ReVival 42
Here we go.
ReVival 42.
ILLadelphia.
You’d think we’d start off with one of the hometown boys arriving at the Wells Fargo Center, but no…we have important business to attend to first.
Behind the STEEL DOOR O’DOOM we go where the Lady of the Hour, Lindsay Troy, reclines upon her throne made of championship belts, so you know it must be really important business if we’re bringing this bit back. The Flynn Cup is on her desk, neatly polished. Henry Keyes made Butch Vic put in an extra three hours of elbow grease to make sure it’s extra shiny. Almost as shiny as the Lombardi Trophy that the Eagles won’t be holding in a couple weeks, heyooooooooo.
Too soon?
Not COOL?
Anyhoo, the Queen beckons the camera closer, and away we go.
Lindsay Troy: Good evening everyone, and welcome to ReVival 42. Before I send it over to the best announcers in the business for our opening match, I have an important announcement concerning WarGames next month in Wales.
A beat.
Lindsay Troy: Namely, concerning my team.
Wait.
What?
There’s loud buzzing and confusion amongst the PRIMEates in attendance here tonight. And, most assuredly, amongst the boys in the back. The Boss swivels her body to face the camera.
Lindsay Troy: I know what you’re thinking and no, I didn’t misspeak. It wouldn’t be a proper WarGames if *EYE* didn’t have a team in the match. I run this company, and if bragging rights are on the line, then nobody should be allowed to brag louder and longer than me. It’s why I’m excited to announce that as of this moment, the fifth team in PRIME’s WarGames will be VAE VICTIS.
That buzzing is now full-on…cheering?
Yes, cheering.
This isn’t DEFIANCE.
RAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
Lindsay Troy: That’s right. Your Flynn Cup champions and the Besties in the World, myself and Henry Keyes, will be joined by Sonny Silver, “DEFIANCE” Oscar Burns, and “The Cowboy Colossus” Clay Byrd. And since Vae Victis isn’t complete without “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama, we’ll be taking him from Vickie Hall’s Pretty Pink Army of whatever long ass bullshit name she came up with.
A smirk.
Lindsay Troy: Sorry about your shitty dead luck, Vickie, but as Co-Consul of the greatest stable in the world, you need to be put in your place and be reminded that you can’t sit with—
Voice: *Ahem.*
The camera pans stage right where Killean Sirrajin, EVP of Talent Relations and Development, stands with his red Oakleys on and his arms folded. The Queen looks over at him.
Lindsay Troy: What’s up?
Killean Sirrajin: Lindz, we talked about this. We agreed it wasn’t how we were going to do PRIME’s WarGames.
Silence.
Lindsay Troy: I don’t follow.
Killean Sirrajin: You know…the whole stacking the deck against the roster by bringing your stable into the match and taking draft picks away from other people? We said that’s not going to be a thing here.
Lindsay Troy: When was that again?
Killean Sirrajin: Over six months ago.
Lindsay Troy: Oh.
She rubs the back of her neck.
Lindsay Troy: Well, that’s not very fun for me now, is it?
The Supreme Machine looks quizzically at his boss and friend.
Killean Sirrajin: Since when have you run PRIME like an authoritarian state?
The Queen smiles and chuckles.
Lindsay Troy: Since never, because that’s not a thing we do here.
She looks back at the camera.
Lindsay Troy: OK, it’s true, there will be no Vae Victis team in WarGames. And sorry, Kerry, you have to stay on Vickie’s team. I’ll buy you some Suntory Hibiki 21 Year as an apology. The real announcement I have is the four existing teams are each getting one more member of my choosing. Seán O’Neil will be joining Cecilworth Farthington’s Team I am Glue and So Can You. Dabney Doubleday will be joining Jared Sykes’ Team Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness. Rob Williams will be joining Vickie Hall’s Team I Hope You’ve Got Some Noise Canceling Earbuds Buddy, and lastly….
Lindsay pauses.
Clears her throat.
Takes a sip of water.
Lindsay Troy: Y’know, maybe I should wait to announce this last person until after the main event, or even in News and No—
Killean Sirrajin: Oh my God, Lindz, just wrap this up already, people have already skipped to the end.
Lindsay Troy: (rolling her eyes) Geeze, fine, Killean. Weird that you’ve taken on the voice of my narrator all of a sudden but whatever. LASTLY, Bobby Dean will be joining Coral Avalon on Team All The Bandits Are Here Now, God Help You All.
She looks at Killean.
Lindsay Troy: Happy now?
Killean Sirrajin: Very.
Lindsay Troy: I told people to stay tuned.
Killean Sirrajin: You did. Can I go back to never showing up again unless you’re busy or you need a narrative foil for dialogue purposes?
Lindsay Troy: Yes.
Killean Sirrajin: Cool.
AND NOW, ON WITH THE SHOW.
We cut to ringside, where “Crushed” by Parkway Drive plays as we see Mar in the ring, looking more than ready to compete…almost overeager, forcing referee Jimmy Turnbull to hold him back as Vince Howard begins the introductions.
Except, before we do the introductions, we see various signs in the crowd.
I’M SURE NOTHING BAD WILL HAPPEN WITH WINTERS AND DIAMONDS ON THE SAME TEAM
MAKE DAYTONA DIAMONDS WEAR A FEZ
CORAL AVALON MADE DAYTONA DIAMONDS RELAPSE
I’M WATCHING WRESTLING AND EATING GNARLT, DON’T SAY DREAMS DON’T COME TRUE
VICKIE HALL TAKES SIX DUDES TO A CAGE FOR GAMES
MY BOAT IS ALSO CALLED “JESUS TAKE THE REEL”
I NAMED MY CHARACTER IN CASTLEVANIA 3 “ARTHUR PLEASANT” AND NOW ALL THE MONSTERS ARE JUST TEETH
DON’T BE PART OF THE PROBLEM – BE THE WHOLE PROBLEM
IT’S NOT A WRESTLING SHOW IN PHILLY UNLESS THE MEN’S BATHROOM FLOOR IS COVERED IN PISS
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD LAYING ON THE FLOOR OF THE MEN’S RESTROOM, MAKING PISS ANGELS. I’M NOT MAKING IT UP!
HAYES HANLON’S WIFE STOLE MY MUSTACHE, AND I’M ACTUALLY PRETTY MAD ABOUT IT
PRINTS OF DAYTONA DIAMONDS’ NUDE PORTRAITS 1 FOR $10 TWO FOR $18. WHEN THEY’RE GONE THEY’RE GONE
I PUT KETCHUP ON MY PHILLY CHEESE STEAK, FIGHT ME
FOREHEAD SCORE AND SEVEN YEARS AGO
ONLYCRUMBS
TURNS OUT THOSE PINEAPPLES DONT MEAN DAWK IS A SWINGER
I JUST FINISHED WASHING THE BLOOD FROM KAEL V. PAXTON OFF THIS SIGN
RIP CARL WEATHERS
ARLO FOREVER
Vince Howard: The following contest is a three-way bout set for one fall! Already in the ring, he is the Wild Bu…MAAAAAAR!
Nick Stuart: Well folks, after what we saw just moments ago, adding to the War Games team, we kick off the in-ring action, and the Wild Bu is ready to run, well, wild!
Richard Parker: And if you think he’s acting up now, you should’ve seen him on the way down the ramp! Hopefully someone has video of it somewhere on the TickTack…
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A deafening blast of aqua, orange, and white pyrotechnics explode before those oh-so-familiar two words that begin “Song 2” by the English alt. rock band Blur induce a standing ovation from the crowd.
WOO HOO!
The capacity crowd’s cheers are directed at one man who just so happens to be standing at the top of the ramp. The former Flyin’ Hawaiian.
“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Bryan Dawkins.
Vince Howard: Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds, hailing from Hilo, Hawaii…BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!
“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Dawkins flashes the crowd his signature “hang loose” gesture, and soon enough, he’s sauntering down toward the ring, crossing back and forth to throw high fives to random fans. Eventually making it to the ring, he slides in and hops to each of the four turnbuckles, jumping to the top and flashing the “hang loose” sign yet again. Atop the final turnbuckle, he removes his signature aqua and orange sunglasses and tosses them to the frenzied crowd.
Nick Stuart: You alright there, Richard? You look a little shaken.
Richard Parker: I just spilled my coffee because of that pyro, Nick…so no, I’m not okay!
Nick Stuart: You’ll be alright Richard, I promise.
In the ring, Mar stares down Dawkins as RZA hits the poetry to a dubstep remix of ‘Biochemical Equation’, a collaboration with MF Doom. The fans’ heads drift toward the stage where they see the image of Dan Van Slade deviously grinning on the screen.
The screen flickers as a mask fades on-and-off Dan’s face. Suddenly, his voice blasts through the speakers – ‘DEVIOUS!’ Dan shouts as the thirteen second mark hits and RZA begins the epic clash between Dub trance and street slingin’ Suddenly – Dan Van Slade – dressed in his best threads – walks intensely slow from behind the curtain.
Vince Howard: And finally, making his way to the ring from MIssoula, Montana and weighing in tonight at 230 pounds…DAAAAAN VAAAN SLAAAAAAADE!
There is no love for this man. Fans boo, and react appropriately. A mass eruption of hate. He walks methodically slow to the ring, and pauses at the apron while ‘Biochemical Equation’ continues to spit raw lyrics. Dan then leaps and lands feet first onto the ring apron with ease. He grabs the top rope and slingshots himself into the ring. Van Slade dives, tucks, and rolls onto his feet as he stands in the center of the ring. He then rips off his thick gold brass knuckle necklace and whips it into the air.
Nick Stuart: It’s a tense situation in the ring, even before the match gets underway!
Richard Parker: One of these men is looking to make an impression to kick things off at ReVival 42, and I for one am here for it!
DING DING
The tense situation quickly boils over as Mar goes on the offensive first, immediately targeting DVS for a double-leg takedown…but Van Slade catches him first, quickly sending Mar to the canvas before landing a crossface punch for good measure. DVS turns his attention to Dawkins, trying to egg him on…but Mar trips the Super Deviant up, catching him by surprise!
Mar gets back to his feet, proud of his accomplishment…but he doesn’t get to enjoy it for long, as he gets caught from behind with a German suplex by Dawkins! The impact sends Mar rolling backward to his stomach, favoring his head as he starts coming to…and this gives the former Flyin’ Hawaiian a chance to showcase his newly-found technical prowess as he goes on the attack, nailing Mar with some forearm strikes to the head!
Nick Stuart: Dawkins absolutely going off on Mar here in the early going!
Richard Parker: There’s been a lot of talk about his metamorphosis, and this aggression feels like a sign of what’s to come!
Dawkins switches gears as he brings Mar back to his feet…only to get blindsided by Van Slade, who sends Mar through the ropes to the outside before going after the technician with some hard lefts and rights! Dawkins gets sent to the ropes with an Irish whip, but manages to duck a clothesline attempt on the rebound before trying to knock DVS off his feet with a shoulder tackle…but to no avail, as El Taimado holds steady!
Dawkins realizes the need for a different tactic, locking up with Van Slade as the action heads toward the corner…where DVS manages to turn things around, battering Dawkins with some punches before Turnbull intervenes to admonish the use of the closed fist! This allows Mar to slide into the ring and take advantage of the opening with some quick shots to the gut of the former Flyin’ Hawaiian, dropping him with a neckbreaker for the cover!
ONE!
NO!
DVS quickly breaks up the pin, refusing to let Mar steal a win from him!
Nick Stuart: Mar trying to sneak one here tonight, but Dan Van Slade is not having any of it!
Richard Parker: Surprisingly tame move on the part of the Wild Bu…and it looks like he’s about to pay for it!
Sure enough, Van Slade kicks Mar away, laying in a few stomps for good measure before bringing him back to his feet…only to be taken down from behind by Dawkins! DVS quickly rolls out of the ring, staring Dawkins down as the Bruh gets attacked once more by Mar…only this time, Dawkins doesn’t let him get away with it before hitting a snap suplex on the Wild Bu! Van Slade watches on, choosing to observe rather than intervene as Dawkins cinches in a side headlock, focusing the pressure on the neck of Mar as the latter struggles to break free.
Mar tries to kick at the head of Dawkins but with no luck, so he tries instead to reverse into a pinning combination…but Dawkins rolls through, keeping the hold applied the whole time! Eventually, Mar manages to barely reach the bottom rope with his foot to force Dawkins to break the hold as Turnbull starts to count. For his part, Dawkins lets go before the count even reaches three, opting for as clean a break as possible…but as soon as Mar gets to his feet, Dawkins catches him with a flurry of punches before connecting with an ankle pick takedown, sending the Wild Bu right back to the canvas!
Nick Stuart: Wow, Dawkins really taking Mar to task here, as Van Slade continues to keep a watch from the outside!
Richard Parker: In a match like this, you gotta find a way to pick your battles, and this is the way DVS sees fit to do that!
Dawkins goes back to work with some right hands to the head of Mar, followed by another side headlock…but this time, Mar fights back to his feet! A couple elbow strikes to the midsection allows the Wild Bu to break free before he heads to the ropes for momentum…only to be stopped dead in his tracks with a forearm smash by the former Flyin’ Hawaiian!
DVS sees his opportunity to strike while Dawkins goes back to the head of Mar, sending the Bruh to the ropes for a clothesline on the rebound as if to remind him that he is very much still a threat in this match! Van Slade with a few right hands to follow up, sending Dawkins toward the ropes before sending him over the top rope to the outside!
Nick Stuart: Dawkins takes a tumble courtesy of DVS, and you gotta wonder how that impacts his knee after what he’s been through!
Richard Parker: Van Slade is not worried about that one bit, Nick, he’s eager to pick up a win here!
DVS stares down Dawkins, and this moment gives Mar a chance to roll up the Super Deviant from behind…but he powers out before Turnbull can even make the count! DVS is not thrilled by the move and makes Mar pay for that dearly with some stomps to the head, only bringing the Wild Bu back to his feet long enough to hit a neckbreaker! Mar comes crashing to the canvas as a result, and DVS continues the attack until Dawkins slides back into the ring…prompting His Royal Deviousness to back away!
Dawkins, however, is looking to square up with DVS as he tells him to take his best shot…something Van Slade opts to oblige by with a right hand! No! Dawkins dodges it, spinning him around before hoisting him for a back suplex! Van Slade drops to the canvas, but before Dawkins can follow up he manages to roll out of the ring once more!
Nick Stuart: Oh, come on!
Richard Parker: Van Slade’s enacting his game plan to perfection here so far…wait, there goes Bryan now!
Dawkins, for his part, has had enough of Van Slade trying to duck him as the Bruh exits the ring…where DVS intercepts him with an uppercut! He follows this with a couple right hands as Dawkins tries to fight back…only to be sent into the barricade by the Super Deviant! With the former Flyin’ Hawaiian grounded, DVS targets the arm with some stomps before pulling Dawkins toward the steel steps. We soon realize that he’s about to slam the Bruh’s arm against the steps…and thankfully, so does Dawkins as he sends DVS colliding with the steps instead!
The fight on the outside allows Mar to get back on his feet, and he sees the window of opportunity as he climbs up top for a double ax handle on a rising Dawkins…who manages to dodge the attack at the last second! Mar drops to the floor as DVS makes it back to his feet…and steps on the back of the Wild Bu on his path toward Dawkins! Van Slade wants to get a few good licks in on the Bruh, who responds in kind with some forearm strikes! The two go at it until DVS sends Dawkins back into the ring, sliding in close behind to catch the Bruh with a chop block to the leg! Dawkins drops, clutching his knee as DVS rises to his feet…only to be blindsided by a flurry of offense by a returning Mar!
Nick Stuart: Oh! This could be a turning point for the Wild Bu!
Richard Parker: Mar looking like a man possessed with those rights and lefts!
Despite Richard’s assessment, however, the offense ends up fizzling out as DVS fights back, connecting with a European uppercut that sends Mar reeling to the corner…but Dawkins finally makes it back to his feet, hitting a belly-to-back suplex that drops DVS down hard! Mar rushes him to stop any chance to capitalize, but this turns out to be a mistake as Dawkins just wallops him with a right hand and a kick to the gut…allowing him to hoist the Wild Bu up for a brainbuster!
RAAAAAHHHHH!
The crowd is buzzing as Dawkins sees his chance to put Mar away, mounting up on the Wild Bu with punches to the head before cinching in the Ezekiel Choke! His training in jiu-jitsu is paying off here, squeezing the hold tight as Turnbull checks on Mar, who is trying to claw at the former Flyin’ Hawaiian…and failing miserably.
The longer the hold stays on, the harder it is for the Wild Bu to try and crawl toward the ropes before he starts fading. Turnbull goes to check on Mar, raising an arm once…and watching it drop. He raises it a second time…and the arm drops again! Turnbull raises Mar’s arm one more time…but Van Slade comes in like a thief in the night with a dropkick to the skull of Dawkins!
Nick Stuart: NO! Dawkins just about had this match won with that Ezekiel Choke!
Richard Parker: But the third man saves the match for himself, Nick! All part of the plan, if you ask me!
BOOOOOOOOOO
The crowd is livid, letting DVS know what they think of his devious ways…and Van Slade pays no mind to the hate as he sends Dawkins rolling to outside before lifting Mar to a standing position, signaling for a Cutthroat Driver that sends the Wild Bu crashing hard to the canvas! DEVIANT DRIVER! Dawkins is still down on the outside as Van Slade makes the cover! Turnbull with the count!
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
DING DING DING
Vince Howard: Here is your winner…DAAAAN VAAAAN SLAAAAAADE!
DVS gets back to his feet, gloating in his victory as Turnbull raises his arm. On the outside, Dawkins is finally coming to, rising back to his feet as he stares down the Super Deviant.
Nick Stuart: What a close, close match here…and despite Dawkins having that Ezekiel Choke locked in, Dan Van Slade’s managed to steal one here tonight!
Richard Parker: Steal? DVS saw his opening and he took it, Nick! Bryan Dawkins can be mad about that if he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact Van Slade picks up the win!
We cut elsewhere.
War Games is afoot.
The first match has been done.
There.. There was probably a cold open too, I just forget who was in it and I’m too lazy to check right now.
Sorry.
ANYWAY.. you know what that means, right?
Segment One has arrived!
So settle in, grab a magazine, relax that butthole and prepare for a big ol’dumparino!
WON ACTION NEWS TEAM
The words glitch, however, with the normal music cutting out. The normal intro freezes before the film seemingly burns away bathing the screen in pale white light.
The screen flickers red as the title screen words are replaced with bold, Russian characters. Instead of the intense news music and sexy sax we are treated to the low, somber sound of deep male voices.
ВЫИГРАЛА КОМАНДУ НОВОСТЕЙ АКЦИИ
The somber voices rise into a crescendo of Soviet fervor as loud horns, drums and strings sing out a patriotic tune. We continue with this red, Soviet theme as we move through the NEWS TEAM.
ALEXEI RUSLAN, FOREIGN AGENT
A bronze statue of Alexei Ruslan, complete with his peak hat, full dress uniform and his famous long coat. The music swells with Soviet pride as we get a spinning shot of this finely detailed statue. Hammer and sickle graphics explode in the background as that crimson glow glimmers off the polished bronze of the statue. It is indicated that the statue was created out of metal harvested from a statue of a known capitalist, the Mothman.
IVAN STANISLAV, FOREIGN DESPONDENT
For Ivan we don’t get a statue, instead we are treated to an impressive, lavish painting of the former Universal Champion. He stands, barrel chested, wearing a white tunic and blue pants tucked into boots. He is surrounded by the Proletariat, farmers, fishermen, industrialists, all the peoples of Russia looking up to their golden god. Sorry, OUR golden god. He has an almost angelic halo around his head giving him the look of a saint. This was probably endorsed by the Russian Orthodox Church, gotta keep it legit after all!
Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Farthington-Primrose, Herald
Everyone’s favorite, the Herald, appears in the form of several cherry tomatoes that have been stuck together with toothpicks to create a facsimile of the Herald, complete with banner and articulating dance. This looks to have been cobbled together by a small child, a silly little smiley face drawn on the tomato that most likely is the head. God help us, let it be the head. Anyway, we get an action shot, spinning around the tomato Herald as the Russian music swells to even greater heights!
Max Kael?, Russian Sympathizer
Maximillian Wilhelm Kael appears in the form of an abstract Russian avant garde painting. At least, we are told that it is Max Kael. The painting itself is a white background with three black circles, a melty blue triangle and a few puddles of fuchsia drippled here and there. It also looks like a rat was dipped in black ink and thrown at the center of the painting. It’s really something.
What that something is, I can’t say but it’s something.
Aaaanayway way…
WON ACTION NEWS TEAM GOOOOOO!
The Soviet music dies down as we are immediately whisked to the ONE ACTION NEWS TEAM NEWS studio! Max Kael is seated, as per usual, behind his news desk. More importantly, the INTENSE TITLE sits on his desk facing the camera. A wide smile is stretched across his still bandaged face.
Max Kael!: PRIME-als and PRIME-ettes and everything in between welcome to a very special edition of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM! Today we are joined by several special guests, the first of which you might have guessed from the opening titles! Please welcome my first guests, foreign correspondents ALEXEI RUSLAN and IVAN STANISLAV!
We cut to another desk off to the side in the studio. Alexei Ruslan in his brown garb sits there next to Stanislav, who is wearing an outfit similar to the introduction image of him with the white tunic. He sits, but still towers over his smaller comrade as he looks off camera towards Max, and then down at Alexei. He either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, that they’re “live.”
Ivan Stanislav: What the hell are we doing here, Alexei?
Ruslan, however, stares straight into the camera and holds a stack of papers in front of him. He taps them on the table a few times to get them all in order.
Alexei Ruslan: Breaking news, comrades of the world! World revolution is afoot!
Ivan blinks and stares at the camera. He looks so lost.
Alexei tilts his head to the side and grins with an almost manic gleam.
Alexei Ruslan: And come War Games, all other dominos will fall and we, the team headed by Ivan Stanislav himself, will be victorious!
Stanislav at least understands that as he pounds his huge fist on the table and booms.
Ivan Stanislav: ABSOLUTELY!
Ruslan is surprised by the sudden outburst by Ivan and he loses his balance in his chair and scrambles with his hands, before falling backwards completely and landing behind the desk. His feet kicky kick in the air. Stanislav stands up quickly, and in doing so his legs shove against the front of their desk and it falls forward and seems to self-destruct all over the floor. He leans forward to start helping Alexei up.
Ivan Stanislav: Черт возьми, Алексей! (Damn it, Alexei!)
We cut to Max staring at the desk where Alexei and Ivan are at. He looks half worried and half amused as his eyes dart back and forth. Turning to look at the camera he shrugs.
Max Kael!: Such power! Such majesty! I am proud to be on a team with such a prestigious pairing! Manager of the Year and Wrestler of the Year. For these fine men I bring only the best. BEHOLD!
Max makes a sweeping motion toward the side of the stage. The Herald scurries out onto the stage in a red Herald tunic with flares of Communist symbolism. He drags behind him a small wagon on which there is a Russian doll. It has been disassembled so that each doll can be seen. The largest is Ivan, the next is Max followed by CJH, Arthur Morgan, Freeman, Kerry and finally Vickie Hall as the smallest, interior doll.
Max Kael!: For the Manager of the Year I present you this custom War Games Russian Doll!
By now, Stanislav has horse-collared Ruslan and plucks him up off the floor. Ruslan is lifted a good three feet off the floor with ease before he’s plopped back down next to Stanislav. He brushes himself off as Ivan smirks at the nesting dolls.
Ivan Stanislav: Yes, Wrestler of Year, I won it with ease.
He says as he rubs his huge hands together. Ruslan smirks.
Alexei Ruslan: And Manager of Year…
He blinks, thinking about something, and clears his throat while Stanislav nods.
Ivan Stanislav: Yes, the honor of being on our team is all yours, I am sure, Max!
He picks up the smallest doll, the Vickie Doll, between his two fingers and smiles.
Ivan Stanislav: Is she not cutest little doll, dear Vickie Hall!?
Max’s face flushes red as he takes on a bashful appearance. He lifts one finger to his lips and lets out a “tee-hee”.
Max Kael!: Oh yes, honor. Much honor, all the honor. Why, I’m so choked up on honor right now I could probably add a Sir to the start of my name. And of course, you, my War Games Comrade and Commissioner, are equally deserving of a gift.
With a snap of his hands the Herald scurries off once again. He returns post haste with yet another wagon in tow. This time, however, the wagon is filled with a large, fluffy Moscow Watchdog, a unique breed with close ties to the St. Bernard and the Caucasian Shepherd Dog. He stares at Ivan with his wet, brown eyes, much as one would expect any recently rescued animal to look.
Max Kael!: Behold! For you the gift of a companion who will love you and be loyal to you without question. There is no more faithful bond than Man and Dog.. or so I am told, I don’t really know, I’m not a dog person. His name is Kulikov.. Strong name… heh-heh..`
Stanislav looks down at the dog, first grinning, but the grin fades away quickly as he hears the name. He and Alexei share an awkward glance at one another, and then both, as one, turn their full attention at Max. Any playfulness on the Russian side of things has quickly frozen and Stanislav shifts his jaw to one side, bends down, and slowly picks up a large splintered half of the broken table.
Ivan Stanislav: What did you say?
Max Kael!: What? Sorry, I didn’t mean to infer that your relationship with Alexei wasn’t as strong as the one between man and beast. Obviously the bond of brotherhood is unbreakable.
Max blinks back toward Ivan doing his best to look as innocent and innocuous as he could. His eyes swivel toward the broken wood then back to Ivan as the charm seems to have washed away to a tense nervousness. Stanislav’s mood is firmly soured as he looks at Alexei.
Ivan Stanislav: Let us go, Alexei. We have a match to prepare for.
Stanislav turns and stomps off set, carrying the large plank of wood with him. Ruslan narrows his eyes thoughtfully, turns, stops, turns again, collects the nesting dolls and shoves them in his jacket, then with a pointed glance at Kael, he too follows in Stanislav’s wake.
Max Kael!: Great to see you guys, we’ll talk later! And I’ll be sure to forward the dog to you!
Though Max calls out he makes sure that they are just far enough that it probably wouldn’t be worth their time to come back… or potentially even hear him. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Max wipes away some of the sweat that dampened his forehead before looking at the camera again.
Max Kael!: Moving on!
He looks about ready to speak when suddenly someone appears from the stage far behind Max.
It’s Vickie Hall. She’s waving at Max and appears to be screaming something though she is too far away from a mic to make out what she is saying. From behind her JCH can be seen scrambling out to collect his wife. Max spins in his chair, looking in her direction with an exasperated expression.
Max Kael!: Stop! Go away! You’re going to get me in trouble! You’ve got, like, twenty thousand other appearances on the show! Next week, NEXT WEEK!
It looks like Vickie relents and is escorted back off the stage by her husband, the Almasy winner JCH. Shaking his head, Max turns back toward the camera. The practiced smile slips back on his face as he falls back into his News Groove.
Max Kael!: Up next on WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE we have two of the Gluemanati’s own, the Glue Man Group, Sid Philips and Joe Fontaine!
The camera pans over for the entrances of the two Glue lads.
Joe Fontaine and Sid Phillips walk out, both in diametrically opposing suits – Joe in his usual sparkling green and Sid in his simple black. Both men appear absolutely confused about being there, as though they’d taken a wrong turn and suddenly are here in this interview.
Joe Fontaine: Uh. Hi, Max. Was this… uh, was this always here? I could’ve sworn we were on our way to catering.
Sid Phillips: Some of us were.
Joe Fontaine: So, uh… Hey, have you seen Paxton Ray? We were kinda sorta looking for him and didn’t expect to end up transported into the WAN Dimension.
Max looks at the two of them, then back at the camera, then back at the two of them.
Max Kael!: Welcome to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM stage, gentlemen, so glad you could make it! We’re exactly where we need to be, when we need to be. ..heh-heh..
The screen glitches for a moment as we see a glowing, sinister purple portal deep in the bowels of some far away facility. Various wires and tubes run out of the portal as we see the shadow of Max Kael looking down at it with an ominous look in his eyes. Through the portal an infinite number of Kenny Freeman’s can be seen going about their day to day lives, each slightly different from each other.
But enough about that, back to the interview.
Max Kael!: Please, sit!
Two chairs appear on the other side of the news desk from Max, as if by magic. Or perhaps some kind of temporal science? Wrestling logic? Things are unraveling quickly, let’s hope Sid and Joe can keep us on track.
Joe plops down onto the chair with aplomb, while Sid is a lot more reluctant about the whole thing.
Joe Fontaine: Cool chairs, what kind of fabric is this?
Sid Phillips: I’m not sure that’s the question that needs to be asked right now.
Joe Fontaine: Sure it is! There are chairs, they suddenly appeared, and I think there’s a whole Carpenters song about why chairs suddenly appear.
Sid Phillips: Why do you know about the Carpenters?
Joe Fontaine: What, you never had the Mysterious Birdman 0¿0 at your family reunion?
Max nods between the two of them as they banter and fire off various questions, some at Max, some at each other.
Max Kael!: To answer your first question, we had our personal WON ACTION NEWS TEAM set carpenter design these chairs. Given who made them they’re likely made from, maybe, dreams and wishes?
We cut away for a moment to the Herald who is wearing his normal Herald outfit but with a leather carpenter’s apron over it. He is standing over a collection of wood, leather and small wooden pegs.
The Herald: Oh boy do I love pegging!
We return to Max behind his desk. He shudders for a moment before smiling back at Sid and Joe.
Max Kael!: So, gentlemen, what are your thoughts on the length of matches? Too long? Too short? Not enough Powerbombs?
Joe opens his mouth, but Sid shushes him with a mere wave of his hand.
Sid Phillips: Listen, Maximilian. Matches are merely events where powerbombs are legally allowed to happen, and if you ask me, they should be unrestrained from the confines of the concept of matches. Powerbombs should roam free. Powerbombs should be beyond the scope of such a mortal concept as a match. Time has no meaning to a powerbomb. Long? Short? Meaningless. The only thing that matters is that there are two states that all life exists in: the state of being powerbombed and the state of not being powerbombed. That is all.
Max looks back at the camera with a look of surprise before he turns back to the two Gentlemen of Glue.
Max Kael!: Last week you were showered upon by lovely gifts and yet some were not kept! We collected what we consider to be the best, which you clearly forgot about. No one to blame, of course! Anyway!
The Herald rolls out with the Dick Handlebar Bike, a wide, cheerful grin on his face. He rolls it over Sid, kicking out the kickstand and letting it rest in all its Dick Bike energy. The cheerful Bently motions and poses, as though he were on the Price is Right showing off a top prize. It’s weirdly hypnotic and it lasts for an uncomfortably long period before the Herald prances off the stage.
Max Kael!: You are welcome! So this question is for you, Mr. Joe Fontaine. Do you have any aspirations for a singles run or are you married to Sid and the tag team division?
Joe smiles, but it’s the kind of smile where he might not actually be smiling.
Joe Fontaine: What tag team division?
Sid Phillips: We kinda just hang out.
Joe Fontaine: And do crimes, except not actually crimes because the Glueminati doesn’t do crimes. Whole thing. One time, I suggested doing a crime to Farthy and Farthy got that look on his face – you know the look, right? – where his veins kinda bulged out a little. Freaked me out. So now we do zero crime.
Sid Phillips: Powerbombs are not crimes. They are beyond the scope of the law.
Joe Fontaine: I know, bb.
The Intense Champion nods his head to both of them as he listens diligently. Once they finish explaining the lack of powerbomb laws in this country Max jumps on the chance to fire another question. Or perhaps just state something, it’s hard to predict these things before it’s written out.
Max Kael!: No Crimes?! Sounds lawful evil to me. Anyway, you two were at Colossus rasslin’ one of my War Games team mates in a tag team match! Sure, there may not be any tag team titles out there right now but there sure are a lot of bi-wrestling going on out there.
He stares at the two of them for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he thinks about what he just said.
Max Kael!: Let me walk that point back and rephrase. There are a lot of duos grappling partners in this here PRIME. You never know when it might pop back on! No worry that, say, a guy with potential like Sid Philips here going on a singles run? I hear if you don’t tag with someone, you get to do all the powerbombs immediately without having to wait for that hot tag. Food for thought, no?
Sid Phillips: …I do like the sound of this.
Joe Fontaine: Hang on, wait. What would I do in this situation, then?
Sid Phillips: I don’t know, you could try powerbombs, too. Never understood why you don’t do powerbombs, actually, that’s the foundation of this whole team.
Joe Fontaine: I don’t remember that being the foundation of the team. I thought it was my fabulousness and your powerbombingingness going together like peanut butter and bananas.
Max Kael!: I’ve always been more of a jelly man myself. HERALD!
The lights start strobing like a German techno haus from the early 90ies. Peanut Butter Jelly Time begins to pump through the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM stage. The Herald runs back out onto the stage and starts to break it down. As soon as this Peanut Butter Jelly storm has hit, it fades away. The Herald withdraws from the stage as quickly as he arrived.
Max Kael!: Gentlemen, you mentioned your boss, Cecilworth Farthington, earlier. I knew Cecilworth back in the day, surprise-surprise, and I think he might have had a hand in my death. This may or may not call for a blood feud but I’m still working out the hows and the wheres. So keep this a secret between us but I think Cecilworth might be a shitty human who needs to be destroyed. Thoughts? Concerns? How powerbombable is the Financer these days?
Joe Fontaine: He’s more of a best buddy than a boss, but…
Sid holds out a hand.
Sid Phillips: Cecilworth Farthington is currently unknowable in powerbomb culture. He is a Cthulhu. He is an outer god that no powerbomb has yet to comprehend. Should you attempt to powerbomb him, you may end up being strangled by your own limbs, his limbs, and limbs that don’t even belong to either one of you. So, uh… not very powerbombable.
Joe Fontaine: Also, I don’t think anyone needs to know any hows whatsoever.
The smile on Max’s face stretches to an uncomfortable width. His teeth glimmer like pearls stuck deep in the gullet of some oyster. He lifts his hand to cover his left eye before he weeks, or perhaps just blinks.
Max Kael!: Oh I get you, Mister Fontaine. Don’t be too hasty.
He taps his nose with a slender finger before he turns back toward the camera.
Max Kael!: Well you heard it here at the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM! Absolutely nothing suspicious was discussed and no pervasive thoughts of betrayal within the Glumanati exists! I would like to thank my guests, Sid Philips and.. And.. uh.. Is it pronounced Gee-O? Fountaine. Like a fancy fountain. I like it.
Saluting the camera, Max heads to his outro.
Max Kael!: Alrighty folks, looks like we should wind this extra special edition of WON ACTION NEWS down. Stay PRIME-al! I’ve been Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!
We cut elsewhere backstage.
There’s ten minutes to go before Don Winters’ scheduled match with Rose. He sits in his locker room wrapping the last bit of tape around his wrist and cinches it tight as his phone begins vibrating. He glances at it, rolls his eyes and waits for the screen to go black again. The Revelator stands to his feet and begins some light stretching as the phone begins vibrating across the table again. He sighs once more, but this time reaches for it, putting the call on speaker.
Don Winters: (exasperated, has already had enough of this conversation) What do you want? I’ve got a match coming up and I don’t really have any time for… whatever it is you’re calling about.
(Winters pauses momentarily, listening as nothing but the sound of wind rushes through the speaker)
Don Winters: What’s that sound?
Voice on the Phone: …it’s… whoosh whoosh whoosh… god dang… whoosh whoosh whoosh… jet ski… whoosh whoosh whoosh… Coral…. whoosh… just wait a fuckin’ minute!
The sound of the wind dissipates, replaced by the sound of an idling engine and gentle waves lapping against the side of a jet ski. It almost sounds peaceful, idyllic even, until it’s rudely interrupted by a well known Southern drawl.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): Winters?! Winters, can you hear me now?! I’m in the middle of a preemo jet ski sesh out here in Atlantic City, but this. can’t. wait. Turn on your fuckin’ FaceTime, Winters!
Winters begins fumbling through the apps on his phone, but finally, despite its best efforts, The Revelator defeats modern technology and is immediately greeted by just about the worst thing he could possibly wish to see: Daytona Diamonds on a jet ski at night, the flashlight from his camera illuminating his face, a cowboy hat still steepled atop his head. And a fur coat wrapped around his shoulders. And sunglasses even though it’s already dark outside. Awful, isn’t it?
