ReVival 47

Annnnnd we’re live.

Somebody turn off the goddamn lights. That’s good, that’s good. Ambiance is important with these types of things.

And while you’re at it, how’s about you play some music? Oh yeah, that’ll work, it sounds like it might be a bop.

A slow, uneasy guitar riff. A spoken word introduction. It goes like this.

He come to me with money in his hand! 

He offered me! I didn’t ask him! I wasn’t knocking someone’s door down! 

I was running from that! When I got out, I was in that! 

I was already through that!

The PRIMEView lights up with scenes from ReVival 46, all shot in black and white. Fred Dick versus Crash Jackson. A masked man distracts from the apron while another grabs Crash Jackson by the ankles. Crash comes crashing down. Heh. Hope he wasn’t planning on having kids, huh? More importantly, Fred Dick goes for the pin. One. Two. Three.

I had that! I had the studio! I went to the studio! 

I went to Vox Studios!

I had it all, and I looked at it and said: 

‘This is a bigger jail than I just got out of.’

We see Harley Walker in Kerry Kuroyama’s clutches before two masked men rush the ring, laying boots into Kuroyama. Turnbull signals for the bell as Walker rolls away. Even as he coughs and sputters and clutches at his throat, the camera zooms in to catch a smile curling at the edges of his lips.

I don’t want to take my time going to work!

I got a motorcycle and a sleeping bag and ten or fifteen girls! 

What the hell I wanna go off into and go to work for? 

Work for what, money? I got all the money in the world!

I’m the king, man!

 I run the underworld, guy! 

I decide who does what, and where they do it at! 

What am I gonna run around and act like I’m some teenybopper somewhere, for somebody else’s money?

Finally, Daytona Diamonds. He stands on top of the turnbuckle, diving off age driving his knees right into Max Kael’s ugly mug. The scene quickly switches to Diamonds holding the Intense title belt to his chest, bloody and brutalized. He’s smirking, grinning, laughing even. The camera pans out to reveal Fred Dick, Harley Walker, and STRONK Godson standing next to him in the ring as the audience back in London boos and jeers. What’s this life worth without friends, right?

 I make the money, man.

 I roll the nickels.

 The game is mine!

I deal the cards…

BEEEEEWAAAAAARRRREEE

“Beware” by Death Grips rips through the Accor Arena as the men of the hour step through the curtain and out on the stage, the PRIMEview lighting up with their insignia of choice; a grinning skull surrounded by roses, gold leaf lettering announcing their name to the masses: THE POOR WHORESMEN. Catchy, right? Harley Walker and Fred Dick and STRONK Godson and Daytona Diamonds, the Intense Championship slung over his shoulder for the very first time. Lowell Dot Com, god bless him, follows behind with a nervous look on his face.

They take a moment there at the top of the ramp to take it all in; the booing fans, the flashing lights, their theme music blaring before they make their way to the ring. Fred Dick slaps a cup out of some aisle rat’s hand. STRONK glares the glaringest glare that’s ever been glared. Harley Walker cusses up a storm, throwing up birds to the audience. Daytona Diamonds hoists the title high in the air, carrying it to the ring like a torch.

As the others climb into the ring, Daytona stops by where Vince Howard sits and exchanges a few words with the ring announcer before snatching a microphone away from him. The mic picks up a muffled, muttered threat before Daytona climbs the steps and joins his brothers-in-arms in the squared circle. He lifts the mic to his lips.

God help us all.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, howdy.

WHISTLING BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Daytona Diamonds: Goddang, Paris! S’that all it takes to get y’all riled up? Y’all better start pacin’ yourselves, else you ain’t gonna make it to the end of this fuckin’ segment, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

Daytona grins and laughs, reaching over and nudging Harley Walker on the shoulder. They both shake their heads, laughing.

Daytona Diamonds: Alright, alright. Calm down and listen up, peckerwoods. I got some shit that needs sayin’. Last week, y’all didn’t just see the birth of a goddang champion, y’all bore witness to the birth of the best fuckin’ gang of rough and rowdy motherfuckers this company’s ever seen. That’s us, by the way. Jus’ in case you’re slow.

As more weird European ‘boos’ rain down in the Accor Arena, Daytona adjusts the belt on his shoulder and soaks it all in, turning to the others who only egg him on.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’see, after WarGames, this ol’ cowpoke had a revelation. Standin’ in that ring, fightin’ under the eGG Bandits banner, even though I was a fish outta water, I saw the light: if you really wanna get ahead in this business, what you really need is a few good men watchin’ your back and makin’ sure ain’t nobody gonna fuck you over. Now, I fought like hell durin’ that match and I came out on the losin’ end, but it weren’t my fault. It was all because ol’ Coral Avalon don’t know how to build a team to save his fuckin’ life.

At the mention of Avalon’s name, the PRIMEates start to cheer, but Daytona shakes his head, leaning against the ropes and letting them finish.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’all done? Got that outta your system? Alright then. So, I started askin’ myself, what would I have done differently? For one, I would’ve picked some motherfuckers that were worth a damn. Other than me, Big Hess, and maaaaaybe ol’ Donny, that shit was downright pathetic.

Once again, we pause for whistling boos.

Daytona Diamonds: For two, I’d made sure we was all on the same page, that we all wanted the same thing… and that was ‘bout the time I looked ‘round and realized, well shitfire, there’s plenty of like-minded boys in the back. Boys who don’t like bein’ told what to do, boys who don’t like bein’ under nobody else’s thumb. A few phone calls here, a couple-a text messages there, and wouldn’t you fuckin’ know it? The Poor Whoresmen got down to business. Which, while we’re on the subject of business… Maxxy, if you’re listenin’ out there, I want to send my most sincere apologies. I got a vengeful steak a mile long and youshoulda known I weren’t fuckin’ ‘round after our first run in, but a the same… no hard feelings, huh? She’s safe and sound with me, don’t you worry.

Daytona pats the Intense Championship on his shoulder, winking for the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: But I want y’all to get one thing straight here and now: these boys ain’t no lackeys and I ain’t their boss. This here is a fuckin’ brotherhood, y’get me? A fuckin’ espirit de corps, for all you Frenchies out there. I don’t control these sons-a bitches and they sure as shit don’t control me.

Daytona pauses, looking over his shoulder at the other Whoresmen with an almost proud smile before turning back to the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: So, here we are, PRIME! The Poor Whoresmen! Big Freddy Dick! STRONK by gawd Daddy! Runnin’ Harley Walker! And me, your neeeeeew Intense Champion, The Rhinestone Cowboy! The best goddang collection of wrasslers to step foot in this fuckin’ ring! What do we want?! We want the money! We want the fame! We want to rebuild this fuckin’ place in our image and get treated like the kings we are! And there ain’t no one gonna stop us, y’hear? We’re here to stay, babies. Go on and tell ‘em like it is, Freddy.

The Rhinestone Cowboy blows a kiss to the audience watching from home before handing the mic off to Fred Dick, stepping back behind the boys.

Fred Dick: SAY, BLOOD!

Fred looks around as though he expects the crowd to say it back to him.

They don’t.

Fred Dick: Y’all wanna know the difference in Paris, France, and Paris, Texas?

A chorus of whistles begins to fill Accor Arena as everyone basically knows where this is going.

Fred Dick: Paris, Texas is in a good country!

WHIIIIIIIIIIIIISTLLLLLLEEEE BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~

Fred Dick: I mean the whole plane ride over here I kept hearing about how romantic this town is. How pretty it is. How it smells like sexy women and coffee. Well turns out that was a bunch of French propaganda god damn it! Because this town fuggin’ sucks, it’s uglier than the inside of an assho’, and it smells like eggs!

The cheap heat is cheap. But it is hot.

Fred Dick: But you best believe the Whoresmen ain’t here just to take a big ol’ stinky shid on your dumb ass country.  We’re also here to kick ass. We’re here to party. We’re here to get paid. And we’re also here to get laid! Tell ‘em what’s for, Harley!

Fred slaps the mic into Harley’s hand. He lifts his fist high in the air and makes a circle. Daytona puts his finger in the circle. We can vaguely hear them utter, “Whores Up” as the mic just picks it up.

Harley Walker: So, what the hell am I doing here? Truth is, I don’t know yet – but I like it that way. Life just ain’t worth livin’ unless it’s unpredictable and well…. Who could have predicted this? Fred Dick, the mo’fukin’ Rhinestone Cowboy, and then this son of a bitch right here. (points at STRONK!). We’ve got ourselves a squad to go to war with and now we’re just dyin’ to see what the rest of yall’ back there are gon’ do about it!

STRONK accepts the mic from Harley, gripping it in his enormous hand awkwardly as he stares blank-faced into the hard cam. He hasn’t ever delivered a live in-ring promo, at least not one he can remember (and he doesn’t remember much past what he had for pre-breakfast that morning—RIBEYE!), but his ride-or-dies had hyped him up before they walked through the curtain, so he was ready to talk his shit.

STRONK: A BROTHERHOOD IS A GROUP OF MALE HUMAN SIBLINGS THAT DO NOT SHARE BLOOD. AND THE IMPOVERISHED PROSTITUTESHUMANS IS A BROTHERHOOD. YES. THE GROUP IS NOT LARGE BUT THE MALE HUMANS IN IT ARE LARGE. STRONK WOULD DIE FOR STRONK’S MALE HUMAN SIBLINGS THAT ARE NOT RELATED. STRONK WOULD KILL FOR STRONK’S MALE HUMAN SIBLINGS THAT WERE EXPLODED OUT OF DIFFERENT FEMALE HUMAN VAGINAS. THE IMPOVERISHED PROSTITUTESHUMANS LIKE TO CONSUME MEAT AND LISTEN TO SOUNDS FROM A TINY NOT-METAL BOX AND SWEAT AND GRUNT AND GO FAST IN A LARGE METAL BOX AND TALK ABOUT TAKING OVER AMERICA AND ALSO NOT-AMERICA. STRONK IS TOLD PARIS IS NOT-AMERICA AND PARIS IS BAD FOR THAT REASON AND ALSO OTHER REASONS. YES. THE HUMANS OF PARIS ARE BAD BECAUSE OF WHERE THE HUMANS OF PARIS LIVE. AND STRONK WILL MAKE THE HUMANS OF PARIS SAD WHEN STRONK CRUSHES STRONK’S OPPONENT TONIGHT BECAUSE THE HUMANS OF PARIS WILL KNOW THAT SIZE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING AND STRONK IS TOLD THE HUMANS OF PARIS DO NOT HAVE SIZE AND THAT IS SAD. 

Lowell Dot Com, decked out in his ratty old ring jacket plastered with faded Fortune 500 logos from decades ago, swaggers up and snatches the mic from his client. He spins it ‘coolly’ in his hand, ready to absolutely go off on the fans and cement his place as the proverbial straw that stirs the roofied drink that is the Poor Whoresmen.

But before he can lift the mic to his chin, Daytona swiftly grabs it and maneuvers in front of him, pushing him out of the way like an afterthought.

Daytona Diamonds: Naw, naw. You don’t get mic time, Lloyd Dot Org. C’mon now! Ain’t nobody wantin’ to hear your dusty ass! Ahem… Y’know, a lotta folks like to come out here talkin’ ‘bout eras. They spit that good shit ‘bout how it’s their time and ain’t nobody elses. Hell, I bet there’s a buncha you chucklefucks out there askin’ if this is the start of the Whoresmen Era and, babies, I gotta tell you it ain’t no fuckin’ start…

By now, the audience sound like cicadas getting their last fuck in before going back underground. Ugh. Europe. Daytona doesn’t seem to let it affect him, smiling and posing with his title, rhinestones still glittering beneath all those overhead lights.

Daytona Diamonds: …it’s been our era all along. Y’all just ain’t been payin’ enough attention. We run the game. We deal the cards. Whoresmen, out.

And just like that, Daytona drops the mic. As soon as it hits the mat, “Beware” once against bursts through the PA system, bass so loud it could rattle the stars out of the sky. The Poor Whoresmen leave the ring and make their way back up the ramp the same way they came, tossing spare insults at the fans along the aisle and laughing like maniacs. At the top of the ramp, Lowell Dot Com stops STRONK before he heads back behind the curtain and points him back towards the ring. The other Whoresmen disappear backstage as STRONK turns to walk back down the ramp.

Let’s start the show.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/ReV47-Commercial.mp4

After some strong and powerful words from PRIME’s newest faction of fucks, the Poor Whore’s Men, it’s now time for ReVival 47, and I think we all know what that means!

SIGNS!

Yay!

WHORE SEMEN
MASTER OF CEREMONÈS
NATE COLTON EST LA CHIEEEEEEEEEEEEENNE
THE COWBOYS FOR CHRIST ARE DEAD. LONG LIVE THE CHAMPIONS FOR CHRIST.
I’M HERE FOR ROXY PHOENIX PILLOW WRESTLING
PIOUS PENGUIN BARES ALL ON ONLYFINS
A COWBOY, A STUNTMAN, A MUSCLE MAN AND A LITERAL CARTOON CHARACTER WALK INTO A BAR…
I’M HERE TO SEE THE POOR WHORESMEN STRONKY TONK MEN
I SAW TSONDA/SNOW AT GREAT AMERICAN NIGHTMARE 2009, SO THIS EPISODE OF REV IS KIND OF A RERUN FOR ME

STRONK GODSON and Lowell Dot Com are the last ones up the ramp as the Poor Whore’s Men are leaving, but STRONK stops when he hears his brand new killer theme – “PRIME Meat (Beast of the Deep)” by Drilly Nelson. He looks around confused, but recognizes the one universal truth: if he hears his theme music, he should go to the ring.

So, he turns around and marches down the ring with meat on his mind and murder in his muscles.

Wisely, Vince Howard decides that he should maybe do ring announcements on the floor and nowhere within the reach of STRONK’s meaty mitts.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen! The following contest is YOUR opening contest for this evening! Introducing first… from somewhere in Minnesota… he weighs in at THREE-HUNDRED AND SEVEN-POINT-ONE POUNDS! HE IS STRONK DADDY! THE BEAST FROM THE DEEP! THIS! IS! STROOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!! GOOOOOOOOOODSOOOOOOONNNNN!!!

STRONK enters the ring and stands as still as a statue, perhaps thinking of wet air and mermaids.

Nick Stuart: You have to wonder if Stronk – who’s making his debut tonight – will adjust to things around here in PRIME.

Richard Parker: No, no. It’s STRONK. You have to say it with some force. Use your diaphragm a bit more.

Nick Stuart: Sigh.

Richard Parker: Don’t just say the word sigh when you’re sighing! We just started! At least wait until after Cancer Jiles opens his mouth and uses words or something!

With STRONK in the ring, his opponent’s arrival is heralded by white and red spotlights. Slaves’ “Burning Our Morals Away” hits the PA system as Apollo Douglas emerges from the back, adorned in his swan mask and cape. He stands at the entryway and stares long at the 5’9” colossus standing in the ring as still as a statue before he tears off his regalia and sprints down to the ring.

Vince Howard: His opponent, from Bellevue, Nebraska! Weighing in at two hundred and thirteen pounds! APOLLLOOOOOOOOOO!!!! DOOOOO—

Vince, my man, you have no chance of finishing this entrance. The moment Douglas hits the ring and stands up to make his winged pose, STRONK lumbers at him with a lariat that nearly takes the Burning Swan’s head off. It’s like this guy has no real decorum for entrances or anything whatsoever.

Elvis Nixon immediately calls for the bell.

DING DING.

Nick Stuart: What a lariat by STRONK!

Richard Parker: There you go! You’re saying it right!

Douglas had hit the air in a full pirouette the moment STRONK made contact, and landed hard on the canvas. Fans gasp in shock, much the same as you might when a train hits a pedestrian at traveling speeds. And much like a lot of degenerate wrestling fans, they’d probably all rewind it to see it again if they could.

STRONK, all 307.1 pounds of him, simply turns around to face his downed opponent. Douglas is bewildered by what just hit him, and he’s crawling towards the corner because he needs the help of the ropes to get back to his feet. When Douglas manages to get to his feet, STRONK charges on him and crushes him in the corner with the world’s most terrifying Stinger Splash.

Richard Parker: Fly. Swatted.

Douglas collapses onto the canvas and STRONK is not done with him. He pulls the young man up to his feet and lifts him high over his head with a gorilla press. It’s effortless. It’s like STRONK is picking up a child. He even does some bicep curls. Hashtag bicep curls, in fact. It’s while he’s showing off that Douglas shows signs of life, wiggling out of the gorilla press and landing on his feet behind STRONK. When STRONK turns, visibly confused about how he managed to lose his human barbell, he takes a hard spinning elbow to the face.

This… well, have you ever tried to elbow a brick wall? I don’t recommend it. It’s a pretty solid construction, all around, and STRONK GODSON eats brick walls for breakfast every morning. He is feared among brick walls, that’s how much of a wall he is. So Douglas hits him and STRONK doesn’t really budge or react to it at all. So Douglas hits him with several more, and the only thing that results from that is that Douglas is shaking his arm in pain.

STRONK lunges at him with another lariat, but Douglas has the good sense to not be in the way of that train. He ducks underneath the lariat and runs into the ropes behind STRONK. A flying knee hits STRONK right in the bean, and it actually manages to stagger this muscly bowling ball with legs.

Nick Stuart: STRONK is rocked!

Richard Parker: …Ronked?

With his opponent thoroughly, uh… “ronked”, Douglas hits the ropes again and connects with a second knee. This does the unthinkable and spins STRONK around, putting him on his hands and knees. Douglas does not hesitate. After his momentum takes him into the ropes, he steps to the outside and grabs the top rope. He steadies himself, then leaps onto the top rope and springboards onto STRONK’s back with a huge senton!

Nick Stuart: Apollo Douglas is overcoming the shaky start and he’s got STRONK on the ground!

Richard Parker: Oh no! Not STRONK Daddy!

Douglas stands up holding his back – that was a lot of man meat he just sentoned – and turns to see what pieces he has to pick up, and… oh. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus fuck no.

STRONK is already standing up. Check that, he’s back on his feet.

Douglas is bewildered by this development. He runs in and hits STRONK with another knee, and then goes to the outside to try and hit him with another springboard move.

He flies, and maybe he probably should’ve come up with a better plan than “fly at the anti-air artillery barrage that is STRONK GODSON chopping him in the chest”.

SMACK!

OHHHHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: JESUS!

Nick Stuart: STRONK just chopped Apollo Douglas out of the sky!

Richard Parker: Why would you fly at a goddamn sixteen-cylinder unaliving machine like STRONK GODSON!?

The fans’ response to this goddamn Umeshoryu-level of anti-airing a motherfucker out of the sky is a mixture of whistles and cheers. STRONK pulls Douglas up to his feet and hands out his first very dangerous move of the match, which is a backdrop driver that bounces the back of the Burning Swan’s head off of the mat and sends him tumbling to the outside.

STRONK hates it when they go outside, that means more work for him.

He steps through the ropes and hops down, and looks down at his fallen opponent who is reacting to what just happened to him like his entire body has forgotten how breathing works. The worst kind of retrograde amnesia, to be honest. STRONK does the only thing he can think of: He takes all 307.1 pounds of pure PRIME Meat and steps on Douglas’s chest. Then he walks right over him. This move, the STAOUH SQUISH, does not help Douglas and his ability to breathe.

Nick Stuart: STRONK has to get him back in the ring here.

Richard Parker: I’m… not sure STRONK understands countouts, to be honest.

He does, actually. He respects the zebra man throwing out strange and arcane numbers at him. He knows that if he reaches a certain one of those strange and arcane numbers, the match ends and he can’t continue to smash this puny human man.

So, STRONK peels him off of the floor and throws him back into the ring. He starts to climb up the apron, but there’s a problem.

Apollo Douglas is not so puny and not so easily smashed. He’s also a lot tougher than he looks, considering that he hits the ring, and gets up running. By the time STRONK goes to get into the ring, Douglas hit the ropes and is coming back with a big dropkick that sends 307.1 pounds of STRONK into the guardrail behind him.

Fans scatter. Why wouldn’t they? They didn’t want to get run over by a freight train that just jumped the tracks and is hurling mercilessly into them, after all. Nobody in France has time for that.

Douglas gets up and runs into the ropes again. More fans in the front row scatter, knowing what’s coming and not wanting to be a part of the incoming train collision.

Nick Stuart: TOPE SUICIDA FROM DOUGLAS!

Richard Parker: Oh no!

Douglas is not done. He lands on his feet from the tope and slides back into the ring. One more. One more tope suicida. He flies at STRONK and lands on his shoulder.

…And he’s caught.

There’s a terrifying few moments where STRONK GODSON, the Beast from the Deep who probably strangled a shark to death with a Loop Hold once upon a time, has his arms around Douglas after catching him in the middle of a suicide dive through the middle ropes. But Douglas kicks his feet out, and he manages to swing his body. Momentum carries him from there.

Nick Stuart: DDT ON THE FLOOR!

Richard Parker: Oh no! That’s STRONK’s thinky meats! He needs those!

Did you, like, listen to STRONK like one segment ago? We’re not sure he does.

Douglas recovers, and with great effort, manages to muscle STRONK back into the ring. He’s fired up. He gets back into the ring, and lands another big knee on STRONK’s head. Wristlock, arm wringer, and Douglas pulls STRONK into a big ripcord knee strike!

Nick Stuart: He calls that one the Plagued Arrow! STRONK is in trouble!

Douglas maintains wrist control on the juggernaut that is STRONK GODSON, and steps over his arm. One more move, and he has this. All he has to do is roll forward and he’ll have locked in the Wing Breaker.

There’s just one problem.

Oh, sure, he rolled forward. He got a good leap and he’s still got hold of STRONK’s arm. The problem is that STRONK is still on his feet, and Douglas is in mid-air, held aloft solely by one of STRONK’s two tree limb-like arms.

Nick Stuart: How… how is that POSSIBLE!?

Douglas gets as far as getting his own shoulders on the mat, and Elvis Nixon dutifully counts. But at only one, STRONK musters up his impossible strength and starts dropping Douglas on the mat on his head and shoulders repeatedly. Even with Douglas breaks his grip after the third impact, STRONK simply grabs him by the head and does it a fourth time.

The crowd is stunned at the terrifying display of strength, and equally as stunned at what just happened to poor Apollo Douglas.

Douglas is crumbled up on the mat, and STRONK simply grabs him in a waistlock and deadlifts him into a German suplex.

Douglas hits the ground, rolls to his feet, and then collapses. STRONK seizes the opportunity, pouncing on Douglas and locking his arms around Douglas’ neck.

Nick Stuart: LOOP HOLD! Douglas is close to the ropes, but… NO! STRONK pulls him back into the center of the ring!

Douglas’ arms go flailing, trying to reach for ropes that aren’t anywhere within the same galactic quadrant as him. It isn’t long before his arms lose their strength and he fades. STRONK is liable to kill him, because he is a pitiless monstrosity that’s more muscle than man, but before he actually can… the zebra man known as Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING DING.

There’s a mixture of cheers and boo-whistles for STRONK as he reluctantly releases the Loop Hold, which only grow more when Vince Howard makes the formal announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match as a result of a ref stoppage… STROOOOOOOOOOOONK!!! GOOOOOOOOOODSSSOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!

STRONK breathes heavily, clearly already exhausted, but he raises his arms in triumph as “PRIME Meat (Beast of the Deep)” hits the PA system.

Richard Parker: PRIME Meat ruling the ring~

Nick Stuart: Apollo Douglas put up a hell of a fight, but I’m not sure he was fully prepared for STRONK here tonight.

Richard Parker: I’m not sure anyone can adequately prepare for him.

With STRONK leaving the ring in celebration, ReVival 48 carries on elsewhere.

Argyle position, the Doubleday brothers are getting ready for Dabney’s match against Kenny Freeman coming up next. The elder Doubleday is dressed in his trademark red and blue gear, his ring jacket slung over a nearby chair. It’s clear by the expression on his face and the visible tenseness in his shoulders Dabney is more than laser focused on this match. The camera approaches…

Douglas Doubleday: … because you’ve got this, Dabs. Remember what Gramps said, keep your eyes on the folks out there in the seats. They don’t give a piddle about your case of the yips. They’re not going to go home feeling like their dollar was well spent saying “gosh, that Doubleday kid sure did get over that crippling self doubt.” No, they want to see that kid who took half this pissin’ roster on for over an hour kick the spittle out of a sad little commie bootlicker.

Fair Play looks up and meets his brother’s gaze.

Douglas Doubleday: Feel me? Besides, how else is your little brother going to snag that manager of the year award this year? Gotta motivate my blue chip client to victory.

Dabney Doubleday smiles at that.

He opens his mouth to respond only to be cut off by a VERY familiar voice.

The camera pulls out to reveal Alexei Ruslan and Ivan Stanislav. Dabney’s opponent for tonight, Kenny Freeman can be seen lurking in the background behind Ivan.

Alexei Ruslan: You know, it is always nice to run into your competitors before the match. Look at the two fine Doubleday brothers, doing their best to convince themselves that they’re not about to be demolished on live television!

Douglas takes an immediately hostile posture, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring out from under his haircut at Alexei specifically. The two having had several very unfriendly and very public back and forth spats on Jabber.

Douglas Doubleday: Ahh, I thought I smelled spoiled borscht… Alexei, so sorry Dabs has to tie that little snot back there into a pretzel tonight. Hope Kenny will still be able to carry your bags to the car after the show. Ivan strikes me as the sort of weirdo diva that travels with like a huge Victorian lady style steamer trunk… am I right? Tell me I’m right.

Alexei Ruslan: I do not even know what you are rambling on about, you foolish child. But let me tell you this…

As Dougie and Alexei get lost in trading barbs between one another the camera sort of pulls back and refocuses on Dabney and Ivan Stanislav standing a few paces away. The two managers continue to measure one anothers privates in the background with lots of pointing and shouting and promises of ass-kickings made on their clients behalf. Y’all know how managers do. Ivan stands in front of Dabney with his hands at rest behind his back. Doubleday is clearly wary of Stanislav’s intentions here while the Russian Bear effortlessly looms over him.

Ivan Stanislav: Let those two discuss… whatever it is they discuss, Dabney. But, first off, allow Ivan Sergeiovich to congratulate you on showing at War Games. Not too bad of showing for someone a little green, would you say?

Dabney stands to his full height and meets Ivan’s gaze.

Dabney Doubleday: Thank you for that. But with all due respect Ivan, I might be new here to PRIME but I’ve been at this job long enough to not be referred to as green.

Doubleday narrows his eyes at the veteran, unphased, unintimidated. Stanislav smiles almost warmly. We’ve all seen this. That frighteningly warm grin from The Russian Bear, which usually hides behind it some sort of threat, or perhaps even worse, a promise.

Ivan Stanislav: Now, son, do not get all puffed up. There are different degrees of “green” so to speak. Take it from me. I have been doing this for a long time…

Stanislav glances past Dabney at Alexei and Douglas, and then turns slightly and brings his massive arm around Dabney’s strong, youthful shoulders.

Ivan Stanislav: I may have never experienced it before, but I can see in your eyes, dear boy, the echoes of such a colossal failure from War Games. Being pinned in such a way? Letting down all of those on your team?

Ivan cocks a brow, speaking conversationally.

Dabmney’s jaw visibly tightens as Ivan continues to speak..

Ivan Stanislav: Now, I know you are thinking ‘well, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav, Kenny Freeman experienced same thing!” But, he did not. That moron crashed match, and Kenny did what any good comrade would do, defended his own. He did not own that failure. It was thrust upon him by outside forces, unlike, well… what you experienced.

Stanislav stares the young man straight in the eyes.

Ivan Stanislav: Because I can see, Dabney, that behind all of that bravado? Well… it has shaken you.

And there’s that crooked, Russian grin.

Dabney Doubleday: I own the things I struggle with, Ivan…

We see Stanislav wince at the use of just his first name. Oh yes, there’s an eyelid twitch. He’s clearly about to correct Dabney, but Fair Play continues on much to his dismay.

Dabney Doubleday: Yes sir, losing that match got to me. The men I fought alongside became true friends and colleagues in the lead up to War Games… I wanted very badly to do it for them. I’m still learning to live with that loss. Without a doubt. But I don’t hide… hide and lie. Especially not to myself. Not when I have so many people cheering me on.

Dabney leans a little closer to Ivan. The Russian Bear can’t help but sneer at the presumptuousness.

Dabney Doubleday: I lost. But I showed what I can do in that ring. I showed how deep that well inside me is. I’ve been going through it, and I hope I can be an example to folks out there going through similar struggles. I’m going to go out there and beat your boy, Ivan. I’m going to show you, Alexei, and anyone else trying to punch down on folks every dang day that despite people like you, despite whatever circumstances they face, whatever failures… you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, get back in there and keep pitchin’.

Whatever smile Ivan had has since melted into a slight, yet very telling frown. There is just the slightest rumble in his chest.

Ivan Stanislav: Inspiring, Dabney.

He slides his hand to the back of Dabney’s neck as he leans in, almost conspiratorially, and in doing so he seems to block Dabney from everything else with his bulk. His huge head close to the young man’s.

Ivan Stanislav: I want you to listen to me, Dabney. Remove the lens of hatred you have for me and my people. Dispel your preconceived notions about my character. Ignore your want to dismiss what I have to say before I say it.

Stanislav pauses to make sure Dabney is, indeed, listening.

Doubleday’s curiosity is piqued. Still clearly on the offensive, but he is listening…

Ivan Stanislav: Those ‘friends’ of yours from War Games? They do not care about you. Youngblood wants only accolades for himself. Tsonda is interested in his own reflection. Colton wishes to only make his family proud. The Luchador is a maverick. I could go on and on. Why, they did not even pick you for the team, Dabney. You were thrust upon them by Lindsay Troy and they grudgingly accepted. They may not say it to your face, but PRIME is a den of wolves and home to countless jackals.

Stanislav nods off to the side, where Alexei and Dougie are arguing, and Kenny lurks.

Ivan Stanislav: I carried Kenny Freeman from War Games. Because he is my brother, my comrade, and we help each other. We care for one another. We fight together to make PRIME a better place for everyone. So, Dabney, I know we have our different points of view. I know you wish to win this match. You should. You are a competitor. But…

Ivan winks.

Ivan Stanislav: …do keep in mind that there is an opening in The Red Army after Arthur Pleasant… left. I think, dear boy, if you give it some thought and think about how we are trying to grant everyone an equal shake in PRIME, you may feel more at home.

Stanislav straightens his back and gives Dabney just one slap on the back, not overly hard though.

Ivan Stanislav: Think about it. This is all I ask. Do not answer now. Just consider it.

Ms. Doubleday’s baby boy’s face doesn’t betray him. He glares back at The Russian Bear.

Before he can retort a stage hand sidles up to the pair, clearly a little intimidated by the energy between the two competitors. He looks at Ivan, gulps then to Dabney quietly telling Doubleday it’s time for his and Kenny’s match.

Dabney Doubleday: If you’ll excuse me… Ivan.

Dabney grabs his ring jacket off the nearby chair and whips it on. Stanislav takes one step backwards and slides his huge hands into his pants pockets. As he does the camera refocuses on Douglas and Alexei who’ve been having a very animated discussion off mic but within our field of view the entire time. Ruslan, noticing the shift and Doubleday preparing to leave, breaks off the conversation and moves next to Ivan, pointing first at Dabney, and then at Douglas.

Alexei Ruslan: For the record! As a two time Manager of the Year Recipient in PRIME, a Manager of the Year in OSW, Manager of the Year in PCW, and former PCW World Champion, no one wants a Manager of the Year who has a haircut that makes him look like a circumcised penis!

Douglas stands his ground. He’s heard it all, he knows what he looks like…

Douglas Doubleday: Man, won’t that be embarrassing then when you lose manager of the year this year to this circumcised friggin’ penis, you old prick! Oh and another thing…

Dabney places a hand on his little brother’s shoulder pulling him in the direction of the entrance curtain.

Dabney Doubleday: Come on Dougie, time to go to work.

Alexei looks up at Ivan and lifts a curiously brow. Stanislav looks down at his old friend.

Ivan Stanislav: May have to start calling him Self-Doubting Doubleday.

A rumbling chuckles rolls through Ivan as he and Alexei turn to Kenny and the other two join in the laughter and with that, we cut back to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Coming up next we have a match between Kenny Freeman and Dabney Doubleday. Both men coming off Wargames disappointments, both men looking for something to prove. Let’s get this started.

A trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays over throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage, looking surprisingly confident in his chances of winning the match at hand with Randall Schwartz beside him, much to the chagrin of the crowd as they whistle the Master of the Moscowverse as Kenny walks to the ring.

Arriving at the ring, Kenny steps through the ropes, Randall staying at ringside to cheer the junior member of the Red Army on!

Vince Howard: This match is for one fall. Introducing first, from Los Angeles, California…weighing in at 160 pounds, representing The Red Army…KENNY! FREEEEEEEMAAAAAN!

