ReVival 90

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ReVival 90!

Except… there’s none of the usual opening pageantry. No pyros. No shots out of the crowd going crazy. No theme music, no Vince Howard about to introduce the first match of the night, not even Nick and Richard’s lovely voices.

Instead, there’s the ring. And, goddamn, it’s travesty.

The PRIME ring has been transformed into something that would make both a country health inspector and a wedding planner immediately resign. The canvas is almost completely hidden beneath long folding tables. Cardboard pizza boxes from every possible chain (yes, including Jet’s) are stacked in wobbling towers, some open already, stream drifting lazily into the arena lights. Aluminum trays overflow with crawfish, corn, potatoes, smoked sausage, and enough melted butter to make Paula Deen do a double take.

Coolers line every corner, packed with beer, bottled water, and suspiciously unlabeled two-liter sodas.

A hand painted banner stretches between the ring posts, held up high by two poles precariously duct taped to the turnbuckles. It reads:

DAYTONA’S BIG CELEBRATORY UNIVERSAL PIZZA PARTY, CRAWFISH BOIL, AND RAFFLE

The word UNIVERSAL is underlined five separate times.

Near the hard camera sits an industrial-sized raffle drum mounted on a cheap plastic folding table. And beside it…? An absolutely absurd mountain of prizes.

A fifty-five inch television. Several power tools. A pressure washer. Lottery tickets rubber-banded together. Three fishing rods. A chainsaw. An air fryer. A leaf blower. An entire kayak somehow balanced upright on the barricade.

Around the ring, the few wrestlers who actually bothered to read the invitation flyers posted backstage have already started eating.

Kris Roswell and Satan Jones have already claimed an entire corner of one of the tables, paper plates piled embarrassingly high as they work their way through a respectable sampling of nearly every pizza available. Nate Colton, ever the gentleman, keeps things considerably more restrained, balancing a single slice in one hand and a plate of crawfish in the other. Steve Lemieux is inspecting a slice intently, folding it back and forth as if trying to make sense of where the pizza ends and the sandwich begins.

Math Johnson has become inexplicably fixated on the kayak, studying it with the expression of a man trying to determine how exactly one transported a fourteen-foot watercraft home after a wrestling show.

Henry Keyes, meanwhile, appears to have abandoned any pretense of moderation, already halfway through what could generously be described as his second meal of the evening.

Baron Taterton eyes the crawfish with visible suspicion, lifting one between his thumb and index finger and whispering a few unheard words before it slowly starts to squirm in his grasp. He barely restrains himself from screaming like a little girl when it does.

Quinn Fleetwood simply takes advantage of the fact that absolutely nobody is paying attention, quietly carrying a few unopened boxes towards the ramp.

TAL stands a polite distance away from everyone else, sipping from a plastic cup. He nods awkwardly whenever someone happens to make eye contact before immediately looking somewhere else.

None of them seem particularly invested in celebrating Daytona’s championship victory… however, there are three people who are very invested.

Inside the ring, things are considerably more organized. The Poor Whoresmen stand proudly behind the banquet tables like the hosts of the world’s least sanitary bar mitzvah.

Anna Daniels surveys the growing crowd with an unreadable expression, gloved hands folded neatly in front of her.

Rob Williams, the Five Star Champion still draped across his shoulder, adjusts his tie and clears his throat.

At the center of it all, Fred Dick. For reasons known only to himself, he’s elected to wear a powder-blue tuxedo jacket over a grease-stained apron reading KISS THE COOK, the ensemble completed by a microphone in one hand and an index card in the other.

He clears his throat.

The arena settles.

Fred raises the microphone.

Fred Dick: Ladies an’ gentlemen… Welcome to DAYTONA’S BIG CELEBRATORY UNIVERSAL PIZZA PARTY, CRAWFISH BOIL, AN’ RAFFLE!

He pauses to admire the spread.

Fred Dick: …Lawd, we done did a good job. Neow, y’all know why we here. It ain’t fer th’pizza. It ain’t fer th’crawdads. It ain’t even fer th’raffle.

He pauses, glancing over at the kayak and Math Johnson’s hungry eyes.

Fred Dick: But if I win that boat, don’t none o’y’all git no funny ideas. Boat’s mine.

He stuffs the blank index card into his jacket pocket, clearing his throat as he starts pacing.

Fred Dick: Naw. We’re here ‘cause one man done climbed to the tippy top o’this whole mothafuggin’ company! One man done walked straight through blood, through pain, through all kinda crazy shid!

On either side of him, Rob and Anna nod solemnly.

Fred Dick: That mothafugger earned it!

A finger shoots into the air.

Fred Dick: He’s my friend!

Another finger.

Fred Dick: He’s Rob’s friend!

Another.

Fred Dick: Anna tolerates him! Which is basically th’same thang.

Fred nods proudly at his own assessment.

Fred Dick: He’s th’Rhinestone Cowboy… He’s th’King o’ th’Rodeo and th’Ocean… He’s th’only man I know what coulda won th’Universal Championship an’ immediately spend all his hard earned money on pizza, crawdads, lottery tickets, an’…

He pauses, looking over his shoulder at the prize pile

Fred Dick: a whole-ace kayak.

He gives the kayak one more approving nod.

Fred Dick: That’s financial literacy.

Fred inhales so deeply it looks like he’s preparing to announce the Second Coming. He points dramatically toward the entranceway. His voice rises as the crowd and the other wrestlers gathered around the ring turn to look up the ramp.

Fred Dick: Ladies an’ gentlemen… FER TH’FIRST TIME EVER… YER PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION… THE RHINESTONE COWBOY…

He nearly jumps as he bellows into the microphone.

Fred Dick: DAYTONAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA… DIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNDS!

For a moment, silence… and then…

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

A single truck air horn from somewhere backstage.

The crowd jumps.

Silence.

Another.

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

Then another.

And another.

Within seconds, the arena is engulfed by a chorus of air horns so loud they seem capable of rearranging internal organs. Gold confetti erupts from the stage. Silver confetti follows and then white and then, wouldn’t you believe it, more gold. Pyro launches. More pyro. Way more pyro. Smoke pours through the entranceway as several stagehands disappear backstage holding fire extinguishers.

The smoke grows thicker. For a brief moment, the entranceway disappears completely beneath a shimmering cloud of gold, silver, and the unmistakable smell of overworked pyrotechnics.

Then… headlights. Two blinding white beams pierce through the smoke. An engine growls. Deep. Heavy. Expensive.

Slowly emerging from the haze is perhaps the single most aggressively unnecessary pickup truck ever assembled: a brand new, lifted, white Ford F-450 dually.

Every square inch of chrome has been polished to a mirror finish. Every inch that isn’t chrome… has been absolutely buried beneath rhinestones.

The grille sparkles. The mirrors sparkle. The wheel wells sparkle. Someone has somehow rhinestoned the tow hooks. Even the mud flaps glitter.

The truck rolls forward at approximately walking speed, its suspension towering so high over the stage that climbing inside probably requires supplemental oxygen.

The air horns continue until they stop, just as the truck also stops dead center on the stage.

…

Nothing happens.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

A production hand jogs into frame. He opens the passenger-side door. A red carpet tumbles out of the cab and then keeps going.

And going.

The poor stagehand chases it down the ramp, trying desperately to keep it straight as it unrolls nearly the entire length of the aisle before finally coming to rest at ringside.

Only then does one, pristine white cowboy boot step out onto the running board. Then another. Finally, Daytona Diamonds steps down from the truck as though disembarking Air Force One.

The PRIME Universal Championship rests proudly across his shoulder. It, much like the truck, has also been rhinestoned to the absolute limits of decency.

His white leather jacket glitters almost as much as the truck behind him. So do his white jeans. And his white boots. And his white cowboy hat.

A fresh Coors Light in one hand, a big ol’ cigar in the other.

And spread across his face…? The widest, most self-satisfied grin anyone has ever grinned in the entire history of the human race.

He takes one long sip. Then, without a single ounce of irony, slowly raises the Universal Championship above his head.

The arena erupts. Not the crowd, no; they’re booing a bunch. We’re talking about the pyro here. A ridiculous amount of pyro. So much pyro that the truck briefly disappears behind another wall of smoke before re-emerging like some sort of mythological beast forged entirely from chrome and poor financial decisions.

Fred Dick is openly weeping.

Rob Williams applauds with genuine pride.

Anna Daniels’ expression remains perfectly unreadable, though even she can’t help to hide a small smile on the corners of her lips.

The other wrestlers gathered around the ring have all stopped mid-feast, staring up the ramp with wide eyes at the hubris of mankind on full display. Daytona adjusts the Universal Championship on his shoulder, tips his hat toward the crowd, and then begins the slow, deliberate walk down the red carpet.

And as he walks, you better believe his music plays. “Goin’ Out West” by Tom Waits, “Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson, “Rhinestone Cowboy” by Glen Campbell, and the guitar solo from “Free Bird” all at the same time.

Daytona takes his time.

Why wouldn’t he?

This is his moment.

Every few steps he stops, removes the cigar from his mouth, raises the belt skyward, and basks in another chorus of boos. He drinks them in every bit as eagerly as the cheers, grinning wider with each passing second.

By the time he reaches ringside, Fred Dick is practically vibrating with excitement. Rob parts the ropes. Anna gestures toward the center of the ring with all the enthusiasm of a maitre d’ seating another customer.

Daytona steps inside. The four Whoresmen gather at the center of the ring. Fred embraces him immediately. Rob follows with a firm handshake. Anna settles for a single, congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

Daytona takes the microphone and the music mercifully dies.

The crowd, however, does not.

The Universal Champion waits.

And waits.

Eventually…

He smiles.

Daytona Diamonds: Boy… y’all sure know how to make an ol’ cowpoke feel welcome.

The boos grow even louder, but Daytona just nods thoughtfully, as if accepting a standing ovation.

Daytona Diamonds: Naw, naw. I hear ya! I get it!

He takes another sip of his beer.

Daytona Diamonds: Truth is… I ain’t always been the easiest fella to get along with. I know that! I done said some things I probably shouldn’ta said, done some things I probably shouldn’ta done… Hell, I’ve hurt some feelin’s, ain’t I? But, y’see, folks grow. And winnin’ this belt…?

His voice softens just enough as he pats the center plate of the Universal Championship.

Daytona Diamonds: It changed me.

The arena responds with immediate, unanimous disbelief.

Daytona simply nods.

Daytona Diamonds: I know, I know! I’d’ve said the same thing if I was in your boots!

He smiles sympathetically at the booing audience.

Daytona Diamonds: But, listen… My daddy, he always used to say, a championship don’t make a man; it reveals him. And I reckon this one done went and revealed somethin’ I ain’t seen in myself in a long, long time.

He places a hand over his heart.

Daytona Diamonds: I’m talkin’ ‘bout compassion.

The boos become almost deafening. Rob, Fred, and Anna begin applauding anyway.

Daytona Diamonds: See, I’ve been thinkin’…. I got this belt, right? I got that truck parked on the ramp. Hell, I got more pizza and crawdads than any one man should legally possess!

He gestures proudly towards the feast.

Daytona Diamonds: And I got to askin’ myself… how much is enough? Turns out… just a little bit more’n this, to be honest.

He beams. The audience groans. He doesn’t even register why.

Daytona Diamonds: But after that? Reckon a champion oughta give back, shouldn’t he? For two fuckin’ years, this here company’s been headlined by either a goddang posh little British dicknose, a fuckin’ Commie that oughta found his way to a nursin’ home, or a sonuvabitch with a forehead bigger’n a Buc-ee’s parkin’ lot. They ain’t never done nothin’ for y’all! They won belts. They held belts. They defended belts. Then they took their little belts right back home with ‘em.

He pats the Universal Championship.

Daytona Diamonds: But me?

He spreads his arms toward the feast.

Daytona Diamonds: I bring the party with me!

Another gesture toward the wrestlers surrounding the ring.

Daytona Diamonds: I feed folks!

Toward the raffle table.

Daytona Diamonds: I give away prizes!

Then to the crowd.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s what a champion’s ‘sposed to do. That’s what leadership looks like. That’s what community looks like. This is the goddang start of the Rhinestone Era!

The crowd responds with one of the strangest reactions in PRIME history; a mixture of boos, laughter, and scattered applause.

Daytona Diamonds: Tonight, I don’t see enemies. I don’t see rivals. I don’t see folks waitin’ for a title shot. I see Whoresmen. Tonight, we’re all Whoresmen! And that’s why everything y’all see ‘round this ring… it ain’t for me. It’s for y’all.

He spreads his arms wide once more.

Daytona Diamonds: ‘Cause that’s the kinda Universal Champion I aim to be. One that gives back. You’re fuckin’ welcome.

Math Johnson turns to the gathering in the ring and lip-readers can clearly see what he’s saying: “Dibs on the kayak.”

Daytona smiles as he sets his beer down atop one of the pizza boxes.

Daytona Diamonds: Alright, that’s enough dickin’ ‘round. IT’S RAFFLE TIME, MOTHERFUCKERS!

The crowd actually pops. Two production assistants dutifully carry the raffle drum to the apron of the ring, somehow managing to hoist it up high enough for Daytona to walk over to the ropes and enthusiastically spin it himself.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

As soon as it stops spinning, he reaches inside. Really reaches inside. Half his arm disappears into the drum as he digs around dramatically before finally pulling out a ticket.

He squints.

Daytona Diamonds: Number… Seventeen! Hot damn! Which means one lucky person done won themselves…

He flips the ticket over.

Daytona Diamonds: …a rhinestone air fryer! Shitfire!

Right on cue, the Price is Right theme song starts playing through the PA system. Nate Colton politely raises his hand. Daytona points directly at him.

Daytona Diamonds: NATER! You sonuvabitch! Go fry the absolute dogshit outta somethin’!

Nate can’t help but smile.

Nate Colton: Uh… thank you.

The crowd applauds as Nate carefully carries his new prize back toward the feast. Anna Daniels somehow manages to teleport from the ring in front of Nate. She puts a plate of rutabaga cheesecake on top of the air fryer and nods, walking off. Daytona, meanwhile, starts rubbing his hands together.

Daytona Diamonds: Alright, let’s make somebody else’s whole damn life! How ‘bout it?!

He gives the drum another mighty spin.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Daytona reaches inside once more. Another ticket. Another exaggerated squint.

Daytona Diamonds: Number…

He pauses and looks toward ringside. A grin slowly spreads across his face.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, I’ll be damned. Math Johnson…? First night on the roster and, wouldja look at that… you just won yourself a whole-ass kayak, son!

The arena erupts. Math doesn’t. Instead, he quietly closes his eyes, places one hand over his heart, and slowly exhales as though every decision he’d ever made in life had led to this singular moment. Without a word, he approaches the kayak. He gently places both hands upon it and nods once.

Behind Daytona… Fred Dick’s smile disappears.

Fred Dick: …aw.

He lowers his head.

Fred Dick: …I wanted th’boat.

Rob gently pats him on the back.

Rob Williams: It’s alright, Fred.

Fred sniffs.

Fred Dick: …I already had a name picked out.

Math lovingly runs a hand down the side of the kayak before beginning the impossible task of figuring out how exactly he’s supposed to carry it out of the arena. The crowd gives him an encouraging round of applause anyway.

Daytona reaches once more into the raffle drum… but then stops. He looks at the remaining mountain of prizes, at the wrestlers circling like vultures. Then he simply shrugs.

Daytona Diamonds: Aw, to hell with it. We done complicated this enough! Whatever’s left… it’s a free for all! Best get to grabbin’, boys!

Exactly one second passes.

And then absolute anarchy ensues.

Steve Lemieux is the first man over the table, grabbing for a panini maker like it holds the secrets to eternal life.

Quinn Fleetwood gets absolutely decked by a stray leaf blower, crashing to the ground.

Kris Roswell and Satan Jones simultaneously grab the fishing rods. In the chaos, Satan asks random people if they are Hayes Hanlon’s tag team partner.

Henry Keyes somehow emerges from the scrum carrying the pressure washer in one hand and a bedazzler kit in the other.

The Intruders–when did they get here?–grab the television, but immediately trip and fall, sending the box sliding toward the timekeeper’s table. A second later, the television is gone. It has been…claimed.

TAL patiently waits for the dust to settle before quietly claiming the toolbox no one else noticed.

Fred dives heroically for the lottery tickets, protecting them with his own body while Rob and Anna watch from the ring, laughing and shaking their heads.

Only one person remains completely still.

Baron Taterton.

Still standing exactly where he’d been.

Still holding the same crawfish.

Daytona watches the carnage with unmistakable pride, hands on his hips and chest puffed out, like a father watching his children open presents on Christmas morning.

Daytona Diamonds: See?

He gestures broadly toward the chaos.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s community.

A fishing rod sails across the ring. Nobody acknowledges it.

Rob steps forward with a microphone, still laughing.

Ron Williams: Well…

He glances toward Fred.

Rob Williams: I think we’ve got one last thing.

Fred suddenly remembers as his eyes widen, pockets stuffed with lottery tickets.

Fred Dick: LAWD, YOU RIGHT!

He turns toward Baron Tateron. The necromancer slowly looks up from the crawfish he’d been studying for the better part of fifteen minutes. Fred beckons him into the ring with frantic enthusiasm.

Fred Dick: Baron! Git yer spooky ace up here!

Taterton cautiously steps through the ropes, still clutching the crawfish. Fred throws an arm around his shoulder.

Fred Dick: Folks… y’all might not know this… but this here’s a genuine, certified necrophiliac.

Taterton blinks, and puts one hand over his face as though this isn’t the first time he’s heard this one before and Lord God he’s tired of it.

Baron Taterton: …a necromancer.

Fred freezes.

Looks at Rob.

Looks back at Baron Taterton.

Fred Dick: …right. S’what I said. Point is… yer qualified.

Fred points dramatically toward Daytona and then dramatically upward.

Fred Dick: Long time back, our Universal Champion lost someone very important and his ace ain’t been the same since…

A solemn pause.

Fred Dick: …his noble steed. His jet ski. And we need you t’bring her back.

Daytona looks taken aback, eyes gone wide as he reaches up with trembling hands to remove his cowboy hat. His expression is deadly serious. The arena falls quiet. Taterton glances between the Poor Whoresmen. They are all… somehow… completely serious.

He sighs.

Very slowly, he kneels in the center of the ring and carefully places the crawfish upon the canvas before him. The arena lights begin to dim. Purple lights washes over the arena. A low rumble echoes through the building as fog begins pouring from beneath the ring.