Don Winters: All right. What can’t wait? What can’t wait 20 minutes until I’ve finished a match? (Winters pauses again) Isn’t it a little cold for jet skiing in New Jersey… in February?
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): It’s colder’n a witches titty, but I’m gettin’ my god dang money’s worth, Donny! You know how much a jet ski costs in this economy?! S’why I’m wearin’ this fur coat, y’’see? ANYWAY! Winters, you seen that scumsuckin’ Coral Avalon ‘round those parts? I’ve got a god dang bone to pick ‘bout this War Games bullshit and I’m choosin’ you to act as my advocate in my absence. You can do that, can’tcha?
Don Winters: You swear you’ve been to rehab, because uh, this doesn’t look entirely convincing, Daytona. As for Avalon, no. Haven’t seen him. I haven’t been looking either. Again, I’m trying to get ready for a match. Some of us have jobs to do, rather than galavanting down the Delaware River in the dead of winter on a god blessed jet ski!
Diamonds scoffs at Winters’ accusation, mock shock and disgust before he spews another round of word salad.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): I’m more sober than a church on Sunday and you best fuckin’ believe it, pal! You can take the cocaine outta the cowboy, but you can’t take the cowboy outta the… well, you get the picture, Winters. I’m an outlaw! I do what I want! I’m the fuckin’ king of the ocean, baby!
Winters runs a hand through his hair and groans.
Don Winters: I’ll tell you what, after my match, I’ll see if I can find him. I’ll talk to him, I’ll try and see what the heck he was thinking in putting us on the same team. I don’t know what good it’ll do us, but I’ll try. Does that work for you? Can we end this call?
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): Woah, woah, woah there, pardner! We ain’t endin’ jack shit. I know exactly what’s gonna happen if we do: You’re gonna march out there, you’re gonna lose your match just like you lost ‘gainst me at Colossus, and then you’re gonna get all sad and mopey and forget all ‘bout findin’ ol’ Coral. Don’t you dare hang up, buttercup. Take me out there with you! Put me in your corner, Donny baby! I’ll give you pointers, get you a god dang win, and then we can get down to the real business of findin’ that no good sonuvabitch! You get me?
The Revelator is completely exhausted by this exchange and rubs at his eyes with his free hand. He then opens the door to his locker room and begins walking down the hallway, which elicits a smile from his call partner.
Don Winters: This charming man. Look. I actually agree that we need to find Coral and have a rational discussion about all of this. I’ll take you out there, but you can bother Parker and Stuart at the commentary desk. Give something back to the fans for once. The last thing I need is wrestling advice from a gin soaked napkin.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): Hey, suit yourself, Winters! I’m just tryin’ to help you help me help you. Get out there, do your little dog and pony show, and then we’ll have a real rational talk with ol’ Golden Coral. Say, you think Troy’ll give me a second job on the announce team…?
Don Winters: I don’t believe she will, Daytona, but let’s get you that audition.
The show cuts to ringside as we’re ready for our next match.
The first upbeat notes of ‘Movin’ On Up’ sound through the darkened arena and as the words “my light shines on” are sung, a spotlight points to the entrance where ‘The Revelator’ Don Winters stands. However, instead of his usual crucifix pose, he marches right out and down the ramp, holding his cellphone in his right hand.
Nick Stuart: Is Don Winters on the phone during his entrance?
Richard Parker: The good preacher’s work never ends!
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Making his way, uh… I mean, at ringside! From Detroit, Michigan, weighing in at two hundred and fifty-four pounds! THE REVELATOR! DOOOOOOOOONNNNNNN!! WIIIIIIIINTERRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!
Winters gets to ringside, rounds the ring and stops at the commentary desk. He grimaces as the commentary duo and drops the phone between them.
Don Winters: Keep him busy for me, won’t you? And don’t you dare hang up that call.
The two men are momentarily confused, but nod their heads in agreement. Winters turns his attention back to the ring, rolls in and drops to one knee in the center of it, with his trademark crucifix pose.
Nick Stuart: Who’s “him”?
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): Howdy, boys! Big Dick Rich, how you fuckin’ doin’, pal? You alright? Workin’ hard or hardly workin’? Oh and hi, Stuart. Hold the phone up so I can see the match.
Nick Stuart: …You’ve got to be kidding me.
Don Winters stands in the ring, waiting for his opponent when the Wells Fargo Center plunges into darkness. Strums on the guitar are heard quickly thereafter as a red spotlight appears on the top of the stage.
“Judith” by A Perfect Circle begins to play as the fans begin to jeer the next person coming down the ramp, though not at the same fervor as they did for Winters.
You’re such an inspiration for the ways
That I’ll never ever choose to be
Oh so many ways for me to show you
How your savior has abandoned you
From the back comes Rose, who stands in the red spotlight, her back to the ring. She stands there as she feels the heat coming from the fans.
Fuck your God
Your Lord and your Christ
He did this
Took all you had and
Left you this way
She spins on her heels, arms stretched as the spotlight shines on her black crop top and black linen pants. Her eyes are focused on the man in the ring though as she lifts her hands up slightly and the lights switch back on in the Wells Fargo Center.
Still you pray, you never stray
Never taste of the fruit
You never thought to question why
The leader of KING saunters down the ramp, new found confidence in each step she takes, her eyes never wavering from the man they call Winters. She makes her way to the steel steps, the music still blaring behind her.
Vince Howard: His opponent… from San Diego, California… weighing in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds! She leads KING! THE SECOND COMING! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!!!
It’s not like you killed someone
It’s not like you drove a hateful spear into his side
Praise the one who left you
Broken down and paralyzed
She steps foot in the ring and makes a path towards Winters. Ashley Barlow quickly steps in between both of them while Rose is ready for a fight.
He did it all for you
He did it all for you
A smile appears on the Hall of Fame daughter’s face as she spins away from Winters and marches to her corner, before squatting in the corner, ready for the pain that is to come.
DING DING
There is an obvious size discrepancy between the young Rose and the grizzled veteran Winters the moment they stand across from one another. While similar in height, Winters was visibly wider. Twice the weight, twice the problem.
Regardless, Rose does not hesitate to swing against Don Winters. She strikes like a viper and catches him with some vicious kicks to the thigh using her long legs. Winters shrugs off the first two hits and keeps coming after Rose, so Rose slips through the ropes behind her and catches Winters in the head with an overhead kick as he moves to stop her from escaping.
The Revelator backs away holding his head as Rose swings herself out onto the apron. A springboard turns into crossbody that… well. Mr. Winters has more important things to do with his time than to deal with any of that, and so he simply walks to his left and lets Rose crash and burn on the canvas.
Nick Stuart: Nobody home on that crossbody!
Richard Parker: A bit early for that kind of thing, don’t you think so?
Daytona Diamonds: This early in a bout, you can’t be gettin’ fancy. Hit ‘em in the dick, Rosie!
Don Winters is a man with places to be and sermons to serve to his audience. The ring is his podium. The Revelator moved to corner Rose, and hammered on her with elbows without regard for such things as mercy. Those are only for those who truly accept His Word and His Light. It gets to the point that referee Ashley Barlow has to administer a five count to get Winters off of her, which he obliges after about a two count.
Winters pulls Rose up to her feet and sends her to the opposite corner by way of Irish whip, but a charge misses after Rose slips through the ropes and catches him with another kick. She then steps through the ropes, placing a foot on the bottom rope, and uses it as a springboard to land a big knee that rocks the Revelator and sends him to his hands and knees on the mat.
Rose does not hesitate. She can’t afford to. Her opponent is too big and too experienced to leave anything to chance. She takes a big leap over Winters’ body and lands with both feet to the back of his head.
Nick Stuart: Huge double stomp from Rose!
Richard Parker: She stomped him like she’s looking for a 1-Up!
Daytona Diamonds: Stomp him in the dick, Rosie! C’mon now!
Rose quickly goes for the cover, but the move only gets two as Winters tosses his smaller opponent off of him. Winters comes up holding his face in pain, and Rose gives him something else to think about when she bounces off the ropes and hits Winters again – this time with a dropkick.
With Winters thoroughly stunned from all the blows to his head, Rose sees this as an opportunity to hop up to the top ropes to seek the Wilt to Bloom. This proves to be too early in the contest to perform, as Winters is already on his feet before Rose can finish ascending to the top rope. With one shove, Rose is sent flying to the floor and into the guardrail!
CRASH!
Nick Stuart: Rose crashes into the guardrails, and that can’t be good for her!
Richard Parker: I don’t think falling from like ten feet into a metal rail is good for anyone, really. Well, maybe Jimmy the Rail Catcher, but I think that dude died from a tragic rail accident.
Nick Stuart: …What?
Richard Parker: What?
Daytona Diamonds: …WHAT!?
Winters leans against the ropes, shaking the cobwebs from his head. Then he drops down and rolls under the bottom rope to leave the ring, leaving referee Barlow to start a ten count.
Winters isn’t keen on playing with his food, but he knows that Rose is a fighter. Or, rather, the growing headache he’s experiencing is reminding him of the sort. He pulls Rose from the guardrail and throws her into the steps with all of the care of a bad postal worker moving a box that read “FRAGILE”.
CRASH!
Winters takes in the boos from the crowd as he casually breaks the ten count that Barlow’s in the middle of, only to roll out of the ring from the perpendicular side of the corner. He pulls Rose to her feet and tosses her back into the ring, and gets back in himself in pursuit.
Nick Stuart: Don Winters firmly in control here.
Richard Parker: I’m sure he has a lot of, uh… frustrations he’s trying to take out right now.
Daytona Diamonds: That’s the thing about ol’ Donny. He’s pent up like a priest in a nunnery. Frustrated ain’t the god dang half of it. I’d ‘bout feel sorry for him if he weren’t such an onery little pissboy. You know what I mean, Stuart?
Nick Stuart: …No?
Winters slams both fists down on Rose as she tries to get up. Then again when she tries again. When she gets on her hands and knees to try a third time, that’s when Winters drops the leg, brother, and goes for the cover.
But Rose won’t go down easily and shoots her shoulder up at two. Winters looks up at Barlow questioningly, but decides that more punishment is needed. He pulls Rose to her feet and throws her to the ground with a violent released German suplex. Rose lands in a tumble, rolling backwards into the turnbuckles.
Winters moves to grab her for another move, but Rose kicks her feet at him to dissuade him from the notion. Nonetheless, Winters is not deterred and grabs hold of Rose’s ankles and yanks her out of the corner.
Only… Rose does not land on her back.
Instead, she flips backwards and lands on her feet. Winters pauses for a beat, comprehending the fact that his opponent is suddenly on her feet in front of him, before he moves to take her down. This, however, leads Rose to catching him with a drop toe hold.
THUD.
Nick Stuart: Winters just fell face-first into the second turnbuckle!
Richard Parker: Oof.
Daytona Diamonds: Hah!
Winters isn’t even out of the corner before Rose is on him, hitting him with a dropkick that sandwiches Winters’ head between the turnbuckle and both of her feet. Rose continues the onslaught, jumping up on Winters back and using it as a platform to launch herself over the top ropes, before swinging herself back through the ropes to dropkick Winters again in the face!
Winters gets sent backwards towards the center of the ring, which gives Rose the leeway she needs to slingshot up to the top ropes again. After Winters gets to his feet, Rose immediately leaps off and catches him in the side of the head with a big flying knee strike!
She scrambles into the cover.
ONE.
TWO.
KICKOUT.
Nick Stuart: She got all of that knee strike, but Winters was able to kick out!
Daytona Diamonds: Someone tell him to hurry the fuck up and take the fuckin’ pin! We got shit to do, Donny! Donny! DONNY! Sonuvabitch ain’t listenin’!
Rose looks up at Barlow, questioning the count. Barlow reminds her that it’s only two. Rose gives her a very different two… with both middle fingers.
Nick Stuart: Now that’s uncalled for.
Daytona Diamonds: Stuart, I don’t ‘spect you to understand this on account of your bein’ the equivalent to a piece of white bread with the crust cut off, but every once in a while, you gotta let them birds fly. How else you gonna let people know you ain’t happy with ‘em?
She stands and lines up Winters before she aims to put his lights out with the Thorn Prick. Winters evades the bicycle knee strike and scoops her up onto his shoulder like he was looking for a powerslam. Instead, Rose slips out and into an arm drag that takes Winters and sends him sliding out to the floor. Hesitation is defeat, so Rose immediately runs the ropes and launches herself at Winters with a suicide dive!
This pushes Winters backwards into the guardrails, but it doesn’t knock him down. So Rose immediately slides back into the ring and stands into a run back into the ropes. A second suicide dive sends Winters into the guardrails again, but they do a fine job in keeping the Revelator standing. So Rose scrambles back into the ring, but as she runs into the ropes, Winters is suddenly sliding into the ring right behind her.
However, Winters is a bit disoriented in what he wants to do next in this situation. So when Rose comes back, he lifts her up with a tilt-a-whirl only for Rose to use the momentum to turn it into a big DDT that stands Winters up on his head!
Richard Parker: I got a funny feeling that Don Winters is going to need to see a chiropractor after that one!
Daytona Diamonds: Maybe a chiropractor might crack out that stick he’s got up his ass while they’re at it! Hah! Hoo boy, I’m fuckin’ good at this. What’chu think, Richie? Think Stuart oughta start updatin’ his resume? Make some room for ol’ Daytona to take his spot?
Rose might have considered going for the cover in this situation. Instead, she grabs a leg and an arm and repositions the Revelator closer to the corner. It’s obvious to everyone what she’s looking for here – her inverted phoenix splash, the Wilt to Bloom. She shoots up to the top rope, measures the distance, and flies.
And it is beautiful, and graceful, and everyone is very impressed with everything about that move except for the part where she lands on Winters’ knees like a bird hitting a glass skyscraper.
Nick Stuart: Nothing but knees!
Rose hits the ground and writhes, and Winters is able to get to his feet and collect the Second Coming. When he lifts her up as high as she could go with her arms spread out, it’s with the knowledge that there’s only one place to go from here.
Nick Stuart: ABSOLUTION!
Rose nearly lands on her head off of the crucifix powerbomb, and Winters stacks her up.
ONE.
TWO.
THREE.
DING DING DING.
With fans booing, Don Winters rolls out of the ring to shake the cobwebs out after the difficult match.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match… DOOOOOOONNNN WIIIIIINNNNNTERRRRSSSSSSS!!!
The moment he hears his name announced as the winner, Winters calmly walks back over to the commentary desk and retrieves his phone. He immediately regrets this decision judging from his facial reaction as he hears a slew of the Rhinestone Cowboy’s comments.
Nick Stuart: Rose did her best tonight, but Don Winters is such a crafty veteran and had the Wilt to Bloom scouted. Though you have to think that with a little more experience, this match might have gone her way.
Richard Parker: Nevermind that shit. Have we ever had anyone try to FaceTime their guest commentary from a jetski before?
Nick Stuart: I’m pretty sure it’s happened at least once in this place, I just can’t remember when.
Richard Parker: The fact that you didn’t immediately answer “no” concerns me.
With that, ReVival 42 moves on with a shot of Don Winters exasperatingly explaining to Daytona Diamonds that he just had a match and that no, he needs some time to recover from getting headkicked a couple of times before he can find Coral Avalon and Jesus Christ can’t you get off the jetski for a moment I can’t even hear you over the motor…
We cut to a commercial.
Nick Stuart: Welcome back, folks. We’re a few minutes away from a huge matchup between Kerry Kuroyama and Adam Ellis, and you have to think this match will have huge ramifications in our title pictures going forward.
Richard Parker: Well…
We never get to hear what Richard was about to say, because the PRIMEView flashes and we hear Martin Earley’s voice over the speakers.
They say it’s good to start a story with a tragedy…
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
“Fistfight” by Ballroom Thieves plays and Paxton Ray walks through the curtain, a scowl on his face. Behind him is Chet Fleetwood, holding a microphone in one hand and his law book in the other. Chet is beaming, and if we were to closely analyze Paxton’s scowl, we may be able to glean that Paxton’s not exactly happy about coming out here.
He’s not the only one.
Richard Parker: What are these idiots doing out here?
Nick Stuart: This wasn’t scheduled, Richard, so I’m not sure, but I’m sure it’s nothing good.
As the two men make their way to the ring, Chet signals for the music to cut, and after a moment it does.
Chet Fleetwood: Swilladelphia, what’s up!
The crowd boo, either for his idiotic pun or just his Fleetwoodness.
Chet Fleetwood: It’s so great to be in this amazing city. The history, the aura, the way you guys actually take pride in being ignorant pieces of shit…it’s something I admire! I do have to say, though, this whole cheesesteak thing you guys claim as the best thing ever? They taste like garbage. Eat a po boy and get over yourselves.
Nick Stuart: Such cheap shots from Fleetwood.
Richard Parker: At least he isn’t talking about the sports team.
Chet Fleetwood: But I’m not here to make fun of your terrible sandwiches, your weird obsession with gas station food, or your awful football team. I’m here to talk about this man.
He points to Paxton, who seems to be very focused on entering the ring. Don’t want to slip or anything.
Chet Fleetwood: Two weeks ago, this man was in the main event of ReVival, facing off against a literal baby for the Intense Title that he had made famous last year. And you may be sitting here thinking, “this guy isn’t going to pretend Paxton didn’t actually lose, right?” And you’re wrong, because I’m not pretending!
Paxton shakes his head, then leans forward to whisper something in Chet’s ear, but the lawyer waves a hand at him.
Chet Fleetwood: Shhh, Paxton, let the man cook. The man is me. I’m the man.
Richard Parker: I still don’t know if I love this guy or hate him.
Nick Stuart: The crowd isn’t as conflicted.
Chet Fleetwood: Anyway, Max Kael fought bravely. Knocked Paxton down. Held him for three seconds. Winner, winner, MEAT? dinner, right? WRONG! Because even though Max got the pinfall, he didn’t pop up immediately. He was still exhausted from the match, which is said to be very dangerous for humans under the age of one. Whereas my client stood up immediately.
Nick Stuart: So? What does that have to do with anything?
Chet looks over at the announce booth and smiles.
Chet Fleetwood: I’m sure you’re wondering what has to do with anything.
Nick Stuart: Well yes I am!
Chet Fleetwood: You see, according to the Wrestling Lawbook, the authority of all grappling competition rules and regulations, there is a subsection under part ATO, section 3, paragraph one and a half.
He opens the book and holds it propped on his left hand.
Chet Fleetwood: It reads that in the unlikely event of a barbed wire rope match, the pinfall is not the indicator of a victor, but it is in fact the first person to get to their feet. I’m sure this was just another oversight in a long line of referee screwups in this place, so I felt it my duty as the manager of the rightful Intense Championship that I come out here and make things right.
Nick Stuart: Well obviously none of that is true.
Richard Parker: I mean…that book is really big.
Chet Fleetwood: So I’m just going to sit here with Paxton and we’re going to wait for Lindsay Troy to come out here, dragging Max Kael by his ear so we can transfer the title to its rightful owner. Come on, Ms. Troy. Do your job!
After a few seconds, someone does appear from the curtain. But it isn’t Lindsay Troy. No, it’s someone worse than that. Much worse.
Joe Fontaine: Heyyy!
It’s Joe Fontaine, of all people, coming out with Sid Phillips and the Fabulous Gold Mask close behind him. He has a microphone, too, which might be the worst possible thing you could give this man. The three of them start making their way down to the ring.
Joe Fontaine: Sorry to interrupt, Chet, ‘ol buddy and ‘ol pal and ‘ol whatever-I’m-supposed-to-call-a-lawyer! We’re here on important Glue business, so could you hang on a second while we conduct it with your client here?
As Joe finishes chattering, he and the rest of his boys enter the ring. Fabby finds a nice corner to lean against while Sid hovers near Joe.
Joe Fontaine: So, uh… hey, Pax! Been a while. Survivor, right? Man! That was the time of our lives, am I right?
Paxton looks at him with that exact “get to the point” expression one gets when they’re one step away from putting someone in a morgue.
Joe Fontaine: Right, right. Business! Hey, uh… so you’re in Farthy’s WarGames team and all that, and that’s pretty cool and all, but… well, I’m here on behalf of the rest of Glue to help you out. See, we could use a little more brand synergy. We could use a little teamwork from you, buddy!
If looks could kill, Paxton Ray would be wanted for murder in thirty-six states, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. Joe smiled obliviously to those particular death lasers as he continued.
Joe Fontaine: But don’t worry, that’s what you’ve got us for! We’re going to help you fit in with the rest of us, and it’s going to be great and awesome and you’ll get to face-punch so many people! What do you say to a little GMG TLC, best buddy?
Paxton Ray stands in between two forces. On one side is the lawyer with the smile and the book. On the other side is the Glue Boys with the…glue. He holds his hand out for a microphone and looks at both sides in turn.
Paxton Ray: God, it’s assholes all the way down here, ain’t it?
Richard Parker: Truer words have never been spoken.
Paxton looks over at Chet, then shrugs.
Paxton Ray: An’ this is gonna help for Wargames? This ain’t some dumb little adventure that y’all like t’go on? If it is, I’m punchin’ somebody.
Joe Fontaine: Trust me, my man, I want this team to win and punch all the other teams. And you? You’re good at the punchies. I’d very much like to not experience said punchies myself, you know what I mean?
Sid Phillips: What’s a punch?
Joe sighs and turns to his compatriot.
Joe Fontaine: Sid, we talked about this…
He turns his attention back to Paxton.
Joe Fontaine: No wacky pirate adventures, I promise. Pirates are old news. No, this is just a little team synergy. Glue synergy. Glunergy. Still workshopping that one, sorry.
Paxton looks over at Chet one more time.
Paxton Ray: Yeah, all right, whatever.
Paxton starts to walk over to Joe, but Chet raises the microphone to his lips.
Chet Fleetwood: Woah woah woah.
Joe Fontaine: …Woah? What’s up?
Chet Fleetwood: Listen, up-do. I’m not sure what obnoxious, asshole, walk in and act like you own the fucking world school you went to, because we weren’t in the same class. But you don’t get to come in during MY rant session and take away MY talent. Paxton is here on business and can’t get his fingernails done or whatever dumb shit you have planned. So get out of the ring and next time leave silent hunk-n-stuff in the back, okay?
Paxton raises his eyebrows, then looks over at Joe and Sid to see how they will respond.
Joe Fontaine: Oh. Okay. See, this was an A and B conversation I was having with your client, so you can P your way out of it.
There is a long pause. A lot of confusion. Despite being masked, even Fabby looks rather done with this whole thing and visibly has to restrain himself from leaving and never coming back. Finally, Joe has to clarify his position.
Joe Fontaine: Okay, sorry, sorry. That sounded very confusing, so… What I was trying to say is that… Sid, there is a haircut here who is not being powerbombed right now.
Sid Phillips: …You don’t say.
Sid is a very large refrigerator of a man, and it can be rather deceptive just how quickly he can snatch a man up. So imagine Chet Fleetwood’s surprise when Sid reaches him, pops him up into the air, and holds him aloft in prime powerbombing position. There’s this expression of dawning realization on Chet’s face, the kind that didn’t expect things to turn out like this so suddenly, before…
BOOM!
…he finds himself on the ground.
The fans don’t like pretty much anyone in this ring. But they sure as hell pop like crazy to see the asshole lawyer man get planted into the canvas.
“RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”
There’s another long moment where Sid is standing over Chet’s fallen body and no one’s sure how to react to that. Finally, Joe points down at Chet while keeping his eyes on Paxton.
Joe Fontaine: Hey, uh… Pax? Sorry about the interruption, we cool with what just happened?
Paxton looks down at Chet for a second before nodding, and he follows Joe, Sid, and Fabby out of the ring.
Nick Stuart: Well, I’m not really sure what the point of all of that was, but it looks like Paxton Ray is going to try and fit in with his Wargames team.
Richard Parker: The point? The point is that Sid Phillips just did what everyone in this arena has wanted to do for weeks! It’s Christmas all over again!
We cut from ringside.
“Bruh…it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”
The camera cuts backstage to a lavish catering spread, laid out over a series of tables. The cornucopia of pineapple dishes is the centerpiece of the dressing room belonging to PRIME’s favorite Hawaiian. If there’s pineapple in or on it, it’s on the table. A sampling of the delicacies include…
Pineapple upside-down cake
Glazed ham with pineapple chutney
Tacos al pastor with pineapple salsa
Spicy pineapple slaw
Hawaiian pizza
Pineapple glazed chicken thighs
Grilled pineapple
Dole whip
Fresh pineapple juice
And of course, good ole freshly sliced pineapple.
Those rumors about Dole becoming the Official Pineapple of PRIME? Judging by the scene we see before us, I don’t think they were exaggerated.
The former Flyin’ Hawaiian stands before PRIME’s all-you-can-eat pineapple buffet, still exhausted from his first in-ring action in over two years. They say you can train all you want, but nothing will really prepare you for wrestling live in front of nineteen thousand screaming fans.
They’re right.
Dawkins loads up a plate and pours a fresh pineapple juice, preparing to indulge on the post match meal of his dreams.
KNOCK KNOCK
“Ebeneeeeeeezer.”
Don’t adjust your set.
“EBENEEEEEZER.”
The voice from the other side of the door.
“It’s the ghost of PRIME eras past, and I’m—
Dawkins swings the door open to see…
WHOOOOOOOOOOO!
Chandler Tsonda: [extending for a handshake] Jacob Marley’s ghost, charmed.
And it’s a big ol’ lovefest from the Philly faithful, as instead of a handshake, the two long-time kindred souls, two-thirds of PRIME’s favorite amigo gang, embrace in a big ol’ bearhug.
Just let the pop wash over you.
Take a bath in it.
The two men pull back from the hug, their affection for one another clearly not dimmed by the years since we’ve last seem them on PRIME TV together.
Chandler Tsonda: Dude, I got a major bone to pick with you, though. Coming back at long last and you tell Headmistress Troy first and not your sweet old boon companion, Chan? We’re in a fight, bestie.
Bryan Dawkins: Ya got it all wrong, bruh. LT didn’t even know until I showed up! Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been in a spat. Remember when Shakur tried to wedge between us, bruh?
Colossus 2008 is sixteen years ago but might as well have been yesterday. Tsonda was the (reluctant?) mentor that Dawkins never realized he needed.
Chandler Tsonda: Even if you and that big deadly fucker Hessian are making ReVolution era comebacks in vogue, Shakur is one blast from the past nobody needs or wants. Rest in piss, etcetera etcetera.
The Model Citizen shifts his weight. Finding the words can be hard.
Chandler Tsonda: Anyway, kid, it’s damn good to have you back. I mean, back at work, back in the show. I know where you live plenty good, I get the totally ‘presh Dawkins Christmas cards. But it’s good to have an amigo back.
Dawkins’ ear-to-ear smile fades. Nostalgia can be a bitch like that. He picks up a slice of pineapple, studying its composition and delightful golden hue.
Bryan Dawkins: …that was a long time ago, bruh. Things have changed. We’ve changed. I’ve changed. Rayne’s not here to take charge and make decisions for the amigos, bruh. We’re on our own…
As Dawkins trails off, he dives into the pineapple slice he was admiring mere moments earlier. Tsonda, always there to (again, reluctantly) pick the kid up, sits down next to his protege.
Chandler Tsonda: Yeah, kind of a Ty Rayne-sized elephant sitting in with us in the room, huh?
The two men both look deep in thought.
Chandler Tsonda: (grinning) Never could get that sonofabitch to do anything other than march to the beat of his own rattle-y ass drum. Not surprising that he offered a tease last year by showing up for the Murder Rumble, and then disappearing back into his world of ninjas or robots or ghosts, or…shit, you know how he is.
Tsonda lets out an irritated little laugh, which is perhaps the most typical response to Tyler Rayne there ever was or has been.
Chandler Tsonda: But he’s not here. And you are. Looking mighty fine in the ring. And one amigo don’t stop the show. (pointing to himself and Dawkins) We got us, ya know? Some things don’t change in life, eh kid?
Dawkins abruptly gets up, presumably overwhelmed by the advice(?) being offered by the Model Citizen. Tsonda rises to his feet, where Dawkins squares up to meet him.
Bryan Dawkins: Like I said, bruh…things are different now. I’m different now.
He’s right – where the 2008 Dawkins shared a similar stature and physical build with his mentor, he is now noticeably larger. All of the time in the gym and on the jiu jitsu mats had been paying off – the physical dividends were apparent. Dare I say, Dawkins may even look imposing when compared to the Viet Viper, whose new regimen involves far more lean muscle than beach muscle. Dawkins is close to his athletic prime, and Tsonda is elsewhere in in his journey.
Bryan Dawkins: I’m no longer the kid. Hell bruh, gonna be 38 in a couple months. Pretty sure Rayne would be able to see that. Seen a lot in the past thirteen years. Done a lot. Accomplished a lot. Can ya say the same, bruh? The waist is lookin’ a little empty these days…
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, that famous shit-eating grin of Dawkins returns.
Chandler Tsonda: Noted. (with a glint in his eye) And between old friends, I’ll admit my recent spell isn’t the full Platinum Tsonda Experience. But even after a couple L’s, my stock’s never lower than gold-plated S-tier. And it’s back on the climb, tonight against Hanlon. Watch this space.
Dawkins, though, has a piece to say. He’s not trying to have a pissing contest with Tsonda, nor is he going to get caught in idle banter.
Bryan Dawkins: When I left PRIME, nobody here respected Bryan Dawkins, bruh. I understand that now. Hell, I didn’t deserve any respect.
Dawkins inches closer to his mentor, now mere inches from his face.
Bryan Dawkins: That’s why I came back. To earn that respect. Cuz I’m not sure you or anyone else around here realizes it, but ya can ask anyone who spent time with me in Bang! over the past ten years. I’ve earned that respect multiple times over, bruh.
Dawkins backs off, makes his way to the buffet table for another piece of that unreal Hawaiian pizza and then heads toward the door. Grabbing the handle, he opens the door and gestures toward the exit.
Bryan Dawkins: And bruh, I’m not afraid to step in the ring and prove that to anyone. Good to see ya, bruh.
The exit leaves the Model Citizen by his lonesome, but doesn’t leave him speechless.
Chandler Tsonda: Good for you, ki…Dawkins.
He offers an imaginary tip of the cap, and then grabs his bags to head off to his own locker room, to prep for the showdown ahead.
We cut elsewhere.
The feed switches over to our favorite tow-headed boy in blue, standing backstage and grinning ear to ear like his Red Ryder BB gun came early this year.
Simon Tillier: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Simon Tillier here, hoping to get a few words from one of the contenders in our next match-up!
Entering the shot from the right is PRIME’s Emerald Apex, his famously inked and sculpted body concealed under his silver and green robe.
Simon Tillier: Joining me now, Kerry Kuroyama!
Kuroyama slowly raises his head, revealing the stern face of deadly conviction to the viewers at home. Then the screen freezes, the image goes black and white, and a drum sounds twice, along with the appearance of brushstroke red lettering appearing at the bottom of the screen.
KERRY KUROYAMA
PATRIARCH OF THE KUROYAMA FAMILY,
A VAE VICTIS SUBSIDIARY
Cause see, in the Yakuza games when a major character gets introduced, they do this thing where they–you know what? Nevermind, let’s just move on.
Simon Tillier: Kerry, what sort of strategy are you bringing with you into the ring tonight against your opponent, Adam Ellis?
The Pacific Blitzkrieg draws in a breath and cranks his breath.
Kerry Kuroyama: My strategy?
He looks point blank into the camera. His dark eyes harbor the nascent fury of a storm about to make landfall.
Kerry Kuroyama: Pure… aggression…
Scott Hunter strolls into the screen. He looks Simon up and down like he smells a fart, but then quickly adjusts his face to a very happy-go-lucky expression.
Scott Hunter: Off to see the groundhog??
Simon blinks, then looks at Kerry. The Emerald Apex also blinks.
Scott Hunter: Think it’ll be an early spring?
Kerry groans.
Kerry Kuroyama: Damnit, Scott! Just because it’s Groundhog Day today doesn’t mean we’re in an actual Groundhog Day movie situation! We’re literally nowhere near Punxsutawney!
Scott looks over at Simon, squints at him in disapproval, then happily turns back to Kerry, but he doesn’t say anything. He just skips off screen.
Kerry lowers his lightly shaking head and pinches the bridge of his nose for a beat.
Kerry Kuroyama: …where were we?
Simon Tillier: You were talking about pure–
Kerry Kuroyama: AGGRESSION, Simon! Total onslaught! That’s the name of my strategy. My plan is to overpower and shut down that miserable Missourian before he even has the chance to act. Roll him down, then pick up and drop him on his chin-strapped, butt-ugly head as many times as it takes until he stays there.
Simon Tillier: A simple, yet effective plan, to say the least… but it may be easier said than done, when we remember that Adam Ellis is by now a seasoned competitor within the PRIME ranks. Such as so that he’s earned a place among a distinguished assembly of fellow wrestlers on Jared Sykes’ War Games team.
Kerry growls, and narrows his eyes upon the junior reporter, prompting Simon to shrug innocently.
Simon Tillier: Not to throw cold water on your ambitions Kerry, but knowing him like I do, I’d hardly expect Ellis would allow anyone, much less a talent like yourself, to simply dominate him without a fight.
Kerry scoffs this pitiful show of skepticism.
Kerry Kuroyama: Any knuckle-dragger with enough functioning brain cells can bring a fight, Simon. But me? I’ve been waiting seven long weeks to step back into that ring and answer to what happened back at Colossus. And that waiting has made me angry, Simon. So what I intend to bring into that ring is more than just a fight; I’m bringing a fucking storm the likes of which the people of Philadelphia haven’t seen since Sandy.
Suddenly, there is clapping. In addition, there is hooting and hollering. Some young girl’s voice absolutely loves what she is hearing. It’s only one girl’s voice but she sounds like she’s at some kind of frat party with how crazy the cheering and yelling is.
Totally digging Kerry Kuroyama.
Then the girl appears in perfect view.
The little girl, with the bushy eyebrows.
And the pretty pink dress.*
(*color is ©)
The crowd boos as Vickie Hall appears directly in front of The Pacific Blitzkrieg. Following behind is the number one contender to the Universal Championship, Jonathan-Christopher Hall.
Kerry simply eyes Vickie, whose tough girl confidence remains steadfast. Then he glances up at Jonathan-Christopher, who instantly replies by taking a deep gulp.
Vickie Hall: Kerry, hey, over here! Don’t mind yourself with him.
Was this a passive aggressive shot at her Amazing Life Partner? Vickie is speaking so quickly she doesn’t let the moment settle. She spins on her tippy toes towards Simon Tiller with a devilish looking grin, almost as if she’s possessed by a demon… or worse.
Vickie Hall: I got to tell you, I picked a hell of a wrestler right here. Kerry Kure-yo-lama, the ruthless MOFO killa. A strategy of PURE AGGRESSION, you say?
She spins back on her tippy toes to Kuroyama and looks him over, head-to-toe.
Vickie Hall: Me likey very much!
Once again, she hoots and hollers.
Vickie Hall: Adam Ellis? Please. Had a chance to draft him and definitely didn’t. Had a chance to draft you and OBVIOUSLY why wouldn’t I?
The Emerald Apex growls in their presence.
Kerry Kuroyama: You’ve got some balls, showing your faces to me. Especially after what you pulled in the Almasy…
He’s not-so-chalantly referring to a little-known incident involving a camera to the top of his head and an unseen set of feet propped onto the ropes that occurred back at ReVival 39. An incident that, consequently, cost him a spot in the semi-finals of the tournament.
To everyone’s surprise, Jonathan-Christopher steps forward. He walks up beside Vickie and even takes one step past her, meeting Kerry nose-to-nose.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I…
His voice trails, but only for a moment as he looks down at his feet and then back up at Kuroyama.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I am sorry. I did what I had to. You’re a hell of a wrestler, one of the best I’ve faced in PRIME.
Jonathan-Christopher takes a step back, only because Kerry’s face remains frozen and JCH feels as though he wouldn’t like to lose his. Not over this.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But I’d do it again if I had to, Kerry.
Jonathan-Christopher reaches out for his dainty little daffodil’s hand. She allows him to take it.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’d do anything for her.
Directly after he finishes the sentence, Vickie removes her hand from Jonathan-Christopher’s palm.
Vickie Hall: That’s nice, dear. (Back to Kuroyama) Kerry, you are now a part of the LOVE CONVOY for the next two months. We own your bod. But it’s okay, we don’t bite. We just love. Love to win!
Vickie gives a cheesy thumbs up.