“Southern Nights” by Glen Campbell comes on, and Dabney Doubleday appears at the top of the ramp. The fans cheer, but Dabney isn’t smiling like he usually does as he makes his way to the ring with his brother Dougie in tow.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, from Mayo Florida…he is Mrs. Doubleday’s Perfect Little Gentleman…DABNEY! DOOOUBLLEEDAAAAAY!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And here we go, both competitors sizing each other up.

Dabney moves in for a typical collar-and-elbow tie-up, but Kenny Freeman doesn’t want to be typical. He can’t be typical. It’s not in his contract. He sends a quick kick downstairs to Dabney, not quite in the groin area but close enough for Jimmy Turnbull to give him some words.

Nick Stuart: Well I guess that’s one way to start a match.

Richard Parker: He’s learning from Ivan!

Nick Stuart: I think Ivan may have thrown his opponent a bit more, but I catch your meaning.

Dabney is a bit stunned and Freeman takes the advantage, sending elbows to the back of Dabney’s head. Freeman grabs Doubleday’s head and smashes it against his knee, then rolls Doubleday up for the pinfall.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: Barely a one count, and Dabney hasn’t even begun to think about quitting yet.

Indeed, there’s enough fight still in Dabney that he won’t even let Freeman get him to his feet. Instead, he shoves him back and springs to his feet, leveling Freeman with a clothesline. Kenny jumps up and eats another clothesline, but still is able to pop right back up. It was probably a mistake, though, as Dabney grabs him and lifts him over in a beautiful vertical suplex.

Nick Stuart: Dabney Doubleday coming out like a house on fire, and these fans are loving it! He sure looks more focused tonight than perhaps he has in previous matches.

Richard Parker: Obviously, Nick. The guy feels bad that he screwed the pooch for his team at Wargames, and I got to be honest, he should feel bad.

Nick Stuart: You can’t be serious.

Richard Parker: As serious as Bobby Dean scouring a dessert menu. He’s the one who lost. He wasn’t strong enough.

Richard is being callous about it, but looking at Dabney’s face, you can see there may be some truth in Richard’s words. Dabney isn’t smiling, or focusing on the crowd. He is only focused on Kenny. He pulls Kenny up and forces him into the corner, then hits him across the chest with a big chop. He then grabs his arm and puts all of his body into throwing Kenny to the other corner, which causes Freeman to fall to the ground.

Nick Stuart: He calls that The Miracle Whip, and despite your negative take on it, I do think Dabney is motivated tonight. This one may be over quick if Kenny can’t turn the tide!

If the tide is going to turn, it won’t be at this moment, as Kenny is still struggling to get to his feet. Dabney Doubleday closes the distance between them and grabs him, then tosses him back into the corner and assaults him with punches and kicks. Then he grabs Kenny’s head and leaps out into a bulldog and covers him.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman kicks out, but he’s in a lot of trouble here!

Richard Parker: That’s why Ivan needs to come to the ring for his Red Army cohorts! He could easily scare Dabney into submission. What’s Randall going to do, yell?

And that, my dear friends, is how we weave a story. Because no sooner are the words out of Richard’s mouth than Randall Schwartz wheels himself towards the ring and begins yelling. A lot. Really loudly.

Nick Stuart: This is your fault.

Richard Parker: It is not! I’m merely an instrument of fate!

Everyone in the ring, including Kenny, are able to ignore Randall, at least at first. But there’s someone who doesn’t have to ignore Randall, and in fact will not.

Nick Stuart: Dougie Doubleday has had enough of this noise!

Dougie walks over to Randall, and Kenny immediately grabs Jimmy Turnbull, showing him the cowardly manager who is approaching a poor invalid. Jimmy, confused and annoyed, leans against the ropes and starts yelling at Dougie, who pleads his case.

While all this chaos is happening on the outside, Kenny takes advantage, drilling Dabney with a kick to the groin. And this audience becomes a bunch of Otis Reddings, because there is a LOT of whistling after that.

Nick Stuart: What a joke! Kenny just hit Dabney with a low blow!

Richard Parker: And these fans love it!

Nick Stuart: I told you Richard, whistling is a bad thing here. It’s their version of booing!

Richard Parker: Then why does it sound so cool?

Cool or not, Kenny Freeman pays no attention as he takes control of the match. He bounces off the ropes and comes back with a dropkick to Dabney’s face. He immediately pops back up, lifts Doubleday to his feet, and hits him with a quick DDT. He then drops down and lifts Dabney to his knees before slapping on a headlock.

Turnbull is still dealing with Dougie, who is shouting even louder than Randall was now that he sees his brother in trouble. Meanwhile, Kenny wrenches on Dabney’s head, screaming for him to tap. He doesn’t tap, of course, because this is a headlock and Kenny has only gotten in a few moves. But that doesn’t stop Kenny from lying.

Kenny starts to slap his free hand on the ground, then screams at Turnbull.

Kenny Freeman: HE’S TAPPING! HE’S TAPPING!

Dabney’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head. Jimmy Turnbull turns around and looks at Dabney, confused. He asks him if he tapped, which causes Dabney to shake his head again. Kenny is incensed.

Kenny Freeman: HE DID TAP! HE TAPPED LIKE THIS!

And once again Kenny slaps the mat. Now, the first time he did this, he was quick enough to put his arm back around Dabney and solidify the headlock. However, this time he’s so distracted that he continues to slap the canvas, unaware that only one arm is around Dabney’s head, so it’s less of a headlock and more like putting an arm around a date at a movie theater. And so Dabney starts to stand up with Kenny attached to him.

Kenny Freeman: Uh oh.

Dabney gets to his feet, relishing in the cheers of the crowd, before dropping him in an Atomic Drop.

Richard Parker: Nice try Kenny, but that was dumb.

Nick Stuart: Hotseat! Dabney took advantage of Kenny trying to cheat, and now Kenny is in trouble again!

Kenny comically hops up, holding himself, then turns around and gets blasted with a clothesline. He holds his hands up to cheers – and a lot of yelling again.

Nick Stuart: Randall Schwartz will not stop shouting! What is he even saying?

Richard Parker: Something about Russia. Or multiverses. Or wheelchairs. Got these dudes are weird.

Dabney is getting frustrated, and he walks over to the ropes and starts pointing and yelling back. Randall suddenly stops shouting and starts laughing, though let’s be honest it’s pretty similar.

Richard Parker: How did he fall for it again?

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman levels Dabney with a dropkick to the back of his head! Dabney is out, and here comes Kenny!

We’ve seen it before. Kenny bounces off the ropes, then stops for a dance. What dance? Well, he wanted to do something French because of where they are, but he didn’t do his research, so he just wiggles his hips and says “Something French!” before hitting Dabney with a leg drop.

More whistling, of course. And a pinfall.

ONE!

TWO!

TH…

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Dabney isn’t done yet! But Kenny is grabbing him…he’s looking for the Freeman Special! They’re in the middle of the ring so if he locks this in it’s over!

As Kenny works to lock in his hold, Dabney gets a burst of energy and reverses it, grabbing Kenny’s arms and twisting them, then jumping over Kenny’s body.

Nick Stuart: Wow! What a manuever! Dabney Doubleday has the Lazy Susan locked in! Kenny struggles…he’s fighting…he gives up!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Well the Red Army tried their best to cheat Dabney out of this one, but Doubleday was able to pull out the victory! And you have to wonder if you’ll see this same intensity from him going forward.

Richard Parker: Speaking of intensity, Kenny better watch for Ivan backstage. He’s not going to be happy!

We cut to commercial.

Perhaps you know of the conga line.

It’s a beautiful mess, one that’s been raging since the Gluebration just two weeks ago. A lot of things have happened through the power of conga. Beautiful things. As though for one beautiful moment stretched out over two weeks, the people of England could forget all of their problems and conga the night away. Naturally, it’s gotten pretty ridiculous, and by that I mean that you might be able to see the conga line from space.

Nothing can stop the conga line. It’s its own thing now, an entity that transcends what it means to be human. If you’ve ever seen the documentary known as the Human Centipede, this isn’t at all like that at all and honestly I can’t believe your brain went there immediately on the subject of conga lines, but we’re like one step away from this becoming some sort of eldritch conga horror.

Something has to give.

As the conga line approaches the Accor Arena, it reaches the first momentum staller it has experienced in over two weeks. That includes somehow surviving a trip through an underground rail tunnel with the entire thing still kicking and dancing away. The banging jam of the “Vengabus” continues to blare at volumes louder than most fighter jets create, yet this spectacle of writhing humanity can be humbled by one single security guard lifting his arm and blocking the entrance to the backstage of the arena.

Mr. Man Who Is A Security Guard: There is no way that all of this…

He gestures to the line that the camera cannot even detect the back of.

MMWIASG: Is sufficiently credentialed. Can I see your documentation?

Cecilworth stops the line for a second and turns behind him to Joe, Hank and god knows who else is in the squelchy mass.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s okay everyone, I speak to local lingo. Yes sir, I have Le Pass Backstaique.

We’ll ignore the fact that the security man was already speaking English the whole time, as Cecilworth digs into his pocket to look for what he assumes to be something that this man wants. Unfortunately, before Cecilworth can produce results, a rather strange thing happens – the former Five Star Champion drops to the ground and begins screaming in agony, rolling around in the dirt.

MMWIASG: I still need a pass.

The security guard seems very blasé about the immense pain that Cecilworth Farthington appears to be going through, as he continues to roll back and forward on the ground like an upturned turtle placed there by a particularly psychopathic child. It’s around this point that Good Glue Boy Hank realises this is probably not one of Cecilworth’s elaborate bits and goes to check on him.

Cecilworth Farthington: MY LIMBS! ALL MY PRECIOUS LIMBS!

Much of the rest of the conga line continues to look on, horrified at seeing a real time limb explosion in front of their very eyes as Hank scoops Cecilworth up into his arms. The security guard continues to not care very much, very typical of the French, am I right? Tell me about it. Joe Fontaine, from wherever the hell he was in the line, rushes forward, sensing that something isn’t quite right.

Cecilworth Farthington: JOE! MY LIMBS! THEY HURT!

Perhaps this whole experience has been a cautionary tale of the dangers of too much conga, or possibly the dangers of stopping a conga. Conga dangers all around.

Joe sees Cecilworth lying on the ground, yelling about his limbs, and looks as white as a sheet as he kneels down next to him and takes a few moments to examine him.

Joe Fontaine: My God.

He turns to Mr. Man Who Is A Security Guard, and it’s only now that the audience might pick up on the fact that Joe looks about as haggard as a man who’s spent the better part of two weeks in a conga line should. Has he even showered?

Joe Fontaine: I haven’t seen conga-related injuries like these since Pasadena! This is, like… okay, I’m not a doctor, but I think the proper term for this is Acute Congaitis! That shit sucks! Speaking of doctors, we need a doctor! We need a priest! We need one of those funny espressos that Cecilworth likes!

Mr. Man Who Is A Security Guard stares at them.

MMWIASG: …Documentation.

Joe stares back, as though Mr. Man is staring at the abyss and he has to stare back at it because the abyss loves staring contests. Sometimes, the abyss loses the staring contest so hard that it becomes its own brother. It’s a whole thing.

Joe Fontaine: Bro, this is Cecilworth Farthington! You know, the greatest 5-Star Champion who’d ever lived and the coolest and best dude there ever was, who led the Glueminati to glorious victory at WarGames and really, we should be treating him with a lot more respect right now considering that he has, like, Super Acute Congaitis and that might be a medical emergency of some description! He might die. He might die and you’re going to be responsible and then everyone in Europe is going to hate you and curse your name and spit on you and say bad things about you and kick you in the shin when you’re out on the street one night and trying to buy a pack of cigarettes because your wife has left you and you need something to help you cope so I would appreciate it if you had a little bit of humanity for my close and personal friend Cecilworth Farthington and give him a helping hand because this is very super ultimate serious.

If any of that long run-on sentence got through to Mr. Man, he doesn’t let it show on his face or in what he says next.

MMWIASG: Documentation.

Joe Fontaine sighs and reaches into his pocket and pulls out his backstage pass, showing it for all to see.

Joe Fontaine: I hate you.

MMWIASG: I know.

Hank, now holding Cecilworth with one hand, as Cecilworth continues to yell “OH MY GOODNESS, MY LIMBS, I NEED A LIMB DOCTOR”, digs into Cecilworth’s pocket and produces his own backstage pass.

MWAIASG: And the rest?

Ah, a problem that dawns on Hank and Joe at the same time, the rest of this thriving mass that stands behind them, still kicking their legs to the funky beats of the “Vengabus” song, may not currently possess backstage passes.

Joe Fontaine: ……..Oh.

Joe shares a look with Hank, and speaks for both of them for obvious reasons.

Joe Fontaine: Fuck, that’s gonna be so many backstage passes.

Hank looks back to the line, clutching a pained Cecilworth like a struggling infant, shrugs his shoulders and goes inside. Weirdly, this causes “Vengabus” to stop playing with immediate effect and as if the entire mass was in a hyponotised stupor for two whole weeks, they immediately disperse into the streets of Paris. Perhaps to enjoy the sights, the Eiffel Tower, why not. Certainly not backstage though, that was too many passes.

We cut elsewhere.

We see the leader of KING standing in a stairwell. She’s dressed for her match — black pants, blue top, white sunglasses. A smile is on her face as she stares down the barrel of the camera.

Rose: Paris. France. ReVival 47. Can you smell it in the air? Because I sure as hell can. I smell the hatred on each bead of sweat, and each Parisian in the Accor Arena is perspiring at this very moment. And it’s that hatred, the animosity that each and every single one of you feel for me, that fuels me in this moment. I’m not looking for your cheers; I’m not thirsting for your approval, and for that very reason, you can’t stand me.

She lowers her glasses slightly.

Rose: Good.

The Second Coming cracks her neck quickly, causing some viewers to shudder in disgust.

Rose: I hear in France that the way you jeer someone around here is you whistle. So go ahead and get your lungs ready because I want to hear every single one of you whistling at me. Hell, click your tongues. Stomp your feet. Throw up two birds. None of it will phase me, if anything, it will motivate me. To take your hatred and pour it into my opponent tonight. I’ve heard it from every arena and stadium that I’ve stepped into before, so why should tonight be any different?

She inches closer to the camera.

Rose: Because you won’t take this moment away from me. I wrestled in Cardiff, slammed a steel pipe across the face of Pleasant in London, and debuted in New Orleans. I’ve seen the world, and let me tell you, I look forward to hearing what the Parisians have for me. Because all it does is allow me to introduce Sean O’Neill to a new world of hurt.

The camera remains on the Second Coming as she begins pacing back and forth in the stairwell.

Rose: O’Neill, I hope you have enjoyed the high this past month has brought for you, being part of the winning War Games team. You’ve probably lived on Cloud 9 as you’ve visited your buddies all over Ireland. I bet they’ve raised a pint in your honor, done shots with you in a seedy bar, and you’ve probably felt like you’re invincible. You probably got the same message I got telling you who your opponent is, saw it was me, and blew it off.

She stops in her tracks and glares at the camera.

Rose: And you made the biggest mistake of your life when you did. Because, while you’re off soaring, I’m living with my own self-loathing. You see, these thoughts rattle around in my brain, and I can’t help but feel like I’m just coming up short a few too many times. I’ve got people with their eyes looking at me as if I don’t belong, as if I should just walk away. Well, my daddy didn’t raise a quitter. No, instead, I’m just going to dig down deep and figure out what I’ve been missing. I think Sean, you’re the key I’ve been missing — the person that is going to help me get over the hump and break this streak I’ve been on.

She inches closer to the camera, a smirk on her face.

Rose: You’ve been flying high, living in a fantasy world while the rest of us are having to deal with reality. There’s been no parade in my honor, no pats on my back, no congratulatory text messages. Instead, I’ve been living with doubt and hate. Doubt and hate that I plan on delivering to you on a nice, shiny platter. Then, you can return to those same bars with your friends and realize how quickly they’ve abandoned you. Because you’re a fraud — everyone can see it. The only text messages you’ll receive are ones asking how you could lose to the rookie without a victory in her name.

The Second Coming grabs at the glasses on her face and removes them completely.

Rose: And it will be simple. Because you just experienced the moment—I met it head-on.

Her hand wraps around the lens of the camera, shrouding it in darkness before she pushes it away. We’re left with a shot of the ceiling as we hear her footsteps echo through the vacant stairwell before we cut elsewhere.

Backstage!

Simon Tillier, PRIME’s junior reporter and bullshit magnet, is in the locker room. There’s a bunch of wrestlers in there too. Some of them have their shirts off, if you’re into that sort of thing.

He’s here for an interview, only the subject of said interview isn’t on his mark.

Simon Tillier: Where the heck is…oh.

He doesn’t have to go far; he spots two wrestlers in the middle of a conversation in front of one of the lockers. One is Crash, all red hair and devil-may-care, the Brost with the Most. The other is Nate Colton; straight-laced as ever and rocking a Ligue de Catch Parisienne t-shirt.

Nate Colton: I think you’re on the right track. Just keep working at it, and you’ll break through. You got this, bro.

Crash: Thank you, bro. I get the sense most of these jokers think I’m the joke but you and Cap’n Oinkers get what I’m doin’… Would you wanna go blaze this J and raid the croissant cart?

Nate Colton: Heh. Not my scene, but I’m definitely down for a croissant later. Take it easy, bro.

They share a fist bump, then Crash gives another to the plush pig sitting on the top shelf of the locker before taking his leave. Simon chooses that moment to make his approach.

Simon Tillier: Umm…excuse me? Nate?

Nate Colton: Oh, shoot. We’re doing the thing now, aren’t we. I’m sorry, bro.

Simon Tillier: I can wait, if–

Nate Colton: Nah, bro. You’ve got a job to do and I need to be respectful of your time. Let’s do this.

Colton lowers his head and mutters to himself for a few seconds…

Nate Colton: Broooooo, bro bro bro bro bro.

…then faces the camera and puts on his best smile. Simon shoots him a quizzical look.

Nate Colton: Sorry, I had to get the bros out of my system. Crash is a great dude, but the way he talks can be infectious, y’know?

Simon also turns toward the camera and holds up his microphone. Let’s get to work.

Simon Tillier: Good evening, fans! I’m here in the locker room with “The New Diamond” Nate Colton.

Nate Colton: Hey, Simon. Are those glasses new? They look really sharp.

Simon Tillier: Um…no, I’ve had these…but thank you! Nate, let’s go back to Culture Shock for a moment. What prompted the change from “The Next Diamond” to “The New Diamond?”

Nate Colton: Series of wake-up calls, you might say. See, it’s been almost two years since Brandon told me I was the Next…took me a while to grow into the mantle, but once I did I was proud to carry it. Carried it well, too–but that was never meant to last forever. And that really got driven home right before War Games. Somethin’ about spending time with those guys…especially this friggin’ guy right here! DABNEY!

That’s about when Dabney Doubleday walks into the shot, fresh off his match with Kenny Freeman. His body is covered with a sheen of sweat; his face with a mile-wide smile. Just behind him is Dougie, carrying Dabney’s ring jacket and whatever excitement his brother had left over.

Nate Colton: Dabs! You tore it up tonight, man!

They do one of those “handshake that turns into a bro hug” moves. Dabney leaves a huge sweat mark on Nate’s shirt, but who cares? We’re all about riding that high.

Dabney Doubleday: Hey! Thanks bud. I appreciate it. Couldn’t have done it without great backup… right Dougie?

The elder Doubleday claps his little brother on the shoulder with a smile as they walk past.

Nate Colton: Hell yeah, you’re right. Big Dog! Up top!

Colton holds up his hand, just high enough that Dougie can reach it without leaving his feet. The resulting high five? Intense, baby.

Douglas Doubleday: You’re growin’ on me, Colton! Not gonna lie! You’re growin’ on me!

The brothers walk out of the shot, their grins spreading to the rest of the locker room as they continue whooping and hollering.

Nate Colton: Those guys, I swear. Sorry, where were we?

Simon Tillier: Your teammates for War Games, I believe.

Nate Colton: Right. That team was like a wake-up call for me. Made me realize that I’d gotten numb to the way things are done around here…and that I needed to step up if I wanted that to change.

Simon Tillier: What does this new role mean to you…and what does it mean for the rest of PRIME?

Nate Colton: It means I need to set the standard, show people that there’s a better way of doing things. Take over for Brandon Youngblood, or TAL, or Jared…God, that guy’s been through things that would break anyone. They deserve the chance to chase their own goals. Meanwhile, we’ve got a locker room full of wrestlers who get thrown into the meat grinder as soon as they sign a contract. I want to help them get their footing, give ‘em a hand when they need it, and help see ‘em through until they can stand on their own.

Simon Tillier: And what about those who don’t share this ideal? Between the existing factions, and now the new one that just formed…

Nate Colton: Yeah, I saw. I’m sure i’ll be dealing with them soon enough. I just hope they know that the bastards aren’t going to have it all their own way anymore. Sage Pontiff got a taste of that two weeks ago.

Simon Tillier: You’re referring to your victory at ReV46.

A sly smile.

Nate Colton: Little bit. I mean, we all know who Sage is and what he wants. So I made damn sure he didn’t get it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not afraid to throw down when it’s necessary. But I also know what happens when you play someone else’s game. Instead, I made him play mine…and just like I warned him, he didn’t enjoy it.

Simon Tillier: Speaking of ReV46, FLAMBERGE had a lot to say about you during his victory celebration.

The mention of the Lizard King gets a

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

from the crowd, but a great big eyeroll from Colton.

Nate Colton: That guy. Y’know, the way he was bitching like a kid who didn’t get ALL the Power Rangers for Christmas, you’d think I won War Games instead of him. If he’s got a problem–well, he’s definitely got more than one, but you know what I mean–I ain’t hiding’, he can come and find me. That’s if Adam leaves any left–hey, Warrensburg!

Off to the side of the room, Adam Ellis looks up from his last-minute equipment check.

Adam Ellis: Yeah?

Nate Colton: Tell FLAMBO I said he’s got a stupid haircut.

Adam Ellis: Heh. You got it, man.

Nate Colton: OK, but not really. He’ll probably try to kick your head off.

Adam Ellis: He’s gonna try to do that anyway.

Nate Colton: Don’t get your head kicked off, Adam.

Adam Ellis: Good call. Thanks, Nate!

In case you were worried that Nate wasn’t still a big dork, fret not. He absolutely is.

Simon Tillier: Are you at all concerned about painting a target on your back? Either from your enemies, or from the very people you’re trying to help?

Nate Colton: I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m signing up for. I’m fighting against decades of momentum and history, plus a whole roster full of people who weren’t told ‘no’ enough as kids and sure as hell aren’t told it enough now. Won’t be easy, but like the old man always says, nothing worth it ever is.

Simon Tillier: Strong words and a strong stance from the New Diamond. Nick, Richard…back to you!

The video feed takes you, the viewer, back to the announce desk. Meanwhile, the rest of us are gonna go help Crash with that J and croissant cart.

Richard Parker: And now we have the battle of the bridesmaids.

Nick Stuart: What does that even mean?

Richard Parker: Because they’re… you know what, never mind. I don’t need to explain myself to you.

The opening chords of Chevelle ‘s “Comfortable Liar” ring out, signalling the imminent arrival of Seán O’Neill. After a few seconds, O’Neill emerges on the entrance way and takes a second to scan the crowd, he makes no effort to hide the look of distain showing on his face, before starting for the ring.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, from Belfast, Northern Ireland… weighing in at two hundred and thirty-one pounds… SUURREEAALLL SEAN O’NEILLLLLL!

Richard Parker: He’s had a tough run lately, but I like the cut of his jib.

As usual, the announcement is met with a chorus of jeers from the crowd. Ignoring the reception, O’Neill vaults over the top-rope to enter the ring. Moving into the middle of the ring he looks up to the rafters of the arena whilst spreading his arms straight out to each side.

As he lowers his head, O’Neill smirks at some private joke before moving into the corner where he stretches out on the ring-ropes and rolls his shoulders and wrists, as he gets ready to lock up.

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

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

Then, “What’s Up Danger” by Black Caviar and Blackway plays throughout the Accor Arena.

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

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

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

WHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSTTTTTTLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!

…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.

Ashley Barlow calls for the bell as the two competitors circle one another in the center of the ring.

DING, DING, DING 

Richard Parker: Here we go, folks. This one should be about as exciting as a brisk.

Nick Stuart: Rose comes right in with a series of jabs and hooks.

O’Neill is caught off guard by the fury of Rose this quick into the match. He staggers back on his feet, trying to deflect blow after blow. Rose uses an assortment of strikes, from elbows to low kicks, keeping O’Neill off guard long enough to press him into the corner. Finally, O’Neill catches his breath as Rose goes in for a European Uppercut, grabbing a hold of her left arm. He pivots on his heel and twists,  violently slams The Second Coming into the turnbuckles before wrapping her around the waist.

Nick Stuart: Rose’s head bounces off the mat from that belly-to-belly suplex.

Richard Parker: Here we go, another ReVival another Rose loss. Let’s wrap this up.

There is no pause in the action as O’Neill doesn’t let up, rolling to tie the same arm used to ragdoll Rose into a scissored armbar. Ashley Barlow kneels to check in with Rose. With a blank stare and rage in her eyes, Rose stares straight ahead. Rose takes a second to center herself before landing a stiff blow right into the crotch of ‘Surreal’ O’Neill.

Nick Stuart: A low blow from Rose stops O’Neill in his tracks.

Richard Parker: That hit his thigh.

Nick Stuart: Are you serious?

Both fighters are quickly on their feet. They begin going back and forth, strike for strike. Neither gives an inch as they stand in the ring exchanging lefts and rights. Although the crowd whistled for Rose at the beginning of the match, they cannot help but be impressed by her willingness to go toe to toe against Sean O’Neill.

Eventually, O’Neill gets the upper hand by catching a left jab from Rose and rolling her over his hip. She winces in pain at the continued attacks on her left arm. Unfortunately for her, O’Neill doesn’t let go, locking in a top wristlock. He pulls the arm in trying to bridge for leverage.

Rose tries to roll O’Neill off of her, but he turns with her, pulling her arm in closer and settling into a fujiwara armbar.

Nick Stuart: Rose is in a tough spot here. She tries to roll over to get free, but O’Neill pulls her arm in closer and turns the wrist, trapping him.

Richard Parker: She’s Dusk’s kid, she’ll figure it out.

Nick Stuart: What happened to “Another ReVival, another Rose loss”?

Richard Parker: How can you not have a bit of heart for her after that exchange of shots?

Ashley Barlow again kneels to check in with Rose. Once again, despite her arm being twisted ten ways from what God intended, Rose is stone-faced. As O’Neill lifts his ass in the air to apply maximum pressure, Rose begins to snake her right arm around. Within moments Sean O’Neill is leaping up with his eyes wide.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure what just happened there, but Rose somehow manages to break free again.

Richard Parker: Nick, that is what you call a butt drag. Big in Olympic wrestling.

Beginning to get frustrated with her tactics, O’Neill goes right after Rose. but she plummets to the ground and catches him in a drop toe-hold.

Richard Parker: Yeah! Right into the turnbuckle.

Quickly trying to keep the edge, O’Neill pushes himself up and turns around to the center of the ring. He only gets two steps in before Rose bounds off the opposite ropes for a perfectly executed springboard crossbody.  Rose’s 135 pounds hits him like it was bricks in a pillowcase and he crumples to the ground. After a round of elbow strikes, Rose maneuvers to wrap O’Neill’s left leg behind her own before dropping down to the canvas and rolling over to cross his legs up in her own.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Rose is going for a figure 4 surfboard as she reaches up to grab hold of O’Neill’s arms, but he isn’t giving them up.

Richard Parker: Impressive technical prowess by this little spitfire.

Nick Stuart: Rose lands several elbows into O’Neill’s lower back until he finally gives up the arms.

It’s known O’Neill has a bad knee as well as a lower back and both of them are at a breaking point as Rose leans back with all of her weight. It isn’t much weight compared to O’Neill’s usual opponents, but he wouldn’t believe that right now if you told him. Nope, Rose may as well be David and he Goliath in Sean’s mind.

The fans begin stomping their feet and clapping their hands. Although not normally a crowd favorite per se, the French crowd has ultimately decided to side with Surreal on this one. His eyes light up as he realizes they’re cheering for him to break free. He begins rocking back and forth, ignoring the immense pressure on his aging lower extremities. Rose shakes her head no as she, too, begins moving with O’Neill.

On a final shift, O’Neill manages to roll both of them, breaking Rose’s hold. Immediately they’re both up exchanging blows. This time, though, O’Neill doesn’t seem as fazed by Rose’s shots. In fact, he quickly gains the upper hand and lays a boot on the midsection of Rose, doubling her over in pain. Wasting no time, O’Neill wraps Rose’s arms and leans back with all his weight. She flies through the air before he catches her in a vicious Celtic Tiger Bomb.

Rose lies on the ground, looking up at the lights. They’re shrinking. Her eyes are closing. She hears Chevelle playing softly.

Richard Parker: GET UP!

Nick Stuart: O’Neill pulls Rose to a sit, honing in on the arm he has continually focused on this match. He grabs the elbow, pulling it back to set up the Shamrock Sleeper. Looks like this one is about wrapped up.

Richard Parker: NO! COME ON ROSE!

With incredible flexibility, Rose pushes off her heels and throws all her weight back in a last-ditch effort. Be it skill or luck, her foot lands square in the eye of Sean O’Neill, completely breaking up his efforts. He steps back, furiously rubbing his eyes.

Richard Parker: YES! She’s up!

Nick Stuart: Exciting as a brisk, huh?

Richard Parker: Shut up.

Sensing the momentum slipping away, O’Neill rushes in with a reckless kick. Rose reads it and ducks under, catching O’Neill’s bad knee as she moves through. With a yelp, O’Neill drops down to grab his knee and looks up to find Rose’s knee. His eyes roll back in his head as Rose’s knee becomes intimately familiar with Sean’s chin.

Richard Parker: Thorn prick! Holy shit, she pulled it off.

Sean O’Neill finds himself in the exact position he had Rose just moments ago. He’s on his back, staring at the lights above. He can hear “Welcome Danger” in the distance.

Nick Stuart: Rose is holding that arm as she gets back up to her feet. She’s in a lot of pain, but trying to capitalize on this opportunity.

Richard Parker: O’Neill is out cold.

The fans whistle as loud as they can. Louder than any group of humans has ever whistled.

Their hatred is no match for Rose’s sheer determination.

One by one she climbs the turnbuckles to stand at the top. She raises her hands up towards the sky before taking flight. A resounding smack echoes out from the contact as she lands on Sean O’Neill plum opposite her starting direction.

Richard Parker: WILT TO BLOOM!

Nick Stuart: Rose remains on top of O’Neill for the cover as Ashley Barlow slides down to the mat.

ONE

TWO

THREE!!!!

Richard Parker: SHE DID IT! Rose broke the streak!

The crowd is stunned as “Welcome to Danger” erupts from the PA. Ashley Barlow holds Rose’s hand up before checking in on O’Neill.

We cut elsewhere.

From the ring to backstage in the Accor Arena, near a bank of monitors set up by an office door with a plate simply stating ‘Office’, Brandon Youngblood stands, eyes transfixed on the aftermath of Rose and Seán O’Neill, arms folded across his chest. Not scheduled to wrestle, he is dressed with a simple ensemble; tapered white henley with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, dark indigo jeans. The shoes aren’t visible, so the full look might get an incomplete grade from Deb Warenstein on the 2024 Zaddy Tracker. His concentration is interrupted by a voice behind him.

Voice: Just the man I wanted to see.

Into the frame walks the challenger in tonight’s 5-Star Championship match; The Anglo Luchador. He is already in his gear, red, white, and blue themed and including a warm-up jacket repping the French National Futbol Team.

TAL: Need to pick your brain for a minute.

For a moment, the Tower of Babel stares right through the man before him.

Brandon Youngblood: You sure about that?

An impatience is smoldering underneath. A palpable tension.

Brandon Youngblood: Title matches around here are rare, Tom. We both know that. Got to make the most of them–

The faintest of smirks.

Brandon Youngblood: –be them Universal–

Whatever edge there was has gone away.

Brandon Youngblood: –or Five Star.

The smirk is now a full focused smile.

Brandon Youngblood: So you ready to do like me and make the most of this?

TAL: Don won’t know what hit him.

A strained laugh from the Luchador.

TAL: You gave me enough of an education last year about how much belts mean around here, bud. Besides, they’re only part of the equation anyway. I need some advice on how to bag a more, let’s say, existential prize.

Youngblood’s brow furrows in curiosity.

TAL: I think you know what name I’m about to drop on you.

Even without being present at the O2, The Diamond is always aware of the goings on in PRIME. Especially when they pertain to resurrected Ghosts.

Brandon Youngblood: Snow.

TAL: I figured if anyone knew how to get under Snow’s skin enough to want him to fight, it would be you. I mean, you two were as thick as thieves…

The Tower cuts him off.

Brandon Youngblood: Not for long.

