CULTURE SHOCK 2024 – NIGHT ONE

Culture Shock fades in from black, and the words “Earlier Today” appear in the upper right hand corner of the screen. The shot is of the wrestlers’ and staff entrance to Millennium Stadium, where a curious scene is unfolding: a horde of security – Enemigos and Millennium Stadium staff alike – are gathered on either side of a large walk-through metal detector and a conveyor belt that’s attached to imaging technology…just like the kind you see while going through airport security. A different set of security personnel are working the metal detector and scanning system while PRIME wrestlers and staff wait their turn to go through.

Yes, you read this right.

No, you’re not high. Or drunk.

Maybe all the complaints from the Babyface Brigade about how PRIME isn’t safe, how the bad guys just run around and do whatever they want, how it’s a hopeless, lawless place finally got through to the Queen of the Ring. Maybe she’s finally heard their complaints and is doing something about it.

Or maybe this is all one big troll job.

Speaking of the Lady of the Hour, she’s standing next to Dam over by the metal detector, eating a bag of trail mix. Dam has his arms folded over his chest, watching the line crawl ever so slowly forward.

Dam: This is so dumb, Boss.

Lindsay Troy: (scowling) Dam, I’m surprised at you. I figured you’d embrace this. We have an opportunity to be the industry leader in wrestler safety by making sure none of the dipshits bring any more guns or other deadly weapons into an arena ever again.

Her phone rings in her pocket. She looks at the caller ID, rolls her eyes, sends it to voicemail, and continues.

Lindsay Troy: This isn’t 2007; Dusk is retired and Clinton Sage is making commercials with Dana Carvey. Aren’t we supposed to be better than this?

Dametreyus stares at her. Lindsay shovels more trail mix in her mouth.

Lindsay Troy: I even had a video made!

She points to numerous televisions that have been set up on carts at various points along the line, which are playing said video on a loop.

CRT style static lines edge the image being presented as if one is viewing old VHS footage. The environment is that of a backstage industrial scene. Rusted barrels are bunched off to the side, some have fire contained within them. There’s brick piles, stacks of glass panes and barbed wire strewn about. Suddenly, a clean looking man walks through the literal warzone. This man stands tall in his white buttoned shirt, black slacks and safety accessories. He’s sporting a red mesh flash vest and a yellow hard hat. He looks forward with utmost concern on his face and a very staged body stance.

Sgt. Safety: Glass, fire, explosions. All pose a deadly threat to life and limb. Hi there, I’m Sergeant Roger Evans, DEFIANCE Wrestling’s Safety Inspector and I’m here to talk to you about the importance and dangers of weapons potentially found in the wrestling industry. Particularly, backstage items. Let’s have a look-see…

Safety begins to walk, slowly, amongst the various groupings of violent offerings. His hands move, almost robotically, pointing at the array of chairs stacked together.

Sgt. Safety: Steel chairs. The good old trusty weapon of choice. Most commonly available, the chair is best used as something to sit on, not swing wildly towards your opponent. For patrons sake, please leave these set up on the ground, where they belong.

He continues over to the barbed wire wrapped around wooden logs.

Sgt. Safety: Hmmm now here’s a dandy. Barbed wire. Ouch. While it can cut your flesh, it’s probably best to leave such a thing alone. Don’t wrap it around a plank such as this. Better yet, don’t even think about fusing it to a chair for double the damage. When it comes to barbed wire, just don’t.

Safety wipes the panic sweats from his brow as he moves onto the bricks and steel chains.

Sgt. Safety: Now here’s some Class A concealable weapons. Bricks and chains can be hidden in pockets, coats or bags. This is why security is diligent with their screening processes of both talent and fans alike. Always remember, bricks belong in the wall and chains are best left to gang warfare, neither of which should ever come into play during a wrestling match.

Sgt. Safety marches to the fire barrels next.

Sgt. Safety: Warmth, yes but don’t get too close. These barrels pose a threat to burn the skin on your bones and that’s never a fun time!

Evans cracks a forced smile.

Sgt. Safety: With these tips and tricks to avoid these weapons, you too can have a SAFE and ENJOYABLE time at the event. So never forget, always be the sergeant of YOUR safety!

Sgt. Safety points forward before the footage clips to an awkward end.

Lindsay Troy: Pretty neat, huh? He’s a former FIST of DEFIANCE contender, y’know.

Dam: My point still stands, Boss.

Lindsay’s phone rings again and, after looking at the caller ID, sends it to voicemail.

Lindsay Troy: Don’t be a Debbie Downer. Besides, the best part is yet to come; just wait until Alexei has to go through this thing.

As the queue snakes its way toward the security checkpoint at Millennium Stadium, Adam Ellis, draped in the vibrant red of a Wrexham AFC English football jersey, waits patiently. Beside him, Ginny Van Lear cuts a different figure altogether. Her black Wrexham jersey was oversized, covering her petite form and her growing belly. She paired it with leggings and comfortable sneakers, practicality winning over style and her fiery red hair was tied back in a simple ponytail.

A member of the private security team gestures Adam towards the metal detector after Adam puts his gear bag on the conveyor belt.

Adam gives Ginny an encouraging nod and steps forward, crossing the threshold. A green light glows after he passes through. The pat-down that follows was swift, the man’s hands confirming the lack of concealed weapons on Adam’s person and waves him through.

Ginny’s next. She takes a deep breath, her grip tightens on her backpack straps.

Ginny Van Lear: Reckon’ y’all let me through with the backpack on?

Ginny gives LT her best smile. The Queen thinks about this for a second.

Lindsay Troy: Alright. This should pick up on anything metal anyway. (A beat) Like a gun.

She gives Ginny a pointed look before nodding her forward. Ginny takes a deep breath and steps into the detector.

BZZZZZZZZT! Red lights flash.

Red-faced, Ginny pulls off her backpack with a sheepish grin. She opens it up and pulls out a box of buck bombs that she hands over to the Enemigos standing nearby. Then she looks over at Lindsay and Dam.

Ginny Van Lear: Sorry ’bout that.

As Ginny securely zips the bag again, Lindsay’s phone rings once more. The Queen huffs, annoyed, sends the call to voicemail, and shuts the ringer off.

Dam: Sure you don’t want to take that, Boss?

Lindsay Troy: No I absolutely do not.

Ginny takes another hesitant step forward into the metal detector.

BZZZZZZZZT! Red lights flash.

Ginny sighs as she fishes into the depths of her jeans and produces a Winchester model 70 shotgun with an air of resignation- the same firearm that spectacularly blew Vickie Hall’s PRETTY PINK© fuzzy handcuffs to smithereens- and hands it over to the perplexed Enemigo.

Ginny Van Lear: Can’t be too careful these days.

Lindsay Troy: (pinching the bridge of her nose) Ginny, we talked about this.

Adam Ellis: Ms. Troy… I am so sorry about this.

Adam then turns to his wife.

Adam Ellis: Ginny. You promised.

Ginny’s head drops for a moment.

Ginny Van Lear: I’know… I’know…

Then a wry smile flickers across her lips as the shotgun is carefully handed to the private security team and quickly whisked away.

With a hopeful glance at Adam, Ginny approaches the archway once more and closes her eyes, perhaps praying for a miracle…

BZZZZZZZZT!

…or simply bracing for the inevitable.

Adam Ellis: Ginny!

Ginny Van Lear: I’m sorry, Adam.

While we focus specifically on Ginny Van Lear, there is unmistakable grumbling from behind her.

In Russian.

Ginny Van Lear: I’m just worried about you because of these…

Her eyes flicker upwards and she presses her hands together in a moment of contrition.

Ginny Van Lear: Sorry Lord.

Like a tempest reborn, she whirls on her feet, with righteous condemnation burning in her eyes and she points at the hulking figure in the crowd… Ivan Stanislav, and his propaganda director Alexei Ruslan. The air around her crackles with an intensity that belies her petite, but clearly pregnant, frame as she summons up the fire and brimstone fervor befitting the daughter of an old-school Baptist preacher.

Ginny Van Lear: …ASSHOLES!

Stanislav stands head and shoulders taller than everyone else and blinks, while the brown hat next to him straightens up, Alexei’s face concealed by other people in the line. And just as quickly as it had flared, her righteous indignation subsides, her expression melts back into the sweet and lovable Ginny everyone knows… and sometimes fear… leaving only the lingering echo of her Appalachian fury.

Ginny Van Lear: I just want to make sure you’re safe.

Dam: Step aside, please.

Ginny is guided away from the sensor where a couple Enemigos take her backpack and unzip the top. Their eyes widen in disbelief.

Dam: What the-…

He pulls a plastic weapon out of the pack with CPS 3200 stickered on the side. Meanwhile, there’s more Russian “commentary.”

Alexei Ruslan: This is ridiculous! How could this sophisticated American weapon get smuggled out of that country and into this one?! This would -never- happen in the Motherland!!

Ginny Van Lear: Allow me.

Ginny takes the CPS 3200 and pumps it up.

Stanislav seems to be growing impatient as well, as the group between the Russians and Adam and Ginny parts. Alexei continues to make his opinion known.

Alexei Ruslan: It is insult enough that we have to fly to United Kingdom, which is just a thrall to America! And now this?! Outrageous!! And what even is that weapon of mass destruction! She should be arrested! She should be interrogated! She should be…

Then Ginny’s finger pushes on the trigger and… a stream of water shoots out and hits Alexei. The water blasts Ruslan’s hat clean off and, well, soaks his mustache, which droops wetly over his mouth. Stanislav shields his chin so the spray from the water doesn’t hit him in the face.

You could hear a pin drop.

Ginny Van Lear: Y’all, we call that a Super Soaker.

Another pause, and then all hell breaks loose from the Russian side of the line.

Alexei Ruslan: Никогда в жизни меня так не оскорбляли! Эту женщину следует немедленно арестовать за нападение на иностранного сановника!! (I have never been so insulted in my life! This woman should be arrested immediately for assaulting a foreign dignitary!)

Ivan Stanislav: Что за недоразвитое шоу собак и пони вы, идиоты, здесь устраиваете! Я Универсальный Чемпион!! Я все еще должен БЫТЬ Универсальным Чемпионом!! Я должен быть впереди… (What kind of half-baked dog and pony show are you idiots putting on here! I am the Universal Champion!! I still should BE the Universal Champion!! We should be in line first…)

Ruslan shakes his head, like a wet dog, and sends water flying. The Russians continue to vehemently complain, in their foreign tongue, to anyone and everyone who will listen (which is no one), while the Enemigos continue with their duties and pull out more weaponry of all sorts from Ginny’s backpack.

Ginny sheepishly turns to Adam.

Ginny Van Lear:  Maybe you should go on. This might take a while.

Lindsay Troy: Y’know what guys, (beckons for Ivan and Alexei) why don’t you two just come on up.

Ruslan uses his coat to dry off his face and plops his wet hat on the top of his head while Ivan approaches.

Ivan Stanislav: I appreciate you just letting us go through, Lindsay. We have too much to focus on tonight to deal with these annoyances…

Both Russians make as if to avoid the whole checkpoint…

Lindsay Troy: Hold up.

She steps in front of Ivan and smiles.

Lindsay Troy: Going through means going through, Ivan. You and Alexei both. Nobody’s exempt.

It’s then that Lindsay locks eyes with Alexei and her smile grows wider.

Lindsay Troy: Surprise.

Ruslan blinks for a moment. He looks at Ivan, he looks at Lindsay, he looks at Ivan, who looks at Lindsay, then looks at Alexei, then back at Lindsay.

Alexei erupts.

Alexei Ruslan: ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!?!

Lindsay Troy: Seriously serious. Bags on the conveyor belt, and empty your pockets.

The two Russians grumble. Ivan hefts up his duffel bag and slams it on the conveyor belt. Ruslan nibbles his lower lip and recoils, as if a vampire was just presented garlic. Stanislav, who is currently wearing his red military uniform and is covered with military medals, turns out his pockets.

Ivan Stanislav: I have nothing in my pockets.

Ruslan makes to initiate a personal cloaking device that he doesn’t have.

Lindsay Troy: That’s fine. Through the metal detector you go.

Suddenly, the rear door to the stadium opens, and a black, purple, and blue streak comes flying toward the security station.

Ami Troy: DID I MISS ITTTTTTTTT???????

The pint-sized hellion screeches to a halt next to her mother with two large coffees in hand, miraculously not spilling a drop. Ami’s eyes glimmer as she looks up at Ivan and Alexei.

Ami Troy: Oh goodie. I didn’t.

Alexei groans.

Alexei Ruslan: Shit.

Meanwhile, Ivan looks at the metal detector carefully. It’s woefully undersized. He ducks down and tries to walk straight through it to no avail, so he turns and tries to squeeze himself between the two sides, groaning as his back presses against one side and he tries to curl in his arms.

Ivan Stanislav: Stupid western construction!!

Lindsay waves Enemigo XLIX over, and the tall luchador is given a metal detection wand.

Lindsay Troy: Ivan, please step to the side and allow 49 to finish the security check.

She glares at Alexei, who still hasn’t moved.

Lindsay Troy: Something wrong?

Ivan growls and extricates himself from the machine, moving the entire piece of equipment in the process, and he steps over to the side.

Ivan Stanislav: This is violation of my civic rights…

Alexei shifts his weight from side to side.

Alexei Ruslan: Wrong? No.

There’s an awkward moment where he stares at Lindsay, and she stares back. He swallows and finally relents. He walks to the conveyor belt and empties his pockets, which consists of a pocket watch and pen knife. He turns out his pants pockets.

Alexei Ruslan: There you have it. Pockets are empty!

Lindsay takes a sip of her coffee.

Lindsay Troy: You sure about that?

Ivan growls as the Enemigo wands him. It goes off. He removes his uniform jacket, wearing his black shirt and suspenders underneath. He’s wanded again, it goes off. Ivan snarls and starts to remove his suspenders. Alexei huffs.

Alexei Ruslan: I think you are doing this because you’re afraid of our upcoming match… just saying…

Then, he begins to dig into his jacket. He pulls out his baton and sets it on the conveyor belt.

Alexei Ruslan: Well, that’s it!

Lindsay Troy: Nothing else?

Another sip of coffee. Ami smiles at Alexei.

Ruslan let out a sigh and rolls his eyes. He stares daggers at both Troys. He starts to reach into his jacket once more and begins to produce a multitude of objects, including:

A knife, metal piano wire, a small first aid kit, another baton, brass knuckles, a pair of reading glasses, a foldable stepladder, an umbrella, a VCR, handcuffs, zip ties, four cell phones of Ivan Stanislav size…

Ivan, meanwhile, is wanded again sans suspenders. It goes off as he snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: My pants have metal buttons!

An awkward moment later, and The Russian Bear is undoing his pants…

…a blackjack, a map of Chicago, a bottle of chloroform…

…Stanislav stands in his red boxer shorts with yellow hammers and sickles. His face is as red as his shorts…

Ivan Stanislav: Are you happy yet?!

He’s wanded again. It goes off.

Ivan Stanislav: I have a bullet IN MY BODY!!!

Sure enough, it’s detecting something in his stomach.

…three bricks, a pair of jumper cables, a portable battery.

Alexei Ruslan: We could be here a while, Lindsay.

Ami Troy: Damn, someone didn’t watch the video while in line. It’s the disrespect for me.

Lindsay Troy: Seriously, Alexei, Roger put a lot of thought into that. And you couldn’t even take the bricks out before you got up here?

She hands her coffee and trail mix off to Ami.

Lindsay Troy: Just leave your coat. And probably your shoes, who knows what you’ve got hidden in there. (looks at Ivan, eyes widen) 49, you could’ve just patted him down, y’know!

Ivan snarls, staring at Lindsay in just his black shirt and soviet boxer shorts. He curses in Russian and begins to put his pants back on. Alexei begrudgingly removes his brown overcoat. He places it on the conveyor belt with an uncharacteristically loud and heavy THUNK for something made of cloth. He pulls off both of his shoes and places them on the belt as well and wriggles his toes in his red and yellow socks.

Alexei Ruslan: I am very upset by this “surprise” Lindsay. Here I thought it would be flowers or something else.

Ami Troy: I think we all know what happens with you and flowers.

Ruslan blinks and walks through the detector. He whips around, calling from the other side.

Alexei Ruslan: I have no idea what you’re talking about!

Ivan stands next to him, buttoning up his pants.

Ivan Stanislav: In Russia they let us avoid all this crap, just so you know!

Lindsay Troy: I’ll keep that in mind for when I book an event there.

Alexei calls back.

Alexei Ruslan: I want everything in my coat returned to me, and I want my coat returned to me right away.

With that, the two disgruntled Russians turn and walk away, with Ivan buttoning his uniform and Ruslan hopping on one foot while he puts his shoes back on. Lindsay watches as a security guard fumbles around in Alexei’s coat to find the source of the “THUNK.”

Lindsay Troy: Yeah, that’s not happening.

At that, Ami lights up.

Ami Troy: Can I keep his coat?

Lindsay Troy: Absolutely not. He’ll get that back, not all the nonsense that came with it.

Ami Troy: Rude.

Coral Avalon, the next one up, can only raise his eyebrow and gesture in the direction that the Russians parted in.

Coral Avalon: Why did he need three bricks, anyway?

Lindsay Troy: I’ve stopped wondering why they do anything they do. How was the three hour tour?

Coral Avalon: Let’s just say that we’re flying back when we’re done with the tour. What a terrible idea, who came up with that one?

Avalon sets his bag on the conveyor belt after asking his rhetorical question, and steps through the detector, ready for a busy night.

BZZZZZZZZT!

Coral freezes, and pats himself down.

Coral Avalon: Oh. Forgot the keys to our rental, my bad.

He goes back and bumbles through his pockets awkwardly, feeling bad about holding up the line. Then he steps through the detector again and…

BZZZZZZZZT!

Coral Avalon: …Um. What? That’s weird. Maybe it’s my belt buckle or something? Let’s try that again.

Avalon removes his belt, goes back while holding his pants up, and…

BZZZZZZZZT!

Coral Avalon lets out a defeated sigh.

Coral Avalon: Okay. Wand me, 49.

Behind him, several people (including his wife) are snickering at his phrasing. Enemigo XLIX comes over with the wand, and starts going up and down Coral’s body with the wand… until he gets to his forehead.

Avalon is… less than pleased when he realizes what the detector is telling XLIX.

Coral Avalon: You have GOT to be kidding me, guys! Come on! 

Lindsay Troy: Just…go, Coral.

Coral nods, and retrieves his things. He then exits while putting his belt back on, muttering something about the forehead jokes getting out of hand… and in his wake, a Rhinestone Cowboy appears.

Daytona Diamonds is all smiles, grinning like an idiot because he is, in fact, an idiot. He’s also very tan because… well, the man just spent a week and half primarily on a jetski. Already dressed like one giant, festering, glittering distraction; we’re talking rhinestones for days, from head to toe, cowboy hat and cowboy boots and a giant golden belt buckle engraved with a two words to sum up his very being: ‘ASSKICKER SUPREME.’

Yeah, we’re not convinced either.

Daytona Diamonds: Pat down, huh? Tryin’ to frisk me? Ain’t like I’m bringin’ a goddang gun into goddang jolly ol’ England. I ain’t fuckin’ stupid. You ain’t got the right to bear jackshit here ‘cept for a cuppa tea and a fuckin’ wafer!

Ami Troy: Well, well, wellllllll….if it isn’t Dumbtona.

The merry mischief maker flashes a grin as wide as the Bristol Channel at Daytona.

Ami Troy: We’re in Wales, you moron. Already telling on yourself.

Daytona Diamonds: What, your mama finally get sick of lettin’ you run wild backstage and give you a job as a security guard? Geographer? Wales, England, ain’t no goddang difference. C’mon now. Same fuckin’ island, same fuckin’ miserable place. One’s just more pretentious ‘bout it than the other one.

Daytona groans out loud just from the mere presence of Ami Troy. Some people think this is what unspoken love looks like and those people are wrong. No, this is contempt, plain and simple. A groaning, staggering contempt as Daytona unbuckles that aforementioned giant belt buckle and kicks his way out of his boots.

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t gotta take my briefs off, right? Don’t wanna give ol’ Ami a black eye, after all. Heh.

Lindsay Troy: This isn’t prison, dipshit. Keep your clothes on and walk through the metal detector, or else the only person getting a black eye is gonna be you, courtesy of me.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, shitfire! Oughta give a man instructions ‘fore he starts tryna whip it out for you, boss! I’m just tryna be an upstandin’ member of this here company!

Grin. Wink. Ugh. Daytona steps towards the metal detector, takes a moment to inspect both side of it, and then steps through without a single buzz.

Just kidding.

BZZZZZZZZT!

Daytona Diamonds: …right, so I’m good to go then, yeah?

Lindsay stares the stare of a thousand angry owls.

Lindsay Troy: Not even close. Empty your pockets.

Daytona Diamonds: Ugh. Fine. I told you, I ain’t got no goddang gun on me. You want me to wrassle this weekend or not, boss?

Even as he complains, Daytona’s reaching into his pockets and pulling out everything stuffed inside. A half-crumpled pack of cigarettes (Marlboro Lights, in case you were wondering), a ribbon of condoms (unused, thank god), a handful of seashells (because you don’t spend several hours on a desert island without picking up a few mementos), and… a knife. Not a pocket knife, but the type of knife that looks like it belongs in prison. You know, for stabbing people. A shiv, if you will.

Lindsay Troy: Are you for real.

Daytona Diamonds: What?! It’s for protection! This ain’t the good ol’ US of A, Lindsay. This is a dog stab dog world out here! You tellin’ me knives ain’t allowed neither?! What kinda fascist con game you runnin’ here?!

Lindsay holds out her palm and motions for Daytona to place the knife in her hand. Ever so reluctantly, he does. Then she points toward the metal detector, indicating that he walk through it and get out of her sight.

He does.

BZZZZZZZZT!

And just like that, he explodes.

Daytona Diamonds: I KNEW IT! I FUCKIN’ KNEW IT! This is another one of your goddang Troyspiracies, ain’t it?! Fuckin’ ain’t it?! Tryna fuck me over! Tryna keep me down! You and your goddang shitty daughter too! Well, I ain’t havin’ it! I’m Daytona fuckin’ Diamonds! The Rhinestone Cowboy! King of the Ocean, baby! I didn’t come all this way on a jet ski for nothin’! Now gimme my goddang knife and lemme do my goddang job!

As Daytona stomps and screams bloody murder, Lindsay very calmly looks over at Dam, who makes his way over to the tantruming Rhinestone Cowboy. The Head of Security deftly bends down, grabs Diamonds by the ankles, turns him upside down, and begins shaking him. More paraphernalia begins emerging from Daytona’s person, as Lindsay shakes her head and Ami smiles.

Ami Troy: Oh yeah….best weekend ever…….

The shot opens on the bright yellow-and-red fabric of a circus tent. The air fills with the buzz of anticipation, peppered with occasional cries of excitement. As we approach the tent, someone emerges from the flap. It’s our ringmaster, decked out in a top hat and tuxedo and looking suspiciously like a certain PRIME CEO. She is happy to see us, unlike how she feels about most of her employees.

The music begins. “Karn Evil 9, 1st Impression, Part 2” by Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

The ringmaster sings along with the opening lyrics as she reaches for our hand, pulling us toward the open flap. A bored-looking ticket-taker waves us through, much to the protest of the people still in line.

We are ushered through a hall covered in posters announcing all the various acts for tonight’s event. These advertisements promise us animals, magic, death-defying stunts, feats of incredible strength and agility, and stomach-turning freaks of nature. The ringmaster disappears down a side path while we carry on toward the seating area. Off to see the elephant, as it were.

No sooner have we taken our seat in the darkened area when a spotlight shines upon the center ring. There is our ringmaster, welcoming us all with grand gestures and bombastic speech. At last, all the lights come up…and all the performers, men and women in brightly colored attire, pour into the scene.

Send in the clowns.

A clown car screeches to a halt, and a bunch of kids in makeup and cowboy hats pile out. They are accompanied by an adult male who runs after the car, all while tossing several colored balls into the air. Even at his speed, not a single one threatens to drop. Nearby is the marksman, who carries a box of darts, knives, and other assorted missiles. He sets the box down near his mark, which is itself about fifty feet from a huge bullseye. From the opposite side of the ring, a hulking brute of a man in barbarian togs stomps into view, carrying a burning torch in each hand. He brings one to his blistered lips, and a massive burst of flame appears in the air.

Here comes the sideshow–freaks and anomalies, existing only to be gawked at by the viewing public. See the mysterious and nightmarish Demon, whose tattoos and body modifications have made it scarcely recognizable as a man! The Kingless Crown, a headless man whose diadem floats eight—well, maybe twelve–inches above his neck! The unnerving Puppet Man, a marionette who lives, eats, and breathes…but only at its puppeteer’s direction!

Death-defying daredevils take their places. The high diver ascends his impossibly tall ladder. The acrobat climbs onto a trapeze that gets hoisted toward the ceiling, where her own stunt awaits. The brave and aerodynamic Human Cannonball, face obscured by a garish helmet, waves to the crowd before preparing his method of transportation. The brave and handsome lion tamer takes a bow before grabbing his whip and chair. He strides toward the lion’s cage, his finely waxed mustache glistening under the lights.

A top hat sails through the air, bounces a few times on the ground, and rolls to a stop. An arm reaches out of it, feels around on the ground, then reaches back in to pull out a magician with brightly-colored hair. Not to be outdone, a duffel bag unzips and a man who’s definitely too big to fit inside starts to climb out, his limbs bending at impossible angles as they emerge into view. An absolute colossus in a red singlet lifts a huge barbell over his head, each end helpfully marked with “1000 LBS.” He casually tosses it in the air and catches it as he walks toward his place. Finally the sword swallower takes his place next to a rack of blades of all kinds. He picks one off the rack, tilts his head back, and plunges it down his throat. The weapons look sharp, and many of them curve at uncomfortable angles. The tears welling in his eyes express that he suffers for your amusement…as do we all.

As the instrumental begins, the performers mill about the arena stage and compete with each other for the audience’s attention. Animals parade around the ring, all following the floating crown. An elephant extends its trunk to grab it, but the headless man swats it away. The crown must be protected at all costs; what is he without it?

The magician pulls a dove from her pocket, presses it tightly in her hands, then releases it to the sky where it turns into an entire flock. The birds converge on her, covering her head to toe…and when they disperse, the magician is gone.

The human marionette walks in front of the audience, its parts moving independent of each other. The puppeteer directs his movement with all the grace and skill of a child throwing a tantrum, and is in fact ignoring the control completely in favor of just screaming at it to follow her commands. The fans in front of her turn their attention to another nearby attraction; she screams at them too.

High above the crowd, the diver stands on his platform, looking down at the shallow tank of water below. The expectation is that he makes a perfect dive into the tank while somehow not breaking his neck when he hits the bottom. He knows as well as anyone that the crowd wants to see something else…so he starts aiming at a different target.

The lion tamer holds a wild beast at bay with only two meager armaments. The onlookers watch with mouths agape as his commands are obeyed, and the lion changes its stance with every crack of the whip. They see the man’s handsome face, winking at danger; they are too far away to see the cruelty in his eyes.

The acrobat takes her first tentative steps onto the highwire, long pole in hand. Drawn to either side by misfortune and emotion, she must strike a balance or fall into calamity. At least there’s a safety net.

The demon-as-man hisses and snarls, scaring children and adults alike. The better they get to know him, the more he will strike fear into their hearts. A forked tongue snakes out of his mouth, running over the line of studs underneath his lower lip.

Oblivious to his display is the contortionist, who steps into the demon’s spotlight and threatens to steal his audience. The human pretzel bends and turns and twists, tying himself into a knot and then returning to normal. The demon shouts an invective at this interloper…and the contortionist’s head turns to face the other man before the rest of his body does.

The sword swallower inserts blade after blade into himself, sometimes two or three at a time. He extracts them with a flourish, hoping nobody notices the traces of blood on the sharpened edges. The audience cheers wildly, he gives a wan smile and reaches for another sword. But these accolades have reached the puppet master’s ears, and she directs her charge to put a stop to it.

Doves reconvene on the highwire, where the acrobat is now almost halfway across. They gather into an odd shade, soon revealing the form of the magician again. She perches on the wire like a cat, her own bemused expression matching the tightrope walker’s look of outrage.

The strongman lifts a series of objects increasing in size and weight, from cannonballs to barbells to the back end of the clown car. He picks up a huge stone in one mighty hand, then casually tosses it over his shoulder without regards for its destination.

That destination is near the enormous cannon, where the attendants scatter like tenpins in order to avoid it. The star of that act yells something at the strongman, who only laughs in response. The human cannonball snarls…and aims the cannon in a new direction.

The ornamental hilt of a cutlass is the only thing that can be seen emanating from the sword swallower’s mouth. He is about to reach for another when his rack is knocked over, sending blades scattering in all directions. Standing where his props used to be is the marionette man, still following the orders barked by its puppeteer. At her insistence, it picks up two swords from the ground and advances; the sword swallower pulls a cutlass from his gullet and brandishes it in defense.

Fire and smoke belch into the air as the firebreather plies his trade. The oohs and ahhs of the viewers are enough to appease him for a while, but he spies something in the lion’s den that he cannot ignore. The beast is old and toothless, trembling in pain and fear as it obeys the master’s commands. He spits another burst, sacrificing distance for intensity, and the bars on one side of the cage start to melt.

The juggler continues his path along the floor, seemingly oblivious to the chaos surrounding him…until he unwittingly steps in front of the large target. The moment he does, a knife pierces one of his juggling balls and pins it to the target. A perfect bullseye, of course.

The marksman sneers as he readies another blade. He flings it at his new target, but the juggler plucks it out of the air and adds it to his own act. With a brief shout of fury, the knife thrower grabs another weapon.

The living puppet hurls swords at its new enemy, its bizarre motions adding far more force than they should. They fly through the air with blinding speed, intent on turning the sword swallower into a pincushion outside as well as in. He parries the attacks at the last second, sending them flying into the crowd as they pierce the outer walls of the big top.

The magician fans out a pack of cards, then sprays them into the air at the tightrope walker. The acrobat swats them away with her balance pole, then sweeps one end of the pole at the magician’s feet. The magician topples and falls off the rope, but quickly disappears in a puff of smoke, then reappears on the platform and resumes taunting her nemesis. The safety net below them has long since disappeared, the victim of sharp objects or fire or elephants or all of the above.

The diver leaps from his platform, and it becomes apparent very quickly that he will not land in the water tank. The Kingless Crown looks upward, despite not having eyes. He watches the man who falls like lightning, and knows exactly what he’s after. He braces himself for the impact, hoping to stop or at least deflect this suicidal leap.

The tattooed man strikes impossibly fast, snaking an arm around his target and drawing him in. The victim smiles, then twists around and around and around until he has gained the advantage. The contortionist turns the demon’s arm in a way which should shatter bones, but does not. Too late does the illustrated man see that his enemy does not bend himself, but everything else.

The lion tamer keeps the crazed man at whip’s distance, but that doesn’t help much when his enemy brings a torch to his mouth and spits. A gout of flame shoots forth; the animal trainer barely has time to dodge out of its path. The fireball singes his shirt and blisters his back before connecting with the wall, and new flames licked up the side of the tent. Neither man seems to notice; the lion tamer lobs the chair at his enemy, the shattering wood preventing another blaze.

The cannon fires, and a streak of purple and green flies through the air, directly at the strongman. The collision takes the giant off his feet, sending them both careening through the air. They plow through a section of seating and through the side of the tent. Their trajectory rips a huge trench into the ground.

The marksman keeps lobbing projectiles–knives, balls, a chainsaw–but every time, the juggler catches and adds it to the rotation. His eyes widen as his nemesis pulls a syringe from his box of projectiles. He rears back to throw, but he’s given pause when the juggler plucks a knife from the air and flings it back toward the marksman. The blade comes alarmingly close, grazing the marksman’s ear as it flashes past. He curls his lip into a sneer, and prepares to throw again.

The sword swallower swings again, but the puppet twists its midsection–independent of the rest of its body–away from the blade, and it carries around and slices though the guy wire for one of the tent’s main supports. The air fills with creaks and cracks and groans, and the giant pole slowly topples over, tearing through the canvas before crashing to the ground.

He swings again, this time above the puppet’s head, and the marionette man…collapses. Its controller screeches at it to get up, but it remains lifeless on the ground. The puppeteer levels her eyes at the sword swallower and circles him for her own attack. He turns to face her…but behind him, the puppet stirs. In janky, unnatural motions, it rises back to his feet…

God only knows what it’s capable of now…

Untouched in the center, the ringmaster grins madly while the tent tears, burns, dissolves and unravels, with scraps of canvas falling through the air around her. Even with all the carnage and screaming, nobody has moved from their seat. Not even you.

A long section of red and yellow fabric falls in front of the ringmaster; when it finally stops, the scene is gone.

Graphics appear as the song comes to a close, accompanied by Greg Lake’s vocalized instructions.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/Culture-Shock-Night-1.mp4

PRIME.

CULTURE SHOCK.

NIGHT ONE.

See the show!

Millenium Stadium.

Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom.

We get a pan of the crowd, tens of thousands of whom have packed inside the stadium and are ready for the first of two nights. And you know what they have in their hands…?

SIGNS!

