ReVival 91

Standing outside Little Caesar’s Arena in Detroit, Matt Mills is putting in his ear piece and then looking down at his watch. He looks up at the camera man on him questionably.

Matt Mills: Are we rolling?

Camera 1: We still got about thre-

“MATTY MILLS!!!”

The high-pitched, piercing latina voice of Elise Ares cuts through the air. As the camera shifts, Elise leads The D and Klein towards the arena from the talent parking lot. Mills looks back over at the camera crew confused as the Pop Culture Phenoms, titles and all, reach their destination.

Elise Ares: You are going to tell me where Lindsay Troy is RIGHT now. This is ridiculous!

Mills doesn’t even have his microphone ready yet, but the camera mic is able to pick up everything.

Matt Mills: I… uh, actually don’t know. You caught me off guard, I was actually waiting to get a word with-

The D: The PRIME Tag Team Champions? Good, cause we’re here now! Looks like you need to be a little more prepared Double-M. M and M. You’d think a man of your tenure would have a better idea about what’s going on here.

Matt Mills: Going on with… what? Exactly?

Elise Ares: We haven’t even held these titles for 30 days before Lindsay Troy throws us into a match. The last time we were in the building for a PRIME event was when we won the tag team championships and now we’re being forced to DEFEND them? This is unfair treatment!

The D: INJUSTICE! Vae Victis had 36 days before their first defense. The Whoresman had the belts for 83 days without a single defense! I mean, we barely even got settled in our vacation before we had to abruptly end it! All because YOUR BOSS hates us.

Elise Ares: And this is why you’re going to take us into the arena DIRECTLY to Lindsay Troy so we can give her a piece of our min-

“Hold on, hold on, hold on. You’re being interviewed by Mills instead of me?”

The camera pans over to reveal Satan Jones, standing there with his arms crossed. Behind him Kris Roswell stands, looking at his opponents.

Satan Jones: No offense to you, Matty boy, but there’s only one person here who gives the best interviews in PRIME, and he doesn’t wear a suit. Or a shirt.

Looking past Mills, Satan looks at Elise, rubs his abs, and squints for a second before nodding.

Satan Jones: Sup?

Klein rips off his shirt and steps in front of Satan holding an imaginary microphone in front of Elise.

Elise Ares: First off, how dare you. Second off, didn’t I beat one of you for the Silver Ticket? I’m sorry, I’m bad with the names of the irrelevant, which one of you was it again? Hold that. It totes doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, that disqualified you from any kind of “dibs” you had at a shot at our titles. So if you’ll excuse me, we need to go remind El Tee of that fact.

Kris Roswell steps forward.

Kris Roswell: Yeah, that was me. Congrats on climbing a ladder, but tonight you have a wrestling match with us. And you just said you’re bad with names, so maybe you’re also bad with general memory. Satan, what happened the last time they had a tag match with us?

Satan Jones: Uh…did we win?

Satan’s probably pretending here. Probably.

Kris Roswell: Yes. We won. In fact, we haven’t lost as a team yet. So you better hope that when you find Lindsay Troy she takes pity on you and cancels the match, because otherwise it’s going to be a short tag reign for you.

The D doesn’t even find time to fit in an eyeroll before…

“Alors, Mustache, look! A party to crash!”

The camera pans the other direction, and our erogenous zones are overwhelmed at the sight of FLAMBERGE and Hayes Hanlon. They’re both positively rippling with sleek open blazers (and, much like Satan, with no shirts).

Hayes Hanlon: And fashionably late, too.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, c’est bon. Wow, look at all of us, eh? The six of us all together like this? The Detroit and the Little Caesar’s Arena will need to crank the air conditions, I think. Of course, there are the beautiful teams…

FLAMBO gestures to PCP and the Foot Soldiers.

FLAMBERGE: …and there are the sexy teams.

He gestures at FLAMlon.

Hayes Hanlon: Well shucks, TV’s Mr. Sex – would you look at those? Now THOSE are sexy!

Hanlon points to the tag titles held by PCP.

Hayes Hanlon: I think belts as sexy as those would want to be around the waists of two properly sexy wrestlers, don’t you?

FLAMBERGE: Ouais indeeeeed, Mustache, ouais indeed. These Foot Soldiers caught us by the surprise once, and the bravo kudos to you both for this; the Pop Phenom Cultures, they are the team magnifique as well…yes, we will be VERY interested to see how this match shapes up. I have a feeling we will have the date with the sexy championships all in good time, when the mood is right and the anticipation…the beautiful, agonizing anticipation…is ready to burst.

Hayes Hanlon: Part of me reeeeally hopes it ends up being you boys, Jones and Roswell. Nothing would make me happier than to redeem our fluke loss to you by pinning you for some gold.

Kris Roswell: Fluke? We beat…

“Nice cold open. Sure would be a shame if two beloved scamps entered the fray and made the crowd go crazy.”

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Your newest tag idols, Chandler Tsonda and Jasmine Jeong. He: all black head to toe. She: tights and ring gear on, ready just in a lil’ donnybrook should make itself. Kris Roswell looks to them and shakes his head.

Kris Roswell: For Christ’s sakes…

Jasmine Jeong: (apologetic, to the six assembled wrestlers) I told him to let y’all have the spotlight for the night, but I mean if you’re gonna flash those belts around, you had to know that we’d be here.

Chandler Tsonda: Isn’t anyone going to ask us what we’re doing here?

The six assembled tag stars stare back at the Hall of Famer and the young dynamo. It’s here where Mills quietly slips away.

Jasmine Jeong: It’d be the polite thing to do and you gotta trust me, he will keep talking until you ask.

Nearby, one incredibly well-timed cricket issues his signature call. The D flips open his phone and starts scrolling.

Chandler Tsonda: FINE. We’re here, natch, to do some bits and take some tag belts. And this is a room with very little in the way of repartee, so it looks like we’re almost outta bits.

Jasmine Jeong:  (points to the tag team belts) Somebody, anybody, name what we gotta do to be first in line for whoever wins tonight.

Is the tension high? Yes. Are tempers flaring? Yes. Is there an eight-person pressure cooker about to blow in the D (the city, not the person, his inner life is known only to him).

But this entire time, one member of tonight’s challengers for the tag titles has been staring daggers through Tsonda.

He’s had enough, and he has to speak his truth.

Satan Jones: Okay, somebody’s got to leave. I don’t think PRIME has hot person insurance that covers all of us being here at the same time.

Elise Ares: They do BBY, it’s in my contract. It’s the poors that need to worry.

Satan Jones: Thank God, I was afraid I was going to have to ask Hayes to shave his mustache.

The D: You know, I’ve always wanted to grow a mustache… yall want the tag titles so bad, you’re gonna have to wait your turn. Until AFTER we finish our vacation. Cmon Elise.  Let’s let the poors fight for the scraps.

The D flicks down his shades and departs stage left. Elise rolls her eyes to the camera.

The D: (offscreen) Mills! Where the hell are you? You gotta tell us where Troy is! MILLS!!

Klein meanwhile, waves to the rest of the tandems present and quickly rushes off, just as Revival’s theme kicks into hyperdrive. Before we leave, though, Satan gets closer to Chandler.

Satan Jones: Hey, I’m sure we’re gonna fight in the coming weeks or months, but when it’s all done I wanted to talk to you about your skin routine.

Felix Mullen is already in the ring. Of course he is.

Who gives a shit about Felix Mullen, anyway? You know what we do give a shit about? Signs.

NOT ONE CARE ABOUT MEDIEVAL TIME! WE WANT SOVIET TIME!
I THINK WE MAY REGRET GIVING IVAN A SWORD.
COME FOR THE DINNER, STAY FOR THE TOURNAMENT
PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANYONE NOT NAMED IVAN STANISLAV
FREEDOM V. MATH IS JUST A SAD WAY TO DESCRIBE THE STATE OF AMERICA’S EDUCATION SYSTEM
THE CITY OF DETROIT HAS NEVER KNOWN MATH AND IT WOULD LIKE TO CONTINUE NOT KNOWING
IVAN HAS AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE IN THE MEDIEVAL TIMES CHALLENGE SINCE HE GREW UP IN THAT AGE
DO WE GET THE CHICKEN DURING MEDIEVAL TIMES? CUZ THAT’S THE BEST CHICKEN I EVER HAD, NO CAP
GIVE TAL A POLEAXE
GIVE NATHAN LAKE A HALBERD
LOOK AT KENNY’S HORSE, HIS HORSE IS AMAZING
GIVE IVAN STANISLAV A SOFT CUSHION AND A POCKET FULL OF MASHED POTATOES
GIVE STEVE LEMIEUX ARMS
PLEASE STOP ARMING THE WRESTLERS
PEOPLE FOR THE EXTERMINATION OF THAT ASSHOLE CANCER JILES
I WENT TO THE DOCTOR THE OTHER DAY BECAUSE I’VE BEEN FEELING UNDER THE WEATHER FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS AND HE DID HIS EXAM AND SIGHED AND SAID, “I’M SORRY, BUT YOU HAVE CANCER OF THE JILES.” I WAS CONCERNED AT FIRST, BUT THEN I REALIZED THE DOCTOR WAS ACTUALLY BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD IN AN OVERSIZED LABCOAT AND A BAD TOUPEE AND HIS NAME TAG SAID ‘DR. CUDDLES’ AND THAT’S WHEN I KNEW HE WASN’T A REAL DOCTOR AND HIS MEDICAL ADVICE WAS FLIMSY AT BEST.
AND I WOULD FIGHT 500 JILES AND I WOULD FIGHT 500 MORE
I’M MATH JOHNSON’S BROTHER, SOCIAL STUDIES
I’M HERE FOR THE HORSES
IN 2000, CHAD MATH WENT ALL THE WAY TO THE SUPREME COURT
JUSTICE FOR COCAINE

Okay, back to the ring with whats-his-face and Vince Howard announcing his opponent.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

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.

Nick Stuart: This is our second chance to see El Profesor, as he won against Chad Freedom last ReVival.

Richard Parker: Pretty cool that he’s going to start off 2-0.

Nick Stuart: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.

Richard Parker: Nick. It’s Felix Mullen.

DING DING!

The two men tie up in the middle of the ring and El Profesor immediately takes the advantage, rolling through with Felix’s arm and wrenching on it, going for a quick submission. For a second it looks like he might actually get it; Felix’s pain is clear on his face, and he’s a good bit away from the ropes. His only saving grace is that El Profesor decides to inflict pain in other ways.

Nick Stuart: El Profesor rolling off of Felix, running to the ropes…baseball slide to the face!

Richard Parker: How’s that for a microaggression, podcast boy?

Felix rolls over onto his back, clutching his face. El Profesor yanks him to his feet, then twists his arm behind his back and sends a kick to his ribs. Felix bounces towards the ropes, and El Profesor lifts him up into a floatover suplex, then goes for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Felix kicks out, and it’s no surprise that the newcomer has taken over. From Puerto Rico, El Profesor earned his nickname for his proficiency in technical wrestling, and he’s putting that on display so far.

Richard Parker: His student is Felix Mullen, and the course is Pain 101!

Nick Stuart: Felix has been taking that class since he signed with PRIME.

Felix scrambles to his feet and tries to escape the onslaught, which lands him in the corner. El Profesor bounds towards him with great agility, then grabs his hand and tosses him into the corner. He rushes after and splashes him in the corner, then whips him back to the other side. Felix gets cute, hopping out of the ring before El Profesor can splash him. Felix walks on the outside for a moment, trying to get his bearings.

El Profesor refuses to let that happen.

Nick Stuart: Oh my, he’s taking flight!

El Profesor lands a plancha that takes Felix out. He may have hit his head against the steel steps, because he rolls over grabbing his head. El Profesor lifts him up and decides if he didn’t hit his head before, it’s a perfect time to do so now.

CLANG!!

Richard Parker: Ouch!

Nick Stuart: Felix Mullen just ate steel!

El Profesor grabs Felix, but Felix instinctively kicks at El Profesor to ward him off. Quick as a cat, El Profesor grabs the leg, then moves his body, making Felix hop like a flamingo for a few seconds.

Richard Parker: This isn’t good if you like idiots. Which means it should be good for everybody!

El Profesor does a leg screw, twisting Felix’s leg and tossing him right into the steel steps.

CLANG!!

Ashley Barlow is watching this carnage with concern, as if she wants to do something to stop it. After a few moments she realizes she has the power to do just that, and she starts her ten count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

El Profesor spares a look her way, then figures he has just enough time to do one more steel steps move. He lifts Felix, slams his head one more time, then rolls Felix under the ropes.

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if El Profesor lost this match because he was leisurely getting into the ring after beating the crap out of Felix Mullen? He thinks so too, and he finally rolls under as well.

Felix, amazingly, has gotten to his feet, and he sees his opportunity. He stomps at El Profesor’s head, momentarily stopping him.

Richard Parker: Did podcast boy get some offense in?

Nick Stuart: It appears he did, Richard.

El Profesor raises his hands to protect his head, but Felix anticipates this amazingly and switches to his back, stomping him a few times until El Profesor momentarily stops fighting. Felix jumps up and down, raising his arms and shouting “I’M DOING IT!” The fans boo because he sucks and is obnoxious.

Nick Stuart: Do you think Felix may be celebrating too early?

Richard Parker: Celebrating what?

El Profesor gets to his feet, given time by Felix’s jubilant display. Felix eventually turns around to see his opponent not flat on the ground, but standing right in front of him.

Nick Stuart: Whatever he was celebrating, it might be over now!

Felix swings a punch at El Profesor, who ducks and grabs his arm, then his other arm, and with an impressive show of strength lifts Felix up and locks his arms behind him.

Nick Stuart: He calls this the Final Test, if he hits it…

WHAMMM!!!

Richard Parker: Felix failed!

Mr. Congeniality crumples onto the mat, and El Profesor rolls him up.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match…EL! PROOOOOFESSSSSOOOOOORRRRRRR!

Nick Stuart: Well, that was certainly an impressive showing from El Profesor.

Richard Parker: You know me, Nick. Usually I’d downplay the new guy’s accomplishments, say he only beat a pudgy nobody, and that we shouldn’t take him seriously.

Nick Stuart: And is today different?

Richard Parker: It is not. Let’s see him face some real competition!

And now it’s time for the news.

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…The M̴̖̥͉̞̀̈͑̕ì̷̛̱͓n̵͉͕͋̀̑ǐ̶͕͋s̴̘̦͓̔̄͗́t̴̘̣̖͑̑̍̀e̸̫̘͠r̴͉̳̺̻̿ ̶̛̗͙̈ͅPresents…

…THE NEWS…

—

…Previously On…

Max sits half crumpled in a chair, hidden away in his locker room. He stares at a mirror where his reflection stares back at him with a glowing red eye.

Max Kael: … So what did you see in him?

The red eye glitters in the mirror.

The Minister: The same thing I see in you.

Max Kael: Ouch, Jesus. Uncalled for a bit, no?

The shadow shifts, head canting to the side.

The Minister: Oh? His little obsession with Vickie Hall is just as pathetic and sad as your fantasy with Cecilworth Farthington.

Max looks aghast, hand pressed against his chest in alarm.

Max Kael: What I have with Cecilworth is charming and lovely! It’s nothing like what that cuck has with Vickie Hall.

The Minister: You’re lying to yourself. Just like you always do. It’s why I approved of JCH joining our little NEWS TEAM.

A smile stretches across the Minister’s face as he leans forward looking like a wolf spying a wounded rabbit.

The Minister: … care to make a wager?

Kael stares at the dark reflection with an incredulous expression.

—

…THE NEWS…

…begins…

…NOW…

BEEBEEBIBBLITY BEEEEAWAWAAAOOWOWOWOWWWWWOOOOW!

BLEEEEP BWAAAAAOM!

THE NEWS is back and in a totally modern new stage! It’s the open news room format with “reporters” and staff running around in the background the “NEWS PIT”. It’s uncertain if they’re actually doing anything but it looks real busy.

At the center of the stage is a NEWS PODIUM behind which stands a smug looking Max Kael, one green eye glittering beneath the stage lights, his right covered by an eyepatch. Behind him a large display screen flashes the NEWS TEAM logo.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME! It is I, lead anchor of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, Maximilian Wilhelm Kael. It’s been a minute, what since that KNAVE, Nate Colton and his family of psychopaths burnt down the old stage, but we’re BACK and stronger than ever!

He gestures to the stage where all the people in the NEWS PIT give Max a big cheer. It’s not exactly a strong cheer, it’s not exactly the Fabby of cheers either.

Max Kael: And of course we’ve added a new member to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM! Johnathan-Christopher Hall, the newest SPORTS correspondent… heh-heh. Let’s check in with him, shall we?!

The feed cuts to the “old stage”. It’s broken down, dark and burnt out with holes in the ceiling where light pokes through. Somewhere in the refuse is the SPORTS Nook, the only bit that hasn’t been touched by fire and death.

In this darkness is JCH.

…But Hall looks kinda normal. Unphased. Relaxed. This is the new Jonathan-Christopher fans have recently seen backstage and, most importantly, inside the ring two weeks ago winning his comeback match. Albeit, just barely.

Hall has a baby blue suit on – jacket and pants. He has a white dress shirt underneath and a black and red New Orleans Pelicans tie. The tie doesn’t really go with the suit but this is WON ACTION NEWS and Max Kael at the helm. Who said he cared about fashion.

Needless to say, Jonathan-Christopher stands there, papers in hand.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In the world of sports… the World Cup. Spain 1, Argentina 0, Belgium 4, USA 1, Canada 6, Qatar 0, England 1, Scotland 2, Russia 0.

JCH shuffles through his papers.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In baseball… Astros 4, Blue Jays 0, Red Sox 3, Yankees 5, Phillies 6, Mets 2, Tigers 1.

Hall looks up from his papers with a smile on his face. He glances over to Max.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You said Nate Colton burned this place down? I know him. Nice guy. Didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

And then back to the scores in front of him.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In the Canadian Football League… Argonauts 23, Tiger-Cats 24, Elks 16, Lions with only two rogues all season!

Shuffle more papers. Anchor-like smile on his face.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And finally in the world of wrestling… PRIME from two weeks ago. El Professor, Math Johnson, Fuck Your Tag Team, the Foot Soldiers and me, JCH.

The context? Guess it’s for the viewer to figure out. Anyway, he shuffles papers. Smiles. Acknowledges Max.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Well, Max. That’s all for me here in the wide world of sports! It’s a pleasure to be a part of the team, I’ve always wanted to work with you! I’m looking forward to building a solid NEW foundation in PRIME and I think this is the perfect start!

Cheesy, over-the-top thumbs up. First directed to Max and then directed at the hard camera. JCH is totally peachy. Max, on the other hand, looks a little dumbfounded.

Max Kael: Well aren’t you a cheerful fopdoolin’ snollygoster. I’m pretty sure that the Old Stage is haunted by the ghosts of the stage hands that were killed during the Colton Fire of ‘26 and also there are unverified reports that I may have drummed a box of venomous snakes in there. Thanks, we’ll be back to SPORTS with you again on ReVival 92! Buh-Bye!

Before JCH can respond the feed cuts as the attention is focused back on Max. He chuckles to himself softly.

Max Kael: Tiger-cats? And Lions? Man, SPORTS sure is a hoot. I can see why Cecilworth likes it.

Max bats his green eye for a second before awkwardly clearing his throat.

Max Kael: I would like to take a moment to address the retirement/death of Bryan Dawkins. I know it’s only been a few short weeks but I am already missing antagonizing him and the lovely Kai. Why, it just feels like last Wednesday when I picked her up at that airport… sigh.

Letting out a wistful sigh, Max leans on his NEWS PODIUM, lost in the past for a moment.

Max Kael: The world may grace you with a few more scars, Bryan Dawkins… but we both know, the ones I left will always be your favorite… heh-heh.

He winks, or perhaps just blinks, it’s hard to tell when he’s wearing an eyepatch.

