nate Colton: Felt damn good, Jonesy. Getting back in the ring, picking up a big win…all that felt really good. But putting down Jiles’ new lapdog right in front of him? Man, I couldn’t ask for a better return.

Satan blinks.

Satan Jones: Jonesy?

He shakes his head.

Satan Jones: JONESY?

Then, he grins.

Satan Jones: I LOVE THAT NICKNAME! Hell yeah, Nate. Hell yeah. So, another weird thing happened last show besides a park ranger turning into an egg. I’m talking about your interaction with that weird smiley guy. What’s going on with him, and are you secretly plotting a career change into a news anchor?

Oh hey, the smile’s gone from Nate’s face already. That didn’t take long.

Nate Colton: Max.

“Max” doesn’t normally rhyme with “Hefty bag filled with sewage,” but Colton does his best.

Nate Colton: Y’know, I coulda gone my whole life without ever talking to that guy. That shitbird’s done nothing but make everyone’s life worse since the day he came into PRIME. And now he wants to make himself my problem? Fine. But he’s gonna learn pretty quick that I tend to solve my problems, especially ones that make threats toward the people I care about.

Satan smiles and nods.

Satan Jones: Ah yes, your family, the most tight knit and well respected family in wrestling. That leads me to a question I’ve wanted to ask for a while: if the members of your family formed a trio team called Jake, Rattle and Roll, who would be Rattle and who would be Roll?

Nate Colton scoffs at…something Satan just said, but moves on to the question at hand.

Nate Colton: The Lads, easy. Benjamin and Dennis are way better at tag stuff than the rest of us. Denny makes killer cinnamon rolls, so I guess that leaves Benny as Rattle.

Satan nods, putting a hand to his chin.

Satan Jones: That’s beautiful. For my next question…ugh, I forgot. Let me consult my notes.

He grabs a packet of index cards from his pants — not his pocket of his pants, but from the front of them — and begins reading them.

Satan Jones: Let’s see…Jake It Off, Jake Your Groove Thing…the next six questions were variations of that, so let’s move on.

Jenny was definitely in Jake Jake Jake Senora, we’re sure of it.

Satan Jones: Before your injury you were one of the biggest names in PRIME. After time away, do you feel pressure to get back to that spot?

Nate Colton: Of course I do. I’ve done pretty well for myself in PRIME, no matter what the haters say. But I still got some unfinished business, and that means clawing my way back to the top. So no matter how much pressure there is, I plan to get there…and stay there.

Satan Jones: Damn, that’s inspirational. Makes me want to push somebody down, you know?

Is that an actual tear in his eye? God damn, it is. He wipes it and shakes his head.

Satan Jones: Finally, my friend Quinn Fleetwood is dating Savannah Scandal. What’s your opinion on that?

Nate Colton: Savannah Scandal is the absolute dirt worst and if she falls headfirst into a stump grinder and goes to hell where she spends eternity buried up to her neck in shit that stinks even worse than her goddamn “reporting” it’ll be too good for her.

Satan Jones: So she’s perfect for Quinn! Well, Nate, it’s been–

He stops because someone has entered the shot in his phone.

Ah, hell. It’s Anna Daniels with a t-shirt cannon. She grins.

Anna Daniels: Oh hi there.

Then she fires. The first shirt launches and hits the phone right out of Satan’s hands, causing a flurry of blurriness as he scrambles to get it back. A few more shots are heard followed by a few thumps of what we could only assume is the cotton impacting flesh given the vast amounts of “OW! THAT HURTS! type noises that ring out. Finally, the shooting stops. What’s left in focus is three magical words.

EVERYONE

L❤VES

SATAN

Oh, god. This man actually managed to get his own merch.

Anna Daniels: (off screen) And it’s only available at the PRIMEporium. Buy the shirts, cowards!

The shirt stays as the focus of the camera for a few brief moments before we hear a sliding sound and grunts. Then the phone moves and is focused on Satan, with a concerned Nate Colton above him.

Nate Colton: Hey man, I’m sorry. I tried to make her stop, but I couldn’t get close. You OK?

Satan groans, then smiles into the camera. He’s missing a tooth.

Satan Jones: I wanted…devil horns on the heart. But otherwise it looks amazing.

He collapses face first into the ground, and his hand slowly moves towards the camera before the feed cuts.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ringside, folks, and we’ve got another match for you. Sage Pontiff is going to take on a man who used to be called Big John Pepper, but now is calling himself Big Ian Salt.

Richard Parker: I get it.

Nick Stuart: Sage is already in the ring, and now we’re going to see the newly changed eGG Bandit!

A bass drum.

A snare.

A jangly guitar.

I see a bad moon arisin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Big John Pepper steps out from the back as “Bad Moon Rising” by CCR plays across the speakers.

Only, he’s not exactly the man we’ve come to know and love.

Gone is the park ranger outfit, and blonde mustache

Replaced with an electric blue tracksuit, and hair as dark as oil.

Walking out beside him, but never behind, is Cancer Jiles.

Vince Howard: Aaaaand his opponent. Weighing in with more muscle than you could ever dream of. Standing taller than both your father and your dreams. He is… BIG! IAN! SALT!!!

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise

Big Ian Salt steps over the top rope and into the ring. Cancer leans back against the ropes and flips himself backwards into the ring. Sick.

I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear river’s overflowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Big Ian Salt, Mr. Salt, throws his fist high into the air and roars while Cancer Jiles flexes in front of him.

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise

Cancer steps out of the ring and Mr. Salt moves to his corner. He glares across the ring at Sage with a look we’ve never seen on his face before.

DING! DING!

Big Ian Salt wastes no time, coming in with a lariat that makes Sage spin in a circle before crashing onto the mat. Cancer is delighted as Salt immediately sets upon Sage’s neck, stomping at him relentlessly.

Nick Stuart: He’s certainly been through a transformation, as Big Ian Salt – as he wants to be known now – is showing more tenacity than he has in matches past.

Richard Parker: Also more style. Less boring Ranger, more MDMA dealer at a rave.

Sage rolls to his feet to evade a stomp. This is one of his biggest skills, his agility and ability to contort his lithe body out of dangerous situations. Unfortunately, he can’t avoid the next dangerous situation, as he steps right into a vicious overhead suplex.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff, a veteran here in PRIME, is going to have a hard time matching Big Ian Salt’s strength if he just rushes in.

Richard Parker: But that’s his whole gig. Loving violence, even when it’s done on him, and not considering the risks. He’s getting exactly what he wants!

This is clearly exactly what Cancer Jiles wants as well. He stands there, smug and satisfied, as Sage Pontiff sits up, his hand on his back. That hand is the only thing protecting him as Salt comes up with a vicious kick to his back, and let me tell you something for free: that hand doesn’t do a great job protecting anything.

Sage crumples forward as Big Ian Salt shoves his body down and hooks the leg for a cover.

ONE!

TW…

Nick Stuart: Not yet, says Sage!

Pontiff rolls away, trying to get to the ropes to help himself get up. But this is a new Big Ian Salt, no longer a man who only cares about the splendor of our parks. He cares about inflicting pain and not letting up. So he reaches down and lifts Sage until he’s back on his feet with the idea of inflicting more damage, but something triggers inside of Sage as soon as his feet feel the canvas. He suddenly shoots his arms up, breaking the hold Salt has on him, then hits him with a jumping kick to the face that staggers the big man. Seeing his opportunity, Sage runs towards the ropes on the other side, then hits Salt with a flying forearm. Salt staggers, but does not fall.

Nick Stuart: He’s such a large man! It takes so much effort to get him to fall.

Richard Parker: Like a mighty redwood in an electric blue track suit, partner.

Sage nods to himself, as if he knew that would be the case, then runs to the other side again to try again. This attempt goes even worse than the last.

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt caught him in mid air!

Richard Parker: I think we’re about to see the weed man get high!

Big Ian Salt takes a few steps, then launches Sage Pontiff out of the ring, where he falls in a heap.

Nick Stuart: What power from Salt!

Richard Parker: Now that’s what I call a contact high!

Nick Stuart: How many of those do you have in the chamber, Richard?

Nick Stuart: That was the last one. This match won’t last long.

Sage lies still on the outside as Cancer Jiles stands near him, not even wasting the effort to taunt him. After a few moments, Elvis Nixon starts the ten count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Slowly, Sage stirs. He attempts to push himself up on his arms, but falls.

Nick Stuart: Say what you want about Sage Pontiff. As long as he has a breath, he’s going to give it everything he’s got.

FIVE!

SIX!

Now Sage is crawling towards the apron. He pulls himself up slowly as the count continues.

SEVEN!

EIGHT!

Finally, Sage pulls himself up onto the apron. As soon as Big Ian Salt sees Sage standing, he grimaces and walks over to him to help him in the ring.

But Sage doesn’t need Ian’s help.

Nick Stuart: Sage just used the ropes to catapult over Ian’s arms!

Big Ian Salt turns around to where Sage landed, but Sage isn’t there. Instead, he shifts to the side, then jumps up and hits Salt with a gorgeous standing dropkick. Salt stumbles into the corner. Sage uses his momentum to fly into Salt’s stomach, then grabs Salt’s head and tries to plant him with a running bulldog in the middle of the ring.

Only one problem. Salt doesn’t move, and Sage goes flying by himself, landing on his bottom. He bounces up, grabbing his backside, but before he can move, Big Ian Salt plants him with a kick to his stomach, then pulls him up suddenly in a swift and scary Jacknife Powerbomb.

Nick Stuart: He calls that the Salt Mine Powerbomb! Sage is out, and Salt covers!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

The fans boo as Big Ian Salt raises his arms in victory. Cancer Jiles slides into the ring and nods with a grin on his face.

Nick Stuart: Impressive victory from the newly minted Big Ian Salt, who was too much for Sage Pontiff to handle.Richard Parker: I didn’t like him when he was a ranger, and now I loathe him because he’s a bandit.

Rhode Island. Known for being small.

Probably other shit, too, but Rob Williams knows none of that.

He’s not booked tonight. No, he’s just here for the love of the game.

This resurgence, renaissance if you will, of his career has relit that fire. Reminded him of who he was – who he is.

So tonight at Amica Mutual Pavilion, he’s doing something he hasn’t done in years: watching from the rafters. He pushes on his lower back as he stretches. It didn’t use to hurt like this.

A shadow from his peripheral and he’s on his heels spinning.

Rob Williams: The fuck are you doing here?

That shadow? It belongs to a small man in a ski mask who’s dressed as though he covered his body in hot glue and ran through his grandfather’s closet after knocking off a bowling alley, because how else do you explain those shoes? Devoid of his usual entourage of idiots (of which he is the idiot king), Doctor Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. carries a battered and worn vintage briefcase in addition to his cane.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes! And a fine and lovely helloooOOOOOOOOoooo to you, Mister Doubtfire. I am here to execute the last will and testament of one Jeff Coolio, the race car man, and it requires me to deliver these documents henceforth to all beneficiaries named therein. Thus, ipso facto, vis-a-vis, ergo, concordantly, AND scrumtrelescently… that means you get stuff.

Professional wrestling’s preeminent lawyer-doctor leans in briefly and lowers his voice.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Big fan, by the way. I very much enjoy your many comedy movie films. What Dreams May Come? Absolute gutbuster. Hunting With William had me slapping my knee in glee.

And then he gets even closer.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: You will have to share your powerful necromantic secrets with me. I have a number of “poets” I think deserve a second chance, if you know what I mean. Eh? Ehh??

Zeke pulls away and stands straighter, then sets his briefcase down and begins fiddling with the locks. It takes a minute, both because he’s getting old and his memory isn’t what it used to be, but also because the combination is keyed in through very small dials and Zeke refuses to remove the pair of gloves he’s wearing.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Ah-ha! There we go.

The doctor begins thumbing through the contents of a manilla folder.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Congratulations! It seems Mr. Coolio has left you the entirety of his estate, and quite the estate it is. No doubt thanks to his many successful rap musics, yes? First, there is the matter of a baby blue 1980 Chevrolet C10 with a 383 stroker.

He pauses.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Is that a sex thing?

Rob begins to respond, but figures explaining a stroked and bored engine would be more difficult than just going along.

Rob Williams: Yes, it is definitely a sex thing.

Zeke nods, apparently content with that answer.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Good for you. Good for you, indeed. A man of your age can’t be too careful when it comes to prostate health, you know. And lucky for you, some of these other items should help in your self-care regimen.

He reaches inside his coat and retrieves a pair of reading glasses, which he then puts on over the massive Blue Blockers he wears.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: You are also to receive the entire Hustler magazine collection between 1990 and 2015, though the estate cannot vouch for the condition of these periodicals. I have been told that the December 1993 issue should not be handled except by trained professionals.

He slides the reading glasses down his nose a bit to peer over the top of them, but does not do the same with the Blue Blockers.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Judging from your overall appearance, I would say you qualify.

The glasses are pushed back into their rightful place as he continues.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Additionally, there is also a rare collection of miniature spoons taken from travel destinations around the, you know, all of it. Oh, and the small matter of an inheritance worth approximately two-hundred and twenty-three million Prussian francs. I believe that’s forty million in American dollars. Don’t tell Rufio and Thud-Butt about that one, else they think you’ve sold out.

He removes the glasses and slides them back into his coat pocket.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Questions?

Rob Williams: Wait. What?

Prussian francs.

What the fuck even is that?

What’s the exchange rate on a bygone currency?

There’s a chance that the money actually is in Prussian francs. Between Cooley’s eccentric nature (see: everything else left to Rob) and whatever the fuck Dr. Zeke did to his brain, Rob can’t be sure.

Rob Williams: Did you say forty million dollars?

Rob looks to the skies. The heavens, if you dig that type of thing.

The debt with Todd. The baby. All of it.

Cooley gave his friend the best gift he could.

Freedom.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, yes. Forty million American dollars.

He sounds almost dismissive of the number.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Though I don’t know what you can buy with that. Perhaps your own private island nation, but certainly not one big enough from which to establish a secret base of operations for your plans of global conquest. Why there won’t even be room for the mutant skunk-men to have a proper racquetball court! But yes, it’s your money now.

Your money now.

Rob Williams: Thanks.

A year ago… hell, three months ago (ok three weeks ago), Rob would’ve been on his way to the dope man with The Whoresmen in tow. But tonight? Tonight he’s soaking it in from the rafters and enjoying the only thing he’s ever loved more than himself.

Some good wrestling.

“The Event Horizon” stares into a mirror.

His mustache, on point as always, flinches and twitches.

His eyes, dark, and focused.

And then he slaps himself.

Again.

And again.

Hayes Hanlon: Shit…

Hayes turns around within the Guite, to find Cecilworth and Joe, both scrolling their phones.

Hayes Hanlon: Boys, I need some help.

Farthington and Joe are immediately at attention.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, dude! Whatever you need!

Hayes grins, then steps up and crouches in front of Cecilworth, patting his own jaw.

Hayes Hanlon: Slap me.

Farthington cocks an eyebrow.

Cecilworth Farthington: …why, exactly? I don’t have the meaty paws for the slaps. Maybe I could put on one of those giant foam hands, I bet they give a powerful slap due to size. Hang on I’ll go and get one right now and…

Hanlon is quick to cut off whatever rambling is going on in Cecilworth’s totally okay and normal brain mind.

Hayes Hanlon: Dude, just do it!

Hesitantly, The Financier stands up from his chair.

He studies Hayes for a moment, and then…

*Slap* 

A fairly mild smack across the cheek.

Hayes grimaces a touch, and pats Cecil on the shoulder.

Hayes Hanlon: Thanks, man.

Farthington unsure how much or hard he was supposed to slap or what any of this looks back to Hanlon.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yeah, sure, anytime?

Yes, his voice goes up like a question at the end of the sentence.

Home Run Hayes turns, and steps up to Joe.

Joe, instinctively, picks up the 3-iron. It’s the novelty-sized steel chair made for dollhouses. It’s also wrapped in barbed wire, because Joe Fontaine is not a normal human man and thinks of stuff like that.

Hayes gives him a look. A disapproving one worthy of Tommy Lee Jones.

Hayes Hanlon: Buddy, c’mon. No jolf clubs.