Taterton closes his eyes.

Ancient words spill from his lips, spoken in a language older than memory itself. The air grows noticeably colder; the fog, noticeably thicker. The wrestlers surrounding the ring stop fighting over prizes. The fans in the audience gasp as every head slowly turns upward.

Daytona whispers, almost to himself.

Daytona Diamonds: C’mon, girl…

A metal CLUNK.

The sound of machinery groaning somewhere high above the arena. Every eye lifts towards the rafters.

Another CLUNK.

A cable begins unwinding. Fred grabs Daytona’s arm.

Fred Dick: IT’S WORKIN’!

Daytona can’t look away.

A brilliant white shape breaks through the fog overhead. Something begins descending from the ceiling.

Slowly.

Majestically.

Every inch of it sparkling beneath the arena lights.

A full-sized jet ski.

Covered… Absolutely covered… in rhinestones.

The crowd explodes. Daytona’s jaw drops. His eyes immediately begin watering. He takes one shaky step forward, voice cracking.

Daytona Diamonds: My… my baby…

The jet ski continues its slow descent. The rhinestones catch the arena lights, sending thousands of tiny stars dancing across the ceiling. It settles gently into the center of the ring.

Daytona slowly approaches in disbelief. One hand reaches out, fingertips brushing the handlebars. He closes his eyes as a long breath escapes him.

Daytona Diamonds: I… I missed ya…

He lovingly wipes a speck of dust from the windshield.

Then, without warning, he throws both arms around the jet ski.

Fred Dick: She’s alive! She’s fuggin’ ALIVE!

Baron Taterton simply retrieves his crawfish. His dark work here is done. When Daytona finally pulls away from the embrace,h e turns toward Taterton and, without a word, he bows.. Before swinging one leg over the seat and settling onto the jet ski like a king reclaiming his throne.

He grips the handlebars and looks toward the heavens.

Daytona Diamonds: Take me home, girl.

Nothing happens.

…

…

A production assistant frantically waves from backstage. A loud metallic CLACK echoes through the arena. The cable suddenly tightens and the jet ski lurches upward six inches.

Daytona instinctively lets out an excited…

Daytona Diamonds: YEEEEEHAWWWW!

Slowly… almost majestically… the jet ski begins ascending towards the rafters. Daytona keeps one hand on the handlebars, the other raising the rhinestoned Universal Championship high overhead.

An orchestral rendition of “Amazing Grace” fills the arena. Gold confetti cannons erupt one final time. Halfway to the ceiling, Daytona looks down one last time and tips his cowboy hat.

Daytona Diamonds: Love y’all!

Another twenty feet, he becomes little more than a silhouette beneath the arena lights.

The jet ski disappears into the rafters, one last shower of glitter drifting lazily down from somewhere above.

And for one, blissful moment… all was right in the world once again.

Now, that’s how you start a wrestling show.

It’s two weeks after UltraViolence. Big things have happened. New champions, new Bandits, new everything. But the one thing that’s always constant… is SIGNS!

I’M HAYES HANLON’S TAG TEAM PARTNER
COOLOSSUS SZN STARTS NOW
SIGN CRAIG HAMBURGERS, COWARDS
THE GAP BETWEEN ELISE ARES TWO TITLE REIGNS CAN GET A DRIVER’S LICENSE, BUT YOU CAN’T EVEN TEXT ME BACK, SHARON
NIGHTONA DIAMONDS IS HERE TO STAY
YOU’LL NEVER DAWK ALONE
I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE TAL AND IVAN KILL EACH OTHER BUT I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THEM TAKE STEVE OR BLAZE DOWN WITH THEM
OKAY, ACTUALLY, I’M OKAY WITH STEVE BEING TAKEN DOWN WITH THEM
WHO THE FUCK IS BLAZE?
STEVE LEMIEUX LIKES HIS OWN FACEBOOK POSTS
PITTSBURGH IS RIA COUNTRY
#DONTAGGROCRAIG
AGGRO CRAG HAMBURGERS
IVAN STANISLAV CAN AGGRO MY CRAG, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING. (I’M PROPOSITIONING HIM TO GET ALL UP IN MY G.U.T.S., IS WHAT I MEAN.)
WASN’T THE AGGRO CRAG THE SUPERWEAPON FROM THE LEGOS MOVIE
I JUST CAME TO SEE THAT RADICAL ROCK
I’M SAD
DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT AT DAYTONA’S BIG CELEBRATORY UNIVERSAL PIZZA PARTY, CRAWFISH BOIL, AND RAFFLE?
THIS MAIN EVENT IS HOTTER THAN THE CHEESE ON MY PIZZA
FINALLY, A TOWN THAT RESPECTS STEVE LEMIEUX’S FATHER MARIO
WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL
WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN YOU CROSS MATH JOHNSON WITH BRYAN DAWKINS? ALGEBRUH
THE PEOPLE OF PITTSBURGH WOULD BE REAL UPSET AT SOME OF THESE SIGNS IF THEY COULD READ
TRANSLATIONS AVAILABLE FOR THE YINZER IMPAIRED

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Villalba, Puerto Rico, weighing in at 230lbs, EL PROFESOR!!!

The soft notes of the song start playing and the lights dim. The song starts to build up when the harsh violin hits and El Profesor is standing in the middle of the entranceway with his arm extended forward and his index finger pointing as if it is a gun, straight at the camera. Some red lights have joined the mix as El Profesor walks down the ramp. You can’t see his face as he is behind a mask, but he is looking intensely as he gets in the ring. He stands in the middle and extends his arm again and the music dies down and the lights come back up.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, hailing from…an undisclosed location, weighing in at 214lbs, CHAD FREEDOM!

The lights cut out. Total darkness. A beat. A single chord rings from a guitar. Then, a chorus of voices:

Ameeeerrrriccaaaaaa!

The screech of a bald eagle rips through the darkened arena. The big screen comes alive with a close-up shot of Old Glory flapping gallantly in the wind. The voices return, louder:

AMEEEERRRRICCAAAAAAA!!!!!

Epic drum fill, followed by raucous electric guitar.

AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!

Red, white, and blue pyro erupts from the stage – a constant geyser of fireworks glimmering like sparklers on the fourth of July. Chad Freedom comes charging through the spectacle in the most American garb you’ve ever seen. Red, white, and blue top cowboy hat. American flag cape. Aviator sunglasses with red, white, and blue shutter shades. Bald eagles on his kneepads. He looks like a float in an Independence Day parade.

Freedom pauses at the top of the ramp, removes his hat, and places a hand over his heart. His eyes scan the arena. Left. Right. Upper deck. He glances behind him toward the Argyle position. He’s looking for something, or someone. They don’t appear.

Apparently satisfied, Freedom dons his cowboy hat again and races down the ramp toward the ring, flag cape fluttering behind him. He runs around the ring to the announce table where he removes his cape, folds it crisply and respectfully, and hands it to the timekeeper.

The two man take their positions opposite each other and Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

Like a man trapped in a room alone for months, Chad Freedom charges El Profesor who dodges the eager rookie and takes him down a drop toe hold. Freedom recovers quickly, kips up just in time to catch a right hook to the jaw from El Profesor.

Richard Parker: This Freedom kid needs to burn off some excess energy. Someone take that golden retriever for a walk.

Nick Stuart: Looks like that’s what’s on El Profesor’s syllabus tonight, Rich.

El Profesor presses the advantage. He bounces Freedom off the ropes and connects with a jumping knee that briefly sends Freedom to another dimension. He goes for an early pin but Freedom kicks out at one.

El Profesor scrapes Freedom off the mat BUT FREEDOM COUNTERS with a belly to belly suplex! Freedom thrusts his forearm repeatedly into the El Profesor’s midsection. He tries to scramble away from Freedom, but Chad doesn’t let up and rains down blows on El Professor who can only guard against the assault. Freedom finishes with a headbutt that makes El Profesor see tiny birdies.

Freedom drags his opponent to the middle of the ring, throws himself off the ropes and drills his knee into El’s face. Profesor rolls onto his knees in pain as Freedom takes the opening and lands a kick across his rib cage that almost flips El Profesor out of the ring. El Profesor grabs the ropes and uses them to pull himself to standing, and Chad Freedom takes offense to that. He connects with a nasty chop across the chest of his opponent.

SMACK!

El Profesor stumbles away, but Chad pushes him into the corner and connects with another chop!

WHOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: The crowd seems to like this Freedom kid.

Richard Parker: Typical kids. No respect for their veterans.

El Profesor tries to get away as his chest reddens, but Freedom spins him back around for a third chop. El Profesor is ready this time and he connects with a kick to the right hamstring of Mr. Freedom. Then another. Then another, which causes Freedom to balance and fall. Chad refuses to stay down, though, and makes his way back up to his feet only for El Profesor to whip him into the ropes. Chad goes for a clothesline, but El Profesor drops underneath it, springboards off the middle rope, and connects with a springboard dropkick on Freedom!

The dropkick sends Freedom right into the corner. Profesor follows up with a corner splash! Freedom stands there dazed as El Profesor turns him around and goes for a German Suplex. But Freedom manages to land on his feet! He bounces off the ropes, and connects with a dropkick to the right knee of El Profesor. He drops to one knee as Freedom kips back up to his feet and connects with a sweeping DDT before going for the cover.

ONE!

TWO-

KICKOUT!

Freedom grabs El Profesor by the neck and starts to pull him out only for El Profesor to push him away and slam his forearm into Freedom’s midsection. El Profesor follows it up by grabbing the back of Chad’s head and smashing him face-first into the top turnbuckle.

Chad leans dazed against the corner after that shot and El Professor decides to teach a lesson in aerodynamics. He hoists Freedom onto the top turnbuckle, then yanks him down into a Tree of Woe!

Richard Parker: Woah!

Nick Stuart: Woah!

El Profesor proceeds to stomp away at Freedom, strike after strike, each nastier than the last one, until he backs up and runs full speed at Freedom, slamming both knees into his abdomen.

He covers Freedom!

ONE!

TWO-

Freedom got his foot on the rope!

El Profesor is irate. That charge took a lot out of him, and the veteran may need to end this soon, before the younger man regains his strength.

While Freedom fights to pull himself off the mat, El Profesor ties on a leg lock! Freedom yells in pain and reaches for the ropes!

Freedom!

Freedom!

Freedom!

With the crowd behind him, Freedom gives it one last push and reaches the ropes!

but is close to the ropes, reaching out and grabbing hold of the bottom. Ashley Barlow is quick to demand a release from El Profesor, who holds on tight. After holding it for as long as possible, he releases. Chad clutches his leg in pain, but the spirit in his eyes isn’t dimmed. He uses the ropes and limps back to his feet. El Profesor charges him, but Freedom is ready and pulls the third rope down so Profesor goes head over heels to the outside. Chad rolls under the ropes, jumps to the second rope and… LIBERTY LARIET TO THE OUTSIDE! El Profesor is laid out! Freedom rolls El Profesor back into the ring.

He lays into the grounded Profesor with kicks and a few elbow drops before scraping him off the mat, bouncing off the ropes and throwing all this force into a SHOTGUN DROPKICK!

Nick Stuart: He calls that the Patriot Middle folks. And it’s hit its target in El Profesor.

El Profesor is out in the middle of the ring.

Chad signals for the end to the roar of the crowd. He starts the climbs to the top rope. Everything is on the line. He leaps for the DOUBLE FOOT STOMP AND….

NO!

El Profesor is able to roll out of the way at the last second!

Chad lands on his feet, but he doesn’t see El Profesor behind him who rolls up the stunned Freedom into a SMALL PACKAGE!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEE!

DING DING DING

 Vince Howard: Your winner by pinfall, EL PROFESOR!

The crowd rain down boos on the victorious Luchador who could probably care less after winning his debut against a game Chad Freedom.

Nick Stuart: Freedom did great tonight, but the veteran instincts of El Profesor won out in the end.

El Profesor celebrates in the ring as we move elsewhere…

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…The M̴̖̥͉̞̀̈͑̕ì̷̛̱͓n̵͉͕͋̀̑ǐ̶͕͋s̴̘̦͓̔̄͗́t̴̘̣̖͑̑̍̀e̸̫̘͠r̴͉̳̺̻̿ ̶̛̗͙̈ͅPresents…

…THE NEWS…

Max Kael: I’ve looked over your resume and I have to say that you’ve got quite a list of achievements.

Max stares across the table at the first applicant for the newly opened SPORTS Correspondent. His left eye is covered with an eyepatch while his right glimmers that strange, sickly green.

Max Kael: While I think you’d be a WONDERFUL fit to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, it’s not just my decision to make unfortunately. You see, I’ve got a new partner and they’re pretty keen on being let in on the decision making soooo…

He sighs, rubbing the eyepatch.

Max Kael: They’re gonna have to speak to you as well.

Before the applicant can reply, Max switches the eyepatch to the other side, covering his strange green eye revealing a pulsing, crimson orb burning in his left socket.

The Minister: …heh-heh. Well-well, what have we here? Another lost soul trying to find their way in the world? Looking to join the WON ACTION TEAM are we, darling?

A wicked grin stretches across Max’s face. While Max can be kindly regarded as a pale man, the skin seems to sallow and yellow as the Minister speaks, black veins spreading from his lips, as if each word was an infection spreading the Minister deeper into Max’s body.

The Minister: You don’t have to answer, I’ve seen it before. You’re lost and hoping to be found, hoping to return home. Hoping to return… to her. I don’t have to read your resume to know the history written in your eyes, on your very soul. I can taste the desperation in your sweat, the stink of loneliness. True loneliness. Bitter, insufferable isolation… heh-heh.

Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, like a beast salivating at the thought of a fresh meal.

The Minister: … we say welcome aboard. We’re gonna have… a hell of a time… heh-heh. Heh-heh!

Long fingers drag the eyepatch across his face as Max shivers, settling back into his own body.

Max Kael: So! That seemed to have gone well! Welcome aboard…

Reaching across the table, Max shakes the hand of the newest member of the WON ACTION NEWS STEAM.

Max Kael: … Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

–

The door to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE opens up to the outside world as Max pokes his head out.

Seated just beyond the door are an assortment of individuals who have come to be interviewed. Most of them are nobodies, faces you will never see again. However amongst the crowd are the Sketti Boys, with Fred Dick there to negotiate on their behalf, and newcomer to PRIME, Mathematics Johnson.

Max Kael: Thank you for coming but the position has been filled!

He disappears back into the doorway, slamming the door shut. The applicants all stare at each other in confusion before the door swings open again.

Max Kael: But check back in a few weeks, the SPORTS world can be cruel, brutal and deadly. Who knows what might happen on… the NEWS!

Giggling excitedly to himself Max disappears once again, punctuating his department with a loud bang of the door.

…THE NEWS RETURNS ON REVIVAL 91…

…WITH JCH ON SPORTS…

…stay tuned…

It’s dark wherever we are in the PPG Paints Arena, lit only by an ominous red light in the background. The camera pans around as though it’s lost, and then it sees a sight that will make sore eyes flee in terror.

There’s four individuals. Take your pick on which one you’d like to fuck with. Is it the two huge, broad men in pirate-themed garb and potato sack masks? Is it the Guy Fieri-looking man in red sunglasses and ominous black robes that seem to billow even when there’s no air? Or maybe it’s the man in the brown suit and vest and glasses staring daggers at the camera. The two huge men sit crouched in front of the camera, squatting like they’re Russian gangsters.

The words “Earlier Today” flit by on the screen as though it wants no part of any of this. It’s likely they filmed this not long after one of these men had been asked to perform a seance for a jet ski at a pizza party and raffle.

It’s the man in glasses that speaks.

Math Johnson: Salutations!

He says this with the kind of excitement one would have when they’re the most important person in the room.

Math Johnson: My name is Math Johnson.

PRIME’s one and only Mathlete. The Piece of Shit himself, as decreed by Lindsay Troy herself.

Math Johnson: You don’t know me yet. Even I would admit that it would be quite the feat if anyone here were able to watch a public access channel in Parts Unknown.

The man in the red sunglasses is now taking it upon himself to neaten up Math Johnson’s hair. Apropos of nothing. For no reason. Apparently, necromancers are big into proper hair care.

Math Johnson: Tonight, you will know me.

Math’s smile is as mirthless as actual mathematics.

Math Johnson: You will know me in new and exciting ways.

The two men in potato masks nod in eerily perfect unison.

Math Johnson: I’m going to take this Boy of Lasagna and I will make an example of him, such that you’ll all truly know me. You will know me in your bones. When you go to sleep at night, you will drift off with my name on your mind. When you wake up the next morning and go to brush your teeth and look in your mirror, you will see me there. When you turn around to look, and you don’t see me there… That’s when you know that I have haunted your very soul. 

Baron Taterton speaks up.

Baron Taterton: Tell them, Math!

I never said he had anything interesting to say, I’m just saying that he’s being awfully encouraging for a card-carrying “enemy of mankind forevermore” and we have to respect that in this day and age.

Math rolls his eyes.

Math Johnson: Yes, yes…

He turns back to the camera.

Math Johnson: Once I’ve started my thesis tonight, I don’t intend to stop. You’re all on notice. You’re all just constants in my formula, now, and I’m the one variable that you’ll all be dancing to.

He stands and starts to walk away from the camera, and the necromancer and his minions soon follow him.

We’ll head to the ring.

Nick Stuart: We have a debut match next with the newly signed Math Johnson against Spaghetti Boy, Miguel!

Richard Parker: Who the hell names their kid Math! Clearly his parents have issues.

Nick Stuart: What kind of parent lets their kid become a ‘Sketti Boy, Parker?

Richard Parker: The kind that loves pasta, you craven anti-pastafarian!

An unfamiliar song hits the PA system, though it’s only unfamiliar because no one on the roster had this song before today. It starts a little something like this:

Many men.
Wish death on me.

There’s no fancy pyrotechnics. Lights don’t go out. There’s not even a spotlight.

There is only Math.

PRIME’s only Mathlete emerges from behind the curtains with a sauntering step. His split-colored pink and white ring gear display some dark math. One knee pad has a plus sign and the other has a minus sign. He wears his glasses.

He stares icy daggers at Miguel, who stands in the ring. A thousand yard stare if ever there is one.

Vince Howard: His opponent… From Princeton, New Jersey! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and eight pounds… THE MATHLETE! MAAAAAAAATTTHHHHH JOOOOOOOHNSOOOOOONNNN!!!