Max Kael: And that brings us to my opponent for tonight. Listen, and listen well, Danny Christie! You won’t be facing Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, you see I’m a coward and I don’t care to fight bareknuckle boxing champions. It’s just not my lunch, sorry. But don’t worry! I’ve already got my replacement lined up for you.

Placing his hand on his heart, he lifts his other toward heaven.

Max Kael: God’s honor, you won’t be disappointed.

Pulling his eyepatch from his left eye to his right, the weird green is replaced with a burning red eye.

The Minister: … unlike our less courageous partner, we relish the opportunity to imbibe in that most delicious of whimsies… violence…

The word seethes from the Minister’s lips like great blobs of molten lava.

The Minister: So tape up those hands. Make sure your laces are tied up tight. Sharpen your teeth and get ready to rip our throat out because believe this… we won’t hesitate to do the same to you…

The stage fades into darkness save for that ominous red sphere burning for inside Max’s socket.

And then the one red orb becomes two as they dance excitedly together before darkness steals the stage completely.

Chad Freedom cheerfully walks down a concrete hallway backstage at Little Caesars Arena. He’s thoroughly decked out in patriotic garb, including the sunglasses that he continues to wear inside and a jacket with a massive bald eagle spreading its wings across the back panel.

Immediately behind Freedom is a man never before seen on PRIME television. He’s tall, lean, and clad in his own pair of star-spangled shades.  An obnoxious nametag on his chest simply reads: MANAGER. The Manager keeps his head on a swivel.

A seasoned PRIME wrestler approaches from the opposite direction. Freedom waves as they cross paths.

Chad Freedom: Hi! I’m Chad Freedom!

The wrestler keeps walking, AirPods firmly in place, completely oblivious. Freedom visibly slumps.

Chad Freedom: … I don’t think they heard me.

Manager: They didn’t.

Chad Freedom: Think I should run after them?

Manager: Chad, it’s not a good idea for you to introduce yourself to everyone you see. In fact, I think it’s best if we sequester you in your locker room until your match. We don’t want to run into any—

Freedom stops when he comes to a locker room door that’s been left open. He doesn’t notice the placard that reads:

THE RED ARMY.

Chad leans through the doorway. Inside, a very, very large man hunches over a table covered with miniature knights, a model castle, and a miniature Soviet T-34 tank.

Chad Freedom: Here’s someone!

The Manager sees the door placard, and his face drains of color.

Manager: Chad, do not –

Too late. The rookie steps into The Red Army’s locker room and taps Ivan Stanislav on the back.

Ivan doesn’t move immediately, other than snapping a miniature knight in half.

He slowly turns and rises to his full height, looming more than a foot over Chad. His black, red, and yellow stand in stark contrast to the red, white, and blue of Freedom. The old Russian’s face twists into an even deeper grimace.

Ivan Stanislav: You… are what?

Chad Freedom: Hi, I’m Chad Freedom!

Ivan stares down at him. His eyes travel across the stars, stripes, and sunglasses before settling on the hand that touched his back.

Ivan Stanislav: Freedom is not a surname.

Chad Freedom: It is now.

The Manager clears his throat – loudly – before stepping into the locker room with both palms raised.

Manager: Mr. Stanislav…

Ivan Stanislav: Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.

Manager (in surprisingly good Russian): Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. My apologies; my client is new to PRIME and we’ve clearly entered the wrong room. We’ll be leaving now.

He reaches for Freedom’s shoulder, but Chad slips away and looks past Ivan at the model castle.

Chad Freedom: What are you doing with this?

Ivan’s expression hardens even more.

Ivan Stanislav: This is Survivor preparation.

Freedom circles to the diorama to get a closer look. He helps himself to the Soviet tank and examines it, impressed.

Manager: Chad, put it down.

Freedom turns the tank over in his hand and moves the treads with his index finger.

Manager: Put. It. Down.

His client reluctantly obliges. As he’s returning it to the table, Freedom accidentally presses a small button on the back of the tank. A BB shoots from the muzzle and topples part of the Russian Bear’s carefully constructed castle. The Manager gasps.

Chad Freedom: Whoops!

All three men stare at the crippled castle. After a tense moment, another corner tower collapses. Freedom points to the model tank.

Chad Freedom: Well, at least you know it works!

Stanislav’s face takes on a shade of red that matches his suspenders. The Manager tries desperately to extract his client from the situation.

Manager (sternly): Chad, your match is next. Perhaps we should make our way to the ring.

The PRIME rookie looks up from the toy knight he is now fiddling with.

Chad Freedom: Oh! My match!

Freedom drops the knight back onto the tabletop next to the damaged castle.

Chad Freedom: Say, Starsky and Hutchison Stanislav, you know a thing or two about wrestling. Can you give me any advice about facing Math Johnson? I really need to win this one.

Ivan turns his head slowly to look at the wreckage of his perfectly planned Survivor preparation. Then, he looks back at Chad. He snorts once.

Ivan Stanislav: “A thing or two?”

He grips his suspenders and speaks as if gravel is pouring from his mouth.

Ivan Stanislav: I am two-time Universal Champion. Current Intense Champion. Top member of PRIME Hall-of-Fame. I have lifetime contract in PRIME. I am considered locker room leader. Not to mention…

Stanislav rattles off several more accolades. He doesn’t really seem to care if anyone is listening. He’s perfectly content to listen to himself. Chad Freedom nods intently while the Manager resists the urge to look at his watch. About two minutes later…

Ivan Stanislav: …yes, I think I know thing or two about wrestling.

There’s an awkward silence. Ivan then continues.

Ivan Stanislav: As for Math Johnson, yes, but it is guarded secret. You must swear not to tell anyone.

Freedom’s eyes widen with excitement. He steps closer to Ivan and nearly disappears in Stanislav’s considerable shadow.

Chad Freedom: Trust me, Ivan. I know how to keep a secret.

Freedom glances back and winks at the Manager, who feels momentarily dizzy as his blood pressure spikes.

Ivan bends down until his face is level with Chad’s. His voice drops into a conspiratorial growl.

Ivan Stanislav: Secret to defeating Math Johnson is very simple.

Freedom leans closer, hanging on every word.

Ivan Stanislav: You must be alive when you reach ring.

Freedom absorbs this profound wisdom. Ivan points one enormous finger toward the hallway.

Ivan Stanislav: And if you do not get the fuck out of my locker room right now, Math Johnson will be wrestling what remains of your red, white, and blue carcass after I throw you through that wall.

The PRIME rookie opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by his manager assertively pushing his client – “escorting” him – out of the Red Army’s locker room. Freedom doesn’t get a word out until he’s safely back in the hallway.

Chad Freedom: We must’ve caught him at a bad time. I hope his day gets better.

The Manager hustles his client down the hallway.

Chad Freedom: Do you think he’ll mentor me?

The Manager says nothing.

Chad Freedom: I’ll take that as a “maybe.”

The duo continues toward the Argyle position and away from Ivan Stanislav. The Russian Bear, with practiced care, resets the castle and places the little stone pieces back together. He stares at the damaged castle.

A tiny stone dislodges.

Then another.

Finally, the entire castle collapses onto the Soviet tank. He growls.

Ivan Stanislav: Дерьмо!

We head elsewhere.

An once unfamiliar song that is now kind of familiar hits the PA system. 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 toward the ring. Toward the Detroit crowd. He is disgusted by them., A thousand yard stare if ever there is one.

Vince Howard: This match is set for one fall and has a thirty minute time limit…introducing first… from Princeton, New Jersey! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and eight pounds… THE MATHLETE! MAAAAAAAATTTHHHHH JOOOOOOOHNSOOOOOONNNN!!!

Even though they barely know him, the fans boo him.

The winner of Daytona Diamond’s gift 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.

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.

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

Following him behind him is a gentleman who looks like he doesn’t belong here. 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.

Look, nobody wants to be here, dealing with this. Dealing with this…FUCKER. This disgusting piece of FUCKING SHIT FUCK HIM FUCK HIM FUCK HIM!

You think we’re talking about Chad Freedom?

No.

We’re talking about The Dumb Face Math Bitch.

Math Johnson.

This abacus fucking mutant. With his stupid glasses on his stupid fucking face. Detroit does not like math. Nobody likes math. Math is there to make people feel bad. Feel less than. Feel imprisoned.

DING DING

Which is why Little Caesars Arena goes crazy like you do for crazy bread (because you can’t deny that shit is the boom dot com, this is a reference that works well in the year 2026 the writer of this isn’t forty one years old he knows what is hip and current with The Youths) when he rushes in upon the bell ringing and throws both his feet into the chest of Math Johnson with a dropkick that sends this daffy doofus bitch face into the corner turnbuckles with heavy velocity, making his poindexter with some abs looking ass start screaming bloody murder because this is an affront to him and unacceptable to him because how dare someone hit a wrestling move on him in a wrestling match.

Well get your graphing calculator out, you stupid bastard, you fucking shit breath, you absolute disease on everything that is good and just in the world, because Chad MOTHER FUCKING Freedom isn’t about to let your ass go, he’s going to divide that shit by zero, and by divide it by zero, I mean he’s going to grab hold of Math Johnson and swing him around and plant him into the canvas with an AMERICAN leg sweep…

Ivan is somewhere at the renfaire, seething…

Get your Hot n’ Ready ass kicking here in the Pizza Pizza Arena, bitch boy. Chad Freedom is stars and stripes and an elbow drop, and then another elbow drop, and then ANOTHER elbow drop–

Manager is getting caught up in the action. He has never been to a professional wrestling event, which is kind of interesting, because being a manager usually means you have an understanding of what you are doing and why you are here, but hey, this is Detroit, this is a vibe, and what better experience is there than having an Extra Most Bestest time watching your charge, Chad Freedom, doing work, climbing up to the second rope and launching himself outward with diving lariat.

LIBERTY LARIAT!

Unfortunately for him, The ASS FACE ASS HOLE BULLSHIT MAN Math Johnson literally dives out of the way by jumping aside from the slightly bulkier Freedom. He then starts taunting him, doing pelvic thrusts and pointing to his big brain in his big head because that’s what a jackass would do, and as Freedom starts to try and get up from the canvas, Johnson, a great last name for this man because what a fucking dick he is, snatches him with a back waistlock and goes to plant him with a german suplex–

Only for Chad Freedom to block it and roll on through with a pin!

ONE

TWO

NO!

You like that counting…MATH JOHNSON?! YOU BETTER! BECAUSE THOSE ARE NUMBERS AGAINST YOU! AND THREE IS COMING! THREE IS COMING! God I hate Math Johnson. I hate Math Johnson almost as much as Math Johnson hated that Chad Freedom did what he did and blocked him from suplexing. Yeah, asshole, you deserve this. Manager thinks so too. You know how I know this? Because he is smacking the ring apron and going pretty apoplectic about the whole thing. Are we sure this is his first time at a wrestling show? Seems kind of weird…

But then again, Chad Freedom has a different kind of vibe. Not a pizza vibe. Like…maybe he shouldn’t be here, because things and stuff happened and he witnessed too much, and now he’s in the public eye, and good lord Math Johnson is not happy and he gives Freedom a back rake–

Because only assholes give people back rakes–

And Math Johnson is an ASSHOLE…

Do gross and disgusting. With those stupid glasses which are still on his stupid face. Lord, we need the power of America to knock them off. Yes. Do this for America, Chad. Do this for the love of pizza and the Detroit Tigers and math sucking ass, because it sucks ass, nobody likes math, the only people who like math are Hell People, and the man you are in the ring with is an Hell People…

Irish whip into the corner. Freedom follows through, driving his forearm into the face of Math Johnson. And upon landing, he jumps to the second turnbuckle and starts smashing him in the face with rights in the corner.

THE BILL OF RIGHTS!

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

HA HA HA MATH! HOW DOES IT FEEL FOR YOUR BELOVED MATH TO ABANDON YOU IN YOUR TIME OF NEED?! TO BE BETRAYED?! BECAUSE MATH SUCKS! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK AND ARE A SUCK–

Manager nearly jumps onto the ring apron.

Freedom collapses to the canvas.

Math Johnson has a greedy little sneaky smirk on his face.

Head of Butt, to the nuts.

The glasses are still on.

Elvis Nixon is none too pleased, admonishing Johnson, telling him he gets only one.

Do you think Math Johnson registers this? Do you think he says “thank you for this wonderful gift”? No. He just shakes his head and scoffs like the piece of fucking goddamn disgusting dog shit that he is. Man, fuck this guy. He probably smells like dusty books and bad body odor. Like, seriously, Math?

What’s your problem?

Freedom tries to get up, grabbing between his legs, his head pressing against the bottom turnbuckle–

SINE’D and SEALED!

DAMMIT!

GOD DAMMIT!

Cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

This displeases Math Johnson. That means it pleases the rest of the world. And Manager. And Chad Freedom, who is trying to get up–

Johnson grabs him by the wrists, ready to go a stompin–

Only to get MONKEY FLIPPED on his candy ass–

Both men rise–

Charging forward–

RED

WHITE

AND BRUISED!

Johnson is out on his feet!

Small package!

ONE

TWO

Waaaait…

Johnson reverses…

Gets a hold of the GODDAMN RED WHITE AND BLUE TIGHTS

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Many men…

Wish death upon me…

God DAMMIT!

Math Johnson is out of the ring the moment the bell goes off, crip walking and then doing the gritty while also yelling out pi. And nobody is pleased. Chad Freedom grabs at the lapels of Elvis Nixon, trying to figure out what happened, thinking he kicked out in time.

Unfortunately, he did not.

A pelvic thrust at manager.

Freedom launches and smashes into Math Johnson with a dive through the ropes!

Vince Howard: Your winner…MATH! JOHNSON!

These hands bring freedom and justice and…Math starts running away. Like running away big scared style.

Because he’s a fucking dickhead.

God.

What a garbage man.

Sorry, Chad. You’ll get em next time.

ReVival moves on.

Cut in.

Tight shot – the stark contrast of white athletic tape on gnarled and wrinkled knuckles.

A quiet sigh, booming with the exhaustion of a ritual repeated too many times.

Tired Voice: Fucking medieval times.

Slow pan out to marry the voice with the man.

Wild gray locks hang and get stuck on the salt and pepper stubble growing on the man’s face. His high cheekbones are pronounced – a bit red from his body heat.

A shine of sweat covers his shirtless, tattooed body.

There’s not a visible inch of skin without scars, hair, or ink.

Rob Williams: How many times have you done this, Rob? Five hundred? A thousand?

“The Legend” still sweats before every match.

The tape creaks as Williams opens and closes his hands, trying to loosen the adhesive.

Rob Williams: Barbed wire, glass, fire, explosives… and now fucking medieval times. I need a cigarette.

John Gordon: I’m fresh out.

They’re alone in The Whorehouse. Them and a giant, lifesize cutout of Daytona Diamonds wearing the Universal Title he had made immediately after winning.

Rob Williams: Of course you are. Fucking christ, what a life this is. You hear that, John?

The wheelchair whines as John turns side to side.

John Gordon: I don’t hear anything, bud.

Rob Williams: It’s the hoof beats. The horses are coming to trample me, boss.

John Gordon: What in the fuck are you talking about?

Rob shakes his head side to side like he’s trying to get water out of his ears.

A smirk crosses his face.

Rob Williams: Oh, nothing. I think I may still be a little off from our day at Lake Lanier. Say, John, what do you get for winning this little Survivor shindig?

John Gordon: A shot at the Universal Title.

A taped hand scratches Rob’s gruff beard. Nails on chalkboard.

He nods up and down slowly – his suspicions confirmed.

Rob Williams: A shot at the Universal Title. And who has the Universal Title?

John Gordon: Rob, you know who has the strap.

Rob slides his hand across the side of his head, tucking his hair behind one ear. A cigarette is tucked behind the ear.

Rob Williams: Shit, look at that.

He pulls the cigarette and bites it between his teeth in an awful smile.

Rob Williams: I’m betting you don’t have a light, do you?

John Gordon: Not handy, bud.

Rob grimaces and sucks his teeth.

Digging through his pockets he finds a strike anywhere match. A loud pop emits from the matchhead as Rob strikes it across the heel of his cowboy boot.

Rob Williams: I think hell might be having a cigarette and no light. A man has to take care of himself, huh, John? Now, tell me, *dragging from the cigarette* who holds the Universal Title, John?

John Gordon: Daytona does, Rob.

Rob Williams: That’s right! Daytona Diamonds – our fearless leader. Now, I been thinking a lot – I know, I know…

Rob taps his temple with a smile.

Rob Williams: Spending time behind enemy lines, right?

John chuckles nervously.

Rob Williams: But I been thinking a lot about that day and I gotta say, John, I think I was fucked up.

John Gordon: I can’t argue with that, bud.

Rob Williams: Now, see, John – the thing is I didn’t take a fucking thing. I was sober as a judge up until that little audition tape excursion. All of the sudden I’m setting shit on fire and back in the trenches. Now, John, of all the people there – who might have the fucking audacity to railroad my sobriety? Hm?

Not wanting to touch this one with a ten foot pole, John just shakes his head.

Rob Williams: Yeah, I didn’t really want to look at it, either. But I’m sick of being a victim, John. See, I brought this shit on myself. That’s how it goes, though, ain’t it? Sometimes we know shit ain’t right, but our Captain says full steam ahead. So we ignore all the fucking red flags cause we’re comfortable with the status quo. Then we hit a fucking iceberg that tears the hull in two. .

One last drag and Rob drops the cigarette on the floor in front of the Daytona Diamonds cutout, snuffing it out with his snakeskin boots as embers fly in the air.

Rob Williams: I ain’t going down with the fucking ship.

He stares at the cocky smirk on the Daytona cut out..

Rob Williams: Now who could’ve done some shit like that, John? Hmmm. What a fucking mystery.

Fade to black.

Backstage, and there’s little preamble.  The two members of Them Bastard Roughnecks–large and much larger–are standing confidently, if a bit awkwardly.  Then again, they’ve never been in this position.  Finally, with a big intake of breath ( and a glance offscreen to make sure it’s his time to go ), Hiram cracks his knuckles and digs in with his grumbling ram’s bleat of a boombox.

High Cotton: What ya think you’re seein’ when you look at us?

He takes a moment, but doesn’t give it too long.

High Cotton: I mean it.  Look, every person eyeballing these two ugly mugs ain’t a newboy, right?  Alla y’all been here before.  From who we’re facin’ to the crew on the other side’a that camera to the audience both here and at home.  Couple of young bucks.  Fresh faced.  Fulla piss and vinegar and ready to show th’ world they mean business.  We all seen that.  We know how it goes.

Goldie: Too much jawin’, too much huffin’ they own ass, not enough blood gettin’ spilt.

Booth crosses his arms, and the hosscat looks at his partner and nods.

High Cotton: That’s the dang roadmap, ain’t it?  Go out ring a few bells til we ring the wrong one and we don’t like who answers.  An’ trust me, there’s people here who even told us “don’t push it, don;t overpromise and underdeliver”.  They mean well.  They’re just tryin’ to help us out because we’ve never been on a stage this big.  An’ that means a lot to us both, it does.  Goldie, how much that mean to us?

Goldie: My whole-ass heart about t’shit itself, I feel so loved.

High Cotton: Everyone’s been so great, an’ that’s no bullshit, neither.  Even the old-timers here, the folks been around for a while–our targets, if I’m being honest–are takin’ time to make PRIME feel like home.  From the tippy top down to the merch folk.  But as much as that all warms the heart…if yer gonna step up to us.  If yer gonna come up an’ give us some damnfool advice talkin’ bout “watch who you call out” or whatever the fuck?

At this, he doesn’t verbally prompt the mean-mugging Goldie Booth.  He just slaps him on the  shoulder and walks out of frame.  The smaller man smooths back his hair, then smooths down his handlebar mustache.

Then he grabs his dick and flips the bird with the authoritative bang of a shotgun.

Goldie: Fuck.  That.  Shit.

He spats.