Joe looks confused for a long beat before he reluctantly sets down the 3-iron. He squares up.

And then he starts talking because he has no idea what he’s doing.

Joe Fontaine: Alright dude. Let’s do it. Let’s super do it. Let’s do it in such a way that they will write tales about doing it in tales of yore, wherein a bard will sing those tales and be very rich and cool because he’s telling stories about those of us in the Glueminati, the richest and coolest dudes around in PRIME. We’re going to do it so hard that they’ll need to write Bible 2, the Sequel to the Bible, just to add a sweet new psalm about how hard we did it. It’s gonna be biblical, is what I’m sayin’. John the Baptist ain’t got nothin’ on this slap ener–

Hayes finally interrupts.

Hayes Hanlon: JOE THERE WERE ONLY SO MANY SEG SLOTS!

Joe Fontaine: Okay, dude. You asked for it.

*Slap*

Hayes takes the swing from Joe, but it’s equally kinda “meh.”

He rubs his cheek, if nothing else to give Joe some sense of accomplishment, and turns to the only other person in the room.

fabby stands ready to deliver a slap. He’s waited so long to be able to do this to somebody. Years, perhaps. From his corner, where he has already sat down and already returned to his phone, Cecilworth mutters to himself.

Cecilworth Farthington: Absolutely not.

fabby puts his head down and sulks away.

Hayes takes a breath, taking one last look in the mirror, before turning back to his Gluepatriots.

Hayes Hanlon: Appreciate the effort, boys. I know where I gotta go.

He grins be hind his ‘stache, and heads off into the hall.

fabby makes a move to follow, hopeful. Longing, even.

Cecilworth Farthington: NO.

Maybe next time, fabby. Maybe next time.

Run VT.

The wind gets there first.

It drags across the empty field in long, heavy waves, flattening the grass without ever letting it settle. Nothing grows right here. Nothing stays. The land doesn’t feel quiet… it feels used up.

Long unkept grass, fenced in with rusty barbwire.

Far off, a crooked barn leans into the horizon. Rotting wood. Half-standing. Still there out of pure stubbornness more than strength.

A dull thud breaks the air with another followed.

Hooves clop.

A horse cuts through the field, steady at first, each step landing with purpose. Dust lifts and hangs instead of falling back.

Music slams in, abruptly.

F###ing In The Bushes by Oasis.

Loud and violently into the sensors.

It doesn’t join the scene- but fully takes over. With a familiar voice to boot.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): You ever notice how quick people are to clean things up? Dress it nice. Call it sport… call it competition…

A beat.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Anything but what it really is.

It’s The Famous Gypsy Warrior himself: Hughie Freeman. The incarcerated elder cousin of ‘Fair Game’ Danny Christie. The self appointed elder statesman in all bareknuckle fighting disputes across the lands. However in pro wrestling circles.. indefinitely blacklisted.

Inside the barn, it’s tight. Thick air. Heat sitting heavy.

Light cuts through broken wood in thin strips, catching dust that just floats there.

Bodies crowd around a makeshift ring.. there is no ring, in fact- hay bales stacked like boundaries no one actually respects.

There’s no ref.

No rules.

Just space… where people know what they came for.

Danny Christie moves like he’s at home.

Calm and loosely. With beautiful fighting rhythmic energy flowing through his very essence.

He circles, reading with assessment and calculation. Then sharp jabs. Clean, on repeat. No wasted movement.

Even flashes of the Ali shuffle- quick, effortless, almost disrespectful to a degree.

He’s enjoying it.

That’s the part people feel.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Violence don’t change… just ‘cause you wrapped it in rules.

The rhythm breaks.

Danny’s sitting now, on a hay bale. Breathing steady. Not tired- just paused.

Toothless Jimmy stands next to him, awkward, holding out a bottle of water like it matters.

Danny glances at it.

Pushes it away.

Doesn’t say a word.

He stands.

This time it’s heavier.

Less play. More intent.

Then an opening.

A left hand.

Clean and flush.

The opponent drops like a bad habit.

Stillness… at least for a second.

Then Danny follows him down.

Fists start landing, relentlessly.

Again.

Again.

Again.

No technique to admire, just auto-responsive attacks.

The crowd gets louder and more volatile- but Danny’s not with them.

He’s locked in.

Not thinking and certainly not performing.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Most men… they need permission to be like this.

Outside, the horse picks up speed.

Cuts harder through the field now. Dirt tearing under it.

Like it feels what’s happening inside, uneasily.

Meanwhile, back inside of the barn..

Danny drags the man up against an idle gate.

Drops him again.

Repeats… why not?

Over and over again.

It stops looking like a fight and more like a callous crime.

Then something changes in him. Not what he’s doing. But rather.. how he’s doing it.

A smile.

Blood’s already across his face, his chest and his hands.

…His?

Perhaps more likely the other man’s. Regardless, it doesn’t matter anymore.

That smile… it’s not joy.

It’s recognition. Total recognition.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): You just needed reminding.

Danny finally stops.

Stands still.

The noise around him doesn’t touch him.

The blood doesn’t look like damage.

It looks earned in certified pain.

This is the greatest gift of them all in Danny’s world.

Outside-

The horse rears up violently, front legs cutting into the air.

Danny sits steady in the saddle- like he’s done this a thousand times.

The wind comes back. Like it never left but remained a spectator in all of the torment. In this more than probable neighborhood dispute between two families.

Always settled in this way.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): So where’s your bastard minerals?

A pause.

Colder, with direct assertiveness.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Blaze Claymore…

You think our family forgot about you?

A slight scoff.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Come pick another fat W up over cousin Danny… but this time, no lights. No crowd. No spandex.

A beat.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Just you… in that barn.

Cold.

… Naked.

… Scared.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Bryan Dawkins… You got the bollocks to run that ReVival 79 form again?

Then come here.

No judges this time.

A grunt from the horse meddles with the sound waves.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): FLAMBERGE… What about you?

No tricks.

No escape.

Just you.

One-on-one.

Silence starts to creep back in.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): Let’s straighten this out…

A final beat.

Hughie Freeman (V.O): If anyone’s man enough.

The wind moves with the ongoing Oasis banger still in thunderous action.

With no let ups.

Just a lingering threat.

The house lights blink out as the spotlights drown the stage in red, while the opening lyrics of ‘Smile For Him’ pierce the darkness.

##WHEN THE LIGHTS GO DOWN…##

Tony Gamble steps out onto the stage. Bathed in red and pelted with boos, the forever smile never fades. He nods his head three times before making his way down the ramp. He ignores the insults from the members of the crowd at ringside, drunk with bravery from the safety of the barricade that separates them.

##CASHIN CHECKS FROM A HOSTILE CROWD##

Vince Howard: Introducing first… hailing from Las Vegas and weighing in at one-hundred-and-eighty-seven pounds… TOOOOONY GAAAAAAAAAMBLE!

He climbs the steps slowly, methodically making his way across the apron before stepping between the ropes without wiping his feet. He makes his way to the center of the ring, pausing for a moment as he soaks in their disapproval. The boos from the crowd nearly drown out the music, but the final lyrics of the song are unmistakable as he turns to face each side of the ring for a few moments at a time.

##BET IT ALL ON THE GRIN##

Tony stands there as the music ends and the only thing left is the crowd, the confirmation of their disdain for him is uplifting. It feeds him like a newborn child nursing after a nap, strengthens him like the sun does the Man of Steel, and they are none the wiser.

Nick Stuart: A hall of famer and notorious veteran of the ring, Tony Gamble is a real threat in that ring.

Richard Parker: Which is exactly why he is going to win tonight!

The lights in the arena go pitch black.

Then the sound of waves. Deep, rumbling, almost threatening. The bass thrums through the arena like a heartbeat struggling to find its rhythm.

On the center scoreboard, a single pinpoint of white light appears. It’s small at first, but then begins to grow until it fills the screen and begins to circle from screen to screen – one rotation, then two – the second slower, flickering – then it cuts out.

A pause. A heartbeat.

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE!

A singular explosion of white light and sound – every light in the arena flashing on simultaneously. It’s blinding. Overwhelming.

A boss guitar riff begins to play as, stepping out from the light is Blaze Claymore dressed in, well, BLAZING white attire. A sleeveless white duster with dark red lining and trim, and a hem just inches from the floor. The jacket frames white silk pants and a white-laced boots with red laces and soles.

Vince Howard: ANNNNNNND his opponent! Hailing from Montevideo, Minnesota, weighing in at one-hundred-eighty pounds… he is THE LIGHTHOUSE … BLAAAAAAZE CLAYMORE.

FIRE! TICKING LIKE A TIMEBOMB!

A shot of red fireworks explodes behind Blaze as he locks eyes with his opponent, pausing and watching, steeling himself before making his way down toward the ring.

FIRE! BURNING LIKE NAPALM!

Another explosion, this time a set of white lights along the rampway, as Claymore begins his descent, a look of determination in his eyes as the camera follows from behind, revealing an embroidered “BLAZE” on the back of his jacket in the shape of a lighthouse with the “E” tipped on its side and looking like a crown with each point jutting outward like beams of light.

FIRE! STANDING AT THE CROSSROADS!
HOW WILL YOU SURVIVE!?

The punctuated silence of the song finally allows the roar of the crowd to be heard as Blaze removes his jacket and steps into the ring, finding his corner.

He turns to the crowd and raising a fist into the air as the song ends on a final, wailing cry.

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE….

Nick Stuart: Blaze is looking to turn a page on his recent losses with a potential big win against Tony Gamble tonight.

Richard Parker: This guy is gonna be dining on disappointment then!

Turnbull signals for the bell.

DING DING DING DING!

Both men hit the center of the ring for a tie up though as Claymore reaches out he receives an eye poke from Gamble before sweeping his opponents legs!Gamble stacks high on Claymore as he goes for a quick pin!

Richard Parker: Record setting win by Tony Gamble!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Looks like that’s not gonna be the case, Richard.

Blaze kicks out well before the three, rubbing his eyes as he puts some distance between himself and Gamble. The Grin argues briefly with Turnbull about the count before pushing his early advantage, dragging Blaze into the ropes where he fires off a series of chops across his opponent’s chest.

With Claymore loosened up, Gamble whips him into the ropes before connecting with a kitchen sink, sending the younger wrestler over his knee hard.

Tony executes a nearly perfect leg drop across Blaze’s neck before once again hooking the leg.

Nick Stuart: Tony is really looking to try and end this early!

Richard Parker: Its economy of time, Stuart, short matches mean more money for less effort!One!Kick out!With barely a one count Tony shifts his strategy and quickly attempts to lock on a cross arm breaker. Blaze rolls his body out, quickly shifting weight allowing him to wriggle free of Permascar Superstar’s grip. The Lighthouse manages to block the punch and delivers a wicked forearm strike directly to Gamble’s temple. This staggers the veteran hall of famer as he staggers back.

Nick Stuart: Huge strike from Claymore!

Richard Parker: Turnbull should make sure that Claymore isn’t using a closed fist!

Nick Stuart: It was an elbow strike!

Richard Parker: So!?Blaze fires another forearm that knocks Tony fully back into the ropes. Claymore throws himself into the opposite ropes before flying back toward Gamble, clotheslining both men over the top rope and to the ground outside.

RAAAAAAH!

The crowd roars as Blaze pops back up to his feet, a fire in his eyes. Pulling Tony up to his feet, Blaze whips him into the barricade where all one hundred and eighty seven pounds of Jon Rhine’s favorite wrestler collides with a loud crash. Claymore works the crowd, raising his hands to their cheers before dragging Tony to his feet, throwing his seemingly lifeless body back into the ring.

Richard Parker: This isn’t fair! This is blatant cheating!

Nick Stuart: It’s nothing Gamble wouldn’t have done himself, or worse!Blaze climbs back in and hooks Tony’s leg!

One!

Two!

T-Kickout!

At the last moment Tony manages to kick out though his eyes are still glazed. Blaze pulls Tony toward the center of the ring and begins to work over his neck and shoulders with aggressive knees and elbows. It’s clear that Tony has started to try and protect his neck though he is unable to escape the slow, methodical offensive that Claymore is able to lay in on him.

Richard Parker: Turnbull needs to stop this Claymore from cheating!

Nick Stuart: He’s not cheating

!Richard Parker: That’s just, like, you’re opinion, man.

Dragging Tony up, the Lighthouse whips him into the corner before following up with a running European Uppercut. Blaze follows this up with two more vicious looking European Uppercuts before dragging his opponent out of the corner with a Bulldog! Blaze hooks the legs!

One!

Tw-Kickout!

This time Tony is able to escape before the three though it’s clear the offensive has taken some toil on the Hall of Famer. Though disappointed, Blaze doesn’t seem deterred from his mission, climbing back up to his feet and laying a few stiff kicks to the chest and head of the Grin.

Satisfied that Tony is appropriately downed, Blaze points toward the turnbuckle as the fans rally behind him.

Nick Stuart: Is Blaze thinking of going to the top rope?

Richard Parker: This idiot made the same mistake against Max and now he’s about to repeat it with Tony Gamble!

Claymore climbs to the top rope, pointing down at Gamble as the fans cheer him on! The Lighthouse takes to the air looking to drive an elbow straight through Tony Gamble’s heart!

CRASH!

Unfortunately for Blaze, the Grin rolls out of the way at the last moment meaning that Claymore eats nothing but mat! Gamble scrambles over his fallen opponent looking to take advantage!

Richard Parker: Pin him, it’s over!

One!

Two!

Thre-KICKOUT!

At the last possible moment Blaze manages to pull his shit together and kick out!

Gamble looks enraged as he grabs Turnbull screaming at him about a slow count as the fans cheer. Gamble grabs Claymore by his hair, pulling him up slowly to his feet before sliding next to him, sweeping him into a Front Russian Leg Sweep!

Richard Parker: Stop Laughing At Me!

Nick Stuart: I wasn’t!

Richard Parker: No that’s the name of the- You know what? Nevermind.

Blaze’s face smashes off the mat as his body goes limp. Tony grabs both of Blaze’s legs, rolling him up tight as a spring.

One!

Two!

THRE-KICKOUT!Somehow, some way Blaze manages to jolt his body just enough to break the pinfall, rolling his shoulder up off the mat much to the crowd’s excitement. The Grin’s isn’t grinning, well, outside of the scar, as he glares at Turnbull who explains calmly that it was a two count. Shaking his head in disgust, Tony stands kicking the downed Claymore a few times out of frustration before wrapping his arms and legs around Claymore’s arms and neck…

Nick Stuart: He’s looking in the Smile For Me! This could be it for Blaze Claymore!

Richard Parker: He’s got him in the middle of the ring, there is nowhere for Blaze to go. This is it, Stuart. End of the match.

As Gamble locks in his submission hold Blaze immediately starts to scream out in pain. Those screams increase as Gamble finally locks his fingers into the corners of Blaze’s mouth, fishhooking him.

Nick Stuart: Isn’t fishhooking illegal!?

Richard Parker: Normally yes, but this is a finishing move! There is a little leeway in finishing moves!

Nick Stuart: That seems like cheating to me…

Richard Parker: What’s cheating to the loser is winning to the victor!Gamble laughs manically as he tightens the Smile For Me, pulling Blaze’s arms back while applying incredible pressure to his neck. Turnbull checks on Claymore to see if he wants to submit but the Lighthouse shakes his head, as best he can, continuing to fight through the pain.

Richard Parker: He’s got to give up! The longer he stays in this, the more damage Tony Gamble can inflict on him!

Nick Stuart: And we have no way of knowing just how damaged both these men are from the Culture Shock, especially after the beating Blaze took.

Richard Parker: And let’s not forget that Tony was Max’s partner at Squad Goals, who knows what the lunatic told Tony about Blaze!

Back in the ring it looks like Blaze is slowly fading, his eyelids drooping as his struggles begin to slow. Gamble’s earlier scowl is replaced with a growing grin to match his disfigurement. He yanks back even further, pulling Blaze’s head back and splaying his mouth wide, allowing for more throaty screams.

Suddenly, with a burst of life, Blaze throws his body back rolling both himself and Gamble toward the ropes. After a struggle he manages to get one of his feet on the rope forcing Turnbull to administer a five count.

