ReVival 88

There is a door.

You might even call it a Steel Door…

O’Doom.

The placard on it reads: Principal’s Office

Behind said door, which is closed by the way, and sitting at her resolute desk, is PRIME’s version of Mr. Belding, the one and only, The Queen of the Ring, Lindsay Troy.

With LT are all 97 of the Enemigos.

And Ivan Stanislav’s pelt.

With all 97 of the Enemigos, well, more like on opposite sides of them, are PRIME’s ultra-salty dogs, the always increasingly violent Brandon Youngblood, and the always ultra COOL, Cancer Jiles.

As for Big Ian and the lovely Vickie Hall-Ellis-Jiles (not an angle, dickhead), they are standing on the other side of the closed door marking people for death.

Lindsay Troy: Well, children, what’s it goi–

Before Lindsay can even begin with the opening festivities, Jiles screeches out and cuts her off. The look on her face is not a… thrilled one.

Cancer Jiles: –It’s my show, Mother Hen. You know it is. It’s happening in my house.

The Queen of the Ring goes to decree, or punish, or humiliate; however, King Crumb is having none of it and continues right along like she’s a simple backstage reporter.

Cancer Jiles: I want THE MAIN EVENT. I want NIGHT THREE. I WANT HIS CAREER AND OR LIFE ON THE LINE. I WANT FURST BLUD PART DEUX. I WANT A PHILADELPHIA STREET FIGHT THAT STARTS IN THE PARKING LOT AND ENDS WITH ME THROWING HIM OFF THE WALT WHITMAN BRIDGE.

A beat.

And no, Jiles is not done.

Cancer Jiles: I WANT HIS PELT, HIS STRAPS, AND HIS HONOR… if the crumb has any left.

There is silence. It is that awkward kind, where someone did something they probably shouldn’t have done, and everybody else around knows it except the person who did it.

Then…

Lindsay Troy: Is that it, Piz?

King Crumb gladly nods yes like he’s won something, when the truth is he probably shouldn’t have.

Lindsay Troy: No, really. Is that it? That’s all? Nothing else? Not a 97 minute Ironman Match? Not a Literal Deathmatch inside the Infirmary at the Eastern State Penitentiary, or a Drone Strike Party at the King of Prussia Mall?

One person snickers, the rest of the room however, does not.

Guess who?

Cancer Jiles: I thought we were saving one of those for me and Cecil at this year’s COOLOSSUS?

Oh look, and there goes a cricket hopping across LT’s desk.

Lindsay Troy: So, Brandon, tell me, what is it that you want? What night would be good for you? Do you want his precious T-shades on a pole? I know, maybe just a run of the mill, good old fashioned, catch as catch-can match… but inside of WARCHAMBER with Elvis Nixon as the referee.

King Crumb sighs, and then mutters under his breath, “anybody but him.” Of course his muttering is loud enough for the people standing in line to enter the building to hear.

Lindsay Troy: Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll be the referee then.

Poised to strike, and of course paired with arrogantly, is how one could describe Jiles’ current demeanor.

Cancer Jiles: Don’t kid yourself, Mom. You don’t have the balls. Not in Philly. Not in my house.

Ha.

Lindsay Troy: Did you… I don’t have the balls? I DON’T HAVE THE BALLS?!

The King of Crumbs throws his arms up and relents. No, it has nothing to do with LT standing up from her seat. The StanisPelt slips from her shoulders momentarily, but one sharp yank brings it back where it belongs.

Lindsay Troy: You Pizmo crumb-eating mother—, don’t forget I crawled out of the same Pit you did, asshole. I’ll drag my balls across your face until you like it.

Content, Jiles nods. LT sits back down and, finally, we get to hear from Brandon Youngblood.

Brandon Youngblood: I…am done with this.

His eyes glower at The COOLympian.

Brandon Youngblood: I gave him the opportunity at Colossus. He didn’t take it. He said his career was over if he lost the Almasy; he walked right back in. Every time I get in the ring…he’s there. Him and Vickie and now…’Big Ian Salt’…

He stares right back to Lindsay, rising from his seat.

Brandon Youngblood: Fuck First Blood. Fuck his bullshit street fight. Fuck everything about you, you scab.

Though on the outside King Crumb looks very, well, yawning and disinterested, on the inside he’s about to lose his… COOL. You can tell because his T-shades are starting to fog up, and unlike Cancer Jiles the T-shades never lie.

Ha.

Brandon Youngblood: Youngblood and Jiles…in front of his city. In front of his people. No holds barred. Anything goes. When I win…I get his hair. And if he somehow…despite everything in his goddamn make up…if he somehow wins…

Suddenly, an imaginary lightbulb goes off above Cancer’s head. Yes, for those that care, the bulb is far enough away from his hair to spoil.

Cancer Jiles: …NO! WHEN I WIN, BRANDON, YOU WILL BECOME MY BITCH FOR THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE LIFE… AS A MEMBER OF THE EGG BANDITS.

Ha.

Once a Bandit, Always a Bandit.

Turns out it just might be a death sentence after all.

King Crumb stands from his seat, adamant, and proud, and swelling from the thought of future victory. He’s so full of piss and vigor his T-shades defrost in realtime when he points at Lindsay Troy.

Cancer Jiles: I fucking dare you.

Lindsay rolls her eyes. Then scoffs. Youngblood seethes, and, well, seethes some more. And Jiles, well, some guys are so used to doing despicable things they just can’t help themselves. It’s in their nature.

As fate would have it, Cancer Jiles happens to be one of those guys.

Instead of going into the gory details of it all, let’s just say thank god there were 97 Enemigos to get in between King Crumb and Lindsay Troy, and Brandon Youngblood for that matter. Believe it or not, every single one of them was needed after Jiles spit a charcoal colored loogie from The Gallows of his throat onto LT’s desk.

Okay, so one gory detail.

Sorry.

Yes, I know what you are thinking… there’s no way that desk is resolute anymore.

Ha.

You’d be right.

With that, the 88th Edition of ReVival can begin.

Nick Stuart: Welcome to ReVival 88! We’re coming to you live from Long Island, New York, and we’re starting off hot with a debuting William Still taking on Lasagna Boy Toddrick, who is already in the ring!

Richard Parker: Of course he is.

The arena sits dark and still, uncomfortable as a power outage. As the opening heavy chord of “Gas Pedal” by Babe Haven ring out, a filter of red burst out onto the crowd. Spectators covered in a hue of blood. White and red lights slash the crowd in sweeping as the dogs began to bark. Blinding and Chaotic at the same time. More violently and brighter as the drums kicked in. William Still steps out from the curtain screaming to himself. Bashing himself. His own version of the Haka in his head. He runs to the ring.

Richard Parker: Well that’s intense.

He slides under the ropes and goes straight at Toddrick, knocking him down with a shoulder tackle. Ashley Barlow mutters something about wishing she had more control, then signals for the bell.

DING DING!

Nick Stuart: William Still came in with a fury that isn’t letting up! He’s on top of Toddrick and leveling him with punches.

Richard Parker: I know we usually feed these Lasagna Boys to the wolves, but this time he might be swallowed whole!

Toddrick tries to fight off the bigger man but he’s overpowered. The only way the assault lets up is if Still himself lets up, and after another barrage of punches he finally does. Toddrick starts to get up but is immediately taken down by a Judo toss, then struck in the back of the head with a fierce kick.

Nick Stuart: William Still is billed from Clearwater, Florida. Twenty nine years old. Goes by the name William Rotten Socks.

Richard Parker: William Rotten Socks?

Nick Stuart: WRS for short.

Richard Parker: Sounds punk.

Oblivious to the narration of his background, Still is continuing his assault on his opponent. He lifts Toddrick up then rocks him in a standing spinebuster, then rolls him up in a pin.

ONE!

TW…

Nick Stuart: Kickout from Toddrick, but that’s been about as much offense as he’s gotten in so far!

Still spares a glance to Barlow. Not to question the pinfall, but just a passing glance. He guides Toddrick up, then continues to attack him with left and right hands. Toddrick finds himself backing into the corner, and Still is more than happy to continue the assault – that is, until Ashley Barlow comes in for the separation.

It had been five seconds and so Ashley did what she’s supposed to do, the semblance of control she has, and she steps in between the two competitors. Still holds his arms up for separation.

And that’s exactly when Toddrick strikes.

Nick Stuart: Low blow!

Ashley’s back is turned to Toddrick, so she doesn’t see the leg strike out, just sees Still bend over. Toddrick shoves Ashley to the side and tries to turn the tide, punching Still in the face. He gets a few shots in, causing Still to defend himself as he shuffles backwards in the corner. Toddrick chops at Still, then Irish whips him into the corner, following quick with a clothesline in the corner.

Richard Parker: Lasagna boy’s got some layers to him!

Nick Stuart: Toddrick starting to fight back!

Richard Parker: Did you get it? Because lasagna has layers?

Nick Stuart: We got it.

Toddrick was so proud of himself for getting in that real, genuine offense that he craves it, is addicted to it, has to do it again. He grabs Still’s arm and whips him into the corner, then hesitates before following him.

That two second pause is all Still needs. He steps out of the corner, bends over, and grabs Toddrick’s legs, then lifts him and slams him with surprising intensity.

WHAMMMM!!!

Nick Stuart: Alabama Slam! And a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE…

Toddrick gets a shoulder up, but it isn’t as strong as before. Still takes a moment to get to his feet and stare down at his prone opponent. It’s the first time in the entire match that he’s stopped. It’ll be the only time too.

Nick Stuart: Toddrick with the small package! Still is completely unaware!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE…NO!

William Still was so shocked by the sudden move that he almost didn’t kick out until it was too late. As it was, Ashley Barlow’s hand was centimeters from hitting the mat a third time before Still powered out. Toddrick bounces up and takes Still out with a clothesline…and then he celebrates.

Nick Stuart: Does he think he won the match?

Richard Parker: I think he does. Who’s gonna tell him?

As it turns out, two people are going to tell him, one verbally and one physically.

First, the verbal one. Ashley Barlow touches his shoulder to get his attention, holding up two fingers and shaking her head. Toddrick has enough time to shout “NO!” before the physical tell comes in the form of a high angle German suplex.

Nick Stuart: He just dropped Toddrick on his head!

Richard Parker: And I don’t think he’s done yet!

Sure enough, Still is already halfway up the turnbuckle before Toddrick stops bouncing on the canvas. At the top, William Still barely waits before diving off the top and landing a headbutt on Toddrick.

Nick Stuart: He calls that the Super Mind Meld!

Toddrick shakes from the impact, then tries to roll away, but Still recovered quickly, knowing he can’t waste any more time. He lifts Toddrick up over his shoulders, then runs across the ring before planting him on the canvas.

Nick Stuart: And that’s called A Life Less Plagued!

Richard Parker: AKA not Toddrick’s life!

The cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner…WILLIAM! STIIIIILLLLLLSSSS!

Richard Parker: This guy is scary, no doubt about it.

Nick Stuart: That he is, partner, and he picks up the impressive win against Toddrick!

We go elsewhere.

…Previously On…

…The News…

Max Kael: So… what do we do with the corpse?

Max, Mina Starr-Kael and Snark Darkly stare down at the massive corpse of a Russian Brown Bear.

Mina Starr-Kael: We could have it stuffed and put on display.

Snark Darkly: Or just have it butchered up, I’m sure it would be delightfully tasty.

Max stares at the two of them before shaking his head.

Max Kael: … I don’t think either of those are of any interest to me.

Wiping the blood off his face, Max turns to leave.

Max Kael: Throw it on ice! I’ll figure out what to do with it once I get past this INTENSE title match.

Stumbling out of Arkham’s YMCA, Max leaves Mina and Snark to tend to body of the dearly departed bear.

–

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

No intro music.

No snappy saxophone heralding the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM.

Just Max Kael seated atop his NEWS THRONE surrounded by the Kael Family. The Daytona Diamonds Bastards Children’s Choir. The Bolognese Bull. Snark Darkly. Mina Starr-Kael. A collection of Russian mobsters. Arkham thugs. Pretty sure there are some Ninjas lurking in the back.

Max Kael: I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be nice. I tried to find a peaceable solution but NOOOO.

Jabbing a finger at the camera, Max snarls a silver toothed sneer.

Max Kael: Nate Colton and his cult-like family have failed to turn my SON, Sutler Reynolds-Kael, back over to me! And so now I’m declaring WAR on that whole, repulsive clan!

Reaching into his pocket, Max retrieves a formal notice of a declaration of war from the Mayor’s office of Arkham.

Max Kael: I will burn your family to the ground and salt the very Earth they were turned to ash on! I will tear your soul out of your chest and eat it in front of you as you DIE, Nate Colton! When I am done, as you take your last breath, you will understand why Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is the BLACKHEART of PRIME. With my family at my side, there is nothing I can not achieve!

Tucking the formal declaration of war back into his pocket, Max settles back down into his throne, scowling at the camera.

Max Kael: I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into. I’m worse than a thousand Ivans. What’s the best you got? Gonna kill me? Since when has that worked!? You’ve already lost…  you just don’t know it yet!

THOOM!

The noise rings through the News studio, catching some of the army off guard and even causing a few to cover their ears.

THOOM!

It rings out again, though now the mob is getting used to it, and they prepare themselves for battle.

THOOM!

THOOM!

Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe King Kong stopped by for tea and sandwiches! Wouldn’t that be lovely.

THOOM!

THOOM!

CRACK!

The latch gives way, revealing not a colossal ape but two men wielding sledgehammers and determined expressions. They are the heavy hitters of the Colton clan, Nate and Dennis.

They set to work on the nearest piece of the set, paying little heed to the mass of humanity that stands against them…and starts to move in closer. After all, it’s just a couple of guys with hammers. As long as you convince someone else to go first, you’re fine.

About here is where a new, troublesome noise begins.

RRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNRRRRRNNNNNNNNN!

That…sounds like a chainsaw.

It sounds like that, because it is one.

Next through the door is Benny Colton, who’s wearing gloves and goggles for this (safety is important) but not a shirt (personal branding, also important.) Also, he has a chainsaw.

Richard Parker: Why does Benny Colton have a chainsaw?!

Excellent question, Richard. The answer is forthcoming, and it will not make you feel better.

RRRRNNNNNNNGGGGG!

The blade snarls its way through the desk, a chair, the back drop, really anything it gets close to. Whenever it slices through something, Denny is quick to break it down further with his hammer while Benny finds a new target.

There’s a lot more hesitation in Kael’s army now. Blunt objects are one thing; gas-powered tools are another. It would take a lot of convincing for someone else to go first now. The home field advantage is quickly disappearing; Max’s best hope now is that the Coltons activate one of the studio’s many News Traps.

About here is where a new new troublesome noise begins, along with the answer to Richard’s question.

You see, Benny has a chainsaw because…

FWOOOOSH!

…we really can’t let him have the blowtorch.

Enter: Blake Colton. Blowtorch in hand, he marches across the stage toward the Interview Wheel. That’s…probably fine.

He’s flanked by Big Brother Nate, who makes a beeline towards Kael.

Nate Colton: Where’s Jennifer?!

He doesn’t stop walking, giving Max a full five or six seconds until Nate caves in a random part of his body.

Max Kael: I’ve got one better for you, where is Sutler, Colton!?

The New Diamond swings the hammer, and the head passes through the space where Max’s chest had been moments before. Instead, the hammer collides with the NEWS Throne with a resounding clang.

Scrambling off his throne, Max is caught by his family, panic written across his face.

CLANG!

Max Kael: What the hell is wrong with you!?

Nate Colton: Answer me, Max…or I’m gonna ask harder.

Max Kael: Fuck you, Kael Family, TACTICAL RETREAT!

Carried out by his Family, Max flips Colton off one last time. To make sure the retreat is successful the Daytona Diamonds Bastards Children’s Choir creates a defensive line. The hope here being that the Colton’s are above torching, hammering or chainsawing children, even if they are bastards of Daytona Diamonds.

It turns out they are above it, but only just.

Nate Colton: Get back here, you–shit! Blake, you’re up!

Blake nods, and immediately takes the flame to the back of the Interview Wheel. Specifically, the bolt that connects the wheel to the base.

I think you can see where this is going. I hope the Daytona Diamonds Bastard Children’s Choir can.

The Lads give Blake the space to work, holding the Choir at bay while Nate threatens to push his way through. And before long…

SNAP!

CRASH!

RUMBLE!

So, you know the boulder scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark? It’s kinda like that, but flatter.

Blake Colton: Heads up!

Benjamin and Dennis step aside, allowing the Wheel to roll toward a group of small children with questionable parentage. They scatter like roaches, temporarily unblocking the way.

Nate Colton: Let’s move! Drop the tools; we can’t have ‘em weighing us down.

Benny’s shoulders sag a little as he turns off the chainsaw and drops it to the floor. Dennis and Nate dump their hammers as well.

Nate Colton: Blake! Let’s go!

Blake Colton: Gimme a second, I’m trying to turn this off–

Nate Colton: Don’t bother.

He jerks a thumb toward the remains of the News studio. Blake shrugs, then tosses the blowtorch into a pile of desk.

Nate Colton: Now move!

The Persistence Predator is back on the hunt, following Kael’s escape route. The others followed suit, just as the Bastard Children’s Choir regroups and rushes for the exit as well.

It’s pandemonium!

It’s chaos!

Fire consumes the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE as we cut away.

Pre-recorded.

An establishing shot of LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches in beautiful, downtown Peoria, Illinois.

Inside, many patrons are trying to enjoy their hamburger dinners, only guess what? They can’t. They can’t enjoy their hamburger dinners because there’s a big giant man in there, raising hell, scaring people.

Big Ian Salt: THIS HAMBURGER STORE IS COMPLETELY FUCKED, AND EVERYONE IN HERE IS A MARK, EXCEPT FOR ME. I AM NOT A MARK AND I NEVER WILL BE. YOU ARE AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE. THAT’S THE DIFFERENCE IN YOU AND ME.

Big Ian Salt stomps around semi-aimlessly, until finally he picks up a booth table and Salt Mine Powerbombs it onto the restaurant floor.

Big Ian Salt: Stupid dickheads love to EAT AT SHITTY FUCKIN RESTAURANTS LIKE THIS. Shifty fucking shit asses. SHITTY FUCKS!!!

Big Ian grabs a man by the shirt.

That man is Ollie Cade, friend of Steve Lemieux’s.

Big Ian Salt: I hear American Gladiators is Steve Lemieux’s favorite show.

Ollie Cade: …Are you asking me a question, or are you just like, musing generally while holding my shirt?

Big Ian Salt casually places Ollie’s head between his legs.

Big Ian Salt: Let it be known that American Gladiators SUCKS and is a WORK. SOME people think it is a SHOOT and THOSE PEOPLE can kiss my rock hard APPLE SHAPED ASS. Buncha jabronie marks, running their mouth, making fat fuck sandwiches like this one.

Big Ian takes a bite of the nearest burger. He spits it out all over Ollie’s back.

Ollie Cade: C’mon man.

Big Ian Salt: I’m sorry I just can’t help myself on account of all the shit I taste in my mouth now that I bit that burger. Tastes like sheeyit. Tastes like stinky ol’, dirty ol’ dog sheeyit. Puh!! Puh!!!

Big Ian Salt powerbombs Ollie through the window of LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches. Glass shatters, and Ollie hits the beautiful, downtown Peoria, Illinois pavement.

Big Ian Salt follows Ollie through the window, stepping through and exiting.

Big Ian Salt: Tell Steve Lemieux that this is what he gets for saying I sleep with Rose even though I don’t even know her like that!!!

We cut.

Oh, nah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Richard Parker: What the hell is this?

She sits alone, waiting for suggestions
He’s so nervous, avoiding all the questions
His lips are dry, his heart gently pounding
Don’t you know exactly what they’re thinking?

From the rafters, streams of sketti fall like confetti. Fans are fucking furious.

His heart is beating like a drum (like a drum)
Is he gonna get this girl home?
Relax, soon baby, we’ll be all alone
Don’t you just know exactly what they’re thinking?

The beat fucking drops.

IF YOU WANT MY BODY AND YOU THINK I’M SEXY
COME ON SUGAR LET ME KNOW!

Sketti shoots from the pyro cannons as “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy”by Rod Stewart blasts over the speakers. A comically small float parade inches onto the entrance ramp carrying Miguel and advertising the “Sketti Bucket Deluxe: Enough To Feed The Whole Trailer Park”. There’s not enough room on the Sketti Bucket Float to fit both the Lasagna Boys, so Toddrick walks along side the float.

IF YOU WANT MY BODY AND YOU THINK I’M SEXY
COME ON SUGAR LET ME KNOW!
IF YOU REALLY NEED ME, JUST REACH OUT AND TOUCH ME!
COME ON, HONEY, LET ME KNOW!

Toddrick has a shirt cannon stocked full of sketti. He takes aim directly at the announcer’s booth as Miguel climbs from his chariot into the ring.

BOOM!

Both Richard and Nick duck in the nick of time, a little ricochet catching both men under the booth.

Richard Parker: Oh what the hell?

Nick Stewart: Jesus Christ. We better be getting hazard pay for this.

Miguel stands square in the middle of the ring with a microphone he got from… somewhere?

Miguel: THIS IS AN OPEN CHALLENGE. ANYONE IN THE BACK THAT’S GOT A SPINE, COME GET SOME SCOLIOSIS!

Richard Parker: Scoliosis is nothing to joke about.

Miguel: IF YOU GOT THE JEWELS… IF YOU HAVE THE BALLS… IF YOU’VE GOT THE TESTES TO TEST ME…

Nick Stuart: He’s actually incredible on the mic.

Miguel: Then come on out, PUNK ASS BOY! BROKE ASS BOY!

The PRIMEview screen goes dark.

Not dimmed. Dark. The kind of dark that makes eighteen thousand people go quiet in the way large crowds go quiet, not all at once, but in a ripple, one section catching the stillness from the next, until UBS Arena is holding its breath without fully understanding why.

Then the bass hits.

Low, rolling, ancient. The War sample underneath “The Largest” moves through the building like something geological — you feel it in the floor before you hear it in the speakers, and for two full seconds that’s all there is. Just that groove. Just that weight.

Ayy. Let the band play.

The PRIMEview floods with a single image: a gym. Not a modern facility, not a corporate training center. A gym. Worn hardwood. Heavy bags showing their age. The kind of place that smells like effort and doesn’t apologize for it. The camera moves slowly through it,  past a wall covered in photographs, past a ring that has been taken apart and put back together more times than anyone has counted, past a set of stairs leading up to a closed office door.

Then a title card, white text on black:

ANDERSON’S GYM. BALTIMORE.
ESTABLISHED 1987.

The images come faster now, cut to the beat. Students drilling. A young man landing a moonsault, clean, precise, the kind of rep that earns a nod from a man who doesn’t give them easily. Hands being wrapped. A heavy bag swinging. Hands on a shoulder. A quiet word between rounds.

And then Coltrane himself, from behind, standing at the gym door and looking out. Just standing. The size of him fills the frame.

Safe to say I’m the biggest, the largest.
Been steppin’ on shit since my mama stayed in them apartments, regardless.

The video cuts to black.

The lights cut with it.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, for our upcoming open challenge, there has been a slight change in who accepted the challenge. I believe we’re about to find out what that means.

Richard Parker: Oh, I love surprises. I love them the way I love root canals and audits. What fresh chaos is this?

A single spotlight finds the entranceway.

Coltrane Anderson steps through it.

Black t-shirt. Black shorts. Braids swept back. He looks exactly like what he is, a man who did not plan to be here tonight and is here anyway, and has made his peace with it in the last twenty minutes, and has decided that making his peace with it is not the same as being casual about it. He stops at the top of the ramp and looks at the ring the way a man looks at something he’s been circling for a long time from a very careful distance.

Long Island looks back at him.

There’s a beat, just a beat, of genuine uncertainty in the building. Nobody knows this man. Nobody has a chant ready, nobody has a sign. But there is something in the sheer fact of him, in the stillness and the size and the way he carries eighteen years of someone else’s gym on his shoulders, that the crowd can read even without knowing the words.

‘Cause these n***** is hatin’ on me just because I’m the biggest, the largest.

He starts walking.

Not fast. Not performing. He moves the way the music moves. With weight, with intention, with the unhurried certainty of a man who knows that the ring isn’t going anywhere and neither is he. He rolls his neck once. Cracks his knuckles. Keeps walking.

Nick Stuart: We’ve just been informed this is Coltrane Anderson, making his PRIME debut tonight. Stepping in, from what we understand, under circumstances that are still developing. This man runs a wrestling school out of Baltimore. He has trained competitors, he has built careers, and tonight, for reasons we do not yet fully understand, he is the one walking down this ramp.

Richard Parker: He’s wearing basketball shorts, Nick. Basketball shorts. To a PRIME ring. In front of eighteen thousand people. I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed.

Nick Stuart: I’m going to go with impressed, Richard. He had a successful indy career over a decade ago, but never stepped into the big time.

Richard Parker: Probably because he wore basketball shorts.

He reaches the ring and stops. Puts both hands on the apron. Looks up at the ropes. Looks back at the entrance, once, for exactly one second, as if checking that the door he came through is still there, and then turns back to the ring.

Then he rolls in under the bottom rope, gets to his feet, and stands in the center of the canvas.

The music fades.

He doesn’t go to the corners. He doesn’t play to the crowd. He finds the hard camera, looks directly into it for a long, unhurried moment, and then simply turns to face the entrance ramp.

He’s ready.

He was always ready.

Long Island doesn’t know his name yet. But they know what they’re looking at.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Coltrane Anderson. In a PRIME ring for the first time. Whatever brought him here tonight, I don’t think this building is going to forget it.

Richard Parker: (a beat, unusually quiet) …Ask me again after the match.

