ReVival 87

Pitch black.

“Miserlou” By Dick Dale and His Deltones smacks you in the face.

An eagle eye shot of a 1966 Chevy Impala rolling low and slow down the Jersey Turnpike.

Whitewalls.

Tinted windows. This thing fucks.

Inside? The motherfucking Poor Whoresmen. United again and it feels so good.

They’re suited up. Literally.

Black suits with fine white Italian silk dress shirts.

Daytona, still jacked to the gills and looking like he ate two or three Daytona’s, adjusts his impeccable necktie in the passenger seat. He looks over and nods at the driver- moisturized and unbothered Fred Dick. This is literally baby forty-five pound, six ounce Fred Dick’s childhood dream.

In the back sits Fuck Your Tag Team.

They’re on different paths right now, but there’s no static.

Really, that’s the story here.

No static.

Fred Dick: What do they call a quarter pounder with cheese in China, ‘Tone?

Anna Daniels: They have the Quarter Pounder in China, Fred.

Fred Dick: Right but what do they call it?

Daytona Diamonds: Shitfire, Fred… I don’t know. Some Chinese shit. Anyways I wasn’t eating fuckin’ McDonalds. I was trainin’.

Rob Williams: Yeah the shit he was eating you can’t get at McDonalds.

Daytona smirks and stares out the window. The Impala glides to a stop at the rear, loading entrance of The Prudential Center.

Fred Dick: Let’s run through it again.

Rob Williams: I got Towel in the main. He’ll put up a hell of a fight, but I ain’t leaving without my belt.

Anna Daniels: The jolfer. We’ve been waiting for this shot.

Daytona Diamonds: And I’m gonna do unspeakable acts to that walkin’ mustache.

Fred pulls the keys from the ignition and nods towards the dock.

Fred Dick: Let’s get the gear.

Your favorite stable’s favorite stable exits the Impala one by one, making their way to the trunk. Fred pops it open.

Everyone stares inside for a beat.

Pan around.

Inside the trunk: A wooden salad bowl. Two dildos. A traffic cone. A plastic sword. A single high heel (one of Fred’s). A plastic bag full of spaghetti.

Anna grabs the salad bowl and runs a fingernail along the rim, nodding in approval.

Naturally, Daytona grabs the dildos.

Fred hoists the traffic cone onto his shoulder like a bazooka.

Everyone looks at Rob as he examines the remaining items. Finally, he grabs the single high heel.

He stares at it for a moment and then looks up to his stablemates.

Rob Williams: TAL’s dead, baby.

Beat.

Rob Williams: TAL’s dead.

A band hired by a now ridiculously rich Rob Williams specifically for this moment cues up “Stuck In The Middle With You”.

Wide shot from a low angle.

The Poor Whoresmen walk shoulder to shoulder into Prudential Center.

Hey, everybody. Who’s ready to commit some gimmick infringement?

Huh. Based on the resounding silence, I assume the answer is, “Only you, Matthew.” Which is fine, I guess. I didn’t want any help anyway. So there! Nyah!

Ahem.

Anyway.

This is the part in the segment introduction where normally you’re told that, since it’s been a hot minute since the last time Matt Mills was forced to interview Steve Lemieux and company, our intrepid reporter is feeling pretty good about himself. We’d all start to think that it was a lovely change of pace for Mr. Mills, who has become the personal Simon Tillier of this cadre of chucklefucks, but Simon is cool now, and Matt Mills will never be cool. He will, however, have to endure a barrage of chucklefuckery, because that is his lot in life. Maybe he pissed off a wizard or a shaman in a past life, or maybe he’s been dabbling in magicks most foul. Either way, this is his fate now.

And yes, “magicks” was spelled like that intentionally.

All of that is to say, Matt Mills is standing in front of the usual PRIME backdrop, and he is surrounded by morons. Morons most foul.

Okay, so Rick Hardbody – that’s the dude with the beret, the sunglasses with little dangly teardrops, and the feather boa – is really the only foul one. The rest just exist on a spectrum of stupid somewhere between “A single Leonard Aarons III roleplay” and “All of the Leonard Aarons III roleplays.”

Sorry to the new folks who don’t get that reference. Unless you do get that reference, in which case I’m sorry for an entirely different set of reasons.

Matt Mills: Hello, everyone! I’m Matt Mills, and with me here tonight is…

The smile fades then falters.

Matt Mills: Uhhh…

The man has kept at it for a year, so it’s only natural that week after week of this has caught up to him.

Matt Mills: Look, you all know who they are.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes!

The good doctor waits for no introduction, because his social skills are shit.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I am sorry that this address is coming so late, but two weeks ago I was called to a legal matter involving Mr. Doubtfire and the many Prussian francs that he inherited, so I was unable to communicate with everyone about this.

Steve Lemieux: What about the show before that, Mister Doctor Zeke?

For his part, Steve is speaking into a child’s Frozen 2 Sing-a-long With Elsa combination microphone and speaker, so every time he opens his mouth his words are spoken over the choral hook of “Into the Unknown,” which isn’t even the best song in that movie.

Yes, the microphone gag is back. No, I don’t know for how long.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I forgot.

Steve Lemieux: Oh.

Steve hangs his head, and the voice of Idina Menzel is choked off as the batteries start to die.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Nevermind that, Stefon, because we are here now. And now is when we shall begin the ceremonial reading of the grievances. Henchmen!!

He gestures animatedly behind him where Rick (who has already been described as a dipshit) and his tag-team partner Oliver Cade (who is an actual normal wrestler) are standing behind him. Neither one budges.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Bring forth the Scroll of Grievances!

Ollie glances at Rick. Rick flexes his mustache and makes a pouting kissy-face at the camera. Beyond that, neither one moves.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Ahem. I said bring forth the Scroll of Grievances!

Still nothing.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Do neither of you have the grievances? I wrote it on a scroll, which is why it’s called the Scroll of Grievances. Don’t tell me you forgot the scroll.

Ollie sighs.

Ollie Cade: You tucked it in your coat before we came here.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: What? Nonsense, Johnny Wombat! I would know if I had an entire scroll in here.

It should be noted that there is in fact a scroll shaped bulge beneath the doctor’s coat.

If you’re thinking it would also be worth noting why Cade is being referred to as Johnny Wombat, no.

Matt Mills: It, uhh… it’s right there.

For the record, when he points out the shape of what is clearly a scroll case under Zeke’s coat, Matt Mills is not trying to be helpful. What he is, is trying to get this over with as quick as possible.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Oh. Well would you look at that. Thank you, General Mills.

Zeke removes a large and ornate leather scroll container from inside his coat, opens it, and then watches as a few dozen Werther’s Original candies scatter onto the floor. Among them is a single sheet of yellow notebook paper which has been folded in on itself three times over. He leans down, retrieves the paper, then taps his heart and points to the sky in a gesture of respect for his fallen homies.

The homies being all those candies that are now littering the linoleum.

Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: Ahem! And now we will read the grievances that were suffered by sweet, innocent Stefon Lummox when he stumbled into the ring at the last premier live pay-per-view event.

He clears his throat. Loudly. Twice.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Grievance number one! Wig stapled to ass. This was just uncalled for, especially as Stefon has been dealing with very painful diarrheas as a result of his raging hemorrhoid flare-up. Stefon did not need your fluffy butt draperies, space lady! No, he did not! Grievance number two! Kicked in face by Cranky Joel. I think we can all agree that Stefon here has a very kickable face, but that does not mean you should kick him in the face. The only thing I can think of is that Cranky Joel, who no doubt is related to the online porn man by virtue of having the same name, has been getting too much of the online porns. Thus it has made him blind. Ergo he needs the sunglasses. Vis-a-vis he has bad eyes now from all the you know what.

Matt Mills grimaces. So too does Ollie and Steve. Rick continues to make smoochy Tom Selleck faces at the camera.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Grievance the third! Kneed in the head by Tiny-ish Gambino. Our science department, which is me, has yet to understand the physics of this one owing to Tiny-ish Gambino being so small. I for one do enjoy his many rap musics, however. Grievance number four! Run over by Drugs, Jr. And we can lump this in with grievance number five, which is being slammed bodily by Drugs, Jr.

Matt Mills: Do you mean Hayes Hanlon?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I don’t know who that is. Grievance number six! This one is particularly bad because of who was involved. Run over by Large Nicholas Pfefferman. You may think your mathematics are high and mighty, Mr. Pfefferman, but they have no place here. And neither does your Dinty Moore mustache and your many Natalie Imbruglia musics!

Matt Mills: Nick Pfefferman? He hasn’t been part of PRIME in over four years. Wait, are you getting Pfefferman confused with John Pep-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Grievance number seven! And do try to keep up, General. Headbutted in the tender nethers by Lee Carbon. This one is actually something of a miracle, because we all thought that Lee Carbon drowned in the Chicago Ooze Pits.

Ollie Cade: (sighing) That’s supposed to say El Cabron.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That sounds made up.

Matt Mills: It’s actually the alter-ego of Re-

Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: Grievance number eight! And just because we’re moving on, don’t think we’ve forgotten about your crimes, Lee Carbon. Just because you like to stab eyeballs does not mean you can also hit Stefon in his pant-balls.

Ollie pulls the front of his jacket up over his face and contemplates how much simpler his life would have been were be born a frog. Hopping through the grass. Sunning on a lilypad. Chowing down on all the flies he could find. And best of all, being not here.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Back to grievance number eight! To whomstever was driving the gurney that rolled over Stefon’s now doubly-sensitive nether bits, know that there is an entire battalion of skunks ready and waiting to be a-pulted to your location at a moment’s notice, and the moment is coming!

By now, Steve has slowly moved the Frozen 2 Sing-a-long With Elsa speaker in front of his crotch. His face is a shade of red normally reserved for ripe apples, freshly boiled lobsters, and clown noses.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Grievance number nine! Crushed underneath Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

Four heads snap in the direction of Dr. Zeke as he, for the first time in four years, gets someone’s name right.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: We all wish you much success in your bid for re-election, whenever that may come, and hope nothing but the best for the city of Arkham. I can provide blueprints for a death ray whose components can be purchased at any Hobby Lobby if you desire. Please don’t eat us.

He pauses briefly for the first time tonight.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And lastly, grievance number ten! Crushed underneath that blasted Nick Pfefferman or Pepper-man or whoever he is.

Matt Mills: So, if I can interject a minute here, you’re thinking of Big John Pepper. He was the one who landed on top of Steve.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Are you sure?

Matt Mills: Yes, only that isn’t his name anymore. He’s calling himself Big Ian Salt these days.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: THE POLIO MAN?!

Matt Mills: The… what?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Simple man, how do you not know of the great Doctor Salk? Why, he’s only responsible for curing my many polios, and I can’t even begin to imagine how many horses he needed in order to do it.

Matt Mills: Your many polios? But…

The doctor turns on his heel to face Steve Lemieux.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Naughty Stefon. I know that you might have been squished and left to squirm underneath his considerable masculine bulk, but we can’t go around accusing medical heroes of such things, even if they are true.

Steve deflates.

Steve Lemieux: Awwwwww.

Rick Hardbody: I hear he’s been injecting that Rose chick, if you know what I mean.

Everyone does know what he means – well, everyone except Steve – but they all collectively choose to not say anything about it. Zeke takes Steve by the arm and begins to exit, kicking away Werther’s Candies with each step.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Don’t listen to The Dickman, Stefon. Now come along, we have much to discuss about why scientists are never wrong.

Zeke, Steve, and Rick all exit, leaving just Ollie and Mills behind. With a conciliatory shrug, Ollie follows the rest of his cadre, and we fade out on a shot of Matt Mills staring at the floor and the scattered collection of treats that surround him.

…Previously On…

…The News…

A cold spring rain falls across Arkham’s Main Street. Few citizens of the Miskatonic city fill the streets, those that do are bundled up and moving quietly along their way.

As a bitter breeze gusts down the street it carries with it a small storm of posters bearing the face of Sutler Reynolds-Kael, the missing son of Max Kael.

Max Kael: … they stole him…

Shuffling down the sidewalk is the dejected Mayor of Arkham, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

Max Kael: I should have been more attentive. Next time I’m gonna put a tracking chip right at the base of his spine.

Shaking his head, Max begins hanging up more Missing Posters on main street. Occasionally he grabs a random citizen and shakes them, demanding to know if they know where his son is. All in all it’s a pretty normal Spring here in Arkham.

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

That reliable, intense NEWS music plays, complete with sexy sax and a new addition of some harpsichord, oooh classy! Once again we’re whisked to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE which continues to be dominated by the WON ACTION NEWS THRONE.

And of course seated up high, scowling and stewing?

The Mayor of Arkham!

The WON ACTION LEAD NEWS ANCHOR!

The Most Trusted Voice In Professional Wrestling News, Allegedly!

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!

Max Kael: WORMS OF PRIME! We’re continuing with the EMERGENCY TOP STORY! Which is WHERE THE FUCK IS MY SON!?

The sound in Max’s voice isn’t fatherly concern. It’s not warm or touched by the radiance of love.

No, it’s possessive.

It’s demanding.

The cries of a petulant child who has lost one of their favorite toys.

Max Kael: He’s been missing for WEEKS now! This is utterly and completely unacceptable! Thankfully for Sutler, his father is one of the greatest investigative journalists to have ever graced a professional wrestling ring!

Turning to Camera 2, one eye brow raised, silver teeth peeking at the camera.

Max Kael: And I have been on the job, diligently running down every possible lead. And just before tonight’s ReVival, I HELPED CRACK THE CASE!

Dramatic music plays as Max turns back to Camera 1.

Max Kael: What I discovered rocked my very soul and shattered my preconceptions about certain people on this roster. You see I have discovered that my wonderful, innocent, precious, sweet time, lovely boy, Sutler Reynolds-Kael, has been KIDNAPPED!

Shaking his head in disgust, Max continues.

Max Kael: Kidnapped! Can you believe it? Who does that?!

Snapping back to Camera 2.

Max Kael: Let me tell you.

Return to Camera 1.

Max Kael: It may surprise some people to learn that my wonderful, perfect, untainted child has been lured from the light into the shadows by one of the, so-called, good guys. That’s right, kiddos, the very villains of this story were once considered good. Of course you know of who I speak…

Smash to Camera 2.

Max Kael: NATE COLTON! That’s right, that jolly jocking jackoff used his wretched family to lure my precious boy away and into their tantalizingly treasonous clutches. I won’t stand for it!

Max stands then sits back down.

Max Kael: Hear me well, Nate Colton. The Kael Family does not abandon their own. From Snark Darkly to Chloe Sektor-Kael to Elenore Sinclair-Kael to the whole demented clan, we will call upon every resource, every favor, every last dirty trick tucked away in our blasted black hearts to get ours back.

The stage slowly fills with all of Max’s various allies and minions. The Bolognese Bull, Snark Darkly, the denizens of Arkham and Max’s Russian Gangsters. It’s a motley crew of the worst kind of degenerates that found themselves in orbit around the Mayor of Arkham.

Max Kael: I will have my boy back. I WILL HAVE MY BOY BACK!

Turning back toward Camera 1, the Black Heart of PRIME eyes fill with the manic rage of a wronged child.

Max Kael: … I will have my boy back.

Everything slowly washes to darkness save for Max’s eyes, outlasting the fade for just a moment before we cut away.

It’s ReVival 87.

And you know what that means?

Geoffery, bring forth the SIIIIIIIIGNS!

LET ME HOST SPORTS!
DO NOT LET JOE FONTAINE OPEN A CAN OF BEES.
I COULD REALLY GO FOR A BLUEBERRY-PINEAPPLE SMOOTHIE RIGHT ABOUT NOW
DEAR RIA LOCKHART I BET YOU CAN’T BOOT CANCER JILES IN THE WING-WONGS THIRTY-FIVE TIMES OR MORE
WING-WONG KICK COUNTER: ___
PUSH JOHN GRAPPLING
COME ON OUT TO CLASS-ACTION STUART’S BOUNCY HOUSE EMPORIUM BEFORE THE FUCKIN’ COPS SHOW UP AND WE HAVE TO MOVE AGAIN
KING BLUEBERRY TAKES PINEAPPLES THE WRONG WAY
IAN SALT NEEDS TO CHANGE HIS FACE TO A SHITTIER PRESIDENT
FRUIT SALAD MATCH FOR ALL THE MARBLES GRAPES
WE DO NOT SHIP ROSESALT
EXCEPT ME, I SHIP ROSESALT
MY FAVOURITE PART OF THE MOVIE IS WHEN THE STAR RIA SAID “IT’S SPUDDIN’ TIME”
CANCER JILES DOESNT KNOW THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL

The lights die. “Clubbed to Death” climbs from the low end of the mix, strings building in the dark, and the crowd knows this music now. The reaction that comes up is not a welcome.

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Three figures at the top of the ramp.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, in their PRIME debut, Stellan & Solomon Cross representing THE ALBIIIOOOOON!!!

The follow spot finds them, and the noise sharpens. Solomon Cross stands with the grin already in place, unhurried and unbothered, the kind of smile that knows exactly how much it costs the people directing heat at it. To his left, Stellan stands completely still, arms at his sides, receiving the crowd’s anger the way a wall receives weather. And half a step behind them both, hands clasped at the small of his back, Sebastian surveys the arena with the quiet attention of a man checking the time.

None of them acknowledges the noise.

They come down the ramp together: Solomon at a jog, grinning wider as the heat increases, making deliberate eye contact with the fans closest to the barrier rather than avoiding it; Stellan moving at that unhurried weight that makes the distance feel shorter than it is; Sebastian a half-step behind, already looking past everything between him and the ring.

A fan leans over the barrier toward Solomon. He stops, looks at them for a long moment, says something they cannot hear over the noise, and walks on still grinning.

At ringside Solomon vaults the top rope. Stellan steps over it. Sebastian enters through the middle, pauses on the apron, and steps through.

The men are about to take their positions when OUT OF NOWHERE, The Intruders appear on either side of the ring. They yell over the Albion’s music:

Intruder #1: Stellan and Solomon Cross will be applesauce!

Intruder #2: We will crush and eat you like so much processed fruit!

Intruder #1: For natural sugars and fiber!

Intruder #2: AHHHH!

Intruder #1: AHHHH!

The Intruders waste no time, trying to rush Stellan and Solomon before the bell even rings. The Crosses, however, merely step out of the way, allowing the two big men to collide mid-ring.

DING DING DING

The bell has rung, and all four men are in the ring. The Intruders are holding their heads after that collision, and the Crosses don’t have time for their nonsense. Sebastian Cross leans against the barricade, ringside, and simply nods to the other two. While the Intruders move with the chaos of two…Intruders, the Albion are a well-oiled machine of terrifying efficiency. The Crosses take on Intruder and deliver vicious lariats in perfect unison.

The intruders are on their backs now, like upside-down turtles, unable to get up. Stellan delivers an elbow drop to Intruder #2, then pushes him out of the ring to isolate Intruder # 1, who has already been thrown into the corner by Solomon, whose boot is boring a hole in the Intruder’s chest.

Richard Parker: The Albion is quickly showing they are not ones to intrude on.

Nick Stuart: Have the intruders ever successfully intruded on anyone, Rich?

Richard Parker: Beside your mother last night, I don’t think so, Nick.

Nick Stuart: You leave Dolores out of this!

The Crosses give the Intruders no time to breathe. Stellan grabs Intruder #2 with his massive hands and HOISTS him up like he’s nothing for a suplex. The crowd gasps as Stellan holds him…and holds him…and holds him…until Sebastian gives a subtle nod from their corner and Solomon superkicks the Intruder in the face before Stellan slams him down with the suplex.

COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

Intruder #1 grabs the ref and slides him outside the ring.  He screams an “AHHHHHH” in the ref’s face before catching a boot to the head courtesy of Solomon, who slipped through the ropes like buttah to kick the Intruder in his big stupid face. Solomon is on the outside now, controlling Intruder #1, while Stellan, on the inside, picks up the downed Intruder by the throat and chokeslams him back down. After a subtle hand gesture from Sebastian, Solomon rolls the first Intruder back into the ring. The two Crosses exchange looks and nod. It’s time for this little farce to end.

Stellan stands up, Intruder #1, and holds him up again in vertical suplex position. This time he holds out his hand for the crowd to start counting, which they do, partially out of fear for what would happen if they didn’t.

1!

2!

3!

He keeps holding him up. While Solomon climbs the ropes. The crowd continues counting.

7!

8!

9!

Immediately on 10 Solomon leaps from the stop rope and delivers a diving elbow to Intruder JUST as Stellan executes the suplex. THE LONG DROP. INTRUDER #1 is OUT!

Richard Parker: Impeccable timing from the Crosses. Just a split second off and that move would be a mess.

During the count, Intruder #2 slowly made his way back into the ring. With number 1 out, he lets out an AHHHHHHH! And charges Stellan.

This is a bad idea.

Stellan catches the Intruder and hoists him up into a military press just as easily as he did his partner. Solomon springs off the ropes just as Stellan drops the intruder and…A FLYING DDT! Stellan hit a DDT on the Intruder AT THE EXACT MOMENT Solomon threw him down. The crowd is stunned by the pinpoint timing, but probably not as stunned as the Intruders.

Richard Parker: The call that the Launch Code!

Nick Stuart: I can’t imagine the number of times they had to run that to get it right.

It must’ve been a lot because the execution was terrifying in its slickness.

Both intruders are down. It’s unclear who the legal man has been throughout the whole match, but it really never mattered. Solomon covers Intruder #1 while Stellan takes #2.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Over almost as quickly as it began.

Vince Howard: Your winners by pinfall, THHEEEE ALLLLLBIOOOOOON!!!!

There is little celebration post-match. Sebastian calmly collects his cost at ringside and makes his way up the ramp, followed by Stellan. Solomon takes a moment to soak in their inaugural victory before following his brothers to the back.

Fred Dick moved through the crowd like a man trying to sell the moon twice before sunrise.

Folded notes disappeared into his hands as fast as they appeared. Bets shouted from every direction. Arguments breaking out over odds before being drowned by louder arguments somewhere else. The barn was chaos. Real chaos. The kind built from drink, violence and too many bodies packed into a place never meant to hold this many people.

Sweat hung in the air thick enough to taste. That– plus pig shit.

The fighting pit sat in the middle of the barn floor waiting like an open grave while traveller families crowded shoulder to shoulder around it. Cigarettes burned through the dark. Beer sloshed across old wood. Somewhere near the back a man screamed Fleetwood’s name before immediately being threatened for it.

Fred kept moving. Hustling like a man on a mission.

One second beside a group waving fistfuls of cash. The next disappearing into another shouting match over Danny Christie odds. Every few moments another arm grabbed him. Another voice in his ear. Another desperate attempt to get money down before the fight started.

And somehow Fred looked completely at home in it. Like this wasn’t organised and he had simply grown around him naturally.

Near the pit, good ole Snakey Jakey on an overturned crate trying to explain betting logic to absolutely nobody listening.

Snakey Jakey: Ahh nah but listen yeah if Danny loses yeah then technically everybody loses yeah cause emotionally like the barn itself backed him already innit so how’s that even legal yeah—”

A plastic cup bounced off his head from somewhere in the crowd.

Nobody even checked who threw it.

The noise inside the barn kept building. Faster now and meaner.

Because everybody could feel it.

Showtime getting near.

???: HEY DICK!

A woman’s voice cuts through the testosterone filled barn like a hot knife. A hush grows across the crowd as a cell phone rises above the chaos. Slowly but surely, the phone stays above the calamity and it’s FaceTime rings out. In fact, it’s attached to one of those extended poles, attached to the BOX of none other than PCP’s manager and lawyer, Sir Reginald Klein Boxington the Third, Esquire.

The voice, and the image on the FaceTime? None other than the Silver Ticket holder, one Ms. Elise Ares.

Elise Ares: You OBVS can’t have a shindig for the Alias Championship and not invite the Silver Ticket holder… I’m just going to assume my invitation was lost in the junk folder of my email.

The response is silence.

Elise Ares: They do have email here… don’t they, Klein? You guys it’s like the milkman you  have here, except he brings letters and correspondence. Only when it’s email, it just arrives directly onto a little device you carry around that’s powered by electricity. It’s totes crazy, I know, but it’s true! All of it. A pretty face would never lie.

The silence turns into scowls. Klein tugs at his suit collar in an almost cartoonish way.

