ReVival 89

ReVival 89 opens to darkness and the background voices of thousands of PRIMEates packed Arthur Ashe Stadium. The cacophony swells in excitement and INTRIGUE~! as the PRIME*View lights up and the following message displays on the big screen:

Vae Victis – PRIME
Lawyer Plague Doctor, Esq. on behalf of “The Queen of the Ring” Lindsay Troy, “The Kraken” Henry Keyes, “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama, “The Bad Dog” Wade Elliott, “The Cowboy Colossus” Clay Byrd, and Scott Hunter
legal@strangerfruit.org

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
VAE VICTIS WANTS ITS BELT BACK

[“The Airship” – The Skies Near the Long Island Sound, June 12, 2026] While it comes as no surprise that we celebrate and raise up the achievements of Clay Byrd and Scott Hunter in the PRIME tag team division, Vae Victis is aggrieved and miffed to report that the faction has been held without singles gold in PRIME for an exhausting four-ish months. Even more dire is the very real concern that PRIME’s second-worst faction has a chance to leave UltraViolence with the Universal Championship as well.

Robbie Last Belt and Daytona Diroids can’t be trusted with championships together. We’ve never talked about the legendary belt-cleaning bill we had to foot after the Whoresmen dropped the tag straps to Clay and Scott. It was substantial.

Vae Victis is proud to announce a solution to this conundrum. A title defense has now been made official for UltraViolence.

FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH

“THE LEGEND” ROB WILLIAMS (c)

vs.

“THE KRAKEN” HENRY KEYES

Good luck, loser.

You can’t sit with us.

V A E   V I C T I S

###

Let’s take it to ringside!

It’s ReVival 89, and you know what that means…

SIGNS!

WE WANTED 98 ENEMIGOS YOU CHEAPSKATES
HOW DO YOU BAN BANDITRY IN A BANDIT MATCH? VERY CAREFULLY.
HEY IVAN, GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT
HA
BANNEDITRY
I DROVE 97000 MILES TO BUY POPCORN OFF FLAMBO IN SECTION C23
DOES THIS MEAN NATE COLTON IS TV’S MR. SEX JR.?
NATE COLTON IS TV’S MR. THIRD BASE
ROOTING FOR JILES BECAUSE HIM BALD WOULD VIOLATE SEVERAL LOCAL OBSCENITY LAWS
COLTRANE ROLANDO
BANNED BANDITRY IMPLIES LEGAL BANDITRY
HAYES COULD TAKE A SWING AT MY BALLS
WAITING FOR COLTANE ANDERSON’S BROTHERS, DAVIS AND PARKER
[LEGALLY DISTINCT “I NY” LOGO HERE]
YOU’RE A TAL!
DAWKINS/IVAN SHOULD BE SUSPENDERS VERSUS CAREER
I PUT ALL MY MONEY ON PCP…AND ALSO POP CULTURE PHENOMS
I NY
“WELCOME TO GLUE YORK” IS STILL MY FAVORITE HAYLOR SWIFT SONG
I HOPE THE INTRUDERS WIN THE JILES VS GAMBLE MATCH
NEWLYMPIAN YORJK
I CAME HERE FOR THE BANDITRY, SO I WANT MY MONEY BACK.
DAIHM MAN! AHHHHHHH! FIGHTER OF THE NIGHT MAN! CHAMPION OF THE SUN!
OH SHIT IT’S THE DARK CLOUD, HIDE YOUR CHRIS DAUGHTRY CD’S
WHEN THE OMINOUS DARK CLOUD SAID “EVERYTHING IS BLURRY AND EVERYONE’S SO FAKE” I FELT THAT NGL
TAYLOR SWIFT GET MARRIED LIVE ON REVIVAL YOU COWARD
I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU BUT I’M FEELING FARTHY GLUE
THEY SAY NEVER MEET YOUR HEROES, DAYTONA DIAMONDS GAVE ME THE CLAP
I MET TAL AND HE STAYED AWAKE THE WHOLE TIME, I WANT MY MONEY BACK

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.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Clearwater, Florida, weighing in at 253lbs, WIILLLLLIAM STIIIIILLLLLL!

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.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, from Los Angeles, CA, weighing in at 160lbs, representing the RED ARMY, KENNNYYYYY FREEEEEMANN!!!!

A trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays over throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage, looking surprisingly confident in his chances of winning the match at hand.

He takes his place across from Still, who looks like he’s ready to murder the cruiserweight communist.

DING DING

Kenny doesn’t even get a chance to breathe before Still is on him. He hammers Freeman with strikes, backing him into a corner. Kenny is so busy protecting his face that he leaves his midsection open for Still’s shoulder to make an impression.  Freeman is doubled over and still delivers a nasty knee to the face that seems to knock KFree’s lights out.

Richard Parker: Still knocking out Freeman before his socks can, it seems.

Nick Stuart: Could they really be so bad, Rich?

Richard Parker: Kenny’s about to find out.

That’s because the unfortunate Freeman is stuck in the corner, Still with his foot to his neck.  The ref starts the count, and Still lets Freeman breathe again at the last minute before going back to work. He stomps a hole into Freeman’s chest before getting him out of the corner and…

DDT to Freeman!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT! 

Nick Stuart: Kenny’s not going down that easy.

Richard Parker: Are you sure, Nick? Because it looks like Still is about to-

ELBOW DROP!

NO!

Freeman rolls out of the way at the last second. Rotten Socks clutches his elbow in pain as Kenny gets his first real opening in this match, and he doesn’t waste it.

Immediately, he bounces off the ropes and returns with a SHINING WIZARD that caves in Still’s face.  He follows up with a poetic midrope moonsault that lands clean on Still.

Kenny doesn’t let up. He double stomps Still in the chest, then begins to climb the ropes. But it’s clear the earlier beating is weighing on him, and he takes longer than he should.  Long enough for Still to shoot up and hit the ropes, causing Kenny to lose his balance and crash down to the mat!

Still takes the advantage and delivers a devastating belly-to-belly to Freeman. Then follows it up with another suplex that sends the smaller Freeman halfway across the ring. Freeman is able to roll through and recover, but Still flattens him with a vicious lariat.

He picks up the quickly fading Freeman and gives him a SIDEWALK SLAM that shakes the ring.

Nick Stuart: How much more of this can Kenny take???

K-free is on his back after that lariat. Still puts his (probably) v smelly boot on Freeman for the cover, but only gets a two count. Freeman pushes his leg off and kips up to his feet, a new determination in his eyes after that insulting pin.

Kenny goes for a kick, but Still catches it then…ENZUIGIRI TO STILL, the big man is down. Freeman moves in for the kill. He grabs Still’s arm and (with some trepidation), his foot.

Nick Stuart: Still is dazed, and it looks like Freeman is about to-

Richard Parker: FREEMAN SPECIAL! KFREE HAS LOCKED IN THE FREEMAN SPECIAL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RING!!!

Still sure ain’t dazed anymore. He writhes in agony, but Freeman isn’t letting go. With a long way to go to the ropes and no other choice…

Richard Parker: WILLIAM STILL TAPS OUT! THIS IS OVER!

DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, by submission, KENNNNNYYYYY FREEEEMANNNNN!!!!

Nick Stuart: Incredible victory for Freeman. Ole Rotten Socks gave Freeman hell, but the Freeman Special is no joke.

Kenny almost collapses as the ref holds up his hand in victory.

We go elsewhere.

…Previously On…

…The News…

–

Mina Starr-Kael: What happened to him?

The pale skinned woman with one red, burning eye peers down at Max with a cruel smile.

Snark Darkly: Barbed Wire Rope match.

Max’s eldritch manager wafts into focus like a living vapor. He joins Mina in peering down at the Mayor of Arkham.

Mina Starr-Kael: Heh-heh, yes of course. That explains why he looks like he’s been rolling around in a razorblade bath.

Snark Darkly: Yes, indeed. He looks like he’s been having a restless night on a bed of nails.

Mina Starr-Kael: Is he dead?

Darkly shrugs before reaching down, slapping Max hard across the face.

Max Kael: FUCK! What the fuck was that for?!

An uncanny valley effect takes a hold of Snark’s lips, stretching into a far too wide smile.

Snark Darkly: Oh good, he’s alive!

Mina Starr-Kael: At best mostly dead.

Rubbing his jaw, Max glares at both of them while bleeding out through his many cuts.

–

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

There is no intense NEWS music.

Or Jazzy NEWS music.

Or sexy Saxophone.

No graphics, no name cards, no singing.

Nothing but a stage, or what’s left of a stage, smouldering and destroyed.

Max Kael: I’ve been hurt. I’ve been hurt and I don’t hurt easy.

The sound of Max’s shoes crunching across the burnt remnants of his once glorious NEWS STAGE.

Max Kael: First, you stole my boy using that VIXEN, Jenny, to lure him into your Colton cult at Camp Cult Colton or whatever you call your crappy collective!

With his back to the camera, Kael slowly folds his hands behind his back. His hands and head are covered in bandages, once white now stained brown and red.

Max Kael: Then you burnt down my WON ACTION NEWS TEAM STAGE, a tent pole segment of ReVival since as far back as anyone can remember. This is a fuckin’ LEGACY segment. Why, I reported the Kenny Assassination from my NEWS DESK just over there!

His hand snaps, pointing ambiguous toward the left side of the stage.

Max Kael: Nate Colton, you didn’t just destroy a simple stage sequestered off into a non-linear bubble dimension perpendicular to PRIME reality, oh-no-no-no! You destroyed an important part of PRIME’s history, you broke a pillar of this PRIME dimension, you desecrated a cultural cathedral of PRIME’s primordial zygote! For shame, Nathan Colton…

Turning sharply, Max hurls an accusatory finger toward the camera. His face, neck, hands; basically anywhere that his bare flesh might be shown is covered in blood stained rags.

Max Kael: FOR SHAME!

Metal teeth peek out from a wide hole where his mouth is. Beady green eyes glitter from small openings, full of hate and rage.

Max Kael: And then FINALLY, if I hadn’t been in a running brawl with you for over half the show, I would have been fresh and ready to face Ivan Stanislav for the INTENSE title but no. NO. No I LOST that match and I’m putting the blame squarely on YOU!

Muffing, spittle and drool leak down his chin. Dragging his sleeve across his face, Max chokes out a pathetic cry, his posture slouching as though he were very tired.

Max Kael: You’ve wounded me. Normally I’d lash out. I’d find you backstage in a moment of weakness, alone and unprepared. Then I’d beat the life right out of you. I’d unleash unspeakable violence upon, split you down to the bone and then grind those bones into powder. BUT then I got this.

Reaching into his pocket Max produces a folded piece of paper. With great, dramatic gesticulation, Kael unfolds the letter and clears his throat.

Max Kael: Without going into all the details, Lindsay Troy has requested. No, sorry, she has demanded that Nate Colton and my good and honorable self, quote Figure Our Shit Out unquote by the end of tonight, or we’ll both be suspended. So that’s just what we’re gonna do. In the ring later tonight. The Colton Family. And the much less culty Kael Family. We’ll get this fuckin’ thing settled.

He growls the latter out, his back arching like an angry cat. The camera slowly pans toward his twinkling green eyes before it abruptly cuts out, Max’s posture changing completely as he stands straight up, silver teeth glimmering in what you can only imagine is that terrible, fake smile.

Max Kael: And that’s the NEWS!

Immediate cut to black.

Nick Stuart: The second match of this go-home edition of ReVival is about to begin, fans! “The Psychoberry” RIA Lockhart, one of the most popular and beloved talents on the PRIME roster, is set to face off against newcomer, Coltrane Anderson!

Richard Parker: I guess the new guy turned some heads with his debut at the last show.

Nick Stuart: But tonight, the bruiser from Baltimore is not facing off against any mere Lasagna Boy!

Richard Parker: No… instead, he’s got the Cotton Candy Girl.

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

🎵 EVERY NIGHT WHEN THE SKY TURNS RED UP ABOVE
I FEEL THE BEAT IN MY VEINS, AND I’M SEARCHING FOR LOVE
YOU KNOW THAT HIPS DON’T LIE, I LEAVE YOU HYPNOTIZED
JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE TRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL THAT VIBE

WHEN IT GOES
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA)
MY BODY IS A WEAPON
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA HIT THE FLOOR

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT HAPPEN

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) NOW GIMME SOME MORE🎵

The light rumble that permeated throughout the faithful PRIMEates in the building burst into outright raucous cheers as RIA Lockhart steps through the curtain and onto the stage. With an exaggerated cadet cap on her head, her usual heart-shaped glasses on her face and a short leather jacket ending just above a corset that trailed a lace train, RIA soaks in the adoration from the audience.

She then gallops to one side of the stage, encouraging the crowd to raise their volume even further. After a moment, Lockhart takes off to the other side, mimicking her previous action. As the second verse begins, RIA heads down towards the ring, engaging the audience while also vibing periodically.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States, and weighing in at one-hundred and sixty pounds… THE PSYCHOBERRY, RIAAAAAAAA LOCKHAAAARRRT!!

Once ringside, the Rainbow Riot leaps onto the ring apron. She gazes out to PRIMEates before taking off her shades, tossing them to the masses in a random direction.

Nick Stuart: RIA suffered a heartbreaking loss at ReVival 87 to Cancer Jiles, though it came with a lot of help from his eGG Bandits!

Richard Parker: Highway robbery, Nick. No other way to describe it.

Nick Stuart: She’s no doubt looking for a win tonight to bounce back, but with her opponent tonight still new to PRIME, there’s no telling what might happen between those ropes!

Lockhart steps between the middle and top rope to enter the ring, bending at the waist to do so before swinging her outside leg into the squared circle. She starts taking off the various pieces of gear while still chatting up the fans in the front row.

Moments later, the intro to “The Largest” by Big X tha Plug hits the PA.

🎵 Safe to say I’m the biggest, the largest
Been steppin’ on shit since my mama stayed
In them apartments, regardless
My daddy told me keep the heat
Even when I’m in foreigns, I’m heartless
‘Cause these n****s is hating on me

Just because I’m the biggest, the largest
The biggest, the largest 🎵

The curtain parts, and Coltrane Anderson strides out. With casual grace, he makes his way down the rampway and along the aisle. A look of determination fills his eyes. The confidence in his presence is as unmistakable as his size.

Vince Howard: And the opponent… fighting out of Baltimore, Maryland, United States, and weighing in at two-hundred and sixty-five pounds… here is, COOOLTRAAANE AAAANDERSOOOONNN!!

When he gets to ringside, Coltrane does a slow loop around the ring, switching between vibing along with the ringside fans and staring daggers back at the opponent waiting in the ring.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane Anderson comes into this match after an impressive debut win in Miguel’s open challenge at the last ReVival at Long Island. Tonight, however, will be his first real test in the PRIME ring!

Richard Parker: I dunno, Nick… is that really a test? Cotton Candy Girl isn’t much of a step up from Lasagna Boy.

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t discredit the abilities of RIA Lockhart if I were you, Rich! As it is, there’s still a lot of speculation around this newcomer, Anderson. Tonight will be a real example of both what he’s capable of and how far he can go in the ring!

Anderson scales the steps and enters through the ropes. He sticks to his corner as official Ashley Barlow makes the final patdowns on both competitors. As soon as she’s ready to go, Ashley cues for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: There’s the bell, and right away, both competitors are coming out of their corners HOT! Coltrane looking for a LARIAT… RIA DUCKS!

The PRIME newcomer immediately spins around, but catches a sharp kick to his abdomen delivered by the Rainbow Riot. Lockhart nails him with a second, leaving him only briefly stunned. On the third kick, Coltrane’s hands suddenly snap up and catch her by the leg.

Nick Stuart: NO! She went to the well too many times!

Richard Parker: Well, it IS important to stay hydrated.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane Anderson has her by the ankle… DUCKS the Enzuigiri… DUCKS the REVERSE ENZUIGIRI… tries to yank RIA off her foot–but she SOMERSAULTS out of it!

Coltrane launches Lockhart into a backflip. RIA sticks the landing. They spend a beat staring each other down, at an impasse. Then with a smirk, the Psychoberry moves in.

Nick Stuart: Here comes RIA, inside feint into the SPINNING HEEL–NARROWLY DUCKED by Coltrane…who counters with a quick RELEASED GERMAN SUPLEX!

Richard Parker: Methinks the new guy did his homework!

Nick Stuart: Not a bad idea, considering RIA Lockhart’s deadly striking game!

RIA rolls off the impact, ending up in a sitting position in the corner where she winces while favoring the back of her head. Then she sees Coltrane’s KNEE coming…

Nick Stuart: Anderson coming to follow up… NO!! Instead of connecting with RIA’s head, he puts that knee right into the middle turnbuckle! She got out of there in the nick of time!

Coltrane hobbles in pain off the missed strike, and takes a moment to walk back to the center of the ring and shake the feeling back into his leg. Out on the apron, Lockhart sees her opportunity to make a move, and instinctively hops upon the near set of turnbuckles.

Richard Parker: Kneepads, my guy! They exist for a reason!

Nick Stuart: Wait a second, RIA GOING UP TOP…

When Anderson turns around, the Psychoberry DIVES!

Nick Stuart: FLYING CROSS BODY–AND SHE’S CAUGHT IN COLTRANE’S ARMS!

Richard Parker: What a HOSS!

Nick Stuart: FALLAWAY SLAM sends RIA rolling across the canvas! Anderson stays on her, pulling right back to the center of the ring and hooking the leg for the cover!

One!

Tw–RIA kicks out! Still plenty of fight left in the Rainbow Riot!

Lockhart sits up, but doesn’t get far, as Coltrane’s massive python snakes around her head and constricts itself into a textbook headlock. RIA twists and kicks the mat in an effort to fight her way out, but with a nearly hundred pound edge, all Anderson needs to do is lean his weight into her to keep her pinned down.

Nick Stuart: Absolute bulldog of a headlock being applied by Coltrane Anderson right now, just squeezing the life out of RIA Lockhart!

Richard Parker: Ah, no biggie. She’s probably used to black out by now.

Nick Stuart: Better hope that doesn’t get back to her, partner! Lockhart is fighting, but it’s looking bleak, folks! Coltrane Anderson has a serious weight advantage in this match, and he’s using that to his favor right now!

RIA curls her body, wrapping Coltrane’s head into a headscissor with her legs. Anderson shifts his weight, freeing his head and putting further pressure on the hold. With Lockhart slowly slipping from the diminishing bloodflow, Coltrane pushes his luck by powering down onto her back.

Nick Stuart: Shoulders down here!

One!

Two!

Lockhart’s up!

RIA reaches into the air ahead of her, showing she’s got life. But Coltrane forces her down once more.

Nick Stuart: And down again! Barlow with the count!

One!

Two!

AGAIN she’s up!

Richard Parker: But not any better off that she once was. The new guy’s just slowly sapping her energy away, and barely breaking a sweat!

RI-A! RI-A! RI-A! RI-A! RI-A! RI-A! RI-A! RI-A!

Knowing she has to make a move, Lockhart twists inside to get a knee under her. With the extra few inches of leverage, she manages to land a set of elbows that stun Coltrane long enough for her to manage her way to her feet.

Nick Stuart: I don’t believe it!

Richard Parker: Neither do I, Nick!

Nick Stuart: RIA Lockhart, against all odds, powers her way back to a vertical base!

Coltrane sees the writing on the wall, but isn’t going down without a fight. He quickly rolls Lockhart across his hip to put her back onto the canvas. Only this time, RIA is waiting for him, quickly curling and reaching up with another headscissor. This one sticks, finally pulling Anderson off her head and flipping him over onto his back.

Nick Stuart: HEADSCISSOR REVERSAL by RIA Lockhart! And now she’s turned the tables on Coltrane Anderson!

Richard Parker: Guess he didn’t study up on that move!

Lockhart clamps down on the headscissor, but Anderson does stay grounded for long. Grabbing RIA by the legs, he pushes his way back to his feet and hauls Lockhart off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane pulling RIA UP… going for a POWERBOMB–NO!! Lockhart with a DOUBLE CHOP MIDAIR, and ROLLS HIM ONTO HIS SHOULDERS with the HURRICANRANA!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–ALMOST had him, but Coltrane rolls out!

Anderson rolls forward, sending Lockhart into a backward somersault that culminates into a basement dropkick as soon as she lands. The shot gets Coltrane in the chest, knocking him onto his back once more. Back up in a flash, RIA climbs up the near set of turnbuckles, gets a bounce going, and comes diving off with a meteoric Banzai drop!

Nick Stuart: PINK PONY CRUSH by the Rainbow Riot! That could do it! Shoulders are down!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!! Coltrane Anderson powers out!

Lockhart sits up looking at Ashley Barlow in astonishment, but the official can only apologetically shrug. RIA keeps up the pressure, wrangling Anderson back to his feet and keeping him staggered with a series of standing knee strikes targeting the ribs.

Richard Parker: New guy has gotta find a way to utilize all that power of his!

Nick Stuart: But RIA Lockhart is just too quick! Now she’s staying on the offensive here… she’s got Anderson backed into the ropes… sends him into–NO! Coltrane reverses the whip!

RIA hits the other set of ropes and returns, unable to stop herself from running into Coltrane’s waiting backdrop, launching her HIGH into the air. She’s about to crash headfirst into the mat when instinct kicks in…

Nick Stuart: NO WAIT… RIA lands into a HANDSPRING REBOUND OFF THE ROPES… flips BACK HER FEET and bounces her STRAIGHT INTO A–

SLAAAMMMB!!

Richard Parker: OOF…

Straight into Coltrane Anderson’s sidewalk slam.

Nick Stuart: OH NO!! It looked like she was going for the stunner there, but Coltrane Anderson had it scouted and countered PERFECTLY with the side slam! Now he hooks the leg for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

TH–SHOULDER UP!!

Anderson takes Lockhart by the head and begins to pull her up. Snapping to life, RIA suddenly begins lighting him up with some jabs. When she breaks free, she opens up with a combination of palm strikes. A hard right sets Coltrane into a spin. But when he comes back around, the back of his fist catches the Psychoberry on the temple, sending her twirling to the canvas.

Nick Stuart: OH MY! What a POWERFUL backhanded strike from Coltrane Anderson! RIA Lockhart’s rally is swiftly cut short with that one, and she looks absolutely ROCKED!

Richard Parker: Serves her right for going toe to toe with someone who’s got a hundred pounds and a whole ass FOOT on her!