It’s not a sentiment created for distancing. It’s a setting of proportion to historical fact. The direct intersection was brief, but that didn’t mean the gestation hadn’t taken place over the course of a longer period. At the time, a gladiatorial bout. In the time subsequent, it only grew more mythical. Gilded. The high water mark in the greatest wrestling promotion of all times.

The Luchador’s sentiment carries with it tremendous weight; after all, the road to The Impossible Match is simmering, lingering on the horizon.

Brandon Youngblood: Two things. Even back then, with all his ‘Oh my Greatness’ horseshit, if he looked you down the barrel of a gun and didn’t think enough to either put a bullet in you or challenge you to a duel…

There is an intense foreboding in his tone.

Brandon Youngblood: …it’s either gold…or it’s getting under his skin. Pissing him off. He’s focused on himself. What he wants. There’s no big plan in the fight…you can read and gameplan, you can try to battle verbal barbs, all that don’t mean a lick of shit. It’s instinct. So you want Jason Snow? The real Jason Snow?

The Luchador listens intently.

Brandon Youngblood: You win the Five Star Title. And if that don’t grab him by the nuts enough? You do like he did…or didn’t to me.

A sly smile.

Brandon Youngblood: You get those instincts having to fire off in different directions. And all told…as long as you don’t cross the line? I won’t be stopping you.

The Luchador nods, not just because he is yessing the Diamond to death. Contrarily, it’s been two-and-a-half years since they’ve been peers. He knows a few things. He wanted to see how loaded Youngblood’s answers would be.

And he isn’t disappointed.

TAL: I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down, B. I got what I needed. Thanks.

Youngblood nods as the two are about to part ways to their own business. The Luchador has a title match to prepare for, after all. Again, those don’t come around often, even if you’re royalty. But the Five Star Challenger stops short before turning away.

TAL: Oh, Brandon.

The Diamond stops in his tracks.

TAL: I’m not stupid. I know what Snow is capable of. Hazards of the job and all. Not the reason I want him, but it’s something I’m willing to risk. I just want you to promise me one thing.

Youngblood turns around.

TAL: If I get what I want. What I’m wishing for? And I’m in over my head, not in the ring, but with how he can be out of it? Don’t save me. Let me get what I signed up for.

Youngblood goes to speak up, but The Luchador cuts him off.

TAL: I really need to prove something to… well, someone.

The Luchador finally turns to walk off, satisfied with what he was seeking. And as he disappears?

Brandon Youngblood: You’ll get that…and so much more…

We go elsewhere.

As always, as forever, as above and so below… there’s a door.

You know this bit by now. It’s a door backstage and, behind that door, there’s a Rhinestone Cowboy who’s converted some unused room into a makeshift saloon. This is old news by now. We’ve been here before. It’s nothing special. Except… there’s no sign hanging on the door frame reading ‘THE DIAMOND MINE’ this time. There’s no cattle skull, no swinging saloon doors, not even a picture of Alan Jackson to make us feel more at ease and less worried about the dumb shit we’re about to witness.

Instead, there’s a door.

And beside that door, there’s a flashing neon sign with an arrow pointing back towards, you guessed it, that aforementioned door.

And with that flashing neon sign, there’s cursive lettering, bright red against the stark white brickwork.

It reads, in cursive neon script:

THE WHOREHOUSE
TRAVELIN’ TAVERN AND GENTLEMEN’S CLUB.

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s evolving.

And just like that, right on cue, the door swings open. Smoke billows out from inside. The sound of a trap remix of Baha Men’s perennial hit classic “Who Let the Dogs Out” plays from within. Daytona Diamonds, red eyed and with his shirt half unbuttoned, comes stumbling out in a drugged up daze, a half-empty bottle of cognac in one hand and a half-eaten baguette in the other. As he leaves, he shouts back into the room.

Daytona Diamonds: Ay! Ay! I gots to drain the lizard! You boys keep this party goin’! We ain’t fuckin’ stoppin’ ‘til they call the goddang cops! Yee fuckin’ haw!

The Rhinestone Cowboy pulls the door shut and, stumbling haphazardly down the hall, balances against the wall to keep from stumbling over. The Intense Title hangs loosely around his waist, shifting back and forth with every step until he turns a corner and…

Stops. Dead in his tracks. His eyes narrow, the smile on his face disintegrating into a scowling frown. Daytona takes a quick swig from his bottle of cognac before straightening himself up, cracking his neck and leaning against the wall. The camera comes around the corner to find him standing face to face with an old frenemy…

Daytona Diamonds: …how we doin’, Donny?

The Revelator contorts his face into a pained smile and straightens his pristine white suit jacket. If Daytona was a hurricane, Winters was the eye, calm and unwavering, surrounded by chaos. Winters took stock of the way they carried themselves. He was dressed impeccably, in a clear state of mind. The essence of a Five Star champion, a paragon of professional wrestling. Daytona was, well, he was Daytona and if you distilled him into a bottle, Intense wouldn’t be the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.

Don Winters: I’m all right ‘Tona. [Don motions at the mostly drained bottle of cognac.] And you? Seems like you’ve tumbled back off your wagon. Strayed from the flock to form your own.

Sip of cognac, bite from the baguette. Hair matted to his forehead. A sway to his legs, even while standing perfectly still. This was The Old Daytona™, the one that Don Winters had first met months earlier. With sobriety out the window and a new gang of bad influences guiding him along a brand new path, Daytona devolved. This was the result and, as sad as it might be to see it firsthand, at least he’s smiling about it.

Daytona Diamonds: Shit, I didn’t tumble off jack shit. Heh. Wagon’s whole damn wheels fell off is all. But shitfire, Donny! Ain’t no reason to go snorkelin’ in all that bullshit! Look at us! You n’ me! Champions!

Daytona leans in close, one eyeball twitching while the other widens to almost ridiculous proportions.

Daytona Diamonds: Cowboys for Christ? Fuck that shit. Lookie here, Donny. You n’ me. CHAMPIONS FOR CHRIST! Ain’t that right? Ain’t that right…? You oughta be celebratin’ with me! C’mon now!

The Revelator tries to peel himself away from the odor of liquor and bread pervading his space. He grimaces slightly. Knowing he has a match later in the evening, there would be no sense in antagonizing someone just dying to be antagonized.

Don Winters: That’s right, ‘Tona. And congrats on beating Max, that was one heck of a match. As much as I would love to share a drink with you, I’ve got a match tonight. I’ve got to abstain. Let’s put a raincheck on that one, huh?

Daytona Diamonds: Oh yeah, oh yeaaaah! You’re goin’ up ‘gainst that ol’… shit… what’s his fuckin’ name? The Caucasian Matador, right? That culturally appropriatin’ shit for brains! You got ‘em, Donny! You’re gonna mop the goddang floor with ‘em! Kick ‘em in the nads, Donny!

Daytona’s laughing. Don… isn’t. After that laughter ends, Daytona’s hand settles on Don’s shoulder, an awkward moment of silence pervading the space between them before Daytona finally finds the right words to say.

Daytona Diamonds: …lissen. When you’re done clobberin’ that piece-a shit, you come on back to The Whorehouse, alright? Open invitation, buddy. I’ll introduce you to the boys. I still don’t… still don’t like how things ended up with us, y’know? All that crucifyin’ business. I was goin’ through some shit is all. Weren’t nothin’ ‘gainst you, pardner! Weren’t nothin’ ‘gainst you.

When Daytona’s hand retracts, he nearly falls over where he stands, but catches himself against the wall, shaking his head.

Daytona Diamonds: You n’ me, Donny. Champions for Christ. That’s… that’s fuckin’ right.

Winters bows his head, whispering something under his breath. Daytona cocks his head, but he’s on another frequency. He looks back up, meeting Daytona’s swimming gaze.

Don Winters: Believe me ‘Tona, I forgive you. Just like I forgave Rob Williams.

The Revelator lets those words linger in the air between them for a moment, but Daytona’s not lucid enough to catch the meaning.

Don Winters: But you consciously left me out there for it to happen. I forgive you, Daytona, but I will never forget. Again, I truly appreciate the offer to visit your… gentleman’s club, but I’ve got to abstain, and I’ve got to get ready for The Anglo Luchador.

Diamonds head tilts in slight recognition at a correction that has come far too many words late.

Daytona Diamonds: ‘Ey Donny, what was that thing you were whisperin’ under your breath?

Don smiles at Daytona and claps a reassuring hand on the cowboy’s shoulder. There’s a firmness here that Diamonds was missing earlier.

Don Winters: Peter 5:8. ‘Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.’ [Winters removes his hand and begins walking away.]  Looks like my lion’s already had his fill, wouldn’t you say?

The camera focuses on Diamonds, swaying in the doorway to The Whorehouse, as the scene cuts elsewhere.

Simon Tillier, microphone in hand, is for once the primary focus of this close-up shot…except, we also see that there’s an arm draped over his shoulder. An arm wearing a bright copper sleeve with lizard-scale patterns etched throughout. As the fans in Accor Arena realize who that arm belongs to, the volume knob is CRANKED UP.

CRANKED. UP.

Simon pauses, realizes “nope there’s nothing that waiting will do to help, better just go”, and goes.

Simon Tillier: Ladies and gentlemen, my guest at this time is the Neck Collector, FLAMBERGE!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~~~~~~

We zoom out and there he is – the jacket is absurd, the hair is wild, the beard is lined up…and he has a French flag draped over his other shoulder. He’s leaning in, folks. He’s really leaning in.

Simon Tillier: FLAMBERGE, last ReVival, you made your intentions very clear as part of the Gluebration that you are looking to collect the neck of one of your fiercest rivals, Nate Colton.

FLAMBO leans in and stares down the lens.

FLAMBERGE: …ooh la la??

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI!

FLAMBERGE: …ouaiiiiiiiiis, est-ce que tous les Français ici sont prêts à voir comment est fabriquée la colle??

Yes, Julien, it would appear that every French person here is, indeed.

FLAMBERGE: Mssr. Tillier, I can save you some time, for I come with the perspective you do not know how to ask for. It is common to be wrong about these things, which is fine, because it does not affect me for the Simon Tillier to not understand. You see the challenge to the Nate Colton, and you think of the simple score to settle from the Ultraviolence 2022. It is the understandable because you are the very small and my ideas are the very large. However, mes compatriotes qui sont à mes côtés méritent de connaître le plan de bataille du roi lézard.

RAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: You catch any of that?

Richard Parker: I caught “layzard” at the end.

FLAMBERGE: J’ai l’intention de rassembler tous les cous abandonnés appartenant aux barrières du progrès de la lutte professionnelle qui ont infesté l’équipe Sykes aux War Games.

FLAMBO turns to Simon. He holds up his thumb..

FLAMBEGE: The Anglue Gluechador was first.

He holds up his index finger.

FLAMBERGE: Chandler Tsonda was second.

He holds up his middle finger.

FLAMBERGE: Dabney Doubleday was third.

He holds up his ring ringer.

FLAMBERGE: Tonight, Adam Ellis becomes the fourth. And yes, as you may have guessed – the Nate Colton, he is the…

…you were thinking he was going to raise the pinkie, weren’t you. Well isn’t this a pickle…he raises his thumb from the arm still draped over Simon’s shoulder, almost pointing at Simon’s own neck.

FLAMBERGE: …siiiiiiiiiiixth. For, while the biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!

FLAMBERGE: -iiitch Nate Colton and I are destined to once again dance the dangerous stages of a PRIME pay per view spectacle, there is one neck in between now and then that I am owed…non, I am DOUBLE, NON, TRIPLE OWED.

He locks back in with the camera lens.

FLAMBERGE: ReVival 48, dans ma ville natale de STRASBOURG, I FINALLY collect the neck…of JARED! SYKES!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! 

Nick Stuart: It’s pandemonium in Paris! FLAMBERGE with a bombshell announcement, what an epic rematch! FLAMBERGE vs. Sykes 2, this time in FLAMBERGE’s home town!

Richard Parker: Listen, there’s “home town advantage”, and there’s “home town riot squad”, and this is going to be one of those! Sykes is gonna need a bodyguard or something!

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! 

Simon Tillier is distracted for a moment, which is not necessarily a new experience to the long suffering reporter. The reason for the distraction? Cecilworth Farthington yelling “I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT” at the top of his voice. Cecilworth walks into shot, pats FLAMBERGE on the back and positions himself so as to create a delicious Tillier sandwich.

Cecilworth Farthington: Simon, I’m so sorry to interrupt very important information that dear FLAMBERGE is sharing, like the bitch quotient that Nate Colton and friends have achieved this week, but I just finished speaking to the medical staff here at the Accor Arena and I have some very regretful news to share with the PRIME faithful.

As if playing his part in the most turgid of soap operas, Cecilworth tries to emote by biting the bottom left of his lip and looking down on the ground, the only thing that could make it feel more on the nose would be if Cecilworth expressed his emotional status out loud.

Cecilworth Farthington: I am sad, Simon, I am very sad, for you see, conga can have its price and it took it all from me. I stand before you, right here, right now, to inform everyone watching that I am not currently cleared to compete in a PRIME ring. This period is noted as “indefinite”, and I don’t think that’s a very good word. You know, people will ask if I regret the conga, and I will look them dead in the eye and say “no”, for it was worth every second. Sadly, I was informed that the second the conga stopped, all my limbs exploded simultaneously at the same time, as if I was a fifty three year old man attempting a leap frog.

FLAMBERGE blinks, is he taking this in? Does he care? Who knows! Only the hum knows. As we speculate on FLAMBERGEthought, Cecilworth produces a small piece of paper from his trouser pocket that definitely looks like it was written hastily in orange crayon.

Cecilworth Farthington: Fret not though, finest fans in the world… for I used my Farthington connections to convene an emergency meeting of the French Board of Wrestling Managers and well… actually, Simon, you read it.

Cecilworth slaps the piece of paper against Tillier’s chest, who dutifully reads the paper to himself before he reads it out loud, because you can never be too careful. It does stop the incredibly confused tone as he reads the message out loud.

Simon Tillier: Le Cecilworth Is Une Managere? That doesn’t even feel slightly correc…

Tillier can’t finish his thought as Cecilworth rips the microphone out of his hand, muttering “idiot can’t even pronounce the accent”

Cecilworth Farthington: That’s right! I have been approved by the FBWM to stand in my good, close, personal friend FLAMBERGE’s corner tonight and, I assume, for the rest of the time we are in France. Where are we after that? Spain? I know that board well too, I have an “in” to be Es Mangerio.

Simon Tillier: Is this racism?

Cecilworth grabs his “manager’s license” back off Tillier.

Cecilworth Farthington: Of course not, Farthingtons are trained in multiple languages from birth, Simon (yes, he did put on a French accent and pronounce it as seemon). Now, I am going to speak some hard truths. I have not done enough to support PRIME’s greatest wrestler, the collector of all the goddamn necks, the former and soon to be again Universal Champion. I’ve had a great run here, and I have no regrets but this man, this man has spent his entire time in the stratosphere of the company’s highest heights. I have reached cockahoop levels of excitement to be there, in this man’s corner. I will stop bullshit like whoever Adam Ellis has standing around looking gormless this week from interfering in the sporting contest. See, PRIME has started to become a numbers game, I know that more than most, just ask our current Universal Champion how he won the Almasy, if he even remembers winning it. It’s time to start evening things up.

Based on FLAMERGE’s expression, this news is very new to him. Although, given the former Universal Champion’s general facial state, he could have known this plan had been in the books for months.

Cecilworth Farthington: A lot of PRIME seems to be ponying up and corralling members. In this era, people need to take a stand and support their allies. Last week we saw a bunch of meme wrestlers announce that they were aligning because they were too poor to pay for a sex worker on their own. I guess they’re in some kind of kitty system now.  I mean, I’d have respected them if they’d made Max Kael, a man trying to murder me, disappear. Sadly, they didn’t and so I don’t think they deserve a single joyful moment.  I refuse to let Glue fall to the numbers of the game and you have inspired me to take action. Still, no judgment on the whole Whoresman thing, Glue is sex positive.

Memories of bulges past dance through FLAMBERGE’s brain, or maybe he’s just standing there listening. It’s something along those lines.

Cecilworth Farthington: Adam Ellis, let me make something very clear to you, because when you step into the ring tonight, you are facing the best of the best of the best. I want you ready, I want you to show the world what you’re capable of. I want Adam Ellis PRIME, not Appalachian Adam, chasing the titles of lesser companies to cure your case of lossitis. Of course your neck will be taken, but it looks better if this magnificent spectacle can showcase his talents in front of his home country. So please, give a bit of the razzmatazz, eh, Mr. Ellis? The neck god is waiting for us and he expects his tithe.

Farthington is about to walk off, takes one step out of camera shot, then spins and pivots back in, which is impressive for a man who reportedly does not currently have function limbs.

Cecilworth Farthington: LT, I hope you watch what happens to one of your young wards tonight and you make the right choice on the next Universal Title challenger. It certainly shouldn’t be going to a general who failed to lead his troops to War Games success, if Stalin was still in charge, after a defeat as humiliating as The GreenRedPinkandBlack Army suffered, I doubt we’d even see big Ivo standing in a PRIME ring again. Tragically times are different and he still lives to drone on. So, I want to be very clear tonight, to everyone in the back, to everyone in the crowd, to everyone watching at home, Glue is done workshopping and we’re going to take back what we are due. Now Simon, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and buy a Coach’s Hat.

No, Cecilworth does not expand any further on what the Coach’s Hat would even be, he just walks off screen, leaving a confused, excited or angry FLAMBERGE to wrap up with Tillier.

Simon Tillier: …FLAMBERGE, I just have one final question. There were seven members of Team Sykes, and you only mentioned the six…?

FLAMBERGE scoff-grins for a second before what can only be described as a “troubling chuckle” before winking to Simon and slithering away.

Simon Tillier: …well, there you have it, back to you guys!

We cut elsewhere.

“I already tol’ ya, I’m fine.”

We love in medias res, don’t we? Well we better, because that’s what we have here as we find Paxton Ray leaning back in a locker room, hands behind his head. Near him is Sage Pontiff–sitting isn’t an accurate descriptor, however, as The Bodhisattva is currently doing a wall-assisted headstand, his dreads cascading onto the floor.  His eyes are closed and serene, so he can’t see Paxton looking at him like he’s grown a dick out of his head.

Sage Pontiff: I know you are, but inversion can help to clear up blockages in your body and your spirit.  Lots of bad shit settles into us, psychic trauma and sedimented negativity, it needs to be broken free so it can be broken down, you know?

No one has ever looked like they “know” less than Paxton at this exact moment.

Paxton Ray: Listen, Sage, I like ya a lot but I ain’t standin’ on my goddamn head.

Sage Pontiff: I’m sure they’ve got an inversion table around here somewhere.  Besides, I think we’re beating around the bush on this, man.  It’s not that you don’t want to do inversion because you don’t want to feel better.  It’s that you’re just afraid of looking silly. 

With more than a little bit of grace, Sage contorts and gets his feet on the ground, then uses his arms to pop himself back up to standing.  He smiles that brilliant smile and holds his arms out to the side. 

Sage Pontiff: See?  I feel amazing.  But you aren’t wrong, I cant fit you into a specific mold.  We’ve got each other’s backs but, y’know…cards on the table, we’re not exactly the same person.  So, like, I know that inversion, yoga, lots of drugs, amazing sex, and yerba mate lift me from the doldrums.  What does Paxton Ray want to do?

Paxton looks up at Sage and smiles.

Paxton Ray: Paxton Ray wants to beat the shit out of a fat motherfucker who dumped blood on him.

Sage Pontiff: Y’know, you say all this philosophical and spiritual stuff is foreign to you, but what you just said is textbook civil disobedience. 

Paxton Ray: Feel like translatin’?

Sage Pontiff: Direct action.  I’m a man of peace, but I stay ready for war.  “In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent has to have a conscience.”  So what do you do when your opponent has none at all, dude? 

The Bodhisattva curls his fingers into a fist, then strikes his own palm, grinning.

Paxton Ray: I know that answer for sure. An’ I don’t care if I gotta go through the new champ, the strong man, or the stunt man I already pummeled. I’m gonna smash that weird lookin’ fuck if it’s the last thing I do.

Sage Pontiff:  Direct action.  You can’t be cooped up, right?  You have to be able to move forward and affect change.  You don’t need me to tell you that shit, I’m just repeating wisdom you’ve already got inside of you.  Just gotta listen to yourself, to your connection with the furies of the universe and your own pulse. 

He claps Paxton on the shoulder. 

Sage Pontiff: And don’t hesitate to ask me to have your back.  I’m not gonna step on your toes, but it’s not like I’d particularly mind…

Paxton stands, then gives Sage his own shoulder clap.

Paxton Ray: I ‘preciate that, bud. An’ I would definitely call on ya for it, but this is somethin’ I gotta do myself. Fred needs to get what’s comin’ to him, an’ I got somethin’ in mind tonight.

The Bodhisattva affects a bow and holds out his palm as if blessing his pal. 

Sage Pontiff: “Invincibility is in one’s self.  Vulnerability is in the opponent.”  What I’m saying is–

Paxton Ray: I’m tough as nails and his ass is gonna fold like a fuckin’ lawn chair?

Sage recoils–legitimately bounces back, eyes wide–in surprise.  Paxton is likely thankful he wasn’t drinking something for the exaggerated spit take that surely would have occurred.  The Butcher extends a good natured middle finger, which elicits a laugh from Pontiff.  Grinning, he gives out low bones, and they touch knuckles. 

Sage Pontiff: Hope for you yet.  Don’t come back til they can identify his dental records in your knuckles.

Paxton Ray: I got you.

With that Paxton pats Sage on the shoulder and walks out the door. We cut elsewhere.

We cut backstage to a surprisingly orderly line of haggard-looking men. Maybe they’re friends of Saige Pontiff? Or can it be that Father Don is doing an impromptu soup kitchen in the back of the house? Potentially Alexei Ruslan is trying to revive bread lines and they’re pinko commies?

Let’s move in and find out.

Weaving in and out, through the tattered clothing and various musks, we land at the front of the line.

Oh, they’re Rob Williams’ lackeys.

That’s what RIA would call them, at least. Truth be told, that’s what Rob has grown to love about these folks. They know what it’s like to be disregarded. Underappreciated. Even at different times, underestimated. So he works beside them to build a patchwork quilt of the downtrodden, the forgotten, and the unwanted. A roaming band of gypsies.

To Rob’s right sits the Father and to the left sits Little Sister. Directly in front of him is a behemoth of a man with lightning bolts tattooed across his shaved head. The color of his handlebar mustache is twice as dark as the gray hair protruding from the orange ascot loosely hanging from his thick neck. While his physical stature says prison gang, his overly tight mesh tank top screams dance troupe.

Each of his giant hands rests on one of his hips aLet’s listen in to the uber-flamboyant man currently getting danger close to Rob’s hair with the trimmers while eyeing up some dark opener walking past.

Barber: Bit hard to focus back, here, innit mate?

The clippers get close enough to Rob to make him flinch.

Rob Williams: Leonard, I swear to all that’s holy, if you fuck up my hair, man, I’m going ape shit on you.

Leonard the Barber: Oh sweetie, you just calm down. You can’t afford any more wrinkles, mate. Now where were we?

Out of the corner of their eyes, both men catch The Greek God of Cool glide into view at the same time. Their reactions are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum.

Leonard the Barber: Look at the head of hair on this one! MY GOD!

Rob Williams: What the fuck?

Jiles, surprisingly lone wolfing this escapade, probably because Coral is in the MAIN and the rest of the crew is with him, senses the hair fandom and stops to smell the roses.

Cancer Jiles: I’m sorry, did you say something about how cool my hair is?

Leon nods yes in absolute awe. Rob has to duck the clippers, casually pushing Leon back.

Robby does not nod. Robby, from the look of it, is not a fan of the simmering alfredo. In fact, if he had a little tin cup to spin around on his finger to show how disinterested and unimpressed he really is, he’d be doing it.

Rob Williams: That must be Cancer. Look, darling, it’s Cancer Jiles. The deadliest wrestler since Scoot Stevens. What do you think, darling, should I hate him?

Little Sister measures Cancer up with her eyes. She’s indifferent to him, her attention focused on Rob.

Little Sister: You don’t even know him.

Rob Williams: You’re right, darling, but there’s just something about him. He’s handsome. He has great hair. Who wouldn’t want to be this man? He’s just so fucking cool. Yeah, that’s it. I definitely fucking hate him.

The Greek God smiles wide at the compliment.

Cancer Jiles: Have you ever heard the story about the guy who rode atop a pale horse and what followed him?

Rob Williams: No, I haven’t, but I am sure you’re about to inform me.

Cancer Jiles: Good. I’d hate to spoil all the fun before our match can even begin.

Rob Williams: We don’t have to wait. We can go to hell right now.

Cancer Jiles: So you do know the story then.

Awkward tension ensues. Williams and Jiles slowly inch towards each other, eventually going nose to nose. Then, in what can only be described as inexplicable, they both start to whisper back and forth at each other.

In Latin.

Presumably Latin.

It is a dead language.

Rob Williams: [turning to Little Sister] Actually, darling, I’m wrong. He’s educated and cool. I like him.

Everyone seems surprised by this. For a moment the tensions begin to simmer. Rob backs away a bit.

Suddenly Rob climbs right up in Jiles’ ass like a tapeworm. Metaphorically, of course. He’s not physically in Jiles’ ass.

Rob Williams: [whispering to Jiles] Just kidding I still fucking hate you.

Cancer Jiles: I can’t wait to teach you about the pale horse. See you soon, Robby.

Like a feral dog acting out of instinct, Rob lunges at Jiles. He couldn’t have picked a less opportune moment. Fate interjects as it tends to do, and Leon’s clippers run right across Rob’s forehead.

Goodbye eyebrow, I’m flying over you.

Cancer Jiles: Great look for you.

Cancer erupts with laughter, shooting finger guns at Rob before turning to leave.

Rob Williams: Hey dipshit, you know playing for keeps was Johnny Ringo’s line, right? Pret-ty fucking fitting.

If Cancer hears Rob, he doesn’t acknowledge him.

Rob Williams: FUCK. Fucking asshole. Why is he so goddamn cool?

Reaching up to rub his eyebrow, Rob’s mouth drops, and he slowly turns to the barber.

Leonard: Mate, you moved.

Little Sister: [giggling] It could be worse. You could be French. I think you’re still pretty handsome.

And just like that Rob melts like an ant under some cool kids’ magnifying glass.

Back to the action.

The arena lights darken as the next match is ready to start.

Nick Stuart: A battle of former Champions right now, Rich. Five Star vs. Universal.

Richard Parker: I know I’m supposed to be impartial here, Nick, but I really hope Rob Williams beats Cancer Jiles into such a fine paste that they mistake him for roux and use him to make a bechamel sauce for their national sandwiches, Mr. and Mrs. Ham and Egg.

Nick Stuart: *sighing* Julia Child, you are not, Rich.

The hammerheaded opening riff of “Man in the Box” blasts through the sold-out arena. Flames shoot up at the top of the stage under the PRIMEview as The Legend steps through the curtain, head down, breathing the fire that is shooting towards the ceiling next to him.

Vince Howard: This match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Decatur, Georgia, weighing in at 109 kilograms, he is the Legend and the man who ended Cecilworth Farthington’s Five Star Championship reign… Rob…. WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLIAAAAAMMMMMMMSSSS!!!

DISAPPROVING WHISTLES FROM THE FANS

Williams’ head darts back and forth at various points in the crowd, as if he’s looking for ghosts. He slides into the ring, cracks his neck, and awaits his opponent.

The lights slowly draw to a dim.

An unnerving chill makes its way through the air.

Up on the Crumbotron a video plays featuring a few seconds from ALL of the matches Cancer Jiles has been in. It’s quite the video package, and plays for the better part of a minute. Then, an electric guitar riff reverberates through both time and space.

Hissing.

Nick Stuart: Just listen to those hisses!

Richard Parker: Even here people hate him and want to see him lose. What a loser.

Nick Stuart: He travels well, that’s for sure.

Screamin’ Jay Hawkins starts hitting his notes, and COOL Cancer Jiles is on his way down to the ring. As per the norm, the COOLYMPIAN enjoys his usual serenade from the PRIMEates in attendance, and even exchanges a few words with those fortunate enough to be sitting ringside.

Nick Stuart: Oh look. A MESSIAH fan.

Richard Parker: That’s just Bitchboy selling hotdogs, or whatever the French substitute is.

Nick Stuart: Could be they are substituting hotdogs for fried chicken.

The Greek God of COOL reaches the ring, and instead of entering he makes his way over to Dirty Dick and Saint Nick. Security quickly gets in his way, but that doesn’t stop Jiles from asking Richard if the headaches have stopped yet.

Richard Parker: I hope Rob Williams crucifies this fucking crumb with extreme prejudice. I hope he uses a real hammer, and real nails, and instead of nailing his hands and feet, he hammers the nails in through those stupid sunglasses. And th—

Nick Stuart: Whoa! Okay there, Rich. We get the point.

A satisfied Maestro slides under the bottom rope, quickly springs to his feet, and does what he does better than anyone else alive.

Shit grin while ignoring the referee’s wishes.

Nick Stuart: My ears are on fire from all this whistling. My god, neither one of these two men are really popular here in Paris, huh Rich?

Richard Parker: It sucks, they really should just concentrate on hating JILES! Besides, they’re Catholic here, right? They gotta be fans of crucifixions.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, my broadcast colleague.

DING DING DING

Turnbull calls for the bell, and the former Five Star Champ starts circling Jiles like this is an actual wrestling match and not whatever it is Jiles does in this sport. The COOLYMPIAN stands there looking at the Legend like he’s got five heads.

Richard Parker: Has Rob never watched another match with this crumb before?

Nick Stuart: Well, to be fair, he leads a life of INTENSE recovery, maybe having to watch Jiles would be harmful?

Richard Parker: You raise a good point, Nick.

Williams goes in for a rough collar-and-elbow, but it only causes Jiles’ expression to grow even more quizzical. He recoils back, steps on Williams’ foot, and throws his hands up as the arena continues to get louder and louder with high-pitched whistles.

Jiles: Who the fuck you think I am, crumb? The Luchadork?

Williams shrugs and fires in a haymaker at Jiles’ face, to which the lead Bandit smiles and returns fire, causing a mix of shrieking whistles for mutual disdain of both men and raucous cheers because they are beating the escargots out of each other at the moment.

Nick Stuart: Now this is more like a Jiles match.

Richard Parker: *hurk*

Nick Stuart: Public service for all PRIMEates making the trip over, don’t dip the pomme frites in mayo that’s been left out in the sun for an hour.

Suddenly, Jiles does a quick “OVER THERE,” and while Rob doesn’t bite, Turnbull does.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe Jimmy Turnbull fell for… wait, what?

Almost suddenly, Bobby Dean appears on the apron with the tray of hot dogs he was selling during the entrance. A sullen Julian Bathory, on excursion at one of Paris’ four KFC locations, sheds a single tear as he will not meet his sales goal for the night.

Nick Stuart: When, no, HOW did he get up there?

Richard Parker: I keep tellin’ ya! Bobby Dean has DECEPTIVE fat guy speed!

Nick Stuart: I have never once heard you say that, Richard.

Richard Parker: I do it all the time, you just have to read between the lines.

As Turnbull shoos the Beautiful One off the apron, Jiles kicks the former Five Star in the dick, causing the whistle levels in the arena to become dangerous to anyone not wearing foam earplugs at the moment. Turnbull sighs LOUDLY, even though only Jiles and Williams can hear him, as he sees the aftermath of the low blow.

Richard Parker: I REALLY NEED THESE FRENCH ASSHOLES TO BOO LIKE AMERICANS, MY EARS CAN’T TAKE THIS.

As The Legend holds onto his, well, Lil’ Legends, Jiles grabs him by his scruffy graying hair to his knees. Before completing him to his feet, he slaps the taste out of his mouth and laughs uproariously.

Nick Stuart: Jiles in control of the match early here, this could get out of hand quick if Bobby continues to be allowed to distract Jimmy here.

Richard Parker: It’s actually Tony Two Books you have to worry about. I know you can’t see him, but he’s so small, he can dodge the high-pitched soundwaves these incompetants are making.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s how aural physics work, Rich.

Before Williams can get his bearings, Jiles is bearing down his chest with one, two, three, FOUR cracking knife-edge chops. The Legend stumbles backwards as the Greek God of COOL drops back off the ropes, charging forward and then…

*DOINK*

His running eye-poke elicits enough shrill whistles from the crowd that every dog in a five-mile radius starts barking. So does Cheddar all the way back in Wisconsin, but that pug has Crumb-Sense and knows when Jiles is up to no good. Williams falls back histrionically holding his eyes as Jiles nonchalantly but forcefully pulls the right one off his face and…

Nick Stuart: OUCH! A stomp right to the hand of the former Five Star Champion! The way Jiles is torturing him here, you’d think this match was in the basement of the Bastille.