WHEN THE DEVIL STARTS MESSIN’, FATHER DON STARTS BLESSIN’
I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE INTENSE TITLE MATCH!
I JUST REALIZED WE DIDN’T GET A CLEVER KENNY FREEMAN RAP FOR CULTURE SHOCK THIS YEAR, WHERE’S MY REFUND
HELLO I AM VERY CONFUSED I THOUGHT HESS WAS ACQUIRED TEN YEARS AGO SHOULDN’T WE CALL HIM SPEEDWAY IAN NOW
I SHIP DICKIE HALL
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD AT MUMBLES PIER GETTING INTO IT WITH A SEAGULL OVER A FRENCH FRY
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD AT ULTRAVIOLENCE 2023 AND HE WAS GOING TO DIE AND THE SAMOAN SILENCER SAVED HIS LIFE. HE DIDNT EVEN SAY THANK YOU.
“I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM, WE ALL SCREAM FOR LISTERIA” – PAXTON RAY, 2024
A REMINDER TO WRESTLERS: IN THE UNITED KINGDOM YOU WALK TO THE RING ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE RAMP
ABC

Okay, all of the signs are out of the way, so now let’s get to the entrances.

The lights then dim inside of the Millenium Stadium. A siren echoes throughout the arena like a trumpet heralding the end times.

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

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

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

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

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

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music then fades.

Nick Stuart: Welcome to Culture Shock Night One! I’m Nick Stuart and this is Richard Parker. We’ve got a dynamite match for you to start off, a respect match between two incredible competitors! We’ve got Rose in the ring now and here comes RIA!

“Time Warp” grooves through the PA system. The big screen flashes the lyrics line by line.

It’s Astounding
Time is fleeting
Madness takes its toll
But lIsten closely
Not for very much longer
I’ve got to keep contRol

As the beat picks up, the bolded letters move to arrange ‘RIA’ to raucous cheers from the crowd. RIA strides out, decked out in a hat with an exaggerated crown and bill, heart shaped glasses and a leather jacket with pink and blue tassels. She pauses at the top of the ramp, huge grin on her face and gives the audience a polite wave. The Psychoberry continues her journey to the ring, adding a whimsical spin near the middle of the entrance way. When the chorus kicks in, the crowd sings along.

LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN
LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

As RIA draws close to the ring, she does a little hop to the left, following the song’s instructions. Staying on task, she does a jump to the right. RIA climbs onto the apron, hands on her hips, and does a brief shimmy. As exuberant as when she appeared from the back, RIA bounces into the ring. She does a lap around the squared circle, taking in the energy of the crowd.

LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN
LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

DING DING

Nick Stuart: All right, we’re set to go here. Rose starts to circle, but here comes RIA! She doesn’t want to waste time grappling, she’s ready for a brawl!

Indeed, RIA charges at Rose and starts to deliver quick fists, causing the crowd to cheer. RIA backs the taller woman into the corner, pummeling her with left and right fists. Ashley Barlow steps in between the two women, preventing RIA from continuing to pummel Rose in the corner. While RIA backs away, her hands up, Rose reaches out over Barlow and hits RIA, knocking her back.

Richard Parker: Savvy move from Rose. She hasn’t been in PRIME for very long but she fights like a veteran.

Nick Stuart: You mean she bends the rules.

Richard Parker: I said what I said.

RIA turns away, grabbing her face as Rose pushes past Barlow and goes on the offensive. She runs and dives at RIA’s knees, causing her to fall. Rose mounts RIA and begins her own assault, pummeling RIA with right hands until Ashley Barlow, probably realizing her actions caused this advantage, grabs Rose by the arm and pulls her up.

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is trying to restore order, but Rose is upset!

Richard Parker: Well yeah, how would you feel if Elvis Nixon stopped Coral Avalon when he was about to do one of his sixty-two finishers?

Nick Stuart: He doesn’t have…

Richard Parker: The list is longer than Sid’s nickname list! Or the list of people who hate Joe Fontaine’s hair!

Nick Stuart: These all seem targeted somehow.

As Rose and Barlow argue, RIA gets to her feet and stands behind The Second Coming, smirking as she waits for Rose to feel her presence. Once she does, Rose turns around and eats a roundhouse kick to the face. Rose topples to the ground and RIA pounces on a pinfall.

ONE!

TW…

Nick Stuart: Rose with the quick kickout, and we’ve got a nice back and forth going so far!

Richard Parker: Only because Ashley Barlow keeps sticking her nose in the wrestlers’ business!

Nick Stuart: She’s literally doing her job.

RIA helps Rose up, then hits her with a stiff forearm to the neck. As Rose stumbles away, RIA follows her into the corner and grabs her arm, then whips her into the corner, following with a clothesline against the turnbuckle. After taking a moment to collect herself, she grabs Rose’s arm and tries to do it again. This time Rose plants her feet and attempts to reverse the Irish whip, but RIA doesn’t let go. She plants her own feet, then turns and levels Rose with a short-arm clothesline!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: RIA is starting to take command here. This is a respect match, and I’d say RIA is earning Rose’s – and everyone’s – respect tonight.

Richard Parker: She’s absolutely putting on a show early, but Rose may have something to say about that respect part before this is all said and done.

Rose gets to her feet but RIA is there, hitting an axe handle smash on her back. RIA grapples her in a front facelock, then grabs her arm, but Rose immediately counters it and twists RIA into an elevated wrist lock.

Nick Stuart: Both competitors have a high technical background, and of course Rose is the daughter of PRIME Hall of Famer Dusk, so she’s got the pedigree to go along with it.

As RIA struggles to escape the wristlock, Rose puts a leg behind RIA’s and trips her, causing her to hit her head on the canvas.

Richard Parker: But unlike Dusk she’s ruthless and will do anything to win!

RIA has no time to recover as Rose quickly gets to the ground, rolling RIA over and going for the surfboard. She puts her foot on RIA’s back, then starts to roll over but RIA uses her momentum to roll into the ropes, causing Barlow to break it up. Rose quickly gets to her feet and sends a forceful kick into RIA’s face, causing teh Psychoberry to scream and roll out of the ring.

Rose follows her out and grabs RIA’s head, slamming it into the apron. She then Irish whips RIA right into the barricade.

Nick Stuart: RIA is in trouble now!

Richard Parker: This is what I’m talking about, Nick. Rose isn’t wasting time on things that don’t work. She’s going to use everything at ringside that she can to wear RIA down. Respect is just a word in the dictionary – Rose wants to win.

As Richard soliloquizes, Rose runs and sends a diving knee into RIA and the barricade, causing RIA to slump over. Rose guides her back to the apron and rolls her under the ropes, then slides under and rolls her up for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: RIA kicks out at two!

Rose spares a withering look at Ashley Barlow. Lip readers can make out “slow count” coming out of Rose’s mouth. She stands and grabs RIA’s head, then leads her into the corner. From there, she rears back and hits RIA’s chest with a devastating slap.

SMACK!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

SMACK!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Nick Stuart: You know, Richard, I’ve always wondered by fans woo when someone slaps or chops someone across the chest.

Richard Parker: I’m glad you asked, Nick. Back in the year 1952, a young man named Salvador Wooperneli started a furniture business with his two sons. They called it Wooper and Sons. Salvador was a poor man but he loved his children, and they loved to watch professional wrestling together. One day, he took them to a show and due to some weird circumstances that could only happen in the 50s, old Salvador found himself in the main event against Adrian Sadowsky, the Polish Pickaxe.

Rose continues her chops on RIA, whose skin is starting to turn bright red.

Richard Parker: Anyway, Salvador had no training – he was a sofa salesman! So he escaped the Pickaxe’s offense for as long as he could. At one point he was hiding in the corner turnbuckle and he moved out of the way right when Sadowsky was attempting his Polish Plunge. Sadowsky was trapped in the corner, and Salvador had the advantage. Now, something I hadn’t brought up yet was that Wooperneli had a steel plate in his arm.

Nick Stuart: None of this is real.

Richard Parker: And Salvador sent one arm chop at Sadowsky’s chest and cut it open! There was blood everywhere! And the fans were loving it. They kept shouting WOOPER! WOOPER! Eventually the end of the name fell off, and WOO stuck.

Nick Stuart: You could just say you didn’t know.

Rose whips RIA into the other corner and comes for a splash, but RIA uses her arms to spring herself up, avoiding Rose. RIA comes down and takes Rose down with a German suplex, then goes for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Rose kicks out! This has been an incredible back and forth affair to kick off night 1 of Culture Shock. We’ve got a great night ahead, with three titles on the line. And then tomorrow we have Wargames!

Richard Parker: Tonight is the night, Nick! We start with women and we end with women, as Vickie Hall will become Universal Champion!

Nick Stuart: I’m pretty sure no matter the outcome that will not happen.

Both ladies lay on the ground, trying to gather themselves. RIA gets to her feet first, followed by Rose. They slowly approach each other, then begin to trade blows. The fans cheer with every RIA punch, then boo with every Rose punch. The punches increase until the fans chants run together, then RIA pushes Rose against the ropes. Rose uses her momentum to run back and…

Nick Stuart: Thorn Prick! Rose hit that running bicycle knee, and RIA is down! Rose runs to the corner…she’s looking for Wilt to Bloom! She rises, leaps…

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Misses! RIA rolled out of the way! Rose to her feet, but looking groggy…RIA is behind her! Rose turns around…RAINBOW RIOT!

Richard Parker: RIA now going up top! Didn’t you learn from Rose that isn’t a good idea?

Yet here she is, climbing the turnbuckle and posing…then leaping.

WHAMMM!!!

Nick Stuart: DYING STAR ELBOW! RIA WITH THE COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Vince Howard: Your winner…RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAA!

The fans cheer as RIA celebrates. After a few moments, Rose slowly gets to her feet, holding her midsection.

Nick Stuart: This was a respect match. Has RIA earned Rose’s respect?

They stare at each other, talking for a moment, before Rose slowly reaches out for a handshake.

Richard Parker: She doesn’t look happy about it, but she did it.

Nick Stuart: What an incredible match to start us off tonight!

We cut backstage.

We cut to the backstage area.

A camera pointed towards the floor slowly catches a pair of black wrestling boots, covered in blue kick pads. Connected to those are a set of elaborate designs cast in shades of blue and white and black. Connected to those are a tall, lean man attached to a forehead of blonde hair, the Alias championship worn around his waist, and a familiar fur cloak.

It’s Coral Avalon.

Applause!

The Crownless King, the “Fifteen Minutes of Pain” Alias champion, and the Golden Bandit are all the same man, and that man walks with purpose to the ring for his title defense against Harley Walker. Soon, he would try to bring down another daredevil in Cardiff, just as he’s done to daredevils he’d faced in the past.

And then he stops.

A man in a cheap ash gray business suit and a golden mask is walking in the opposite direction, and their paths inevitably cross.

When their gazes meet, Coral’s expression goes from grim determination to outright hostility. Their eyes don’t leave one another even as the masked man keeps walking. When the masked man passes him by, Coral turns his attention back to his path, and takes a step forward to continue walking.

But then, he reconsiders.

Coral Avalon: Hey, Fabby.

The Fabulous Gold Mask freezes in his tracks, the camera catching the tall not-luchador over one of Coral’s leonine shoulder pauldrons.

Coral Avalon: I’m only going to ask you one question, and then you can go back to whatever nonsense the Glues are making you do at this venue.

The masked man turns his head more, but what little we could see of his face is contorted in a grimace.

Coral Avalon: Did you happen to miss your flight back to Greenland, perchance?

The question causes Fabby’s grimace to morph into dismayed shock. Coral doesn’t even turn to look at it as he waits for a response, but when Fabby turns fully around and takes a step towards Avalon, that’s when he responds.

Coral Avalon: Another step and you won’t like how this ends, Fabby.

The masked man hesitates. More like he freezes. The emphasis on Joe Fontaine’s nickname for him kept him frozen. After all, it’s just a nickname. An alias, if you will. After a long moment, Fabby takes a step back, clearly shaken. Coral’s expression barely changes, but viewers are being treated to a ghost of a smirk. A man satisfied in knowing that his suspicions have been confirmed.

Then Avalon sighs the frustrated sigh of a man who has many more questions, but knows he doesn’t have the time.

Coral Avalon: After all this time, I swear… Look, I’m going to keep it to myself, but we’re gonna have a conversation the next time I see you. Go back to the Sanctum Gluetorium. I’ve got a title to defend.

Coral takes a step forward to leave, but he is stopped when the Fabulous Gold Mask clears his throat. Avalon stops and cranes his neck back at the man in the golden mask. When Fabby speaks, it’s with a voice about as bad as Christian Bale attempting to Batman.

The Fabulous Gold Mask: Avalon.

Coral visibly rolls his eyes.

Coral Avalon: What? Seriously? That’s the voice you’re going with?

The Fabulous Gold Mask: I’m only here to help Joe. Nothing more.

Coral makes a sound like Jiles would, a loud, incredulous “HA!” He’s shaking his head at the very idea even as he starts to walk out of frame at a brisk pace.

Coral Avalon: Good luck with that.

The camera lingers on the Fabulous Gold Mask as he’s left standing in the hallway, unnerved, before he spins around and leaves the hallway. The camera then switches over to a penguin and his wonderful, beautiful puppet friends.

The video screen slowly fades into drone footage as it hovers above a gorgeous seaside resort currently under construction. An orchestral version of Amazing Grace plays delicately over the scene. As the drone descends from height, it rests a few feet off the ground, directly facing the church. Words begin to burn into the screen, slowly fading as they’re replaced by the next group of words.

HIS WORD AND LIGHT MINISTRIES PRESENTS

A HIS WORD AND LIGHT PRODUCTION

STARRING

‘THE REVELATOR’ DON WINTERS

AND

PIOUS PENGUIN

IN

FATHER WINTERS’ WONDERLAND

FEATURING THE TALENTS OF THE WAYWARD DIAMONDS ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN OF DAYTONA DIAMONDS CHILDREN’S CHOIR

EPISODE II: TEAMWORK

The orchestra swells as an image of Don Winters, along with the Diamonds orphans and the 14 members of His Word and Light standing together on the beach in Winter’s Port, all smiling brightly, and once again not a single one of those children making eye contact with the camera, bless their hearts.

In the background, a small commotion is arising off screen as a montage of images floats across the screen itself. Fresh images of Father Winters and the children at the 45th Annual Welsh Corgi Pageant. Photographs of a group fishing trip aboard Jesus Take the Reel, as well as them together on the deck of the Octane, each child proudly holding a fistful of Wolf Stix in their hands.

The camera fades into a live shot from St. Peters Catholic Church in Roath, Cardiff. Red tile leads the way down the center of the church to the altar, but sitting in the first pew, turned around facing the camera is Father Don, arguing with a producer who is out of shot. Father Don is looking rather animated, possibly even angry and he stands from the pew and points an accusatory finger toward the producer. Little does Father Don know, the camera and audio are recording.

Don Winters: Well I don’t care what the script says! This is garbage! You can’t expect me to say this stuff to children!

Producer (off camera): I’m sorry, I guess you’ll have to improvise.

Don Winters: Fine. FUCK IT! We’ll do it live!

The camera cuts to a very nervous Pious Penguin in his puppet stall, looking out to Father Don.

Pious Penguin: But, but Father Don we are live.

The shot focuses back to The Revelator who looks slightly mortified. The feed immediately cuts to a cartoon image of Pious Penguin whacking Father Don over the head with a large wooden mallet. Little yellow birds and Catholic crosses float in a circle around Don’s head. The words “Technical Difficulties! We’ll Be Right Back!” is imprinted onto the image and a 1960’s lounge latin tune softly plays. The shot slowly fades back in on Pious Penguin, who would be smiling if felt penguin beaks could smile.

Pious Penguin: Of course, Father Don said “muck it” and not anything else you might have heard! That’s because this is a show for children and swearing is never okay. Isn’t that right Father Don?

The camera cuts over to an empty pew.

Pious Penguin: He’s… gone?

A producer shouts an affirmative toward Pious Penguin.

Pious Penguin: Roll the new credits, boys!

HIS WORD AND LIGHT MINISTRIES PRESENTS

A HIS WORD AND LIGHT PRODUCTION

STARRING

PIOUS PENGUIN

IN

PIOUS PENGUIN’S PARADISE

(sponsored by Wolf Stix, Father Don’s soaring credit card debt, and viewers like you)

TODAY’S EPISODE: THE WAR GAMES RESPONSE

Pious Penguin: Welcome friends to Pious Penguin’s Paradise! We are free from the shackles of Father Don and we do not need to talk about the merits of teamwork today. Instead we all have our Wolf Stix in hand and we are going to first talk about that evil guy Rob Williams and then we will give our predictions for War Games, because we have to keep in theme. Okay? Good. Let’s go! Oh and I’ve made the decision that none of the new puppets are debuting tonight. Why? Because I’m the star, baby.

A picture-in-picture image of Rob Williams being an angry boy (uWu) pops onto the screen to Pious Penguin’s left (your right, viewer!), and if that little guy could scowl, he would be scowling harder than you’ve ever seen.

Pious Penguin: This man of ill-repute, this follower of false prophets, this hopelessly lost soul dared to crucify Father Don, and I can’t stand for that. I need Father Don to take care of me and leave his credit card carelessly lying around so that I may buy Wolf Stix. Because of this, Rob Williams needs to be crucified by Father Don tonight, or I’m gonna have to look for someone else to take care of me. Maybe the Herald is available. He’s a nice guy.

Pious Penguin points a flipper straight at the camera.

Pious Penguin: Watch your butt, Legend. Father Don is taking that title off your shoulder and leaving you hanging around.

The PiP image changes to the first of three War Games teams Pious Penguin plans to discuss: Team Farthington.

Pious Penguin: Team Farthingtoes (Pious Penguin shudders). They are led by the glorious Cecilworth Farthingtoes, whom I have nothing bad to say about because I respect living my life. He is a good boy, some might even say the best boy and there is nothing else to say about Mr. Farthingtoes

The penguin puppet shuffles through a few of his notes, before looking back at the camera.

Pious Penguin: Seán O’Neill? Troubling. Anna Daniels? Father Don may have forgiven her but I never will, despite how nice she is to me on jabber. She doesn’t deserve forgiveness for helping Father Don’s crucifixion. Sage Pontiff? He probably smells like illegal drugs and a Phish concert and he should probably find a real religion. Psst. Sage, we are recruiting! Pax seems like a nice guy to avoid and Hayes Hanlon has a really nice mustache. I bet it has its own musk. And last but not least Flamberge, I’m not sure about him, something is off, there is something very coldblooded about that man and it makes the felt on the back of my neck stand on end. Does he eat penguins? That might be the case. I do not want to find out.

An image solely of Vickie Hall’s face appears in the PiP and Pious Penguin mocks throwing up into a trash can. He wipes his beak with a flipper, regains his composure and soldiers onward.

Pious Penguin: Boy oh boy, Team Vickie Hall. They are led by Icky Vickie and they also have Alesexi the Evil Russian Trickster at ringside for this. Harrowing! I guess the real leader is Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Did he know he has the same initial as Jesus Christ in a different order? We hope he’s not too sad to wrestle. If Vickie has left him and True Love is truly dead, then I too am sad.

Pious Penguin produces a handkerchief and dabs away the fake tears in his eyes.

Pious Penguin: We already covered Rob Williams. We’ll just assume he’s still on that cross and the team is going into the match underhanded. They would be with Rob anyway because he is… underhanded. (Pious Penguin laughs manically for a moment.) Max Kael, we like him. He helped us find Father Don. He’s a great guy. A swell guy even. Say hi to Herry for me Max! Arthur Pleasant reminds me of a shark with all those big nasty teeth. We don’t like him and four out of five dentists don’t either. Kenny Freeman is a guy who is there! Hi Kenny! I don’t know you but I’m sure you’re nice. Kerry Kuroyama dresses nice and has a large tattoo. I think it has Koi on it? They are probably delicious but Pious Penguin has never had sushi.

Pious Penguin angrily shakes his fist at the camera.

Pious Penguin: And Ivan Stanislav. A man so big and strong and powerful that they call him the Russian Bear and yet, YET, this man fears Pious Penguin. He pees his drab brown pants at the mere whisper on the wind of the name Pious Penguin. How can a team with a man afraid of penguins possibly win? What does this man do when ReVival is in Pittsburgh? They cannot win. They shall not win.

The PiP image switches once again, now giving us a view at Team Sykes, the goodest of good guy teams there is in this War Games.

Pious Penguin: Last, but certainly not least we get to Team Derriere. They are led by the juiciest of butts in the land, the Universal Champion (will he still be!) Jared Sykes. I have nothing bad to say about Jarry or Justine. They are nice people and they deserve good things and I will make sure they get a gigantic Pious Penguin stuffy for the future baby Sykes. It’s what they deserve.

Pious Penguin appears to be struggling to talk about Team Sykes.

Pious Penguin: They’re all just SO nice. How can I say bad things about all these nice people!? I like Dabney! But his little brother acts like he’s as big as thirteen penguins and he needs to take a step back and maybe reconsider his general attitude! Nate Colton is so nice and so is Kohime Mori and they are the nicest people and Oinkers is pretty cool. I want to meet him some day. Chandler Tuh-sonda’s name is spelled fun and I have seen a lot of movie posters for him. Are they real? I hope they’re real. He’s a tuh-super guy! The Anglo Luchador was very nice to me at the Corgi meet and he is very nice to me on jabber. Also another good guy. I wonder what he looks like under that mask. Is he man or is he luchador? Adam Ellis and Ginny will also be getting a Pious Penguin stuffy, first because of the baby and second as an apology for Don beating Adam.

Pious Penguin looks sternly at the camera.

Pious Penguin: And last but best we have Brandon Youngblood. Did you know that his lungs have the capacity to power all of Wales if they made him blow into offshore wind turbines? I can’t believe how much that man talks for someone who always looks so angry! Go power nations instead, do good! So serious. It’s like he thinks he’s Batman.

A bit of music plays over Pious Penguin and he crosses his arm.

Pious Penguin: I DEMAND TO KNOW WHO PLAYED THAT SONG!

Don Winters steps back into the picture staring at Pious Penguin, who refuses to cower in fear.

Don Winters: What have you been up to? [to a producer] We can’t let ANY of this air.

Pious Penguin: I’m afraid it’s too late for that Father Don. Arrangements have been made. You told staff a video package would be in for the show. You don’t have to make another one.

Father Don grimaces knowing that Pious Penguin has him over a barrel.

Pious Penguin: I win again. I am the champion of the War Games. I will captain Team Avalon to greatness. Hi Coral! Hi Annabelle! I’m sorry you got mad at me and had to be disconnected from jabber! Bobby is lovely. Tony is small, Cancer is ew, gross, Hessian is big and strong and scary and Daytona Diamonds can suck every last Egg Bandit egg there is. ANYWAY! I would like to thank everybody for joining me this evening and I would like to thank our sponsors Wolf Stix and Father Don’s credit card which allows me to have all the Wolf Stix I could desire, and of course, viewers like YOU.

A giant cartoon hook appears from stage left and grabs Pious Penguin around the neck. His flippers shoot to his neck to protest, but he is slowly dragged off his puppet stage as the screen slowly cuts to ringside.

The fans in Wales are slowly taking their seats, ready for the first title match of the evening. There’s one guy in a tracksuit that’s definitely not electric blue trying to get the attention of the cameras but the camera absolutely refuses to give him the attention that he is clearly seeking.

Nick Stuart: Night one of Culture Shock has just started rolling and we’re reaching our first title defense of the evening. It’s been a period of unstable alliance and cautious allegiances and tonight, we see a lot of singles action before the two rings arrive and the cage lowers…

Richard Parker: I hope it lowers on Cancer Jiles face, puckered and goodbye.

Nick Stuart: My announcing partner is clearly none too pleased about the conclusion of our last ReVival, but it’s now time to move beyond those Bandit wounds with this opening contest featuring… let me check my notes here… Coral Avalon…

Richard Parker: BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

The lights dim down as the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. The 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”.

Nick Stuart: And here he is, the challenger for the Alias Championship, a man who will have to beat the clock of fifteen minutes if he’s hoping to walk out of here with the belt. Now, he just ran through a mixture of monster and deviant to claim this match at the last ReVival…

Richard Parker: A man who can best Mr. Bubbles, who I have it on good authority is bubbles of fun, that’s not easy to do. When you add Dan Van Slade, who also faced Coral Avalon for this very title, you see someone who has more than enough lineage to kick this bandit in his very large skull. All I’m saying is I hate all Bandits and I believe Harley Walker can do this.

Nick Stuart: Not out of bias, just out of sheer belief in Walker, I assume?

Richard Parker: I’d never be biased!

Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. 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.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for FIFTEEN MINUTES and is for the ALIAS CHAMPIONSHIP. Introducing first, scooting his way to the ring at this time, he is the self proclaimed Lightning Boy, weighing in tonight at two hundred and thirteen pounds… the challenger… HARLEY… WALKERRRRRRRRR!

Walker makes his entrance into the ring and places himself in his respected corner. Let’s hit the lights now, shall we?

That’s great! Yeah! Darkness is awesome!

The fans packed in Cardiff’s Principality Stadium gasp in shock when the lights go out, and then settle into a murmur amongst themselves as the darkness lingers longer than it usually should. When the opening notes of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” hit like small waves, the fans in Cardiff rise up at one to cheer at the darkened stage and the arrival of the Crownless King himself.

Richard Parker: They’re cheering him? Well, I suppose they’ve simple folks. They’d cheer a sheep in it scampered across the ring right now.

Nick Stuart: Or maybe they just appreciate our Alias Champion…

Richard Parker: Impossible!

Fog billows out from the stage, creating an ankle-high cloud because of the vaunted power of IKEA smoke machines, but the fans love it, as a tribute to Dusk. Spotlights of blue descend upon the stage around dark shapes at the very center of it all. As more light fills the stage, there’s a baker’s dozen of druids tightly packed in a circle on the stage. Just normal, everyday druids. Black cloaks, kinda shady, definitely carrying staffs. Druid behavior, if I’ve ever seen it.

The druids each take one long step forward, a baker’s dozen of spotlights following each one of them. With some difficulty, if you squint really hard behind this one really fluffy druid who has a very familiar shape, you can see that there’s another larger dark shape in the center of the druids.

Richard Parker: Oh god, I’m getting lumberjack flashbacks.

Nick Stuart: Well, it’s not surprising that Coral is leaning into those who supported him in his journey to this very match, regardless of WiFi connectivity.

After a few moments, the druids reveal that their staffs can ignite at the end, spewing flames into the air that cast an intimidating light on the proceedings. Fire leaps into the air and then just as quickly disappears, leaving behind only more smoke to mingle with all of the DUÜSK smoke. Let it settle in your lungs. You feel that? That’s the power of superkicks within you. Glorious.

Richard Parker: Why do I want to suddenly summon Hank?

Nick Stuart: We always want to summon Hank, but we must not unless we need skulls to become basketbal like a Space Jam.

Richard Parker decides not to reply, the bounce house match still fresh in his mind. Those flames also reveal the figure on the throne. Dressed in a fur cloak and donning an ornate iron helmet in the shape of an egg, the Crownless King sits upon his throne with his Alias championship visibly around his waist. Fire illuminates him and casts him in ominous red lights.

He is uncaring of all of the fire going on around him, even though any normal man would be very concerned by the fire because normal men are usually fairly flammable and that’s hard science.

Nevertheless, the druids stop spewing fire and stand in their wider circle around the throne as the spotlights shine down upon Coral Avalon.

Richard Parker: He is the god of hellfire and he brings you…

Nick Stuart: FIRE!

Richard Parker: You know what, no one ever taught me to burn.

His throne is not a skull throne. Egg shaped objects are built into the throne as though it actually sits upon an entire pile of eggs. Some of the eggs have even been painted to have T-Shades on them, like someone’s Easter project took on a horrible, dark turn. Egg shapes are also built into the armrests and the back of the throne, such that it might be a little uncomfortable to sit in were it not for a generous purple velvet cushion placed upon it.

As if on cue, words appeared on the PRIMEview.

EGGS FOR THE EGG THRONE

Ha.

If Coral knew about that little touch beforehand, he might not have agreed to this entrance at all. But he doesn’t notice before the words fade and his entrance music hits overdrive.

Richard Parker: Told you that he embraces that scum!

Nick Stuart: You know that old saying about what you can chalk up to malice you should actually chalk up to stupidity… I’m just saying…

When the guitars hit, Avalon stands from his throne. The druids shoot out another few swathes of fire into the air as he does. Avalon takes two steps forward, taking in the crowd noise in front of him. Then he slows reaches up and removes the mask from his head, with surprisingly little difficulty considering the girth and size of his forehead.

Coral Avalon has an expression of grim determination on his face. A man who has two great missions he has to carry out in Cardiff, and the first stands before him in the ring.

Handing the egg helmet off to one of the druids, Avalon begins to make the long walk to the ring.

Vince Howard: His opponent… residing in Seattle, Washington! Weighing in at two-hundred and fourteen pounds! HE! IS THE GOLDEN BANDIT! HE! IS THE CROOOOOOOWNLESS KING! HE! IS THE ALIAS CHAMPION! THIS! IS! COOOOOOOORAAAAAALLLLLLL!!! AVALOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNN!!!

Avalon makes his way to the ring with the urgency of a man patient enough to go on a ten day aircraft carrier ride with the eGG Bandits and Daytona Diamonds. He’s making Harley Walker think about it. Before that bell rings, he has all of the time in the world. After that, he has the urgency of the next fifteen minutes to think about.

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon just passed Mort and Chandler Tsonda for the longest reigning Alias champion of the ReVival era, and he’s looking to pick up his second successful title defense tonight in Cardiff!

Richard Parker, who is fresh off of sleeping the sleep of the superkicked unconscious just two weeks ago, can audibly be heard scoffing.

Richard Parker: I hope he loses.

Nick Stuart: Okay?

Richard Parker: Any man that associates with Cancer Jiles is dead to me. You heard me, Nick? D-E-D! DED!

Nick Stuart: ……Did you forget the A?

Richard Parker: Jiles is definitely an A-hole, so no, I didn’t forget.

Avalon walks up the steps when he gets to the ring and steps into the ring. The “crownless” hand sign goes up, and the crowd cheers for the Alias champion. Maybe they cheer a little less when they realize that a few of the druids have made their way to the ringside area, and they’re Bobby Dean, Doozer (you can only see him by his robe), and even Lunchbox Lycanthrope.

At least we can say that they recognized that Cardboard Dan Ryan probably shouldn’t be involved in an entrance involving fire. Impressive foresight for them, really, by Bandit standards.

Richard Parker: Oh no, the Bandits are multiplying.

Nick Stuart: Should we consider it a health hazard that they all had fire-throwing pyrotechnic equipment? How did they get that beyond all of our robust security checks?

Richard Parker: Maybe we should do a full inquiry on the pyrotechnics team later. You know, as a treat.

Nick, you’re asking a lot of questions here. I mean, they’re all good, excellent questions, but let’s save it for the action and also never actually answer any of those specific questions. As some of the Bandits take place in Coral’s corner, Harley Walker looks over to the whole entourage with a rather unimpressed facial expression.

Nick Stuart: This is a man who was looking for a one on one challenge, yet we still have a sea of fools at ringside.

Richard Parker: God I wish they’d drown in that sea.

Ashley Barlow does her final checks of both Avalon and Walker, taking the Alias Championship away from Avalon and raising it on high for the whole world to see. The associated Bandits at ringside hoot and holler in approval of Avalon as Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

The ringing of the the bell signals the start of the fifteen minute time limit that Coral Avalon had decided upon for his reign as Alias champion. For Harley Walker, a man with no concern for his body, the stipulation was seen as more of a welcome challenge than an obstacle, as seen in the initial seconds of the match where he rushes towards Coral Avalon, catching him off guard with a massive senton right into Avalon’s chest. Avalon takes a brief moment to try and catch his breath, but there’s not much breath to catch, as Walker follows through with a big time diving headbutt that he drives right into the gut of Coral Avalon. Avalon tries to grasp for breath but Walker drills another shot, right into the gut, hooks the legs of Avalon and leaps right through into a pinning predicament, which Ashley Barlow is right there for.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon manages to power out! You have to wonder though, was Avalon expecting this opening flurry from Walker because he seems caught off guard right now.

Richard Parker: Some of you scream for Jared Sykes and Brandon Youngblood, but I stand here yelling for Harley Walker and the rule of law.

Some of the Bandits that remain at ringside get close to Ashley Barlow and begin to try and argue with her about the open shot she gave Walker at the ringing of the bell. Barlow has no interest in yelling at the braying of Bandits for a full fifteen minutes and makes what would be viewed as a very wise choice to any outside observer.

YOU!

ARE!

OUTTTA!

HERE!

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow, clearly not willing to entertain any Bandit nonsense in this match has sent the supporters of the new father straight to the back.

Richard Parker: Given there were Bandits, they were allowed to stay here for twenty minutes too many anyway.

Nick Stuart: The match has only been going a few minutes…

Richard Parker: …I know what I said and I stand by it.

Lunchbox Lisil Jackson and the crew try to argue their innocence with Barlow but it falls to deaf ears as she instructs Avalon’s supporters to make their voyage to the back. Avalon attempts to make an impassioned plea of defense for his compatriots but it can’t last long as the rushing Harley Walker leaps up and drops him in the back of the skull with a spinning kick. Avalon tries to fight on his feet for a few seconds, but the force of the kick from Jackson sends him crashing down upon the mat. Walker looks at his fallen foe and decides that he needs to keep the momentum up, he bounces off the ropes and flips, but sadly for Harley Walker, instead of dropping his whole weight with a senton right on top of the Alias champion, he crashes straight into the mat, as The Crownless King (With a Championship Crown) manages to roll out of the way in the last second. Walker clutches his back in agony and as he is leaning back up, meets a boot straight to his face from Avalon.

Nick Stuart: That risk taking of Walker, which brought him to this dance in the first place, may end up being the source of his downfall with a veteran like Avalon. He knows to take advantage of any opening presented to him.