Lockhart quickly gets to her feet, but staggers around in a dazed fog. Ashley Barlow moves in to check if she’s okay, but the Rainbow Riot instead assures the official that she’s taken harder shots of vodka than that. Upon hearing this, however, Coltrane Anderson takes it upon himself to push right past the official and land a knee lift to double Lockhart over.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane, keeping up the pressure… GUTWRENCH SUPLEX flips the Psychoberry onto her back again!

Richard Parker: Put some STANK on that one!

Nick Stuart: Waistlock still applied, as the bruiser out of Baltimore hauls RIA up once more… absolute power on display here as this time, Coltrane goes for a standing GUTWRENCH POWERBOMB, and gets ALL OF IT!! Going for the pin now as he folds her up and forces the shoulders down!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–NO!! Just a HAIR away, but somehow, the Rainbow Riot found a way to kick out!

A quick shake of the head is the only indication of frustration in Coltrane Anderson. Methodically, he rises up once more, and scoops Lockhart over his shoulder.

Richard Parker: TOOT-TOOT! All aboard the COLE-train!

Nick Stuart: RIA Lockhart is barely hanging on by a thread here! Anderson has her over the shoulder, and here goes for the RUNNING POWERSLAM–NO!! RIA SLIPS DOWN HIS BACK!

A double-palmed shove to Coltrane’s backside sends him hitting a set of turnbuckles chestfist. Lockhart stands on rubber legs, but nevertheless manages to clip the back of Anderson’s leg as he comes stumbling backward from the corner. Coltrane falls into a seated position, and using everything she has left, RIA throws herself into the ropes…

Nick Stuart: The Rainbow Riot sees her window… KNEEMOTIONAL DAMAGE CONNECTS!! DOWN GOES COLTRANE! HE’S OUT COLD! RIA IS CRAWLING OVER! SHE MAKES THE PIN! HOOKS THE LEG!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–NOOOO!! ANDERSON KICKS OUT!!

Richard Parker: Oh wow! He really KNEED-ed that one!

Deflated and exhausted, RIA flops onto her back, pulling at her hair in tense frustration. Coltrane manages to roll to the ropes and slowly pull himself to his feet.

Nick Stuart: I could be anyone’s match at this point, as both of these competitors are trading moves left and right until one of them finally breaks! RIA Lockhart is back up! Anderson almost up in the corner! What’s RIA plotting now?!

Richard Parker: Hopefully not something ass related!

Nick Stuart: Sorry to disappoint you, Rich! RIA crosses the ring… CHARGING AHEAD FOR THE BERRY BOMBER–

NO!

Nick Stuart: COLTRANE CATCHES HER!

Trapped in his clutches, RIA punches and kicks the air like a Leatherface victim being carried to the meathook. Coltrane keeps his cool, taking two steps forward and sending the Psychoberry over his shoulder with a back suplex.

Nick Stuart: COLTRANE WITH THE SUPLEX–GOD NO, THE BACK OF HER HEAD HIT THOSE TURNBUCKLES ON THE WAY DOWN!

Richard Parker: She could be dead!

Nick Stuart: Anderson drags her to the center of the ring! THIS ONE IS OVER!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREEEEEE…

…

NO!! SHE KICKED OUT!! SHE KICKED OUT!!

Richard Parker: HOW?! At the very least, she should have been Million Dollar Baby’d by that! Or wait… more accurately, Thousand Dollar Baby’d. Yeah. Definitely a baby, though.

With what life she has left, Lockhart rolls onto her belly and slowly crawls for the ropes. Coltrane rises up and stares down at her for a moment, both surprised and impressed by her resilience. But now the time has come to put it away, as he takes hold of her arm and pulls her up once more.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane Anderson in a dominant position right now! He’s gotta be thinking of putting this away… NO WAIT! RIA WRINGS THE ARM…

Before Anderson can react, RIA flips backwards and catches him off guard with a falling reverse DDT after a picture perfect inverted Destino!

Nick Stuart: NEON SUNRISE!! IT CAME OUT OF NOWHERE!!

Anderson and Lockhart collapse. Coltrane is stunned on his back. Banged up and completely drained, RIA can’t bring herself to crawl to Coltrane in time for a decisive three count. Instead, she eyes the corner…

Richard Parker: She’s ignoring the cover!?

Nick Stuart: She’s got other plans! She can’t afford another kickout here!

With the crowd roaring behind her, Lockhart rallies up another burst of energy and scales the turnbuckles. Anderson shakes his head and comes to, but as he looks up, she’s already begun the dive off the top!

Nick Stuart: END OF THE RAINBOW CONNECTS! COLTRANE IS OUT! RIA HOOKS THE LEG!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREEEE!!!

DING DING DING

Lockhart rolls onto her back, covering her face and basking in the victory as Babymetal plays once more over the PA. Coltrane rolls the other way, wincing in pain and clutching his impact clavicle. Barlow eventually helps RIA up and raises her hand in victory.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match, by pinfall… “THE PSYCHOBERRY”… RRRIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAA LOOOOOOCKHAAAAARRRRRRT!!

Nick Stuart: A hard fought triumph for RIA, after a physically demanding battle! She’s gotta be feeling good about that one!

Richard Parker: Sure, she certainly earned it… but could it just be that the new guy is all size, and no substance?

Nick Stuart: I disagree, partner! Let it not be overlooked that Coltrane Anderson really brought it in this match! I have a feeling he can make a real impact here in PRIME! But tonight, despite his advantage in power, the resilience and savvy of the Psychoberry bested him in the end!

Richard Parker: Well, I guess he can always go back to stomping on Lasagna Boys!

Still clutching his shoulder, Anderson gets to his feet, head hanging in disappointment. Begrudgingly, he offers the victor a handshake, which RIA accepts, drawing a supportive pop from the crowd. Coltrane leaves while Lockhart stays in the ring and celebrates with the PRIME faithful.

Nick Stuart: That right there is what PRIME’s all about, ladies and gentlemen!

Richard Parker: I sure hope he remembers to wash that hand.

Nick Stuart: Oh, would you stop? Fans, we need to take a commercial break! Don’t go anywhere, because ReVival continues!

Nick Stuart: We’re moving right along, Richard – careening almost – into Ultraviolence!

Richard Parker: Careening into Ultraviolence is my Ska-inspired GWAR cover band, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Wait… you’re in a cover band? Why have I never heard about this?

“Change Your Heart or Die” by The Midnight blares over the speakers as the fans in Arthur Ashe Stadium rise to their feet and watch as Blaze Claymore steps out onto the rampway from the back, microphone in hand.

Richard Parker: Oh great. He heard you, Nick. Now my cover’s blown!

The fans roar in approval as Blaze removes a pair of red sunglasses and tosses them into the crowd. He smiles as he trots down the rampway, extending his arms out to make sure he captures as many high fives as he can before calmly ascending the steps that lead into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Blaze has had a bit of a complicated last couple of months, Richard. Not the least of which is somehow finding himself in the sights of The Muse herself, Anna Daniels.

Richard Parker: Whatever you say, Nick. I just better not miss sound check because of this.

The Lighthouse holds up a hand to the crowd, gesturing downward to get them to calm down before taking the microphone and slowly pacing the ring.

Blaze Claymore: I know I don’t come out here on the mic all that often… and, if I had my way, I wouldn’t be out here now. But I’m left with no other options.

The Lighthouse looks toward the back.

Blaze Claymore: Anna Daniels, I-

BOOO-

Blaze holds his hand up once again, shaking his head and cutting off the crowd.

Blaze Claymore: No. We’re not doing that tonight. Okay? If you’re angry at anyone, it should be me and you can boo me all you like. Alright?

A chorus of hushed whispers travels through the crowd as Blaze runs a hand through his hair.

Blaze Claymore: As I was saying… a certain member of the roster has left me no other choice but to come out here, in front of you all, and beg for their help to do the one thing I haven’t been able to do on my own, and save my home town. Save Montevideo.

This time shock rolls through Arthur Ashe Stadium.

Blaze Claymore: You hear that, Anna? I’m out here, right now, asking for your help.

The Lighthouse lowers the microphone and watches, the crowd silent as nothing happens.

Blaze Claymore: Please.

More time elapses as Blaze lowers his head in disappointment as he turns his back to the rampway and looks out into the crowd.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah… I can’t say I’m surprised. But look, everyone, I get it. It’s not her fault if Anna is scared of-

The melodic chords of “A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space overtakes the arena.

As the music  crescendos, a flowing, feathered hem of a pure white coat crosses the threshold, stopping just above a pair of matching white boots with red soles. A one piece Victorian-style bodice appears through the red satin lining of the jacket and attached to it are the neck and head of a particularly perturbed Time Lord.

Blaze Claymore: Anna… thank you for agreeing to hear me out. I just need-

Anna Daniels: We heard what you said. We just find it hard to believe it’s that simple. What do you actually want?

Blaze’s expression falters. He looks around the arena, as if the fans may have an answer.

Blaze Claymore (pleading): You… you  told me yourself, Anna, that I needed to man up or disappear, right? Well, doesn’t that also count when one person knows they can’t carry a burden alone? Otherwise who is it you are referring to when you say “we”?

Anna hesitates.

Blaze Claymore: Do you remember what you said to me? Or, more accurately, at me just a few weeks ago? That the image on my back is a weight I didn’t want, that I wasn’t ready for? And that the weight on my shoulders will not wait for me to get strong? That I needed to head into battle or that the battle would come to me?

Anna Daniels (cautiously): We said these things. Yes.

Blaze Claymore: Well here I am. telling you that you were right.

Blaze slides his cloak off his back, the image of the Lighthouse formed out of his name reflecting the arena lights from above. He holds it in his free hand, reaching out to Anna, almost brandishing it.

Blaze Claymore (agitated): This. This is too much for one person to bear! You know it just as well as I know it. So the question is a simple one, Anna. Do you actually give a shit, like you pretend you do, or are you going to claim indifference again as a defense mechanism that lets you play both sides?

Anna laughs bitterly, her caution replaced with annoyance.

Anna Daniels: Can’t really play both sides when it’s not your battle, Blazeykins. This is your fight and once again, you’d rather keep shoving it back than doing anything. Is this going to be your excuse? ‘Anna didn’t help me, so I’ll keep dicking around?’

Blaze sighs and lets out an exasperated mix of a laugh and a sigh.

Blaze Claymore: I’m not…

He pauses and shakes his head.

Blaze Claymore: I know it’s my fight, Anna. But I would think of anyone here, you would understand that no one should ever have to fight alone. But I guess I was wrong; and honestly, at this point, I have no reason to believe you’re not working with Sonja to try and distract me.

Anna Daniels: That’s literally the dumbest thing you’ve said so far. You distract yourself plenty. Hell, you’re doing it right now!

Blaze Claymore: So why insert yourself into this, huh? Unless it was going to cost you something too?

Anna scowls and the fans begin to boo.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah. Thought so.

The Lighthouse scoffs, looking to the crowd and then pointing back at the Muse.

Blaze Claymore: You know, Anna. For all your posturing and platitudes, for all the times you’ve called me a coward? You’re just as scared of this threat as I am. And you know it.

Anna opens her mouth to respond but Blaze cuts her off.

Blaze Claymore: Uppppbahbahbah no. No more talking. You want to convince me … and this crowd … of anything. It better be in the ring at Ultraviolence.

The crowd begins to chitter in approval.

Blaze Claymore: And since you don’t seem to know the meaning of the damned word. What do you say to you and me, for pride if nothing else, settling this in an I Quit match!? The loser has to agree to help the other.

The crowd loses it.

RAAAAAAAAAW!

After the roar dies down, the Muse…smirks.

Anna Daniels: Okay. Since you really want us to put some skin in the game, fine. If you win, we’ll help you. No bullshit. No games. No cryptic oogie boogie. Whatever it takes for you to take this seriously. But! We don’t really need your help. So…

Anna bathes in the dismissal of the crowd before continuing.

Anna Daniels: Oh! We know! How about this then? Should you lose, Blaze Claymore…is no more.

The fans go silent.

Blaze lowers the microphone as he watches Anna’s eager gaze. A few stray fans yell for the Lighthouse not to go through with it. Others would love to see him kick her ass. Instead… he nods.

Blaze Claymore: Okay, Anna. You win? I’ll be gone from PRI–

Anna Daniels: Nooooo, no. You’re twisting words again, so let’s make this clear. We are not Ivan Stanislav and you are not Bryan Dawkins. When we win, there will be no Blaze Claymore. Anywhere. In any universe. In any timeline. In any circumstance. You’re not just gone from PRIME, you are gone in every possible way. Blaze Claymore is erased from the entire thing.

Blaze’s expression drops and his face goes pale. He looks at Anna with shock.

Blaze Claymore: Everywhere. Every timeline. Forever.

The crowd gasps collectively as the Lighthouse lowers his head…

Blaze Claymore (laughing): You really don’t do anything small, do you.

…and then begins to slide his arms through the sleeves of his cloak.

RAAAAAWWWW!

Blaze Claymore: If I can’t win a single wrestling match for the sake of my hometown… then Blaze Claymore was never the champion they needed in the first place.

The Lighthouse straightens his shoulders and brings the microphone closer to his lips.

A breath.

Blaze Claymore: You’ve got yourself a deal.

The roof blows off the arena as the Lighthouse steps backwards, lowering the microphone. He turns toward the crowd, the word “BLAZE” on his cloak – his cape – now staring at Anna Daniels.

Unmoved, the Time Lord simply crosses her arms as a smug smirk crosses her face.

Nick Stuart: I… what did Blaze just agree to, Richard!? We have the possibility of seeing two roster members gone after Ultraviolence!

Richard Parker: More than that, Nick; we’ve seen what kind of tricks Anna has up her sleeve before. When she says that Blaze Claymore will be erased. That’s not an idle threat.

Nick Stuart: Well, for the sake of the people of Montevideo, we all better hope that Blaze pulls this one out.

The camera cuts to a hallway backstage, more specifically a man walking with a purpose down said hallway. A man in his wrestling gear because he’s got a match later on that night. A man holding a small stack of papers in his hand.

A man in a lucha mask.

The Anglo Luchador storms forward in a huff until he reaches a door. He stops, turns around, and slams his fist on it like the door owes him money.

No answer.

He taps his foot and huffs through his nose before going to bash on the door again before stopping short.

TAL: No, no. Do not hurt your hand. You may need it to punch Hayes Hanlon right on his latest herpes sore.

He deeply inhales.

TAL: GAMBLE, I KNOW YOUR BITCH ASS IS IN THERE. OPEN UP.

A familiar voice calls back from the other side, while slightly altered it is still obvious who the voice belongs to.

Tony Gamble: Tony no akey, yo is hausekeepey. Tony back banana.

TAL: Goddammit, if I break my hand…

The Luchador cocks back to wail on the door only to see it open right in front of him.

TAL: Goddammit.

Tony Gamble: Sorry, it’s hard to find good help these days with ICE on patrol. But hey, look who it is, El Gran Retiremento. What brings you to my neck of the woods, Angie?

The Luchador takes the mini-stack of papers in his hand and shoves them into Tony’s chest. The Grin grabs them hastily.

TAL: Just because I didn’t want you to think a jump-scare made us even for all the shit you’ve been pulling since the beginning of this cycle, I went and got us a contract drawn up for a match, mano e mano, at Lincoln Financial Field. Ultraviolence.

The crowd roars at the mention of the PPV name, and not a moment before, because New Yorkers are still haters at heart.

TAL: I already signed it, so all it needs is your John Hancock to make it official.

Tony doesn’t look at the papers, his focus is strictly on the man standing in front of him.

Tony Gamble: So you’re telling me that you want a match against me in your hometown, in the home of the greatest NFC East team the NFL has ever seen?

That did not go over well with the locals.

Tony Gamble: I don’t know, I think I have a colonoscopy scheduled that day. You know how it is, you being old and all.

TAL: Well, we could do this one of two ways then. One, you reschedule your colonoscopy and sign the papers, or two…

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: I drag you off the table, yank the camera out of your ass, drag you to Philly, and beat whatever shit out of you that’s left after you’ve cleaned out after colonoscopy prep. You got that?

Gamble moves his hands in the infamous 6-7 motion favored by PRIME favorite Ria Nightshade/Nightlove/look at me my hair is different colors. Some of the older generation realize he’s just weighing his options.

Tony Gamble: Both options have their pros and cons, how long do I have to choose?

TAL: I think you know you really don’t want to test me on this. After all, I am close to retirement, right Tony? What are they gonna do…

The Luchador reaches in his tights and pulls out a wrench.

TAL: …fire me?

Tony’s nose wrinkles up as he attempts to scowl, that damn scar just makes it look like an awkward smile.

Tony Gamble: And here I was worried you were happy to see me. Anyway, I feel like I already proved my point at 87, but if you need a replay who am I to deny a dying man his last wish.

Tony opens up the wadded up papers in his hand, finds the right page, then realizes he doesn’t have a pen. He looks around before walking away, allowing the door to close behind him.

TAL: Always a production with this guy.

The Luchador turns to walk away, expecting the papers signed at a later date until he hears a jostling and then a *fwip* just behind him. He looks down at the contract, now shockingly crumpled and wrinkled, on the floor adjacent to the door. He picks it up and scans it.

TAL: Signed, but where the hell did he get a green pen?

The Luchador takes the contract and moves back down the hall as we move elsewhere.

When we fade in, the first thing we see is a close-up shot of Matt Mills standing in front of what looks like an old barn with arched doors. We also see a little graphic at the bottom of the screen that says “Record Earlier,” but that’s not the point right now.

The barn.

Focus on the barn.

Pay particular attention to how, hanging above the doors, is a wooden sign with the word “UNDERBAKER” written in a spiked yellow font.

Also, pay attention to how fucking miserable Matt looks at having to be here.

Matt Mills: I’m Matt Mills, and I’ve been told that Steve Lemieux has a challenge for Big Ian Salt of the eGG Bandits. Let’s go inside and see…

He doesn’t get to finish whatever thought was about to escape his lips, because one of the doors creaks open. A billowing cloud of smoke pours through the door, and poking his head out is none other than Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. While he’s still wearing his traditional brown ski mask and giant blublockers, his normal thrift store ensemble is replaced by a simple black suit and a white shirt. And though most of his body is covered, he has the general vibe of a very pasty man.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: HelllllllOOOOOOOOoooooo, yeeeeEEEEEEEEEeeessss.

The words are delivered in what we’ll call the “Paul Bearer warble,” which is to say they’re very high-pitched, extremely whiny, and they reek of intellectual property theft. The other door opens, and now the smoke is in full effect. It’s like a Dusk family reunion up in this bitch. Total BYOSM.

That’s “Bring Your Own Smoke Machine,” if you hadn’t already figured that out.

Whiny Zeke continues his spiel.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Come. Welcome into my Underbaker’s private workshop.

We enter the barn, whose interior looks more like a child’s idea of what a medieval kitchen would look like. I mean, it also looks like a barn, but still.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: It is here… here where my Underbaker painstakingly assembles his many works of art.

The room contains an abundance of sandwiches, each one preserved in a dusty glass case. Zeke casually sidesteps what appears to be a sausage roll that stands over six feet tall.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Many a departed soul has nestled down with the comfort of my Underbaker quality sandwiches. But for you, you Big Jonas Salk, a special sandwich will be made for a one-time only match. All you have to do is accept the challenge of Stefon Lummox, my Underbaker.

He holds up a menu written in gothic script on a piece of parchment, the main course of which reads “MURDERBURGER MATCH.” Apparently, that’s what it’s called when two grown-ass adults fight on top of a giant hamburger.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: HelllllllOOOOOOOOoooooo, yeeeeEEEEEEEEEeeessss. But Doctor Salk, when my Underbaker stuffs you into this double-wide… double-deep fried egg burger… and SLAMS the bun shut, there… there on the inside… inscribed, glowing in the dark will say…

The camera zooms in on Steve Lemieux, dressed in a black mortician’s shirt whose sleeves seem to have been cut into a weird triangular pattern. It’s like the person who did it has only just learned how to use scissors. He also wears a thick purple necktie that is way too short for his pudgy body, and a black chef’s hat with a purple band.

Oh, and grey oven glove-style oven mitts that extend halfway up the length of his forearms.

Steve stands beside a massive burger, at least twenty feet across. Its sizzling fills the air with the delicious scent of a cookout, an aroma that nobody watching will get to experience. Behind him is a colossal oven, in which an equally massive bun is baking.

Steve Lemieux: Like four and twenty blackbirds before you… you will…

He tries to roll his eyes back, realizes he can’t, and then crosses them instead.

Steve Lemieux: Rest… in… piesssss.

The camera pans back to see Matt Mills standing by the doorway, having done the smart thing by electing to stay outside.

It pans back even further to reveal Ollie Cade and Rick Hardbody, each dressed in a brown druid’s robe, sitting on top of an old wooden bench. Between them is a stack of egg cartons and a large mixing bowl.

Rick and Matt make eye contact.

Rick Hardbody: Pretty fuckin’ stupid in there, huh?

Matt says nothing.

Ollie Cade: Shut up and get back to cracking. Your break ended twenty minutes ago.

Rick spits on the ground before grabbing an egg from the nearest carton.

Rick Hardbody: Seriously, Cade. Wrestling on a giant burger? How is that a good idea?

And with that, we fade to something more grounded in reality.

I hope.

Nick Stuart: Thanks for joining us again. We’re getting ready for an exciting match between…

Woo! Woo!

“Let ‘Em Know” by T.I. plays over the speakers as the PRIMEView lights up with the words “EVERYBODY LOVES SATAN”. The fans cheer as Satan Jones appears at the ramp, his phone in his hand, filming his stroll down the aisle.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe Lindsay Troy allowed this idiot to do guest commentary tonight.

Nick Stuart: Satan Jones is taking a special interest in this match, as he and Kris Roswell are set to face off against Sebastian Cross’s brothers at Ultraviolence.

Satan gets to ringside and smiles for the crowd, then walks around the ring and towards the commentary table. He sets his phone down and puts the commentary headset on.

Satan Jones: FEEDBACK!

There is no feedback.

Richard Parker: My feedback is you’re the worst.

Satan Jones: Would the worst have thirteen thousand people tune in to see him walk to the ring?

Richard Parker: Probably so, yes.

Nick Stuart: Welcome to the desk, Satan. I understand this is your first time doing commentary.

Satan Jones: It is. Once my Instagram career started taking off, I asked Ms. Troy if she’d sign off on some media courses for me, and she did.

Nick Stuart: And how are those media courses going?

Satan Jones: Oh, I only said she signed off. I didn’t say I took them.

Richard Parker: Ugh.

The lights die.

