ReVival 45

It’s Boston. It’s Friday, and we’re live on the Ace Network.

The crowd is hot. They’re ready. The hometown boy is back in town for the first time in years, and there’s nothing this city loves more than their own. Luckily for them, they don’t have to wait long.

The first note hits like a gunshot, instantly recognizable. Northlane. “Plenty.” The crowd are on their feet, everyone screaming their goddamn heads off.

And instead of the slow, steady rhythm that follows, instead the note just lingers until it fades into something else.

Oh, misty eye of the mountain below…

The first words of Jonathan Young’s metal cover of “I See Fire.” The theme that heralded the arrival of arguably the greatest tag team in PRIME’s history, an argument bolstered by the records they collected along the way and an unbeaten streak that saw them run wire to wire as the “Forever Champions” of the ReVival era.

A flame appears in the center of the PRIMEview before bursting outwards into wings, and in the center we get their name.

E M I N E N C E

And in smaller text below it, EMPIRE OF THE EVER AFTER.

By the time Jared Sykes and Justine Calvin step out onto the stage, the crowd manages to get even louder.

If this should end in fire

Then we should all burn together

Watch the flames climb high into the night

Calling out father, oh

Stand by and we will

Watch the flames burn auburn on

The mountain side

It’s street clothes for everyone tonight, because nobody’s wrestling, but that doesn’t mean they pair can’t accessorize a little bit. You know, zhuzh up the drip with a little – or a lot, in this case – of gold. In addition to the Universal Championship, those tag titles are on full display. The division may have been shut down a year ago, but when they call you the Forever Champions they by right you get to wear it for eternity.

Also, there may have been a conversation backstage that included the phrase, “because fuck Joe Fontaine, specifically.” Real ones don’t need to ask which of them said it.

And if we should die tonight

Then we should all die together

Raise a glass of wine for the last time

Calling out father, oh

Prepare as we will

Watch the flames burn auburn on

The mountain side

Desolation comes upon the sky

It would be fair to say that they expected an audience reaction tonight, but that the reality of it is more than either one was ready for. Justine is better at hiding it, but Jared can’t help but pause for a moment in wide-eyed wonder at the top of the ramp. For someone who’s comeback started unsure of whether he would even be wanted in the sport, the experience is revelatory.

Now I see fire

Inside the mountain

And I see fire

Burning the trees

And I see fire

Hollowing souls

And I see fire

Blood in the breeze

And I hope that you remember me

The pair make their way down to ringside, but pause at the corner on the hard camera side where the aisle opens up to the wider area, because that’s where their families are seated. The older woman wearing a “Rhinestones” tee shirt with a photo of a much younger Jonathan Rhine? That would be Jared’s mother.

In with the family are Charles Beckett and David McBride, old friends from Minnesota State Wrestling, but the graphics department has made a point to call them both out as legends of the National Wrestling Council.

And now we get to it. The duo is in the ring. There are microphones distributed. You know what comes next.

It’s more cheering. That’s what comes next. As soon as the microphone gets close to Jared’s mouth, the crowd gets loud. Because the only thing Boston loves more than their own, is fucking with their own. Well, that and Dunkin Donuts, and ignoring the letter R, and the quiet racism, but none of that is happening right now (as far as we know).

Richard Parker: We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we? I should get comfortable. Nick, wake me when they’re done and we move on to something worthwhile, ‘k?

Finally, the Boston crowd relents.

Jared Sykes: Sooo…

But only for a moment, to the point that Jared can’t help but laugh.

Jared Sykes: It’s been sixteen years since I’ve been back in this building. I may have been working for the competition at the time. We had this supershow, right? Company versus company. Blue against red. The established stalwart of PTC against the upstart disruptor full of weirdos.

And spies. Don’t forget the spies.

Jared Sykes: It wasn’t a great night, because I had the distinction of being the only person on my side of the fence to lose. Kaiser Vashaun…

The melon-headed fuck.

Jared Sykes: He got me riiiiiiight…

He moves to a spot off-center from the middle of the ring, takes a second to look up at the lights above, and then points at the mat.

Jared Sykes: Here.

There may have also been a confrontation that night between rival pillow forts and their catapult batteries, but that’s not the sort of thing one brings up on a hot mic unless one has decided to make this their last night on earth.

Technically, there was also a night where Sin City Championship Wrestling went to Springfield, Massachusetts, but he’s choosing to ignore it. There are too many unpleasant memories associated with it, like the sharp sting of a shattering light tube, and what it felt like to serve as another man’s personal podium while he cut a promo of his own.

Jared Sykes: I had a good view of the roof that night, and everything that hangs up there. Can we get light up there? Up in the rafters?

It takes a moment, but production obliges.

Jared Sykes: Take a look at all those banners. The names. The numbers. Now I’ve been coming to this building since I was a teenager, and the old Garden before it.

This gets another reaction from the crowd. Cuz weah in fahkin Bahst’n an we pawp fah tha Gahden, ked. Pawp loud. Like wicked fahkin loud, ked.

If you’re unfamiliar with the accent, just read those last few lines in Mark Wahlberg’s voice and you’ll get it.

Jared Sykes: And I know I wasn’t alone in wondering what it must be like to have your name up there, to be one of the Gallery Gods. Everyone who’s ever stepped foot through those doors has looked at those names… at Bird, at Russell, at Bobby Orr and Espo… and wondered what it would be like to stand on the parquet floor with the Larry O’Brien trophy. Everyone’s thought about what it would feel like to skate a lap around the ice with the Stanley Cup held high.

He takes a moment to adjust the collection of belts draped over his shoulders. He’s got the Uni and his half of the tag titles draped around him like a scarf, with the two connected by their respective buttons, and that shit gets heavy real quick.

Jared Sykes: Now don’t mistake what I’m trying to say here. Those names up there? They’re legends. They earned their spot, for the right to watch every play, every game, every moment from up there. I’m not one of them. But tonight, even if just for a moment, I can pretend. I can be that kid again, the one who had visions of skating down the right wing in overtime, and snapping off a laser to win. Tonight… I get to know what it feels like to do this…

He sets the microphone down on the mat and unclasps the two belts from each other and slowly raises both high over his head. Predictably, the crowd erupts. Through it all, Jared has his eyes closed. He would tell you that it’s because he wants to feel this, every vibration rippling through the arena, but those who know him best will admit that sometimes the memes are accurate. Sometimes the tears take genuine effort to hold back.

Jared Sykes: There is one thing that I have in common with those names up there, and it’s that every one of us found our success as part of a team. This title…

He gestures with the Uni.

Jared Sykes: …means that you get to stand apart from everyone else, and call yourself the best. But no one gets there alone. It’s not a journey you take by yourself. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have my team here tonight. The ones who’ve had my back since day one. Who’ve been there when things got hard, or when I needed to be called out for doing something stupid – that one happens a lot, by the way. They’re the ones who tell you to dust yourself off, and get back on the horse, because whatever obstacle got in the way was just a setback, and you’re not fucking done yet!

More cheers from the crowd. And despite the change in intensity, there’s a brief moment where Jared’s expression simply reads, “Whoops.”

Jared Sykes: Sorry, my sister’s over there. She hates it when I swear, soo…

A shrug, and a laugh from the crowd follow.

Jared Sykes: But it’s not just this team. See in two weeks we’ve got a little event coming up. Maybe you’ve heard of it.

They have. Oh boy, have they ever.

Jared Sykes: That very first week I called us “the foundation and the future,” and I stand by that more than ever. Twenty-one other people are going to learn that first-hand, and more than a few of them have a debt they need settled. This company is the pinnacle of professional wrestling, the apex of our sport, but it hasn’t always felt like that. Lately a fair few people have lost sight of what this is supposed to be about. So now you get to spend time in a cage with an angry Brandon Youngblood while he reminds you about what competition actually looks like. You get to experience the tenacity and resilience of the Anglo Luchador first-hand. You get to find out why Chandler Tsonda was the high water mark of the Revolution, and pray you’re not distracted by The Pretty.

Also pray that he doesn’t think you wore shoes in his dressing room.

Jared Sykes: And then Nate Colton, Adam Ellis, and Dabney Doubleday are going to show you what the future of this sport actually looks like. Up close. In person. In vivid goddamn detail.

Again, the response is as predicted, and this time he lets it linger for a minute before holding up a hand to bring everyone back down.

Jared Sykes: I said that no one gets here without a team behind them, and that’s a hill I’m willing to die on. But there’s another member. Without question the most important partner I have ever had, and without her there’s no way in hell I’m getting to do this right now. Boston, you know what to do.

With that, Jared nods to Justine and then moves to a corner, ceding the floor and all the attention that comes with it.

For years, Justine Calvin wondered what it would be like to have the opportunity to compete on this stage, and at the Great American Nightmare in 2022 that dream came true. Tonight she gets to check another box on her list of life goals, because unlike Jared she has never once been in this position – with all eyes on her – in the middle of her hometown’s sports mecca.

She expected there to be cheering, she just didn’t know how loud it would be.

Justine Calvin: Thank you.

She pauses to try and compose herself. A lot of this is still new ground for her, and the response is overwhelming. The facade she likes to keep up in public is starting to crack.

Justine Calvin: Seriously, thank you. I… Damn, I don’t know what to say. I had a whole thing planned that I memorized, and then we got out here and it just… went.

Deep breath.

Justine Calvin: I didn’t think I would ever be here, you know? For almost twenty years I bounced around from promotion to promotion, traveling all across the country, and wondering whether or not I would get this chance. These last two years have been… I don’t even have the words. It’s been amazing, truly, truly life-changing in all the best possible ways. But…

She pauses. Now comes the hard part, the bit she’s been dreading. Still, she can’t help but smile.

Justine Calvin: But I have to go away for a little while.

Here it comes, the first boos of the night. And for all the right reasons.

Justine Calvin: I have wanted this for so long, ever since I was a little girl and would hear stories from my dad.

She gestures to that same section of fans they passed on their way to the ring.

Justine Calvin: But there are other dreams, and now… those are finally coming true. See, we’re… we’re about to start the next phase of our life together, and… and that’s why I have to step away. I have to, because…

The emotion is hard to hold back, so she doesn’t try. Fuck it, there’s no point in hiding it anymore. No need to pretend to be tough. Be real, be genuine.

Justine Calvin: Because they don’t let you wrestle when you’re pregnant.

The sound that comes off the crowd is big enough that the Blue Hill Observatory will register this as a blip on their seismograph.

Justine Calvin: So thank you for everything… for letting me have this, and… and this isn’t goodbye. I swear. It’s just… see you later.

She lets the microphone fall before bringing a hand to her face. Jared meets her in the middle of the ring, his smile visible from space. When the two embrace in front of their hometown crowd, it’s the kind of moment that you expect to be interrupted. Surely, any second now there’ll be a cadre of angry Russians storming the ring, or a legion of Bandits with carton upon carton of eggs.

Only none of that happens.

There’s not even a word from Nick and Richard, only the roar of the Boston crowd.

This is PRIME.

Boston.

TD Garden.

Sykes’ House.

Signs.

I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD CRYING IN HIS BEER AS HE WATCHED THE END OF REVIVAL 45 AND SAW JASON SNOW COME BACK AND I TOLD HIM TO STOP CRYING AND HE KEPT POINTING AT JASON SNOW AND I TOLD HIM IT WILL BE OKAY AND HE TOLD ME IT WOULDN’T BE OKAY AND THEN ROLLED AROUND ON THE FLOOR FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES
JORDAN SNOW IS IN PRISON I THINK
I HEARD DAYTONA DIAMONDS LOVES SNOW
OH SHIT PRIME SIGNED SNOW / I LOVED INFORMER
NEVERMIND, SOME GUY NAMED RENNER SHOWED ME THAT JASON SNOW IS THE LONGEST REIGNING UNIVERSAL CHAMP. I’M STILL HERE FOR IT.
I DON’T KNOW WHO THAT RENNER GUY IS BUT HE SOUNDS HANDSOME.
MY CECILWORTH WRESTLE BUDDY DIDNT COME WITH A YELLOW RAINCOAT, I WANT A REFUND
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD KISSING SANTA CLAUS
I USED TO SEE BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD. I STILL DO, BUT I USED TO, TOO.
FRED DICK AND BOBBY DEAN ARE THE BOUNCE HOUSE
FRED DICK IS THE PHYSICAL EMBODIMENT OF AN AIRBRUSHED T-SHIRT OF CALVIN PEEING ON A FORD LOGO
TRUCKS HAVE FRED DICK NUTS
I POWERWASHED MY HOG BARN AND ALL I GOT WAS CARBON MONOXIDE POISONING.
TIME TO TAKE A BIG DELICIOUS DRINK FROM MY “JASON SNOW IS 100% DEAD GUARANTEED” MUG AND FINALLY GET AROUND TO THAT LAST SEGMENT OF REVIVAL 44
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD SIGNS HIS TEXTS
SID AND RIA SITTING IN A TREE, P-O-W-E-R-B-O-M-B-I-N-G
I JUST SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD SLAP A PILE OF PANCAKES
MY BRANDON SUPLEXES OVER THE OCEAN / MY BRANDON SUPLEXES OVER THE SEA
I’VE NEVER CREATED A SIGN BEFORE, BUT I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE COOL TO FIT IN FOR ONCE SO HERE’S MY SIGN! YES! ONE WITH THE PEOPLE!
BRANDON YOUNGMONÉ

Nick Stuart: Welcome everyone to Boston, it’s a great time to be joining us as we are on the cusp of Culture Shock, we are on the cusp of an explosive War Games battle, and a history laden Universal Title match. Last week’s show ended on one of the most explosive and surprising moments in the ReVival era and just like everyone else, I can’t wait to see what happens tonight.

Richard Parker: You go through all of that and you don’t mention the Bouncy House match? BOUNCY. HOUSE. MATCH. Do you understand? Do you comprehend the bountiful beauty that we are about to witness?

Nick Stuart: My broadcast partner is referring to the contest between Bobby Dean and Fred Dick later this evening and I’ve been informed that the first five rows have already been provided with ponchos because you will get wet… how did this end up in my copy? Let us not forget a hell of a main event where the eras of PRIME clash, Hessian and Hayes Hanlon going head to head. For now though, let’s throw it to the ring for tonight’s opening content.

Richard Parker: Very deviant contest.

The lights dim down as the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sitting at the edge of a mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown. Three, two, one – BOOM! The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”. Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage.

Nick Stuart: Making his way into the ring first is a man who managed to surprise a lot of viewers last time, catching Adam Ellis and notching his first PRIME victory.

Richard Parker: You know, non-consensual liplocking can make fools of us all and it certainly helped Walker. Last I heard, he’s got a barrage of agents and managers chasing him down after getting a big dub.

As Walker trundles down the ring, perhaps giving several members of the crowd a little too much CO2, Vince Howard steadies himself for another night of announcement.

Vince Howard: The following contest is a Triple Threat Match… making his way to the ring at this time, the first competitor of the bout, hailing from Waco, Texas, he weighed in tonight at two hundred and twelve pounds… he is THE LIGHTNING BOY… HARLEY WAAAAAAALKERRRRRR!

Richard Parker: Boy?

Nick Stuart: Boy!

He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette. After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring. As Walker places himself in the ring, “Caramelldansen” by the Caramella Girls is the next music we hear with our precious ears.

Richard Parker: Who wouldn’t love a bit of a caramel dance… the stickiest dance of all.

Nick Stuart: Not sure what’s on your mind right now, but I’m sure what’s on Walker’s mind is the massive Mr. Bubbles that’s making his way down to the ring, because, of course, it’s another week without Kennade Starr wrestling in a Kennade Starr match.

Richard Parker: I heard it’s pronounced Ken Aid, which is also a charity for men who have died a thousand deaths. Actually, I think Harley Walker has relied on Ken Aid before he got his big PRIME contract.

Kennade Starr and Mr. Bubbles begin their journey to the ring, paying very little attention to the crowd reactions, who are yelling mean things like “DO YOU EVER WRESTLE?” which is a mean thing to say when you have a Twitch channel. Starr and Bubbles seem more interested in looking inwards, not outwards, and supporting each other despite the Boston jeering.

Vince Howard: So, I will announce her information, right? This avatar stuff is very confusing, no one is even blue or bald.

Nick Stuart: Vince, mic’s live, pal!

Vince Howard: Oop!

Vince Howard is caught off guard a little as the massive Bubbles enters the ring but he’s a pro and he has a job to do.

Vince Howard: And introducing competitor number two, she hails from Tampa, Florida and weighs in tonight at a lean and trim one hundred and sixteen pounds… KENNADE STARR!

Nick Stuart: Mr. Bubbles looks none too impressed with our ring announcing colleague.

Richard Parker: Which is weird because I’ve heard that Mr. Bubbles is bubbles of fun.

Walker looks up and down Bubbles like another stunt to conquer, perhaps even day dreaming of the height he could get ramping off him. The thoughts are quickly silenced by the music of the final competitor of the match.  RZA hits the poetry to a dubstep remix of ‘Biochemical Equation’, a collaboration with MF Doom. The fans’ heads drift toward the stage where they see the image of Dan Van Slade deviously grinning on the screen. The screen flickers as a mask fades on-and-off Dan’s face. Suddenly, his voice blasts through the speakers – ‘DEVIOUS!’ Dan shouts as the thirteen second mark hits and RZA begins the epic clash between Dub trance and street slingin’ Suddenly – Dan Van Slade – dressed in his best threads – walks intensely slow from behind the curtain.

Nick Stuart: This man is a real deviant, just ask him. Although I don’t think Boston needs to ask too hard, the boos reverberating around the arena do the work.

Richard Parker: You have to have sympathy for the devious deviant though, the man thought he was getting a rocket strapped to his backside when he stepped into the ring with Coral Avalon but unfortunately that rocket crashed into a massive forehead and then exploded with lots of little burning embers and squelchy noises.

Nick Stuart: I’ve told you before to keep these thoughts to your dream journal.

Vince Howard: And the final competitor of this bout, currently making an intense and slow walk to the ring, he is not a mere deviant, he is THE SUPER DEVIANT, hailing from the most devious city, Missoula, Montana, he weighed in tonight at two hundred and thirty one pounds… DAN. VAN. SLAAAAAAAADE!

There is no love for this man. Fans boo, and react appropriately. A mass eruption of hate. He walks methodically slow to the ring, and pauses at the apron while ‘Biochemical Equation’ continues to spit raw lyrics. Dan then leaps and lands feet first onto the ring apron with ease. He grabs the top rope and slingshots himself into the ring. Van Slade dives, tucks, and rolls onto his feet as he stands in the center of the ring. He then rips off his thick gold brass knuckle necklace and whips it into the air. Referee Ashley Barlow is quick to take the necklace away, for Ashley can sense the implied deviosity of this situation. Barlow then calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Tonight’s opening contest is off to a quiet start as both Walker and Slade try to figure out a game plan against the imposing force of Mr. Bubbles.

Richard Parker: Neither one of these men will be having bubbles of fun in a minute.

Nick Stuart: Why do you keep saying that?

Before we hear an explanation from the corrupted mind of Richard Parker, the commentary banter is interrupted by the sound of a large thunk. Walker and Slade made a temporary alliance to lift up the big man but without weakening Bubbles enough, Bubbles replied with a double suplex, sending both men crashing to the mat. Which brings us to now, where Kennade is surprising in her focus and support of Bubbles. Bubbles continues to attack, driving big elbows one by one in the backs of Walker and Slade, drilling them with a good six or seven before Walker manages to roll out of the way and Bubbles collapses into the mat instead. Walker sees this as a chance to take control of the opening moments of the match, rushes into the ropes and hurls himself at Bubbles face with a brutal drop kick that clearly does some big damage to the big man.

Nick Stuart: Even at this age, that man can pick up speed faster than anyone in this company.

Richard Parker: For a couple of weeks, an old man whose whole chest caved in was our Universal Champion, I am no longer surprised at what PRIME’s aged can do.

Nick Stuart: We do have an athletic older roster, Kennade Starr’s career choices must be really perplexing to them.

Richard Parker: Yes… them. 

Harley Walker doesn’t get too much time to enjoy his moment in the sun, as the Super Deviant has already managed to sneak up behind him, grasping him by his old, gray, tangled hair and dropping Walker to the mat with a reverse DDT that had a real snap to it. Slade follows up by bouncing off the ropes and dropping a knee straight to the throat of Walker, who, given his love of the cigarette arts, does not enjoy throat-based destruction. Walker gasps for air but this doesn’t bother the Super Deviant a jot, as he drops down for a cover, shoving his forearm in Harley Walker’s throat in a way that Ashley Barlow can’t quite see, allowing the count to happen.

ONE!

TWO!

Mr. Bubbles recovers and surprisingly Slade doesn’t spot the monster of a man leaping up into the air and putting all his weight down on Slade’s back to break up the pin with a big time splash. Bubbles catches two for one, crushing both Slade and Walker.

Nick Stuart: Slade almost snuck that one away but Bubbles was not going to let that happen.

Richard Parker: Mr. Bubbles is always fighting for two, so if he has any fight left in him, he’s going to try and squash those who try and hurt himself and Kennade by proxy.

Slade clutches his back in agony as he rolls off of the now definitely winded Walker. Instead of waiting for either man to get up, Bubbles targets Slade, lifting him up with relative ease and hoisting him up over his shoulder. Bubbles walks around the ring as Slade tries to break free of the iron grip of Mr. Bubble. Starr gives a signal to Bubbles and while still holding Slade tight over his shoulder, Bubbles drops down to his knees with force, crushing Slade’s sternum into his shoulder. Slade slumps off onto the mat, and Mr. Bubbles quickly turns his attention to the other man in the match, who has now managed to pull himself back up with the support of the ropes. Walker realises the immediate danger he currently finds himself in and one again hurls himself like a cannon ball, this time jumping up and kicking Mr. Bubbles straight in the back of the noggin. Unfortunately for the Lightning Boy, the move does stagger Mr. Bubbles, but it does not floor him, Bubbles remains upright and ready to fight.

Richard Parker: That Mr. Bubbles is a real damage tank, ain’t he?

Nick Stuart: A what now?

Richard Parker: Well, a damage tank is… you know what… maybe this is for after the show.

Because they are on hot mics, we hear Nick Stuart muttering “or maybe never” to himself but Richard Parker was too busy seeing Kennade Starr support her avatar to notice his friends remark. In the ring, Walker decides that if one didn’t get the job done, a second one will and once again uses the ropes to springboard himself at Mr. Bubbles. Bubbles manages to clear his head enough in this situation though, so instead of taking damage from Walker, Bubbles wildly swings his arm at the rushing Walker and sends him crashing in somersault fashion straight to the mat with a brutal clothesline. Mr. Bubbles desire to follow up on this attack but Dan Van Slade has crawled over and is trying to clip Bubbles at the knee, Bubbles looks down at the six foot three gent as if he was an irritating gnat and hoists him back up to his feet once more. This time Bubbles grabs Slade by the throat, up into the sky with a choke and drops him right back down to the mat.

Richard Parker: No matter how devious you are, how sneaky you are, if that attack doesn’t do the needed damage, you’re back at square one.

Nick Stuart: Given how Dan Van Slade landed on the match, I’m certain that the man wishes he was at square one right now.

Mr. Bubbles surveys his destruction, with both men flat out in the ring. This does lead to some decision anxiety of who the right man is to pin, probably not helped by Kennade’s yelling support at ringside. Her avatar decides that probably the man that he choked the life out if is the best one for pinning and hooks the leg for a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Nick Stuart: Harley Walker once again putting his entire body on the line, breaking up the pin by throwing all his limbs and all his weight down upon Mr. Bubbles and Mr. Bubbles does not seem pleased at all about this development.

Richard Parker: You’re telling me the person about to win the match is upset that someone stopped that from happening? This is quality journalism!

Walker can sense he doesn’t have much left in the tank, so he just goes wild. As Mr. Bubbles stands up to confront his, he once again rushes at Bubbles, but this time he avoids the clothesline swing and manages to get his arm around the neck of Mr. Bubbles. Hooked in, Walker does dead weight and Mr. Bubbles can’t keep an even footing, as he trips on the floored Slade. A brutal flying bulldog (choke style) from Walker sends Mr. Bubbles into the ropes and out to the floor.

Nick Stuart: This man is certainly familiar with risk taking.

Richard Parker: Without Slade in there to act as a tripping hazard, I’m not sure if that works out the same way for the ole Lightning Boy.

Walker sees that Slade is still out on the canvas, looks outside the ring and sees that Mr. Bubbles is recovering and trying to get back inside… with only seconds to make a decision, Walker leaps to the top rope and falls backwards onto himself, landing atop Slade. He does not move, he stays on top of Slade and with the shoulders down, Ashley Barlow makes the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE?

Mr. Bubbles does not manage to break the pin in time.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner at a time of eight minutes and fifty nine seconds, by way of pinfall… THE LIGHTNING BOY… HARLEY WALKERRRRRRRR!

Walker doesn’t stick around in the ring for a celebration, knowing to get the hell away from a frustrated Kennade Starr and Mr. Bubbles as quickly as possible. He scoots himself up the ramp and Ashley Barlow follows to raise his hand as the victor. Inside the ring, Mr. Bubbles and Starr look at the Super Deviant with a lot of frustration.

Nick Stuart: Kennade Starr and her avatar had strong control of this match, but when you’re in the ring with a daredevil, you can’t predict the risks he’ll take.

Richard Parker: A man who doesn’t care about his own body is certainly not going to care about yours.

We fade out a stunned Walker still enjoying his moment of victory on the ramp with his precious Prudence.

Fucking Jarry. How the fuck does THAT GUY get the Cold Open, IN-RING?!

Out-fucking-rageous.

Max Kael overcomes death and the grave, segment one, a modest little spot.

Never a cold open though.

Fucking Jarry?

FUCK.

Sorry.

Hopefully the zannies kick in soon.

ANYWAY!

The Triple Threat is done and gone which means we’ve raced to the back for..

WON ACTION NEWS TEAM

Classic high intensity news music begins to play, that classic sound of the traditional WON ACTION NEWS TEAM. That sexy saxy jumps in accompanying that riveting news rave music.

The Herald, Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington

We see a dark space. There is a high pitched sound, like screaming, when suddenly a small skeleton snaps into existence. Soon muscle and sinew crew over the bones as the high pitch whine becomes a full fledged scream. Skin and clothing quickly follow as the Herald is reverse engineered into a frankly terrifying and painful existence. Hence the screaming, probably. Anyway he’s in his normal baby blue Herald uniform and once he is fully formed the screaming stops. He checks himself over with a haunted look in his eyes.

Vickie Hall, Media

It’s Vickie Hall. Or rather it’s just a bunch of random clips of her thrown together. The jarring cuts and bad editing make it feel like some kind of found footage horror film. A recurring theme involves her slapping, hitting or otherwise physically abusing JCH. There is a surprising number of these instances as the montage goes a few moments beyond uncomfortable. Thankfully it ends as we move to another news member.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall, Special Cuck Contributor 

Oh Poor JCH. It’s just a picture of Vickie Hall with just enough of JCH visible to recognize him but it’s clear he’s not the focus of attention. The camera slowly zooms in on the little big of him that you can see as the upbeat, saxy news music cuts out to something sad, demure and a little melancholy.

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, Lead Anchor

We are treated to Max Kael marching up to his news desk wearing a black North Kaelrean uniform flanked by two North Kaelrean guards. I would go into great detail about the look of this uniform but I think black North Kaelrean uniform gives you a good idea. He has many fancy looking medals and rank bars, at least several more than his guards. They all look very official and are made out of bright golds and silvers.

Speaking of which, wrapped around his waist was a freshly polished and detailed INTENSE Title. It glimmers in the studio light and stands in contrast to the simple black cut of the uniform he is wearing. He flashes a toothy grin at the camera as we cut away.

WON ACTION NEWS TEAM

Sponsored by MEAT?.

It’s uncouth to eat but still tastes great!

We return to the stage with Max seated behind his News Desk with his two guards standing at his flanking positions.

Max Kael!: Good evening and welcome to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, I’m your lead anchor Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, INTENSE Champion and Snooker hobbyist. On this, the eve of PRIME’s seventy fourth WAR GAMES. To that end we have some new members of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM! Let’s meet them, shall we?

Max stands as both Vickie Hall and JCH are brought onto the stage.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Hello it’s great to be here. Thank you so much.

Vickie sneers at JCH, as if suggesting SHE thought she was going to speak first.

Vickie Hall: Jonathan-Christopher, honestly? Really? Wow has success gotten to your head.

Vickie looks over at Max, with her hands on her hips and her head stuck out, clearly thinking Maximillion Williamson Kale is definitely going to agree with her. And yet she had no patience to wait for his approval or confirmation. She brings her attention back to her Amazing Life Partner.

Vickie Hall: You wouldn’t have interrupted me if you were OUT THERE interrupting Jared a moment ago. Yeah, I can’t believe you would sit there and allow that man to have a celebration. He is an undeserving champion! This is nonsensical clown shoes, Jonathan-Christopher and I’m growing tired of it.

The PRETTY PINK© woman stomps her feet like a three year old. She tosses her hands in the air.

Vickie Hall: It’s like all of this is ruined now. This incredible news show, which we were supposed to host collectively because we’re all a part of the same team has been sabotaged.

WON has fallen off the rails, and fast. The vibe is completely killed.

Vickie Hall: You better apologize to poor ol’ Maximllion there for gaslighting him and this segment.

JCH is quick on the reply.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m sorry.

Vickie bugs her eyes out of her head like she’s waiting for something MOAR. Jonathan-Christopher brings his attention to Vickie.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m sorry.

She won’t buy it, but then again the show has to FINALLY go on, right? Someone put the train back on track, please!

Max Kael!: Vickie Hall, are the FINAL piece of the HERALDS WAR GAMES INVESTIGATIONS! Yaaaaay. Which means the Herald is going to take you now so you can be center stage! How exciting, no?!

The INTENSE Champion feigns deep interest before retrieving a small, silver bell from his pocket. He tingles the bell which lets out its silver song.

Bursting onto the stage comes The Herald, adorned in his own custom War Games black Herald tunic. It looks more militaristic than his other one and is also adored with gold and silver medals, though not nearly as many as Max. The Herald quickly prances past Vickie while pulling out a flute.

The Herald: My Masterpiece awaits!

Like the pied piper of old, the Herald lifts his flute to his lips and begins to play a little tune. It’s actually pretty well played, but then one would suppose the Herald could play a mean pipe. He slowly dances off stage, seeking to draw Vickie away to leave Max and JCH alone.

Vickie giggles and chuckles at the flute being played. It’s actually a shock to everyone involved that she…

Follows The Herald out of sight.

Leaving Jonathan-Christopher Hall standing alongside Max Kael.

Speaking of Max, we cut back to him as he is seated behind his news desk with a Cheshire grin pulled wide across his long face. His fingers are steepled, each fingertip tapping each other rhythmically, like part of some terrible metronome.

Max Kael!: Jonathan. Christopher. Hall.

He snaps his fingers to make sure he grabs the young man’s attention away from the direction that his paramour had been led. The INTENSE champion points toward a chair near his news desk.

Max Kael!: I’ve been dying to speak with you ever since I found myself on this little War Games team of ours. Come on over and have a friendly chat with your good friend, Max Kael!

Jonathan-Christopher’s eyes are wide but his head is trying to sink into his neck. He’d like to vanish from out of sight but it’s clear Max isn’t looking away anytime soon. Then again, Vickie was telling him that he needed to grow a pair and BE A MAN.

Hall cautiously moves towards the empty chair, finally taking a seat.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Y- yes? What would you like to speak about, Max? Vickie’s right, you know. She’s right about everything. Vickie says you’re a terrific wrestler and she knew you were never dead. Vickie says I should follow your lead out there in WarGames because you’re a merciless machine.

Jonathan-Christopher suddenly pops his head upright and starts looking for wherever Vickie wandered off to in the hope she comes back to him. The smile on Max’s face wavers for a moment, a look of disgust passing over his face. Like swallowing a mouthful of vomit, however, Max manages to pull that smile back up.

Max Kael!: Listen, I was going to throw this whole speech about how our life is filled with all kinds of mysterious happenings and monologue about how this team is.. Well.. it’s not important anymore. I’m going to skip all that because I’m afraid Ivan might actually be the real leader of the team. So, just between us, between us friends.

The INTENSE Champion looks around before leaning toward JCH.

Max Kael!: It has come to my attention that you beloved, your sweet time gal, is being..

Shifty eyes from Max, as though he were checking his surroundings before looking back at JCH with a dead serious expression.

Max Kael!: Unfaithful.

There’s not a chance in the world Jonathan-Christopher would even entertain such a notion. His eyes scrunch together, perhaps he didn’t hear Max Kael! right.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Excuse me?

And then it’s one of two things. Jonathan-Christopher either 1.) totally heard Max and doesn’t want to even dive into this needless sense of horror or 2.) he really could not mentally register the comment. Because, as he’s about to go on, it’s clear his reply has nothing to do with Max’s comment whatsoever.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: She’s the most faithful and wonderful lady in the world! I’ve been messing up, and I really do have to be what she needs me to be.

Hall clearly pauses to reflect on Vickie’s words, not Max’s.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Maybe I’ll do it. I can fix everything. I can save this day!

Max lets his hand rest upon his own forehead before he drags it down slowly, as if trying to wipe away his own confounded expression. Finally, with a deep exhale he shrugs.

Max Kael!: Well, it was worth a shot. You never know if the truth will work or not. The proverbial egg is on my face, Hall. You know, I think the Herald was taking her to our Studio B suite to see his final piece of the Herald Investigation. I’m sure if you hurry along quickly, you might catch up with your master.. Er.. missus.

The Unquestionable Kael lifts a hand and makes a dismissive gesture with his fingers, waggling them in the direction that the Herald and Vickie had vanished. .

Jonathan-Christopher smiles at Max.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Wow, thanks for being so cool. Listen, I know Vickie isn’t for everyone. She can come across as a very demanding individual but she just wants what’s best for me.

JCH stops and starts to point a nervous finger towards Max… before he gains more confidence as the seconds pass by.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: She said she wants what’s best for you, too.

He lets out a nervous laugh. Max lets out a nervous laugh. Everybody is nervous and laughing.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Unfaithful? Oh, never Max, never. She is the most devoted woman in the world. To all of us. You’ll see.

Turning toward the camera, Max stares for a moment before, his left eyebrow raising slightly before returning his attention to JCH.

Max Kael!: Oh, sure, yup. Absolutely, buddy, you know it!

Lying was a lot easier than the truth. Besides, it seemed JCH was immune to it anyway.

Max Kael!: Well thanks for showing up and have a great time.. Getting.. Looked after. And stuff. War Games!

At the yelling of War Games a confetti bomb goes off over their head spraying pink and red confetti everywhere. There are also tiny little Rob Williams angry faces raining down from the sky cause Max wasn’t sure how he fit into the theme otherwise.

Max Kael!: NOW RIDE, JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER! AS FAST AS YOU CAN TO HER SIDE!

JCH quickly exits, keen on locating his beloved and eternally “faithful” Vickie Hall. Max stares after him for a moment, shaking his head. As the camera returns to Max he smiles at the camera with a menacing grin.

Max Kael!: Well wasn’t that fun? Now it’s time for our World famous segment, WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE with my very speci-

Before Max can finish, much like last week, he finds himself interrupted.

Voice: Sorry, your original guest couldn’t make it.

The office chair spins around to show one Anglo Luchador, steepling his fingers, while turning to face the illustrious host of the Award-Winning* WON News broadcast.

TAL: I thought I’d pay you a visit. You know, I never got to thank you for all that MEAT? you sold me back before the new year. Really came in handy.

The INTENSE Champion recoils, his smile vanishing into a sneer. He looks down at his papers on his desk then back at TAL. Two North Kaelrean Guards scurry onto the stage to flank Max.

Max Kael!: You’re not the guest! Who is this?! I’ve never met this man in my life! The Herald?! THE HERALD?!

Unfortunately the Herald is not within earshot given that he left with Vickie Hall earlier and is no longer in summonable range. Max curses beneath his breath before turning his attention back to TAL.

TAL: Oh, the Herald, I assuaged him, don’t you worry. Seems he really likes shiny objects, so I stole Suleimon’s car keys, jangled them in front of his face, and threw them down the hall.

Max! shoots a nervous smile at the camera before he flashes his eyes back at TAL..

TAL: Anyway, I just wanted to come onto WON News to deliver a message, and in case you think about having Hot Dog Boy or his psychotic crush over there try anything, please turn around.

Max comically spins around with perhaps far too much enthusiasm. He turns around to see Adam Ellis, with a Cheshire cat grin on his face, holding a peculiar package in his hands.

TAL: Say hi, Adam.

Max Kael!: uh.. Hi, Adam.

Adam Ellis: Hi Max. Long time no see..

The Luchador nods at his War Games partner. Max nods to TAL’s War Games partner.

