ReVival 93
Backstage. Where winners play, and players win.
PRIME newcomer “Miracle” Marty Murdoch walks around the backstage area, eyes wide with wonder. He has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walking and taking in every sight as if he were at a museum with the most interesting exhibits he’s ever seen. He very obviously feels out of place and is flustered, unsure where to go. He approaches a door.
From the other side of the door, he hears…singing?
“Now you’re ready to sail for the horn…”
The singer sounds like he sweetens his morning coffee with a spoonful of gravel. Still, he’s considerably better than the response.
“WEY HEY, ROLL AND GO!”
The chorus sings with more keys than the building’s janitors, making a truly wretched cacophony.
“Our boots and our clothes boys are all in the pawn, to be…”
“ROLLICKING RANDY DANDY OH!”
Oh God, that’s horrible.
Marty opens the door sheepishly.
Marty Murdoch: Uhh… ex-excuse me?
Consider the plight of poor Marty here. He’s about to step into the biggest spotlight of his career so far
And what does he see?
A pirate. Ratty clothes, bandana over his stringy hair, eyepatch, the whole nine. Definitely a pirate.
A man with blue hair, covered in tattoos.
A red-haired man sporting a rainbow crop top.
A woman (in the men’s locker room!) whose shirt identifies her as a three-time Countertop Cartwheel Champion.
Three guys in identical (except for the color) jackets.
The pirate might actually be the most normal one.
Salty Pete: Heave a pawl, oh heave–
The song–and we’re being generous–is paused when the blonde guy in the blue jacket holds up a hand. His attention is now focused squarely on Marty.
Nate Colton: Hey, buddy. Can I help you?
Marty Murdoch: Hey, Mr. Colton. Ahh… it’s, well, it’s my first day and I really have no idea where I’m supposed to go?
Nate Colton: I get it; these places can be a maze if you’re not used to ‘em. You’re gonna find the other stage hands hanging out near Argyle–head down that hall to the right, hang a left, then you’ll start seeing the signs.
Marty Murdoch: Thanks! I’ll head that w-
Marty looks down for a moment, seemingly building up the courage to correct Nate. Consider that Marty has watched Nate in PRIME for some time now and, really, he can hardly believe he’s not a backstage worker.
Marty Murdoch: Actually, sir, it is my first night, but not as staff. I’m a…
Marty steadies himself as if to project the confidence a bit more.
Marty Murdoch: I’m a wrestler.
He says it with a sense of finality, but the statement drops off at the end, as if he’s still questioning the truthfulness of it.
Nate Colton: …ah.
Behind him, the red jacket guy snickers, though we can’t be sure if it’s at Nate’s embarrassment, or Marty’s claim to be a wrestler. Either way, it earns him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Nate. The New Diamond rises and moves to the door, where he greets Marty with a handshake.
Nate Colton: Shit, I’m sorry. You’re the new guy, right? Martin?
Marty shifts uncomfortably.
Marty Murdoch: Actually, sir, I go by Marty. I mean, Martin is my name, but nobody calls me that. Well, except for this one cousin, but he’s an assh… he’s a jerk, sir.
Nate Colton: Buddy, I’m gonna need you to knock off the ‘sir’ shit. There ain’t ranks back here; just people. Here, lemme show you around.
He stands aside and presents the gathered crowd for the newcomer, starting with the pirate.
Nate Colton: Here’s our guest of honor, “Salty” Pete Yardley. Retired now, but he was one of the best pirates in the business for about twenty years.
Yardley sheepishly raises a hand.
Salty Pete: Aye, good to see a landlubber take his first turn at sea.
This is meant to be encouraging.
Nate Colton: Over here we’ve got Ami Troy, Bobby Neptune, Daihm Ferguson…
Colton doesn’t indicate who is who, but Marty doesn’t really need it. Look at the guys in that group; what else would they be called.
Nate Colton: Finally, our less special guests. The big man is my cousin Dennis; he’s judging the Survivor barbecue thing tonight. And that reprobate over there is Dumbass Jones.
Benny Colton: Ha!
Nate Colton: You can call him Benny. Everyone, this is Marty…
Oh, no. Nate, you don’t know his name, do you?
Marty Murdoch: It’s Murdoch, si-. Just Murdoch.
Nate Colton: Marty Murdoch! It’s his first night, so let’s make him feel welcome…and then watch him kick some Lasagna ass!
A cheer goes up at varying levels of enthusiasm. Pete Yardley, curiously, seems the most fired up about it.
Salty Pete: Yarr, give ‘im a belly fulla steel, lad! Stain the seas with his blood!
Marty Murdoch: Uhhh… ok? I guess?
Nate Colton: After you’re done, just come on back. We got drinks, a sweet foot massager, some rutabaga cheesecake–
You’re stuck with it forever, Nate. Accept that.
Nate Colton: And Pete’s gonna be teaching shanties all night.
Daihm Ferguson: You ‘shant’ miss it!
The Dragon gives Marty two big thumbs up, each of them covered with googly-eyed finger puppets.
Marty Murdoch: That sounds awesome. I’m just gonna…umm…change?
He looks around for a safe place to undress, but Ami Troy’s presence complicates things.
Nate Colton: Oh, yeah. Just duck behind that curtain over there; we blocked off a couple lockers and the showers.
Marty Murdoch: Cool, thanks!
“The Miracle” runs off, stops, comes back to shake Nate’s hand again, then bolts behind the curtain.
Nate Colton: Nice kid.
Nate rejoins the choir, who have been patiently waiting. And by “patiently,” we mean “Ami Troy is staring at her watch that she is not wearing.”
Bobby Neptune: Am I to understand that, on earth, a “sea shanty” may be sung on dry land? Such a thing would be a capital offense on the ocean world of Unghh.
Salty Pete: Aye, but that be the fine thing about piratin’. We live free lives, beholden to no law but our own.
Nate Colton: Everything sounding good, Uncle Pete? I’m not too flat, am I?
Salty Pete: Nay, lad. Shanty’s a work song; it be more about the timin’ than tune. Now! One more shot, me boys–
Ami Troy: Ahem.
Salty Pete: –me hearties, and give it yer all! Ye’ll be old salts in no time! Ben, lad?
Benjamin nods and claps out a rhythm. Once Salty Pete has the tempo, he starts the song anew.
Salty Pete: Now you’re ready to sail for the horn…
“WEY HEY, ROLL AND GO…”
In the middle of the response, Bobby Neptune leans over and tugs on Nate’s sleeve. Their whispered conversation is drowned out by the singer…
Salty Pete: Our boots and our clothes boys are all in the pawn, to be…
“ROLLICKING RANDY DANDY OH!”
Colton makes a few quick gestures towards Salty Pete, who nods and continues the song while Nate and Bobby head to the back of the room.
Bobby Neptune: Look, Nate, I know you’ve dealt with Ivan in the past, to put it mildly. I just…I need people in my corner tonight in case the Red Army tries something. Will you be there?
Nate Colton: Hell yeah, brother. If you’re gonna make Ivan eat shit, I want a front row seat. Slapping around his Red Army jackasses is just a bonus.
Bobby Neptune: I knew I could count on you. Now let us rejoin the choir of lawlessness.
The two rejoin the shanty choir, sitting down just in time to join the response.
“WEY HEY, ROLL AND GO!”
Salty Pete: Get kraken’ me lads, ‘tis a hell o’ a way, to be…
Cut.
It’s Friday night, and you know what that means.
It’s time for signs.
VICKIE HALL > TAYLOR SWIFT
(A PICTURE OF A TRASH CAN LID) DROPPED YOUR CROWN, QUEEN
WELCOME HOME SATAN JONES
IS MALORT CONSIDERED BARBEQUE?MATH IS DEAD MATH IS GOING TO GET HIMSELF KILLED
DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES? IVAN DOESN’T
CRASH JACKSON EATS GLIZZIES THROUGH THE MIDDLE
WHY DOESN’T MIGUEL JUST EAT MARY MURDOCH?
TRY SURVIVOR IN A SMALL TOWN
KANSASS CITY BBBQ… THE EXTRA B IS FOR BYOBY
SO IT’S BBBYOBYQ. REALLY ROLLS OFF THE TONGUE.
Nick Stuart: We’ve got a great opening match for you tonight! Newcomer Marty Murdoch will be taking on Lasagna Boy Miguel, who is already in the ring.
Richard Parker: I think he’s been there for hours.
“You Make My Dream” by Hall & Oates hits the sound system and “Miracle” Marty Murdoch comes rushing energetically into view to a chorus of cheers. PRIME’s scrappiest underdog makes his way toward the ring and takes every chance to slap hands and interact with the faithful. He stares wide-eyed into the crowd, brimming with appreciation for the experience before stepping up the ring steps and through the middle rope. He hops onto the middle turnbuckle in a way that is somehow practiced and yet still precarious, raising his arms high into the air and clapping along with the crowd.
DING DING
Nick Stuart: Here we go!
Marty Murdoch is the first to attack, going in for a tie-up. And it is here that I apologize, because if you thought that Marty Murdoch vs. Miguel the Lasagna Boy was going to be anything other than a David vs. Goliath matchup (though instead of Goliath maybe I should say Jabba the Hutt), you were mistaken.
Marty is smol. Miguel has a big belly. There’s only one way this can go.
And it goes there by Miguel putting his hands out, grabbing Marty, and shoving him backward. Marty slides back to a knee, and Miguel laughs.
And laughs.
And laughs.
Nick Stuart: I’m not sure what’s so amusing to Miguel.
Richard Parker: Are you kidding? It’s hilarious that a 5’7 scrapper thought he could take down the mountainous Lasagna man.
Miguel continues to laugh. You might think he’s done laughing, but no, he is merely on the first f of the word “guffaw.” He has so much more laughter in the tank.
Unfortunately for him, Marty is done with him laughing. He gets to his feet, walks up to the merry Miguel, and leaps impressively before planting a dropkick square into Miguel’s face.
RRRAAAAAAAHHH!
Nick Stuart: The fans are already behind Marty Murdoch, and it isn’t hard to see why!
Richard Parker: Yes, because the idiotic film Rudy made us think it was good to be oVermatched and undersized.
Miguel doesn’t leave his feet, but he does stagger back and give Marty the space he needs to operate. And operate he does, rushing in and attacking the larger man with right hands. He pushes Miguel back into the ropes and pummels him until referee Jimmy Turnbull comes in to give Marty a warning.
Nick Stuart: We sometimes have new wrestlers that we call rookies here, but Marty is the true definition of a rookie. Only 18 years young, he claims to hail from Small Town USA.
Richard Parker: I was trying to figure out which small town it was.
Nick Stuart: Well, I’m sure that it’s just a representation of small town sensibilities rather than an actual location.
Marty goes with another tactic, grabbing Miguel’s arm and leaning him into the ropes before attempting to Irish whip him to the other side. I do say attempt, though, because Miguel is much larger than Miguel and decides to plant his feet. He uses Marty’s momentum to reverse the Irish whip, sending the man they call Miracle into the other side. Miguel is proud of himself before realizing that you don’t win wrestling matches by simply countering moves. Before he can act on this newfound knowledge, Marty has already come back and knocked him back with a flying forearm.
Richard Parker: No, I’m going to figure out where he’s from if it’s the last thing I do.
Nick Stuart: Of course you are.
Miguel stumbles into the corner and Marty is quick to press his advantage, pummeling him with left and right hands. Miguel’s soft belly bounces back with each punch, making him look like that Mike Tyson Punch Out character. You know the one, with the X on his belly button? Yeah, that guy. He even has the “o” face expressions as Marty attacks him.
Feeling himself, Marty again decides to try and Irish whip this much larger man, and again it goes exactly the same way. Miguel plants his feet, and this time when he reverses the whip he does so with added oomph, causing Marty to slam against the turnbuckle and collapse in a heap.
Richard Parker: Boise?
Nick Stuart: Why Boise?
Richard Parker: Well, he just fell like a sack of potatoes.
Miguel falls back into guffawing very naturally, but he is smart enough to – stop laughing, I know. But he just got distracted laughing so hard that it allowed Marty to take advantage. He won’t forget for, like, at least two more minutes. So for now he immediately walks up to the prone Marty and lifts him up, tossing him into the turnbuckle in one fluid motion. The crowd groans in sync with Marty, who slumps down and grabs his shoulder. Miguel grabs Marty from behind, but the young man instinctively sends an elbow to Miguel’s face. Quick as a flash, Marty jumps up onto the second rope, then jumps backward, turning around and knocking Miguel down with a flying cross body.
Nick Stuart: He calls that the Leap of Faith!
He falls on top of Miguel for the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
Nick Stuart: Powerful kickout from Miguel, but this Marty has been really impressive!
Richard Parker: Maybe Reno?
Nick Stuart: Why?
Richard Parker: Reno is the biggest little city, and that’s impressive?
Nick Stuart: You’re not even trying.
Richard Parker: The staff loves me, I don’t have to try!
The emphatic kickout sent Marty to his feet, and Miguel pops up with an impressive burst of agility and puts his shoulder into Marty, driving him into the corner. As Marty crashes into the corner, Miguel backs up and then unleashes a clothesline so powerful that Marty flies over the ropes and crashes onto the floor below.
Nick Stuart: Oof, what an impact! Miguel might be turning things around now!
Miguel rolls under the ropes and grabs Marty, then walks him back towards the ring. Grabbing his head, he slams him into the apron, then lifts him back up and runs his head into the ringpost. Marty falls to the ground, clutching his head.
Miguel isn’t done yet, as he lifts Marty up before chopping him across the neck, then whipping him into the barricade. Jimmy has seen enough, and he walks over to start the countout.
ONE!
Miguel looks up at Jimmy with true disgust, then waves at him dismissively. He grabs Marty and lifts him up, then brings him towards the ring again, slamming his head into the ringpost a second time.
TWO!
THREE!
FOUR!
Nick Stuart: Both men need to get back into the ring, but Marty especially! There are too many dangers out here for him!
Richard Parker: Like any small town dangers, partner. Opioids, sheriffs, hot dog carts.
Nick Stuart: What’s dangerous about a hot dog cart?
Richard Parker: Crash may be lurking to steal your hot dog.
Miguel picks Marty up and decides it’s time to bring it back to the ring. He slams his head one last time on the apron.
FIVE!
SIX!
Then he rolls him under. Marty rolls twice then lays splayed out in the middle of the ring. Miguel rolls in after them and then starts laughing.
See? I told you it would take a few minutes for him to forget.
He continues to laugh at the catatonic Marty for a few more moments before deciding it’s time to finish this. He walks over, then prepares the Belly Flop, which isn’t listed as Miguel’s finisher on the site but based on his bulk should be the natural move he uses. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not like he’s going to hit it anyway.
WHAMMM!!
Nick Stuart: Marty moved!
Richard Parker: And so did our desk from that impact! That’s a big boy in there!
Marty rolls to his feet, waiting for Miguel to lumber to his. As he does, Marty grabs his head and runs to the corner, then runs up and plants him back down!
Nick Stuart: The Underdog! He hit that corner running bulldog, and Miguel looks out!
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
DING DING DING!
RRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!
Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER… “MIRACLE! MAAAARRTTTYYYYY MUUUURDOOOOCH!”
Nick Stuart: Well, partner, Marty Murdoch showed resilience and skill tonight, putting down the Lasagna Boy with that big finish. Great start to ReVival tonight!
Richard Parker: No it isn’t, I never found out what small town he’s from.
Nick Stuart: It says here he’s from Indiana.
Richard Parker: NOT LIKE COLTON AND REZIN! GET HIM OUT OF THIS FED! NO MORE INDIANANS!
We go elsewhere.
The Minister…
…presents…
…previously on…
The Bolognese Bull lumbers around the “old stage” area, searching for something. He passes the NEWS NOOK and pauses, staring at it thoughtfully before moving on.
BB: ..hurrragh…
He pushes over the broken down ruins of the NEWS THRONE, searching through the detritus carefully. Despite his massive size the Bull works with surprising care to shift through the remains of Max’s once lofty throne. Finding nothing he grunts and moves on.
He continues like this for a few more minutes before he shoves a large piece of burnt stage wall to the side.
BB: … graaah.
Slowly lowering himself to the ground his hands wrap around something unseen. He lifts it, carefully, reverently.
BB: …kriiiiiiigh… kiiiiiiaagh…
The sound of his heavy foot falls fills the room as he begins to slowly walk away. As he passes the “old stage” once again falls into silence, left back to its quiet rot. –The NEWS STAGE flickers to life, filled with anxious interns running around the NEWS PIT looking busy.
Shuffling onto the NEWS STAGE comes Max Kael looking disheveled and unhappy. A scowl is etched on his somber face, the LEAD NEWS ANCHOR takes his palace behind the NEWS PODIUM.
Max Kael: Worms of PRIME… welcome to the NEWS, such as it is.
Cancer Jiles face appears on the massive screen behind him.
Max Kael: On ReVival 92 Cancer Jiles defeated JCH and, in turn, defeated… me. We don’t put any blame on Cancer Jiles, he was simply doing what Cancer Jiles does. He’s a long time friend of the NEWS and will be long into the future.
Clearing his throat the image behind him changes to a smiling JCH.
Max Kael: No, the person responsible for this loss, the person who cost me the glory of victory was none-other than the NEWS’s own SPORTS Correspondent, Jonathan-Christopher Hall. That TROGLIDYTE is hereby BANISHED from the NEWS until he makes it up to me. And unless he can get me Cecilworth Farthignton or a Universal Title Shot, I DON’T WANT IT!
He pounds his hands on the podium, spittle flying from his lips.
Max Kael: … and that’s the NEWS.
We immediately fade to black.
RECORDED EARLIER
Three rounds of Survivor have come and gone.
Gone are the likes of Kerry Kuroyama, Steve Lemieux, Tony Gamble, Cancer Jiles, Scott Hunter, and Ivan Stanislav. Remaining are…
Henry Keyes
The Anglo Luchador
Coltrane Anderson
Kenny Freeman
Rob Williams
Nathan Lake
Definitely the group that you expected to be here at this point.
It is morning in Kansas City, in a production backlot designed for filming such things as BBQ Cookoffs (is that a thing? I don’t know. Let’s try and not think too hard about such things, okay?). The sun is rising across the horizon as the men have been given a space that is dedicated to their own, complete with stations filled with sauces, spices, grills, and other cooking things that are essential.
The winner today? They would be crowned the expert of the BBQ Cookoff and move onto the next round of Survivor. The losers? Gone from Survivor. We will go from 6 to 4 and someone might even cry by the end of it all.
Now, would you like to know our judges? You probably don’t (trust me), but we’re going to introduce them nonetheless.
Introducing first… he’s part of the Colton wrestling family and knows his way around a kitchen, grill, and barbecue pit. Number one on a certain someone’s Dimes list, it’s… DENNY COLTON!
Introducing second… he’s a legendary tag team wrestler, a Kansas City native, and as we will soon learn, holds very strong opinions about regional barbecue. Believe it or not, he’s actually calmed down in his middle age … DAVID MCBRIDE!
And finally… this man will also serve as your host for this competition because I couldn’t think of another host and this person definitely should be the host… he has eaten more BBQ from gas stations than you could imagine… he has driven across Kansas City, the Carolinas, and Texas because when you are this man, those are the only places that matter… he didn’t want to have anything to do with this, except eat the food, but Lindsay Troy told him to be judge and host or he could have no BBQ, which made him very sad in his big giant hat and then he proceeded to wrap his arms around people and swing them around because he’s rather uncouth… I’m talking about none other than the man and legend himself… CLAY BYRD!
Clay glares.
I said none other than the man and legend himself… CLAY BYRD!
There’s an intern holding out an apron and a Guy Fieri flame shirt to him. The intern doesn’t look real comfortable right now. Clay doesn’t blink, he just absently stares. Keyes begins to scan the area for Absynthe. Just in case Clay found some again.
He hadn’t. He just stares. Somewhere, two bumbling brotastic buffoons waltz their way into the scene.
Bradlee Nelson: The Great Cowbroski… my man…
The BROs might not recognize the time as a bad time, Bowie claps Clay on the shoulder and looks down at the shirt.
Bowie Abrams: Bro…
Bradlee Nelson: Bro… if they don’t have two of those.
The intern pushes the shirt at Bowie, eagerly handing off the duties of hosting this wonderful event to the BROsideons of the BROcean. Bradlee swipes the apron and begins putting on, it’s entirely too large, but you work with it.
Bradlee Nelson: Did we just become the hosts dude?
Bowie Abrams: I think, I think we did.
Byrd nods and walks to the seat at the judging table anyway.
Bradlee Nelson: I think we did bro!
The BRO’s high five, somewhere everyone is going to be confused by the dialogue in this.
Thanks, Clay. Can we focus?
Alright, let’s get back to wrestling and we’ll check on these dorks later.
We’re back to the ring, and there’s unfortunately a Lasagna Boy occupying it.
Toddrick, known in some circles as the Bionic Lasagna and known by other shapes as the less cool Lasagna Boy, stands in the ring. Fred Dick hasn’t even bothered coming to the ring to accompany him, because he’s likely still (pretending to be) checking on the condition of Miguel after the mollywhopping that Murdoch gave him in the last match.
Vince Howard doesn’t even give Toddrick the dignity of being announced.
The chryon at the bottom of the screen barely remembers to call him Toddrick, as though it’s placed there as an afterthought.
Now, the lights cut out. A beat. A guitar chord. And the siren song of Trey Parker.
“AMERICA.”
A bald eagle’s screech. The American flag gallantly flies across the PRIMEview as a beautiful banner.
“AMEEEERRRICAAA.”
Drums. Electric guitar.
“AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!”
Pyrotechnics in red, white, and blue explode on the stage, a geyser like the Fourth of July, and Chad Freedom comes out dressed in Old Glory. Cowboy hat on head. Cape. Aviator sunglasses. Coolest motherfucker in America.
Freedom pauses at the top of the ramp, removes his hat, and places a hand over his heart. He’s looking around. Looking for something. Someone. Anything. But satisfied enough, he puts his cowboy hat back on and heads for the ring.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… heading for the ring, from an undisclosed location in America! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and fourteen pounds! CHAAAAAAADDDDD FREEEEEEEDOMMMMMM!!!
Freedom slides under the bottom rope. He signals for the timekeeper to take his American flag cape and his cowboy hat, and he gets ready for some in-ring action. Toddrick is also ready, and when I say he’s “ready,” what I mean is that he’s thrusting his pelvis towards Chad Freedom. Repeatedly. Aggressively.
So with Freedom in the ring, and Toddrick thrusting his pelvis in his general direction, referee Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.
DING DING
Toddrick continues to thrust his pelvis, and we’re all a little mesmerized by this experience.
