ULTRAVIOLENCE 2026 NIGHT TWO

Morning arrives without ceremony.

Pale light washes across Philadelphia’s jagged skyline. The sun feels distant, indifferent to what it illuminates. Above the rooftops, smoke still hangs in the air, the stubborn remnants of fires that have already choked themselves to death. Ash cakes the gutters, buried under a carpet of dead leaves.

The first raspy notes of Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem” drift from a radio somewhere in the debris.

“The birds they sang… at the break of day…” 

A sparrow drops onto the blood-crusted top rope of a wrestling ring. The ring stands entirely alone, square in the center of an empty intersection. No footprints disturb the thick dust blanketing the canvas, but the stains of old wars are still deeply dyed into the fabric. The bird tilts its head, twitches, and flies off into the gray sky.

“Start again, I heard them say…”

Steve Lemieux shoves open the door to a hollowed out diner. The little brass bell above the frame gives one rusted chime before falling silent. Inside, cracked coffee cups sit frozen on the counter where hurried hands abandoned them. Menus curl like dead skin beneath salt shakers. In the corner, a jukebox draws its final gasps of power, humming a slow, mechanical drone.

Beneath a cracked glass dome, a single hamburger sits frozen in time as if it was only grilled yesterday.

The bell chimes again. Lemieux doesn’t glance back immediately, but his shoulders tense as Big Ian Salt steps into the diner. Ian says nothing. Steve’s eyes track from the stranger to the burger under its glass. He slowly rests his hand on the counter, knuckles tightening. Ian just watches him, his jaw set.

“Don’t dwell on what has passed away… or what is yet to be…”

Anna Daniels walks the center aisle of a cathedral that has surrendered its roof to the elements. Rainwater puddles on eroded stone where stained glass used to paint saints in brilliant colors. The pews are still aligned, buried beneath a heavy blanket of gray soot, looking like a congregation that vanished mid-prayer.

Blaze Claymore waits at the altar, dwarfed by a massive, splintered wooden cross. The candles in their holders have long since melted into shapeless blocks of blackened max. When Anna reaches the steps, they stand separated by a narrow strip of cracked marble. No words. Anna searches his face, looking for doubt or maybe even mercy. She finds neither. Blaze only stares back, his expression as cold as the stone beneath them.

“Ah, the wars, they will be fought again…”

The great hall of the Liberty Bell is a graveyard of smashed shipping pallets and dried blood. The old bell remains on its pedestal, defined by the fracture that made it immortal. Rob Williams leans hard against the concrete wall, blood bandages seeping through his shirt as he draws a deep drag from his last cigarette. The Five Star Championship hangs heavy over his shoulder. He stares at the crack in the ancient bronze, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the jagged edge of his own title’s faceplate.

Heavy boots echo on the floor. Henry Keyes steps out from the shadows of the opposite corridor. He doesn’t look at the bell. His eyes are locked onto the gold on Rob’s shoulder. Rob stubs out the cigarette under his boot, pushed off the wall, and spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“The holy dove, she will be caught again…”

The stage inside the Miller Theater is dead silent. Ragged strips of velvet curtain rot where they once framed orchestras and operas. Rows of empty seats face the stage. The Anglo Luchador stands dead center under the proscenium arch, illuminated by a single, buzzing spotlight.

A slow, mocking applause echoes from the pitch-black back of the house. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Tony Gamble steps into the aisle, the soles of his boots crunching over shattered glass and old playbills. His eyes are locked on the masked man under the light. Gamble stops halfway down the aisle, resting a hand on the back of a ruined velvet seat before that smirk on his face grows wider and wider.

“Bought and sold and bought again… the dove is never free…”

The vaults of the Philadelphia Mint have been pried open. Millions in coins litter the floor, tarnished by time until the gold, silver, and copper blend together into a single, worthless gray.

Forty canvas bags are strewn across the floor, some slashed open and others piled high. Daytona Diamonds kicks one over lazily, crouching to untie a drawstring. He looks inside and grins wide before tightening the drawstring once more.

At the far end of the vault, beams of morning light cut through a shell-blasted hole in the ceiling. The light hands directly on Cecilworth Farthington. He stands beneath the great seal of the Mint, the Universal Championship buckled tight around his waist; the only thing in the room that still looks pristine. Daytona stands up slowly, letting the canvas bag drop. Cecilworth doesn’t move a muscle, but his grip tightens on the leather of his belt.

“Ring the bells that still can ring…”

The 2300 Arena is a hollowed-out cathedral built on decades of sacrificial blood.

Brandon Youngblood walks the perimeter of the concrete floor alone. The air still hangs heavy with the phantom stench of stale beer and ancient sweat. His boots crunch over the calcified remains of broken tables, mangled guardrails, and steel chairs melted together by old fires. He stops beneath the exposed ceiling beams where faded, dust-choked banners hang like shrouds, the names of hardcore icons barely visible through the grime.

For a moment, he just studies the empty floor where thousands of roaring fans used to press against the rails, shaking the very foundation of the building.

A shadow stretches across the stained concrete. Cancer Jiles steps out of the darkness of the old locker room tunnel; the same narrow hallway where hundreds of bleeding fighters walked before him. His silhouette cuts through the damp haze as he approaches. He stops on the opposite side of the rusted railing.

The arena kept its ghosts because history deemed them worthy.

Tonight, one more thing belongs to the wreckage.

“Forget your perfect offering…”

The camera pulls back, rising fast.

Up past the shattered rooftops.

Past the rusting steeples.

Past the silent platforms where trains will never run again.

“There is a crack, a crack in everything…”

The city stretches out beneath the witless sun; bleeding and battered, but still standing. From every ruined corner of Philadelphia, they step into the light. Lemieux. Salt. Daniels. Claymore. Williams. Keyes. TAL. Gamble. Farthington. Diamonds. Jiles. Youngblood.

They aren’t running and they aren’t hiding.

The broken streets are funneled into a single destination.

Toward that intersection.

Toward that ring.

Waiting for them.

Like it always has.

“That’s how the light gets in.”

Fade to black.

ULTRAVIOLENCE 2026
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

It’s UltraViolence. It’s Night Two. And we have SIGNS:

YOUR ASS IS GRASS, AND I’M THE LAWNMOWER
GO BIRDS… AGAIN.
I’LL PASS ON THAT BURGER, THANK YOU!
I’M BRINGING HELEN AS MY WEAPON
WADE ELLIOTT DIDN’T REALIZE THAT HIS WIFE’S TITS GOT THAT BIG!
WHERE DID GAMBLE FIND A GREEN PEN?
I AM HERE FOR TV’S MR. SEX, BUT AGAIN
I’M SO OLD I REMEMBER WHEN HE WAS RADIO’S MR. FOREPLAY
“THE LEMIEUX-BOUCHE BURGER (COMES WITH STEVE LEMIEUX)”
DAMN DANIELS. BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE WHITE JACKET
HAVE BUCKY USE A SWORD IN THE “I QUIT” MATCH, ANNA!
SATAN JONES WHAT IS LEMIEUX’S RATING ON WRESTLEFEET AND WHY DO YOU KEEP BANNING MY POSTS?
JILES IS ACTUALLY FROM CAMDEN, PASS IT ON
I SAW JILES DAPPING UP THE CAKE BOSS IN HOBOKEN, PASS IT ON
I SAW JILES BUILDING A TRAMPOLINE IN THE JERSEY SUBURBS, PASS IT ON
RELEASE THE CANCER FILES
I CAN’T WAIT TO BITCH ON LIVESTREAM LATER
I NEED A RIDE TO 2300 AFTER THE UNI
CANE GRITTY
MAN FOUR

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, PRIME prides itself as a wrestling company that has a little bit of something for everyone – hard-hitting street fights, technical masterpieces, chaotic multiman contests, and so much more. Tonight, we have a first.

Richard Parker: That’s a polite way of saying, “this is probably the only time Bullshit On A Burger gets booked” if you ask me.

Nick Stuart: I genuinely can’t believe the logistics it took to set this up, just look at the ring, folks.

The camera pans to the center of Lincoln Financial Field, where there is indeed a wrestling ring, atop which sits a 20 by 20 foot burger, complete with buns, a layer of fried egg, and enough American cheese to give someone a heart attack. It almost perfectly covers every inch of the ring.

Richard Parker: That is a POWERFUL aroma, partner.

Nick Stuart: We’re about to watch two men wrestle on top of the biggest hamburger I’ve ever seen in my life. And speaking of hamburgers…guess what?

Richard Parker: Sliders for everyone after the match?

Nick Stuart: No, unfortunately our insurance doesn’t allow us to serve food that’s been wrestled on. What I was going for is that we have a special guest ring announcer for this match! A lifelong fan and wrestling’s youngest journalist – Craig Hamburgers! Take it away, Craig!

We see an 11-year-old kid with shaggy dirty blonde hair wearing a white t-shirt with a cheeseburger screen printed on the chest. He looks like he’s going through a growth spurt but his voice has not yet broken.

Craig Hamburgers: hello yes welcome to the burger match!

YEAHHHH

Craig is caught off guard and breathes too heavily into the microphone for a second before continuing.

Craig Hamburgers: yes this is the burger match which will be for one fall on that big burger over there!

He points to the ring. We suddenly realize that Steve Lemieux has been there the whole time. In addition to his normal shlubby outfit, he’s added a black chef’s hat with a thick purple band, a black chef’s apron, and two purple oven mitts over his hands. If his hair were longer, perhaps his bangs might have gone over his eyes, but his ‘do is that of a Circuit City night clerk and so this part of the visual is lost.

Craig Hamburgers: yes so introducing first for the burger match, already in the ring, he’s…do I have to say this?

Craig looks to the side at a producer, who nods encouragingly.

Craig Hamburgers: …183 pounds of undead dad bod majesty…eugh. and he’s from Peoria. give it up for the “underbakerrrrrrrr” Steeeeve Lemieuuuux!

Steve’s eyes roll back in his head and he sticks out his tongue as he drags a mitted thumb across his throat – this makes his throat scratchy and he immediately has to cough.

Bad Moon Rising by CCR blasts through the speakers and the monstrous presence of Big Ian Salt appears on stage. His expression is cold and full of disdain for his opponent, who is now gingerly stepping across the top bun to the center of the burger ring.

Craig Hamburgers: and his opponent is very big, 325 pounds! from Salt Lake – I mean the Salt Mines, he’s Big! Ian! Sallllllllt!

Salt sneers at the misnaming of his “hometown” but decides it is not worth wasting even an ounce of energy to correct this small child when there is a whole ass “Underbaker” he needs to bury. His long, powerful strides have him reaching the ring in almost no time at all, and he steps over the top rope into the ring.

Referee Jimmy Turnbull looks uneven on his feet, trying to figure out how exactly to balance himself on top of a giant burger that’s also on top of a wrestling ring. Giving up, he checks with Lemieux, then with Salt, then signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what to expect with this one, folks, but we’re off!

There’s an immediate issue, and it’s apparent from the moment Big Ian Salt stepped over the top rope and onto the burger.

Burger buns are not built to withstand adult human wrestlers with boots. Ian is up to his shins in the bun, and it’s very likely the soles of his boots are approaching cheese territory.

Steve is a bit lighter, though that doesn’t mean he’s light on his feet – he too has some struggles, but he’s begun to experiment with dispersing his body weight over as much area as possible to try to avoid puncturing the bun.

He’s accomplished this by going on all fours.

Mr. Salt slowly stomps his way towards Mr. Beefst, creating size 18 divots in the bun all along the way, as Lemieux “scurries” like a feral hamster around the outside.

Nick Stuart: We really didn’t think about the logistics of this, did we?

Richard Parker: The wrestling surface itself is the biggest obstacle!

Salt tries throwing a few big swinging kicks, but Lemieux is able to stumble out of harm’s way – unfortunately for him, he rolls into one of the divots created by Salt’s boots, and his apron has become smattered with egg and cheese. This makes him Big Mad, and he scampers over to Salt!

He leaps, and Salt catches him! Lemieux tries to claw at Salt’s face and eyes, which is surprisingly effective – until Salt LAUNCHES him with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex!

POFFSQUELCH

Nick Stuart: How long have we been calling matches together, Richard?

Richard Parker: Don’t ask me to do math – years. Years and years.

Nick Stuart: Ever hear a ring sound like that when someone crashes into it?

Richard Parker: Never not once.

Some of the juices from the burger spill to the floor from the impact of Steve’s bump. There is a notable body-shaped dent in the bun, but honestly it looks like the burger may have cushioned most of the impact. It’s never fun to be thrown through the air by an angry giant, but Steve’s managing.

In fact, we see a cartoonishly evil grin spread across Lemieux’s face as he realizes his plan seems to be coming together for him. He reaches into a pocket of his apron and pulls out a bottle that’s been labeled “HEELING POTION” with black sharpie. He pops the top and gulps it down, and suddenly, he rips at his polo shirt, which is to say he pops one button and mostly just stretches out the collar so it’s loose and floppy around his neck.

Steve Lemieux: You stupid fart herder! I’m going to kick your REAR!

With this, he launches himself once again at Salt, who once again catches him – but this time, the unevenness of the bun/burger/egg/cheese slop beneath his feet has created a slippery situation! Salt falls to his back, with Lemieux on top!

Nick Stuart: …Thesz Press?

Richard Parker: Sure, let’s pretend Steve Lemieux knows that move.

Steve takes one of his purple mitts and shoves it into Salt’s mouth, rolling his eyes in the back of his head. Jimmy Turnbull starts a five count, and Steve releases the smothering hold at three. He then reaches into his apron once more, this time pulling out four XXXL BBQ forks. He somehow gets one of the forks around Salt’s left wrist, pinning it to the burger, then his right wrist. He cackles maniacally as he makes his way to Salt’s feet, with every intention of pinning his entire body to this burger.

Left ankle secure, then the right!

Lemieux begins winding his fist up for a big haymaker to what we must assume will be Salt’s nads. He turns and lifts his arm up – only to see that Salt has very, very easily unpinned his arms. Lemieux’s eyes go wide as Salt gets the goozle!

Salt tries to stand up, but then realizes his feet are awkwardly pinned to this damn burger. He maintains the goozle and tries to shift his weight to get his feet loose, but it’s just not working. He looks Lemieux in the eyes and asks for “one sec” with an index finger – Steve raises an eyebrow, his tongue fully out of his head from being actively choked, but he gives a shrug and a nod in return. Salt responds by headbutting Lemieux right in the nose and sending him careening to the side.

Salt, now without a puny man on top of him, uses his free hands to remove the forks from his feet, tossing them out of the ring as he gets back up to his feet. He looks down at Lemieux, who is clutching at his face and kicking his legs frantically.

Big Ian Salt: Thanks.

Salt goozles him once again and lifts – CHOKESLAM!

SQUORT

All the way through the bun and into the beef!!

Salt takes a moment to dust himself off – this is one of the messiest encounters he’ll ever have, he reckons. The burger does smell good though. He hunts around the ring for an un-stepped-on section of the ringburger and reaches down, ripping out a huge chunk of bun, cheese, egg, and beef. The burger that was better than his own father’s, the burger that caused every ounce of spite Big Ian Salt ever had for wee Mr. Beefst.

Salt takes a giant bite. Fuck, it’s good.

“Damn him,” one imagines running through Salt’s mind. “Damn him to hell.”

From the Lemieux-shaped chokeslam hole in the burger, we see the stirring of life from The Anti-Banger. Two arms covered in ketchup and mustard and grease and God knows what else, climbing up from the beef pit. Steve spies Ian munching and hatches a plan.

He reaches back down into his apron for one final trick up his sleeve – a bottle of ground black pepper. He gets to his feet and slowly positions himself behind Big Ian.

Steve Lemieux: TAKE THIS, POOPHEAD!

Ian turns around immediately and sees that a bottle of seasoning is headed straight for him!

…and he catches it.

Steve didn’t wait to see whether his throw was effective or not – his plan was “throw, then grab, then go for the big Tombstone Piledriver”, and we see that Steve has his arms wrapped around Salt’s waist as he strains and strains to try to get this giant man in position. It is not successful.

Salt looks down at Lemieux trying to grapple, then to the bottle of pepper in his hand, then back at Steve. Ian unscrews the bottle and pours its entire contents directly into Steve’s face.

Steve Lemieux: AHHHH AH-CHOO! AH-CHOO! AHHHHHH-CHOO! OH GOD AH-CHOO! NO! AH-CHOO!

Blinded and fully sneezified, Lemieux no longer has his bearings about him, and he stumbles about the burger, tripping over the divots and holes and general sloppy mess that the entire burger ring has become. Salt takes his time, not wanting to fall on his own ass, before delivering a big knee to the gut.

Salt then lifts Lemieux up high over his shoulders! He looks around the ring for the ideal spot to deliver the move and decides to throw him down even further into the abyss that is “the chokeslam hole” from before!

SPLURTBOOOOOOM

Nick Stuart: SALT MINE POWERBOMB!

Richard Parker: I THINK LEMIEUX JUST WENT THROUGH THE ENTIRE DAMN BURGER!

Fans in the arena can no longer see Steve – it is only thanks to a single overhead camera that we can see his sprawled-out body deeply embedded at the bottom of the enormous burger.

Salt takes a second, because normally this is when he’d go for the pin – but Lemieux is literally embedded on all sides in this thing. He settles on carefully lowering a leg into the hole and pressing a boot to Lemieux’s chest!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

“Bad Moon Rising” blasts through the speakers once again, and a full on squad of attendants and ring crew come pouring out the back to begin dismantling this extremely messy situation in anticipation of future wrestling matches happening on this show.

Craig Hamburgers: hello yes that’s the end of the burger match, and your winner is – Big Ian! …Salt!

Nick Stuart: The whole time, all I could think about was how much of an enormous waste of food this has been.

Richard Parker: Were the eggs necessary, do you think?

Nick Stuart: Oh shoot, we didn’t even bring up the eGG Bandits during all of this, did we?

Richard Parker: We didn’t, and we won’t, not until tonight’s main event if I can help it.

Cleanup is going to be an absolute BEAR. Let’s cut elsewhere.

Lights.

Camera.

MILLS!

If longtime PRIME interviewer Matt Mills had a theme song, and he really should, whatever it would be is playing in your head right now as cameras cut to the one and only… Matt Mills.

Matt Mills: We have already seen one impressive night of Ultraviolence, but to borrow a line from Lord of the Rings, what about second nights? And we are just minutes away from what promises to be a true battle of wills.

Voice: But his name is Blaze. And he’s facing Anna. Neither of them are named Will.

The camera zooms out from a tight head-and-shoulders shot of Matt Mills to reveal two members of the PRIME roster standing just off to the left.

In the red, white, and silver we see Blaze Claymore, adjusting his ring attire slightly before removing a pair of red sunglasses. At his side is Daihm “The Dragon” Ferguson, wearing an 80s-era, teal jumpsuit with rainbow stripes down the sides of the arms and legs.

Daihm Ferguson: I said neither of them are-

Matt Mills clears his throat as he gestures toward Blaze with his microphone.

Matt Mills: Blaze, I don’t know if you remember this but it was just over one year ago that you arrived in PRIME, declaring yourself to be “The Main Event” … I remember because I was the one interviewing you that evening.

Blaze nods slowly.

Matt Mills: And it wasn’t long after you disappeared from PRIME, which we later learned was because of the actions of Max Kael. And… during your disappearance I also had the chance to interview your then-manager, Sonja Cuchilla, who was desperate to find you.

Blaze’s nod turns into a sharp pivot, his gaze fixed on Matt Mills.

Matt Mills: And now… all these months later, you are preparing to risk not just your career, but your very identity, against Anna Daniels because you see Sonja as some sort of threat to your hometown of Montevideo – and you need the Time Lord’s help.

Blaze squares his shoulders, inhaling deeply.

Blaze Claymore: Well, Matt, you see-

Matt Mills: But this isn’t the first time you’ve tried to convince people of a conspiracy against you, am I right?

Blaze’s face contorts into a mixture of shock, anger and shame as he looks over to Daihm, who puts a hand on Blaze’s shoulder.

Blaze Claymore: That was… that was different. I was different.

Matt Mills: Having interviewed you your first night here, of that I have no question. But what I, and I think all the fans here tonight want to know, is… what becomes of Blaze Claymore if you lose tonight to Anna Daniels? Should the fans… should your hometown be worried?

Blaze instinctively goes to lower his head, but stops himself. Instead, he turns to look away from Matt and toward the camera.

Blaze Claymore: There are a lot of things I’ve done in my life that I am not proud of. So many times I’ve been faced with being told who I am supposed to be. What someone like me is supposed to become… and I’ve always dreamed of being something more than that. Something bigger.

Blaze raises a finger and points toward the camera.

Blaze Claymore: I think that is something everyone in this stadium here tonight can relate to – and sometimes that desire can turn you into something you never wanted to be. Something mean. Something terrifying. Something evil…

The Lighthouse jabs a thumb into his chest.

Blaze Claymore: But tonight isn’t about one person’s dream. It’s about the responsibility we each have to look out for one another. To be there for each other. And to fight not just for our own dreams, but for the dreams of others.

Blaze looks over toward Daihm as the pair share a nod before the Lighthouse turns back toward the camera.

Blaze Claymore: Anna Daniels may have the ability to perceive multiple timelines, but even a Time Lord has their blind spots. A Lighthouse doesn’t need to see everything. It just needs to know when and where to keep its focus.

Daihm flashes a smile at Matt Mills as Blaze adjusts his robe once more and places his signature red sunglasses over his eyes.

Blaze Claymore: To answer your question, Matt, the only person who should be worried tonight is Anna Daniels. I may have spent much of my life running away from my problems, but the one thing Blaze Claymore never does… is quit.

In a burst of energy, Daihm reaches out and grabs Matt Mills’ microphone.

Daihm Ferguson: And that’s the bottom line-

Matt Mills grabs the microphone back.

Matt Mills: Nope. Nuh uh. Not doing that. Daihm crosses his arms with a pout.

Daihm Ferguson (in a huff): Oh and why is that? Because Matt Mills says so?