Elise Ares: …ANYWAY, today I will be represented by Sir Reginald Klein Boxington the Third, Esquire because I wouldn’t be caught dead on a farm. Obvs. We’ve come to scout the competition. Make a few bucks. See what this Alias Championship thing is all about. It would be nice to add to my already sparkling resume. 5*Star Champion. Tag Team Champion. Hottest wrestler in the history of PRIME. Throw another title on me and they might just build the statue faster. Where is this Danny guy, anyway?

Klein spins completely around, giving Elise a good look across the masses.

Snakey Jakey: Are you bettin’ or are you just yappin’?

The crowd begins to get behind Jakey, tired of listening to the Silver Ticket holder run them all down. Klein puts his arms up as if to silence the discontent.

Elise Ares: Are you telling me we sent Klein all of this way and the champion himself can’t even be bothered to meet with us? What a waste.

On the screen, the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style takes a large sigh.

Elise Ares: Klein. Put $100 on Fleetwood. I’ll pay you back or something.

Klein digs out some cash and hands it over.

Klein: She won’t. Pay me back I mean.

Immediate close-up of Fred Dick. Far from a 55mm lens.. closer. He’s beside himself. Doesn’t know what to make of this unauthorized intrusion. From his own merit.. this is his arena and this was his chaos.

Before he can react the bell sounds.

..Not the bell.

Not even a gong going off like you see in one of those underground fighting movies.

But a large stick bashing off an oil canister drum.

SHOWTIME!

We see a mini dust storm kick up debris as a stiff wind blows past the camera lens fixed on two silhouettes standing three paces apart.

The figures are boxed in by bales of dry, golden hay, framed against long planks of wood stretching upward to the sky before arching forward, connecting with their companions to create a vaulted ceiling with several leaky holes thatched with twine.

Red hued light from the setting sun, cast through the open barn doors, reveals Quinn Fleetwood, who is wearing a sleeveless shirt and boxing trunks, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. Across from him is the Alias champion, Danny Christie, arms crossed as his title sits several feet away resting over a tacked saddle, glimmering in the distance.

There are no stands for fans to cheer from and no Bleachers either.

Just a stable full of horses, referee Elvis Nixon, and two men with one goal: to walk out those barn doors as Alias champion.

Nick Stuart: It’s never a dull night in PRIME when the Alias title is on the line, is it, Richard?

Richard Parker: A barn in the middle of nowhere where two guys are just beating the hell out of one another in front of a bunch of horses? That may be high octane energy where you’re from, Nick, but this one is going to be a snooze fest.

Nick Stuart: So you’d prefer we bring back the Supermarket Sweep or American Gladiators stipulations instead.

We can hear Richard audibly gagging just as Nixon steps in the middle and looks from side to side

Elvis Nixon: You both understand the rules. There will be no pinfalls. No submissions. No count outs. No disqualifications… the winner will be decided by whomever is the last man standing. Agreed.

Danny Christie nods.

Quinn Fleetwood nods.

Christie extends a hand to Fleetwood in a show of good sportsmanship. The cautious challenger somewhat reluctantly accepts the gesture.

Elvis Nixon raises his hand and then lowers it dramatically.

Richard Parker: Uhh… Ding. Ding?

Whether or not the two competitors hear Mr. Parker (they definitely do not) both men pull their arms back and swing!

The Adult Toddler leans in for what he thinks is a surprise sucker punch — but he’s blocked by Christie! And then gets socked once in the temple and then again in the jaw!

Nick Stuart: Ding. Ding. Indeed, Richard.

Fleetwood drops to one knee just as Christie goes for a rising knee strike – NO! – just as he does, his opponent grabs at Fair Game’s kneecap, digging his fingers into the space between the patella, causing the Alias Champion to stagger slightly off balance.

Richard Parker: Looks like both Christie and Fleetwood each got an early move in — now they’re back in their respective… uh… corners, I guess?

The pair circle one another slowly.

Nick Stuart: Christie drops his shoulders and stretches his arms out to his side — and Naruto runs himself directly a Fleetwood!

Richard Parker: A what run? God, you ARE king of the weebs.

Quinn dodges!

One of Christie’s forearm strikes fails to connect, but just as Fleetwood pivots, Christie’s free arm swings upward rather than outward before coming down firmly on the gap between Fleetwood’s shoulderblade and upper arm!

Fleetwood’s momentum carries him through the pain of the strike as he finds his arms wrapped around the waist of Christie!

Richard Parker: What kind of anime move is that, Nick?

The Death Valley Ass Blaster locks his hands together around the Alias champion’s waist and tries to lift, but Christie literally digs his heels into the dirt and begins swinging elbows at Fleetwood’s temples!

Nick Stuart: Berserk.

Richard Parker: Oh for…

Bone slams against cartilage as Fleetwood is forced to give up his hold! Christie roars with momentum as he pushes off the backfoot and runs backwards, driving Fleetwood into one of the nearby bails of hay, and the pair both tumble to the ground below.

Elvis Nixon steps in, beginning to count, just in case one man cannot continue.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Christie is the first to recover, but does not let Nixon continue his count as he grabs the nape of Fleetwood’s neck and SLAMS his opponent’s forehead into the unforgiving ground below.

SLAM!

SLAM!

SLAM!

Richard Parker: That’s assault!

Nick Stuart: No, that’s strategy, Richard.

Christie pushes himself up, staggering backwards to get a sightline on his opponent, whose face is caked in dirt. Fleetwood spits out a glob of blood, dirt, and saliva as he tries to steady himself while the champion waits patiently, dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Fleetwood sways, falling as he throws a punch — NO!

Richard Parker: Holy shit!

The punch was a ruse! A sham! A red herring! As Quinn Fleetwood slams his heel into Christie’s knee and then headbutts the kneecap, causing the champion to scream in pain and retreat back several steps.

Nick Stuart: Quinn may have found his strategy in working that knee, Richard!

Richard Parker: Just as long he doesn’t forget about Christie’s fists!

Christie’s screams of pain turn into a roar of aggression as he pivots off his good leg and RISING UPPERCUT!

Quinn Fleetwood tries to dodge, but instead he takes the full force of the blow and flies backwards! Christie chases his opponent down, hobbling.

Nick Stuart: The injury is buying Quinn some time as he…

Quinn Fleetwood lunges forward at the injured Danny Christie… and misses.

Nick Stuart: Nevermind.

The Alias champion sticks out his injured leg, sacrificing it as it clips Fleetwood’s shins and causes the challenger to crash headfirst into a mound of straw, tumbling head over heels onto the other side, and then slamming against one of the stable doors with a sickening CRUNCH!

Richard Parker: Was that the stable doors or Fleetwoods’ head, Nick?

A whinnying horse reels upwards, rattling the wood to Fleetwood’s back with just enough force to bring the Death Valley Ass Blaster out of his stupor. He blinks rapidly, looking from side to side only to suddenly lock eyes, and then lock his jaw, with a furious fist from Christie!

Nick Stuart: Fleetwood is seeing stars right now! Not surprising to see this turn of events from a classically trained MMA fighter!

As Christie reaches down to pull Fleetwood to his feet, the extra weight causes his knee to buckle!

Richard Parker: Now!

Fleetwood’s eyes go wide as he sees his opportunity.

KICK TO THE GUT!

All the air rushes out of Danny Christie as he doubles over, his head positioned perfectly for…

Nick Stuart: PUMPHAND-

With Christie raised in the air, about ready to be dropped directly onto his head, he wraps his legs around Fleetwood’s neck and rolls forward!

Nick Stuart: Nevermind.

Christie and Fleetwood tumble head over heels is a mass of flesh until both are on their backs, eyes to the arched barn roof, gasping for air.

Richard Parker: I’ll admit, Nick. This IS pretty entertaining!

Fair Game is the first to move, crawling slowly over to the corner of the barn as Fleetwood rolls from side to side in pain.

We see Christie reach his destination – a large metallic trough filled with sloshing water.

Richard Parker: What’s the champion doing?

Nick Stuart: Got me… maybe the fight has made him a bit parched?

With a look of determination on his face, the Alias champion pushes himself up, gripping the edges of the metal basin, before staggering back over to his opponent.

Christie grabs a hold of Fleetwood, locking an arm underneath Quinn’s armpit before slamming a tightly balled fist into his opponent’s midsection! Fleetwood’s feet lift off the dirt floor with every hit, as the Alias champion slowly drags Fleetwood closer and closer to the trough.

Nick Stuart: The challenger is in a bad way here, Richard. He needs to do something or whatever Christie has planned may end this match right here!

With a visceral roar, Christie lands one last massive blast to Fleetwood’s ribs, causing The Faulty Spark Plug to scream out in pain and lean over Fair Game’s arms and into a supleeee— NO!

Richard Parker: OH MY GOOOOD!

Quinn reverses and back body drops Danny Christie RIGHT into the slimy, disgusting horse water with a massive SPLASH that sends the trough sideways, spilling an absolutely soaked Danny Christie onto the now muddy floor.

Christie grunts in a mix of pain and frustration as he looks up, hair matted to his forehead at a shocked and nervous Quinn Fleetwood… who just begins stomping away at the Alias champion’s head!

Richard Parker: He’s stomping a mudhole into a mudhole! I LOVE IT!

With a sickening slam of his boot into the neck of Christie, Fleetwood watches with panic and adrenaline as the Alias champion drops to the muddy ground, unmoving.

Elvis Nixon steps forward and begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Still no movement.

Nick Stuart: Holy crap… did… did Quinn Fleetwood just win? Is Quinn Fleetwood a PRIME Champion?

FIVE!

SIX!

Quinn Fleetwood looks around, not sure what to do as all he gets are sassy looks from some annoyed horses.

SEVEN!

Until.

Richard Parker: Oh…

Nick Stuart: ….Shit.

EIGHT!

Danny Christie’s shoulders begin to move first, muscles popping and writhing like he’s been possessed by some sort of parasite. His arms jut out like spears, first his left and then his right, fingers digging into the mud as he pushes himself up as Nixon stops the count at eight and a half!

The challenger begins to step backwards as Christie raises his head from the floor, huge clods of dirt and mud covering his face like Marlon Brando rising from the pit in Apocalypse Now… all the better to see his pearly whites flashing at the One True Fleetus as he sports a grin from ear to ear.

Quinn holds up hands in protest as the champion finds his second wind, vaulting himself up onto his feet, the hiccup in his knee no longer seeming to bother him as Fleetwood turns to … well, flee… but not before the Alias champion leaps forward, spins, turns, and SLAMS a backfist strike into Fleetwood’s already bruised and battered ribs!

Richard Parker: Oh god! If Fleetwood’s head didn’t crack on that stable door then his ribs definitely did there, Nick!

The Adult Toddler doubles over in pain as the furious Christie vaults himself off a nearby hay bale and flies forward!

Nick Stuart: SUPERMAN PUNCH!

Fleetwood drops to the floor in a heap as the champ gasps for air, pushing his soaking wet hair out of his eyes, signaling for Fleetwood to get back up and continue fighting.

Nixon jumps back into the fray and begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

SIX!

Richard Parker: Regardless of whether Fleetwood even CAN get up after that, Nick… I’m not sure he SHOULD.

And yet… Fleetwood seems to answer Christie’s call, but in the way your parents would pick up the phone while you were hooked up to a 56.6K modem — just a lot of screaming, static, and disappointment.

SEVEN!

Fleetwood pushes himself up, stopping Nixon’s count, and extends an arm asking for a time out but the only thing the Alias champion sees is the opportunity for lights out.

Christie grabs at the outstretched arm and yanks Fleetwood upright; not out of mercy but to ensure the next move doesn’t kill him.

A shot at the jaw.

Then another.

Strike three.

Nick Stuart: Jesus! Fleetwood’s already concussed head just slid so far to the side, I think he was able to hear his shoulder cry out for mercy!

Fleetwood spins on his feet like a Mortal Kombat character awaiting a Fatality… except he doesn’t get one. Instead, the challenger hits the dirt like a sack of… well… dirt.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Richard Parker: Like I said…

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

Christie rolls his shoulders and looks down at his opponent as we watch his lips slowly mouth the words along with Nixon.

EIGHT!

NINE!

TENNNN!

Quinn Fleetwood remains motionless on the ground as Christie runs a hand through his mud-soaked hair and lets his other arm be raised by Elvis Nixon.

Danny Christie nods to Elvis Nixon before calmly stepping over his opponent, making his way toward the barn doors, snagging the Alias title from the horses tack and throwing it over his shoulder as he crosses the threshold.

Nick Stuart: A truly impressive showing by Danny Christie, Richard. The only question is who is willing to go toe to toe and fist to fist with him after what we’ve seen him do to Quinn Fleetwood?

Richard Parker: Well, I know for a fact that Elise Ares and The D are getting the same feed we are up in the Silver Ticket Suite… maybe our SIlver Ticket Holder is ready to upgrade to gold?

Nick Stuart: You really think Elise is going to agree to fight in a match like this? Without a crowd or… room service?

Richard Parker: Well, her name does literally mean the “Promise of War” Nick, so who knows.

Nick Stuart: If I’m a weeb then you’re a Philhellene.

Richard Parker: I am NOT a philistine!

Nick Stuart: That’s not what I… you know what? Forget it. Let’s… move on shall we?

Blaze Claymore stands facing a craft services table somewhere on the lower levels of the Prudential Center and humming the theme to the Sopranos to himself.

Blaze Claymore: “Hmmm hmmm this morning… hmmm hmmm one in a million-”

Voice: Blaze, you got a minute?

A familiar voice cuts though his memories of James Gandolfini as the Lighthouse slowly looks a bit like Vincent Vega trying to navigate himself around Mia Wallace’s house, finally turning to see Lindsay Troy walking toward him.

And she isn’t alone.

Following behind her, looking slightly sheepish, is a man in a black t-shirt, jean jacket, white slacks, and… long… red… hair.

The opening sting from the 1960s show “Iron Side” blares in his brain as his body instinctively raises an arm and points at the pair like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Blaze Claymore: Whhhhhhaaaaaaaa….

Lindsay Troy: Hold off on the dramatics. Here’s the deal…

Blaze and the red-haired man avert their eyes away from one another, each clenching their fists.The Lighthouse’s breathing gets heavier and heavier by the moment, but one sharp-eyed glare from the Queen forces him to get himself together

Lindsay Troy: Now. I know this may come as a shock, Blaze, but as of today, Daihm Ferguson is officially a member of the PRIME roster.

Lindsay looks over to the young man.

Lindsay Troy: On a trial basis.

Blaze keeps his gaze focused on LT, but his body twitches like someone is poking him repeatedly with tiny sharp objects.

Blaze Claymore: How… long of a trial?

The Boss cocks her head slightly.

Lindsay Troy: (tersely) However long I feel it necessary. You think me signing you a year ago didn’t rattle a couple of cages either? And look at how things turned out. Rookie of the Year. Alias Title holder…

Blaze lowers his head, running a hand through his hair.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah. Alright… fair enough. Thanks for the warning. I’ll just make sure to keep my distance then and…

Lindsay Troy: Mmmm, not so fast. The Blaze Claymore I talked to when we were Habitating for Humanity before Squad Goals made it seem like he was ready to be seen as a leader and a source of good here. What better way to do that than being your good buddy Daihm’s personal PRIME orientation leader. Like a sponsor.

Blaze’s eyes snap open as he lifts his head slowly, in shock, to look at Lindsay, who simply smiles back.

Blaze Claymore: I’m his what now?

The young man hesitates briefly, but then flashes a pearly-white smile and extends his hand out toward Blaze. The Lighthouse takes his hand and shakes it in confusion.

Daihm Ferguson: Thanks for agreeing to be my sponsor, Blaze. It means a lot to me.

Lindsay pulls Daihm and Blaze forward, shoving them side by side as she begins to retreat backwards, pointing at the pair as she does.

Lindsay Troy: This’ll be good for you, Blaze. Just believe in yourself!

Blaze Claymore: (raised voice) How!?

The Boss keeps walking.

Lindsay Troy: If you can figure out how to decorate a cabin, you can figure out how to show the new guy the ropes. Plus, this’ll be good for you two. Give you some time to catch up and all.

Blaze meets Lindsay’s retreating eyes, clearly pleading, but only receives a cheeky thumbs up as she vanishes around the corner.

Lindsay Troy: You’ll do great! Byeeeeeeeee!

And with that, the Queen of the Ring vanishes from sight and leaves Daihm Ferguson and Blaze Claymore alone. Together. For the first time in two years.

Daihm turns back to look at Blaze.

Daihm Ferguson: (chipper) Aw, just brilliant. She’s the best, isn’t she?

Blaze Claymore: (eye twitching) She… really keeps you on your toes. Can’t argue with that…

Blaze trails off as the young man rocks back and forth on his heels as he holds his hands behind his back, eyes cast upward toward the ceiling.

Daihm Ferguson: Sooooo….. The Lighthouse huh? That’s neat. How’d you come up with that? You do a lot of sailing? I’ve always wanted to go out on the ocean. Cannae swim though…

Blaze raises a hand to his head and rubs his temple.

Daihm Ferguson: You uh… have friends… here?

Blaze just walks forward, picking up the pace as he hears Daihm’s footsteps right behind him.

Daihm Ferguson: Oh! How’s RIA? And what about Anna Daniels? Do you talk with them much? How about Nate Colton? I bet he’s doing real swell. Such a nice guy.

Blaze begins to sprint down the hallway.

Daihm keeps pace with his wiry but toned twonk legs.

Daihm Ferguson: Did Lindsay say Alias Title? What’s that!? Is it like a Masked Singer thing? Do I need a sad backstory package or do they provide one? Oh! And who’s this “Russian Bear” they keep talking about? No’ really my type, but I am curious. Maybe you can introduce me to the “Death Valley Ass Blaster” instead? He sounds like he knows what he’s doing.

Blaze spins around, Daihm running head first into the Lighthouse’s chest. He grabs Daihm’s shoulders.

Blaze Claymore: Enough! I just need you to…

Blaze sighs and drops his hands to his side before stepping back, sizing up PRIME’s newest roster member.

Blaze Claymore: Look. I don’t know what Lindsay told you, or what you think this is, but I’m not… I don’t have anything you need from me.

Daihm just looks at him.

Blaze Claymore: I don’t know if you’re fucking with me or coming off a Starbucks high or what but if you came here to get your pound of flesh, more than deserve it. So just get it over with.

Blaze stops and shakes his head.

Blaze Claymore: But I’m not sure it’ll bring you the closure you deserve.

The camera watches as Daihm looks down, rubbing his chin contemplatively.

Daihm Ferguson: You know, that’s a right shame, Blaze…

Blaze steels himself as Daihm looks up, leaning backwards with one shoulder. The Lighthouse stands firm, closing his eyes as he prepares for a fist across the jaw… but instead opens his eyes to see Daihm’s arm around his shoulder.

Daihm Ferguson: …because I would have definitely kicked your arse.

Blaze scoffs, pushing Daihm’s arm off of him, before letting the smallest semblance of a smile move his cheek upward.

A beat.

He gestures for Daihm to follow.

Blaze Claymore: Alright then… first thing to know. During your time here you may or may not encounter a literal tall tale, an interdimensional space alien, a Time Lord, the literal embodiment of evil – surprisingly not named Satan Jones — and sentient meat men, but that’s only about a fifth of the roster. Otherwise you’ve got old cowboys, old luchadors, old angry men. The usual.

Daihm Ferguson: Oh.

Daihm stops and pauses, causing Blaze to look back.

Daihm Ferguson: So I need to prolly’ be stretching more, aye?

Blaze chuckles, letting Daihm catch up before the two continue… the pair’s voices echoing off the cement walls as they disappear off camera before we head elsewhere.

“What’s up my little devils! You are LIVE! WITH! SATAN!”

We immediately see Satan’s face staring at us, wagging his tongue. He is wearing the new “EVERYONE LOVES SATAN” shirt, except he taped devil horns on the heart.

Satan Jones: And we are here in beautiful, industrious Newark, New Jersey!

This gets a cheap pop.

Satan Jones: And it’s a gorgeous night here. Not just because Gray’s Wrestling Academy member Quinn Fleetwood is on a farm punching someone to win a title, but also because we are really starting to move these t-shirts at a back-breaking pace. And do you know why? Inclusivity.

Behind Satan, Kris Roswell is sitting on a bench, and he looks up at Satan quizzically.

Kris Roswell: How so?

Satan Jones: If you’ve ever shopped at Marine Layer, you’ve noticed that there are more than the normal 5 or 6 sizes for t-shirts. There’s a smedium, a marge, and a larger, all incrementally between each standard size. I thought that was a great idea, but I also thought, in true Foot Soldiers fashion, we could make it BETTER!

Satan bends over and grabs a garbage bag, then opens it and spills the contents on the floor.

Satan Jones: That’s why we have not just 6 sizes, not just 9 sizes…for this Everyone Loves Satan shirt, we have THIRTY EIGHT SIZES!

If you thought this would cure Kris Roswell’s confusion, you’re just as confused yourself.

Kris Roswell: That’s too many sizes.

Satan Jones: That’s right, Kris, that is exactly what all the haters would say! But it’s true! We have the 16XS, which fits on Ken dolls. We have the 4XS, which fits on teacup pigs. We have the ‘okay that’s pretty small,’ which will fit a 7 year old who isn’t growing as fast as the other kids. And for the bigguns? Well, we got some bigguns!

There is an audible cough off screen, and it jars Satan in surprise. He looks over and his eyes widen a bit, then he shakes his head.

Satan Jones: Oh, gosh, I completely forgot! This isn’t just a special episode because of the 38 sizes of t-shirts. No, we have one of PRIME’s brightest stars with us today. He’s a Seattle product who made the 5 Star title mean something. Please welcome my guest, Kerry Kuroyama!

Quick pan to the right and we see Kerry, turned away and showing off the same dragon design as tattooed on his back printed in green on the backside of his own freshly pressed black t-shirt. After the dramatic turnaround, we can see the words “KEEP CALM AND KERRY ON” printed beneath a Ryukyu-style crown of emeralds.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hello, Satan. And hello to all the ‘little devils’ as well.

He nods reverently to the millions of followers watching along.

Kerry Kuroyama: Satan, while I appreciate that very kind and very gracious lead-in, I feel I should correct you one little thing. See, I’m just one of many wrestlers who made those 5 Stars mean something. And while I’m damn proud of my time with that title, tonight, after Rob Williams and the Anglo Luchador tear the house down in the main event, I have a feeling that belt is going to mean a whole lot more.

Satan Jones: Gorgeous, talented, and incomprehensibly humble. What a combination! So, Kerry, I’m not sure if you’ve seen any of my previous interviews, but basically I ask a bunch of hard hitting questions and then get attacked by a member of the Poor Whoresman for literally no reason at all. So let’s start with the first part of that and hopefully avoid the second!

Satan claps his hands.

Satan Jones: First, and the most important question I’ve asked on this show so far: what is a Mother Love Bone?

Kerry slowly nods as he considers his answer.

Kerry Kuroyama: That’s an excellent question, Satan. Though it may surprise you to learn that a Mother Love Bone is neither mother-related, nor is it a bone. It does, however, come with plenty of love. In actuality, this is what happens when one of the guys at Pike Place Market tosses you a twenty pound mackerel, and it comes in just a bit too hot and a bit too greasy, so that it slips through your fingers as you try to catch it and it slaps you in the face instead. Then you’re left tasting fish for the rest of the day. You “boned” it, to use an expression. But, this is Pike Place. So even though you boned it, you boned it with love, cause it’s Pike Place. A mother’s love, if you will. And that’s how we get… Mother Love Bone.

All of this is said completely straight-faced.

Satan stares at Kerry in disbelief. Something tells me he didn’t expect any answer, much less one so thorough.

Satan Jones: Figured it was a bong, but hey, that’s a good answer too. And how do you exactly make a jam of pearl?

Kerry thoughtfully scratches his chin.

Kerry Kuroyama: You know, Satan, if I’m being honest, I never personally tried this, so don’t take my word on it. But from what I’ve been told, all you really need is a reliable snare, a kick, a high-hat, couple of toms, a crash or two, and a trusty ride. Then, just go for broke. It’s important to remember to always keep to a steady beat, but you shouldn’t be afraid to get experimental and branch out. A drumroll here. A triplet there. There’s no mistakes in a freeform jam; the sky’s the limit. Behind the kit, YOU are the master of beats. And the best thing is, even if you don’t have a Pearl at your disposal, you can still pull it off using a Yamaha or Tama.