It hadn’t even been a year since Toddrick fell, pencil-style, from the roof of an arena that one time. He had drunk four Four Lokos and huffed so much gold paint and then decided that he was going to jump off of an arena’s roof because Fred Dick was sad about the Almasy. He did not take Fred’s advice to go down head first. His body became synonymous with pencil in that moment.
He shattered both legs and his ass and, most importantly, his pelvis in the fall.
And yet, here he is now.
We should be astonished at the Wolverine-like powers of healing that has led him to somehow get cleared to wrestle a man in an American flag inside of a professional wrestling ring. We should marvel at the powers of PRIME’s medicine.
He’s going to need them, because what Chad Freedom does about three seconds after the bell has rung is dropkick Toddrick so hard that Toddrick becomes a crash test dummy launched, as though by a Ford F-150, directly into the turnbuckles behind him.
OHHHHHHH!!!
The shotgun dropkick from Chad Freedom causes a lot of things to happen at once, most of which happen to Toddrick’s physical human body. First of all, his chest is going to have two bruises on it in the exact shape of the bottoms of Freedom’s boots. Perfectly placed for maximum impact. That maximum impact does funny things to the lasagna shaped like a human man, as it launches him directly into the turnbuckles behind him.
Crunch.
Nick Stuart: WHAT A DROPKICK FROM CHAD FREEDOM!
That’s an understatement.
It’s the type of dropkick that most mortal men don’t even see coming. It’s the type of dropkick that seems like it was launched by ballista instead of the normal human “run up and throw your feet at the other guy and hope for the best” type of dropkick. It’s the type of dropkick that hits like a dinosaur-killing meteor. Toddrick is fairly lucky that his skeleton didn’t simply fly out of his skin.
So about those turnbuckles…
As if getting hit by a dropkick like it’s a force of nature, the cruelty of physics asserts itself upon Lasagna Boy #2 and he immediately hits the turnbuckles back-first with the force and momentum involved better seen in train crashes without any sort of seatbelt whatsoever. Toddrick’s limbs do funny things that limbs don’t normally do, spasming out in all kinds of directions you don’t want your limbs to spasm.
Gravity gently pushes aside force and momentum, and says to them “I got it from here, this one’s mine now.” Gravity thus takes Toddrick, poor sweet fuckass Toddrick, and drops him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. You know, a sack of rotten potatoes that you’d want to discard as quickly as humanly possible so that their rot doesn’t get anywhere near you or your family or your dog or really anything that you value in your life. That’s Toddrick. Toddrick is potatoes now.
As such, Toddrick falls on his face for his third impact as a result of one singular dropkick.
Gravity’s cruel joke doesn’t end there, though. Because of course it doesn’t. This is a Lasagna Boy and cruelty is the only thing he ever experiences.
As though he’s being drag-and-dropped by a mouse, Toddrick pops back up to his feet. This is not because Toddrick is, in any way, resilient. He’s not firing up like he’s got fighting spirit. He’s not ready to give Chad Freedom a move of equal power. This is his body’s neurons rebelling against him for all the bullshit that Toddrick’s put them through over the last year.
Richard Parker: Oh. He’s not having a good time.
Once again, our commentary team are understatement peddlers.
Toddrick falls backwards as though gravity said “nuh uh, bitch.” The neurons of Toddrick’s body said “no u” and bounces him right back up, and while we would love to continue this comedy, those neurons are not winning this argument with gravity. It’s fucking gravity. If gravity loses an argument on this earth, then we have bigger problems than what’s happening to Toddrick.
Toddrick’s body flails on the ground, trying to get to his feet. It’s not because he wants to stand up in flight. It’s because he wants to stand up and flee for his fucking life. The full Rincewind. Of course, having pencil’d himself a year ago, his legs aren’t exactly cooperating with him.
He flops.
He flops again.
Just to make sure, he flops a third time.
Then he lies still.
He’s accepted that he isn’t getting up yet. He’ll just lie here and contemplate all of his life decisions and wonder how the hell he ended up in a professional wrestling ring in Kansas City and…
Oh.
Time out for a second.
Imagine you’re Toddrick for a moment.
First of all, I’m sorry. Life and Reality have tag teamed you and your friend and the Fred Dick that’s brought you together for a while now, and it’s very likely that it’s consequences coming to reap what you’ve sown. Second of all, you’re lying on the ground in a professional wrestling ring, and you’re pretty sure you just got the literal worldly soul knocked out of your body like Spider-man did with Doctor Strange. You know, if Spider-man was a Lasagna Boy and Doctor Strange was an American flag.
You’re lying there, and then you can barely – over cheers of the crowd – hear Nick Stuart say the most terrifying six words in the English language at this exact moment.
Nick Stuart: Chad Freedom is on the top rope!
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
Oh Jesus.
You look up, and you’re seeing double. Two Chads Freedom perched on the top rope.
Let’s stop pretending we’re Toddrick.
You’re welcome.
Chad Freedom squats on the top rope, and slowly stands up. He looks out in the crowd, an amused look on his face. He holds his arms out and his hands make a flourish, causing the crowd to steadily build up an “OHHHHH” sound. Toddrick can only stare up, horrified, at the impending doom that’s standing there. As though mocking him. As though mocking Miguel, who isn’t here right now but Toddrick is certainly thinking about him. Mostly in terms of “I wish Miguel was here and not me.” Those terms.
Freedom gives him one more smile.
He mutters one word at him.
“America.”
And then he flies.
Folks, you’ll never see a man gain as much height on this top rope double stomp as Chad Freedom does. In this exact moment, he’s replicating the leap Toddrick himself had made just one year ago. You know, the pencil leap done on four Four Lokos. That one.
Only, instead of doing this in a misguided haze done through enthrallment from a suicidal master, Chad Freedom is doing this because he intends for this act to defeat his opponent. He’s doing this to finally get in the winning column.
One Nation.
Under Foot.
BOOM.
Toddrick is now legally dead in the city of Kansas City.
Chad Freedom hits him square in the chest with both boots and bounces off of him like he’s Mario using a Goomba to reach a higher platform. Freedom manages to land on his feet in a cat-like manner, and then he slides into the cover.
One.
Two.
Three.
DING DING DING
“AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!”
Chad Freedom is quick to jump to his feet and throw his fist into the air in triumph.
RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen! The winner of this match… CHAAAAAAADDD FREEEEEEDOOOOOOMMMMM!!!
Nick Stuart: Toddrick tried tonight…
Richard Parker: No, he didn’t.
Nick Stuart: An attempt was made…
Richard Parker: No, it wasn’t.
Nick Stuart: But Chad Freedom has won tonight!
Richard Parker: Okay, that one I’ll give you.
Chad Freedom jumps up onto the second ropes and raises his arms in the air in triumph.
Nobody cares about Toddrick, who still lays there as flat as a fritter and dead in the city of Kansas City.
Tonight, victory is Chad Freedom’s.
Fuck yeah.
And so, ReVival 93 moves on.
ReVival returns from commercials, opening up on a view of our beloved commentary team.
Holding a finger up to his earpiece, Nick Stuart bears an expression of concern as he listens in on the rampant backstage chatter.
Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ReVival, fans. We’ve got plenty of show to get through, but right, we’re getting word of something taking place backstage!
Richard Parker: Backstage?! I work there, Nick! Quick, do we have any cameras back there?
The feed quickly cuts to backstage, and we are THERE and in the moment.
The view bobs as the camera operator hurries down a hallway and rounds the corner, arriving just outside of the Argyle position.
Richard Parker: (v/o) What’s going on here?!
Right away, we see one person on the floor, and a second standing over them.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) That’s KERRY KUROYAMA! Putting the BOOTS to Toddrick!
The Lasagna Boy curls up on the floor as Kuroyama kicks him like a cigarette machine that ate his last five dollars. Then when he’s good and tenderized, the Emerald Apex scoops him up, nelsons his arms, and dragon suplexes the bejesus out of him.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) SUPLEX on the floor! Kerry is showing absolutely NO MERCY to the Lasagna Boy!
Richard Parker: (v/o) Poor guy was probably just coming back from the ring, and unknowingly walked into an outright assault!
Just then, Miguel comes around the corner with a set of post-match conciliatory ice cream cones.
When he sees what’s happening, he immediately pulls a Donald Glover in that scene from Community when he walks into the room with a handful of pizzas and finds everything on fire and in chaos.
Except in this case, the fire is Kerry Kuroyama beating the shit out of his friend and partner.
And instead of pizza, it’s ice cream.
(blueberry for Toddrick and lavender mint for Miguel, in case you were kurry-ous)
Kuroyama turns around and locks eyes with Miguel.
Miguel: UH-OH…
Seattle’s BEAST slowly advances. Miguel quickly assesses and knows he’s destined for an ass-kicking.
Yet somehow, it’s the ice cream he’s currently double-fisting that seems to be of more concern to him. How’s he going to take an ass-kicking without dropping a scoop?
Miguel: UMM… UMM…
Kerry sees his anxiety, and looks at the ice cream cones in his hands.
Kerry Kuroyama: …want me to hold those for you?
Miguel immediately breathes a sigh of relief. He gladly hands them off to his would-be aggressor.
Miguel: Oh man, THANKS! I would just hate to let all this good ice cream go to waste–
With a cone secured in either hand, Kerry lifts and launches his leg forward, planting the sole of his boot into Miguel’s face by way of his infamous Yakuza Kick.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) OH MY!! Down goes the other Lasagna Boy!
Richard Parker: (v/o) Kinda impressed he didn’t lose a scoop.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) Kuroyama is no doubt still FUMING with the way the last ReVival ended!
Richard Parker: (v/o) You mean when he won his match?
Nick Stuart: (v/o) Nice deflection, Rich! We all know it was the Whoresmen’s interference that resulted in that match ending in disqualification! Thus ruining his chance to become champion!
Richard Parker: (v/o) That’s the game of life, Nick! You win some, you lose some. And only LOSERS respond to their WIN by taking their anger out on the LASAGNA BOYS!
Arm’s flailing at his sides, Miguel spits and blubbers as he careens backwards and hits the wall, where he promptly drops on his ass.
Conveniently, he falls right next to where Toddrick ended up through his own ride on Kerry’s dragon wagon.
Kerry Kuroyama: Listen up, ricotta-runts…
Still hurt and clutching their neck and jaw respectively, the Lasagna Boys perk up just as the shadow of the Emerald Apex falls upon them.
Kerry Kuroyama: Since neither one of you were directly involved in that bullshit from two weeks ago, I’m letting you off easy tonight.
Miguel and Toddrick exchanged bewildered glances.
This is being let off “easy?” Is he being serious?
As though reading their minds (cuz he has like ESPN or something and his abs can totally tell the weather), Kerry leans in and glowers at them with the intensity of an active volcano.
Kerry Kuroyama: Yes, I am serious. Everything I do is serious.
As he says this, he offers them their ice cream.
Even more bewildered, the Boys reluctantly accept their cold treats.
Kerry Kuroyama: Nothing personal. Just… well, you guys have seen Jaws, right?
Miguel nods. Toddrick shakes his head.
Kerry double-takes him. Dude, seriously?
Kerry Kuroyama: Well, to bring in a shark, one simply needs to chum the waters. And you, fellas… make mighty good chum.
He smiles — not in the kind way — and lightly slaps their cheeks, as if to say all is cool with them.
Then a shrill voice peals from further down the hallway.
“GOD DAMN YEW KURRY KURRYAMA YEW BASTARD!!!”
Kuroyama rises up and calmly nods, as if he expected this.
Kerry Kuroyama: Case in point…
He pivots, and stares down the source of the voice standing just a ways up the hallway.
If the Emerald Apex were a vengeance-obsessed whaling captain, then it should come as no surprise to discover that his white whale also answers to the name of Dick.
Richard Parker: (v/o) The STREET CAT has entered the chat!
Fred Dick: THEMS WAS MY LASAGNA BOYS!!! THEMS WAS MY LASAGNA BOYS!!!
Kuroyama casually steps forward. Snorts. Balls up his hands. Cranks his neck and shoulder.
All the tell-tale signs of someone who came ready to throw down.
Kerry Kuroyama: Then fucking get over here and do something about it.
Fred charges.
Kerry stands his ground.
They collide, immediately entangling themselves into a living conglomeration of punches, kicks, collars, butts, gouges, and chokes, all to the soundtrack of bestial snarls of fury.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) We’ve got an absolute melee on our hands
Richard Parker: (v/o) This is getting out of control! Where is security?!
The unspoken answer: Taking a brief recess.
Enjoying a little pancake party up in the VVIP Room.
Which means the brawl can go on for as long as it needs to. Uninterrupted.
Kerry attempts to scoop Fred off his feet. Dick just goes with it, launching all of his weight into a press that buckles Kuroyama backwards.
Losing control, they fall into and roll over a table of cables and monitors and switches and powerboxes, landing in a violent heap out of sight through a privacy curtain strewn amid the racks and crates of production equipment.
Richard Parker: (v/o) I hope all that stuff they’re wrecking controls the Bandits’ pyrotechnics.
The camera man strafes around to keep the action in view. We can hear blows landing. Grunts of pain and anger from both ends.
We see a flash of Fred standing up with a flatscreen held overhead like a bludgeon, only for Kerry’s rising fist to pop him in the jaw before he can bring it down. Again, they fall out of view.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) I can barely make out what’s going on!
Without warning, a light rack topples over, and Kuroyama emerges from the mayhem.
With Fred Dick on his shoulders.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) KERRY’S GOT HIM!!
Kuroyama doesn’t hesitate.
Emerald Flowsion on the floor. Head first.
Fred’s body becomes a limp blob.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) DEAR GOD, KUROYAMA DRIVER ONTO THE CONCRETE FLOOR!!!
Richard Parker: (v/o) I think he KILLED HIM, Nick!
Kuroyama rises up and leaves Fred on the floor.
Nick Stuart: (v/o) Let’s get the medic personnel down there, STAT!
Fortunately for Dick, the PRIME med crew has no pancake party.
Half a dozen EMTs sprawl into the shot, surrounding Dick from all angles and quickly stabilizing his head and neck.
The camera pans, catching the Emerald Apex returning to Miguel and Toddrick.
The Lasagna Boys stand frozen and gawking with melted ice cream dripping from their mouths. They look absolutely traumatized by what they’ve just witnessed.
Kerry Kuroyama: Tell the others, this is only a taste of what’s to come.
Kuroyama walks off.
Toddrick and Miguel stand there completely mortified.
Toddrick: …it tastes like blueberry.
Miguel: Dude, that’s mine!
We cut back to Nick and Richard at the commentary table, shaking their heads at the events they just witnessed.
Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll provide an update on Fred Dick’s condition as soon as we know what’s going on. We can confirm that he is… still alive.
Richard Parker: Well… a lot of people are going to be disappointed to hear that…
Nick Stuart: I mean… can you blame them? Anyway… Kerry Kuroyama came here tonight for the sole purpose of getting some payback, and I’d say he got it in spades! But this may only be a sign of things to come in the ongoing spat between Vae Victis and the Whoresmen!
We go backstage, where PRIME’s ever indignant punk rock backstage reporter is standing by with a microphone in his hand and an enthusiastic expression on his face.
Simon Tillier: What’s up, PRIME-ates? “Rhymin’” Simon is here in the back, happy and grateful to be here on the greatest day in this company’s long and storied history.
The junior interviewer pumps his fist.
Simon Tillier: The day PUNK ROCK finally came back to PRIME!
He waves to his left and steps aside to make room in the frame.
Simon Tillier: Joining me now, making his long-awaited return to PRIME… the stoner saint of anarchy and impulse… the bane of cops across America… banned from competing in no fewer than SEVEN states, and THREE U.S. territories… the only man that was ever kicked out of ANTIFA, on the grounds of being TOO PUNK… and, of course, the former Universal Champion… the Escape Artist, REZIN!
The grizzled and black-garbed Goat Bastard of infamy struts and saunters into the shot. He takes a heavy drag off his burning spliff while scatting to the tune of Black Sabbath’s “Into the Void”.
Rezin: NYEEERRrr doom-doob-doo-ba-doom-BAAP, doom-BAAP, doom-BOWW-DOWW, DOOB-dl’b DOOB-dl’b DOOB-dl’b DOOB-dah-DOOBIE DUMMB…
Reunited at last, Rezin and Simon bump fists.
Simon Tillier: Rezin… welcome back, in the official capacity.
Rezin: FUGG YEAH, Simon! Lemme tell ya, feels GREAT to finally jus’ walk around without havin’ to constantly peek o’er my shoulder lookin’ out for them DAMB ENEMIGOS!
Simon Tillier: Yeah, I can imagine. And speaking of things that feel great, it’s a real relief to be interviewing you again. Can you believe they had me on Vae Victis duty for like two years??
Rezin balks.
Rezin: DUDE… DUUUUDE… that is just BEYOND CRUEL!! What kinda SICK and TWISTED MINDS would force ya into the MENTAL AGONY and TORTURE of havin’ to innerview a miserable sum’bish like KURRY KURRAYAMA?!
Tillier shakes his head and broods angrily as he recounts so many memories of getting punched in the face.
Then the Escape Artist snaps him out of it with a supportive slap to the shoulder.
Rezin: Well ya AIN’T GOTTA WORRY ‘BOUT THAT SHIT ANNYMORE, Simon! Now that this OL’ DOPEMSOKER is BACK inna SADDLE AGAIN, YOU an’ EYE are gettin’ inna ALL SORTA NEW an INNERESTIN’ PUNK ROCK PRO WRASSLIN’ SHENANIGANS!
High as a fucking kite, Rezin rips another lungful off his spliff and points with his hand out into the void of space.
Rezin: Just IMAGINE alla SYSTEM-BUCKIN’ STRAWPPORTUNITES, Simon! We’ll SET FIRES, Simon! We’ll KILL COPS, Simon! We’ll KILL COPS by settin’ ‘em ON FIRE, Simon! And mebbe, Simon, I’ll even win a COUPLA MATCHES while we’re at it! It’ll be DOPE as FUCK! SIMON!
Tillier briefly glances into the space directed by Rezin’s tar-stained hand, but remains decidedly more grounded.
Simon Tillier: Sure, it sounds great, Rezin… but for now, maybe you’d rather focus on the task at hand? For instance, your match tonight against Vae Victis’ own SCOTT HUNTER.
Rezin quickly snaps back to attention and gets FIRED UP.
Rezin: SCOTT HUNTER… that MULLETED MIAMI MOOK… the GREATEST SCOTT…
Tillier nods in agreement and rubs at his jaw, as though suffering from phantom pain.
Simon Tillier: And an enemy to the free press, I might add. Anyway, care to share your thoughts on your opponent later tonight?
The Goat Bastard gets that SURRIOUS look in his eye as he stares down the camera.
Rezin: Well LEMME TELL YA HWHAAT, “Rhymin’” Simon…
Suddenly, without warning, and in a most interrupting manner, a trash can is thrown into the frame.
Simon Tillier: Oh no… Big Ian Salt!
Big Ian Salt: What’s this shit? Some kinda fucking stoner banquet? Some kinda fuckin 420 convention!?!
Big Ian Salt storms into the frame.
Big Ian Salt: Couple of fucking braindicked DOPERS hanging out with their wieners in their hand. Ain’t that the lamest shit I ever seen. Rezin, I know you ain’t got no potential. But Simon, maybe go make some art or something you little piss ant. You little peon. Speaking of art, let’s talk about MY art. The art of WHOOPING ASS ON THAT DOPER WHO EMBARRASSED ME IN FRONT OF MY WOMENFOLK!!! Well, my art isn’t finished, Rezin… I’M NOT DONE WITH MY ART!!!
Simon Tillier: Look now, guys, let’s keep things civil here–
Rezin: CIVIL SHMIVIL, Simon! Only thing to do when a SUM’BISH gets up in yer GRILL is to show that muthafugga HOW WE DO on the PUNK end of the spectrum!
Despite the very obvious size and height differential, the former Universal Champion furrows his brow and bows up on the biggest eGG Bandit outside of Bobby.
Rezin: Lemme tell YOO somethin’, ya Big Ian STANK… I ART-A RIP that CATERPILLAR offa yer FACE, pack it in my bong, and SMOKE IT after that shit ya pulled a couple weeks ago! But luckily for YOU, I got too mush respect for HAYES to be committin’ crimes against STACHE-KIND! But if it’s ART yer innerested in, then mebbe ya can use it as a BRUSH and use MY AZZ as yer CANVAS, ya damb knuckle-dragger!
Big Ian snarls.
Big Ian Salt: I’m sick of your shit you fucking scallywag. You. Me. Ascension. I’m gonna make QUICK WORK OF THAT ASS WHEN I RUN THAT FADE, TOO! Ooh, you bitch! And I can’t WAIT to run that fade. I reckon it will take me about as long as it takes a couple of brainiacs like you two to roll a joint and SHOVE IT UP YOUR OWN ASSES!!! I reckon that’s… fuck, how long is that?
Rezin growls.
Rezin: For yer information, it’s FOUR MINNITS an’ TWENNY SECONDS to be exact! An’ I would know cuz I PERSONALLY TIMED MYSELF back when I was smugglin’… wait, are we measurin’ TIME or LENGTH here? Cuz if it’s LENGTH, then I’ma need a ruler an’ some KY Jelly to figger things out. SIMON, can ya do me a solid hurr? I mean… preferably not TOO solid, knaw’m sayin’?
Simon Tillier: Alas, Rezin, I left my ruler for measuring the depth of a human anal cavity in my other work jacket.
Rezin: Well shucks… okay, NEBBERMIND! Ya want dis AZZ at AZZ-SCENSION, Papa Smurf, then YOU GOT IT! An’ since ya think it’ll be SOOOO EASY, let’s gwan ‘head an’ make it an ol’ fashioned FOUR-TWENNY MATCH!!
Rezin stands smug and triumphant, hands on his hips.
Mr. Salt and Mr. Tillier simply stare at him in confusion.
Simon Tillier: Yeah, um, Rezin… care to explain for us what exactly an “old fashioned Four-Twenty” match really is?
Rezin: I mean, ya know, it’s a MATCH, Simon! One with a FOUR MINNIT an’ TWENNY SECOND TIME LIMIT!!
He redirects his glare back to the towering Big Ian looming before him.
Rezin: MORE’n enuff time to take care’a the BONGRIPPIN’ BIDNESS with this BIG IAN SUIT here!
Big Ian Salt: Fine. A Good Ol’ Fashioned Four-Twenty Match. Ascension. Haha, I’m gonna fuck you up. Now… back to the matter at hand… Shut the fuck up before I slap the shit out of you in front of your little friend here.
Rezin: Not if I slap the shit outta YER lil’ friend first!
Salt’s face scrunches up. He’s about to ask, “What ‘little friend’ are you talking about, MARK?”