TAL: Adam is holding in his hand a buck bomb. In case you wanna know what that is, it’ll make your entire studio smell like piss. And you won’t be able to get the odor out for months.

Max Kael!: ..you MONSTER. What have I, the innocent MAX KAEL!, ever done to deserve the smell of PISS in my life!?

The Luchador looks dead-ass in Kael’s face for a beat.

TAL: I’d ask if you were born yesterday, but you might just have been.

A beat. The Luchador sits up in his office chair.

TAL: Anyway, I figured I would stop by to deliver you my message, since, for those at home,  you were involved in a savage sneak attack orchestrated by your teammates at War Games, the Red Army, and what better forum to do it than on your own news show, right Max?

Max lets a low growl escape his throat. His fingers instinctively grip the INTENSE title wrapped around his waist.

Max Kael!: Sir, this is a news program not some fantasy, beat poetry open mic night. Whatever you allege I participated in, I’m the victim of my own good press! You should be squawking your issues with Ivan and Alexei. You, Rose, Youngblood, all of you barge on to my show with such audacity, seeking the root of another man’s plot!

The two guards move to put themselves between Max and the two men who have invaded his set. It becomes obvious that Max is slowly inching his way toward an exit, truly a brave and heroic soul.

TAL: Ah ah ah, stay put, or else Adam sets off the buck bomb and WON News becomes Piss Nightly.

Adam nods and grins.

Max stops, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

TAL: Now, if you play nice for the rest of this segment, I promise, no harm will come to you. But you know what? I know the belt you hold. I was the first one to hold it in the ReVival Era. I don’t take you for someone cowardly, which is why I’m perplexed as to why you would take part in yet another atrocity in a fed known for them.

The Luchador chuckles.

TAL: Y’know, like the ones that put Phil Atken and Jon Rhine on the shelf for good? Yeah, happened before you were…

The Luchador throws up some finger quotes.

TAL: “…born,” but bear with me here. If we wanted to, Adam and I could’ve hogtied the Herald, kept your goon squad away with the bomb, and then kicked the shit out of you. But we didn’t. Because we do things in the ring.

The Luchador stands up.

TAL: But if you gross assholes keep prodding at us? The next time I show up here on your show, it’s with a steel chair and a bloodlust. And you’ll wish that Ivan and Rob and the Masters and Artie and you had turned me into Phil Atken or Jon Rhine. Capiche?

Max and TAL lock eyes for a moment. Max’s fingers tap the INTENSE title curiously as he seems to study the man across from him. After a pause a tooth, sharky smile spreads like a disease across Max’s face.

Max Kael!: I’ve never had ceviche and I’m wounded you would think of me as cowardly. Perhaps. Perhaps once this War Games business is behind us, I’ll find the time to prove otherwise.

As he speaks the words are pushed between clenched teeth. He takes a step forward, pushing one of the guards out of the way to close the distance between TAL and himself.

Max Kael!: I hope you don’t regret putting a stop to me here, now, tonight.

He cast a glance over at Adam Ellis. Max’s tongue slithers out, adding much needed moisture to his lips before retracting behind sharp, white teeth.

Max Kael!: Maybe we should just Rest in Piss now, eh? Heh-heh.. Anything else, gentlemen?

TAL: Like I said last week, I’m a stupid man. Regrets are for smart people. And if I didn’t think I couldn’t take you down in the ring, then you wouldn’t be upright. Anyway, I said what I needed to say. Let’s go, Adam.

Ellis doffs his fake cap and walks off behind the Luchador. He turns around and feigns throwing the buck bomb, which causes the two guards to immediately leap into action. They fumble around desperately searching for the bomb that was never thrown. Max, for his part, keeps his eyes on TAL. Thankfully Adam doesn’t release it, and instead just points and mouths “got you” to the amusement of absolutely no one left in the studio. Especially Max.

As the two exit we get a close up of Max, the smile on his face cracking for a moment, a deep, hateful scowl breaking through.

Realizing he is still on camera, Max blinks and the smile is quickly put back into place.

Max Kael!: Stay PRIMEd, you filthy fucking animals. MAX OUT!

We cut elsewhere.

Everyone’s favorite Nightmare, Arthur Pleasant, wanders around the backstage area. He’s got a toothpick in his right hand, diligently working on his teeth — teeth that we assume he’s up to date on his payments on — while taking in the early festivities. In the back of his mind, he wonders how many Jason Snow signs there are in the arena given his monumental return last week.

Spoiler: too many.

As he turns the corner, he hears a noise.

CLINK
CLINK
CLINK

Pleasant recognizes the sound. Immediately.

Metal on metal.

He’s familiar with it for a plethora of reasons, but none more paramount than having an extensive background in deathmatches and every sick situation one might find themselves in within the rotten underbelly of professional wrestling.

Arthur’s lips curl ever so slightly, eager to find out what is going on. Is someone locked up and needing his help? Sucks for them that a Good Samaritan like Jared Sykes didn’t happen upon them first. Is there a captured beast on the loose? Given the eGG Bandits proclivity for all things weird and immorally sexual, it could’ve been a giant cock— as in a chicken, of course.

The possibilities are endless as he cocks— LOL see what he did there— his head back and sniffs the air.

He bounds down the hall (possibly like a werewolf, possibly not) and turns the corner.

CLINK
CLINK

CLINK

Pleasant could tell he was getting closer. He felt his blood pumping through his veins at an accelerated pace and races down the hall of the TD Garden and slides around another corner when he sees two members of KING — Jamaal Ingram and Cory Kensington.

Jamaal Ingram: Oi, Teen Wolf!

Cory Kensington: You thought it would be wise to attack our bruv? Uh-huh. Not bloody getting away with that.

Jamaal Ingram: We hear we can fetch a pretty penny for your teeth though.

Cory looks at his brother.

Cory Kensington: You know a tooth guy?

Jamaal Ingram: Yeah, bruv. Brandon from the old hood.

Cory Kensington: He doesn’t deal in teeth! What the hell?!

Jamaal Ingram: Nah, I heard he does now.

Cory Kensington: Yeah, sure. You trust Brandon who got caught with his pants around his ankles at the nudie bar. Come off it, mate.

Jamaal Ingram: That was an innocent thing.

SCRATCH!

Corr and Jamaal look back down the hallway to see Arthur rubbing his talons (what? He doesn’t have talons?) against the concrete wall as he walks down the hall.

Arthur Pleasant: Ooooooweeeee. How… sweet this is. You two fuckos can join your brother in the hospital then. It’s so nice, so refreshing even, to see a couple of dolts actually wanting to keep him company.

Pleasant charges at the two, who are ready for him as they tackle him into the wall. Jamaal quickly peels away and opens a nearby door before Cory and Jamaal shove Pleasant through the threshold before shutting the door in a hurry.

The Nightmare of PRIME, who fell to the ground as he was shoved in, picks himself back up and realizes the room is largely dark. Pleasant thrashes against the metal door that is now firmly locked in place, wanting out immediately.

Arthur Pleasant: Record scratch. You’re probably wondering how, when I get out of here of course, I’m going to have you right there next to Davey. Well, it’s a funny story, actually!

“One problem.”

Arthur Pleasant: Mm?

Pleasant slowly turns around and realizes there’s a small torch that provides a beacon of light. In the shadow of said torch is the man he put into the hospital a month prior.

David Noble: I’m no longer there.

Pleasant moves to strike, but Noble uncorks a right hand that collides with Pleasant’s jaw. Arthur’s legs wobble before he collapses to the ground.

Right there, wrapped around Noble’s knuckles, is a steel chain. Shit just got serious, folks.

As we get more of a glimpse of David, we can see bandages around his head. Arthur looks up only for another thundering right to come crashing down, metal meeting skin.

Arthur Pleasant:(spitting out blood) I trust you got my get well card, then? I’m sorry if you didn’t like it, David. Not all of us–

Before Pleasant can finish what he’s going to say though, Noble connects with another right hand, causing more blood to pool in his mouth.

David Noble: We don’t need to talk, Arthur. This is just fine.

Arthur looks up, blood staining the smile he is displaying.

Arthur Pleasant: That’s fine Davey. I already won.

CRACK!

Another right hand from Noble slams into the side of Pleasant’s face.

David Noble: Call it whatever you want, bumblefuck.

And then a second right.

CRACK!

And a third, as blood trickles from the face of a slumped over Pleasant as Noble continues to unload on him as we cut elsewhere.

We move elsewhere backstage, and find a disgusting goblin of a man marching through the halls, shouting at his phone.

Jordan on his back.

Jordan on his feet.

Fred Dick.

Fred Dick: What the fuck’s he suing me for? Because I stack more paper and slang more meat than he does?

Fred passes by a locker room.

Fred Dick: Tell John McCoy and his lawyers to go crank their hogs and shut the fuck up.

Fred passes by some PRIME staffers.

Fred Dick: “Allegedly,’’ remember. Don’t forget that, now. He can’t prove shit. The bumper’s gone.

Fred passes by Paxton Ray.

Fred Dick: Hey Paxton.

Before Paxton can say anything, Fred shoots an aggressive bird at him.

Fred Dick: Fuck you. And don’t even think about saying shit back to me. I’m on the phone.

Pax just shakes his head.

Paxton Ray: Whatever, man.

Fred passes by a vending machine that sports a beret.

…then, he walks backwards until he stands before it.

BWOMMMMMMMMM.

Can Fred perceive it? The torture, the pain within? Because it seethes, this vending machine; it oozes malcontent. The quick dopamine hit of a sugar buzz only serves as a quickener to life’s pain, its eternal zero-sum game of devourer and devouree. The Kit-Kats look fresh, at least. The M&M’s, too. Famous Amos. The out-of-place muffins.

So many choices. So many delicious, little treats.

Fred Dick: Hey, Queso. I’m gonna have to call you back.

One in particular catches his eye.

Fred Dick: ‘Cause, I’m about to absolutely fuck on some Raisinettes… Alright, alright… Haha, fuck you. Okay… Well tell his God damn lawyer to suck one!… Okay… And peace be with you, sir.

Fred hangs up the phone, stands before the vending machine. The Raisinettes practically sing his name. He scrounges in his pocket, finds a crinkled, old cocaine dollar, and feeds it to the machine.

Fred Dick: This is just what I need… Just what I need to give me the sugar rush it will require to fight in a fucking BOUNCE HOUSE, LIKE I’M A DAMN KID OR SOMETHIN!…

He presses the button.

The Raisinettes begin their momentous push towards the front of the machine.

And then, just before its majestic fall into the magical hand chamber, it stops.

Fred Dick: You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.

Nope. Not even a little bit.

They’re stuck like a fat ass in a bounce house.

Fred Dick: You gotta be FUCKING. KIDDING ME!

He shakes the vending machine.

The Raisinettes do not fall.

He kicks the vending machine.

The Raisinettes do not fall.

Fred Dick: GIMME MY FUCKING RAISINETTES!!!

Fred backs up, charges, and SLAMS his entire, 300 pound body into the vending machine!

AND STILL.

The Raisinettes.

Do not.

Fall.

Fred Dick, exasperated, begins pacing around the vending machine.

Frustrated, he slams his head into it, presses his forehead right up against it, tries to have a heart to heart.

Fred Dick: Look man… Can I reason with you? I… I’ve had a shitty couple weeks man. Kidnappings. Lawsuits. Nonconsensual drug boofings. Really… I just… I just need these fucking Raisinettes man. Please. Please. Just… just give them to me…

Fred backs up a step, stares beggingly, longingly at the vending machine.

They say when you stare into the abyss long enough, it stares back.

All that stares back at Fred is his own reflection, captured in the machine’s high gloss finish.

Something about it…

Something about it is darker than the abyss should be.

Something about it.

Avarice.

It seems to disturb the earth beneath his feet, and before he even realizes it, he meanders away from the machine, dazed.

We sit with it for a moment.

BWOMMMMMMMMM.

How quickly it can all spiral. Like a loose turd in a flushing toilet bowl, swirling, desperately trying to leave its mark wherever it can before getting sucked into the depths forever…something wants to wrench into Fred Dick’s mind, badly. Something wants to split his brain like a coconut and bathe in its honky juices until it’s taken over, until it can fully steer the ship, until it can unhinge its terrible jaws and force this would-be Street Cat to know the true horrors of what it means to go full Blood Mode, painting the walls of PRIME red with the blood of the fallen. Maybe it’s time to get an enormous nose ring and start dyeing your hair wild colors every show, Fred. Maybe it’s time to embrace the Dennis Rodman that so desperately wants to meet this venomous beast halfway. You know where to get the wedding dress, you saw it on eBay, and you know deep down that Madonna is your true North, isn’t she? Yes, let VENDBERGE in, let it take over…

And just a moment later, up walks Violent Purple and Crash.

Crash: Woah, sweet vending brochine.

VP grabs Crash by the shoulders, a subtle nod suggesting they should leave.

Crash: Hold up. I’m gonna Fonz this shit.

Crash elbows the machine.

The Raisinettes fall.

Crash reaches into the magical hand hole, grabs the Raisinettes.

Crash: See, Purps? Everything is turning up Crash.

VP grins. Crash grins as well, and tosses a few Raisinettes in his mouth as they walk away.

We cut elsewhere.

Brandon Youngblood. Two time Universal Champion. PRIME 2022 Wrestler of the Year. The accolades go on and on. Winningest wrestler in PRIME’s history. We find him alone in what appears to be a little used, long forgotten locker room somewhere in the bowels of TD Garden. He’s seated on a bench, his vintage (and now, perhaps contemporary?) Standard of Bastards shirt over his wrestling gear, with his shaven head resting against a pale locker behind him, his eyes closed. A short rest before the fight to come later.

Voice: We should probably talk.

Youngblood opens his eyes. And whatever he sees prompts him to shoot up to his feet. Though he doesn’t raise his fists, their clenching shows he’s ready to put them to work. Within moments, we see why; the shot widens to reveal the other man in the room is none other than Jason Snow. Inside the Garden, the fans roar.

After all this time…finally…impossibly…once again…The Original Villain and The Tower of Babel are face to face.

Jason Snow: You don’t have to get up.

For a moment, Brandon’s expression is stern, stoic. Will they come to blows? Is the Diamond afraid? The moment is here.

Brandon Youngblood: Already am.

There should be a smirk to accompany the levity. There is none.

Brandon Youngblood: After all this time…

Jason Snow: Like I said, we should probably talk.

Snow wanders directly across Youngblood’s field of vision, Youngblood’s eyes following.

Jason Snow: You can calm down. If I came here to fight you, you’d never have heard my voice.

It should be noted that Snow has yet to take his eyes off Youngblood either.

Brandon Youngblood: Funny you should mention that…Jason…

Youngblood points at him, Snow still pacing the room, dressed exactly as he was last week, minus the mask, not competition-ready in jeans and a white t-shirt.

Brandon Youngblood: Maybe…just maybe…it’s me wanting a fight with you.

Another rise in octave from the Boston crowd.

Jason Snow: I’m sure you do. But you don’t want it like this.

Youngblood watches him pace.

Brandon Youngblood: After you vanished…I don’t know think you what’s going on trying to read my mind.

Jason Snow: You want to beat me.

He nods a few times, and then points at the locker room’s door. The arena beyond.

Jason Snow: But you want to beat me out there. Where it counts.

Hearing these words, Youngblood’s chest rises and falls.

Brandon Youngblood: More than you can ever know.

Yet he does not move, his eyes narrowing.

Brandon Youngblood: How’d you find me anyway?

Jason Snow: Your partner tonight? That Doubleday kid?

This gets The Tower to smirk.

Brandon Youngblood: Just came and ‘gave up the ghost’, did he?

Jason Snow: I asked him and he told me. If I’d stuck around any longer I’m pretty sure he’d have asked me for an autograph too.

Now, it’s a chuckle.

Brandon Youngblood: Lindsay said you told her not to let me know you’d come up for air. People come back here…Jason…people like Matt Ward…Tchu…Gamble…they make big and bold claims on my back. Didn’t end up so well for either of them.

Any signs of joy have, predictably, ceased. Evaporated as though they never existed in the first place. Snow looks at Youngblood for a moment. Then finally he turns his back to Youngblood long enough to step over to an adjacent bench before turning around to sit down. He leans back against the lockers behind him and crosses one leg over the other.

Jason Snow: I came to make you an offer.

Youngblood’s look turns dubious. He sits back down on the bench, resting his back against the lockers. His fingers straighten out the blood red SOB letters across his chest. As if he could be all the more obvious with his inferring.

Brandon Youngblood: An offer, huh?

Snow nods.

Jason Snow: We both know we’re on a collision course, Brandon. You being who you are, me being who I am. What we are, I guess you’d say.

Brandon Youngblood: Competitors or brothers, Jason?

Snow shrugs.

Jason Snow: We both want to be the best. We both think we are the best. I’m sure there are half a dozen people kicking around here who think the same thing. They think. But you and me? We know it. And we see it in each other.

Youngblood does nothing but stare. We get the sense he agrees.

Jason Snow: Look, someday, somewhere, we’re gonna meet up in some ring. It’s inevitable. But when that finally happens, and we go to war, just like last time…

He gives Youngblood a second to digest that. To remember.

Jason Snow: …I feel like we should make sure it’s worth it. Make sure there’s something at stake.

There is no hesitation in Youngblood’s response.

Brandon Youngblood: The Universal Championship.

A loaded sentiment marked nearly 14 years to the day.

Brandon Youngblood: So what’s the offer?

Jason Snow: A truce.

Youngblood is silent, deep in thought.

Jason Snow: Here’s the thing. I had a lot of matches back then. I know you know what that feels like. I fought everybody worth a damn. And I beat just about all of them. Just about. Lost a couple. Not many. But when I think back on it? When I think about: what was the actual fight of my life? Only one night comes to mind. Only one person who made me feel like it was more about survival than winning and losing. Just one. And I know damn well you remember that night too.

It’s clear by Youngblood’s face that he does.

Jason Snow: So when it comes time to do that again? We both know we’ll do it. But what I’m proposing is, until then? Like I said. A truce.

Youngblood studies Snow’s face. And then shakes his head.

Brandon Youngblood: Jason…that last night…your last night…you talked me off the ledge and told me…told me…that I needed to carry the load. And you sprinkled in the hints but you never said what you were going to do.

Brandon Youngblood: So then you left. And because I couldn’t face you, I left. Because for me…PRIME wasn’t worth it if I couldn’t fight the best.

A whirlwind of complex thoughts colliding into one another. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself.

Brandon Youngblood: I don’t want to pick bones. Not until you show me that the man I’m staring at isn’t some mask for a ghost.

Snow smirks at him.

Brandon Youngblood: We did this before. Standard Of Bastards. You. Me. Sloboda. Wasn’t long…do you even want to know the kinds of people I had helping me try to find–

His voice rises.

Brandon Youngblood: Especially after that little glitch a few weeks back. Don’t think I forgot about that.

Snow keeps right on smirking. Then he pushes himself to his feet. Youngblood quickly follows suit.

For a long moment there is nothing but eye contact.

Jason Snow: Yeah. About that. I’ll tell you what. In the interest of a truce, I’m gonna tell you something you should probably know.

Brandon Youngblood: Yeah. And what’s that?

Jason Snow: The glitch? When my music played while you were in the ring with Daytona Diamonds?

Youngblood’s eyes grow nothing but more intense as he scowls.

Jason Snow: I had nothing to do with it.

He spreads his arms, palms up.

Youngblood blinks.

Brandon Youngblood: Really now?

Jason Snow: February 16, Brandon, I’d just barely been in touch with PRIME. Just started talking about the contract. I was nowhere near the arena that night.

He shrugs innocently. The Diamond’s mouth hangs incredulously.

Brandon Youngblood: I don’t believe you.

Snow shrugs again.

Jason Snow: You don’t have to. But think about this: If it wasn’t me? If I wasn’t behind it? Then somebody else was. And whoever that is? That person is fucking with you. And if I remember anything about the wrestling business, it’s once somebody starts fucking with you, they’re gonna keep it up until you do something about it.

The mixture here is growing more volatile. Unpredictable.

Brandon Youngblood: How dumb do you take me for, Jason? Don’t insult me. Stop with the bullshit or your idea of…truce…which…by the by…I still haven’t decided if that’s even possible–

Jason Snow: A temporary truce.

Staring spears through each other now.

Brandon Youngblood: Snow…give me one good goddamn reason–

Jason Snow: Like I said. It’s a peace offering. I didn’t do it. But somebody did. And you should probably start trying to figure out who. Hell, Brandon, I’ve been thinking about changing my entrance music anyway.

A snort and a snarl.

Brandon Youngblood: Leave. Now.

Snow nods.

Jason Snow: Just think about it. Think about who might want to fuck with you. Because I promise you, it’s gonna happen again.

Youngblood points at the door.

Snow nods and begins to back away, facing Youngblood the whole time, ready, eyes locked.

Jason Snow: Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

We cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: We have a wild one coming up.

Richard Parker: It’s personal!

Nick Stuart: You bet it is. This match is for David Noble. It is a retaliation for what Pleasant and Kael! did to him.

Richard Parker: Right but that’s been solved as of earlier this evening. Pleasant was taken out of commission before the match, so why are we wrestling?

Nick Stuart: Taking Arthur out only solves part of the problem, Richard. Rose would still like to get her shots in.

Richard Parker: Fine. I was kind of hoping for a quick bathroom break but I’ll stay and do my job.

Nick Stuart: There are plenty of other wrestling promotions where you can have as many bathroom breaks as you’d like.

Richard Parker: Really? Sign me up for one of those companies!

Nick sighs openly on the television feed but there’s commotion in the back and the cameras get right to it! Rose is throwing haymakers at Max Kael!. He is trying to move away from her, so he can recollect herself but she’s just too damn fast for the Intense Champion.

In addition, it looks like they are making their way out and onto the stage!

Nick Stuart: I guess we’re not going to wait for this one and why should we! There’s no title on the line but I can only assume both wrestlers are going to be out for blood.

The crowd gives a cheer as Rose mangles Kael!’s face with a heavy forearm blow. They storm through the curtain and into view!

Nick Stuart: Kael! has the height and weight advantage but I don’t think this is going to bother Rose one way or another. She wants to make a dent!

A dent she does, hammering Max down the rampway and towards the ring. He keeps trying to avoid her but she catches up every time.

Nick Stuart: I’m being told Max and Rose bumped into each other backstage and the brawl took off! Neither of them attacked the other, they were ready to go right then and there!

Richard Parker: Makes sense to me.

Rose punches Unquestionably Max Kael! towards the apron, where she shoves Kael! under the bottom rope and then elbows him in the side of the head. As she enters the ring, Max slowly starts to roll away to the other side of the canvas.

And ultimately out of the ring!

Needless to say, referee Elvis Nixon calls for the bell and the time keeper follows suit.

DING DING

Rose marches towards the opposite side of the squared circle, expecting to see a fallen Max Kael! on the floor below. But when she arrives, she doesn’t see anything.

Rose is about to exit the ring when- BANG!, trash can to the head!

Replays show Max Kael! rolled out of the ring, hit the floor and then rolled underneath the apron in one fluent motion. He reappeared the second Rose stuck her head out of the top and middle rope.

And received the garbage can.

Max grits his teeth. He’s pissed and seething as Kael! throws the garbage can up and over the top rope. He’s clearly not done. He grabs a chair and a kendo stick, too. But it looks like he doesn’t want to over-do it. He knows he only got one shot in and it’s doubtful Rose is DOA.

Kael! enters when Rose gets to her feet. She hurls herself at Max with another forearm shot but Kael! sidesteps and pokes her in the eyes. He quickly shifts towards the steel chair, opens it and sets it down. He kicks Rose in the chest…

CRUNCH!

And DDTs her on the open chair!

Except there’s one problem…

Rose pulled away from the DDT and Max landed on the mat. The CRUNCHing sound was just in YOUR head.

Rose kicks Kael! in the side of the temple, dragging him to his feet…

CRUNCH!

And SHE lands the DDT on the chair! This time the noise isn’t in anyone’s head.

Rose stands and pushes Kael! away from the chair. For a moment there she thinks about going for the pin but sees the kendo stick begging to be used instead.

Richard Parker: In a match like this… how many times does the person who’s collected the weapons actually use them?

Nick Stuart: Max deserves it.

Rose grabs the kendo stick and pulls Max to his knees. She whips the stick back and then swings it forward like she’s going for a homerun and Kael!’s head is the baseball.

Strike one.

Because Kael! shoots to his feet and spears Rose to the floor. He begins unleashing a fury of punches and shots to the side of Rose’s temples.

Nick Stuart: This match just became vicious.

Richard Parker: They’re both out for blood, for different reasons. But you can see it in Max’s eyes right now, he’s not messing around.

Kael! pulls Rose to her feet and then hurls her into the ropes. Clearly the Real Kael! shoots by and clotheslines both of them up and over to the ground below. Max keeps his eyes deadlocked on Rose the whole time. He lifts her up and Irish whips her again.

CRASH!

Knees first into the steel steps!

Richard Parker: One way to take Rose’s speed away.

Nick Stuart: Kael! is pissed for a reason, folks. We saw what happened two weeks ago and it was a vulnerable position, one we haven’t seen The Unquestionable One in since he’s been revived from the dead!

Richard Parker: Tell me about it. WON Action News ended in a bang! Or a lead pipe!

Kael! wanders over, plucks Rose from the floor and Irish whips her into the guardrail.

CRASH!

Rose goes knees first into the rail, flipping up and into the crowd.

Kael! follows. He hops the apron, finds Rose’s legs and begins dragging her around the floor. Rose starts coming to, as she reaches out to latch onto something. A fan’s leg, a chair. She can grab these items for a moment but that’s all she can do. Max is powering through, his grip is strong and she isn’t able to hold onto anything long enough to break away.

Finally reaching the stairs, it looks like Totally Max Kael! is going to drag Rose UP the stairs! He places his right foot on the first flight and then his left foot. He takes one step up the second flight, as Rose lifts her head to avoid it from bouncing off the staircase. It seems like Kael! is going to get a couple of flights in… when this time Rose takes hold of the railing and Max can’t go up anymore. He drops Rose’s legs, spins his body around-

WHAM!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

Nick Stuart: Rose with an INCREDIBLE DDT to Max!

Rose performs the move on the second flight of stairs but the DDT lands at the bottom of the staircase. Max’s forehead is firmly planted in the cement, as Rose peels herself off and begins kicking Max in the chest as hard as she can.

The crowd cheers the carnage as Rose falls to her knees. She cracks Max in the side of the jaw with a hard out headbutt.

The Second Coming tries her best to lift No Doubt About It, That’s Max Kael! off the cement. She’s about to send him into the hockey boards but Max pulls away so Rose nudges a fan to the side and grabs his chair.

Kael! starts to slither away, hoping to get out of ear shot, or chair shot.

Rose is about to swing-

When Max snatches a fan and places him in front of them both!

Rose lowers the chair but the fan thought the chair shot was coming regardless so he ducks. This allows Max to leap over the fan’s body with a clothesline, knocking himself and Rose to the floor! Rose drops the chair and Max unloads a variety of punches and kicks as the two carry on through the crowd.

Rose blocks a right hand and swings back with an elbow to the gut. She takes Kael! by his hair and whips him into the crowd. Rose steals a fan’s beer cup and throws it at Max before she grabs another chair and starts wielding it.

This signals for the coward in Max to reappear, as he tries to get away but Rose follows closely. However, she’s not as fast this time. It’s obvious she’s limping thanks to her knees eating the steel steps and guardrail a little earlier. The Unquestionable Max Kael! starts walking up the stairs in the hopes to get away from Rose.

The two make their way into the concourse. Rose swings the chair but misses as Max ducks in the nick of time. Rose spins back around and looks for a second shot when Max tries for a low blow.

…Which clearly doesn’t work.

Either the light goes off in his head as to why nothing happened or he’s left thinking Rose has a substantial pain threshold. Rose goes for another chair shot-

WHAM!

This one connects directly into Max Kael!’s back.

Rose drops the chair and hurls Max into a popcorn concession stand. 100% Kael! stumbles straight into it, knocking the remote stand over in the process and sending popcorn everywhere!

Rose heads in Max’s direction but Kael! reappears with the debt machine.

WHAP!

He cranks it over Rose’s head!

The white machine breaks into a million little pieces as he lands it flat against the top of her skull.

Richard Parker: I’ll pay with credit card, thank you!

Nick rolls his eyes and likely says something off-mic to Richard, as Kael! is now in firm control. He grabs Rose by the head and steers her towards one of the main concession stands, throwing her right into it, knee-first once again.

Rose hits, flips and goes up and over. Foaming at the mouth, perhaps quite literally, the never actually dead Max Kael! races over and jumps onto the concession countertop as the fans gather around. He finds Rose on the other side of the table when-

Rose shows an amazing amount of strength. She places one arm underneath Kael!’s chest and the other around his neck. With Kael! on the countertop and Rose on the floor below, she uses everything she can to half-lift and push Kael! off the platform…

CRASH!

Straight into the cooler with the carbonated drinks!

Coke, Sprite and even its diet versions are all cracked, spraying every which way as Kael!’s  body remains half into the broken cooler and half out of it. Pieces of glass have fallen around, some stuck in Max’s hair.

Rose peels her opponent from the cooler. It’s a struggle but she sends him over the countertop and back to where they came from.

Except Rose stands on the counter. She raises her hands above her head. Looking for an axe handle smash…

NO!

From out of nowhere Unquestionable Max Kael! gets a second wind! He trips Rose on the countertop as she falls off and lands on her knees!

Rose cries in pain as Max takes the opportunity to recollect himself. He’s pulling pieces of glass out of his hair before rolls his neck back and cracks it. The Intense Champion takes Rose by the legs and begins dragging her across the concourse again.

Richard Parker: Where will they go now?

Kael! stops in front of the washrooms. He looks at the male entrance and then right beside it, the female entrance. He might be deciding which one he’s allowed to go into but it doesn’t matter. Rose wiggles free, gets on her feet and pushes Max face-first into the cement wall.

Richard Parker: Guess we’ll never know.

Kael! fumbles away from the brick, spins around and eats a DDT from Rose. She hooks a leg and Elvis Nixon, who has been following along closely, is there with the pin.

Nick Stuart: We have our first pinfall attempt of the night!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Definitely Max Kael! kicks out but Rose goes right back to beating him down with punches and knees.

Richard Parker: Those knee shots don’t look like they are hitting particularly hard, Nick. That’s what damage can do to you.

Nick Stuart: I completely agree, Richard. But Rose is going to find a way to inflict pain and win this match. She’s awfully close.

Rose pulls Max up with her and begins a limp walk towards another part of the arena. It looks like they are heading up the escalators to the 200 level VIP section.

Rose throws Max on the escalator and then she finds her spot one flight behind him. As a camera and referee try catching up, Max stumbles to a knee and then kicks Rose in the ribs. As the escalator arrives at the 200 level, Max crawls away, leaps up and falls on top of a trash can.

Rose walks over, ready to inflict more damage-

When Max pops out with a bunch of garbage in hand. He throws it at Rose, temporarily blinding her and then spears her to the mat. He unloads again, both of them revealing they’re a little cracked open at the top of their heads due to the various things they’ve been thrown into.

Rose fights away and places a couple of good shots in herself before she snatches Kael! by his hair and starts to drag the legend into the VIP section, past the TD Garden employee who isn’t supposed to let people pass unless they have the appropriate passes.

Richard Parker: Someone’s getting fired tomorrow.

Rose brings Kael! across the VIP concourse, past a couple of open door suites. Kael! rakes Rose in the eyes and then throws her into a suite as a woman who’s dressed WAY too nicely to be attending a wrestling show starts screaming and hides in the corner. A couple of the other VIPs stand around but keep their distance as Kael! wants to whip Rose off the suite and over the top of the 200 level!

She stops ON A DIME right before she reaches the edge! The Second Coming gets on better footing and charges towards Max, when Kael! grabs one of the VIPs and stands in front of him.

Rose stops but it also looks like she thinks about striking them both in the heat of the moment. Nevertheless, Kael! seizes the opportunity. He discards the VIP to the side, picks up one of the food trays and tosses it at Rose’s head. It hits her between the eyes as she’s temporarily stunned. Max dives for her legs, hits her with a chop block and then tosses her out of the room. The VIP woman stops screaming… but only after she makes eye contact with Kael! and then covers her eyes in fright.

Max wanders out of the suite, looking for Rose but he can’t find her.

However, Rose is right behind him. She opened up the nearby janitor’s room and reveals…

A lead pipe.

Richard Parker: Oh no! Deja vu!

Kael! spins around at the last second and he sees what’s coming for him. His eyes almost fall out of his head as he steps back, narrowly missing one of her swings. Kael! looks to be backtracking again but this time he’s able to move away quicker than normal because, after all, the damage has been done to Rose’s knees. She walks with a significant limp now.

And yet… Kael! realizes he’s coming to the end of the VIP hallway. He’s dead to rights. Nowhere else to go.

POOF!!

Pocket sand!

Kael! throws the sand and it lands firmly in Rose’s eyes. She’s clever, though. She swings the lead pipe anyway and it NARROWLY misses Max again. In fact, this time it likely clips the edge of his jaw as he moves forward. Regardless, The Unquestionable Intense Champion! spears Rose to the floor, the lead pipe flying out of her hands in the process. Kael! cracks Rose in the side of the head a couple of times, then peels her off the floor and takes a hard three steps back.

He throws himself towards her.

CRACK!!!!

The Dreamweaver.

Rose is DOA.

Kael! falls on top.

Nixon counts.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

The bell can be heard from inside the bleachers.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… MAX KAEL!

Nick Stuart: Kael! wins by the skin of his teeth!

Richard Parker: Or by the skin knocked off his jaw thanks to Rose. She nearly clocked him OUT COLD!

Kael! rolls off Rose, a weak arm raised in the air as a couple of PRIME staff are there to check on the wrestlers and likely to restore order to the VIP section.

ReVival goes to commercial.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/Team-Farthington-Video.mp4

The air still reeks of green beer breath and cabbage farts in the mens bathroom of TD Garden. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the ghosts of Dropkick Murphys whispering  “Shipping Up To Boston”. Although St. Patty’s Day has come and gone, the hangover in Boston is real and visceral. And here, among the wilted four leaf clovers and foxhole prayers, we find Complete Abandon in one of the arena’s bathrooms. Members of, at least.

Garrisoned inside one of the bathroom’s stalls is Harley Walker, who’s currently in the process of ejecting everything out of his stomach through his mouth. This has become somewhat of a post-match ritual for our poor stuntman, who’s still trying to rediscover his youth in a young man’s world. Unbeknownst to our suffering Lightning Boy, Lem, “Fast” Eddie Sullivan, Francis the Great, and Nolan Cooley are all standing in front of the locked stall door – stoic, patient, with their arms folded.

After another violent dry heave, the entrance door to the bathroom opens up. It’s Sly, Harley’s new assistance and agent, with a pink bottle of medicine in his hand.

Sylvestor: “Harley, they had a bottle of Pepto Bismol at the medical cen—”

Sylvestor’s eyeballs center in on the Complete Abandon crew. You know that scene in movies when a guy walks in a room and everyone turns reaaaaaal slow to stare at him? Yeah, just like that, the boys from Complete Abandon turn to stare at Sylvestor. After a few more seconds of awkward silence, Sylvestor speaks up.

Sylvestor: “Oop, it appears I’ve poked my nose in at the wronnnnng time. Hehehe. Anyway… (Sylvestor clears his throat) …as you were gentlemen!”

Sylvestor quickly moves the Pepto Bismol bottle out of the doorway and shuts the door. Nolan scoffs under his breath, shaking his head, and then returns his somber glance towards the stall door.

Nolan Cooley: You’re in a bad way, brother. You don’t ever have to feel this way again.

Even if Harley thinks he’s drowning, it’s highly unlikely he’s going to grab the life preserver in the midst of this raging storm of bile and exhaustion.

Harley Walker: That’s precious. (Harley lets out a couple of coughs, and then spits into the toilet.) You gonna try and save me too, son?

Lem Hawthorne: No, that’s not our game. Quite the opposite, old man. We’ve all had more than enough people trying to save us. That’s just not our schtick. You ever heard the one about the guy that prayed to (air quotes) god to save him during the flood?

Well familiar with the layer of hell Harley is currently in, Lem decides to press on. Although his attention span is surely at the end of its rope, there’s nothing like a captive audience.

Lem Hawthorne: This old country fucker, let’s say his name is Billy, is seeing a big flood, right? Biblical type. So Billy prays to his god and says oh lord, deliver me from this and all that shit. Bus of his friends evacuating comes on by and says hey Billy hop on in.

The other partners of this quartet respond in unison.

Complete Abandon Quartet: Nope, my lord is gonna save me!

Lem Hawthorne: (over the hurling) I’ll leave you with the Cliffnotes given your, uh, current state. A whole bunch of other mother fuckers come by and ask him to jump on their various means of travel. And do you know what this son of a bitch says every time?