Goldie: Y’all ain’t dealing with a coupla good ole boys who are just happy t’be here.   We done told ‘em when they gave us th’ papers, told ‘em when we signed ‘em, and told ‘em when we got here tonight.  We aim t’fuckin’ misbehave.  An’ we aim to crack a few skulls in th’ process.  An’ then we aim for them belts.  An’ then we aim to keep em for a long-assed while.  Some’a these folk don’t want ya t’know this, but they don’t need this shit.  This just…somethin’ to fuckin’ do.  Ain’t that sorta piss you off like it does me?  I’m just th’ most recent in a long-assed line of fuckups.  This my chance.  Our chance.  An’ some’a these clowns are just here to fuck around?

The perception of insult is enough to make him chew his lip and pace.  Hiram steps in front of him, arms akimbo. 

High Cotton:  Yeah, this is one of them cliches.  Cliches are cliches for a reason.

Booth steps in front of him, getting closer to the camera, double fingers to indicate his eyes.

Goldie: Watch y’selfs.

High Cotton: They ain’t call us ‘Bastards’ for nothin’.

Goldie: Concrete to leather, boys.

High Cotton: Concrete to fuckin’ leather.

With a grin, these two young bucks, both plumb full of salt, stomp their way out of the frame.

And possibly to immortality.

The fans’ ear drums are assaulted by a heavy, dirty guitar reminiscent of Dimebag Darrel.

No lights, no fancy sparklers.

Just a beast roaring over the thick bassline and heavy drum beat of “The Javelin”By Fugitive.

That’s all Hiram “High Cotton” McClellan and Goldie Booth need to let PRIME know they’re here to fuck. They smell like pipe smoke, leaded gasoline, hay, and ass whooping. The fans aren’t quite sure of them yet, but the boys’ got something, that’s for sure.

A few hands hang out in the aisle and both members of TBR aren’t sure what to do with them – Booth actually shaking one of the hands.

Welcome to the fucking show, boys.

As the rookie team climbs into the ring, the arena grows silent.

Through the silence comes the most iconic synth riff of all time. Instantly EVERYONE knows what the fuck is coming next, but they’re still not prepared.

Then the queen lets out the battlecry to drunk bachelorettes and newly divorced wine moms everywhere:

Let’s go girls

The guitar rips through the air.

Come on

Richard Parker: I don’t get paid enough for this.

Todrick and Miguel appear at the top of the entrance ramp, dancing real sexy like.

I’m goin’ out tonight,

I’m feelin’ alright

Gonna let it all hang out

Wanna make some noise 

Really raise my voice

Yeah, I wanna scream and shout.

Nick Stuart: Please do not let it all hang out.

But they do.

They sure fucking do.

Clothing flies off and into poor schmucks who spent their nut on front row seat’s tickets. Someone hurls from the stench only being a thrall fed only sketti can generate.

But Toddrick and Miguel don’t care.

Tonight they’re free.

Ah, no inhibitions

Make no conditions

Get alittle outta line 

I ain’t gonna act

Politically correct

Finally The Lasagna Boys have made it to the ring.

The best thing about being a woman

Is the prerogative to have a little fun and…

And Hiram decides he’s had enough of this shit.

He wraps his hands, thick and gnarled from throwing hay bales or whatever the fuck it is they do, around each Lasagna Boys’ throat for a devastating double chokeslam that sends both the Lasagna Boys bouncing off the mat.

Ding Ding

Jimmy Turnbull thanks little baby jesus his prayers have been answered and calls for the bell.

And immediately Them Roughneck Bastards are on The Lasagna Boys like stink on shit. Hiram continues his assault on Miguel while Goldie begins reigning down fists on Toddrick. Maybe it’s their dumb names (Toddrick?), their silly team names, them holding up a man who is built like a ken doll downstairs – who knows? Either way, TBR has some good, old fashioned hate for The Lasagna Boys.

Together Them Bastard Roughnecks hoist Miguel high in the air and, with a running start, send him flying into the first row.

Richard Parker: OH MY GOD!

Nick Stuart: We can’t say that, Richard. It’s trademarked.

Richard Parker: Well, you give me an oh my god move you can’t be mad when I say oh my god!

Nick Stuart: That’s far, Richard. Back in the ring things aren’t looking any better for Toddrick. He’s gotten up, at least, but only to be met with a roundhouse right from Goldie that sends him right back into the canvas. Up again to a standing lariat from Hiram.

Richard Parker: The ol’ whack-a-mole.

You have to wonder what makes a guy like Toddrick keep doing this.

Night after night going out there just to get his shit pushed in like this and all the while the fans cheer for the violence he’s given.

But he just keeps getting up.

Maybe it’s because he has two brain cells and one of them is an echo.

Nick Stuart: Hiram puts Toddrick’s head between his legs now and lifts him up for a powerbomb while Goldie climbs to the top turnbuckle. Flying dropkick into the powerbomb.

Richard Parker: Where’s Miguel?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know. He was in the third row last I saw. I’m sure he’s not hankering to get back in there with Them Bastard Roughnecks, though.

Goldie lifts Toddrick up and sends him flying into the ropes. On the rebound, he drops to the ground, forcing Toddrick to leap over him and right into a spear from Hiram.

The boys haven’t even broken a sweat.

Miguel appears on the apron suddenly wielding a cheese grater.

Richard Parker: I feel like he brought that to the ring with him.

Nick Stuart: That would track with his personality.

Richard Parker: Not sure it’s going to do him any good here, though.

It’s fucking not.

Each of Them Bastards grabs an armfull of Miguel and they send him flying over the ropes and into the ring. The grater manages to hit a downed Toddrick right in the sack.

Richard Parker: If a cheese grater hits a Lasagna Boy in the sack and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound?

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: I’ve been experimenting with ayahuasca. You should try it sometime, Nick.

Nick Stuart: No, thanks Rich. I’m more of a cocaine man myself.

As the PRIME announcers argue the finer points of man made versus all natural drugs, Them Bastard Roughnecks kick the living shit out of Miguel in the ring.

Goldie hits a leg drop.

Imran cradles Miguel and lifts him off the ground into a sit out powerbomb.

Goldie follows this up with an elbow drop to the Lasagna Boys’ forehead.

It’s not great, but the fans are loving it. Whatever apprehension they had to these big old cornfed fuckers is gone. They cheer for each boot and punch and bodyslam.

When the dust settles it’s Miguel left alone in the ring and Toddrick cradling himself on the apron. Goldie gets a running start and drops a low dropkick to send Toddrick flying into the guardrail.

Them Bastard Roughnecks look at each other with an awful smile.

Nick Stuart: I am not sure what’s going on here, Richard, but it looks like Hiram is picking up his partner and OH MY GOD! HE JUST TOSSED HIM OUT OF THE RING ONTO TODDRICK!

Richard Parker: Oh now we can say oh my god?

Nick Stuart: Jamais deux sans trois.

Richard Parker: Sure, FLAMBERGE. Whatever you say.

Goldie gathers himself and slides back into the ring.

Just in time for Hiram to pick Miguel off the ground – he wraps his arms around Miguel’s waist and lifts him up over and backwards.

Right into the knees of Goldie.

Richard Parker: OH MY GOD!

Nick Stuart: See! I told you there would be a third.

TBR both stick their hand out towards the downed Miguel as if to say, “Oh no no, you go ahead. You go ahead, brother, and accept the first devastating win we will surely stack of many in PRIME.”

Finally Hiram “High Cotton” McClellan puts a boot on the chest of Miguel.

And so does Goldie Booth.

Johnny Turnbull drops for the count.

ONE 

TWO 

THREE!

DING DING DING

Nick Struart: Absolutely destructive debut here from Hiram McClellan and Goldie Booth. Them Bastard Roughnecks have definitely shown that they will be a force to be reckoned with in the PRIME Tag Team Division.

The production proceeds to the pink-walled parlor of pillars, pancakes, and prestige presented upon the public as the V-VIP Room.

Enter Simon Tillier, junior interviewer of PRIME and eager padawan of the punk rock ways. Mic in hand, he scans the chamber for signs of life.

Simon Tillier: Um… hello?

Nobody seems to be in. Nothing present but tables of catering and furniture.

Simon Tillier: Hm.

His eyes fall on one of the plush lounge chairs.

Simon Tillier: Hmmmm…

They are enticingly empty.

Simon Tillier: …you know what? Screw it. I’m sitting. I am sitting down in the Vae Victis room.

He marches over to the chair.

Simon Tillier: “Can’t sit with us?” Well “Rhymin’” Simon Tillier sits wherever he garshdarned pleases!

Tillier gets in position and slowly lowers himself until his impudent ass is mere inches from the seat.

Kerry Kuroyama: (offscreen) Not so fast, cornbread.

Simon lets out a surprised yelp and springs back to his feet.

The camera pans over to reveal Kerry Kuroyama casually standing a foot away from him.

Simon Tillier: OH! Hey, Kerry, um…

Through a needling stare, the Emerald Apex smirks down at the junior reporter. He appears loose, and ready for combat. His hands casually grip either end of a white towel draped over his neck.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon…

Simon Tillier: I, um… I wasn’t, uhh…

Kerry Kuroyama: Just ask the questions, before I lose patience and choose to suplex you through the wall.

Simon Tillier: Right, yeah, anyway… HEY-HEY, Kerry! What’s up? Big match later tonight, huh? How we feelin’ about that, buddy? Must be a relief to get away from all the Survivor craziness, right?

Kerry kurry-ously cocks his head to the side. Immediately realizing his faux pas, Simon bares his teeth into a forced smile to break the tension.

Simon Tillier: Oof… too soon?

The Emerald Apex snorts.

Kerry Kuroyama: I won’t act like it doesn’t sting somewhat to be a first round elimination. But it’s an easy feeling to get over, Simon. You know why?

Simon Tillier: Do tell.

Kerry Kuroyama: Because you’re right, it is a relief to get away from that. And getting back into the ring is a welcome feeling. It’s where I’m myself. It’s where I do my best work. It’s where I belong.

Simon Tillier: Sounds pretty serious, if you ask me.

Kerry Kuroyama: Serious as Tiberius, skippy.

Simon Tillier: …the second Roman Emperor?

Kerry Kuroyama: The point is, Simon, the disappointment of Survivor is well behind me now. I take comfort knowing Scott and Henry are still in it, and I have no doubt that by the end of the year, at Colossus, one of them will be holding that Universal Title over their head in triumph. As for me?

He cranks his neck.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’m just focused on getting back on track before the year is through. Back to that good ol’ suplex-n-stretch-ya-til-ya-shit-yer-pants groove. Because if I’m going to earn my own shot at that big belt, I’d rather do it the tried and true way: on the mat.

Simon Tillier: And I suppose that brings us to right now, with the previously mentioned triple threat contest against another former Five Star Champion, Nate Colton, and fellow Survivor eliminatee, Steve Lemieux.

Kerry nods.

Kerry Kuroyama: A fight I’m looking forward to. Nate Colton is one of the best natural talents I’ve had the honor to go toe-to-toe with between those ropes. When we tangle, it’s more than just a fight. More than just a combat sport. It’s a dance.

Simon Tillier: And Steve Lemieux?

Kuroyama grins awkwardly. It’s clearly forced.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I hear he’s a nice guy. Really admirable, how he keeps getting up, no matter how much and how hard gets knocked down.

Simon Tillier: But I guess a triple threat match is no ordinary contest, right?

Kerry Kuroyama: For once, Simon, you’re right about something. Any match with more than one opponent requires divided attention. And that presents any number of unknown variables. Fortunately, I’ve spent the past week preparing for this very thing.

Simon Tillier: Oh, yeah? How so?

Kerry Kuroyama: Through a special exercise I arranged with my understudies at the Dojo. Honestly, it’d be easier to show than tell, which is why I passed the video on to the production team a while ago.

Simon Tillier: You did? Well then, let’s just roll the tape…

Both interviewer and interviewee glance off camera as if a monitor were waiting for them, and then we fade to previously recorded footage in another location.

The clip opens with the camera in the practice ring at Kuroyama’s wrestling school. Zack Daymon and Leo Burnett of the 2026 Flynn Cup winning team, the Rain City Ronin, stand at the ready.

For some reason, both of them are blindfolded.

Kerry Kuroyama: (offscreen) INITIATE TRAINING SEQUENCE… JADE-ELEVEN-NINER!!

Unable to see shit, Zack and Leo turn their heads in confusion.

Kerry Kuroyama: TEST ONE… BEGIN.

Without warning, Seattle’s BEAST charges into the shot, sweeps Daymon off his feet, and flings him mercilessly with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex.

Kerry Kuroyama: TEST TWO… BEGIN.

Burnett hears the impact and immediately swings in that direction, but Kerry gracefully sweeps around behind him and swiftly tiger suplexes his socks off.

Kerry Kuroyama: TEST THREE… BEGIN.

Dazed, Daymon blindly reaches for the ropes and somehow finds them. Yet the moment he pulls himself up, he’s immediately forced back down by way of the sole of Kerry’s boot impacting his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: TEST FOUR… BEGIN.

Burnett is likewise fumbling his way to his feet, until Kuroyama seizes him by the head and bulldogs him to the canvas.

Kerry Kuroyama: END EXERCISE!!

Kuroyama stands tall in the ring, assessing the writhing bodies of the visionless tag team at his feet. Then he looks to someone on the outside.

Kerry Kuroyama: How’d I do?

The camera swivels over to where Ami Troy is reclined sideways in an absurdly opulent chair.

Ami Troy: Meh…

Without even looking up from her phone, she circles the air with her finger to signal for another go-around.

Kerry Kuroyama: REPEAT TRAINING SEQUENCE JADE-ELEVEN-NINER…

The Rain City Ronin groan in unison.

Kerry Kuroyama: TEST ONE… BEGIN!

We fade back to Simon and Kerry in the VVIP Room. The former is utterly confused by what he just watched. The latter is practically beaming with pride, like he’s just solved a complicated math problem.

Simon Tillier: …hm.

Kerry Kuroyama: I know. Pretty cutting edge stuff, right?

Simon Tillier: Can I ask what was up with the, uh… the blindfolds?

Kerry Kuroyama: Ah, right… that was the brilliant suggestion of my impeccably smart and beautiful manager. See, because of the nature of this match, there’s always that strong possibility of someone creeping up on me when I’m not looking. But then Ami said, “Why don’t you just learn to wrestle without seeing?” Then she brought up the blindfolds, which was the perfect solution. I believe it gives me a real edge.

Tillier’s face scrunches up even more.

Simon Tillier: Okay, but, um… wouldn’t you be the one wearing the blindfold, then? I mean, how are you supposed to learn how to fight without seeing when you can see and they can’t?

Kerry’s face melts. The perfectly executed math equation collapses in his mind’s eye like the laws of physics at a wrestling show.

He turns to someone off camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hey, yeah, now that I think about it, why wasn’t I the blindfolded one?

The camera swivels over.

Same Merry Mischief Maker. Same lackadaisical posture of repose.

Same opulent chair, that Simon almost had the misfortune of sitting in minutes ago.

Ami Troy: (shrugs) Where’s the fun in that?

She pulls her eyes away from the phone to stare daggers at the pesky punk rock interviewer getting his nose up in their affairs.

Ami Troy: ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY METHODS, SIMON?!

Kerry bows up.

Kerry Kuroyama: YEAH, SIMON, ARE YOU QUESTIONING HER METHODS?!

Tillier rolls his eyes.

Simon Tillier: (sarcastic) Forgive the indiscretion… my ignorant mortal mind clearly does not comprehend the ways in which you wrestling superdeities work.

Kuroyama nods in agreement.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll forgive this one time, Simon. But only because I’m not really in the mood to clean the bloodstains out of the carpet tonight.

Simon Tillier: Fantastic. In that case, I’ll see myself out. Good luck later tonight, I suppose…

Rhymin’ Simon exits.

Ker-Bear stares.

ReVival moves on…

Welcome back to the locker room.

It looks a little different than two weeks ago.

For starters, there’s a partition of black curtains blocking off part of it–the part that includes the showers, specifically. It’s fine to put the “fun” in “functional,” but that doesn’t mean you can throw out the “ctional.”

In the part that we can see, there’s a mixed group of PRIME wrestlers and a few special guests. RIA Lockhart, the Alias Champion, is sitting in an easy chair. The chair can recline, but RIA chooses not to, probably so she can take advantage of the new foot massager. Of course the New World Trash are never too far away from Lockhart; Angel Quinley sits behind her and gives RIA a head massage. Digging those nails in for good, strong scritches. Aww yeah.

Angel’s partner in crime, Bex Savage, sits on a bench nearby with her pet cozied up next to her. That pet’s name is Benny Colton; the Dick Warlock has his feet in Bex’s lap while she paints his toenails.

But her mind isn’t completely on her work…or on his feet. In fact, everyone involved has at least one eye on the center of the room, where sits the main attraction: Dennis Colton, his torso covered by an apron that reads “EAT THE RICH,” manning a charcoal grill. Several beef patties turn into proper burgers under his watchful eye. Also eyeing watchfully is Bobby Neptune, who’s practically bouncing with excitement as he stands behind Denny, holding a paper plate.

Denny Colton: Have you really never had a burger, Bobby?

Bobby Neptune: I have seen attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, twice, Mr. Colton, but I have never had a true Earthling meat conglomeration.

Denny Colton: We better fix that, then. First one’s all yours.

Denny lovingly slides a burger onto a bun with all fixings and gives it to Bobby. Bobby takes a big bite. Processes. Processes. He then throws his arms around Denny and envelops the big man in a hug.

Bobby Neptune: …So beautiful…So…

Is he…crying?

Dennis pats Bobby on the back in a comforting gesture. Apparently he’s used to this.

Benny Colton: Right? I once brought a guy over for a cookout, and he reached for the ketchup before he’d even tasted it. Dumped him on the spot.

Nate Colton: You really had to do this now?

And there’s the New Diamond, the guy who asked for this little circus. He’s going through his warmup stretches on the other side of the room, but his eyes never leave the collection of meat patties sizzling on the grill’s surface.

Denny Colton: What do you mean, cousin?

Nate Colton: You know damn well what I mean. Serving up the food right before my match.

Benny Colton: You sound saltier than the burgers, bro.

Denny Colton: It took a while for the grill to warm up. Plus we had to wait for ventilation so we didn’t set off the smoke alarms.

The gathered party looks up at the ceiling, where there is indeed a large vent leading…somewhere. They might learn later that it’s being used to fill PRIME’s smoke machines. They might not.

Nate Colton: Who even put that in?

Benny Colton: Buncha guys named Dave.

Thank you, Department of Convenience.

Nate Colton: Huh.

Bobby dries his tears. The magnificent burger eaten, it’s time for space business.

Bobby Neptune: So, the last time I gave someone my tech, we ended up smashing planets over each other’s heads. I think that won’t happen again…So I brought something for you.

He runs over to his duffel and takes out a glowing orange cube about the size of a Rubik’s Cube.

Bobby Neptune: All you have to do is hold it, and it will attune to the subconscious stressor frequencies and-you know what? It’s easier if I just…

He hands the glowing cube over to Nate and presses a button. Multiple colors flash on its surface, then several laser-like lights spring forth from the top corners. They swirl around shapelessly for a minute before coalescing in the center of the room. A light field opens up from the top, and the focal point takes the shape of a border collie. It pants happily and silently barks; all full heart and empty head.

Nate Colton: Whoa…

Nate stares in wonder, and a joyous smile grows as he reaches out and touches the hologram dog…then pulls his hand back, as quickly as if he touched a hot stove.

Nate Colton: I…what? What is this?

Bobby Neptune: It’s a holocube! They use it to stop soldiers from going insane in the forever wars. I thought it’d be nice for the locker room.

Nate Colton: Wow…

He marvels at the otherworldly technological display; his eyes growing in childlike amazement. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, it’s more than he ever thought possible, it’s…

Click.

It’s…off.

Nate Colton: That’s really cool. Thanks, Bobby!

He hands it back to the Starboy, who tosses it into Angel Quinley’s waiting hands.