One the count of four Gamble releases the hold, once again disgusted by Turnbull’s ruling. As he does so, Blaze crawls along the ropes doing his best to recover for the last minute or so of torture administered by his opponent. Grabbing Blaze’s leg, Tony drags him back into the center of the ring where he begins preparing to slip the Lighthouse back into his brutal submission finisher.

Just as Tony is about to lock his legs around Blaze’s arms the crafty younger man rolls to the side putting the Hall of Famer into a stacked Roll Up!

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!In a twisting burst of chaotic energy Tony manages to break the pinfall attempt with a wild, surprised look on his face. Once again he decides to argue with Turnbull, insinuating that Claymore had grabbed his tights. During this Blaze is able to get up to his feet though it’s on a pair of wobbly legs.

Noticing his opponent up, Tony shoves Turnbull out of the way and charges the Lighthouse with a vicious looking Lariat!

Claymore manages to duck beneath the Grin’s lariat and spins him around. A series of vicious rights and lefts get fired off from Claymore as he works the Hall of Famer into the corner!

Nick Stuart: He calls this combination the 10,000 Lakes! A flurry of blows connecting against a seemingly defenseless Tony Gamble!

Richard Parker: What is this!? This isn’t fair! This is professional wrestling not Tai Karate Fu!

Forced into the corner, Tony looks out on his feet as he tries to muster one last bit of offensive, raising his arms for the fight. As he charges forward Blaze uses his momentum to slip around him…

Nick Stuart: Lake Effect! He’s hit the Lake Effect!

Richard Parker: This is all Turnbull’s fault!Tony’s head is slammed down hard to the mat as Blaze hooks both legs!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Vincent Howard: Your winner by pinfall… BLAAAAAAAAAAAAZE CLAYMORE!

“Change your heart or die” by the Midnight roars over the PA as the fans cheer on an exhausted Blaze Claymore. Our winner lays on top of Tony for a few moments before dragging himself up to his feet, barely able to stand.

Turnbull raises Claymore’s hand as we cut to commercial.

A couple of kids are sitting in the backyard. They look bored.

Kid #1: I’m bored!

Kid #2: Me too.

Told you.

Good news, they’re not bored for long. A loud man with an even louder suit pops up out of nowhere.

Man: Heyyyy…you kids bein’ bored over here?

Kid #1: Yes.

Kid #2: Who are you and why are you in our yard?

Man: I’m the man who’s gonna fulfill your dreams of summer fun, and all it takes is a trip to Class-Action Stuart’s Bouncy House Emporium!

Kid #1: Are you Class-Action Stuart?

Man: Are you a fuckin’ cop?

Kid #1: No…

Class-Action Stuart: All right then. We’ve got the biggest selection of inflatable entertainment in the tri-state area! We got castles! Houses! Moonwalks! Slides! Obstacle courses! Mazes! The biggest, the brightest, the bounciest inflatable structures ignored by law!

Kid #2: Don’t you mean “allowed by law?”

Class-Action Stuart: I said what I said! And hey, if we’re good enough for PRIME, we’re good enough for your birthday party. You kids like PRIME, don’t you?

Kid #1: And how! I watch Satan Jones’ livestream every day!

Kid #2: I wanna be a Whoresman when I grow up!

Class-Action Stuart: That’s great! Y’know, we supplied the set for the Bouncy House match they had a few years back? And are in no way liable for any of the trauma that resulted?

Kids: Cool!

Class-Action Stuart: Damn right it’s cool! And if you wanna be cool, let everyone know that you’re renting from Class-Action Stuart’s Bouncy House Emporium! Located just across the state line!

Kid #1: Which state line?

Class-Action Stuart: You ask a lot of fuckin’ questions, you know that?

Eyeing the kid suspiciously, he backs away and turns toward someone off-screen.

Class-Action Stuart: HEY JIMMY! Fire up the truck, the heat’s on!

We return from commercial to a sweeping shot of the Amica Mutual Pavilion before settling in on a tight shot of the voices of PRIME.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, we just watched one hell of a match between Blaze Claymore and PRIME Hall of Famer Tony Gamble and a little bird told me we’re about to be graced by another of our ReVolution-era stars in just a moment.

Richard Parker: Oh my god, IS DEVIN SHAKUR RETURNING TO PRIME?

Almost if on queue, the intro to “Black Hole Sun” fills the arena.

HA – just kidding.

Instead, the familiar drum beat fills the air before…

WOO HOO!

Richard Parker: You’re kidding me, right? Nick?

Nick Stuart: Mmmhmm?

Richard Parker: Bryan Dawkins? ReVolution era star?

Nick Stuart: I said what I said. Star.

Richard Parker: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

As our esteemed Hall of Fame commentary duo continues bickering off-camera, the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian makes his entrance into the arena, complimented by an array of aqua, orange and white pyro. He flashes a quick shaka at the top of the ramp before slowly meandering his way down to ringside. He stops along the guardrail to gift a young fan with his signature sunglasses and pulls another pair from his pocket, instantly replacing them.

He makes his way around the ringside area, exchanging fist bumps and high fives with those who actually care about the former Intense Champion anymore. A few months ago, the number of those fans cheering was significantly less than there are today. He stops at the announce desk to offer a fist bump to Nick, completely ignoring Richard’s existence.

Richard Parker: That disrespectful little snot. You know, Nick, he’s lucky Ivan didn’t get him deported back to where he came from!

Nick Stuart: How many times do we need to go over this? You do realize Hawaii is a state, right? Didn’t you vacation there last year?

Richard Parker: Erroneous! Erroneous on both counts!

Nick Stuart: (Audible sighing)

Bruh makes his way to Vince Howard, who happily offers his friend a microphone. Dawkins slides into the ring and hops to the top of the nearest turnbuckle, flashing a shaka for all to see and cracking a slight grin before dismounting to the middle of the ring somewhat gingerly.

The wince is slight, but it’s there.

Bryan Dawkins: Providence. Good to see you.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Cheap pops. Always good start.

Richard Parker: The feeling is not mutual, you traitor.

There is an audible click signifying that Richard’s microphone feed has been cut.

Bryan Dawkins: Obviously the last time I was out here addressing the PRIME faithful, it did not end particularly well for me.

He subconsciously pats his left knee, still supported by a black, bulky brace.

Bryan Dawkins: And although I haven’t addressed it since then, Culture Shock didn’t exactly go my way either. I mean, I kind of assumed that I was going to get assaulted by a Soviet weapon of some sort during the match–it was an Intense Title match, after all–but I guess I didn’t expect the weapon to be…well..human sized.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A small grin (eat your heart out, Gamble) creeps across his face.

Bryan Dawkins: Under any other circumstance, I could come out here to bitch and moan about how yet again, Ivan Stanislav cheated his way to victory and I’d be 100% right. But that’s not the way the Intense Title works, is it? Win by any means necessary, and that’s what Ivan did.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Bryan Dawkins: Truth be told, it’s surprising that our dear Alexei Ruslan wasn’t here to hand his master the baton. Honestly, I probably let my guard down a little because Alexei wasn’t at ringside. And to that, I tip my cap to Ivan. Bruh, you got me…but it won’t happen again.

The former Intense Champion begins to pace back and forth in the ring like a caged animal.

Bryan Dawkins: You see, Ivan…most people in this place would chalk a loss up to the great Ivan Stanislav as a formality. That I was destined to lose at Culture Shock. But look what you had to do to pick up the win. At the end of the day, you weren’t gonna get the job done without that baton. You and I both know it. Everyone in this arena and the millions watching at home all know it. And for that reason, comrade, we have unfinished business–

He is interrupted by what at first glance could be mistaken for an audio miscue. For a second the arena lights dim, and what sounds like a collection of string instruments begins to play a few notes over the speaker system. The trained ear might recognize this as the opening to a track by Lorna Shore, but it’s quickly squelched and the audio cuts. As this happens, the lights in the arena return to normal.

For like a second.

After a brief respite, it starts all over again, only this time the arena lights pulse blue, white, and purple. They surge in time with a driven guitar riff that thunders out through the speakers, an electric whine that sounds like someone’s platonic ideal of a hard rock anime track.

Then the singing begins. A commanding Japanese voice recites lines that, if translated, would sound like word salad, and are likely the result of someone poorly translating things they thought sounded cool with the help of an online dictionary circa 2008.

Nick Stuart: Why do I know this song?

Richard Parker: Because you’re the king of all weebs?

Nick Stuart: Other than that, I mean.

This particular ditty was last heard in 2009, so the online dictionary thing? Tracks.

It also happens to be called “Go! Fighto! WIN!” and was once the theme music of the schmuck stepping through the curtain to a thunderous ovation from the Rhode Island crowd.

An ovation that drowns out the sounds of a forklift engine.

Richard Parker: Oh for the love of…

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Nick Stuart: King Blueberry has returned to PRIME! … Again!

Richard Parker: And we all wish he didn’t!

The alter ego of Jared Sykes doesn’t appear very regal as he drives his way to ringside. Instead of decadent royal threads, tonight he’s dressed like an average dude in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. The “casual dad” fit is complemented by a cape that appears to be made from a vinyl tablecloth. But hey, at least the mask looks new. This would make sense, given that the last one he wore looked like it had gone twelve rounds with a woodchipper thanks to Paxton Ray, and then was gifted to El Temblor at his retirement match.

Richard Parker: Unless he’s out here to cry with Dawkins about the Red Army’s clear superiority. That I would watch.

The forklift slows to a stop at ringside and the King dismounts, only to have his cape get caught on one of the tynes. As he tries to free himself two things happen at once. First, a massive gash is torn through the vinyl. Second, because of that friction, the staples that were holding the cape in place around his neck pop free, and the makeshift garment drifts to the floor.

Yeah, definitely a Party City tablecloth. Maybe that’s why they went out of business.

The King is handed a microphone before he slides into the ring. Though the mask he wears covers the top half of his face, his smile is wide for the world to see.

King Blueberry: Dawk’, my guy, I’m sorry to come out here and interrupt your time, but you said the words “unfinished business” and after so many years in the business you should know that means someone has to come out in the middle of your speech. It’s wrestling law, bud. I had no choice. I mean, okay, technically I could have stayed in the back doing donuts in the halls, but it’s the spirit of the thing.

He holds one hand up in a placating gesture.

King Blueberry: But…

And then curls his hand until only one finger remains aloft. Apparently his royal blueness (look it’s been a few years and I forgot all his nicknames, okay) has a point to make.

King Blueberry: We do kinda have unfinished business.

There is the obligatory pause to let the comment breathe.

King Blueberry: Bryan, I have been watching for the last few months. I’ve seen you go through hell to get your family back. I watched you get yourself some championship gold and help cement your legacy in this company. I watched you pick a fight with one of the biggest dogs in the yard and run that son of a bitch ragged until he could barely catch you. You’ve had moment after moment of clarity and realization, so I’m hoping – praying, really – that you’ve got one more of those in ya’. So tell me, Dawk…

Another pause.

King Blueberry: Who am I?

Dawkins, to his credit, has remained stoic, watching this buffoon make his grandiose–

Wait, no, that’s definitely not the right word…hmmm.

–well, he let King Blueberry make his entrance without batting an eye. But now? Well, the camera had to cut away from Bruh before he let the second half of ‘you motherf–’ out.

Dawk, this is a kid’s program. Right?

RIGHT?

Anyway, Richard isn’t the only one getting his audio cut off tonight.

After a moment, the camera cuts back to Dawkins, who is still unleashing a stream of profanity toward the Acai Assassin. The shot pans quickly back to King Blueberry, who’s sporting the world’s biggest shit eating grin.

Dawkins begins slamming the top of his microphone with an open palm and after barking ‘TURN THIS THING ON!’ to ringside, the production team obliges…very tentatively.

Bryan Dawkins: You? Who are you?

He laughs.

Bryan Dawkins: You’re the fool whose career I ended after I dunked your head in a basket of tomatoes.

Quick fact check here – Dawkins did, in fact, win a match over King Blueberry at ReVolution 191 back in April of 2009. However…King Blueberry’s career most definitely did not end.

Bryan Dawkins: You’re a joke, bruh. What have you been doing the past seventeen years? Making smoothies at the local Jamba Juice?

Ooh, sick burn.

King Blueberry: Jesus H., I think I need to lie down.

And so he does just that. But instead of moving into position on the ground like a normal person might, King Blueberry just collapses to the canvas into a full starfish position. He even goes so far as lightly kick up with his legs so that they fall theatrically with a thump.

King Blueberry: Like… how? Just… how? I seriously don’t get how a grown-ass man can check out that hard to the point where he just pretends like the last few years didn’t happen.

He lifts his head off the canvas just enough so that he can look at Dawkins.

King Blueberry: Wait, you weren’t being held in some weirdo basement were you? This isn’t a trauma response to being away from civilization for a while? I mean I know the Red Army is… the Red Army, but do we need to get you some professional help? I know some people.

No one is shocked by that admission.

King Blueberry: Blink twice if you need me to make a phone call. Just, y’know, make sure you don’t have the two-tone shades on when you do it. Won’t be able to see the blinks.

With his free hand he pantomimes raising and lowering a pair of glasses.

Dawkins doesn’t blink, most likely out of spite. But Bruh is pissed.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, what is your problem? Why are you so obsessed with me?

He rubs his temples, attempting to relieve the overwhelming amount of stress that has built up in his cranium over the past five minutes.

Bryan Dawkins: I haven’t seen you in almost two decades. I sent you away from PRIME as a complete and total disgrace. And now, you show up in PRIME just to torment me?

He laughs at himself sarcastically.

Bryan Dawkins: Let me guess, next you’re gonna tell me you know what it’s like to be in a ring with Ivan Stanislav. As if he wouldn’t turn your ass into a fruit paste in the middle of the ring. Get real, bruh.

King Blueberry: Four times, actually. Wait, four? No, five. I think?

He begins muttering to himself and counting out events on his fingers. For the record, he is still laying on the canvas.

King Blueberry: Yeah, five. Rumble, Tropical Turmoil, Wargames, and then a couple of one-vee-ones. Five in total.

Sykes—I mean, Blueberry—might as well be speaking in tongues and there’s a faint smell of smoking brain matter wafting from the ring.

Bryan Dawkins: Okay, wait a second. Lindsay? Lindsay Troy? LT!

Dawkins turns to beckon toward the backstage area.

Bryan Dawkins: Are we not drug testing employees anymore? What the hell is going on?

King Blueberry: Weed’s legal in Rhode Island, bud.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Yeah, that’s right. You cheer for that shit, you fuckin’ degenerates.

King Blueberry: Massachusetts, too.

He picks his head up off the mat for a moment to look at Dawkins.

King Blueberry: That was a hint.

And then flops it back down onto the canvas.

Dawkins throws his arms up in frustration.

Bryan Dawkins: Fine! I give up! What the hell do you want from me?! How can I make you go away?

From his spot on the mat, the King exhales a deep sigh. He does this into the microphone, because apparently we’re being extra extra today. Then he sits up, sighs again, and finally stands.

King Blueberry: Are you going to make me do the thing where I say, “Well if you don’t know then I can show you?” Because I will absolutely do that thing. And no one will be happy about it…

Richard Parker: He’s right.

King Blueberry: Well, okay, there will probably be some people who are happy about it, but I’m just saying… what am I saying? Sorry, this kind of got away from me a little bit. Oh! Right! It all goes back to wrestling law. Just like you said “unfinished business” and I appeared outta nowhere like a genie…

Richard Parker: Not how genies work, but okay I guess.

King Blueberry: The same rules apply to the “what do I have to do” situation. You follow me?

No one follows him, because he has spent the last minute talking in a circle. Like a dog trying to find a warm spot in the sun, only with words. Actually, it’s nothing like a dog, because dogs walk in circles before they lay down, and this dork just flopped.

Anyway.

King Blueberry: Long story short, I think this is the part where I say…

He clears his throat (also on mic) and then adopts a very grandiose voice.

King Blueberry: If we cannot resolve this with grace and civil discourse like men, then we shall solve it through fisticuffs like the barbarian hordes of yore.

His voice returns to normal.

King Blueberry: That work for you, or…?

And then he shrugs.

The King’s nonchalance about the whole thing is the straw that broke the pineapple’s back.