Even though they don’t know him yet, the fans boo him.

The fresh owner of a kayak hops up onto the apron and steps into the ring. He stares down Miguel from across the ring. One hand goes up, index finger pointing up. Then the other. One plus one. Then he crosses his fingers in front of his throat and does a slashing gesture with them.

Die.

Already in the ring is Miguel of the Sketti Boys armed with a trapezoid. A small plastic one you’d expect to pick up at a Scholastic Book Fair.

Vince Howard: And introducing his opponent, already in the ring… representing the Sketti Boys… MIIIIIIIIIGUEL!

He holds the trapezoid up into the air proudly as the fans greet him with a mild reaction, the same level of heat you get from three hour old Sketti Bucket spaghetti.

Nick Stuart: What is that in his hand?

Richard Parker: Looks like a math triangle to me.

Nick Stuart: You-you mean a trapezoid?

Richard Parker: I mean a math triangle. He’s gonna solve Math Johnson with it!

Nick Stuart: Oh. I guess… I guess that makes sense.

Referee Ashley Barlow checks both men before she signals for the bell.

DING DING DING DING!

The two men circle each other before Math pauses, extending his hand out to Miguel. The Sketti Boy regards the hand with suspicion before he slowly reaches out.

It’s a trap!

That’s right, Math Johnson had lured the Sketti Boy into a handshake only to boot him square in the gut. Miguel lets out a loud grunt, folding in half at the waist. Math follows it up with a kick to Miguel’s exposed head, knocking him down to the mat hard.

Nick Stuart: Math Johnson doesn’t seem to be a real sporting kind.

Richard Parker: That’s cause he’s smart, you don’t get named after Math for being dumb, Stuart!

Strutting around his opponent, Math projects youthful arrogance as he holds his arms up in the air. Now and again he slams his boot down on Miguel, more annoying than painful. Finally, Math drags Miguel up to his feet before executing a nearly perfect Double Hook Suplex!

He maintains arm control, rolling over Miguel, standing over him with both of the Sketti Boy’s wrists in Math’s hands. He beings smashing down his boot to Miguel’s exposed face, counting as he does so.

Nick Stuart: Math is gonna stomp the unprotected face of Miguel!

Richard Parker: It might improve his appearance!

1!

2!

3!

4!

5-6-7-8-9…

10!

After the tenth boot Math releases his opponent and lazily places his foot on Miguel’s chest for a pinning condition.

Nick Stuart: The level of disrespect Math is showing to Miguel right now.

Richard Parker: What do you expect, it’s just a Sketti Boy!

Ashley Barlow drops down for the cover!

1…

2….

Kickout!

Much to Math’s consternation, Miguel manages to throw his shoulder up staying in the match. Johnson doesn’t seem as impressed with Miguel’s kick out as the crowd does, arguing with Ashley Barlow about the speed of the count.

Nick Stuart: Math should probably keep his eye on the prize instead of arguing with Barlow.

Richard Parker: That was a slow count, Math had this match won!

ROLL UP!

Miguel catches Math distracted as he school boys the Mathlete!

1!

2!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Mr. Johnson almost got caught sleeping!

Richard Parker: Miguel is a creepy little opportunist, trying to take advantage of the younger man!

The Sketti Boy nearly secures victory with the surprise roll up; however, Math is able to break the pin and escape.

Scrambling up to his feet, Johnson rushes to put the hurt on Miguel only for the Sketti Boy to slip around him for another roll up!

1!

2!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: He almost got him again! Miguel might actually win this match if he gets another school boy in there!

Richard Parker: The only school boy here is gonna be Miguel because Math is taking him to school! Math Class no less!

Nick Stuart: Very clever. /s

Once again the Mathlete is able to throw his shoulder up and break the pinfall attempt, his face even redder than before. Miguel staggers up to his feet and turns…

CRACK!

The Sketti Boy catches a stiff forearm across the jaw knocking him back into the ropes. On the rebound Math Johnson cinches his arms around Miguel’s waist before lifting him into a picture perfect German Suplex!

Richard Parker: You see that beautiful German Suplex? It was so good I think they might actually rename it the Math Suplex!

Nick Stuart: It wasn’t that impressive but it was still well executed.

Releasing the hold, Math slinks to the corner keeping his eyes on Miguel. The Sketti Boy slowly drags himself up to his feet using the ropes, holding the back of his head. As he turns Math Johnson rushes toward him…

Richard Parker: DIVIDE BY ZERO!

Nick Stuart: Math Johnson just laid Miguel down with his own version of the Swinging Reverse STO!

Driving Miguel’s head down hard face first into the mat, Math Johnson slinks over the top of his fallen opponent, hand on his chest, his other hand pressed down across Miguel’s face in a disrespectful pin.

Ashley drops one once again.

1!

2!

3!

DING DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this bout by pinfall…. The Mathlete, MAAAAAATH JOOOOOHNSOOOON!

Math rises to his feet, hands held up in victory as Ashley helps roll Miguel out of the ring. The crowd doesn’t cheer but they don’t boo either. They’re still working out what to think of this mysterious Math Johnson character.

Richard Parker: Incredible, dominant display by Math Johnson!

Nick Stuart: Outside of almost getting school boyed, Math had a great first outing for himself in PRIME!

We cut away from the ring to a commercial break.

Back from commercial, we join Nick Stuart and Richard Parker at ringside. Behind them, the PRIMEates continue their high energy going.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ReVival 90! We’ve still got Survivor on the way, along with a number of big tag matches!

Richard Parker: Right you are, Nick! We also have a returning JCH against a debuting Daihm Ferguson! Plenty of good stuff still coming!

The Pittsburgh crowd buzzes with each subsequent match shown on the PRIME-View. Then…

“GARBAGE DAY?!”

The buzzing grows louder. There’s a pause.

Nick Stuart: The New World Trash aren’t scheduled until later, but I guess they’re going to give this crowd an early preview!

Richard Parker: They should probably be more worried about F’ Your Tag Team and not getting cheered by the morons out here.

The silence is broken.

🎵WHEN IT GOES

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA)🎵

And the crowd EXPLODES! As the intro moves to the first chorus, RIA Lockhart emerges from the curtain, flanked by Angel Quinley and Bex Savage. Wearing her newly won Alias Title, RIA moves from one side of the stage to pose, then over to the other to do the same. Each side, Bex surprises the Pittsburgh native by lifting her onto her own shoulders, parading her around so she can show off her title. Each time, Angel double points to her girlfriend, and pantomimes for the crowd to get louder. Once done, they return to the center, where RIA wraps her arms around the back of both Angel and Bex before the three head to the ring as one.

Once they draw ringside, they disengage. As Savage and Quinley head into the ring, Lockhart unstraps her championship. Holding it above her head in her right hand, she starts a slow saunter around the ring. She’s not seeking hands the way she used to, but she’s not shying away from it either. As her walk continues, she goes to pass the commentary table. In the process, her one visible eye goes to Richard Parker, staring him down until moving on.

Nick Stuart: I think she knows you’ve been talking about her, partner.

Richard Parker: I was joking, just joking! Is she so sensitive she can’t take a joke?!

Once she finishes the last half lap, RIA goes to the ring steps and enters the squared circle. Middle of the ring, she poses with the rest of the Trash before the music fades. The chant that’s been going continues clearly without the music causing any confusion.

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

Ria waltzes over to grab a mic, but Quinley stops her, retrieving it for her, tossing it to her. Lockhart snatches the microphone, then backpedals slightly towards the center of the ring, raising it to her lips.

RIA Lockhart: Pittsburgh! How the hell yinz doin’?!

More raucous cheering from her hometown faithful.

RIA Lockhart: Hey, this has been amazing, but how about showing my girls some love too?!

Lockhart steps aside, hands out towards the New World Trash. Bex cocks a perplexed eyebrow, but Angel just waves toward the fans with a happy anime senpai expression, because of course.

NWT! NWT! NWT!

Savage lowers her head, the microphone barely catching what she is saying.

Bex Savage: This is about you…we got to earn the love. And we’re doing that…tonight…

Lockhart nods, pushing out a fist. Savage punches knuckles with the new Alias Champion before she turns back to speak to her hometown crowd.

RIA Lockhart: Okay, much as I love yinz, there’s a reason I came out here. First of all, wanna shout out Danny Christie. Dude is a tough bastard and I appreciate that he have me a shot. Owe you a beer, my dude! Now… Obviously, I’m the Alias champion. With that being the case, I get to set the stip for my upcoming title defenses. For those that have followed us for a bit, you’ll remember the last time I had this title, I decided to really challenge myself. I let my opponent decide what win condition would be eliminated. Didn’t go great for me. Ask Kerry Kuroyama about that.

Nick Stuart: As a reminder, Kerry chose to eliminate pinfalls. That worked out pretty well for him.

Richard Parker: Not so great for emo Barbie, though.

Ria adjusts the Alias Title on her shoulder. She walks to the hard cam and leans on the top rope.

RIA Lockhart: Anyway, I’m not looking to be quite so generous this time. You want my title? You’re gonna have to earn it, and on my terms! So what’s that mean? It’s very simple. Barbwire ropes.

There’s a minor buzz around the crowd. RIA looks around, shoulders shrugged while her head whips back and forth in an exaggerated fashion.

RIA Lockhart: You’re not excited?! Yeah, that’s fair. We’ve seen barbwire quite a bit in the recent past, yeah? Good thing I wasn’t done talking! See, getting thrown into three or four strands of barbwire? That friggin’ sucks. Know what sucks worse? Getting thrown into a SPIDERWEB of it!

WOOOOAAHHH!

RIA Lockhart: Oooooh yeah! Spiderweb barbwire! On each. Side. Of. The ring! (Pointing to each side as she talks.)

The crowd roars with approval!

RIA Lockhart: Like I said, you want this title? You earn it! You give your blood, you tear your body apart, you stand in this damn ring and PROVE you want this as much as I do in my home environment! No gimmies, no free passes. Welcome to the Widow’s Nest. You won’t leave without being bit!

Angel interjects, grabbing the microphone still in RIA’s hand.

Angel Quinley: You bitches gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!

Someone saying such a thing shouldn’t squee all adorable like, but here we are. The Eternal Sunrise reaches over to the faceplate of the Alias Championship, shining it for her girl.

Savage is the next one to grab onto the microphone, pulling it slightly towards herself.

Bex Savage: Everybody and their damn brother, their damn sister, they got friends. They got back up. They come on out and they run a goddamn muck and nothing. Happens. Well our girl here? This girl? This Alias Champion? Now? For true and for real? She’s got her back up too.

The size difference is stark.

Bex Savage: Come into the Widow’s Nest? You’re her prey. You try to get others to help you try and wiggle your way free?

Angel pushes in.

Angel Quinley: Cut. To. Shreds.

Bex Savage: RIA Lockhart beat the realest motherfucker in the room. And PRIME? You got three chances. Swing once. Twice. Three times.

Angel Quinley: No more games…

Bex Savage: Baddest bitch in the biz.

Angel Quinley: Better recognize.

The crowd roars further as the three women exit the ring.

Nick Stuart: That’s quite the stipulation, Richard! More and more lately, RIA Lockhart has been showing a renewed interest in violence and it looks like she has backup.

Richard Parker: Do me a favor and keep those psychos away from me going forward.

As ReVival rolls on, we head elsewhere.

The Red Army locker room.

For a locker room that typically is bustling with Red Army members, it’s surprisingly quiet. Ivan Stanislav stands with the other two members of The Red Army, Kenny Freeman and Tony Gamble. Curiously absent from the affairs is Randall Schwartz, a detail that almost goes unnoticed aside from Kenny looking at the door from time to time.

Next to Ivan is a model of the Aggro Crag. The Russian Bear looks down at it, and then looks at Gamble and Freeman.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrades. Tonight… we scale Aggro Crag for Universal Survivor!

He lifts a finger. To prove the point which we already know.

Ivan Stanislav: Through her own wicked machinations, Lindsay Troy has rigged drawing to put each and every one of us on our own separate team.

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: These capitalists will do anything to prevent strong collective from winning. And that goes double for someone like Troy!

Ivan inhales and exhales slowly through his nose.

Ivan Stanislav: Nevertheless, we must be vigilant. Regardless of what team we are on, I expect the two of you to do whatever it takes to help each of us win. I will do the same. Yes, Stalin believed in Socialism in One Country. Lenin believed more broadly in worldwide revolution…

Ivan clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: I know you both know this.

They both do not know this.

Ivan Stanislav: Regardless of what team we are on, at end of day, we are Red Army. Is that understood?

Tony nods with a little bit of a smirk battling his trademark grin for supremacy.

Tony Gamble: Say less.

Freeman nods his head.

Kenny Freeman: Absolutely.

Ivan nods his head and places his hands on his hips.

Ivan Stanislav: Very good. Then we go and win first round together. And the round after that, and the one after that, until Red Army stands victorious! You are dismissed!

Kenny and Tony begin to make their exit past Ivan, but Stanislav grabs Tony’s arm, tightly, engulfing it. Kenny stops at the door and looks back at the two. Ivan leans down close, looming far over the much shorter Gamble.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh… and comrade Gamble…

The Grin glances down at the massive hand wrapped around his upper arm, as Ivan’s words turn into a slow growl.

Ivan Stanislav: I have noticed how close you have been with Bandits. Cancer Jiles. That entire group of miscreants. When Jiles abandoned both you and Hessian, I took both of you in, no question asked, and gave you home. But if you are thinking of, let us say, jumping ship? I would advise against it.

Gamble shakes his head.

Tony Gamble: I appreciate what you did, Comrade, I truly do. You welcomed Hessian and I with open arms, and the two of us became the Red Bandits. But with Big Hess out I’m just the Red Bandit now, and while I’m not planning to go anywhere… I need to make sure I have a life jacket in case I happen to fall overboard.

There’s that smirk again.

Tony Gamble: Accidentally, I’m sure.

Ivan keeps his hand around Gamble’s arm. He glances at Kenny, who keeps his mouth closed with slightly widened eyes as he looks on, and then peers down at Gamble again.

Ivan Stanislav: There have been many individuals who thought they could get one over me. For decades. All the way back to Chris Sloboda. Think about recent individuals, even. Arthur? Max? Dawkins? Every person who betrays me has left a more broken person than when they arrived.

Ivan snorts.

Ivan Stanislav: And you might think Rose escaped consequence?

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: No, comrades. Rose is simply account not yet settled. Some debts are collected immediately. Others accrue interest. Family. Pride. Reputation. Peace of mind. There are pressure points far beyond bone and ligament. We all have them.

His gaze shifts briefly to Kenny, then returns to Tony.

Ivan Stanislav: I know where they are. I know when to press. And I am patient.

Tony takes another quick glance at Ivan’s meaty paw.

Tony Gamble: I’m sure you do, but I’m not some preteen looking to take your Camaro out for a joyride… so you think you can let the blood circulate in my arm again? I think I’m going to need it for climbing later.

As Stanislav finally lets go of The Grin’s arm, Kenny finally opts to chime in.

Kenny Freeman: Hey man, I get it. Tony Gamble is, for all intents and purposes, his own man. But at the end of the day, you made the decision to join the Red Army with a common interest. Same as me and Rand–

He stops, looking back at the door as he realizes once more The Entertainer is not coming.

Kenny Freeman: Same as me. We’re all in this together, like the Wildcats. The important thing is, splitting the Army up across this Survivor field is only gonna prove to be fruitful when one of us ends up winning this whole thing… and bringing the Universal Title back to the Red Army to close out the year. What’s good for one is good for all, isn’t that right Starshy Praporshchik?

Kenny turns to Stanislav, who suddenly looks a little perplexed.

Ivan Stanislav: Indeed, you are correct, Comrade Kenny. Eh… where is Comrade Schwartz?

He looks over his shoulder, then at the corners of the room, and above him, just in case there’s a shark cage overhead. Kenny shrugs his shoulders, his brow furrowed.

Kenny Freeman: He got kicked out of our lodging, and that was the last I saw of him. Hasn’t answered any calls or texts since.

Ivan narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

Ivan Stanislav: Hmm… very well. We will find him and make sure all is well. In any event, we march toward victory this evening, comrades! Go on… I will catch up in moment!

Kenny gives a nod before making his exit, followed by Gamble.

Alone in the locker room, with no one around, The Russian Bear glances to his left as if expecting to hear a voice. But there’s no one there.

He exits the room.

We find Daihm Ferguson and Bobby Neptune backstage where Bobby can be seen frantically searching through his duffel looking for something.

Bobby Neptune: I just put it down for a second! Kerry swears he doesn’t have it, and I’ve looked everywhere. Where is that visor, Daihm???

He gives up and sits down next to the Dragon.

Bobby Neptune: I don’t like my space stuff just floating around out there but I guess it’s gone…

Daihm leans his head back, contemplating.

Daihm Ferguson: I mean, aye, but isn’t floating what space stuff is supposed to do?

The Dragon looks over at Bobby, who does not need to be reassured by his blunt observation. He pats Bobby gently on the shoulder.

Daihm Ferguson: I’m sure she’ll turn up somewhere. It ain’t gone. Just… misplaced.

Bobby Neptune: I suppose. But alien technology can be quite destructive in the hands of the wrong Earthling. They may distort time and space for good nachos or erase themselves from existence to escape reality. I’ve seen it all.

Voice: Uhhhh Hey.

Speaking of being erased from existence…

The camera turns to find Nathan Lake standing above the pair. He reaches up to remove his earbuds, looking at Daihm and then over to Bobby.

Nathan Lake: I’m not interrupting anything am I?

Daihm doesn’t register the question and instead just flashes a smile and hops up from his seated position.

Daihm Ferguson: Oi! Nathan. Have you met Bobby? He’s from space!

The Lighthouse doesn’t respond, which just means the Dragon keeps rambling.

Daihm Ferguson: And he’s a sound lad, too. He was just telling me ‘bout this wee device he has that can make nachos.

Nathan looks from Daihm over to Bobby and then back over to Daihm.

Nathan Lake: You mean a microwave? That’s not alien technology.

Before Daihm can respond, Bobby stands up, arm immediately extended outwards to greet Nathan.

Bobby Neptune: Greetings, Mr. Claymore. I’m Bobby Neptune. I admit I’ve been wanting to make your acquaintance since you bested me at Squad Goals. You stand as the only one who has pinned me so far, and I hope to return the favor one day.