Vickie Hall: So you need to get over the tournament loss and come win with us.
The tension grows… all from Kerry’s side of the picture. Until Scott sidles in once more.
Scott Hunter: Off to see the groundhog??
Simon blinks, then looks at Kerry. The Emerald Apex also blinks.
Scott Hunter: Think it’ll be an early spring?
Pain shoots across Kuroyama’s face as his brain attempts seppuku on itself. He looks to the Halls, then to Simon. If he’s seeking an answer to this absurdity, then they have none to give.
Scott Hunter: Hey, hey! Now, don’t you tell me you don’t remember me because I sure as heckfire remember you. Come on, buddy! Case Western High! I did the whistling belly-button trick at the high school talent show? Bing!
Scott turns to Vickie and JCH and nods a hello. Then, he turns back to Kerry.
Scott Hunter: Got the shingles real bad senior year, almost didn’t graduate? Bing! I dated your sister Mary Pat a couple times until you told me not to anymore?
Kuroyama’s face is buried into his hand.
Kerry Kuroyama: I’m in fucking hell…
He recomposes and continues.
Kerry Kuroyama: You expect to win? (cocking his head to Scott) Then maybe you shouldn’t have snubbed Scott. If you had any capacity for thought, then you’d understand that a member of Vae Victis is worth any two of Ivan’s gulag gophers.
Vickie hadn’t noticed Scott Hunter. At least until now.
She wanders over, eyes him head-to-toe twice before taking a big step back and opening her pretty little yap.
Vickie Hall: Oversight on my part. You know I love you Victis boys. The blue pirate is my favorite.
The apology doesn’t exactly seem genuine.
Vickie Hall: Anyway, sorry I couldn’t make you part of the team, Scott.
Hunter shrugs and wanders out of the frame once more. Kerry, meanwhile, chuffs at the mention of a particular word.
Kerry Kuroyama: …”team”?
He shakes his head.
Kerry Kuroyama: Noooo no no… what you have, Hall, is simply a collective of six heavy hitters. (thinks for a beat) Well, okay, four heavy hitters, and Kenny and Arthur. That may be the perfect formula for a round of Russian Roulette, but that’s hardly an actual team. A real team has a shared vision. Synergy. The ability to work as a unit. The willingness to compromise personal ambitions for the sake of working together toward a common goal. I can tell you this from experience, because I was actually in a War Games match around this time last year. And the reason our team won was largely in part because I took a bullet for our team captain, buying them the chance to bring us to a team victory. But would I take one for your boy, or any of those other freaks, clowns, and blowhards? Not on your life, because what you have is not a team.
Scott steps back into frame. He looks at Simon like he just farted… again. Then, he takes on a happy-go-lucky expression and looks at Kerry… again.
Scott Hunter: Off to see the groundhog??
Simon blinks… again, then looks at Kerry. The Emerald Apex also blinks… again.
Scott Hunter: Think it’ll be an early spring?
Kerry Kuroyama: (impatient) YES, Scott! I do think it will be an early spring! And hey… is that Mary Pat over there? You should go say hello!
Hunter perks up, looks, and goes to investigate. Kerry sighs once more before turning his attention back to Vickie, then leans in and shakes his head pitiably.
Kerry Kuroyama: As I was saying, not a team. What you have is closer to a ticking timebomb. A mechanism of reactive chemical agents that will corrode, combust, and ultimately explode when they finally come in contact with each other. And likewise, in time, all our egos will inevitably collide. Ivan may be all smiles and sweetness now, but over a hundred years of history have proven that Soviets are good at only two things: being cheap, and being controlling. And Kael? Sorry, Kael! What’s his deal exactly? I don’t trust that lunatic any further than I can throw a piano. Any way you shake it, this “team” is a recipe for disaster, and personally speaking, I think I’d rather sit at home for Culture Shock rather than be a part of your embarrassment in the making.
Kerry turns to leave, until…
Vickie Hall: I don’t care.
The tone of her voice is much more grounded in realism than anything she’s said to Kerry yet. Her shoulders are lowered, her oblivious little act seemingly dropped.
Vickie Hall: I want to win, Kerry. I don’t care how it’s done. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s a “timebomb”, many of us come from different walks, (vomit noises). You see those other rosters? Look at that hot mess Coral Avalon pUt tOgEtHeR. Honey, please. I want to win, Kerry.
Vickie smacks Jonathan-Christopher on the chest.
Vickie Hall: He wants to win.
Vickie nods.
Vickie Hall: And if anyone should know what lengths we’ll go to in order to win, it would be you… (tilt of the head, bat of her massive eyebrows) no?
Jonathan-Christopher also nods.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’d do anything for Vic-
Vickie cuts him off.
Vickie Hall: Stop it, Jonathan-Christopher. Let me cook.
She pauses to recollect herself.
Vickie Hall: Win, Kerry. That’s why I drafted you. Pure aggression. Best wrestler on the board BY FAR. Win.
She slides her tiny little bear slippers across the floor and stops on a dime, right in front of Kuroyama.
Vickie Hall: And that’s what we’ll do. So be part of the team, no matter how dysfunctional it is.
Kerry says nothing. He quietly mulls it over to himself until… Scott steps back in, but this time gets way, way too close to Kerry Kuroyama, and grabs the lapels of his robe.
Scott Hunter: Do you have life insurance? Because if you do, you could always use a little more, right? I mean, who couldn’t? But you want know something? I got the feeling…
Scott quickly opens and closes on side of Kerry’s robe, then pats him on the chest over his heart.
Scott Hunter: …you ain’t got any. Am I right or am I right? Or am I right? Am I right?
Despite the rigorous pat-down, Kerry doesn’t seem to hear Scott. Heavy, whisky-lubricated gears are grinding in his head.
Kerry Kuroyama: Yes… you are right.
Even though he’s staring Scott in the eyes, it’s not entirely clear who he’s addressing.
Until turns back to Hall.
Kerry Kuroyama: …I’ll think about it. (points threateningly) But only because I want to win. After Culture Shock, I want nothing to do with you two.
He turns for the ring…
Kerry Kuroyama: Coming, Scott?
Scott Hunter: Yes, I’ll walk with you. See, whenever I see an opportunity, I charge it like a bull. “Scott the Bull”, that’s me now. You know, I have friends who live and die by the actuarial tables and I say, ‘Hey, it’s all one big crap-shoot anyhow!’ Tell me, have you ever heard of single premium life because I think that could really be the ticket for you.
Kerry Kuroyama: Yessir, that is the ticket. Single premium life would be mighty handy out there tonight in case of… (looking pointedly at the Halls) …faulty equipment.
The Vae Victis duo turn and head to the ring, leaving a befuddled Simon alone with Vickie and her man. Before Scott leaves completely, he stops and turns back toward the group.
Scott Hunter: Too early for flapjacks?
Vickie giggles and blushes, clearly enjoying the attention.
Vickie Hall: Never too early for you.
She smacks Jonathan-Christopher on the chest with a mild sense of frustration.
Vickie Hall: Why didn’t you tell me to draft that guy!?
ReVival cuts elsewhere.
The camera follows Adam Ellis as he struts backstage, his steps purposeful and determined. The bright lights of the arena cast a harsh glow on his chiseled features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes. He passes by various wrestlers and staff members, their voices muffled by the cacophony of the audience’s cheers.
Nick Stuart: Big match for Adam Ellis tonight against Kerry Kuroyama and he’s doing it without Ginny Van Lear in his corner.
Parker breaks out with a sly grin
Richard Parker: Well, if nothing else the balloon vendors will feel a little safer.
Nick Stuart: And Savannah Scandal… if she’s in the building.
Two people pass by and Ellis pays no mind to them or any distractions. He continues down the hallway, his focus unbreakable as he visualizes his opponent in his mind.
We cut to ringside.
Nick Stuart: Coming up next we have what could very well be a technical masterclass by two of the most skilled competitors in PRIME!
Richard Parker: I’m not sure I’d go quite that far, Nick. One of the competitors in this match is a ticked off brutalizer ready to make an absolute example of the first poor schmuck who makes the mistake of getting in his way-
Nick Stuart: And the other?
Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” plays over the sound system
Richard Parker: He’s making his entrance right now if I’m not mistaken.
On the video screen, a video plays showing a series of wrestling trophies on a dresser next to an old high school football uniform that has ‘Ellis’ on the back.
An acoustic guitar plays and the vocals begin.
“Mama didn’t raise no… quitter- guaranteed to get the job done.”
Adam Ellis walks out on the stage and stands on the stage.
“She didn’t raise no SOB who that can’t back himself up – been known to throw a good punch.”
The video screen shows a series of action shots of Ellis from his various matches
“And this ol’ boy gets going when the going gets tough- sundown to sun up.”
Adam scans the crowd and bobs his head to the song.
Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring from Warrensburg, Missouri… weighing in tonight at two-hundred and twenty six pounds! HE IS ADAM- ELLIS!
“Need a man with a helping hand – he’s always got one to lend.”
Then the song hits the chorus with full instrumentation- complete with pyro.
“Oh, I might be a little rough around the edges”
Adam’s wearing a pair of plain blue wrestling shorts. He starts forward down the ramp towards the ring.
“From the outside lookin’ in it might seem helpless.”
Adam slides under the bottom rope into the ring and goes to his corner…
“I’ve been blessed with a strong backbone – I never coulda made it on my own”
…bouncing up and down and getting warmed up.
“But if there’s one thing that I know – Momma didn’t raise no…”
Adam climbs up the top turnbuckle and holds up his arms.
Nick Stuart: Obviously, Adam’s better half- the fiery Ginny Van Lear is pregnant with the couples first child- so she won’t be accompanying him to ringside for the time being.
Richard Parker: So wholesome with his little budding family. His opponent tonight is far far less so, Nick-
Nick Stuart: The only “family” I see around Kerry lately is- well- Scott Hunter.
Richard Parker: They’re BROS, Nick! Have you not been informed? You probably don’t have any friends.
Nick Stuart: Rude.
The lights dim. Thunder rumbles. The barometric pressure in the room plummets.
On cue, “Blouses Blue” hits the PA. The Wells Fargo Center becomes awash in rich, robust green. Floodlights fill the entry-way, outlining the silhouette of a seemingly four-armed man. Silver and green fountain pyros erupt across the stage.
The spotlight hits the entry-way, revealing Kerry Kuroyama, proudly posing with his fists peaked over his head. Scott Hunter swaggers out from behind him and stands off to the side, enthusiastically pointing at the Emerald Apex of PRIME.
After a beat, Kuroyama comes striding down the aisle with a defined balance of conviction and swagger, moving like a man ready to go to war. Hunter takes up the rear, jaw-jacking with the fans at the barricade and being the perfect hype man.
Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, accompanied tonight by Scott Hunter… he hails from Seattle, Washington, and weighs in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds… he is “the Pacific Blitzkrieg” KERRY KUROYAMA!!
Hurricane Kerry makes landfall at ringside and does a loop around the ring, staring down the jeering fans on the other side of the barricade with absolute repugnance. After achieving a full orbit, he ascends to the apron, climbs the turnbuckle, and raises himself up for the world to see him. He slowly scans the arena from north to south, his face bearing the smirk of a man living his moment.
In a flash, Kerry pinches the shoulder of his robe and tears it aside, dramatically revealing the grinning green storm dragon of ambition painted across his sculpted back. Hunter, on cue, catches the robe out of the air. Kuroyama’s fist pierces the air, with Scott likewise posing on the floor below him.
Richard Parker: See! The very definition of support and- and brosmanship!
Nick Stuart: That- that is not a word. Goodness- anyway, our official seems about ready to get this one underway folks!
Our referee for this encounter, Elvis Nixon, finishes up checking each competitor for foreign objects- taking a moment to make eye contact with Scott Hunter at ringside. He gives Scott the old Robert DeNiro “I’m watchin’ you Greg” to which Hunter returns with a “who me” before Elvis turns his attention back inside the ring where Kerry Kuroyama hasn’t taken his eyes off of Adam Ellis from the second he scaled back down the turnbuckle and placed boot to canvas. The steely-eyed intensity of the Paragon of Professional Wrestling Excellence has very little effect on Adam Ellis- the Missouri native almost smiling as he peers back across the ring.
Elvis Nixon, content with his pre-match findings points to ringside with a flourish and-
DING DING
As the two men start circling one another Kuroyama makes several deep lunges towards Ellis- Kerry showing far more of an eagerness to get started than his calm, cool and collected young adversary. Kerry’s animalistic intensity betrays him out of the gate as the more focused Ellis deftly avoids Kuroyama’s initial volley with some off the cuff counters that speak to his high ring acumine.
Nick Stuart: Ellis giving Kuroyama fits right out of the gate, here.
Richard Parker: Even a plain little charismaless clock is right twice a day, Nick.
Over and over again Kerry Kuroyama attempts to bend the match to his will and steer his opponent into a striking battle Ellis, wizard-like, manages to draw the usually frenetic Kuroyama into a chain wrestling exchange that the Pacific Blitzkrieg finds himself on the losing end of for the most part. With Kerry playing catchup Ellis manages to catch the card carrying Vae Victis member sleeping with a textbook STF.
Scott Hunter can be heard at ringside shouting to Kerry that he’s “doing so great” as he smacks the canvas in encouragement like a good corner man do. Weirdly- it sort of works as it’s at about that moment Kuroyama manages to squeeze a hand between his face and Adam’s grip, breaking the hold. Ellis, desperate to reapply the hold, gets drawn into the same sort of chain wrestling exchange he inflicted on Kerry moments earlier.
The two men reach a stalemate and roll apart to an impressed “OOOOH” from the fans.
Ellis again has a slight smile on his face- a fact that only further frustrates the Seattle native. Kuroyama smacks the mat with both hands and lets loose a guttural growl as he gets to his feet and gets directly in the face of his smirking opponent. One very quick profanity laced promo later, Kuroyama waffles Ellis with a stiff forearm across the side of the head
Richard Parker: Not smiling now are ya’- Kerry just knocked that fatherly glow right off his smug little face.
Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis fires back!
The two men exchange several handfuls of back and forth forearms- an exchange that leaves Ellis looking a little worse for wear for a moment. But in a display of pure fighting spirit Ellis roars right back at Kuroyama and just plasters him with an open hand slap across the face. Kuroyama nods- almost pleased by the fire shown by his (in his words, by the way) “vanilla” opponent. Kerry fires back and claps Ellis with an open palm slap of his own-
Nick Stuart: And back and forth we go!
Faster and faster, back and forth they paste one another with reckless slaps across the kisser.
The fans eat up every second.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Kuroyama switches gears mid exchange, rears back and pops off an open palm strike to Ellis’ chest that can be clearly heard in the convenience store across the street- the perfect red outline of the Pacific Blitzkreig’s hand emphasizes just how hard Ellis was just struck.
OOOOOOOH!
Richard Parker: That my friends had to smart!
Nick Stuart: Again Adam Ellis isn’t deterred! Look at him go!
The young grappler seems to absorb the skin blistering shot, turns back to his opponent and gets RIGHT in his face. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose the two men exchange a few quick, pointed words before Ellis cracks off a whiplash inducing European uppercut that causes Kuroyama to take a step back- red in the face, veins visibly throbbing at his temples Kuroyama offers up yet another open palm strike across Ellis’ chest with similar intensity
Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama came into this match with a chip on his shoulder and an attitude to match- but that intensity has awoken something in young Adam Ellis!
Richard Parker: I think a little more or THIS and a little less sappy, wholesome family time would do Adam’s career a lot of good, personally.
As the trade shots back and forth they reach yet another stalemate- and the canny world traveled veteran Kuroyama senses that-
Nick Stuart: SQUALL LINE LARIAT FROM KUROYAMA!
Scott Hunter lets out a little “yippie” from his spot in Kuroyama’s corner.
Kuroyama, out of absolutely nowhere, spins out and waffles Ellis with his patented discus lariat. The young grappler is folded over backwards ass over teakettle, face down on the mat. With his opponent clearly rattled for the moment Kuroyama takes a moment to egg on the fans a bit- pointing down at Ellis with some barely heard words of derision.
Whatever Kuroyama said, he really draws the fans ire when he ends his little diatribe by spitting on Ellis before returning to the task at hand.
Nick Stuart: Well that’s just unnecessary-
Richard Parker: I disagree full-throated, Nick. This business is about more than wins and losses- it’s about perception. And when you watch Kerry, it’s clear he’s a world beater- he’s a brutalizer. And little soon to be papa Adam- well, he’s just not.
Nick Stuart: Don’t speak too soon, partner!
As Kerry reaches down to grab a fist full of Ellis’ blond locks the young grappler reaches in a tucks Kuroyama into a picture perfect schoolboy rollup. Elvis Nixon is right there sliding in for the pinfall-
ONE…
TWO…
THR-NO!
Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama kicks out with authority at the last possible second!
Richard Parker: Well if he wasn’t in a bad mood before-
Scott Hunter looks relieved as he shouts more stellar advice to his “bro” from ringside “hey don’t get pinned, man”- Burgess Meredith he is not.
The two men roll back to their feet after the schoolboy- mimicking the opening moments of the match the two men start circling one another. Ellis obviously looking to get the dangerous Kuroyama back down on the mat where the playing field is a little more even. Trading strikes with the Emerald Apex is a recip[ie for disaster, no matter who you are. The furious Kuroyama lunges in but the deftness of Ellis allows him to side step out of the way and take Kuroyama’s back and in one herculean movement takes Kerry down to the mat where Kuroyama spends the next few moment desperately countering and having his counters countered by his cagey young opponent.
Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis is quite simply out wrestling Kerry here, partner.
Richard Parker: He better keep it up, the second he gives Kuroyama an opening this thing is over. Mark my words. Adam Ellis is a good guy- and it’s of course a well known fact good guys are stupid.
Nick Stuart: I’d put a pin in that harsh criticism for a tick, Richard!
In the course of countering back and forth, Ellis gets ahead of Kerry- positions himself so he can get a firm base underneath him and cracks off not one, but two neck-jarring German suplex. As he goes for a third and final German Kuroyama manages to break Ellis’ grip and impressively flip out of the move landing on his feet.
OOOOOOOH!
Richard Parker: You were saying?
Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama is more than just a blunt instrument, the man’s ring IQ is next level!
Kuroyama goes full Super Saiyan, again roaring towards the rafters like some sort of apex predator. His face still red with throbbing temples and wild blood-shot eyes- as he dramatically turns back to his opponent he’s met directly in the face with-
Nick Stuart: SUPERMAN PUNCH FROM ADAM ELLIS!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The pop from the PRIMEates is thunderous.
Richard Parker: OUT OF NOWHERE! Oh no look how worried poor Scott Hunter is!
A quick camera cut to Scott biting his nails almost cartoon-like at ringside.
Somehow by the grace of the wrestling god’s, Kuroyama manages to stumble backward not onto the canvas but back into the nearest available turnbuckle.
Richard Parker: STILL ON HIS FEET, NICK! What tenacity from the Pacific Blitzkrieg!
Nick Stuart: He’s seeing stars though, Richard!
Seeing his opportunity to put his dangerous opponent away Adam Ellis rushes towards Kuroyama at full speed. We again hear some unsolicited advice hollered from ringside as Scott Hunter thinks Kerry should “like move or something, man”- just a deep well of guidance and counsel, that one. Ellis is about an arms length from Kerry when out of nowhere-
Nick Stuart: YAKUZA KICK FROM KUROYAMA LEVELS ELLIS!
Richard Parker: There we go! CHIN UP SCOTT!
A quick camera cut to Scott Hunter somehow acknowledging Richard Parker’s comment with some finger guns and a big smile to camera.
Kuroyama follows all the way through the Yakuza kick, almost STOMPING Ellis’ head back into the canvas. The intensity with which Kuroyama carries on from this point can’t be understated. He turns and slaps the top turnbuckle pad and shakes the ropes in an almost uncontrolled tantrum of intensity- he then reaches down and grabs a sweaty wad of Adam’s hair and drags him to his exhausted feet and without any pretense cracks off-
Richard Parker: IT’S OVER, NICK!
Nick Stuart: KUROYAMA DRIVER I, THIS IS IT!
ONE…
TWO-NO! KICKOUT!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The crowd loses their complete and total business going absolutely bananas as Adam Ellis manages to barely roll a weak shoulder up- at two no less! The look on Kerry Kuroyama’s face is one of red faced anger and pure unfiltered frustration. Something tells us the card carrying (adjacent) member of Vae Victis was not planning on having to fight quite this hard against this (again, his words) “vanilla fuck.”
Nick Stuart: WOW! What a performance from Adam Ellis! This is a man now fighting for his FAMILY, Richard!
Richard Parker: If he gave a DAMN about his soon to be little family he’d be a good boy and throw in the towel- unless he wants to watch his kid play catch from a blasted wheelchair.
Kuroyama gets to his feet first- technical prowess is thrown out the window as the Emerald Apex goes about just STOMPING viciously on the neck and head of his still dazed opponent. Each time Kuroyama’s boot connects, Ellis seems to be inch by inch willed back to his feet. The pop from the crowd when Ellis finally plants one boot on the canvas with pure fighting spirit- Kuroyama’s eyes wide with bewilderment and frustration. The Missourian is willed back to both feet by the roar of support from the PRIMEates.
LETS GO AD-AM! LETS GO AD-AM! LETS GO AD-AM!
Richard Parker: Phillidelphians- what do they know! Troglodytes the lot of them!
Ellis tries and fails to throw as weak kick to the side of Kuroyama’s thigh, but the veteran catches it- pausing a moment as though to say “no more” and pops off a brutal-
Nick Stuart: DERECHOPLEX FROM KUROYAMA!
Richard Parker: Dear lord, that has to be it!
The spin-out backdrop driver equals lights out for Ellis.
Kerry takes a moment to look to ringside where Scott Hunter is giving him two enthusiastic thumbs up- and in his best disembodied Mortal Kombat announcer voice advises Kerry to “FINISH HIM!” at the top of his lungs. A request Kerry obliges- after what Ellis just put him through, obviously the situation calls for a little overkill. Kerry HOISTS Ellis onto his shoulders- the fans know exactly what’s coming. Kuroyama makes brief eye contact with the camera… with us, before waylaying Ellis with a spine compressing Emerald Flowsion.
Nick Stuart: KUROYAMA DRIVER II
Elvis Nixon slides into position even as Kuroyama drops down and hooks the leg- not a tight pincover either. Kuroyama knows this one is over.
Richard Parker: Pretty sure you could count to ten there, Elvis.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
We see Adam Ellis weakly roll a shoulder up off the mat right at or after three, but it’s far too little far too late.
DING DING DING
Nick Stuart: It’s over! My God what a performance from Adam Ellis.
Richard Parker: Yes yes, very brave of the little fella, such moxie- he can go back to his little wife and his little soon to debut progeny leaving Kerry Kuroyama to climb the PRIME mountain and affirm what I personally have known all along- that he’s destined for GREATNESS.
We cut elsewhere.
The camera cuts to the backstage area, where The Anglo Luchador, already in his gear for the main event, is standing by with Angelica Brooks. The crowd roars deafeningly for one of the two hometown superstars in tonight’s main event. After their cheer dies down, Angelica starts with her questioning.
Angelica Brooks: Alright, I’m here with one-half of our main event tonight, The Anglo Luchador. You’re facing a former Universal Champion in Cancer Jiles in a Philly Street Fight. What are your thoughts heading into the match?
TAL: Simple, Ang. I’ve got tunnel vision. Cancer Jiles might be a spineless, soulless, no-good dirty rotten eGG-sucking varmint, but honestly, there are more of him in this city than there are of me. I’m not saying that as a way to better myself from this town, because lord knows I’ve been in Cancer’s shoes before. I’m just saying, there’s no one more Philly in this match than him, and that’s what makes him dangerous.
Angelica Brooks: Are you at all worried about outside interference?
The Luchador strokes his chin for a moment before answering.
TAL: I mean, when Tony Gamble and Bobby Dean are lurking around, of course I am. But this is a Philly Street Fight. I ruled the Intense Division for half-a-year because I knew how to fight viciously and with eyes in the back of my head. Bobby might weigh more than the Liberty Bell, but he’s gotta catch me first. Tony Gamble might be quick, but you know what, Ang?
He turns to the camera and winks at it.
TAL: I’m sudden.
The crowd pops vociferously for one of TAL’s old catchphrases making an appearance.
Angelica Brooks: Well, it seems like you’re not lacking for confidence. One more question, you’ve been named to Jared Sykes’ War Games team. What is your reaction?
TAL: Well, I…
The Luchador interrupts himself, looking as if he just saw a ghost. His expression grows tortured and angry.
TAL: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!?!
The camera turns around to show Randall Schwartz, carrying a chopped cheese sandwich that he’s taken a couple of bites out of already.
Randall Schwartz: mouth full I doughntm gknowuh.
Both the Luchador and Brooks look at him with puzzled looks upon their faces.
Randall Schwartz: swallowing Sorry, sorry, just, cheesesteaks are overrated. Had to get a real sandwich. This chopped cheese is some real New York stuff!
TAL: Don’t play coy with me. Ivan sent you, didn’t he?
Randall looks at him like he has two heads.
TAL: DIDN’T HE?!?!?!
Randall drops his sandwich and puts his hands up to show he means no harm.
Randall Schwartz: Look, I just got hungry and I wanted to get a bite to eat, okay? I don’t care about you right now, hell, Ivan and Alexei barely keep me in the loop about their evil schemes anyway.
The shock in Schwartz’s eyes tells the story. The Luchador backs off.
TAL: Whatever, Jesus.
He reaches into his tights and grabs a 20-dollar bill, tossing it to Schwartz.
TAL: Here, go buy yourself a new sandwich. Sorry.
Randall takes the Jackson and scurries off. The Luchador, in embarrassment, turns around and walks off.
Angelica Brooks: Well, there’s another eventful Anglo Luchador interview segment in the books. Let’s check in with our newest signee, Fred Dick.
We fade to a video.
Black screen.
WARNING: A compulsive liar and bastard man has inexplicably become a roster member of PRIME. We at Citizens Against Fred Dick feel it is necessary to share some testimonials from a few people he has completely and utterly screwed over, so that PRIME’s audience knows what they are getting into. Former Police Officer turned Disgraced Criminal, Mike Rafe, Fred’s Third Ex-Wife, Randi Dick, and Local Pickleball Legend, John McCoy.
We dissolve to an image of a fat bastard with an electric blue mullet, shadow slap-boxing on a beach as the sun sets behind him, a beautiful red, pink, and orange sheet across the horizon.
This is Fred Dick.
His buttery silhouette looks incredibly unathletic as he displays his “sweet slap-boxing skills.”
Former Cop turned Disgrace Criminal, Mike Rafe: So, this guy, Fred Dick, he bangs my wife. And I knew someone was banging my wife, because she smelled like sex and Belgian waffles. A telltale sign. So I confronted her and she said it was Fred Dick. So I decided, look I’m gonna fuckin’ kill this guy.
Fred Dick slaps the fuck out of a heavy punching bag several times, turns to the camera, BIG THUMBS UP.
Former Cop turned Disgrace Criminal, Mike Rafe: So I get my gun and I, you know, put it against his head and ask him why he did it. He tells me, it wasn’t him. He tells me, my wife is framing him. He tells me, the reason my wife is framing him, is that she’s pregnant. Pregnant with my brother’s kid. And at the time, that made some sense to me. So I’m livid. Right? Anyway, long story short… I murdered my brother. Murdered my wife. Just to find out, my brother was innocent. Fred DID bang my wife. YOU GOT ME FRED! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR? YOU GOT ME!
Fred Dick rips a bong, tosses the bong in the air, and does a sweet, spinning power slap to the bong. Exhales. Coughs. Way too hard. He drools all over himself while he coughs. He ripped the bong too hard.
Fred’s Third Ex-Wife, Randi Dick: Well everybody knows that Fred is an absolute menace to society on account of the fact that he couldn’t tell you the truth to save his life. But something about him drew me in. When he told me he had alien DNA I didn’t believe him at first. But, for as long as I knew him, I’d never seen him dye his hair ever. It was always that wild blue color. Then one day, I noticed someone had stolen our food stamps card and spent it all in one day.
Fred Dick stands in a back alley, holding a watermelon and smiling at the camera.
Fred’s Third Ex-Wife, Randi Dick: And I’ll be damned if he hadn’t went and traded our food stamps – NOT FOR DRUGS! NOT FOR DRUGS! No. For seventy seven bottles of electric blue hair dye. My babies went hungry so that fat bastard could dye his damn hair.
Fred tosses the watermelon in the air and does a SWEET spinning backhand slap, smacking the melon in half.
BIG THUMBS UP.
Local Pickleball Legend, John McCoy: Yeah, I remember Fred. I remember him very well.
Fred Dick clumsily practices slap-boxing attacks against a punching bag.
Local Pickleball Legend, John McCoy: He showed up at the courts in Chicken City and, at this point brother, I’ve got 200 victories and only twelve losses – all contested by the way – on the court. Well, he showed up one day and said he had seven thousand victories and zero losses.
Fred Dick nails the punching bag with a series of rapid-fire slaps.
Local Pickleball Legend, John McCoy: So I know he’s full of baloney, and I challenge him to a game right there. A quarter of the way into it, he’s completely gassed. Mind you, this is pickleball. So I call him a fatso, and he gets mad and tackles me, and says, “I should break your legs.” I say, “Please don’t.” He says, “Ok, I won’t. I promise on my mother’s soul I won’t.”
Fred Dick sweats through his shirt, completely out of breath. The punching bag barely moves from his attacks.
Local Pickleball Legend, John McCoy: HE THEN PROCEEDS TO KNEECAP ME WITH A POLICE BATON!!! I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO WALK IN A STRAIGHT LINE SINCE!!! HOW THE FUCK DID HE GET A POLICE BATON ANYWAY??? DID YOU HIDE IT UP YOUR ASS YOU SONOFA–
WARNING: As you can see, Fred Dick cannot be trusted. His involvement in PRIME is both reckless and dangerous for everyone involved. Remove him from the roster, or… maybe everyone ends up like Mike Rafe, or Randi Dick, or John McCoy. Or maybe, worse.
Back on the beach. We zoom into Fred Dick as he continues shadow slap-boxing. We get right up on his face.
He SLAPS THE PISS out of the camera.
It falls to the ground.
And we cut elsewhere.
Backstage. An extremely proud Dan Van Slade has his chin up, a large smile, and his eyes closed. He stands tall with his fists on his hips and poses like a superhero. Dan is no longer wearing his wrestling gear, but his chest is puffed out to show the SD logo on his blue t-shirt. The dapper David, Dan’s agent, paces and is in the middle of text messages.
Dan Van Slade: My father is proud, David. PROUD. I have served my people well, tonight. The Hiptonians are rejoicing. I’ve defeated two human meats before hundreds, thousands, MILLIONS, of other meats. Defeat. That’s what those men have suffered at the hands of the Prince of Deviance, the first born son of the Great King of Hipton, and one of the greatest professional wrestlers from the state of Montana. I am happy, David. PROUD. I am proud. What’s next? Where do we go from here? Who do I fight next? Who’s career must I destroy?
Dan has not moved from his pose. His eyes stare away. David stops and turns to his client with a concerned glare.
David: Well, we’re not sure, yet. There’s a good possibility that you will not fight for another month.
The pose is no more. Dan suddenly looks perturbed and turns to his agent.
Dan Van Slade: A…a…another month? Excuse me? I effortlessly laid waste to two unsatisfactory Earthly cucks to start a phenomenal ReVival television show, and the Universal Bad Ass must wait another MONTH?
David: It’s not confirmed. You may be booked for the next show? I can’t guarantee that. I don’t run the company. I can do my best to pull some strings, but who am I? I’m just the agent of Dan Van Slade. We don’t have any roots in the ground, yet. The seed is only being sowed. Let’s not step on any toes here.
The Super Deviant raises an eyebrow.
Dan Van Slade: Fuck their toes, David. I will stub each and every one of their toes. Just the agent of Dan Van Slade?…HMPH! You are the agent of the now UNDEFEATED Dan Van Slade. Thy Superest of Deviants, Mr. 1-0. Who’s next, David? Make a list. Mail it to the PRIME authoritarians. Return address needs to be the Fortress of Deviance. Use one of those wax seals to close the envelope. Do I have a Super D wax seal? No? Fucking make one, David, just buy a damn red candle and melt it then use a toothpick to draw a little Super D in it.
David: I’ll just send an email. Nobody mails anything anymore. Actually, I’ll send a text. Nobody emails anything anymore, either.
A Grinch-like grin slowly grows because Dan likes what he hears.
Dan Van Slade: Great idea. Communicate. Communication is a lost art, and it’s wonderful to see that my agent is great at it. Let’s communicate that the Super Deviant has arrived. The Super Deviant has laid claim to this…this…PRIME. I will make each and every one of these PRIMEates my dingleberries.
David: If you’re quoting Tombstone then the word you’re looking for is “huckleberry”.
Dan Van Slade: It’s dingleberry, David, look it up. IMDB it. Use the Googler. I’ll be your dingleberry, David.
David: No. You won’t.
Dan has once again returned to his superhero pose and stares away with a confident visage.
Dan Van Slade: Spread the word, my friend. SPREAD IT. We’re going to rise to the top like CREAM. And, we’re gonna get that money. DOLLAR DOLLAR BILL DAVID.
David: If you keep winning matches then you’re right. The cream does rise to the top, and yes, you will get the money.
Dan Van Slade: That was the worst response to a Wu Tang reference that I’ve ever heard. Are you not down with the Wu Tang Clan, David? They are number one in Hipton. On all the charts. And, before you ask – yes, they’ve been on the top of all the Hiptonian billboards forever because there’s nothing and no one better than the Wu Tang Clan.
David: Sure, I like the Wu Tang Clan.
His agent dramatically presses his finger against his phone.
David:There. I’ve sent out the text message to a couple of connections that I’ve got in the upper echelon of PRIME. Fingers crossed – we’ll get you a match on the next ReVival. You’re the next big thing. They need you on every show, and in that ring, beating the piss out of each and every one of these so-called professional wrestlers.
Dan Van Slade: You’re a damn genius, David. How much is my father paying you? I’ll have him increase it.
David: You pay me. I don’t even know your dad.
Dan Van Slade: Shame on you. Get me that damn match, David. THE UNDEFEATED Dan Van Slade will continue this streak. THE GREATEST STREAK IN PRIME HISTORY. Who’s next? Bring me the Flameberger. Bring me the Russian that will not get me into Russia. Bring me Anna Daniels, albeit I don’t really know if I want to wrestle her, yet. Bring me Maxine Kale so that I can strip her of her championship. Bring me the eGG Bandits so that I can scramble them sons-a-bitches. WHO’S NEXT, DAVID?
Dan points his fist in the air and then acts like he’s about to take off in flight. David stares at his client with confusion. Dan side eyes his agent and is stuck in pre-flight positioning. David raises his eyebrows. Dan looks side-to-side, lowers his arm, and looks disappointed. He walks out of the shot. David peers around for a moment and then shakes his head as we cut elsewhere.
Backstage!
We’ve got an interviewer–PRIME Hall of Famer Matt Mills! Congratulations, Matt! He’s looking fully professional–the suit, the microphone, the works.
Of course, an interviewer needs someone to interview. Thankfully we’ve got one of them too–the Next Diamond, Nate Colton! He’s also looking professional–the tights, the jacket, the works.
Let’s see what happens.
Matt Mills: Nate, congratulations on your recently-completed tour with Bang! Pro Wrestling. By all accounts, you represented PRIME–and your family–well.
Nate Colton: Thanks, Matt. It was an awesome experience for all of us. Dad always talks about his first Japan tour; it was one of the highlights of his career. Being able to follow his path, and exploring the country on top of that…it was really special.
Matt Mills: How would you compare the talent in Bang! to PRIME?
Nate Colton: I mean, they’ve got some killers over there for sure. There’s a couple who could definitely hang with our roster…and PRIME has some of the best in the world.
Matt Mills: Speaking of which…now that you’re back, you’ve got a fresh challenge ahead of you in Crash Jackson. What are your thoughts heading into this match?
Nate Colton: I gotta say, Matt, it’s great to–oh, no way. No way!
Nate darts away from Matt Mills, who looks dumbfounded.
Matt Mills: Hey! We weren’t done!
You don’t expect people to run away from interviews…and you don’t expect them to look happy when they do it. And yet, here we are…and here Nate isn’t.