Pause a beat for dramatic effect.

Lem Hawthorne: You guessed it, old man. Nope – my lord is gonna save me. Well low-and-behold the dumb son of a bitch drowns. Now, Billy has been a proper god fearing man so he makes it on up to the land of salvation and gets to ask his god just why he let him die.

Eddie Sullivan: This is my favorite part.

Lem shoots a glare in Eddie’s direction.

Lem Harthorne: And his god says you dumbass, I sent you a bus and a boat and a helicopter. Moral of the story is we help those who help themselves, old man. So what of it? You want to help yourself?

The sound of a lock unlatching is followed by a thump, as Harley kicks the bathroom door open just enough for it to slide open slowly with a creak. Once fully open, we see Harley sitting on the toilet with his pants down at his ankles. He’s wearing a cowboy hat that’s titled down just enough to where you can’t see his eyes, and begins to slowly clap his hands.

Harley Walker: Hell of a story, son. And you’ll have to excuse me… (Stops clapping and clasps his hands together in front of him) Throwing up always makes me shit for some reason. I can’t explain it one way or ‘nother and when it’s gotta happen, it’s gotta happen. Nothing else really matters, ya’know? My rear-end expects me to drop every little thing I’m doing to make sure that it’s my priority… gets ahead of everything… and the only thing I get in return for dealing with my system being a complete bag of shit, quite literally, is a little peace, right?

Harley yanks several squares of toilet paper off of an individual roll that was sitting by his left foot and then – well, does what you do with toilet paper. While the Abandon boys look at each other in confusion.

Harley Walker: But do I get that? ‘Course not. 45 year old, out of shape, grown ass man that’s decided to throw the dice out there and get tossed around like the last fruit loop in a bowl of cereal.

Harley flushes the toilet, turns back around and starts walking closer to Lem. Of course, while doing this, Harley lights up a cigarette. Lem doesn’t break eye contact and his smile doesn’t waiver. He’s grown up in rail yards and played this scene out a thousand times. That familiar knot in his stomach is back and honestly, part of him still yearns for it. There’s something so pure about violence.

Harley Walker: Do I get to take a dump in peace though? No sir – because I’ve got the leader of Heaven’s Gate tryin’ to sell me on something. So, do me a favor, son – tell me. You think I need help?

Lem Hawthorne: Do you think you need help, old man?

Harley pushes his hat up, so that they can all see his eyes, and takes another drag of his smoke before tossing it on the ground at their feet.

Harley Walker: How ya’ gonna help me? I don’t see no bus. I don’t see no nothing – damn sure don’t see no helicopter. So… since you felt the need to interrupt my body’s natural purge… enlighten me, son.

The entrance door to the bathroom opens up again and it’s Sly again, with the Pepto Bismol. He holds his other hand up. No one even looks this time.

Sly: Don’t mind me at all. Harley (lowers his voice to a whisper), I’ll just leave this right here. As you were gentlemen… again.

Sly places the bottle of Pepto Bismol on the floor in front of the door and then quickly exits stage left, shutting the bathroom door tightly once more. We return back to Harley, Lem, and the rest of the crew, intensely staring holes.

Lem Hawthorne: You should get your eyes checked, old man. Maybe your hearing, too. Nevermind boys, this ones an invalid. He still thinks he’s got a good run left in him. Tell me, old man, do you really think you got what it takes to carve it up in the talent pool you’re in without some help?

Finally they break eye contact as Lem looks Harley up and down as if he were sizing up a used car. The brakes are broken, most of the glass is missing, and there are a hell of a lot of dings and dents on the body. Lem sucks his teeth at Harley, dissatisfied with the appearance of the product. But what’s under the hood? Every good racer knows pretty don’t win any cups.

Lem Hawthorne: They’re going to eat you alive, grandpa.

There is zero space between Lem and Harley now as Lem baits him in. Will the old man kick his ass? Yeah, probably. Truth be told, Lem is hoping he will. He hasn’t had a good beating since the Belmont Classic and he really wants to see this old hotrod redline.

But also, that isn’t going to happen.

Instead, Harley opts to respond to Lem with words.

Harley Walker: Truth is, I came in this world of yours with half of the expectation of never making it out of my first match. Barely did, in fact – but I did. A couple more matches now in the dust, and wouldn’t you know, the old man is still standing right here, staring at those empty eyes of yall’s,

Posing no threat, Harley walks directly past them, slightly brushing Nolan’s shoulder in the process.

Harley Walker: And I reckon yall’ may be right. I may be all the savin’ I can get, but we’re gonna work on that later, once I’m done with the ass-beatins’. Good day to yall’, now.

Harley tips his hat towards the Abandon crew and turns to exit the bathroom. For a brief second Lem can’t swallow or breathe. He needs this. Just as Harley opens the bathroom door Lem grabs ahold of the cowboy’s shoulder. Everyone winces anticipating the impact as Lem twists Harley around and raises a closed fist.

Rob Williams: That’s quite enough, boys.

They all suddenly sit in the giant shadow cast from the hallway lights behind Rob Williams into the bathroom. Rob slides in between the Complete Abandon boys and Harley, casually removing Lem’s hand from Harley.

Rob Williams: Lem, the cowboy has made it clear he doesn’t need any help. To which I (looking up and down at Harley) respectfully disagree, but hey, lead a horse to water and all that shit. Now let’s get you pointed up, huh?

A saccharine smile paints Rob’s face. He dusts off the cowboy’s shoulders and adjusts his cowboy hat, much to Harley’s chagrin. Rob once again sizes up Harley and gives a smirked nod of approval before putting an arm around him and walking him out of the bathroom.

Rob Williams: You’ll have to forgive my… associates. They get a bit overzealous at times. You know, they’re just all fired up to not be sleeping in box cars and shit. Now get along, little doggie, but remember – I got my eye on you.

Put off by the entire incident, Harley sighs and walks away.

Rob Williams: Be seeing you, cowboy.

We cut elsewhere.

From the Rob Williams and Harley Walker conversation, we’re taken to a much more pleasant sight.

No, not an Arthur Pleasant sight. God, would I do that to you?

Well, I guess I did that once last year when AP first appeared in PRIME. My bad.

Anyway, we’re taken to Lindsay Troy’s office, where Arthur Pleasant is nowhere to be found. It’s just the Queen, by herself, with some paperwork, and she’s doing Boss Shit.

If she was Matt’s favorite wrestler, she’d be doing Bo$$ Shit, which would be appropriate since PRIME’s in Bo$ton and lol he’s gonna kill me, ANYWAY……..

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Lindsay Troy: Come in!

The Steel Door O’Doom swings open and in walks Enemigos LXV, XXV, and LIII, along with “The Next Diamond,” Nate Colton. Our dear, sweet blonde bb boy has a well-worn paperback novel in his hand, which he sets down on Lindsay’s desk. He takes a seat in a chair across from her and makes himself comfortable.

The Queen looks first at the book, then at Nate.

Lindsay Troy: A little heavy-handed, don’t you think?

Nate Colton: Not sure what you mean by that. Just revisiting some classic American literature. I’m just about done; I can loan it to you if you want.

That earns Evansville’s Finest a smirk.

Lindsay Troy: Don’t quit your day job; being clever doesn’t suit you.

The Next Diamond shrugs, then leans back in the chair.

Nate Colton: So…what did you need?

Lindsay Troy: You tell me, Nate. You’re another voice in the chorus who likes to cry on Jabber about sneak attacks from the PRIME big bads and how this place is “just like Chicago” without having any actual frame of reference to Chicago because you were never there, and who could do something about the PRIME big bads but doesn’t.

Nate scoffs, and he sets his jaw.

Nate Colton: Right. It’s my fault that Chandler Tsonda is all busted up right now. I guess I shouldn’t have been so tied up in my own problems.

Lindsay Troy: There you go being clever again.

Nate Colton: You’re right, I wasn’t in Chicago. But I heard the stories. I read the recaps. I saw enough students drive three hundred miles to our school because that city has no local scene–it’s been poisoned so bad that nothing grows there. I know that for years, my dad was ashamed to tell people what he did for a living because that place is what most people think of when the word “wrestling” comes up. And when it was time for me to break out, there was nowhere to break out to. I kept busting my ass in the indies for three years because they were the only game in town, and I knew enough about that place that I refused to set foot there.

Lindsay Troy: There were other places, Nate. DEFIANCE. Bang! Places that weren’t Chicago. You’re going to tell me Inoue Doi wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to sign you? You toiled in the Midwest indies by choice, and don’t mistake me: there’s nothing wrong with the choice that you made. There’s no judgment here. But you thinking there’s some correlation between PRIME and Chicago is going to bring some judgment, because I can tell you right now….the whole reason I’ve put everything I have into bringing PRIME back is so that it wouldn’t be what I know Chicago is first-hand.

With that statement, the Next Diamond actually softens a little bit. Doesn’t this dummy know he’s supposed to escalate? Do you even watch wrestling, bro?

Well, he seems determined to do things his way. All right, guy. Take a breath, take the bass out of your voice, and try again.

Nate Colton: That’s a long story. And…yeah, I know PRIME isn’t like Chicago. I don’t even know if that was what I was trying to say. But…I know how the business works, all right? I grew up in it. Literally. There’s always going to be bullshit, because some asshole years ago decided that’s what the people wanted. But you can throw a rock and hit the bones of some promotion that catered to that bullshit until it collapsed under the weight and died. I know you don’t want that for PRIME…but I promise you, it’s headed that way.

The Queen sighs while leaning forward in her chair.

Lindsay Troy: Do you think PRIME is going to turn into what happens in here?

She taps the cover of Nate’s book.

Lindsay Troy: Or that I will? I know you’re not a student of PRIME History like Hanlon is, but while you were running through the sprinklers in Jake and Mallory’s backyard, I was one of a few standing against people who wanted to tear this place apart. Me. Killean. Matt Ward. Danny Ferguson. Later, it was different faces and different antagonists. That’s not my job anymore; it’s my job now to bring in the best talent this business has, and unfortunately, the best talent are sometimes big pieces of shit. It’s time for someone else to take up the mantle that I did, because I can’t do that and run this place the way it should be run.

Nate Colton: It shouldn’t be anyone’s job. We signed up to be wrestlers, not soldiers. Yes, we’re here to fight. Yes, we are going to get hurt. But what they do is beyond the pale. And I’m not even talking about getting jumped in the hallway; at least Sage and Paxton had the decency to attack us to our faces. But if I’m holding up Paxton fucking Ray as a good example, maybe that should tell you how bad things have gotten here.

The Next Diamond is tightening up again, and his eyes flash with what some might call righteous anger, others petty frustration. Either way, there’s a lot of it.

Nate Colton: I’ve lost count of how many people have left the show in an ambulance. Don Winters got crucified two weeks ago. And people talk about it like it’s a normal job hazard! I promise you it is not normal, and it sure as shit isn’t wrestling! But if they keep running unchecked a trip to the hospital will be the least of our problems.

Lindsay Troy: Then do something about it, Nate. You don’t like what you see going around here? Do something about it. That’s what I did. None of us back in the day went crying to management. We didn’t make little passive aggressive jabs on social media about things we didn’t like. The one time I did do the thing that was right, firing Paxton Ray because of what he did to Jon Rhine, I had Jared Sykes in my office pissed off because I took away his chance at righteous revenge for his friend. Jon asked me personally to reinstate Paxton just so Jared could give him what he had coming. But I give you all the opportunity to do the same thing and you’d rather point fingers and place the blame on me for not making sure everyone hugs it out at the end of the night.

Nate Colton: So we’re back to that. Lindsay…what I’m doing here, in this office? It is something. I’m not just here to bitch; this is a warning. This place is out of control, and dragging ourselves down into their filth will just make it spiral faster. Blood and brutality may spike the ratings, but it won’t solve the problem. If it did, maybe the original PRIME would still be around.

Lindsay Troy: (smiling wanly) Then you’d be stuck with Devin Shakur in charge. If you believe PRIME’s a dystopian landscape now? You have no idea what it was like back then.

The Queen slides the Next Diamond’s book back toward him.

Lindsay Troy: This ship isn’t going to sink. Not as long as I’m here.

Nate gives a subtle nod, then stands up and grabs the paperback from the desk. He heads for the Steel Door O’ Doom, but stops short before opening it, and instead turns back toward the Queen.

Nate Colton: I know how much you care about this place. I care about it too. If I didn’t…I wouldn’t have said anything.

With that, he joins the still-waiting Enemigos and takes his leave…and as he goes, we can finally see the cover of the 90-year-old Sinclair Lewis novel in his hands.

The title?

“It Can’t Happen Here.”

As always, a door.

One would expect, given that it’s backstage in an arena, that it would be your basic steel door. White, black, baby blue; something normal and inoffensive, maybe with a foot guard at the bottom. But no. That door has been removed. It’s sitting off to the side, leaned up against the wall. In its place, a pair of swinging saloon doors have been mounted on either side of the frame. Beyond them, a darkened room.

There’s a bull skull hanging above the threshold and, on that bull skull, there hangs a roughshod wooden sign. It reads, in pyrographed letters:

THE DIAMOND MINE
A place for kings
A place for champions
A place for cowboys
(If you’re hurtin for a squirtin c’mon in, ladies)

Gross. The camera goes through those double doors and, wouldn’t you know it, there’s Daytona Diamonds. He’s sprawled out on the couch, head tilted back on the backrest, somewhere between awake and asleep. The room, once a dour and drab storage area, has been transformed into… well, a den of iniquity. The ceiling done up with fairy lights, ‘tasteful’ (read: tasteless) portraits of scantly-clad women hung up on the walls, and a cardboard cutout of Garth Brooks draped in a feather boa. An industrial sized bottle of lubricant sits on a coffee table, unopened. There’s even those color changing LED lights to properly set the mood! You know how expensive them shits are?

Well, at least the room is hued by lotsa red. That’s hot, right? Right?

Ugh. Daytona mumbles in his half-sleep as the camera pans in on his face.

Daytona Diamonds: …Boston… ain’t got… no bitches…

Now, we’d all like to let sleeping Daytonas lie, but this is ReVival 45 and we’re not ready for an extended ten minute segment of just Daytona sleeping. Not yet. We gotta get to ReVival 69 for that, and boy howdy, that’s gonna be an interesting show, innit?

So, instead, a man kicks open the saloon doors and walks in.

This man has a familiar blonde mop of hair and an even more familiar forehead. He’s wearing an egg yolk-themed poncho and a big black wide-brimmed Stetson hat, and he walks in like he owns the place.

Coral Avalon: Daytona! Like a word with ya!

He’s doing the accent so, so badly, you guys. So badly.

He looks around the Diamond Mine, before his eyes find Daytona still lying on his couch.

Coral Avalon: Daytona?

No response.

Coral stands there with his hands on his hips, a long sigh escaping his lips.

Coral Avalon: …Daytooooona? Are you awake? I had this whole bit planned and everything, and… y’know what, it’s okay. It was probably dumb anyway.

Coral removes his hat and starts to set it down on the coffee table, but notices the lubricant and decides against setting it there. Instead, he removes the poncho, placing it over ‘ol Garth’s shoulders. Right over that feather boa. Doing so reveals that he’s been wearing the Alias championship underneath it.

He puts the hat back on his head and stands over Daytona, shaking him awake.

Coral Avalon: Daytona, wake up! They’re coming for you!

He does not specify who the “they” are, of course. He doesn’t have to. One mention of this nebulous ‘they’ sends Daytona into a frenzy. His eyes go wide, his jaw agape, his hands grasping frantically around the couch cushions beneath him until…

There are several things in this life that you don’t want to see with your own two eyes.

Your parents having sex, for example.

A body at a car crash before the ambulance arrives; that’s another one.

But you know what’s worse than that?

Daytona Diamonds. With a gun. Waving it around in the air. It’s a six shooter, at least. We’ve got to stay on theme.

Daytona Diamonds: Where are they?! Where are them no good sons of bitches?! I’ll fuckin’ blast ‘em! I’ll fuckin’… I’ll fuckin’… oh howdy, Al. What’re you doin’ here?

Remarkably, Coral Avalon does not visibly panic at the sight of the six shooter. Somehow. I’m sure that internally, bricks made out of shit are being materialized as we speak. After a moment, Coral jerks a thumb behind him towards the saloon doors.

Coral Avalon: Well, I saw the sign outside that said the Diamond Mine is a place for kings, champions, and cowboys, so… figured I’d get the old regalia out so I could check all three boxes.

He pauses, his eyes locked on the gleaming six-shooter in Daytona’s hand. Perhaps he’s reconsidering his life decisions right now. Oh well, he’s already here.

Coral Avalon: You know, I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you carry a gun with you. Makes sense, really, lots of crazy personalities around here breaking down walls to beat guys on the other teams up. Best to be prepared and all that.

After a moment, he adds.

Coral Avalon: But you can put it down now, since we need to talk.

Daytona Diamonds: Pssh, what? This ol’ thing? This is just for intimidatin’, Al! It ain’t even loade–

BANG!

As soon as Daytona presses the trigger, a bullet goes whizzing through the air, ripping through (cardboard) Garth Brooks forehead, and embedding itself in a perfectly innocent wall. A little wisp of smoke traces a spiral out from the barrel and Daytona stares, blinking in disbelief before carefully laying the gun down on the coffee table, right next to the lube.

Daytona Diamonds: …that, uh… that was an accident, just so’s you know.

Coral Avalon: …WHAT!? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!? WHY DID YOU SHOOT THE GUN!?

Coral turns and looks around with his hands to his ringing ears, and his hat’s fallen off his head, and he’s not having the best time right now.

Coral Avalon: DID YOU SAY SOMETHING, DAYTONA!? I THINK GARTH BROOKS GOT SHOT!

Daytona Diamonds: I SAID THAT THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT! GARTH BROOKS WILL BE FINE! DON’T WORRY, HE’S GOT FUCK YOU MONEY! YOU OKAY, AL?

Coral Avalon: I THINK SO, WOW, THOSE THINGS ARE REALLY A LOT LOUDER THAN THEY ARE ON THE TELEVISION AREN’T THEY!? DAMN! WE REALLY SHOULDN’T BE FIRING THEM INSIDE ALL WILLY-NILLY, HUH? AT LEAST NOT WITHOUT THOSE FANCY EARMUFFS, AM I RIGHT!?

Daytona Diamonds: I SAID IT WAS A GODDANG ACCIDENT, AL! STOP BUSTIN’ MY BALLS! NOW WHADDYA WAKE ME UP FOR?!

Coral Avalon: OKAY, LOOK, LET’S JUST TAKE A STEP BACK AND PUT DOWN THE GUN AND THEN HAVE A NICE, CIVIL CONVERSATION ABOUT THE WHOLE LETTING DON WINTERS GET CRUCIFIED ON NATIONAL TELEVISION THING! I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE HIM BUT WE NEED HIM AT LEAST UNTIL AFTER CULTURE SHOCK AND THEN YOU GUYS CAN KILL EACH OTHER OR SOMETHING AFTERWARDS, OKAY?

Both of Daytona’s eyes roll in unison and exaggeratedly slow, a low groan caught somewhere between annoyance and mockery pouring out from his throat. Shoulders shrugging, head shaking, beleaguered sighs. All the hallmarks of a man who refuses, nay, forbids accountability.

Daytona Diamonds: Aw hell’s bells, Moral Coral! Is that what’s got yer panties in a twist? Ain’t like a drove the first nail, bucko! I was an innocent bystander! What’d you expect me to do? Save the fuckin’ day? Weren’t my business, weren’t my cross to bear.

A pause. A grin. A wink for the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: Heh.

Coral Avalon: Okay, whew… think the ringing’s stopped. I both can and can’t believe you left the safety off on that thing, yikes. Surprised we haven’t gotten a visit from any Enemigos for that. Uh, anyway… I think I caught the tail end of that, and… that’s pretty funny, actually.

A smile.

Coral Avalon: Listen, ‘Tona. I’m not accusing you of putting the nails in Don or anything. I get not wanting to – uh, really don’t want to say “cowboy up” in present company – stick your neck out for someone you despise or anything. God knows, if I was forced to team up with Alexei Ruslan, I’d probably be handing Rob Williams the nails if he were looking to put him on a cross.

Coral sighs.

Coral Avalon: But I did put both of you on this team because you’re both damn talented at this, and we need all the talent we can get. So if that guy totally beefed it before WarGames then we’d be down a man. Who would I put in Don’s place? Lunchbox Lynyrd Skynyrd? Cardboard Dan Ryan?

Daytona Diamonds: Here’s the thing, Coral…

Lazy though he may be, Daytona moves to stand. He picks up his cowboy hat from where it lays on the couch and puts it on top of his head. He cracks his neck and takes in a deep breath before he says the quiet part out loud.

Daytona Diamonds: …I don’t give two shits ‘bout WarGames. That goes for Donny, that goes for the team, that goes for all of it. You painted a real pretty picture, buddy, I’ll give you that. Fortune! Fame! A chance at the big leagues, ain’t it? Well, pardner, I dunno if you noticed, but that horse done took off without you.

A grin curls at Daytona’s lips, hand lifting up to count his achievements.

Daytona Diamonds: I beat Youngblood, fair and square. I’m the only man to pin Rob Williams in that fuckin’ ring.  I’ve done took off like a goddang bottle rocket and, baby, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with you or those chucklefucks you call a team. I’ll be in Cardiff and you bet your ass I’ll fight like hell just to keep this year’s record spick and span, but beyond that? Well, hell, Coral. Guess you hitched your wagon to the wrong pony, huh?

One hand reaches out and pats Coral on the shoulder, the other reaching up to tip his hat. With a wink and a nod, Daytona pushes past Coral and out those swinging saloon doors, voice calling back from the halls.

Daytona Diamonds: Don’t touch the fuckin’ gun, Al! Or the lube neither! You have a good night now!

Coral calls out behind Daytona on his way out.

Coral Avalon: …See you in Cardiff!

Whether or not there’s an implied “…or else” to that is anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, ReVival 45 moves on.

We cut backstage to the hallway on the 7th Level of the TD Garden where across from the Bud Light Blue Zone (Relax George) is a quickly put together, shoddy looking Merch Table with our Hero Stefan Hariston behind the table. His amazing hair is looking as real as it always…

HAS!

BEEN!

…and his glasses must be Gucci because he is shining like the fashion idol he is. He is working with Clarice and his employee, we never named last card because Hariston is a lazy self-indulgent fool at times. There is a nice slowly moving line with everyone in a tizzy for the presale for MAX JAIL. Some people are getting upset and remarking on not wanting to miss the bouncy house match for some board game, but others comment that’s what DVR is for. Ok there was one person who said it.

That guy.

Stefan Hariston: THAT’S WHAT DVR IS FOR!

Everyone ignores him because everyone likes some Bandit Dick.

Clarice makes her way over to Stefan and taps his shoulder. He turns around like a maniac with an incredibly weird smile.

Stefan Hariston: Yessssss?

Clarice: Is there a reason I am wearing an apron?

Shrug.

Wink.

Shrug.

Stefan Hariston: Why is cash used to spread disease?

Pause.

WHAT?

Stefan Hariston: Why is the moon a hollow metal alien base?

Uh…

Stefan Hariston: And why is it called a Pancake; it is neither a pan nor a cake?

Clarice’s mouth opens to respond but she cannot figure out how to reply so she just turns around and walks over to where the other guy is working.

Clarice: What…was…that?

He turns and smiles.

Man: Did he talk about the Moon being hollow?

She nods.

Man: Don’t pay him any mind, truth is he has been a little out of it for over a year, but he means no harm. I am Jac…

Stefan turns sharply towards the man and yells.

Stefan Hariston: JAKE, are you helping our new employee?

Jake: Ah yea, sorry…I am Jake Farley.

He groans after finishing saying his ‘name,’ and shakes his head slightly.

Clarice: OK, then what was that?

Jake Farley: You have a lot of questions but don’t worry about it. The real question is why you decided to work with us? You should try working in an industry that isn’t wrestling.

Clarice: I want to prove to Lindsay Troy that she shouldn’t have fired me.

Laughter.

Jake Farley: Good luck with that. Just focus on selling as many pre-sales as you can because from what I was hearing recently we might need that money.

Clarice: For the game, right?

Silence.

She continues to stare at Jake who just gives her a fake smile and goes back to folding some PRIME T Shirts not created by that hater Anna Daniels. A Cecilworth Farthington Only Poor’s Need Tax Refunds shirt is seen. A Daytona Diamonds Cowboy Hat is seen that looks awfully familiar but nah this hat has stripper glitter all over it so maybe it wasn’t part of some alliance that was the best.

Stefan Hariston: Clarice, this is what IHOPS is all about…

He moves his arm like Vanna White towards all the wares he is selling. She follows his arm and nods slowly, but the nod begins to quicken up when she sees the manic smile on our favorite salesman’s face.

Clarice: Glad you have energy, sir.

Stefan Hariston: We don’t just do this for accolades. We do this because it helps the company and the wrestlers get their brand out. Nobody would care about Brandon Youngblood if he wasn’t in that Skull Shaver commercial.

Clarie: Is that true?

Stefan Hariston: Is anything?

Um.

Eyes dart back and forth.

Clarice: Yes?

Stefan Hariston: Exactly, and without people like us these wrestlers would still be wrestling in smoke filled American Legions or god forbid a made up arena that mainly just holds a failing ego.

Clarice: Uh…

Stefan Harison: Not much of a talker, huh? Heh, don’t worry, that’s why I like you. Max Jail is going to be huge and not only help ME but also some little friends of mine that need help.

Clarice: And Max Kael?

Shudders are seen by Stefan and the color leaves his face.

Stefan Hariston: Oh…fo sho…fo sho.

Jake looks up at Stefan and sighs. He looks towards a customer as he takes another fan’s credit card for the pre-sale. That was the last person in line as everyone starts scrambling to get back to their seats for the Bouncy House match. I hope nobody gets bounced into space because those aliens are after all sorts of skills now, competitive eating and noncompetitive crimes are equally appealing.

Jake Farley: That was the last person in line, boss. I think it is safe to say we are all out of these presales.

Stefan Hariston: First we get the money…

Jake Farley: Uh huh…

Stefan Hariston: Then we get the mutherfuckin power…

Jake Farley: Oh christ…

Stefan Hariston: After you get the fuckin’ power, Muthafuckas will respect you!

Jake rubs his head as this went exactly where he didnt want it to go.

Jake Farley: Sure, boss…sure.

Stefan Hariston: I knew you would get it, Jake. We are a team here and I hope everyone in PRIME knows that I am here for them. I want to help this wrestling company be the best it can be. So if you have any ideas and you need ME to help you push it over the line, my DMs are always open. Lindsay Troy and I will help market you all to become household names and don’t worry about her reaction to me because we will be besties real soon.

Jake Farley: I will just take this money…

Jake grabs the cash and the credit card reader they were using and slowly walks away.  Stefan just nods in his direction with utmost confidence in his employee.

Strefan Hariston: Clarice, good first day!

Clarice: Wait…that’s it? We have like two more hours worth of wrestling.

Stefan Hariston: Yep, it’s getting late, box everything up and meet me outside, will yea?

Stefan turns and walks away leaving a confused Clarice in his wake. She turns and looks at the Merch she has to box up and mumbles to herself.

Clarice: Never even explained this Apron, but I do like the cute animals on it.

We cut to ringside.

Star-fade to Nick and Richard, who are sitting ringside at the broadcast table because honestly where the hell else would they be?

Nick Stuart: Fans, our next match is an interesting one, as Bobby Dean and Fred Dick – both men currently riding win streaks – are set to go one on one in a bouncy castle.

Richard Parker: It’s streak versus streak, but please Jesus I hope there’s no actual streaking involved. These eyes have seen things, Nick, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to gouge them out.

Nick Stuart: We’re going to take you live to the scene as this match unfolds, with

We get an overhead shot of the bounce house, which is on the Esplanade in Boston by the Hatch Shell adjacent to the Charles River. It’s huge, and there are multiple sections. From an overhead drone shot we can see that there is a slide that goes up about 30 feet in the air, an open mini basketball court complete with inflatable hoops, a ball pit, a large enclosed area, and a series of smaller areas surrounded by nets.

Nick Stuart: I understand that Charles Beckett has been brought in to oversee the setup and maintenance of the bounce house.

Richard Parker: He’s not caffeinated, is he?

We’ll never know.

But yes.

The on-site cameras get a shot of Beckett as he goes over some last-minute safety instructions with referee Jimmy Turnbull. The illustrious referee looks ready for tonight’s action, judging by his catcher’s chest protector and American Gladiators-style padded helmet. Now, we shouldn’t be too hard on Turnbull. The man did oversee all of the matches in the ill-fated tag division after all. And that includes whatever the hell Survivor was. He has Seen Some Shit.

Richard Parker: Is that… Did I just see a catapult in the background?

Once again, the answer shall remain a mystery.

Again, also yes.

There are also a collection of smoke machines scattered around the grounds, because we are committed to the spectacle, goddammit. They’re a new release from Ikea, and the fancy name they’ve been given is DUÜSK. It’s totally a coincidence.

There’s a light rain falling tonight, because we might as well get everything good and slick while we’re at it.

Richard Parker: I get the distinct feeling that I’m going to hate every minute of this.

Nick Stuart: I’m still not entirely sure why this had to happen in a bounce house.

Richard Parker: Because we work with children who are easily entertained by bright, colorful things.

We get a shot of each competitor as they get ready to enter the bounce house.

First up is Bobby Dean, whose nipples could cut glass thanks to the cold, rainy New England weather. The fans at home will see a fancy nameplate on the bottom of their screen with some key statistics. Folks who happen to be near the Esplanade will hear Joe Esposito’s classic song “You’re the Best” pumping out of some large speakers.

And then there’s Fred Dick, whose mullet is already at full frizz thanks to the rain. He’s currently shadow slap-boxing to get himself ready. Those same speakers are now bumping Jefferson Starship, which is a misdemeanor in Boston, because it really pisses off the Berklee kids.

Both men are told that they have to remove their shoes before they’re allowed to enter, which earns a frown from Bobby and a very animated response from Fred.

Nick Stuart: I wonder what that conversation is about.

Richard Parker: Well, Nick, I’m an expert lip reader. (pause) Hrm… Okay, yes. Mm-hrm. Yup. Okay.

Nick Stuart: That’s what he said?

Richard Parker: No, he was insisting those kicks were hand-stitched by Eddy Curry, which is complete garbage.

Nick Stuart: I’ll say.

Richard Parker: I mean come on, man. Curry wasn’t even on those Jordan teams.

Eventually everyone relents and they leave their shoes outside. With everyone in the first area, which looks like your standard bouncy castle, the match begins. There is no ring bell, but there is a guy with an air horn ready to doot the official start of this match.

DOOOOOOOOOOT

Richard Parker: GAH! WHO MIC’ED THE AIRHORN GUY?!

Before things get underway, Fred Dick has an announcement to make. We’re not sure who he’s making it to, or even how he expects them to hear it given that he has no microphone, but who are we to get in the way.

Fred Dick: Alexa, play some ass wupper music on the computers!

Jimmy Turnbull and Bobby Dean both exchange a glance. Turnbull’s is slightly masked because of his “please don’t kick me in the brains, Bubba King, I need them for thinking” helmet, but you can tell he’s confused. And then that confusion deepens when they hear a voice.

“Step inside. Walk this way. You and me, babe. HEY HEY!”

Richard Parker: Is that Nate Colton’s brother Benny?

Yes.

Richard Parker: What the hell is he doing here? And why is he singing?

Allow me to explain.

You see, Richard, we have this thing called Jabber. We’ve had that shit for two years, and it’s where bits are born. Bits like this one. Seriously, you’d think you’d know this considering you’re on the payroll and in the Hall of Fame, my guy.

Also, hi, Benny. Thanks for coming out tonight.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: Love is like a bomb, baby, c’mon get it on… Livin’ like a lover with a rader phone…

Everyone kind of lumbers around while they try to get a feel of the ground, and learn their footing. Fred is bobbing his head to the acapella tunes.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: Lookin’ like a tramp, like a video vamp… Demolition woman can I be your man…

This is a message to demolition women everywhere. Let Benny be your man. He is a generous lover.

Both Bobby and Fred are big wobbly, as even though the bounce house is weight-rated for thicc bois, there is still considerably more given when someone like Fred or Bobby puts a foot down as opposed to Jimmy Turnbull. After a moment of awkward circling, the two just charge at each other. Their steps are goofy, like two lizards running across the water in slow motion.

Before they can collide, Fred slips, eats shit, and skids two feet into Bobby’s ankles. This causes

Bobby to lose his balance and he falls forward right on top of Fred. Stuck face-down under the larger man, Fred begins flailing his arms and legs to try and escape. We get a clear shot of Fred Dick’s face, and the paint that’s now smeared vertically from forehead to chin. Apparently when he turfed-out and slid, it was face-first.

Nick Stuart: Both men looking like they’re having a little trouble with the terrain they’re competing on tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: That’s putting it mildly. Maybe when they have the rematch it’ll be on ice, or while they’re playing a game of “the floor is lava,” or… honestly who the hell knows.

Bobby stands up, and tries to quickly drop a leg on his opponent. Fred rolls out of the way, and the impact shock of big man hitting the air mat causes referee Turnbull to fall on his ass. It’s going to be one of those nights for ol’ “Turnbuckles.” Of course, the rebound also causes Bobby to spring back up to his feet like he’s on a trampoline.

Nick Stuart: There are some advantages to being the bounce house, like what we just saw with that rebound.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but did you hear those air pumps? Every time someone takes a step, and those things scream.

Believe it or not, both men are already winded. There has been a total of one actual move attempted so far. In their defense, they’re very large men, and bouncy houses are notorious for getting hot in a hurry.

What? I have a lot of personal experience to draw from.

With both men standing, things devolve rather quickly. Bobby slaps Fred, and gets a hand full of paint for his trouble. Fred slaps Bobby right back, because that’s how he likes to get down. In a matter of seconds we have ourselves a full-blown slap fight between a man who’s wearing just wrestling trunks and a man who seems to only be wearing a vintage Jordan jersey. Give yourself a minute to drink that in.

Nick Stuart: Dick and Dean trading blows…

Richard Parker: Nick, I swear to god if you make this match weird, so help me.

Nick Stuart: What? No. I’m just calling what I see! Fred with a right, and Bobby slaps Dick right back!

Richard Parker: Do we have to have “The Talk” again? Hmmmm? You gonna make me apologize to everyone watching for your pervy perv mouth again? Because I will, Nick. Oh, I will.

Fred counters with a poke to the eye directly in front of the referee. It earns him an admonishment, but those words fall on deaf ears.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick with an illegal poke to the eye.

Richard Parker: They’re in a bouncy house! There are no rules here.

Bobby steps back, slips in a wet spot, and tumbles. Fred lumbers over, steps on Bobby’s head, and starts grinding his foot in while twerking.

Richard Parker: Okay, so… Remember a minute ago when I said I wasn’t ready to rip my eyes out?

Nick Stuart: Yes, Richard. It literally just happened.

Richard Parker: Right. Well let it be known that I HAVE CHANGED MY MIND.

Bobby manages to kick Fred’s legs out from under him, which is easier than expected given the unsteady ground and the puddles of moisture that are rapidly accumulating both from the rain and sweat. Both men are up quick, and Bobby lunges in with hands like lobster claws, administering perhaps the most dangerous submission move in his arsenal.

Richard Parker: Okay, note to self – purple nurples are totally legal tonight.

Fred Dick howls the way a man does when another man tries to rip his tits off.

Bobby Dean: Ask him! Ask him!

Yes, it’s loud enough for the microphones to hear. Turnbull does as he’s told – because what are rules when the match is a carnival attraction – and checks to see if Fred is ready to give up. The Street Cat drops to one knee, but he shakes his head in a defiant no. His arms start trembling, as if he’s trying to channel the will to continue, the way one does when they’re Hulking Up.

Dicking Up?

Dicking… Down?

Someone (not me) please workshop this.

Nick Stuart: Bobby’s got the clamps on tight, but you can’t keep Dick down!

Richard Parker: (long, exasperated sigh)

Nick Stuart: Dick is rising! Dick is rising!

Richard Parker: Ms. Troy, if you’re watching this, I think we need to do something about Nicholas. I don’t think he’s well.

Fred gets to his feet, windmills both of his arms up, and manages to break Bobby’s deathgrip on his deathnips. A hard slap connects with the side of Bobby’s face, and then Fred runs towards one of the inflatable walls for momentum. He rebounds, and wobble runs back at Bobby at full speed.

Fred Dick: BLOOODMOOOOOOOOOODE!!!

Bobby sidesteps the charging palm strike, and Fred’s momentum carries him across and into the other wall. He’s shot back towards the middle of the enclosure, and he turns just in time to be caught in a big bearhug.