“Clubbed to Death” hits and the arena fills with cool blue, and Sebastian Cross is already at the top of the ramp before the crowd has fully registered either.

No pyro. No pause. He walks.

Charcoal overcoat, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the ring. The crowd gives him noise, a mixed reaction with real heat in it, and he offers nothing back. No acknowledgement, no eye contact, not even the small performance of deliberate indifference. He simply walks, at his own pace, as though the thousands of people on either side of the ramp are a feature of the building rather than a response to him. His brothers follow him dutifully, looking ahead with scorn.

At ringside he stops. The coat comes off in one clean motion. He folds it himself, collar down, along the existing creases, and places it on the apron. Not the announce table. The apron, where he can see it. The crowd watches this like they are not sure whether to be amused or unsettled, and before they decide he is already through the ropes.

In the ring he rolls his wrists, left then right, and settles into his corner. The music is still playing. He does not wait for it to finish. His eyes go to the far side of the ring and stay there, cold and patient, already working.

The noise in the building is real. But Sebastian Cross has not given it a single thing to attach itself to, and the crowd knows it, and somewhere in that knowledge is exactly the reaction he was looking for.

Satan Jones: Think I could steal that coat and sell it on Poshmark?

Richard Parker: He’d kill you.

Satan Jones: I should update my beneficiaries then.

“A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space plays and Anna Daniels makes a slow, measured walk to the ring. She doesn’t acknowledge the fans, or Satan Jones as she passes, even as he yells at her.

Satan Jones: I haven’t forgotten about the t-shirt cannon!

Richard Parker: Me either, that was hilarious.

Nick Stuart: How are the t-shirt sales coming, Satan?

Satan Jones: Sales are steady. It’s a shame she gets a cut of the profits.

Anna has rolled into the ring and stares across at Sebastian Cross. Elvis Nixon signals for the bell.

DING DING!

Sebastian advances on Anna, but she keeps him at bay with a well placed kick to his shins. He shakes it off, then advances and throws a forearm into Anna’s face, knocking her back.

Nick Stuart: This is our first look at Sebastian Cross in singles action. His brothers of The Albion won their first match against The Intruders at ReVival 87.

Satan Jones: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: AAAAAAH WHAT?!

Satan Jones: Sorry, just doing my Intruder #2 impression.

Richard Parker: I hate you.

Nick Stuart: That sounded a bit more like Intruder #1, Satan.

Richard Parker: E tu, Nick?

Anna tries to get her footing but Sebastian doesn’t let up. He continues to unleash strikes, causing her to backpedal towards the ropes. Once she runs out of room, he reaches out and grabs her arm, whipping her to the other side.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels plants her feet and counters!

Indeed, she has sent Sebastian to the other side. He ducks under a clothesline attempt from Anna, then hits the other ropes and launches himself in a flying forearm that levels Anna. She pops back up, but Sebastian is a few seconds quicker and grabs her arm, taking her to the mat in a wrist-controlled arm drag. Solomon and Stellan are pleased, as they clap and cheer outside.

Nick Stuart: Impressive start from Sebastian Cross so far. So, Satan, if you and your partner Kris Roswell win at Ultraviolence against The Albion, you’ll get an opportunity to go one-on-one with this man. Are you taking notes?

Satan Jones: Taking notes, making jokes, all of that. He looks like he knows how to wrestle, and I sort of know how to wrestle, so it will definitely be a wrestling contest. Of that I am sure.

Richard Parker: You better hope you lose to his brothers just to save you the embarrassment.

Anna tries to escape but Sebastian tightens his hold, wrenching on the shoulder and causing Anna to grunt in pain. She kicks upwards at him. He avoids the first kick, then gets blasted by the second. He releases the hold and scoots backwards to stand up. As he does, Anna unleashes another flurry of kicks, and after batting them away he rolls under the ropes and takes a moment to collect himself.

Satan Jones: If you can’t stand the heat get out of the kickin’!

Richard Parker: That makes no sense.

His brothers move towards him, but Sebastian only takes a few seconds before collecting himself, then getting back in the ring. Anna pounces, kicking at his torso and pushing him back. Sebastian grabs a foot and blocks the kick, then turns around quickly, trapping Anna in the corner and unleashing a flurry of punches on her, causing her to slump to a sitting position. He then drops down to his knees and shoves one knee into her face, grinding it until Elvis Nixon comes in to break it up.

Sebastian stands, his hands raised as Elvis guides him out. Then, suddenly, he sends a huge stomp onto Anna Daniels’ shoulder.

Nick Stuart: What violence from Sebastian Cross! He isn’t playing around!

Sebastian discards Elvis, then lifts Anna up and does a shoulder breaker on the hurt arm, then rolls her up in a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Anna gets the shoulder up, but she’s already taken a lot of damage to that side of her body.

Richard Parker: That’s what makes Sebastian Cross so smart, so vicious, so violent! He finds a weakness and exploits it!

Satan Jones: It’s absolutely revolutionary. I can’t believe that in the 4,922 years of professional wrestling, not one person has ever decided to exploit a physical injury to win the wrestling match. All hail Sebastian Cross, and to the astute observer Richard Parker for recognizing such innovation in action!

Richard Parker: You’re a bad person.

Anna is slow to get up. Sebastian decides in his infinite kindness to assist her by yanking on the shoulder and pulling her to her feet. She pauses due to the pain, and this allows Sebastian to continue his assault. He grabs her shoulder, then pulls her into his arm, leveling her with a short armed clothesline.

Nick Stuart: At the risk of being mocked by you like Richard, I am impressed with this new wrestler’s tenacity. Using that short-armed clothesline not only inflicts damage on the neck and the back of the head, but it uses torque on that hurt shoulder as well.

Satan Jones: Absolutely, Nick. And don’t worry, I’ve read all the handbooks. The fans like you, and they’ve been cheering me lately, so I’m only allowed to be an insufferable jackass to other insufferable jackasses. You’re in the clear.

Richard Parker: I’m not insufferable!

Anna isn’t out of this by a long shot, but she has been taking targeting attacks for a while now, and she stands slowly, wringing out her shoulder. Sebastian prowls behind her.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Cross is like a shark with blood in the water!

As he grabs Anna, she suddenly whirls and elbows him in the nose.

Satan Jones: And like a shark, he doesn’t like getting booped in the nose!

The strike catches him by surprise, and he takes a few steps back. Anna presses her newfound advantage, kicking Sebastian in the side before bringing him down in a flowing DDT.

Nick Stuart: What an impact! And here comes Daniels for the pin!

ONE!

TW…

Sebastian Cross kicks out, but Anna stays grounded, grabbing him and putting a side headlock on. Sebastian swipes in an attempt to escape, but Anna gets the hold locked in.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels has been here since the start of the ReVival era. A real career of ups and downs, wins and losses, she has been part of the very fabric of PRIME for several years now.

Satan Jones: Being a Time Lord who has been alive for millenia does technically make one a veteran.

Richard Parker: Do you genuinely believe that Anna Daniels is a Time Lord?

Satan Jones: This is professional wrestling, Richard. Where there are evil masks, people who have died thirty times, and a referee who was somehow rich enough to own a private jet. Everything is possible.

Richard Parker: Well that–

Satan Jones: But no, I think she’s a thirty year old homeless woman named Gertrude from Hoboken, New Jersey.

Anna continues to wrench on Sebastian’s neck, putting all of her weight behind bringing him down to the ground. They lay next to each other in a strange tangle, Daniels pulling on Sebastian’s neck and The Standard trying to break free. After a moment he stops fighting and allows himself to rest on his back, but Elvis Nixon is good at his job and slides in position.

ONE!

TWO!

TH…

Nick Stuart: Sebastian with the lapse, and it almost cost him! He lay back in the hold and almost got pinned!

He had rolled over to break up the pin, but something gleams in his eye. He begins to rock his body, and after two big shifts, he rolls backwards, landing directly on top of Daniels. As she pulls him close, locking in the hold, her shoulders hit the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

T…

Richard Parker: Clever move from Cross! Daniels had to break the hold or else she’d be pinned.

Nick Stuart: But she didn’t break the hold, she just rolled over, and now she’s on his back!

Satan Jones: And Sebastian has her on him like he’s a donkey.

Indeed, Sebastian Cross is on all fours, and Anna is on his back with her arms around his neck. He still strains from the hold, but he is able to stand up now. She grips onto him as he turns around and backs stiffly into the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: He’s trying to slam her off!

Satan Jones: I can’t tell if that’s sexual or just awkward.

After a second slam into the turnbuckle, Sebastian reaches up and grips Anna’s arms. Then he bends over and tosses her off of him, breaking the hold.

Nick Stuart: And now Anna lands on her bottom!

Satan Jones: Again, sexual or awkward?

Anna turns around as she gets up, then eats as ripcord knee to the face.

Nick Stuart: For King and Country!

Satan Jones: Well that’s not sexual at all.

Daniels slumps to the ground. Sebastian grabs the arm and wrenches it, then twists it into a hammerlock

Richard Parker: He’s back to working that arm!

Daniels screams in pain as Sebastian continues to work on the hold.

Nick Stuart: It says here that his finishing move involves a double underhook hold, so getting that arm weak is a great move to set it up.

Sebastian finishes by pulling the arm, then holding it over his head to wrench it. When he does this, though, Anna Daniels acts in desperation.

WHACKK!!!

Nick Stuart: Interrobang!

Satan Jones: Question mark exclamation point!

Sebastian stumbles away but doesn’t fall. Anna Daniels shakes off the pain, grabs Sebastian from behind, and with impressive strength lifts him up for the…

WHAMMMM!!

Nick Stuart: Blue Tardis Bomb! Out of nowhere!

Daniels grimaces from the pain as she drops down for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Yourrrr winner…ANNNNAAAAA DAAAAANIEEEEELLLLLLSS!

Nick Stuart: Well this was a very impressive match from newcomer Sebastian Cross. We got a sense of his skill and his use of violence, but Anna was able to act out of desperation to score the pinfall here!

Richard Parker: This is your fault, Jones. You distracted him.

Satan Jones: I beg your finest pardon? I was just here talking. It’s my right!

The camera stays fixed on Satan Jones as he stands up from the commentary table.

Satan Jones: This was fun, Nick. Richard, I hope you learned something.

Richard Parker: Yes, to avoid you in every possible interaction.

Satan laughs and chucks the headset, walking ringside. Sebastian Cross is still in the ring, shaking off the effects of a tough battle. Satan walks by and starts jawing. The camera can’t pick up what he’s saying, but Sebastian takes it in without reacting.

His brothers, though? They react.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Satan crumples as Stellan Cross levels him with a clothesline from behind. Solomon is quick to pounce, stomping on Satan’s body as Sebastian merely watches from the outside. After a few more stomps, Stellan lifts Satan and shoves him into the apron. Solomon hoists him up and into the ring, and both brothers follow. The Albion as a whole stand over Satan’s broken body as the boos come down.

Nick Stuart: Absolutely disgusting behavior!

Richard Parker: Eh, he earned it. Didn’t you hear his commentary. He was so…mean to me!

Still a little tired from his match, Sebastian has enough energy to expend here. His brothers lift Satan up and Sebastian hooks his arms, then lifts and drives him into the mat.

Nick Stuart: SINE QUA NON! Satan is out!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!

Wait, I thought the crowd liked Satan. How could they cheer such a violent display of – oh, they’re cheering Kris Roswell.

Satan’s tag partner rushes out and slides under the ring. Stellan goes for a clothesline and Kris ducks under it, jumping and planting a dropkick into Solomon’s chest. Solomon tumbles as Kris turns and sends a big kick to Sebastian’s stomach. But before he can do any more damage, Stellan plants Kris with a big boot to the face.

Richard Parker: Haha! How about that kick, Kicker Boy?!

Nick Stuart: The numbers game is too much for the Foot Soldiers!

Solomon has recovered and now he, Sebastian and Stellan stomp on both men. They lift Kris up and Stellan hits his Gory Special variation Piledriver.

Nick Stuart: The Stylish Kids in the Riot! What damage is being laid to the Foot Soldiers!

Richard Parker: And I’m loving it!

Sebastian Cross has signalled for a microphone as the boos continue in force. He takes it and lets them go for a while. He is in no rush. Stellan and Solomon stand over the two bodies.

Sebastian Cross: Yes. Alright. Get it out.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

He nods along, almost patient, like a man waiting for a kettle to boil.

Sebastian Cross: Anna Daniels beat me tonight. There it is. Her hand went up, mine did not, and you lot have been saving that noise all evening, so go on. Enjoy it. You have earned a little something, even if she did all the work.

Scattered laughter, then boos.

Sebastian Cross: But here is the thing none of you want to hear while you are having such a lovely time. She won. She is not better than me. Those are two completely different sentences, and the fact that you cannot tell them apart is rather the whole problem with this place.

Richard Parker: He’s not wrong, Nick.

Nick Stuart: He lost the match, Richard. That is the only sentence that matters.

Sebastian Cross: She can have it. Honestly, she can. Good for her. (He waves a hand, bored with it already.) It changes precisely nothing about who walks into the next building the more dangerous man, and she knows that, and somewhere under all that… (he gestures at the crowd) …so do you.

He turns and looks down at Satan Jones, like he has only just remembered him.

Sebastian Cross: And then there is you. (He crouches.) You talked through my entire match. You talk through everyone’s. It is the one thing you actually love doing, isn’t it, and you picked tonight, of all nights, to point it at me.

Solomon laughs, short and real. Stellan watches Roswell move, then go still.

Sebastian Cross: So let us do something with that. UltraViolence. My brothers win their match, because of course they do, and the second they are done, you and I sit down right here, on PRIMEView, and you interview me. Properly. You ask me whatever you are brave enough to ask, and I will show the whole of PRIME how it is supposed to be done by someone who actually can.

Richard Parker: He has just lost and booked himself? I love him.

Nick Stuart: It is grotesque.

Sebastian Cross: So, give it to Anna. My compliments, genuinely. (He stands, straightening his tape.) These two just got in the way of a bad mood and a free evening.

He drops the mic onto Satan’s chest and steps over him, not around.

“Clubbed to Death” hits. The Albion leave together.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Nick Stuart: He lost, and I am not sure the men who beat him realise he just talked his way into a main event.

Richard Parker: Oh, he realises. He always realises.

The camera shot backstage finds Scott Hunter alone in a backstage corridor outside the catering room, still in his street clothes. He’s holding a paper plate stacked with something that appears to be cookies, and he’s standing in front of one of those tall freestanding standee displays of a generic New York Knicks promotional poster that someone left in the hallway. He’s reading it intently. Next to him, sitting on top of an equipment trunk at roughly shoulder height, is a koala. This koala is wearing a small PRIME-branded t-shirt. Around his neck hangs a small laminated backstage credential that reads “KERRY KOALAYAMA – TALENT.”

Scott Hunter: (looking into the camera) Are we rolling?

We see a thumbs up from the cameraman around the camera lens. Kerry Koalayama notices the blinking red light immediately and stares into the lens with the flat, ancient, profoundly indifferent gaze of a koala who has seen things.

Scott Hunter: (still looking at the poster) Kerry, I’m telling you. The whole team. All of ‘em. Every single guy.

Kerry Koalayama blinks once, slowly. The camera holds on this.

Scott Hunter: Don’t give me that look. I counted. Look at the poster, The Nicks. Every last one of ‘em. Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick. How does a whole basketball team end up named Nick? Is that a New York thing? Is Nick a very popular name in New York?

Kerry Koalayama shifts his weight slightly on the equipment trunk. He reaches out one small gray paw and takes a cookie off Scott’s plate without looking at him.

Scott Hunter: Hey, those are mine!

Kerry Koalayama eats the cookie with the unhurried dignity of an animal that does not recognize personal property.

Scott Hunter: (sighing) Fine.

Scott straightens up, looks into the camera, and gestures to Kerry.

Scott Hunter: You know Kerry.

Kerry Koalayama stares into the camera. He’s eating a second cookie. Nobody knows when he got the second cookie.

Scott Hunter: So, uh, hey. ReViVal 89. New York City. Arthur Ashe Stadium. Ultraviolence is right around the corner, and I gotta say, Kerry and I are feeling really good right now.

Kerry Koalayama makes a small sound that is not quite a sound. It’s more of an absence of sound that somehow communicates mild contentment.

Scott Hunter: He’s feeling great. He’s been loving New York. We went to get pizza last night. Kerry had a whole slice. Didn’t you, Kerry?

Kerry looks out at the middle distance. He is thinking about something unknowable.

Scott Hunter: He loved it. He’s very cosmopolitan now. Anyway. Ultraviolence. Look, I beat Nate Colton at ReViVal. I did it clean. Figure four, middle of the ring, Nate tapped. That was real. That happened. And now we’re heading into the biggest show of the year, and Clay and I are walking in as tag team champions. Those belts are coming with us into Ultraviolence, and whoever’s decided they want a shot at them is gonna find out real quick what Clay Byrd and I are about.

Kerry Koalayama turns his head toward Scott with what appears to be interest, or possibly just a neck adjustment.

Scott Hunter: Kerry knows. He’s seen us work. He was at the title win. He was in the front row at ReViVal in a little jacket.

A beat passes.

Scott Hunter: It was a great jacket.

Scott reaches over and pats his furry friend gently on the head. Kerry tolerates this. The camera holds.

Scott Hunter: Clay and I have built something real with these belts. We didn’t win them by accident, and we’re not giving them up by accident either. Anybody who thinks they’re walking into Ultraviolence and walking out with our titles… I’d love to know where that confidence is coming from, I really would. Because Clay is one of the most dangerous people in this company, and I just submitted Nate Colton in the middle of the ring. We’re gonna be a real tough out.

Kerry Koalayama sits up very slightly straighter. He stares into the camera with an expression that, on a koala, is difficult to read but seems to convey something in the general neighborhood of quiet menace.

Scott Hunter: See? Even Kerry’s ready. Don’t mess with us.

Kerry reaches out and takes another cookie.

Scott Hunter: Kerry.

Kerry does not acknowledge this.

Scott Hunter: Kerry, those are my cookies.

Kerry eats the cookie.

Scott Hunter: (to the camera, with the patience of a man who has been through this many times before) He does this. He does this every time.

Scott looks back at the Knicks poster. He tilts his head slightly.

Scott Hunter: Hey, can I ask you something? (he gestures to the poster) The basketball team here. The Nicks. Why is everybody on the team named Nick?

The camera holds. There is no one to answer this question except one little koala, who looks at the poster, then looks at Scott, then looks back at the poster.

Scott Hunter: Like, statistically, how does that happen? Twelve, fifteen guys, all Nick. Is that a New York thing? Do they only draft Nicks? Is Nick Lachey on the Nicks? Is Stevie Nicks on the Nicks?? Or is she gone now? Did that landslide finally bring her down, down???? What about Saint Nick??? (his eyes go wide) IS SANTA CLAUS IN THE FINALS RIGHT NOW???

Kerry Koalayama makes no sound.

Scott Hunter: I had a theory. I was gonna ask Clay about it, actually, because Clay knows things, but then Kerry found a eucalyptus leaf in the seat pocket on the flight in, and it was a whole thing. But I’ve been thinking about it. The whole team. All Nicks.

Kerry Koalayama stands up slowly on the equipment trunk. He leans forward. He looks at the poster very slowly, with the complete and total concentration of a koala that has decided to investigate something. His nose twitches. He leans back. He appears to have reached a conclusion.

Scott Hunter: What? What’d you find?

Kerry sits back down and takes another cookie. He offers no further commentary.

Scott Hunter: You’re killing me, Kerry. You’re just killing me. You know, when we solved the Mystery of the Missing Turnbuckle Pad, you were a lot more forthcoming with information. This feels like a step back for you professionally.

Kerry chews with dignity.

Scott Hunter: (back looking at the camera) Okay. Look. Ultraviolence. Clay and I are ready. The titles are staying with Vae Victis. That’s not a prediction, that’s just what’s gonna happen. Whoever shows up, Clay and I have been through enough together that nothing’s gonna rattle us. We’ve got the belts, and we’ve got…

Scott gestures at his marsupial partner in crime.

Scott Hunter: …whatever this is.

Kerry finishes the cookie. He looks directly into the camera one final time, with an expression that suggests he knows exactly what a Knickerbocker is and has decided, for reasons of his own, not to share this information.

Scott Hunter: Wait. Do you know?

Kerry Koalayama looks away.

Scott Hunter: Kerry. Kerry, do you know why they’re called the Nicks?

Kerry Koalayama is looking at something on the ceiling that is apparently very interesting.

Scott Hunter: KERRY!

Kerry slowly and deliberately reaches out and takes the last cookie.

Scott Hunter: (staring at the empty plate, then at the koala, then at the camera)  He knows.

The amera operator slowly zooms out as Scott and Kerry Koalayama stand together in the hallway, the Knicks poster looking behind them. Scott holds an empty plate. Kerry chews the last cookie and gazes at the ceiling, keeper of secrets, guardian of inexplicable knowledge, tag team mascot, credential-holding talent, friend.

FADE OUT.

A hallway? Non-descript and next to a weird table? Some stage tech left some random shit lying around right within the camera shot?

Only in da big city, baby!

Wait, what’s that sound, did the arena just find out what the Knicks did on Wednesday night?

Ah, no, they always make that sound when they see Angelica Brooks.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And she deserves it. She puts up with big nonsense, she dresses like a bad bitch, and she’s never flustered. So you know what, Ange, we salute you. Hell, let’s all stand up and salute oh wait a second, they’re making that noise for him.

“What’s shakin’, Brooks?”

Chandler Dangdoneanddusted Tsonda. Not his real middle name, that’s classified.

Angelica Brooks: Chandler, thanks for joining me.

Chandler Tsonda: Brooks, I don’t care what people say, even if PRIME does hire Scott Pelley, he could never do what you do.

Angelica Brooks: I wasn’t…anyway, tonight’s not like any other ReV. You’ve got two decades of history, almost always on the same team as Bryan Dawkins.

The Viet Viper nods, following along, not just performing paying attention, but seemingly actually…doing it.

Angelica Brooks: I have to imagine there’s a great deal on your mind as you prepare to face your former stablemate. Take us into how you’re feeling.

Chandler Tsonda: I’ve got words for a lotta things, Brooks. Little secret between you and me? Ol’ Chan likes the sweet melody of this here speaking voice.

It’s a testament to her incredible professionalism that Angelica Brooks doesn’t interrupt to say “no shit.” You think Scott Pelley has restraint like that? Nah.