Angel Quinley: I want puppy back! Make the puppy come back! You can make the puppy come back and we’ll keep the puppy, yes?!

When it comes to life, it does not provide Angel with a puppy, but rather, something else entirely; a bust of RIA herself, bursting with different fluorescent hues. Does the Alias Champion fully notice? Well, rather, she’s blissing out in the throes of the foot massager.

Angel draws Lockhart’s attention by planting the cube in her hands. A new image lights up: a couch with a woman on it; Angel Quinley, to be precise. Lockhart scoffs, but a smile, bright and fond, spreads across her lips.

RIA Lockhart: Yeah… Yeah, that tracks.

RIA sends over to Bex.

Bex Savage: Works when you think about it, because, isn’t wrestling just a forever war? With others? With yourself…

Much to ponder. But then, the visage of free weights flash in quick succession. The serenity of being able to get a good lift in. Nothing beats it. She then moves it in the direction of Denny.

Dennis sees the face of an older woman; she either looks great for her 70s or rough for her 50s. There’s a cigarette pinched between her lips and a whisk in her hands.

Benny Colton: Dude! Mind the grill!

Denny Colton: Shit!

Indeed, a bit more smoke than usual was coming off those burgers. Denny lobs the cube toward his cousin, but Bex Savage shoots a hand out and intercepts the pass.

Bex Savage: Not on FreeVee, bitch! The fans gotta pay for that.

Bex tosses it to Bobby, and immediately the cube materializes a green goopy slime creature that looks like a giant loogie with eyes and razor-sharp teeth. It rearranges its organs into what looks like a smiley face, and Bobby squees.

Bobby Neptune: Gloopy! Ahh, brings me back to childhood.

Gloopy is a bit unnerving to everyone else, but Nate shakes it off quickly.

Nate Colton: That’s dope as hell, Bobby. Here and I was excited about the new foot massager.

Lockhart sits up, finally giving up possession of the foot massager. She carefully slides it over to Nate.

RIA Lockhart: As you should be. I feel like I don’t even got feet now, that’s how good it is! But yeah, that thing is pretty damn awesome. Could really center a person, ya know?

Bobby extends the cube toward Nate again, but he holds up a hand in refusal.

Nate Colton: Maybe later. I need the stress right now.

Bobby Neptune: You want stress?

Nate Colton: Keeps me sharp. Focused. Gotta let it build up and then ride that edge…that’s how you push yourself farther out there.

Denny Colton: Yeah, but don’t go crazy with it. Don’t wanna get too tight out there.

Benny Colton: Speak for–

Savage covers his mouth, making him unable to speak for himself. Probably for the best.

Nate Colton: Right. Gotta find that sweet spot, where you’re locked in on your plan, but loose enough that you can adjust if things go wrong.

Bobby Neptune: Wise words Mr. Colt-uh…Nate. 

Nate, who already has his mouth open to correct Bobby, closed it and nodded.

Nate Colton: Good man. OK, I gotta head out to Argyle. Dennis, I expect a fresh burger waiting for me when I get back.

Denny Colton: Maybe. If you win.

Nate frowns at the sudden stipulation, but shakes it off as the more positive and animated Neptune draws his attention.

Bobby Neptune: Give Kerry a right hook for me, Nate! And then maybe a hug; he’s more sensitive than he looks.

Nate Colton: Thanks, but this ain’t my first go-around with him. He’s a decent guy…but man, he’s a hardass between the bells. That’s why I gotta stay sharp.

Angel Quinley: And loose!

Nate Colton: That’s right. Sharp and loose.

Bobby grabs another burger and holds it up like a toast.

Bobby Neptune: To staying sharp and loose!

He takes a giant bite and almost cries again, it’s so good.

Everyone else joins in on the “toast” and Nate does seem pretty sharp but loose.

And hungry. Especially hungry.

The locker room party continues, but we cut elsewhere.

Fade in

Gentle Hawaiian slack-key guitar drifts over sweeping aerial footage.

The Pacific stretches endlessly beneath the morning sun. Waves roll lazily against black volcanic rock. Dense rainforest climbs impossibly green hillsides. Waterfalls disappear into mist. Fishermen launch small boats from Hilo Bay as locals begin another quiet morning.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Every place’s got a reputation.

A bustling farmers market.

Fresh ahi laid over crushed ice.

Steam rising from bowls of saimin.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Some towns’ll spend a whole lotta money makin’ sure folks know exactly what they’re ‘sposed to think.

Luxury resorts.

Tour buses.

Luaus.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): They’ll show you the beaches.

A crashing wave.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): They’ll show you the sunsets.

Orange light reflecting off the ocean.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): They’ll show you the drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em.

A bartender places a colorful cocktail on polished wood.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): And that’s just fine.

A roadside lunch wagon opens its service window.

Locals laugh over breakfast at a diner where everyone seems to know everyone else’s name.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Ain’t nothin’ wrong with pretty pictures… but every place’s got another side to it, ain’t it?

The camera leaves the shoreline, replaced by narrow neighborhood streets.

Old wooden houses beneath towering banyan trees.

A hand-painted sign advertising plate lunches.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Folks live here. They work here. They eat here.

A woman waves at the camera before disappearing into her bakery.

Someone flips spam musubi onto a serving tray.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Now, I ain’t no travel writer, but I’ve been on the road long ‘nough to understand, if you sit down with somebody long ‘nough…

Fresh coffee pours into a ceramic mug.

A rooster wanders across a parking lot like he owns the place.

Clouds drift lazily over Mauna Kea in the distance.

Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): …they’re just ‘bout bound to tell you somethin’ worth hearin’.

The music fades beneath the ambient sounds of downtown Hilo. Traffic. Birds chirping. The occasional passing conversation. Daytona Diamonds leans casually against a weathered brick wall, the Universal Championship draped proudly over one shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His white cowboy hat gleams beneath the Hawaiian sun; hands hooked confidently on his belt, he flashes the camera a trademark shit-eating grin.

Daytona Diamonds: Howdy y’all! Welcome to the very first episode of Shitfire and Supper! I’m Daytona Diamonds and, over the next little bit, we’re gonna eat some good food, meet some good folks, and hopefully not get arrested in the process.

He gestures broadly around himself.

Daytona Diamonds: Today, we’re down in Hilo, Hawaii! Now, I dunno jack shit ‘bout Hilo. Matter fact, ‘bout all I knew comin’ in was they got volcanoes. I ain’t seen one erupt yet and that’s a little disappointin’, if we’re bein’ honest, but that ain’t why we’re here.

His grin grows wider.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’see, production done went and lined me up with a guest today. They won’t tell me who it is. Just that it’s… a recently retired legend.

And wider.

Daytona Diamonds: And that means it can only be one man…

And even wider…

Daytona Diamonds: …Alan goddang Jackson!

From somewhere behind the camera, the unseen producer speaks.

Producer (Off Camera): It is not Alan Jackson.

Daytona Diamonds: Mhm. That’s exactly what I’d tell me, too.

Producer (Off Camera): No, seriously.

Daytona rolls his eyes, shaking his head and laughing to himself.

Daytona Diamonds: Riiiiiight. S’alright. I get it. Tryna preserve the surprise. C’mon, y’all! Let’s go find Mr. Chattahoochee himself!

The producer mutters something unintelligible under his breath as the camera follows Daytona around the corner, toward a small open-air cafe where a lone man waits at a table.

One table. Two chairs. Confusion and then disappointment sweeps over Daytona’s face. Bryan Dawkins smiles politely, raising a hand.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, welcome to Hawaii!

He waves to the open chair across the table. Bryan’s still sporting some battle scars the final battle with Ivan a few weeks back but certainly looks better than he did post-match. The Bryan Dawkins sitting in paradise today is a far cry from the man who put his career on the line not even a month ago.

Bryan Dawkins: Gonna be honest, Daytona. I was certain that when PRIME reached out to me about this, it was a ploy by…you know who…to keep coming after me, ya know? So I’m glad to see it’s actually you!

Dawkins chuckles to himself nervously.

Bryan Dawkins: Erm…yeah, this isn’t about him. It’s about you, champ! Congrats on the big win and sorry I couldn’t be at the party a couple weeks back. Been back on the island since right after Ultra Violence. Looked like a hell of a time!

Bryan gestures toward two hollowed out pineapples with drink umbrellas and curly straws. One, of course, is encrusted with diamonds.

Bryan Dawkins: Fancy a drink, bruh? I think you can figure out which one’s yours.

Daytona just… stands there. His smile never completely disappears, but it definitely gets smaller. He looks at Bryan. Then around the cafe. Then behind Bryan.

Daytona Diamonds: …

One more peek behind a nearby column, just to make sure.

Daytona Diamonds: …y’ain’t Alan Jackson.

There’s an awkward silence. The disappointment in Daytona’s voice is palpable. He lets out a long, defeated sigh before removing his hat and running a hand through his hair, punctuating it with another dramatic sigh before looking directly into the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: But… I reckon that’s on me for puttin’ all my eggs in the Alan Jackson basket, huh?

A shrug, an annoyed nod. The show must go on. Daytona saddles up to the table, putting on his best, slightly-less-genuine smile as he offers a firm handshake.

Daytona Diamonds: Bryan Dawkins! You no good sonuvabitch! Hah! Helluva career, pardner.

He takes the offered seat, carefully easing the Universal Championship off his shoulder and draping it across the empty chair beside him. Big Rhiney gets her own seat, y’know. His eyes drift toward the rhinestone-encrusted pineapple and a little smile creeps back onto his face.

Daytona Diamonds: How the hell are ya, Dawker? Retirement treatin’ you alright?

He pauses, reaching to pick up the pineapple and take an experimental sip followed by an audible ‘mmm’ and an approving nod.

Daytona Diamonds: Dick still swingin’ the way it oughta?

Dawkins chuckles to himself before taking a long draw from his pineapple.

Bryan Dawkins: Guess you could say that, bruh. I suppose it wouldn’t be polite to not ask how the big belt is treatin’ you? The ole Rhinestone Cowboy capturing the biggest rhinestone of them all, yeah?

Just as Dawkins finishes his sentence, a couple of stunning women emerge from the cafe, each of them carrying platters of Hawaii’s finest cuisine. Daytona immediately tips his hats to the ladies, even offering a little wink.

Bryan Dawkins: I had them put together a little spread when I heard the champ was comin’ to town. Ever had a poke bowl, Daytona?

He lifts a spoon of fresh poke in Daytona’s direction before taking the first bite.

Daytona stares down at the bowl. Bright pink cubes of ahi. Rice. Seaweed. Avocado. Enough colors to make him visibly suspicious. He pokes one cube with the spoon. It wiggles.

Daytona Diamonds: …yeah, I uh… I guess winnin’ the big’un is… uh… pretty good… uh… what the hell is that?

He looks up at Bryan and then at the camera, pointing his spoon toward the poke bowl. He scoops up a cautious bite and holds it just beneath his nose. A sniff. Another sniff.

Daytona Diamonds: Poke bowl, huh…? They put a little Pikachu in this or somethin’…?

He waits. Nobody answers. Daytona’s eyes narrow… and the spoon disappears into his mouth. As he chews, his eyebrows begin to climb up his forehead.

Daytona nods once. Twice. A third time.

Daytona Diamonds: …Dawker, far be it from me to question the cultural and societal norms of this here island…

He points at the bowl.

Daytona Diamonds: …but this tastes like bait with a college education.

Daytona gently pushes the bowl back toward Bryan with the same care one might use handling unexploded ordnance. He turns to the camera, crossing one leg over the other as he shakes his head.

Daytona Diamonds: Folks, I gave it a fair shake. Two sniffs, one bite. That’s due process where I come from.

Dawkins shrugs.

Bryan Dawkins: I get it, bruh…poke’s not for everyone. More for me, I guess!

Daytona stands, wiping his hands together before slinging Big Rhiney back over his shoulder.

Daytona Diamonds: But! We done ate. We done drank. We done disappointed one another. Which means… it’s time for the next part of this here show.

Daytona spreads his arms wide, looking skyward as though introducing the greatest spectacle mankind has ever conceived. In the background, Bryan looks just as confused as the audience must feel.

Daytona Diamonds: Ladies and gentlemen… I proudly present…

He points directly at the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: THE GRAND HAWAIIAN ADVENTURE!

Smash cut!

An unnecessarily dramatic title card slams onto the screen accompanied by thunderous orchestral music completely out of proportion with the situation. A rental Jeep bounces down a winding road through dense rainforest.

Daytona is behind the wheel wearing wraparound sunglasses far too reflective for the overcast weather, Big Rhiney in the passenger seat with her own seatbelt. Bryan rides in the backseat, one hand gripping the “oh shit” handle as Daytona enthusiastically narrates over the engine noise.

Daytona Diamonds: Now this is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Goddang volcanoes! Fuckin’ lava! The shit Elvis was too scared to sing ‘bout! Yeehaw! We’re headin’ straight into God’s barbecue pit, Dawker!

Bryan Dawkins: Uh…bruh, respectfully I’d prefer to not die in a fiery, lava based inferno just weeks into my retirement. Again, respectfully of course.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s quitter talk, Dawker! Just ‘cause you’re retired, that don’t mean you’re a goddang quitter!

He slaps the steering wheel with enough enthusiasm to make the Jeep drift ever so slightly within its lane.

Daytona Diamonds: Ain’t nobody ever wrote a history book ‘bout a fella who stayed in the gift shop! Ain’t that right?!

Bryan Dawkins: Pretty sure a lotta people who didn’t die in volcanoes wrote history books, bruh…

The Jeep rounds another bend, revealing a breathtaking panorama of hardened lava fields stretching for miles. Daytona lets out an awestruck whistle.

Daytona Diamonds: Wouldja look at that…?

Even he falls silent for a moment as the Jeep rolls into an overlook parking area. Both men climb out, Bryan thankful to have survived Daytona’s driving and Daytona slowly removing his sunglasses as he stares across the vast black landscape.

Daytona Diamonds: …shitfire.

Bryan walks beside him toward the overlook railing.

Bryan Dawkins: It really is beautiful. I think it’s one of those things where you become blind to the beauty when you spend so much time around it, ya know?

Daytona nods quietly.

For once… he’s actually listening.

Bryan Dawkins: Makes you think about the important things in life, yeah?

A long silence settles between them. The wind whistles across the lava fields, weaving through cracks in the ancient rocks. Steam rises in thin ribbons from distant vents before disappearing into the gray Hawaiian sky. Everything is still. Not a bird. Not a voice. Just two men standing at the edge of a landscape born from unimaginable violence, now resting in an almost sacred calm.

Daytona squints thoughtfully into the distance.

Daytona Diamonds: …Dawker?

Bryan Dawkins: Yeah, bruh?

Daytona Diamonds: Can I ask you somethin’ kinda personal?

Bryan Dawkins: Shoot, bruh.

Daytona Diamonds: What’s the deal with the pineapples? I been too embarrassed to ask.

Bryan Dawkins: …why would you be embarrassed?

Daytona Diamonds: Well, shit, Dawker. I always figured you was a swinger or somethin’. Y’know, a certified pussy wrangler.

Bryan Dawkins: …

Daytona Diamonds: …

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh…

Bryan rubs both hands over his face before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Bryan Dawkins: It’s… just  a fruit.

Daytona Diamonds: …

Bryan Dawkins: Just… a regular fruit.

Daytona Diamonds: Huh.

Daytona considers this revelation with complete sincerity.

Daytona Diamonds: Welp. Alright then.

As an awkward silence takes hold, Daytona’s eyes slowly drift downward. Toward the hardened lava below. Toward the rope barrier. Toward the large sign bolted into the volcanic rock.

DANGER

DO NOT CROSS BARRIER

He squints.

Daytona Diamonds: …y’think they’d notice if I stepped over that rope?

Bryan doesn’t even look at him.

Bryan Dawkins: I… uh… yeah, I’m not sure I’d do that, Daytona. They don’t take too kindly to people trespassing around here.

Daytona leans sideways, trying to see around the sign.

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout for long or nothin’. Just a second. Just a little tiptoe, y’know?

Bryan finally turns.

Bryan Dawkins: I think we’d be having two funerals after that… one for the jet ski and one for you.

Daytona nods thoughtfully…

Daytona Diamonds: Fair.

…and then the thought passes.

Daytona Diamonds: Counterpoint… Ain’t every day a man gets the opportunity to walk on the devil’s driveway.

Bryan sighs. A very long sigh.

Bryan Dawkins: Hey, bruh…

Daytona is already inching toward the rope.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m sorry about the whole Alan Jackson thing. I honestly had no idea somebody put that in your head. I’m many things…

He gestures toward himself.

Bryan Dawkins: …famous country artist isn’t one of them. My bad, bruh.

Daytona stops and looks back, softening just a little.

Daytona Diamonds: Nah. That weren’t your fault, Dawker. That weren’t your jukebox to rock, brother. I can see that now.

He smiles.

Then casually lifts one boot over the rope.

Bryan Dawkins: Daytona, bruh, I’m telling you, don’t think I’d do that if I were yo–

WHAM!

A blur of green uniform explodes into the frame as a park ranger the size of a small tank explodes into frame, absolutely obliterating an unsuspecting Daytona with a textbook football tackle.

Big Rhiney flies through the air in slow motion.

The cowboy hat spins off into the volcanic dust.

Daytona is buried beneath a pile of contorted limbs and emerging handcuffs.

And somehow, even amidst the chaos, he manages to shout…

Daytona Diamonds: I’m Daytona Diamonds and this has been Shitfire & Supper! YEEEEEHAW!

CUT TO BLACKDaytona (Off Camera): IT WAS JUST ONE BOOT!

Bryan Dawkins (Off Camera): …I told you, bruh.

“Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond kicks on and blasts across Detroit’s Little Caesars Arena as the PRIMates rise to their feet, knowing what they need to do next. PRIMEview.

HAAANNNNDDDSSSS!

Richard Parker: HANDS!

TOUCHING MEEE!

Richard Parker: ME!

TOUCHIN’ YOOOOUUUUUUU!

Richard Parker: YOU!

Nick Stuart: Quit pointing at me like that, Richard!

Unfortunately for Nick, he’s facing 20,000-to-1 odds as everyone’s voice rises to the rafters.

UUUUUUUUU!

As one of the most successful singer-songwriters of all time is just about to finish his run, out comes Danny Christie with taped fists pointed upwards.

SWEEEETTT CARROOOLLLIINNNEEE

BAH! BAH! BAH!

Christie punches the air on every beat.

GOOD TIMES NEVER FELT SO GOOD!

Richard Parker: SO GOOD!

SO GOOD!

SO GOOD!

With his arms stretched wide, the bare-knuckle king sings along with the audience on his way to the ring, brushing fingertips with every fired-up fan within reach as he marches toward the squared circle.

Vince Howard: LAAAAAAADIES and GENTLEMEN. The next match is scheduled for ONE FALL! Introducing first from Wrexham, North Wales, he is FAIR. GAME. DANNY. CHRRRRRRRISTIE!

Once at ringside, Danny takes a moment to absorb the atmosphere before climbing up onto the apron and stepping through the ropes. Inside the ring, he paces with a relaxed bounce in his step, rolling his shoulders loose and shadowboxing lightly on the canvas, fully immersed in the moment…

Until the lights in Detroit cut out with a sizzling pop! A low, angry guitar riff joins deep, unsettling breathing as “Shadow of Myself” by JTmusic. The stage lights are the first to crackle back to life though it’s as an ominous deep red. Those PRIME smoke machines are put to task at about 50% power as a miasma of grey fog roils down toward the ring.

Stirring in the mist stalks Maximillian Wilhelm Kael’s worse half, The Minister. He walks with an unsettling gait, not quite Max’s. He’s a little off kilter, like he’s forgotten how to walk in a straight line. Not drunk, more twitchy, like a spider dancing across its web toward something tasty.