Matt Mills: …
The camera follows Nate as he runs down the hall, his smile growing wider as he approaches his target. But what could that target be? An open contract for a title shot? An attractive woman, beckoning him? A huge plate of corn on the cob?
Or maybe just an old friend?
Nate Colton: Swanny!
We pan to Swanny, clad in his usual pop punk t-shirt, faded jeans, and Vans. The crowd pops when they see the recently-successful PRIME newcomer. A broad smile fills his face.
Swanny: Nateosauras Rex! What’s up, kid?!
Nate throws his arms around Swanny in a big ol’ bro hug, the trepidation on his face a moment ago now fully replaced by excitement.
Nate Colton: Dude, I can’t believe you’re in PRIME now! This is so cool!
Swanny: You’re telling me! I still feel like I need to pinch myself sometimes. You and your dad are a big reason I finally got here.
Nate Colton: I mean, we put a word in and all, but you belong in PRIME, or else you wouldn’t be here. And you proved that too! Big win last show!
Swanny: That was pretty crazy, right?! Obviously I came to win, but I gotta admit even I was a little surprised I was able to get one over on a guy like Tony Gamble. I’ve never felt a rush like that in wrestling; it’s just such a different ballgame here in PRIME. What about you? You got Crash tonight, right? How you feeling?
Nate Colton: Feelin’ good. Just gotta stick to my training and I’ll be–
At long last, Matt Mills rejoins the picture. Remember Matt? He was the guy interviewing Nate just a few moments ago, before the Next Diamond ran off. Rude.
Matt Mills: I see you’ve caught up with someone, Colton.
Nate Colton: Yeah, I–oh no! Matt, I’m so sorry! I just got excited–I’ve known this guy since I was knee-high, and now he’s here in PRIME…sorry, this is kind of a big deal for me.
Swanny: Let’s get you ready to get out there, bud.
Nate, did you forget all about your match?
Nate Colton: Shoot! I gotta go. We’ll catch up later.
Swanny and Nate exchange a complex, multi-step handshake that has obviously been done hundreds of times. Upon its completion Colton leaves the scene, while Matt looks on, perplexed. Swanny notices and grabs Matt by the hand, walking him through the elaborate process. Matt fumbles it. Badly. Swanny gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
Swanny: We’ll get there, bro.
With a warm smile and nod, Swanny departs, leaving Matt staring at his hand.
We cut to ringside.
The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway, as a mix of curious silence and spontaneous cheers comes over the crowd. With haste, a figure emerges from the back and stands head high, fist raised, and strikes a pose for a brief second.
LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE
The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s Call” floods the airwaves and brings the lights back up. A chaotic lightshow takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash jumps in the air and stomps both feet in clear view for everyone to see. He roars violently with a fiery, toothy grin before beginning his frantic descent to the ring.
FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING
HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN
Nick Stuart: Crash ready to bounce back after a few tough outs here. He’s exciting, but he can’t seem to string wins together outside of his excursions, representing PRIME at the Bemont and in LUCHA ESPECIAL.
Richard Parker: Well, one thing’s for certain, he’s not at the bottom of some HOT GOSS from Japan so I don’t really care.
Nick Stuart: Hot go… Richard, where did you even learn such a term?
Richard Parker: I have a life outside of this business, you know.
Crash reaches the ring while pumping his fist in unison with the beat, being joined by many fans simply out of respect for fist pumping, and scales the stairs at the same hellacious pace before turning around to roar at the crowd again.
UNLEASHING HIS HELL
YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL
Vince Howard: This match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, weighing in at 238 lbs. and hailing from Buffalo, New York, he is The Northern Light… CRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHH!
RAAAAHHHHH!!
He leaps the top rope and lands with a thunderous rattle before pacing around the ring and nodding his head repeatedly. He stops in the middle, facing the crowd.
FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!
Crash steps towards the crowd, slamming his fist into the air and yelling along with the song.
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
He turns to the opposite side of the arena and offers the same sentiment.
LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE
Much more fist pumping begins with sweat flying off his face and arms, landing on the lucky fans in the front row.
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
The music begins to die out as Crash locks in on his opponent with an alarming stare, holding a violent gaze and snarl that raises red flags all over the place.
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
NEXT
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
Richard Parker: There he is! Nate Colton!
Nick Stuart: Since when are you a fan of his, Richard?
Richard Parker: Ever since I heard he and Kohime Mori were making eyes with each other. I need him to come over here and fill me in on his goings on!
Nick Stuart: Oh brother…
A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd.
Vince Howard: And his opponent, weighing in at 240 lbs. and hailing from Evansville, Indiana, he is the Next Diamond… Nate… COLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLTONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!
RRAAAAHHHHHH!!!
He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.
Jimmy Turnbull checks them for illegal objects, and then calls for the bell
DING DING
Crash and Nate circle each other, neither one wanting to make the first move. Crash looks like he has a little more spring in his step than Colton, whose body language talks like a guy who is still fighting off the effects of a transpacific flight.
Nick Stuart: It should be noted that this is Colton’s first match anywhere since returning from his family’s tour of Bang! Pro Wrestling.
Richard Parker: Who cares about that freakshow, Nick, I wanna know if he got Kohime’s digits!
Nick Stuart: Richard, you’re a middle-aged man and a member of this company’s Hall of Fame.
Richard Parker: I’m allowed to have interests outside of this company, Nick.
Nick Stuart: And I feel like every week, you subject me to a new one.
Crash raises his hand to bait Nate into a Greco-Roman knuckle lock. The Next Diamond appears apprehensive, putting up and pulling back his right hand in a rare show of indecisiveness. Crash beckons to him, and Colton finally grabs. He tries immediately to dip under his arm for a rear waistlock, but The Northern Light closes the gap between his arm and body quickly, taking advantage of the last vestiges of his opponent’s jet lag.
Crash closes tighter and tries a standing hip toss, but Colton blocks that and escapes out, spin-moving to put Crash in a rear waistlock. Crash wiggles out and standing switches behind Colton for one of his own, but the Next Diamond continues to shake out the cobwebs under duress, switched again, this time generating enough thrust to attempt a German suplex. However, between the adrenaline-fueled torque on his form and Crash’s innate agility, La Flecha Blanca is able to rotate midair and land in a backflip on his feet.
Nick Stuart: AMAZING agility there by Crash! Nate is a little slow on the uptake here, but he’s ranked third in the company for a reason.
Richard Parker: You think he should use that as a pickup line on Kohime? And what do you think their ship name should be called? Morinate? Koholton?
Colton turns around to find Crash has seamlessly bounded off the ropes and is charging at him full steam. Before Nate can react, Crash leaps up, and in one fell swoop, wrangles his legs around Colton’s head for a flying scissors takedown. He follows up nearly immediately going for an Asai moonsault, but Colton rolls inward towards the ropes. Crash catches it in time and is able to recalibrate to land on his feet.
Again, Crash knows time waits for no man as he spots Nate taking some time to recover and goes for a baseball slide. Either Colton’s reaction time got better, or he baited him, but at the last second, Colton rolls out of the ring and holds open the ring skirt, catching Crash between it and the ring. He follows up with a huge clothesline before rolling back in the ring to catch his breath.
Nick Stuart: Honestly, if this is Nate Colton in “needing a vacation from his vacation” mode, I’d hate to see what kind of trouble Crash would be in with him at full tilt.
Richard Parker: oblivious The problem is that “Nate Colton” and “Kohime Mori” don’t really have a ship name that flows together, like SidRia or Solid Gold Rock ‘n Richard.
Nick Stuart: I guess I’m flying solo the rest of this match.
Crash rolls out from under the skirt after needing a few moments to recover and slides back in the ring. Nate and Crash are back at square one. Crash throws up hand for the Greco-Roman knuckle lock again, but Nate shakes his head and backs off, beckoning for Crash to come chasing. The Northern Light charges in, but the Next Diamond leapfrogs him, then hits the canvas as Crash hits on the rebound on the near side. Nate sizes him up as he hits the far side again, but he times his dropkick attempt a little too early. Crash grabs onto the top rope, abating his momentum, and then leaps in to wrangle the prone Colton in a magistral cradle…
ONE!
TWO!
Colton kicks out with authority right after Turnbull slaps the mat the second time.
Nick Stuart: Well, Crash really looks primed to make an upset here, what do you think, Richard?
Richard Parker: still oblivious Do you think RIA re-signed with PRIME just so Kohime could be closer to Nate? Oooh, this is just so thrilling! I haven’t been this excited since Muriel Puddings and Garbage Bag Johnny had the world’s most disgusting… ly cute fling!
Nick Stuart: remembering back to them defiling Melvin Beauregard’s office and throwing up in his mouth a little bit
Crash picks Nate up and immediately drops back off the ropes, charging in for a cross-body block. Colton recognizes it immediately and hits the deck, causing Crash to eat the canvas. He rolls over in one motion and locks in a Fujiwara armbar that Crash escapes from immediately via rope break. They both get up to their feet, and Crash strikes with a heat check mid-kick that Colton catches right away. The ensuing enzugiri attempt fails as Nate anticipates it and ducks at the right moment. Colton bolts down and attempts to lock in the Colton Clutch while Crash is on the mat, but the White Arrow rolls over and breaks the hold into the ropes.
Nick Stuart: It’s incredible how so far into this match these two are still counterwrestling.
Richard Parker: up his own ass again You think we can get a wedding between these two to headline ReVival 47 when we hit Paris? I’ve always…
Nick Stuart: Richard! Look! It’s Kohime Mori with a bouquet of flowers!
Richard Parker: WHERE?!!?
Nick slaps the back of his broadcast partner’s head when he turns to fall for the oldest trick in the book.
Nick Stuart: Pay attention to the dang match!
Colton and Crash get to their feet again, Crash again letting his latent, reckless aggression bubble to the surface with a spinning heel kick that misses the mark as his target hops back. Crash bounds to his feet again and feints a leap, causing the Next Diamond to flinch ever so slightly, enough time for Crash to hit him with a drop toehold.
Nick Stuart: Crash using Colton’s defensiveness against him. I wonder how much longer The Next Diamond can keep this up without staging an offensive onslaught.
Richard Parker: Who cares, man? You won’t let me talk about the important things! And now I have to sit here and actually tell you that Nate Colton might be in trouble here because Crash is about to hit him with a senton.
Richard is right, Crash hits him with a somersault senton that he tries to transition into a pin. However, Nate absorbs the impact and counters his lackadaisical pin with a modified crucifix…
ONE!
TWO!
Crash kicks out.
The Northern Light shakes out the cobwebs from the whiplash and gets to his feet, only to find the Next Diamond has put a knee right into his head. He picks Crash up from behind with a rear facelock.
Nick Stuart: Inverted suplex! The Colton Clutch suplex may not be far behind.
Richard Parker: This potential Kohime/Nate love affair had me excited but now I have to talk about how I don’t think Colton has done enough damage to land his finisher here.
Once again, Richard, forced into doing his job, is prescient as Nate cannot lock in the Colton Clutch portion of the suplex before Crash can muscle out and hit him with a fadeaway gamengiri. As Colton staggers back, Crash rushes forward with a jump swinging DDT that finds its mark. He gets up, raises his arms, and rotates his forearms around each other signaling for something bigger.
Nick Stuart: Crash to the top rope… 420 Splash… BUT THERE’S NO WATER IN THE POOL!
Richard Parker: Heartbreak feels good in a place like this.
Nick Stuart: Did you just quote the Nicole Kidman AMC pre-screener ad?
Richard Parker: Look, I just wanna talk about young love!
Nick Stuart: THEY’RE NOT EVEN DATING!
Colton rolls over and gets up to one knee, surveying how badly Crash wiped out on his double-clutch frogsplash attempt. Crash staggers to his feet, and Nate greets him with a vertical suplex before dragging him to his feet and sending him back down the canvas with a side Russian leg sweep. He covers…
ONE!
TWO!
Crash kicks out!
Colton waits for Crash to get to his feet before locking him up in front for an exploder, but…
Nick Stuart: Crash still has life left in him! He’s landing elbows to the base of Colton’s neck!
Richard Parker: IF only he had someone to massage that neck after the match, but apparently I can’t talk about that anymore!
Colton reels a bit before turning around, right into…
Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT! WIDE LEFT! COLTON DOWN!
The Northern Light dives down to cover after his superkick…
ONE!
TWO!
Colton kicks out!
Nick Stuart: Colton is reeling here! We might be in for an upset, and don’t you dare talk about how upset you are that you cannot speculate on someone’s love life!
Richard Parker: sniffles
Crash sees Colton getting to his feet already, so instead of going for the Crash Dot Com off the top ropes, he grabs Nate by the wrist and whips him into the corner, rotating his forearms around each other overhead like he did before.
Nick Stuart: What’s he thinking here, Richard?
Richard Parker: I don’t know, but I bet Colton gets his boots up in time to counter it.
Crash comes flying in with a big forearm, but once again, Richard calls it before it happens. Colton leans back on the top turnbuckle for leverage and gets both his feet up into the air to smash into Crash’s face.
Nick Stuart: I ought to scold you more often if you pull this predictive analysis out when you mope.
Crash does the absolute worst thing he can do and turns his back towards Colton, who sizes him up, locks in the Colton Clutch, and…
Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH SUPLEX!
Richard Parker: Academic, folks.
Nate drags Crash away from the corner and covers. Jimmy Turnbull counts…
ONE!
TWO!
……
THREE!!!!
DING DING DING
Vince Howard: Your winner, Nate… COLLLLLLLLLLLLLTONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!
Nick Stuart: Crash put up a huge fight here, but even jet-lagged, Nate Colton is one of the elite stars here in PRIME for a reason.
Richard Parker: Now that the match is over, I have pulled out my flowchart on how this could all go with Kohime and…
Nick Stuart: CUT HIS HEADSET UNTIL COLTON LEAVES!
Colton rubs the back of his head as he awaits Crash to get to his feet. As he does, The Next Diamond extends his hand to the other rising star. Crash mulls it over for a little bit before shrugging and reciprocating the handshake to the roaring approval of the Philly fans. The scene cuts to a commercial break.
We return from commercial to see T Revelator and his digital cowboy companion are still trawling through the back of the arena on their hunt for the ever elusive Alias Champion, Coral Avalon. Don Winters tries every door they pass as Daytona Diamonds urges him to open them all, even the locked ones.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): Winner winner, chicken fuckin’ dinner! I’m so dang proud of ya, Donny baby! I knew you had it in ya, an’ with me on commentary? Hoo-boy! Match of the year! Hey, hey, hey, hey, slow down just a minute and check that trash can!
Don ignores the remarks about his wrestling ability, and mockingly lifts the lid of the trash can, surprisingly finding nothing within it.
Don Winters: Look, ‘Tona, we…
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): (Immediately cutting Don off) ‘Tona!? You got a god dang pet name for lil ole me!? Shucks, this relationship is really movin’ fast, Donny. You tryna get my pants ‘round my ankles or somethin’?
Don Winters: (continuing to ignore Daytona) … ‘ve got to find Avalon, and I’m fairly sure we’re not gonna find him in any of the trash cans you’ve asked me to check in.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): But that’s where Golden Coral belongs! In the fuckin’ trash because he is trash! Rubbish! Garbage! A fuckin’ rotten, moldy banana peel tryin’ to slip the two of us up with this fuckin’ War Games bullmess! Who’s he think we are, Donny?! Guns for hire?! Hell no! I ain’t havin’ it!
Winters shakes his head in disagreement and the ‘pair’ continue walking down a corridor when Don feels someone step out around a corner behind him. He spins on his heel to face the interloper and a scowl immediately forms on his face.
Don Winters: You. What do you want?
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): CORAL! CORAL, YOU BIG FOREHEADED SONUVABITCH! LEMME SEE HIM, WINTERS! I WANNA CUSS AT HIM!
Don Winters: (to Daytona) It’s not him, but it’s someone I need to talk to. Keep your little thoughts to yourself.
Winters is certain he hears Diamonds cackle over the din of his jet ski.
Don Winters: (to the man in front of him) The sheep who has been led astray. What can I do for you, my child?
The Legend grits his teeth and glares at The Revelator before breaking into a twisted smile.
Rob Williams: Bend the knee and atone for your atrocious sins. This is your one chance at salvation, Don Winters. Give up your heretical ways.
Williams moves close, boxing in Winters. There is little between the men but air and opportunity. How will The Revelator respond? Is he truly the pious one that will “turn the other cheek” or will his distracted attention coupled with Rob’s lack of respect for personal space prove to be too much?
Don Winters: Stop speaking in tongues. You cannot save the saved. If you think I’ve anything to hide, you’re going to have to start digging deeper. (Winters smiles) I walk the path, Rob Williams. You’re a lost child wandering a supermarket looking for the meaning of God on the back of a cereal box.
Winters pauses momentarily, and swears he hears Diamonds laughing in the background again… and the jet ski laughs with him, revving engines and crashing waves.
Don Winters: I gave you the opportunity to find God with His Word and Light. You declined my invitation and I’ve been fair enough in letting you go off on your own and play at being a scion, but if this is how you’re going to take that opportunity, you’re going to find yourself looking for more than just God.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): He can find hisself helpin’ us look for Coral! Robby! C’mon now! We need a big, angry motherfucker to beat the everlovin’ shit outta that slippery little peckerwood!
Rob Williams: Fair? You’ve been fair? Laughable at best. I don’t need your weak god, Don Winters. No one does. You’re just another pimp out here peddling the idea that people are too weak without some invisible sky daddy. His word and light. (Rob scoffs) I know about you, Don Winters. You have secrets.
Rob hisses the last word. Secrets? Invisible sky daddy? Pot, meet kettle.
Don Winters: Idle threats will only get you so far, Williams. Secrets? (Don laughs) There are no secrets with His Word and Light. We have all been touched and blessed by the Light, there is nothing to hide, no shame to keep in the darkness. We are not you, Rob Williams.
Rob goes to reply, but Daytona is like a hawk, picking into the conversation.
Daytona Diamonds (Phone): I could listen to you two talk like two feudin’ Sunday school teachers all fuckin’ day, but WE. GOT. SHIT. TO. DO. DONNY. Say three Hail Marys, sprinkle some holy water on his forehead, give’em a fuckin’ wafer to gnaw on, and let’s go!
Don shoots a dirty glance at his phone and then fixes it on Rob.
Don Winters: You heard the man, Rob. We’re on a mission to track down Coral Avalon and as of yet, you’ve been zero help in those regards. (Winters pauses) Last thing, you’ve got my secrets? Keep ‘em. Oh, and good luck tonight. May His Word and Light be with you.
Before Rob Williams can reply Winters and his facetime friend are off down the hallway. He rounds a corner and catches a tv playing silently overheard, but he reads the chyron and shakes his head. The camera focuses in on the tv before cutting elsewhere backstage.
COWBOY SEEN RIDING JET SKI AT HIGH SPEED UP FRIGID DELAWARE RIVER TOWARD PHILADELPHIA
We find ourselves backstage in a large locker room. It takes us a few seconds to understand just what locker room it is, but once we see some names, it starts to make sense.
There’s Cecilworth Farthington, lounging on a sofa with his phone in his hand. Nearby Sage Pontiff sits on the floor, eyes closed. Anna Daniels leans against the wall, observing everything with a wry smile. FLAMBERGE is nowhere to be found – perhaps there was a rumor of owls around and he didn’t want to deal with their wrath. And as we see Hayes Hanlon – all dressed up and ready for his impending match against Chandler Tsonda – throwing up the deuces and walking out of the dressing room, Nick puts the pieces together for us.
Nick Stuart: This looks like Cecilworth’s Wargames team together. I don’t see FLAMBERGE, though…
Richard Parker: Or Paxton Ray. But…what’s going on at the back of the room?
Indeed, at the back of the room is one of those changing curtains you see in movies and tv-shows – and probably also just, like, department stores because they’re a real thing. Anyway, shirts and pants fly over the curtain feverishly. After a few moments of flurry, Joe Fontaine walks out from behind the curtain, a smile on his face.
Joe Fontaine: Hey, guys! Guysss! I think I’ve created a masterpiece like the true visionary that I am! The truest visionary. A visionary so true that I cannot be denied! Anyhoodle, let’s get this party started! Why don’t you come out and introduce yourself to the team, Pax?
He points to the curtain with a flourish, then frowns when no one emerges from behind it.
Joe Fontaine: Pax? We talked about this! Well, okay, I talked about this and you kinda just stared at me with those gator eyes of yours, but a conversation was definitely had and you didn’t say “no” or anything, so… let’s go! I said the party was starting! I know we’re all about “fashionably late”, but come on! You’re making me look bad here!
Finally, after a few more moments, Paxton Ray walks out from behind the curtain. He looks…
Anna Daniels: He looks like you mugged a gaudy pimp, stole everything but the pants, and threw them on a diseased swamp rat.
Yes, that. He’s wearing a blazer that has a large sparkling G on the breast pocket. Notable is his lack of shirt under the blazer. Also notable is his wrestling trunks, which are white and black and very, um, short.
Atop all of this is a fedora and a pair of thin sunglasses perched on his nose.
Paxton stands awkwardly, looking out at the rest of his team. Without opening his eyes, Sage Pontiff pipes up in his bongripper croak.
Sage Pontiff: You can, if you’re open to the spirit of things, get a sense for someone’s psychic energy without them saying anything. Right now, your aura is screaming, dude.
He opens them, assessing the sartorial crimes being committed.
Sage Pontiff: It’s screaming “Please, God, don’t let me look like this much of an asshole.”
Paxton Ray: Gimme a fuckin’ mirror.
Joe proudly and quickly provides, and Paxton looks at himself for a moment before snarling.
Paxton Ray: I need t’punch somebody, now.
Cecilworth Farthington: (Not looking up from his phone) Punch Joe.
Joe Fontaine: Wait, no! Fabby is right he–
Joe gets plastered with a right fist from Paxton Ray and falls to the ground. Sage, who was in the process of volunteering to take the hit, lowers his hand in disappointment. The Murder Gator snarls at him for a moment before taking the fedora and tossing it on the ground.
Paxton Ray: I’m gonna go change.
Anna Daniels: At least put on some pants. We can see your junk and the stripes ain’t helping any.
The Muse slightly leans towards Sage.
Anna Daniels: (whispering) Though to be fair, he’d look half way decent in a suit. But it would have to be properly tailored. It takes a certain vibe to rock that monstrosity, he don’t have it, and man needs all the help he can get.
Sage nodes…sagely? Whatever, I’m keeping it. Paxton walks behind the curtain, stepping over Joe’s body as he does so. The wrestling trunks fly over the curtain as we hear Paxton grumble.
Paxton Ray: Ain’t nobody ever been scared’a anybody in a fedora.
And with that we go back to ringside.
Vince Howard: The following match is one fall!
We return from the backstage area where we saw Paxton Ray and the Glueminati back to ringside as the fans are ready for the match to come.
Nick Stuart: We’ve got a match coming up for you that would be a main event on any card.
Richard Parker: Sure, for Hanlon. He’s a Universal Champion. Tsonda is a mere Alias Champion. He’s a curtain jerker if I’ve ever seen one.
Nick Stuart: What are you talking about? Tsonda is a former Universal Champion as well.
Richard Parker: Yeah, in the Revolution era. This is the ReVival era, keep up, Nicky.
Nick Stuart: Oh, jeez. Let’s go back to Vince Howard.
We cut to the dapper Vince Howard.
Vince Howard: Introducing first…
Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.
“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”
And huge, white block letters fill the screen:
I!!!
WILL!!!
CON!!!
QUER!!!
The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.
And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.
Vince Howard: FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!
Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.
Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!
Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.
“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”
He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.
“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”
He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.
I!!!
WILL!!!
CON!!!
QUER!!!
The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.
Nick Stuart: You know that Hanlon wants to start this year off on the right foot.
Richard Parker: He’s in a faction full of the best and he is seeking to be the best of them all.
NIck Stuart: Yeah, with FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth Farthington, he’s got his work cut out for him there.
Back in the ring, Vince Howard is ready to continue.
Vince Howard: And his challenger…
“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”
The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.
As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.
Vince Howard: Hailing from San Diego, California via Hanoi, Vietnam… he stands at five feet and eleven inches tall… he is the MODEL! CITIZEN! CHANDLER! TSONDA!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Nick Stuart: You know that Tsonda wants to erase the taste of back-to-back losses to end 2023.
Richard Parker: That was a sign, Nick, that it was all over for Tsonda. He had a cute run, but he’s not about this life.
Nick Stuart: This life? You cried about a hangnail last show.
Richard Parker: It hurt!
The two receive their final set of instructions from Elvis Nixon before he signals for the start of the match.
DING DING
At the sound of the bell, both men cautiously move towards one another. Once Hanlon feels he is close enough, he fires off a kick to the chest of Tsonda, but the Model Citizen side steps it and plants his left elbow into the jaw of Hanlon. With his opponent stunned, he drags him into the corner and climbs up to the top rope before putting Hanlon into a three-quarter facelock. Hanlon immediately panics and slips out of the grasp of Tsonda before rolling to the outside.
Nick Stuart: That could have spelled disaster for Hanlon right out of the gate.
Richard Parker: Tsonda being a bit too greedy there if you ask me.
Nick Stuart: I don’t remember asking you.
Richard Parker: Well, fine then.
Tsonda paces the perimeter of the ring while Nixon keeps him back and begins his count out of Hanlon.
ONE!
Tsonda motions for Hanlon to re-enter the ring, but Hanlon waves him off, walking the outside of the ring and taking a moment to himself. As he turns the corner, he spots two people he’s recognized with Tsonda in the past. Jasmine Jeong and Jaime Aguilar. Hanlon pauses for a moment and turns towards them.
THREE!
Hanlon looks back at Tsonda, who is fuming, but Hanlon laughs it off as he inches towards the duo. Tsonda immediately slips out from under the bottom rope, forcing Nixon to break his count. Hayes sees Tsonda out of the corner of his eye and rushes around the ring post before sliding back into the ring. Chandler follows after him and is met with a boot to the back of the skull from Hanlon.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Well, that was some smart thinking by Hanlon right there.
Nick Stuart: This is a side of Hanlon that six months ago, I would’ve told you I’d never see. Ever since UltraViolence though, we have seen him become more cunning, calculated, and just a rotten human being.
Richard Parker: Exactly. It is amazing. It’s chefs kiss.
Nick Stuart: You know you don’t say chef’s kiss, right?
Richard Parker: Damnit!
Hayes continues with a series of stomps, thwarting Tsonda’s attempt to get to his feet. Nixon admonishes Hanlon, who acquiesces and watches as the Model Citizen rises to his feet. The moment he does, Hanlon cold cocks him with a forearm to the jaw that sends Tsonda stumbling into the nearby corner. Hayes immediately drives his shoulder into the midsection of the Hall of Famer, driving all of his air out of him.
“Should have stayed at home if you were only going to come back and win the Alias Title.”
Hayes then connects with a series of vicious uppercuts.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: This mean streak on Hanlon suits him well. His talent level has jumped two fold easily!
Nick Stuart: What does him being evil have to do with his talent level?
Richard Parker: Everything! It’s why I’m so good at my job. You should try it out sometime. Hoyt knows you need it.
Nick Stuart: Nah, I’m good.
Hanlon takes a few steps back and rushes at Tsonda only for the Model Citizen to lift his legs up and float over the top of the Event Horizon, who proceeds to crash chest first into the top turnbuckle. Hanlon stumbles out of the corner while Tsonda bounces off the far ropes before connecting with a running bulldog that plants Hanlon in the center of the ring. The Event Horizon rolls onto his back where Tsonda snaps off a flurry of kicks to the face of Home Run Hayes. Tsonda then runs to the ropes and springboards off the middle rope, connecting with a moonsault before hooking both legs.
ONE!
TWO!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Nick Stuart: And Tsonda used the rage he felt when the spittle hit him to propel him to a near victory.
Richard Parker: A near victory? Oh come off of it, Nick. That was barely a two count. Nixon tried to rush it and even that couldn’t get Hanlon down. It was as close to a victory as was the time you tried to pick up Angelica Brooks.
Nick Stuart: What are you talking about?
Richard Parker: Oh, you know…
Nick Stuart: Ass, that was you.
Richard Parker: Shit, you might be right.
Hanlon stumbles to his feet and is met with a forearm shot to the side of the neck. Hayes stumbles into the ropes where Tsonda catches him with a knife-edge chop. Hanlon yanks his head back in pain before firing off a straight right that connects with the cheek of the former Universal Champion. Tsonda stumbles away and Hanlon quickly rushes at Tsonda only for the Model Citizen to lift him up and drop him throat first across the top rope. Hanlon drops to both knees, clutching at his throat while Chandler rises to his feet. He then bounces off the ropes and connects with a dropkick to the ribs of his opponent, sending Hanlon crashing to the outside.
Richard Parker: What the hell is Elvis doing?! Is he even watching this match
Nick Stuart: What are you moaninig about now?
Richard Parker: Dropping Hanlon’s throat across the top rope, the dropkick to the outside.
Nick Stuart: And…
Richard Parker: And… you’re stupid.
Nick Stuart: Enlightening as always with you.
Tsonda climbs to the outside as Hanlon makes his way to his feet. Chandler sizes him up as Hanlon turns towards him and goes for a Meteora only for Hanlon to move out of the way at the last second.
CRASH!
Tsonda lands knees first on the thin floor apron before slamming into the ringside barricade. Chandler writhes in pain as Hanlon looks at the fallen Model Citizen and howls with laughter while pointing at him.
Richard Parker: Hoyt, if only every one could be as smart as Hayes Hanlon is.
Nick Stuart: Smart? I call that luck. If Tsonda had hit—
Richard Parker: If, Nick. Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. It didn’t happen because Hanlon is a trained professional and Tsonda is octogenarian grasping at second shot at fame.
Nick Stuart: You going to say that to his face?
Richard Parker: …no.
Hanlon drags Tsonda to his feet and shoves him violently into the ringside barricade, causing Tsonda to slide to the floor in a heap. Hayes plants his boot into the chest cavity of the Model Citizen and grinds it in as hard as he can, pleased with the way Tsonda’s face contorts from the agony.
TWO!
Hanlon looks over at Elvis, who has resumed his count and waves him off, annoyed that Nixon is such a stickler for the rules. Hayes yanks Tsonda to a vertical position and whips him back first into the edge of the ring apron. Chandler collapses to both knees, grabbing at his back. Hanlon cocks his hand back and connects with an open-handed palm strike across the jaw of his one-time hero.
FOUR!
Nick Stuart: The sheer brutality that Hanlon is displaying right now —
Richard Parker: Kind of cool, eh?
Nick Stuart: The complete opposite, actually. You can see the complete disdain Hanlon has for Tsonda, for Nixon, for this whole thing. This is a kid who loved PRIME at one point and is now… treating it like trash.
Richard Parker: Maybe that’s what PRIME needs. Someone who doesn’t revere it.
As Tsonda slumps onto Hanlon, the sight of his once-hero in such a vulnerable state, the rage flashes across his eyes and he yanks Hanlon to his feet and whips him into the ringside barricade back first.
CRASH!
Tsonda’s body violently collapses face down on the arena floor.
SIX!
Hanlon yanks Tsonda to his feet and throws him back in the ring. Hanlon follows right after and covers Tsonda as Elvis begins his count.
ONE!
TWO!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: That was foolish.
Nick Stuart: Kicking out of a half-assed pin is foolish?
Richard Parker: When you’re nearing the wrong side of your prime, heh, yeah, it is. Hanlon looks a step ahead and Tsonda looks… old.
Nick Stuart: Big talk coming from a man hiding behind his headphones.
Richard Parker: Shuddup.
Hanlon drags Tsonda off the mat and whips him into the ropes and hoists him up for a sidewalk slam, but carries him around the ring before sending all of his weight crashing down on top of the Model Citizen. Hayes sits there for a moment, looking at Tsonda and pursing his lips slightly before he climbs to his feet. He drags Tsonda over to the corner and begins to climb to the top turnbuckle, with his back towards his opponent.
Nick Stuart: What the hell is Hayes doing?
Richard Parker: Oh, I know.
Nick Stuart: Care to clue me in?
Richard Parker: Three words. Model. Citizen.
Nick Stuart: That’s two words, dumbass.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Sure enough, Hayes is sizing himself up for the Model Citizen. Before he can fully stand up though, Tsonda runs up the turnbuckle, wraps his arms around Hanlon’s waist, and connects with a super side suplex.
THUD!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Nick Stuart: Holy hell, Hanlon didn’t sense Tsonda coming and the Model Citizen made him pay.
Richard Parker: Desperation has a way of biting people in the long run.
Nick Stuart: When you’re about to pull out your opponent’s finisher, a massive sign of disrespect by the way, that shows how desperate you are. Clearly Hanlon realized he couldn’t hack it against Tsonda.
Richard Parker: Oof, did you pull a muscle?
Nick Stuart: What?
Richard Parker: Stretching that hard.
Tsonda makes his way to his elbows and looks over to see a labored-breathing Hanlon face first on the mat. Chandler pulls himself up to his feet, his body wracked with pain, and he grabs at his back. He walks over to Hanlon and drags him to his feet before connecting with a series of kicks to the legs and ribs of the Event Horizon. Hanlon tries his best to block the feet of Tsonda, but is unable to do so with any effectiveness and Tsonda blasts him in the face with a roundhouse kick that sends Hanlon crashing into the corner.
Nick Stuart: Tsonda starting to get some momentum under his wings.
Richard Parker: You always do this. They get a few moves in, you get your hopes up, and then bam reality strikes you in the face.
Nick Stuart: You’re a bit onery tonight, did you forget to take your pills?
Richard Parker: HIPPA, Nick, HIPPA!
Tsonda drags Hanlon out of the corner and goes to whip him into the ropes, but the Event Horizon reverses it. Chandler manages to duck under a clothesline and flies towards the opposite ropes where he springboards off the middle rope and connects with a Tornado DDT, spiking Hanlon’s head into the canvas to the point he is standing on his head. Tsonda bounces to his feet as gravity takes care of Hanlon’s body. Tsonda spins around, stepping on Hanlon’s hand, and then connects with a standing moonsault before hooking Hanlon’s leg for the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Damn straight.
Nick Stuart: You can see Tsonda finding his rhythm after the six weeks off he’s had since Colossus.
Richard Parker: All I see is the oil grease building up under him, Nick.
Nick Stuart: …what?
Richard Parker: All the lube he had to do to loosen his joints.
Nick Stuart: You’re in a mood tonight.
Tsonda makes his way to his feet and finds Hanlon stumbling his way back to his feet as well. Chandler narrowly ducks underneath a wild haymaker from Hanlon, determined to wrest away the momentum from Tsonda. The Model Citizen plants his knee into Hanlon’s midsection and connects with a butterfly suplex that sends the Event Horizon across the ring.
Yet, he refuses to stay down as he gets back to his feet and rushes at Tsonda, looking for a running clothesline. He is deft enough to duck underneath it and bounces off the ropes before connecting with a running forearm, sending Hanlon down to one knee. Chandler moves to the nearest corner and hops onto the second turnbuckle before planting a missile dropkick to the back of Hanlon’s skull.
The Event Horizon slumps forward and Tsonda quickly flips him over before hooking the leg and Nixon begins the count.
ONE!
TWO!
TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Jesus, Nixon, cut it a little closer next time.
Nick Stuart: He’s doing his job.
Richard Parker: While giving an unfair advantage to Tsonda. If you can’t see it, then I can’t help.
Nick Stuart: You haven’t been able to help yourself since 2005.
Richard Parker: True.
Tsonda bounces back to his feet and brings Hanlon along with him before connecting with an upper cut, designed to daze the former Universal Champion. Chandler goes to whip Hanlon into the ropes, but Hanlon quickly reverses it and sends Tsonda instead. As Tsonda rebounds, Hanlon dips his shoulder and the Model Citizen finds himself draped across the shoulders of the Event Horizon before Hanlon shifts him slightly and connects with a tilting, stalling Samoan Drop!
THUD!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Nick Stuart: HUGE moment there for Hanlon, a moment he desperately needed.
Richard Parker: And these buffoons boo him for it. Of course, their from Philly. They boo Santa Claus like the fascists they are.
Nick Stuart: Hanlon needs to capitalize on this moment if he wants to pull out the victory here.
Richard Parker: This is Hanlon. Big moments is his middle name.
Nick Stuart: Sure, if you say so.