Chandler Tsonda: Most every fight I’ve stared down, I could sing a sweet song about what’s gonna happen, how’s it gonna go, and why it’s bound to end with the most elementary of endings: one, two, three, and then we all get to hear my name, my music, my estimated-of-today eight point two billion fans, a cool twenty-three thousand of whom are ready to blow the roof off Arthur Ashe.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Chandler Tsonda: You see me come out here, you know there’s gonna be a song-and-dance, and you’re gonna turn to the PRIMEate next to you and say: I know I’m here right now, but goddamn I’m already frothing at the mouth to get home and watch this segment again.

Angelica Brooks: I still hear a lot of the typical Tsonda bluster. What’s different tonight?

Chandler Tsonda: I always got the juice. But I don’t have the words, Brooks.

Angelica Brooks: (genuinely puzzled) No?

Chandler Tsonda: Surely a few people here and at home have watched years and years of my relationship with Bryan Dawkins.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The classic pop that accompanies the mention of the Flyin’ Hawaiian stirs from every seat in Queens. The Model Citizen allows a brief smile, before continuing.

Chandler Tsonda: But I don’t have the right words to paint the picture of what it’s like to be against—I mean truly against—him. I don’t have to tell you, I don’t have to tell these people that I’m not against Dawkins as a man. But this decision of his? To offer up his career to that opponent at Ultraviolence? I can’t abide it. I can’t support it. And I damn sure can’t let Dawkins go through with it.

Angelica Brooks: You do have to admit it’s highly unlikely that an accomplished superstar and former champion with a pedigree like Dawkins’ is going to take that challenge sitting down. Do you worry that all you’ve done is make him further dig his heels in on the decision that he’s made?

Chandler Tsonda: I…

He starts, and throws his hands up. Frustration? Confusion? Anger? Envy? All of the above? The two-time Hall of Famer is somewhat hard to read, but he’s not psyched.

Chandler Tsonda: I had words for Dawkins last week. You saw how that went. And now I guess it landed us here. He’s his own man. He doesn’t need a mentor or a stable or a vet; he’s the damn truth in that ring, and he’s a legend in the hearts and minds of every soul that buys a ticket to ReVival or sits down in front of their TV on Friday night.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Chandler Tsonda: I may be an OG like Anunoby.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

For the briefest of seconds, the gleam of teeth, the flash of cheekbones, it’s the smile that made Helen of Troy look like a wet dog.

Chandler Tsonda: …but Dawkins doesn’t need a lesson from an old head. He needs one of his peers to step in and regulate a little, and convince him that this stunt at Ultraviolence stops here and now.

Angelica Brooks: Are you at all concerned that Ivan Stanislav might make his presence felt during the match?

Chandler Tsonda: I’m never concerned about that freak. I don’t think about him at all. I’d say to the locker room, Russian, Neptunian, or otherwise: mind your fucking business.

The bravado and puffed-out-chest from the Sultan of Style hide from no one his utter disdain for, and loathing of, the Russian Bear.

Chandler Tsonda: What Dawkins and I have to solve out there is between the two of us, and twenty thousand of our closest friends. Nothing else matters.

Angelica Brooks: Let’s say you get a chance to speak to Bryan tonight, after the dust has settled on the match. What do you want to say to him?

Chandler Tsonda: Like I said, Brooks. I don’t have the words. What I got is two fists, two size ten-and-a-half boots, and enough gas in the tank to whip him pillar to post. And for that? I surely hope he’s got a mind to listen.

Angelica Brooks: Chandler Tsonda, thanks for the time.

Tonight’s main event competitor nods at the interviewer and with no hesitation heads off to prepare for the battle ahead. Before you know it, we’re back at ringside for tag action.

Richard Parker: We’ve got some real Pop Culture Trash action coming up next, Nick.

Nick Stuart: You mean The Mandalorian and Grogu?

Richard Parker: That’s it. You’re out of the will.

Nick Stuart: Hey! I happen to like pop culture trash.

WOOOOOOSH

The sound of the world’s largest pressure cooker releasing steam overtakes Arthur Ashe Stadium as half a dozen CO2 cannons shoot white fog into the air.

“Live for the Night” by Krewella hits the speakers as three letters appear on the PRIMEview screens positioned throughout the arena:

P C P

BOOOOOOOO!

The crowd’s displeasure soon overtakes the sound of the canons and the music as Elise Ares steps through the fog, a glimmering golden ticket hanging around her neck, as she primps and preens for the unadoring crowd.

The D steps through the fog to join his partner as their manager Klein rounds out the trio who make their way down towards the ring.

Klein waves toward the crowd while Elise and The D seem more focused on the cell phones they each both pulled from their pockets.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is ONE FALL! Introducing first, they are The Leading Lady and The Director, they are ELISE ARES AND THE D! THEY ARE THE POOOOOOOOOOOP CUUUUUUULTURE PHEEEEEENOMS!

Nick Stuart: Stop clapping, Richard, people can see you.

“GARBAGE DAY!”

The voice of Ricky Caldwell hits the speakers just as “The Sense” by Hot Water Music hits the speakers and fills the stadium.

Right on cue, Angel Quinley and Bex Savage rush out onto the rampway. They scatter to either side and begin to violently kick the C02 cannons out of pure spite while a bemused Ami Troy pulls them back to attention before guiding them down to the ring.

Vince Howard: And their challengers from Seattle, Washington and accompanied by the ‘Merry Mischief Maker’ Ami Troy, weighing in at a combined ‘None of my damn business’! ANGEL QUINLEY! BEX SAVAGE! THIS IS THE NEW WORLD TRAAAAAAASH!

Richard Parker: We haven’t seen much of New World Trash since their loss to Vae Victis a couple months ago, and with any luck Elise and The D will make sure we don’t see any more of them after!

Nick Stuart: All I know is that if Klein doesn’t want to lose some body parts he better stay on his side of the ring. I’d hate to see what any Troy would do to that man if he stepped out of line.

Jimmy Turnbull signals for the bell as The D and Bex Savage take their positions in the ring.

DING DING

Bex Savage grabs a hold of The D’s wrist and immediately slaps the phone out of his hand!

Nick Stuart: Why was he still looking at that thing!?

Richard Parker: You just don’t understand how demanding it is in Hollywood, Nick!

Savage kicks the phone backwards toward Ami Troy as a shocked and furious D goes for a clothesline.

Nick Stuart: Savage ducks! Forearm smash to the back of the D’s head! And another for good measure!

The Muscle Mommy Buzzsaw wraps her arms around her opponent’s waist, but the D reverses and quickly gets behind Savage, lifting her off the mat and then landing a flawed but effective side slam!

Richard Parker: That’s called blocking, Nick. He’s just making sure she’s hitting her mark correctly!

Bex Savage holds her side as the D lands some stomps into her ribs for good measure, but Bex quickly wraps her hands around his ankle and twists.

Nick Stuart: The D is down!

Savage continues to hold on to the ankle as she stands up, squeezing tightly with fury in her eyes! Jimmy Turnbull drops to his knees, asking the D if he wants to tap, but he shakes his head through gritted teeth.

Richard Parker: I know it’s in her name, Nick, but does she need to be so… savage? This is a Hollywood icon here!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think anyone is calling either of these two icons, Richard.

Bex pivots to gain more leverage, but it’s the small window the D needs to shove his free foot directly into Savage’s face.

Nick Stuart: Oh! Bex Savage is holding her nose!

Richard Parker: She’s trash so she should be used to holding her nose, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Wait. Is that… blood!?

Jimmy Turnbull looks over at Bex Savage who seems to have suffered a nose bleed from the D’s kick as the D is hobbling over on his good leg toward his partner Elise Ares.

Savage screams in frustration as she walks over and uses a free hand to tag in Angel Quinley before sliding through the ropes and applying pressure to the bridge of her nose.

Quinley vaults into the ring and sprints towards the opposite corner, but not before Elise gets the tag! The South Beach Starlet kisses her golden ticket before meeting the charging Angel Quinley with a BOOT TO THE FACE!

Nick Stuart: NO! Quinley was ready for it! She dodges, grabs a hold of Elise by her neck and SUNSET LUNGBLOWER!

Elise pops off the knees of Angel Quinley and onto the mat as the Eternal Sunrise scrambles for a pin.

ONE!

T-

Kickout!

Richard Parker: That’s called improv, Nick. She took Angel’s set up and made it her own!

Nick Stuart: What in the world are you even talking about, Richard?

Elise grabs a hold of Angel’s hair on the way back up to her feet and runs toward the nearby ropes, leaps, and pulls all her weight onto Quinley’s neck as she deftly slides under the bottom rope and to the outside!

CUBAN NECKTIE!

Angel Quinley flails backwards as Elise Ares moves toward the corner steps and begins to climb.

Nick Stuart: I don’t like this, Richard!

Richard Parker: That’s because you’re uncultured, Nick! This is art!

Elise reaches the top of the turnbuckle, and launches!

Nick Stuart: SETO—NO!

Angel rolls out of the way just in time and Ares hits the mat with a THUD!

Richard Parker: Nevermind. This is awful!

Quinley quickly bolts, bounces off the very ropes her neck was just sliced with, and leaps into the air.

Nick Stuart: CORKSCREW MOONSAULT!

Quinley goes for the cover.

ONE!

T-

Ares kicks out again!

Nick Stuart: You gotta give Quinley credit for trying everything she can to put down Elise Ares here!

Richard Parker: No I don’t.

Angel looks up to see Bex Savage’s bloodied hand extended outward as her nosebleed seems to have dried up.

Quinley leaps forward to try and get to her corner, but Elise Ares grabs her leg! Quinley isn’t fast enough as Ares pulls her opponent down, spins, and contorts the New World Trash member’s legs into a pretzel.

Nick Stuart: She calls this the Miami Vice, Richard!

Richard Parker: Great show. Mediocre film.

Bex Savage is hooting and hollering as Angel Quinley screams in pain! Jimmy Turnbull is on the mat, looking for Quinley to give up.

Richard Parker: Time to go down under, Quinley!

Nick Stuart: Ugh. I hope Alan Rickman haunts you tonight! Wait a minute… what is…

Angel Quinley, face red and eyes bulging, somehow pushes herself up from the mat, arching her back, and throws her weight towards her head!

Nick Stuart: ROLL UP PIN! HOW IN THE HELL!

ONE!

Kickout!

Elise counters the weakened Angel Quinley and uses the momentum to hit her own pin attempt!

ONE!

TWO!

T- KICKOUT!

By sheer momentum, Angel Quinley has kicked out and now finds herself inches from her partner, Bex Savage!

TAG!

Elise, trying to find her way to her feet, gets OBLITERATED by a running knee strike to the face that sends her reeling…. RIGHT INTO THE ARMS OF THE D!

TAG!

Richard Parker: Round Two! Here we go!

Bex Savage has a bead on Elise Ares, not realizing that the D made the tag!

The Ripper gets BLINDSIDED in the corner by a kick to the jaw from Elise! The Leading Lady grabs a hold of Savage’s waist as the D wraps his hands around her neck and uses the ropes for leverage as he LEAPS into the air.

NETFLIX MONEY!

Nick Stuart: Oh god! Bex Savage is DEAD!

The D goes for the cover.

Richard Parker: And there is nothing Angel Quinley can do about it!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEENOOOOO!

The D raises his arms in victory but Turnbull is pointing toward the foot of Bex Savage on the bottom rope!

Both members of the Pop Culture Phenoms begin to berate Turnbull … and even Klein is now getting into the fray!

Nick Stuart: Yikes! If Klein isn’t careful he’s going to get his team thrown out, Richard!

Jimmy continues to hold up three fingers – all the while a delirious and injured Bex Savage is clawing her way back to Angel Quinley.

Klein is now up on the edge of the ring, slapping his hands in frustration that the D got the three count… which has finally drawn the attention of Ami Troy!

Richard Parker: Uhhhh Klein? KLEIN!?

Ami Troy yanks Klein off the side of the ring by his arm and throws PCP’s manager to the ground as the crowd erupts in cheers.

RAAWWWWWWW!

Nick Stuart: Biggest pop of the night, Richard!

Richard Parker: PHILISTINES!

In the chaos, Bex Savage has almost reached Quinley, and the look in Elise’s eyes lets us know she’s clocked it too!

The Leading Lady slaps the D on the back, who turns and looks confused as PRIME’s Golden Ticket Holder closes the distance!

Nick Stuart: COME ON BEX!

Richard Parker: COME ON ELISE!

With everything she has, Savage reaches out AND GETS STOMPED BY ELISE ARES!

Richard Parker: EXTREME MAKEOVER!

Nick Stuart: OH SHIT! That one definitely broke Bex’s nose. Here comes the blood!

Elise rolls Bex Savage over, wiping her hands as she places her boot on the chest of the New World Trash member, trying to avoid the blood.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEE!

DING DING DING

Angel Quinley leaps over the ropes to check on her partner as Ami Troy, having sufficiently scared off the PCP manager, slides into the ring as well.

Meanwhile, a disgusted Elise Ares reaches down and gestures for Ami Troy to give the D’s phone back.

Vince Howard: YOUUUUR WINNNNNNERS THE POP CULTURE PHEEEEEEENOMS!

Elise raises her arms – and the D’s phone – into the air with a smile as she saunters over to her team’s corner.

Nick Stuart: What do you think, Richard?

Richard Parker: Great special effects, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Special… effects?

Richard Parker: Yes! The squib work was perfect. I’d expect nothing less out of a PCP production.

Nick Stuart: You need serious help, Richard.

We’re back!

Hey, the ring looks different than it did just a few minutes ago. Maybe it’s because all the carnage from the Phenoms and Trash match has been cleaned up.

Or, it could be the table in the center of the ring, with some fancy little folders and a very nice pen.

It could also be the Enemigos lining the ringside area. That’s…

Hang on, let me grab my calculator…

That’s a lot of Enemigos.

Nick Stuart, can you explain?

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, fans! What you’re about to see is the fallout from the confrontation between Max Kael and Nate Colton two weeks ago. Lindsay Troy has already confirmed that they will face each other at UltraViolence, and has dictated that they meet face-to-face and agree on the stipulation of said match.

Richard Parker: Are those her exact words?

Nick Stuart: They are not. The Enemigos are here because…well, you saw what happened last time.

Richard Parker: That’s the most impressed I’ve been with Colton in a while. Y’know, if he’d just let out that inner maniac more often, I might be able to stay awake during his matches.

Nick Stuart: You certainly will once the fire alarms go off.

Richard Parker: That’s what I’m talking about! Let them have their fun; it’s good TV.

Nick Stuart: Nobody would let us in their venues and we would lose our jobs.

Richard Parker: Good point. Figure your shit out, boys!

The lights in the Arthur Ashe Stadium flicker out as the stage lights up with ominous green light and smoke from those famous fog machines. A tasteful amount of fog, the kind that says spooky but understated, but still dramatic.

“Heads Will Roll” by Prep Kids x Kid Something begins, joining the dramatic fog. As the lyrics play out about a dozen shadowy figures lurk out of the green smoke. Russian thugs, deformed Arkham citizens, and a phalanx of black armored enforcers led by the Harbinger of Max Kael himself, the Bolognese Bull.

When the music hits the breakdown the mummified Max Kael saunters out onto the stage exuding disgust and barely contained rage. As he saunters angrily toward the ring the rest of his “Family” fall in line behind him, matching his pace. About half way down the ramp Max stops suddenly.

As the music hits the hook Max, and the rest of his Family, start a fairly complicated synchronized dance. It’s angry and involves a lot of swinging fists, chest beating, stomping and perhaps too many hip thrusts.

This dance takes Max all the way down to the ring where he climbs in, marching toward the far side of the ring where his chair is. The rest of his family squeeze as best they can on that half of the ring as the music fades.

Richard Parker: Wow that was really amazing! I didn’t know Max and his family were so talented!

Nick Stuart: I… well. That was something for sure. I don’t know if amazing is what I’d call it but yeah. A dance did just happen.

Richard Parker: A really good dance!

Nick Stuart: Eh.

Nick Stuart re-enacts the Larry David “Eh…” meme.

Eagles. “Tryin’.”

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

A line of young men march through the entrance and down the ramp, all wearing jackets that match in every way but color and the name on the front.

Blue, black, green, red.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.

Nate Colton leads, as he does, followed by Blake, Dennis, and Benjamin. They’re all looking very serious, even Benny (who remains serious when he pauses to flirt with one of the Enemigos.)

Once they reach the ring, Nate climbs the steps and wipes his feet on the apron before stepping through the ropes. The others take a position on the entrance side of the ring, where a group of Enemigos surround them for everyone’s protection.

The Mayor of Arkham quickly snatches up one of the microphones on the table.

Max Kael: … you made me come out here first. So you know what? You have to start talking first, Nathan No-Middlename Colton.

He leans back and flicks his spidery fingers toward the other microphone on the table. Nate doesn’t break eye contact with Kael as he picks up his mic.

Nate Colton: I have a–forget it. Have it your way. Y’know–

Max Kael: ‘Cause I don’t like coming out first. I’m Mayor Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. I come out second, traditionally.

The Lord of Kaelsalvania holds up his hands apologetically.

Max Kael: Please continue, sweetheart.

Normally, Nate Colton would roll his eyes at the self-serving outburst…but Max Kael had been around PRIME long enough that the New Diamond knew better.

You don’t take your eyes off Max Kael.

Nate Colton: Y’know, Max…I gave you a chance. I told you to give up my sister, or they’d be scraping you off the floor with a shovel. But you couldn’t do that, could you? No, you had to double down and throw that shit back in my face. Like I’m the one who’s been kidnapping and torturing people since the day I came into PRIME. You took the dirt from whatever hole you have Jennifer stashed in, and you put it on our name.

It’s the kind of speech that gets a little bit sharper, a little bit louder with every word. Only it doesn’t. Nate’s voice remains even, and eerily calm.

Nate Colton: So now you lose the “or.” You’re going to give up my sister, and they’ll be scraping you off the floor with a shovel.

A rasping, wrenching laugh gurgles up from Max’s throat as his green eyes practically glow from the depths of his bandaged face.

Max Kael: You think threatening me with violence is going to frighten me? You think you can bully me? You’ve nothing to do with all of your strength, nothing your family can do to intimidate me and mine. You can not kill me or destroy me in any way that matters, Colton. More to the point, you can’t draw blood from a stone.

It’s impossible to see his face though his words curl with growing hostility and malice. You can imagine there is no smile on Max’s face, if the tone of his words were taken into account. He’s probably sneering or snarling or any of those words that describes an angry frown.

Max Kael: ‘Cause everybody knows you’ve got your sister… and MY son hidden away in one of your cult’s little cult houses. What do they call them again?

The Bolognese Bull, standing over Max’s right shoulder, leans down and roars into Max’s ears. The Mayor of Arkham flinches, obviously caught off guard by the loud outburst.

Max Kael: Yes-yes, thank you my The Harbinger. You’re holding my son in one of your so-called GYMS. So, it’s in your best interest to turn him over because unlike me…

Leaning forward, Max looks like he might launch himself over the table with his beady green eyes focused on  Nate.

Max Kael: … when you die, when your homes burn, when your gyms are foreclosed, the memory of the Colton Family will be of a cursed family and a cautionary tale of fucking with Max Kael and the Kael Family… heh-heh…

Nick Stuart stands up from the commentary booth with a microphone in hand.

Nick Stuart: I have just been told by management to remind the two of you that if you two can not come to some kind of agreement on a match for UltraViolence, you’re both suspended.

RAAAAH!

The crowd cheers as Nick sits back down. Back in the ring neither man has taken their eyes off each other. Their families on either side mimic the leaders, glaring threateningly across the ring.

Max Kael: Fine-FINE! A House of Usher match! We set up an old house with explosives set to a timer, see, and when the timer goes off, anyone still left in the house explodes with it! The windows and doors are all locked and the key is in the attic and we start in the bas-

Nate immediately cuts Max off.

Nate Colton: No. I got a hard rule; never sign on for a match named after something Edgar Allan Poe wrote.

Richard Parker: What? Does this mean we’re not getting the Pit and the Pendulum either? Or a Purloined Letter Match? Not even a Cask of Amantillado on a Pole? Have a heart, Colton!

Nick Stuart: A Tell-Tale Heart?

Richard Parker: (sulking) Apparently not.

Literature jokes!

Nate Colton: Submission match. I’m gonna break you down, physically and mentally. Then I’ll stretch you out so bad, you’ll be begging for it to end.

Kael feigns snoring.

Max Kael: Boooooring. God, you’re so predictable and BORING. Where is your sense for the DRAMATIC! Where is your sense of DARING!? You claim I stole a family member of yours, one that you considered important, I guess, and you’re coming at me with a Submission Match?! Not even an I Quit match!?

Snorting, Max throws a dismissive hand wave at Nate.

Max Kael: That’s gonna be a no from me, dawg.

Nate Colton: Suit yourself. I guess some people need weapons to be dangerous. Can’t get the job done with their bare hands.

Max Kael: Only an idiot walks into a gun fight with their fists, Colton. Oh! How about a Shotgun on a Pole match!?

Nate Colton: Get serious; this ain’t Chicago. Ambulance match.

For a moment, Max actually considered the idea.

Max Kael: Now there’s a good idea… but if you don’t mind me saying it, I’d call poppycock on that match.

Nate Colton: Then do it.

Max Kael: POPPYCOCK!

Both sides of the table almost leap at each other again but they’re talked down by their respective families.

Max Kael: You dirty dog, this whole thing is poi… nt… less.

His glittering green eyes flash with something devious.

Max Kael: What about…

His silver teeth glimmer beneath the bandages teasing a smile.

Max Kael: …a Dog Collar Match?

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

The fans definitely like that idea.

Max Kael: Then you won’t get the chance to run away from me and I can beat you like you’re one of Michael Vick’s dogs. Or are you too afraid of a match where you can’t escape from your destiny.

He blinks a few times.

Max Kael: Which in this case is death or, at least, a proper MAIMING!

Nick Stuart: A Dog Collar Match? We haven’t seen one of those in four years!

Richard Parker: Oh yeah! Anna Daniels and Jacob Mephisto tore each other apart! Too bad Colton’s way too chickenshit to ever–

Nate Colton: Done.

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

The New Diamond grabs the pen from the table, fills in a blank in the middle of the page and writes his name at the bottom. He tosses the pen at Max the moment he’s finished.

Kael stares down at the pen that was tossed in his direction, shaking his head.

Max Kael: I’m not using that piece of trash.

Reaching into his pocket, the Lord of Kaelsalvania pulls out a golden whistle, blowing hard into it. The sound causes the microphones to scream with feedback, the audience groaning and crying out as they cover their ears.