But before he can, Rezin makes it very clear just which “friend” he was referring to when the back of his knuckles CLOCK Big Ian right in his big salty sack.
Big Ian Salt: FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!
Salt buckles up and collapses in place. Rezin sets his hands on his hips and throws his head back with triumphant laughter.
Rezin: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA, PUNK ROCK TRIUMPHS AGAIN! But okay surriously Simon I’m gettin’ the fugg outta here before he wakes up…
Simon Tillier: Yeah, sounds like a wise move. Think I’ll do the same. Good luck against Scott Hunter. Really slug him hard for me, will you?
The Escape Artist is already fleeing down the hallway.
Rezin: YA GOT IT, SIMON! I’LL SHORYUKEN HIM SO HARD IT’LL MAKE HIS MULLET FLIP!
As the Goat Bastard disappears, the junior reporter returns his attention to the groaning and growling Big Ian Salt slowly recovering on the floor.
Simon Tillier: Well, fans, I think that’ll do it for me tonight! Be sure to stick around to watch the exciting return of Rezin, and set your calendars for Ascension, when he meets…
He gestures to the man in the blue track suit on all fours before him.
Simon Tillier: …um, this guy, in PRIME’s first ever “Four-Twenty” match. Even at under five minutes, I’m sure it will be a barn-burner. And if not, well… I’m sure something’s getting burned regardless. For now, though… “Rhymin’” Simon is gonna wish you all a very enjoyable rest of the show, and skedaddle! Good night, everyone!
Tiller scurries out of the show just as a red-face and seething Mr. Salt finally begins pushing his way to his feet.
Looking BEYOND furious, Big Ian glares at the camera, just as the segment fades back out to the arena.
Richard Parker: Business is about to pick up! And by business I mean, Steve Lemieux’s life. And by pick up, I mean end.
Nick Stuart: Not very gentile of you, Richard. I take it you’re a big El Profesor guy?
Richard Parker: Huge. Mucho. Grande.
Nick Stuart: Well, since we’ve just gone trilingual at the desk, sounds like it’s time to welcome in the undefeated and streaking native of Puerto Rico.
“La Danse Macabre” by Camille Saint-Saëns hits the loudspeaker, and the fine, meat-rich people of Kansas City respond to PRIME’s hottest newcomer with down-home, Midwestern politesse.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Of course these unlearned hogs would boo a man of letters. Sickening to see that coastal elites have infiltrated the heartland.
Nick Stuart: Not even attempting to enter this region of discourse with you, but sure.
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: You can love him or hate him, but what you can’t do is quibble with his results so far. Two and oh in PRIME is rare air.
Richard Parker: Rare like a Kansas City tomahawk steak.
Vince Howard: Coming first to the ring…from Villalba, Pueeeeeeeerto Rico…he weighs two-hundred and thirty pounds…ELLLLLLLLLLL PROFESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSOR!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
El Profesor seems to absorb the hate with calm, even snarling in the general direction of some particularly energetic front-row fans, each of whom has on a different Kerry Koalayama shirt, proving their PRIMEate bonafides.
And then: a vibe shift.
Soundtracked to Darude’s “Sandstorm.”
Nick Stuart: You know what that sound means!
Richard Parker: (you can’t see but he’s pointing to his watch) IT’S SLOBBBBBBBBBBERIN’ TIME!
Indeed, this is what the Lemarrival signifies. Atop the ramp emerges a man who appears to be formed from a malleable putty, but a very kind and gentle variety, walks out in a perfectly normal fashion for someone walking down the sidewalk, a slightly odd way for someone who is entering from Argyle position into the visible entrance for a wrestling program.
But that’s the Lemieux difference, baby. The crowd’s apey for it regardless.
RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Nick Stuart: A man of the Midwest, a meatmonger and proud of it, it actually makes plenty of sense why they appreciate Steve Lemieux here in KC.
Richard Parker: These…Kansans? Kansas Cityans? Kansese? Kansa? WHATEVER. They’re about to find out about la vida loca.
Nick Stuart: Lightly problematic, so let’s hand it over to Vince Howard.
Vince Howard: Annnnnd his opponent, from Peooooooooooooria, Illinois, he IS Mr. Beefst….STEEEEEEEEVE LEMIEUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUX!
Having plodded to the ring in his genial manner, looking only slightly like a suburban dad out for a powerwalk-but-without-thepower, Steve rolls under the ring and…
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Nick Stuart: Underhanded attack from El Profesor before Lemieux could even get to his feet!
The undefeated newbie only backs off when Elvis Nixon steps in, and forces the lucha star off the prone form of Steve Lemieux. He’s gotten enough licks in that Nixon checks on the beef man. El Profesor takes the opportunity to mouth off to the crowd, and the ringside camera catches the audio loud and clear.
El Profesor: Taught him his first lesson! He shoulda known!
Lemieux looks a bit worse for wear but is able to get to his feet. He gives a nod to Elvis Nixon, perhaps thinking that the ref is asking: Steve, do you cherish and adore the feeling of putting on a new pair of Kohl’s white tube socks? But the man has assented, and so we let loose the dogs of war, or at least civil disagreement.
DING DING DING!
Richard Parker: This is going to be light work. Es pan comido, as we say.
El Profe continues to jaw at the fans, while Steve Lemieux shakes off the early cobwebs. In fact, Steve is feeling a bit spicy after the surprise attack. So much so that he walks right up to Senor Sanchez del Valle and taps him on the shoulder.
Nick Stuart: El Profesor swinging wildly before he even turns around, oh it’s a fight now!
The newcomer has indeed swung first and asked questions later, but he’s off the mark. He stumbles conveniently (for his opponent) into a face to face with Steve Lemieux. Once again, the hard camera catches plenty of sound.
Steve Lemieux: You flippin’ blindsided me. You…you dang jerk.
El Profe is well-heeled in the art of conversation, and so he responds in kind to what passes for fightin’ words from the Peorian native.
Richard Parker: Rake of the eyes, ha! Eat it, Lemieux.
Steve is momentarily blinded from the attack, and he swings wildly with both arms, looking like he’s trying to win at charades and his clue is “moose on the loose.” El Profesor evades this, and tries to circle around, but finds that it’s actually hard to square up on someone moving as erratically as his opponent.
Nick Stuart: Unorthodox as always from the former Alias Champion.
Lemieux comes back somewhat to his senses, and sees El Profe across the ring. He folds his arms, which a Midwestern man only does when he’s been seized by the fury of the gods. Del Valle advances, throws a snap kick at shin level, then runs the ropes. He rebounds, and shows impressive vertical ability as he pops up into a hurricanrana that flows through into a pin attempt.
ONE!
Richard Parker: Hit the Lemieux’t button on his remote.
TWO!
But with a deft-or-luck-who-can-say shift of weight, the mass of humanity shifts towards the center of the ring, leaving Steve Lemieux clutching El Profesor’s legs, the latter’s shoulder pinned to the mat.
ONE!
Nick Stuart: Lemieux’s got the cradle in tight!
TWO!
Electricity in the crowd. They can’t help themselves. They loved the Beefst man. They don’t care how many times they get food poisoning from his bescourged meats. They know that sometimes the taste of freedom has just a little salmonella because god dammit that’s the American way. At least they’re not eating DISGUSTING lettuce. Now that stuff will make you sick.
That’s why they’re pulsing with energy as Elvis Nixon’s hand approaches the mat.
THREOHNO!
Richard Parker: Good god.
Nick Stuart: A hair’s breadth away from a Lemieux victory!
Both men roll away in relative shock. El Profe looks insulted that his opponent dared try to stop his win streak. Lemieux has the same look of surprise anytime something goes well for him in the ring.
Nick Stuart: I don’t think El Profesor considered that the meatmonger could’ve put a stop once and for all to his undefeated record.
There’s just a mite of confidence in Steve Lemieux as he stands up to full height. Perhaps it’s just an optical illusion from the glare off the khakis. El Profe aims to snuff it out. He engages in a lock-up, then slides behind Lemieux with a hammerlock. He wrenches on the arm, forcing Lemieux down to a knee, and then quickly jumps and drops a one-footed stomp to the elbow joint.
Richard Parker: Vicious. Ok, now keep going.
Lemieux grabs at the elbow in pain, but El Profesor doesn’t let up. He grabs the elbow and uses it to leverage into a la magistral.
ONE!
Nick Stuart: Pinning predicament. Lemieux in trouble!
El Profe has the the cradle in tight, and shows no sign of letting up. Elvis Nixon drops the hand again.
TWO!
Richard Parker: Elementary, my dear Profesor.
THREE!
RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Nick Stuart: Reversal! Reversal! Lemieux’s on top! Shoulder down!
ONE!
Richard Parker: Why won’t you stay dead?!
TWO!
THREE!
NO!
Nick Stuart: Ohhhh, it was right there!
Seeming to have some kind of preternatural skill for rolling the pile into a position that benefits him, Steve Lemieux has wide eyes as he pops up. Hard to say if he’s got the eye of the tiger or, ya know, his face just does that, but he’s alert, alive, awake, enthusiastic(ish).
Richard Parker: Stay on him, Profe!
El Profesor slaps the mat in frustration. He’s providing most of the offense, but it’s Lemieux who’s been closer to victory twice now.
Nick Stuart: El Prof apparently needs to figure out a way to get Steve Lemieux’s shoulders to the mat without the threat of reversal.
Richard Parker: Who knew that this airhead was…kind of a sick chain wrestler? Oh God, I’m not having glue-huffing hallucinations again, am I?
Nick Stuart: Always hard to say, but not this second, you’re not.
El Prof rises again, proverbial steam coming out of his nose. He grabs Steve Lemieux by the (modestly coiffed and sensibly styled) hair, and shoves the man towards the middle of the ring. He fakes high with a right hand and then when Lemieux covers up, he drops low for a sweep kick that takes out Steve’s legs. The follow up is simple but spectacular.
Richard Parker: WHOA!
It’s the rare move, like Profesor’s standing shooting star press, that brings Richard to (near) silence. Even the KC crowd has to begrudgingly admit it was cool. They don’t have to like it, but del Valle’s most recent offense is gnarly.
Nick Stuart: Tide turning here, looking like El Profesor’s match to lose.
He stays on the attack, pulling Steve Lemieux up, moving towards the corner, and then exploding off with a tornado DDT that spikes his opponent. A quick pinfall attempt follows.
ONE!
Richard Parker: Now it’s elementary, my dea—
Nick Stuart: You’re gonna jinx it again.
TWO!
THREE! NO!
Late breaking shoulder up from Lemieux stops the count, and only serves to enrage El Profesor further. He tosses Steve towards the corner, where only the turnbuckle keeps Mr. Beefst upright. El Profesor lets out a roar, and then unloads on Lemieux, European uppercuts issuing from both left and right in quick succession.
Nick Stuart: THE SYLLABUS! Lemieux might be out!
There’s a slumped quality to Lemieux. He’s standing, but just barely. Seizing the moment, El Profe grabs him and raises vertically, depositing Lemieux on Profe’s back in Gory Special position.
Richard Parker: You’re gonna like this one, Nick. Watch for the boom.
El Profesor poses for just a moment, and then spins and delivers maximum violent impact in one fell swoop, Lemiuex’s head and neck thudding to the mat.
Nick Stuart: FINAL TEST! FINAL TEST!
He hooks the leg.
ONE!
Richard Parker: I’m not gonna say it.
TWO!
Richard Parker: Ok, I might say it.
Nick Stuart: What in the Sam Hill?!
RAHHHHHHH!
Richard Parker: It can’t be!
Nick Stuart: But it is!
ONE!
Ok, so what had happened was…
TWO!
…somehow, some way, Steve Lemieux used El Profesor’s momentum in the pin to flop over onto El Profe’s shoulders, which are right this very second pinned to the mat and we’re at like 2.2
Probably 2.3 by now.
And it appears that the near-deadweight of Steve Lemieux (2.4 by the way) is both so surprising and so dead that it’s proving quite the sticky situation to get out of.
2.5 at this point.
Elvis Nixon’s arm being at that angle actually means more like 2.66.
Which means 2.7 is just around the corner.
Richard Parker: Not like this!
Took two-tenths to say that, so 2.9 gets to to…
THREE!
NO!
ONE!
Nick Stuart: Reversed again! El Profesor on top!
TWO!
Should we do fractions this time?
Ok. Two and one quarter.
Two and one third.
Ok sike, no more math.
THREE!
Because no more match.
DING DING DING!
Because El Profesor is on top of the pile, chest heaving, stunned by what hard work it was to put away his squirrelly opponent.
Nick Stuart: Right down to the wire!
Richard Parker: Element—
Nick Stuart: Absolutely not.
Richard Parker: Noted.
It takes a moment, but El Profesor rises in time for Elvis Nixon to raise his hand, and Vince Howard does the honors.
Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER….EL PROFESSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR!
BOOOOOOOOOO!
Nick Stuart: Crowd-pleasing or no, El Profesor earned that win, and earned the right to say that he remains undefeated.
Richard Parker: Pretty nice piece of work for an academic.
Our last two shots before we fade: the stirrings of Steve Lemieux, only now beginning to get himself collected after the violent end of the match, and then a cut to El Profesor, leaning on the ropes with a satisfied smile, holding up three fingers to count the amount of victories he’s accrued in PRIME.
“WELCOME, MY LITTLE DEVILS!”
RRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!
Who needs an introduction here? You know who this is and where we are. Let’s let the man finish his introduction.
Satan Jones: And you are LIVE!
WITH! SATAN!
Okay, fine, we’ll set the scene now. Satan is holding the phone, grinning, and there may be some wetness in his eyes. In the background Kris Roswell leans against a set of lockers.
Satan Jones: I love you guys, sincerely and genuinely. It feels so good to be back in Kansas City!
There’s a cheap pop here, but we allow it because he’s technically the hometown boy.
Satan Jones: And today, as you probably have guessed, is a very special episode of Live With Satan. Because tonight we have the new tag team that’s been turning heads, including ours because every time we go anywhere, they happen to be there. I present to you the planewalkers themselves, Chandler Tsonda and Jasmine Jeong, the Den of Vipers!
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Cut to stage right: we’ve got Chandler Tsonda: all black everything. We’ve got Jasmine Jeong: neon fitted tank and enormous harem pants, it’s called fashion, mom.
And now we’ve got Den of Vipers, both giving respectful-but-wary head nods to the tag champions.
Tsonda keeps his eyes on Roswell. Jasmine steps in front and offers a handshake to her host. It’s an off-night after all. And who would ever dare besmirch the temple of Satan with violence? Nobody, that’s who.
Having made their entrance, and preened the appropriate amount, but not making the tag champions wait too long, Den of Vipers break their silence.
Jasmine Jeong: What’s good?
Chandler Tsonda: (nods to Roswell, then Satan) Gentlemen.
Jasmine Jeong: You see us last week? Pretty good, huh? Like…soon-to-be-tag-champs good?
Kris immediately raises his eyebrows as if to say “we’re doing this so soon?” But Satan is all grins.
Satan Jones: You looked amazing, but I ask the questions here. It’s an interview show, yeah? And my first one is for you, Jasmine. What’s it like working with a guy like…
He jabs a thumb towards Chandler.
Satan Jones: …him?
There’s visible effort, and the slight popping of a forehead vein, from Tsonda to not respond. Luckily, the junior DOV member handles this with grace.
Jasmine Jeong: He’s aight.
You can see the “are you kidding me? I raised you like my own flesh and blood! I, metaphorically, suckled you at the teat of my leadership and wisdom!” forming in the mind, and soon, mouth, of the Model Citizen. Luckily (again), Jasmine turns back to him, giddily sticking her tongue out.
Jasmine Jeong: He’s about to bug out. (back to Chandler) Calmate, old man. Yeah yeah, Chander’s a legend, double Hall of Famer, greatest of all-time, and all that jazz. He’s a solid teacher, but he’s a fire teammate. I just have to remember to get him back to the old folks’ home after the shows; at his age, it’s not a good idea for him to drive after sunset.
Chandler Tsonda: As you can tell, she’s a five-star talent with zero-star manners.
If Chandler is looking for an ally in age, he won’t find it among these twenty-somethings.
Satan Jones: Hell yeah, Jasmine. Hell yeah. You did the Channy is old thing so I don’t have to open that nearby locker which has a ton of props meant to needle him about his octogenarian status, and we can just move onto the next question!
Satan’s grin fades as he asks his very serious question.
Satan Jones: Last show you faced off against the vaunted tag team The Intruders. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Everyone appears startled by Satan’s shout, including Satan himself.
Satan Jones: Forgive the impression, I love those guys. Anyway, which Intruder smells worse?
Chandler Tsonda: You’d think, just for the purpose of a great bit, that it’d be #2. But I gotta tell you? Guy smells divine. Kind of a bergamot, fig, cedarwood situation? Dry tobacco on the finish? You’ll hear Ol’ Chan badmouth a lot of people, in a lot of highly entertaining ways. But you won’t ever an unkind word about the olfactory experience of Intruder #2.
Jasmine Jeong: Agree with my super normal teammate. Intruder #1 is ass, and he stinks like it. Sorry to him and his family, I’m sure he’s a nice guy.
Kris Roswell: He’s not.
Satan Jones: But now I want to get in a ring with #2. Or get my soap sponsor to make a new scent.
He looks from his subjects to the camera.
Satan Jones: Don’t forget to pick up your bar of Devil’s in the De-toes today! Next question: who approached who about this tag team?
Jasmine looks at her mentor, who nods back to her assuredly.
Jasmine Jeong: (thumbs backwards nonchalantly) That’s the big homie.
Chandler Tsonda: I’m not a tag team wrestler. No offense, ok, not very much offense. I’m just here to tell people I was an angel investor in the next best wrestler you’ve ever seen. The Air Apparent is the truth, and this was cheaper than StubHub to get front row seats to what she can do.
Satan studies Jasmine for a moment. Two moments. Three, four. Long enough that she might want to get a restraining order. Finally, he nods.
Satan Jones: I can see it. You got the goods.
Kris Roswell: Hopefully more than Dawkins had.
The air changes. If there had been any shots from one team to the other thus far, it had been subtle and mostly jokey. This — a direct reference to the only time Chandler had been in the ring with the Foot Soldiers, coming from the most serious person in the room — feels different.
You might expect that the Viper who takes a step forward, a step towards inflaming tempers and in the general direction of violent ends, would be the man who, in the end, was one of Bryan Dawkins’ closest friends.
Instead, it’s Jasmine who steps up, puffs her chest out, and flares her nostrils.
Chandler Tsonda: No.
She looks back at the seasoned vet.
Jasmine Jeong: Fuck you mean no? You heard what that string bean said?
Chandler Tsonda: I heard him. (turns to Kris) I heard you, young boy. You two have had a hell of a run. Got yourselves strapped up. And, like young boys are wont to do, you’re feeling a little froggy. Big men on campus, the aces of a division with the likes of FLAMBO, Elise Ares, Ol’ Chan himself. You’re feeling yourselves.
Jasmine Jeong: Don’t say nice things to him. He’s rude.
Chandler Tsonda: (points to Kris) Talk your shit, young boy. Live it up. You only got so long to do it before DOV is wearing tag team gold and you’re tripping over your feet to run back to me and apologize: (does an unflattering impression of Roswell) please, please, Chan, I was just a mouthy little goober, I wasn’t fit to mention Bryan Dawkins, I was just trying to help the one with the cellphone do cool TikToks.
Jasmine Jeong: (aside to Satan) They’re pretty good. But him.
She gestures to Kris Roswell, who both of the Vipers keep an eye on.
Jasmine Jeong: He’s nasty.
Satan looks at his partner.
Satan Jones: Kris! She’s right! That was nasty. Apologize.
Kris shrugs.
Kris Roswell: Sorry.
Satan Jones: No, the full apology. The one he just said.
Kris blinks.
Kris Roswell: Really?
Satan Jones: Really. Get it out of the way now so you don’t have to do it whenever we lose the titles.
Kris sighs heavily, then recites Chandler’s words back to him.
Kris Roswell: (deadpan) Please, Chan. I was just a mouthy little goober. I wasn’t fit to mention Bryan Dawkins. I was just trying to help the one with the cell phone…do cool TikToks.
Then he raises his eyebrows.
Kris Roswell: Better?
Satan Jones: You forgot a please, but I’m satisfied.
Chandler Tsonda: Honestly…same? For now? (to Jasmine) You think we take it easy on em?
Jasmine Jeong: We’ll be so nice to you boys up until the moment when we mess around and get a tag title shot. At that point, it’s scary hours. Chan will even like one, just one, don’t get greedy of your videos on one platform, Satan. Won’t he?
The Model Citizen looks as though he has been volunteered to make the trip to ReV 94 in Des Moines on foot. The deadpan he offers in response is not *unlike* the tone of voice we just heard from Kris Roswell.
Chandler Tsonda: ONE like. But I’m not watching the whole video and so help me God if anyone says ‘W’s in the chat.’”
The Air Apparent addresses both tag champs with a visible sense of accomplishment.
Jasmine Jeong: Taught this old dog some new tricks.
Chandler Tsonda: It’s a little hinky that us — Den of Vipers, forever pimps, top-rope finessers, tag-champs-in-waiting — and you—bad attitude sulker, and the phone-haver—might just be the best things going in the tag division. And yet, there’s a whole six-pack of goofball jamokes out there with a spot on tonight’s card, and us with nothing to do but repartee. Just something Ol’ Chan noticed. Doesn’t seem like they’ve hired brain geniuses to do the booking around here, does it?
It’s a rhetorical question, and a long-winded one, but maybe an actual question. Either way, the Model Citizen looks in the direction of the Foot Soldiers.
And though it was rhetorical, Kris steps forward to answer it. There is no aggression in his posture, though.
Kris Roswell: Look. I’m not trying to be rude. And you are…I mean, you’re Chandler Tsonda. You’ve done everything there is to do. But even as great as you are, and as much as you’ve done, you’ve had one match with your current partner. You looked great, truly.
This last sentence was leveled at Jasmine as a sort of apology for his rude words earlier.
Kris Roswell: But we got here in January. Fought and scrapped. Took down everyone in front of us. And it took us until July to get that shot. So I’m not saying you don’t deserve it, and I know you know I’m more than willing to defend the titles against anyone. But if you truly believe in doing things the right way, maybe you need to take down some more competition before meeting us in the ring.
Satan nods at this, then frowns. Neither DOV member stirs, though they’re both clearly taking this in and thinking on it.
Satan Jones: Ugh, I haven’t asked a question in ages! What kind of interview is this?
I’m sure others are asking themselves that same question.
Satan Jones: Let’s get this back on track. Wet sauce or dry rub?