Nick Stuart: Match…

DING DING

Coltrane is on Miguel like stink on shit. Like white on rice. Like a dog in heat. Like… you get the picture. A huge lariat from the gargantuan titan flips Miguel end over end. It’s just shy of cartoonish. Before Miguel can gather where the sun sets, Coltrane is pulling him up to toss him into the corner. The behemoth winds up and delivers a blazing chop to the chest of Miguel – agony raining down on his face.

Crowd: One!

The big man didn’t expect the fans to be so into it, but he’s running with it.

Two, Three, Four, Five, Six

Richard Parker: Jesus, Miguel’s chest is bleeding.

Nick Stuart: Never seen a chest bleed before a forehead.

Seven, Eight, Ni-BOOM! 

Nick Stuart: Toddrick has reloaded the Sketti Cannon and just shot Coltrane in the face with it. The newcomer is stopped in his tracks as he tries to clean the sketti from his orifices.

Richard Parker: I think everyone here tonight is going home with sketti in one orifice or another.

Nick Stuart: That can’t be healthy.

Richard Parker: My lawyer is already prepping a class action lawsuit. If you or someone you love has been affected by sketti in your orifice, call Dr. Zeke E. Badguy, Esquire.

Jimmy Turnbull tries to restore order, pushing Toddrick from the side apron. He wasn’t trying to have Toddrick fly across the outside and crash headfirst into the barrier, but shit happens when the lawman has to lay down some law.

Behind his back, Miguel has produced a foreign object from one of his pants.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh, looks like Miguel has brought out a weapon. Jimmy Turnbull is totally distracted asking the ringside medical staff to make sure Toddrick isn’t dead.

Richard Parker: Is that… is that what I think it is?

Nick Stuart: It looks to be, Richard. It’s a pan of frozen lasagna.

Richard Parker: Stouffer’s, Nick. He’s a professional.

Miguel winds up with the lasagna he somehow snuck in inside his pants, but he’s too slow on the draw for Coltrane, who ducks and wraps him up from behind. People in the first row get treated to a healthy serving of lasagna as it flies out of the Stoufer’s pan when Coltrane connects with a brutal German Suplex.

Richard Parker: Speaking of scoliosis.

Nick Stuart: Nothing to joke about, Richard.

Richard Parker: It’s ok, my wife’s boyfriend has it.

A bounce off the ropes from Coltrane has the whole goddamn ring shaking. He propels himself towards the still downed Miguel and nails a giant leg drop.

The predator is done playing with his prey.

Coltrane lifts Miguel up and wraps an arm around his neck, prepping him for a little leisurely tandem run. After about three steps, Coltrane uses said arm to rocket Miguel forward – directly into his other fucking arm.

Nick Stuart: I’m being told that Coltrane calls that move The Statement. It sure made one for poor Miguel.

Richard Parker: At last, poor Miguel. I knew him well.

Coltrane wastes no time wrapping Miguel up.

One
Two
Three

Call in the dogs and put out the fire cause this Sketti Bucket Open Challenge is done.

DING, DING, DING

Nick Stuart: One hell of a first showing from PRIME’s newest superstar Coltrane. He has definitely made a Statement about what he plans to do while here.

Richard Parker: For the love of god, someone scrape the Lasagna boys up so we can end this affair.

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

##WHEN THE LIGHTS GO DOWN…##

Tony Gamble steps out onto the stage, a bright red button up under a black vest while black slacks finish off the spiffy fit. Bathed in red and pelted with boos, the forever smile never fades as he makes his way down the ramp. He ignores the insults from the members of the crowd at ringside, drunk with bravery from the safety of the barricade that separates them. Halfway down the ramp, he pauses in front of a pudgy fellow in a bright green shirt holding a GAMBLE SHOULD RETIRE sign. He rips it out of his hands and tears it in half, laughing as he tosses it aside and continues down the ramp. Obscenities from the crowd intensify, as a “GAMBLE SHOULD RETIRE!” chant slowly starts to gain ground.

##CASHIN CHECKS FROM A HOSTILE CROWD##

Gamble pauses one more time, motioning for the chants to get louder before he climbs the steps slowly, methodically making his way across the apron before stepping between the ropes without wiping his feet. He makes his way to the center of the ring, cupping his hands around his ears like he can’t hear the crowd. The “GAMBLE SHOULD RETIRE!” chants increase in volume, followed by a triple clap from the crowd that nearly drowns out the music, but the final lyrics of the song are unmistakable as he turns to face each side of the ring for a few moments at a time.

##BET IT ALL ON THE GRIN##

Tony stands there as the music ends and the only thing left is the crowd, the confirmation of their disdain for him is uplifting. It feeds him like a newborn child nursing after a nap, strengthens him like the sun does the Man of Steel, and they are none the wiser. He finally heads toward the ropes, motioning for a microphone with his hand as if he is already holding one. His wish is granted, and as he brings it to his lips while returning to the center of the ring…the crowd gets louder.

He pauses, nodding in approval as they attempt to silence him. He lifts the microphone once more, and this time they start to stomp their feet as well.

He doesn’t care.

Tony Gamble: Listen to you all, maybe I should retire!

This changes the tone of the crowd instantly, cheers now echoing from the rafters.

Tony Gamble: Then again, when have I ever done anything to make you ungrateful guidos here in Lawn Guy Land happy?

And just like that, the boos return. Gamble does what he does, grins.

Tony Gamble: There’s the crowd I’ve come to know and disrespect. It’s a damn miracle you don’t have your mouths full of a greasy ass slice of trash pizza. Seriously, everybody knows the best pizza is made in Chicago.

More boos bring a wider grin to the lips of the man known for the one permanently scarred on his face.

Tony Gamble: Hell, I’m actually surprised Lindsay Troy decided to grant Long Island their Make-a-Wish request, considering Staten Island is right there. Then again, it’s not like this arena has had anything special here since April when the Devils came in and whipped on your Fishsticks…and that says a lot about this dump.

More boos, wider grin.

Tony Gamble: Either way, I risked messing up my Stefano Ricci’s to come out here and talk about the atrocity of a main event we have here tonight…Chandler Tsonda again, really? I don’t know who Our Queen is helping out here lately…her buddy Tsonda or her buddy Cecilworth. And don’t even get me started on the freaking curtain jerker that closed out Eighty Seven, if it wasn’t for me going out there and gracing that Jersey crowd with a glimpse of greatness twice in one night, the trolls would have had a field day online.

Tony walks over to the ropes and drapes his arm over the top.

Tony Gamble: I know we were in a shittier town than the cesspool we’re in tonight, but to give The Anglo Luchador yet another title shot is just plain ridiculous. He’s pretty much two steps away from letting the door smack him in the ass on the way out, and that’s who you have challenging for a prestigious title like the Five Star…I couldn’t stand in the back and watch that travesty with a good conscience.

Tony Gamble: Meanwhile I’m tagging with Ian Hess version two against Elise Ares and her Big D. It’s like she doesn’t know what to do with someone of my caliber, and just keeps scheduling me to tag with the newest extra large egg as soon as one is hatched.

He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

Tony Gamble: Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Salt is one of those guys that’s highly coachable. All the raw talent in the World, and he knew exactly when to turn on the skill and bring home a victory for the Red Army. Even if he is a Bandit, you damn dirty marks.

He presses his right index finger against his chest.

Tony Gamble: I deserved that main event shot, so I came out when that match was over and caught old man Luchador sleeping. At the end of the night I was the one standing tall, while Robby scurried up the ramp and TAL just laid there on the mat waiting for the cavalry…no one came.

He shook his head.

Tony Gamble: No one came because you are not the man you once were, TAL. You’re a one trick pony, one beat of a stick away from being a meme, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat because even the Jersey boys couldn’t stand you until I came out there, and that’s saying a lot.

Suddenly, a dull roar starts to emanate from the crowd as a figure hops over the guardrail.

Nick Stuart: Is that, is that…

Richard Parker: TONY, WATCH OUT!!

Before Tony can react, The Anglo Luchador, in a hoodie and jeans posts up behind him, looking like he’s about to pounce. Tony is still confused to the reaction until he feels a tap on his back. He turns around to come face to face with a bent over Luchador.

TAL: Boo.

Gamble leaps back startled to hell and back before backpacking to the far ropes and stumbling out of the ring. The Luchador laughs histrionically as Tony yells at the crowd to stop laughing at him.

We move elsewhere.

The screen fades in slowly.

A dark production room somewhere deep inside the arena.

No branding, no PRIME logo and no production crew.

One exposed hanging bulb swings gently above a long folding table, casting shadows across the concrete walls. Old production crates are stacked in the corners of the room. Cables snake across the floor. The low hum of generators vibrates in the background.

Sitting behind the table is Danny Christie.

Elbows resting forward and hands clasped together.

The Alias Championship sits directly in front of him.

With a glisten and shine from the metal as it collides with the only light source.

A championship that is fought man-to-man on local farmlands with blood and guts, yet there’s not a blemish of dirt on this prestigious title.

Danny stares directly into the camera for a few seconds before speaking.

Danny Christie: Do you like violence?

A pause.

Danny Christie: Of course you do.

We all do.

That’s the dirty little secret, innit?

Everybody walks around pretending they’re civilised. Pretending they’re above all this. But deep down we’re all still just meat.

Walking meat, talking meat and bleeding meat.

All waiting for the day somebody sharper comes along and carves a piece off us.

Danny slowly leans back in the chair.

Danny Christie: And people hate hearing that because it strips everything away.

Because a workhorse never gets the fruit.

The loud mouths get it, the pretty boys get it and the greedy businessmen get it.

And listen, the animal doing all the pulling gets worked into the ground until there’s nothing left but bone and sweat.

That’s the honest truth of the matter.

Because once violence enters the room, everybody remembers exactly what they are.

Danny taps the Alias Championship with two fingers.

CLANG.

Danny Christie: Did you forget about me?

Impossible.

Because everybody talks a good game until it’s time to actually do business.

Everybody says they want the fight, everybody says they want violence…

AND everybody says they want Ultraviolence!

…Until they realise what comes with it.

Then suddenly it’s too dangerous and too horror inflicted.

Too ugly for their sheltered brains.

Danny leans forward slightly.

Danny Christie: You know exactly who I’m talking about.

All of you.

You still watch though.

You still lean forward in your seat hoping somebody gets split open.

Hoping somebody loses a piece of themselves.

Opening a vessel for the cause…

You understand?

A faint smirk crosses Danny’s face.

Danny Christie: That’s why this is the hottest ticket in the whole of PRIME.

Keep your pillowfights.

This ain’t that.

Fields in the middle of nowhere. Barns with leaking roofs. Caravan sites packed shoulder to shoulder with men waving cash around waiting to see who folds first.

The smell of mud, blood, cigarettes, and cooked meat hanging in the cold air.

Danny looks down at the belt for a moment.

Danny Christie: Men travelled across the country for this thing. Because deep down every man wants to know the same thing.

Am I a predator…

…or livestock?

His eyes lift back toward the camera.

Danny Christie: And the Alias Championship answered that question real fast.

You found out who could fight when they were tired. Who could fight when they were scared. Who could still stand there after their nose was leaking across their lips and both eyes were closing shut.

Danny leans forward now.

Voice calmer and more poised.

Danny Christie: If this is my corner of PRIME like everyone talks about…

If this is my piece of land…

Then cockle-doodle-doo…

I’m like a pig in shit, happy to provide the entertainment.

Silence fills the room.

Danny Christie: At Ultraviolence…

PRIME’s gonna remember that too.

A sudden inhuman screech erupts from the darkness off-camera.

AAARRRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHH!

SLAM.

A cooked pig’s head mounted on a metal spit crashes onto the table beside the Alias Championship.

Danny doesn’t react.

Fred Dick slowly emerges from the darkness behind him, breathing heavily with wild eyes and a manic grin stretched across his face.

PRIME does not cut to black but rather slowly zooms in on the lonely, lonely pig’s head sitting beside the Alias Championship…

…just as the first fly starts getting acquainted.

Buzz

Buzz

Nick Stuart: We’ve got triple threat action on the books next, Rich!

Richard Parker: You talking about this threeway with Sage Pontiff, Blaze Claymore, and Steve Lemieux coming up next? Nah, Nick, this isn’t a triple “threat” per se. This is a one on one on one half. Now me with a chili dog and a dry martini? THAT is a triple threat, my friend!

Nick Stuart: I’ll keep that under consideration, partner. Right now, let’s head to the ring…

We jump to the ring. Ring announcer Vince Howard stands there clutching the mic like it was the crux of his existence. Senior referee Elvis Nixon stands by, running a comb through that bitchin’ pompadour of his.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a triple threat match scheduled for one fall!

“Sandstorm” by Darude plays over the PA. To almost no fanfare, Steve Lemieux apprehensively creeps through the curtain and timidly makes his way down the aisle. Somehow, his attempts to be as inconspicuous as possible results in him standing out even more.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Peoria, Illinois, and weighing in at one-hundred and eighty-nine pounds… STEVE LEMIEUX!!

Richard Parker: Dead man walking, Nick. He’s cooked. He’s meat. Sliced and smoked. Cured. He’s pastrami, Nick. On rye. With Swiss. Light on the mustard. And could I get a pickle spear with that, also?

Nick Stuart: Why are you asking me? Ask Steve Lemieux.

The lights in the arena go pitch black.

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

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

A pause. A heartbeat.

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE!

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

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

Vince Howard: ANNNNNNND the opponent! Hailing from Montevideo, Minnesota, standing at 6’1 and weighing 180 pounds he is THE LIGHTHOUSE … BLAAAAAAZE CLAYMORE.

FIRE! TICKING LIKE A TIMEBOMB!

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

FIRE! BURNING LIKE NAPALM!

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

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

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

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

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE….

Richard Parker: Truer words have never been said!

Nick Stuart: Rich… nobody wants to hear about your pacemaker surgery.

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band plays next over the PA. Pontiff appears through a dense fog on the stage, bows to the capacity crowd, and casually makes his way down the aisle.

Vince Howard: And the final competitor, hailing from Rancho Mundo, Michigan, by way of Joshua Tree, California… he weighs in at two-hundred and one pounds… the BODHISATTVA of TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENCE… SAGE PONTIFF!!

Richard Parker: Things are about to get NAM-ASTY in that ring, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff has a real look of focus as he makes his way to the ring! He’s looking to bounce back after that match against the newly converted bandit, Big Ian Salt!

All three entrants are in the ring, and Elvis Nixon is making his final pat-downs. Immediately, Blaze and Sage lock eyes, and it becomes clear who they’re going with. Steve stands in his corner, nervous chewing on his nails as he looks between not just one but TWO very capable opponents.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon looks ready to go! He cues for the bell!

DING DING

The equilateral triangle of three competitors quickly becomes acute as Blaze and Sage immediately close distance. Steve stands frozen in the corner like a deer in headlights as the two of them smash into a classic collar-and-elbow.

Nick Stuart: Claymore and Pontiff are off to the races here! Steve Lemieux… looking a bit indecisive out of the gate.

Richard Parker: He can barely handle one opponent. How in the hell is going to handle two?

Claymore digs in, forcing Sage back to the corner where Lemieux happens to be standing. With a yelp, Steve scurries out of the way just as Pontiff’s back hits the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Blaze Claymore has Sage backed into the corner! Nixon calls for the break, and Blaze gives it to him without protest.

Knowing not to underestimate the ever unassuming man who ended his Alias Title reign at Colossus, Blaze briefly throws a look on his shoulder to check in on Lemieux. Unsurprisingly, he’s cringing away in the far corner. The glance costs him, however, as Sage tears out of the corner with a surprise back elbow.

Nick Stuart: Elbow landed by Sage! There’s another! And he quickly switches places with Claymore and lays into him while he’s trapped against the turnbuckles!

Richard Parker: And no clean break here, huh? Pontiff just really laying it in!

A feeling of primal savagery rises within the Pontiff of PRIME as he ignores Nixon and unloads forearm after forearm, and his face shows that he relishes in it. The ref finally has enough after the count of four and pushes him off.

Richard Parker: Are there DQs in triple threat matches, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Thought you said this wasn’t a triple threat?

Richard Parker: Just answer the question!

Nick Stuart: Referee’s discretion, or so I’m told.

Pontiff grabs the dazed Claymore by the wrist, pulls him off the turnbuckles, and sends him running with an Irish whip. Halfway across the ring, Blaze snaps to life, plants his boot to make the pivot, and reverses the momentum to send Pontiff running in his place. Once again, Steve Lemieux yelps and rolls out of the way before Sage can bump into the corner.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff with a hard collision against the turnbuckles after the reversed Irish whip, and now here comes Blaze to follow up… NO! Quick back body drop by Sage sends him over the ropes and to the outside!

Blaze thankfully gets his feet under him before he hits the floor, but takes a hard bump to the shoulder when momentum drags him the rest of the way down. Sage turns around, and finds himself alone in the ring with a panic-stricken Lemieux.

Richard Parker: Whelp…

Nick Stuart: Sage sets his sights on Steve Lemieux, who’s been little more than a third wheel in this match, up until right now!

Pontiff approaches Lemieux. Steve tries to run, but with the speed and agility of a hungry mountain lion, Sage runs a bit faster and ensnares the Anti-Banger in a rear waistlock. Still trying to run, Lemieux’s feet leave the canvas, and Sage deadlifts him back into a German suplex.

Nick Stuart: SUPLEX by Sage connects!

As if his vertebrae was held together by a slinky, Steve rolls through off the impact and returns to his feet, albeit very, very

Nick Stuart: And a GUTWRENCH suplex to follow it up!

Richard Parker: Watch the tum tum!

Nick Stuart: Sage back up… bounces off the ropes… RUNNING SHOOTING STAR PRESS straight into the lateral pin!

One!

Two!

BROKEN UP by Blaze Claymore, sliding back into the ring!

Though it would be easier to grab Pontiff by his mane of dreadlocks, Blaze instead pulls Sage up by the neck, keeping him temporarily stunned with a set of forearms across the back. When he’s fully up, Claymore sizes him up and pops him with a European uppercut that knocks him into the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Here comes the Lighthouse, charging forward with a head full of steam… CLOTHESLINE over the ropes sends to the… NO, WAIT! Pontiff keeps hold of the top rope!

Claymore turns back to collect Lemieux, who hasn’t budged from his place on the mat. In doing so, he misses Sage skinning the cat back into the ring behind him.

Nick Stuart: Blaze Claymore has Lemieux back up, and pushes him off the ropes to send him into motion… and gets IMMEDIATELY taken out by SAGE by way of a COSMIC RESONATOR! He makes the pin!

One!

Two!

NO!! Steve Lemieux came off the ropes and TRIPPED over them!

Sage storms to his feet, grabbing Steve before he can scramble away and scooping him off the mat. He turns to Claymore as the Lighthouse is rising back to his feet and tosses Lemieux into his arms. Blaze catches him, but Sage’s follow-up legsweep chops him down.

Nick Stuart: Sage with the SWEEP, puts Blaze Claymore on his back… with STEVE ON TOP!

One!

Two!

BROKEN UP by Pontiff, bringing that heel down over the back of Lemieux’s head!

Sage boots Lemieux aside and focuses on Claymore, pulling the Lighthouse back to his feet and tucking his head under the arm to set him up for a DDT. But instead of going down, Blaze blocks it by grabbing a handful of jakarta pants, and falls back the other way.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff was looking for the DDT, but it’s REVERSED into back body drop by Claymore–and Sage lands RIGHT ACROSS THE CHEST of Lemieux! Blaze now rolls Sage aside and makes the cover on Steve!

ONE!

TWO!

SAGE breaks it up! BASEMENT DROPKICK to the face of Blaze as soon as he’s up, and now HE makes the cover on Lemieux!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!! Blaze got there before the three!

Richard Parker: This match is turning into a race between Sage and Blaze to see who can pin Steve first!

With what little life is left in him, Steve Lemieux tries to crawl free from the dogpile. But before he can even get within whiffing distance of the ropes, Pontiff snags him by the ankle and yanks him back up.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff is trying to stay in control here! He’s got Steve Lemieux back up… headscissor… waistlock… could it be time for the SHAMANIC DREAMWEAVER?!

Richard Parker: Not if Claymore has anything to say about it!

Nick Stuart: Here comes Blaze off the ropes… Sage sees him coming and lifts Steve into a PILEDRIVER–OOH!! And LEMIEUX takes the leaping knee strike right into the midsection!

Richard Parker: Again, WATCH the TUM TUM! He’s SENSITIVE there!

Sage is knocked back a few steps by the impact, but is otherwise unharmed, and sets Lemieux back to his feet. Steve slowly rises up, clutching his midsection, when a sharp mule kick catches him in the chest!

Nick Stuart! NAMASTE by Sage Pontiff, sending Lemieux straight into Claymore!

The kick sends Steve careening back, resulting in the back of his head colliding into Claymore jaw! Blaze reels but quickly rallies back, grabbing Lemieux by the head and thrusting him forward into a second-hand SPEAR that catches Pontiff in the middle and doubles him over!

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux is just getting ping-ponged back and forth in there!

Richard Parker: Well, I suppose it makes sense, considering he’s more useful than a folding chair! And perfectly legal, too!

Sage clutches his abs, but soon shrugs off the pain, backs into the ropes, and leapfrogs the bent over Lemieux into a flying forearm that catches Blaze perfectly in the temple! Claymore nearly goes down, but hooks an arm over the ropes to keep from going down. Pontiff turns his attention back on Steve, who reveals a face full of agony and distress as he rises up to his full height once more.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff with a STANDING FRANKESTEINER on Lemieux–Steve just RAGDOLLED back onto his feet!

Richard Parker: He’s just Weekend At Bernie’s-ing it at this point!

Nick Stuart: Lemieux stumbling–wait, BLAZE OFF THE ROPES–CATCHES HIM INTO A SPANISH FLY!! Claymore with the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

ROLLS ASIDE as SAGE COMES DOWN WITH THE LEGDROP!! Lemieux gets NAILED AGAIN!! Pontiff with the COVER!!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!! Rolls off before Claymore can connect with the kick aimed at his head!

The Bodhisattva pulls Lemieux up with him as he rolls back onto his feet, using him as a human shield to block a follow-up kick by Blaze, and shoving him forward like a human battering ram. This time, Claymore jukes to the side, and Steve instead crashes into the turnbuckles, where he proceeds to hang lifelessly.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff with an OPEN-HAND PALM STRIKE on Blaze… Blaze shrugs it off, connects with a SLAP OF HIS OWN!

Richard Parker: Uh oh! Think that may have set something off!

Pontiff reels lightly off the blow. When his face reappears beneath his mop of dreads, a small trickle of blood has formed in the corner of his smile. He wipes it away, and promptly returns the receipt. Claymore eats the slap, shakes his head, and fires back. Sage fires back as well. Within seconds, it escalates into an all-out exchange of artillery fire.

Nick Stuart: It’s ONE-THOUSAND LAKES versus SEVEN CHAKRAS!! Both competitors are absolutely UNLOADING EVERYTHING THEY GOT on each other right now!

Richard Parker: Four-twenty, BLAZE-IT, el-oh-el!

Nick Stuart: We’ve seen Sage Pontiff tap into this wild side of his plenty of times right now, but Claymore is showing he can go there too! Wait a sec… WHAT is STEVE LEMIEUX DOING?!

Having gathered enough wits to once more find his footing, Steve Lemieux has taken to stumbling around the ring, blindly searching for the official to request that he please, oh please, stop the match, because everything hurts, and I think I may be dying. Unfortunately for Steve, Elvis Nixon stands on the OTHER side of the back-and-forth bedlam happening between Claymore and Pontiff. Then, like a duck idly trying to walk past a running turbine engine, he gets sucked straight into the thick of it.

Nick Stuart: LEMIEUX INADVERTENTLY STUMBLES RIGHT BETWEEN THEM, AND NOW THEY’RE LIGHTING HIM UP FROM BOTH SIDES!!

Richard Parker: That’s one sandwich you ain’t gonna find on the menu at LeMoo’s!

The crowd ROARS (for some reason) as Lemieux is uncontrollably knocked every which way, remaining on his feet only because every powerful slap keeps him in a state of continuous stunlock. Finally, Ker-POW… a stunning right hand from Claymore sends him falling against the chest of Sage. Pontiff lightly pats him on the back a couple times before shoving him off and practically decapitating him with a spinning heel kick. Lemieux careens uncontrollable off the canvas like a crash test dummy jettisoned from a vehicle, landing in a tangled mess against the ropes.

Nick Stuart: SPINNING HEEL by Sage, and DOWN goes Lemieux… MERCIFULLY!! Now here comes Claymore with the lariat–DUCKED by Pontiff… ATHARVAVEDA!!

Blaze eats a hard bump off the released Dragon Suplex and rolls precariously close to the edge of the ring, almost falling out. Sage quickly goes over to where Lemieux is tangled into the ropes and pulls him back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff sees his chance to put this away… HE’S GOT LEMIEUX SET… YES!! SHAMANIC DREAMWEAVER!!

Sage absolutely SPIKES the Canadian Destroyer. Bouncing off his own momentum, he immediately pops to his feet. By some anomaly in modern physics, Steve Lemieux is ALSO on his feet, having landed there off the jolting impact, looking like he could go down from a gentle breeze. While Pontiff is amazed at the sight of this, he inexplicably walks into a waiting Claymore.

Nick Stuart: MONKEY FLIP by Blaze, and Sage Pontiff gets thrown into the turnbuckles!

Richard Parker: More like a POSSUM flip! I thought Claymore was out of this!

Nick Stuart: Blaze back on his feet… grabs Lemieux before he goes down… LAKE EFFECT!! LAKE EFFECT!!