Max Kael: BEHOLD! Dignity my Attack Peacock!

From somewhere high up in the rafters there is a fluttering sound. A massive male peacock circles down, wings spread wide as it lets out a loud, shrieking call. It doesn’t fly so much as falls gracefully toward the ring landing in the ring next to Max. Reaching down Max plucks one of the massive tail feathers from Dignity, revealing that it’s a large, four foot long feather pen.

Max Kael: This is how a MAYOR signs a contract, not with one of those impotent six inch pens.

He never takes his green eyes off Nate as he scribbles his name down on the contract with a dramatic flourish.

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Nick Stuart: There it is! Max Kael and Nate Colton will face off at UltraViolence in a Dog Collar Match! I can’t wait to see that!

Richard Parker: Neither can they!

With the ink on the contract not even dry, Nate Colton steps forward and tosses the table to the side!

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Richard Parker: You’re right, Nick! Now that they’ve figured their shit out–

Nick Stuart: That sounds like the boss.

Richard Parker: –there’s nothing to stop these two from tearing each other apart again!

Still grinning, Kael steps forward until he’s practically nose-to-nose with the New Diamond. Colton’s fists clench. Max’s claws come out. Their respective armies push against the security forces, eager to join the inevitable fray.

The time for cooler heads has passed. Give us rage! Give us chaos! Give us the unspeakable carnage that can only come from a man pushed past his limits by a man who has none!

GIVE

US

THIS

Nick Stuart: Fans, I’m just getting word of a breaking development–we take you backstage, where Angelica Brooks is standing by!

Cut.

Angelica Brooks can be seen rushing through the backstage area, mic in hand and camera crew in tow.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and gentleman, I’ve just heard that we’ve had a sighting of Sutler Reynolds-Kael and Jenny Colton!

Reaching the backdoors of the Arthur Ashe Stadium, she pushes through and out into the muggy New York night. A black sedan is idling just beyond the threshold as Brooks approaches. The back door of the car opens as Sutler Reynolds-Kael slips out, dressed in a sharp black and white suit.

Flashing a perfect smile at Brooks he holds out his hand and helps Jenny Colton out of the same car. She’s wearing a very stylish purple dress. Both of them look extremely well tanned.

RAAAAAAH!

The crowd can be heard roaring loudly as the two appear, safe, unharmed and apparently together.

Angelica Brooks: Sutler, Jenny, can I get a moment?

The pair look at each other, smiling and shrugging before nodding to Angelica. The two appear quite smitten with each other as they stand together, arms around each other.

SRK: Sure, just nothing too personal, alright?

Sutler teases, winking as Jenny rests her head on his shoulder.

Angelica Brooks: Almost two months ago you two vanished precipitating an all out war between the Coltons and the Kaels. Where have you been? Who kidnapped who?

SRK: Kidnapped?

Both of them look confused, sharing a glance before Sutler scoffs.

SKR: We weren’t kidnapped. Well, I guess we kidnapped each other in a way.

Jennifer Colton: Everything’s just been…a lot lately. And so I was like “I need a break” and Sutler was like “omg me too” and I was like “you know what’s great for that” and he was like “The Bahamas” and I was like “I was gonna say Six Flags but your idea is way better.” So that’s where we’ve been.   

Sutler nods, agreeing with everything Jenny says

SRK: She’s so eloquent, isn’t she? Anyway, we’re back now so everyone can settle down. Hopefully they didn’t do anything too stupid but then, that’s a big ask.

Before Angelica can ask another question the two love birds veer away as we cut back to the ring and the two flabbergasted families.

Max can be seen staring up at the PRIMEtron and while his face can’t be seen beneath the bandages, you can tell he’s absolutely deflated. He sinks down into his chair, holding his rag wrapped face in his hands.

Nate Colton still stares directly at Kael, but it feels different, somehow. Vacant. He only says one thing; the microphones barely pick it up, but that’s fine; it’s not for the audience at large.

“We’re leaving.”

He leaves the ring, never turning his eyes from the Black Heart until he’s back with his brothers and cousin. They walk a way in a clump, three men with a thousand questions following one with no answers.

Richard Parker: These two men just signed up for one of the most violent, cruel, twisted matches in Professional Wrestling over a misunderstanding?!

Nick Stuart: That’s what it looks like, Parker! I wonder how much regret both sides are feeling right now?

Richard Parker: This is terrible! Terrible! I bet Nate had something to do with this deception! He probably knew all along!

Nick Stuart: Nate looks equally shocked, Parker. I think… I think these kids just needed to get away from their crazy families, like they said.

Richard Parker: POPPYCOCK!

Prerecorded.

The Hayden Planetarium. Inside a massive dome of stars.

Bobby Neptune sits in an empty audience, his body a wash in the dark blue of the planetarium’s light. He looks up at the stars like he’s seeing them for time. He takes out a bag of popcorn and starts munching away like he’s watching an action movie, but it’s just a still night sky.

“Neptune…”

Bobby looks in the direction of the voice, and spots Kerry Kuroyama entering the star-speckled dome. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Kerry walks the aisle to where the Starboy is seated, curiously looking up at the projected cosmos hanging above them.

Kerry Kuroyama: You, uh… come here often?

Bobby Neptune: It’s my favorite place in the city. It’s my favorite place in every city to be honest.  Where else can you see the night sky in all its glory during the day?

The projected display starts connecting the stars with lines, creating constellations.

Bobby Neptune: Do you have a favorite star, Mr. Kuroyama?

Arching an eyebrow, the Emerald Apex looks point blank into the camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: …Sirius.

He shrugs, and turns his attention back to Neptune.

Kerry Kuroyama: I… get it, somehow.

Bobby Neptune: A fine choice. I’m a fan of Proxima Centauri myself. The planet that orbits it is where I wrestled my first Anglosoid.

He munches on another handful of popcorn, while Kerry munches on this info.

Bobby Neptune: But I won’t waste your time. How is your experience with the visor?

Kuroyama unzips the duffel bag, reaches in, and brings out the aforementioned visor. He turns it over in his hand a few times before answering with an affirming nod.

Kerry Kuroyama: Good, surprisingly. Took some getting used to, but I got the hang of it eventually. Gotta say through, hanging a bunch of different versions of myself is… a trip. Not sure I was ready for that. As for that ongoing “beast” issue?

Gently tapping the visor in his palm, he chuckles lightly under his breath. Then he looks up to the sea of twinkling jewels hanging over them, picking out the scorching Dog Star.

Kerry Kuroyama: You know, it’s funny… but the deeper I got into the things, the more I realized it’s not really an “issue” after all. May actually be something of a blessing in disguise. Something that could give me strength.

A dark, almost sinister looking smile creeps across Kuroyama’s face.

Kerry Kuroyama: Real strength…

The popcorn eating stops. For the first time, Bobby turns his attention from the “sky” to Kerry, and he doesn’t look happy.

Bobby Neptune: That’s… that’s quite dangerous, Mr. Kuroyama. We do not draw power from the dark stars.

He stands.

Bobby Neptune: If you’re not going to use the device to destroy the darkness within, then…you are not ready. Perhaps it was a mistake to give it to you.

He reaches out his hand.

Bobby Neptune: The visor, Mr. Kuroyama. Please do not make me take it from you.

Kuroyama’s reactions are subtle; a setting of his jaw, a brief aversion of his eyes. Small tells that show us he’s clearly been made uncomfortable by this reaction, but is still determined to keep things civil.

Kerry Kuroyama: …if you insist.

He favors the Starboy’s mind-enhancing visor in his hand for a beat. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reluctantly hands it over.

Kerry Kuroyama: Here it is, Mr. Neptune. Sorry for misusing your property. I’ll just take my leave then.

Kuroyama shoulders the bag and heads for the exit. Neptune is about to return to his seat, but before he gets there, he looks down at the visor in his hands.

He presses a button, and it begins to light up and beep like a children’s toy.

Bobby Neptune: …this is the incorrect technology…

He twirls around and shouts angrily

Bobby Neptune: Mr. Kuroyama!

Mere steps away from the exit, Kerry skids to a halt.

Kerry Kuroyama: …shit.

The jig is up. He could easily just make a break for it. But that wouldn’t be very Apex of him, which is why he instead turns around and returns to Bobby to face the music.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay, look, that’s just a replica of Geordi’s VISOR from Star Trek that I bought from a toy store down the block.

Neptune looks at him in confusion.

Bobby Neptune: …Star… Trek?

Kuroyama shakes his head in defeat.

Kerry Kuroyama: Here’s the deal, Neptune… I didn’t bring the visor with me.

Bobby tenses up in anger. It’s clear he doesn’t like being misled.

Kerry Kuroyama: Look, I have every intention to return it to you. I am not a thief. But I need it for just a little longer, because I’m making real progress, and I…

He sighs, conflicted.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I still have a ways to go before I fully understand what this is within me. You call it a “dark star”, and maybe you’re right. Or maybe it’s something else. But I’m the only one who can know for certain. And you have to understand, Neptune, that I need to know. It’s just going to take a little more time. I only ask that you trust me.

Bobby Neptune: Trust you?? You have already tried to deceive me once. Perhaps if you hadn’t…but no. There is no trust to be had between us.

The Emerald Apex groans.

Kerry Kuroyama: …okay, how about this? You want it back? Then I’ll gladly give you the chance. At Ultraviolence. Philly.

He looks up to the star-speckled dome surrounding them.

Kerry Kuroyama: They have observatories around there, right?

Bobby Neptune: Yes. There’s a fine planetarium at the Franklin Institute.

Kerry Kuroyama: Cool. Then we’ll meet there, and we’ll hash out this little disagreement the hard way. Winner takes the visor. They can call it…

The Emerald Apex dramatically throws his hands toward the stars above them.

Kerry Kuroyama: Pandemonium in the Planetarium!

On cue, a powerful THUNDERCLAP peals through the planetarium’s PA system, accompanied by a flash of lightning. Bobby looks around in confusion.

Kerry Kuroyama: I, uh… threw the operator a few bucks to do that.

Bobby Neptune: Ah. They’re good people here. In fact, Mr. Kuroyama, I think you’re a good person too. I respect you as a competitor and a warrior. It is a shame it has come to this. As a keeper of balance in the universe, you give me no choice..

Kerry Kuroyama: …understood. But I want you to know, Neptune, that even though I respect you, I’m not interested in the balance of the universe. I’d willingly snuff out every star in the sky if it meant coming to terms with this beast in me. And if you choose to stand in my way, then I’ll have no choice but to put you on your back.

The two stare each other down a moment longer, standing only a few feet apart but filling the space with the palpable tension that comes from a pair of warriors entering a duel.

Kerry Kuroyama: See you in Philly, Starboy.

Bobby nods. After a beat, Kuroyama turns and takes his leave of the planetarium.

The lights go out in the arena, and a big murmur goes up in the crowd, excited for what’s next. Then the PRIMEView lights up to show a Japanese man with impeccable combed-over black hair, a square jaw, and a towel around his neck emphatically saying a phrase in his native tongue. The translation is in subtitles:

“PRO WRESTLING IS A SACRED SPORT!”

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

A spotlight shines on the curtain, and a beat later, The Anglo Luchador jumps out, dressed in a green tracksuit with a purple towel around his neck, pumping his fist into the air. He jogs in place at the top of the ramp for a moment before bounding down to the ring, slapping hands. He gets to the ringside area, strips from his entrance gear, throwing each piece into the crowd before sliding into the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, weighing in at 211 pounds and hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan, and the Spear of Huitzilopochtli… The Anglooooo…. LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLL!”

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

Heavy as fuck, yes. Flash bulbs, always. Exploding stars and planets on the screen as they get mangled into a black hole? Expected.

Showmanship from Hayes Hanlon as he steps onto the ramp?

Not exactly.

Nick Stewart: Folks, as our very own “Event Horizon” makes way to the ring, one thing is for certain; our former two-time Universal Champion is in desperate need of momentum.

Richard Parker: Understatement of the year, Nick. Where’s my champ? Where’s my Comeback Kid? It’s been a tough 2026 for Hayes.

Hayes storms out onto the ramp, but without the usual fanfare. He’s cold, perturbed. Making way without addressing his usual bright lights.

Nick Stuart: At this point in the year, his only victory was via disqualification from Max Kael. Hardly the shift in momentum that he desperately needed. Can he change the tune against The Anglo Luchador?

Hayes slides into the ring swiftly, and waves his hand to cut his music short. He positions himself in his corner, eyes dead. Focused? Not exactly. But without the usual gleam from the lights and entrance theatrics.

Referee Ashley Barlow checks both corners, nods, then signals the timekeeper!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Two stalwarts of their respective generations, two multi-time champions in PRIME, a pay-per-view level matchup kicking off here!

Richard Parker: …the viewers at home are already watching, partner. You don’t gotta sell them on this.

Nick Stuart: I can’t help it! It’s been two and a half years since we last saw these two go head to head!

TAL and Hanlon circle each other with a sense of searching…neither man too high or two low in their facial expressions. TAL’s arms are up, looking for a window for some technical grappling; Hayes has his left arm out, measuring the striking distance his closed right fist might need.

Anglo charges forward to engage, and Hanlon swings – it just misses the Luchador, who ducks and goes for a rear waist lock! Hayes smacks TAL with a back elbow and grabs a side headlock. Hayes scoops up Anglo, looking for a slam – TAL counters out! He spins off Hanlon’s shoulders, sliding to the ground and deftly locking his toes around Hanlon’s feet, sending the Event Horizon toppling!

Anglo shoots forward for the facelock, but Hanlon gator rolls in the center of the ring to break loose. Hayes soon finds himself in a mount and he begins to hammer big strikes down onto the Luchador to a bunch of boos.

Referee Ashley Barlow begins admonishing Hayes, who responds by piefacing his downed opponent and rising to his feet with a small little flourish before locking back in and measuring Anglo.

Nick Stuart: We’ve said for years how much of a bully Hayes Hanlon can be in the ring.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but I don’t know – something seems off. He usually plays to the crowd more, has his chest puffed out more, that sort of thing.

Nick Stuart: It’s still early in this one. Meanwhile, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan needs to keep his head on a swivel, Hayes looks about ready to strike…

As if on cue, Hayes charges forward and swings a big lariat!

Nick Stuart: ANGLO CATCHES THE ARM! HE’S USING THE MOMENTUM TO SWING UP! AROUND! BEHIND! GORY SPECIAL IS LOCKED IN!

Ashley Barlow wheels around to check on Hanlon, who is wide-eyed to go so quickly from offense to defense. The luchador squeezes his limbs as tightly as possible, doing everything he can to weaken a man 60 pounds heavier and nearly 14 years his junior.

Powering through the pain, Hanlon takes one step closer to the corner, then another, then is able to build up some momentum. He props a boot on the middle turnbuckle, leans back, and launches the pair of them towards the middle of the ring!

SPLAT

The crash separates the two opponents and they each scramble to their feet quickly, trying to avoid giving any window of opportunity.

TAL goes for a collar-and-elbow, but is met with another bullying pieface from Hanlon; Anglo smacks down his hand and leaps for the enzuigiri! It connects, staggering Hanlon! Anglo connects with a left, then a left, then a right cross! Hanlon is in the ropes!

TAL gains wrist control and sends Hanlon towards the center of the ring. Hayes plants his feet, maintains the wrist hold, and counters, sending TAL running to the ropes instead. On the rebound, Hanlon throws another massive lariat – TAL ducks it again! Rebounds off the ropes a second time – he springs up surprisingly high, climbing Hanlon like a tree, ankles to shoulders! With expert balance, the luchador deftly drops down, cinches his legs, flips, spins…SUNSET FLIP POWERBOMB FROM THE ANGLO LUCHADOR!

He reaches across for the pin!

ONE!

TWO!

Hanlon kicks out! They each roll to their feet in opposite directions, creating space once again. Another jab from Anglo, then another – Hayes blasts him with a chop! Another chop! Hayes sends Anglo running to the ropes and goes for a lariat AGAIN on the rebound – TAL ducks for a third time!

Anglo rebounds, comes charging in at full speed, and ducks a FOURTH lariat attempt! Anglo charges at the ropes, running some laser-quick calculations of how he can stop running and get back to grappling and the technical lucha libre style that he feels is his main advantage over his opponent. His thoughts are interrupted, because this time, Hayes followed him to the ropes.

To call it a “shoulder tackle” would be selling it extremely short. It’s more of a full body shove that sends Anglo flying to the outside!

BOOOOOOOM

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon just BLASTED The Anglo Luchador over the ropes and out of the ring! Holy moley!

Richard Parker: I think he cleared the ring apron entirely! What an explosion!

The “good” news is that TAL doesn’t experience a full on “splat” so to speak – his lucha libre instincts do kick in and he’s able to roll through some of the impact. It is still a massive drop to the floor, and he did absolutely roll and crash into a ringside barricade, and it absolutely looks like it hurt like hell – but not like the truly awful splats you see.

In another time, Hayes might be posing for the fans, or barking at TAL, or otherwise play into “the moment” – but tonight, he steps through the ropes and marches over to his opponent. He wants to press this advantage.

He peels Anglo off the floor with ill intentions as Ashley Barlow begins her ten count.

At “two”, Anglo is thrown into the ring steps.

THONK

At “four”, Anglo is thrown into the barricade.

CRASH

And at “seven”, Anglo is thrown into the corner of the apron.

THUD

Hanlon then proceeds to roll beneath the bottom rope and roll back outside, breaking Referee Barlow’s count to a chorus of boos. Barlow shouts at Hanlon, who remains stoic and somewhat unfeeling through this rule-bending (though far from breaking) dissection on the outside.

Hayes peels Anglo up and lifts him into a Fireman’s Carry.

Nick Stuart: He may be looking for the Death Valley Driver here…

Hayes then takes a step, then another, then another up one of the remaining intact sets of stairs, reaching the apron with some effort. He then turns back towards the floor outside the ring, his back to the ropes.

Richard Parker: If he lands this, we can call this match over right now!

Hayes braces himself and gets ready to Death Valley Drive his opponent – but TAL has a hold of the top rope! He’s hanging on with an absolute vice grip! Hanlon fights to try to pull off this huge maneuver, but TAL keeps on fighting! He twists, he turns!

He locks his ankles around Hanlon’s head!

HURRICANRANA TO THE RING APRON! Hanlon’s spine slams down on the hardest part of the ring, and he is writhing!

TAL shakes out the cobwebs from being flung all over the outside of the ring and grabs Hanlon’s foot. He goes to drag him back into the ring – Hanlon grabs on to the bottom rope and resists! TAL pulls and pulls, until with a great burst of energy, Hanlon springs his legs out and shoves TAL back! He springs to his feet, the two men charge each other – and Hanlon finally BLASTS TAL with a home run swing of a lariat! Anglo is sent hard to the floor chest-first! Hanlon rolls him over and hooks the near leg!

ONE!

TWO!

THE ANGLO LUCHADOR KICKS OUT!

Hanlon punches the mat and snarls at Barlow, who confidently shows him a “two”. He doesn’t say anything, but we see a clench in his jaw and a furrowed ruffling of his mustache.

Hayes gets to his feet and reaches down to peel TAL off the mat – TAL springs to life! CRUCIFIX PIN!

ONE!

TWO!

…

HAYES GETS THE SHOULDER UP!

TAL throws a few sharp and pointed kicks to Hanlon’s mid-section and gains wrist control! He twists, reaches, and flips! LA MAGISTRAL CRADLE!

ONE!

TWO!

…

NOOOO! TWO POINT NINE!

TAL doesn’t waste any time, he knows he has his opponent in a blender! He grabs for the ankles and pulls back! The angle is VERY high! DOUBLE-LEG BOSTON CRAB!

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador is on FIRE!

Richard Parker: He’s got that thing cinched in pretty good! Hanlon just might tap here!

Barlow checks in on Hanlon, who is absolutely gritting his teeth and violently shaking his head – but he’s stuck. One of the problems with being such a large man is that it’s a challenge to de-pretzel oneself, especially when the one pretzeling you is an expert technician.

TAL torques his own body back as hard as he can, using every bit of leverage he can muster to try to maximize the impact of this hold, and soon, the strain begins to show on his face. It’s hard to wrench two tree trunks backwards when they’re also trying to break loose.

Eventually, Hanlon is able to juuuuust begin pulling himself towards the ropes. Slowly, slowly, with TAL doing everything he can to stop the momentum – but it’s not enough, and Ashley Barlow calls for the rope break. TAL obliges like the tecnico he is.

Both men fight to catch their breath as they wade further into the deep waters. TAL calls out towards Hanlon, who turns, and they lock eyes. TAL puts up his dukes. Hanlon beckons him to bring it on.

TAL’s chop connects first!

WHAP

Sharp like a snapping belt! Hayes responds in kind.

THOCK

Heavy, like a club hitting a stone wall! TAL staggers for a moment, then fires back!

WHAP

WHAP

Hanlon winces at these quicker, more piercing-style chops. He steps forward to deliver the heavy weaponry.

THOCK

THOCK

THWOCKKKK

The third chop drops TAL, who gets up quickly and goes for a double leg! Hanlon resists, grabs TAL by the waist and lifts him up! He’s going for the powerbomb! NO! TAL leapfrogs up and over!

WHAP

THOCK

Hanlon goes for the gutwrench! He lifts and pivots! Gutwrench Powerbomb connects!! He shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO!

…

ANGLO COUNTERS! SCHOOLBOY!

ONE!

TWO!

…

KICK OUT! Both men scramble to their feet!

Hayes reaches back with a closed fist and charges – TAL is a half-step quicker! He catches Hanlon’s fist! Ripcord! BIG RIGHT HAND TO HANLON’S DOME!

Hanlon staggers, then staggers some more! His eyes cross, he lifts up his hand, gives a half-harded left hook that takes his body’s momentum spinning and splatting all the way to the mat on his face! TAL seizes the opportunity, gaining left leg control, then right, then left arm, then right arm…swinging, swinging, then PULLING back!

Nick Stuart: THE ANGLO LUCHADOR HAS HAYES HANLON IN A SURFBOARD!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe the old guy’s still got the strength for this!

He does, but only for a few seconds – a few VERY impressive seconds, to be clear – before he’s forced to concede to the forces of gravity and transition the surfboard into a modified guillotine choke! Barlow once again checks Hanlon!

Nick Stuart: Is this going to finish it here? The Anglo Luchador has been dialed in on this technical game plan!

Richard Parker: It looks like it, partner!

Hayes seems to begin to fade to the choke! Barlow grabs Hanlon’s left arm and raises it aloft signaling that a full drop will equal a submission.