Chandler Tsonda: Finally, a skincare question. Now, there are a couple schools of thought here about base layers and how you—
Jasmine Jeong: I can only teach him so much. Soy sauce, honey, sesame oil, garlic, and some grated Asian pear, Korean pear if you can get one, that’s just a touch overripe. People will tell you bulgogi is finicky, but they’re wrong and/or racist, and I’ll fight them. KC seems like a great town, but the answer is wet sauce ten times out of ten.
Satan grins.
Satan Jones: Great answer. Except for the part where you called Kansas City a “town,” when it is in fact a bustling metropolis that is the home of famed greeting card company Hallmark and was visited by Winston Churchill several times.
Satan nods to himself, feeling satisfied in his defense of his hometown.
Satan Jones: So, Jasmine, your partner has already waxed – at great length – on the merits of the members of the tag division. What’s your take on it? The bottom layer, the fluffy middle, the exceedingly handsome top?
Jasmine Jeong: I’m ‘sposed to be happy just to be here, in PRIME, in the tag division. And, like, I’m not mad to be here, it’s wavy. Even him.
The phenom points at Kris Roswell.
Jasmine Jeong: It’s an incredible test, the most talent I’ve ever been around. A division I’ll be proud to call myself the tippity top of very soon. (points to herself and Chandler) Uncrowned champs, for now, by the way.
Tsonda gives an approving nod.
Jasmine Jeong: But nobody’s defended those belts three times in a row since Eminence. I respect you guys, I respect the grind. But I’m chasing Justine Calvin and Jared Sykes and that record. Unless, of course, you can be the first team to hold onto those straps for a nice long time. By then, though…
She flashes a grin the likes of which has mostly been known in PRIME as the property of her tag partner.
Jasmine Jeong: …by then, we’ll have plenty of wins to stake our case to a title shot. And you guys are good.
Chandler Tsonda: Maybe even great.
Jasmine Jeong: Just not “Den of Vipers” great, ya know?
Satan lets the backhanded part of the compliment slip off his back like shower water. Grinning, he holds his free hand out to Jasmine for a high five.
Satan Jones: Man, you guys are great. The tag division was sort of boring before you showed up. Sure, we had hot men, hot women, and great wrestlers, but never all in the same team, you know what I mean?
Kris Roswell: You can’t just call your interview subjects hot, Satan.
Satan Jones: Sure I can. Can’t I?
He waggles his eyebrows at Chandler.
Chandler Tsonda: (whispers softly) My kryptonite.
Jasmine looks at the extended hand from Satan Jones. Her eyes pass over Kris Roswell, who strangely may be the person in the room whose personality hers resembles most.
Jasmine Jeong: When you’re right, you’re right. We are pretty great.
The Air Apparent holds her palm out perpendicular to the floor. Prepare for landing.
The high five is picked up by the phone microphone, which is then amplified by the army of sound equipment PRIME has at their disposal. The result is a sound so clear, so crisp, so hand-slappy that ASMR fans all over the world salivate.
Satan Jones: Hell yeah, Den of Vipers. Hell yeah.
Returning his grin to his phone camera, Satan fashions the hand that just slapped Jasmine’s into devil horns.
Satan Jones: So that’s it for my interview with one of PRIME’s newest tag teams, the confident, charming, and possibly clairvoyant pair of Chandler Tsonda and Jasmine Jeong! They say they’ll be the tag team champs soon. I guess we will have to see.
Kris Roswell: We sure will.
Both members of DOV throw up the same double hand gesture: each hand’s index and middle fingers spread wide, palms facing in. The effect: four V’s flashed in the direction of the tag champs.
\/ \/, things of that nature.
One of these, you might mistake for just a real hep cat flashing a peace sign. Four of ‘em? That’s a trademarked, patented, let’s-put-this-on-some-merch tag team hand signal, babes. From there, Tsonda gives a little pantomimed two-finger salute from the forehead flicked out towards Satan. Jasmine just a nod.
Satan nods back, presses a button, and sends us elsewhere.
From Satan and Tsonda and Jeong, we cut back to the BBQ Cookoff Classic.
Previously Recorded
Clay Byrd steps out of the air-conditioned studio he’s been relaxing in and immediately demands a towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
Clay Byrd: Holy Hoyt, who thought doing a BBQ Cookoff in August was a good idea?
The BROs pop into the camera frame, both with awesome flaming Guy Fieri button up shirts on. They’ve even managed to find some visors, because why not bro? Because why the fuck not?
The BROs are handed something.
Bowie Abrams: Bro. I’m being told that first up is the chicken judging competition.
Bradlee Nelson: Dude I hope someone made tendies… We are eating some chicken. Now, all of this is a blind taste test. We don’t know who has what, but looking at some of these fellers, it’ll be easy to know which chicken is dry and has no seasoning. Look at that BRO!
Down the line, Clay spots Denny Colton sitting next to Henry Keyes. The BROs walk over to the duo.
Bowie Abrams: What’s up dudes?
Denny Colton: So, Henry and I were discussing the best way to add seasoning to the chicken.
Bradlee Nelson: Bro, Are you… helping him?
Denny Colton: No, no. I wouldn’t do anything such thing. (looks over to Henry) Probably needs more paprika. And mayyyyyybe not so much absinthe.
Henry Keyes: Got it.
Denny Colton: Good.
Bradlee Nelson: That might be kinda bogus dude.
Denny Colton: The man lives in an airship with a tiger. How much cooking do you think he really does? Just trying to give him some pointers.
Bowie Abrams: Hey Ami’s Mom’s bestie! How did you make that bodacious bird?
Henry Keyes: Well, you see, I took these thighs and cockslapped the shit out of them.
Clay looks over at Denny and then back at Henry.
Bradlee Nelson: Bro?
Henry Keyes: I cockslapped them!
Bowie Abrams: Dude.
Denny Colton: I think he means spatchcocked. If he did the other thing, Benny would be here already.
The BRO’s stare wide eyed and shocked at Denny. Just absolutely way too high for this.
Clay walks away, shaking his head, and as the BROs finally look around.
Bowie Abrams: Where is Master Splinter dude?
Bradlee eventually spots him with Nathan Lake, eyes about to explode out of his head. He walks over to him.
Bradlee Nelson: Bro?
David McBride: I’m watching this man stick a beer can up a chicken’s butt.
He says this in the same tone as one might describe a war crime.
Nathan Lake: Look, I told you! This is exactly how I watched it being done growing up. This is a perfectly normal way to do it.
David McBride: It’s fine if you’re getting drunk at the lake. Do you see a lake here?!
Nathan Lake: Dude, can you chill?
Bradlee Nelson: Dude.
Bowie Abrams: Bro.
David McBride: NO I CAN’T!
Clay wraps his arm around David’s shoulders and walks away with him. The Bro’s follow.
Clay Byrd: We talked about this.
David McBride: I know, I know.
Bowie Abrams: A wise splinter once told a young Michaelangelo. “You can’t lose your shit on them. They will break you in half, dude. You see Coltrane over there? You yell at him and he will make you eat your doodoo.”
David McBride: I’ve beaten guys twice his size before. Sure, it was fifteen years ago. But still.
Bradlee Nelson: Don’t worry big bro.
Clay walks back to Nathan Lake and looks over everything. He is then handed a card, which he quickly passes to one of the two idiots actually hosting the show for him.
Bowie Abrams: So, what the BROverse at home may not be aware of is that we’re following the Kansas City Barbeque Society’s rules here. So round 1 is Chicken, round 2 is Pork Ribs, round 3 is Pork Shoulder, and round 4 is Beef Brisket. Only wood, wood pellets, and charcoal are allowed, dude. All cooking must be done at their assigned spaces and all of the meat has been inspected by official meat inspectors. That have like a license and stuff. Or something.
He then throws the card away.
Clay Byrd: Okay, we done with the boring shit?
He then approaches Nathan Lake.
Clay Byrd: Alright, beer can up a chicken’s butt. That is a way ta do it. You got any of that beer left? For tasting purposes.
Nathan Lake: Sure! I used Tank 7 Farmhouse Ale, only the best in Kansas City!
David McBride draws a deep breath, and is just about to let it out when Denny Colton pulls him away from the conversation.
Nathan hands over a can of the stuff to Clay.
Clay Byrd: Thanks.
He then cracks open a beer and starts to drink it while he walks away.
Clay Byrd: Ah, now that is tasty. Alright, time to eat some shit. Let’s go.
He walks towards the judge’s table with David and Denny close behind him. The BRO’s jump in front of the camera.
Bradlee Nelson: So that everyone knows, this is all blind tasting. We’ve got six plates of chicken up here. We’re going to eat a plate, then score them between 2-9, bro. Unless one of these dishes should be disqualified, in which case it will get a 1 and be pretty bogus. Whoever scores the highest wins that round. We’ll award winners for each round, but the points are like all added up so you can’t rock it in one round and suck in the rest.
The trio get to the judge’s table and look at the six plates.
Clay Byrd: Also, if anyone gives me salmonella, I’m gonna beat the shit out of them. Alright, let’s start eating.
They walk over to plate #1. A chyron appears on the screen for the viewers that highlights plate #1 belongs to Rob Williams.
The trio start to eat it.
Clay Byrd: Alright, first off, this has got some flavor on it.
Denny Colton: You can tell they put some thought into this one.
David McBride: Yeah, it’s fine. More salt and pepper.
Then they move to plate #2 – Kenny Freeman. Clay takes a bite out of the chicken and then spits it out.
Clay Byrd: Ugh. I’m not sitting on the toilet like I just rocked nineteen tacos filled to the brim with lettuce from Taco Bell. This is awful.
David McBride: Put yourself on the grill next time.
Denny Colton: Yeah…I appreciate the effort, but you gotta cook the bird all the way through. That’s 101.
The trio make their way through the rest of the plates, take their scorecards, and fill them out before submitting them.
Bradlee Nelson: Alright dudes and dudettes, they’re doing some math and will post them below in just… a… moment.
ROUND ONE RESULTS
HENRY KEYES – 24
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 18
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 17
NATHAN LAKE – 15
ROB WILLIAMS – 14
KENNY FREEMAN – 4
Bradlee Nelson: Alright BROski’s, Henry Keyes takes Round One! But when you look at the top five, you can see a pretty close spread. So this is like anyone else’s game.
Clay Byrd: And Kenny? I’m coming to find you. Right now.
David McBride: Me, first!
Denny Colton: Guys…
We cut back to the live show.
Nick Stuart: Folks, we were getting ready to broadcast this three-way tag match, but the Pop Culture Phenoms are being absolutely childish!
Richard Parker: Childish!? These are the former PRIME Tag Team Champions, and production had the audacity to leave their entrance off the broadcast? I’d protest as well.
Nick Stuart: Sure you would, but you’re a tramp, and a scoundrel. The bottom line is PCP is refusing to have this contest with HAMBO and Them Bastard Roughnecks! They’re walking back up the ramp!
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 cheer Them Bastard Roughnecks as they head for the ring —
But they REALLY cheer when Hiram and Goldie stop PCP on their way up the ramp, and start shoving them back towards the ring.
Richard Parker: What the hell!? Who do these guys think they are!?
Nick Stuart: They are some big, tough bad asses, Richard, and PCP are backing down the entrance ramp towards the ring!
And sure enough, PCP are back in the ring, begrudgingly taking their corners, while TBR do the same.
Then…
As “Daggers” bitch slaps the ever loving SHIT out of T-Mobile Arena, Hayes Hanlon saunters out onto the ramp amidst the exploding planets and stars on the PRIME*View, and the bright flashbulbs bursting throughout the stands.
But something’s a little different. His tights and boots are on, but his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up is present, tiddy-window and everything.
He lets the moment marinate until its nice and juicy, then Hayes fucking RIPS his dress shirt open across his big, broad chest as “ooh la la” by Run the Jewels blasts through the arena speakers!
OOH LA LA, AHH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AHH OUI OUI
AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!
AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!
His shorts are a little smaller, a little tighter, a little more form-fitting. His hair and beard are immaculate. He’s got a hint of body glitter on his chest. He’s moisturized. His lips are balmed.
He’s just sexy as hell and even though the theme may be familiar, there’s a new aura about him. He looks around to the crowd, grins, winks, and blows a sweet little kiss as he joins Hayes Hanlon.
PRIMEview lights up with the accolades:
HALL OF FAMER
LE GRAND CHELEM
TV’S MR. SEX
F L A M B E R G E
The two bump fists as they stride towards the ring; it would almost be like two model walks during Fashion Week if they didn’t also look ready to kick some ass.
Richard Parker: They should team up with PCP and beat the crap out of those hayseeds.
Nick Stuart: Doesn’t really seem like their style, Richard.
Richard Parker: No… but their style is immaculate.
Nick Stuart: Yes.
DING! DING! DING!
The match starts off with the D, Hiram McClellan, and Hayes Hanlon, all circling each other. The first to act is Hiram, who charges the D for a lariat just from a sheer need to expel the adrenaline in his veins, but the D ducks and slips out of the ring under the bottom rope! Hiram lunges his arm over the top rope for him, and the young veteran Hayes Hanlon makes him pay with a school boy!
Just kidding, he dropkicks McClellan right in the small of his back!
Nick Stuart: That’s gonna leave a mark!
Richard Parker: GOOD! Do it again!
McClellan stumbles chest-first into the ropes, grabbing the top strand to keep himself upright. Hanlon is already back on his feet, and Hiram turns around just in time to eat ANOTHER dropkick, this one square in the chest!
The big Roughneck staggers back two steps.
But he doesn’t go down.
Hayes’ eyebrows rise.
Hiram grins.
So Hayes runs the ropes!
McClellan swings a wild right hand that Hayes ducks, rebounds off the opposite side, and comes screaming back with a flying forearm—
HIRAM CATCHES HIM!
High Cotton snatches Hanlon out of the air like a sack of feed, muscles him up over his shoulder, and RUNS HIM STRAIGHT INTO THE TURNBUCKLES!
Nick Stuart: McClellan just planted Hayes Hanlon into the corner!
Richard Parker: Apparently nobody told the hillbilly you’re supposed to wrestle people, not load them into a pickup truck!
Hiram backs away and comes charging back—
Nobody home!
Hayes slips aside and Hiram CRASHES sternum-first into the buckles!
Hanlon grabs him from behind! German suplex!
NO!
Hiram plants his boots and refuses to move!
Hanlon tries again!
Still nothing!
McClellan throws a vicious back elbow, but Hayes ducks—
THE D!
The D comes flying back into the picture with a springboard dropkick that catches BOTH MEN!
Hiram spills through the ropes while Hanlon tumbles onto his back, and The D immediately pounces!
ONE!
TWO!
Hanlon kicks out!
The D doesn’t waste a second arguing. He grabs Hayes by the hair, yanks him upright, and cracks him across the jaw with a forearm. Another! A third! He shoots Hanlon toward the ropes—
Reversal!
The D comes back and Hayes launches him with a HUGE back body drop!
The D sails through the air and lands HARD!
He staggers upright clutching his spine—
HAYES HANLON WITH THE SPINEBUSTER!
The ring shakes!
Nick Stuart: Hanlon just drove The D through the canvas!
ONE!
TWO!
HIRAM BREAKS IT UP WITH A BOOT TO HANLON’S HEAD!
Hayes rolls away and McClellan immediately grabs The D, hauling him upright by the waistband and the back of his neck.
A VICIOUS UPPERCUT!
The D goes cross-eyed.
A FOLLOW-UP RIGHT HOOK!
The D collapses against Hiram, who grabs him around the waist—
BELLY-TO-BELLY!
The D bounces off the canvas!
Hiram rises with a roar, pounds his chest, and turns—
RUNNING BACK ELBOW FROM HANLON!
Hiram wobbles!
Hayes stares at him in disbelief.
ANOTHER BACK ELBOW!
McClellan drops to one knee!
Hanlon backs into the ropes, comes forward—
HIRAM EXPLODES UP WITH A LARIAT!
Hanlon gets turned inside-fucking-out!
Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD! HIGH COTTON JUST TOOK HIS HEAD OFF!
Hiram dives onto Hanlon!
ONE!
TWO!
THE D DROPS AN ELBOW ACROSS HIRAM’S SKULL!
McClellan rolls away holding his head. The D scrambles onto Hanlon for the stolen cover!
ONE!
TWO!
NO!
Hayes throws a shoulder up!
The D slaps the canvas, grabs Hanlon—
HAYES SMALL PACKAGE!
ONE!
TWO!
NO!
Both men scramble upright!
The D swings!
Hayes ducks!
Hiram charges!
Hayes sees him coming and drops flat!
THE D DOESN’T!
WHAAAAAAAAAAM!
McClellan’s lariat nearly folds The D backward!
Hiram turns around—
Hayes leaps!
Hiram catches him!
Hayes squirms free behind him!
Hiram spins!
ENZUIGIRI!
High Cotton stumbles into the ropes and rebounds—
BIG BOOT!
HAYES DUCKS!
The D is back—
AND HIRAM’S BOOT CATCHES HIM RIGHT IN THE FACE!
The D collapses like he’d been shot.
Hanlon immediately leaps onto Hiram’s back, wrapping an arm around his throat!
Hiram reaches behind him, grabs Hayes by the head—
AND FLINGS HIM OVER HIS SHOULDER!
Hanlon lands on his feet!
McClellan turns—
RIGHT HAND FROM HAYES!
HIRAM FIRES ONE BACK!
HAYES!
HIRAM!
HAYES!
HIRAM!
Hanlon staggers!
McClellan winds up for the kill—
THE D DIVES BETWEEN THEM AND RAKES HIRAM’S EYES!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Now THAT is veteran instinct!
Nick Stuart: That’s cheating!
Richard Parker: Same thing!
Hiram blindly swings for The D—
Who ducks—
AND HIRAM CLOCKS HANLON!
Hayes hits the mat!
Hiram realizes what happened half a second too late.
The D rolls him up!
Feet on the ropes!
ONE!
TWO!
HIRAM POWERS OUT!
The D goes flying!
And all three men scramble back to their feet simultaneously, battered, breathing hard, and staring one another down.
For half a heartbeat, nobody moves.
Then all three charge.
The D rolls under a lariat from McClellan, tags in Elise! Hiram’s forward momentum carries him to his corner, where Goldie makes the tag! Hanlon, with no one to attack, shrugs and tags in FLAMBO!
Three fresh bodies enter.
Elise immediately decides she’s the fastest one.
She springs onto the top rope and launches herself at Goldie with a missile dropkick!
WHAM!
Both boots catch the Roughneck square in the chest, but Goldie only stumbles backward—
FLAMBO SHOOTS!
TV’s Mr. Sex snatches Elise’s ankle before she can get upright and twists her immediately into a heel hook!
Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE! Wasting absolutely no time!
Elise SCREAMS, twists her hips, and kicks frantically with her free leg until her heel catches FLAMBO on the mouth!
He releases!
Elise kips up—
AND GOLDIE RUNS HER OVER!
Richard Parker: Jesus Christ!
Nick Stuart: Goldie Booth killed the Video Star!
Goldie doesn’t even stop! He keeps running and barrels straight into FLAMBO with a shoulder tackle that sends him sprawling!
The Kansas City crowd ROARS!
Goldie grabs FLAMBO by the head, muscles him upright, and throws a looping haymaker—
FLAMBO slips it!
He catches Goldie’s arm!
Standing armbar!
Goldie bellows as FLAMBO cranks the elbow, but the tough s.o.b. simply reaches over with his free hand, grabs TV’s Mr. Sex by the waistband—
AND HURLS HIM WITH A BELLY-TO-BELLY!
FLAMBO tumbles across the canvas, rolls through, and pops back up—
ELISE ARIES OFF THE TOP!
FLYING CROSSBODY!
FLAMBO catches her!
No!
Elise’s momentum carries them backward—
GOLDIE LARIATS FLAMBO IN THE BACK OF THE NECK!
Richard Parker: Oh, come on! Somebody check that man’s blood for tractor fuel!
Flambo and Elise both hit the mat, but FLAMBERGE somehow, lizard instinct, cold blood, starts climbing back to his feet almost immediately!
Goldie charges FLAMBO again—
DROP TOE HOLD!
Goldie’s face SMACKS the canvas!
FLAMBO immediately floats over and snakes his arms around Goldie’s neck!
MARIE ANTOINETTE!!! AND IT IS CINCHED IN TIGHT!!!
Goldie tries to rise with FLAMBO hanging from him!
Elise sees both men tangled together.
Her eyes light up.
She hits the ropes.
SPRINGBOARD!
Elise flies halfway across the ring—
SHOTGUN DROPKICK!!
RIGHT INTO FLAMBO’S EXPOSED BACK!
The hold breaks instantly!
Elise rolls through!
Goldie pushes himself upright!
Elise charges—
TILT-A-WHIRL!
NO!
Goldie catches her around the waist!
He tries to plant her—
ELISE COUNTERS INTO A DDT!
NO!!! GOLDIE SHOVES HER AWAY!!! ELISE LANDS ON HER FEET!!!
SMOOCHES!!!
Nick Stuart: Oh. My. God.
Richard Parker: Welp, she’s dead.
Nick Stuart: That was the HARDEST headbutt I’ve ever seen! And Goldie collapses on top of her!
ONE!!!
HANLON RUSHES THE RING!!!
TWO!!!
HIRAM CUTS HIM OFF!!!
THREEEEEEEEEEEE—
FLAMBERGE BREAKS UP THE PIN!!!
DING! DING! DING!
…just a split second too late.
Vince Howard: Heeeeeere are your winners! HIRAM “HIGH COTTON” MCCLELLAN! GOLDIE BOOTH! THEM!!! BASTARD!!! ROUGHNECKS!!!
Nick Stuart: What an impressive victory for this young, upstart tag team! I can’t say enough about it!
Richard Parker: I think you’ve said plenty…
Them Bastard Roughnecks get their hands raised in victory, and we cut away from ringside.
We follow up one hell of a tag team bout with… these guys. Specifically, the Masters of the Moscowverse standing by with a pretape from their kitchen studio.
Kenny Freeman: Before we head into the Kansas City BBQ Cook-Off, don’t forget to order YOUR Sauce-O-Matic XL from Foodie Magick! Tell ‘em, Randall.
Randall Schwartz: (with a growling tone) WELL Kenny, this bad boy makes sauce so tough it’ll make your hair grow in places you never imagined! That’s right, this is one HELL of a–
Kenny Freeman: Buddy, what in the hell are you on about? Try that one again.
Randall’s face softens as he clears his throat before giving it another go.
Randall Schwartz: This makes the good stuff even gooder, so it does! It’ll sauce up any fine sandwich or other culinary dish you want! This sucker is Masters of the Moscowverse tested, and soon to be PRIME Survivor Approved!
Kenny Freeman: Order yours at the number and URL on the screen!