Bryan Dawkins: FINE! WHATEVER! I DON’T CARE! SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins then deposits his microphone somewhere into the fifth row.

THUNK

He storms from the ring and stomps his way to the backstage area, weaving a tapestry of obscenities that would make the dad from A Christmas Story proud. King Blueberry, on the other hand, still lies prone in the ring in what might actually be a catatonic state.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, in a sentence I really did not prepare to say in 2026…for the first time since 2009, Bryan Dawkins will meet King Blueberry at ReVival 87 in two weeks, LIVE from the Prudential Center in Newark!

Richard Parker: The horrors. They really do persist, don’t they, Nick?

With that, we move elsewhere.

A gym bag hits the floor, and after it does, we pan up from the ground. What do we see? PRIME’s Ace.

Brandon Youngblood.

He swings his locker open, taking the steps to get his ring gear sorted, focusing in on his bout later in the evening with Kerry Kuroyama.

That is, until a knock at the door.

Youngblood, trying to focus in, and not expecting anyone to make an approach, draws a bead on the door. It wasn’t like Jiles to announce his presence before making the jump. All the same, he turns to open the door, cautiously reaching…

…and the door opens for him. What is on the other side causes his eyebrow to lift, perplexed.

Brandon Youngblood: …and just what do you want?

On the other side of the door, The Event Horizon. Hayes stares at Papa Plex for a moment, then welcomes himself inside. Youngblood looks like he could Plex the dude right back out the door at any second, but allows him in.

Hayes Hanlon: I need a slap, man.

The Diamond’s hands settle on his own hips. He can’t help but roll his eyes.

Brandon Youngblood: Hayes…I picked you for Squad Goals for a specific reason…and it ain’t…this. You’re in the Hall of Fame. You’ve done won belt after belt, main evented some of the biggest shows in PRIME history. You…are past this shit…

Hayes Hanlon: C’mon man, we don’t need to do this song and dance, just freakin’ slap the SHIT out of me! It worked before, right?

Youngblood hesitates, and Hayes looks dead straight into his eyes, almost a pleading lying behind those dark eyes.

Hayes Hanlon: C’mon, man. I need this one.

With a big heave of his chest, Youngblood takes a step back, living himself up.

Brandon Youngblood: You need it?

He cracks his knuckles.

Brandon Youngblood: Even though we didn’t pull it out at Culture Shock…I appreciate you putting it on the line that night…

He loosens his neck.

Brandon Youngblood: Last…time…

Hayes Hanlon: (nodding) Last time.

Youngblood rears back that meaty paw. Hayes doesn’t flinch, and the hand swings forward.

CRA-SHMACKKK!!!

The red print on his jaw is almost immediate. That said, no falling over, no crossed eyes this time.

Just a grin ear to ear.

Hayes Hanlon: That’ll fuckin’ do.

Hayes takes off into the hall, and Youngblood shakes his head behind.

Brandon Youngblood: Put Kael in a goddamn body bag….

We go elsewhere.

We fade into the land of pink stucco walls and white marble columns: the VVIP Room. Right away, we’re greeted with the sight of Simon Tillier, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Consequently, the room is decked out in birthday decorations.

Simon Tillier: Hey, what’s up, fellow punks? “Rhymin’” Simon here, in the magic land where Mean Girls and Roman Empire collide, the V-V-I-P Room. And who else would be here with me other than the praetorians of pancakes and pinkdom… Vae Victis.

The camera pans out, revealing the members of Vae Victis surrounding him.

And we mean ALL the members: Co-consuls and Besties, “The Queen of the Ring” Lindsay Troy and “The Kraken” Henry Keyes, founding member “The Ego Buster” Dan Ryan, the Queen’s consort “The Bad Dog” Wade Elliott, “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama alongside his VV-adjacent manager, “The Merry Mischief Maker” Ami Troy, and finally the reigning Tag Team Champions of PRIME, “The Cowboy Colossus” Clay Byrd and “One Day He’ll Get a Nickname Like the Others That Really Sticks” Scott Hunter.

(takes breath)

Helen too, obviously. Can’t have a Vae Victis segment without a white tiger skulking around, sniffing the junior reporter’s shoes, and licking her chops while giving him a hungry look.

The lid to a charcoal grill is raised, and Henry Keyes leans in over the rising plume of steam and smoke to take in a smell that brings a smile to his face. When the smoke clears, there are pancakes cooking there on the grill.

Fire hazard?

Only if we’re counting the Kraken’s outfit.

Simon Tillier: (looking at this in astonishment) How, uhm… how do you keep them from falling in?

The Kraken throws him a knowing wink before pulling out his spatula and begins flipping the pancakes like they were burgers.

Henry Keyes: Practice.

Tillier shakes his head in a clear sign that he’s unable to grasp this whole vibe.

Simon Tillier: Let’s just punch on through this before it gets any weirder than I can handle. Okay, where to start?

He begins by walking up to the reigning Tag Team champ, standing off to one side. Scott Hunter is geared up and getting mentally prepared for his main event fourway.

Simon Tillier: Scott Hunter! Without punching me in the face for no reason, how would you rank yourself on a scale of one to ten in terms of preparedness for tonight’s main event?

Scott Hunter: On a scale of one to ten, I’m at a ten in confidence that I will be able to come up with a reason to punch you in the face. In fact, there are no fewer than six reasons already percolating in my head right now. I don’t even know for sure what percolating means, but that’s what the ideas are doing, percolating. One of those reasons is practicing punching Ivan in the face by punching you, and while you would likely hit the floor faster than a newborn baby trying to run across ice, it would still make me happier, and that is between three-fifths and four-sevenths of the battle.

Simon Tillier: Whoa, hang on now! I’m not being threatening to you in any way! But while we’re on the subject, who do YOU feel is the greatest threat?

Scott Hunter: To you? Me. I am the greatest threat to punch you in your nose. I am also the greatest threat to punch you in your forehead, the greatest threat to punch you in the jaw, and the fourth biggest threat to stomp on your toes and then knee you in the walnuts. Three other people in this room called dibs on that, should the opportunity arise, so I’m like the Prince Louis of that one.

Simon Tillier: No, I meant… ah, hell with it. Let’s get a second opinion…

Simon walks over to Clay Byrd. Who is sitting with his knees pulled towards his chest, boots off, black hat on, staring through Tillier at the wall behind him.

Simon Tillier: Clay Byrd, what do you think of your fellow tag team champion’s chances here tonight?

Clay Byrd: Simon, ya ever put two socks from different pairs on yer feet?

Simon Tillier: Uh…

Clay Byrd: I do, do it all the time. My favorite way ta wear socks, two slightly different ones, ya know? One toe orange, one toe red… ya know… just a classic look and feel.

Simon Tillier: The question was about Scott and…

Clay Byrd: Don’t interrupt me…

The words roll from under the brim of the Behemoth’s black cowboy hat. There’s an uncomfortable silence, Byrd’s eyes ripping holes through Tillier. Simon staring back, waiting for Clay to say anything. He nudges the microphone at Clay, but the Monster just snarls. Finally, after an uncomfortable 30 seconds Clay continues on.

Clay Byrd: Just like my toesies, Scott’s feelin’ and lookin’ good. If I was that big idiot Ivan I’d stay the hell out of my guy Scotty’s way. And if I was you, Simon…

Simon Tillier: … 

The Cowboy Colossus explodes up from his seat and charges Simon who is frantically backing away.

Clay Byrd: DON’T YOU DARE INTERRUPT ME WITH YOUR ELLIPSES TRASH!

Simon Tillier: I didn’t!

Clay gets inches away from Simon and grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him even closer.

Clay Byrd: IF I WERE YOU I’D STOP BEEIN’ SO DUMB AND ASKIN’ STUPID QUESTIONS!

Simon staggers away and wearily approaches Kerry, who has been standing in the background the whole time, turned away from the camera like he’s all badass and thinking about deep shit or maybe just showing off the back tattoo that took many, many hours to create.

Simon Tillier: Kerry, tonight you’re set to face off against one of PRIME’s most fearsome contenders. How are you feeling right now?

Kerry Kuroyama: …how am I feeling?

Kerry does the slow, dramatic turnaround to reveal the fixed expression of absolute SURRIOUSNESS etched upon his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: Let me put it to you this way, Simon… I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I’m pissed off. Because back home, someone very important to me is lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

Simon Tillier: Ah, yes… I’ve heard from recent reports that there was a violent assault at your wrestling school in Seattle a couple weeks ago. A student, I assume?

Kerry Kuroyama: The founder. A personal mentor, and a member of my family. The man who trained me. Introduced me to this wild and crazy little profession of ours. The name Rocko Daymon won’t mean anything to the majority of the locker room, but to me, he has been a guiding light. But for two weeks, he’s been in that hospital, hooked up to machines, on the brink of death. And for two weeks, I’ve sat there feeling powerless. So when you ask me, Simon, how am I feeling?

Kerry grabs wrestling’s self-styled punk rock journalist by the collar of his battle vest and gives him an insistent shake.

Kerry Kuroyama: I FEEL LIKE I WANT TO BEAT SOMEONE’S ASS!!

Simon, who had hoped that the calm exterior he witnessed earlier meant a little bit less aggression, shrinks up and tries to slip away. Before he can, Kuroyama grabs the mic-holding hand by the wrist to hold it to his face and stares down the camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: Youngblood… I have respected you. I have admired you. And… I have resented you. But tonight, you’re going to learn that the one thing I will never do is FEAR you. Think back to ReVival Five-Six… Buffalo, New York. You sent a message to all of PRIME. Tonight, Youngblood… you’re gonna hear the answer I’ve been waiting for over two years to give to you.

Kerry releases him and wanders over to the grill, where Keyes offers him a consoling pat on the shoulder along with a flapjack. While the Emerald Apex begins angrily chewing it down, Tillier looks aside to the Merry Mischief Maker.

Simon Tillier: Ami Troy, I gotta know… what have you been feeding him?

Tampa’s Tiny Terror folds her arms over her chest and huffs, like it should be obvious to Simon.

Ami Troy: Ichiraku ramen, Szechuan wontons, and two dozen lashes with the riding crop. Duh.

She pushes past Simon and joins Kerry and Henry at the grill.

A blushing and flustered Tillier moves on to the assembly of co-consuls standing off to the side: The Besties bilateral of “The Kraken” Henry Keyes and PRIME CEO, the “The Queen of the Ring” Lindsay Troy, standing along with fellow Vae Victis founder, “The Ego Buster” Dan Ryan. Lindsay is, of course, wearing her Ivan Stanislav pelt. At her feet, Helen lounges on her back and playfully bats “Ivan’s” head and arms with her gigantic paws.

Simon Tillier: Let’s hear from the founding parties, the trilateral alliance of Henry Keyes, Dan Ryan, and the person who signs my checks… Lindsay Troy. First of all, love the new threads… I feel a new fashion trend coming soon, yeah? I can’t help but notice this is the first time I’ve seen Vae Victis together in a while. Are we celebrating something tonight?

Dan gestures to Simon and looks at Lindsay and Henry.

Dan Ryan: This is the guy that Scott keeps punching in the face?

They nod.

Dan Ryan: (looking him up and down) I get it.

Lindsay Troy: He used to be a sweet boy, until Raisin got ahold of him. Oh, before I forget.

She turns around, retrieves a pink party hat with the number “50” in gold from a table, and places it on Dan’s head.

Lindsay Troy: Happy birthday! Now Wade’s not the only one in the Old Man Club.

Dan stares very sharp daggers at his sister-in-law. While he’s doing so, a blur rushes from the other side of the room. It’s Scott Hunter, who stops short, then tosses two handfuls of confetti up into the air and all over Dan Ryan.

He looks at Troy and smiles his biggest Scott Hunter smile, and she gives him an approving wink. He smiles even bigger, then rushes out of frame.

Dan, though, hasn’t stopped staring straight at Lindsay Troy. Henry holds back a chuckle.

Lindsay Troy: Old.

Dan Ryan: (sighing) Thanks. I’m so happy to be here.

Simon Tillier: (rolling his eyes) Well, congratulations and happy birthday, Mr. Ryan. Last but not least, let’s hear from the other resident member of the Old Man Club, the arms, legs, and eyes of PRIME itself, “The Bad Dog” Wade Elliot. Mr. Elliott, I have only one question…

Simon leans in close.

Simon Tillier: Um, so… a certain friend of mine is asking for some “leniency” with the current security detail. Think you could do me a solid here?

The ‘Bama Bruiser answers the junior reporter’s query in the form of a cold, murderous stare.

Simon Tillier: …um… sorry I asked.

Carrying a stack of pancakes scored with grill marks and topped with a series of burning candles, Henry Keyes pushes his way to the forefront of the group.

Henry Keyes: Okay, let’s put ‘em up…

Everyone suddenly gathers up, raises arms, and touches fists. Simon finds himself huddled up beneath them, anxiously pressed between a burning plate of pancakes and a hungry-looking white tiger.

Henry Keyes: Where do we fight ‘em?

Vae Victis: ON OUR FEET!!

Henry Keyes: Where do we put ‘em?

Vae Victis: IN THE GRAVES!!

Henry Keyes: And where do they sit?

Vae Victis: THEY CAN’T SIT WITH US!!

The Kraken presents the plate of birthday pancakes to the Ego Buster.

Henry Keyes: Make a wish, Dan.

Ryan blows out the candles, and the huddle breaks. The founding consuls give tonight’s combatants supportive pats on the shoulders, and the flapjack feast begins.

Simon pushes himself forward, eyeing the exit.

Simon Tillier: Well, that about wraps it up here, though I’m not sure we learned much of anything. So, before I become tiger food, why don’t we send it over elsewhere, and I get my happy ass outta here? Once again, I’m “Rhymin’” Simon Tillier, and ReVival moves–HWOOOFF!!

Outta nowhere, SCOTT HUNTER flies in like a bullet and smashes his fist into the unexpecting reporter’s jaw!

Freeze frame, music cue, and…

We’ll
Be
Right
Back

Nick Stuart: Singles action set for our next contest, ladies and gentlemen! Hayes Hanlon and Max Kael had quite the battle in the Youngblood and Jiles Squad Goals event at Culture Shock! Tonight, they settle the score one on one!

Richard Parker: Their first one on one match in nearly two and a half years, if memory serves correctly!

Nick Stuart: For you it seldom does, partner, but in this case, it will be interesting to see how much these two have evolved since then!

The lights in the Amica Mutual Pavilion go out as a single spotlight falls upon the second level of the entrance stage. Snark Darkly stands there looking withered, unpleasant and decidedly unkempt for his usual appearance. The skin sags on his face and, while the man often looked off, it’s especially apparent tonight.

Struggling to lift a microphone to his lips, Snark rasps.

Snark Darkly: Introducing my client… he hails from Arkham, Massacheutts… weighing in at two-hundred-sixty-five-pounds…

“Heads Will Roll” by Pep Squad begins to play ominously. The light vanishes though Snark continues.

Snark Darkly: He is the reigning and defending Mayor of Arkham, the Lord of Kaelsalvania, the BLACK HEART of PRIME™! Maximillian. WILHELM. KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEL!

The lights in the arena come back up as Max Kael can be seen standing in the center of the lower entrance ramp. He holds his arms up high in the air as Providence pours down the boos.

Off with your head
Dance til you’re dead
Heads will roll.
Heads will roll.
Heads will roll…
On the floor.

Max begins to slowly march toward the ring, swaying from side to side with the beat of the music. He rolls his shoulders back, lips pulling back into a vicious snarl as he surveys the hostile crowd.

Glitter on the wet streets
Silver over everything
The river’s all wet.
You’re all chrome. 

Dripping with alchemy
Shiver stop shivering
The glitter’s all wet.
You’re all chrome. 

Max reaches the ring, hopping down off the ramp as he begins to slowly circle the ring. His wild, sickly green eyes glower out at the audience, as if he’s searching for someone.

The men cry out, the girls cry out
The men cry out, the girls cry out
The men cry out, oh no!

The men cry out, the girls cry out
The men cry out, the girls cry out
The men cry out, oh no!
Oh-oh! OH!
Oh-oh! OH!