At that moment, Blaze absolutely breaks. The Lighthouse covers his face, holding back laughter. Daihm can’t hold onto his disappointment for more than a few seconds before he also bursts out laughing.

Blaze Claymore (gasping for air): I think… you’ll need to keep workshopping that one.

Daihm nods and wipes his eyes as we hear a huge pop from the crowd in the distance.

Blaze Claymore (catching his breath): I guess that’s my cue…. A sigh.

Blaze Claymore: No more time to waste, then.

Daihm, still smiling, slugs Blaze on the shoulder as they begin to exit toward the ring.

Daihm Ferguson: Oh yeah? Says who?

Eventually, even if just for a split second, we see a smile appear on Matt Mills’ face as we cut back to our announcers.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, we have yet another match that promises to live up to the name of this pay per view! An I Quit Match, featuring Blaze Claymore taking on Anna Daniels of the Poor Whoresmen!

Richard Parker: Wouldn’t surprise me at all if this one gets ultraviolet ultra-quick, Nick!

We hear the now-familiar sound of deep waves, deep and rumbling. But where the arena would normally go dark, we sit with a growing bass as it thrums through the arena, getting stronger.

As the pulse increases, the fans in Lincoln Financial Field begin to clap and stomp along, until The Midnight’s “Change Your Heart or Die” reaches its crescendo…

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE!

The fans roar as red fireworks explode from the stage and Blaze Claymore enters from the back, a boss guitar riff playing as the Lighthouse walks backwards down the rampway.

As he descends, the cameras lock in on his white duster jacket with red trim, the letters “B L A Z E” running along the back, before Claymore spins around and points his fingers toward the entrance ramp…

POP!

RAAAWWW!

The fans roar as a red-haired young man wearing a rainbow “PRIME MONTH” t-shirt and the tightest white jeans you ever did see sprints down the rampway with a laugh, nearly crashing into Blaze.

The pair laugh and then bump fists before turning those fists, raised, toward a receptive crowd.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Montevideo, Minnesota, standing at 6’1” and weighing 180 pounds, he is accompanied by DAAAAAAAIHM “THE DRAGON” FERGUSON, and at least for tonight THE LIGHTHOUSE…. BLAAAAAAAAAAZE CLAAAAAAAAYMORE!

FIRE! TICKING LIKE A TIMEBOMB!

A shot of red fireworks explodes behind Blaze and Daihm as they slap the hands of fans at their sides as they make their way down toward the ring.

FIRE! BURNING LIKE NAPALM!

Another explosion, this time a set of white fireworks.

FIRE! STANDING AT THE CROSSROADS!

HOW WILL YOU SURVIVE!?

Blaze turns to look at Daihm, who gives him a nod, and walks up the steps.

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

He turns to the crowd and raises a fist into the air, then points down towards a beaming Daihm Ferguson, as the song ends on Tim McEwan’s final, wailing cry.

CHANGE YOUR HEART OR DIE….

Vince Howard: And his opponent!

“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 anyone else.

Behind her, Fred Dick waddles towards the ring, making rude gestures at fans as they walk down the aisle.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 135 pounds. She is The Muse…AAANNNNAAAA DAAANNIIEEELLLS!

She rolls under the ropes and eyes Claymore passively as Ashley Barlow gets ready to kick things off.

DING DING

Blaze Claymore charges in fast, attempting to grapple Anna, but she quickly slides away. Shifting his feet, he pivots towards her and grabs her again, looking to lift her up. Anna slips out of his grip and lands behind him, sending a kick to the back of his leg.

Nick Stuart: Blaze Claymore clearly trying to use his size advantage by adapting a power strategy, but Anna Daniels saw it coming a mile away.

Richard Parker: Not a lot of people on the roster for Blaze to use that sort of strategy against, partner, so maybe he’s not as experienced at it.

Blaze shakes off the kick and turns, grabbing at her once again. Anna refuses to enter a grapple with him, instead grabbing his arm and twisting it over her head, then landing a kick to Claymore’s chest. He stumbles backward and Anna presses her advantage, striking him in the neck with punches and the legs with kicks.

Richard Parker: Yep, this plan isn’t working well for Blaze so far.

With Blaze on his heels, Anna tries another kick up at his chest, but Blaze grabs the leg and reaches down, then grabs Anna and plants her with a vicious powerslam.

Nick Stuart: You were saying?

Richard Parker: I said so far! What, I’m in trouble for not predicting the future now?

Anna is slow to get to her feet. As she tries to recover, Blaze is on top of her, sending a stiff punch to the back of her neck. She rolls away and gets to her feet, but Blaze takes her down with a hip toss. Again Anna pops back up but Blaze catches her and plants her with a front slam.

On the outside, Daihm Ferguson claps and cheers.

Nick Stuart: Quick takeover by Blaze Claymore here, he does have the strength advantage as we said initially, and now he’s starting to use it.

Richard Parker: Be careful, Nick, you’re going to sound dumb if Anna gets any offense in for the rest of the match.

Nick Stuart: No I won’t. This is how a match ebbs and flows.

Blaze bends over to grab Anna and she kicks up, catching him in the face and stunning him.

Richard Parker: Ha! Idiot!

Nick Stuart: Sigh.

Anna spins to her feet, then grabs Blaze and attempts an arm drag. Blaze blocks it, then takes her over with his own arm drag. He stands on top of her, wrenching the arm. Anna groans, reaching for the ropes which are just out of reach.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels coming off a big win on the go-home show over Sebastian Cross of The Albion. Meanwhile Blaze Claymore picked up the victory in a triple threat against Steve Lemieux and Sage Pontiff.

Richard Parker: I wonder what that ring smelled like.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: It probably smelled like patchouli, ground beef and sadness.

Anna Daniels gives a big stretch and gets her hand on the rope. Ashley Barlow slides in and tells Claymore to break the hold, and after a moment he does so. Before Anna can get away, Claymore grabs her and drops her in a belly to back suplex! He grabs the leg on his way back up to his feet, and—

Nick Stuart: FIGURE FOUR LEGLOCK BY BLAZE!!! He has Anna right in the center of the ring! Will the Time Lord say, ‘I Quit!?’

Anna fights like hell to free herself. She sits up, clamors with her hands to try and grab a hold of him, but she can’t, and now she writhes!

Fred pounds the mat and chants, “BO-BAN-NA! BO-BAN-NA!”

Eventually, Anna manages to slowly roll to her stomach, reversing the hold!

And now it’s Blaze in pain! Crying out to the gods! But he manages to scramble on his elbows and reach the bottom rope!

Anna releases the hold!

(After 4.99 seconds)

And both scramble to their feet!

Blaze whips Daniels into the turnbuckles! He hits her with three shoulder thrusts, making her slump. He then grabs her arm and throws her into the opposite corner. Anna, anticipating Blaze behind her, puts her hands on the ropes and vaults herself upward, expecting to leap over Blaze. But she wasn’t the only one anticipating.

Nick Stuart: He caught her! Blaze caught her!

Indeed, Blaze grabbed her around the waist as she fell, then walks towards the center of the ring and drops to the ground in a sidewalk slam!

Nick Stuart: Well I know we were skeptical of Blaze’s strategy to overpower his opponent, but at this point it seems to be working. Blaze is usually a bit of a counterattack wrestler, and in some ways he’s doing that here, using Anna’s body and his strength advantage to inflict maximum damage.

Richard Parker: Skeptical? I said so far!

Blaze senses the same thing, and so he has a little pep in his step as he pulls Anna up to her feet. He Irish whips her to the corner, where she turns and hits her back against the turnbuckle before slumping a bit. Blaze charges into the corner.

Nick Stuart: Daniels moved!

Indeed, she slid out of the corner at the last second, causing Blaze to crash into the turnbuckle pad. Before he can turn around, Anna delivers a kick into the back of his leg. Blaze stumbles, but stays upright. She sends another to his other leg, causing him to stumble again. A third kick finally sends him to one knee.

Nick Stuart: Anna is desperately trying to mount a comeback here.

Richard Parker: So far it’s working well. And don’t you dare make fun of me about it later!

Anna sends one last kick, this time to Blaze’s head, sending him into the turnbuckle pad on the bottom rope. It doesn’t keep him down for long, but there’s a noticeable limp in his left leg as he gets to his feet.

Nick Stuart: That flurry of kicks has Blaze Claymore limping!

Richard Parker: And Anna isn’t done!

She is not. She peppers him with more kicks as he tries to fight her off. Remembering his strength advantage, he rushes in for a lariat, but Anna ducks under his arm and hits a buzzsaw kick to the thigh, a roundhouse kick to the chest, and a step-up enziguri that leaves Blaze dazed on his feet. Anna then whirls around and hits him with a Russian leg sweep, then grabs the leg.

Nick Stuart: She’s looking to target that damaged leg!

But before she can get him over in a one leg Boston Crab, he uses his other leg to kick her off and he crawls to the corner, favoring his leg. He slowly gets to his feet and comes towards Anna, who fires another kick towards him. This time, he catches it. But unlike last time, Anna is ready. She spins a back elbow into Blaze, knocking him backward. Anna dashes to the ropes, then comes back…

Nick Stuart: Running knee strike! Blaze is down! But so is Anna! Exhausted, perhaps?

Richard Parker: Perhaps.

Daihm Ferguson looks relieved on the outside, but concerned as the tide of the match has turned. He slowly gets to his feet as Anna measures him up.

Nick Stuart: I think she’s going for the Interrobang! Blaze is in trouble!

She runs in, but in a fluid motion Blaze grabs her and hits a huge power slam.

Nick Stuart: Powerslam! Both competitors are down!

Neither person moves as Barlow checks on both. After a few seconds, she starts her ten count. Blaze stirs as Anna breathes heavily.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Blaze gets to his knees and pushes himself up slowly to his feet. Anna rolls onto her stomach. Barlow calls off the count at five as Blaze senses the end is near.

Nick Stuart: He’s grabbing her now, looking for the Lake Effect maybe?! No, Anna elbows out! Blaze staggers, and now Anna tries to grab him! No! European uppercut! Daniels just got rocked, and now she’s against the ropes!

Blaze looks down at Daniels, almost sympathetic as he knows the end is near. He doesn’t want to hurt her too bad, but he needs to make his point. Exhaling, he starts to walk towards her.

And that’s when the boos start.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Why did that happen? Let ‘em know, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick! He just jumped onto the apron and is coming to help his Whoresman stable member!

Richard Parker: Oh no, Daihm has him clocked!

Fred was just about to scramble into the ring to perhaps stop Blaze, but Daihm Ferguson grabs Dick from behind, pulls him down from the apron, and they grapple. As the fans cheer the melee, Blaze continues to approach Daniels.

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is distracted by the chaos outside! She’s bending outside the ropes trying to get them both to leave!

As she does, Blaze grabs Anna Daniels again, ready to try Lake Effect once more. But Anna has something for him.

Nick Stuart: No! Low blow!

Richard Parker: Works every time!

Blaze bends over, in pain, and Anna moves behind him and grabs him.

WHAMMM!!!

Nick Stuart: BLUE TARDIS BOMB! BLAZE IS OUT!

On the outside Fred Dick sees what happened and immediately raises his hands in the air, separating from Daihm and pointing behind Ashley Barlow at the middle of the ring.

Ashley Barlow turns around just in time to see…

Nick Stuart: THE WHEEL OF MORALITY BY ANNA DANIELS!!! THE HIGH ANGLE CLOVERLEAF!!!

Richard Parker: I don’t know how Blaze can get out of this one!

Blaze writhes. He does everything he can to try and find a rope, but the angle of the lock is so high, theres no weight in his body he can use to pull.

He has no choice.

He can get injured.

Or he can live to fight another day.

Blaze Claymore: I QUIT!

DING DING DING!

Nick Stuart: Dammit! Blaze had this in hand, and Whoresman shenanigans ruined it!

Richard Parker: Can’t keep your eyes off Fred Dick. Ashley Barlow was smitten with him.

Nick Stuart: No she wasn’t!

Anna Daniels quickly rolls out of the ring as Blaze remains in the middle of the ring, coming to and visibly frustrated. He grabs his Blaze cloak and lays it in the center of the ring. Then he allows Daihm to lead him out, pointing at the fans in appreciation as he leaves.

Nick Stuart: Blaze Claymore has nothing to be ashamed of tonight. He fought hard, and he will certainly learn from this result!

Richard Parker: Let’s talk about the Time Lord, though! She won this match and overcame a strength disadvantage!

The two men probably won’t agree, so let’s go elsewhere.

Richard Parker: Well, we’ve got a HUGE match coming up here Nick.

Nick Stuart: And the fans are ready for it Richard! I think I’ve already spotted a step stool, rice cooker, and cheese grater in the crowd.

Richard Parker: That’s just your Prime Day Shopping list, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Well, it makes sense since we’re in PR-

Richard Parker: No! Bad! Bad Nick Stuart!

WHIRRRR~~~~

The sound of a very old, very large propeller gets one or two pockets of Fans Who Know up to their feet. It’s soon followed by a classic 70’s guitar riff. Pink and blue beacons of light begin to swirl around Lincoln Financial Stadium.

Soon, the majestic stride of a white Bengal tiger crosses the PRIMEview to a loud smattering of cheers. Smoke pours out from the stage and we see a silhouette begin a steady haunch-strut through the clouds.

I WANT TO RIIIIIIIIDE, RIDE THE TIGER

I WANT TO RIIIIIIIIDE, RIDE THE TIGER

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest scheduled for one fall is a FANS BRING THE WEAPONS MATCH, and it is FOR the PRIME FIVE STARRRRR CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIP!

RAAAAAHHHHH!

As Jefferson Starship’s “Ride The Tiger” continues to blast through the speakers, Henry Keyes steps through the smoke, wearing a resplendent pink and blue long military jacket covered in steampunk accessories with golden pauldrons. He wears long white pants with pink and black tiger stripes and heavy blue boots. His beard is freshly Just For Men’d dark black, his undercut is wild and salty-peppery, and he’s got a manic glint in his eye.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger! From San Francisco, California! Weighing in at 249 pounds…he is the KRAKEN! HENRYYYYYYYYY KEEEEEEEEEYES!

RAAAAAAAHHHH!

Nick Stuart: An absolute shocker of an announcement at the beginning of the most recent edition of ReVival, partner, when Lindsay Troy announced this man as the next challenger for Rob Williams’ Five Star Title. We’ve seen him in tag team action, we’ve seen him backstage here and there, but tonight marks his singles debut under the PRIME banner.

Richard Parker: Shock is right, Nicky – this is one of those competitors that has a Reputation with a capital R! Co-Consul of Vae Victis, check. World championship credentials, check. Beat Cancer Jiles’s ass at IMMORTALS, a BIG check. Not to mention – he’s got a frickin’ TIGER!

Nick Stuart: Who knows if we’ll see Helen here tonight, but there’s certainly going to be some chaos as our fans have brought plenty of weaponry to choose from!

Henry flashes a wild grin in all directions of the packed stadium before casting his arms out wide – HUGE explosions of pink, blue, and white pyro shoot up from the stage and the entrance ramp.

As he haunch-struts towards the ring, we see him look to each side of the aisle, as fans hold out chairs, kendo sticks, baseball bats, and more. He pauses, eyeing a purple bo staff that complements his ring attire and snatches it from an excited young man.

Keyes, weapon in hand, stomp-stomp-stomps up the ring stairs and powerfully steps through the top and middle ropes, extending his arms out once again to soak in some welcome cheers from those in attendance.

But almost immediately, the fans are caught off guard, cocking their head toward the entrance ramp as robotic beeps and bloops are heard.

Then they’re annoyed, grabbing at their ears as aggressive guitar feedback cries out from the sound system. It goes on for an uncomfortable amount of time before the drumbeat joins in. It continues as the bass riff fades in.

The three sounds fight for dominance.

Finally, the feedback cedes, turning into a high paced riff of its own.

This is not “Man in the Box.”

“Say, say, my playmate,
Won’t you lay hands on me?
Mirror my malady,
Transfer my tragedy?”

This is “Wolf Like Me”. Local H’s version to be specific.

The PRIMEtron is all black. If you looked close enough you’d see it’s not just a black background.

It’s an arm – veiny and muscular.

As a matter of fact, it’s Rob Williams’ arm.

The blacked out one, in case you didn’t get that.

A glowing red brand appears, burning “The Legend” into the smoking flesh.

“Got a curse I cannot lift,
Shines when the sunset shifts.”

A snakeskin cowboy boot parts the curtain, holding it open.

“My mind’s aflame.”

Charlotte enters first – her vintage Rob Williams t-shirt is cropped perfectly. Her belly shows just the slightest signs of swelling. She still looks amazing in those daisy dukes and her black cowboy boots, and she knows it. 

“We could jet in a stolen car,
But I bet we wouldn’t get too far
Before the transformation takes
And blood lust tanks and
Crave gets staked.”

She holds her hands towards the curtain and pyro explodes as “The Legend” Rob Williams steps out, holding his hands wide and soaking it all in.

“My mind has changed.
My body’s frame, but God I like it.
My heart’s aflame.
My body’s strained, but God I like it.”

Williams holds up the Poor Whoresmen sign with pride. There’s a quiet confidence to him that’s new and nearly as shiny as the 5 Star Title wrapped around his waist. He wraps his arm around Charlotte as the chorus repeats and they begin strutting to the ring together, chins held high.

“Charge me your day rate,
I’ll turn you out in kind.
When the moon is round and full
Gonna teach you tricks that’ll blow your mongrel mind.”

Some fans cheer, some boo.

Rob doesn’t even seem to notice them.

“Baby doll, I recognize
You’re a hideous thing inside
If ever there were a lucky kind, it’s
You, you, you, you.”

The couple smile at one another when they get to the ring steps. Rob kisses Charlotte: twice on the lips and once on the forehead.

He pulls off the belt and hands it to Charlotte to deliver to the timekeeper, who exchanges the belt for a pair of orange nunchucks handed to him by a fan, before climbing in the ring.

“We’ve got till noon, here comes the moon
So let it show you
Show you now.”

Rob cracks his neck, ducking down to step between the middle and top rope. He makes his way around the ring, eyeing up Keyes with a goofy grin on his face.

“Feeding on fever
Down on all fours
Show you what all that
Howl is for.”

Rob lets out a primal howl as the music fades.

Richard Parker: What is this, Ninja Turtles?

Nick Stuart: Only if we see ninja stars, sai, and a katana before the night is over.

Richard Parker: Well, then let’s get to it! COWABUNGA!

Elvis Nixon looks over toward the challenger, bo staff in hand, and then to the champion, nunchucks at the ready, raises his hand and…

DING DING

RAWWWWW!

The fans, enablers that they are, roar as Henry Keyes swipes at Rob Williams with his big, thick stick — only to have the champion roll into the move and wrap his martial arts tools around the Kraken’s weapon of choice and yoink it out of his hands!

Nick Stuart: A quick start and even quicker moves from the Whoresman!

Richard Parker: How many times have those words left your mouth, Nick?

Williams kicks the bo staff away while at the same time swinging his nunchucks and barely misses connecting with the temple of Keyes!

Nick Stuart: Keyes dodges the swipe from Williams! He drops to one knee and GUT PUNCHES The Legend in the side!

Richard Parker: …And he’s going to pay for it!

Williams roars in pain, but has the wherewithal to swap the nunchucks to his other hand and swing them downward onto the crown of Keyes’ head!

Nick Stuart: Both men are out of sorts early on, Richard, retreating to their respective corners!

Richard Parker: Rearming themselves you mean.

Indeed, the champion holds his side as he hobbles toward the crowd just as the challenger rubs his head and gestures for something useful.

Nick Stuart: Are those…

Richard Parker: Don’t tell me…

Both wrestlers slide back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Pool noodles?

Rob and Henry look down in confusion at their ‘weapons’ before charging toward one another!

Styrofoam carnage ensues, as they just swing wildly at one another!

Richard Parker: Even Steve Lemieux would be embarrassed right now.

Rob Williams dodges one of the pool noodle attacks, but quickly grabs at the end of the cheap floatation device and yanks it forward, throwing Henry Keyes off balance!

Nick Stuart: Arm drag! I mean… noodle drag! Keyes is off balance!

Richard Parker: And now he’s off his feet!

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams lifts Keyes upward and into a POWERBOMB!

The icon bounces off the mat, but rolls out of the way of a follow through elbow drop from Williams!

Keyes shakes his head, wags his finger, and KICKS Rob Williams hard in the jaw on his way up!

OOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: I heard that one from here, Nick!

Nick Stuart: The Kraken just CRACK-END the Five Star Champion’s chin… and now he’s going for a follow up!

Keyes reaches down and lifts Williams up just enough to get the elevation he needs and LAUNCHES THE CHAMPION INTO A FULL NELSON SLAM!

Keyes scrambles over to Williams and makes a quick cover.

ONE!

T-

Williams kicks out as Keyes looks around the arena, eyes suddenly locking on a face in the crowd.

The icon of DEFIANCE rolls out of the ring and gestures to an elderly woman sitting in the accessibility section. Keyes points down toward the woman who, without hesitation, lifts up her metal walker and gives it to Keyes!

Richard Parker: Now he’s harassing kind old ladies!

Nick Stuart: She seemed happy to be harassed, Richard.

Richard Parker: Clearly she has dementia!

The Five Star Champion watches as the Kraken slides into the ring holding the walker and scrambles over to the nearby corner to grab the bo staff from earlier.

Nick Stuart: Keyes is running, with the bottom of that walker straight at Williams but— OHHH!

Richard Parker: Like some sort of roadside attraction version of a jousting match, Williams just manages to shove that bo staff into the chest of Keyes!

Keyes is keeled over as the walker wobbles into the standing position.

Nick Stuart: Williams looking to take advantage here. He’s got the Kraken by the waist!

Richard Parker: And Keyes has Williams by the neck!

Keyes lands a knee into the already injured chin of Rob Williams, enough to gain the leverage he needs.

Nick Stuart: BIEL THROW!

With a burst of energy, the Vae Victis member VVaults the Whoresman onto the business end of the metal walker!

OOOOOOOOH!