Richard Parker: I just got a very specific mental image in my head. You’ve seen “Beauty And the Beast,” right, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Richard Parker: Did you ever wonder what it would look like if during that dance scene… you know, the one in the library or whatever… if it was two Beasts? And one of them was totally shaved and the other had a really weird perm and some eye black like a linebacker?

Nick Stuart: …what?

Richard Parker: I mean, I’m just saying. A man sees things, and then a man thinks things, and those things aren’t always good for the brain.

Fred draws both of his arms back, and then bell claps Bobby on both sides of the head. A second strike is enough to get Bobby to break the hold, and both men lazily tumble to the floor of the bounce house. Jimmy Turnbull takes a moment to check on each one to make sure they can continue and gets confirmation that, yes, we’re all good here. Just taking a little break is all.

Bobby is the first one to move as he log rolls towards the entrance to the bounce house. It’s almost tradition for him to try and find snacks in the middle of a match to help regain his energy, and this one is no different.

Nick Stuart: Where is he going?

Richard Parker: You see that guy in the wolf suit?

Oh, hey. There’s a guy in a wolf suit. More specifically, it’s Wolfie Flavorz, the official brand mascot for Wolf Stix, the a-okay savory meat snack available at your local gas station.

Richard Parker: Do we, like, have a deal with this company or something? I hear about it all the goddamn time.

For the meat mascot, wearing a fur suit is nothing new, except tonight he gets $20 an hour for the experience. What he wasn’t prepared for is to get absolutely flattened by a ravenous Bandit who needs to replenish his electrolytes with salted meat. That’s how bodies work, right?

Bobby runs back into the bounce house with a mouth full of processed beef tubes like a meaty Cthulhu. Fred Dick is back on his feet, and Bobby immediately begins whipping him with the Wolf Stix.

Nick Stuart: Di-

Richard Parker: DO NOT! I don’t know what you were going to say, but don’t say it. Just don’t.

A sharp backhand to Bobby’s nethers ends this particular bit of offense. Before the referee can say anything, Fred is already moving on to a different part of the structure.

He enters what appears to be part of an obstacle course, only to find there is someone already there.

Richard Parker: Yup. Was totally right when I said I was going to hate this.

It’s a minotaur, the very same one seen during the Survivor maze challenge almost two years ago, because apparently the Farthington hedge mazes are between burnings. He’s got on board shorts and thick socks, because hooves count as natural shoes and he couldn’t just hack those off. Also he has a tennis ball on each of his horns so that he doesn’t pop the bounce house. What a thoughtful fella.

Richard Parker: Who the hell is in charge of this debacle?

Smash cut to outside the bounce house, where Charles Beckett gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the camera.

Richard Parker: Figures.

The minotaur sees Fred and charges. You might think it’s because Fred’s hair and jersey are both red, and that would be a decent guess, but it’s also wrong. The issue is that Fred is repping the Chicago Bulls, and the minotaur takes cultural appropriation very seriously. This is why the minotaur has now made it his mission to gore the everloving fuck out of Fred Dick.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what I’m watching right now.

Richard Parker: A crime, Nick. We’re watching a crime. And someone better go to jail for this, or I will be very salty about it online.

Fred slaps the minotaur.

The minotaur snorts a cloud of mist into the cold Boston air.

We cut to the first room, where Bobby – having just stuffed the loose Wolf Stix into his trunks – makes his way towards the same juncture Fred passed through. He is immediately trucked by Fred, who has decided that he’s not going to win a slap fight against a mythical beast of legend.

Once more the Wolf Stix go flying. Jimmy Turnbull also goes flying. He’s very aerodynamic, that guy.

Nick Stuart: Good thing referee Jimmy Turnbull invested in the helmet. He really knew what he was getting himself into tonight.

Richard Parker: I… what the… are… DO YOU SERIOUSLY THINK ANYONE EXPECTED THIS?!

Nick Stuart: Do you remember the maze? How about the puzzles and the leafblower? Or the mannequin that learned to execute a piledriver?

Man, Survivor was a time.

Richard Parker: Alright, point taken.

When Fred finally stops running, he realizes that he’s made his way to the mini basketball court, which means it’s time to show off some of those sweet skills. He picks up a ball, which is easily palmed because this is a play area designed for children. He tries to dribble, but this particular ball isn’t designed for it, so it just kind of plops onto the ground.

The minotaur does not follow, because he is bound to the obstacle course.

Enter Bobby Dean, looking very forlorn at the state of his brand new Wolf Stix collection, but nonetheless howling. Or maybe it’s because the Stix have started to work their intestinal magic, and he knows that his time is limited before he starts howling from the other end. In either case, as soon as Fred Dick sees him, the King of Wrong Style gets a running (lumbering) start and then leaps into the air.

Alexa, we need music for this.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: I used to think that I could not go on… And life was nothing but an awful song…

Yes, he’s singing “I Believe I Can Fly.”

Benny “Alexa” Colton: But now I know the meaning of true love… I’m leaning on the everlasting arms…

Richard Parker: Did your video feed just slow down, Nick?

And yes, the video is now moving in slow-motion.

Nick Stuart: It sure did.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: If I can see it, then I can do it… If I just believe it, there’s nothing to it…

Fred spins in the air, all while windmilling his dunking arm. It’s accompanied by a slow motion “HNNNYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHH!” sound from the man from Chicken City.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: I believe I can flyyyyyyyyy… I believe I can touch the sky…

Bobby’s eyes go wide as Fred Dick flies all of one foot in the air before awkwardly crashing into the beautiful man from Honalee.

Richard Parker: But this is a live feed. It should be moving at normal speed. I don’t understand any of this.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: I think about it every night and daaaaaaaay… Spread my wings and fly awaaaaaaaaaaay…

Both men tumble into Jimmy Turnbull, who’s only just now made it into the room after them. His eyes also go wide as he realizes the terror he’s walked into.

Benny “Alexa” Colton: I believe I can soar… I see me running through that open doo-oohhhh-OOORRRRR…

Turnbull quickly finds himself at the bottom of a sweaty stack of Dick ‘n Dean, all that weight putting extra pressure on his bladder.

For where there is R. Kelly must there also be pee. Such is the way of things, such is the law of the universe.

It’s okay. When asked about it later, our intrepid referee will claim it’s from the rain. Everyone will say they believe him, but they all know better. Jimmy Turnbull – sometimes known as Jimmy Turnbuckles – will now earn the affectionate nickname “Jimmy Tinkles” from some of his coworkers.

Nick Stuart: It looks like both competitors have made their way to the next section of this contraption.

Richard Parker: Which I’m pretty sure they took from a Chuck E. Cheese.

This next section is exposed to the elements, as it’s where the giant slide lives. Getting a better look now than the earlier drone footage, we also see that it’s where the ball pit is, as that’s where the slide lands its riders.

Both competitors look at each other, and then sprint towards the climbing slope. This is no longer a wrestling match, if it even ever was one. Instead it is now a challenge for schoolyard superiority, and who can be king of the mountain on top of the slide.

Nick Stuart: Both men jockeying for position here, but Bobby looks like he’s got the upper hand because of his size advantage. He’s blocking that tunnel making it hard for Dick to rise and squeeze in.

Richard Parker: You have to know what you’re saying. Like, you just have to.

Nick Stuart: I’m calling the action, that’s all. I swear.

The ascent is a slugfest, with both men wanting to be the first at the top. Fred lags behind a little, which allows Bobby the chance to kick at him with bare, sweaty feet. When Fred is able to pull up alongside him, he grabs Bobby by a handful of hair – hair the color of French vanilla – and begins trying to bounce his face off of the slide.

Eventually it’s Fred who manages to make it to the top first, but he’s completely gassed from the effort. After taking a minute to compose himself, he throws his arms into the air.

Fred Dick: Alexa, play that winner shi-

He’s interrupted by a flying kick from Bobby Dean, which nails Fred square in the back and sends him tumbling ass over teakettle all the way down the slide. A voice echoes in the night, one that sounds like an angry, southern ghost shouting “Asshoooooooo!” before it splats into a ball pit.

Now it’s Bobby’s turn to celebrate at the top of the slide. Behold Robert Dean, first of his name, king of Moron Mountain!

Richard Parker: So have we established how someone actually wins this yet? Is it the slide? Is that what we’re celebrating?

Dick stands up while surrounded by balls.

Richard Parker: Jesus, has everyone gone full perv?

Sorry.

Fred gets to his feet and looks towards the slide. This is the closest he’ll ever come to knowing what it was like to be a dinosaur, because what he sees is a meteor hurtling towards him about to cause an extinction level event. He scrambles to the side of the pit, climbing out just as Bobby hits the ground and sends colorful orbs a-scatterin’.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick climbing out of the balls…

Richard Parker: I give up. I do. Never thought this is how it would all end, but here we are.

Nick Stuart: And Bobby Dean follows! Both men are heading back into that first room now.

At this point, both men are looking rough. Bobby is bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Fred is leaning back against the wall, which is sagging under his weight. His Jordan shirt is completely soaked through with sweat. All of the black paint on his face has smeared from the rain to where he looks like the platonic ideal of a sad goth. Even Jimmy Turnbull is feeling it.

Bobby looks up, sweat dripping from his vanilla buttercream hair, and makes the first move. He starts lumbering across the bounce house towards Fred. Fred, seeing Bobby take his first step, brings his palm up and runs forward.

Referee Turnbull quietly blesses himself.

Bobby leaps, spinning in the air so that he’s lunging ass-first. Fred readies his Bloodmode strike. The two are about to collide when we suddenly cut to an outdoor shot of the bouncy castle. The entire structure shudders as the two men slam into each other.

Richard Parker: I don’t know what actually happened inside just now, but given the way that whole thing buckled I’m going to guess that one of them exploded.

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t seem likely, Richard.

Richard Parker: Okay, but I can still hope, can’t I?

There’s the sound of a thousand asses ripping at once as the bouncy castle is ripped off of the moorings that secure it to the ground. Air begins to bleed rapidly from a tear that’s formed as a result. Charles Beckett is frantically running to check all the pumps, but unfortunately there’s nothing that can be done to save it at this point. The structure is decompressing too rapidly.

There’s some movement inside, as the bounce house gives birth to all of its occupants. First is Bobby Dean, who tumbles free of the entrance before flopping onto the wet ground. Next is Fred Dick, who takes two steps beyond the border of the bounce house before collapsing.

Richard Parker: Dammit.

Nick Stuart: Going to be interesting to see what happens now, Richard.

Richard Parker: Bold of you to assume they’re not just making this shit up as they go.

Jimmy Turnbull takes off his helmet and assesses the situation. On one side of him, Bobby Dean is planking face-down in the grass with his toes pointed inwards. On the other, Fred Dick is laying starfish with his jersey up over his face, so the whole world gets to see his leopard print trunks.

He starts counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

Nick Stuart: Neither man is moving.

Four.

Richard Parker: But they’re still breathing, which is unfortunate for all of us, really.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Fred Dick limply flails one of his arms, trying to slap anything that happens to be within reach. But he’s still on his back, and he looks to be staying for the foreseeable future.

Eight.

Nine.

Bobby picks his head up an inch or two to look around, then puts it right back down on the grass.

Ten!

The referee waves his arms, but there’s no bell to ring. There is only the airhorn, which signals the end with a double doot.

DOOT DOOOOOOOOOOT

Richard Parker: AHH I THOUGHT SOMEONE WAS GOING TO TURN THE LEVELS DOWN!!

Nick Stuart: Looks like the referee is conferring with someone. We’re going to hold tight while we wait for an update on what the official ruling is here.

Richard Parker: WHAT? DID YOU SAY SOMETHING? I’M HAVING A HARD TIME HEARING AFTER THAT DAMN HORN.

Nick Stuart: Okay… Okay, I’m getting word that even though the bounce house has collapsed, because neither man was able to answer the ten count that the referee has ruled this match a no contest.

We cut to commercial.

A man in a suit smiles at the camera. There is no joy, no mirth, no positive emotion whatsoever. This is a man trying to put on a brave face, and failing miserably.

BAM BAM BAM BAM

Behind him, a teenager in a convenience store uniform drags an empty shelving unit in front of the door. Not much about this employee can be determined, except the fact that they are not getting paid enough for this shit.

BAM BAM BAM BAM

Countless hands pound arrhythmically on the glass. As the doors bow inward, unnatural groans can be heard.

Employee: Sir? This isn’t going to hold very long!

BAM BAM BAM BAM

The man in the suit wheels around, losing his composure as he addresses the minimum wage earner.

Man In Suit: HOLD THEM, DAMN YOU!

He turns back, and once more becomes the very picture of confidence.

Man In Suit: All across the city, the people are demanding Flav-O-Boost!

BAM BAM BAM BAM

Man In Suit: Our product is flying off the shelves faster that we can stock it! So don’t wait another second–go to YOUR favorite Wawa locations and grab whatever you can!

BAM BAM CRACK

A sickly, discolored face appears in the door where glass used to be.

Patron: GGRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Employee: Sir! They’re through!

Man In Suit: SHIT! Every sales representative for themselves!

He runs for the back door, heedless of the other’s fate. If it weren’t for the sales rep’s sudden declaration, the store employee might never have looked back.

Employee: Oh, you son of a–

The worker abandons their post, running for whatever safety they can find. If it helps, you should know that this worker knows the store layout pretty well, so they know where to find important things like the roof access panel. Which is not near the back door.

The sales rep grabs the knob and pulls the door open…but instead of the safe escape he expects, he finds only snarling faces and grasping hands…

Man In Suit: AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Flav-O-Boost is a proud sponsor of…

PHILADELPHIA STREET FIGHT
Philadelphia, PA
April 27, 2024

WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLL!!!!!!

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

It hits like it always does. Loud and heavy as hell. Planets exploding on the PRIME*View while “Daggers” by We Came as Romans batters the eardrums. Out from the Argyle position storms Hayes Hanlon, in black slacks and his black button-down dress shirt, sleeves rolled up with a mic in hand, storming down the ramp in spite of the crowd’s disdain.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ReVival 45! We’ve got Hanlon coming to the ring now.

Richard Parker: And I’m here for it, Nick. The kid’s got a real edge to him, and it’s paid off with some big wins. It’s inspiring stuff! You think I could pull off a mustache?

Nick Stuart: In an odd way…yes.

After quickly rolling into the ring, Hayes stands dead center, cutting his hand across his throat to kill the music, leaving only the heavy boos of the Boston crowd.

He lets it linger. Did he have to?

Did he have to let it linger?

Yes.

And then he lifts that mic to his ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: Was everybody excited to see Jason Snow come back from the dead?

The Comeback Kid marches back and forth across the ring, stalking with dark eyes glaring outward while the crowd responds with a chorus of boos.

Hayes Hanlon: Oh yeah? I bet you were! A year ago, I’d be squealing like a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert! But here’s the problem…

He pauses in center-ring, and holds an arm out wide.

Hayes Hanlon: …I’m not a teenage girl, and Jason Snow’s return fell as flat as Taylor Swift’s ass!

Another volley of disapproval for the Event Horizon, though he responds by adjusting the collar of his shirt.

Hayes Hanlon: But still, it deserves a little credit. After all, Jason Snow held onto the Universal for FOUR-HUNDRED, AND SEVEN, DAYS!

A ruckus of chores force through the boos, and Hayes provides the moment with a sneer.

Hayes Hanlon: And never, TRULY, lost it. And it took FOURTEEN. YEARS…

The Event Horizon lowers the mic, and allows for a pregnant pause, before returning it to his lips.

Hayes Hanlon: …for him to come back from the dead. To come out of hiding. Just to make Brandon Youngblood. Your “DiAmoNd…”

Hanlon lifts his ‘stache with a sneer.

Hayes Hanlon: …piss. His. Singlet.

Boston offers their disapproval with a righteous, unanimous roar. Hayes paces as the noise surrounds him, flaring his nostrils and sneering behind his mustache. Eventually, the noise of the crowd lowers, allowing the two-time Champ to continue.

Hayes Hanlon: Meanwhile…I get to take on the Murder Show.

A pop from the Boston crowd. To his credit, Hayes allows for the bellow to linger.

Hayes Hanlon: And just like Chandler Tsonda, I’m so freakin’ disappointed that he came back. Because now, I have to beat the brakes, off of the ReVolution again!

He shakes his head, feigning true disappointment.

Hayes Hanlon: And speaking of the ReVolution…

His eyes brighten, and he finds a camera to stare into directly, holding the mic in both hands.

Hayes Hanlon: BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD!! PARIAH!

Hanlon spits, and his eyes vibrate into the camera.

Hayes Hanlon: You’d better forget Guns ‘N’ Roses! And Jason Snow! He can step the fuck in line! Because you have bigger things to worry abou…

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
LET THE GALAXY BURN

Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through The TD Garden, and without a backdrop of blue and white strobes, all we are left with is the form of Brandon Youngblood, dressed in his usual ensemble of combat shorts, wrestling shoes, and performance shirt. This one, however, is a little different.

This one has the letters SOB emblazoned across the chest, the Youngblood Diamond just above. Standard Of Bastards. A deep cut now relevant. The Strong Father powers down the ramp, microphone in hand, shooting upward and hovering near his mouth as he roars, his other hand stabbing his middle and index finger in the direction of The Event Horizon.

Brandon Youngblood: SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!

The music cuts abruptly. The crowd bellows and roars. The stern expression doesn’t flinch as he nears the foot of the ramp.

Brandon Youngblood: Hanlon…HANLON! You’ve had all this time…ALL. THIS. TIME! You’re supposed to have all that damn charisma, son, they’re supposed to be hanging off every word…Taylor Swift’s ass? ‘I’m disappointed’? I had you pegged wrong from jump.

A spit of disgust.

Brandon Youngblood: I thought I done ran the goddamn Best’s out of sport. Guess the off brand wanted to come up for air. Riding that bleeding edge of pop culture, kid. Fours all day.

A smirk and sneer. If Hanlon is even thinking about speaking, Brandon is quick to cut it down before the first breath draws.

Brandon Youngblood: Shut. UP! You’ve DONE your talking. You’ve shot your shots and you’ve had your time. And like every other bit of shit HANDED to you, you done wasted it and got nothing to show for it. You’re boring me. What I got to worry about is a piss baby trying to play revenge tour.

Hayes Hanlon: WAS I BORING YOU TWO WEEKS AGO????!

Hayes Hanlon: WHEN I WAS ABOUT TO MANGLE YOUR STUPID! FREAKIN’! FACE!? BEFORE DAM PULLED ME BACK?

Hanlon snorts into the microphone, and stomps back and forth across the ring.

Hayes Hanlon: Was it HANDED  to me when I left Jiles flat on his back? Over a year ago???? Was it HANDED to me, when Ivan chucked my ass through the cage??? And I STILL WON????!!

The Event Horizon grinds his teeth, and shakes his head at the Tower of Babel.

Hayes Hanlon: Or was it handed to YOU?? When you went BITCHING! And MOANING! And CRIED your way to another shot at MY! TITLE!!!

Brandon Youngblood: YOUR title? See, I got this problem here with your dumb ass shooting off thinking you got shit all of claim on ANYTHING.

Stomping his way up the ring steps, the Diamond shoots between the ropes rising ramrod straight before continuing.

Brandon Youngblood: Because you like to go around here talking Ivan this, or whatever that. This whole this…this WHOLE thing…

Hand wave for emphasis.

Brandon Youngblood: They wrapped it, put a little bow on it and said, kid, we’re doing stadiums now. We’re going on tour outside Vegas. Your face was on every damn billboard Ace mustered up. Magazine covers. And when it came time to put in the work, when it came time to BE THAT GUY, YOU pissed yourself.

The two are in a standoff now.

Brandon Youngblood: After Rezin clipped you, AGAIN, you didn’t have to fight the gauntlet. You didn’t have to pin one damn person to get right back in the front of the line. Don’t say people are crying crocodile tears when it’s you staring down a damn mirror–

A step closer.

Brandon Youngblood: I fought. I earned contendership. And then, I fought the man who held the Universal Championship. And I beat him. And what happened then?

Another caustic smirk.

Brandon Youngblood: You blinked and your little fifteen minutes went dried up, Hayes. So shut up. You think I give a shit if you’d have ripped my face up? Been there. Tear my arm out of its socket? Done that. Everyone knows, whatever you’d have taken off me? I’d taken waaaaaaaay more from you. Everyone knows. Especially you.

Hayes Hanlon: Then how about you PROVE IT?

Hayes takes a bold step forward, nose to nose with PRIME’s Ace, lingering for a good, LONG while.

A long while.

Until the Event Horizon steps back.

Hayes Hanlon: You said my fifteen minutes have dried up?

Home Run Hayes shakes his head as he turns away from Youngblood, grinning at the booing crowd…

…before turning back abruptly, and stepping hard into Youngblood’s face.

Hayes Hanlon: THEN GIVE ME ANOTHER FIFTEEN MINUTES!!! AT CULTURE SHOCK!!!!

Practically nose to nose.

Brandon Youngblood: What…I thought I was supposed to be thinking about a ghost…

The wild glare in his eyes is disconcerting. Hanlon doesn’t flinch.

Brandon Youngblood: All I’ve been thinking about…you. Cardiff. Biggest stage you have. Biggest stage of your life.

A tilt of the head.

Brandon Youngblood: You’re. On.

RRRUUUUUAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

With no hesitation, The Diamond, the challenge accepted, pushes his forehead into that of Hayes.

Brandon Youngblood: And you’re done.

A spike of the microphone. A few steps, eyes still locked, Youngblood steps through the ropes, hopping off the apron and onto the floor. He never takes his eyes off of Hanlon, waiting to see if the other shoe is about to drop.

Unfortunately for the fans in Boston, it never does.

“Bloodsport” hits the speakers as Youngblood makes way up the ramp, eyes dead on Hayes in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: You heard the man, folks!!! Challenge accepted!!

Richard Parker: Brandon Youngblood vs. Hayes Hanlon at Culture Shock! And with no title on the line, this one is gonna be an absolute blood bath!

Nick Stuart: Hayes better back up that mouth of his, because I don’t think Youngblood will be interested in any more words!

The Diamond’s music continues to hammer the arena, mixing with frenzied fans, as the Strong Father glares down at Hammerin’ Hayes from the top of the ramp. Hanlon returns in kind, gripping the ropes, teeth grinding behind his mustache.

And then, we cut to backstage.

The video screen comes to life and shows Adam Ellis standing like a lone wolf somewhere out in the country… perhaps near a remote cabin somewhere in the Missouri countryside, his tall frame dressed down in a pair of faded blue jeans that had seen more than a few scuffles and a black, sleeveless t-shirt that clung to his muscular torso like a second skin. The graphic on the front was a nod to his country roots—a snarling eagle with the words “Warrensburg, Missouri” emblazoned beneath it. His worn and comfortable boots complete the ensemble, lending him an air of rugged determination.

Next to him, his wife Ginny Van Lear. Her oversized sweatshirt strains over her pregnant belly, but the fierce determination in her eyes remains unchanged. She runs a hand through her messy hair, a sign of the chaos she’s been dealing with at home and steadies the shotgun slung over her shoulder.

Adam paces a short line on the ground.  When he speaks, his voice is steady and infused with the grit of the Midwest.

Adam Ellis: My recent losses weigh on me like a heavy barbell after a tough workout. Five defeats in a row against quality wrestlers but I’ve never complained or sought sympathy on social media.  Did I vent or seek attention?

Adam shakes his head no.

Adam Ellis: Hell no.  I have pride in what I do and I own my mistakes… I own those losses.  Five times, five damn times I’ve been down, but you don’t see me playing the blame game.

His fists clench involuntarily, knuckles white as he fights back the storm within.

Adam Ellis: You keep your head down in this business. You mind your own, and you get back in that gym. That’s what I do.

Ginny’s eyes followed his movements, her expression filled with compassion.

Adam Ellis: ReVival 44…

The frustration in his voice is now laced with a bitter edge.

Adam Ellis: I lost in the match with Harley Walker… another loss… the fifth straight loss.  Was I happy? No, I wasn’t. But after the show, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t the loss that gnawed at me.

Adam’s body jolts as he turns towards Ginny, his eyes blazing with intensity.

Adam Ellis: It was the circus that unfolded at the end of the show.

Ginny’s brow furrows in confusion, but she feels the tension pouring off Adam.

Adam Ellis: I know it’s War Games times. People are teaming up. Tension is mounting and emotions are running high. But what happened at the end of the show…

Adam shakes his head vehemently.

Adam Ellis: …no. That ain’t right.

Adam’s chest heaves as the raw emotion bubbles to the surface, his fists clenched at his sides.

Adam Ellis: Before I say anything else, I really do owe Nate Colton an apology.  You all remember how I chewed him out over the whole Savannah Scandal thing… told him ‘this isn’t HOW, this is PRIME.’   Well, I shouldn’t have done that.  That ain’t right, either.

He shook his head, the weight of his own words pressing down.

Adam Ellis: But truth is, what I saw two weeks ago makes me wonder if there’s any damn difference. Ivan Stanislav… JCH… Vickie Hall…

Adam spits out their names like curses.

Adam Ellis: …what they did to Chandler Tsonda and Nate Colton…

He looks down at the ground and shakes his head.  Then he looks straight into the camera.

Adam Ellis: …that ain’t right.  The reason Adam Ellis chose PRIME was because I wanted to challenge myself at one of the pre-eminent professional wrestling companies going up against the best professional wrestlers, to be the best professional wrestler that I could be.  Nothing that happened to Nate Colton and Chandler Tsonda at the end of 44 had a damn thing to do with professional wrestling… it was sports entertainment bullshit.

Behind Adam, Ginny has a mischievous grin on her face as she twirls the PRETTY PINK© fuzzy handcuffs Vickie Hall used on Nate Colton at 44 with her finger.

Ginny Van Lear: Aw Adam, how come we can’t keep these for ourselves?

Adam turns his head towards her.

Adam Ellis: Now Ginny, everyone knows that Ivan Stanislav told Nate to return them…

His words echoes in the open space out in the middle of the country.

Adam Ellis: …and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.

Ginny Van Lear: Aw right then.

In one swift, fluid motion, Ginny flings the handcuffs into the air with one arm, aims her thirty aught six Winchester model 70 shotgun, and…

*KA-BLAM*

The rifle shot thunders with a mighty echo off the nearby hills and large flocks of birds hightail it away from the blast.  The handcuffs shatter into an indeterminate number of metal shards in the air.

Ellis points to what’s left of the PRETTY PINK© fuzzy handcuffs as they sprinkle down to earth.

Adam Ellis: Here they are Ivan… Vickie… you can come get them any time.

He faces the camera again.

Adam Ellis: I didn’t sign up with PRIME for sports entertainment garbage. If I wanted sports entertainment garbage, I would have stayed in Chicago and put up with Lee Best.

He paces back and forth while Ginny watches.

Adam Ellis: JCH, Vickie, Ivan, and your Baghdad Bob of a mouthpiece Alexi…

His voice rises…

Adam Ellis: …what you did at 44 wasn’t about pro wrestling… it was a whole bunch of sports entertainment hot garbage.  It had nothing to do with winning a wrestling match… it a bunch of bullies acting out and unfortunately Tsonda caught the worst of it.  I’ve learned from past experience that the only way to fight back a bunch of flat-track bullies is to stand up and stand your ground.

Adam walks over to a fire pit.

Adam Ellis: I’m proud to team up with TAL, Nate, Tsonda, Dabney Doubleday, Jared Sykes, and Brandon Youngblood at War Games.  I am ready to go out and fight the fight of my life at War Games. These are the wrestlers who I will stand with to take you down.  I don’t care what happens to me at War Games…

The raw edge to Adam’s voice cut through the tension.

Adam Ellis: …but I’ll be damned if I let those who mock the very essence of this sport win. I will do everything—everything within my power—to help my team win and… more importantly… make sure that you…

His voice drops to a steely whisper,

Adam Ellis: …do… not… win.

Ginny pats Adam on the back and heads over to the fire pit.

Adam Ellis: TAL, Nate, Tsonda, Dabney, Sykes, and Youngblood… you’ve earned my respect.  JCH, Ivan, Baghdad Alexi, Vickie…

Adam raises his middle finger to the camera.

Adam Ellis: …you all can go straight to hell.

Ginny’s pleasant voice breaks the tension.

Ginny Van Lear: Adam honey, ready to light the fire?

Adam turns and nods back to his wife.

Adam Ellis: Good idea, hon.

Ginny Van Lear: These will make great fire starters!

Smiling, Ginny holds up a crap-ton of Ivan Stanislav propaganda posters that were plastered all over the arena during the first show after Ivan won the Universal title.

Adam Ellis: Good thing we brought those with us.

Ginny tosses the posters into the fire.  Adam then squirts the pile with a healthy dose of lighter fluid.  He then faces the camera.

Adam Ellis: They’ll help start the fire.

Ginny throws a match in and the fire roars to life as the video ends.

We cut backstage to the Fabulous Gold Mask’s… gold mask filling the screen. What we can see of his face behind the mask is an expression of abject terror, as his mind is not capable of comprehending what he’s seeing.

You know, that’s not fair. We can’t see what’s going on, either. Maybe if we pan back, and… oh. Oh dear.

Joe Fontaine and Sid Phillips are going over gifts again.

Joe Fontaine: What’s this thing?

Sid Phillips: Max sent me some MEAT?, I guess. It doesn’t really specify what kind of meat it is, it’s just MEAT with a question mark on it.

Joe Fontaine: Sus.

By the way, when we said that Joe and Sid are going over gifts, we of course mean that they’re standing on the wall and walking around a container of MEAT? as though it’s a museum exhibit and not just a questionable meat product. This container exudes a kind of malice hitherto unseen before in the annals of PRIME history. There’s hatred in this MEAT?, and maybe this container specifically shouldn’t have made it out onto the open market and into the hands of the Glueminati, we’re just saying.

The apparent room, filled to the brim with comfy couches and large TV screens and a mini bar all arranged in ways that would make Euclid shit his pants to death, is less like a locker room and more of a suite for the Glueminati.

We’ll call it the “Gluem”.

No?

We’ll workshop it.

The “Gluem” bends and twists around Fabby like an M.C. Escher painting, staircases of TV screens and doorways built out of minibars abound. Joe Fontaine walks through one of these doorways on his side of the room and winds up standing on the ceiling(?).

VENDBERGE seethes in some far-off not-corner of the Gluem, barely out of sight yet forever present. Its boundless hatred has officially flunked out of bound college and disappointed all of its parents. Its hatred clashes with that of the container of MEAT?, canceling each other out because as we all know, two negatives make a positive! That’s how science works.

Joe Fontaine: Buddy, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we’re in Kansas or in Arrr-Kansas any more.

Sid Phillips: It’s pronounced “Ar-can-saw”.

Joe Fontaine: That’s what I said. Arrr-Kansas.

Sid Phillips: I thought we agreed that we weren’t ever going to talk about pirates again.

Fabby looks over at the couch where Cecilworth Farthington sits, desperately trying to get his attention by pantomiming aggressively. Incidentally, the Financier is currently floating along on an island to himself, with only a couch and a minibar to keep him company. He’s definitely fine.

Farthington barely casts him an aside glance.

Cecilworth Farthington: No, I’m fine here.

Fabby raises an eyebrow from under his mask, the universal response of “Really?”

Cecilworth Farthington: Really.

Fabby is forced to accept this against all prevailing logic, because logic is out to lunch right now. Literally, we checked in with David Walter Smith and he said he was going to lunch and we think he skipped town. Or we didn’t ask for permission to use him at all and thus he’s not appearing, one of the two.

Anyhoodle, we’ve already decided that this isn’t the Gluem.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, it really doesn’t capture the Glueness of our space, you know?

Stop talking to the narration, our head hurts enough as it is.

Joe Fontaine: Oh, sorry.

Fuck it, we’re calling it the “Glutehouse” now.

No?

Fine, we’ll keep workshopping it.

Oh, by the way, Sid Phillips is now a cardboard cutout, and that’s pretty weird.

Sid Phillips: …This is going to mess with the powerbomb balance.

His new cardboard form bobs up and down as it’s talking, suddenly impotent at the one thing he’s known to be great at because cardboard cutouts are not known for their powerbombs. RIA would probably still like it, though, we’re just saying.

Sid Phillips: I think I’m going to have an existential crisis now. Excuse me.

Oh.

Oh dear.

Before this moment, we didn’t know what a cardboard cutout’s idea of an existential crisis is supposed to look like. But now that we’re looking at it, it’s definitely not good. There’s sad music and the cardboard cutout of Sid Phillips is looking down on the ground while still somehow remaining completely rigid. Yeah. Just going to go out on a limb and say that reality is not having a good time about any of this.

In desperation, Fabby turns to FLAMBERGE in the hopes that the French Phenom could help with this situation.

He sees an actual, honest-to-god lizard staring at a phone. A literal komodo goddamn dragon going on Facebook to laugh at the rubes. It floats upside-down in a couch within a terrarium, lazily poking the phone with its little dragon fingies. It does not care about Fabby’s plight. It does not notice.

FLAMBERGE: I’ve said eight words since I got here! Nine! Ten! Eleven…

Fabby is forced to accept that this is just life now.

No. He can’t. Not while this is still the Glutehouse. Maybe that name conjures up too many images of very powerful asses. Remember very powerful asses, Fabby? I know you do, buddy. So, let’s focus. Who in the Glueminati is best known for their powerful glutes? Why, Hayes Hanlon! The Thresher of Hooves? Remember him? Let’s check in on him and…

Oh no.

He’s anime.

How did we get the budget to make Hayes Hanlon anime? Don’t worry about it! Just accept his big, rippling anime muscles and the fact that steam is coming out of his mustache as he power focuses on what he must do tonight against Hessian. Do not disturb him. Do not acknowledge him. Anime Hayes Hanlon can hurt you.

Hayes Hanlon: …What?

Fabby turns away quickly, and looks around desperately for someone else.

He finds Hank.

Oh, but Hank is entirely made out of shapes, like a stained glass window. He casts strange lights on a section of the Glutehouse, and… sorry. We gotta change that name. I know, I know, it’s weird to change the name several times, but these are desperate times. Desperate times!

Clearly, this is the Glathering Space for all of our glue friends, who will always stick together!

No?

Well, let’s work that shop, yo.

Fabby looks up to find Phil Atken staring down at him. Phil Atken is Phil Atken. We are not warping reality around the Proprietor of the Glue Factory. Fuck that, he’ll kill all of us. He looks down at what’s going on with a deep frown, which we note is his default expression were it not for his abject confusion. He then wheels out of this entire segment in protest.

Oh, and Joe is now a duck with a shitty manbun.

Joe Fontaine: Quack?

We don’t think you’d notice the difference, really.

Joe Fontaine: Quack!

Dragon!FLAMBERGE sees Duck!Joe and some baser instincts are starting to go to work over there, so that’s probably bad. For Joe, I mean. Not for FLAMBERGE. FLAMBERGE looks like he’s ready for Church, if you catch my meaning.

Fabby feels reality melting away around him. Hank turns from stained glass to anime to photorealistic before our very eyes. Sid is becoming powerbomb-shaped. Suddenly, there is a booming voice.

Anna Daniels: Huh. Is this why our dumb wax body isn’t loading properly?

From the melted ice cream soul that once was Fabby’s entire body is a massive growth face. At this point, Dragon!FLAMBERGE and Duck!Joe have ended up in some sort of air battle as Hank is now the sun. Sort of like a baby sun, like the Teletubbies sun! Hanlon has now managed to shift from anime to manga as Take On Me plays in the distance. Cecilworth is still muttering that he is fine despite being a sentient voodoo doll (whether those pins on him are self-inflicted, who can say?) while Sid has exploded in the literal sense of a bomb with the nuclear fallout of raining elbows all over the Gluenasium.

Was that a bit too far? I’m not sorry. Back to the Glueshop, then. A sigh from the booming voice.

Anna Daniels: Normally, we would let this spread. But we need you dipshits for War Games, so…

The space goes black. In the middle is glowing green text.

UNIVERSAL BACKUP…PROCEED?

Anna Daniels: We’re only doing this once. If it breaks again, we’ll let it burn.

There’s the click of what we can only assume is a mouse. The text blinks out of existence followed by a…hum? Yes, that’s a hum that seems to be quite menacing. It might be VENDBERGE. You never know with these things! And then, just as quickly, the lights are back on. A shifting form previously made of glitch and smoke slowly loads in their “proper” body.

Anna Daniels: Okay, everybody. Roll call! Who’s still alive?

Joe Fontaine: I think I’m missing a pancreas.

Sid Phillips: Ignore him. He’s fine.

Joe Fontaine: No, that’s Cecilworth.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m fine.

FLAMBERGE: I too am the fine.

Hayes Hanlon: ……What?

Joe Fontaine: See? So, anyway, I think I’m pancreless now.

Sid Phillips: I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that now.

The Fabulous Gold Mask dusts himself off, and calmly walks to the other end of the room. He finds a trash bin and… well. We didn’t think people could throw up rainbows in real life, but here we are.

Let’s… get away from all this workshopping, and let’s go to TAL. That seems like a good idea right about now.