Vince Howard: … he stands at six-foot-four inches and weighs in at two-hundred-sixty-nine pounds… hailing from Arkham, Massachusetts for which he is Mayor. He is the Lord of Kaelsalvania, the BLACK Heart of PRIME… he is… THE MINISTER MAAAAAAAAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAAAAAAAAAEL!

An eye patch covers his right eye while his left glows with the same malevolent crimson light as the stage he’s prowling down.

Reaching the ring, the Minister snakes his way beneath the bottom rope before snapping up to his feet immediately. Leaning against the upper rope he oils his way toward the corner with a sharp toothed grin stretched just a little wider than it seems should be possible.

Nick Stuart: I don’t like that smile, Richard.

Richard Parker: You don’t like Sweet Caroline, you don’t like people smiling, what are you, a black hole where fun goes to die?

Nick Stuart: Of course not. I just-

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Oh shit!

Somehow choosing the exact moment that referee Ashley Barlow signals for the bell, Max Kael has Danny Christie by the hair.

OHHH!

The fans in the audience instinctively lean back in their seats as Kael slams Danny Christie’s face against the turnbuckle!

Caught flat footed, Christie tries to orient himself, but not before Kael rips the padding off of the turnbuckle with seemingly inhuman force.

SLAM!

Richard Parker: We’ve got a bleeder!

Blood begins to run down Christie’s face and stain the hands of Max Kael, who has seemingly mirrored his opponent by taping them up like a bare knuckle brawler.

He goes to grab a hold of the Fair Game’s hair once again.

Nick Stuart: Reversal! Christie grabs a hold of Kael’s arm and transitions into a wristlock, pulling the Mayor of Arkham’s rotator cuff high into the air!

Richard Parker: Kael seems to be… enjoying the pain, Nick!

Not just enjoying it. The Minister is laughing and stomping his feet like he’s at Lumineers concert.

Fair Game yanks Kael’s arm once more with feeling, flipping him head over heels, but just as he lets go for a follow up maneuver, Max raises a foot and SLAMS it directly into Danny’s head!

The Welsh brawler collapses to one knee as he grabs at his head.

Nick Stuart: Kael tries to reset his shoulder, which now seems to be dangling limply at his side. I think it may be dislocated!

Richard Parker: Ugh. I’m going to be sick.

Kael slams his fist into the dislodged shoulder, popping it back into place without so much as a wince, before giving it a couple of good rotations, which then wind up into an uppercut directed at Christie’s chin!

Richard Parker: No!

Danny has recovered from the blow to the head and grabs a hold of Max’s wrist once again! He fulcrums on that weak shoulder and drives Kael toward into the corner with the exposed ringpost!

Nick Stuart: This is dangerous, Richard!

Richard Parker: I hear Danger is Danny Christie’s middle name, Nick!

Nick Stuart: D-D-C?

Richard Parker: Yeah! Just like his report card in high school!

Ashley Barlow keeps an eye on Christie’s injury as it continues to ooze blood. Fair Game wipes away the viscera from his eyes before leaping forward to land an attack on the dazed Kael!

OOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Christie ate the turnbuckle again! Kael moved at the last second there.

Richard Parker: And now he’s going in for the kill!

RAAAAW!

Nick Stuart: Not so fast, Richard!

Danny spins around, blinded by the blood in his eyes, and cleans Kael’s clock with a spinning backfist!

Max grabs at his jaw, Christie’s blood smeared across his chin, and then looks up just in time to see his opponent slide his arms underneath his armpits.

Nick Stuart: HEADBUTT! HEADBUTT! HEADBUTT!

That’s not a glitch in the Matrix; Christie is slamming his bloodied skull over and over into the eyepatch-covered visage of Max Kael!

Richard Parker: BUTTHEAD! BUTTHEAD! BUTTHEAD!

A dizzied Max tries to break free from the barrage but instead gets lifted by his pits, thrown over Danny’s head, and then DROPPED AS CHRISTIE STUMBLES FORWARD!

Nick Stuart: JESUS! Kael took all of that on the neck!

Richard Parker: Christie shouldn’t even be out here! Where are the EMTs!?

Christie has enough wherewithal to roll on top of Kael, lifting the leg.

Barlow drops for the count.

ONE!

TW-

Nick Stuart: Kickout by Kael!

Danny pulls himself to his feet, swaying slightly, but pursues Max. He reaches down to grab at Max’s hair, but instead slides his fingers through the trap of Kael’s eyepatch!

Richard Parker: Uh oh!

Kael screams in a mix of shock, anger, and fear as he begins to claw and scratch wildly at Christie’s arms!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that was intentional, Richard! Christie is trying to remove his fingers from the eyepatch strap but they seem stuck.

Richard Parker: Well the longer they’re stuck, the more rabid Max seems to get!

Kael finally extricates himself from the situation, pulling Christie’s arm away as he does. Now on his feet, the look in his eye is one of pure hatred.

Christie sees it too, but rather than back up, he runs a hand through his hair, staining it bright red, before screaming and launching head first at the Minister!

SUCKERPUNCH!

Nick Stuart: CHRISTIE CONNECTS!

Richard Parker: BUT KAEL DOES TOO!

Nick Stuart: CHRISTIE!

Richard Parker: KAEL!

Nick Stuart: CHRISTIE!

Richard Parker: KAEL!

The Mayor of Arkham and the Fair Game stagger backwards from each other after a barrage of fists and the crowd goes wild.

RAAAAAAW!

Christie thumbs at his nose, wiping again at his eyes. Kael, meanwhile, brings his hands together, and squeezes, wringing a small pool of blood from his bandaged hands.

Nick Stuart: Ugh… now I’m going to be sick.

Ashley Barlow looks between the two, making sure they are still OK to fight and Christie answers with a grunt before once again running head first at his opponent…. just as Max reaches into his pocket.

Nick Stuart: Oh no.

THWAP.

Kael tries to throw POCKET SAND at Danny Christie, but because of all the blood that’s been spilled, the sand has become a blood-soaked mess and lands in a plop on the mat.

Danny launches for a Superman Punch!

AND GOES SAILING OVERTOP AS MAX REACHES DOWN TO PICK UP THE GOOPY MESS!

Richard Parker: HAH! Serves him right!

Nick Stuart: Serves him right for what!?

Richard Parker: Bleeding his own blood!

Kael looks up in mild shock as he sees Christie hopping on one foot, trying to regain his balance, then looks down at the glomp of sand in his hand and smiles.

Nick Stuart: Kael runs forward toward Christie and OPEN FACED SANDWICH!

Richard Parker: You come up with that one on your own, Nick!?

Christie gets a face of bloodied wet sand as Kael runs his hand down Christie’s face and then jams two fingers into his throat.

Richard Parker: SANDIBLE CLAW!

Nick Stuart: Dammit. That was a much better pun.

Richard Parker: You should have joined in singing Sweet Caroline, Nick.

Ashley Barlow rushes over to the scene, watching closely for any signs Danny may be in danger of tapping out.

Christie, despite looking like a human rhubarb pie, isn’t tapping. Just flailing wildly.

Kael squeals with laughter as he tries to jam his fingers even further down Christie’s throat, causing Fair Game to fall to one knee… and begin heaving.

Nick Stuart: Christie’s chest is convulsing forward in fits and spurts… and Kael releases the hold! Thank GOD!

Richard Parker: I guess being covered in vomit is one step too far, even for Max.

Danny Christie has fallen to his knees, spitting up wet, bloody sand as a smirking Max Kael begins to retreat from his collapsed opponent.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Kael may be giving him a chance to recover here.

Richard Parker: I wouldn’t bet on it Nick!

Nick Stuart: Kael begins picking up speed as he backtracks and has reached the ropes! He bounces and leaps into the air with his arm raised!

Richard Parker: REALITY BENDING EL- NOOOO!

RAAAAAAAWR!

Nick Stuart: Holy SHIT! LEFT HAND LARRY! LEFT HAND LARRY! Christie was playing possum!

Max Kael goes flying backwards like he got hit by Ken Masters’ Shoryuken just as the Fair Game slowly rises to his feet, still spitting sand out of his mouth.

The fans are on pins and needles, watching as Christie, still staggering, makes his way over to Max Kael, who is barely moving.

Nick Stuart: The former Alias Champion is pulling out the stops here tonight! Looking to earn a redemption victory even if it means a little blood loss.

Richard Parker: A little? Nick, he’s donated so much blood to this match he needs orange juice and a cookie!

And that’s when Christie falls back down to one knee in a pool of blood.

His blood.

Nick Stuart: No!

Danny tries to raise his head as he struggles to get back to both feet. Meanwhile, Max Kael is now on all fours like a rabid dog, head turned upward.

Richard Parker: Oh… this is going to be good.

Nick Stuart: This is going to be awful.

Danny Christie whips his head back, using the momentum to push himself back to both feet – blood soaked hair and all. But as he rises, so does the Minister — his lone uncovered eye gleaming with ill intent and a smile to match.

Nick Stuart: Christie with a wild swing! Kael dodges!

The Black Heart of PRIME slithers behind his opponent and lands a stiff kick to the leg that sends Christie back to his knees.

Richard Parker: Max cracks his knuckles, squeezing more blood out of his taped up hands, before wrapping them around Christie’s throat!

Nick Stuart: Madame Guillotine!

Max’s eye goes wild as he digs a thumb into the side of Christie’s neck! The Fair Game’s body goes limp from both the submission and accumulating loss of blood as Ashley Barlow slides over and lifts his arm.

It drops.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: Come on Danny! Fight!

She lifts again.

It drops.

TWO!

Richard Parker: Stay down, Danny! We already have enough blood in the ring!

The fans roar and cheer and chant for Danny Christie as his arm goes up once more.

And drops.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Kael drops an unconscious Danny Christie like a sack of bloody potatoes as the Fair Game’s head hits the mat with a sickening wet sound.

Vince Howard: Your winnnnnnner…. MAAAAAAAX KAAAAAAAEL!

BOOOOOOO!

The fans have no love for Kael, who pays them no mind as he stands over the body of his downed opponent. Staff rush to Christie’s side as the Black Heart of PRIME smiles before unceremoniously exiting through the ropes.

Nick Stuart: As much as I want to disagree with the result, Kael surprisingly stuck to the rules tonight. Mostly.

Richard Parker: But he certainly amped up the brutality. I don’t think I’ve seen him that focused or … mean. Which is saying something.

Nick Stuart: Danny fought like the champion we know he can be all the way up until the end. If he wouldn’t have gotten that gash early on… I think he may have taken this one, Richard.

Richard Parker: Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Nick. And tonight Max Kael chose to throw hand grenades while Danny Christie chose horseshoes.

Nick Stuart: True enough, Richard.

Richard Parker: Which makes sense given he chose to have his Alias defenses held in a barn in the middle of nowhere.

Nick Stuart: …let’s just go to commercial while this gets cleaned up. Shall we?

It’s carnage!

It’s mayhem!

It’s… the PRIME ReVival 91 merch line!

The show is already halfway over, but the line for little Timmy to get his Big John Pepper/Big Ian Salt lenticular trading card and Flamberge “Mr. Sex” shirt — which he is WAY too young to be wearing to school — continues apace.

Crewmember: Next!

A young man in a PRIME staff shirt looks up, and sees something, no, someone completely unexpected.

Crewmember: Can I… help… you?

A soft but dismissive humming greets him in response as a pair of perfectly manicured hands take hold of the edge of the merch table. Ten sharp pink talons begin to tap tap tap against the runner.

The camera tilts up to reveal the face of Sonja Cuchilla; live and in the flesh at a PRIME event for the first time since ReVival 83.

Sonja Cuchilla: That depends…

Her eyes scan the wall of shirts, hoodies, tote bags, and vinyl pressings of “NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL PRIME VOL. 5,” featuring such hits as “Real Me” by Monster Siren, “Bloodsport” by HEALTH, and Darude’s “Sandstorm (Sandwich Remix).”

A hiss escapes Sonja’s throat as her eyes narrow, flickering green as she turns coldly to the young man behind the table.

Sonja Cuchilla: Where is your Blaze Claymore merchandise?

The crew member looks confused.

Crewmember: I’m sorry?

Sonja Cuchilla: Look, zit stain…

Sonja stops herself before shaking her head and forcing a smile.

Sonja Cuchilla: I don’t think you realize who I am.

Crewmember: That is correct, ma’am.

Sonja sneers.

Sonja Cuchilla: I am visiting Detroit on a sister city assignment from Montevideo, Minnesota. It’s Blaze’s hometown, you see. So I wanted to … bring something back. A trophy— I mean, souvenir.

Sonja laughs awkwardly, sounding like a rusted door hinge.

Then she stops.

The young man on the other side of the table swallows hard.

Sonja Cuchilla: So where is it?

Crewmember: Where is…

Sonja places a hand to her head, her lips turning from a smile to a sneer as her body begins to shake, as if she is trying to contain a million volts from shooting out of her fingers like Lo Pan in Big Trouble in Little China.

Sonja Cuchilla: Blaze. Claymore. Merch. Give it to me. All of it!

Sonja reaches into her clutch and slams a black AmEx down on the table.

The crewmember looks over each of his shoulders.

Crewmember: Ma’am … we… uh. There’s no one in PRIME with that name. Are you thinking of maybe someone in SHOOT? Or Defiance?

Sonja lowers her hand, one piercing eye peeking out from between splayed fingers.

Sonja Cuchilla: Don’t fuck with me, kid. Not tonight. Reigning Rookie of the Year… somehow. A former Alias Champion. Long hair. Stupid red sunglasses.

The crewmember turns nervously to his left.

Crewmember: Hey… Kimmy? You ever hear of a Blaze… Clayman?

Sonja Cuchilla: ClayMORE, you fucking troglodyte!

Sonja turns to look at the crowd forming behind her. She smirks, then turns back toward the young man.

Sonja Cuchilla: I apologize. Maybe you know him as “The Lighthouse.”

A rush of relief comes over the man behind the booth. He puts a hand to his chest and lets out a sigh.

Crewmember: Ohhhhh, you mean Nathan Lake. Of course! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?

Sonja’s eye twitches. But then her breathing begins evening out as she finishes doing some arithmetic.

Sonja Cuchilla: How many of the Lighthouse shirts have you sold tonight?

Crewmember: Uh. I’d have to check the–

Sonja Cuchilla (interrupting): Guess.

Crewmember: …eight?

Sonja nods, seemingly pleased.

The young man, eager to be useful, digs through a box and pulls out a white t-shirt, LIGHTHOUSE in blue block text across the chest. He flips it around to show a stenciled lighthouse on the back.

Crewmember: You said you wanted… all of them?

Sonja looks at the shirt the way one looks at a coupon for a restaurant one does not eat at. She slides the AmEx back off the table and returns it to her clutch.

Sonja Cuchilla: No. I have the original.

Crewmember: …Of the shirt?

Sonja Cuchilla (ignoring the question): Hey! What’s that over there?

He follows her finger to a rainbow clack fan splayed open on the wall, dragon logo across the pleats. He fetches it down and holds it out with a smile.

Crewmember: Oh! Yeah. It may not be uh… Blaze… Clay…bird. But it is pretty fire, huh?

Sonja crosses her arms.

Crewmember: Sorry. Why don’t you just — take it. On the house.

Sonja’s eyes light up. She takes the fan, flicks her wrist, and it opens with a satisfying THWAP before she looks back at the young man behind the table.

Sonja Cuchilla: I guess I will just have to find someone— I mean something else instead.

Crewmember (nodding): Sure thing ma’am. Still don’t know who that is.

The crewmember lifts up two thumbs nervously as Sonja turns, parting the crowd as she fans herself in long, unhurried strokes, heels clicking against the cement of the Little Caesars Arena concourse.

Nearly through the gathering of fans — the people kind — she pauses, looks around, and then turns to scan the wall of merchandise one last time.

Sonja’s eyes flicker a bright green before she closes the fan with one hard snap, like a book shutting.

Then she’s gone.

We’re backstage. The first thing we see is the purplish black eye of Quinn Fleetwood as he rounds the corner in the hallway, humming to himself. As he approaches the catering table, he grins.

Quinn Fleetwood: Please tell me they have liver and onions!

You can actually hear some audience members groan as he looks at the plates before frowning.

Quinn Fleetwood: Ugh, how disappointing.

But this is catering, so Quinn is not alone. In fact, occupying the space with him is the roster member who, let’s face it, most belongs in catering and literally nowhere else. Steve Lemieux, looking like a man who has no desire to be flanked by his usual cadre of idiots but is too kind to say anything about it, takes in the spread, a contemplative finger lightly tapping his chin.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. Now is not the time for looking at the food, Stefon. We will have plenty more time for that after your epic battle for the ages against DRINKS! and Nat King Cornhole. Look, see? Johnny Wombat and The Dickman are ready. They brought the sparklers just like I told them to!

Oliver Cade and Rick Hardbody each hold up a single unlit sparkler. They look as excited to be there as Steve does to have them all around.

Steve Lemieux: This layout is all wrong.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, yes. I agree. This looks nothing like the continental breakfast that was advertised. I do not even see any little muffins with their own paper muffin panties. It is quite disheartening.

Zeke shudders, snapping back into the moment, aware that he was just about to take a food journey with his charge.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But, again, now is not the time for food! Now is the time for-

Steve Lemieux: The greens are on the wrong side. The plates are on the wrong side, too. Most people are right-handed, so we should put those on the other end of the table.

Rick steps away from the group and pulls out two chairs. At the sight of this, Cade moves to follow, but Rick has already plopped down in one and put his feet up on the other before Oliver has a chance to take a single step. The two men share a glance, Rick slightly lifting his eyebrows as his mustache begins to twitch.

Steve Lemieux: I bet whoever set this up has some very interesting opinions about food service.

In case anyone is wondering, and I would understand completely if you weren’t, this is about as close that Steve ever gets to calling someone a dumbass.

Quinn notices Steve and his coterie and shuffles over.

Quinn Fleetwood: I agree! I actually said literally the same thing you just said, word for word, verboten.

Oh no, Quinn caught Dr. Zeke’s wrong word disease.

Steve’s face lights up, because despite having been a part of this roster for over a year and a half – a period of time that most everyone would like to have back, and they’d like to have it in a Steve-free universe, thank you very much – the man has never been one to pay attention. If he did, then he might recognize the young Fleetwood and think, “Oh, no! I have been cornered by a Fleetwood. I should play dead, and not recite any legal precedents, lest I be confronted by the folly of my ways.”

Instead, the man some people refer to as The Anti-Banger (a boy can dream) believes he has found himself a kindred spirit.

Steve Lemieux: And if this was a buffet, then they should have put the expensive items at the end, so that people wouldn’t load up on them. They could save some money that way, but instead it’s all…

He waves his arms as though he were the conductor of an orchestra, one actively being bothered by a swarm of bees.

Steve Lemieux: …willy-nilly-kinda-silly and topsy-turvy-not-so-curvy.

Quinn Fleetwood shakes his head quickly, because he was doing that thing he usually does when people are talking: not paying attention and thinking of other things.

Quinn Fleetwood: Oh, yeah. Totally. I love curvy things.

He looks from the liverless table to Steve as if seeing him for the first time.

Quinn Fleetwood: You were at the pizza party for Daytona, right?

Steve Lemieux: Yes, sir. Mister Doctor Zeke said that we should go support our “new king of all creation,” and then said something about making sure that he doesn’t smite us with meteors or send an angry cult comet, because that’s the kind of thing that the king of the universe can do. I don’t know if he’s right, but it was nice to meet new people at Mister Daytona’s party.

Quinn Fleetwood: Oh yeah, it was totally fun except for when I got hit in the head, but I guess that happens a lot to me nowadays.

He feels his black eye and grimaces.

Quinn Fleetwood: So you’re, like, a food expert, huh?

Steve Lemieux: Oh, I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I did grow up in a restaurant. And now it’s mine to run, so maybe I know a little, but definitely not an expert.

Quinn Fleetwood: Okay, so since you’re totally an expert, I have a question. People always tell me my favorite pizza topping is awful, and I think it’s why I got hit in the head. So can you tell me what people hate so much about cherry and chocolate bar pizza?