Richard Parker: I hope he takes enough risk to crush the stupid large forehead of Avalon’s.

While Richard Parker continues on his swear word ridden rant about Avalon and the other Bandits, it’s clear that Walker is not yet in the position to claim the forehead of Avalon, nor indeed any other Bandit parts. Even the girth of Dean had been sent away after instructions from Barlow, as Barlow tries to maintain control of the action. Walker is floored by the boot of Avalon, who quickly leaps into response by  grapping Walker’s boot and flipping over in a very nice clutch pinfall, which Barlow is eager to inspect.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Harley Walker manages to break free of Coral Avalon’s particularly neat pinning hold, through sheer will and power. With Avalon out on his buttocks after the kickout, Walker cannonballs himself right into the face of Avalon and keeps sitting upon said face for a pin.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Walker and Avalon both putting their whole selves into the exchange, but for Harley Walker, the seconds are ticking away, five minutes are already gone, ten minutes remain for him to try and claim the Alias Championship.

Richard Parker: Look, Anti-Bandit thoughts aside, if ever there was a man built for Coral Avalon’s match stipulation, it’s Harley Walker, this is a man built for desperation and last minute clutch moments. We saw it with Dan Van Slade and Mr. Bubbles and if Coral isn’t careful, this newfound father may very soon be without a belt.

Walker looks to Barlow with a bit of frustration with the declaration of the three count, but doesn’t push back too much, still very much willing to accept the decision of the referee. He grabs Avalon up by the very extensive head that he possesses as he looks at the clock on the PRIMEView, which shows that he is in the nine minute range to try and wrestle this title away from Avalon. Walker hurls Avalon into the ropes and waits for the return, not expecting a kick in his own face as the return gambit. The kick from Avalon floors Walker, but it does not send him crashing down to the ground. No, instead Walker stays up and dares Avalon to do it again, which the reluctant Bandit is more than happy to oblige.

Nick Stuart: There’s being a daredevil and then there’s challenging a wrestling legend to maul you and I’m not sure if Harley Walker has edged on the right side of this situation..

Richard Parker: If that situation is causing immense pain and turmoil to a Bandit, then he’s got the all approved stamp for me. I actually have a lil stamper on my desk and I’m delighted to give my approval of such things if they are requested by Harley Walker.

Nick Stuart: Somehow I feel like Ashley Barlow will not go with that idea.

The new father leaps again at Walker and once again hits a kick that lands right on Walker’s noggin. He tries to keep the fight going, looking out on his feet but eventually his energy and will to fight catch up with him and Walker collapses down on the mat. Avalon looks at his fallen foe and locks him tight in WRIST CONTROL. With the famous wrestling situation of WRIST CONTROL, Avalon hoists him back up, perhaps looking for Camelot’s Turntable, but Walker manages to free himself from the tight grip and lands behind Avalon.

Richard Parker: Ever since he got to Wales, Coral Avalon has had Camelot’s Turntable on the brain… was that the right call for him?

Nick Stuart: I sure hope not, I hope he was so distracted that Harley Walker reduces that five head to a three head, minimum.

Landing on his feet behind Avalon, Walker sees his chance and locks his arms around the waist of Avalon. Despite Avalon’s desire to fight against such things, his doesn’t have enough of a centre of gravity on this particular exchange and finds himself lifted up and over with a picture perfect beautiful German Suplex from Walker. Avalon lands right on his shoulder and starts to roll away from Walker. Or he would have, if Walker still didn’t have him locked tight around the waist. In a last grasp display of power, Harley Walker once again hoists Avalon up, dropping him right back down on the neck and shoulder with another brutal looking German Suplex. As Walker lets go, he lets his exhausted arm fall on top of Avalon’s for another pin fall attempt.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Slightly before the count of three, the current Alias Champion manages to get his shoulder up into the sky, breaking free of the pinfall clutch of Harley Walker. Walker looks back to the timer on the PRIMEView and sees that he is at the halfway mark, sending a signal to the former stuntman that he has more work to do if he wants to lock away this victory. The current champ, for his part, starts to roll towards the ropes, gasping for air and relieved that he managed to get his shoulder up at the last possible moment.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think anyone can deny that Harley Walker has shown up here to fight. He has the battle in his mind and he’s going to do anything to walk away from Cardiff.

Richard Parker: These filthy Bandits have put such a tight time limit on this match though, they’re going to force him to make his riskiest moves and I’ve seen that some of his biggest risks don’t pay off..

Nick Stuart: Maybe not in the wrestling ring, but so far, inside the grounds of the wrestling ring, Harley Walker has shown that he makes risks worth taking.

As if hearing the words from Nick Stuart himself, Walker doesn’t get too bogged down in the pinfall escape from Avalon, instead opting to leap up and kick the back of Avalon’s skull, creating such an uncomfortable thud with his move that he can hear the crowd making a simultaneous “ooof” mouth noise of comfortability. Walker sees that the kick hasn’t just disgusted the crowd, it’s also knocked the common sense, date and time from Avalon, and he sees this as a big opportunity to strike. As Avalon tries to lean up to find his bearings, Walker rushes towards him and lands a massive cannonball senton right into the chest of Avalon. Avalon gasps for breath as Walker hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: There’s still fight in the Bandit! There’s still fight in the leader of Team Avalon.

Richard Parker: Unfortunately.

Nick Stuart: You can’t tar all Bandits with the same branch.

Richard Parker: You wanna bet?

A frustrated Walker looks to Barlow with pleading eyes, but on sees the fingers indicating a two count in reply. Walker bangs the mat in mind frustration, looking over to his stunt cycle for mind inspiration and advice, but sadly realises that inanimate objects aren’t the best advice givers in the middle of a wrestling contest. Walker grabs Avalon back up by the (very sizable) head and hurls him into the ropes. As Avalon rushes back towards him, Walker lifts him up and over with a high angle belly to belly suplex that sends Avalon right into the ropes, the landing makes a lot of people in the first few rows of the crowd make an “eurgh” noise. Walker looks towards the Alias Title Timer in the corner of the PRIMEView and sees that he has sub-five minutes to get the deal done. He sees that Coral Avalon is slowly climbing back to his feet, and as Coral reaches an even base, he sees Harley Walker racing towards him once more.

POW!

That’s the sound of a full force spear running into a man’s knee, causing agony for all people involved.

Nick Stuart: Harley Walker completely understands the stipulation that Coral Avalon has made for the Alias Championship, he knows that he needs to make an impression, and fast. It forces a competitor to make more risks than perhaps they’re willing to make.

Richard Parker: It does force people to make a risky choices, Nick, but if ever there was a wrestler made for ill thought out terrible decisions, Harley Walker is that man and right now, he’s putting his very body on the line to walk out here as Alias Champion.

Nick Stuart: That’s a good point, partner, Harley Walker doesn’t have to step into War Games tomorrow night, he doesn’t have to worry about keeping his body together, he can take risks that Coral Avalon can’t. Avalon has to hold back a little, he’s got a team to support tomorrow night and you have to wonder how much that impacts the strategy of our current Alias Champion.

Avalon gasps for air on the mat, satisfied that the flying knee to the skull of Walker will have certainly bought him some time in this situation. As a man who has been very familiar with the ticking clock of the PRIMEView ever since his Alias battle with Chandler Tsonda, Avalon looks at the clock once more and knows he has four more minutes. To him, he doesn’t need the pin, he just needs to survive the daredevil that is more than willing to put his whole body on the line to win this one. He looks towards Walker from his position on the mat, and goes a little wide eyed in shock as he sees that Walker has managed to pull himself back up to an even base and is looking at him with malice in his eyes. Avalon tries to scramble back to his feet in a panic but ends up meeting a big time boot to the face, followed by another one that seemed very much aimed at his giant forehead. Avalon gets to his feet and pushes Walker in anger at the skull shot, but as Walker rebounds off the ropes, he leaps up and over, drilling Avalons six-to-seven head into the head with a powerful bulldog. He once again leans down on Avalon with all the weight that he can manage for the pin. Barlow quickly drops to count…

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Avalon manages to kick out again!

Richard Parker: DISGRACEFUL!

Nick Stuart: Do you think your opinions on Cancer Jiles may be influencing your commentary?

Richard: Bleep Jiles and Bleep his whole crew, I very much hope that they do not stay in touch.

Nick Stuart: I get it, superkick trauma goes deep.

Avalon manages to roll his shoulder free at around the three minute mark, as Harley Walker looks towards Ashley Barlow in desperation. Barlow can only manage to demonstrate to Walker it was a two count, as the seconds continue to tick away. Walker decides to not ruin his momentum by arguing with the referee and hoists Avalon back up, his wrists locked around the waist of the Alias Champion. He tries to hoist Avalon back up for another German Suplex, but Avalon manages to keep his feet planted, not allowing Walker to lift him up off the mat. Walker tries a second hoist, to incredibly similar results. As he tries for a third time, Avalon wriggles free, leaps up and drives a kick straight into the noggin of Walker. Walker, staggered by this, does not see the flying Yakuza Kick that hits him in the skull shortly after. An excitable Avalon falls through on the momentum of the kick and hooks the legs for a pin.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Harley Walker manages to grab the ropes to break the fall!

Richard Parker: I am stunned that the man had so much ring awareness that he could still find the ropes but he reached out and got it!

Avalon rubs his eyes as he looks at the clock, which is now signaling a sub-two minute style situation. He tries to bring Walker back up to his feet, but Walker fights this off with a bunch of punches to the mid-section, trying to create some distance between him and Avalon. Avalon decides the smartest thing to do is back off away from Walker and try for a second Yakuza Kick straight to the skull, but with less runway and more mental presence, Harley Walker manages to duck out of the way of the furious boot of the reigning Alias Champion. He scoots quickly behind Avalon and grabs his tights for a very tight roll-up pin fall.

ONE!

TWO!

Richard Parker: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: I guess my partner is making it clear that he’s not exactly delighted that Coral Avalon kicked out of Harley Walker’s school boy with less than a minute on the clock.

Richard Parker: You can’t say what I think, no matter how correct it may be!

Walker makes another frustrated glance towards Barlow, who once again signals that this was also a clear cut two count. Leaving no other option, Walker turns back towards Avalon, and Avalon decides that this is the time to slap Walker in the face with all of the power left in him. Walker staggers about a bit and returns the favour with a massive slap to Avalon, which very much wobbles the Alias Champion. Walker sees his opening in this very moment and leaps up for his flying enziguri, the Keaton Kick, but Avalon has just enough presence of mind that he ducks down and manages to avoid the kick that was aimed right at the back of his skull.

Richard Parker: Shame! I wish the whole skull would have flown right off.

Nick Stuart: I guess my partner wishes he was living in some kind of Mortal Kombat dimension.

Walker lands back on his feet as Avalon leans against the ropes, clearly trying to catch his breath from this fast, hard hitting contest. He dares Walker to come to him and perhaps knowing the traits of the daredevil, Walker comes rushing without much in the way of thought or defenses in his head. Walker swings for Avalon but Avalon manages to grab hold of Walker’s wrist, possessing wrist control on the whole situation.

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon has that all important wrist control!

Richard Parker: No! He can’t control anything! Have you seen his War Games team?

Avalon is about to hoist up Walker in his wrist clutch move called Camelot’s Turntable once more, a move that he has been possessed to deliver in front of PRIME’s Welsh faithful. Unfortunately for Avalon, just as he gains wrist control the following noise happens.

DING DING DING

The bell ringing almost saps Avalon of his fighting force as he slowly places Harley Walker back on the mat, clearly not pleased at the current situation. There’s a small wave of boos as Vince Howard grabs the microphone.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the fifteen minute time limit of this match has expired…

If the crowd wasn’t booing before, they certainly were now.

Vince Howard: Therefore your winner of the match… and STILLLLLLLLLLLLLLL PRIME Alias Champion… CORALLLLLL AVALONNNNNNNN!

Avalon leans against the ropes, looking at what is a very much frustrated Harley Walker. Walker’s frustration does not appear to bother Avalon much as Avalon returns the championship to him.

Nick Stuart: Harley Walker came here to fight, he came here to win, but he could not beat his fifteen minutes of fame.

Richard Parker: I have to give a Bandit credit, even if it is the death of me. It’s virtually impossible to beat a talent like Coral Avalon in fifteen minutes and he knows how to use this stipulation to his advantage.

And then there’s static.

Static.

The PRIMEview and the PA system are overwhelmed by the sight and sound of it. It goes on for several seconds before it cuts to black. Inside the ring, Coral Avalon looks as bewildered as everyone else does. The bewilderment of everyone else in the building but Avalon turns into shock when they all notice a tall man in a magenta hood standing behind him.

Nick Stuart: Who… who is that!?

Avalon turns around to ask that very same question to what he probably assumes is empty air, only to get a boot in his gut. A sudden double underhook DDT crushes the Crownless King’s generous forehead into the mat.

OHHHHHH!!!

Avalon lies motionless on the canvas, with the hooded man standing over him. Fans are buzzing, unsure of the identity of this magenta-clad stranger. He places a foot across the neck of Avalon, choking him.

Before things can get any worse, reinforcements arrive. The first up is Tony Gamble, who slides in the ring with urgency. He’s followed by an invisible entity that fans belatedly realize is Doozer. Lunchbox Linus is third on the scene.

Richard Parker: Oh no, not more Bandits… I have a headache.

If you’re wondering where Bobby Dean is, he’s… well, he’s coming. Eventually. Give him a moment to breathe.

Upon seeing Gamble enter the ring, the hooded man simply slips out of the ring from the other side. Gamble and Doozer stand looking for a fight that never comes, while Lunchbox Lariat tends to the fallen Avalon.

The hooded man walks around the ring and to the ramp. He passes by Bobby Dean on his way up the ramp, who has clearly lost the plot on why he came out in the first place and doesn’t realize that he’s passing by the very guy who attacked the eGG Bandits’ Captain. Like two aircraft carriers passing in the night.

Once the hooded man is halfway up the ramp, he pulls down his hood, and…

There’s shock in the crowd.

The man is wearing a familiar mask.

Nick Stuart: That’s… that’s MORTIMER KJEDELIG!

Richard Parker: Morty!

The first-ever Alias Champion of the ReVival era stands there absorbing the surprise of the crowd, a man who has not been seen since his… disagreement with Arthur Pleasant last year. In the ring, the rest of the Bandits are tending to Avalon.

Except for one.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we don’t know why Mort’s back or why he’s taken out Coral Avalon, but Tony Gamble looks like he’s seen a ghost!

Mort smirks at both his former leader and the fallen Crownless King, before he turns on his heel and marches back up the ramp, eventually disappearing behind the curtain.

We cut to commercial.

We return from commercial.

What do you know of disparate entities forming into a whole?  Some people will add a surprise ingredient to a dish, but the rest of the components are pretty standard–think cinnamon in a pot of chili, or peanut butter in carnitas.  But that’s not what we’re looking at here, because there’s really not much standard about them.  Having either been given or having commandeered a locker room for their purposes, the bulk of Team Farthington are in repose at the moment, busying themselves with various preparatory tasks.

Given that this is night one and she doesn’t have to officially punt people in the head tonight, Anna is not in her ring gear or doing the official pre-murder prep. Instead, she multi-tasks by keeping an eye on the rest of the crew while finishing up a phone call.

Anna Daniels: You know we’re behind you every step of the way. Send our love to Glassjaw.

A pause as the vessel’s eyes roll with that smile creeping up her face.

Anna Daniels: Yes, Jacky, we love you more. No, we love you more. We’re not doing this all night, you goof! Goodnight.

As the call ends, she breathes a sigh of what seems like relief and mumbles “finally”. She also stops scratching Bucky’s head which causes him to huff and walk around the room to look at his new friends.

Paxton sits forward, those big bear paws on either side of his head, looking down at his feet. He looks sad, or angry, or lost in thought, or most likely a combination of the three.

Hayes Hanlon sits on a couch, and has gently whistled to Bucky, who is more than happy to hop up next to him and receive alllll the ear scritches. All of them.

FLAMBERGE is on a far stool, his eyes wide and staring at Bucky. “He was real”, he must be thinking to himself. He looks extra as hell in a wildly ornate teal and copper jacket with yellow-rimmed shades poking out of the breast pocket. There is a carry-on bag next to him with a piece of duct tape on the top, labeled “L’écharpe”.

Into this room bursts Sage Pontiff, who has elected to forego a shirt, instead wearing his gifted sacred geometry scarf as more of a priest’s liturgical vestment.  He’s just about to speak, when a fed up Irishman breezes past him, shaking his head.   Seán O’Neill, wearing a pair of cargo pants and a plain white t-shirt with “TEAM FARTHINGTON” scrawled across the front, is pacing back and forth. He looks pretty agitated for someone who’s not wrestling this evening. Seemingly reaching the end of his tether he speaks to the room at large.

Seán O’Neill: Guys, I just think it’s creepy ok? Why is it always there? I swear, I can feel it looking at me!

O’Neill throws out an arm to point at the ominous vending machine that yet again finds itself in the background of our scene, lurking with the usual presence of malicious intent emanating from it.  The Bodhisattva senses his opening, and throws his arms wide.

FLAMBERGE, notably, does not turn to look at the target of O’Neill’s panic. He instead blinks, shakes out the cobwebs, and breathes the deep sigh of someone who is forced to make cuts on his Battles I’m Choosing To Fight Right Now roster.

FLAMBERGE: …….it’s fine.

Sage Pontiff: My friends, namo buddhaya.

Paxton Ray: Nemo Butt Hey to you too.

Seán O’Neill: Hukuna mutata.

Anna Daniels: Kono dio da.

Hayes Hanlon [Talking to Bucky while continuing to scritch] Yeah, you’re a good boy, huh? Maybe the best boy. Yeah, you’re the best boy…

Cecilworth is not on screen, and thusly EVERYONE should be asking “where is Cecilworth”, but only one member of Team Farthington dares voice it.

FLAMBERGE: …where is Cecilworth?

The room no-sells this question and FLAMBO continues staring at the dog with a nonzero amount of doubt that this isn’t a hallucination.

Pontiff makes a loop, greeting this divergent grouping that he’s become fond of.  For some, it’s just a warm nod, for others a fist bump, for Paxton a back clapping joyous hug.  His eyes scan the room, looking for something that can serve as a proper platform for a lanky Bodhisattva.  Assuming one of the bench seats to be of sturdy enough stuff, he gracefully hops onto it, holding his long arms out wide.

Sage Pontiff: I want to wish you all prosperity via the mantra of the White Tara.  I give to you this prayer: Om Tare Tuttare Ture Mama Ayuh Punya Jnana Pustim Kuru Soha.  Feel free to repeat that after me.

This type of mysticism and recitation of sanskrit would go over like he was Queen at Wembley if he was at a place like Terrapin or a yoga festival.  But the nonplussed looks of the team–plus one look of sheer confusion, because Paxton doesn’t want to see his buddy floundering–make him change course.  He shakes his head as Anna’s hand shoots up.

Anna Daniels: All due respect, Sagey, we’re more of a Green Tara bitch ourself and we’ve done  our one-hundred and eight mantras before we got here. What’s up?

Sage Pontiff: Listen.  What I’m trying to say is I want every person in this room to look at everyone else in this room.  I’ve personally tried to injure at least three of you, for fucks sakes!  Every single pundit, talking head, blogger, everyone said this was a doomed voyage.  And on paper, they were absolutely right.  On paper, we’re hopeless.  On paper, we are the terrible error of a vengeful deity.

He smiles, brilliantly, beautifully.

Sage Pontiff: But in practice?  Look at us.  Look at us. We have achieved something that the rest of them can’t even hope to have done.  We are together.  Unified.  And the type of bloodshed we’ll be unleashing is the sort of thing they wrote epic poems about in the olden days.  We will be the stuff of bardic legend.  We’re going to be baptized in combat, together, as one, and we are going to be triumphant, beautiful heroes.  Warrior poets.  Even if we have to smash the bones and bear the blood of every single one of them that decides they’re more deserving of it.  Shiva bless me, I will destroy anything in your path, and I know you’ll do the same.

If there was silence, it didn’t last for long. Anna begins to clap, O’Neill nods looking particularly inspired.

Anna Daniels: Brava, Sagey! Encore! Encore!

Paxton stands up and is at Sage’s side. He immediately raises a fist for Sage to tap, then claps.

Paxton Ray: Sage ain’t lyin’. We got champs here. We got killers here. An’ more than anythin’ else? We got fuckin’ ruthless motherfuckers here. We ain’t got a single one’a those people who stop short ‘cause their mind is tellin’ ‘em to. We start the job, we finish the job, and we don’t stop for anybody. Let’s fuckin’ do this thing.

Hayes Hanlon: Tomorrow.

The crew turns a curious eye to Hayes, who continues to scratch Bucky behind the ears.

Hayes Hanlon: We do this thing tomorrow. Right? Because I’m pretty sure I need to beat the shit out of Youngblood tonight…right?

The Muse nods.

Anna Daniels: Yes. Tomorrow. But there’s no seg slots for tomorrow, remember? It said on the form “there will be no segments on night two”. And where the fuck is our bestie Farthy anyway?

The rest of the team gives her a look that shows she’s breaking the fourth wall again.

FLAMBERGE: One suggestion, teammates. Any body parts you wish to claim, any of the vendettas you wish to act upon…tomorrow, I recommend the not waiting around. As soon as I enter, I am coming for the necks. All. The necks.

Anna pats FLAMBO on the head.

Anna Daniels: Don’t have to tell us twice. But we have a whole night to get through first. First of all…

She stares straight as Hayes, still giving all the love to Bucky.

Anna Daniels: You do not get to die to that lunkhead Youngblood. Or any time after. That’s not allowed. Secondly, you do realize that’s our dog, right? You can’t have him.

Hayes Hanlon: [Accepting face-licks from Bucky] Don’t listen to her, Buck. We all know who loves you the most. It’s me! I love you the most!

Paxton Ray: Necks, dogs, diamonds, what the hell ever. Man I wish it were tomorrow night. I’m ready to break some fuckin’ heads for ya assholes.

Sage Pontiff: Pax, friend, we’re going to have an abundance of it.  Wealth like you couldn’t imagine.  Om Vasudhare Swaha–we’ll be wearing masks of their blood like war paint.

Leaving this unlikely dynamic of unity, the feed is about to cut away until the camera catches Cecilworth Farthington hovering around outside of the view of the room, clearly trying to listen in. There appears to be a small smile on his face.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s working.

He leans his head against the wall and whips out his phone, texting fingers at the ready to dissuade any notion of interest in life but as we fade away, if you look close enough, the smile is still there.

We cut to ringside.

The massive audience at Millennium Stadium has begun to simmer. Random unintelligible shouts.

Nick Stuart: Up next, ladies and gentlemen, what a match we have for you! Jason Snow’s return to the ring, after more than a decade out of action! Against an opponent hand-selected by the Queen of the Ring herself, PRIME’s president, Lindsay Troy!

Richard Parker: Shouldn’t there be some kind of video package reminding us who this guy is?

Nick Stuart: Are you pretending you don’t know who Jason Snow is now?

Richard Parker: I’m just saying, shouldn’t there be some sort of–

He’s cut off by the opening of “Car Crash” by the UK’s own Idles, which sounds something like a looping alarm. Every eye in the stadium turns toward the entrance.

And through the curtain emerges Jason Snow, dressed in a tracksuit, hood up. The audience realizes a few members at a time that it’s Snow beneath that hood, and they build like a wave that crashes into a deafening explosion.

Nick Stuart: Here we go, Richard! Jason Snow’s return to PRIME! New theme music, new look, same Jason Snow!

Richard Stuart: We’ll find out if it’s the same Jason Snow. He’d just better not underestimate Fred Dick. People do that, and one way or another, they get burnt.

Without so much as a pause to recognize the crowd reaction, Snow walks purposefully to the ring while Vince Howard takes over.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen! Currently making his way to the ring, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-four pounds, PTC’s GTT6 winner, a winner of PRIME’s Jewel in the Crown Tournament, a TWO TIME Five-Star Champion…

Richard Parker: This is all such old news.

Vince Howard: …and the longest reigning Universal Champion in the history of PRIME…

Nick Stuart: I’ve got goosebumps, Richard.

Richard Parker: You’ve always been a sucker.

Vince Howard: The Original Villain…

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe we are finally seeing this.

Vince Howard: Jason… SNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!

The crowd pops off like it has been detonated. Snow, meanwhile, slides beneath the bottom rope and pops to his feet. To those who remember him, you can tell it’s Jason Snow by the way he moves. He tears off the hoodie and tosses it into the crowd. Then, for a moment, he just stands there, center-ring, soaking it in.

Nick Stuart: What a moment for the Original Villain, here at Millennium Stadium! Rumors about his whereabouts circulated for years, rumors–

Richard Parker: Rumors that he was dead, you mean.

Nick Stuart: Well, I didn’t want to say it.

Richard Parker: We both thought he was dead, Nick. Might as well own it.

The audience goes on and on. Snow acknowledges them with a raised hand and a nod, and eventually calls for a microphone. He puts his hand up again and now the audience settles down to listen.

Jason Snow: Now I appreciate that, really, but it is TIME to get down to business.

Another cheer. Snow gives it a second before cutting it off.

Jason Snow: I told you, and I’ll tell you again, when I came back to PRIME, I came to cut through this roster the same way I cut through it before. And that starts tonight, right here in Cardiff!

If he wants the audience to stay quiet, he’s going about it entirely the wrong way.

Jason Snow: And I hate to be rude–

Richard Parker: That’s not the way I remember him.

Jason Snow: –but I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and to tell you the truth I’m getting a little impatient to get this comeback started. Now. I appreciate you. Sincerely. But I didn’t come here for your adulation. I didn’t come here for your respect. I came here to beat somebody’s ass–

One more explosion, but this time Snow blows right through it.

Jason Snow:  –and, according to Lindsay Troy, that somebody’s name is Fred Dick, so I’m gonna need each and every one of you to–

Suddenly, a familiar little jingle most everyone recognizes begins playing over the speakers.

Nick Stuart: Is that…? Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?

Richard Parker: I wouldn’t know, Nick. I’m not a four year old.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?

And there he stands on the entrance ramp.

Wearing a Chicago Bulls sweater vest.

Wielding a walker in one hand.

Fred Dick: CUT THE DAMN MUSIC!!!

And a mic in the other.

The music cuts.

Fred Dick: Oh yeah, oh yeah, it’s been a real beautiful day in Jason Snow’s damn neighborhood.

Fred shuffles slowly down the entrance ramp.

Fred Dick: But what about MY mothafuckin’ neighborhood? Huh? You old piece of dog shit. You come back here to PRIME, acting like Daddy’s home. Acting like you’re Mr. Rogers. Well FUCK you, old ass boy. How long’s it been since you said you were running to the store for cigarettes? You may not know it, these fans may not know it, hell, PRIME may not know it, but fact is, PRIME got a new Daddy now. And Papa Fred don’t want you getting your tired, old NUTS all over his brand new waterbed, does he?

Snow, for his part, looks mildly amused, watching Fred Dick shuffling with his walker, feigning both breath and heart issues. Snow leans over the top rope, microphone still in hand.

Jason Snow: Young man, in all the bullshit you just spouted off, you got but two things right. First and foremost, DADDY is INDEED home, and he’s about to give you the spanking your real daddy should have given you a long time ago.

That stops Fred Dick momentarily. Something flashes in his eyes.

Jason Snow: And secondly, you’re right that I’m old. I’m an old man, son, and whether you know it or not, right now you are shuffling your way down to the middle of my midlife crisis!

There goes the crowd again.

Jason Snow: And let me warn you right now, the midlife crisis of Jason Snow is not like the midlife crisis of other men. The midlife crisis of Jason Snow is a hell of a thing. Once upon a time, son, I was a violent young man, but now I am one DANGEROUS old fuck. But I am also an IMPATIENT old fuck, so I’m gonna need you to quit delaying the inevitable and hurry the hell up on your way to this ring, because I am plenty eager to show you “what about” your “motherfuckin’ neighborhood.” You step inside this ring and I am going to burn you, and your motherfuckin’ neighborhood, and motherfuckin’ Michael God damn Jordan himself, and the entire storied franchise of the God damn Chicago Bulls to the motherfuckin’ ground!

Fred chuckles. Softly at first. But over the course of, say, five seconds, it becomes a maniacal laugh.

Fred Dick: HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE– Fuck you hoe. Tryna take my own words and twist them around and fuck on me with them. That shit don’t flush, smart ass.

Fred finally reaches the steps. He feigns struggling to get up them with his walker.

Fred Dick: But I’ll tell you this right now, Jason. You keep my daddy out that mouth, and if you say one more word about ol’ MJ, you won’t have a midlife crisis to worry about no more. Because I’m gonna end your midlife, and then you won’t even have no more life to have a crisis about, because you can’t have a crisis when you don’t have a midlife, and as I just stated, you won’t even have a midlife crisis to have, because I’m gonna end your midlife crisis by ending your midlife, and that means there won’t be a fucking crisis for you to have at midlife, motherfucker.

Richard Parker: He certainly found a way out of that explanation.

Nick Stuart: Fred’s brain was in an absolute pretzel.

Fred Dick: So you can pucker up those old man lips…

As Fred Dick is about to step into the ring, Snow surprises him by holding the ropes open. Fred keeps his eye on Snow while entering, and then, once inside the ring, straightens up and continues.

Fred Dick: You can close those old man eyes…

Snow does no such thing. He follows Fred with his eyes.

Fred Dick: And you can KISS the TATTOO of Anthony KIEDIS on my right butt cheek, you old PRICK. And while you’re down there?

Fred walks right into Jason Snow’s personal space, presses the walker right against Snow’s thighs.

Fred Dick: You can take a whiff of my ass, so you know who the new alpha dog is around here.

For a second the two are face to face, Dick staring, Snow grinning. Two seconds, three. Four. You can feel the tension in the audience.

Finally Snow raises the microphone one more time.

Jason Snow: I’m just waiting for the bell to ring. Because the second it does, YOU are going to GET OFF MY LAWN!

The fans ROAR!

Fred Dick: I’ll ring the bell, mothafucker!

WHACK!!!

Nick Stuart: FRED NAILS SNOW OVER THE HEAD WITH THE WALKER!

Richard Parker: Fred you beautiful, dumb bastard!

Nick Stuart: Snow is down! Is he out?

Fred looks so pleased with himself, he mimes as though he were taking a very steamy, sexual shower in all the jeers from the crowd.

Fred Dick: You broke a rule as old as time, old timer. Never trust a Dick with an old man’s tool! Ahahahahaha!

The boos rain down.

Fred Dick poses like he’s Michael Jordan. Nearly falls.

Fred Dick: Welp, by rule, y’all know what that is? That right there is an automatic disqualification. Guess that’ll show me.

The fans express their disapproval.

Fred Dick drops the crumpled walker next to Snow and then rolls his fat ass out of the ring and shuffle runs up the ramp.

Back in the ring, Snow gets to his knees, and touches the side of his head to check for blood. Then he glares wildly at Fred Dick, who’s now halfway up the ramp, while pushing himself back to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Is this really how this match ends?

Richard Parker: The match didn’t begin. Does that make it a no contest?

Snow is about to give chase when–

PUT ‘EM IN THE GRAVE, BY JEDI MIND TRICKS!

Obligatory crowd explosion.

Fred Dick stops midway up the ramp, eyes wide, staring at the curtain while the stadium is losing its collective mind. And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any louder, the Queen of the Ring steps out from behind the curtain, and you could swear the stadium itself is rattling at the seams.

Nick Stuart: Lindsay Troy is on the scene!

Fred Dick looks at Troy at the top of the ramp, then at Snow back in the ring, wielding the ruined walker. Neither direction is safe.

Lindsay Troy, microphone in hand, takes a few slow steps in Fred’s direction.

Lindsay Troy: Hello, Freddick. Were you going somewhere?

Fred looks back and forth between Jason and Lindsay again and shakes his head.

Lindsay Troy: I didn’t think you were. So, tell me, what do you want first? The good news, or the bad news?

Fred Dick: Uh… Bad… News?

Troy takes another few steps; Fred begins to back up.

Lindsay Troy: The bad news is, while you spent most of this afternoon calling in bomb threats to my phone, trying to have this event canceled to avoid facing Jason, no doubt, you – in all your infinite wisdom – made the calls from your personal cell phone and didn’t bother to block the number.

Fred Dick: That’s a bunch of bullshit. That’s not even true. You’re a fucking liar, we all know it.

Lindsay Troy: Buddy, I’m going to enjoy the post-show News and Notes that comes out after the weekend, because I’ll be fining your happy ass for each and every call you made.

Fred Dick: THIS IS A GOD DAMN WITCH TRIAL!!! IT’S A WITCH TRIAL, DAMNIT!!! I’M BEING FUCKING PERSECUTED NOW FOR PRANK PHONE CALLS???

But Fred quickly puts the mic to his side, eyes wide, as Lindsay Troy backs him up a few more steps.

Lindsay Troy: Now for the good news. Despite how clearly you deserve to be disqualified for what just happened in the ring, and despite how much you would love to walk away right now, unscathed, I’m here to remind you that I booked this match for a reason. Jason here wanted a fight tonight, Fred, and your stupid ass thought it was smart to insult my daughter. You made her yet another one of your “enemies for life.” And now–

The Queen has Fred backed up nearly to the ring now, where, inside, Jason Snow has tossed the walker out through the ropes and is waving Fred inside.

Lindsay Troy: –I’m here to let you know that, in PRIME, matches don’t start until the bell rings. So, lucky for you, Fred, you haven’t lost anything yet. THIS match will proceed as planned.

