ReVival 43

ReVival 43 jolts to life with Mr. Lucky Number Seven himself, The Hammer of Honalee, The Eggsecutioner, The Captain of the eGG Bandits…

…Robert Dean.

Bobby’s decked out in electric-blue with the stripes to match. He’s got on the T-shades, his hair is parted to the left, and he’s standing upright behind a chest high, wooden podium that has the Crest of the Bandit plastered on the front of it.

A big egg.

Next to Bob and the podium is a PRIME flag hanging from a pole.

Next to that is a fern.

Surreous business.

Seated in a row behind Robert, and dressed the same way are his brethren of the yolk and shell: “Hard Boiled” Coral Avalon, “COOL” Cancer Jiles, and Tony “Two Books” Gamble. Yes, Coral’s forehead looks even bigger when seated next to Gamble. Yes, that’s even taking into account Tony is sitting on top of his telephone books. Yes, Jiles’ face, and more precisely the area where the “laceration” occurred is still heavily bandaged.

Bobby Dean: My fellow PRIMEates. Before ReVival 43 gets underway and another watershed, where were you when it happened type of moment occurs, I’d like to take a minute to address the elephant in the room.

Yes, Bob is talking about himself. In both instances. The streak, and snout.

Ha.

Bobby Dean: Last show, it was right about now when for whatever reason Lady Troy, Queen of both eGGs and of the ring, decided to look kindly upon me. She didn’t have to, but she did and I’m forever grateful for her blessing. However, by doing this, Team Coral, Team Bandits, Team GooGle Docs, Team Seamen, Team We’re Still Figuring The Name Out, now has two Captains on it.

The Beaute from Honalee carefully removes the T-Shades and places them on the podium.

Bobby Dean: So, after talking it over with my fellow brethren, and in the interest of keeping a level playing field for all parties involved, and more or less to save everyone’s sanity… and most importantly to not step on his toes and dick along the path to War, and above all because he deserves it; I, Bobby Dean, the one who is struggling to breath after the comma blitz, hereby cede Captainship of the eGG Bandits to my fellow brethren, Coral Avalon.

Jiles falls out of his chair. It would seem that even knowing beforehand wasn’t enough to stem the shock from hearing it. Gamble is unsuccessful in trying not to laugh at him. Coral proudly stands up, steps over the quivering COOL, and takes his place at the podium. Him and Bobby shake hands like a couple of macho maniacs, and then Bob takes a seat after laboriously helping Jiles back into his.

Coral Avalon: Thank you, Bobby. It won’t be easy to uphold the standard you put forth, but I promise to try with every bone in my forehead to do so.

The Crownless King clears his throat.

Bobby gives him a gratuitous thumbs up.

Coral Avalon: I know it’s been a TRYING couple of weeks, what with the long national nightmare of Bobby not being on the team. There’s been a lot of sleepless nights. Jiles almost got sent to a Wawa a couple of weeks ago. I’m pretty sure Tony makes an accordion sound now when he walks. But, my hope is that we can put all of that behind us, reaffirm our shell, hold our heads high, and leave a smattering of broken eggs on the faces of those who stand before us in WarGames.

All nod in agreement.

Coral Avalon: Speaking of WarGames, in an effort to promote unity, and trust, and since being the Captain of the Bandits also means that I’m the Captain of the USS Octane, my first act as Captain is to invite our guest Bandits? Temporary Bandits? Whatever we’re going to call them on this WarGames team… unpaid intern Bandits? Do we even have interns?

Oops.

Jiles falls out of his chair again.

Coral Avalon: Whatever. I’m inviting them on board the ship to prepare for war, with the caveat that we don’t put any of them in cryostasis, cross our hearts, hope to die, winky face.

Coral repeats those last few words to himself, as though realizing he probably shouldn’t have said any of them. He decides it’s better to move on.

Coral Avalon: As for my second act…

He surveys the room, and his eyes are drawn towards Jiles who is still lying on the ground after falling out of his chair the second time.

Coral Avalon: Jiles, can I have a moment of your time?

The embattled COOLYMPIAN slouches up from the ground and begrudgingly stumbles over to the podium like a stubborn child. So, like he normally would.

Coral Avalon: Listen. I might be the Captain now, and Bobby is still the Eggsecutioner, but…

Coral gestures to the T-shades that are still on the podium, untouched.

Coral Avalon: …if we’re going to have any shot at surviving this thing, you have to be the one who wears them.

A gasp. The Maestro looks like he’s seen a ghost. His naked, confused gaze finds Bobby, who gleefully nods yes to him. Bob likes surviving. He knows the team’s chances are better with a T-shaded Jiles.

Coral Avalon: Go on…

Slowly, the former Universal Champion reaches out, until like a magnet the Skynet heirloom is drawn to the palm of his hand.

Bobby was right.

Tonight is going to be a where were you when this happened type of night.

Coral Avalon: …become once again who you were always meant to be.

COOL.

King Crumb explodes to life upon T-shading back up. His bandages instantly loosen. His hair pulsates with radioactive conditioner. His dick hardens. His heart blackens. His collar instantly starches and pops.

His swag has returned.

Not to worry though, once the main event rolls around and it’s time to say how Jared Sykes got his Golden Ticket that should change.

Until then though…

Coral Avalon: Hi! I’m Coral Avalon, the new Captain of the eGG Bandits! Welcome to ReVival!

We cut to…

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/ReV43-Commercial-Take-2.mp4

Live… from the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, New York…

It’s REVIVAL 43!

POP! POP! POP!

The sounds of fireworks fill the arena as the fans go crazy while showing off their signs…

Did someone say signs?!

SIGNS!

COME MISTER JARRY MAN, JARRY ME BANANA
IF VAE VICTIS WAS ACTUALLY IN WARGAMES I WOULD’VE SHIT
[USER @POWERBOMBS HAS SIGNED OUT]
RANDALL, I KNOW YOU CAN SEE THIS FROM UP THERE! YOU OWE ME $20
DO WE ACTUALLY HAVE TO LET RANDALL DOWN WHEN THE MATCH IS OVER?
DAYTONA WAS JET SKIING TO THE SUBMERGED UNDERWATER SITE WHERE FLAMBORGHINI RESTS IN DAVEY JONES LOCKER
SKI-DOOS AND SKI-DONTS WITH DAYTONA DIAMONDS
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD HANGING OUT WITH THE RATS IN THE NEW YORK SUBWAY SYSTEM. HE HAD ONE DUCT TAPED TO BOTH FEET AND WAS USING THEM LIKE ROLLERBLADES. I TOLD HIM TO STOP AND HE JUST KEPT YELLING “TOWER OF RATEL” OVER AND OVER AND IT REALLY SCARED ME.
THAT SIGN COULD FIT ON CORAL’S FOREHEAD
FRED DICK GOT ME INVOLVED IN A PYRAMID SCHEME AND NOW I’VE BEEN EMBALMED
COKE FROM A CAN IS WAY DIFFERENT THAN COKE FROM A BAG
BOBBY DEAN’S BOWEL MOVEMENTS ARE A VIOLATION OF THE GENEVA CONVENTION
SO MANY DIAMONDS IN ONE MATCH, IT’S LIKE ZALES OUT HERE
I’M A JET SKI MAP TRUTHER, WE ARE LEGION

EVERY KISS BEGINS WITH K…ERRY KUROYAMA, CALL ME
ALL THESE PARAGRAPH-LONG SIGNS AND NONE OF THEM ARE BIGGER THAN JARED SYKES’ ASS GO JARRY!!!!
THE DOUBLEDAYS AND DAYTONA SHOULD START A STABLE AND CALL IT THE DOUBLE DEEZ NUTS
WINTERS IS COMING – THANKS TO LORDOPLEX E.D. FORMULA FOR MEN! USE CODE DONGWINTERS AT CHECKOUT FOR FREE SHIPPING
OH NO IVAN’S MOM IS HOT

Nick Stuart: Good evening everyone and welcome to ReVival 43! I’m Nick Stuart and I’m coming to you live with Richard Parker and an action packed night.

Richard Parker: Did you practice that in the mirror?

Nick Stuart: Yes. We’re opening tonight with Coral Avalon’s first defense of his Alias Championship against relative newcomer Dan Van Slade!

Richard Parker: I like the cut of this Van Slade guy’s jib. Real class act.

The PRIME logo is centered in the shot.  The camera slowly zooms out so that Dan Van Slade, the Super Deviant, and his agent David, stand before the first hour demographic.  The Deviant’s cape is pulled over half his face so that only his beading eyes stare into your soul.  David stands awkwardly about five feet away from Dan so that a portion of his body is cut off by the shot.  The Super Deviant rips the cape from his face and presents a sinister grin.  He points a stern index finger at the camera and begins his slighting.

Dan Van Slade: Tonight there will be a 20th Alias champion!  Mr. Avalon will leave this building with his head down after being driven into the canvas with the Deviant Driver.  Just don’t look too far down, Coral.  We don’t want you to fall face first due to your abnormality.

What abnormality, you ask?  Dan answers that by pointing at his own forehead.  A bit of clarity before he continues.

Dan Van Slade: I’ve fought against creatures much larger, strength greater than the force of a thousand armies, with bigger foreheads, sharp teeth, razor claws, wings that spread lengths of football fields, and with each challenge I’ve come out bigger, better, stronger and with the hunger of a billion Hiptonians.  I will return to the Fortress of Deviance with the gold of a fallen man.  David, what’s next on our agenda after I slay thy God of Frons?

His agent is caught off guard by the question but answers quickly.

David: We won’t know until after the match is over.

That’s not the response DVS was looking for, so he redirects the conversation.

Dan Van Slade: I pity the fool stepping into the ring with the Super Deviant.  They know not.  MAKE IT KNOWN!  Say my name from the tallest peaks and let it vibrate the great towers of man’s creation.  Dan Van Slade!  DAN – VAN – SLADE!  Arghahaarguuurrglearggghhhhhh…!

The Super Deviant throws his arms in the air and begins to head bang as if listening to Ronnie James Dio, who may or may not be considered an Earthly treasure to Dan.  Gurgling, gargling, growling, whatever that was that spewed from Dan’s mouth was galactic aggression and it semi-frightened his agent who is currently staring at his client with eyes of concern.  The Deviant stops on a dime, his eyes piercing, he’s not even out of breath after that fit of electricity and rage. He reaches out and grabs an imaginary round object and then squishes it with an uber clasp.

Dan Van Slade: The Super Deviant will destroy all those who oppose him.  Your futures are at risk, and your legacies at the mercy of my uber deviant strength and extraordinary cleverness.  I AM HIM, the alpha, the omega, THE HARBINGER!  Coral Avalon – you will stare up at your conqueror and he will spare you for you will be the messenger that warns the masses.  THY KINGDOM COME, PRIME.  THY – KINGDOME – COME!

He lunges forward and grabs the camera to pull it toward his face.  His teeth clenched.  The Super Deviant lets out an estranged growl that can only be described as “ERRRRGARRRRRRRGGGGG”.  Cut back to ringside.

Nick Stuart: ok.

For once, there’s no darkness that heralds the arrival of the Alias Champion, Coral Avalon. The guitars of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” hit immediately, and out walks four men in a diamond formation. Fan reaction is generally mixed between cheers for Avalon and boos for the other Bandits – the suddenly united front of Cancer Jiles, Bobby Dean, and Tony Gamble.

All of them in their electric blue jumpsuits. Jiles has his T-Shades back. Bobby is as cherubic as ever. Gamble as microscopic as ever without the aid of a 4k television set. And Avalon is wearing the Alias championship around his waist, the belt currently known as the “Fifteen Minutes of Pain”.

The Bandits are united.

And that always spells trouble.

Vince Howard: His opponent… residing in Seattle, Washington! He weighs in at two-hundred and fourteen pounds! THE GOLDEN BANDIT! THE CROWNLESS KING! THE PRIME ALIAS CHAMPION! THIS! IS! CORAAAAAALLLLLLLLL AVALOOOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!

Together, as one, the Bandits make their way to the ring.

Richard Parker: I’m sick to my stomach that this man, this crumb, is wearing his stupid sunglasses again.

Nick Stuart: Well, Coral Avalon’s been named as the Captain of the eGG Bandits, and… I don’t know what that means, I’m gonna be honest!

Richard Parker: This man is in control of a goddamn aircraft carrier and I’m not even sure he should be in charge of a Denny’s with all of the personnel decisions he’s been making lately!

Avalon and the gang reach the ring, and Avalon stands on the apron. Unstrapping his championship from around his waist, Avalon holds the gold in one hand as he raises both arms in the air for the hard camera.

Bobby and Tony both seem to be trying to mimic Avalon’s pose, to varying degrees of success. Jiles? Jiles is busy being too COOL for posing.

Once the posing is done, Avalon steps through the ropes and into the ring. He hands the Alias championship off to referee Elvis Nixon and goes to remove his tracksuit to reveal his ring gear.

Richard Parker: I didn’t know this was going to be a dark match.

Nick Stuart: What do you mean?

Richard Parker: CORAL’S FOREHEAD IS BLOCKING THE LIGHTS!

Nick sighs deeply and shakes his head.

Nick Stuart: You’re a real class act. Bobby Dean, Cancer Jiles, and Tony Gamble at ringside supporting and showing a unified eGG front.

DING DING

In the center of the ring the two warriors stand. Coral, the goodest guy, holds out his hand to engage in a time honored tradition of chivalry and sportsmanship. Dan Van Slade looks at Coral’s hand and the gesture with a cocked eyebrow. A mocking smirk crosses his face. In a surprisingly graceful swift movement he slaps away Coral’s hand and hits him with a Three Stooges style finger poke to the eye. Elvis Nixon immediately separates the men, hollering at Dan Van Slade not to push the envelope.

Richard Parker: This guy is an animal, look at that tenacity. Future Alias Champion right there.

The two fighters circle one another, sizing one another up. Both go in for a strike at the same time: Dan Van Slade with a brutal leg kick that connects firmly against Coral’s left leg just as Coral’s uppercut meets The Lord of Deviance’s jaw. The symmetry of their offense throws both men off, pushing them to take a step back and think before going in again. Once again they meet as Despicable D throws a left jab and The Bounty Hunter finds a place for his knee in the quad of DVS.

Richard Parker: This is like watching a kid fight his own shadow.

Both men lean in for a grapple lock now, moving forward and backwards trying to gain momentum. After two dances back and forth, Van Slade gets fed up and lands a knee to Coral’s eGGs. A resounding wave of boos hits the ring as a result of this move. Van Slade smiles, looking around at the crowd as he grabs the downed Crownless King by the back of his head. He pulls Coral in and introduces his throat to his arm for a European uppercut.

Nick Stuart: Van Slade taking advantage of that cheap shot throws the Alias Champion into the ropes and catches him with a belly to belly suplex.

Richard Parker: You can’t go against a guy who calls himself The Lord of Deviance and not protect the boys. Bad move on Coral’s part that really highlights he’s not ready to be a champion.

Nick Stuart: Sure. Coral tries to get up but Van Slade hits him with a lariat off the rope and it sends Coral head over heels.

As the Alias Champion gets himself up, Dan Van Slade hunches over waiting in the corner. The anticipation builds to a frenzied level in the arena as Coral finally gets up and turns around to see a charging Van Slade going for a spear. Before DVS can duck, though, Coral hurls himself onto his shoulders for a headscissors takedown. The ring shakes with the impact but both men are quickly to their feet and begin trading strikes back and forth. It’s a flurry of leg kicks and chops and jabs and uppercuts, oh my.

This back and forth begins becoming rather one sided with the scales tipping towards Avalon. It has, however, taken its toll on both men. The fans watch intently, like waiting for the popcorn to finish, as the time between strikes grows.

Richard Parker: Feels we’re waiting like waiting for popcorn to finish popping.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Have you never made popcorn at home?

Nick Stuart: No? Back to the action… Coral Avalon is firmly in control of this battle of wills now as The Deviant One is on the receiving end of three consecutive strikes. Coral is reaching in to grab Slade by the head now and oh, a finger to the eye by Dan Van Slade.

Richard Parker: I don’t even want to imagine where those fingers have been.

Both announcers shudder, their imaginations running unfettered.

Capitalizing on the stunned champion, Dan Van Slade quickly nails an old school DDT. Coral springs up surprisingly quick and swings wildly at absolutely nothing before falling face first into the mat, much to the amusement of The Deviant One. DVS stands over Coral taunting him before putting a boot on his throat. Showering in the boo’s, he sticks his tongue out at the fans as he uses the ropes to apply extra force.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon getting in there to break things up.

Richard Parker: You need every advantage you can get when you’re going against a forehead like Coral Avalon. Have you ever noticed how much he looks like

A loud beep echoes throughout the arena to notify participants and fans that one minute remains. Dan Van Slade looks up from the crumpled pile of blonde forehead below to the screen. It reads 00:59 currently. Panic sets in and DVS is suddenly wearing the anxiety as he moves in to close the deal.

Nick Stuart: Oh no, it looks like Dan Van Slade lost track of time!

Richard Parker: You fool! Hurry up and end this!

Nick Stuart: Van Slade is now pulling Coral to his feet- oh a VICIOUS suplex. And another one in rapid succession, but we’re down to forty-five seconds now.

The Deviant One eyes the clock one last time before going in for the kill. He lifts Coral up onto his shoulders for the Deviant Driver.

Richard Parker: There it is, call in the dogs and put out the fire, this one is done.

Tony Stuart: And it looks like Dan Van Slade is about to land… nope, at the last moment Coral rolls off his shoulders in an amazing display of athleticism.

Richard Parker: NO!

Both men are dazed, but have the wherewithal to charge at the opposite ropes and towards one another. Van Slade reaches back with all of his might to deliver a lariat and at the last moment Coral ducks. The entire stadium erupts as Coral bounds off the ropes to land a Rhongomyniad. The clock has zero regard for these men and continues to inch towards 00:00.  Just thirty seconds remain.

On his back “Deviant” Dan Slade looks up at the lights of the stadium. They’re growing ever smaller as he fades out. Soon they’re replaced with the dirty soles of both Coral’s boots.

Nick Stuart: And Coral lands the Carnewennan. The King’s Armaments.

Richard Parker: Son of a bitch.

00:10 now.

Nick Stuart: Coral walks towards his downed opponent and plops down on him with a thud.

Will the count beat the clock? Elvis Nixon drops down for the count.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner and STILL PRIME’S ALIAS CHAMPION…. CORRRRRRRRRRRAL AVALONNNNNNNNN!

The eGG bandits join Coral in the ring, Coral hoisting the Alias Title up with a smile as his compatriots help him up. Elvis Nixon tends to Dan Van Slade as the eGG Heads make their celebratory rounds. Once DVS is stirring Coral goes over to shake his hand, but the Super Deviant slaps it away in frustration.

Nick Stuart: We couldn’t have asked for a better way to start this night.

Richard Parker: Sure we could’ve, Dan Van Slade could’ve won.

We cut elsewhere.

Oh.

Hello there!

My guess is that Brock is about to go “It’s the NEWS, you should read this segment.” without reading it himself.

We’re onto your game!

But that’s neither here nor there.

The Cold Open has been seen and our Alias Title match is down and out.

It’s time, ladies and gentlemen, for your weekly NEWS.

We return from last week’s Russian influenced WON ACTION NEWS TEAM to the more traditional intro we have all grown to know and love!

Mid 00s TNA style WON ACTION NEWS TEAM graphics start flashing on the screen. That real trashy good stuff that makes you feel like someone is getting the most out of their photoshop subscription. These images are joined by the intense throbbing of the WANTS techno/saxophone theme music.

Crash Jackson, Roving Reporter

A rather dejected looking Crash Jackson appears on screen. He is seated in the back, probably a locker room, following his last loss. He doesn’t seem to realize he is being filmed as he kind of just zones out. It’s clear he is unhappy but also a little confused. It’s like his whole world has been turned upside down and he’s trying to figure out where it all went wrong. There is a weird stuttering static on the screen and suddenly Max Kael is standing behind him, his hands on his shoulders. A creeping smile spreads across Max’s face as the music shifts into an ominous brown note.

Violent Purple, Sports

Returning to the more upbeat and uptempo sound of the WANT’s musical theme. Violent Purple appears on screen next, dressed as a baseball player with a bat in her hand. She winks toward the camera before taking a faux swing. Just like before, however, static corrupts the image. The brown note hits again as a shadow with an outline similar to Max Kael appears behind her. In that inky blackness a wide, toothy smile spreads as he grows closer and closer.

The Herald, Human Interests

A video of the Herald being carried aloft by various other Heralds in different colored tunics is rejoined by the WANT’s theme. He looks to be waving at somebody off camera, it is hard to say for sure. Suddenly one of the Herald’s carrying Bentley trips. This results in a domino effect as all of the Heralds carrying the Herald collapse to the ground. Bentley is sent flying through the air before he crumbles to the ground like a discarded Burger King wrapper.

Max Kael!, Lead Anchor

Finally we see the Lead Anchor for the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, the INTENSE Champion himself, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. He is standing on his News stage in his normal black three piece suit, a wicked grin on his face. Max holds the same bat that Violent Purple had in her video. He winks toward the camera before taking with the bat striking a mannequin with David Noble’s face pinned to it. The bat knocks the head clean off causing Max to whistle loudly.

This is the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM.

Brought to you by FOOTPRINTS by Don Winters. I don’t know, maybe it’s a shoe company or something? I don’t read, like,  anything.

We return to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE where Max Kael is seated behind his news desk. As is becoming a tradition, the INTENSE Title is on full display. This week it is sitting on the desk, facing the camera, just off to the right.

Max Kael!: People of PRIME, if you can even be labeled as such, welcome to the WON ACTION NEWS, where the NEWS comes first regardless of how tired we are or how long we had a day at work.

Max adjusts his seating so that he is looking at the camera from a different view.

Max Kael!: First and foremost I want to address the elephant in the room. Due to budgetary constraints we’ve had to decide on a few cost cutting measures. To that end we will be rolling Human Interests and Sports together, since they are technically the same thing. That means that Violent Purple will be working with Crash Jackson from here on out!

From off screen a sudden outburst of rage signals that this might be the first time Violent has heard this news which makes sense. If she already knew, it wouldn’t be news, right?

Max Kael!: Oh it won’t be that bad! Crash is a great gu-

Before he can finish, Violent purple charges up onto the news stage ready to attack Max. We cut away for a moment as a “WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES” on screen. A few moments later it clears away with Max looking disheveled and sporting a little blood on his lower lip.

Max Kael!: Speaking of Crash, let’s check in with our roving reporter and find out what he has discovered in his enthralling deep dive investigation into Nashville Hot Chicken!

The INTENSE Champion turns to look at a monitor.

Crash: I love you, Max.

Max blinks as the cameras find Buffalo’s Finest outside the Barclays Centre, WANT action jacket on and obligatory finger pressed to his ear. He looks at the camera urgently.

Crash: OKAY I won’t talk about that on air. Anyway, We’ve reached this who-

There’s chanting behind our favorite news reporter. A lot of chanting. Too much fucking chanting, bro. That’s why Crash can’t focus. Max lifts an eyebrow up behind his news desk as he is further confused by what is happening.

Max Kael!: Crash? Crash what is happening? Don’t tell me you’ve lost the news again?

Back with Crash we find that he has begun to move from his designated reporting spot toward a crowd of people protesting something.

Crash: A large group of people have gathered outside of the Barclays Centre, Max!

Max Kael!: Yes, Crash, I can see that but what has that got to do with Nashville Hot Chicken?

New York’s finest doesn’t seem to hear or acknowledge Max’s question as he charges forward toward the crowd. As he draws nearer to the crowd they can be seen to be holding CITIZENS AGAINST FRED DICK signs and posters. Apparently Fred Dick has pissed off enough people to draw a protest.

The sight of the people, their chanting, the noise, the colors, the signs, it’s all a little too much for Crash as excitement seems to creep over his face.

Max Kael!: Crash? Crash?! Damn it, see, this is why we need Violent Purple there! Where did she go?!

Back at the protest Crash is moving through the people, high fiving folks and joining in the chants because they sound fun. Eventually he finds a young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing a C.A.F.D. complete with neck beard and Walmart brand PRIME merch.

Crash: So what brings you guys out today!? What is this Citizens Against Fred Di-

Before Crash can finish the image cuts off and we are returned to a very cross Max Kael. He straightens his tie and arranges the papers on his desk around as he gathers his thoughts. After a few awkward moments Max slips back into that practiced smile.

Max Kael!: It seems our correspondent is having technical issues. We’ll revisit the Nashville Hot Chicken story when Crash gets BACK ON ASSIGNMENT. Production, make a note, Crash will NOT be able to make it ring side for my match tonight!

His temper finally breaks through his fake smile as Max gets up out of his chair and picks it up over his head. It looks like he’s about to throw the chair at the camera when we cut away once again.

“TECHNICAL ISSUES, PLEASE STAND BY” 

We cut back to Max who has managed to calm down from his little temper tantrum. He stares forward at the camera with a twinkle of barely contained lunacy in his eyes. There is a chair set out next to his desk for his upcoming guest.

Max Kael!: We end WANT tonight with an interview with a man who has made a splash recently after he was drafted to the same team as the man I am going to face later tonight for my precious INTENSE Championship..DAYTONA DIAMONDS!

The INTENSE Champion points toward the tunnel that leads to the WANT stage. On cue the promised guest, Daytona Diamonds, appears in the threshold. He has his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a look in his eyes; somewhere between worry, confusion, anger, and that feeling you get when you’re about to throw up, but you’re trying really hard not to, so you kind’ve close your throat and maybe you can’t breathe all that well, but hey, you’re not throwing up, so that’s cool.

Needless to say, he sits down.

Daytona Diamonds: Alright, Maxxy. Alright, alright, alright. This, uh… this one of your creepy little things, huh? Nice set. Looks fuckin’ cheap, but y’know, s’alright.

The smile plastered on Max’s face cracks as his left eye twitches under Daytona Diamond’s blistering critique.

Max Kael!: It costs a lot of money to look this cheap. You should know, Mister Diamonds, Cowboy and Jetski enthusiast. So.. tell us.. WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?!

As we cut back to Daytona to get his answer the tunnel he arrived through appears to have been replaced with a pair of swinging doors.

Daytona smirks, crossing one leg over the other. He leans back in the chair, getting real comfy. That’s Interview 101: Be comfy. Own the space. Make it your own.

Daytona Diamonds: Weeeeeeelp, I reckon you just ‘bout summed up the who, Maxxy. Rhinestone Cowboy, Jet Ski Connoisseur, King of the Rodeo, Daytona goddang Diamonds. Y’know, best wrassler in this company, your record ‘gainst him notwithstandin’.  The why, though? Well, you ain’t gonna believe this, but I was ‘bout to ask you the same dang question. Why’re you in my Diamond Mine Bar and Grille, Maxxy? You tryna square dance?

The camera shifts back to Max. A cardboard cutout of America’s sweetheart, 1990s Alan Jackson, has appeared behind him, cardboard eyes staring menacingly. Max’s black tie has been replaced by a Texas string tie though he doesn’t seem to notice either.

Max Kael!: Sir, you are incorrect! You are on the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM stage. This is my desk! That is my news wall! I wouldn’t be caught dead in enemy territory, Daytona. We all know you and the eGG Bandits are over there planning some heinous War Games strategy, a stratagem headed by that forehead operating a below average body Coral Avalon. But don’t you worry your pretty cowboy head, Daytona, because I sent my HERALD to deal with that leader of yours. You could save me some time and just fess up to it now, cowboy!

As the camera shifts back to Daytona the staging behind him has turned into a wall filled with western themed tchotchkes and knicknacks. Among them, a small portrait of a horse riding a jet ski sits, covered in dust. Against all logic and reason, it looks like it’s from the 1800s.

Daytona Diamonds: Aw, hell’s bells, Maxxy. Is that what this’s ‘bout? Lemme tell you somethin’: I ain’t got the foggiest fuckin’ idea what those yolky little peckerwoods are plannin’. I ain’t met with ‘em, I ain’t talked with ‘em, I ain’t had nothin’ to do with ‘em. Ain’t plannin’ on it neither. That forehead with legs we’re callin’ a leader picked me ‘gaisnt my will, pardner. Didn’t even say please. Only reason I’m goin’ through with it is ‘cause… well, hell. Guess I like havin’ a spotlight on me. You get it. Right, Maxxy?

Another camera shift, another change. Max’s desk has turned into a poker table, complete with an ashtray full of smoking cigarillos, a stack of chips, and a spread of cards.Max looks down at his hand to find it filled with cards. His outfit has been replaced with an old time poker dealer outfit completely with green visor. He’s also got a monocle and a big handlebar mustache.

Max Kael!: …gonna haf’ta break yer heart, iff’in ya ever had one “Dreadful” Daytona Diamonds. ‘Fore I got mah-self a STRAIGHT FLUSH!

Max smashes down a collection of cards, all from various sets, clearly not a straight flush .Max blinks for a moment before he scowls at Daytona Diamond. At this point the entire stage has vanished and he finds himself standing in the Diamond Mine. He looks bewildered as he looks down at his clothing.

Max Kael!: What..how?.. WHERE AM I AND WHY AM I HERE?!

Panic grips the INTENSE champion.  The camera pans back over to Daytona to find him staring down at his own hand of cards, shaking his head and sighing out loud.

Daytona Diamonds: Hoo boy… got some bad news for you, ‘No Horse’ Kael… I know you’re havin’ an existential fit right ‘bout now, but you’re gonna have to read ‘em and weep, buckaroo.

Daytona slaps his cards down on the table, that smirk on his face curving into a full blown grin. Ace of Hearts, King of Hearts. The camera pans to look at the spread on the table; Two of Spades, Five of Clubs, Jack of Hearts, Queen of Hearts, Ten of Hearts. Daytona leans across the table, pulling Max’s chips across to his side.

Max Kael!: ..well there goes lil’Erald’s consumption medication.

Shaking his head, Max seems to tear himself from the hypnotic illusion of Daytona Diamonds bar. Pulling the hat off his head Max looks around with wild eyes.

Max Kael!: I gotta get the fuck out of here.. Uh.. this.. This has been Won Actio News?… I don’t even know anymore..

He snaps his head back toward Daytona, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

Max Kael!: This isn’t over “Dastardly” Diamonds! We’ll settle this gang ta gang at the ole War Games Corral!..

Max begins to run away before he pauses. He shuffles back to Daytona, reassuming his accusatory stance.

Max Kael!: ..the place with the horses, not your War Games team captain. I realized they sound the same and I just wanted to clarify..p̷͕̓ä̵̡̤͎̳͝r̴̙͆͜t̶̘̥̋̇́n̵̪̟̞̥̥̋e̶͉̥̩͎̘̓̏r̶̛̛̤̈́̍͝ͅ.

The INTENSE champion twirls his handlebar mustache before once again running off, cackling madly. He stops and pulls a pocket watch out of his vest, snapping it open.

Max Kael!: SHIT! Arthur Pleasant! I’m late!

He rips the mustache off his face before bolting through the swinging doors. We zoom in once more on Daytona Diamonds, sighing and shaking his head. He takes his cowboy hat off and sits it on his lap before he looks back up, directly into the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, folks, I reckon that just ‘bout does it for this here tale of the Wild West. They say, after he ran off from The Rhinestone Cowboy, Ol’ ‘No Horse’ Kael fled to the deserts down in Mexico, wanderin’ like a tumbleweed ‘cross that godless expanse. Some say he got shot down in Guadalajara, that big-ass mouth-a his gettin’ a little too loud for the Guadalajarans. Others say he choked on a sip of sarsaparilla while crossin’ the border into Belize. The only thing we know for sure is he died penniless, not a cent to his goddang name, that shitty little belt of his barely even holdin’ up his pants. Fuckin’ sad, ain’t it? As for Daytona Diamonds, well, I reckon he rode off into the sunset like all good cowboys do. Thank y’all for joinin’ us tonight for another episode of The Diamond Mine Storytime Theatre. We’ll be seein’ you down that dusty trail, pardners. Yeehaw!

And just like that, the lights begin to fade and so too does the scene as we transition to… teef.

With the proceedings of ReVival 43 producing all the excitement and heart-peeing action as usual, we come to the docking area of the Barclays Center. Brooklyn’s finest, newest, pristine(est?), and technologically advanced arena out of all the east coast arenas, has at its disposal some of the finest amenities in all of live sporting events. Outside of “Jerryworld”, of course. So much so, that deliveries are received on an average between daily to TWICE daily.

As we zoom in, we see boxes of twenty-pounds worth of frozen hot dogs sold at wholesale. Plasticware, cups, napkins, and other such disposable catering supplies all being handed lifted and tossed to a metal “U-Boat” on six-wheels used for transport . A pretty in-tune operation between four hardworking souls.

A metaphor for the blue collar working American, truly.

???: Hey. FUCKOS.

A familiar voice gains the attention of the vendors working in unison to accomplish their goal of emptying the delivery truck in whatever specified time they were ‘encouraged’ to. The four of them looked on at Arthur.

Arthur Pleasant: Meeting someone here. You think you can fucking scram before we got a problem?

Pleasant’s menacing tone seemed to do a fantastic job in intimidating these hard-working souls. The workers all looked at each other, with concern plastered across their sweaty, unshaven mugs.

Vendor #3: Hey, we don’t want any problems. We know who you are and who you are affiliated with. We’ll get out of here. C’mon, boys.

Three of the four vendors acquiesced, while the fourth— a bold little fucker who is about four-inches shorter than Pleasant— decided to try an get his fifteen minutes by standing up to Arthur.

People can be SO stupid.

Vendor #4: Yeah, and what if we don’t want to m-

Before this fourth, mouthy little vendor could even finish his sentence, Pleasant delivers a spinning back fist that drops him hard against the diamond plated ramp that’s slightly uplifted to reach the edge of the delivery trailer. With his boot on the man’s neck, Arthur never looked more serious or, quite frankly, frightening.

Arthur Pleasant: My fuck around and find out pants are in the wash. Have been for a long time. Now fucking GET! LOST!

Arthur is clearly willing to inflict violence on anyone and anybody that got in his way or insulted his intelligence.

Voice Off Camera: Enough, Arthur.

Arthur whips around to see where the voice is emanating from and promptly releases his boot from the vendor’s scrawny neck. At this point, it becomes clear that the man who enters the frame of the camera is none other than David Noble, looking as if he, too, has left his fuck around and find out pants behind in the wash. The pants he is wearing, blue jeans, do look nice, but they are not fuck around and find out pants. He thinks he should buy an extra pair to bring along with him on special days like today.

David Noble: You can’t help yourself, can you? Assaulting innocent people? Breaking into people’s homes? Snooping through their stuff? You literally can’t get the fuck out of your own way, can you?

He inches towards the man, who looks at him as if he’s entertained by the sight of the man.

David Noble: Is this what you wanted, Arthur? You leave me a threatening note to meet you here… to do what? Watch you and your on-lease teeth tear into everything in sight? Because that makes you a big man? You’re nothing, Arthur. You always have been. You’ve been simply a waste of space everywhere I’ve encountered you. The fact that Lindsay hired you is a miracle. She’ll call me a shithead, but, heh, there aren’t words to describe you.

David looks around and shakes his head.

David Noble: We invited you to our gym against our better judgment. Rose was certain that Ivan would keep you in line, but obviously, we were wrong. So, explain. Because watching you be an asshole is not exactly a newsflash. It’s your opus morendai. You could’ve saved us all the trouble.

Pleasant’s scowl turns into a great big smile.

Arthur Pleasant: Oh, David. I didn’t leave you a completely respectful, non-threatening note for you to come down here at your own leisure just to get into a pitiful verbal spat with you. No, no. You think so lowly of me, David. You wound me with your assumptions and preconceived notions!

Pleasant also looks around, but instead of shaking his head like David just did, he claps to the tune of his own success.

Arthur Pleasant: Nooooo, David. I asked— again,  respectfully— for you to come here to this wonderful little docking area into the furthest reaches of the Barclays Center… for this!

SMACK!

As David is distracted with Arthur Pleasant, the trap is sprung! Blind siding David Noble is fellow War Games team member, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! The weapon of choice? A fifty pack of frozen hot dogs which shatter and break apart upon contact with the back of David’s head.

Max Kael!: Wow.. that was a lot more effective than I would have thought…heh-heh..

The giggle that escapes Max’s lips grows into hysteria as he begins to viciously kick at the defenseless David’s head. Arthur, meanwhile, has descended onto the concrete in the lotus position. Making a bridge with a pair of bent hands under his chin, he bats his eyelashes at the destruction happening in real time.

The first few catch Noble in the jaw and face however, unsatisfied with the amount of damage he is doing, Max looks to escalate things. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small notebook, thumbing through it.

Max Kael!: Whew! I tell ya, so many beatings in one night, it’s hard to remember who all these people are. Nothing personal, of course, just helping out friends!

Pleasant immediately starts clapping. You know, in an over-the-top manner. Think Heath Ledger’s Joker from the Dark Knight in that legendary scene from his jail cell that everyone likes to use as a GIF these days.

It’s not likely that David can even hear Max at this point but that doesn’t stop Max from a little monologuing. Lifting Noble up by his hair, Max plants his foot on the back of his head looking to curb stomp him on the concrete, a sadistic grin spreading wide across his face.

“OI!”

Footsteps are then heard thundering down the largely vacant docking area. Jamaal Ingram, Cory Kensington, Shawn Graham, and the leader of KING, Rose, race down the long concrete hallway. Max and Pleasant look up, devious smiles on their faces.

Arthur Pleasant: Let’s go. Play time with this lot is later. With something a bit more dangerous than blocks of frozen horse meat sushi!

Max Kael!: You bunch of bullies! I’ll remember this!

The pair sprints away as Cory and Jamaal stop at David, kneeling beside him. Rose takes a few extra steps but stops as she spins around and drops to the floor, picking David’s head off of the cold concrete. Bruises and welts are already building on his face and skull while his eyes are firmly shut. Blood seeps out of the open wounds.

Rose: Get help now! We need medical here!

Rose, cradling David’s head in her lap, looks down the hallway while Cory and Jamaal sprint back the way they come, screaming for help for their fallen comrade.

We cut to ringside.

Returning back to the ring we are greeted by the concerned expression of Nick Stuart contrasting with the mirthful smile of Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentleman, PRIME obviously does not condone what we just witnessed. A senseless attack on David Noble, clearly set up by Arthur Pleasant and assisted by his War Games team mate Max Kael. Henious, folks, hopefully we can get a medical report on the condition of David Noble later in the show.

Richard Parker: You know what I want to know?

Nick Stuart: Why did this happen?

Richard Parker: Oh hell no, I personally know why it happened. What I want to know is how Max Kael got from the Diamond Mine to the venders area so quickly?

“A Darkness In My Soul” by Solid Space begins to fill the silence as the crowd reverses course from boos to cheers. As the music starts to build the crowd rises in excitement. As soon as the tempo picks up the Muse Anna Daniels manifests on stage!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels getting a great reaction here in New York!

Richard Parker: Yeah, well, there is no accounting for taste in the backwater of New York.

Anna is joined by Lord Kurosame-sama, the two casting menacing looks down toward the ring. Moving toward the ring the pair don’t seem to acknowledge the crowd, their focus directed down the cage in the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first.. From Mount Perdition, Gallifrey and accompanied by Lord Kurosame-sama.. Weighing 135 pounds… the MUSE!… ANNA DAAAAAAAAAANIELS!

The two climb up into the ring with Anna moving to the ropes to pose for the crowd while Lord Kurosame-sama examines the shark cage closely.

Nick Stuart: For those of you at home wondering why there is a shark cage currently in the ring, for this match both participants will have an ally in the cage to ensure no interference in this match.

Richard Parker: Who would interfere in this match? The Shark Cage is absolutely unnecessary in my book but also, seeing people in cages is a fetish. I heard. Anyway, it’s great for ratings.

Just then the nationalistic sound of the “Russian National Anthem (Trap Remix)” by Michah Ray thumps out over the crowd at the Barclays Center. Strutting out onto the stage is Kenny Freeman with a look of absolute confidence.

Why so confident? He is joined by his partner in crime, Randall Schwartz. Randall is wearing a massive overcoat, like the kind that Alexei has but with less souls of the victims of the Russian Communist Party powering it.

Both men are met with a chorus of boos which they promptly ignore on their way down to the ring.

Vince Howard:.. From Los Angeles, California and accompanied to the ring by Randall Schwartz… he weighs in at 160 pounds.. KENNNNNNY FREEEEEEMAN!