Richard Parker: I’d rather it be in the basement of the Alamo, at least I wouldn’t be bothered by all these whistles!

Nick Stuart: Rich, the Alamo, you know what, nevermind.

Rob holds his hand for a moment before Jiles starts stomping him in the face before picking him up and putting him in the ropes, chest first, facing the crowd. He pulls up the top rope while leaning his knee down on Williams’ back, choking him. Turnbull starts counting…

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

At the five count, Jiles breaks and throws his hands up in the air like he wasn’t just trying to choke a man. Williams tries catching his breath, but there’s Bobby Dean again, unwrapping one of his hot dogs. He takes the brownish pink, or is it pinkish brown, thing out of the foil. It’s clearly not a hot dog, but a pate of some kind.

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD HE’S SHOVING THE FOIE GRAS IN ROB WILLIAMS’ MOUTH! JIMMY GET HIM OUTTA HERE!

Richard Parker: That’s where you’re wrong, Nick. Not that Bobby should be ejected, but that’s not foie gras. Cancer’s too cheap to share that with anyone but himself or maybe Annabelle. That’s a terrine of some sort. Probably sewer rat.

Nick Stuart: *hurk*

Richard Parker: Oh, when I dry-heave it’s funny, but when you do it, it’s not? Pfft.

Note, Richard was talking about Annabelle Dean, not one of the many other Annabelles in PRIME’s orbit.

After hearing the riot act from Turnbull, Cancer turns around to find a violently ill-looking Williams writhing on the canvas. He takes advantage…

ONE!

But the former Five Star kicks out, less out of conscious effort and more in a spastic motion from having been forcefed the questionable terrine. Jiles rises to his feet, shakes his head again, and lays the boots to Williams before going to the top rope. He flips off the Frenchmen and women whistling at him before leaping in an elbow drop that lands, well…

Richard Parker: I didn’t know he had the technology.

Williams covers his groin again, but it’s short lived as Jiles makes a forcefully annoyed cover…

ONE!

TWO!

But Williams kicks out.

Jiles pounds the mat and then storms to his feet, waiting for Williams to get up, sizing him up. The Legend staggers to his feet, and…

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CAN…

Richard Parker: …NO!

Williams catches Jiles’ foot and pushes it back, the momentum causing the Maestro to backflip. As soon as he lands on his feet…

Nick Stuart: DEAR GOD!

Richard Parker: LARIATOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The crushing clothesline sends the former Universal Champion to the canvas as Williams catches his breath for enough time to allow him to follow up. Jiles wobbles to his feet, and Williams is there to scoop him up high over his head into military press position. He holds the COOLYMPIAN over his head for about 20 seconds, the whistles dying down and cheers starting to filter through as somehow, some way, Cancer Jiles has babyfaced the man who has done a live crucifixion on television. Williams tosses Jiles to the canvas, drops a knee across his face for good measure, and then covers…

ONE!

TWO!

But the last known detainee in the Vet Stadium holding cell kicks out.

Williams stamps the mat as he gets up, stalking Jiles again. The Cool One swings wildly, but the former Five Star Champ ducks, drop-steps behind him and…

Nick Stuart: GERMAN SUPLEX! AND LOOK AT THE BRIDGE!

ONE!

TWO!

…

……

THR…

NO!

Last second, Jiles kicks out, holding his shoulders all the same. Williams, rubbing his groin and getting incredibly angry at the two nutshots he’s endured so far, quickly cuts Jiles off from recovering anymore and scoops him up into vertical suplex position.

Nick Stuart: BRAINBUSTER!

Richard Parker: YOU FOOL! Everyone knows Jiles doesn’t have a brain!!

The crown of Cancer’s forehead smacks the canvas with a dull thud as Williams wastes no time rolling him over and covering him…

ONE!

TWO!

…

….

…………..

NO! Jiles kicks out at the last second AGAIN!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if Rob’s won them over or if Jiles is just that odious and slimy, but the Parisian faithful are ready to cheer on a Legendary victory here!

Richard Parker: Thank God, Nick, that whistling was giving me SUCH a headache.

The Legend lifts Jiles’ limp body up into position for what can only be his finish…

Richard Parker: JUST TAKE THOSE OLD RECORDS OFF THE SHELF!

However, as he segues from DDT position into the cutter, Jiles shoves him off at the last second, right into Jimmy Turnbull, who stumbles, covering himself. Williams is the first to get upright, but that’s a curse. The bright spray and INTENSE whistles resuming from the crowd signify what just happened.

Nick Stuart: *sigh* Coolympian Yoljk.

Richard Parker: MY EARS! MY EARS! AHHHHH!!!!!!

Williams holds his eyes and dances around in pain until the split second when his hand-covered face is parallel with Jiles’ again, and…

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER.

Jiles falls on him for a cover. Turnbull sighs as he sees the aftermath, realizing he can’t disqualify Jiles for something he didn’t expressly see, and covers…

ONE!

TWO!

….

…….

……..

THREE!

WHISTLES INTENSIFY

Vince Howard: Your winner…. COOOOOL…. CANCERRRRRR….. JIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILES!

EVEN MORE WHISTLING

Nick Stuart: Tough loss to stomach for the Legend here, Rich. That Cancer Jiles is just such a slimeball.

Richard Parker: I CAN’T HEAR YOU NICK, THEY’RE WHISTLING TOO LOUD AT THIS SLIMEBALL!

Nick Stuart: We’ll be back after this word from our sponsors.

We cut to commercial.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead in the bustling backstage area of Paris’ Accor Arena, casting a harsh glow on the concrete walls adorned with promotional posters. Matt Mills, a veteran face of PRIME Wrestling’s interview scene, flashed his Todd Pettengill-like grin to the camera before turning to his guests.

Matt Mills: Joining me now, folks, is the man fresh off his AMCW title victory—Adam Ellis!

He gestured to the towering figure beside him, a Midwestern mountain of quiet confidence.

Adam Ellis stood there, his 6-foot-4 frame cloaked in his wrestling gear, exuding a calm intensity that contrasted sharply with his rural roots. Next to him, Dawn McGill’s presence was unmistakable; her black ensemble hugged her statuesque form, Adam’s AMCW title belt slung over her shoulder, the heels adding an authoritative click with every step she took.

Matt Mills: Adam, first off, congratulations are in order. How does it feel to be the new AMCW Champion?

Adam Ellis: Thanks, Matt.  It feels incredible, but you know, I’m just grateful for the opportunity to do what I love.”

Matt nodded, moving on swiftly.

Matt Mills: Now onto tonight. You’re facing Flamberge. What are your thoughts going into this match?”

The corners of Adam’s mouth twitched upwards for a brief moment, a hint of a smile from someone who preferred actions over words.

Adam Ellis: Flamberge is one of the best, no question. His accolades speak for themselves.  But here’s the deal… I’ve fought for my place here since day one. And if there’s one thing I learned growing up, it’s that showing up matters. I fight for my career with everything I have… every… single… time.”

He paused, the air thick with anticipation, as if the arena’s very atmosphere was holding its breath for the clash to come. It was a statement not of arrogance but of steadfast determination; the resolve of a man who, despite his youth, understood the value of resilience.

Adam Ellis: Flamberge had better be ready to go tonight… because I sure am.

Dawn McGill: Matt…

The camera swiveled, capturing Dawn McGill as she stepped into the frame with purpose. Her heels clicked authoritatively against the concrete floor of the Accor Arena, her presence commanding an intensity that cut through the typical backstage bustle.

Dawn McGill: Flamberge needs to get his head out of the clouds if he thinks taking down Adam Ellis tonight is a foregone conclusion.

Her eyes narrowed with a sharpness that could slice through steel. There was no mistaking the confidence in her voice—a glint of defiance that matched perfectly with her bold attire.

Dawn McGill: I was in this kid’s corner a year ago when he nearly toppled Cecilworth Farthington and trust me, Adam’s hungrier, sharper, and more relentless now than he was back then.

She leaned in, her gaze piercing through the lens of the camera as if staring directly into Flamberge’s soul. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with the gravity of her words.

Dawn McGill: Adam Ellis isn’t just another mark on your win column, Flamberge. He’s not another neck for your collection. He’s a kid with nothing to lose and everything to gain when he steps into that ring tonight. So listen closely… you are in the wrong place at the wrong time if you think Adam is just going to be an easy walkover for you. And if you’re not careful, the only neck that’s going to get collected is yours.

With the finality of a judge’s gavel, Dawn McGill turned on her heel and motioned to her three cabana boys who scrambled behind her. They struggled with the weight of a luxurious chaise lounger, their efforts a stark contrast to Dawn’s effortless poise.

Adam Ellis followed in silent accord, his tall frame exuding a quiet but unmistakable resolve. His eyes remained fixed ahead—focused, unyielding—as he took his leave alongside Dawn, leaving a trail of anticipation in the air.

Matt Mills: Thank you, Adam, and good luck out there.

We cut elsewhere.

EARLIER TODAY…

Or so says the friendly chyron that briefly appears in the upper corner of the screen before fading away, leaving us to a scene on the streets of Paris. Far in the distance, the robust shape of Arc de Triomphe stands beneath an azure blue sky.

It’s not long before the unlikely Vae Victis tandem of Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter come jogging into the shot, evidently participating in a tandem run through the famed City of Light. Just then, they come to a stop to catch their breath and huff for a few moments.

Kerry Kuroyama: See, Scott? Told you we could sight-see and get a run in at the same time. Two birds with one stone, my friend.

Scott Hunter: Bonjour!

Kerry inquisitively arches his eyebrow at Scott’s magenta-colored choice in headwear.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, are you wearing a beret?

Scott Hunter: Oui!

Kerry Kuroyama: Is it, like, legit, or the kind you find in a secondhand store?

Scott Hunter: Oui! Bonjour! Au revoir!

Kerry Kuroyama: …are those the only three French words you know?

Scott Hunter: Non!

Kerry Kuroyama: Pardon me, I stand corrected. Anyway, ready to get back to it? Only three kilometers to the Eiffel Tower.

Scott Hunter: Non!

Kerry Kuroyama: (nods) Yeah, I see what you mean there. Three kilometers isn’t enough. Better make it the Louvre, then.

???: Running to the bathroom, huh? Been there, dude. Can’t always trust wine.

Kuroyama’s head snaps in the direction of the voice. Hunter, likewise, whips his face twice with an over-the-top double take.

Sitting at an outdoor table is a familiar figure. The colorful hair. A pink tartan corset dress. Black chunky platform heels. RIA sips on a cup, focuses on her phone.

Kuroyama’s nose wrinkles into his characteristic spoiled-milk face of repugnance.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, well… if it isn’t Miss Mintberry Crunch herself.

RIA: Well hello there! Weird to see a Pacific Rimjob in France, but here we are!

Kuroyama snorts as RIA lowers her phone to the table and focuses on the pair in front of her.

Kerry Kuroyama: First of all, you owe royalties to Scott for that one.

Scott Hunter: (looking at Kerry) Actually although I am quite fond of reading about the history of monarchs in the old world, almost as much as I enjoy 80s pop music, I do not presently require anyone to actually give me one. This jogging suit does not have pockets. Suspenders, yes. Black and white horizontal stripes, sure. But no pockets, hot or otherwise.

Kerry Kuroyama: No, Scott, I meant cash. She owes you cash.

Scott Hunter: (eyes flashing in surprise) OH!! In that case, you make a good point.

He turns to RIA.

Scott Hunter: I demand no less than seventy-five cents IMMEDIATELY or I will report you to the proper authorities, as soon as I find out who they are.

RIA: Uh… I had to exchange shit when I got here. You take francs?

Scott Hunter: This feels like a trick question. Are you asking me if I would like some hot dogs? Because if so the answer is yes. I am hungry. However, if you are asking if I would accept the services of a gentleman named Frank, the answer is no. I do not trust anyone named Frank. I also do not trust anyone whose name is written in all capital letters. What are you?? A proper noun? Stop yelling! We’re right… here.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, all names are proper nou… you know what? Shut up, would you?

Scott Hunter: Fair enough.

Scott turns to RIA and mouths something quietly.

Scott Hunter: No francs.

And… he holds out his hand for the payment.

The grind in the back of Kerry’s back teeth is juuuuust barely audible as his brain withstands the exchange happening before him.

Kerry Kuroyama: Secondly… to what do we owe the pleasure, Rainbow Not-So-Brite?

RIA smirks briefly before quickly running her tongue across her bottom lip.

RIA: I mean, I was just chilling when I heard you droning on, Seattle’s Least. Like, shit, you really need to have a conversation about working out, my dude?

Scott Hunter: (chuckling) Heh… Seattle’s Least. Good one.

Kuroyama shoots Scott a frown and bristles momentarily but retains his composure with a wry smile.

Kerry Kuroyama: And what’s wrong with that? We’re two professionals, using our time out of the ring to stay at the top of our game. Not that I’d expect an “athlete” of your caliber to understand the complex intricacies that go into our training process.

Scott Hunter: (chuckling) Heh… “athlete.” Good one.

Kerry Kuroyama: Someone in your position could really learn by our example. Especially given how you only finally got yourself over that nagging Arthur Pleasant hump by having help from backstage.

RIA’s eyebrows shoot upwards before she snorts loudly.

RIA: Dude? Really, dude? Last time I saw a Japanese person get worked over by two peeps like that, it was a porno. You weren’t exactly standing tall yourself.

Kerry’s smile immediately fades.

Kerry Kuroyama: …touché.

Scott’s eyes light up.

Scott Hunter: Hey a new word! RIA, be very careful or we will be forced to kick your touché!

Kerry Kuroyama: That’s not…

Kerry just shakes it off and returns to his train of thought.

Kerry Kuroyama: Regardless of the circumstances, a win is a win. I could have easily put in a call and rallied the full force of Vae Victis here to Paris to help put those grimy, barbiturate-addled circle-jerkers in their place… but frankly, I like to keep my battles between the ropes. I’d rather take my tally under the ‘W’ column and just focus on the path ahead of me. But they’ll get theirs, in time…

Kuroyama puts his hand on the table and looms threateningly over the PRIME’s resident Psychoberry.

Kerry Kuroyama: …and if you continue to perturb me, Hardly Quinn… I can promise you’ll get yours as well.

RIA stands up, the Emerald Apex looming large over her. Despite that, she doesn’t take a step back, she shows no intimidation.

RIA: That so, Copper Samurai? Cuz ain’t got a problem with throwing down. Oh, and, uh… I’m a problem you’re gonna have to handle on your own. Don’t think Lindz or Henry are interested in causing me harm. Hell, I’m not sure even ol’ Scotty here wants to hurt me. Right, big guy?!

Kerry’s eyes go wide.

Kerry Kuroyama: No Scott… don’t…

Scott Hunter: Are you saying… (singing) Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? Do you really want to…

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott look, a pigeon!

Scott Hunter: Where?!?!

Scott runs off in the direction of a small flock of birds eating food from the street.

Kerry Kuroyama looks back at RIA, his eyes narrowing.

Kerry Kuroyama: You’re de-spicable…

RIA: Ain’t I a stinker?!

RIA sticks her pierced tongue out and sends a wink Kerry’s way. To keep his cool, Kuroyama takes a deep breath, and runs his hands through his hair (which is looking a bit longer than usual).

Kerry Kuroyama: Fortunately for you, I’ve been working with someone lately that’s helped me to realize that there’s nothing to be gained in throwing hands out of anger. But while I’m always eager for a fight, I look at you, and wonder to myself… what is there to be gained?

RIA: Little fuckin’ ironic that you’re the one saying that. One of us is 3-0 right now. Might not be the strongest 3-0, but it’s still an undefeated record. So really, what do I gain by beating your well-toned ass?

Kuroyama opens his mouth to reply when–

Scott Hunter: KER-BEAR!! I MADE YOU A SOUVENIR!

Kerry turns as Scott approaches. He is aghast to discover his Vae Victis compatriot has somehow MacGyver’d what can be presumed to be a beret that is evidently made out of pigeons that have been glued together.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott! No, I–

Fwolmp…

Before the Pacific Blitzkrieg can react, Hunter affixes the “gift” onto his head. Completely deadpan, Kerry slowly turns himself and glares into the camera from beneath a chapeau of feathers, flesh, and filth.

Click.

He glances over to see RIA immortalizing the moment by snapping a photo on her phone.

RIA: YAAAAAS GIRL! Work it! C’mon, let the camera love you!

Face darkening, eye twitching, and hands balling into trembling fists, Kuroyama looks like he’s on the verge of blowing like Mount St. Helen’s.

Kerry Kuroyama: (through clenched teeth) Well, Scott… I think we’ve had enough of a rest. And I changed my mind; we’re running to the Catacombs. Seven kilos should be about enough to clear my head.

He swipes the pigeon-hat off his head and throws it onto RIA’s table.

Scott holds his hand out in RIA’s direction.

Scott Hunter: That’ll be seventy-five cents.

Kerry sighs one more time, then resumes jogging. Scott gives RIA a disapproving snarl, then falls in behind his best bud in their job, a very serious business expression on his big dumb face.

Kerry Kuroyama: God, I need a drink…

We cut elsewhere.

Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” plays over the sound system and on the video screen, a video plays showing a series of wrestling trophies on a dresser next to an old high school football uniform that has ‘Ellis’ on the back.

An acoustic guitar plays and the vocals begin.

“Mama didn’t raise no… quitter- guaranteed to get the job done.”

Adam comes out on stage accompanied by Dawn McGill.

“She didn’t raise no SOB who that can’t back himself up – been known to throw a good punch.”

Adam looks out at the crowd and bobs his head to the music, dressed in a pair of plain blue wrestling shorts.

“And this ol’ boy gets going when the going gets tough- sundown to sun up.”

Dawn also gazes out the fans on hand for the show… she has Adam’s AMCW title belt over her shoulder, her blonde hair is teased out, she’s wearing a black top and mini-skirt with a pair of black heels. She raises her hand in the air..

“Need a man with a helping hand – he’s always got one to lend.”

…and then brings it down as the chorus and full instrumentation hits- complete with pyro.

“Oh, I might be a little rough around the edges”

The camera follows Dawn as she takes the lead and walks down the ramp towards the ring with Adam.

“From the outside lookin’ in it might seem helpless.”

Dawn takes her place at ringside while Adam rolls in under the bottom rope. Three cabana boys navigate the path with a luxurious leather couch. and place it at ringside with care.

“I’ve been blessed with a strong backbone – I never coulda made it on my own”

Adam climbs up the top turnbuckle and holds up his arms while McGill who lies down on the couch like a queen overseeing her domain. One of the cabana boys begins to ease the tension from her shoulders with practiced hands, another presents a colorful mixed drink garnished with a flourish, and the third slowly removes one of her heels to attend to her foot, kneading away any trace of fatigue.

“But if there’s one thing that I know – Momma didn’t raise no…”

…

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

The roof fucking BLOWS OFF Accor Arena! “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels feat. Greg Nice & DJ Premier is well into the lyrics at this point, but the French crowd is chanting one thing in full throat:

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! 

And as FLAMBERGE emerges onto the stage, wearing that same ridiculous copper lizard-scale jacket, and with the French flag draping over his shoulders, he stops and looks out. He mutters to himself:

FLAMBERGE: …putain de merde…

…and then Cecilworth Farthington emerges right behind him. He’s being very courageous standing before all these people, what with everything that happened to his limbs vis a vis the conga line. He doesn’t need to do much – he just extends both of his arms in the general direction of his fellow Glue Prince and yells, “BEHOLD!”, and that’s enough to keep everyone more than happy.

Nicknames flash across the screen:

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

THE ACE

LE PROTAGONISTE

LE COURONNE TRIPLE

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F L A M B E R G E

Vince Howard: AAAAAND HIS OPPONENT! HAILING FROM STRASBOURG, FRANCE!

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! 

Vince Howard: HE IS THEEEEEEE NECK COLLECTOR! FLAAAAAAAAAAMBERRRRRRRRRRRRRRGE!

FLAMBERGE completes his lap around the ring. As he approaches his corner’s steps, Cecilworth bravely sacrifices his exploded limbs even further and rubs the Frenchman’s shoulders, providing some final tips.

Cecilworth Farthington: Submit your opponent with your very effective Marie Antoinette submission maneuver!

FLAMBERGE nods in agreement.

DING DING

And there they stand. Across from one another.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE, the Prince of France tonight–

Richard Parker: –EVERY night, Nick.

Nick Stuart: And he has not flinched an inch. Adam Ellis is drawing near, hands outstretched, but he’s tentative–

Richard Parker: Someone is going to have to make the first move–

Nick Stuart: Some might think such a moment, such a response, such a homecoming, would be overwhelming for someone like FLAMBERGE. Someone who isn’t used to such a…positive…response.

Richard Parker: I don’t know if I’d go that far.

Nick Stuart: But that stone cold expression, that slight tilt of the head, that’s patented Lizard King. That’s the Triple Crown Phenom.

Richard Parker: And with Cecilworth in his corner–

As if on cue, Farthington produces a fancy dandy coaches hat, placing it atop his head with which encases his very big War Games Winning brain and kind hearted eyes. One of these things is not true. Take a guess? Despite the effort, Cecilworth doesn’t just keel over and die. Who could blame him if he did? Conga is serious business. VERY serious business.

FLAMBERGE is sore. Or he’s not. He is and he isn’t. Schrodeinger’s Reptile.

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI!

Prenez son cou !

Prenez son cou !

Prenez son cou !

Ellis looks out to the crowd, baying for his blood. Or is it baying?

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

What the hell was that?

Whistling.

And it’s loud. And it’s rocking the foundation of the building as Ellis tries to step forward and engage. Such a thing stops him cold in his tracks. So peculiar. So alien. So…foreign.

Ellis and his attention being what it is, he sees Dawn jabbing her fingers toward the ring, her face warning. Aggressive.

Turn around, you dumb idiot.

Nick Stuart: HEAD KICK! HEAD KICK!

Too fucking late.

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

The blow cracks the proverbial coconut, staggering Ellis backward, backpedaling, the blow having hit flush. FLAMBERGE charges forward, driving his elbow and forearm into the face of Ellis, pushing him back into the corner, and with him settled, he powers through with a nasty muay thai styled knee, then firing off another, and another, then breaking the engagement to throw a liver kick. Ellis blocks it with his wrist, parrying it but still taking damage, wincing. All the same. FLAMBO, like lightning, spins, a discus back elbow crushing into the temple of the defenseless Ellis, causing him to crumple into the corner.

LE ROI DES LÉZARDS!

LE ROI DES LÉZARDS!

LE ROI DES LÉZARDS!

Richard Parker: HOLY HOYT–

Ace Network has state of the art audio and visual technology. The fact that Richard is barely audible isn’t due to deadbeat debts (Fuck Mike Best), but because the Paris crowd IS THAT DAMN UNGLUED FOR FLAMBERGE!

Washing Ellis’s face with the side of his boot, FLAMBERGE steps away, brushing at his nose with his forearm, arms limply hanging on the top rope. In the past, this would simply show how over all this he is. Now? He’s looking out to his people, his crowd, and giving them a subtle nod of the head.

Pushing away, he starts confidently waltzing about the ring, owning it. Owning the limelight. Because it is his. Because he’s L’homme aux couilles pendantes.

Farthington raises an arm, or starts to, but winces, and stops. Oh God, that could’ve pulled a hamstring. Torn an Achilles. Even gave him The Dreaded Irritable Bowel Syndrome. However, being of lordly stock, he preserves, gingerly clapping. A tear in his eye. Maybe not that. Or maybe the tear is for the exhausting pouring from him in the Post Conga Clarity.

Ellis pulls himself up, staggering, brushing his own face with his hand, his jaw. A look of competitive contempt spreads across his face, and seeing The Neck Collector feeling himself, he decides he is going to put a stop to it. FLAMBERGE, for his part, already has eyes on Ellis, who looks to tie up, only for the former Universal Champion to dart away from the attempt, dusting his hands together and then pantomiming for the MVW stalwart to hold his horses.

Ellis attempts again.

And gets hit with an ippon seinage.

Nick Stuart: THIS IS GETTING DIFFICULT TO DO OUR JOBS–

Richard Parker: I’M GOING DEAF!

The velocity of the judo throw causes Ellis to skid across the canvas, creating distance. Pushing himself off the canvas, he makes a blind charge, only for FLAMBERGE to smash him between the eyes with a forearm, swinging him around and grabbing him by the waist. Ushiro goshi.

TU ES UN HOMME MORT!

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

TU ES UN HOMME MORT!

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

TU ES UN HOMME MORT!

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

FLAMBERGE is about to make their statement true, launching a whipping kick aimed directly at the face of Ellis. He BARELY avoids it, and as the wind is still settling from the near blow, Ellis grabs hold of FLAMBO and small packages him for the cover.

ONE

TWO

NO!

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

They ARE NOT fans of that. Ellis grabs onto FLAMBO as they both rise, having him in a rear naked. The French Phenom nearly hand fights his way through, but Ellis muscles as best as he can, trying to wrestle this alligator into a side headlock. From the position, FLAMBO nearly deadlifts him up and suplexes him, but a few well placed elbows driven to the base of his neck stop that.

Front chancery.

Snap suplex.

COVER

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The aggressive kickout is met with ANOTHER snap suplex by Ellis, sending him skidding across the canvas. Ellis, for his part, dives toward FLAMBO again, pinning him.

ONE

TWO

HELL NO!

VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE!

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

They. Fucking. HATE. Adam Ellis. And all he’s doing is trying to wrestle. But he isn’t the hero. He is not Le Protagoniste. Wrong place, wrong time. But that’s practically everyone. FLAMBO staggers up, and Farthington points in Ellis’s direction.

Cecilworth Farthington: Use the submission maneuver, The Marie Antoinette. It is Your Special Move and you are very good at it.

You think anyone heard that?

No?

Okay.

It’s okay, Lord Cecilworth. Save your strength. Electrolytes. Massage therapy. Blood transfusions from the young and virile to keep them in proper check and stuck in their peasantry so as to live forever. Is he A Dracula?

Conga Dracula. By Bram Stoker. Coming to the BBC.

Adam Ellis isn’t here for any of these shenanigans though. Grabbing hold of FLAMBERGE, he deadlifts him with a german suplex, then rolling with him and hitting another.

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

And another

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

AND ANOTHER!

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

BRIDGE!

ONE

TWO

THREEEEEEEE

KICKOUT, IN THE NICK OF TIME!

Nick Stuart: ELLIS WORKING AND EXUDING HIMSELF, TAKING CONTROL OF THIS MATCH!

Richard Parker: MAYBE THE SWAGGER IS TOO MUCH FOR OUR LIZARD KING’S BODY! MAYBE HE’S A LITTLE TOO EXCITED! QUICK GET HIM SOME CRISPS! CRISPS!

Ellis rises up, sweating, seeing his chance. Grabbing at the nearest corner, he starts to climb, ready to rise up. And as he does, FLAMBO starts to stir. Rising up himself. He sees the airborne Ellis. He isn’t able to get away from the missile dropkick.

Nick Stuart: WOW! WOW! IS THIS…CAN IT BE?!

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The joyous celebration is becoming straight horse shit. Garbage. Because it’s becoming clear that the homecoming is melting away to a potential monumental upset. FLAMBERGE stagers to his feet. Ellis, in an opposite corner, looks, with great intent in his eyes. His fist is loaded. He’s ready to strike. Each step forward is a stride toward crushing the man who secured victory for Team Farthington at Culture Shock. Target locked.

Take the dog to Hell.

He leaps and throws his fist.

Nick Stuart: AXE KICK! OH MY GOD! AXE KICK!

Richard Parker: HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYT! 

The strike is a highlight reel maker for sure. A front kick with precision, thrown up and blasting the jaw of the falling Adam Ellis before he could land with his Superman Punch.

And as he crumples to the canvas, FLAMBERGE then jerks him back up, hitting him with a hammerlock suplex. Another ushiro goshi. And with FLAMBO in perfect position, he starts throwing the most vicious back elbows into the side of Adam Ellis’s head annihilating him, putting insane stress on his neck.

Ginny is on her feet, smashing her hands against the canvas.

Farthington can’t even watch.

The burst of violence is such that Ellis’s head lolls back and forth. The referee could stop this at any time.

PRENDS-LUI LE COU!

PRENDS-LUI LE COU!

PRENDS-LUI LE COU!

Well, if you insist.

Nick Stuart: MARIE ANTOINETTE!

Ellis grimaces, barely conscious. He knows he’s fucked. Barely can even string a thought together. But with what he has to lose, dying in the ring is not exactly a smart decision.

He taps.

DING DING DING

And the Accor Arena EXPLODES!

Vince Howard: YOOOOOOOOOUR WINNER…BY SUBMISSION…FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMBERGE!

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

Kicked aside like a sack of potatoes. A sack of snails? Of baguettes? FLAMBERGE stands up, throwing his hands out, the most swaggeristic of smirks spreading across his lips before folding his arms across his chest.

Cecilworth, with much pain and lots of baby steps, comes into the ring and raises the arm of the home country hero.

Adam Ellis rolls out of the ring, eyes cast up into the ring, a snarl on his lips as his hands reach for his own neck.

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

OH LA LA!

OUI OUI OUI! 

Run The Jewels, motherfuckers.

The Ace collects yet another neck.

Following the FLAMBERGE vs. Adam Ellis match, we are greeted to the broad back of Ivan Stanislav as he trudges through the backstage area. He’s dressed for his upcoming match in his gray shirt, and his red suspenders dig slightly into his thick, powerful shoulders. He hum/growls to himself, some sort of a military march that would no doubt have made Stalin smile and millions cry in terror.

He rounds the corner, nearly runs over someone, grunting and jerking slightly to the side, only for it to be revealed to be Anna Daniels. He grunts and looks down at her, and his expression is one of surprise as he clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh! Erm… Ms. Daniels. Funny that Ivan meets you here…

Anna raises an eyebrow.

Anna Daniels: It’s not that funny. We were just on our way to hunt you down anyway. Though it’s a good thing we’re quick on our feet. Wouldn’t want to waste mediocre vodka.

The bottle and two glasses are lifted in the air showing that, indeed, she has brought alcohol.

Anna Daniels: We figured that in the spirit of friendship and what-not, we should at least share a quick drink before battle.

The big Russian does very little to hide his appreciation and surprise as he eyes the glasses and the bottle.

Ivan Stanislav: Why, I was looking for you as well. Though I must admit, I do not have any drink with me. Embarrassing as it is.

He eyes a nearby door and tries to open it, but it is locked. With a smirk, he glances at The Muse.

Ivan Stanislav: French. Locking their doors. But always poor craftsmanship.

He leans against the door itself and pushes as the door buckles inside the frame and pops open with a crrrunch. Inside is a smaller dressing room with a table. He motions her inside. As he takes one of the offered glasses.

Ivan Stanislav: Well then, I let you do the honors of pouring, Ms. Daniels.

Anna feigns a curtsy before sliding into the room. Setting the glasses down, she proceeds to fill the larger glass first. It’s an attempt to being a good hostess, if nothing else.

Anna Daniels: Not entirely sure how much qualifies as a simple drink to you considering you’re…

The vessel stretches her arms out as widely as absolutely possible horizontally and vertically as if to say you’re a pretty big dude, my dude. Admittedly, it’s not even certain if the glass is enough.

Anna Daniels: So if that’s not enough, you’re welcome to pour whatever you need.

The smaller glass gets its own fair amount as the bottle is sealed. She looks over at the Russian Bear and judging by the look that flashes upon her face, a realization has hit.

Anna Daniels: It’s strange. This may be the first time we’ve seen you alone for once.

There’s no judgment either way on the matter. She can sense it’s not what he needs at the moment, though there’s no outward mention of the most recent incident. Ivan, meanwhile, smiles while his large glass is filled with vodka, but it does falter at her words.

Ivan Stanislav: Eh? Well… rest assured that Alexei, he is here in building. But prior to a match, no matter who we are against, he insists on keeping focused on victory rather than, well, this.

He motions between the two of them, keeping the rest of what is unsaid, well, unsaid.

Ivan Stanislav: This may be first match in PRIME where I stand against an opponent who I respect, Ms. Daniels. A unique and welcome opportunity and yes, this was what I wanted to tell you.

He lifts the glass and eyes the clear liquid.

Ivan Stanislav: No self righteous charlatans. No hatemongers. No bigots. Just very capable, very shrewd, and very savvy opponent who would be worthy in any Russian wrestling ring, let alone a French one.

Anna Daniels: That’s very thoughtful, Ivan. And you should know that it works the same way on our end as well. No bullshit, no unnecessary tricks. Just two great wrestlers of different positions having a great match. Everything in that ring is strictly business.

Anna lifts her glass, noting the irony of being the one saying all of this. Deep down, the Multitudes know when to pry and when to let go.

Anna Daniels: With the rest of this roster being overtly emotional, we almost forgot what that felt like. Trying to deal with all of this is such a damned chore.

She leans on the table a bit and shrugs before lifting up her glass even more. A smile creeps across her face. Ivan grins, his back straight as he lifts his own very much full glass.