Once again, the delivery is as serious as a doctor explaining a prostate exam.

Satan narrows his eyes. Kerry is fucking with him, Satan is sure of it.

Satan Jones: Well I guess I’ll just toss out the questions about who put chains on Alice and what flowers grow in a Soundgarden.

Behind the two men, Kris stifles a giggle.

Satan Jones: Okay, wrestling! You fought against Brandon Youngblood on the last show. So I was wondering, on a scale of boiled egg to sharpei, how smooth is his head?

Kuroyama’s eyes grow distant.

Kerry Kuroyama: …smooth, Satan. Smoother than the northeastern face of Rainier after the first snowfall of winter. Smoother than the single, all-seeing eye of the Fremont Troll. Smoother than a fresh layer of whipped cream on top of a steaming Starbucks cappuccino. Smoother than all the easy listening jazz ballads in Kenny G’s entire catalogue of work. Smoother than the stroke of the pen held by Howard Shultz as he signed away the Sonics one fateful July evening in aught-eight.

He wipes away a tear.

Kerry Kuroyama: What I mean to say, Satan, is that on your egg to sharpei scale, I’d rate it at the level of bowling. Not the ball, mind you… I’m referring to the actual lane. THAT smooth. I would even go as far as to say that head is comically smooth, but I wouldn’t want to offend him any more than I already have. Be as it may, that night he not so smoothly forced me to tap, and likewise forced me to eat a heavy loss. It’s rough, obviously. Nobody likes having to admit they threw in the towel. But you know something, Satan? Deep down…

The Emerald Apex runs a hair through his jet black locks, not-so-subtly swooning.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I feel like a winner at heart.

Kris stands up from behind them and walks over to Satan, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Kris Roswell: Sidebar?

Satan nods, then turns to Kerry.

Satan Jones: I’m going to move the phone this way a little, okay big guy?

Without waiting for a reply, the camera moves so it’s just Kris and Satan. Kris stage whispers to his tag partner.

Kris Roswell: How’s it going?

Satan Jones: Good. Why?

Kris Roswell: Well it’s just…you know how you usually do that thing where you ask wacky questions and the person doesn’t know how to respond, or acts all weird, or answers your goofy questions really seriously to accentuate how weird you are?

Satan Jones: Yeah.

Kris Roswell: This one is kinda going the opposite direction, where he’s being…um…weirder than you.

Satan Jones: Yeah I noticed that. Should I try to ask weirder questions?

Kris Roswell: Not if you don’t want Scott Hunter to come out of nowhere and create a vacuum of weird that sucks up the whole arena.

Satan Jones: That sounds bad.

Kris Roswell: It wouldn’t be good.

Satan Jones: So just keep going like this, you think?

Kris Roswell: That’s what I would do if I had a famous instagram show and 8 pack abs.

Satan Jones: Got it.

The phone moves back to Kerry, who has been standing patiently this whole time.

Satan Jones: Kerry, my next question is about Vae Victis. If you had to pick any of your stablemates to win a game of charades with, who would you choose?

Kerry’s face suddenly scrunches up in confusion.

Kerry Kuroyama: …what? What hell are you talking about, Satan? Who would win a game of charades? Is that a serious question? Do you actually think an esteemed collective of wrestling’s most elite and finest athletes like VAE VICTIS would waste its time frittering around with some stupid, pedantic party game?

He scoffs and shakes his head.

Kerry Kuroyama: Listen close, Satan… in the house of pink, the only racket we know is the most dangerous game. The game of KINGS…

He holds out his hands and looks skyward.

Kerry Kuroyama: …LIMBO.

Satan looks behind him at Kris.

Satan Jones: Limbo?

Kerry Kuroyama: Believe me, Satan, we take a lot of pride in our limbo game. I’m no slouch. But in a real contest? Probably not “the best”. Scott, you can imagine, is the ACE of bending backwards. On the other hand, our beloved CEO the Queen can get INSANELY low. One Halloween, she dressed up as Linda Blair from The Exorcist and came spider-walking into the ring. Totally scared the shit out of us. Then there’s Henry Keyes, who used to be the LIMBO CHAMP, but sadly, his back isn’t quite what it was in the days of his fiery-haired youth. Clay, on the other hand, isn’t really competition, because he flat out refuses to bend backwards. He can only clear the bar when it’s raised up to seven-foot-three. And yeah, you might be thinking, “But Clay Byrd isn’t THAT tall!” Thing is, in addition to refusing to bend backwards, he refuses to take the hat off. But the real best among us, Satan? Kerry Koalyama. No ands, ifs, or buts. Hey, speaking of, you guys got any of these shirts in size KKL? Asking for a koala.

Satan looks down at the pile of shirts he poured out and goes through them for a moment, muttering.

Satan Jones: Let’s see…we got XXL, XXXL, Balaam, Bobby Dean spandex…ah, here we are. KKL. He’ll love it.

He hands the shirt to Kerry, who grins.

Kerry Kuroyama: Appreciate it, Satan. It’s been an enlightening experience. Also, you are way easier to talk to than Simon.

Satan Jones: Make sure to vote for me for broadcaster of the year! After, uh, you vote to create an award for broadcaster of the year.

Kerry walks out of the locker room and Satan moves the phone so Kris and he are in the shot.

Satan Jones: Thanks for watching our show, my little devils! And now it’s time for me to stare at the door.

Kris Roswell: Uh…why?

Satan Jones: At Culture Shock, Rob Williams kicked me in my little devils. At 86, Anna Daniels fired a t-shirt cannon into my sternum. So clearly the Poor Whoresman are out to get me. And I’m going to be ready for them.

He continues to stare at the door, holding the phone out so it catches his profile. Kris frowns.

Kris Roswell: Uh…aren’t you going to turn off your stream?

Without looking at the phone, Satan moves his thumb and the feed abruptly cuts.

Backstage.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Four pairs of shoes, stepping almost in unison.

Heavy boots, for combat. Dress shoes, for professionalism. Sneakers, for comfort. Different sneakers, for style.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

The march to war.

Four pairs of legs, extending from the shoes. Each with their own different covering.

Blue jeans, for sturdiness. Slacks, for style. Cargo shorts, for utility. Tiny shorts, for handling action…of whatever kind.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

The lack of uniformity in this army’s uniform continues as the camera pans up. Four satin jackets, each in the same style, but a different color.

Blue. Black. Green. Red.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Finally, the faces.

Side by side, the Lads bring up the rear of the formation. Their usual smiles are nowhere to be seen; replaced by stern, serious looks. Like, actually serious. Not just “serious for Benny.”

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Blake takes the middle position, his gait slightly out of step with the others. His face is a mix of excitement and trepidation; he knows something bad’s about to happen and he’ll be a part of it. The last time he felt like this…let’s just say it didn’t end well. Still, he’s here, and doing an admirable (if not completely convincing) job of hiding his nerves.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Leading the pack, as always, is Nate Colton. The New Diamond’s expression might as well be carved from stone; he neither smiles nor sneers, his eyebrows not raised or lowered. Nothing on his face gives away his mood…

…except the eyes.

We’ve seen that look before.

We saw it when he stood face to face with Ivan Stanislav in Vancouver, two weeks after the Russian Bear mauled his youngest brother.

We saw it when he nearly strangled Jason Snow in Montreal.

We see it now.

The fire that burns cold.

Everyone else in the hallway–arena staff, PRIME techs, even Simon Tillier, quickly find someplace else to be. They know better than to stand between the Persistence Predator and his quarry.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Stop.

At last, the Colton mob reach their destination: one of the many private dressing rooms claimed by the PRIME roster. Some of them have professional looking placards, or a star (maybe an egg) with their name on it. This one has a taped sign, with a hand-written name meant to look like it was etched by fingernail into a concrete wall.

“MAYOR MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL”

Nate Colton raises his fist, but pauses to look back at his brothers and cousin.

Nate Colton: Last chance to back out.

Benny Colton: As if.

Denny Colton: Not a chance.

Blake Colton: No.

With a terse nod, Nate turns back to the matter at hand.

WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM!

Nate Colton: KAEL! OPEN UP, SHITBIRD!

There is a muffled yell on the other side of the door followed by the sound of several locks being disengaged. One last click and the door flies open though it’s not Max Kael that’s answered. It’s the Bolognese Bull, grunting and snarling from behind his black lucha mask.

BB: BRAAGH?! YRAAAAAAAGH!?

The unpleasant roars that broil their way out of the mask are sent splattering toward Nate Colton. A question? An answer? Hard to say given the Bull’s particular dialect. Regardless, Nate does not have time for it.

Nate Colton: Fuck off. I’m here to see Max.

The Bull snorts, intense eyes burning from behind that plain black mask. A slender, spider-like hand clamours over the Bull’s shoulder, tightening down on the muscular beast. Then, slowly, the Bull is slowly pulled back into the room replaced with a surly looking Mayor.

Max Kael: Well. Well. Well. Come to demand a ransom, spithead!?

Confusion briefly flashes across Nate’s face, but he shakes it off.

Nate Colton: Cut the shit, Kael. Where’s my sister?

Max counters Colton’s demand by lifting his chin as high as he can, doing his best to look down at Nate.

Max Kael: Just another deflection from the truth I see, Colton! The last time I saw that rancid sister of yours, she was trying to pour poison into the ear of my son. So where the fuck is my boy, huh?!

Kael punctuates his question by jabbing a long, narrow finger into Nate’s chest as hard as he can.

Nate Colton: First, don’t touch me with anything you’re not willing to lose. Second…what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t know where your son is, I barely know who he is, and there is not a single reason on God’s green earth why I’d want anything to do with him.

The fire’s starting to come out a little bit now, with irritation overtaking his base level of fury.

Nate Colton: Meanwhile, you’ve pulled shit like this time and time again. Hell, it’s on the first page of your playbook. So when my sister goes missing, ain’t returning calls…don’t you dare tell me that this doesn’t stink of Max Kael, all the way down to the bone.

Max’s usually pale face flashes red as he glares at the man standing just outside of his private changing room door. He looks both offended and aghast at the accusations being laid down at his feet.

Max Kael: Listen well, you flibbertigibbet, I resent the charge you’ve made against me. Now granted, there is never a zero percent chance that I might be tangentially related to some skullduggary but as an elected official of Arkham in good standing, I cannot abide your snide, sniveling, sucktart remarks! So let me bring some mother-fuckin’ receipts!

The door slams shut, the sound of Max raging and screaming behind it audible though what he’s saying exactly can’t be made out. After a few moments the door swings back open with Max holding an ipad out toward Nate.

Max Kael: Feast your eyes, Colton, on that venomously vicious vixen you call a sister attempting to corrupt the pure heart and soul of my dear, sweet, precious Sutler Reynolds-Kael!

The ipad displays an image of Sutler and Jenny a few weeks ago meeting up backstage.

Max Kael: You used the honeypot with that salty seatart to entrap and kidnap my son, no doubts in some kind of ill conceived plot to get at me! Ivan’s told me all about you and how fucked up the Colton family is! There is no denying it, I SEE IT IN YOUR DULL DOE-EYES!

Nate casually grabs the iPad and tosses it over his shoulder. It narrowly misses Denny’s face, before clattering to the floor.

Denny Colton: Hey!

Nate Colton: I don’t give a good goddamn what you think. You’re every bit the liar that Ivan is.

Blake Colton: And he’s a politician.

Nate Colton: Maybe even more, then. So I’m gonna give you one more chance. I know Jennifer’s not here, or you’d have an ice pack on your jimmies and your pet cow would be bleeding. Tell me where to find her, or I will spend the rest of your miserable, worthless existence tearing you apart.

Max’s chapped lips pull back into a silver toothed grin. It’s not pleasant and it’s certainly not friendly. In fact it’s more like a frown that’s pretending very hard to be a smile.

Max Kael: What a coincidence, I was about to offer the same deal if you didn’t tell me where to find my boy.

The Mayor of Arkham, classy fellow that he is, follows this up by raising both of his middle fingers as close to Nate’s face as possible without actually touching him. It’s a terrible wisdom saving throw and Max absolutely botches it.

Colton grabs Max by the hand, and not like he would with FLAMBERGE in his heart of hearts. No, this is more the “try to grind the bones into dust” kind of handshake. The Black Heart (and soon Hand) of PRIME winces in pain, hissing in surprise.

Max Kael: Aaugh, fuckin’ Mr. Grabby!

Lightning fast Max’s foot darts out of the door way, smashing down on Nate’s foot. The jolt of pain eases his vice like grip on Max’s hand allowing the Black Heart to snake his fingers free before disappearing back behind his dressing room door.

BANG!

The door slams shut before anyone can retaliate, the muffled sound of Max’s panicked screams joining the noise of junk being piled against the doorframe.

Nate tries to open the door, putting his shoulder into it as hard as he can, but no dice. Blake and Benny add their own weight, but barely manage to shift it.

Denny Colton: One side.

Even in their heightened states, the brothers Colton know enough to get out of the way. Denny, for his part, backs up as far as he can.

Denny Colton: GrrrrrrraaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

And charges.

CRASH!

The door flies open, sending debris flying across the inside of the room…and what little remained is sent airborne again by Dennis. Nate, Benny, and Blake quickly pile in after him.

Nate Colton: All right, you sack of shit! Now you’re gonna–

But while the room is now full of Coltons, it appears empty of everyone else. Max and the Bolognese Bull are nowhere in sight.

Nate Colton: What the–KAEL? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!

The others search the room, looking in every corner, stall, nook, cranny, hole in the floor–

Blake Colton: Uh…

Yep. There’s a hole in the floor, right through the concrete. Judging by the shape, the Bolognese Bull probably dug it somehow, and allowed the Mayor of Arkham to escape the scene. There’s also a ladder leading downard…and also leading to a lot of questions…

Benny Colton: What?

Blake Colton: How?

Denny Colton: Why?

…but no answers.

Cut.

When the broadcast returns to the ring, both teams in the next match are already in the ring. Tony Gamble and Big Ian Salt talk strategy in their corner. Across the ring, Elise Ares, The D, and Klein are playing up to the crowd and jamming along with “Live For the Night” as it still plays over the PA.

Nick Stuart: The action continues tonight on ReVival, fans, as we’re about to get a tag team contest underway! The Pop Culture Phenoms face off against the newly formed tandem of “Salt ‘n’ Gamble” of the eGG Bandits!

Richard Parker: Big Ian Salt’s face makes me SICK now that he’s a Bandit! I’m petitioning that they replace Teddy Roosevelt’s face off of Mount Rushmore!

Nick Stuart: Who’s face would they replace it with?

Richard Parker: Elise’s, obviously! Much more photogenic, don’t you think?

Nick Stuart: I think the Silver Ticket holder would have to be president first…

Richard Parker: I’ll run the campaign! VOTE ARES!

Vince Howard begins the introductions while referee Jimmy Turnbull pats everyone down for foreign objects.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a tag team exhibition scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, at a combined weight of three-hundred and seven pounds… the POP CULTURE PHENOMS!!

Ares and The D hop onto the ropes and pose to a decidedly mixed reaction. Their number one fan, Klein, applauds from ringside.

Vince Howard: And the opponents, at a combined weight of five-hundred and twelve pounds… SALT ‘n’ GAMBLE!!

The crowd reaction is clearly less mixed for the Bandit representatives. Gamble reacts to the jeers by flicking the bottom of his chin to them. Big Ian Salt stands resolute, but glowers and fumes.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Jimmy’s ready to get this underway! He cues for the bell!

DING DING

The match starts off with Salt and Ares in the ring. BIS moves in for the lock-up, but the quicker Elise stays light on her feet and plays the keepaway game. The Queen of Sports Entertainment Style maintains her distance, keeping Mister Salt at bay with sharp low kicks targeting the calf and ankle.

Nick Stuart: The Leading Lady is smart to be cautious here and stay out of reach, considering she’s giving up nearly two hundred pounds to Big Ian Salt!

Richard Parker: Not a problem for the likes of PCP! The bigger the Bandit, the harder they BREAK!

Ares slips around behind Salt after another lock-up attempt. Mister Salt reacts with a swinging backhand strike, but Elise sees it coming and ducks with ease. She immediately bursts up and peppers the face of BIS with a series of forearms, slowly backing up against the ropes. She quickly pushes him off to send him into motion, until Salt remembers he’s easily two-and-a-half times larger, plants his foot, and reverses the whip.

Nick Stuart: Ares put into motion now… here she comes off the ropes where Big Ian Salt is waiting for a LARIAT–NO!! She ducks around, and tags him with a HARD kick to the lower back! And ANOTHER! And Salt drops to a knee!

Richard Parker: She’s got the speed and cunning to take down an opponent of any size!

Ares hits the ropes, coming up from behind BIS with a bulldog attempt. Instead, Mister Salt launches her right off his head. But rather than bumping off the mat, the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style keeps her feet on the mat, rolls into a forward flip, rebounds her legs off the ropes to reverse course, and flips backwards into a pop-up cutter right as Salt rises back up to his feet!

Nick Stuart: BIG CUTTER by Elise Ares! Big Ian Salt right back up… STANDING DROPKICK catches him right in the stache!

Richard Parker: And already, he’s had enough!

BIS rolls out to the floor to recompose himself. Back on her feet in the ring center, Ares does a performative dance with plenty of hip gyrations to get the crowd into it. Salt convenes to the Bandit corner where Tony squats down (though not very far) to whisper in the big man’s ear and give him some on-the-spot wisdom.

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt needs to restrategize here, but fortunately for him, his tag partner seems to already have something on his mind.

Richard Parker: Can’t be anything good! And I say that with all respect to Tony Gamble. One of the most diabolical and crafty minds in all of wrestling, and it’s a TRAGEDY that he wastes it by working under Jiles!

Nick Stuart: As a former Tag Team Champion with Hessian, Tony Gamble’s experience in these matches can’t be discounted! But it looks like Elise Ares is tired of waiting!

Ares hits the ropes, runs across the ring, and hits a basement dropkick through the ropes into Gamble’s backside, sending him flying off the apron and right into the arms of a stunned Big Ian Salt. Salt ‘n’ Gamble exchange confused expressions, until Tony points to the ring. Mister Salt picks up what he’s putting down.

Nick Stuart: WHOA! Big Ian Salt just LAUNCHES Tony Gamble right into the ring!

Richard Parker: Did Tony teach him about the rules of TAGGING first?

Gamble scrambles up off the mat and immediately runs over to the PCP corner, tagging an unsuspecting D standing by on the apron with a running elbow. Turnbull is on the illegal partner in a heartbeat, ordering him back out to the apron. Gamble, however, is trying to tell him he thought he saw The D stick a foreign object under the turnbuckle pad.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble creating headaches here! Here comes Elise… NO! Big Ian Salt, back in the ring, turns her around and GOUGES THE EYES while the ref’s back is turned!

Richard Parker: Dang! I hate having to admit how brilliant that is!

Nick Stuart: Turnbull finally gets Tony out of the ring, but the damage has been done! Big Ian Salt draws in Elise Ares… BIG SAMBO SUPLEX!! Now the cover!

One!

Two!

She kicks out!

Mister Salt gets back to his feet and stalks around the Leading Lady, further working her over with heavy stomps. He notices the fans getting hot, but his tag partner calls his attention from the apron and tells him to stay on it. Nodding, Salt peels Ares back to her feet.

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt in control here… LIFTS ELISE ARES UP with a GORILLA PRESS!

BIS paces around in a circle, sticking it to the fans by press pumping Ares over his head with ease.

Richard Parker: Stop showing off, you MARK!

The showboating costs him, however, as the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style suddenly snaps awake, seizes him by the shoulders with her arms and legs, and goes down while rolling him back onto his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: Ares reverses with a CRUCIFIX ROLL-UP!

One!

Two!

And Mister Salt gets the shoulder up!

Elise quickly gets up and heads to the corner for the tag… but is suddenly stopped in her tracks when Salt’s arm snags her by the waist and yanks her hard over into the other corner! She stumbles out, favoring the back, just as he comes to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt’s got a big idea… here’s a boot to the gut… he lifts up Ares for the SALT MINE POWER–NO!!

Richard Parker: Too soon!

Ares rolls over the head of BIS and drops down his back to escape the powerbomb, and in a flash, a tag is made. Mister Salt is steaming as he spins around, but is caught in the mouth with a diving shoulder block by The D slingshotting himself over the ropes to enter the ring!

Nick Stuart: Tag made to The D, roaring into this match like a literal human torpedo! Down goes Big Ian Salt, but he’s right back up!

The D uses speed and momentum to his favor, bypassing a hand grasping for his throat to lock in BIS from the side and put him face first to the canvas with a legsweep faceplant!

Nick Stuart: Contractual Obligation! The D makes the cover!

One!

Two!

Salt kicks out again! Still plenty left in the tank for the powerhouse, but PCP are steadily chipping away at him!

Richard Parker: It’s death by a thousand flip spots!

The D pops to his feet and kicks Big Ian Salt’s arms together and looks into the crowd. Those that know what’s coming pop loud. Then he runs off one set of ropes. Runs off another. And eventually returns to where BIS is lying with…

Nick Stuart: THE D’S MOONWALK! And THERE GOES THE STANDING MOONSAULT…

KNEES UP!!

Richard Parker: Dangit!

Mister Salt promptly rolls to his corner and makes the tag to Tony Gamble. The Grin steps through the ropes and charges as The D gets to his feet, attempting to catch him off guard with a running knee. Instead, the Harmen disciple catches him by the leg.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble in a predicament here, but he goes for the enzuigiri…

…and MISSES!

Richard Parker: The D didn’t even have to duck! His legs just aren’t long enough to get there!

Tony Gamble hedges his bets by immediately jumping into a cazadora and rolling forward into a double leg cradle.

Nick Stuart: Gamble with a quick roll-up here!

One!

Two!

The D REVERSES right out, and now it’s Tony’s shoulders down!

One!

Two!

Gamble kicks out!

Both men scramble to their feet and have the exact same idea: low kick to the groin. Instead, they just kick each other’s feet, leaving both of them reeling back, grabbing at their toes in pain. Turnbull shakes his head in dismay. When they recover, they launch back into each other and begin exchanging blows.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a donnybrook on our hands as Tony Gamble and The D throw relentless rights and lefts to each other! Looks The D starting to gain an edge, backing Gamble toward the ropes!

Richard Parker: Taking a real pounding from The D there!

Nick Stuart: Phrasing, partner! The D pushes Gamble off the ropes… and “the Grin” makes the TAG back to Big Ian Salt as he rebounds off the other end!

The D waits in the center of the ring to pop him up, but Tony throws him a curveball by going low, sliding through his open legs. The D turns around as soon as Gamble is back on his feet and jumping up to grab him by the head. The extra distance as he drops to his knees gives the jawbreaker even more impact. As The D reels back, clutching his jaw, he inexplicably walks into the waiting arms of Big Ian Salt, who has stepped back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: RELEASED GERMAN SUPLEX by Big Ian Salt! Quick thinking and team work pays off for Salt ‘n’ Gamble! Say what you will about these two being Bandits, they appear to have a real chemistry together!

Richard Parker: Yeah… chemistry like Eggs in Purgatory, with an extra helping of SALT!

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt looks like that short amount of time on the apron made him even angrier and MEANER! He’s got The D by the neck as he pulls him to his feet!

Richard Parker: Don’t CHOKE THE D!

Nick Stuart: Phrasing…

Richard Parker: Yeah, yeah…

Nick Stuart: THE D IS UP!

Richard Parker: PHRASING!

Nick Stuart: CHOKESLAM puts him right on his back! Now Big Ian Salt hooks the leg for the cover…

ONE!

TWO!

BROKEN UP by the Leading Lady!

Ares gets back to the apron before Turnbull can give her an earful. Mister Salt stays on task, tucking The D’s head under his arm and dragging him to the Bandits corner to make the tag to Tony. Muttering a direction, Gamble begins climbing the turnbuckles. Meanwhile, BIS pulls The D up into a vertical suplex, and HOLDS HIM THERE…

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble is up on the top rope…

Richard Parker: He can almost see past the front row from up here!

Nick Stuart: …and he comes DIVING OFF with a CROSS-BODY on THE D just as Big Ian Salt brings him down with the suplex!

Richard Parker: Ugh…

Nick Stuart: Shoulders down! Could that be it?!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!! The D kicks out!