As both Kenny and Randall get into the ring the music dies down. The two share a few whispered words before separating.

Nick Stuart: Now the cage is supposed to keep interference from happening but I don’t trust the Red Army as far as I can throw them.

Richard Parker: And with those pathetic arms, that’s not very far, I get it. But is it really cheating or a creative expression of the will to win?

Nick Stuart: Call it what you will, cheating is cheating.

Randall Schwartz enters the shark cage with a smug expression on his face. It’s clear he has something hidden in his heavy coat as he refuses to remove it before entering the Shark Cage.

Unfortunately for Schwartz, his face drops when he realizes that Lord Kurwo-same is also getting into the cage with him. Panic begins to set in as the door is closed behind him and both men are locked into the shark cage. Randall begins screaming at Kenny Freeman who can only watch helplessly as the cage begins to rise above the ring.

As soon as the cage is about twenty feet above the cage, referee Ashley Barlow signals for the bell.

DING DING

Like a bat out of hell, Anna Daniels launches themself from their side of the ring at Kenny Freeman. The member of the Red Army is still looking up at his partner, Randall, and isn’t able to react in time as the Muse slams into him with a brutal tackle! They mount Freeman and begin to hammer down on him.

Nick Stuart: Daniels launching themself at Freeman to start things off!

Richard Parker: Come on, Freeman! All of Russia is watching this!

They hoist Freeman up to his feet and connect with a brutal chop that sends their opponent into the corner. They size him up again and nearly cut him in half with another vicious chop. They follow this up by ripping Kenny’s shirt off, exposing his upper body.

CRACK!

Without the shirt on the flesh on flesh contact of the chop sounds at least ten times worse. With just the one chop Kenny’s chest has a bright red mark forming across it.

CRACK!

Another follow up chop causes Kenny to collapse into the corner while gripping his chest. The fans begin chanting “ONE MORE TIME” as Daniels acknowledges the request. Grabbing Freeman by his hair, they pull him back up in the corner and line him up once again.

Eyepoke!

Nick Stuart: Well there it is.

Richard Parker: What?! Some creative expression of the will to win?

Nick Stuart: Just stop it.

Whether as part of a greater strategy or a point of desperation, “K-Free” jabs a finger into the Muse’s eye forcing an immediate retreat on their part. While Barlow admonishes the Red Army member of his tactics, Freeman takes a moment to gather himself before charging out at a half-blinded Daniels. He takes them off their feet with a quick clothesline followed by a lightning fast elbow drop! He hooks the leg!

One..

Tw-kickout!

Before Ashley’s hand can fall on the second count Anna quickly throws their shoulder up. High above the two combatants Randall Schwartz is screaming his support while Lord Kurosame-sama watches on stoically.

Keeping the pressure up, Kenny drags Daniels up to their feet and hits a beautiful standing drop kick. The force of the kick sends Anna hard into the corner. Kenny follows up with a running splash to the corn which he chains into a bulldog into the center of the ring! Once again he drops for the cover..

One..

Two…

Kickout!

Another authoritative kickout by Anna though a little slower than their previous kickout.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is refusing to stay down despite Kenny’s best efforts.

Richard Parker: Best efforts? No, I hope not, otherwise the Kremlin’s gonna be upset. Finish this off!

With a growing sense of confidence Kenny begins to stalk around Anna, kicking at their arms and legs while offering belittling commentary. High above Randall cheers along his partner while maintaining a healthy distance from Kurosame-sama.

Nick Stuart: Capitolizing on some skullduggery earlier has really turned this match in Freeman’s favor.

Richard Parker: Careful with the wording. I think Alexei prefers Socialized Skullduggery.

Nick Stuart: ..please..

Eager to wear down his opponent, Kenny locks on a headlock in the center of the ring, jumping up and down to add “effectiveness” to the hold. Daniels seems to fade as he forces them back down onto their shoulders.

One..

Two…

Anna kicks backward and rolls Kenny onto his back, reversing the pinfall attempt!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Kenny is forced to break the headlock as the fans rally behind Daniels. Scrambling back up to his feet, Kenny turns to face his opponent once again..

CRACK!

As if the last five minutes had not occurred, Daniels fires another brutal chop across Kenny’s chest. The strike drives the air out of Kenny’s chest while also leaving another red mark, a welt for later no doubt.

Nick Stuart: Anna has been lighting up Freeman with these chops!

Richard Parker: His chest is redder than the Russian flag!

Still stunned from the chop Kenny offers little defense as the Muse begins to pepper him with jabs and gut shots! Like getting shot up by a machine gun, Kenny can do little save for weather the storm.

With theirr opponent staggered Anna begins to move into the second phase of their attack. It’s suplex time as they swing Kenny over their head with a Tiger Suplex! Not giving him a chance to recover Anna is back on him, hoisting him up into a second Tiger Suplex! Finally, she maintains control and powers Kenny up into an Exploder Suplex!!

Nick Stuart: Two Doctors and a Falling Gallifrey!

Richard Parker: What the hell are you talking about?

Nick Stuart: It’s the name of that combination from Daniels, check your notes for God’s sake!

Anna hooks the leg and looks toward the camera, confident that Freeman has been put away.

One..

Two..

Kickout!

Referee Ashley Barlow indicates that it’s only a two count while Randall can be heard screaming down to his fallen partner. Anna flips off Randall then pulls a still staggered Freeman up into a Blue Thunder Bomb position!

Unfortunately high above Randall Schwartz pulls something out of his coat and tosses it between the bars of the cage! The object falls right into Freeman’s hands as he, in a panic, strikes an unprepared Daniel’s between the eyes!

Nick Stuart: That damn Randall Schwartz just tossed Kenny Freeman something!

Richard Parker: You’re high, I didn’t see anything! Kenny Freeman is just an incredibly gifted striker, Stuart!

Daniels drops to the ground as Freeman quickly drops down into a pinning position!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

Richard Parker: He did it! He did it!

Nick Stuart: No! Not like this!

No! Referee Barlow indicates that it was only a two fall! The crowd surges back to life in support of the Muse of PRIME!

Nick Stuart: It was a two fall! Anna is still in this!

Richard Parker: Woah, woah, woah, this is some broke back bullllllshit!

Kenny argues with the referee about it being a three count. As he is arguing Barlow notices Kenny has something in his hand. He demands to see what it is as Freeman does his best to play innocent. He tosses the object away as it is revealed to have been a pair of brass knuckles! Barlow notices it and picks it up. The two begin a very heated argument.

Anna Daniels starts to stir as a massive welt in the shape of the knuckles.

Nick Stuart: You’re going to tell me that Kenny Freeman’s fist did THAT?!

Richard Parker: Absolutely and how DARE you say otherwise, Stuart!

In the shark cage above it looks like Lord Kurosame-sama has cornered a very frightened Randall Schwartz. After a brief scuffle Lord Kurosame-sama lifts Randall by both legs and violently shakes him. All manner of weapons begin to rain down from the heavy overcoat he is wearing. A bat. A screw driver. Light bulbs. A chair somehow? A hammer and sickle are the last two weapons to clatter out.

Nick Stuart: That cheating, sneaky Schwartz! Look at all that contraband!

Richard Parker: It’s not his fault, that is all standard issue with those big Russian overcoats! You know what this is? This is cultural intolerance!

Both Kenny and Barlow become distracted by all the new weapons raining down. Freeman does his best to try and convince Ashley that none of this is happening. This doesn’t stop Ashley from quickly rounding up the weapons as quickly as she can. Freeman suddenly realizes that his partner, Randall, is under assault in the cage and begins shouting threats at the Lord Kurosame-sama!

SMACK!

With Ashley distracted cleaning up the weapons and Freeman’s eyes on the shark cage, Anna Daniels seizes the day with a chair shot straight to the spine of Kenny! Freeman screams and drops to his knees, his face contorted in pain and shock. Daniel’s tosses the chair away and lines up Freeman.

Richard Parker: What the hell, Stuart! Anna Daniels just cheated and you didn’t say anything!

Nick Stuart: It was that damn Randall Schwartz that introduced the chair! Blame him!

INTERROBANG!

Kenny’s body falls limp to the canvas. Daniels grabs Ashley’s attention as she drops down for the pinfall..

ONE…

TWO….

THREE!!!

Vince Howard: Your winner… ANNA DAAAAAANIELS!

Annal slumps off an unconscious Kenny Freeman as the crowd pours their support onto them. High above the cage is slowly lowering with Randal Schwartz pinned to the wall by the Lord.

Nick Stuart: They did it! Anna Daniels defeated Kenny Freeman despite the best machinations of his partner, Randall Schwartz!

Richard Parker: Yeah but they had to cheat to do it, you didn’t mention that important fact, Stuart!

Nick Stuart: Using the weapon introduced by the other side, Parker! What was it you said? A creative expression of the will to win?

Parker grumbles as we cut to commercial.

CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANK!

We return from commercial to the sound of fist against metal rings through the locker room of KING. Cory Kensington and Jamaal Ingram, wearing jeans and white shirts, look on with concern of Rose. Her eyes are closed, her chest heaving, and her fist crashing against the side of a metal locker. Cory inches over towards her, looking back at Jamaal and Shawn, concerned to say the least.

Cory Kensington: …Rose?

She ignore him. Instead, she continues to, almost methodically, continue to thrust her fist forward.

CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

Jamaal Ingram: Oi, Rose!

Jamaal, seemingly agitated, sits down on the bench.

Jamaal Ingram: We get it, you can punch a locker. That’s not going to help you in your upcoming match.

Rose tunes him out and increases the intensity and velocity of her strikes. As the men look at her, she is seething, breathing heavily through her nose. Sweat builds on her brow and there is clear pain on her face as she bashes her hand into the locker.

Cory wraps her arms around Rose, hoping to stop her. She instead turns into him and begins thrashing against, her fists barrelling down onto the chest of her stablemate.

Jamaal Ingram: Oi! Calm it down!

Jamaal springs up and helps restrain the Hall of Fame daughter.

Cory Kensington: Open your eyes, Rose. Come back to us.

Her chest continues to heave before she opens her eyes; they look possessed.

Rose: Hands. Off. Me. Now.

Jamaal and Cory quickly do as she orders.

Rose: Go to the hospital. Be with David. I’ll be there as soon as I square away Sage and take care of our other enemies.

Jamaal Ingram: You don’t want us with you? Max and Pleasant, they outnumber you.

Rose: I don’t care.

She marches towards the locker room door, ignoring Shawn in the process. She looks back at her stablemates.

Rose: Gloves off.

Rose then exits the room, leaving the three men to themselves as we cut elsewhere.

……STATIC….

……STATIC….

The screen comes to life to the image of a shadowy figure sitting behind a desk.   The PRIME logo banner is set up behind the shadowy presence whose voice has been electronically altered to sound like Orson Welles as Unicron.  A text in yellow lettering, Times New Roman to be exact, which reads in a perpetual loop “WON ACTION NEWS SUCKS….BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD REPORTEDLY MAKES PISS ANGELS….VICKIE HALL HAS HERPES, BUT THAT’S NOTHING NEW….LINDSAY TROY IS A LIAR….ADAM ELLIS IS A CLOSET LOVER OF HOOKAH SHELLS AND ILLEGAL BOLIVIAN COCKFIGHTING…..WON ACTION NEWS ANCHOR IS A RECTAL WART….EGG BANDITS: WHY????? REALLY, WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY????”

The Shadow speaks.

The Shadow:  My fellow Primericans, for far too long I have hid in the shadows and sat in silence watching the public defecation known as PRIME.  We, the people, are becoming weary of watching Ivan Stanislav every two weeks spewing his Communist propaganda, denigrating the PRIME wrestlers and fans because he can speak multiple languages.  I, too, speak multiple languages.  Hab SoSll Quch!  Therefore, I am more than qualified to report that the etymology of “Stanislav” roughly translates to “Pornicator of Fecal Matter”.  In layperson’s terms, his name is “Ivan Shit Fucker” or “Ivan the Fucker of Shit’.  As I learned in my time as , you cannot trust a man who fucks shit.  Ivan Stanislav, your proletariat ideals are deader than disco.  Reaganomics hath slain Communism. Now, babushka, go weep for my words have devastated you.  Your confidence is now shattered.  You, sir, are now on a path, a path destined to result in your own obscurity.

The Shadow raises his hand.  A clicking is heard.  The PRIME banner behind the shadowy figure falls to the ground revealing a picture of Daytona Diamonds.

The Shadow:  Daytona Diamonds. As a Primerican it is your right to use any mode of transportation that you desire.  Be it a jet ski, motorboat, rowboat, motorcycle, bicycle, tricycle, unicycle, go-kart, or even rollerskates.  Do not allow anyone, including that Coral Avalon fellow, to transportation shame you.  That being said, I find you to be a blistering cankersore and I hope you catch pneumonia.  Daytona Diamonds sounds like a spring break strip club containing more sexually transmitted contagions than Vickie Hall.

Yea, but with another raise of his hand, the Shadow presses down on his clicker. The flamboyant image of the Rhinestone Cowboy shifts to the partial image of Bobby Dean.

The Shadow: Bobby Dean. No. Too easy. This is low hanging fruit. Then again, everything about Bobby Dean is “low hanging”.

The Shadow, with a flourish, extends his arm above his head, mashes down on the button with his thumb, and replaces Bobby Dean with the Five Star Champion, Rob Williams.

The Shadow: Ah. Robert Williams. A weak-minded man who follows the one they call “The Father”. Would that make you his “son”? In my experience, all sons disappoint their fathers in due course. You miraculously toppled the reign of Cecilworth Farthington, an achievement in and of itself. However, I chalk that victory to luck. An off night for the former champion. I see you for what you are, a fraud. An imposter. Deep down, in the deepest recesses of your mind, you know what you are: A two star talent carrying a Five Star Championship.

“Click”. Rob Williams’s likeness disappears replacing it with darkness which envelops the Shadow.

The Shadow: Soon, PRIME. I shall step from the shadows and into the light. I will purge this organization of the inequity that plagues it.  A new era is forthcoming…..

….STATIC…

….STATIC….

….silence….

Backstage.

Nothing fancy about it, just two people casually taking a stroll through the corridor on their way somewhere important. Because one of them is Jared Sykes, it’s safe to assume that he’s headed to where the latest big, scary person is so they can throw him through the ceiling, or commit a few casual war crimes. Who knows, maybe a full-sized bus will burst through one of these doors and run him over. In the battle of bus versus dump truck, who wins?

Oh, also this happens, because the schmuck who handles this character finally came to the realization that winning Face of The Year back-to-fucking-back means you get the big pops. Suck a butt, Dusk. [Ed. Note: No, you.] We got JARRY pops now!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!

Hey now, audience, save some of that energy for later. This man is destined to cry later, regardless of what happens in the main event. He might need some of those vibes, so don’t go pissing all the vibes out now. Tighten the seal. Do a little vibe dance if you have to. This got away from me in a hurry, didn’t it?

Right.

Backstage.

Also in this scene is Justine Calvin, and she’s leading the way because that’s her job as the adult in the room. Christ, imagine what’d she be in for if these two ever had kids. The crying. The tantrums. Having to change all those diapers. Not to mention the constant need to have to fend off those mommy milkers from a hungry mouth. And then there’s the baby. Sheesh.

Shit, it happened again.

Anyway, she looks content, and he looks a little bit like he might actually soil himself. Whether that’s from the pressure of the evening or the direction in which they’re headed, who can say. Trips to the boss’ office are, historically, not a good time.

Since we’re all here, let’s be complete assholes and listen in on what they’re talking about, because we’re omnipotent and do shit like that. Also there are cameras and microphones in this world, so it’s not like any of this is a big secret.

Justine Calvin: I’m just saying, it would have been cool if you wanted to hang back for this one. Get in a little late prep for tonight.

Jared Sykes: I don’t think any last-minute cramming is going to help. This isn’t that kind of test. The strangly man is going to try and do a big strangle. Either I pass, or I don’t.

The eternally-patient Ms. Calvin elects to not make a “pass out” pun here, because Nate is going to have his characters show up in this segment any sentence now, and the last thing we want to do is piss him off.

Before we get there, let’s take a moment to have someone from the production crew – we’ll call him Tito – show up to remove one of our players from the board.

Newly-conceived P.A. Tito: Jared! Hey, Jared? Sorry to bother you guys, but I need to borrow you for a second to run through the order of operations for the main event. The media team wants to try to get a couple very specific shots.

Look, it may be real combat, but that doesn’t mean we can’t Broadway this shit up a little with some spicy camera angles.

There’s a brief moment where both Jared and Justine share a glance, him silently wondering if she went through on her promise to get the digital media team involved for photos of tonight, and her wordlessly telling him that, yes, in face she did call in that favor, so smile pretty for the camera, Jarry baby.

Jared Sykes: Okay, right. (to Justine) I’ll catch up in a few, yeah?

Justine Calvin: You know where I’ll be.

And so it was that our new friend Tito led the little idiot man away from his fiancee for reasons related to the television production part of this spectacle.

Which is good and convenient, right? Because Justine needed to be alone if some sneaky, annoying cult lawyer decided to show up.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

Not quite the antithesis of Jarry’s pop, as Chet Fleetwood has only been on PRIME television a few times, but he has already made an impression. The lawyer is holding the ever present FLEETWOOD law book and smirking as he approaches Justine.

Chet Fleetwood: Hey there Jussy. Got a minute?

And yes, it sounds exactly like what you think it does. Maybe that’s why she’s scowling, or maybe it’s because she failed her CON save the minute she got within 10 feet of Chet, and is now suffering the damage from his Aura of Greater Douchebaggery (7th level evocation spell).

Justine Calvin: For you, Chet? No.

She folds her arms across her chest, making a very subtle motion with her left hand in the process. It’s to turn the ring, so that it doesn’t get all messed up in the very likely event she decides to tee off on Mr. Fleetwood, Esq.

Justine Calvin: But I get the feeling I don’t really have a say in this.

Chet immediately puts his hands up.

Chet Fleetwood: Hey hey hey! You make that sound like I am one of those guys who sexually harasses people and won’t take no for an answer, and legally due to the terms of the settlements that is simply not true!

Chet opens the law book and grabs a piece of paper.

Chet Fleetwood: You should really be thanking me for what I’m about to do for you, honestly. And I almost didn’t do it, but I figured “hey, just because she’s making one enormously boneheaded decision in her life doesn’t mean she will make only boneheaded decisions.” So here, I drafted this document for you.

He hands it to Justine.

She lets it hang in the air for a moment, finally conceding when Chet starts wiggling it like he’s teasing a cat.

Justine starts flipping through the pages, muttering to herself as she goes.

Justine Calvin: Blah blah blah, bunch of big words to sound smart. Whole-ass collection of subsections because someone was last-picked in kickball… sole possession of Wyatt Connors’ penis costume? What the fu…

She looks up for just a moment, suddenly thinking this meeting with Lindsay Troy might have been better as an email, if for no other reason then she would have been spared this encounter.

Justine Calvin: Exclusive access to the tear ducts until such a time as they have…

Still reading, still flipping.

Justine Calvin: A prenup. You drafted a prenup.

Chet Fleetwood: I drafted a prenup!

Chet wiggles his fingers as if he just finished a Broadway dance number.

Chet Fleetwood: Now I know you think you love this guy. Sometimes women have this weird desire to nurture and care for people that makes them susceptible to weirdo pathetic crybabies, and I see you have a nose ring so you clearly make decisions on your partner by intentionally going against what is conventionally good. But if you’re going to make this colossal mistake, for the love of God give yourself some security. It’s like Plato said when he drafted the first pre-nuptial agreement…

Chet puts a finger triumphantly in the air.

Chet Fleetwood: “Aristotle, she’s your friend’s daughter, yo! It ain’t gonna last, so don’t lose half your shit!”

Chet grins.

Chet Fleetwood: Minor in Greek Philosophy at LSU, geaux tigahs.

Justine Calvin: There is just so goddamn much wrong with what you just said, that I don’t know where to start. Oh!

Now it’s her turn to hold a finger in the air, as if struck by divine inspiration.

Justine Calvin: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you don’t know a fucking thing.” Socrates. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea. Now, let me ask you a question.

She boops him on the chest with the rolled up prenup.

Justine Calvin: That book you carry around, the one with your name on it… What does it say about backstage violence? Like, you’re a manager, I’m technically on the roster, so the rules here give us a pretty wide berth. It’s a big gray area. You follow me?

Chet Fleetwood plays up the archetype of shitheel pretty well, which means he shows a bit of fear at the perceived threat from Justine. After the initial reaction fades, his smile returns and he begins to rifle through the book.

Chet Fleetwood: Let’s see, backstage violence, backstage violence…here’s a section on defunct tag champs, no one cares about that. Here’s a section on bringing a gun backstage, clearly against the rules, not sure why Ginny Van Lear isn’t Ginny Banned Lear…ah, here it is, backstage violence. “Anyone threatening to hurt the dashingly handsome Chet Fleetwood best do it quick before his angry murderous client walks around the corner.”

Chet points behind Justine to a corner and waits…and waits…and waits. But no one comes. Chet closes the book and shrugs.

Chet Fleetwood: I really thought that would work.

Justine Calvin: Guess that one was turned over on appeal.

You can tell by the smile on her face that she’s proud of that one. And also that Chet has to die. She takes a step forward, and reaches for the collar on his suit. Unfortunately, it’s too late to interrupt his casting of Summon Swamp Beast: Alligator (a 4th level conjuration). Yes, Chet is a wizard now. A shitwizard.

Chet grins meekly.

Chet Fleetwood: I must talk too fast.

For what it’s worth, Paxton Ray has not yet noticed the confrontation. He’s in the middle of a rousing discussion with new friend and Wargames teammate Sage Pontiff.

Paxton Ray: Nah, it’s gotta be a kendo stick. Such a good “whack!” sound.

Sage Pontiff: I’m not gonna like, cast aspersions on any person’s choice of implementation, but how can you not say steel chair?  On utility alone.  What are you doing with a shinai save for whacking and the odd choke?  Steel chair though–swing it, throw them into it, fold it over the neck, hold it to your chest when you fly in the air at them…

It’s clear Sage is now set adrift on memory bliss ( P.M. Dawn, Island Records, 1991 ) of bloodshed across time, a feeling that Paxton can understand–and for all his doobie-croaks and ramblings, the hippy does have an encyclopedic knowledge of violence.  As far as Paxton is concerned, game recognize game.

Paxton Ray: Yeah, that’s a good point. I can’t…

Paxton stops as he realizes what’s going on in front of him. He looks from Justine to Chet and after a minute shakes his head.

Paxton Ray: God dammit Chet, what dumb shit did ya do this time?

Jared Sykes: He overstepped his bounds.

Hey, when did he get back? This must be the part of the segment where people arrive, seeing as all these people are arriving.

Jared Sykes: (deadpan) Paxton.

Jared makes a move to step between Justine and Chet as a kind of human shield for his love, but a slight shift of her posture blocks his move.

Justine Calvin: Habitual line-stepper, this one.

Paxton Ray: Hey.

The Bayou Butcher surveys the scene with a sense of calm. It may be Sage radiating calmness next to him.

Paxton Ray: I’m sure he did somethin’ dumb but I kinda need him for tonight so why don’tcha slide the lawyer over t’me and we…

He suddenly notices the paper in Justine’s hands.

Paxton Ray: For the love’a God, Chet, ya gave her the damn prenup?

Chet Fleetwood: I gave her the damn prenup!

Again with the finger wagging.

Paxton Ray: I should let ‘em beat ya down.

Chet Fleetwood: But you won’t…right?

There’s a long pause as Paxton continues to survey the situation.

Sage Pontiff: Just offering, because I grasp that tensions are high here due to interpersonal weavings, but I’d be glad to get into some fisticuffs on anyone’s behalf if it would solve anything.  So long as you gave him something to make it a fair fight. 

A pause.  He and Paxton catch one another’s gaze, and they both snap their fingers at the same time. 

Unison: Kendo stick.

Sage Pontiff: That’d make this a fair exchange, right? 

Chet’s eyes flit between the odd couple of ultraviolence, and he can’t really figure out if they’re fucking with him or not.  Paxton’s waving the idea off, but Sage looks like he’s just waiting for the word.  Are there any kendo sticks around?  No?  He breathes a small sigh of relief.

Paxton Ray: Come on Chet.

The lawyer scurries around Eminence quickly, weaving his way to Paxton’s side.

Chet Fleetwood: There’s a lot of good in that document. Just think about it.

Justine doesn’t respond, but she does stare at Chet super hard as he walks away.

Justine Calvin: Well, that was… something.

She hands the document over to her partner.

Justine Calvin: Need you to hold this for me. I’m not bringing it into Troy’s office, but we need to keep it so we can set it on fire later.

Now outside the boss’ office, Justine takes a slow breath and glances over her shoulder.

Justine Calvin: Okay, I’ve got this. I’ll find you afterwards, okay?

With that, she raps on the door to Lindsay Troy’s office. A moment later and she’s inside, leaving Jared alone in the hallway.

And leaving us to scroll to our next match.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, here we go, Sage Pontiff and Rose. To say that KING has had an interesting night thus far would be an understatement!

Richard Parker: If by interesting you mean painful, Nick.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, standing 6’4” tall and weighing 201 lbs,. from Joshua Tree, California, SAAAAAAGGGEEEE POOOOOOOONNNNTIIFFFFFF!!!!

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band begins to play over the din of the crowd and Sage Pontiff emerges to little fanfare. He ignores the static coming from the crowd as he rolls into the ring.

The lights then dim inside of the Barclay Center. A siren echoes throughout the arena like a trumpet heardling the end times.

What’s up, danger? (Danger)
What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Then, “What’s Up Danger” by Black Caviar and Blackway plays throughout the Barclay Center

Vince Howard: His opponent, representing KING. She stands at five feet and ten inches tall and weighs in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Hailing from San Diego, California… she is THE SECOND COMING! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!

Two thousand on thermometers
Two thousand surroundin’ us
Travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us
What’s up, danger? (Danger)
What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Rose emerges from the backstage area and the spotlight lands on her. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of black pants with ROSE painted on the sides in purple and a black sports bra. The fans in Brooklyn immediately greet her with a chorus of…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…yep. She ignores them though, looking down the ramp at her destiny.

Ayy, didn’t know they doubted us
Makes it that more marvelous
Sign ’em up, ’cause ominous vibes and I get synonymous
What’s up, danger?
Ayy, don’t be a stranger

She struts down the ramp, confident in herself, even as the fans yell at her. She blocks them out as she reaches the halfway mark of the entrance ramp before she explodes into a run and slides under the bottom rope. As she reaches the middle of the ring, she hops up to her feet and sprints to the opposite set of ropes before placing her right foot on the middle rope and her left foot on the bottom. She extends her right arm high as she screams into the void.

‘Cause I like high chances that I might lose (lose)
I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy
I like tall buildings so I can leap off of ’em
I go hard wit’ it no matter how dark it is

She moves around the ring, shaking her head, stoic.

I’m insane but on my toes
I could keep the world balanced on my nose
I had a slumber party wit’ all my foes
Now I wear them like a badge of honor on my clothes

Rose reaches one of the corners and climbs up to the second turnbuckle, slamming her fist into her chest and raising both arms.

If I’m crazy, I’m on my own
If I’m waitin’, it’s on my throne
If I sound lazy, just ignore my tone
‘Cause I’m always gonna answer when you call my phone

She hops off the middle turnbuckle, moves to the opposite set of ropes, and glares out at the fans.

Like, what’s up, danger?
Like, what’s up, danger?
Don’t-don’t be a stranger
What’s up, danger?

The music then fades.

Nick Stuart: With what happened to David Noble earlier tonight, do you think that Rose is going to be able to compete?

Richard Parker: Considering the wrestling legacy that she is a part of? Even with all this static in her mind, you bet I think she’ll be able to compete. Actually, I think Sage might be in even worse trouble. Look!

She then marches straight up to Sage, who spreads his arms and smiles. The two stand nose to nose, with Rose pushing her finger into Sage’s chest. Sage offers a wide smile. Her animated jawing is offset by frustratingly calm responses from Pontiff. Jimmy Turnbull interjects himself between them and calls for the bell.

DING DING

Turnbull calls for the bell and this match is underway as he parts the two competitors.

Rose paces in her corner for a moment, drawing her hands through her hair, while Sage once more approaches the middle of the ring and speaks calmly to her. Rose looks agitated as she shakes both of her hands and exhales, and then suddenly charges with a lariat. Sage makes no attempt to dodge the blow and takes it straight on, falling to his back hard. Rose bounces off the ropes and drops a quick elbow. She rises, as does Sage, who grins wide and claps for her, wincing just barely.

Nick Stuart: Few people in PRIME are as well versed in the psychological game as Sage Pontiff, and you know he smells blood in the water.

Richard Parker: The uh, shark cage match already ended Nate.

Nick Stuart: Yeah so?

Richard Parker: So we’ve used up all of our shark references for the night.

Nick Stuart: There’s a limit?

While Nate and Richard bicker, the action continues in the ring. Rose rages as Pontiff claps and she rushes him again. She throws an elbow that cracks across his cheekbone, then another, and another and drives him back into the corner. She whips him across the ring to the other turnbuckle. Pontiff hits with authority. He bounces out, staggering but also smiling into a drop toe hold. Sage smacks his face off the mat and Rose bounces up, yelling at him with her arms spread to let him stand.

Sage rolls onto his back and sits up in a seated positon while watching Rose. He nods to her, and Rose bounces off the ropes and baseball slides into his midsection, knocking him across the ring. Sage holds his side and rolls over, wincing.

Nick Stuart: Looks like that one hurt.

Richard Parker: I mean, they’re all hurting. Rose is livid!

Rose kips up and yells at Sage, who pulls himself up by the ropes and holds his stomach. She comes after him again while Sage walks nonchalantly towards the center of the ring, but he quickly catches a wild punch from Rose and tosses her into an armdrag. Rose rises and tries again, with the same result, and with one last attempt, he drags her a third time and sends her skidding across the mat.

Nick Stuart: Sage isn’t really putting a lot of mustard on those arm drags, he’s just toying with her.

Indeed, Rose is about as quick to her feet as Sage is. She leaps and plants him with a standing dropkick, sending him back to the mat. Sage rolls to his side and drags himself up by the ropes once more. The Bodhisattva rubs his chin, checks, and notices a few specks of blood. He nods to himself.

Incensed, frustrated, and enraged, Rose bellows at Sage and slaps her chest, as if goading him to attack her. He is more than happy to oblige. After steepling his fingers and bowing slightly in her direction with a grin, the two move to lock up. Sage flips forward quickly and cracks Rose on the top of the head with a koppo kick. She staggers back into the ropes and punches a rising Sage, who makes no attempt to block it. He smiles and yells at her to hit him again. She does. And again. She swings harder, this time staggering him once more.

Nick Stuart: Rose isn’t usually one to go as deep into brawling territory as this.

Richard Parker: Well, Sage is definitely giving her what she wants: someone to beat the crap out of! You think that might be something in the PRIMEporium? Like a Sage Pontiff doll that you can just beat the crap out of?

Sage’s eyes are glassy now. He’s staggering more as he takes a spinning heel kick to the jaw that sends him up and over the top rope to the floor below. Rose vaults over the top rope all the way to the floor as Jimmy Turnbull begins to count as the two are outside.

ONE!

Rose drags Sage up and spins for a spinning back fist, but Sage blocks it. She kicks at him and he does the same, blocking while backpedaling. Rose throws another punch, which is blocked, a knee, which is also blocked. Pontiff nods to her, goading her while simultaneously complimenting her. With less and less regard for her form or her safety, Rose throws herself at Pontiff with a blatant charge…

…and he gracefully steps to the side.

CA-CRAAAACKKK!!!

Using her momentum against her, Pontiff shoves Rose at a faster clip, destabilizing her as she crashes, head first, into the steel steps. The steps scatter across the floor while she flips upward and lands atop the bottom step on her back.

Nick Stuart: Despite this being a match, Pontiff looks… happy?

Richard Parker: Well I mean she did just do a header into the ring steps.

Nick Stuart: I know Richard, but he seems more pleased with Rose becoming more and more unhinged!

Richard Parker: Oh, so the stairs are just bo–

CLANG!!!

We’re drawn from our bickering announcers when Pontiff picks Rose up and sends her shoulder first into the steel post. Turnbull, who has made it to a six count, stops and admonishes Sage, who takes a step away and looks up at Turnbull, speaking calmly to him.

Rose clutches her shoulder, but her rage and frustration wills her to stand. One member of KING was already carted out of this arena, there wouldn’t be a second. Sage turns to see her with a knowing, and almost understanding, smile. He chops her hard against the chest…

…but Rose doesn’t stop. She drives Sage’s back into the apron, hooks him, and double arm DDT’s him onto the floor! Rose is on him immediately, screaming as she grabs him by the hair and rolls him into the ring. She hops up onto the apron, then springs off the top rope and dives into the ring. She lands firmly on Sage but rather than hook a leg, she starts swinging hell for leather with lefts and rights.

Turnbull admonishes her and starts to count. She nods and drags Sage up by the hair and whips him into the corner. She handsprings into a back elbow, but Sage slides to the side. She hits her back hard into the corner and takes a boot to the midsection. While Rose staggers out of the corner, Sage fluidly swings around her for the…

Nick Stuart: Cosmic Resonator by Sage!!!

Richard Parker: That’s it!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–Kickout by Rose!

Richard Parker: What?!

Rose barely gets her shoulder up, but Sage cannot help but look surprised. He lifts Rose up slowly, locking up with her and speaking in her ear.

His offense is sudden and vicious. He sends her into the ropes and hits her with a leaping forearm strike. Rose’s back hits the ropes as she staggers and takes a kick hard to the side, a measured elbow strike across the side of the head, and a crescent kick to the opposite side of the head. Rose spins and lands hard on her side.

Sage goes for the pin.

ONE

Kickout with authority by Rose.

Rose rises, but she’s still staggered. Sage has a mix of surprise and also satisfaction on his face. He allows her to rise at the same time as she, but Rose is a little closer. She hits a european uppercut, a knife edge chop, and then she sends him into the ropes. Sage rebounds and she leapfrogs him. He bounces off again but he ducks a back elbow. Still rebounding, Sage comes back and absorbs a spear by Rose. He holds onto her as she drives him into the ropes. Sage bounces back with her still bent, and…

Nick Stuart: Shamanic Dreamwaver!!

Richard Parker: Sage used the momentum of the spear and the ropes to hit her with the Dreamweaver!

Sage winces as he holds his side, but he sits up and hooks the leg.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band begins to play through the arena as Sage slowly rolls off of Rose. He pauses for a moment, whispering something in Rose’s ear, before dragging himself up off the mat. Despite the win, he looks dazed by the punishment he just took, and he slowly exits the ring. Rose lays on her back and stares up at the lights. After a few moments, she slams both of her hands flat on the mat and sits up in a seated position and hangs her head.

Nick Stuart: That was an unorthodox match, but that’s what you get with anything related to Sage Pontiff. Big win here for the Bodhisattva. We’ll be back folks. ReVival 43 is just getting started! Debut of Fred, uh, Dick against Swanny, and don’t forget we have the Universal Title match Main Event!!

We cut elsewhere.

We’re about to head to the communal locker room, so everyone cover your bits.

We good?

All right then.

We cut to the communal locker room, where the PRIME superstars prepare for action…unless they’re huge stars, like Hessian or Cancer Jiles. Or in stables, like FLAMBERGE or Cancer Jiles. Or just so obnoxious that nobody can stand to be in the same room, like Vickie Hall or Cancer Jiles.

Anyway. Let’s check in.

The Doubleday Brothers and Nate Colton are huddled up near the center of the room. Dougie is sporting his usual little suit with THAT haircut. Dabney is already dressed in his gear in preparation for his forthcoming match with “Beautiful” Bobby Dean later tonight. Colton is rocking his civvies–jeans and a Pacers t-shirt.

Douglas Doubleday: So this is “team good guy” eh? Not the friendliest bunch if I’m bein’ honest.

Dabney Doubleday: A little team powwow would be nice- maybe start finding a little team synergy? I haven’t even gotten the pleasure of meeting some of these guys yet.

The Anglo Luchador is doing what he does best, brooding and sighing while propped up in one of the room’s corners.

Douglas Doubleday: What’s ol’ el gringo’s problem over there?

Nate Colton: He’s got a lot on his mind. I guess we all do. Anyway, glad to have you on board.

Colton shakes Douglas and Dabney’s hands.

Dabney Doubleday: Excited for the opportunity, Nate. Thank you.

Dougie hooks a finger over his shoulder at Adam Ellis.

Douglas Doubleday: Anyone going to ask father of the year over there to join the party?

Adam is face-timing with his wife Ginny Van Lear on his cell phone.

Adam Ellis (talking on the phone): Ginny… no, no. I’ll call my brother Jason.  He’ll come over and move the furniture around…

Adam’s head nods slightly as he listens to his excitable wife.

Adam Ellis: Gin… I don’t want you moving anything heavy.  You’re pregnant.  You don’t need to do it.  Let Jason do it.

Nate Colton: He’ll be ready when we need him.

There was a whole bit about the ‘huge stars’ and their purported locker rooms earlier in this segment, and in that situation, Brandon Youngblood definitely qualifies as someone with such perks as part of their whole deal. Plus, well, you know, Ferst Blud, and all that. Digression is what it is. This very silly last few sentences is cushioning for the fact that the very serious Tower of Babel is in the presence of all of this, lacing his wrestling shoes while clad in his civilian wear of white combat shorts with black and red trim. No shirt, but a compression sleeve on the left arm. Focused, seated, eyes on his task, his mind already on pulverizing Daytona Diamonds.

Jared Sykes stands against the wall, and every so often his eyes dart towards the door. All things considered, it hasn’t been very long since he left his partner at the door to Lindsay Troy’s office, though there’s no telling how that particular conversation is going to go, or how long it’ll take. The fact that this gathering is taking place in the shared locker room does nothing to ease his state of mind, because Justine isn’t above just barging in and making everyone else feel uncomfortable.

And having established the who’s who in the zoo, there comes a voice from the door.

“Evening, angels.”

Is it a Charlie’s Angels reference? A nod to the lawful good alignment of nearly everyone in attendance? Sure. But most notably for this vignette, it’s coming from the voice of Chandler Tsonda.

WHOOOOOOOOOO!

Adam Ellis (still on the phone): Honey, gotta go…. Wait… what?  No, no.  I don’t care how loud the upstairs neighbor is playing their music, do not go up there with your shotgun.

Adam shakes his head.

Chandler Tsonda: (looking around the round) Looks like somebody tried to make the Avengers out of nothing but Captain Americas.

Jared glances back over his shoulder, hoping that no one notices. It may not be America’s Ass, or even PRIME’s Ass, but it sure is there.

The Luchador groans from his perch in the corner.

TAL: You serious? I’m at least like… a Spider-Man that’s a few years past his physical prime.

Dabney Doubleday: Ooo like Peter B. Parker from Spiderverse! Gosh, what a good movie-

Adam Ellis (still on the phone): No. I don’t want you to buck-bomb their apartment either… I will take care of this when I get home…

The smallest man in the room by a country mile steps right in the middle of the conversation.

Douglas Doubleday: Spider-what? Would you focus?! Listen, I get that this place communicates through mostly memes, inside jokes nobody gets and just the nerdiest of pop culture references, but hows about you guys all come together and focus on the task at hand?

Chandler Tsonda: (puts his hands up as if to surrender) I’m just making entertaining TV here, babes. I want to win War Games bad as anyone else, and I’m here to be, like, a team player, or whatever.

Douglas Doubleday: That’s awesome, because losing War Games sounds like a real drag to me personally-

The notion that the diminutive Doubleday is the one attempting to bring order receives an unmistakable growl.

Jared Sykes: Well, we don’t have Jeremy Thomas out there to fuck it all up for everyone, so that’s cool. No one’s planning on joining the Uppermost Echelon, are you?

A collection of very confused eyes find their way to Jared. This is the most he’s spoken since they all gathered here, only to drop a name that’s very likely foreign to everyone else in the room.

Jared Sykes: Sorry, long story. Probably better saved for another time.

After few taut tugs of the laces of Youngblood’s shoes, he speaks, without even looking up.

Brandon Youngblood: The main event…

He trails off for a moment, rising to his feet, looking directly at the challenger for the Universal Championship.

Brandon Youngblood: Everybody here needs to watch it and be ready. That clear?

His eyes scan over the rest of the men in the room, pinching his top lip and exposing his two front teeth for a moment before continuing.