Anna Daniels: A toast to tonight and whatever comes after.

He clinks his glass against hers.

Ivan Stanislav: To tonight and whatever comes after!

He takes a long  pull of the vodka. He exhales with a gasp, but his expression shifts as he flutters his eyes.

Ivan Stanislav: This vodka, it tastes like Stolichnaya, but very old. Soviet era.

He stares at the glass, and then at Anna Daniels.

Ivan Stanislav: How… did you get something so rare and yet… so fresh?

She laughs. She cannot help but laugh.

Anna Daniels: You’ve hung around Freeman and Schwartz long enough. They had to have slipped in their own way. One minute here, next minute POOF! It’s not so different.

A pull from her own glass and a spark of a certain amount of knowing in her eyes. Those boys aren’t exactly the greatest at covering their tracks and while most might fall for it, Daniels easily catches Stanislav’s Russian attempt to no selling.

Anna Daniels: This actually isn’t so bad! Admittedly, we’re not the best judge on vodka. All the brands just blur together in our head. We just picked it up on short notice and hoped it wasn’t terrible, honestly.

There’s a look at the drink again. It’s true. There wasn’t much thought beyond let’s get some Soviet stuff and link up. No actual logic in that process, just whim. Already, her husband’s mindset is beginning to seep into her own a bit. Anna shakes her head a bit and returns to the present with a smile.

Anna Daniels: Glad you enjoy it though. The rest of the bottle is yours, if you want it. We can find more if we need to.

Stanislav picks up the bottle and stares at it for a moment, holding something that represents a very cherished memory and there it is, in his hands. He exhales and nods his head.

Ivan Stanislav: This means a lot to me, Anna. More than I am willing to explain. And your sentiments for others who… are not here…

He tightens his jaw and offers another half smile, looking down at the woman a foot and half shorter than him and a third of his size.

Ivan Stanislav: I would very much like more of this at some time, if you are able. Ahem… now, let us prepare for our match. Let us show PRIME what two honorable competitors can do when there is no meddling, eh?

And in this moment, she cannot help but reflect into her own half smile. There’s a nod.

Anna Daniels: Consider it done. And on the off chance you need anything else…

The comment drops there, but it’s easy enough to infer the rest. The Time Lord slowly drains the rest of her drink before motioning towards the door.

Anna Daniels: Gentlemen, first. We may not be so nimble banging into you again.

Stanislav, with the bottle held aloft and his glass, nods with a smile.

Ivan Stanislav: See you soon, Ms. Daniels.

And with that, he begins to make his way to the ring and we cut elsewhere.

ReVival 47 comes back with the feed somewhere deep inside the Accor Arena. Judging by the exponentially stronger smells of old cheese and pessimism, it’s super deep, and super secret. That’s probably pretty important considering the cast of characters gathering in a dark room, staring at a Fathead of Max Kael.

Violent Purple: It’s pretty cut and dry, boys.

The founder and least hardened member of HOTDOGS, Raffi Azarian, flinches before pointing at the middle of Max’s sinister grin. VP drives that feeling home by displaying her phone, full shot of a decomposing U.N. Couth. He shakes his finger, clearly unprepared to address the multiple issues at hand. He drifts into the background as Crash steps forward.

Crash: My girlfriend has a point, brohemians.

Jacque stops eyeing the door before bursting into a whirlwind grin. He does a fist pump and catches Crash in the side with a congratulatory elbow. Broque rolls his eyes, crossing his arms with a stern glare at his brother’s enthusiasm. Purps jumps in with a fist to the table.

Violent Purple: We’ve got everything we need to put Max’s head on a pike.

Around the table, they assess the horrifying pictures as VP swipes through a mountain of evidence.

Violent Purple:  He knows what happened to my aunt. I need answers.

Raffi Azarian steps forward, no longer weary of simply being near a picture of Max, but now meddling in his affairs. He nods to his team, mostly noticing Crash wearing what appears to be a bubble jacket. He waves off the thought.

Raffi Azarian: How can we help, Lady Purple? You have all of the HOTDOGS resources you require.

Crash audibly exhales.

ZZZZZTTT

The Hot Dog Hero reveals his almighty stash of doggies, pre dressed, and begins woofing them down. He offers one to VP, who declines, before his comrades of the LaRoque kingdom. They feel it’s necessary to indulge because it’s polite.

Violent Purple: This dumb son of a bitch is gonna help us bury him.

Everyone looks at Crash. He notices that it’s also the time he’s double fisting hotdogs and grins, mid chomp.

Crash:  Anyone else want one? I got plenty.

Violent Purple:  This idiot is somehow… in Max’s circle. He’s already inside the walls. Now we just need him to-

Crash:  DROP HOT DOG BOMBS, DAWGS!

Crash does a chomp from one hotdog and then the next, in gargantuan doses, before the doggies are no more. The DOGtourage stare on in disbelief. His Doggiest wipes the sides of his mouth, licking his fingertips dry, and snarls.

Crash:  Let’s go bury this motherfucker.

The HOTDOGterougue files out one after one, before VP meets Crash, eye to eye.

Crash:  You wanna go make out?

She shoves him out of the door. The eyeroll says a hard perhaps. They exit when the camera spots a ghost with big white eyeballs.

Oh, it’s not a ghost.

It’s just The Herald.

We cut elsewhere.

Backstage. Because that’s how this works.

Outside of promotional material, this is the first time we’ve seen Jared Sykes on PRIME television since the second night of Culture Shock, so it would only make sense that he’s got a few things to get off his chest.

It would also make sense that the French crowd isn’t keen to let him, as once he comes into frame and opens his mouth they let him have it. There’s booing. There’s whistling. A few colorful invectives are hurled his way in English by a few fans who assume he doesn’t speak or understand French. Joke’s on them. He took AP French in high school, so naturally he learned all the swear words. And since it’s been twenty-seven years since he graduated, the swear words are all he remembers.

You might be asking yourself, “Self, why is the two-time, back-to-back Face Of The Year winner being jeered in Paris?” And that would be a dumb question, because ReVival 43 is totally a thing that happened, and that was the night when FLAMBERGE lost the Universal Championship to the schmuck currently standing in front of a rather plain looking wall in the bowels of the arena.

To Jared’s credit, he doesn’t seem all that bothered by this reaction. Maybe he expected it. Maybe it’s because he started his career as kind of an asshole, whacking opponents with a porcelain garden gnome that he named Earl. If anything, he seems mildly amused.

There are a few possible directions here, and the one he chooses is to just wait patiently to see if the crowd boos themself out. If they do, great. If not, then the next play is to just try and talk over them.

After a moment there is a noticeable lull, but just as Jared opens his mouth to speak a very different sound fills the air.

“HEY, JARED, WHY DID YOU NEVER ACCEPT MY FACEBOOK FRIEND REQUEST?”

This is the noise that gets our totally-a-villain-in-this-country-and-possibly-also-Germany to scowl, because it comes from a man that Jarry here hasn’t seen in almost fifteen years.

Jared Sykes: Holy shit. Rick? How the hell did you get here?

Remember Doug Tim?

No?

Okay, a little history then. See, last year PRIME introduced a tech who was responsible for putting a shock collar on Richard Parker every time he made a joke about Bobby Dean’s weight. It was a whole thing. Anyway, the man responsible is Doug Tim, and he’s still on the staff. But Doug isn’t the first member of the Tim family to join the ranks of a traveling wrestling promotion. That honor goes to his brother, Rick, who once worked behind the scenes at Sin City Championship Wrestling.

Rick Tim: MY BROTHER DOUG ASKED ME IF I WANTED TO GO TO FRANCE, AND I HAD NEVER BEEN TO FRANCE BEFORE, SO I SAID THAT YES I WOULD LIKE TO SEE FRANCE.

Welcome to the reason Rick Tim didn’t get much television time, despite trying to make a career on the backstage media team. Dude didn’t come with a volume knob, which is why Jared is wincing.

He does have a microphone though, which is odd.

Jared Sykes: Okay, that makes sense, I guess. But do you have to shout everything? Can you maybe take it down a bit?

Rick Tim: SORRY.

A pause.

Rick Tim: IS THIS BETTER?

Jared Sykes: Uhh, sure.

He points at the microphone in Tim’s hand.

Jared Sykes: Where did you get that?

Rick Tim: I FOUND IT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO TALK TO THE CANADIAN LADY ABOUT A JOB. SHE SAID NO BUT WAS VERY NICE ABOUT IT. THEN I MET TILDA SWINTON BUT SHE WOULDN’T GIVE ME HER AUTOGRAPH.

Jared Sykes: Tilda Swin… oh! Do you mean Simon?

Rick Tim: WHO IS SIMON?

Jared Sykes: Simon Tillier? Member of the media team here? You know, the thin guy with the glasses?

Rick Tim: THAT WASN’T THE ANCIENT ONE FROM MARVEL’S DOCTOR STRANGE?

Jared Sykes: Uhh, no.

Rick Tim: THAT WOULD EXPLAIN WHY HE WOULDN’T TEACH ME MAGIC SPELLS AND KARATE.

Another pause.

Rick Tim: THAT MAN HAS AN IMMACULATE JAWLINE.

He really does. Seriously, go take a look at his picture and tell me he doesn’t have an air of ageless grace about him. Just imagine him without the glasses first. The red does him no favors at all.

Jared Sykes: Okay, well it was great to see you, Rick, but I’ve kinda got a thing going on here, sooo…

He gestures to the camera.

Rick Tim: OH, IT’S OKAY. I UNDERSTAND.

Rick looks towards the camera himself.

Jared Sykes: Cool. So if you could just…

Then he raises the microphone.

Jared Sykes: Oh no.

The Paris crowd erupts in cheers. Not because they’re particularly keen on Rick, but because to everyone with even the slightest bit of social sense it appears that Jared is trying to hide by imploding into his own asshole. In short, the boy looks miserable. Because he is.

Rick Tim: HELLO, THIS IS RICK TIM AND I AM HERE WITH JARED SYKES THE WRESTLER. HEY, JARED, HAVE YOU EVER LOOKED AT YOURSELF IN THE REFLECTION OF YOUR TAG TEAM BELT AND THOUGHT, “WOW, WHEN DID MY FACE GET SO GOLD?”

The sigh that escapes Jared’s lips could alter the weather patterns over western Europe.

Jared Sykes: No. I don’t know. Maybe once? What does that even…

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED, DO YOU EVER MISS MURIEL PUDDINGS? BECAUSE I DO.

Jared Sykes: (deadpan) Sure. I heard a rumor that she had an underground bunker, and right now I’m thinking of a few different ways I could put it to use.

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED…

Jared Sykes: So are you starting every question lik-

Rick Tim: MY NEPHEW GAVE ME ONE OF HIS DUMP TRUCKS TO PLAY WITH BECAUSE HE THOUGHT IT WAS WEIRD THAT I DIDN’T TALK TO ANYONE AT THANKSGIVING DINNER. MY QUESTION IS WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH ALL THAT JUNK INSIDE YOUR TRUNK?

Silence.

Staring.

Somewhere in the building, Justine Calvin is watching all of this on a monitor and having herself a grand old time. Anyone walking past her has no doubt been grabbed and conscripted into watching it with her, because this is the sort of schadenfreude that you have to share with other people.

But here, and upon seeing that Jared isn’t responding to his question, Rick leans in to whisper something.

Rick Tim: YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO ANSWER NOW.

Jared Sykes: Gah!!!

He rubs at his ear, which is now ringing.

Jared Sykes: Okay, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a match with a very large man in a little bit that I need to get ready for. Plus they just announced that in two weeks FLAMBERGE and I are going to run it back…

This one really gets the French crowd going. Sure, they already knew the match was happening, but news like this needs to be celebrated. A chance for the traitor Jared Sykes to get his comeuppance at the hands of local hero Julien Lavigne? And for it to happen on Julien’s home turf? Hell yeah, we celebrate that shit.

Jared Sykes: …plus Kenny Freeman is really adamant about putting me on his list of enemies. Seriously, this is like the second or third time he’s brought me up, so I owe the man a response. Can I just get through this and then we can all go about our day?

Rick Tim: SURE.

Jared Sykes: Thank you.

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED.

Jared Sykes: (exasperated) Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Rick Tim: WHAT DOES A WOMAN’S TOUCH FEEL LIKE?

Look, it’s a miracle that he’s held on to his composure this long, but by now it’s starting to slip. The cracks are showing. He’s coming undone at the seams here, people.

Jared Sykes: What does that have to do with anything?!

Rick Tim: IT IS AN IMPORTANT JOURNALISTIC QUERY.

Jared Sykes: No. No, it really isn’t, Rick. It’s not a good journalism.

Rick Tim: OH. SORRY.

Jared Sykes: It’s fine. Okay? It’s fine.

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED.

Jared Sykes: (to himself) This is hell. This has to be hell. I am dead now, and this is hell.

Rick Tim: ARE YOU AWARE THAT FIFTY PERCENT OF MARRIAGES END IN DIVORCE?

There it is; the last straw. Jared, having accomplished none of what he wanted to do, slides his hands into his pockets and starts to move out of frame.

Jared Sykes: Good talk, Rick.

A moment later and he’s gone. Of course, that doesn’t deter a hard-hitting journalist of the people like Rick Tim. There are still questions that need answers, dammit. And by god, Rick Tim’s the man to ask ‘em!

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED, I’M A HUGE FAN OF VICKIE HALL. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH?

Silence. From down the hall, Jared shoots a curt wave over his shoulder, but the cameras don’t see that. They’re too busy filming Rick.

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED, DON’T FEEL BAD ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO WYATT CONNORS BECAUSE ONE TIME I FELL OFF THE THIRD STEP OF MY LADDER AND IT DIDN’T HURT THAT BAD.

That one almost gets Jared to turn around, and it does earn an audible gasp from the man behind the camera.

Rick Tim: HEY, JARED, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BE ON MY PODCAST SO I CAN ASK MORE QUESTIONS?

After a moment of awkward silence, Rick turns and faces the camera.

Rick Tim: WELL THERE YOU HAVE IT. FOR PRIME CITY CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING I’M RICK TIM, AND YOU WILL BE… MY VICTIM!

Gotta get the catchphrase in.

Mercifully, this all ends.

The scene switches to ringside for the next match. Vince Howard is already in the ring.

Vince Howard: This match is for ONE. FALL.

RAAAAAHH!! One fall makes the crowd hot AF.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey… weighing one-hundred-thirty-five pounds… she is THE MUSE… she is Anna Daniels!

The crowd cheers as “A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space plays and Anna Daniels walks out onto the top of the rampway. She looks determined as she makes her way down.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a good one coming. Ivan and Anna both preached respect to each other-

Richard Parker: Yeah, we’ll see how that goes when Ivan has a pending Universal Championship shot in the near future.

Nick Stuart: How, on god’s earth, do you think he has a shot in the near future? Because he said he wants one? He has to earn it.

Richard Parker: And he will earn it, by making quick work of Anna Daniels!

Nick Stuart: We’ll see about that. Daniels is no push over.

Richard Parker: Neither is Ivan!

Nick Stuart: I never said he was!

Stuart gives up and moves on, as he remains on radio silence while Daniels takes her robe off and waits in the corner of the ring, as her theme song dies down.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

The crowd groans, the lights switch to ARMY RED.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir erupts as Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Rulsan emerge from the backstage area. However, they are not alone.

Reed Young and Jonathan-Christopher Hall also appear. Young, who holds the Universal Championship high in the air as Jonathan-Christopher Hall hangs his head, since he remains Vickie-less and depressed.

Richard Parker: Oh, what a wonderful surprise!

Nick Stuart: Sadly, it’s not a surprise. As we know, Ivan wants the next title shot so I can only imagine what Reed and Jonathan-Christopher are doing here. In a strange twist, perhaps they are here to ensure Ivan’s victory, since for some dumb reason Reed WANTS this match between his son-in-law and Stanislav. I haven’t been able to figure out why Reed would push for this, though.

Richard Parker: You haven’t? C’mon, partner, get with it! Ivan and the Young family have a bond. They are in this together. It would appease Stanislav to recurve a title shot and it no doubt will put hair on the boy’s chest, Jonathan-Christopher that is, for him to have a match with Ivan.

Nick Stuart: I guess so.

Stanislav starts marching down the rampway with his manager while his “associates” trail behind. Young takes the opportunity to speak to Ruslan, as he continues to hold the prize everybody wants in the air.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring… from Arkhangelsk, Russia… weighing four-hundred pounds… he is THE RUSSIAN BEAR… IVAN STANISLAV!

The giant walks with a sense of purpose, as Young hops, skips and screams with the title. Alexei takes a moment to find JCH and pat him on the back but it doesn’t cheer the champ up. Instead, he sheds a tear.

The crowd is pissing all over this and, if they could, maybe they’d literally piss on this. Ivan steps over the top rope and thunders into the ring. He raises his arms and bellows at the camera while Ruslan takes his position at the apron facing the hard camera. Finally, Reed Young escorts his son-in-law to the two empty front row seats at the end of the rampway. Jonathan-Christopher hops the railing while Reed Young practically does the impossible. He hops the railing without needing to hold the rail, because he is (still, yes, still) holding the Universal Championship in the air with both hands. Even when the duo take their seats, Reed continues to hold the title in the air and block the numerous rows of people behind them to a bunch of shouts and obscene gestures.

Young is oblivious.

Richard Parker: And that’s why you don’t buy floor seats, folks.

Nick Stuart: You’re advocating against buying tickets?

Richard Parker: No. But floor seats mean you can have some idiot holding a sign in front of you all night long.

Nick Stuart: So you’re saying Reed Young is an idiot?

Richard Parker: No! (Pause) Look, can we just call the match? I want to keep it to the people in the ring.

Nick Stuart: So do I.

Referee Elvis Nixon has a brief word with both wrestlers before he takes a step back and motions to the time keeper.

DING DING

Both wrestlers remain in their respective corners as the crowd cheers. Anna Daniels is the first to emerge from her side, as she moves towards the middle, ready to meet The Russian Bear there.

Ivan looks down and outside to Alexei Ruslan who cheers the former champion on. Then, sitting in the first row at the corner of the rampway, Ivan glances at Reed Young. The former wrestling owner gives a solid thumbs up and “booyakasha”. Finally, Ivan meets eyes with the tentative Universal Champion. Stanislav lowers his eyebrows and clenches his teeth together, as if to impose his will upon the boy and say “this is how it’s supposed to be done”.

Stanislav removes himself from the corner. He marches over to the middle of the ring and meets Daniels there. He looms over her but she doesn’t flinch. The crowd watches on, as the referee positions into the middle of the ring as well. He already rang the bell, there isn’t anything more he can do… but watch and wait.

Daniels fires a right forearm forward. It knocks Stanislav in the chest but it doesn’t budge the giant. Daniels won’t worry, however, as she easily moves into the ropes and comes off with a springboard dropkick, landing a perfectly placed delivery straight into Stanislav’s right knee.

Ivan bends over!

The crowd is stunned as Daniels leaps into the air, grabs Stanislav by the head and plants him with a DDT.

RAAAAHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: So much for that smug look Ivan showed Jonathan-Christopher.

The crowd is rather stunned as Anna leaps up, takes to the ropes again and delivers a second missile dropkick, this time firmly planting both heels SQUARE into Ivan’s jaw!

Nick Stuart: Five-seven meets seven-one. This is most certainly a way for Anna to chop her opponent down to size.

Daniels springs to her feet. She bounces off the ropes, looking to land another blow when-

WHAM!

Stanislav delivers a hard, stiff forearm just below her neck. Daniels folds like an accordion as Stanislav is on the rise. There is no psychological play here. No taunting. Stanislav merely pulls himself upright and then leans down to pluck Daniels from the canvas.

CRANK!

Daniels meets Stanislav under the jaw with an uppercut. She flies into the ropes, leaps off and delivers a twisting cutter!

Stanislav connects with the canvas mat!

With all of her might, Daniels rolls Stanislav onto his back and hooks a leg.

Nick Stuart: I think Ivan’s DOA!

Richard Parker: He hasn’t moved an inch!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The kickout almost comes out of nowhere, like The Russian Bear’s lights suddenly came on and they came on loud and fast. Daniels flies in the air with the kickout, landing beside the former Universal Champion. Stanislav looks over, gives his head a shake and then collects his opponent.

Ivan throws Anna into a corner. He comes charging in but this time it’s The Muse who gains a second wind from out of nowhere. She puts her leg up, and Ivan runs into a knee. Daniels perches herself on the second rope, leaps off and takes Stanislav’s head along with him.

Tilt-a-whirl DDT!

Stanislav is down and Daniels shoots up. She grits her teeth and takes off into the ropes… coming back and delivering a flying forearm.

Nick Stuart: The ropes are Anna’s best friend. They have to be. It’s a smart play, using the ropes for added speed and leverage. Stanislav has the ultimate size advantage, but speed kills.

Richard Parker: The ropes are probably Anna. Or at least she thinks she’s the ropes. Something like that, right?

Daniels shoots to her feet. She’s trying to keep the offense going as the crowd watches and cheers along, some in disbelief it’s been her on full offensive control. Daniels is fearless with her kicks. She boots Stanislav in the back over and over as he tries to get up. The Russian Bear is fighting through the pain but, ultimately, he is on his feet. He snatches Daniels’ right leg and then reels her in, delivering a huge clothesline that flips Anna inside out before she hits the mat. Ivan picks Daniels up-

CRUNCH!

Jawbreaker by Daniels!

Surprisingly, Stanislav shoots in the air and then crashes, shaking the entire ring in the process! The crowd can’t believe what they are seeing… and it looks like The Muse may have Ivan Stanislav DOA for real..

She marches over and sends a missile dropkick right into Ivan’s chest. With all of her might she drags Stanislav to his knees and then sends him back to the canvas with a DDT. Ruslan shouts in Russian on the outside but it’s no use. Daniels slides across the canvas, finds the nearby corner and springs to the second rope, measuring Stanislav as she does.

Second rope fist drop…

Connects!

Daniels with the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

This time, however, Daniels does not fly in the air via the kickout like she did beforehand. Instead, she slips off Stanislav and tries to keep the offensive attack going. She takes three steps back and plants a kick in the side of Stanislav’s head. Working his temples over, Anna’s plan is to hopefully knock the sense out of the big man’s head and make it easy work thereafter.

Daniels lands about ten SOLID kicks into the side of Ivan’s head before the giant gets on his feet… but he’s wobbly. Very. Meanwhile, Alexei looks concerned on the outside. He’s fretting hard!

Nick Stuart: I have to wonder… if this “respect” approach Ivan has taken with Anna, it’s not paying off right now, that’s for sure.

Richard Parker: Ivan is caught off guard. We have to give Daniels credit, she’s got a great gameplan!

Daniels steps back and then sends a roaring elbow into the side of Stanislav’s head, the same spot she was working on previously with those kicks. Daniels takes another couple of steps back to do this again… but realizes she wants even MORE space to catch a running start and perhaps end this match off once and for all. She takes three more steps back and then races to Stanislav.

Ivan ducks, Anna goes into the ropes and the Russian Bear clobbers her with a thumping chest slam, knocking her out of the ropes, off the apron and to the floor below!

Stanislav pushes the top rope down as he steps over and now resides on the apron. He gives his head a shake, clearly feeling the effects from Daniels’ fury of kicks and shots from moments ago. Stanislav slowly, almost gingerly, steps off the apron and finds The Muse crawling on all fours in the attempt to stand.

He pulls her up and is about to push Anna into the ring… when Daniels sends a right forearm under Ivan’s jaw. The Russian Bear is stunned. He falls into the apron and decides to roll under the ropes, back into the ring, allowing Daniels’ to come to him. Most importantly, it allows Ivan time to regroup.

The Time Lord enters the squared circle but the moment she puts her second leg through the ring ropes, she’s tripped up by Alexei Ruslan to boos from the crowd. She’s not particularly hurt but it catches her off guard as she goes crashing to the mat, landing on her face and nose.

Ivan sees this from inside the ring and he doesn’t look happy. He marches towards Alexei’s side of the apron and starts mouthing off to him in Russian.

Rusland puts his hands in the air like he did nothing and maybe this was all in Stanislav’s head. Needless to say, Ivan is no dummy and the two argue back and forth.

Meanwhile, at the front row seats beside the bottom of the ramp, Reed Young takes a moment to lean into Jonathan-Christopher Hall with a nudge.

Reed Young: That’s why we’re staying out of this one, son.

Needless to say, JCH doesn’t look like it matters to him either way as Reed Young simply lowers the title belt and clutches it tightly in his lap while he watches the Russians kerfuffle.

Anna Daniels is up and walks over to Ivan. She steers Stanislav around and towards her as she hops in the air and crushes Stanislav with a roundhouse kick, clipping the former champion across the chin. Stanislav is stunned… he starts to fumble around. Alexei puts his hands on his head, going for a little walk as he does.

Shotgun dropkick, via Anna to Ivan’s knees.

Daniels runs into the ropes and goes for it.

PUNT KICK?

NO!

Nick Stuart: Stanislav moves out of the way!

WHAM!

In response, Stanislav whacks Daniels in the chest with an open palm blow. She crumbles to the ground as Stanislav lifts her up with one arm, working her into a powerbomb.

The fury in Ivan’s eyes… well, it’s likely directed at the specific events that just took place between himself and his manager, not exactly his opponent. Regardless, Stanislav steadies himself on his own two feet and he picks up Daniels to deliver another blow.

Stalling brainbuster.

Daniel’s body goes limp and this is good enough for Ivan to drop to his knees, hook a leg and find where Alexei Ruslan is standing to stare at him.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

The crowd can’t believe it! In some ways, neither can the referee or anyone else for that matter. Ruslan’s jaw is on the floor. Reed Young stands up and starts shouting “booyakasha” or whatever the hell he does. The only one who really doesn’t seem to elicit a reaction is Jonathan-Christopher Hall. He simply sits there, sad and lonely.

Stanislav shakes off the surprise on his own face. He pulls to his feet and brings Daniels along with him. He hoists her into a fireman’s carry and he’s about to slam her to the mat when she springs to life and wiggles free! She finds the ropes and comes across with a spinning heel kick, catching Stanislav on his face. It staggers the former champion backwards as Daniels races into the ropes again. This time she DUCKS a massive palm strike by Ivan as she bounces off the next set of ropes, leaps into the air and sends a yakuza thrust kick into Stanislav’s heart… IF he has one! (yuk, yuk, yuk.)

Ivan stumbles into the ropes, clearing feeling the effects. Daniels sprints over, jumps in the air again and catches Stanislav by the head.

EVENFLOW DDT!

Daniels rolls Stanislav over and hooks his massive tree trunk of a leg.

ONE.

TWO.

RIGHT SHOULDER UP.

Nick Stuart: Worked him down to a shoulder, that’s really impressive stuff!

The crowd cheers The Muse on. She’s really starting to feel it and feed off the fans.

Nick Stuart: This has been some impressive showing by Daniels!

Richard Parker: Meh, I’ve seen better.

Daniels cranks her arms around as she pulls Stanislav to an upright position. She kicks him a number of times in the chest and then rears back, ready to deliver a strong knee into his chest when-

Ivan puts his hands up and blocks it!

Stanislav shakes his head no. The look in his eyes, however, suggests he’s not taunting Daniels. Rather, he thinks she’s definitely lived up to the promise. Maybe even gone beyond… and helped open his eyes.

Stanislav tries to stand, while continuing to hold onto Anna’s knee. The Muse is trying to break away but Stanislav’s grip is really fixed and she can’t do it, despite using her entire body to pull to the other side of the ring.

Richard Parker: Woken up the beast!

Stanislav stands completely, still holding onto Daniels’ knee. He finally discards it by THROWING her knee to the side and, ultimately, Anna Daniels to the side. He lunges forward and grabs a wobbly Daniels by the head. Ivan glances over to JCH and sneers in his direction before giving a headbutt to The Muse. Stanislav follows with a gutwrench powerbomb, into a fireman’s carry and then discards Daniel’s across his knee in a wicked looking backbreaker.

It almost seems as though Ivan has minor concern upon seeing The Time Lord’s body go limp in the process.

Richard Parker: Ivan can’t help how powerful he is!

Nick Stuart: I agree with you there.

Richard Parker: You… do?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Richard Parker: Do you… um… want to agree with me for the rest of the night?

Nick Stuart: Don’t push your luck.

Stanislav slides Daniels’ “broken” body off his knee and to the floor below. He glances up at Nixon as if to say he’s ready for the pin and this match is over.

He hooks her leg.

ONE.

TWO.

BARELY A KICKOUT BUT ONE NONETHELESS!

The crowd cheers! Once again, Stanislav doesn’t believe what happened. He looks down and nods to himself. It is now when he decides he needs to take the match to another level, respect or not.

Stanislav pulls Daniels on her feet. This time he takes a couple of steps back… then he goes into the ropes in order to find a bounce with momentum, before marching rather quickly for a man of his size towards his fallen opponent…

BIG SPLASH.

OOOF!

Daniels rolls out of the way!

The crowd comes alive as Anna rolls towards Stanislav and shouts into the rafters… as she hooks her body around his…

And applies a modified crossface!

Alexei can’t believe it! He’s jumping up and down outside of the ring with his hands back on his head. Ruslan starts pulling at his face. He’s super stressed! Furthermore, Reed Young hugs Jonathan-Christopher for all its worth, thinking they may be seeing the end of the Russian Bear right before their eyes! And Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t look like he cares.

Nick Stuart: Step aside, Ivan’s title shot. We might be seeing the rise of Anna Daniels!

Stanislav is fighting towards the ropes. He’s crawling on the ground to get there as The Muse leans back and pulls as hard as she can. It certainly seems like Ivan’s in pain… his entire body is shaking as he crawls on the mat, reaching his massive right arm forward but not finding the ropes just yet.

It looks like Ivan might tap. His hand goes upright in the air, not outright for the ropes.

Stanislav’s arm slams down…

HIS FINGERS GRAB THE BOTTOM ROPE!

The crowd boos as Daniels has to let go before the FIVE count ends. The Time Lord releases the hold at TWO, slips onto her feet and rocks Stanislav with a boot.

And another boot.

Another.

Another.

ANOTHER.

With the crowd fully on her side, she hits the ropes again as Ivan gets to his feet. She leaps almost halfway across the ring, aiming for a superman punch that is located for Ivan’s nose. No matter how big they are, no matter how hard they hit, if she lands this move… it’s going to hurt.

WHAM!

Daniels does!

Stanislav stumbles into the ropes holding his face, so Daniels winds up again and looks for a second superman punch to the nose…

SWOOSH!

She misses this one and in a fellow swoop, The Russian Bear snatches Anna from the air and slams her to the mat with the Iron Curtain!

Alexei Ruslan can open his eyes.

Reed Young can cheer.

And Jonathan-Christopher can still look depressed.

Nick Stuart: Dammit!

Stanislav rubs the side of his head. He’s clearly in a lot of pain. He even checks his nose for blood but, thankfully, there is none. Instead, Stanislav leans down and drags Anna Daniels to her feet.

The Red Scare.

THUMP.

Daniels’ body goes limp. She’s absolutely knocked out by the move.

Nick Stuart: The vertical release suplex. Ivan Stanislav got ALL OF IT.

The rest is academic. And even though the air is knocked out of the arena, there seems to be this feeling of hope that somehow, someway, Anna Daniels could work her way out of this situation…

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

She doesn’t.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… IVAN STANISLAV!

“The Soviet Union National Anthem” plays on the PA as Ivan rolls over onto his knees. He pats Anna on the chest as if to insinuate he’s telling her it was a hell of a battle and a very good match. She almost had him.

But ultimately, in the end, it looks like Ivan is going to get what he wants.

Outside the squared circle, Reed Young stands and applauds Ivan’s victory. Ruslan also seems happy, if not relieved the two of them can likely work past their in-match differences. Hall continues to have his head down and disinterested.

Stanislav marches over to the corner of the ring where Young and Hall reside. Reed stands and hoists the Universal Championship in the air as Ivan positions on the second rope and points directly at it.

Reed Young: It’s YOURS if you want to try, big man! Money. Money! MONEEEEEYYYYY!

Nick Stuart: I think I now understand why Reed Young wants to see his son-in-law up against The Russian Bear.

Richard Parker: Why’s that?

Nick Stuart: Money. I think the man literally thinks he’s the promoter of PRIME. I don’t think he has any respect towards Lindsay Troy or this organization whatsoever. I think Reed believes he can waltz in here and take over. I’m also starting to get the sense he doesn’t give a damn about Jonathan-Christipher Hall, either.

Richard Parker: Oh pissposh!

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Vickie LOVES Jonathan-Chtristipher. Reed feels the same. Young is just wanting to sharpen his son’s tools, you know? Make him the best fighting champion of all time!

Nick Stuart: Not buying it.

ReVival goes to commercial as Ivan doesn’t move from his corner. He hasn’t stopped pointing at the title and Reed hasn’t lowered his arms, either.