A long hallway. The Five Star Champion Rob Williams ambles leisurely, like he’s not guilty of two atrocities in two shows. The purpose? Who knows. Maybe he got tired of hearing Anna Daniels talk about multiversal shit. Maybe the Father was too overbearing. Either way, he’s alone.

Or not.

Voice: Any good crucifixions today, Pilate?

Williams turns around, shocked, to see the masked visage of The Anglo Luchador.

TAL: Or did you just plum use up all your blasphemy last week on The Good Reverend?

Rob Williams: Not yet, but if you’re looking for one I’m always down to dance, son.

The Five Star Champion cocks his fist like he’s going to cold-cock the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, but is interrupted.

TAL: I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

Feeling eyes upon him, Williams stops in his tracks. He peers over his shoulders. Seemingly from out of the shadows behind him appear two men.

“The Model Citizen” Chandler Tsonda.

“Fair Play” Dabney Doubleday.

TAL: Luchador’s got shooters, dawg.

The Five Star turns back towards the Luchador, a smile crawling across the leather of his weather beaten face.

Rob Williams: Well, if it isn’t the Paw Patrol. Come then, boys, let’s have you.

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: No, no buddy, that’s not what this is, even though all of us have reason to want to take turns shoving your head up your own ass and pulling it out for the shit you’ve done to us. I’m not even sure Chan over there is cleared to wrestle.

The Luchador throws it over to the Model Citizen.

Chandler Tsonda: (a little raspy) Fun little thing I found out: you don’t actually need medical clearance to fuck somebody’s whole life up in the backstage area. (cracks his knuckles) Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, Williams.

TAL: And Dabs here? Well, he’s beside himself at the mere thought of attacking someone outside of the ring, but drastic times, man…

Dabney Doubleday: I’m just tired of seeing good people get hurt- while the scoundrels that do the hurting get ahead. I’m of the opinion Mr. Williams that certain folks around here should- well, heck- that they should try a little fair play for a change.

The Luchador shakes his head and sighs.

Rob Williams: You’re not here for ass play? What a let down. If you don’t want to fuck and you’re not trying to fight, why might you surrounding me in the backstage, huh? Are we going to play spin the bottle? Maybe y’all want a signature. Here, (patting chest) I’m sure I’ve got a pen and paper somewhere.

The Luchador shakes his head again.

TAL: Beating Cece really pumped your ego up, didn’t it. Wow. Anyway, no, you see, unlike you and the fathead Russian you’ve attached yourself to, and hell, the lovebirds and the Jizz Pod man? Chan. Dabs. Me. Well, we prefer to settle our shit in the fucking ring.

All three stare daggers at the Five Star Champion, who’s clearly not fazed.

TAL: You’d think that the guy with the belt that’s all about wrestling would get that, but you don’t. All you’ve done since getting here is do all this extraneous shit, running rampant, treating this place like it’s immune to the RICO Act instead of what it is…

He steps up right into Williams’ face.

TAL: A sacred arena of holy battle.

Rob Williams:You know, you’re right. I was a bit confused about things for a while there, but everything just becomes so clear when you experience the divinity of crucifixion. Something of a white light experience, you know? I don’t expect you to understand. There are callings beyond the comprehension of most. Stakes that matter. Don Winters is getting it. Maybe if you pay attention you will, too.

The Luchador turns his head to laugh sarcastically before swiftly getting so close to Williams’ face that he can see up his nose while Tsonda and Doubleday hold their elbows to the back of the Legend’s head.

TAL: To the people who actually succeed in this industry, the belt my captain holds, the belt your teammate holds, the one Coral has, the one you don’t fucking deserve? Those are the stakes that matter. And you’d do well to remember that.

He steps back and dusts himself off.

TAL: As for this whole thing, this whole big THING, I could be like you. I could get my friends to do gang shit backstage and beat the Christ out of my opponents, and lord knows you deserve it not just for the shit you and your fathead friend pulled, but for actually making me feel sympathy for DON FUCKIN’ WINTERS…

Tsonda and Doubleday both snicker.

TAL: We could have left you in a bloody heap, and then your War Games team would be hobbled a bit. Maybe, if I tapped into my Intense Title vein, they’d have to go looking for a seventh. Of course, we don’t do that shit…

The Luchador marches right back up to Williams, pointing his finger in his chest.

TAL: …unless you give us another reason to do so.

The Luchador steps out of the way to give the Five Star Champion a way out of the scene.

TAL: Don’t give us another reason. It’s high time you rudos around here? You learned that we’re not timid woodland creatures.

The Luchador gives his best gator snarl and snaps in Williams’ general direction.

TAL: We bite.

Rob blows a kiss to TAL and does a curtsy to the other good guy before exiting stage right. The Luchador shrugs to both Tsonda and Doubleday. Fair Play looks back with a sincere smile.

Dabney Doubleday: I think that went well, yeah? Everybody still standing and in one piece- I’d call that a successful attempted intimidation in my book. That last line there TAL- boy howdy that was- somethin’ my friend. Go team!

Doubleday raises his hand in expectation of a reciprocated high fives from his teammates. The Luchador reciprocates, albeit awkwardly because, well, even though he will never leave a bro hanging, it is not the time or place. The Model Citizen grimaces just extending a right arm in the direction of the departed Williams, offering to his back the finest one-finger salute in the business.

We cut to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Our night of action continues as we have a newly arrived Surreal Seán O’Neill against the Red Army’s Kenny Freeman!

Richard Parker: Normally I’d say today is Kenny’s day but I’ve seen enough Freeman matches to know better.

The opening chords of Chevelle ‘s “Comfortable Liar” ring out, signaling the imminent arrival of Seán O’Neill. After a few seconds, 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: Introducing first.. 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 looks up to the rafters of the arena whilst spreading his arms straight out to each side.

Nick Stuart: Sean O’Neill currently sits at One, One and One, looking to make this Two, One and One tonight.

Richard Parker: His record kind of cancels itself out so a win here would put him up. It’s like his very first match all over again!

Nick Stuart: That.. I.. I mean I guess.

As he lowers his head, O’Neill smirks at some private joke 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.

Almost as soon as O’Niell’s music ends, the trap remix of the Russian National Anthem floods the TD Garden. The boos for O’Neill do not end but merely carry over for the arrival of Kenny Freeman on the stage. He is joined by his trusted partner, Randall Schwartz as the two take a moment on the stage to confidently shake each other’s hand.

Vince Howard: And his opponent.. From Los Angeles, California.. Representing the Red Army… K-FREE KEEEENNY FREEEEEEEEEMAN!

The Master of the Moscowverse makes his way down to the ring, ignoring the fans as he and Randall appear to discuss strategy for their opponent. Arriving ringside, Kenny climbs onto the apron and slips through the ropes. Randall remains in his friend’s corner while Kenny warms up.

Richard Parker: How much do you want to be Alexei is just going to watch this match later since he knows Freeman’s probably losing?

Nick Stuart: As much as I don’t trust a man like Alexei Ruslan, I think he probably watches everything.

Ashley Barlow checks Seán for weapons, opening up a chance for Kenny to charge forward, blindsiding O’Neill before the bell!

DING DING!

Pushing his advantage, Kenny rains down rights and lefts as Seán does his best to cover up on the outside. Referee Barlow manages to finally pull Kenny off O’Neill, chastising him while Randall cheers loudly from the corner.

Seán isn’t having it, however, as he immediately returns Kenny’s kindness by launching himself out of the corner, tackling Freeman to the ground! Mounting his downed opponent, O’Niell takes his turn to fire off rights and lefts on the stunned Red Army soldier. Sean keeps the pressure up, pulling Freeman up to his feet before executing a flawless German Suplex!

Nick Stuart: The technical ability of Seán O’Neill is on par with some of the best in PRIME. I wouldn’t be surprised if a win here doesn’t set him on the path to a potential future FIVE STAR title match.

Richard Parker: Woah, woah, counting them chickens early, don’t you think?

Nick Stuart: I said I wouldn’t be surprised, not that it will happen.

The Irishman maintains waist control, yanking a stunned Freeman back up to his feet. Quick as a hick-up, Seán repositions his hands to place Kenny into a full nelson. A half a heartbeat later O’Niell drops Kenny on his head once again with a Dragon Suplex.

Kenny’s body kind of rag dolls away from Seán, rolling into a heap a few feet away from the Surreal O’Neill. Regardless of alignment the crowd pops for the back to back stiff as fuck suplexes because wrestling fans are bloodthirst. Seán, with the match well under his control, casually climbs back up to his feet, a smirk on his face.

Nick Stuart: Again, those suplexes are crisp as a fall morning.

Richard Parker: I will give it to you, he dropped poor Kenny Freeman right on the crown of his head. If Alexei is watching, I am sure he isn’t happy with what he is seeing.

Freeman’s legs are the first part of his body to move, twitching with some life. These spasms are put to a quick end as Seán drops the point of his elbow hard across the back of Kenny’s neck!

Dropping down, Seán secures a tight side headlock. Barlow checks the hold and on Kenny, asking if he wants to submit or not. Kenny holds on however his face is slowly turning red.

Nick Stuart: That side headlock, it’s so simple and yet so deadly. Especially after Kenny was dumped on his head twice in a row.

Richard Parker: Seán has that headlock in tight as well, you can see Freeman fading fast!

On the outside Randall Schwartz is trying to rally his friend, pounding on the mat loudly while reminding him that Alexei and Ivan are watching somewhere. This revelation seems to energize Kenny as he slowly starts to lift his fist.

Nick Stuart: Freeman looks like he’s channeling some of the energy of this crowd, Richard!

Richard Parker: That’s bullhockey, Stuart, he’s channeling Alexei’s outrage right now!

Shaking with no doubt equal parts fear of Ivan and pure, red-blooded Communist idealism, Kenny begins to rise from the canvas. Seán shakes his head in disbelief as he tries to tighten the headlock.

Rising to his feet Kenny quickly hammers his opponent with an elbow to the gut. Another one! The fans are rallying behind Freeman if only because they have been trained to do so by years of professional wrestling! In retort, Seán releases the side headlock and puts an end to Kenny’s rally with a Side Russian Leg Sweep!

Nick Stuart: The irony of an Irishman hitting a member of the Red Army with a side russian legsweep, Parker!

Richard Parker: That is cultural appropriation and it shouldn’t be supported in PRIME!

O’Neill floats over and hooks the leg!

One…

Two..

Kickout!

Freeman kicks out though Seán doesn’t look unsurprised. Once again he cinches on the side headlock as the fans boo.

Nick Stuart: The first pinfall attempt of the match and its only good for two!

Kenny suddenly kicks his feet and rolls O’Neill onto his back!

One!

Tw-

Seán pushes his body back over, once again securing the dominant position with the headlock. Freeman simply reverses it once again!

One!

Two!

Before the third count, the Surreal O’Neill is able to roll back over only for Kenny to once again roll him into the pinning position!

One!

Two!

Thre-kickout!

This time Seán doesn’t even chance it and kicks out, releasing the headlock. Kenny scrambles to the ropes, buying him some time as Ashley Barlow steps between the two of them. Randall Schwartz quickly checks in on his man, the two of them whispering to each other.

Nick Stuart: A dizzying combination of pinfall attempts there by Kenny as Seán was forced to break the hold! Kenny is using the ropes for a little protection right now.

Richard Parker: Protection and restrategizing! The Red Army is NEVER outsmarted!

Finally settling on a strategy, Randall pulls himself up in the ropes, rubbing his neck in the process. Across the ring from him Seán O’Neill is waiting, nostrils flaring as his temper is clearly rising.

Kenny finally moves back into the center of the ring as the two men tie up. Seán once again proves his physical power, dragging Kenny into yet another side headlock. This time, however, Kenny is able to push Seán into the ropes. Freeman throws himself to the mat looking to trip his opponent only for Seán to jump clear over him, slamming into the ropes on the far side.

Unfortunately for Seán, Barlow doesn’t catch Randall Schwartz grabbing the Irishman’s leg, tripping him up slightly. It doesn’t hurt the Surreal O’Neill but it does draw his attention away from Kenny. Already hot over the absurd pinning chain earlier in the match, O’Neill begins to yell at Randall who pretends to have no idea what he is yelling about.

Nick Stuart: So this was the strategy, Schartz gets himself involved!

Richard Parker: What are you talking about, I didn’t see anything! Seán must have gotten his foot caught on the bottom rope!

Nick Stuart: You’re not serious, are you!?

Freeman flies into the back of Seán’s left knee, cutting him down with a chop block! Staggering up to his feet, Kenny stumbles back, grabbing referee Barlow to stabilize himself. Meanwhile Seán is using the ropes to pull himself up, his left knee clearly causing him considerable pain.

From the outside once again Randall Schartz gets involve, this time throwing a hand full of Red Army baby powder, which is known as Man Powder in Russia, right into the face of O’Neill!

Nick Stuart: How about that one, Richard!? Did you see that!?

Richard Parker: What happened?! My monitor cut out there for a second but it looks like that villain, Seán O’Neill, is trying to use the old Columbian Booger Sugar in the middle of a match!

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable!

Blinded, Seán limps away from ropes sending wild swings in all directions. Kenny seems to have miraculously healed from whatever had troubled him enough to grab Barlow, seeing his opponent in a weakened state!

Charging forward once again, Kenny spears the left leg of Seán right out from beneath him once again! He hits the ropes, doing a little dance over his blinded opponent before dropping a big leg drop!

Richard Parker: FOLLOW THE FREEMAN! OH MY GOD!

Nick Stuart: Can he follow this up!?

Instead of attempting the pinfall, Kenny locks in the Freeman Special! Blind, wounded and trapped in the center of the ring, Seán O’Neill holds on for a few moments but eventually is forced to tap!

Richard Parker: SWEET ALEXEI HE’S DONE IT!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: You’re winner via submission… KENNY FREEEEEEEEEEEMAN!

The trap remix of the Russian National Anthem bumps through the TD Garden as Randall Schwartz dives into the ring to celebrate with his friend. Randall and Kenny celebrate in the ring as though they have single handedly won War Games for their team.

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman picks up a huge win leading into War Games with the submission victory.. Though through dubious means..

Richard Parker: Dubious means?! Kenny Freeman won fair and square, just like Ivan and Alexei had shown him!

The crowd can’t decide what they want to do as a mix of boos and cheers fall on the two men in the ring. They don’t seem to care, all that matters is the victory!

Nick Stuart: Exactly, Richard, they did show them how they like to win. Speaking of the Red Army, it looks like we have them standing by

As Freeman and Schwartz continue to celebrate in the ring we cut backstage.

Backstage at the TD Garden, we’re greeted not by one of the official PRIME interviewers.

No, this is a specific, hand-picked member of a certain team deemed “impartial” enough to ask the hard hitting questions necessary for a “serious” journalist.

Of course, we mean PCW/OSW Referee turned “Official Red Army Interviewer” Speedy Riggs. The wily Cuban is decked out in an official Red Army red tropical shirt, complete with yellow hammers and sickles. And he stands with a pair of dark sunglasses on, while the hulking Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav, stands next to him. Off to the side is Alexei Ruslan, wearing a twisted, crooked grin.

Riggs offers a wide, gleaming smile as he looks at the camera.

Speedy Riggs: Hello PRIME! This is the Official Red Army Interviewer, Speedy Riggs, here with Former (and should be current) Universal Champion Ivan Stanislav!

He looks up at Stanislav, who is dressed in his wrestling attired even if he’s not scheduled to wrestle tonight. The Russian Bear grins wide, however, and grips one of his suspenders.

Speedy Riggs: Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. Last week, The Anglo Luchador had the nerve to call you out. He said that you were afraid of him. He said that you should have a match with him. I have to ask, what are your thoughts on such a bold statement by such a pathetic little man?

Speedy lifts the microphone up to Ivan’s face, but The Russian Bear pulls his elbow up a bit more so it’s closer to his mouth.

Ivan Stanislav: You know, my history with The Anglo Luchador is very well documented. He has tried, on multiple times, to be worthy ally and opponent of The Russian Bear. Each and every time? He has failed. He tagged with me against Tony Gamble and Mortimer Knightingale, and for majority of match? He stood on apron and sucked wind!

Ivan shakes his head and sneers.

Ivan Stanislav: Then, The Luchador has match against me with Brandon Youngblood, while I had Paxton Ray in my corner. And outcome? Once more, Luchador is defeated. You see, Speedy, there are those in PRIME who will do anything to try to make name for themselves. They know The Russian Bear is top talent in PRIME. They know just opportunity to be in ring with him will make them look better.

Stanislav clicks his tongue.

Ivan Stanislav: I have been around too long and seen too much to be charity case for The Anglo Luchador. With myself being team captain of The Pretty Pink Red Army, I have too many other responsibilities to deal with. The Luchador may have all this free time on his hands, being sandbagger on his team with no responsibilities, but not The Russian Bear.

Stanislav grins wide and spreads his arms.

Ivan Stanislav: So, I am sorry to disappoint you, Anglo Luchador. You had your chance, twice, to share, and then steal, spotlight from Ivan Stanislav. And both times you lived up to low expectations! You failed! I am afraid you will just have to rest on night one of Culture Shock. DYAAHAAHAA!!

Riggs grins and brings the microphone back down to his lips.

Speedy Riggs: And speaking of The Pretty Pink Red Army, I have to say Starshy Praporshchik, what a formidable group of elite members we have here!

Stanislav sweeps his large arm to the side and grins as Maximillian Wilhelm Kael marches onto the scene flanked by two North Kaelrean Soldiers. He keeps his distance, a paranoid look in his eyes. He doesn’t speak but rather makes sure there is always a guard between himself and the door.

Not too far behind are the Masters of the Moscowverse, the fellow Red Army comrades wearing their proper Red Army attire as discussed in the super-secret Red Army group chat. No green or blue here, all the bubbles are red! Anyway, Kenny gives a knowing nod to his leader as Randall flashes a smile and a thumbs up, because of course he does.

Next to the Master’s is Arthur Pleasant, who flashes a wide, toothy grin. He carries with him another jar of cherries and pops one into his mouth, letting one pop and ooze red down his lips and into his beard.

Entering the shot next is Kerry Kuroyama, adding a drop of green to the pool of red with a kelly green Eton jacket and black tie get-up, looking like someone who would enthusiastically strap a secret agent to a table and with a comically slow moving laser set on them. Tailing him is

Vae Victis cohort Scott Hunter, dressed in a black suit with an accompanying bowler hat. “Emeraldfinger”, as he’ll be referred to tonight, nods in solidarity to the Starshy Praproshchick and other team members, while Scottjob grins in the background, happy to be there.

From down the hall, a group of Complete Abandon is shown coming to the scene in full force. Rob is somewhere in the middle of the crowd of grifters, once again joined by the Father. They hang on the outer edges of the group and Rob shoots Ivan a nod in solidarity. Oddly none of them, except the Father, have shirts on. Their faces are blacked with paint or mud or something resembling it. Rob has a red bandana tied across his forehead.

Rob Williams: (nods) Starshy Praporshchik. (nods) Max. (blows kiss) Alexei. I guess your memo should’ve been more clear on the whole “warrior” schtick.

Rob puts his hands out and turns to the group, but unfortunately, the Rambo Williams bit is lost in translation. And who can blame Max Kael for not getting the pop culture reference? After all, he’s a baby. The INTENSE Champion does catch the kiss and places it in a pocket for later. He winks in return assuming Rob Williams is cosplaying some kind of themed stripper.

Rob Williams: You know, Ivan, I had a run-in with your boy earlier tonight. Yeah, he went all Batman and Robin on me with the rest of his Powder Puff Girls trio. It was like listening to a chihuahua yapping. I hurt him last time out of respect for you and because, well, it was fun. You know, team building and all that shit. Come War Games, if there’s anything left of him, I’m going to hurt him as a gift. He’s a blowhard, just like Winters, and the only way to free them of their bondage is through immense suffering.

The Father leans in and whispers in Rob’s ear.

Rob Williams: Oh yeah, and while I’ve got the screen. Don Winters – the crucifix wasn’t the end of your journey. It was just the beginning. War Games will be the proverbial nine-inch nail.

Randall leans over to Kenny, and we can just barely hear him mutter to his comrade.

Randall Schwartz: I love that band, especially that Dragula song.

Kenny, wisely, smacks his friend on the back of the head for the remark before taking a step inward to speak.

Kenny Freeman: Robbo makes some great points, but if you don’t mind my cutting in, it’s about time Kenny Freeman ADDRESSES HIS ENEMIES.

As if on cue, a graphic appears on the screen…

Kenny Freeman: I’ve heard the horror stories of how War Games brings out the worst in people…and lemme tell ya, when we step into the Match Beyond at Culture Shock, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do…bring out the worst in our foes. For weeks now, I’ve had to listen to the Gluemineers singing Ho Hey, we’re here to play…the Bandits playing hard to boil…and Sykes and his Amazing Friends cry about how tough it is to do the right thing. You wanna talk about tough?

Kenny motions to the rest of the squad.

Kenny Freeman: You’re lookin’ at tough, bud. An alliance that sees past the glaring differences to go after precisely two goals…survive War Games, and silence the doubters for good. I’d dare call this alliance the…

Kenny gets a tap on the shoulder from Randall, who whispers something in his ear, garnering a confused look from his compatriot before Kenny presses on.

Kenny Freeman: I’d dare call this alliance the greatest thing since sliced got-dang bread, ya feel me? We’ve got a good thing goin’ here, and nobody’s gonna ruin our night at Culture Shock. There will be no rumble that night…just a world of hurt for those who stand in the way of the Red Army.

Another tap on the shoulder, another whisper in the ear, and another confused look before Kenny speaks once again.

Kenny Freeman: Like I said, a world of hurt for those who stand in the way of…the Pretty Pink Red Army. We’ve got the brains, the brawn, and the TEETH to take out the likes of Glue-m Patrol, Eggwashed Bandits, and Team Cry Me A River.

Randall pats his buddy on the back as Kenny steps away. Max stares at the two of them in bewilderment.

Clink-clink.

Ice cubes clink together from within a whisky tumbler.

Kerry Kuroyama: Gentlemen…

Kerry “Emeraldfinger” Kuroyama clears his throat and steps forward.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll admit, I had my doubts about this unwitting confederacy of ours… but tonight, I can say that I’ve come around to realize just what it truly is that I’m a part of.

He nods venerably to his teammates.

Kerry Kuroyama: Many in this company vilify you. Usually, for the pettiest of reasons. How you look. How you act. How you think. But if there was anything to be learned by the Anglo Lunchadoor refusing to shake my hand in that ring two weeks ago, it’s that monsters in this industry aren’t simply born; they are made.

His mood of the dapper-dressed Pacific Blitzkrieg suddenly darkens.

Kerry Kuroyama: See, since I first came here, I’ve done nothing but walk the straight and narrow. I’ve given respect where I felt it was due, and only ever asked to be given the same respect in return. But I haven’t been given that respect. Because I have the audacity to hold this sport — and myself — to a higher standard. As any true and committed professional athlete should be.

Kerry shakes his head in disgust before looking point blank into the camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, I’m done offering my hand. If they’re going to see us and treat us as monsters, then, comrades, we shouldn’t disappoint them. At Culture Shock, we’ll unleash upon them our own STRAWperation: Grand Slam. No rules, and no limits. Just five chain-linked walls and the mats, ropes, and posts at our disposal. We’ll show them what fucking REAL monsters can do, even if we gotta cripple, blind, gut, and castrate ever last one of those motherfuckers to get the point across. I don’t expect them to submit. No, Mr. Bond, I expect them TO DIE.

Kuroyama turns and toasts the team, and takes a sip of his mint julep. Sour mash, but not too sweet.

Stanislav moves behind the assembled team and spreads his arms wide, grinning as he easily stands taller than everyone else.

Ivan Stanislav: But of course, we cannot forget the bedrock. The lynchpin. The connective tissue that holds this team that I lead together! DYAAHAAHAA!!

…And Vickie Hall suddenly steps into the picture, with her ESPN 30For30 camera crew following behind while Jonathan-Christopher trails behind them!

Vickie is quietly scolding her Amazing Life Partner, shaking her head as she does when she appears in front of the collection of her “team” and stops cold.

Vickie Hall: Oh.

She looks the group over.

Vickie Hall: It’s the future WarGame winners!

Vickie blushes. She spins around and whacks Jonathan-Christopher on the shoulder.

Vickie Hall: I deserve a medal for putting this team together and handing the leadership off to Ivon over there. I deserve even more than a medal…

Her left eye twitches at the thought.

Vickie Hall: I deserve the Manager of the Year Award!!

You can collectively hear a groan inside the arena. A groan of “oh my god, not again” and like “when will she get over this already!?” Ruslan lowers his hat a bit over his eyes and shakes his head. That answer, for the record, (re: when Vickie gets over losing the award) is probably in the year 2045 or never, FYI. Needless to say…

The Woman of Wonder shakes her head at Jonathan-Christopher once again. There’s lots of head shaking.

Vickie Hall: This is what I’m talking about, okay? You see these men, they have fortitude. They have it.

Vickie nudges Speedy in the chest, as if she’s trying to make a comment off the record.

Vickie Hall: My man over here, he didn’t call out Jared Skypes at the beginning of the night! It was utterly disappointing considering what’s on the line at Culture Shock. Even more discouraging in what Jared has PHYSICALLY AND EMOTIONALLY DONE TO ME over the last two years! Nothing gets chocolate out, Speedy. I’ve tried!

Vickie lowers her head and rubs her eyes, as if she’s trying to prevent herself from crying.

Vickie Hall: But any of these fine men to my right…

She pauses, as if to let the situation breathe. Stanislav straightens his back.

Vickie Hall: They would’ve interrupted Jared.

And then Vickie brings her attention to the entire group. It’s like no one could hear her speak the last few sentences to Speedy, but then why is she picking up where she left off?

Vickie Hall: And they will! These AMAZING gentlemen, from our leader Ivon, to the adorable and delightful Kenny, to that TAKE NOT SHIT Kerry, what a group I tell you. Gosh golly, feeling butterflies in my chest just thinking about it!

Vickie, camera lens. Camera lens, Vickie. Vickie gets WAY TOO CLOSE.

Vickie Hall: So a note to EVERYONE out there. You’re on notice! WarGames, this team, The Unquestionable PRETTY PINK© Army of Victis, -featuring Robin Williams-, is out for war, love and ANYTHING IN-BETWEEN.

Vickie slaps Speedy across the chest.

Vickie Hall: How’s that for a group, huh!?

She wanders down the hallway, as Jonathan-Christopher and the ESPN camera crew try to keep up. Vickie continues to mumble her thoughts out openly.

Vickie Hall: If only my man was a man…

She finds JCH off-camera and begins speaking directly to him.

Vickie Hall: I am SO hurt you let Jared get away with murder tonight! An uninterrupted celebration! I’d never…

The scene cuts elsewhere.

We’re taken to another part of backstage, where the camera finds Jason Snow.

It’s been awhile since the Original Villain had his conversation with Brandon Youngblood, and now he’s on his way somewhere else, trying to keep to himself and not get into any trouble. An impressive feat given what happens around a PRIME show every other week.

He happens upon Lindsay Troy’s office and raps on the Steel Door O’Doom twice, before he’s bidden entrance.

The Queen’s already had an eventful evening, having already gotten into a bit of a tiff with “The Next Diamond” Nate Colton, and talking to her latest hire wasn’t on her agenda this evening. She greets him with a nod.

Lindsay Troy: I see you made it out of the basement unscathed.

Jason Snow: Felt like it could have gone bad just as easy.

Lindsay Troy: Well, you don’t have to tell me about conversations with Brandon taking a turn for the worse.

She turns in her chair to face him.

Lindsay Troy: What’s on your mind?

Snow leans on the doorframe, folds his arms.

Jason Snow: Was looking at the Culture Shock card. Thought maybe you could use an extra hand.

Lindsay Troy: Are you offering your services?

Jason Snow: Gotta jump back into the deep end sometime. Start climbing the ladder.

Lindsay Troy: (smirking) And here I thought it was all about the checks for you.

Jason Snow: Checks get bigger the closer I get to the top. If I read the contract right.

Lindsay Troy: (nodding) That’s usually how they work. Just a warning, though: you’ll find the deep end of PRIME these days might be a little deeper than you remember.

Jason Snow: I was kinda getting that impression.

Lindsay Troy: And you’re still ready to jump in.

Jason Snow: All cards on the table: Yeah, I came back for the money. But now that I’m here? I’m here for a fight. Got a feeling you know that as well as I do.

Another nod.

Lindsay Troy: Lucky for you, I’ve got just the guy in mind. You’ll get a text with the details after the show.

Jason Snow: Not even going to give me a hint?

Lindsay smiles.

Lindsay Troy: You’ve already cashed in your one favor with me. You don’t get to ask for another.

Snow begins to back away from the door.

Jason Snow: I guess it’s all the same to me anyway. Anybody you want.

Lindsay Troy: I’ll remember you said that.

Snow turns to leave, but Troy calls after him.

Lindsay Troy: Jason.

He turns back a little. Waits.

Lindsay Troy: Were you really not the one behind the music glitch? With Brandon?

Snow shrugs innocently.

Jason Snow: Wasn’t even in the building.

Lindsay Troy: Seriously though. You didn’t call in a favor or something? You weren’t behind it?

Another shrug, this time with a shake of his head.

Jason Snow: Tell you the truth, this whole time I kind of thought it was you.

Troy’s eyes narrow. Eventually she nods.

Lindsay Troy: Keep an eye out for that text.

Jason Snow: My phone’s always on.

Jason pulls the door closed behind him, and ReVival goes elsewhere.

We move from the Red Pink Army to our favorite wrestler from Pittsburgh. You know the one. Yes, leisurely strolling backstage in a “Mega Job is for Everyone” T-shirt is one RIA. Not two RIAs, because that would be confusing. She passes by various employees; production assistants, tech people, the various staff that would be considered nameless and faceless to casual fans. The Psychoberry stops in her tracks, almost as if frozen in place. The camera pans down the hall and zooms in. Sitting against a wall, one forearm resting across her knees while the other is propped upright and supporting her head is “The Second Coming”… Rose.

RIA hesitates briefly. It can be downright impossible to know where the mind of a wrestler is after a bout if you don’t know them well. Despite the barbs the two had exchanged recently, the fact was they don’t know each other well. Add in that their interactions to this point have all been sour and it’s easy to see why the Technicolor Comforter of Wrestling would pause. Yet, she begins to move forward. The direction of her stride becomes fairly obvious fairly quickly. Moments later, RIA is standing in front of the spawn of Dusk.

RIA: Well? You said you felt better after what you did to Max last ReVival. How about now?

Rose looks up at RIA. There are scrapes across her face and arms, bruises forming on her jaw and underneath her left eye. Her eyes narrow as she looks at her.

Rose: Do you have an Apple AirTag on me or something? Or did you play too many hours of Ecco the Dolphin as a kid and have acquired sonar skills through osmosis?

Rose rubs the back of her neck and when she pulls her hand away, there’s specks of blood on her hand. She looks at it and shakes her head.

Rose: Max got exactly what was coming to him and I wouldn’t change a single thing that happened. [beat] You know what your problem is with me, Psychoberry?

Rose leans her head into the cold white wall she’s leaning against. RIA crosses her arms on her chest and shakes her head slowly.

RIA: I’m trying to help you. I’ve been where you are. Wanna know what the difference is? You have more potential than I did. You have so much of your career, your life ahead of you. And yeah, I get it. Arthur and Max made things personal. But you’re gonna get yourself destroyed if you try to play their game.

RIA reaches a hand down towards Rose.

RIA: Please… We can do this together.

Rose lowers her head. Her shoulders begin to shake. RIA looks concerned, fearing she’s broken the tough SOB.

Until she hears a different sound.

Laughter.

Rose’s head tilts back as she just chuckles to herself, a high-pitched noise that wafts through the hallway.

Rose: To…gether? Together?!

Rose grabs at her ribs as she laughs, pain and amusement painted across her face.

Rose: Oh, Psychoberry. I wish you hadn’t made me laugh. I’d laugh even harder if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.

The Second Coming rises to her feet and glares at RIA.

Rose: We aren’t together, RIA. I’ve got a family, RIA. My family was attacked. I sure as shit didn’t see you defending Kohime against Morty or Gamble when she was being attacked. You want to know what the difference between us is? I’m willing to do what it takes around here while you’re only willing to do what it takes to get cheers and to be able to date your boyfriend Sid and be a pal of Jared Sykes and Brandon Youngblood without them seeing the real you.

Rose then spits a glob of blood from her mouth onto the floor beside RIA.

Rose: Until you’re ready to give everything you have to protect another, you don’t have a single clue what it’s like to take a step, much less a mile, in my boots.

Rose begins to walk off when RIA stops her. Something becomes obvious very quickly, as the former Lockhart shoves Rose against the wall by her shoulder… Her temper is flaring.

RIA: What the fuck do you know about the real me?! Hey, you ever have someone throw a slur your way? How about when you were a skinny teenager that had no idea how to even handle shit like that?! Give your everything?! Bullshit! How about you use your fucking head then?! Cuz you’ve put out there in bright neon letters how to get you off your game! You think Cancer Jiles wouldn’t do what Max and Arthur did? How about Pax? You can cast that spotlight on my faults all you want, cuz I’ve got plenty of regrets in my career. But maybe you should look in the mirror, have a talk with yourself and stop being so goddamn stupid! A step in your shoes… Bitch, you have no idea what I’ve been through either!

As the words exit RIA’s mouth, Rose’s hand collides with the side of her face.

SMACK!

Ria’s head cocks to the side from the slap Rose delivered.

Rose: Instead of running your mouth, meet me in the middle of the ring at Culture Shock. Go talk to your good buddy, Lindsay, and tell her what stipulation you want. Until then, go fuck yourself.

Rose storms off, each step pounding into the concrete louder and louder. RIA whips her head back, amaranth pink and Maya blue hair cutting through the air as she does. She looks down at her right hand, the one she had offered to The Second Coming before using it to pin her against the wall. Her eyes travel down the hallway in the direction Rose stomped off in.

RIA: Fuck… Guess we’re doing this the hard way.

Her gaze moves back down to her hand. RIA squints for a moment. You can’t see the lightbulb appear above her head, but I promise you it’s there.

RIA: Any stip I want, huh?

The Psychoberry begins walking off the opposite direction of Rose, half-heartedly dodging a nameless backstage worker that throws themself against the wall to get out of her way. The whole time, she’s staring down at that hand.

We cut elsewhere in the arena.

We now cut elsewhere backstage, specifically to the Palace of Pineapples.

The Bruh’s Bungalow.

Whatever you wanna call it.

We find Bruh in the otherwise empty locker room, although from the look of it, he’s prepared for visitors.

Specifically, thirteen of them.

Unfortunately, the only body in the room belongs to Dawkins. He’s examining the list before him.

Coral Avalon. Busy with War Games and Bandit shenanigans

Rezin. Last seen fleeing the Barclays Center, hopefully never to be seen again.

Nova. Retired?

JCH. Probably busy shining Ivan’s boots. Probably Alexei’s as well.

TAL. Prepping for the Russian Bear.

Pleasant. Probably sharpening and polishing dem teef.

Gladhappy. Who?

Williams. Probably ascended to a higher plane.

Daniels. Busy with PRIME merch.

Mort. Again, Who?

Tsonda. Busy enforcing the no-shoe rule. Never had to do that when Bruh was around.

Ivan. Busy manipulating JCH.

Sykes. Universal Champ – has no time for someone with a zero in the win column.

It’s pretty clear that 2024 PRIME is Bryan Dawkins against the world. If he’s gonna go out and shock said world, he’s gonna have to do it on his own.

None of FLAMBERGE’s victims have the time (or desire) to help. The current Universal Champion has his own issues to worry about, the least of which is the target firmly affixed to the title that sits around his waist.

Dawkins is trying to get win number one. None of this has come easy this time around and that’s certainly not changing tonight.

KNOCK KNOCK

Dawkins’ eyes light up.

Bryan Dawkins: Door’s open, bruh.

A moment passes before the door inches open. The face is not a familiar one.

The face is also not on the list.

An unnamed production assistant peers around the door at the dejected Hawaiian. Dawkins’ stare narrows and expression hardens.

PRIME Production Assistant: Mr. Dawkins – you’re up.

Dawkins nods.

Bryan Dawkins: One sec, bruh. On my way.

The production assistant closes the door behind him, again leaving Dawkins by his lonesome.

He sits alone on a stool in the back of the room and hangs his head.

Aside from the sound of Bruh’s breathing, the room is filled with silence.

Bryan Dawkins: FUCK!

In an instant, the silence is shattered and the expletive capped with an exclamation point courtesy of the aforementioned stool being hurled across the room. It crashes into the wall and is transformed into a pile of firewood.

Dawkins immediately charges the door, chest heaving and brow sweating. The normally laid back demeanor is gone. He yanks open the door, sending the knob crashing through the drywall.