The D makes the crawl for his corner, but gets kicked in the ribs by Tony before he can get there. As he rolls over back onto his belly, Gamble quickly jumps on his back, locks up the legs, and pulls back.

Nick Stuart: BOSTON CRAB! Tony Gamble’s got it locked in! This could be over right here!

Richard Parker: No way! The D can SLIP OUT ANY TIME!

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: …phra–

Richard Parker: Ah, shuddap!

The D squirms and struggles to free himself, while the grin of the Grin is spread from ear to ear. Rather than getting anxious, Ares paces on the apron and works up the crowd. They begin to cheer on The D, if anything because nobody wants to see the Bandits succeed.

Gradually, The D inches his way over to the ropes…

Nick Stuart: The D is trying to get to those ropes! He might just make it!

Through grit and fortitude, The D closes the distance to the ropes from feet to inches to a mere hair. Then, with a final desperate reach…

Nick Stuart: He’s got it!

Turnbull calls from the break. Gamble shakes his head, accusing the official of pulling his leg. Jimmy begins a four count, threatening to disqualify him. At 3.9, Tony finally releases the legs and comes up shrugging. Yet, while the referee is admonishing him on the late break.

Nick Stuart: Hold on, Klein pulls The D out of the ring… and now he’s running him back over to the PCP corner where he rolls back in! Tag to Elise!

Richard Parker: What a pal, ol’ boxhead!

Gamble sees all this happen and immediately gives Jimmy the “what the hell, man?!” rant. Turnbull would say something back, but Tony’s head is suddenly grabbed and run into the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: TORNADO DDT by Ares! No cover… she’s waiting for him to rise back up… OFF THE ROPES… AMETHYSTATION CONNECTS!!

Richard Parker: POW, right in the kisser!

Nick Stuart: The Leading Lady makes the cover…ONE!TWO!TURNBULL GETS PULLED OUT OF THE RING!

Richard Parker: NO!! It was the SALTMAN!!

Salt grabs Jimmy by the back of his shirt and paws at his shoulders, yelling “SPIDER! SPIDER!”, which of course is just an elaborate way to pull the shirt of her his head and leave him discombobulated. While he struggles to free himself, Mister Salt comes around the ring, climbs up the apron, and–

Nick Stuart: SALT TO THE EYES OF ELISE ARES AS SHE WAS COMING OFF THE TOP!!

Richard Parker: ACTUAL TABLE SALT!! HE HAD IT IN HIS POCKETS THE WHOLE TIME!!

Thanks to the offset vision, the Extreme Makeover double-stomp NARROWLY misses Gamble’s face. Instead, Ares’ heels smash into the canvas, and she immediately begins pawing at her eyes.

Richard Parker: She’s BLIND, Nick! This is EXACTLY why LED glasses should be RING LEGAL! It’s PROTECTIVE EYEWEAR!

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt into the ring… BOOT TO THE GUT… BIG SALT MINE POWERBOMB ON ELISE ARES!!

Gamble comes to just in time to see the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style impact with the canvas. The D hops into the ring to put a stop to things, but a three-hundred plus pound truck of a man named Big Ian Salt bulldozes right into him, and both go tumbling over the ropes. With his shirt back on correctly, Turnbull slides into the ring, angrily looking for Mister Salt.

All he sees instead is Tony Gamble crawling over the chest of Elise Ares and hooking the leg.

Richard Parker: Not like this! Only PCP should win by cheating!

Nick Stuart: Gamble’s got the leg hooked!ONE!TWO!!THREE!!

DING DING DING

A vengeful Klein slides into the ring, just as Tony Gamble slides out the other side. The victors forego having their arms held in victory, instead choosing to celebrate on the outside.

Vince Howard: The winners of the match, by pinfall… SAAAAALT ‘NNNNN’ GAAAAAAMBLLLLEEE!!

Nick Stuart: Salt ‘n’ Gamble pick up their first win together, although it came with the kind of cheating we’d expect out of the Bandits. Not to mention, Tony Gamble might have found the perfect replacement for Hessian.

Richard Parker: Who the heck just walks around with SALT in their pants, Nick?!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know… people who like condiments?

Richard Parker: This was highway robbery! Elise Ares is the Silver Ticket holder! When is management going to stop holding them down!?

Nick Stuart: What are you babbling about, Rich? PCP put up a good fight here tonight, showing they have plenty of skill and experience as a tag team. They almost had them in the end, but unfortunately, even they couldn’t predict the Bandit shenanigans that would happen here.

Richard Parker: GAWD, I hate the Bandits…

The D joins Klein in the ring, and both help Elise back to her feet. The three glare back up the rampway as The Grin and The Salt strut to the back, taunting the fans and calling them marks.

Oh, look! We’re backstage!

Oh, look! There’s Angelica Brooks! Why is she scowling like that?

Oh, hey, it’s

Oh.

Oh no.

The usually professional redhead begrudgingly mumbles.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and gentlemen, my guest at this time, Anna Daniels.

Even though this is previously recorded, boos shower the arena. Hell, some are probably coming from the locker room. By comparison of the intensely drained interviewer, the Muse actually grins. She seems calm, almost basking in the hate.

Angelica Brooks: Anna, you’re going up against Joe Fontaine and I’m sure you have plenty to say about him.

In response, Anna blinks.

Anna Daniels: Nah, not really.

And Miss Brooks blinks back.

Angelica Brooks: …what?

Anna Daniels: Everything we wanted to say to Joe was in the promo. People still watch those, right?

A beat.

Anna Daniels: Well, for review, the last words we said were something along the lines of the only things that matter are what we create and what the canvas takes. And we promise, Anastasia–

Angelica Brooks: (frustrated) Angelica.

Anna Daniels: –not a damned soul on this roster has created or got taken from more than Anna Daniels. Nor can you find anybody who is willing to grit through it and keep fighting more than Anna Daniels. Even when we go on break–because gaaaaawd, you humans are exhausting after a few years–this place likes to try and summon us from half a damn world away for the sacrifice!

Angelica Brooks: You can’t be serious.

Anna Daniels: Oh no? Your Universal champ admitted he would’ve tucked tail and ran being in the position we’re in. Apparently, we have bigger brass metaphorical balls than the man carrying the strap.

She could crow about that one. But a sudden bit of movement distracts that rant. Anna motions with jazz hands towards the nearby catering booth. Or perhaps more specifically, the man who is near the nearby catering booth. He has a familiar looking cloak. A faint drum begins to beat as the Time Lord’s voice shifts into zookeeper mode.

Anna Daniels: Behold, the wild lighthouse keeper. See how he noshes on the pitiful remnants of frugal catering with a humility that betrays the flamboyancy of his feathers.

And he does! Damn it, Blaze Claymore is chomping on a cracker. Like he owns the place.

Anna Daniels: Note the luxuriously long hair that has been combed obsessively. The crimson sunglasses atop his head reflecting the tepid lighting.

Well, she’s not wrong so far.

Anna Daniels: Hark! Can you hear that! The roar of the crowd acknowledging his presence! But are they also…crying?

While Anna had been whispering the first little bit, those words echo as Blaze’s posture suddenly straightens. The beating drum that is Anna Daniels is suddenly even louder.

Anna Daniels: It is! It is! It’s…It’s the crying of his kin! The ones that reach for his pelt. The rumbling of his land! Something is afoot, that’s true, but it was not the book. Never the book. The book was only a vessel. And as he eats, they cry “Save us!” Yet he is here. At the watering hole. Pretending to not listen. Not at all wanting to deal.

Anna puts an arm around Angelica’s shoulders. Angelica tenses while Blaze slowly turns with a glare — and cracker crumbs on his chin — toward the Muse.

Anna Daniels: Alas, the image on his back. It is a weight he did not want, a weight thrusted upon him, a weight he simply is not ready for. Yet fate will not wait for his preparations to be complete. It will not wait for his shoulders to grow strong. Either he drags the weight behind him and goes to battle or the battle inevitably will come to him.

Blaze calmly watches Anna and Angelica walk forward. The Lighthouse crosses his arms.

Blaze Claymore: If this is still about the damned coat–

Anna picks at the grapes with a smirk.

Anna Daniels: Which we still can’t get your stupid smell out of, by the way… it’s like a wet cat rolled around in pig shit and then threw up all over itself. No, it’s about what in the coat. That little squiggle that was stuffed in our pocket made us curious and we are always drawn to what makes us curious. So for now, you’re our problem. Open your mouth and hold the mic, Arnold.

Angelica Brooks: For the last time, my name is Angeli–MMPH!

For her trouble, Angelica gets a mouthful of fruit. Blaze reaches into his pocket and takes out that very slip of paper, folded into a neat square.

Blaze Claymore: You know for talking so much about how you don’t care about people, you sure do go to great lengths to insert yourself into their business. I would think that a–

Damn it. The air quotes again!

Blaze Claymore: –’Time Lord’ would have better things to do. Like saving a planet or destroying one. I don’t know what you’re into.

Anna shrugs.

Anna Daniels: You’re not wrong. There’s plenty to do. Could be warming up. Could be hanging with the Whoresmen. Could be calling up the husband. Tons of things! And yet, we’re standing here wondering what you’re gonna do given your…situation. Facing off against horrors beyond your understanding was hard enough when we were doing it as a mere tot. But a human? That’s a taller order than the house.

Blaze’s expression drops as he shoves the piece of paper back in his pocket.

Blaze Claymore: I understand enough. Enough to know that I’ll win my home town back from it. And if you want to stand in my way, or try and convince me to give up and run away? I’ll carve a path right through you… Time Lord.

The response starts as a cackle.

Anna Daniels: Oh… oh…. that’s the funniest thing we’ve heard all day. Maybe all year!

Anna looks down toward Blaze’s hand in his pocket, holding the folded piece of paper.

Anna Daniels: Our issues’ll get settled, alright. But we’ve got all the time in the world. You are the one running out of it.

She leans into his ear.

Anna Daniels: Better get a move on, meat bag. Because when you feel it breathing down your neck, we mean really feel it? Then it’s already too late.

Blaze tries to swat her away like a fly, only to hit nothing but air. The Muse has already toyed with her prey and skipped off. Angelica swallows the fruit down, gasps, and looks at the Lighthouse.

Angelica Brooks: I really hate that woman.

We cut to a new location. Perhaps even a new planet. 

An alien landscape of purple mountains, crystalline trees, and a sky with three suns. 

In the center of it all sits Bobby Neptune, his eyes closed in deep meditation. He is surrounded by robed figures, their heads obscured by hoods, but judging by the horns and tentacles protruding from their cloaks, they are not human.

Bobby seems entirely at peace in this world. 

The fabric of reality suddenly tears wide open, as a rectangle of light suddenly appears in the absence of space. Almost like a door being flung open.

From this portal of light, the dark, grungy figure of a man is birthed into the cosmic soup.

Rezin: WHOOOAA SHUCKS!!

“The Escape Artist” Rezin instantly twirls around and slams the door shut on the mob of Enemigos that were hot on his tail. Panting for air, he pumps a fist in triumph.

Rezin: HA-HAAA!! Enemigos? More like EneMOOH-MYY-GAWWDD!!

He soon becomes aware of the otherworldly panorama he’s inexplicably stumbled his way into. Bloodshot eyes blinking in astonishment, he does a slow 360 and takes it all in.

Rezin: (muttering to himself) Goddambit, Rez… ya really gone and done it this time… all ya hadda to was find LINDSAY and show her the quick forty minute PowerPoint presentation ya spent all night workin’ on… “Fifteen Reasons Why PRIME Needs This Ol’ Dopesmoker Back”… but instead, ya smoked that blunt, and ya did that line, and ya no dropped that tab, and ya got so goddamb high ya teleported yer dumbass into a Hawkwind album cover…

By now, notices the circle of robed figures, and Neptune peaceably sitting at the epicenter.

Rezin: Ah-hrmm, whudduh we have goin’ hurr now…

The Goat Bastard gingerly tiptoes on his approach, because if years in the illustrious racket of backyard wrestling, anarchy, and cop killing have taught him anything, it’s that you can never be too stoned.

Or was it supposed to be ‘careful’? Ahh, fuck it… the point is, Rezin slips up behind a diamond tree trunk and quietly observes the proceedings.

Bobby stays meditating in the circle of monks, undisturbed by Rezin’s entrance. Rezin, however, feels a tap on his shoulder. He spins around and sees another Bobby Neptune, this one wearing a big smile.

Rezin: D’AAH!!

Happy Bobby Neptune: Hello, friend. You’re not where you’re supposed to be.

Another Bobby Neptune emerges from the bushes, this one wearing a scowl and a mean disposition.

Angry Bobby Neptune: Get out! This is my personal prismatic universe and you can’t have it!!

Rezin: D’AAH!!

The Escape Artist whips his head between Bobbys.

Rezin: TOO MANY NEPTUNES!! I AM DISCOM-BOBBY-LATED!!

Happy Bobby Neptune: Fear not, new friend! All this is a virtual reality that splits you into different parts of yourself, like light through a prism! So that’s Bobby’s possessiveness-

Angry Bobby Neptune: Get out! This place is mine.

Happy Bobby Neptune: And I’m his need to please everyone. Please tell me I’m doing a good job or I’ll actually die. Wait, who are you again?

Still overwhelmed by the situation, the Escape Artist stands there anxiously trembling and stammering. He is unsure whether to answer the happy or run from the angry.

Rezin: Oh, umm, uhh… H-HOWDY, gang! P-p-please don’t mind me, just a harmless lil ol’ DOPESMOKER, passin’ through your um… your what have you here, on his way to gettin’ his job back! Say, uhh… d’ya guys know when the bus rolls ‘round these parts?

Speak of the bus, and it shall appear. A giant psychedelic bus walks on all four wheels into frame. Its doors open with a woosh. Another Bobby sits in the driver’s seat.

Bus Driver Bobby Neptune: All aboard!

Rezin: D’AAH!!

A herd of Bobbys come out of the woodwork and board the bus. Bus Driver Bobby narrows his eyes at Rezin.

Bus Driver Bobby (impatiently): I said all aboard. Someone wants to speak with you.

Reluctantly, Rezin scratches at his beard.

Rezin: Hmmm… should I…?

Poomf! A small, cherub-like angel, complete with a gold halo and white suit suddenly appears on his right shoulder.

Angel Erik Black: YEEEAAAAHHH, DO IT, Erik! The PIOUS MAN is one who EMBRACES new experiences!

Poomf! On Rezin’s left shoulder, a tiny devil representation of him appears. The horns make the bastard look even more goatish.

Devil Rezin: That guy’s a dick, but I agree. If this place has a lotta Bobby Neptunes, there’s a chance there’s a lotta Kat Denningses too!

Rezin’s eyes grow wide.

Rezin: OOOH… now yer talkin’!

Poomf! The angel and devil disappear. Grinning wide, he salutes Bus Driver Bobby and boards the bus.

The bus closes its doors, sprouts eagle wings, and fly into the sky. There, etched in stars, is the massive face of Bobby Neptune wearing a glowing visor that covers his eyes.

Bobby Neptune: Dopesmoker. You did not come here by accident. What do you seek from the stars?

Parked on a seat midway through the bus, Rezin looks thoughtfully among the Bobbys surrounding him.

Rezin: Oh shucks… what do I SEEK??

He rises up and approaches the front of the bus with all the grace of a talking scarecrow asking a giant green head for a brain.

Rezin: Oh, um, well, ya know, to be perdectly honest with ya, Mr. Star Man Deity Guy… I’ma kinda cat that strives to live a bit on the LEANER side, knaw’msayin’? Trynna live that ZEN life, yeah? So like, I ain’t really, uhhh, “SEEKIN”” much inna material sense, per se. Essept for gettin’ my job back in PRIME, I s’pose. An’ abolishin’ ICE. An’ thicc goth baddies. An’ weed. Strawbviously. An’ a vinyl repress of The Stains self-titled from–okay, look here, I mean, point is, I ain’t got any idea what I came to “seek” cuz I ain’t in need of anything THAT important! At least not in a way that could benefit from this whole um…

He gestures vaguely to the busload of Bobbys, all of whom stare at him with a variety of expressions.

Rezin: …this whole fractured personality deal ya got goin’ on in here. Very cool and Jungian of ya, but I met my alter ego arready, and BELIEVE ME, guy’s an asshole! Ragin’, Bible-thumpin’, deathray-buildin’ ASSHOLE! Very opposite of punk rock…

A green Christmas tree bulb suddenly appears over his head and lights up, as does his face.

Rezin: Altho ya know what…  now that I think about it, I MIGHT just know’ve sumbuddy who could prolly dig on this! A very SURRIOUS sumbuddy! SURRIOUS an’ CURIOUS as he is FURIOUS! Yeah, mebbe THAT’S the reason I’m here! So I mean, how ’bout it, Bobb-o?? Think ya’d be willin’ to help my boi out with an itty-bitty doppleganger issue??

The Giant Bobby in the sky adjusts his visor, and reality begins to splinter into pixels and static before becoming solid again.

Bobby Neptune: If somebody needs help, I will provide it. Though a virtual prismatic universe is no trifling matter. I will need to hear more about this person before I agree to give him access.

All the Bobbys turn their heads back to Rezin.

Rezin: DOPE! Aight, let’s get this lil’ parley of ours here good an’ FIRED UP…

Rezin withdraws a fat, pre-rolled spliff out from behind his ear and looks among the Bobbys.

Rezin: Um… which’ve ya guys gotta lighter?

It’s the most wonderful tiiiiiiiiiiime of the yeeeeeeeeeear.

With the Vosses all shouting

There’s no one a’pouting

The good times are heeeeeeeeeeere

Yes, it’s the most wonderful tiiiiiiiiiime… Of the yeeeeeeeeeear!

Yeah, it’s gonna be one of THOSE matches, folks.

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

Like 500 Vosses: ONE! FALL!

Oh no, they went and did it. The jerks.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…

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

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

Vince Howard: From Sydney, New South Wales, Australia… she is THE MUSE! ANNNNNAAAAAA DAAAAAANIELS!!!

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

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

“Love is Blindness” by Jack White begins playing through the arena speakers as the camera focuses on the entryway. Joe Fontaine steps out onto the stage with fabby in tow.

Vince Howard: Representing the Glueminati… He hails from Phoenix, Arizona and weighs in tonight at one hundred and eighty-five pounds…

There is a large bag of jolf clubs slug over fabby’s shoulder and he seems to be struggling a bit with it. One of the clubs slides out, and when he reaches over to pick it up his body position causes the rest of the clubs to fall out onto the stage.

Vince Howard: He has many nicknames that I am simply not going to read.. He is… Joe FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONTAIIIIIIIINE!!!!

Fontaine continues on his path to the ring leaving fabby to clean up the mess he made.

DING DING

Despite the sounding of the bell, Joe Fontaine is currently preoccupied. What could be drawing his attention? How about the absolute fucking sea of Voss family members in attendance. And boy howdy, there are A Lot of them. It would be fair to say that it’s the biggest Voss family reunion of all time, but then again every Voss family reunion is the biggest of all time. Those people just cannot stop fucking.

Richard Parker: I have a question, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Do I want to know what that question is, Richard? The match literally just started. Do I have to prepare for this to get off on the wrong foot right away, or are you going to give me a few minutes before you say something regrettable?

Richard Parker: Hey now, this is a totally innocent question. I swear.

And so Joe Fontaine is trying to count them. A noble endeavor, but a losing proposition nonetheless, because just like last year occasionally a new Voss will just “appear” in the crowd.

It’s only because of a timely gesture from fabby that Fontaine is able to dodge Anna Daniels’ opening attack. He’s able to duck and weave around a flurry of her strikes, being one of the few people on the roster who can match her speed. He ducks between the ropes to buy a second to compose himself, but is again distracted as a ringside Voss holds up a screaming, goo-covered infant.

Nick Stuart: Alright. Go ahead then.

Richard Parker: So the Vosses are Australian.

Nick Stuart: They are, yes.

Richard Parker: And Anna Daniels lives in Australia.

Nick Stuart: Oh-kay?

Richard Parker: You think she might be a distant cousin or something? I mean, at the rate this family is expanding you’ve gotta figure that everyone on the continent is related now, right?

Nick Stuart: No.

Richard Parker: You sure?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Daniels backs up at the referee’s behest, but as soon as Fontaine looks to re-engage with the match he’s blasted by a rolling elbow that sends him through the ropes and to the arena floor. She follows him out through the ropes, peppering him with strikes against the barricade. This riles up the ringside Vosses, many of which rise to their feet.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I’d like to take a moment to remind you to…

One of the Voss members, in a very overeager attempt to be encouraging, leans too far over the railing and lands in the ringside area.

Nick Stuart: Not do that, basically.

Richard Parker: They’ve broken containment! We’re all doomed!

Nick Stuart: Broken containment? What?

Richard Parker: The Voss virus – the Vossrus! It’s free to spread! They’re going to multiply unchecked now!

Nick Stuart: I’m pretty sure that was always the case.

Richard Parker: But now there’ll be no stopping it, Nick. It’s like smallpox. SmallVoss. And you catch it from blankets. Or being on top of blankets. Or being under…

Nick Stuart: Alright. We get it.

Richard Parker: Lotta bed stuff going on, is what I’m saying.

The man, who we’ll call Voss 412, stands up in the path of one of Anna Daniels’ strikes, and she makes no effort to pull it before knocking the poor idiot right upside the head. He gets sent flying into Joe, who in turn gets sent careening into the barricade again. Fontaine has the wherewithal to try and set Voss 412 down gently, or as gently as he can given that he is currently under siege by a very aggressive time traveler. As a result, Joe turns back into a running strike that sends both himself and Voss 412 into the crowd where they crash into several more Vosses.

Richard Parker: I bet we’re getting sued for this, even though everyone knows you’re not supposed to jump the ringside barricade. It’s on the waiver, after all.

The crowd – including all eight billion Vosses – begins collectively losing its shit, as the Voss Hive Mind recognizes danger to the swarm. Security tries to calm them down, but hell hath no fury like a tide of fertile Australians.

Back inside the ring, Daniels lands a series of different kick variations which she follows with a leg sweep before maneuvering Fontaine into a hanging sleeper hold. Unable to get his feet on the apron, he manages to wave over fabby to serve as a makeshift support to help alleviate the pressure on the hold while referee Ashley Barlow can force a break.

Richard Parker: Hey, look at that. The furniture is furnituring the way it’s supposed to.

With a bit of fabby’s help – help that he will likely never get credit for, mind you – Fontaine is able to get himself back up over the top rope and drive Daniels into the corner, breaking the hold by sending her into the turnbuckles. It’s here that fabby proves useful again, though he probably won’t be getting any gold stars to go with his gold mask. As Barlow warns him against getting involved, Joe quickly pivots in the corner and unleashes the full might of the Jazz Trumpeter Murder Method, a series of rapid fire crotch kicks.

Richard Parker: Can’t say I’m terribly convinced this is going to work against Anna Daniels, because, well, y’know.

Nick Stuart: Do you now understand basic anatomy?

Richard Parker: No, I do. Which is why I have doubts.

Nick Stuart: Look, I’m going to try and keep this relatively clean, because this is a family show…

Richard Parker: SINCE WHEN?!

Nick Stuart: …but let’s just say there are parts of Anna Daniels that would hurt very much if kicked repeatedly.

Which is why she’s grimacing in the corner with each strike.

Sensing Barlow is about to refocus her attention on the match, Joe backs off, but that gives Daniels enough time to level him with a Bitchmaker that sends him spinning like an off-balance ballerina. She follows with a flowing DDT before attempting the first cover of the match.

1

2

Kickout!

Fontaine snaps off a dropkick to the knee that takes Daniels down, then quickly tries to build momentum by running to the ropes and hitting a springboard gamengiri. With the Muse staggered, Fontaine runs past her, takes a minute to skip into the air, dab, and click his heels. When he lands he continues his forward momentum, springboards up to the second rope again, and hits a turnaround flying elbow to the standing Daniels that sends her out to the arena floor.

If you haven’t noticed by now, this is starting to become a theme.

Rather than waiting for her to get back in the ring, the Prince of Jolf gets a running start and dives through the ropes. Daniels sidesteps with Fontaine in mid-flight, and the universe screams to a sudden halt.

And then, with Joe Fontaine flying wide-eyed and suspended in mid-air, a booming voice fills the void in reality.