Making a full circuit of the ring Max scrambles back to the stage, posing once again with his hands held high over his head. His chrome teeth glimmer brightly beneath the arena lights while his green eyes feel like they’re pulling light into them. Hard to describe, just roll with it.

Off, off, off with your head!
Dance, dance, dance til you’re dead!
Off, off, off with your head!
Dance, dance, dance til you’re dead!
Off, off, off with your head!
Dance, dance, dance til you’re dead!
Off, off, off with your head!
Dance, dance, dance til you’re dead!

Wiping his boots off before stepping between the ropes, Max climbs to the nearest corner, roaring loudly as he both of his hands high above his head. As his music slowly fades, Max jumps down and moves to his corner to wait for the match to start.

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

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

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!
WILL!!!
CON!!!
QUER!!!

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

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

Vince Howard: And the opponent, hailing from West Linn, Oregon, and weighing in at two-hundred and sixty-five pounds…

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

Vince Howard: Please welcome the Event Horizon… HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

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

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

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

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

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

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

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

Nick Stuart: Everything looks good with Elvis Nixon, who gives the cue to start the match!

Richard Parker: Hang on, wait, he’s not even going to check for a sack of teeth??

DING DING

Off the bell, Kael and Hanlon come out of their respective corners and slowly circle one another. Hayes shoots in first, looking for a takedown, only for the Mayor of Arkham to slink out of the way at the last second. A follow-up attempt by Hanlon nets the same result. As well as a third. Slippery as an eel, Kael dodges and swerves away from every of his opponent’s attempts for a lock-up. Every time he does, he mugs to the jeering crowd. Not letting his game of keep-away get to him, Hanlon simply smirks and shakes his head.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael trying to play some mind games with Hanlon in the opening moments.

Richard Parker: A preferred strategy of his, wouldn’t you say?

Nick Stuart: But I don’t think the Event Horizon is buying it, as he calls to make his move!

Hammerin’ Hanlon beckons Kael. The Black Heart of PRIME™ actually seems agreeable to this, and promptly steps up to Hayes in the center of the ring so the two can begin swinging away.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Both competitors start throwing rights and lefts like there’s no tomorrow! It’s an outright slugfest!

Hanlon eventually gets the upper hand and steadily backs Kael into the ropes. When he has nowhere else to go, Hayes gives him a push to send him running. Instead, Max plants his foot, pivots, and reverses with a whip.

Nick Stuart: Hayes into motion now… hits the ropes… and Max Kael meets him on the return with a SHOULDER BLOCK–but Hanlon stays on his feet!

Richard Parker: The irredeemable force meets the un-glue-vable object!

With a sly grin, Max runs himself into the ropes. Hayes dips down for a backdrop, only for Kael to leapfrog and hit the other set of ropes. With a head of steam, Max spins and swings for the fences with a REALITY ENDING ELBOW–only for Hanlon to quickly DUCK and grab him from behind.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon with a back suplex… NO! Max lands on his feet and reverses into the inverted facelock… NO! Hayes twists himself free, takes the arm, and goes behind into the hammerlock… BACK ELBOW by Max!

Hanlon is left stumbling back and clutching his jaw, but quickly recovers and jukes to the side to avoid a knee from Max coming at his head like a rocket. Hayes goes behind and smoothly Germans him overhead. Kael takes the bump, but turns mid-air to land on his feet. Wincing and clutching his back, he throws himself into the ropes for speed.

Nick Stuart: Kael in motion once more, coming at Hanlon with a lariat… DUCKED by Hayes… reversed into a BACKSLIDE!

One!

Two!

No!

Kael rolls through to his feet, and immediately tags Hanlon on the chest with a sharp kick. Then, while he kneels there stunned and clutching his chest, tucks the head under the arm before wrangling him to his feet.

Richard Parker: The mayor’s got an agenda to fulfill here! The people of Arkham, Massachusetts drove an hour to be here tonight!

Nick Stuart: Kael looking for a suplex here… BLOCKED by Hanlon… and Hayes REVERSES INTO A BRAINBUSTAAAAHH!!

Kael immediately sits up, both hands on his head as though trying to get it to stop ringing like a bell. Hanlon yanks him down onto his back to make the pin.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon with the leg hooked!

One!

Two!

Kael kicks out!

Hanlon immediately sits Kael up and sets him into a headlock to begin the process of grinding him down, but the Black Heart of PRIME™ has no intentions of being held down. Pushing his way back to his feet, Max reverses with a jawbreaker that puts the Comeback Kid on his back, holding his nose.

Richard Parker: Looks like Hanlon took stache damage!

Nick Stuart: Hayes back up, but Kael has hold of him… sends him UP and NAILS the Arkham Hellbow! Down goes Hanlon, and the Mayor of the town that gave that move its name goes right into a cover!

One!

Two!

Kickout! Still plenty of fight left in Hammerin’ Hanlon!

Hayes rolls to the side and gets up with the help of the ropes, where he briefly leans to catch his breath. As he does, Kael sees his chance to come at him with a running clothesline. Instead, Hanlon ducks

Nick Stuart: Backdrop sends Kael OVER THE ROPES and TO THE–NO!! Lands right on the apron and catches Hayes with a forearm!

Richard Parker: Saw that coming from a mile away!

Nick Stuart: He’s got Hayes by the head now… running him to the TURNBUCKLE–NO!! HAYES GOT THE FOOT UP and SENDS MAX KAEL RIGHT INTO THE POST! THAT he did NOT see coming!

Kael is on the ringside floor, shaking out the cobwebs. Hayes keeps the pressure mounting, stepping out onto the apron and waiting for him to slowly get to his feet. As soon as he’s up, Hanlon runs the length of the ring and launches himself like a bullet.

Nick Stuart: DIVING SHOULDER BLOCK TO THE OUTSIDE, HITS MAX KAEL LIKE A MISSILE!!

Richard Parker: That’s just as bad as dropping a missile on Arkham!

Nick Stuart: After a see-saw beginning to this match, Hayes Hanlon is in full control now and pumping on all cylinders!

Hanlon grabs Max by the hair to pull him up. Out of desperation, Kael reaches up and rakes the eyes out of view of the ref still in the ring. With Hayes reeling, Max hops up and wrangles him into a cobra clutch.

Nick Stuart: THE SUPLEX THAT BROKE TIME OUT ON THE RINGSIDE FLOOR!

Richard Parker: Goodnight!

Kael scrambles back into the ring and pressures Elvis Nixon to hurry the ten count. Shaking his head, Nixon counts away.

One…

Two…

Three…

Richard Parker: Why is he counting so slow?!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, but maybe Max Kael should have thought about that before he broke time with that suplex.

Four…

Five…

Hanlon steadily shows signs of life. Hands on his hips, Kael impatiently paces in the ring, audibly berating the official on the controlled pace of his ten count. Nixon ignores him and counts away.

Six…

Sev–the number that comes after six…

Richard Parker: Oh thank you…

Eight…

Nick Stuart: Hanlon almost to his feet… he’s only got seconds to spare!

Nine…HE SLIDES IN BEFORE TEN!

Richard Parker: Just barely!

Kael greets Hanlon with a series of heavy stomps to he head and shoulders before scooping him up and setting him into the standing headscissor.

Nick Stuart: Kael hooks the arms! Could be the DUBBYA-EM-DEE!

Richard Parker: And now the Mayor is going to give back a receipt to that missile from earlier!

Nick Stuart: NO!! Hayes counters with the backdrop!

Still fighting the effects of the suplex to the concrete floor from earlier, the Event Horizon battles through the pain to get to his feet once more. Kael scrambles back to his feet. Sensing he’s about to lose control, he hits the ropes and spins once more for a Reality Ending Elbow. Instead, he’s hit with–

Nick Stuart: FLASH POINT OUTTA NOWHERE!! Kael drops, and Hanlon immediately flops across the chest!ONE!TWO!!THR–NO!! Max Kael managed to get his leg on the nearby ropes, and official Elvis Nixon saw it coming!

Richard Parker: Smart move by the mayor of Arkham, being aware of his position in the ring and conserving his strength by making the rope break!

Nick Stuart: At this point, he’s going to need to save every last ounce of strength he has based on the beating being given to him right now by “The Event Horizon” Hayes Hanlon!

Back on his feet, Hayes sees Max in the process of struggling to pull himself up using the ropes, then an idea hits him. The crowd, picking up what he’s putting down, grows louder. Nodding to himself, Home Run Hayes pulls Kael up the rest of the way, scoops him up, and–

SLAM!

–slams him straight onto his back. Max pops straight to his feet and–

SLAM!

–gets slammed again.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh, HANG the STREAMERS and CALL the DJ, RICH!

SLAM!

Nick Stuart: We gotta SCOOP SLAM PARTY on our hands!

SLAM!

Richard Parker: Well, if there’s a party going down, you know the Mayor of Arkham has an invite…

SLAM!

Nick Stuart: Unfortunately for Max Kael, the five-oh aren’t busting up THIS one any time soon!

SLAM!

Eschewing logic, Max Kael keeps instinctively pushing himself back to his feet only to take yet another scoop slam.

SLAM!

Fortunately for him, the constant up-and-down is tuckering him out. And when he’s getting up slow enough that Hayes Hanlon doesn’t want to wait on him, the former two-time Universal Champion backs into a corner, calls his shot, wrings his hands around the grip of an invisible baseball bat, and gets an evil look in his eye as he readies his legs to strike.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon approaching the plate! And here’s the pitch…

A dazed Kael finally rises up the rest of the way, just in time to have Home Rung Hayes absolutely CLOBBER HIM in the jaw with a double-axehandle baseball swing!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: HANLON WITH THE WALK-OFF!! Absolute SLUGGER!!

Max rears back, eyes rolling back into his head.

Nick Stuart: BEAUTIFUL pop fly! And it’s GOING… GOING…

Kael’s back hits the mat.

Nick Stuart: AND IT’S OUTTA HERE!!

Home Run Hayes triumphantly pops his arms, then drops out to jog along the imaginary bases around the ringposts.

Nick Stuart: It’s a GRAND SLAM by the former Universal Champion Hayes Hanlon here this evening, absolutely bringing it to Max Kael in this match!

Richard Parker: Can’t figure it out for the life of me, but Max’s head has just not been in it!

Nick Stuart: I know, Hanlon just knocked it up into the nosebleeds!

Richard Parker: That’s not what I meant and you know it, Nick! Show some respect to the reigning and defending Mayor of Arkham!

Hanlon completes the diamond, touching “home plate” with an authoritative stomp and pumping his arms once more to draw a pop from the Glue contingent of fans. Then he slides back into the ring to finish the job.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon could be thinking to end this with the Epoch here, unless Kael can–

The moment Hayes bends over to pull his seemingly unconscious opponent back off the mat, Max’s eyes suddenly flash open. An evil metal grin immediately spreads across his face. Before Hayes can react, pain shoots through his entire body.

THWOCK!!

Nick Stuart: OOH, LOW BLOW!! Absolutely BLATANT!

Richard Parker: Right in the pills!

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Thunderous jeers from the crowd as Hanlon curls up and goes down. Still on his back, Kael cackles with delight. Furious and disgusted, Nixon nearly tears his rotator cuff waving to the timekeeper.

Nick Stuart: That’s gonna be it!

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

No music or fanfare. Just a loudly booing audience, and the gleeful laughter of the  BLACK HEART of PRIME™.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, referee Elvis Nixon has informed me that Max Kael has been DISQUALFIED! Therefore, the WINNER of the match… “THE EVENT HORIZON” HAYES HANLON!!

Nick Stuart: Max Kael almost gleefully accepts the L here tonight, with a kick to the groin that was more blatant than Vrabel and Russini! That almost looked voluntary!

Richard Parker: Better to walk away with the last laugh than to let his faithful constituents watch their dearly devoted Mayor take a pinfall!

Nick Stuart: Well, he may have avoided the pinfall, but I don’t think Hayes Hanlon’s is about to let him have that last laugh!

While Kael is arguing with the official, demanding he raise his arm in victory, Hanlon eventually recovers, and clubs the Black Heart of PRIME™ across the back with a forearm. Kael pitches out of the ring, with Hayes hopping out after him, and the chase ensues up the rampway.

Nick Stuart: Not the kind of victory he may have wanted after a hard-fought contest, but a win is a win for Hayes Hanlon, and the Gluemanatti’s dominance over PRIME is maintained! In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, ReVival keeps rolling on!

ReVival moves on…

A locker room door. A simple shot. That is, until it explodes open violently, as though nearly coming off its hinges. Brandon Youngblood powerwalks outward, putting his mouthpiece in, cracking his neck and focused forward with every step forward. Then, for a moment, he stops, crouching low, getting one last stretch of his hamstrings.

Hands on his thighs, head bowed.

Then, a shadow.

Sucking up all the black.

Standing above? The Event Horizon, once again. Sweaty and tired, but victorious.

Brandon rises from his stretch, the two slabs of beef standing eye to eye in the hallway.

And then, quite boldly, one more slap.

SMACK!

Hayes claps his big hand across Youngblood’s jaw, hard. The Diamond stands, his face remaining stoic, as to be expected.

Hanlon prepares for a physical response to the gamble he just made. When none comes, he nods.

Hayes Hanlon: Go shove that emerald straight up Kerry’s ass.

Without pushing his luck, Hayes turns, and exits.

Brandon’s nostrils flare, the print of the PRIME Hall of Famer’s hand still visible across his cheek. He cranes his head to the side, spitting out a bit of blood. A wry smile creeps across his lips.

And then, he powers forward toward the ring yet again.

The show cuts back down to the ringside.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have a HUGE matchup between Brandon Youngblood and Kerry Kuroyama.

Richard Parker: This should be pretty good if I had to guess. These two could write a book about wrestling and it would no doubt be a best seller.

Cancer Jiles: Yeah, I don’t know about that one, Dick.

While the world was sleeping, Cancer Jiles, all by himself, so yes that is to say no Vickie or Big Ian Salts, or any other Bandits for that matter, has snuck down to commentary for the second show in a row. As you might imagine, neither Nick or DIck are too happy about it.

Richard Parker: Why don’t you try telling me something you do know– or is there not enough time left in the hourglass?

Cancer Jiles: Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is the first time Old Yeller has been in action since getting put down at Culture Shock like the crumb-eating, toothless, biteless, sniveling little dog that he is.

King Crumb laughs.

Richard laments.

Nick Stuart: You’d be correct that this is the first time Brandon has been in the ring since Culture Shock. Actually, the same goes for Kerry, too.

Cancer Jiles: Who?

Richard Parker: The Yakuza guy.

Cancer Jiles: OH. Him. He’s been rolling as of late, hasn’t he?

Nick Stuart: Sure has. He’s made it all the way to number four in the PRIME rankings and who knows? With a win here tonight, he might even jump over the guy who is third.

Cancer Jiles: That’s fine. I’m still not cheering for Crumblood.

Ha.

The Arena darkens.

The shift in ambiance has the fans rising to their feet. And then, a declarative statement.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THE GALAXY BURN

The roar that follows is primal. Unrelenting. Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through the arena, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glow a stark red before turning black, the Tower of Babel logo cutting through the dark, prominent and surging.

Nick Stuart: Needless to say Brandon Youngblood isn’t happy with how things ended at Culture Shock. In fact, he’s said it’s not over between you and him, and that the worst is yet to come. What is your response to that?

Cancer Jiles: That Pizmo cost me the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP and he said the worst is yet to come? HA. That’s my response to that, Nick. HA. You’re almost as stupid as Brandon is for asking me something like that.

Nick Stuart: My apologies for doing my job.

Cancer Jiles: Don’t worry about it. Water under the bridge. I will say that’s some extra funny babel coming out of the Babelonian’s mouth since I am the one who decides when it is over between us. Not him. Not Mother Hen. ME.

Nick Stuart: Of course.

The PRIMEView comes alive with the PRIMETron of Brandon Youngblood. Across it is a variable who’s who in the sport of professional wrestling, countless who have walked the hallowed halls of PRIME, and in them, a staggering constant; they all wilt before raw, unbridled physicality and domination. Suplexes. Strikes. Spinebusters. The highlight reels of catching and destroying would be challengers. The championships won. The accolades minted.

Cancer Jiles: Say, where is the highlight of Crumblood and his team winning the Squad Goals match? Did I miss it?