Back from the commercial break and unfortunately it seems like Ivan Stanislav and company haven’t gone anywhere. Alexei Ruslan stands beside his man but there’s also… the Universal Champion, Jonathan-Christopher Hall and his new “manager”, the man holding the title high in the air while hopping around the stage as he works up the crowd, former Action! Wrestling owner and known Massive Ideas Man, Reed Young.

The crowd is booing but some of them let up as Angie Brooks emerges from the back, mic in hand. Ivan looks content, yet determined, fresh off his hard fought victory.

Angie motions towards Stanislav.

Angelica Brooks: Ivan, a solid, hard fought victory tonight against Anna Daniels. You have to-

Clearly the Russian Bear has no time for “small talk”. He looms above Brooks and begins speaking over her.

Ivan Stanislav: Let Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav tell -you- what must be done, Angelica Brooks. Enough of this bumbling around by front office and give Ivan Universal Title shot he deserves! It is well known that I never should have had that title stripped from me in first place!

Ivan points his massive right index finger towards the belt Reed Young has high in the air for all to see. Young nods along like he’s eating up what Ivan’s throwing down for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Additionally, Ruslan stares daggers at Young while Jonathan-Christopher Hall is idle beside his father-in-law, reflecting upon the past couple of months.

Ivan Stanislav: Anna Daniels is beyond worthy opponent. Anglo Luchador… well, he is what he is. Mr. Hall and myself have defeated Nate Colton and Tsonda as well as Alias Champion Avalon and Tony Gamble. I have not lost all year! It is time to finish my story. NOW! Jonathan-Christopher’s has. The people yearn for us to meet in the ring. I want what belongs to me! To Russia! To the people!!

Young hops up and down, tickled pink with the thought of Jonathan-Christopher Hall vs. Ivan Stanislav for all of the monies and excitement. In fact, Reed is so pumped he bursts his way over to Stanislav and nearly hops on the bear’s back. Reed jiggles his way in-between Angie and Ivan, continuing to hold the strap in the air.

Reed Young: Ohhhhhhhh yeahhhhhh, brother from a Russian mother! This gets my juices flowing!

Young looks at Angie and starts nodding like he downed two Monster Energy drinks earlier in the night. Spoiler alert: he had three.

Reed Young: This is the type of match I wanna see! It’s the YUMMY TUMMY stuff you dream of as a wrestling promoter! This is solid booking, my dearest Ang! You don’t see this fresh shit in other companies! They’re stale, I’m on fire! Let me cook!

Young shakes with enthusiasm.

Reed Young: Ohhhhhhhhhhh yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The matchmaker in me… the IDEAS MAN IN ME… this is gonna be wonderful! Let’s do it! My son needs to have his first title defense and nothing would be greater than watching his mentor (stopping to head-motion in Stanislav’s direction), that’s you, (back to Angie) take my boy on for the top prize in the most honorable battle!

Hall seems indifferent, merely going along with the motions. He’s looked lost ever since Vickie left.

Nick Stuart: Who’s title is this, exactly? We have Ivan here, jockeying for a shot he might not deserve. Say what you want about his W’s, the last I checked… “his” WarGames team finished last. And then you have Reed Young fresh on the scene. Has Jonathan-Christopher even TOUCHED the Universal Title?

Richard Parker: Not sure he wants to, Nick.

Young is allowing the moment to breathe before he jumps all over Angie’s next potential comments with other “promotional material”.

Reed Young: My son-in-law is gonna give you a battle, Ivan! It will be (Russian accent) greatest test yet (/Russian accent) but since the middle of these “arcs” are Universal Championship defenses, I can’t see Lindsay Troy saying no to the hottest ticket she can sell, baby! We got this booked! RAUHHHH!! RAUHHHHH!!! RAUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

This man has more “bro” energy and hype than your typical ‘roid maniac at the local gymnasium.

Nick Stuart: Didn’t Lindsay literally laugh in Reed’s face and tell him HE CAN’T BOOK THIS MATCH!?

Richard Parker: She’s probably seeing the error of her ways right this second!

Young brings his full attention to Brooks, who at this rate is hoping to wrap up this nonsense A-SAP.

Reed Young: Dearest interviewer with the fiery red hair (overtop of these comments Nick Stuart is audible saying “she has a name”), let ME make it official! In two weeks you’ll see Jonathan-Christopher Hall defend THIS (Reed holds the belt even higher, shaking from head to toe with boundless energy) against THAT.

Young steps aside for Ivan Stanislav to show off his hulking, massive frame, as he marches towards Jonathan-Christopher Hall when-

BIG POP!

Nick Stuart: Thank god!

Lindsay Troy appears from behind the apron, shaking her head no! She immediately finds Reed Young. It looks like she wants to shred him apart but one clear glance at the guy… and anyone can tell Reed “just doesn’t get it”, it’s not worth her time. Troy sighs as she makes her way over to Angelica Brooks.

Lindsay Troy: (With extra emphasis on naming her) Angie, thank you for trying to work your way through… whatever this is.

Troy takes a moment to survey her surroundings once again. From the completely oblivious buffoon in Reed Young, who has literally not lowered the title from high in the air since this segment began… to the sad and depressive looking Jonathan-Christopher Hall, the man representing her company as their champion… to Alexei Ruslan in the back corner, rubbing his hands together rather sinisterly… and then Ivan Stanislav, standing over JCH, imposing his physical will onto the boy, bullying the kid.

Lindsay Troy: I’ll keep it quick and simple, we don’t need to waste everyone’s time when I already said no.

Nick Stuart: Exactly.

Lindsay Troy: Jonathan-Christopher Hall WILL defend his Universal Championship in two weeks.

She has everyone’s attention.

Lindsay Troy: But it’s not going to be against you, Ivan.

Troy pauses again. Ivan’s eyes go as wide as Russian saucers as he appears to nearly boil over. It’s clear she’s going to mention who, but Reed Young can’t contain himself. He races over and fixates himself in-between Troy and Brooks.

Reed Young: Yeah, YEAH!!! I f’n love that idea, boss! Let’s give the fans a triple threat or something! Maybe save Ivan for the pay-per-view! What an awesome approach to take! Save the title bout and make ‘em all pay! Booyakasha!

Troy hangs her head, disgusted.

Reed Young: Booyaka…sha?

His words make brimstone daggers of her eyes. Uncomfortable moments. A brooding anticipation, left to simmer. Ivan seethes and Ruslan protests in the Mother’s tongue. The overly energetic middle-aged child, Reed Young, vibrates, fidgeting, not sure to do with his spastic limbs. And Jonathan-Christopher? His gaze is vacant as he stands, head tilted slightly, expressionless. Finally, Lindsay draws the microphone to her lips, stepping in front of the Universal Champion.

Lindsay Troy: So many people talk about stories. You, Jonathan-Christopher, your story, from Tag Title contender, to timid, to Almasy Champion…to Universal Champion…

Hall’s head starts to rise.

Lindsay Troy: Some might say your story is finished. Some might say it’s just beginning. What matters to me is the story of PRIME. And no matter what anyone here thinks, the truth is, your place in PRIME’s story is linked to the very start of the ReVival…linked to the man you will defend the Universal Championship against in two weeks…

Like a crescendo, realization rushes to JCH’s mind.

He has no time to react.

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

The arena is unglued!

Richard Parker: OH NO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Oh. My. God.

With everyone on their feet, an entire building worked into a frenzy, “Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH plays on the PA and the next two words across the big screen confirm and significantly trigger… well… many of the people standing there waiting.

BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

Mr. Fuck Around and Find Out, literally living up to one of his nicknames, marches out, eyes focused solely toward the ring, his countenance stern.

An irate Ivan Stanislav growls and balls his massive palms into fists. He roars with frustration, bellowing as loudly as he can, but his own voice is drowned out by the crowd and the music. Ruslan has his hat off and he stomps on it angrily, as both men devolve into angry Russian curses.

Reed Young has even lowered the Universal Championship to waist-level. Trust me, this is significant. He could’ve held his arms up all god damn night.

Plus Jonathan-Christopher Hall literally pisses himself.

Nick Stuart: All three of these men have a history with Brandon! We know what he did to Jonathan-Christopher, defeating Hall in the main event of the very first ReVival during round one of the Almasy Tournament! On route to Youngblood’s first Universal Title!

Stuart takes a breath.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav, Ultra Violence. The end of Youngblood’s reign!

Stuart takes another breath.

Nick Stuart: And I believe Brandon even WRESTLED for Reed years ago!

Richard Parker: You don’t say.

Youngblood’s theme plays on as he enters the ring, brushing PAST Ivan, moving the Russian Bear aside who is FUMING at the seams now. It’s as if, to The Tower of Babel, Ivan doesn’t even exist. The former Russian Universal Champion instead turns his ire to Lindsay Troy, giving her more than an earful. Ruslan joins him with his flattened hat, waving it dramatically as the two complain.

Brandon positions himself…

Directly in front of Jonathan-Christopher.

Nick Stuart: Hall has been so spooked by Brandon… he can’t even say his name!

Richard Parker: Can’t look him in the eyes, either!

A deer in the headlights, JCH hasn’t flinched since the theme song began. He is stone cold frozen as Youngblood stands in front of him, warm pee rolling down his PRETTY PINK© dress pants. Meanwhile, Reed Young, who also looks like he’s seen a ghost, is trying to recollect himself approximately ten feet away. He clutches the Universal Title into his chest like it’s going to be snatched from his arms right then and there. Reed keeps blinking at a rapid speed and is now sweating profusely.

Reed Young: (Under his breath) Get him, son. Stand up to the bully. C’mon. Show him. Show him you’re a Young underneath there.

But the former nonsensical owner and hot f’n mess can’t speak too loudly, he’s clearly shook and doesn’t want Youngblood to take further notice.

Nick Stuart: Brandon Youngblood versus Jonathan-Christopher Hall. ReVival 48. This is MASSIVE.

Richard Parker: How come Youngblood gets the shot over Stanislav? What kind of narcissistic-

Parker trails off, as he, too, watches Jonathan-Christopher Hall merely stare into Brandon Youngblood’s chest. Hall won’t look him in the eyes.

He CAN’T look him in the eyes.

Reed is now speaking a little louder. He’s trying to pump his son-in-law up. Maybe Reed thinks Youngblood can’t hear him.

The Strong Father tilts his head, a horror monster real and in the flesh.

Finally, Jonathan-Christopher slowly raises his eyes. He’s at neck-level with Brandon-

Until he sprints in the other direction, hopping off the stage! In a flash, JCH finds the guardrail and launches himself over it, racing into the crowd, up the flights of stairs and out of the bleachers entirely!

Nick Stuart: This is our champion?

By now, Alexei and Reed have to “hold Ivan back” as Lindsay Troy is long gone and Angie Brooks isn’t close behind.

Nick Stuart: Goodnight, Jonathan-Christopher’s title reign.

Brandon’s eyes never leave Hall, lasered in on his every movement. To him, there is nothing else, no one else in the whole world.

And ReVival goes elsewhere.

There are clocks.

You might remember the wall of clocks from several months ago, when Coral Avalon sat behind a table with two different championship belts and waxed poetic about the nature of time and how it related to him being the Alias Champion.

Well, it’s been a while since then, so Coral’s now sitting in a room very similar to that. Dressed in his ring gear while wearing a T-shirt that depicted a chibi, super-deformed version of himself with a huge forehead, the Crownless King sits behind his table with the Alias Championship on display just next to him.

Coral Avalon: For the last 140 days, I have been a champion.

He gestures at the championship just to his left.

Coral Avalon: This championship. The Alias Championship.

Then he tents his fingers in front of him.

Coral Avalon: I can honestly say that I’ve taken this championship to heights it hadn’t experienced before. From opening act to main event, that’s where this championship has gone under my watch ever since I took it from Tsonda along with his vaunted unbeaten streak at Colossus.

There’s a smile on his face as he moves the championship’s display from his right to directly in front of him, and rests his hands on either side of the belt’s main plate.

Coral Avalon: In the time since I’ve won this belt, champions played hot potato with every other title that’s supposedly better than mine. Two whole Universal Championship reigns began and ended while I remained five months later. Your steady rock. Your pillar.

There’s a gleam in Coral’s eye as he says his next three words.

Coral Avalon: Your Alias Champion.

His smile drops a little as he continues.

Coral Avalon: But no matter what happens tonight, this will be my last dance with this championship. Even when I defeat my opponent tonight, Zapp Scatino… Morty, Mr. Identity Crisis, whatever we’re calling him this month… that’ll be the end of my stranglehold over this championship. Mind you, I’m not overlooking Morpi. He’s a dangerous man. He’s a wolf trying to find his way into a flock of sheep.

Now he’s serious. The smile’s dropped completely, and Coral slowly rises from his seat with his palms on the table.

Coral Avalon: Unfortunately, he picked the wrong sheep to flock with.

He’s now standing up straight.

Coral Avalon: Because tonight, I’m here to make history.

He picks up the Alias Championship in one hand and holds it up for the camera.

Coral Avalon: Tonight, I’m going to be the first man to take this championship to the distance. Tonight, I’m going to run out the clock on this Alias Championship reign with a victory. And after I leave Morpp a quivering mass of whimpering flesh in the middle of that ring, the world will be my oyster.

He smiles again.

Coral Avalon: Of course, I’m not ready to play that hand quite yet.

He raises the title up and places it on his shoulder.

Coral Avalon: Tick tock.

The champion walks off camera, leaving the camera to linger on the wall of clocks behind him. ReVival 47 then moves on to whatever nonsense Stefan Hariston is up to tonight. Probably shenanigans.

IHOPs is set up next to the Hot Dog Factory today, Stefan Hariston was told this was the number one Hot Dog eatery in the Country of France. Jake had been handling the Merch Table most of the night but about twenty minutes ago Stefan Hariston showed up with more bags under his eyes than bags of bones hidden in the ground at the Kael residence.

Jake Farley: You think LT has ever thought about giving her employees translators? I mean…this is a wrestling company in France. It is kind of pathetic we haven’t learned anything while in Montreal but still…right? She can’t expect us to understand, am I being too hard on everyone here?

Stefan Hariston the Vendor King of PRIME, the Snow Globe Connoisseur, the Jet Ski Stealing, USS Octane Priest, and all around genius of wrestling merchandise completely no sells Jake Farley like a Chicago Phone call to Cancer Jiles.

Jake Farley: Did you hear me, boss?

Stefan is engrossed in counting the inventory on the shelves and not paying attention at all to the creator of the Jason Snow Globes even if you know…nobody cared about anything but the finely made snow.

Jake Farley: Have you heard from Clarice, is everything ok?

Stefan pauses and fixes his Gucci Frames which makes his amazing hair move a little bit. I mean you get the joke here by now I hope.

Stefan Hariston: I’ve heard from him.

Jake Farley: Oh…

Stefan waves his hand at Jake in a way that tells him not to ask about Clarice again.

Stefan Hariston: You happen to talk to Fred Dick recently? Been a lot of chatter over those Jason Snow…Globes.

Jake Farley: No, but I do have a box of lego men.

Stefan Hariston: You mean…the same lego men?

Jake frowns at that comment and looks down at the floor.

Stefan Hariston: We need a moneymaker. I know we have done well but things aren’t going quickly enough and we still haven’t found the missing money. As great as the Jason Snow Globe was, it isn’t easy to mass produce those without either losing all your money or losing all of your clothes and finding yourself butt naked in a Chipotle dumpster.

Jake Farley: Everything has been selling ok except these…

Jake tosses Stefan a bag. Hariston grabs it and then looks at it and chuckles to himself.

Stefan Hariston: Ah yea, I must have been in a mood when we decided on the Scott Hunter Citrus Candy.

Stefan opens the bag and tosses a piece in his mouth and gives the thumbs up.

Stefan Hariston: Happy Birthday to ME with these free candies.

Hariston tosses the bag back to Jake and begins counting some shirts on a shelf, right above his head is the last Daytona Diamonds Cowboy Hat from the last PRIME show in London. Jake eats a piece of the candy and then smiles and says hi to people walking by the table.

Customer: These look… disappointing.

The customer’s enormous hand wraps around one of the many tubes of candy silver teeth. He shakes the tube and listens as the teef clatter together in unison, almost like the cheap M&M’s with the not so M&M candy shell.

Jake Farley: Oh, yea nobody wants to buy those and I have heard nobody wants to sell them anyway.

Customer: I mean ya never should have ordered this many of ‘em, ya know how that feller is.

Jake looks up at the customer and he takes a step back, his eyes as large as an anime character when they see something surprising. He points his shaking index finger at the large man and then looks at Stefan who is not paying attention but no words will leave Jake’s mouth to explain to the magnificent merch man.

Customer: Still got my hat, looked good on ya Harrison.

The Behemoth enters the frame. All 6’7” and 300 lbs of Texan begins reaching across the table. He plucks the hat from the shelf and places it on Hariston’s head.

Clay Byrd: Now turn and scream like the lil cokehead ya are.

Stefan in his own little world of merch counting does not hear what Clay Byrd says but feels the Cowboy Hat on his head. He turns with an annoyed look on his face.

Stefan Hariston: This is the last Cowboy Hat, a goddamn collectors item since I wore it. I would like it if you didn’t put your grubby hands on it.

He looks up at Clay Byrd and just stares up at him with a frown plastered on his face, but still attempting to keep calm and pretend he has no idea who is standing in front of him,

Stefan Hariston: Now, did you say something or want something?

The hat leaves the top of Hariston’s head as quickly as it was thrown on. A black stetson cowboy hat is replaced with the collectors item atop the Cowboy Colossus’ head.

Clay Byrd: There’s a lot of things I want, Steve…

Hariston looks around confused.

Stefan Hariston: Uh…are you talking to me, because my name is Stefan and what makes you think you can take my hat?

Clay Byrd: Ah, right. We’re gonna play fuckin’ stupid.

Clay’s bear paw of a hand swipes its way down the top shelf behind the merch stand. Thousands of Arthur Pleasant Candy teef crash to the floor with the thunder of a thousand baby rattles. Jake Farley briefly smiles but then begins muttering fearfully about the insurance claim paying for the Pleasant Teef, but an “autographed” copy of the Five Star Bible goes flying, a ‘stool leg’ from the Philadelphia Street Fight at ReVival 41 goes with it, a vial with a lock of Brandon Youngblood’s hair, and even a chocolate covered carpet square from the original MGM grand show where Vickie Hall was covered in chocolate by King Blueberry on a forklift. The top shelf now emptied, The Monster from Plainview grimaces at Hariston. Their eyes stayed locked the entire time.

Stefan Hariston: Must have learned that level of maturity in Chicago…I mean…you owe me…

He looks at everything scattered on the floor.

Stefan Hariston: Whatever you have in your chain wallet, you big dummy and give me back THE COWBOY HAT!

Clay looks Hariston up, and down. Back up, then back down. Then shakes his head no.

Clay Byrd: See Steve, a mutual friend of ours gave me a call. Said you’ve had a real problem ‘round here.

The massive mitt of Clay’s shoots forward and finds its way onto Jake Farley’s face, he turns quickly and begins squeezing his cheeks between his fingers, like a snake handler squeezing the back of a rattle snake’s head. He spins back towards Hariston, Farley dangling from his grip.

Clay Byrd: I think it was somethin’ this fuckin’ idiot did with some ‘snow globes’ that might have got her into a lot of shit, and she doesn’t have time to come down here and deal with some low life fucking vendor pile of shit.

Stefan looks at Jake and then back at Clay Byrd, his frown becoming larger the longer he looks at him. Jake looks helpless back at Stefan and mouths help.

Stefan Hariston: The only friend I have is having trouble breathing in that placemat you call a hand. We are just hard working vendors trying to make a living and I swear to GOD if you don’t give me back that FUCKING HAT BACK…

Clay Byrd: Yer gonna what? Have a lil meltdown? Go on a fuckin’ coke binge? Run off into the woods sad because the video game kid fucking beat you?

The Behemoth throws Farley across the arena hallway. He slides across the ground and into a trash can. The front table of the merch stand is tossed to the side as The Monster from Plainview lunges across the table and into Hariston’s face.

Clay Byrd: Yer gonna what Steve? Show up here runnin’ some con like it’s 2019 in Chicago? Forget everything that ever happened there and walk in here like Don Winters done baptized ya and washed all yer lil sins away…

Clay’s aggressive menacing posture is now just inches away from Hariston’s face. Leaning down close, he takes the hat off of his head and drops it into the middle of the destroyed booth.

Clay Byrd: You can have the fucking hat Harrison, the life preservers expired two years ago anyway… But my friend, and your landlord, says no more ‘snow’ globes.

Stefan looks at Jake holding his head next to the fallen trash can. He takes a step back from Clay and sighs to himself and then takes a deep breath. His face now the color of a tomato beckons a turn of events. Stefan looks back at Clay, a snide smirk now on his face.

Stefan Hariston: Oh, lordy lord Clay Byrd is going to actually give something back he stole from me. You think you are some mob boss harassing and assaulting my employee…who lets be real is a skinny former stoner who only eats vegan…does that make you feel big? You know–big like that humorless look on your face that never changes because you are a gigantic moronic traitor.

Hariston takes a deep breath and then swears to himself angrily as his composure and get up has just about ended. Clay smiles and goads ‘Hariston’ further.

Clay Byrd: Glad ta see a little of Steve Harrison is still in there.

The Behemoth jabs his index finger into Hariston’s chest.

Clay Byrd: Not just some sleazy junk salesman.

Byrd pushes Harrison away with the finger and snarls. Stefan looks down and starts laughing crazily and shaking his head.

Stefan Hariston: Heh, the usual insults about me being sleazy. It is pretty funny coming from a guy who used to get his whole wardrobe from my merch stand and not pay for a thing. Oh wow, wow you got me….the charade is over, right? You think I am Stefan Hariston to hide myself from wrestlers? This is real life shit, Clay and you would know that if I had heard from you in the past year.

Clay Byrd: Phones work two ways.

Clay smirks and steps backwards, relaxing his posture.

Clay Byrd: Besides, what was I supposed to do? Call and have a conversation about how much Chicago sucks? Talk about how dumb the hide and go seek match was with the spooky ghosts?

The now rediscovered Steve Harrison just stares confused at the comment about hide and seek. He blinks and then pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Steve Harrison: Hmmm…I guess I do have a new phone and number. Had to escape some undesirables but that doesn’t mean you can destroy my property. There are reasons I am not wrestling and why I was calling myself someone else. But that is all over now and what happens next I will deal with it.

Harrison shrugs his shoulders and looks over at who is actually Jack Marley who begins to get on his feet from cuddling with a trash can.

Steve Harrison: If being back in the ring will help me rediscover and retake what I lost then I will welcome it…heh…not sure anyone else will though.

Clay Byrd: I think the boss might have time for Steve Harrison. Just not that fucking jerk Hariston.

Steve Harrison: Not like you are leaving me with any other options…friend.

Clay holds his hands up as he walks away.

Clay Byrd: You know the drill, just doing as I’m told.

Harrison watches his old buddy away and flips him off to his back. He chuckles to himself and then walks over and helps Jack back to the table to clean up.

Jack Marley: Uhhhhh, ouch I feel everything and it hurts…shit, what now boss?

Steve picks up a shirt from the floor and stares at it and then tosses it at Jack.

Steve Harrison: Fucking hope he didnt see this.

We cut to ringside.

We see a wide shot of the Accord Arena, sweeping across the raucous Paris fans who have already seen plenty of incredible action, with more still to come.

Nick Stuart: And the hits just keep coming on ReVival 47…our next bout is between two former Universal Champions.

Richard Parker: Two of the best PRIME has ever known, whether I want to agree with it or not.

Nick Stuart: Hessian, the final Universal Champion of the Revolution. The man coming off a massive statement win against Hayes Hanlon. And now, The Murder Show faces another murder test in Jared Sykes.

Richard Parker: Awarded face of the year. The two have something in common, Nick; both men have stood as champions in PRIME who never were beaten for their championships.

Anticipation mounted, the building is plunged into darkness as the lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar two silhouettes appear in the ether, one massive and one much smaller, and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figures start to shift, growing both larger and smaller in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

You remember, You remember me, yes,
I remember what we are, I remember only scars,
I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,
I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him. By his side, the dwarven figure draws the hood of his cloak to reveal a mischievous purple grin.

Vince Howard: This match is set for one fall and has a sixty minute time limit! Making his way to the ring, accompanied by MINION THE IMP! Standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show…HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!

Nick Stuart: Physically imposing. Impressive. And now…on the right track.

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He tenses his thick flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena. Minion applauds from the stage and retreats backstage.

See only the master, risen, risen,
After all the silence, all of him laughing
After all the strangers, beaten, driven,
Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm
Do as the book told you see the pages torn,
Make the spell upon them, in human form,
So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,
Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.

The giant stops at the foot of the ring and gives the canvas a fond pat before reaching up with both hands to grab the top rope. Pulling himself up onto the apron he gives the crowd another quick stoic glance before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

You remember, You remember his face,
You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,
I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,
I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as the giant grins and heads to his corner while the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

And as they do, another musical assault is about to transpire.

Northlane. “Plenty.” Only here, the reaction is different. No boos; instead, whistling. The song that usually triggers a tidal wave of cheers has instead unleashed a hate volcano centered under France.

Hell, even Vince looks shaken by it.

Vince Howard: His…opponent?..Making his way…to the…ring?…from Boston, Massachusetts and weighing in tonight at two hundred pounds…

See, once upon a time a man named FLAMBERGE went on a record-setting undefeated streak. Part of that included capturing the Universal Championship. And then some dipshit from New England had to go and ruin all of that. That dipshit? He’s walking to the ring right now.

Vince Howard: He is a former Universal Champion…

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

Shouldn’t have said that, Vince. See how they all just got louder? More mad? That’s on you, bud.

Vince Howard: And one half of the PRIME “forever Tag Team Champions”…

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

Not helping, Vincent!

Vince Howard: JAARREEEEEEEEEEEEEED SYK-

He’s cut short as something goes whizzing past his head. It doesn’t make contact, but it’s enough of a signal that Vince gets the hell out of the ring.

Richard Parker: WOAH!

Nick Stuart: They’re throwing cups at him. Jared Sykes…an auspicious entrance for the Dragonslayer here–

Richard Parker: Sure, it starts with cups. Then, it graduates to batteries. And here? Probably to full on reptiles!

For his part, Jared doesn’t seem all that bothered by this. As we covered earlier, he was kind of an asshole when he started his career, so even though it’s been a while since he was absolutely reviled by a crowd the experience isn’t alien to him. If the grin playing at the corner of his lips is any indicator, you might even be able to make a compelling case that he enjoys this a little bit. Like putting on an old sweatshirt, there’s a sense of comfort here. Oh, sure, he probably didn’t enjoy getting pelted with a soda cup just now, but he’s enough of a pro to not let the irritation show through.

Richard Parker: I just want to go on record here and say that this is now my favorite country on earth. At least for as long as this continues.

Nick Stuart: Didn’t I just hear you complaining about this place earlier tonight?

Richard Parker: Probably. And you might hear it again later. But right now? Bliss, Nick. Pure bliss. HEY! Don’t throw that hotdog, come on!

One narrowly misses Jared as he’s about to climb into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Huh. I figured you wouldn’t be bothered by it.

Richard Parker: Normally I wouldn’t, but that was right in front of us, and the last thing I want is to have a feral Crash out here sniffing around.

To everyone’s surprise, Jared leans into the hate as he steps onto the second rope, raises his right hand, and blows a kiss to the crowd before offering a royal wave. The type where you make a cup out of your hand, as if you were scoop-sniffing your own farts.

Don’t act like you’ve never done it.

Anyway, let’s run down the checklist.

Dork? In the ring.

Sweatshirt? Off.

Crowd? Fucking livid.

Let’s go!

Nick Stuart: Such a STRANGE set of perimeters here.

Richard Parker: Don’t you DARE say something about cheering bad guys and booing good guys. That is BEYOND uncouth in this situation. They paid their ticket, and even though they don’t believe in the same level of democracy as you or I, they still deserve to have their voices heard!

DING DING 

Richard Parker: Listen to these wonderful people.

Nick Stuart: I didn’t think they’d like, hate him, hate him.

Richard Parker: I think the French invented ‘petty’.

The crowds whistling slows as the two legends of PRIME square off across the ring from each other. The ‘forever’ Universal Champion from the ReVolution era, and The ‘forever’ Tag Team Champion from the ReVival era. The anticipation mounts, as the two men stare across the ring, the crowd begins to murmur. Finally Hessian moves first by darting forward towards Jared, Sykes moves to the side and Hessian sidesteps to cut him off. Hessian swings a huge knee towards Sykes midsection but Jared manages to slide past with a foot jumping off the middle rope to elevate him over.

Nick Stuart: Game of cat and mouse to start.

Richard Parker: Hessian is a big man, I’d be running from him too.

The Murder Show stops and snorts in the corner. His nostrils flaring, while Sykes collects himself in the near corner. Hessian slides himself towards the PRIME logo and tries to corner Sykes. The crowd begins to come alive as Sykes nods his head and looks at Big Hess. Hessian once again rushes forward, he swings at Sykes with a right hook to the body, Jared manages to strike first and smashes Hessian in the neck with a regal uppercut. Hessian is barely slowed and he fires an overhand left that Sykes manages to part way maneuver away from. Hessian’s shot smashes into Jared’s shoulder, the blow twisting and knocking Sykes backwards. Jared fires off a more aggressive strike with a jumping knee but Hessian manages to catch him in the process.

Nick Stuart: Sykes is in big TROUBLE!

Richard Parker: He just got planted.

Hessian turns with Sykes towards the center of the ring and hurls him down onto the PRIME logo in the center of the mat. Jared bounces off the mat and backwards while Hessian snarls and rubs his jaw. Sykes hits the mat and flips over backwards to a kneeling position. He takes a breath and Hessian is looming over him immediately. A meaty left hook is swung at Jared’s face but Sykes manages to hit the deck in time dodging the hook. Hessian swings downward with a boot and Sykes rolls out of the way and manages to flip up to his feet in one fluid motion. He smirks at Hessian and motions the big man forward.

Richard Parker: Jared Sykes is an idiot.

Nick Stuart: He IS the Dragonslayer, Richard.

Richard Parker: We’ll see.

Hessian storms forward and grabs for Sykes, but Jared manages to fire off a sidekick to Hessian’s tree trunk of a midsection. It’s enough to push Hessian’s arm off target, and buys Jared enough time to lunge forward with a flying forearm to Hessian’s face. The big man stumbles backwards into the corner and Jared charges forward and plants a shoulder into Hessian’s midsection.

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes is really taking it to Hessian.

Richard Parker: Oh, yeah, for sure.

Sykes storms to the far corner and comes sprinting forward at Hessian. He dives with a big splash but Hessian catches Jared Sykes again. Hessian begins trying to squeeze the life out of Jared Sykes with a bear hug as he walks towards the center of the ring. He tucks his head onto Sykes shoulder, but Jared, being experienced in attempted squishing matters, squeaks his arm free and begins swinging at any part of Hessian he can manage to get his fist on. Finally Sykes connects with semi-solid mass and not Hessian’s cranium, and manages to catch the big man on the ear. Hessian ducks his head lower, and Sykes gets his arm over Hessian’s head.  Sykes is very anti being squished so he rapidly begins throwing elbows into the back of Hessian’s skull.

Nick Stuart: He’s free!

Richard Parker: I thought I was going to see Jared Sykes pop like one of those weird pimple popping videos on tiktok.

Nick Stuart: Thanks Richard. Thanks.

Hessian roars and does the only logical thing. It was precisely this moment that Jared Sykes had wished he had thought of another way out of the bear hug. Hessian dives with Jared Sykes towards the canvas. The two men hit, with Sykes smashing the mat, bouncing, and then being driven back into the mat by the falling 400 lb. Hessian. Hessian shakes the cobwebs from the elbows out, and crawls over onto Sykes for a count. Jimmy Turnbull gets his first action of the evening.

Richard Parker: HAH! IT WAS JUST LIKE ON TIKTOK!

Nick Stuart: What a spinebuster from Hessian. He dove forward, and managed to throw Sykes down while falling on top of him.

ONE!

TWO!

…

……..

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Wasn’t going to be that easy, Richard.

Richard Parker: I know. I know.

Hessian sits up off of Sykes and looks at Turnbull side-eyed, shaking his head a bit. Turnbull gives him the 2 finger referee salute and continues officiating. Jared rolls over to the ropes clutching his stomach. Hessian gets to his feet slowly and begins a lumber towards Sykes. He bends down and reaches for Sykes, but Jared manages to whip his foot up and smash Hessian in the side of the skull. The big man stumbles back as Jared takes a moment to get to his feet. He clutches at his ribs and surges forward.

Nick Stuart: I think Jared Sykes has a better idea of the stakes with being caught by Hessian now.