Omniscient Narrator Voice: It was at this moment that he knew… he fucked up.

The universe snaps back into motion in time for Fontaine to sail over the barricade and crash into a dozen Vosses on the other side. They go flying like pins struck by a bowling ball. One of them, an older woman who we’ll call Voss 97 on account of her age and NO OTHER REASON, begins demanding compensation. Not for the family members who have just been annihilated by Smooth Joe Cool, but rather for the large popcorn that she lost in the chaos.

Priorities, man. She’s knows that Vosses are a dime a dozen, but arena popcorn ain’t cheap.

Anna grabs one of the smaller Vosses displaced in the fracas, and starts spinning like an olympic shot putter. She hurls him through the air sidearm at Fontaine. The little Australian spins like a frisbee with all of his limbs extended, screaming the entire time.

Joe ducks.

The airborne Voss continues past him, circling awkwardly around ringside before hanging in the air for a fraction of a second and then flying back in the opposite direction.

Fabby – whose name we are only capitalizing because it starts this sentence and NO OTHER REASON – turns just in time to get obliterated by the returning Voss’erang, sending both of them sprawling into the time keeper’s area.

Nick Stuart: I’m… not entirely sure what I just saw.

Richard Parker: Looked like a human boomerang to me.

Nick Stuart: Right, but… physics are a thing.

Richard Parker: Careful, Nick. You start talking like that and people are going to think you’re some kind of movement math man.

Nick Stuart: You mean a physicist? The word for that is physicist.

Richard Parker: This is exactly the sort of thing a movement math man would say!

Nick Stuart: Because that’s what it’s called!

Having recovered from his ringside crash, Joe looks up in time to see fabby take a flying Voss to the face and offers a shrug before hopping the barricade and sliding back into the ring. He manages to avoid a superman punch, and catches the Muse with a low strike to the knee in an attempt to slow her down.

Does it work? Fuck no.

She retaliates by pulling Fontaine into the clinch by his hair and unloading a salvo of knee strikes, followed by a backstabber. Joe begins moving towards the ring apron, but he’s dragged back to the center of the ring and positioned for a suplex.

The Muse begins the start of Rolling Girl, connecting with several rolling suplexes, but Joe is able to slip free before the final rotation. He charges forward and connects with a lightning fast Welcome to Applebee’s, and the momentum causes Daniels to roll through it and…

Richard Parker: Ugh.

Guys.

Guys, seriously.

Sigh. She’s out of the ring again.

Richard Parker: What’s the point of having a ring if everyone is just going to hang out on the floor?

That’s what I’m saying!

And because we are now fully in the nonsense part of the match, Fontaine follows. No sooner do his feet touch the floor does he have to make a snap decision. You see, in the intervening seconds, Anna Daniels has grabbed yet another member of the Voss family. This one she was able to pick up like a javelin, and then throw like a javelin, because apparently some members of this family are built very aerodynamically and all of those people just happen to be at ringside tonight.

For his part, Joe is able to recover quickly, grabbing the flying Voss out of the air as it careens towards him. In one fluid motion he plants his foot, spins, and launches the Voss back at the Muse.

Nick Stuart: (the frustrated sound of papers being thrown in the air)

Richard Parker: What were those? Nicholas, were you doing equations here at the broadcast table?

Nick Stuart: At this point would it matter?

This is now officially “Beat A Motherfucker With Another Motherfucker: The Match.”

Joe begins to celebrate outside the ring. First he moonwalks. Then he dabs. Then he gets blasted in the face by a very angry Time Lord’s Retrograde Am-knee-sia combination.

A shooting star knee drop from the ring apron wipes out Joe, plus yet another collection of Vosses who might have got too close to the barricade.

Richard Parker: I swear to Hoyt, this family just does not learn. Or maybe they think they can just baby-up a replacement Voss for anyone who gets taken out. I dunno.

Nick Stuart: You have to wonder whether they’ll be back next year after the way things have gone during this match.

Richard Parker: Oh, they’ll be back. Of course they’ll be back. And there will be more of them.

At this point there are bodies everywhere outside the ring. An entire platoon of enemigos. A few of the other referees. Many angry Vosses. Many more excited Vosses. Some crying Voss children. Fabby trying to pry a boomeranged Voss off of his face. And one old woman (Voss 97) who is not over her popcorn and is trying to hit Joe Fontaine with her shoe.

Richard Parker: Somewhere, Satan Jones is probably very jealous. Though I don’t know if granny feet is his thing.

Nick Stuart: There’s a thought I won’t be able to drink away. Thanks for that.

Richard Parker: (sweetly) You’re welcome!

Anna rolls Joe back into the ring and tries to position him for the Blue TARDIS Bomb.

Smooth Joe Cool slips out of the move, landing behind Anna. He drives his shoulder into her lower back and shoves her towards Ashley Barlow, who doesn’t see the blow coming given the ALL OF IT happening around the ring. She topples through the ropes, because apparently it’s not enough that everyone else under the sun has been out there tonight, and now she needs a turn.

With the referee distracted by a mountain of Vosses, Joe quickly reaches under the ring to retrieve one of the clubs from his jolf bag. His fingers reach for the 7-iron, then withdraw when he notices the material is pulsing. That’s not right. Chairs aren’t supposed to do that. So instead he grabs the one next to it.

Nick Stuart: Is that a brick?!

It’s the putter.

Richard Parker: Definitely a brick.

And you’ve seen this before, Nick. Don’t pretend like you haven’t.

Richard Parker: That’s what I’m saying!

Nick Stuart: Come again?

Richard Parker: Umm… nevermind.

Anna moves to intercept her opponent, but is waffled by a heavy swing. He throws the club out under the bottom rope, where it clips one of the few ringside Vosses who has yet to take any damage.

Meanwhile, the now free Ashley Barlow has made it back into the ring just in time to see Joe collapse on top of Anna Daniels for the cover.

1

2

3!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… Joe FOOOOOOONTAINE!!!

Nick Stuart: Fans, I’m not sure what it was that I just watched, but whatever it was… Joe Fontaine is the winner.

In the commotion, Joe slides out of the ring to retrieve his clubs before darting towards the ramp to escape the fuck of Vosses that are pushing towards the guardrail. That’s the biological classification for a group of Vosses, by the way. A fuck.

Fabby is left to fend for himself.

Nick Stuart: And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a quiet existential crisis while we wait for the next match.

Amidst the chaos, we fade elsewhere.

Now, if you look above, right now you’re likely in this zone of anticipation where you are expecting ReVival to cut to some sort of big desk with television all over the point and LED screens shitting out in every direction, as the 8th most prestigious event on the PRIME calendar in May, the B3, gets the attention it richly deserves. It’s the truth that as all Voss family members entered today’s show, they all agreed that PRIME is all about the B3 and if you can’t trust a Voss family reunion, who can you trust?

So seeing Cecilworth Farthington sitting down on a folding chair in front of a bright white wall that keeps messing with the colour balance is probably not fulfilling the remit of the expectations and we apologise for this and hope you will still give the update a try in the future.

As the camera turns on, the Universal Champion is deep in self-mumbling as he stares at a bunch of disjointed and mildly crumbled A4 papers which sit toss out in a semi-circle form around the chair. The camera picks up Cecilworth mumble “how did Dirk mess this up? Double Jiles Week? That’s absurd! Dirk is really going to have to defend himself during the commissioner election.”

He looks up and pretends he didn’t notice the camera before now but he definitely noticed the camera. He quickly grabs the trilby hat that was sitting on his lap and tosses it upon his skull noggin with a folded piece of paper stating “ACE Network Ace Reporter” stuffed into a band that wraps around the hat. Or maybe it’s an old tied up sock, whatever it is, it’s holding up the champion’s “press card”. This means, for this momentum in time, he is an ace reporter.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: When my dear friend, confidant, and mentor Dirk Dickwood came to me to discuss the concept of the Big Bangable Bash, I didn’t think it could be done, I didn’t think it should be done but Dirk persevered. He somehow got that Red Bull sponsored, crossed wires with the marketing team. It has become the most talked about national issue of the day, with droves of people ordering 7/11 pizzas for delivery and hoping they arrive with a hot steamy ballot. Yes, this was all Dirk Dickwood, and his vision and I am proud to have supported him in seeing it out.

Farthington kicks one of the pieces of paper, but the second piece under it goes flying too, so he has to leap out of his seat and grab it before he sits back down on his all powerful Press Chair for Ace Reporters of the ACE Network.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: Now, some people may ask why I have not put my full attention to the upcoming Number One Contendership match for the Universal Title. It’s a fair question, considering the two options are I face ANOTHER one of my own stable mates for the biggest prize in the game, or the man who crushed my body a lot and threw me through many things and hurt much limb gets to destroy me again. That’s really either mentally or physically concerning. It’s something that could really mess a dude up and have him retreat into a protective mental state. Not me though, I am an Ace Report and I am duty and honour bound to give you an update on the B3 standings. We need to know who in PRIME is BANG!able or bangable depending on your interpretation of the whole thing. That’s not forgetting people may also be making their choice based on bangingness.

Cecilworth shifts around on his chair, shifts to look down upon another piece of paper, thankfully there is no kicking involved this time. The camera catches what is on the paper, which seems to be the attempt to scribble a graphic, half abandoned, and then a bunch of points madly scribbled in the margins.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: We can start with the very man who could be challenging for the Universal Championship real soon, co-leader of the Dickwood Group, alongside Kerry “The Booty” Kuroyama. That’s right, the “roided to the gills” look has been a smash hit with inflation enthusiasts and has helped Daytona slay not only in the ring, but also outside of the ring. It has been both. Good for him. Please lose, I don’t want to get hurled a lot again, it’s very painful. Well you could win the B3, I mean the contendership match. Lose that. That’s the thing I want you to lose. B3, you go guy! You can do this. Sadly, JCH, Max Kael and Cancer Jiles have yet to score in the Dickwood Group, and have now been cosigned to Night 1 show opener status until such times as the BANG! or bangability quotient increases. The judgements will continue until voting improves.

The second piece of paper has a crude drawing of FLAMBERGE with two giant muscular arms with “miss you big man” scribbled underneath it. There is a similar attempt to have made some form of chart that has been abandoned. On the bottom corner, this is a drawing of Ivan Stanislav with lots of stink lines flowing out from him, and the comment “ew stinky!” written underneath. There has been an attempt to make the writing look like it’s in italics.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: Meanwhile, in a precious Hank league, where nothing goes wrong, the land of innocence and pool time, it’s no shock that the only Glueminati member of this prestigious league, FLAMBERGE, is top of the list. For it is a scientific fact he is both BANG! and bangable. As a reporter who values the facts I am glad he went on record on the last ReVival to state I did nothing wrong, because I didn’t. I didn’t do wrong. No wrong was had. I simply wrestled and things happened and that is now a settled fact and matter and people should get out of my DMs, thank you. Elsewhere in this group, Rob Williams tries to gain support by leaning into the bang, as opposed to BANG! camp with his sensual and tender spread. Also he has forty million dollar and people find that kind of thing sexy.

If you are wondering how he differentiates, Cecilworth absolutely shouts it out when he says “BANG!” and tries to use a sensual voice, which he is very bad at, when he says “bang”. The Rob Williams photo spread is on the ground in a pile with a post-it note that proclaims it to be “RESEARCH”.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: But just like he does in the wrestling game, Nate Colton has a workman like approach to his league, currently on a respectable second place and looking to make his way out of the group stage. Sadly, people like neither bald or Russian. They’re just not “hot” or “HOT!”. Maybe if they merged into one and we could imagine Brandon Youngblood with a concrete, lego brick like headline, things would be different but we are not here, nor indeed are we there.

Cecilworth takes his trilby off and throws it at the camera. The scene you are currently witnessing begins to wobble back and forth, back and forth.

Ace Reporter Cecilworth Farthington: And that’s your B3 update! Call my hotline for further hot juicy goss and scoops, that’s on…

Sadly before we get to the all important hotline number, the camera crashes to the ground, confirming Cecilworth set this up himself with one camera on a tripod. The last thing we hear before the feed cuts is Cecilworth yelling “I’M NOT PAYING FOR THAT”.

ReVival MOVES! or moves on. Mercifully.

Oh, no.

Rick Hardbody: I mean it would be pretty hilarious though, right? He brings Rose into the bedroom and there’s like ten smoke machines set up around the room to get the proper atmosphere.

It’s these idiots again.

Why the Steve Lemieux idiot brigade is meandering backstage is anyone’s guess, though if you were a betting person the safe odds are on one of the following. One, Zeke said he knew the way to the locker room, and everyone made the terrible mistake of believing him. Two, Steve had a flare-up of the tummy troubles that kept him on the shelf for much of the last arc and the group decided they would all go together to lend him moral support. Three, everyone decided that they needed to get away from Rick, forgetting that backstage areas are only so big and that he would find them eventually.

Rick Hardbody: They start to undress and he finds out she’s got, like, matching lingerie that looks like the Beetlejuice suit.

Real talk, it’s probably that third option.

Ollie Cade: You can stop whenever you want.

Rick Hardbody: I’d say there were rose petals on the floor and the bed, but that seems pretty on the nose. And speaking of “on the nose…”

Ollie comes to a dead stop and puts up a single hand.

Ollie Cade: Whatever you were going to say, don’t.

And then of course, there’s the other conversation. The one happening a few steps behind Rick and Ollie.

Steve Lemieux: Are you sure it’s the same person, Mister Doctor Zeke? He doesn’t look old enough to have invented the polio vaccine.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Nonsense, Stefon! Have you seen his tracksuit? That is a vintage tracksuit. They haven’t made them like that since the war. Not the great war, mind you. The medium-good war.

Steve Lemieux: But until recently he looked like Mister President Teddy Roosevelt. It was just like Night At The Museum.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I don’t know what that is.

Steve Lemieux: It’s a really funny movie where Ben Stiller keeps getting fired, and he has to work a job at a museum that has a magic tablet from ancient Egypt that brings the exhibits to life and keeps the old security guards young and strong. Robin Williams played a statue of the president, and…

Jesus Christ, Steve. Spoiler tag that shit. Sure, it’s been out for like fifteen years or whatever, but still.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Magic tablet, you say? I will have to ask Big Jonas Salk about this and see if he will let me borrow it. After all, we are both men of science, are we not?

What Steve Lemieux thinks is, “I’m pretty sure that’s not true for either of you.” What Steve Lemieux says instead is:

Steve Lemieux: Okay, Mister Doctor Zeke.

In this crowd, it’s better to not try and reason with the weirdos, especially when you’re teetering on the edge yourself.

And because we can’t forget about that other conversation…

Rick Hardbody: You think he keeps the tracksuit on when he takes Rose to Pound Town, population two?

Actually, it’s better that everyone forgets about that conversation.

Big Ian Salt: You think I can keep this pound suit on when I take YOU to track town!?!

Oh. OH.

Big Ian Salt is suddenly right behind them.

And as the Beefstreet Boys turn around, he’s got a finger right in Steve Lemieux’s chest.

Big Ian Salt: Spreading vicious rumors like it’s some shitty, disgusting chipotle mayonnaise on one of your stupid fucking hamburgers. You boys think it’s funny to gossip about the sordid details of another man’s sex life, do ya? You think its funny to say that I look like Robin Williams in the critically underrated and downright life-changing comedy film, Night at the Museum 2: Battle of the Smithsonian, is that it? Well let me tell you punks something: FUCK. YOU. And let me tell you something else. I got a sordid detail from my sex life for you right here. You ready? Here goes. My balls are extremely big and heavy. And I’m cordially inviting each of you to suck on my big heavy balls. You pieces of fucking dog shit. You fucking marks.

Big Ian Salt storms away. He turns back towards the stunned quartet.

Big Ian Salt: Get a life. Before I MAKE you get a life… a life of PAIN!! Fuck you. Marks.

He finishes storming away.

The group all stands dumbfounded for a moment, each one trying to take in what just happened in their own (stupid) way. It’s Rick who breaks the silence, because of course it is.

Rick Hardbody: Oh yeah. Definitely keeps the tracksuit on. And probably the lights, too.

This is met with a bop on the nose by Zeke’s cane, as though Rick were a bad dog who just peed in the hallway. Then he turns towards Steve and wags a scolding finger.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Tsk tsk. See what you’ve done? You’ve hurt Doctor Salk’s feelings. And after he cured all my polios, no less.

He turns and begins shuffle dancing away in the opposite direction, not unlike Christopher Walken in the “Weapon of Choice” video. Rick shrugs and follows after, but instead of dancing he’s hot boi struttin’. Ollie is next, moving slow to keep a safe distance between both Zeke and Rick, leaving Steve standing awkwardly in the hall.

Steve Lemieux: Excuse me? Who is Mark?

He doesn’t get an answer.

The camera pulls in on Nick and Richard at the announce desk. Nick is straight-faced. Richard is slumped over the desk like a man bracing for a tax audit.

Nick Stuart: Folks, what you are about to witness, I genuinely do not know how to set up. Two weeks ago, Bryan Dawkins came out here to address some unfinished business, and the universe chose to deliver him King Blueberry instead.

Richard Parker: Wake me when it is over, Nick.

Nick Stuart: This is a seventeen-year grudge, Richard. April of 2009. ReVolution 191. Fruit On A Pole. Dawkins walked out the winner. King Blueberry walked out wearing a bucket of tomatoes. And here we are, the year of our Lord 2026, in Newark, New Jersey, doing it again.

Richard Parker: Why? Just, why?

Nick Stuart: Because Bryan Dawkins said the words “unfinished business” and the King appeared like a particularly stupid genie. Let us get to it.

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

WOO HOO!

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

He slowly makes his way down the ramp, offering a fist bump or high five to the occasional young fan along the way, before picking a young fan at ringside who gets to be the lucky recipient of an official pair of Bruh’s sunglasses. After blessing the kid with new shades and offering a fist bump, he slides into the ring and hops to the near turnbuckle to raise both fists to the air and follow it up with a flash of the Shaka.

He repeats this ritual three more times, making sure that each corner of the PRIME universe gets a glimpse of the Bruh, before hopping down and assuming a fight-ready position in his designated corner.

Richard Parker: All of that for a man whose career peaked when George W. Bush was still in office.

Nick Stuart: He won the Intense Title less than a year ago.

Richard Parker: Like I said.

The lights cut. The opening notes of “Go! Fighto! WIN!”, guitars that sound like someone tried to translate Mortal Kombat into Japanese with a 2008 phrasebook, bleed through the arena.

Richard Parker: Oh, no.

Nick Stuart: Oh, yes.

Out from the curtain. No forklift this time. Just a man in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and a freshly minted mask. King Blueberry. He pauses at the top of the ramp, gives the crowd a deep, considered bow, and ambles down at a leisurely pace. As he passes the announce desk he produces a pair of orange and teal sunglasses, clearly lifted from somewhere in the last three minutes, and offers them to Richard.

Richard stares at him. The King shrugs and tosses them onto the desk.

Richard Parker: Get him out of my sight.

The King slips between the ropes, looks across the ring at Dawkins, and gives him the same considered bow he gave the crowd. Dawkins does not move. The mask does not move either, but the body underneath it is, somehow, visibly grinning.

Vince Howard waves both men in. Referee Elvis Nixon checks the King’s mask, then Dawkins’s left knee brace, then calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Here we go. The first meeting between these two since April of 2009.

Dawkins moves to the centre. The King does not. He wanders the perimeter, peers into the crowd, crouches by the ropes and waves at a child in the front row. Dawkins stands in the middle with his arms folded.

Richard Parker: Get on with it.

The King turns, sees Dawkins waiting, does an exaggerated double-take, and raises both hands in a placating gesture before stepping in for the lock-up. Dawkins meets him chest to chest. They take their grips. The King leans in, mutters something through the mask, and Dawkins, instead of engaging, takes a clean step back. He steps out of the ring and walks over to the front row, plucks a plastic carrier bag from a man in a Foot Soldiers shirt, and holds it up.

It contains tomatoes. Of course it contains tomatoes.

OOOOOH!

Nick Stuart: Look at this. Somebody came prepared.

Dawkins walks to the apron, sets the bag down behind the timekeeper with elaborate care, and turns back to face the King. He rolls back inside the ring. The King has both gloved hands pressed to where his mouth would be under the mask. The shoulders shake.

Richard Parker: A man genuinely overcome.

They lock up. This time it is real. Dawkins ducks under the collar-and-elbow, shoots a clean double-leg takedown, lands in mount. Two elbows into the chest. Two short knees into the ribs. Nixon counts him off the closed strikes. Dawkins backs off without argument.

Nick Stuart: And there it is. That is the wrinkle the Red Army gave him. Ground and pound, knees, elbows. He is not the same Bryan Dawkins he was when these two last met.

Richard Parker: Worst fight Sykes has been in is at the breakfast bar.

The King rolls to his feet, shakes his head, comes back. Dawkins meets him on the way in, snap suplex, floats over.

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout.

Dawkins is on him before the King is fully turned over. Hammerlock. Wristlock. Wrings the arm, drops a knee across the elbow joint, twists. The King sells the way he sells everything, with his whole body. Dawkins drags the King up by the mask line, pulls him into a short-arm clothesline. Off the ropes. Second clothesline. Off the ropes a third time, the King ducks under and hooks Dawkins on the rebound, falls back, and snaps Dawkins over with a sleeper suplex out of nowhere.

Dawkins lands hard on the crown and the shoulders, rolls to a knee, looks faintly stunned.

Nick Stuart: Sleeper suplex out of NOWHERE!

Richard Parker: When did THAT happen?

The King is up and grinning, but the grin is different now. Tighter. Less goof. He hauls Dawkins up. Snap suplex of his own. Rolls through with the grip. Comes off the ropes, slides through low, elbow strike to the jaw on the slide.

ONE!

TWO!

Shoulder up!

Nick Stuart: Snap suplex, sliding elbow strike! That is vintage.

Richard Parker: Do not say his name, Nick. He is incognito.

The King takes Dawkins by the wrist. Whips him. Drops down, leapfrogs the rebound, steps onto the second rope on the move, and comes off with a frankensteiner that takes Dawkins clean over.

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!

RAAAAAHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Step-up frankensteiner! At his age!

Richard Parker: At HIS age? He is younger than YOU.

The King hauls Dawkins back up. Hooks the near arm, traps the head. Saito grip.

THUMP

Holds the wrist on the way down. Pulls Dawkins back to his feet. Arm-trap saito a second time.

THUMP

Maintains the grip. Up again. Third arm-trap saito, the last one driven in with everything he has.

THUMP

Cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Three arm-trap saito suplexes in succession!

Richard Parker: And he is not even breathing hard. What is wrong with this man?

The King paces. Looks at Dawkins, looks at the corner, decides against it. Pulls Dawkins up instead, hooks the head from the side, jumps.

Nick Stuart: Going for the Regal cutter…

Dawkins blocks. Plants the elbow into the King’s ribs. Once. Twice. Breaks the grip. Switches behind. Hooks the King at the waist for the German suplex with the bridge.

ONE!

TWO!

Shoulder up!

Nick Stuart: Same German that put down Satan Jones two weeks ago! And the King kicks out!

Dawkins does not waste the moment. Cinches in the front facelock. Drives the knee. Loops the arm across. The crowd recognises it before Nixon does.

Nick Stuart: D’Arce. Dawkins has the D’Arce. The Undeniable!

OOOOOOOH!

The King is in trouble. Real trouble. Dawkins has him on his side and is rolling him toward the centre of the ring. The King’s free arm flails for a rope and finds nothing. Nixon checks the arm. Once. Twice. The King’s hand stays up.

The third time, the King’s hand stays up but his legs are moving. He walks them along the canvas toward the corner. Gets a foot up onto the bottom rope. Plants the second foot on the second rope. Drives them both backward. Dawkins’s head meets the canvas hard. The grip breaks.

Nick Stuart: He walked the ropes! He walked the ropes and broke the choke!

Richard Parker: That is the most awake I have seen him in twenty years.

Both men down. Nixon counts. They stir at four. The King is up first, drags Dawkins to his feet, hooks for a saito. Dawkins reverses on the lift, fights out of the grip, ducks behind, hoists the King and plants him into the corner with a belly-to-belly. The King’s spine bends around the turnbuckle. Dawkins charges in for the splash, the King slips down the buckles and Dawkins eats the top turnbuckle pad chest-first.

The King is straight up and the King is angry. He pulls Dawkins out of the corner, kicks him in the gut, hooks the head, jumps.