Richard Parker: You’re so lucky Daytona bailed you out, you unbearable cockroach. I hope when he gets down here he puts you through the table.

Cancer Jiles: I’d rather be lucky than good on any day of the week, Dick, and I fucking dare him to try.

Bet.

Sets of red and white laser lights from on high and below cut through the air, and then, The Dream Killer arrives. Youngblood is in no hurry, stalking his way onto the ramp, eyes forward and focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. Reaching the point before the descent, he stops, surveying the crowd at his flank. His arms fold across his chest, his head high up and his chin pointing forward.

From both sides, the loud bang and blinding white of pyro explodes in powerful bursts.

Cancer Jiles: Since when did the enhancement talent get pyro?

Richard Parker: Do you mean the same enhancement talent you’ve never beaten one on one?

King Crumb mutters something under his breath.

Nick and Dick share a fist bump.

As the smoke bellows, The Diamond slowly paces forward, the arena lights now back on in full. Once to the arena floor, he stops, gazing out into the audience. After a few moments, he walks to the steps, making his way up them, his dominion whole on the ring apron. At the halfway point, he steps between the ropes, taking the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at two-hundred sixty pounds… he is…THE TOOOOOOOOWER! OOOOOOOF! BAAAAAAAAAAAABEL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

The crowd roars with excitement and fervor.

Cancer Jiles: BOOOOO!!!!!

Richard Parker: Grow up!

After getting announced, Brandon steps back between the ropes but remains up on the apron to acknowledge his heckler down at commentary. What follows is a verbal exchange between Jiles and Youngblood that turns everyone sitting within earshot of it ghost white. Their spat ends when Kerry’s entrance music hits, and only because his music is turned up to 11.

No doubt a note was passed along to production.

The arena goes black…

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

The PA bumps with “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady. Light suddenly fills the arena when the PRIMEview powers up to a view of animated green and gold scales whooshing by. After a moment, a gilded DRAGON flies into full view, and ROARS into the screen!

KRACKA-BOOOOOMMM!!

A flashing pillar of levin suddenly EXPLODES over the stage, accompanied by a colorful array of green, silver, and gold pyrotechnics. A series of spotlights arrange themselves into a triangular pattern, with the point of focus resting upon the head of the rampway.

When the pyro smoke clears, two figures gradually come into view. The first is KERRY KUROYAMA, wearing his emerald and black tights. Standing beside him is AMI TROY, leaning in slightly with her arms crossed and wearing her characteristically wry smile while showing off her finest “SEATTLE’S BEAST TAMER” halter.

Cancer Jiles: You know, I don’t think I’ve ever kicked Kerry Kuroyama…………. or AMI TROY for that matter. Do you think she’ll stay down here for the whole match?

Not anymore she ain’t.

The duo accept a greeting of loud cheers from the thousands of fans in attendance. After savoring the reaction for a few moments, Kuroyama and Ami hit another pose. More pyros. More cheering. Then, he begins to descend along the rampway with Ami at his side.

Nick Stuart: The PRIMEates can’t wait to see this one, Dick!

Richard Parker: Sure does sound like it!

Kerry’s eyes remain fixated squarely on the ring as he comes down the aisle. When he reaches ringside and after saying goodbye to Ami, he hops straight to the apron and steps through ropes with all the briskness and tenacity of a caged lion. Ironically enough, there, another lion is waiting for him.

Cancer Jiles: I guess Ami will have to wait.

Richard Parker: You are a disgusting and vile human being for even thinking about cutting her down. And for what? Just so you can add her to your entrance video?

Cancer Jiles: Yes.

Senior PRIME referee Ashely Barlow, who, if Jiles wasn’t out here, would have about as easy of a match to call as it gets, quickly goes over the rules with Kerry and Youngblood– and does so loudly enough for King Crumb to hear.

Senior for a reason.

Nick Stuart: Think we’ll get a handshake here, Dick?

Cancer Jiles: I hope so. I could use a good laugh.

Nick Stuart: I was talking to…. nevermind.

DING~!

There is no handshake. There is, however, action right out of the gate, and it’s in the form of a collar and elbow tie-up that touches all four corners of the ring; and ends in a stalemate.

The two separate.

Then, they start to slowly circle about the ring. Their pace quickens. Brandon shoots for a leg, but Kerry dodges out of the way. The Emerald Apex quickly counter attacks with a flurry of rights and lefts, chops and kicks, all of which Brandon is able to block for the most part. I say for the most part because one kick landed flush, right to the side of Brandon’s knee.

Nick Stuart: THAT HURT.

Cancer Jiles: I remember clipping that same knee like it was yesterday. And yes, Nick, that did hurt. Crumblood better hope it doesn’t start to swell or else he’ll be wrestling Darin Zion at–

Richard Parker[well, the person yelling so loudly into his headset that you can hear it through his microphone]: TELL THAT PIZMO TO SHUT UP ALREADY!

Cancer Jiles: ….sorry Mom.

Brandon winces in pain while gingerly moving away from Kuroyama. There’s enough distance between them for him to safely slap at his knee and hope the pain goes away. Kerry advances, but he doesn’t rush in. He is careful with his steps. He uses the ring to his advantage, pressuring Youngblood into the corner. The Emerald Apex feigns another kick to Brandon’s knee, which BY has to fall for or risk going the rest of the way on one wheel. As such, Kerry is able to light up BY’s chest with a knife edge chop.

Again.

And again.

And again.

When Kerry relents, The Diamond stumbles out of the corner all sorts of red chested; even the straps on his singlet somewhat tattered.

Nick Stuart: There was some zip behind those chops.

Cancer Jiles: But can he do it through five blocks of ice is the question?

Richard Parker: Do you think Kerry is the Karate Kid?

Cancer Jiles: No way Ralph has a badass tattoo like that, Dicky.

Kerry stalks his way over towards Youngblood, grabs him by the arm, spins him around, hoists him up, and wishes he would have acted a second faster. Reason being, Brandon, even for being an old, slow, possibly in “kneed” of treatments now, loser at Culture Shock, remains wiley as ever, and floats over the body slam attempt. Now behind Kerry, Brandon wastes ZERO time wrapping his arms around Kerry waist, hoisting him up, and suplexing him back! Kerry is able to get his arms behind his head to help with the brunt of the impact, but that was only for the first German suplex.

Yeah.

That’s right.

Knee throbbing maybe just a little less, or maybe woken up from those prior chops, Youngblood holds on, and drills Kuroyama with another German suplex. This time around he lets go, and The Emerald Apex goes flying across the ring in a way that makes the whole protecting himself thing kind of moot.

Cancer Jiles: That knee must be bothering him. He usually suplexes in threes.

Richard Parker: You would know.

Cancer Jiles: No shit I would know– I’m the one who said it! Don’t make me do it, DICK! I wore these boots down here for a reason!

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama goes over 240 pounds and Youngblood threw him like he was you, Jiles! That sure was impressive.

Cancer Jiles: Did you not hear me about the boots, Nick?

Nick Stuart: And let’s get back to the action!

Youngblood grabs a hold of Kerry’s leg, and begins to twist and wrench and manipulate it in such a way that would lead you to believe he was a physical therapist… but from a horror film, where patients get tortured by their physical therapists. After multiple different angles of twisting and turning, Kerry finally grabs a hold of the bottom rope. When he does, he looks down at his leg, the one Brandon was playing with like he were an alligator, and notices his boot is missing.

Nick Stuart: Somehow, through all of that mangling Youngblood took Kerry’s boot off! That’s crazy!

Whether it was done on purpose or not doesn’t matter. What matters is Brandon has Kerry’s boot in his hands, and unlike the crumb sitting at the announcer’s table, who would have undoubtedly launched the boot into the audience ten seconds ago, in a show of sportsmanship and maybe even in the name of comradery, Brandon hands it to Barlow, who then hands it Kerry, who is then graciously allowed to put his boot back on.

Cancer Jiles: What a loser. He’s lucky Nixon isn’t the ref. He would have DQ’d him for doing something like that.

Against their better judgement, Nick, and even Dick, laugh.

Only for a second.

Inside the ring, boots back on and tied tight, the action resumes.

Youngblood and Kuroyama begin to hit each other back and forth like a no selling counter offensive factory. Each move gets bigger, more explosive, and of course, riskier.

A BY haymaker here. Then a clothesline. Then a nerve hold that would paralyze a weaker man.

Kerry escapes by dislocating one of BY’s fingers, which Brandon casually just pops back into place like it is a Lego.

Now it’s Kerry’s turn to go on the offensive. He starts with a leg sweep, followed by a fireman’s carry, and then a drop toe hold— same leg/knee as the one he kicked earlier.

Nick Stuart: The action is starting to pick up in this one! These two seem evenly matched, don’t they, Dick?

Richard Parker: Ask me that again when the straps come down.

Cancer Jiles: Truer words.

BY and Kerry both get back up to their feet— BY a little slower to his. Being so, The Emerald Apex snags Brandon’s arm and hits him with a Japanese armdrag. He follows it up with another one. He then waits for BY to find his feet and fires off a standing drop kick. The impact sends Youngblood reeling back towards the ropes. However, Papa Plex bounces off them, and charges forward. He goes low, and Kerry leapfrogs over the attack. HOWEVER, like I said before, Youngblood is still as wiley as they come. When Kerry Kuroyama leap frogs over Brandon, well, Brandon hits the brakes, and he does so just in time to turn around and catch Kerry in the act.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood caught him in midair!

Richard Parker: And his straps aren’t even down!

Realizing that he has his opponent in a precarious situation, Youngblood does not blink. His instincts say plex, and so does. It’s not a German this time around because of the awkward angle in which Brandon caught Kerry– and it’s more of a modified backdrop if anything.

Regardless, it’s Papa Plex suping and as such the impact is severe, and oftentimes, costly.

Youngblood quickly goes for the pin, looking to capitalize on the sudden impact.

Barlow drops for the count.

1.

If only Brandon wasn’t in such a hurry to pin Kerry, he might have chosen a different angle.

Well, an angle with Cancer Jiles in view.

2.

As such, before Barlow’s hand can count to three, King Crumb springs into action. He pops from his chair, and roaches his way over towards Youngblood. He then grabs BY by the leg and pulls him off the cover and out of the ring!

Nick Stuart: I’ll be honest. I’m kind of shocked it took this long.

Richard Parker: Same.

Nick and Dick are referencing Jiles’ interference, and not the first pin attempt.

Though both are true.

Barlow is quick to act, demanding BY get back into the ring, and that Jiles disperse immediately. Jiles, being, well, Jiles, applauds her efforts while  cockishly meandering his way back to commentary. Maybe feeling his oats a little too much, or believing that Brandon would never not listen to the referee, he does so with his back turned to possibly his biggest adversary. To their credit, Nick and Dick hold up their end of the bargain– never letting on that Brandon has ignored Ashley Barlow’s wishes.

As such, Barlow begins to count Brandon Youngblood out of the match.

ONE!.

Jiles, being, well, Jiles, hears it, and knows instantly what it means. His hair goes even whiter. His T-shades begin to recoil. The thought of not having Big Ian Salts or Vickie down here runs through his head.

Then, hopeful, he turns.

It is too late.

Brandon is there, waiting for him like it is their wedding day.

TWO!

Kerry is starting to stir, unaware of what is happening. Though, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist I suppose.

THREE!

Anyway, Jiles, pants totally down, shit shocked running down his inner thighs, gets locked up belly to belly style, and then planted through the RUSSIAN announce table!

Yes, it’s been there the whole time with no one sitting at it…. or caring about it.

Richard Parker: I love you, Brandon.

Nick Stuart: Me too.

The place erupts. So much so, Barlow’s count gets lost in the mayhem. Though, that doesn’t mean she stops counting. In fact, she reaches EIGHT by the time Brandon Youngblood gets done admiring his work. And by the time she reaches NINE, she has to start counting all over again.

Why?

Well, because Kerry Kuroyama got his shit together, and gracefully jumped from off the top rope and landed on Brandon Youngblood!

And, their follow through even takes out Jiles again!

Richard Parker: Love you, Kerry.

Nick Stuart: Me too.

Brandon Youngblood: Me too. Oh wait. ARGRGSJDHKSJ that fucking hurt!!!!!

Barlow can’t believe her eyes. It seems like just yesterday the RUSSIAN announce table that no one cared about was still intact, and both competitors weren’t outside the ring laying in its wreckage– and also on top of the guest commentator. Yet, here she is, and here we are.

The end.

Kerry is first to his feet. He  grabs Youngblood by the straps since hair is not an option, and helps him to his. He lands a knee strike or two as he helps maneuver BY back into the ring.

Under the bottom rope both men go.

Youngblood crawls out ahead, doing his best to catch his breath. The high impact of the top rope body splash was two fold. One, it knocked the wind clean out of him. Two, as he fell backward he awkwardly stepped into the table rubble; and might have even slipped on some of Jiles’ hair product, further twisting that knee.

Nick Stuart: Holy heck this has been a match!

Kerry on the other hand, after being suplexed about the place, has regained his prior momentum. He is poised to strike. He measures Youngblood. He lets him get just far enough away so that he’s able to step into the Yakuza kick.

The Emerald Apex fires.

POW!

Right on the kisser~!

Well, no.

That’s what would have happened, but Youngblood is able to get his hands up at the last second. Worse yet, he’s now got a hold of Kerry’s leg again. The same one he stole his boot off of before. This time around though, instead of seeing what size his boot is, he’s got a hold of the heel and it is hooked. Which means that no matter how much Kerry wiggles, or fights, which he both does — valiantly — might I add.

…it’s only a matter of time.

Not even an elite professional gets out of this one.

Barlow asks, over and over. Kerry shakes his head no, too busy screaming in agony to answer with words.

Youngblood somehow gets both his straps down, and really starts to put pressure on the ligaments in Kerry’s knee. They are past sprains. They are about to tear. They are on the verge of tearing and…

…. Kerry finally relents.

Nick Stuart: He tapped! Finally! I can’t believe he held on for that long!

BY instantly releases the hold. Kerry grabs at his knee. BY does the same to his own. Both men have sustained damage. The extent of which is TBD. Needless to say, neither will walk away unencumbered from this one.

A quick replay of BY countering the Yakuza kick, and then the heel hook submission rolls. Then, a replay of Jiles getting put through the table, and of Kerry soaring through the air runs next.

Richard Parker: What a match! Just when it looked like Kerry had it! POOF. Just like that.

Kerry rolls under the bottom rope, and Ami comes down to ringside to help him back up the ramp.

The Diamond gets his arm raised, then checks the rubble of the RUSSIAN announce table. Much to his dismay, Jiles is not there. No, it would seem that unbeknownst to everyone, King Crumb has cockroached his way out of danger.

Probably used one of Tony’s trapdoors.

The show feed cuts away from the ring.

The Albion’s music hits. The PRIMEview comes to life.

The building takes a moment. A ripple of recognition, then noise, the particular noise of a crowd that has heard of someone and is now working out how it feels about seeing them in person.

OHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Cross. The Albion. And if you know anything about this man’s views on what professional wrestling is supposed to look like, Richard, you’ll understand why this building doesn’t quite know what to do yet.

Richard Parker: Give it a minute.

Sebastian Cross steps through the Argyle Position. Linen suit, open collar. Fine loafers, no socks. He does not pause to take the arena in. There is nothing to survey. He has already seen it. Stellan follows, and the crowd nearest the aisle creates distance without deciding to. To Sebastian’s right, Solomon is already smiling, already reading the front rows, already finding something privately amusing in what he sees.

They walk without acknowledgment of the noise on either side of them. Not ignoring it. Simply unaffected by it.

Nick Stuart: Three men who have come a very long way. And I do not think they’ve come all this way to be polite about what they find.

Richard Parker: (watching them reach the ring) No. They haven’t.

They reach the ring. Sebastian steps through the ropes the way someone steps through a door to their own office. The two behind him follow. A ring crew member passes a microphone across. Sebastian gives them a nod. He turns to face the arena, and he waits. Stellan takes a position at the far turnbuckle, arms atop the ropes, leaning back. He watches the crowd the way you might watch weather come in off water. The noise settles. Sebastian begins.