The crowd winces from the sight as Williams tumbles and smacks the back of his head directly into the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: This isn’t good for the champ. I don’t think he knows where he is right now, Richard!

Richard Parker: Nonsense! Look!

At ringside, Charlotte is coaxing Rob Williams back to consciousness as Henry Keyes approaches! She turns and looks toward the crowd and raises her arms, snatching something from the air that she slides into the champion’s hand.

Keyes picks Williams up by the hair, shoving him into the turnbuckle – only to get a face full of pepper spray!

The Kraken roars in pain as a gasping Rob Williams looks back toward his partner and smiles, tossing her the pepper spray before leaping after his opponent.

Nick Stuart: Look out!

Richard Parker: No cheating, Nick!

Henry Keyes spins around, reacting to Stuart’s voice, but only to find himself in the embrace of the Wolf, and not in the fun, romantic way as the champion locks his challenger into a sleeper hold!

Elvis Nixon slides into the scene, checking on Keyes, whose face is now turning as red as the skin around his eyes.

Williams cranks his hold tighter as Keyes struggles to break free.

Nick Stuart: The Vae Victis representative is in a bad way here, Richard!

Richard Parker: Good! He should be! Carpetbagger!

Elvis continues to check on Henry whose flailing arms suddenly manage to grab a hold of Rob Williams’ hair! He drops down, taking Williams with him, and INTO A STUNNER!

The pair separate on impact, both gasping for air as the crowd begins to rise to their feet and clap just as the referee begins a joint count!

ONE!

TWO!

Keyes begins to stir first.

THREE!

And Williams is close behind.

FOUR!

Both men stagger to their feet as Nixon ends his count, then turn without a word and slide under their ropes, back toward the fans … and the weapons!

RAWWWW!

Suddenly, the crowd begins to rush the barricades, arms reaching out with weapons of every variety!

Richard Parker: Wait… is that…

Nick Stuart: It’s PRIME Hall of Famer Jack Harmen!

Richard Parker: For a man who is known for being in a team called V.I.A.G.R.A., he knows how to make a crowd go limp.

Nick Stuart: Not sure the fans feel that way, Richard! Look!

Henry Keyes gestures toward Jack as one of the fans hands him what looks to be…

Richard Parker: Oh come on!

A smiling Henry Keyes raises a giant plague doctor Halloween decoration above his head as the fans go wild.

RAAAAAAAW! 

Richard Parker: Home Depot has gone too far this time!

The Kraken runs at full speed toward Rob Williams who has… a heavy box!

Richard Parker: What’s in the boooooooox!?

It certainly couldn’t be Gweneth Paltrow’s head! (Could it?)

The Whoreseman yeets the box toward his opponent…

…and a million ball bearings fly out!

Keyes barely has time to register the situation before he goes from horizontal to vertical and winds up pinned under a ceramic plague doctor!

Rob Williams leaps over the ball bearings and onto the ring steps, climbing his way up the post until he’s at the very top of the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: No! Don’t!

Richard Parker: YES! DO!

Rob Williams LEAPS off the very top of the turnbuckle, boots clicked together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, as he drops onto the top of the decoration and shatters it over the chest of Henry Keyes!

Nick Stuart: Williams grabs the injured Keyes and rolls him back into the ring, motioning for Charlotte to stay back, as he slides in after his opponent and immediately goes for a pin.

ONE!

TW-

KICKOUT!

Keyes grabs at his chest as he scrambles to his feet, but Williams doesn’t allow him a chance to rest as he bounces off the nearby ropes, leaping into a flying lariat!

Nick Stuart: Williams connects! Barely! And Keyes is back on the mat!

Richard Parker: Where he belongs, Nick!

Williams drops for another pin but is quickly rolled up by Keyes!

ONE!

T-

KICKOUT!

Both fighters scramble to their feet, Keyes holding his chest and Williams holding his head.

The pair launch at each other…

Nick Stuart: AIRSHIP SPIN!

Rob Williams is barely moving as Keyes lays an arm over his opponent’s chest.

ONE!

TWO!

T-

NO!

Williams kicks out and rolls away as Keyes also staggers backwards, trying to catch his breath.

Charlotte waves Williams down one more time and tosses him something from ringside…

Nick Stuart: It’s the head from the broken plague doctor!

Richard Parker: That’s sick!

Nick Stuart: By definition… yes.

Keyes manages to grab a Philadelphia Flyers-branded hockey stick from a nearby fan, but not quickly enough! He turns, but before Keyes can land a slap shot, he’s slapped and shot down to the mat as the head of the plague doctor shatters on impact with his cranium!

Keyes falls to the mat but not before Williams catches him with a boot to the stomach!

Richard Parker: Who needs a setup move!? It’s time for the OLD TIME ROCK AND ROOOOOHHHHNO!

Keyes somehow manages to slide out of the hold and lands directly behind Rob Williams!

Nick Stuart: A LIBERTY BELL LEVEL CLAP! RIGHT HERE IN PHILADELPHIA!

Richard Parker: Quit pandering, Nick! This is serious!

Indeed it is.

Nick Stuart: COIN! COIN!

Richard Parker: No!

Keyes lands a devastating set of kicks with a seemingly inhuman burst of energy before wobbling and collapsing to the mat in exhaustion!

Richard Parker: Yes!

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

The fans are roaring as Elvis Nixon begins another double count as both men are not moving!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Keyes is the first to begin to stir crawling towards the ropes.

FOUR!

Williams is still out as Keyes slowly pulls himself upwards, stopping Nixon’s count as the referee turns his attention to the champion.

Nick Stuart: Wait! What’s that!?

The crowd begins to part, roaring in a mix of anger and excitement, as Anna Daniels, still smarting from her match with Blaze Claymore, begins to make her way through the stands!

Richard Parker: Just in Time-Lord!

Anna grabs the Five Star Belt before the time keeper can even clock what’s happening and races to the ring.

The Time Lord gives Charlotte a brief nod before hopping onto the edge of the ring just as Henry Keyes is turning to look and see what the commotion is all about….

CRACK!

The shinny, jagged front plate of the Five Star Championship connects square with the face of the unaware Kraken, sending him spinning and collapsing to the mat!

Nick Stuart: NO! NO, Anna Daniels just— Richard, he never saw it coming! He had no idea!

Richard Parker: Nobody asked him to see it coming, Nick!

Anna quickly hands the title back to Charlotte and expeditiously leaves ringside as Rob Williams begins to finally stir.

Nixon turns to seeing a newly collapsed Henry Keyes just feet away, but doesn’t seem to realize what just happened!

Richard Parker: Maybe Keyes shouldn’t have counted his Coins before they hatched, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Elvis has no idea, Richard! He has absolutely no idea what just happened three feet behind him!

Richard Parker: The guy’s name is Elvis Nixon, Nick; if he was known for his awareness he would have legally changed his name years ago.

The fans are livid as Williams begins to make his way, crawling, toward the downed Keyes as his partner slaps her hands on the mat, cheering him on!

Richard Parker: He’s got the arm, Nick! Way to stay focused!

Nick Stuart: Focused? He’s delirious!

Richard Parker: A delirious champion, maybe!

Williams drapes his arm over the chest of an unresponsive Keyes as Nixon goes for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEE!

DING DING DING

Charlotte reaches down and holds up the Five Star Title in victory, beaming from ear to ear, as Rob Williams finally begins to come to.

The Legend turns to look at Charlotte, who holds the title up even higher so he can see, as he weakly flashes a thumbs up and smiles.

Nixon, meanwhile, is lifting the still-groggy Kraken up into a seated position.

Richard Parker: What a match!

Nick Stuart: Both men fought like hell and it is just awful it had to end with a cheap shot from Daniels!

Richard Parker: Rob Williams has all the money in the world, Nick – nothing he does is cheap!

Nick Stuart: You can bet that Vae Victis will not take this one lying down. The Poor Whoresmen keep the Five Start belt in their possession… for now.

Richard Parker: They can take it lying down, standing up, or bent over backwards, but tonight the Whoresmen showed what it takes to win.

Nick Stuart: Maybe so, Richard, but if I was Rob Williams, I would feel ashamed of how this match turned out. Eventually Henry Keyes is going to ask what happened and I’m not sure any of us want to be the one to tell him.

Richard Parker: Sounds like a job for your best friend, Jack Harmen.

We go elsewhere.

A man walks.

As the camera pans up, you can see his features clear as day.

A black robe that billows from wind that doesn’t seem present. Dyed blonde hair in spikes. Red-tinted sunglasses. A salt and pepper beard. A gnarled staff with a many-eyed potato on one end of it. He walks with the kind of bravado that you have to have when you go around with a business card that reads “Baron York Abernathy Taterton VII, Enemy of Mankind Forevermore.”

The man is not wholly unfamiliar to PRIME viewers. He was involved in Manhunt a year ago in a dastardly plot conducted by the Russians to seize the means of Manhunt points.

He walks through halls that have no place in the Lincoln Financial Field. Stone bricks lit by torchlight. A few steel drums with fires set inside of them. Each step he takes is accompanied by a distinct thonk-ing sound from the bottom of his staff. He walks until he finds a set of heavy double doors, the kind that is peer to the heavy metal doors that mark the office of Lindsay Troy.

The man sets down his staff, spits in his hands, and then rubs them together. He pushes on the door with a grunt. The doors… Well, they don’t open. The man stomps his foot in anger. How dare these doors be so big and heavy!

He picks up his staff and he pulls out a cell phone from under his robes.

The camera cuts and suddenly there are two very large men in potato sack masks. One has a pirate’s hat stitched into the mask, a cutlass at his side. The other has a bandolier of flintlock pistols and an equally silly pirate’s hat with a fading, filthy blue feather adorning the top of it. Together, they push open those heavy double doors that the man carrying the staff couldn’t handle.

Once the doors are open, we follow Baron Taterton and his cronies inside.

The room is dark and eerily quiet.

The self-styled “enemy of mankind forevermore” stops short of a chair and table in the center of the room, the former of which is occupied by a man we can’t clearly see from over Baron Taterton’s shoulder.

Baron Taterton: I bring you good tidings. The compact is complete. The paperwork has been filed. The dark magic has been cast.

He spreads his hands.

Baron Taterton: Finally, my friend, we have a foothold in PRIME.

He laughs. Evilly. Because he is capable of no other kind of laugh.

The camera pans over his shoulder and past him, towards the man sitting in the center of the room. On the table is a single mug of coffee. On the side, it reads “World’s #1 Mathlete.” A small record player is playing a vinyl of early aughts rap music, as though such a thing is commonplace.

Many men.
Many many many many many men.
Wish death on me.

The man who sits in the chair wears a tailored brown suit with a black vest and tie. His curled hair is short. His glasses are sharp. His smirk is unreal. He looks at the camera, and his smirk is dialed up to eleven.

He stands up from his seat.

He nods.

He holds up one finger. Then the other. One plus one. And with a sweeping gesture, he uses his fingers to cut the scene in literal half.

Words appear on the screen that should give a sense of dread to any who see them, written in a black and gold font.

And with those words haunting everyone watching the show, we go to the ring for our next grudge match.

##Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold##

“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.

##When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones##

Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!

##I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me##

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

##All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought##

Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.

##If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah##

Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.

##Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above##

Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!

##In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth##

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

##Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home##

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

##I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones##

Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!

##What is within is a strength you’ll never know##

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

##All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see##

He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

##If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah##

He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

##All I wanna be, yeah##

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.

##Yeah, I was born for this##

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: And his opponent, 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!!!

Philadelphia goes absolutely shithouse rat on crack insane for their native son. The goddamn roof of the place blows completely off. How the hell are we supposed to finish the PPV without a roof? The Philly fans don’t care.

All they care about it that they’re about to watch their hometown boy beat the brakes off Tony Gamble.

Nick Stuart: And the fans are showering The Anglo Luchador in cheers.

Richard Parker: Oddest fans in the world. They boo their own players when they get injured, but cheer Towel like he just won the World Series.

Nick Stuart: Well, Richard, there’s an air of nostalgia to all of this. It reminds me of a time when life was simpler – when wrestling was simpler. Hometown good guy vs. scarfaced bad guy.

Richard Parker: Nick, are things ok at home?

Two legends of the business stand across from one another in the ring in the City of Brotherly Love.

Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

This isn’t the first time TAL and Tony have done this dance, but somehow it feels new. They’re different men.

Every other match on the card has some stipulation. A few extra pieces of flare.

Not this one.

It doesn’t need it.

Nick Stuart: Anglo and Gamble lock up in the middle of the ring now. After pushing one another around, no man seems to be gaining any ground. The Luchador breaks first and delivers a ferocious chest chop to The Grin.

The crowd begins buzzing as TAL waves Tony to “Come on”, slapping his own chest to tell Tony to hit him with his best shot.

And that short motherfucker does.

With all the freakish strength of a carny tough guy, Gamble plants an electric chop across the chest of TAL, who sickly nods his head up and down.

The Anglo Luchador: COME ON! AGAIN!

Gamble is a little thrown off by the tactic, but he’s never been one to throw away salami a few days past the sell-by date, so he winds up and leans into another chest chop with all the might of the working class.

Fans in the front row cringe just from witnessing it.

That awful grin crawls across Tony’s face.

Nick Stuart: There it is. He’s enjoying this.

Richard Parker: He always does. Towel’s been waiting for this, though.

Feeling himself, Tony waves TAL to give him another chop.

TAL obliges, swinging hard – but Tony ducks under and goes for a lariat.

Showing his technical talent, TAL ducks under THAT, pushing away to send Tony bounding into the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Gamble hits the ropes, but TAL is right there on him.

Richard Parker: Like shit on rice.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Big lariat from TAL sends both men toppling to the outside now.

TAL lands a lariat that absolutely rocks Tony’s shit, forcing both men up and over the top rope.

They land hard. Especially hard for two old dudes. Definitely going to need some tiger balm and aleve tonight.

Ashley Barlow begins the count.

1..

The first to move is Gamble. He doesn’t quite get up, instead opting to pull the matting away from the ground outside the ring to expose the concrete below.

2…

Both men are on their feet now – TAL goes for the lock up but gets real intimate with Tony Gamble’s right knee instead. He quickly finds his head between Gamble’s legs.

3…

Nick Stuart: Gamble going for a piledriver onto the concrete now! He grabs The Anglo Luchador by the trunks and hoists him up for an old school piledriver. Gamble is trying to inflict as much damage as possible.

4…

The fans cheer for their guy. The one who made it out of the neighborhood and did the shit he said he was going to do, even when everybody laughed in his face.

5…

It ain’t always been pretty and he’s lost his share of matches… but he did it.

6…

Before Gamble can drop him on his dome piece, TAL goes Super Saiyan or whatever – all full of piss and vinegar from the cheering of the Philadelphia crowd. He pulls his head chrome Gamble’s crotch before rocketing up to Gamble’s shoulders and using his wait to propel Gamble backwards.

7…

They both land with a sickening thud, but The Grin definitely catches the worst of it.

8…

The fans scream and stomp their feet and chant T-A-L as the last few grains of sand fall through the hourglass.

9…

Once again the cheers bring TAL to life. With a speed this era of Anglo Luchador isn’t commonly known for, he bounds to his feet and rolls into the ring – pulling Gamble along with him.

Nick Stuart: TAL could’ve left Gamble out there and gotten the count out win, but that’s not who he is. He’d rather risk losing this match in the long run than winning it with a stain.

Richard Parker: Idiot.

Nick Stuart: It’s called integrity, Nick. Something my wife knows nothing about.

Richard Parker: Getting worried here, Nick.

Back in the ring now TAL takes control.

To throw some salt in the wound from earlier, he lands a couple of knife-edge chops on Gamble before throwing him into the turnbuckle. Gamble bounces off like a goddamn bouncing ball. Flying all over the place and shit. TAL, head full of steam, picks Gamble up and then rocks him with a big right backwards into the turnbuckle again.

Richard Parker: I’m going to buy some stock in Bengay.

Nick Stuart: The Luchador is backing away from the turnbuckle. Odd move to give up on this offensive.

Richard Parker: I told you he’s an idiot. Been dropped on his noggin too many times.

Nick Stuart: Oh?

Full speed, like a goddamn raccoon caught in the trash can, TAL charges forward. For a moment it looks like he’s the captain and the Titanic. Just before what would be a messy, sloppy collision,  TAL leaps onto the middle turnbuckle and plants his feet on Gamble’s chest.

Tony Gamble flies through the air from one turnbuckle damn near to the opposite turnbuckle.

Richard Parker: Aw, shit.

Nick Stuart: Textbook monkey flip from The Anglo Luchador. He gets up and spins a finger in the air, calling for a repeat. The fans go bonkers.

Richard Parker: Bonkers?

Nick Stuart: Kookoo for cocoa puffs.

Richard Parker: Somehow you made it worse.

Once again TAL picks Tony up and pushes him against the turnbuckle.

Head full of steam, blinded by the cheers from his hometown crowd, The Philly Flyer charges once again.

Except this time Gamble is ready.

A drop toe hold paints the top turnbuckle with TAL’s face.

Just like that, Tony Gamble is in control.

Richard Parker: About time he woke up. Welcome to the match, Tony. Got about five grand riding on you so get it together.

Nick Stuart: Gamble is grinning wide as he delivers a knife-edge chop to the chest. And another. And another. And…

It goes on. And on. And on.

The crowd is silent.

This is beyond competition. Gamble is using TAL’s chest to exercise demons.

Everyone has lost count by the time he stops, sweating and smiling.

Nick Stuart: That was… uncalled for.

Richard Parker: Hate to do it, but I have to agree with you, Nick.

But The Anglo Luchador?

He stands the fuck up.

He raises his hands and waves Gamble to give him another.

So Gamble does – chopping TAL down once again.

And guess what? That motherfucker gets right back up.

Forget the roof, the goddamn U.S. Geological Survey thinks there’s an earthquake.

Nick Stuart: This is like watching Rocky.

They repeat this dance a few more times, Gamble growing increasingly frustrated. Increasingly deflated.

Finally, Gamble has had enough – he takes a step back and prepares to charge TAL with a shoulder dive. TAL telegraphs it, using his arms on the top ropes to rocket his crotch right into Gamble’s face.

Somehow The Anglo Luchador takes this extremely vulnerable position and uses it to hit a hurrincanrana over the top rope.

Both men fall out of the ring.

While TAL lands on the apron, Tony Gamble lands head first on the concrete he exposed earlier in the night.

TAL wastes no time throwing Gamble back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Gamble is face down in the ring and it looks like he’s out. TAL wraps him around the waist and lifts him up for a HUGE Russian Neck Drop.

Richard Parker: sigh Karelin Driver.

Nick Stuart: And TAL going for the cover now.

1

2

3

DING DING DING

The crowd fucking explodes as TAL’s music hits again. He stands there in the middle of the ring just showering in all the love from this Philadelphia crowd.

Backstage!

The camera cuts to Angelica Brooks, impeccably dressed as always as she stands Backstage! in front of the public locker room.

Angelica Brooks: Good evening, fans! Angelica Brooks here, right outside the locker room where I’m hoping to get a word with Nate Colton. Last night, the New Diamond went through a hellacious Dog Collar match against Max Kael. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s even in the arena tonight!

She turns to knock on the door, her hair flouncing ever so slightly. Professional and stylish. Your local news team could never.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Angelica Brooks: Mr. Colton? I’d like a few words, if you’ve got time?

“Yeah, come on in!”

Angelica Brooks: Uh…

“It’s fine, we’re all decent!”

“Except Benny.”

“Yeah, except Benny. But he’s got his clothes on, at least.”

She turns back toward the camera, which jostles slightly to indicate the cameraman’s shrug.

Angelica Brooks: Okay…

She cautiously opens the door, ready to run at the first sign of an exposed pecker. Instead she finds a room full of peckerheads (if you ask FLAMBERGE; everyone else would describe them as the Coltons.)

Benjamin, Dennis, and Blake all rest in comfortable chairs, each with an open beer can in hand. They surround an ice bath, which has several more beer cans bobbing in it. Oh, and also Nate Colton. He’s not bobbing, though. Just chillin’. Barely aware of his surroundings, because he’s on so many painkillers that he probably wouldn’t notice if you shot him in the chest.

He can only be seen to his upper abdomen, but the visible parts of Nate Colton are gruesome. Bruises, cuts and welts can be seen in the few places that aren’t bandaged. Stitches on his forehead, one bloodshot eye, and some weird swelling around his neck. Forget the ice bath, he may need to join the Bandits just for cryostasis access.

Off to the side is a table full of food, special items brought in to celebrate those who didn’t die on Night One but not for lack of trying. There’s even a cheesecake, though it only has one slice missing. Half a slice, actually; the rest lies uneaten on a nearby plate.

Nate Colton: Heeeeeeyyy Angie!

Oh God, his voice sounds worse than he looks. Like he’s been eating cigarettes and gravel for breakfast.

Nate Colton: You hungry? Grab some rutabaga cheesecake!

Angelica Brooks: …no, thank you. How are you feeling tonight?

Nate Colton: I am in so much pain!

He’s weirdly chipper about it. Probably because of the painkillers.

Angelica Brooks: I’m not surprised. That was one of the bloodiest, most brutal battles we’ve seen in the ReVival era.

Nate Colton: Yeah, that sucked. Never let me do that again. In fact–new Rule. Blake, write this down.

Blake, ever eager to be of service, brings out a notepad and pencil.

Nate Colton: No more dog collar matches with scary psychopath bastard men who may or may not have come back from the dead or have other mystical powers.

Blake Colton: Got it. Are dog collar matches against regular bastard men still okay?

Nate Colton: Umm…I mean, I guess. Don’t see why not. Anyway. I got some stitches in my head, a bunch more on my back, and probably a few in my soul. So in case anyone out there is thinking about fighting Max Kael in a Dog Collar Match, don’t. It ain’t worth it, and he will kick the shit out of you. You sure you don’t need some rutabaga cheesecake?

Angelica Brooks: No, I do not.

Nate Colton: Yeah, can’t blame you. Really don’t know what I was thinking there…but hey, props to Anna Daniels for bringing one around. How about a beer?