Both men scramble to their feet, Hanlon driving his elbow into the right side of Tsonda’s neck. Chandler stumbles into the ropes while Hanlon bounces off the opposite ropes and connects with a running boot to the face of the Model Citizen, sending him over the top rope and landing on the ring apron. Tsonda slowly gathers himself and pulls himself up to his feet, blocking a right hand from Hanlon before wrapping his hands behind the skull of Hanlon and dropping him throat first across the top rope.
Tsonda makes his way back up to the ring apron and springboards off the top rope, looking for a flying headscissors on Hanlon, but Hayes catches him and connects with a sit-out powerbomb as Nixon begins his count once again.
ONE!
TWO!
THR— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Richard Parker: Ladies and Gentlemen, the one-of-a-kind Hayes Hanlon. No one does it better.
Nick Stuart: Tsonda thought he’d stunted Hanlon’s momentum and came up just short there with that flying headscissors and paid greatly for it.
Richard Parker: Hanlon is younger, smarter, and frankly, more handsome than Tsonda could ever imagine being. This is Hanlon’s world and Tsonda is just living in it.
Nick Stuart: Okay, the hyperbole is getting all over my suit jacket.
Hanlon grabs Tsonda by the back of the scalp and yanks him to his feet before driving a series of knees into the face of the Model Citizen. Tsonda drops to one knee and Hanlon bounces off the ropes. He looks to slam his knee into the face of his opponent, but Chandler manages to block it at the last second and delivers his own knee into the ribcage of the Event Horizon. With Hanlon doubled over, Tsonda then connects with a stalling lifting implant DDT.
Nick Stuart: Golgotha Drop!
Richard Parker: Big yip.
Nick Stuart: That could be it for the Event Horizon.
Richard Parker: Wake me up when Tsonda does something exciting.
Nick Stuart: You are really insufferable tonight.
Both men lay on the mat, Tsonda’s chest heaving before he sits up. He makes his way up to his feet, slowly, and looks down at his opponent, the younger Hanlon. Tsonda gingerly walks over to the nearby corner before climbing the turnbuckle to the top rope. Nixon looks on as Tsonda prepares for the Model Citizen. As he leaps from the top rope though, Hanlon manages to roll out of the way.
Tsonda though manages to land on his feet, but as he does, Hanlon plants his boot into the midsection of his opponent. He then wraps his arms around the neck and skull of the Model Citizen before connecting with a shoulder sit-out jawbreaker.
Richard Parker: Now, that’s what I’m talking about!
Nick Stuart: Flash Point! Hanlon hit the Flash Point out of nowhere!
Richard Parker: As he usually does.
Nick Stuart: Ugh. Can he make the cover and was it enough to put Tsonda down?
Hanlon crawls over to Tsonda and hooks both legs as Nixon begins his count.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
DING DING DING!
Nick Stuart: And Hanlon has pulled it off.
Richard Parker: Yeah, yeah. I’m not surprised.
Nick Stuart: Alright, tonight has been really fun.
Hanlon rolls off the Model Citizen and sits up, body wracked from the hellacious match he’s just been through.
Vince Howard: Your winner… HAYES! HANLON!
Hanlon makes his way to his feet and Elvis tries to raise his hand in victory. Hayes yanks it away and looks down at Tsonda for a moment.
Richard Parker: Go ahead and put him out to pasture.
Nick Stuart: No matter how much of a dick Hayes can be, that’s still one of his heroes in the ring with him, and he does have some respect for him.
Hanlon pauses for another moment before he slides out under the bottom rope and begins heading up the ramp.
Nick Stuart: Well, Hanlon had a thought, but he let it go.
Richard Parker: Weak. He needs to spend more time with Cecilworth, clearly.
Nick Stuart: Well, you try and pry him away from his phone then.
Richard Parker: That sounds like an impossible challenge.
Hanlon reaches the top of the ramp and looks back to the ring, where he sees Tsonda making his way up to his feet, clearly disappointed. Hanlon places his hands on his hips before disappearing backstage.
Nick Stuart: Well, Hanlon starts the year off with a victory while Tsonda is running a bit of a losing streak now.
Richard Parker: I call that a sign!
Nick Stuart: Shut it. Let’s head backstage!
After the hard fought bout between Tsonda and Hanlon, the camera cuts to the back and finds itself focused on a pair of ankle high boots; Black leather, thick soles, with pink laces and a pink heart adoring each side. Slowly panning up, a pair of distressed jeans, also black and skinny in nature, receive their own reveal. On our continued visual journey, a studded pink belt clings to this person’s waist above a set of curvy hips. A sliver of torso is teased, thanks to a tiny break between the individual’s pants and shirt. Speaking of, said blouse is white in color, a New World Trash logo plastered front and center. View moving upward, past tattooed arms, the camera focuses on a smiling face. Pink painted lips, light blue eyeshadow with heavy eyeliner, pink and blue hair gathered into two thick, low hanging pigtails… A familiar, but renovated face. RIA is back in prime.
RIA: PRIMEates! It’s been too long!
One could be forgiven for questioning if the Wells Fargo Center has been invaded by thousands of hungry beasts. No, but the reaction from the crowd watching on the PRIMEview could certainly give that impression. The Cheshire grin on RIA’s face expands further, clearly loving what she hears. After the cheers die down, RIA folds her arms loosely on her chest.
RIA: I’m sure some of you are surprised to see me again. After all, the last time I was here, I got smacked around pretty good! I’m sure some wrote me off after that. Let’s be real, I’ve had a start-stop career when it comes to PRIME. I’ve never really accomplished much. So why would PRIME bring me back? Why would I even want to come back?
RIA’s hands glide down to her hips. Though still smiling, it’s less Cheshire now and more like a child with a secret. Her eyes squint slightly.
RIA: I feel like there’s a lot of negativity haunting PRIME currently. Brandon Youngblood bitching that others aren’t worthy of his spot, Hayes Hanlon complaining he’s been sabotaged, Cecilworth Fartingtons trying to put Jared Sykes in a back brace, Coral Avalon promising hell to any challenger to his title, that whole pink-red thing…
The Psychoberry shudders hard after her last line. RIA’s hands flow from her hips and *CLAP* in front of her in a form of personal prayer. Hands staying together, RIA guides them to the center of her chest.
RIA: I think we need an infusion of love around here, and not the crappy CONVOY kind! I’m back to make a difference. I’m back because this is home for me. I’m back because I love PRIME and I love wrestling. In the past, I was so focused on things like titles and winning that it’d put me in a hole when I found myself struggling. But here’s the real real… PRIME has, has had and will continue to have one of the most talented rosters in the world. You wanna test yourself? You come here. Faltering constitutions need not apply. With the things I’ve been through, I’m a bit wiser now, my vision a bit more clear, truths a little more evident for me. You ain’t gonna succeed here if you can’t handle getting knocked down every now and then. Luckily, I’m pretty much a pro at that!
RIA’s giggle sounds almost unnatural, as if produced by some sort of Halloween audio toy. A soft sigh floats from her person once the laughter dies down, the smile that’s yet to leave RIA’s face altering into a more welcoming sight.
RIA: Don’t get me wrong, I want to win matches. I wanna kick some ass, get some shinies and have this pretty face plastered on posters. What I’m saying is that those things aren’t the highest priority. I’m looking to bring a bit more fun and fantasy into PRIME. I wanna be a beacon. If you feel like a loser, if you think you’re damaged, if you don’t quite fit in… Just look my way. I’ve been all that, hell, I still am! I ain’t no superhero, I’m not infraggable, I’m very much human. I won’t dominate, I’ll get slapped around a bit, I’m pretty much the ultimate underdog. But you know what I can do? Fight. The body has its limits, but my spirit don’t. If you’ve never seen me before, do yourself a favor and keep your eyes open. If you have, keep watching, cuz I’m a bit of a new flavor of RIA that you might not be used to. As for my PRIME brethren?
Back to a grin that looks like it might escape RIA’s face at any moment, along with eyes practically pushing their lids out of the way.
RIA: Welcome to Rainbow City, bitches! Enjoy your stay and don’t be a stranger.
With a wink and click from her mouth, the camera, still focused on a smiling RIA, cuts elsewhere
We cut from Ria’s beautiful mug to a close up shot on the snarled upper lip of Rob Williams. An imperfect incisor tooth that looks almost like it’s quivering from Rob’s angry vibration. Our view zooms out slowly to an admirable pano of The Legend seething in rage, presumably at his chance meeting with Don Winters earlier in the evening. The family of weirdos have grown in numbers to eight and are, of course, not more than arms reach away from their new found savior. In reality this is much more the catalyst to his current state than Donald Winters.
Rob Williams: Will you shut the fuck up? I’m trying to get my head in the game. Between that heretic Don Winters and you fools I get no peace.
The Father: Now, now, Robert. Let go of that petty pimp for now. You’ve put him on notice that you know his secrets and he made his choice. We will crucify him just like his precious little lamb. But not tonight. Tonight is all about Glue and The King of the Jungle.
Rob takes a deep breath. In with love out with hate, or something to that effect. He turns to his affectionate followers and flashes a PR smile.
Rob Williams: What I mean to say is please give me a few minutes alone.
Johan: Do you intend to commune with the Father?
Rob Williams: Uh, yeah.
Moonbeam: Blessed be. We will give you your solitude.
They can’t leave fast enough for Rob. As they exit he turns to the sink and leans down to splash cold water on his face as if it will smother the fire burning inside him. Unbeknownst to Rob, Charlotte and John have been stalking the hallways, hunting the man they know as “lover” and “best friend”. Upon seeing the exodus of hippie looking freaks that make up Complete Abandon they enter the room they make their break, sliding in before the door can shut. Rob hears Charlotte’s voice call out and looks up into the mirror. A vision. Pure beauty. Despite all that has happened and all the new found enlightenment, his heart still skips a beat.
Charlotte: You son of a bitch.
John Gordon: (Hand on his head) Charlotte, we talked about this.
Charlotte: Where the hell have you been?
Rob shakes his head like a dog coming in from the rain.
The Father: Their hearts aren’t pure, child. They are here to cloud your vision. Do not let them weaken your resolve.
Rob Williams: Good to see you, Charlotte. Yes, dear, I’ve missed you, too. Yeah, I’ve been through a lot and I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing just fine.
Charlotte: You on of a…
John Gordon: (Interrupting Charlotte) Bud we’re here because we care about you.
Every particle of the air is charged, buzzing with energy. Each person is standing at the edge of a riverbed looking over into a distorted reflection of what they thought the sky and the sun and themselves looked like. Rob doesn’t seem crazy and that was about the reaction they’d expect out of him normally, but they both know what they’ve seen and heard of his exploits as of late. As for Charlotte and John, Rob doesn’t sense any impurity in their actions, but he has faith in the Father’s word and so moves cautiously toward them both.
Rob Williams: Did you two come to watch me take on Le Glue Boy?
John Gordon: We came to take you with us, buddy. Look, I know you’ve been going through some things, but you’re out in the fucking ether right now. You need to get some help.
Charlotte: Please, Rob. Come with us. We’ll figure this out together.
John Gordon: Come on, buddy. We love you. If you go out there this guy is going to hurt you.
There it is. Before Rob can answer, the door swings open again. No one even turns as The Muse floats in on the breeze.
Anna Daniels: Ready for war, buttercup?
It’s an honest question coming from somebody that takes a great many things lightly. The vessel steps in like she owns the place, a panther in search of her next big kill. She chomps on some hot buttery popcorn (fresh from the many concession stands in the PRIMEporium, naturally) and wearing one of her new shirts. Specifically, the red one. It takes a moment for whoever is in charge at the moment to notice that something’s going on. A point to John.
Anna Daniels: Aren’t you the guy who hates our questions?
John doesn’t get a chance to answer before she shoots a look to Charlotte with a tiny smile attached.
Anna Daniels: Howdy!
And then for extra measure, Anna grabs a chair and sits right beside them, gnawing at the snack all the while. If the vibes of the situation are screaming at her to get the fuck out, she seems to be ignoring them.
To describe the tension as tangible would be an understatement. The energy is that of a Mexican standoff. Rob’s steel blue eyes jump from Anna to John and Charlotte and back. Who will draw first? His eyes land on the general area of Charlotte and John and he addresses them as Anna chomps away on popcorn.
Rob Williams: I appreciate your concern. It’s really good to see you guys, but the only place I’m going is (nods towards Anna) to war. And I’m more ready than I’ve ever been.
Charlotte: Oh, fuck this.
John Gordon: Everybody just calm down! Rob, we love you. I’m going to be brutally honest with you right now. It’s all gone a little Pete Tong, bud. You’re hanging out with a bunch of fucking weirds (turns to Anna) no offense. Cecilworth Farthington is in his prime and he’s going to destroy you. Come back home, bud.
Rob’s top lip quivers. He feels a bit dizzy, closing his eyes and focusing on keeping his feet from giving in to the spin.
The Father: Do not be bothered by the opinions of these gazelle. You’re a lion. You’re magnetic. You’re going into that ring and bringing the sword of fiery judgement retribution with you.
Rob Williams: I think it’s best if you two leave. We are getting ready and need to talk about strategy. BIG match tonight.
The thundering silent reaction from Rob collectively ripping out both John and Charlotte’s still beating hearts from their chests swells the room. Charlotte immediately runs out, trying to hide the tears falling from her face. John sucks his teeth, hands on his hips, before dropping his head to leave as well. Anna, meanwhile…
Anna Daniels: Huh. We expected them to fight for you a little bit harder. Those are your people? They really suck at this whole moral advice gig.
The vessel gives a shrug as something in the background sharks not like we can do any better. How familiar they both are with that nagging white noise. Maybe that’s part of what has drawn them to this covenant. Who knows? It’s hard enough to know what drives anyone, especially these two.
Anna Daniels: We understand the concern though. Cecilworth is in his prime, a pretty damn good wrestler, and is considered aesthetically pleasing to the masses. And he knows it. Anybody with half a brain and a working eye can tell that the odds are against you in many ways.
The tone the facts are presented in is blunt and to the point. It’s not a stealth sucking up to her would-be general in the War Games, just natural facts in their cold calculating state. The multitudes let it linger in the air a little bit, letting the weight settle on Rob’s shoulders, and…observing. Will he crumble under that weight or will he steel himself?
Anna Daniels: Cecilworth Farthington is difficult. Very, very difficult. But he’s not impossible. The odds were against Johnathan-Christopher Hall. And don’t even get us started on what happened last Culture Shock. We could beat that decaying horse into dust.
She waves a hand as if to whisk away the pettier parts of her brain. New year, new issues. A kernel flies through the air and is caught by a consuming maw. There is, at least, the decency to not talk with her mouth full. Each word is landing like a lancing blow at Rob’s defenses.
Anna Daniels: Let’s say their worst nightmares come true and you lose. So what? Your stock won’t go down and the goal still won’t change. You’ll still be Rob Williams and you’ll still have work to do. Anything that happens after is on your head. So from our viewpoint, you don’t have anything to lose by looking him in the eye and punching him in the face.
The Father: This is now bone of my bones, And flesh of my flesh; She shall be called Woman. I knew I liked this one. Listen to her well, child, for she speaks truth.
There’s a pause. The Muse stands, forces Rob to hold out his hand, and plunges the bag of popcorn into his taped up weathered palm. He looks down to the popcorn and then back up to Anna. She’s right, and right on time. He would be running away with John and Charlotte before. Before joining PRIME, his commune with the Father, and his coalition with The Muse.
Anna Daniels: Not to mention that was very insulting, calling us weird. This is PRIME, for fuck’s sake. Weird is bog standard here. Ingrates.
The fire has been stoked. Against his better judgment Rob cracks a smile, taking a handful of popcorn from the package and breaking “bread” with The Muse.
Rob Williams: You are a lifeline when I’m drowning. You know, Cecilworth said he was the last line of defense for this sport when he was preparing for JCH. It kept ringing in my head all week, that line. He was the last line of defense… and he failed. Now the barbarians are inside the walls and we aim to wreck mayhem and topple the kings of PRIME.
The words seem to come directly from the Father, but it’s Rob speaking them.
Rob Williams: You are my war club, my weapon for battle— with you I shatter nations, with you I destroy kingdoms.
Anna Daniels: Attaboy, slugger.
There’s a smirk on her face…and a buzz from her pocket. Baffled, Anna whips out her phone and looks at the message that popped up on the screen.
Anna Daniels: Well, speak of the devil. Or the devil’s friend?
A shake of the head from the Muse as she exhales.
Anna Daniels: Either way, we’re being summoned for certain dumbfuckery. You keep that same energy. And you–
There’s a look beyond Rob. Still sensing it but not quite seeing.
Anna Daniels: See ya later.
She wanders back the way she came, mumbling about how the hell these people keep getting her phone number. As we fade away, some may wonder how Rob so easily stepped away from his friendship and his long time lover so easily. To those he might ask how can they blame him? For all of her quirks, Anna has hit the nail on the head and on all accounts. This train is bound for glory. With the tenacity of The Muse and the malevolent violence rippled just below the surface in The Legend, head are bound to roll. But most of all, the baseline in PRIME is weird.
We cut elsewhere.
Joe Fontaine: Why do you have so many gifts?
Sid Phillips: I don’t know, maybe Max Kael decided that I needed a bumper sticker for that penis bike that said “I’ll power your bomb”.
Joe Fontaine: What does that even mean?
Sid Phillips: I think it’s a sex thing. You know, I learned the other day that a lot of the roster around here is all about the sex things.
Joe Fontaine: I told you not to look at Jabber.
As the sounds of Joe and Sid’s always-odd banter carry on in the background, the scene opens to PRIME’s new ace, shining with grace. FLAMBERGE, the “good buddy and pal” as Cecilworth Farthington called him months ago, stares off into the void within this apparent room backstage. Comfy couches, larger TV screens, and a mini bar make this space less of a locker room and more of a suite for the Glueminati.
We’ll call it the “Glabana.”
No?
We’ll workshop it.
Joe Fontaine: Look at this fucking thing, by the way.
Sid Phillips: What, the oil painting of me as a gladiator about to powerbomb a lion? That’s weird. While I’m perfectly capable of powerbombing everything that exists and doesn’t exist and whatever’s in-between, powerbombing a lion is pretty crazy.
If only he’d remember his ancestors.
Joe Fontaine: I don’t even think you have that many abs.
Sid Phillips: Well, turns out he also sent a big ‘ol shirt with dozens of abs drawn on it, so that we could have a Biblically accurate version of me.
Joe Fontaine: Is that why it has extra arms? What are those for?
Sid Phillips: For more powerbombs, obviously.
One elbow against the bar, with a half drank bubbly rosé within reach, FLAMBERGE continues to stare, though not out of the exhaustion he’d experienced while PRIME closed out Season 2 of the ReVival era. No, this time it’s something more…focused.
Sid Phillips: Did you get any gifts?
Joe Fontaine: No.
On the further side of the room, Hayes Hanlon, laying flat on his back along one of the cushy couches. One hand holding a phone hovering above his eyes, the other hanging limp toward the floor.
Joe Fontaine: And I mean, that’s weird. I was there with you when we talked to Max, and you’d think I’d have left enough of an impression that he’d send me any gifts. In fact, none of us have any cool gifts from shady Maximilian Wilhelm Kael sources, and I for one am immensely jealous of this!
He shakes his fist in the air. He winces after he does because his face is still in so much pain from getting punched in the face by Paxton Ray like six segments ago.
Joe Fontaine: Aren’t you jealous of all these gifts, best friend FLAMB?
At this point, The Lizard King snaps out of it.
FLAMBERGE: Hmm, what? I wasn’t listening.
Joe Fontaine: The gifts! That Sid got! Like this weird bumper sticker and this ab painting and this sweet oil shirt!
Sid Phillips: Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?
FLAMBERGE: A sweet oil shirt is…kinda dope. So maybe a little jealous. And sorry, I was…thinking about something else.
Joe turns his attention to another person in the room
Joe Fontaine: Hey, Hay(es) mustache master man sir, aren’t you a little weirded out by Sid getting gifts like this eyepatch with a picture of a sinking ship crudely drawn on it?
FLAMBERGE: I wouldn’t bother. He hasn’t left that couch since we got here, and he’s said like, two words.
Hayes Hanlon: (mumbling) And it’s exactly where I’ll stay.
FLAMBERGE: Eight.
The sound of the entry opening steals attention away from the melancholic Event Horizon. Panning to the entrance reveals PRIME’s reigning and defending 5 Star Champion, Cecilworth Farthington, with the second SHINIEST of all belts sitting comfortably around his waist.
Cecilworth Farthington: I’m getting ready, are you all coming?
Joe Fontaine: Aw, yeah, we’re coming!
Sid smolders. And also nods.
FLAMBERGE: Um…no.
Farthington raises an eyebrow, as do Joe and Sid. FLAMBO, redirecting his dark eyes, takes a step forward with a small grin, patting Farthy on the shoulder.
FLAMBERGE: (Thumbing toward Hanlon) And I wouldn’t count on him. But nah, the spotlight is all yours for this one. Besides…
The Neck Collector glances quickly to the spot on the wall where he’d been previously staring.
FLAMBERGE: …I think I need to get ready for something else.
At that, FLAMBERGE gives Cecilworth one more clap on the shoulder and walks by, exiting into the hallway. The 5 Star Champion shares a confused glance with Joe and Sid while the camera pans to that spot on the wall. That spot holds a television monitor, airing an ACE Network commercial for PRIME…
…featuring Jonathan-Christopher Hall.
We then cut to the ring.
Vince Howard: This match is set for one fall and has a sixty minute time limit…and it is for the PRIME! 5 STAR! CHAAAAAAAAAMPIONSHIP!
The lights cut out. We hear rain falling all around. The arena flashes with simulated lightning, perfectly in tune with the thunder. A distorted and edgy guitar line joins the cacophony before the rain subtly fades away to melodic wailing.
Vocals:I’m the man in the box. Buried in my shit.
One last bolt of lightning ends with the house lights coming back up in full. Rob Williams is standing on the entrance ramp. Rob has carved various bible verses into his arms and has “Let Love In” spray painted on his chest in red. It appears he’s looking at the crowd, but really he’s conversing with the Father. There is a brief back and forth before Rob begins making his way towards the ring.
Vocals: Won’t you come and save me? Save me.
Vince Howard: Introducing…THE CHAAAAAALLENGER! Making his way to the ring now. Accompanied by… the Father. From Decatur, Georgia, ROOOOOOOOOOOB! WILLIAMS!
Vocals: Free my eyeeeeees! Can you see them shut?
Rob climbs up on the ring apron and sits on the middle rope, lifting the top rope. He holds out his hand to allow the Father to climb in before him.
Vocals: JEEEEEEEEEEE-EEEEESUS CHRIST!
Once Rob is satisfied the Father has settled in he climbs in himself. Rob holds his hands up in a Nixon-esque pose, both arms outstretched and peace signs held up.
Vocals: Deny your maker.
A deranged smile crosses Rob’s face as his eyes meet with the Father’s in the corner. Rob calls for a microphone as the music cuts. He kneels down a few feet from the corner, head bowed in appeal.
Rob Williams: You are my war club, my weapon for battle— with you I shatter nations, with you I destroy kingdoms. Tonight we shatter the Nation of Glue.
If you are going to shatter the Nation of Glue, you better be ready to deal with the consequences.
Mr. Finish Line
At the head of the Wells Fargo Center entrance ramp stands an incredibly determined looking Cecilworth Farthington. No black hoodie, just a man, his 5 Star Championship around his waist, and teeny tiny little tights.
Vulfpeck’s “Mr. Finish Line” beckons Farthington towards the ring.
Richard Parker: The greatest champion in all of sports. The true Lord of the Ring. The TRUE winner of the Almasy.
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington stands as one of the true greats in all of professional wrestling. In darker times over the last decade in professional wrestling, it is he who stood as the emblem of greatness in professional wrestling. In the face of practically all of his contemporaries–
Richard Parker: He stood as the PRIME example–
Nick Stuart: Since last summer, Cecilworth Farthington has stood as PRIME’s 5 Star Champion, defeating Coral Avalon at Tropical Turmoil to do so. His only defense has been against Nate Colton, but he was successful there. In the time subsequent…a run to the 2023 Almasy Invitational Finals. Even with a bounty for this very 5 Star Championship on his head, no one, not former champions, not Hall of Famers…no one…managed to claim it from him.
As Farthington begins to walk down to the ring, the lights in the Wells Fargo Center slowly dim around him, until a singular spotlight follows his journey to the ring. A journey where he has looked dead ahead the entire time, not very much paying attention to the crowd. They are mere background noise to Farthington as he steps towards the ring.
Richard Parker: I have a feeling that Farthington is going to make Rob Williams regret this opportunity.
Nick Stuart: Many might think that. But keep in mind…Rob Williams is undefeated. And also keep in mind…the last time we held the Almasy…the loser of the final walked into a Championship match–
Richard Parker: Don’t. You. Dare.
Nick Stuart: And they walked out of that match without gold.
Cecilworth hops into the ring and his spotlight follows, he takes a moment to adjust himself before he positions himself in the dead centre of the ring. He allows the Five Star Championship to glimmer in the bright lights for a few moments before ripping it off his waist and raising it high above his head.
Vince Howard: His opponent, hailing from Buckinghamshire, England, weighing in tonight at one hundred and ninety five pounds… he is the self-proclaimed Finish Line of Professional Wrestling, he is the REEEEEEEEIGNING! DEFENDING! 5 Star Champion! He is… CECILWORTH…. FARTHINGTONNNNNNN.
The principles are here. In opposite corners, they are given their instruction. Neither man looks from the other. The 5 Star Championship is raised.
The ship…is ready to set sail.
DING DING
Nick Stuart: And here we–
Richard Parker: WOAH!
Nick Stuart: Farthington…Farthington…FARTHINGTON! OUT THE GATES in this match, this 5 Star Championship Match, and Farthington JUST OPEN HAND SLAPPED Rob Williams across the face!
Richard Parker: Mr. Finish Line has murder on his mind, despite that being a crime!
From the very onset, Lord Cecilworth Farthington had looked to establish dominance. Each blow hits with more than a sting; they cut into the skin, into the nerves, leaving behind what can only be rationalized as kisses of pure salt. Such blows cull the weak from the strong, making their knees buckle and their wills wilt.
Rob Williams, Legend. It didn’t matter what he was known as, what he called himself. Who he prayed to. He was meat. Unfortunate. Wrong place and wrong time.
Nick Stuart: Open hands, OPEN HANDS, and with force, TREMENDOUS FORCE, and we STILL some of the damage from when he faced off with Arthur–OH! Kick to the–
Richard Parker: Williams grabbed the leg buried into his kidney!
Nick Stuart: HEADBUTT! Rob Williams with a headbutt RIGHT in the face of Cecilworth Farthington! And that blow…oh my! You could HEAR the thud throughout the Wells Fargo Center…and Farthington is down!
Richard Parker: Not just down, but wounded!
Williams stands on the periphery, his hair cast down across his face, obfuscating his eyes. Farthington, on the other hand, is planted firmly on the canvas, looking up, a looking a shock, and then, disgust. The headbutt cut into his lip. He flecks away the sting of blood with his gloved hand, shooting back to his feet.
The moment he is standing, Williams buries his boot into Cecilworth’s body, doubling him over with a crunch. A drag of the hair. The referee tries to intervene but the quickness of the jerk is surprising.
Nick Stuart: OLD TIME ROCK–
Richard Parker: WAAAAAAAAAAAAIT–
Nick Stuart: KNEE FROM FARTHINGTON!
Richard Parker: OH! OH! THAT WAS…OH MY HOYT!
Nick Stuart: That looked low, that looked low, and Farthington is out of the chancery, and he OOOOF! European uppercut! And ANOTHER! ANOTHER! Williams backing off–
Richard Parker: Backpedaling–
Nick Stuart: RUNNING KNEE to the face of Rob Williams! And he’s on his knees MALICE IN WONDERLAND! JEEEESUS! Farthington’s face is shaking despite that emotionless expression! And he’s SNAPPING Williams arm and elbow into the canvas–
Richard Parker: And now it begins. The systematic destruction of the arm–
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth grabbing onto the arm and trying to snap it again and Williams jerks it away at the last moment! OH soccer kick to the elbow! A wind up and Farthington looking to stomp on the arm with everything he has–
Richard Parker: Nobody there!
Like stalking prey, Farthington maintains, though the sharp pain shooting through his knees from an intense MMA stomp intended to break the arm of Rob Williams doesn’t quite register until a second later. And when it does, the shot to his lower abdomen from The Legend is there to accompany it.
As is the surprise school boy roll up.
ONE
TWO
KICKOUT!
Richard Parker: Oh no you did not. YOU DID NOT!
Flashback made manifest. And Farthington scoots away after the kickout, pale white, eyes wide, bottom lip quivering. Sick sloshing throughout the stomach. The grip was tight, so tight. The Superdome. The Almasy Finals. A supreme love torn asunder. And then, he growls. Shooting to his feet, and charging forward to throw the mother of all fucking penalty kicks and break the face of Rob Williams…
Nick Stuart: ELBOW TO THE FACE!
Richard Parker: WAIT!
A massive belting forearm strike lashes across the back of Farthington’s neck, and before he knows it, Williams has him in a standing headscissor. A grip of the waist of Farthington’s trunks.
Nick Stuart: STUMP PULLER PILEDRIVER!
Richard Parker: OOOOH! OH NO! OH NO NO NO! CECILWORTH! CECILWORTH!!!
The way Farthington’s body collapses on the impact, the way his limbs splay out, is unnatural. And for a moment, he lays on the canvas, splayed out, unmoving. And Williams? He shakes his arm, feeling the bite from Farthington’s earlier volley. Turning his wrist, he balls his fist, looking over his shoulder, words spoken as though locked in conversation with someone right beside him.
Nobody can hear what is said.
Farthington’s ears ring with tinnitus.
It’s the least of his concerns right now.
Richard Parker: CECILWORTH! MOVE! MOOOOVE!
The Philadelphia crowd bays for blood. Not because of some preconceived instinct; nobody would’ve put Rob Williams as a favorite to win the 5 Star Championship. Hell, he is still a neophyte in the world of PRIME. Undefeated with solid, strong wins. But even in the grain thresher, there are perceived levels to this. Cecilworth Farthington was undefeated until one of the most improbable outcomes in the history of PRIME took place in the Finals of the 2023 Almasy Invitational. His list of victories may as well be a wing in the professional wrestling Hall of Fame. And Rob Williams just went through a Nightmare.
He shouldn’t be here.
He should be feeling good just standing up from those slaps.
Nice little fighter. You did yourself well. Now die.
Instead, Philadelphia is growing wild because of the limp movements of the 5 Star Champion. One of the true greats in the history of the sport. A nigh impossible to solve puzzle. And his limbs shake. And he feels the coldest of sweats. And he tries to pick himself up.
Rob Williams throws his arms out as if cued. The unseen conductor.
Cecilworth practically folds as Williams jerks his body into another standing headscissor.
Nick Stuart: THIS COULD BE IT! FARTHINGTON IS IN BIG TROUBLE–
Richard Parker: HE’S HURT NICK! HE’S HURT! WE NEED TO STOP THE–OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! HOYT! OOOOH MY HOYT!
Why is Richard going nuts? Because, suddenly, Farthington comes to life, picking at the ankle of Rob Williams, and taking him off his feet. A running start. Penalty kick.
Williams’ hair flies back. Some can say he is hit so hard, it knocks the curls out of his greasy locks. Stomp to the arm. More stomps. A quick rip of the arm from the canvas, and, with precision, Farthington wraps it between his knees, forcefully driving it into the canvas.
The 5 Star Champion seethes as Williams yelps in agony, spit flying from the crazed Lord’s maw as he torques with wanton malice.
Richard Parker: IT WAS A RUSE! FIVE DIMENSIONAL CHESS! ALWAYS AHEAD!
Nick Stuart: And Farthington has Rob Williams right where he wants him, with that arm trapped, ripping at it, torquing on it, bending it unnatural ways–
Richard Parker: The full experience before he feels the snap–
Nick Stuart: And Williams…Williams…Williams…he’s trying to reach towards Farthington…trying to get out of this…
ENOUGH! Rob Williams has had enough fun. The Supreme Lord of the Ring, Mr. Finish Line, the once invisible and now very forward facing hand of Glue, it is time to end this little foray into the deep. Time to collect victory and marrow.
Richard Parker: YOU SEE THIS?! HE’S GOING TO TAKE THAT ARM! IT’S CROSS ARMBREAKER–
Nick Stuart: WILLIAMS–
Richard Parker: HE GOUGED HIM IN THE EYES–
Nick Stuart: WILLIAMS ON SURVIVAL INSTINCT, WRENCHING THE ARM BACK–
Richard Parker: FARTHINGTON IS WAILING IN PAIN! GRABBING AT HIS EYES! HE CAN’T SEE!
Nick Stuart: Williams…Williams…bracing himself up against the ropes, he’s sneering, he’s measuring Farthington–
Richard Parker: THAT SHOULD BE A DISQUALIFICATION DAMMIT!
Nick Stuart: Farthington, he’s somehow…how is he getting up without the ropes–
Richard Parker: Because the ring is his home, Nick! His domain! He’s the best damn wrestler on the planet! There’s reason for that! Good damn reason!
Farthington can hear the encroaching footsteps. Hooves of stampeding buffalo. Williams with a full head of steam. Instinct takes over. Cecilworth drops flat to his stomach, eyes blurry as he rises back up.
For whatever reason, maybe because of the focus on his compromised vision, he doesn’t hear the return.
He sure feels the belting lariat that smashes against the back of his neck and takes away all feeling in his fingers and toes, that leaves only fire in his limbs. Another jerk up. Williams throws a heavy headbutt into the face of Farthington, pushing him into the near corner. A heavy hand. Like wartime artillery. Only powerful blows. Another massive kick to the gut.
Front facelock.
Bob Seger takes us away.
East of Omaha.
Wrong song.
Another massive knee into the body of Williams.
Nick Stuart: Farthington free–
Richard Parker: OOOOOOOOH!
Nick Stuart: ELBOW TO WILLIAMS FACE AND IT’S FOLLOWED WITH ANOTHER AND A ROLLING ELBOW!
Richard Parker: Such a volley!
Farthington throws his entire body into Williams, then spits a bit of blood from his fattening lip. A throwback of his hair. He grabs hold of Williams arm, wrapping it between the top and middle ropes, then throwing a kick towards the limb. Upon connecting, Williams nearly doubles over, but before he does, Farthington grabs hold of him with a front chancery, grabbing the leg, and lifting him up.
Nick Stuart: FISHERMAN BUSTER!
Richard Parker: THAT’S IT, ROB! THANKS FOR PLAYING!
Something feels off in the 5 Star Champion. The air isn’t as oxygen rich. His body feels heavier than it has any right to. He feels so tired. All this time spent in the aftermath of the Almasy, he should be healthy. Yet the exhaustion he felt after the shock at Colossus…it doesn’t wain. He should grab the neck and choke the life out of his challenger. He should splay and break his arm.
Instead, he goes for the cover.
ONE
TWO
THR–NO!
And Williams feels so powerful on the kickout. Farthington grits his teeth, his eyes wild. The will commands him forward. His body isn’t responding. Was it the piledriver? Was it a broken heart? Is it a certain handsome lizard? Pay it no mind. Retain. Leave the cesspit that is Philadelphia to the motherless shits who pound their chest over Rocky Balboa. This is reality. Apollo Creed slaughters The Italian Stallion. There are no sequels.
He stands, reaching for the arm of Rob Williams.
A grip by the wrist.
It is through faith where we may find salvation. Purpose. Disparate noises cut asunder through one shining voice. Rob Williams slaps the grip away with his one truly good arm. The Father mends the gelatinous mess he feels inside his flesh prison. He was scared.
But why?
His massive hands wrap around Cecilworth Farthington’s neck. Set up and set up a telegraph.
Not this time.
For this time, we burn the ships.
Nick Stuart: OLD TIME ROCK AND ROLL!
Richard Parker: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!
Nick Stuart: COVER!
ONE!
Richard Parker: KICK OUT!
TWO!
Richard Parker: CEEEEEECILWORTH!!!!!!!!!
THREE!
DING DING DING
Richard Parker: THIS CAN’T BE!!
Nick Stuart: ROB WILLIAMS! ROB WILLIAMS! ROB WILLIAMS IS THE 5 STAR CHAMPION!
The crowd is in absolute meltdown.
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
Nick Stuart: FOLKS! THIS IS…
Richard Parker: I CAN’T–
Nick Stuart: The single longest reigning champion in PRIME…has fallen. And nobody…I don’t most would have…just…wow…
Richard Parker: FARTHINGTON! MY SWEET CECILWORTH! OOOOH NOOOO!