Brandon Youngblood: Because these? I got these after winning the damn thing and Julien and Farthington and that–

He thinks better of it.

Brandon Youngblood: Best case scenario…Jared ends that horseshit ‘undefeated’ streak and wins the Universal Title. And then, with all the horseshit in the air…he eats a beatdown. Farthington comes down. Ivan. JCH. The damn Bandits. It becomes a whole damn mess. And why is that? Because a bunch of us stand around with our hands on our asses. Not tonight. Got it?

Douglas Doubleday (whispering to his brother): Now that’s more like it.

Ellis hears the vibration of his phone going off… he knows it’s Ginny… again… but this time he just ignores it and nods affirmatively to what Youngblood is saying..

If there are any dissonant voices who wish to have their say, Youngblood does his part to cut them off.

Brandon Youngblood: We all have our own wants, our own needs. Our own things. Lone wolfing shit. And for the last year, what damn bit of good has that done? Teeth and bones. Forward momentum, snuffed. Families and loved ones put in danger just because. Because of being lone wolves. And before YOU–

Youngblood points toward Tsonda, who instantly feigns being wounded.

Brandon Youngblood: –come back with some snarky-turn-on-a-dime shit, you KNOW what it’s like hunting in a pack. Hell, you just got Hall of Fame induction number two over it.

A malicious smirk spreads across his face.

Brandon Youngblood: What…you don’t want to take it all away? Not just to size, but to take away the mockery? Their sense of right? Their…pride? You don’t want to put every single damn one of them down because of who they are or what they’ve done or what they’ve let happen?

A series of shaking heads tell us that a consensus is forming. The Tower of Babel makes a good point.

Dabney Doubleday: Not to make a fuss or anything- I know the main event is important. But I’d also love a few eyes on my match? Not just because of the Bandits and their shenanigans but I’d love some feedback from you fellas-

Jared Sykes: Watch out for Bobby. He’ll sneak up on ya’. One time he sat on my mannequin and shot its head into the crowd. It was for the best, really. That particular head was kinda racist.

Oh look, everyone’s staring at Jared because he said something weird again.

Douglas Doubleday: Yeah yeah, feedback, mannequins, sure sure- I’m holding you to your words there Mr. Youngblood. You want us to hunt as a pack? There’s just as much of a recipe for bullshit in my brothers match with that fat load Bobby Dean as there is with Mr. Fancy Pants Frenchman and his sticky buddies later tonight. So I expect some action to potentially back up all this alpha-bro “we’re a pack” stuff- clear?

Dabney Doubleday: What he said- with respect, sir.

Nate Colton: No problem. Anything happens, we’re there. Speaking of which…where should we do this? Can’t really do that in here, with everyone coming in and out.

Jared Sykes: So… Chandler… You’ve got space, yeah? I don’t want to overstep here, but it might be our best option. (pause) I’ll make sure to tell Justine about the shoes thing.

Chandler Tsonda: Shit, why not, I’m already pot committed to Team Nothing But Knights In Shining Armor. We can watch at my spot. But I swear to god—and I mean this as a total great chemistry guy who cares about my teammates—if any of you try to wear shoes inside the locker room, you will never again know peace.

Douglas Doubleday: Here’s the thing though. I have a- fungus thing I’m treating with this cream? I’m not sure taking my shoes off is the best idea, man. Can I keep my socks on at least?

Ellis just shrugs. Tsonda stares lasers at the Doubleday bro, before forgetting the person he’s doing his very best—ok, his second or third best—to be on this team.

Chandler Tsonda: Dubs, I can call you Dubs, can’t I? We’re just gonna get along so great. Shoes on, socks off. Ok, brother? Because I’m a total glue guy,, just doing what the team needs. (whispering harshly) No fucking shoes, I’m serious. (Normal volume) No drama, easy to do business with, just another regular go-along-to-get-along hero who’s gonna host his do-gooder dudes. Let’s do it. Main event at my place.

Nate Colton: I’m down for it. Hopefully nothing happens, but we’re all in the same place if it does.

TAL: Yeah, I’m down to see the Knight Errant win the whole fuckin’ thing right in here. Hopefully this production meeting they wanted to do right before is one of those snappy ones and not a slog that could’ve been an e-mail. I told them I wanted the night off anyway. I can still smell Bobby Dean’s colon payload in my nostrils.

The entire room shudders, even the normally stout and indefatigable Youngblood. The Anger Golem shakes the image out of his head as he stands up.

Brandon Youngblood: Let’s go.

One by one, they file out of the room. Chandler leads the way, followed by Ellis and the brothers Doubleday. Youngblood goes next…and last, because it turns out this particular train is short a few cars.

By now, most everyone has cleared out of the room, save for two figures – Jared Sykes and Nate Colton. Nate is nearing the door when Jared pipes up.

Jared Sykes: Hey, before you head out there’s something I need to ask you.

If it looks like he’s dreading what comes next, there’s a very good reason for that.

Jared Sykes: I know it’s probably a long shot, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that tonight goes off without a hitch. I don’t mean winning, but that it doesn’t turn into a clusterfuck out there. Thing is, if it does… I need someone to make sure Cal doesn’t get involved. Because if things go bad, then she’s going to want to help. But she can’t.

Nate Colton: All due respect, that doesn’t make any sense. You know as much as anyone how bad this place gets. But if things go sideways, you want me and her off the board?

Jared Sykes: Yes.

The answer comes quickly, and without hesitation.

Jared Sykes: I can’t get into the why, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. And this… it’s… Nate, I can’t risk her getting hurt tonight, especially not on my account. And I know she’s going to want to be there, which could… umm… “complicate” things.

Nate Colton: I don’t even pretend to understand. But if it’s that important to you…sure, I guess I can do that.

Jared Sykes: I’m not trying to be a prick about this, but if you’re gonna do it then I need your word. Nate, for two years now I’ve been watching people I thought were my friends lose their fucking minds. The people on this team were picked because they’re the ones I thought I can trust the most, even if I don’t know ‘em all very well. But out of everyone, you’re the one I’m asking because…

There’s a brief pause while he tries to pick the right words. He may have a history for being a bit dramatic and theatrical when it comes to television – ask the MGM grand and their facilities crew about that – but Jared has always tried to keep his private life guarded. Can’t blow all that now.

Jared Sykes: Because I know that you – more than anyone else – knows what it means to want to keep your family safe.

The Next Diamond lets out a slow breath.

Nate Colton: You need my word, Jared?

Jared Sykes: I do. And I’ll give you whatever it takes to get it. To me, this is that important.

Nate Colton: Then…you got it.

Since his time in SCCW, “Jared Sykes cries a lot” has been a common refrain, elevated to meme status by a particularly loud corner of the internet. Despite the joke’s popularity, it’s not not actually a common sight. But right then, even if only for a split-second, god damn does it look like he’s close.

Jared Sykes: Thank you.

Instead, Jared offers the smile of a man whose sentence was just commuted and places a hand on Nate’s shoulder.

Jared Sykes: You’re a good man, Nate. Better than me, that’s for damn sure. Your parents… You do them proud.

He moves his hand away to stifle a cough. See? Told you he was close.

Jared Sykes: And I mean it. Anything you want. I owe you, and I don’t take that lightly.

We cut elsewhere.

Sid Phillips: So, what’s that you got there?

Joe Fontaine: This, my friend, is a genuine whopperflommox thorax, which is a delicacy from the Principality of Mazzamaldoun.

Sid Phillips: Huh. Sounds… interesting.

Joe Fontaine: Apparently, the locals over there have to hunt them down with three man crossbow teams so that they can pierce the whopperflommox’s inner cortex before they are all killed by its’ incredibly potent cnidocyte. Then, using their vorpal knives, they peel back the layers upon layers of garbalvox until they get to the meaty flargohagen deep within.

Sid Phillips: I don’t know. I heard medical science is unclear on the real benefits of flargohagen.

Joe Fontaine: What do you know about this sort of medical science?

Sid Phillips: It was my elective in powerbomb university.

As the sounds of Joe and Sid’s always-odd banter carry on in the background, the scene opens to the former 5-Star Champion, Cecilworth Farthington, who 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 nest for the Glueminati.

We’ll call it the “Glest.”

No?

We’ll workshop it.

Joe Fontaine: Here’s what I want to know, right? Pineapple on whopperflommox. Pro or anti?

Sid Phillips: I’m not an expert on pineapple technology, and I don’t think I want to consult that weird Hawaiian they hired a few weeks ago. Did you see his pineapple shit in catering? God. There are other fruits, bruh.

Joe Fontaine: So, we’ll call you “anti-pineapple”, then.

Don’t let Bryan Dawkins catch wind of this conversation.

Joe Fontaine: Anyway, once they get the whopperflommox thorax out from all of that flargohagen, they sauté it in the finest of Mazzamauldon’s famous boolshait wine and serve it next to beans and… I think the colloquialism they use over there is “bitchlings”, but I think those are a kind of dumpling.

Sid Phillips: Weird culture.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, well, what do you expect from a people in an endless, eternal war against the concept of good sense?

One elbow against the bar, with a half drank espresso martini within reach, Cecilworth continues to stare, though not out of the exhaustion he’d experienced after losing the 5-Star championship just two weeks ago. No, this time it’s something more… okay, yeah, maybe he’s a little exhausted. The fact there are five identical empty glasses next to him may also be a contributing factor.

Sid Phillips: Did you save any for RIA?

Joe Fontaine: No.

On the further side of the room, FLAMBERGE, laying flat on his back along one of the cushy couches. One hand holding a phone hovering above his eyes, the other hanging limp towards the floor. His Universal championship is conspicuous in his lap.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, I get that you and her are an item and all that, but I got this thorax specially made for us Glueboiz. It will give us all power and energy and probably cause us to reach a level of Super Saiyan never before witnessed in human history!

He shakes his fist in the air, as though requesting everyone’s energy to create a spirit bomb that will totally vaporize Majin Buu.

Joe Fontaine: Aren’t you excited about this much alien power flowing through your veins, Farthy?

At this point, the Financier snaps out of it.

Cecilworth Farthington: No.

Joe Fontaine: No?

Cecilworth Farthington: No. I’m fine by the way.

Joe Fontaine: Okay.

Joe turns his attention to the other person in the room.

Joe Fontaine: Hey, best friend FLAMBY, what about you? I don’t know about you, but I could really go for seeing you collect Jared Sykes’ neck and mounting it on the wall and maybe letting me and the boys pee on whatever’s left of him once you’ve collected it, and I think the best way to achieve that would be to give you an unheard of amount of power and energy from this here mysterious delicacy I’ve got.

Cecilworth Farthington: No. Don’t bother. He hasn’t left that couch since we got here, and he’s said like, two words. I think. Two is a number and a word right?

FLAMBERGE (mumbling): Oui, et cela restera comme tel.

It’s important to note that FLAMBERGE’s mouth didn’t seem to move as he spoke. In fact, it looks like he isn’t moving at all. He’s frozen there, immobile. The fight-or-flight response of defending the Uni is kicking in right proper, and he is conserving energy to defend the Glest’s (sorry, we’ll do better next time) last remaining egg from external predators.

Cecilworth Farthington: Eight, the number that most resembles Jared Sykes buttocks. Hahaha, buttocks.

The sound of the entry opening steals attention away from the melancholic Lord of Farthington Manor and the Lizard King of PRIME. Panning to the entrance reveals none other than the Thresher of Hooves, Hayes Hanlon.

Hayes Hanlon: I’m gonna go make a stupid decision. Anybody wanna come?

Joe Fontaine: Aww yee…I mean…no? No, I gotta study this thorax.

Sid smolders, and nods uncomfortably.

Cecilworth Farthington: No! No, Hayes…no…

Hayes lifts an eyebrow, as do Joe and Sid. Cecilworth stumbles forward with a sloppy grin, clumsily patting Hanlon on the shoulder

Cecilworth Farthington: (Thumbing toward FLAMBERGE) And I wouldn’t count on him! The oh-so-bright spotlight is on you, Hayes! Besides…

The Financier turns his gaze to the bar where he’d once been staring intently.

Cecilworth Farthington: I must prepare…for another espres…espresso…

At that, Cecilworth gives Hayes one more clumsy pat on the shoulder before stumbling back to his stool. The Event Horizon shares a confused glance with Joe and Sid while the camera turns to the bar. A bar that holds an empty martini glass…

…and that’s it.

We’re moving on, now.

Nick Stuart: Next up we’ve got a fight between two of PRIME’s newest hires.

Richard Parker: I’ve been thinking…

Nick Stuart: Oh, no.

Richard Parker: Over these last two years, I’ve learned a lot about myself while we talk on the air. Seems like every show we get a new breakthrough about who I am as a person.

Nick Stuart: Whether we want it or not.

Richard Parker: But we never seem to learn anything about you. It’s not healthy, keeping it all bottled up like that.

Nick Stuart: Fans, we’re about to see two of PRIME’s newest hires going at it. Swanny pulled off a huge upset at ReV41 against Tony Gamble; now he’ll take on the debuting Fred Dick.

Richard Parker: Might be good for you.

“We built this city! We built this city on rock and roll! Built this city! We built this city on rooooock and rooooooll!”

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from Argyle onto the entrance ramp. He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first! From Chicken City, Georgia, weighing in at three hundred and five pounds…The Street Cat, FRED! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!

BOOOOOO!

He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell.

Richard Parker: Hey look, it’s the Bobby Dean we have at home.

Nick Stuart: Do I need to have Doug come out here?

Richard Parker: …no.

“American Idle” by Less than Jake hits the speakers and, after a few seconds, Swanny burts into view to an overwhelmingly positive reaction from the crowd. He curves his right hand over his brow to shield the lights as he surveys the arena with a broad smile, nodding appreciatively. He encourages the crowd to get hyped as he makes his way toward the ring, interacting with every single fan he possibly can.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…hailing from Lebanon, Kansas! Weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…SWAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNYYYYYYYYYYYY!

Swanny jogs around the ring, doing much the same. He then hops up on the apron and gestures to the crowd with his back against he ropes. He enters through the middle ropes and energetically hits the ropes before settling in a corner.

Nick Stuart: Swanny has already established himself with the PRIME fans, and he’s riding high off his debut win.

Richard Parker: That wasn’t Tony Gamble’s fault; he got blinded by the glare from Coral Avalon’s forehead.

Nick Stuart: Coral wasn’t even out there for the match.

Richard Parker: Does that matter?

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon calling for the bell; let’s get started!

DING DING

Swanny steps in for a collar-and-elbow, but is immediately met with a jaw-rattling slap to the face!

Richard Parker: Ha! He wasn’t expecting that one!

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick off to a strong start! Look at those shots he’s laying into Swanny.

Fred Dick batters Swanny with a series of slaps and chops, each one landing with a thunderous crack and quickly turning Swanny’s chest bright red. He winds up for a really big knife-edge chop, but Swanny ducks under and fires back with chops of his own, then follows with an arm wringer.

Richard Parker: Smart play by Swanny there. If he works that arm enough, Fred can’t get force behind his slaps.

Nick Stuart: He gives that wringer another turn…and lays out Dick with a leg lariat! Here’s the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Swanny pulls Dick up by his bright blue hair and looks to set up for a spinebuster, but gets a thumb to the eye for his troubles.

BOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Now we’re seeing the kind of man Fred Dick is.

Richard Parker: A smart one. Nixon didn’t see a thing! Boy, it makes you want to…admit one of your darkest secrets, am I right?

Nick Stuart: You are not.

Fred Dick dodges a wild blow from the blinded Swanny, then fires back with a palm strike that leaves a handprint. He follows with a headbutt and a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: I’m coming around on this guy. We’ve needed a good slap fighter around here since Garry “Ray-Ray” [REDACTED] left. You know, if you come clean we can probably get a featured article in the [REDACTED]land monthly newsletter.

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

The Street Cat takes a few steps back and winds up his arms, waiting for Swanny to get back to his feet. When that happens, Dick unloads with a mighty bell clap.

Nick Stuart: The Honest to God Truth–NO! Swanny ducks it, and Fred Dick comes up empty!

Richard Parker: Worse than that–it’s like he slapped himself in the hands! The pain’s gotta be tremendous…like any time you avoid the truth!

Nick Stuart: I’m not falling for that one, Richard. Especially now that Swanny has the opening he needs!

Swanny immediately starts peppering Dick with punches and kicks. One kick gets caught, but Swanny quickly transitions into an enziguiri that sends Fred Dick staggering to the corner…which is just where Swanny wants him. The Kansas native grapevines the Street Cat’s leg and falls backwards, driving him facefirst into the turnbuckle with a reverse STO!

Nick Stuart: PANIC! At the Buckle! And right now those ropes are the only thing keeping Dick upright!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is ripe for the picking…but why is Swanny backing off?

Nick Stuart: Because sometimes backing off is a good idea, Richard.

Richard Parker: I’m only trying to help.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Swanny’s doing it just to hit something massive! Here he comes!

With Dick wheezing in the corner, Swanny charges in and slams back-first into the King of Wrong Style. As Fred Dick slumps down to the mat, Swanny rolls backwards and charges again, this time connecting with a double knee strike to the face!

Nick Stuart: Mom, It Was Never a Phase! It’s a Lifestyle!

Richard Parker: I’m glad you’re finally willing to talk things out with me. Doesn’t it feel good to get that off your chest?

Nick Stuart: What–that’s what the move is called!

Swanny does a lap around the ring, firing up the crowd–

RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!

–before heading up to the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Swanny looking to finish things off. Could we see the Montreal Cannonball here?

Richard Parker: Not if he’s gonna screw around and show off to the fans like that.

Nick Stuart: If Fred Dick’s going to make a move, he’s got to make it now–OH!

“OH!” is right; in a sudden burst of energy, Fred Dick rolls to his feet and shoves Swanny’s foot off the ropes, causing him to land crotch-first on the turnbuckle. Swanny pitches forward; as he does, Dick connects with a vicious karate chop to the back of his neck that sends Swanny crashing to the mat.

Richard Parker: Nice heads-up move by Fred Dick there. He may not look like much, but he’s taking advantage of every opportunity.

Nick Stuart: He’s taking advantage, all right. Dick headed up to the top rope now, just as Swanny staggers back to his feet…

CRACK!

OOOOOOOOOH!!!

Nick Stuart: Slap Box With God!

Richard Parker: Damn near caved in Swanny’s chest on that!

Swanny collapses backward, desperately trying to regain his wind, but can’t manage to do it before Fred Dick lays his ample frame across his fallen opponent.

Nick Stuart: Dick makes the cover; here’s Elvis with the count…

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…FRED! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!

Fred Dick struggles back up to his feet, and looks like he’s about to fall down again. But that changes as soon as Elvis Nixon raises his arm; Fred hugs him and starts jumping up and down like he won the Super Bowl.

Nick Stuart: Dick is exuberant after his first victory!

Richard Parker: Well, why not? Debuting in front of a hot New York crowd and coming out with a win? That’s definitely reason to celebrate.

Nick Stuart: No argument here, but maybe not with our senior official.

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is a man in touch with his emotions. Not like some people I could mention…

Nick Stuart: All right, fine, if it’ll shut you up. I…actually don’t mind Daylight Savings Time.

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: Happy now?

Richard Parker: You’re disgusting.

Nick Stuart: (sighs) We’ll be right back after this commercial break.

Richard Parker: I can’t even look at you.

We cut to commercial.

Recorded Earlier…

A bundled-up crowd of PRIMEates have gathered at Brooklyn Bridge Park, a mere 2 miles from the Barclays Center, to the tailgate pre-event! Of course there’s no such thing in real life, but if you’re the type of person that shows up to ReVival several hours before the show starts so that you have time to grill and eat a couple of hot dogs – maybe slam back six or eight beers; just enough to get loaded without the risk of being arrested – then you were probably handed something in the parking lot.

A red voucher with a blue PRIME logo printed on it.

At the top, a blocky and barely legible title:
MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER! 

Then, in the middle, more chicken scratch:

You ready for the show?
You wanna be readier?
Then come to MY show. 

Then, for some reason, on the back of the voucher:

Brooklyn Bridge Park. By the East River.
Get ready for the greatest stunt you’ve never seen.
Make it happen. 

Now, the person that may have handed you that voucher in the parking lot while you were tailgating for ReVival 43? If he looked like Don Johnson from Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man, smelled like Winston 100s, cheap sex, and burger grease, then one thing is for certain.

That wasn’t Don Johnson.

That was Harley Walker, and he was cordially inviting you to some pretty awesome shit.

And if you were able to pick up the vibe that he was giving off – or at least at a level of intoxication to where it at least felt legit – then you’re here, at Brooklyn Bridge Park, staring out towards the sensationally polluted East River, an idling freightliner, and then hyperfocusing on a wooden ramp that the X-Games probably delivered.

Remember the guy that randomly handed you that voucher? The one whom you mistook as Don Johnson for just a split second until the smell kicked in? He’s at the base of this massive ramp and completely decked out in a racer’s jumpsuit, shiney goggles, and a cowboy hat in substitution of, you know, a helmet.

While sitting on Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, he waves toward the small crowd with the best smile you can offer with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth, and then a loudspeaker to his mouth.

Harley Walker: “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a few curious bird out there that are lookin’ to do a little pre-gaming before the big game, am I right?!” (Raises his other hand up which, of course, is wrapped around a cold one)

The crowd is somewhat lukewarm, losing their buzz, and still quite uncertain as to what was even happening.

Harley Walker: (Puts the beer can down by his feet.) I get it. I reckon yall’ ain’t out here because you remember me. Shit, I barely remember myself half the time. (Harley actually loses track of momentum thinking about this for a second before coming back to.) “But I’ll you what, Brooklyn, after today, you won’t be able to forget the name Lightning Boy. Yall’ hear me out there?!

The crowd has diminished a bit, unfortunately. Thankfully, a few of those that abandoned ship to head back to the arena were replaced with a few homeless residents of the park.

Harley Walker: Alright boys, let’er rip and let’s make it happen!

Harley kicks his beer can away from his bike while unhinging the kickstand and while it rolls away and into the river to share eternity with its descendents, Prudence revs up like a panther eager to strike. Harley takes to the loudspeaker again. As you can imagine, his voice is now muffled to where only a few people can even hear him.

Harley Walker: Today, I welcome you to Madman Across the Water where I, Lightning Boy, will race up this ramp at top speed, then make a 250-foot leap across these beautiful waters, onto the top of the helicopter landing pad of the U.S.S Fitzgerald One.” (Harley points the loudspeaker towards the massive, idling freightliner.) “I have not practiced this, nor have I ever done this before. What you are seeing today is a stunt unlike anything you’ve never seen – as promised.

From somewhere, Van Halen’s “Jump” starts playing.

Maybe the freightliner? Honestly, where is the music coming from?

Harley revs up Prudence once more and then takes off like a jet, the spinning of wheels spurring like a thousand aggravated paper wasps against the rickey planks of the ramp. He takes in one more deep inhale of his cigarette before letting it fly out of his mouth before putting his head in a huddle-position.

And then – he takes flight.

And he’s cruising, baby.

We get to the halfway point, and everything s–s—l—-ooooowwwwwwwsss doooooooowwwwwnn. We are in some sort of Looney-Tunes, staggering state of animation mid-jump. It looks like Harley didn’t forget some of his cinematic roots. He takes his hands off of the handlebars for a quick stretch and then pulls a cigarette from his mangy mullet of hair.

After lighting it and taking a couple of puffs, he turns towards us.

Harley Walker: I wasn’t joking when I said that I had some promises to keep, and one of them includes all of you in those lockerrooms at Barclays. For a long time now, I’ve been nothing but a joke – the laughing stock of the news, the old man who just couldn’t hack it anymore – and well… [Harley takes another puff of his cigarette, before tossing it, and putting his hands back on the handlebars.] “It’s about time I fought back a bit.

Harley turns his attention toward the freightliner that we’re slowly making our way towards, and smiles.

Harley Walker: That ain’t just no freightliner either. That’s the start of this opportunity. And when I land on that big son of a gun, it represents that I’m where I want to be – and nobody is going to stop that. Thing is… in this land of competition, I reckon I’m gonna have to get used to people tryin’ to do a whole lot of that. [Harley laughs.] “I got used to a whole lot – and I can get used to some more. And if that’s what you plan on doing after Harley gets off this landing pad and starts moving up the ranks to become the greatest wrestler you’ve never seen before, then I ask of you one thing.

Harley tosses the loudspeaker and gets himself back into huddle position to finish this ridiculous ride.

Harley Walker: “Don’t let me break no promises.”

Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip – Holy shit, okay, we’re back to full speed. Alright, he’s flying ladies and gentlemen – 50 feet, 100 feet, 150 feet, wait – oh wait, he’s flying too fast.

200 feet.

Does he realize he’s going too fast? You can’t tell. It looks like he’s talking, but the music is goddamn loud now. Did it get louder? Shut up Van Halen! Dear God, he’s going to overshoot it!

Splash?

If only it was someone else, but this is Harley Walker and Harley Walker just flew past the helicopter landing pad, past U.S.S Fitzgerald One, and right into MOBRO 5000, an NYC trash barge. After one loud bang, probably poor Prudence, there’s a deafening silence. The music has stopped, and most of the depleted crowd of PRIMEates and homeless people are staring in shock with their mouths wide open.

In fact, at least another minute goes by, before Harley suddenly rises from the heaps of black, overfilled garbage bags. You can tell that he’s woozy, not quite all there in the moment, as he gazes out toward the crowd. The realization that he crashed starts to digest in his stomach, and the feeling of failure begins to overwhelm him enough to consider just jumping into the river and letting the garbage sharks and underwater mafia zombies keep him from ever coming back up.

And then suddenly, he hears a faint sound coming from the crowd. It’s a person, a complete stranger, standing at the edge of the pier – and they’re slow clapping? Then, like a viral infection, that clapping starts to spread from that one person to two people, then to three more, and then everyone starts to clap.

Harley just stood there for a moment and took it all in. I guess it wasn’t always the outcome that mattered. It really was the ride, and Harley managed to make it out of this mess with relatively minimal physical and emotional injury. Prudence, on the other hand, did get her ass kicked – but she will fight to ride another day as well. As the crowd starts to hoot and holler even louder, Harley stretches his arms towards the sky and screams into the open air.

Harley Walker: I love you New York! And if you want more of that, then you all best start paying attention real quick-like! For now… [Harley willingly falls back first onto the garbage bags – the effects of what just happened starting to come through the cracks] “Someone find me a way off this barge… [Nobody can hear him.] And maybe an Advil.

We cut elsewhere.

Backstage, in one of the unused locker rooms of the Barclays Center, Ivan Stanislav stands in front of a white board that is slightly stained from use in previous basketball games at the venue. The Russian Bear is decked out in a very formal looking olive uniform, complete with all of his glittering medals denoting a lifetime of military service. He wears a pair of half rimmed glasses. Alexei Ruslan stands next to him.

Ivan Stanislav: They should have been here by now!

Stanislav looks down at a gold pocket watch that he produces from his uniform. He frowns. The camera zooms out a bit more, and we see there are members from both The Red Army and The Love Convoy assembled.

Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz seem preoccupied at the moment, having a curious discussion about Hoyt only knows what, before they turn their attention back to their fearless leader Stanislav. Randall in particular gives a smile and a thumbs up, assuring the Russian Bear that all is well…whether that is true or not remains to be seen.

Arthur Pleasant is in the lotus position on a stack of miscellaneous equipment boxes, keeping to himself in the corner next to a set of lockers. A broad smile is plastered all across his face as he studies the faces throughout the locker room.

And on the far end, Vickie Hall sits quietly in the opposite corner of the locker room from where Arthur sits, on the floor, legs crossed, back arched, ready to listen and learn from the former World Champion. Meanwhile, her Amazing Life Partner sits nervously beside her, rocking back and forth.

Vickie Hall: Ivon, Ivon, IVON! You’re doing such good job!

Vickie speaks in a horrible Russian accident but nevertheless gives a massive thumbs up to the giant.

Vickie nudges Jonathan-Christopher.

Vickie Hall: I’m having much fun. You better take notes, this is how we’re going to WIN WIN WIN!

But no one else is inside the locker room, yet.

Just the CONVOY and the Army.

Still.

…

Additional time passes. By now, Vickie might be the only motivated person in the room.

Finally, Stanislav snaps at Alexei. We’re not saying that Vickie is getting on Ivan’s nerves, but Vickie is getting on Ivan’s nerves.

Ivan Stanislav: Go look out in the hallway, Alexei!

Ruslan, without a word, scurries past the group and opens the door, leaning out. He says nothing, but motions and stands next to the door.

Alexei Ruslan: Here we are, Starshy Praporshchik!

Rob Williams moves past Ruslan, the two exchanging a heated look as “The Legend” takes his place in the room. The two haven’t crossed paths since Williams put Ruslan’s jaw to the Litmus test. In reality he was impressed with the old coot’s refractory period.

Rob Williams: (smirking at Alexei) How’s the jaw?

Before Alexei can answer, Rob has moved on to sizing up the larger group. He’s obviously aware of all of these men (and Vickie): a regular who’s who of PRIME’s upper echelon of talent, but he has only had the pleasure of meeting Pleasant. He nods at Pleasant in a sincere show of respect.

Suddenly Max kicks the door to the locker room open with all the grace of a raging bull. He shuffles in carrying a large cardboard box filled with what look to be old VHS tapes. The large, thick handlebar mustache from earlier is back on his face, a fact he doesn’t seem to be aware of.

Arthur Pleasant: What, no BetaMax available?! Pfft.

There’s a sparse chuckle in the room over the antiquated means of ‘watching tape’.

Max Kael: Ho-ho-ho! I’m Maximillian Kael, let’s skip the exposition and get down to brass tax, friends! Rob Williams, your dad said you wanted these.

Kael drops the box near the ground at Rob’s feet before throwing a casual wink toward his War Games partner. Rob scans the box skeptically and cocks his head at Max until his intent is clarified.

Max Kael: Free of charge, I love that Father of yours! ..heh-heh..

Finally, a labored sigh comes from the direction of the doorway. Kerry Kuroyama is standing there, looking dressed and ready to hit the clubs later in his rather regal-looking midnight black Alan David leisure suit with a complimentary seafoam green shirt.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hmph.

The Emerald Apex spends a beat to take in his present company before stepping inside. He crosses the room, coldly passing by the others while keeping his attention fixed on the Halls. Upon reaching them, he levels his gaze on Vickie.

Kerry Kuroyama: I said I’d think about all this. So I did…

He looks around, reminding himself that he’s in the company of the reigning Five Star Champion, the reigning Intense Champion (knock on wood), the winner of the Almasy Tournament, and the last Universal Champion and his loyal Army of Red.

Kerry Kuroyama: …and I think that given who we got in this room, this team stands the best chance of winning this bullshit. But only if we somehow manage to pull this together.

Vickie is all school girl smiles from ear-to-ear, remaining on the floor of the locker room as if this was a Kindergarten class. She gives Kerry a massive thumbs up, similar to the one she previously gave Ivan.

Vickie Hall: We are going to win, Kerry-Ker. And you are going to be the crown jewel of us ALL!

Kuroyama merely stares back at Vickie before he moves over to stand before the towering Ivan Stanislav. The two tensely stare each other down for several seconds, until Kuroyama offers his hand. Somewhere in the background Max dry heaves.

Kerry Kuroyama: Kerry Kuroyama, here to do my part. Let’s win this one together.

Stanislav engulfs Kerry’s hand and squeezes. Hard.

Ivan Stanislav: Unlike others who may say one can or cannot sit with others, due to their perceived “elite” status, it is nice to hear you accept where you fall in line, Kerry.

Kuroyama remains silent, but smirks slightly at the notion that he’s “falling in line”. Despite the Russian giant’s powerful grip, he doesn’t flinch. Ivan doesn’t shake the hand, but rather holds it for a moment. He cocks an eyebrow and nods, before finally releasing it and looking out at the group, his voice booms. Max whispers something to Rob Williams and mimics how to use a VHS set.

Ivan Stanislav: Now then! As the only PRIME Universal Champion and the only man to have actually fought in war, I understand how obvious and natural it is for myself to be your leader.

As Stanislav is talking, Vickie can be seen heavily nudging Jonathan-Christopher to pay “close attention”, as Ivan is the only former Universal Champion of the group.

Ivan Stanislav: However, I want to make thing abundantly clear.

Stanislav raises one large finger.

Ivan Stanislav: In the very spirit of my political views, before me I see a melting pot of talent. Hard workers who the rest of PRIME scoffs at and believes cannot congeal into a proper fighting force. I do not see it that way. Yes, we have an elitist *motions to Kerry*, a man looking for spirituality *motions to Rob*, and a walking corpse or… something. *motions to Max*, but we also have a core nucleus of The Love Convoy and The Red Army.

Vickie claps PROFUSELY at the mention of her and her ALP. She once again nudges Jonathan-Christopher, this time super hard and he also begins clapping.

Stanislav shifts his jaw in his face and frowns. His eyelid twitches. Lenin forbid he miss the opportunity to give a speech.

Ivan Stanislav: So from this moment onward, none of us are to be at odds with one another. We support each other. We defend each other. We embrace this opportunity to crush every sniveling outsider in PRIME and together, we emerge victorious!

Alexei Ruslan immediately claps! Max also claps though it’s obvious the only reason he is doing so is because he heard someone else clapping. Oh well, you get your applause however you can get it. When Max notices others haven’t immediately joined him the smile on his face washes into a scowl.

Max Kael!:.. Are we DEAF, did you not hear the slow clap!? DEPLOY THE APPLESAUCE!

Arthur Pleasant: ONLY if it’s cinnamon!

He proceeds to clap more aggressively. A nearby door kicks open as the Herald tumbles out onto the floor in a ball of soft baby blue velour and tasseled bells. He scrambles up to his feet, dusts himself off and rigorously begins support clapping. Adding to the chain of clapping dogs, the Herald is applauding Max who is applauding Alexei who is, at last, applauding Ivan.

The Lord of Kaelsalvania scans the room to see who will join the clapping train on Ivan. We’re sure Vickie Hall is already upset at the train that is already lined up on Ivan. Kerry follows suit, albeit slow and somewhat mocking.

Despite his newfound defiance of centricity, Rob claps to fit in. He’s been being told for months now by the Father to trust the process and that others will be joining his efforts and his own faith in this plan has grown. Despite the Russian’s brash assumption of leadership and the… whatever Max is doing, Rob does dig the diversity of the group. If he’s honest with himself he’s somewhat moved by this entire circus act. And at the end of the day, this match is happening regardless of whether they try to work together or not so why not just buy in? Stanislav, and Ruslan, seem to be keenly aware of who is clapping, and for how long, and with how much fervor.

Rob Williams: You refused to join me. I won’t make the same mistake.

Rob holds his hand out and steps towards Arthur Pleasant.

Pleasant extends his hand back to the self-proclaimed legend and Five-Star Champion, but pulls him in so that he can whisper something to him that’s inaudible to the cameras. After this, both men nod.

The Russian Bear claps his hands loudly, like a thunderclap in the room. He grins with a glint in his eyes.

Ivan Stanislav: They say that we are dysfunctional team. That we cannot possibly co-exist. But together, we prove them wrong. We take opportunity to have each and every one of those fools in a cage, and we beat the truth into them. Now…

Ivan rubs his huge hands together.

Ivan Stanislav: Would anyone be interested in a certain “team building” activity for later today?

As loud as her tiny little body can manage (which actually isn’t that loud) Vickie smacks her hands together. Then, however, she hoots and hollers and this captures the group’s attention.

Vickie Hall: I am for the team and building! Jonathan-Christopher and I were just speaking a couple hours ago and we think it’s best he spends A LOT more time with this team, because he is so vanilla and green, you see.

Can vanilla be the color green?

Vickie Hall: Yes, yes, he has a Universal Championship match to get ready for. But this WARGAMES is (once again in a Russian accent) clearly most appropriate use of his time (/accent). Also because he failed to win me my Manager of the Year Award and honestly, what better way to make a statement than lil’ old me, Vickie Hall, helping stand alongside the winners of WAR GAMES! That should make me a PRIME candidate for next year, don’t you say!?

Ivan exchanges an awkward glance with Alexei. It seems as though Jonathan-Christopher is tentative to agree that the majority of his time should be spent within this group. However, after once glance over to his Amazing Life Partner, he knows it’s his destiny.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’d love to do team building.

With the Hall’s pot committed, it’s up to the REST of the room to weigh in…

But they aren’t so quick to jump forward.

Kerry glances briefly at the chrome-plated TAG Heuer on his wrist, checking the time..

Kerry Kuroyama: Tempting, but… I have to politely decline. There’s a table waiting for me down at House of Yes, and Scott’s waiting in the parking garage with the motor running.

He grimaces.

Kerry Kuroyama: …at least I hope it’s running, and he’s not trying to fix a pair of track shoes to it. In any case, if I’m accurately picking up what you’re putting down, then I’d rather not risk ruining a good shirt.

The Emerald Apex heads for the door.

Kerry Kuroyama: Let me know when you figure out the order. In the meantime, I’ll be in touch.

Before he ducks out, he turns and holds up a finger, almost as a warning.

Kerry Kuroyama: Now you kids don’t get into too much trouble tonight. I need you all healthy at Culture Shock.

A smile spreads across his face as he puts on a pair of Ray-Bans and exits.

Max Kael!: You planning on going outside? What’s with the sunglasses? Do you wear your sunglasses so you can, so you can see the light that’s right before your eyes?

The INTENSE Champion inquires with a churlish grin.

Vickie clears her throat.

Vickie Hall: What a fashion statement, wearing sunglasses indoors.

Rob Williams: God, I hate to admit it, but he is pretty fucking cool. Like you want to hate him, but you just can’t quite bring yourself to. (turning to Ivan) I’m in for the team building.

Stanislav smirks and rubs his hands together as he motions for the group to come closer.

Ivan Stanislav: Very good… so here is what I was thinking…

We cut elsewhere.

The scene opens on a shot of the STEEL DOOR O’DOOM, which can only mean that we’re about to pay the Queen of the Ring a visit. How exciting! The Brooklynites let the hoots and cheers fly inside the Barclays Center, which is more than the Nets are getting lately AMIRITE???!!!!

Cough

Anyway.

A large shadow is cast over the door as a massive frame approaches from the left. The screen is filled with mostly torso before the camera pans up to the stoic face of Hessian gazing down LT’s nameplate. The giant politely hammers on the steel twice with the back of his fist and evokes a prompt invite from within.

The Murder Show sashays inside, ducking his head as he fills the entrance before closing the door gently behind him and approaches Troy’s desk. He clamps both hands around the backrest of the unoccupied chair before him, standing behind it and pressing his weight down on its frame.

Hessian: Hello Boss, got time for a catch-up?

The Lady of the Hour takes a quick mock-look around the room and shrugs.

Lindsay Troy: Well…I’m already caught up on everything that’s going on and you have a title match later on.

She lets that hang in the air.

Lindsay Troy: Humor me.

The Murder Show rounds the chair and lowers himself into the seat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped.

Hessian: Thanks. Just wanted to follow up on Parker’s nonsense at Forty-One. I still haven’t heard anything to suggest someone put him up to calling me the “Murder Express” so-

Lindsay Troy: -so first of all, I know you’ve been gone a minute but let me remind you that Richard Parker is a giant troll and he was probably trying to get under your skin. Mission accomplished. Second of all, threaten him again and I start with the fines. And lastly, we went ahead and trademarked “Murder Express.” It’s now PRIME’s intellectual property, and you don’t have to worry about it affecting your revenue.

The Murder Show’s features are pinched in humility.

Hessian: Understood, and I appreciate the gesture. I’m not using that name though, there’s too much “Murder” going on in this place and none of it is in my name. You got that kid Paxton Ray calling himself the “Murder Gator,” then there’s that damn “Murder Rumble” event too. I’ve been the “Murder Show” since two-thousand-and-one, Lindsay, I’m the longest tenured “Murder-anything” in the industry…

The Renaissance Woman and Lady of the Hour stares past Hessian, unblinking and unmoving, her head tilted slightly. He turns curiously expecting to see someone behind him but when he turns back she hasn’t shifted.

Hessian: What’s the matter?

Don’t tell him, she thinks to herself.

Hessian: Lindsay? You okay?

He’ll just get upset, her inner monologue continues.

Hessian: Helloo?

Lindsay Troy: You can’t trademark the word “Murder,” Angelus. If someone was walking around calling themselves the “Murder Show” then you’d have a case, obviously, but I don’t know what else to tell you…

The Murder Show studies the Pinnacle of PRIME’s face intently. His expression drops suddenly and his eyes bug. The Eternal Ace’s eyebrow twitches.