Steve Lemieux: Do you mean a dessert pizza? Because chocolate and cherries on crust sounds delightful. Maybe with a little sea salt, or some pistachios.

Quinn frowns, shaking his head.

Quinn Fleetwood: Dessert pizza? No, I eat this in any climate.

A beat.

Quinn Fleetwood: Ohhhhh sorry. No, I just put the chocolate and cherries on top of the cheese and tomato sauce. Cherries and tomatoes go together, they’re red!

Steve’s expression turns into a mask of slowly blooming horror, despite how he tries to play it off.

Steve Lemieux: Oh. That’s, ummm…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: A crime!

Steve Lemieux: It’s really, you know, interesting.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: It’s a crime!

Steve Lemieux: But, I guess, if you like it…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: You should go to jail! For crimes! I cannot stress this enough.

Steve Lemieux: Then you should, uhhh…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Be put beneath the prison with the rest of the wrestle-slash-food criminals of which I am sure there are many!

Steve looks to Zeke, apoplectic as he shakes his cane in the air in a way that wouldn’t even scatter pigeons. He turns back to Quinn, but says nothing, so broken is his brain at the thought of red chocolate mess taking shape in his mind.

Quinn turns to Zeke and grimaces.

Quinn Fleetwood: Didn’t I kill you in, like, every Mega Man game? Go away.

He turns to Steve.

Quinn Fleetwood: And you should be stronger in your convictions. You hate my pizza topping too. I can see it on your scrunched up little face. So just say it.

Steve Lemieux: I…

He tries to hide it, he really does, bless his heart.

Steve Lemieux: I would never… never want to yuck your yum.

Honestly, it’s almost impressive the way he’s going out of his way to not insult someone for shoveling slop into their face.

Steve Lemieux: But, I just don’t… don’t think… I don’t think that flavor combination is for me.

Quinn Fleetwood: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO ME, YOU ASSHOLE?

Quinn launches himself at Steve, and he gets a hand on Steve’s shirt before Ollie moves between them, grabbing Quinn by the shoulders to hold him back. Rick sighs and stands up, then goes between the two men.

Steve Lemieux: Oh, no, it’s happening again. Buns and beans, why does this keep happening to me?

The answer comes in the form of Dr. Badguy.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hiya!

Who promptly pokes Quinn in the eye with the handle end of his cane. After all, it’s not like he’s trying to blind anyone today. That we know of.

Quinn falls to the ground, clutching his eye.

Quinn Fleetwood: Why is it always this eye?

From the ground, he looks up with one eye at Dr. Zeke and Steve and shakes his fist.

Quinn Fleetwood: I DECLARE BLOOD FEUD!

Steve hears it, but he doesn’t take the words in. His eyes are glazed over and he’s staring at something in the far distance that no one else can see. It’s up to Ollie and Rick to each take him under the arm, and slowly drag him away from the scene and off to the ring, where one of the biggest challenges of his life awaits.

Quinn, meanwhile, is still on the ground and still screaming.

Quinn Fleetwood: BLOOOOOOOOOD FEEEEEUUUUUUUD!

We return to ringside where Steve Lemieux, heralded by the adrenaline pumping trance anthem “Sandstorm” by Darude, is already in the ring. A large section of the fans are on their feet, the urge to dance along with the music proving too much for them to handle.

Lemieux moves to climb the turnbuckle to acknowledge them; however his first attempt goes awry, his foot somehow managing to get caught in an improbable tangle with the bottom rope. Undeterred by this, his second attempt is much more successful and as he looks out over the crowd, with his arms raised, there is an almost ironic round of cheers to greet him.

Richard Parker: Where did we find this moron?

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

ONE FALL!

The PRIME crowd volley back at Vince in unison.

Vince Howard: Already in the ring – from Peoria, Illinois… weighing in at one hundred and eighty-nine pounds… STEEEEEVE LEEEEMMMMIIIEEEUUUXXX!

A small smattering of boos from the Detroit natives as Lemieux’s hometown is announced are quickly replaced with another round of cheers from the packed out arena once the man himself is introduced.

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

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!”

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

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

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

Two verdant words form across the PRIMEView.

E M E R A L D

A P E X

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

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

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

Vince Howard: Now coming to the ring, accompanied by “The Merry Mischief Maker” AMI TROY…

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

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

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

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

Vince Howard: Representing VAE VICTIS…

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

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

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama looking every bit as focused as we’ve become accustomed to. It looks as though he is ready to bounce back from the disappointment of Survivor.

Richard Parker: The guy needs to loosen up.

The arena’s lights go out once more, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Soon their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

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

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd.

Vince Howard: And their opponent, hailing from Evansville, Indiana… weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds… he is the Next Diamond! He is… NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.

Jimmy Turnbull signals the timekeeper to get the contest underway.

DING DING!

Nick Stuart: And we are off! One fall to a finish in this triple threat match.

Richard Parker: Are we sure this should really be called a triple threat?

Nick Stuart: Well, there are three of them Richard, that is usually how this goes.

Richard Parker: No, I get that, but I mean, Lemieux is only really a threat to himself!

Steve Lemieux, standing dead-center of the ring, checks from side-to-side, his head on a swivel, alert to see which of his opponents will be the first to move. Kuroyama and Colton don’t even seem to notice him, the two PRIME stalwarts only having eyes for the other as they slowly circle around the ring.

… Guys?

Having realised that he is being ignored, Lemieux stands with hands on hips, a look of confused disappointment stretching across his face – neither of his opponents even seem to notice.

It’s Nate who makes the first move, dropping low as he lunges forward attempting to catch Kerry with a single leg takedown. Kuroyama moves instinctively to side-step the attempt, as he does so, he reaches forward, capturing Nate in a front facelock for a split second. Colton slips free of the hold quickly and rolls away from Kerry, neither man willing to over-commit.

If you’re gonna ignore me…

Having had enough of this, Steve launches himself in the direction of his opponents, attempting to catch both men in a double clothesline. A brief look in his direction is enough for both of them to catch his intention. Kerry steps aside at the last moment; Nate however opts to duck beneath Steve’s wildly outstretched arm and gives him a forceful shove in the back with both hands. The shove is enough to cause Lemieux to collide with the turnbuckles, chest first, audibly winded from this, he staggers backwards directly into a German suplex from The Emerald Apex.

Richard Parker: Only fools rush in, doubly so for this fool!

Nick Stuart: Would you please behave?

As Kerry gets back to his feet from the throw, he is greeted by a crashing forearm from Nate that echoes through Little Caesar’s Arena. Quickly shaking off the blow, Kuroyama answers with one of his own, then another, and another – the pair trading increasingly stiff blows in the middle of the ring, all while Steve slowly drags himself across to the turnbuckle he was so recently acquainted with.

Kerry fakes a forearm that Nate moves to block, instead however he delivers a brutal kick to Nate’s ribs that forces him backward and brings an end to the exchange. Following him with a backhanded chop across the chest, Kerry grabs Nate by the wrist and whips him across the ring.

Before Kerry can connect with a strong lariat attempt, Nate drops below the arm and spins to control Kerry from the rear. He wastes little time in transitioning into position to deliver a side Russian legsweep, sending both men back first into the canvas. Nate, in complete control rolls back over his shoulders to his feet, and rebounding off the ring-ropes for a little extra momentum runs forward to bring his leg crashing down across Kerry’s sternum with a running legdrop.

Not keen to give up on this early momentum, Nate is quickly back on his feet and looks to repeat the trick.

BAM!

Nick Stuart: Look out!

Nate, fully focused on Kuroyama doesn’t know what’s hit him, as he rebounds off the ropes for a second time; he is sent crashing to the floor by an unexpected shoulder block from Steve Lemieux. With both opponents grounded for the moment, Lemieux looks around at the fans, delighted surprise in his eyes.

…I meant to do that!

Richard Parker: Yeah, sure ya did…

Lemieux’s moment of joy is tragically brief, as he turns around to find the rapidly approaching boot of Kerry Kuroyama on a direct collision course with his face. There is just enough time to let out a disappointed sigh of resignation before impact.

Richard Parker: YAKUZA KICK!

Nick Stuart: And that is why you never turn your back on Kerry Kuroyama ladies and gentlemen!

Steve drops to a knee, somewhat surprised to find his head still attached to his body. In the split second where he tried to remember where exactly he was, Kuroyama had dragged him to his feet and just as quickly took him back down to the canvas with a snap suplex. Kerry hauled him upright for a second time and pulled him through the air with a picture-perfect Japanese armdrag – the momentum carried poor Lemieux right the way outside the ring under the bottom rope. A dull thud announced his connection with the padded floor below.

Nate hadn’t been idle though, having recovered quickly he positioned himself to strike straight away. He caught Kerry with an armdrag of his own, maintaining the grip on the arm he transitioned into an armbar. Fighting the hold, Kerry powered up onto one knee, then both feet, backing Colton up against the ropes before pushing him away.

The crowd roared their approval at the exchange, and this prompted the two to share a brief look. Nate stretched his arms out in a challenge that Kerry approved of; they met again in the middle of the ring, and began chain wrestling. This only served to further increase the fans approval of the contest, the volume of their cheers ratcheted up accordingly. Exchanging holds, escapes and counters at a break-neck pace, the two put on a spectacle of scientific wrestling – each advantage lasting only seconds before the other found an answer.

Okay… whose turn is it?

Nick Stuart: Oh no, this doesn’t feel like a good idea.

Richard Parker: Idiot.

Both men stopped mid-grapple and turned to look at Steve, favouring his neck but with a look of steely determination on his face. Nate and Kerry shared the briefest of looks and then a quick nod.

They broke apart. Kerry aimed one of his trademark open-palm slaps, it sent Lemieux spinning around to the right. Unfortunately for him, Nate had taken up that position and he connected with a European uppercut – this sent Steve back in the opposite direction, his body struggling at this point to keep up with the changing trajectory. Another open-palm slap. Another European uppercut. That was more than enough, willing or no, Steve Lemieux crumpled to the canvas feeling like he’d been caught in machine-gun crossfire.

Richard Parker: Yup, idiot!

The first to react to the new opportunity to resume their conflict, Nate launched himself over the helpless mass that was Steve, to connect with a forearm smash that staggered Kerry. Now that he was in the mood, Nate decided to let Kerry sample the European uppercut that Steve had ‘enjoyed’. The impact caused Kerry to stumble back, in doing so he turned his body ever so slightly, and that was all the invitation Colton needed. He snatched Kerry up and brought him crashing back down over his knee with a pendulum backbreaker. Sensing the opportunity, he rolled into the cover and Jimmy Turnbull dropped into position to make the count.

ONE!

TWO-Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Just the two!

Kerry’s shoulder shot up instinctively just as Jimmy’s hand was reaching the canvas for a second time. Across the ring, Steve Lemieux had seemingly been trying to drag himself outside of the ring once again, but he seems to have lost energy half-way through the process – resulting in his upper body hanging unmoving face-down across the apron, whilst his lower body still remained in the ring.

Kuroyama pulled himself to his feet, and instantly Nate’s attention returned towards him. Nate ducked a spinning backfist attempt from Kerry and launched him into the air with a beautiful overhead belly-to-belly suplex. Beautiful for everyone except Kerry Kuroyama… and Steve Lemieux! Unfortunately for The Anti-Banger, Colton’s throw had resulted in two hundred and thirty two pounds of KK crashing down across his feet. That woke him up! Even more unfortunately, coming to and seeing the floor just a few feet below his face caused Steve to panic, in doing so he managed to lose the precarious balance he’d been enjoying, and fell face first to the outside. Another dull thud of impact.

Kerry got back to his feet in time to witness this rather unfortunate sight. He was shaking his head as he looked back across at the grinning face of Nate Colton, ready and waiting.

As they come back together, Nate pivots into position to catch Kerry’s arm, spinning to hold him in a hammerlock. But before he can follow up with his usual back suplex, Kerry finds the strength to pull free – as he spins around to face Nate once more; he uses the momentum to launch forward, hitting a stiff discus lariat.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAARRRRRR!

A roar of defiance from Kerry is echoed by the fans. With Nate caught off guard and struggling back to one knee, Kerry moves in and grabs him around the midriff, locking both hands together he pulls Nate up into the air and then mercilessly slams him face-down into the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Judgment Bolt Bomb! Kerry has the momentum well and truly back on his side now!

Rolling Nate on to his back, Kerry makes the cover. Jimmy Turnbull is there in an instant.

ONE!

TWO!

TH-

The pin is broken, not by kick-out, but by a pretty pissed-off looking Steve Lemieux – who puts a little bit extra into the kick that disrupts the count. Looking utterly unimpressed, Kuroyama gets to his feet and locks eyes with Steve. Lemieux looks up into the face of the taller man, with a look that suggests he may be regretting the decision.

Nick Stuart: Lemieux with the save!

Before Steve can even take in what is happening, Kerry delivers a sequence of moves transitioned beautifully from one to the next. Firstly he grabs the head, applying a front chancery, after squeezing the hold a few times; he manipulates Steve’s positioning so he can transfer into a rear chokehold. After a few more squeezes for good measure, Kerry gives a slight shove, which sends Lemieux forward a step or two – but this only served to give him the positioning he wanted. Hooking his arms under Steve’s, Kerry delivers a devastating snap dragon suplex that almost turns Steve inside out. He drops for the cover.

ONE!

TW!

This time the pinfall is broken up by Nate Colton, diving across the ring, driving a forearm into Kerry’s shoulder to break the count. Colton shoves Kerry out of the way and turns immediately on Steve – there is an opportunity here not to be missed. Nate grabs the grounded man and hoists him up, delivering a deadlift German suplex, maintaining the grip with a bridge. Turnbull was still in position from the previous attempt.

ONE!

TWO!

Richard Parker: Hey at least after tonight Lemieux can really focus on his new career!

Nick Stuart: His new career?

Richard Parker: Yeah, as a pancake! Ha!

The bridge collapsed, as did the man holding it in place. Kerry had roared back across the ring, connecting his boot and Nate Colton’s jaw with a loud crack. Rocked by the impact, no longer aware of his surroundings, Nate instinctively crawled to the corner.

Kerry considered following him into the corner, but then looking down at the sorry sight that is Steve Lemieux he decided against it and instead dragged him upright once more. Steve weakly lifted a finger in protest.

No… please, no…

If he was hoping for sympathy from Kerry Kuroyama, his hopes were in vain. Kerry planted him with the Derechoplex, the impact shook the ring and once more Steve Lemieux found his shoulders pinned to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-

The count stopped, Kerry’s eyes shot towards Jimmy Turnbull. The referee apologetically pointed down towards Steve’s legs. Kerry’s gaze followed where he found that by some divine intervention, Steve Lemieux’s foot rested on the bottom rope. Kerry stared back at Turnbull, who could only shrug.

Richard Parker: How is this not over already?

Nick Stuart: You have to admire the resiliency on display from Steve.

Richard Parker: Have I mentioned that the man is an idiot?

Nick Stuart: Once or twice.

Furious, Kerry got to his feet once more, and as before, dragged the motionless Lemieux with him. Before he could bring further harm down upon Mr. Beefst however, Nate sprung forward, clattering Kerry’s back. As Kerry spun towards him Nate charged again, not quick enough though as Kerry met him with a knee that stopped him cold. A second staggered Nate, the third folded him like an accordion.

Looking at his two downed foes, Kerry chose to pick Lemieux up off the ground, maintaining the grip on one arm he followed around behind him. Determination burning in his eyes, he hoisted Nate up from the pumphandle position onto his shoulder, before driving him into the canvas.

Nick Stuart: KUROYAMA DRIVER!

Richard Parker: That’ll do it!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Nate Colton’s last attempt to break the pin comes just a split second too late – frustrated, he rolls on to his back and wipes the sweat from his face. “Blouses Blue” starts playing over the sound system as Jimmy Turnbull signals the timekeeper. Ami bounces into the ring to celebrate with Kerry, she suggests that Jimmy raise both their hands in victory, to which he obliges.

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the fall, The Emmmmmmerald Appppppppexxxxx… KEEEEEERRRRRRYYYYY KKUUUURRRROOOOYYYYAAAAAMMMMAAAA!

Nick Stuart: A great effort from all three men, but only one of them could pick up the victory, and on this night KK was just too much to handle – Maybe we should get someone out here to check on Steve Lemieux though.

Richard Parker: I almost feel sorry for the idiot.

Nick Stuart: You do?

Richard Parker: Nope.

Many have said it’s impossible to find gorgeous women in Detroit, Michigan. Yet, in what’s been dubbed colloquially as the Motown Miracle, Big Ian Salt stands just inside of Little Caesars Arena, near one of the employee entrances, where shockingly, two gorgeous women share a cigarette.

Big Ian Salt: (mid-sentence) …honestly I feel kinda bad about breaking her heart like that, but yeah, that’s just me though. Nawmsayin? Ha-HA. That’s just me. I’m damaged goods. But also, extremely attractive.

He cleverly stands with his hands on his hips so that his biceps remain naturally flexed.

The ladies are not very impressed.

Until, suddenly, a large, wooden owl, stories tall, starts wheeling around the corner of the arena, heading right for them. One of the ladies points at it and screams:

Brittany: GODDAMN, THAT’S A BIG ASS BIRD.

Big Ian Salt: Not as big as my big ol’ fuckin deeeeeeyu-GODDAMN!!! THAT IS A BIG ASS BIRD!

The towering wooden owl statue rolls to a stop.

A moment later, a panel seemingly comes open on its underside, and the statue seemingly shits out a whole ass human being onto the floor.

Rezin: BLEGHK!!

Well, we should probably clarify that last statement. Whole? Not quite. Human? Arguably. Ass? Definitely.

Rezin: Uuuuurrrrrggghhhh…

The force of weed-fueled punk rock spontaneity known as Rezin quickly scrambles up to his feet and looks back up at the owl statue he emerged from.

Rezin: SHUCKS! I’m IN! That idea actually WORKED! Christopher Nolan, yer a GODDAMB GENIUS!

The Goat Bastard backpedals up the hallway, rubbing his palms together.

Rezin: Now, jus’ gotta find LINDSAY, convince her to give me my job back, and THEN–

Pivoting to turn, Rezin’s face inexplicably runs itself into a brick wall.

Rezin: OW!!

As his hand rubs at his nose, he looks at what he just walked into.

The wallpaper appears to be a unique blue nylon design.

Rezin: Hrm…?

Confused, he looks up. Immediately, he sees the face of Big Ian Salt glaring down over the “wall” that is his massive chest.

Rezin: D’AAHH!!

Startled, Rezin bounces back and nearly topples over onto his ass.

Big Ian Salt: WHAT THE HELL YOU DOIN’ CREEPIN’ ON ME!?!

The Escape Artists stammers incoherently.

Rezin: Bah-duh-hmph-guhhh–Creepin’ on YOU?! Dawg, I should be askin’ what YOU are doin’ creepin’ on ME!! Standing ‘round, impedin’ progress an’ shit, almost like ya were some kinda…

He trails off, giving the massive Mister Salt a second look over.

Blue clothes? Moustache? Dick-like attitude? It can’t be a mere coincidence.

Big Ian Salt: Some kinda ‘what?’ And don’t be a smart ass either, you little… drug-snorter.

Rezin narrows his eyes.

Rezin: …cop.

He clears his throat, and in doing so, he loosens something that throws him into a brief but violent fit of coughing.

Once the Goat Bastard finally recomposes himself…

Rezin: Could ya do me a favor an’ just… hang tight one sec?

He takes a step forward.

Rezin: Forward…

He crouches.

Rezin: Down…

While still squatting, he leans forward

Rezin: Down-forward-PLUSFIERCEPUNCH–!!

Without warning, Rezin erupts off the floor into a twirling uppercut, catching Big Ian Salt directly under the jaw.

Rezin: SHOOORYUUUUKENNN!

Three things happen immediately.

Big Ian Salt’s feet lift from the ground.