Farthington lies on the canvas, having flopped to his stomach after the pinfall and Williams separating himself from him. His eyes are wide open. If looks could kill, genocide would be committed strickly across this latitudinal line.
Vince Howard: YOOOOUR WINNER! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! 5 STAR CHAAAAAAAAMPION! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOB! WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLIAMS!
Rob is on his knees, head hung back, his gray locks hanging behind him. Sweaty, tired, beat up – but victorious. The 5 Star Championship is held out before him, and as he looks at it, he presses his head against it, pushing himself to a stand with his good hand. He collects it, brandishing it forward. A beacon. A light. A sword.
It has been a long time since he’s held gold.
The remainder of the Complete Abandon group join Rob, hoisting him up and holding him while they walk to the back together to celebrate.
All while Farthington, for the second time in as many matches, is left to watch as his true love twists its savage knife.
We cut to commercial.
We fade from black to…black and white.
A man sits at his desk. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a clip-on tie, and his male pattern baldness is coming in very nicely. He stares down at his off-white ceramic coffee mug and sighs.
“Ever feel like your morning pick-me-up isn’t picking you up?”
The man nods sadly, even though it was a rhetorical question.
“Looks like you could use…a boost!”
A big flashy logo pops onto the screen, and suddenly the world is full of color! Oh boy!
“Flav-O-Boost! The latest and greatest coffee flavoring in the world! It’s non-dairy, low-fat, low-sugar, and high-taste! Three great flavor options–vanilla, hazelnut, and chocolate caramel!”
The man, now smiling, tears open a small blue cup and dumps it in his coffee. He takes a big drink–probably too big, since coffee begins to spill down his shirt. When he sets the mug down again, he’s smiling even wider than before.
“Flav-O-Boost has a special ingredient that unlocks the coffee’s true potential–and yours! You’ll be more productive!”
The man turns to his computer and types away at blazing speed.
“More successful!”
Two people, one male and one female–obviously his superiors, because their ties aren’t clip-on–approach his desk and hand him a large framed document that says “A PROMOTION.”
“More attractive!”
The man now has a full head of hair, and the stains on his shirt are gone. In fact, it’s an entirely new shirt, with a real tie. He smiles at his bosses; they both faint.
“Flav-O-Boost is available now at participating locations! If your location doesn’t have it, demand it! Just walk right in and tell them…”
This Guy: I need my Flav-O-Boost!
Flav-O-Boost is proud to sponsor…
PHILADELPHIA STREET FIGHT
Philadelphia, PA
April 27, 2024
We cut backstage to the Herald, who has moved from his red Soviet tunic to a black and brown tunic which is clearly inspired by an old Noir detective. He is even wearing Xam Leak’s fedora, complete with PRESS card tucked into the hat’s band.
The brave but kind of stupid young Sub-Marqus Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington is making his way through the long back halls of the Wells Fargo Arena when he finally arrives at his destination.
A large wooden door stands before him.
The Herald: At last! The Gluite! Secret hide out of the Gluemanati and lair of my cousin, Cecilworth Farthington!
He quickly retrieves a flute from his pocket. Slipping the reed between his lips the Herald belts out a curious, strange little tune. Once finished he quickly raps his knuckles across the hard surface of the door. Should he have played the fabled “Summoning of a Farthington ” correctly, his cousin should answer the door, or perhaps one of his proxies?
The Herald bravely waited.
There was no answer.
He toots on his little flute once again before rolling back on his heels eager to see his cousin.
Still no answer.
Becoming flustered, the Herald tucks the flute back into his tunic before retrieving his phone from his pocket. He quickly scrolls through something before settling on what he is looking for. A cheerful little tune begins to play out of the phone which Bentley sets on the ground next to the door.
The Herald: .. fine. You get the WHOLE song and dance then.
Yanking away his dark, reporter outer costume, the Herald appears once again resplendent in his normal baby blue tunic, tassels and bells. A microphone headset appears on his head as he strikes a sudden, dramatic pose.
You’ll just have to imagine it, this is a Herald segment not a roleplay.
♪♫♩ You can change, Cecilworth, oh yes, yes you! When you’re ready to start, there’s room in your heart for love! Love, love, love! ♪♫♩
The Sub-Marquis and cousin to Cecilworth Farthington begins to dance a little jig as he sings. People familiar with the deleted songs of the Muppet Christmas Carol would know that the Herald appears to be riffing on Room in your Heart.
Dreadful.
♪♫♩ All of us grow, Cecil and you can, too! Forgiving me’s a start, there’s room in your heart for love! ♪♫♩
While the music still plays over his phone an entire marching band suddenly thunders through the background where the Herald is dancing awkwardly in place. Each of them is wearing the same baby blue Herald tunic as Bentley. It’s really becoming quite a production.
♪♫♩ If you can forgive me freely, no hate you’ll find. Just an interview, my cousin for peace of mind! If you’re ready to walk into WANT now then open up your heart. We’ll talk about the War Games book, it’s the perfect place to start! ♪♫♩
The Herald spins around as a bunch of different Heralds wearing different colors, from red to purple to green step forward.
The Herald: Take it away extras!
♪♫♩ La la la lala la la laaaa lala la la! ♪♫♩
The Herald: That was awful! Okay, big finish!
Bentley scurries back to the front of the big production! The band continues to play as the extra Heralds begin flipping and doing cartwheels. Two of them have produced sparklers and are attempting to light them. Kind of looks like a shit show here, not going to lie. The Herald takes a deep breath before belting the final lyrics at the closed door.
♪♫♩ You’re missing the fun, Cecilworth, it’s sad but true! Walk away from this gloom, there’s room in your heart for love! Looove love love! There’s room in your heart for LOOOOOVE! ♪♫♩
The chorus of Heralds joins Bentley in the final LOVE. Now lit sparklers are joined by party poppers which send tiny explosions of paper into the air! The entire production poses as they all stare pensively at the door.
Nobody opens it.
Suddenly one of the sparklers sends an errand spark down onto the paper littering the ground thanks to the poppers. The Herald notices and lets out a shrill shriek. He is joined by the rest of those that joined him in his absurd musical number. The entire hall is filled with fire and the chaos of about two dozen people trying to scramble away from it.
After about five seconds the hall is empty save for the small pile of burning paper on the ground.
Finally the door opens as a janitor steps out with a pair of headphones on pushing a mop bucket. The interior, past the door, appears to be a Janitor closet. He turns to see the fire on the floor and immediately dumps his mop bucket over the small flames squelching them out with a hiss.
Janitor: …what the hell happened here…
Art, sir. Art has happened here.
We cut elsewhere.
We’re backstage in a hallway. Whether it is the Hall-way (the Jonathan-Christopher or Vickie Hall-way) is unclear at this time.
What is clear, however, is that a lizard man is on the prowl.
FLAMBERGE. His choice of shirtless blazer today is pristine white with teal trim, and he carries the PRIME Universal Championship over his shoulder, glistening just about as much as the Flynn Cup from the beginning of the night.
The Frenchman is almost slithering, in fact – his eyes peering into the distance as he searches for someone or something, apparently to no avail.
He spies a storage crate with pink hearts on it, and the “aha” lightbulb sparks over his head. He springs forward with a sudden dash!
FLAMBERGE: “JONATHAN!”
…only, there is no Jonathan Christopher-Hall, or anyone else.
Now, the Neck Collector is frustrated to heck and back. He has something menacing to say to the winner of the Almasy, damnit, and he should be right here – his match is coming up very soon, right? Yeah, it definitely is, FLAMBO saw the commercial from the Guite Glabana Glueminati Meeting Room They’re Still Workshopping.
So where is he??
A figure appears behind FLAMBERGE, moving slowly to not give away his position. He leans in, moving close to the champion’s ear while doing his damndest to not betray his presence. He speaks a single word, low and breathy, with a little added bass for emphasis.
“Hey.”
The Frenchman’s eyes go WIDE and his spine straightens as his whole body goes stiff. Did Sid end up following him here after all?
He turns around.
It’s not Sid, and FLAMBO isn’t pretending to hide his disappointment. Jared Sykes stands a few feet away from the Universal Champion. He’s standing with his hands stuffed into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and a big ‘ol stupid grin on his face.
Jared Sykes: Don’t worry, no chairs.
He slides his hands out and wiggles his fingers to accentuate his statement, then puts ’em right back where they were a moment ago.
Jared Sykes: That said, I think I get why y’all are such big fans of this whole “catch people by surprise” thing. So how long until one of your buds appears out of the shadows to swing a heavy thing at my head this week? Three minutes? Five? Hit me with a number here, my guy, I’m not very good at this guesstimating stuff, plus it would be nice to get the wrestle-crimes over with.
The Frenchman scoffs.
FLAMBERGE: Sykes. feh. Convenient, you leave out the part where I ended up saving the bacon, as they say, or perhaps I should have let the Cecilworth continue? No matter…if I had my way, your neck would have already been on my mantle after our match at Ultraviolence, but noooooon, the Mustache made the request for the stop, and I obliged. You are on the borrowed time, Mssr. Jarry Man.
Does the name “Mister Jarry Man” immediately trigger an alternate version of Harry Belafonte’s “Day-O” in the head of The Heart of PRIME? Yes. Will he drive his partner later by humming what are no doubt a collection of batshit lyrics? Also yes. Was it weird to write “the head of the heart” in that first sentence there? You betcha. Is any of this relevant to what’s happening right now? No, not at all.
Jared Sykes: Maybe. You’re probably not the only one who thinks so, and I’d be stupid to think that what happens in two weeks might not go in my favor. I meant it when I said that what you’ve done here is impressive. And you want to add my neck to the collection. Good. That’s good. Great, even.
A smile creeps across his face, as if being choked unconscious is the best idea ever. Don’t read too much into this, it’s not how he likes to get down.
As far as you know.
Jared Sykes: You’re not the only one around here setting records. It doesn’t get talked about very often, so I wouldn’t blame you for not knowing, but just about every tag title record in this company – the ones that matter, anyway – belong to us now. To Justine and I. And management had to shut down that division because once we got our hands on gold, weren’t nobody here that could take it away from us.
The smile vanishes.
Jared Sykes: But if you get the chance to collect my neck, then don’t stop there. Take the whole fuckin’ head. You’ll honestly be doing the rest of the roster a favor. Otherwise…
He shrugs, slowly and deliberately.
Jared Sykes: Ask Sid and “Sid’s friend” about that.
FLAMBO’s eyes elevator up and down the Heart of PRIME with a sneer. Then, face twisting and wrinkling like he just took a bad bite of MEAT? (are there other kinds?), he shakes his head quickly.
FLAMBERGE: Fine, whatever, listen pink-hair – I’m not even looking for you, bon? I’m looking for the man who I’m going to face at the Culture Shock after your blueberry-flavored neck has been placed in a protective sleeve and graded, so if you’ll-”
He’s interrupted.
It’s a strange way to be interrupted, at least for these two.
As out of nowhere, a woman’s head slowly rises from between these two men. Of course, the head, neck and shoulders of this specific woman can only rise so far, because she is only so tall. The top of her head meets the tips of their shoulders.
The crowd boos. It’s Vickie Hall.
Hall stares a dagger into FLAMBERGE and then, as she spins around on what has to be her tippy toes, she finds Jared Sykes on the other side of her.
Daggers do not do this kind of look justice. Given the history between Sykes and Vickie, there’s a world of pain and spite coursing through her veins.
As the Universal Champion and upcoming challenger attempt to figure out how Vickie got between them without noticing and what, exactly, she was even doing down there before the big reveal… Vickie opens her big giant yap.
Vickie Hall: Something about bacon? Who was talking about bacon? I think I’ve got the munchies!
She ponders by lifting her left index finger against her chin and knocking against it once, before changing direction.
Vickie Hall: The two of you narcissists better ship up or Jonathan-Christopher and I are gonna shape you out!
There’s no way that’s a saying but Vickie speaks with such conviction, she doesn’t think she messed it up.
Eyes locked on Sykes, her bushy eyebrows narrow.
Vickie Hall: I hate you. With every fiber of my being, the trauma you’ve caused me. I get triggered absolutely everywhere!
She spins towards FLAMBERGE.
Vickie Hall: And you. You set Jonathan-Christopher back light years. February 24th, 2023, almost a year ago you cheated and beat us or maybe it would’ve been Jonathan-Christopher and I with that title around your shoulder.
Vickie shakes her head in disgust.
Vickie Hall: Well lucky for both of you, my Amazing Life Partner and I have bigger business on our hands, like why I didn’t win the Manager of the Year Award and how the truth is being covered up, you see.
She scowls once again.
Vickie Hall: So you two fight it out TO THE DEATH and then after we figure out this manager shit, we’ll be waiting.
It sounds like she might be done but no, never, don’t be silly.
Vickie Hall: I am always lurking, FLAM. Go searching for Jonathan-Christopher, well, huh, you end up finding little ol’ me.
She separates herself from being directly in-between the two of them by taking a bow, as if to formally announce herself further.
Jared looks towards Vickie, and then over to FLAMBERGE.
Jared Sykes: Good lord. The Lion, The Witch, and the Audacity of This Bitch.
FLAMBERGE nods in agreement and, surprisingly, chuckles?
FLAMBERGE: I get the second meaning – because with the Vickie, where is the wardrobe? Listen ma petite oiseau ennuyeux, just make sure you tell the Jonathan that all of the necks of the Love Convoy say “hello”, and one of them wants you to know he is homeless now.
Vickie’s eyes bug out of her head.
Vickie Hall: (Heavily butchered) Peytit oisour ennuyes? If you want to keep speaking Russian to me, join the PRETTY PINK© Army.
She hangs her head in disgust.
Vickie Hall: The two of you should do more appealing to me. I’m going to be the one on commentary for your big match! If you’d like me to say something nice, I most certainly can. If you’d like me to tell the truth… well, I can do that, too.
FLAMBERGE and Sykes narrow their eyes. Somehow, Vickie has managed to turn these two rivals who will soon compete for the biggest prize in professional wrestling into a united front against her.
Jared Sykes: What about not talking? Is that on the table?
FLAMBERGE: Or retiring?
Vickie acts as if she didn’t even hear the last comments.
Vickie Hall: Because despite wHaT tHe rEcOrD sHoWs, I am the Manager of the Year. I am the one you want to attach your horse to. As you can see, I’ve accepted others such as Ivon and Arthur Peasant and Maxibillion under my wing.
She makes one quick glance at both of them.
Vickie Hall: And I always have room for another.
Vickie bursts away, arms flailing in the air.
Vickie Hall: Think about it, gentlemen! My arms are open, I am awfully nurturing! Good luck in your title match, I WILL BE WAITING FOR THE WINNER.
As she saunters off in the direction of Argyle Position, FLAMBO can’t help but watch with a look of annoyance mixed with disgust.
FLAMBERGE: A shame she is not in the match. Her neck’s got to go.
Jared’s gaze follows Vickie until she is no longer visible, and even then he continues to stare in that direction.
Jared Sykes: Buddy, you have no idea.
With that, he begins moving in the opposite direction, his eyes now flitting about the backstage area. Too many memories of chocolate and nails replay in his mind. A moment later, and he’s gone. The camera lingers on the Universal Champion, his eyes slowly drifting between the two threats who have just departed in opposite directions. The emotion leaves his face, and it’s back to cold stoicism.
We transition elsewhere.
Backstage.
Red and Pink.
Soviet flag on one side of the wall.
A pink banner hanging on the other side of the wall.
Their stoic representatives stand in front of the banners.
Ivan Stanislav.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall.
School is in session.
Ivan Stanislav: All right, Jonathan-Christopher. You wish to be top guy in PRIME after winning Almasy Tournament? Then this is what you have to do.
A tentative Jonathan-Christopher binds his hands tightly together, to the point his fingers start turning purple.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Ye- yes sir.
He can barely squeak it out.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Vickie said I should learn from you and I’d do anything for her.
Ivan no-plays JCH’s comments on Vickie. Instead, he waves his huge hand towards the camera, looking at it, and addresses the operator of the camera: Speedy Riggs.
Ivan Stanislav: We are just practicing Speedy. You do not turn on camera until I tell you to. Understood?
The camera bobs up and down. But clearly, the camera is on, and unbeknownst to everyone, it’s rolling.
Stanislav looks down at JCH and places his hands on his hips.
Ivan Stanislav: I do not care what “modern” wrestlers want to do before their match. There is no gentlemanly contest here. There is no “may best man win” crap. I was PCW World Champion. I was OSW World Champion. I should still be PRIME Universal Champion. Uncle Ivan knows what needs to be said, Jonathan-Christopher. So you listen to me.
Ivan points at the camera.
Ivan Stanislav: You look at that camera and you imagine you are talking directly to those who eGG buffoons. You tell them what you are going to do to them, and you snarl and growl a lot. Understood? I give you example.
Jonathan-Christopher nods… with a sense of confusion as his eyes wander all over the room.
Stanislav suddenly glares at the camera and places a huge paw of a hand on JCH’s back.
Ivan Stanislav: Well… well… well… Coral Avalon and Tony Gamble. Here we are again. Another ReVival. Another burial for both of you! You know, General Secretary Nikita Khrushchev, Lenin love him, once said ‘We will bury you’ and that is EXACTLY what Ivan and Jonathan-Christopher are going to do to the both of you!!! Tell them, Jonathan-Christopher!!!
Ivan slaps the back of JCH… perhaps a little too hard. Jonathan-Christopher fumbles forward, almost falling into the camera lens.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Coral, Tony, we haven’t met yet but we’re going to. Neither of you could make it to the finals on your side of the Almasy bracket.
Jonathan-Christopher shakes his head with disgust.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: So I guess we have to meet here.
Honestly, JCH wasn’t doing bad. He started off tentative but clear confidence grew in his voice with each passing word. It sounds like he was just beginning the start of his roll when-
Stanislav shakes his head and slaps the back of his palm into his other open palm.
Ivan Stanislav: Nyet, nyet, nyet! That is not how you do it. No introspection! No considerations. No ‘I guess this and I guess that.’ You need to show masculinity, Jonathan-Christopher. Focus! Bloodthirst! You need to show more aggression! Observe!
Stanislav looks back at the camera.
Ivan Stanislav: Looking at you, Coral Avalon, I think about KAB-1500L-Pr Soviet-era guided missile. A bunker buster.
He lifts a huge fist into the air and shakes it.
Ivan Stanislav: If your forehead is bunker, then consider this fist of mine to be missile. Because I am going to break your bunker-sized cranium in half! DYAAHAAHAA!! And all the fans of PRIME who are too stupid to know better will weep tears of blood over your broken, battered remains!
Stanislav snaps right out of his promo and is, once again, more conversational as he looks over at JCH.
Ivan Stanislav: You see? Fear, Jonathan-Christopher. Fear will keep lesser talent in line!
You can see Jonathan-Christopher start mouthing the word “fear” to himself over and over again, psyching himself up.
Until…
He looks over at Ivan.
He sticks out his chest.
And clearly, above all else, he thinks of Vickie.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Coral, Tony. You know what I did to Cecilworth? I left him crying in the middle of the ring, heartbroken his story came to an end while Vickie and I’s flourished! I left the Undefeated Man a mess, on the biggest stage possible. You two are peasants. We are Marshal’s of the Russian Federation! I am going to break your bones, break your faces, break your hearts!
Jonathan-Christopher punches his right hand into his left palm.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: CRUSH you until there is NOTHING LEFT!
Ivan looks over at JCH. He blinks. He’s… stunned. If anything, indeed, the lessons of Ivan Stanislav are gospel.
Ivan Stanislav: That… was good. Russian Federation and Marshal’s? That is very good. All right then. You do that when camera is rolling, Jonathan-Christopher. No screw ups! Remember, fear! Think about the words you say and how they will make Vickie Hall positively quiver with delight!!
The camera bobs.
Ivan Stanislav: Are you ready to make Vickie Hall quiver, Jonathan-Christopher?
Jonathan-Christopher takes a deep breath.
Ivan nods to the camera.
Ivan Stanislav: Okay Speedy, turn on camera.
Speedy Riggs: *Off camera* Of course, Starshy Praporshchik. Okay! Three… two… one…
And with a press of a button… this segment ends before it, technically, starts.
We cut to ringside.
Nick Stuart: We have a tag team showdown coming up next, ladies and gentlemen!
Richard Parker: Tag team?! That takes me back…
Nick Stuart: Tonight, Coral Avalon formally initiates Tony Gamble into the eGG Bandits by way of teaming up tonight to face the unusual and incomprehensible alliance between former Universal Champion Ivan Stanislav and Vickie & Jonathan-Christopher Hall, the so-called PRETTY PINK Army!
Richard Parker: Ugh… I don’t know what we’re about to see, Nick, but I feel like it’s going to leave me with a lingering migraine for the rest of the night.
Nick Stuart: Well, we could be in for a bit of a preview for Culture Shock when these four and so many more will clash in the War Games event! Let’s head to the ring where Vince Howard is at the ready!
Darkness hits the Wells Fargo Center, and the rolling fog that erupts from the curtains could only be seen from dim lights. The opening notes of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” hits, and a small procession of recognizable silhouettes emerge through the fog.
One is a speck of a man, barely perceptible in the rolling fog clouds. He doesn’t have his phonebooks with him, so he might be hard to notice. He’s adorable, though, we’re just saying. The second is a familiar silhouette carrying a battle standard and wearing a leonine cloak. The third is an equally as familiar silhouette of a rotund man in a robe.
The eGG Bandits have arrived, under the banner of its Alias champion.
The Golden Bandit is here.
The Crownless King had arrived.
When the lights came up as the three men emerge from the fog, you could see additional details. The flag that Coral Avalon carries has a picture of Alexei Ruslan with the universal “NO” symbol plastered over his face. Bobby, the Captain himself, had the T-Shades on. You know the ones.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen! The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first… representing the eGG Bandits! Accompanied by the eGGscutioner, Bobby Dean! At a total combined weight of four hundred and one pounds! First, from Las Vegas, Nevada! TONY! “THE GRIN”! GAAAAAAMBLE!!! His tag team partner, residing out of Seattle, Washington! He is the PRIME Alias Champion… THE GOLDEN BANDIT! THE CROWNLESS KING! CORAAAAAALLLLLL AVAAAAAAALOOOOOOONNNNNNN!
With the introductions out of the way, the Bandits moved to the ring.
Nick Stuart: Strange bedfellows tonight. You wouldn’t think that Coral Avalon and Tony Gamble would be in the same zip code together, and yet, here they are about to team up for the first time!
Richard Parker: Man. I used to be a card-carrying member of the Gamble Adoration Syndicate, but now that Tony’s gone and thrown his lot in with Cancer freaking Jiles, so I turned my card in at the office.
Nick Stuart: You can do that?
Richard Parker: Yeah, man. They gave me a five dollar gift card at Steak ‘n Shake in return. Fair deal.
Avalon set his battle standard to the side and climbed up the stairs before entering the ring, while Gamble rolled underneath the bottom ropes. After delivering his hand signal, Avalon began to remove his heavy entrance cloak. For his part, Gamble bounces from foot to foot, impatiently waiting for their opponents to arrive.
Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, weighing in at a combined weight of 620 lbs. They represent The Red Army and The Love Convoy! IVAN STANISLAAAAV AND JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!
No, it’s not “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith.
Nor is it “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir.
This is something different as a surprisingly catchy euro-pop beat begins to echo through the Wells Fargo Center. The first beat bathes the Center in pink, the third beat shifts the lights to red, back and forth, over and over again.
Richard Parker: What is happening, Nick?
Nick Stuart: I… have no idea.
“The Russians are Coming [Mosqua Mix]” by Russian pop star Danko begins blaring through the arena as the theme of the Russian folk song, Katyusha, begins to play.
I’m calling you on the phone,
I’m lying here all alone,
I miss you so while you’re gone,
You are my moon and my sun.
I am a man made of steel
That’s how you make me feel,
I miss the taste of your lips,
The way you’re moving your hips.
Pyro erupts from the entryway in a line, alternating dark pink, red, light pink, yellow, all around the platform while, amidst the smoke left behind, the silhouettes of Vickie Hall and Alexei Ruslan emerge on either side. Vickie is sporting a pink little dress alongside red “RUSSIAN” BEAR slippers made for a five year old girl. Ruslan, well, wears his brown attire.
Richard Parker: I’m kind of scared, Nick.
Nick Stuart: Me too, Richard.
As the smoke begins to clear, Vickie claps while Ruslan lifts a hand into the air and pumps it. If anything, it looks like he’s actually enjoying himself as he bounces to the beat. Then, it happens. Vickie Hall produces a microphone and begins screeching the lyrics for all to hear, whether they like it or not.
Vickie Hall:
Oh honey-honey,
Won’t you send me money-money?
I do miss you lover-boy
You’re my favorite Russki toy.
Ruslan actually pantomimes while she sings, first wagging his finger “no” and then presses his hands against his heart as Vickie tells him he’s her favorite Russki toy.
Vickie Hall:
If you send me money-money,
I will come again, oh honey,
It will be so funny-funny,
We will do it all night!!
From behind the curtain, Jonathan-Christopher Hall emerges with the enormous Ivan Stanislav lumbering behind him. Ruslan and Hall both motion to the two competitors as they move into view, with Stanislav and JCH raising their hands high in the air. It’s Alexei’s turn as he sings a surprisingly strong and steady baritone.
Alexei Ruslan:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
They are loaded with love.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
It feels good on the top.
Richard Parker: Wat?
In the meantime, Stanislav stands in the center of the ramp, with Ruslan off to his right, and amazingly, JCH off to his left. Stanislav barks loudly, counting the beat of the song as he prepares the three of them, and on the next portion of the chorus, the two Russians (and a very wobbly JCH) burst into vprisiadku dancing, where they squat, fold their arms, and thrust one foot out and then the other.
Richard Parker: I think I’m going to have a seizure!!
Nick Stuart: Ruslan and Stanislav do have some moves though, I’ll give them that.
Vickie Hall:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
Only pleasure, no pain.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
And they’re coming again.
Vickie jumps and whoops while Stanislav rights himself and saves JCH from falling on his behind, grabbing his shoulder and straightening him up. Stanislav and JCH begin to slowly walk down the entryway, with Ruslan and Vickie behind them.
Alexei Ruslan:
My body needs you all night,
My body needs you all day,
I am a chair you can sit
I am a steak, wanna eat?
Nick Stuart: Why am I hearing this?!
By now, Stanislav and JCH are at ringside. They round opposite sides of the ring and then climb in at the same time. The lights continue to switch in time to the music while propaganda posters rain from the rafters, plastered with images of Ivan, JCH, Vickie, and Alexei.
Ruslan climbs the opposite side of the ring as well, at the apron, while Vickie mirrors him on the apron closest to the entryway. Ruslan points across the ring at Vickie.
Alexei Ruslan:
You are a general of love,
You are a gift from above,
I’d like to do it again
And then again and again.
JCH blinks as he looks over at Alexei, and then whips his head towards Vickie as she responds but motioning in a “come hither” motion with her fingers.
Vickie Hall:
Oh honey-honey,
Won’t you send me money-money?
I do miss you lover-boy
You’re my favorite Russian toy.
If you send me money-money,
I will come again, oh honey,
It will be so funny-funny,
We will do it all night long.
Stanislav stands in the center of the ring and lowers into a squat. He spreads his huge arms to the left and the right, while Vickie climbs in and hops up on one arm, and JCH climbs up and sits on the opposite arm. Ruslan sings the chorus.
Alexei Ruslan:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
They are loaded with love.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
It feels good on the top.
Stanislav straightened his back and rises, lifting both Halls with him. He raises his arms as Vickie and JCH, still sitting on his arms, raise their arms in the air and cheer.
Alexei Ruslan:
Oh oh oh Russians are coming,
Only pleasure, no pain.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
And they’re coming again.
Stanislav bellows a loud “DYAAHAAHAA!!” as the song plays through a bridge and holds the pose for a few moments, before sinking down and letting both Halls hop off his arms. He straightens up just in time to speak his own portion… and yes, there’s a translation.
Ivan Stanislav:
Моя бабушка, смотри, какой большой «калашников»,
Немножко водки, перестройка, на здоровье!
(My sweet girl, look how big the Kalashnikov is,
A little vodka, perestroika, good health!)
The four begin to get into position, moving into the center of the ring. The order is Alexei, Ivan, JCH, and Vickie.
Alexei Ruslan:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
Ivan Stanislav:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
Jonathan-Christopher Hall:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
Vickie Hall:
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming!!
Then, they once again try to do the vprisiadku. Ivan and Alexei are actually quite good at it, and they seem to actually enjoy this. Even the Russian Bear is grinning and laughing. JCH and Vickie Hall are not nearly as well practiced, but they are trying.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
It feels good on the top.
Oh, oh, oh, Russians are coming,
And they’re coming again!!!
The euro pop beat finally starts to die down as the all, as one, stand and raise their arms in the air. The lights finally return to their normal lack of color and they all, as one, actually laugh in the ring.
Richard Parker: Holy crap.
Nick Stuart: My thoughts exactly, Richard.
JCH spreads his arms to hug Vickie, but she shimmie-dashes across the ring to… Ivan? She leaps in the air and The Russian Bear catches her with one huge arm and brings her into a tight, close embrace. He nearly engulfs her, before pulling her away and holding her, with ease, in one arm as he raises his arm in the air and bellows out another cacophonous laugh.
JCH blinks and just stares at the two.
Nick Stuart: …..
Richard Parker: …..
Nick Stuart: …wow this is awkward.
Stanislav finally releases Vickie and gently lowers her to the mat, and Alexei sits on the bottom rope and pushes up the middle rope for Vickie to exit. JCH moves towards Vickie, but Stanislav intercepts him and immediately begins to talk strategy.
Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbull is standing by, ready to get this one underway. I think he’d rather be anywhere than in the midst of all this insanity right now!
Richard Parker: He’s not alone, Nick. What the hell did I just sit through?!
Nick Stuart: Nevertheless, Jimmy gives the cue for the bell! And here we go!
DING DING
In one corner, Coral is talking Tony into starting on behalf of the Bandits, giving him a few final words of advice from out on the apron. Across the ring, the Praporshchik is more or less commanding Jonathan-Christopher into the ring. Hall looks reluctantly at his ALP down at ringside, who only looks back pointedly, silently warning him to do as he’s told.
Nick Stuart: Looks like we’re starting off with the winner of the Almasy and the newest addition to the Bandits! Hall and Gamble go right into the lock-up!
After a brief struggle, JCH comes out on top with a side headlock. He has only a few seconds to wrench the head before Tony slips free while snagging him by the wrist and slipping into a rear hammerlock.
Nick Stuart: Gamble working the arm, but there’s an elbow attempt by Hall–no! Tony ducks!
Richard Parker: Barely needed to dip his head.
Nick Stuart: Tony sweeps the leg, Johnny! And that takes Hall to the mat!
Richard Parker: Veteran instinct, sadly being wasted to serve Banditry!
Gamble gets a quick elbow to the back of the head, setting him up for the armbar. Tony cranks and Jonathan-Christopher cringes. He reaches for his corner where Ivan could easily reach over and make the tag, but the Praporshchik instead shakes his head in refusal.
Ivan Stanislav: NYET! It is too soon! FIGHT your way out!
The Vow of Virtue’s focus shifts from Ivan to Vickie.
Vickie Hall: BAAY-BEEEEE, just DO AS HE SAYS!
Jonathan-Christopher nods obligingly, then pushes his way up to his knees and somersault’s forward to maneuver his way out of the grip of the newest Bandit. Before the Grin can react, Hall sends him flipping over onto his back.
Nick Stuart: Hall with the sudden reversal, with an arm wringer like the crack of a whip!
Richard Parker: Pretty sure Vickie is the one doing the whip cracking, Nick.
Gamble works back up to his feet, but inadvertently turns himself into a waiting Hall who lifts him onto his shoulders.
Nick Stuart: Hall with Fireman’s Carry Gutbuster, and immediately rolls Tony onto his back for the cover!
One!
Two!
Gamble kicks out!
Tony Two-Books slips out from under Hall and rolls himself to the protection of the ropes. Captain Bobby is right there, blowing jets of butter-flavored breath into the Grin’s face in a poor attempt at cooling him off. Between that and the lingering pain in his abdomen, Gamble’s face is that of a man actively living in his own private hell.
Richard Parker: I can’t believe what they’ve done to Tony… (weeping) Look how they massacred my boy!
Nick Stuart: And it looks to only get worse from here as Jonathan-Christopher Hall hits the opposite set of ropes… and a basement dropkick to the small of Gamble’s back knocks the Hall of Famer from the ring!
…and straight into the chest and arms of the unsuspecting Deaner. Bobby pitches backward, struggling to keep balance and beginning to lean at a dangerous angle. For a moment, it looks as though the fall is inevitable, until the Golden Bandit quickly drops from the apron and posts himself between the Hammer from Honalee’s hefty shoulders.
Nick Stuart: Avalon there with the save!
Richard Parker: Oh, thank Hoyt! If he’d fallen, it’d take the ring crew all night to get him back up!
Boots digging divots into the floormats, Coral pushes with all his might to push Bobby’s unbalanced mass the other direction. Dean rolls forward with the grace of a boulder and collide’s gut-first with the apron, his arms unwittingly depositing Tony through the ropes. Gamble quickly pops to his feet, but after a brief dust-off, finds himself growing even smaller beneath a giant red shadow.
Nick Stuart: Tag was made by Jonathan-Christopher Hall, and now Tony Gamble finds himself in the unenviable position of being alone in the ring with the giant Russian bear, Ivan Stanislav!
Richard Parker: I dunno, Nick, I mean, he looks happy to me.
Nick Stuart: That’s the scar, partner.
Richard Parker: Ah, right…
Stanislav lurches forward with his massive arms outstretched, but grasps nothing but air after Gamble zips down through his legs. Ivan twirls to find… nothing behind him. Confused, he turns again, revealing to the camera Tony Two-Books fretfully clinging to his back.
Nick Stuart: Um… Tony Gamble appears to be channeling his inner Bugs Bunny here tonight.
Richard Parker: Can you blame the man?! It’s that, or play dead!
Once the Russian Bear becomes aware of the situation, he reaches back and tears the Hall of Famer off his back and YEETs him with ease across the ring. Because we’re not at the Linc, Tony takes a favorable bounce in the direction of his corner, where he thankfully tags out to Coral.
Nick Stuart: Tag made to Avalon, and I’m sure Gamble is thankful for this breather!
Richard Parker: That makes two of us!
While Gamble rolls out, the Crownless King is through the ropes and in the ring in a flash and narrowly ducks a charging ax-handle smash from Stanislav. Coral pivots and lands a low dropkick to the back of the leg, bringing the giant down to a knee.
Nick Stuart: Dropkick to the knee puts Ivan at the perfect height for a stiff European uppercut by Avalon!
Richard Parker: But because he’s is European as well, it only does half damage!
Nick Stuart: Still, Stanislav down to two knees now! Avalon with the Pele kick to the arm! Spinning backhand to the temple! Quick and targeted strikes from the reigning Alias Champion, cutting the giant down to size!
The Praporshchik wavers on his knees, his fittingly red face showing a mix of pain and incipient rage, thoroughly stun-locked by the Golden Bandit’s needling jabs from every angle. Coral keeps the momentum rolling with a bounce off the ropes and a flip over Stanislav.
Nick Stuart: Flip-over neckbreaker FINALLY brings the Russian Bear down! Avalon with the cover!
One–
The Golden Bandit suddenly ROCKETS into the air and hits the mat several feet away after a swift and firm bench press by Stanislav! Avalon bumps back to his feet, which is fortunate, as Ivan almost immediately erupts to his feet and barrels forth with a running lariat the size of a steel gurney.
Nick Stuart: Running sickle lariat is DUCKED by Coral… and he makes the tag to Tony!
Gamble’s arm only happened to be draped over the top rope while he rested on the apron. Now his eyes go wide when he realizes what’s happened. His anguished face looks to the Golden Bandit with uncertainty and apprehension.
Richard Parker: Coral, you coward! He’s barely had time to get his wind back!
Nick Stuart: Be as it may, with Ivan Stanislav treading heavily across the ring in their direction,
Before he can react, the Alias Champion reaches through the ropes and forcibly pulls Gamble into the ring. Stanislav, reaching their corner, grabs the first thing that’s in front of him. Which happens to be Tony, after Coral props him there as a human shield.