Hessian: You…didn’t.

The Final Boss holds her hands up and Hessian’s jaw drops in disbelief. He shoots up from his chair and turns to the door, spinning back on his heels to face her, then back to the door, then back to her.

Hessian: You wouldn’t!

Lindsay Troy: Hey I earned the name “Murder Buzzsaw,” alright!

The giant groans loudly and throws his hands up, letting them slap against his thighs as he turns back to the door and bangs his head against it in defeat, once again causing it to shudder.

Lindsay Troy: You cannot expect everyone else to drop it just because you set the precedent…

The Murder Show pauses mid-headbang and slowly looks back.

Lindsay Troy: Either double-down and take ownership of “Murder Express” or go earn yourself some new nicknames. Or better yet keep an eye on the message boards, see what the people are saying.

Hessian: With all due respect, the people are saying “Ian Hess.” No, thank you.

Lindsay Troy: Only Pizmo says that, and he can go fuck himself.

Troy motions to the door.

Lindsay Troy: Go figure it out. The matter’s been resolved.

The giant glances at the door dejected, then his expression changes.

Hessian: What did you say just now? About dropping it?

Lindsay Troy: That…you had to?

Hessian: No, after that. What did you say I did?

She looks at him, confused.

Lindsay Troy: Set the precedent?

The Murder Show glances off to the side with a hum, lips turned at the corners. Another hum as he makes for the door which warrants a snort from the Queen of the Ring.

Lindsay Troy: Go get ready for your match.

Hessian: Could you trademark that for me?

She sighs.

Hessian: Yeah yeah, I know I’m leaving-

The Murder Show opens the door.

Hessian: l’ll go prepare for the cabbage patch kid. Can you do that for me though? Trademark “Precedent” and all subsequent riffs?

Lindsay Troy: It needs some work and we probably have it already but yeah, sure, I’ll make a note if it gets you outta here.

The Murder Show slaps the door gleefully as he slips out, shouting back as he leaves.

Hessian: Thank you Boss! I’m gonna dedicate the glass, fire, electricity, piranhas and spider-net spots to you tonight!

Lindsay Troy: YOU DID NOT CLEAR ANY OF-

SLAM!

The door shuts hard behind Hessian. Troy runs a hand down her face and sighs.

Lindsay Troy: I swear to Hoyt if I see one piranha in that ring…

Cut away.

Nick Stuart: Up next, as you can see, we have the streaking Hammer of Honalee, Bobby Dean, set for action.

No, Bobby isn’t going to wrestle naked. Nick is referring to Bobby’s new found winning ways. He’s also not kidding; Bobby Dean is already in the ring. He came out during Hessian’s segment. As to why he did, and who else might have tagged along with him…

Well.

Cancer Jiles: Well, well…. well. Let me just say, that when the Queen comes running to your locker room, banging on the door, begging for you to get out here before the whole audience falls completely asleep, you do it.

Richard Parker: Yeah, and I’m sure that really happened.

However, The REAPPOINTED T-shaded crumb crushing EGGSECUTIONER, Cancer Jiles, isn’t the only Bandit with a headset on. No, sitting on top of two telephone books, just like he was at the start of the show and during the Sean O’neill match, is Tony Gamble.

Tony Gamble: I was there for the whole thing, Dick. Honest. Sure, once I heard the pounding on the door I immediately ran and hid behind my telephone books so my view was a tad obscured, but I still heard her clear as day. She was distraught. We saved the day. You heard that ovation for Bobby just now. It really got the people going.

Nick Stuart: Oh look, Tony’s nose is now longer than his body. Give me a break. What are you really doing out here? Scared Bobby can’t handle the recently debuted Dabney Doubleday all by himself, or is this another scouting mission?

Jiles and Gamble wait a second before simultaneously breaking out into manic laughter. The way they are cackling is not very becoming of them. Not in the slightest. Of course, this goes on until Dabney’s music hits.

The very upbeat track “Southern Nights” by country music legend Glen Campbell begins playing- accompanied by the most polite and reserved gold and blue entrance pyrotechnics any of us has ever seen.

Cancer Jiles: Cool pyro, nerd.

On the screen in old school script the words “FAIR PLAY”- white letters on a blue background – appear. Dabney Doubleday steps out from behind the entrance curtain from Argyle position in his traditional red and blue- and if he didn’t already have a smile on his face, he does when he hears the reaction from the PRIMEates as he and his little brother and manager Douglas make their way out onto the stage.

Richard Parker: Still not sold on this kid- his brother has spunk, though, I have to admit.

Nick Stuart: The Doubleday Brothers fresh off their first win here in PRIME at ReVival 41 have really endured themselves to the fans with some of their comments on Jabber directed to a certain reviled Russian war hero and his award winning manager of the year.

Speaking of the war of words between the Doubleday’s and The leaders of The Red Army, Douglas Doubleday is sporting one of Dabney’s brand new blue “FAIR PLAY: Not a Communist” t-shirts under his brown suit jacket. He trots out in front of his brother showing it off to a pop from some of the fans.

Cancer Jiles: Look at these two crumbs. Pathetic. I bet you Dabneigh tries to shake Bobby’s hand before the match starts. Cash only.

Richard Parker ever so slyly places a twenty dollar bill on the announce table.

Tony Gamble: I guess we’re letting anybody into PRIME these days.

Cancer Jiles: Meh, it could be worse. Could be Teddy Palmer Beyond, claiming he and his trusty sidekick the Kentucky Fried Candied Cardinal are back to wreak Vengeance upon PRIME for prior Injustices against KFC City.

As the polite fireworks display takes a bow “Southern Nights” continues to usher the triumphant Dabney Doubleday down the ramp he shucks his satin ring jacket and hands it to an excited little kid in the first holding a little sign that reads “I came all the way from Delaware to see Dabney and Douglas!” both Doubleday brothers high five the now elated youngster.

Nick Stuart: There’s something about these kids that the fans are gravitating towards, Richard.

Richard Parker: I bet the kid’s a plant, nobody is this nice.

Cancer Jiles: You saying he’s vegan? That’s Bobby’s kryptonite.

Richard Parker: Go fuck yourself.

Douglas takes his place at ringside as Danbey rolls under the bottom rope, into the ring, and finds the corner opposite of Bobby. Referee Ashely Barlow runs down the rules for the contest before calling for the bell.

DING~!

Nick Stuart: And away we go! Streak is on the line!

Richard Parker: It just dawned on me that if Dabney beats Bobby he’ll tie Bobby’s streak at two, in only his second match in PRIME.

Tony Gamble: Who invited this guy?

Dabney cautiously makes his way to the center of the ring. Bobby does the same, just slower. Call it a more methodical approach.

Cancer Jiles: Here it comes. Wait for it……

The two competitors are standing a few feet away from each other when Doubleday, much to the dismay of Richard Parker’s wallet, extends his hand as a sign of respect.

Cancer Jiles: Thanks for playing, Dicky boy!

Bobby, not usually the one who is respected, well, outside of the buffet gods, is caught off guard by the gesture. So, he does what he does best when he finds himself in an awkward situation.

Silent but deadly.

Doubleday pulls his hand back in horror; his young virgin nose stinging like a bee landed inside of it. Barlow moves to the other side of the ring, desperately trying to find fresh air. Bobby stands idle, more so guilty, in the center of the ring.

Tony Gamble: We don’t have to worry about that making its way down here, do we? I have a family you know.

The Honaleean Hammer snaps to. He pushes through the invisible fog of war and lands a right hand to Dabney’s gut. Bob then stomps on Doubleday’s toes to immobilize the young upstart, and follows that up with a scoop slam.

Nick Stuart: A string of moves?

Richard Parker: Who does this guy think he is?

Douglas Doubleday on the outside of the ring slams his hand against the mat, trying to rally his brother. His enthusiasm catches the eye of Cancer Jiles, which is never a good thing.

Cancer Jiles: Tony, take note.

Tony Gamble: Noted.

Bobby loads up an elbow, and is ready to drop all his weight along with it onto the back of Doubleday. However, before he can connect, Fair Play Doubleday rolls out of the way at the last second.

THUMP~!

Nick Stuart: Did the ring just sink an inch?

Mrs. Doubleday’s Perfect Little Gentleman drops down and wrenches in a headlock. He wrangles Bobby up to his feet while maintaining the hold. Bobby tries to break free by bouncing off the ropes, however Dabney holds firm and lands a modified running bulldog, driving Dean face first into the mat.

Richard Parker: Don’t look now but the whippersnap has the peckerslap reeling. Ha.

Noticing a shift in the momentum, Jiles deploys Tony Gamble to buy Bobby some time. Ashley Barlow isn’t having any of it, and tells Tony he can either sit back down or keep on walking to the back. Gamble chooses the latter, and rejoins the commentary team.

Tony Gamble: She’s a tough one.

Cancer Jiles: Don’t get me started on the refs.

Douglas Doubleday decides to come over and introduce himself to the commentary gang, and all it takes is for Jiles to brandish an egg to drive him back to his corner.

Inside the ring, Dabney is still in control. He lands a few punches and kicks to keep Bobby down, when in reality he probably didn’t have to in order to get the desired result. He twists a few of Bob’s appendages, before dropping down for a surprise pin.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Bobby out at two. He better get his act together before he loses control of this match!

Richard Parker: So, where’s Coral at? Waiting to run out in case the both of you get ejected? Too big-time now that he’s the Captain of the eGG Bandits? Hopefully the power doesn’t go to his head, ya know?

Jiles deadpans to Dicky.

He wants to laugh.

But he can’t.

Cancer Jiles: Captain Coral is taking care of something else. In regard to what that is, let’s just say he gets his hands dirty in other ways and leave it at that.

Dabney is up on his feet. Bobby struggles getting up to his, but eventually is able to do so. Dabney charges in with a stiff lariat, but it doesn’t knock the Beautiful Bandit down. Instead, it riles him up, and causes him to pound on his chest as if to say he wants more, or that his heart has stopped. Dabney obliges, and tries to knock Bob down with another lariat. Still, he can’t get the Honaleean down.

Cancer Jiles: He’s Honaleeing up.

Tony Gamble: Good night.

Dabney charges in for a third time, his manhood fully in question, but Bob ducks under his lariat attempt. Doubleday quickly spins on a heel, and receives a thumb to his eye for the trouble.

Nick Stuart: He spun right into that! I hope he didn’t lose an eye!

Wind back behind his sails, Bobby whips Dabney — hard — into the corner. He goes charging in, leaps, gets about an inch or two of air, and then fails to connect with a body splash. Dabney signals to the crowd that he’s about to do something stupid, and gets behind the stunned Bobby Dean, positioning him for an atomic drop.

Nick Stuart: He’s gonna put Bobby on the Hot Seat!

Cancer Jiles: Tony!

Dabney hoists the massive mound of Bobby Dean up, however, no amount of spunk, or fervor, or youth, or athletic ability could do for him what is necessary. As such, at the peak of the move, Dabney’s legs, back, whatever, gives out, and like London Bridge, Bobby comes falling down on top of him. Barlow drops down to make the count!

ONE

TWO……..

…..

KICKOUT!

Cancer Jiles: DAMN IT!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how Dabney got out of that one! He was smothered! What heart! What determination! What courage! Who knows what wonders he might have just seen while staring into the abyss!

Douglas Doubleday is at it again. He’s rallying the crowd, hooting and hollering, doing his best to get his brother back in the game.

Cancer Jiles: That’s it. I’ve had just about enough of this Piz! Tony!

If you’re wondering why Jiles is so Tony dependent, it’s because he’s still feeling the side effects of a Philly Street Fight. See, Two Books is useful for something outside of taking pins. Tony walks over to Douglas, and stops his rally cry. Bobby and Dabney remain prone on the canvas. Ashley Barlow starts to interject in Tony’s and Douglas’ not so friendly conversation.

Cancer Jiles: Is it weird that even his manager is taller than Two Books?

Bobby is on all fours. Dabney, hearing the roar of the crowd, and seeing what’s going on outside the ring, starts to crawl towards the ropes and his brother. Air is still hard to come by, as it should be since a piano fell on him. Tiny Tony and Teach Me How to Dougie continue to trade words, until finally Ashley Barlow has had enough and ejects Tony from ringside!

Richard Parker: HOW do you like that, Cancer!!

Cancer Jiles: …

Richard Parker: Wait? Where’d he go?

Bobby is on a single knee doing his best to stem cardiac arrest.

Barlow is paying too much attention to Tony Gamble walking up the ramp. In her defense, Tony is screaming at her like he’s taken out the trash for the last time.

Dabney is up on his feet, sharing a moment with his brother.

Dougie is staring right back at him, imploring him to finish it.

Jiles is a slithering cockroach who is about to take advantage of the situation like he had the whole thing planned out from the opening bell. From out of nowhere, The Eggsecutioner slides in and absolutely obliterates the unsuspecting Dougie Doubleday with a superkick on the outside of the ring.

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER! He’s dead, Richard! DED!

Richard Parker: All is fair in love and war.

Dabney turns to stone, like he’s looked Jiles’ snake headed sister in the eyes. Bobby is back on his feet, and spins the stone around with ease. He doesn’t bother taking the time to stuff the turkey, rather he just hits him with a stiff pile driver. Barlow finally sees what happened on the outside of the ring, but before she can admonish Jiles he’s already halfway up the ramp.

Nick Stuart: Bobby’s not done!

Nick is right. Bobby does not go for the pin. Not yet. He’s a different person now. He’s jaded. He’s been snubbed. His captaincy was taken. His shades were returned, and his streak now belongs to Cancer. Being so, he drags Dabney over towards the corner, ascends to the second turnbuckle, and drops his ass down with all his might right on Danbey’s chest.

Richard Parker: Not that’s a hot seat.

Barlow drops down for the rudimentary count.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Streak lives.

Richard Parker: All thanks to the eGG Bandits.

Nick Stuart: I think we’re going to need some help out here.

The camera cuts away from the Hammer of Honalee still in the seated position.

We cut backstage after the back and forth contest between Bobby Dean and Dabney Doubleday to find RIA walking down a hallway. On her right is Kohime Mori, face dripping with concern. The other compatriot with her is clutched in her left arm; a step ladder, with googly eyes and a white poster board mouth in a very happy smile, crudely applied on the top step. RIA’s eyes scan dutifully across the space in front of them. Ri-800 Model 101 activated. Kohime places a firm hand on RIA’s shoulder, halting their progress.

Kohime Mori: Miss Ria, I really don’t think this is a good idea.

An exasperated sigh pops out from RIA, like a cherry bomb going off.

RIA: Listen ‘Hime, I’m tired of his mouth. He wants to keep talking shit? Fine, but there’s consequences. Right, Steppy?

RIA bobs the ladder back and forth in an attempt to simulate a nod.

RIA: Two to one! Steppy and I win!

The Moé Monster hangs her head, partially in frustration, partly out of helplessness. As RIA begins to move again, Kohime lurches forward, almost tripping over herself to catch up.

Kohime Mori: He’s a jerk, I know. But he could get hurt! Or something else bad could happen! I don’t like this, Miss Ria. Not one bit.

RIA: You worry too much. Everything’ll be fine! I just need t-

RIA cuts herself off, screeching to a halt. Noise can be heard around the corner of an intersecting hallway. The Psychoberry presses herself up against the near wall, jerking her Japanese friend over with her. She switches her grip up, clutching the equipment with both hands.

Kohime Mori: Miss Ria!

The loud whisper from the young lady is literally waved away by a hyper focused RIA. Steps can be heard getting closer and closer. As the figure travels into sight, RIA leaps out and swings!

CRACK

Steppy’s impact against the forehead of the figure coming around the corner prompts a garbled, barely human groan. Armfuls of assorted clutter are flung into the air like scattering bowling pins, soon crashing loudly onto the floor around a mangled and wiry body that hits the ground like a ton of bricks.

“BLBLBLEEEGGHHK!!!”

Lying there on the floor like a heavily-tattooed dead cockroach person straight outta Kafka is Ol’ Dopesmoker himself. The Escape Artist. The Goat Bastard. Hell’s Favorite Hoosier. And, you know, the twenty-seventh Universal Champion of PRIME. Or whatever.

Rezin: Ooouuhaaaagghhh…

Still clutching Steppy in her right hand, the Psychoberry throws her left arm up in an exasperated manner.

RIA: Aww, you’re not a tiny gumball! Rez, what the hell are you doing here?!

RIA’s tone sounds far more annoyed than concerned. About a 95/5 split. Rezin sits up, a hand held over the growing welt on his forehead

Rezin: (woozy) …bwuhhh-uhhh… RIA?

Kohime rushes over to the downed Escape Artist, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Kohime Mori: Are you okay, Mr. Rezin?! Oh my god, I’m so sorry that happened! Do you need to see a doctor?

Rezin’s eyes roll in his head. No doubt, he can see the pentagrams swirling around his noggin. Nevertheless, he shakes out the cobwebs.

Rezin: Ehh, naahh, all doctor’s are crisis actors paid by the government, kiddo. But I appreciate the gesture. Besides, I’m pretty sure my head’s seen worse days…

A thought comes to him, and the Goat Bastard’s bloodshot eyes suddenly coming bulging form his skull. His hand slaps the bald spot at the top of his otherwise black, bristly head.

Rezin: SHIT, MY HEAD!!

He frantically begins searching through the mess of junk littered around him. From out of the clutter, Rezin procures a wrinkled sheet of tinfoil and slaps it over his dome.

Rezin: D’AHH!! That was a close one! Can’t have ‘em scannin’ my BRAIN and readin’ my THOUGHTS!

He looks dubiously between RIA and Komihe standing over him.

Rezin: …um… especially right now.

Meanwhile, RIA and Komihe begin to notice the weird collection of things around him on the floor that he had apparently been carrying until his chance encounter with Steppy.

Just to name a few, we can see at least one microphone (probably Trutt’s), one commentary headset (probably Richard’s), two production monitors, a shitload of coaxial cables, a tupperware filled with smoked ribs, a garbage bag filled with buffalo wings, two-thirds of a cheese pizza, a broken satellite dish, a shredded Enemigo mask, a discharged tube of bear mace, a cooler labeled “Vae Victis Blood Samples”, the champagne from their VVIP suit, a jerry can labeled “Happy Juice”, and countless photographs, files, and manilla folders.

Rezin is just kinda sitting in the middle of it, like a kid with his whole head caught in the cookie jar.

Rezin: …um… yeah… ya know… punk rock shit?

The Goat Bastard’s stoner sense tingles. His head whips in the other direction, spying a trio of Enemigos sliding around a corner and pointing him down.

Rezin: HOLY BUTTCRAP, THEY FOUND ME!! I DUNNO HOW, BUT THEY FOUND ME!!

Rezin scrambles to his feet and frantically begins gathering up his quarry of questionable items.

Rezin: Look, if Lizard Queen Lindz comes askin’, ain’t neither one of ya saw me, GOT IT?! And for the love of Lynch, COVER YOUR DAMB HEADS, LADIES!!

The disheveled and derelict Goat Bastard — and, yes, we must reluctantly also point out an official former Universal Champion — hauls his weed-addled ass further down the hall, struggling to hold his pile of stolen junk while making his escape. RIA tilts her head before turning to Kohime and pointing a thumb in the fleeing Rezin’s direction.

RIA: Who was that guy?

Kohime rolls her eyes and spits out a sigh of frustration before starting after Hell’s Favorite Hoosier.

Kohime Mori: Wait, Mr. Rezin! I’m pretty sure you have a concussion!

RIA watches as her friend books it down the hall.

RIA: ‘Kay, bye!

Voice From Off-Camera: I swear, people around here can just do whatever they want. Put someone in the hospital, smacking people unconscious with step-ladders. Why do those who find themselves aligned with Lindsay Troy always wear a white hat, and yet their actions are… the opposite?

RIA swings around. Seeing who the voice originated from, a big grin spreads across her face.

RIA: If it isn’t the loveliest flower in PRIME? What can I do for you, Rosie?!

The camera pans to the approaching Rose, irritated and annoyed. The woman moves just a few steps outside of RIA’s personal space, looking down at the shorter woman while crossing her arms on her chest.

Rose: Well, for starters, you could do us all a favor and not call yourself the ultimate underdog? You pal around with the likes of Nate Colton and Lindsay Troy, but expect us to believe you’re an underdog? You have the machine behind you, Ria. Call it like it is, and stop trying to make yourself something that you’re not.

She then looks in the direction Rezin bolted to, with a disgusted look on her face.

Rose: You sending Rezin to the hospital as well? He can be there laid up next to David. You probably know where Max Kael is since you two seem intent on hurting people tonight. Plus, you two are besties with Lindsay Troy. So where is he? Answers, now.

She references the incident from earlier in the evening when Max Kael and Arthur Pleasant bludgeoned David Noble.

Rose: Cough it up, ‘underdog’.

RIA presses her tongue against the inside of her lower right lip. She chuckles, but the amusement one might expect of such a sound is undercut with annoyance.

RIA: Really? Really?! The 5’10” model looking bitch wants to lecture someone that looks like Nikki Syxx had sex with a pack of gummy bears?! The machine, huh? The one that has thus far granted me ONE title match in my time here, a fucking four way match? That machine?

RIA takes a half step forward, her rainbow irises slightly obscured by her narrowing lids.

RIA: I had to bust my ass to even get here! Thirteen years, sweetheart. And I didn’t have daddy to hold the door open for me back when I was sixteen. In fact, daddy was gone not long after my first steps. The bitch that has a beautiful child, something I’m literally incapable of wants to lecture me?! Honey, you started off on second while I was pinch hitting in the minors. Maybe next time before you try to disrespect me, you should do some research, think a bit and look in the fucking mirror first!

Rose looks at the Psychoberry and slowly raises her eyebrows.

Rose: Well, well, someone put more than a pinch of spice in your DNA. Cute. The reality is, love, you don’t want to start swapping sob stories. You don’t want to stand here and talk about your one title shot when the Queen herself, your buddy, is out here giving you chance after chance to fall flat on your face. Do you think Troy would have signed me herself? Not in a million years. I had to work the system to ensure I was standing before you, competing out there in front of everyone.

Rose looks RIA up and down for a moment, shaking her head.

Rose: I will forever be compared to someone I couldn’t measure up to, to someone who didn’t open a single door for me but did everything he could to shut them shut. I live in the shadow of a man who was beloved by millions. Maybe your daddy did you a favor and left your life so you could grow.

Rose then chuckles.

Rose: Not like you did much of that, though, right?

A grin creeps onto RIA’s face. Unlike the usual playful, but somewhat unnerving smile that she typically sports, there’s a hint of menace to this one.

RIA: Was that a short joke? Or a shot at my talent? Cuz I’ve heard plenty of both over the years. But hey, I’m a favorite, right?! I just get shit handed to me! That’s why I’ve battled top names like Jeff Tact, Alex Steele and Cyrus O’Haire! You are right, though. Swapping sob stories probably isn’t a great idea. Cuz I know you couldn’t walk half a fucking mile in my heels. I don’t doubt you have tragedy. I just get a kick out of the thought that having shit and losing it is better than never having had it at all.

RIA cracks her neck. Closer. Not much personal space left.

RIA: You think there aren’t places that wouldn’t immediately rocket you to the top? With your pedigree? Your looks? Your talent? You came to the one place where none of that will help you. Cool. Great. Respect that. Guess what though? No matter where I go, I’m gonna have to fight walls, jump over hurdles. You underestimate how many people want me to fail, want me to give up. People that judge based on shit I can’t help. The fact I even made it to PRIME is an accomplishment. So am I gonna call myself an underdog? You bet your ass I’m gonna!

Rose sighs. Audibly. Loud. In the face (or the space above RIA’s head is more likely) of the Technicolor Comforter of Wrestling.

Rose: Hmph. Whatever you say, Lemon-Lime RIA. I liked the classic original version of yourself better if I do say so myself. More feisty, less… preachy.

Rose looks down at her nails.

Rose: Though, I do appreciate all those compliments you’re throwing my way. [beat] Watch closely to what I do to Max Kael, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll be next on my list. My dance card is pretty free after I’m done re-arranging his remaining lives and shoving him into the closest Tardis I can find. Send him and Anna Daniels on their merry way, for that matter.

Rose begins to walk away and pauses.

Rose: If you see him at your top-secret super duper club of Lindsay Troy friends, let him know that I’m looking for him and that I’m not in the mood to fuck around.

RIA glares as Rose turns on her heels and strides off. Her glance drops down to Steppy. She reaches down and grabs his mouth, the distinct sound of Velcro heard as she yanks it off. RIA flips it 180° and slaps it back down. Steppy is now… sad? Horrified? Shocked?

RIA: You don’t like that bitch either, huh? Guess we’re gonna show her a thing or two… Ya know, Steppy, we need to get you more mouths. Let’s go find Kohime.

RIA turns the opposite direction of her confrontation partner and starts walking.

Cameras return to a familiar sight, that being the face of one of the captains of WarGames: Coral Avalon, the “leader” of Team Bandit. Avalon is walking down the hallway, towel around his neck after his contest with Dan Van Slade earlier in the night.

Fans cheer for the Crownless King, but mostly because Coral isn’t in the company of the eGG Bandits. Especially not Jiles, that crumb.

Avalon stops in front of a particular door, and he knocks on it before the camera even has time to catch sight of whose name is on the door. When the camera pans to the right, fans cheer again for the name written on it.

HESSIAN.

It takes a few seconds before the door glides ajar and four big fingers reach through the gap at the top, pulling it open a little more. A large bare arm covered in faded, mottled scarring rests along the top of the door as a thick, wiry gray beard drops into view beneath focused eyes.

Coral looks up at the titanic Murder Show. He can’t help himself. He is a man of average height standing next to a literal giant, after all.

Coral Avalon: Hey, Hess. Thought I’d drop by before your big match and say hello.

Coral crosses his arms as he looks up at the mammoth.

Coral Avalon: Unless, uh… you’ve got some sort of pre-murder ritual you do before you go out to do the show.

The giant furrows his brow curiously.

Hessian: Stretching, mostly. Keeps the timber limber. Come on in.

The Murder Show pushes the door open wider and beckons his captain inside, returning to the back of the room and dropping to a seated position on the floor before extending a long leg out and resuming his warmup.

Hessian: Appreciate you coming by, boss. Straight back to business so soon after a title match like that? Think we’re gonna get along well…

Coral shrugs as he walks inside. He keeps his eyes on the Murder Show the whole time, rather than to take in the sights surrounding him.

Coral Avalon: Business is always booming, as they say. You’re in the business of Hellavating everything in front of you, I’m in the business of trying to keep the ship afloat before some dumb cowboy on a jetski sinks it.

He runs his hand over his face, visions of a shivering cowboy seated upon his jet ski which itself is on a truck dancing in his head.

Coral Avalon: Anyway, I don’t want to take up too much of your time or anything, you’re a busy man and there is a deranged newborn waiting for you. I just wanted to check in, see how you’re taking being back in PRIME again, and hopefully do it before you actually meet Jiles and want to kill him.

Coral looks around, hoping that none of the other Bandits are around to hear him talk about their leader.

Coral Avalon: There’s a really long queue for that, you see.

The seven-footer’s hip creaks rhythmically like an old galleon on the waves as he rocks his body back and forth with each rep. He glances over at Coral and grins.

Hessian: I’ll bet. It’s a good looking team you’ve put together. Any one of ‘em looks like they could be the face of the company. Don’t know if that’d be a good thing or not, I’m not up on my Bandit history…

Hessian chuckles as he folds his extended leg and straightens the other out, his knee popping as he repeats the exercise and, considering Jiles, throwing a lazy wink at Avalon.

Hessian: They’ll all get to star in the Murder Show eventually though, you too no doubt. But, hey, it’s all business until it’s personal, am I right? Can’t wait to meet the lively bunch, it’s good to be back in the trenches; place is as colorful as ever…like, deranged newborn? What do you mean? Does he throw a lot of tantrums?

Coral Avalon: Uh, no. I kinda meant it literally. Apparently, he was born like eight months ago. It’s a whole… thing. 

The Murder Show shakes his head quizzically.

Hessian: Born?? Christ, they’re gonna charge me with infanticide…

Coral Avalon: PRIME’s been especially weird while you’ve been working to get the show back on schedule. You’ve got glue guys, love guys, cult guys, crying guys, cowboy guys, time wizard guys, Russians, whatever Youngblood is… Bandits, of course. And yeah, you’re gonna come across all of them before long.

He nods at the big guy, a smile coming over his face. He can’t help himself about that, either.

Coral Avalon: And I’m well aware that we might have ourselves a show in a few bloody acts before the end of the year, too. It’d be an honor, honestly. But until those curtains rise, we’ll just have to settle for all of the dumbasses foolish enough to try to beat us in a war.

Hessian’s eyes light up at the sound of war. He knows a thing or two about designing battlefields, and whoever came up with this WarGames gimmick had his praise.

Hessian: I can’t wait. Every time I picture us all locked in that thing I see strobe lights and Slayer and dead bodies everywhere. It’s gonna be glorious. What’re your thoughts, boss man?

Coral Avalon: You know, people look at me and think I don’t really belong in that kind of environment. Too clean, too pretty. And, you know, ever since I encountered the Homicycle, I’ve been a little less about the Slayer. Sorry.

After a brief apologetic expression, Coral’s face forms a smile that doesn’t quite belong on his face. Maybe it’s because of the exhaustion, the man doesn’t get a lot of sleep lately. And maybe it’s the smile of a man who’s been waiting a long time to shed some blood in a PRIME ring.

Coral Avalon: But you know what I think, Hess? You’re right. It’s gonna be glorious. We’ll shed a little blood of our own so that we can build a river out of theirs. We’ll flood the whole town red and build a boat out of their bones. That’s the kind of match we’re looking at here. You down?

Adopting a more enlightened pose as he sits up straight with his legs crossed now, the giant rolls his neck and then his right shoulder, both grating like millstones.

Hessian: Sounds perfect to me. I like your boat analogy. How’s about this; later tonight I go out and smash a bottle of ChamKael across the boards and we christen the Good Ship Bandit to a successful voyage through Cardiff?

Coral Avalon: Sounds good to me. And don’t be afraid to hit it as hard as you can with your ChamKael. The Good Ship Bandit is built like a fortress.

It’s also a decommissioned aircraft carrier that we can’t fully explain because it might collapse under the sheer logic, but don’t worry about that.

Coral Avalon: And I gotta be honest, after this week, I’d smash that bottle myself if you didn’t have dibs.

He takes a step forward, and holds out a fist.

Coral Avalon: But I’ve taken up enough of your time, Hess. Give them a hell of a show tonight.

The Murder Show rises to his full height and pounds Avalon’s fist back with a meaty smack.

Hessian: Thank you sir, respect to ya. I’ll leave enough of a crunch for you to enjoy, no worries. Take care.

Coral nods.

Coral Avalon: You too.

The scene moves on as Avalon walks away from the scene, conspicuously rubbing his hand on the way out.

The camera cuts backstage to a scene with a little less murder and A LOT less forehead. Instead, we’re greeted by Angelica Brooks, who is meandering about the corridor, no doubt waiting for her next interview to arrive. After a few moments, Brooks perks up, signifying her subject’s arrival.

Angelica Brooks: Now joining me for a few moments is none other than the Flyin’ Hawaii–

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins slides into the frame, holding a hollowed out pineapple, from which an orange paper straw (save the turtles, kids) and a small umbrella can be seen. He takes a quick sip of the tropical beverage and corrects Angelica.

Bryan Dawkins: (clears throat) Uh, former Flyin’ Hawaiian, Bruh.

A flash of annoyance passes, followed by that trademark grin and another swig of the juice.

Angelica Brooks: My apologies. Former Flyin’ Hawaiian, Bryan Dawkins.

Dawkins, still grinning, nods and lifts his pineapple, toasting the interviewer.

Bryan Dawkins: Good ta’ see ya, Brooks. Been a minute.

Angelica Brooks: Indeed it has! Coming out of ReVival 42 with the loss to Dan Van Slade–

Yet again, an interjection.

Bryan Dawkins: Where I wasn’t pinned, bruh…

Angelica Brooks: …Coming off of the loss at ReVival 42, where is your mind at? Surely, taking a loss after you were in control for much of the match must be frustrating for you.

Dawkins’ eyes widen to the point where they nearly fall out of his head.

Bryan Dawkins: Frustrating, bruh? FRUSTRATING? Think about it, Brooksie. Been gone over thirteen years and I lose like THAT?!

A pause to wet the Hawaiian whistle and calm the nerves. Is it only pineapple juice in that fruit? We’ll never know.

Bryan Dawkins: Don’t get me wrong, the Bruh is no stranger to losin’ matches in PRIME. Racked up quite the total in the loss column back in the day, bruh. But this time is different. I’M different. I had that match won – I was seconds away from my first submission victory in PRIME. Seconds away from my first victory in the place where my career was jump started, ya?

Another sip from the pineapple, this one longer.

Bryan Dawkins: And yet, it’s stolen from me. STOLEN. I had that match WON.

Angelica Brooks: Bryan, you’re sounding a little…desperate? It’s one match, and you’ve been out of action for quite some time.

The signature white sunglasses with orange and aqua lenses are removed – the Hawaiian is now staring directly at his interviewer.

Bryan Dawkins: Desperate, bruh?

He inches closer to Angelica’s face.

Bryan Dawkins: Desperate?

Closer.

Bryan Dawkins: One match?

Closer.

Bryan Dawkins: Out of action?

Closer yet.

Bryan Dawkins: Sounds like the kind of excuses I woulda made when I was here a long time ago, bruh. How many times do I hafta say it, huh? I’M DIFFERENT NOW.

He backs away from Brooks, takes a deep breath and follows it with a deep draw from that pineapple. Thank God we’ve got that Dole sponsorship – this bruh is about to need a refill on that juice. And with inflation? Pineapple juice ain’t cheap.

Bryan Dawkins: I told Troy. Hell, I told Tsonda last week. I’m different. But in their eyes, I’m still the kid. Still the idiot who pissed away a golden opportunity in the top wrestling company in the world. Was one of the youngest stars on the PRIME roster back then, ya? And what do I have to show for it, Brooks?

He looks at Brooks quizzically and gestures to the space around them. An empty hallway.

Bryan Dawkins: That’s right, bruh. Nothin’. Startin’ from scratch. Still hafta prove myself. So ya know what, Brooksie? Next week. ReVival 44…

Deep breath. Deep drink. Seriously, how much can that pineapple hold?

Bryan Dawkins: I’m layin’ out an open challenge to anyone on the roster who still thinks the Bruh is still the lazy, entitled, carefree, punk ass kid he was back in the ReVolution days. Don’t care who it is – I’ll show everyone that the Bruh is different.

Angelica Brooks: That’s an awfully big bet, Bryan.

Dawkins’ eyes narrow.

Bryan Dawkins: One I’m willin’ to make, bruh. Lindsay, I know you’re watchin’ this…book the match.

Dawkins returns the sunglasses to his face and begins his exit. Angelica Brooks has one more question for the Bruh.

Angelica Brooks: Bryan, one more question if you don’t mind?

The former Flyin’ Hawaiian pauses and turns back while taking in another swig.

Angelica Brooks: Could I get your pick for the Universal Championship match later on tonight? Given your…history with one of the competitors, I’d love to get your thoughts on the match.

Dawkins ponders her question for a moment while taking a long sip from the pineapple. After a few moments, it’s pretty clear that the question isn’t adding up for PRIME’s Favorite Hawaiian.

Bryan Dawkins: …not sure what ya mean, bruh? Like I’ve said from the beginning, PRIME is a new cast of characters. Aside from a chosen few, the Bruh has no history here. It’s a clean slate…

Another gulp, followed by the sound of an empty pineapple.

Bryan Dawkins: So I’m not sure why you’d ask for my opinion on a match with two bruhs I’ve never seen before?

Angelica Brooks: But…Sykes–

Dawkins has no time for this back and forth.

Bryan Dawkins: Thought ya were better than this, Brooksie. I’d do some better research next time around, bruh…

And with that, Dawkins exits the scene, leaving PRIME’s Head Interviewer by her lonesome. Still rebounding from the confusion, she throws it back to PRIME’s Hall of Fame announcing duo.

Angelica Brooks: Well guys, you heard it here first. The Bryan Dawkins Open Challenge is set for ReVival 44! Back to you!

We cut to ringside.

“Caramelldansen” by the Caramella Girls pops over the PA system. Kennade Starr bounces out from the backstage area. She does a little spin before doing a kitty cat paw with her hands. Mr. Bubbles, her “butler”, stalks out behind her.

Vince Howard: On her way to the ring… From “Your favorite stream”… Weighing in at “None of your business”…. KENNADE STAAAAAAAARR!

Nick Stuart: I wonder if Vince is ever going to get this intro right.

Richard Parker: No one would ever pay to see Mr. Bubbles in the ring, it’s worse than watching paint dry.

Kennade rides the momentum of the crowd and takes her place at the side of the ring. Someone walks behind her as she watches Mr Bubbles step over the top rope to get into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Well I doubt they’re ever going to see Kennade in the ring, so they better get comfortable.

Tony Gamble: If I would’ve known I could have Frank wrestle all my matches for me, I would have made him my Stand as soon as I returned.

Nick shifts in his seat when he hears the all too familiar voice coming from his left. There,  pulling a seat close to the announce table, is The Grin. Richard turns his back to the Permascar Superstar by turning his seat to the left, rolling his eyes as he does so.

Nick Stuart: How did you…When did you…Why are you…

Tony Gamble: I walked…just now…

The opening chords of Chevelle ‘s “Comfortable Liar” ring out, signaling the imminent arrival of Seán O’Neill.

Tony Gamble: For this guy.

As if on cue, O’Neill emerges on the entrance way and takes a second to scan the crowd, he makes no effort to hide the look of disdain showing on his face, before starting for the ring.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, from Belfast, Northern Ireland… weighing in at two hundred and thirty-one pounds… SUURREEAALLL SEAN O’NEILLLLLL!

As usual, the announcement is met with a chorus of jeers from the crowd. Ignoring the reception, O’Neill vaults over the top-rope to enter the ring. Moving into the middle of the ring he glances from Mr Bubbles to Kennade Starr with a sneer, before he looks up to the rafters of the arena whilst spreading his arms straight out to each side.

As he lowers his head, O’Neill smirks in Kennade’s direction before moving into the corner where he stretches out on the ring-ropes and rolls his shoulders and wrists, as he gets ready to lock up.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: You’re here for O’Neill?

Tony Gamble: Well I’m not here to watch the little girl over there do a gymnastic routine at ringside, that’s for damn sure.

Bubbles and O’Neill circle each other. Starr’s butler slowly inches closer as Seán tries his best to keep his distance. At least until he can figure out a way to gain the upper hand against his larger opponent, because he’s never been one to avoid a fight. The sound of a palm striking the mat comes from behind him, but he doesn’t flinch so the sudden lunge forward from Bubbles is quite easy to avoid and counter with a swift shin kick to Bubbles’ calf.

Tony Gamble: I’m all for being over the top and doing anything to get myself a little attention, but does she really think anyone is going to buy her little drama club performance? If someone does, I have some PRIME oceanside real estate in Colorado they might be interested in. I’ll sell it pretty cheap too, real steel at that price.

As Tony “Two Books” runs his mouth at ringside, the action continues in the ring as a few stiff strikes to Mr Bubbles’ calf and thigh have him staggering a bit before he slumps into the corner of the ring, using the ropes to keep himself up as Seán takes a moment to look for another opening. As he does, he notices Starr at ringside shaking her arms out, apparently trying to get Bubbles to shake off the cobwebs and get his head straight.

Nick Stuart: I’m not a fan of this whole Starr slash Bubbles situation, so you’re not going to hear an argument from me.

Richard Parker: Ask any of the thousands of hashtag Starrshines in attendance, or the millions watching from home, and they’ll tell you what you can do with that property.

Seán finds an opening and moves in to strike, but it all seems to be a ploy as Kennade yells out ‘now’ as Seán gets closer and lifts her leg up and strikes forward into the air. Bubbles does the same in the ring and catches O’Neill in the gut before he has time to react.

Tony Gamble: Oh, hey there Dick, for a minute there I thought you didn’t know Iwas here. You don’t text me to see how my day’s going, or if I’m caught up on the latest episode of The Traitors anymore. I’m hurt.

The smirk that slowly creeps onto the right side of Tony’s face as he turns to find Parker’s back still toward him, is enough to make the hair on your arm stand straight up.