Spit flies from his mouth.

And Brittany and her friend run away.

Then, Big Ian lands flat on his back on the floor.

A few birds show up from the arena ceiling and begin circling around his head.

Big Ian Salt: (drowsy) Buh… buh… but I’m an alpha…

Rezin is victory dancing and punching the air like Ali.

Rezin: Yeah, well NOW yer alph-FUCKED UP, Napoleon! Y’all can just call me GOAT-DESSEUS up in dis bish!

He notices something further up the hallway, where the ladies retreated.

Rezin: Uh oh…

The camera pans and zooms into the distance, where we can see no less than half a dozen Enemigos bearing down on his position.

Rezin: Shucks… ERRY FRIGGIN’ TIME!!

He glares down at the dazed Big Ian Salt one final time.

Rezin: Goddambed AUTHORITARIAN! Ya RUINED my infiltration!

The Escapes Artist flees in the opposite direction, with the crowd of masked security luchadors breezing by the laid out Big Ian Salt just seconds later.

Big Ian Salt: Infil…trate…deez nuts…

The scene comes to an abrupt close, and thank Heavens for that.

Nick Stuart sits at the commentary desk, surprisingly alone.

Nick Stuart: Folks, you may be wondering just why Richard Parker is missing from the Booth. Well, inside this very arena, PRIME Staff (with the help and accordance of Medieval Times) have crafted a medieval times set for our next Survivor Event, set to happen in mere moments. We decided, we better have some boots on the ground, so Richard Parker is there, microphone in hand. Cameras, lets cut to our PRIME Edition Medieval Times Studio!

The cameras do as they are told, and we are transported to another world, another time, another place.

Nick Stuart: First, you might notice it’s a massive, equestrian ring, filled with ten truckloads of sand. This is to ensure the safety of the horses and competitors. High above them, you may notice our fearless leader, the Queen, Lindsay Troy, sits on the Throne of Championships, to watch the event unfold. And standing ringside, so to speak, is Richard Parker. How are ya, Richard?

Richard Parker: It absolutely smells like horse shit, Nick.

Nick Stuart: We are still on television, Richard. Speaking of, would you mind going over the rules for this Medieval Times event?

Richard Parker: It’s quite simple, Nick. Three events will unfold in the equestrian ring just behind me. The first will be Owlry, a competition of who can best direct their owl companion to retrieve a baited bag sitting at the feet of Lindsay Troy. The second event is Melee, where the competitors will fight with sword and shield, and every knockdown counts. The final event? The famed, medieval times Joust. No explanation necessary, there, Nick.

Nick Stuart: No doubt about that.

Richard Parker: One last note rules-wise. Each competitor may participate in no less than one, but no more than two, of the three events.

Nick Stuart: Well let’s get this thing started!

Richard Parker: Absolutely.

CONTEST 1 – OWLRY

Competitors: Scott Hunter, Henry Keyes, Nathan Lake, Ivan Stanislav, Cancer Jiles, Kenny Freeman.

The six competitors are gearing up with a protective glove and sleeve.

Richard Parker stands with a microphone.

Richard Parker: I’m supposed to do a few short interviews during all this, is that right?

Nick Stuart: If you can–

Richard Parker: Scott Hunter!

Scott approaches the camera, gets an ear piece in his ear.

Richard Parker: Scott, you’re known as a dipshit in and around the locker room — not my words. With the first event being Owlry, an animal companionship contest, and your unlikely friendship with a stoned koala, do you feel that being a dumb ass helps with regards to getting along with animals?

Scott Hunter: Thanks for being here, Richard. You are known as an impotent incontinent illiterate, also known as the three “I”s, which is like a superpower, but that is nonetheless an excellent question. Getting along with animals is easy. It does not take smarts, or intelligence, or brains, either. I’m sure you are basically Dr. Dolittle holding a tiny little microphone because of this fact. You have an infinitely punchable face which is Tillier-like in its attractiveness. And when I say attractiveness, of course, I mean my fist is attracted to your jaw.

Richard stares nervously. Scott stares back for a beat.

Scott Hunter: That means I think I’ll do fine.

Scott Hunter is the first to approach the center of the ring. He holds his arm confidently outward from his chest, and soon, an owl lands on his outstretched, gloved hand.

Scott Hunter: Go forth and retrieve that bag, my owl!

The owl does not move, at least, not right away. A little flick of Hunter’s wrist, once, twice, and the owl finally departs. It flies around, unsure of what to do, taking lots of time before its natural predatory interest detects the bag. It flies down, and picks it up, flying around the arena with it.

Scott Hunter continuously beckons the owl, but it does not return.

Nick Stuart: Well, at least it got the bag.

Next up, it seems, is Nathan Lake.

The Artist Formerly Known as Blaze Claymore steps towards the center of the ring, gloved hand outstretched.

Perhaps it’s his energy. Or his eyes. But something about him immediately begets trust from an owl as almost instantaneously one lands on his protected wrist. He sends it forth, it retrieves the bag from near Lindsay’s feet, and brings it back to Nathan.

Nick Stuart: Gonna be hard to top that, I think. That was basically perfect.

Richard Parker: It damn sure won’t be topped by our next contestant.

Cancer Jiles.

T-Shades on, Cancer holds his gloved hand outward. No owl comes to him. Not even one. In fact, the longer he holds his arm out, and the longer no owl comes to him, the more it seems like he’s just wasting his time.

Then, suddenly…

An owl. It appears overhead.

And it divebombs at Cancer Jiles!

Cancer wisely jostles and avoids the divebomb, giving up on the contest altogether by sprinting out of the equestrian ring.

Richard Parker: Couldn’t have happened to a better guy! Speaking of great guys, Ivan is next!

Nick Stuart: Richard, do not ask Ivan a question.

Richard Parker: Why not?

Nick Stuart: He’s too long winded. These are supposed to be brisk.

Richard Parker: It’ll be brisk.

Nick Stuart: It absolutely will not be brisk.

Richard Parker: It’ll be brisk, now shut up. He’s got the ear piece in!

Ivan Stanislav clears his throat.

Richard Parker: So Ivan, you can’t be pleased knowing Lindsay Troy not only sits in a throne, lording over this event (as she so often does, I don’t have to tell you), but the very first event is an owl companionship contest. What’s your thoughts on your chances in this first event, knowing the Melee immediately follows?

Ivan Stanislav: Richard Parker. I am insulted that you even ask such question. Not by you, of course. You remain one of few educated mouthpieces employed by PRIME. I am insulted by transparent symbolism of entire spectacle.

Owls!

Of course Lindsay Troy chooses owls. What animal could possibly represent her better? A creature that sits high above everyone else, perched upon some distant branch, staring down with enormous, judgmental eyes while contributing absolutely nothing to labor occurring beneath it!

Ivan adjusts a twisted suspender.

Ivan Stanislav: The owl does not build the forest. It does not plant the trees. It does not cultivate soil. It simply waits for smaller, unaware creatures to wander within reach! Then it descends from darkness, snatches what it wants, and retreats to its elevated perch while everyone beneath is expected to call this wisdom.

Ivan is looking really, really upset. A vein in the side of his head is bulging.

Ivan Stanislav: That is not wisdom, Richard! It is opportunism with feathers! And now Lindsay Troy sits upon her ridiculous, manufactured throne, looking down upon competitors of Survivor while her favorite animals are paraded before us as noble companions. Of course she enjoys the owl. The elitist always admires another elitist. They both believe height grants authority! They both spend nights interfering in business of creatures who would be far better without them!!

Richard really has no idea what he’s walked into.

Ivan Stanislav: But there is one important difference between Lindsay Troy and an owl. The owl has earned its place in food chain. Lindsay merely purchased a chair with her capitalistic blood money. The money we all, in PRIME, have put in her filthy pockets via our hard work and labor!

Richard opens his mouth, but he’s too slow.

Ivan Stanislav: Now I am expected to cooperate with one of these winged aristocrats so that it may retrieve baited bag? I have negotiated with generals, politicians, oligarchs, corporate executives, and incompetent administrative staff of PRIME! I am certain I can reach an understanding with a bird.

Richard Parker: Ivan I–

Ivan cuts him off.

Ivan Stanislav: I am not finished! Why, compared to Lindsay Troy, I believe communication with owl should be refreshingly straightforward. We each perform our assigned labor, we each receive appropriate award. This is elementary collective organization. No lies. No favoritism. No mystery. No lifetime of Lindsay-fucking-Troy pretending every catastrophe she creates is somehow MY FAULT!!!

Richard sighs and just stares off into the middle distance and lets Ivan continue to cook.

Ivan Stanislav: The owl and I shall enter into temporary alliance based upon mutual material interest. That, Richard Parker, is how civilizations are built! The only possible complication is that the creature may be poisoned by Lindsay Troy. Perhaps it has learned arrogance? Perhaps it has become too stubborn?! Perhaps she has bribed said owl?!

Ivan stares at the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: Well, even if Lindsay Troy herself bought a tiny throne for my little owl and convinced the poor beast that retrieving the bag is beneath its station, it will receive a stern education from Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav! Gently, if possible. Firmly, if necessary.

Richard opens his mouth again. But Ivan is barely taking a breath.

Ivan Stanislav: Because unlike Lindsay Troy, I am capable of inspiring loyalty without trapping everyone beneath an endless mountain of crap! The owl will look into the eyes of Ivan Stanislav and recognize something it has never seen while perched nearby. Leadership. True leadership!

Ivan pauses for a moment. Richard stares at him. Ivan stares back. Richard isn’t sure if he should try to speak. He decides not to.

Ivan Stanislav: So to answer your question, Richard…

Another pause.

Ivan Stanislav: I am going to win.

Richard opens his mouth, closes it, and turns toward the camera.

Richard Parker: Thank you, Ivan, for that… brisk… response.

Ivan takes massive, lumbering steps into the center of the equestrian ring.

He extends his protected hand outward, proudly.

Knowingly.

He is…

Immediately…

Descended upon by an entire parliament of owls! They peck him! They take shits on him! And every swat he tries seems to miss. Eventually Ivan has no choice, he surrenders, lumbering as swiftly as he can out of the ring, hurling Russian curses up at Lindsay Troy who is visibly amused and not trying to hide it.

Up next, Kenny Freeman. He goofily steps through the sand towards the center of the ring. He holds his arm out.

An owl does come to him.

But then it departs, without warning. It does not go for any bag. It simply soars in mocking circles over Kenny’s head.

Kenny looks genuinely sad, hanging his head down as he walks away from the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Hey, is Keyes up next?

Richard Parker: Looks to be. Given there’s only one contestant left.

Nick Stuart: Get him over, I have a question for him.

Richard Parker waves at Keyes, and motions for him to come over.

Keyes gets the ear piece in, Richard holds his mic to Keyes’ lips.

Nick Stuart: Henry Keyes! With Owlry being the first contest, where we test your animal companionship abilities, and your familiarity with owls due to your relationship with Lindsay Troy, do you believe you have an advantage over the rest of the field in the contest?

Henry Keyes: Yes. Full stop, no question, yes. Vae Victis aren’t just one of wrestling’s most powerful factions – we’re animal whisperers, Nick. We’re not just a squad of Mean Girls, we’re goddamned Disney Princesses! Helen! Kerry Koalayama! ATHENA! When you treat a majestic creature of nature the way it deserves, and you show it the proper respect, and you figure out how to make it laugh? An owl can be your Bestie. If you don’t? Talons and beaks, Nick. Talons and BEAKS.

Nick Stuart: Well, good luck to you sir!

Keyes nods, marches confidently over to the center of the ring, stretching his gloved hand outward.

Several owls, in a near-loving way, begin hooting and coming to Keyes, all landing gently on his protected wrist.

Impressively, only one of the owls flies off for the bag, while the others hang around and accept gentle pets on their little bird heads.

The owl who left quickly returns with the baited bag, dropping it enthusiastically at Keyes’ feet.

Richard Parker: Does that answer your question, Nick?

OWLRY RESULTS:
Henry Keyes (50)

Nathan Lake (40)

Scott Hunter (30)

Kenny Freeman (20)

Cancer Jiles (10)

Ivan Stanislav (0)

Nick Stuart: Folks, you may notice that we have some contestants gearing up in full suits of armor. That’s because up next? Up next is the dreaded Melee.

Richard Parker: I am pumped about this!

Nick Stuart: Remember folks, we are counting knockdowns. Any time one of the contestants causes another to fall to their knees, back, or belly, that is to his advantage. The competitor with the most knockdowns will score 50, the least will score zero, and everyone in between will get between 40 and 10. The timer starts at three minutes, and they will go until it ticks all the way down to zero. Thoughts, Richard?

Richard Parker: Well, I went to ask Coltrane Anderson a question, given he’s gearing up, but all he did was grunt at me. Anyone you wanna talk to, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Get me the Anglo Luchador!

Richard Parker waves over TAL, who has just finished putting on his armor and is, unsurprisingly, admiring his sword.

Nick Stuart: TAL! Nick here. And from the looks of things, you finally got a sword! How pleased are you right now heading into the Melee portion of the event?

TAL: (sniffling and tears welling in his eyes) It’s more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

The Luchador starts crying as he holds the sword up like Adam of Greyskull.

Richard Parker: Good luck.

TAL: Thank you.

Richard Parker: I don’t think you stand a chance in Hell.

TAL: Thank you.

CONTEST 2 – MELEE

Competitors: Rob Williams, Tony Gamble, Ivan Stanislav, The Anglo Luchador, Coltrane Anderson, Cancer Jiles

It may be strange bearing witness to this: Six professional wrestlers donning full plate armor to fight each other with sparring swords and shields, but that’s precisely what we are bearing witness to.

A bang! Like a cannon! And on the PRIMEView in the arena proper, a timer begins ticking down from three.

But in the equestrian ring, baby, there ain’t no screen to watch the timer.

It’s just six fellers trying to beat the hell out of each other until they are told to stop.

A shoulder-check from Ivan to Gamble, and Gamble immediately drops to his back! He tries to kip up to his feet, but the armor makes that very difficult to negotiate.

Gamble, as if to say “if I’m here, you are too,” grabs Jiles by the ankle as he roars by and pulls it back, effectively leg-swiping him and forcing him to the ground on his belly.

Ivan – 1

Gamble – 1

Cancer crawls back up to his feet. Gamble tries to do the same, but the armor is heavy armor. He probably needed chain. He’s finding it almost impossible to get back to his feet!

Coltrane swings his sword at TAL, but the Luchador parries nicely, sending a boot to Coltrane, staggering him backward, before an elbow backwards connect with Cancer – who was sneaking up on him – and drops him again!

Stanislav roars and charges towards Rob Williams, who gets shoulder checked into the dirt.

Not to be outdone, Williams kicks Anderson’s legs out from under him.

Ivan – 2

Gamble – 1

Coltrane – 1

TAL – 1

Rob Williams – 1

Ivan roars as he basically jogs in a circle, shoulder checking everyone as he meets them. He hits Rob Williams, takes him down. He hits Coltrane, who just climbed up to his feet, takes him down. He hits Gamble, who finally reached his feet, and knocks him back down.

Meanwhile, TAL meets Coltrane as he climbs up to his feet, and punt kicks him in the codpiece.

Freeman drops to his knees.

Cancer and Williams, who just reached his feet, sword fight hard in the center, and TAL joins them. Cancer redoubles his efforts, and gets CREAMED in the back by Stanislav, dropping him.

TAL ducks a Stanislav shoulder tackle, but Rob dives into the back of his knee, dropping him!

Ivan – 6

Rob – 2

TAL – 2

Coltrane – 1

Gamble – 1

Gamble grasps at Ivan’s ankle, which slows the brute to a degree as he looks down.

Rob dives into the back of Ivan’s knee, taking him down!

Nick Stuart: Seems like Rob has devised a particularly brutal strategy for taking people down.

Cancer throws sand at TAL’s helmet, but not quite enough makes it through the eyes lips to blind him, and TAL bashes Cancer in the head with the hilt of his sword, before leg sweeping him off his feet.

Gamble climbs up to his feet, just to get kicked back down by Coltrane.

Rob dives into the back of Coltrane’s knee, wiping him out!

BANG!

The cannon fire sound marks the end of the contest.

Ivan – 6

Rob – 4

TAL – 3

Coltrane – 2

Gamble – 1

MELEE RESULTS:
Ivan Stanislav (50)

Rob Williams (40)

The Anglo Luchador (30)

Coltrane Anderson (20)

Tony Gamble (10)

Cancer Jiles (0)

COMBINED RESULTS THROUGH 2 CONTESTS:
Henry Keyes (50)

Ivan Stanislav (50)

Nathan Lake (40)

Rob Williams (40)

Scott Hunter (30)

The Anglo Luchador (30)

Kenny Freeman (20)

Coltrane Anderson (20)

Cancer Jiles (10)

Tony Gamble (10)

Richard Parker: AHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! Cancer has gotten himself mathematically eliminated! Yes! Yes! There is a God! There is a God and he is good and he hates Banditry! Yes!!!

Nick Stuart: A deadly miscalculation there from Cancer and you’re right, Richard, he has made his advancement in Survivor impossible after the Melee round!

Richard Parker: Look! LT is laughing, too!

She is indeed.

Cancer Jiles doesn’t say a word. He simply leaves the PRIME Edition Medieval Times studio before the Joust even starts. After all, why hang around?

He gives Tony a middle finger on his way out.

Nick Stuart: Wait, are Rob Williams and Tony Gamble refusing to get out of their armor?

Richard Parker: Yep. Apparently, they’re making sure they get to compete in two events. Gamble is admittedly a little desperate and it makes sense. I think maybe Rob’s just, you know, looking out for himself here?

Nick Stuart: Least surprising news of the day, but Keyes and Hunter don’t look pleased at all.

Richard Parker has found his way over to the Five Star Champion.

Richard Parker: Screw ‘em! Speaking of screwing ‘em over, Rob Williams! You’ve put Scott Hunter in a bit of a bad spot due to your own selfishness, which is awesome. Tell me, as a guy who never jousted before, how confident are you feeling right now?

Rob Williams: If you can dodge a bullet, you can dodge a lance.

Richard Parker: Y- you can dodge a bullet?

Rob has already walked away.

CONTEST 3 – JOUST

Competitors: Rob Williams, Tony Gamble, Nathan Lake, The Anglo Luchador, Coltrane Anderson, Kenny Freeman.

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams sits awkwardly upon a Percheron, as does Tony Gamble and the Anglo Luchador. Coltrane Anderson sits atop a Clydesdale. Freeman and TAL both ride an American Quarterhorse, and Nathan Lake has an Andalusian.

Richard Parker: In case you wanted to Google horse breeds. Nerd.

Nick Stuart: Anyway, the joust is a tournament.

Richard Parker: Neeeeerd.

Nick Stuart: The further one advances, the closer to the 50 point total they arrive. If you lose twice? You’re done for good.

Indeed. That is how this will play out.

The first two up are Rob Williams and Coltrane Anderson.

They stand on opposite ends of a long, narrow wood tilt barrier, armed with lances.

A cannon sounds, and both men try to advance their horses.

Rob does decently, getting his horse up to a trot. Coltrane struggles to get his going and

CRACK~!

Lance to the chest from Williams to Coltrane, and Coltrane drops!

Rob – 1

Coltrane – 0

Next up, the Anglo Luchador and Tony Gamble!

Tony Gamble and TAL both manage to start their horses decently, but Gamble, at a significant reach advantage from the taller TAL finds his lance never quite reaches the breadbasket of the Luchador, while the Luchador’s Lance gets buried in Gamble’s chest.

Rob – 1

TAL – 1

Coltrane – 0

Gamble – 0

Nathan Lake and Kenny Freeman now emerge on opposite ends of the tilt barrier. Nathan seems much better with the horse than Kenny right away, and he buries his lance in the chest of the multiversal superstar!

Rob – 1

TAL – 1

Nathan – 1

Coltrane – 0

Gamble – 0

Freeman – 0

Up next, Coltrane and TAL.