Both bits of info appear to be redacted, probably for the better… but we DO get a good look at the device system itself before ReVival rolls on.
Richard Parker: And we’re back! Halfway through the show, Nick and apart from a lingering smell of lasagna meat and some barbecue-related shenanigans, I would say we’ve survived ReVival 93 without incident.
Nick Stuart: I have to agree with you Richard, normally by this time in the show we have had something happen that is truly awf-
Sabía que lo eras
Ibas a venir a mí
Y aquí estás
The lights around the T-Mobile Center go a noxious color of pink as Dani Ride’s cover of Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse” pumps through the speakers.
Pero será mejor que elijas cuidadosamente
Porque soy capaz de cualquier cosa
De cualquier cosa y de todo
We see a familiar face emerge from the back, stepping out onto the rampway in a pair of stiletto heels, form-fitting pink slacks, and a suit jacket with shoulder pads that would make any 1980s working girl jealous.
Sonja Cuchilla carefully sashays down the rampway, blowing kisses to the crowd as she places a portable lavalier microphone on the collar of her Elle Woods-inspired formal wear.
Hazme tu Afrodita
Hazme tu única y única
Pero no me hagas tu enemigo, tu enemigo, tu enemigo
Nick Stuart: Nevermind, Richard. We’re about to hit our quota and then some.
Richard Parker: Show some respect, Nick! She’s a city official. An ambassador for the great state of Minnesota! HOME TO ASCENSION 2026!
Nick Stuart: I didn’t know you were such a fan.
Richard Parker: Not at all, Nick, but some of us appreciate the craft of the soft sell.
Nick Stuart: And speaking of Tainted Love, I think Nathan Lake’s former partner, unfortunately, has something she wants to say tonight.
The cameras lock on Sonja as she circles the edges of the ring, surveying the crowd in the way an owl (no offense Lindsay) stalks its prey. Head locked in place while the eyes survey everything.
Suddenly, she stops her procession and closes her eyes.
Sonja Cuchilla: Members of the PRIME Universe… I come to you tonight fully naked.
Richard Parker: That’s not true at all, Nick. She’s wearing a business suit!
Nick Stuart: Thank God for that.
Sonja Cuchilla: It was one year ago this week on ReVival 74 that I was promised a guest spot on a very special talk show known as WON Action News.
The crowd boos as Sonja continues, undeterred.
Sonja Cuchilla: At the time, I thought appearing on the show would help me find my dear boyfriend Nathan Lake. Or, at you knew him at the time, Blaze Claymore
Sonja lowers her head.
Sonja Cuchilla: Little did I know at the time that Max Kael had been hiding Nathan away… that he had been safe all along! Eating fancy food and drinking expensive wine at the Kael estate while I desperately tried to search for him!
Nick Stuart: That is not at all what happened! Nathan Lake was kidnapped by Max Kael!
Richard Parker: Why don’t you trust women, Nick!?
Sonja Cuchilla: I posted every day on social media. I printed t-shirts! Hundreds of them! And not even cute ones!
Sonja massages her brow.
Sonja Cuchilla: All because I thought Nathan would be missing for months. Instead, he showed up on WON News in my guest spot!
BOOOO!
Nick Stuart: The fans are … clearly not on Sonja’s side here, Richard.
Richard Parker: Typical misogynist behavior, Nick. Just what I would expect out of a city that can’t decide if it’s in Kansas or Missouri.
Sonja waves a finger at the crowd.
Sonja Cuchilla: How quickly everyone forgets. Let’s play the tape back!
She turns and points to the Primeview as it comes to life and shows an earlier version of herself standing on a tree stump surrounded by a replica of the Florida Everglades.
Sonja Cuchilla (on the monitor): I thought this was supposed to be the Tonight Show!
Max Kael: Yes, well, you probably shouldn’t think, it’s bad for expectation.
Sonja Cuchilla, in the present, scowls as she pulls out a remote control and begins to fast forward the scene.
Richard Parker: Wait… there are remote controls for that thing?
Nick Stuart: Well, yeah. But who in their right mind gave her one!?
Sonja stops and lands on a shot of Nathan leaping to slap a book out of Snark Darkly’s hand as Sonja wraps her arm around his waist.
After she does, Nathan grabs a hold of an electrical cord and swings across the marsh and the feed finally pauses on a cutaway shot of Sonja being carried off stage by Nathan.
RAAAAAWWW!
The fans erupt at the show of chivalry and selflessness, but Sonja’s face turns sour.
Sonja Cuchilla: What a hero, huh? What a selfless human being. Yeah — and so is Spider-Man. So is Katniss Everdeen. So is John McClane… and they are also just as fake as Nathan Lake is.
BOOOOO!
Sonja flips her raven-like hair over her shoulder.
Sonja Cuchilla: It’s not your fault, Kansas City… you’ve simply been lied to, like I was, by a man who doesn’t have an honest bone in his body.
She straightens her padded shoulders and points up toward the screen where the still shot of Nathan Lake and Sonja from a year ago remains.
Sonja Cuchilla: Nathan Lake is no hero. He is a manipulator. A fraud. An opportunist. You don’t believe me? Then ask yourselves… is this something a hero would do?
Sonja clicks the remote and a new scene appears. Grainy cell phone footage of Nathan and Sonja on the edge of a hotel bed. Nathan is rocking back and forth, clenching his fists as Sonja tries to sooth him.
Sonja Cuchilla (on screen): Blaze what is-
Nathan turns and swats away her arm.
Nathan Lake (irritated): Christ almighty! Now I know why you got stuck doing shampoo commercials in Tokyo—’cause all you had to do was stand there, smile, and hold the damn bottle!
Sonja recoils as Nathan stands up and grabs a bottle off of a nearby shelf, moving out of frame as he passes the end of the bed.
Sonja Cuchilla: We’ve got a train to catch to Toronto tomorrow morning. Where are you going!?
No answer. We don’t see them as they continue to argue.
Sonja Cuchilla (pleading): Please. You’re not thinking straight. You’re overreact-
Nathan Lake (furious): Overacting? Overacting!?
A door slams.
Nathan Lake (muffled): GODDAMIT!
We watch as Sonja walks back into frame, slowly sits at the edge of the hotel bed with the back to the camera and begins to sob.
The crowd is suddenly silent as present day Sonja, now in the middle of the PRIME ring, wipes at her eyes – careful not to smudge her mascara.
Sonja Cuchilla: That was a recording I made just before Nathan lost to the Anglo Luchador at Ultraviolence. A few weeks later, he lost again to Ivan Stanislav… and suddenly “went missing.”
Sonja shakes her head.
Sonja Cuchilla: Funny how Nathan always manages to find a way to make himself the victim, isn’t it? Nothing is ever his fault. If it’s not Hollywood it’s Max Kael and if it’s not Max Kael it’s me.
Richard Parker: She’s got a good point Nick… and Lake was an actor after all.
Nick Stuart: So was she, Richard!
The crowd is clearly becoming uncomfortable as Sonja shakes her head.
Sonja Cuchilla: For the past few weeks Nathan has pulled the wool over your eyes, hiding away at random Airbnbs while you clap and cheer for him like trained seals.
A low rumble of boos rolls through the arena, but nowhere near the volume from before as they watch Sonja click the remote one more time, paused on a screen shot of Nathan Lake from the Chicago crawl at ReVival 92.
Sonja Cuchilla: If you don’t remember one year ago, perhaps you’ll remember two weeks ago.
She hits play and we watch as the Lighthouse throws back shot after shot after shot of Old Style… and then we cut to him angrily charging the mound at Sluggers and being forcefully removed by a set of Enemigos… and then cut to him drunkenly singing to the Ghostbusters theme song before taking a shot of Malort from the DJ.
Sonja pauses on a freeze frame of Nathan Lake’s face, goofy, contorted, and absolutely hammered.
Sonja Cuchilla: THAT is who Nathan Lake is, everyone. Not the recovering alcoholic. Not the man fighting mental health issues. Not the prodigal son of Montevideo. Not the savior of Montevideo… and certainly not THE LIGHTHOUSE.
A rumbling under the foundations of the T-Mobile Center shakes the light fixtures in the arena and even knocks over some paper cups filled with soda and plastic beer cups.
Nick Stuart: What the hell was that?
Richard Parker: An earthquake, Nick. Maybe an aftershock from somewhere to the east?
Nick Stuart: An earthquake? In Missouri?
Richard Parker: Look it up, Nick! They happen.
Whatever the cause, it has caught Sonja’s attention as she looks around the arena less like an owl and now more like a frightened pigeon.
Sonja Cuchilla (straining): The Nathan Lake you are watching compete tonight in some joke of a barbecue contest? He’s lying to you, just like he lied to me. And it is finally time everybody knew what kind of person he is.
Sonja pushes some hair behind her ear as she clicks the remote one last time and, now, the cover of a book is projected on the screen. A sleek, purple cover with Sonja’s face on it, but where the title should be, pixels on the Primeview begin to flicker and short out:
My Turn.
Life Without Blaze Claymore.
A Memoir by Sonja Cuchilla.
Sonja squints her eyes but soon turns away from the screen and back toward the crowd.
Sonja Cuchilla: I may not have done enough to earn your trust here this evening… but I hope I have at least earned your curiosity. That is why, on the anniversary of the biggest lie Nathan Lake has ever told… I am offering you a window into the truth.
In Minneapolis, September 18, I will officially be sharing the real story of Nathan Lake. All of it.
She looks back toward the glitchy screen for a brief moment.
Sonja Cuchilla: And I hope you tune in to watch. Because even if you choose not to believe me, you at least deserve to hear the truth.
Sonja reaches up and turns off her lapel microphone, surveying the anxious crowd, the faintest hint of a smile peeking through as we cut elsewhere.
From the in-ring moment with Sonja, we cut back to the BBQ Cookoff Classic! Nowhere to be seen is Clay Byrd or his fellow judges, as Clay figured after eating most of the chicken (he didn’t touch the nearly uncooked chicken from Kenny Freeman and threatened Freeman on his way back into the studio) he needed a nap and is currently resting with said large-ass hat over his face while Denny and David are inside playing Uno.
So this gives us a chance to check in on each of our competitors as they are working through the Pork Ribs.
First up is The Anglo Luchador, in mask and all. He works his stations with ease, seemingly the most comfortable in a ‘kitchen’ environment. He grabs the salt and black pepper, seasoning the pork ribs before wrapping foil around them. He leaves a crack open and adds a bit of brown sugar as well as smoked paprika. He watches as it cooks, lifting his mask over his mouth a bit and taking a sip of water. His hands find their way to his hips and he wipes his brow, even though it’s covered by the back.
Second is Kenny Freeman, who knows the pressure is on him as he didn’t quite let the chicken cook all the way through. The reason for this? He kept trying to cook the wood pellets with some tool that looks like it could open dimensions to other worlds. That didn’t work. At all. Now, thanks to some advice from Randall Schwartz, has decided to just use fire on the wood pellets to get it cooking. He’s also been looking over at The Anglo Luchador’s station and copying exactly what he’s doing, though he’s adding some mustard to his pork ribs.
Third is Henry Keyes as he braises his pork ribs and seems to be slow cooking them with liquids. At the same time, as it cooks, he seems to be tinkering with his grill, adding bits and pieces to it that makes it look more and more ornate. He grabs some sheets of metal from under his table (not sure why he brought this with him) and an electric saw, which gets some sideway glances from Coltrane Anderson, who isn’t sure what the hell is going on with Keyes. Behind him, the temp on his pork ribs seem to be increasing, but he’s busy making… something.
Next to him is Coltrane Anderson, who has foregone the apron and shirt due to the heat, which has gotten a few of the women working the event looking over at him repeatedly. Coltrane looks like he’s done this a time or two before, but the heat is quite a bit right now. He takes his pork ribs and seems to be doing a technique where half the grill is off and the other is at high heat with the ribs on the half of the grill that’s off to smoke them. Meanwhile, he’s building some sauces for the ribs, using apple cider vinegar, ketchup, molasses, and brown sugar.
Further down the line is Rob Williams who is seemingly holding his own, though he keeps fidgeting with the temperatures and isn’t thrilled that he can’t seemingly get a steady temperature from the grill. He also keeps looking around suspiciously and seems to be pulling something out of a container that appears to be a sauce that is white in nature and applying it to the ribs.
Finally, Nathan Lake seems to be struggling mightily with these pork ribs and is trying to get the grill under control, but considering there is a giant ball of fire erupting from his grill, it doesn’t seem that will be the case.
A few minutes later, Clay Byrd emerges with David McBride and Denny Colton.
Clay Byrd: Alright. I had a good nap. I had a beer. I dropped the kids off at the pool. Give me some more food!
David McBride: And make it right this time!
Denny Colton: You wanna take a walk, maybe calm down?
David McBride: I AM EXTREMELY CALM RIGHT NOW!!
The trio make their way to the testing table. They start eating, starting with #1 (Henry Keyes) and seem to be satisfied with what they’re eating. They move over to #2 (Coltrane Anderson) and all three seem to be going back for seconds. As they make their way through the group (they pause at Nathan Lake’s and it looks like a burnt mess) before getting to the last plate (Rob Williams). Clay seems okay with it, but David starts throwing his plate into the air.
David McBride: WHITE SAUCE?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS?! SHOW YOURSELVES RIGHT NOW SO I CAN SHOVE YOUR OWN TONGS DOWN–
No one answers though. Rightfully so.
Clay Byrd: Alright, I’m going to take David back into the studio, speak with him “gently.” For a while, and make sure the next round he’s better. Meanwhile, staff, show the scores and keep up the great work you guys. I probably need another nap.
Denny Colton: Come on David, it’s going to be okay.
David McBride: This is worse than most times I’ve talked to Ian Nackedy.
ROUND TWO RESULTS
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 26
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 24
HENRY KEYES – 23
KENNY FREEMAN – 22
ROB WILLIAMS – 16
NATHAN LAKE – 7
OVERALL RESULTS
HENRY KEYES – 47
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 43
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 42
ROB WILLIAMS – 30
KENNY FREEMAN – 26
NATHAN LAKE – 22
We cut to the shocked face of Daihm Ferguson, neck craned upward toward the wall-mounted television screen where Sonja Cuchilla is waving to the audience like she just won Miss Kansas City.
Daihm Ferguson: Bobby! Did ye hear what she just said!?
Bobby Neptune did not hear or see Sonja’s in-ring lambasting of Nathan Lake. The Starboy’s attention is focused elsewhere; most likely on a particularly large and very Russian elsewhere.
Daihm Ferguson: Bobby!
Daihm puts his hand on Neptune’s shoulder and points back up toward the screen, where Sonja is finally exiting the ring.
Bobby Neptune (snapping out of his reverie): Oh! I’m sorry Daihm, I’m…distracted.
Daihm Ferguson (pleading): We’ve got tae find that visor before Ascension! Nathan’s in danger, and he needs our help.
Daihm grabs at the device sitting at Bobby’s side, the same one that he built to track a piece of alien technology that had gone missing after his planetarium match with Kerry.
A piece of alien technology that could have the ability to reverse even a Time Lord’s powers.
But the device had been silent since Chicago. No hits. The visor could be anywhere.
Bobby Neptune: Uh.. let me think, let me think…
Daihm Ferguson: Maybe we go back tae Chicago to try and find that Traveler’s Ball?
Bobby Neptune (shaking head): It’s a traveler’s ball, Daihm. They travel. It’s in the name. They won’t be there! I’m sorry I’m not being helpful. I just…he can’t get away with what he did to me.
Daihm Ferguson: Ivan?
Bobby Neptune: He almost ended me, Daihm. And then he just gets to walk around as champion?? I can’t…I won’t let it go unpunished.
Daihm collapses on the bench next to Bobby, holding the tracker tightly.
BEEP
The pair look down at the device, but it sits in silence for a beat. Then another. Then another.
Daihm Ferguson: Bobby, was that–
BEEP
The pair jump up from the bench in unison and look at one another.
Bobby Neptune: My visor! It’s nearby.
Daihm Ferguson: What’s the range on this, Bobby?
Bobby Neptune: It has a wide area, but the pulse is consistent. It should be close!
A shadow shifts behind them. Neither man notices.
Daihm Ferguson (excited): Look. I know you’ve got yer match with Ivan and Nathan is getting ready to serve some hot, saucy meat…
Bobby raises his eyebrows just a bit.
Daihm Ferguson: Bobby. I can’t ask you tae help me with this any longer. Or bother Nathan with this either – not until I find yer visor.
The Starboy furrows his brow in concern.
Bobby Neptune: Daihm, this is… alien technology. I should be there to assess any damage or alterations.
Daihm Ferguson (pleading): Let me do this! I can find the visor, and not just get something important back tae you, but a device that can make sure Nathan doesnae have tae deal with Time Lords or crazy ex-girlfriends ever again.
Bobby Neptune: Okay. I appreciate you, Daihm. Now I must go prepare.
The Starboy exits, leaving Daihm alone with a steadily beeping device.
Something moves behind him in the shadows, and the tracker reacts. Daihm wheels around, but there’s nothing there.
Daihm Ferguson: I guess it’s this way…
The device keeps a steady rhythm as Daihm follows the signal into the darkness.
Hey everyone.
Guess what?
It’s time!
For fun?
No.
It’s time for Math Johnson.
Fuck us all, right?
Well, Kansas City, this is your punishment. You deserve this, you assholes. You mutants. You garbage can sucking poopies. Know why?
Jackson Mahomes.
The fact that your hero worship of your quarterback man from your football team has allowed his brother to have carte blanche (ha) in your city is reason enough for you to get this level of punishment. Welcome to prison. Wrestling ring prison. Have you brought your graphing calculators? Are you ready for some dark maths?
Fuck you.
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 Kansas City 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!!!
The winner of Daytona Diamond’s gift kayak and the cheater of Freedom hops up onto the apron and steps into the ring. He stares down the ramp 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.
But not all hope is lost. You see, Kansas City, you, with your reputable barbecue, you, with your…fans…
No…there is no saving you.
But this is BIGGER than you. This BIGGER than us all. And that is why Nate Colton is about to come out. Nate Colton is about to come out and, maybe, probably, hopefully, FUCKING SLAUGHTER IS PIECE OF SHIT. THIS ASSHOLE FARTING BUTTHOLE MAN! This Papercut Across Your Taint. This ingrown toenail to society. And you know why?
Indiana.
That’s why.
The arena’s lights go out, 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: His 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.
And as The New Diamond gets into the ring…Dickface McDickerton runs his little no ass having ass over and starts throwing forearms across his back. Colton doesn’t succumb, and pushes The Mathlete away, but the moment Nate is upright in full, he instantly goes down.
Know why?
Nick Stuart: BLATANT LOW BLOW BY MATH JOHNSON!
Richard Stuart: The bell hasn’t even rang yet…and The Mathlete hit Colton right between the legs with that kick! Perfect timing. Perfect execution!
Nick Stuart: And Ashley Barlow is LIVID and so are these fans–
Richard Stuart: But Johnson just has his hands up. Nothing wrong. No foul, right?
Nick Stuart: Such is against any spirit of competition–
Richard Stuart: –and what makes ANYONE think THIS GUY remotely CARES about the spirit of competition–
Nick Stuart: –and now he’s STANDING over Colton, counting him down.
Pantomiming to the crowd, he tries to get them to come along on this wonderful mathtastic journey, but all he gets?
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Right.
Know why?
Because NOBODY FUCKING LIKES MATH!
Hey, do you remember going to math class?
Do you have nightmares about math class?
Like, nightmares where you need to pass one math class to graduate from college but if you don’t you can’t graduate on time and it will throw a major monkey wrench into everything and you subconsciously know the whole thing is bullshit because you have your degree you were on the Dean’s List (not that Dean, I hate Dean) save the fact that you got a goddamn D- in that basic math class but it’s okay that was an awful and scary experience and involved lots of stress but you managed it but for some reason it lingers upon you like the goddamn FOIL method look if you enjoy math maybe you should do this one thing and what is that one thing well that one thing is TAKE A BIG WAD OF ALUMINIUM FOIL AND CHEW ON IT chew on it long and hard MATH SUCKS IT SUCKS IT SUX GOD I HATE MATH FUCK MATH
Johnson is up to three on his count.
Colton is grabbing between his legs still.
Barlow is pushing back on the Big Piece of Shit™, but now the count is up to five.
He skipped four.
You know why?
Because THIS PIECE OF HUMAN TRASH THIS BASTARD THIS HUMAN DEMON IN SKIN FORM IS COUNTING NOW IN PRIME NUMBERS!
PRIME NUMBERS!
WHO THE FUCK EVEN KNOW THIS SHIT?!?!?!
GOD
DAMMIT!
YOU DISGUSTING SUBHUMAN FILTH MACHINE!
And Barlow WILL NOT let him–
Wait…
Johnson runs around her.
He grabs at the blonde locks of The New Diamond.
Spins him around.
Locks him up.
DIVIDE!
BY!
ZERO!
NO!
NO NO NO!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Johnson hooks the near leg!
THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!
THIS CAN’T!
BE!
HAPPEN–
Nate Colton BODY presses Math Johnson from the pin. A benchpress lighter than a bar. Just OOOOH BOY up into the air and then WOOOSH SMAASH OUCHIES onto the canvas. Bad landing. Bad math. Syntax error, you piece of shit. You fuck. You disgusting assface bastard man.
Nate Colton reaches into his trunks.
Oh.
He was wearing a cup!
A smirk.
And then, a launch of said cup to the head of the rising Math Johnson.
Does Barlow admonish him?
No.
Because the bell hasn’t rang.
The Mathlete is not happy at having someone’s cup with their nuthole sweat on it getting thrown at him. So he blind charges.
Only to get ANNIHILATED by a running forearm smash!
TIIIIIIIIIIIIMBER!
That’s what people say when trees fall in the woods after being cut down. That’s what loggers say. You know, working people. Something a PIECE OF SHIT would have no idea about!
DING DING
And THERE’S the bell.
Johnson staggers off the canvas, only to get absolutely obliterated with ANOTHER forearm strike to the face. The Mathlete tries to swallow his bullshit garbage pride and show he isn’t hurt, and he gets to his feet, once again trying the whole charging thing since it’s worked out so well thus far, and in the process, he gets launched into the air and onto the canvas with a high hip toss.
Right on the butt cheeks.
OUCH!
Big Piece of Shit™ starts scooting on his ass like a dog with worms, but The New Diamond refuses to let up, grabbing hold of him and yanking him to his feet, only to once again launch him across the ring with a vicious exploder suplex!
The momentum of the landing brings Johnson right back up to his feet.
And then up and over the top rope to the outside from a charging clothesline.
You HEAR THAT Math Johnson?!