He helpfully plucks a can floating around in his bowl of Dude Gazpacho. Angelica does not seem tempted.

Angelica Brooks: No, thank you. I’m working.

Nate Colton: How about you, camera man?

A hairy arm extends into view, but Angelica quickly pushes it down.

Angelica Brooks: He’s working too.

Nate Colton: Suit yourself.

Nate cracks open the beer, but Dennis quickly grabs it from his hand.

Dennis Colton: You don’t need a beer either.

Nate Colton: Good call. Thank you, doctor.

Angelica Brooks: So, tonight…is this your way of celebrating your victory?

Nate Colton: Dunno if I’d call it celebrating…or a victory. Sure as shit doesn’t feel like one. It was just gonna be me and Blake and the Lads, throwin’ back beers and watching the show. It’s a miracle I’m even alive, and I definitely can’t drink right now, ‘cause I am doped to the gills.

Dennis Colton: Higher than Rezin in a helicopter.

Benjamin Colton: On his way to another planet.

Too bad they were all destroyed last night. IF ONLY SOMEONE HADN’T EXCOMMUNICATED PLUTO!

Blake Colton: Hopped up on goofballs.

Nate Colton: I lost count of how many times Max and I damn near killed each other last night. And somewhere in the middle of that…don’t remember if it was when he tried to hang me, or when I tried to whip the skin off his back…I had this thought. Is this who I am? Is this who I wanna be?

Angelica Brooks: I see. So, the hug…that wasn’t some desperate tactic to rattle Kael, and throw him off his game?

Nate Colton: Kinda, I guess? But…look, that guy’s the fuckin’ worst. And we’ve been beating the shit out of him for it for years now. But he keeps comin’ back, like a…like a cockroach on a boomerang. So I thought, what have we never tried against Max Kael? And I got the answer…well, I’ve never seen anyone treat him like a goddamn human being. And then I thought…what the hell, let’s give it a shot.

He absentmindedly pulls out another beer; this one is grabbed right away by his eldest younger brother.

Benjamin Colton: Stop that. If you die from mixing booze and painkillers then I have to be the responsible one.

Nate Colton: Shit. Yeah, OK. So…yeah. Maybe I was tryin’ to fuck with him a little. But more than that…I think I was tryin’ to get him to feel something. More than a monster, y’know? Just a little bit. A spark of humanity, enough that someday he might think about how that felt, and go looking for more.

Angelica Brooks: Interesting. Do you think he will?

Nate Colton: Probably not. But you gotta have hope, or what the fuck’s the point?

Angelica Brooks: I see. Well, it’s been a very intense return to action for you after your injury.

Nate Colton: You can say that again.

She doesn’t, because Angelica is better than that.

Angelica Brooks: What’s next for Nate Colton?

He indicates the general surroundings with a gesture of his left hand. He’d look around, but moving his neck would probably make him cry on live television.

Nate Colton: Take a look around, Anj. This room used to be fun. It was…it was this little sanctuary, where we could just be regular people before we went out to the ring and kicked the shit out of each other. Now, guys are only in here long enough to get changed, if they come in at all. There’s no…no fuckin’ life in here, y’know? And I want that back. So I want everyone to hear what I got to say next.

He raises his right hand out of the water, still shaking from the cold. That’s his decreein’ hand.

Nate Colton: This locker room is open to anyone and everyone. Clean slate. You wanna hang, we’ll hang. You wanna talk, we’ll talk. You wanna be left alone, I’ll back off. But it’s big enough that there’s room for everyone, and I’m gonna make sure it stays that way.

Angelica Brooks: That’s a…bold plan, considering some of the people on the roster.

“Bold” sounds an awful lot like “stupid.”

Nate Colton: Yeah, I know. That’s why we got a rule. You leave your bullshit at the door. No fighting. No sneak attacks. No telling the dirt sheets or the fuckin’ Russian media or whatever about what gets said. Anyone who breaks that rule gets thrown out, and stays out. You get one warning…and that was it.

Angelica Brooks: And how well do you think that will go?

Nate Colton: Well…you gotta have hope, or…

He trails off, possibly because he’s falling asleep.

Angelica Brooks: A bold–

Still kinda sounds like she means “stupid.”

Angelica Brooks: –declaration from the New Diamond. Anything else you want to add?

Nate Colton: Just that I should probably get out of this thing. Don’t want to fall asleep in here.

Blake Colton: How high are you right now?

Nate Colton: Dunno. Eight?

Benjamin Colton: Yeah, that’s a lot of high. No more goofballs for you tonight.

In this room? Yeah, that ain’t true.

Angelica Brooks: Nick, Richard…back to you.

A momentous night. Title matches galore. An undercard that would be feature bouts all across the wrestling landscape. However, we are here, with one final bout scheduled to take place in this venue. A wide shot filters on through Lincoln Financial Field. The Philadelphia fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. However, before the pomp and pageantry, as the lens scans the crowd, we hear the voices of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The official for the following contest. Elvis. Nixon.

A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!

Suddenly, Lincoln Financial Field’s lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th, 35th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.

34th Champion
CORAL AVALON

When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.

In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a  silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.

Those were the prelude. Now? His place atop the sport is without question. His reign has transcended all others of the ReVival. More defenses and days than anyone else. For a calendar year, it is he who has been the central focus of these pieces. The End of The Line.

This…is his domain.

36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON

At a certain point, when inevitable does not happen, it creates a mythology all its own.

All Universal Champions eventually fall. It is the way of things. But is that truly the case? How many times does Cecilworth Farthington have to step into the ring and successfully defend the most sacred championship in all of sports for inevitable to become something different.

Something more.

Not inevitable .

Utterly invincible.

Daytona Diamonds has experienced this first hand. Nearly a year ago, he had the chance to take the Universal Championship for himself. All the mass, all the brawn.

He failed.

And maybe that was his one chance.

His one shot.

Inevitable.

Bumps along the way. Yet still, here, he finds himself once again knocking at the door.

Does the door refuse to budge once again…

…or on this night, does it finally come off its hinges?

The lights die.

A low murmur spreads through the arena as the opening notes of “The Ecstasy of Gold” by Ennio Morricone begins to drift through the darkness. The PRIMEview flickers to life. White text against a black background.

ULTRADIAMONDS 2023

A pickup truck with a neon underglow. Four filthy mattresses thrown onto concrete. A cardboard sign hastily taped to the back of the truck. Daytona Diamonds standing atop the bed with a megaphone, screaming into the Chicago night. Quick cuts. Twenty dollar bills. Daytona covered in blood atop the hood of his truck. Police lights. Handcuffs. The footage cuts to black. The music continues.

ULTRADIAMONDS 2024

Seattle. Paper lanterns. A filthy basement. A rhinestone throne. Bare-knuckle fights. Peckerwood. The crowd chanting. Rob Williams dropping a man with one punch. Daytona laughing so hard he nearly falls from his throne. Black again. The horns continue to swell.

ULTRADIAMONDS 2025

The Whorehouse. A hallway packed shoulder to shoulder with fans. A banner above the door. Anna. Rob. Fred. The doors burst open. Bodies. Blood. Chaos. A larger, broader Daytona Diamonds hurling another paying customer onto the floor. “Daddy’s home, motherfuckers.”

Silence. Even light in the arena dims, even the PRIMEview. Nothing remains except the final, lingering notes of the music.

…

…

…

One final title fades onto the screen.

ULTRADIAMONDS 2026

The screen disappears… and then…

♫ “LOOOOOORD HELP ME, I CAN’T CHA-AY-AY-AY-AY-AY-NGE” ♫

“Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd rips through the arena like a bat out of hell, skipping right to the guitar solo because we all know the guitar solo is the only part that actually matters. Gold pyro explodes across the stage. The curtain parts. Daytona Diamonds steps through.

The Rhinestone Cowboy. The white hat sits low over his brow. The fringe of his jacket sways with each deliberate step. The rhinestones shimmer beneath the lights. The crowd immediately lets him have it, boos cascading from every corner of the building. He doesn’t acknowledge a single one. Not one fan. Not one camera. Not even the ring. His eyes are fixed somewhere beyond it.

The guitar screams.

♫ “LOOOOOORD, I CAN’T CHANGE. WON’T YOU FLYYYYY HIGGGGHHH, FREE BIRD? YEAAAH!” ♫

Every step, slow and measured. Perfectly even. Until halfway down the aisle… he stops and blinks. The change is almost imperceptible. His jaw tightens. His chin lifts a fraction. His shoulders settle lower. The swagger disappears entirely. For a moment, it’s like he doesn’t know where he is… and then he starts walking again.

Hands reach over the barricades. Someone throws a cup. Another shouts inches from his face. Daytona never looks and doesn’t react. Never even seems to hear them. The camera catches his face. Expressionless. Cold. His eyes never leave the ring.

The guitar solo continues to wail overhead when Daytona reaches ringside. He circles it once like a vulture before he climbs the steel steps, wipes his boots on the apron, and steps through the ropes. He crosses to the center of the ring and stops just as the music comes to its final crescendo.

He exhales. His head tilts. He slowly turns, looking out at the sea of hostile faces surrounding him. His lip curls into the faintest crooked grin. He reaches up, straightening the brim of his hat before taking his corner and placing it atop the turnbuckle, just like always.

The music cuts.

The arena remains loud.

Daytona says nothing.

He simply waits.

“Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me

The arena slowly begins to darken, as the opening moments of “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begin to slowly reverberate. As the riff reaches its peak, the whole crowd is awakened with bright lights shining down upon them as out from backstage steps Lord Cecilworth Farthington.

The camera quickly zooms into the self-assured smile that’s cracked upon the face of The Financier as he swaggers down to the right, both arms inserted into the pockets of a plain black hoodie. The jovial face of Farthington doesn’t entirely match his purposeful march to the ring, his shoulders swaying to the tune of “Choke.”

His hands never leave the pockets, as he slowly rolls under the bottom rope and leaps up into the ring. He slowly raises his left arm up into the sky and gives the crowd a cheeky little wave as he takes his place resting against the ring corner.

Richard Parker: TAL, Jiles, Daytona previously, Nate Colton, Chandler Tsonda, Malak Garland, Cancer Jiles again, FLAMBERGE, Chandler Tsonda again… Nine have tried to unseat our Universal Champion.

Nick Stuart: What a li…

Richard Parker: And nine have failed, Nick! Tonight Cecilworth passes Nova!

Nick Stuart: I think Daytona will have something to say about that, Richard.

Vince Howard: Introducing the REIGNING and DEFENDING PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION, THE CONGA CRUSHERRRRRRRR, CECILWORTH FAAAAAAAAARTHINGTON!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: And here we go! Fun bags of 40 items are everywhere!

Richard Parker: Why is it 40? Who knows. Nobody needs to know. I sure don’t. No siree.

Choke fades as the two stand in the center of the ring. The Lincoln Financial field is rocking, Lindsay Troy doesn’t have lasers shooting into the club seats that strangely are blinding everyone, and particularly a group of drunken people in section C20 particularly rows 8 and 9 during night two of a major pay-per-view event. You know, because that would be stupid and very inconvenient. Those delightful seats without the lasers. How wonderful. Cecilworth enters the ring and approaches the center with the Universal Championship wrapped around his waist.

Nick Stuart: 470 days Cecilworth Farthington has been Universal Champion. His 10th attempted defense of the title. To break the record for most defenses of the Universal Championship.

Richard Parker: THEY PUT THIS STEROID FREAK OUT HERE!

Nick Stuart: Daytona won his way here, and it looks like instructions from Nixon are finished. We’re going to the bell.

DING DING 

The bell rings and Cecilworth, a renowned bullfighter has encountered another. Daytona storms forward across the ring, a bag of 40 something’s clenched in his fingers. Cecilworth dodges a wild and very peculiar right handed bomb thrown from Diamonds. Cecilworth dances away towards the center of the ring as Diamonds comes back out of the corner in a hurry.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds looking for the quick start!

Richard Parker: Hope he’s got the oxygen tank ready, he’s in for a long night.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Diamonds intends for it to be that way.

Daytona’s roidpage continues. He smashes his way back and takes another wild right hand at Cecilworth, this one grazes his cheek. He was a step behind the 40 something loaded punch, but he wasn’t that far behind. Cecilworth smirks and this time delivers a muay thai style strike to the outside of Daytona’s right leg. Daytona powers through and tries to charge Cecilworth to the corner. The champion slides his leg in front of Diamond’s foot and falls forward into the bottom turnbuckle. Slamming Daytona’s face into it.

Nick Stuart: Oh! Diamonds takes a big shot there!

Richard Parker: GET HIM!

A tangle of limbs ensues, and Cecilworth slithers his way to having Diamonds balled up under the turnbuckle, a leg hooked in the middle rope, the other pinned by Cecilworth’s arm. Farthington pulls back a boot and slaps Diamonds from three to four inches away over and over again in the side of the face. Daytona thrashes an arm at Cecilworth, but they are so far away. Another thrash, this time it grabs Cecilworth’s foot and yanks. Cecilworth tumbles and another jumble of bodyparts and ropes ensues.

Nick Stuart: I, this is a mess.

Daytona rolls as Cecilworth tumbles, but Diamonds’ foot gets caught in Cecilworth’s as he stands and he falls forward through the middle rope. He grabs Cecilworth by the shoulder and yanks him through the middle rope with him. Cecilworth flies off the apron and careens down to the barrier on the outside.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth just got launched!

Richard Parker: He slowed down in the air, I watched him do it with my own eyes.

Cecilworth did not slow himself down in the air, he did however at least land right side up. And that’s about as good as you can get in that specific flying situation. Diamonds rolls off the apron and to the outside. Cecilworth brings himself to all the way standing. He winces as he fires a european uppercut into Diamonds’ chest, Daytona staggers, but through it all, he’d never dropped the bag in his hand. Diamonds loads up, feints with an attempt at Cecilworth’s toes with a stomp, but the overhand right connects and sends Cecilworth flipping over the barrier and into the crowd.

Nick Stuart: WHAT A RIGHT HAND BY DAYTONA!

Richard Parker: NO! NO! GLANCING BLOW! HE BLOCKED!

Cecilworth stumbles from the flip to his feet, but Daytona is already over the barricade and charging, this time with a loaded discus right hand. It smashes Cecilworth on the jaw. Farthington crumples in a heap across two rows of fans as Diamonds roars in the crowd. Philadelphia is shocked, Enemigos swarm the area as Diamonds tries to a hurl a chair to ringside but finds out they are all locked in a line and instead flips half the row out of their seat. Cecilworth flops off the row and into the area between. Diamonds sprints down the row of chairs and grabs Cecilworth by the back of the head. Somewhere from famed and esteemed section C20 a basket of chicken tenders and fries from Chickie and Pete’s careens down.Those vinegar covered chicken chicken tenders smacks Diamonds across the shoulder.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth is in big trouble here.

Richard Parker: Uh… Uh… CHECK THE BAG AND MAKE SURE THERE’S 40!

Daytona decides to answer Richard’s question by pulling the roll of the quarters out of the bag, and busting them across Cecilworth’s forehead.

Richard Parker: NOW WE CAN’T COUNT THEM! WHAT IF THE PERSON WAS CHEAP! WHAT IF ONE WAS CANADIAN!? THIS IS A SCANDAL!

Richard’s rambling continues as Daytona grabs the limp Farthington and roughly pulls him to the barricade. He sends him tumbling over the barricade to the padded floor. Cecilworth lands with a smack, and Daytona follows it with a kick to Farthington, Cecilworth rolls away reflexively, and Diamonds yanks him up and rolls him into the ring. Cecilworth rolls in and Diamonds slides under the bottom rope. He smiles and starts pointing down at Farthington and laughing.

Richard Parker: Come on…

Nick Stuart: He’s in trouble!

Cecilworth has slowly clawed his way to his knees as Diamonds stands over him. Lincoln Financial Stadium is absolutely silent. Cryptically so, and Daytona slashes his throat with his thumb, he grabs Cecilworth around the waist and yanks him up into the powerbomb position. Diamonds takes two steps forward and begins the descent, but Cecilworth holds onto the back of Diamonds’ head. Daytona tries to reach Cecilworth’s arms, but Farthington holds on tight. Daytona tries to rip him off, but Farthington has a knee between him and Daytona now. The champions fingers make it to Diamonds’ eye, and he gives that iris a little jab. Daytona takes it like the famed C20 bunch took it, and it gives Cecilworth enough time to escape.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth has life!

Richard Parker: He was playing possum the whole time.

He wasn’t, Cecilworth’s skull was on fire, but he was finally away from the behemoth thing he was currently trying to have a wrestling match with. Daytona charges at Farthington one eyed, Cecilworth manages to slip away and roll to the outside. He was still holding his head, he reached down and picked up a bag of 40 things. You know, because 40 things is a thing. And things need to be things so things can thing. Right? Right. So Cecilworth has 40 somethings and Daytona is in hot pursuit, with a chair he acquired from a stack of 40 some jolf clubs. It’s looks particularly small in Daytona’s massive grasp, he ignores the barbwire of the 3 iron digging into his skin as he roars and chases after Farthington.

Richard Parker: What the…

Farthington manages to shake open a bag of miniature toy sailing ships, tanks, and prop airplanes. Some army men sprinkle down for the occasion, Diamonds tramples the ground troops, but a tank causes him to stumble. Cecilworth reaches down and grabs another bag of 40 somethings from under the apron. He swings it at Diamonds, and is very disappointed when he swings a bag of 40 something pockets of sand at Diamonds. Sadly, the sand was still in the bag, and while 40 pockets of sand sounds like a lot, we’re not talking about jnco jean pockets here. We’re talking pockets. The smack hits Daytona and he turns his head, the bag breaks and a poof of sand shoots into the front few rows. Diamonds watches it go for a moment, a european uppercut brings him back to reality. Farthington stumbles into it, Diamonds whirls bringing a huge right hand with him.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s what Cecilworth had in mind when he grabbed that bag.

Richard Parker: No, no I really thought it was a bag of rocks. Maybe bricks? Anything much harder would have been great. Gravel? Gravel would have been good.

Farthington cuts the right hand off with a boot to Diamonds’ midsection. Daytona once again stumbles back, Cecilworth lunges with another uppercut that finally sends Diamonds reeling into the barricade. The Finish Line strikes. He lunges at Diamonds with a double footed drop kick, he ignores Diamonds’ chest, and instead kicks him in the right arm, smashing it against the hard barricade. Daytona roars, Cecilworth holds his skull for a moment, he gets to his feet and takes a semi-wobbly step. He lunges at Diamonds’ arm again, this time throwing caution, and his body to the wind. His shoulder smashes against Diamonds’ bicep, Daytona screams and brings his left around and shoves Farthington backwards.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth has some fight in him.

Richard Parker: He’s gonna get him, Nick. Just wear him down. He took his best shot. He’s gonna reel in the big fish now.

Cecilworth lunges forward again with a knee to Daytona’s chest. Daytona slams against the barricade again, and Farthington grabs him and sends him careening into the other side of the corner, down towards the timekeeper’s table. Cecilworth stumbles for a moment, but comes in with a kick to the back of Daytona’s knee.

Richard Parker: Pick him apart!

Daytona stumbles in front of the table. Some of the crushed and smashed army men are spread across the ground. Cecilworth smashes Diamonds in the face with a boot that sends him sprawling across the table. Cecilworth kicks Daytona in the arm, The Rhinestone Cowboy rolls away from the blow and crosses to the other side of the table. He looks up at Cecilworth, across the table, holding his wrist?!

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth grabbed that arm just at the last second.

Cecilworth smashes it down across the wooden table, Daytona roars, Cecilworth starts across the table at Diamonds, the Anabolic Outlaw tries to push Cecilworth away, but Farthington explodes forward, his legs slide around Daytona’s body, gliding away from the outstretched arm, and locating Daytona’s right shoulder. He rotates around and begins yanking back as hard as he can.

Nick Stuart: STANDING ARMBAR! STANDING ARMBAR!

Richard Parker: BREAK IT! BREAK IT!

Daytona is shocked, he whips and flails Cecilworth around in a circle, Farthington manages to throw himself deeper onto Daytona’s shoulder, Cecilworth holding himself upright, he starts to yank Daytona’s hand back and twist his wrist into a very uncomfortable and awkward position. Diamonds is shouting and cussing up a storm. Daytona half accidentally slams Farthington into the barricade head first. Cecilworth manages to tuck his chin, but the blow causes a second of hesitation. Daytona’s eyes light up and he smashes himself and Cecilworth into the barricade at a running sprint.

Nick Stuart: OH!

Cecilworth’s entire body makes impact, Daytona is able to flex that massive bicep for just a second during the impact, and he manages to lock an absolute iron grip with his two hands. Cecilworth holds the back of his head with one arm, as he pries at Daytona’s hands with his other. The Rhinestone Cowboy’s feet are underneath him though. Daytona rotates Cecilworth in front of him.

Richard Parker: NO! NO!

Daytona comes crashing down, powerbombing Cecilworth through the timekeepers table. Farthington smashes against the unpadded concrete, Diamonds comes out of the destruction, stumbling backwards. His right arm is tucked in tight against his chest. Cecilworth’s legs are hanging off part of the announce table, the black table cloth is half folded around him. The bell lays underneath the small of his back.

Nick Stuart: What a powerbomb…

Daytona huffs against the apron, his breathing is deep. The tank is empty, his elbow is searing. The Anabolic Challenger sneers at Cecilworth. He slowly makes his way from the apron to the table. He wipes blood from under his eye, Cecilworth’s knee had cut him. Diamonds reaches down and grabs Cecilworth and yanks him to his feet. He turns and throws the champion under the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: Maybe he’s playing possum! Maybe he’s fine!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think he’s fine, Richard.

Cecilworth flops into the ring, and Diamonds follows under the bottom rope. His right arm is beat red, and clutched against his chest. He drags Farthington to his knees, and wraps his left arm around Farthington’s midsection. Diamonds’ lift is uncontested. Daytona stalls for a moment, giving everything to bend the arm one more time. The right arm locks in, Daytona takes a step forward and the mat at Lincoln Financial Stadium explodes from a sitout powerbomb.

Nick Stuart: HANG ‘EM HIGH BOMB!