He winks and smiles.

Nathan Lake (choking and coughing): I… well. I appreciate the compliment. But, you’ll be waiting quite a while for Blaze to pin you again. I’m not sure how Timelord powers work, but I have no doubt when Anna said Blaze Claymore would be erased from every timeline, forever… she meant it. Maybe this timeline just hasn’t quite caught up yet.

Nathan lets a smile form on his lips and returns Bobby’s handshake. Daihm scrunches his face and crosses his arms in mock disapproval.

Nathan Lake: But happy to finally formally meet you. I’m Nathan. Now what’s this about a microwave?

Bobby Neptune: Oh, it’s not a microwave. It’s a visor that has immense power. It can split you into different versions of yourself, erase time and memories. It’s supposed to be therapeutic. It sure helped Mr. Kuroyama. But I haven’t been able to find it since the Planetarium match…

Nathan Lake (under his breath): I wonder if it could help me forget how many times more than a few members of the roster have tried to destroy my crotch…

The trio fall silent.

But then.

Daihm Ferguson (excitedly): Or maybe…

The Dragon reaches over and grabs at Bobby’s shoulder, eyes wide and a smile on his face.

Daihm Ferguson: Bobby, c’mon. Let’s have another go at findin’ that visor! I’ve an idea.

Bobby perks up, excited to have someone to help him track down his missing technology.

Daihm turns back to Nathan.

Daihm Ferguson: And in the meantime…

Daihm reaches down and grabs at his crotch.

Nathan Lake (shocked): Daihm, what in the hell–

Daihm Ferguson: A nut cup! So ye don’t get beaned in the beans again.

Nathan Lake (relieved): Jesus Christ. I’ll… yes. Good looking out, Daihm. I am sure I have one back in the locker room.

He sighs.

Nathan Lake: My mind was on other things, I suppose. I’ve just been so focused on figuring out how to work with the rest of Team Avalon. Tom and Steve left me to strategize with Ivan by myself this week and I feel like I may be walking straight into a trap out there.

Bobby’s demeanor turns serious.

Bobby Neptune: Do not trust Ivan for a second.

Daihm Ferguson: Exactly. Ye never know when something or someone may try and Rochambeau ye again. It’s like they’d say back home: hit me in the bawbag once, shan on ye; hit me in the bawbag twice and shan on me.

Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose.

Nathan Lake: Just go help Bobby find the visor, Daihm. I’ll take care of finding the right… protection.

The Dragon pauses before nodding and joining the Space Cadet as they head away from the scene.

Nathan waits until they are out of earshot before going to put his earbuds back in.

Voice: Hey. Idiot.

Of course Nathan looks up.

And of course the Timelord is there. Walking towards him.

Anna Daniels: Don’t think we didn’t hear that bullshit. What in the everlasting fuck do you think you’re doing?

Nathan Lake: Listening to Bonnie Tyler sing “Holding Out for a Hero” before going out to climb a giant plywood mountain and earn a glowing green salt lamp. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Going to bean me with Daytona’s belt too to get an advantage for your boy tonight, or is that just reserved for Vae Victis members?

The Muse ignores the intended jab and does an instant costume change. She’s blue. Da-boo-dee, da-boo-die.

Annie Venus: “Ermahgerd, I haz a helmet that’ll completely undo every single thing you agreed to.”

The Muse swaps to the other side, this time wearing a flaming red wig and a full blown dragon costume.

Anihm Danielson: “Oi! Let’s go and find it then so my boyfriend can keep dodging his responsibilities like a dick’ead! No way would this totally backfire!”

She riverdances out of the outfit nearly as quickly as she appeared in it.

Anna Daniels: We hope that you are not as dumb as the company you keep, candledick. Just because we’re taking the scenic route out of the kindness of our hearts doesn’t mean there won’t be repercussions for trying to circumvent our little contract. And they would be so much worse than simply erasing your alter ego.

Back to being Anna again, white singlet and all…except for that little dragon tail that seems to latch on to her ass. She snatches it and throws it over her shoulder like salt.

Nathan rolls his eyes.

Nathan Lake: Real great trick, Anna. You must be a hoot at kids’ birthday parties. And, you think you’ve been showing me kindness? You took a wardrobe mixup and turned it into some fucked up crusade.

The Lighthouse reaches into his pocket where he takes the drawing of the inverted lighthouse Anna gave him at ReVival 86 and brandishes it at her.

Nathan Lake: Here, Timelord. Take it back. You won.

Anna just laughs.

Anna Daniels: Jesus Christ, Lake. Here you are, looking like Jared Sykes’ little brother getting all bent out of shape about something that never happened.

There’s a shrug that comes with that.

Anna Daniels: Nobody needs a lighthouse when it’s clear and sunny. They need it when the fog is denser than you are. So thick, they don’t know where–

She taps at the town on the drawing.

Anna Daniels: –up or–

Then a tap to the lighthouse on the other end.

Anna Daniels: –down really is.

Instead of taking the drawing, she steps back away from it. It is a motion that says clearly you do not get to pin that burden on us, Ricky Bobby.

Anna Daniels: So get your head promptly out of your ass, flip it right-side up, and realize that like Space Case’s visor, just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

She gives Nathan Lake the once over.

Anna Daniels: And if a lighthouse can’t make them see? Nothing can.

Nathan reluctantly pockets the drawing and steps back.

Nathan Lake: Damn, Anna. That was almost inspirational.

Anna rolls her eyes.

Anna Daniels: Fuck you. We hope Rob flings you off that damned mountain. It would be funny to see you bounce off of the crags and croogs.

She pushes past him, eventually vanishing down the hallway.

Nathan Lake (dryly laughing): Great catching up with you too.

Oh no.

Oh god.

Oh Jesus.

There’s a fucking Aggro Crag on our screens.

Richard Parker: What the fuck.

Somehow, Richard Parker’s response to seeing this scene before our eyes doesn’t quite convey just how taken aback he is that PRIME is now the host of a Nickelodeon children’s game show.

Richard Parker: What the actual fuck.

That’s a little better.

We’re outside, with a great big artificial mountain built in an open space somewhere on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. If you stand at the top of the Aggro Crag, you might unfortunately see a Sheetz from up there. The artificial mountain stands tall enough that even Ivan Stanislav seems small by comparison to it. It’s divided up into three quadrants, each colored differently depending on the tribe.

Milling about at the base of the left side of the mountain are Team Avalon, the team consisting of The Anglo Luchador, the artist formerly known as Blaze Claymore (Nathan Lake), a very out-of-place Steve Lemieux who is likely trying to piece together which American Gladiators event this is from, and the self-proclaimed team captain and doubly self-proclaimed locker room leader, Ivan Stanislav. Ivan is trying to promote team unity as though his teammates are of the Red Army, and… Well, nobody’s really falling in line or anything. Their section of the mountain is, of course, colored red.

On the right side of the mountain is Team Snow, where team unity isn’t exactly at the forefront of anyone’s mind. Rob Williams has done what anyone would do in the face of having to challenge a mountain for children: he’s brought booze. Henry Keyes and Scott Hunter stand some distance away from them, talking strategy. Tony Gamble stands a distance from all three of them, all but certain that they’re talking shit about him. Their section of the mountain is colored blue.

And then there’s the yellow side of the mountain for Team Troy, and you have three rather agitated men milling around. Kerry Kuroyama paces back and forth impatiently. Kenny Freeman is looking over at Ivan on Team Avalon wistfully, as though he’d rather be on that team. Rob Williams has whiskey and knows exactly what to do with it. And we don’t know where Cancer Jiles i—

“I Am The Cool” hits the airwaves.

Somehow, he’s already at the top of the mountain.

The Crumb.

The COOLympian.

Cancer Jiles.

Also, he’s got a zipline.

Because of course he does.

With middle fingers held up with both hands, he starts coming down the mountain. By zipline. Eleven sets of eyes stare at him with contemptuous gazes, some shaking their heads at the display. Of course this crumb insists on having his own entrance. Of course he’s not going to be that much of a team player. It’s Cancer Jiles. Have you met him?

He arrives at the base of the mountain, unhooking himself from his zipline.

T-Shades on. Alfredo hair with that right amount of blinding sheen. Brandit Crumblood might not be there yet, but just give it time.

Cancer Jiles is here for his team.

No one’s happy about it, especially not that very team.

Still. Twelve men stare up that mountain as Vince Howard makes the announcement over the PA.

Vince Howard: Welcome to the first round of the UNIVERSAL TITLE SURVIVOR! Welcome… to the AGGRO CRAG!

What audience is there staring dumbfounded at the Aggro Crag claps nervously.

Richard Parker: I’m convinced that the people who organize these events are going through a mid-life crisis. It’s the only explanation.

Vince Howard continues despite Richard Parker voicing his stupid complaints.

Richard Parker: Hey!

Vince Howard: In this contest, three teams of four will ascend the mountain! Each team must press all of their side’s actuators on their way up the mountain before pressing the final one at the top of the mountain!

The camera pans up. Way up. The top of the Crag is remarkably more spacious than in the children’s show, and that’s because it needed to accommodate several Enemigos at the top. The biggest, burliest Enemigos that PRIME has ever produced. All of them are in gorilla suits, though they keep their regular masks instead of having gorilla masks so that we know they’re still Enemigos. One of them holds a barrel high over their head triumphantly, because it’s about to be on like Donkey Kong to put it mildly. Elvis Nixon stands at the top as a very, very confused “crag troll.” That doesn’t mean he’s dressed any differently than his normal referee’s shirt.

Richard Parker: Oh god, it’s gonna be on like Donkey Kong, isn’t it?

Vince Howard: The first man to make it to the top and activate their team’s final actuator will win a piece of the Aggro Crag! However, the winning team will be the first to have all four members make it to the top of the mountain! The last two men remaining will be eliminated from Survivor!

Vince Howard has no further announcements.

Curiously, there is something about this version of the Aggro Crag that differs from the original:

You can totally fuck with the other teams during the ascent.

This became immediately evident when Ivan picks up the first object he can find and flings it at Cancer Jiles.

That object?

Steve Lemieux’s Wilhelm screaming corpse.

Nick Stuart: Uh, I guess that screaming is the opening bell?

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Oh. Nevermind.

Chaos ensues, because chaos always ensues in PRIME. Steve Lemieux lands on Cancer Jiles and they both go down. Rob Williams takes his empty bottle of whiskey and smashes it over the head of Kerry Kuroyama, much to the visible displeasure of both Henry Keyes and Scott Hunter. The three of them argue over what just happened while Tony Gamble, ever-the-opportunist, decides to say “fuck all this” and starts climbing up the mountain. His UltraViolence opponent does much of the same as the Anglo Luchador begins to climb up as well.

Ivan Stanislav stands there and laughs.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAA-HAA-HAA!

Coltrane Anderson looks at the laughing Russian and decides “fuck that.” And he expresses this by picking up the dazed body of Steve Lemieux high over his head in a military press before throw him right back at Ivan.

Steve Lemieux: *WILHELM SCREAM*

Richard Parker: We may, in fact, break the record for most Wilhelm Screams in one match at this rate.

Ivan catches Steve like he’s a bouquet at a wedding, so we’ll congratulate him on his future marriage, perhaps. Behind him, Nathan Lake is trying to urge Ivan to stop throwing their own partner around like a small child. Ivan sighs, but obliges. I mean, he doesn’t put Steve down. That’d be silly. No, instead, he puts Steve on his back as though the sandwich man is a backpack and makes for the mountain.

Kerry Kuroyama is bleeding from getting hit by the bottle, by the way, and this naturally leads to him and Rob Williams throwing hands. Anderson, fresh off of the Lemieux Shotput, steps forward to intervene. But it’s actually Kenny Freeman acting as the voice of reason trying to get him to climb the mountain. The big man looks at the brawl unfolding before him, shrugs his shoulders, and agrees with this assessment.

Richard Parker: It’s pretty messed up that someone is already bleeding on the damn Aggro Crag, gotta say.

Kuroyama and Williams actually also start climbing as well, it’s just that they’re far more concerned with throwing hands than pressing any actuators. Some of Kuroyama’s punches manage to cut Williams hardway over his eyebrow. As the two fight, Cancer Jiles tries to climb up the mountain near them, and… Well, sometimes accidents happen and sometimes Kerry Kuroyama accidentally grabs onto your ankle while trying to fight an angry 5-Star Champion. And sometimes, in the course of doing so, you yank a little too hard when rearing back and make Cancer Jiles fall down the mountain.

Whoops.

Richard Parker: Good.

Actuators are already getting pressed by the lead men on each team. The Anglo Luchador’s old bones keep moving up the mountain, as does Tony Gamble. For the Team Troy, it’s Kenny Freeman. Freeman’s actually taken a bit of a lead here, hitting the first two actuators and moving for the third. He’s moving at a pretty good clip, in line for that first-one-up immunity, and…

THUNK.

Get Donkey Kong’d, idiot.

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman just got hit by that barrel, and he’s been knocked down the mountain!

Richard Parker: WHY ARE THERE BARRELS!?

Let’s talk about safety for a moment.

Obviously, we’re not throwing real, actual wooden barrels at people. Quite frankly, that’d be cruel even by the standards of PRIME, and Lindsay Troy is a practical and reasonable woman who doesn’t want to pay for all of the severe medical bills that’d result from “getting Donkey Kong’d off the mountain.”

To be fair, she did consider it since Ivan and Jiles and Gamble are in this competition, but also three members of Vae Victis are in here. So she had the weigh the pros and cons before determining that it’d be better to just save all of the really harmful things in Survivor for another round.

Lucky them!

Richard Parker: But why barrels, though?

Because it’s funny.

A few similar barrels are launched in the directions of TAL and Tony Gamble, and they have to duck and cover before they can hit the next actuators. Coltrane Anderson marches up the mountain, but he seems to have forgotten about the actuators and is instead challenging the Enemigo high above him to throw a barrel at him. The Enemigo obliges, and Coltrane catches the barrel like it’s nothing. He then throws it away behind him, roaring defiantly at the Enemigo.

He doesn’t notice what’s behind him, though, and that’s why Cancer Jiles is back down the mountain.

Richard Parker (deadpan): Oh no, that’s tragic.

Gamble is able to time when the barrels are coming enough to keep moving forward. He’s hitting the actuators at a steady pace, and he’s almost to the top.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble might be the first one up! He’s close to winning immu—

“I CAME IN LIKE A WREEEEEEECKING BAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!”

Heralded by Miley Cyrus, something flies out from off-camera and bowls Tony Gamble over, sending him tumbling down the mountain. It flies across the top of the mountain, and nearly hits the Anglo Luchador who chooses to drop down on his own to avoid the same thing happening to him that’d happened to Gamble.

He stares.

Uncomprehending.

So do a lot of climbers, who stop to gawk at what just happened.

There is a wrecking ball.

Richard Parker: WHAT IN THE JUMPING JACK FLASH FUCK!?

Oh, but it’s not really the wrecking ball that’s the problem. The wrecking ball seems to be made out of the same soft material that the barrels are made of. The worst that might happen to you if you got hit by it is that you get knocked over.

No, the problem is what’s riding the wrecking ball.

It’s huge. Ivan-sized, even. Maybe even bigger. It’s got the head of a bull, the body of a man, it holds on to the chain with one meaty hand and braces its hooves against the ball itself. Oh, and in its other hand, it’s got a two-headed battle axe where both “heads” of the axe are just steel chairs. That is pretty fucking dangerous.

It didn’t take long for the minotaur to show up for Survivor.

Nick Stuart: Oh god.

Somewhere in England right now, Cecilworth Farthington is probably wondering where his minotaur went.

As the Anglo Luchador is forced to hunker down and avoid getting decapitated by the world’s least practical battle axe, Nathan Lake is having the time of his life. He’s dancing across the mountain, hitting the actuators that TAL’s missed. As the wrecking ball swings back, Lake manages to duck and avoid the minotaur. As it so happens, his doing so causes an Enemigo to completely whiff a barrel on him as well, and that barrel comes careening towards Ivan Stanislav.

Ivan catches the barrel and throws it away. He just so happens to toss it in the direction of Coltrane Anderson, who doesn’t see it coming and gets bowled over.

This amuses Ivan, who continues to march triumphantly up the mountain.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAA-HAA-HAA!!!

Henry Keyes and Scott Hunter work together to get up the mountain, catching whatever actuators Tony Gamble missed on his way up. When an Enemigo takes aim with a barrel at Keyes, Scott Hunter quickly pulls his teammate out of the way. They’re trying to catch up to Tony Gamble, who is dazed on the mountainside after the minotaur’s dynamic entry, because neither of them want Tony to get up the mountain before they do.

Rob Williams and Kerry Kuroyama only stopped fighting because several barrels careened into them while they were distracted trying to spill each other’s blood on a children’s game show mountain, and now both are also trying to get up the mountain. Kerry brings up the rear on his team to ensure that they keep moving, pulling Jiles up and pushing him forward. Rob picks up the pace and is soon catching up to the Vae Victis pair on his team.

The minotaur swings back and forth on its wrecking ball, waving its axe around, threatening everyone who comes to the upper-third of the Crag.

Richard Parker: Who the hell even thought to put a minotaur on a wrecking ball on the AGGRO CRAG, anyway!?

Somewhere in Tennessee, a lovely young chap laughs to himself.

Keyes and Hunter move towards the final vertical wall before the end of the Aggro Crag course. It’s just tall enough that you have to climb it with a few handholds, so you can’t just jump up there. Not easily assailable when there’s a savage mythological creature swinging on a big ‘ol Miley Cyrus metaphor.

The two men quickly do rock-paper-scissors.

Meanwhile, Ivan Stanislav has another barrel thrown at him. Ivan shrugs it off. He does not give a single shit, but he’s definitely making mental notes about these Enemigos later for… reasons. He’s almost daring the Enemigos to throw another at him.

So, they do.

And then Ivan catches it.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh.

And he throws it back.

Well, he tries to.

Something gets in the way before it could hit the Enemigos.

Something that, let’s say… came in like a wrecking ball.

A lot of things happen at once.

First of all, the minotaur is knocked off-balance. After all, it’d been hanging on to the ball’s chain with one hand and holding its battle axe with the other. The barrel Ivan threw hit the wrecking ball with significant enough force to make the minotaur fall off. It lands on the Troy side of the mountain, nearly landing on Jiles, and then it tucks and rolls all the way to the bottom of the mountain. The axe, meanwhile, nearly lands on Ivan himself. Fortunately, he’s able to duck and avoid it before it could hit him, because even Ivan might not get up if he got hit by a fucking battle axe.