Steve, who was barely alive to begin with, crumbles immediately to the modified side slam. Claymore rolls him onto his back and hooks the legs. With a foot caught in the tree of woe, all Sage can do is reach helplessly.

Nick Stuart: Claymore’s got it in the bag here!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!! And that’s ALL she wrote!

DING DING DING

“Change Your Heart or Die” hits the PA. Claymore rises up to his knees and pumps both fists into the air in triumph, before allowing Nixon to keep one raised as he gets to his feet so it’s all official-like. Finally freed from the turnbuckles, Pontiff clutches at his dreads in disappointment. Lemieux, expectedly, just lies there motionless.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, by pinfall… “THE LIGHTHOUSE”… BLAAAAAAZZZE CLAAAAAAYYYMOOOOOORRRE!!!

Nick Stuart: Blaze Claymore picks up a big triple threat win here tonight, avenging Colossus by getting the pinfall on Steve Lemieux! It almost looked like Sage Pontiff had it there, but Claymore showed patience, and waited for the opportunity to present itself!

Richard Parker: Triple threat, my foot! This was all Blaze and Sage, with that Lemieux idiot getting caught up in the middle! I would have put money on the Bodhisattva had the sandwich man not been involved!

Nick Stuart: Anything can happen when there’s more than two competitors involved, as we know well, Rich. In any case, Blaze Claymore rose to the occasion this evening, which is why he’s walking away with the dub!

Claymore and Pontiff exchange nods of respect before the former takes the party to the back, and the latter hangs in the ring to reflect on things. Meanwhile, Elvis Nixon is using a floor scraper to peel the Lemieux schmuck off his canvas, where someone outside is waiting to collect him with a wheelbarrow.

Nick Stuart: Let’s go to the back real quick to follow up! After that, tag team action is on the way!

SMASH CUT to elsewhere in the UBS Arena as we see the letters “B-L-A-Z-E” running vertically along the screen only to zoom out and reveal the back of a flowing white-and-red robe, flowing behind the Lighthouse as he speedwalks down a lengthy hallway with a nervous Daihm Ferguson in tow.

Daihm Ferguson: Are you sure you’re good? You don’t need a rest after that last match?

There doesn’t answer, instead Blaze reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of notebook paper, shoulders dipping just enough that we see the Time Lord themselves, Anna Daniels, calmly chilling outside of the Whoresman’s locker room as the pair approach.

Anna looks up, eyebrows raised, as Blaze closes the distance just enough to forcefully push the piece of notebook paper against the wall next to The Muse.

SLAP

Blaze Claymore: How long have you known?

Anna sighs and calmly looks sideways at the paper and then back to Blaze.

Anna Daniels: You’ll have to be more specific.

Blaze narrows his gaze at Anna.

Blaze Claymore: How long have you known the lighthouse was underground?

The Time Lord rolls her eyes as she slips away from the wall and soft claps dismissively as Blaze’s right eye begins to twitch involuntarily.

Anna Daniels: Slightly longer than you, apparently. Great job at finally connecting the dots. Took you a minute, eh? Oh. Hey, Daihm.

Daihm looks from Anna to Blaze nervously.

Daihm Ferguson: Oi, I don’t know what this is all about, but can we just take a breath here?

Anna Daniels (smirking): We can take a few, yeah. How many does Candledick have left, we wonder?

Blaze roars angrily, driving his forearm against Anna Daniels’ throat and pressing her against the wall. As he does, the door to the Whoresman dressing room opens as Daytona Diamonds pokes his head out and takes in the scene.

Anna shakes her head at Daytona who simply nods and closes the locker room door as he heads back inside and Blaze retracts his arm, still seething.

Anna Daniels: You’re fucked. You know that, right?

Blaze Claymore: That’s what you think.

Anna Daniels: No, it’s what we know unless you get your shit together.

Blaze throws his hands up.

Blaze Claymore (exasperated): You are unbelievable! You knew the lighthouse was just suppressed, not gone. You knew that there was a way to save them – to save Montevideo weeks… no, months ago. And rather than do something about it you turned it into some sick game for your own amusement. You claim to have all this power, all this knowledge of different timelines and what do you do with it, huh, Anna? You act like an entitled brat that only thinks about themselves.

Anna shoves Blaze backwards forcefully, catching the Lighthouse off guard.

Anna Daniels: And you’ve been walking around PRIME like an even more depressed version of Jonathan Christopher Hall–which is somehow more impressive than it is sad–moaning about Sonja and your mom and Max Kael and getting your balls tenderized by Steve fucking Lemieux! But have you done anything about it? No! Your hometown is just as fucked as it ever has been, with or without Snark’s book, and here you are trying to argue with a Time Lord about goddamned semantics!

Blaze recoils, looking at Daihm for support but the Dragon simply shrugs as if to say “I don’t know what the hell either of you are even talking about”

Anna Daniels: See, even Daihmerys Targayrean gets it.

Daihm Ferguson: I don’t… actually.

Anna Daniels (waves dismissively): The lighthouse isn’t our responsibility, it’s yours. Not our fault you can’t put two and two together.

Anna tries to reach for the Whoresman locker room door, but Blaze slams his arm in front of her, blocking her path.

Blaze Claymore: It is your fault, Anna. Because you’re nothing but a selfish asshole.

Anna sneers at Blaze.

Anna Daniels: Okay, so. Number one: we have our moments of being both of those things, so fair play. Number two: this is the third time you’ve done the whole kabedon bullshit. Hate to disappoint you and your flamboyant twink ass boyfriend here, but we’re spoken for. And number three: as much as it would be nice to play hero and leave you purposeless, turns out we can’t even graze our toes near the city limits. We’ve tried that already.

Blaze hesitates just enough to allow Anna the opportunity to shove his arm out of the way and reach the Whoresman’s locker room door. As she turns the doorknob, she looks back at Blaze with a mix of disdain, anger, and disappointment.

Anna Daniels: Man the fuck up, Candledick. Or do us all a favor and just disappear.

But before Anna can close the door and join her stablemates, Blaze shoves his foot in the door jam and locks eyes with Anna.

Blaze Claymore: Disappear, huh?

Anna Daniels (annoyed): Did we stutter?

Blaze steps backward, removing his foot and flashing a smile.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah. I can work with that.

Anna’s face contorts into a rare look of surprise as Blaze runs a hand through his hair and laughs. The Time Lord slowly steps back and closes the locker room door, leaving Blaze and an increasingly confused Daihm alone in the hallway.

Daihm Ferguson: I still don’t get it!

Backstage, there is only the sound of wheels squeaking against the concrete and linoleum.

Well, okay, so it’s not only that. That just happens to be what’s going on in this particular hallway. While there could be a number of reasons for it, especially given the way that equipment is stored and transported, the truth of it has to do with the wheelbarrow that is currently being shoved along a corridor.

The instrument itself looks very worn, rusted and dented and probably recently salvaged from a dumpster. Tomorrow, a local construction crew will wonder where one of their tools has wandered off to, and the answer will be “right here.”

That answer will come with a caveat: “Also, Steve Lemieux might have soiled himself in it. You can ask him yourself. He’s probably still sitting in the goddamn thing.”

And so it is that Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., professional wrestling’s self-proclaimed first and preeminent lawyer-doctor, shoves a piece of home improvement equipment down the hall with a sweating, bleeding, and probably-crying sack of a man balled up inside. That man? Steve Lemieux.

Duh.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Jonny Wombat! Dickman! One of you come and push the reverse rickshaw!

Oliver Cade, the youngest of the group, looks beat to shit and moves like someone who has recently been powerbombed within the confines of a family restaurant. This is because he has in fact been recently powerbombed within the confines of a family restaurant. Still, he takes the first step to ease the burden that Zeke currently carries, only something odd happens.

Rick Hardbody, mustachioed prick that he is, raises a barricading arm across Cade’s chest as he steps in front of him. The gesture seems to surprise both men, and it’s only when Rick realizes that he’s on camera does he snort out a performative breath.

Rick Hardbody: (under his breath) Weak-ass.

They’re only a few steps down the hall when Matt Mills enters the fray, sliding into frame like an overeager game-show host as behind the group a cadre of production staff slide the traditional PRIME backdrop into place behind them.

The smile on his face is wide, almost too wide, so you know that whatever this is can’t be good for Steve.

Matt Mills: Hello, everyone! I’m Matt Mills, here with Steve Lemieux to get his thoughts on what Big Ian Salt showed us all earlier this evening.

One of the production staff scurries over with an iPad, around which Ollie, Rick, and Zeke gather. The video that they’re shown – the same as was seen earlier in the night – is also superimposed over the current scene in the upper right corner of the at-home viewer’s screen. That’s where Steve’s eyes go, though there’s no way he should be able to see it.

LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches (in beautiful downtown Peoria, Illinois) has its interior wrecked.

Steve Lemieux: (sad moaning noises)

Young master Cade is ferociously powerbombed.

Before us, the live version of Ollie Cade flinches. Steve’s close arm slowly tentacles its way through the air and flops against Cade in an attempt to commiserate with him.

Steve Lemieux: (the sounds of whimpering despair)

And finally, Big Ian Salt adding insult to injury by calling Steve’s beloved American Gladiators fake.

A farce.

A sham.

Fugazi.

Faux.

THE (allcaps) BULLSHIT.

Steve falls eerily silent. The group watches as his demeanor shifts. No longer just a lump of human shaped laundry in a wheelbarrow, there is a growing, burning intensity behind his eyes. Eyes which are now wide and twitching.

His face rapidly gets redder and redder, as if there’s a bomb under his skin just waiting to explode.

Matt Mills, having been tortured by these boobs for over a year, can’t hide the fact that he takes some joy in this.

Matt Mills: Steve, what are your thoughts on what Big Ian Sa-

Steve launches himself out of the wheelbarrow, both arms flailing, and bowls through Mills. The reporter is sent scrabbling backwards to try and maintain his footing, but gravity has other plans and it’s not long before Mills lands hard on his backside.

Steve Lemieux: RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHBARGLBARGL!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, no.

You never go full… uhh… whatever that is.

The sandwich man’s entire body convulses in a series of herky-jerk motions, like his blood has been replaced entirely by Monster brand energy drinks.

Steve Lemieux: That… that… th-thatthatthatTHATTHATTHATTHAT… THAT!!!! MAN!!!!

He roars again, and even Rick finds himself taking a step back.

Steve Lemieux: Is… is… he is…

A pause, and a bellow.

Steve Lemieux: A BUNS-HEAD!!!!!!!!

He storms off down the hall, powerwalking off to god-knows-where.

We fade, not on Steve, but on the collection of shocked faces that stare after him.

Nick Stuart: ReVival 88 keeps on trucking with more action! Up next, a tag match featuring You Don’t Make Friends with Salad – That’s Johnny Dorn and Mikey Giuliano, taking on The Lonesome Doves – The #1 Contender for the Universal Title, Daytona Diamonds, and current Five Star Champion, Rob Williams, and former tag team champions themselves!

Richard Parker: Big fan of Toner and Robby, but this is an injustice! Why didn’t Dorn and Giuly get an entrance?

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure, but they are in the ring awaiting their opponents, and Vince Howard is ready to announce them!

Vince Howard: The following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall! Already standing in the ring are Johnny Dorn and Mikey Giuliani, out of Chicago, Illinois! They are… YOU! DON’T! MAKE! FRIENDS! WITH! …SALLLLLLLLLADDDD!!!

…a pregnant pause while Giuliano and Dorn pose…

Vince Howard: And… their opponents…

The unmistakable voicey bass and drum rhythm of “Pony” by Ginuwine hits the speakers.

And outcome an entire army of strippers…

They…

My god they are carrying Rob Williams and Daytona Diamonds to the ring like ritual sacrifices! Hoisted on the shoulders of a bevy of ladies, the two men make their way to the ring!

I’m just a bachelor

I’m looking for a partner

Someone who knows how to ride

Without even falling off

Gotta be compatible

Takes me to my limits

Girl, when I break you off

I promise that you won’t want to get off

The two utterly shameless bastards get dropped off at the steps by the strippers, who then make their way to the back.

Richard Parker: How much do you think they paid those girls for that?

Nick Stuart: Too much, Richard. Too much.

If you’re horny, let’s do it

Ride it, my pony

My saddles waiting

Come and jump on it

Vince Howard: They are… THE LONESOME DOVES! ROB WILLIAMS AND DAYTONA DIAMONDS!!!

Rob and Daytona make their way into the ring, looking at Dorn and Giuliano confused. “Who are these guys?” type shit.

Once things are decided, its Mikey Giuliano and Rob Williams who kick things off.

DING! DING!

The Five Star Champion locks up in the center of the ring with Giuliano, and after a bit of struggle, simply uses his strength to shove Giuliano to his back! Embarrassed, Giuliano kips up for aura recovery, gives a thumbs up to the crowd—

AND EATS ABSOLUTE SHIT BY WAY OF A ROB WILLIAMS LARIAT!!!

Nick Stuart: I THINK THAT WAS ATTEMPTED MURDER!!!

Richard Parker: ATTEMPTED??? I JUST SAW GIULY’S SOUL FLOAT OFF TO CHICAGO HEAVEN!!!

Nick Stuart: Chicago Heaven?

Richard Parker: Yeah, it’s like New York Heaven only nobody important lives there and the pizza isn’t as legendary.

Rob drags Giuliano up to his feet, and whips him into his own corner, where Daytona Diamonds CLUBS him in the chest, talking mad shit and flexing his massive biceps all the while. Rob wraps his fists around the top rope, and uses that as a stabilizing force while he sends boot after boot after VICIOUS boot into Giuliano’s ribs. Eventually, Giuliano simply slumps into the corner, and those boots turn into mud hole stomps, and stomps a mud hole is precisely what Rob Williams does! When he finally finishes he turns to the crowd and roars, feeling himself, feeling his own timing. He tags in Daytona—

And the Big Ass Rhinestone Cowboy storms into the ring like he’s breaking a horse. Double time from the big freak, he immediately picks up where Rob left off, stomping that mud hole deeper. Finally, he picks Giuliano up, carries him over to the center of the ring, and shoves his head right in between his legs.

HANG ‘EM HIGH POWERBOMB!!!

BOOOOOOOM!!!

Nick Stuart: And this one might be over before it ever got started!

Jimmy Turnbull makes the count!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THR— SMACK!!! A SUPERKICK RIGHT TO DAYTONA’S KISSER FROM JOHNNY DORN!!!

Richard Parker: Oh no, you shouldn’t have done that Johnny…

Indeed. Besides Turnbull yelling at him to cut the malarkey and get out of the ring, Daytona is livid. Dorn has leapt over the top rope back to his corner, but Daytona doesn’t give a shit! He’s grabbed Dorn by the throat!

Thumb to the eye by Dorn and he drops from the apron to escape! But look out, here comes Daytona! He gives chase and Dorn is SPRINTING around the ring!

SMACK!!

Nick Stuart: Dear LORD!!! HE TURNED THE CORNER AND ROB WILLIAMS PUNCHED HIM IN THE THROAT!!!

Dorn clamors and clutches at his throat, turning around—

Right into Daytona, who elbows him in the jaw, pops him up into the air!!!

…AND ROB GIVES HIM A CUTTER ON THE WAY DOWN!!!

Richard Parker: ALLEY OOP!!!

Rob gets up to his feet, and he and Daytona look at each other giggling, impressed with themselves.

Thats when—

Nick Stuart: GIULIANO WITH A CORKSCREW PLANCHA OVER THE TOP ROPE!!! HE WIPES OUT BOTH ROB AND DAYTONA!!!

Giuliano crashes down across both members of The Lonesome Doves and suddenly the entire complexion of the match changes.

Nick Stuart: Desperation pays off! Mikey Giuliano just bought himself some breathing room!

Richard Parker: Breathing room? I think he bought himself oxygen, water, and a week’s worth of groceries after the beating he was taking!

The crowd comes alive as Giuliano scrambles back to his feet, clutching at his ribs but refusing to stay down. Daytona is rolling around holding the back of his head while Rob has been folded awkwardly against the barricade.

Giuliano sees his opening.

And he takes it.

He grabs Daytona by the wrist and HURLS him face-first into the ring steps!

CLANG!!!

Nick Stuart: Direct hit!

Daytona stumbles backward, dazed.

SMACK!

A running dropkick from Giuliano sends him crashing into the steel a second time.

Meanwhile Rob Williams is getting up.

Which is unfortunate for Mikey.

Because Rob immediately snatches him by the back of the head.

Only for Giuliano to mule kick him in the stomach first!

THUD!

Then another!

THUD!

Then a sharp enzuigiri catches Rob flush on the temple!

The Five Star Champion staggers into the apron and suddenly the fans are roaring.

Richard Parker: I don’t believe this! Tihe Chicago boys are fighting back!

Nick Stuart: Sometimes all it takes is one opening!

Dorn climbs back onto the apron as Giuliano rolls Rob into the ring. He follows closely behind, scrambling up to his feet.

Giuliano points dramatically toward his corner.

The crowd responds.

Rob Williams is climbing back to his feet.

Johnny Dorn is practically hanging halfway over the ropes begging for the tag.

Mikey dives underneath a wild clothesline attempt from Rob, springs off the middle rope, and lands on his feet. Rob turns—

SUPERKICK!

Not enough to drop the powerhouse Five Star Champion, but enough to rock him.

Giuliano sprints.

One step.

Two steps.

Three.

And launches himself toward his corner.

Nick Stuart: HE’S ALMOST THERE!

The fans rise as Dorn stretches as far as humanly possible from the apron.

But Daytona Diamonds has recovered.

The Rhinestone Cowboy dives across the floor, grabs Dorn’s ankle, and yanks him backward just before he can make the tag.

Giuliano faceplants hard on the canvas. Dorn lands awkwardly on the floor, and catches a big time open palmed uppercut from the #1 Contender.

The crowd groans.

Daytona slides back into the ring, dragging Dorn with him by the leg like a hunter hauling a deer carcass.

Richard Parker: That’s what happens when you get hopeful, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Why is Daytona even doing this? Dorn is NOT the legal man!

Daytona stands Dorn up—

But Mikey Giuliano suddenly fires a forearm!

Then another!

Then another!

The big man barely budges.

Giuliano bounces off the ropes looking for momentum—

AND RUNS DIRECTLY INTO A DAYTONA DIAMONDS SPINEBUSTER THAT SHAKES THE RING TO ITS FOUNDATION!!!

BOOOOOOM!!!

Nick Stuart: Good grief!

Daytona sits up with a grin while Giuliano folds up like an accordion beside him.

The big cowboy gets to his feet, grabs Mikey by the head, and begins dragging him toward the Lonesome Doves’ corner.

Rob Williams has recovered.

His hand is out.

The Five Star Champion is ready.

And just like that, the Doves have successfully herded the action back into their side of the ring.

And just for good measure, a big boot from Daytona sends Dorn over the top rope. Then, he tags in Rob Williams.

Rob Williams gets in the ring and does Rob Williams things. He lays a few stomps to Mikey Giuliano, pulls him up, sets him up in the DDT position…

Swings…

Diamond cutter.

That Old Time Rock and Roll.

Williams hooks the leg.

Turnbull slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!

DING! DING!

Clockwork.

“Pony” by Ginuwine hits the speakers, and Daytona jumps in the ring to celebrate with Rob Williams.

Nick Stuart: Just became inevitable at the end, eh Richard?

Richard Parker: No shame escaping the ring with a loss against these two, Nick! Two of the best and baddest sons of guns to ever do it.

Vince Howard: Here are your winners…. ROB WILLIAMS! DAYTONA DIAMONDS! THE LONESOOOOOOME DOOOOOOVES!!!

Rob and Daytona pose in the ring victoriously.

We cut away.

We return from our second commercial break of the evening to a series of wide, panning shots of the jam packed UBS Arena. The shots linger for a while, almost as if there’s a technical error occurring somewhere else in the broadcast. Although we’ve already gotten the highlights from this week’s fan-made signs, the production crew seems to eat up some more time by focusing on some lesser known ones.

WE MISS ALEXEI RUSLAN

HARLEY WALKER WOULD’VE LOVED THAT LAST MATCH

STEVE LEMIUEX FEARS EVERYONE

Not the crowd’s best work, but kudos to them anyway.

Finally, the camera cuts to a tight shot of Nick Stuart at the ringside announcer’s desk.

Nick Stuart: Sorry about the…erm…delay, folks. We were led to believe we were going to hear from Bryan Dawkins following his defeat at the hands of the one and only King Blueberry, Jared Sykes. However, we’ve not heard from Dawkins yet this evening and at this point, it appears he might not even be in the building.

Richard Parker: He’s been a joke around here for eighteen years, Nick – why would that stop now?

Nick Stuart: Oh come on, Richard – even a homer like you can acknowledge that Dawkins has had quite the career revival over the past few months–

Richard Parker: He’s winless in his last three, Nick. A real hot streak.

An audible sigh can be heard.

“…my goodness, Richard – so impatient!”

Dawkins’ voice rings out over the PA system, prompting a swell of cheers from the Long Island crowd.

Out from the back strolls Dawkins without any pomp and circumstance. No entrance music, no light or pyrotechnic shows, no pineapple confetti.

Hell, he doesn’t even have his signature sunglasses on. Instead, he wears a beard that suggests that Bruh hasn’t shaved since the last time we saw him on PRIME television two weeks ago. His stubble has been replaced by a full beard and the lack of sunglasses reveals his heavy blue eyes.

Bryan Dawkins: So sorry to keep you all waiting – really.

He slowly continues his descent down the ramp, meandering his way toward the ring.

Bryan Dawkins: …especially you, Richard. I know how valuable your time is.

Richard Parker: That ungrateful little fu–

*click*

Bryan finally reaches the ring and effortlessly slides under the bottom rope and posts up in the middle of the ring.

Bryan Dawkins: Sorry, I’m a little…out of sorts lately.

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the King Blueberry mask.

Bryan Dawkins: I…uh…yeah.

Dawkins takes a moment to compose himself.

Bryan Dawkins: Obviously what happened last show was a lot for me. If I’m being honest, that whole situation made me feel pretty dumb, right? Spending seventeen years believing a complete lie. Finding out that my biggest rival wasn’t my rival after all…truth is, I’m not even sure I belong in the same ring as him.

He peers longingly at the mask, a symbol of what he hated for so very long until the veil was lifted two weeks ago.

Bryan Dawkins: But hey, at least I can say that I’ve got a win over a former Universal Champion and PRIME Hall of Famer, right? Silver lining to everything, as they say…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

His voice trails off as he tucks the mask back into his pocket.

Bryan Dawkins: …but that’s not why I’m out here today. I’m out here to finish the statement I was trying to make when I had that little diversion thanks to King—err, Jared Sykes.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The people – they love that man, don’t they?

Bryan Dawkins: Ivan – I’m talking to you again. Why don’t you lug your giant ass out here so we can settle this man-to-man.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins sounds like he’s calling out Intense Champion Ivan Stanislav…

Richard Parker: Yeah, the Ivan Stanislav who took his sorry carcass into The Red Army when no one wanted him! The Ivan Stanislav who put his butt on the map! And the Ivan Stanislav who demolished him at Culture Shock, took his title, and destroyed his win streak!!

But there’s no Ivan Stanislav. No pyro. No explosions. No crimson lighting. Just the screams of a crowd who go from excited, to pensive, to impatient.

Bryan Dawkins: Figures…the great Ivan Stanislav, our paper Intense Champion, continues to duck me. The self proclaimed “Most Feared Man in PRIME” seems to have a problem meeting face to face with the man he won that title from. Honestly, Ivan…c’mon bruh, I just wanna talk.

Richard Parker: The Intense Champion doesn’t need to do anything. Especially not for a loser like Bryan Dawkins!

Bryan Dawkins: Really, it’s not much of a surprise. I’m honestly shocked LT was able to squeeze a title defense out of him tonight. Look at how his two most recent Universal Title defenses went…

BOOM!

The explosion is seismic as several members of the crowd cover their ears and Richard Parker squeals. The pyro around the entryway burns high and leaves little mushroom clouds in its wake, as Ivan Stanislav, dressed in his gear for his upcoming Intense Title match against Max Kael, emerges slowly, ducking beneath the curtain. He holds the title on his shoulder and stands far away at the top of the ramp, with a bemused look on his face.

He says nothing.

Bryan Dawkins: Ivan…comrade…nice of you to finally oblige! Was it something I said?

Stanislav runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth and tilts his head to one side, but says nothing.

Bryan Dawkins: Before we get down to business, good luck tonight. You and I both know what Max is capable of…and it’d be a real shame if you kept that one-and-done streak going, eh bruh?

The crowd roars, while The Bear finally pulls a mic from his back pocket. His voice rumbles through the arena.

Ivan Stanislav: You had better get to point soon, Dawkins. What is this about?

Bryan Dawkins: Fine…let’s stop tiptoeing around this. You and I both know this isn’t finished. I’m sure you aren’t happy with resorting to weaponry just to beat me – the good Lord knows that I’m not. I’m sure there’s nothing that you’d like more than to beat me fair and square in the center of the ring. Mano y mano. Comrade to…well, former comrade.

Ivan looks to one side, and then the other. He chuckles.

Bryan Dawkins: So…you in, bruh?

Ivan’s chuckle turns into a full laugh. Not registering as a DYAAHAAHAA though. Not yet. But a laugh nonetheless.

Ivan Stanislav: First of all, as former Intense Champion, you should know that there are no rules in those matches, Dawkins. So while all of us at PRIME are used to hearing you bellyache, you can stop pissing your pants about a weapon in an Intense Title match. Yes, you have rarely held titles, but at least know what they are about, hm?”

Dawkins opens his mouth but Ivan barrels over him.

Ivan Stanislav: You be quiet! You call me out here and ask me to speak and so I will!

Stanislav levels a finger from afar.