The last scene we see is Dawkins exiting the locker room on his way to meet Nick and Richard at ringside, to whom we now cut.

Richard Parker: Aww, poor Dawkins. It’s daunting enough to face down the barrel of the former Universal Champion, but surely it’s worse when no one comes to your birthday party.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins has had a rough run since his return to PRIME. Will the chips fall his way tonight?

Richard Parker: No.

Nick Stuart: That was rhetorical.

Richard Parker: Let’s just hope Dawkins selected the optional additional neck insurance because he’s not leaving here with his tonight.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A deafening blast of aqua, orange, and white pyrotechnics explode before those oh-so-familiar two words that begin “Song 2” by the English alt. rock band Blur induce a standing ovation from the crowd.

WOO HOO!

The capacity crowd’s cheers are directed at one man who just so happens to be standing at the top of the ramp. The former Flyin’ Hawaiian.

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Bryan Dawkins.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds, hailing from Hilo, Hawaii…BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Dawkins flashes the crowd his signature “hang loose” gesture, and soon enough, he’s sauntering down toward the ring, crossing back and forth to throw high fives to random fans. Eventually making it to the ring, he slides in and hops to each of the four turnbuckles, jumping to the top and flashing the “hang loose” sign yet again. Atop the final turnbuckle, he removes his signature aqua and orange sunglasses and tosses them to the frenzied crowd.

“ooh la la” by Run the Jewels (feat. Greg Nice & DJ Premier) plays to a whole bunch of boos. His walk to the ring is fairly brisk and he doesn’t react emotionally to fans, anyone in the ring, etc.; pure stone-face, lizard-like. He’ll usually take a steady lap around the outside of the ring before walking up the steps and stepping through the ropes. Fans may occasionally offer him chips or other snack foods, he’d decline them.

Now that his brain has been taken over by the lizard impulses of toxic intrusive thoughts he chooses not to treat, feel free to get real weird with it.

Richard Parker: Damn, Flamberge looks good! The French Phenom definitely doesn’t look like a man who just lost the Universal Title.

DING DING 

Despite the vivacious roar of the crowd, everything shrinks for Flamberge and Bryan Dawkins as they move towards one another. An age old dance – two warriors moving towards the point of impact. Despite Dawkins’ 30-ish pound weight advantage, Flamberge moves fearlessly. Immediately the fireworks explode as the two men get within striking distance. An instant back and forth of blows is exchanged. A right hook by Flamberge, a solid left jab by Dawkins, and so on as the fans scream.

Nick Stuart: And we are off to an explosive start and these two are showing no signs of slowing.

Richard Parker: Dawkins is coming out way too hot here. It’s been a long time since he’s been in the ring and he’s pushing 40 – pretty young for PRIME standards, but he’s out of practice. The Lizard King will have him tucked in back at the retirement home, without a neck, in no time.

Nick Stuart: Flamberge throws a huge right, but Dawkins slides under his arm and lands a vicious German suplex.

Almost instantaneously Flamberge is back on his feet and introduces the business end of his right foot to Dawkins’ jaw. Bruh is stunned by the resiliency of Flamberge. Although staggered, Dawkins does not let his foot off the gas, grabbing a hold of the Frenchman for a quick hip toss. The Great Flambino tries to springboard up for the upper hand again, but Dawkins connects with a lightning fast single leg takedown. Relentless in his pursuit, El Bruh shows off his newly acquired BJJ skills by sliding into half guard. He cinches the very same leg that tattooed his chin not long ago with a foot lock, flexing the foot of Flamberge while pulling it into his chest.

Elvis Nixon drops to all fours to check in with Flamberge who, by all accounts, is in a severe amount of pain.

Richard Parker: I didn’t think the old man had stones enough to go for a submission this early. No way Flamberge taps, but you have to admire the stupidity of throwing all you got at him 3 minutes in.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is wrenching back, pulling Flamberge’s foot away from his leg. He’s beginning to rock back and forth now, using the momentum to add pressure to the hold.

Richard Parker: This won’t end well.

Flamberge quickly ascertains what Dawkins is doing. Remaining composed, he waits until Dawkins is throwing his body weight back and rolls with him, sending Dawkins’ dome piece into the nearby turnbuckle with the force of his own body weight.

Richard Parker: He’s still got it!

Yes, that was a Hangover reference and no, we don’t apologize.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is obviously dazed from that hard shot to the head and Flamberge quickly capitalizes with a series of kicks to the shins.

Richard Parker: And (distaste) Bruh has fawn legs!

Nick Stuart: I think anyone would have trouble withstanding a barrage of kicks like that from Flamberge.

Richard Parker: So you do agree that he’s the superior wrestler here?

Nick ignores Richard as Flamberge sets his sights on the downed Dawkins. No time for reprieve nor relief is given to the Pineapple Warrior, Flamberge delivering a flurry of kicks to the head. Elvis Nixon jumps in to wave Flamberge off and the former Universal Champion raises his hands, taking a few steps back before delivering one last violent kick to Dawkins’ skull. Nixon hits him with the finger point and stern look after an unsportsmanlike move. Iconic, that guy.

The fans cheer as Dawkins begins stirring, slowly rolling over on to all fours before beginning to push himself up. He’s almost at a stand when Flamberge bounces off the ropes.

Nick Stuart: A ferocious axe kick from Flamberge and Dawkins is once again on the mat.

Richard Parker: There we go, just like I said, Dawkins ran out of steam and the Flaminator is snuffing this one out early.

As predicted, Flamberge grabs a handful of The Former Flyin’ Hawaiian’s head and pulls him up. In a fluid movement Flamberge’s forearm is wrapped around Dawkins’ throat like a python and he falls back to fully lock in Marie Antoinette. The Neck Collector is ready to add another neck to his trophy necklace. The once roaring fans have fallen mute given this turn of events. Elvis Nixon moves in, ready to signal for the bell.

What’s this?

Dawkins has raised his body in the air like some great monolithic monument. His feet point towards the rafters of the TD Garden arena and even Elvis Nixon, the Icon, is taken back – all those in attendance and watching at home trying to figure out just what the hell Bryan Dawkins is doing.

Just as gracefully as he moved into this odd breakdance-esque movement, Dawkins shifts his weight and comes down one leg at a time. From this position he effortlessly breaks the guillotine by pushing his head into Flambo’s arm and fist into Flambo’s rib cage. He winds up in a perfect side mount, allowing him to move into an americana.

Nick Stuart: And Dawkins is showing off his jujitsu prowess here as he narrowly escapes Marie Antoinette to counter with his own submission.

Richard Parker: Ok, credit where credit is due, I don’t understand what just happened but that was well executed.

Despite the rapid reversal, Flamberge remains cool under pressure, quickly moving from thumb up to thumb down on the hand Dawkins is trying to grasp and moving it very tightly down to his side. Dawkins, cool as a pineapple, just moves into the kimura position.

Richard Parker: What the hell is this?

The two do this dance back and forth a few more times before Flamberge sees an opening and rams his loose arm into the armpit of Dawkins, sending him flying. Both men are up lightning fast and begin trading a series of throws and strikes and takedowns. In all actuality, this looks like an MMA bout more than a wrestling match, but the fans are clearly entertained. Neither man seems phased after their successive tumbles and each actually seems to be enjoying the back and forth. This goes on for a full minute before Flamberge headbutts Dawkins. A collective “Aww” escapes the fans at Flammy’s succinct period on the masterclass of technique.

With haste Flamberge delivers a number of 12-6 elbow strikes to the forehead of Dawkins. A small trickle of blood runs down the elder wrestler’s forehead and drips from his nose to the canvas. He’s still looking at it when Flamberge locks his head in for a beautiful hammerlock suplex. Out of nothing but instinct Flamberge keeps his hold on Dawkins and rolls, once again trying to lock in Marie Antoinette.

This time our Hawaiian Hero stretches both of his arms out and continues rolling, landing vertically in line with Flamberge before rolling back into the top mount. Much to the dismay of the French Conqueror this breaks the hold. Flamberge grits his teeth and pounds the mat to push himself up.

Nick Stuart: Flamberge obviously frustrated by Dawkins’ persistence in holding onto his neck here. Dawkins is slow getting to his feet, but he manages to sidestep a high kick from Flamberge. And a beautiful German Suplex from Dawkins.

Richard Parker: (starts to talk) I’ve got nothing.

Nick Stuart: Really?

Richard Parker: Actually, no. I have to say that Dawkins is still moving pretty well for his age.

Nick Stuart: I’d certainly say so. He picks Flamberge up and tosses him into the ropes. Seamless catch into a belly to belly suplex. Dawkins is going for the pin now.

ONE

TWO

TH….

Nick Stuart: No! Flamberge kicks out at the last second. Dawkins seems to be on a second wind now, enthused from the near pinfall. He pulls Flamberge up and drops him back down with a DDT.

Richard Parker: Wow, a non-suplex non-jiu jitsu wrestling move. What a novel idea.

Seizing the opportunity of a downed Flamberge, Dawkins locks in a Fujiwara armbar.

Richard Parker: Oh, more jiu jitsu. Great.

Elvis Nixon drops to his knees to check in on the former Universal Champion. Stone faced. Dawkins digs his heels into the ground and leans back as hard as he can, absolutely wrenching on Flamberge’s arm.

Nick Stuart: Flamberge is keeping it together here, but that arm is getting to a point of hyperextension. There is no way he can hold out much longer. Elvis Nixon is in Flamberge’s face making sure he isn’t throwing in the towel.

Richard Parker: I bet his breath is something awful.

Nick isn’t wrong. As Dawkins continues to leverage his body weight against Flamberge’s arm, it bends more and more out of place. Flamberge closes his eyes and raises his hand in the air. All eyes are on Flamberge’s raised fist. Will he tap out? Is The Former Flyin’ Hawaiian about to hand The Lizard King his second loss in a row?

His hand hits the mat…

Richard Parker: NO! NO!

…and pushes himself up to execute a “hitchhiker escape”.

Richard Parker: Yes! Once again Flamberge exhibits why he’s the absolute best.

Nick Stuart: And Dawkins is visibly frustrated, but still on the attack. He dives at Flamberge for a spear… NO! Flamberge catches him and wraps Dawkins up, falling onto his back for ANOTHER Marie Antoinette.

Richard Parker: Credit where credit is due, Dawkins has put up a hell of a fight, but there’s no way he’s escaping a third time.

Dawkins disagrees. Once again he goes vertical, prepping his descent into a side guard. Flamberge shakes his head. Not this time.

Nick Stuart: Flamberge telegraphs Dawkins’ escape attempt and wraps his legs. Dawkins is valiantly fighting, but there is little he can do to escape this time.

Richard Parker: Third time’s the charm.

It’s like watching a python wrap around its prey. Dawkins digs and pushes and pulls and writhes in every which way his body can, but the more he moves, the tighter Flamberge’s grip sets in. The Frenchman has his eyes closed. Some might think he’s dreaming of how he’s going to celebrate this win. In reality, he’s just praying the son of a bitch finally gives up.

Nick Stuart: No movement coming from Dawkins now. Elvis Nixon grabs his hand and holds it up.

The fans cheer, trying to infuse Dawkins with the energy to fight one.

SMACK

Nick Stuart: Nixon is lifting up Dawkins’ hand again.

The fans are going absolutely wild now for the underdog.

SMACK

Richard Parker: Come on, Dawkins.

Elvis Nixon holds Bryan Dawkins’ hand high in the air and lets go. The entire arena goes silent.

SMACK

Nick Stuart: That’s it, the Ace collects another neck.

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: Hell of a show from Dawkins – he’s got nothing to be ashamed of here.

Flamberge slowly pushes himself up to a stand while Nixon checks on Dawkins. The fans cheer on Flamberge, but really they’re cheering both men. Flamberge raises his hands up and does a little run across the ring before jumping in the air, going completely rigid as he falls onto the ground next to Dawkins. The fans continue to cheer despite this odd display of showmanship.

Richard Parker: What the hell was that?

Nick Stuart: It’s Flamberge. Who knows?

We cut to commercial.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/Team-Avalon-Video.mp4

ReVival 45 has returned from ad break to find Donovan Winters standing in the ring, his head slightly bowed. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a Pious Penguin t-shirt. There’s a few boos echoing through the TD Garden as they await Winters’ first time ever speaking directly to the fans from the ring.

Don Winters: First off, I need to thank Coral Avalon and Jared Sykes for saving me at Rev 44. [the crowd cheers] I also wanted to take the time to explain what was shown two weeks ago.

Winters motions to the PRIMEtron and the videos Rob Williams premiered to the world on ReVival 44 begin playing once more.

Don Winters: I was, (he pauses) I am an addict, but I’ve been clean for 15 years. (there’s scant applause at this) Here’s the thing, and it makes no difference, but my addiction wasn’t a choice.

The Revelator drops the microphone momentarily and takes a deep breath while looking around the crowd.

Don Winters: I was held captive for a number of years. (scattered gasps) They made us fight for their amusement. They kept us locked away, controlled by handlers. And to keep us compliant? Heroin. After the fights, they’d bring us back to our room, shoot us up and leave us until the next fight.

There’s a slight murmur running through the building now, a side of the Revelator they had never seen before.

Don Winters: I can’t do anything about my past, except move on from it. I have. Rob Williams dragging this back out to try and prove something against my faith, against His Word and Light? He’s going to find that he’s sorely mistaken in the guidance he’s been given.

Winters gives a slight half-smile and begins to digress.

Don Winters: I don’t want to get too preachy. I don’t come out here and try to push His Word and Light on all of you. I respect your own beliefs and how you choose to follow them. The situation with Williams, however, does demand that I get at least a little bit preachy, so please, bear with me.

Winters pauses, walks to the ropes facing the hard cam and leans against them.

Don Winters: Scripture talks about two kinds of forgiveness. The first is God forgiving us of our sins. I have been traveling that road ever since I got myself clean and I have not looked back. I feel safe and confident that I have been forgiven by God and His Word and Light.

The Revelator holds up his right hand in a ‘peace’ symbol.

Don Winters: Two, and this is very important for where I’m headed, is people forgiving each other. Imperfect, flawed as we all are. Rob Williams and Anna Daniels crucified me two weeks ago on that very stage, (Winters points out to the stage, the crowd begins booing) and you know what? I forgive them.

There’s a few scattered, confused(?) cheers through the arena.

Don Winters: They are naive, lost children following the orders of a false prophet and I forgive them. I’ve looked deep down within my heart, my soul, confided in His Word and Light and spent many sleepless hours over the decision. But in the end, the only decision was to forgive them both, especially Williams.

Winters smiles, a few more cheers sound.

Nick Stuart: Are.. are they starting to cheer for Winters?

Don Winters: You may be forgiven, but we are not finished Rob. My War Games teammates won’t agree with this, but I want you on night one of Culture Shock. I want you in a crucifix match for that 5-Star Title you carry on your shoulder.

The crowd, and commentary desk gasp in unison.

Don Winters: It’s not about revenge, or an eye for an eye, no Rob, it’s giving me the opportunity to do what you did to me. Except that I’m asking for it to be on a level playing field. Attacking me from behind, and with Daniels? Cowardly. Be an upstanding man, Williams. I’ve already asked Troy for the match, Rob, we’ll see if God is on my side for that decision.

Winters looks around the arena once more, there’s an unusual energy that he’s not used to feeling.

Don Winters: But at the end of the night, it will be about forgiveness. God will forgive us both, Rob. It is in the Savior’s heart to do such a thing for us. We needn’t be worried about that. (Winters sweeps his free arm out) I’m looking for forgiveness from all of you.

Richard Parker: The fans, what? I don’t understand?

Don Winters: My faith in His Word and Light sustains me, pushes me forward, but I need more. I realize that coming into PRIME and pushing His Word and Light on all of you was the wrong path. That faith is a deeply personal and introspective thing to so many of us. Our doors are always open to  you, but it’s not something I’m going to push.

There’s a few more cheers at this, once again maybe slightly confused.

Don Winters: (falling to his knees, tears forming in his eyes) But I’m asking all of you for forgiveness. For what you saw on that video last week. For the things I did without a choice. (the chant has started from the very back of the TD Garden and is slowly working into a swell, but Winters can’t hear it yet) Forgiveness for the sins I am prepared to commit to take the 5-Star Title from Rob Williams, to see him strapped helplessly to the cross like I was.

Out of the crowd several figures appear and jump the barricade. Two men and two women, the men in white suits with crimson dress shirts, the women in crimson dresses. They climb the ring steps and stand behind Winters. He looks behind him and begins to cry.

Richard Parker: They’ve come back to him! That’s his flock!

Crowd: WE FORGIVE YOU! [clapclap clapclapclap]

Nick Stuart: They’re cheering for Winters?

Richard Parker: You beat a man within an inch of a life and strap him to a cross, that makes him a little sympathetic right?

Crowd: WE FORGIVE YOU! [clapclap clapclapclap]

Don Winters: (tears streaming down his face) Rob Williams, you will find Absolution on the cross.

Winters drops the mic as the crowd continues the chant. His arms go out in the crucifix position and they roar behind it. The members of His Word and Light steadfastly back on his side.

Nick Stuart: This is an unreal turn of events heading into Culture Shock for the Winters and Williams rivalry, but we’ve got to head to Simon Tiller backstage!

We cut backstage.

When you get over their odd-couple mishmash of visual language, they’re actually pretty frightening.  Sure, one guy looks like he runs the scrambler at the county fair and the other one looks like he’ll sell you mushrooms behind the scrambler at the county fair, but they’re also the both of them scraping at six and a half of God’s own feet of a remarkable thirst and capacity for the one thing they’re both better at than anything else.  The Bodhisattva is wild-eyed, his forehead bearing the scrawl of a third eye in its direct center, his beard now approaching the length of a true messiah–The Butcher ain’t growing much but a sense of discontentment at even being here. 

Which means being the guy sandwiched between Sage and Paxton can be a bit frightening.  To Simon Tillier’s credit, he’s game as anyone, looking at the camera with confidence and getting prepared to jump into his introduction–but The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience claps his hands together, leaning in and issuing a question to the man whose whole thing is doing just that. 

Sage Pontiff: Do you believe in the all-encompassing power of love, Simon?

Simon Tillier: Well, uh, I mean, ye–

Sage Pontiff: It is as transformative a thing as you can find!  Love of another, love of your vocation, like even just love of like…a sunset, or a specific series of guitar notes.  All of them have the chance to change a person’s life forever. 

He holds his arms out, as if passing down some manner of extremely potent, high-grade, hybrid blend high-minded Sativa truth of the universe. 

To which his best friend grumbles, crossing his murderous intent arms in a huff. 

Paxton Ray: When ya said ya wanted t’do this, I assumed you wanted to talk about the match…

Sage Pontiff: But I am talking about the match.  Okay, look at it like this: Paxton, what is it that you love?  Like not like…like.  Love.

The Bayou Butcher stops to consider Sage’s question. He frowns, then thinks, then smiles.

Paxton Ray: Love, huh? Well, I love a big juicy burger. The kind that when ya bite into it, cheese and mayo and cow juice just kinda dribble out the corners of your mouth. I love washing that burger down with a really cold beer. I love sittin’ on a back porch in a chair that moves and jus’ rockin’ the day away. An’ more than anythin’? I love punchin’ punks. Jus’ goin’ t’town on ‘em. 

They share a smile.  Tiller, assuming this is his moment, attempts to lead in after silently counting himself down.

Simon Tillier: Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here with–

Sage Pontiff: That.  That right there, that last one.  See Pax, everyone’s gonna see what it is we decide to do to those two tonight, and they’re gonna have the same complaints the square community always does.  They’ll say we’re too violent, too mean, that we’re having too much fun–they’re going to label us.  Thugs, misanthropes, savages, bloodthirsty.  And that kinda “oh my heavens” pearl clutching is fine for them, cause they have easy lives they built on the back of the disenfranchised.  They’ve been suckling at the teat of exploitative capitalism for so long that anything that’s actually real, anything that threatens to shake them from that comfort, is labeled as bad.  But when your muscles are burning, your knuckles are scraped, when the sweat is stinging your eyes and your heart is in your ears and you just keep hitting, again and again…that’s what we love.  That’s an act of love. 

Paxton Ray: I ain’t got no love for that bald sumbitch.

Sage Pontiff: Okay, do you love yourself? 

Paxton Ray: Most days.

Sage Pontiff: Then think of it like self care. 

Simon Tillier: We’re here with Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff, who tonight–

Paxton Ray: Hol’ up. Ya make bustin’ heads sound like therapy.

Tiller’s shoulders slump–he was almost Micro Machines on his verbiage, but he still got cut off. 

Sage Pontiff: You think it isn’t?  Dude I feel like shit if I don’t have a scrap.  I can’t imagine you’re gonna take up cross stitch or join a pickleball league instead of doing this, right?

Paxton Ray: Point. 

Sage Pontiff: Can’t love others if you don’t love yourself, at least not healthily.  So love yourself, man.  Let Paxton Ray do what’s best for Paxton Ray, and knock Youngblood’s fuckin’ nose through the back of his head!

Simon Tillier: Paxton, do you–

Paxton Ray: Damn. Sage, I think ya jus’ really opened somethin’ up for me.

Paxton steps towards Sage, standing directly in front of Simon in the process. The interviewer tries to move his head so that he’s still on camera, but it’s hard with Paxton’s large frame. The Bayou Butcher, obviously oblivious, puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Paxton Ray: I been sittin’ here feelin’ bad about some’a the stuff I do. Thinkin’ maybe they’re right when they call me a monster. But if what ya say is true…this is self love. I’m takin’ care a’myself by takin’ Doublefuck and Brandon out t’pasture. I gotta do this for me. An’ for my new tag team partner.

Sage nods, and Simon leans into frame, clearly frazzled. 

Simon Tillier: Sage and Paxton, you’re facing Brandon Youngblood and–

Sage Pontiff: I have to do this for me.  And for my tag team partner.  Like the honest truth is I don’t have any bad will towards either of them.  They’re just…people.  But they’re people who the universe has placed in my path…which means they’re getting busted, bruised, bloodied, broken…

Paxton Ray: Butchered. 

Sage Pontiff: Saadhu.  

Paxton Ray: Bless ya. An’ you’re right ‘bout that. I ain’t got nothin’ against the rookie or his annoyin’ little bro, an’ even though Brandon hates me for what I’ve done, I ain’t got nothin’ against him either. But I’ll sure enjoy hurtin’ em jus’ the same, jus’ like I liked messin’ with Nate an’ any a’those other do-gooders.

Simon Tillier: Please, just answer my…

Voice: I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to get to catering now.

All three turn around to see a familiar face, well, a familiar mask walk into the fray.

TAL: I have to do some prep, you know, light the chafing dishes, stir the gravy, make sure Bobby Dean leaves some pigs in blankets for the rest of us. But you guys, my ears are on FIRE right now talking about my War Games partners and…

Simon Tillier: Yes, they are facing…

TAL: Simon, didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking, sheesh. Anyway guys, and uh, Pax, it’s lovely to see you again when you’re not trying to electrocute me. Funny that. But…

Paxton Ray: Yeah, nice t’see ya too. Funny that your ears were burnin’ now but when there was action t’be had against your team there wasn’t so much of a smolder.

Paxton furrows his brow, then turns to Sage.

Paxton Ray: Is that right? Smolder?

Sage Pontiff: Sounds right to me. 

The Bodhisattva then turns his attention to the masked man. 

Sage Pontiff: Now, is this an interruption where you’re planning on doing some sort of overt, machismo-fueled threat to us?  Tell us that we’re going down, or to watch our backs, something like that?  I understand the impulse, but I’d rather you seek to rid yourself of that toxically masculine urge–and instead just swing if you’re going to.  That is, if you have the thirst for a scrap as big as your thirst for being culturally appropriative. 

The irony of a white dude with dreadlocks even saying this is lost on Sage, who’s heterochromatic eyes don’t blink during the staredown.  There’s a moment to breathe here, and the exhausted Tiller holds up a finger.  He looks to TAL, catching his attention.  Then to Sage and Pax.  No one makes an effort to say anything.  Finally, he intakes a breath, looking at the camera. 

Simon Tiller: Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here–

TAL: First off, I have permission from all kinds of sanctioning bodies, lucha libre promotions, and the gods themselves to wear this mask and represent the ancient arts here north of the Rio Grande, thank you very much Mr. Hypocrite.

Tillier mouths “the gods?” but doesn’t speak up because he’s pretty sure what’ll happen if he does.

TAL: Second, I’m not here to throw punches right now. If I was, I’d probably be covered in MEAT? with an icepack on my nuts courtesy of a Violent Purple punt to the groin after my first visit tonight. I’m here to issue warnings and to fix the whole problem of “the only tecnico team in the room keeps getting picked off,” thank you very much again.

Simon Tillier: So…

TAL: C’mon, Simon, haven’t you learned enough from being Rezin’s personal herald and scribe when to and not to butt in on a guy on a roll here? Anyway, so, you and your increasingly unstable Glue partners haven’t wronged me or anyone on our team yet, but I’m just saying, if you’ve been paying attention to the show tonight, you’ll know that this whole thing that actually started with you and your old partner…

The Luchador points at the Bayou Butcher while saying this.

TAL: …where the aggrieved don’t fight back? It’s not flying anymore.

Paxton smiles.

Paxton Ray: Y’all fightin’ back now, huh.

Paxton reaches out to his side, where Sage instinctively gives him bones.

Paxton Ray: That’s jus’ how we like it.

Sage strides past Paxton, then past Simon, until he’s very, very close to the Luchador.  Leaning down, uncomfortably close, almost nose-to-nose.  TAL doesn’t flinch, but his eyes search the lysergic thousand yard stare of The Bodhisattva, who smiles warmly. 

Sage Pontiff: You will be freed from the fear of death and deathlessness.  You will be sacrificed to Tryambaka–oṃ tryámbakaṃ yajāmahe sugandhíṃ puṣṭi-vardhánam urvārukam íva bandhánān mṛtyor mukṣīya mā ‘mṛtā́t.  The fruit shall be free of the bondage of its stem. 

He backs away, standing side by side with his buddy.  Paxton’s face is telling a three word story, and the title, body, and epilogue of that story is “what the fuck?” Sage looks at him, then back to TAL. 

Sage Pontiff: You issue warnings.  I issue prophecies, predictions, visions of the future.  You should get comfortable with the idea of facing people with a greater thirst for violence than yourself, bro.  People who find the very act itself transcendental.  We’re warriors, gladiators–you’re an employee.  Figure out the difference and embrace the truth of Shiva.

Behind him, Paxton’s eyes go wide. He slaps Sage’s shoulder and shakes his head.

Paxton Ray: Goddamn, Sage.

Paxton points at TAL with a smile.

Paxton Ray: See ya later, employee.

And with that, the Bayou Butcher walks away. Simon throws his free hand in the air in exasperation. The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: Well, this was awkward. Anyway, I gotta run, gotta go stir the borscht.

The Luchador hurriedly walks away, leaving Simon alone.

Simon Tillier: Wait!

We cut to a pre-taped segment.

….STATIC….

….STATIC….

….STATIC….

The Shadow: Hello darkness my old friieeeennnnnnd. Heh heh. My fellow PRIMEricans.  ‘Tis my third week addressing you. Has anyone deduced who hides in the Shadows? Hm? Perhaps I should show more tact. I have exhausted my time speaking on the roster. Ria, Arthur Pleasant, The Anglo Luchadore, Flamberge, Ivan Stanislav, etcetera, etcetera. It was my intention tonight to call out the inanities of a time jumping whackadoodle and mock the imminent irrelevance of a perpetually grinning man adored by none. I shalt not speak ill of any person this evening. Well, almost any person.

…..STATIC…

An image of Fred Dick appears on the screen.

The Shadow: I am a victim of my own compulsivity. Fred Dick. Why dost thou exist? Jests about one’s “nether bits”? Your name lends itself to such easy barbs. You emit the odors of processed nacho cheese and rotten peas. You have, unbeknownst to you, happened upon a situation that you are ill prepared for, Frederick, old boy. If you are not cautious, one might have the audacity to do what everyone wants to witness and strike thee with the back of one’s hand with such force, ‘twill slap those ghastly tattoos from your face. I would empty my coffers to see that.

….STATIC…

An image of Rose appears.

The Shadow: Rose. By any another name would smell so rank. Heh heh. Shakespeare, to the uncultured rabble. I applaud your moxie. Assaulting and kidnapping, well, he is not quite a child, now is he? What would one call it if one were to abduct a mountainous pile of pig vomit? That is what you accomplished. But, let us discuss the fact that when it comes to the actual competition and wrestling, you are what your record says you are. Winless. In other words, a loser. A winless loser pilfered a pile of pig vomit. Hardly worth even mentioning. I must be diving into the bottom of the barrel this week, aren’t I? I might be forced to discuss the colossal dweeb, Dabney Doubleday.

….STATIC…

An image appears of Nate Colton.

The Shadow: Mister Goody-Little-Two-Shoes. Speaking of pigs and vomit. I dislike you, Nathan. I dislike your family. I dislike your stupid douche face. I would desire nothing more than to watch you leave “War Games” horribly disfigured to the extent that children cry and women shriek in terror gazing upon your deformity.

….STATIC…

An image of The Anglo Luchadore with a hairy scrotum drawn on his chin and sagging down to his chest.

The Shadow: The Anglo Luchadore. Have you figured it out yet? As you lie awake at night, ensconced in darkness, does my identity plague your thoughts? Am I a ghost of your past seeking to end a vendetta against you? Or was that a clever deception to keep my anonymity? All will be revealed in due time.  But I am feeling particularly generous today. If you want a clue as to my identity, you need just seek out why Korrie jilted Gemm. Will you be able to decipher the mystery thst is my identity? Will anyone? Hmph. As if.

….STATIC…

An image of Lindsay Troy appears.

The Shadow: Miss Troy. I admire you. You gave me an opportunity when no one else would. You took a gamble on me. For that, I shall always be indebted. But I take exception for allowing Aftershock to end with an arrogant, sanctimonious windbag whose entitlement should not, in any way shape or form, propel him to the upper echelon of PRIME. Jason Snow hast not been relevant in a decade, a relic from a bygone era. The statute of limitation on his claim to the Universal Championship, which he surrendered, has expired. Jason Snow gets nothing, deserves nothing, is entitled to nothing. He is nothing. Jason Snow should be expelled back to the career purgatory from whence he creeped. Miss Troy, he turned his back on PRIME before, what is stopping him from doing it again? Tigers so rarely change their spots.

…. STATIC….

The next image that appears is a shadowed figure behind a desk.

The Shadow: The next time thou wilt see me, I will no longer be blanketed by the shadows. I will not be concealed by a mask like that hoodwinker, the Anglo Luchadore. The Magenta Megastar will be revealed.

….STATIC….

….STATIC….

FADE TO….MAGENTA.

Though he had been distracted earlier with TAL’s keys, it seems the Herald has found his way to a stage where he can perform his final piece of the HERALD’S WAR GAMES INVESTIGATIONS!

We see the Herald standing alone on a stage in a mysterious location in Boston. While the audience can not be seen, one might assume that Vickie Hall is there. Or nobody, it’s really hard to tell since nobody is making any noise.

The stage lights drop as a single beam of light bathes the Herald in its pallid light. The unmistakable sound of Aladdin’s “Friend Like Me”

“Well Coral Avalon got them stinkin’ eGGs, Farthington’s got his psychopaths! It’s Jared Sykes’s dumb butt that Justine pegs. We got that good-good old violent wraths!”

The stage lights up as the different colored Heralds appear behind Bentley in their rainbow display of green, red, purple, orange and blue. They begin to kick as the Herald continues his song.

“We got the Russians in our corner now, got a Samurai ready to go Ronin! We’ve got some chop, suplex, piledriver, Ow! Now all we gotta do is win War Games and I’ll say..”

More dancers join the Heralds on the stage. They leap and flip gracefully, each one looking like different members of TEAM PINKO COMMIE. We have a leaping Ivan, a kicking Kerry, a tumbling Freeman, a flipping Pleasant and a tap dancing Williams. Absent is any representation of Max himself.

“Lady Vickie Hall, we done won the Main Event! We took them losers, beat’em down! You ain’t never had a War Games team like this one, ha-ha-ha!”

More wild dancing on stage as it looks like a high school production of Cirque du Soleil. People are flipping and flying around the stage. It looks like the Wayward Diamonds Illegitimate Children of Daytona Diamonds Children’s Choir are getting involved as they carry mock versions of the War Games cage onto the stage.

“At Culture Shock our opponents are gonna get bent, come-on, no one can beat this incredible team! Ain’t never had a War Games team like this!”

The fake War Games team join the Herald in his song as they close it out. The kids carrying the parts of the cage accidentally run into each other causing them to drop their cage walls. One collapses on half of the War Games team, presumably crushing them. The Herald ignores or is unaware of the accident as he continues to sing.

“You ain’t never had a team, never had a team! You ain’t never had a team, never had a team!” 

The background dancers are unsure how to continue as everyone, save for the Herald has stopped singing. Some rush over to try and help the people under the cage while others just stare in bewilderment.

“You ain’t never had a team, never had a team! You ain’t never had a team, never had a team!” 

The Herald is in his own world as he is dancing and singing. The music itself stops now as more stagehands rush to help the trapped dancers.

“You ain’t never had a team like this!” 

From above the stage pink confetti begins to rain down. The stagehands manage to get the fake cage wall off some of the backup dancers. Many of the kids have begun to cry.

“Ya-ha-ha! Wah-ha-ha!”

The big finishes is coming and the Herald is dancing and singing like nobody is watch. Because nobody is, all eyes are on the victims of the cage wall incident.

“Ain’t never had a War Games team like this, HA!” 

The Herald slides across the stage on his knees, like some kind of power ballad finish. Pink pyro explodes out of the stage! Unfortunately for Bentley, he is too close to it and his little half cape catches on fire.

He shrieks and immediately begins to run off stage. This new drama catches the attention of the stagehands who release the cage wall causing it to fall down on the backup dancers once again before they give chase to the fiery Primrose-Farthington.

Chaos reigns as the entire stage is now flooded with screaming people, one flaming Herald and a dozen crying children.

Nick Stuart: A tag team preview to our War Games event at Culture Shock is coming up next! In one corner, the unlikely duo of Sage Pontiff and Paxton Ray! In the other, the team of veteran Brandon Youngblood and up-and-comer Dabney Doubleday!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team is event is scheduled for one fall!

“Fistfight” by the Ballroom Thieves plays over the PA. A silhouette appears amid an aqua-colored glow being cast over the entryway, soon revealing itself to be Sage Pontiff. His aura switches to red the moment Paxton Ray and lawyer Chet Fleetwood step out from behind him. The trio are met with a deafening jeer from the raucous Boston crowd. Sneering, Fleetwood raises the mic.

Chet Fleetwood: Yeah, yeah, whatever, dipshits… coming to the ring, at a combined weight of two-hundred and fifty-five plus whatever Sage weighs pounds… PAXTON RAY and SAGE PONTIFF!!

Chet chucks the mic into the chest of a moon-faced production bum as the trio make their way down the rampway in solidarity. Paxton is focused, withholding his latent rage for the time being. Sage is perfectly calm and in the zone.

Then “Bloodsport (World Domination)” hits, the energy in the room turns on its head. The crowd cheers wildly as Brandon Youngblood and Dabney Doubleday walk through the curtain together and come to a stop at the head of the rampway, with Dabney’s younger brother Douglas taking a position between them.

Vince Howard: And their opponents, at a combined weight of four-hundred and eight-six pounds… “FAIR PLAY” DABNEY DOUBLEDAY… AND… the DIAMOND of the REVIVAL… BRAAAAANNDOOOOON YOOOOUUUUNNNGGBLOOOOOODDD!!!

Side by side, Brandon and Youngblood begin marching down the rampway at a steady clip. Halfway down, they break into a run. They hit the ring so hard it sends Chet Fleetwood scampering from the ring. To their credit, Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff don’t budge from their corner.

Nick Stuart: The animosity between these two teams cannot be understated! So much tension in the ring right now!

Richard Parker: But not a whole lot of tension between either sets of partners, I’m noticing. Everybody seems to be hitting it off well with their respectful War Games teammates.

Nick Stuart: A good sign, given Culture Shock is just around the corner, and every team involved in the War Games event will want to be on the same page with one another!

Referee Jimmy Turnbull cues for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: We’ve got Dabney Doubleday already in the ring on behalf of his team, while across the ring, Sage steps out onto the apron, leaving the swellest guy in PRIME to start things off with Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: I’ll just go ahead and send my condolences to Mrs. Doubleday in advance of what’s about to happen to her boy!

A sharp whistle from his corner catches Dabney’s attention before he moves in. He gets a parting word of advice from the veteran Youngblood before going to meet the Bayou Butcher in the ring center. Expectedly, Paxton comes out swinging.

Nick Stuart: Ray, with heavy rights and lefts out of the gate, but Doubleday shoots in underneath and takes him by the waist, looking for the takedown!