Richard Parker: We’re here to call this match, and we’re not actively searching for a third wheel. I’m actually surprised you can see over the top of the table Mr Two Books.

That first kick is just the start, as Mr Bubbles continues his onslaught of Sean O’Neill with a second kick to the gut. Without hesitation, and gaining a little bit of momentum in the process, Bubbles takes a hold of Sean’s shoulders and switches places with him in the corner.

Nick Stuart: Mr Bubbles with the upper hand now, trapping Seán in the corner and unloading left and right strikes that O’Neill is trying his best to protect against with his arms in front of his face.

Kennade is at ringside swinging her arms, mimicking punches as she controls Mr Bubbles in the ring. Thing is, while the punches have strength behind them they are still slow so Seán O’Neill manages to find an opening and drive an elbow into the bigger man’s gut. The shot staggers him long enough for Seán to drive another elbow into the gut, before rearing back and swinging a forearm to the side of Mr Bubbles’ head. The shot doesn’t drop him, but it gives O’Neill enough time to swing behind Bubbles and wrap his arms around his waist and lift him up and over.

Nick Stuart: Seán O’Neill with a very nice German Suplex on Mr Bubbles, and he bridges for the pin!

1…

Tony Gamble: I mean, it was okay.

Richard Parker: Hater.

2…

Bubbles kicks out, shaking his head as he rolls over and pushes himself up to rise up to a knee, but before you can get up any further Seán O’Neill wraps his arm around his neck and tries to drive his head into the mat.

Richard Parker: Look at the strength from Starr here.

Bubbles keeps his hands planted on the mat and refuses to go down. Instead, he keeps his composure enough to push himself up with one hand and wrap the other around O’Neill’s waist. Seán drives a few punches into the side of the bigger man’s head, but Bubbles still manages to lift him up and over with a belly to belly suplex that launches him across the ring.

Nick Stuart: You mean Bubbles, right?

Tony Gamble: Of course he doesn’t, he’s probably a card carrying Starrshine.

Richard Parker: That’s none of your business.

O’Neill is slow to rise, and a forearm to the small of his back just drives him back down to the mat. Bubbles then grabs Sean’s arm and lifts him up, whipping him into the ropes. O’Neill hits the ropes, and rebounds right into a boot to the face from Bubbles. Kennade has a smile the size of Texas on her lips, as she jumps up and down in excitement on the outside before stopping down like she’s going for the pin.

Tony Gamble: Have to say, I’m not really impressed by this Seán guy. If he’s having trouble with this clown, I can’t imagine him being anything more than a liability to the glue sticks.

1…

Richard Parker: How do you go from being Adored, to just another egg in the basket? You used to be somebody.

Kickout!!

Nick Stuart: A kickout at one from O’Neill, and Kennade does not look happy.

Kennade slaps her hand on the ground before hopping up and rushing to the apron, yelling at Jimmy Turnbull to count faster.

Tony Gamble: I always thought her name rhymed with grenade, why does everyone need to try and make things different? Like, how lazy do you need to be to name your kid Abcde…that’s not a name it’s the damn alphabet.

Bubbles gets to his feet and brings Seán up with him, his hand around his neck as he prepares to lift him up into a chokeslam. It doesn’t happen though, as O’Neill drives a knee into his gut to loosen the grip before driving his boot into the same spot to get him to double over. As if second nature; Seán reaches forward, wraps Bubbles up, lifts him up, then drives him down hard into the mat.

Nick Stuart: CELTIC TIGER BOMB!

Richard Parker: I don’t think he’s done, Nick!

He doesn’t stop there, instead he hooks the leg and crosses it over the other before floating over and locking in the Texas Cloverleaf. Tony stands up and looks on as Turnbull drops to the mat and asks Bubbles if he wants to submit. O’Neill locks eyes with Starr, then watches as she proceeds to slide into the ring. His eyes narrow and his brow furrows as she rushes toward him, but he doesn’t release the hold. Kennade drives her shoulder into O’Neill’s chest just as the bell sounds.

Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell, and it looks like Kennade Starr is going to get Mr Bubbles disqualified here.

Turnbull gets up and glances over at Starr, as he makes his way to the ropes. O’Neill releases his hold and looks in her direction as well, which causes her to quickly roll out of the ring and rush toward the ramp.

Vince Howard: Your winner…

Seán watches her scurry up the ramp, as Tony stands there with a grin on his face.

Vince Howard: …via submission…

He really doesn’t have a choice, it’s always there.

Vince Howard: SUURREEAALLL SEÁN OOOO’NEEEEIIIIIILLLLL!

O’Neill doesn’t even turn Tony’s way, a look of disdain etched on his face as he watches Kennade disappear to the back.

We cut to commercial.

The video starts with a man sitting at a desk. He looks tired. More than tired, he looks exhausted. Hell, he looks practically dead.

Tired Man: Ugh.

Voice-Over: What’s the matter, buddy?

Tired Man: Ugggggggh.

Voice-Over: Feeling run down and worn out? Feeling like your get-up-and-go has got-up-and-went?

The man makes an exaggerated nod, as if he’s barely in control of his head.

Voice-Over: And you just don’t have what it takes to face another day?

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A plastic Flav-O-Boost container magically appears and pours some of its contents into the man’s coffee. He sluggishly raises his cup and sips, and soon those sips turn to greedy gulps.

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The man slams his coffee mug down on his desk; it explodes into fragments. His eyes and grin are full of manic energy.

No Longer Tired Man: Rrrraaaaaaarrrggggh!

Voice-Over: That’s right! If you need extra taste, extra energy, extra oomph, all you have to say is…

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Voice-Over: Umm…

Now Actually Quite Excitable Man: I need my Flav-O-Boost!

Maybe not as smooth a delivery as the marketing team would like–a surprising amount of growl in there–but it gets the job done.

Flav-O-Boost is proud to sponsor…

PHILADELPHIA STREET FIGHT
Philadelphia, PA
April 27, 2024

We cut away from our regular programming to a wonderful little pre-recorded segment from earlier in the week.

Why this segment was recorded earlier in the week you might be asking yourself. Or you’re skimming and you don’t care, in which case, fuck you, buddy, it’s a great question to ask!

Sometime before ReVival 43, let us say a random Tuesday. Yeah, the Tuesday before ReVival! Nobody knows the results of the Title matches, nobody knows what the title picture even looks like yet!

..because it’s the Tuesday before ReVival 43.

ANWAY

A pair of Herald slippers touches down on a freshly mowed lawn. His bright eyes stared at the home set out in front of him.

It’s not much to look at, just an average house in an average suburban neighborhood. A white SUV is parked conspicuously in the driveway.

“We have arrived! Arrived at Casa Du Ava-” The Herald stops mid sentence as he begins to sniff the air. “..it smells..”

The sniffs the air a little more aggressively, the bells on his baby blue tunic jingling comically as he does so.

“..poors..”

He wrinkles his nose before retrieving a small perfume bottle from his pocket labeled “old money” by Franchesca Murado-Farthington. He sprays it into the air around him, taking a few breaths before sighing. The sighing is quickly replaced by aggressive, angry coughing, likely the after effect of huffing smelly air. He recovers after a few moments before shuffling up to the front door.

DING-DONG!

He doesn’t actually ring the bell, instead he just yells it out loud at the door.

It takes a few moments before the door opens and the Herald comes face to face with a short woman, hair in equal parts black and pink. Her gaze of brown eyes are thoroughly furrowed before she turns around and shouts behind her.

Annabelle Avalon: Honey, it’s for you!

After a short moment, the better half steps aside and allows the soon-to-be-named Captain of the eGG Bandits to stand at the doorway.

Coral Avalon: …Hello, Bentley, how are you doing? Why are you here? How did you find out where I lived?

The Herald: That’s three questions! I am contractually obligated to answer two in the form of a sentence and one in the form of SONG AND DANCE!

Before Coral can respond the Herald swings a lute from over his shoulder and begins to strum it madly. There is suddenly a flood of activity on Coral’s lawn as several other Heralds run up behind Bentley to form a chorus line.

The Herald: The first question! How am I doing? I am doing SWIMMINGLY! Not really though, I can’t swim, never understood that phrase.

He mimics drowning as the green, red, orange and purple Heralds pretend to be the water around him.

The Herald: The second question! Why am I here?! To investigate you for WAR GAMES! You are a leader of the eGG Bandits and Friends War Games Team are you not?! Don’t answer, our audience already knows the answer to that question! …and for the third question..

The Heralds seem to argue with each other for a moment before Bentley waves them all back into line. Two short buses pull up to the street outside Coral’s house as the marching band from last ReVival piles out onto the lawn.

The Herald: How did I find out where you lived?!

Coral stares at the Herald and his Heraldettes for a long moment. It’s so long in fact that his wife has time to reappear by his side.

With a broadsword.

Coral pays his wife a glance and then realizes what’s wrong with the situation and is very quick to put himself between her and the Herald(s).

Coral Avalon: Whoa, hang on. Let’s not do that, Annie.

Annabelle Avalon: Do you have any idea what you’re doing? I mean…

Annabelle’s eyes meet the camera.

Annabelle Avalon: Is this being FILMED!?

Coral turns to see what his wife is looking at, and grimaces. Oh, yeah. They’re being pre-recorded for ReVival 43, and that can’t be good for their privacy.

Coral Avalon: Apparently.

He turns to the Herald.

Coral Avalon: Is this the part where you, uh… expect me to give you an itemized list of all of our weaknesses?

At the sight of the broadsword the rainbow collection of Heralds let out a panicked scream, a nervous energy overtaking them. Bentley eyes the sword, eyes Annabelle and then turns to look at Coral. Whatever words were traded between the married couple and the Herald is lost on him. His face says he’s trying to figure something out. Some great puzzle.. Then it dawns on him.

The Herald: A broad with a sword! I get it! Ha-ha! Anyway, boys! The song!

The rabble behind the Herald falls back in line as the marching band tune up their instruments. It starts with a snare drum and some percussion. It is then joined by some soft horns as the tell-tale opening notes of “I’ll make a man outta you” from Mulan.

The Herald: Last chance before I start singing!

Coral Avalon: Look, Bentley, you don’t have to start singing like it’s a big threat or anything. We could have a nice, civil conversation at my front door like a pair of adults.

Coral holds his straight face for a few moments before he dawns on him that, no, that’s definitely not how this is going to end.

Coral Avalon: …Annie, maybe you should call the police.

The Herald: Smart idea! Everyone back up onto the street! Here we go!

The mass of a marching band, the rainbow Heralds and a few dancers who have now shown up out of nowhere are sure to be standing on public property as the Herald spins back around toward Avalon and Annabelle. He then begins to dance. And by Dance I mean he jigs with his elbows high and his feet kicking to either side.

♪♫♩ Let’s get down to business, to discuss the teams! I came to see Coral’s bright forehead beams! Like the saddest brunch I’ll ever get, after ten or so hours you take a big poo! Coral, I’ve got to interview you! ♪♫♩

The Herald sings and is joined by the rainbow Heralds who mimic the Herald’s unique jig though not quite as well as he is. And that is being very charitable to the Herald as his own dance is barely enough to qualify as a dance. More like random neurons firing causing the young man’s body to convulse in tune with the marching band planning behind him.

♪♫♩ Steady as a Bandit, all yokey from within! Yellow ooze in the center, War Games you can’t wiiiiin! Your forehead’s girth is massive and a lot, Annabelle’s your special beau! Yet somehow, I’ve got to interview you! ♪♫♩

Electric slide time? Maybe, if the Herald knew what that was! Instead the Rainbow Heralds and Bentley engage in some weird square dancing like spinning, swirling thing and results in the Herald mimicking a War Games entrance. There is a lot to explain there and you’re only getting that. Congrats.

The whole time, Coral is pinching the bridge of his nose like he has a giant headache. How much sleep has he had? Who knows! Even Coral doesn’t. All he knows is that… yup, this is the second-worst dancing he’s ever seen in his life.

Coral Avalon: …Someone fetch me some damn aspirin.

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Annabelle hands him a bottle of the stuff. Coral does a double-take over how fast she retrieved it, but he doesn’t argue with it. He takes two aspirin and dry swallows them, and then clearly regrets that decision as he beholds the scene before him.

Coral Avalon: So, you’re… here to interview me. On my front lawn. With a marching band. I’m gonna be honest, Bentley, I’m not quite sure what you’re hoping to accomplish here.

The Herald: Technically we’re on the street, Mister Avalon!

Before the Alias Champion has a chance to return the musical flow overtakes the Heralds attention, drawing him back into his song and dance number!

♪♫♩ I’m never gonna try that meth, say goodbye to all my teeth! Boy, you’ll end up sick losing a limb! This guy got’em a team of death, hope Hessian doesn’t cause a beef, though he does strike me as kind of dumb! ♪♫♩

The Sub-Marquis is picked up by the rainbow of Heralds and twirled around as he continues to sing. A few of the rainbow Heralds break away and produce small puppets of everyone on Coral’s War Games team. Two of them control a Hessian puppet who looks like it was created by a kindergarten glass.

Hessian Puppet: Tesla! Murder Show! Green Energy! Depth of Character!

The Herald lowers back down as he kicks the Puppet out of his rainbow Herald’s hands. Like an angry child double stomping a bug that offended their eyes, the Herald puts the boots to the horrible Hessian puppet. Everyone stops and stares at the Heralds little fit of range. It lasts about five awkward seconds. Once he finishes he looks up at Coral, tears welling up in beady little Herald eyes.

♪♫♩ You’re unsuited for the rage of war so pack up, go home, you’re through! Why the hell would I ever interview… YooooooOooOOooOOOU!!? ♪♫♩

Once the music finishes the Herald throws a smoke bomb down on the ground. It barely produces enough smoke to hide a large mouse, or perhaps a small rat, but it’s all the group needs. The Herald screeches for a full retreat as the marching band piles back into the two short buses.

The Rainbow Heralds pick up the Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington who keeps his eyes locked on Coral. He offers a wave and a tooth grin as he is carried away by his rainbow Heralds however one trips and the whole pile collapses.

Coral Avalon (shouting): I am home, though! Thanks! See you at work!

Coral turns to his wife, who still carries her broadsword in one hand and her cell phone in the other one. She steps out with the sword at hand, like she’s going to go after them and start swinging.

Coral Avalon: …Annie, please. Put that down.

Annabelle Avalon: I’m going to kill them, sweetie. They’re all going to die.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, but do you know how hard it is to get that much blood out of your clothes? Because I definitely do.

This information gives Annabelle some pause. That pause allows her to reconsider the situation and turn towards her husband instead.

Coral Avalon: What?

Annabelle Avalon: We’re going to have a long conversation. The one where I have the broadsword and you don’t.

Coral Avalon: Oh. Crap.

In the distance the gaggle of Heralds pick up their leader and shuffle off into the night.

Scene: An arena made out of cardboard. The cardboard is clearly colored in via a frantic state. It contains the PRIMEview, stick figures for fans, and a wrestling ring designed for normal sized action figures and not for the “person” in said ring. The “Person” is a Brandon Youngblood wrestle buddy wearing a yellow shirt with red font that reads YOUNGBLOOD STILL RUNS. The matching bandana on his head is the only thing keeping his thinning blonde wig on his head. He stares menacingly.

Bulk Yogan: Lemme tell ya somethin’, PRIME! I am the shoulders you stand upon! I am the Diamond and nobody could touch me! I’m sick of you all whining, crying, and bitching when all you have to do is say your prayers, take your vitamins, and suck my dick! WHATCHU GONNA DO WHEN THE BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD RRRRRRRUNS OVER YOU?!

“Bulk Yogan” attempts to play his guitar. By his guitar, I mean a life-sized replica of the Universal Championship and by attempts, I mean fails miserably. Man’s so absorbed with this, he doesn’t notice the giant shadow consuming the scene until you hear the laughter.

Ivdre the Giant: DYAHAHAAAAAA!

The not-quite life sized wrestle buddy of Ivan St…Ivdre the Giant crashes with a cottony thud, destroying both Yogan and the entire arena. The Universal title tumbles away from the wreckage. As Ivdre becomes smug over his victory, a cardboard vending machine speeds past. The driver has taken the belt!

Le Berge: Le Berge says know the place of your role and shut up!

Wait…he wasn’t in the original line up! As the cardboard vending machine transforms into an equally cardboard Lamborghini, he speeds off with the comically oversized faux-metal championship. In the meantime, Ivdre the Giant is turned over and sat aside with a rough voiced apology. A hand seizes Bulk Yogan by his torn to fuck arm.

Bulk Yogan: OW! MY ARM, BROTHER!

It is at this point that the wrestle buddy comes eyeball to sunglasses to the person lifting him up. If stuffed toys could emote, he’d be petrified. The figure lifts her sunglasses, showing wild eyes.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: NEED A LITTLE EXCITEMENT?!

Suddenly, the toy gets yeeted full force into a roaring fire. For the first time, we get a good look at Anna who…c’mon, y’all. You know exactly who she’s dressed up as with that name. With a manic smile, she takes out an unnamed beef stick.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: COME TO THE PRIMEPORIUM!

The vessel snaps into it and creates a whirlwind that teleports into said PRIMEporium. What is perhaps unexpected is that within said PRIMEporium stands a rather bewildered looking former 5 Star Champion.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m not sure where, how or what I am currently experiencing, but the horsey needles assured me that this is exactly where I needed to be.

Lord Farthington appears to be swaying where he stands, perhaps due to the aforementioned horsey needles, perhaps due to the five espresso martinis he had consumed early in the night. He looks towards Anna with a slight degree of awe.

Cecilworth Farthington: I wish I could pull that off.

At first, Anna blinks, clearly not expecting Farthy to be here. The mental processes are swift and baffling. She…smiles?

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: You can do whatever you like.

The vessel comes closer to her war games brotherjackdude and reaches a hand behind his left ear. Before the clearly out of it Cecilworth can figure out heads or tails of anything, she pulls out a coffee creamer.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: You can pull off what you please, yeah!

Cecilworth admires the creamer for a while, pondering whether it would do a better job than Bailey’s for his special milky cocktail, but that is for another time and another damaged toilet. Cecilworth attempts to do his best version of what he figures is a smile and throws it in Anna’s general direction.

Cecilworth Farthington: Soooo… we got this war thingy with the pink people and the eggs and the people with big butts, yet they always lie. I want us and all the other angry murder people to be friends so we can win the thing because we should all win because we deserve to win. You know what I mean? Like, I know you didn’t want me to be friends with that guy who didn’t exist but then he disappeared forever so I think we should be totally cool and chill now?

Cecilworth blinks and stops talking, clearly convinced that he’s said something coherent with a clear conclusion.

Cecilworth Farthington: So like, don’t worry about pepping up the Robbie Legends, it’s chill, it’s good, it’s fine. Belts, they’re so heavy!

Cecilworth mimes his shoulder being weighed down by a title belt to try and prove whatever point it is he currently thinks he is making. At first, Anna’s eyes seem to dart towards the imaginary title, making a mental note before focusing her manic attention back to the man. She keeps her voice low.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: Cecilworth Farthington, we are a giver of advice, yeah. Nothing more and nothing less. Uh-huh. And sometimes people listen to our thinkin’-thinkin’ and ride it to the skies, yeah. But as for you and us…

There’s a pause here. The wide eyes stare of a woman that is clearly committing to her bit and the half-lidded look of a sad and fucked up little man is a nice contrast. But you know what would be a better contrast?

A hug.

“Annie” forcefully reels him into a fucking hug.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: PAST IS PAST AND NOW IS NOW! DIG IT?!

In a normal moment, this entire situation would cause the British social anxiety genes to kick into overdrive at such an interaction but Cecilworth doesn’t even seem fully aware he is being hugged as he kind of slumps an arm over “Annie”’s shoulder.

Cecilworth Farthington: You get it, you get it.

In a sight that would only previously be seen with the noise of a bone being crunched apart, a smile happens upon Cecilworth’s face. No one is sure how it got there, but there it is, for everyone to behold.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yeeeah, we chill.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: Oooooohhhh yeah!

It’s said with all the gusto even though deep down, you get the sense that she knows he’s not going to remember a single minute about any of this. “Annie” practically waltzes Farthington towards yet another wrestle buddy (in case you forgot where they were)–a not-quite-life-sized Hessian wrestle buddy–and lays him down.

“Macho Muse” Annie Savage: Think you need a rest.

She covers the Glue Lord with an adequate blanket: the brand spanking new Glue Boys quilt. Then there was a look to the camera. A shrug.

Anna Daniels: What? Sometimes, you gotta roll with the punches.

We cut elsewhere.

There is… a door.

It isn’t a very interesting door. Some sort of composite metal, painted drab gray, lifeless and identical to every other door backstage. It’s the kind of door you can walk by a hundred times every single day and never wonder what’s going on on the other side. There’s no mystery there, no risque allure, no wonder. There’s just a door. A boring, average, not at all interesting door.

Well, that’s a lie.

There is one thing interesting about the door.

A sign. It’s done up in the same way as an official, city-owned sign; a white rectangle with a red black border, red text on top and red text on bottom. It’s hanging there on the door by a single nail. What’s most peculiar, though, is what’s between that text: the silhouette of a man hitting a sick flip on a jet ski.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. The camera focuses in, zooming in close.

JET SKI PARKING ONLY
(aforementioned silhouette of man hitting sick flip on said jet ski)
COURTESY OF:
THE DIAMOND MINE
BAR, GRILLE, GASTROPUB, & VAPE LOUNGE

And just like that, some outright dumb shit begins. The door swings open and there he is, spangled in rhinestones, the sound of Toby Keith’s perennial hit classic, “How Dost Thou Liketh Me Now?” echoing out from behind him. We don’t get much of a peek inside The Diamond Mine. Instead, Daytona steps out into the hall, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it to keep out any owls. Clearing his throat and turning to face the camera, a grin curls on his lips.

Daytona Diamonds: You! Cameraboy! You got great timin’, you sack of pig shit! Hah! I’m just playin’, I’m just playin’! Boy, you’re in for a fuckin’ treat. You know what tonight is, don’tcha? Tonight’s the biggest night of my goddang career. Diamonds! Youngblood! Only reason it ain’t the main event is ‘cause of, y’know, bullshit. Anyway! I’m electin’ you to follow me ‘round for the rest of the night, you get me?

The camera shakes in a definite ‘no’ and starts to walk away, but Daytona stops them, jumping back into frame.

Daytona Diamonds: Woah, woah, woah, budro. C’mon now! I need someone with document this shit! This ain’t no ordinary match! After I’m finished with that Mr. Clean lookin’ sonuvabitch, I’m shootin’ to the top. This is it, cameraboy! The start of The Rhinestone Era! Things are gonna get fuckin’ sexy, baby, but you don’t stop shootin’ ‘less I tell you to stop shooti–

Down the hall, we see a figure approaching, footsteps click-clacking on the cement floor. Daytona stops and turns, eyebrows furrowing and upper lip snarling before he even looks over his shoulder to see who it is.

Voice from Off-Camera: You, cowboy, have you seen Max Kael anywhere? You were with him earlier. Fess up. I would ask if you’ve seen Arthur Pleasant, but the reflection of the rhinestones off his teeth would’ve blinded you.

Daytona spins around, the voice not matching the person he expected to see. For those rooting for the continuing adventures of Amitona (Lindz is going to kill me), they’re also disappointed when the person in the frame is the leader of KING, a very pissed-off Rose.

Rose: I don’t have a ton of time or patience. People’s faces need to be ripped off and all. Seeing as you’re facing Youngblood tonight, I expect your face not to be left intact for too long. I figure you clinically-insane boys have your own Whatsapp Chat Group. Kael, where is he? Where did you leave him?

Her arms fold across her chest, her eyes narrow, and her foot taps impatiently.

Daytona Diamonds: Kael…? Well, yeah, I saw that creepy little fuck when I first got here. He was in the Diamond Mine an– wait. Wait, wait, wait! Ain’t you that broad that was wrasslin’ ol’ Donny couple weeks ago?! Yeah, yeah! I ‘member you now! Rosie, right? Helluva match, girl. You shoulda stomped ‘im in the dick, mighta won that way, but y’know what they say… hindsight’s a sonuvabitch, ain’t it?

Daytona Diamonds, world renowned lothario and all-around ladies man, is turning on the charm. He’s leaning against the whitewashed walls, the hat on his head tilted down to cast the shadow across his face just so, arms crossing over his chest.

Meanwhile, Rose looks at Daytona and looks like he repulses her so much that she’s contemplating projectile vomiting all over his boots just for the hell of it.

Rose: That was you?! Bleating about on the fucking phone?! Telling me to stomp him in the dick? Let me tell you right now, Diamonds, you ever mess with my shit again, and it’ll be your dick I’m stomping on. Until it falls off. Understand me?

Rose shakes her head, her locks bouncing off her shoulders. Daytona looks like he’s found himself the woman for when his woman leaves him.

Rose: What is wrong with ya’ll around here? My goodness.

Daytona Diamonds: Boy howdy, this kitty’s got claws, huh? Listen, sugartits, I know you’re all boo-hoo angry, but maybe take it down a couple notches. I was just tryna give you some good advice durin’ that match! Maybe you shoulda taken it, y’know? I mean, I reckon I beat Donny, after all… That’s more’n you can say, ain’t it?

Grin. Wink. In pick-up artist circles, this is what we call ‘negging’ or, in common parlance, being a douche for no reason other than you’ve somehow convinced yourself that’s the easiest way to get laid. It rarely works. It works even less if you’re dressed like a glittering cowboy. It works even less if you’re talking to someone who clearly isn’t interested. All of these things are true. Take note.

Daytona Diamonds: Listen, honey, I’d love to stand here and flirt with you all day, but aw hell’s bells, I’m a married man! Can’t be havin’ none of that no more, can I? You can look, but you can’t touch, you get me? So, how’s ‘bout you skedaddle for your wanderin’ eyes get me in trouble with the missus?

You know that sound a person makes when they suck in the air through their teeth? Take that and times it by ten, match it up with an eye-roll that would make any of the Mean Girls jealous, and you’ve got the past three seconds from Rose.

Rose: You couldn’t handle me if you tried, male Dolly Parton. Your shtick might work for women… with IQs below 90, but you’re battin’ out of your league when it comes to me.

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t met a woman yet that I can’t handle, Rosie. S’why they call me Daytona ‘Every Woman’s Dream, Every Husband’s Nightmare’ Diamonds! Too bad our paths crossed too late, huh? Like two ships in the night, babygirl. Like two ships… in the night.

With a tip of the hat and a heavy sigh, Daytona pushes off of the wall and starts walking off down the hall, snapping for the ‘cameraboy’ to follow him.

Daytona Diamonds: Be seein’ you ‘round, princess. Just don’t be gettin’ no wild ideas. We’d never work out.

Rose smiles for a moment, a thought having crossed her mind.

Rose: Hey Daytona, before you leave, I heard the bad news. I’m so sorry.

Daytona stops and looks back over his shoulder, confused.

Daytona Diamonds: Huh? What’re bad news you talkin’ ‘bout, sweetcheeks?

That smile grows larger as Rose faces Daytona and shrugs her shoulders.

Rose: I heard the Gonorrhea antibiotics stopped working. Must be a real bitch now, that burn when you piss and the sores in the most unseemly places. I hope Barbie is taking care of it for you. [beat] Welp, I better get going. Max Kael’s head isn’t going to explode all on it’s own, you know.

She then waves and walks down the hallway, chuckling to herself. Daytona stands gobsmacked, the slightest hint of anger twitching at the corners of his face before it washes away, replaced by a knowing grin. He winks at the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’hear that? I think she likes me.

We cut to ringside.

A new guitar riff echoes throughout Barclays Center for the first time, the opening bars of “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins. As lights swirl throughout the arena, the name appears across the PRIMEview:

LIGHTNING BOY

HARLEY WALKER

Stepping through the curtain is a new face to PRIME, standing at 6’2” with a grizzled beard and a real Marlboro Man look about him. With a broad grin, he makes his way to the entrance ramp, high-fiving a few fans along the way.

Vince Howard: This contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, making his PRIME debut, hailing from Waco, Texas…weighing in at 215 pounds…”LIGHTNING BOY!” Harleyyyyyyyyy WALLLLLLKERRRRRRRR!

Nick Stuart: A lot of buzz around this debut, partner. He’s known for his work in Texas and in Hollywood as a stuntman, if you can believe it!

Richard Parker: He’s got a real “Yeah, I’ve crashed through a hundred windows, yeah I’ve fallen from a three story building after being set on fire, what about it” vibe.

Nick Stuart: An unconventional background to be sure, but the more I think about it, being a stuntman is a great way to prepare yourself for the bumps and bruises he’ll get if he sticks around PRIME long enough!

Richard Parker: Especially against someone like his opponent tonight!

Harley makes it up the ring steps and steps through the middle and top ropes. He holds his hands out wide, soaking in the moment of his PRIME wrestling debut, before lightly bouncing from foot to foot, eyes pointed to the stage.

“They say it’s good to start a story with a tragedy.”

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The chunky guitar riff of “Fistfight” by The Ballroom Thieves kicks in as Paxton Ray walks out under the PRIMEView. Paxton sneers as the fans boo. Following him is Chet Fleetwood, who is holding a microphone and a law book with the name FLEETWOOD on it.

And as he has the last two times he appeared before Paxton’s match, he begins shouting to cut his wrestler’s music.

Chet Fleetwood: Hey dipshits in the back, cut the music and turn my mic up!

The music slowly turns off.

Chet Fleetwood: Thanks guys. Sorry about calling you dipshits. I should reserve that for someone who deserves it.

The two men make their way to the ring as Chet smiles.

Chet Fleetwood: What up Brooklyn, you bunch of dipshits!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Chet Fleetwood: Okay, making his way to the ring at a surly 6’6”, weighs an angry 255 pounds, and whose next stunt is making a failed stuntman disappear…he is the Bayou Butcher…he is PAXTON! RAAAAAAYYYYYY!

The fans boo as Paxton enters the ring. And in case you were wondering how Paxton feels about this? Just look at his face.

Yes. He hates this a lot.

Paxton leans against the ropes as Chet drops the microphone inches from a ringside worker’s hand.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray looking to pick up a big win against the debuting Harley Walker! Here we go!

Paxton controls the center of the ring as the larger man as Harley bounces in a wide circle around the edges of the ring, measuring, waiting for the right opportunity. Paxton, showing wisdom and experience, just slowly turns so that he’s always facing his opponent, arms up, ready to engage.

After a few beats, Harley stops bouncing and launches himself at Paxton into a surprisingly hard collar-and-elbow tie up. Paxton looks to press his strength advantage by pushing Harley into the corner. Harley reverses into a German Suplex position! Paxton fights out of it with some elbows before reversing as well – now Paxton behind Harley! Paxton lifts, but Harley flails his feet to block the attempt. Wriggling out of his opponent’s grasp, Harley leaps and hits a flying Enzuigiri out of nowhere!

Nick Stuart: The Keaton Kick! Wow, did that – Paxton looks a little dazed!

Walker looks to press his advantage and charges forward – wraps his arms around Paxton – and heaves! Belly to belly slam! He goes for the cover, and Paxton kicks out at one and a half.

Walker is certainly the older man, but he’s got a spring in his step, and he’s surely had to fight a big dog in some scene of some C-level Hollywood action film. He’s sure that he can’t give Ray time to turn the momentum around, so he looks to wrap him up again –

…too late.

BOOM!

Richard Parker: JESUS what a right hand! I think I saw a tooth!

Paxton Ray just socked the shit out of Harley Walker, and now Harley is stumbling just as much as Ray was from the earlier kick. Paxton throws another punch, and another, both connecting. Finally, he’s pressed Walker into the corner. Ray grabs the middle ropes on either side of his opponent and throws shoulder charges straight into Walker’s guts. After several of those, he delivers a nasty headbutt, goozles Walker, and chucks him to the center of the ring!

Ray makes his way over to his downed opponent and delivers a standing splash! Referee Elvis Nixon is ready for the count!

ONE!

TWO!

Walker kicks out! He springs to his feet with surprising speed! He’s able to scramble around until he picks Ray’s leg and takes him to the mat with a single leg takedown. He mounts Paxton and begins throwing right hands into his face and chest. Paxton covers up, then uses his size advantage to turn his hips and gain the mount advantage! Now it’s HIS turn to throw rights and lefts! Walker reverses and throws strikes, then Ray, then Paxton!

Nick Stuart: This looks less like a wrestling match and more like a bar fight in some dusty Southern saloon!

Eventually, the momentum from this scrum takes both men into the ropes and Elvis Nixon forces them to separate. Paxton is inside the ring ropes and Harley is on the ring apron outside. Both are a little slow to get to their feet, but Walker is up first, and his eyes are wide. His feet do a little excited pitter-patter and he beckons Paxton to “get his ass up”. As Ray obliges full of fog in his eyes, Walker hops up to the top rope and springboards!

CRASHHH!

Harley Walker has just splattered Paxton Ray to the mat with a flying cross body!

Nick Stuart: The Two Hundred Yard Leap! Harley Walker could have him here! He’s hooked the far leg, here’s the coverrrrr!

ONE!

TWO!

Paxton kicks out!

Nick Stuart: Big kickout there, and – oh boy, the Bayou Butcher looks MAD.

Richard Parker: Where does Harley Walker get off calling that a two hundred yard leap, by the way?

Paxton touches a hand to his lip, which has begun to swell either from the punches or from the big splash.

Whatever it was, he’s seeing red now.

Uh oh.

Nick Stuart: Ray now – swing and a miss with the right hand! Walker looking for a suplex now – Ray reverses, now gains some space. Walker, charges into the ropes, bouncing back with some speed-

Paxton takes a strong step forward with his left foot and plants it before raising his right and lunging forward, HARD.

TUNNNNNNNNNK!

Nick Stuart: OH NO! That’s one of the biggest boots I’ve ever SEEN! Paxton Ray may have just taken that man’s head off!

After eating some shoe, Walker is flat on his back in the middle of the ring. Paxton, still pissed about the whole “busting his lip open” thing, stomps the hell out of Walker’s legs. He then delivers an elbow drop – then another – then a third! He hooks BOTH legs!

Richard Parker: It’s over, somebody contact Harley Walker’s next of kin!

Nixon counts!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THR-NOOOOOO! Harley Walker kicks out!

Paxton looks frustrated as he takes a moment to catch his breath. Harley rolls away to do the same.

Nick Stuart: Walker absorbed some heavy, heavy shots from Paxton Ray there, but the newcomer’s tough!

Richard Parker: Don’t speak too soon, Nicky – plenty of wrestlers walk through PRIME’s door and THINK they’re tough, THINK they can hang with the best of the best, and then tuck tail and run the first time they get their ass kicked.

Nick Stuart: Fair, I know what you mean, we’ve all seen would-be champions that don’t have the guts or the mindset to take on wrestling’s Murderer’s Row, but I like this Harley Walker! I think he’s showing some intestinal fortitude!

Richard Parker: Well if Paxton has his way, we’re gonna SEE that intestinal fortitude after he rips Harley Walker’s guts out!

Chet Fleetwood is incensed that Walker was able to kick out of a classic Paxton Hits You A Lot combo and lets Elvis Nixon hear all about it. Paxton stalks his way over to Harley, throws a few stomps for good measure, and lifts him to his feet by the head. He wraps his big meat-arms around Harley’s neck, looking to choke him out!

Harley wriggles and fights, displaying the mastery of body control that comes with years of professional stunt work, and breaks free! Paxton swings wildly – Harley ducks…

SMACKKKKK!

Harley Walker connects with a big time shoulder jawbreaker! Paxton is sent stumbling to the corner! He has to hold the top ropes to stay vertical!

Harley sees his moment and looks out to the crowd, who are cheering him loudly now. He cups his hands to his mouth and yells:

Harley Walker: CANNONBALLLLLLLLL!

Harley charges towards the staggered Paxton – and somersaults!

CRASHHHHHHH!

Harley’s corner cannonball CRUSHES Paxton’s ribs! Harley looks to capitalize quickly and locks in a side headlock! He turns to the ring, dragging Paxton with him!

…

Nick Stuart: CANNONBALL RUN! CANNONBALL RUN! HE SPIKED HIM!

The fans are on their feet as Ray is flattened by Walker’s running bulldog out of the corner! Walker pumps up the crowd and bombastically points to the top turnbuckle! He starts to climb the ropes!

Nick Stuart: Can Lightning Boy catch lightning in a bottle?? Can he really beat a former champion, The Murdergator, in his debut??

Richard Parker: Ah hell, what’s that idiot doing now?

Boos start to pick up as Chet Fleetwood hops onto the ring apron to yell at Elvis Nixon some more. Nixon is having none of it. Meanwhile, Harley is trying to steady himself on the top rope, but all the ringside commotion is making things a little more wobbly than he’d normally prefer.

But this is what stuntmen are for, right? Finding a way to maintain absolute body control no matter what’s going on? Despite Fleetwood’s attempts to “definitely accidentally and not at all intentionally” bounce the top rope as he argues with the ref, Walker maintains his balance…

…but it’s adding precious seconds of time. Precious seconds of time that Paxton Ray could really use right now.

Finally, after several moments of back and forth with the ref, Chet Fleetwood backs off, yelling incoherently at Walker, who’s completely ignored him this entire time. In fact, Walker is locked in! He’s ready to fly!

He leaps!

It’s a diving moonsault!!

Nick Stuart: HE’S LOOKING FOR THE GUINESS RECORD BREAKER! CAN HE PUT HIMSELF IN THE RECORD BOOKS AS 1-0?

…

…

CRKKKKKKKKKK!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Paxton got the knees up! That probably broke every rib in Harley Walker’s body!!

Nick Stuart: That’s probably an overstatement, but Harley’s in a bad way right now…looks like the wind was definitely knocked out of him!

Richard Parker: Look at Paxton holding his knee, that can’t feel good either.

Nick Stuart: He may be the physically larger man, but 215 pounds crashing down on your legs…that would mess anyone up, partner!

Elvis Nixon sees that both men are down and begins a ten count. Chet Fleetwood frantically pounds the ring apron, screaming for his man to get up.

The count reaches 4, then 5. Paxton is able to reach the ropes and uses them to get vertical. Harley’s still struggling to catch his breath, but he’s trying to get up too.

Paxton wins the race as Elvis Nixon reaches 6. He comes screaming across the ring!

DISCUS ELBOW!

…

MISSES?!

Whether it was instinct or exhaustion, Harley Walker dropped to a knee before the rolling elbow strike could connect! Ray staggers, his momentum carrying him into the ropes. He recalibrates and turns back to his opponent, who springs to life!

HARLEY GOES FOR THE DDT!

…

PAXTON BREAKS FREE! He goes for another discus elbow!

…

HARLEY CATCHES IT AND TOSSES PAXTON WITH A DEEP ARM DRAG! Paxton’s in the corner now! Harley comes charging across the ring…

HE GOES FOR THE DIVING SPEAR INTO THE RING!

…

PAXTON MOVES OUT OF THE WAY! Harley Walker goes shoulder first into the ring post! He’s staggered again, and Paxton swings for the discus elbow for the third time!

…

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM! THE DISCUS ELBOW CONNECTS! Walker goes down, but whether it’s instinct or an out of body experience, he gets back to his feet in a hurry! He throws a wild haymaker at Paxton!

PAXTON CATCHES HIM! He uses Walker’s momentum and heaves him high into the air!

As Harley comes back to earth…

…

KSHHHHHHHHH!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: LAFAYETTE LULLABYYYYYY!

Richard Parker: GOOD GOD WHAT AN UPPERCUT! If Paxton Ray just sent Lightning Boy to the shadow realm!

Nick Stuart: HERE’S THE COVER!

Elvis Nixon slides into position for the count! Chet Fleetwood is ecstatic!

ONE!

TWO!

…

…

THREE!!

DING DING DING!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

“Fistfight” by The Ballroom Thieves blasts through the arena speakers and Fleetwood slides under the bottom rope and into the ring, raising his client’s hand in victory before Elvis Nixon has the opportunity.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…Paxton! Rayyyyyyyy!

Nick Stuart: Terrific showing by “Lightning Boy” Harley Walker in his debut match, he hung in with the Bayou Butcher for longer than most wrestlers could!

Richard Parker: Tough draw for the guy to go against a pissed off bruiser coming off that hellacious Barbed Wire Ropes match, but them’s the breaks in PRIME, people.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray, bouncing back from a tough loss against Max Kael with a big win tonight. We’ll be back with more in-ring action, but first, THIS!