Ivan Stanislav: As far as our last match goes, I am perfectly content with defeating you. And you, for your near two-decade career languishing in mediocrity, should be thankful that you even had a moment to stand in ring with me, let alone be pinned by me!

Ivan smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: I think you realize that you now have to settle for lesser opponents, with lesser meaning. Gone are the days of this great undefeated streak. Gone are the glimmers of greatness that you once tasted. Now, you speak with ash in your mouth and regret in your voice and want to try to remedy that. But no, I will not be one to give you another taste of that feeling. You believe you stand in that ring, right now? No, Bryan, you are still just the mud squeezed between the tread in my boot. And that is where you can belong.

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: Find wherever your self-respect is hiding and go pester someone else with your inferiority.

The crowd boos, but Ivan turns to leave.

Bryan Dawkins: IVAN – don’t you dare turn your back on me. You giant coward of a man. If you’re afraid that you’ll lose to little old me, just say it. ‘The truth will set you free’ as they say…

The Bear stops halfway and looks back at Dawkins with a crooked smirk. He doesn’t reply.

Bryan Dawkins: Hmmm…well, I guess it makes sense why Alexei hasn’t been around in a while. He, too, probably realized the old man’s gone soft and is now ducking competition instead of facing it head on like the Ivan Stanislav we all grew up watching. I mean, he was the brains of this operation anyway, isn’t that right?

That stops Stanislav, who turns slightly towards the ring once more.

Ivan Stanislav: I am not in habit of wasting time with glorified enhancement talent. You had your chance, Bryan, and you blew it.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, come on. Level with me – something is off here. What can I do or say to get you to agree that this isn’t over?

Ivan clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: What can you do? What could you do?

A wicked grin crosses Ivan’s face.

Ivan Stanislav: Beg me.

Bryan Dawkins: …Ivan.

Dawkins pauses for a moment, allowing the Bear’s request to really sink in. A smattering of boos is spread throughout the lower bowl of the arena as Bryan contemplates.

Bryan Dawkins: Ivan, please. One last shot. Seriously, no bullshit this time. The Ivan Stanislav I know has no reason to turn down this request. Hell, I don’t even want a rematch for the title, provided you still have it after tonight.

A wry grin flashes across his face before the seriousness sets back in.

Bryan Dawkins: But if I can’t do it, if I can’t beat you fair and square…

Dawkins pauses, inhaling deeply followed by a long, drawn out exhale. But Ivan is already leaving.

Bryan Dawkins: …you can have my career.

The Bear stops, and as he does, a slow swell of excitement starts to build within the crowd once more. Ivan turns, slowly.

Ivan Stanislav: Your career?

He stares curiously from the top of the ramp.

Ivan Stanislav: Bryan Dawkins… no one in their right mind would ever want your career.

He chuckles.

Ivan Stanislav: But if you mean I destroy whatever semblance of usefulness you ever had to anyone, be it myself, these fans, the commentators, or your son? If it means snatching away the last vestige of relevance you have in anyone’s mind other than yourself? If it means shattering the last ounce of importance you still have?

He rubs his broad, blocky chin through his beard.

Ivan Stanislav: I will happily relieve you of the burden that is your career. However!

He lifts one big finger.

Ivan Stanislav: It will cost me nothing. Because ultimately, I am destroying just the same. Nothing.

A wide smile dons Dawkins’ face after the challenge is accepted. The arena is buzzing with excitement as the former allies share a staredown from their respective positions.

Richard Parker: UltraViolence is going to be the best night of my entire life.

Nick Stuart: Better than your wedding day?

Richard Parker: Which one?

Nick Stuart: The hell is wrong with you? Bryan Dawkins just offered to put his career on the line in exchange for what?

Richard Parker: Are you kidding me, Nick? He gets the chance to do something not many in the industry have been able to do – have the absolute pleasure of being absolutely steamrolled by the greatest wrestler in the history of this company. What else could he ask for?

Nick Stuart: This man is putting his career – his livelihood on the line against a legend. It’s a tall task to take on Ivan under normal circumstances – this is just crazy.

Richard Parker: I stand by my original statement – UltraViolence 2026 is going to be the best night of my entire life.

Nick Stuart: (sighing) Folks, we’ve got to head elsewhere…

The shot opens on a backstage hallway. The PRIME ReViVal logo is on a banner behind. Angelica Brooks stands with her microphone, hair pulled back, a small smile on her face. Scott Hunter steps into frame, already in his gear, jacket on, tape on his wrists, hands loose at his sides.

Angelica Brooks: Scott, thanks for your time. I know tonight is a big evening, with a lot of weight on your shoulders given recent events, and before we get into anything else, I think I speak for everyone here in PRIME when I say… we’re so sorry about your father.

Scott Hunter: Thanks. That means a lot. Tell everyone back there I appreciate it.

Angelica Brooks: Of course. Now, you had some words for Nate Colton earlier this week. A lot of people saw the video, and a lot of people are still talking about it. And then Nate Colton had some words of his own. Obviously, he didn’t hear what you had to say beforehand, but he had a lot to say about you, about the match tonight, about what he’s going through with his sister. Have you had a chance to hear what he had to say?

Scott Hunter: I have. Yeah. I listened to it on the flight in.

Angelica Brooks: And what did you think?

Scott takes a small breath, then looks down for a second. Then, looks back up at her.

Scott Hunter: First thing I wanna say is, I’m sorry about Jennifer. I really am. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. But I know what it is to be scared for your family. I know what it is to feel like you can’t reach somebody you love. So if Nate hears this before he walks out to the ring… Nate, I hope you find her. I hope she’s safe. And if there’s anything I can do to help after tonight, anything at all, you tell me. I mean that.

Angelica Brooks: That’s very generous of you, especially under the circumstances.

Scott Hunter: It’s not generous. It’s just the right thing to do.

Angelica Brooks: Nate said some specific things about you, though. He called you, and I’m quoting here, “in the way.” He said you “just happen to be standing in the worst possible place on earth.” He talked about apologizing to you after the match for what he’s about to do. How did all of that land?

Scott pauses, not angry, just thinking.

Scott Hunter: Yeah, so I listened to that part a couple times, actually. Wanted to make sure I heard it right.

Angelica Brooks: And?

Scott Hunter: I wanna be real careful here, because Nate is going through something. I know that. And the last thing I wanna do is kick a guy when he’s got a sister missing. That’s not who I am. That’s not who my dad raised me to be.

Angelica Brooks: But?

Scott Hunter: (small smile) But.

Angelica Brooks: Go ahead.

Scott Hunter: Nate spent ten minutes telling everybody listening that I’m not really here. That I’m an inconvenience. That the match he’s got with me tonight is something he’s getting through so he can go do the thing he actually cares about. He said, “under normal circumstances,” he’d be excited to wrestle me. He said he’ll “owe me an apology” when it’s all over. He said he’s gonna apologize to me, Angelica. IN ADVANCE.

Angelica Brooks: That’s a strong choice of words.

Scott Hunter: It is. And I don’t think Nate hears himself the way other people hear him. I really don’t. I think in his head, all of that was respectful. I think he believes he was paying me a compliment.

Angelica Brooks: You don’t take it as one?

A moment passes. Scott’s voice drops and the friendliness pulls back. He’s still calm, but the temperature in the hallway changes. His eyes hold Angelica’s a little harder than they did a moment ago.

Scott Hunter: No, Angelica. I take it as disrespect. Plain disrespect.

Angelica Brooks: Strong word.

Scott Hunter: It’s the right word. You don’t apologize to a man before a match. You don’t tell him in advance that you’re sorry for what’s about to happen to him, as if he has no say in the matter. That’s not respect. That’s a man who has already decided how the night ends and is writing the obituary while his opponent is still in the building.

Another moment passes.

Scott Hunter: I’m not in the obituary. I’m in the match, and believe it or not, I may have a thing or two to say about the outcome.

He stops himself, breathes through his nose, and the intensity pulls back a notch. The friendliness returns, not all the way, but some.

Scott Hunter: I’m not trying to make this uglier than it needs to be. Nate’s going through something real, and I’m not gonna pretend he isn’t. But that part of what he said… I had to say something about that part. That part needed saying.

Angelica Brooks: Scott, at the very end of his comments, Nate said you might want to ask Lindsay Troy or your stablemate what you did to deserve the kind of fight he’s bringing tonight. Have you talked to either of them?

Scott Hunter: No, ma’am. And I’m not going to.

Angelica Brooks: Some people are wondering if there’s something going on you’re not aware of.

Scott Hunter: There’s nothing going on. I already know why I’m in this match. I’m in this match because I earned it. I’m in this match because Lindsay Troy puts us all in a position to earn our place by proving it in the ring, and we either prove it there or we don’t. Simple as that. No special favors, just a chance to take another step forward. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. There’s no mystery. There’s no hidden story. It’s a wrestling match between two guys who both wanna climb.

Angelica Brooks: So when Nate suggests…

Scott Hunter: It’s not a suggestion. He might as well be saying it outright. He was talking down to me. That’s the whole point. I’m not worth his time. I’m beneath him. He said it word for word. That’s not a hint. It’s not a clue. That’s a man puffing his chest out.

Angelica Brooks: And that doesn’t bother you?

Scott Hunter: (small smile) I know why I’m here tonight, and it isn’t because somebody put a target on my back. It’s because somebody put an opportunity in front of me. I’m not gonna squander that by chasing ghosts Nate Colton invented twenty seconds before he stopped talking. He can say he’s bringing the kind of fight he reserves for the worst of the worst, that’s fine. I mean, really? I’m the worst of the worst? I used to help Kerry Kuroyama solve crimes with our pet koala. Let’s keep some perspective. I’m a guy who likes wrestling, who works hard, who lost his dad last week, who’s trying to do right by a lot of people. Nate knows that. Everybody knows that. So when he says he’s bringing that fight to me… Okay. Fine. I appreciate the heads up. But I’m not preparing differently because Nate Colton is mad at somebody else. I’m preparing the same way I prepare every time. Tape. Reps. Sleep. Show up.

Angelica Brooks: Some might say this match is the new most important match of your career so far.

Scott Hunter: It is.

Angelica Brooks: You sound certain.

Scott Hunter: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Every match I have is the most important match of my career. That’s how I treat it. Every single one. The one in December against Kerry, the tag title win, the one tonight, the one a year from now. Every match. And if Nate walks into that ring tonight thinking he’s gonna roll over an inconvenience on the way to his real fight… (he shakes his head once) …he’s gonna find out that the inconvenience trained for this. The inconvenience hits hard. The inconvenience makes people tap out.

Angelica Brooks: Last question, Scott. After the match, assuming you win, what’s the first thing you do?

Scott Hunter: (without hesitation) I call my sister.

Angelica Brooks: And then?

Scott Hunter: Maybe I help Nate find his.

Angelica pauses for a moment, then nods once. Scott nods back. He pats her gently on the shoulder, then walks off down the hallway toward the curtain. She watches him go for a second before turning back to the camera.

Angelica Brooks: Scott Hunter, ladies and gentlemen. Back to the ring.

We head back to ringside, where Ashley Barlow and Vince Howard are standing by.

Nick Stuart: An interesting match coming up next, as we have a very focused, very determined Scott Hunter taking on Nate Colton… who looks to get past this match and onto the business of revenge against Max Kael!

Richard Parker: Revenge is a scary thing, Nick. Nate needs to not let his issues with Max get in the way of a very game Scott Hunter here in Long Island!

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

“Burning Heart” by Survivor plays as we get Vae Victis footage on the PRIME*View, intercut with footage specifically of Scott Hunter as the man himself makes his entrance, looking very focused with his eye on the ring ahead of him. In addition to his usual gear is an armband, blue with the letters “FH” embroidered in yellow.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring from Miami, Florida, weighing in at 245 pounds, and representing Vae Victis… SCOTT! HUUUUUUNTERRRRR!

Hunter makes his way down the ramp, making a beeline for the ring as the fans at UBS Arena show their support for him.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

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

Eagles. “Tryin’.”

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

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

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

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

NATE

COLTON

And here he is.

Wait.

Where is he?

Oh dang, he’s halfway to the ring already.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

The fans give out a raucous cheer as the camera catches up with Nate Colton. He’s all business tonight, not bothering to psych himself up or play to the crowd. He’s not even wearing his ring jacket.

Vince Howard is a pro; he can see where this is going and adjusts accordingly.

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

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

He slides under the ropes and pushes himself up to his feet, then heads to the corner and calls for Ashley Barlow to make her checks. Once she’s satisfied, Nate steps forward and waits–however impatiently–for the bell.

A bell that rings right about…now.

DING DING

Colton immediately charges at Hunter, unloading some hard lefts and rights in an attempt to gain control of the situation quickly until both men end up in the corner, where Barlow intervenes calling for a break.

This gives Scott an opening to send the New Diamond to the ropes with an Irish whip. He looks for a clothesline on the rebound, but Nate ducks under before hitting the opposite side… knocking Hunter off his feet with a running forearm strike on the way back! Colton stays on top of Hunter with some stomps, until Scott rolls out of the ring for a breather.

Nate follows close behind, grabbing Hunter from behind… only to take a knee to the midsection! This allows Scott to send his opponent right back into the ring, sliding in close behind. Colton pops up to his feet, cinching in a collar and elbow tie up with Hunter to drive him toward the corner.

Barlow intervenes, calling for a break, and the New Diamond complies as he backs away… before charging at Hunter with a European uppercut! The impact brings Hunter lurching forward, allowing Colton to take him down with a pendulum backbreaker. His mind focused on a quick win, Nate goes for the cover as Barlow makes the count.

ONE!

T–NO!

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton with an early flurry of offense, but Hunter is fighting back just as quickly as he kicks out here!

Richard Parker: These are two men looking to really make a statement tonight, even if for vastly different reasons.

He brings Hunter back to his feet, cinching in a waistlock for a German suplex… but Scott breaks free, countering with a standing switch. Nate counters out of this, catching Hunter with a side leg sweep to send him to the mat. Before he can do anything further, however, Scott breaks free to get back to a standing position.

He lands some punches on the New Diamond, forcing him to the corner before pulling him in for another Irish whip… but Nate reverses, sending Hunter crashing into the turnbuckle instead! This allows Colton to bring Scott up and over with a back suplex.

Nate looks like he’s about to go for another cover, choosing instead to cinch in a side headlock. Hunter is quick to scramble to the ropes, forcing a break… and Colton obliges when Barlow gets to a count of four.

Scott is undeterred as he looks for an opening, shooting for a single leg only for Colton to sidestep him. He gets a front facelock, but Hunter breaks free before popping to his feet. Colton turns around, only to take a flying forearm from Hunter… who follows up with some elbows to the head, wearing Nate down!

Nick Stuart: Now it’s Hunter in control of the match, as he keeps Colton at bay.

Richard Parker: He knows exactly what he needs to do, but he’s gotta go through with it before Nate turns this back around!

Hunter picks up the right leg of Colton, spinning around as he drops the New Diamond with a dragon screw legwhip… and another one… oh hell, why not one more for the road? Three in a row, all with the intent of keeping Colton off his game.

Hunter gets back up, bringing Nate to his feet as well before lifting him up for a body slam. He points to the nearest corner before heading over, climbing the turnbuckle for an elbow drop… but Colton rolls out of harm’s way, forcing Hunter to crash to the canvas instead! Nate sees his opening, cinching in a rear chin when Scott sits up.

Hunter fights back to his feet, landing an elbow to the midsection of Colton… who responds with a snapmare sending him back down hard! Another rear chinlock from Nate, but this one seems less effective as Hunter manages to slip out of the hold… and right out of the ring to compose himself.

Nate does NOT give him room to breathe, however, as the Persistence Predator lives up to THAT nickname by hitting the ropes for speed… before launching himself at Hunter, a flying forearm through the ropes that sends Scott crashing into the guardrail!

RAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Good lord, Richard! I know Nate was trying to end this match quickly, but this really took a nasty turn.

Richard Parker: And to make things worse, it looks like both men are down and out!

Barlow investigates the situation at ringside before beginning the count.

ONE…

TWO…

Both men are slowly stirring, a good sign as the crowd try to will them both back into the contest.

THREE…

Colton’s the first to get to a vertical base, but not quite on his feet as Scott turns over to his stomach.

FOUR…

Nate is now on his feet, looking to put Hunter in the same position.

FIVE…

To top it off, Colton is not looking to drag things out as he brings his opponent back into the ring, breaking the count in the process as he slides back into the ring as well!

Nate pulls Hunter up, connecting with a snap suplex to stay in control. He quickly follows up with a second snap suplex, before taking Scott up into a dragon sleeper.

Hunter is struggling, but refuses to give up… which informs Nate’s decision to lift him up for an inverted suplex instead, sending Scott crashing down hard onto the mat!

He turns Hunter over for the cover, as Barlow makes the count!

ONE!

TWO!

…NO!

RAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

The crowd is electric as they see Hunter kick out in time to save the match for himself!

Nick Stuart: A close call here, but Scott Hunter is far too determined to give up now!

Richard Parker: It looks like the pressure is firmly on the New Diamond now, Nick. What does Nate Colton have to do to keep Hunter down?

Colton looks for precisely the answer to that question as he brings Hunter to his feet, only to be shoved away by Scott… who follows up with a flurry of punches!

The impact forces Nate against the ropes, where Hunter pulls him in for an Irish whip to the opposite side… this time connecting with a clothesline that sends Colton to the canvas! He follows up with some stomps to Nate’s right leg, adding to the previous damage before bringing Colton to his feet.

He hoists Nate up, setting up for a delayed vertical suplex… but Colton drops down quickly, cradling him for a pin! Down goes Barlow for a count:

ONE!

TWO!

Hunter manages to counter, catching Nate’s shoulders on the mat instead!

ONE!

TWO!

Colton shifts position, and now it’s Scott whose shoulders are down!

ONE!

He pushes through! Nate’s trapped here!

ONE!

Roll through! Now BOTH men’s shoulders are on the mat, and Barlow counts as appropriate!

ONE!

TWO!

TH–NO!

Both men are forced to break their grip in an effort to stop a rare double pinfall, hopping to their feet for a standoff as the crowd applaud in approval.

Nick Stuart: What an exchange here, and it looks like Nate’s getting flustered with his gameplan not quite panning out.

Richard Parker: He’s starting to get desperate here Nick, that cradle was just a sign of things to come.

That brings into question this next collar and elbow tie up, though an answer comes just as quickly when Nate twists Hunter around for a hammerlock, cinching the hold in tight. He looks for a back suplex off that, but Hunter keeps his feet on the mat before twisting back around, countering into a hammerlock of his own.

Colton reaches over, grabbing Hunter by the head as he looks for a position of control, but Scott drives him toward the ropes to put a kibosh on that plan. This forces Hunter to break the hold at the insistence of the ref, as Scott backs away from Colton… who charges at him once more!

Only this time, he runs into a knee to the face by Hunter! This shifts the momentum quickly, sending Colton backpedaling. He appears to have been knocked loopy by the knee, and this gives Scott an opening as he heads to the corner.

Hunter climbs the turnbuckle, going all the way to the tippy top for a flying body press that sends Nate crashing hard to the mat.

Hunter stays on top of the New Diamond, prompting Barlow to make the count!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!

Nick Stuart: And now it’s Nate Colton showing determination, staying alive as he kicks out just in time!

Richard Parker: I gotta put some doubt on that one, Nick. I can’t tell if that was Colton trying to stay in this or just pure instinct after the cover by Hunter.

You know what’s not in doubt, though? Hunter immediately going after the right leg of Colton, laying in some stomps for good measure. He’s so focused on that that he doesn’t see Colton reach over for an inside cradle!

ONE!

NO!

Hunter breaks free of the cradle, but not of his grip on Nate’s head and neck… instead hoisting the New Diamond up high!

And up is where Colton stays, as the crowd starts counting away.

ONE… TWO… THREE… FOUR… FIVE…

Scott Hunter chooses that moment to bring Nate crashing to the mat with the delayed vertical suplex… but just as he looks to break away for what’s next, Hunter finds himself trapped by the arm of Colton!

Nate’s looking for the Colton Clutch on Hunter, who is squirming every chance he gets to keep the New Diamond from getting the hold cinched in. He manages to do so just in the nick of time when he gets to the ropes, forcing Colton to abandon the hold.

Hunter gets to his feet, but so does Nate as he goes for the Clutch one more time… only to be sent crashing into the corner by Hunter, who keeps Colton off him with a little help from the turnbuckle!

Nick Stuart: That’s twice now Nate’s gone for the Colton Clutch, but Hunter denies him both times!

Richard Parker: One more time makes a hat trick, but can Scott survive a third attempt of that hold!?

Not quite content with this, Hunter sizes Nate up for another dragon screw legwhip… but Colton breaks free, sending Scott to the corner instead! He starts to prop Hunter up on the top turnbuckle, looking for a superplex before Scott pulls away.

The two start trading punches on the turnbuckle, leaving the crowd in anticipation of what happens next… and the answer comes when Hunter sends Nate off the turnbuckle. Colton lands on his feet, but this just sets him up for a flying body press by Hunter!

But that’s not all, as Scott manages to roll through while holding onto the head and arm of the New Diamond before lifting up for another delayed vertical suplex… opting to drop Colton down at just a three count to be safe.

Nate is not responding upon impact, which gives Hunter a chance to immediately get back on his feet while holding tight onto the legs of Colton. He steps over the right leg, seeing his opportunity to close the proverbial deal as he applies the Figure Four Leglock… and drops right down to the canvas to cinch it in tight!

Colton is not up for fighting this off, not after everything he’s been through tonight… and he immediately taps out! Barlow calls for the bell, ‘cause this one is all over!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner by way of submission… SCOTT! HUUUUUUUNTEEERRRRRR!!

Hunter breaks the hold, which gives Colton a chance to roll out of the ring quickly while Barlow raises Scott’s arm in victory.

Nick Stuart: What a match, and what a win for Scott Hunter!

Richard Parker: Nate’s gameplan came back to bite him here, and I gotta wonder where Nate’s head is at the way he’s made it out of there right after the bell.

The air is filled with cheers, the excitement of a hard-fought contest and a thrilling victory.

Nate Colton might as well be on another world. He’s out of the ring within seconds of the referee’s decision, and already staring up the ramp.

Time to start the real fight again.

He shakes the pain out of his knee, bends over to catch his breath, then–

CRACK!

–goes down like a ton of bricks.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Max Kael! Kael just jumped out of the crowd and drove his knee into Colton’s head!

The grinning, cackling Kael mounts the fallen Diamond and rains punches down on his head, while more disturbances form in the crowd. Kael’s army continues to swarm; a handful of mobsters march down the aisle from one direction; Arkham “officials” come in from the other.

Nick Stuart: It’s looking really bad for Colton now! Max Kael’s about to have him vastly outnumbered!

Richard Parker: This is why they always say “you can’t fight City Hall!”

Nick Stuart: No it isn’t!

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Just as the goon squad reaches the guard rail, more people appear at the top of the ramp. First is Dennis Colton, who seems to be dragging at least half the Daytona Diamonds Bastard Children’s Choir with him. Benjamin is right behind him, trying to peel stray children off of the big man. Finally, Blake…who runs down the ramp at a dead sprint.

Bolognese Bull: HHHRRRNNGGGGOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRMMMM!!

Because he’s being chased by Max Kael’s The Harbinger.

Richard Parker: Oh Lord, that kid’s about to get murdered again.

Blake’s a quick kid, but his straight-line path and the Bull’s huge loping strides are a bad combination. He’s only just out of the Bull’s grasp, and that won’t last much longer without a plan.

Blake Colton: Snowbank!

That’s a weird thing to shout when you’re about to die, Blake. You’re heading to a mass of people, only one of which is friendly to you and he’s at the bottom of the pile. What are you going to do?

Okay, he’s going to stop.

And…duck?

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Look at that! Blake used the Bolognese Bull’s momentum against him!

Indeed he did. The Bull, unable to stop on a dime, bowled through everyone standing in the area, sending them crashing into guard rails or the floor. One unlucky goon got sandwiched between the Bull and the ring apron; he’s gonna need medical attention. Max Kael avoided the worst of it, but was still knocked clear of his prey.

Fueled by adrenaline and fury, aided by his brother, and backed by the Lads who’ve finally joined the party, Nate Colton levels his eyes at the Black Heart of PRIME.

And the fight is back on.

RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!

Nick Stuart: This is already way out of control!

Richard Parker: I know! Where’s Joe Fontaine with the popcorn when you need him?

Nick Stuart: We’re going to need…all the security to sort this out. Let’s take it to Simon Tillier backstage.

The melee has gone back into the crowd, with Kael and Colton slamming fists into each other’s heads and the other Coltons trying to fend off a critical mass of goons.

I’m sure the Enemigos can handle it.

Cut.

We fade into a nondescript room backstage, where we’re immediately greeted with a view of Kerry Kuroyama, adorned in a cut up “Keep Calm & Kerry On” shirt while sitting in a high-backed chair, gazing deeply into a glowing blue orb resting on a table before him.

In the foreground, Simon Tillier steps into the frame and addresses the camera doing his best Rod Serling bit.

Simon Tillier: Submitted for your approval… Kerry Kuroyama. American. Athlete. Apex. On the surface, every bit the model professional wrestler. Every other Friday night, a visitor to a different sports arena, searching for the familiar. And, on occasion, the unfamiliar. The quest for triumph? The lust for violence? Or, perhaps, a search for meaning and answers? Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Kerry Kuroyama may find such. Tonight, he is meant to enter a place where there are more questions than answers. A place that lies beyond the curtain. Beyond the squared circle. A place known as… THE SI-LIGHT ZONE.

Musical sting.

Simon Tillier: …wow, that’d make a great song title.

The self-styled “pioneer of punk rock sports journalism” goes to where Kuroyama is seated.