Nick Stuart: There goes the mythological creature…

Richard Parker: How did he even get up there?

Ivan stands and cheers.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAA-HAA-HAA!!!

With the upper-third now free of being assailed by the minotaur, everyone scrambles up to the top. Tony Gamble tries to scramble up in front of Keyes and Hunter, but Hunter – the winner of the rock-paper-scissors contest – pulls him off casually and starts to climb up himself. He’s about to make it to the top, but Gamble grabs on to his ankle to try and stop him. After all, he wants to be the first one up. And Hunter wants a piece of that radical rock.

Keyes pulls Gamble away and the two argue while Hunter makes it to the top.

He’s about to hit the final button, but…

…Someone has beat him there.

Richard Parker: No way.

Nick Stuart: The first one at the top! It’s…

He lost his identity, but he hasn’t lost his love for game shows. He’s been giddy about this the whole time. And finally, at the top… He’s won.

Vince Howard: The first man at the top of the Aggro Crag is… NAAAAAATHAAAAAAAN LAAAAAAKKKKEEEEE!!!

Ivan Stanislav realizes that he’s made a mistake in challenging the Enemigos and the minotaur – he should’ve been at the top first. He starts to march up to the wall as the Anglo Luchador starts to climb up to join Lake.

Gamble and Keyes exchange looks. They both collectively realize that fighting over who’s first no longer matters. They start to climb up, an—

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!

Oh.

Richard Parker: That crumb.

The superkick connects and bowls over both Keyes and Gamble. Jiles stands there with a contemptuous glare. He’s owed both of them a little superkick for a while, after all.

Ivan Stanislav starts to climb up. Jiles quickly decides he has to stop the big man, and…

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CAN—Uh oh.

Ivan catches Jiles’ boot, and with a contemptuous yank, Jiles falls to the ground and starts rolling down the mountain.

Kerry Kuroyama and Rob Williams’ brawl has almost reached the vertical wall. However, the brawl is interrupted briefly when a barrel thrown by an Enemigo hits the space between them, clipping both of them and sending them both to the ground.

Nick Stuart: It’s still any team’s game right now, but Team Avalon’s got the most members up right now!

Indeed, while Ivan might be aged, he’s still more than capable of climbing up to the top. And with Steve still attached to his ba—

…

…

…

Wait, where’s Steve?

Richard Parker: Where is that funny little sandwich man?

I’ll tell you.

And it’s the reason why Ivan, who’d been celebrating as though he’d just won for Team Avalon… is suddenly frozen in shock.

Buried somewhere underneath several barrels, likely knocked off when Ivan tanked one of them earlier… is Steve Lemieux.

He is not moving.

He might be dead.

Wait, no. I definitely saw him twitch. He’s probably alive. How unfortunate for him.

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux was left behind! He’s still at the base of the mountain! And he’s not moving!

Richard Parker: Oh no, Ivan! He’s dead! What have you done!?

Kenny Freeman is the next man up the mountain, but once he’s up there, he sees Ivan and how pissed off he is.

Ivan is pacing at the top of the mountain. He can’t afford to go down and retrieve Steve. The other competitors are almost to the top, and he didn’t want to be one of the last two still on the Aggro Crag and get eliminated. He stews angrily and says a few very bad words about the sandwich man in Russian.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think I’m going to want to be Steve Lemieux if he crosses paths with Ivan again.

Richard Parker: Is there a scream level beyond a Wilhelm Scream?

Coltrane Anderson makes it to the top of the mountain, shooting withering glances at the Enemigos still ready to throw what few barrels remain.

Cancer Jiles makes it up the mountain, and then collapses and flops like a fish. He’d taken something of a beating in his ascent, and he’s still feeling the effects of the 2300 Arena match. So he’s just going to lay right there.

Rob Williams pulls Keyes and Gamble up, and seems to make it a point to pull Gamble to his feet and get him up the mountain while leaving Henry Keyes to fend for himself. Williams starts to climb up after him.

Nick Stuart: Team Snow almost has three men up now, but Team Troy just needs Kuroyama to get up the mountain first!

Williams hoists himself up to the top of the mountain first, and he sees Kerry Kuroyama almost to the top of the mountain.

He walks over.

Coltrane Anderson steps in his way, and gets his balls tapped by Williams’ cowboy boot. He goes down. Kenny Freeman is slugged in the jaw and goes down as well. Cancer Jiles just lies there, staring up at the 5-Star Champion.

Williams instead turns his attention to Kuroyama. As Kuroyama’s hands reach the top of the mountain, Williams kneels down and grabs him by the hands.

A wry grin comes over the former 2 Belt Robby’s face.

Rob Williams: Long live the king.

Rob suddenly stands up, leaps into the air, and stomps both of his feet on Kerry’s hands.

Kerry can’t hang on. He falls, hits the ground, and tumbles down the mountain.

If Scott Hunter had seen him do this, he probably would’ve killed him – Survivor be damned. But instead, he’s busy pulling Henry Keyes up to the top of the mountain. And once Keyes is up there…

DING DING DING

…It’s over.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winning team of this match… the team of HENRY KEYES! SCOTT HUNTER! TONY GAMBLE! AND THE 5-STAR CHAMPION, ROOOOOOOOBBBBBB WIIIIIILLLLLIAAAAMMMMSSSS!!!

Keyes and Hunter realize what happened and are now arguing with Williams.

After all…

The two left behind are eliminated. And those two are…

Vince Howard: In addition, due to being the last two left on the mountain… Kerry Kuroyama and Steve Lemieux… HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED!

Ivan Stanislav stares down the mountain with a thousand yard stare while Nathan Lake behind him is being presented with a piece of the Aggro Crag, as is his right as the first man to reach the top.

Nick Stuart: Shocking development here in Survivor, as one of the heavy favorites has been eliminated in the first competition, thanks to the actions of Rob Williams!

Richard Parker: Smart play by Rob, I gotta say.

Coltrane Anderson looks down at Kerry Kuryoama in shock at this turn of events. Cancer Jiles might crack a smile at this turn of events if he wasn’t too COOL for that.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we’ll see how these teams recover from this turn of events, but Team Snow has won this competition, Nathan Lake has won a piece of the Aggro Crag, and we’ve already lost our first two competitors! We’ll see what happens in Survivor in two weeks, but for now… We have to move on!

And move on, we shall.

Backstage. PRIME Locker Room.

Where Nate Colton hangs out…and apparently, no one else.

That might change soon, as Nate’s clearly putting in some effort. There’s two coolers in the center of floor, a TV with a PS5 off to the side, and a number of flyers posted on the wall with titles like “BIRTHDAYS” and “CHARITY EVENTS” and “SIMON TILLIER’S GIGS.” That one comes with a QR code for tickets, and should probably be listed under “CHARITY EVENTS,” but that’s neither here nor there.

We may have been told at UltraViolence that Nate Colton Is Not Liable For Anything He Says While Hopped Up on Goofballs, but apparently Nate himself doesn’t agree.

The New Diamond is, at the moment, sitting next to a table and reading the instruction manual for an air fryer. The fryer itself–its every surface covered in sparkling rhinestones–rests beside him on the aforementioned table, along with more than half of a rutabaga cheesecake.

Nate Colton: Foolproof, huh? We’ll see about that.

Bobby Neptune: Mr. Colton!

Nate looks up to see the newcomer, then looks over each shoulder.

Nate Colton: Funny, I don’t see my dad anywhere.

He flashes an earnest smile to the newcomer, then stands up and offers a hand.

Nate Colton: Bobby, right? Sorry I haven’t introduced myself already, but…well. Shit’s been weird.

Bobby shakes Colton’s hand, and unfortunately for him, things are not going to get less weird.

Bobby Neptune: I understand. Lately, I’ve been finding everything about Earth strange. Like how “Mr.” is apparently what people call fathers here, or how Math only doesn’t exist everywhere here. I admit to being quite lost despite being an earthling myself.

He takes a seat.

Bobby Neptune: I was hoping you could help. I need someone to teach me how to be a proper Earthling, and I read that you’re one of the most “down to Earth” members of the roster…and please help me. I can’t even get the food replicators here to work.

He hits a button on the air fryer, opens the drawer, and sighs. No replicated food. What even is this place?

Colton shakes his head. Sure, this guy just casually mentioned spending most of his time in outer space. But is it that much weirder than Balaam, the colossus with the cursed mask that made him invincible? Or Anna Daniels, the Time Lord? Or Max Kael, the…Max Kael?

Nate himself had a pirate uncle, may or may not have been an aardvark for a night in Luxembourg, and lost a shoe to a man who looked like Larry Bird and dressed like M. Bison.

Honestly, a spaceman barely cracks the top ten.

Nate Colton: Well, for starters, it’s not plugged in. After that…I can’t tell you how it works either. If you’re hungry, I’ve still got some of that cheesecake…

Bobby takes out a notebook and starts jotting some stuff down

Bobby Neptune: Cake…made of…cheese. Intriguing. I shall endeavor to partake in this cake of cheese as Earthlings do!  What else should I be eating?

Nate Colton: Whatever fits your macros, man. Looks like you got a pretty good handle on it–

He looks the Starboy up and down. But like he would with someone at the gym who’d been putting the work in, and not like he would with FLAMBERGE Kohime Mori.

Nate Colton: –so I guess just find whatever foods are close to that. I do a lot of chicken breast, rice, and broccoli…it’s boring as hell, but it does the job. I think it helps me appreciate the cheat meals more, too.

Bobby perks up.

Bobby Neptune: I am familiar with this diet; it is what the alternate version of myself that trains me insists on. What are your favorite “cheat foods?” Mine are tacos.

Nate Colton: That’s tough, there’s a lot of awesome food out there…but for me, nothing beats a good, juicy burger. I can’t cook worth a shit, but my cousin Dennis? That guy’s a magician, man. We had complete strangers swing by our Fourth of July party ‘cause they could smell his burgers from the street.

Bobby Neptune: Then it is settled! The Great Grillmaster Dennis Colton shall make my first EARTHLING BURGER. AND IT SHALL BE GLORIOUS!

He claps Colton on the back.

Nate Colton: Hell yeah, it will. I’ll let you know the next time it happens. Got anything going on for the rest of the show?

Bobby Neptune: Nope! Unless you want to help me look for a visor, which I don’t even want to do anymore.

Nate Colton: All right. Well, you’re welcome to hang out and watch the rest of the show. Coolers are full–red one’s got beers, blue one’s got waters and energy drinks and stuff. Help yourself.

Neptune digs a beer out of the cooler and takes a seat next to Colton. They chat and vibe as they watch the show, now a little closer than they were before.

And we move elsewhere…

The scene opens to a beautiful sunset, sprawling across a vast ocean. Overhead, seagulls circle in the sky, squawking in delightful harmony. As the scene spreads out, white sands fill in the crevices left behind by the water and on a beach towel lies not one… but two PRIME Tag Team Championships accompanied by aluminum, ice filled buckets with expensive wine sweating in the Caribbean sun.

With a scratch the majestic scene freezes.

The D: You’re probably wondering to yourself right now, where in Pittsburgh is this?

Elise Ares: It’s not, bitch. Like, ew. You totes didn’t think I’d go to Pittsburgh to celebrate… did you?

The crowd jeers over the VTR.

The D: We’re in Miami, bitch!  Sun. Not a single poor around, cause this is a classy joint! Unlike whatever the shitty city it was PRIME wanted us to celebrate in. I don’t even remember the name of it.

Elise Ares: One might say this is…

The scene switches to Ares, sunbathing in a bikini. She looks directly into the camera before putting on a pair of her signature LED sunglasses.

Elise Ares: One. Hot. Beach.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

♫ “Won’t Be Fooled Again” by The Who ♫

A saffron skyline of Miami, Florida is shown in an aerial shot with the skyscrapers silhouetted before a golden sun. The scene shifts to an airboat coasting across the Florida swamp. Klein is piloting the craft as The D has one leg up on the control panel like Captain Morgan with the PRIME Tag Team Championship around his waist and Elise is at the front, arms in the air holding the championship like she’s flying. A closeup of her million-dollar smile.

ELISE ARES.

An in-ring montage of Ares hitting various beautiful, high-risk moves are intertwined with clips of Miami beachfront property and Ares enjoying the Miami nightlife with the PRIME Tag Team Championship over her shoulder while wearing a stunning, tiny black dress.

THE D.

Next to Elise in her tiny black dress is The D, dressed to the nines in a black suit. Several shots of him practicing putting sunglasses on and taking them off occurs. More clips of luxury Miami beachfront property. The D is in his element, organizing shots from behind the camera with the PRIME Tag Team Championship around his waist.

KLEIN. I GUESS.

The Boxman is occupied keeping the poors out of The D’s shot as he tries to get the perfect angle of Elise posing with her championship and a full open bottle of wine. Klein attempts to get into frame but it quickly shifts away from him to the tag championships instead. More mansions. Beaches. Miami nightlife. Klein practices trying to put sunglasses on over his box but they keep snapping cause his box is too wide. He goes through three pairs.

YOUR PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS.

A closeup of a cork popping off of a bottle of champagne and Elise sprays it all over the beachfront with The D and Klein joining in. Next in the montage is a sad, sad picture of Pittsburgh being all poor and “working class.”

SUCK IT, PITTSBURGH.

Narrator: (quickly) “The views expressed are those of Elise Ares and the D, the reigning PRIME Tag Team Champions the Pop Culture Phenoms and not necessarily the views of PRIME Management or Klein. Klein likes all kinds of Penguins including hockey ones.”

Richard Parker: Hey Nick, which match is next bud?

Nick Stuart: Why, some intense tag team action, Richard! The always formidable Fuck Your Tag Team will take on two of the most bad ass women in tag team wrestling today, the New World Trash!

Richard Parker: Well, in that case, I hope the New World Trash gets the tar beat out of them.

Nick Stuart: I’d expect literally nothing less.

“GARBAGE DAY!”

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

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

Vince Howard: The following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, hailing from Seattle, Washington and accompanied by the ‘Merry Mischief Maker’ Ami Troy, weighing in at a combined ‘None of my damn business’! ANGEL QUINLEY! BEX SAVAGE! THIS IS THE NEW WORLD TRAAAAAAASH!

The Trash hit the ring like a car crash, and one wonders how they have so much energy.

Then…

The arena lights cut out and strobing white lights shine from the floor near the entrance at the top of the ramp, while the iconic, shuffling, bop opening of “Sympathy for the Devil” hits the speakers.

They make us wait until the piano and vocals hit.

Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.

They step onto the entrance ramp. Rob Williams has his Five Star Championship slung over his shoulder. Anna wears her healthy appetite for violence on her sleeve.

I’ve been around for a long long year, stole many a man’s soul and faith

I was ‘round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain

Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed his fate.

Fuck Your Tag Team celebrate themselves as the white light shines from the floor behind them, casting vast shadows across the ring of their outlines.

Pleased to meet you, won’t you guess my name?

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams and Anna Daniels look locked in, Richard.

But what’s puzzlin’ you is the nature of my game.

Richard Parker: Rob’s been on an absolute tear since winning that championship, and Anna is coming off a big win of her own. Why wouldn’t they be locked in? They have all the confidence in the world!

The duo stare at NWT as they slowly make their way towards the rings, ignoring the jeers of the fans.

Rob slaps the popcorn out of a fan’s hands before climbing into the ring. Anna dances around avoiding every fan’s hand that goes to reach out for her before sliding under the bottom rope and slithering to her feet.

Vince Howard: And their opponents, at a combined weight of three hundred seventy five pounds… from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey – ANNNNNNNAAAAAAA DAAAAAANIELLLLLLSSSSS! From Decatur, Georgia… THE LEGEND RROOOBBBB WIIIIIIILLLLLLLLIIIIIIAAAAAAAMMMMSSSS! FUCK! YOUR! TAG! TEAM!

The Stones fade until all you can hear is the raucous, Pittsburgh crowd.

Then…

DING! DING!

It’s Anna Daniels and Bex Savage kicking things off and both of them meet in the center of the ring and lock up. Bex immediately overpowers Anna, but Anna drops to a knee, fireman’s carry! Bex tumbles to the mat but somersaults through it, scrambling up to her feet and—

DISCUS LARIAT FROM BEX TURNS DANIELS INSIDE OUT!!!

SHE MAKES THE COVER!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

KICKOUT!!!

Nick Stuart: That was a pretty close one there, Richard.

Richard Parker: Daniels is just luring these trash heaps into a false sense of security, Nick.

To Richard’s point, everyone in that ring knows precisely the sort of danger the Time Lord presents, and Savage wastes no time, immediately rises to her feet and CURBSTOMPS ANNA DANIELS—

NO! Anna sagely rolls away, kips up to her feet, and ANOTHER DISCUS LAR—

NO! Anna ducks it. Back kick from Savage catches Anna in the gut! KNEE TO THE FACE—

NO! Anna bends back just far enough to avoid it.

God damn it.

Bex is as flustered by this as anyone, and she reaches out to bring Anna into a clutch, but Anna goes low with a drop toe hold! She quickly transitions! CALF CRUSHER BY ANNA DANIELS!!!

Richard Parker: AND SHE’S GOT IN CINCHED IN TIGHT, NICK!!!

The Ripper, far happier ripping than getting her calf ripped, cries out in sheer agony as she tries her best to claw towards her corner, where her partner Angel clamors to be tagged in.

One of the many good things about being the Muscle Mommy that Bex is, is she has a strength advantage in this scenario. Despite the calf crusher being a difficult move to escape, she manages to army crawl with her forearms across the mat and actually make it a fair distance to her corner.

Such that the fans start rallying around her, with a sold out arena full of Yinzers chanting “TRASH! TRASH! TRASH! TRASH!” and Bex hears that shit and even though she’s in pain make no mistake she loves that shit, she appreciates that shit.

And she’s almost made it to her corner, and the fans are at an insane fever pitch for a mid card tag match, when Anna lets go of the hold, transitions quickly to mounting Bex and applies a camel clutch, feet away from Angel Quinley.

Anna sticks her tongue out at Angel.

Nick Stuart: Oh, real mature.

Richard Parker: It’s the littlest of ribs. What’s your problem?

Nick Stuart: Bex Savage fought tooth and nail to get to her corner, and Anna just makes a mockery of it!