Richard Parker: NO! NO!

Daytona puts his legs over Cecilworth’s shoulders as Elvis Nixon drops for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

…………

THREE!

DING DING DING 

The crowd in Philadelphia is silent. Diamonds springs to his feet and looks for more of Cecilworth, but Farthington is already out of the ring as Daytona Diamonds is mugged by Fred Dick, Rob Williams, and Anna Daniels. They hit the ring before Nixon has brought the belt to Daytona.

Diamonds begins to thrash, and then looks around at the whoresmen as Nixon hands him the Universal Championship. He’s shocked, the blood under his eye, his elbow is on fire. He looks up the entrance ramp at Cecilworth Farthington.  Hank, Joe, Hayes, all of Glue present surrounds Cecilworth on the ramp, the Financier in the arms of his friends looks back down the ramp.

Vince Howard: And NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! DAAAAAAYTONA DIIAAAAAAMMMMOOOOONNNNNDDDDDDSSSSSS!!!!!!!

Daytona Diamonds hold the Universal Championship while a sea of Lasagna, Rob Williams, and Anna Daniels carry him around the ring. The crowd boos the whoresmen, as Cecilworth turns around one last time at the top of the ramp. Slowly the arena begins to clap as the crowd turns towards Farthington.

Nick Stuart: A salute from PRIME for an incredible run to the champion.

Richard Parker: It was beautiful…

Nick Stuart: A new era begins though, Richard.

Cecilworth takes his leave through the curtain, as the camera flashes back to the Whoresmen. The celebration continues at the Linc, fireworks are shooting off in every direction, Daytona Diamonds is going corner to corner with the Universal Championship. Rob Williams has hit a ‘cheers’ about six times with the belts. Daytona is still absolutely shocked, holding the Universal Championship in his arms.

Nick Stuart: That’s all for us here! A Rhinestone Era Begins tonight!

Richard Parker: *sob*

The scene fades to 2300 Arena.

Hayes Hanlon, without a match at UltraViolence, finds himself wandering, with a sort of gravitational pull to find Brandon Youngblood before his match.

Finding the door to his dressing room, he gives the door a couple raps with his knuckles.

No reply.

Boldly, he turns the handle to peer inside.

Nobody home. Must have just missed him.

With a shrug, he takes a sip from a gin and tonic from a tall plastic cup, and turns to wander elsewhere.

As he turns, he nearly bumped into two men walking down the hallway. The closest, Kris Roswell, pulls back and puts his hands up.

Kris Roswell: My bad.

If it were up to Kris Roswell, that would probably be the end of the interaction. Quick excuse me, walk away, then go find a spot to watch the main event. But it isn’t up to Kris, it’s up to his tag team partner.

Satan Jones: Hey, it’s Hayes Hanlon! The double last name lothario! What’s up, buddy?

Hayes cocks an eyebrow at Jones, then holds up a hand to Roswell before taking another sip through the straw of his drink.

Hayes Hanlon: Well, you’re looking at it. No match, so just kinda–

He looks around in the general hallway area.

Hayes Hanlon: –floating.

Satan Jones: Got you. We’re total ghosts too. At least tonight. Last night we beat a couple of British people. Commemorating 250 years and all that.

Kris Roswell rolls his eyes.

Kris Roswell: No, they were just assholes.

Satan shrugs, then looks back at Hayes.

Satan Jones: So, I guess you’re just…bored, then? Not making enough enemies?

Hayes scoffs through his nose.

Hayes Hanlon: Yeahhh, that’s not a problem for me. And “bored?” For real, bud? It’s not my fault Troy would rather put me on the bench at UltraViolence, but hey, I guess she thought–

Hayes furrows his brow quizzically, and gestures broadly at Roswell and Jones.

Hayes Hanlon: –whatever this is, would be a better draw.

Satan Jones: Whatever this is? How many Instagram followers do you have?

Kris raises a hand.

Kris Roswell: Don’t answer that.

The former NFL kicker gestures behind Hayes, presumably to the STEEL DOOR OF DOOM in the distance.

Kris Roswell: I know we haven’t been here long, but I’ve been here long enough to know that the people who blame Lindsay Troy for unfair treatment usually did something to deserve it. So if she left me off one of the biggest nights of the year, I’d probably wonder what I did to deserve it rather than try to dunk on other people.

Hayes Hanlon: Oh? I wonder…

Hayes taps his temple as if in deep thought, then counts on one finger.

He lifts his brow, then shakes it off.

He counts a second finger, mulls it over, then shakes again.

A third, and fourth.

And after this painfully long demonstration, he shrugs his shoulders to the Foot Soldiers, and takes a long sip through the straw of his G&T.

Hayes Hanlon: I got nothin’.

Satan, enraptured by this performance, grabs his tag partner’s shoulders.

Satan Jones: What does it mean, Kris? I can’t count that high.

Kris Roswell: You do know that everyone knows you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be, right?

Satan Jones: Shhh. You’ll blow my cover.

Kris Roswell: You know, if you’re having problems getting on a show like this…maybe you need to join the tag ranks. It’s getting pretty big since they brought the titles back. Water’s fine if you ever want to dip your toe in.

Another scoff through Hammerin’ Hanlon’s nostrils. He flits his eyes from Satan, to Kris, and back again.

Hayes Hanlon: That water looks…murky at best. But nah. Tag’s not my style.

Kris Roswell: Fair enough. Not everyone is built for it. It’s more than just holding a rope and waiting for your turn to enter the ring. It’s about trust, teamwork, and depending on other people. A lot of cocky selfish types can’t stand the thought of sharing glory, or depending on others.

Satan juts a thumb at himself.

Satan Jones: But some cocky selfish types can. Like this guy.

Hayes Hanlon: Boys, Yours Truly has a pretty good collection of belts. I’m kinda dripping in glory. That and I’m in the most decorated stable that’s ever existed. Besides…

Hayes lifts his big ol’ chest proudly, and pops each pec.

Hayes Hanlon: There’s more than enough of me to go around without a tag partner getting in the way.

Satan leans over to stage whisper into Kris’s ear.

Satan Jones: It’s weird that he’s bragging about being fat.

Kris rolls his eyes.

Kris Roswell: It’s true. You’re a legend. Lots of belts. Great stable. And yet here you are…floating.

Satan Jones: Plus you’re like right above fabby in the Glue-rarchy.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s the Glecking Order, nerd. But tell ya what.

Hayes sucks down the rest of his gin and tonic through his straw. Taking his time. Making the annoying sucking sounds last a good long while before tossing it into a nearby garbage can.

Hayes Hanlon: If you boys feel that good about your little tag division, then maybe we meet up at ReV 90? You can show up, with all your trust, your teamwork, and your DePeNdInG on each other, and then I’ll show up. Either with a partner–

He takes one step in, glancing back and forth between them.

Hayes Hanlon: –or by my freakin’ self.

With the curl of his ‘stache, Hayes steps back, giving his pecs another pop before turning away with a half-assed salute of his fingers, floatin’ on down the hall.

Satan looks after him, then scoffs.

Satan Jones: So he can pec pop. Big deal. I can do it too.

He looks down and strains hard as his chest does not move. Then, after a minute, he slaps his chest.

Satan Jones: POP!

Kris shakes his head and stares after Hayes.

Kris Roswell: Jackass.

We don’t know if he’s talking about Hayes or his tag partner, so let’s go elsewhere.

Welcome back to UltraViolence.

Welcome to Philadelphia.

But no. Not in that homogenized, sterile football field of glitz and glamour nine minutes away from our current location. No. We’re in the mud. We’re in the dredges. We’re in the 2300 Arena.

The map of Philadelphia might as well have a dragon drawn on top of this building with the words “Here There Be Dragons” scrawled out in some Ye Olde English script. The crowd here is full of dyed-in-the-wool Philadelphians. The kinds of people who truly replace the word “love” with “loathe” in Philadelphia’s “City of Brotherly Love” moniker. The kinds of people who’d set fire to their own city as a victory celebration. The kinds of people who would respond to a promo about saying prayers and taking your vitamins with the worst, most vile shit you’ve ever heard in your life.

In other words…

Welcome to Philadelphia.

Welcome to Bandit Country.

Welcome to a kind of hell they might talk about in some editions of the Bible, grounds so hostile to the very fabric of PRIME that it’s a whole other world entirely. This isn’t simply the 2300. This isn’t simply a place where they might chant three letters as though they mean anything in 2026.

This is Pandemonium.

The very heart of Chaos.

The Gallows of Philadelphia.

Bandit Country.

Even now, before even announcements could be made, the energy in the air is dangerous. Fans are rowdy and about six Millers Lite deep, and are just one wrong comment and mean look away from a full-blown Philadelphian riot. Nearly everybody in the crowd is in electric blue, as though they all shopped at the same store and bought the same outfit. If News and Notes comes out later this week and doesn’t mention a word about anyone getting stabbed out here tonight, we’ll consider it a fucking miracle.

We also have very unique signs, just for the occasion, such as…

ONCE A BANDIT
IF CRUMBLUD WINS, WE RIOT
KILL HIM, JILES
HA
CANE VINNY
BOBBY 4 PRESIDENT
I CAME TO SEE BANDITRY, BUT I STILL CAN’T SEE DOOZER
MAIM HIM, JILES
FINALLY, A CHANCE TO AVENGE COCAINE!
HELLO, I’M CORAL AVALON’S FOREHEAD, YOU CAN SEE ME FROM SPACE!
CANER VINNY
MARRY ME, VICKIE!
WELCOME TO SCABPLEX CITY
I ATE AT RAISIN CANER’S CHICKEN FINGERS AND IT WAS PRETTY GOOD
HAS ANYONE SEEN ZEB MARTIN LATELY?
IF CRUMBLUD WINS, WE CRUCIFY CARDBOARD DAN RYAN
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD HANGING OUT IN KENSINGTON AND I SAID, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BRANDON?” AND HE SAID “FENTANYL”, SO I DIDN’T THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO ASK ANY MORE QUESTIONS. GOOD LUCK BRANDON!!!
EGG HIM, JILES
CANEST VINNY
VOICI RICK, ET JE N’AI’LE DROIT À RIEN D’AUTRE QU’UNE SIMPLE APPARITION
THERE IS NO CURE FOR CANCER
ALWAYS A BANDIT

Obviously, Nick Stuart and Richard Parker aren’t here. They’re still nine minutes away in Lincoln Financial, still trying to make sense of Daytona Diamonds finally ending 470 days of the Cecilworth Farthington era of the Universal Championship. In no way were we going to risk their lives inside the unholy halls of Philademonium. No.

Like we said.

This is Bandit Country.

And Bandit County has its own commentary team.

It’s a two-man booth this evening.

On one side, you have Bobby Dean. Of course you have Bobby Dean. If you’re going to be in Bandit Country, you are going to have to experience Bobby Dean in some form or fashion. Our beautiful boy is sitting there with a stupid grin on his face. He has absolutely no idea why he’s there, and that’s his only reaction to being there. The sounds of Bandit fans roaring clearly make Bobby even giddy.

Bobby Dean: I can’t hear myself think!

Next to him is a man who almost needs no introduction. He’s dressed in a cool blue waistcoat suit. He’s a PRIME Hall of Famer. He’s the Golden Bandit. He’s The Forehead. He’s one of the longest reigning Universal champions in PRIME’s history. He’s…

Coral Avalon: Welcome to Philadelphia!

Yeah.

That guy.

Coral is not saying this in the same way we just said the exact same line, though he’s not entirely unaware of the hellmouth he sits in at ringside. In any case, you might be wondering why Coral Avalon is here on commentary. Well, that’s because someone has to be the sane one here, and Coral has bravely agreed to take on this role. Bless his heart. We don’t know what kind of dirt Cancer Jiles has on him, but it could’ve been as simple as the fact that Coral hasn’t changed his number yet and had a free day on his busy schedule.

Doozer: Yeah. Welcome to whatever. I’m here too.

Oh.

We thought this was a two-man booth. Our mistake.

Coral Avalon: Tonight, we’re here to settle a score that’s been going on for four years. Tonight! Here in the “House That Jiles Built,” Brandon Youngblood walks into the lion’s den to take on Cancer Jiles!

Bobby Dean (mild panic): We have lions here!?

Coral Avalon: Metaphorical lions, Bobby!

Bobby Dean (still in panic): Oh shit, metaphorical lions are the most dangerous!

Coral Avalon: Don’t make me ignore you, Bobby. That’s what Doozer’s here for.

Doozer: Fuck you.

Coral lets out an amused chuckle, before he gets back to business.

Coral Avalon: Earlier, before we went on the air here in the 2300, we opened our festivities by having Vickie Hall sing the National Bandithem.

A pause.

Coral Avalon: Three people are still in critical condition, and I’ve seen and heard horrors that I will continue to see long after I’m dead.

Coral smiles the type of haunted smile you might have if you’ve been witness to such an event. Bobby loudly and nervously munches on popcorn over a live microphone, to the clear annoyance of most of you.

Meanwhile, a man loudly clears his throat over the PA system. It’s enough to make even the raucous Bandit crowd stand to attention.

The man standing in the ring is dressed as immaculately for the occasion as he should. Which is to say that he was asked to wear the standard electric blue track suit, and he said “fuck you, make me” and chose to wear a decent suit. It’s red, if you want to know. I’m pretty sure the one who “asked” had meant it to be a “demand” but then ReVival 89 happened and it’s kind of surprising to see him here at all.

Tony Gamble stands in the ring.

He’s no longer an eGG Bandit, but he will always be an eGG Bandit.

And he’d rather be anywhere else, of course. Convalescing over what happened with TAL, perhaps.

One of the reasons he’d rather be anywhere else is the fact that he’s currently sharing the ring with a legend… And also his boss. A woman that’s been everywhere, done anything, and could probably crush him like an ant without even realizing that she’s done it. Jiles claims she’s been a Bandit once, and you know what they say about being a Bandit once you’ve been one.

She will tell you otherwise.

Because she is the boss.

Because she is quite literally the only person on this planet that could referee a match like this.

Because she is the Queen of the Ring.

Because she is Lindsay Troy.

Leaning against the corner, well within the eye of this storm, Lindsay Troy exaggeratedly rolls her eyes. She’s only here by request. She’s only here to count to three and then get the fuck out of here because it smells like crumb in here.

Tony Gamble sweats as nervously as a man with as much unfounded bravado as he does could. Deep down, he knows that one wrong announcement could spell disaster.

Tony Gamble: Ladies and crumbs, WELCOME TO BANDIT COUNTRY!

Under normal circumstances, such a statement would elicit the worst type of reaction.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

These are not normal circumstances.

It might actually be the loudest cheer Tony Gamble has ever received in his life, and that includes the events of the last ReVival when he upset half of tonight’s main event. He’s almost taken aback. It almost made him regret leaving the eGG Bandits in the way he did.

Almost.

Gamble soaks in the reaction of a thousand or so Bandit fans the same way he’d lap up the tears of Jonathan Rhine fans the world over – like a man trapped in a desert who hadn’t seen water in days.

Tony Gamble: This contest is HAIR VERSUS BANDITRY IN THE 2300 ARENA!

The stakes have rarely ever been higher in PRIME, and the crowd responds like they’re here for history. And Banditry. They’re here for that mostly.

Never seen so much Miller Lite in one crowd before.

Tony reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few cards. He winces upon reading the first one of these.

Tony Gamble: Introducing our referee for the evening! SHE IS… THE EGG QUEEN! LINDSAY! TROOOOOOYYYYY!!!

Coral Avalon: Oh, I would not have introduced her like that.

Lindsay Troy grumpily walks towards Gamble. She snatches up the card in his hand and sloooooooowly rips it in half in front of his face, as though saying to him “call me that again and you’ll end up exactly like that card just did.” Tony Gamble tries very hard to not make that nervous gulp visible, and decides to carry on with the next card.

Tony Gamble: Our commentary team! SOME DICKHEAD! AND BOBBY DEAAAAAANNNN!!!

The camera cuts to an excited Bobby Dean, a bemused Coral Avalon, and an invisibly pissed Doozer.

Bobby Dean: Oh, that’s me!

Coral Avalon: Heh.

Doozer: Really? Really? I’m not getting introduced?

We cut to the timekeeper’s table, where there is a familiar face ready to ring that bell.

Tony Gamble: Our special guest timekeeper… CARDBOARD! DAN! RYAAAAAANNNNNN!!!

We’re not sure how Cardboard Dan is going to ring the bell even if we did tape a tiny hammer to his mouth. After all, he is currently bereft of arms. Arms which are currently lost somewhere in the depths of the Farthington Manor. Allegedly.

We cut back to Tony, who clearly has more introductions to do, but…

CUMB FOR THE CUMB GOD
SCAB ON A SCAB THRONE
LET ME RETCH AND
FAAAAAAAART

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

The hostility, despite the piss take on the World Eater battle cry, is evident from jump. This is not an atmosphere for parody. This is a prison of bones made for He Who Has Sinned Against COOLympus Most. The Original Antagonist.

SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!
SCAB!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

If Coral and Bobby are speaking, it is inaudible above the riotous hatred filling the 2300 Arena. The same could be said of Doozer too, but nobody listened to him anyway, why would you, he wears jorts and you can’t see him.

Bandit Country awaits the arrival of Brandon Youngblood through the shitty brick and fenced entrance from the back, which is legally distinct and not inspired by a long defunct wrestling promotion that maybe once called this place home. No, it left to go get milk and cigarettes and never came back, because it looked in the crib and saw their child had T-Shades, and when it has advanced that far, it’s too late anyways. Tony Gamble taps the imaginary watch on his wrist. Lindsay Troy sneers because when she agreed to this, she didn’t realize just how bad the piss and body odor smell would be.

Yet…still…nothing.

Maybe Brandon Youngblood thought better of this.

Maybe he didn’t want to come to this wonderful venue filled with wonderful people just to catch hepatitis E.

Then, the lights go out.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

No, not the wrestling character, because he died in a crown car and helped pollute a marine ecosystem. No, this is a Pavlovian response. Lights go out. Big surprises. That’s the way of this place.

The lights do not return.

But through the audio system, and steady rising of simple guitar.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

If the audience is going to drone this out, then the audio engineer is going to compensate. As was instructed. The rising action, and as the bass line hits, the heavy guitar riffs cut on through.

A spotlight in the crowd. In the bleachers just beneath the crow’s nest. Hitting right as King Nothing by Metallica makes its presence firmly felt.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO

DIE!

DIE!

DIE!

DIE! 

DIE!

Brandon Youngblood is here. Not just here, but among THEM. And he is very different than any time we have ever, ever seen him before. Maybe it’s the fact that he is about to engage in combat with his most hated rival ever and he is dressed exactly like a piece of scab trash one would find roving around on a dirt bike in COOLympus.

American flag Zubaz pants.

Check.

Red tank top. Officially licensed. Anheuser Busch. Budweiser. The King of Beers.

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

Check.

Lit cigar chomped in his teeth.

Oh yeah.

Singapore cane thrust in the air.

He looks back and forth, at the sea of Bandits surrounding him. A sinister, absolutely diabolical look etched across his face. A glower at each and every single one of them, as if to say ‘Come the fuck on, make my day’. They can hate him. They can loathe him. But with his standing within arms reach? What do they do?

Nothing.

Not even as he rips the cigar from his maw and whips it into the sea of trash, hoping it will light on fire around him. Not even as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a can.

A beer can.

Not Miller Lite. Not Coors Light. Oh HEEEEEELL no. Philadelphia…

This Budweiser…

…is for you!

The top cracked. Raising it skyward. Glugging it as it pours down. Gone. And when it’s empty? He begins forcefully smashing the can into his forehead until the blood starts pouring down his nose. And then? He gives those around him a wonderful second hand beer shower.

Wish I may
Wish I might
Have this I wish tonight
Are you satisfied?

Youngblood starts making his way down the bleachers, with Bandit fans barely parting as he forcefully stomps his way to his destination.

Dig for gold
Dig for fame
You dig to make your name
Are you pacified?

He stops, taking a look outward toward the crow’s nest, pointing directly at Bobby Dean…

All the wants you waste
All the things you’ve chased

…and pantomimes jacking the Singapore cane off before swinging it violently downward, narrowly missing some number of degenerates.

And it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there’s no one around

Lindsay Troy can’t help but roll her eyes at this, but at the same time, can’t help but chuckle.

Just want one thing
Just to play the king
But the castle’s crumbled
And you’re left with just a name

A flipping off of the entire entity of the 2300. COOLympus.

Where’s your crown, King Nothing?

Approaching the guardrail, he reaches into his pocket for another beer can.

Where’s your crown?

Pop the top, tag a swig. Don’t even hesitate as you begin smashing the Budweiser into his dome. If this were Ferst Blud, he’d have already lost. This isn’t just for show; this is proving a point.

The Diamond is willing to make himself bleed before the match even starts.

What is he capable of doing once he gets his hands on Cancer Jiles?

Hot and cold
Bought and sold
A heart as hard as gold
Are you satisfied?

He hops over the guardrail, ridiculous as he looks, but there is a gleam in his eyes. Something from the distant past. Something that feels very much at home controlling these strings. In watching the entire world surrounding him loathe him.

Wish I might
Wish I may
You wish your life away
Are you pacified?

Another beer can, this time as he is crossing the path of Cardboard Dan Ryan. He stops, giving Diaper Dan a once over before slugging his beer and then spitting it out all over his poor face.

All the wants you waste
All the things you’ve chased

Stomping up the stairs, Youngblood smacks the end of the Singapore cane against the ring post before stabbing it in the direction of The Alfredo Don himself, Tony Two Books, The Grin, Tony Gamble. His eyes then scan over to Lindsay Troy, a subtle nod flashed in her direction.

Then it all crashes down
And you break your crown
And you point your finger
But there’s no one around

Stepping through the ropes, Youngblood makes his full entrance, taking off and hitting the far ropes, then running back the other direction.

Just want one thing
Just to play the king
But the castle’s crumbled
And you’re left with just a name

A stop dead center in the middle of the ring. The cane shot upward.

Where’s your crown, King Nothing?