Simon Tillier: Hey, Kerry. What, uh… what’s going on here?

Kerry’s shoulders shrug, but his eyes never leave the azure sphere.

Kerry Kuroyama: Oh, not much, just… pondering my orb.

The junior reporter glances between Kerry and the orb.

Simon Tillier: Fascinating! Nothing quite says preparing for a pure, no-nonsense wrestling match like gazing deeply into a wizard’s crystal ball. But speaking of wrestling matches, Kerr-lin, your opponent tonight, Big Ian Salt, recently suggested that you’ve “peaked”. Agree, or disagree?

Kuroyama finally breaks his lock on the blue orb to throw the junior reporter a sideways glance.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well Simon, Big Ian Salt is entitled to his big salty opinion. Personally, I don’t personally hold a lot of stock in the words of people who switch gimmicks within four months of their debut. But sure, there are probably a number of people out there drawing similar conclusions based on where I’m currently sitting…

Simon Tillier: You mean like in this chair?

Kerry Kuroyama: I meant metaphorically, Simon. I mean going from one of PRIME’s most outstanding Five Star Champions in recent memory to this company’s resident Tommy Taps-twice. See, I won’t pretend I haven’t struggled in the ring lately. I’ve had plenty of struggles out of the ring as well. In regards to the former, I’m looking to turn things around with a hard-fought dub over dear Mister Salt. As  for the latter? Rest assured, Simon, as soon as I resolve all these stupid fucking plot threads–no, wait, sorry, that came out wrong. As soon as I resolve these uncommon sets of circumstances I find myself embroiled in, you can expect me to get back to the pure, no-nonsense wrestling I’m known for. Then, Simon, I guess we’ll see if the Emerald Apex has truly peaked.

Simon Tillier: I see. And what’s your plan in terms of resolving those out-of-ring “circumstances”, as you put it?

Growing impatient with the junior reporter, Kerry waves to the blue orb in front of him.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon, do you not see me sitting here pondering the orb? The whole reason I’m doing this is because I’m still trying to figure out how to get the damn thing to work…

Simon Tillier: Hmm… did you bop it?

Kerry Kuroyama: Yes.

Simon Tillier: Did you twist it?

Kerry Kuroyama: Yes.

Simon Tillier: Pull it?

Kerry Kuroyama: Yes.

Simon Tillier: Dang, I dunno… did you just try asking it for what you want?

Kerry Kuroyama: …

Kerry looks into the orb and ponderously thumbs his chin.

Kerry Kuroyama: …couldn’t be that obvious.

Set on giving it the ol’ college try, Kuroyama sits up, puts his hands on the glass, clears his throat, and speaks the words in a commanding voice.

Kerry Kuroyama: I would like to speak to Bobby Neptune, please.

Almost immediately, a blue miniature hologram of Bobby Neptune materializes above the orb. Kerry and Simon react with mild surprise.

Kerry Kuroyama: Huh… guess that did it.

Simon Tillier: Wow! I have a sudden urge to go down to Tosche Station and pick up some power converters.

Bobby Neptune Hologram: Mr. Kuroyama, I’m pleased you called.

Kerry Kuroyama: Bobby, both you and I are booked to compete tonight, so I’ll try to keep this brief. I was told you could potentially help with a…

He cuts himself off, throwing a look of suspicion at the junior reporter who is leaning in close and listening in on every word.

Kerry Kuroyama: …a personal matter I’m dealing with. If you had a minute, I was hoping I could talk to you about it in person.

Bobby Neptune Hologram: I would be glad to. Judging by what the Dopesmoker told me, I believe I can assist with your…situation.

The hologram suddenly winks out of existence.

Simon Tillier: So… what’s next?

Kerry Kuroyama: Next… we wait. For how long, I have no idea. Time works differently in sci-fi encounters, I think.

A door off to the side opens…And Bobby Neptune enters, resplendent in his iridescent blue gear, ready for his match with Brandon Youngblood. He’s also got a plate from catering piled high with tacos.

Bobby Neptune: Sorry that took so long. Did you know Earth is the only planet where you can find tacos? We really are a remarkable species.

He takes a bite of a taco.

Kerry blinks in astonishment.

Kerry Kuroyama: Wow… that didn’t take long at all.

Simon Tillier: Uhh, yeah, the locker room is literally right down the hall. Honestly, Kerr-uman, you could have saved time if you just went there instead of doing that whole scrying bit.

Kerry emits the Sideshow Bob groan. Then he rises up, crosses over to where the Starman is standing, and extends a hand.

Kerry Kuroyama: Kerry Kuroyama. Well met.

Bobby Neptune: Well met, Mr. Kuroyama. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.

Kerry Kuroyama: Bob, full disclosure here: I’m the kind of guy who prides himself on being a straightforward, old fashioned, no frills kind of wrestler. Unfortunately, that means I’ve often had trouble dealing with the more, um…

He circles a hand through the air in front of him as he struggles to think of the appropriate word. Weird? Fantasical? Outlaw?

Kerry Kuroyama: …the more alternative aspects to this sport. So honestly, while I have a hard time accepting the whole “man from space” thing, I’m keeping an open mind here, because I feel that otherworldly circumstances require otherworldly solutions. That, and regardless of where you’re from, I believe that deep down, you’re still a wrestler and competitor at heart. So long as whatever we’re about to get into doesn’t compromise that part of me, I’m willing to hear you out.

Bobby Neptune: I would never ask you to compromise your warrior spirit. It is clearly a defining aspect for you, as it is for me.

Bobby sets down his plate and takes the blue orb.

Bobby Neptune: Also, I’m not from space per se. I’m a human who was abducted as a teenager and lived the majority of his life in space. Very different. It’s given me a unique perspective and access to…

He puts the blue orb away in his bag and takes out a glowing purple visor that he handles with care.

Bobby Neptune: …unique technology.

Kerry closely studies the Star Man while considering his words. Then he nods, looking very reassured.

Kerry Kuroyama: Cool. So, how can you help me?

Bobby Neptune: The Dopesmoker spoke of a Beast inside you. Something ugly and deadly, that may present a danger to yourself and others.

Bobby hands the visor to Kerry.

Bobby Neptune: This will set it free.

Kuroyama hesitates for a beat to think it over before apprehensively accepting the visor.

Kerry Kuroyama: Define “free”. Feels like that can go a whole number of different ways.

He turns the visor over in his hands multiple times, inspecting it from every angle.

Bobby Neptune: It can. Which is why you shouldn’t use it without my guidance.

Kerry looks up from the piece of “unique technology” in his hands to study Neptune’s face.

Kerry Kuroyama: So… how do I use it, exactly?

Bobby Neptune: Put on the visor for one hour a day for a week. It will read your brain patterns and create a virtual universe based on them. From there, you’ll be able to talk to individual parts of yourself as though they were people. Including the Beast.

Kerry ponders over the visor like he did the orb from earlier. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Simon scrawling something on his notepad.

Simon Tillier: Oh, don’t mind me. All of this is GREAT material for this new song I’m working on, “Punk Invaders From Mars”.

Unloaded another annoyed sigh, the Emerald Apex returns his attention to Bobby.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay, I’ll give it a spin. Later, though. Right now, I have a match to get to.

Bobby Neptune: Indeed. Good luck against the Salted one, Mr. Kuroyama.

Kerry Kuroyama: I appreciate that. Best of luck to you as well. Do me a solid and give Youngblood hell tonight. Anyway, you’ll be hearing back from me soon.

He looks pointedly to the junior reporter and nods to him.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon…

Still looking over the otherworldly headwear in his hands, Kerry Kuroyama exits the shot and heads for the exit.

Simon Tillier: There goes “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama, on his way to the ring with the goal of breaking out of his current slump and turning his luck around with a hard fought victory, though it will predictably be a tough task against Big Ian Salt.

He turns his attention to Bobby Neptune.

Simon Tillier: But he’s not the only one set to compete tonight, as was just mentioned, you, Bobby Neptune, have your own match coming up later against Brandon Youngblood. Naturally, Youngblood has earned the reputation of being one of the most dominant talents on the PRIME roster. Considering that, Bobby, what’s your plan of action against the ever imposing Tower of Babel? And how will you react if Cancer Jiles involves himself in the action?

Bobby Neptune: Brandon Youngblood is a great star, there’s no denying that. But all great stars must exhaust their light one day. I think, unfortunately for Mr. Youngblood, that day is today. It does not matter what Cancer Jiles does – ultimately, it shall be me, Youngblood, and the new future I will create when he is defeated. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

He picks up the plate of tacos he came in with.

Bobby Neptune: I have tacos to finish.

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

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!”

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

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

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

Two verdant words form across the PRIMEView.

E  M  E  R  A  L  D
A  P  E  X

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

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

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

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, now coming to the ring, accompanied by “The Merry Mischief Maker” AMI TROY…

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

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

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

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

Vince Howard: Representing VAE VICTIS…

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

Vince Howard: The EMERALD APEX… KEERRRRYYY KUUROOOYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!

Nick Stuart: It looks like Kerry is sporting some extra black tonight to go along with all his emerald green.

Richard Parker: A small but notable gesture for his friend, Scott Hunter, who we just saw in action moments ago against Nate Colton.

Nick Stuart: It’s never easy losing a parent, Richard; and Scott is lucky to have friends like Clay and Kerry to help him through this ti-

A bass drum.

A snare.

A jangly guitar.

I see a bad moon arisin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

“Bad Moon Rising” by CCR plays across the speakers as Mr. Salt himself appears at the top of the rampway, face expressionless and eyes already locked onto the ring where the “Emerald Apex” looks back.

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

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise

Nick Stuart: The tall tale formerly known as Big John Pepper had some pretty salty words for Kerry Kuroyama earlier, Richard.

Richard Parker: And none of them were wrong, Nick! Kerry’s no longer the Emerald Apex, he’s the… the…

Nick Stuart: Emerald Abyss?

Richard Parker: No, of course not. A name like that is way too cool for a man whose best friend is a Koala.

I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear river’s overflowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Big Ian Salt steps over the top rope and into the ring as Kerry pushes himself out from his corner and begins walking toward the center ring.

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise

Mr. Salt rolls his shoulders as Kerry approaches and referee Elvis Nixon waves his hand.

DING! DING!

Kerry is first to strike, slamming his fist against the mountain-like jaw of Big Ian Salt as the crowd cheers – only to fall into a hushed silence as it barely makes a dent!

The Emerald Apex hops back to rethink his strategy, but not before Mr. Salt slams his own tree trunk of a bicep at Kerry’s head, but misses, as his opponent ducks just in time!

Big Ian Salt shrugs it off and instead leans forward in the most aggressive bow you’ve ever seen and knocks noggins with the Emerald Apex, who staggers back – but so does Mr. Salt!

Richard Parker: I always knew Kuroyama had rocks in his head and this just proves it!

Kerry scrambles to his feet first and wraps his arm up and under Big Ian Salt’s shoulder, pulling down as hard as he can with a Japanese arm drag, but only manages to get the big man down to one knee.

The Emerald Apex doesn’t let up, however, and gets another arm under the opposite shoulder and lifts!

Nick Stuart: TIGER SUPLEX! How in the world did he pull that off!

Richard Parker: He only pulled him maybe six inches off the ground, Nick! That’s nothing to be proud of!

Nick Stuart: When your opponent has nine inches and 100 pounds on you, I think it kind of is, Richard!

Kerry goes for a quick pin while Big Ian Salt is on the ground but Elvis can’t even get his hand down before the Emerald Apex is launched into the air and onto his back!

Salt gets to his feet and begins just stomping away at Kuroyama’s chest.

Richard Parker: If that was Big John Pepper out there I would say that is exactly how the Carlsbad Caverns were created!

Kuroyama manages to roll away just as Salt lifts his boot for another stomp, grabbing at his ribs as he eyes his opponent who moves like the Terminator on a war path.

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt swings! But Kerry dodges!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: Yakuza kick!

Richard Parker: But Salt is so tall that hit just connected with his collar bone, not his head!

The big man staggers into the ropes, grasping at his throat as Kuroyama lands another collarbone kick!

Nick Stuart: Kerry literally has his opponent on the ropes!

Mr. Salt drops into a seated position, arms draped over the top ropes and head rolling back and forth, as Kerry leaps and goes for a drop kick! AND MISSES!

Richard Parker: You were saying, Nick?! Big Ian Salt was playing possum as he rolls out of the ring at just the right time to leave Kerry catching nothing but air!

With a glint in his eye, Big Ian Salt, now on the edge of the ring, reaches outward just enough to grab Kerry Kuroyama by the throat and lift him up off the ground.

Nick Stuart: No way he’s going to-

Richard Parker: Oh yes he is!

Nick Stuart: CHOKESLAM TO THE OUTSI- NO! KERRY’S GOT HIS LEGS AROUND SALT!

The Emerald Apex locks his ankles around Mr. Salt’s bicep and pulls down, bringing his opponent’s already injured neck down sharply onto the top rope, ricocheting him backwards off the side of the ring and onto the floor below as Kerry rolls backwards into the ring.

CRASH!

Richard Parker: I felt the ground shake with that one, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt tried to make a throat for a throat play and paid dearly for it!

Elvis Nixon begins his count as Big Ian Salt is already stirring.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

The big man rubs at a huge red mark around his neck as he stands up, wincing.

FOUR!

Big Ian Salt slides into the ring and Kerry pounces, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s injured neck!

Nick Stuart: CASCADIAN CLUTCH! He’s going to try and force Big Ian Salt to tap out!

Richard Parker: No way that’s happening, Nick!

Big Ian Salt’s face turns red as he grimaces, trying to resist Kerry’s hold as the Emerald Apex tries to pull back with as much leverage as he can.

His eyes begin to flutter.

Then it happens. But not the ‘it’ you’re thinking of.

Big Ian Salt throws his body to the side, rolling his full weight on top of Kerry Kuroyama, forcing the Seattle native to break his hold, but then he keeps rolling and dragging Kerry with him by the waist!

Richard Parker: Oh shit!

Nick Stuart: Big Ian Salt has lifted Kerry up to the very top of his 6’10 frame! And just let go!

OOOOOHH!

In an absolutely vicious vertical suplex, Kerry flies up into the air and then lands back first onto the nearby turnbuckle with a horrifying CRACK sound before collapsing into the mat below.

Richard Parker: WOAH!

Nick Stuart: Medics! Do we need medics!?

Big Ian Salt doesn’t wait to find out as he strides over to the unmoving Kuroyama and drops down for a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Big Ian Salt looks around, raising his hands in victory but Elvis Nixon points to the ropes where Kerry has gotten a leg up to break the count just in time!

RAAAAAAHHHHH!

Big Ian Salt is holding three fingers up to Elvis Nixon who shakes his head in response, making the big man BIG MAD.

Kerry begins to try and crawl away from the scene, but Big Ian Salt grabs a hold of his opponent and lifts him up once again, this time holding the Emerald Apex a good foot above his head.

Nick Stuart: Oh god!

Big Ian Salt SLAMS the Emerald Apex down to the center of the ring with a VICIOUS Gorilla Press and then immediately picks him up again!

Nick Stuart: Stop this!

Ian adds another Gorilla Press for good measure as Kerry dead-cat bounces off the mat and Ian goes for the pin.

Richard Parker: Kerry can stop this any time he likes, Nick! He just has to stay down!

ONE!

TWO!

THR-

Nick Stuart: Kerry kicks out! HOW IN THE WORLD!?

Richard Parker: That fool!

Nick Stuart: Uh oh… Mr. Salt doesn’t seem too happy with Nixon here, Richard.

Big Ian Salt once again holds three fingers up to the referee who holds two fingers up back, causing the big man to scream something unintelligible at Elvis Nixon. Elvis points his finger back at Big Ian Salt and tugging at his referee’s jersey.

CLAP! 

CLAP! CLAP!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! 

Richard Parker: These Long Island fans are awful, Nick! They are cheering for Ian to try and disqualify himself!

Nick Stuart: That’s not why they are clapping, Richard, look!

The kerfuffle between BIS and Elvis has given Kerry Kuroyama the time he needed to get back to his feet and he has his eyes locked onto the back of Big Ian Salt as he rushes forward!

Elvis Nixon sees the flash of green that is Kerry Kuroyama over Big Ian Salt’s shoulder in time to jump out of the way, but Mr. Salt can only turn directly into a THIRD yakuza kick to the neck from the Emerald Apex!

Big Ian Salt reaches for his voice box in panic, but ends up falling onto the waiting arms of Kerry Kuroyama who grabs his opponent’s arm, dragging it under his leg before wrenching the big man’s arm backwards and screams as he dead lifts 325 pounds of salt above his head!

Nick Stuart: KUROYAMA DRIVER I!

Richard Parker: IMPOSSIBLE!

With a desperate swing of his arm, Kerry drapes his arm over the chest of Big Ian Salt!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

NO! NO! KICKOUT!

Kerry Kuroyama’s eyes go wide and body goes limp as he sees Elvis Nixon flash two fingers as Big Ian Salt JUST got his shoulder up in time!

However, the big man continues to lay, gasping for air on the mat, as the Emerald Apex sits up, trying to recover himself.

Elvis raises his hands and begins the ten count for Big Ian Salt.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: He may have gotten his shoulder up in time for a pin, Richard, but I’m not sure how much either of these men have left in the tank!

THREE!

FOUR!

Big Ian Salt stirs slightly but then immediately BOLTS up into a seated position, turning to look at Kerry Kuroyama!

The Emerald Apex stands up and motions for follow as the fans roar in approval for this match to continue.

Richard Parker: Here we goooo!

Big Ian Salt is back to his feet and gestures for the Emerald Apex to come at him one more time, but he just shakes his head and tells the big man to come to him first!

Mr. Salt pushes off his foot from the middle of the ring as Kerry does the same, but rather than move forward, Mr. Salt turns and pivots backwards, placing himself and his massive frame behind the body of referee Elvis Nixon!

Nick Stuart: Oh god! No!

Kerry Kuroyama catches the sight of the shocked referee just in time to stop himself from kicking the innocent man’s head off, but in that split second, Big Ian Salt pushes Elvis aside and drives a huge knee into the gut of the defenseless Kuroyama!

Nick Stuart: Oh god, No!

Richard Parker: Oh god, Yes!

SALT MINE POWERBOMB!

A disgusted looking Elvis Nixon drops and counts as Big Ian Salt covers the unconscious Kerry Kuroyama.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEE!

BOOOOOOOO!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner by PINFALL…

Nick Stuart: By bullshit is more like it.

Vince Howard: BIG. IAN. SAAAAAAAAAAALT!

Big Ian Salt flashes three fingers up at Elvis Nixon and then raises them up to the ceiling as the fans rain more boos down on the match’s winner.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: You can argue his methods and his motivations all you want, but you can’t argue with results, Nick! That’s another win for Big Ian Salt. I guess the eGGS did need a little more salt and less pepper, huh?

Nick Stuart: Ugh.

Kerry Kuroyama begins to stir in the ring, holding his head and neck as he looks up at the celebrating Big Ian Salt before shaking his head in frustration.

We come back from commercial and find ourselves at the announce desk, with Nick and Richard smiling at us like we’re their favorite child.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, everyone. This has already been a fantastic ReVival, and we’re going to keep going now because apparently one of PRIME’s tag teams has requested some time with us tonight.

Woo! Woo!

The nostalgia-inspiring beat of T.I.’s “Let ‘Em Know” starts, and the fans welcome The Foot Soldiers with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Perhaps it is because they’ve changed their entrance theme to the delight and relief of anyone with ears. Gone is the ear-splitting remix of “Kick, Push” by Lupe Fiasco that only involved the words “Kick, Push” over and over again.

Richard Parker: Great. These guys.

Nick Stuart: They’ve only been here since the start of the year, Richard, but The Foot Soldiers have been impressive thusfar. Undefeated in tag matches, including a huge win against PRIME veterans Bryan Dawkins and Chandler Tsonda. Satan Jones also has a singles win over Jack Marley. And that’s not even mentioning the success of Satan’s burgeoning Instagram live show.

Richard Parker: Cool, good for them, but I don’t know why that means they have to come out here to my ringside and bother me.

A second cheer erupts as the boys themselves emerge from the curtain. Kris Roswell is first, wearing a Duquesne Dukes football jersey with his name on the back. He smiles out at the crowd and waves. He’s been here for a few months and he’s still not completely comfortable with the attention, but he’s doing his best not to let it show.

Then comes Satan Jones. His hair perfectly shaped into devil’s horns, his bare torso shining with baby oil, his long tongue already out. He’s holding his phone out, because of course he’s streaming his entrance live. The cheer grows louder, because he is holding – not wearing – his T-shirt in the other hand, the one that says EVERYBODY LOVES SATAN (only at the PRIMEporium). He smiles, laughs, nods, dances, because he is completely comfortable with the attention.

As the song continues, Kris and Satan arrive at the ring. Kris rolls under the ropes and Satan leaps up, careful not to drop his phone. He enters between the ropes and spins in a circle, giving all of his fans at home a ride on the tilt-a-whirl. He then gestures for a microphone and gets it, draping the shirt on his shoulder so he can hold his mic with one hand and his phone with the other.

Satan Jones: HELLO MY LITTLE DEVILS!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Now that is a pop. Kris seems surprised by the positive reaction, but Satan is too in the groove to notice.

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

The crowd said that part with him, and another cheer emerges.

Richard Parker: What is wrong with these people?

Nick Stuart: Everybody Loves Satan!

Satan Jones: It’s so good to be here, in the ring and in your homes, ON gorgeous Long Island!

The fans eat up the cheap pop, especially since he did the thing with the preposition.

Satan Jones: This is our first time talking to you like this. Usually I like to interview the members of PRIME’s illustrious roster backstage, but I wanted to come out here this week because my guests this week came out here a few weeks ago. They said some stuff, y’all didn’t like it, and then they went away, but I wanted to give them more space to clarify their positions.

Kris signals for the microphone, and Satan tosses it to him. Despite being a college athlete, Kris fumbles the microphone for a minute before catching it and bringing it to his lips.

Kris Roswell: One of them also came on the last show and issued an open challenge, so we can take out two birds with one stone here. So tonight’s guests are Stellan, Sebastian, and Solomon Cross, The Albion!

The fans boo as Kris return the microphone to Satan.

Satan Jones: Yeah, they were kind of mean to y’all, weren’t they? Calling you names, calling everyone here names. So let’s give them a chance to explain what they meant. Maybe they misspoke and didn’t realize what jerks they sounded like. So come on out here, guys. You’re the next unwilling guests on Live With Satan!

The lights drop slightly. Not a blackout, just a dimming, the way a room changes when someone opens a door to somewhere colder. “Clubbed to Death” rises through the arena’s speakers.

BOOOOOOOO!

The PRIMEates are already booing before the men are through the curtain. Then they are: Sebastian first, wearing the expression of a man who has walked into the wrong room and is deciding how long to spend correcting it. Stellan behind him, filling the light entirely. Solomon last, hands loose at his sides, already smiling.

They stop at the top of the ramp. A crew member meets Sebastian with a microphone. He takes it without looking at them, but politely inclines his head.

Sebastian Cross: Cut. My. Music.

The track drops. Sebastian stands in the silence, straightens his jacket, and looks down at the ring.

Nick Stuart: The Albion. All three of them. And Sebastian Cross does not look pleased.

Richard Parker: He doesn’t look anything. That’s the problem. When a man looks like that, that’s when you should be worried.

Sebastian lifts the microphone. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort. He does not project. He does not need to.

Sebastian Cross: I have been in this country for three weeks. I have been patient. I said I was waiting for a challenge, and I meant it. I waited through every show. I waited for names to be put in front of me. I have waited, genuinely, for someone to step forward and make this interesting.

(He pauses. Surveys the ring below him.)

Sebastian Cross: And they sent me a tag team.

RAAAAHHHH!

Richard Parker: He has a point, though. He said he wanted a challenge. These guys have a good record, sure, but…

Nick Stuart: They are undefeated, Richard.

Richard Parker: In tag matches, Nick. In tag matches.

Sebastian’s dismissive look washes over the two men in the ring.

Sebastian Cross: I want to be clear, because I suspect clarity is required here. I do not tag. I have not tagged in a decade and I have no intention of starting tonight because two men with a novelty Instagram account decided they wanted their moment. (He gestures toward the ring with the microphone, almost thoughtfully.) That is not what this is.

BOOOOOOOO!

Solomon leans toward Sebastian and says something the camera does not catch. Sebastian’s expression does not change, but the faintest thing moves at the corner of his mouth.

Sebastian Cross: However. I am a reasonable man.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know that I’d use that word.

Richard Parker: Shh. Mr. Cross is speaking.

Sebastian Cross: If your team can beat The Albion at Ultraviolence, in a tag match, you will have earned the right to ask. And I will give one of you the honour of sharing a ring with me. Separately. When I have decided you are worth the preparation.

He lowers the microphone. All three of them begin walking down the ramp, unhurried, the way men walk toward something they have already resolved.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: The Albion are coming to the ring. Jones and Roswell are two against three out here, and I don’t like what I’m seeing.

Richard Parker: Nothing’s happened yet, Nick. They’re just walking.

Nick Stuart: The way they’re walking is enough.

Satan and Kris look at each other quick, then play a very quick game of…

Richard Parker: Are they playing rock paper scissors?

Nick Stuart: It appears they are.

Satan claps his hands.

Satan Jones: Wooo! I won. That means when we win at Ultraviolence I get in the ring with Snivelpants oh hey y’all are almost here.

They reach the foot of the ramp and stop. Sebastian looks up at the two men in the ring. Not threatening. Assessing.

Solomon Cross: (grinning, addressing the ring) We could just do this now, you know. I’m genuinely not doing anything. Stellan’s not doing anything. Three of us, two of you. (He tilts his head.) It would be very quick.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Solomon Cross with the threat, and he is not even pretending to be subtle about it.