She lets go…

…

HANLON KEEPS THE ARM UP! MIDDLE FINGER TO THE SKY! QUAKING WITH RAGE AND POWER!

Soon the rest of his body catches up, and he full-on Hulk rages out of the submission hold! Adrenaline takes over as he bursts to his feet! TAL is a little stunned at this, but keeps his eye on the target! He goes for the chop – Hanlon blocks it!

THOCK

THOCK

He goes for the lift! It’s an absolutely MASSIVE hoist, twist, and fall!

SAMOAN DROP CONNECTS!

Hanlon pops to his feet! He looks out to the crowd, maybe for the first time all night – and the extent of his theatrics is a few cartoonishly slow “jogging steps” in the corner; the moment TAL has two feet beneath him, they get blasted away by an absolutely titanic Lariat!

Hayes puts a flat hand to the brim of his “cap”, blocking the “sun” out of his eyes as he measures how far the “home run” he just hit “went”. Gotta be out of the park.

TAL’s body is a series of welts, and he’s breathing hard, but damn it, he’s not giving up. He keeps Hanlon in the corner of his eye as he stays prone, catching his breath as best as he can, building up strength for one more Hail Mary. He knows what Hanlon wants to connect with now, and he’s got just the idea.

Hanlon peels TAL off the mat, and immediately goes for the goozle.

In a flash, TAL uses Hanlon’s arm as a base to leverage himself up and around! He gains head control!

TORNADO DDT!

…

DOESN’T CONNECT! HAYES KEEPS HIS FEET UNDER HIM, HANGING ONTO THE ANGLO LUCHADOR!

TAL’s eyes go wide as he’s now frozen, arm wrapped around Hanlon’s head, but with nowhere to really go.

Hanlon squats down a couple inches more, then BURSTS up, popping TAL high in the air! Hanlon catches him! He spins! HE SITS OUT!

TOOOOOOM

Nick Stuart: THE EEEEPOOOOOCH!

Richard Parker: Good GRAVY, I think Anglo just BOUNCED!

The adrenaline spike clearly wears off as Hanlon drops to his knees, then drops across TAL’s chest in what can only technically be described as “a cover”.

ONE!

TWO!

…

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match! “The Event Horizon!” HAAAAAAYES HAAAAANLOOOOOOOOON!!

“Daggers” blasts through the arena speakers, and while there are plenty of boos about this Mean Bastard beating their Favorite Sleepy Uncle, there are a lot of fans on their feet applauding both men for the effort. Hayes is slow to get to his feet, but he raises his own arm in victory before tumbling out through the ropes and up the ramp.

Nick Stuart: That win may be the shot in the arm Hayes Hanlon needs, partner.

Richard Parker: No doubt, and throughout that match there were a lot of moments where it looked like The Anglo Luchador had his number out there.

Barlow checks on Anglo, who seems to be doing alright – in plenty of pain, but able to support himself as he works on getting vertical again.

Nick Stuart: A hell of a contest between these two, and we still have two huge matches lined up for tonight! Stay with the ACE Network as ReVival 89 rolls on!

Backstage, the duo of Scott Hunter and Clay Byrd, the PRIME Tag Team Champions, saunter into view, eliciting a loud pop from the crowd inside the arena. Scott is in a jovial mood, riding high after his victory over Nate Colton two weeks ago. Clay Byrd is stoic and relaxed, yet somehow intense, as they head toward the sanctum.

They come to a halt as a couple of orange barrels and caution tape block their path. The camera follows their eyes up as a sign just over their heads reads “CHECKPOINT.” As they look back down, a man wearing a black t-shirt two sizes too small with a walkie-talkie on his shoulder enters the frame. He wears a cardboard box over his head and has a pair of cheap gas-station sunglasses glued over the eye holes. Klein gets a small cheer from the crowd as he grabs a flashlight and points it directly into Scott Hunter’s eyes.

Scott holds a hand up to block out the glare, then turns to Clay.

Scott Hunter: Oh no, Clay, we seem to be… boxed in.

This gets a small laugh from the crowd. Clay half rolls his eyes, but also seems a bit amused by the pun.

Klein makes a motion for them to raise their arms to be searched, but the PRIME Tag Team Champions can’t even begin to follow instructions if they wanted to before a booming voice interrupts.

The D: HELLOOOOOO gentlemen! I see you have the privilege of stumbling across our checkpoint here tonight. For good behavior, I have a treat for you.

He begins to reach into his pants, everyone immediately waves him off before he clears his throat and pulls out a microphone.

The D: I have the honor and privilege of introducing to you… royalty. She is the QUEEN of Sports Entertainment Style. She is THE Leading Lady of PRIME. She is the woman that all girls aspire to be. She is not just famous… but INTERNET famous! The star of Lake Placid VI and all accompanying sequels. Most of all, she is YOUR Silver Ticket Holder and mine… ELIIIIIIIISE ARRRRRRES!

The D’s pathetic attempt to roll his R’s makes Elise slightly cringe as she swaggers into the scene doing a full rotation showing off the PRIME Silver Ticket hanging around her neck like a VIP pass for a groupie at a concert.The D and Klein quickly applaud and she bows, acknowledging them.

Elise Ares: Thank you. Thank you. You’re all too kind. Especially you, you’re kinda cute.

She looks directly at Scott Hunter.

Elise Ares: In a… golden retriever kind of way.

Scott Hunter: I enjoy snacks if you happen to have any.

Klein immediately tries to pull a pack of fruit snacks out of his pocket and The D slaps his hand.

Elise Ares: ANYWAY. You two boys are probably totes wondering why you’ve been stopped at my checkpoint tonight. BBY-1 and BBY-2, I bring to you… one of my most cherished possessions.

The Leading Lady glances over at Klein who produces a shot sized bottle of Fireball, but The D quickly slaps it out of his hand leaving it to skip across the concrete floor. He whispers something into Klein’s box who then steps out of frame and produces an oversized pink and blue gauntlet with the letters “VV” intertwined near the entry. Two jewels protrude from the middle two knuckles as Elise grabs it and slides her hand inside. They are gems of gold and emerald green respectively.

Elise Ares: The Vae Victis Perpetuity Gauntlet.

The D: Copyrights be damned!

The Silver Ticket holder flexes in the fingers.

Elise Ares: My relationship with El-Tee, K-Cup, and… (sneers) Hank is the script that the Favoured Saints in DEFIANCE made boat loads of cash upon. Cash and a championship that should’ve been mine, mind you. Now that I’m in PRIME and obvs away from their money-grubbing and totes unfair biases, I plan on finishing what I started with you.

The Silver Ticket holder points at Clay Byrd first with the gauntlet and then at Scott Hunter.

Elise Ares: And also those tag titles look totes great on me with my complexion. Don’t you guys think?

Scott nods along as they speak. After they finish, he turns and looks up at Clay, then leans in and whispers something in his ear. Clay leans back in and whispers something in Scott’s ear. Scott nods at him and turns to Elise. He opens his mouth and for a moment says nothing, then…

Scott Hunter: No.

Elise seems taken aback. The audacity.

Scott Hunter: Oh, and I talked to Clay about it just now, and he told me you guys weren’t worth talking to, so if it’s okay with you, and so long as I still get that snack when we’re done, I’ll just handle the talking. See, I don’t know what a ‘DEFIANCE’ is, and I am willing to ignore that you are hanging out with a man who has a box on his head, but if this is your long way of challenging us for the tag team titles, I do believe we have some time at Ultraviolence to oblige you in your request, assuming I am correct in assuming that’s what you’re doing… you know… challenging us for the tag team titles.

The Queen of Sports Entertainment Style huffs and puffs.

Elise Ares: FIRST OFF, you take that back!

Scott looks back at Clay, then back at Elise.

Scott Hunter: No.

Elise Ares: RUDE! You know what… just for that I’m TOTES cashing in this Silver Ticket and we’re going to take those Tag Team Championships off of you at Ultraviolence. Then, I’m going to do a photoshoot and BBY those pictures will go viral. They’ll be EVERYWHERE. After that, I’m adding you both to the Vae Victis Perpetuity Gauntlet. Then finally…

The Leading Lady snaps her fingers with an alluring grin.

Elise Ares: I’m a Kraken away from destiny. See you later boys.

Elise and The D leave a glare at the Tag Team Champions and start marching away. Klein begins to wave before Elise and The D both grab him at the same time and pull him out of frame.

Scott calls out after them as they go.

Scott Hunter: Wait, where do we sit on those snacks!?

In the distance you can hear a woman’s voice yell “Fuck off, Scott!”

Scott frowns, then turns and looks at Clay, his shoulders slumping.

Scott Hunter: I don’t think I’m getting those snacks.

Clay rolls his eyes.

Clay Byrd: Come on.

Scott shrugs, and they exit the opposite way out of frame.

As hot as the crowd was in Arthur Ashe Stadium throughout another night of hot and exciting ReVival action, there was a bit of a cold air in the world famous Glocker Room (definitely still workshopping that)

As excited as everyone was to see their good friend FLAMBERGE being crowned the undisputed TV’s Mr. Sex, the sticky boys had been going through a lot of up and downs. Certainly the Universal Championship remained with Glue, but Daytona Diamonds had put a stop to the idea that for a second BIG PAPE in a row the championship would always remain in sticky hands. Add that with the hurt FLAMBERGE was suffering, Hanlon dealing with crude podcasters and Joe’s mixed bag of jolf bag success and it was both a great time and a terrible time to be one who sticks together.

For many of the reasons outlined above, the Universal Champion Cecilworth Farthington finds himself sitting in the Gloven alone. Although with no match to compete with, this show was more of a scouting opportunity, Farthington still found himself dressed in his work attire – teeny tiny little tights and a glove.

The glove holds his smart phone, which the champ is focusing pretty much his entire attention on, ignoring the hoorays and boorays for the Arthur Ashe crowd. There is nothing else in the world for Cecilworth Farthington than the phone he holds in his hand.

As the camera manages to pivot and position itself, it manages to sneak a sweet peak at the phone footage that has taken all of Farthington’s attention and it’s much more wholesome than any of you awful folk were imagining. It was humbly footage of his Universal Championship defence against Chandler Tsonda on the last ReVival.

Cecilworth Farthington: Crowds are so fickle these days.

Farthington continues to have his nose go closer and closer to his phone as he studies the footage, but the zen state of learning is interrupted by the booming noise through a nearby wall. The muffled noise definitely sounds like “Freebird” by Lynard Skynyrd. The Universal champion taps the wall in frustration as he continues to mutter to myself.

Cecilworth Farthington: That is the seventh time! SEVENTH! THAT’S ONE MORE THAN SIXTH!

Farthington, his complexion turning more ruby, takes a deep breath.

Cecilworth Farthington: No no, stay calm Cecilworth, stay calm. You have to focus on this footage so you may declare every person you catch booing to be a mortal enemy.

Farthington hits play on the footage once more, but the footage is drowned out not only by birds that cannot be caged, but also the muffled but very deep singing voice coming through the wall and ruining the sanctuary of the Gleditation Retreat Room in Arthur Ashe Stadium.

Farthington is considering throwing his phone against the wall to defeat the wall demons but before the destruction of his own property happens, into the room walks Hayes Hanlon, FLAMBoard, Joe Fontaine and… eurgh… fabby.

FLAMBoard holds up a birthday banner, and by “holds up” we mean “it is draped across his torso like a pageant winner.” Someone has taken the trouble to draw a sling around FLAMBoard’s cardboardy arm, complete with a sad face.

Joe digs deep into his jolf bag and pulls out a card that he hands directly to the Universal Champion. The Universal Champion looks absolutely delighted at this moment of human to human bonding.

Cecilworth Farthington: For me? You shouldn’t have.

Cecilworth states this is a tone that very much implies “you really should have”. Joe, in his bedazzled cheery and chirpy manner is the first to speaking up loudly over the thudding of a murder karaoke version of Freebird happening through the wall.

Joe Fontaine: It sings!

Cecilworth Farthington: What do you mean it sings?

An excitable Joe claps his hands.

Joe Fontaine: Open it and see!

The Universal Champion dutifully does so, seeing no reason to dishearten his sticky brethren by ignoring such a lovely gesture.

As Farthington opens the card, nothing can be heard, due to “AND THIS BIRD YOU CANNOT CHANGE” or was it CHAIN? No, definitely CHANGE. The muffled sound has become incredibly loud and obvious. Probably due to the fact a big wedding tier level of cake show up in the room, although with leaking pink and white icing outside. With the opening of the door, the 8th play through of Freebird from the unfortunately adjacent Whoresman Club Room (Whorelounge?) in karaoke form ceases to be just carrying through the brick wall but no consumes the corridor and right into the Gleg Quarters.

Farthington studies what can only be described as a leaking cake. Someone has scribbled an attempt at the number “40” in the leaky sugar mass dripping down the outside of the cake. Farthington looks to his Glue Compatriots.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh guys, you shouldn’t have. I didn’t even mention it, because I am now old and therefore you should murder me and…

Cecilworth does not manage to get all of his thoughts out because two interesting things happen at the same time.

First, the song from the walls changes to “Sweet Home Alabama” and the karaoke wailing drastically reduces.

Secondly, and perhaps much more importantly, Fred Dick of all people burst out of the very leaky cake.

Joe Fontaine flails his arms in the air like he just doesn’t care. Except he does care. He cares immensely. He manages to vaguely gesture at Fred and shout at the top of his lungs.

Joe Fontaine: I DID NOT DECORATE YOUR CAKE WITH DICK!

Fred Dick: Hey thur Jonah. Sesshul. Flama. Hampton. Let’s play a game. The game is called: Is this here cake a cake or is it a fake cake with Fred inside?

Before anyone can answer Fred’s deeply important question, there is a tremendous CRACK from the wall behind Cecilworth. Not a knock or a bang, but a crack.

The room falls silent.

Well.

As silent as a room can fall while “Free Bird” abruptly starts playing for the ninth time tonight, picking up right at that ever-loving guitar solo.

Another WHAM.

A fist-sized hole appears in the wall.

Another POW.

The hole widens and drywall dust rains on the floor.

Another CRUNCH.

Until finally the head of Daytona Diamonds pokes through the opening, cowboy hat slightly crooked, face covered in drywall dust, sledgehammer resting on one shoulder.

The Rhinestone Cowboy squints into the room.

Daytona Diamonds: Oh good. There he is. Happy birthday, Cici!

A big ol’ cowboy grin spreads across his big ol’ cowboy face.

Daytona Diamonds: Forty years old! Shitfire, son! They oughta put ya in a museum! Ha!

Daytona slowly shakes his head, offering Cecilworth a wink.

Daytona Diamonds: Or a grave, I reckon. Ha! I’m just kiddin’, I’m just kiddin’!

The opening strains as Daytona leans further through it.

Daytona Diamonds: I know it’s just ‘bout your bedtime, old man, but I figured I might as well wish ya a happy birthday, ain’t that right? Here’s hopin’ you enjoy what’s left of it. Ain’t too many left, is there? And hell, you better cuddle that belt of yours real close tonight. Give it a little kiss for me, why don’tcha? ‘Cause a couple more weeks…

Daytona grins.

Daytona Diamonds: …and, well, reckon she’s gettin’ a new daddy, ain’t she? Round two, Cici. Ain’t gonna go the way that first one did. Be seein’ ya, pardner.

Daytona disappears from the hole, gone in a puff of drywall dust and screaming guitar noise.

A second later the sledgehammer comes back through the wall.

WHAM.

The opening gets even bigger.

From the other side:

Daytona Diamonds: Sorry.

He sticks his head through one more time.

Daytona Diamonds: Guerilla warfare, dicknose.

Cecilworth turns to face Fred Dick, who is still very much standing inside of a cake, dripping in the pink and white.

Cecilworth Farthington: I think he’s talking to you. You’ve got a little something on your nose.

Fred Dick stands still, perhaps still waiting for the answer to the question of his great riddle. The little something would be mountains of cake. Cecilworth then turns and points to the hole where Daytona was and no longer is, but he sorta is because it’s a big hole but he is probably in earshot.

Cecilworth Farthington: And as for you, Mr. Muscle Man who has thrown me about with ease multiple times and caused my body much pain… it’s going to take more than a sledgehammer, property damage and a Fred Dick Cake to get this championship from me. It will also take strength, which you have, and courage, which you also have and… an element you don’t have and I’m not telling. Or maybe you do have it and I don’t want to point it out. Still. This is mine and you gotta do something about it legally!

Cecilworth holds up the Universal Title to the hole, where Daytona very much isn’t anymore. Fred and the gang are still here. Fred is dripping and not just because of his fashionable attire. It’s at this point the show goes elsewhere because the production crew felt this was a saddest birthday party ever committed to film and thought it best to move on before everyone got too depressed.

Nick Stuart: Hey, Richard.

Richard Parker: What’s up, Nick?

Nick Stuart: You know what time it is, right?

Richard Parker: Indeed I do, Nick. It is a time in which reality enfolds itself. You see, in this match, Banditry is Banned. And yet, Cancer Jiles is in this match. Besides being a piece of dog shit and a scumbag and a totally worthless asshole, he’s also a bandit. So how is he in the match? How can a bandit be in a match where banditry is not allowed?

Nick Stuart: Suppose a plumber were wrestling, and plumbing was banned. Could you understand how a plumber could wrestle?

Richard Parker: …you’re trying to cuck me somehow, I know it.

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

Vince Howard: The following Banditry is Banned Match is scheduled for one fall!

##WHEN THE LIGHTS GO DOWN…##

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

##CASHIN CHECKS FROM A HOSTILE CROWD##

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

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

##BET IT ALL ON THE GRIN##

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

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

Richard Parker: Which is exactly why he is going to destroy Cancer Jiles tonight!

The lights slowly draw to a dim.

Then.

Dark.

BOOOO~!

Richard Parker: How is this cockroach still a thing? It’s year five!

A COOL breeze makes its way throughout the arena.

Nick Stuart: It does boggle the mind, but then again, he is a cockroach.

The Crumbotron 97000 springs to life, and a montage of superkicks begins to play. Oddly, this time around, the montage features Jiles kicking eGG Bandits; so Coral and Mother Hen mostly. Sadly, for The Golden Bandit and the Queen of the Ring, it’s happened a lot. So, there’s quite a few instances of them getting their faces kicked in to remind everyone, especially the man sitting inside the ring — oh wait he’s standing — that it has happened before, and well, it’s about to happen again.

Richard Parker: I hate Jiles. I hate his stupid videos. I hate his stupid ship. I hate his stupid sunglasses. I hate his stupid eggistence.

Nick Stuart: You’re not alone, Richard.

A volley of hell-fire pyrotechnics erupts, and instantly scorches the air while also quieting the crowd. Then, the most recognizable, deplorable, despised guitar riff in the wrestling business hits like a category five heart attack. Well, that’s how Tony reacts when he hears it. See, he’s been in on the walk down to the ring before when it had played, but he’s never had the good fortune to stand inside the eye of the storm.

Yeah, it’s hitting a little differently.

At the top of the ramp, Jiles and his devoted concubine emerge. They share a kiss that makes all of New York’s skin crawl, and then Vickie disappears behind the curtain.

Nick Stuart: Well, I guess that answers that, huh Rich. No Big Ian, no Vickie Hall, and if Tony is in the ring instead of being underneath of it, well, I guess Banditry really is banned… not that it can’t still rule the day.

Richard Parker: Is Tony Gamble shaking?

Nick Stuart: Maybe it’s from the COOL breeze running down his spine?

Richard Parker: Kill yourself.

Jiles is singular in focus during his descent upon the ring. No fan can bother him. No MESSIAH scab to pick on. Not even the ref, or Dirty Dick Parker for that matter, can steal his attention. No, that is reserved for Tiny Tony.

Aka, Benny “Two Books”.

Nick Stuart: Jesus, Jiles is being absolutely relentless before the bell. He’s screaming at Gamble; this is crazy. I’ve heard him talk shit before, and I’ve even sat front row for some of his most vile quips, but this is on a whole different level…

Richard Parker: The problem is he’s right, and until somebody shuts him up again, we all have to suffer through it.

The ref quickly goes over the rules, which is extra funny considering who’s standing in the ring. Jiles then spits at Gamble’s feet, and makes an obscene hand gesture, as if to say to Tony, “Come and get me you short crumb.”

DING~!

Normally, when a match begins, we have a lock up, or a charge across the ring.

But the first thing anyone should notice about this match is not the action between the two PRIME superstars stood in the ring.

Rather, it is the pure disdain that the entire city of New York is pouring out of their mouths at Gamble and Jiles.

FUCK YOU CANCER!!!

GAMBLE SUCKS!!!

FUCK YOU CANCER!!!

GAMBLE SUCKS!!!

The two men look at each other and kinda chuckle.

Nick Stuart: It’s not often that they stand across the ring from someone as reviled as themselves.

Richard Parker: My thing is I totally get the Jiles hate, but ever since Cancer faked his retirement and Gamble joined the Red Army, I think Gamble has really turned it around. The people should give him a chance!

Finally, after soaking in the hate like a warm bath…

Gamble steps forward.

Cancer steps forward.

And the two men whose careers are inextricably linked to one another, two bandits, one current, one former, both always, lock the fuck up right in the center of the ring.

And immediately Cancer with a knee to Gamble’s nards!

Richard Parker: DISQUALIFICATION!!! ELVIS NIXON YOU BLIND BAT!!!

Nick Stuart: Say it, don’t spray it, Richard.

But in fact, Referee Elvis Nixon doesn’t see it, and Cancer immediately whips Gamble into the ropes!

Leapfrog!

Leapfrog!

Leapfrog!

Leapfrog!

Leapfrog!

How many times—

Leapfrog!

Is Cancer—

Leapfrog!

Going to—

Leapfrog!

Tony Gamble!?!

Leapfr— NO!!! GAMBLE CATCHES HIM WITH A JAWBREAKER ON THE WAY DOWN!!!

HE MAKES THE COVER!!!

ELVIS SLIDES INTO POSITION!!!

ONE!!!

GAMBLE HOOKS THE LEG, PULLS THE TIGHTS!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEE!!!

…

…

…

Nah. He kicked out. Of course he kicked out. There was never a situation where he wasn’t going to kick out.

Richard Parker disagrees.

Richard Parker: He cheated somehow!

But Gamble has quickly seized the momentum here, and he is up on his feet, drilling Cancer in the abdomen with some vicious stomps! Gamble drives the heel of his boot into Jiles’ ribs!

Once!

Twice!

Three times!

Cancer rolls away on the fourth attempt, creating enough space to pull himself underneath the bottom rope and out onto the apron.