Sebastian Cross: My name is Sebastian Cross.

He paces deliberately across the ring, accent dripping in the Queen’s English.

Sebastian Cross: Many years ago, PRIME was built on a standard. Indeed, it was the standard . The people in this company’s history, the ones who made it worth watching, understood that every time they stepped through those ropes they were being asked a question. And they answered it. Categorically. PRIME was where the wrestlers wrestled.

He lets that sit.

Sebastian Cross: What you have now is a roster of decently talented people who have decided, quietly, without anyone apparently noticing, that the question no longer needs answering. That a good entrance is enough. That the cheap laugh, the knowing wink, the moment where getting a reaction becomes more important than winning a wrestling match, constitutes doing the job. You come in. You do your comedic bit. You go home.

The crowd stirs, waiting for the punchline.

Sebastian Cross: And you people let them. Every week. You cheer for it. You reward the idiocy and they bring you more of it, because that is the arrangement you have all agreed to. PRIME’s reputation, what this company earned over years of genuine competition, gets borrowed against every single time someone steps through those ropes more interested in your approval than in the person standing across from them.

BOOOOOOOO!

He does not wait for it to die down.

Sebastian Cross: A wrestling match is not a variety show. It is not content for you to consumer. It is not something you do on the way to building a profile. It is a competition between two people, and it demands that you treat it as one. It demands preparation. It demands sacrifice. It demands that when you are broken and behind and the easiest thing in the world would be to give the crowd something to cheer about, you do not give them that. You find a way to win. You find any way to win.

BOOOOOOOO!

Sebastian Cross: That is what wrestling is. It is about being the best. About winning, about the contest, about looking at someone across this ring and doing everything in your power to hear that three count. That is what this ring is supposed to mean. And for most of the people on this roster, it does not mean that at all. Far from it.

Stellan has not moved. He is looking at the crowd with the same flat patience he brought through the curtain.

Sebastian Cross: Wrestling should mean more than this. This company should mean more. It used to.

He holds the microphone out. Solomon takes it and rolls it once across his knuckles. He too wears a suit, slimmer cut, charcoal grey, with a white shirt. No socks, shoes. It’s a Chelsea thing.

Solomon Cross: (grinning) I genuinely find it funny.

He looks at the front row. Finds a face. Holds it.

Solomon Cross: No, I’m serious. You people come in here every week and you cheer for people who are just working through their rancid material on you. You’re not a crowd. You’re a focus group.

BOOOOOOOO!

Solomon Cross: There you go. There it is.

He lets the heat wash over him, still grinning, in no hurry whatsoever.

Solomon Cross: You’ve got performers out here night after night going ten minutes, getting their laughs, hitting their spots, taking their bows, and everyone goes home satisfied. The crowd thinks they saw something. The performer thinks they delivered something.

He tilts his head.

Solomon Cross: Maybe they did. Maybe that’s exactly what this place has become. A place where greatness used to tread, and where your current favourites would be lucky to trawl the undercard.

BOOOOOOOO!

Solomon Cross: See, that should bother you more than it bothers me. You’re paying for second, no, third rate. That time is over. You will get your money’s worth. I promise you.

BOOOOOOOO!

He passes the microphone back to Sebastian.

Sebastian Cross: Every company we have entered has had its own version of this conversation. Its own comfortable arrangements. Its own understanding of what is acceptable and what is expected. And in every one of those places, that understanding changed.

He looks across the ring. Then back to the arena.

Sebastian Cross: Not because we asked for it to. Because we made it impossible for it to stay the same. That is not a threat. That is simply what happens when people who take this seriously share a ring with people who do not. And we take this very seriously.

BOOOOOOOO!

Sebastian Cross: We have been, and always will be, the standard in every ring we have stepped into.

He holds the microphone out to Stellan.

The arena stills.

Stellan moves from the turnbuckle and crosses towards Sebastian. He is the only one of the brothers in a three-piece suit. He takes the microphone. When he speaks his voice is low and without decoration.

Stellan Cross: And this ring… this ring will be no different.

He sets the microphone down.

BOOOOOOOO!

The three of them leave the way they came. Sebastian first. Stellan last. The same pace. No acknowledgment of the arena on the way out.

BOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: (quietly) I think they really meant all of that.

Nick Stuart: You’ve seen his kind before.

Richard Parker: I know what he is. That’s enough.

Nick Stuart: And what is he?

Richard Parker: (watching the Argyle Position as the three men disappear) The kind of man who tells you what’s going to happen before it happens. And means it.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: The PRIMEates have made up their minds. I don’t know what PRIME just walked into. But I don’t think it’s finished talking.

ReVival comes back off commercial break to show Jonathan-Christopher casually chatting it up with three members of the PRIME ring crew near Argyle. Hall seems like a completely different man than the iterations of him prior. He looks calm and relaxed… he’s leaned up against the side of the wall, carefully listening to one of the crew members talk about what sounds like his daughter’s recital. There’s some laughter amongst the group, even Hall cracks a smile here and there. The second crew member jumps in and talks about his marriage and as the discussion continues, JCH nods along until the final crew member looks directly at Jonathan-Christopher.

Crew Member #3: So Jonathan-Christopher, have you and Vickie spoken recently?

The other two crew members’ body language suggests this was clearly not the time nor place to ask a question like this. They almost don’t want to make eye-contact with Jonathan-Christopher.

But that third crew member keeps talking.

Crew Member #3: God she’s so annoying. She floods the PRIME news boards on a weekly basis. A few days ago it was about signing some bullshit contract with JP Morgan. Who believes these things? Her and her father are pathological liars just dying for attention. Also, why can’t she submit this as regular news like the rest of the talent? She is NOT special.

…And yet, JCH hasn’t even flinched from his position. He remains posted against the side of the wall, a pleasant smile on his face. He literally doesn’t flinch. His face remains the same.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Oh, no. No, not at all. I don’t feel the need to talk to Vickie, or follow anything she’s doing. Boy, that sounds rough.

The three guys look at one another and then back at Hall with reasonable disbelief.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Actually, I’ve been seeing someone new. For a while.

The third crew member raises his eyebrows.

Crew Member #3: Really?

Jonathan-Christopher nods along, like it’s no big deal. The other men’s body language suggests it IS a big deal!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Yeah, totally. Look, she’s cool. I’ve known her for a while. I mean… I guess I’m still legally married to Vickie but when Vickie wants to come forward with a separation agreement, I see no issue signing it.

Once again, the crew look at each other before glancing back at Hall who remains in the same chilled out posture as before.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Yeah. Seriously guys (laughing at the thought), you don’t have to worry about me. Once my body can heal a bit more, I’ll show you my mind is A LOT more healed than you think it is. She’s really helped me. Her name is Dora, by the way. She’s nice. Although I don’t think she’s ever going to show up around these parts. She doesn’t like big groups of people and wrestling isn’t really her thing. But she’s great. Honest. I know you guys don’t want to believe me but I am a different guy now. I will prove it. In time.

The crew look at one another again and they all give a shrug in unison.

Crew Member #2: It was still pretty rude of Craig to ask you about you and Vickie.

Crew Member #1: Yeah it was.

Craig rolls his eyes.

Crew Member #3 (Craig): Whatever, guys. I just wanted to know. I couldn’t be the only oneeee…

But Craig’s voice trails off as a brooding, LARGE shadow starts looming towards them in the distance. You can hear the ground THUMP beneath this man’s feet, as it’s soon time for the main event anyway.

…And The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav is moving towards Argyle.

Ivan is now in full frame. He has stopped completely, right across from Jonathan-Christopher Hall. It’s impossible for the massive legend not to acknowledge Jonathan-Christopher, given their history together.

Ivan grunts harshly.

…

…

…

Then walks into Argyle, leaving the scene.

Jonathan-Christopher remains leaned against the white painted brick. His demeanor STILL hasn’t changed, not one bit. Calm, cool, relaxed. Leaving the three members of the ring crew once again looking at one another in bewilderment.

Crew Member #1: (to Jonathan-Christopher) I guess you really have changed.

Crew Member #2: I gotta hand it to ya, JC.

Crew Member #3 (Craig): Ivan still scares the shit out of me! And I’m from Texas!

…Like that has anything to do with it.

Regardless, JCH looks past Craig’s shoulders and tries to peer into Argyle.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It’s no big deal guys. Just like Vickie… if Ivan wants to approach me and actually say something, I’ll worry about it when the time comes. Otherwise, I’m over the guy. He’s a prick.

Hall drops his gaze from Argyle and brings it back to the ring crew.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And once I get the green light to wrestle again, I am going to prove it. The new Jonathan-Christopher isn’t going anywhere. I’m here on a weekly basis for the foreseeable future. Now, Alex, tell me more about your daughter’s incredible recital…

The scene fades.

Backstage.

The camera cuts to the interview position just off from Argyle. But rather than one of the PRIME interviewers we know and love, we get the one and only:

Speedy Riggs.

The Cuban-referee-turned-interviewer is dressed in a tropical button-up shirt with palm trees, red stars, and tiny hammer and sickle coconuts. He holds a microphone in one hand and a stack of index cards in the other. He beams at the camera.

Speedy Riggs: Hello PRIME! Official Red Army interviewer Speedy Riggs here, bringing you an exclusive backstage interview with the one, the only, the Intense Champion, Ivan Stanislav!!

Even from backstage, the boos are heard from the arena. But the unflappable Riggs remains unflapped while the camera pans slightly and The Russian Bear steps into frame, his red suspenders slung tight over his broad shoulders.

The Intense Championship rests across one enormous shoulder, the gold looking modest against the mass of the Russian. Speedy tilts his head up.

Then a little more.

Speedy Riggs: Ivan, you’re PRIME’s Intense Champion, and rightfully so! The Main Event is just about upon us. You against Bobby Neptune, Scott Hunter, and Chandler Tsonda. Three men who you picked to be alongside you at Culture Shock. Three men who you hand picked for greatness. Three men who, uh…

Speedy glances down at his cards for exact clarity.

Speedy Riggs: …ahem, “revealed themselves as poisonous agents of moral decay within the diseased capitalist body of PRIME Wrestling.”

Speedy pauses and then mutters.

Speedy Riggs: Did Alexei write these?

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: No.

A beat.

Ivan Stanislav: I did.

Understanding washes over Speedy’s face and he smiles.

Speedy Riggs: Very punchy. Great cards. Love ‘em!

Ivan looks to the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrade Riggs, PRIME has become confused. It mistakes treachery for independence. Cowardice for wit. Disrespect for courage. I have already rectified some of the wrongs that the three rogues have dealt to the Red Vanguard. After all, Bobby Neptune became intimately familiar with American automobiles, yes?

Speedy nods his head.

Speedy Riggs: You did plow him through the window of a car, yes. Which I thought was very fitting! But… some people might say that Bobby Neptune, Scott Hunter, and Chandler Tsonda are not exactly evil. They might say they were your partners. Or former partners. Or temporary partners.

Ivan’s eyes narrow.

Ivan Stanislav: That is precisely problem, Speedy. PRIME is full of “some people.” Some people excuse everything. Some people shrug. Some people laugh while discipline rots. Some people say, “Oh, Ivan, why are you so harsh? Why are you so serious?”

He pats the Intense Championship with one huge hand.

Ivan Stanislav: Because I am champion now. Not merely holder of belt. Champion. There is responsibility in this. There is obligation. You look at the caliber of champions in PRIME. The blowhards and the sycophants. The drug users and the unbecoming, and I am only one capable, worthy, and respected enough to say what must be said. And I will say it.

Ivan rolls one large shoulder.

Ivan Stanislav: Even that half-wit Bryan Dawkins understands this, though he pretends otherwise. He stands in ring with wounded knee and says, “Oh, Ivan used baton. Ivan cheated.” Bah. This is Intense Championship. You would think he would know that anything goes in Intense match. Why, he says it himself, win by any means necessary. Then he cries when necessary means are used against him. Typical.

Speedy Riggs: That did seem a little contradictory.

Ivan Stanislav: He is just another in long line of fools who stand in Ivan Stanislav’s shadow, and then cry when it comes crashing down. It is not contradiction, Speedy. It is typical American coping mechanism.

Speedy nods sagely.

Speedy Riggs: Very common diagnosis. I saw it a lot when he was in The Red Army. It was shameful!

Ivan Stanislav: Dawkins had championship. Dawkins had opportunity. Dawkins had his little moment of rebellion. And now Dawkins has no title. Now? Dawkins gets to mix it up with another has-been in King Blueberry. Going from Intense Champion to some sort of bastardized fruit-salad match is laughable.

Speedy opens his mouth to speak.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

Speedy lets Ivan laugh, and then chirps.

Speedy Riggs: Haha!! For real Ivan, what a loser!!

Ivan Stanislav: I see evil in PRIME. Wickedness. Vanity. Selfishness. Weakness dressed up in bright colors and clever jokes. And I say to myself, “Ivan Sergeiovich, you must not be cruel. You must help them.”

Speedy’s eyebrows lift.

Speedy Riggs: Help them?

Ivan smiles. There’s no comfort in it.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes. I will help Bobby Neptune understand that youth is no excuse for betrayal. I will help Scott Hunter understand that foolishness does not make him innocent. I will help Chandler Tsonda understand that a Hall of Fame plaque is not armor against consequences.

Speedy Riggs: That’s a very specific kind of help.

Ivan Stanislav: The best kind.

Speedy shuffles his cards, clearing his throat.

Speedy Riggs: Now, Ivan, we all agree that you’ve been the PRIME Locker Room Leader since you arrived years ago. But you’ve really been working overtime, trying to help the rest of the roster. Why some would say you’re a… uh…

He squints at the card.

Speedy Riggs: “Benevolent fist of historical correction.”

Ivan nods approvingly.

Ivan Stanislav: Good phrase, yes?

Speedy Riggs: Oh, perfect phrase!

Ivan turns slightly, squaring himself to the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: I have given PRIME so much. My body. My blood. My wisdom. My patience. I have shown restraint that lesser men could never comprehend. I have allowed fools to laugh. I have allowed cowards to posture. I have allowed children to think themselves equal to giants.

The crowd can be heard booing from inside the arena.

Ivan hears it.

He smiles wider.

Ivan Stanislav: Listen to them. They boo because they know I am right. They boo because gratitude is difficult for decadent people. They boo because I hold mirror to their faces and they do not like what stares back.

Ivan shrugs.

Ivan Stanislav: Neptune, Hunter, and Tsonda will follow in a long line of would-be allies who crossed Ivan Stanislav, and learned that such treachery does not go unanswered.

Speedy Riggs: Well, I for one am looking forward to it, Ivan. I’ve had the rare honor of watching you “educate” capitalists for over twenty years, and it never gets old!

Ivan looks down at Speedy and for the first time this evening, we see a true smile from Stanislav. It reaches his eyes as he squeezes Speedy’s shoulder.

Ivan Stanislav: This is why you are good comrade, Speedy. You understand history.

Speedy beams.

Speedy Riggs: I also understand when to stand at least fifteen feet away from the lesson.

Ivan lets out his barking laugh.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

And then, the smile vanishes.

Ivan Stanislav: Tonight, in just a moment, Neptune, Hunter, and Tsonda learn that they should have stood behind me, instead of opposite me. One by one, the funeral dirge plays. Then we get this over with.

Speedy turns to the camera and grins wide.

Speedy Riggs: There you have it, folks. Ivan Stanislav, your Intense Champion, here to educate, correct, and destroy three men in the name of locker room improvement. I, for one, can’t wait to see what happens! Nick and Richard, back to you!!

Nick Stuart: Well folks, the fallout from Squad Goals reaches all the way to right here, the main event from Night 2. All four teammates for Team Stanislav face off here in our main event!

Richard Parker: Ivan has been waiting for weeks to get his hands on these turncoats, Nick, and personally, I can’t wait!

Nick Stuart: And LOOK – Up in the sky box, or as she likes to call it, the Silver Ticket Suite, Elise Ares! She will absolutely be keeping an eye on our Intense Champion here with keen interest. Let’s get this match started, Vince! How about it?

A sea of stars dot the big screen. Words fade in:

“Look Up”

The words fade into space as “Cosmic Road” hits.