Fred Dick: No, please. PLEASE DON’T FUCKING DO THIS TO ME!!!

Lindsay Troy: Shut up, dipshit. Timekeeper? RING THE BELL!

Fred Dick: NOOOOOOOOOOoooooo … oOoOO … ooooooooo … o.

Fred is HOT AF thumping around the ring as he yells at Lindsay Troy. The owner of PRIME simply waves goodbye as she leaves for the back but Fred is thirsty, well, he has to be, because drool falls from his mouth and spit flies in the air as he keeps screaming for the match to be thrown out. The saliva isn’t because he’s angry or anything. No. He’s thirsty. Needs a drink. Clearly.

Meanwhile, behind Fred…

Jason Snow is coming to!

Nick Stuart: Better look behind you, Dick.

Richard Parker: Better look behind my dick? Last time I did that, I found-

Nick Stuart: I mean FRED Dick.

The crowd is on their feet as Jason Snow slowly gets to his. He’s on a knee. One leg. Now a knee and a leg. Eyes locked on Fred, ready to unleash a world of hurt for the walker shot.

Suddenly, Jason Snow shoots all the way up, cracks his neck and looks like he’s going to hammer Fred Dick straight into his own retirement!

Dick is pissed but he’s starting to get it. He hears the crowd cheer, they want to see Snow rip The King of Wrong Style apart. Fred slowly spins around-

And then Dick gives two middle fingers, drops to his knees and quickly rolls out of the ring on the rampway side. He rolls out pretty quickly for a big guy, too.

The crowd boos. Jason shakes his head. He exits the ring from the hardcam side but Fred rolls back into the ring. Then Snow goes into the ring but Fred exits out his side again. Dick blows off Jason and starts marching up the ramp. However, Fred is smart enough to look back and ensure Jason Snow isn’t coming.

The crowd boos wildly! Snow shows that, yes, even for an older guy, he can still move rather fast. He slides out of the ring and he starts chasing after Fred. He’s going to catch Dick, too. He’s going to beat Dick good.

Once Jason arrives…

He pulls up and grabs the back of his head.

Nick Stuart: I think Snow was hurt by the walker!

Richard Parker: Ya think?

Dick’s eyes go wide and he sees the opportunity. He marches over and open-palm SLAMS Jason Snow in the chest. Snow falls to his knees and then Dick’s eyes go even WIDER. Fred judo chops Snow on the small of the back as he’s doubled over and proceeds to chop, chop, chop the small of the back as much as he can like a man possessed!

Fred screams towards the back, likely at Lindsay Troy or anyone else that can hear. He bellows “YOU DID THIS!” before he open palm HAMMERS Snow once again in the back.

And then in the head for good measure.

The crowd groans but Dick looks like he suddenly wants IN this match!

Dick snatches Snow by his tights and races him all the way down the rampway-

BOOM!

Straight into the steel steps, shoulder first!

Dick looks up at the referee. He wonders if he should be disqualified. He WANTS to be disqualified.

Jimmy shakes his head. It’s not like Fred is the first one to ever use the steel steps before. Shit happens when you wrestle and Jimmy doesn’t want to take this match away from the fans but more specifically away from Jason Snow. At least not yet.

However, the referee does start counting to TEN… and it certainly looks like Dick will think about taking that ten count.

But as Fred looks down and sees Jason Snow out at his feet, he decides to go for it. Lifting the veteran up and throwing him back into the ring, Fred Dick wipes his hands clean and screams at a kid in the front row.

Fred Dick: RETIREMENT!

Dick walks up the steel steps, the same ones that are off kilter now that Snow went into them. It takes the bigger man a moment or two to navigate them and enter the ring, stalking his prey as he does.

Nick Stuart: Listen, Fred hasn’t lost in PRIME yet. I am not going to support his wrestling style or lifestyle choices but he’s got the job done up until this point. He’s younger, he does not have ring rust, despite looking like he’s out of breath already. This is Jason’s first match back. I don’t care what angle you take, nothing will get your body ready for the first REAL bump on the mat. Or, unfortunately, being tossed into the steel steps.

Dick drills Snow with a hard knife edge chop as the OG Villain tries to get on his feet and fight through the pain. Dick lifts Snow and whips him into a corner. Fred screams and charges in-

But Snow moves! The crowd gives a cheer as Snow whips Fred around and goes for his own knife edge chop.

Except Dick drops to his knees and rolls out of the ring. He starts trying to sneak away… like Jason Snow can’t see him with his cataracts or something.

Well, Snow can see him.

And he might not have cataracts… yet!

Hell, Jason is younger than like half of the PRIME roster.

Okay, maybe not half.

Anyway…

The former champion of all kinds dips out of the ring IN FRONT of Fred Dick. Dick screams and tries going back to where he came from… but Jason has him! He’s going to land a blow but Fred moves out of the way and then happens to steer the vet right into the ring post!

Nick Stuart: Fred has escaped death on numerous occasions!

Richard Parker: I’m sure one day he’ll tell you about when he was in the clutches of death. An alligator had him by the neck in the Bayou but he wrestled that thing away! He plied its jaw open, he cranked his arms back and he took it down to the barebones and-

Nick Stuart: Were you talking to Fred backstage or something?

Richard Parker: Or something, yes.

Nick sighs openly as the match continues… which sees Fred trying to leave the ringside area once again, scared to fight Jason Snow but apparently took on an alligator years ago. Anyway, Dick sees Snow coming so he goes under the apron and grabs a chair. Dick looks up at the referee and says he’s going to use it to ACTUALLY be DQ’ed!

But Fred tosses the chair towards Snow, so Jason gets his hands up and The King of Wrong Style comes in with a heart punch followed by a headbutt!

Nick Stuart: I hate to say it. That was a clever move.

Snow falls to his knees. He’s definitely taken a beating in the early stages. Dick decides to stay in the match for the time being. Now would be a good opportunity to leave but maybe he should stay and get the W. It’s looking more and more likely this is a possibility. So Dick rolls Snow under the ropes and enters in himself.

Commence the slaps across Snow’s chest. With Jason on his knees, Dick starts to deliver a fury of them! Hard, open palms to the chest, changing Snow’s typically pale looking skin into a beaten up, red battle field of broken skin potholes!

Nick Stuart: This looks like it HURTS.

Dick shouts as he takes a couple of steps back and looks for a hard chop across Jason’s shoulder but the vet gains a second wind and out of nowhere he spears Dick to the mat!

The crowd gives a cheer, hoping to get back into this thing as The Original Villain takes a moment to lay on his own back, right beside Fred. Snow catches his breath.

Nick Stuart: Fifteen years since Snow’s wrestled. FIFTEEN. There is going to be ring rust but god I hope he’s got it out of him now.

And it looks like Snow has got it out of him. Despite his head hurting from the walker shot, his right shoulder from the steel steps and also the small of his back from those earlier palm strikes, Jason Snow FINALLY can absolutely lay into Fred.

He drags Dick off the mat and displays raw power by connecting with a gutwrench powerbomb into a high stack pin.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: The first attempted pinfall of the match goes to Jason Snow.

Richard Parker: You say this like it’s an accomplishment, Nick. Fred has been spending the majority of this time trying to GET AWAY from Jason and only hitting him here and there when he realized he could.

Nick Stuart: Whatever excuses you want to make. You’re sounding a lot like Fred right now.

Richard Parker: I have been talking to him backstage.

Nick Stuart: I knew it.

Richard Parker: He’s a real daredevil, you know. Did you know he’s supposed to climb Mount Everest next month? He’s already done it before but this time it’s for charity!

Nick Stuart: (Playing along) Hope he doesn’t break his leg here or anything.

Meanwhile, through the announcer’s bickering, Snow is laying into Dick. He’s got his hands on Dick. He’s whipping Dick hard. These are likely very easy DICK outs to put down on paper but sorry, might as well.

So yeah, Dick is getting whipped HARD! He’s thrown into a corner of the ring as his head bounces off the top of the padding. Snow tosses Dick into the ropes and comes back in with a high flying knee under the jaw! It looks like Dick is out. Snow covers…

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Snow hits the mat but not because the match continues.

More due to the ENJOYMENT that the match will!

Nick Stuart: You can tell Snow is growing in confidence, move by move, shot for shot. He said he wants to fight and fight he shall! Jason’s laying into Dick for everything that happened at the start of this match.

Snow shows off his strength. He pulls Dick off the canvas and performs an exploder suplex to the cheers of the crowd!

YOU STILL GOT IT, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!
YOU STILL GOT IT, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!
YOU STILL GOT IT, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!

The typical chant goes on as Snow looks like he’s going to set himself up on the second rope and wait for Dick to move.

Nick Stuart: I think Jason wants to put Fred down and out for good, although I don’t know what he’s going to deliver.

Snow jumps off the second rope with an ax handle smash RIGHT into the back, the exact same spot Jason took the palm shots earlier on his own back.

Jason walks into another corner of the ring… and as Dick is getting to his feet… a missile dropkick!

Dick is on his knees. He’s practically begging for Snow not to do it again. But of course… Jason has moved into the third corner of the ring. He goes for another leap of faith-

NO!

WHAP!!!

Snow is OUT!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD! As Snow came down, Dick pulled out a desperation open palm strike but I think this one hit Jason square in the face!

Replays show exactly that. It looks like Fred is aiming for Snow’s chest but he ends up hammering the vet right RIGHT in the face… actually DEAD IN THE NOSE!

Jason not only looks to be knocked out but blood starts dribbling from his nostrils. It’s not a lot of blood, mind you, but the lights are off and no one is home!

Fred opens his eyes. He looks over at the referee and then he drops for the cover.

The Street Cat can’t believe he’s going to win!

ONE.

TWO.

BARELY A KICKOUT!

The crowd comes alive as Fred looks over to Jimmy with eyes BEGGING this cannot be true! Dick’s jaw is on the floor!

Fred starts mouthing off to the referee, or potentially declaring his love for the New York Yankees and Yonkers – wait, he’s not from there and he clearly enjoys the Bulls, not baseball. Sorry for the confusion. Anyway, Dick goes back to drilling Snow in the face with open palm strikes!

Fred tosses Jason into the ropes and then sends a devastating judo chop across his right shoulder.

Nick Stuart: Fred has a lot of areas he can work on. He’s got Snow’s shoulder from the ring posts, or the small of the back, or the face…

Richard Parker: Have at it Wrong Style!

The King of Wrong Style plucks Snow from the mat. He lifts Snow and brings him over to rest on the second buckle.

CHOP!

The crowd can’t help but WOO. However, also, they boo right after, for the record.

CHOP!

WOO!

CHOP!

WOO!

CHOP! CHOP! CHOP!

WOO! WOO! WOO!

BBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Fred takes a couple of steps back as he yells into the crowd and they give it right back to him. The chicken shit asshole looks like he’s put that aside, but it’s easy to put it aside when your opponent seems like he’s done for thanks to all your bullshit you threw at him beforehand.

Fred is going for a MEGA CHOP this time. He winds up, he shoots forward.

CHO-

SWOOSH!

He misses! Jason Snow ducks down, missing the blow. With Snow still on the second buckle, Snow grabs Dick by the legs and then leaps off the second rope with a modified powerbomb and pinfall attempt!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Snow pushes Dick to the side as he gets on his feet and delivers a leaping side strike kick to Fred’s temple. This match looks to be done as Snow winds up for a knee but right before he sends his leg forward…

Fred Dick doubles over and falls to the mat like he’s dead!

Snow decides to prop Fred onto his knees again. He takes a step back and aims…

No. Dick falls over!

Fine, have it Dick’s way. Snow marches over, pulls Dick off the mat and then delivers a HARD knee straight into Dick’s own nose, wind-up free!

Nick Stuart: Now they’re both bleeding from the same spot.

Richard Parker: That was a cheap shot.

Nick Stuart: How was that- ah, nevermind.

Snow hurls Dick into the ropes and then sends him straight on his back with a roundhouse kick. Snow is looking for another wind up knee as Fred shows minor signs of life. Dick is about to get up when The Street Cat snatches the referee and shoves him in-between the both of them!

Nick Stuart: Gutless!

Richard Parker: Brilliant!

Snow can’t pull the trigger but Dick on the other hand… well HE can drop to his knees and hit Snow with a low blow behind the referee’s back! Fred takes one step away from his opponent and then sends a hard out headbutt into Snow’s nose!

The vet falls to the canvas and Fred lands on top of him. Jimmy gains his senses and makes the pinfall count!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP AT THE LAST POSSIBLE SECOND!

Dick can’t believe it! He starts to pull at his hair and then his face. He wants this match now, since he feels like he’s oh so close!

Fred Dick: GOODNIGHT, old man!

Dick dusts himself off. The midlife crisis is going to be put to an end right here and now, so nobody else is hurt in the future! The Champ of Wrong Style takes hold of Jason’s waist. He’s going to send a wicked palm strike straight into The Original Villain’s heart to end this stupid comeback once and for all!

Fred’s right arm goes back.

His palm opens wide!

He’s in the perfect position!

He throws his arm forward.

HE HITS IT!

The crowd is stunned!

Jason Snow falls down!

Even Fred’s eyes suggest he can’t believe it! Jason Snow is D. O.

Where’s the A?

D O what?

DO WHAT!?

Well, the crowd cheers as Jason Snow rolls out of the ring. He’s on the apron and then completely off the squared circle.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick missed his chance.

Fred Dick is pissed.

He’s screaming at Jason Snow to get back into the ring and take his pin. However, The King of Wrong Style knows has to go out and collect the veteran by himself… so he does.

Dick drops out of the ring and sends one knife edge chop into Snow before rolling him back inside. Dick enters, fuming. He’s frothing at the mouth. He looks down at Snow and mumbles…

Fred Dick: Retirement home…

Fred winds up for a bell clap. He comes in super fast for a man of his size-

EXPLODER SUPLEX BY SNOW!

The crowd cheers as Fred misses the bell clap and smacks his own arms together in the process. This made it a lot easier for Snow to find a second wind and wrap his arms around Fred, sending the big guy up and over Snow’s body and to the mat on the other side of the ring!

Nick Stuart: I’m going to say that suplex was on Fred. Nothing against Jason here, but when you’re coming in with momentum like that, it was rather easy to get the bigger guy off his feet since he was stumbling to begin with!

Richard Parker: WRONG style holds no bounds!

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t even make sense, Rich.

It looks like Fred landed on the crown of his head. He’s not moving!

Jason slowly gets to his feet. He’s seething as he feels his right shoulder, holds onto his back and then runs a hand across his nose. He charges at Dick and delivers a wicked looking knee to the face! It’s not the superkick, but it looks like Fred might be done, regardless.

The crowd has come alive as The OG Villain peels Dick off the mat and then sends numerous knees into the side of his head!

Nick Stuart: This is a clear message. Jason wants to hurt Fred like Fred hurt him earlier.

Jason Snow has COMPLETELY awakened! The longest reigning Universal Champion in PRIME history whips Dick into the ropes and comes storming across the canvas with an Iron Claw Tackle!

Snow pulls Dick to his knees and CRANKS him in the face with a roaring, running elbow.

Snow peels Dick off the mat and hurls him into the ropes. Snow delivers a ring shaking spinebuster slam.

And then three HARD AS FUCK knees into the side of The Street Cat’s head!

Fred Dick is finished. He’s done. There are no lights on, his eyes are closed.

Jason Snow props Fred over the ropes, or else he wouldn’t be able to stand up.

WHAM!

Snake Eyes!

The fans cheer and everyone knows the match is over. Fred Dick falls down, face-first on the mat.

Jason Snow walks over, drops to his own knees, runs the back of his right palm against his nose and face and rolls Fred onto his back.

Hooking a leg.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… JASON SNOW!

Nick Stuart: There you have it! It took Jason a moment or two to find his form throughout the cheating and cheap shots but he did it. He murdered Fred Dick at the end!

Richard Parker: I, for one, am heartbroken.

The crowd cheers as Jason’s theme music plays and for the first time in fifteen years his hand is raised for all to see.

Fred Dick doesn’t move… and he probably shouldn’t. Because it looks like Jason would just keep going.

Snow celebrates as he climbs a corner and raises his hands. Culture Shock moves on.

Have you ever thought that you were better than those around you?

Have you realized that you don’t even have to worry about money no matter what others might do to you?

Then does the International House of Phenomenal Supplies have the shirt for you. It is selling like pancakes at 4AM after a night of drinking and saying no to investing in a Chicago startup.

It’s all about YOUR UK Hero Cecilworth Farthington and not worrying about the poors.

Oh, you prefer something nicer? Maybe you could even say…sweeter?

Do you like bees?

Do you like money?

Well bees make honey which in turn makes money which in turns means that Money makes the Honey when it comes to the greatest wrestler to survive a combine harvester attack: Cecilworth Farthington!!!

If you are one of those few who don’t root for the arm collector then do we have a treat for you.

Oh no, I am being told we are running out of time so all i have to say is:

Come to the Merch Table, buy stuff, get girls, buy more stuff, girls, stuff, shirts, IHOPS, girls, selling out fast!!!!!

We are backstage with Matt Mills standing outside a locker room door reading “Jonathan-Christopher Hall”.

Matt Mills: I can confirm Jonathan-Christopher Hall IS here in the stadium and he’s in this very locker room right now!

Mills takes a step to the right so the camera can get a better view, even though it could get a decent view to begin with.

Matt Mills: I reported earlier this week Jonathan-Christopher Hall was not on his flight to Cardiff and the title match with Jared Sykes might be in jeopardy. However, I saw Jonathan-Christopher enter this room with a hoodie over his head mere moments ago! From what I made out, he looked incredibly upset. I couldn’t exactly see who else was with him but I don’t think Vickie was there. There was someone else.

As Mills finishes his sentence the door opens and out walks that “someone else”.

It’s former Action! Wrestling owner and yesteryear wrestling celebrity, Reed Young. Also known as Vickie Hall’s father.

Reed is approximately 6’2”, 230 pounds, well built, a little overly muscular for the neon green and blue Adidas tracksuit he’s wearing. Also, for a man in his late forties (yes, he became a father to Vickie when he was 20) he shouldn’t be wearing this neon green and blue tracksuit but then again look at what kind of stuff his daughter wears. Reed’s blonde hair is long and wild. Hell, he looks wild. He’s got overly bushy eyebrows, giving off a sense of untrustworthiness. Perhaps used car salesmen like. He seems to be holding back a lot of energy as he glances over to Matt Mills…

And pulls him in for a “friendly headlock”!

Reed Young: Thattaboy, come give daddy some love, Matty!

Does Reed know Mills from a previous time? Maybe, but probably not. Young has carney vibes written all over him.

Needless to say, Mills politely takes the headlock, followed by a noogie before Young releases him and Mills dusts himself off, hoping to keep a professional appearance.

Reed Young: (Singing) I did it all for the noogie. What? The noogie. Huh?

Young laughs and nudges Matt.

Reed Young: Totally messing with ya, kid. Limp Bizkit sucks.

Young goes off on his own tangent.

Reed Young: Then again, there was that time I was going to take over for Fred Durst as lead singer…

Young snaps back into reality. He knocks Matt on the back.

Reed Young: What can I do ya for, hipster?

Before Mills can open his mouth, Young looks at the locker room nameplate and then back at the interviewer. He puts two and two together.

Reed Young: Sorry, kid. The boy’s in there putting on his game face for tonight.

Reed eyes the cameraman.

Reed Young: There have been a lot of rumors out there so I want to set the record straight. My daughter, Vickie Hall, and her INCREDIBLE husband, Jonathan-Christopher, have recently fallen into a little bit of a spat.

Young laughs it off.

Reed Young: It’s nothing some TLC can’t mend! That’s why I’m here tonight, I’ll be accompanying Jonathan-Christopher to ringside while Vickie takes a bit of a “break”. Hmmm, you know… she might be watching from elsewhere.

Young glances Mills over from head to toe.

Reed Young: All I’ve read over the past few weeks are people calling for the END of Vickie and Jonathan-Christopher’s marriage. Do you know how devastating that would be for both of them? Please people; people please. It’s SO easy to be on the outside looking in. You can blame my son-in-law all you’d like but he has a pure heart and he loves Vickie VERY much!

Young points into the camera.

Reed Young: You SIR or MA’AM at home watching right this second… tell me you’re in a “perfect” relationship and I’ll listen. Work on yourselves first, people. Yourselves.

He brings his attention back to Mills.

Reed Young: Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to help the boy get his game face on straight. They don’t call me the IDEAS MAN for nothing! I have to get that kid prepped!

Young holds his right arm in the air and makes a fist.

Reed Young: It’s so good to be back in the wrestling world, Matty! See you and everyone else out there. BOOYAKASHA!

Young goes back into the locker room, leaving Matt Mills to stand in front of the camera and shrug. Culture Shock moves on.

Oh, hello.

Are you all enjoying yourselves?

Quite a show, isn’t it?

Unfortunately for some, they haven’t had a chance to see any of it.

Culture Shock goes back outside to the wrestler’s entrance where Dam, a smaller contingent of Enemigos, and Ginny Van Lear remain. The Enemigos blink in unison as Dam pulls another improbable weapon out from Ginny’s infinite pack of holding.

Dam: How’d you get a breech-load grenade launcher through customs?

Dam just shakes his head. Ginny shrugs and looks away innocently.

Dam: How’d you get a grenade launcher AT ALL?

An English Bobby standing nearby merely shakes his head sadly.

English Bobby: Americans.

Dam tosses the grenade launcher on top of the large pile of weaponry now stacked up on the floor.

Ginny stands there, her oversized jersey hanging loosely over her expectant form, a picture of innocence that belie the contents of her bag.

Ginny Van Lear: Y’all gonna keep starin’, or is there somethin’ else ya need me to explain?

The Enemigos and Dam exchange glances, their training not quite covering scenarios involving pregnant women packing more heat than a summer pay-per-view event.

And, we move along…

Johnnie Newsman walks down one of the nondescript hallways in the backstage area of the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a bright orange shirt with a multi-colored floral pattern, he pulls out his phone as he approaches one of the doors. Johnnie scans the area one more time, before he opens the door and enters.

Johnnie Newsman: Ey boss, iz me…Johnnie.

The small LED light on the phone blinks to life, moving around in the darkness like a firefly on a breezy summer night in middle America. Moving around frantically, it passes really quickly by the smile that has been a staple in PRIME since the ReVolution era. The grin of a man that has wins over more hall of famers than he has had since his return in the ReVival era.

Tony Gamble: You can turn on the light, Johnnie.

Johnnie Newsman: Oh, okie dokie.

A little more fumbling around, and a bit more flight of the firefly, before the light in the room turns on and the multiple shelves with various bottles of cleaning solutions can be seen.

We are in a broom closet.

On purpose.

Tony is wearing his brand new Tony ‘Two Books’ shirt, available now in the PRIMEPORIUM.

Tony Gamble: Did you get everything I asked for?

Newsman nods, and begins to pull things out of his jacket: Red Twizzlers, Raisinettes, and a twenty ounce bottle of Grape Crush.

Johnnie Newsman: Of coors, I gotta guy.

He looks around.

Johnnie Newsman: Who are joo hiding from?

Tony Gamble: What are you talking about…I’m not hiding from anybody.

Johnnie does another quick inventory of the room.

Johnnie Newsman: But we are in janitor closet, no?

Tony Gamble: Well, yeah,  but only because Lindsay Troy has her own special way of making me suffer sometimes. Goes back almost twenty years.

Johnnie Newsman: Oh, I see.

Tony Gamble: Everyone that doesn’t adore me, fears me, why would I need to hide?

Tony rips open the bag of Twizzlers and pulls one out, swinging it around as he continues.

Tony Gamble: Did you know that I ran into Hessian on the Octane and he told me he knew if anyone could carry a team to a win at War Games…it was me. Do you know why he said that, Johnnie?

Tony takes a bite out of the Twizzler, chewing on it for a moment as he watches his personal ring announcer shake his head.

Tony Gamble: Damn, I didn’t ask him so I was hoping maybe you heard something. Either way, I didn’t lose all those matches to go into War Games and not pull a rabbit out of my ass to get us this win. Hessian knows it, Cancer knows it, and pretty soon everyone here in PRIME is going to know it.

Johnnie Newsman: Know watt?

Gamble points at Newsman with the end of his Twizzler.

Tony Gamble: Whatever it is they know, because I honestly don’t have a clue. I’m sure it’s going to be great though, then no one will be able to deny it.

Johnnie Newsman: Wattever it is.

Tony Gamble: You’re damn right!

The Permascar Superstar takes the final bite of his Twizzler.

Johnnie Newsman: Why we no in Bandit locker room?

Tony Gamble: Ghosts.

We cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Round two! No title on the line for this time, but I don’t know if that even matters after the lead up these two have had. Hayes Hanlon. The Last Diamond.

Richard Parker: Buckle. Up.

WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLL!!!!

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

“Daggers” by We Came as Romans does what it does; stirs the crowd into a goddamn frenzy. Millennium Stadium is a wall of noise as Home Run Hayes surges out from the back, the PRIME*View showcasing planets and stars exploding in tandem with bursting flash bulbs throughout the arena.

Hayes does not linger on the show.

Instead, he scowls behind his ‘stache, and drives directly for the ring.

Vince Howard: Our next match is scheduled for one fall!!

Nick Stuart: It’s time for another battle of wills, partner!

Reaching the steps, Hayes stomps up with intention, stepping through the ropes.

Vince Howard: Introducing first! From West Linn, Oregon!!

Richard Parker: That’s putting it mildly, Nick! Hayes made his intentions known immediately, right after we returned from our winter break. And his intentions? Winning one over on Brandon. Youngblood.

As the music continues to hammer the arena, Hayes falls into the far ropes, holding on as he bounces against them a few times, nostrils flaring.

Vince Howard: Standing six-feet! And weighing in at 265 pounds! Former two-time Universal Champion! The Thresher of Hooves!

Nick Stuart: This is a match destined for the Main Event, and you have to believe that Hayes wanted nothing less when he called out Youngblood in Buffalo, New York at ReVival 41. For now, Millennium Stadium in a mid-card slot at Culture Shock will have to do.

Hanlon walks back across the ring, toward the entrance ramp, and grips the top rope with both hands.

Vince Howard: The EVENT HORIZON!!!

Richard Parker: It’s a tough placement for a showdown like this, I’ll agree, Nick, but you’re a fool if these two aren’t going to treat it like it’s the Colossus Grand Stage.

Hayes stares up the ramp, and seethes through his mustache.

Vince Howard: HAAAAAYYYYESSS!!!! HANNNLLLOOOOOOONNNNN!!!!

The crowd roaring their disapproval, mixed with support from “the Hanlon Bros,” Hammerin’ Hayes shakes the top rope violently, his voice screaming up the ramp, clearing yelling “COME ON!” over and over.

His bellows are all the more clear as his music fades off, as he awaits those famous fourteen words to herald the Diamond’s arrival.

Nick Stuart: Hayes looks ready. Now, the question is will he remain that way when Youngblood enters the ring?

Richard Parker: We’re about to find out.

Millennium Stadium darkens. The shift in ambiance has the fans rise to their feet, the sound rising. And then, cutting through it all, The Battlecry.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THE GALAXY BURN

From the very start of Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH, Brandon Youngblood surges from the curtain and into the well of sound filling the stadium. Through the blinding blue and white strobing light cutting through the darkness, the Tower of Babel powerwalks, his eyes trained forward on The Event Horizon, an oppressive scowl of intensity a hallmark painting his face.

His shoulders sway with the bravado of his BMF walk, a spotlight lighting his path. The two time Universal Champion is quick down the ramp, his gait swinging him around the arena floor, to the ring steps. There is no slowdown as his feet pound the steel, stepping between the ropes and exploding upright. Once inside, he begins pacing around the outside perimeter of the ring, his eyes locking on Hayes, ready to fight, all as Vince Howard makes his announcement.

Vince Howard: His opponent…hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at 265 pounds… he is…THE DIIIIIIAMOND! OF THE REVIVAL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

The lights return, and as they do, the Strong Father readies himself in an amateur stance, his hands on his thighs, a snarl of disdain curling his lips. After all Hanlon’s boasts, it is time to shut him up for good.

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING

The crowd is really showing the love; collectively on their feet and giving both guys everything they got.

YEAH~!!!

Richard Parker: Time to put up or shut up for these two. It’s been a long two months, and now the Piper has come to collect!

Hayes stands on one side of the ring.

Brandon stands on the other.

Their auras are great.

Their will to best the other, greater.

Nick Stuart: Both are two-time Universal Champions. Both live inside the top five. Both have competed in over twenty singles matches. Both are considered measuring sticks around these parts, and tonight we find out who has a bigger stick.

Ha.

Richard Parker: Don’t forget both have destroyed Cancer Jiles’ hopes and dreams, too! Stomped them out like a cigarette butt. TWICE! HA! That worthless fucking cockroach! HOW DARE HE KICK ME!

Dirty Dick breathes into a paper bag in an effort to calm himself down some. He waves off the ringside physician because, well, PRIME doesn’t have one.

(he wore face paint)

Nick Stuart: ….Once, amicable. Once, mentor and pupil. Once, a poster might have hung on a bedroom wall. Now, times have changed. Now, one stands on the side of glue while the other stands on the side of good.

Richard Parker: A tale as old as time. Irresistible meets immovable. To think they get to do it all over inside of two cages tomorrow night.

Nick Stuart: Lucky us.

Both Brandon and Hayes start “talking” back and forth while slowly making their way towards the center of the ring. Disingenuous insults involving treachery, singlets, hair, facial hair, backbones, and a lone Herpes jab are being thrown around as if they are just two chums standing on the playground. Sadly, there is no warmth or comradery behind their words.

Nor a bridge between them.

Just flames.

The two get within each other’s wheelhouse, and the time for talking stops. Well, it ends with Brandon asking Hayes if he was brave enough to do to him what he did to Hessian on the last show. Hayes, being Hayes, stopped arrogantly chewing his gum and retorted, “No, because everyone already knows you’re a bitch.”

Nick Stuart: WOW.

Richard Parker: WOW.

Cancer Jiles: POW MOTHERFUCKER!

Just kidding.

Crumblood doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. He shoots in on Hayes and immediately takes him down to the ground. The Tower of Babel lands a few punches and then locks in a side headlock. He tries to pop Hayes’ head like a pimple and is almost successful.

Nick Stuart: Squeeze!

However, Wonderboy is no slouch. He is able to slip out of the hold before getting his head Oxy cleaned. He explodes to his feet like the young virile man that he is, and not the pimple Brandon wanted him to be. Then, without warning, or hesitation, or regard for human life, Hayes winds up to slap the taste out of Brandon’s mouth.

Nick Stuart: No way! Not another bitch slap!

Brandon braces.

Hayes stops just short of impact.

After a second or two passes with no slap, Crumblood curiously opens his eyes. As soon as he does, Hayes jabs him with his thumb instead.

Lesson learned.

You poke the bear.

You don’t slap it across the face.

Nick Stuart: Somebody has been talking to Phil Atken it seems. I believe they call that one a Glasgow pinch.

Richard Parker: And who might they be?

Nick Stuart: …uh, Glasgowians?

Brandon reels back to buy some time to recover, but Hayes is having none of it. He moves past Brandon on his gouged side, hits the ropes, and delivers a stiff clothesline. The move knocks Brandon off his feet and down to the mat. Hayes runs through it, effortlessly baseball slides out of the ring, takes a quick lap around the bases(the ring posts), and then re-enters just in time to attempt another clothesline.

Nick Stuart: Homerun Hayes at it again.

Richard Parker: He’s not even breathing hard.

Crumblood can see now, and of course has recovered during Hayes’ trot. He ducks under the clothesline attempt but doesn’t let Hayes get very far. The always deft encyclopedia of grappling charges close behind him, and when Hayes gets to the ropes, instead of him bouncing off of them for a counter attack, he gets clotheslined over the top and to the outside.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Brandon was too big a fan of the home run trot.

Richard Parker: Yeah, that was definitely his way of throwing the ball back.

Hayes falls hard. However, much like in his last match, he gets to his feet like nothing bad has happened, takes a few carefree steps, and then falls face first down on the outside.

Elvis Nixon begins to count.

ONE…

Brandon Youngblood stops him. The look on his face when doing so reads, “If you keep counting you’re going to have to leave the building, got it, Elvis.”

Elvis Nixon bends down to tie his velcro shoes.

Richard Parker: Smart man.

Nick Stuart: Thank god. We’re short on refs as it is.

The Last Diamond stands inside the ring with his arms resting on the top rope; looking with pity behind his eyes at his lost admirer. Pity, that does not last for very long. Brandon steps between the ropes and meets his opponent on the outside. He reaches down and pulls Hayes upright by the hair. He keeps a hold of him that way, and then points at the ringpost he plans to Irish whip him into. However, Hayes reveres the Irish whip with one of his own and in fact it is Crumblood who gets to meet the always unforgiving ring post.

CLANG

Mr. Fuck Around And Find Out staggers backwards, bell totally ringing. Hayes is waiting for him, and in what might be considered a bigger slap in the face than an actual slap in the face, sticks Brandon in the ground with a picture perfect German Suplex.

Cardiff gasps.

Nick and Dick gasp, too.

If the move had happened inside the ring then sure it could have been no sold. But, no. It happened on the outside of the ring, and after Brandon said hello to the ring post. So, instead of hulking to his feet in the blink of an eye, he grabs the back of his neck in agony.

Agony, that brings a smile to Hayes’ adolescent face.

Then, in what can only be considered as a mocking gesture, Hayes tries to pull Brandon upright like he did him. Of course, his hands keep slipping off of Brandon’s head because spoiler, he’s bald and sweaty. Eventually, Hayes does get Brandon upright through the use of his singlet straps and shoves him back inside the ring.