Nick Stuart: Smart veteran move there by Jiles. Tony hadn’t totally seized control of the match, but he was on the verge!

Richard Parker: On the verge??? Tony almost pinned him!

Nick Stuart: …After a jawbreaker.

Richard Parker: …It’s a devastating maneuver!

Elvis Nixon argues with Cancer to get back in the ring. When Cancer disagreeably dilly-dallies, he immediately begins his count.

ONE!

Cancer hangs onto the top rope while rubbing at his jaw.

TWO!

Gamble casually leans against the ropes across the ring, motions for Jiles to hurry up.

THREE!

The COOLympian responds by looking at his hand like it hurts, and then giving Gamble a casual middle finger.

The crowd erupts.

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: See? That’s what I’m talking about. He’s not even wrestling. He’s just being a certified prick!

FOUR!

Cancer finally steps back through the ropes.

Gamble wastes no time.

RIGHT HAND!

RIGHT HAND!

RIGHT HAND!

Cancer gets backed into the corner and suddenly fires a thumb directly into Gamble’s eye!

Richard Parker: DISQUALIFICATION!

Nick Stuart: That’s not how disqualifications work! You don’t just yell ‘Disqualification!’ and the referee listens.

Richard Parker: It should be!

Tony stumbles backward, clutching his face.

And Cancer immediately capitalizes.

SNAP SUPLEX!

The impact rattles the ring.

Jiles pops up with a COOL grin spread across his face.

Nick Stuart: That’s the first time we’ve seen Cancer take control.

Richard Parker: Through cheating.

Nick Stuart: Through being Cancer Jiles.

Richard Parker: I hate his stinking guts.

Nick Stuart: I know, buddy… I know.

Cancer drags Gamble up by the hair.

The two exchange words. Nobody can quite hear them. Nobody wants to.

Then?

Jiles slaps him. Just hard enough to disrespect him. Tony’s grin somehow widens.

FOREARM BY GAMBLE!

Jiles stumbles.

ANOTHER FOREARM!

Jiles stumbles again.

ANOTHER FOREARM!

Jiles is rocked.

The crowd begins buzzing.

Nick Stuart: Gamble’s firing up!

Tony swings again—

TERMINAL CANCER!!!

NO! Gamble catches the leg!

Cancer hops once.

Tony twists the leg!!! DRAGON SCREW!!!

Jiles tumbles halfway across the ring, clutching at his knee.

Richard Parker: YES! BREAK HIM DOWN!

Nick Stuart: That’s actually a very smart strategy. Take away the Terminal Cancer and you take away half of Cancer’s offense.

Richard Parker: The other half is emotional damage, which we know Tony can withstand!

Gamble stays on him.

KICK TO THE THIGH!

ANOTHER!

ANOTHER!

Each one landing with a sickening pop.

Cancer tries to crawl away.

Tony follows.

Another kick. Another. Another.

Finally Jiles reaches the ropes.

Elvis steps between them.

Tony backs off.

For exactly one second.

Then, with Elvis’ eyes away from them for just that one second? Gamble stomps directly on Jiles’ knee.

The crowd roars.

Richard Parker: Veteran move!

Nick Stuart: That’s literally the thing you’ve been complaining about all match.

Richard Parker: Different circumstances.

Cancer drags himself upright using the ropes.

His face has changed now. Less smug.

The joking around has disappeared. The good will? Huh. Forget about it.

FUHGET ABOUT IT.

For the first time all match, neither man is smiling.

Neither man is talking.

The arena noise swells around them.

Thousands of people screaming pure, unadulterated hatred at both competitors.

(Maybe at Cancer a little bit more).

Yet inside the ring, there is suddenly nothing but silence.

Cancer cracks his neck.

Tony cracks his knuckles.

Then both men explode forward at the exact same moment!!!

AND COLLIDE IN THE CENTER OF THE RING WITH A DOUBLE CLOTHESLINE THAT TURNS BOTH MEN INSIDE OUT!

Both men crash to the canvas with a THWACK!

Nick Stuart: OOF!

The impact echoes throughout the arena as Cancer Jiles and Tony Gamble lie motionless beside one another.

Richard Parker: They knocked the stupid out of each other.

Nick Stuart: That’s impossible.

Richard Parker: Fair.

Elvis Nixon immediately starts the count. You get the sense that he doesn’t enjoy officiating these two.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Neither man moves.

FOUR!

Cancer rolls toward the ropes.

FIVE!

Gamble drags himself onto all fours.

SIX!

Both men rise.

SEVEN!

They turn.

See each other.

And immediately begin throwing hands.

BOO!

YAY!

BOO!

YAY!

The crowd can’t decide who they hate more.

RIGHT HAND BY GAMBLE!

RIGHT HAND BY JILES!

RIGHT HAND BY GAMBLE!

RIGHT HAND BY JILES!

Neither man gives an inch!!!

The punches become sloppier. Meaner. More personal.

Nick Stuart: Is this even a wrestling match anymore?

Richard Parker: Who cares? Technical wrestling is for nerds… kill him, Tony! KILL HIM!

Gamble lands a forearm that sends spit flying from Jiles’ mouth.

Cancer responds with a knife-edge chop.

CRACK!

Gamble winces.

Another.

CRACK!

Another.

CRACK!

GAMBLE SWINGS WILDLY!!!

And misses.

Cancer ducks underneath.

He LIFTS Gamble up!

INVERTED ATOMIC DROP!

OOOOOOOOH!

The entire building groans.

Tony’s eyes nearly leave his skull.

Nick Stuart: Oh my!

Richard Parker: I felt that in places I don’t want to discuss.

The impact launches Gamble straight upward.

Cancer catches him immediately.

KICK TO THE GUT!

DDT!!!

Now the COOLympian begins to smell blood.

Cancer pulls Gamble up to his feet, grabs him by the wrist.

WHIP TO THE CORNER!

Gamble crashes hard.

Jiles charges.

RUNNING BACK ELBOW!

Gamble slumps.

Cancer grabs him.

Pulls him out.

GERMAN SUPLEX!

A high angle.

97 degrees, maybe.

Nick Stuart: TONY GAMBLE JUST FOLDED IN HALF!!!

Cancer kips up to his feet.

Finds his camera. Mouths the words,

“BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD, EAT YOUR HEART OUT!”

Jiles points at Gamble.

Points at himself.

Then begins talking some more shit.

Nobody can hear exactly what he’s saying.

But everyone knows it’s awful.

The crowd rains hatred upon him.

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Cancer drinks it in.

Every last drop.

Then? He starts stomping.

A boot to the chest! To the shoulder! To the face!

Every strike punctuated by another insult.

Nick Stuart: Cancer has completely taken over.

Richard Parker: I hate agreeing with you, but you’re right.

The momentum has shifted entirely.

Gamble tries to stand.

TERMINAL CANCER!!!

NO!

Cancer pulls it.

Stops inches from Gamble’s face.

The crowd erupts.

Then boos even louder.

Richard Parker: He’s taunting him!

Nick Stuart: Utterly humiliating.

Cancer pats Gamble on the cheek.

Then slaps him across the face.

Hard. For the second time in the match.

Gamble fires back with a heinous right hand!

Cancer ducks!

Nick Stuart: Uh oh!

Richard Parker: No no no no—

TERMINAL CANCER!!!

Nick Stuart: IT LANDS FLUSH!!!

Cancer immediately falls into the cover!

Elvis slides into position!

Cancer counts on his hand with Elvis!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEEEEEE—

KICKOUT!!!

The arena explodes. They’ve made their decision. They’re pulling for Gamble.

Nick Stuart: HE KICKED OUT!

Richard Parker: YES!!!

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble is still alive!

For the first time all match, Cancer looks genuinely stunned.

He remains on his knees.

Blinking.

Trying to process what just happened.

The COOLympian slowly rises.

His expression changing from disbelief to annoyance.

From annoyance to rage.

The crowd senses it, smells it in the air. They buzz like angry hornets.

Cancer grabs Gamble by the hair and drags him upright.

Tony can barely stand.

His legs wobble.

His eyes are glassy.

But the grin on his face remains. That permanent reminder that you can’t make him frown.

Cancer stares at it.

Growing increasingly irritated.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Jiles likes how game Gamble has been tonight.

Richard Parker: Nobody likes Tony Gamble, Nick.

Nick Stuart: You’ve been cheering for him the whole time!

Richard Parker: Yes, but he’s losing!

Cancer grabs him by the jaw.

Says something directly into his face.

Something venomous.

Something that causes Gamble’s eyes to narrow.

Then Jiles shoves him backward.

Nick Stuart: ENZIGUIRI BY GAMBLE!!!

The arena cheers, which confuses Gamble as he climbs to his feet, with Jiles staggering backwards! Gamble charges forward!

TERMINAL CANCER!!!

BUT GAMBLE ANTICIPATED IT!!! HE ROLLS UNDERNEATH THE LEG, GRABS CANCER!!!

Richard Parker: SCHOOL BOY!!! SCHOOL BOY!!!

ELVIS NIXON SLIDES INTO FRAME!!!

ONE!!!

CANCER’S LEGS ARE FLAILING!!!

TWO!!!

TONY GAMBLE THROWS HIS FOOT ON THE MIDDLE ROPE!!!

THREEEEEEEEE!!!

Richard Parker: GAMBLE WINS!!! GAMBLE WINS!!!

Nick Stuart: IN A MATCH WHERE BANDITRY WAS BANNED, TONY GAMBLE STOLE IT!!!

Cancer can’t believe it! He’s apoplectic!

Gamble on the other hand is so excited, he didn’t even stay in the ring to get his hand raised! He dances up the entrance ramp, sending rude gestures towards the ring, excitedly celebrating his victory!

…and all Cancer Jiles can do is stand in the ring, hands on his hips, and watch.

Richard Parker: TOP 5 GREATEST NIGHT IN THE HISTORY OF PRIME, NICK!!!

We cut away.

A return from commercial. There is no music. No grand entrance. And despite what just transpired…all we have is Brandon Youngblood, dressed in his standard non-wrestling fare, seated center of the ring, microphone in hand.

The arena lights are low, a spotlight focused over top of him as he takes center stage before everything changes.

Brandon Youngblood: I came back…for this.

His head hung low, shoulders slouched.

Brandon Youngblood: I came back to PRIME after a year away because I had unfinished business here.

A pensive chuckle as he shakes his head.

Brandon Youngblood: I didn’t want the final moments of everything I’ve worked for, that I’ve bled for, that I’ve fought for…to be a passing of the torch. To be putting up the fight of my life on the biggest stage this sport has to offer just for it to not be enough. And here we are…

His gaze rises toward hardcam.

Brandon Youngblood: Rise. A new slogan. A reiteration, not a total remake and evolution. It was going to be head down, wrestle whoever is put in front of you, and put them all down until I was standing across from Cecilworth Farthington with the richest prize in all of sports on the line. Because that’s what everyone here who signed a contract to compete as a singles wrestler should want. To have the pressure on their shoulders. To have the weight of expectations and everything that comes with it. A year away. One wholHardcastle.

A bite of the lip. A bitter inhale.

Brandon Youngblood: Maybe…maybe that night in Los Angeles was it. The final hurrah. The last chance I had to put my everything together just one last time. Just one final time. The fight of my life against Coral Avalon…the main event of Colossus…the Universal Championship…

His eyes peer leftward.

Brandon Youngblood: Because as good as I feel…all that sentiment…all that ‘Rise’ bullshit…it’s been a lot of my shoulders on this canvas…one…two…three. It’s Max Kael, taking hunks of my flesh from me with his mouth. It’s Squad Goals and me not even being the last one standing for the fight. Me failing men and women I believed in. It’s standing as the line of demarcation for the next contenders…Kerry failed. But Bobby Neptune…oh his talk about this giant star running out of gas…so on the dot. So on the point.

His snarl is unmistakable.

Brandon Youngblood: I gave up going out on a sword and a shield so some fucking ‘galaxy warrior’ can plant his flag in my skull and claim as property for him to own. So the spooky man who does the newscaster bit can get through me. I didn’t come back to be less than I was. I didn’t come back to be anything short of the best.

His expression has transformed to pure glower.

Brandon Youngblood: Lindsay Troy writes the checks…but the foundation of all of this is paved with my blood and my bone. With my intensity. With my hatreds.

Eyes closed. An exhale.

Brandon Youngblood: And every step of the way…There’s one thing calling out toward me. Gnawing at me. Fighting over everyone else to get to me…

Eyes open.

Brandon Youngblood: Cancer Jiles…

Acrid, bitter taste. He hunches forward.

Brandon Youngblood: Every step of the way since I walked back into PRIME, you’ve been there. Hounding me. And some might say that I’m the reason you found your way back from Kentucky…from when you gave up your career when you lost to Chandler Tsonda on the Almasy. But you were coming back regardless. Whether it was DEFIANCE…whether it was here…you were already coming back…a man not following through and his own word…

Suddenly, he rises from his seat.

Brandon Youngblood: Every time I take the ring…you’re there. Involved. Involved every step of the way. I hate you. I hate you more than anything I’ve ever hated in this sport…but you’re the only thing that exists in these walls to remind me I’m still here…

A shaking of the head.

Brandon Youngblood: …how disgusting…

Pacing back and forth.

Brandon Youngblood: …how pathetic…

He stops mere inches from the ring ropes.

Brandon Youngblood: …it’s because you want my life. You want my career. You want my pelt. I could’ve gone out on my sword and shield with Coral…but now…I hear it…I hear the whispers…that I gave that up just so I could give you the satisfaction of ultimate victory in your hometown…in front of your people…on your show…

In the near corner, facing out toward the fans.

Brandon Youngblood: I’ve never won at UltraViolence, Jiles. Never. Not once. I’ve lost championships there. I’ve suffered some of the most humiliating moments of my career there. And it’s going to be down to me and you…and if I win…I get your hair. But if you win…

A pause.

Brandon Youngblood: …Brandon Youngblood…

A disgusted swallow.

Brandon Youngblood: …eGG Bandit?

His shoulders tense.

Brandon Youngblood: It won’t just be like I was never here…

And then…release.

Brandon Youngblood: …it’ll be that everything I was was just a trinket for you to dangle. Just another shiny gimmick to throw in the pile with all the rest. With all the other accolades you have. With all the other careers you’ve crushed underneath your salted boot.

Eyes peering to the nosebleeds, taking this perhaps final ReVival in.

Brandon Youngblood: My life’s work…

His finger stabs towards the hard camera.

Brandon Youngblood: …I put it up on the line against you at UltraViolence. It’s everything you could’ve ever wanted…a plan put to perfect motion…

Suddenly…a smirk.

Brandon Youngblood: I know you’re back there…Lindsay. And after everything…all the signs pointing in his direction…I want you out here…I need you out here to make my one request for all of this.

The anticipation for the Queen’s arrival is palpable. Eager cheers and whistles fill Arthur Ashe Stadium, reaching a crescendo before the ominous strings of “Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks creep through the PA.

The Queen strolls easily through the curtain and onto the stage, her Ivan Stanislav pelt on full display. She makes her way down the ramp and into the ring, keeping her eyes on Youngblood as she’s handed a microphone.

Lindsay Troy: (smirking) Way to keep everyone in suspense for two extra weeks.

His smirk seems to match hers.

Brandon Youngblood: Got to keep them staying tuned. Which is all good. And I think you know what I’m going to ask.

A peer left, then right, and then, right to The Queen.

Brandon Youngblood: You know what’s at stake. You know there’s only one person I can trust to call this fight the way it needs to be called. And you know there’s only one person he would accept. He thinks you’re the queen of his carton. No matter what happens. No matter what you say…

Suddenly, his face grows stern.

Brandon Youngblood: Youngblood. Jiles. In his pit at the 2300 Arena. And you…I want you to be the referee.

The PRIME Faithful erupt at the request. The Queen raises an eyebrow.

Lindsay Troy: You want me to referee the biggest match of both your careers?

She chuckles, then grins.

Lindsay Troy: You got it.

RAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

A solemn nod from The Diamond.

Brandon Youngblood: Whatever happens…see you on the other side.

Then, his eyes beam.

Brandon Youngblood: And consider the debt from Immortals and Henry Keyes and The Fist to be paid in full.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH

Was she…

Did she…

Was she the one behind that fateful night, costing Jiles the Fist of DEFIANCE? Maybe.

Maybe.

Looks like things got a little more interesting…hmmm?

Stay tuned.

We go elsewhere.

Backstage.

The Red Army locker room.

Soviet flag against the wall. PRIME Intense Championship on a reinforced table beneath it, positioned with the care of a military decoration.

Speedy Riggs, clad in his red and gold, Soviet themed tropical shirt, stands nearby. This shirt has palm trees, red stars, and tiny hammers and sickles hidden amongst pink flamingos. And boy, is he proud of it.

Standing beside him. No. Towering beside him, with the Intense Championship resting to the other side of him, is The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav.

He’s in his scarlet uniform, medals gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. The only thing bigger than the Intense Champion is his smile, in a mood that should worry anyone who knows him well. Ivan Stanislav only grins when wicked things are afoot. It has a certain weight to it. It fills the room, pushes against the walls and leaves very little space for doubt..

To the side, on one small monitor, is the swirling graphic for those waiting for the upcoming match.

BRYAN DAWKINS vs. CHANDLER TSONDA

Ivan looks over his shoulder at the monitor and he laughs.

No, not a chuckle. Certainly not a snort.

He laughs the full, bellowing laugh that makes both championships and enemies tremble.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

Speedy barely is able to stick a finger in his ear to save his hearing.

Ivan Stanislav: Look at this, Speedy! Look at what PRIME calls “Main Event.”

Speedy glances at the monitor.

Speedy Riggs: I mean, comrade, yes, technically it is the main event.

Ivan slowly turns his head towards one of the O.G. Red Army members. Speedy clears his throat.

Speedy Riggs: But still… still very questionable! Deeply questionable! Ideologically and entertainment-ally… questionable. Maybe? Probably. Yes!

Ivan grunts with satisfaction.

Ivan Stanislav: Exactly! Precisely! Emotionally bankrupt! Morally hollow! Competitively embarrassing!

He gestures towards the screen with one plate-sized hand.

Ivan Stanislav: Bryan Dawkins. Chandler Tsonda. Two monuments to everything diseased in PRIME. One man clings to relevance with fingernails and desperation. Other dances through life wearing false charm and expensive teeth.

Speedy thinks for a moment.

Speedy Riggs: Uh… which is which?

Ivan claps his hands together with a BANG!

Ivan Stanislav: That is problem! One cannot know! You know, Bryan Dawkins, with that bloody shiv in his hand, stabbed Tsonda in back and now they are friends? And this match, this “match” of theirs is what, supposed to be some gentleman’s game? I know a thing or two about testicles, and these two have lost theirs.

Speedy blinks his eyes. He’s not really sure how to follow up on this. Ivan sighs.

Ivan Stanislav: But there they are. Main Event. Great attraction. Spectacle. Lindsay Troy must be very proud. PRIME, once again, sells people polished garbage and calls it gold.

Ivan slaps his hand against his chest.

Ivan Stanislav: But this is where truth resides.

For all Ivan’s bombast, the slap has meaning. He might be laughing, but he believes what he says. He always does. That’s what’s most terrifying.

The man’s singular, ironclad belief in himself and his course.

Ivan Stanislav: At UltraViolence, Dawkins enters ring with me. And if I lose?

He shrugs a terrifyingly nonchalant shrug.

Ivan Stanislav: I lose nothing.

Then, his smile widens after a moment.

Ivan Stanislav: But if he loses? Finished. Retired. Gone. No more pineapples. They are left to rot. No more words not found in dictionaries. No more pretending to be important.

Speedy clears his throat.

Speedy Riggs: True, but isn’t that concerning, Starshy Praporshchik? I mean, the man with everything to lose can be dangerous.

Ivan’s smile sharpens.

Ivan Stanislav: No, Speedy. That is romantic nonsense. Men with everything to lose are dangerous only when they have power. Dawkins has fear and old injuries. He has battered knees and shaking hands. He has a career that PRIME is kind enough to let me bury.

Ivan waves his hand.

Ivan Stanislav: You will hear this, eventually, Bryan Dawkins. I am sure you are preparing for Tsonda right now. But later, when you hear this, know that your desperation has cost you everything. Have your little friend versus friend match tonight. Have what Lindsay Troy gave you. What do they call it in basketball? Have a slam dunk.

Speedy rubs his neck. He mumbles.

Speedy Riggs: ….layup…

Ivan doesn’t miss a beat.

Ivan Stanislav: Have a layup!!! But Lindsay Troy? Chandler Tsonda? All those idiots and fools who believe your pathetic apology? They cannot save you from what happens at UltraViolence!

Ivan wrings his hands together.

Ivan Stanislav: I am the man with nothing to lose. I am the man with the power. And I am the man who will slam door on your sorry, pathetic career once and for all.

The camera zooms in closer on Ivan’s grinning face.

Ivan Stanislav: And it will cost me nothing. DYAAHAAHAA!!

Speedy is too slow this time. He winces while his eardrums cry.

Speedy Riggs: Well there’s…

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!! Da svidanya, bruh! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Speedy says something, but his words are completely drowned out as we go elsewhere.

The penultimate show before Ultraviolence 2026 is drawing to a close, so why do we find ourselves outside on the loading dock of Arthur Ashe Stadium?

Especially when there are no forklifts, massive Russian tanks, or … Russian bears named Ivan Stanislav, for that matter?

Well, it’s because a very eager, young member of the PRIME roster has a large, special package in his hands and he’s on his knees, ready for what comes next.

No, not like that. Get your head out of the gutter.

Daihm “The Dragon” Ferguson is alone with a cardboard box the size of his entire body, which he sets down before removing a box cutter. He begins to run it along the top of the cardboard container until

Bobby Neptune: Excuse me, sir.

Daihm Ferguson: Christ on a bike!

Bobby Neptune: Apologies! I did not intend to frighten you! Did I wreck your package?

Daihm looks down at his pants and then to the cardboard box. He pulls the pieces of cardboard apart slowly, his shoulders sagging as he lets out a relieved sigh before pulling out a bright blue, sequined one-piece suit with rainbow colored flames running up and down the length of the arms and legs.

Daihm Ferguson: She’s safe! Oh thank th’ Lord. No harm done.

Daihm holds up the outfit against his body and turns to Bobby Neptune.

Daihm Ferguson: Aye or Nah?

Bobby Neptune: Ahhyyeee!

The ostentatious color surprises the starboy. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the costume. Once he takes it in, he nods in appreciation.