Richard Parker: You think Murder Uncle Brandon told him to do that?

Nick Stuart: Couldn’t say, but I’m sure Dabney certainly doesn’t want to press his luck going toe to toe with a vicious brawler like Ray! Now Doubleday, trying to hook a leg and bring the action to the mat, but Paxton is showing a solid defense!

Ray sprawls his legs to keep his center of balance and stuffs Dabney’s takedown attempt, getting in a few open shots to the kidneys for good measure. Thinking quickly, Doubleday slips around into a rear waistlock. Now Paxton’s feet rise off the canvas, but the bruiser from Lafayette swiftly cuts off his ambitions.

Nick Stuart: Dabney from behind, but he gets a back elbow to the kisser! Ray pivots, and now he’s got him in a front facelock!

Richard Parker: Oh boy… that kid’s dead meat now! My, how the turntables have… turned…?

Ray attempts to clinch in a choke. Thinking quickly, Doubleday bulls him right into his own corner. He drives the shoulder into the midsection, and promptly backs away before official Jimmy Turnbull can call for the break.

Richard Parker: Such a fine lad, with those clean rope breaks!

Nick Stuart: But Dabney Doubleday is hardly taking Paxton Ray lightly. He knows the best strategy right now is to bring the Bayou Butcher down to the mat in order to deal with that notoriously aggressive striking game of his!

Dabney hops between legs in the center of the ring, ready to go again. Ray studies him for a moment, taking a moment to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. From across the ropes, Sage supportively pats his partner on the shoulder.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Ray back out of the corner, and this time, both men go right into the lockup! Paxton seems to be switching up his approach, as these two continue to feel each other out!

Ray and Doubleday lean their full weight into each other, arms interlocked around each other’s shoulders and head. They grapple for a few moments in a standstill, until it dawns upon Paxton that his legs can do much more in the situation than struggle for leverage.

Nick Stuart: Ray with a knee to the gut of Dabney Doubleday! And another! Looked a bit low, if you ask me… but nevertheless, Paxton has Doubleday doubled over, and sends him right into the corner.

Richard Parker: Let the mauling begin! Just look away, Mrs. Doubleday! Just look away!

Dabney covers up to steel himself from the flurry of heavy punches flung from every direction by the Lafayette Bruiser. When he brings his guard up high, Ray opts for uppercuts to catch his exposed jaw. When the guard drops, Paxton takes clear shots at the dome obscured by his simply perfect head of hair.

Nick Stuart: Dabney is trapped! Jimmy Turnbull is giving Ray the four count, and has to all but pull the murderous maniac off of him to keep this assault from going any further!

Richard Parker: Doubleday may be a nice chap with his clean rope breaks, but you can bet your ass Paxton Ray won’t give him the same treatment!

Though a bit worse for wear, Dabney sets his jaw and gets back into the fray. At the behest of the official, Ray takes him out of the corner by the arm and sets him into motion with an Irish whip. What he doesn’t count on his Doubleday planting his foot, pivoting, and reversing the whip. Ray takes a bump off the opposite set of turnbuckles and stumbles straight into a…

Nick Stuart: HIPTOSS off the Miracle Whip reversal! Doubleday with a chance now… Paxton back up, but a running lariat takes him back down! Took his licking, and keeps on kicking!

Richard Parker: Maybe… or maybe Paxton’s pulling his punches for now.

Dabney moves in to retrieve Ray, but gets a set of knuckles embedded into his forehead for his troubles. Paxton quickly rolls to his corner and slaps the extended hand of the Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience. By the time Dabney comes to, he catches a glimpse of Sage Pontiff springboarding over the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff tagged into this match, and he comes in by way of a springboard crossbody that brings Dabney Doubleday onto his back! Lateral press for the cover!

One…

Two…

Dabney slips out the back door!

Richard Parker: NO-maste!

Both competitors scramble to their feet. Dabney attempts to strike first with another running lariat, but Sage smoothly limbos beneath it and counters with a spinning back-handed chop to his abs. With Doubleday stunned, Pontiff pops to his feet and wrangles the swell guy around the waist.

Nick Stuart: Gutwrench suplex by Sage Pontiff! Dabney was almost a little too overanxious there, and the Bodhisattva made him pay for it!

Richard Parker: I take it they don’t practice much chakra alignment down in Casa del Doubleday!

Nick Stuart: Dabney could be in trouble here as he has yet to try and get himself up! Here goes Pontiff into the ropes… Springboard Moonsault across the ribs! Hooks the legs for good measure!

One…

Two…

Doubledoor rolls up the shoulder! And now Sage puts him into a leg scissor headlock from the rear to keep him on the mat!

Dabney’s face, exposed between the Bodhisattva’s clenched knees, turns several shades dark as his head is relentlessly squeezed in a vice-like grip.

Richard Parker: Kid’s in a real pinch, ain’t he? See what I did there? It has a double meaning there. Ope! That’s double the meaning for the double of day!

Nick Stuart: Clever, Rich, we’re all impressed… but back to the matter at hand here. As you correctly observed, Dabney Doubleday is certainly in a precarious position here. Pontiff has him on his back, and is slowly choking the life out of him!

Richard Parker: See where years of sitting in the lotus position gets you? Sage practically has quads steel!

Nick Stuart: Dabney has to make some sort of move here! Every second he remains in this hold, a bit of his energy is sapped away!

Attempting to fight his way out of the hold, Dabney kicks his legs and tries to roll himself onto his knees. Pontiff, however, has already foreseen this contingency. He fights Doubleday’s attempts to roll to the right. Dabney switches to his left, but Sage rolls through and puts him back into the same position.

Nick Stuart: Doubleday is fighting, but struggling to break free! What can he do to get out of this?

Richard Parker: Whatever it is, it won’t make any difference! The clear and unfettered mind of our Bodhisattva has the foresight to predict his every move!

Over by the Doubleblood Corner, Dabney’s anxious brother Douglas whispers concernedly up to Youngblood. Eyes never leaving the action, the Tower of Babel calms the younger Doubleday with a wave of his hand. Show patience and have some faith in your brother, it says.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull asking if he’s giving in, but Dabney shakes his head no! And now Sage extends his legs, forcing the shoulders to the mat!

One…

Two…

Doubleday pops a shoulder! Pontiff forces him down once more!

One…

Two…

Dabney pops the other shoulder! But back down he goes!

One!

Two!

DOUBLEDAY BRIDGES OUT!

The crowd cheers enthusiastically as Dabney’s body nimbly forms a perfect arch. Sage’s eyes bulge in astonishment. Before he can react, Doubleday pushes off the balls of his feet and rolls his legs over. Finally finding his footing, he slowly lifts his upper body up with a surprised Sage Pontiff still clung around his head.

Richard Parker: Whoa! Maybe this guy does yoga also?

Nick Stuart: Amazing athleticism on display by Dabney Doubleday, reversing himself right out of that submission attempt, and deadlifting Sage Pontiff right off the mat! Now he’s got him on his shoulders–NO! Pontiff pitches forward and counters with a VICTORY ROLL!

One!

Two!

Thr–Doubleday kicks out!

Their bodies roll apart and both competitors quickly get back to their feet. Sage gets in the first hit with a thrusting mule kick that sends Dabney stumbling into the ropes. Doubleday bounces, but fighting spirit suddenly breaks through and he sends the Bodhisattva flipping over onto his chest with a crooked-arm lariat before collapsing back to the mat.

Nick Stuart: NAMASTE by Sage Pontiff… but Dabney Doubleday bites back with a BLOOD BOMBER!

Richard Parker: That was a lucky break!

Nick Stuart: Sage makes the quick tag back to Paxton Ray… but across the ring, Dabney tags in Youngblood!

The temperature in the room drops. The crowd “oohs” in grim anticipation. Ray and Youngblood lock eyes across the ring, and stall as an intense staredown ensues.

Richard Parker: Uh oh…

All at once, they crash into each other like savage lions battling for dominance, pushing, snarling, punching, and butting each other without impunity. They violently waltz across every square inch of canvas in a human tornado of brutality and destruction. All Turnbull can do is stay the hell out of the way. Every gruesome collision of flesh and bone is punctuated by an utterance from Richard.

Richard Parker: OOF!

Nick Stuart: What a melee we’re seeing right now! Both competitors are absolutely tearing into each other…

Richard Parker: EEF!

Nick Stuart: Ray landing a hook there, but nothing seems to be registering! Now the Tower of Babel rams him straight into the corner…

Richard Parker: OWF!

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray with a HEADBUTT! I think the brow of Youngblood may be cut open…

Richard Parker: OHF!

Nick Stuart: Youngblood pulling Ray into a waistlock… looking for a belly-to-belly–NO!! Paxton sweeps him down, and lands right into a mount.

Ray punches with fists that could dent steel. Absorbing the blows, Brandon grips the Lafayette Bruiser around the head and shoulder and gator rolls him over onto his back. Now in the mount himself, the Tower of Babel repays every receipt delivered by the Bayou Butcher, with interest. Ray is rocked by the earth-shattering rights and lefts, but throws Youngblood off after a thumb to the eye.

Nick Stuart: Gouge to the eyes! I don’t think Jimmy Turnbull saw it happen!

Richard Parker: If he did, what could he realistically do about it?

Nick Stuart: Disqualify him, for one.

Richard Parker: Doubt the Murdergator would be happy with that…

Nick Stuart: In any case, Ray follows up by trying to pull Youngblood into a guillotine choke! Might be his best shot in this situation… but Brandon DEADLIFTS HIM off the mat–RING-SHAKING SPINEBUSTER!!

Youngblood rises again, bringing Ray up with him…

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER SPINEBUSTER!!

Once more for good measure…

Nick Stuart: AND A THIRD!! Paxton Ray is seeing stars after three consecutive drops to the back of the head! Youngblood floats over and goes for the cover!

One!

Two!

NO!!

Paxton pops the shoulder after Youngblood’s concentration is broken by a slight sensation across his shoulders and the back of the head. Almost like a gentle breeze. His head swings around, and he sees Sage Pontiff standing over him, stomping in vain.

Richard Parker: Sage could sense his partner’s energy was fading there, and made a helluva save!

Nick Stuart: True, the pin may be broken up, but by the look on the face of the Diamond of the ReVival right now, I have a strong feeling that Sage Pontiff may come to regret that decision!

Youngblood is back on his feet, bearing down on the Boddhisattva. Sage has his hands up, telling him dude, chill, it’s just a wrestling competition, it’s nothing to get worked up over. At the last second, he makes a break for his corner, but doesn’t quite get there before Youngblood snags him by the dreadlocks and waistband and launches him root chakra over teakettle over the ropes and to the ringside floor.

Nick Stuart: Brandon Youngblood helps Sage find his place back on the apron the hard way, and sets his sights back on the legal man… NO!! Ray counters with a shot to the midsection as Brandon was getting him to his feet! And a JAWBREAKER to follow it up!

Richard Parker: See where giving into anger can end up costing you, Nick? The Bodhisattva just gave Brandon Youngblood a valuable lesson in giving into distractions!

Nick Stuart: I… doubt that very much, but the distraction Sage bought for his partner is certainly paying off now, as Paxton Ray keeps his momentum going with a bounce off the ropes… DISCUS ELBOW sends the Diamond of the ReVival reeling into the ropes… and Ray dumps him to the outside!

Youngblood manages to land on his feet following his tumble, but is still shaking out the cobwebs from the elbow that clocked him across the temple. With nobody left in the ring for him to punch, Ray takes what’s left of his aggression out on Dabney Doubleday, patiently waiting out on the apron.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray with a cheap shot to Dabney Doubleday!

Richard Parker: Just making sure the kid’s still awake.

Forever a disciple of fair play, this blatant disrespect is too much for Dabney Doubleday to stand idly by any longer. He rushes the ring to give Ray a piece of his mind, but is stopped by Jimmy Turnbull, ordering back out to the apron. Paxton adds insult to injury by taunting him from behind the referee’s back. At ringside, Douglas pleads for his brother to keep his cool.

Nick Stuart: I can’t say that I blame Dabney for wanting to get even on that one!

Richard Parker: Maybe, but he’d only make things worse for himself. Anyone who gets tagged by the Bayou Butcher and isn’t spitting out teeth afterward should be thankful!

Nick Stuart: Hang on, what’s happening over here on the other side of the ring? Sage Pontiff is recovered, but now he’s plotting something!

At some point during the happenings in the ring, the Bodhisattva relieved ring announcer Vince Howard of his seat. The camera now catches him creeping around the ringpost with the folded up chair in his hands, anxiously looking between the official in the ring–to make sure he isn’t looking–and his intended target, Brandon Youngblood. The Tower of Babel comes to and immediately looks to the action in the ring, turning his back to Sage…

Crack!

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff with the CHAIR across the back of Brandon Youngblood’s head!

Youngblood feels another slight breeze. Only this one picks up an irritating grain of dust. Slowly, the Tower of Babel turns around and levels his murderous gaze on the dumbfounded Bodhisattva. Sage Pontiff stands dumbfounded, looking guilty with the chair still clutched into his hands. Desperately, he reels the chair back for another swing…

Richard Parker: Swing for the fences and run for the hills, Sage! His aura is VERY RED right now!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff with another chairshot–NO!! Youngblood catches it, and pries that chair of his hands!

Sage drops to the ringside floor, hands up, trying to plead off the raging Diamond of the ReVival. Youngblood’s shadow falls over him…

Nick Stuart: I have a feeling that Sage Pontiff is about to be pulverized into a puddle of blood, bone, and patchouli!

A voice from in the ring suddenly gets his attention. Jimmy Turnbull, having finally talked Doubleday back out onto the apron, is now catching his partner in what appears to be the act of doing something very illegal. The official insistently orders Youngblood to drop the chair, threatening to disqualify him.

Richard Parker: Looks like Brandon Youngblood was getting a little too carried away out there. Good on our official for being observant and putting a stop to it!

Nick Stuart: Oh, come on! Turnbull completely missed Sage using that chair! That was just rotten timing for Youngblood to be holding onto it right then!

Richard Parker: That may be so, but two wrongs don’t make a right, partner! If the official missed the chairshot, then it is what it is. That doesn’t give anyone the right to just haul off and brain somebody with a chair. Even if it’s Brandon Youngblood.

Nick Stuart: Ugh…

The hesitation allows Pontiff to get away and scramble back around to his corner. The former Universal Champion scowls at the chair in his hand and drops it in disgust, sliding back into the ring. Back on his feet, he meets Paxton Ray rushing at him with a heavy right hook, which he swift ducks and counters with a…

Nick Stuart: BACKDROP DRIVER!! Brandon Youngblood just put Paxton Ray down right on the back of his head!

Youngblood forgoes the pin. He’s had enough of the bullshit. They fucked around, and now they’re about to find out. He makes the tag to Dabney Doubleday, who eagerly joins him in the ring. Taking a moment to point between their chests, Youngblood leads the charge to the opposite corner.

Nick Stuart: Tag made back to Dabney Doubleday… but Youngblood doesn’t look ready to leave the ring!

Attempting to maintain his authority, the ref approaches the Tower of Babel and delicately requests he return to his corner. Eyes staring daggers across the ring at his opponents, Youngblood puts a hand to Turnbull’s chest and gently pushes him to the side. Jimmy, could you just… not right now? Thanks.

Richard Parker: He just put his hands on the official! That should be an immediately disqualification!

Nick Stuart: You wanna try telling him that, Rich?

Richard Parker: Well, uhh, I mean…

Recovering on the mat and rubbing the back of his head, Paxton Ray sees trouble coming. Quickly, he scrambles to his corner and makes the tag to Pontiff. Sage hops the ropes, but the tandem of Youngblood and Doubleday are already upon them.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! The gloves have come off!

Richard Parker: This is hardly “Fair Play”! I call shenanigans on these Doubleday goobers!

The crowd is on their feet and roaring. Brandon clobbers Paxton with hammering overhead strikes. Dabney treats Sage to a bit of the ol’ Eggs and Ham. Jimmy Turnbull’s desperate pleas for order fall on deaf ears, because dudes are too busy beating the shit out of each other.

Richard Parker: Did we just forget tag rules all of a sudden? What’s going on here!?

Nick Stuart: Youngblood and Doubleday are taking it to their opponents! That’s what’s going on! They’re sick of the eye gouges and cheap shots and chair shots, and now they’re taking matters into their own hands!

The brawl eventually separates into opposite corners. Youngblood and Doubleday look back to one another and, finding themselves on the exact same wavelength, perform double Irish whips. On their own wavelength, Ray and Pontiff somehow avoid a collision with the former ducking and the latter leapfrogging, only to run into the waiting arms of their respective opponents.

Nick Stuart: The Tower of Babel with a BELLY-TO-BELLY SUPLEX on Sage Pontiff! Mrs. Doubleday’s Perfect Little Gentleman with a FLATTOP FLAPJACK to Paxton Ray!

Youngblood rips down the straps to his singlet and roars. Doubleday pumps his arms and pirouettes in triumph, cheered on by Douglas at ringside. The pop from the Boston wrestling faithful is absolutely thunderous.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood and Doubleday are absolutely dominating the ring right now!

Richard Parker: This is an affront to tag team wrestling, Nick! Do the rules not matter any more?

Nick Stuart: Did they matter earlier when Pontiff swung that chair?

Richard Parker: I mean, all I’m saying is, anything can happen in the heat of battle!

The Diamond of the ReVival directs traffic, and the partners trade off opponents once more. Dabney goes after Pontiff, the legal man, while Brandon moves to rid the ring of the Bodhisattva. Only Pontiff is slow to get back to his feet, prompting Youngblood to grab him by the waist and haul him up to his shoulders…

Nick Stuart: Youngblood about to toss Sage Pontiff from the ring once more, this time by way of POWERBOMB–BUT WAIT!! Sage with an ELBOW! And ANOTHER! He’s desperately trying to fight his way out of whatever Youngblood has in store for him!

Richard Parker: Too much negative energy than he can handle! It’s ruining his buzz!

A dagger-like elbow between the eyes stalls Brandon Youngblood, causing him to wobble slightly beneath the load. The hesitation catches a concerned glance from Dabney Doubleday, inadvertently making a fatal mistake…

Nick Stuart: RISING UPPERCUT from Paxton Ray!

Richard Parker: NEVER take your eyes off of the Bayou Butcher!

Nick Stuart: Youngblood and Doubleday are both on rubber legs, and now Ray makes his move!

Without thinking, Paxton moves, plowing himself shoulder first into Dabney’s abdomen and rolls him into the back of Youngblood’s legs. As he tumbles backwards, Pontiff floats over his shoulders and down his back. The moment sends them both flipping over, upending the Tower of Babel onto his head.

Nick Stuart: SHAMANIC DREAMWEAVER ON BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD?!

Not a statement. A question. As in, did that actually just happen? Somehow, yes. Even Sage Pontiff, sitting on his knees, is astonished at what he just pulled off. Getting to his feet, Paxton Ray gives his partner a commendable slap on the shoulder, bringing him out of his trance and back into the match.

Richard Parker: That was beautiful! These two are in perfect sync right now! Just wish it had happened to the legal guy.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievably, the team of Pontiff and Ray have turned this match back around in their favor! But now Jimmy Turnbull sees his chance to restore order, and orders Paxton back to his corner.

Richard Parker: (sarcastic) Oh yeah… now that they’ve actually got the momentum back, NOW he wants to restore order.

Ray goes to the apron. Turnbull sees that Youngblood hasn’t yet rolled from the ring, but for the time being, is out of the way and holding his head on the mat. Sage brings Doubleday back off the mat and traps him into a full-nelson. Before Dabney can react, his feet leave the mat, and he’s flipped over into a dragon suplex…

Nick Stuart: Pontiff with the ATHARVAVEDA–

…but Doubleday LANDS ON HIS FEET!

Richard Parker: WHAT the–?! HOW’D he–!?

Before Pontiff notices what’s happened, Doubleday gets in behind him, wraps up his head, points, smirks, and drops him with a Hangman’s Neckbreaker!

Nick Stuart: FLORIDA SUNSET!! Doubleday with a chance to win it! He makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–BROKEN UP by Paxton Ray!

Richard Parker: That was a close one!

On one side of the ring, Chet Fleetwood wipes away a bead of sweat. On the other, Douglas Doubleday angrily cries foul. Ray stomps away at Dabney’s head a few more times before wrangling him back to his feet and boxing him against the ropes. While this is happening, the official neglects to see Sage Pontiff slide out of the ring, escaping to the outside.

Nick Stuart: I think referee Jimmy Turnbull has run all out of patience! He’s trying to get Paxton back to the apron, but Ray won’t listen!

Richard Parker: And why should he? Jimmy did nothing while those two ran roughshod over the entire ring. If this is going to descend into chaos, then let it!

Paxton takes Doubleday by the head and pushes it over the top rope while at the same time pulling up on the middle, effectively trapping the Swell Guy. Dabney’s legs kick wildly as the ropes pinch off his windpipe. Turnbull is there in a heartbeat, frantically trying to pry the ropes apart. Douglas is there with the assist, out of concern for his dear brother.

Nick Stuart: Doubleday’s head is now stuck between the ropes!

Richard Parker: Oof, that can’t be good. If either of those Doubledays were to lose their head, I’d rather it be that Douglas twerp. That hair is just… atrocious.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull is hastily working to get him free, while Paxton Ray–

BRANDON YOUNGLBOOD IS ON HIS FEET!!

Richard Parker: AAHH!!

Boston ROARS!

Paxton instinctively swings with his left, but Brandon catches the fist. He swings with the right and gets the same result. With both arms locked up, the Tower of Babel proceeds to headbutt the bejesus out of the Bayou Butcher. A spurt of blood flies through the air as his nose shatters on impact.

Nick Stuart: My God, Paxton Ray’s nose has just been busted open! Brandon Youngblood is on a RAMPAGE right now!

Richard Parker: Yes, Nick, I KNOW! I’m quite familiar with the Midway arcade classic featuring a giant gorilla on a path of destruction! That’s exactly what we’re seeing right now in the ring!

Ray falls on his back, arms spread out his sides and face now masked in crimson. Brandon looks over to the ropes, seeing Turnbull and Douglas finally creating enough of a gap in the ropes for Dabney to pull his head free.

That’s when he hears a whistle from behind him.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff’s in the ring…

Richard Parker: …and he’s got the CHAIR!!

Youngblood’s hands go up to intercept the coming blow. What he doesn’t expect is the chair instead being tossed. Instinctively, Brandon catches it…

…just in time for the ref to turn around. Pontiff immediately runs to him, pointing between the prone body of Paxton Ray and Brandon Youngblood standing in an almost incriminating fashion with the chair in his grip.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull sees Ray bloody on the mat, and… no… NO!! HE SEES YOUNGBLOOD WITH THE CHAIR IN HIS HAND!!

…and HE CALLS FOR THE BELL!!

DING DING DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Youngblood roars in shock and anger, immediately trying to plead his case to the official. But it’s too late. A monsoon of paper and plastic pieces of trash falls upon the ring while the people of Boston let their feelings be heard. The Doubleday brothers look to each other, confused as to what just happened. Meanwhile, Pontiff gets the hell out of dodge, and drags Paxton out after him. He meets up with Chet Fleetwood on the outside, and the two hastily make their exit with the bleeding Bayou Butcher dangling over their necks.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, official Jimmy Turnbull has made the determination that Brandon Youngblood and Dabney Doubleday… are hereby DISQUALIFIED from this contest!

buh-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Vince Howard: As a result, the winners of the match… the team of PAXTON RAY and SAGE PONTIFF!!

BUUULLLLL-SHIT!! BUUULLLLL-SHIT!! BUUULLLLL-SHIT!!

Nick Stuart: What an injustice! Brandon Youngblood and Dabney Doubleday were robbed here tonight!

Richard Parker: Oh, come on, Nick! This match went off the rails a long time ago! Truth is, Brandon Youngblood wasn’t even the legal man, and had no business being in that ring to begin with. We should be praising Sage for his forward thinking!

Nick Stuart: Forward thinking, my foot! His trickery ruined what would have otherwise been a solid, competitive battle between two teams!

Youngblood and the Doubledays stand together in the ring, struggling to process all of this. The Tower of Babel looks to Jimmy Turnbull who, knowing he just royally fucked up, awkwardly excuses himself from his post. He looks to Dabney, who can only shake his head in utter disappointment. He looks to the chair, still clutched in his hand, wondering how it even got there.

Then he looks to the three motherfuckers retreating up the rampway, smiling and celebrating in the wake of their ill-gotten triumph. And with his face flaring in rage, Brandon Youngblood rears back and LAUNCHES that chair up the rampway like a discus!

Nick Stuart: HOLY COW! HEADS UP!!

Pontiff’s smirk disappears when he looks up and sees the chair coming down at him like an artillery shell…

Smack!

…only for Paxton to bat it down at the last second.

Richard Parker: That was completely reckless! He could have seriously injured somebody in doing that!

Nick Stuart: He might seriously injure you if you don’t check that tone, partner! In any case, if we learned anything through this, it’s that these War Games teams are really beginning to gel together. Regardless of how anyone might think of how it ended up, both of these teams showed some amazing synergy working together!

Richard Parker: Fully agree partner. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us at Culture Shock, when these teams finally bring all their best parts together.

Nick Stuart: Yes, and I’m sure Brandon Youngblood and Dabney Doubleday can’t wait to settle the score!

Youngblood and the Doubledays stand in the ring, staring up the rampway. Ray, Pontiff, and Fleetwood stare back, slowly backing their way to the curtain. The garbage continues to rain down on them. Then Revival goes elsewhere.

The path of destruction the Red/Pink Army has cut across PRIME in preparation for War Games has Alexei Ruslan in a good mood. In such a good mood that he has decided to visit catering before the big main event between Hessian and Hayes Hanlon. After all his hard work in lobbying Craft Services to have borscht on the menu, how would he not partake, especially after his hand in laying low so many members of other War Games teams, especially the dastardly Anglo Luchador. He sidles along the catering line, grabbing a styrofoam bowl and then a spoon. As he eagerly finds his way to the heating tray with the Russian beet soup in it, a familiar voice speaks to him, coming from the catering employee with their back turned to the line of eaters.

Voice: I wouldn’t eat the borscht, wrecker. They made it with Beyond meat.

Ruslan recoils back in shock, even more so when the figure turns around to reveal himself as that aforementioned Luchador.

TAL: I don’t take you as someone who likes those hippies sullying his nation’s national dish.

Ruslan sneers and his mustache bristles.

Alexei Ruslan: If I did not know any better, Luchador, I would think you poisoned this beautiful dish of the Motherland.

The Luchador shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

TAL: Poisoning is too elegant for me. I prefer to do my dirty work the old fashioned way.

This grants Ruslan a hint of pause as he gulps. He offers a slightly nervous smile while glancing past the Luchador. There’s no looming Russians to be seen.

Alexei Ruslan: Old fashioned way? You.. would consider putting a hand on me in front of all these people. Er… would you?

TAL: People? What people? I only see one other person in here with us.

Ruslan turns around to find that the room has emptied out except for one person.

“The Next Diamond.” Nate Colton. And he’s got a scowl on his face that would melt an iceberg, cracking his knuckles, looking for an excuse to turn Ivan Stanislav’s herald into weasel carpaccio.

Nate Colton: Evenin’, shitbird.

Alexei offers a pale smile and adjusts his tie, only after dropping the spoon.

TAL: See, Nate’s not in a good mood, which is funny since I’m the one your big lummox orchestrated an entire attack on just because he was afraid of some ribald language! Imagine that!

Alexei’s tremors can be felt on local Richter scales.

TAL: I told Nate here that he wasn’t allowed to hit you unless you gave him a reason, and since I don’t see Max or the Masters or Rob or your fathead friend here, I don’t think you will. He wants to hit you so bad, man. You’ve got blood on your hands, wrecker. Lots of it.

Alexei gulps like he’s a Looney Tune before finding the strength to reply. He shoves his finger into the collar of his dress shirt and tugs on it.

Alexei Ruslan: Hah… hah… now, dear friends, as you know I am j… just a manager and not formal member of roster. Why, of course I would not give you any reason to act so rashly. After all, you two do not seem the kind to do such a thing, yes?

TAL: Alexei, you’re right.

The Luchador walks from behind the catering side of the table to make his way to the patron side.

TAL: Now, if Nate and I and maybe Brandon and the Champ and Dabs and Chan and Adam, if we somehow faked an invite to a production meeting and then one of us, let’s say B since he’s the biggest, crashed through some drywall, and we left someone like you in a foul mix of gypsum and your own blood, well, what would that make us?

The Luchador finally makes his way around and throws a sarcastically friendly arm around the shoulder of a clearly trembling Ruslan, sweat beading on his forehead like he’s in a sauna with Bobby Dean after judging a chili cook-off. Ruslan tries to wriggle free, but to no avail. He throws his arms wide, tossing the bowl to the side in the process. All he wanted was a little borscht.

Alexei Ruslan: Well… I mean… hypothetically and… without any real context… perhaps uh… dastardly… villains? And I know none of your fine… fine teammates would resort to something like that.

Ruslan offers his widest, most pristine, most desperate smile possible. The Luchador throws his hands up in the air and offers the least authentic sounding HA in the history of fake laughs.

TAL: WHAT A BREAKTHROUGH! See, Nate, he can be taught!

The Next Diamond, thinking about all the different ways he can contort Alexei Ruslan into a loaf of challah bread, just rolls his eyes.

TAL: Dastardly villains! Yes! I hope the irony isn’t lost on you, bud. Anyway, we’re not going to do that right now, emphasis on those last two words there, because that’s not how we operate. I like a fair fight. You know, one on one, that sort of thing, the kind of match I challenged your fatheaded buddy to for night one of Culture Shock. Huh?

Alexei lets out another weak laugh.

TAL: So, I want you to relay a message to your pal. You ready?

Alexei glances to TAL, then to Nate, then to TAL, then to Nate, then past them. No Russians. Back to TAL.

Alexei Ruslan: Sure…?

The Luchador smiles.

TAL: It’s twofold, Lex. First, if he doesn’t want to acquiesce to my challenge, then we can keep doing this. We can spend the entirety of the time we’re not in the War Games cage stalking you, stalking him. We can make your lives a living psychological hell, and maybe a physical one too if I have a bad day. You know my brother is being a real jagaloon right now? Man, what I wouldn’t give for a normal family like his over there.

Nate once again rolls his eyes. Alexei gulps again, trying to keep the smile on his face nice and wide.

TAL: Second, I’m not gonna speak for my War Games team anymore, because they, well, we all have some differing opinions on things, as good teams do. But as for me, I’m a wrestler. I’m not a gangster. I’m not a Starchy Proper Chick or a reanimated automaton or an entertainer. I handle my shit in the ring.

Alexei tries to exhale, but the next word shocks him into holding his breath again…

TAL: BUT…

There’s always a but.

TAL: I don’t think it’s particularly right that you guys think you can get away with all this extraneous shit you keep doing to us on the roster who do see the PRIME arenas, not as a cover for all this other shit you guys do, but as a church. What you orchestrated on me two shows ago. What you and the fathead did to Jared and Justine last year before Tropical Turmoil. What you did to Nick Stuart. What you guys keep doing to everyone who just wants to come to work and fucking wrestle for the adoration of MILLIONS OF PRIMATES AROUND THE FUCKING WORLD.

Alexei shirks back.

TAL: I don’t like playing your game, but I will do it if you assholes keep pretending this assault and battery you perpetrate is business as usual for wrestling. It’s not going to fly. We will band together, and maybe not permanently, but in combinations you won’t expect, and we will engulf you one-by-one, infiltrate your newscasts, snag you in the hallways, interrupt your meals. And we won’t stop at just talk. You’ll find out the hard way not to fuck with me. Not to fuck with Nate over there. Not to fuck with Jared or Justine or Brandon or Adam or Dabney or Chandler or RIA or Kohime or Dawkins or even Don Winters. We clear?

Alexei hesitates to open his mouth, unsure if he should, and he nods his head emphatically.

Alexei Ruslan: Yes, uh, crystal clear and you know?

He pulls out his right arm and shakes down his coat sleeve, looking at his bare wrist.

Alexei Ruslan: I think it is about time I uh… get going and deliver this message since, erm… it is so important…

Ruslan tries to slither out from beside TAL, who puts his foot out and stops him ever so gently.

TAL: Just make sure he gets the message.

The Luchador leans in.

TAL: All. Of. It.

Alexei nearly trips over his feet and bumps into Nate, before sliding off to the side and heading for the catering door. He turns for a moment and lifts a finger, as if to utter a retort of some sort, his face full of fire and his blue eyes gleaming. Yet, instead, he lowers his finger and dashes out with his hand on his hat, thinking better of it. The Luchador chuckles and looks up at the Next Diamond, who still looks a bit disappointed.

Nate Colton: I know we had to do it this way.

Nate takes a beat as his War Games partner knows that there’s always a “but.”

Nate Colton: Nah. Pretty sure you already know. So…what the hell is borscht, anyway?

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: It’s some kind of beet stew with beef and other stuff. Never had it, actually. Closest I ever came to working in Russia was Lucha Libre Latveria.

Nate Colton: Don’t you mean Latvia?

TAL: No, no, Latveria. Like, Dr. Doom was there and everything.

The two walk out of catering as the camera cuts.

The show cuts to elsewhere backstage. There, standing idly by, more like waiting to murder someone, is none other than the Murdershow himself, Hessian.

All seven fucking feet of him.

His look is intense. His focus is narrow. His knuckles are cracked. His ring gear could use some help; homeless and or vagrant is so ReVolution era. Outside of that though, he’s good to go.

Primed.

There’s only one thing for ole murder daddy to do tonight.

Just one.

Make sure that cackling idiot has nothing to cackle about over the next two weeks.

You know the one.

Him.

Cackling Idiot: Well, well, well. Lookie here. Another demigod in PRIME; Hercules in the flesh. No note?

The cackling idiot, if you couldn’t tell from the Greek overtures, is Cancer Jiles. Aka, Hessian’s unlikely teammate and shipmate for War Games. He appears from out of thin air like a vampire in the night. As per, his COOLsylvanian hair belongs on a Michelin menu. Right next to the AB negative.

Cancer Jiles: Listen, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’ve decided to take Coral up on his offer, and as a sign of good faith not to worry about it out there tonight. Focus on murdering Hayes. If anyone is crazy and or stupid enough to go full Ivan, the big gun has got your back. Though, you don’t strike me as the worrying type.

Hessian: Big gun? Who? Bobby Dean?

Cancer Jiles: No. I said big gun, not Big Pun.

Usually a joke that kills. However, going by the immediate no sell, Hessian seems to be more of a Wolf Totem guy if a boy had to guess.

Hessian: Coral then?

Cancer Jiles: No. I said big gun not big forehead.

Hessian: Don’t tell me Tony.

Cancer Jiles:  – Dwight Schrute infinite glasses gif –

A few seconds of silence pass. Things, if they weren’t getting tense before, are definitely tense now, like, walking on eggshells tense. It’s no secret that Jiles was not a fan of how Hessian returned to PRIME. Then again, it can be said that he’s not really a fan of anyone so there’s also that.

Hessian: Okay big gun, just kiddin’. We need to keep up a united front, I appreciate the gesture. Been a minute since I worked with a team. Odd as it might sound I’m looking forward to the boat ride and spending some quality time with the Bandits.

A smile pokes through the cool veneer of Cancer Schrute.

Cancer Jiles: Really? You mean that?

Hessian: Depends. What’s the nicest way of saying no to the weird finger-sniffing kids in the corner?

Good thing Jiles didn’t need that heart anyway. But it’s there. Freshly removed from his chest and beating on the floor in front of him.

Slowly beating anyway.

Hessian: You got to lighten up! We’re going to war in two weeks time, however we feel about each other coming outta that thing, we’ll be connected by it whether we like it or not. I do appreciate the added eyes tonight though, even if it is just the Bandits protecting their investment.

The gamesmanship is not lost on the COOLYMPIAN. He’s not shell shocked, but he is pleasantly surprised. That does not happen often.

Cancer Jiles: Well played, Ian. Well played indeed. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look. Big and ugly, sure. Stupid though, maybe not. I’ll be seeing ya. Good luck out there tonight.

The Maestro of COOL spins on a heel, but before he can vanish off into the commentary booth’s night…

Cancer Jiles: Make your Captain proud!

Cut to elswehere.

Backstage, a furious Ivan Stanislav marches towards an old friend.

No, not Alexei Ruslan. He’s behind Ivan, berating him.

Alexei Ruslan: The nerve of those cowards, Starshy Praporshchik? Can you believe it!? And I didn’t even get any borscht!

No, the old friend is the Steel Door O’ Doom with Lindsay Troy’s name on the front. Ivan stops and stares at it. There’s a dent in it. Does she take this door with her everywhere now? He snarls, while Ruslan keeps gibbering behind him. With one huge fist, he pounds hard on the door, knocking thunderously.