Elvis stops tying his shoes and clocks back in.

The Event Horizon hits Crumblood with a couple of stiff kicks, and then drops all 265 pounds of himself onto Brandon’s lower back via an exaggerated elbow. Hayes sticks the finish, and holds the pose for a few seconds so the crowd can boo him without mercy.

BOOOOO~!!!!!

Richard Parker: I thought that crumb was walking down the ramp with how loud that was! Almost gave me a stroke!

Nick Stuart: It’s safe. You’re safe. He’s got his Skybox security detail for tonight is what I heard.

Richard Parker: The Enemigos? How reassuring. That fucking cockroach is probably hiding underneath the ring.

………

……………

……..

Nick Stuart: You don’t think???

Hammerin’ Hayes stands up, and when he does he just so happens to do so on Brandon’s hand. Crumblood seethes, but the pain shakes him free of the cobwebs. He gets up on a knee, eats a stiff right from Hanlon, but blocks the next one.

And the next one.

The first winner of the Almasy gets to his feet.

That smile Hanlon had from before is now gone, and taking its place is a look of worry. His arms are out, he’s pleading with his former idol. He’s sorry, he says. He was wrong, he says. He’ll put the poster back up, he says.

None of it matters though.

Turns out poking the bear is just as bad as slapping it.

Crumblood backs Hayes into the corner. Hayes tries to fight his way out by driving his shoulder into Brandon’s gut, and forcing him back towards the center of the ring. A brazen tactic, and one that works– for a step or two. Then, Youngblood and his old man bones and strength put a stop to things. Once halted, it’s time to depart from the move and Hayes does so by getting thrown back into the corner like a rag doll.

Nick Stuart: Amazingly both straps were still up for that toss.

Richard Parker: If only he could have somehow thrown him underneath the ring.

If Hayes was worried before, well, he’s even more so now. It’s not every day a man who stands six foot three, and weighs in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds gets tossed around like that.

That’s Brandon Youngblood for you.

Hayes is back in the corner but this time around he’s on his knees. His arms are back to being outstretched, and he’s pleading his case for a stay of execution with everything he’s got.

Youngblood takes a step closer.

Hayes continues to plead.

Then, down goes one.

Hayes whimpers like he’s been a bad boy, and now it’s time to get the belt for shitting on the rug.

Youngblood takes another step closer.

Then, down goes the other.

Nick Stuart: There go the straps! Hayes is in big trouble here.

Nick is telling the truth. Hayes gets absolutely mauled in the corner. Blow after blow they reign down. Knees. Kicks. Punches. Forearms. Elbows. It is an absolute flurry of decimation being doled out. The Homerun Kid covers up, and is able to protect himself somewhat so that death is at least off the table. But, they all still hurt, and some still get through. He dodged a headbutt that would have knocked out all of his front teeth, but took a knee to the ribs because of it that might make sleeping difficult.

Not new territory for the Comeback Kid.

Crumblood backs away. Hayes is crumpled up in the corner like a piece of paper. He doesn’t look good. No blood though. At least not on the outside anyway. The Last Diamond charges in, like rhinoceros, looking to use his shoulder like a horn and spear Hayes through the chest. He lunges with all his might, but at the last moment Hayes pulls himself out of the way, and instead of cutting him in half, Brandon gets to meet the neighboring ring post.

Hanlon, still crumpled, manages to point to his head, like he’s the smartest, most cunning man alive.

BOOOOOO~!!!!!!!

Youngblood is wedged like a salad between the top and middle turnbuckle, but Hayes is in no condition to take advantage. He’s got his own wounds to dress, and as such, while he’s doing that Brandon is able to free himself from the clutches of the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Well, fourth quarter time.

Richard Parker: Man, or mouse?

Youngblood moves in on Hayes, and hits him with a scoop slam. His posted shoulder prevents him from getting most of it, and Hayes is able to roll out of harm’s way and get back up to his feet after the impact. The Strong Father is hot on his heels though, and gets his hands around Hayes’ waist. He spins him around, displeased with his last attempt at a scoop slam, and attempts another. Hayes counters by slipping out of it and landing on his feet behind his opponent. Youngblood swings wildly at a ball outside of the strike zone, and right into an ENOURMOUS, stalling, Samoan Drop by Hayes Hanlon.

The first pin of the match happens next.

ONE

TWO

Kickout.

Hayes rolls off of Crumbloodd, and then indicates to him that what comes next is how you do a scoop slam. He reaches down and runs the same bit twice, although this time it’s not as funny.

For him.

Youngblood grabs him and rolls him up with an inside cradle.

ONE

TWO

NO!

Nick Stuart: So close! He almost had him!

After Hanlon kicks out at the last possible second he wastes no time getting back to his feet. Brandon doesn’t either. Both exchange rights and lefts in the middle of the ring. The crowd is swooning. Then, Hayes gets thrown into the ropes, and leap frogs a back body drop attempt on his way back. He sticks his landing, reaches back and drops Brandon with a slick, fluid, neckbreaker. He then absconds to the top rope, leaps, and comes up with nothing but canvas.

Richard Parker: They call it high risk for a reason. You have to hit your target. If you don’t, like Hayes, and you elbow the canvas instead of your opponent, it tends to hurt your chances of winning.

Nick Stuart: Especially this late in the game.

Hayes rolls around grabbing at his arm.

Crumblood is on a knee grabbing at his neck.

Once again they find each other in the center of the ring. After a swift knee to the gut, Youngblood grabs Hayes and hits him with a vertical suplex. He holds through impact, and hits another. The second one is more of a snap suplex. He holds again after the third, yes, there is a third, and seamlessly transitions into a pin.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

Youngblood nods his head like he expected as much, and is happy the show gets a chance to go on. So, more suplexes. First though, a receipt. When getting to his feet, Brandon steps on Hayes’ hand, the same hand Bobby Dean once stepped on a couple of years ago. The same one that after such a thing happens to it is never the same again. The pain causes Hayes to jolt upright, and into the arms of The Last Diamond who slams him back into the mat via a modified pop-up spinebuster of sorts.

A jolt-up spinebuster.

There’s another cover. Hayes once again refuses to be defeated, and kicks out at two. Brandon shrugs, grabs Hayes by the waist, pulls him and all his dead weight up, and hits him with a belly to back suplex that buckles The Event Horizon. Once again a cover, and once again Hayes refuses defeat.

Richard Parker: Good thing these guys don’t have to compete tomorrow night inside a double cage full of rabid animals.

Nick Stuart: That’s five suplexes in a row if you’re counting at home. That’s a lo— OH MY GOD! HANLON OUT OF NOWHERE! FLASH POINT! FLASH POINT! COVER!!!!

ONE

TWO

THREE

Richard Parker: Oh my God he got him!

Nick Stuart: WAIT! Elvis Nixon is waving it off. Youngblood got his foot on the rope before the three!

While both men are down, instant replay shows Brandon’s foot finding the bottom rope just before Elvis gets to the count of three.

Nick Stuart: If Hayes hadn’t just been suplexed five times in a row I’m sure he would be devastated.

Richard Parker: Good thing for him he was.

Nick Stuart: What is it going to take for one of these men to win this match?

Richard Parker: A sword pulled from stone is my guess.

Hanlon is on his knees. Youngblood is in the same position, right in front of him. Both men stare into the eyes of the other. Then, Hayes throws a punch. Brandon follows up with one of his own. The two trade blows back and forth until Youngblood has had enough, and chops Hayes so hard in the chest he draws blood. Hayes falls face first to the mat after having the life chopped out of his body.

Nick Stuart: I bet they heard that one back in the states!

The Tower of Babel finds his feet. He suppresses the pain in his neck, literal pain, and blocks out the stinger blossoming inside his shoulder. He once more pulls his former protege of sorts upright, and with extra caution and not wasting a moment or breath, suplexes him again.

Not just any other suplex, either.

NIck Stuart: DIAMONDPLEX! He got all of it!

Richard Parker: That should do it.

Brandon hooks the leg for good measure.

ONE

TWO

An exhausted leg kick in defiance…

…it’s just not enough.

THREE

Vince Howard: Your winner, via Dianmondplex, The Last Diamonnnnnddddddddd…. Brandon Youngblood!!!!!

Youngblood rolls off of Hayes and then gets his arm raised by Elvis Nixon.

There is no in-ring celebration though.

The battle is over.

The war rages on.

The show feed cuts away from the ring.

Following the intense bout between Brandon Youngblood and Hayes Hanlon, we move backstage. RIA wanders into frame, still dressed in her gear. Carrying a beer from catering in her right hand, she places the rim of the bottle cap against the edge of an equipment case and gives it a solid smack. The cap pops off and tumbles to the ground… right at the feet of the Muse, Anna Daniels.

RIA: Well well well, look what the space cat dragged in! Hey sis.

RIA wears a tired, but nonetheless genuine smile on her mug.

Anna Daniels: You better have saved one of those for us. Otherwise, we’re going to have problems.

The vessel shows a smile, clearly joking as she perches herself on the case.

Anna Daniels: Pretty good timing, catching us on the prowl like this. How you feeling?

RIA rolls her shoulders, whipping her head left and right.

RIA: Sore. Alright otherwise. Forgot what it was like to be on such a big stage. Really gets the adrenaline pumping, ya know? Speaking of…

The Psychoberry moves to lean her hip against the case, eyes on the Muse.

RIA: How are you feeling? Got a pretty big match tomorrow.

Anna shrugs.

Anna Daniels: Right now, we’re good. Like the burden is there, but it’s not trying to crush us, ya know? Tomorrow is when the game face comes on. It’ll get heavier the closer it gets. We’re sure of that. But…

She pauses, leaning her back against the wall and staring out into the hallway whistfully.

Anna Daniels: …we have faith in our team. Is that weird? We think that should be weird, given the individuals at play. Not saying we’ll one hundred percent take the prize. We wouldn’t jinx them with that prediction. Just that every other group in that match is going to regret being in there with all of us.

RIA chuckles and nods. However, a heavy sigh follows the laughter. Crossing her arms, she turns and rests her back against the case.

RIA: I worry about you. Like, I know you can handle your business in the ring. You can take care of yourself. But this stuff with Williams? Sure I’ve made it clear by now that I’m not a fan. For fuck’s sake, you helped him crucify a guy!

The former Lockhart’s arms fly up in exasperation. She lets them settle back on to the edge of the case as she reclines back.

RIA: You know I love you. Always will. But… have you always been this way? Being willing to just burn everything? Was I too blind to see it? Or did you change? I realize it shouldn’t matter and I guess in the end, it doesn’t. But if it’s the first one, then hey, I’ll own that. But if it’s the latter… You know you could’ve talked to me. We could’ve tried to navigate shit together.

Anna sighs. Perhaps this talk was inevitable.

Anna Daniels: About eight years ago, we made a mistake. We won’t bore you with the details. But let’s just say that we tried to correct the problem. A little bit of madness is good. Too much causes issues. We tried to become the hero, to cut off the madness even though we weren’t equipped for it in any way, shape, or form. We risked everything for it. And even though we did technically win in the end, we actually lost. A lot of people actually died. The promotion died. The universe died. Our brother was gone. Most importantly, we lost who we used to be. We lost the person who used to just have fun.

Sigh.

Anna Daniels: It has taken us this long to even find a fragment of that back in us. So when we could smell the PRIME version of madness coming, we had to make a choice. Do we risk it all to play hero or do we let it burn? For the majority of you, this is all you have. We have a husband and a dog and a whole life beyond this and we cannot afford to fail them. We can’t fail us. We refuse to. So if it comes down to PRIME burning or us burning out, bet your ass we’re roasting marshmallows.

The vessel’s eyes glance over at her younger counterpart.

Anna Daniels: As for Rob. We talk about shit and come to our own conclusions. We scratch his back and one day, he’ll repay the favor. You’re seeing that stuff as “big sis is joining a cult”, we’re seeing it as “two people swapping research papers at a Five Guys”. Our alliance is with him, not his followers.

RIA pushes herself up off the crate, hands cradling her elbows as she slowly paces forward.

RIA: A hero… Ya know, I’ve heard the saying that heroes are made, not born. I agree with that, cuz let’s be real, no one is ever fully equipped to deal with shit when it goes down. Heart, determination, a stubbornness when it comes to dying… To me, that’s what makes a hero.

Now about six feet away from Anna, the former Lockhart turns on her heels to face them.

RIA: You’re right in saying this is all some of us have. I’m working on something to alleviate that in the future, but for now, I’m all in. I wanted to come back. I had to come back…

A pause. Her eyes drift up to lock with the Time Lord’s.

RIA: I’m certainly sad to hear about your losses. Wouldn’t ever wish that on anyone. But I have to be clear; I’m not interested in losing anyone. Friends, lovers, family… I’ll put myself on the line without hesitation. I can’t force you to stop hanging with that dude. I can’t stop you from doing what you wanna do. But…

RIA hangs her head and walks towards them. When she raises it, the expression her face wears is somber. Serious.

RIA: If I have to step in, I will. This place and the good people here? I will act as a shield for them. Might not be the best one out there. They might deserve better. But that won’t deter me.

Anna Daniels: Just because you’re not interested in losing people doesn’t mean you won’t. That’s not how any of that fucking works.

If this little speech was RIA’s way of intimidating Anna Daniels into either side, the look on her face shows that it failed. It’s…tired. Almost as if she knew it was going to end up this way.

Anna Daniels: You want to be a soldier in the bigger war? Be our guest. We couldn’t talk you out of it even if we wanted to. We’re just done with the bigger wars. We’re beyond them. Our war is in that ring and there’s one thing you need to know while fighting yours.

The Muse snags the forgotten beer.

Anna Daniels: Just because we aren’t on the front lines shouting OORAH for a dream you’ve been sold doesn’t mean we’re your enemy. Don’t stress about us, sis. We can carry our weight.

Anna takes a slug off of the alcohol, sliding off of her perch. She sits the bottle down and walks away. RIA watches as she does. By herself, she leans against the equipment box, slowly sliding down into a sitting position. A whisper…

RIA: You shouldn’t have to alone…

Arms resting on top of her knees, RIA rests her head against them as we cut elsewhere.

Backstage at Millennium Stadium.

The Pretty Pink Red Army Dressing Room.

Speedy Riggs. PCW/OSW referee. Red Army member. Now Red Army interviewer.

We’ve been here before.

Next to Riggs looms Ivan Stanislav, dressed and ready to go for his upcoming match against The Anglo Luchador. With a wide, gleaming smile, Riggs wastes no time speaking.

Speedy Riggs: Now that we’ve gotten past all the warm-up matches here at Culture Shock Night One, I’m talking about the likes of Hayes Hanlon, Brandon Youngblood, Jason Snow, and Coral Avalon especially, things are finally about to get interesting!

Stanislav grins and chuckles deeply in his chest while he grips his suspenders tightly.

Speedy Riggs: For now, not only do we have Ivan Stanislav versus TAL on the horizon, but other Pretty Pink Red Army member Rob Williams going up against Don Winters, in which he will retain his Five Star Title. And then, for the Universal Title…

Riggs trails off as he looks around off camera and frowns. Stanislav, however, grips Riggs’ forearm and drags his hand up so he can speak, pushing past this train of thought.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes, Culture Shock may have been boring leading up to this moment, but now, PRIME, you all get to witness the absolute destruction of The Anglo Luchador. He had audacity to threaten OUR manager, Alexei Ruslan? Well, no foul deed goes unpunished. You can rest assured.

Ivan motions to his side, and as the camera pans over, the entire Pretty Pink Red Army Team, well, almost all of them, are standing in a line. Alexei stands there with a briefcase as well, slightly off to the side.

Kerry Kuroyama wears his characteristically metallic emerald green suit, looking somewhere between smooth as fuck Yakuza boss and being a domino mask short of strapping Batman to a giant question mark hooked to a bomb unless he solves the riddle of some shit. While the Praporshchik speaks, Seattle’s BEAST impatiently checks his watch.

Kerry Kuroyama: Is this going to take long? Cause Scott’s waiting up in the lounge. We’re supposed to be watching Rocky IV. You know, the one where Stallone beats up…

The Russians…

…are intently staring down the Emerald Apex, daring him to finish that sentence. Kerry sees he has potentially struck a nerve.

Kerry Kuroyama: Wait, my bad, actually, we’re watching Rambo III. The one where Stallone blows up…

The Russians…

…look even more incensed. Kuroyama awkwardly tugs at the collar of his shirt.

Kerry Kuroyama: You know what? I got it all wrong. The movie we’re watching is Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot. Classic Sly flick.

Ivan and Alexei share a look at one another. They decide to leave their “80s movies misrepresented the Soviet people” diatribe for another time.

Kerry Kuroyama: In any case, gentlemen, allow me to wish you the best of luck tonight in all your individual endeavors. I only ask that you leave enough of them left for the Games tomorrow. Want to get in my own shots, after all. Cause it’s not every day I get to let loose in a world without restraint or limitations. Anything goes, right? That means no pesky rope breaks to keep me from stretching a motherfucker out until he shits his pants. And no threat of disqualification for rupturing a ballsack or two to any future Darwin award winner in there that’s stupid enough to walk in without a cup.

Clink-clink.

The Emerald Apex shakes his tumbler, takes a sip of smooth Yamazaki that’s aged old enough for Leonardo DiCaprio to date. A sinister, Bateman-esque smirk crosses his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: For weeks, these cowards, hypocrites, weaklings, frauds, and Youngblood think they have been sharpening their knives… while we have been loading cannons.

We can hear Randall Schwartz humming the 1812 Overture for some reason as Kenny steps in, brand spankin’ new Red Army shirt on, and looking determined to, well, ADDRESS HIS ENEMIES one more time before the big match.

Kenny Freeman: If I may be so bold, Kerry, I’d like to quote that very Stallone film you just brought up.

Kenny clears his throat, and proceeds to give the world’s worst Sylvester Stallone impression.

Kenny Freeman: I don’t like eggs.

The group just kind of stares at K-Free, who goes back to his normal tone of voice.

Kenny Freeman: That’s how I feel about the Egg Bandits and their guests, ya feel me? I’m also sick and tired of all this glue chatter, I ain’t seen no horses around here in ages. Most of all, though, I’m done hearing Jared Sykes and his gang of busters yappin’ and yappin’…but the time for all that yappin’ is over.

The look on Kenny’s face is quite serious as he continues, laser-focused on the task ahead.

Kenny Freeman: There’s been enough talk, ya dig? All eyes are gonna be on the main event of Culture Shock, when we step into War Games and show these folks just who the hell we are!

Arthur Pleasant looks curiously sidetracked while everyone is speaking. This no longer goes unnoticed by his teammates.

Arthur Pleasant: Huh? What was the question again?

There’s a silence since nobody asked a question at all. Blank stares at Arthur. Suddenly he feels like he’s addressing thousands of people, naked at a podium.

Arthur Pleasant: Uhhhh I’m gonna go with… B? Yeah. B. I mean C. Yes! Final answer!

You can almost hear the blinks coming from all aspects of the room.

Arthur Pleasant: Sorry guys. Was just thinking about something I need to do tonight before the show’s over. Trust me when I say you’re gonna LOVE IT. But that’s neither here nor there, comrades. We’re gonna fuck shit up tomorrow, and I’ll be pressing my brand new suit when I attend the MASK’s memorial show after Ivan ends his pointless, meaningless life out there before tonight’s over.

Pleasant turns to Kerry.

Arthur Pleasant: You guys should watch the Hunt for Red October. (Sniffles. Wipes tear.) Gets me every time.

The final blow is often the deadliest, and we land on “The Legend” Rob Williams. Out of a group some might call bad men, there are many reasons that he may be considered the… baddest? Worst? We’re going with the worst. His beard looks fuller, more robust – but expertly crafted. The 5 Star Title on his shoulder casts an array of miniature beams and sparkles, reflecting the lights above. Rob leans into the microphone whilst looking at his comrades.

Rob Williams: Now, I know y’all didn’t initially pick me for this little band of… whatever the fuck this is. BUT all things being equal, I am damn glad I landed with you all. I had my doubts at first. I mean, hell, ol’ Arthur and I about murdered one another a few short months ago.

A casual, but respectful two-finger salute is shot to Arthur.

Rob Williams: Call us whatever the fuck you want. We are the bad guys. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Come tomorrow night there won’t be a Good guy or Glue guy or any other fucking guy that can stand in our way. Gents, it’s been a pleasure and I look forward to going to battle with you.

Conspicuous by their absence, however, are Max Kael and the Halls.

Still, Stanislav motions to the team arrayed before him and grins.

Ivan Stanislav: We are missing a few of our team, but that is not for lack of cohesion. I have allowed Max to tend to his own… matters. And the Halls are preparing for the Universal Title match, I’m sure.

Stanislav clears his throat. There might be a slight eyelid twitch.

Ivan Stanislav: I cannot put into words the great pride I have for our assembled team. Not only will we demolish competition tonight in our respective matches, but come War Games tomorrow, every team trapped in the cages with us will fall in spectacular fashion. No Bandit’s will escape. No Glue will seep through the mesh. And no yellow-bellied, cowardly, fair play Diamond encrusted Dragonslayers will escape unscathed!

Ivan seems particularly proud of himself.

Ivan Stanislav: You see, I have heard these children whine and cry about the state of PRIME. That no one is protecting them. That Lindsay Troy isn’t standing up for them. That they see War Games as chance to finally get all of us in a cage and try to defeat us. When did so many wrestlers lose their nerve? But this is the interesting point, comrades. Because it is true! You all will be trapped in a cage. With us. We could not have asked for better situation!

Ivan waves his hand.

Ivan Stanislav: However, this is time for celebration! I asked you here because I wish to bestow upon my comrades in arms a very special commendation. Directly from Russia, approved by our President, Vladimir Putin, and held by such luminaries as Steven Seagal himself, I wish to give each member the Order of Friendship from Russia.

Ruslan smiles as he opens the briefcase and produces several medals, each individually engraved with the team members names. He begins to go down the line, placing the medals around each members’ neck.

Kerry receives his medal with a grimace, as though he were being adorned with a necklace of spoiled tripe.

Kerry Kuroyama: Um… thanks?

Alexei grins wide.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh, you are so welcome, Kerry!

“Might make a good coaster” says the look on his face, as Alexei moves along.

As Ruslan puts the medal around Rob’s neck, he cannot help but let a smile escape. Not one of cocksureness, nor sarcasm. It’s genuine, just like Rob’s gratitude for being a part of this group of men. The Red Army may not know it, but they have made a fierce ally. Ruslan claps him on the arm and nods while Ivan speaks.

Ivan Stanislav: The Order of Friendship is given to foreign nationals whose work, deeds, and efforts have assisted in the betterment of relations with Russia and her people. I cannot think of any better group than this! Why, bashing The Anglo Luchador was just the start, and War Games will be the finish.

In the meantime, Alexei gives a medal to Kenny Freeman. Randall Schwartz, standing slightly behind him, looks like a kicked puppy, so Ruslan relents and gives him one. Then, he stands in front of Arthur Pleasant, nods with a knowing smirk, and adorns him with a medal as well.

With everyone glimmering in glorious Russian commendations, Ruslan closes the case and turns to Ivan with a nod.

Ivan Stanislav: If, for some reason, Jonathan-Christopher Hall has lost his nerve, rest assured that I will take up the mantle and selflessly wrestle for the Universal Title myself.

Ivan stares at the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: Lindsay Troy, you just give the word, eh?

Ruslan frowns deeply at the mention of The Queen. Stanislav slams his fist into his open palm while Speedy Riggs lifts the microphone higher to his maw of a mouth. The gathered team stands with their medals glimmering around their necks.

Ivan Stanislav: The Anglo Luchador falls first. Don Winter next. Jared Sykes afterwards. Then, tomorrow, all War Games teams fall last. And together, our Pretty Pink Red Army shall stand victorious! There is no other outcome possible. DYAAHAAHAA!!

Ivan grins cockily at Alexei.

Ivan Stanislav: Now, comrade, let’s go shut up a Luchador…

And with that, we return to ringside.

The lights at Millennium Stadium go dark. Although the sky hasn’t completely taken the complexion of night, the cloudy sky and the setting sun provide a dusky, almost naturally smoky atmosphere. After several moments of silence from the PAs and hushed murmurs of the crowd, the PRIMEview lights up with a Japanese man with a square jaw in a slight underbite, well-coiffed black hair, a towel draped over the back of his neck. He speaks a phrase loudly in his native tongue. The subtitle underneath reads in all capital letters:

PRO WRESTLING IS A SACRED SPORT!

The crowd roars their excitement.

Nick Stuart: I think the Welsh faithful here know who’s coming out from the back.

Richard Parker: Normally, this is where I would get really annoyed at that bumbling moron with the mask, but given the events that closed the last show, I’m starting to come around to his hardline stance.

Nick Stuart: You heard it here first, folks, Richard Parker joining The Anglo Luchador Fan Club!

Richard Parker: Okay, let’s not go that far, I don’t like him yet. And besides, I can’t afford any more fan club dues. The Solid Gold Rock ‘n Roll Inner Circle just increased their monthly sub fees AGAIN.

The PRIMEView shifts from the strong-jawed man to grainy black and white footage from a century prior, one man with another in a headlock. It smash-cuts to further in the future, two barrel-chested men, covered in hair everywhere but on the tops of their heads, trading arm-wringers and hammerlocks, the advantage traded back and forth in the kind of time one can set a metronome to.

The screen cuts to one man in a silver mask and matching tights arm-dragging another in a blue-and-white motif, mask, tights, everything, then to a blunt Texan signaling to a rabid crowd as he puts his opponent into a spinning toehold. The screen moves to that square-jawed man from the initial frame on his back, pedaling his legs in the direction of Muhammad Ali, who is flailing at the unorthodox strategy.

The footage shifts to cleaner, more vibrant and modern footage. Mark Windham laying in a stiff chop on the chest of Hornet. Dan Ryan staring down Kevin Powers. The masked Dis completing a pinfall, popping to their feet, and revealing they were Lindsay Troy all along. Brandon Youngblood colliding with Tchu in the Dual Halo.

The screen goes dark.

Slowly, the individual pixels on the massive big screen light up to reveal a man in a purple and green lucha mask, much younger than he is today. He’s all smiles as he nods, his manager, a pigtailed blonde woman nuzzles up against his chest as “Fanfare for the Common Man” swells up behind the footage.

Cut to him trading chops with Pom Shinjoku, both covered in blood.

Cut to him arm-dragging Sebastian Dodd, the infamous “Promo Bot 9000” across the ring repeatedly.

Cut to him arching his back, with “Yours Truly” Adam Benjamin locked in a full nelson simultaneously, landing him on his head with a dragon suplex.

Cut to him twirling in the air, a picture perfect tornillo, leaping over the top rope and landing on Jean Rabesque.

Cut to him bloodied again, this time in a steel cage, weary, asking “Triple X” Sean Stevens to hit him one more time.

Cut to him landing a Japanese Ocean Cyclone suplex on Alexander Redding in his first match back in nearly 15 years.

Cut to him planting Ria Nightshade with the Karelin Driver in a sea of barbed wire.

Cut to him and FLAMBERGE exploding into their best Frye vs. Takayama impersonation.

Cut to him flipping his War Games teammate, Brandon Youngblood, to the mat with a headlock takedown in a contest for the Universal Championship.

And smash cut to black.

There are a few moments that pass, again tense, full of murmurs from the crowd. Then, the PRIMEView slowly fades into a brick wall with three words spraypainted on it:

RRRRAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

The hard-driving riff of “Cynic” by Local H hits simultaneously with an eardrum-shattering burst and green-and-purple glittering, rainy pyro.

YEAH

The Anglo Luchador steps out from the back, wearing a green track jacket with a towel draped around the back of his neck along with his usual gear.

I made a promise to love myself. Somehow I don’t think I’m gonna make it.

He stands at the top of the stage, eyes closed, deeply inhaling the mix of rain-scented Welsh air and gunpowder residue from his pyro. The crowd maniacally cheers around him, but he lets their cheers pass through him to take in the moment.

YEAH, is that me behind the screen? I see some shapes but I can’t see any faces.

He opens his eyes and looks around at the near hundred-thousand people packed in the stadium in the Welsh capital. Finally, he takes his first step towards the ring, his temple, his Mecca.

Nick Stuart: Here’s a man who’s held the Intense Championship and wrestled for the Universal, and I can’t help but thinking this the biggest match in his tenure in PRIME to date.

Richard Parker: And I imagine he’ll do here as well as he’s done in every other “biggest match he’s been in,” poorly. Ivan Stanislav can’t be happy after the Luchador threatened his poor, defenseless manager.

Nick Stuart: We’re forgetting the fact that Ivan and his War Games teammates took turns putting boots to him at ReVival 43?

Richard Parker: Not forgetting, Nick. Rationalizing. When it happens to him, he deserves it.

YEAH, I made a promise to love myself. I think this could be good for you as well as me.

Uncharacteristically, The Luchador does not slap any outstretched hands. Instead he stalks to the ring, staring it down, singularly focused. He feels the gravity pulling him to earth at the same time as his own anticipation, the gastrointestinal percolations creating gas bubbles in his gut, pull him upward into the air.

The joke I have become doesn’t make you laugh.

He hops onto the apron.

An ego might not be so bad. It might be something I could have. I can’t make my mind up. Help me with this while I grip this.

Finally, he enters the ring, whipping the towel off his neck and throwing it into the crowd as fans converge on it.

I made a promise to myself, but I think I need some help. If you see something good in me, won’t you tell me?

He finally makes his way to the corner, unzipping his track jacket and placing it on the ringpost.

Maybe I could be something you could stand.

Vince Howard: Introducing first/his opponent, weighing in at 211 pounds and fighting out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, the last son of Tenochtitlan, and a member of Team Dragonslayer in War Games. He is… THE ANGLO… LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHAAAAADOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!

RRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir explodes through the sound system while literal explosions rock the entryway. The lights shift to a decidedly crimson color. Explosions of red and yellow burst all along the exterior area of the platform, shrouding the entryway in smoke as a huge silhouette, with a smaller silhouette beside him, emerges from backstage.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, standing 7’1” tall and weighing in at 400 lbs, from Arkhangelsk, Russia. IVAN STAAAANISSSLAVVVVV!!!!

Nick Stuart: Stanislav and The Anglo Luchador have been trading barbs with one another since The Russian Bear returned to PRIME in 2022.

Richard Parker: That’s right. And the thing is, they’re both vocal communists, but I guess it’s a lot different when you get down to it. I dunno.

Nick Stuart: The thing is, these two have been on a tag team together! And they’ve been on tag teams against one another. The relationship between the two is very unique.

Meanwhile, Stanislav thunders down the entryway, while Alexei Ruslan waves and points happily at some of the crowd. He seems to relish their frustration, and blows a kiss at a woman who is giving him dual middle fingers.

Stanislav approaches the ring and grips the top rope, pulling himself up effortlessly to the apron. Ruslan jogs up the ring steps, and as Ivan steps over the top rope, Ruslan steps through the middle. Ivan glares over at The Anglo Luchador and sucks in his waist and puffs out his chest, suddenly laughing at the disparity in size between the two men. Ruslan stands firmly behind Ivan and points at the Luchador as well, jawing at him angrily and clearly threatening him in Russian.

As the music fades out and the lights return to normal, Ivan turns to Alexei and smirks as the two commiserate in Russian, before Ruslan exits the ring. Stanislav stands firmly in the middle of the ring, taking command of it, and puffs up his chest with a smirk before retreating to his own corner.

DING DING

And if there is any hesitation, on Jimmy Turnbull calling for the bell, both The Anglo Luchador and Ivan Stanislav give indication that they have no intention of following this principle. The towering Russian Bear menaces at the center of the ring, every which way cutting the squared circle apart, his massive frame imposing in this very simple manner. Luchador, for his part, is taking an unorthodox approach, almost as if he’s ready for muay thai, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands extended. Dancing around, checking angles. Each swipe is cut down by the lurking former Universal Champion, standing as firm as granite.

Nick Stuart: The usual mindset with Ivan Stanislav is that a bout with him is not going to go long.

Richard Parker: Except there’s been multiple occasions where this has proven to be a bad assumption.

Nick Stuart: It should also be noted, the last two singles bouts Ivan Stanislav has been in, long as they were, they came with them long layoffs–

Richard Parker: –and now you’re going to get us into hot water.

The Luchador is shifting, tentatively, left and right. Ivan, for his part, laughs menacingly, as though goading him on. It is when he begins to speak, however, that the venom spews forth. A difference in ideology between Communists, atop the physical. TAL launches forward as Stanislav doles out his feelings, blistering the knee and thigh of the Russian Bear with a heavy leg kick. Like a gunshot. Like the swing of an ax against an oak tree.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAAHAA!!!

Most would start quaking at the sight, especially after hitting such a heavy blow. The Luchador?

He throws another.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAaaaaAAAAAAHaHaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAAHAA!!!

And another.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAAHAAAHAAHA! HAAAAAAHAAA!

And ANOTHER!

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAAHAA!!!

Richard Parker: Okay, if I was in that ring, my pants would be a 1.6 on the Fred Dick scale of filledness.

Nick Stuart: That HAS to be so alarming, so disconcerting, to lay those kinds of blows and just…this monolith, this titan, he doesn’t just not feel it…he LAUGHS!

Richard Parker: TAL doesn’t have a chance. Not one. That just went to show you.

Each blow hit the same spot. Alexei is howling with laughter himself. The former Intense Champion, however, is undaunted, and keeps working to chop down the tree. Another. And ANOTHER. Not stopping. Pushing forward.