Nick Stuart: Oh my, “the Grin” immediately brought UP OFF HIS FEET with the lifting double choke!
Richard Parker: I can’t believe what I’m seeing! He’s been made a sacrificial lamb for the Bandits!
Nick Stuart: Gamble, kicking, while the frothing Russian Bear SQUEEZES on his windpipe… but wait, AVALON CHOPS THE KNEE! Tony Gamble was the perfect distraction! I only hope Coral didn’t intend to leave him hanging for too long…
Richard Parker: So he’s BAIT, is what you’re saying? Like that’s any better!
Tony drops to the mat and staggers, clutching his neck and gasping for air. With the Praporshchik brought to a knee once more, Avalon finds the window to smoothly slip back out onto the apron. Veteran instinct gets Gamble to fall in the direction of his corner, where Coral’s hand is already outstretched.
Nick Stuart: This is some unusual teamwork we’re seeing on the part of the Bandits, as the tag is quickly made back to Avalon! Coral rising up to the top rope as Ivan gets back on two feet… here comes the Alias Champion, OFF THE TOP with the MOONSAUNNNOO!!
The arc is picturesque. The landing is cataclysmic. The Crownless King moonsaults himself directly onto the Praporshchik’s shoulder, prompting Ivan to effortlessly put a crater into the canvas with a powerslam.
Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAAA-HAA-HAAAA!!
At ringside, Alexei Ruslan cheers proudly. Beside him, Vickie Hall cheers just a bit LOUDER. It doesn’t go unnoticed to Jonathan-Christopher, who suddenly looks eager to get back into the action.
Nick Stuart: A swift turnaround by Ivan Stanislav, successfully countering Coral Avalon’s quick-thinking offense through sheer Soviet fortitude, and now putting the Alias Champion into the go-to pinning predicament.
One!
Two!
Avalon kicks out! But the PRETTY PINK Army may have this match back in their control.
Richard Parker: Serves you right, forehead!
Ivan’s oversized hand seizes Coral’s oversized and somehow eerily proportionate head to strip him off the mat and lead him to the corner, where he tags out to the eager Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Ignoring Turnbull’s orders to leave the ring, the Praporshchik dumps Avalon into the corner and sternly looks down upon his comrade in PINK, pointing to the chest of the Golden Bandit.
Ivan Stanislav: Now… CHOP!
Knowing his sweet turtledove on the outside is watching him with the intensity of a hawk, JCH does as commanded.
Smack!
Avalon recoils off the stiff impact of Hall’s slap to his chest.
Ivan Stanislav: NYET! Strike harder!
Smack!!
Coral spasms yet again, but Ivan shakes his head.
Ivan Stanislav: NYYETT!! STRIKE HARDER!!
Vickie Hall: HARDER, BABY! HARDERRR!!
Richard Parker: Oh God, kill me now…
Confused, Jonathan-Christopher looks to Vickie, then back to Ivan. He knows how important it is to her to make this impression go right. Hence, he reels back once more and puts his all into it.
Smack!!!
With an annoyed grunt, Stanislav throws his hands into the air in frustration and shoves the Vow of Virtue aside.
Avalon’s eyes come upon just in time to witness a massive, fleshy paw with five stubby protrusions come out of his sweep through the air and crash into his chest like a cannonball.
SSSMACCCKK!!!
Richard Parker: YYYEEEOUCH!! They heard that one all the way back in the Motherland!
The sheer physical force of Ivan’s blow rips Avalon violently out of the corner and sends him sprawling wickedly across the canvas. Proud and satisfied with his show of physical superiority over the shrinking JCH…
Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAAA-HAA-HAAAA!!
…the Russian Bear climbs out to the apron, ceding the ring to Hall.
Nick Stuart: The former Universal Champion apparently showing JCH how it’s done, leaving Hall to clean things up against Coral Avalon! Coral trying to rise up, but Hall is upon him… ARM-TRAP DDT puts him right down on his head! Now Hall with the cover!
One!
TWO!
NO! Avalon gets the shoulder up!
At ringside, Vickie is yelling, urging her man to stop holding backt. Next to her, Alexei is shouting, accusing him of purposely sabotaging the team. From the corner, Ivan is thundering, warning him of the consequences should he screw this up.
Vickie Hall: Put some MEANING into it, BAY-BEEE!!
Alexei Ruslan: I knew we could not trust them, Praporshchik!
Ivan Stanislav: Неудача – это тридцать суток ГУЛАГа!
Richard Parker: Awful lot of noise coming from that corner right now…
Nick Stuart: Yes, and none of it actually seems to be succeeding in motivating Jonathan-Christopher to keep the pressure on!
Growing ever more anxious, the Vow of Virtue sees his opponent stalled on the mat and frantically wills himself into action. Quickly, he runs to a neutral corner and climbs up, sparing only a second to measure distance between the top rope and the giant red hand-shaped bulls-eye left on Avalon’s chest.
Nick Stuart: Hall OFF THE TOP… and a BIG FROGSPLASH fills THE SPACE BETWEEN US, and now the Almasy winner hooks the legs of the Alias Champion for the win!
ONE!
TWO
NO! Broken up!
Specifically by way of a kick to the head from a suddenly resurgent Gamble, boldly rushing the ring and coming to the Crownless King’s aid. He gets in a few more before Turnbull finally ushers him back to his corner. For whatever reason, everyone in Jonathan-Christopher’s corner seems to blame him for this.
Vickie Hall: Could you SERIOUSLY not see him coming?!
Alexei Ruslan: Absolutely incompetent! Are you blind!?
Ivan Stanislav: Прекратите эту глупость и закончите матч!
Richard Parker: As if having one annoying voice in his ear talking nonstop wasn’t bad enough, now he’s got three!
Beside himself, Hall shakes his head, but stays on top of things by grabbing Avalon’s head and–
Nick Stuart: VORTIGERN’S PILLORY!! AVALON SNAKED HALL RIGHT INTO IT!!
The Omoplata Armbar comes from out of nowhere. Suddenly, Hall has gone from anxious to full-on panicked as the Alias Champion cranks on the arm. Helpless, he wails in pain, finding almost no sympathy from his corner.
Alexei Ruslan: You’ve ruined everything, worthless lovesick buffoon!
Ivan Stanislav: Вы должны бороться с болью!
The yelling from the PRETTY PINK Army’s corner reaches a fever pitch, but through the noise Jonathan-Christopher only hears the furious voice of his precious Vickie.
Vickie Hall: SERIOUSLY, HON, this is NOT a GOOD LOOK FOR US!! Just DO SOMETHING!
Spurred into action, Hall fights through the pain and rolls himself over Avalon to shift their positions where he can make contact with the ropes with his foot.
Nick Stuart: HALL with the ROPE BREAK!
Richard Parker: Unbelievable! The super simp strength prevails once more!
Nick Stuart: Unfortunately, in doing so, he places the Crownless King within arm’s length to his corner! Tag made back to Tony Gamble!
The Grin hits the ring, eager to get in his licks now that the Bandits are on the cusp of regaining control of the match. He lands an open leg drop to Hall’s exposed face while the victor of the Almasy is bound to the Pillory still applied by Avalon. Coral finally breaks the arm bar and slips to the outside while Tony takes control.
Richard Parker: Here comes Tony, ready to prove he’s better than this Bandit nonsense!
Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is now finding himself on the receiving end of things as Tony Gamble strips him back off the canvas! There’s a boot to the gut… and a STIFF JUMPING PILEDRIVER to follow it up!
Richard Parker: Badda-BOOM!!
Nick Stuart: Hooks the leg for the cover! Could that be it?!
ONE!
TWO!
THR–NO!! Hall kicks out before the three!
Outside the ring, Vickie is wrapt with tension, although seemingly more worried about what Ivan is feeling while her Amazing Life Partner continues to struggle in the ring. Meanwhile, the Permascar Banditstar sits Hall up and gives him more boots, now to the spine.
Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble showing some real ferocity right now, kicking Hall around like he owes him money!
Richard Parker: Probably just angry that he has to be out here, putting up with all this! For CANCER!
JCH works himself back to his feet, but Tony keeps him on the run and pushes him off the ropes. He attempts to rebound with a back elbow, but Gamble sidesteps while taking a hold of the arm, yanking Hall into a ripcord spinebuster.
Nick Stuart: SPINEBUSTER by Gamble to put Hall flat on his back, and Vickie into a deep sense of worry!
Richard Parker: Worried what Ivan might think, by the looks of it!
Nick Stuart: The Russian Bear is absolutely nonplussed right now over in the PRETTY PINK Army’s corner! Meanwhile, Gamble finds the opportunity to tag in to Coral Avalon!
The Alias Champion sweeps back into the ring while Tony sets up Hall with a snapmare. Avalon follows up with a bounce into the ropes and a diving European uppercut that catches Jonathan-Christopher in the back of the head.
Nick Stuart: SECACE by Coral Avalon, nearly taking off Hall’s head!
Stanislav rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disapproval.
Nick Stuart: The unlikely pair of Coral Avalon and Tony Gamble are really clicking tonight, bringing the beating to Jonathan-Christopher Hall! Avalon goes for the pin!
ONE!
TWO!
Ivan Stanislav: NYYYETTTT!
Nick Stuart: HALL KICKS OUT!!
JCH flops in the direction of his corner, but is nowhere close to a tag. Avalon takes the opportunity to tag the newest Bandit back into action. Gamble steps through the ropes, and both Bandits scheme in their corner while watching the Timid Tiger struggle to make it up to his feet.
Nick Stuart: I think Avalon and Gamble have something cooking here!
Hall rises up, and the Bandits spring forth with a double lariat…
Nick Stuart: JCH DUCKS!!
Coral and Tony skid to a halt in the opposite corner, finding the dark red obelisk of Russian rage glaring down at them. Before they can react, Ivan’s giant hands takes the both of them by the head…
Nick Stuart: DOUBLE-WHAMMY by Ivan Stanislav!
Richard Parker: Now kith.
Vickie urgently slaps the mat, rousing Jonathan-Christopher into action. Seeing his window, he reaches for the tag…
…only for Ivan to shake his head in refusal.
Ivan Stanislav: NYET!! Not until you bring match back to OUR control, comrade!
Hall melts in disappointment. He looks to Vickie, who only gives back a stern and demanding stare looking up from the ringside floor.
Vickie Hall: …well? You heard him!
Defeated, Hall turns around to continue the fight… only to spot Gamble charging at him with a running elbow.
Nick Stuart: JCH DUCKS the elbow by Gamble, and–
Richard Parker: OOOOH BOY! Shouldn’a done THAT!
The elbow instead lands on Ivan’s broad chest! The Grin freezes in place, suddenly realizing his folly, while Stanislav angrily glowers murderously down at him from the other side of the ropes. After a beat, Ivan pushes down the ropes and steps in…
Nick Stuart: I think Tony Gamble just made his first major mistake as a Bandit!
Richard Parker: Quick, get outta there, Tony!
Tony runs. Stanislav gives chase. Avalon makes it back to his feet, only to get blown aside by the Russian Bear with the force of a freight train. Gamble scampers through the ropes to ringside. With a baffling amount of agility, Stanislav rolls over the ropes and continues after him.
Nick Stuart: Gamble is running for his life! Jonathan-Christopher is standing dumbstruck in the ring!
Gamble runs a circle around the ring, passing the PRETTY PINK Army’s corner. Stanislav commands Ruslan to stop him, and Alexei joins in the chase.
Ivan Stanislav: после него! после него!
Back on his feet, Avalon slides out of the ring and puts himself in the way of the Praporshchik. When Ivan shows no signs of slowing down, he begins running as well.
Nick Stuart: The Alias Champion is getting dragged into this now! This is getting ridiculous!
The chase returns to the Bandits corner, where Bobby has apparently been catching some Z’s while standing up. He is jostled awake at the sight of Gamble running at him, frantically telling him to run. The eGGsecutioner moves with all the urgency one would expect of somewhile with his degree of physical corpulence.
Richard Parker: Oh, golly…
By now, a running conga line has formed around the ring, with Bobby chugging at the front, Tony behind him, practically scrambling up his back, Alexei hot on their heels, Coral just trying to keep up, and lastly Ivan charging after all of them like a roaring, derailed locomotive.
Ivan Dalkichev: DYAAAAAAAAAA!!!
Sweating profusely at the front of the pack, Dean hobbles awkwardly around toward the PRETTY PINK Army’s corner with a literal stampede behind him. Standing directly in the way is Vickie Hall, who in that moment freezes up and goes completely white.
Nick Stuart: Oh, this cannot end well…
Richard Parker: LOOK OUT, VICKIE!!
Bobby tries to put on the brakes, but with four bodies slamming into one another against his broad backside, there’s nothing he can do to stop his momentum from bringing him tumbling down….
Nick Stuart: HEADS UP!!
…but before disaster can occur, JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER valiantly swoops in at the last second, moving her out of the way and putting himself into the path of destruction!
CRASSHH!!
JCH disappears beneath Bobby, with Tony, Alexei, and Coral making up the toppings to a Russian-and-Egg sandwich with Stanislav serving as a heavy top bun. The pile of bodies explodes upon impact with the floor, sending everyone scattering violently in every direction.
Only Vickie Hall is left standing, looking absolutely helpless and bamboozled.
Nick Stuart: My word, this is… this is beyond words, ladies and gentlemen! It looks like a human trainwreck at ringside right now! …Rich?
Richard Parker: I got nothing to say, Nick. To be honest, I don’t think I get paid enough for this.
Rising up first from the casualties, by some miracle, is Tony Gamble. Spurned by Turnbull’s gradual ten count in the ring, he spots Hall pancaked on the floor and rolls Bobby aside to retrieve him. In doing so, the Deaner inexplicably gets rolled across Coral’s chest.
Nick Stuart: Somehow, Gamble is back on his feet and bringing this match back into the ring!
Richard Parker: It has to be voodoo magic, because Tony absolutely looks like the WALKING DEAD right now!
Moving on nothing but muscle memory, Gamble slides back into the ring after Hall and pulls him to his feet. Sensing something bad is about to happen, Vickie begins to emit a high-pitched whining noise that can be heard even over the roar of the crowd. She watches helplessly as Jonathan-Christopher’s tender kiss meets the canvas by way of a front Russian Legsweep!
Nick Stuart: STOP LAUGHING AT ME BY GAMBLE!! He rolls Hall onto his back! COVER!!
ONE!!
TWO!!
THREE–BROKEN UP!!
…by a massive, sausage-like index finger embedding itself into Jonathan-Christopher’s palm. Stunned, Gamble looks up to discover an absolutely murderous-looking Russian Bear has found his way back to the apron, and has reached over the ropes to break the count with a forced tag.
Nick Stuart: Stanislav tags HIMSELF in! The Grin looking absolutely distraught!
Richard Parker: I don’t know if there’s any getting away this time!
Ivan is in the ring. Tony turns to his corner… only to find it empty. Distressed, he spots the Golden Bandit still stuck on the outside beneath Bobby. When he turns back around, the Russian Bear is upon him. Effortless, he yanks the man half his size several feet into the air before swatting him back to the mat with a ridiculously overpowered short-arm clothesline.
Nick Stuart: IRON CURTAIN BY STANISLAV!!
Gamble withers on the mat and stays there. Stanislav, his rage still unsatisfied, backs himself into the corner…
…and stuns the world by climbing an astounding height up to the BOTTOM rope!
Nick Stuart: Oh no… what could Ivan be thinking here?
Richard Parker: I certainly hope it’s not what I think it is!
A wide, toothy smile spreads across the Russian Bear’s bearded face as he patiently waits for Tony to rise back to his feet in a daze. Then he DIVES…
Nick Stuart: IT’S BACK!! THE EPIC RETURN!!
Richard Parker: NOO!!! HURRICANRUSSIAAAA!!!
Stanislav springs from the turnbuckle legs first with the grace of T-90 being thrown from a catapult. His undercarriage crashes down on Tony’s chest and face, and he is unceremoniously squished to the mat. This time, there is no Morty there to save him.
Nick Stuart: STANISLAV WIN THE PIN ON GAMBLE!!
ONE!!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
DING DING DING
Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAAA-HAA-HAAAA!!
“The Russians Are Coming [Mosqua Mix]” pumps through the PA once more. Vickie bounces at ringside cheering in delight, then scrambles into the ring to celebrate with Ivan.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winners of the match… the team of IVAN STANISLAV and JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL!!
Richard Parker: Finally over… I… I don’t think I’ll ever be the same, Nick!
Nick Stuart: This one was a doozy, Rich, but at long last, after a series of crazy twists and turns, the PRETTY PINK Army stands triumphant over the eGG Bandits!
Richard Parker: Well a loss for the Bandits is a win in my book. But seriously, Tony deserves better than this! What’s Cancer going to make him do after this humiliating defeat?
Nick Stuart: That remains to be seen, although his ability to be a team player tonight can’t be understated. The Golden Bandit just was not there when he absolutely needed him. Meanwhile, this strange pairing of red and pink has proven here tonight that they may be the new force to be reckoned with in PRIME!
Outside the ring, Jonathan-Christopher Hall and Coral Avalon are finally coming around and realizing what has happened. With a look of disappointment, Avalon pulls the lifeless Tony Gamble from the ring and resuscitates Bobby on the floor, trying to rally his Bandits back to the eGG Den to regroup after this disaster.
Meanwhile, Jonathan-Christopher finds himself as the lone man on the outside, looking in on the celebration happening in ring. With his ALP perched victoriously on his shoulder, Ivan Stanislav laughs boisterously and pumps the fist of his free arm into the air in triumph.
Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAAA-HAA-HAAAA!!
Cut to backstage.
Donovan Winters is tired. A win against Rose, a rather threatening run-in with, and of course Daytona Diamonds screaming and rambling at him on FaceTime for the better part of two or three hours, he doesn’t know anymore, time is merely a construct. He knows his time could be spent better than searching, questing for Coral Avalon. However, in the bowels of the Wells Fargo Center’s garage area, Don Winters has finally spotted his elusive prey.
Coral Avalon is backstage after a tag team battle with the Seymour Almasy Memorial Tournament winner and an angry former Universal champion. He’d been in as unenviable a position as one could find themselves in just a few minutes ago.
So, let’s make it more unenviable!
Don Winters: Coral! Hey! I need to talk to you! You’ve got a few things to explain to us.
Coral looks around confused, seeing only Don Winters holding up his phone.
Coral Avalon: Uh, hey, Don. Hey, Don’s… cellphone. What’s up? What’s going on?
Phone: whoosh… FASTER… skrrt… GOD… static… DANGIT…
Don Winters: You tell me, Coral. What’s the idea putting Daytona and I on the same team? Are you ins– no, don’t answer that. I understand you were likely obligated to select Jiles, and I’m thankful you selected me, it’s a huge opportunity, but DAYTONA!?
And then, just as Don gets the name off his lips… the sound of a truck’s rumbling engine, horn honking, tires screeching. It drives into the frame, black paint and tinted windows, a hitched trailer pulled behind it. And on that trailer? Well, on that trailer, there’s a jet ski. And on that jet ski? Well, there’s a cowboy; a shivering, chatter toothed, half frozen cowboy. Daytona Diamonds, dressed in a fur coat (don’t worry, it still has the rhinestones). Daytona Diamonds, wide-eyed and nearly succumbing to hypothermia. Daytona Diamonds, ice in his goatee and lips turning blue. Daytona Diamonds, screaming and shouting and not letting the cold bother him anyway.
Daytona Diamonds: Donny! You did it! You fuckin’ did it! CORAL FUCKIN’ AVALON! YOU NO GOOD PIGFUCKER! YOU SCUMSUCKIN’ DICK WEASAL! YOU PIECE OF… PIECE OF… hoo buh-buh-buh-boy, it sure is cuh-cuh-cuh-cold in here, ain’t it? You… you guys care to turn on a huh-huh-heater or somethin’? I can’t feel my god dang fuh-fuh-fuh-fingers..
He doesn’t get down from his jet ski. He won’t get down from his jet ski. To get down would be to admit defeat and that’s one thing Daytona can’t, won’t, isn’t going to do. He just sits there, arms bundled across his chest, trying to get the shakes to stop shaking and the frost to stop frosting. He might be dying. In fact, he’s probably dying. Riding a jet ski down the Delaware River in the dead of winter at breakneck speeds from Atlantic City to Philadelphia isn’t what most people would call a good idea, it turns out. Hiring a truck to transport you from the waterfront to the arena whilst never leaving your jet ski? Also not a good idea. Who would have guessed?
Coral Avalon, already tired from his match just a few minutes ago, can only stare blankly at Daytona and his jet ski. It actually takes him a moment to process what’s going on, as though the large supercomputer housed inside his generous forehead is running into critical errors and needs a full disastrous reboot. Yessir, we might need to take that thing to the shop and strip that thing down for parts at this rate.
He chances a glance with Winters, who looks every bit as bewildered as Coral does, before he finally addresses the Rhinestone Cowboy.
Coral Avalon: …I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say that you’re as adept at thinking things through as you believe I am.
Daytona Diamonds: Oh, I’m ad-duh-duh-dept alright! Adept at whoopin’ that ah-ah-ah… aw hell’s bells, get ‘em, Donny!
From atop his jet ski throne, Daytona points one trembling finger out from beneath his fur coat to point at Coral, expecting Don Winters to… well, get ‘em. When he doesn’t, the finger stays hovering in midair, Daytona’s eyes jumping back and forth between Coral and Don.
Daytona Diamonds: …you… you gonna get ‘em, Donny?
Coral turns to Don and exchanges confused glances with him.
Coral Avalon: Why would he, uh… get me?
Don Winters: Get ‘em? Do I look like the Mugsy to your Bugsy? We agreed to have a civil discussion with Coral, and not burn him at the stake. Although, depending on his answers here…
Coral Avalon: I mean, we can have a civil discussion, sure…
He shrugs.
Coral Avalon: …But I still kinda want to know why ‘Tona over here thought it was a good idea to come here by jet ski. Man, you’re going to catch a cold sitting up there like that. At least get down and stand by a heater or something.
Daytona looks annoyed. And cold. Mostly cold, but his brows still furrow and his upper lip still quivers and a whole new bouquet of vitriol has perched itself in his throat.
Daytona Diamonds: Absolutely. Fuckin’. Not. This here jet ski is an extension of myself! It defines me! Fast as fuck? Check! Expensive as hell? Check! Cooler than shit? That’s a big ol’ chu-chu-chu-check, baby!
Coral Avalon: You definitely look cool right now. Downright arctic, even.
Coral turns to Winters.
Coral Avalon: Say, does His Word and His Light take care of the stupid ones? Just asking for a friend.
Winters breaks into a slight smile.
Daytona Diamonds: How’s about you stop with the god dang Bible study and answer the dang question, Coral?! War Games! Me! Winters! What’s the deal?! What’s up?! Fuckin’ why?!
Coral looks up at the ceiling, knowing that “fuckin’ why” is going to be a question he’s going to be asking himself every day for the next two months.
Coral Avalon: Well, Don. ‘Tona. Dontona. Let’s let the cat out of the bag, and I’ll tell you exactly why I picked both of you.
He paused for dramatic effect.
Coral Avalon: You’ve both very good professional wrestlers and I needed very good professional wrestlers.
He shrugs.
Coral Avalon: That’s it. That’s the reason. Boring, right? I didn’t even think about how much you two hated one another when I selected you.
Winters balls his fist and punches the hood of someone else’s rental car.
Don Winters: That doesn’t really go into too much thought on the mechanics of team building. Look, I’m not sure I’d fit it on ANY of these teams, but especially this one. This is literal Hell on Earth, Coral. Your team be damned, think about what you’re doing to me. To Daytona.
The Revelator pauses momentarily.
Don Winters: … but if we have to do this, I have one condition, and I’m certain ‘Tona will agree. You can’t let the Bandits cryogenically freeze us. It’s off the table. I don’t care what twisted, unholy things Cancer Jiles has planned, but leave us out of it.
Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t Walt fuckin’ Disney. Cairo-gen-technically freezin’ me definitely ain’t happenin’.
Coral Avalon: You realize that you look like you’re coming out of cryostasis right now, right?
Don Winters: You remember what they did to Ted Williams’ head? I don’t need my frozen head attached to a tin can on a mantle that just gonna fall off the wall
Daytona Diamonds: And you know what? I get it. I’m the best damn professional wrassler this place’s got and Donny baby is okay, I guess. But I just got one question here, Coral. It’s a big’un…
Daytona looms forward on his jet ski, eyes narrowing, hands settling on the handlebars.
Daytona Diamonds: …what’s in it for me?
Coral smiled a little, in spite of how intimidating the frozen cowboy tries to make himself.
Coral Avalon: What’s in it for you? Think about it, ‘Tona. You’re about to share the ring with the Universal champion – whoever it is. The Intense champion, whom I’m sure you feel you owe a receipt to. The Alias champion, too, that’s me. Hell, just about everybody in PRIME that’s held one of those championships you openly coveted at the press conference a month and a half ago is going to be there. And you get to get in that cage and punch each and every one of them in the mouth. Including me, if you’re so inclined, but I think I’d prefer to actually win this match and not get punched in the mouth by my own team.
Coral shrugs.
Coral Avalon: And heaven forbid, if you were to win against all of those powers… you could write your ticket anywhere, I’d say. A made man. So, yeah, that’s what’s in it for you.
Don Winters: He’s making sense, ‘Tona. As much as I hate the idea of all this, he’s making a great point. There’s something in it for both of us, but we have to put this crap and animosity behind us, at least for the next two months.
Coral Avalon: Also, Don, the cryogenics chamber is Bandits-only, and… I’m going to assume neither of you are interested in joining the Bandits.
He mutters something to the effect of “not that something like that matters or anything” to himself.
Don Winters: About as interested as you were, Coral.
Coral Avalon: So, just make sure you don’t get six-hit juggle comboed to death by Brandon Youngblood and you should be good.
Don Winters: I can work with that. What about you, ‘Tona?
Daytona stays quiet, eyes glancing back and forth between Don and Coral. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his recently drug un-addled brain, a (probably very cold) hamster is spinning on a very particular wheel. Glitz. Glamour. Fortune. Fame. Slowly, cautiously, one hand extends down from his jet ski, a slow smirk curling at the corners of The Rhinestone Cowboy’s lips.
Daytona Diamonds: Alright, Coral. Alright, Donny. I’ll play ball, but this better be worth my fuckin’ while. Put ‘er there. Let’s shake on it. We don’t shake, it don’t count.
Winters sticks out his hand, reaches up, and clasps it with Daytona’s. The two have a firm shake, neither man willing to show one is weaker than the other.
Don Winters: (releases the handshake, and holds up his phone) Now, can I end this call?
Daytona Diamonds: I mean, yeah, sure, I guess. No skin off my nuts. Donny, it’s been a pleasure. Coral, fuck yourself, but thanks for the opportunity. Driver!
Daytona reaches forward and pounds his fist on the roof of the truck.
Daytona Diamonds: Take me to the hospital! I’m very cold and I’m startin’ to get worried! And swing through a Taco Bell on the way, wouldja?
And just like that, the truck pulls away. The camera pans to watch it drive off, Daytona throwing up two middle fingers as it disappears around a corner.
Daytona Diamonds: Adios, dickbags! Daytona, OUT!
Coral watches him leave.
Coral Avalon: Huh. Pretty sure I thought I’d seen everything after the Homicycle.
Don Winters: I don’t know how he even makes it to War Games.
The camera cuts out from here to go check in on what else is happening around ReVival 42, it is hopefully slightly more sane.
(Ed. Note: It’s not)
The camera cuts to a different section of the arena, from Daytona, Don and Coral to the back of a massive frame that pulls away abruptly, cruising down the hall like an Ent through a field of shrubs. The crowd fires off a volley of cheers at the PRIME*View as their other WarGames teammate makes his way past crew and staff. While all other heads turn and crane up to catch a glimpse of him, the giant’s focus is held to the fore as the camera pans up to the back of his head.
This hallway is absent of cases and carts but lined with doors, and the bodies milling around them clad in suits and earpieces keep a watchful eye while exchanging information and updates. The Murder Show doesn’t seem to regard them at all, nor pays attention to the names listed on the doors as he passes by.
One of those names happens to be leaning against the wall next to their door, one foot pressed against the wall, knee pointed out, and arms folded as he engages with a particularly burly member of security.
Hessian saunters past him without so much as a glance.
Had it been the good old days this indignation would have elicited a certain kind of response from our subject, but with time comes wisdom and he simply chuckles at the sight of the Murder Show blindly navigating his way right past one of his greatest rivals, blinded by the fog of time. Maybe if he shaved his head again and smelled like a bluetick hound…
“Y’know, my jaw still clicks when I chew.”
Von Kelsig’s attention is stolen by the gravelly voice behind him. Turning his head over shoulder, he spots Wade Elliott, jaw set, and eyes stern at the sight of the Murder Show. The Bad Dog takes a step, then rests a paw over his shoulder.
Wade Elliott: An’ this god damn shoulder still wakes me up in the middle’ve the night when I roll over.
The Murder Show actually squints at Wade, and the rapid pupil movement settles to a stare at that head of hair as the lightbulb goes off.
Hessian: …Son of a bitch. Wade fuckin’ Elliott, as I live and breathe.
Wade’s eyes widen in surprise as the giant throws his weight forward, enveloping the Bad Dog with both arms and slapping his hands across his back like some faux bro hug, letting out a chuckle tinged with disbelief. He makes sure not to annoy the aforementioned areas. Wade growls uncomfortably and pats the giant on the ribs, but the way his eye winces suggests there’s a fondness there somewhere as he reciprocates.
Wade Elliott: Still kickin’, big man.
The Murder Show steps back out of the Bad Dog’s space, almost giddy. The two elder warriors regard each other for another moment, memories of twisted metal and hot pain coursing between them while every other pair of eyes in the hall seems to be following them. The giant taps his temple and rolls his eyes apologetically.
Hessian: Sorry about that boss, didn’t mean to ignore you there. Hardly recognized you with that Ron White look you got going on. How the hell are ya? Jaw and shoulder aside…
Wade Elliott: Ain’t a stress. The gray took over pretty quick ‘bout five years back. Gettin’ my shoulder popped in my truck’s bull bar didn’t help any. Hell, if we’re bein’ real honest, part’ve me might’ve thought you’d come fer my head eventually, after I kicked ya off the top’ve the big screen.
The Murder Show lets that hang in the air for a second, standing tall and firm and giving nothing away as to what he lost after ReVolution 250. Safe to assume, the minds of both men are traveling back to that show, in a No Holds Barred match where Hessian absolutely tore the Southern Sparkplug apart, but ultimately fell to his doom after a lucky boot from Wade, sending him careening to the floor.
They manage to snap out of it, and continue.
Wade Elliott: Otherwise, just driftin’ ‘round this place, whippin’ some’ve these punks ‘round on occasion. Lindsay’s kids don’t help with the gray hairs, but we’ve got a good thing goin’.
Hessian ponders a moment, then his eyes grow wide with realization. The great beard of the Murder Show seems to drop a whole half a foot in that moment as his jaw goes slack at the news.
Hessian: You-..what?! That was a thing?? I had no idea!
Wade Elliott: (chuckling) I ain’t never known ya t’show yer hand, Angelus, but I won’t lie, a little surprised that one went over yer head.
Hessian: Again, forgive my ignorance. You know me, never notice anything unless it’s within striking distance. Shit, I’m happy for ya man. That’s wild. So if my math is correct…you and Troy…plus Troy and PRIME…plus Youngblood and Ivan’s lifetime contracts…that would make you their daddy now?
Hessian turns directly to the camera with a glint in his eye when a young scrote with a clipboard and headset catches the line as he jogs past and lets out an audible guffaw, noticing the narrowed eyes of Wade and Hessian’s reaction to the outburst and hastily disappearing through the ranks. Wade glances at the door behind him, gesturing to Hessian who nods.
Wade Elliott: I think Sykes called me “Daddy Woof Woof” a whale back, but don’t tell ‘im I told ya. Why, you lookin’ t’join the family?
The giant sidles up to Wade and pats him on the good shoulder, following him into the office away from all the ears. As the camera follows them in and the door closes behind them the Murder Show gives his response.
Hessian: I don’t know what I’m doing Wade, gotta be honest. You’re close to the top, you know why I’m back…but I’m gonna need a minute to get the lay of the land before I start terraforming.
Wade Elliott: Hell, Angelus. I ain’t the one fer advice. But lot’s changed since the old days. Old bastards still hangin’ ‘round while the new crop’s frothin’ at the mouth. I’ll tell ya this, though; a big sonnuva bitch like you will do just fine. Ol’ Ivan ain’t lost a step, and you already proved last week that you ain’t far behind.
Hessian: Does feel good to be back in the sandbox, not gonna lie. All these new toys to play with…
The Murder Show trails off and the Bad Dog leans in, waiting for him to finish.
Wade Elliott: But…
Hessian: Oh, no buts about it. I just…listen I’m happy to be back…
Wade Elliott: Go on an’ say it…but…
The Murder Show gazes past the Bad Dog into the middle distance for a moment before his eyes focus and come back to Wade’s stare.
Hessian: But someone is walking around this place calling themselves something they’re not.
Wade Elliott: Theeere it is.
Hessian: I understand times have changed. What people don’t seem to realize here, is that that was only possible because I allowed it. Do you think things would have played out the way they have here the past couple years if I wasn’t around?
The Bad Dog mulls over it for a second as he settles into a chair while the Murder Show stalks around him.
Wade Elliott: Hard t’say. But yer here now.
Hessian: Indeed I am, and I believe the phrase goes, ‘God said a man should work with his hands’.
The Murder Show takes a look at his large, scarred hands and glances straight down the lens with a wink before turning back to face Wade.
Hessian: Well these hands are ready to go to work Wade, you saw that last week. These hands are ready to tear the entire WarGames apart and they are most definitely ready to take back what. Is. Mine.
Wade Elliott: Just do me a favor an’ leave the god damn doors intact. Gettin’ tired of pushin’ that thing open an’ closed every time I walk through it, an’ I ain’t gettin’ my ass chewed out fer not remindin’ ya.
The Murder Show nods, making his way to the door.
Hessian: …I’ve got a ton of respect for you Wade. After what we went through at ReVolution Two-Fifty all those years ago, we are brothers bonded by blood. If you ever need someone at your back you can call me anytime, you can tell Troy that as well. I don’t need a pair of golden handcuffs like the other two…
The Bad Dog cocks an eyebrow as the giant opens the door.
Wade Elliott: But?
Hessian: …But if I need to murder this entire roster, I will. You witnessed it once before in real-time. The Show must go on and the Show will. Go. On.
With that the old-timer breezes out of Wade’s office, leaving the Bad Dog to chew on that thought. Finding himself with a quiet moment, Wade digs into his back pocket to produce a trusty flask of bourbon, taking a long draw and sitting back in the chair.
Wade Elliott: Don’t I know it.
Taking another swig, the door suddenly bursts open once more and the giant storms back in, grabbing a chair up and propping it down in front of Wade, who nearly spits whiskey all over the floor, nearly leaping out of his chair. Taking a seat, Hessian slams a hand on the desk as if he’s forgotten something.
Hessian: One more thing, before I go…couple questions. First off, what the hell is Jabber?
Wade Elliott: Don’t you fuckin’ start…
Fade to commercial.
The Wells Fargo Center is abuzz for the main event. The Anglo Luchador, sans a few chuds and cops in the crowd, is universally beloved. Cancer Jiles? He’s a scumbag, but he’s Philly’s scumbag. The crowd is a simmering pot ready to boil over. You know who would make that shit boil over?
Oh yeah. You know.
The lights go down, and the PRIMEView glows up to show a man in a Mummers costume at a podium on a chilly February day six years ago. He’s got a big, bushy beard and is drunk as FUCK.
Jason Kelce: NO ONE LIKES US! WE DON’T CARE!
The pop could be heard in New York City and Washington. The birds may have choked down the stretch, but there’s always next season. The fans know this. And they follow suit.
E-A-G-L-E-S…
TAL: from backstage, on the microphone EAGLES!
RAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!
Nick Stuart: I think Philly is ready for the main event, Richard.
Richard Parker: I can’t hear you, Nick, these cheesesteak-scarfing dorks blew out my eardrums!
For everyone expecting Local H, “Cynic,” well, they were shocked to hear not the hard-driving, angst-ridden ‘90s fuzz, but rather a softer, lilting guitar.
The band is Ike.
The song is “Into Philadelphia.”