He coils as if ready to take the head off of Tony Gamble at any moment.

Where’s your crown?

King Nothing quickly fades away, all as Youngblood barely steps back, eyes still focused on Gamble. For his part? He looks at his notecards, and then back at the much larger fellow PRIME Hall of Famer.

Tony Gamble: Says here you get nothing. And that you’ll ‘take it and like it. Ha. Pucker. Kiss. Welcome to the carton’…

Youngblood merely grabs the Budweiser tank he is wearing and rips it in half with ease. The Zubaz aren’t tear away, but with how quick he manages to tear them off, maybe they are. He doesn’t flinch as he throws them into the crowd, doesn’t care that they get thrown back.

This is the Brandon Youngblood we know. The singlet.

And without warning…

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

FUCK YOU CRUMBLOOD!

The straps…

…come down.

The lights draw to the dim inside the 2300 Arena. A COOL breeze makes its way throughout the crowd. No one is seated.

Not even a mouse.

Coral Avalon: Here we go.

Bobby Dean: I’m so nervous I could fart.

Coral Avalon: Please don’t.

Since there’s no Crumbotron the giant sheet that just dropped down from the upper balcony will just have to do. Projected onto it, a montage of all the moments in time that Cancer Jiles has superkicked Brandon Youngblood and Lindsay Troy in the face.

…Culture Shock 2022… somehow Youngblood kicks out!

…ReVival 8… after the bell and the blood was spilt, Jiles returns the favor and busts Brandon open with a superkick from The Gallows!

…Colossus 2023… Gamble gets juggled on Night One, and then post-match Coral sets up the (inadvertent)distraction while Jiles, like a cock in the roach, scurries across Tony’s dinner and reminds Brandon that he’ll never be safe!

…Some random idiot grabbed the sheet and now the montage is over!

Coral Avalon: Well that was unfortunate.

One the ringside mic picks up Gamble claiming the person in question is a plant placed in the crowd by Lindsay Troy. Everyone around agrees. One person even goes as far as to claim the guilty party is probably a Cowboys fan.

Or worse.

Messiah.

Ha.

Bobby Dean: Say, do you think Brandon knows that Jiles is waiting for him in the parking lot?

Coral Avalon: He’s what?!

Bobby Dean: You didn’t get the updated itinerary?

Coral Avalon: I must have missed that fax.

A series of bottle rockets and sparklers set the night on fire, and the most low rent pyro buffet gets unleashed. The display is a bit jarring since it is Cancer Jiles, it is his hometown, and he is known for being the total opposite. However, a quick reminder on who the referee is and how many headaches the man about to walk down to the ring has caused her and then it makes more sense. Yes, the smirk on her face tells the same tale.

Coral Avalon: What else was on that fax?

Bobby Dean: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Outside of the ring, Bobby motions to Gamble, who taps the microphone a few times. For what it is worth, Tony looks all beat to shit from his match with TAL, but there’s no way he was going to  miss out on this. In fact, Chris Chickentenders just tweeted out Tony flew on the back of a mosquito from Lincoln Financial to 2300 just to make it in time!

Tony Gamble: Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to direct your attention to our makeshift Crumbrotro– uh, yeah, uh… that Troy mark pulled the sheet down.

Inside of the ring Lady Troy looks like she’s about to blow a gasket. BY and his arsenal on the other hand, remain cocked and ready. After some last second heroics, and an entire group of drunks coming together to fix the fallen sheet/Crumbotron 97000 problem, and a rousing cheer that followed, Tony takes back over.

Tony Gamble: Good work! Now, at this time, ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the Crumbotron! That goes for the both of you, too.

Ha.

The Sheetron 97000 comes back to life, and this time around, instead of superkicks being projected onto it, well, it’s a live feed from inside the eGG Den! There, Vickie Hall and Big Ian Salt are shown. Ian, with a shovel in hand, and Vickie, with her yolk-yellow icepick fingernails on display.

Coral Avalon: What’s that on the wall?

Bobby Dean: Plan B.

On the far wall there’s a bloody handprint, and a blood trail, but it’s more like a smear trail that leads towards the door. Vickie sneers, Ian groans, and the two then follow it; exiting the room. Instead of heading left and towards the ring though, they follow the trail, and head right.

Towards the parking lot.

Coral Avalon: Oh god no.

Then, a gull can be heard squawking in the distance, followed by the war drum.

Then the chant.

Then the walls start to shake.

Vickie and Ian follow the trail down a long hallway, and head for the exit. Once there, Ian violently kicks open the door, it detaches from the hinges, and leaves this orbit immediately. The two leave the building, and then join Philadelphia’s own outside.

The scene outside is… Philly.

There’s about a hundred or so people gathered in the parking lot.

Bobby Dean: Are they still tailgating?

Coral Avalon: Apparently they never stop.

Bobby Dean: Are those sausages?

Coral Avalon: Organic.

Coral chuckles, Bobby frowns, and the hymn of the wolf continues to play. Meanwhile, Mother Hen is on the wire with somebody trying to figure out what the hell exactly is going on, and  Youngblood remains steadfast inside the ring; ready to kill.

His guard isn’t coming down.

Back outside the building, the sun has set, the streetlights are on, and a RV has pulled up. The whole thing is painted yolk-yellow and has tinted windows. There’s alfredo rims and egg-shell white wall tires to boot.

Bobby Dean: THE BANDIT MOBILE! I once ate a whole five foot hoagie on that thing!

The side door opens. The driver stands up from the Captain’s chair, and exits the vehicle.

Coral Avalon: I didn’t know he had his CDL.

Jiles isn’t in his hunter’s garb for tonight’s bout. He’s not in his wrestling gear, either. No, for this bout, for this duel, he’s got a sweet pair of salt whites, a pair of funeral black track pants, and that’s it. Of course the T-shades are on right now, but in a PIT fight like this one, they’ll get put back on the bus for safekeeping.

King Crumb daps up Ian and then gives Vickie a hug. He shares a few thoughts with the gathered masses nearby. He even shotguns a beer, and rips half a heater before turning his attention towards Brandon.

Well, in this case, it would be the camera outside getting all of this.

Cancer Jiles: Well? What are you waiting for?

The whole city erupts in pandemonium; but more so 2300 and the gathered masses outside. To go along with it, a huge, volcano-like, molten hell fire eruption of demon piss and singed singlet straps illuminates the night sky! Yellow and white fireworks, with some PRIME blue sprinkled in,  volley back and forth from the top of the Bandit Mobile!

Bobby Dean: Look Coral! The Fourth of July has come early!

Coral shakes his head, clearly left out.

Tony Gamble: If it wasn’t clear before I hope it is now! Brandon Youngblood versus Cancer Jiles — HAIR vs BANDITRY — is going to start in the fucking parking lot, Jack, and there ain’t a damn thing Lindsay Troy can do about!

Gamble hops the guardrail and retreats into the crowd. Lindsay Troy is about to go after him, but stops when she sees Youngblood, brave, stupid, whichever, fearless for sure though, not hesitating and exiting the ring. The Diamond stalks his way back up the entrance ramp, and looks more than ready to meet his foe head on; and with the force of a thousand Randallplexes Diamondplexes!

Bobby Dean: I can’t believe it worked!

Coral Avalon: I can’t believe I was left out of the loop!

Bobby Dean: Jiles wanted to make sure you had plausible deniability.

Coral Avalon: No he didn’t!

Bobby Dean: Yeah, you’re right. He thought your integrity would get in the way of Bandit business again, and wasn’t willing to take that risk. Not tonight. Not here. Not now.

The feed picks back up outside with Jiles sitting on the hood of a car. Not long after he is joined by his sworn enemy, Brandon Youngblood.

There, the two stand.

Surrounded by madness.

Yet, both look calm. Both look comfortable. Both look… COOL.

One more than the other but still, damage done.

In the arena, the hymn of the wolf gets replaced by the familiar twangs of Screamin’ Jay. We’re ready. Let’s go.

DING DING

Oh. I guess CBD can ring the bell! Who knew?

Those thirty-three screaming mouths of Pandemonium itself did some fucking cardio since Manhunt, because you could hear the crowd even out in the parking lot of the 2300 Arena underneath the busy Delaware Expressway. You could not only still hear “I Am The Cool” ripping through the building, but you could hear the one thousand screaming Bandit fans singing along to it.

Perhaps Jiles lured Youngblood out here due to his curious history with getting lost in parking lots, or because he thought his backup would do some work. However, Jiles made three assumptions that made an ass out of him and him and also him, thus making him the triple ass.

First, that Brandon Youngblood would either be foolish or uncaring enough to walk into the parking lot regardless of who was out there with Jiles.

Second, that his backup would set upon Youngblood the moment he came outside screaming bloody murder and wielding a fucking Singapore cane.

Third, that he would come unarmed.

SMACK!

Coral Avalon: Oof. Felt that one.

A lash of the cane catches Jiles in the shoulder, and he recoils back like someone splashed him with cold water. He staggers back, retreating deeper into the parking lot where there’s a couple of beer tents pitched closer to the fence separating the parking lot. One patron lounging around in front of the beer tent realizes the doom that’s coming their way, and he tries to get out of the way.

Jiles instead thanks him for being a Bandit fan by grabbing him by the shirt and shoving him into Youngblood’s path.

Youngblood brushes the bystander aside like he’s parting a curtain, just in time to have something thrown at him by Jiles. It’s a full can of Budweiser. It bounces off of Youngblood’s head, who reacts to it like it’s made of feathers. He doesn’t even blink. Jiles gets wide-eyed as Youngblood takes a few steps forward, and he grabs another beer. This one’s in a bottle. Coors Light. It hits Youngblood in the shoulder, bounces off, and shatters on the ground next to him. Youngblood doesn’t even flinch. Jiles picks up another can. Miller Lite.

This one hits Youngblood and actually makes him take one step back.

Not bad for bile water.

Ha.

Bobby Dean: Uh, I think that’s just pissing him off.

He is indeed pissed off. The blood already on Brandon Youngblood’s face paints a picture of the type of devil that Satan would kick out of Hell because it was too hardcore. Jiles’ eyes might need those T-shades just to hide how widened they’ve become as he scrambles to find another projectile.

And then he discovers to his horror that Brandon Youngblood can fuckin’ teleport.

One moment, he’s standing some distance away, and then the next, he’s closed the distance so rapidly that the air behind him’s going to need a moment to close the space in his wake. Jiles’ throw – whoops, there goes TAL’s old Modelo sponsorship in action – is the kind of wild ball that would advance some runners. The air had it coming is what I’m saying. You know what else had it coming?

SMACK.

Jiles’ skull.

The shinai bounces across his skull in that funny way where it doesn’t. Bamboo splinters and shudders, and the loud crack is wince-inducing to the few fans brave enough to go outside to witness the action between the eGGsecutioner and a literal goddamn Terminator.

Coral Avalon: I’ve been in the ring with both of these men. Facing Jiles is like trying to wrestle a slippery eel, you can never quite pin him down for long, and then the eel somehow develops egg-spewing glands and superkicks. Facing Youngblood is like fighting a juggernaut made of metal and hate. Like fighting the Colossus of Rhodes or something.

Doozer: What, like in God of War?

Coral Avalon: …Did you hear something, Bobby?

Bobby Dean: No?

Doozer: I hate you guys.

Jiles staggers as though he actually drank all of those beers he’d thrown at Youngblood. Youngblood winds up and…

SMAAACK.

That one’s across Jiles’ back, and it’s the loudest shot yet. It’s going to leave a big welt when all is said and done. The first of many battle scars. Jiles staggers forward a few steps and then falls to his knees.

“I AM THE COOL!”

You might be wondering, and yes… “I Am The Cool” is still playing and the fans are still singing along to it. A thousand people we’d warn our mamas about. Cancer Jiles is never a man who cares that much what the fans think of him, because the only things that matter to him are main events (specifically of Night Two) and the biggest championships. But this clearly gives him some level of power as despite being stalked after by a singleted literal Terminator made of hate and suplexes, he still has more than enough fight in him to get up.

It helps that he’s got a broken bottle in his hands.

Even Brandon Youngblood is taken aback by the appearance of the broken bottle, because that right there is a perfectly good improvised gutting implement.

Coral Avalon: We’ve got ourselves a Philadelphian standoff!

Doozer: Waste of perfectly good beer, in my opinion.

Bobby Dean: It was Coors Light, so no it wasn’t!

Doozer: Shut the whole fuck up.

You might be wondering where our esteemed referee is.

Well, Lindsay Troy has gone to the beer tent while the boys were busy playing and found the bourbon. Don’t ask questions about why it would be there. We left “questioning everything that’s going on” right around the time Brandon Youngblood came to the ring in a Budweiser shirt and smashed a beer can over his head. She’s just here to enjoy the show.

She sees the potential stabbing in the making, and her only response is a bemused “huh.”

The standoff continues with Bandit fans shouting very kind things that only the City of Brotherly Loathe can provide. They’re waiting for someone to make the first move.

It’s Jiles who does. Like a coiled viper, he thrusts his weapon forward with every intent of sending a man to the morgue.

Of course, Brandon Youngblood is not an ordinary opponent. He’s a veteran. Wrestling, combat, you name it, he’s seen and done all of it. He knows all of the exquisite ways to make the fragility of the human body scream for him. When Jiles makes his play, Youngblood effortlessly sidesteps him, grabs his wrist, and disarms Jiles. What follows is not something you want done to you on cold hard concrete, wherein Youngblood executes a judo throw.

Jiles lands hard on the ground, face-first on top of whatever broken glass there was when the bottle broke in the first place.

Coral Avalon: Ooooof. That judo throw is going to leave a mark!

Bobby Dean: Wow! If that were me, there’d be a crater where Jiles is now!

Jiles rolls around on the ground in agony, coughing air back into his lungs. His ability to do so is hampered by the bald asshole booting him while he’s down.

Bobby Dean: Would’ve had the edge if it’d been a Miller Lite bottle, just saying.

Coral Avalon: Oh, I’m pretty sure we’d be talking about Youngblood in the past tense if that were the case, Bob.

Youngblood picks up his shinai again. He whirls the kendo stick around in his hand in an exaggerated motion, savoring the wall of boos that are coming his way from the fans that’d made the trek out to the parking lot to witness their hero get decimated. He’s fantasized about this for years. Every moment of the beating he’s delivering has been thought about. Considered. Planned. He’s gone to bed thinking about this, sometimes even in the embrace of his wife.

No smile adorns his face, though.

There is only the killing of the crumb.

SMACK.

A shot across the middle of the spine that sends Jiles writhing in pain. He rolls onto his back, and then arches up on his heels when he realizes how bad an idea that is with all of the broken glass on the ground. Brandon Youngblood doesn’t give him a lot of time for his body to acclimate to this neat and cool world of pain he’s in, because he’s got another shot in him.

SMACK.

By now, Youngblood’s shinai is looking threadbare, held together by wishes and unicorn hopes. He must’ve bought it secondhand from the same shop that everybody else did for the 5-Star championship match earlier tonight.

You know, Uncle Vincent’s Wrestling Weapon Emporium.

Ha.

Nevertheless, Jiles tries to get up, but finds that every nerve is on fire and he’s having a hard time doing so. Youngblood winds up one more time, and…

“Hey, buttmunch, stop doing th—“

SMACK.

It was not Jiles that took the cane to the face. It was the Bandit In Training, Chris Chickentenders, who took maybe the most inopportune time in human history to interrupt the Terminator from his Terminating. He naturally drops like a ton of bricks the moment he gets hit, yelling in pain the entire time until he hits the ground.

Coral Avalon: Oh, Chickentenders…

Bobby Dean: Wow, way to beat up children, Brando!

Coral Avalon: I don’t think he’s a child any more, Bob.

Bobby Dean: Could’ve fooled me!

Youngblood barely pays the fallen Chickentenders any attention at all, as though the only thing he’d done is swat a fly. The shinai is now broken to the point that Youngblood discards the evidence on the ground and simply pursues Jiles, knowing there will be other weapons. After all, weapons would be in the direction that Jiles is scurrying off to. The Coolympian’s bloodied already from the glass he was thrown bodily into, and he’s clutching his arm.

Youngblood stalks after him with the exact pace that ‘ol Arnie would stalk after Sarah Connor. Cancer Jiles knows Brandon Youngblood can’t be bargained with. Or reasoned with. Brandon Youngblood doesn’t feel pity. Or remorse. Or fear. He absolutely will not stop, ever, until Cancer Jiles is a broken pile of meat and bones on the floor… bereft of luscious alfredo hair.

Someone else steps up to Youngblood to stop his pursuit, having clearly not read any of the previous paragraph.

His name is Bryce.

Bryce is an eGG Bandit in the same way that fabby is part of the Glueminati or an tonsils are a valuable part of the human body. He has pure NPC energy. He wasn’t even supposed to be here today, but somebody has to carry all that luggage, and Bryce always seemed to draw the short straw among the USS Bandit’s illustrious, inexplicable crew. He stepped in Youngblood’s way not because he’s looking to save the life of his boss from this Terminator, but because he was on his way to the beer tent and there just happened to be a wrestling match in his way.

And he just happened to learn, today, that the most dangerous weapon of all in this world… is Man.

Coral Avalon: Oh. Oh no. I know that guy.

Doozer: Whomst?

Bryce was like 170 pounds and not a professional wrestler, and Brandon Youngblood was a very large man made of muscles and hate and he is a professional wrestler. It wasn’t hard to see the scenario in which Bryce becomes luggage tucked under Youngblood’s arm. He’s screaming in terror about how he has a wife and children. Brandon Youngblood naturally assumes this is not the case, because he assumes anyone in this building is a mutant that only deserves death.

Brandon Youngblood drags his new weapon, Man, closer to Jiles. Jiles has managed to crawl and stagger his way to the door leading into the arena’s backstage, where backstage personnel inside are watching the show on the monitors and are noticeably nervous at how much they recognize that door and how loud the commotion is just outside of it.

Seconds later, two men come careening through that door in a violent collision better found in car crashes without seatbelts. You see, once Youngblood was within range of Jiles, he hoisted Bryce up and literally threw him, military press-style, into his adversary. Jiles had no time to react to the most dangerous weapon, Man, before he smashes him through the door and into the 2300 Arena proper.

Bobby Dean: Dude! He just threw Bryce through the door!

Doozer: Who in the fuck is Bryce?

Coral Avalon: Someone we might be notifying the next of kin of pretty soon.

It’s anarchy in the arena, and much like most such anarchies, fans still inside the arena are singing the song of their people.

“I AM THE COOL!”

There’s a panic that washes over the backstage area when Jiles and Bryce come barreling through. Bryce flops like a fish and is then unmoving on the ground, likely hoping that Youngblood doesn’t do that to him again. Cancer Jiles is dazed and confused as he tries to get up, bracing against a large production box as he does.

Youngblood approaches.

It’s taken Cancer Jiles this long to appreciate that he isn’t in a wrestling match, surrounded by a thousand of his biggest fans. He’s in a horror movie. He sees Brandon Youngblood approaching and he decides this is the worst part of the building to engage him in. So, he does what anyone else would do in this situation.

He flees.

Coral Avalon: Jiles is retreating! He’s heading towards the arena!

Doozer: Where is his backup?

Well, his backup comes in the form of Zeb Martin, so that’s probably unideal.

Doozer: Goddammit.

Jiles sees Zeb, and knows that his fellow Bandit would have his back. So Jiles helpfully guides Zeb towards the problem and then continues his retreat.

Which is to say that Jiles pushes Zeb into Brandon Youngblood, and Youngblood reacts very poorly to this. Zeb had just enough time to let out a full-blown Wilhelm scream before Youngblood picks him up.

CRASH!

We’ll now thank Zeb Martin for his brief contribution to the 2300 Arena match, because Youngblood sent him straight through a nearby table with a standing spinebuster straight out of the Florida Seminoles playbook. Paperwork and useful objects flew into the air in Martin’s wake, and Youngblood continued his leisurely pursuit of Cancer Jiles as though nothing had happened.

Coral Avalon: Someone call a doctor! Zeb Martin might be dead! We’ve got carnage everywhere!

Doozer: I’m sure he can walk it off.

Bobby Dean: It’s Zeb. No, he can’t.

We cut to the arena. A thousand people are still singing Screamin’ Jay as uproariously as they did when it first started playing. For many here, the match hadn’t even started and the vibes were looking riotous if the match “begins” in the same way it’s been going.

Cancer Jiles staggers out from behind the curtains and into the aisleway between the entrance and the ring. He’s looking over his shoulder. Brandon Youngblood will be upon him at any moment, and Jiles knows he needs to take advantage. After all, Youngblood doesn’t know what awaits him out there in a sea of Philadelphian mutants. Jiles sneaks off to the side of the curtain and waits for Youngblood to burst out.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Coral Avalon: Oh, I’ve kinda always wanted to do what Mr. Stuart does. Hang on. Let me get ready.

Avalon clears his throat just as Brandon Youngblood emerges from the curtains. He’s initially confused, because he knew that Jiles went this way. Youngblood doesn’t see the snake lurking to the side, waiting for just the right moment to strike. And so he turns, and…

Coral Avalon: TERMINAL CA—Oh.

Bobby Dean: Uh oh.

Brandon Youngblood had seen it coming a mile away.

This golem of anger and proud father of many suplexes catches Jiles’ boot well before it ever gains the height needed to hit Youngblood in the jaw. Jiles’ eyes go wide. If you look closely at Youngblood, you’d swear you’d seen steam coming from his nose.

Jiles has nowhere to go except to the hell of suplexes where he belongs. And it just so happens that the audio equipment was right there.

SKRRRRRRRRT.

That’s not a fart sound, although you’d be forgiven for thinking that way considering the type of audience we’re dealing with here in the 2300. That’s a close approximation of audio static, as Screamin’ Jay is ripped from the airwaves right in the middle of the third time he’s gone through the anecdote about Madonna.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Coral Avalon: I’ve never seen an Exploder suplex literally make something explode before.

Nobody is happy about this in Bandit Country.

FUCK YOU, YOUNGBLOOD!
FUCK YOU, YOUNGBLOOD!
FUCK YOU, YOUNGBLOOD!