We cut to backstage.

Here we fuckin’ go. The old bones. Hessian. That new (also old?) MEAT? Max. Now we–

Cameras abruptly cut to the backstage area, where we find ourselves outside the wrestler locker room – they exist! – before a hot dog comes into view. Oh shit. That’s not a hot dog. It’s a ring mic hidden inside a hot dog bun, with unsolicited ketchup all over it. The audacity! Who is the maniac walking around with the ole ring-mic-in-a-hot-dog-bun play in full action? Who else?

Crash: No, bro. It’s me, Crash. I’m in disguise – doin’ a little investigative journalism.

Crash stands arms open as if to magically reveal his true identity. He’s wearing a fake mustache. That’s it. That’s his fuckin’ disguise? He smiles proudly before turning toward a door that reads ‘FRED DICK’ on the placard. He wraps on the door twice before it swings open. Sure enough, this is Fred Dick. Yankees hat, Lakers jersey. He eyes the faux-mustachioed man smiling at him, then the camera.

Crash: You know what really gets me hard, bro? Stealing money from sick kids, bein’ a reeeeeal dick. Know what I mean? Nothing like [closer to mic] promising money to sick kids and not giving it to them. Know what I’m saying?

Fred looks Crash over, up and down, then right in the eyes.

Fred Dick: That’s an impressive mustache.

Crash: Thank you.

Fred Dick: May I have a little bite of that hot dog?

Crash: This hot dog? Oh, you don’t want this hot dog. It’s one of those shitty… vegan… hot dogs…

Crash does the shifty eyes while Fred squints his own.

Fred Dick: …You disgust me.

Crash: Speaking of disgusting, what do you like to do when you’re not embezzling money away from poor, little cancer kiddies?

Fred looks Crash over again. Suddenly… that mustache doesn’t look so impressive. And that hot dog doesn’t look so delicious.

But Fred puts on a fake smile, shows his buckteeth, and gestures for Crash to come inside.

Fred Dick: Well, I’d be happy to discuss all my techniques for fucking cancer kids over. Come on in, sit for a spell with ol’ Fred.

Crash adjusts the mustache on his lip. It’s somehow more crooked than it was previously.

Crash: Very brospitable of you.

Crash steps into the locker room. Fred closes the door shut behind him.

Fred Dick: Do you want to know why everyone who’s ever met me calls me ‘the Street Cat?’

Crash shrugs.

Crash: I guess.

Fred Dick: Because, when I fuckin’… sniff out an undercover cop? I HISS. AND I SPRAY!

Fred holds his hands up like claws and HISSES at Crash.

Fred Dick: YOU TRYNA GET SPRAYED, PIGGY?

Crash: Relax, brosagna. I’m just a regular bro, with a sweet mustache, tryin’ to get a little inside baseball on how I can [fake bites the mic dog] take advantage of terminally ill children is all.

Fred reaches over and pulls Crash’s fake mustache off. Then he dangles it in front of him.

Fred Dick: Your mustache is fake.

Crash, utterly undisturbed, reaches in his pocket, pulls out another fake mustache, and sticks it on his face.

Crash: No it’s not. It’s been laying down, right there, on my face the whole time, dude. Right here. Know what I’m saying, bro?

Fred Dick: No, I actually don’t know what you’re saying. You actually talk like an assho’.

Crash thinks about it for a second… then corrects him.

Crash: Assbro…?

Nope. That doesn’t sound right. Sounds like the kind of friend Jared Sykes has at the club, thumpin’ rumps to the big booty bass bumps.

Fred Dick: You rotten bastard. State why you’re truly here, lest I slap the freakin’ CRAP out of your FACE.

Crash: Well, truth be told, bro, I got a hot tip on [raises the dog higher, closer to Fred] a guy who could help me-

Fred finally spots the mic and slaps it clear across the room. A few seconds of awkwardness pass before Crash does a jump stomp.

Crash: BUSTED, BRO!

Fred Dick: I knew you was a cop! You didn’t bust shit! You didn’t bust shit! I’ll show you what busted is!

SMACK!!!

BAH GAWD FRED DICK JUST SLAPPED THE PISS OUT OF CRASH!!!

Crash falls to the floor!

Fred Dick: Now that right there is what you call, ‘Busted!’ I busted all over that undercover cop ass, hot dog microphone ass, broke ass, fuckin’… admittedly kinda cool lookin’ ass, sweet fake mustache havin’ ass, kinda guy I’d hope my daughter married if I had a daughter lookin’ ass –

Before Fred can finish turning his insult into a compliment, Crash kips up.

Fred GASPS.

Crash: Oooh, you wanna dance?

Fred GASPS again.

Crash gets right in his face… real close…

Crash: Well it takes two to TANGBRO!

CRASH SHOVES FRED!

FRED STAGGERS BACK!!!

WIDE LEFT!!! SUPERKICK FROM CRASH!!!

Crash: RAISE THE APPLE, BROOOO!!!

…and that’s when Crash starts putting in that sweet work.

A bevvy of stomps and kicks sends Fred around the room like a jumping bean. I mean, Crash is just absolutely spamming the attack button, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

It’s honestly been a long time since we’ve seen an ass whooping this one sided.

Crash: Guess I’ll just pick up my hot dog – NOT A MICROPHONE… IT’S A HOT DOG – and we can go our separate ways.

Fred looks like a shell of a man getting his ass whooped on like that. With a bloody nose he looks up at Crash.

Fred Dick: Fine… you win…

Crash turns with a smile, then cocks his one eyebrow, the universal sign he feels like that’s a goddamn lie. Fred slowly rises behind him.

Fred Dick: JUST KIDDIN’! YOU DON’T WIN!!!

Fred Dick goes for a slap–

Crash blocks it!! Talk about head on a swivel!!

A MOONSAULT DROPKICK FROM CRASH BREAKS FRED’S NOSE WIDE OPEN INSIDE THIS CONFINED SPACE!!!

Blood spatter analysis will later reveal that Crash has apparently handed Fred Dick his own ass, and still has more to give him.

Crash mounts the fallen Fred Dick and peppers his face with fists! Left, right, left, right, left!!!

And all Fred can do is shout…

Fred Dick: OKAY OKAY OKAY!!! Sexy bananas foster!!! Sexy bananas foster!!!

Left, right, left, left, left, right!!!

Fred Dick: ‘Sexy bananas foster,’ I said!!!

Crash: Why do you keep saying ‘sexy bananas foster’?

Fred Dick: It’s my safety word!

Crash: That’s too many safety words, bro!

HEADBUTT TO FRED!!!

Crash: You get one. Two, tops.

Fred Dick is stunned. Literally. He isn’t stunned that Crash just whooped his ass. He’s stunned by the very ass whooping itself. Fred is more than likely concussed. His eyes are swollen. His head is welted up, looking real lumpy. His nose, just a Biblically Accurate Cancer Jiles Fountain right now.

Fred shoves Crash off of him, staggers to his feet.

Fred Dick: Fuck you, pig! You better have a warrant next time!

Woozy, Fred wipes blood from his face. It just smears.

Fred Dick: I’m going home… My mama made some… Made me some corn beef hash…

We don’t know if that’s a lie, or merely an after effect of what Crash has done to Fred.

Crash: Yeah, well. Just make sure you give that money to that kid, bro. That’s messed up. You know it is, too.

Fred waves Crash off as he staggers out of the locker room.

But we don’t.

We linger just a moment with Crash.

He looks uncomfortable, but only for a fleeting second – as one does when a strange feeling washes over them and, indeed, a strange feeling currently washes over Crash.

Is this who he is? The kind of bro who beats up the kind of bros who steal from the littlest bros and brosephines? Whatever this feeling is… it’s been a while since he’s felt it.

We see the beginning of a smile that goes far deeper than amusement burn a trail across Crash’s face.

That smile streaks like a comet into a look of concern.

MEANWHILE!

Fred Dick staggers through the hallways of Barclay’s Center, his face battered, bruised and bloody, stars and tweeting birds circling his head.

Fred Dick: Someone, please, fucking help me! An undercover cop pretending to be a hot dog enthusiast is trying to murder me in the first degree!

No response. He’s a tree, cut down in a forest, with no one around to hear it.

Fred tries to wipe the blood from his nose, but more pours out. Broken.

The sad sack eventually finds his way to the parking garage, and to his car.

A chocolate-colored, 2019 Chevrolet Spark.

Fred Dick: CHOCOLATE RAAAAAIN!!! WOOOOOOOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO!!! THANK YEW GOD! OUR GOD IS AN AWESOME GOD HE REEEEEIGNS FROM HEAVEN ABOVE WITH WIIIIISDOM POWER AND LOVE! OUR GOD IS AN AWESOME GOOOOOOD!

Fred, a devout atheist, jumps in the car, tosses the fob in the passenger’s seat, presses the start button (he’s on his fly shiiiiit) and peels out.

Fred Dick: So long, Hot Dog Dick!

BANG.

Shit. Fred Dick just rear ended the shit out of what can only be described as a black, 1993 Dodge Shadow.

Fred Dick: Shit. I just rear ended the shit out of a black, 1993 Dodge Shadow.

The Chevy Spark, surprisingly, held up to the impact.

But there isn’t much to a Dodge Shadow, folks.  The bumper didn’t make it. It lies on the cold, cement floor. Fred quickly exits the Spark and slinks alongside the cars. He peeks into the Shadow’s window.

There’s someone in there.

The driver’s door swings open, followed by the passenger’s. Fred’s eyes widen and he steps back as the strangers exit the vehicle.

“I hope you have insurance,” says the man exiting the passenger’s side.

“Life insurance,” the driver says sarcastically.

It’s Dan Van Slade and his agent David, and they don’t look very chipper. Fred is just about to plead his case, but DVS isn’t hearing it.

Dan Van Slade: Did you just rear end the Deviantmobile?

The Deviant inches closer toward Dick while David bends down to assess the damage.

David: Looks like you’ll have to replace the bumper… and there’s a dent in the trunk door.

Dan Van Slade: Did you hear that? You dented my trunk. Do you know how much it costs to un-dent a dent in this state? Huh? Do you?

Fred Dick: No?

Dan Van Slade: $3,201.56

Dick is dumbfounded by the quick at the trigger dollar amount. David is as well.

David: What? No. Listen guy – if you can just hand me your insurance information then we can swap and your people can help us get this fixed. Sound like a plan?

Dan Van Slade: You two do that. I need to drain ye olde Dan Van Weiner over in that corner.

Dan points two fingers at his eyes and then toward Fred.

Dan Van Slade: I’m watching you. I know a shit mongrel when I see one.

Fred watches DVS exit the scene as David fumbles around in the Shadow’s glove box. The weasley Dick quickly scurries to do the same.  Dick looks happy to find he actually does have insurance for the car. Fred and David meet up between the vehicles and study the information.  They take pictures and examine the damage once more. Both men bend down to look at the back of the shadow and the grill of the hatchback.

David: Well, it looks like we have all that’s needed. Pay better attention next time, eh?

They rise, Fred more concerned with the blood on his face than the–

Dan Van Slade: Damn, this has some comfortable seats.

Fred and David turn to see DVS behind the wheel of the Chevy. He massages the steering wheel, adjusts the rear view mirror, and then revs the engine. He peeks out the window and looks at Fred Dick.

Dan Van Slade: Fuck you Fred Dick! Hahahaha!

The Deviant reverses the vehicle at an unnecessary speed then puts Vin Diesel to shame with a squealing turn and rubber burning peel out. DVS waves his middle finger out the window as he races out of the parking garage.  Fred is beside himself. He and David share looks of shock and confusion.

Fred Dick: Wha – my… YOU SUMBITCH! THAT’S A RENTAL!

David returns Dick’s insurance information by slapping it against Fred’s chest. The agent hurries to the Shadow.

David: Damnit, not again!

He hops into the car, puts it in reverse and then slams on the gas. He misses side-swiping Fred Dick by mere inches. Fred jumps out of the way.  David yells out of the window as he blazes toward the exit.

David: We will be in touch!

His voice fades in the distance as Fred is left standing in the parking garage, vehicle-less, and scratching his head. He looks down and notices the Deviantmobile bumper.

Fred Dick: Shit. They forgot their bumper… and what’s more, if I don’t get that car back, I’m going to lose all that money I stole fair and square from that kid.

Fred picks up the bumper, throws it up in the air, and SLAPS THE TAR OUTTA THAT BASTARD.

Then, with dramatic flair, he shakes his fist at the sky.

Fred Dick: This is all your fault, God!

We cut elsewhere.

The scene catches up with Vickie and Jonathan-Christopher Hall holding hands, taking a “lovely” stroll through the backstage halls.

Vickie, however, stops cold, drops Jonathan-Christopher’s hand and puts on a sour face.

JCH is almost too scared to ask. Nevertheless, he does.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: What’s wrong, baby?

Vickie sinks her chin into her neck, as if expressing timidness and anger at the same time.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I love you so mu-

And then, like a dagger, the woman who DIDN’T win Manager of the Year lets f’n loose.

Vickie Hall: Where were you during our team meeting!? I DIDN’T SEE YOU!

Jonathan-Christopher’s face goes red.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Why, I was right beside you, baby. I know you’ve been so, so, so stressed out lately, but I was holding your hand and rubbing your back the entire time, remember?

Vickie scowles.

Vickie Hall: That’s not what I meant. I KNEW you were beside me!

She lets the uncomfortableness sit with her Amazing Life Partner for a couple of moments.

Vickie Hall: I mean presence. Ford-tit-tude. Kerry walks in there and owns the joint! Even the new guy, whomever his face is or something, he made himself felt. For god sakes Jonathan-Christopher, Ivon carried the whole thing by himself! You’re supposed to be a leader, too! YOU’RE THE NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!!

Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t know what to say. He just kinda stands there.

Vickie Hall: Maybe if YOU would have more of a presence I would have won the Manager of the Year Award.

Ah, yes, there we go.

Vickie Hall: And the days are ticking. You’re supposed to be selling a pay-per-view but because I need to take the lead each time, I’m the one who secured myself a spot at the announce table for tonight’s main event!

The broadcast announcers were going to stay on radio silence but this was news that broke Nick Stuart.

Nick Stuart: Oh dear god, no.

It also hyped Richard. But he’s too giddy to say anything.

Vickie Hall: We have money to make and a match to sell. But also don’t overlook WARGAMES because I feel like you are and that’s the team YOURS TRULY drafted.

Vickie closes her eyes.

Vickie Hall: Was my drafting not good enough? I thought picking Arthur Pleasant second overall was a brilliant maneuver…

She lets out a squeak upon reflection.

Vickie Hall: Pain.

PRETTY PINK© digs her head into herself even further. She lowers her neck and looks at the ground.

Vickie Hall: I’m just not feeling like a priority, okay?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I- I-

Vickie Hall: Please make me feel like a priority.

Jonathan-Christopher reaches out and takes her hand. He places his other hand on her chin and lifts up her head to meet her eyes-to-eyes.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You are my one. You are the only priority I have. I’m doing this all for you.

Vickie smiles, albeit weakly.

Vickie Hall: I- I’m not so sure right now.

Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t know what else to say. Instead, he starts walking in the direction they were initially going in, with the hopes she will also walk with him and not drop his hand again.

She doesn’t.

ReVival goes elsewhere.

We return to darkness.

Barclays Center is rocking. It’s about to rock more as the drums hit and a guitar tone best described as visceral hits the PA system. Light fills the entryway, pulsing in rhythm with the drums as a massive cloud of fog bursts out and fills the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!!

That’s Lemmy. You know him. Everyone knows the frontman of Motörhead. And everyone knows the titanic silhouette emerging from the light, because he comes out to “Kingdom of the Worm” and he is here for a show.

You remember, you remember me, yes,
I remember what we are, I remember only scars,
I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,
I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.

There’s a low shot aimed high at the silhouette emerging from the smoke and the light. He is breathing the smoke, for he is the fire. The crowd erupts at the sight of him. The giant. The Murder Show.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the PRIME Intense Championship! Introducing first, the challenger! Hailing from Parts Unknown! He stands seven feet and two inches! He weighs in tonight at three hundred and seventy pounds! A former two-time Universal champion! THIS IS THE MURDER SHOW! THIS! IS! HESSSSSSSIIIIIIIAAAAANNNNNNN!!!

Big Hess raises his fists into the air, before thrusting his arms down with a breaking gesture and lets out a guttural roar that the crowd returns in equal measure. He starts to make his way down to the ring, murderous intent in his eyes as he seeks to reclaim a championship that was once his a long time ago, and…

SMACK!

…things come quickly to a stop.

A man with a steel chair just waffled the former two-time Universal champion with a steel chair as hard as he could in the back. Such is the impact that the top of the chair goes flying off and a few members of the crowd scatter and cower as a flying piece of metal comes for them.

Richard Parker: Whoa, who is that!?

As if there’s any doubt.

It’s the grin that’s too wide for any one mouth. It’s the long face that you know is off, but you can’t quite put a finger on why it is. It’s the most unquestionably questionable man in all of PRIME.

Nick Stuart: That’s… that’s Max Kael!

In the flesh.

Hessian staggers forwards from the impact of the chair, but doesn’t go down. This actually surprises Max, who’d been certain that the chairshot he’d delivered could’ve killed a lesser man or at least dislocated their skeleton. As he prepares to swing again, referee Ashley Barlow says “fuck it” and calls for the bell.

DING DING          

The Intense champion swings his chair, and hits Hessian in the shoulder with it.

SMACK!

Hessian staggers, but once again does not go down. Max smiles and goes for another swing.

There’s a problem with that, of course, and it’s that Hessian is the Murder Show. Not the Piñata Show. There’s a whole patent and everything. So when Hessian catches the chair before it could reach him and yanks it out of the Intense champion’s hands, that’s when Max realizes that Hessian isn’t the sort of man who does a silly thing like “fuck around and find out”. He’s the sort of man who only has one direction (forward) and one purpose (murder).

And for Maximilian Wilhelm Kael, getting murdered isn’t something he’d like to experience a second time (or third, or fourth, or fifth, or… you get the idea).

So he flees. Some fans swear later that they heard him make sounds not out of place from the Three Stooges as he makes his way towards the ring, Hessian in hot pursuit.

Max ducks behind the ring apron as Hessian comes up, and when the Murder Show rounds the corner, Max throws a big closed fist at his bearded face. Two things happen as a result of this. The first is that Max holds his hand in pain, as he did more damage to himself than he did to his opponent trying to punch this seven foot tall monster. The second is that it annoys Hessian. You know, maybe the last person you want to annoy in PRIME.

So when Hessian rears back and hits Max with a headbutt, the man that Coral Avalon just referred to as a “deranged newborn” goes flying backwards as though launched by ballista and lands in a roll before coming up to his feet in a daze. Hessian pursues, but Max grabs the bottom ropes and pulls himself into the ring to make a hasty retreat.

Nick Stuart: Not looking good for the champion early on, Richard!

Richard Parker: You and I have watched Hessian commit many wrestling felonies in the past. Like, so many wrestle murders. He is the Murder Airli—

Nick Stuart: Rich, do you really want to have another conversation with Hessian in the hallway?

Richard Parker: …

Hessian grabs the second ropes and pulls himself up on the apron. Max recognizes the danger of letting Hessian go around and doing big murder things, so he does the sensible thing.

He flees again.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael is running!

Richard Parker: Would you blame him? That’s Hessian! I’d run, too! In fact, I want to right this second!

Hessian is still on the apron, and watches Max flee under the bottom rope and to the other side of the ring. He stands there with an incredulous expression on his face. This man represents the Intense championship?

He hops off the apron and starts to stalk after Max. He’s not in a rush. He knows that this is an Intense title match, there are no rules and there are no countouts. He’d break a whole concession stand over his head and then drag whatever’s left of him back to the ring if he had to. Max watches with a wide-eyed expression as Hessian walked around the ring in his direction, and then bolts for the other side of the ring when Hessian comes around the corner.

Fans boo.

How could they not?

They came here to see a fight, not a game of wrestle tag.

Hessian’s stride becomes quicker. He knows he’s not winning a foot race with Maximilian Wilhelm Kael, but there’s too many obstacles for Max to simply flee him completely. Case in point, Max spends so much time looking to see which direction Hessian is coming from that he stumbles over the ring steps. He doesn’t fall down, but the distraction is enough that Hessian’s strides become a full-on sprint. By the time Max recovers, Hessian is right there.

Boom.

CRASH!

Nick Stuart: JESUS!

So, a lot happened there. Hessian doesn’t really do much more than run directly into Max. In this case, he’s little more than a living siege weapon. A battering ram deployed to bring down the walls of Fortress Maximus. It’s entirely effective, Max gets launched straight into the barricade close to the timekeeper’s table, and flies into the crowd. A lot of crowd members scatter. A few unfortunate others are buried under nearly 250 pounds of Maximilian Wilhelm Kael.

Hessian does not stop. Forward is the only direction the Murder Show knows. He climbs over the barricade and comes for the Intense champion.

Richard Parker: Can we maybe take a time out, do a big chill, maybe listen to some Lo-Fi Girl, and not do this every single show we have?

Pfft.

This is PRIME, are you new here?

Richard Parker: No.

Nick Stuart: Who are you talking to?

Richard Parker: Did you not… no, nevermind.

Hessian pulls Max up out of the wreckage of stunned human bodies and chairs, and hoists him up on his shoulders to physically carry him back into the ring. Max kicks his feet, trying to slip off of Hessian’s shoulders. Despite this, Hessian marches up the stairs and then heaves Max bodily back into the ring.

Hessian steps over the ropes, each step more intimidating than the last. Max butt slides towards the corner, begging off.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael wants nothing to do with the Murder Show!

Hessian stomps over to Max and grabs him by the ankles. Max is kicking, fighting to avoid getting pulled to the center of the ring. When he does, Max goes flying up into the air and crashes down onto his back in a style similar to a powerbomb.

Hessian doesn’t go for the pin. Nah, nah, people came to see a Murder Show, not a Murder Opening Act.

So instead, the former Universal champion drops down and rolls out of the ring before throwing a pair of steel chairs into the ring. He also pulls out a chain. Unfortunately, the Murder Show takes too long to do all of this, and it gives Max a chance to recover.

Max picks up one of the chairs that Hessian tossed into the ring, and when the Murder Show re-enters the ring to continue the show, he waffles Hessian over the back as quickly and efficiently and as viciously as he could. As Max Kael would when this cornered rattlesnake gets any opportunity.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Richard Parker: That’s an unreasonable amount of chairshots!

Nick Stuart: Any number above zero is an unreasonable amount of chairshots!

Hessian is actually down after that, so Max slides into the cover.

ONE.

Hessian presses Max off of him and he goes flying several feet, landing on his hands and feet. He has a bewildered look on his face. Well, more bewildered than usual, I suppose. He picks up the chair again, which is as bent out of shape as the last one he used on the Murder Show, and assumes a position not unlike a baseball player awaiting a pitch.

When Hessian rises to his knees, Max goes to swing.

And Hessian suddenly grabs him by the throat before the chair can reach him. The chair goes out of Max’s hands as his throat is grabbed, and his eyes get real bug-eyed.

Fans cheer as Hessian gets a wild look in his eyes of his own, thinking a chokeslam is in order. However, as he lifts Max, Max puts his thumbs in Hessian’s eyes. And as any commentator worth their salt will tell you…

Richard Parker: No matter how big you are, the eyes are always a weakness!

You know, unless you’re Gouzzledorf of the Invincible Eyes, but there’s only one of those guys and it’s definitely not Hessian (thank god). Hessian lets go of the hold, and Max stumbles backwards. Booing intensifies as Max beats a hasty retreat once again to the outside. He finds some plunder underneath the ring while he does his best to hide from the challenger, ultimately pulling a crowbar.

Richard Parker: He’s got a crowbar! A crowbar! We’ve got a Gordon Freeman over here!

Nick Stuart: A who?

Richard Parker: Play at least one video game in your life, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Galaga doesn’t count?

Richard Parker: …

Max slides back in with his weapon at hand, and hits big Hess with a shot across the bow by way of crowbar. This puts the big guy down and Max again goes for a cover.

ONE.

TWO.

No.

In fact, Hessian sits up with Max in his clutches.

Max shakes his head “no” as Hessian returns to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Hessian can’t be stopped!

Richard Parker: Oh no, Max!

After a moment, around and around Max went and where he stopped is certain doom. Because Hessian doesn’t believe in “tilt-a-whirl”. He believes in tilting the world when he does a spine-crushing backbreaker. Hence the name, the Tilt-The-World Backbreaker.

Max hits Hessian’s knee and flops around like a fish being introduced to dry land. Without wasting any time, Hessian collects the champion and grabs him by the wrist before ripping him forward into the lariat! Max nearly lands on his head when he hits the ground, and Hessian stacks him up!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!

Hessian looks up at referee Ashley Barlow in surprise. This man still has his head attached? Really?

Hessian stands and picks up the only steel chair not bent out of shape, and stalks the champion with it in hand. Blood is now trickling down from the side of his head in two points, exactly where the crowbar had hit him.

He doesn’t care.

He’s here for a show.

He sets the chair down in front of Max and scoops him up before Max even has a chance to react. Right up onto Hessian’s shoulder, ready to go in the only direction that the Hellavator moves: straight down to hell.

Max has other plans.

Nick Stuart: The eyes! The eyes again!

Max lands behind Hessian, and then does the first thing he could think of: he humbly requests that Hessian GIVES HIM HIS BONES.

Which is to say that he kicked him in the groin from behind, and even mighty Hessian isn’t impervious to that as he slowly falls to his knees.

Max sees the chain and pulls it towards him before wrapping it around his arm. Specifically, around his elbow. Then, with Hessian still stunned from the low blow, Max hits the ropes and…

Nick Stuart: DREAMWEAVER!

Richard Parker: With a chain!

Hessian hits the mat, and a battered Max takes an excruciatingly long time rolling the former Universal champion over, stacking him up.

ONE.

Max immediately puts both feet on the ropes.

TWO.

And Barlow doesn’t see it, not that it matters much in an Intense title match.

THREE!

KICKOUT.

DING DING DING

…But it’s a second too late.

Max quickly escapes the ring before any more harm comes to him, as a groggy Hessian immediately stirs and locks eyes on the man that is still the Intense champion. Max snatches up the Intense title from the timekeeper’s table and bolts from the ringside area, hands in the air in victory.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, and STILL PRIME INTENSE CHAMPION! MAXIMILLIAN! WILHELM! KAAAAAAAAAEEEELLLLLL!!!

Nick Stuart: It took everything but the kitchen sink – and I’m pretty sure he’d have used the kitchen sink if someone left one under the ring – but Max Kael somehow escapes tonight with the Intense Championship!

Richard Parker: I think that if he hadn’t pinned Hessian there, Hessian might have actually murdered him in that ring and we’d all be accessories.

Hessian is irate in the ring as he realizes what just happened, and he picks up the steel chair that he was going to Hellavate Max Kael on and throws it far up the entrance ramp. It bounces, skips, and nearly lands on some members of the scattering production crew.

Nick Stuart: …I don’t want to be anywhere near Hessian right now.

Richard Parker: You and me both, trust me.

The scene moves on while officials try to get Hessian under some semblance of control.

THE FOLLOWING IS A PAID ADVERTISEMENT BY HIS WORD AND LIGHT MINISTRIES flashes quickly across a darkened screen before the dulcet tones of a light gospel tune filters in. The black screen slowly illuminates, the scene set racing over the ocean waves. A single jetski, with a lone rider in a fur coat and cowboy hat whoops and hollers as he bounces freely over the turbulence. Above him, a boy dressed in a bright blue tunic is paragliding, soaring over the seas rising and falling as he catches the wind.

The camera zooms past them, speeding across the cerulean waters as the waves kiss and recede from a pristine caramel sand beach. A single set of footprints cover the beach, walking from northwest to southeast. Along the bottom of the screen the words “WINTER’S PORT” flash in bold typeface before slowly fading out.

The scene changes again, showing the rendering of a resort hotel and church. The building is massive, nothing but white marble and stained glass dominating the area around the small, newly incorporated town. Gigantic water slides, a roller coast and theme park, a huge reconstruction of Noah’s Ark, it can all be seen in this shot. As it zooms out to show the screen the video is playing on, Father Don Winters stands at a lectern smiling broadly, but the first voice that’s heard is not his own, it’s an octave or two higher, and much more excitable.

Pious Penguin: Hi Father Don! I’m really excited to be here today, aren’t you!?

Don Winters: (smiling) I sure am, Pious Penguin. We’ve got some tremendous news to bring everybody out there in the PRIME Universe and to the steadfast members of His Word and Light. It’s an exciting day for all of us.

Pious Penguin (remember, he’s a puppet) begins flapping his little felt penguin wings up and down in pure joy.

Pious Penguin: Can I tell them, Father Don? Can I please tell them!?

Don Winters pats his Sphenisciformes friend on his adorable little fabric head and nods affirmatively.

Pious Penguin: (you can nearly see the tears in his googly eyes as he exclaims) Oh joy!

Pious Penguin disappears beneath the lectern and pops back up, wearing a very impressive tophat and monocle. He was clearly prepared for this, and now looks quite astute.

Pious Penguin: His Word and Light, Father Don Winters and myself are very proud to present to you the concept and proof of FOOTPRINTS – an all inclusive religious retreat, resort, and spiritual hideaway nestled within the gorgeous Guyana seaside community of Winter’s Port.

Father Winters looks incredulously down at Pious Penguin.

Don Winters: An all inclusive religious resort!? Tell me you’re kidding, Pious Penguin!

Pious Penguin: (chuckling lightly) I wish I could, Father Don! I can’t though! And FOOTPRINTS is already accepting reservations for our opening weekend, set for the weekend of September 20th, 2024!

Don Winters: Wait a minute, Pious Penguin, isn’t that the same weekend as PRIME’s UltraViolence event?

Pious Penguin: It sure is, and we’ll be having an enormous watch party for all patrons at one of FOOTPRINTS’ state of the art movie theaters!

Pious Penguin begins doing a cute puppet dance, flapping his wings, bobbing his head, and looking side to side. Not unlike a Peanuts character, really.

Don Winters: That’s incredible news, but what’s got you so excited now?

Pious Penguin: AMENITIES! There are so many amenities, Father Don!

Don Winters: Well, why don’t you go over a few for everyone watching at home.

Pious Penguin: Gladly!

The camera fixes back on the screen behind Don Winters and Pious Penguin, who clears his little penguiny throat. The video montage shows off buffets, high quality restaurants, a waterpark replete with multiple pools, towering slides. An amusement park with roller coasters, and every ride you could possibly think of contained within. Outdoor activities like jet skiing, paragliding, fishing, and hiking. The white marble church as the centerpiece of the entire resort. A nightly fireworks show following prayer sessions, and the promise that Sunday service will always be led by Father Donovan Winters. By the time he has finished running down the exhaustive list, Pious Penguin comically collapses on the lectern, out of breath.

Don Winters: That’s incredible! But you’ve got to tell me, Pious Penguin, what is your favorite activity at FOOTPRINTS going to be?

Pious Penguin gets back to his feet and puts one flipper-wing to his, well penguins don’t have chins, but just pretend for a moment, to look deep in thought.

Pious Penguin: Of course it’s going to be Sunday services led by you Father Don! There’s nothing more exciting than listening to you preach His Word and Light to all our smiling faces every weekend!

Don Winters: (laughing, smiling, having a good time) You’re too kind, Pious Penguin. Too kind. Tell us about a few other fantastic amenities the guests of FOOTPRINTS can expect to enjoy while on their spiritual retreat here in Winter’s Port.

Pious Penguin: Well, we have the outdoor activities like paragliding, parasailing, fishing tours, sometimes even led by Father Don himself aboard his mighty vessel, Jesus Take the Reel! We even have a paragliding testimonial from one of FOOTPRINTS’ most beloved guests (before we’ve even opened, can you believe it!?)!

The screen flashes back to the young boy in a bright blue tunic paragliding through an even brighter blue sky. His tunic flaps and faffs about his midsection as he courses through the sky, a look of terror mixed with joy twisted onto his youthful visage. Suddenly, The Herald himself materializes in front of the paragliding montage, clad in that same blue tunic with a boyish smirk on his eternally boyish face.

The Herald: AAAAAAAAAAAH THEEAHAHA AAAAHH OHGODNOSTOPSTOP AAAAAAAAAHHHHH AIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHH! (Closed Caption: The fun never stops and I’m having a great time! Oh god never stop, stop the fun in his love and light!)

The camera cuts back to The Revelator and Pious Penguin, as they watch the screen with impressed smiles. Well, at least Don is smiling.

Pious Penguin: Did you know we had to convince The Herald that paragliding meant he wouldn’t lose the use of his legs to fly? He truly is a special boy, touched by His Word and Light.

Don Winters: Wow, Pious Penguin. Simply incredible! Indeed, we have all been touched by His Word and Light, and that includes our patrons at the All You Can Eat Last Supper Buffet. What can you tell us about the fine dining at FOOTPRINTS?

Pious Penguin: It starts with the Last Supper Buffet, but you must have 13 patrons to qualify for the buffet, other dining accommodations will be made if your group does not meet this necessary threshold! The name is as implied, we are paying homage to the Last Supper and the meal that Jesus Christ shared with his 12 Apostles! Unleavened bread from local suppliers and wine from vineyards in Winter’s Port itself! Not to mention the rest of the menu itself is local. Farm to table. From the bounty of His Word and Light right into your hungry stomachs!

The screen cuts to a great dining hall, but the only inhabitant is a very crude CGI Hessian, and I mean crude. Like the prequels came out a quarter century ago and have aged better than this digital creation ever could. Anyway, CGI Hessian is the only inhabitant of the buffet and he is sitting alone at the end of a long table, his hulking CGI frame taking up most of the screen and he appears to be moving a fork from the table level to his mouth. Only, there’s no plate. There’s no fork. There’s no food. Just the CGI image of Hessian shoveling nothing into his mouth.

Don Winters: That was unexpected.

Pious Penguin: We thought you might like to see your War Games teammates helping promote the resort!

Don Winters: Did we get their permission?

Pious Penguin: (nervously looking around) Father Don, have we talked about these beaches!? These incredible golden beaches that just go on for miles, as far as the eye can see?

The Revelator shakes his head, but lets Pious Penguin continue.

Pious Penguin: They are amazing, Father Don! The beauty and power of His Word and Light – who else could create a more magnificent sunrise. This truly is paradise and we are blessed to be here.

The screen flashes again and now there are three CGI figures on the beach. One of them is a diminutive man with a scar at the lips, but his eyes are obscured by sunglasses and he has a bucket hat on his head. He appears to be deadweight, as the other two members attempt to sit CGI Tony Gamble upright. The other two members, one with a forehead as wide as the beach, the other with creamy alfredo hair and T-Shades reflecting in the perfect sun look hapless as they fail at their work. Every time CGI Avalon and CGI Jiles think they’ve succeeded, the body of CGI Gamble slumps back forward. The images distort and Don Winters is left shaking his head at his puppet co-host.

Pious Penguin: Look how much fun they’re having, Father Don! And we even have the special, secluded Beach of Eden, where you can go full nude, or wear a simple fig leaf!

The screen cuts to an enormous, beautiful digital man sunbathing on the secluded beach front. He is smiling peacefully, as his perfectly round belly tans under a perfect midday sun. It is clearly CGI Bobby Dean enjoying the nude beach, but something about this image is amiss and as Don Winters slowly turns his head to face the screen, his eyes bulge out of his head and he leaps in front of it, covering up what is surely all of CGI Bobby Dean.

Don Winters: Pious Penguin, what is the meaning of this!?

Pious Penguin: (trying to look more embarrassed than he actually is) Well, he’s a War Games teammate and they call him The Long Don– (Don rushes over and covers Pious Penguin’s beak, but he’s still muffling out the words) – ng Kong.

Don Winters: (chuckling nervously) Well, isn’t that lovely folks? Anyway, I think we’ve got time for one more thing and that’s water sports!

Pious Penguin and Father Don shoot quick, sharp glances at one another, but nobody cracks, maybe Brandon Youngblood is smiling somewhere, but he never smiles.

Pious Penguin: (straightening his tux, just kidding, that’s his felt skin) We have all kinds of great fun in the water at FOOTPRINTS, Father Don!

With each word Pious Penguin shouted out with glee, an image flashed on the screen.

Pious Penguin: Surfing!

An image of Pious Penguin riding a killer wave, still wearing his crimson vestments.

Pious Penguin: Boating!

Father Don Winters is seen waving from his boat Jesus Take the Reel.

Pious Penguin: Fishing!

Father Don is shown on his boat, holding up a ferocious rainbow fish that has to be at least a massive four-and-a-half inches in length. Just breathtaking size on this murderous fish.

Pious Penguin: And jet skiing!

Pious Penguin disappears beneath the lectern, and pops back up riding his own little jet ski.

Pious Penguin: And I’ve got your best friend here to talk about it with us Father Don!

Don Winters: Oh n–

Before Winters can finish, the camera pans left to show the Rhinestone Cowboy in front of a green screen showing a rollicking ocean and clear blue skies. He’s mounted on his trusty jet-steed, which in turn is mounted on the back of a trailer. Cardboard waves are set up to hide the trailer, but are doing a poor job, and are being controlled to look like they’re moving. Off-camera Don Winters is shaking his head and contemplating his life decisions. He’s been bamboozled by a felt penguin.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, howdy, hello, and how y’all doin’?! I’m Daytona Diamonds and if there’s one thing I love, it’s ridin’ waves and smashin’ pus–bleep! When life gets ya down and start thinkin’ you ain’t got nowhere to go, come on down here! What’re you waitin’ on?!

Daytona tips his hat and winks.

Daytona Diamonds: You’ll be so full-a His Word and Light, you’ll feel like a two dollar hooker with a bleep when she gets bleep, so she’s on her knees and bleep, I’m talkin’ everywhere, baby, until you bleep bleep bleep on her bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep… and that’s what it feels like ridin’ jet skis down here at FOOTPRINTS! Yee doggy!

The camera pans back to Don Winters whose hands are cradling his head. Pious Penguin flaps his arms up and down.

Pious Penguin: His language is so colorful, Father Don! What’s a pus-bleep?

Don Winters: (mortified, looking between his fingers) It’s a kitty cat, Pious Penguin.

Pious Penguin: (thinking of the implication of Daytona’s earlier statement, horror filling his tiny felt body) He smashes cats!? I don’t think I like him very much anymore.

Don Winters: I always knew you were a smart little guy, Pious Penguin. Now, to button things up, we have a very exciting offer for everybody watching right now.

Pious Penguin: If you call 1-800-FTPRNTS and schedule your stay of at least six days and seven nights, you will get a FREE Pious Penguin stuffy and a 60-day supply of LORDOPLEX.

An image of a breathtakingly cute stuffed penguin in religious vestments pops up onto the screen next to an oversized pill bottle.

Don Winters: That’s right, Pious Penguin! An adorable Pious Penguin of your own and a supply of LORDOPLEX to get you feeling at your best and closer to God every single day. Don’t forget, LORDOPLEX is the Mixture from the Scripture! We hope you enjoyed this small feature and the amenities we’re looking to bring all true believers and those who are His Word and Light-curious. I’d like to thank everyone for their time today and we look forward to seeing you at FOOTPRINTS this fall!

Pious Penguin: Father Don, before we go, I have one more question.

Don Winters: What is it?

Pious Penguin: We’ve been talking about footprints and we spent all that time walking on the beach and it was really hard and tiring and I just want to know, I only see one set of footprints. Where were you Father Don?

The Revelator winks at the camera.

Don Winters: Well Pious Penguin, those are my footprints. I carried you, because you’re a puppet.

Pious Penguin: Oh that’s right! Silly me. That’s all for now! From His Word and Light and Father Winters’ Wonderland, I’m the ineffable Pious Penguin with Father Don Winters. We can’t wait to see you down here soon!

The camera cuts back to a serene blue sky and slowly fades out as The Herald’s boyish, exuberant screams are heard as he paraglides into the great beyond.

It’s not The Garden, nor is it The House That Ruth Built, but as ReVival 43 is in the throes of its final stanzas, one thing is for sure; The Barclays Center is in the midst of an already epic night. It’s about to get even more outrageous. In the way leading to the Argyle Position, Brandon Youngblood power walks, dressed to compete for the first time since Colossus, and for the true first time since triceps surgery. As the PRIMEView shows his approach to the audience, they grow raucous. There’s a palpability tonight. The Tower of Babel is there to get them lathered up.