He smashes a wobbled Hessian with a leaping right hand, and sends him staggering. Jared keeps pressing forward, this time he delivers a sidekick to the side of Hessian’s leg. The big man grimaces but manages to shove Jared back for a moment of reprieve. The two men are back entangled again. Sykes blasts Hessian on the chin with a forearm, the big man stumbles backwards again and Sykes comes forward. Hessian this time surprises Sykes, turning and using Sykes’ own momentum to hurl him into the corner.

Richard Parker: See! BIG MEN ARE THINKERS TOO!

Nick Stuart: Hessian using his brain and sending Sykes into the corner.

Jared smashes into the turnbuckles and Hessian comes in with a head of steam. A huge clothesline across Sykes’ throat, Hessian pulls back, and hurls his right arm forward, this time smashing Sykes across the chest and shoulder with a lariat. Sykes grimaces as the big man goes to work. Hessian pulls back and unloads a huge shot to Sykes stomach, and then he grabs Sykes by the side of the head and Hessian smashes his face into Jared’s.

Richard Parker: OH! OUCH!

Nick Stuart: Size 10 fitted hat to the forehead of Jared Sykes.

Sykes is dazed and Hessian takes a few steps back, he comes roaring into the corner with a head of steam and drives a big boot across Jared Sykes’ face. Jared has taken up residency somewhere in the outer solar system, while Hessian is plotting his next course of action. Hessian swings a club of a left hand down across Sykes’ chest with a thunderous chop. The fans audibly gasp.

Richard Parker: HA! I CAN SEE HIS HAND PRINT!

Nick Stuart: It looks like he got slapped with a catcher’s mitt.

Sykes is quickly brought back to earth as the shearing pain causes him to grimace and fall forward. Hessian grabs Sykes by the head and shoves him backwards into the turnbuckles. He brings his hand down with another big chop that smashes Sykes in the chest. Hessian grabs Sykes by the throat and lifts him up onto the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Where’s he going?

Richard Parker: I think to spike Jared Sykes off of something high.

Nick Stuart: Oh.

Hessian steps up to the middle rope and grabs Sykes in a front face lock. He tries to lift Sykes up off of the top rope in a suplex attempt but Sykes locks his legs. Hessian tries again, but Sykes doesn’t budge. The big man steps up to the top rope, he reaches down and yanks on Sykes again. This time Sykes budges a little, but doesn’t go all the way over. Hessian squats down lower and tries again and Jared Sykes pushes on the insides of the big man’s knees.

Nick Stuart: OH! OUCH!

Hessian’s legs spread and he falls thigh first onto the turnbuckle. He flips backwards, into a tree of woe. Sykes is quick to the top rope, and just as Hessian tries to sit up, he comes flying downwards with a double foot stomp to The Murder Show’s chest. Hessian flies back downwards and Sykes lands kneeling. He takes a step forward, turns back, and dives at Hessian with a double footed dropkick to the face. Hessian still doesn’t fall out of the tree and Sykes bounces quickly to his feet.

Richard Parker: NO! NO! NO! HE HAD HIM!

Nick Stuart: I think Jared Sykes’ cockroach-like ability to stay alive forced Hessian to take a big risk there and Sykes is making him pay.

Jared storms forward at Hessian and lifts the big man up into a reverse DDT position. He looks down at the big man, up at his legs. He grabs Hessian’s far leg and prays to every God that has ever and will ever exist that he doesn’t get a hernia trying this.  and hits Hessian with a very sloppy but still very effective at dropping another man on his head with a corner assisted Omega 13.

Nick Stuart: OMEGA 13!

Sykes drags Hessian away from the ropes and Turnbull slides in for a cover. Sykes places his body across Hessian’s shoulders and yank his far leg up as high as he can as Turnbull counts.

ONE!

TWO!

….

……….

……………..

………………………..

THREE!

Hessian kicks out just after Turnbull’s hand hits the mat. The crowd begins whistling at Sykes as Hessian smashes his fist off of the mat.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner by pinfall JAAAAAARED SYYYYYYYYKES!

Nick Stuart: The DragonSlayer Jared Sykes!

Richard Parker: Hessian let that one slip away.

Nick Stuart: I think Sykes forced a misstep there Richard, Hessian knew it would take a lot to try to take down Sykes, and paid for it.

Our scene fades with Hessian shaking his head and Sykes heading his way back up the ramp.

Backstage, a cameraman slowly pushes open an ajar locker room door with a “DON WINTERS” placard at eye level. Inside, Winters and Jeremiah Saint are positioned together on their knees, heads bowed in silent prayer. Both men cross their chests in unison and stand up together. Saint claps Winters on the shoulder twice, giving him encouragement. They shake hands and Winters turns to face the camera.

The Revelator looks focused, shaking out his arms as he enters the corridor. He adjusts his jacket, pulling it back down toward the top of his tights and lets out a long sigh. Winters stops briefly to stretch his left leg out against the wall, grimacing slightly as he does. As he walks he stretches his shoulders, first crossing his left arm over his chest, then the right.

As he continues down the hall, a nameless, faceless staffer passes by and Winters mouths “hello.” The Revelator continues on his path before turning a corner into the open area near the Argyle position. He jumps in place a few times, working out any last bits of nervous energy. He can hear the roar of the crowd just on the other side of their wall.

The Revelator looks to the ceiling and exhales forcefully and rolls his shoulders. He’s waiting for his cue, waiting for the music. It’s time to defend the Five Star Title.

Against whom though? Of course, the camera cuts to another one. The door’s open. The Luchador has nothing to hide. He sits on the bench, spread-eagle, dressed in the same getup we saw him in earlier when he spoke to Brandon Youngblood. Beside him, a black towel, a tall water bottle with various mask stickers on it, none of his own, and a picture of him with his kids.

He sits up and shakes out the cobwebs. He’s still in a zone, deep in thought about things that no one needs to know about until they do. He takes the palm of his right hand and hits his temple once, twice, thrice. He looks over at the array of things next to him. He takes one last deep gulp of his water, then lifts up the picture of him and his sons (his bare face is blurred out, unlike the Philadelphia Police Department, PRIME respects lucha mores). And finally, he grabs the towel.

He looks at it for a moment before draping it around his neck. He tucks the ends into his track jacket, snug, befitting a premiere athlete such as himself, befitting a wrestler. He rises to his feet with a small leap and heads towards the door.

It’s time. Time to win the Five Star Title.

We cut to ringside.

Vince Howard stands in the center of the ring, and he’s got a microphone in hand. You know what’s up.

The arena goes dark, all lights out except fireflies in the crowd, young fans looking to get a view of the entryway. Their lights are drowned out by the PRIMEView, showing video footage of the same square-jawed man who appeared in a certain wrestler’s entrance video on Night One of Culture Shock, uttering the same quote.

“Pro wrestling is a sacred sport!”

RAAAAAHHHHHH!!

From there, a loud bang pierces the pregnant chatter of the 20,000+ in the sold out Accor Arena.

Then, “Cynic,” Local H.

YEAH

The challenger for this evening’s Five Star Championship, his lucha gear in red, white, and blue patterns, not for his country of origin, but for the country where he aims to win his second title in PRIME, complete with a black towel wrapped tightly around his neck, tucked snugly into his track jacket, which is more of a football windbreaker.

The French National Team.

Pandering. It comes in handy every once in awhile.

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: You think Paris, France is ready to see the Anglo Luchador?

Richard Parker: Yes, but only because being French is a mental health condition.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE is French. Do you want me to tell him you think he’s nuts?

Richard Parker: He thinks he’s a lizard, Nick. I’ll tell him to his face! That doesn’t mean I don’t love the kid though, let’s not put words into my mouth here.

The Luchador strides to the ring, slapping as many hands as he can, taking in the moment, a real live shot at a Championship in PRIME again.

Vince Howard: This match is scheduled for one fall and is for the PRIME Five Star Championship!

RAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger, weighing in at 98 kilograms and hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania… he is the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, and the Last Son of Tenochtitlan… he is the ANGLO…. LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADOORRRRRRR!!!

RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Almost simultaneously with Vince finishing his announcement, the Luchador slides into the ring, pops to his feet, and raises his arms in the air. He takes his black towel and flings it into the crowd before hanging his jacket neatly on the corner facing the stands away from the ramp and closer to the hard camera side, awaiting the Champion to arrive.

The lights across the Accor Arena dim as a light gospel tune leads into the familiar strumming of a guitar. Folks in France love festivals too and they have seen their share of Billie Gillespie and Primal Scream on stage. They were ready.

I was blind, but now I see
You made a believer out of me
I was blind, but now I see
You made a believer out of me

A spotlight flashes center stage where The Revelator stands in a magnificent white and crimson trimmed silk jacket, adorned with the word “REVELATOR” in script across the back. You think this man would wear a robe and hide those massive thighs? No, the world must see the thickness. He throws his arms out in the crucifixion position, drawing a huge cheer from the Parisienne faithful.

Richard Parker: Looks like the champ has himself a new jacket! Fancy.

Nick Stuart: No ridiculous lines about, you know what no, I’m not going to encourage it.

I’m movin’ on up now
Gettin’ out of the darkness
My light shines on, my light shines on
My light shines on

Vince Howard: AND HIS OPPONENT – WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED FIFTY-FOUR POUNDS. HAILING FROM DETROIT, MICHIGAN, HE IS THE REIGNING AND DEFENDING PRIME FIVE STAR CHAMPION – THE REVELATOR DOOOOOOOOOOOOON WIIIIIIIIIIIINTERRRRRRRRS!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

I was lost, now I’m found
I believe in you, I’ve got no bounds
I was lost, now I’m found
I believe in you, I’ve got no bounds

The Revelator raises an arm into the air before starting a purposeful march to the ring. He glances around the arena as he walks, but keeps the majority of focus on the ring and The Anglo Luchador standing within. He reaches the ring and ascends the stairs and vaults over the top rope. He moves to the center of the ring, unsnapping the jacket to reveal the PRIME Five Star championship hugged around his waist. He drops to a knee and throws his arms out once more.

Nick Stuart: It’s Winters’ first defense tonight, what do you think he’s going to do?

Richard Parker: I think the Revelator is gonna be revelating, baby!

Nick Stuart shakes his head in disgust at the commentary desk as Winters removes the belt from his waist and hands it over to referee Ashley Barlow.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Here we go!

Both men start circling, trying to feel each other out as they slowly move towards the center of the ring. Don extends his hand to offer a test of strength, and because he’s not one to back down from a challenge the Anglo Luchador obliges. Winters gains the upper hand, leaning his weight on the Luchador. The size advantage forces the Luchador down to one knee.

The Anglo Luchador doesn’t stay there for long. He gets his feet under him and works his way back up. He fires off a kick to the midsection, then swings a leg over to break Winters’ grip on one side.

Nick Stuart: It’s a contrast of styles here tonight. On one side, Don Winters has a strength and size advantage. On the other, the Anglo Luchador brings the speed and the aerial know-how.

Richard Parker: Also he has a mask.

Nick Stuart: Does the mask give him an advantage?

Richard Parker: Yes.

Nick Stuart: For what?

Richard Parker: Crimes.

Still maintaining the grip on one side, the Luchador ducks under, spins Winters around, and sends the bigger man to the mat with an arm drag. Winters fires up immediately, moves in, and is taken down a second time with another arm drag. A third attempt to lock up ends with the Anglo Luchador connecting with a Japanese arm drag.

Winters immediately gets to his knees, and rolls his shoulder while offering the Luchador a nod of acknowledgement. He rises to his feet, and the two meet again in the center of the ring. A lock up follows, and Winters again uses his strength advantage to gain control. The Revelator grabs a headlock and cinches it in tight.

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador trying to get his positioning, could be looking to suplex his way out of this, but Winters widens his base and cranks it.

Richard Parker: Nicholas, you’re talking about Father Don. A man of the cloth. The minister of His Word and Light. Please never say the words “cranks it” in this context again.

Nick Stuart: But that’s the correct term!

Richard Parker: You’re making Jesus cry right now. I hope you know that. Especially because the Luchador’s mask is purple. So he has a purple head. He is a purple-headed warrior.

Nick Stuart: Oh, now who’s the one who’s out of line.

Richard Parker: Let me check my notes. Ah, yes. Still you. Sinner.

Nick Stuart: (very audible sigh)

Richard Parker: Your penance is to learn how to multiply fishes with god magic and then give all those fishes to Pious Penguin.

Meanwhile, the Luchador’s attempt to grab a rear waist lock and suplex his way out of this have been met with a shift in balance by Winters. Father Don drops to one knee, but keeps the hold locked in tight. When both men return to their feet, the Revelator snaps the Luchador to the ground with a headlock takeover.

Nick Stuart: Headlock takeover into a cover…

ONE

Nick Stuart: …but the Anglo Luchador gets his shoulder up quick.

Again the Luchador looks to his legs for leverage, swinging one over and countering with a head scissors. Winters is quick to power out, but the Luchador is the quicker of the two and is on his feet first. A standing dropkick by the challenger sends the champion to the mat close to the ropes, and Winters rolls out of the ring for a moment to reassess, but his time is cut short.

The Anglo Luchador runs the length of the ring, and executes a Tiger feint-style swing through the ropes on his way to the outside, where he catches Father Don in a surprise flying headscissors.

Nick Stuart: Amazing display of agility by the Anglo Luchador! He’s already back on his feet.

The challenger rolls the Revelator back into the ring and quickly follows. He immediately makes a cover and hooks the far leg.

Nick Stuart: And now the challenger with a cover!

ONE

But that’s all he gets before Winters kicks out with authority.

Nick Stuart: Both men showing flashes of what brought them here in the early on in the feeling-out stage.

Richard Parker: Dammit, Nick.

Nick Stuart: What is it now?!

Richard Parker: They are not feeling each other up! We just covered this. Father Don is too pure…

Nick Stuart: Out! I said feeling out!

Richard Parker: Uh huh.

Both men fire right back to their feet, and lock up yet again, but this time it’s much more aggressive. Father Don uses his size advantage to drive the Luchador right into the corner. Ashley Barlow has to come over to get between the two men to break the hold, and Winters breaks clean with both hands in the air.

Nick Stuart: These are the terms we’ve been using for years now!

Richard Parker: Well then it looks like someone has years worth of praying ahead of him, doesn’t it?

Nick Stuart: Oh for the love…

Richard Parker: You’re going to Hell, Nick. With the capital H.

The Luchador shoots out of the corner and moves in on Winters. He quickly darts behind the champion and tries to establish himself with a rear waistlock. Once again Winters widens his stance to make it harder for the Luchador to exert his will, and tries to get his hands under his opponent’s arms to counter. The Luchador tries to lift the Revelator, but the champion lowers his center of gravity.

Nick Stuart: Both men now jockeying for position here, and I hope me saying that is okay with my broadcast partner.

Richard Parker: Hrm? Were you talking?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Richard Parker: Oh, were you committing more blasphemies? I was taking my daily dose of Lord-O-Plex, so I wasn’t paying attention.

Winters gets his arms through and breaks the Luchador’s hold. He follows up with a quick go-behind of his own, and lands a big release German suplex.

Nick Stuart: Well, it looks like Richard has a stake in the outcome of this match.

Richard Parker: Yes, Nick. Because I am on the side of the light and all that is good.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: It’s okay, Nick. I understand why you might be speechless.

Nick Stuart: Do you now?

Richard Parker: Yes. We all know you do big heresies on the reg’, and there’s only one cure for that.

Nick Stuart: Prayer?

Richard Parker: No, man. Exterminatus.

Nick Stuart: …what?

The Anglo Luchador gets back to his feet near the ropes and takes a step towards the center of the ring, but meets a heavy chop from the champion.

LE WOOOOOOOOOO!

A second chop lands. Then a third. The champion backs the Luchador into the ropes, and sends him across the ring with an Irish whip. Winters charges in with a lariat looking to take his opponent’s head off, but the Anglo Luchador ducks underneath. He uses his momentum to leap to the second rope, leaping backwards towards the center of the ring and turning his body in mid-air. He lands on Winters’ shoulders and tries for a twisting huracanrana, but the move is blocked.

Richard Parker: You know what you need, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Right now there’s a half-dozen things that spring to mind. Like a vacation. Or a new partner.

Richard Parker: Father Don’s Five Star Bible.

Nick Stuart: Are you just here to shill everything tonight?

Winters shifts his grip and appears to be looking for a powerbomb, but the Anglo Luchador backflips out of the move. He lands on his feet, lunges forward, and connects with a step-up enzuigiri that stuns the champion.

Richard Parker: I already have my copy.

Nick Stuart: Wait, really? I thought those weren’t shipping yet.

Richard Parker: Nope, mine arrived just the other day. I just wish they weren’t so expensive. Sixty dollars is a lot of money.

Nick Stuart: Sixty? But that’s… huh.

Richard Parker: I suppose I shouldn’t complain. After all, you can’t put a price on salvation.

The Revelator staggers, and the Anglo Luchador grabs wrist control. He spins Winters around and delivers a ripcord right cross to the champion’s jaw.

Nick Stuart: Drizzle-maker by the challenger, and the champion is rocked!

Richard Parker: You’re right, Nick. The good book does rock. I’m glad you finally came around!

Nick Stuart: (mumbling) Sixty bucks. That doesn’t sound right.

The champion takes a step back, and then comes back with a right hand of his own. The Anglo Luchador retaliates with a chop, but Winters returns with one of his own. The two men stand in the center of the ring trading chop for chop, each one working the crowd more and more into a frenzy.

With each man’s chest now cracked, red, and raw, the chops start to come slower. The Anglo Luchador lands a solid shot that causes the champion to take a step back. Not to be outdone, Winters steps forward, turns, and belts the Luchador with a downward backhand.

Nick Stuart: Hand to God! And the Anglo Luchador goes down! Winters with the cover!

ONE

Richard Parker: I’m praying for the end! I’m praying so hard!

TWO

Nick Stuart: No! The Anglo Luchador kicks out at two!

Winters gets to his feet and pulls the Anglo Luchador up, getting him into the proper position. He quickly backs into the ropes, and connects with a running high knee strike.

Nick Stuart: And there’s The Gospel! You know what comes next, Richard.

Richard Parker: Oh! Oh! Is this the part where we get the cookies and wine?

Nick Stuart: The cookies and… what?

Richard Parker: That’s what it said in my bible, right after it taught me the Pledge of Allegiance.

Nick Stuart: Oh. Hrm.

Winters grabs the Luchador and immediately sets him up for that patented crucifix powerbomb.

Nick Stuart: ABSOLUTION! Don Winters just hit the Absolution on the Anglo Luchador! It’s academic now, Richard.

Well, it would be, except the Anglo Luchador used the momentum from the fall and what energy he had remaining to roll towards under the ropes and out onto the arena floor. Winters rapidly crawls after him, trying to stop his opponent from escaping the ring so he can end this, but he doesn’t make it in time. The frustration is visible on his face as he leans against the bottom rope, looking down at the Anglo Luchador, who now lies prone on the ringside mats.

Nick Stuart: Great ring awareness by the Anglo Luchador to get himself out of the ring there!

Richard Parker: I feel so cold right now, Nick. So alone.

Nick Stuart: Cold? Really? Because you’re sweating a lot.

Richard Parker: Oh, that’s just the zbyskodrine taking effect.

Nick Stuart: Like a lot.

Richard Parker: Forget about that! The Anglo Luchador just did something intelligent, and now I know what it is like to be abandoned by your creator.

Nick Stuart: Oh for the love of…

Richard Parker: Yes?

Nick Stuart: Umm… something.

Richard Parker: Everything is dark now, Nick. So dark. Is this what Jesus felt like?

Nick Stuart: I thought you worshiped Hoyt.

Richard Parker: I’M SPIRITUALLY CONFLICTED!

Winters slides out of the ring and brings the Luchador back up to his feet, but the challenger fires back with a shot to the midsection. Then another. He grabs the champion by the hair and tries to ram him head-first onto the ring apron, but Winters braces with both hands before snapping off a back elbow. He grabs the Luchador and rolls him in under the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: Okay… okay. We’re good. I’m good. Everybody’s good.

Nick Stuart: You sure?

I’m calm. I am a stream, blissful and serene. I am a pond, peaceful and still. I am-

Nick Stuart: A waterfall, sweaty and damp.

Richard Parker: I told you it’ll pass.

The Revelator picks the challenger up, and sends him into the corner with a hard Irish whip. The Anglo Luchador collides chest-first with the buckles and starts to stagger backwards, one hand on his chest and the other in the air, but he doesn’t get far before he’s blasted back into the corner by a running Don Winters. The champion grabs a headlock, and charges out looking to deliver a bulldog.

Nick Stuart: Counter by the Anglo Luchador, shoving off and sending Winters into the far buckle. The challenger has taken some big shots during this match, but keeps bringing the fight right back to the champion!

The Luchador charges in, bounds up to the second rope, and tosses Winters into the center of the ring with a monkey flip.

Nick Stuart: Every time we see the Anglo Luchador in a big match, it’s like he finds another gear. Digging deep into the reserves to try and pull out a win.

Winters starts to stand, but a running shotgun dropkick from the Anglo Luchador hits with enough force to send him the rest of the way across the ring and into the opposite corner.

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador firing up now! He could be looking to end this, and take home the Five Star Championship!

Richard Parker: I mean that is the goal of this match, Nick. For both guys.

Nick Stuart: Huh.

Richard Parker: What?

Nick Stuart: You’re sure you paid sixty dollars for the Five Star Bible?

Richard Parker: Sure did.

Nick Stuart: And you got both of them, right?

Richard Parker: I was supposed to get two?

The Anglo Luchador gets behind Winters and crosses both of his arms in a straightjacket position, which gets the crowd on their feet yet again. They know what comes next, as does Winters, which is why he’s struggling to break free. The Luchador holds fast, and positions Winters up in the electric chair position. At this stage in the match, the Luchador’s legs are a bit wobbly, but that doesn’t stop him from completing the move and sending Richard Parker into an absolute conniption.

Nick Stuart: THERE IT IS! The Japanese ocean-cyclone suplex!

Richard Parker: It’s true, there’s no denying it now. My god has forsaken me.

The Anglo Luchador maintains the bridge, while Ashley Barlow hits the mat to make the count.

ONE

Richard Parker: Why would you do this, Hoyt?!

TWO

Nick Stuart: That’s two, could this be all!

THREE

Nick Stuart: New champion! New champion!

Ashley Barlow: NO! NO! ONLY TWO!

Ashley Barlow is on her feet, immediately and frantically waving off the timekeeper. She holds up two fingers, and then points down towards the mat. On impact, Don Winters managed to get one of his arms free of the hold, and just before Barlow could slap the mat a third time she noticed that Winters had grabbed the bottom rope.

Nick Stuart: The referee says that’s only two, and Winters is still alive! This match will continue!

Richard Parker: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador has to be frustrated, Richard.

Richard Parker: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: Can you please stop screaming into the headset?

Richard Parker: I just want to apologize…

Nick Stuart: Thank you.

Richard Parker: …to the big man upstairs for ever doubting you. Sorry Haitch-Dub, this one’s on me.

Nick Stuart: Ah. Well.

Richard Parker: I know that your precious book said I shouldn’t do that, because it’s the twenty-eighth amendment and all.

Nick Stuart: Twenty-eighth amn… Oh. Oh no.

Richard Parker: What?

Nick Stuart: I, uhh, don’t think…

Richard Parker: Dammit, Nick, just tell me!

Nick Stuart: I think you might have bought your book from the wrong Don, if you catch my meaning.

There’s no time for the Anglo Luchador to be upset by this turn of events. He gets back to his feet, and then pulls up Don Winters. He fires off a right jab, then a left, and ends with a hard right cross that sends Winters down to one knee. With a primal growl, the Revelator stands back up and unloads a punch of his own at the Anglo Luchador.

Richard Parker: I think they’re going to beat the heck out of each other again, Nick.

Nick Stuart: That’s what they’ve been doing all night, Richard.

Richard Parker: Oh, are we adding names to the end of every sentence for emphasis now, Nicholas?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard. You tell me.

Richard Parker: Oooh, clever subversion at the end there.

The Luchador responds with a heavy forearm shot to the jaw. The Revelator answers in kind with one of his own. A european uppercut from the challenger. A knife edge chop from the champion.

Nick Stuart: This match has taken its toll on both men, but these shots are still landing hard!

Another forearm from the challenger, and then an uppercut to follow. The champion steps back towards the ropes, and runs into the Luchador with a lariat, but the challenger doesn’t fall. The Luchador’s knees buckle, and it looks like he’s struggling to stay on his feet, but he doesn’t go down. Instead he backs up a few steps of his own, and hits a discus elbow to the champion. Now it’s Winters’ turn to look unsure on his feet.

Both men collapse to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Both men down! And Ashley Barlow is there to see if they can continue. It looks like she’s begun her ten count!

ONE

Richard Parker: One number for every entry in the Bill of Rights that came with my Five Star Bible.

TWO

Nick Stuart: Richard, when you get home I think you need to double-check where that came from.

THREE

Richard Parker: You might be right, now that I think about it.

FOUR

Richard Parker: I didn’t think they were supposed to come with signed photos of Steve Solex.

FIVE

Nick Stuart: Both men are still down. Who’s going to be the first to get to their feet?

SIX

The Anglo Luchador starts to stir.

SEVEN

Don Winters has rolled onto his chest, and is working his way towards the ropes.

EIGHT

Barlow is darting between both men, making sure they each know what the stakes are and confirming that they’re both able to continue.

The Anglo Luchador has a hand on the second rope, and has worked his way up to one knee.

Don Winters has done the same, but also has a hand on the top rope.

NINE

Winters gets his other hand onto the top rope.

The Anglo Luchador gets both knees under him and is draped over the second rope.

TEN!!!

The Revelator falls back to the canvas, and is now seated and leaning against the ropes.

Ashley Barlow: That’s it! Ring the bell!

She sticks her head through the ropes and communicates something to the timekeeper.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match…

The arena is silent in anticipation.

Vince Howard: …and STILL Five Star Champion…

RRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

Vince Howard: The Revelator… DOOOOOOOOOOOON WINTERRRRRRRRRSS!!!

Nick Stuart: Incredible display from both men here tonight. Looking at the replay, Winters made it to his feet just before the ten count! This one came down to a fraction of a second, but the champion retains.

Richard Parker: I… I think I need new pants.

Nick Stuart: Lord-O-Plex side effects?

Richard Parker: No. I need a new shirt from the sweats. I need new pants from those last ten seconds.

Both men are now seated on the mat and leaning against the ropes nearest them for support. Ashley Barlow brings the Five Star championship over to Winters, who offers a show of respect to the Anglo Luchador for the fight they both just endured.

And us?

We go elsewhere.

That was one hell of a match, but for the man in the baby blue tracksuit – with a plate of French toast in one hand and a fork in the other – it was just a chance to go to the restroom and get a snack. Of course, in doing that he has put himself out in the open and is now face to face with the man he has been trying to avoid since night one of Culture Shock.

Zapp Scatino:  So Johnny tells me you’re a busy man, and don’t have time for our little sit down tonight. But ya got time for breakfast, doncha?

Tony shifts his gaze from his French toast to Zapp, back to his French toast, then back to Zapp.

Tony Gamble: Is it just called toast here, or do they call it French toast anyway?

Tony notices the look of disinterest on Zapp’s face, and realizes the comment isn’t the distraction he thought it would be.

Tony Gamble: Real busy, actually. Figured I’d grab a bite real quick before I head back. All this planning going on, but I’ll have Johnny pencil you in this week. We’ll grab lunch or something.

Zapp Scatino: Nah. We’re doin’ this now.

Zapp Scatino, in all his magenta glory, slams down a thick manila envelope ring on top of Tony’s plate and takes a seat across from the man they call “The Grin”.

Zapp Scatino: That should be in the neighborhood of twenty G’s.  A small token of my appreciation.  Woulda been fifty but you kept duckin’ me so I had to tax ya on that show of disrespect.

Tony Gamble: Disrespect…It’s Zapp this time, right?

The Permascar Superstar grabs the envelope before putting his plate down on the table the man he used to call Morty had just made himself comfortable at. He watches the syrup drip from the envelope, as he continues.

Tony Gamble: Look, Zapp, I really do appreciate this token of your Adoration, but I ain’t seen no reason that you should be giving this to me…so what gives?

Zapp smirks.

Zapp Scatino: Me. I give, I’m a philanderist. Give to those who need it. I want you think about somethin’. You and this association with the Great Coral Queef, it’s fine.  Personally, I don’t get it. Maybe you were desperate, who knows?  It’s fine.  You wanna slum it with that snaky prick, go ahead. As long as it don’t get in the way you and me doin’ a little business.  Especially, after I crack his skull like an egg and scramble his fuckin’ brain like…an….egg….and take back the Alias Championship.

Tony thumbs through the stack of cash in the envelope, then licks some of the syrup off of his fingers before tossing the envelope back onto the plate.

Tony Gamble: So I’m just suppose to turn a cheek to you stepping away the way you did, and what….turn the other while you put a beating on Coral. It’s a nice chunk a change in there, but I’m not sure if I can do what you’re asking. You see, when you bounced, I was pretty much here by myself. Frankie and Dom are good guys, and they’d have my back in a pinch….but they ain’t the ones I needed here. It was Morty, and he ain’t here no more.

Zapp wipes away an imaginary tear and leans in.

Zapp Scatino: That was…beautiful.  Got me right here.

Zapp points to his heart and then his tone becomes more serious.

Zapp Scatino:  Listen, ya know what I realized durin’ my time away?  It don’t matter how good a person you are because no matter what, you get shit on and you thank these motherless fucks who do the shittin’ for the hat. So take that moral high ground you think you got and shove it up your ass. This shit, right here, you’re makin’ it more personal than it needs to be.

Tony chuckles.

Tony Gamble: Personal? No, I’m being completely professional here. You split, and I had to find someone else to have my back. The Egg Bandits have my back, and I have theirs.

Zapp Scatino: That’s it then, huh?  Choosin’ fuckin’ Egg Bandits?

The man formerly known as Mortimer Knightingale cannot prevent the slight twitch of his lip and the subtle disgust in his eyes.  Zapp nods and rises up.

Zapp Scatino:  Okay. But do me one simple favor.  Take that twenty large that I have so generously given to you, find the biggest dildo you can find and go fuck yourself.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an Alias Championship re-attain.

Zapp takes the plate of now mashed French Toast and flips it over into Tony Gamble’s lap.

Zapp Scatino: Oops.

As Zapp turns to leave, Tony just nods his head. There is a smirk on the right side of his face, as we cut away to another area of the Accor Arena.

Through the hallways backstage at Accor Arena, a bastard frollicks.

Well, it’s not so much that he frollicks as it is he can’t run no good. See, when a man sucks at running –

Fred Dick: Got DAYUM I gotta PISS!

– as Fred Dick does, he has to try other things to move around quickly. In this case, Fred skips through the hall like a merry little bastard, but there’s nothing merry about how bad he has to urinate.

Fred Dick: GOD. PLEASE! PLEASE let me just dump out my hog in the turlet, Lord, and not in my pant. Please? ONE TIME GOD. ONE TIME.

Fred skips into the nearest men’s bathroom, practically rips his pants off as he approaches the nearest urinal (kid’s sized), and we hear the trickling delight of a man who finally, finally, has turned the governor off on his bladder.

Fred Dick: Oh hell yeah… oh, fuuuuuuggggggyeah!

Fred paints the urinal with his name in cursive.

Fred Dick: Liiiiiittle Red Corvette! Haha.

Suddenly, a stall door opens.

A shadow starts to loom over Fred’s shoulder.

Fred Dick: Who the hell is standin’ over my shoulder tryna look at my whole hog?

Walking out slowly, like a horror movie villain, is Paxton Ray. He emotionlessly stares at Fred. stepping forward until he’s a few inches away from Dick. He doesn’t say anything, and his eyes do not move from the back of Fred’s head.

Fred Dick: It’s you… ain’t it, Pax?

Paxton doesn’t answer. His chest merely continues to heave up and down.

Fred Dick: Hey, man to man… please just let me finish’ up this piss big dawg. I know you wanna whoop my ass. Hell, maybe I got it coming, but I just prayed to the Lord to let me have a mess free drip. Please, Paxton. Please, have mercy.

Fred’s urine stream offers no auditory signals of slowing down. Paxton once again doesn’t respond, but in what can only be seen as an act of mercy, he waits the twenty-two seconds for Fred to finish his business. He even lets Fred get his pants up before grabbing the back of his hair and slamming it into the wall.

Paxton Ray: That’s the last prayer you’re gettin’ answered, bud.

Fred crashes against the wall, and Paxton immediately sends an elbow to the back of his head, pinning him against the wall. He turns him around and punches him twice, then sends him down to the ground.

Paxton Ray: Bet ya thought ya were pretty clever. Playin’ that song, dumpin’ all that fake blood on me. Bet ya laughed for hours that night.

Paxton sends a stiff kick to Fred’s ribs. The assaulted man is muttering curses and insults to Paxton, but The Bayou Butcher is too busy reciting his speech to respond to them.