See?

Brandon Youngblood is quick to his feet, and sees Jiles writhing on the floor near the ruined audio equipment. He drinks in the hatred of the crowd, soaks in the sea of middle fingers from the fans lucky enough to get aisle seats, and makes mental notes about which suplexes he’s going to give to the ones saying nasty shit about his family.

Nobody’s singing ‘ol Screamin’ Jay right now, they’re too busy showering Youngblood with the kind of hate you’d reserve for politicians and shitty billionaires.

Youngblood leaves Jiles as he continues writhing and slithering on the ground.

This is not an act of mercy.

An act of mercy would require that Youngblood simply beat Jiles right here and now in front of God and Lindsay Troy, who’s walked out from behind the curtains at a pace some might call leisurely. She still has a bourbon in hand. For now, she’s just here to enjoy the show like everybody else.

Meanwhile…

Coral Avalon: Brandon Youngblood is coming close to us.

Bobby Dean: Oh, shit.

There’s the sound of the rustling of a headset. Coral can only sigh.

Coral Avalon: Bobby has hidden underneath our table out here, but… his ass is sticking out so I don’t think he’s hiding as well as he thinks he is.

Youngblood stops when he gets to the commentary desk, and he stares daggers at Coral Avalon. A year and a half ago, they were opponents. Even now, their relationship remains contentious, if courteous. Youngblood might not be sure why Avalon is out here doing commentary. He isn’t sure if Avalon would get involved or not. Wordlessly and without ever breaking eye contact with Avalon, he picks up Bobby Dean’s chair from behind the desk and folds it up with a definitive SLAM.

Avalon makes no move to stop him.

Fans are angry the entire time. Some are throwing things at Youngblood, beer cans and the like. They bounce off of him like rain against a skyscraper. He doesn’t notice or care.

Jiles is in trouble, and everyone knows it. From the moment he foolishly goaded Youngblood out to the parking lot until now, he’s been on his back heels. And his back. And his ass. Things aren’t looking any better for him because he looks up just in time to see Youngblood bring the chair down on him.

SMACK.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Right across the back. Hard. Likely powered by Bobby Dean farts.

Jiles yelps and tries to play dead.

Brandon Youngblood is on a mission to enbald this man, and he won’t stop until he’s turned him into a gelatinous substance first. The old hatred burns solely for this one cockroach. Even if Jiles plays dead, Youngblood is using the second rule of Zombieland – always be double tapping.

He raises the chair again.

SMACK.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Jiles yells in pain again. His body is convulsing from the pain, and he writhes on the ground.

Youngblood is going beyond the double tap. Everything comes in threes.

He raises the chair once more.

…

There is no SMACK.

Coral Avalon: Doozer! Doozer just took the chair from Youngblood!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

It’s possibly the most visible Fred Mayhew, the man known professionally as Doozer, has ever been in his life. It’s certainly the loudest reaction he’s ever received in PRIME. The former DREAM stalwart is almost taken aback by this reaction, but he stands firm.

Brandon Youngblood turns around like a marionette being controlled by puppet strings. His anger is palpable, but controlled. Measured. He takes one look at Doozer, and the other man has maybe a second to realize how fucked he is.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

And then Brandon Youngblood suplexes him to hell.

It happens so fast that Doozer has no time to react. One second, he’s standing face-to-face with Youngblood. The next, Youngblood has somehow gotten behind him and dropped him onto his head and shoulders with the type of German suplex that would make Karl Gotch shit his little wrestling trunks to death.

Coral Avalon: Oh. He died.

Doozer is ass-over-teakettle on the floor, and he’s not moving. I mean, he’s not actually dead, he only merely wishes he was.

Youngblood looms over him, considering what other angry suplexes of the Suplex Family Reunion he could deliver to this ill-placed Bostonian in Philadelphia. He’s receiving scorn from all sides. Middle fingers abound. Youngblood is actually taken aback by the presence of a small child with alfredo hair dressed in an electric blue track suit and T-shades, being held up by a proud Bandit papa while the kid’s giving Youngblood double deuces. He shakes his head.

Between this child and Vinny, he’s convinced Philadelphians don’t raise their kids right.

Meanwhile, behind him, Cancer Jiles survives. It’s what he does. Beat him, suplex him, smash him, bash him, suplex him, boil him, mash him, stick him in a stew, he’ll still find ways to survive because the only thing that matters to him is victory.

Youngblood moves to pick up the steel chair, and he holds it over his head. Ready to strike again.

Coral Avalon: It’s not looking good for Jiles. Youngblood’s got the chair, and…

…Death does not take Jiles.

Not yet.

It’s as we’ve always known: Even when you think the cockroach and crushed underneath your shoe, it may still scurry to safety. And even when you think the rattlesnake is good and cornered, it can still bite.

And for Cancer Jiles to survive what Brandon Youngblood has done to him, despite blood and glass and lashings that will leave the greatest welts on his body… He will need to do what he’s best at: Not playing by the rules.

I know what you’re about to say. “But Mr. weird detached match-writing narrator what sounds an awful lot like he’s taking grotesque pleasure in describing all of the horrors, there are no rules in the 2300 Arena?”

Shut up. Just sit down and shut the Whole Foods fuck up.

Cancer Jiles will look at any scenario with no rules and still find rules to break. That’s just what he is. That’s the type of crumb we’re dealing with. It’s like the cockroach scurrying under the refrigerator is just doing that to retrieve its fucking AT-4 rocket launcher, because it not only wants you to die, it wants to take the house with you.

And as it turns out, being surrounded by a crowd of fellow crumbs means that sometimes, they pass you something that you don’t even think twice about using.

BRRRRRRRRRRR…

Coral Avalon: What the he—

For the first time in this match, since the moment the bell rang, Brandon Youngblood wears an expression. He didn’t have one of those before, as surgically and as mechanically as he’d been tearing the cockroach apart, he never once smiled or frowned or otherwise gave a damn about anything that had happened so far in the match.

It’s an expression of bewilderment.

BRRRRRRRRRRR…

This expression is one you normally wear when you encounter what Jiles is doing. Maybe you’re not sure what he’s got, his body is blocking Youngblood’s view of Jiles’ activities, but that rumble sounds familiar. It sounds like someone’s ass is about to be grass, and Jiles is the lawnmower…………… man three.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

Jiles suddenly swings what he’s got at Youngblood, and it’s only because he still had the steel chair in his hand to block it that he isn’t suddenly getting mulched by the weed whacker that’s in his adversary’s possession.

Coral Avalon: What the HELL!?

The bandits in the audience are practically frothing at the mouth at the sight of their hero bravely brandishing his wicked weapon against their most terrible foe. In any other building in this planet, Cancer Jiles would be booed out of this building with such ferocity for stooping so low as to accept a weapon that could outright violently maim his opponent. But here? Here, a member of the crowd just casually brought one for his use, as though they went to the wrong building for the “fans bring the weapon” match from earlier in the night.

It’s as we’ve said several times…

Welcome to Philadelphia.

Jiles manages to knock away the steel chair from Youngblood’s hands, and then he thrusts the business end of his weapon in Youngblood’s direction. Youngblood is barely able to grab hold of the weed whacker before it can get near any of his favorite parts of his skin, and what results is a tug-of-war.

It’s a battle Jiles doesn’t win.

Youngblood is still more than capable of disarming him of his weapon, just as he did with the broken bottle. He twists his hands and the weed whacker is ripped from Jiles’ hands. Youngblood still has to deal with being on the wrong end of the thing, and so he throws it to the ground hard enough that it breaks and stops working.

It’s not looking good for Jiles to lose access to his latest attempt to get one over on Brandon Youngblood, an—

OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!

Coral Avalon: A low blow!

A good, old-fashioned Greco-Roman kick to the wing-wongs, to be exact. It’s the first successful offensive move for Jiles, and it’s enough to stagger – though not topple – the Tower of Babel.

There’s a long beat as Jiles doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

And as he does, something terrible happens.

Brandon Youngblood stands upright. As though the tried and tested kick to the nards didn’t actually phase him. As he does, he slowly pulls the straps of his singlet up to his shoulders. Slowly enough that Jiles catches sight of this. His eyes go wide, and he asks himself a question.

“Did this motherfucker have balls of steel, or did he come in wearing a cup?”

He has just enough time to ask that question before Youngblood instantly closes the distance and nearly tears his head off with the angriest clothesline ever thought possible. Scientists and wrestle priests alike are united in awe at how much anger could be behind a clothesline.

Coral Avalon: CLOTHESLINE!

It is then that Youngblood decides to pick up Jiles and throw him back into the ring.

Youngblood lingers. He’d prepared for this. Oh, sure, he’s been dominating the match since the bell rang and successfully warded off every attempt by Jiles to stop what’s coming, but he is here to make this painful. He isn’t here for a good time. He is here for a long time.

And so, he reaches under the ring and there’s gasps from the audience.

Light tubes.

Coral Avalon: Folks, I was here yesterday helping to get things set up out here, and it turns out, so was Brandon Youngblood. But he wasn’t here to help set up a ring or put up decorations… He was here for premeditated violence on Cancer Jiles!

We’re not sure yet if the premeditated violence would escalate to premediated murder. We haven’t gotten to the point in our society where a bunch of wet ladies will give out a minority report on the pre-crime that’s about to take place.

What we are sure of is that Brandon Youngblood has fucking light tubes.

Youngblood places the bundle onto the apron. Inside of the ring, Cancer Jiles is dazed and confused, but he sees the light tubes there and he crawls desperately towards them before Youngblood can roll into the ring. Youngblood, however, leisurely allows Jiles to have the hope of grabbing one. The moment Jiles pulls one free from the bundle, Youngblood casually steps on his wrist.

Fans at ringside have started a new chant directed at the first Universal champion of the ReVival.

OHHHHHHH FUCK BRAN-DON YOUUUUUNG-BLOOOOOD!!!
OHHHHHHH FUCK BRAN-DON YOUUUUUNG-BLOOOOOD!!!
OHHHHHHH FUCK BRAN-DON YOUUUUUNG-BLOOOOOD!!!

Yeah, they doin’ the White Stripes out here in the 2300.

Jiles looks up at Youngblood for a moment, his expression a mixture of anger and frustration. Youngblood is back to being in control, and he boots Jiles in the face and forces him to let go of the light tube. Jiles scrambles to his feet rapidly. He goes for the one shot he knows will work.

But the Terminal Cancer does not have a chance.

Youngblood easily avoids it, having seen it coming from another galaxy away, and he boots Jiles right in the eggs.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Coral Avalon: Youngblood with a low blow of his own!

No remorse.

Jiles drops to his knees. Youngblood picks up the light tube and places the tube right there on the side of Jiles’ neck. They glare at each other for a moment, with Bandits in the building screaming bloody murder at Youngblood. For this brief moment, Brandon Youngblood seems to be wondering if his adversary – his enemy for life since that fateful Almasy final four years ago – would be willing to concede this match.

Jiles has an answer for him.

He spits in his face.

Cancer Jiles would rather die than concede the match, his hair, or really anything.

Brandon Youngblood’s eyes grow murderous, a glob of white spittle dripping from his cheek. He rears back and swings for the fences.

CRUNCH.

Jiles head briefly disappears in a haze of smoke and glass, so you’d be forgiven to think – if only for a moment – that you’ve just witnessed an actual murder.

Coral Avalon: Good GOD!

Glass covers the ring mat, such that Lindsay Troy – our referee – sighs and has to set down the bourbon so she can put on some protective gloves. Through it all, Brandon Youngblood holds what’s left of the light tube in his hands, drinking in the reaction of the Bandits in attendance.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Cancer Jiles may have been squashed like a bug. Youngblood kicks him over and places one boot on his chest, and invites Lindsay Troy to make the count. LT does so, but doesn’t bother getting down to cover because that bourbon is still in her hands. Instead, she simply stomps her feet and counts.

It’s over.

One.

Two.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Jiles gets his shoulder up. With his middle finger shooting straight up along with his arm.

Fuck you.

Coral Avalon: Cancer Jiles will not die!

Bobby Dean: It wouldn’t be Jiles if he did.

Coral Avalon: Welcome back, Bobby. Find anything under the table?

Bobby Dean: A lot more Doritos than I expected. That’s why it took me so long!

Youngblood casts a brief glance at LT, but then he stares down at Jiles. He’d busted him wide open with the light tube, and blood trickled out of a wound in the side of his head. He’s honestly a little shocked that the cockroach hadn’t been squashed yet.

And so he picks up another light tube.

Fans might start rioting before the match concludes, let alone if Youngblood wins. Youngblood stands before Jiles, ready to bring down the ham—

OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!!!!

Coral Avalon: ANOTHER LOW BLOW!

This one stunned the Diamond. It was a true blue uppercut right in the jimmies. A real taintbuster. It’s enough to make the grip Youngblood had on his light tube slip enough for Jiles to take it from him.

Jiles sets his stance and doesn’t hesitate. He’s likely never been a baseball guy.

But in this moment, he is Kyle Schwarber and he’s about to fucking destroy this meatball in front of him.

CRUNCH.

Glass and powder fly everywhere, and for the first time in the match, Brandon Youngblood is finally on the back foot. He’s down and covering his face. The self-inflicted wound from his entrance had opened right back up.

Cancer Jiles stumbles as though drunk, dropping what was left of the light tube on the ground. He staggers towards Youngblood’s bundle, and picked up the third one. Outside of the ring, there’s activity.

A man last seen fighting a sandwich man to the death from the top of a burger has finally shown his face in the 2300. He’d run late. Considering how clean his outfit was, one could assume that Big Ian Salt had spent a lot of time between the opener and now making sure his uniform was pristine.

Bobby Dean: Oh, there he is. I bet he was in the loo.

Or that happened, yes.

Either way, Big Ian Salt is here to help. He’s a helper. And the way he helps out is that his great big arms are carrying a great many number of chairs. It’s like he raided the jolf course. He arrives at ringside and sets the stacks down on the ring apron, and then takes two of the chairs with him into the ring.

Coral Avalon: There’s Big John Pe—sorry, Big Ian Salt! He’s got chairs!

As Jiles recovers in one corner and Youngblood is still down, Big Ian sets up two chairs facing each other, a gap between them. Lindsay Troy doesn’t try to get involved, because this shit is legal and she knows it. She simply takes a sip of her bourbon and sits on the top turnbuckle of one corner.

With the two chairs set up, Mister Salt picks up the remaining bundle of light tubes and builds a goddamn bridge between the two chairs. The world’s least practical bridge. Nothing good will come of this. Especially not when Big Ian grabs Youngblood and pulls him into position in front of his construction.

Coral Avalon: We might be seeing a new Bandit tonight, Bobby!

Bobby Dean: Oh. I have seniority, right?

Big Ian goozles Youngblood.

And Youngblood is still too dazed to stop what’s coming.

CRAAAAAAAAACK!!!

HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!

Coral Avalon: CHOKESLAM! THROUGH THE DAMN LIGHT TUBES!

Clouds of phosphorous and glass choke the air. Brandon Youngblood lies unmoving in the center of that destruction, little nicks and cuts dotting his flesh. The Bandits in attendance are cacophonous as Jiles crawls over on top of the fallen Diamond. Lindsay Troy steps off of her perch and… Well, she stomps her way as her count.

ONE.

TWO.

TH-KICKOUT.

It’s as thunderous a kickout as you could make, and the Bandits inside and outside of the ring react in the same way that any Philadelphian would when some schmuck wide receiver drops that Jalen Hurts pass.

Jiles stares daggers, not at Youngblood… but at Big Ian Salt. He’s pointing in a direction. It takes Ian a few moments to achieve understanding. He steps to the outside over the ropes, hops down on the apron, and looks underneath the ring.

Tables.

RAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Of course the fucking mutants in this building cheer for the tables. It’s a goddamn Pavlovian response. Big Ian hefts one up and slides it into the ring. Jiles quickly snatches it up and sets it up, propping it diagonally against one corner. As he does, Ian pulls a second table out and sets it up on the outside.

Coral Avalon: If I were to move out of my nice home in Seattle and go someplace else, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have Jiles and Mr. Salt help me move.

Bobby Dean: You own a house?

Coral Avalon: Bobby, you’ve been to my house.

Bobby Dean: I’ve been to your house!?

Coral Avalon: Yeah. We had to evacuate the premises for three days after you went to the bathroom there and then went through ten cans of Lysol. You left scars there that might be still be there generations from now.

Bobby Dean: Wow. Must’ve been a Taco Bell night!

As Jiles is urging Ian Salt to grab a third table, Brandon Youngblood is trying to stir from his pit of glass. He uses one of the steel chairs that’d been used to bridge the light tubes he just went through to help him get to his knees. Jiles sees this, and goes to grab the other chair.

Jiles swings, but Youngblood ducks the shot. He turns, and swings with his own chair. Jiles manages to duck that himself. The two men reset and both swing for the fences.

SMACK.

Two steel chairs hitting each other with force enough to be heard even through the cacophony of fans cheering on their Bandit hero. Remarkably, neither man let go of their weapons. They wind up for another shot.

SMACK.

Again, they’re evenly matched. They try a third time.

SMACK.

Jiles can’t hang on to his weapon. It goes flying out of his hands and lands with a clatter near where Big Ian Salt is getting a third table into the ring. This gets the big man’s attention, and he slides into the ring immediately. As Youngblood lines up to cave Jiles’ head in with the chair, the big man grabs the chair from Youngblood and yanks it away.

Another goozle.

Coral Avalon: Ian Salt’s got Youngblood by the throat again! Could it be another chokeslam!?

It looks like Youngblood might end up in the table set up in the corner, courtesy of another chokeslam.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

It doesn’t happen.

Because Brandon Youngblood is a warrior. And a good warrior knows that only a dead warrior always fights fair fights. He breaks the choke not by using his vast technical skills or his array of suplexes. No. He breaks the hold by gouging at Monsieur Salt’s eyes. Even a tall tale like Big Ian needs his eyes.

Coral Avalon: No! Youngblood’s got him by the eyes, and he’s broken the chokehold!

The table is behind Youngblood. Youngblood gives it a passing glance over his shoulder, and a wicked smile comes over his lips.

Oh, sure, it took a lot of steel chair shots to stun Big Ian Salt over a month ago.

But what about a suplex?

Youngblood grabs Ian. One arm under the arm. The other grabs the leg. Suplexing is about leverage and hip movement, not necessarily power. Of course, power is really useful, too, and the former two-time Universal champion has that in spades. And with a roar and a powerful movement, Big Ian Salt gets sent straight to hell.

CRUNCH!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Through the table in the corner. Big Ian Salt lands nearly on his head and is practically upside-down through the table. Youngblood stands up, flipping Salt off as he does so, and…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Coral Avalon: JILES WITH ANOTHER LOW BLOW! THE THIRD!

Of course he would.

It’s Cancer Jiles, that cockroach has never met a cock he hasn’t kicked multiple times. Youngblood drops to his knees, and Jiles picks up a chair.

Hesitation means defeat, and Jiles isn’t a big hesitator – he’s an instigator.

SMACK.

And tonight, he’s instigating some concussions.

Youngblood is hit hard enough over the skull that the chair opens and wedges his head between the backrest and the seat.

Coral Avalon: WHAT A CHAIRSHOT!

Youngblood crumples to the ground with the chair worn around his head like the world’s most impractical necklace. Flavor Flav would never. Jiles collapses on top of Youngblood, trying to pin him down with his body weight and his hands on the chair. LT goes to count with the stomps, as before.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE-NO.

Somehow, Brandon Youngblood comes out of a blow that would’ve concussed any other individual on the roster with the angriest kickout possible. Jiles actually goes flying off of Youngblood, and fans are shocked. And also booing. They’re doing a mix of both.

Jiles scrambles to his feet with urgency. He whirls around. Looking. Big Ian’s nowhere to be found, because he’s lying on the floor trying to recover from getting suplexed through a table. Youngblood is on one knee, and has removed the chair from his head. He snaps it shut with authority, as though Jiles had made a huge mistake in leaving it around his head, and drops it to the ground as thoughtlessly as though it were made of paper.

Jiles does the only thing he can try.

Coral Avalon: TERMINAL CANC—NO!

Youngblood sidesteps him, and Jiles’ kick sails as wide right as a Buffalo Bills kick in crunch time. Jiles turns around to try and regain what advantage he has, but Youngblood boots him in the gut.

And then he lifts him high in the air with a military press. Jiles’ expression is sheer panic. He has no idea what to do in his current situation that won’t lead to him landing on his head. Youngblood looks around, and then discovers something interesting about the layout of the 2300 Arena.

In the interest of filling the building to capacity with all of those Jiles fans, the gap between the guardrails and the ring is a little narrower compared to PRIME’s ring. In other words, when Youngblood looks to his side and realizes this for himself, he makes an expression he hasn’t made all match.

He smiles.

Coral Avalon: No… NO! Don’t do it! Don’t do this, Brandon! It’s not worth it!

He is, in fact, going to do this.

He takes two steps forward and then launches Cancer Jiles out of the ring.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Cancer Jiles soars through the air with all of the grace and agility of a beer can being Kobe’d into a trash can. There’s panic in the air. Pandemonium’s many mouths have opened and are screaming. Jiles’ trajectory takes him far from the ring, over the guardrails…

…and into the crowd.

Coral Avalon: JILES FLIES INTO THE CROWD!

Under normal circumstances, fans would scatter and avoid the flying Jiles and he’d crash land into a sea of seats. What happens instead is that the rabid Bandit fans catch Jiles and keep him aloft.

Coral Avalon: Wait! WAIT! JILES IS CROWD-SURFING!

Inside the ring, Brandon Youngblood sees this happen. He’s fuming. Bandit Country has saved their scion. He decides that their scion has to die.

He goes to the outside of the ring. Before he goes to murder the crowd-surfing crumb, he stops to reach underneath the ring, and he pulls out another deadly weapon.

It’s an entire spool of barbed wire.

Bobby Dean: I was wondering why there was so much barbed wire under the ring.

Coral Avalon: Why were you under the ring?

Bobby Dean: Is where I hide my snacks.