Richard Parker: Hey Nick, have you met my friends, the Whoresmen, before?

Bex kicks her feet. A Savage warrior, the control that Anna has taken in that ring makes her feel caged, like an animal.

But Bex can’t be caged.

You’ll need guards with heavy ordinance to keep her somewhere she doesn’t want to be.

So when I tell you that Bex Savage sent, perhaps, one of the most brutal thumbs to the eyes backwards we’ve ever seen, and landed it flush? That’s exactly what happens.

Despite the fact that it required a bit of luck to strike the eye blind like she did, it’s to be expected.

She’s Bex Savage. And she’s got more dawgs than you in her pounding heart.

Anna Daniels clamors at her eye and falls away from the camel clutch, and Bex almost… almost… launches a new assault.

But Angel Quinley is begging, pleading to get in that ring.

And so Bex obliges. Rather than go through the ropes, however, Angel starts climbing up the turnbuckles from the apron.

Nick Stuart: The tag is made, and Angel is already taking to the skies!

She LEAPS!!!

AND GETS HER FUCKING HEAD TAKEN OFF BY ROB WILLIAMS!!!

Nick Stuart: HE’S NOT THE LEGAL MAN!!!!

Richard Parker: BUT HE STILL LARIATED HER RIGHT OUT OF THE SKIES!!!!

Rob looks at Bex and kinda shrugs in a, “You have to admit, that was kind of funny” way, and Bex storms back into the ring! But Turnbull steps between the two of them and commands them both to go back to their corners — Bex takes a bit more umbrage with that than Rob, who moseys over to his corner while Bex screams at Turnbull that he’s a fucking idiot who should fucking eat some shit while he’s at the god damn eye doctor because he’s blind as fuck and can’t see shit, clearly.

Turnbull tries to explain he saw it, and he will address it, and all this does is ultimately buy time for Angel to recover, but that’s exactly what happens. Angel stumbles up to her feet, Bex exits the ring, and Daniels, still nursing the poked eye, tags in Rob Williams.

The Five Star Champion steps in the ring and Angel’s basically like, oh, sweet, immediate revenge, serve it hot, I don’t give a fuck. She charges across the ring, and being a high flyer Rob guesses she’s going high, ducking his head.

Unfortunately she goes low and he ducks his own head right into a running knee. Tweetie birds flying around Rob’s head, and they fly south for the winter as Angel hits a crisp step up enziguri that was as cold as the northern climate in January.

Nick Stuart: Good god, did you hear the CRACK of that enziguiri?

Richard Parker: Careful. Don’t say “CRACK” that loud around the Whoresmen.

Nick Stuart: Still, what an impressive recovery from Angel.

Indeed.

She drags Rob Williams up to his feet. Whips him into the ropes, NO, he reverses! He whips her into the ropes and chases right behind her! Angel bounces off and CACTUS CLOTHESLINE AND ROB WILLIAMS AND ANGEL QUINLEY TUMBLE OUT OF THE RING!!!

Nick Stuart: HE MURDERED HIMSELF TO MURDER ANGEL, RICHARD!!!

Richard Parker: THAT’S VERY ROMANTIC TO A GUY LIKE ROB WILLIAMS, NICK!!!

Turnbull immediately starts the count following the sickening thud of two bodies under rag doll physics dropping ten feet to the floor below the ring.

One.

It’s seconds later that Anna Daniels emerges on the scene, and Ami Troy moves in. She tries to back Anna down, and at first Anna agrees, but then she sends a forearm into Ami’s jaw and drops her!

This activates Bex like a fucking sleeper agent and she hops off the apron and flies around the side of the ring.

Two.

BEX SAVAGE SPEARS THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ANNA DANIELS!!!

Three.

Rob Williams starts stirring to his feet. He reaches them just in time to see Anna hit the floor hard from the spear. Rob quickly slides back in the ring.

Four.

Bex, the only one standing but not the legal competitor, is forced to try and shake Angel back to consciousness.

Five.

Angel’s eyes finally open.

Six.

Bex rushes to help Angel back up to her feet.

Seven.

Angel is up to her feet. She takes a step forward but it feels like she has a weight around her right ankle.

Eight.

She looks down. It’s Anna Daniels, just clinging tightly to her ankle to prevent her from reaching the ring.

Nick Stuart: THIS IS B.S.!!!

Richard Parker: THIS IS GENIUS!!!

Nine.

Bex STOMPS Anna in the back! Anna lets go! Angel dives for the ring.

Ten.

Not in time.

DING! DING!

Pittsburgh boos like Ray Lewis and Ed Reed just walked in the arena.

Vince Howard: Your winners, by count out… FUCK! YOUR! TAAAAAAAAG TEEEEAM!!!

Anna and Rob Williams leave ringside the way Whoresmen so often do: while telling people to go fuck themselves.

Nick Stuart: What an utterly shameless travesty of a match that was, Richard.

Richard Parker: I liked it.

We cut elsewhere.

A montage. A heavy clip of highlights. Ultraviolence. Singapore cane. Chair shots. Flaming tables. Crowd surfing. Beer tents. Yolk baths. Weed wackers. Ukeleles. Glass. Nails. Ball shots galore.

And in the end…Cancer Jiles, after four years, finally, victorious over Brandon Youngblood in a one on one contest.

We return to ringside, with Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: Folks, if you haven’t yet seen it, well, that is just a taste of the insanity that happened when PRIME took over Philadelphia–

Richard Parker: What an awful night. Cecilworth no longer the Universal Champion. And…and…Jiles…

Nick Stuart: Brandon Youngblood and Cancer Jiles put so much of themselves on the line, ready to settle the score. And in the end, well–

Well, Nick, before you go on…

“I’m the one your mama warned you about”

“When you see me I will leave you no doubt”

“I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth”

“I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth”

And from the back, he arrives.

Victory lap/ before the Survivor Games.

He’d earned it.

Ha.

Except, well, if the figure sauntering from Argyle is the particular…gentleroach…well, in the past two weeks, he certainly has been in the gym. And juiced to the gills. Like, really juiced to the gills. Think even worse than a certain Pepsi Man who made a sports entertainment return mere days ago looking beefier than his shitty genetics should’ve allowed.

“I am the COOL”

The boos become a sound of much more, well, a perplexed reaction. The caustic swagger emblematic of The COOLympian is effortlessly recreated by the newest member of the carton, his electric PRIME blue tracksuit a wonderful velvet, his shoes white as salt, his T-Shades utterly on point. Even his goatee has been made platinum blonde.

This isn’t Cancer Jiles.

It’s Brandon Youngblood.

Richard Parker: Are you KIDDING me?! Are you KIDDING ME?! You absolute failure! You piece of garbage! You had one job! ONE JOB! And YOU FAILED AT IT! You FAILED ME AND EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRETY OF PRIME!

Nick Stuart: Richard–

Richard Parker: NO! After FOUR YEARS of THIS! Brandon Youngblood was bulletproof when it came to Jiles. He beat him in the Almasy. He beat him in First Blood. And four years later…this…THIS…

Nick Stuart: The man agreed to the stipulation–

Richard Parker: WHO CARES ABOUT A STIPULATION?! I DON’T! I DON’T! I just wanted the one guy who staked his entire career…HIS ENTIRE LIFE’S WORK…to come through on his promise. Disgusting! Disgusting! You deserve this, Youngblood. You’ve always deserved this! You damn failure! ONE JOB! ONE!

Nick Stuart: –will you–

Richard Parker: –and you’re just rolling over–

Nick Stuart: Richard!

When Ultraviolence’s second night faded to black, it was with a defiant Diamond and his wife, walking away after Cancer Jiles finally…finally…defeated him. Not just defeated him; he made his greatest rival into the newest member of the eGG Bandits. However, Youngblood walked off under his own power, unlike Coral Avalon, who had suffered a similar fate three years earlier and was whisked away to the USS Bandit to be reformed and remade.

Perhaps, in the time subsequent, the numbers game caught up to The Diamond.

Perhaps Brandon, after all this time, did what he had obligated himself to do should he lose in the 2300 Arena in front of a crowd of frothing Bandits.

After all…

…if you can’t beat them…

…why not join them?

Youngblood looks the part of The COOLympian. Whereas Avalon made lemonade out of the shit lemons that was his induction into The Bandits, this look seemed much more…submissive. Like he was forced into this. Walk of shame. There would be many, many more if Jiles had his way. A necessity.

After all, you have to break someone to rebuild them.

Brandon enters the ring, pulling a microphone from his pocket and smacking the heel of his hand to a rousing roar of static feedback cutting through Screamin’ Jay.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I Am The Cool fades.

The Diamond eGG merely looks out towards the Pittsburgh crowd, emotionless.

You’re No Bandit!

You’re No Bandit!

You’re No Bandit!

Oh, you sweet summer children.

Brandon Crumblood: Oh…I am…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

He doesn’t even flinch before continuing.

Brandon Crumblood: I’m a man of my word…

NO!

NO!

NO!

Brandon Crumblood: …and I’ve seen the light…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Brandon Crumblood: …all nice in shade…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Brandon Crumblood: …beautiful runny yolk.

A sharp smile.

Brandon Crumblood: Ha.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The microphone dangles perilously in his grasp. Battle scars still litter his forehead, not everything fully healing. Nails and glass and lord knows what else, all wonderful reminders.

Brandon Crumblood: I walked into Philadelphia putting everything I am on the line against Cool Jiles. Beat him one more time. Done it before. But that was four years ago. And as I learnt, as everyone in the world, everyone in PRIME…four years is a long time.

The wounds are emblematic of such.

Brandon Crumblood: And over the course of four years, sometimes, you just lose it. Maybe it’s the athleticism. Maybe it’s the hunger. Maybe it’s just Father Time, punching your ticket, saying your time is up. I gave everything I had to this sport. To PRIME. To be its vanguard and representative. To establish it as the best professional wrestling promotion in the world. And I did that. But four years…

A shake of the head.

Brandon Crumblood: Well…the field can catch up with you. You can think you’re running ahead, you can be making those same steps you’ve always made, thinking you’re doing and executing just as strongly as you ever did. But four years…in four years you can lose it.

A smirk.

Brandon Crumblood: Become boring…

Pained.

Brandon Crumblood: Lose your edge…

Barely able to contain the quakes.

Brandon Crumblood: In professional wrestling, you have to change with the times. You have to look at things and say to yourself…how and what can I do to be new and fresh and exciting? What is it I can do to reinvent my wheel? Get that new car smell? Now mind you…not everyone has to do that…

He pulls off the T-Shades and looks directly at hardcam.

Brandon Crumblood: …but me? I just have to accept the fact that, four years later…Cool Jiles caught up to me. No, he didn’t catch up to me…he lapped me. And there’s nothing really else to say…except…

Stepping forward, a hand drawing to the top rope, grabbing hold of it.

Brandon Crumblood: …when given the chance to be remade, you have to take it. You have to smile and embrace oblivion. So I wandered around Philadelphia…me…my wife…my son…I thought long and hard, through stitches, through pieces of glass being pulled out of me…that PRIME is a place where the wrestling standard is what happens between the ropes…it’s where fighting the fair fight gets you the greatest rewards…or so me and so many others wanted everyone to think. I walked out of Philadelphia and got on a battleship…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Brandon Crumblood: …and here I am. Reborn. Part of the carton. Giving up any concept of mantle to be a team player. Everything I’ve fought my entire life for…gone. Flushed. Dead. My time at the top is over. It’s now for the youth in our sport. Ivan Stanislav and the dignity he is bringing the Intense Championship…

BULLSHIT!

BULLSHIT!

BULLSHIT!

WE WANT DAWKINS!

WE WANT DAWKINS!

WE WANT DAWKINS!

Brandon Crumblood: Rob Williams and Daytona Diamonds, both holding the biggest championships in the sport, not at all pissing on them and making a mockery of them because they can’t fight their own battles…well now, neither does Brandon. Because you see…it’s iron clad. I am a man of my word. I am a man of my word and I am an eGG Bandit…

Letting go of the rope…

Brandon Crumblood: …an eGG Bandit…

Letting go of everything…

Brandon Crumblood: …once a Bandit…

Accepting fate…

Brandon Crumblood: …always a…always a…

A growl from deep.

Brandon Crumblood: …I ain’t going to do and wear this silly ass shit for anybody.

His hands grab at the seam of the zipper of the tracksuit top, forcefully ripping through them, tearing it free, pitching it into the crowd. Next come the pants, and underneath, thankfully, he is wearing a standard pair of combat shorts like we’ve seen him in in the past. He kicks off the shoes, and yanks the shades from their perch, his naked heel stabbing into them.

Brandon Youngblood: Hair versus Banditry. It was lock stock on the contract. I put pen to paper. I am obligated to be an eGG Bandit. Yeah?

A body littered with wounds.

Brandon Youngblood: Make me.

With scars.

Brandon Youngblood: Come on, Scab. Make me. Grab hold of me and carry me off to your ship like you did Avalon.

Pacing.

Brandon Youngblood: Try to appeal to a sense of dignity. Of holding up to my word. Because a piece of shit like you…you think for one moment, you…or anybody…is going to try that and think it’s going to work? Nuh uh. Nope.

His head vigorously shakes as he winds himself up more and more.

Brandon Youngblood: If the game is played the way it is played…then why not play it on the same terms? When you go low, I go high. It’s funny…it’s hilarious that anyone can think that shit plays.

He steps across the shades once again, and if they weren’t crushed enough, well…The Diamond repeatedly stomped on them to make sure they are now.

Brandon Youngblood: I lost at Ultraviolence to you, Jiles. I went into your home and I didn’t get the job done. And I should say you deserve some credit, but no…but fuck you. Because you don’t deserve shit. You and me? It wasn’t over when I put you down four years ago. You think that changes now? You think because you finally busted the cherry you’ve always wanted that it just…ends?

A laugh.

Brandon Youngblood: You put your career on the line last year, in the Almasy. If you lost, you were done. And you lost. To Chandler Tsonda. Yet…here we are. You’re still here. No step back. No fighting your way back to get that career. Just you waltzing in the door. And if Killean Sirrajin is going to do that for you…if Lindsay Troy is going to do that for you…then it’s on them to make me join you. Because you say Once A Bandit, Always A Bandit…

A point directly to him, wherever he is out there in TV Land.

Brandon Youngblood: …but I refuse. If nominated I will not run. If voted in, I will not serve. Over my dead. Body. Do I give you the satisfaction you crave. Four years. You want to make that stipulation stick? You make me. But we both know…you’ll never be able to do that. And if you’re going to cry and think someone on high is going to work in your favor? Well maybe they will.

Once again, in the center of the ring.

Brandon Youngblood: But if they want to step in for you? I have no problem sitting it all out and seeing you try to get a damn ounce of satisfaction from me. So unless PRIME has a good idea of how they’re going to make you whole? I guess you’re just a little fucked…ain’t ya, buddy?

A smile of malice spread wide as the eye can see.

Brandon Youngblood: Ball’s in PRIME’s court. And Brandit time? It’s already over…baby.

A caustic toss of the microphone, and with that, he leaves the ring, the camera covering him as he purposefully walks up the ramp. Somewhere, where a mountain is about to breathe and spew rocks and glitter on competitors trying to scale it, a victorious COOLympian is seething.

He may well not be the only one.

But if it matters to The Diamond, well, his scarred and healing body sure as hell doesn’t appear to care.

We go elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: We have a couple more matches on the docket, ladies and gentlemen! Up first, former Universal Champion Jonathan-Christopher Hall makes his long anticipated return to the PRIME ring against a young star making his debut tonight!

Richard Parker: I’d announce who it is, but I can’t pronounce his name.

Nick Stuart: It’s Daihm Ferguson, Rich.

Richard Parker: Dame Ferguson?

Nick Stuart: Daihm.

Richard Parker: …Dave?

Nick Stuart: DAIHM!

Richard Parker: I don’t get it, where are you getting that “v” sound? Screw it, I’m just gonna call him Fergie.

Nick Stuart: Ugh…

Richard Parker: And while we’re on the topic, Jonathan-Christopher Hall is too long. I’m calling him J’CH.

Nick Stuart: Rich…

Richard Parker: No, J’CH! What is it with you and letters today? Have you had your coffee yet?

Nick Stuart: …to the ring.

The arena is suddenly shaken with the crack of a pyrotechnic lightning strike that explodes into the opening lyrics of Dio’s “Rainbow in the Dark” as Daihm Ferguson appears – not from the top of the rampway – but from the concourse.

“WHEN THERE’S LIIIGHTNINNG,
“YOU KNOW IT ALWAYS BRINGS ME DOOOOOWNNN!
“‘CAUSE IT’S FREEE AND I SEEE THAT’S IT’S MEEE
“WHO’S LOST AND NEVER FOOOUU-OOUUUNND!!!”

Swirling blue and white spotlights cover the arena as the young man arrives wearing a form-fitting sky blue spandex suit as rows of rainbow colored wings extend down his arms and legs.

His flowing red hair bounces up and down from the back of a dragon-shaped luchador mask as he eagerly shuffles down from the stands pumping his fist.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, making his PRIME debut… hailing from Dundee, Scotland, standing at five feet and eight inches, and weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds… he is THEEEEEE DRAGON… DAIHM FERGUSON!

Richard Parker: I CRY OUT FOR MAGIC! I FEEL IT DANCING IN THE LIGHT!

Brief cutaway to commentary, where we see Richard Parker completely captivated by the spirit of Dio and absolutely rocking out, much to the chagrin of his partner Nick Stuart.

Richard Parker: IT WAS COOLD, Nick! LOST MY HOOLD, TO THE SHADOWS OF THE NIIIIIGH-IIIIIIGHT!!

Nick Stuart: …sure.

He leaps over the barricade at the bottom of the steps and flashes a thumbs up to the crowd.

“THERE’S NO SIGN OF THE MORNING COMING!
“YOU’VE BEEN LEFT ON YOUR OWN —
“LIKE A RAINBOW IN THE DARK!
“A RAINBOW IN THE DAAAARR-AAARRRK!!

Daihm makes his way up the ring steps, a smile on his face, before stepping through the ropes and settling in for the match.

Nick Stuart: This will be our first look at the Scottish born former SHOOT star in action in the PRIME ring! Daihm Ferguson definitely looks stoked to be here, and ready for action!

Richard Parker: I can’t pronounce his name, and I could probably sneeze and blow him out of the room, but darned if he doesn’t know how to pick a good entrance theme!