Nick Stuart: REGAL CUTTER!

THUMP

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

OOOOOOH!

Nick Stuart: That was three quarters of the way home!

Richard Parker: That was the kick-out of a champion. Which, given what we watched happen to that championship, hurts me to say.

The King hauls Dawkins up. Forearm. Dawkins forearm back. Forearm. Forearm. Forearm. Dawkins plants himself, gives one straight to the bridge of the King’s mask. The King rocks back into the ropes, comes off with a discus elbow that Dawkins ducks under, catches the King around the waist on the way past, hoists him, drops him.

Nick Stuart: SPINEBUSTER!

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!

Dawkins does not hesitate. Hauls the King up. Tucks him into the front facelock. Lifts him vertically. Holds him.

Nick Stuart: Brainbuster…

The King’s hands find Dawkins’s hips. Block one. Block two. Hammers down with both fists into the small of Dawkins’s back. The grip breaks. The King lands behind him on his feet. Dawkins turns. The King’s forearm catches him on the jaw. Dawkins staggers. The King hooks the head from the front, body alongside, arm wrapped tight. Reverse DDT grip.

Nick Stuart: Wait. Wait, that is the setup…

The King squats. Pivots. Lifts. Dawkins comes up to his shoulder, head pointed down at the canvas. The King holds him there for half a second.

He drops.

WHAM

Nick Stuart: JACK LALANNE DRIVER!

Cover. Hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The arena gasps. The mask gasps. The King sits up on his haunches and tilts his head to one side like a dog that has heard a sound it cannot place. He nods, slowly, once. Then again. He gets to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Out at two. I do not know that I have ever seen that move kicked out of.

Richard Parker: (quiet) Me neither.

The King pulls Dawkins up. Hooks the head a second time. Reverse DDT grip. Squats. Pivots. Lifts. Dawkins comes up to his shoulder.

He drops.

WHAM

Cover. Hooks the leg.

ONE!

KICKOUT!

The Prudential Center erupts. The King is on his knees staring at Dawkins like Dawkins has just spoken Latin. Dawkins is on his back staring at the rafters with his teeth bared.

THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!

Nick Stuart: Out at ONE. ONE.

Richard Parker: Bryan Dawkins. Bryan. Dawkins. Has just kicked out of two Jack Lalanne Drivers at two and at one, and I am going to need a moment to be a person, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Take all the moments you need.

The King stands. Looks at Dawkins. Looks at his own gloved hands. The realisation arrives.

Nick Stuart: Oh, no.

Richard Parker: Oh, yes.

The King pulls Dawkins up, looking to the crowd and then back at Dawkins. He seems genuinely at a crossroads. He pulls Dawkins to a seated position in the centre of the ring. Squats behind him. Threads both arms through Dawkins’s legs from behind. Stands.

Dawkins sits on the King’s shoulders, electric chair, the King’s grip locked across the thighs.

The Prudential Center has gone quiet in the way arenas only go quiet when they know they are about to see something.

Nick Stuart: He has not done this in two years. Not since Flamberge. Not since the Universal Title.

The King drops.

WHAM

The move is over in the time it takes to say its name. Dawkins crumples. The King hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

“Go! Fighto! WIN!” tears through the arena.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner, KIIIIIIING… BLUEBERRRRRRRRRRY!

The King kneels by Dawkins for a long moment. Then leans down. Says something through the mask. The camera does not catch what.

Dawkins, eyes still on the lights, lifts one hand. Holds the Shaka.

The King returns it.

He gets to his feet, takes the centre of the ring, raises both fists, and turns slowly. Nixon raises the King’s hand.

Nick Stuart: I have been calling matches in this company for two decades, and I do not know what I just watched.

Richard Parker: A magnificent display by an idiot.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins kicked out of two Jack Lalanne Drivers, Richard. King Blueberry needed The Last Wish to put him away. The Last Wish. The move he used to beat Flamberge for the Universal Title.

Richard Parker: Seventeen years of build-up for a forty-year-old man dressed as a cartoon to drop the heaviest move in his arsenal on a guy who used to make smoothies.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we will be right back.

King Blueberry leans against the bottom two ropes in the aftermath of the match. A life of semi-retirement has caught up with him, so the rare match that happens these days takes more and more to recover from. Colossus was supposed to be the last match, just like ReVival 50 was supposed to be the last match before it, and now he finds himself here in the ring one more time, an addict unable or unwilling to kick the habit.

He’ll ache tomorrow, but this particular return to action – brief as it may have been – won’t cost him anything at home, and in that he can take some solace.

After a moment he reaches to the top rope with both hands and pulls himself to his feet in one motion. Though he’d be reluctant to admit it, there’s a part of him that wonders what the physical cost of this will be in a few years from now. He tells himself it’s part of why he got out to begin with, and why he’ll never do it again. It’s a lie he’s told twice now, and twice he’s had to chase the dragon as a result.

Not yet ready to head back to the locker room and the life he has beyond it, the King takes a step back towards his opponent. There is, after all, one more thing that needs to happen tonight. A veil that needs to be lifted.

The microphones don’t pick up what King Blueberry has to say, though it’s clear from his body language that the message is delivered with no malice or hostility behind it.

He raises an imploring hand, asking Dawkins to wait just a moment. Then he reaches to his mask and removes it with smooth, practiced efficiency. To Bryan’s credit, his expression remains unchanged but you just know there’s an absolute clusterfuck of emotions going on in that noggin of his as this charade unfolds.

Honestly, to most in attendance, this reveal is just kinda anticlimactic. You know, considering pretty much the entire PRIME universe knows who King Blueberry is, was, and forever will be.

Again, there’s not a microphone in sight but anyone with half a brain can read the name that just slipped from the Bruh’s mouth.

“…Sykes?”

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The sound you hear isn’t that of seventeen thousand strong going nuts over the not-so-secret reveal of a PRIME Hall of Famer from under a blueberry mask. No, no…that’s the sound of nearly two decades of a lie being unwound in a matter of seconds.

For just a second, rage flashes in the Pineapple Prince’s eyes. His fists ball up, muscles tense, and for juuuuuuuust a moment, glimpses of his Red Army days can be seen. The crowd swells in anticipation of a sucker punch. You can practically feel the boos preparing to be released.

And then…nothing.

Well, no, not nothing. In quick succession, it appears that Dawkins cycles through the whole wheel of emotions and his body just refuses to settle on just one.

Panic.

Confusion.

Anger.

Arousal…wait, no. Maybe?

No, not that. Back to confusion and anger.

He turns his back on Sykes and uses his hands to attempt to massage out the calamity currently taking place within his brain bucket. Spoiler, it’s not working. He beckons Vince Howard for a microphone, a request that is quickly obliged.

Dawkins settles into a corner, still not able to face the unmasked Blueberry.

Bryan Dawkins: This whole time, it was you.

Jared Sykes: I mean, we did try to tell you. Like, a few times.

He pauses, trying and failing to hold back the grin that’s rapidly taking over his face.

Jared Sykes: Plus there’s the entire video library of like three different companies. So. You know. But I get it, man. It’s easy to get an idea in your head and then have it get stuck. And I have been stuck before, so no issue on my end.

Bryan Dawkins: I spent the past seventeen years believing a lie. Believing that the bruh whose head I dunked into a basket of tomatoes was shamed out of the business for good. Hell, I spent the past seventeen years believing that I was the one who was on the successful end of that feud.

He finally turns to face Sykes.

Bryan Dawkins: Boy was I wrong, huh bruh?

Dawkins laughs to himself.

Bryan Dawkins: I’ll be honest, Jared. I don’t know what to say. I really don’t.

Jared Sykes: Honestly? You don’t have to say anything.

Bryan Dawkins: …but I guess an apology is in order.

Jared Sykes: Well, if you insist. I mean the tomatoes were-

Bryan Dawkins: I mean, not for the whole tomato thing. I meant that. Still do.

Jared Sykes: Oh. Yeah. No, no. Right. Sure.

Bryan Dawkins: Honestly, if there was a basket of tomatoes handy, I might think about doing it again.

Jared Sykes: And I would probably have it coming, especially for not being a bit more forward about all of this.

Bryan Dawkins: But seriously…sorry for being a dick for the past seventeen years. Clearly King Blueberry isn’t the man I thought he was…he’s even better.

Jared Sykes: He… I… don’t know how to process that, so I’m just going to say thanks. And also that you’ve got nothing to worry about.

He pauses, weighing his next words and how best to phrase them.

Jared Sykes: There is one thing, though…

He looks down at the mask in his hand, the last of its kind.

Jared Sykes: If I’m anything at all, this has a lot to do with it. It might seem silly as shit, but it’s been like a safety blanket for almost twenty years. Took it off for what I thought was the last time four years ago. Then a few months ago I had this one made, just in case. I don’t make it a habit of keeping these. And this whole schtick, weird as it is, is one of the few things in this business that mean something to me, so these…

He holds the mask, using it to punctuate the point.

Jared Sykes: They only go to people who are worth them. So if you’ll have this one…

Slowly, he extends his hand outward, offering the mask – the last mask – to Dawkins, who hesitates for a moment before accepting the mask. The two share a few off microphone words, but even a novice lip reader could decipher the ‘thank you’ and ‘I needed this…’ offered by Dawkins. Bryan offers his free hand to Sykes, who accepts the handshake and pulls it in for a bruh hug that none of us saw coming.

Dawkins pulls away, offering a quick bow to Sykes before beckoning the crowd for a round of applause for his former nemesis. The two share some additional words that aren’t caught on microphone before Dawkins slips from the ring, clutching the King Blueberry mask tightly in his fist.

We move elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: And this next contest…

The lights go out.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THE GALAXY BURN

When light returns, it is in the form of billowing flame, deep with a blue infused reddish hue, filling the PRIMEView and the ReVival staging. And as Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through the audio system, a spotlight focuses central at the height of the ramp. Brandon Youngblood. Black combat short. Red wrestling shoes. Diamond RISE white tee, available at the PRIMEporium. His expression is oddly stoic as he stands at the top of the ramp. Then, he begins his descent down the entrance, the spotlight following him as he does so. Nearly halfway down the ramp, a volley of explosive pyrotechnics deafens.

Nick Stuart: …is supposed to be RIA Lockhart taking on Cancer Jiles…

Richard Parker: Tit for tat. And hopefully, another announce table to crush!

No bravado, just patience. Youngblood rounds the ring and makes his way to the commentary desk. A third chair, just in case. Both Nick and Richard stand up. Stuart offers a hand, which is taken and shook. Richard is boisterous, reaching himself out, looking to hug The Diamond.

It…goes nowhere as Youngblood takes his seat and puts on the headset. Parker straightens himself out, as if he definitely wasn’t just shot down.

Richard Parker: Glad to have you out here–

Brandon Youngblood: I am here for one reason, and one reason only…to make sure Jiles and his bullshit numbers game goes nowhere. That’s it. That’s all.

The beat of “RATATATA” by BABYMETAL and Electric Callboy thumps over the sound system of the arena. Pink and blue lights pulsate throughout in impressive coordination with the music. The vocals soon kick in.

EVERY NIGHT WHEN THE SKY TURNS RED UP ABOVE

I FEEL THE BEAT IN MY VEINS, AND I’M SEARCHING FOR LOVE

YOU KNOW THAT HIPS DON’T LIE, I LEAVE YOU HYPNOTIZED

JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE TRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL THAT VIBE

WHEN IT GOES

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA)

MY BODY IS A WEAPON

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA HIT THE FLOOR

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT HAPPEN

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) NOW GIMME SOME MORE

The light rumble that permeated throughout the faithful PRIMEates packed in the Prudential Center burst into outright raucous cheers as RIA Lockhart steps onto the stage. With an exaggerated cadet cap on her head, her usual heart-shaped glasses on her face and a short leather jacket ending just above a corset that trailed a lace train, RIA soaks in the adoration from the audience.

The Psychoberry gallops to one side of the stage, encouraging the crowd to raise their volume even further. After a moment, Lockhart takes off to the other side, mimicking her previous action. As the second verse begins, RIA heads down towards the ring. Though she’d usually be more gregarious, Lockhart puts her game face on as she heads to the ring. On the way, she yanks her shades off and tosses them haphazardly into the audience.

Vince Howard: His opponent…from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, weighing 160 pounds!…Representing VAAAAAAAAE! VICTIS! SHE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS…THE PSYCHOBERRY…RIAAAAAAAA! LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCKHART!

Once ringside, the Rainbow Riot leaps onto the ring apron. She gazes out to PRIMEates before stepping between the middle and top rope to enter the ring, bending at the waist to do so before swinging her outside leg into the squared circle. She starts taking off the various pieces of gear, her focus 100% on the upcoming match.

The music fades.

The lights slowly draw all the way down to dark.

Then, a COOL breeze makes its way throughout the Prudential Center, unnerving and upending all who dare to sit.

Up on the Crumbotron a montage begins to play. Said montage features everyone Cancer Jiles has superkicked during his tenure in PRIME.

To name them all would come off as bragadocious, and take a really long time– there’s a reason the montage is being played at 2x the normal speed.

It’s long.

But yes, Cancer Jiles Termiblasting Brandon Youngblood, Cecilworth Farthington, Ivan Stanislav, Lindsay Troy, Coral Avalon, Phil Atken, Nate Colton, Nova, fellow Philly crumb The Anglo Luchador, the entire night shift at KFC PRIME, Dirty Dick Parker, the rest of the Red Army, the rest of the Glue Boys, almost every referee, the rest of PRIME, and all of Roland’s characters throughout the years certainly does make for quite the highlight tape.

Nick Stuart: No comment.

Brandon Youngblood: …

Richard Parker: Don’t worry. We won’t care and can easily pivot if you want to put him through this table after RIA kicks his ass.

BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!

That’s the pyro.

The exorbitant light show is quite loud, quite fiery, and quite explosive, so everything but the stench of a Bobby Dean fart.

Ha.

When it is over, a familiar guitar riff turns the house inside out.

BOOOOO~!

Then, Screamin’ Jay takes over with the vocals…

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

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

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

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

BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!-BOOM!

“I am the COOL”

When the smoke clears, up at the top of the entrance ramp stands King COOL, his lovely Valkyrie, and his monster-sized Shovel Bearer. So The Hardest Working Man in PRIME, Vickie Hall, and Big Ian Salt.

Screaming Jay continues to play as the trio of Bandits head down to the ring. As per, Jiles takes the time out of his busy day to parlay with a lucky fan sitting ringside.

Richard Parker: He’s despicable!

Nick Stuart: That kid isn’t even a teenager!

After a short exchange, Jiles and company turn their attention towards the ring. Instead of entering it and starting the match like a normal person would, King Crumb acts like it’s his show and he’s going to do what he wants, and what he wants is to ignore RIA’s existence and engage with tonight’s commentary team.

All three of them.

Nick of course keeps it together, even after catching an unnecessary stray.

Dirty Dick remains seated for the most part, even after Jiles ruffled up his notes and called him a loser.

Brandon on the other hand is up and ready to repeat the last show. However, Jiles isn’t alone this time around and standing between Brandon and Cancer is Big Ian Salt AND Vickie Hall. Speaking of Vickie, she is relentless with her scathing commentary towards, well, commentary. Eventually, right as tensions are about to explode, RIA gets her hands on a mic. and calls out from the ring.

RIA Lockhart: Hey Jiles…

The COOLympian’s T-Shaded gaze turns towards her.

RIA Lockhart: Your hair looks like shit…

Uh oh.

RIA Lockhart: And your sunglasses are stupid.

That does it! Ria does the one thing that would actually garner Cancer’s attention, and what do you know? It works. Jiles turns red. He tosses his T-shades to Vickie, and then points at BY as if to say if even moves an inch the wrong way crack open his head like a coconut.

Big Ian nods.

Vickie does so, too.

Oddly, one seems more menacing than the other, and it’s not the twelve foot walking fable, either. Anyway, Jiles slithers under the bottom rope, and gets his boots checked for foreign objects.

Ironic, when in fact it is the boots themselves and the NaCl they emit that are the foreign objects.

Jiles charges forward to personally deal with the slight on offer.

Elvis Nixon is ready to call for the bell.

And then…

RUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

CRAAAAAAH RAAAAAAAAAAACK

DING DING~! 

The COOLympian Yoljk is known far and wide in PRIME, and for good reason; it’s one of the noted tools in the former Universal Champion and First Ballot Hall of Famer’s notorious arsenal. Able to come out at any moment. Nasty, debilitating, and able to aid in a flash win or to turn the tide. So…how about, right before the bell rang, while he was ready to get himself some of RIA after her running down his perfect platinum locks and amazing t-shades, he got a little dose of him own medicine?

How about if pink mist sprayed from the maw of the Psychoberry and enveloped the face of Cancer Jiles?

Pheromone Fog.

The Hardest Working Man In PRIME doesn’t have time for things like scouting opponents, or really, giving a fuck about them. So, far be it from him to see this coming. Far be it from him to have his eyes super wide the moment the mist sprayed, allowing for a full on assault of his eyes and his face.

Far be it from him to be able to defend himself from the MASSIVE Sage Splitter Headbutt, left swivel style, connecting in full on The Manhunter.

Far be it from him to then get rear waistlocked and quickly transitioned to a full nelson.

Far be it from him to get dropped right on the back of his empty, crumb filled head with a snap dragon suplex.

Richard Parker: AHHHHHHHHHHH! AHAHAHAHAHAHA! AHHHHHHHHH! HAHAHAHHAAHHA!

Nick Stuart: OH MY WORD! OH MY WORD! RIA! RIA! RIA IS–

BAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAAANG BAAAAAAAAANG

Richard Parker: SHE GOT HIM! SHE GOT HIM! SHE GOT HIM!

Nick Stuart: 10 BEST SECONDS OF YOUR LIFE!

Richard Parker: 10 BEST SECONDS OF MY LIFE NICK!

Nick Stuart: SHE IS DRIVING HIS HEAD INTO THE CANVAS OVER AND OVER AND OVER–

Richard Parker: GET HER OUT OF HERE! BY HOYT, VICKIE GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE–

Big Ian Salt slowly chases after her.

Nick Stuart: AND VICKIE HALL IS ON THE APRON AND APOPLECTIC–

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK~!

Richard Parker: OH! MY! GOD!

Nick Stuart: BIG IAN SALT JUST GOT ABSOLUTELY PULVERIZED ACROSS THE HEAD WITH A STEEL CHAIR!

That’s right. Brandon Youngblood got up right from the commentary desk, reached over near the time keeper’s table and grabbed himself a steel chair, power walking over and braining the shit out of the Fabled BIS with it. We’re not just talking a tap. Not a smash. We’re talking the chair seat is fully pushed and warped on through, and the frame of the chair is hung around his neck like a halo. Or a ship buoy.

The blow is enough to cause Vickie’s glower to shoot in the direction of the loud crunching sound she heard. When her head swings back around?

It’s too late.

RIA smashes into her as she hits the ropes, sending Jiles’ Valkyrie flying and into the guardrail, collapsing in a heap. And RIA? She’s gaining speed toward a prostrate Jiles, his head making for an easy target.

Berry.

Bomber.

Cover!

ONE

TWO

THREE

NOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: THIS! THIS IS CRAZY! I don’t think ANYONE would’ve expected this–

Richard Parker: The fans here are going nuts and why wouldn’t they?! Why wouldn’t they?! This is the biggest chance RIA Lockhart has had her entire career! DO IT RIA! DO IT! SPIKE IT IN HIS FACE! HE WANTS TO TALK ABOUT MATCH NUMBER FIFTY?! RUIN IT! RUIN HIS MISERABLE GARBAGE LIFE! PLEASE RIA! PLEAAAAAASE!

Brandon Youngblood: I expected it.

After concussing Big Ian Salt, what did The Diamond do? He walked back over to the announce table and took a seat as though nothing had happened. And he didn’t even really pick up speed. No big deal. Not really.

Brandon Youngblood: That piece of shit had the biggest moment of his ENTIRE life happen at Culture Shock. He’s got the numbers game. Of course he’s going to overlook RIA. Over course he is. She’s just a speed bump in match number fifty, or whatever the Hell…the idiot…

Richard Parker: IT’S OVER FIFTY MATCHES–

Brandon Youngblood: And she gets a jump on him, and he can’t overwhelm her with bullshit and–

RIA isn’t hesitating. Isn’t arguing with Nixon. There’s no point. Just keep pushing. Just keep moving. Momentum swings can happen in an instant. Her fingers reach into that crop of perfectly manicured platinum white hair now made not so perfect from a splash of pink mist to the face, all to bring The COOLympian to a stand–

Without warning.

Brandon Youngblood: …

Without looking up.

Nick Stuart: …

Out of instinct.

Brandon Youngblood: …

Low.

Nick Stuart: …

Blow.

Dead center. Right between the legs. Extremely vicious. Extremely blatant.

And it connects.

Cancer Jiles’ grin is rictus.

And RIA…

Just looks down at him.

Bewildered.

Perplexed.

Jiles head slowly cranes upward, his entire body shaking from his chuckles.

Elvis Nixon just stares at him.

Then he looks at RIA.

RIA looks at him.

Then, it dawns on Jiles…

Cancer Jiles: …Should’ve gone for the ti–

Gut kick.

Well, would’ve been a gut kick, if not for Jiles guts being very much lower, so the blow hits him square in the goddamn face.

The Hardest Working Man in PRIME…felled again.

Richard Parker: HOW STUPID IS HE?! HOW HOYTDAMN STUPID IS HE?!

Brandon Youngblood: Very–

Richard Parker: THAT’S A WOMAN YOU’RE IN THE RING WITH…YOU MORON! YOU SMOOTH BRAINED PUS RIDDEN PIECE OF–

Nick Stuart: And NOW Jiles is trying to beg off, scooting across the ring by the heels of his hands, looking to Vickie, looking to the former Big John Pepper–and…and…

Vickie is crying and wallowing and carrying on. Big Ian Salt? He is starting to rise from the chairshot, his hands pressing against the outside mat, his head working to shake the cobwebs, all as the steel chair that put him down still lingers around his neck.

Brandon Youngblood: …one second…

Jiles reaches a hand outward toward the encroaching RIA, who simply begins stomping hard into her opponent’s body.

tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

From the camera shot, we see see Brandon Youngblood moving in from the right, another steel chair in hand.

Big Ian Salt is just about to get fully upright.

CRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK~!

Richard Parker: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: OH MY WORD!

Jiles reaches out for Big Ian, but can only watch as ANOTHER steel chair is smashed across the wonderful fable’s head, causing him to crumple to the mats. Youngblood shots the finger right at Jiles and smirks, then slowly power walks right back to the commentary table.

This steel chair, warped and broken beyond repair, rests across his neck as though it added gangsta bling. That gang? The Pain Street Kruw. Or something. I don’t know. Nobody knows. Vickie is carrying on as though she has been shot with ninety-seven guns, needed ninety-seven punisher masks to even function. Big Ian Salt appears unconscious.

Cancer Jiles is trying to get away from this entire calamity that has gone completely pear shaped. Well, that’s wrong. This isn’t a fruit. This is more…a porta potty has been locked and tipped over on its side, then turned over so everything below can spill out and bathe him. Oh, and it’s porta potty on the last day of The Gathering Of The Juggalos. Whoop whoop.

And RIA?

She’s lifting him up, and blasting him across the face with a uranage.

Spit flies from the mouth of The Manhunter, his body swinging around violently, spinning around and around as though he is some kind of Punch Out character going through a comical animation before collapsing helplessly to the canvas. The Psychoberry can sense her full momentum. Can feel it throughout her limbs. The fans filling the Prudential Center are going BATSHIT crazy and she is the orchestrator of their cries, of this upset of upsets in 2026. And as she goes and takes off towards him and goes to hit him with a high knee–

Terminal.

Fucking.

Cancer.

Out.

Of.

Nowhere.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!

And as Jiles collapses in a heap, as RIA falls and splays out, Big Ian Salt begins to rise, Frankenstein’s Monster. What about Vickie? She broke a nail or something. It’s as bad as having her spine severed. Jon Rhine ain’t got shit on her, in her mind, when it comes to suffering. The former Big John Pepper doesn’t even use the ring apron, instead managing to rise all on his lonesome. It isn’t fast.

But it isn’t good.

Especially as Jiles begins to crawl over and lay an arm over the chest of RIA Lockhart.