Ivan Stanislav: LINDSAY TROY!!!

There’s a moment of silence before the Queen of the Ring’s voice is heard from inside her office.

Lindsay Troy: NEW PHONE WHO DIS?!

The two Russians blink and look at one another. One can almost see the question marks above their heads. With a frustrated growl, Ivan narrows his eyes and engulfs the handle of the door and shoves it open, nearly smashing his forehead into the top of the doorway as he enters with Alexei in tow.

Ivan Stanislav: Phone!? What are you talking about, phone?!

Lindsay, who had been reclining in her office chair while texting, looks over at both men and rolls her eyes.

Lindsay Troy: Nevermind. What terrible indiscretion can I solve for you this time, Ivan? I’m assuming that’s what you’ve come to rant at me about.

Stanislav blinks for a moment, not expecting that response. He places his hands on his wide hips and grunts.

Ivan Stanislav: Well…

But it’s Alexei who pipes up, just slightly behind and to the side of the hulking Russian Bear.

Alexei Ruslan: Have you not been watching your monitor, woman?! Nate Colton and The Anglo Luchador cornered me in the cafeteria and threatened to beat me up!!

The Queen stops what she’s typing and casts a baleful look in Alexei’s direction. She places her phone in her lap and folds her hands overtop it.

Lindsay Troy: So…you’re both here, in my office, to complain about Nate and Tom threatening Alexei, when you both literally do that to members of this roster on a biweekly basis on my television programming, and near-daily on my social media platform….not to mention that Alexei has a Mary Poppins coat full of nefarious accessories to carry out violent attacks while he serves in a manager capacity. But Hoyt forbid someone finally stands up for themselves instead of bitch about shit on Jabber. That sound about right?

One could almost hear a pin drop as both Russians furrow their brows. Ivan looks down at Alexei. Alexei looks up at Ivan. Then both look back at Lindsay.

Alexei Ruslan: That’s different!

Ivan Stanislav: He is a manager!

Alexei Ruslan: Whatever I use in my coat is only for defensive purposes!

Ivan Stanislav: Right!

Alexei Ruslan: I nearly knocked both of their blocks off in the cafeteria, but out of the kindness of my heart I didn’t want to humiliate two full-time roster members!

Lindsay purses her lips and points toward the door.

Lindsay Troy: Get out.

They look at one another again and then look back at Lindsay Troy. After all, this clearly sounds like a perfectly logical complaint and excuse for anyone listening on the eastern side of Russia’s European border. Still, Stanislav stands his ground and waves a finger.

Ivan Stanislav: Now wait a moment. I am not going to sit idly by while someone like The Anglo Luchador threatens Alexei. That little shit has been scraping and bowing for a match against me? I want it. At Culture Shock, Lindsay Troy.

Lindsay Troy: Oh really. Now you want the match.

She twiddles her thumbs.

Lindsay Troy: Didn’t you say earlier that you didn’t want to face Tom? Something about you wanting to rest on Night One?

A smile.

Lindsay Troy: You’re sending mixed signals, Ivan; you should really work on your communication skills.

Ruslan spreads his arms and then slaps them against his thighs.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh, she sees that.

Ivan growls through gritted teeth.

Ivan Stanislav: First of all, Lindsay, I did not say I wanted night off. Nor did I say I didn’t want to face him. I said I was too busy!

The Russian Bear seems to be preventing a full blown meltdown behind his wide jaw and flaring nostrils.

Ivan Stanislav: But as lifetime contract holder in PRIME, a locker room leader, a legend, veteran, and future PRIME Hall of Fame wrestler… I will not sit idly by while the nefarious forces of PRIME prey on someone who simply wants a fine Russian dish for dinner!!

Lindsay Troy: Hm. Well, as compelling as this argument is … I have to be honest with you, Ivan…

The Queen puts her feet on the floor and sits up straight in her chair.

Lindsay Troy: I was booking this match regardless of what you wanted and when. You don’t get to dictate anything to me, and I’ve had just about enough of you two menacing people around here. What you have in PRIME you have because I’ve given it to you, and as I reminded you during our phone call last week, I can take it away just as easily.

Stanislav leans forward, while Alexei hangs back. The Bear pushes his finger into the top of the desk and stares at Lindsay Troy.

Ivan Stanislav: This is War Games, my dear. I am just letting the others know the stakes. But, very well, if you are going to book match anyway, then we both are getting what we wanted.

He straightens up and lifts an eyebrow.

Ivan Stanislav: I guess we have nothing else to talk about, unless you want to levy fines against Nate Colton?

Lindsay Troy: (smiling) I’ll have my assistant get back to you on that.

Ruslan rolls his eyes and turns on his heel, making no attempt to delay his exit. Ivan turns slowly and makes his way to the door and starts to duck to exit, before stopping. He turns and straightens up to his full height and looks across the office and Troy.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, Lindsay? I tell you this because of our past history.

He nods sternly while his eyes stare first into Lindsay’s eyes, but then dart around her face.

Ivan Stanislav: I am going to obliterate him.

Without another word, he ducks through the doorway and shuts the door surprisingly gently.

We cut to our final commercial.

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The show feed comes back to the ring after the commercial break.

Nick Stuart: NEXT UP! THE MAIN EVENT! AND IT IS A BIG ONE! Two time Universal Champion, Hayes Hanlon, versus the somewhat recently returned and also former two time Universal Champion, Hessian!

Richard Parker: The very definition of a DREAM match. Well, except you’re down here.

Cancer Jiles: I’m gonna sleep good tonight then!

Yeah, Jiles joined the team during the commercial break. He did say he’s got Hessian’s back prior to the match. Whether or not that means anything remains to be seen. One thing is for sure though, Cancer Jiles does not like Hayes Hanlon.

At all.

But, Wonderboy’s scorn will have to wait.

He comes out second.

The building is plunged into darkness as the lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar a massive silhouette appears in the ether and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figure starts to shift, growing larger in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

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.

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show…HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He tenses his thick flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena.

Cancer Jiles: We’re gonna need a bigger boat.

Richard Parker: First time? Oh, that’s right. You weren’t at night two of Colossus. HA!

See only the master, risen, risen,
After all the silence, all of him laughing
After all the strangers, beaten, driven,
Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm
Do as the book told you see the pages torn,
Make the spell upon them, in human form,
So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,
Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.

The giant stops at the foot of the ring and gives the canvas a fond pat before reaching up with both hands to grab the top rope. Pulling himself up onto the apron he gives the crowd another quick stoic glance before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

You remember, You remember his face,
You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,
I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,
I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the center of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as the giant grins and heads to his corner while the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

Nick Stuart: There he is! The big gun for team Captain Coral! Needless to say, Hayes Hanlon is going to have his hands full tonight.

Cancer Jiles: What was that? What did you say about a big gun? Is that what everyone thinks?

Richard Parker: Pipe down, Pizmo. You heard him.

Nick Stuart: Uh, and speaking of Hayes Hanlon….

Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

Cancer Jiles: I hate — and when I say hate I mean HATE — this song.

Richard Parker: I guess you won’t be the only one sleeping well tonight then! Crank it up!

Cancer Jiles: Oh, and somebody better tell Hayes’ people that it’s called the Crumbotron, okay? Fucking walking coldsore can’t do anything right these days.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.

Vince Howard: FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

Nick Stuart: Hayes looks up to the task! He’s climbed the mountain before, can he do so again tonight?

Richard Parker: When you say mountain, do you mean–

Cancer Jiles: –I’ll eggsecute you right here on the spot if you say it. Test me. It’s the MAIN EVENT of the PRIMEalina go home mixer, and this is my last chance to keep my streak of  kicking someone in the face alive. I’m itching, and you’re as good as anybody else.

Nick Stuart: So what you’re saying is that you’re really out here to kick Hayes or Dick in the face and not to watch Hessian’s back?

Cancer Jiles: No comment.

Hayes and Hessian lock eyes.

Referee Elvis Nixon runs down the rules and quickly calls for the bell.

DING DING

The two competitors make their way towards the center of the ring. The crowd swoons, more than ready and exceptionally eager for the battle ahead. The two former Universal Champions from different eras begin to jaw back and forth with one another. Posturing. Not budging. Not impressed with the other.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon stands six feet three inches tall, and weighs in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds. He’s a big boy, and right now he looks like Tony Gamble in that ring. Which, oddly enough, is not a totally unfamiliar spot for Hayes to be in, seeing as he’s mixed it up with Ivan on more than one occasion. Still, that’s a big chunk of PRIME royalty he’s in there with.

Cancer Jiles: How dare you? Like I’m not sitting right here! You call him Two Books when I’m around, you got that, Nick.

Richard Parker: Hessian was breaking bones and PRIME’s Universal Champion when Hayes was in diapers. The so-called face of ReVival should know better than to poke the bear. Then again, he does still have Ivan’s passport in his back pocket.

Cancer Jiles: Hey! Don’t you talk like I’m not here. I’m not kidding. I will kick you in the face, Dick.

Richard Parker: Sure ya will. Like you could afford it after Philadelphia.

The posturing between time periods ends.

Now for blood.

Hayes has had enough of all the talking. He shows Big Hess his index finger; shows it to him nice and flexed and how it is ready to jab the eye out of someone’s socket.

Nick Stuart: Little bit of a telegraph there.

Then, because Hayes still has pride and foolishness in his body, he shoves the aforementioned flexed index finger into the Murder Show’s chest.

Sternum to be exact.

So at least eye level to Hayes.

Hessian does not budge.

He laughs.

But he does not budge.

Hayes, always defiant, always brash, always a pistol when being shown up, laughs along with the beanstalk. Then, instead of another index smash, he opens his palm and smacks the laughter out of Hessian’s mouth. He also gets the taste, and the spit, and maybe a tooth but more than likely it’s just some more spit.

Cancer Jiles: yawning.

Sadly, for Hayes and his fanclub, he did not slap the rage out of the monster. In fact he did the opposite. The Murder Show quickly reaches out and grabs his prey by the throat. He pushes him, violently, yet with little to no effort at all, back into the corner. Then, he raises his other arm, his chopping arm, high up in the air, as if he were trying to change a lightbulb at the top of the arena.

Then.

SMACK~!

The whole place hears it.

Even the ghosts hear it.

Hessian returns the favor, and slaps Hayes so hard across the face he sends him flying over the top rope and to the outside.

Like a cartoon character.

As such, Jiles makes any commentary on the situation inaudible, since he is laughing out loud uncontrollably.

Hayes quickly springs to his feet from presumably a sheer adrenaline rush. For a moment things seem as if nothing happened, and it’s like he didn’t just catch a stray of strays. However, this fairy tale quickly comes to an end when he stumbles face first into the ring post.

TIMBER!!

Although, one might speculate that the ring post bump was the lesser of two evils.

Elvis Nixon starts to count.

1…

2……

3….

4…….

Hessian looks at an imaginary watch that is around his wrist.

Almost one AM.

Jiles is still obnoxiously cackling and ruining commentary.

5…

6…..

7…

Hayes begins to move. It’s in the wrong direction of the ring, and crawling towards the entrance ramp, but he is moving. So not all bad news.

8……

It’s just a shame.

It would have been a good piece,

Of action.

9…

Obviously not a shame for Jiles, who has maintained his vile cackle for the duration of the count.

Ten.

But not, 10! 

Before Elvin Nixon can reach the count of ten, Hessian steps over the top rope and hops down off the apron to break the count.

Looks like we’re going to have a match after all.

Cancer Jiles: I knew it. He is as stupid as he looks. We’re doomed.

In a look who’s laughing now twist of fate, Richard Parker is the one having a chuckle and it’s at Cancer’s disenjoyment nonetheless.

Elvis begins to sing to ten yet again.

1…

2…….

Big Hess and Hayes find each other on the outside, and by find I mean Big Hess’ boot finds Hayes’ well padded behind. Hayes goes crashing into the barricade. Next, Hessian stalks a few steps of the way over, reaches down, and pulls the face of PRIME’s ReVival upright by his hair.

5….

6……..

Cancer Jiles: Jesus! Somebody warn me next time! Fuck! I’m getting squeamish!

Hessian then hoists the big boy Hayes Hanlon up like he weighs zero point zero, yet body slams him like he’s the last bag of mulch on a hot summer day.

7…

Richard Parker: Did he just bounce?

Cancer Jiles: Quiver.

Bounce or quiver, it does not matter. Damage is done. Hayes is on the wrong end of this. It does not look good for him.

8…

Hessian rolls back into the ring under the bottom rope. If he stays. He probably wins. However, he does not. He once again, much to the groaning of Cancer Jiles, breaks the count by heading back to the outside.

Cancer Jiles: I can’t even anymore with this guy. Quick, Bobby, if you are watching this call Zeb. Tell him we’re going on a fishing trip or something. Make it work.

Nick Stuart: Odd? I’d think you’d be enjoying this, no? I mean, your feelings about Hayes Hanlon are well documented. You’re on the record as saying, well, since I don’t want to get kicked all I’ll say is it was the biggest match of your career and just leave it at that. What I’m getting at is I would think this would bring a smile to your face, and you’d want it to keep on going.

Cancer Jiles: I do. I just want Hessian to get it over with and win, because I know first hand that Hayes Hanlon is the comeback kid from Crap Bottom, Crumbstainville. So a rat basically. As such, the longer this goes on, the more Hayes can get his ass kicked and withstand the onslaught, the better chance of there being an opening for him.

Nick Stuart: Sage insight.

Richard Parker: He would know.

Elvis Nixon slides out of the ring, and does what he can to get both men back into it. Hayes is easy. Call him an ambulance, put him on a stretcher, and then line the stretcher up with the apron and push him back into the ring. Hessian though, a face slapped dog, not so much. But, Elvis is no push over either. He was trained by the best, and he does in fact wrangle them both up and back inside the ring.

Hessian is on his feet.

Hayes is not on his feet, but he is moving around and seems lucid so maybe his bell has finally stopped ringing after the giant open palmed receipt to start the match. His back might have an issue or two, but he is young, so he does have that on his side. Hessian goes to move in, but Hayes is able to roll out of the way, which allows him to get back up on his feet. Hessian charges back in, moving abnormally fast for a man of his stature, but Hayes knows how to keep his tail out of the trap and ducks under the clothesline attempt.

Cancer Jiles: Say it. I want you to jinx him.

Hessian spins.

Hayes isn’t there.

No, Hayes’ is too busy being in the Murder Show’s blind spot to be seen.

FLASH POINT~!

OUT.

OF.

NO WHERE.

Hessian is down. His jaw is jacked, and just like that it’s now his head that’s in the box. Hayes Hanlon has the upper hand, and it’s all thanks to Flash Point.

Nick Stuart: HOLY SHIT! Big Hayes got up there for that jaw breaker! Who said he wasn’t a high flier?

Cancer Jiles: His bio.

Hayes crawls over, and pulls himself across Hessian.

Cancer Jiles: No Demmy please, not like this! Please Demmy!

Nick Stuart: This is amazing! Leave it to Hayes to topple a giant in one move!

Richard Parker: If true, worth it to see Jiles’ meltdown.

Elvis Nixon hits the canvas to make the count.

1.

2…..

KICKOUT!

This is not your ordinary kickout. No. This kickout is one of those where the big guy bench presses the smaller guy up and off of him about three feet in the air. Like, good try. Almost. But now it’s time to be murdered.

So…

Hessian rages back to his feet. He quickly relocates his target and zones in. The wild rage dissipates from his eyes and a focused fury replaces it.

No toot-toot needed.

All aboard the Hess Express.

Hayes retreats to the corner, buying himself precious seconds to think of his next move.

The train comes chugging on in. Hayes wisely decides to take the next one, and slips out of the way. Hessian is ready this time around though, and protects his blind spot. As such, he snatches the overhand right from Hanlon from out of thin air; catching it as if it were a baseball.

Cancer Jiles: And you’re out!

Hessian doesn’t hesitate. He lands a stiff punch to Hayes’ pretty face while still maintaining his grip on Hayes’ hand. Then he lands another punch. Then one more. Then, Hessian whips Hanlon across the ring with the might of Hercules, and follows closely behind him until Hayes hits the corner. Then, he destroys Hanlon’s MAIN EVENT chances with a thunderous body splash.

He flattens him.

FLAT.

ENS.

Richard Parker: I guess Hayes was getting on that train after all.

Cancer Jiles: Have fun breathing! Hopefully he’s not double booked! HAHAHAHA! Crumb.

Hessian steps away, and allows Hayes to finish the match how it started.

TIMBER!!~~!!

Hessian drops down. He hooks the leg. He puts all of his weight and leverage into the pin. He has no more time to test fate.

War is next.

Elvis Nixon gets into position and makes the count.

1.

2.

3.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner via Hess Express, The Murder Show, HESSIANNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!

Nixon raises Hessian’s hand the best he can.

So, by his bicep.

Cancer Jiles: Hip. Hip. Hooray. Now I know how to do it, right, Dick? You worthless crumb. Both you and Hanlon. By the way, just so we’re clear. That guy. That fucking monster in the ring. That destroyer of wills. He’s on my team so suck on that.

Richard Parker: Oh, so now you like him. I see how it is! Flip flopper!

Hayes rolls out of the ring. Nixon goes and checks in on him. He’s fine. He won’t breathe right for a little while, but he’s not shitting blood at ringside.

Not yet anyway.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’ll do it for ReVival 45! We’ll see everybody in thirteen day’s time when PRIME invades Cardiff for Culture Shock: WarGames!!!

The show ends with Jiles and Dirty Dick bickering in the background as Hessian makes his way back up the entrance ramp.

Or does it….

Hessian doesn’t get very far up the ramp before someone power-walks by him with a purpose. The big man stops to look at who breezed by him without a second thought and, intrigued, decides to hold off on calling it a night for the moment.

Richard Parker: Hey, look who it is!

Cancer Jiles: What? Oh, Jesus, not this crumb bum.

The crowd’s attention is captured as none other than Jonathan-Christopher Hall picks up a microphone from the time keeper’s table. His face looks a little rattled but nonetheless he seems absolutely committed to what he’s about to do.

Cancer Jiles: Tell you what, Dirty Dick. Do me a favor and wake me up when this is over, will ya?

Richard Parker: Why don’t you just lea–

A headset is heard rustling and before we know it, Cancer Jiles is sprawled out on the announce table and has made himself comfortable.

Richard Parker: Well at least he’s finally shut up.

Nick Stuart: Enough about him, Richard. We’ve got Jonathan-Christopher Hall in the ring, and he clearly wasn’t on the schedule!

Richard Parker: Hey, maybe after Vickie berated the idiot during Kael’s little news outlet, the guy finally grew a pair and realized standing up for his woman is what he HAS to do!

Nick Stuart: Since when are you against Jonathan-Christopher?

Richard Parker: Since it’s clear he’s created a lot of problems in their marriage!

Nick Stuart: You can’t be- you- wait a second. Are you serious right now?

As the announcers bicker back and forth, Jonathan-Christopher slides under the ropes, finds the exact center of the squared circle and tilts his head back. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and then exhales very slowly. The number one contender to the Universal Championship eventually lifts his right hand towards his face, raising the mic along with it. Eyes still closed, he squeaks out an opening comment.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared.

The crowd cheers wildly.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared. Sykes.

Richard Parker: That’s Jared Skypes to you, JC!

Jonathan-Christopher opens his eyes. He lowers his head from the ceiling.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’d like to see you face-to-face, right now, Jared Sykes.

Nick Stuart: Richard, I think you’re right.

Richard Parker: I know! It’s Jared Skypes!

Nick Stuart: No you fool, the reason why Jonathan-Christopher is down here. I think he’s calling Jared out!

One note. That’s all it takes to send the Boston crowd into a frothing frenzy. They may not all be into Australian heavy metal, but they know who this song represents, and that they get to see Their Boy again.

Nick Stuart: And it looks like he’s getting exactly what he wants!

While Northlane does their thing to the arena sound system, the Universal Champion steps out onto the entryway and takes a long look at the ring. Usually this is the part where we refer to Jared as a little idiot man, and comment about how he seems to willingly – almost eagerly – throw himself into situations where he’s destined to be vastly outnumbered, but tonight there’s no apprehension or sense of concern. At least not one that’s readily apparent. He looks relaxed, almost calm as he walks to the ring, which is in stark contrast to the reactions of those family members sitting at ringside. His sister in particular looks like she could vomit up a live kitten at the drop of a hat.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Vickie’s right, I should have confronted you at the beginning of the show. Thank god it’s not too late…

Jonathan-Christopher puts his left hand up.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Hold it, hold it! I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.

Jared nods to those friends and family seated nearby, the gesture meant to assure them that this is under control. It’s not, not by any reasonable measure, but he’s got to play the part. There is the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips before as he glances back over his shoulder towards the entryway, knowing that the rest of the troops are on high alert. Nevertheless, Jared slowly enters through the top and middle rope, ensuring his head is on a swivel.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I just want to talk. Please, Jared, please.

Sykes stands across the ring from JCH, as Hall tries to find the fortitude required.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I have something to tell you. Something big!

Most of the crowd remains on their feet since JCH appeared, knowing the tension and history between these two competitors. It looks like Jonathan-Christopher is doing A LOT of soul searching, he’s delaying and can’t seem to choke out the words. He needs another moment to collect himself but this only promotes further skepticism from the champion, who hasn’t let his guard down yet. Jared’s eyes shift from right to left and then left to right.

Finally, Jonathan-Christopher takes a hard deep breath, rolls his shoulders forward and talks with a sense of novel humbleness.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I like you.

Richard Parker: Thataboy! You lay into him, JC! You lay into him- wait, what did he say?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I think you’ve got a lot of incredible qualities.

Richard Parker: Ummmmm…

The crowd is silent, not knowing what to make of it. Jared isn’t going to let his guard down, although his facial expressions suggest he’s as caught off guard as Richard Parker and the fans.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Over a year ago I was consumed by anger towards you, Jared. And perhaps looking back I handled it poorly.

Jonathan-Christopher shakes his head no.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But I’m not here to apologize or say I’ve changed. I let you have your moment in front of your hometown crowd at the beginning of the night because I thought it was the right thing to do. When Culture Shock rolls around, I’ll do the right thing again. I wrestle for the love of my life, Vickie Hall, and I am going to ease her trauma by winning… that.

Hall points to the title across Jared’s shoulders.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: If you think you wrestled desperately for the title, you’ve seen nothing!

JCH starts to psych himself up.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Vickie is EVERYTHING to me. She is my lifeblood. She is my reason for breathing! This title that you hold on your shoulder, it truly belongs to her! She’s not only the Manager of the Year, she is the Pinnacle of LIFE, the one who pulled me away from a horrible upbringing and unlocked a world I never knew existed!

Hall is breathing HARD. He keeps pointing to the title and the crowd boos since he builds his Amazing Life Partner up.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: By proxy this right here is going to fix everything! The little girl dream!! At Culture Shock, I shock the world and it becomes mine!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall steps right up to Jared Sykes.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But it’s not shocking the world when I wrestle with every last ounce of energy. It was enough to beat Cecilworth, it WON ME A DAMN TOURNAMENT. I am no pass over.

Hall closes his eyes once more. He goes somewhere he initially said that he wouldn’t.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared Sykes, I am sorry for everything I’ve done to you and everything I will do. But our battle at Culture Shock, it will be one-on-one, man-to-man. There will not be any interference. NO games, chocolate syrup or rusty nail on a two-by-for. It’s the legendary Jared Sykes who DESERVES that belt across his shoulder against one of his hungriest rivals in PRIME, Jonathan-Christopher Hall who NEEDS that belt across your shoulder. It’s everything I have-

Suddenly VICKIE HALL comes storming out from the back with no theme music.

Richard Parker: Well would you look at that! Vickie is here, she looks awfully proud of her man!

Nick Stuart: Ummm Rich, are we witnessing the same person?

The answer is probably not, as Vickie Hall is red faced and absolutely FUMING. The crowd has caught on and most certainly the two men inside the ring have caught on, too. Vickie shouts things such as “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER!?” and “WHY. IS. THIS. HAPPENING!?!?” amidst other angry, inaudible things.

The ESPN 30For30 camera crew shows their faces. The three videographers are in a hurry, trying to capture Vickie Hall but lag behind, greatly. It’s abundantly clear none of this was in their plans.

The fans jeer. Well, some do. Most have their popcorn ready and await the unfolding of madness.

…

Or castration.

Vickie slides into the ring. She b-lines straight to JCH-

And snatches the mic from his hand to a CHORUS of boos!

Extremely loud boos!

But she is seeing straight mother fucking red (army red) and will talk right over anyone. The Woman of Wonder, who is definitely the Woman of the Wounded, directs her attention towards Jonathan-Christopher, practically ignoring Jared Sykes. Meanwhile, two of the ESPN crew record on the outside of the ring and one on the apron.

Vickie Hall: WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? TELL ME RIGHT NOW!? WHAT IS THIS FUCKING DRIBBLE!?!?

Embarrassed as he tries to talk Vickie down, Jonathan-Christopher hopes to provide a clear and thoughtful response. He’s praying she will lower the mic and the two of them can walk backstage, or at least have an off-mic conversation. Godspeed, JC.

Vickie Hall: This is NOT the message I wanted to send! You said you’re sorry? You’re SORRY!? Jonathan-Christopher, why would you apologize to the MAN THAT GAVE ME SO MUCH TRAUMA!?

Tears build in her eyes. Her cheeks are bloodshot red.

Vickie Hall: HE RUINED MY LIFE!!!

Vickie points from behind her back in Jared’s general direction. She will not and cannot make direct eye contact with him due to her previous PTSD! However, the champion remains in the ring. He’s still ready for funny business to take place, even if nothing has happened yet. The expression on his face says everything: “Oh god enough with this bitch already.”

Vickie Hall: JARED SKYPES IS THE MOST COVERT NARCISSIST I’VE EVER SEEN. He gaslights everyone. Me. You. (Long pause, trying to make it more obvious) ME!!!

Vickie fumes.

Vickie Hall: Why would you have ANY respect for this man!?

By now, Jared is thinking about how he can slip out of the ring undetected… but then again, maybe it’s safer to just stand there, out of Vickie’s peripherals.

Vickie Hall: Jonathan-Christopher, are you fucking stupid!? Why does this have to be about you!? Go listen to everything you said! It’s “I- I- I-”. Hardly anything about me, THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE. I feel hurt right now, Jonathan-Christopher. I feel betrayed. I feel used. I feel like this title match is all about you and it has nothing to do with Vickie Hall, the woman who loves wrestling. I built a WarGames team! I lost the Manager of the Year Award! Gosh golly, when are you FINALLY going to advocate for me on that!? When are you going to talk strategy with Ivon for WarGames? You’re needed there too, mister!

Vickie continues to tear a strip off JCH while he stands and takes it, trying to plead and reason with her. He keeps saying “I love you, I’m sorry” but she’s not having it.

Vickie Hall: You haven’t prioritized me. You haven’t prioritized WarGames. You have no leg to stand on. You’ve done nothing. N.O.T.H.I.N.G. This was definitely not what I wanted you to do at the VERY END OF THE SHOW!

She stops, closes her eyes and gives her inadvertently best Regina George scream, the one where the Queen of the Mean Girls finds out what the Kälteen Bars she’s been munching on are really used for.

They make you gain weight like crazy!

Vickie Hall: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Jonathan-Christopher shakes in fear.

Vickie Hall: It’s like you’re becoming a narcissist. Wow, get a couple major victories under your belt and the girl of YOUR dreams is tossed to the side!

Thank god! Sykes looks like he can slip out of the ring now, completely undetected-

Vickie Hall: And you.

…Or not.

Like something out of The Terminator, or even The Exorcist, some people in the front row will swear they only saw Vickie’s head make a 180.

Vickie Hall: I will never forget about you.

She lowers her bushy eyebrows and looks to the curtain.

Vickie Hall: Cue it.

And upon her words, the lights switch to crimson.

There’s no fanfare. No bravado. No explosions.

Just one big, fuming Russian.

Ivan Stanislav.

He’s already had a frustrating night, and this isn’t making things any better. His combat boots pound on the ramp as he marches down to the ring. With surprising grace, The Russian Bear almost skips up onto the apron and fluidly straddles the top rope and suddenly, the entire weight of the ring has shifted to his side.

…And that’s because Vickie has moved to Ivan’s side of the ring. Her ego has grown so big and her own frustrations are boiling over, too. She stands in front of Ivan and gives him a clever little nod. “Just wait,” she mumbles lightly under her breath, then steers her attention towards Jonathan-Christopher Hall, who stands in the middle of the three of them.

Vickie Hall: Do you see this man? (Motioning to Ivan Stanislav) He is your friend, your teammate. He is not DaRiN ZiOn. He deserves to have your complete attention, like I do. And because you have slighted Ivon, I’m declaring you, Jonathan-Christopher Hall, my Amazing Life Partner, the FIRST entrant of our WarGames team! Not only will you prove your love to me, you’ll prove your commitment to Ivon and company by cleaning house and ensuring an easy victory for all!

Vickie marches up to her man. He merely stands there and takes it.

Vickie Hall: You are to protect our greatest Russian asset.

She snaps her head towards Jared Sykes.

Vickie Hall: AFTER you take the Universal Championship from his shoulders.

Stanislav stands behind Vickie, while casting a sidelong glance at JCH.

Ivan Stanislav: Jared Sykes, you know damned well that belt is supposed to be mine, you крысиный ублюдок (rat bastard). Even with all this self-absorbed capitalist talk from Jonathan-Christopher, that belt is property of Russia!

Jared isn’t buying it.

Jared Sykes: Not how I remember it, bud. First you won, then you did fuck-all for like three months. And then in front of tens of thousands of people Julien made you fall-down-go-boom.

As Ivan and Jared argue back and forth, other teammates start emerging from the back. Remember that thing about theme music from a minute ago?

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET

THE GALAXY

BURN

There is more than one “army” in the building tonight. Youngblood, Colton, Doubleday, the Anglo Luchador, Tsonda, and Ellis. They emerge as a unit, with the Diamond as their vanguard. But as they make their way down to ringside, Kenny Freeman and a rather injured Arthur Pleasant emerge to even the odds. Others from the PRIME locker room slowly start to unload onto the stage, although no one has put a hand on anyone else just yet.

Ivan walks up to Jared, looming over him. The Russian Bear sticks his massive index finger into the gold plate across his shoulder as Vickie screams profusely towards the champion’s direction.

Vickie has a pleased look on her face, as she scans over the intensity between all parties in the ring. She slowly sneaks her way out of the confrontation when Jonathan-Christopher tries to hold the giant back from striking the champion, while also pleading with Jared not to get himself hurt before their big match.

Nick Stuart: Things are boiling over. I’ve seen this stuff happen too many times.

The ESPN camera crew branches off to stay with Vickie and the tension inside the ring, as the Woman of Wonder sees the gathering of teams. Yet the expression on her face suggests she doesn’t register the magnitude of what could happen… or simply doesn’t care.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Ivan, I will pummel Jared, I promise. (Placing his nervous hands between both Ivan and Jared) There’s a time and a place for all of us to settle this.

Ivan glances down at Jonathan-Christopher.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh just shut up!!

Ivan pushes Jared!

Jared pushes Ivan!

And as Jonathan-Christopher tries to seriously interject himself this time, Ivan wraps his arms around the number one contender and sends JCH flying backwards…

…Inadvertently sending JCH towards Vickie Hall, who stands on the outside of the apron.

Richard Parker: VICKIE, LOOK OUT!

OOMPFH!!!!!11111

Jonathan-Christopher bumps into Vickie! Honestly… HONESTLY, it’s not even a hard bump. Regardless, Vickie Hall SHOOTS off the apron, arms sprawling, head twisting by a thread, like she has been shot from a cannon. The little girl sails, spins and bends in the air like a flag rattling through extremely windy conditions or a Barbie doll with loose arms and legs hurled across the room via a child-like temper tantrum.

SMACK!!!

Vickie lands at the soles of Hayes Hanlon’s feet.

She looks up at The Event Horizon, then down at the ground, then back up and over to the trio inside the ring and then directly at one of the ESPN 30For30 cameramen.

Like an injured toddler, she provides a significantly delayed response, clearly needing to piece it all together first.

She begins to bawl her eyes out. Vickie SCREAMS a hair raising cry of pain as she leans down and grabs her left ankle like it was snapped clean off her body!

Vickie Hall: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Kenny Freeman marches over and shoves Hayes away from her, Hayes stumbles away from the scene and directly into the view of The Diamond himself. Hanlon ignores the calamity behind him and marches up to the halfway point of the ramp and into the face of Brandon Youngblood. Like earlier in the night the two collide at the forehead and begin shouting at each other.

The volatile situation prompts an emergence of The Glue Gang. FLAMBERGE emerges from the back, shouting down Nate Colton. Behind him Lord Farthington comes out behind him, absolutely gleefully. The two opposing teams turn towards each other on the ramp. Lord Farthington begins gleefully commenting on the arms of Adam Ellis and Dabney Doubleday while FLAMBERGE is presumably telling Nate Colton exactly who the BIIIIIIIIIITCH! is.

Richard Parker: HEY! Where are you goin…

King COOL has managed to wake himself up, finally. He hops off the announce desk, stretches like a cat, and moseys away.

Inside the ring, a stunned Jonathan-Christopher stands in pure horror at the edge of the ropes, watching Vickie mercilessly scream in pain. He finally comes to his senses, jumps off the apron and races towards her.

Vickie starts kicking her ALP away, with her good leg that is.

Vickie Hall: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t know what to do! He can’t get any closer because Vickie is going batshit bananas on the floor! Meanwhile, the WarGames brawl has leaked into ALL areas of the staging, rampway and even the ring!

The fans are eating it up!

Tears slowly run down Jonathan-Christopher’s face as the CHAOS continues, while the massive Ivan Stanislav removes himself amidst the kerfuffle and stands at the top of the apron.

Amidst their own chaos the world has woven another web of the finest variety as Cancer Jiles has managed to slither his way into the center of the Adhesive Unit and Team Dragonslayer, Jiles’ smile is ear to ear, a young child on Christmas morning as he stares licking his chops at Hayes Hanlon and Brandon Youngblood his eyes darting back and forth behind his T-shades.

Ivan Stanislav: That is what you get when you think like capitalist, Jonathan-Christopher Hall! When you let greed overshadow your love for fellow workers and family! You reap what you sow, boy!

Jonathan-Christopher looks over at Ivan, deer in headlights.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m sorry. I- I- (Hall brings his attention back to Vickie) I didn’t mean it. I’m- I’m- I’m-

But Vickie just keeps screaming and kicking Jonathan-Christopher away.

Ivan Stanislav: This entire mess is yours! Your fallen wife and this chaos all around us, because you will not listen. Instead of finishing my story, instead of finishing her story, you only wish to finish YOURS!

Hall is completely consumed by Ivan’s slander and Vickie’s yelling. Furthermore, Jared Sykes FINALLY slides out of the ring, standing a good distance away from everything. The crowd has worked itself into a frenzy as the WarGames brawl spills into various parts of the bleachers. Front and center, however, Vickie Hall clutches her left ankle, rolling around the floor in AGONY. Jonathan-Christopher wants to get close, he’s determined to provide care… but he can get nowhere near because Vickie’s cry is so ear piercing.

We switch rapidly to the commotion on the ramp.The Luchador ranting and raving as Freeman and Pleasant shout at him and keep shoving him backwards away from the ring as Coral Avalon and Don Winters explode out of the back and down the ramp. They pull Cancer Jiles backwards. Rob Williams comes running down the ramp at Don Winters almost right behind them. Hessian pulls himself up over the ramp entrance and into his path. The rest of team CHAOS follows suit out of the back. Winters and Williams glaring back and forth. Adam Ellis and The Anglo Luchador are shouting at Ivan in the ring. The scene switches back to Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry…

The ReVival signature appears at the bottom right of the broadcast feed.

Nick Stuart: WE’RE OUT OF TI…

Once again, there’s the sound of a headset rustling, accompanied by LOUD BOOS.

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD, CANCER JILES JUST SUPERKICKED RICHARD PARKER!

JCH drops to his knees, begging for Vickie to forgive him while Ivan keeps scolding Jonathan-Christopher.

We switch back up the ramp as the team’s press closer together. Youngblood and Hayes have been broken apart and are shouting from their respective teams as Farthington is shaking arms and muttering he’s fine over and over again. The Herald is eagerly reporting into a camera at the top of the ramp. The scene flashes to Winters and Williams again, then to Hayes and Youngblood, to TAL shouting at Ivan as he scolds JCH. Jared Sykes’ eyes are wide at the chaos as the camera flashes back to Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s tears.

Nick Stuart: TUNE INTO CULTURE SHOCK!

…

…

All while the tiny little girl in the PRETTY PINK© dress just…

Won’t.

Stop.

Screaming.

Thank god the broadcast…

FADES.

TO.

BLACK.