Then, The Dragonslayer will take them home.

A storybook ending? Perhaps. And, as Youngblood is about to stomp his way up the steps to Argyle, his ascent is stopped. The hand and the arm that it belongs to had their own storybook ending in The City That Never Sleeps. A shower of confetti. A changing of the guard. Until it was violently jerked away from him.

Just as violently as The Event Horizon is jerking the man who tarnished that dream.

Hayes Hanlon: Did you believe me?

Doing this right before a match. Bold. But Hanlon isn’t dumb. He knows EXACTLY what he’s doing. The Tower of Babel snarls, his shoulders tensing, ready to fight,.

Hayes Hanlon: When I said I’d be proud to lose the belt to you?

If looks could kill. Youngblood doesn’t say anything, merely staring a predator missile through Hammerin’ Hayes.

To Youngblood’s chagrin, Hammerin’ Hayes burns lasers in response, and leans in close.

Hayes Hanlon: Because, man…I really hope you knew I was lying.

Youngblood turns his head, spitting off to the side before his glower returns in kind.

Brandon Youngblood: No you weren’t.

His statement is so matter of fact, it’s almost sinister how casual it is.

Brandon Youngblood: But you said that shit knowing…knowing…in your heart…that you weren’t losing that night. And then you did.

What is with these two and wanting to get so uncomfortably close?

Brandon Youngblood: You don’t tug at my heartstrings, boy. Don’t you come around here spouting off bullshit. I could hit you between the eyes saying I didn’t mean a goddamn when I said you had the chance to be the best. But that’d be horseshit. Just. Like. This.

Hayes Hanlon: Then do it. Hit me.

Speaking of getting uncomfortably close, The Comeback Kid leers in down the steps, hands on the railings, mustache curling.

Hayes Hanlon: Between. My goddamn. Eyes.

Tempting. So tempting. But if Hanlon was going to try such games, Youngblood wasn’t against doing the same.

Brandon Youngblood: Sorry you couldn’t hang with the ReVolution.

A tilt of the head.

Brandon Youngblood: Sorry you weren’t the head of my ReVival.

A smoldering, burning stare from the younger man. Poisonous, daggering words from the Pariah driving into his ears. Close to forcing a brash, immature, reckless decision.

Instead, a sneer, painfully forced.

Hayes Hanlon: Buddy, I’M the fucking ReVival.

His torso retreats back, and Hayes lets go of the railings.

Hayes Hanlon: But I’ll be its ReVolution if I have to.

With a sniff of a nostril, Hayes back-pedals from the top of the stairway, and escapes into the halls beyond the Argyle position.

More than a threat. Intention. But it would have to wait, for Daytona Diamonds awaits.

We cut elsewhere.

The camera is perched right outside of the door of a nondescript locker room, one that feels like it should be important. Well it is, because it’s the locker room the same camera was inside a few segs ago, featuring the only babyfaces left in PRIME who are all on the same War Games team. How do you know this?

Because The Anglo Luchador walks out, rolling his neck and stretching after leaning up against the corner for an extended period of time. He begins his walk down the corridor to his super secret production meeting, ambling with great trepidation and caution given how much the Russian contingent seems to be hinting at wanting his head lately. The camera follows him from the back, each footfall more precarious than the last. Suddenly, he stops and jumps back, startled like a deer caught in the high beams of a behemoth American pickup truck.

Feminine voice: MR. LUCHADOR! MR. LUCHADOR! WATCH OUT!

The sturdy frame of Kohime Mori leaps out from an opened door.

Kohime Mori: Sorry, I’m really trying to get Mr. Rezin to accept medical help but he keeps saying stuff about aliens and ‘gubernment’ and I don’t know what to- HEY! You shouldn’t drive that with a concussion!

As Kohime runs off, the Luchador begins his gait anew, only to stumble over something on the ground. The camera doesn’t catch it from where it is perched, but the Luchador clues the audience at home and in the arena what it is he nearly trips over.

TAL: God f… ugh, who the hell drops PINEAPPLE in the middle of a crowded hallway.

Masculine voice: Oh…uh, sorry bruh. Ya say somethin’ about a pineapple?

Into the frame from another door walks Bryan Dawkins, PRIME’s latest import from Bang! Pro Wrestling. Dawkins’ attention is immediately drawn to the deconstructed fruit salad strewn upon the floor before them and frowns.

Bryan Dawkins: Did ya see who did this, bruh? Who threw the pineapple on the ground? Wasn’t you, was it?

The Luchador shrugs – he’s got bigger things to worry about than spilled fruit.

Bryan Dawkins: Fair enough, bruh. It’s a shame, ya know? If it was a pile of blueberries, I’d probably stomp them out myself, ya? I gotta go find out who did this. Carry on, bruh…

As PRIME’s Pineapple Man storms off, the Luchador continues on his path, frazzled beyond belief at this point. He approaches his current hallway dead ending into a perpendicular one. Before he can make his turn, he hears a loud, peace-disturbing noise.

CLANG

On the tile flooring of the Barclays Center drops a full-sized version of the threatening trinket Alexei Ruslan left him at ReV 41.

An ice axe.

TAL: AAAAHHHH!!

The Luchador recoils back, nearly taking out the camera behind him. Into the scene walks gingerly an older, Turkish gentleman, you know the kind that has a job at PRIME but never lets on what it is.

Captain Suleimon: CURSES! I keep dropping this important tool.

TAL: Jesus Christ, Suleimon, why do you have an ICE AXE!?

Suleimon gives him a sneer and a harumph.

Captain Suleimon: You doubt that I would keep such an important tool for my vital job here in PRIME?!

TAL: I don’t know, man. I’m just, I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW, OKAY? DO YOU WORK FOR CATERING? ARE YOU AN ICE SCULPTOR?

Captain Suleimon: Settle down, man! My word, number one, you should know what my job is, I told you this once before.

TAL: You did?

Captain Suleimon: [ignoring the last statement] Second, what has gotten into you?

TAL: I don’t know. I, I just don’t know. Ever since 41, hell, ever since the thing with my brother, everything’s just been closing in. I think people are out to get me.

Captain Suleimon: Tsk, tsk, tsk. You really ought not to worry about these things. Don’t you know you could get an ulcer? Now let me take this important axe to where I need to take it. Because it is my job here, you know.

The Luchador’s head follows Suleimon for at least 30 seconds as he walks off in the opposite direction of where he’s headed. He turns right and heads right towards a door on the left side of the corridor.

TAL: Finally, at my destination without incident. I’ll be able to get back to watch Jared win the Uni…

Before he can get to the door, with the knob just an arm’s reach away from his hand…

CRASH!

From his right, the drywall bursts open, a puff of white gypsum choking the air with its shock. What isn’t shocking is who has just burst through.

DYAAHAAHAA!!

Ivan Stanislav’s trademark laugh fills the hallway as bystanders shriek. The Luchador startles back in his shock, but he soon crumples to the floor as an unseen assailant clips his leg. That attacker shoots up to his feet to be revealed as Arthur Pleasant. And then, one by one, the attackers file in. Kenny Freeman. Randall Schwartz. Max Kael. Rob Williams. The camera which had been following the Luchador from his exit from the Team Sykes locker room pans back for the safety of its operator, leaving only a scene of the most ravenous of wolves in PRIME descending on The Anglo Luchador.

The cameraman appears to be ready to make a break for it, but as the shot shifts to one side, it stops and forcefully moves back to the carnage in the hallway. The sneering, mustached face of Alexei Ruslan appears just in the corner of the frame.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh no no no! You are not going anywhere. Come, let us watch!

Stanislav looms over TAL and slams one fist into his palm.

Ivan Stanislav: I have been waiting over one YEAR for this moment, Trotskyite! Now! Some team building for our War Games team!! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Stanislav bends down and plucks TAL up with one huge hand. He slams him into the opposite wall, throttling him with one hand.

Ivan Stanislav: Я убью тебя, маленький крысиный ублюдок! (I’ll kill you, you little rat bastard!)

The Russian Bear lines up a massive fist, rears back, and swings for the fences, but TAL wriggles out, dropping to his feet as Stanislav positively obliterates the supporting beam behind the drywall. Tiles rain from the ceiling as the shockwave shakes through the wall up into the ceiling and crashes all around the roaring Russian Bear, and Stanislav nearly topples into the next room.

TAL reacts instinctively, driving a hard kick into the massive back of the Russian Bear, but there’s really nowhere to go. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz are on him almost immediately, grabbing TAL’s arms. Stanislav turns and shakes off the dust and particles from his shoulders and hair and points at Max.

Ivan Stanislav: Do not just stand there! Kick him!

Max, battered from his previous match, nods with a wily grin and throws three hard punches into TAL’s stomach.

Max Kael: Kick!! Kick!! Kick!!

Ivan doesn’t quite seem to be in the mood for anything related to, well, Max Kael. He pushes through him and shows him how it’s done, throwing a massive boot into TAL’s stomach. He bowls over Freeman and Schwartz and sends TAL into the opposite wall, and before he even hits the floor, Williams and Pleasant start putting the boots to him in earnest. Kael seems to follow with a knowing nod, and he starts to kick as well.

Still, TAL stubbornly tries to rise to his feet, but the ambush and the numbers are too much. As he falls down to the floor once more, Stanislav reaches down and grabs him by the back of the neck and lifts him.

Ivan Stanislav: No friends to save you, Tom.

Stanislav makes his point and slams his enormous skull into The Anglo Luchador’s face.

Ivan Stanislav: No War Games team to protect you. Sykes wants MY title! Youngblood thinks only about himself. Tsonda is too busy looking in mirror!

He chucks Tom across the hallway into a metal door with a clang!

Ivan Stanislav: Adam Ellis has his beloved to faun over. Nate Colton is too busy worrying about his siblings! And Doubleday? DYAAHAAHAA!!

He bends down and picks up TAL one more time, bringing him close to his face.

Ivan Stanislav: But this, Tom? This is not about War Games. This is about you, and me. We could have been friends. We could have been partners. But no. You had to be cute. You ahd to be an individual. You had to try to think! So now, you have what you always wanted, comrade.

One more huge fist to the side of TAL’s head sends him to the floor. Stanislav, with Kael, Williams, Pleasant, and Freeman next to him, points down at him.

Ivan Stanislav: You tell your War Games friends that this is but a taste of what we do to them if they are stupid enough to arrive at Culture Shock. This, Tom, is but a sample of what I do to you if you ever try to grow spine again and get in my way.

Rob Williams: One more fraud shown their place…

Max Kael: I waited this far into the show to give you that epic beat down and all you do is just.. lay there?

Max waxes faux sympathy.

Max Kael: What, did you learn this move from your dad? Shameful waste of my time.

Stanislav grins and wraps his arms around the shoulders of Williams and Kael.

Ivan Stanislav: I say our team is looking more and more cohesive as time goes on. DYAAHAAHAA!!

The camera jerks as Ruslan finally lets go and joins the others, who walk away. He stops for one moment, looks down at TAL, and gives him a quick kick before hustling after the rest of the throng, leaving the damage in their wake.

We cut to ringside.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: We’ve got our sub-main event coming up next.

Richard Parker: These two will be squaring off in War Games next month, so it looks like we’ve got an early preview of that match coming up.

Nick Stuart: That we do!

The lights go out and the PRIMEview turns on.

An ocean. A bright blue sky. Rays of sunlight and squawking seagulls. It’s peaceful. Serene, even. Picturesque. The tide comes in, the tide goes out… and then there’s a noise somewhere in the distance. Is that… is that a motor? A revving engine? Is that…

…is that a goddamn jet ski?

Oh no.

The jet ski rides across the screen several times, back and forth, drawing closer and closer until we can see who’s riding it. I mean, it’s Daytona Diamonds. It’s obviously Daytona Diamonds. Who else in PRIME owns a totally badass and not at all ridiculous jet ski? One last pass sends a spray of ocean water against the screen and it leaks down to spell out his name in big, faux-elegant letters like the font on a stripper’s ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ tattoo: DAYTONA FUCKIN’ DIAMONDS.

“Rhinestone Cowboy” by Glen Campbell.

Tom Waits, eat your heart out.

The arena fills with swirling blue lights, glitterdust and rhinestone sparkles. The camera rushes to the side of the ramp to spot a large, black truck pulling into the arena from backstage. That truck has a trailer attached to it and, on that trailer, there’s a jet ski. And Daytona’s on that jet ski because of course he’s on that jet ski, both hands lifted in the air with middle fingers extended towards the sky.

The truck pulls up right alongside the ramp and The Rhinestone Cowboy stands up, balancing precariously on the jet ski’s footholds, surveying the PRIMEorillas for the first time in over a month as they rain down boos and vitriol. Daytona nods his head and grins, hopping down from the jet ski. Fur coat? Oh yes. Rhinestone suit underneath? You know it. Cowboy hat with the words ‘KING OF THE RODEO (AND THE OCEAN)’ intricately chain stitched on the front? You best fuckin’ believe it.

Making his way down the ramp, Daytona looks more determined than he’s looked in… well, ever since he got to PRIME. There’s a strut to his step, a swagger to his walk, both hands tucked into the pockets of that fur coat as he climbs the ring steps. He exchanges a few words with Jimmy Turnbull once inside. No posing, no posturing, no trying to look cool. He already looks cool. He’s cooler than anyone else in the room. He’s the coolest person alive.

Hat? Top of the turnbuckle. Coat? Carefully folded and placed on the apron. Daytona leans up against the ropes and, beneath the music, beneath the boos, beneath the sheer spectacle of it all, he mutters three words under his breath: “Here goes nothin’.”

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Carson City, Nevada. He stands at six feet and one inch tall and weighed in at 245 pounds. He is the Rhinestone Cowboy! DAYTONA! DIAMONDS!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: These fans need to show some respect.

Nick Stuart: The man just came out on a jet-ski.

Richard Parker: I would call that genius level!

Nick Stuart: You would.

The Arena darkens. The shift in ambiance has the fans rise to their feet, the sound rising. And then, cutting through it all, The Battlecry.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
LET THE GALAXY BURN

From the very start of Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH, Brandon Youngblood surges from the curtain and into the well of sound filling the arena. Through the blinding blue and white strobing light cutting through the darkness, the Tower of Babel powerwalks, his eyes trained forward, an oppressive scowl of intensity a hallmark painting his face.

His shoulders sway with the bravado of his BMF walk, a spotlight lighting his path. The 2022 Wrestler of the Year is quick down the ramp, his gait swinging him around the arena floor, to the ring steps. There is no slowdown as his feet pound the steel, stepping between the ropes and exploding upright. Once inside, he begins pacing around the outside perimeter of the ring, his eyes locking toward the curtain, all as Vince Howard makes his announcement.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at 265 pounds… he is…THE DIIIIIIAMOND! OF THE REVIVAL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

The lights return, and as they do, the Suplex Daddy readies himself in an amateur stance, his hands on his thighs, a snarl of disdain curling his lips. If looks could kill, the next person out is already dead.

Nick Stuart: These two couldn’t be more different if you tried.

Richard Parker: You make that sound like a problem.

Nick Stuart: Well, it could be for Daytona Diamonds.

Jimmy Turnbull issues his final set of instructions before signaling for the start of the match.

DING DING

At the sound of the bell, Youngblood closes the gap between Diamonds and himself. He slips behind Diamonds before locking in a rear waist lock. Daytona feverishly grabs at the clapsed hands of the Tower of Babel, but Brandon quickly hoists him up and slams him down to the mat chest first. Youngblood keeps the waist lock locked in, keeping his weight firmly on Daytona’s back. The Rhinestone Cowboy quickly rolls to his side, eager to keep Youngblood off of him where he can, and once again tries to pry the fingers loose.

Nick Stuart: This is definitely not the start that Diamonds wanted.

Richard Parker: I would offer a guess of a nope.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds manages to get into a seated position, but Diamonds still has Youngblood on his back.

Richard Parker: Why does Youngblood look like a young monkey clinging to his mother’s back?

Nick Stuart: Well, Youngblood looks like a predator and is stalking his prey as he wraps his legs around Diamond’s midsection and is wrapping his left arm under the throat of the Rhinestone Cowboy.

Richard Parker: Okay, this is going from bad to worse.

Youngblood leans back, scissoring the body of Diamonds while cinching in his chokehold on Diamonds. Daytona immediately scrambles, bring his left leg up and getting enough separation between Youngblood’s legs to get his knee in there and pry apart his legs. With a bit of freedom, Diamonds, feeling his windpipe closing up, drives his feet into the canvas and flips himself backwards, pinning Youngblood’s shoulders to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Look at that man, smarter than he looks, that’s for sure. Smarter than Youngblood and that’s not difficult.

Nick Stuart: Look, you shouldn’t be talking smarts when you keep calling Hessian the Murder Express.

Richard Parker: That man gave me a heart attack last show when he came up and yelled at me about it. Which wasn’t fair because you’ve done the same!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, well, he knows you don’t have talent at this. Youngblood back to his feet and Diamonds narrowly ducked a running forearm from the Tower of Babel. Diamonds off the ropes and he connects with a slingblade. Both men back to their feet again and Diamonds connects with a drop kick!

Youngblood quickly scrambles to his feet and ducks an elbow strike from Daytona. Brandon bounces off the ropes and rebounds with a spear that sends Diamonds crashing to the mat, grabbing at his ribs. As Daytona gets to his feet, the Diamond of PRIME connects with a bridging Northern Lights Suplex.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Jimmy Turnbull getting a workout in with these early pinfall attempts.

Nick Stuart: These two definitely realize the opportunity to start the year off 1-0 as neither have competed since Colossus.

Richard Parker: Diamonds definitely is on the up and up, while Youngblood you can tell is petering out at the end of his career.

Nick Stuart: What are you talking about? You know what, I don’t care.

As both men get back to their feet, Youngblood ducks under a right hand from Diamonds and peppers him with a left to his midsection. The shot stings as Diamonds stumbles backwards, gathering himself, before closing the distance between them and connecting with a short elbow to the jaw of the Tower of Babel. Youngblood stumbles back into the ropes and Diamonds keeps the pressure up as he drives his knee into the midsection of the Hall of Famer.

Richard Parker: That’s what I like to see. Take it to him Daytona!

Nick Stuart: Now Diamonds bounces off the ropes and Youngblood lifts him up and over the top rope!

Richard Parker: Diamonds is like a cat with nine lives because he just landed on the ring apron!

Nick Stuart: Good agility from the Rhinestone Cowboy. Youngblood turns around and Diamonds grabs him by the back of his skull and slams him face first into the top turnbuckle.

Youngblood stumbles away from the corner, dazed, while Diamonds prepares himself for his next move, grabbing at the top rope. As Brandon turns around, Diamonds springboards off the top rope and plants him in the center of the ring with a springboard DDT! Youngblood rolls onto his back as Diamonds bounces back up to his feet and connects with a standing moonsault before hoooking Youngblood’s leg.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And Jimmy flashes a two at the crowd.

Richard Parker: Jimmy…

Nick Stuart: Oh stop it. You know that was a two count.

Richard Parker: This is why we need robots referring matches like that.

Nick Stuart: And then you would complain about that too.

Diamonds, already back to his feet, pulls Youngblood up with him and catches him with an uppercut across the jaw and neck. The spittle flies from the mouth of the former Universal Champion. Diamonds drives his shoulder into the stomach of Youngblood and drives him into the corner, driving the wind out of Brandon. Daytona fires away with a series of rights to the face of the Tower of Babel before climbing onto the second turnbuckle. He then begins to plant fist after fist to the skull of his opponent.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

EIGHT!

Nick Stuart: Jimmy keeping a close count on Daytona who is embellishing each one of these strikes.

Richard Parker: Because he’s one of the coolest guys here in PRIME! I want to grow up and be like him.

Nick Stuart: I think you’re old enough to be his father — whoa, as he connects with his ninth strike, Youngblood wraps his arms around Daytona’s legs and moves away from the corner.

Richard Parker: Don’t you do it, Brandon! Put him down!

Youngblood then leans back and drops Diamonds jaw first onto the top turnbuckle. Diamonds stumbles backwards into the waiting arms of the Suplex Daddy and he connects with a release German Suplex that drops Diamonds on the back of his shoulders, neck, and skull. Diamonds rolls through, resting on his knees, though his eyes suggest he’s out of it. Brandon rushes at Diamonds and plants his right knee into the face of his opponent, sending Diamonds to the mat in a world of hurt. Brandon quickly follows it up with a series of boots until Diamonds is hanging off the ring apron, threatning to fall onto the floor.

Richard Parker: Come on Jimmy, disqualify Youngblood!

Nick Stuart: Hush you. Youngblood talking with Turnbull, but he seems more interested in getting back to Diamonds.

Richard Parker: Of course he is, he wants to permanently damage Diamonds. He needs an advocate out here!

Nick Stuart: Go for it, I would love to see it.

Richard Parker: I’ve got a job, thank you very much.

Nick Stuart: If you call what you do working.

Youngblood steps through the ropes and pulls Diamonds up to his feet. He connects with a spinning elbow that catches Daytona flush across the jaw, forcing him to slump against the metal ringpost. Brandon takes a few steps backwards and sizes up the dazed Diamonds and races down the ring apron, lowering his shoulder intending to plant it into the chest of the Rhinestone Cowboy.

Diamonds though has other ideas as he slips over the top rope and back into the ring before Youngblood manages to connect.

THWACK!

Instead, Youngblood’s shoulder collides with the ring post.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Oh boy, that shoulder probably disintegrated with the amount of force Youngblood used just then.

Nick Stuart: Look, just because you roll your ankle everytime you hustle to the buffet line, doesn’t mean everyone else’s joints are as fragile as yours.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s just rude.

Nick Stuart: Then maybe ratchet your snide remarks down a bit.

Youngblood, kneeling on the ring apron, doesn’t give much of a fight as Diamonds reaches over the top rope and brings the Tower of Babel to a vertical base. Daytona puts him into a front facelock and tries to lift him over the top rope only for Youngblood to pepper his kidney with a series of jabs. Daytona retaliates by driving his knee into the solarplex of the Hall of Famer before lifting him up and crotching him on the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s not pleasant.

Richard Parker: I hope Amy doesn’t want kids.

Nick Stuart: The pain is etched into the face of Youngblood, who has one too many areas of his body hurting right about now. Diamonds is refusing to give him an inch either as he is drilling fist after fist into the face of the Diamond of PRIME.

Richard Parker: Diamond versus Diamond? I guess we know which one is the shiniest of them all.

Diamonds grabs onto the top rope and snaps it towards him, sending Youngblood back into the ring. Youngblood makes his way back to all fours only for Daytona to plant his boot into the back of his skull. Brandon collapses onto the ground as Diamonds sizes him up and drops an elbow across the back of his skull and neck. Diamonds gets up to his feet in a hurry and drops another one. Daytona makes his way back up to his feet, bounces off the ropes, and drops a knee across the back of Daytona’s skull.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: These fans may boo him, but this is how you end up winning a match against Brandon Youngblood!

Nick Stuart: You’re not wrong. You have to keep the intensity up because you know at some point, the Tower of Babel will make his comeback and make you pay dearly for it.

Richard Parker: That was 2022 Youngblood, Nick. Maybe 2023 Youngblood. Not 2024 Youngblood. He’s washed.

Nick Stuart: I would pay good money to see you say that to his face.

Richard Parker: Not in a million years.

Diamonds drags Youngblood back up to his feet and pushes him into the ropes before whipping him across the ring and connecting with a Samoan Drop. As Diamonds sits up, you can see the cockiness in his smile as he makes his way up to his feet. There’s a confidence in Daytona as he turns around and is met with the Diamond of PRIME standing, staring him in the eyes. Daytona scrambles backwards, tripping over his own feet, and landing on his ass as he scoots himself into the corner.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Get out of there, Daytona! The Golem is coming for you!

Nick Stuart: You can tell Diamonds wants to get away from Youngblood, but is trapped.

Richard Parker: Jimmy, you can’t let this happen!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Jimmy wants none of that smoke.

Youngblood stalks his prey, inching his way to the corner, as Diamonds looks around wildly, desperate for a way out of there. As Youngblood nears the Rhinestone Cowboy, Diamonds slams his foot into the right knee of the Tower of Babel. The desperation move is enough for Diamonds to get back to his feet as Brandon rubs at his knee. Diamonds tries to escape from the corner, but Youngblood wraps both hands around his throat and tosses him into the corner. Youngblood attempts to snap an elbow across the face of the man with the Jet Ski, but Diamonds ducks under it. Daytona tries to rush out of there, but Youngblood wraps both arms around Diamonds and connects with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds caught major air on that one!

Richard Parker: Look, this is no time for laughs, Nick! This is serious business! Diamonds doesn’t deserve this kind of disrespect.

Nick Stuart: Disrespect?!

Richard Parker: You heard me! Diamonds doesn’t deserve to be embarrassed like that!

Nick Stuart: I’m positive that I’m not hearing you correctly right now. Youngblood, meanwhile, is back to his feet and is on the warpath.

Richard Parker: Stop him Jimmy, stop him!

Diamonds stumbles to his feet and Youngblood catches him with a forearm that sends him into the corner. Youngblood begins connecting with forearm strike after forearm strike.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Daytona, looking completely dazed, smiles at the Tower of Babel and spits the pooled blood in his mouth at him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Richard Parker: Oh jeez, welp.

Nick Stuart: Not the smartest of choices.

Youngblood grins before connecting with a knife-edge chop that echoes throughout the Barclay Center.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

A succession of knife-edge chops rattle the chest of the Rhinestone Cowboy. He stumbles out of the corner before dropping to his knees, chest radiating with heat. Youngblood approaches him only for Diamonds to grab him by his singlet and fling him throat first into the middle rope.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: He’s not done yet!

Nick Stuart: He might wish he was when Youngblood is done with him.

Diamonds makes his way up to his feet and uses the nearby top rope to hold him up as he spits the remaining blood out of his mouth. He turns around and narrowly ducks a forearm strike from the Diamond of PRIME. Daytona goes for a knee to Youngblood, but Brandon grabs the knee and hoists Daytona into the air for a side suplex. Diamonds stumbles back to his feet only for Brandon to plant his boot in Daytona’s midsection and connects with a gutwrench slam, dropping Diamonds across his left knee.

Nick Stuart: Daytona seemingly getting some momentum and getting it snuffed out.

Richard Parker: Because Turnbull isn’t doing his job. We need a head ref who keeps the refs in line around here.

Nick Stuart: You should put in for that job.

Richard Parker: That sounds like a pay cut if I’ve ever heard of one.

Youngblood, rubbing his throat, yanks Diamonds up to his feet and whips him into the ropes before connecting with a powerslam that rattles the ring. Youngblood mounts Diamonds and connects with a series of short elbows to the face that rocks Daytona’s world. Youngblood makes his way to his feet and deadlifts Diamonds into a gutwrench suplex. Diamonds rolls away from Youngblood, landing on the edge of the ring apron. Brandon gets to his feet and plants his boot into Daytona’s rib cage, sending him crashing to the floor mat.

Richard Parker: Oh come on, Jimmy! You’re just letting Youngblood rag doll him all over the place! This has got to be against the rules.

Nick Stuart: You know, I did check and confirmed that it is against the rules, except if you’re facing Daytona Diamonds. It’s a weird wrinkle in the rulebook.

Richard Parker: Son of a bitch! The rule makers are out to get Daytona!

Nick Stuart: Yep, so take it up with them.

Youngblood stands towards the back of the ring while Diamonds climbs to his feet, clutching at his ribs, spitting more blood out of his mouth. He climbs back into the ring, his eyes narrow. As he steps through the ropes, Youngblood pounces on him with a series of clubbing forearms to the neck and upper back. Diamonds pushes Youngblood away from him and as Youngblood attempts to close the gap, Diamonds connects with a right hand followed by a swift kick to the gut, and then plants Youngblood with a DDT.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds desperation showing there and no better time for it to show up.

Richard Parker: Ha! You call that desperation. I call that outthinking your opponent.

Nick Stuart: How do you figure?

Richard Parker: Look who is on the floor and who’s not.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s some sound logic.

Diamonds, down on one knee, watches as Youngblood stirs. As Youngblood makes his way to his feet, Diamonds rushes at him only to be met with an uppercut to the jaw that staggers Diamonds where he stands. The Tower of Babel then uncorks with knife-edge chop that rings through the Barclay Center. Diamonds stumbles backwards, clutching at his chest. Youngblood keeps the pressure up though with a second knife-edge chop that nearly brings tears to the eyes of the Rhinestone Cowboy.

Richard Parker: The man is now bleeding from his chest!

Nick Stuart: Better outside than inside?

Richard Parker: You’re not helping!

Nick Stuart: Am I supposed to?

Diamonds looks down at his hand, specks of blood on it, and he looks up at Youngblood in disbelief. He then shakes his head before uncorking two middle fingers of his own, which infuriates the Golem of PRIME, who unloads with a series of right hands until Diamonds is slumped in the corner. Brandon yanks Diamonds up to his feet and connects with a snap dragon suplex that drops Diamonds on the back of his head. Daytona rolls onto his stomach while Turnbull checks on him.

Richard Parker: You’re okay with this level of brutality?

Nick Stuart: To be fair, I think these fans are.

Richard Parker: Oh, I’m supposed to listen to these morons who probably also cheer on the Jets and Mets?!

Nick Stuart: …you have a fair point.

Youngblood drags Diamonds to his feet and the Rhinestone Cowboy looks both out of it and defiant at the same time. Before Youngblood can move though, frantic guitars and drums begin playing through the speakers in the Barclay Center.

Yeah
I’ll take a nicotine, caffeine, sugar fix–

Brandon immediately spins around, his eyes focused on the entranceway. He knows that tune, intimately. He inches towards the ropes, yet no one steps out and the music is abruptly cut.

Richard Parker: What the hell was that?!

Nick Stuart: I’m getting feedback from Argyle that it was a technical glitch.

Richard Parker: One hell of a technical glitch.

Diamonds meanwhile sneaks up behind Youngblood and rolls him up, grabbing hold of Youngblood’s tights.

Nick Stuart: Quick roll-up!

Richard Parker: Youngblood was distracted and Diamonds is capitalizing on it!

Turnbull then begins his count after confirming Youngblood’s shoulders are pinned to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: WHAT?!

Nick Stuart: WHOA! Diamonds pulled that one out of nowhere! Youngblood kicked out a quarter of a second too late.

Richard Parker: Diamonds stole one and has pulled off the victory against the Suplex Daddy.

Diamonds immediately rolls out of the ring, shock on his face. Turnbull looks around in surprise as well, finding Diamonds halfway up the ramp, hands on his hips in disbelief.

Vince Howard: Your winner… DAYTONA! DIAMONDS!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: The shock is evident across the arena and even on the faces of Diamonds and Youngblood. Youngblood thought he kicked out in time and is pleading his case with Turnbull, but Jimmy is confirming his decision.

Richard Parker: Take your loss like a man, Brandon!

Nick Stuart: Say that to his face.

Richard Parker: No thank you!

Diamonds lifts both of his arms in victory, before quickly putting them down as he clutches his ribs. His body is battered, but he is happy to have grabbed the victory here tonight.

Youngblood meanwhile is on his feet, shaking his head, and looking like the healthier man though with an L to start the year. His mind is racing though on the music notes he heard, the distraction he had. Something isn’t sitting right with him.

Nick Stuart: Well, we’ve got one more match, our main event here tonight! It’s a doozy and is for the Universal Title! We’ll have that match up shortly, but let’s go backstage first.

We cut elsewhere.

As the carnage from The Fool and The Tower is cleaned up in the ring we cut backstage to Rob Williams carrying a giant cardboard box. Inside the box? VHS tapes from Max Kael. Nothing good ever comes from a cardboard box of VHS tapes. How many children have let their curiosity get the best of them playing private dick through a booty of VHS tapes in their attic only to find video recordings of their parents playing a wholly different game of private dick through a booty? Not that many? Oh. Well then, let’s get back to the task at hand. Rob is traversing the backstage area trying to find a piece of

Rob Williams: A fucking VCR. Of course this guy has a box of VHS tapes. Hey, you!

A skinny man walking by in a black shirt with a set of in-ear monitors on stops abruptly.

Rob Williams: Where can I find a VCR? There has to be one somewhere around here. Everybody talks about “watching tape”. Help me out here.

Andy the IT guy stifles a laugh. Normally known for his adept wit and sarcasm, Andy fakes a smile at the 6’2”, 240lbs gorilla with a furled brow in front of him holding a box of antiquated technology.

Andy the IT Guy: (trying not to laugh) Uh… no. No sir, I’m not aware of any VCRs here.

Rob Williams: You better not be lying to me. If I find a VCR here I’m going to hunt you down and pull your fingernails off.

Under the front of the box Rob pantomimes sliding a fingernail off with an imaginary pair of pliers. His eyes smile in a way that alarms the poor IT guy.

Andy the IT Guy: Maybe try Ivan. I think the Kremlin still sends him VHS tapes for some reason.

Great. Further interaction with the Great Russian Bear. It’s not that Rob doesn’t like Ivan. In all actuality he finds an ever deepening affection to people with deeply held convictions and what is Ivan if not walking conviction? Yes, Ivan is the pinnacle of faith. Maybe that’s why their paths keep crossing? No, it isn’t that at all, more that Rob doesn’t like asking for help. Which could also be why he keeps finding himself in the shadow of the Ivan Too Many Names Stanislav.

Rob Williams: There had better be some powerful shit on these tapes. If this is just Max reenacting his favorite movie scenes I might commit a murder tonight.

The Father: Oh they’re scenes, alright. The content of these tapes is paramount to the next phase of your metamorphosis, Robert. Have I led you astray so far? Are your coffers not full?

Rob Williams: I’m not doubting you. I’m just asking if you know how impossible it is to find a VCR? Kael may as well have given me a goddamn alien artifact.

Turning the corner towards the place of their team rendezvous earlier, Rob runs smack into Ivan Stanislav. Neither man moves despite the great elemental force generated by the impact. There’s a threadbare saying used to describe this physical interaction that we won’t cheapen this beautiful moment.

“The Legend” and The Russian Bear. Who would’ve thought?

Stanislav lifts a bushy eyebrow and peers down at the 5 Star Champion and smirks and lowers his chin, staring down as he is nearly a foot taller than The Legend.  But, despite most happenstance interactions with the frosty Russian, Ivan is quite cordial. Beating the stuffing out of a counter-revolutionary wrecker will do that to a man.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrade Williams. You should be watching where you are going.

He peers over at The Father for just a moment, and then back down at Rob.

Ivan Stanislav: You should always keep your eyes forward. Don’t let forces drag them away from what you, yourself, can accomplish. Distractions? They are bad thing.

He was nearly invisible in the wake of Stanislav, but Alexei Ruslan slides out from behind his huge friend, hands in the pockets of his brown overcoat. He says nothing, but his haphazard mustache twitches while his eyes glint curiously beneath his hat.

Rob Williams: Are all Russians like this with the constant fable-speak?

The Father: These are allies, Robert. Mind your manners.

Through clenched teeth Rob exhales a telling sigh. It has been a long night and he’s tired. He closes his eyes and shakes off the attitude, reopening them with a smile.

Rob Williams: Of course, I love it. You rarely miss the mark. Ok then. One of the IT guys owes me his fingernails if you don’t have access to a VCR. While I’d quite enjoy relieving some of this stress on his manicured hands, I’m hoping you might be of port in this storm.

Stanislav waggles a finger and chuckles.

Ivan Stanislav: You know, Rob, Arkhangelsk is port city in Russia. That is where I am from. Despite being in Russian Army, I do always enjoy a good naval reference. DYAAHAAHAA!!

It’s hard to say if Stanislav is seriously just in such a good mood, or if he’s messing with Rob. It’s not like he’s going to tell anyway. Nonetheless, he nods his head once more.

Ivan Stanislav: You need VCR?

The Russian Bear looks down and back at Alexei.

.

Ivan Stanislav: Алексей, у вас есть видеомагнитофон? (Alexei, do you have a VCR?)

Ruslan lets out a huff and purses his lips. The smaller Russian turns his back to the group and starts rummaging through his overcoat. He drops a few items to the floor. A wrench. A bookend. His baton. A taser. A spool of piano wire. A copy of Lenin’s “What Is To Be Done?”. A tire iron.

Alexei Ruslan: Aha!

Ruslan turns, and lo and behold, he has it. A VCR. He blows the dust off the top of it. Ivan chortles and nods.

Ivan Stanislav: Есть ли в этой штуке подслушивающие устройства?(Any listening devices in that thing?)

Ruslan blinks thoughtfully and begins rummaging in one of his pockets, while handing the device to Ivan.

Alexei Ruslan: Нет, вы хотите, чтобы некоторые из них были установлены? (No, do you want some installed?)

Ivan glances at Rob thoughtfully and then shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: Nyet.

With a wide, impossibly toothy grin that shines through his haggard beard, Stanislav offers the VCR to Rob. Rob drops the box of tapes along with his jaw.

Ivan Stanislav: From the bosom of Mother Russia, may you watch whatever it is you have there.

Without looking, Stanislav reaches back and Ruslan hands him the power cord and A/V cords, and Ivan hands those, as well, to Williams.

Ivan Stanislav: Remember, white and yellow, and most especially red cords all be put in correctly. Otherwise it does not work.

Rob Williams: You don’t know how appreciated this is. (Turning to Alexei) Do you have a TV in there, too?

This comment is somewhat in jest. Ruslan stares stone faced at Williams.

Alexei Ruslan: What? Don’t be ridiculous.

A sloppy but well-meaning salute is tossed first to Alexei and then to Ivan in succession. The two respond in a much more crisp fashion and then make their way past Williams, speaking to one another in their native tongue. Somehow, during all of that, Ruslan had managed to put everything back into his overcoat.

Rob tops the box with his newly found VCR and accompanying cables. So the Russians had everything but the TV. That shouldn’t be too hard to come by, right? Lo and behold there is a lonely television right around the corner just waiting for A/V cables.

The Father: You bring the shovel, I’ll move the mountain.

Rob smirks at the Father as he sets down the box. He makes quick work of hooking everything up. Anyone over 30 watching this should feel their hairs go up as the familiar mechanical click of the VCR accepting one of the VHS tapes deep within itself. The machine whirs a nostalgia inducing purr while the screen flickers to life.

The image is grainy, of course, which is to be expected from a technology that saw its pinnacle at the same time as JNCO’s. The scene is hard to flesh out due to the video quality but it looks like a place Rob would’ve scored dope from. It appears a man is teeing up a spoon to cook some heroin. A process that is all too familiar. The man grabs the field tourniquet he’s applied to his arm with his teeth, leaning in to find the bullseye on his arm. Why is this important?

Rob Williams: You wanted me to watch a video of somebody shooting heroin?

The Father: Look closely, child.

Squinting and leaning in, Rob focuses so hard on the man’s face. Shock begins to set in. No. It couldn’t be.

The Father: Oh, but it is. Mommy’s special boy Donovan Winters playing darts with himself. And there’s so much more, too. This whole box is full of The Revelator’s various secrets.

The “s” trails in a venomous hiss. Rob is enraged. The hypocrisy of this two-bit, pencil neck dork. The same man that told Rob to “keep his secrets” last week while ignoring him. What a discovery. He thinks about

Rob Williams: That son of a bitch.

His why is found. Rob has been questioning, at times quite audibly, why he would waste his time with someone of Don Winters’ caliber. For the life of him he hadn’t been able to imagine what this man has done to deserve a shot at the 5 Star Champion.Following instructions, Rob had extended the olive branch to Winters last week only to be snubbed and ignored. following instructions, extended the olive branch to Winters last week.

Rob Williams: That holier than thou pimp out here hawking his little resort and boner pills while judging ME? I’m going to fucking break his back.

The Father: My child it isn’t about what has he done to deserve a shot at you. This is about being of service. As always, more will be revealed. (smilingly wickedly) I have some very special plans for Donovan. Come, we have much to discuss.

Rob ejects the tape and returns it to the box with all the others. The Father rests a hand on Rob’s shoulder to reassure him that there is a greater plan than he can understand. We fade out on a tight shot of Rob walking away holding the box.

Chandler Tsonda’s private dressing room is a sight to behold.

The glamping-meets-athletic-prowess aesthetic is…well, it’s a lot. Strange, seemingly AI-generated posters of Tsonda in various tstates of tshenanigans and tspectacles paper tseveral tsurfaces. And is that a rich mahogany armoir? The secret is that inside is nothing but black athleisure and match gear. And yes, it does travel from city to city. And yes, it will be flying over to Europe. A PRIME rider is a most beautiful thing.