Think I maybe wanna take a ride, wanna take a ride into Philadelphia.
The PRIMEview hits backstage. There’s a man in a lucha mask dressed like Jason Kelce during the Eagles Super Bowl parade. He’s giving a blonde woman one last hug, then two young boys, and finally, a man in a polo shirt and khakis, standing with the assistance of a cane.
The Anglo Luchador’s family, Tamara, Lorenzo, Vincenzo, and Michael, wife, sons, and brother, are seeing him off for arguably his biggest match ever. No gold is on the line. But Cancer Jiles, for better or worse, is a gold standard in this industry. The Luchador may have been once. His comeback has been up and down, but this is not only a tough out, but it’s in front of their shared hometown.
Think I’m maybe gonna take a ride, gonna take a ride into Philadelphia…
He slowly walks down the halls of the Wells Fargo Center, taking in all the history surrounding him. Toothless men in orange-and-black hockey sweaters from half-a-century ago, holding aloft the Stanley Cup, not the hip thermal cup that might be contaminated with lead, but LORD. FUCKING. STANLEY’S. CUP. Images of basketball royalty, Dr. J, Moses, The Round Mound of Rebound, The Answer, The Process. All of them, in still frames, if you looked long enough, you could see all of them cheering on another in the line of athletes who represented the city.
Employees of the Farg look on, some smiling, some clapping. The walk seems interminable, a journey he didn’t think possible. Other companies didn’t see the worth in him enough to put him in the main event in his hometown, his fucking city. PRIME did. In some respects, he walks with trepidation. Is this even real? Every step towards Argyle slower and slower until he stops at the production area. He bows his head and takes a deep breath before the PRIMEview goes black.
Then.
POP POP POP POP POP POP POP POP POP POP POP
Green and purple pyro strafe the top of the stage. The crowd is now rabid. Alternating chants of “T! A! L!” and “E-A-G-L-E-S! EAGLES!”
And then he steps from the curtain.
RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!
In full glory. The Anglo Luchador, dressed in a green and purple robe that matches his ring gear. Eagles colors. He stares out at the crowd of people, all foaming at the mouth to cheer their hometown hero, and he wipes a tear from his face before leaning forward, arms stretched behind his back, in a primal scream before beginning his walk to the ring.
Vince Howard: This is your MAIN EVENT for ReVival 42, and it is a PHILLY STREET FIGHT!
RAAAAAAHHHHHH!!
Vince Howard: Introducing first, from right here in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 211 pounds, he is the Son of the Italian Stallion and the First Intense Champion of the ReVival… he is… THE ANGLO… LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHAAAAAAAADORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!
RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Nick Stuart: A hero’s welcome here in Philadelphia! The Anglo Luchador has fought two years to get to this moment. Pride is on the line, Richard.
Richard Parker: You know I don’t like this guy, I really don’t, but I like him better than the next guy who’s going to be coming out, and I just wanna say… I hate this town.
Nick Stuart: I hear they’re looking for a new Santa Claus here, Richard. Maybe you’d fit right into that role!
The Luchador slides into the ring and climbs up on each turnbuckle, roaring and then soaking in the adulation from the crowd before settling into his corner and disrobing from his entrance garb, awaiting his opponent.
Then the lights slowly draw all the way down to dark.
Richard Parker: Oh no.
Then.
Black.
Nick Stuart: Here we go! The King of CRUMBS is up next! What’s he got in store for the hometown crowd tonight!?!
Richard Parker: Pretty sure that no matter what it is, it’s going to make me sick.
A cool breeze moves through the air.
Silence takes over everything…
…but not for very long.
The Crumbotron 97000 comes to life. On it, a shot of the backstage area. More specifically, a long hallway that is clear of debris and personnel. Coinciding with the Crumbo’s first breath are the opening piano keys to “Dreams and Nightmares” by Meek Mill. The anthem pulsates throughout the Wells Fargo Arena and immediately rouses the crowd to its feet.
Ain’t this what they’ve been waitin’ for?
Richard Parker: No.
You ready? Uh, uh
Richard Parker: Still no.
I used to pray for times like this, to rhyme like this…
Nick Stuart: I can’t believe it! They’re all singing along!
So I had to grind like that to shine like this…
Richard Parker: PRIME is never coming back here again. NEVER! How dare they turn on… checks notes… The Anglo Luchador like this! The nerve of these cockroaches!
In a matter of time I spent on some locked-up shit…
Nick and Dick aren’t kidding. You’d think it’s a karaoke concert and not a street fight at this point.
In the back of the paddy wagon, cuffs locked on wrists…
But, just like the silence before, that’s about to change. Suddenly, there’s action up on the Crumbo. The instantly recognizable Bobby Dean, aka the Hammer of Honalee, emerges from a doorway on the right hand side of the hall. He’s tracked out in electric-blue from head to toe, and seems to be in good spirits.
IYKYK.
Richard Parker: Leave it to Bob to redefine the phrase hot streak.
Nick Stuart: 2024. Who knew?
The arena wide rap along stops for some Bobby Dean raucousness to ensue.
YEAH!!!
Tiny Tony Two Books shoots out next; only trailing a few steps behind Bobby to mooch some of his pop. He’s in his wrestling gear from the match prior, but still manages to blend via the top half of his tracksuit. So, just an unzipped jacket.
Yeah!!!
A few seconds later, joining the waiting Bobby and Tony in the hallway, is Coral.
The crowd welcomes him, too.
BOOO!!!
Nick Stuart: WOW! I wasn’t expecting that!
Coral is also in his ring gear because of the prior match, but unlike Bob and Tony is free of any electric-blue athletic wear. He does have his 15 Minute Championship around his waist so that might have something to do with it.
Or it might not.
Richard Parker: I bet the booing has more to do with his forehead than anything else. Definitely not the snubbing.
Nick Stuart: I have heard Philly is very anti-forehead.
Richard Parker: That’s probably why the Anglo Luchador wears a mask.
The crowd quickly relents because after all Coral is the Golden Bandit, which allows “Dreams and Nightmares” to pick back up.
I’m gettin’ cream, never let them hoes get in between…
Nick Stuart: Only one left.
Of what we started, lil’ crumb but I’m LION-HEARTED…
The King of COOL exits last, and words can not describe the ROAR of the crowd upon seeing him.
YEATYNSHSHDNDEAH!!!!!!
Richard Parker: Oh. My. God.
Noticeably absent is Cancer’s ring gear. No boots or tights; in their stay the most electric pair of blue track pants you’ll ever see and some Salt Force Ones. Though, that’s not to say a King isn’t dressed for the occasion.
Nick Stuart: Is that a…?
The walls start to shake. The ring ropes begin to vibrate. The ground is under the threat of cracking. It’s absolute madness inside the Wells Fargo Arena.
YEAHSHSNRARGHEAY!!!!!!
The pandemonium becomes so great that the music continues on, but whether or not anyone can hear it is up for debate. In fact, it’s so loud, so obnoxiously loud, that Nick and Dick can’t even be heard when talking into their headsets. That in mind, Nick just said, “imagine when he gets out here!”
Nick is not wrong, either.
But first, Cancer the COOLympian, by way of Philadelphia, will have to finish making that walk. As such, he passes by Coral, Tony, and even Bobby without acknowledging them. Not to snub them, no, that’s been done enough already, but because his focus is narrowed. There’s only one thing on his mind, and coincidentally enough, Bobby Dean happens to yell it out while falling into line.
“Kick that motherfucker’s ass, Jack!”
Before Tony joins the ranks he looks over at Coral oddly. Not because of the size of his forehead, or because Jiles has begun to calmly whistle, but because he’s never been a part of something like this before in his life. It is a sheer spectacle. One, which he, and a worried Golden Bandit can’t help but to be a part of.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine for War Games.” — Capt. Coral Avalon while watching his BIG GUN march towards a pit fight, probably.
The Reservoir Bandits reach the end of the long hallway, and make their way down another one which lets out near the entrance ramp. Mr. COOL gathers his brethren around, looks each of them in the eyes, and insinuates that he’ll go at it alone from here. Before heading out he bends down on a knee and fist bumps Tony. Then, he quickly pops back up, extends his hand to Coral, pulls it back at the last second, and slyly runs it through his GODLY ALFREDO MANE. Finally, he leans in and gently kisses Bobby Dean on his beautiful forehead for good luck.
YEHASUSWAHEAH!!!!!!
“Dreams and Nightmares” comes to an abrupt stop. The backstage shot on the Crumbotron 97000 switches to that of a rotating egg. A spotlight clangs on and illuminates the top part of the entrance ramp. Smoke starts to billow and fill the space that the spotlight is illuminating. Silence, in the form of anticipation, washes over the pandemonium.
Nick Stuart: Can you hear me? Dick? Are you there?
Richard Parker: I’m here, Nick.
Nick Stuart: This is madness!
Richard Parker: No, Nick, this is PRIME.
Just when things cool off some, the coolest guitar riff in the business explodes throughout the arena and we’re right back to full on, shit-show levels of pandemonium. Instead of trying to talk over it again, Nick and Dick simply take off their headsets and allow things to play out.
YEAGSUGAGUWLWLWLLEAH!!!!!!
Screamin’ Jay tags in to serenade the crumbs.
I’m the one your mama warned you about
When you see me, I will leave you no doubt
I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth
I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth…
Out from behind the curtain and into the smoked out spotlight steps the PRIDE of the pack, Cancer Jiles.
Everyone except for Nick, Dick, TAL, and the seven people who came to see TAL: I AM THE COOL!!!!!
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!! BOOM-BOOM!!
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!
…………..BOOM!
The Maestro of COOL releases a short blast of his COOLYMPIAN YOLJK into the atmosphere, and then starts to stalk his way down to the ring. Every so often, like he rules the world, he returns a fist bump with a PRIMEate sitting along the entrance ramp. Once he gets down to the ring, he takes a lap on the outside so all the people who paid good money get a chance to see him in full ceremonial garb.
Nick and Dick take the moment to clock back in.
Nick Stuart: First, that’s an alfredo-white lion’s mane! Second, Jiles hasn’t even acknowledged The Anglo Luchador’s existence yet. Not even a glance in his direction.
Richard Parker: Can’t say I blame him for that.
Nick Stuart: OH SHIT! LOOK OUT BELOW!
Before the bell can be rang, before instructions could be read, before Cancer Jiles was done doing whatever the fuck that entrance was, The Anglo Luchador decided that it was enough and explodes at a full sprint and leaps over the top rope with a shoulder tackle to a still lion helmed Cancer Jiles.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Nick Stuart: The luchador is done with this entrance and is coming out swinging!
DING DING
Vince Howard scrambles out of the ring and back to ringside, while Elvis Nixon rolls his way to the outside. The Anglo Luchador has Jiles up against the barricade and is hurling right hands at him. Jiles finally manages to duck the gigantic lion skull down and TAL’s right hand crashes into the reinforced hat? Is Jiles a hat man? Maybe. Maybe he is.
Richard Parker: TAL with a right hand to Cancer Jiles’ hat!
Even Dick knows
Nick Stuart: Looks like that backed the luchador off momentarily and Jiles can recoup.
Richard Parker: Even when something bad happens to TAL, that means it’s good for Jiles. And when it’s good for Jiles I hate that, but it was something bad that happens to TAL…
Nick Stuart: While Richard Parker has his mental breakdown here at ringside, I’ll continue calling the match.
TAL turns while shaking his hand, Jiles pulls himself up with the barricade, and TAL spins back. He comes back towards Jiles, but Cancer manages to catch him with a kick to the stomach. TAL stumbles backwards and the still lion covered Jiles comes forward with a right hand. He smashes TAL’s skull into the barricade and tosses him over into the crowd. Jiles shrugs the lion pelt off and follows after TAL. The King of COOL looks for TAL but the Luchador is waiting further down the barricade. He explodes forward and smashes Jiles with a short arm lariat.
Richard Parker: Garbage attracts garbage, look at these two running into a sea of their people.
Nick Stuart: It’s Philadelphia, Richard!
Security hops the barricade and begins spreading out in a perimeter around the two superstars. The Anglo Luchador grabs Jiles by his alfredo white hair and throws him into a line of folding chairs. The chained together row of chairs twists and falls over, while TAL jumps over the chairs and begins throwing right hands. Jiles manages to get his feet on TAL’s hips, he shoves the luchador away and scrambles back to his feet. Jiles knocks another row of chairs over as he gets to his feet, and stumbles towards TAL. TAL takes a swing but Cancer connects with a poke to the eye that sends The Anglo Luchador stumbling backwards up the aisle towards the stairs.
Richard Parker: Where are these idiots headed?
Nick Stuart: Wherever they want, it’s a street fight.
Jiles follows behind, he grabs a beer vendor’s cooler, but the vendor yanks it back, Jiles grabs two cans instead and follows after TAL. TAL is blinking and holding his face as Jiles approaches. With his one good eye the Luchador sees Jiles coming and launches forward smacking Jiles across the chest with a knife edge chop. Jiles stumbles backwards and as TAL comes forward again, Jiles tries to swing one of the cans at TAL’s head but the Luchador manages to block Jiles’ and smashes him in the nose with a left jab.
Richard Parker: What kind of beer did Jiles grab?
Nick Stuart: Guess.
Jiles pulls back with another can but TAL manages to pepper him with another jab, and manages to wrestle one of the cans away from Cancer and smashes him in the skull with the can sending the beer spraying everywhere and the crumbs of Philadelphia cheering.
Richard Parker: Who are they even rooting for?
Nick Stuart: It’s Philadelphia, they root for violence.
Jiles stumbles backwards up the aisle but TAL comes in pursuit, he sends Jiles careening into another row of recently evacuated chairs. Jiles spins down the aisle and TAL comes charging in, but Jiles turns with a now freshly shaken beer and sprays it into TAL’s face. The Luchador recoils from the Miller Lite blast for a second and it’s all Jiles needs to slide out of the way. TAL crashes into and over the chairs, while Jiles hops over the wall and begins punching TAL repeatedly in the side of the head.
Richard Parker: Jiles must be upset about something.
Nick Stuart: TAL got it in the Alfredo white.
Richard Parker: Excuse me for a second while I hurl.
TAL shoves Jiles off of him and gets to his feet. As TAL climbs to his feet, Jiles smashes him with a double ax handle to the base of his skull. TAL stumbles back into the main aisle as Jiles follows. The Son of Shogun spins and smashes the pursuing Jiles with a right jab, then a left jab, and follows it up with a cross that sends Jiles slumping to his knees. The old luchador yanks a chair free of the group and turns back towards Jiles.
Richard Parker: I mean if Jiles dies here I’m not mad.
Nick Stuart: Big swing!
CLANG!
The Luchador brings the chair down but Jiles manages to roll out of the way as the chair crashes off of the cement floor. Cancer instantly rakes his fingernails down TAL’s unprotected back. The first Intense Champion of the ReVival era drops the chair and stumbles up the aisle. Jiles scoops the chair and takes a menacing swing at TAL who manages to duck under the swing and catches Jiles with a drop toe hold. The eGGsecutioner hits the concrete, but manages to roll to his feet at the same time as The Anglo Luchador. TAL charges forward but Jiles manages to move out of the way and sends TAL careening into the concrete wall separating the floor from the stadium seating.
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO TAL!
Richard Parker: What are these idiots yelling?
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO TAL!
Nick Stuart: I think they like the wrestlers Richard, I know, it’s weird for you.
Jiles rushes at TAL looking to smash him against the wall, but the old luchador moves out of the way and Jiles goes face first into the wall. TAL smashes Jiles’ off of the concrete, then turns and tosses him over the barricade and onto the stairs. TAL spins around the steel railing and comes forward with a dropkick to the face of the seated King of COOL.
Richard Parker: Holy shit, our first wrestling move.
Nick Stuart: Does that even count?
Richard Parker: We might not get many tonight Nick, gotta take what we can get.
The Anglo Luchador uses the railing and pulls himself up to his feet, he turns and grabs Jiles by the ankle and yanks him up five or six stairs. TAL goes to yank Jiles up another few steps, but Jiles manages to kick his foot free and climbs to his feet. He comes up the stairway at The Anglo Luchador a blue of fists and boots.
Nick Stuart: I don’t think Jiles took too kindly to being dragged across that arena floor.
Richard Parker: It’s probably covered with piss and vomit. All of these savages in here.
Jiles backs TAL towards the opposite steps, but as Jiles swings a right the old luchador hops up onto the concrete wall and gracefully takes three steps down the steel beam before driving a knee into Jiles’ skull from the side sending him up the arena seating stairway. Security rushes past the men and pushes a few fans away from Jiles as they line the aisle way. The Anglo Luchador stomps up the stairs after Jiles who is half crawling, half scampering his way up the stairs and away from him.
Richard Parker: Look at that rat run!
Just as Dirty Dick disparages the name of The Greek God of COOL’s name, he fires his way back into the match. The Anglo Luchador finally manages to catch Jiles and spins him around in the aisle looking for a big elbow smash, but Jiles manages to jab TAL in the eyes and slams his head off of the dividing railing. Jiles continues his way up the stairs shaking his head and The Anglo Luchador follows.
Nick Stuart: Looks like the rat was playing possum.
Jiles makes it to the top of the stairs and disappears into the dark arena hallway. The Anglo Luchador pursues and finds a plastic trash can shot for his troubles. Jiles grabs TAL and slams him head and arms first into the tile wall, and treats The Luchador like a human pinball down the hallway. The two men stumble out onto the concourse of the Wells Fargo Center between section 122 and 123. The Anglo Luchador manages to knock over another green trash can before turning back towards Jiles.
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO TAL!
The fans in the neighboring sections begin to spill out of the arena and onto the concourse, Jiles grabs TAL and tries to throw him into the concession stand register but TAL manages to get his foot up on the counter, he then counters by smashing Jiles head first through the register and sending him flipping to the other side. The concession staff scrambles out over the counter and The Anglo Luchador slides across the opposite direction. Jiles is dragging himself to his feet, with blood pouring down his face, but The Anglo Luchador adds insult to injury by smashing Jiles’ head through a hot pretzel machine.
Richard Parker: Hope they are salty enough for you! HA!
Nick Stuart: Jesus.
The first Intense Champion of the ReVival era grabs Jiles by the hair and yanks him off of the counter. He tries to slam him headfirst into a coke machine but Jiles manages to get his foot up against the wall to stop TAL, and instead slams the luchador headfirst into the fountain coke machine. He opens the ice freezer and jams TAL’s head down, he holds him in the ice for a moment and then shuts the door on TAL’s neck.
Nick Stuart: That was certainly a COOL move.
Richard Parker: I’m going to be sick again.
Jiles stumbles across the concession counter slipping something into the pocket of his tracksuit, his face now a crimson mask of blood, and his alfredo white hair clearly had touched the gravy he is leaking from his forehead and is now a mix of red and pink streaks. The luchador stumbles across the counter holding his neck, Jiles pounces with a kick to his midsection. The Maestro grabs the Son of Shogun by the back of the head and slams it off the mens room sign. TAL shoves Jiles down the bathroom hallway and follows holding his face.
Richard Parker: A Philadelphia arena bathroom. There is nothing more disgusting on this planet.
Nick Stuart: Oakland.
Richard Parker: Shit. You’re right. There is one shit hole arena worse than anything built in the city of Philadelphia.
As TAL comes around the corner, Jiles turns and catches him with a thumb to the eye and then sends TAL careening into an overflowing bathroom trashcan. Paper towels fly, and Jiles tries to put a boot to the luchador’s midsection but TAL manages to roll to his feet. He grabs Jiles by the back of the head and slams him headfirst into the bathroom wall above the urinal. Jiles’ face leaves a blood stain and TAL whips him around towards the sinks. Jiles manages to stop just before the sink and jabs TAL in the throat. The Conquerer of COOLympus smashes his opponents head into the mirror and turns smashing him into a closed bathroom stall door.
Richard Parker: Jesus Christ.
TAL’s body manages to crash the door off the hinges but he doesn’t get very far into the stall. Jiles grabs him by the back of the mask and spins him back towards the sinks and mirrors. As Jiles winds up to smash TAL into the mirror he shouts.
Cancer Jiles: Sorry Bob!
TAL uses the door to brace himself and the mirror shatters as the stall door connects with it. But it manages to stop TAL from taking any damage.
Bobby Dean: Hi Cancer! Oh hey, I can see myself!
Yes, there is a Beautiful Man from Honalee in the exact stall Cancer Jiles chose to slam The Anglo Luchador into. His electric blue tracksuit pulled around his knees, his smart phone in his hand. Bobby’s cherub-like face looks down at the phone, and back up at a mirror, he goes to wave but the camera cuts away to The Anglo Luchador turning and jabbing a bathroom stall door into Jiles’ midsection.
Richard Parker: Thank God the cameraman is talented.
Nick Stuart: We’d have had a lot of explaining to do. Jiles might have armed TAL though!
Richard Parker: Imagine how that bathroom smells with Bobby in there… That’s gotta be worse than Oakland…
Jiles stumbles backwards away from the door wielding luchador. Jiles tries to escape but TAL runs forward, he smashes him through a plastic garbage can, once again paper towels going everywhere, and into the concrete wall. TAL presses him against the wall and backs away ditching the door. Jiles punch drunkenly stumbles out of the bathroom door, desperate not to hit the probably hepatitis riddled floor. He makes his way back into the concourse, before falling flat on his face.
Richard Parker: Half the arena has to be out there in that hallway Nick.
The Enemigos and the arena security push the fans backwards as The Anglo Luchador exits the bathroom. He flips Jiles over and lays down for a pinfall. Elvis Nixon counts standing up, instead of sliding on that dirty ass arena floor.
ONE!
TWO!
Richard Parker: Shit! I wanted this over with.
Nick Stuart: I’m sure you do.
Jiles thrusts his shoulder up from the arena floor and the crowd being held back by security ooohs. The Anglo Luchador gingerly gets back to his feet, as Jiles struggles up to his hands and knees. TAL grabs Jiles by the hair and the back of his track suit and throws him face first into plexiglass case holding the awards and trophies of the Philadelphia Flyers. The section of the arena known as the ‘Flyer’s Experience’ is our next destination.
Richard Parker: I hope they don’t make it to the 76er’s experience.
Nick Stuart: Why?
Richard Parker: It’ll just be disappointing since they don’t give trophies for Eastern Conference Semi-Final losses.
Jiles’ face slides down the plexiglass, leaving a streak of blood and The Anglo Luchador kicks the glass twice, finally knocking the pane of glass out of the trophy case. He grabs the heaviest thing he can lay his eyes on, a display replica of the 1975 Stanley Cup. He lifts the trophy over his head like a true hockey captain and brings it down, smashing into Jiles’ ribcage. He rolls the trophy off and lays down on top of Jiles.
Richard Parker: He hit a man with the Stanley Cup.
Nick Stuart: We are never coming back here.
Richard Parker: He hit a man with the Stanley Cup.
Nixon decides not to lay on the broken glass and once again counts standing up.
ONE!
TWO!
Jiles once again shoots his shoulder up and an audible ‘oooooh’ is heard from the crowd.
Richard Parker: I thought he was done when Lord Stanley came crashing down.
Nick Stuart: He probably hurts inside.
The Anglo Luchador carefully picks himself up off the ground, and Jiles haphazardly makes it to his knees. TAL grabs Jiles by the hair and pulls back a right hand, but Jiles fires off a right hand to TAL’s waistline that causes him to slouch down. In one motion, Jiles jabs TAL in the throat and finally the luchador backs away. TAL turns around to a now standing Jiles who in one motion reaches into the pocket of his track suit and jabs TAL in the mask with the item.
Richard Parker: What the hell is that!
TAL stumbles backwards, and Jiles comes forward grabbing TAL in a headlock and repeatedly jabbing the item into his forehead. Jiles grimaces and begins running the item back and forth across TAL’s mask covered forehead.
Nick Stuart: HE HAS A DAMN PIZZA CUTTER!
Richard Parker: HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
TAL slumps to the ground holding his face and kicking his feet. Jiles tosses the cutter to the side, and flips The Anglo Luchador over onto his back. He moves TAL’s hands from his face and smashes him with a right hand into the now blood covered and partly missing section of TAL’s mask.
Nick Stuart: I can’t believe what I’m seeing…
Richard Parker: Two homicidal maniacs trying to kill each other?
Jiles gets to his feet and drags TAL up by the torn part of his mask, trying to tear it more. TAL throws a shot into the COOLympian’s midsection, then another, then another, and finally Jiles fires back with a right hand of his own to TAL’s wounded forehead. The luchador stumbles backwards and Jiles sprints in, diving at The Anglo Luchador with an attempt at Terminal Cancer, but TAL ducks under and places his shoulder between Jiles’ legs. He lifts him up over his head and launches Jiles through the already broken pane of glass, and through the false wall behind the trophy case.
Nick Stuart: Jiles through the wall of the trophy case!
Richard Parker: And that idiot luchador is following him.
TAL slowly picks himself up off of the ground, cuts all down his back are shown from the broken glass. He carefully picks his way through the trophy case and the Jiles sized hole in the wall. The fans aren’t allowed to follow but Elvis Nixon and a cameraman do. On the other side of the plaster wall, the camera immediately turns to the right, and we’re in a service hallway. Jiles has managed to crawl his way partly down the hallway, but The Anglo Luchador closes the gap rapidly. He catches Jiles and spins him around, but catches a face full of yjolk for his trouble.
Nick Stuart: Jiles caught him!
Richard Parker: That cockroach is using every trick in the book… and I’m not even mad because it’s happening to The Anglo Luchador.
The Anglo Luchador recoils covering his eyes and stumbles backwards down the hallway towards Nixon and the cameraman. Jiles continues the opposite direction, finally clawing himself up, using a doorway to help him. The luchador turns around and stumbles back down the hallway towards Jiles, still wiping the viscous yellow fluid from his eyes. He makes his way to Jiles, and Cancer pounces.
Richard Parker: That idiot can’t see and he’s still chasing him!
Nick Stuart: That about sums up The Anglo Luchador. Headfirst. Always.
Jiles smashes TAL with a forearm that sends him pinballing into the narrow hallway wall. TAL turns and fires back with a wild looping right that Jiles manages to duck under. Jiles smashes TAL in the stomach with a left hook, but the luchador fires back again, and his inability to see isn’t as much of a detriment inside of a hallway. TAL fires away with a right hand that shakes Jiles and sends him reeling further down the hallway. He finally makes it to the end, and turns around just in time to get caught by a thundering Luchador.
Richard Parker: OH! OW!
TAL lunges forward and spears The COOLympian through the door and out back into the concourse. Nixon and the cameraman follow them out and try to separate the now forming crowd from the wrestlers as The Enemigos and security make their way through the crowd. TAL rolls to his side, wiping the yellow substance and the blood away from his eyes while Jiles slowly gets to his feet.
Richard Parker: Jiles looks awful.
Nick Stuart: He went through a wall.
Cancer Jiles stands up, his hair pinker than Jared Sykes’, his face covered in cracked and dried blood, bits of drywall still falling off of his shoulders. The old luchador makes his way to his feet, the top of his mask cut and torn open, blood seeping out and running down his face. His back covered in cuts and scratches, looks across Jiles in the now full concourse.
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO TAL!
Philadelphia demands more, and the two men oblige. Straight to the center of the circle they go, Jiles with a collar and elbow tie-up, TAL slips through into a hammerlock, Jiles rolls through on the granite floor, and back up to his feet. He takes a swing with a roundhouse kick, but TAL ducks under and smashes Jiles to the floor, skull first, with a poison rana.
Nick Stuart: POISON RANA ON THE GRANITE! POISON RANA ON THE GRANITE!
Richard Parker: Did you hear that squish sound he made?
The Anglo Luchador spins Jiles over and hooks the leg. We’re far enough away from the bathroom and glass that Nixon drops to the floor for the cover.
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
ONE!
TWO!
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KICKOUT!
Nick Stuart: JILES KICKED OUT! JILES KICKED OUT!
Richard Parker: Cockroaches and Cancer Jiles. The only things that will survive nuclear winter.
TAL nods to Nixon as Elvis holds up two fingers in his direction. He gets to his feet, and drags Jiles up behind him. He marches through the wall of Enemigos and tosses Jiles over the plaster wall for the club bar. TAL jumps the rail and grabs a bar stool, he turns and takes a vicious swing with the stool at Jiles, who manages to roll out of the way.
Nick Stuart: Lindsay Troy is going to be pissed when she writes this check.
The bar stool explodes against the side of the bar, and Jiles rolls away to safety. TAL follows, still clutching a stool leg in his right hand. Jiles stumbles his way to the bar and rolls across it. TAL swings with the stool leg and just misses Jiles, he slides across the bar. The luchador takes another swing at Jiles, but Jiles turns around with the iPad register and uses it to block the stool leg. The iPad explodes, and Jiles drives a knee into the luchador’s stomach. Jiles reaches down, grabbing a tall beer glass and smashes it across the luchador’s skull.
Nick Stuart: And I see we’re into glasses, those are a little cheaper.
Richard Parker: It’s the club section bar Nick, the poors don’t get to go in there.
TAL continues stumbling away from Jiles who is now just throwing bottles at the Luchador, and really anything he can get his hands on. All the sweet and low in the bar? It’s in the air. The pile of toothpicks? They flew, along with the phone and a cup of pens. In between the random bar paraphernalia. In between the bar materials, beer bottles and liquor bottles are flying. The crowd piles around the club bar area, while a few daring patrons begin to line the walls before the Enimigos and security regain control.
Nick Stuart: Jiles throwing everything at him!
Richard Parker: Literally, I think I just saw someone’s keys go flying.
Jiles continues his murderous charge and makes it to the end of the bar, absolutely obliterating The Anglo Luchador with Terminal Cancer. TAL goes flying, backwards over the bar, he hits the floor, skidding into tables and stools, sending them flying.
Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER! TERMINAL CANCER! THAT’S IT!
Richard Parker: NO. HOLY SHIT I’M ROOTING FOR THE LUCHADOR!
Nick Stuart: YOU REALLY DO HATE JILES THAT MUCH.
Richard Parker: ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY!
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO JILES!
The COOLympian makes his way out from behind the bar, and tosses a bar table to the side, three stools, and a second table that had fallen on The Anglo Luchador. He lays down across him and Nixon slides in for the count.
ONE!
TWO!
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KICKOUT!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nick Stuart: THE ANGLO LUCHADOR KICKED OUT! HE KICKED OUT!
Richard Parker: GOD DAMNIT! YES! YES!
LETS GO TAL! LETS GO TAL! LETS GO TAL!
The arena explodes as The Anglo Luchador shoots his arm up into the air. Jiles turns towards the apparently tricky Elvis Nixon and pleads his case, but Nixon shows him two fingers. Jiles shakes his head and goes back to The Anglo Luchador. He bends down to yank him to his feet by his mask, but TAL has a surprise for Jiles. He begins rapidly jamming his right hand into Jiles’ previously open wound over and over again.
Nick Stuart: What is TAL hitting him with?
Jiles stumbles away from The Anglo Luchador with his hands covering his face, the luchador slowly picks himself up to his feet. Jiles turns towards the camera and yanks a metal fork out of the cut on his forehead. Yes. He yanked a fork from his forehead. His forehead begins spraying blood again, this time much worse. TAL comes from behind Jiles and smashes him with another bar stool across the back. Jiles stumbles, knocking more tables over. He grabs a bar stool of his own and turns towards The Anglo Luchador.
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
Richard Parker: In all of my days…
The two men charge at each other, both brandishing bar stools as if they were Claymores. The Luchador swings down powerfully and Jiles’ stool crashes from his hands. The COOLympian rolls across the open space in the bar and manages to grab a second stool just in time to turn and block the luchador’s vicious swing. King Crumb snarls.
Nick Stuart: We’re watching a bar stool fight.
Richard Parker: These two are so dramatic.
The stoolfight in progress picks up in intensity, TAL swinging the bar stool on the attack, Jiles parrying and dodging. The two men dance around the bar, until Jiles spots an opening and slips his boot into The Anglo Luchador’s rib cage. The Founding Father of The eGG Bandits takes advantage and goes on the offensive with the bar stool. He jabs it forward, into TAL’s ribs TAL tries to swing downwards, but Jiles sidesteps and smashes The Luchador in the ribs with the stool. TAL doubles over, dropping the stool, Jiles charges forward and smashes him against the bar with the stool. Jiles tosses the stool to the side and drives The Anglo Luchador backwards against the bar, choking him. TAL manages to get a hand up onto Jiles’ collar, and struggles but grabs Jiles’ neck. Jiles tries to posture up but TAL manages to sit up against the choke and the two men are back on level footing, the others throat in their hands.
Richard Parker: OH FUCK!
Nick Stuart: Are they just choking each other?
Richard Parker: Yeah, I think that’s where we are now. Breath holding competition. This might be one of the happiest moments for me in PRIME history.
TAL shoves Jiles back across the empty floor by the throat, and TAL comes forward looking for an elbow smash. Jiles ducks underneath the elbow attempt and drives a left hook into TAL’s midsection. The crowd around the bar area has quadrupled in size as people try to look and get a view. They have climbed onto the bar wall, taken spots on top of stands, anything to get a look at the carnage. Jiles shoots off another hook, but this time TAL side-steps leaving Jiles swinging at air, he grabs King Crumb around the waist and tries to lift him for a german suplex, but Jiles manages to step around behind TAL. Jiles drops down and brings The Luchador up into the electric chair position.
Nick Stuart: OH NO! OH NO!
Jiles launches the two men backwards into a pile of stools and tables. The Anglo Luchador takes the worst of it, his back crashing down into the middle of the pile, while the back of Jiles’ head smashes off of a stool, and he’s jabbed in the shoulder by a random table leg. Jiles writhes on the floor, while The Anglo Luchador lays motionless on the pile.
HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!
Richard Parker: I think he fucking killed him.
Nick Stuart: I don’t know if you are wrong or not Richard, but that was unbelievable.
The crowd roars as TAL finally begins to roll around in the broken mangled mess of things. Jiles claws his way back to his feet, a pool of blood where he had laid face down. His chest heaves as he looks into the pile. Jiles’ eyes widen as he sees TAL still moving. He moves a broken bar table out of the way and approaches TAL.
Richard Parker: I mean he’s alive. That’s good?
Nick Stuart: This has been incredibly violent this evening… and I don’t know what hell these two men can put each other through next.
The Luchador weakly tries to swing something at Jiles, but The Greek God of Cool still drags TAL up to his feet. He steps back as well as he can in the pile, he comes back forward and absolutely massacres TAL in the center of the face with Terminal Cancer.
Richard Parker: AGAIN! HE GOT HIM AGAIN!
The luchador crumples to his knees. His body slouching off to the side, Jiles looks at him almost begging him to fall over, but he doesn’t. He comes back up to his knees and takes a swipe at Jiles, but gets blasted with the third superkick of the evening. This time the Son of Shogun flops over backwards and Jiles dives on top of him and hooks both legs. Nixon now standing on top of the pile begins an audible count.
Elvis Nixon: ONE!
Elvis Nixon: TWO!
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Elvis Nixon: THR—
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Elvis Nixon: THREE!
Nixon calls for the bell as EMT’s immediately rush into the bar. Somewhere inside of the arena the bell faintly rings.
DING DING DING
Nick Stuart: Get them in there now! Holy… Oh my God…
Richard Parker: I don’t know what the hell we just saw…
Nick Stuart: Violence Nick, it’s what the city of Philadelphia demands. And it’s what these two sons of the city gave them tonight. Incredible violence.
Can be heard, but here, in the club, Nixon claps his hand three times. Jiles rolls off of TAL and stares up at the lights. Both men, laying arms outstretched, chests heaving. The crowd is absolutely silent as they watch the EMT’s swarm in. They circle both men and begin checking on them, somewhere from the crowd Bobby Dean, Tony Gamble and Coral Avalon make their way through to Jiles, while Sykes, Colton, Ellis and Youngblood make their way through to check on The Anglo Luchador.
Somewhere in the crowd a single clap can be heard.
CLAP
CLAP CLAP
CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP
The entire bar area, the concourses, the atriums, all of them begin clapping and cheering.
Nick Stuart: Unreal. I have goosebumps.
LET’S GO JILES!
LET’S GO TAL!
The chanting starts for their fallen brethren. It doesn’t stop, Nick and Richard stay dead silent as the scene unfolds with the fans still chanting and screaming. Thirty non-stop seconds of chants. The scene fades to black.
THIS
IS
PRIME
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