Richard Parker: He’s being perfectly polite. He’s giving them options.

Solomon Cross: But Seb would say that’s uncouth. (He glances at Sebastian.) Right?

Sebastian Cross: (without looking at him) Correct.

Solomon Cross: So. (Back to the ring, still grinning.) Ultraviolence? Unless you’d like to make a different decision right now.

Satan Jones: Now, Ultraviolence, whenever. We didn’t come out to film a reality show or anything. Well, actually I did, but I also came out here to wrestle. So how about Ultraviolence…and now?

Kris Roswell: You forgot. We don’t want to be uncouth. Let’s be more couth.

Satan Jones: Right. Couth. What do you say there, Silent Cross?

Stellan has not spoken. He has not moved except to walk. He stands at the foot of the ramp between his brothers, watching the ring the way a wall looks at a room. Both Foot Soldiers in his eyeline. Nothing on his face.

Stellan Cross: (quietly, without inflection) We’ll see you very soon, gentlemen.

He turns and walks back up the ramp. Sebastian falls into step beside him. Solomon lingers a moment, still facing the ring, still wearing the smile.

Then he follows.

“Clubbed to Death” rises again. All three Cross brothers disappear through the curtain.

Nick Stuart: A challenge laid down. The Albion against The Foot Soldiers at Ultraviolence in tag team action, with Sebastian Cross putting a singles match on the line as reward. Richard, Stellan Cross said six words that entire segment. They were the only six that mattered.

Richard Parker: Jones and Roswell wanted a reaction. They got one. I’m just not sure it was the one they were hoping for.

The show cuts back down to ringside and the commentary table. As has been customary for this cycle — when Brandon Youngblood is wrestling anyway — Nick and Dick have been joined by King COOL himself, Cancer Jiles.

The spitter.

Richard Parker: You again.

Cancer Jiles: Yup.

Richard Parker: No backup? I guess you forgot what happened last time.

Cancer Jiles: Hey Dick.

Richard Parker: Yeah?

Cancer Jiles: Shut up.

A sea of stars dot the big screen.

Words fade in: “Look Up”

The words fade into space as “Cosmic Road” hits.

Nick Stuart: Bobby Neptune faces the biggest challenge of his young career tonight in the form of PRIME’s actual vanguard, Brandon Youngblood.

Cancer Jiles: Sure thing, Nick. Whatever you say. Good luck getting out of Philadelphia you crumb.

Nick Stuart: Well, after you riled Brandon up earlier I don’t think things are going to work out for PRIME’s newest Space Cadet.

Richard Parker: Say Jiles, tell me, do you wake up every morning with the singular goal and purpose to be the biggest dick the world has ever seen? If yes, is it a challenge for you or does constantly one upping yourself come naturally?

Silence.

Meanwhile, Bobby Neptune strides onstage, his gray eyes taking in the crowd with ethereal focus, he is both looking at them and beyond them at once.

BOOM!

The screen shows a supernova as pyro shoots off behind Neptune who glides towards the ring with graceful purpose. He enters the ring, climbs the turnbuckle, waits a near-eternity, then raises just one arm.

Cancer Jiles: Wait. Did you say Space Cadet? That’s really what this crumb calls himself? What? Was The Flying Object taken? Ha. Stupid idiot. Space Cadet. Kids these days think they’re so witty. I’ll say this much, The Little Rocket Boy better be an ath–

Neptune points to the sky, then backflips back into the ring, ending in his corner.

Cancer Jiles: –lete.

Nick Stuart: Yup. 

Cancer Jiles: What did you say this kid’s name was again? Baby Uranus?

Nick Stuart: Bobby Neptune.

Cancer Jiles: Close enough.

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

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
LET THE GALAXY BURN

The roar that follows is primal. Unrelenting. Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through the arena, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glow a stark red before turning black, the Tower of Babel logo cutting through the dark, prominent and surging. The PRIMEView comes alive with the PRIMETron of Brandon Youngblood. Across it is a variable who’s who in the sport of professional wrestling, countless who have walked the hallowed halls of PRIME, and in them, a staggering constant; they all wilt before raw, unbridled physicality and domination. Suplexes. Strikes. Spinebusters. The highlight reels of catching and destroying would be challengers. The championships won. The accolades minted.

Cancer Jiles: Cool video. Nerd. Mine is ten times better.

Richard Parker: I always love when Brandon wrestles because I get to see you get Diamondplexxxed into oblivion. Over and over again. It is cathartic.

Nick Stuart: Agreed.

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

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

Cancer Jiles: I’m going to mop the floor with this crumb at UJ. Then he’s going to make the best Bandit ever. Oh man, Coral is going to geek out when I see him. Truth be told he never really liked Tony, so Brandon is going to be quite the upgrade. To Coral that is.

Nick Stuart: UJ?

Richard Parker: Don’t–

Cancer Jiles: UltraJiles.

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

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

Impossible to read is Youngblood as he holds court, and as he glowers at his opponent, his head tilts to its side.

Nick Stuart: Are you a little upset that Brandon’s paid you no mind thus far?

Cancer Jiles: His funeral. Not to mention, after UJ we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.

Richard Parker: Please stop calling it that. It’s UltraViolence. Always has been. Always will be. Just like Colossus.

Inside the ring, Jimmy Turnbull goes over the rules. A couple of head nods later and…

DING DING

Right from the start of the match it’s obvious Bobby is going to use his speed to his advantage. He’s bouncing all over the place, and it’s not because he’s getting suplexed about the ring.

Well, not yet anyway.

As for now, he’s leapfrogging around, flipping and somersaulting about, all while avoiding BY’s ire.

Cancer Jiles: Baby Anus is making me dizzy and I’m not even in the ring! I can only imagine how Crumbo feels… not because I’m out here but because of how much older he is than me. Makes it hard, you know?

Richard Parker: Where is a well timed meteor shower when you need one?

Speaking of meteors, the one inside the ring, Bobby Neptune, blows past his competition, and before Youngblood and catch up Bobby is already soaring through the air, having springboarded off the second rope.

Neptune is looking crossbody.

And boy does he look good doing so.

However, the problem with that is Bobby is fresh. He’s got pep in those legs of his still. Maybe a little too much big match pep if you will. As such, when Bobby springs, he gets some air. Like legit hangtime. In fact, he’s up in the air for so long it spoils the advantage he has and allows the Suplex Daddy to catch him.

Nick Stuart: That’s not where you want to be.

Cancer Jiles: What do you think the chances are of Crumbo just putting him down? Like, here ya go, that was your freebie.

Richard Parker: Not very good would be my guess.

Brandon holds Bobby there for about as long as Bobby stood on the ropes posing before the match began, and then throws him across the ring with a fall away slam. Neptune rolls all the way to the ropes, and before he can even look up to recover, Brandon is on him. The Diamond meets his foe on the ground, not wanting to give him the chance to to get up. From there, a relentless flurry of strikes ensue. Lefts, rights, elbows, knees, even a headbutt for good measure. There is a pin attempt, but it’s too close to the ropes and Neptune is able to get a foot on one before the three count. As fortunate as that might sound, BY quickly grabs said foot, moreover the leg that belongs to said foot, and starts to twist, and torque, and twist it into oblivion. First it is the ankle. Then he works over the calf. Then the knee. Then there’s a rather poignant elbow to the inner thigh.

Nick Stuart: Classic Youngblood. Knows his opponent is faster than him and relies on speed, so what does he do? He takes away one of his wheels.

Cancer Jiles: Yeah, it’s like real rocket science for The Space Cadet.

Richard Parker: I hate that I found that funny.

BY cinches in another leg hold, this time around leveraging his full body weight to help destroy the career of a young up and comer. Turnbull asks, and he is vehement, but Neptune screams out “NO” and the match continues on. After a few more seconds of being methodical by twisting and torquing his opponent’s leg, BY finally releases the hold, and Bobby Neptune grabs at his right leg like he’s going to need a new one.

Though the hold is released there is no break in the action.

BY remains on the offensive. He quickly helps Bobby up to his feet, scoops him up, and slams him down on the canvas.

He does this again.

And again.

Then, Neptune, on the fourth time, out of pure desperation, is able to place Brandon inside a small package!

Turnbull is there for the count.

1.

BY’s leg is kicking like a mule.

2.

Neptune can’t believe what planet he’s on!

3——–

Nope.

Sorry.

In actuality, Brandon kicks out at one. After he does, he kicks Bobby in that bad wheel a few more times for good measure, helps Bobby back up to his feet, and this go around Irish whips him into the corner.

THUD.

Bobby hits the turnbuckles so hard that all he can do is lifelessly zombie/cripple step his way towards the center of the ring… as if that is the only place the feeling in his body would return.

Then, the straps come down.

Cancer Jiles: Looks like it’s Randallplex time.

Nick Stuart: He calls it the Diamondplex now.

Cancer Jiles: Does he?

Richard Parker: Don’t answer that.

BY swoops in, ready to put Neptune back into orbit. He wraps his arms around Bobby’s waist, lifts, and punishes with a belly to back suplex out of Webster’s Dictionary. Bobby flops around on the canvas, a true fish out of water.

HOWever.

Instead of pinning Bobby — after beating his ass like the rookie upstart that he is — Brandon finally takes his eye off the ball.

Yup, that crumbo named Jiles.

Can’t really blame him. Brandon that is. Jiles did climb up on the apron. Luckily Turnbull’s got eyes in the back of his head and is able to get in between armageddon before it can start early. That’s not to say that words, and maybe a shove or poke were not exchanged.

Richard Parker: Somebody get that idiot out of here!

Nick Stuart: Hey! Is that FLAMBO selling popcorn up in the stands?

Cut to FLAMBO selling caramel popcorn to some MESSIAH fan up in the stands. He gives a thumbs up after the payment is processed.

Richard Parker: Oh shit it is. Man. That happened fast, didn’t it?

Jiles retreats after threatening to strangle Brandon with the straps on his singlet. Brandon is furious. He’s so mad, it’s almost like he forgot about the young, virile, rookie of the year candidate who, outside of this match, has been hotter than a Bobby Dean in shit.

Neptune is up.

Neptune is poised.

Neptune is on the top rope.

All it takes is one big move.

All that leg has left in it is one big move.

Nick Stuart: OH GOD NEPTUNE!

Richard Parker: I…. still can’t get over FLAMBO selling popcorn.

Neptune blocks out the pain. He knuckles up. More importantly he shoots his shot, and it connects!

I’m sure it helped that BY walked right into it, but still, it counts just the same.

Nick Stuart: BOBBY’S COMET!!!!! OUT OF NOWHERE!

Richard Parker: HE SPIKED HIM! HE SPIKED HIM! HOLY!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD NEPTUNE FELL ON TOP OF HIM! TURNBULL IS DOWN AND COUNTING!

On the outside of the ring Jiles is having a seizure.

On the inside of the ring, Bobby Neptune, The Space Cadet, is lifelessly laying on top of Brandon Youngblood, whose head has just been spiked into the canvas.

And Jimmy Turnbull is there to make the count.

1.

Nick Stuart: There’s no way!

2.

Richard Parker: THERE IS NO WAY!

Yes, Jiles is still seizing on the outside, or else he’d probably say the same thing.

3!

The whole place goes quiet in an instant. So quiet, you can make out the difference between Neptune snoring on top of Youngblood, and Jiles still seizing on the outside.

Nick Stuart: Bobby Neptune just beat Brandon Youngblood.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe it.

Nick Stuart: Believe it, Richard. Bobby Neptune is here to stay. My god what move. Guy had a one percent chance of winning… then BOOM.

A replay of Bobby’s finisher plays, and yes, it’s just as graceful and impressive as it was the first time.

The show then cuts away from the ring.

The human body is truly an amazing thing. Just look at the body’s physiological response to stress – the old fight-or-flight response. Some people might handle the stress of putting their career on the line in a match that seems like career suicide by having panic attacks that simply do not end.

Some might suffer fits of rage.

Others…well, others sit in the catering area with a hollowed out pineapple, twisty straw and little umbrella.

What’s in the pineapple? We can all safely assume alcohol is part of the equation.

Is he drowning his sorrows or trying to figure out what happened out there? I’m sure we’re about to find out.

Dawkins takes a long draw from the children’s straw, sucking down whatever magical elixir he’s concocted. The signature sunglasses have returned, covering up the exhausted eyes we saw displayed in the ring earlier; his posture has failed him as he slouches.

The sunglasses make reading the eyes difficult but the rest of his body language tells a pretty clear story – Bryan Dawkins might’ve fucked up bad with this one.

No body language doctor is necessary to interpret the next look that passes across the Flyin’ Hawaiian’s face. He reacts to a door slamming open with the surprise you might expect.

Reason being: hark! There through the threshold imperiously strides someone who should be getting ready for the night’s preeminent fight.

“Bryan, for FUCK’s sake, what the FUCK are you FUCKING doing?”

So, a few things.

One: cheers, raucous applause, fainting couches needed, etc. The typical trappings of We’ve Seen Chandler Tsonda Can You Even Believe It.

Two: might as well just leave your wallet in the swear jar, potty mouth.

Three: there’s a first time for everything and this is the first time Chandler Tsonda has ever ever referred to Bryan Dawkins by his first name. Something’s up.

But as the Model Citizen pads over in a huff, his former Three Amigos castmate is cool as a cucumber…and pineapple margarita.

Bryan Dawkins: Chan – good to see you, bruh. It’s been a night, huh?

Chandler Tsonda: (chiding) Dude.

All this heat from Tsonda, just over a month after the mended fences between these two men. Neither shows any sign of past discord, or backing down from this conflict.

Chandler Tsonda: (more forcefully) DUDE.

The man who just confidently put his career on the line is untroubled by Chandler’s…troubled state.

Bryan Dawkins: …oh, sorry bruh, forgive me. You’ve got much bigger things on your mind tonight. Second time’s a charm against Cecilworth, yeah?

He lifts his drink, offering cheers to his old amigo.

Bryan Dawkins: I mean, if anyone’s gonna dethrone him, might as well be you. Better than Ivan…but again, this isn’t about me! Go get ‘em, bruh. I’ll be rooting for you back here.

Again, Dawkins tips his drink in his mentor’s direction before taking another deep draw from it. The astute viewer might wonder how so much beverage can be held by such a normal sized pineapple, but this isn’t physics class so we’ll move on.

Chandler Tsonda: First and last time you’ll ever hear Ol’ Chan say this, but I don’t want to do bits with you tonight, Dawkins.

The challenge to the Universal Title has a cool, steely note in his voice. There has only ever been one man who can draw all the natural warmth and charm from Tsonda, and not so coincidentally, it’s the man who will stand across from Dawkins at UltraViolence.

Chandler Tsonda: I don’t know what in the frosty Siberian fuck you think you’re doing, but let me assure you, you’ve got it wrong.

In real time, you can see Tsonda catch himself, and at least partially concede that he’s not going to catch any flies with vinegar here, and can’t win whatever argument he thinks they’re having with chastisement.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re a smart guy. A great fighter. An able champion. A good friend.

The Viet Viper inhales through his flared nostrils. The complications of trying to air out one of the few people left in PRIME for whom he would use that f-word.

Chandler Tsonda: You’ve got your reasons. I know you think you need to do this, that it’s worth your career. But you don’t. It’s not. (softening his tone) Don’t do this, man.

Bryan Dawkins: You serious, bruh? After all you’ve been through with that giant pain in the ass, you’re gonna tell me you don’t get what I did out there earlier?

Chandler Tsonda: I didn’t say he didn’t deserve it. Put him in a woodchipper and set it on high, for all I care. But not at this cost. Don’t play Russian roulette with your career. Not for him. You wanna go out on your shield? Nobody loves shitty odds and a final chance at glory more than me. But not like this.

Tsonda shakes his head, and lets out a little tsk that clearly sets off his former partner and companion, but Chandler can’t help himself.

Chandler Tsonda: If you want your title back, then get back in line. Stack a couple wins and earn it with blood. You’ll be there soon enough. It’s worth everything you’ve ever done, just to settle the score with a guy who ohbytheway will never consider the score settled?

The Model Citizen looks right at and through Dawkins’ shades, as if a meeting of their eyes will make Chandler more convincing.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re going blind here, k…Bryan. You’re blind to the trap the Bear’s laid for you. (exhales) You’re blind and walking into a room made of knives.

For all his protesting, tonight’s main event challenger seems to have misunderstood what drives Dawkins.

Bryan Dawkins: …so you’ve forgotten about what he did to Jasmine?

The mention of the bloody past between the Red Army and Tsonda’s protege brings a snarl to the Model Citizen’s face. If Dawkins notices it, he doesn’t let it stop him.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, don’t even get me started about what he did…or tried to do…with my family. Ivan needs stopped and if I need to put it all on the line to get another chance to do that? So be it.

Chandler Tsonda: You gonna make me plead, kick and scream and wail for you to change your mind?  Not gonna happen. (folds his arms) The difference between now and fifteen years ago, Dawkins, is that Uncle Chan and Daddy Rayne aren’t gonna save your bacon if you’re too fucking stubborn to see that it’s already cooked.

The Viet Viper is losing his cool. He shakes his head, and the brotherly love exuded earlier in the conversation has become brotherly anger.

Chandler Tsonda: Funny, I watched the conversation between you and big ugly out there, and I recall him making you beg, and then him getting exactly what he wanted all along. Maybe you just fucking suck at negotiating.

Nobody takes a full step forward, but the distance between the two men perceptibly narrows. There is a lot of pride in this hallway, maybe too much.

Bryan Dawkins: Man, I thought you were better than this. Why’s it all gotta be about you, Chandler? Yeah, I know…two time Hall of Famer, I know the stat line. But damn, bruh…

Chandler Tsonda: I’m gonna tell you once more, and then I got a huge match to prep for, maybe you’ve heard. Ya know, it’s a sign that I actually fucking care that I’d ever interrupt my Uni match prep to come find you and…no, you know what?

Tsonda cuts himself off, roiling, and then speaks in a calmer, but no less forceful, voice.

Chandler Tsonda: Here’s my final word on it: Call it off. You can leave this conversation all huffy, and say that this is me being me, and making it about what I want. If you need me to be the bad guy here to make you call this off, I’ll do it, man. Don’t take the match. Listen to your friend.

The Flyin’ Hawaiian lets out a hoarse laugh at the last word of that sentence.

Bryan Dawkins: You wanna make this about you? Fine – let’s settle this in two weeks. Hell, this probably should’ve happened a long time ago.

Chandler Tsonda: You’d rather fight me than admit you’re making a colossal mistake? I’m happy to whip some sense into you, dummy, but you ain’t gonna like it.

Dawkins hurls a sarcastic laugh in the Model Citizen’s direction before turning his back on him.

Bryan Dawkins: Heh…we’ll see about that, old man. See you in two weeks.

Dawkins tosses the now empty pineapple into a nearby trashcan before making his way down the corridor, leaving tonight’s Universal Title challenger by his lonesome.

We head elsewhere…

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, up next we have the INTENSE Title on the line as Max Kael challenges the champion, Ivan Stanislav!

Richard Parker: Normally I’d be on Max’s side but there is no way he defeats Ivan Stanislav in a match this violent, this potentially destructive!

Nick Stuart: It should be noted that Ivan has had the worst luck when it comes to defending titles.

Richard Parker: And that bad luck ends tonight! Why do you gotta bring up that cursed stat?!

Before Nick can answer the crowd explodes as Max Kael flies out onto the ReVival stage, collapsing to his knees. From behind him stalks Nate Colton, fists clenched as he closes his distance.

POCKET SAND!

Nate catches a blast of pocket sand from the desperate Max Kael. Scampering back up to his feet, Max lands a kick to the centre of Nate’s chest. As Nate is knocked back, Max runs toward the ring, eager to put as much distance between himself and Colton as he can.

Richard Parker: This is hardly fair! What the hell is Nate Colton doing!?

Nick Stuart: Max started this fight when he kidnapped Colton’s sister!

Richard Parker: There is no proof of that! No proof at all!

Nick Stuart: It’s Max Kael, kidnapping family members is his first, second and THIRD move!

Slipping beneath the barbed wire ropes, Max crawls to the centre of the ring. The Enemigos charge down to the ring, putting themselves between Nate and the recovering Kael. Nate is dragged back through the entrance by security.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael has made it to the ring. He is already bleeding, already hurting, and Ivan Stanislav hasn’t even walked through the curtain yet.

Richard Parker: Great start.

The opening notes of “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir fill the arena.

Vince Howard: Introducing the PRIME Intense Champion! Standing 7’1″ tall and weighing in at 400 lbs! From Arkhangelsk, Russia. He is the leader of Red Army! IIIIVAAAAANNNNN STAAAAANNNISSSSLAAAVVV!!!

The lights dim as red washes across the UBS Arena. The explosive notes of “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir bursts through the arena, and the reaction is instant.

Most boo on instinct. Some cheer out of awe. And some simply stand because despite their personal feelings, Ivan Stanislav is a walking legend.

Richard Parker: Listen to this crowd, Nick!! They love Ivan Stanislav!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t go so far as to say anyone likes, or loves, Ivan Stanislav. But I think they respect what he is.

Richard Parker: In the face of some psycho like Max Kael, it’s a no-brainer!

Nick Stuart: No-brainer is right up your alley, Richard.

Richard Parker: Hey!

Kenny Freeman slips through first, waving at the crowd with a smile plastered on his face. Randall Schwartz follows behind him, waving to the other section of the arena. Tony Gamble, with his permasmirk, emerges third.

Nick Stuart: Looks like the entire Red Army is going to be in attendance!

Richard Parker: No rules. No DQ. Ivan is a communist, and it looks like he wants everyone to fight! It’s an ideological thing!

When Stanislav pushes through last, the arena surges. The PRIME Intense Championship rests across one massive shoulder. There’s no grand uniform, just the man and the belt and his ring gear. He strides with his jaw set behind his troops.

Nick Stuart: I think it’s safe to say that Stanislav is looking to avoid a draw against Max Kael.

Richard Parker: This is an Intense Title match, there’s no draws to be had. And the crowd… I don’t think they know what to think. Some are actually cheering him. Which doesn’t surprise me, considering how Max Kael is a lunatic!

The Red Army fans out around the outside of one half of the ring, while Stanislav steps up onto the apron and then up and over the top rope. As the anthem reaches its crescendo, Stanislav raises the belt up into the air and lets out a bellowing roar before handing the belt to Kenny Freeman. Freeman polishes it, and hands it off to an official while The Russian Bear and Intense Champion adjusts his suspenders and beckons the challenger to enter.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael didn’t walk to this ring tonight. He fought his way here. You just saw what happened with Nate Colton, and Max Kael is already bleeding before a single bell has rung. He was Red Army. He stood in Ivan Stanislav’s corner. He fought beside him in War Games. And after all of that, he is stepping through those ropes alone, already hurt, into a barbed wire match that Ivan chose specifically for him. Four men on the outside. One man coming in off a brawl.

Richard Parker: Nate Colton did Ivan Stanislav a favour tonight. Max Kael is damaged goods before the opening bell, and now he walks into four Red Army soldiers and a barbed wire ring. Whatever Nate started out there, Ivan finishes in here.

DING DING

Max does not circle. He fires the Unquestionable Kick the moment he turns around and the contact is clean, snapping Ivan’s head sideways. He follows immediately with a rising knee to the gut. Ivan takes both. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek and looks at Max the way a man looks at something that has just made a mistake.

He closes one hand around Max’s throat, lifts him entirely off the canvas, and drives him backward into the barbed wire ropes at full arm’s extension. Max hits back-first. The barbs find both shoulders at once.

AAAARRGH!

Nick Stuart: First blood within fifteen seconds. Max Kael came swinging and Ivan Stanislav answered with all four hundred pounds of himself.

Max peels himself off the wire and turns around bleeding from both shoulders. Before he can orient himself, Tony Gamble’s hand snakes under the bottom rope and hooks Max’s ankle. Max goes face-first into the canvas.

Richard Parker: Gamble with the early geometry. Excellent positioning.

Nick Stuart: It’s four against one and it started before they even locked up.

Ivan takes his time crossing the ring. He hauls Max upright by the hair, walks him to the nearest strand of wire, and drags his forehead along it slowly, deliberately, leaning his full weight into the hold so that Max cannot pull away. The crowd’s response is a sustained, unsettled sound, not booing exactly, something lower than that.

BOOOOOOOO!

The skin above Max’s left eye opens in a thin red line. Ivan holds the position a moment longer than necessary, then releases. He steps back and taps his own forehead. He laughs.

Max turns and drives a Brow Beater headbutt directly into Ivan’s nose. Then another. Ivan’s eyes water. Max wraps a length of loose wire around his right fist and punches Ivan across the jaw. The barbs drag on contact. Ivan’s cheek opens.

OOOHHH!

Nick Stuart: Max Kael has turned the wire into a weapon! And now Ivan Stanislav is bleeding!

Richard Parker: That is — I don’t even know if that’s legal.

Nick Stuart: Richard, nothing is illegal tonight. Nothing.

Max, still in pain, stumbles towards the opposite ropes and Tony Gamble reaches up from ringside and grabs his ankle through the wire, pulling him hard onto the apron edge. Max’s spine meets the apron with a crack that the front row hears clearly.

CRACK

Ivan crosses the ring, hauls Max back over the top wire by the scruff, and launches him into the far corner with a one-handed throw. Max hits chest-first. Ivan follows in and crushes him against the turnbuckle with his full back, trapping him there and simply leaning. Max hammers at Ivan’s sides with both fists. Ivan absorbs it without expression.

Richard Parker: Max Kael is punching a continent. He is punching a geographic feature.