TAL manages to get his horse going much better than Coltrane does, but by god, Anderson sends a boot into that horse’s ass and it jump starts! Barely managing to stay on, he leans away from TAL’s lance and strikes him with his own, dropping the Luchador from his steed!

Rob – 1

TAL – 1

Nathan – 1

Coltrane – 1

Gamble – 0

Freeman – 0

Gamble and Freeman return on their horses to their respective ends of the trip barrier.

Nick Stuart: Whoever loses this one will be eliminated from the joust, Richard.

Richard Parker: I hope it’s Gamble!

They both try and charge. Neither get going great, but Kenny’s horse does eventually reach a gallop. Gamble’s horse, meanwhile, never gets its trot going.

BLAM! FREEMAN BURIES HIS LANCE IN THE CHEST OF THE GRIN!

Nick Stuart: GAMBLE IS OUT OF THE JOUST!

Richard Parker: THAT MEANS HE’S ELIMINATED, RIGHT!?

Nick Stuart: Yep!

Richard Parker: BOTH BANDITS, NEW AND OLD, ARE OUT OF SURVIVOR!!! THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!!

Rob – 1

TAL – 1

Nathan – 1

Coltrane – 1

Freeman – 1

If the commentators know it, the contestants surely do.

And suddenly, the joust doesn’t feel so intense between them all, and is just kind of fun.

After all, everyone still here has made the final 8.

Rob and Nathan line up, and the release in pressure allows both men to perform better. It almost looks like a half-assed real joust between them, but Rob ultimately puts his lance in Nathan’s chest.

Rob – 2

TAL – 1

Nathan – 1

Coltrane – 1

Freeman – 1

Coltrane and Freeman arrive at opposite sides of the tilt this time. They try to charge their horses forward, but its Freeman who manages to work his up to a trot, and the forward momentum makes his lance find a home in Coltrane’s midsection.

Nick Stuart: Coltrane Anderson has been eliminated from the joust!

Rob – 2

Freeman – 2

TAL – 1

Nathan – 1

Freeman is the first contestant who has to go twice in a row ! He and Nathan Lake must go at it, and they find their ends of the tilt.

Whoever loses this, goes home.

Freeman tries to charge.

Nathan tries to charge.

…Nathan does a much better job!

CRACK!!!

Kenny drops off his horse!

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman is eliminated!

Rob – 2

Nathan – 2

TAL – 1

Rob and TAL now sit atop their horses on opposite ends.

If TAL loses this, he gets eliminated. If he wins, Rob eats his first loss of the joust and we will be in a sudden death scenario.

Both men charge.

Both get their horses going fairly well. They look even reaching the center of the tilt…

CRACK!

…

Nick Stuart: THE ANGLO LUCHADOR SURVIVES, PLANTING HIS LANCE IN WILLIAMS’ CHEST!!!

Richard Parker: Ooh, things just got tense again!

Rob – 2

Nathan – 2

TAL – 2

It’s The Anglo Luchador who has to get right back on his horse and go again, this time against Nathan Lake!

Both men are decent enough with their horses. Both men meet in the center like a proper joust.

But in the end?

CRACK!

…TAL drops Nathan.

Nick Stuart: Nathan Lake is eliminated, and we are down to one more joust for first place!

TAL – 3

Rob – 2

Richard Parker: Yep, with both men having lost one joust, this will be it either way.

Nick Stuart: You wonder if Williams, having lost a joust to TAL already, has any extra concerns going into this one.

If so, he doesn’t look like it.

Both men charge.

Charge like its the last time they will ever do this in their lives.

It probably is.

CRACK!!!

…TAL…

…Falls from his horse.

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams has DONE IT!!! HE WINS THE JOUST!

Richard Parker: WOOOOOOO!!!!

JOUST RESULTS:
Rob Williams (50)

The Anglo Luchador (40)

Nathan Lake (30)

Kenny Freeman (20)

Coltrane Anderson (10)

Tony Gamble (0)

FINAL INDIVIDUAL RESULTS:
Rob Williams (90)

Nathan Lake (70)

The Anglo Luchador (70)

Henry Keyes (50)

Ivan Stanislav (50)

Kenny Freeman (40)

Coltrane Anderson (30)

Scott Hunter (30)

Tony Gamble (10)

Cancer Jiles (10)

FINAL TEAM RESULTS:
Team Avalon – 190

Team Snow – 170

Team Troy – 80

Richard Parker: This is one of the greatest episodes of ReVival ever, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Because Cancer and Tony got eliminated and a Whoresman won the night?

Richard Parker: That’s exactly right!

Nick Stuart: But Team Avalon won as a team!

Richard Parker: That’s nice and all, but those days are dead. Because now that we are down to eight, everyone becomes one tribe.

Nick Stuart: That’s right. Well, let’s cut away from ringside, I understand some sort of shenanigans are afoot.

Richard Parker: When are they not?

We find Daihm Ferguson sitting on the dock of Little Caesars Arena.

His red hair falls over the top of a white t-shirt with the word “LIGHTHOUSE” spelled out in blue lettering across the chest as he leans down over a spiral notebook.

As we zoom out, we realize the Dragon is not alone. Sitting at his side, dressed in typical Bobby Neptune attire is… Bobby Neptune.

Daihm Ferguson: Okay, so … the visor wasn’t at the planetarium in Philadelphia. And it wasn’t at the arena in Pittsburgh…

Daihm scribbles in his notebook and then looks up and turns to Bobby.

Daihm Ferguson: Do you think… Kerry could be lying to you? And kept it for himself?

Bobby Neptune: I don’t think so…Kerry doesn’t have need of it anymore. No, I fear it was taken. Most likely by someone who doesn’t understand what they have.

Bobby starts pacing.

Bobby Neptune: “The visor’s biotelemetric processor can be used for good, like with Kerry. When it connects to a user’s brain it sends out quantum frequencies that can be quite powerful. Restorative in the hands of the just. Destructive in those of the nefarious. With enough power, the wearer of the visor could alter time itself! Or they could be using it to make nachos. Anything is possible.”

Daihm sighs and puts his head in his hands.

Daihm Ferguson: That’s gee-in me the boak.

Bobby stops his pacing and cocks his head slightly.

Bobby Neptune: You need to get into a boat? Why?

The Dragon shakes his head, shuts the notebook and then brings it to his chest as he locks eyes with Bobby.

Daihm Ferguson: Bobby, I know you’ve been across the universe and everything and you’ve got this visor that seems like it can do anything… having that information in your head. Does it hurt?

Bobby Neptune: Sometimes. Why do you ask?

Daihm Ferguson: I just wonder if that is what it has been like for Nathan over this past year. Ever since Max kidnapped him… to suddenly have your world come crashing down like that and then have to rebuild it brick by brick only to have it taken away again?

The Dragon looks up toward the Detroit night sky.

Daihm Ferguson: If that visor has the power you say it does? Doesn’t someone like that deserve to save Montevideo and Blaze Claymore?

Bobby listens intently but his eyes reflect only confusion.

Bobby Neptune: I’m sorry, I’m not following…who is Blaze Claymore?

Daihm’s eyes go wide as he fishes for his phone and then opens the IMDB app. He holds a hand to his mouth before looking back up at Bobby in horror.

Daihm Ferguson: Aw, fur fuck’s sake.

Bobby looks worried.

Bobby Neptune: What is it?

Daihm holds his phone out, showing a profile screen with no photo and corrupted text where a name should be. Meanwhile, below, the section that says “Actor” seems to be counting down like a New Year’s Eve ball drop.

The Dragon shoves the phone back in his pocket and squeezes Bobby’s arm.

Daihm Ferguson: We have to find your visor.

He looks back toward the arena where the Survivor Games have just concluded and those who made it through have, at least for now, managed to avoid being cast out, discarded… eliminated.

Daihm Ferguson: So they can both have a chance to survive.

“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.

Nick Stuart: Main event. This isn’t the first time for the Foot Soldiers, but the stakes have never been higher for them.

Richard Parker: No doubt, Nick. They’ve been hot lately. But it’s gonna take more than a good streak to take down the Pop Culture Phenoms! Lets see if these guys are for real.

“Live for the Night” by Krewella rang out across the arena. Fireworks. Fog machines. The spotlight. Elise Ares out, striking a pose with her tag title around her waist. The D, next to her, raises his title, a confident smirk on his face. And Klein? He looks happy to be out in front of the Detroit crowd. They head down the ramp, Elise and The D doing everything in their power to avoid contact from the PRIMEates reaching over the guardrails.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring, at a combined weight of 307 pounds! They are the PRIME Tag Team Champions! Elise Ares! The D! THE POP! CULTURE! PHENOMS!

In the ring, Ares and The D head to adjacent corners while Klein stands in between, leaning on the ropes. Both raise their titles. As they do, a waterfall of pyro cascades down in gold, an amazing visual. They climb down and head to their corner, handing their titles over to Jimmy Turnbull, who holds them up for the crowd.

Nick Stuart: The champions certainly don’t seem to be lacking in confidence tonight.

Richard Parker: Are you kidding?! Why would they?! Look at them! They’re at the top, the best! The D and Elise Ares are champs for a reason and I think that won’t change tonight!

DING DING

Satan Jones and and The D circle each other with caution to start. Ares feigns swinging at Satan, the big man shooting a playful grin and wagging tongue her way. Roswell is less magnanimous, moving around the post and threatening to punt her into the first row. Things cool down, The D and Jones moving towards center and engaging with a collar and elbow tie up. Satan rears back and shoves The D off, down to the mat. As the veteran recovers to his knees, Jones wipes down his abs to the squeals of the women (and some men) in the crowd.

The Director stomps over and slaps Jones across the face, stiffer than a shot of whiskey. The Terror of TikTok raises a fist with a snarl, causing The D to seek shelter in the ropes while demanding protection from Jimmy Turnbull. The referee does step in, warning Jones both about the closed fist and rope positioning. When The D does lean back inbounds, Satan quickly scoops him up and deposits his opponent onto the mat with a body slam! The D powders to the outside, receiving support from Elise Ares and Klein.

Nick Stuart: Tempers are already flaring early, but that roll to the outside should calm things down.

Richard Parker: Smart smart move from The D there. Break momentum, even if it’s only just building. Hard to get into the next gear that way.

Back inside before Turnbull gets to five. Tag to Elise Ares. She rushes forward and starts blasting Jones with kicks to the quadricep! Two! Three! Four! Jones swings with an elbow! Ducked! More kicks from Ares! They’re clearly taking their toll. Elise mocks the Eight Pack of Excellence with a faux limp. That was a mistake. Satan grabs her head and sends her to the mat in short order with a snap suplex! Tag out to Kris Roswell, Jones shaking out the leg on the apron.

With Ares climbing to her feet gingerly, Roswell doubles her over with a mid kick. A sweeping kick to the knee drops the Leading Lady back down to the mat. Jones feigns with a kick, causing Elise to flop back. She sits up, having faced no impact. That changes quickly when Roswell blasts her in the back with a soccer kick. With a shriek, Ares scrambles over to her corner for refuge.

Nick Stuart: There’s the momentum you were talking about, Rich. The Foot Soldiers look pretty locked in right now!

Richard Parker: You ain’t kidding, partner! The Pop Culture Phenoms are gonna have to get a bit creative if they want to keep those titles around their waists! Everyone who’s been paying attention knows the kind of roll these young guys are on!

Kicky McKickerson carefully moves towards the PCP corner. Ares paces off to the left. As Roswell moves into striking range, The D moves in and smashes the former football player from behind!

BOOOOOOO!

The South Beach Starlet begins viciously stomping away on the downed Roswell. Before he can recover further, Kris is put right back to the mat with a corkscrew basement dropkick from Ares! Tag out to The D. Elbow drop. Another. And a third. The Director moves Roswell towards the center of the ring. Arms kicked inside. The D hits the ropes. Chest pound. Moonwalk! Moonsault! Cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The D yanks Roswell to his feet. He looks to land Contractual Obligation (Front Russian Leg Sweep).

Nick Stuart: No! Roswell slipped out and just cracked The D in the back of the head with an enzuigiri!

Richard Parker: Gotta hand it to Roswell, that was slick!

Kris starts crawling towards his corner. Close. Closer. The D grabs his ankle! But he’s not able to drag him away. Mostly because Roswell uses his noggin. He uses his free leg to hook up and over the secured one, freeing it while causing The D to fling forward. Right into an elbow from a ready Satan Jones! Tag and the bigger man steps in. A shoulder block knocks the just recovered The D back down to the mat.

Elise Ares charges in to assist, going for a dropkick. Satan side steps and she crashes to the mat. The Devil of Dinstagram grabs a free leg and hooks in a heel hold. Is he cranking it in? No. Is he shamelessly sniffing at Elise Ares’ toesies? Yes. Yes he is. Does he get planted with Contractual Obligation from The D? You bet. The PCP grab the downed Jones and drag him back to their corner. Ares steps halfway out to receive a tag, then climbs up top.

The D keeps a foot on the upper back of Jones. The Havana Harlot flies off with a double stomp to the lower back of Satan! He flops onto his back, clutching at it in pain. Foot to the chest. Step over. Aaaaaaand hip gyration.

Elise Ares: ¿Que Tal Eso?

Jones doesn’t get up. Instead, he waves Ares back over.

Richard Parker: Is he… Is he asking her to step on him again?

Nick Stuart: It, uh… Yeah, that seems to be the case.

Richard Parker: Kid’s a freak. I almost respect it.

Elise physically recoils from the offer, spitting insults Jones’ way. He gets to his knees, that tongue wagging. Ares tries to stomp, but Satan catches the foot and climbs to his feet. No cutesy stuff this time. He throws Elise up and over, but she lands on her feet! She’s not there long, as a clothesline flips her a second time! Over to the Foot Soldier corner, Jones tags out. The Queen of Sports Entertainment Style looks to recover, but gets knocked right back down with a Superkick. Kick. Cover!

ONE!

TWO!

Broken up by The D!

The Director drags his partner over to their haven and tags the woozy Ares on the back. In he comes, The D is immediately met by a swift kick to the gut! Roswell takes off… But The D is ready. As the Kicky Kicker rebounds back, his veteran opponent damn near takes his head off with a gorgeous spinning heel kick! The D takes a moment to catch his breath before pulling Roswell to his feet. Arm hooked and The D goes up and over. Netflix Money (Destino)! Before The D can even get a one off a cover, Satan is in with a stomp to the back!

While Jimmy Turnbull ushers Satan Jones back to the corner, Elise Ares hooks Roswell’s arms from the apron. The D puts a few fists into the stomach of Kris Roswell before Turnbull breaks up the double team. The D drags Roswell over to the PCP corner. He buries him with stomps. Tag to Elise. More stomps. When Turnbull intervenes, another tag to The D. Do you think Kris liked those stomps? Well he’s getting a third helping. And after another tag to Ares, a fourth. The Blacklist.

Nick Stuart: The Pop Culture Phenoms are rolling right now. If Kris Roswell can’t find a tag soon, this match might be over.

Richard Parker: It might be too late already, but we’ve seen more wild things.

Ares drags Roswell to the middle of the ring. She goes to one neutral corner. The D to the other. Both charge forward. Drive-by at The Ro–No. Kris drops before the strikes connect. The PCP move to try and set him up again. That gets interrupted when Satan Jones comes barreling in and clobbers both The D and Elise with a double clothesline! He goes back to his corner and starts pounding on the top turnbuckle to get the crowd rallied behind Roswell.

Kris struggles, clawing towards the sanctuary of his corner. The PCP stumble to recover. Roswell flings himself forward in desperation. Success. In Satan comes again. A big backbreaker for The D! A powerslam for Ares! An overhead belly to belly suplex for The D! A powerbomb for Ares!

Well…

That was the plan, at least.

Rodeo Destroyer (Mexican Destroyer) counters the powerbomb, depositing the Terror of TikTok right onto his head! Elise throws a weary arm over top!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

As they recover, Ares is put right back down with a big elbow from Jones. Up and down again. Elise flailed to her corner and just barely made the tag to The D. Another soup bone thrown The D’s way. But he absorbs it. A chop rang out around Little Caesar’s Arena. An elbow! A chop! Elbow! Chop! For a literal minute, The D and Jones trade blows. They start to slow down… Only to pick it right back up! They soon devolve into just trading fists, Jimmy Turnbull stepping in to separate the pair.

Nick Stuart: What fortitude! What desire shown by both men!

Richard Parker: This is the main event, Nick! Gold on the line! If you’re not ready to leave it all out here, you ain’t winning!

Though Turnbull does successfully insert himself between the brawlers, it gives The D a chance to get a cheap shot in at Satan’s throat. Clutching at the injured area, Jones slinks over to a corner. The Director charges. D IN YOUR FACE! NO! Satan moves! Mostly. Kind of. Yes, Jones had gotten most of his body out of the way. But his right arm still ended up crushed. The D also ended up smacking his head off the post, comically flopping back and onto his face.

Clutching his arm close to his body, Jones crawled over towards his corner. The D wasn’t moving. Satan inched further along. Still not even a twitch from The D. Elise Ares got in and did her best to drag The D over to the PCP corner. Satan reaches his left hand out… And makes the tag to Kris Roswell! Ares hopped onto the apron… And barely got a piece of the still prone D for a tag!

Nick Stuart: Both sides make tags! Satan Jones is in a bad way with that arm and The D might not even know what state he’s in after hitting the ring post!

Richard Parker: It backfired, but I like the aggressiveness from The D! You play to win and sometimes it bites you. This might come down to Kris Roswell and Elise Ares to your earlier point, Nick!

Roswell throws a high roundhouse kick! Ares ducks! A low sweeping kick! She leaps up over it! Kris jumps up with a crescent kick that the Leading Lady ducks under again! A backhand slap staggers Roswell into the corner. Elise charges in, but Kris seesaws himself up and over to connect both feet with her face! The Gatling Gun of Kicks comes out and blasts Ares with a hook kick! To the ropes he goes, looking to finish with the UFO (Running Face Kick). But Elise dodges and picks the ankle, smoothly applying Miami Vice (Deathlock with a bridge)! Kris scrambles and thrashes, a hand finding the ropes!

Turnbull gets to four before Ares finally breaks the hold. When back to his feet, Roswell is favoring his right leg. Elise cracks the smarting leg with a kick, dropping Kris to a knee. Off the ropes… Extreme Makeover (Curb Stomp)? No! Kris moves at the last moment! Up standing, a desperation roundhouse kick thrown once more. The South Beach Starlet ducks and hits the ropes. Amethystation (Superman punch)! Thinking quickly, Elise Ares pulls the loopy Roswell into a small package!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Both struggle up to their feet. Kris responds with his own attempt at a flash pin, a backslide in this case!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

To their feet once more. Elise throws herself up and over Roswell’s hip with fantastic agility and body control. School girl roll up!

ONE!

TWO!

THR-KICKOUT!

Vertical yet again. Ares hops up on Roswell’s shoulders. She throws herself forward, looking for the victory roll! But Kris is ready. He drops down, clutching Elise for a counter pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE-KICKOUT!

NO!

Jimmy Turnbull frantically holds up three fingers and signals for the bell!

DING DING DING

As the titles are presented to Jones and Roswell, the Pop Culture Phenoms hurl all manners of verbal abuse at Turnbull. But it ends up drowned out when, tired and abused, the Foot Soldiers raise their respective belts high!

Vince Howard: The winners of this match… AND NEEEEEEEEW PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS! KRIS ROSWELL! SATAN JONES! THEEEEEE FOOT SOOOLDIEEERRRSSSS!

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! FOOT SOLD-IERS! FOOT SOLD-IERS!

Nick Stuart: What a sequence! What a match! Both teams wanted this, but Kris Roswell pulled an amazing counter out to pick up the win! A well deserved win and we have new champions!

Richard Parker: You can’t say the Pop Culture Phenoms didn’t give it their best shot! You know they wanted this win and on another day, they probably get it. But this night belongs to the Foot Soldiers!

FADE

TO

FEET