“The Best” by AWOLNATION cues as the crowd gives a cheer.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Folsom, Louisiana… weighing two-hundred-twenty pounds… JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL!

JCH emerges, sporting the same pretty pink© board shorts he normally wears. However, Vickie Hall’s name is not written across them. Instead, they are nameless but for the first time in maybe his entire PRIME Wrestling career, Jonathan-Christopher also doesn’t look like someone or something else is missing from his entrance. He marches down the ramp, a rather pleasant smile on his face. He greets fans as he goes, merely happy to be here and about to wrestle once again.

Richard Parker: I, for one, am sick of this already.

Nick Stuart: Give the man a break. You know he’s gone through hell. Would you rather Hall go back to… his old self?

Richard Parker: I’m just not buying it. That’s all.

Nick Stuart: A fair assessment, given outside of the last few shows, we’ve never seen Jonathan-Christopher Hall… like this. Then again, we really haven’t seen JCH in consistent wrestling action for an entire year.

Hall reaches the bottom of the ramp. He waves to his opponent inside the ring and then slides under the bottom rope. He greets the referee with similar pleasantries. Seriously, he’s all cheery and relaxed. Like Parker mentioned, it is rather odd, it’s hard to believe this is true.

Nick Stuart: Guess we’ve got a whole match to see this one out.

Both competitors stick to their corners and stare across the ring. Ashley Barlow methodically pats them down and makes her final checks. When she confirms they’re both ready, she signals for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And there’s the bell! Match is underway!

Ferguson and Hall meet in the center of the ring. They encircle each other for a few rounds before throwing themselves full force into the lock-up. The battle for leverage see-saws between them. JCH attempts to overpower and force Daihm to a knee, but the Dragon quickly pushes himself back up. Hall finally pivots inside and lassos the arm.

Nick Stuart: Armbar applied by Hall. Torquing the shoulder now… and Ferguson slips free, reversing right into a hammerlock from behind!

Richard Parker: He’s giving up about eighty pounds to Jonathan-Christopher, but all it takes is a solid hold.

Nick Stuart: Daihm Ferguson is doing just that, controlling the wrist of JCH… but now Hall goes under and reverses into a hammerlock of his own! Quick sweep to the mat! Over to the north-and-south! Armbar applied again, now on the canvas!

JCH doesn’t crank the arm, but forces Daihm to fight back to his feet before switching into a standing wristlock and giving the arm a solid turn. The pain drives Ferguson down to his knee, but he spies the nearby turnbuckles and sees an opportunity.

Nick Stuart: Ferguson up the turnbuckle pads… flips his way right into an ARMDRAG that puts Hall on his back!

Richard Parker: Parkour. Fancy. They do that in SHOOT?

Nick Stuart: Here comes Daihm… but Hall is up right away, and catches him with an armdrag of his own!

The Forever Man tempts the armbar again, but the Dragon sees it coming and legscissors Hall around the head before he can apply it. JCH pops back to his feet and is immediately met with a standing dropkick to his chest.

Nick Stuart: Dropkick by Daihm, and down goes Hall! Ferguson with a standing SHOOTING STAR–NO!! JCH gets the knees up… and rolls right into an inside cradle!

One!

Two!

Quick kickout!

Hall presses Ferguson against the ropes as soon as he’s up and sends him running. Coming back the other way, Daihm launches himself into a flying press.

Nick Stuart: Ferguson with the crossbody… CAUGHT by Hall! Hall going for a–NO!! Daihm slips around his back… into a CRUCIFIX ROLL-UP!

One!

Two!

JCH rolls through!

When Hall’s feet touch the mat, he powers back up with Ferguson on his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: Hall’s up, and he’s got him in the fireman’s carry!

Richard Parker: Wearing people as pelts really is the newest fashion trend.

Nick Stuart: Drops right into a GUTBUSTER! Cover made!

One!

Two!

Ferguson kicks out!

JCH keeps control of the head, bringing Daihm up with him. He throws the arm over and lifts for the suplex.

Nick Stuart: JCH with the suplex–but Daihm DROPS to his feet behind him!

Daihm hooks the arms from behind, drops to his knees, and rolls forward.

Nick Stuart: Backslide attempt by Ferguson–NO! Hall rolls through! HOOK KICK nearly decapitates “The Dragon”, but Daihm DUCKS and counters with a SCHOOL BOY! JCH on his shoulders!

One!

Two!

Kicks out again!

Hall sits right up off of the kickout. Ferguson gets behind him, underhooks the arms using his legs, and spins to the side to roll the Forever Man back to his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: Look at this now, Ferguson with a PRAWN HOLD and shoulders are down!

One!

Two!

Kickout by Hall!

Richard Parker: Fergie don’t slow down, do he?

Nick Stuart: “The Dragon” is keeping this match fast paced, for sure! There he goes into the ropes… springboard BACK ELBOW catches Jonathan-Christopher Hall as he gets to his feet!

JCH recoils off the impact. His back hits the ropes, and he goes with the momentum. Seeing him come, Daihm flips forward into the ropes for a bounce and comes back with a diving cutter.

Nick Stuart: HANDSPRING CUTTER by Ferguson–no, BLOCKED by Jonathan-Christopher Hall!

Richard Parker: He’s through with all this flying around nonsense!

Nick Stuart: Hall going for a German suplex–but “the Dragon” flips right through it and lands on the top rope!

Richard Parker: Guess I spoke too soon…

Nick Stuart: Ferguson OFF THE TOP with the DRAGONRANA! He calls that the DAIHM BOMB!! Shoulders down AGAIN!

One!

Two!

Hall kicks out once more!

Both competitors scramble to their feet. JCH catches a toe kick aimed for his gut, but Daihm tags him under the chin when he flips backward into a somersault kick! While the Forever Man stands staggered and clutching his jaw, Ferguson pops up and hits the ropes for a head of steam.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Daihm Ferguson… running superkick–DUCKED by Hall! SPINNING HEEL kick to leave Ferguson stunned… MIDDLE kick to double him over… and he drops back for a PELE KICK to bring him down!

Richard Parker: That’s a lot of kicks!

Nick Stuart: JCH sees his chance as Daihm Ferguson rolls over onto his back! Hall is climbing to the top…

Richard Parker: Big risk here! There’s no way Vickie would let this fly!

Nick Stuart: Vickie is gratefully long gone! There’s nothing to stop Jonathan-Christopher now! Here comes off the top with HE’S ALL THAT!!

Richard Parker: Got all that, and more!

Nick Stuart: Moonsault CONNECTS!! Hooks the legs!

One!

TWO!

DAIHM KICKS OUT! But Hall keeps him by the head…

JCH pulls Ferguson back to his feet and lifts him up. Learning from his earlier mistake, instead of going for a suplex he drops him into a less risky implant DDT.

Nick Stuart: DDT connects! Another cover made! Could that be it?

ONE!

TWO!

NO! Daihm Ferguson got the shoulder up!

Hall tries to pull Ferguson up by the neck, but Daihm suddenly comes to life, knocking his hand aside and leaving him open to receive a sudden flurry of chops and strikes to put Jonathan-Christopher Hall on the backfoot.

Nick Stuart: Daihm fighting back with a lightning fast combo! He calls this NOT TODAY, SATAN!

Richard Parker: Yeah, well Satan ain’t got anything on Vickie…

Nick Stuart: Hall backed into a corner! Ferguson takes the arm, and there’s the Irish whip… no, REVERSED!

Richard Parker: Should’ve gone for the Scottish whip instead!

Daihm connects with the corner and JCH runs in after him. A running shoulder block hits nothing but turnbuckle when Ferguson pulls his legs up. While Hall is bent over and stunned below him, he quickly drops to his back, hooks the arms, and rolls forward into a smooth sunset flip.

Nick Stuart: There’s the YEAR OF THE DRAGON by DAIHM FERGUSON! SHOULDERS DOWN!

ONE!

TWO!

HALL KICKS OUT!

Daihm pops up and hits the ropes, coming back with a running knee aimed at Hall’s chest as he gets to his feet. The Forever Man instead catches it, and spins him around into a rear waistlock. But before he can go anywhere with it, Daihm breaks free with a back elbow, takes him by the head, and runs up the turnbuckles again to flip over into an Asai DDT

Nick Stuart: CASTLE CRASHER by DAIHM FERGUSON!

…and Hall suddenly bursts back to his feet.

Richard Parker: WHOA now!

Nick Stuart: Hall has FIGHTING SPIRIT… FLYING BACK ELBOW absolutely PASTES Daihm Ferguson in the jaw! And now both competitors are DOWN!

Ferguson and Hall lie on their backs, sucking win. The fans loudly cheer on the battle.

Richard Parker: Finally, a chance to catch my breath here!

Nick Stuart: What a fast, high-energy contest this is shaping up to be! Since the opening bell, neither competitor has taken their foot off the gas pedal! You’d hardly think either wrestler was coming into this off of an extended break from action!

Richard Parker: I’m probably gonna need a break when it’s over!

Gradually, both competitors push themselves up onto their knees. As soon as he’s cognizant, Hall blasts Ferguson across the face with an open handed slap.

“YAAAYYY!!”

Daihm retorts with a knife-edge chop.

“WOOOOOO!!”

Hall slaps.

“YAAAYYY!!”

Ferguson chops.

“WOOOOOO!!”

The competitors exchange blows back and forth, testing each other’s limits. The frequency of the shots speeds up. Rather than collapse in pain, Hall and Ferguson get fired up and work their way up to their feet.

“YAAAYYY!!”
“WOOOOOO!!”
“YAAAYYY!!”
“WOOOOOO!!”
“YAAAYYY!!”
“WOOOOOO!!”
“YAAAYYY!!”
“WOO–!!”

Nick Stuart: HALL BLOCKS! EUROPEAN UPPERCUT leaves Ferguson staggering on rubber legs!

Daihm stumbles into the ropes. JCH extends the arm and runs at him. At the last second, the Dragon drops and pulls down on the top rope, sending Hall to the floor.

Nick Stuart: JCH TO THE OUTSIDE after the missed lariat! What’s Ferguson thinking now?

Richard Parker: If I had to guess, he’s thinking, “I’m going to calmly exit the ring, retrieve my opponent, bring him back into the ring, and continue the match like normal.”

Nick Stuart: Ferguson has hold of the top rope… CORKSCREW FLYING BODY SPLASH AS JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL GETS TO HIS FEET!!

Richard Parker: Well, I was close.

Ferguson stands up and fires up the fans. With Hall on the recovery, the Dragon scrambles back up the apron, springboards off the ropes, and comes back with a picture perfect lionsault!

Nick Stuart: Ferguson is keeping up the pressure… SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT OFF THE APRON–CAUGHT by Hall!!

Richard Parker: “The Dragon” flew straight into a No Fly Zone!

Nick Stuart: NO!! REVERSED INTO A TORNADO DDT TO THE FLOOR!

Barlow has reached the count of six. Daihm elects to break it up by sliding back into the ring, hitting the opposite ropes, and flying back outside with a tope suicida!

Nick Stuart: Daihm into the ring and back out with a SUICIDE DIVE–SIDE-STEPPED by Jonathan-Christopher Hall! Ferguson went right into the RAIL!

Richard Parker: Might need to call an orthodontist off of that whiff!

Showing signs of exhaustion, Jonathan-Christopher Hall slowly gets Daihm Ferguson back up and rolls him into the ring. Sliding in after him, he quickly hooks the leg and legs together and leverages “The Dragon” onto his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: Hall with the cover here!

ONE!

TWO!

FERGUSON KICKS OUT!!

JCH shakes his head in disappointment, but the cheering crowd urges him to fight on. Once back on his feet, he looks to the near turnbuckle and gets an idea.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is going up top once more!

Richard Parker: Risky move, once again. But I guess it paid off the first time.

Taking a moment to look to the crowd for a second opinion, Hall decides to take the plunge and dives off with a fluid frog splash.

Regrettably, he lands on nothing but harsh canvas, as Daihm Ferguson rolls to the side.

Nick Stuart: NOOOOO, the Space Between Us proved to be TOO MUCH SPACE, and Ferguson rolls to the side!

Richard Parker: I can practically hear Vickie laughing all the way up in King Crumb’s luxury suite.

Nick Stuart: You really think she’s watching?

Richard Parker: Oh, she is DEFINITELY watching!

Clutching his chest, Hall rolls over to a corner and sits against the bottom turnbuckle to recover. Ferguson uses the ropes to pull himself up. Nodding with energy, he seems to find his second wind, and boosts himself up to the top rope. To the amazement of everyone in the audience, he successfully jumps the length of the ring in an incredible corner-to-corner missile dropkick!

Nick Stuart: HOOOLYYY CRAP, DAIHM FERGUSON GOES FROM COAST TO COAST!! THROWING SHADE, as he calls it!

Richard Parker: Throwing me for a loop, in any case!

Nick Stuart: Daihm Ferguson is firing on all cylinders right now! He sees Hall crawling out of the corner… SPRINGBOARDS off the second set of turnbuckles into A MOONSAULT DDT! WOW!! COVER!! THIS COULD BE IT!!

ONE!

TWO!!

TWO-POINT-NINE, as JCH pops the shoulder up!

Daihm rises up, eyes wide with disbelief. He leaves Hall to recover on the mat while he stands up and backs into a corner, setting himself up to strike like a coiled snake lying in wait.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall manages to hang on, but the debuting Daihm Ferguson is really bringing it to him here tonight! If he keeps this up, he could score an amazing win in his first match in PRIME!

Richard Parker: Jonathan-Christopher just ain’t the same without Vickie there to give him the proper motivation. Like I said, Nick… I don’t buy it!

Nick Stuart: Hall back up… here comes DAIHM… RUNNING SUPERKICK CONNECTS!! Ferguson pulling out all the moves he’s known for! He calls that one “How’s Your Head?”

Richard Parker: If he’s referring to Jonathan-Christopher, I’d assume NOT GOOD!

Nick Stuart: Ferguson makes the cover! That HAS to be it!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–NO!! HALL JUST BARELY KICKS OUT!!

Ferguson sits up, shaking his head in a frenzy like a wild animal. The longer the fight goes on, the more he grows in confidence and energy. Now he runs to the ropes…

Nick Stuart: RUNNING SENTON by Daihm Ferguson!

He rolls straight to his feet and goes back into a backflip.

Nick Stuart: STANDING MOONSAULT!

Rolls through again to his feet, this time into a forward backflip.

Nick Stuart: SHOOTING STAR!

Richard Parker: Okay, we get it! You like to flip!

Nick Stuart: Hall trying to get up, because he knows he’s a sitting duck on his back!

Richard Parker: Don’t you mean a lying one?

Nick Stuart: Ferguson won’t let him get far! He has control of the head! Running to the corner for ANOTHER CASTLE CRASHER–NO!!

At the last second, Hall shoves the PRIME newcomer off, sending him to collide chest-first into the turnbuckles. The impact causes Ferguson to stumble back into the Forever Man’s waiting arms. Hall hooks the arms, twists around, and drops straight into the facebuster.

Nick Stuart: STAND BY ME!! JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL NAILS IT OUT OF NOWHERE!! ROLLS FERGUSON INTO THE COVER!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!! THAT’S IT!!

DING DING DING

Hall rolls off of Ferguson’s chest, breathing heavily and doused in sweat. Barlow helps him to his feet and raises his arm in victory. The crowd pops hard for the triumphant former Universal Champion.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match, by pinfall… JONATHAN… CHRISTOPHER… HAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!

Nick Stuart: That was an out-of-nowhere conclusion to an intense back and forth battle! What a hard fought win for Jonathan-Christopher Hall in his return to the PRIME ring!

Richard Parker: Somewhere, Vickie is probably seething with anger.

Nick Stuart: One can only hope! At long last, Jonathan-Christopher Hall is his own person, and I feel for the first time, we’re seeing what the real “Forever Man” can be as a competitor!

Richard Parker: I dunno, he almost taken to task by Fergie…

Nick Stuart: Well… in any case, it was a very impressive showing for Daihm Ferguson in his official in-ring debut, taking a former Universal Champion to his absolute limit.

Richard Parker: A former Universal Champion who hasn’t been in a match in six months, you mean.

Nick Stuart: Well, considering Ferguson hasn’t been in one in two years, I’d say that’s still impressive! Absolutely incredible performance by both of these competitors, in any case!

JCH meets Ferguson as the latter is on his knees, still holding his head. Hall extends the hand. After taking a moment to consider it, Daihm rises to his feet and receives it. They shake, and embrace. The fans cheer.

Nick Stuart: Welcome to PRIME, Daihm Ferguson!

Richard Parker: OOOH, I think I get it now! DAIHM! The ‘M’ is silent, right?

Nick Stuart: …you’re hopeless, partner. Folks, we’ve still got the main event to come! But right now, let’s head to back!

ReVival moves on…

New Uni champ, new tag champs, new Alias champ, new Bandit. New state of the state.

Saaaaaaame old backstage.

Bowels of a building, just as uninteresting and unremarkable as filing cabinet full of manilla envelopes.

So why, oh why, does that sound arise when we’re in the blah-est of the blah, a place that makes Nebraska seem like Paris?

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The answer is a bunch of letters on a door.

CHANDLER TSONDA

Ok, yep, that checks out. These people, as ever, are straight up worshipful of the Model Citizen, and at this point, it’d be real hard to explain why, but it’s just a given that they’re riding with the legend.

Curiously, though, his isn’t the only name on the door.

&

JASMINE JEONG

Now that is something new.

Normally, the door would swing open, and from within would issue some kind of pithy comment from the Viet Viper, perhaps to the waiting Angelica Brooks or another person on the PRIME dole.

We’re doing things different here as we approach Ascension.

“Looks good, don’t it?”

Whip pan, shot goes wide, and yeah, it *does* look good.

And by it, we mean: the two people whose names are on that there door.

You know him: chic, sleek, and on fleek.

If you don’t know her, she’s ten pounds of moxie in a five pound bottle, and she eats fire and brimstone for dinner every night. Intensity, thy name is…

Jasmine Jeong: (pointing at his name coming first) Age before beauty, I guess.

Chandler Tsonda: Har, and you can quote me on this, har. 

Jasmine Jeong: Should we talk to the camera now?

Chandler Tsonda: (with a grin worth more than Elon Musk’s bitch ass net worth will ever be) We should talk to the camera now.

The Hall of Famer and his protege look right down Camera A, with the locker room that holds their names just out of view over their shoulders.