That’s the Kansas City fans cheering their proverbial asses off, and not dragging them like a bad dog with asshole itchies, because YOU ARE GETTING YOUR USELESS BASTARDNESS SMASHED! You getting royally beat the fuck up is THE ORDER OF OPERATIONS to REAL WRESTLING, PISSMEAT! God I hate you. I so hate you.
And so do the fans in the front row, who start dumping soda and beer on you. They wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, but they will dump pop on you because it is sticky and nobody likes that sticky feeling, and that’s a sensation you deserve, you deserve to have that and live with it and live within it for all eternity.
Does Math Johnson get a reprieve?
Well, does a former 5 Star Champion and perennial contender grabbing hold of him with a hammerlock and back suplexing him on the mats answer that question?
Does it?
Well it answers it better than any mathematical word problem.
Hey, Big Piece of Shit™, when do the two trains meet in Kansas City if one goes 35 KM and one goes 75 MPH and one starts in Burbank California and the other begins in Raleigh North Carolina WRONG TRICK QUESTION IT MEETS NOW ALL OVER YOUR BITCH ASS WITH BACK SUPLEX AGAINST THE RING APRON!
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHA!
YOU DESERVE THIS!
CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP
YOU DESERVE THIS!
CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP
YOU DESERVE THIS!
CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP
Math Johnson tries to roll away, tries to get away, but Nate Colton is not giving him any space to breath, and why would he? This subhuman filth machine out and out tried to jump him before the bell rang. He out and out kicked him in the dickular region. Mutants like this do not deserve things like kindness or gentleness or concern. They deserve death and scourging and to be flayed alive to the joy of children everywhere.
Hey Little Timmy, I know you are sick, and its terminal, but here is Math Johnson and here he is, having his skin removed from his body at a very slow rate. “Oh, thank you, I know I will be cold and in the ground and sleeping forever soon, but it is all worth it to have Math Johnson in agony.”
Colton rolls the useless husk of meat and bloat into the ring.
He hooks the near leg.
ONE
TWO
THR–NO!
At the last moment.
Colton looks ready to continue to press forward…
…that is…
…until the bastard disgusting shitface man pokes him in the eye.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
And The Mathlete laughs upon doing so. Because he is an asshole. Of course he laughs.
God.
What a piece of shit.
Out of all the ups and downs of Nate Colton, dealing with THIS…THING…it’s a nuance. God, he’s like, so utterly tired of it. The weight of wrestling Math Johnson once feels like this is the fifth match against this very opponent, and it’s also a massive gorilla on his back. It sucks. It makes him upset and sad and very angy and agitated. I mean, why wouldn’t it? MATH FUCKING SUCKS.
And Math Johnson is not exactly known for being a sporting or not-asshole kind of person.
So he will press his advantage. He will try and steal ANOTHER win like he did from Chad Freedom.
With an inside cradle off the eye poke–
Nah.
Nope.
Nuh uh.
Snap.
Suplex.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Johnson shoots to his feet right after, and is about to collapse to the canvas.
Except…
Well…
Nate Colton snatches him.
Colton.
Clutch.
The Mathlete’s eyes bug out of his head and he tries to figure out how exactly he is going to low blow or cheat his way out of this one.
Unfortunately for him, this test is timed.
And he missed the cut off.
Johnny, tell him what he’s won.
A NEW CAR!
Except it’s not a car.
It’s a COLTON CLUTCH SUPLEX!
The New Diamond maintains the hold.
Ashley Barlow sees that Math might not be dead, but it is definitely out cold.
But only for a moment.
Because then, he startles awake.
And screams.
And taps the hell out.
DING DING DING!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Colton lets go of the hold, and gets to his feet. Barlow raises his arm in victory, and the moment she lowers his arm, he cracks his knuckles and then stands over his defeated opponent and gives him some mathematical education of his own.
One.
Two.
Three.
Ha ha ha.
Bitch.
Vince Howard: Your winner…by SUBMISSION…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!
Nate exits the ring and starts slapping hands with the ringside fans along the ramp. He never even took the jacket off.
Math Johnson lies in the ring, dead, like the piece of shit that he is.
ReVival moves on.
Angelica Brooks is mid-stride backstage when she spots Scott Hunter near the catering table, arms folded, staring at nothing in particular with the intensity of a man who has recently made several important legal pad notations and has not fully returned from them. She angles toward him, camera following.
Behind Scott, Kerry Koalayama is seated on a folding chair, working through a small pile of barbecued eucalyptus leaves with methodical purpose. Next to him is a really tiny “BIG GREEN” barbecue pit with coals still smoldering.
Angelica Brooks: Scott, got a minute?
Scott Hunter: I have several minutes….
He becomes suddenly extra alert.
Scott Hunter: …OR HAVE THEY GOT ME???
Angelica blinks, then turns and glances briefly at Kerry Koalayama. Scott does not.
Angelica Brooks: So, even though you were eliminated last week, Survivor continues tonight with a BBQ Cookoff as the next challenge. As someone who was in that competition, do you have any thoughts as it goes on without you?
Scott considers this with intense seriousness, like how he considers the mysteries of life, or breath mints.
Scott Hunter: I have several thoughts. I’ve been doing some reading on BBQ theory. Low and slow versus hot and fast. The smoke ring question. Wood selection. Beef versus pork. Mesquite versus Pecan. Tom versus Jerry. I have concerns about some of the remaining competitors’ regional backgrounds as they relate to BBQ competency. I also have concerns about the first episode of Lanterns, but we can talk about that later.
Angelica Brooks: What kind of… concerns?
Scott Hunter: Henry Keyes is gonna win the whole Survivor competition, and I think his approach to BBQ will reflect the same strategic precision he brings to everything else he does. He’s gonna think it through. He’s gonna execute. I have full confidence.
Angelica Brooks: And the others?
Scott Hunter: Coltrane Anderson is from Baltimore. I have questions about Baltimore’s relationship with BBQ that I haven’t fully resolved. Did you ever see Earl Weaver cook a brisket? I didn’t. What about that band, Baltimora? Can you trust people who sang a song about a Tarzan boy around an open flame? I don’t know if we can risk it. Rob Williams will probably do something that works despite being chaotic, which I find annoying. There are rules for a reason. It’s what separates us from the machines. It’s a defiance against the Lord is what it is. I mean, come on, choose a side. We’re at war. TAL is, well, my concerns are British-adjacent. He might try to barbecue on the wrong side of the road or something!
Angelica Brooks: I’m pretty sure he’s from Philadelphia.
Scott Hunter: See?? Confusion already!
Angelica Brooks: (shaking it off) And your match tonight. You’ve got Rezin. How are you feeling going in?
Scott Hunter: I feel good. I did a full investigation. Manila folder, legal pad, jalapeño dip, the works. His real name is Erik Black… but that is just a cover for his really real name…
He pauses.
Scott Hunter: Goat Flaps Hannigan.
Angelica Brooks: I’m sorry, Goat Flaps…
Scott Hunter: Hannigan. Yeah. I zeroed in on that one specifically. The implications were concerning, and I felt they needed no further explanation… like the moon landing… or Jesus.
Behind them, Kerry Koalayama pauses and looks briefly at Angelica, then returns to his eucalyptus leaves.
Scott Hunter: He also has a to-do list that includes blowing up the Federal Reserve Building, which I have flagged with the proper authorities.
He puffs his chest out, feeling he has done his civic duty, and moves on.
Scott Hunter: But here’s what I know about Rezin that matters. He spent twenty years being told he wasn’t good enough. He survived, against all odds, like Phil Collins said. He clawed his way up, found success, then put on a collar and toupee and tried to manipulate my best friend.
The tone shifts. Not dramatic. Just different.
Scott Hunter: I never trusted him then. I don’t trust him now. And tonight he finds out that the Escape Artist label only works if there’s somewhere to escape to.
He looks directly at the camera.
Scott Hunter: There isn’t.
He looks at Angelica, who again only blinks.
Scott Hunter: …somewhere to escape to.
A beat of quiet.
Behind them, Kerry Koalayama finishes the last eucalyptus leaf, folds his small paws, and stares at the middle distance with the expression of an animal that has places to be, and probably wishes eucalyptus cornbread was a thing.
Angelica Brooks: Anything else?
Scott Hunter: Tell Henry I said good luck. He doesn’t need it, but tell him anyway.
Angelica Brooks: Thanks, Scott. It’s time for the BBQ Cookoff, so good luck to everyone! Let… see what happens!
From Scott Hunter, former Survivor competitor, we head back to the BBQ Cookoff and we’re moving through to the third round. In the interest of time, the production crew has put together a quick highlight package of what happened in this round because… well, Lindsay Troy cut the budget in half during the filming of this because she wasn’t aware that David McBride was going to be like this and she refused to pay anymore for him.
So, here’s the quick highlight package!
- Nathan Lake is trying to make a comeback from his disastrous outing last round and seems to have figured out the trick with cooking a pork shoulder (low and slow, make it melt in your mouth) and looks a bit confident about it all.
- Coltrane Anderson is using the same technique, but continues to lean into the KC BBQ sauce standards (he’s not doing any of that Carolina shit). David McBride smiles for the first time all day.
- The Anglo Luchador is throwing down in his kitchen/space as he is infusing the pork shoulder with mole and taijin to give it some spice and pop. Dennis is asking him a lot of questions, only breaking away when TAL asks for space.
- Rob Williams continues to use the Alabama White Sauce because he doesn’t give a fuck at this point and he does whatever Rob Williams wants to do. David McBride has to be held back by Surf Express Bro, Denny Colton, and three random PRIME employees.
- Kenny Freeman, sadly, has no idea what he is doing. Randall brings him some propane, which immediately gets him admonished, and Randall runs away screaming when David McBride chases him for not respecting the rules and BBQ in general. Propane is for cookouts; they are not the same thing.
- Henry Keyes continues to show himself to be good at this (with Clay Byrd whispering some tips out of the corner of his mouth because of the whole Vae Victis thing). Rob Williams shouts at Clay Byrd, but then Clay Byrd threatens to choke the shit out of Rob and well, Rob doesn’t want anything to do with ol’ Cowboy Hat and his two sizes too big jeans.
Which, then leads to the judging, which Lindsay Troy begrudgingly allowed to be shown in full.
Clay Byrd: Alright guys, I’ve got to say, everyone has been doing a pretty good job thus far, but we’re starting to get into the thick of things and while I want to keep eating, I’ve also got to put my critical-thinking cowboy hat on.
Denny Colton: Can I have one?
Clay Byrd: Sure. It comes with an inflatable raft.
David McBride: That’s so useful.
Clay Byrd: Of course it is David, that’s why you can get it from MIRACLE ENTERPRISES, only $49.99. Use code SURVPRIME.
They start to eat through each of the mystery numbered plates, making their notes, judging each one. Once again, when they get to Rob Williams’ plate, there’s a commotion.
David McBride: You absolute motherfucker. You bring mayonnaise into my house?! Mayo is for coleslaw, and coleslaw goes in the fucking trash!
David glares at the contestants, but none of them reveal themselves to be the one using the Alabama white sauce.
Clay Byrd: Alright, we’ve tried out all six plates. Much better round. I can feel my belt expanding.
Denny Colton: You guys have done a great job here. Just remember, more seasoning. Don’t be afraid to lay it on in the last round.
David McBride: Agreed. And stop using mayonnaise, damn you.
With that, here are the standings at the end of the third round.
ROUND THREE RESULTS
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 25
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 24
HENRY KEYES – 24
NATHAN LAKE – 16
ROB WILLIAMS – 15
KENNY FREEMAN – 14
OVERALL RESULTS
HENRY KEYES – 71
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 67
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 67
ROB WILLIAMS – 45
KENNY FREEMAN – 40
NATHAN LAKE – 38
Richard Parker: What do we have next, chief?
Nick Stuart: Chief?
Richard Parker: Trying out some new nicknames on you in the between time.
Nick Stuart: Please, never again!
Richard Parker: You got it, bud.
Nick Stuart: Bud?
“The Best” by AWOLNATION cues up and the fans give a cheer! Well, most of them. Some of them are a little… uncertain at how to handle the man that’s going to come out, given the events of a few weeks ago.
Ah, the events of two weeks ago. We’ll get to that shortly. Until then…
Nick Stuart: This wasn’t on the schedule!
Richard Parker: Ugh.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall emerges from the back. He’s not dressed for battle, at least not tonight. He’s also looking rather calm, friendly and dressed for the occasion. He’s wearing blue slacks with a nice white button-up shirt but feeling risky enough to undo the top THREE buttons on the shirt to show a bit of peach fuzz on the chest. He can’t grow facial hair, only a dab of chest puff. He might be a little older now than when he first joined PRIME but he’s still got that babyface complexion. Anyway, enough of this precontext. JCH walks down the ramp, smacking hands with fans along the way.
Nick Stuart: You know, there was a time when this man couldn’t even make eye contact with a child in the front row.
Richard Parker: It’s what being whipped does to a man, Nick.
Nick Stuart: And you would know?
Richard Parker: Not at all! But look at Vickie and Cancer. God it PAINS me to say it but Cancer is a man. Jonathan-Christopher is a weak-ass simp baby.
Nick Stuart: First of all, I can’t believe you complimented Jiles…
Richard Parker: [Kinda realizing he just did] I didn’t! I DIDN’T! He is NOT a man!!
Nick Stuart: Second off, Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t look like any “weak-ass simp baby” right now. Nor has he looked so since his comeback, he’s 2-0! Victories against solid opponents, the last being our legend, Wade Elliott.
Richard Parker: [Still stuck on the Cancer Jiles comment] I DID NOT say Jiles is A MAN!
Nick Stuart: Hush.
Hall slides under the bottom rope as his theme song comes to a close and he stands in the center of the ring… rather… awkwardly.
He’s by himself.
He has no match.
He’s never really done something like this by himself before.
JCH!
JCH!
JCH!
The fans start a cheer, as the Former Simp Man seems moved by it. He raises an arm and bows a “thank you”, before wandering over to the ropes and asking for a microphone.
Richard Parker: [Sarcastically] This oughtta be good…
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Thank you! Thank you everyone!
More cheers. He’s even won over most of those “other” people who didn’t know how to officially receive him mere moments ago.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I wanted to thank you and I mean this as honestly as possible. From the bottom of my heart, all of you have given me… a second chance.
Cheers!
Richard Parker makes throw-up sounds.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: For a while there… for almost a whole year… I didn’t think I could do it. How could I, of all people, come back into this ring and entertain you when I have never been the entertainment of my act to begin with?
Rhetorical but there are boos. Loud, loud boos at even the HINT of the most evil woman in the world. No doubt she is going to post a typo-induced news article about this later. You’ve been warned, mute the discord.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But I’ve come back! I’ve worked so hard on myself and I owe it to all of you, helping me along the way. Two victories now. Two big, big victories. One, against a solid rookie who is going to do AMAZING things in this company and the second victory… oh that second victory…
JCH looks into the apron camera lens.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Wade, I know you didn’t have your best. Anytime you want to do this again, give me a call. I am ready, willing, able.
Hall moves back towards the center of the ring.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: ABOUT that victory, though…
He lowers his head, he looks concerned.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max Kael.
The boos swarm the bleachers. They buzz around in a very serious tone, as if trying to WARN JCH of the troubles he will get himself into. Is he prone to just being fucked over by others? Probably. Most definitely, Richard Parker would say. Goes without saying.
Jonathan-Christopher puts his free arm up in protest.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: No no no. No, no, no, no, no no no. Hear me out, please.
Hall nods along with what he’s about to say.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I know my history of being in abusive relationships. We don’t even have to talk about her…
Cheers.
Richard Parker: That’s a first.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I know my history with the other MEN I’ve tried befriending in this company. Ivan Stanislav. Rob Williams. Darin Zion. These are all very problematic men. Men who wanted to leech off me. Use me. Abuse me. Destroy me.
JCH lowers his head again to collect himself. Then he raises it.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max Kael.
More boos.
Yet Jonathan-Christopher shakes his head no.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: No. Not this time, people. I promise you… not this time. See, there’s something different in Max. Trust me, I know when there’s something deep… something so buried inside of another man. Call it intuition. If they could only get that good part out of them. [Laughs] I bet no one thought I could stand here on my own with a mic in my hand.
JCH raises his free hand to victory!
Parker makes another pukey sound.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But here I am!
Cheers. Except JCH has to get the train back on track.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max Keal is a deeply challenged individual. I know this. But he has also been abused by soooooooo many people in his life, too. Can’t you guys see? It’s okay if you can’t, I don’t want to argue with any of you. More or less, I am just trying to paint a different picture. A realistic one, though.
JCH starts nodding again.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Hurt people, hurt people. It’s what they say in rehab. And I have seen Max, much like myself, reach out to so many others before hurting them. I feel that he desires what all of us do. Honest, human connection. But he has been the instigator. NO DOUBT many times it’s by his own accord. But why? Why does he feel the need to push others away?
Hall raises an index finger in the air.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’ll tell you. He’s scared. He’s vulnerable. He also just doesn’t know what a healthy relationship looks like. Christ, I didn’t. I still don’t. At least not fully. But that’s why I put my application into WON ACTION NEWS. It’s why I’m your new SPORTS ANCHOR!!
Hall goes into “sports mode” for a moment.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Blue Jays 6, Rays 7, Charlotte Football Club 3, Kansas City Chiefs 3 Super Bowls.
The line at the end gets a cheap pop, of course.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But it’s also why I wasn’t on the news tonight…
Boos roll in. Once again, the fans might be trying to convince JCH to stay away from The Black Heart of PRIME™.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max Kael, I wasn’t on the news tonight but I refuse to stay away from you. I know you’re mad at me after your loss to Cancer Jiles. I also know you intervened in MY match on MY behalf. It’s the key reason I defeated Wade. It’s also why I welcome another match with Wade at any time. I didn’t want to win like that. Max, the only support I need… is a friend. A real, legitimate friend. And Max Kael, call me CRAZY, but I think you are ABSOLUTELY capable of being that friend.
Richard Parker: You’re kidding.
Nick Stuart: I don’t think he’s kidding…
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max, I might have a death wish but I say COME ON OUT. I’d love to talk to you, in front of all these fine people. I know there’s a better person deep inside you and I know I won’t fall in line like the rest of them. I’m not here to take advantage of you. You’ve already helped me in ways beyond what these people have seen. Max, please. Come down here. Be. My. Friend.
Richard Parker: What an idiot.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Be my friend, Max. We can conquer this world togeth-
“Off with your head…”
“Heads Will Roll” by Pep Squad x Kid Something blares out over the sound system as the crowd immediately being raining boos down. Slinking out onto the stage is Max Kael wearing his deep, perhaps cartoonish scowl. He slowly makes his way toward the ring, glaring at JCH and paying little to no attention to the crowd as he does so.
Meanwhile, Hall looks happy to see the man.
Richard Parker: Look at the moron with the smile. No wonder Vickie abused him.
Reaching the ring, Max climbs up onto the apron, wiping off his feet before sliding between the ropes. Pulling his own custom microphone from his pocket he saddles up face to face with JCH.
Max Kael: … you know, the last time I had friends, one of them killed me while the other watched from home. The last time I had friends, they used me for their own entertainment before discarding me like a used tampon. The LAST time I had friends… was the LAST TIME I have friends. So I don’t know what game you’re up to, Jonathan-Christopher Hall… but I won’t be lured into your web of drama.
His strange green eye glitters with its own unpleasant aura as he glares down at the Forever Man.
Max Kael: Besides, JCH, last ReVival I helped you win… and then you cost me my match against Cancer Jiles. What kind of friend is that, huh?
Jonathan-Christopher takes a step back. It looks like he agrees with what Max said.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Max, I- I am thankful for your help. But you didn’t need to interfere. That’s not the type of game I want to play. I wanted to help you but I won’t get in the way of… [clears throat] them. I will provide you with moral support. I will Stand By You no matter if you win or lose.
The crowd cheers at the thought.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I want to do things honorably. I want to move away from the lifestyle… [clears throat] she’s living in, if you know what I mean. I don’t need to spray yellow mist in my opponent’s eyes. I don’t need to cheat at a moment’s notice. No. I want my own journey. My own story. An authentic one, from scratch. The Jonathan-Christopher way.
Max stares at JCH but practically looks through him with all the dumb shit dribbling out of Hall’s mouth.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I know you cheat. A lot, in fact. But deep down, I don’t think that’s the REAL you. Believe it or not I went back and watched a lot of you in that other place. After you saved me from myself a couple months ago… which these people don’t know about yet but I am so, so thankful for. Anyway, after those events… I wanted to know more about you. Yes, we’ve wrestled before. You even wanted me to kill Cecilworth back in 2023 for you. But Max, I think there’s way more to you than the man you show yourself as. That other place, it wasn’t healthy. Those weren’t real friends. Many of the friends you’ve made in PRIME weren’t friends, either.
Hall wants to place his hand on Max’s shoulder but suddenly thinks otherwise.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And sometimes the people you love stab you in the back.
Okay, he places his hand on Max’s shoulder.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: [Laugh at his own expense] Trust me, I would know.
The Lord of Kaelsalvania looks at JCH’s hand… then to JCH… then back to the hand.
Max Kael: Don’t you fucking touch me!
Swatting the hand away, Max jams his finger into JCH’s chest.
Max Kael: You want to do things honorably? You think this is all… your story? Motherfucker, you’re in MY STORY! All of this! You… this ring! These worms!
Pointing out at the crowd, Max is greeted, as expected, with a hail of boos.
Max Kael: This is MY STORY! It’s always been my story and I will conduct myself as I see fit! What you call cheating I call a strategic winning strategy! You dare-DARE to cast a shadow on my superior and brilliant tactile thinking?! Lest we forget, the last time you and I faced each other I, MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL, was the winner! ME! MEEE!
At this point Max is pretty much spitting as he speaks, his face turning red as a sheen of sweat covers his forehead.
Max Kael: … and I will happily make my point. Again. At Ascension.
Pointing toward the Ascension sign, Max’s scowl turns into a murderous grin. The fans cheer at the prospect of seeing JCH and Max Kael at it again though they shift back over to boos when they remember it’s Max who’s trying to sell the match.
Max Kael: So are you willing to put your body where your mouth is? Willing to write a new chapter in MY STORY? What do you say, friend… Maximillian Wilhelm Kael versus Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Oh, and to make it honorable… let’s make it Falls Out Anywhere?
Jonathan-Christopher takes a step back. It’s a sullen step back, a sad facial expression. Maybe even a little heartbroken? It’s an easy heart to break.
But then. Then… he raises his head from the canvas and looks Max Kael in the eye. Hall seems calm, cool, collected. The same guy he has been now for a couple of months. Under other circumstances he would’ve been broken.