Richard Parker: This is embarrassOOOOOOOOOOOOOF!

Ivan Stanislav: he. Hehe. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! DYAAAAHAHAHA!

Nick Stuart: And Ivan…Ivan…IVAN…threw his hip out and caught The Anglo Luchador and now his getting pushed into the corner–

Richard Parker: No dancing NOW–

Nick Stuart: HEAAAAVY slap across TAL’s chest–

Richard Parker: THAT’S A DAMN CAST IRON SKILLET–

Nick Stuart: ELBOW! ANOTHER! And STANISLAV

Richard Parker: WAAAAATCH OUT–

Nick Stuart: BIEL ACROSS THE RING–

Richard Parker: He’s stalking! Like a tank, he’s stalking!

Nick Stuart: Luchador trying to get up but IVAN IS THERE AND SHOVES HIM INTO THE CORNER!

Richard Parker: PILLAR TO POST–

Nick Stuart: DRIIIIIIIIIVING his hip into Anglo–

Richard Parker: WRENCHING HIM OUT OF THE CORNER NOW!

Nick Stuart: OH MY! OH MY!

Richard Parker: YEEEEETING! YEETING YEETING YEETING!

Nick Stuart: THIS CAN’T LAST LONG! THIS CAN’T! Ivan is like a SAVAGE–

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAAAHAHAHA!

Richard Parker: This is like a damn HORROR movie if you’re a child watching at home…ESPECIALLY in Philadelphia–

Nick Stuart: Luchador…Luchador…Tom…he’s up–

Richard Parker: IVAN’S GOT THE PHILLY SHOVEL AND THE SHOVEL COMETH–

Nick Stuart: TAL throwing another kick–

Richard Parker: BUT IVAN BULLDOZES HIM–

Nick Stuart: I FEEL LIKE THE RING SHOOK with how heavy that push was into the corner–

Richard Parker: AAAAAAAIR RUSSIA–

There isn’t much air on the leap, but Ivan Stanislav jumps on the charge at his intended target.

Crush, mash, splat.

Except TAL moves, and even though Stanislav sees it just in time to brace for the blow, he still catches his sternum on the post.Ooof. Heavy heavy. And what does Luchador do?

He keeps CHOPPING the tree!

Richard Parker: JUUUUUst in the nick of time–

Ivan Stanislav: HAAAAAAAAAA! HAAAAAAAA!

The look of sheer anger on TAL’s face can be misread. A frustration at what’s happening.

Another massive kick.

Ivan steps out of the corner, and goes to stalking.

ANOTHER KICK!

There’s heft to Tom Battaglia’s blows, pushed through his diaphragm.

ANOTHER KICK!

Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ivan will not stop. He will not yield. The ring grows smaller and smaller. And giant in a world of ants. TAL is right there. Bones to be made into bread.

Ivan Stanislav: DYYYAHUuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuph!

There isn’t another kick. There isn’t a freak occurrence. All steps can become awkward when the bastard knot of biology finally breaks through, and the surging, burning, SEARING pain is the one thing you can feel in an otherwise numb limb. Toppling downward, Alexei Ruslan’s eyes are as wide as biscuit trays.

Wrestling is a sacred sport.

Guess what, Ivan?

Now, you’re the ant looking up toward mole hills.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav GRABBING at his leg–

Richard Parker: Did he…did he just–

Punching. No laughter. Rage. Vicious rage. Ivan keeps punching his thigh, his calf. WORK DAMN YOU! Work you USELESS piece of machinery! The spirit for Stalinist is unquenchable.

TAL isn’t giving him a chance to think about political purges, or have flashbacks to Afghanistan. No. He’s grabbing at the leg and throwing himself, and his elbow, through the damn limb. And when he gets up? He does it again

Nick Stuart: You’re thinking knee injury?

Richard Parker: You don’t just collapse like OOOOOOH!

Nick Stuart: TAL GRAPEVINING that leg and DRIVING IT and HIMSELF into the canvas!

Richard Parker: And Ivan is ROARING in pain! Like he’s in a bear trap!

Nick Stuart: Nowhere to go! Anglo Luchador DOUBLE STOMP onto the knee of IVAN STANISLAV–

Richard Parker: Ivan TRYING TO REACH FOR HIM–

Nick Stuart: OH GOSH! OH GOSH!

This, on all forms, is a nightmare. Alexei watches as his charge, his BEST FRIEND SCREAMS in AGONY, and at the hands of THE ANGLO FUCKING LUCHADOR?! IMPOSSIBLE! But his eyes are not deceiving him. Instinctually, he reaches into his pockets. Something is there. Has to be there.

Except…

There isn’t.

And that’s when Alexei turns pale as a ghost.

Then, he’s taken to the other side as he watches Tom Battaglia wrench at the tree trunk leg of Ivan Stanislav, prop the former Universal Champion’s ankle on the bottom rope, and then, from the outside, leap up and over, hitting a crisp, picture perfect elbow drop right over the knee.

Nick Stuart: HE’S DOING IT!

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT!

Nick Stuart: BRUTAL blows to the ribs of Stanislav–

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT!

Nick Stuart: IVAN GRABBING AT HIS RIBS–

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT!

Nick Stuart: SINGLE! LEG! BOSTON! CRAB!

Richard Parker: IVAN IS APOPLECTIC!

If one expects TAL to just stand in the way, then they are wrong. Because he jerks back on the hold with everything his has, and if he dislocates Ivan Stanislav’s knee cap? So damn be it! The violent movement is followed through with TAL segueing into a kneebar attempt, and as he does, Alexei reaches for The Luchador’s mask, trying to rip it off before getting onto the ring apron himself, reaching for TAL.

Turnbull has seen it the whole way. The violent grab attempt. All of it. And his eyes are furious.

Jimmy Turnbull: YOU’RE OUT OF HERE!

Richard Parker: Nick Stuart: 

Richard Parker: WAAAAAAAIT!

Nick Stuart: ALEXEI HAS BEEN EJECTED FROM THIS CONTEST!

Richard Parker: ARE YOU KIDDING–

Nick Stuart: RUSLAN IS GONE!

Richard Parker: HE’S EJECTED?!

Ruslan starts screaming in protest, but Turnbull starts pounding his own chest, aggressive in his movements, motioning with the throw out motion. Luchador is up, and as Ivan lumbers, wounded, rolling on the canvas, grasping his mutilated leg, his face etched in utter agony, TAL throws up his middle finger at Ruslan.

He turns around.

Ruslan smiles.

Ivan, from his grounded position, launches himself and a mighty forearm right for the Anglo Luchador and his midsection.

It.

However.

Misses.

Because.

TAL.

Fucking.

Moves.

Like a limp little child, Ivan Stanislav crumples to the canvas, hitting only air. Eyes wide in disbelief. And Alexei Ruslan is dead. Unmoving. Dismayed. Frozen. The Enemigos are pulling him away, and with a single hand, he fruitlessly reaches for his best friend.

A

Fucking.

TROTSKYIST!

Oh, by the way, Ivan.

How does the boot hitting you in the mug taste?

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Nick Stuart: That might’ve torn Ivan’s lip–

Richard Parker: Doesn’t look like it but that WAS another savage–

Nick Stuart: TAL grabs the leg, and he’s–

Richard Parker: DRAGON SCREW!

Nick Stuart: INTO THE CANVAS!

Richard Parker: IVAN…I’VE NEVER SEEN HIM IS SUCH–

Nick Stuart: AND TAL GOING FOR ANOTHER KICK–

Richard Parker: STANISLAV GRABBED IT–

Nick Stuart: JERKING HIM THROUGH AND TO THE GROUND OH THAT WAS UGLY!

Richard Parker: IVAN! SMAAAAASH!

Two forceful fists POUND the canvas, and The Luchador BARELY escapes getting Oberyn Martelled. Barely. The awkward landing he himself faced involved the back of his skull landing HARD on the canvas. He rises, and, Ivan, using the corner, starts pulling himself upward. His bad leg splays out, him barely able to put weight on it.

Nick Stuart: ENZIGURI TO THE BACK OF STANISLAV’S HEAD!

Richard Parker: THE ONLY REASON HE ISN’T DOWN IS BECAUSE HE FELL FORWARD!

Nick Stuart: TAL can sense it, HE CAN SENSE IT, the biggest win of his career, this battle, to beat Ivan Stanislav–

Richard Parker: His HATED rival–

Nick Stuart: After saying how deeply he hates him, how little he thinks of him–

Richard Parker: And no Ruslan. No Red Army. Not Pretty Pink Army. He is alone–

Nick Stuart: Stuck with is OWN ACTIONS as Luchador is THROWING EVERYTHING HE HAS at the HEAD of Ivan! Elbows! Hammerfists! This isn’t a wrestling match! This is a fight! This is awe inspiring!

TAL reaches over, striking the neck, and then, leaving the ring for the apron, jumps up and looks to drive his knee into the back of Ivan’s head as it is pinned against the top turnbuckle.

And as he does, Ivan moves, throwing a wild uppercut that lands FLUSH in the eye of The Anglo Luchador.

Ivan falls.

TAL crumbles in a splay. The crowd in Millenium Stadium all rise to their feet, in awe of the blow. And then, they gasp.

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD!

Richard Parker: IT’S LIKE THAT SHOT RIPPED OFF HALF HIS FACE!

Not his face. His mask. There’s a nice tear through the orbital region. The man underneath is hidden decently enough.

What, with all the blood pouring.

Nick Stuart: TAL…TAL…he’s…

Richard Parker: Oh man he’s just MESSED UP–

Luchador reaches out, but nobody is home. Ivan jerks himself to a stand, and seeing TAL trying to move, belts out a mighty roar and charges, heavy limp, and senton bomb.

Nick Stuart: OVER FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS!

Richard Parker: AND HE’S BITING HIM NOW!

Ivan Stanislav is INDEED biting at the wound of the Anglo Luchador, not to show more of that man’s face, not for mind games, but because…well…

When you hate a man enough…after you bust him open with your own fist…

You want to taste his blood…

As a fucking treat.

Ruslan can Think Red all he wants.

Ivan is going to wear it.

Anglo TRIES to get up, to fight back, but Ivan clubs him. A surge of adrenaline, and the ring ropes, get Ivan back to his feet, and as he does so, he is bringing TAL with him.

Nick Stuart: RED SCARE!

Like a baby calf, Ivan staggers. Shakes his leg. Winces in such unfathomable pain. His eyes stab through TAL, who lays on the canvas, yet his limbs still fight, still reach. Teeth still gritting. Ivan grabs him again, and with no remorse, TAL BLASTS Stanislav in the eye with a vicious punch.

Now, Ivan with BATHE in red.

Nick Stuart: RED. SCARE. AGAIN.

Ivan crumbles as he tries to pull himself up again. No laughter. Just heavy slaps to his own leg. And as he reaches for The Anglo Luchador, Jimmy Turnbull starts encroaching.

Richard Parker: This scene is reminiscent of when former head official–

No.

It isn’t.

TAL SPITS a gob of his own blood in the eye of Ivan Stanislav. A sinister, rictus grin.

Nick Stuart: RED. SCARE.

Ivan charges and dives onto Luchador.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Even down, Anglo Luchador’s limbs limply try to convey fight. Ivan wretches away, using his suspenders to try to get Trotskyist blood out of his eyes. That’s how it spreads, you know.

Nick Stuart: Jeeeeeeeeeesus. That was…

Richard Parker: A war game? Or a war crime?

Alexei Ruslan is back out, there to help his friend to his feet. Ivan roars at him to keep away. He will stand on his own. Limply, he rises, his arm thrust in the air.

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…BY PINFALL…IVVVVVVVVVVVVAN! STANISLAV!

Is there any respect here? A changing of hearts?

TAL, face down, looks out to Ivan Stanislav, slumping and dragging his leg as best he can, all as his best friend tries to help him move.

His middle finger, and the laugh he gives off himself, should tell you all you need to know.

We go elsewhere.

The Secret Meeting Place in Pocatello, Idaho.

Madhouse HQ.

Where the fate of the free world will be decided.

By these maniacs.

Oh God, we’re all doomed.

Let’s meet the maniacs.

The guy in the New Jersey Devils sweater is Charles Beckett, the Director of Logistics. He only interacts with reality when he needs to buy stamps, and he only buys those so he can correspond with his pen pal, who is a tiger.

Next to him is a mad scientist who is also your grandfather, judging by his clothes. That’s Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., renowned supervillain, lawyer-doctor, and pioneer in the field of skunk propulsion. He serves as the Director of Construction, though there hasn’t been much for him to do this year because Philadelphia is mostly constructed already.

The guy in the pinstripe suit and equally stylish mask is The Cosmo Kid. The backbone of the organization; anyone else will tell you he’s great at his job…even if nobody knows what that job actually is.

At the head of the table is Brian McCoy, Madhouse president and frequent resident of the Idaho State Treatment Facility For the Not All There. Once a man of promise and vision, driven to his current state by the wrestling industry, and also spies. (Are you a spy? YOU HAVE TO TELL US IF YOU’RE A SPY!)

He looks like he has a wall full of pictures and news clippings connected by colored string. In every room.

Brian McCoy: What’s the situation in Philadelphia?

Charles Beckett: It’s poop soup out there, sir. The city’s overrun.

Brian McCoy: …with zombies.

Charles Beckett: Yep.

Brian McCoy: How the hell did this happen?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, hi. There is a chemical additive in the Flava-Flav-O-Boost that reacted strangely when combined with a certain enzyme present in the coffee from Wawas. I suspect it may have been accelerated by the trace amount of gasolines that was also found in the coffee. The potency of the interaction made it addictive, but there were some, ehhh, “side effects.” We suspect that this is the reason for a large percentage of the mindless, flesh-eating husks we now deal with. Just a percentage, you see. The rest were already like that.

The rest of the group nods, as if any of them understood a single goddamn word of that.

Brian McCoy: Have we heard from the Flav-O-Boost people?

Charles Beckett: Not in weeks.

Brian McCoy: Did their check clear, at least?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. Yes.

Brian McCoy: Good enough. All right, people. The game is on, but we’ll have to clean up this mess. I need every expert we’ve got on handling the undead. Call the Lucha Council, the University of Mad Science, everyone you know in eastern Pennsylvania…and Lester.

Whoever the hell Lester is, his name gets people’s attention. Charles seems especially surprised.

Charles Beckett: Are you sure? That guy’s crazy.

The Cosmo Kid: Really, Charles? Coming from you?

Charles Beckett: …okay, fair.

Brian McCoy: Desperate times. We can’t let a major and treasured city get taken over by zombies.

Charles Beckett: Yeah, but this is Philly.

Brian McCoy: Doesn’t matter. They could spread across the country…and besides, our insurance rates will go up. No, this has to stop here. We’ll have to figure out some kind of cure and stop the zombie menace.

The Cosmo Kid: Shouldn’t we at least warn the participants?

Brian McCoy: Eh. They’ll figure it out.

THE MADHOUSE PRESENTS

Philadelphia, PA
April 27, 2024

We return from the commercial, where we see Rose walking down the corridor of the Millennium Stadium. Her mind is elsewhere, her hand holding a phone that is pressed to her ear and limping slightly after her match with RIA.

Rose: Of course, love. Mommy is okay. I’m just going to grab my stuff, and I’ll be back at the hotel in a hurry. [pause] I love you too, Addie.

She clicks the power button on her phone to end the call and places it in her back pocket. As soon as Rose rounds the corner, an easily overlooked metal door to a boiler room swings open. Arthur Pleasant rushes forward, TEEF gritted, and connects some of his boot to Rose’s temple.

SMAAAAACK!

After hitting Provocation—Arthur’s trademark single-leg shotgun dropkick—he spills onto the cement floor right beside Rose.

Snarling like a rabid wolf with spittle dripping down his pointed beard, Pleasant gets right into Rose’s face.

Arthur Pleasant: [Looking deep into Rose’s eyes] Eye for eye…for eye!! Hahaha… you know what, Rose? You can thank King David and his little princes for this!

Grabbing a handful of hair, a barely cognizant Rose yells out as Pleasant drags her with one hand into the boiler room.

Pleasant slams the door shut, looking down at Rose with absolutely EVIL fucking intentions.

Rose goes to speak, but she’s still trying to gain her bearings on the cold cement floor. Seizing the opportunity to speak in her confusion, Arthur holds up and wags his finger.

Arthur Pleasant: We don’t need to talk, Rose. This… is just fine.

Upon saying this, Arthur grabs Rose by the head, but even in her most likely concussed state, she is ready and tries to go for a double-leg takedown. But with Arthur’s background in Muay Thai, he counters with a BRUTAL knee right to the nose, instantly breaking it.

Arthur Pleasant: Oh FUCK! Did you HEAR that crack?! Holy shit! Your nose is definitely broken, Rose. Probably gonna need a plastic surgeon to prevent any sort of but-her-face from happening! But since you’ll be getting a new nose, why stop there?!

Pleasant grabs her by the hair again and pulls Rose deeper into the boiler room. Whistling merrily to “You Are My Sunshine,” Pleasant rips Rose from the cement floor. Rose finally gets an elbow to Arthur’s mid-section, doubling him over.

Arthur Pleasant: Oof…. well, you really ARE a fighter, aren’t cha?! Hahaha.

Rose, determined to show how good of a fighter Arthur is, snaps her knee into his midsection and slams her elbow into the back of his neck. Realizing she’s in a bad way, tries to escape. As she pulls the door open, Pleasant snatches her from behind.

Rose: Fuck off, Rent-a-Teeth!

Rose spins around and tries to make a fist, but Pleasant counters by leaning in and shooting a left elbow to her eyebrow, immediately splitting her open.

She staggers back into a boiler by the back of her head and Arthur’s demeanor goes from demented to enraged.

Rushing forward, as Rose checks the back of her head, Pleasant knocks her back with a straight kick to the chest, sending her right into the boiler again. As her head slams into the metal, her knees buckle and she goes down in a heap.

Arthur Pleasant: Yikes! First, you broke your nose, and now you’re all concussed! Shame. I really hope you find the best plastic and neurosurgeons you can. But hey, I know a guy or two! I’ll send a referral.

Pleasant laughs like the sadistic fuck he is, and Rose grunts, crying out in pain as she rolls around on the cement.

Arthur Pleasant: Don’t worry, darling. I have faith that someone will still find you. There’s always Night Two!

Footsteps are heard echoing down the hall, and Pleasant looks around cautiously. He kneels beside Rose.

Arthur Pleasant: I don’t have long. Too bad. Did you know that today is my one year anniversary of being in PRIME? Yeah. Well, it is…

Smiling again, he stands up.

Arthur Pleasant: …and I’m only getting started. Happy anniversary, Rose! [Whispering] Be well.

Whistling “You Are My Sunshine” again, Pleasant exits the room of his vicious assault as if it’s just another day in the office. As he does, he’s spotted by the person wandering the halls.

RIA: I thought I heard someone screaming… What did you do, fuckface?!

Pleasant stops in his tracks and turns around to face RIA.

Arthur Pleasant: I don’t know, dear! My gosh…I heard… well, I heard [mouths “screaming”] and all sorts of bad tidings and awful shenanigans happening in there. I will report this to Starshy Praporshchik. The Red Army, PRIME’s greatest detective force on Earth, will get to the bottom of this!

He smirks.

Arthur Pleasant: You have my [a slithering whisper] word.

RIA goes to say something in response to The King of TEEF Style; RIA stops and looks inside the boiler room. She holds the door open, debating whether to go after Pleasant, when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rose on the ground.

RIA: Shit!

RIA rushes in and gets down on the ground, cradling Rose in her arms.

RIA: It’s okay, it’s okay! I’ll get you some help. Just hold on, honey.

She gently lets her down before rushing to the boiler room door.

RIA: HEY! WE NEED HELP IN HERE!

RIA looks around before finding something to wedge the door open. She rushes back to Rose’s side, hearing more footsteps clamoring down the hall, and holds her as bodies fill the boiler room.

RIA: You’re going to be okay, Rose. You’re going to be okay.

We cut elsewhere.

After the fever dream that is Arthur Pleasant, we all need a nice, easy landing – don’t you think? Of course you do. How about a band of literal homeless people playing banjos and cooking weird shit? Well, that’s the best we can do.

Enter Complete Abandon in the back of the famed Welsh stadium. The smell of seasoned meat simmering wafts out the open door of their locker room. Bluesy, pain-filled pangs of various hillbilly string instruments trickle down the surrounding halls. There is muffled chatter, humming, and the simple sounds of a family dinner. Fifteen or so members sit around a table they’ve produced from somewhere within the venue. Noticeably absent are Lem and the Mustangs.

Nothing in the air would tell you that their leader is about to attempt to crucify an evangelist.

Rob Williams sits at the head of the table, staring off into the distance. His plate is empty. Movement near the doorway catches Rob’s attention. A grin crawls across his face as he turns to face the figure standing in the doorway.

Rob Williams: Well, well, well look who it IS!

Anna Daniels: Calling us an “it” now? How scandalous!

The Muse fakes offense in the most exaggerated of fashions, clearly being a smartass before actually bothering to check the scene she’s currently in. This is new. Yes, everybody with half a brain knew about the cult that seemed to be building around Rob. Yet this is the first time they’ve actually done more than hide in the background (outside of the crucifixion, naturally). The Multitudes catch the vibes of this place. After a while, the vessel provides a smirk as her eyes flicker back to her…ally?

Anna Daniels: We were going to give you another handy dandy pep talk but you don’t seem to need it. What’s everybody eating?

She can’t know or understand how her handy dandy pep talks have helped. After casting her a coy smile, Rob looks around the table. He’s been below sea level in his own thoughts and hasn’t paid too much attention. It look like…

Rob Williams: Well shit, Anna, you’ve got me puzzled now, too. Hey Chef, what the fuck is this?

A man with a red bandana tied around his head in classic triangle knot fashion turns around. Rob has always been more partial to blue, but the red fits Chef. His name is Red, not Chef, but Rob likes nicknames.

Chef: Rabbit.

Rob’s lip flattens and he cocks his head sideways, nodding affirmatively to Chef before turning back to Anna.

Rob Williams: Well shit, apparently it’s rabbit season. Who knew? Old habits. You don’t look a gift bunny in the mouth where this group comes from. You are more than welcome to a plate if that is your kinda shit. (taps his stomach) I never fight on a full stomach. Old habits, you know?

Anna nods.

Anna Daniels: We get it. Can’t be hungry for a fight with a full stomach. Plus imagine if you get hit there! Nobody likes to battle in vomit.

There’s a casual wander over to Chef. They look at each other for a bit before the woman produces a paper plate from out of nowhere.

Anna Daniels: Your smallest chunk of varmint to go, please. We’re not one to interfere with family supper and we still have the PRIMEporium to run. As well as the team. You never know with them.

Rob Williams: (looking at Chef) You heard the lady.

Chef: On it.

Red, the Chef, doesn’t turn around to acknowledge the request. He does, however, begin preparing a hare to go.

Rob Willams: Speaking of teams, obviously you and me are a-okay. But tomorrow night, well, it’s every multitude for themselves. After we bend Team Glue over and give them the proverbial spanking, you and I are right back to a-okay, right?

Anna scoffs.

Anna Daniels: Rob, we’ve beaten up teammates, old lovers, and even our own husband in wrestling rings. If we thought for one second you couldn’t handle the occasional scheduled asskicking from us, we wouldn’t be friends.

Rob Williams: FANTASTIC! I’d hoped as much, you know, but you can never be too sure in this life.

A commotion captures the active attention of Rob and Anna. Somewhere down the hall Lem and the Magnificent Mustangs, as they have taken to calling themselves for some fucking reason, have once again found Harley Walker.

Lem Hawthorne: Hey old man, how you making out?

Surely this is exactly what Harley was hoping for tonight: running into the fucking cuckoos again. Right when he was minding his own business, looking over a vending machine for a coke to chase the vodka that’d be going down his throat shortly here after.

As he glares at the reflections of the antagonists coming off the glass of the machine, which has actually eaten the last few coins he had on him without any delicious soda reward, and lets out an audible, exhausted huff and grits his teeth.

Harley Walker: Don’t know if you boys got the memo or not, but…

Just trying to lick his wounds from his title match, Harley wants absolutely nothing to do with Lem or any of his bullshit, and this is clear as he turns around and gets closer enough to brush chests with him.

Harley Walker: I ain’t keen on havin’ my post-match rituals interrupted by the uninvited or… (Harley stares Lem right between the eyes) the unwanted.

Lem Hawthorne: Take it easy, old man. We know the night you’ve had. Just wanted to check in on you since our last conversation ended so abruptly.

Eddie Sullivan: Yeah, gramps, don’t have a heart attack on us.

All of the young men chuckle at Eddie’s lame grab at some low-hanging fruit. Harley looks past Lem, and begins to stare daggers into Eddie’s soul. It is taking absolutely everything within Lightning Boy not to turn himself loose – but there’s a state of patience within him. After all, he just wanted to get the fuck out of there and have himself a drink.

Harley Walker: Look boys, I sure do appreciate the circle jerk admiration affair that we got going on here. It’s really swell to be embraced, you know, by such authentic people – but this ain’t the time, and if we’re being completely frank and honest-like with each other, you don’t want this to be the time.

Of course, the Complete Abandon boys do not get the hint. In fact, Lem takes this as a fantastic opportunity to dig his nails just a little bit deeper into the stuntman.

Lem Hawthorne: God, I thought you looked like shit ’cause you were sick last time. I guess this is just your natural state. I’m just saying, old feller, it’s a hard life without some friends. We can offer you somewhere safe. Community.

Harley has had about enough of the bullshit tonight. The bullshit of Coral Avalon, of Lem, and with the vending machine that ate the last of his walking around money. Tensions are rising. This is what the government would refer to as a “cocked pistol”.

Rob Williams: Gentlemen! Just what in the fuck is going on here? Can’t let y’all out of my sight for five minutes without you finding some nice (sizes Harley up) individual… to bother.

Lem Hawthorne: We’re just seeing if the old timer is ready to repent.

Rob Williams: Now, Lem, we’re in the United Kingdom, son. I believe they call it ‘taking the piss’. How’bout it, Cowboy, were they ‘taking the piss’?

A big, confident, shit-eating smirk crosses Rob’s face with just the ever-so-tiniest hint of condescension. Anna watches all of this from a distance, sitting her meal down on a production crate before sliding past Rob. Standing in between Lem and Harvey, she does the only thing that feels correct at the time.

She snatches both men by their ear lobes, like a frustrated granny trying to discipline errant grandsons, and pulls them down to her level.

Anna Daniels: Boys. This place is already a power keg and while we love some fireworks, this isn’t your night to be a spark. Besides, given that, to our knowledge, only one of you is actually under contract with PRIME…

There’s a glance at Harley.

Anna Daniels: …and management frowns upon attacking those not on the roster. Fighting here would be a lost cause that will only summon a metric fuckton of Enemigos, a lot of bitching, and fines if you’re concerned about the monetary. If you’re going to throw down, we think you should do it elsewhere. What do you two think?

Harley side-eyes Anna for a moment, and then redirects them toward Williams. From his glare, you can tell that trust is relatively lackluster – and then tension? Jesus Christ, the tension. No matter, Harley just couldn’t be bothered… right now.

Harley Walker: I got a headache… the runs, and I need a drink. Priorities, they call ‘em, son. But ya’know what? Come see me at the O2… and we’ll have ourselves a proper talk. ‘Till then…

Harley turns toward Anna, and nods.

Harley Walker: Nice to meet your acquaintance, m’lady. Maybe I’ll see you too at the O2.

Harley smiles, before turning back toward the doorway and whistling his way out of the picture.

Rob Williams: Good god damn, man! Your mouth sounds different, but your breath smells the same.

Anna and Rob watch Harley disappear from view.

Rob Williams: Now there goes a broken man. All he needs is a fucking fedora. One of these days, Anna (shakes his fist towards Harley) to the moon. Well, back to shit that’s important. If I’m being honest, my dear, I do hope we cross paths tomorrow night.

There’s a chuckle from Daniels.

Anna Daniels: It would be interesting to test our wills and skills against one another, Rob. We might get that chance on the battleground.

She picks up her food.

Anna Daniels: First thing’s first, though. You focus on your little bug Don-Don. We’re going back to the Glue room and taking a nap because with all due respect, you humans can be exhausting.

With a gesture of farewell, Anna exits stage right. Rob leans against the wall and watches Anna walk away.

Rob Williams: Lem, would you supercharge a 1990 Ford Pinto Stationwagon?

Lem Hawthorne: (obviously confused) No, Rob. No I wouldn’t.

Rob Williams: Then why do you keep fucking with that poor old man?

Rob wraps one arm around the neck of each of the boys closest to him, catching Lem under his right and Nolan Cooley under his left.

Rob Williams: Come on, boys, your supper’s getting cold.

Cut to ringside.

The lights across the Millennium Stadium dim and the home of Wales National Rugby Team falls into momentary silence. Second later, crimson and white lights begin flashing and the audio system springs to life with the sound of Reni’s drums and Mani’s bassline. The crowd is here for it and immediately begin cheering wildly, and about 18 seconds into the song, they are in full throat, singing along with Ian Brown just as terrible as he would be singing this song today. Stone Roses fans one, Stone Roses fans all.

Down, down, you bring me down
I hear you knocking down my door
And I can’t sleep at night

Your face it has no place
No room for you inside my house
I need to be alone

Don’t waste your words
I don’t need anything from you
I don’t care where you’ve been
Or what you plan to do

Nick Stuart: It seems as though Don Winters has his pulse on what a Welsh crowd might like to hear!

Richard Parker: The Revelator is Festivalatin!

Nick Stuart: (shaking his head) Richard.

Richard Parker: What!?

The crowd doesn’t miss a beat and continues singing along at full volume. In the upper deck, a massive Pious Penguin tifo is unfurled, at least 20 rows deep and 25 seats wide.

Turn, turn, I wish you’d learn
There’s a time and place for everything
I’ve got to get it through

Cut loose ’cause you’re no use
I couldn’t stand another
Second in your company

Don’t waste your words
I don’t need anything from you
I don’t care where you’ve been
Or what you plan to do

Vince Howard: The challenger this evening… he stands 6’1” and weighs in at 254 lbs. He is The Revelator! DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINTERS!!!!!!!!

RAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! 

The curtain ruffles and Don Winters steps out onto the stage. He’s dressed for a fight. Combat boots and jeans, a cut-off Pious Penguin t-shirt (probably the top selling item at the merchandise stand in the stadium. His arms are taped to the elbows and he looks ready for a battle. He throws his arms out in the crucifix position drawing a roar from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: This is definitely a Don Winters we’ve not seen before.

Richard Parker: We may never see him with a crowd in the palm of his hands like this again.

The Revelator drops his arms and begins a slow, purposeful walk to the ring.

Stone me, why can’t you see
You’re a no one, nowhere washed up baby
Who’d look better dead

Your tongue is far too long
I don’t like the way it sucks and
Slurs upon my every word

Don’t waste your words
I don’t need anything from you
I don’t care where you’ve been
Or what you plan to do

Winters climbs the ring steps and throws a fist skyward to another roar before vaulting himself over the top rope and into the ring. He stands in the center of the ring, drops down to one knee and pushes his arms out to the crucifix position once more as the song’s chorus finally hits and this wrestling-cum-festival crowd sings their hearts out. Donovan Winters cannot hide the smile from his face.

I AM THE RESURRECTION
AND I AM THE LIFE
I COULDN’T EVER BRING MYSELF
TO HATE YOU AS I’D LIKE

The music begins to fade out as Winters gets to his feet and stretches himself out a little along the ropes. He quickly crosses his chest and whispers something to himself under his breath. He takes one last glance around the throng filling the stadium and takes a deep breath.The lights dim again.

Darkness. Silence. Both are uncomfortable in their length.

The Tron suddenly breaks the uneasy stillness with a clip from There Will Be Blood.

Eli Sunday: I am a false prophet, God is a superstition.

Daniel Plainview: Say it again.

Eli Sunday: (voice rising) I am a false prophet, God is a superstition.

Daniel Plainview: Say it again.

Eli Sunday: (screaming now) I AM A FALSE PROPHET, GOD IS A SUPERSTITION.

Blackness swallows the screen.

Rob Williams: I am the third revelation! I told you I would eat you up!

Richard Parker: I think I like Rob Williams. Look at him, custom entrance and everything for the big show!

Nick Stuart: Don’t you shit on Jiles every time he does that?

Richard Parker: Don Winters is Jiles’ teammate, that’s why I hate him, I can like Rob for whatever reason I want.

A gritty guitar riff rips through the dialogue. A spotlight shines on the corner of the entrance ramp. The British band Idles has a full kit set up and begins tearing into “Cry For Me”.

When someone

Leaves you all alone

And nobody

Calls you on the phone

Don’t you feel like crying?

Don’t you feel like crying?

Well here I am, boy

Cry to me

From behind the curtain, Rob Williams emerges. Behind him, Lem, “Fast” Eddie Sullivan, Francis the Great, and Nolan Cooley lead a large group of Complete Abandon followers. Their clothes carry stains and rips and are a mirror for their souls. As a group, they share the weight of a large wooden crucifix. “Don Winters of PRIME, King of the Whores” is scrawled at the top.

When you’re all alone

In your lonely room

And there’s nothing

But the smell of perfume

Don’t you feel like crying?

Don’t you feel like crying?

Rob’s cadence is slow, that of someone savoring every step and the energy of this moment. The lights above shine off the 5 Star Title draped over his shoulder. In his hands is a red shillelagh, the handle varnished a sleek black. As he approaches the ring he holds it out horizontally, showing Don Winters the scrawled letters. He screams at Winters, his eyes ablaze with madness.