Ivan peels himself off, hauls Max out of the corner, and launches him into the opposite ropes with an Irish whip. Max hits the barbed wire back-first at full running speed. The sound it makes is wrong. The crowd produces an involuntary intake of breath as one.

OOOHHH!

Max staggers forward off the wire with four new lacerations across his back and Ivan meets him coming in with the Iron Curtain, one hand at his throat, lifting him off the canvas before the short-arm clothesline folds him in half. Max lands hard. Ivan steps over him. He looks at the Red Army outside. He laughs.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav is in complete control and Max Kael is already bleeding from three separate places.

Ivan picks Max up and attempts a stalling vertical suplex, holding him overhead to show the crowd. Max begins struggling, kicking his legs, and the momentum shifts enough that Ivan has to step toward the ropes to rebalance. Max’s legs catch in the top wire. Ivan cannot complete the move. Max cannot get free. For a long, ugly moment they are locked together, Max upside down with his ankles hooked in the barbed wire, Ivan straining to hold his weight.

Nick Stuart: They’re both stuck! Neither of these men can move!

Ivan releases Max’s body and Max crashes down, but the wire does not let go cleanly. It catches his left forearm on the way down and holds. He is suspended at a horrible angle, one arm caught at the top rope, feet somewhere near the canvas. Ivan sees it. He does not free him.

He drives his knee into Max’s ribs. Once. Twice. He grinds the barbs deeper into Max’s forearm with his palm, pressing down with full deliberateness. The crowd comes apart.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: This is sadistic. Max Kael is helpless and Ivan Stanislav is using those barbs like a weapon against an open wound.

Richard Parker: The arm came off the ropes when Ivan released the suplex attempt. Ivan is simply capitalising. That’s wrestling, Nick.

Max finally tears his forearm free, leaving something behind on the wire that nobody in the arena wants to look at too closely. He drops to the canvas cradling his arm. Ivan wrenches him upright and hammers him into the corner again, looking for the Kurchatov’s Bomb, but Max hooks the wire on both sides of the turnbuckle and refuses to be pulled towards the Russian.

Ivan steps back before charging in to break Max’s grip. Max drops at the last instant. Ivan’s shoulder hits the junction of the turnbuckle post and wire at full speed and the impact spins him backward. He staggers toward the opposite rope and catches himself instinctively, both forearms slamming down on the top wire to stop his momentum. The barbs hook into him immediately.

Nick Stuart: Stanislav is caught! His forearms are caught in the wire!

Ivan heaves forward. The barbs deepen. He heaves again. Kenny Freeman is screaming something helpful from outside. The more Ivan strains, the worse it becomes.

Max does not hesitate. He drives his knee into Ivan’s groin with everything he has left.

YEAAAAAAH!

Ivan folds. His arms hold him half-upright, the wire biting further as his weight drops toward the canvas. He is not going anywhere. Max takes a length of loose wire in his bloodied hand, loops it twice around Ivan’s throat from behind, and pulls, bracing both feet against Ivan’s lower back and leaning away with everything he weighs. Ivan’s chin comes up. His eyes go somewhere far away.

The image holds. The entire arena holds with it. Ivan Stanislav on his knees, blood on his face and forearms, wire cutting into his throat, held there by the man he once commanded.

Nick Stuart: He is going to choke Ivan Stanislav unconscious with that wire! Max Kael is going to win this championship!

Richard Parker: (very quietly) Tony. Tony, right now.

Tony Gamble is already moving with the calm of someone who has planned for exactly this. He rounds the ring post, slides into the ring, and drives a forearm into the back of Max’s skull, precise and without ceremony. Max releases. Ivan collapses forward onto his hands. Gamble returns to his position.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble. Every time Max Kael gets close, Tony Gamble is right there. The most dangerous man in that corner by a distance.

Richard Parker: He is doing what all of them should be doing.

Outside, Randall Schwartz has retrieved the timekeeper’s bell from the table and is advancing on Max’s position at ringside with serious intent. Kenny Freeman jogs alongside him offering tactical advice. Randall swings the bell at Max’s head. Max moves. The bell connects with the ring post at the base of the apron where the wire meets the steel, and the handle catches in the barbs. Randall cannot get it free. He pulls. The wire pulls back. He plants both feet and hauls. The wire hauls back.

Kenny Freeman grabs the bell handle alongside Randall. They pull together. They achieve nothing. The referee glances at them. Max glances at them. Ivan Stanislav, bleeding from his face and forearms, dragging himself to vertical, glances at them.

Richard Parker: What are they doing.

Nick Stuart: They appear to be stuck.

Richard Parker: To the ring post.

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Richard Parker: With the bell.

Nick Stuart: Correct.

Ivan rises to full height. Both forearms are open. The suspenders are dark. He has blood on his face for the first time in this match and something in his expression has moved past composure into something older than that. He crosses the ring toward Max, grabs him by the skull with both hands, and looks at the crowd.

Richard Parker: Ivan. Ivan, no. Ivan, do not do what you are thinking about doing.

Ivan Stanislav, 7’1″ and 400 pounds, crouches, generates upward momentum, swings his legs outward, and attempts the HurricanRussia on a man eight inches shorter and a hundred and thirty-five pounds lighter.

Max does not go over. The laws of physics decline to cooperate. Max’s knees buckle under the weight but do not fold. Ivan’s upward momentum runs out of places to go. They hang in an impossible arrangement for one airless second and then fall sideways together into the barbed wire ropes with all of what they both weigh behind them.

CRAAAASH

The wire finds Ivan’s back. Max’s chest. The PRIMEview replays it. The crowd does not need the replay. The crowd was here.

HOOOLY SHIT! HOOOLY SHIT!

Nick Stuart: What was Ivan Stanislav attempting?

Richard Parker: A hurricanrana.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav was attempting a hurricanrana on Max Kael.

Richard Parker: In retrospect the concept had some flaws.

Both men lie motionless for what feels like minutes, recovering. Stanislav, however, has other ideas. Channeling Alexei Ruslan, Stanislav pulls a collapsible baton from his pocket. The Bear slowly rises, finds Max on one knee, and brings it across his back.

CRACK

Twice more. Max catches the baton mid-swing on the third attempt, wrenches it free, and hurls it into the crowd. He turns back to find Ivan already closing, and catches a Stalin’s Sickle, the facepalm chokeslam depositing him across the middle rope where the barbs are waiting.

Max slumps over the wire. Tony G, on the outside, digs into his own pockets!

Nick Stuart: What now?!!

The taser comes out. Gamble advances along the apron, reaches between the wire strands, and fires it directly into Max’s side. Max convulses. Ivan steps back and watches.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: The Grin just tasered Max Kael! This has to stop! There is a legal limit to what one human being can absorb!

Richard Parker: There is no legal limit tonight, Nick. There is no legal anything tonight. That is the match they agreed to.

Ivan takes the barely-upright Max and delivers Kurchatov’s Bomb, driving him down into the top turnbuckle with two full hands.

BOOM

He covers.

ONE

TWO

THR— KICKOUT!

RAAAAHHHH!

Nick Stuart: How? How does Max Kael kick out of that? He was tasered. He was powerbombed. He is bleeding from no fewer than five separate places on his body. How?

Richard Parker: (pause) I genuinely do not know.

Max gets to his feet. It takes a while and it is not graceful and the crowd watches every second of it. He is bleeding from his scalp, his shoulders, his forearm, his chest, his back. The wire has had him in five different ways and he is still vertical. He looks at Ivan. He grins.

LET’S GO MAX KAEL! LET GO MAX KAEL!

He takes a length of barbed wire and winds it around his right forearm. One coil. Two. He tightens each loop without looking down. The wire bites his skin and he does not stop winding. Tony Gamble is shouting something from ringside. Ivan, showing signs of exhaustion, watches Max coil the wire around his arm with an expression that is, for the first time all match, not entirely readable. Ivan turns for half a second.

Max launches the Cruelest Stroke. The running back elbow catches Ivan at the base of the skull with the full force of the wire driving through on impact, metal and bodyweight arriving at the same point simultaneously. Ivan drops straight down.

YEAAAH!

Max falls across him.

ONE

TWO

THRE—

Gamble is through the ropes! He physically drags the official away from the count with both hands. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz, having finally freed the ring bell from the apron wire, scale opposite sides of the ring simultaneously. Randall is still holding the bell. The referee, retrieved by Tony Gamble, is now trying to deal with three separate interference situations at once. He appears to age visibly.

Nick Stuart: That is three! That is three and Max Kael is your new Intense Champion and Tony Gamble has stolen this match! This is criminal!

Richard Parker: The referee did not finish the count, Nick. Tony Gamble simply initiated a strategic pause.

Nick Stuart: A strategic pause.

Richard Parker: In the interest of due process.

Max stands. He looks at all of them. Four men at ringside, one of them holding a timekeeper’s bell, two of them arguing with a referee, one of them carrying a taser. He looks at Ivan. He grins again and there is something in the grin that is different now, something with less performance behind it.

He vaults the top rope toward Kenny and Randall, landing cat-like on the ringside floor. They scatter. Randall drops the bell. Tony Gamble moves to intercept Max from the left. Kenny moves right. Max is calculating angles between all three of them and for one brief moment it looks as though calculation might be enough.

Ivan does not wait. He steps towards the ropes and presses his chest deliberately into the top wire, leaning his full weight into the barbs to reach down to where Max is standing on the floor. The wire opens him across the chest. He does not flinch. He gets both hands on Max, hauls him upward, and drags him onto the apron by force alone.

Max is barely upright when Ivan hooks him for the reverse suplex, the grip locking in from the ring side of the rope. He lifts. Max goes up and backward off the apron, and the ring steps at the corner are exactly where he lands, skull and spine meeting steel with nothing to slow the descent.

Reverse Red Scare.

THOOM

Nick Stuart: MAX KAEL JUST LANDED HEAD… NO… NECK FIRST ONTO THE STEEL STEPS!

Richard Parker: He’s done. He has to be done.

Max does not move. At all.

Ivan stands leaning against the ropes and looks down at him for a long moment. Then he turns his head toward Tony Gamble and says nothing. He does not need to. He looks back at Max.

Gamble moves without a word, crouching at Max’s side, rolling him back under the bottom rope. Ivan’s predatory gaze follows. He places one boot on Max Kael’s chest and looks at the ceiling.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, and STILL PRIME Intense Champion, IVAN STANISLAV!

Kenny Freeman produces the Intense Championship with both hands. Ivan takes it without looking at him. He stands over Max Kael for a moment, the belt against his chest, blood on his face and forearms.

Then he steps over him. Left foot. Right foot.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav retains the Intense Championship. But Max Kael was tasered, beaten four on one, and had his winning pin stolen from him by Tony Gamble. That count was his.

Richard Parker: And yet he does not have the championship, Nick. Funny how that works.

Nick Stuart: What Max Kael showed tonight tells you something. And I think Ivan Stanislav knows it too.

Richard Parker: Ivan Stanislav retained his championship in a barbed wire match against a tasered lunatic with four men at ringside. That is what it took. Make of that what you will.

The Soviet National Anthem reclaims the arena as Ivan raises the Intense Championship at the top of the ramp. The Red Army files into formation behind him. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz fall in at the back, walking shoulder to shoulder, looking like men who have survived something they do not fully understand, while Gamble grins and waves to the crowd.

Nick Stuart: What a brutal affair!

Richard Parker: Lindsay Troy made this match and in doing so she might have shortened the careers of these two men!

An exhausted, blooded Max drags himself beneath the barbed wire ropes, collapsing to the outside of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Max might have to use another life just to recover from this.

Dragging himself up to his feet Max barely is upright when someone flies out of the crowd, slamming into the Mayor of Arkham!

Richard Parker: It’s that dastardly Nate Colton! I thought security had removed him!

Nick Stuart: Well it looks like Nate managed to escape the Enemigos and has made his way back to Kael!

Max does his best to cover up as Nate reigns down rights and lefts.

A shadow suddenly falls over Colton, a shadow that belongs to the Bolognese Bull, himself covered in battle wounds earned against the Colton Family. Reaching down he hoists Nate up, tossing him away.

Nick Stuart: The Bull might have just saved Max’s life, for whatever that’s worth!

Richard Parker: Get him out of here, Bolognese Bull! Get Max to safety, this Nate Colton is unhinged!

Half-dead, Max climbs onto the Bolognese Bull and rides him over the security barricade, like Yoda riding Luke Skywalker through the swamps of Degobah. Nate quickly recovers and gives chase through the crowd.

Nick Stuart: The Bolognese Bull is absconding with Max Kael and Nate Colton is in hot pursuit!

Richard Parker: This is outrageous! Lindsay Troy and PRIME management need to do something about this travesty! Ban Nate Colton and the whole Colton family immediately!

All three men vanish out of the side exit as the chaos between the Kael and Colton families remains unresolved for now.

The Long Island fans are very hyped, they have really seen some shit already on this night of big matches and big consequences and big implications. Lots of big things that are happening in a big-like manner.

Yet, they know they have one more delicious treat. They have been bestowed a Universal Championship match to behold with their precious eyes, a rematch of the Colossus main event where the 2025 Almasy winner and the now longest reigning Universal Champion in PRIME history are once again destined to stand across the ring from each other and do their best to really fuck each other up.

So you could say there is something of a BIG BUZZ spreading across the UBS Arena.

DING DING DING DING DING

The ring bell of importance does even more to amplify the overall buzzyness of the buzzed crowd.

Vince Howard knows the magnitude of what is about to happen as he takes his place in the centre of the ring. The golden voice grips his microphone and steadies himself for the big announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen the following contest…

Howard does not get much further in his announcement duties, for he is rudely interrupted.

By a person? My goodness, no.

It’s by a song.

What song?

Well, of all the songs that could be played at this exact moment in time, it is one to confuse the PRIME staff in the ring and audience alike.

“Bang Bang” by Jessie J, Ariana Grande and the one who wrote the tweets about the swollen balls of a family member.

The powerful vocal force of Jessie J is enough to stop Vince Howard in his tracks. Or maybe it’s just the overall confusion at the situation that is unfolding.

As the song booms, the lights dim in the arena and the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo is displayed prominently while the song keeps saying the words “BANG BANG” over and over. There’s other lyrics but those ones aren’t important.

A long spotlight shines up a beautiful velvet draped table, standing upon it is a can of Red Bull, polished and shined. As Ariana Grande warbles as Jessie J tries to say the word “bang” more, the contours and ring pull of the Red Bull can are scanned with care, allowing the audience to appreciate every inch of this refreshing energy beverage that is rumoured to give some wings.

The scene abruptly cuts to black.

Then it returns just as abruptly. There’s a lot of harsh camera cuts going on that need to be workshopped on, one would imagine.

Suddenly, the screen lights up brightly with a hastily copied and pasted PNG file of FLAMBERGE, most likely saved directly from the PRIME website. There is a sheen that surrounds the edges of the image of FLAMBERGE, as a spinning can of Red Bull dances atop his head.

Below the image, the legend states.

The hardest working man in PRIME, despite others claims to the contrary. Continued to battle his way through the toughest competition despite suffering from both a lack of arm and having his brain turned into a fine mushy pudding. FLAMBERGE did the unthinkable, defeating Nate Colton twice in PRIME’s most prestigious competition since PRIME’s last competition. With grit and determination, he evened the score against his deadliest foe. His BANG! or bangability is now without question in the great annals of PRIME. Yes, that was annals.

The Inaugaral Big Bangable Bash Victory, Destroyed of The Hank Group, Sweeper Of All Matters Bang

PRIME Presents That Dirk Dickwood Presents That Red Bull Weirdly Presents – Now Established As TV’s Mr. Sex

FLAMBERGE

The “Bang Bang” song comes to an abrupt halt, leaving a lot of confused murmurs in the UBS (not IBS) Arena. The vexation on Vince Howard’s face is incredibly evident.

The crowd does stir with approval noises as the PRIMEview cuts now to the Universal Champion, his Ace Reporter Hat sitting atop his precious noggin. He looks down the camera lens, addressing his universe.

Cecilworth Farthington: The B3 has concluded with the result we knew would happen. My good, close personal friend FLAMBERGE, who I did not hurt or injure because I did nothing wrong is now firmly established canon of PRIME as TV’s Mr. Sex. Sadly, this means that my days as a reporter are now currently concluded.

A distraught looking Farthington sadly throws his reporter hat down onto the ground and pained as he is to do so, stomps down upon it.

Cecilworth Farthington: But my days as Universal Champion? They remain. They continue. I’m about to walk down to that ring and rip off Chandler Tsonda’s arm. Right off. I would then club him with the ripped off arm but I am worried that could lead to a potential disqualification situation.

Farthington holds up his Universal Champion high, letting it sparkle and glean in the bright lights of whatever room he is currently in.

Cecilworth Farthington: So Long Island, hold on, because I’m coming!

The lights darken in the arena once more, a little bit of a frustrated Vince Howard readies himself to try again and perhaps not be interrupted by songs with “Bang” in their title.

The lights in UBS Arena drop.

Not gradually. All at once. One moment the building is alive with the restless energy of eighteen thousand people who have been waiting for this since the moment the card was announced, and the next there is nothing but darkness and the low murmur of a crowd holding its breath.

Then, from the speakers:

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

The weathered voice lands like a stone dropped into still water. Around the arena, phones rise like candles, tiny lights in the dark, and the murmur grows into something else entirely. Those who know what’s coming are already reacting. Those who don’t are learning fast.

The voice fades. The acoustic guitar begins. Twelve seconds of quiet anticipation, twelve seconds of a crowd drawing in one long collective breath —

The guitars thunder in.

BOOM!

Gold and green pyro erupts from the stage in perfect synchronization with the power riffs of Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home,” bathing the entrance ramp in light and smoke and color. The PRIME*View ignites behind it all, white letters on black:

MODEL CITIZEN

And there he is.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Chandler Tsonda stands at the top of the ramp and lets Long Island have him for a moment. The smirk is already there, painted across his face like he was born with it. The gold and green lights play across him through the haze of pyro smoke, and he looks like a man who belongs exactly where he is. He tilts his head back and soaks in eighteen thousand people who are entirely, unconditionally his.

This is his city. His crowd. His night.

Then he runs.

He sprints down the ramp at full speed, slides under the bottom rope, and comes up on one knee in the center of the ring. He bounces to his feet, rolls his shoulders, ready for the championship match.

Nick Stuart: Listen to this building! Chandler Tsonda is HOME tonight, and UBS Arena is letting him know it!

Richard Parker: Very touching. A man beloved in his natural habitat. Unfortunately for him and everyone cheering, his natural habitat is about to be invaded.

Nick Stuart: Last time these two men met, Tsonda came within a finger’s width of the Universal Championship. Those here remember that clearly.

Richard Parker: Long Island is about to be disappointed again. They’re very practiced at it.

Nick Stuart: You’re in rare form tonight.

Richard Parker: I’m always in rare form. Tonight just has a larger audience.

The lights slowly return to the arena as Tsonda settles into his corner, still bouncing, still loose. He watches the entrance ramp with the focused patience of a man who has thought about this moment every single day for months.

Then the arena slowly begins to darken again.

A different darkness this time. The crowd knows the difference immediately, and the reaction shifts, the cheers braided together with boos, the sound of a divided house making itself known.

The opening moments of “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begin to slowly reverberate through the arena, the riff building, climbing, reaching —

Bright lights explode down upon the crowd.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And out from backstage steps Lord Cecilworth Farthington, Universal Championship draped over his left shoulder, the self-assured smile already cracked across his face.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The camera finds him immediately. The smile, the plain black hoodie, both hands inserted casually into the front pockets as he swaggers to the right of the stage, shoulders moving to the tune of “Choke.” The jovial expression doesn’t entirely match the purposeful march, the measured cadence of a man who has walked to this ring as Universal Champion more times than anyone in recent memory and intends to keep doing so.

He reaches the ring and slowly rolls under the bottom rope, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He raises his left arm, still in the hoodie pocket, lifting the whole garment with it, and gives the crowd a cheeky little wave as he takes his place resting against the corner.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Farthington looks across the ring at Tsonda. The smile doesn’t waver.

Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion is in the building. He has defended it against every challenger PRIME has put in front of him. And tonight, on Long Island, he defends it once more against the one man who came closer than anyone else to taking it from him.

Richard Parker: Came close, Nick. Came close and tapped out. There’s a meaningful difference between almost winning and winning, and Farthington is the only man in this building who knows what the latter feels like.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is here to change that.

Richard Parker: Tsonda is here to try. There’s a meaningful difference between those two things as well.

Elvis Nixon moves to the center of the ring as the music fades. He looks at both men, Farthington relaxed against his corner, Tsonda coiled in his, and raises his hand.

The Universal Championship is held high. Nixon passes it to the timekeeper. The crowd noise swells to a roar that fills every corner of UBS Arena.

Vince Howard brings the microphone to his lips.

Vince Howard: The following match is scheduled for one fall… and is for the PRIME Universal Championship!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Vince Howard: Introducing first — the challenger! Hailing from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam. He is a two-time PRIME Hall of Famer. A former Universal Champion. The Viet Viper. The Sultan of Style. THE MODEL CITIZEN — CHANDLER! TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSONDA!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Vince Howard: And his opponent — defending his championship! Hailing from Buckinghamshire, England. He is the leader of the Glueminati. He is the CONGA CRUSHER. He is YOUR — Universal — Champion — CECILWORTH! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTHINGTON!

A mixture of cheers and boos roll through the arena.

Nixon gives his final instructions. Both men acknowledge him with the barest minimum of attention, their eyes locked on each other across the ring. Farthington’s smile hasn’t moved. Tsonda has stopped bouncing.

Nixon signals to the timekeeper.

DING DING

The bell has barely finished ringing before UBS Arena erupts.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Tsonda stands in his corner and just… listens to it. Eyes closed for just a moment, head tilted back, soaking in eighteen thousand people who are entirely, unconditionally his. When he opens his eyes, he’s smiling. Not the swagger-smirk of the Model Citizen working a crowd. Something quieter than that. Something real.

Farthington watches him do it and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Richard Parker: Look at this circus. You’d think the man already won something.

Nick Stuart: Long Island knows what they’re watching tonight, Richard. These people have seen Tsonda perform on this stage before, and they believe in him.

Richard Parker: Believing in Chandler Tsonda is a hobby for people who enjoy heartbreak. They should know by now.

Nick Stuart: A little over five months months ago, Tsonda came within a finger’s width of that title.

Richard Parker: And then he tapped out. I know. I was there.

The two men step out of their corners and begin to circle. There’s none of the trash talk from last time, none of the foreheads pressed together, none of the jawing at close range. Tsonda has his hands up — measured, technical. Farthington circles with his hands low, patient. Two men who know exactly what the other is capable of, neither willing to be the first to make a mistake.

Elvis Nixon moves between them, eyes tracking both, a man who has seen this movie before and knows it has a very long runtime.

Then Farthington lunges.

Not for a collar-and-elbow. He goes straight for the wrist, snatching Tsonda’s right arm and wrenching it behind his back in a hammerlock, targeting the elbow joint he nearly destroyed the last time these two met. The move takes less than a second and the message is immediate and unmistakable.

I know exactly where you’re broken.

CRACK!

Tsonda’s face contorts, but only for a half-second before he spins through the pressure, reversing the hammerlock and planting a forearm between Farthington’s shoulder blades. The champion stumbles forward a step. When he turns around, something flickers across his face.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda reverses immediately! The message is loud and clear, he is not here to be intimidated!

Richard Parker: Or he reversed it because he couldn’t let Farthington hold it. Has that crossed your mind? Maybe the arm isn’t as healed as the doctors are telling him. Maybe Tsonda is protecting it.

Nick Stuart: You are constitutionally incapable of giving that man an inch.

Richard Parker: I gave him an inch last time. He used it to tap out on national television.

Farthington rolls his shoulder where the forearm landed, tilting his head at Tsonda with something that almost looks like appreciation. He beckons the challenger forward with two fingers.

Alright then. Let’s go.

They lock up in the center of the ring, a genuine collar-and-elbow, and for a moment both men are perfectly still, two immovable objects testing the other’s foundation. Farthington shifts his weight and drives Tsonda backward a step. Tsonda digs his heels in and pushes back, walking Farthington toward the ropes before Nixon calls for a break. Both men separate cleanly, backing off a step, and the crowd exhales like they’d been holding their breath.

Nick Stuart: Both men feeling each other out. Last time, this match went to war inside of thirty seconds. Tonight they’re being considerably more deliberate.

Richard Parker: That’s Farthington’s influence. He dictates the pace of every match he’s in. If it starts slow, it’s because he wants it slow.

Nick Stuart: Or because both men walked into this building having studied hours of tape on each other and neither wants to be the one who makes the first error.

Richard Parker: That’s a very diplomatic way of saying Tsonda is scared.

Nick Stuart: That is not even close to what I said.

They lock up again, and this time Farthington snaps into a side headlock, grinding it in tight, wrenching the neck. Tsonda shoves him off toward the ropes. Farthington rebounds, Tsonda drops to the mat, and the champion leaps over him. Tsonda pops back up. Farthington off the far ropes, Tsonda goes for a leapfrog, clears it cleanly. The two spin to face each other, UBS Arena erupting even though not much has happened as of yet.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Listen to this crowd! They are READY!

Richard Parker: They’re cheering a leapfrog. Long Island. The land of idiots. God help us all.

Tsonda doesn’t wait this time. He charges at Farthington and fires a forearm that snaps the champion’s head to the side. Farthington responds with one of his own. Tsonda fires back. The crowd rises with every exchange, the sound building like a wave that has nowhere to go but forward.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Farthington ducks under a forearm attempt and grabs Tsonda by the wrist, whipping him hard into the corner. Tsonda’s back hits the turnbuckles and he arches from the impact, but Farthington is already moving, charging across the ring with a knee raised. Tsonda sidesteps at the last possible second and Farthington’s knee crashes into the top turnbuckle.