Not this time.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Okay. I’ll wrestle you. If that’s what you want, Max, I’ll do it.
Kael sneers evilly at the thought of getting what he wants.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But I’m not backing down from my stance. I want to be your friend. I feel like I can help you, like you helped me. Like you will continue to help me.
Realizing no further good can come from this interaction, JCH slides out of the ring while a frothing-at-the-mouth Max Kael fixates on him leaving it.
Halfway up the ramp, however, Hall comes to a complete stop.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You’re right about one thing, Max. It’s not MY story. I apologize for that. Foolish of me to think it’s just about me.
Max’s green eye grows wide as he mouths “So you’ve accepted the truth.”.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But it’s not your story, either…
Jonathan-Christopher drops the mic and starts walking to the entranceway.
Max Kael: Well, whose story is it then!?
With his back towards Max, the nearest camera picks up on Hall’s audible statement but one said so quietly it’s unsure if anyone else other than those watching from home could hear.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It’s ours.
An angry Kael witnesses JCH vanish out of sight as ReVival goes elsewhere.
Alright, we’re back from Jonathan-Christopher Hall… crying that Vickie still isn’t around? I have no idea. We’ve got cooking and Survivor – Round 4 to wrap up.
And we’re not fucking around with all sorts of shit. We’ve got Clay, David, Denny all at the judges table.
Clay Byrd: Alright, it’s time to figure out who the winner and losers are because I can feel the meat sweats coming on and I need the bathroom.
Denny Colton: The sign of a good barbecue.
David McBride: Y’know, it hasn’t been all bad.
Clay Byrd: Alright, so we’ve had three competitors separate themselves from the pack and we’re going to eat their plates first to determine who gets immunity.
First up, is Plate #1, from Coltrane Anderson.
Denny Colton: Look, this is quite good. This beef brisket is something I might take home to meet Ma Colton, you know?
David McBride: This is someone who’s been eating BBQ all of their lives and it shows. Tangy, spicy, full of flavor.
Clay Byrd: Yeah, shit’s good. Next.
Second up, is Plate #2, from The Anglo Luchador.
Denny Colton: Look, I appreciate this. It’s a fusion of cultures and you can taste it. This one has got some Mexican flavors, but also some Italian flavors. It’s bold.
David McBride: It’s…different. But I can forgive it.
Clay Byrd: Yeah, shit’s good. Next.
Third up, Plate #3, from Henry Keyes.
Denny Colton: Man, this is something else. I’m not sure how you get this kind of flavor out of the brisket, but this person took it to the next level.
David McBride: This person should compete in the real BBQ series. They’d probably lose badly, but they’ve at least earned a spot.
Clay Byrd: Yeah, shit’s good. Let’s vote.
And they vote, hand it over to the PA, and we all wait until Clay is handed a card.
Clay Byrd: Alright, the person who won the BBQ Cookoff Classic… is none other than… HENRY! KEYES!
Someone pipes in cheering noises because there’s obviously no one around. Rob Williams shouts that this is some bias BS and that Clay clearly cheated in favor of Henry, but quickly shuts his mouth when Clay looks at him.
Henry smiles, sits on top of the BBQ grill, which then turns into a Steampunk Pirate Ship and flies away.
Clay Byrd: Alright, well, that happened. Now, let’s go the last three dishes and figure out who is being eliminated.
They start eating Dish #4 (Nathan Lake).
Denny Colton: Man, lots of effort went into this.
David McBride: Yeah, just… the flavors are off. I don’t know.
Clay Byrd: I mean, I would find this at like your chain BBQ. Not bad enough to throw away, but not good enough to celebrate it. Alright, next?
Then they move onto Dish #5 (Kenny Freeman).
David McBride: This is really good. Like, this person is on the bottom? Did they just figure out how to cook in the middle of this?
Denny Colton: Man, this was delicious.
Clay Byrd: Mhhhhhhhhm.
The secret? Kenny opened a rift in time and space to go to another universe where Kenny Freeman, cooking in the same exact spot, is an actual good cook and stole that beef brisket and brought it back into this universe. Or he learned to cook something over an entire week.
So basically, a loophole.
Now, time for the final dish (Rob Williams).
David McBride: OH GOD DAMMIT!
He then slaps both Clay and Denny’s plates out of his hands.
David McBride: FUCK THIS, FUCK YOU, GO DIE!
Rob Williams then charges the stage.
Rob Williams: I WILL KILL YOU! THAT WAS ALL OF MY BEEF BRISKET!
David McBride: THEN THAT COW DIED FOR NOTHING!
Denny and Clay pull David back as everyone else grabs Rob, keeping him from attacking (and probably murdering) David.
Once things settle down, Clay looks around, confused.
Clay Byrd: Well… I guess we have our final scores? I didn’t even get to eat that last one.
Rob Williams: THIS IS WRONG!
And yet… the scores are in.
Clay Byrd: So, the two people being eliminated are… Rob Williams—
David McBride: Good!
Clay Byrd: — and, the last two were so close they were separated by a point… but, the other person eliminated is… Nathan Lake.
And that, folks, is another round of Survivor, leaving us with four.
Henry Keyes
The Anglo Luchador
Kenny Freeman
Coltrane Anderson
ROUND FOUR RESULTS
HENRY KEYES – 27
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 25
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 25
NATHAN LAKE – 16
KENNY FREEMAN – 16
ROB WILLIAMS – 5
OVERALL RESULTS
HENRY KEYES – 98 (IMMUNITY)
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 92
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 92
KENNY FREEMAN – 56
NATHAN LAKE – 54 (ELIMINATED)
ROB WILLIAMS – 50 (ELIMINATED)
We join Vince Howard at ringside.
Vince Howard: This match is for FIFTY FIRST FALLS!
The crowd is puzzled but plays along.
Vince Howard: Which means it’s only… FOR. ONE. FALL!
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
Richard Parker: God I HATE when Vince randomly goes into business for himself. It’s like he does this once every month.
Nick Stuart: Sounds about right.
Richard Parker: It’s like he has a new script writer for that one specific match.
Nick Stuart: This is real life, Richard. There’s no such thing.
Richard Parker: Isn’t there?
Anyway…
Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Miami, Florida… weighing two-hundred-forty-five pounds… being accompanied by his VVingman, Kerry Kuroyama… he is SCOTT. HUNTER!!
“Buring Heart” by Survivor cues on the PA as the crowd gives a cheer and Hunter comes out alongside Kerry Kuroyama.
Nick Stuart: These men, and Kerry in particular, know A LOT about Rezin.
Richard Parker: Well if Scott was smart, and that’s a BIG stretch, he would’ve picked their brains about him!
Hunter makes his way to ringside where he claps his hands together and then rolls under the bottom rope and into the ring. His theme song comes to a close.
Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Indianapolis, Indiana… weighing two-hundred-five pounds… he is THE ESCAPE ARTIST… HE IS REZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIN!
The lights dim. Feedback drones over the PA.
Then the PA THUMPS with the stomping opening drum and bass beat to “I Have a Prepared Statement”.
Anticipation builds as the feedback SWELLS over the stomping rhythm, while a number of fans bang their heads in unison. Then, as the sound reaches the end of the first four-measure phrase, the guitar divebombs right into the most bowel-voiding riff on the planet, and the force of fury known as REZIN tears his way through the black curtains.
“RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!”
The fans greet the former Universal Champion with a hero’s welcome. With his dastardly grin stretching from ear to ear and his bloodshot eyes as wide as golfballs, the Goat Bastard runs the length of the stage a few times to FIRE UP the crowd before finally strutting his way down the rampway.
Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, hailing from Indianapolis, Indiana, and weighing in at two-hundred and five pounds… please welcome back to PRIME, “THE ESCAPE ARTIST” REZIN!!
Rezin jukes along the aisle, slapping hands with fans reaching over the barricade. Many of them immediately look at the black residue left behind on their palms with looks of confusion.
Nick Stuart: Fun fact: It’s been over THREE YEARS since the former Universal Champion Rezin stepped foot in the PRIME ring in an official capacity, last appearing in a singles contest against Sage Pontiff at Tropical Turmoil 2023.
Richard Parker: You’d think more of these people would have moved on and forgotten about him!
Nick Stuart: Doesn’t seem to be the case, partner! “The Escape Artist” made quite the impact in those first couple years of the ReVival era, and the fans of PRIME are welcoming back the bringer of PUNK ROCK with open arms!
Richard Parker: Sure, they remember the good times, but did everyone just conveniently forget the time he tried to blow up a Pay Per View with a deathray?
Nick Stuart: Cut him some slack, Rich; he was SOBER during that period!
Richard Parker: What weird is more dangerous when he’s OFF drugs, Nick?!
Nick Stuart: The only one I know is making his way to the ring currently. In any case, after many efforts to speak with PRIME CEO Lindsay Troy, Rezin has evidently finally negotiated his way into a formal return. He looks excited to be competing in the PRIME ring once again, and I know many are excited to see him perform once more!
Richard Parker: Or to see him get tossed around like a ragdoll.
Rezin hops to the apron, climbs a turnbuckle, and pumps a FIST over his head to prompt a pyro display of SMOKE and FIRE. As he does, the fans chant along in time to his music.
“FIRE-IT-UP!! FIRE-IT-UP!! FIRE-IT-UP!! FIRE-IT-UP!! FIRE-IT-UP!!”
Finally, when the music cuts and the dust settles, Rezin drops to the mat and goes to his corner.
DING DING
The appropriate amount of DINGS are in and we… are… off!
Scott Hunter and Rezin lock into a grapple in the middle of the squared circle, except Rezin looks off when he locks horns with the bigger man. Hunter hip tosses Rezin over his body and sinks in a headlock. The headlock moves into a modified sleeper, which moves into a full nelson, which moves into a full nelson slam!
The fans cheer as Hunter backs away, slowly going into the ropes and clubbing Rezin in the back of the head with a flying forearm!
Nick Stuart: Rezin could be out with that shot!
Hunter rolls the former Universal Champion over and hooks a leg.
ONE!
TWO!
KICKOUT!
Rezin not only kicks out but the kickout sends him slipping out from under Scott Hunter’s body, up and onto his feet and straight into the ropes. A missile dropkick follows, directly into Hunter’s chest before Rezin lifts Hunter and slams him back down to the mat.
Rezin claps his hands together. The crowd claps theirs in reply. Rezin shoots off the ropes but not before being mesmerized by the clapping for a split second. It’s the exact split second that Scott Hunter needs in order to stand and deliver a ring shaking powerslam and another pin!
ONE!
TWO!
KICKOUT!
Same kind of kickout as before. Rezin slips out so seamlessly and onto his feet. Scott Hunter has to be wondering if he’s not putting enough weight down on the pin. He is… it’s just that Rezin is kinda an escape artist or something along those lines. Anyway, as Hunter gets to his feet while thinking about how quickly the man can slide out of the pin and into the ropes-
WHAP!
He eats another missile dropkick, this time square in the face!
Kerry Kuroyama looks on, somewhat concerned as Rezin marches over and starts delivering open palm strikes to the jaw of Scott Hunter. Strike after strike, it’s actually working Hunter up from his knees, into a vertical base. Rezin takes a few steps back and then roundhouse smashes a palm strike into Hunter’s nose.
The VVingman fumbles into the ropes and slowly bounces off them.
WHAP!
Into a full blown palm strike, dead forehead.
Hunter falls over.
Nick Stuart: Wonderful strikes by Rezin, he hasn’t missed a beat!
Richard Parker: Well, he IS the “World Champion” in other places at the moment.
Nick Stuart: Won’t even say the company name, will ya?
Richard Parker: Absolutely not. Screw ‘em and their anti-blue font!
Nick Stuart: Anti-blue font?
Richard Parker: PRIME. Our PRIME logo is the colour blue. Don’t think too hard, Nick.
Rezin waits for Hunter to rise, at least onto his knees before he shoots into the ropes… but upon coming right back, Scott leaps and wraps his arms around Rezin, connecting with a wicked looking powerslam!
There’s no cover, however. Hunter stumbles around, trying to knock sense into his head. He might be seeing double thanks to those palm strikes. Rezin, too, finds a way up with use from the ropes. As Rezin swings around, Hunter kicks him in the groin and lands a DDT!
Nick Stuart: No doubt Scott had many brains to pick from before this match. Clay. Kerry. Keyes, most definitely. Maybe even Lindsay herself.
Richard Parker: That would be collusion. Either way, I’m sure he had the match well scouted, yes.
Hunter marches over, peeling Rezin off the mat and begins kneeing him in the face. Once. Twice. Thrice! Then come a fury of knees! Kerry Kuroyama smiles from the outside, albeit slightly, seeing these shots knock Rezin for a loop.
Rezin tries to throw a punch… into thin air. He delivers a kick… swoosh. He stumbles around, stumbles around, stumbles around…
Then falls flat on his face!
Hunter springs forward, snatching the current “World Champion” somewhere and former “World Champion” here and delivers a serious looking back breaker. Rezin snaps in half (not literally, but almost) before Hunter discards him and falls on top for a pin.
ONE!
TWO!
KICKOUT!
Yes, again, Rezin seems to slip out and upright during the kickout much to the shock and awe of Scott Hunter, who gives his head a shake. He looks over at Kerry and shrugs before following Rezin to the corner of the ring.
Rezin bursts forward with a palm strike… but this time Scott was ready. He grabs the right arm of Rezin and steers him back to where he came from. Rezin’s arm slams against the corner buckle, still in Scott Hunter’s grasp. Hunter shoots both knees up and drives them directly into Rezin’s arm while tugging down on the arm, too.
Rezin screams in pain!
Nick Stuart: Almost looked like Hunter wanted to dislocate that shoulder.
And while the shoulder wasn’t dislocated, Rezin’s arm dangles like he won’t be able to use it for a while.
Translation: palm strikes neutralized.
Hunter pulls himself upright and marches back to his opponent. He tosses The Escape Artist into the corner across the way. Rezin not only hits and sticks, his body seemingly folds like an accordion upon impact. He’s hovered over the top buckle, both his arms dangling below.
Hunter looks at Kuroyama. Kuroyama looks at Hunter.
Hunter grits his teeth.
Hunter goes full blast.
WHAM!
A leaping splash, driving Rezin’s chest into the buckle even further. With all the air flushed out of the Indiana native, he’s there for the taking. Hunter peels Rezin off the corner and throws him into the middle of the ring.
Atomic drop.
Leg sweep.
Right into the figure four leglock!
Nick Stuart: OH BOY!
It was fast, it was fluid. It was really damn impressive except for one small little thing. One really small little thing.
Okay, it was a BIG thing. You got me.
Rezin sucked his feet back at the last second and escaped the submission before it was fully locked in!
Rezin hugs the bottom rope with both arms, although it’s clear his right arm is hurting. Scott is perplexed by Rezin not only escaping but the fact he couldn’t get his finishing submission tied in after such a great combination. A combination he was no doubt working on this week.
Hunter runs towards Rezin, as Rezin stands but the Indiana Hero ends up low-bridging Hunter over the ropes, onto the apron and then flat, smack on the floor.
Rezin gives his head a shake as he slingshots himself over the ropes and crashes down into Hunter’s body.
Except Scott moves out of the way! Rezin lands on the floor, chest-first. He looks around, flabbergasted at where the hell his opponent is. As Rezin gets on his hands and knees, he looks up and sees Kerry Kuroyama standing there.
At first, Rezin points at Kerry. Was he expecting Kerry to point back at Rezin? These are clearly not the same men. This isn’t the Spider-Man meme.
No. No that’s not what Rezin was going for.
Rezin: [Scratching the side of his head] You’re my opponent?
Rezin raises an eyebrow.
Richard Parker: Christ, this guy is an idiot.
Nick Stuart: No, I think Rezin legitimately thinks he’s wrestling Kerry Kuroyama.
Richard Parker: I know!
Kerry backs away at the referee’s command as he puts his hands up, as if saying through his body language that of course not, you’ll never see these two men up against each other. At least not in PRIME.
Rezin stands. Still greatly confused.
Rezin: Hmph.
And then he has to look behind him. Well, he better.
Because Scott Hunter walked halfway up the ramp and now he is RUNNING DOWN FULL BLAST.
CLUB!
Hunter destroys Rezin with an inside-out clothesline that’s so inside-out, it flips Rezin 360 so he’s back on his feet, standing there perfectly.
As if nothing even happened.
Rezin: Whoa.
And then, quicker than a snap of your fingers, he folds like Toy Story’s own Sheriff Woody Pride upon seeing a human coming into his vicinity.
Hunter looks down at Rezin, then over to Kerry.
Kerry shrugs.
Hunter scurries down, plucking Sheriff Woody, errr Rezin from the floor and throwing him under the bottom rope, back into the ring. Scott marches up the steel steps with purpose, eyes locked on Rezin, knowing if he can score the victory, no matter how ragdoll-like Rezin’s body fumbles around the ring… it’s the victory, it’s the W, that would be massive for his career.
Hunter enters through the bottom and middle rope. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Rezin.
And he doesn’t need to.
Rezin rolls Hunter into a small package!
Nick Stuart: Was Rezin playing possum!?
ONE!
TWO!
LAST SECOND KICKOUT!
Hunter stumbles into a corner of the ring and collapses, back against the post as he looks at Rezin on the floor with eyes wiiiiide open.
Richard Parker: I doubt it. However, it’s clear Erik Black got that second wind at the most opportune time!
Rezin has since collected himself. He’s upright. He’s not particularly “calling” Scott Hunter on but for some reason he’s got his dukes up. He might have even mumbled something along the lines of wondering why Scott Hunter is in the ring instead of Kerry Kuroyama and then slowly drops his dukes, because it’s not Kerry in front of him…
Hunter charges.
Hunter ducks a lariat and goes into the ropes.
Hunter ducks ANOTHER lariat and goes into the next set of ropes.
Hunter ducks a FINAL lariat and bounces back to where he first came from.
Rezin leaps, Hunter ducks and slides underneath Rezin, popping up from behind him and then grabbing The Escape Artist into a German suplex…
That Rezin escapes, because he lands on his feet.
Hunter powers forward with a lariat of his own but it’s also a miss of his own. Rezin leaps off the second rope, grabbing Hunter by the head and delivers a wicked, ring-shaking cutter!
Nick Stuart: PIN!
ONE!
TWO!
FOOT ON THE ROPES!
Rezin looks at the ropes and nods. He rolls a hand through his beard, except his hand gets caught in his beard and now he can’t get it out! No bother, Rezin will just kick… kick… KICK away at Hunter, working him into a corner. Now hands free, Rezin Irish whips Hunter into the corner across the way. However, it looks like Rezin’s right arm goes limp just before he can put every last ounce of throw into the Irish whip.
Nick Stuart: Black’s arm is still sore from earlier!
Rezin runs over and splashes Hunter in the corner. Rezin is going to Irish whip Hunter back to where they came from but this time it’s reversed when Scott takes hold of Rezin’s beard and throws him into the corner by using said beard!
As Hunter roars forward, Rezin leaps onto the second rope and springboards off with a twisting knee strike, catching Scott flush in the side of the head.
Scott collapses like Woody Pride, too. Except this is a little more shocking since his body typically doesn’t “perform” the same way as Black’s.
Nick Stuart: Scott’s out.
Richard Parker: I think so!
Nick Stuart: Scott took that on the temple!
Richard Parker: It was a solid strike, I have to give Rezin the credit.
On one hand, it’s clear Rezin wants to pin. On the other hand, coming off those ropes and hitting Hunter with the knee, Rezin landed on his right arm. He’s winching in pain as he tries crawling over with one hand…
Almost there…
Al…most…
There!
Nick Stuart: COVER!
Rezin drapes his left arm over the unconscious Scott Hunter.
ONE!
TWO!
SHOULDER UP!
Unconscious no more!
The crowd gives a bellowing cheer as Rezin rolls to his good side, the left side and tries finding a vertical base. Meanwhile, the same can be said for Scott Hunter. He, too, is finding his footing, just moving in the opposite direction of Rezin.
Rezin is up!
Scott Hunter is up!
They race towards each other, butting heads in the middle of the squared circle!
Rezin shakes it off. He tries to Irish whip Hunter into the ropes but Hunter clutches Rezin’s beard and attempts to whip Rezin into the ropes first. This becomes a straight-up dosey-do as both men are reversing and reversing and reversing.
They are both at the ropes now and end up double-clotheslining each other over!
Hunter recovers first and slides into the ring, while suddenly there is commotion near the stage.
Big Ian Salt, thundering his way down.
Nick Stuart: We have company!
Rezin steers around right in the nick of time… only to see Big Ian’s thick fist making his way over to the bridge of his nose.
CRACK!
Nick Stuart: HEY NOW!
Salt tosses a dazed and confused (but when is he not this way???) Rezin into the ring, while all of this unfortunately happens behind the referee’s back. Ashley Barlow was checking on Scott Hunter. To his credit, it’s not like Hunter was playing for the distraction, either. Because when he sees Rezin rolled into the ring, barely moving… well, there’s no way Rezin did this to himself, right?
Hunter shrugs. It is Rezin.
But Barlow figures something is amiss as she looks across the ropes at Big Ian and sees him breathing heavily.
Barlow points at Salt.
Then Barlow points to the back!
BIG CHEER!
Nick Stuart: EJECTED!
Big Ian is having none of it but he’s going back there nonetheless. Inside the ring, however…
Scott Hunter lifts Rezin up and delivers a delayed vertical suplex.
With a bridge.
Therefore, a pin!
ONE!
TWO!
KICKOUT!
Rezin shoots up and into the ropes just as Hunter gets to his feet. It’s another sign of life for the Escape Artist as he springboards off the ropes and catches Hunter with a flying back elbow smash! Hunter is wobbly… still on his feet but looking to be put down…
Rezin bounces into the ropes and clubs Hunter with a clothesline!
Rezin lifts Hunter and delivers… Thy Kingdom Come?
A shot at Lindsay Troy?
Probably. Some people don’t like her.
Nick Stuart: COVER!
ONE!
TWO!
FOOT ON THE ROPES!
Rezin slams the mat, not exactly out of frustration or whatever but hoping that was the “three” count and maybe Ashley Barlow would’ve ended up calling for the bell thinking she slammed the mat instead. (She did not.)
Rezin tosses Hunter into a corner and races in but as he does, Hunter removes himself and Rezin goes in chest-first. Scott grabs Rezin’s arm and delivers a double knee breaker to that right arm again, this time NEARLY dislocating the shoulder as he does.
Hunter cracks his neck, grits his teeth and screams as he leaps forward and throws his entire body at Rezin like a hockey puck, knocking into Rezin’s chest and doubling him over.
Hunter takes off into the ropes once more and connects with a flying body press into a pin!
ONE!
TWO!
KICKOUT!