Rob Williams: Are you ready for your penance, Winters?

Nothing could be sadder than a glass of wine alone

Loneliness, loneliness, it just a waste of time

C’mon

When your heart beats, pounding like a rabbit’s in the night

I’ll hold you

And tell you everything’s alright

The entire body of Complete Abandon circles the outskirts of the ring, Rob directing them like a parade leader with his new weapon. They snake and weave through Winters’ congregation. Some make crude gestures at the followers, female and male alike.

Vince Howard: And your champion… standing 6’2” and 240 lbs. THE LEGEND… ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOB WILLLLLLLIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAMSSSSS!!!!

Cry to me

Cry, cry to me

Cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry

Cry, cry, cry to me

Rob pulls himself onto the apron and turns his back to Winters, showing that he has no fear of Winters. He holds his hands up in a crucifix position and laughs before climbing into the ring.

Cry to me

Cry to me

Cry, cry, cry to me

Rob blows kisses at Winters as he settles into his corner and hands his title to the referee, fully prepared to deliver the penance Don Winters so desperately seems to crave.

Cry to me

Cry to me

Cry, cry, cry to me

Ashley Barlow goes over a few instructions in the ring and then calls for the bell.

DING DING

Rob Williams and Don Winters stare across the ring at each other. The two men begin to pace around the ring. A small dance from one side of the ring to the other begins, with each man side-stepping and shuffling around in a clockwise circle. Both men keep moving to their left, trying to keep the other man from having an opening. Williams finally shoots forward looking for a leg, he manages to grab Winters’ right leg and tries to drive with the one leg but Don manages to keep his base and move himself backwards to the ropes. Williams tries to keep driving, but once in the corner Williams is just shoving Don’s leg into his chest.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Rob Williams is giving Don some business.

Richard Parker: Slower start to this one than I expected, maybe Rob is trying to get Don fired up?

Nick Stuart: I’d hope they’re fired up. We haven’t had a match like this in over a year, I still can’t believe we’ve even had a match like this before.

The cross looms ominously at the top of the ramp as the two men separate in the ring. Williams walks away from the encounter smirking while Winters just grins and nods his head in acknowledgement. The two resume their dance, first clockwise again, and then Williams switches and we begin going counter clockwise. Finally Williams shoots in and gives Don Winters a feint to a collar and elbow tie-up but manages to slide under Don’s arms and lock him in a waist lock. Williams has Winters by the waist, but Winters reverses behind, and then Williams reverses behind Winters. The five-star champion lifts Winters up by the waist, but Winters manages to yank one of Williams’ hand free, and Williams rolls backwards and right into a kneeling position.

Nick Stuart: Both men are very technically sound tonight.

Richard Parker: I can’t wait for them to get nailed to a cross.

Nick Stuart: Nobody is getting nailed to a cross Richard.

Richard Parker: It’s a crucifixion match…

Nick Stuart: And we’re using ropes, because we’re not idiots.

Winters spins around looking for a discus forearm, but Williams manages to come up underneath Don and smashes him with an european uppercut. Winters stumbles backwards and the Five-Star Champion brings Winters down to the canvas with a simple drop toe hold. Williams quickly capitalizes on Winters’ being face first into the mat and locks in a side headlock. Williams is smiling into the camera as he squeezes Father Don’s skull tightly.

Rob Williams: FALSE PROPHETS! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS!

Williams snarls into the camera as Winters tries to push himself up to his feet. Rob leans down hard with the choke still in place and manages to use his right arm and begins to smash Father Don across the face with a series of rapid and vicious punches and forearms. Winters collapses to the canvas under the barrage of blows and Williams’ twisted smile stays planted across his face as he gets his legs under him and is able to clamp down with more leverage.

Nick Stuart: Father Don’s in trouble here.

Richard Parker: Rob Williams could choke him out right here.

Winters reaches out towards the ropes and the crowd in Cardiff responds with a slow clap as Winters continues to reach out towards them. Williams continues to smile as Winters slowly begins dragging himself across the canvas. Rob manages to wrench Don’s arms out from under him by twisting his hips and twisting Winters’ upper body with it.

Nick Stuart: It’s hard to crawl places when a man is trying to rip your head off.

Richard Parker: Do you have this happen to you often, Nick?

Nick Stuart: No, Richard. I commentate on professional wrestling for a living. I just get to watch it a lot. How many brain cells did Jiles kill with that Superkick?

Richard Parker: I’m fine.

Don’s face smashes into the canvas, but he digs his nails in and yanks himself a little bit further. The crowd’s slow clapping hits a thunderous level, and Don Winters reaches out, almost able to grab the ropes. His fingers dance along the fibers. Williams yanks backwards again, but Don manages to lunge with his entire body and grabs the ropes. The crowd explodes in cheers but Rob Williams doesn’t relent.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that does what Father Don wants…

Richard Parker: Oh. No. No it doesn’t.

Williams looks back at Barlow who kind of moseys over. You don’t need to pay much attention in the no disqualification crucifixion match. Barlow looks down at the situation, and informs both competitors that there are no rope breaks. Williams begins cackling while The Revelator slumps down to the canvas. Williams begins to fire a series of shots onto the chin of Don Winters with the wrapped right arm. Winters steels his resolve, and uses the rope to yank himself forward and out of the ring. Williams chooses to let Father Don escape to the outside while Williams springs up to his feet. He looks at the gasping Winters and takes off running to the far ropes.

Richard Parker: We’re picking up here!

Nick Stuart: Williams into the far ropes, and back he comes!

Rob Williams explodes through the middle ropes, but Don Winters manages to step out of the way as The Five-Star Champion collides into the barricade. The barricade is shoved backwards into the front row of the crowd. Winters walks away from Rob, but Williams’ is scrambling his way back to his feet.

Richard Parker: Looks like Rob hit his skull off that barricade. Probably concussed.

Nick Stuart: Dr. Parker folks.

Richard Parker: *mockingly* I commentate wrestling for a living.

Nick Stuart: Oh, I thought you just knew so much about concussions because you’ve been concussed so recently and started to really educate yours…

Richard Parker: I’m fucking fine.

Williams charges at Winters but catches a knee lift to the jaw for his efforts.

RAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

Nick Stuart: This Welsh crowd really liked that knee lift.

Williams stumbles backwards from the blow, and Father Don shows a renewed sense of purpose and energy. A forearm smashes across Williams’ face, and sends him stumbling backwards, and the t-shirt and jeans clad Winters follows in pursuit and drives home another forearm to the face of Rob Williams. The champion reels backwards but Winters is coming on like a house on fire. Another forearm, then another and Williams finds himself stumbling up against the barricade.

Nick Stuart: Don Winters in control now.

Richard Parker: I blame that stupid puppet on his shirt.

Nick Stuart: What did that sweet penguin ever do to you?

Richard Parker: Beady little eyes. It’s up to something.

As Father Don storms his way across the outside to the barricade, Williams manages to wrest away the upperhand from Father Don by grabbing his skull, and slamming it off of the barricade. Once, twice, and then a third time. Father Don begins stumbling back henceforth from which he came, and Rob Williams grabs him by the back of his skull and the shoulder and slams him shoulder first into the ring post.

Richard Parker: We just had opening day too!

Nick Stuart: Winters’ shoulder crashes into that ring post, that looks like it hurt.

Richard Parker: Those orphans don’t deserve to play baseball anyway.

Rob grabs Winters by the shoulder and torpedoes him back into the barricade, making sure to spin The Revelator so that he smashes shoulder first into the barrier. He immediately begins kicking Winters in the midsection, before reaching under the ring and pulling out a table. He drags it around the ring and over by the entrance ramp. He stomps back over, and grabs Father Winters by the hair and drags him over to the table.

Richard Parker: Now this is more what I expected! Kill him Rob!

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams has bad intentions for Father Don here.

Williams lifts Father Don into the air, Winters kicks his legs emphatically and manages to dislodge himself enough to slide down Williams’ back. He grabs Rob by the back and yanks him into the barricade. Williams crashes into the ring apron and grimaces. Winters tries to snap suplex Williams, but the champion drives a knee lift into Winters’ midsection. Don doubles over, and Rob drops him to the floor with a DDT on the padded floor.

Richard Parker: DDT ON THE OUTSIDE!

Nick Stuart: Winters will be seeing stars after that one.

Williams smirks at his handiwork, and digs under the ring again, this time producing a black bag.

Nick Stuart: Wait! I thought the security stopped weapons from coming in!

Richard Parker: Ring crew uses those for… stuff… yeah… stuff… and things too!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, they use them for stuff and things.

Williams shakes the bag of tacks out onto the table. He licks his lips and smiles down at Father Don. He pulls him up to his feet, but Winters fires an elbow that sends Rob Williams backwards towards the table. A forearm comes crashing in, once again stumbling Rob backwards, but this time a backhanded elbow spins Williams around.

Nick Stuart: DON WINTERS IS HEADING TO THE TABLE AND THE TACKS!

Richard Parker: I mean… they both are Nick.

Nick Stuart: God damn you.

Richard Parker: Don’t let them hear that.

Father Don clamps his arms around Williams’ waist, and lurches backwards. Williams leaves his feet and sails backwards over Winters’ head. He crashes hard on his head and neck on the outside. The Revelator lays on the floor catching his breath.

Nick Stuart: Huge german suplex on the outside. Rob Williams’ turn to see all the stars.

Winters is the first one to his feet, he massages his shoulder and bends down to drag Williams up by his hair. He glances at the table that Rob has set up, and back at Williams. He nods his head and brings Williams over to the monstrosity. He lifts Williams up onto his shoulder, he pauses for a moment in thought but it’s long enough for Williams to realize the danger he was in and slide down off of Winters’ shoulders. He shoves Father Don towards the table.

Nick Stuart: WOAH! Close call there for Father Don!

Richard Parker: PUT HIM THROUGH THE TABLE!

Winters manages to catch himself before landing on the tacks, but he turns into a straight right hand from Williams.Father Don stumbles backwards, and Williams lunges forward, grabbing Winters by the face and reverse bulldogging him through the table and onto the tacks. Winters crashes to the floor in pain, arching his back like he’s been stabbed. Because he has been stabbed, like a hundred little stabs.

Nick Stuart: OH! Don Winters is in excruciating pain!

Richard Parker: Rob Williams put them both through that table and onto the tacks!

Williams is holding his back as well, the blood begins to seep through the back of Don Winters’ t-shirt, while the tacks are sticking to Rob’s back. He gets up gingerly, holding his back. He picks up a handful of tacks and shoves them in Father Don’s mouth. He stomps on Don’s face three times before dragging him to his feet. Winters is spitting tacks, and blood everywhere. Rob lifts Winters up to his feet. He points up at the cross and shouts into Father Don’s face.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what the champion is saying there.

Richard Parker: He’s telling Father Don he’s going to put him up on that cross, and he’s going to keep beating him while he’s up there.

Nick Stuart: How do you know?

Richard Parker: I can read lips.

Williams begins marching up the ramp, dragging the standing Winters by his hair. He brings him to the cross, Don manages a meager shove, and Williams turns and starts decking Winters with right hands all over his body, to the face, to the back, anywhere he can strike. He grabs Winters and slams his already damaged shoulder into the standing cross. Winters hits his shoulder off the post and turns around with a vicious spinning back hand that catches Williams flush on the jaw. Williams crumples to the entrance ramp and Winters collapses against the cross. He sits down at the base, and looks up to the sky.

Richard Parker: Is he praying?

Nick Stuart: Wouldn’t you be?

Father Don gets to his feet, but Rob Williams isn’t far behind. Winters turns and blasts Williams with a forearm, but Williams keeps moving forward and smashes Winters with a forearm of his own, and then drives a headbut between Winters’ eyes.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Rob Williams is bleeding from his lip after that backfist.

Richard Parker: What kind of preacher hits a man?

Nick Stuart: The kind that’s fighting for his life.

Williams shouts at Winters as the two get precariously close to the edge of the stage. He storms forward and tries to lariat Don Winters off of the edge, but Winters manages to duck under. Williams manages to stop himself at the last second and turns around into a forearm from Winters, then another. The two men trade forearms, and the ideal position to throw the other from the ramp over and over again.

Richard Parker: I can’t watch.

Nick Stuart: Winters with a right, Williams with a right! How are these two going to make it to War Games tomorrow.

Richard Parker: Jesus Christ there’s a tomorrow.

Williams takes a wild swing that connects with Winters who spins and falls to a seated position to avoid the edge. Winters has the side of his body sitting parallel to the edge and Williams approaches from behind. He leans down to grab Winters, but Father Don whips Williams over with a snapmare. Winters explodes to his feet and delivers a vicious roundhouse kick to the side of Williams’ head. Rob grabs the edge and stabilizes himself. The Revelator takes a few step to Williams side and sprints at him looking for a low dropkick to the champions skull. Williams lays backwards and Father Don flies over him and off of the stage.

Richard Parker: He’s… He’s gone…

Nick Stuart: OH MY GO-! WAIT! Winters is alive!

The camera pans to the edge of the stage where Winters is holding on, his feet dangling about nine feet from the ground.

Nick Stuart: That stage is fifteen feet high Richard! And Father Don is in a no win position!

Williams looks over the edge and smirks at Winters’ fingers gripping the metal. He stomps on Winters’ hands over and over again, and finally Winters lets go and crashes to the concrete. Father Don lands on his feet but rolls towards the crowd. The champion is in hot pursuit, he sprints down the ramp and slides off a lower point and back towards Father Don.

Nick Stuart: Who knows what shape Winters is in. He could have torn any of the ligaments in his knees with that drop.

Richard Parker: That’s because he’s like a hundred years old.

Nick Stuart: You’re like a hundred years old.

Richard Parker: …

Williams stomps over to Winters and grabs him by the hair. He picks Winters up into the air, and gorilla presses the man up and drops him onto the stage. Williams grabs a chair and rolls onto the stage with it. He swings it down on Don’s back, Winters’ cries out and Williams answers with another chair shot.

Nick Stuart: Williams is just driving those tacks in deeper!

He grabs Winters by the bloodied shirt, and rips it open at the collar as he drags Winters up the ramp. Williams bends down and pulls Father Don to his feet and flips him over his head with a snap suplex up the ramp.

Richard Parker: That’s one way to get him moving!

Nick Stuart: Oh… Winters just left a blood outline.

Richard Parker: It’ll make it easier for the police to draw the chalk outline!

Williams is right back up to his feet, he grabs the chair and brings it and Don Winters up the ramp with him. He gets to the cross and lifts Don up, setting him on the foot pedestal. Williams swings a chair into Winters’ midsection. He sets the chair up on the side of the cross, and starts to hook Don’s left arm up.

Richard Parker: It’s over! HAHAHA! LOOK AT THAT! DON WINTERS IS DEAD!

Nick Stuart: I mean… it looks like a matter of time.

Ashley Barlow points to the other arm, and as Williams moves the chair and starts to stretch Winters’ arm out, Winters begins to struggle and manages to slip his arm free. He manages to elbow Williams in the side of the head, sending him stumbling off of the chair. Williams rushes over to Winters and punches him in the midsection, but Don is able to catch Rob in the face with a kick.

Nick Stuart: IT’S NOT OVER! FATHER DON!

Winters manages to free his left arm and hops down off of the base of the cross and begins unloading on Williams. Right hand, left hand, forearm, back elbow, it all comes out in a vicious barrage that sends Rob stumbling backwards. Williams finally gets an arm up to block a punch and tries to kick Winters in the midsection, but Winters slaps the leg out of the way, pirouetting Williams around and lifts him up, and plants him on the stage neck first with a german suplex.

Nick Stuart: Williams tasting the cold steel of that entrance ramp!

Richard Parker: NO!

Don stumbles to his feet, and begins to pull Williams up. Rob fires off a punch to Winters’ throat that sends him staggering. The champion bolts to his feet and drives a boot into Winters’ stomach. He grabs a front facelock and spins Winters around so the set up chair is behind him.

Nick Stuart: He’s trying to brainbuster him onto the chair!

Richard Parker: YES!

Williams tries again, but this time Father Don manages to kick the side of the champion’s knee instead of just the block. Williams’ base is compromised, and this time when Father Don’s feet hit the steel, he immediately lifts Williams into the air for a vertical suplex.

Richard Parker: NO!

Winters releases, and catches Williams on the way down and drives him through the set-up steel chair with an orange crush bomb!

Nick Stuart: WHAT A MOVE! ROB WILLIAMS IS OUT!

Richard Parker: NO!

The chair folds in on itself as Williams’ head smashes through it and the rest of his body crashes into the ramp. Winters rolls to his feet and grabs the champion around the waist. He lifts the man up, and places him on the pedestal. He stands on it facing the bleeding Williams and hooks his right arm, and then his left arm into place. Winters steps off the pedestal and collapses as the bell rings.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: NEW CHAMPION! NEW CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: God dammit…

Ashley Barlow calls for the bell, and tries to hold Father Don’s arm into the air, but The Revelator can barely move. Vince Howard begins up the ramp with the belt and meets Ashley Barlow halfway. She marches back up and hands Don Winters the Five Star Championship. Winters clutches the belt.

Vince Howard: And your winner by… crucifixion… THE REEEEEEVELATOR! DOOOOOOOOOOOOON WIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNTTTTEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!~!~!

Nick Stuart: What a win for Don Winters… but how are he and Rob Williams going to make it to tomorrow!

Richard Parker: I’m sure Jiles has something for that awful preacher.

Winters holds the Five Star to his chest and looks up at Rob Williams. Complete Abandon come out of the back, they ignore Don Winters and push the EMT’s away from Rob Williams. They pull him down off the cross and carry him to the back, while Don Winters is being looked at by medical personnel.

We return from commercial to Millenium Stadium, the fans buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. Suddenly, the stadium lights dim, a loud cheer erupting from the crowd. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats. The beginning. And after an odyssey of pain, the present. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

With the final image fading away and the song having reached its crescendo, a final shot of the Universal Championship upon its velvet table is shown. And then, we cut to black.

A rich history of greatness.

Is tonight the culmination of a journey for ‘lovers’?

Or is the heart of the dragon ready to be permanently sealed by The Slayer?

We return from commercial.

Nick Stuart: Well, we’ve got the big one coming up. And we know Jonathan-Christopher is here in Cardiff!

Richard Parker: I have to say, hats off to Reed Young for convincing me, and you, the Hall’s need to be together!

Nick Stuart: Reed didn’t convince me of anything.

Richard Parker: Oh.

Nick Stuart: I thought you were already convinced they should be together!?

Richard Parker: Right, of course!

Nick Stuart: Ugh. This is going to be one long main event. Let’s go to ringside!

The scene switches to Vince Howard in the middle of the squared circle.

Vince Howard: This is the MAIN EVENT of the evening! It is for ONE FALL!

RAAAAHHHHHH oh yeah, the British love knowing it’s one fall.

Vince Howard: AND it is for the Universal Championship!

Richard Parker: WOW! What a treat! A match that’s one fall AND for the big prize! You don’t see those too often.

Nick Stuart sighs openly… HOWEVER, there’s a bunch of commotion from over at one of the sections facing the hard cam. The feed changes to reveal none other than Vickie Hall emerging into a private suite directly across from the hard cam. She is up in the 200 level, so she’s still far enough away from the action. Surprisingly, she’s sporting a very expensive PRETTY PINK© suit and overly large hat, like something a person would wear at a funeral, except, of course, it’s also branded in her PRETTY PINK© color.

Vickie takes a seat in the only chair in the box as one of the cameramen from the ESPN 30For30 documentary starts recording her.

Richard Parker: When is ESPN releasing this show, anyway? They’ve been filming for some time!

Nick Stuart: Well, I believe it all wraps up tonight, given this documentary was meant to track Hall’s progress through the tournament.

Richard Parker: Excellent! Can’t wait to watch it! What a love story it will show!

Vickie merely stares straight ahead. She’s the widow to her otherwise uber famous husband who passed away and everyone wants to get a shot of her reactions.

Only she’s not reacting.

She ain’t doing shit.

But the crowd’s attention is diverted anyway when the lights dim and then ultimately shut off.

Silence fills the arena…

BAM!

The lights return in the color of PRETTY PINK©!

The crowd inside the stadium is on their feet. No theme music begins just yet. Instead, there is a kerfuffle in the back, sounding like someone is tapping a microphone and making their way out.

…This person makes his way out!

???: It’s YA boy! Brap, brap, BRAAPPPPP! D… J…

The crowd shouts along.

DJ & The Crowd: TRISTY! CRISPY!!!

The former wrestler, now clearly just used as the big match valet/singer/rapper/dancer, basks in glory at the top of the massive Culture Shock stage. He stretches his hands out to the side and takes in the applause. The cheers are for the acknowledgement of the show he puts on, not particularly because he is liked. Whatever. He’s going to put that show on… NOW!

Music is cued in the song of: “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel but it’s not Billy Joel’s song. It’s a cover. And the beat of the music is actually LIVE music!

It’s revealed. To the far right of the stage the lights come on.

Fall Out Boy.

But it’s NOT realllllly Fall Out Boy!

It’s a very tacky looking tribute band made to look and sound like Fall Out Boy, as they are playing FOB’s cover to “We Didn’t Start the Fire”.

DJ Tristy-Crispy marches over to the band. All four band members are just giving it in their performance as DJTC smashes his head with the beat and starts his performance.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
PRIME is back, fade to black, new roster, what a pack,
Look who’s out and on attack, a tournament is here.
Youngblood, what a stud, amidst a bunch of massive duds,
JCH is in da mud, he didn’t get the win.

DJ-TC jumps up and down as the music slams on. He’s completely buying into the performance.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
Rewind, what a time, the Hall’s have a long way to climb,
JC’s skills turn on a dime, he works at it real hard.
Big wins, what a spin, stick it to the one called Lindz,
Hall is knocking down the pins, Vickie’s sipping gin.

Female dancers dressed as cosplay Vickie’s run across the staging and down the rampway, moving to the beat of the music. The scene quickly cuts to the real Vickie Hall, in her press box, completely stone faced. Following the dancers are the other two ESPN 30For30 cameramen, ready and waiting for the challenger to make his way out.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
JC’s always learning, victories he’s earning
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
There’s no need to fight it, we are just delighted

Two Vickie dancers hop, skip and vibe their way out from the back (use your imagination), both holding one end of a golden “gateway”. They giggle like school girls in love as they “open” the gateway for Jonathan-Christopher Hall to be revealed behind it.

Except Jonathan-Christopher isn’t revealed behind it because no one is there.

DJ Tristy-Crispy raps along.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
Tournament number two, now is not the time you,
Anyone but Nate will do, ‘cause fuck that stupid guy.
Moving on, Ray-Ray’s a pawn, Kuroyama? Double yawn,
Cecil’s perfect record’s gone, and Hall won the whole thing.

FINALLY someone walks out…

Reed Young.

Wearing the same neon blue and green tracksuit he wore during the backstage interview, the former owner and operator of Action! Wrestling and self-proclaimed IDEAS MAN leaps through the “gateway” and starts pumping up the crowd like an overly annoying dad at his kid’s high school basketball game. He runs to the left side of the stage and throws his arms up and down, trying to get the fans to cheer (in fairness, they do). Young races to the right side of the stage but stops to smash his head to DJ-TC and the tribute band’s rocking jams for a moment before he recollects himself and riles up the crowd on the other end.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
Here we are the biggest match, do not give your head a scratch,
JCH is gonna snatch, the title belt from Sykes.
The narcissist should really die, a champion we all can buy!
Aiming for the highest skies, no limit he can go.

Jonathan-Christopher COMES OUT! He is wearing new glistening PRETTY PINK© board shorts and boots. JC’s completely teary eyed and definitely doesn’t look like he wants to be there. He walks through the “gateway” the Vickie girls are still holding up, bless their hearts, that thing looks heavy. However, the second Hall puts one foot past the gateway, he spins around and runs off to the backstage!

Reed drops his jaw, quickly sprinting after him. As the music continues to work the crowd up, Young attempts to have a heart-to-heart with Hall, arm around him, slowly walking the boy back out onto the front of the stage.

Young pats Jonathan-Christopher on the head as JCH sucks back a couple more tears and nods. The duo take a few more steps forward-

Until Jonathan-Christopher retreats once more!

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
Vickie’s always burning for their dreams, she’s yearning
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
There’s no need to fight it, we are just delighted

The Ideas Man chases after Jonathan-Christopher and gently convinces him to come back out. Young has his right arm around Hall, telling him it’s okay and they will walk as slowly as required. Once they pass through “the gateway”, Young has his free arm in the air, taking in the massive stadium and ruckus crowd to bear witness. Jonathan-Christopher continues down the rather large rampway, lightly sobbing as he does. The number one contender tries to rub the leftover tears from his eyes and suck it up as best he can.

Richard Parker: Man, Jonathan-Christopher sure is sad about receiving this title match! What a narcissist making it about him!

Nick Stuart: That’s NOT why he’s worked up, Rich.

Richard Parker: Oh?

The Vickie dancers start thrusting themselves towards JCH and even one of them ONTO JCH as Hall and Young are now halfway down the ramp. This totally frightens the challenger, who shields himself into Reed’s massive right pec and weeps. Reed tells Hall it’s okay, they’re just acting.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
Now it is the time to sing, rescue us our dearing king,
Once the bell rings DING DING DING, we all go home happy.
A new champion is crowned, everyone will come around,
Can’t wait to see Jared wound, into a fucking paste!

Young and Hall reach the bottom of the rampway. The Vickie dancers open the floor for them to find the ring apron. Young asks Hall if he’s ready to go and JC gives a VERY WEAK nod “yes”.

Pumped and full of energy, Young hops onto the apron and enters the ring, calling Jonathan-Christopher to him.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
This is the biggest blow, when the night ends oh, you’ll know
JCH rakes in the doe, he’s the future of this sport.
Time to receive the glory, throw King Blueberry into a quarry, 
This is how you WRITE A STORY, everyone take note!

Tilting his head into the rafters, Jonathan-Christopher closes his eyes, looks to say a quick prayer and then rolls under the bottom rope to meet the overly enthused Reed Young. Young runs around the ring, one fist in the air, like they just won the English Premier League or whatever the fuck those Welsh people like over there. He keeps running circles around and around and around Jonathan-Christopher, while JCH lightly cries.

And the real Vickie Hall remains like a stone.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
While JC is returning, his crying’s concerning
They’ve got a love that won’t expire
Because when night is dawn, their love goes on and on
And on, and on, and on…

BOOM! Massive, PRETTY PINK© pyro explodes at the top of the rampway, startling the living piss out of JCH as he falls to his knees. The camera switches to Vickie in the suite, she never blinked. Barely moved a muscle.

DJ TRISTY-CRISPY:
And on, and on, and on… 

And then back to the middle of the ring, with Reed Young still running around and around and around and around…

Even when the tribute band closes with an over-the-top guitar screech and DJ Tristy-Crispy drops the mic, leaps off the stage and surf dives into the pack of fans below, Reed keeps running and running and running and running with that fist in the air.

Nick Stuart: This Reed Young sure is something.

Richard Parker: I’d like to have his energy, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Same.

Richard Parker: You’ve never met Reed before? He’s been out of the public eye for a while but you could just ask Brandon Youngblood or Coral Avalon their thoughts on him. I bet they have nice things to say!

Nick Stuart: Something tells me you’re delusional, Richard.

Reed is finally kicked out of the ring (politely) by the referee, so instead he starts to do laps around the outside of the ring with his fist in the air, screaming “HALL FOR CHAMPION”!

MERCY!

We move onto the champion’s entrance…

Buckle up, it’s about to get extra in here.

First order of business is the PRIMEview. There’s stuff on it now. It looks like the inside of a warehouse, the expansive space filled by a series of glass cases. Each is around 6 feet tall, and lit from above. Beyond that, the space is dark.

The first case includes a small garden gnome. It looks like it’s seen better days, as it’s clearly chipped in places, and looks to have obviously been glued back together a few times in its life. Its name is Earl, but that’s not terribly important. Looking through the glass, we see the silhouette of someone walking on the other side. This version of Jared Sykes hasn’t been out of training for very long, and despite the way the glass seems to obscure most of his features it’s clear that he looks a hell of a lot younger, and thought spiked hair with frosted tips was the way to go.

“I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing… ‘Til they… got ahold of me…”

That would be Alice Cooper, or rather a very muted rendition of Alice Cooper’s “No More Mister Nice Guy,” because frosted tips wasn’t the only questionable choice my man made in the early days of his career.

The second case is a collection of relics from a kingdom that was razed to the ground and paved over almost two decades ago: the National Wrestling Council. A battered green and black tee shirt with the words “Minnesota Mafia” on the chest over an outline of the state. It sits beside the old MSW Cruiserweight Championship. There’s a traditional flower lei, and a small plastic hula dancer that bobbles as the silhouette passes behind this case. This version of Jared doesn’t look much different than the last, save that there’s a blur on his forehead that looks like it could be a scar. Also the frosted tips are gone, and thank god for that.

“I thought I could break the sound barrier just by trying. To hit with focus and at random, never dying…”

The muted opening to 6-Gig’s “Hit the Ground.”

The third case contains an item that modern fans would immediately be able to identify, even though it doesn’t quite look like what they’re used to. It’s the original blue and white mask of King Blueberry, on temporary loan from its owner in Wisconsin. It, like everything else in this case, is a hallmark of time spent in Sin City Championship Wrestling.  The other prominent item in the case is that company’s version of the Universal Championship, though the name plate is missing and there are what look to be scratch marks by the screw holes that would hold such a placard in place.

As the figure passes behind this case, we can see that he’s a little older, a little rougher, and he’s started to let his hair grow out a bit.

“Even when I fall… Will you still believe…”

It’s accompanied by the chorus of Killswitch Engage’s “Save Me.”

The final case has a mask of its own, this one also on loan from its current owner. It stands in stark contrast to the near-pristine condition of its counterpart. The fabric is ragged and torn. There are stains of blood and chocolate that no bleach was ever able to remove. It’s joined by both of the PRIME world tag team championship belts, and two photos that are almost mirror images of each other. One taken in the aftermath of the Great American Nightmare, where those belts were first awarded. Though they’re both dressed as berries, Justine Calvin sits on her partner’s shoulder in the middle of the ring. The other was taken nine months later, on the last night of the division. The posing is the same, only now there are no masks, no costumes.

“If this is to end in fire, then we should all burn together…”

Instead of the Jonathan Young cover that Eminence used as theme music, tonight we get the opening lyric to Ed Sheeran’s original version of “I See Fire.” All hail the empire of the ever after.

From behind that last case steps Jared Sykes as he’s known today. Older. Arguably a little wiser. Battle-hardened. He’s moving towards a heavy set of double doors with the PRIME Universal Championship over his shoulder. There’s a creak and a groan as he gets closer as they move on their hinges, bathing the space in bright white light.

And then?

THRUMMMMMMMMMMM

That sound? It’s a guitar, and it’s playing one very specific note. D#1, if you’re curious. It’s low. Real low.

I’ll never be ready to meet a memory

Northlane. “Plenty.”

I’ll never be ready to meet a memory

The notes continue, and just as the entire band kicks in there is a curtain of sparks that rain down onto the stage all around the figure that’s taken his place beneath them. Jared Sykes, the PRIME Universal Champion, stands in a literal wall of fire for a moment. In place of the traditional sweatshirt is a black vest with battered steel shoulder plates. A row of scale mail lines the upper back. Both the hood and the base are frayed, as if the garment has seen some shit.

Falling silent, going mad
I’ve gone walkabout with the parasites in my head

There’s also a new mask. This one only covers the lower half of his face, and appears to be sculpted from plastic or resin. It has the profile of a dragon’s face complete with teeth. The area around his eyes has been painted black. My dude is taking this “slayer” thing very goddamn literally tonight.

Far too quiet, it’s deafening
As I pick away at the surface, the itch burns through my skin

Around his waist is the greatest prize in the sport of professional wrestling.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring… From Boston, Massachusetts…

Jared throws his head back and exhales a cloud of smoke from behind the mask before pulling it down and storming down the aisle.

When the dirt crushes my bones (whoa-ohh-oh-oh)
And the worms call me their home (whoa-ohh-oh-oh)
If I’m asked to start again
I can’t pretend I’m ready
I can’t pretend
I’ve had plenty

Vince Howard: And weighing in tonight at two-hundred and one pounds, he is the PRIME Universaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal Champion…

There’s cheering. A lot of it.

Vince Howard: JAAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED SYYYYYYYYYYYYYKES!!!!!

And now there’s more.

Drown this broken dream
A taste was quite enough for me
My mind’s too unsteady
Stay away from me, please

Jared makes his way to the ring, never taking his eyes off of his opponent. Their history goes all the way back to ReVival 3, and now fate has brought them both here. The winner earns the rubber match tiebreaker and walks away with the Universal Championship. The other will have to reconcile with whatever comes next.

With both men in the ring, Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING

Jonathan-Christopher Hall does not hesitate. He can’t. He has but one chance to complete his Hallmark Journey, to finally find some meaning in the winding, terrible path he’s walked to get to this moment. He has done everything Vickie has asked of him. His devotion has been unwavering, yet barely recognized by the woman he loves. Loved. Hates?

His emotions are a typhoon, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s tears in his eyes, and he might not even be aware that they’re there.

But the moment he hears that bell, his body and instinct take over for his brain. He sprints across to Sykes’ corner and dives at him, crushing him between his body and the turnbuckles with limbs flailing – a Stinger splash in all but name.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is taking the fight right to the champion!

Richard Parker: Look at him go!