Vince Howard: The following contest is a fatal four way match! Introducing first, measuring in at 6’4, 206 pounds! THE STARBOY!!! BOBBYYYYYYYYY NEEEEEEPTUUUUUNE!!!

Bobby Neptune strides onstage, his gray eyes take in the crowd with ethereal focus, he is both looking at them and beyond them at once.

BOOM

The screen shows a supernova as pyro shoots off behind Neptune who glides towards the ring with graceful purpose. He enters the ring, climbs the turnbuckle, waits a near-eternity, then raises just one arm. He points to the sky then backflips back into the ring, ending in his corner.

“Burning Heart” by Survivor plays over the PA. The stock Vae Victis video package on the PRIMEview is suddenly interrupted by a blue and yellow “HUNTERMANIA!!” streaking across the big screen. The crowd pops loud as Scott Hunter strides onto the stage, wearing very special blue and yellow gear that is slightly nicer than his normal blue and yellow gear, and we know this because there’s yellow lightning bolts across his butt. He’s got a blue and yellow feather boa draped over his shoulders and he can’t help but cup his ear to the crowd as he makes his way down the ramp.

Vince Howard: And…! From Miamiiiiii, Florida! weighing in at 245 pounds…THE SCOTTSTER! SCOTT! HUNTERRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Scott pumps his arms with great energy and pomp as he makes his way to the ring. He slides in and takes his respective corners.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir erupts as Ivan Stanislav emerges from the backstage area, noticeably alone, save for the Intense title hoisted over his shoulder. Stanislav and Ruslan raise les his arms, roars at the crowd, and pointedly makes his way towards the ring. Stanislav points and jaws at several fans along the way.

Vince Howard: And…! Introducing the Russian Bear!!! Weighing in at over 500 alleged pounds!!! IVAAAAAAAN!!! STAAAAAAANISLAAAAAAV!!!

Stanislav steps over the top rope and thunders into the ring. He raises his arms over his head and bellows at the camera.

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’

These are truly the last days'”

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

Vince Howard: And finally… weighing in at 5’11, 187 pounds…!!! THE MODEL CITIZENNNN, THE A-LISTER, CHANDLERRRRRRRR TSOOOOOONDAAAAAAA!!!

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponents. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

DING!! DING!!

Nick Stuart: AND TO NO ONE’S SURPRISE, THIS HAS TURNED INTO A 3 VERSUS 1 MATCH IMMEDIATELY!!!

That’s right Nick.

Bobby Neptune, Scott Hunter, and Chandler Tsonda have POUNCED on Stanislav, throwing strikes and kicks and— OH! Ivan wipes Bobby out with a forearm. Stanislav steps towards Chandler, who wisely backs away, but by god, guess what?

Scott Hunter meets his ass halfway!

Big right from Hunter! Big left from Ivan! Right from Hunter! Left from Ivan. Right! Left! Right! Left! Left! Left! LEFT! HEADBUTT BY IVAN DROPS HUNTER!!!

SPRINGBOARD MISSILE DROPKICK FROM BOBBY NEPTUNE TO THE BACK OF IVAN’S HEAD!!!

Nick Stuart: The force from that dropkick sends Ivan propelling forward into the ropes! AND CHANDLER DRAGS THE TOP ROPE DOWN!!! DOWN GOES THE BEAR!!!

Richard Parker: COME BACK ALEXEI!!! THE RED ARMY NEEDS YOU!!!

Ivan Stanislav hits the floor hard.

In the ring, the other three competitors look at each other. Small nods. Silent agreements.

The Russian Bear begins climbing to his feet. Big spots like that don’t allow his frame any respite. He will be sore. Stiff. He slowly climbs to his feet.

Baseball slide by Hunter!

That staggers the Russian Bear!

SUICIDE DIVE BY CHANDLER TSONDA THROUGH THE THE ROPES!!! THE BEAR REELS BACKWARDS INTO THE GUARD RAIL!!!

ASAI MOONSAULT BY BOBBY NEPTUNE!!!

Nick Stuart: Now that’s teamwork right there—

Richard Parker: Wait, Nick, why did you stop? Go on, what were you gonna say?

Nick Stuart: …Tsonda dropkicked Neptune in the head in the middle of his moonsault.

Damn it, Tsonda.

Damn you and your handsome, devilish ways.

The crowd jeers Tsonda’s sudden betrayal. He doesn’t give even one fuck. He picks Neptune up by the hair and then irish whips him VIOLENTLY into the ring post.

A SPRINGBOARD CROSSBODY FROM INSIDE THE RING TO THE OUTSIDE BY SCOTT HUNTER!!! HE WIPES TSONDA OUT!!!

Neptune rubs his shoulder as he recovers from the brutal impact of that ring post. He marches over to the fallen Tsonda and delivers a few stomps to his ribs. Scott Hunter reaches his feet, dropkicks Neptune! Tsonda sweeps the legs out from under Hunter! Neptune drops an elbow on Tsonda! Hunter snatches Neptune’s elbow and puts him in an arm bar! Tsonda puts a sleeper hold on Hunter!

…all this, while Ivan stands in the ring, watching them tear each other apart with great amusement.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!

As though the laughter broke some sort of violent spell over the men, or, placed them under one, they all three look up and into the ring. Then they look at themselves and the position they are in.

They free the holds, and charge the ring!

But Ivan is there, and he begins to live up to his namesake.

As soon as Hunter’s head protrudes into the ring from under the ropes, Ivan drops a knee on his head. Tsonda is the first to step foot in the ring, and he gets a big ol Russian lariat across his mouth for being there. Bobby Neptune takes the upstairs route, entering via top turnbuckle!

HE LEAPS!!!

AND IVAN GRABS HIM WITH BOTH OF HIS MASSIVE HANDS BY THE THROAT.

Ivan spits in his face.

Actually.

Spits in his face with a fucking smile.

Ivan Stanislav: You are dog to me.

Nick Stuart: IRON CURTAIN!!! IRON CURTAIN BY STANISLAV!!! THAT SON OF A—

Richard Parker: HOW DO YOU SAY “TO INFINITY AND BEYOND” IN RUSSIAN!?!

Nick Stuart: When Bobby Neptune recovers, there will be hell to pay for Ivan! I don’t think he will be letting that go.

Richard Parker: I’ll believe it when I see it, Nick. Spaceboy went night night. That’s the reality here!

Ivan Stanislav turns his attention to his other two opponents.

First, Tsonda.

At 5’11 and less than 200 pounds, it should really be stated more often just how brave he is to stand toe-to-toe with Ivan. And yet, here he is, his head about level with Ivam’s chest, staring at him with a trademark smile that only Chandler has.

Forearm to Ivan’s neck!

Another!

Another!

The bear is reeling!

His frame leans against the ropes, damn near stresses them to a worrying extent, and then—

He SPRINGS FORWARD!!!

GRABS TSONDA BY THE FACE!!!

FACEPALM CHOKESLAM!!!

Nick Stuart: STALIN’S SICKLE TO TSONDA!!!

It’s Scott Hunter up to his feet now.

He has witnessed first hand many a time what the Russian Bear is capable of.

And so his approach is surprisingly heady.

He circles him.

Squares off with him.

But maintains a distance.

He steps in with a jab, exits off the back foot before Ivan can lunge.

Circling. Speeding up. Step in, jab, step out. Ivan is starting to lose track. Another step in, uppercut — oof, the nose! A little blood trickles, Ivan roars and lunges, but Scott’s too far away, and he circles before Ivan can step forward.

He’s managed to find himself behind Ivan, and he immediately throws his shoulder with SICKENING FORCE into the back of the Ivan’s knee!

THAT drops the Russian Bear. To his knee, at least.

A step up enziguiri from Hunter finishes the job!!!

Nick Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER GOING FOR THE PIN RIGHT HERE! AND WHY NOT???

ONE!!!

SCOTT HOOKS THE LEG!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEE!!!

…

NO!!!

Nick Stuart: Ivan gets the shoulder up without a millisecond to spare!

Richard Parker: Never a doubt, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Sure, bud.

Scott has to keep the pressure on and he knows it. He starts laying the boots to Ivan’s legs, chopping at that tree!

But Ivan snatches that boot! Scott went to the well one too many times and GOD! THE STRENGTH! HE LEG WHIPS HIM WITH JUST ONE ARM!

Ivan climbs back up to his feet. Scott is pissed. He charges with reckless abandon towards Ivan!!!

AND GETS TURNED INSIDE OUT WITH A LARIAT!!!

But suddenly.

Suddenly, Ivan’s face twists.

As if someone stuck a pencil in his butthole.

Ivan Stanislav: Oy, moi dragotsennyye kamni!!!

But no one stuck a pencil in his butthole.

Nick Stuart: BOBBY NEPTUNE!!! BOBBY NEPTUNE WITH THE LOWBLOW!!!

Richard Parker: So much for all that enlightened alien moralistic bull crap!

Nick Stuart: Ivan SPIT in his face!

Richard Parker: Yeah, well…

Nick Stuart: Yeah, well, what???

Richard Parker: …I’ve got nothing.

Ivan crumples back down to his hands and knees, the air sucked out of his entire diaphragm.

And that’s precisely when Bobby Neptune does some shit that is both a) Wildly unnecessary, and b) Unfuckingbelievable.

He runs up the turnbuckles.

Leaps straight fucking backwards off the top turnbuckle.

Corkscrews!!!

And CURB STOMPS IVAN STANISLAV!!!

Richard Parker: I’VE NEVER SEEN SOME CRAZY ASS CRAP LIKE THAT BEFORE IN MY WHOLE LIFE!!!

Nick Stuart: THAT’S WHY HE IS THE UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT!!! A CORKSCREW CURBSTOMP!!! AND LOOK, HE’S MAKING THE COVER!!! I DON’T SEE HOW IVAN KICKS OUT FROM THIS!!!

No one does.

In fact, the entire state of Rhode Island is about to become unglued.

The tension is palpable. Everyone’s on the edge of their seats.

Elvis Nixon makes the count.

ONE!!!

Ivan isn’t moving.

This one’s two seconds away from being over.

Bobby Neptune is about to take it.

TWO!!!

It’s fucking over.

One second away.

All we need is for Elvis Nixon’s hand to hit the mat a third time.

Boy, it sure is taking him a while.

Oh, I see now.

It’s because—

Nick Stuart: CHANDLER TSONDA HAS CAUGHT NIXON’S HAND ON THE WAY DOWN!!! NEPTUNE HAD THIS WON!!! HE HAD THIS WON!!!

Chandler Tsonda just blue balled the entire state of Rhode Island.

But, to give himself life in this match?

For now, he must also give it to Ivan Stanislav!

Elvis is yelling at Chandler but it doesn’t matter. Ivan HAS now kicked out and is already charging up to his feet. A stern warning from Elvis gets a shrug from Tsonda, and Tsonda immediately CURB STOMPS IVAN AND IVAN HAS EATEN HEEL AND CANVAS FOR THE SECOND TIME.

Chandler shrugs at Bobby as if to say, you know, sorry man but that’s how it is right now.

And then he gives a basement dropkick to Bobby’s jaw to smooth things over.

Chandler kips up to his feet. He’s feeling it now.

The only thing is, when he turns around?

Scott Hunter is right there.

BOOT to Chandler’s gut.

He drapes Chandlers arm over him, grabs a handful of trunks, and UP, UP, UP Tsonda goes!

Delayed!

Vertical!

Suplex!!!

It lands flush!!!

But guess what?

So does Bobby Neptune’s springboard frog splash RIGHT onto Scott Hunter!!!

Nick Stuart: Hey Richard.

Richard Parker: Yeah?

Nick Stuart: That was cool.

Richard Parker: Yeah, yeah it was buddy.

You can practically feel their fingers fiddle each other’s after agreeing there.

The impact of the frog splash also leaves Neptune clutching his ribs, unable to make the cover.

But that’s fine.

Honestly, that’s fine. Because Ivan Stanislav has just picked him up by the neck anyway!

A SECOND IRON CURTAIN TO NEPTUNE!!!

AND… A… IRON CURTAIN TO TSONDA!!!

AND ANOTHER TO SCOTT HUNTER!!!

Ivan Stanislav roars and this place is letting him have it right back.

He covers Neptune.

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

KICKOUT!!!

He frustratedly crawls over to Tsonda, makes the cover.

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THR— KICKOUT BY TSONDA!!!

Ivan pounds the mat. He crawls to Hunter. Hooks both legs way over his head and makes the cover.

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEE— SHOULDER UP!!! HUNTER GOT THE SHOULDER UP!!!

Ivan is furious now and unfortunately for Elvis that means he’s going to get bullied a little bit. Ivan stands up and backs Elvis into the corner, screaming at him!

DROPKICK INTO THE BACK OF IVAN BY TSONDA!!!

ELVIS NIXON JUST GOT CRUSHED INTO THAT CORNER!!!

At first, Ivan is stunned. He didn’t mean to do that. But that quickly gives way to a devious smile.

He turns and looks at Tsonda.

They both recognize what this is.

A race against the clock to use as many foreign objects as you can.

Tsonda damn near leaps over the top ropes as Ivan, faster than he has in years, throws a leg over that top rope and gets down to the floor.

Tsonda grabs a chair.

Ivan grabs a cha— CRACK!!!

Nick Stuart: A STEEL CHAIR RIGHT ACROSS IVAN’S BACK!!!

CRACK!!! CRACK!!! CRACK!!! 

CRACK!!!

‘Absolutely brutalizing.’ That’s the apt term for describing the severity of those chair shots Ivan just ate. Four total across the back.

One over the head.

Tsonda turns around and

Nick Stuart: ASAI MOONSAULT BY BOBBY NEPTUNE!!! This kid can put on a show!

Bobby’s momentum basically shoves Tsonda back into the guard railing.

But in the ring? Hunter waits.

For whoever dares to cross him.

And right now?

Right now Bobby Neptune is laying punch after punch after vicious punch to Ivan’s head.

Chandler, slumped against the guardrail, assesses the situation, determines the Ivan problem is solved, and leaves Bobby to it, sliding under the ropes and into the ring!

Tsonda and Hunter trade blows, Tsonda’s crisp, fast, while Hunter’s are heavy, hard.

Eventually a knee to the gut swings this in Hunter’s favor, and once again!

It’s time!

For yet another!!!

DELAYED!!!

VERTICAL!!!

SUPLEX!!!

…NO!

Chandler wiggled until he escaped out the back door and—

CODE BREAKER!!!

THAT LAYS HUNTER OUT!!!

Tsonda drags Hunter to the corner. He faces the turnbuckles.

One jump onto the bottom turnbuckle.

Another onto the middle!

AND A THIRD TO THE TOP!!!

Richard Parker: NO!!! IT CAN’T BE!!!

Nick Stuart: YES IT CAN!!! THE MODEL!!! CITIZEN!!! REDUX!!! THE TRIPLE JUMP MOONSAULT LANDS FLUSH!!! AND TSONDA MAKES THE COVER!!!

Elvis Nixon, still shaking the cobwebs out, slides into make a very painful count.

ONE!

…

Bobby Neptune hears the slap against the canvas! He turns and rushes to the ring!

TWO!

…

Bobby’s in the ring!!! HE DIVES FOR TSONDA!!!

…

…

THREEEEEEEEEE!!!

DING!!! DING!!!

Nick Stuart: Bobby Neptune was a fraction of a way from keeping this match alive!!! But Chandler Tsonda pulls out the victory!!!

Richard Parker: Tsonda is a cheater. He knocked out Elvis. He brought a foreign weapon into the match, AND—

Nick Stuart: AND he beat Ivan Stanislav, Bobby Neptune, and Scott Hunter!

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUUUURRR WINNER!!! THE MODEL CITIZEN!!! THE A-LISTER!!! CHANDLERRRRRR TSOOOOOONDAAAAAA!!!

The fans roar with approval. Chandler has his arm raised in victory.

Bobby Neptune looks him in the eye.

Chandler nods, fully expecting this to be a brawl.

Instead, Neptune extends his hand.

They shake.

Nick Stuart: FOLKS, THAT’S OUR TIME!!! WE WILL SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR YET ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF REVIVAL!!!

As Bobby Neptune raises Tsonda’s hand for him in victory?

WE FADE

TO

BLACK