CLANG!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The champion staggers backward, grabbing at his knee, and Tsonda immediately locks in a rear waistlock, lifting and driving Farthington overhead with a German suplex that deposits the champion on the back of his skull.

CRUNCH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with the opening salvo! Farthington paid for that charge!

Richard Parker: Lucky. Tsonda moved two inches to the left. That’s not a strategy, that’s a lottery ticket.

Nick Stuart: It worked.

Richard Parker: So does a broken clock.

Tsonda doesn’t let Farthington breathe. He’s on him before the champion can sit up, dropping a knee across the back of his neck and then dragging him up by the arm. He fires a knife-edge chop that echoes through the arena like a gunshot.

CRACK!

And another.

CRACK!

Farthington’s chest is already red. He shoves Tsonda backward with both hands, creating separation, but Tsonda closes the distance in two steps and nails a running European uppercut that lifts Farthington up onto his heels.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is OVERWHELMING Farthington in the early going! The champion cannot find his footing!

Richard Parker: He’s finding it just fine, Nick. Watch.

As if on cue, Farthington ducks under a charging Tsonda and grabs him from behind, driving him chest-first into the corner. Tsonda hits the turnbuckles hard and Farthington immediately grabs a handful of hair, yanking his head back before driving it forward into the top turnbuckle.

THWACK!

Once. Twice. A third time. Nixon barks at him. Farthington releases the hair with his hands raised in mock innocence.

Richard Parker: Technical mastery.

Nick Stuart: He was using the hair.

Richard Parker: Then maybe Tsonda should cut it. Then it couldn’t be used against him.

Farthington grabs Tsonda by the shoulder and spins him around, firing a short palm strike to the jaw that rattles the challenger where he stands. He follows it immediately with a fisherman’s suplex, holding the bridge and the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda rolls the shoulder.

Farthington transitions fluidly, dragging Tsonda back up without releasing him and hitting a second fisherman’s suplex. History repating itself. Nixon drops again.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda out again, but slower this time.

Nick Stuart: Farthington going to work early on that back, using the suplex to rattle the spine on every landing.

Richard Parker: He knows exactly what to do with Tsonda now. Last time was the blueprint. Tonight is the construction.

Farthington rises and stalks around Tsonda, who is pushing himself up to his hands and knees. The champion measures him, then drives a boot directly into the small of his back.

STOMP!

Tsonda collapses flat, hands clawing at the mat. The crowd groans and then, a half-beat later, turns it into noise.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Farthington looks out at the Long Island crowd with an expression of absolute contempt. He turns back to Tsonda and drops an elbow directly across the lower back, pressing all of his weight down and grinding it in.

THUD!

Nick Stuart: Farthington is already zeroing in on the back, and this crowd is trying to will Tsonda back into this match!

Richard Parker: Eighteen thousand people chanting his name isn’t going to fix a broken back, Nick.

Tsonda fights his way up to one knee. Farthington grabs him by the wrist and sends him hard into the ropes. Tsonda rebounds and Farthington drops his shoulder, looking for a back body drop, but Tsonda sees it and stops short, driving a forearm across the back of Farthington’s neck instead.

CRACK!

Farthington stumbles and Tsonda is behind him instantly, locking in a rear waistlock. He lifts the champion and drives him overhead with another German suplex, this one holding the bridge perfectly.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Farthington twists his hips just enough to break the pinning combination.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: So close! Tsonda nearly caught him right there!

Richard Parker: Nearly. Keep that word handy, Nick. You’re going to need it a lot tonight.

Tsonda is on his feet before Farthington, and he pulls the champion up and whips him into the corner. He follows immediately, looking for a running forearm, but Farthington gets his boot up at the last second and catches Tsonda flush across the face.

CRACK!

Tsonda staggers. Farthington hops up to the second rope and leaps off, driving both knees into Tsonda’s chest, and both men crash to the canvas in a heap.

BOOM!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nixon checks on both men. Farthington is up first, favoring the knee that hit the turnbuckle earlier, though he’d never let you know it from his face. He reaches down and grabs Tsonda, pulling him to his feet, then drives his knee directly into the right elbow.

CRACK!

The sound is sharp and specific and the crowd reacts to it with a collective wince. Tsonda yanks the arm back immediately, clutching at it, and Farthington smiles for the first time.

There it is.

Nick Stuart: Farthington just targeted the elbow. The same elbow he nearly broke in the Article 51 at Colossus.

Richard Parker: Memory is a beautiful thing, Nick.

Nick Stuart: That is not a compliment.

Richard Parker: No. It isn’t.

Farthington grabs the right arm and torques it, wrenching the elbow joint at an ugly angle. Tsonda grimaces, planting his feet and trying to rotate out of it, but Farthington steps through, maintaining the pressure and transitioning into a hammerlock. He then grabs the back of Tsonda’s neck and marches him into the corner, driving the shoulder directly into the steel ring post.

CLANG!

Tsonda’s cry cuts through the arena. He spins away from the corner clutching his right arm against his chest, and Farthington is right behind him, not letting him get a foot of separation. The champion grabs the arm again and drops to the mat, pulling Tsonda down into a cross armbreaker attempt — the same move, the same arm, the same message as the last time — but Tsonda sees it coming. He clasps his hands together, stacking his left over his right to prevent Farthington from extending the arm fully.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has it scouted! He’s protecting that arm!

Richard Parker: For now. Farthington will get there. He’s patient. He has all night.

Tsonda fights to his knees with Farthington still wrenching at the grip, trying to pry the hands apart. The challenger gets one foot on the mat and then the other and powers up to a standing position, Farthington hanging off his arm. Tsonda swings him outward and releases, sending Farthington skidding across the canvas and into the ropes.

Both men are breathing harder now. The pace has been relentless. Farthington rises against the ropes and Tsonda is already charging — but the champion sidesteps and hooks both arms from behind, looking for a straightjacket German. Tsonda drops his weight to block it. Farthington pulls upward. Tsonda plants. For a moment they’re perfectly deadlocked, neither man able to move the other.

Then Tsonda snaps his head back, connecting with a headbutt.

CRACK!

Farthington releases the grip and staggers. Tsonda spins and catches the stumbling champion with a rolling elbow that lands flush on the jaw.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Farthington drops to one knee. Tsonda bounces off the ropes, comes back with a running knee to the face, and Farthington goes all the way down.

BOOM!

The cover. Nixon slides in.

ONE!

TWO!

Farthington kicks out with authority, almost annoyed, and the crowd registers its displeasure immediately.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with a FLURRY and Farthington barely responds to a near-two! The champion is reminding everyone in this building that he is not easy to put away!

Richard Parker: He kicked out at two, Nick. That’s not barely. That’s decisively.

Nick Stuart: Richard—

Richard Parker: He could’ve kicked out at one and a half if he wanted to send a message. He let Nixon count it. That’s poise.

Tsonda doesn’t argue with the count. He pulls Farthington up and shoves him into the ropes, loading up for a back body drop on the rebound, but Farthington hooks the top rope and stops himself. Tsonda charges and Farthington catches him with a drop toe hold, planting his face on the canvas. Before Tsonda can react Farthington has both legs hooked, rolling him into a bow-and-arrow submission that bends his spine at a vicious angle.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Tsonda’s back arches involuntarily, a sharp cry escaping through gritted teeth. Nixon is there immediately.

Elvis Nixon: Talk to me, Chandler!

Tsonda shakes his head violently. His hands reach out in front of him, grasping at nothing. Farthington pulls back further, his own face tight with effort, and the crowd is immediately on its feet.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Nick Stuart: Farthington with the bow-and-arrow and this crowd is BEGGING Tsonda to survive!

Richard Parker: Listen to them. They know what’s coming. Somewhere deep down, they always knew.

Tsonda digs his elbows into the mat and begins to drag himself sideways. The ropes are a mile away, but he moves toward them anyway, Farthington’s weight bearing down on his spine with every inch. Six inches. Then another six. The chant grows louder as he moves, eighteen thousand people pulling him toward those ropes by sheer force of will.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Farthington wrenches back one more time and Tsonda screams. But his fingers find the rope.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: He’s there! Tsonda is at the ropes!

Richard Parker: …I’ll give him that one.

Nixon calls the break and Farthington releases, rising to his feet slowly. He doesn’t look frustrated. He looks like a man running through a checklist, and the next item is already circled.

Tsonda uses the ropes to pull himself up, his back visibly stiff, his right arm still cradled carefully against his chest. He turns to find Farthington standing right in front of him.

The champion headbutts him square in the face.

CRACK!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Oh come ON—

Richard Parker: That’s legal, Nick.

Nick Stuart: I know it’s legal!

Richard Parker: Then why are you yelling?

Tsonda’s head snaps back into the corner pads. Farthington grabs him by the arm — the right arm, deliberately, always the right arm — and drags him out of the corner before spinning and driving him down with a short-arm DDT that spikes the crown of his skull into the canvas.

CRUNCH!

Farthington rolls him over. Nixon counts.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda kicks out.

Farthington sits up, looks at Nixon, then looks out at the crowd that is screaming itself hoarse for Chandler Tsonda. He stands and spreads his arms wide.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: This crowd should love him! They should be cheering him! He is going to win this match and he will remember their jeers forever!

Nick Stuart: This match is FAR from over.

Richard Parker: Somebody should tell Tsonda that.

Farthington doesn’t let the crowd noise settle. He pulls Tsonda up and fires a palm strike to the jaw, then grabs the wrist and sends him hard into the ropes. Tsonda rebounds and Farthington drops, looking for a drop toe hold again, but Tsonda leaps over him. Farthington pops up. and Tsonda comes off the far ropes. Farthington goes for a spinning heel kick and Tsonda ducks under it, and when Farthington lands and spins around Tsonda is already airborne, catching him with a missile dropkick from the second rope that sends the champion crashing into the corner.

BOOM!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Tsonda is up immediately. He charges into the corner and drives a forearm across the rising Farthington’s face, then grabs him by the arm and whips him hard across the ring. Farthington hits the opposite corner chest-first and staggers backward and Tsonda is right behind him, rolling him up with a school boy.

ONE!

TWO!

Farthington kicks out and rolls away, stumbling back to his feet fast, but Tsonda is already swinging — a spinning backfist that catches the champion on the temple and drops him to one knee.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is BUILDING now! He’s found something and this crowd is right there with him!

Richard Parker: He finds something every match, Nick. Right up until he doesn’t.

Tsonda grabs the champion by the head and pulls him up, driving a knee into the midsection that doubles him over. He hooks him in a front facelock, lifts him vertically, holds him there for a moment, the blood rushing to Farthington’s head, the crowd counting along, then drops him with a stalling brainbuster that shakes the ring.

CRASH!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Farthington gets the shoulder up, but it takes more than it should.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda held him up there for a full five seconds! Every drop of blood going straight to Farthington’s head before that brainbuster!

Richard Parker: Two count. Keep moving.

Tsonda moves to the corner and climbs to the second rope, measuring Farthington as the champion struggles to his feet. The moment Farthington turns, Tsonda launches himself off and catches him with a flying forearm that sends both men tumbling across the canvas.

CRACK!

Tsonda rolls through and pops back to his feet, and the crowd is absolutely unhinged.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

He grabs Farthington by the arm and whips him into the ropes. Farthington rebounds and Tsonda plants his feet, looking for a spinebuster, but Farthington hooks the arm on the way in and spins through, driving Tsonda down with a modified neckbreaker instead.

CRUNCH!

Both men down. Nixon watches. Neither moves for a long moment.

Nick Stuart: Both men trading momentum now, neither able to sustain it! This match is on a razor’s edge!

Richard Parker: Farthington is fine. He’s resting. Watch.

Farthington is up first, rolling his neck. He grabs Tsonda by the ankle before the challenger can rise and drags him to the center of the ring, then drops a knee directly across the right elbow.

CRACK!

Tsonda yanks the arm back, teeth clenched. Farthington grabs it again before he can fully retract it, wrenching it outward and driving another knee into the joint.

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: Again with the elbow. Farthington is absolutely relentless in his targeting.

Richard Parker: That’s called a game plan, Nick. Some people have them.

Farthington hauls Tsonda up by the injured arm and hooks him for a short-arm clothesline, but Tsonda ducks under it, spins behind the champion and hits a release dragon suplex that dumps Farthington on the back of his neck.

CRUNCH!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Tsonda shakes his right arm out, grimacing, but gets himself up and moves to the corner. He climbs deliberately to the top rope, his eyes on Farthington, who is face-down on the canvas. The crowd rises with him, already on their feet, already believing.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda going up top! Long Island is on its feet!

Richard Parker: Here we go with the acrobatics.

Tsonda steadies himself and launches into the Model Citizen, his signature high-arc moonsault. He rotates perfectly, the form textbook, the arc beautiful.

Farthington rolls out of the way.

Tsonda lands on his feet, stumbles forward from the impact on his spine, and Farthington is already up, spinning him around and driving him into the canvas with a lightning-fast jawbreaker.

CRACK!

OHHHHHHHHHHH!

The cover. Nixon counts.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Tsonda kicks out.

Richard Parker: Oh, he was CLOSE that time.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda kicked out but he is definitely feeling the effects of having to bail out of the Model Citizen and that jawbreaker right on top of it!

Richard Parker: Farthington lured him up there. That’s the difference between chess and checkers and you’re watching chess.

Farthington doesn’t go for a second cover. He rises and grabs Tsonda by the head, pulling him up, then hooks both arms and executes a double underhook suplex, bridging back and folding Tsonda in half.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda rolls a shoulder.

Farthington transitions immediately, pulling him back up and into a second double underhook, this time driving him down with a facebuster that bounces Tsonda’s forehead off the canvas.

THWACK!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Farthington chaining those together seamlessly! Every move flowing directly into the next!

Richard Parker: This is what the longest championship reign looks like. This is what separates the man from every challenger who steps in front of him. Farthington doesn’t just wrestle. He disassembles.

Farthington grabs Tsonda’s right arm again and applies a Fujiwara armbar, sitting into it, wrenching the shoulder and elbow simultaneously. Nixon is down there immediately, checking on Tsonda, who slams his free hand against the mat, not tapping, just expressing the pain, communicating with his own body that he is still in this.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Tsonda begins to move. Inch by agonizing inch, dragging both himself and Farthington toward the ropes. The crowd chants louder with every inch of progress. Farthington sits back harder, pulling the arm in the opposite direction. Tsonda grits his teeth and keeps moving. Five inches. Then five more.

His fingers find the bottom rope.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nixon calls the break and Farthington releases, rising immediately and backing away with his hands up before Nixon can say a word. The champion rolls his shoulders and watches Tsonda pull himself upright using the ropes, right arm hanging slightly lower than it should.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda keeps making it to the ropes but each of these holds is doing cumulative damage. That right arm is not the same arm it was when this match started.

Richard Parker: It wasn’t the same arm when he walked through the curtain.

Tsonda turns from the ropes and Farthington meets him with a running European uppercut that lifts him off his feet.

CRACK!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Tsonda crashes down to the canvas hard, and for the first time in the match he doesn’t move immediately. Nixon checks on him. Farthington walks to the opposite corner, leans against the turnbuckles, and folds his arms. Waiting.

Nick Stuart: Farthington waiting him out now. He’s in no hurry.

Richard Parker: He’s been here before. Many times. He knows what this part of the match looks like. He’s just waiting for the inevitable.

Tsonda stirs. He rolls to his stomach and pushes himself up to his hands and knees, his head hanging. He gets one foot on the mat. Then the other. When he rises, Long Island rises with him, the noise cresting into something enormous.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Farthington uncrosses his arms and pushes off the turnbuckle.

They meet in the center and Farthington goes for another European uppercut, but Tsonda slips under it and fires a superkick that catches the champion flush on the jaw.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Farthington stumbles but doesn’t go down. Tsonda is already moving, bouncing off the ropes and catching the staggering champion with a Slingblade that takes both men to the canvas.

CRACK!

Tsonda rolls through and pops back up, feeding off the crowd, feeding off something deeper than the crowd. He pulls Farthington up and fires a knife-edge chop that echoes through UBS Arena.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Another.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

A third that turns Farthington’s chest the color of a stop sign.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has found a second wind and Long Island is DEAFENING right now!

Richard Parker: It’s adrenaline. It always is at this point. It burns out. Watch.

Tsonda grabs Farthington by the wrist and whips him into the corner. He charges in and leaps, catching the champion with a jumping forearm to the face. Farthington stumbles out of the corner and Tsonda hooks him from behind, rolling him up with a crucifix pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Farthington twists out at the last possible moment.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Both men scramble to their feet and Tsonda catches Farthington with a spinning heel kick that sends him through the ropes and out to the floor.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Tsonda looks at the ropes. Looks at Farthington down on the floor. Looks at the eighteen thousand people standing on their feet in front of him. He bounces once on his toes, testing what his body has left.

Then he runs.

He hits the far ropes, comes back across the ring at full speed, and launches himself through the middle and top rope with a suicide dive that connects flush, driving Farthington hard into the barricade.

CRASH!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: SUICIDE DIVE! TSONDA THREW HIMSELF THROUGH THOSE ROPES AND FARTHINGTON IS DOWN AT RINGSIDE!

Richard Parker: His back. His back just absorbed all of that. He’ll feel that for a week.

Nick Stuart: So will Farthington!

Both men are down on the floor. Nixon leans through the ropes and begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Tsonda stirs first, rolling to his knees. His right arm trembles as he uses the barricade to pull himself up. Farthington is face down, not moving.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Tsonda grabs Farthington and rolls him under the bottom rope, then follows him in. He hooks the leg. Nixon counts.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Farthington gets the shoulder up.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: How does he keep doing that?!

Richard Parker: You don’t think over this reign he hasn’t learned how to survive? That’s as important as anything when you’re the champion, especially the Universal Champion.

Tsonda sits up and runs both hands over his face. He looks at Nixon, who confirms the two count. Tsonda nods slowly, accepting it, recalibrating. He rises and pulls Farthington up with him, driving a knee into the midsection before hooking him for the Golgotha Drop, his stalling implant DDT. He lifts Farthington up, holding him vertically, the blood rushing to the champion’s head again.

The crowd counts along.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Farthington starts to bicycle his legs, fighting for any kind of leverage. Tsonda squeezes the front facelock tighter. FIVE! SIX! Farthington shifts his weight sideways and manages to slide down Tsonda’s body, landing behind him. He shoves Tsonda forward into the ropes and when the challenger rebounds Farthington catches him with a pop-up powerbomb that drives him straight into the canvas.

BOOM!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The ring shakes from the impact. Farthington stays on top, hooking both legs.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— Tsonda kicks out.

Richard Parker: I’ll admit that one surprised me.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda refuses to stay down! He has refused all night!

Richard Parker: Admirable. Ultimately futile, but admirable.

Farthington rises, breathing hard now, the exertion of the match finally visible on his face. He grabs Tsonda by the arm, the right arm, always the right arm, and hauls him to his feet. He measures him for a moment, then executes a Penalty Kick directly to the shoulder joint.

CRACK!

Tsonda’s arm buckles. He clutches it against his chest, dropping to one knee. Farthington circles him, then drives a second Penalty Kick to the same shoulder.

CRACK!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Farthington is surgically dismantling that shoulder now! Every single thing he does has a purpose!

Richard Parker: That’s the thing about Farthington that nobody wants to say out loud. He’s not just the most decorated champion in this era. He’s the smartest man in every building he walks into.

Tsonda tries to rise and Farthington lets him. He watches the challenger get to his feet, right arm hanging uselessly at his side, and then steps forward and grabs that arm, wrenching it across his own body and spinning Tsonda into a short-arm clothesline.

CRACK!

Tsonda goes down. Farthington still has the wrist. He pulls him back up.

Another short-arm clothesline.

CRACK!

Still has the wrist. Pulls him up again. The crowd knows what’s coming and their noise shifts. Still loud, but with a different quality now. Anxious. Afraid.

Farthington pulls Tsonda in close and hooks both arms behind his back in the double underhook. He lifts him upside down, Tsonda’s legs pointing at the ceiling, and holds him there.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: THE VERTEBREAKER! FARTHINGTON HAS HIM SET UP FOR THE VERTEBREAKER!

Richard Parker: It’s over. It’s been over. We’re just finishing the paperwork.

But Tsonda doesn’t stop moving. His legs thrash, his hips twist, and somehow, impossibly, he shifts his weight enough to slide down Farthington’s back, landing on his feet behind the champion. Farthington spins around and Tsonda catches him with a desperation enziguri.

CRACK!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Farthington staggers forward into the ropes and Tsonda is right behind him, rolling him up with a schoolboy rollup.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda kicks out.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda manages to kick out! He still has something left in the tank!

Richard Parker: That’s called desperation, Nick. That’s what the end looks like.

Tsonda fights his way to his feet and turns towards Farthington, who is rising against the ropes. Tsonda charges and Farthington sidesteps, sending Tsonda chest-first into the corner. Tsonda hits hard and staggers backward and Farthington catches him from behind, hooking both arms and driving him down with a straightjacket German suplex.

CRUNCH!

Tsonda’s neck and shoulders absorb the full impact. He crumples to the canvas and doesn’t move.

OHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Farthington doesn’t bridge. He rolls Tsonda over and makes the cover, hooking both legs.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

The crowd is on its feet. Long Island holding its collective breath.

…

…

THR—

Tsonda’s shoulder comes off the canvas.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: TSONDA KICKS OUT! AFTER THAT STRAIGHTJACKET GERMAN HE KICKS OUT!

Richard Parker: I… how.

Nick Stuart: Because he is CHANDLER TSONDA and he will not quit!

Richard Parker: He quit last time, Nick. Let’s not rewrite history.

Nick Stuart: He made a choice last time. Tonight he’s making a different one.

Farthington sits back on his heels, staring at Tsonda’s barely-moving body. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. For just a moment — one unguarded moment — he looks tired. Then it’s gone, replaced by something colder and more determined.

He rises.

He moves to the corner and climbs to the second rope, then the top. The crowd buzzes, confused. Farthington does not go to the top rope. This is not his style. This is not his game.

But then, neither was the moonsault last time.

He stands on the top turnbuckle with his back to the ring, looking out at eighteen thousand people who are screaming at him. Below him, Tsonda is flat on the canvas, chest heaving, not moving.

Nick Stuart: What is Farthington doing up there? He went up top at Colossus and hit the Model Citizen, Tsonda’s own finish , last time and Tsonda still kicked out. What does he have left?

Richard Parker: Something new. Watch.

Farthington doesn’t go for the moonsault. Instead he turns, facing the ring, and steadies himself on the top rope. He looks down at Tsonda, measures the distance, and leaps, driving both knees down across Tsonda’s chest in a double knee drop from the top rope that sends Tsonda rolling around on the canvas in pain.

BOOM!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The impact shakes the ring. Farthington winces on landing, both knees taking the canvas hard, but he pushes through it. He yanks Tsonda up to his feet, puts him into a front facelock, and hooks the inside leg of Tsonda before connecting with a Fisherman’s Suplex!

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

The arena is screaming.

…

…

…

THREE!

DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The bell rings and Farthington rolls off Tsonda, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t rise. He just lays there for a long moment, breathing, his chest rising and falling. Beside him, Tsonda hasn’t moved.

Nixon retrieves the Universal Championship and brings it to Farthington. The champion sits up slowly and takes it, holding it against his chest with both arms, his eyes closed.

Vince Howard: Your winner… and STIIIIIIILL Universal Champion… CECILWORTH… FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTHINGTON!

The boos rain down from every corner of UBS Arena, eighteen thousand PRIMEates making their feelings abundantly clear how much they wanted to see Tsonda capture the championship. Farthington finally rises to his feet, the championship raised above his head, and he looks out at all of them without a trace of apology.

Nixon moves to check on Tsonda, who is slowly coming around. The challenger rolls to his side, his right arm moving, intact, working, and presses his palm to the canvas. He pushes himself up to a seated position. His face goes through several things at once. Pain. Exhaustion. The particular devastation of a man who gave everything and came up short.

But not broken.

Farthington looks down at him.

He doesn’t offer a hand this time. Last time was a ruse and everyone in the building remembers it. Instead the champion simply stands there, Universal Championship over his shoulder, and nods. Once. The same nod as before.

You were here. You belonged here. It wasn’t enough.

Tsonda looks up at him. He doesn’t nod back. He doesn’t give Farthington that. Instead he turns away, toward the crowd, and gets himself to his feet using the ropes. When he turns to face Long Island, the boos for Farthington shift, not immediately, not all at once, but like a tide turning, into something else entirely.

TSONDA! TSONDA! TSONDA!

Tsonda stands in the middle of the ring, sweat-soaked and hurting, and lets it wash over him. His right arm rises, slowly, painfully, but fully, above his head.

He’s whole.

He came here whole and he’s leaving whole.

Maybe that has to be enough.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington retains the Universal Championship here at UBS Arena, but what we just witnessed was something beyond a championship match. Chandler Tsonda pushed this man to places very few people ever have. He fought with everything he had, and he left this ring on his own two feet.

Richard Parker: Farthington wins. That’s the story. That’s the only story.

Nick Stuart: Is it?

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: Richard?

Richard Parker: …It was a hell of a match.

Nick Stuart: Yeah. It really was.

Farthington exits the ring and walks up the ramp, championship raised. He stops at the top of the ramp and turns back one final time, looking down at the ring where Tsonda stands.

For just a moment, something passes between them across the length of that ramp. Recognition. Mutual understanding. The particular bond that only exists between two people who have tried their absolute hardest to destroy each other and failed.

Then Farthington turns and walks through the curtain.

Tsonda watches him go.

Then he turns back to Long Island one more time, taps his heart twice with his left hand, and points to the crowd.

The same gesture as last time.

The same man.

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.