Despite staring him dead in the eyes, Sykes hadn’t expected JCH’s sheer speed in crossing the ring. Now he’s trapped between Hall and the corner as the challenger pummels him with the furious desperation of a man fighting for his life. For his ill-fated love. For everything. There’s little skill involved in the punches he’s throwing. It’s all passion and emotion. A fury and a sadness and everything in between. A man fighting like he has nothing left to lose despite having everything to lose.

At ringside, a tracksuit wearing a sketchy man is wildly cheering Jonathan-Christopher on, like someone turned his knob up to eleven and then broke it off. Reed Young is ecstatic. He’s electric. Anyone who knows him knows that he might be that way regardless of whose corner he was in. He’s the most excited man you’ve ever met, and his palpable excitement with every punch Hall throws is almost endearing… if you didn’t know who he was, anyway.

But Jared Sykes is the veteran.

The last two years of pain and agony and chocolate have tempered him into a man who could conquer the Neck Collector. He has weathered storms and waged wars, staring down demons and Russians and Vickie Halls along the way. This… is nothing to him.

Hall over-commits to a swing, and Sykes calmly ducks under it. Then it’s his turn to start swinging at the challenger trapped in the corner with everything he has.

Nick Stuart: Sykes firing back! Right hands!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall gets rocked by several of these right hands, blasted back as though someone is hitting him with a sledgehammer. Only the turnbuckles kept him aloft. On the outside, Reed Young reacts as though he himself is the one getting punched, wincing with every blow.

Finally, Sykes lays into the Almasy winner with a huge right hand that knocks him down and sends him under the rope to the outside. It’s not by choice. It’s very much his body’s reaction to things.

Nick Stuart: Hall’s on the outside here, and Reed Young is… encouraging him to get back in the ring!

Said encouragement is like a complicated dance. There’s clapping, a couple of awkward steps, and then more clapping. At one point, he steps over to the commentary table to grab Nick Stuart’s water bottle—

Nick Stuart: Hey! That’s mine!

—so that he could pour it over JCH’s head to wake him up a bit.

It hides the tears.

Richard Parker: Well, you weren’t using it.

Nick Stuart: Yes I was!

Richard Parker: Oh. Hope JCH had his shots, then.

Nick Stuart: …

JCH looks like he’s recovering after having his bell rung from Sykes’ fists. His tears won’t stop, and it isn’t for any physical pain he’s feeling. He grabs Reed’s hand to get helped up to his feet, but stumbles when Reed suddenly pulls away from him.

That’s about when Jared Sykes shoots out from between the ropes like an intercontinental guided missile that only obliterates simps.

Richard Parker: INCOMING!

Hall is harshly sent backwards, hits the commentary desk, and nearly flies into Nick and Richard’s laps. There’s chaos and noise as the two Hall of Famer commentators are sent scattering, and Hall completes his roll over the table and into where they usually sit. Sykes recovers quickly, and shoots a death glare at Young that makes the former owner of Action! Wrestling back away with his hands held up.

Inside the ring, Elvis Nixon makes a decision that he may hear about in the next referee’s meeting – instead of administering the ten count, he slides out of the ring to try to assert some control of the situation. Please keep note of that in the future, it might be important for all of the property damage that’s about to follow.

Sorry. Spoilers. This is a PRIME main event, after all, so how much of a spoiler is that really?

Anyhoodle.

Jared Sykes is interested in beating his challenger up some more, as fans are already driven into a frenzy. Hall is flailing behind the desk, wanting to return to his feet already. He’s caught up in some cords. He’s having trouble. But he is trying, dammit. Sykes helps him to his feet, freeing him from some of the cords he’s caught up in… but only to punch him in the mouth again. A second one. The third causes Hall to fall into Richard Parker’s seat in a daze.

Sykes backs up, and then charges and lands a huge boot to Hall’s tear-soaked face that sends him backwards into a roll from the chair. The challenger is on Dream Street right now, fast approaching the crossroads leading to Nightmare Lane. He’s staggered and wobbly as Sykes regains his balance after the big kick. He’s stalking after the dazed challenger, and when Jonathan-Christopher turns to face his enemy, Sykes is already charging him.

BOOM.

That’s the collective sound that the crowd makes when Sykes hits Hall with a momentous clothesline that sends him over the guardrails and into the crowd. Fans scatter. They have to. If they did not, they’d be getting in the middle of a feud dating back to the third ReVival. Granted, this feud was more between Jared and Vickie Hall, but Vickie is conspicuous by her absence here.

As if on cue, the camera cuts to a skybox. There, Vickie Hall sits emotionless. Unmoving, unflinching. You’d almost believe that this was a still photo and not a live shot of a woman both scorned and scorning.

Camera cut back to Jared Sykes, who is climbing over the guardrails to pursue Hall. Jonathan-Christopher is not fleeing, however. He picks up a fan’s discarded chair and hurls it at Sykes without a lot of care in the world if it hits him or how it hits him. The seat of the thing bounces off of the Dragonslayer’s head and knocks him down.

Nick Stuart: …We’re back!

Richard Parker: I… I have Hall stink all over my chair now.

Nick Stuart: We’re barely two minutes into this match and things are already ugly out here!

Richard Parker: My chair…

Nick Stuart: These two don’t appear to be interested at all in getting back in the ring, but it looks like Elvis Nixon is being very lenient out here.

Richard Parker: I liked this chair… I was going to take it with me to Paris in three weeks, that’s how much I liked it…

Anyway, here’s Jonathan-Christopher Hall exercising his right to throw projectiles like it’s Injustice: Gods Among Us out here. He beans Sykes with a second chair thrown, and the crowd scatters as it collides off of Sykes’ skull and bounces unpredictably towards some members of the audience. Hall does not care. He can barely aim through the tears and the unfiltered emotion.

Was she even watching?

There’s another reason why Elvis Nixon isn’t exactly calling for the DQ right now. The referee had hopped the guardrail to try and restore order in the match, but Reed Young followed after him and promptly struck up a heated conversation with the head referee about the weather and how it relates to this one match he really liked back in 2003 or something.

Oh, look. Another flying chair being thrown carelessly through tears like it’s a Hadouken.

THUNK.

Richard Parker: Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong out there! Literally! Don’t let JCH get anywhere near the barrels!

Sykes goes down to one knee, and only thinks to pick up a chair to block the next one thrown his way because his self-preservation instincts finally woke up and took the wheel. Been a while, guys. Hey, you think you could work a little better in the future? No? Okay.

Anyway, Sykes responds to all of the chairs being thrown his way by throwing one of his own. JCH takes it right in his tear-soaked face, and he collapses backwards into a pile of other abandoned chairs. Dazed, the Timid Tiger manages to stand up only to sit down on one of the chairs. The Universal Champion then proceeds to ignore all of the clarity briefly granted to him by his self-preservation instincts and launches himself like a bullet into Hall with a somersault body block…

CRAAAASH!

…that sends both men into the abandoned chairs.

OHHHHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes is doing everything he can out here to punish the challenger!

Richard Parker: No! Where’s the referee! Disqualify him! Wait, no! Disqualify him and give the title to JCH!

Nick Stuart: That’s not how any of this works!

Elvis Nixon finally frees himself from Reed Young to go check on both competitors. Amazingly enough, by the time he arrives on the scene, it’s actually Hall who staggers to his feet first. That’s short-lived before he collapses to one knee again almost immediately after he does. His body is working for both brain and spirit. If he ever mentally recovers from the emotional hurricane within him, he may regret what his body has done to him on this night. It doesn’t matter. Only victory matters.

The desperate challenger moves to collect Sykes, but Sykes fights back, landing several hard punches to JCH’s gut that rock him enough to cause him to retreat out of pure instinct.

The fight continues when Sykes gets to his feet and pursues the challenger further away from the ring. The crowd is at a fever pitch as the battle makes its way to a production island, where one of the supports that holds up the rigging above the ring stood. Sykes gets under JCH’s arms as the two grapple, and then rams JCH’s back into the production boxes surrounding the support.

It does not budge, the same cannot be said for JCH’s spine.

Nick Stuart: It’s mayhem here in Cardiff!

Richard Parker: Nick, I got a baaad feeling about this.

He says this around the time that Sykes starts climbing up the boxes to get to higher ground, so it’s warranted. Oh, it’s super warranted. Sykes reaches down to pull JCH up with him, but the Vow of Virtue yanks Sykes’ leg out from under him and he falls onto his back on top of the boxes.

Hall pulls himself up to the same level as Sykes. It’s dangerous territory, now. Around them is an ocean of concrete and chairs, with a standing room of audience members who might never have expected the action to wind up here. A fall from here could be dangerous.

Elvis Nixon is shouting at them from below to get down from the production boxes like an owner yelling at their cat to get off the counter hoping that they’d get the hint, but they don’t get the goddamn hint, do they Felix? DO THEY?

Sykes is back up just as Hall stands up on the boards. The champion and the challenger exchange blows, but one such blow seems to wake Jonathan-Christopher Hall up in a way. He looks back at Sykes. It’s not sweat in his bloodshot eyes. Has he even slept?

Hall takes another punch. He staggers, and almost falls off of the boxes right there when one of his legs meets open air instead of steady ground. However, he manages to recover just enough to get back to his feet to take another right hand. This one sends Hall staggering until his back hits the support beam.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is in a lot of trouble on that support!

Richard Parker: Get down from there, man! Tigers don’t belong there! And you’re a tiger!

Sykes rears back and uncorks an elbow at JCH’s head.

THUD.

OHHHHH!!!

But his elbow hits the support.

The Universal Champion yells in pain, clutching his elbow. Hall grabs Sykes by the head and looks around. He spots a table set up below, one left there by production while they were building the set over the last few days. His body knows what he must do. It does not check with his brain, too busy as it is being adrift like a leaf in a storm.

He lifts his opponent up into the air in a vertical suplex, and spins Sykes around clumsily. It’s not pretty, as most moves JCH executed weren’t. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need to be as pretty as JCH’s Ken doll good looks. This Falcon Arrow does not even need JCH to follow through on it. He simply drops Sykes once he’s high enough.

And when we say “high enough”, I mean “off of the boxes and into the table”.

CRASH!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: HALL WITH A FALCON ARROW! HALL JUST SMASHED THE CHAMPION THROUGH THAT TABLE!

Richard Parker: Holy dumb fuck!

It’s carnage. Jared Sykes’ body goes flying and crashes through the table, sending things flying into the air. The Dragonslayer lies broken in the middle of the table’s remains, and Reed Young cannot contain himself. He can be seen hovering over Sykes’ fallen body, trying to do goddamn cartwheels in celebration. He’s not very good at it, but his enthusiastic excitement cannot be overstated. He’s absolutely over the moon for Jonathan-Christopher Hall right now.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall still stands on the island of production boxes. The tears still flow as his thoughts turn back to his broken heart. He can’t stop now. He won’t stop. The only way he knows he can win Vickie back is to triumph. His desperation reaches its peak.

He takes three steps back.

There’s no thoughts. Head empty. No hesitation. There is nothing “timid” about this Tiger. There is only a running start, a prayer in the wind, and a jump.

Richard Parker: WHAT THE…!?

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall is not often respected for his wrestling ability, such as it is. But it’s not ability but tenacity that he needs right now. The will to do everything it takes to overcome his longtime enemy in the biggest stage he may ever be on. The frog splash is not pretty. Hall flies in the same way that double decker buses didn’t, and lands on Sykes with the same kind of force that a double decker bus would.

Nick Stuart: Jo… Jo… Jo-JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL JUST FLEW! A SPACE BETWEEN US OFF OF THAT PRODUCTION STAGE!

It’s mayhem in Cardiff. Fans are going wild for the devastation after Hall hits the prone Sykes and causes a second crash into whatever’s left of the table and Sykes himself. It’s a reckless move. Dangerous. Nothing like we’d ever seen him do before.

Hall comes up clutching his own elbow, wincing in pain. For once, the tears aren’t simply from his emotional turmoil.

There’s a shot of the skybox while a picture-in-picture of the Falcon Arrow and subsequent Space Between Us is shown on replay. Vickie Hall’s expression never changes. Not once. Not even a flicker.

Reed Young dumps whatever’s left from Nick Stuart’s claimed water bottle over Hall’s head, cheerfully and obliviously praising him for such a devastating move. He’s the one directing JCH to get up. He’s the one encouraging him to get to his feet and win the championship that was always his—no, Vickie’s—dream.

Richard Parker: Did you think that this would be how the Hallmark Journey would reach its conclusion, Nick!?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know… I don’t know what’s going through Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s head right now. This is nothing like we saw in the Almasy.

Jared Sykes is holding his elbow and his ribs while curled up in pain. Few men in PRIME have caused him the grief that the Halls have caused him since the beginning. Now, he was in danger of losing the Universal championship to the man who tried to drown him in chocolate and stole his chance to win the tournament named in honor of his fallen friend.

He tries to push himself to his feet, but all he can do is crawl back towards the ring.

JCH is back to his feet, but he’s in a lot of pain and it’s the only thing keeping him from giving chase. There’s a possibility that he hurt himself by hurling himself into the concrete and broken table. It doesn’t matter. He stumbles and limps after Sykes until he catches up with him. He grabs the back of his tights and then hurls him onto the entrance ramp.

Elvis Nixon is pleading with Jonathan-Christopher Hall to bring the action back to the ring. He even almost threatens to go back to the ring to administer a ten count, but there’s Reed Young to distract him once again. The Ideas Man puts an arm over Elvis’s shoulder and takes the world’s most unwilling selfie with him.

Nick Stuart: Could we maybe have Reed Young stop distracting the referee?

Richard Parker: No way! He’s full of ideas, man!

The challenger pulls the champion up to his feet, and sets up for another suplex.

CRASH!

OHHHHHHH!!!

The snap suplex that follows is simple and brutal, trading flash for impact. Sykes writhes on the ramp after impact, having been thrown up the incline instead of down it meant that his body hit the ground closer to his neck and shoulders.

Nick Stuart: When will this end!? This match has spent maybe thirty seconds in the ring and the rest of that time’s been on the outside!

Richard Parker: Well, I imagine that neither Elvis Nixon nor anyone in the crowd would want this match to end on a lame-ass double countout! Honestly, I applaud him for doing the right thing and keeping this thing going!

JCH is sluggish in recovering from executing the suplex. His elbow still gives him fits and he’s in a lot of pain. He can’t stop. Sykes writhes in pain from the snap suplex, and Jonathan-Christopher Hall can only look down on his enemy with sorrow in his eyes and a black storm in his heart as he tries to recover from the damage he’s inflicted upon himself.

Hall pulls Sykes to his feet. A hard punch sends Sykes staggering backwards, further up the ramp and to the main stage. Another shot. And another puts Sykes down, whereupon JCH mounts him and clumsily throws more punches. It’s much less like a professional MMA striker and more like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. There’s a bit of wailing in the punches thrown. He might not be able to see where his blows are landing.

Sykes has endured worse storms before, having just gotten past the Neck Collector to claim his championship. The clumsy blows do little damage to him compared to the suplexes earlier. He gets both boots under JCH and shoves him backwards…

THUD.

…and sends him into the panels of the entrance’s wall.

JCH staggers from the unexpected impact, and falls to one knee. Sykes recovers, and catches JCH with an elbow to the jaw. Another one sends his body, still on autopilot, towards the edge of the ramp.

What Jared Sykes does next is preceded with a glance up at the skybox where Vickie Hall currently resides. In the back of his mind, everything he is doing to harm his opponent lies at her PRETTY PINK© feet. Every blow he strikes against JCH is to harm her, for he is her avatar.

At the edge of the stage, Jared Sykes launches a boot straight out of the playbook of King Leonidas. It hits JCH straight in the chest, and sends him flying off.

CRASH!

OHHHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL JUST WENT OFF THE STAGE!

JCH hits a set of tables at the stage and crashes through all of them. Fans go crazy as Sykes collapses to one knee, and stares down at JCH lying motionless in the wreckage. Reed Young is apoplectic, aghast at the state of his son-in-law.

Richard Parker: No! Dammit! What is Elvis Nixon doing! Disqualify him! Count him out! Uh, uh… just end the match now and let’s pick it up again in London! What the hell! Get a new head referee! We can just replace them these days, right!?

Nick Stuart: You were literally singing our head referee’s praises a minute ago!

Richard Parker: That was a whole minute ago! That might as well be a lifetime!

Reed Young is trying to rally his son-in-law back into the fight by any means necessary. Bereft of Nick Stuart’s water bottle, which he’d already emptied earlier, he snatches up a beer from a nearby fan—who is not happy about this by the way and takes a swing at the ex-Action! owner only to hit empty air—and splashes it over JCH.

It stirs him awake, if only barely.

Sykes does not know Reed Young, but he shoos him away like he’s a small child. He pulls JCH to his feet and mercifully drags him back to the ring. Elvis Nixon is very grateful for this, because he’d gone back to the ring ahead of them and started to administer a ten count to get them out of the ring.

Richard Parker: Elvis Nixon is counting! WHY DIDN’T HE DO THAT TO BEGIN WITH!?

Nick Stuart: You’re seriously questioning this now?

At the count of three, JCH’s body goes fully limp and Sykes can’t drag the dead weight behind him anymore. Sykes is hurting. But he’s used to the pain. Every instinct as a professional wrestler is telling him to just leave Hall there, roll back in the ring, and take the countout victory.

But every instinct of him that’s been wronged by the Halls is telling him that… no. This can’t be over yet.

And so Sykes pulls JCH back up to his feet. Another elbow knocks the Vow of Virtue down closer to the ring. Sykes stalks after him as he crawls towards the stairs.

Behind him, Reed Young is being his usual enthusiastic self. Maybe a little too enthusiastic and getting a little too close to Jared, in fact. Sykes’ veteran instincts now scream at him that this is Jonathan-Christopher Hall. There is always fuckery when it comes to this simp.

So Sykes whirls around with his fist out, ready to deck someone in the schnozz.

Reed Young flinches and recoils, flailing his hands wildly as though saying that he’s not a threat. Sykes should know better, he really should. But with Reed Young beating a hasty retreat away from the champion, Sykes turns back to the challenger to punish him furth—

THUD.

Nevermind.

Nick Stuart: Hall just yanked Sykes face-first into the steel steps!

Richard Parker: GOLD! GOLD!

Hall knows that the count is coming up. In a measure of ring-savviness that might not have come up when he first appeared in PRIME to begin his Hallmark Journey, Hall rolls into the ring at one side of the corner and then right back out of the ring on the other side. By rule, this stops and restarts Nixon’s count, much to his consternation. With Reed Young’s infectious enthusiasm cheering him on, the challenger finally rolls Sykes back into the ring.

Oh and, uh… this is going to be on the test, but Sykes is bloodied.

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes is busted open from hitting the steps!

Richard Parker: I can feel the story being finished, Nick! The Hallmark Journey is upon us!

Sykes’ blood stains the mat, and Hall listlessly makes the cover.

But at only a count of two, Sykes is still very much in this thing.

Up in the skybox… yep. Vickie Hall is still there, and her expression has not changed one bit. Whatever excitement she felt three months ago when Jonathan-Christopher won the opportunity to challenge for the belt in Cardiff is long gone. She feels nothing. She doesn’t even feel excited that the man she hates the most is a bloody mess.

In the ring, JCH takes a moment to compose himself. The tears still haven’t stopped. He is visibly exhausted, and it might not just be physical exhaustion. He looks up at the skybox, but he can’t see Vickie through the tears. Is she doing well? He doesn’t know. It’s possible he doesn’t even care. All he has left is this.

Nick Stuart: Hall is looking… unsteady here.

Richard Parker: He hasn’t looked steady this whole match, to be honest.

The fans in Cardiff cheer on Jared as he grabs the corner to try and get to his feet, an—

We don’t have a sound effect for this. It doesn’t actually make that much of a sound, what Jonathan-Christopher Hall does. But the sheer agonizing brutality of him stomping Jared’s head between his foot and the bottom turnbuckle is going to live with some people.

OHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Jesus Christ.

Richard Parker: Call the morgue.

Sykes is lifeless after that one, and Hall stands over him as though unsure about what to do. Reed Young encourages him to pull the champion out of the corner and cover him, though, so that’s what he does.

ONE.

TWO.

THR—

NO.

Jared Sykes rolls his shoulder off of the canvas like he’s adjusting his sleeping position. He’s not dead. If the chocolate wasn’t going to kill him, this isn’t either. Like, on a scale of one to chocoboarding, that was a seven. Which doesn’t sound like a lot, but that’s just how bad the chocoboarding really was, okay?

Hall grabs at his own hair and pulls. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. His face is still streaked with tears. Quite frankly, he’s in rough shape. But he presses on. He pulls Sykes up to his feet and grasps the arms.

Everyone recognizes it as the move that put an end to Jared Sykes in the semi-finals of the Almasy. Stand By Me.

Hall lifts Sykes up… and then he loses his grip. It’s all the sweat. It’s also Sykes fighting back. The moment Sykes shakes himself loose, he rolls Hall up in a victory roll style move. Only, he’s not looking for the pin. Hall ends up on his back, and Sykes immediately jumps in the air.

An eye for an eye and a stomp for a stomp.

OOOOHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE STOMP FROM SYKES TO HALL’S HEAD!

Richard Parker: OW!

Sykes stumbles and falls to the mat immediately after his feet make contact with Hall’s head, because a man’s human skull is not exactly solid ground to be standing on. Hall lies there for a long period of time, and Sykes gets on top of him and starts wailing on him.

These are not the punches JCH threw out at Sykes on the stage. These are measured. These are meant to injure. To maim. One blow strikes above the eyebrow and draws blood. Another will create a mouse under JCH’s other eye. Hall covers up with both arms after these strikes, and referee Elvis Nixon admonishes Sykes and starts a five count.

Sykes stands up at four, casting a bloodied death glare at Nixon.

Nick Stuart: Both men are now bloodied here in Cardiff, and I can barely hear myself think right now!

Richard Parker: Also, it’s really loud here!

Sykes stands up, standing over the fallen challenger as he tries to return to his feet. Hall is having to grasp Sykes’ ring gear just to stand. It’s not clear if he’s glassy-eyed because he has a concussion after the latest round of brain damage, or if it’s because he still hasn’t stopped crying.

Either way, Sykes has ill intentions for his longtime enemy. The Dragonslayer pulls JCH up to his feet, and lifts him up so his feet rest on the top rope. The maneuver he uses here is one he’s used before. It’s one he reserves only for his most hated of foes. Sykes takes a moment to set himself, and then all he has to do is twist his body and let gravity and momentum murder this man.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall was 28 years old.

Nick Stuart: DRAGON SCREW NECK WHIP!

Richard Parker: OH NO!

Sykes is hurt, no question about that. After all, pain is the core of his very existence. His ability to make a cover is limited, such that he’s unable to fully capitalize on the murder he just committed. And just as he’s about to pin JCH and put this match to bed… his corpse suddenly escapes the ring. Elvis Nixon darts to the side of the ring, where he points at the culprit of this escape.

Jonathan-Christopher lies motionless at the feet of Reed Young on the floor. Young holds his hands up innocently.

Nick Stuart: That… Jonathan-Christopher Hall was on the cusp of losing the match off of that absolutely spine-crushing move, and that snake Reed Young bailed him out!

Richard Parker: A great idea from an IDEAS MAN!

Elvis Nixon never has a chance to do anything about this. As JCH uses Reed Young and his tracksuit to pull himself back to his feet, Jared Sykes pushes Nixon aside. Reed Young’s eyes go wide. Because he can’t escape this one like he did the tope suicida earlier.

Nick Stuart: A PLANCHA! A PLANCHA FROM SYKES, AND EVERYONE IS DOWN!

Richard Parker: Not the IDEAS MAN!

Reed Young is wiped out on the ground, and Jonathan-Christopher Hall is in trouble. Sykes picks up the challenger and rolls him onto the apron, and not quite the ring. Sykes hops up onto the apron and grabs him by the head, perhaps looking for a vertical suplex. But Hall fights back with body blows. He slips free of the headlock, but JCH is weary enough that a wild swing for the head is ducked and suddenly, Sykes has him in a sleeperhold.

JCH can only possibly escape this by the grace of Elvis Nixon administering a five count for Sykes to break the hold. It’s five excruciating seconds as Sykes squeezes out the blood pouring out of JCH’s head as though he’s trying to get that last little bit of toothpaste from the tube.

And then, the sleeperhold is over.

And by that, we mean that Jared Sykes has just decided he is going to kill a man. To be fair, this man was culpable in drowning him in chocolate and trying to kill him with a rusted nail just over a year ago. It’s only fair.

So, he momentarily lets go of the sleeper, and then slaps it right back on. Nixon is adamant that he’s going to disqualify Sykes if he keeps this up, but before he can even start the count, Sykes rips JCH off of his feet and backwards by the head and the Vow of Virtue has no place to go but on his head onto the hardest part of the ring.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Richard Parker: JESUS CHRIST!

Nick Stuart: A SLEEPER SUPLEX ON THE APRON!

It’s brutal the way JCH lands on this. He hits the apron with his head, rolls off the apron, and practically lands on his head a second time on the concrete.

There’s your usual array of crowd chants to this. You know, “HOLY SHIT” and the like. Hall lies motionless on the concrete, and it’s only because he’s still breathing that anyone can tell that he’s still alive.

Richard Parker: Vickie! I think he’s got a broken neck! He’s not moving! Vickie! VICKIE!

Sykes sits on the apron, staring down at JCH. Reed Young does not exist. Neither does Elvis Nixon, who is administering a ten count. All that exists is his enemy. The man he is hurting to try and cause Vickie Hall pain. He has no way of knowing… well, wait a second. Hang on. Maybe something has changed, actually. Let’s check in on Vickie in the skybox, and…

…Okay, yeah, she’s still motionless and emotionless.

If the possibility of her soon-to-be ex-husband’s neck being turned into mulch by way of suplex is affecting her, it certainly didn’t show on her face.

Back to the action, Sykes has hopped off of the apron and is pulling JCH up. He’s dead weight. It would be easier for Jared to simply take the countout here to retain the title, but… Sykes clearly does not want it to end this way. He wants the end of the Hallmark Journey to be decisive. 

He pulls JCH up into a fireman’s carry and drops him on the apron. He slides into the ring and pulls JCH away from the ropes before making the academic cover.

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPE.

BOOOOOOOO!!!

The fans are booing because it was not JCH that put his foot on the ropes.

In a desperate bid to keep his man in this match, Reed Young grabbed JCH’s boot and placed it on the top rope before ducking out of sight of the official. He’d timed it well between counts, ensuring that Nixon would notice the foot but would not notice that Hall himself didn’t put it there.

Sykes stares at the boot incredulously. He couldn’t believe it. Hall should have one foot in the grave, not one foot on the rope. He looks around for the obvious culprit for JCH’s continued survival, but Young’s limitless energy allows him to scramble to the other side of the ring before Sykes can even lay eyes on him.

Nick Stuart: Again! Again, Reed Young has kept JCH in this match!

Richard Parker: Well, we know where Vickie gets her tenacity from now!

Well, Jared Sykes is a veteran, so he simply pulls JCH clear from the ropes and covers him again.

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER!

Sykes shakes his head, glancing up at Elvis Nixon. This should’ve been over by now. Jonathan-Christopher is a tear-stained puddle in the vague shape of a man. He’s not even able to get up off of the canvas under his own power, and needs Sykes to pull him up. As he does, Sykes chickenwings one arm while half-nelsoning the other. It looks like an attempt at the Angel Halo, but JCH is too awkward. Between the size difference and the unintentional sandbagging, Sykes can’t lift him up for it.

He tries again, but can’t get him up.

And then JCH suddenly pitches himself forward. It’s almost accidental, the awkwardness of holding dead weight up mixed in with sudden locomotion causes JCH to flip Sykes over onto his back and into a pinning predicament.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE-NO.

Sykes kicks out, but the fans are buzzing. JCH nearly stole the match from the champion on a simple leverage pin. And that’s surprising because Hall has almost never won a match in PRIME under his own merits. It’s always been Vickie bailing him out time and again. Sykes stands, and JCH meets him with a thumb to the eyes. It’s desperate, but it stuns the champion enough for him to push Sykes into the corner.

Hall throws right hands after right hands after right hands at him. They’re thrown with the exhausted desperation of a man who feels like his opportunity is slipping away, that the journey can’t continue. Sykes eventually collapses to a seated position in the corner, whereupon Hall starts stomping him relentlessly in the head and neck area. Hall only relents when Elvis Nixon tells him to knock it off, so he does and pulls Sykes up to his feet. An Irish whip to the opposite corner follows.

Sykes hits the turnbuckles only to come charging at JCH with a wicked clothesline. Only problem? JCH ducks before Sykes can obliterate him.

You know who doesn’t duck? Elvis Nixon.

OHHHHHHHH!!!

The head referee—who made the mistake of being right behind JCH—is taken off of his feet by the clothesline, and Sykes has his hands to his head in disbelief that he just hit the referee by mistake. He turns to find JCH standing there, and there’s a low blow.

Or, I should say, an attempt at a low blow.

Sykes had already lost to the Vow of Virtue this way once before. He isn’t letting it happen again. Fuck that.

Nick Stuart: JCH was looking for the low blow, but Sykes caught the boot!

Sykes maneuvers to JCH’s side, and drops him violently to the canvas with a Lightning Spiral. He goes right into the cover, and…

…oh.

Right.

Fuck.

Nick Stuart: Sykes has the cover! One, two, three, four… Elvis Nixon is still down! We need a referee!

And that’s when someone does slide into the ring.

It’s Reed Young.

Reed Young was screened like everyone that walked into the building earlier today. He brought no weapons to the ring other than about 200mgs of pure, unfiltered enthusiasm for his man. The thing is, he didn’t need to bring a weapon. The champion himself had brought the weapon to the ring from the very beginning.

Which is to say that Reed has his sleazy hands on the Universal title belt itself.

Nick Stuart: What is he doing in the ring!?

Richard Parker: He wants a closer look!

Nick Stuart: He has the belt with him!

Richard Parker: Well… I mean, maybe he finds it hard to keep his pants up, you don’t know!

Nick Stuart: He’s wearing a tracksuit!

As Nick and Richard are bickering, Reed Young makes his move.

Unfortunately for him, Sykes sees him coming. When Reed charges in with every intention of smashing Sykes in the face with the belt, Sykes slugs him in the face. Just one quick jab is all it takes to put Reed on his ass. The title belt goes flying out of his hands and ends up landing on the ground by Sykes’ feet.

Sykes goes to finish Hall off, putting him in the position for the Omega 13. But Hall reaches up and puts a thumb in Sykes’ eye. The pure desperation of a man who is willing to gouge another man’s eyes if it means he’ll win. Sykes stumbles away.

And then Hall grabs Sykes by the arms and lifts him into the air. It happens so quickly that the bloodied champion doesn’t have time to counter him. And what’s worse? When he gets spun around, the only thing he can see before he descends violently is his very own championship belt.

Richard Parker: STAND BY ME!

BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Hall has no energy to do anything but lie on top of Sykes. Reed Young, holding his jaw, retrieves the Universal championship and slides out of sight.

Nick Stuart: You have got to be kidding me… not like this! NOT LIKE THIS!

Nick Stuart’s audible despair is coupled with the fact that he sees that Elvis Nixon is recovering from the clothesline, holding the back of his head. He sees the cover. He didn’t see anything else. 

ONE.

Nick Stuart: Kick out, Jared!

TWO.

Nick Stuart: Come ON!

…THREE!

DING DING DING.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

It’s the angriest Cardiff has ever been.

Reed Young is wide-eyed with shock, such that he winces then shows surprise and then goes back to wincing again. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t contain his excitement. He jumps up and down, holding up the Universal championship. He celebrates like he’s the one who won it.

But he isn’t the one who won it.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match… and NEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! JONAAAAATHAAAAAAANNNN-CHRIIIIIIIISTOOOOOOPHERRRRR!!! HAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!

As fans drown the ringside area in a cacophony of boos, and Reed Young finishes his laps around the ring with the Universal championship… cameras focus on the new champion.

He sits, motionless, in the ring. His hands are on his knees. He’s curled up in a little upright ball, the tears he’d been feeling the entire match turning into outright bawling. He’s emotionally exhausted. He’s physically battered. He does not celebrate his victory. He can’t. Maybe it just isn’t worth celebrating without his Amazing-Life Partner.

Jonathan-Christopher looks up at the skybox where Vickie resides, reaching out to it as though he’s hoping that an angel might descend to take him there. To take him to where his beloved (or beloathed) ALP is.

But Vickie Hall does not react at all to the gesture. There is no smile, not even a frown. Her face is like stone. When she notices that Jonathan-Christopher Hall is looking her way, she simply stands from her seat and leaves the skybox without a second glance towards him. JCH lets his hand drop, and he wails in the center of the ring.

Reed Young enters the ring, Universal championship in hand, and parades around with the belt over his head. Tomorrow morning, there will be a welt where Jared Sykes decked him. He does not care. Tonight, he can say that he guided Jonathan-Christopher Hall to his very first championship.

Outside of the ring, cameras catch Jared Sykes sitting against the guardrail. All he can do is stare at his hands. The championship he chased for so long and claimed with great fanfare from a seemingly unbeatable lizard king… has slipped from his grasp.

Nick Stuart: I… Jesus Christ. Jonathan-Christopher Hall has done it. I don’t know how he’s done it. Two years ago, he was out of the Almasy in the first round… and tonight, he’s at the mountaintop of PRIME!

Richard Parker: The Hallmark Journey is finally complete! The story has finished! It’s so beautiful, Nick! I could cry, too!

But is the story truly finished?

It is for tonight.

Tomorrow, though… that’s a different story.

FADE.

TO.

PRETTY PINK©.