ONE!

Richard Parker: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

TWO!

Richard Parker: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

THR–

THUUUUUURUUUUUUUUUUACK~!

-E-

RUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

-E-

BAM BAM BAM

-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!

RUAWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

RIA!

RIA!

RIA!

Nick Stuart: KICK OUT! AT THE LAST! POSSIBLE! MOMENT! And Cancer Jiles DOESN’T get to steal this one by the seat of his pants!

Richard Parker: And Ole Big Ian just got another full on dose of CTE straight from Brandon Garden! Unlimited chairs, rants, and suplexes! All for thirteen nineteen nine! But for yooooooooooou, Crumb Jiles…you and yours…you EAT! ON! THE! HOUSE!

A third steel chair is wrapped around the skull of Big Ian Salt. And then? The Diamond turns his attention to the ring, smashing his hands against the apron, trying to will RIA Lockhart on. To be fair, RIA had pushed the pace and had Jiles running for broke from jump, but she should have seen a hail mary volley coming. After all, you don’t become a First Ballot Hall of Famer by mere happenstance.

Her eyes glazed over, she pushes herself up off the canvas, slowly, her jaw quite cracked after being hit on the button by Jiles patented super kick. Salt burns, especially from the shoes. Jiles, for his part, is using the ropes to pull himself up, his arms cradling them dearly.

Possum game.

He snaps out of it the moment RIA is fully upright.

Terminal.

FUCKING.

Canc–

RIA rolls and avoids it suddenly!

She rises up.

Jiles grabs hold of her face, violently eyeraking her.

Elvis Nixon immediately reaches to admonish him, but he pushes his hands away, and as the former Alias Champion tries to recover, he grabs hold of her and smashes her to the canvas with a russian leg sweep. It’s with this proximity on the ground that he rips at the side of her mouth, fishhooking her, pulling back hard as Nixon begins to count him towards disqualification.

BAM BAM BAM

Pucker.

Kiss.

Crumblood.

His fingers dig into her nostrils, his entire body yanking back as he pulls. Squeal, piggy. Oink oink oink. A clubbing blow to the back of her head. Then grinding the point of his elbow right into the center of her neck. Where have his fingers been? Once again in her mouth.

She tries to figure out a way from this, but throwing her head back isn’t an option. Nor is bracing forward. And The COOLympian? He’s not some novice at this game. This sort of mentality is bread and butter. He is an artisan in the Fuck You, I’m An Asshole style of professional wrestling. And what a miserable garbage man he is, his face covered in pink mist, having gotten his ass utterly kicked, his numbers game completely taken out of the equation…

Yet there he was…

…on top of it all.

There was nothing she could do about it. Fuck RIA. This isn’t about her, anyway. Look at her, Brando? Look at this wonderful example. Look at this person you picked for Squad Goals, and after she got off to such a hot start, it all comes crashing down to Earth. This is Black Jack, and King COOL always has twenty-one, you absolute scab, you crumb, you Borders loving piece of shit.

Wait.

ouch…

ouch…

ouchie…

OUCHWHATTHEFUCK

Let Jiles Jiles. Lull his disgusting greasy Philly fingers sink deeper and deeper. It’s from there that RIA finds her way out.

One.

Heavy.

Bite.

At.

A.

Time.

Big Ian Salt begins to rise AGAIN–

Just like RIA is starting to rise from the canvas.

Just like Jiles is up and shaking his hand.

Just like Elvis is yelling at RIA to stop biting.

Bitch, if need be, his ass is gonna be Evander Holyfield.

Time to put The Hardest Working Man In PRIME in the poor house.

HEADBUTT!

SAGE SPLITTER HEADBUTT!

Jiles doesn’t go down, but he damn sure nearly does.

Big Ian is nearly standing again–

CRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK~!

The third chair has been used once again, and now there is no more seat.

Jiles wobbles.

RIA charges.

TERMINAL CAN–

ROLL!

ONTO THE ROPES!

KNEEMOTINAL!

DAMAGE!

Richard Parker: SHE’S REALLY GOING TO DO IT–

She’s up. She roars to the crowd.

Brandon is going insane with how hard and how quickly he is slamming his hands into the ring apron.

RIA loads up.

Dances toward the perimeter of the ring.

Safe harbor given The Diamond is right–

VICKIE HALL SUICIDE THROWS HERSELF TOWARD THE RING APRON AND CATCHES RIA’S ANKLE! The missile she became jostles Youngblood out of the way just enough in the process.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

RIA is IRATE, her eyes wide.

Youngblood looks at the collapsed form of Vickie Hall, madly laughing. Then to the ring.

The Psychoberry knows what’s coming.

Terminal Cancer.

She instinctively ducks.

It’s–

Not what Jiles does.

Bullshit.

Cradle.

All the leverage on her belt.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!

Richard Parker: BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT BULLSHIT BULLSHIT BULLSHIT!

Vince Howard: You’re winner…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!

Vince Howard: …by PINFALL…

RIA is back up and Jiles is trying to make his way out of the ring to take a proper powder.

Brandon Youngblood makes a beeline into the ring.

Vince Howard: CANCER! JILES!

The Diamond strikes like lightning, grabbing Jiles before he can roll from the ring.

The Psychoberry, pissed beyond measure, and knowing who caused her to lose, sees Vickie Hall yucking it up as she begins to rise. She darts out of the ring, ripping the seatless steel chair from around the neck of Big Ian Salt and absolutely pulverizing Jiles’ Valkyrie with the frame of the steel chair.

As this happens? Youngblood LAUNCHES Jiles with a belly to belly suplex.

Oh my, how violent the landing is going to be.

Except…it’s on his feet.

Except, he instantly drops and rolls from the ring.

Vickie is yelping as RIA keeps after her.

Brandon charges forward, but Elvis Nixon stands in the way. That is…until Youngblood absolutely shoves the shit out of him to get him out of the way.

But it’s too late.

Screaming Jay does his thing. And Jiles? He’s being helped up the ramp, nearly falling all over himself. The only reason he isn’t collapsing? Big Ian Salt, with two steel chairs still wrapped around his damn head, holding him up. The massive fable stands stoically, as though the hellacious blows he suffered don’t even register.

Vickie Hall joins in, barely able to stand, but thrown over the shoulder of Big Ian.

RIA is absolutely livid, as are the fans here in Newark.

We then…go elsewhere.

The camera finds Sebastian Cross in a corridor backstage. He is not pacing. He is not preparing. He stands the way he stands when he has already decided everything and is simply waiting for the conversation to begin. Linen suit, open collar. He looks at the camera the way you look at something you have been waiting a reasonable amount of time for. He lowers his head slightly in acknowledgement.

Sebastian Cross: New Jersey.

He considers the word.

Sebastian Cross: I have worked in Tokyo. In Mexico City. In London, in Manchester, in Osaka. I have competed in buildings that understood what they were hosting. Who they were hosting. And now I am here. In New Jersey.

He adjusts his cuff.

Sebastian Cross: It will do.

Sebastian Cross: I want to be precise about what I am here to do, because precision matters and there is not enough of it in this company at present. I am here to wrestle. I am here to compete at a level this roster has not had to contend with for decades. To demonstrate, without apology and without theatre, what this profession looks like when someone who takes it seriously is allowed to practise it.

He pauses. Not for effect. Because the next thing requires care.

Sebastian Cross: PRIME had a reputation. Past tense, and deliberately so. Somewhere between then and now that reputation became something people referenced rather than upheld. A history to gesture at. A legacy to borrow against. What was once the definitive answer to the question of where the best wrestling in the world happened has become, and I am being generous here, a comfortable arrangement between performers and an audience that has stopped expecting anything more.

He looks at the camera.

Sebastian Cross: I intend to correct that. Not as a crusade. As a consequence of doing what I do at the level I do it. PRIME does not need saving. It needs someone to walk into that ring and remind every person in that building what they came here to see. The standard does not need announcing. It needs demonstrating. Repeatedly. Until the gap between what this company is and what it is capable of being closes entirely.

He holds the gaze of the camera for just a moment longer than comfortable.

Sebastian Cross: What I do in that ring is considered. Deliberate. It is, in the most accurate sense of the word, bespoke violence. Constructed for the opponent in front of me. Tailored to their habits, their particular certainties, the specific way they have convinced themselves they are prepared for something they have never encountered. Every match I compete in is a document. Signed, finished, delivered.

Something in his expression settles, not into warmth, into resolution.

Sebastian Cross: Next ReViVal. I am issuing an open challenge. To anyone on this roster who believes they belong in the same ring as me. I am not asking for recognition. I am asking for a willing participant. Someone who would like to be my first demonstration.

The faintest trace of something crosses his face. Not a smile. Something cooler than that.

Sebastian Cross: The standard is here. PRIME will rise with it. That is simply always what happens next.

He looks away from the camera. The conversation, as far as he is concerned, is finished.

We cut to backstage, and for the first time in several weeks, we see Satan Jones not through his phone. This is just a normal cameraman shot of Satan’s profile as he stands directly in front of the locker room door.

To his side is Kris Roswell, looking from him to the door expectantly.

Kris Roswell: Satan?

Satan Jones: Yes?

Kris Roswell: You’ve been standing still for almost an hour.

Satan Jones: Yes I have.

Kris Roswell: I don’t think Daytona Diamonds or Fred Dick are coming.

Satan Jones: You can’t be sure.

Kris Roswell: I think if they were going to do something, they already would’ve.

Satan doesn’t answer, but he finally looks away from the door…and looks to the ceiling. He grabs a chair, then stands on it and begins moving ceiling tiles.

Kris Roswell: Now what are you doing?

Satan Jones: Checking the ceiling. You never know when Harley Walker’s body is going to drop on you out of nowhere.

Kris Roswell: You’re insane.

After a few moments Satan finds nothing and drops back to the floor. Then he resumes staring at the door.

Kris Roswell: Satan.

Satan Jones: Yes?

Kris Roswell: Let’s go do something else.

Satan Jones: Like what?

The kicker thinks, then smiles.

Kris Roswell: Let’s go play limbo.

Satan thinks about this, then smiles and nods his head.

Satan Jones: Hell yeah, dude. Hell yeah.

They walk out of the locker room and the camera follows them, though he isn’t quick enough to get outside so we only hear the…

CRASH!!!!

Satan groans as the cameraman, realizing something happened, runs quickly outside the locker room to see what happened. Satan is lying down on the ground, holding his side. Standing above him, apologetically, is Doug Tim. His hands rest on a cart that is piled high with coolers filled with baloney and mustard.

Doug Tim: Oh dang, Satan. Sorry. I was rushing to get this somewhere.

Satan rolls over, groaning, and then his eyes land on the contents of the cart. Kris does the same, then looks over to Doug.

Kris Roswell: Where are you taking this…mustard and baloney?

Doug Tim: Whoresman locker room.

An awkward silence settles before Doug puts his hand back on the shopping cart and moves it past the prone Jones, singing a song to himself as he goes.

Doug Tim: Liquor and whores…liquor and whores…

Kris looks from Doug to his fallen teammate, who takes in a sharp breath of air before screaming.

Satan Jones: WHOOOOOOOOREEEESSSMEEEEN!

And we cut.

Nick Stuart: What a match we have coming up, Richard. A number one contender’s match to determine just who will go on to face Cecilworth Farthington, or whoever challenges him at ReVival 88, for the Universal Title at Ultra Violence!

Richard Parker: Buddy, I am absolutely bricked up for this one. Daytona Diamonds? Hayes Hanlon? Let’s do this thing!

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

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

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!

CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

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

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!

CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

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

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vince Howard: …he is The Rhinestone Cowboy…

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

Vince Howard: …DAAAAAAAAYTOOOOOONAAAAAA DIIIIIIIIAAAAMOOOONNNNDDDS!

Slowly, The Rhinestone Cowboy removes his hat. For a second, he just holds it there. Turning it once in his hands like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite put words to. Then he sets it on the turnbuckle, just like always. Daytona turns, leans back into the ropes, arms draped over the top strand. The music fades. The boos don’t.

DING! DING!

Nick Stuart: Listen to this crowd! If there’s a single person in New Jersey that has any love for Daytona Diamonds, they are not in the building tonight.

Richard Parker: Not true! I got mad love for Daytona!

Daytona and Hayes don’t move. At least, not at first. A couple of gunslingers, standing across from each other at high noon, fingers itching something fierce.

But then, they both step forward.

They meet in the middle of the squared circle. Hayes mutters something at Daytona. Daytona chuckles, and then SMACKS Hayes Hanlon across the face! That has Hayes reeling, and Daytona is on the offensive. A big forearm to the jaw sends Hayes right into the corner of the ring. Daytona grabs hold of the top rope, lifts his big boot, and smears it into Hayes’ face! Ashley Barlow warns Daytona tp stop, and he laughs in her face, so she starts counting up to five! She gets to 4 and a half before Daytona stops—

And Hayes Hanlon explodes out of that corner with a massive lariat, PLANTING Daytona on his back!

Hayes starts putting those boots down on Daytona! And a falling elbow drop! Daytona kicks his feet as an expression of pain, clutching his chest! And a final stomp from Hayes is enough for Daytona to get the hell out of dodge, he rolls under the bottom rope and out of the ring!

Nick Stuart: Hayes is on a roll here!

Hayes Hanlon bounces on his feet. He’s looking at the crowd! They want this as bad as he does!

He charges towards the opposite side of the ring! Bounces off the ropes! Sprints!!!

SUICIDE DIVE!!!

Nick Stuart: DAYTONA DIVES OUT OF THE WAY!!!

CRASH!!!

Oof!!! Hayes collides into the steel guard railing and lands in a heap! Ashley Barlow has officially started a count out, but Daytona is all too familiar with just damn near running out of time, and he ain’t worried at all. He grabs Hayes by his hair and drags him away from the guard rail. He takes Hayes by his arm, and WHIPS HIM HARD into the steel steps!

The steps become dislodged, and I’ll be damned if Daytona doesn’t walk right up them shits, flex for the crowd, kiss his own bicep, and ELBOW DROP HAYES HANLON—

NO!!! HANLON ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY!!! DAYTONA’S ELBOW KISSES THE GROUND!!!

Hayes howls in pain and rolls instinctively toward the barricade, clutching at his ribs after Daytona’s elbow smashes into the ringside floor instead. Daytona jerks upright on instinct alone, face twisted, cradling that arm against his chest.

Nick Stuart: That might’ve been a damning miss for Daytona Diamonds!

Richard Parker: You gotta risk it for the biscuit, Nick!

Ashley Barlow’s count climbs, but neither man seems interested in hearing it. Hayes fires first. A right hand catches Daytona on the jaw. Another. Daytona answers with a stiff body shot that doubles Hanlon over beside the timekeeper’s table. Daytona grabs a fistful of tights and tries to ram Hayes face-first into the apron—

NO! Hayes blocks it with both hands and blasts Daytona with a backward elbow! Daytona stumbles! Hayes hops up onto the apron in one motion and launches himself—

TORNADO DDT TO THE FLOOR!

The crowd erupts as both men crash hard against the thin padding outside the ring.

Nick Stuart: GOOD LORD!

Ashley Barlow’s count reaches seven before Hayes drags Daytona up by the wrist and hurls him beneath the bottom rope. Hanlon slides in after him, adrenaline carrying him forward. He hooks the leg!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Daytona throws Hayes off with authority and immediately rolls to a knee, breathing hard through gritted teeth. Hayes charges again, looking for another lariat—

BIG BOOT BY DAYTONA DIAMONDS!

Richard Parker: YEEHAW! THAT’LL REARRANGE YOUR TEETH!

The ring shakes from the impact of Hayes dropping to the mat like a sack of taters. Daytona stays on top of Hayes this time, grinding a forearm across the bridge of Hanlon’s nose while shouting something vicious directly into his face. Hayes shoves him away, but Daytona rebounds off the ropes and CRUSHES him with a running knee right to the side of the head!

Another cover!

ONE!

TWO!

HAYES KICKS OUT AGAIN!

Now Daytona’s frustration starts to show. He slaps the mat once, then rises slowly, pacing in a tight circle. Fred Dick is standing on the golf cart seat at ringside, screaming encouragement and wildly applauding like a man possessed.

Nick Stuart: Daytona knew this wouldn’t be easy. Hayes Hanlon simply does not stay down.

Daytona nods to himself, eyes narrowing. He drags Hayes upward and hooks him for what looks like a vertical suplex, but Hayes suddenly shifts his weight mid-lift! Knees hit the mat! He drives repeated shots into Daytona’s ribs! Daytona clubs him across the back, tries to muscle him up again—

HAYES FLOATS OVER!

DROPKICK!

Daytona staggers drunkenly backward into the ropes. Hayes climbs up to his feet and explodes forward with pure desperation and clotheslines both himself and Daytona over the top rope to the floor below!

Nick Stuart: The crowd in Newark comes unglued as both men lie wrecked, complete and utter chaos at ringside!

Both men sprawl against the ringside floor, breathing like they’ve been dragged through a war already. Hayes is first to stir, using the barricade to haul himself upright while Daytona leans heavily against the apron, one hand clutching his lower back.

Richard Parker: This is what a Universal Title shot means, Nick! These boys are trying to KILL each other!

Hayes limps forward and fires a forearm! Daytona answers with one of his own! Hayes! Daytona! Hayes! Daytona! The crowd roars with every shot until Daytona suddenly buries a thumb into Hayes’ throat!

Nick Stuart: Oh come on!

Hayes staggers backward gagging, and Daytona pounces immediately. He scoops Hayes up across his chest and charges forward—

CHATAHOOCHIE CHOKESLAM ON THE RINGSIDE FLOOR!!!

Daytona drives Hayes down with the chokeslam, but instead of releasing him, he drops to one knee and CRACKS Hanlon spine-first across that posted leg like a vicious backbreaker on impact! Hayes convulses from the pain, rolling onto his side while clutching desperately at his lower back.

Richard Parker: THAT’S THE CHATTAHOOCHEE, BABY! THAT’LL SPLIT A MAN IN HALF!

The boos rain down as Daytona rises slowly, chest heaving. Fred Dick pounds the side of the golf cart like he’s watching the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Daytona hears none of it. He drags Hayes up by the wrist and shoves him back into the ring before sliding in after him.

Ashley Barlow checks on Hayes, but Daytona pushes right past her and hooks the leg deep.

ONE!

TWO!!

THR—NO!!!

Nick Stuart: HANLON SURVIVES!

Daytona’s eyes go wide with disbelief. He sits back on his knees for half a second, stunned, before grabbing Hayes by the head and hauling him upright again. Daytona swings wildly for another big boot—

HAYES DUCKS!

FALLING DROPKICK TO THE KNEE!

Daytona collapses to one leg instantly! Hayes roars through the pain in his back and hits the ropes!

RUNNING FOREARM!

Daytona stumbles upright again on instinct alone and Hayes launches himself—

FLASHPOINT!!!

The stiff, jumping sit-out jawbreaker detonates against Daytona’s face with horrifying force, snapping his head violently backward before Hayes crashes to a seated position beneath him.

Nick Stuart: FLASHPOINT CONNECTS FLUSH!!!

Richard Parker: HIS JAW MIGHT ACTUALLY BE BROKEN!

The crowd in Newark explodes as both men collapse beside one another, completely spent, the ring shaking beneath them while Ashley Barlow begins another count over the wreckage.

Nick Stuart: You get the feeling that if Hayes Hanlon could have somehow found a way to hit the pin after that, he’d be our new Number One Contender!

Ashley Barlow’s count reaches five before either man even twitches.

Daytona rolls toward the ropes first, dragging himself upward hand over hand while Hayes remains flat on his back, chest rising and falling like a dying engine. The Rhinestone Cowboy’s eyes are glassy after the Flashpoint, sweat pouring down his face as he spits blood onto the canvas.

Nick Stuart: I don’t even know how Daytona Diamonds is standing right now.

Richard Parker: Spite. Pure spite, Nick! That man is being powered by hatred and Marlboro Reds and hookers!

Hayes finally stirs at seven, crawling toward Daytona on instinct alone. The crowd rises as both men meet on their knees in the center of the ring, throwing exhausted punches with absolutely nothing left behind them but pride.

Hayes lands one. Climbs up to his feet.

Daytona answers. Climbs to his.

Hayes!

Daytona!

Hayes!

Daytona!

The shots grow uglier and slower until Hayes suddenly rears back and cracks Daytona with a HEADBUTT that sends sweat flying into the lights above! Daytona stumbles backward into the corner. Hayes sees his opening and charges full speed ahead—

ONLY FOR DAYTONA TO EXPLODE OUT OF THE CORNER WITH A DISCUS LARIAT!

Both men collapse again.

Nick Stuart: GOOD LORD WHAT IMPACT!

Richard Parker: Look at Fred! Haha!

Fred griddies on the roof of the golf cart. The crowd chants for Hayes while Daytona drags himself across the canvas, fingers clutching at Hanlon’s wrist. Daytona pulls himself up to his feet, tries to pull Hayes upward but his own legs nearly give out beneath him. Hayes, barely conscious, suddenly surges with life and buries stiff forearms into Daytona’s ribs one after another.

Hanlon rises!

Another forearm!

Another!

Daytona gets rocked backward toward the ropes and Hayes takes off running, feeding off the energy in Newark! He rebounds off one side—

DAYTONA CATCHES HIM MID-STRIDE WITH A SPINEBUSTER THAT SHAKES THE RING!

But Daytona doesn’t go for the cover.

Instead, he sits there breathing heavily over Hayes’ body, staring down at him with that same conflicted expression from the entrance. Like every second of this match is costing him something.

Fred Dick is screaming at ringside now.

Richard Parker: Finish him, Daytona! Put this mustache man in the dirt!

Daytona slowly rises and pulls Hayes upward by the waistband. Hanlon can barely stand. His legs wobble beneath him, eyes unfocused, but somehow he still swings.

A slap across Daytona’s face.

The crowd erupts.

Daytona just stares at him.

Hayes spits blood onto the mat and slaps him again.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon refusing to die here tonight!

Daytona nods once. Then, as if payback for earlier, Daytona DECKS Hayes with a headbutt.

Then he pulls Hayes up, hooks him between the legs.

The crowd noise swells instantly.

Richard Parker: OH NO.

Daytona muscles Hayes upward… higher… HIGHER STILL!

Hayes is practically vertical above Daytona’s head, boots kicking at the ceiling lights while the entire arena rises in horror.

Nick Stuart: HE’S GOT HIM UP FOR THE HANG ‘EM HIGH BOMB!

Daytona holds him there for one impossible second, Hayes suspended so high above the ring it looks genuinely unsafe, the blood rushing straight to his skull while Daytona plants his feet dead center in the canvas.

And then—

WHAMMMMMMM!!!

THE HANG ‘EM HIGH BOMB!!!

Nick Stuart: SWEET JESUS WHAT A POWERBOMB!!!

Richard Parker: THAT EVENT HORIZON JUST GOT DROPPED FROM LOW ORBIT!

Daytona remains seated after impact, breathing like a wounded animal, Hayes completely destroyed between his legs. Slowly, almost mechanically, Daytona drapes an arm across Hanlon’s chest as Ashley Barlow slides into position.

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

DING! DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner… and NUMBER ONE CONTENDER FOR THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP… DAAAAAAAAAYTOOOOOONAAAAAA DIIIIIIAAAAMOOOONNNNDS!!!

The boos rain down instantly, but Daytona barely reacts. He rolls off Hayes slowly and remains seated against the ropes, exhausted beyond words while Fred Dick loses his absolute mind outside the ring, jumping up and down beside the golf cart like a man who just hit the lottery.

Richard Parker: Love him or hate him, Daytona Diamonds just survived a war tonight.

Nick Stuart: And now Cecilworth Farthington, or his opponent next week, has a cowboy-sized problem coming their way at Ultra Violence!

Richard Parker: YEEHAW!

We cut away from ringside as Fred lifts Daytona’s arm in the air in celebration.

Backstage in the hallways outside the main dressing room area, the distant hum of the crowd can be heard, and fluorescent lights hum overhead.

Scott Hunter stomps his way aggressively through the corridor. He’s wearing a black polo and jeans. A canvas duffel bag digs into his shoulder. His jaw is locked into a vice. His eyes are wide, unfocused, darting like a trapped animal.

Clay Byrd leans against a production crate. He is, as always, a mountain of a man taking up a good portion of the passage. He pushes off the crate, blocking Scott’s path.