Jasmine Jeong: My name is Jasmine Jeong.

Chandler Tsonda: They call me Ol’ Chan.

Jasmine Jeong: And after…(looks at her wrist, taps her watch) thirty seconds? We’re already the biggest breath of fresh air in PRIME tag team’s division since two crazy kids named Jared and Justine.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

That’s for Eminence.

Chandler Tsonda: Number one, RIP Mac Miller, Blue Slide Park to the death.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And that’s for one of Pittsburgh’s sons, forever alive in legend.

Chandler Tsonda: Number two, I’m stepping away from my incredible run as a PRIME referee. It was beautiful while it lasted—sup Ty, sup Dawkins—but I wouldn’t want to make the other zebras look bad. My final report from my time in stripes is: the Intense Champion is a big broke bitch, and I look forward to whenever “the tribe has spoken” on his stupid ass.

People of all shades and stripes, and Pittsburgh is no stranger, do love when you talk shit about Ivan Stanislav. The Sultan of Style doesn’t linger long on his perma-rival, though.

Chandler Tsonda: And number three, but most importantly, I called in the cavalry. She’s five foot seven, she hits like brass knuckles in February, and she’s gonna be the reason we’re lifting a pair of gold cumberbunds over our heads real soon.

Jasmine Jeong:He was already, like, halfway washed when I was born. So Chan called me up and said ‘hey I’m done working hard, I need somebody to carry me to tag team greatness like back when I was in the A-List,’ what could I do but oblige? So—

Chandler Tsonda: (interrupting) Not how the conversation went.

Jasmine Jeong: (steamrolling him) And so this decrepit old skeleton of a man needs help, and I love nothing more than being of service to the heroes of yesteryear. Lindsay Troy? She’s a savvy businesswoman, and instead of having to pay for full-time elder care for him (gestures to Chandler), she went ahead and put dotted I’s and crossed T’s on a shiny new contract for yours truly.

A pop goes up at the newest addition to the roster. PRIME faithful do remember that Jasmine Jeong once stared down a fight with Ivan Stanislav, and took a trophy, even if she also took a savage beating.

The pair rat-a-tat back and forth.

Chandler Tsonda: She’s Jasmine Jeong.

Jasmine Jeong: And he’s Chandler Tsonda.

Chandler Tsonda: And we don’t have a cutesy tag team name.

Jasmine Jeong: Because we’ve been training to bust your favorite tag team’s ass instead of doing marketing.

The Model Citizen breaks the gaze into the camera, and turns to his new tag team partner.

Chandler Tsonda: But we’re still gonna get a sick name, right?

Jasmine Jeong: Hell yeah.

Chandler Tsonda: Hell yeah.

That settled, he turns back to the camera.

Chandler Tsonda: I don’t much care for when a new hot shit tag team comes in and puts other teams “on notice.” You know why?

Jasmine Jeong: ‘Cuz that means you see what’s coming. And with us, you won’t.

She reaches out and mushes the camera, jostling it out of focus, and ending our time with the newest addition to the tag team ranks.

Cut. Black. Main event.

“Woo! Woo!”

“Let ‘Em Know” by T.I. plays over the speakers as the PRIMEView displays the Foot Soldiers logo, a cleat with devil horns. Kris Roswell and Satan Jones appear at the top of the ramp. Kris stands confidently, looking out at the crowd, while Satan Jones holds his phone out, streaming the whole process because of course he is.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring, at a combined weight of 425 pounds…representing Gray’s Wrestling Academy…KRIS ROSWELL! SATAN JONES! THEEEEEE FOOT SOOOLDIEEERRRSSSS!

Kris walks to the ring, slapping hands with the crowd as Satan turns his phone on the front row, occasionally stopping to capture himself and crowd members together on his livestream. Kris slides into the ring first, then waits for Satan to hop up and enter. They slap hands and Satan ends the livestream, then hands his phone to the referee to have them put it somewhere safe.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLLLL!!!!”

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

As “Daggers” bitch slaps the ever loving SHIT out of PPG Paints Arena, Hayes Hanlon saunters out onto the ramp amidst the exploding planets and stars on the PRIME*View, and the bright flashbulbs bursting throughout the stands.

But something’s a little different. His tights and boots are on, but his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up is present, tiddy-window and everything.

And, there’s a mic in his hand.

He takes a few steps down the ramp as the music hammers away. He grins behind his ‘stache at the Foot Soldiers in the ring, until the music trails away.

He let’s it all soak for a moment,  before bringing the mic to his lips.

Hayes Hanlon: I know you boys must have been absolutely beside yourselves these last two weeks, wondering who I’d show up with.

A lift of his eyebrows, stepping left and right across the ramp.

Hayes Hanlon: And honestly? So was I! Who could I possibly share the spotlight with in this little tag-team affair? Youngblood? Joe?

Another pause, you know. Because of the implication.

Hayes Hanlon: Or did I even wanna share it at all? Well, boys. I have your answer you’ve been so desperate for.

There’s a little somethin’ somethin’ behind Hanlon’s dark eyes, his shoulders rolling.

Hayes Hanlon: You boys got me thinkin’ since UltraViolence. Maybe tag teams have never really been my thing. But that doesn’t mean I can’t experiment a little bit, right? Hell, my career is far from over, despite what you may think. No no. In fact, the future could be bright. It could be special. But right now…

Hayes takes a peek back at the top of the entrance ramp.

Hayes Hanlon: The future…is fucking SEXY. 

Hayes fucking RIPS his dress shirt open across his big, broad chest as “ooh la la” by Run the Jewels blasts through the arena speakers!

Nick Stuart: He’s here! TV’s Mr. Sex is here!

Richard Parker: FINALLY!

OOH LA LA, AHH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AHH OUI OUI

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

His shorts are a little smaller, a little tighter, a little more form-fitting. His hair and beard are immaculate. He’s got a hint of body glitter on his chest. He’s moisturized. His lips are balmed.

He’s just sexy as hell and even though the theme may be familiar, there’s a new aura about him. He looks around to the crowd, grins, winks, and blows a sweet little kiss as he joins Hayes Hanlon.

PRIMEview lights up with the accolades:

HALL OF FAMER

LE GRAND CHELEM

TV’S MR. SEX

F L A M B E R G E

The two bump fists as they stride towards the ring; it would almost be like two model walks during Fashion Week if they didn’t also look ready to kick some ass.

Richard Parker: Oh another Glue Boy. Color me absolutely shocked.

Nick Stuart: You mean you had FLAMBERGE on your bingo card?

Richard Parker: Along with Cecilworth Farthington and Dusk’s decapitated head, yes.

FLAMBERGE does a sexy little dance before Elvis Nixon rings the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re off! Hayes and Satan start the action in the ring while FLAMBERGE checks his perfectly coiffed hair outside the ring. There’s something different about him, Richard.

Richard Parker: He sure thinks there is ever since he won Dirk Dickwood’s Whatever.

Nick Stuart: Are you good, Richard? You seem agitated.

Richard Parker: I have pork chops calling my name.

In the center of the ring Hayes Hanlon and Satan Jones lock up. Satan gets the upper hand (or foot har har har), delivering a stiff elbow to the jaw of America’s Moustache that sends Hanlon reeling back towards the corner. Hanlon has no time to recover before Satan wraps him up for a lightning fast snap suplex. Like a rabid, foot obsessed dog Satan is all over him immediately, taking control with a top guard.

Hanlon looks over to his corner for aide, but Mr. TV’s Sex is too busy making sure he has the perfect mixture of glitter and sweat on him.

Not really – FLAMBERGE pops a leg with the perfect mix of glitter and sweat in the ring just long enough to grab the attention of Elvis Nixon.

This opens the door to a nasty eye poke from Hayes Hanlon.

Nick Stuart: It’s almost like they knew what the other one wanted there.

You know why, Nick?

Because of the power of friendship.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon takes a minute to mimic Jones by holding his eye and acting like he’s crying before delivering a thunderous lariat that plows Jones into the mat.

Richard Parker: Classic Hanlon. Love that guy.

Nick Stuart: The Event Horizon drags Satan Jones to his corner – the fans ERUPT in moans and cheers as he tags in FLAMBERGE.

Despite the size difference, Hanlon heaves Jones up onto his shoulders as FLAMBO climbs to the top rope. Jones hangs there for a moment as FLAMBERGE gives him the flirty eyes before hitting a flying kick that’s going to cause Jones some dental work in the future. On the other side of the ring Kris Roswell yells at Elvis Nixon and raises all kinds of hell about his partner being double teamed.

Nick Stuart: Roswell continues to complain about the double team being unfair as FLAMBERGE admires himself, waiting for Jones to get back up.

Richard Parker: Five second rule.

Nick Stuart: Five second rule?

Richard Parker: Yeah, they have five seconds after the tag. That’s just good teamwork between the Glue Guys.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that was five seconds.

Richard Parker: You sound like my ex wife.

Satan Jones regains composure just in time to catch a flurry of leg kicks from FLAMBO straight out of a Muay Thai gym. Speaking of which – his shorts seem a bit tighter, don’t they?

Nah, his muscles are just bigger now.

One kick – two kick – three kick, floor for Satan Jones as his left leg gives out after multiple successive kicks from The Neck Collector. FLAMBERGE goes to punt The Tik Tok Toy’s head, but Jones manages to catch it and roll into a weak single leg crab.

It doesn’t hold the former Universal champ for long.

But, it’s long enough for Jones to fall backwards and find the waiting hand of his partner Kris Roswell who explodes into the fucking room like a botched firework display at my cousin’s house.

Nick Stuart: A vicious enziguri kick from Roswell sends FLAMBERGE flying. Before The Neck Collector can figure out what hit him Kris Roswell is on top of him laying a bevy of kicks. Low kicks – high kicks – mid kicks. The man came here to kick FLAMBERGE and chew bubble gum and-

Richard Parker: He’s all out of gum.

Nick Stuart: *sigh* Right. FLAMBO manages to rally, pulling himself up from the ropes, but Roswell hits with a hand chop in the back of the neck. As soon as FLAMBERGE bends over Roswell nails a stiff kick to the face – sending the Triple Crown Frenchman flying onto his back. Trying to end it quick Roswell rolls up for a cover.

ONE..

TW…

Hanlon ain’t having any of that bullshit.

He plants his tree trunk of a knee right into the base of Roswell’s skull, driving him into the mat.

Proud of himself, he stands and turns just in time to catch a wild plancha into the ring from Satan Jones.

Chaos erupts as Roswell and FLAMBERGE get up and into the melee.

Nick Stuart: Now everyone is kicking one another!

Roundhouse kicks. Mid thigh kicks. Shin kicks.

Roswell kicks FLAMBERGE and Hanlon kicks Jones and FLAMBERGE kicks Jones and Hanlon kicks Roswell and there’s just so many kicks I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.

Everyone is kicking everyone.

The fans start kicking one another now.

Elvis Nixon catches a random kick from someone sending him flailing.

Richard Parker kicks Nick Stuart under the announcer’s booth.

Nick Stuart: HUMAN SACRIFICE! DOGS AND CATS LIVING TOGETHER! MASS HYSTERIA!

Vince Howard: STOP THE KICKS! STOP THE KICKS!

Somehow, The Foot Soldiers find one another through the chaos.

It’s like they’re connected somehow. Like two deformed babies grown together in the womb.

A small glance between them and they both know the plan.

Just like that FLAMBERGE is double clotheslined out of the ring.

Glitter flies everywhere as his sexy little body bounces off the apron and onto the mat outside the ring. He’s not moving. Everyone stops – a collective gasp from the fans and the announcer and the commentators.

The tiniest of heaves from his chest.

A big, unified sigh.

Nick Stuart: Oh thank God, he’s breathing.

Back in the ring The Foot Soldiers are stomping a whole mudhole in Hayes Hanlon’s ass.

Roswell bounces off the ropes and kicks him questionably low, doubling Home Run Hayes over in pain as he shouts “OH MY NARDS”.

That opens the door for Satan Jones to deliver a brutal Saito Suplex.

Elvis Nixon is too busy worrying about TV’s Mr. Sex to even get in the way as The Podiatric Dream sets Hanlon up for a German suplex. Roswell bounces off the opposing rope and adds to the momentum with a perfectly placed Superkick kick sending Hayes Hanlon to the goddamn moon.

Richard Parker: Goddamnit, Nixon – do your job!

Nick Stuart: Five second rule, Richard.

Richard Parker: Who’s counting, Nick? Fred Dick? Jesus Christ.

Almost as if he heard Richard’s commands, Nixon turns around and does the old hands-on-the-hips and head shake at The Foot Soldiers.

Roswell rolls his eyes like “oh now you want to do your job?”, but he ultimately acquiesces and leaves the ring.

Nick Stuart: Back to the action now Satan Jones picks Hayes Hanlon up high in the air and crushes him with a Death Valley Driver. Wasting no time he wraps Hanlon’s legs. Nixon slides down for the count.

ONE 

TWO

THREE!!!!

Queue the motherfucking music.

DING DING DING

The Foot Soldiers are hugging and going ape shit in the ring while Hanlon pulls himself up in the corner.

Richard Parker: THIS IS BULLSHIT!

For once, Richard Parker is right.

While The Foot Soldiers are celebrating this huge win, FLAMBERGE climbs into the ring with his tight ass. He’s talking to Elvis Nixon, pointing at Roswell.

Elvis Nixon slaps his forehead.

He calls Vince Howard over and they talk briefly.

The music stops.

Vince Howard: It has been pointed out that there was never a tag between The Foot Soldiers. The pin was not legal. Please restart the clock.

DING DING

Roswell makes his way into the ring – obviously pissed and damn near ready to give Nixon a few more kicks.

In the confusion no one noticed Hanlon making his way to FLAMBERGE.

They immediately hit the tag and a refreshed FLAMBERGE floats into the ring. Not really, but that would be fucking cool, wouldn’t it?

Anyways, FLAMBERGE is on his shit. He nails Jones with a roundhouse kick that he follows up with a beautiful powerbomb. Not as beautiful as him, but beautiful none the less.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBO is all offense right now as he kicks the downed Roswell in the head and neck. He stalks likes the predator he is, waiting for Roswell to get up before hitting him with a Hammerlock Suplex.

Richard Parker: Classic FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: Indeed. Roswell tries to bumrush FLAMBERGE, but he sidesteps and meets Roswell with a Judo Throw. The French Phenom is really showing off here.

With nothing but grit, Roswell manages to get up only to be kicked in the leg.

And again.

And again.

Everytime Roswell just grits his teeth and stands back up.

Until he doesn’t.

The last kick leaves him on his knees, wincing in pain. FLAMBERGE takes advantage and places a stiff kick to the midsection of Roswell.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh.

Richard Parker: Here it comes.

Nick Stuart: Le Protagoniste just welcomed Kris Roswell to the main event level of PRIME with a masterful axe kick.

Richard Parker: You know what that means, Nick.

Nick Stuart: The Neck Collector is about to add another neck to his collection.

Sure enough.

The fans go absolutely ape shit as FLAMBERGE locks in Marie Antoinette.

They’re hooting and hollering – talking about “GOIN DOWN THE HAUS” and “YINZ GONNA LOSE YOUR NECK”.

Maybe. Who knows what the hell these people are saying?

Anyways – it looks like Kris Roswell is completely fucked as FLAMBERGE sinches the Marie Antoinette fully on the rising star’s throat.

His eyes roll back in his head and…

Elvis Nixon breaks it up?

Nick Stuart: Look! Kris Roswell managed to land a foot on the ropes!

Richard Parker: No! No way! That pervert Satan Jones must’ve placed it there! This is a travesty.

He didn’t. No, the young man just managed to have enough body awareness to hit the ropes with his foot.

What do you expect from The Foot Soldiers?

FLAMBERGE doesn’t understand. Not because Nixon is speaking English, but because he cannot believe anyone would ever tell him no when he’s just so damn sexy.

Elvis assures him that, while he is super sexy, the foot was on the ropes and it’s legal.

Meanwhile, Roswell tags in Jones and he comes in with a head full of fucking steam. He stands behind FLAMBERGE smiling as the fans cheer.

Nick Stuart: Poor FLAMBO has no clue that hulking giant is behind him.

Richard Parker: Underhanded tactics from The Foot Soldiers, but I’d expect no less from a man of his stature.

Nick Stuart: What does that mean?

Richard Parker: He’s a pervert, Nick.

Jones is patient for once – smiling and calling on the fans to get louder as he lets FLAMBERGE wear himself out.

Finally, he’s had enough of FLAMBERGE’s arguing. He wraps The French Phenom up from behind and sends him flying backwards with a German Suplex. FLAMBO hits the opposite turnbuckle all kinds of nasty. Crumpled up like a garbage man’s one dollar bills on the floor of the strip club on payday.

Nick Stuart: Jones runs into the ropes now – OH! HE CONNECTED WITH HANLON AND SENT HIM FLYING INTO THE BARRIER

Richard Parker: Jesus. Hanlon is on the back nine, man. You can’t do things like that to him!

Nick Stuart: Roswell has recovered now and Jones hits the tag. Taking advantage of The Fred Dick Five Second Rule, Roswell comes in and hits the now conscious FLAMBERGE with a running kick to the face! He calls that the UFO, Richard.

Richard Parker: I don’t care, Nick.

FLAMBERGE falls right into Satan Jones.

Who throws him high in the air over his shoulder. And then throws him even higher.

And then catches him in a side body cutter.

Nick Stuart: MASTER HORSE!

Richard Parker: That’s the best name he could come up with? Get this bum out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: You got your wish, Nick! Jones runs at the ropes and launches over the ropes in a splayed plancha right onto Hanlon outside the ring. Roswell drops down on FLAMBERGE and pulls the legs WAY back for the pin.

Elvis Nixon hits the mat.

ONE 

TWO

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

FOR REAL THIS TIME!

Nick Stuart: I don’t believe it! The Foot Soldiers pull off a win against TWO Triple Crown Champions! They have definitely climbed the mountain top of the PRIME tag circuit and defiantly planted their flag as the next big thing!

The fans cheer things that people from Pittsburgh cheer.

Yellow socks spin everywhere in the crowd.

Ew.

Satan Jones slides into the ring and quickly pulls one of FLAMBERGE’s boots off, hoisting it high as The Foot Soldiers slide out of the ring and leave to a shower of Miller Lite and yellow socks.

FADE

TO 

YELLOW