Bobby Neptune: It certainly makes an impression… like the solar winds that create light in Earth’s northern skies. Is that what you were going for?

Daihm looks down at the gear and then scrunches his face.

Daihm Ferguson: I think I just like rainbows.

With a non-chalant motion, Daihm expertly folds the gear back into place and nestles it into the cardboard box, like a momma bird would handle a fragile egg.

Daihm Ferguson: I hope I get to wear it again soon. It’s been almost three years.

Bobby Neptune: Well it’s quite the statement to return with.

Bobby extends his hand.

Bobby Neptune: I’m Bobby by the way. Are you one of my possible future opponents?

Daihm smiles and returns the gesture.

Daihm Ferguson: Well, I am learning lately that time seems to be a bit more complicated than just keeping track of whether you’re in A.M. or P.M. and what time zone you’re in. Are you familiar with Anna Daniels? She’s a Time Lord, which sounds pretty cool but she’s also been pretty mean about it. Are you a Time Lord too, Bobby? Oh. Nevermind. You would probably already know if I’d be a future opponent if you were, huh?

Daihm takes in a big breath, having just said every word of that sequence in one go.

Bobby Neptune: I’ve actually never met a Time Lord! Everyone treats me like I’m so strange ‘cause I’ve lived in space, but they’re on the roster with an alien! I figured they’d be used to the space stuff, but guess not. Anyways, I’m an Earthling just like you. And I just happen to be looking for Blaze Claymore. Do you know where I could find him?

Daihm’s eyes grow wide as he smiles.

Daihm Ferguson: Brilliant! He’ll be glad to hear that. Maybe the more we can learn about space it’ll help us understand more about time too. That could be what Blaze needs to make Anna stop acting like a Time Lord and more of a Time Knight, or even a Time Steward. Some more space.

The Dragon pauses a beat, as if something is churning away in his brain, but nope. It’s gone.

Daihm Ferguson (resigned): But he’s already left for the night; got real antsy after he and Anna’s kerfuffle earlier. Something he needed to take care of he said. Didn’t even stick around to watch her match against Sebastian Cross. I’d say it’s odd, but he does seem to Cheshire Cat in and out of situations quite often.

Bobby Neptune: Damn. Well maybe you can help, then! I’m looking for a tag partner for the Milo Flynn Cup. I was gonna ask Blaze but the universe doesn’t seem to think that’s a good idea and…wait. Did you say you want to hear about space???

A giant smile forms on his face.

Bobby Neptune: How much time do you have???

Daihm drapes his gear over his arm and shrugs innocently.

Daihm Ferguson: Like I said, time seems a lot more complicated than I thought.

Bobby’s expression falters for a second.

Daihm Ferguson (grinning): So, I’ve got as much time as you need!

Bobby regains his smile.

Bobby Neptune: Now, have you ever been to The Hayden Planetarium?

We fade out on the two men (mostly Bobby) talking about the stars.

The arena lights drop to black, then erupt in a pyrotechnic wash of orange and teal, white sparks thrown in among them.

Nick Stuart: And the next competitor needs no introduction to the PRIME faithful.

WOO HOO!

“Song 2” by Blur detonates through the PA. Out steps Bryan Dawkins, white sunglasses across his face, the lenses tinted orange and teal, a smirk already set for the crowd.

WOO HOO!

Richard Parker: The Bruh. Carries himself like a man with nothing left to prove.

Nick Stuart: He makes his way down slowly, stopping to fist-bump a young fan at ringside, and there it is, he is handing over a pair of his sunglasses. The kid is over the moon, Richard.

Richard Parker: Buying goodwill one set of shades at a time. Smart man.

Dawkins slides into the ring and hops to the near turnbuckle, both fists raised, then flashes the Shaka to the crowd. He repeats it on each corner, working all four sides of the building before dropping down and settling into a fight-ready stance.

Nick Stuart: Three more times around, every corner of the PRIME universe gets a look at The Bruh.

The intro fades into the acoustic open of “Welcome Home” by Coheed and Cambria. Twelve seconds in, the guitars thunder, and gold and green pyro fires in perfect time with the riff.

Nick Stuart: A Hall of Famer. The Almasy Invitational winner. The PRIMEview says it all.

The PRIMEview displays the words Model Citizen in white over black. Chandler Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain, a smirk painted across his face, and soaks up the reaction at the top of the ramp.

Richard Parker: The Sultan of Style. The Viet Viper. The man has more nicknames than you have brain cells, Nick, and he has earned every one of them.

Nick Stuart: Through the smoke and the green and gold, Tsonda sprints to the ring, slides under the bottom rope, and acknowledges his opponent.

Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something inaudible to everyone but himself.

Richard Parker: What is he saying?

Nick Stuart: I do not think we are meant to know.

Nick Stuart: We have been building to this all week, and I am still not sure either man wants to be standing here for the reason that brought them.

Richard Parker: Let me lay it out for the folks who have been living under a rock, Nick. Bryan Dawkins challenged Chandler Tsonda to a match at UltraViolence with a stipulation that nobody has agreed to make public yet. Tsonda did not want it. So Dawkins did the only thing that gets a man like Chandler to listen.

Nick Stuart: He made it personal.

Richard Parker: He made it unavoidable. Win here tonight, and the word is Tsonda walks away from the stip for good. That is the deal. And look at the man, Nick. He is not himself.

Nick Stuart: There is a seat at ringside nobody has filled. White towel folded across it. We have seen that before, Richard.

Richard Parker: ReVival one eighty-four. I know exactly what that towel means, and so does Chandler Tsonda. He has not taken his eyes off it.

DING DING

Tsonda does not circle. He comes straight off the line with a flurry, palm to the chest, palm to the chest, a third that cracks like a gunshot, and Dawkins is already against the ropes before the crowd has finished standing. There is none of the bounce in Tsonda tonight, none of the swagger he wore down the ramp. He is throwing to hurt.

Nick Stuart: Chandler is not feeling his way into this one at all.

Richard Parker: Because he cannot afford to. The longer this goes, the worse it is for him, and he knows it.

Dawkins eats the third chop and finally answers back. He shoves Tsonda back to the centre and drops his level, a single leg that quickly becomes a double, and Tsonda is on his back, the impact ringing in his chest. Dawkins lands in half guard and grinds a forearm across the jaw, no flourish, just weight and intent. The crowd murmurs at how fast the eager man got there.

Nick Stuart: And there is the wrestling. Dawkins took him down clean.

Richard Parker: Head first into it, too. The student wants the teacher to know he came to fight.

Tsonda frames and bridges, wrings the arm free, and scrambles back to the corner. He is breathing through his teeth already. When Dawkins comes in after him, Tsonda catches him with a boot to the gut, then snaps off a spinning back kick that drops him and buys a yard of space. He takes the breath he needs and comes off the ropes after Dawkins before the bigger man can reset.

Tsonda whips Dawkins across and drops his head for a back body drop, but Dawkins sees it coming and plants a boot in the chest.Tsonda remains doubled over, as Dawkins shoots off into the ropes, and Tsonda catches him on the return with a beautiful drop toehold. Dawkins eats the canvas, grasps his face and crawls towards the bottom rope. Tsonda is already up, already measuring.

THWACK

A running boot to the spine drives Dawkins chest-first into the mat. Tsonda grabs a wrist, wrenches, and stamps the shoulder twice. There is a method underneath the temper, and the method is the arm.

Nick Stuart: Smart from Tsonda, going after that surgically repaired shoulder.

Richard Parker: Surgically repaired, sure. I would say frantically attacked. He is not setting a table here, Nick, he is flipping it.

Tsonda pulls Dawkins to his feet by the wrist and snaps him over with an arm drag that keeps hold of the limb on the landing, transitioning straight into a short armbar in the middle of the ring. He spins out and drives a knee into the elbow joint. Dawkins grimaces, reaches for the rope with his free hand, and Tsonda hauls him back to the centre by the captured arm.

LETS GO DAWKINS! LETS GO TSONDA!

Dawkins awkwardly rolls toward Tsonda, not away, closing the angle on the hold, and surprising Tsonda with a clubbing forearm to the side of the head. The grip loosens. A second forearm. A third. Tsonda lets the arm go to cover up, and Dawkins is finally at his full height, dragging the old man up with him.

He does not let the shoulder slow him. Dawkins fires Tsonda into the ropes and meets him with a belly-to-belly on the rebound, all hips and follow-through, the kind that lands flush and folds a man. Tsonda hits and rolls to his side, hand going straight to the small of his back.

Nick Stuart: Right on the back. And we know that is the chapter and verse on Chandler Tsonda. A career of those, and they all come due eventually.

Richard Parker: Dawkins knows that book better than anybody. He read it for years sitting in Tsonda’s corner.

That is the thing nobody in the building can ignore. Dawkins does not celebrate the suplex. He stands over Tsonda for a half-second too long, and something passes across his face that is not quite triumph, before he pulls Tsonda up by the hair and drives a knee into the spine to bury the thought deep down where it belongs right now.

Another knee. A third. Dawkins rushes Tsonda into the ropes, chest first, and connects with a viciously snapping Saito suplex. He maintains his grip, barely, floats over without releasing and pulls him up into a second. Tsonda’s legs are loose now. Dawkins goes for a third in the sequence and Tsonda blocks, hooks a leg, and counters with a desperate inside cradle out of nowhere.

ONE

TWO

Kickout.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda almost stole it right there off pure instinct!

Richard Parker: That is the veteran. He cannot out-wrestle Dawkins on the mat tonight, so he is going to try to end it before Dawkins can build.

Both men slowly rise, almost in perfect unison. Tsonda, a tiny bit sharper, ducks an attempted clothesline and answers with a savate kick that whips Dawkins’s head around, following up with a vicious roundhouse to the back of the leg, then a third kick that scythes across the chest. The kicks are where Tsonda lives, and for a moment the swagger flickers back. He winds the crowd with a hand, sprints the ropes.

CRACK

Dawkins steps inside, his otherworldly instincts kicking in, and catches Tsonda flush on the jaw with a short forearm, a collision that drops them both. The eager man scrambles up first, this time a fraction ahead of the rebounding Tsonda. He lands a body shot to the ribs, hooks Tsonda for a twisting neckbreaker and plants him, then rolls through and hauls him up again, refusing to give him a second to breathe.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is wrestling like a man with something to prove.

Richard Parker: He is wrestling like a man who needs his old mentor to look at him and see an equal. There is a difference, and it is all over this match.

Dawkins maintains the front facelock and lifts Tsonda for a vertical suplex. He holds him up there, blood running to the head, before dropping him on the small of the back across a raised knee. Tsonda arches and cries out, and Dawkins keeps the pressure, bending him backward over the knee with a hand under the chin. It is mean. It is the most heel thing Dawkins has done all night, and the crowd shifts uneasily at the sight of it.

Richard Parker: Now THAT is what I have been waiting for. He has got the back bent like a longbow.

Nick Stuart: I do not love seeing this from Dawkins, I will be honest.

Tsonda claws at the hand under his chin and rakes his nails across Dawkins’s forearm until the hold breaks. He rolls free, gets a knee under himself, and Dawkins charges. Tsonda drops and pulls the top rope, and Dawkins sails over it and crashes to the floor, one arm hooking the apron on the way down.

The seat with the towel is right there. Tsonda, on his knees in the ring, looks at it. Not at Dawkins on the floor. At the seat. The breath goes out of him for a moment, and then he shakes his head, hard, like a man clearing water from his ears.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda saw that empty chair again. It is getting to him.

Richard Parker: Everything is getting to him tonight, Nick. That is what makes this dangerous. A frazzled Chandler Tsonda is a Chandler Tsonda who does something he regrets.

Tsonda rolls out to the floor after him and pulls Dawkins up. He momentarily glances at the ringsteps, that split second of contemplation washing over his face, before he rolls him back into the ring. He springs up to the top rope, surveys Dawkins position, and the crowd rises with him, because they know what the high ground means for a man with a spine like his.

He leaps for a guillotine leg drop. Dawkins rolls. Tsonda lands tailbone-first on the canvas and stays there, mouth open, no sound coming out, the back seizing on him at the worst possible second.

Nick Stuart: He missed, and he came down right on the base of the spine!

Richard Parker: I told you. That high-risk stuff is a coin flip for him, and the longer this goes the worse the odds get.

Dawkins drags himself up by the ropes and sees Tsonda down and grimacing. He pulls Tsonda up and hooks him for the brainbuster. He gets Tsonda vertical.

Tsonda kicks, twists, slips behind on the way down, and shoves Dawkins into the ropes. Dawkins rebounds, ducks his head, and Tsonda catches him on the jaw with a leaping enzuigiri that turns him inside out. (Both men hit the mat.)

THIS IS AWESOME!

Slowly, both men climb. Tsonda gets there first by a breath. He kicks Dawkins in the gut, doubles him, and hooks him for the Runway Vault. Dawkins shoves him off mid-motion and Tsonda’s back betrays him, the legs not quite under him.

Dawkins comes off the ropes and levels Tsonda with gutwrench suplex. He drags Tsonda to the centre of the ring and floats into a half crab, sitting back on the damaged spine. Tsonda howls.

Nick Stuart: And there it is, Dawkins targeting the back with that half crab, sitting deep on it!

Richard Parker: This is where it could end. Tsonda has nothing left in that back to give.

Tsonda drags himself toward the ropes by the elbows, inch by inch, the crowd pulling with him. Dawkins sits deeper. Tsonda’s hand stretches, fingertips short, and he claws the canvas and pulls and gets a knuckle on the bottom rope. Then a hand. Dawkins holds the crab a beat past the break before he lets go, and the official is in his face about it.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins held that a little long.

Richard Parker: Pushing the envelope. He wants Tsonda to feel how serious he is. Message received, I would say.

Dawkins pulls Tsonda off the ropes by the ankle, back to the centre. He goes for the half crab again, the kill shot, and Tsonda rolls through it, shoving Dawkins off into the corner, hitting the turnbuckles chest-first. Tsonda staggers to his feet as an angered Dawkins charges out of the corner and runs straight into a savate kick to the jaw that he never saw.

THWAP

Tsonda is running on the crowd and nothing else now. Forearm. Forearm. A spinning back kick to the midsection that folds Dawkins, then a snap DDT that spikes him. Tsonda covers, more on adrenaline than strategy, and hooks the leg.

ONE

TWO

Dawkins gets the shoulder up.

Tsonda does not argue the count. He pulls Dawkins up, kicks him in the gut, and goes for the Runway Vault a second time. This time he gets it, the forward somersault driving the jawbreaker home, and Dawkins crumples backward into the corner and slumps against the bottom buckle.

Nick Stuart: Runway Vault connects! And Dawkins is down in the corner!

Richard Parker: Tsonda is looking up top. He knows the Model Citizen ends it!

Tsonda climbs. It is not the showman’s climb. Every rung costs him, and the building can see it in real-time. He reaches the top and steadies, and his eyes go, for the third time tonight, to the empty seat and the white towel folded on it. He stops.

He looks at Dawkins, slumped and breathing hard in the corner. He looks at the towel. The crowd has gone quiet enough to hear the lights hum. Tsonda’s jaw works like he is arguing with somebody who is not there.

Nick Stuart: He is hesitating. Why is he hesitating?

Richard Parker: Because he does not want to do this. Look at him, Nick. This is not a man going in for the kill. This is a man saying goodbye.

Dawkins sees Tsonda up top, frozen, and he does not put his guard up. He spreads his arms instead. He says something the hard camera catches but the mics do not, and the words are easy enough to read off his mouth. Do it. Prove it.

Tsonda’s mouth moves. The camera at the corner gets it clean.

Lo siento, amigo.

He leaps. The high-arc moonsault hangs at the top of its rise the way it always has, the one thing the back never took from him, and he comes down, he lands clean and complete.

THUD

Nick Stuart: THE MODEL CITIZEN!

Tsonda turns Dawkins over. He does not hook the leg with any joy. He lies across the chest and the official drops.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

RAAAAAHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda has done it. He has beaten Bryan Dawkins. But I am not sure I have ever seen a man look less happy about a win.

Richard Parker: Because of what it means, Nick. The stip is off. Dawkins gave his word. Tsonda won the right to walk away from UltraViolence, and it cost him this.

Both men are still down after the war between them, and…

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins and Chandler Tsonda just put on a masterclass of professional wrestling to close out the road to UltraViolence! For those of us with fond memories of the Three Amigos, I’ll admit the match was a little hard to watch.

Richard Parker: You’re telling me…felt like I spent the last half hour fighting off a half bottle of Ambien.

(Editor’s note: that one’s for you, EmoChris…wherever you are, you beautiful bastard.)

Nick Stuart: Oh come on, Richard. You’re telling me that watching that match didn’t make it feel like we were sitting ringside for a ReVolution era show back when Tsonda was the reigning Universal Champion and Dawkins was the young upstart?

Richard Parker: I’ve done almost everything to forget that part of my life, Nick. You know that.

After a clash that would make the ReVolution era versions of themselves proud, the Model Citizen and former Flyin’ Hawaiian find themselves in various forms of disrepair. A myriad of bumps and bruises have been earned by both men and what looks like a busted lip for the most photogenic man in PRIME (boy, Dawkins is gonna pay for that one, I’d bet) has left Tsonda likely thinking about a date with his favorite plastic surgeon in the near future.

Richard Parker: You see that, Nick? Dawkins sucker punched him in the mouth at some point in the match – I bet he won’t even apologize for it! What a scumbag.

Nick Stuart: You do know we’re not calling professional pillow fighting, right?

Richard Parker: Man, if only…that would’ve been a thousand times better than what I just had to sit through.

But for now? The mentor and mentee find themselves recovered just enough to return to the middle of the ring. Ashley Barlow finds herself tentatively stationed off to the side of the two Amigos, ready to jump in the middle if round two of this fracas decides to break out.

For a few moments that feel more like hours, the two ReVolution vets stand toe to toe, neither of them opting to be the first to blink. Their lips are moving, but only the most skilled of lip readers are able to decipher the conversation. Dawkins motions to ringside, where a microphone is procured for him. He makes his way back to the middle of the ring, where Tsonda awaits.

Bryan Dawkins: –

BOOM!!

Pyro erupts from the entryway as the crowd’s attention is torn from Dawkins and Tsonda.

Ivan Stanislav, still clad in his crimson uniform, emerges from backstage. He’s not rushing, but he’s not walking either. It’s the perfect kind of quick march a military man would know. His medals swing and glitter in the light as he approaches the ring. He jaws at Dawkins and Tsonda, in Russian, as he nears.

Richard Parker: I completely agree with everything Ivan is saying!

Nick Stuart: You don’t even speak Russian!

Richard Parker: I subscribed to Rosetta Stone just yesterday, I’ll have you know, and I’m basically fluent!

Nick Stuart: Yesterday?!

Richard Parker: Anger is universal! And Ivan looks angry!

Stanislav steps up onto the apron and glides over the top rope. Visually, Tsonda and Dawkins outnumber him, yet with Ivan tilting the weight of the ring in his direction, it feels less certain.

Stanislav pushes forward and shoves past Tsonda, getting in the face of the beleaguered Dawkins. He shoves his finger in his face and tilts his head to the side, just a little of what he has to say being picked up by the cameras.

Ivan Stanislav: …over… now… turn… end… career… son… bitch!

BOOM!!

Another pyro burst explodes from the stage, before the ominous strings of “Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks wail through the speakers. The Boss strides through the curtain to a massive ovation and storms down the ramp toward the powderkeg in the ring.

Richard Parker: Ugh, every party needs a pooper.

Nick Stuart: Watch it, Richard…

The Queen slides between the ropes and is tossed a microphone. Before her music even fades off, Ivan’s pointing at her, barking something that sounds like bullets and sneering at the Ivan Pelt over her shoulders. Then, his finger swings toward Tsonda, with words that keep coming fast and furious, but no one can catch them clearly beyond the three in front of him. The Russian Bear turns his attention back to Troy, who’s ready for him.

Lindsay Troy: Get that finger out of my face if you want to keep it.

RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Lindsay Troy: All three of you have had an awful lot to say to and about one another over the past some-odd weeks, and I’m getting real tired of hearing it. So here’s how it’s gonna go.

She looks at Dawkins.

Lindsay Troy: I can’t stop you from doing this insanely stupid thing you’ve set your mind on doing, and I already know that you–

She whirls to Ivan.

Lindsay Troy: –are gonna try some fuck shit at UltraViolence, as is your way. Since I will be otherwise occupied with keeping some semblance of law and order during Pizmo’s match with Brandon, someone else will have to make sure that this match between you actually stays on the level. And considering the stakes?

The Queen then casts her gaze toward the Model Citizen.

Lindsay Troy: I think it better be you.

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Lindsay Troy: And it better be on the level, Chandler, because I don’t want to see Ivan in my office afterwards or listen to his big fat mouth bitching about a cOnSpiRaCy.

Tsonda says something that isn’t picked up by the microphones at ringside but whatever it is, it seems to satisfy Troy, at least for the moment. He flashes a smile and turns to Dawkins, who lets out a small chuckle at the announcement before backing away from Chandler whilst slowly shaking his head.

Ivan narrows his eyes and stares, hard, at LT. His face, for a moment, almost turns as red as his uniform. He slowly turns toward Dawkins. For a moment, Ivan’s repressed fury threatens to swallow the entire ring, until it changes from pure rage to something worse.

Not calm, exactly.

A crooked, ugly smile pulls across his face. The battlefield has shifted, but Ivan might just be imagining the extra bodies he can leave in it.

Dawkins hasn’t flinched, eyes locked on the Russian Bear, while Tsonda forms a makeshift barrier between the UltraViolence opponents before Enemigos of all numbers materialize out of nowhere to create a…well…somewhat more formidable barrier between the two parties.

Richard Parker: This is a TRAVESTY! An absolute INJUSTICE if I’ve ever seen one!

Nick Stuart: You do know that the woman who just carried out said injustice is the one who signs your checks, right?

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: That’s what I thought. Lindsay Troy just evened the playing field, although after what we just witnessed in the Main Event, I’m not so sure that Dawkins wanted the help!

Richard Parker: Lord knows he’s gonna need it…

Nick Stuart: That’s about all the time we have this evening! We’ll see you at Ultra Violence!

Back in the ring, a dozen Enemigos are trying valiantly to hold the Russian Bear back from Dawkins and Tsonda and are struggling mightily as Arthur Ashe buzzes following the announcement. The two remaining members of the Three Amigos are having a staredown of their own with Dawkins still chuckling to himself in disbelief as we

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.