And just like the many times before… Rezin not only kicks out, but slips out and onto his feet-
Nick Stuart: SCOTT WAS READY FOR HIM!
Indeed. This time, Hunter was. The second Rezin stands on his own two feet is the exact second Hunter hits him with a dragon screw leg whip.
Straight into the figure four leglock!
The crowd stands. The people cheer! Rezin is trying to fight to the ropes. He’s pulling at his face. He’s tugging at his beard.
Can he get there?
Can he?
CAN HE!?
Hunter falls deeper into the mat, the hold is absolutely textbook as he screams, looking into the eyes of Kerry Kuroyama on the outside.
His VVingman.
About to witness history!
Rezin wants to reach the ropes. Fuck, he wants them BADLY.
…
…
…
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Ashley Barlow: IT’S OVER!
DING DING DING
Hunter releases the hold as he rolls to the right side of the ring.
Vince Howard: Here is your winner… SCOTT HUNTER!
Nick Stuart: What a match! What a win by Scott. He finally used Rezin’s kickout to his advantage.
Richard Parker: I will say, very crafty. Very smart. I wonder if Big Ian’s punch played a role in this.
Nick Stuart: I’m sure it didn’t HELP Rezin, that’s for sure.
Richard Parker: I know that.
Kerry enters the ring and celebrates with his VVingman as Rezin rolls out and off the apron, crashing to the floor below. He likely didn’t know he ran out of real estate rolling across the canvas.
ReVival goes elsewhere.
We go from the ring to behind the Steel Door O’Doom.
The Lady of the Hour has her feet up on her desk, a big grin on her face, and a box of popcorn in her lap. Needless to say, she looks pretty happy…Rezin getting rekt might have something to do with it..
Lindsay Troy: Well, that just made my night. Did it make your night too, Helen?
The camera cuts to Helen, who’s lounging on the couch. The tiger rumbles a purr in agreement.
Lindsay Troy: A fitting “welcome back to PRIME, dipshit” for Raisin if I ever saw one. And since that’s put me in such a good mood, let me go ahead and get a few housekeeping items out of the way before the main event.
The Queen puts her popcorn aside, brushes her hands off, and looks at the camera.
Lindsay Troy: First off, two announcements regarding Survivor. Number One: the next challenge will be a Demolition Derby. If you don’t know what that is – looking at you, Kenny – Google it. And then tell me what your vehicle of choice is, otherwise I’ll be picking it for you.
A murmur ripples through the T-Mobile Center at the literal possibility of multiple car crashes in two weeks’ time.
Lindsay Troy: Second: commiserations are in order to our latest two eliminations. Don’t worry, Nathan and Rob, you’ll both still be on Ascension, because you’ll be facing each other for Robby One Belt’s Five Star Title. And before you ask, Rob: yes, the Last Pallet Standing match is still on. I wouldn’t want to deprive Miguel and Toddrick the opportunity to tell everyone how mean I am to them, since there’s not much in this life that brings them joy quite like that.
The PRIMEates in attendance simultaneously laugh and cheer the title match announcement.
Lindsay Troy: And lastly, there’s the matter of the Universal Champ. I’m sure Daytona Diamonds is chomping at the bit to find out who his opponent at Ascension will be, but since the Champ couldn’t find his way to Kansas City tonight, he’s gonna have to wait just a little bit longer until I tell him.
She leans in close, and smirks.
Lindsay Troy: Stay tuned, partner.
Satisfied, the Boss kicks her feet back up and returns to her popcorn.
It’s main event time, after all.
Nick Stuart: It’s been a heck of a night, Richard and it is hard to believe it is going to get even more exciting with our main event.
Richard Parker: Exactly, Nick. There is absolutely no love lost between Bobby Neptune and Ivan Stanislav. Good thing too… that means things will get really violent!
Nick Stuart: Has anyone told you that you may have an anger problem, Richard?
Richard Parker: No. Because they know what I’d do to them if they did.
Suddenly the arena goes dark and the fans roar with excitement.
Vince Howard: Laaaaaaaaadies and Gentlemen tonight’s main event is scheduled for ONE FALL and it is for the INNNNNNNNNNNNTENSE Championship!
A sea of stars dot the big screen. Words fade in:
“Look Up”
The sci-fi synths of “Cosmic Road” hit as blue light engulfs the arena. The screen shows a rapid-fire cut of Bobby Neptune highlights, including his insane corkscrew curbstomp on Ivan Stanislav. And then for extra measure shows the clip a few more times.
Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Parts Unknown and weighing in at 206 lbs¡¡, he is… BOBBBBYYYYYYY NEPTUUUUUUUUUUUNEEE!!!
Bobby Neptune strides onstage, his gray eyes take in the crowd with ethereal focus, both looking at them and beyond them at once. Then:
BOOM!
The screen shows a supernova as pyro shoots off behind Neptune who glides towards the ring with graceful purpose.
He enters the ring, climbs the turnbuckle, waits a near-eternity, then raises just one arm. He points to the sky then backflips back into the ring, ending in his corner.
Bobby Neptune is already in the ring, the final moments of his entrance hanging over the T-Mobile Center.
There had to be wonder in the air moments ago. The impossible sense that, whenever Bobby Neptune is involved, the universe has briefly misplaced its own rules.
But when the Soviet National Anthem crashes through the arena, the universe and Kansas City are set right once more.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Red light floods the T-Mobile Center, swallowing whatever spectacle Neptune left behind. The anthem booms through the arena with brass and bass and terrible certainty.
Ivan Stanislav looms into view without flourish, hurry, or need.
The Russian Bear stands beneath the red glare in his black shirt, red suspenders, dark pants, and combat boots. The PRIME Intense Championship rests over one massive shoulder.
Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, from Arkhangelsk, Russia…
The boos swell until the press against the announcement.
Vince Howard: Standing seven feet, one inch tall and weighing in at four hundred pounds…
Ivan begins to move.
Vince Howard: He is leader of The Red Army, a PRIME Hall of Famer, and the reigning and defending PRIME Intense Champion…
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Vince Howard: IVAAAAAN…
Ivan’s eyes bore holes in Neptune.
Vince Howard: STAAAANISLAAAAVVVVVV!!!!
Nick Stuart: The Intense Championship is on the line here in Kansas City, and Bobby Neptune has the most dangerous opportunity of his career tonight.
Richard Parker: Well, delusional is Neptune’s natural habitat. Dangerous? That’s Ivan Stanislav every day of the week.
Nick Stuart: These two have some history. Ivan selected Neptune for Squad Goals and made him pay for defeating comrade Freeman afterwards.
Richard Parker: Made him pay? Nick, he put his head through a car window.
Nick Stuart: That’s exactly my point. Bobby knows what Ivan Stanislav is capable of, and he’s still here ready to fight him. Speaking of the Red Army, shouldn’t they already at ringside or causing some sort of communuisance backstage? It’s oddly empty out here.
Richard Parker: Well, who is Ivan going to send, Nick? Dawkins has been banished. Rose defected. Kenny is out there drowning in barbeque sauce. Who knows how loyal to the cause Gamble and Hessian are. And Alexi is still on his well-deserved vacation. That just leaves Randall Schwartz and Speedy Riggs.
Nick Stuart: Dire times for the Red Army, it seems.
Richard Parker: I wouldn’t be surprised if Ivan Stanislav has a few tricks up his sleeve. You know, I hear when you sign your PRIME contract, they give a list of all the horrible stuff Ivan Stanislav has done over the years, and STILL the Bear surprises us. I love it!
Ivan reaches the lower stretch of the ramp as the noise in the arena sharpens. Fans along the aisle lean over the barricade, shouting into the red light. Some point at the championship. Others point towards Neptune, as if trying to remind Ivan that the challenger is already waiting.
Ivan slows at ringside and turns his head slightly to regard the crowd, his expression granite.
Nick Stuart: Can the hungry challenger upset the wily veteran? Hard to say. He’s going to bring youth and vigor to the match, but Ivan has dealt with that for years, and he has made a career out of turning complicated, youthful problems into very simple, inert ones.
Richard Parker: At least Ivan is gonna show Neptune some stars tonight, when he brains him!
Ivan steps onto the apron with one heavy motion. He grips the top rope, lifts one leg over, then the other, and enters the ring with a thud that travels through the canvas.
The anthem swells as Ivan removes the Intense Championship and raises it high over his head.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Ivan lowers the title slowly as his eyes find Neptune. For several seconds, he says nothing. He only holds the championship between them.
Nick Stuart: Neptune has the chance to take the championship from one of the most imposing champions and wrestlers in PRIME history.
Richard Parker: And for Ivan, this is his chance to remind everyone what happens when imagination runs into reality.
Ivan hands the Intense Championship off to Elvis Nixon, but he doesn’t release immediately. Nixon has to pull twice, before Ivan relents and the anthem fades. Ivan rolls his shoulders once and raises one massive finger to the challenger, wagging it as he starts jawing at Neptune. Then, with a confident smirk, he turns and lumbers to his corner and waits.
Nixon gives himself enough clearance and then signals for the opponents to meet in the middle of the ring.
Bobby moves forward, matching Ivan step for step as the pair meet face-to-sternum.
Neptune cranes his neck to ensure his eyes stay locked on those of the Russian Bear, who simply tilts his massive head down to burn a hole into Bobby’s ice-colored eyes.
DING DING
TWHAP!
Bobby Neptune goes flying sideways as Ivan’s forearm immediately connects with the young man’s skull!
PRIME’s Starboy shakes the cobwebs loose just as the Russian Bear goes in for a bear hug and Bobby manages to duck out of the way, driving a fist to Stanislav’s spleen.
The big man’s left leg buckles slightly from the blow, but he remains upright as Neptune races toward the opposite ropes, gaining all the momentum and speed he needs for a dropkick!
NO! Stanislavs has studied Neptune’s playbook.
Ivan turns and falls forward, looking for a mid-air elbow drop.
NO! Bobby has also studied Ivan’s playbook!
Neptune screeches to a halt in mid-air and back handsprings away from Stanislav, before using the cumulative energy to leap into the air and then drive his heels down into a MASSIVE double-foot stomp onto Ivan’s head and shoulders!
RAAAAAAAWWW!
Nick Stuart: Even Bobby seems surprised he pulled that one off, Richard!
Richard Parker: I would hope so! That looked like a damned scene from the Matrix.
Bobby leaps over Ivan’s prone body to run against the opposite side of the ring, looking to keep the momentum going.
The blue-haired brawler vaults off the middle rope, looking for another double foot stomp, but Ivan roars out of hibernation, lifts a massive tree trunk of an arm under Bobby’s shoulder and flips him head over heels with a vicious arm drag!
OOOOOOO!
The crowd winces as the wrestling mat violently snaps upward, sending Neptune nearly a foot up in a dead cat bounce motion.
Neptune flails, trying to get his bearings, but Ivan times the elevation perfectly.
The Russian Bar gets all the elevation and extension a man of his size can and follows Bobby down to the mat, landing with his leg draped over the Starboy’s throat!
Nick Stuart: Massive jumping leg drop on Neptune! His larynx has to be crushed!
Richard Parker: Good! Then maybe he’ll shut up about the Betazoids and Yautjas.
Nick Stuart: Those aren’t…. nevermind.
Ivan remains unmoved, arms crossed and letting his full weight rest on the neck of Bobby Neptune.
Nixon drops to make a count.
ONE!
T-
Bobby shoves Stanislav’s leg off of his throat and rolls out of harm’s way, gasping for air, watching as Ivan rises to his feet and cracks his neck.
Neptune doesn’t take kindly to the disrespect, letting out a guttural roar before launching himself at Ivan as the big man charges forward.
CRASH!
The two men begin throwing haymakers like they believe there will soon be no more hay to make!
Neptune’s right hook gets Ivan on the chin and bounces off like a racquet ball.
Ivan lands a fist in Bobby’s sternum, but it doesn’t slow the Starboy down.
Bobby makes friends with gravity, dropping to his chest on the mat, and rolls under a gap in Stanislav’s legs! The Russian goes to stomp Neptune like an ant but misses!
Bobby is up and leaps onto the nearby middle rope.
HE GOES AIRBORNE!
CRACK!
Nick Stuart: WOAH! Neptune just snapped Ivan’s neck 180 degrees!
Richard Parker: The Bear wasn’t expecting that, Nick! I don’t think any of us were!
Ivan is down on hands and knees as Bobby scrambles up to his feet! The Flying Object uses the opening to ascend the nearby turnbuckle as the crowd cheers him on.
Richard Parker: Now what is he trying to do!?
Bobby leaps.
Bobby turns.
Nick Stuart: SENTON ONTO THE BACK OF IVAN STANISLAV! All 200-plus pounds of the man from outer space just landed on the Russian Bears backside!
Ivan collapses face first onto the canvas and Bobby extends his arms outward into a pinning position.
ONE!
TWO!
YEET!
Ivan was merely distracted, not down, as he leaps off the mat with a speed and force that no man built like an 18th-century armoire should possess, and squaring up his opponent.
Stanislav swings and Bobby reacts instinctively, darting out of the way of a massive fist as the Russian Bear grunts in frustration, now reaching at Bobby with his free arm! Neptune ducks and rams his head and shoulders forward into Stanislav’s stomach.
The big man is unmoved, except for a menacing grin as he realizes the gift Bobby has just given him.
Nick Stuart: Oh no.
Ivan locks his arms around the blue-haired brawler’s waist and lifts him up and over his perfectly trimmed flat top.
POWERBOMB UP AND OVER THE TOP ROPE!
Richard Parker: Blast off!
SMACK!
OOOOOOO!
Bobby’s body contorts unnaturally as his shoulders and neck hit the floor below.
Nick Stuart: Jesus Christ! Is Bobby moving? Someone needs to check on Neptune, now!
Ivan doesn’t wait for anybody, most certainly not medical staff looking to prevent him from continuing the match. He calmly steps through the ropes and descends the stairs – eyes locked on his prey.
Richard Parker: There is something different about Ivan tonight, Nick. Even for a Russian he’s acting remarkably cold.
Nick Stuart: You’re right, Richard. Hardly a Dyah or a Hah Hah tonight. He is locked in more than usual.
And now Ivan’s baseball mit hands are locked in on Bobby’s skull! He picks PRIME’s residential alien up off the ground by a tuft of blue hair and tosses him like a rag doll into the seam where the mat meets the ringposts.
Bobby screams in pain as his clearly injured shoulders collide with the ring’s support structure, but the jolt is enough to wake him up enough that he manages to dodge away from the heel of Ivan’s big boot!
CLUNK!
Ivan’s steel boot hits metal rather than its intended target, giving Neptune a chance to catch his breath.
Elvis Nixon watches from above, judicially holding back his ten count. For now.
Bobby looks around for something to give him some leverage and smiles as he gets an idea, yelling something we can’t hear to Stanislav, which causes the Bear’s head to turn sharply, extended foot now firmly back on the ground.
Ivan points and yells something in Russian back at Bobby and then charges forward.
Just as Stanislav is about to reach Neptune, he does a backwards high jump, landing on top of the steel steps.
Richard Parker: Watch out, Ivan!
Stanislav clocks the steps just in time to bring his body to a halt, but that is all the time Bobby Neptune needs to slide his good arm under the strap of Ivan’s suspenders and jump from his position atop the stairs.
Nick Stuart: Bobby is hanging from Ivan’s suspenders like a tree sloth!
Richard Parker: Hah! Of course that wasn’t going to bring the commander of the Red Army to his knees!
Nick Stuart: It wasn’t intended to, Richard. Look!
Ivan is clutching at his neck as Bobby has twisted the Soviet-strength suspenders enough to begin choking the Russian Bear!
Ivan’s eyes go wide and his face begins to turn as red as the suspenders themselves.
Elvis Nixon begins to yell at Bobby to let go, but Neptune continues to hold on.
Now Ivan drops to one knee. Then a second.
Elvis points at Neptune, beginning a three count, warning him to let go or be disqualified.
ONE!
TWO!
Ivan Stanislav: GYAAAAHH AHAH
Nick Stuart: Think that means “Thank goodness I can finally breathe” in Russian?
Richard Parker: It’s Bobby Neptune’s death warrant is what I think. What disrespect to a PRIME Hall of Famer!
Elvis gives Neptune the stink eye as Bobby holds his hands up in self defense. Ivan is still on his hands and knees in the outside of the ring as Bobby rolls under the bottom ropes and immediately begins climbing the near turnbuckle!
Richard Parker: No no no no.
Nick Stuart: Ivan’s head is inches from those reinforced steel steps. What is Bobby planning?
Richard Parker: Nothing good, Nick!
BOB-BY! BOB-BY! BOB-BY!
The crowd chants for the Starboy as he reaches the top, now a good ten feet above Ivan’s prone head and neck. He points up to the sky and then down toward Ivan, who is slowly rising from his prone position.
Nick Stuart: Neptune wants to end it now! He’s signaling for Bobby’s Comet!
Bobby cartwheels over the top rope and leaps downward for the Rainbow DDT.
Nick Stuart: OH SHIIIIIIII-
WOOOOOMP!
Richard Parker: IT’S PAYBACK TIME!
Instead of finding the Russian Bear’s head in his hand, Stanislav manages to lift the steps fully off the ground and chucks them from his shoulder like a shot put, directly into the descending Bobby Neptune.
The Starboy crumples to the ground as Ivan laughs over the unmoving body of Bobby Neptune.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Ivan Stanislav: DYAAH! HAH! HAH! HAH!
The fans are livid as Ivan stands and adjusts his suspenders back into their rightful place.
Nick Stuart: Okay, NOW we need someone out here, please!?
Richard Parker: What’s wrong, Bobby should be grateful Ivan is finally getting serious. Better to end it now than let him think he actually has a chance of winning!
Ivan picks Neptune up and hoists him over his shoulder, grabbing up toward the ropes and lifting both himself and Bobby up onto the apron with an incredible show of strength.
The Russian Bear chucks Bobby’s limp body over the top rope and then steps into the ring, kicking him in the ribs for good measure, like a bear playing with his food.
Satisfied, Ivan goes to the mat for the cover.
Richard Parker: And still the rightful Intense Champion….
ONE!
Richard Parker: Ivan.
TWO!
Richard Parker: Stanis-
TH-
Nick Stuart: Neptune kicks out!
Richard Parker: NO! How!?
Ivan can’t believe it either and he’s blaming Elvis Nixon for a slow count. Nixon holds two fingers up to Stanislav’s face, but that only makes the Russian Bear more furious.
Bobby is slowly pushing himself to his feet on the opposite side of the ring, holding his chest and shoulder as he checks to make sure all of his internal organs are still intact.
Ivan slams his foot into the canvas and points a finger at the referee to points one back and then gestures that he’ll disqualify Stanislav and send him to the back.
Nick Stuart: If Ivan gets DQed, even in a fit of rage like this, then Bobby loses his shot!
Richard Parker: I told you Ivan had a few tricks up his sleeve!
Nick Stuart: Oh come on, he did NOT plan this.
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
The fans are on their feet, willing Bobby back to his as he finally stands up straight, bracing himself against the far turnbuckle, streaks of fresh blood dotting his hair and trickling down his face.
RAAAAAAAAW!
Bobby wipes the blood from his eyes, smearing it like war paint as he begins to charge himself up, shaking the ring ropes as he pushes and pulls himself back and forth.
Nick Stuart: I am not sure how much Bobby has left, Richard. If he’s going to make a move – it’s got to be now.
Richard Parker: Quick, Ivan! Turn around! Or shove Elvis! Something!
With surprising speed, Bobby uses the ropes to throw himself into a sprint towards Ivan! Elvis begins to motion for Ivan to head to the back, but before he can complete the gesture he sees Bobby running straight for him and Ivan.
The referee leaps out of the way, causing Ivan to turn and look over his shoulder.
SHINING WIZARD!
CRACK!
The sound of Bobby’s boot against Ivan’s temple reverberates around the arena as Ivan staggers backwards.
Bobby takes a couple steps backwards and then launches himself at Ivan once more.
LIGHTSPEED DROPKICK!
Neptune sends Ivan crashing into the nearby turnbuckle as the big man’s head rolls loosely on his shoulders.
Nick Stuart: I think Ivan is the one seeing stars now, Richard!
Richard Parker: How dare you use my words against me! Come on Ivan! Wake up!
LET’S GO BOB-BY!
CLAP CLAP CLAP
LET’S GO BOB-BY!
CLAP CLAP CLAP
Neptune once again goes for the top turnbuckle, struggling but using the crowd as motivation. He kicks at Ivan’s shoulders, sending his opponent fully down to the mat.
Richard Parker: Wait… is he…
Nick Stuart: Yes he is, Richard! Titan’ Crashdown! The very move he used against Ivan during their fatal four way. He’s hoping this time it can be the difference maker.
With a strained grunt, Neptune launches himself off the top turnbuckle and begins to contort his body like an Olympic diver.
Ivan weakly pushes himself up off the mat and turns to see Bobby dropping toward him…
Nick Stuart: YES!
RAWWWWWW!
..and and manages to catch him!
Richard Parker: YES!
In a fluid motion, the desperate Stanislav raises his arms, chucking Bobby Neptune up and over his shoulders.
Nick Stuart: IVAN WITH THE RED SCARE!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
But the effort clearly took everything Ivan still had in the gas tank as he collapses alongside Neptune, both men crashing to the mat in a violent heap!
RAWWWWWW!
The crowd goes on an emotional rollercoaster as Elvis rushes over to the two men, both of whom are barely moving, but it is Ivan who has an arm draped over Bobby Neptune!
Nick Stuart: Not like this!
ONE!
TWO!
THREEEE!
DING DING DING
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Hah! See! I told you Ivan would come out on top!
Nick Stuart: Barely, Richard! Neptune very nearly had the big man dead to rights. Had he not had those injuries he would have connected with his finisher in time.
Vince Howard: Your winner… and STILL Intense Champion…. IVAN STAAAAAAAAANISLAV!
Richard Parker: And that is what matters, Nick! Who knows what weird alien stuff Neptune would have done with that title.
Ivan sits upright as Elvis Nixon presents the Russian Bear with his title. He takes the belt cautiously at first, but then clutches the title to his chest and closes his eyes, his mouth whispering something in Russian.
Nick Stuart: Regardless, Richard. Ivan clearly knows how close he came to a loss tonight.
Bobby finally begins to stir and Elvis Nixon goes to check on him.
Ivan slowly steps out of the ring and begins to make his way up the rampway. Stanislav stops before reaching the top and turns to look at the ring.
A disappointed Bobby Neptune, now upright, stares back at the Russian Bear with a fire still burning behind his gray eyes.
Ivan responds with a brisk, cold nod before turning his back, continuing his ascent and making his way to the back.
FADE.
TO.
RUSSIA.
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