Leather couches of a deep rich black take up much of the floor plan. On most nights, the Model Citizen doesn’t prioritize group seating, but sometimes being a team player means making exorbitant demands to the road crew at the arena to bring in extra couches so your guys have some place to lay down their dogs. Two tables line the edges with flourishes from catering.

All in all, it’s a pretty good time…was a pretty good time, until about twenty minutes ago, when The Anglo Luchador…well. You saw what happened.

Now, the gathering has a much more somber tone. Everyone’s on edge, and rightfully so.

The Doubleday brothers are seated on one of the plush sofas. Douglas Doubleday looks concerned- he leans over to his brother.

Douglas Doubleday: Can you smell the foot cream? It has a smell-

Dabney Doubleday: You’re good, bud. Just- not the right time, ok?

A buzz from Nate Colton’s phone breaks the silence. He sits up from the leather couch as he checks the screen and starts typing.

Nate Colton: It’s Swanny. He says TAL’s been loaded into an ambulance.

The already dour mood deflates further, like a leaky balloon finally giving up the ghost. They look around at each other, eyes darting from Tsonda to Calvin to Ellis to Doubleday to Doubleday to Colton.

Sykes isn’t there; he’s heading to the Argyle Position for the main event. Youngblood has only just finished his own match. And The Anglo Luchador…

Well.

A question hangs in the air, unspoken but still on everyone’s mind.

Now what?

Chandler Tsonda: Well, shit.

Maybe the Model Citizen is willing to break the silence just to hear the sound of his own voice. Or maybe, just maybe, there is something about devastation that has brought this crew of white hats closer together.

Chandler Tsonda: It’s pretty fucked.

Not exactly the start of the Gettysburg Address, but Tsonda seems to be slow-rolling himself into momentum to address the moment.

Chandler Tsonda: It’s fucked, but Looch will be ok. C’mon, that’s one guy who doesn’t know the meaning of staying down, even if it’s a size 22 Russian military boot that puts him there. He’ll be up on his feet doing Prince Valiant business in no time. But what WE are not gonna do is that bumbling nice-guys-finish-last bit where we wait around for the plentiful human bile of this place to pick another spot to hamstring our team.

Dabney Doubleday: Pardon me, but- what?

Chandler Tsonda: I’m saying we need to look at this main event as a team sport. I’m saying diplomacy and the benefit of the doubt left the building in the ambulance with TAL. Sykes is our teammate, so we keep an eagle eye on the main event, and we run in swinging on anybody who tries to mess with his shot at glory.

Douglas Doubleday nods and pumps his little fist.

Douglas Doubleday: Shitcha, I like the sound of that.

Sykes might not be present, but his partner sure is.

Justine Calvin: I’d appreciate that.

She is for sure still wearing shoes. And not only is she wearing them, but her kicks have been on the furniture. It’s not that she didn’t get the memo, it’s that there are already more pictures of her feet on the internet than she’d like.

Nate Colton: I’ll ask Swanny to round up some help. We’re gonna need it.

Chandler Tsonda: I know we’re down one on numbers. Dawkins may not be my padawan anymore, but he’s down for the good fight. Tell Swanny to grab him.

Nate Colton: I’m telling him to grab anyone he can find. All hands.

Once Colton stops typing, he slips his phone back into his pocket, then opens the dressing room door. Chandler Tsonda leads the charge, though Colton whispers something to him as he goes. The Model Citizen gives a small nod, and continues. He is followed by Adam Ellis, then the brothers Doubleday.

Finally, Justine Calvin approaches the door. But, to her surprise…

SLAM!

…it’s closed.

Under any other circumstances, the response to finding herself suddenly locked in a room with a member of the PRIME roster would trigger a very specific kind of panic. Fortunately for everyone involved, Nate Colton isn’t a creep. That doesn’t make Justine any less pissed, but it does affect the measure of her response.

Justine Calvin: Nate, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

Nate Colton: Making sure this door stays closed.

He folds his arms in front of his chest and sets his feet.

Justine Calvin: Hey, no shit. But you know what I’m asking you, so let’s try this again… What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Nate Colton: I’m doing what Jared asked me to do.

Her eyes, narrow until now, grow wide. It’s at that moment she knows she’s going to need to kill everyone involved in this particular plot.

Justine Calvin: Okay, well he’s not here right now. I am. And I need you to get out of the way so I can walk through that door.

This is punctuated with a sharp jab of her finger.

Justine Calvin: Do you understand?

Nate Colton: I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m moving.

She scoffs, and bolts for the door. Despite her own talents, this isn’t a fight she’s destined to win. Nate Colton is twice her size, an adept grappler, but more importantly he was prepared for this. So he says he’s not moving, that’s accurate.

Justine takes a step back, her expression wild. She snarls her next words.

Justine Calvin: Nathan. CHRISTOPHER. Colton… Get the fuck out of my way. NOW.

Nate Colton: How do you know–never mind. Justine…God’s honest, I’d rather we were going too. I don’t have the first goddamn clue why I’m doing this. But whatever the reason–and he didn’t tell me–it must be pretty important, because he got a promise out of me. So you can do what you think you need to, but–

At some point during this exchange, and for the second time tonight, Justine rotated the ring on her left hand so that the setting wouldn’t be damaged if she threw hands. But it’s not the left that’s cause for concern – it’s the right. It’s fast, precise, and thirty years worth of training means a masterful level of control. The punch that connects with Nate Colton isn’t designed to knock him out, but to emphasize a point.

Nate Colton: Shit!

Nate brings his hand up to cover his eye, then moves his arms into a guard position. The boy learns quick.

Justine Calvin: LET!

There is an immediate twinge of guilt, but its voice is too small to be heard. If the anger of being kept from helping her partner is the spark, then the memory provides the kindling.

Savannah Scandal.

Justine Calvin: ME!

Why did she get to walk free while you’re stuck here?

The left is aimed at his midsection, to try and catch him in the ribs and get him to lower his guard. The right that follows is wild, because the anger is driving now.

Justine Calvin: OUT!

He winces with every blow, but he doesn’t let his guard slip. He also doesn’t make any effort to fight back.

Nate Colton: Can’t do that.

What follows – or at least the parts of it that the camera picks up – are sure to set off Chandler Tsonda when he gets back to this room. Furniture is upended. A chair is thrown. As far as adult tantrums go, this one is an all-timer. And still, Nate Colton doesn’t budge. Justine, now a cannonball of rage (minus the flaky crust), charges once again towards the door.

But we don’t see what happens, because this is where the feed stops.

We return from backstage to The Barclays Center, the fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. Suddenly, the arena lights dim, a loud cheer erupting from the crowd. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

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

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

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

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

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

2nd Champion
BODA

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

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

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

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

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

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

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

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

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

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

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

10th Champion
NOVA

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

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

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

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

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

14th Champion
COZEN

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

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

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

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

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

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

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

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

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

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

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

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

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

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

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

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

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

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

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

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

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

27th Champion
REZIN 

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

30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

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

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

With the final image fading away and the song having reached its crescendo, a final shot of the Universal Championship upon its velvet table is shown. And then, we cut to black.

A rich history of greatness.

Is tonight the collecting of another neck?

Or does The Heart of PRIME prove to be strongest of all?

We fade out from the match graphic and the crowd goes berserk!

Nick Stuart: Here we are, the big one! Jared Sykes won the golden ticket by defeating Cancer Jiles in the Almasy Tournament. And while Jared’s luck ran a little short in the semi finals, he still worked for it and deserves this shot. It’s going to be a great!

Richard Parker: Not to mention FLAMBERGE. Fresh off a massive victory, capturing the gold from none other than The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav. This has money written all over it and–

Nick and Richard begin abruptly pixelating and stuttering, and before we know it they’re gone entirely. The scene cuts to grainy black and white security camera footage of the talent and staff parking lot of the Barclays Center, where a door opens and a figure in dark colored clothes and a mask is seen exiting the building.

Smash-cut to another angle, this time of the person’s back. They take off the mask and ball it up in their fist.

Before anyone can get a good look, Nick and Richard appear again.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I don’t know what happened there, but it seems as if we’re having technical difficulties again.

Richard Parker: It’s probably Craig’s fault. It’s always Craig’s fault.

Nick Stuart: Who’s Craig?

Richard Parker: Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get this show on the road.

I DON’T WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES
I DON’T WANT TO FALL ASLEEP
BECAUSE I MISS YOU BABY
AND I DON’T WANNA MISS A THING

The boos are hard and heavy. Vickie Hall, accompanied by her Amazing Life Partner, Jonathan-Christopher, march out onto the stage towards a chorus of boos.

Nick Stuart: (sarcastic) Great.

Richard Parker: Why do you say it like that, Nick? We’re going to have none other than VICKIE HALL on commentary for this match! AND NOT LONG AFTER VALENTINE’S DAY, NO LESS.

Nick Stuart: You hate Valentine’s Day. And I still don’t believe for one second you enjoy anything coming from these two.

Jonathan-Christopher scurries over to the announce table and pulls out the open chair for Vickie Hall to rest her dainty little feet. She hops into the large black chair, almost swallowing her whole with how tiny she is. She struggles to find the headset. At first, she starts demanding Jonathan-Christopher find it but almost exactly after she asks him to, she sees it’s right there in front of her and she puts it on.

Vickie Hall: (Mumbling) And no thanks to Jonathan-Christopher for the assist. (Moving her attention to the broadcast team) HELLO YOU TWO!

The screech is so painfully loud, it’s like when you’re watching a TV movie and the voices are quiet so you turn up the volume but then the soundtrack comes on and BANG, blows out your eardrums. Except this is the other way around.

Nick actually takes off his headset for a moment and politely swears out the pain in his head. Richard Parker, the trooper that he is… well, no one is sure how he was able to maintain his composure.

Vickie Hall: I SAID HIIIIIIIIII!

Richard Parker: Vickie, yes! I’ve wanted to have you on here for a long, long time! Excuse my partner, he’ll be fine in just a moment.

Vickie’s already rolling into her premeditated speech.

Vickie Hall: Hey Richard, did you know anything about the Manager of the Year Award voting?

Nick Stuart: (Slowly putting on his headset) Dear god, you’re still about this!?

Vickie doesn’t sound like she takes a liking to the comment.

Vickie Hall: Why yes I am, good sir. I’d like you to know that being screwed out of an award is terrible and I want to use this platform to talk about the issues ALL NIGHT LONG.

Nick Stuart: (Heavy sigh) This won’t be a distraction from the match at all. Not like Jared and FLAMBERGE deserve our undivided attention.

Vickie Hall: (Doesn’t catch the sarcasm, or doesn’t WANT to catch it) They don’t. Because Nick, can you answer me this? Why does Jared Skypes get the title match first when my wonderful Jonathan-Christopher beat him in the Almasy Tournament and WON THE WHOLE DAMN THING? Also, why doesn’t that make me the Manager of the Year?

Nick Stuart: Vickie, you’re welcome to be here. Well- you’re going to be here regardless of if you’re welcomed or not, but I can’t help you with the Manager of the Year Award and as for Jared Sykes receiving a title match first, your man- amen- Amazing Life Partner receives the shot on the much more prestigious pay-per-view event.

The way Nick voices the last few points, it’s like he’s talking to a toddler and HAS TO lay it out perfectly.

In some ways- scratch that, in MANY ways, he is.

Vickie Hall: Hmph. Okay.

Richard Parker: Vickie, can I just say what a pleasure it is to have you here? I can’t wait to call this match with you!

Vickie smacks Rich on the back, but it’s not hard because she has like zero strength.

Vickie Hall: I like you, Dick. I like you a lot! Let’s have some fun…

Vickie frantically shakes her hair down.

Vickie Hall: LET’S CALL IT STRAIGHT. Let’s. Get. It. ON!!!!! RAAAAHHHHH!! Ahahahahaha!

Nick doesn’t know what to say.

Richard Parker: Will you do the honors, Vickie?

Vickie Hall: God damn right I will. Let’s go to ringside with Vince Hoe-ward!

So the scene switches there.

Vince Howard: This match is for ONE FALL!

The crowd is so bloody hyped it’s for ONE FALL!

Vince Howard: And it is for the Universal Championship!

More hype! One fall AND a belt!

Here’s how it starts. First, the arena lights start flickering over different parts of the crowd, and with it comes the low rumble of thunder. No, it’s going to snow indoors. We save that for Colossus. The rhythm of the lights pick up, and then they all just cut out at once and blanket the arena in darkness.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The first note that rips through the sound system is low, and immediately recognized by the gathered faithful.

I’ll never be ready to meet a memory

Northlane. “Plenty.”

I’ll never be ready to meet a memory

Every note of the intro is timed with the pulse of a colored light in the arena. They’re usually limited to blue and white, but tonight there’s a few pulses of purple sprinkled in.

A memory that abandoned me

It’s here where the entire band kicks in, and also here where a silhouette is outlined at the entrance tunnel. That cheering? It doesn’t stop.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger… he hails from Boston, Massachusetts and weighs in tonight at two-hundred-two pounds…

Jared Sykes, tonight’s challenger, steps out onto the stage. The blue on his attire has been replaced tonight by a shade of purple, and the keen-eyed PRIMEates will recognize it as the same shade that his partner, Justine, would wear for their matches together as Eminence. Beyond that, a black sweatshirt that’s frayed at the sleeves has its hood pulled low over his eyes.

Vince Howard: He is one half of THE longest reigning tag team champions in PRIME history…

Nice of Vince to pretend people care about that.

Falling silent, going mad
I’ve gone walkabout with the parasites in my head

Jared steps to the middle of the stage and crouches, giving himself a moment to take this all in. Then the adrenaline kicks in, and he charges to one side of the stage to hype both himself and the crowd.

Vince Howard: JAREEEEEEEEEEEDDDDD… SYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYKES!!!

There is a lot of RAH’ing that happens here, which would normally be written out, but we have lyrics next and those are already italicized.

Far too quiet, it’s deafening
As I pick away at the surface, the itch burns through my skin

He bolts to the other side, repeating the same routine. It’s hard to make out exactly what he’s saying over both the noise and music, but he is animated tonight.

When the dirt crushes my bones (whoa-ohh-oh-oh)
And the worms call me their home (whoa-ohh-oh-oh)
If I’m asked to start again
I can’t pretend I’m ready
I can’t pretend
I’ve had plenty

Alone, Jared makes his way down the ramp and to the ring. He is currently blissfully unaware that his partner has spent the last few minutes pummeling poor Nate Colton so that she can get out of that room and be at ringside if things go sideways, because that tends to be a thing that happens to our man Jarry on the regular.

And yes, it will be Jared’s turn to die later for even asking Nate to do that in the first place.

Drown this broken dream
A taste was quite enough for me
My mind’s too unsteady
Stay away from me, please

Inside the ring, we get one final moment where he tries to rally the crowd behind him, before he tosses his hoodie to the ground, and crouches low in the corner to wait.

Vickie Hall: Can I swear on here? Because Jared Skypes is a (censored censored censored censored) who enjoys (censored censored censored censored) by way of (censored censored censored censored censored censored). And that’s just my first thought!

Richard Parker: I couldn’t agree more!

Nick Stuart: RICHARD!

Back to ringside.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

It’s a new sound – just piano now, with a few percussive clicks. The fans get it.

You get it.

You’re getting up, too.

You can’t fucking help it.

NOW, it’s the main event.

…

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

Fiery columns! Teal and copper sparks! It’s a damned spectacle of pyro as “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels featuring DJ Premier and Greg Nice blasts throughout Barclays Center.

Nicknames and titles cycle across the screen in teal text on a glue-white backdrop alternating with images of a very intense Frenchman choking the life out of very many wrestlers (and also powerbombing Ivan Stanislav so hard that the ring collapsed):

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

PRIME’S ACE

L’UNI

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F L A M B E R G E

PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION

FLAMBERGE emerges in his teal and copper ring gear with his finely polished championship belt around his waist. He wears a copper jacket over his shirtless shoulders as he stalks his way to the ring. His eyes scan the New York crowd, all on their feet and roaring loudly either out of hatred for FLAMBERGE, love for SYKES, or manic excitement for UNPREDICTABLE CHOKE-RELATED VIOLENCE.

Vince Howard: From Strasbourg, France… weighing two-hundred-six pounds… he is the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION… HE IS THE LIZARD KING… HE IS FLAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBERGE!!!!!

As he approaches the ring, his eyes lock with Sykes. He takes a dedicated loop outside the ring, almost outlining the boundaries of his “nest”. He finally reaches the ring stairs, stopping after placing his right foot on the bottom step. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath before slapping the Universal Title a few times and bounding into the ring.

He unstraps his championship from his waist and raises it high in the air, complete with a mega-ultra-chaos sneer and wide, furious eyes.

LET’S GO JARED!

LIZARDS SUCK!

LET’S GO JARED!

LIZARDS SUCK!

LET’S GO JARED!

LIZARDS SUCK!

Nick Stuart: We know who the crowd is firmly behind. Obviously, there was relief when FLAMBERGE won the title from Ivan Stanislav-

Vickie Hall: (Cutting off Nick and picking right up where he left off) Which is totally surprising when he’s the leader of our team, perhaps the entire leader of PRIME Wrestling as a whole.

Both FLAMBO and Sykes are waiting in their respective corners while the referee takes a moment to speak to each one, allowing this banter between Nick and Vickie to go on.

Nick Stuart: What about Jonathan-Christopher, by the way?

Vickie Hall: What about him?

Nick Stuart: He is the number one contender? Should he not be the one announcing alongside us?

Vickie Hall: Oh, okay, sure thing.

And just like that, Vickie drops the headset. She points Jonathan-Christopher into the chair as he is clearly a deer in the headlights. Vickie tells Jonathan-Christopher to put the headset on, so he does.

Nick Stuart: It was that easy?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Uh, hi guys?

Richard Parker: Great to have you here, Jonathan-Christopher! What do you think of this upcoming title bout?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Well, ummm, both men are very good. Jared and I have a longstanding history, it would be incredible to face him. FLAMBERGE, on the other hand… boy. If you can manhandle Ivan Stanislav like FLAMBERGE manhandled him-

Throughout Jonathan-Christopher’s reflection, Vickie keeps nudging him in the back, trying to speak over him and give him guidance on what he should and shouldn’t be saying.

Nick Stuart: (Realizing Vickie didn’t relinquish control of the situation at all) Ah, yes, I see now. Definitely not that easy.

Meanwhile, inside the ring, Elvis Nixon has finished speaking to both parties. He walks to the center of the squared circle, turns towards the time keeper’s table…

And calls for the bell!

DING DING

The crowd is WHITE F’N HOT!

Sykes loosens in the corner. He looks focused and ready, yet also a hint of concern in his eyes.

Nick Stuart: You have to feel for Jared. Mid-forties, twenty-plus years of wrestling and only his third world title shot EVER. On the other end you have FLAMBERGE, The Lizard King, The Neck Collector, riding a HUGE high from December. My god, let’s get it on!

FLAMBERGE marches towards the center of the ring, daring Jared to meet him there. Sykes emerges from his corner and starts to make his way over-

When FLAMBERGE leaps in the air and shoots his right knee out, hoping to hit Jared Sykes flush under the jaw!

…

No! Sykes spins away at the last moment. He snatches the champion in the air, connecting with a modified and rather edgy-looking body slam.

Nick Stuart: Sykes wasn’t looking for style points. Just grab the man in midair and hurl him to the ground.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I totally agree.

Jonathan-Christopher is nudged in the back.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I mean Jared’s got fear in his eyes. You can see it. It’s not concern, it’s fear. The stage is too big for him!

Sykes shoots off the ropes as FLAMBO gets to his feet. The Lizard King drops to the mat as Sykes skips over him and goes into the next set of ropes. Upon return, FLAMBERGE pops up and connects with a hip toss. It’s the champion’s turn to shoot off the ropes. He looks for a sling blade to impact the neck but Sykes moves away at the last second. FLAMBERGE hits the mat, and then Jared leaps down and drives his right knee into FLAMBO’s back.

Sykes peels FLAMBERGE off the canvas, looking for a release German suplex.

FLAMBERGE lands on his feet!

The crowd is RAAAH RAAAH throughout the opening stages, looking forward to seeing the title match unfold. The champion goes for a roundhouse kick but Sykes once again dodges. This time, however, Sykes shoots off the ropes and straight up hurls himself into FLAMBERGE, knocking the champion out of the ring and to the floor below!

LET’S GO JARED, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

LET’S GO JARED, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

LET’S GO JARED, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

Sykes shoots off the ropes on the far end and FLIES through the air, over the ropes, across the skies and lands DIRECTLY on FLAMBO’s right shoulder with a corkscrew splash!!

Sykes kips to his feet and screams into the bleachers, firing the fans up even MOAR!

Nick Stuart: This man knows the magnitude. He doesn’t look like there’s any FEAR in the back of his mind right about now, Jonathan-Christopher.

Jeesh, even Nick verbally slams what he said, while Vickie can be heard off mic saying something along the lines of “dumb, dumb, dumb” likely referring to Jonathan-Christopher’s comments that Jared Sykes was fearful. And yet it was Vickie who nudged him to say it in the first place!

Sykes hurls FLAMBERGE into the ring. He climbs to the apron and then hurries to the top rope. He measures FLAMBERGE and comes diving across with an axe handle 180 smash!

FLAMBO is on all fours. Sykes meets him down there and rolls the champion into a cradle pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE- NO!

KICKOUT!

The crowd thought it was over!

Nick Stuart: UNREAL pin attempt! Jared almost had the champion!

Richard Parker: God, I wanted to die for a second.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Me too, Rich.

Jonathan-Christopher is likely being told off-camera to say more.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I was ready to vomit chocolate syrup all over this desk!

Sykes needs to keep the match at a quick pace. He shoots into the ropes and looks for a missile dropkick, straight to FLAMBERGE’s head.

SMACK, it connects.

Sykes peels FLAMBERGE off the mat and tries for a brainbuster when the champion is wiggling out of it… and eventually breaks free. FLAMBERGE looks for another roundhouse kick but Sykes ducks. However, upon Jared pulling himself upright, The Lizard King pops The Heart of PRIME right under the jaw with a jab!

Another jab!

Another!

FLAMBERGE takes a step back and then delivers a full blown forearm to the side of the face.

POP!

Followed by a super hard out headbutt!

Sykes falls to his knees.

Richard Parker: It’s FLAMBERGE! Frenchman going to town!

The champion leaps up and delivers that initial knee, the first shot he tried to send at the start of the match and this time it does catch Jared Sykes flush under the chin.

Sykes falls to the mat and the air within the arena is seemingly sucked out!

FLAMBERGE slithers on the mat. He’s looking the challenger over, trying to find the right spot to lock in what’s about to come. He wraps his legs and arms around Jared’s body…

And applies a triangle choke!

Nick Stuart: This is not good! It’s in the middle of the ring!

Sykes hopes to fight it, he even attempts to shout, but he knows he has some work to do! The champion has the sleeper loaded but not fully locked, not yet. It’s a struggle to get Jared Sykes to sit still.

Not like the challenger is going to.

Sykes tries to move his body towards the ropes. It’s a long, long way but he’s planning to get there as he keeps his body in motion and the triangle choke is not fully applied just yet.

Sykes is halfway there, but the look on FLAMBERGE’s face suggests the champ is nowhere close to releasing the hold.

Nick Stuart: These chokes, this man… he’s as textbook as they come. You don’t make Ivan Stanislav of all people pass out. He knows what he’s doing and yet, this is really well scouted by Sykes. He has not stayed still AT ALL since the triangle choke was applied. He’s moving his body, in whatever way he can, trying to break free!

Sykes is very close to the ropes now. If he can get his right arm extended.., a tiny little bit…

He reaches.

He misses the ropes!

FLAMBERGE sinks the hold in a little deeper. It looks like Sykes is fading.

He IS fading!

He’s out of it!

The match is over!!

RAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!

Sykes takes the ropes and the crowd goes wild!

Nick Stuart: The lights came on, someone is STILL home!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Great effort by Jared.

Nudge.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared got lucky, he’s had (off mic) what’s that, honey? (back on mic) he’s had horseshoes up his ass for so long, if my Amazing Life Partner had those up hers, she would have won Manager of the Year!

Nick can be heard grunting while Richard Parker wildly agrees. Inside the ring, FLAMBERGE has dropped the choke but he’s on his feet first. He snatches Jared Sykes and delivers a hard as shit elbow strike into the side of his temple.

Sykes wobbles on his feet. It looks like he wants to be put out of his misery, permanently.

So FLAMBERGE sends another elbow strike into his temple.

Sykes is on HEAVY roller skates now! One more elbow might do it!

WHAM!

FLAMBERGE sends it into Sykes’ head. JARRY wobbles into the ropes.

Then bounces off them with an inside-out clothesline from hell to FLAMBO!

The crowd is alive again!

Sykes hops to his feet. Is he seriously concussed and merely running off fumes? Needless to say, Nixon doesn’t have the opportunity to ask Jared of his whereabouts. The Heart of PRIME sends a superkick into FLAMBERGE, then reels him in and performs a short-arm into a backdrop driver!

Nick Stuart: OOF! The champion landed SQUARE on his crown!

We might have two concussions!

Sykes pulls FLAMBERGE off the mat and hooks him into a sleeper… and then a sleeper suplex. FLAMBO crashes down again as the crowd is feeling the victory is within Jared’s reach.

Sykes bounces off the ropes and right when the champion is on one knee, Jared goes for a cutter-

No! FLAMBERGE pulls back at the last second, smacks into the ropes and then delivers a running knee strike, a blow so hard both he and Jared are tangled up in the ropes.

Sykes looks to be DOA for a good moment there, as FLAMBERGE slides across the ropes and The Lizard King snatches the challenger by his neck.

Hard choke.

Nick Stuart: Only one problem, Jared is already IN the ropes.

Richard Parker: Tell that to the champion. The expressionless, stone face of his. He’s taking it to the four count and moving on with his gameplan. It’s brilliant!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It is very smart. Something I’ve learned, thanks to Vickie of course, is you have to go for it when you can. In the ropes? It doesn’t matter. The five count matters but four is okay!

Jonathan-Christopher is nudged again. (Actually, for the foreseeable future, just assume whatever Jonathan-Christopher’s first comments are on the broadcast, Vickie is definitely trying to speak overtop of what he’s saying because, DUH, she has much better ideas for him to convey himself appropriately, you see!!!!111111)

Back to the match, however. And yes, FLAMBERGE only drops the hold at FOUR-POINT-NINE-NINE. He slides off the ropes, as Jared Sykes falls down, too. Nevertheless, the Universal Champion is ready to pounce.

He snatches Sykes by the tights and mercilessly deadlifts the challenger, then tossing Jared halfway across the ring with an exploder suplex.

FLAMBERGE remains on the prowl. He finds his prey, he stalks it for a moment but since Jared isn’t moving there’s really nothing to “stalk”.

FLAMBO takes Sykes by the shoulders, hoists him up and sends him halfway across the ring again, this time with a komi goshi throw!

Nick Stuart: I did not like the way Jared landed on his head!

Richard Parker: You have to wonder what pins and needles Justine is on watching this backstage.

Vickie is audible in the background going batshit insane, triggered from the name Justine. She’s definitely telling Jonathan-Christopher to say something but her thoughts are so rampant and messed up, he can’t figure out what the hell she wants to mention!

FLAMBERGE mounts Sykes and begins pummeling the challenger with all kinds of forearm shots, punches and blunt strikes to the head.

Nick Stuart: The Lizard King is unloading!

The blows are coming in hot and heavy. The Universal Champion is a man possessed. That continued stone face, albeit his actions recognizing just how close he might be to defending the championship belt he just won and moving on to WarGames with it.

The six foot bearded dragon finally delivers the ultimate blow to the side of Jared’s forehead. The cameras catch Jarry’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. Nixon slides into position.

Nick Stuart: He’s out! Jared Sykes is out!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You have to feel for the guy. Jared’s worked so har- Jared is completely getting what he deserves! We can’t forget what he did to my wonderful honey bunch of oats!

FLAMBERGE doesn’t particularly want to remove himself from the limp body of Jared Sykes but the referee has to check – and has to award the match to the Frenchman if, indeed, Jared Sykes is DOA!

Nixon hovers over Sykes. He goes to lift up his arm-

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: HE’S ALIVEEEEEEE!

The crowd buzzes throughout the arena!

Richard Parker: I’m going to be sick.

WHAM!

SLAM!

CRACK!

It doesn’t matter. The exact SECOND FLAMBERGE saw life in Jared Sykes’ body, he raced over, pushed Nixon aside and started unloading like a mother fucker.

Forearms. Judo strikes. Headbutts. The man wants to keep his title. He didn’t go through the biggest man (literally, the biggest sized man) in wrestling to have JARRY walk out with the strap.

L’Uni finally drags the limp challenger to his feet. He’s wrapping his legs and arms around Sykes in the correct spots. It’s like his two-hundred pound body is somehow, someway, going to eat Jared Sykes whole.

Or just rip off his head.

Nick Stuart: It’s not quite the Marie Antoinette, you can see a part of Jared Sykes is trying to resist… but if Sykes doesn’t do something fast, FLAMBERGE is going to choke him out one way or another!

Richard Parker: How I lived for this day!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared only has one hope. With FLAMBERGE on his back, if he jumps backwards, he may be able to swat him off- (pause) Jared is done. The guy is an idiot!

However, just like Jonathan-Christopher initially said, Sykes realizes he has one play. He leaps back and crashes his body into FLAMBO’s as the champion meets the canvas.

Sykes is clearly struggling to gasp for air, let alone work through the pain from FLAMBERGE’s previous strikes. Jared rolls towards the ropes.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: This is rather smart. In fact, I would suggest Jared stays near the ropes as much as possible for the rest of this matc- (pause, then speaking to someone else, who’s obviously Vickie) sorry, I didn’t say he was a smart wrestler. Yes, I guess any idiot would know to make it into the ropes at this stage of the match. Any idiot would also know to wrestle by the ropes 24/7!

FLAMBERGE is the one who’s collected himself first. He sprints towards Sykes…

And Jared lowers the ropes on him. FLAMBO falls out of the ring.

WHAM!

The Heart of PRIME immediately sling shoots himself over the top rope and comes crashing back down on the Universal Champion with his entire body!

JARRY!

JARRY!

JARRY!

The crowd is trying to fire up their hero, as he hammers the side of his head, hoping to work the pain out of it.

Nick Stuart: The last five to ten minutes of this match has been entirely FLAMBERGE. You have to wonder how much Jared has left…

Richard Parker: You really do and I, for one, hope it’s absolutely nothing. (Speaking to someone off mic) Oh, thanks Vickie. I think I’m doing a great job out here on color commentary, too!

Nick Stuart: (Groans)

With help from the apron, Sykes is up first. He quickly grabs FLAMBERGE by the lizard’s neck…

CRASH!

And Irish whips him into the guardrail across the way!

Sykes isn’t done. He races over, takes FLAMBO’s neck again and this time runs the champion all the way across the floor and into the guardrail on the other side!

CRASH!

Jared STILL isn’t done! Nixon is only at a count of FIVE. Jarry grabs FLAM by the neck one more time… and runs him right back to the first guardrail spot the champion came from.

CRASH!!!!!!

The arena is worked into an absolute frenzy as Sykes runs FLAMBERGE into the apron, throwing him under the bottom rope and back on the canvas mat at the count of EIGHT. Sykes hops onto the apron himself, slips into the ring at NINE and then lands a running moonsault press with a HOOK OF THE LEG AND A COVER!!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-

BARELY A KICKOUT!

The air is let out of the arena, as the fast and furious action on the outside, then moving to the inside, completely suckered in the crowd, thinking it was FIN.

Nick Stuart: I have never seen a forty-five year old man move so fast! Those were high impact Irish whips! I believe FLAMBERGE even broke the guardrail on that last toss!

Sykes is desperate. Desperate but FOCUSED. He remains on one knee and quickly runs through a couple options in his head.

His mind lands on one move specifically. Rather…

One submission.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It looks like Sykes is working FLAMBERGE into a Texas cloverleaf of some kind (pause) sorry, a Boston crab…

But Jonathan-Christopher was right the first time, before he was nudged. As Sykes moves FLAMBERGE around the canvas mat, he’s worked him into a high angle Texas cloverleaf… with Jared’s right knee directly crushing down on FLAMBERGE’s neck.

Nick Stuart: How’s that for a neck collection! The irony!

Richard Parker: You collect necks by CHOKING, Nick. This isn’t the right use of the term! (Speaking off mic, likely to you-know-who) Oh, thank you again. You’re very kind! Yes, I don’t know how I manage to carry this broadcast on a week-by-week basis, either!

Nick Stuart: (Groan)

With FLAMBO dead to rights in the middle of the ring, the crowd is on their feet. The current Universal Champion’s right hand raises. It looks like he might tap.

TAP!

No!

It wasn’t a tap! It was a smack of the mat and a push OFF the mat! FLAMBERGE is moving to the ropes.

Eyes locked and loaded. Focused through the pain, even though it IS so intense. FLAMBERGE is moving both of them towards the ropes, but he isn’t there yet.

Yes, Jared’s knee is still on FLAM’s neck… but it’s loosened its grip.

Nick Stuart: Both these men are the same weight but you can tell FLAMBERGE’s a slippery one. It looks like Jared has his neck pinned but not well enough!

Richard Parker: LIZARD, King. Literally in his name.

Nick Stuart: His name is Julien.

Richard Parker: What?

Nick Stuart: You know this.

FLAMBERGE is close to the ropes. He reaches out-

But Jared pulls him back towards the middle of the canvas.

HOWEVER FLAMBERGE ESCAPES!

Inside cradle by FLAMBERGE!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Both men are up. Sykes ducks a judo strike but FLAMBERGE dodges a superkick. However, as the champion dodges the move, Jared hops fluidly towards the ropes. Then he jumps over the ropes. Then he jumps back into the ring.

With a springboard blockbuster, The Domino Effect.

Nick Stuart: IT’S OVER!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Nick Stuart: Oh my god… it’s NOT over!

Half the crowd is celebrating because they didn’t see the kickout, or believed the three count took place AFTER the kickout happened. Replays, however, show the kickout was as close to a kickout BEFORE three as anybody could get.

Sykes rolls to a knee. He takes a deep breath. He spins around and grabs the champion. He knows the end is near.

Nick Stuart: Lifting FLAMBERGE up for the Omega 13!!

Sykes is about to hit it when the crowd gives a GASP!

Nick Stuart: HOW DID HE!? HOW!?

FLAMBERGE slips out of the move and suddenly has Jared on the mat in a jujigatame!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: DEAR GOD that was impressive! (Pause) What I meant to say was FLAMBERGE’s moves are completely overrated and he lucked into this!

Dead center of the ring, FLAMBERGE’s eyes are locked into the rafters as he tugs on the left arm of JARRY. However, the challenger is trying with all his might to take his left arm back, thanks to his right.

The crowd is WILLING the challenger to do it…

And then suddenly Sykes rolls FLAMBERGE into a pinfall!

ONE!

TWO!

FLAMBO BREAKS THE JUJIGATAME, THEREFORE, BREAKING AWAY FROM THE PIN!

Nick Stuart: Even though Sykes broke free, I think the damage is done. I don’t think Jared is going to be using his left arm anymore. The Omega 13 might be out of the playbook!

Both men are up. L’Uni goes for a spear kick and catches Sykes under the jaw. He takes three steps back and then flies towards Sykes with an elbow strike.

CRACK.

SQUARE under the jaw!

Northern lights suplex follows, into a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

But FLAMBERGE still has Sykes… he’s reeling him into the guillotine choke! Yet with all of Sykes’ might, he lifts FLAMBERGE up and slams the champion to the ground.

Sykes lifts FLAMBERGE up again and crashes him into the mat for a second time.

The champion doesn’t have a good grip now. So Sykes lifts FLAMBERGE up again-

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD, HE DID IT! THE OMEGA 13! THE OMEGA 13!

Richard Parker: But Sykes can’t cover!

Yes, Jared connected with the move but he didn’t seem to hit it completely. The SECOND FLAMBERGE meets the mat was the exact second Jared screams in pain and flies into a corner of the ring, back first, with his head slamming against a turnbuckle pad.

Nick Stuart: Jared couldn’t hook his right arm around FLAMBERGE like he wanted. He delivered with the impact driver… but he couldn’t land in the perfect position for the pin. Instead, he’s now a solid five feet away from FLAMBERGE!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: This is a shame! (Pause) I meant a shame for all of us to watch! What a joke of a match! (Pause) And can you believe the Manager of the Year Awards-

Nick Stuart: We’re talking about the Universal Championship here, Jonathan-Christopher!

The crowd is trying to will Jared to make his way over to FLAMBERGE for the pin.

Sykes SEES his opponent lying there. He KNOWS he has to make it over.

It’s just…

So.

Damn.

Hard.

Sykes crawls. With one arm and one leg. He’s almost there. He drapes the hand over FLAMBO’s chest.

ONE.

FLAMBERGE IS ALIVE WITH THE JUJIGATAME!! The crowd is in utter shock!

Nick Stuart: NOO! It took Jared way too long to make it over there! Just way, way too long!

Richard Parker: CALL FOR THE BELL, NIXON! This one is in the bag!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: FLAM was so impressive! The way he slid out of the pinfall, fluently snatched Jared’s left arm and now is tugging on it for dear life!

Apparently Jonathan-Christopher was being nudged during that entire sentence but he’s completely lost in the match!

Sykes is trying to escape. He’s hoping he can make his way to the ropes but they look so far away!

Except his feet. His feet are closer.

He decides to go the other way with his positioning…

AND…

MAKES IT INTO THE ROPES!!!

One foot. One TOE, in fact. That’s all that sits on the bottom rope. But it’s enough for Nixon to administer the five count.

FLAMBERGE drops the submission at the count of TWO. He pops to his feet. He’s glassy-eyed and wobbly himself but he bounces off the ropes and nails Jared Sykes in the neck with an…

AXE KICK.

Now for the Marie Antoniette.

FLAMBERGE grits his teeth and reels Jared Sykes in…

But The Heart of PRIME shows he has A LITTLE heart left. He performs a quick standing switch on FLAMBERGE, before the champion can even wrap his arms around Sykes’ upper body. Instead, in a flash of lightning, Jared is the one who takes FLAMBERGE and works him into position for the Omega 13 again.

Nick Stuart: There’s no way he can do this. It looks like Jared can barely move his arm!!

But Sykes isn’t looking for the Omega 13. Instead, he hoists FLAMBERGE on top of his shoulders.

And he only needs one good arm to flip the switch.

Electric chair driver.

The Last Wish.

WHAM!

Center of the ring.

Sykes screams in pain as he falls onto his back at first but then sucks it in, rolls forward, hooks both legs and cries into the canvas as the referee counts.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

The entire building EXPLODES!

Nick Stuart: HE DID IT!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match AND NEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW Universal Champion… JARED SYKES!!!!

Nick Stuart: AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, JARED IS ON TOP OF THE WRESTLING WORLD!

Blue and purple confetti falls from the rafters as Elvis Nixon presents Jared Sykes with his newly won title. Sykes, who’s still on his knees and a rush of emotions across his face. He can barely move his left arm, plus the rest of his body is throbbing in every direction.

Justine hurries down the rampway. She slides into the ring and embraces Jared as the crowd ROARS with approval!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: (Speaking to someone else) Baby, baby, oh my god, baby are you okay!?

Not to take away from the moment completely, but the feed does switch for a brief second to a traumatized Vickie Hall, who shakes with anger and rage witnessing the absolute bullshit going on inside the ring.

Vickie faints, Jonathan-Christopher screams in horror and races over to her. Meanwhile the rest of us can go back to the HAPPY scene from inside the ring!

Jared Sykes, who’s now on both feet, is officially handed the championship title as he raises it above his head. Pyro EXPLODES from the rampway, confetti still falls from the roof and the announcers remain on radio silence for a couple seconds longer.

Nick Stuart: One HELL of an effort by FLAMBERGE. The man defeated Ivan Stanislav. But tonight was Jared Sykes’ night. He did it. He deserves it. He is PRIME’s Universal Champion!

Richard Parker: I’m about to join Vickie.

The PRIME signature appears in the bottom right hand corner of the feed, as the crowd celebrates along with the battered and bruised Jared Sykes. Justine Calvin claps him on. The wrestling landscape has changed once again.

Jared Sykes did it.

FADE.

TO.

BLUE.

AND PURPLE.