Clay Byrd: Scott! Stop your boots for one second!

Scott tries to sidestep him. Clay shifts, a wall of muscle.

Clay Byrd: (voice low, insistent) I’m talkin’ to you, Hoss! Where the hell are you headed in such a hurry in street clothes? We’re supposed to do an interview in ten minutes!

Scott shoves at Clay’s chest, a desperate, pathetic push against a giant.

Scott Hunter: (a strained whisper) MOVE.

Clay Byrd: Now hold on! You’re shaking, man. What’s got you spooked? Is this about your old man? He ain’t… he ain’t taken a turn, has he?

Scott flinches. His eyes, for a split second, lock onto Clay’s, filled with a raw, unbearable pain. He doesn’t speak, just shakes his head, a violent, desperate denial.

Clay Byrd: (softening slightly) Hey Scott…

Scott’s eyes snap to the heavy steel doors at the end of the hall. He lunges, a sudden burst of speed. Clay grabs his arm.

Clay Byrd: You ain’t walkin’ away from this. Not now.

Scott twists, his face contorted. He rips his arm free, leaving Clay momentarily stunned.

Scott Hunter: (a guttural sound, not quite a word) Ngggaah!!

He bolts toward the exit. As he pivots around a stack of equipment cases, a small, crumpled slip of yellow security paper slides from his pocket. It flutters to the concrete like a dead leaf.

Scott doesn’t notice. He disappears through the doors. The slam echoes through the hall like a gunshot.

Clay stands frozen, watching the empty doorway. Then his eyes fall to the floor. He sighs, a deep, heavy sound, and reaches down to grab the note. He unfolds it slowly, and his eyes scan the few handwritten lines.

The color drains from his face, and his shoulders slump. The paper drops from his hand, fluttering to the floor again.

Clay Byrd: (barely audible) SHIT.

The match graphic appears, the crowd gives a cheer and we go to ringside.

Vince Howard: This is the MAIN EVENT and it is for the FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP…

Richard Parker: Here we go.

Vince Howard: AND it is for. ONE. FALL!!!!!!!!!!!

The crowd in Newark doesn’t put up with Howard trying to emphasize the ONE FALL bullshit as they boo in response. Vince smiles nonetheless.

Richard Parker: Oh I think I just fell in love with this city!

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania… weighing two-hundred-eleven pounds… he is the challenger… THE ANGLO LUCHADOR!

A spotlight shines and the Anglo Luchador jumps out from the curtain. Green tracksuit, purple towel, fist raised in the air. The crowd, however, is not supportive of the Philly native but it looks like it doesn’t bother him… because he might hate them right back.

Richard Parker: Newark knows what’s going on.

Nick Stuart: Look I don’t think TAL cares if he’s supported here or not tonight. He’s got a golden opportunity, quite literally.

Richard Parker: And Rob has really put a nice run together. The Luchador has his work cut out for him, crowd against him or not.

Nick Stuart: I agree. We’ve got two vets who know the ins and outs and what it takes to win. It’s going to be good.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… weighing two-hundred-forty pounds… the FIVE STAR CHAMPION… ROB WILLIAMS!

“Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains plays the champion out as he has the title strapped to his waist. He holds his right arm up as pyro explodes around him and he makes his way to ringside.

All while TAL watches on.

Nick Stuart: We saw the Whoresmen “hug it out” a month ago.

Richard Parker: They most certainly did! All is coming up Williams!

Nick Stuart: Ugh.

DING DING

The ref calls for the bell and we are off. Well, somewhat off. The Anglo Luchador is jumping up and down in his corner, ready for the fight to come to him while Rob Williams casually leans back against the buckle he resides in and checks the watch he doesn’t have. The sour look on Rob’s face suggests he’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.

Richard Parker: Outside of our Universal Championship, this is our “showcase” wrestling title, isn’t it? Real workhorsemanship if I would say so myself and yet something tells me this is not going to be a “five star classic”.

Nick Stuart: So real workWHORESmanship?

Richard Parker: Oh, I like what you did there.

Nick Stuart: See? I’m not all bad.

Richard Parker: Everyone can run into one eventually, even you.

The Newark crowd (which is obviously comprised of Jersey and New Yorkers) starts booing The Anglo Luchador. This brings a smile to the champion’s face as Williams removes himself from the corner.

TAL takes charge but Williams ducks a flying right fist coming for him. In response, Rob swings around and clubs the literal spit right out of TAL’s mouth with a forearm, sending the challenger into the corner which Williams came from to begin with.

Williams charges with that right arm and elbow extended. He drives it right into TAL’s head, which bounces like a pinata off the elbow, off the top buckle, off the elbow and then off the top buckle again.

Williams with a hip toss, sending Anglo into the center of the ring.

Williams with a running forearm to the back of TAL’s head.

Williams lifts The Luchador and then drops him via a sheerdrop brainbuster.

Nick Stuart: This might be over before it starts!

The crowd is already haywire at the sight TAL may be DOA. Williams rolls the challenger onto his back and hooks a leg for a pin!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Williams grunts and the crowd boos, as Rob sits up while cracking his knuckles in the process. Rob starts to find a vertical base and takes TAL along with him… when The Anglo Luchador fires right fists into Williams’ chest. The boos reign down as TAL keeps it going, only to shoot for the ropes-

SMACK!

Williams takes hold of TAL’s mask as the momentum throws The Anglo Luchador down in the process!

Crowd cheers, Williams grunts again and then delivers an elbow into TAL’s chest.

Williams peels the challenger off the canvas and whips him into what looks like another sheerdrop brainbuster…

Nick Stuart: It’s clear Williams wants to end this match quickly!

Richard Parker: And why wouldn’t he? I would hope MOST wrestlers would want to end matches as soon as they possibly can!

Williams, however, hasn’t been able to drop TAL on the back of his head. Not yet anyway. For The Anglo Luchador is wiggling his feet, trying to stay up there and ensure he isn’t brought down with such force for a second time in such a short period.

Williams drops his shoulder. He goes for the brainbuster but winds up empty and meeting the mat on his ass without anyone to accompany him. TAL is already in the ropes-

SMACK!

Missile dropkick to the face!

Williams screams out. There are A LOT of swear words here. Maybe only in Philadelphia would fans be more accepting of such slander but here in Newark with half the Jersey folk just frothing at the mouth… they love it, too.

Rob gathers himself after the dropkick he ate but TAL is right there, waiting behind him with a kick to the back. Kick to the back. Kick to the back. Off the ropes TAL goes… dropkick to the back!

Williams is on his feet but he’s met with a running back elbow smash, followed by a spinning DDT!

TAL with a cover!

Nick Stuart: Perfectly fluent DDT into a cradle pin!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The Anglo Luchador pops up and begins kicking Rob Williams swiftly in the chest over and over while Rob remains slightly hunched on his knees, each kick sending him more upright until he slouches back down because the blows are tough to absorb. The crowd, meanwhile, is booing. It even causes TAL to stop for a moment, peer into the bleachers and despite that mask firmly across the luchador’s face, you can tell he’s sour.

Back to the kicks.

Nick Stuart: To your earlier point, Rich. Yes, most wrestlers should want to finish a match as quickly as possible but there’s more to it than that. These are two of our oldest wrestlers. They’re both slower than before, it’s obvious. They both probably hit harder than before. Definitely TAL does, he has to. It would bode well for both these men to know their limits and play within it.

Richard Parker: You sound like a betting app advertisement, “know your limits, play within it”. By the way, I hear Rob Williams is a solid -200 to win.

Nick Stuart: Stop.

Well, if Williams WAS a solid -200, his stock would be crashing to the floor he currently finds himself on right now, as TAL is done with the kicks. He pulls the champion to his feet and ejects Williams over the top rope, onto the apron and then, eventually, Williams falls to the floor below.

TAL claps his hands but it’s a sarcastic clap at this crowd, who boos heavily in response.

Richard Parker: It’s not so much that Rob Williams is supported over The Anglo Luchador being despised, don’t you think?

The Luchador hits the far ropes first and comes blasting off, taking a leap almost at the 3/4th point to the other side of the ring. His body twists as he gains incredible height to clear the ropes.

The corkscrew suicide plancha, better known as the barrel roll is perfectly executed. The cell phone lights flash as he moves, despite the fact Newark hates this guy, as Williams stands at the right time but can do nothing more than watch his opponent’s body come flying down.

Rob Williams: Fuck me.

WHAM!

TAL hops to his feet. He quickly snatches The Legend by his black jean-like tights and throws him into the ring. The Luchador jumps onto the apron and then slings himself over the ropes while landing a leg drop to Williams’ neck. He hooks BOTH legs and leans back as far as possible for the count…

Nick Stuart: New champion!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

TAL rolls with the kickout into the corner. He uses the buckle to pull himself up and relocate Rob Williams, who’s trying to get to his own two feet while grumbling and swearing under his breath.

TAL takes a run at Williams but this time the vet sees the other vet coming. Rob ducks and pulls the top rope along with him as Anglo falls out of the ring but balances himself on the apron-

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: What a vicious back elbow smash by Williams!

It was so vicious, in fact, TAL looks dead. Dead on his fee; he doesn’t fall off the apron. Instead, he’s so severely impacted by the move it looks like he’s frozen in time.

Williams scowls, still feeling the effects from the stupid corkscrew plancha.

CRACK!

Another wicked elbow into the side of TAL’s face. Williams takes three steps back and comes charging in for the last blow-

Nick Stuart: HOLY SHIT!

CRASH!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

Nick Stuart: Williams came calling alright, over the top rope and into The Luchador’s arms. Then somehow, someway, TAL uses Rob’s own momentum, landing a blue thunder bomb to the outside!

Richard Parker: That wasn’t just ANY blue thunder bomb, partner. Both their bodies smacked up against that guardrail, too!

And this, folks, is where the wheels fall off. You’d think both men would be down and out. Particularly Williams, whose own momentum sent him for one haywire of a crash and burn. However, Williams has blood in his eyes. Not literally, of course. Not yet, anyway. He’s rolled onto a knee. Call it sheer adrenaline or maybe even the illicit drugs running through his system but Williams is clobbering TAL with forearms and fists at the moment. For his part, The Anglo Luchador is not backing down, throwing wild shots around when he can.

Williams grabs the luchador by the mask and HURLS him into the first row of fans! The crowd cheers like crazy for bloodlust as Williams climbs over the guardrail and keeps pumping the ever living piss out of the challenger-

WHAP!

Who’s not backing down because The Anglo jumps and catches Williams flush under the jaw with a knee strike! It looks like Williams bit his own tongue in the process… small trickles of blood start falling out of his mouth.

If he could swear, he would.

Nick Stuart: These two have a history. As you said Richard, I doubt this would be a “five star classic”.

Williams pulls a fan in front of him so TAL has to hold back. Maybe not even that he wants to… since the fan was shouting shit at the luchador, but nonetheless, the challenger backtracks-

Only for Williams to push the fan aside at exactly the right second and smack TAL in the face! It’s not a smack for showmanship, it’s not a smack to wake up. It’s a Dana White Power Slap. One with such force, replays around the world will show TAL’s mask practically bouncing off his head and then relocating to its proper position.

Williams snorts. Not coke. Anger.

AND SPEARS TAL INTO THE CROWD!

Nick Stuart: We’ve lost control!

In fairness to refereeing, Elvis is still in the building and he is counting to TEN. He’s just taking a little more time than normal, as he’d like to not have to throw out the main event. It is Jersey after all. This is high class living.

Sarcasm here. Jersey is a shithole and the New Jersey Devils can rot in hell along with Jack Hughes but that’s for another place and time. Rob doesn’t watch hockey. It’s doubtful TAL even knows what a hockey stick is used for. But to tie all this together in a nice little bow, we DO have a brutal hockey fight on our hands right now as TAL and Williams are both pumping each other’s skulls in!

They’ve worked their way back to ringside when Williams throws TAL into the apron, which makes the challenger slightly fall into the ring and “break up” Nixon’s TEN count, which might have been at EIGHT or something. Williams latches onto TAL’s left arm and tries to hurl him into the steel steps across the way…

It’s reversed.

CRASH!

Williams’ right shoulder not only meets the steel steps but it pops them up with such force that the steps are now standing on its side.

TAL comes charging in, looking for a dropkick that will send Williams’ body back into the side of the steps.

NO!

Williams moves but TAL puts on the breaks!

Rob comes in with a shoulder block and it’s TAL who flies into the edge of the steps!

Williams grunts again. He starts clubbing his temples… trying to figure out what to do next. He pushes the steel steps back down, as the crowd boos. But those boos stop very quickly when the fans notice Rob still intends to USE THEM.

Nick Stuart: Oh boy…

Richard Parker: Five star CLASSIC, Nick. Just a different genre!

Williams drags TAL onto the steel steps with him, then placing TAL’s head under his legs.

Piledriver time.

THUMP.

Williams not only lands the piledriver, he pulls at The Anglo Luchador’s tights as he does, ensuring even more of an indent can be made on the steel. TAL’s body goes limp and for a second there it looks like Rob is really proud of what he did to the challenger. Like he’s helping The Luchador or something.

Yeah, helping him to a closer retirement.

Williams rolls TAL into the ring at the NINE count. Of course, he could’ve taken the countdown but also of course, he’s got his opponent dead to rights and TKO’ed. Why not pin?

Williams slides into the ring himself and crawls over to where his opponent is lying.

There’s a cover.

TAL doesn’t move a muscle.

ONE.

TWO.

VERY VERY LAST SECOND KICKOUT!

Boos and hate from Newark towards TAL but nevertheless Rob Williams is right there on top of the Philly native, pummeling the masked legend with punches punches punches. Soon after, Williams drags TAL upright and Irish whips him into a corner across the way. TAL hits and sticks, so Williams comes in with a clothesline. Spit flies out of TAL’s mouth as Rob takes TAL and whips him into the corner across the way. Same thing. The Anglo Luchador hits and sticks so Williams comes charging in with a clothesline that knocks more spit out of The Luchador’s mouth.

Williams wants to inflict even MOAR punishment. He tosses TAL to the corner they came from. TAL, again, hits and sticks so Williams comes in with another clothesline and additional spit flies out of TAL’s mouth.

Richard Parker: How much saliva does The Luchador HAVE in there!?

About to find out because it’s back to the adjacent buckle again.

Wham! Hit and stick. In comes Williams…

NO! The Anglo Masked Man LEAPS up as Williams meets the buckle. In the process TAL adjusts course and lands behind Williams. He grabs the champion by the back and rolls him into a cradle pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE-

NO, IT WAS A KICKOUT!

Elvis Nixon makes sure of it as he leaps up and screams towards the time keeper that it was only a TWO.

The English Luchador is already kicking Williams like he was a while ago. It’s kick after kick as Williams is propped up on his knees. After every kick the champion wants to lean over, fold and die as his chest is beet red. It’s an older man’s chest so it gets red pretty fast. But each kick keeps sitting Williams up and he has to absorb more… and more… and more…

TAL hits the ropes-

Absolutely mother fucking CLOTHESLINE from hell! Rob Williams delivers such a swift blow people would swear that The Philadelphia Luchador morphs into the Philadelphia Flyers mascot Gritty for just a split second and then crashes to the ground back to his original form.

Williams is spent. He falls over and slams the mat while battling through his own pain.

Nick Stuart: It’s clear the clothesline bought Rob time, NOT the victory!

Richard Parker: If this was any other state in the match and Rob wasn’t coming off about a billion kicks to the chest, I would be confident in saying it’s over.

Nick Stuart: But it’s not. It’s anyone’s game!

FUCK TAL!

FUCK TAL!

FUCK TAL!

The Newark crowd is getting on the masked vet, although it’s not like Rob is well loved, either. TAL starts crawling to the ropes in the hopes it will help him get up and Williams, on the other hand, is trying to crawl after TAL.

Nick Stuart: May not be smart. Williams shouldn’t be going after The Anglo Luchador while they’re on the mat.

Richard Parker: And why not? Better to get TAL now than when he’s in the air…

The Luchador has his hands on the bottom rope… now his hands on the second rope… now his hands on the top rope! But he can’t pull himself up any further since he looks down and sees Rob Williams holding onto his feet!

Williams starts climbing up TAL, then grabs the smaller man’s head and delivers an inverse DDT!

Nick Stuart: The clothesline and the DDT looks like it has our champion in a PRIME position…

And yet Williams’ head isn’t exactly on straight. He is trying to find his way over to The Anglo’s legs so he can stomp in more damage.

TAL with a desperation inside cradle!

ONE!

Williams reverses it by rolling through and pinning The Luchador’s shoulders to the mat!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Not only does TAL break free but he bursts to his feet, flies into the ropes and takes down Williams with a headscissors! The Five Star Champion is right back up but there’s another headscissors takedown! The Anglo Luchador shoots off the ropes as Rob rises…

WHAP!

Strong as shit clubbing forearm to TAL’s head, delivered by the champ.

WHAP!

And yet TAL delivers one right back!

WHAP! WHAP!

Back and forth they go, blow for blow until Williams throws TAL into the ropes but the challenger flips into them and comes off with a springboard into a flying crossbody that’s caught by Rob and a fallaway throw that sends TAL OVER THE ROPES AND OUT OF THE RING!

Williams falls to his knees with a look on his face suggesting that should kill the guy. However, one glance outside the ring and The Anglo Luchador is stirring…

Williams mumbles something along the lines like “fuck this shit” and slides out of the ring ready to deliver-

Roundhouse kick by TAL!

Flying elbow by TAL!

The crowd is hot as TAL takes a few steps back and then runs at Williams. Williams with a clothesline attempt that TAL avoids by jumping over it and onto the apron! The Luchador FLIES off with a moonsault that’s caught by Williams into a power slam leaving TAL hanging off the guardrail, half his body in the crowd and half his body towards the ring!

Nick Stuart: What a gruesome hangup on that rail!

With The Anglo Luchador stuck in the middle of the rail, Rob Williams finds himself at the far end of ringside. He’s going to take a run at TAL. He’s going to take a very hard, winded, motherfucking run.

He starts, showing off that magnificent burst of speed only a guy like him can display. This is sarcastic but the effort is there nonetheless. Going full GRUNT-blast, only to find TAL’s head just drifting around the airspace he intends to meet up with.

WHAM!

A running knee so running it shoots The Anglo Luchador off the guardrail and into the crowd.

There’s just one problem.

The knee woke TAL up.

Nick Stuart: LOOK OUT!

TAL is pushing through the Newark slop and making his way to the guardrail, through the boos and hissing fans. He leaps onto the rail and finds Rob Williams like a deer in the headlights waiting right there for him.

Rob Williams: Shit.

But as TAL jumps off the guardrail, he slips in the process! Replays will show no one touched him as he did. But that slip, that tiny miscalculation means Rob Williams can move away and avoid him at the last second.

THUMP!

Oh, and take TAL’s head along with him.

Nick Stuart: A modified, if not pieced-together version of Old Time Rock and Roll!

Richard Parker: Rob wasn’t able to get the exact DDT setup he wanted but it was a cutter nonetheless!

The Anglo Luchador is OUT but Rob Williams needs a minute to recover because he saw his life flash before his very eyes. Think of seeing TAL coming through a sea of disgusting, awful pigs from Jersey…

Shivers.

…

Williams rolls TAL into the ring and follows suit.

The champion makes the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

…Elvis Nixon realizes TAL’s right leg is under the ropes!

Williams is fuming hot at the ref. He should’ve had the match won! Clearly! Because TAL was not kicking outta this! But instead of… you know… just moving The Anglo Luchador’s legs into the middle of the squared circle, the champion continues trying to prove his point that the positioning of TAL’s leg shouldn’t matter.

The crowd is stirring!

The Luchador is getting to his feet!

TAL is nowhere near 100%. He’s a little woozy. He’s trying to find the ropes and flip off them…

When TAL trips himself up again!

Richard Parker: Newark curses you Anglo!

Williams spins around just in time before TAL can regather his footing and comes back with another cutter, this time swinging around TAL’s head in perform form. The real old time Old Time Rock and Roll.

Williams falls on top of TAL, absolutely spent as he rolls his eyes into the back of his head and swears into the heavens, why does he do this anymore?

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Maybe this is why.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match and STILL Five Star Champion… ROB WILLIAMS!

There aren’t exactly cheers… but most of the crowd is happy to see TAL lost. Williams demands Elvis Nixon fetch him his title.

Rob grabs his right shoulder and gives it a crank. There’s a sour look on his face until he’s handed his title and kneels with it down on the ground.

Nick Stuart: Terrific match! Like you said… not a “five star” match in the purist form… but a solid five star brawl!

Richard Parker: You have to wonder if The Anglo Luchador didn’t trip himself up, twice, what would’ve happened.

Williams’ theme song blares across the PA as he is now standing on his feet.

Nick Stuart: This is starting to be one hell of a roll Williams is on.

Richard Parker: Can’t argue with you there. The Legend stays true to his title, no matter how much it might not look like he enjoys the “process”… victory is sweet.

Williams raises the title as the PRIME signature appears in the bottom of the broadcast feed and we…

FADE.

TO…

The arena fell into a hush as the bell rang.

The Anglo Luchador sat slumped in the corner, his chest rising and falling with each attempt to catch his breath. He watched as Rob Williams exited the ring, still the Five Star champion. He fell a bit short of his goal for the evening, but there would be other chances and he could at least hang his hat on knowing he gave everything he had in the match.

Nick Stuart: Heartbreak tonight for The Anglo Luchador. He did everything he could, but it just wasn’t enough tonight.

Richard Parker: Who are you trying to kid, Nick? This is just another big loss by PRIME’s favorite masked disappointment.

The crowd was still on their feet, cheering and applauding as TAL used the ropes to slowly pull himself up. He nodded briefly, exhausted beyond words when the boos started.

Tony Gamble was standing on the stage.

Nick Stuart: No, no, NO! What is he doing out here?

Richard Parker: He’s probably just out here to make fun of TAL for losing the first match of his retirement tour.

Nick Stuart: He’s not retiring!

Richard Parker: But Gamble threw him a party already.

The Grin charged down the ramp as TAL turned to see what turned the crowd sour so quickly. He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Tony as he slid into the ring, but not fast enough to react in time. He caught a knee to the jaw, after the Permascar Superstar used the middle rope to spring up high enough to hit above his chest.

The Anglo Luchador dropped like a sack of bricks.

Nick Stuart: TAL just went through a war with Rob Williams, and now this leech wants to come out here and take advantage of it.

Gamble grabbed him by the mask and lifted him up to his feet,  only to lift him up and over with a snap suplex. Before TAL could even clutch at his back, Tony was on him again. Stomps to the ribs and chest of TAL kept him on the mat, every shot driven by years of hatred.

Richard Parker: I know this won’t be a popular opinion, but Gamble is looking to make a statement here tonight.

Nick Stuart: Statement! This is nothing short of a mugging.

TAL crawled desperately toward the ropes, more on instinct than consciousness. The Grin stalked him like prey, salivating at the thoughts of what he planned next. He grabbed the mask once more, brought TAL to his feet and whipped him into the turnbuckle violently.

The Anglo Luchador bounced back and stumbled over his own legs, face first once again. Tony began to pace slowly, jaw clenched, eyes focused on the man laid out at his feet.

Tony Gamble: Another title shot… Your own team at Squad Goals… Why does she keep handing you opportunity after opportunity, while I just keep getting handed shit?!

He dragged TAL up again, and delivered a vicious short-arm clothesline that flipped him inside out. The exhausted luchador landed hard, and this time he didn’t move.

Nick Stuart: Why isn’t anyone coming out here to stop this?

Tony dropped to his knees and clawed at TAL’s mask, digging his fingers into the area around his mouth to tear it away.

Richard Parker: Okay, maybe he’s crossing the line with that.

Nick Stuart: MAYBE?!

Security finally flooded the ring, forced Gamble back toward the opposite turnbuckle. He fought back the entire way, shouting over their shoulder, that trademark grin on his face making him look like a madman.

Tony Gamble: Just call it quits now and retire, then you can take all the naps you want!! GET OFF ME!!!

The Grin rushed at the Enemigos, which managed to back them up just enough for Tony to force his way through and over the officials huddled around TAL. He tries desperately to fish his fingers into the corners of TAL’s mouth, trying to lock in the ‘Smile For Me’.

Unfortunately, we’re out of time…

FADE 

TO 

GRIN