Indeed, as Youngblood pulled out the barbed wire, he happens to also pull out a Styrofoam container labeled, in crude writing, “BOBBY’S SNACKS.” Youngblood looks visibly disgusted and he kicks it away into like the third row.

Bobby Dean: NAURRRRR!!!

Youngblood marches straight towards Jiles in the crowd. A few crowd members try to get in his way and prevent him from reaching the crumb as he’s being carried around the ringside area. Youngblood pushes them aside. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not so much.

As he makes his way through, though, he encounters a small child. A very familiar small child, dressed as the other Bandits in the audience are dressed. It’s only when you see the child’s smile that you know who it actually is.

Coral Avalon: Wait, is that…

The child leaps at Brandon Youngblood with savagery. And brass knuckles.

Because that is no child.

That is Tony fuckin’ Gamble.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The crowd is electric as Gamble attacks Youngblood, hitting him with body shots aided by his knucks. It’s enough to make Youngblood drop the spool.

Coral Avalon: Tony Gamble! Tony Gamble is here and he’s taking the fight to Youngblood!

Fans make room. They step aside to let Gamble work. Inside the ring, Lindsay Troy is consulting with Bourbon Retrieval Plague Doctor about a refill, so we know she’s not going to break up what’s happening outside. Gamble’s blows are having an effect on Youngblood, but when he stops his onslaught long enough to measure one blow to the face, he finds a problem.

Brandon Youngblood is not willing to die out here.

He sidesteps the haymaker, and grabs Gamble with a waistlock. Gamble goes wide-eyed, and it’s not just because he’s out on the floor with a man who has an entire family reunion full of suplexes at his disposal.

It’s because he knows where Youngblood dropped the spool…

…right where he’s about to be headed.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Coral Avalon: TONY GAMBLE JUST GOT SUPLEXED INTO THE BARBED WIRE SPOOL!

Gamble writhes, and it becomes apparent that he’s got a new accessory as he tries – and fails – to get to his feet. The barbed wire is sticking to his tracksuit.

Youngblood is slow to get up, though, and he comes up clutching his guts. The damage the other Bandits have inflicted on Youngblood have begun to put chinks in his armor. He needed to end this soon. He needed to find Jiles and put him in the dirt where he belongs, he just needed to find hi—

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Coral Avalon: TERMINAL CANCER!

Out of nowhere, as it usually does, when it’s least expected or wanted. The superkick finds its mark on Youngblood’s jaw, and Jiles – half-dead and bleeding everywhere – stands over Youngblood.

Run from it, try to evade it, donate several thousand dollars to charity while watching a marathon on Twitch… that superkick still comes all the same.

Ha.

Jiles stands there for a while, with the surrounding pro-Bandit crowd cheering him on. It’s quite likely he doesn’t know where he is right now, or how urgently he needs to capitalize on what’s just happened.

And that’s when he locks eyes with one man that has his back, no matter what.

Coral Avalon: It’s Lunchbox Larceny!

Some things just don’t change no matter what. To be fair, we’re not sure he ever learned Lazer’s name. Lunchbox Larry, that’s different. Not sure whatever happened to that guy, to be honest.

Lazer leads the way as Jiles starts to drag Youngblood back towards the balconies that surround ringside. Once they arrive, Lazer begins to set up a table. Youngblood is still out on his feet, and Jiles has a hell of a time guiding the Diamond up the steps. He has to coax him. A little right hand to the face here, a little knee to the gut there.

Nothing fancy. It’s not like we’re here to wrestle.

Ha.

Lazer starts setting up a second table right around the time Youngblood and Jiles find themselves at the edge of the balcony overlooking it. Jiles starts to beat Youngblood over the head, right hands upon right hands upon right hands. Enough that Youngblood is down on one knee, so that Jiles could punch down.

Coral Avalon: This is looking bad for Youngblood if Jiles does what I think he’s going to do!

As Jiles continues raining down blows, Lazer’s started to stack two more tables on top of the two already set up. By the time he’s done, there’s four tables ready to bring doom to Youngblood. Jiles urges him, in his way, to get up to the balcony to assist him in dealing with Youngblood. The word “crumb” was used several times in inappropriate ways.

Once he’s joined them, Lazer and Jiles take turns striking Youngblood.

Coral Avalon: Youngblood is being double-teamed by Lazer and Jiles!

Youngblood is in a lot of trouble, and Lazer and Jiles look to finish the job by tossing him off the balcony. They hook him up for a double suplex. However, as they pick him up to do so, Youngblood struggles out. He fights them off. He kicks Jiles in the gut and Jiles slips off. It’s now that Lazer realizes how out of his depth he is when Youngblood suddenly manhandles him. He picks him up in the same spinebuster that he’d delivered to Zeb Martin.

Unfortunately for Lazer, his fall is far, far worse.

CRAAAAAASHHHHH!!!

HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!

All four tables explode under Lazer’s body weight, and he disappears into the wreckage.

Coral Avalon: OH MY GOD!

There are cacophonous lamentations coming from Bandit Country. No, not Lazer! Anyone but Lazer!

Youngblood roars at the edge of the balcony. It wasn’t the victim he wanted, but he’ll take it. He whirls around to see Jiles standing there in shock. No, not that Lazer is now dead. That’d be silly and very unlike him. He’s just shocked that Brandon Youngblood is still alive. Youngblood turns and starts grabs Jiles, and he’s now choking him with his bare damn hands.

The only reason we’re not calling the cops for a homicide right now is because some overzealous fan tries to get involved. It’s not like the 2300 has security.

Coral Avalon: Oh no, don’t get involved! ……..Wait…

He’s asking us to wait because he vaguely recognizes the guy. It’s the fan that had the very, very French sign earlier. He is an actual eGG Bandit, and he vigorously pulls Youngblood away from Jiles.

Coral Avalon: Is that Roger?

Bobby Dean: That’s Rick.

Coral Avalon: That’s what I said. Rupert.

Rick may have made the biggest mistake of his entire French chungus life. Youngblood grabs him by the throat, and simply throws him away like he’s a baguette turning green. It just so happens that he throws him off the damn balcony and to the floor below, and Rick is only saved from horrific injury because a few of the security personnel checking up on Lazer happen to be there to provide somewhere for him to land.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Coral Avalon: Youngblood just threw Raphael off of the balcony!

Bobby Dean: You do this on purpose, don’t you?

Coral Avalon: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Youngblood looks around. He doesn’t have eyes on Jiles, and that’s usually a very bad thing for everyone involved. That usually means the surprise Terminal Cancer call from commentary. This doesn’t come to pass. Jiles is already at the bottom of the balcony, and he’s looking up at Youngblood with two middle fingers up.

You have to understand something about what’s about to happen.

Brandon Youngblood is not a man who takes risks. He looks at the turnbuckles with contempt. He sees people flying through the ropes at him and thinks to himself, “Why have you come to die?” Youngblood believes in the power of suplexing a motherfucker so hard that he leaves a crater in his wake. He believes in guaranteed damage. He believes in beating you black and blue until you can’t get up any more. He believes risks are for losers that can’t win normally.

In this moment, Brandon Youngblood so wants to murder Cancer Jiles that he takes that entire paragraph, tells reality to shove it, and flies.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Coral Avalon: WHAT THE HELL!?

Cancer Jiles can only watch in horror as 265 pounds of solid muscle and hate comes streaking through the air from an uncomfortable amount of feet in the air and down on top of him. There is no technique in what Brandon Youngblood just did. This is not a thing he does.

Needless to say, Jiles is squashed.

Like a cockroach.

Ha.

Both men are down for a time. The fans are, needless to say, apoplectic about the situation. There’s a riotous energy. Medics are on the scene and checking the condition of the massacre unfolding before our very eyes. Unease settles in.

And then one of the medics is thrown backwards.

Brandon Youngblood does not need medical attention. And he feels that Jiles deserves none as well, so he helpfully assists Jiles from these pesky medics by pushing them over and grabbing Jiles by those luscious alfredo locks he covets (covered in blood, mind you) and yanking him to his feet. A hard elbow smashes Jiles in the face, sending him scurrying backwards towards the ring.

Bandit fans try to stand in Youngblood’s way, but Youngblood will not be deterred and he starts pushing them away like he’s parting curtains. Most just go back to their Millers Lite. Some try to fight, and Youngblood politely dissuades them by shoving them hard.

Coral Avalon: It’s getting dangerous out there! For Youngblood and everyone surrounding him!

Bobby Dean: I’m on my fifth bucket of popcorn, I’m so nervous!

Jiles manages to get to the guardrails, just in time for Youngblood to come streaking at him and laying him out with a clothesline, sending Jiles flipping over the guardrail and to the ringside floor. Inside the ring, Lindsay Troy – who has been sitting on the turnbuckles as though they were her throne – checks her watch.

Jiles is only back to his feet thanks to the cruel mercy of those bitches momentum and gravity. He stumbles backwards as Youngblood hops over the guardrail, away from any further attempts by the Bandit crowd to impede him. Jiles staggers in that way where his body knows he’s standing but his brain sure doesn’t, and has no answer when Youngblood charges and runs him over with another clothesline.

Youngblood turns and thrusts his junk in the general direction of the Bandit crowd.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Coral Avalon: Youngblood is not making any friends tonight!

Youngblood grabs Jiles and throws him back into the ring. Once again, he lingers outside.

He has something in mind. Something terrible.

He reaches under the ring, and what he pulls out get him sent to The Hague. For war crimes. Because no wrestling match should ever include such a thing. No sane person that belongs on this earth should ever willfully bring something like this out.

Coral Avalon: Oh no.

It’s a bed of goddamn nails.

The fans have quite the chant for this.

WHAT THE FUCK!?
WHAT THE FUCK!?
WHAT THE FUCK!?

Coral Avalon: I… I think we should check to see if Jiles had his tetanus shot.

Bobby Dean: Knowing him, he probably thinks he’s above that sort of thing.

Coral Avalon: He is kind of an idiot, yeah.

Youngblood slides this war crime into the ring. Some of those nails look like they got pulled out of some plank on his back porch, though maybe they’re just painted that way to put the fear in everyone gazing upon this bed. Who knows? I just know I wouldn’t want to lie on that abomination.

He slides into the ring and grabs Jiles from behind. The way he deadlifts him telegraphs what he intends to do with the Coolympian, and it’s the sort of thing that might actually kill him if it were to happen.

Coral Avalon: YOUNGBLOOD! GOING FOR THE DIAMONDPLEX!

Coral Avalon has experienced this particular suplex on the grandest stage possible just a year and a half ago. It is murder, and Brandon Youngblood has a license to kill. And if he’d successfully followed through with the Diamondplex, we’d have to start using past tense to describe Cancer Jiles.

However.

The lights go out.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

They’re cheering not because the lights went out, but because our crowd of very savvy more-than-six-Miller-Lites-deep pro-Bandit Philadelphians know an interruption when they see one. And when the lights come back, there is a man standing in the ring.

Playing a ukulele.

Bobby Dean: OOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!!

Coral Avalon: Is that… Max… Kael?

Bobby Dean: IT’S MAX SHELL!!!

Youngblood still has Jiles deadlifted in position for the Diamondplex, but he’s rather dumbstruck at this fucking Max Kael-lookin’ motherfucker with a ukulele staring at him. He remembers himself a moment later, and tries to follow through on that whole murderin’ business he had with the crumb.

But Jiles flails enough that he gets to plant his feet once more.

And once he does, his trick knee acts up and hits Youngblood right in the taint. It stuns him, but only briefly. Only enough to stop him before Youngblood renews his lift with a guttural roar.

No, you motherfucker, you die tonight.

KABONG.

That’s not actually the sound it makes, but if you get hit over the head by a ukulele by Max Shell, he might make a distinct “KABONG” sound with his mouth when he does it.

Coral Avalon: Max Kael—

Bobby Dean: Shell!

Coral Avalon: —just hit Brandon Youngblood over the head with that ukulele!

Youngblood is stunned, and Jiles’ instincts take over. He grabs Youngblood in a front facelock, and then – by God – he does an actual professional wrestling maneuver in this match. It’s a DDT, as simple and as eloquent a move that could possibly be executed.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

It’s just that Jiles was about as aware of his surroundings as one can be when you’re getting manhandled up and down the 2300 Arena all night, and you’re operating on that primordial instinct of “fuck that other guy.”

And so, he hit that DDT alright.

Into the bed of fucking nails.

Coral Avalon: JESUS!

Bobby Dean: Oh. Fuck.

The bloodthirsty Philadelphian Bandits in attendance are losing their whole ass minds. Brandon Youngblood’s skull hit the nails, but so did almost the entirety of Cancer Jiles’ back. Pain is etched on his face like it was painted by Picasso. There is blood, of course. It trickles out of Youngblood’s bald head in ways a mere beer can couldn’t match before.

Max Shell does a delightful little dance that does not begin to remotely convey how completely fucked that was. Lindsay Troy rolls her eyes at him from her perch in the corner, clearly unimpressed by the display.

On the outside, Big Ian Salt has stirred, and had journeyed over to the table set up on the outside. He has something in his hands, and it only takes a few moments and a decent sense of smell to figure out what it is once he begins pouring its contents onto the table.

Coral Avalon: Now we have LIGHTER FLUID!?

Bobby Dean: Oh, good, I was in the mood for some barbeque!

Jiles tosses Youngblood to the ropes. Behind him, Big Ian Salt lights a match.

WHOOM.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The only thing Philadelphians like more than tables are tables which are on fire.

With the table on fire, Big Ian hops up onto the apron to grab hold of Youngblood. They have him dead to rights. This man has to go through a trial by fire before he becomes an eGG Bandit. His eggs MUST be scrambled before he’s ever allowed on board the USS Bandit.

Brandon Youngblood, despite being half-blind from the blood pouring from his face, is not going quietly into that good night. He struggles. And Big Ian tries desperately to keep him in place, and while he has the strength to do that, Youngblood is preventing him from getting a good enough grip because the survival instincts are kicking in.

Jiles is in agony. He’s bleeding in places he didn’t think he could bleed before.

Still, he knows an opportunity when he sees one. And as Youngblood isn’t paying attention to him, that’s when—

Coral Avalon: TERMINAL CANCER!

—he strikes.

CRASH.

…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

It’s chaos. Arena staff immediately goes to town with the fire extinguishers the moment the victim falls through the table, and pandemonium has tightened its grip on the 2300 Arena. Thirty-three screaming hell mouths join the thousand or so Bandits in attendance in screaming.

Because it was not Brandon Youngblood who took the Terminal Cancer and fell through the flaming table.

It was Big Ian Salt, hoist by his own petard. And flaming table.

Cancer Jiles’ eyes go wide as he processes what just happened. Youngblood had moved out of the way just before the salt shoe could make contact, and it was Big Ian who paid the price.

Coral Avalon: THAT’S INSANE!

Bobby Dean: I DIDN’T ASK FOR BARBEQUED SALT!

Yes, you did, don’t lie to us.

Jiles scrambles to try and make sense of anything, and tries to grab hold of Youngblood on the apron.

CHOP.

It’s a knife edge chop that feels like a fucking zweihander, so cutting and heavy that Jiles is launched backwards. If it’d hit any harder, he might’ve been cut literally in half.

Youngblood staggers back into the ring. He’s weary, now. All of the damage is finally catching up to this Terminator of a human being. And the moment he’s back into the ring, Max Shell knows he has to do something.

KABONG.

Another ukulele to the head. We’re surprised it wasn’t broken from the first time, but it’s definitely broken now. Maybe he’s got others. Either way, Youngblood slumps to one knee, and Max Shell starts putting the boots to hi—

…

The lights go out.

Coral Avalon: What the hell?

Only the embers of Big Ian Salt’s descent into hell remain. But it’s very clear that someone has entered the ring. And when the lights come back up, everyone loses their minds.

Red hair like the burning sun. Two knee braces because one wasn’t enough. A baseball bat with a nail driven straight through it like the world’s least practical pickax. The woman that stands in the ring hadn’t set foot in a PRIME ring since her promotion went to war with it nearly two decades ago. Lindsay Troy sees her and her eyes narrow dangerously.

It is Brandon Youngblood’s wife.

Coral Avalon: THAT’S… THAT’S AMY CAMPBELL! AIMZ! SHE IS HERE IN THE 2300 ARENA!

Max Shell realizes the danger the moment she charges at him with the nail bat, and he wisely does the smart thing. He flees. He flees so hard that he’d likely be making Jabberjaw noises on his way out of the ring. Aimz gives chase, and Max Shell exits, pursued by redhead.

Cancer Jiles stands bewildered at what just happened, but it slowly dawns on him…

…that he has no more backup left.

With little other choice, he goes to Brandon Youngblood, and…

SMACK.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

…Get hit by a steel chair.

Jiles falls backwards and is maybe dead.

Brandon Youngblood catches his breath.

And then slowly, sloooooowly starts taking the straps of his singlet back down. One strap, then the other, all while keeping one hand on the steel chair. He intends to finish things. Jiles is on his knees and all it will take it one more blow to the dome to squash this roach once and for al—

Coral Avalon: COOLYMPIAN YOJLK!

No.

This will not end this way.

Because Brandon Youngblood knows Cancer Jiles and all of his tricks and bullshit. He saw the yellow mist coming, and he subtly moved the steel chair in front of his face to block it. The black steel got a little more yellow. Brandon Youngblood smiles a deadly smile.

Jiles is dead to rights, and his eyes are wide knowing that the end may come.

And then…

Sploosh.

Yojlk. From the ceiling. Down to the ring. Enough that Lindsay Troy finally clears the ring from her perch, lest she get covered in that bullshit. She’s yelling angrily, looking for who the culprit might be.

Somewhere backstage, Vickie Hall laughs with her button on the yojlk button.

Brandon Youngblood is only momentarily stunned. He does not care. He is still going to smash this crumb in the face, he is still going to squash this cockroach, he is sti—

SMAAAAAACK!

Coral Avalon: TERMINAL CANCER!

Boot meets steel.

Steel and boot both meet skull.

Brandon Youngblood goes down, and Jiles falls right on top.

Lindsay Troy slides into the mess of the ring, and carefully finds the spot to make the count.

The jubilant crowd counts along.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

DING DING DING

No, we still don’t know how CBD rang the bell.

Coral Avalon: I… I don’t believe it…

There is no Tony Gamble to make the call. But no one needs it to know what just happened. Somewhere, nine minutes away, Richard Parker screams and doesn’t exactly know why.

Coral Avalon: But… Brandon Youngblood… is now an eGG Bandit.

Bandit fans in the crowd are jumping with joy. Cardboard Dan Ryan is clearly ecstatic that no one is going to crucify him in the 2300 with real nails.

Lindsay Troy lingers just long enough to raise Cancer Jiles’ arm in disgust before she almost immediately leaves the ring, headed as far away from the 2300 Arena as possible. Along the way, she passes by Zeb Martin dizzily making his way to ringside holding the back of his head.

Bobby Dean leaves Coral alone on commentary to enter the yolk-stained ring. Big Ian Salt, the tough son of a bitch he is, is slowly crawling inside of the ring as well. Indeed, the bruised and battered eGG Bandits seem to be converging on Cancer Jiles as one. Celebrating.

After four years, Cancer Jiles can finally claim victory over the man that twice cost him the inaugural Almasy tournament and twice the Universal championship.

Coral Avalon: Brandon Youngblood looked unstoppable. He was cutting through the Bandits like a hot knife through butter! But Cancer Jiles would not die, and thanks to a bit of a yojlk rain, he gets to keep those hair follicles of his!

The celebration lasts a little bit, before Jiles collapses on the ground. Jiles looks up at the Bandits and then gestures towards Youngblood. He wants the Bandits to do something with him. So, the surviving Bandits – Zeb, Gamble, Big Ian Salt, Doozer, and Bobby – go over and begin to pick up Youngblood. Hoisting him up on their shoulders.

If there’s one person in this building who appreciates what’s going on right now, it’s the man on commentary.

Coral Avalon: Oh, God, that brings back some awful memories. They’re going to carry Youngblood out of the building, just like they did with me!

As the Bandits attempt to navigate how to get Brandon Youngblood out of the ring, something very different happens than what happened at UltraViolence three years ago.

Brandon Youngblood stirs.

Realization hits him.

And he takes that realization and starts bludgeoning his now-fellow eGG Bandits with it.

Coral Avalon: No! Youngblood is fighting back!

Enough punches to the domes force the Bandits to drop him. And then Brandon Youngblood proves that he’s still got way more fight in him, because he starts handing out suplexes. One for Zeb, who screams as he’s thrown violently to the ground against his will. Doozer? Suplexed invisibly. Gamble? Suplexed. Big Ian Salt tries to goozle Youngblood, only to get suplexed himself. Bobby’s all that’s left, and he simply drops to the ground and plays dead rather than experience anything Brandon Youngblood has to deliver.

Coral Avalon: The Bandits are down!

Jiles shoots Avalon a look, as though he’s requesting that the King of Conquerors step in to deal with the unruly new Bandit.

Coral smiles back at Jiles… and shakes his head.

Coral Avalon: Nope.

Jiles fumes at him.

Brandon Youngblood stares daggers at Cancer Jiles, who is still down in the corner and completely spent. He’d put everything he had left into that last Terminal Cancer. By all accounts, Jiles is still at Youngblood’s mercy.

Yet, Brandon Youngblood simply gives him the finger.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

And then he steps through the ropes and starts leaving.

Coral Avalon: Brandon Youngblood… is leaving! He’s leaving on his own! He won’t be carried out of the building tonight! Is he truly an eGG Bandit, per the stipulation? It looks like he’s not accepting this outcome!

The entire time he’s leaving, he’s directing a middle finger – a single at first, and then two – back towards Jiles. Fans relentlessly boo him, throwing trash and other things at him.

Amy Campbell meets him by the curtains, nailed baseball bat still in her hand. They share a nod, and then both disappear behind the curtain.

In the ring, Cancer Jiles fumes.

He’s won.

He’s made Brandon Youngblood an eGG Bandit.

Yet, even now…

He’s not sure he’s actually won anything more than a match yet.

WELCOME.

TO.

THE CARTON.