Paxton Ray: Me? I ain’t much of a comedy guy. Takes a lot t’get me t’laugh. But when I got this idea the other day? Brother, I couldn’t stop laughin’.

Fred Dick is trying to get to his feet, and Paxton decides to help him up before sending another punch into his face, sending Dick into the wall again. A bit of blood comes out of Fred’s mouth and nose, and Paxton grins.

Paxton Ray: Bingo.

Paxton uses one large paw to hold Fred’s head against the wall and the other to fish inside his pocket. He pulls out a small glass tube and holds it below Fred’s face, collecting some of the blood in the tube.

Paxton Ray: Oh, I almos’ forgot. One’a the reasons I waited here in the first place. Come on, Freddie, we’re goin’ swimmin’.

Paxton pulls Fred from the wall and opens one of the stalls, then looks inside and nods.

Paxton Ray: You’re ‘bout t’take me back to my high school days.

And then he shoves Fred head first into the toilet bowl and flushes the toilet. This elicits an actual for-real-life giggle out of The Bayou Butcher.

Paxton Ray: God damn that’s funny…and that wasn’t even the part I laughed about.

Paxton lifts Fred’s head – he doesn’t want to drown him, of course – and grabs the vial of blood again.

Paxton Ray: Yeah, Freddie, the fake bloodbath was really funny. But I prefer the real thing.

And then Paxton pours out the few drops of Fred’s blood onto his head before dropping the vial on the ground. Laughing as he exits the stall, Paxton walks towards the door.

Paxton Ray: But there’s a bright spot, Fred. At least I didn’t paralyze ya.

Fred, half-dazed, half-dead, and full-on stupid, tries to get one last word in edgewise as Paxton exits the bathroom.

Fred Dick: Fuggin… Paxton… You sumbi-… I’ma take me a nap… that’s what I’ma do… just rest my eyes… close my eyes and sleep off this ass whoopin’… Then I’ma… I’ma fugyu up buddy… I’ma… fug…

Fred slumps his bleeding head against the toilet, closes his eyes.

Tears stream down his humiliated, bloody face. Quiet, secret shames.

We cut to something, anything, less pathetic than this.

“Point that camera here.”

Ok, then!

WHOOOOOOOO!

The camera obeys Chandler Tsonda. The people go whoo. A fundamental law in the field of PRIMEology. English, French, Ojibwe, it’s the same in any tongue. The language of the faithful.

Chandler Tsonda: (gestures to cameraperson) Enjoy the front row seat.

This is ring gear Tsonda. Black track jacket unzipped. Black tights. Black boots. He bounces in place as he talks straight to camera.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re about to see a real jailhouse shank of a match. Villain versus Viper. Living legends, myth made flesh. Like you turned on your TV and just so happened to catch Zeus going ten rounds against Thor.

The Model Citizen nods to himself. The machine is revving up.

Chandler Tsonda: Our history is etched in stone into the very bedrock of this place. That pivotal moment where you go from the longest Universal Title reign to…the new longest Universal Title reign. Two back-to-back eras foundational to this company: the Tsonda Dynasty, the Snow Dynasty.

Mighty pops go up for each of the names. The crowd noise can be heard here in Argyle, as if Tsonda’s standing in the lower bowl.

Chandler Tsonda: So tonight: welcome to history. Not something long-forgotten, not something you gotta search the archives for. The type of shit you know the second it happens is blazed in memory. You leave your body and you know that this, right now, is a feeling you’ll chase some day down the road.

The Hall of Famer shakes out both wrists. The white wrist tape juts out from the ends of his jacket’s sleeves.

Chandler Tsonda: You at home, take a good long look at that spot on the couch where you’re sitting. Run your hand along the cushion. You’ll want to tell the grandkids exactly what spot you were sitting in when you got to see it. And to mes amis in Accor Arena?

WHOOOOOOOO!

Chandler Tsonda: Secure that ticket stub in your pocket. Get one last whiff of the beer and the funk in the stadium right now. You’ll want that sense memory someday. You’ll want to keep this moment, hold it with you. You’ll pull up the video on YouTube, be view number ten million and one, and you’ll point to one little grainy pixel in freeze-frame and say, “See mon cher, I was this close to Tsonda on the night he beat Jason Snow.”

The Viet Viper punctuates this by holding his right thumb and index finger one iota apart.

Chandler Tsonda: Tonight you get it all. Deja vu all over again. Dream match part deux. The two men who constituted the single greatest peaceful…ok, peaceful-ish transition of power in pro wrestling history, and on a particular Friday in May, you get an unexpected sequel.

Do the French begin to chant “DEJA VU! DEJA VU! DEJA VU!” back in the arena? Oh, oui, oui.

Chandler Tsonda: And, sure, there’s no shame in losing to a GOAT. This is rarified, summit-of-Everest air. (voice rising) This is the hallowest ground, sanctified with blood and gold and the torn muscle of carrying this fucking company on your back.

WHOOOOOOOO!

Chandler Tsonda: But I didn’t fly across an ocean, I didn’t wait fifteen years, and I goddamn sure didn’t roll this pain cage of a body out of bed this morning to be the one saying, ‘hey, no shame in losing to THAT guy’ after tonight.

He bounces, more lively in his step, from side to side. The machine is revved, and the engine hums with every fiercely enunciated word.

Chandler Tsonda: I hate being in debt. But ever since that day all those years ago, I’ve got one, and only one, thing on the balance sheet I just can’t square. And that is: Snow, I owe you one. It’s time I paid you back. (gestures to the ring) Out there. In front of them.

It’s less a pop and more a growing roar. The anticipation of Their Guy stepping out among the sounds of “Welcome Home” and the sights of lights and fog.

Chandler Tsonda: Time for the best two words in PRIME.

As he delivers the final line, Tsonda leans in. A close-up of the face that launched a thousand swoons.

Chandler Tsonda: Chan’s here.

And then we’re at ringside.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall!

No one in France is brave enough to scream back one fall.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…

The first person? He’s already in the ring. He doesn’t get paid for entrances, he simply wants to make his money and get out of France.

Vince Howard: He stands at 6 feet and 1 inches tall, he hails from Unknown, and weighed in at 235 pounds. He is the Original Villain! JAAAAAAAAAAAAAASON! SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!

Jason looks like he could care less about the introductions, moving to the corner and just shaking his head in the process.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a big match here coming up next!

Richard Parker: Though, looking at Snow’s face, you wouldn’t know it.

Nick Stuart: He cares less about history and more about money.

Richard Parker: Exactly.

Snow looks up the ramp.

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful ”
These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges Snow. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, weighing in at 187 pounds and standing at 5 feet and 11 inches tall. He hails from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam. He is the MODEL! CITIZEN! CHANDLER! TSSSSSSSSOOOOOOOONDA!

The look in Chandler’s eyes make it clear how big of a match this is for him. Jimmy gives his final set of instructions.

Richard Parker: For old heads like Nick, this is like a wet dream come true.

Nick Stuart: You don’t want us to start talking about your wet dreams, do you?

Richard Parker: …no.

Nick Stuart: Exactly. A big match for these two back in the ReVolution era as Snow ended Tsonda’s historic reign as Universal Champion — holding it for 216 days, which was the longest — until Snow’s reign lasted 407 days.

Richard Parker: … nerd

And Turnbull finishes his instructiosn and signals for the start of the match.

DING DING

The bell pierces the air, signaling the start of the highly anticipated match. The two formidable competitors circle each other like wolves, their eyes locked on their prey. The tense crowd in Paris can feel the electric energy emanating from the ring as these two Hall of Famers prepare to clash. Tsonda makes the first move, lunging forward for a collar-and-elbow tie-up, but Snow is too quick and slips behind him, trapping him in a tight rear waist-lock. Tsonda struggles to break free, his fingers clawing at Snow’s intertwined grip, but the Original Villain holds firm and executes a vicious side suplex that slams Tsonda onto the mat with a sickening thud. Dazed and disoriented, Tsonda fights to regain his bearings as he sits up, only to be met with a brutal forearm strike from Snow. The impact sends shockwaves through his skull and leaves him questioning where he is. As Tsonda tries to shake off the effects of the blow, Snow charges towards him and drives his boot into his chest, crushing him back down to the mat. With lightning speed, Snow bounces off the ropes and goes for an elbow drop aimed directly at Chandler’s sternum, but the agile Model Citizen rolls out of harm’s way just in time.

Nick Stuart: Snow coming out of the gate as if he wants to draw blood from his one-time, long-time foe!

Richard Parker: I think Jason has made it clear that he is here for the money. Something that he and I both have in common.

Nick Stuart: Well, sure. Except that your money and his money are not in the same league as one another. I think you’re still making $7.25 an hour.

Richard Parker: Which is a shame and something that I hope I can take up with Lindsay Troy during her next performance review.

Nick Stuart: Good luck with that.

With a fierce growl, Tsonda springs to his feet, causing Snow to scramble onto his knees. In one swift motion, Snow swings his arm like a whip and takes out Chandler’s legs, sending him crashing to the mat with a loud thud. Without hesitation, Jason mounts the fallen Model Citizen and unleashes a barrage of brutal strikes with his elbow and forearm. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the arena as Tsonda desperately tries to shield himself from the relentless assault. But Snow’s blows find their mark, leaving deep bruises on the seemingly ageless face of the Hall of Famer. As Chandler struggles to get up, Jason seizes his wrist and yanks him towards him, driving a knee into his vulnerable midsection. The impact forces Chandler to double over in pain, giving Snow the opportunity to lock in a front facelock and lift him off the ground. But just as it seems like Tsonda is at Snow’s mercy, he manages to twist and reverse the hold, landing behind Snow with lightning-fast reflexes. With an iron grip, he wraps his arms around Snow’s waist and charges forward, slamming him into the ropes before rolling him up into a tight pin as Jimmy Turnbull starts the count.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: And Tsonda nearly caught Snow on that one, with the Original Villain just barely kicking out there.

Nick Stuart: Snow has only had one match since his return and while Fred Dick is a worthy opponent, he’s not as smooth as someone as Chandler Tsonda.

Richard Parker: Dick isn’t smooth?

Nick Stuart: We’re not doing this.

Richard Parker: Ah, why not?!

Both men explode to their feet, Tsonda lashing out with a vicious forearm strike. Snow ducks underneath it, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he bounces off the ropes and unleashes a ferocious running clothesline that sends Tsonda crashing to the mat. Without pause, Snow drives his boot into the Model Citizen’s chest before bringing down his knee with all his weight onto Tsonda’s rib cage. Tsonda writhes in agony as Snow towers over him, driving his elbow into the back of Tsonda’s neck with cruel force. Turnbull tries to intervene, but Snow pays no heed as he stalks Tsonda’s prone form. With a ruthless kick, Snow sends Tsonda tumbling under the bottom rope and onto the unforgiving ring apron.

Nick Stuart: And you can see one of the traits Snow has always been known for — being ruthless.

Richard Parker: In PRIME, you’re either ruthless or without a contract. Jason looks like he hasn’t missed a step and is making Tsonda suffer from what I can only assume is two decades of pent-up frustration.

Nick Stuart: You have to imagine stepping back in the ring with one another has made both men feel like they’ve been transported to the aughts instead of the mid 2020s.

Richard Parker: Sure, whatever you said.

As Chandler rises to his feet, Snow is standing right there waiting for him. The Original Villain connects with a forearm shot that stuns the Model Citizen. Jason grabs Chandler by the back of his skull and walks over to the nearby corner with him and slams his face into the turnbuckle. Tsonda takes a step backwards, grabbing at his face, while Snow climbs onto the second turnbuckle. He then reaches forward and grabs Tsonda, bringing him back to him and tries to suplex him back into the ring. Chandler blocks it though, countering Snow into a suplex on his own before Tsonda crotches Snow onto the top rope! With the Parisians groaning in pain, Tsonda climbs to the top rope before connecting with a missile dropkick to the prone Villain!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

With a growl of determination, Chandler jumps to his feet only to meet Snow’s menacing gaze. The Original Villain unleashes a brutal forearm shot that rattles the Model Citizen to his core. Jason grabs Chandler by the nape of his neck and drags him towards the corner, slamming his face into the unforgiving turnbuckle. Tsonda staggers back, clutching at his bloody nose, while Snow ascends to the second rope with a twisted grin. He reaches out and pulls Tsonda towards him, attempting to suplex him back into the ring. But Chandler refuses to be taken down, countering with a powerful suplex of his own, crotching Snow onto the top rope! As the Parisian crowd winces in sympathy, Tsonda climbs to the top turnbuckle and takes aim at his fallen rival. With all his might, he launches himself into a devastating missile dropkick that sends Snow crashing to the outside in a heap of pain and defeat.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda giving it as good as he is getting it from Snow! You can tell these two are instinctively remembering how the other wrestles and it is leading to a number of counters as they refuse to cede ground to their opponent.

Richard Parker: They’ve wrestled before? I don’t see to remember that.

Nick Stuart: You called the matches with me!

Richard Parker: I think you must have me mistaken with another Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: You’re right — the other one wasn’t as massive of a dick.

Richard Parker: That’s ri— hey!

Chandler charges towards the corner, his eyes burning with determination as Snow struggles to get back on his feet. Tsonda climbs to the top rope, poised like a predator about to strike, before launching himself into a deadly moonsault aimed at the Original Villain. But Snow is quick and agile, dodging the attack just in time. Like a panther pouncing on its prey, Tsonda lands gracefully on his feet, ready for the next move. But Jason is one step ahead, unleashing a brutal uppercut that rattles the Model Citizen. In a swift motion, Snow grabs Tsonda by the back of his head and smashes his face into the unforgiving ring edge with a sickening thud. Tsonda is thrown back into the ring where Jason wastes no time in landing a powerful jab to his jaw. Dazed and confused, Tsonda staggers backwards as Snow takes advantage of the opening and delivers a vicious snap dragon suplex, slamming Tsonda’s skull onto the canvas. Chandler rolls through the impact and springs back up to his feet, determined not to let Snow gain the upper hand. But it’s a race against time as Tsonda sprints towards them both, delivering a bone-crushing clothesline that sends both men crashing down to the mat in a heap of pain and exhaustion.

Richard Parker: Tsonda’s skin care routine clearly extends to his agility and flexibility. What do you think he does? Goat Yoga? Pilates? Naked Pilates?

Nick Stuart: What makes the difference between pilates and naked pilates?

Richard Parker: I’m sure it’s something. I mean, we have goat yoga.

Nick Stuart: Which doesn’t involve being naked.

Richard Parker: Answer the question!

Nick Stuart: Um… what was the question?

Richard Parker: Ahhhhhh!

Both men rise to their feet, fueled by pure rage and adrenaline. Snow’s fist collides with Tsonda’s jaw, snapping his head back in a brutal blow. But Tsonda doesn’t falter, using the force of the punch to unleash a powerful right jab that rocks Snow in return. With lightning speed, Snow retaliates with a bone-crushing forearm strike that rattles Tsonda’s jaw and leaves him reeling. But before Snow can celebrate, Tsonda spins around and delivers a devastating back kick to his midsection, knocking the wind out of him. Having the upper hand, Chandler springs into action, launching off the middle rope with lightning-fast agility to deliver a neckbreaker that sends Snow crashing to the mat. The crowd erupts in cheers as Tsonda bounces to his feet, embracing the energy of the Parisian audience as he springboards off the rope once more for an epic moonsault. But all hopes of victory are dashed as he crashes down onto Snow’s lifted knees, leaving both men writhing in pain on the unforgiving canvas.

Nick Stuart: Neither man able to get much momentum here in this match as just when it looks like one of them have a step up, the other counters.

Richard Parker: They’ve studied each other over the years. They’ve got tape of their own matches — matches that are watched by zealous PRIMEates — to review and they’re able to feel each other out much more than some of the newer talent could.

Nick Stuart: And Snow is getting to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck.

Richard Parker: You can tell that Snow is being pushed here and he’s feeling the effects in his second match back. The body just isn’t used to this kind of punishment and he’s gotta be second guessing himself.

Nick Stuart: You want to ask him?

Richard Parker: Nah, I’m good.

With a ferocious roar, Jason lunges forward and kicks his opponent, the Model Citizen, square in the chest. He quickly drags the dazed man off of the mat and flings him aside like a rag doll. Snow moves in with lightning speed, delivering a brutal forearm strike to Tsonda’s neck and throat as he staggers up. Using all his strength, Snow grabs Tsonda by the wrist and hurls him into the ropes before halting his momentum with a sudden stop. In one swift motion, Snow slams Tsonda’s body back into his own, driving his knee deep into the rib cage of the Hall of Famer. With Chandler groaning in pain, Jason follows up with a vicious elbow to the small of his back. Tsonda drops to one knee while Snow bounces off the ropes, ready to deliver a crushing running knee strike to Tsonda’s head. But Chandler is too quick and spins out of the way just in time, catching Snow off guard. He retaliates with a fierce step-up enziguri kick to the side of Snow’s head, sending him crashing down to the ground in a heap. The intensity between these two skilled opponents is palpable as they fight tooth and nail for victory in this high-stakes match.

Richard Parker: Sheer brutality from these two.

Nick Stuart: It’s going to end up being whomever makes a mistake first is going to probably find themselves pulling off the victory.

Richard Parker: It’s going to come down to whether or not they can out-counter each other.

Nick Stuart: That too.

Tsonda springs to his feet like a coiled serpent, while Snow struggles to rise using the ropes for support. The Model Citizen unleashes a powerful forearm strike across the back of the Original Villain, causing him to stagger forward in pain. Chandler takes advantage of Snow’s vulnerability, shoving him into the corner before nimbly climbing up to the second turnbuckle. With fierce determination, he seizes Snow’s head and mercilessly pummels him with a barrage of punches as Turnbull starts his count.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FI—

Tsonda’s eyes widen in shock as Snow’s arms wrap around his torso like an iron vice. Before he can react, he is lifted off the ground and slammed down with brutal force, causing his spine to crack in agony. As Tsonda falls to his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath, Snow charges towards him like a freight train and delivers a devastating flying knee strike to the back of his skull. The impact is so powerful that it sends Tsonda crashing face first into the unforgiving mat, leaving him dazed and barely conscious. With lightning-quick precision, Snow flips Tsonda over and pins him down, hooking his leg for the pin attempt.

ONE

TWO

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: I thought Snow had it there!

Nick Stuart: I think every Parisian thought the same thing! The way Snow’s knee cracked against Tsonda’s skull, I’m surprised he doesn’t have a serious injury.

Richard Parker: This is Jason Snow, though. He is going to hurt you, punish you, until you have nothing left to give.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is going to have to dig down deep to find something to battle back with.

Jason drags Tsonda to his feet, pushes him into the ropes, and connects with an uppercut. Tsonda’s head snaps back from the impact and he leans against the ropes, using them to keep himself up on his feet. Snow goes to whip Tsonda into the ropes, but the Model Citizen manages to block it — wrapping his right arm around the top rope. Snow fires off a series of left’s to the forehead of Tsonda and goes to whip him into the ropes once again — except Tsonda blocks it for a second time as he keeps his arm wrapped around the top rope. Snow goes for a clothesline on Chandler only to be dipped over the top rope and onto the ring apron. Snow slowly makes his way up to his feet only for Tsonda to connect with a springboard dropkick that sends Snow crashing to the arena floor.

Richard Parker: Well, if you’re trying to piss off Jason Snow, that is a great way to do so.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Tsonda is trying to piss him off per se — oh, Tsonda off the ropes and he connects with a suicide dive! He split the top and middle rope perfectly and slammed his body into Snow’s.

Richard Parker: Snow cracked hard against the ringside barricade here and you can tell he’s feeling the impact of that.

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda is back to his feet, slamming his boot into the chest of the Original Villain!

Tsonda yanks Snow to his feet and whips him into the ring edge. Snow’s back cracks against the unforgiving edge and as he stumbles forward, clutching at his back, the Model Citizen connects with a back body drop. Snow thuds into the arena floor, but doesn’t stay there long as Tsonda pulls Snow back to his feet. He goes to whip him into the ring post only for Snow to reverse it and send Tsonda careening into it instead! Chandler connects with a sickening crack that sends him tumbling to the floor, clutching his forehead. As he pulls his hand away, grimacing at the same time, he’s pleased to learn he hasn’t been busted open. Before he can do anything else though, Snow closes the gap with a running forearm strike to the seated Tsonda!

Nick Stuart: Snow cracked Tsonda good across the face with that forearm strike!

Richard Parker: Tsonda is laid out and that could be the end of the match if Jason can get Tsonda back in the ring and covered!

Nick Stuart: It seems like he’s taking your advice as he’s grabbed Tsonda and rolled him back into the ring — breaking Turnbull’s count in the meantime as he’d gotten to six!

Richard Parker: And Snow with the pinfall attempt!

ONE!

TWO!

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda manages to get his right shoulder up in the nick of time to the frustration of Snow. Jason gets to his feet and looks at Turnbull for a moment — but that moment is all Tsonda needs as he grabs at his ankle slips his legs in between Snow’s and takes him to the ground before going for a pinfall of his own.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Both men scramble to their feet with Tsonda’s quick feet finding their mark against the back of Snow’s right calf. Jason groans in pain before firing off a boot that meets Tsonda in the midsection. Jason hooks both of Tsonda’s arms and goes for a butterfly suplex — but the Model Citizen drives Snow back firs into the nearby corner instead. The wind is expelled from Snow’s lungs as Tsonda slips out of the grip he’s in. He then leaps onto the second turnbuckle before planting his feet into Jason’s chest — he goes for a monkey flip only for Snow to block it, turn Tsonda around and sit him on the top turnbuckle before connecting with an open-handed palm strike across Tsonda’s jaw.

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda looks a bit woozy after that shot from Snow!

Richard Parker: No question about it as Snow is now scaling the turnbuckle and is pulling Tsonda up with him.

Nick Stuart: You can tell Snow realizes he’s going to need to pull out big moves to put Tsonda away.

Richard Parker: And Snow with the superplex! The ring shook from the might with which both men landed on the hard canvas!

Snow rolls over and drapes his arm across Tsonda’s chest as Turnbull begins another count.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

As Tsonda’s right shoulder shoots up, Snow rolls off the body of his nemesis and stares into the arena lights. He shakes his head in shock as Tsonda continues to battle back over and over again. He slowly sits up and makes his way to his feet before pulling Tsonda up with him. The Model Citizen is seemingly operating on pure instinct as he connects with a spinning backfist that drops Snow to one knee. The move stuns Snow long enough for Tsonda to connect with a stalling lift implant DDT!

Nick Stuart: Golgotha Drop! Can he pin Snow and get the victory?!

Richard Parker: Tsonda may have been operating on pure instinct there and seemingly doesn’t have the strength in the moment to capitalize on this moment.

Nick Stuart: You might be right Richard because Tsonda isn’t moving much and Snow — dropped on his head a moment ago — seems to be making more movement than Chandler is in the moment.

Richard Parker: And you’re right because Tsonda is finally stirring, but Snow is already sitting up.

Tsonda yanks Snow back to the mat and goes for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And Snow quickly kicks out as Tsonda gets back to his feet in a hurry, adrenaline forcing him to do something. Tsonda grabs Snow by the back of the neck and whips him into the ropes before connecting with a spinning elbow that cracks Snow across his jaw. Snow — out on his feet — stumbles backwards after the shot while Tsonda closes the gap and drags Snow to the nearby corner before connecting with a second-rope release Tiger Suplex!

Nick Stuart: Guerilla Plex ‘69!

Richard Parker: Heh. Heh. Heh.

Nick Stuart: Knock it off.

Richard Parker: Fine. How do you keep track of all these move names?

Nick Stuart: It’s called doing my job.

Richard Parker: Ugh, you make me sick.

With Snow laid out on the mat, Tsonda climbs to the top rope and leaps off the top rope, going for a high-arc moonsault.

Nick Stuart: The Model Citizen!

Richard Parker: Yes, yes, we know his nickname.

Nick Stuart: No, that’s the name of his move!

Richard Parker: Oh, okay. See? Suck up!

Except Snow rolls out of the way at the last moment! Tsonda, agile as ever, lands on his feet gracefully. As he does, he turns around as Snow gets to his feet and is met with a superkick.

Richard Parker: Snake Eyes!

Nick Stuart: See? You’ve done your studying.

Richard Parker: Shit, why did I say that?!

Tsonda collapses to the mat from the shot, inches away from the rope. Snow drops on top of Tsonda and hooks his right leg in the process.

ONE!

Turnbull continues his count, unaware.

TWO!

Of Tsonda’s left foot.

THREE!

Being under the bottom rope.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Jimmy missed Tsonda’s left foot being under the bottom rope!

Richard Parker: What?! How could you tell that?!

Nick Stuart: Because just look at your monitor, it’s there!

Richard Parker: That may have happened after the count.

Nick Stuart: No, no. It was before!

Richard Parker: You need to get your eyes checeked.

Jimmy gets to his feet and helps Snow up to his feet before raising his arm in victory.

Vince Howard: Your winner, Jason… SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!

RAAAAAHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: A hard-fought victory for one former Universal Champion of the ReVolution over another.

Richard Parker: And the best part? No whistling. My God, I am going to hear the whistles in my nightmares.

There’s a murmur in the crowd as Tsonda slides out of the ring and Snow soaks in the adulation of the crowd. The murmur turns into a cheer as a man, still in his ring gear from the match before, appears at the top of the stage under the PRIMEview.

He’s wearing a mask.

TAL: Hey! Jason! Buddy! Great win. No ring-rust whatsoever, huh.

Snow looks up the ramp and shakes his head.

Richard Parker: Aw man, I thought we were done with this dork after he couldn’t win the Five Star.

TAL: I bet you think you’re next in line for a title match after that thrilling victory, huh. Yeah, that’s your MO, right? Collect titles. Adorn your name in laurels so that when the next Devin Shakur or whoever comes in like a wrecking ball, they can say, hey, yeah, there goes that Jason Snow. He was excellent in TWO eras of the best fed ever.

The crowd cheers again.

TAL: Funny thing about title shots here is, like, three-quarters of the roster thinks they deserve a title shot any given week, and since I don’t see no Darin Zion or Pete Whealdon walkin’ through that door, I have reason to believe they’d be justified. I mean, not to give the devil his due, but Ivan’s sniffing around the Uni. He beats nearly everyone in his path not named Hayes Hanlon, including yours truly.

The crowd whistles in disapproval as Richard Parker starts to go catatonic.

TAL: Speaking of Hanlon’s group, how long do you think it’s going to take Farthington to go on a hot streak? FLAMBERGE, man, he WON War Games. Then you’ve got Max Kael who both deserved to get screwed out of his Intense Title for crimes against various people on this roster, but who, well, did get screwed and might still be the Champ if not for three other guys.

Snow rolls his eyes as if he’s psychically telling The Luchador “get to the point already.”

TAL: Hell, look at me. I scratched and clawed to get to that Five Star Title opportunity. I beat a member of Vae Victis. I stood in the cage against monsters and maniacs like Hessian and Paxton Ray and FLAMBERGE. And unless you’re Dick Parker over there or some Russian asshole in a bunker in Arkangelsk, you fucking KNOW I deserved it. Whether or not I won, well, that’s a different story.

Richard Parker: The nerve!

Nick Stuart: I don’t find anything questionable about this…

Richard Parker: HE CALLED ME A DICK!

Nick Stuart: No, he called you Dick, which is traditionally a short name for Richard.

Richard Parker: Oh, take his side why don’t ya.

TAL: The point is, what makes you think that you’re going to get a reward off this win, Ghost, huh? Tsonda is great, sure. I was proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with him at War Games. But there are like maybe four or five names on this roster that if you beat them, you get what you want, the trinkets, the baubles, the shots at immortality. Chan by himself isn’t one of them. But…

The crowd perks up.

TAL: If you get hot? If you beat Chan, then you maybe beat, I dunno, maybe one of those Poor Whoresmen in Spain, and then you take on a match with someone whose name means something around here.

Nick Stuart: I think I know where he’s going with this.

Richard Parker: Me too, but he can’t book Snow vs. FLAMBERGE at Tropical Turmoil.

TAL: Someone who’s held gold. Someone people talk about as being essential to the ReVival. Someone who’s been here since Day One…

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: I think the crowd wants to see this! C’mon Jason, accept his challenge.

Richard Parker: But FLAMBO wasn’t here for Day One…

TAL: What do you say, Ghost?

Snow shakes his head and rolls his eyes before bailing out of the ring. The crowd whistles its disapproval as the Luchador does the “c’mon guys” hand motion.

Richard Parker: Can’t we cut to commercial? This is pathetic.

Nick Stuart: Well we do have to cut to something…

….STATIC!….

And then some more…

…..STATIC….

Then…

The synth pop sounds of “Blood Rage” by Nightcrawler begins and the formerly masked man known as Mortimer (Place Last Name Here) emerges from the curtain as the lights dim and rays of glorious magenta illuminate the ramp.

Richard Parker: Here comes Zapp!

Nick Stuart: Morty dash Zapp dash whatever it will be next run recently came back to PRIME during night one of Culture Shock and immediately set his sights on Coral Avalon, The Crownless King.

Richard Parker: Riddle me this, Nick. Where was the Captain’s so-called “eggsecutioner” when that was happening? I’ll tell you where he was. He was sleeping. That’s where. Fuck him. He better not think for one second about showing his face during this match.

The man now called Zapp Scatino begins making his way down the ramp, pointing to the fans in attendance with an air of smugness and a touch of appreciation. Zapp saunters down the aisle, the smugness turns to intensity the closer he gets to the ring, no longer paying any mind to the fans in attendance. He slides into the ring under the bottom rope, steps up to the middle turnbuckle and raises his hands in the air as the wonderfully magenta spotlight shines upon the Magenta Megastar.

Nick Stuart: Good thing Zapp isn’t from Texas.

Brannigan-Scatino hops off the turnbuckle and readies himself for the match as the music fades.

Richard Parker: WAIT! What’s this nonsense? We’re cutting backstage!?! Just who do these guys think they are?

Nick Stuart: Bandits.

The shot cuts from the ring and an astonished Dirty Dick, which is weird when this is supposed to be the big main event.

Big.

There’s a low shot of a pair of sneakers attached to legs that you can barely see, like the man wearing them is invisible to the camera. The camera pans up as the man starts walking. A pair of jorts, then a big dumb Boston Red Sox jersey, and then finally the man himself – Doozer. Behind him, there’s a team of four French police officers that are flanking him on all sides.

Doozer walks with purpose down a hallway, until he reaches a door. He knocks on the door hard enough that you’d think he’s trying to leave dents or prove to people that he exists. After a few moments, the door opens and out walks… okay, more like waddles none other than Bobby Dean. The Beautiful Man from Honalee has a massive chicken leg in one hand and an extra-large Coke in the other, and he steps out to accompany Doozer down the hallway.

Around the corner they go, until they reach the next door. Doozer looks at Bobby expectantly, like he’s supposed to knock on the door, but realizing that Bobby’s hands are full and god forbid he put down food, Doozer’s forced to be the one who knocks. After a few moments, the door swings open and it’s Lunchbox La Mans who walks out to join the procession.

The three of them, plus the officers, walk further down the hall until they reach yet another door.

Richard Parker: This is getting ridiculous… it’s like a Matyroshka doll of bad ideas.

Nick Stuart: Ssh. At least you know who hasn’t shown up yet.

This time, it’s Lunchbox Limoges’ turn to knock on the door. There’s a pause, though, because no one’s answering the door. After a few moments, Lunchbox Lisieux’s forced to knock again. Then a third time. Finally, he gets fed up, yells something not really fit for television, and kicks open the door.

Richard Parker: That’s a fine. Has to be.

Nick Stuart: …Yes.

The door explodes open and Doozer walks in. After a moment, there’s Cardboard Dan Ryan. Strangely, CBD’s missing his arms. Probably just misplaced them somewhere in England, if we’re telling the truth. Doozer is nowhere to be see—oh, he’s right there. Nevermind.

You can hear Richard Parker’s sheer disgust for all of this from the other side of the ocean, even if you aren’t watching the broadcast.

The procession carries on. Somehow, there’s even more security, and I think that’s fair and right to happen considering all of the Banditry going on. They continue around another corner until they reach yet another door. Once again, it’s up to Jushin Lunchbox Liger to knock on the door. The door opens, and out walks none other than Tony Gamble. The camera has to pan down a bit to see him, of course. Despite his grin, he’s hardly all smiles about what’s coming up. After all, Morty – or Zapp Scatino now – had been a stablemate. Maybe not a friend, but certainly an ally.

They continue, and reach one final door. It’s the one that reads “Coral Avalon” on it, so you’d think that’s where he’d be. This time, it’s Tony Gamble doing the knocking. After a few moments, the door opens up… and there the man of the hour should appear.

Richard Parker: I’ll shit if it’s him banging Coral’s wife. Like right here in my seat. Lot’s of it, too. Pile of poop.

Much to Richard’s chagrin, it is Coral Avalon who comes walking out of the dressing room in full regalia, and not a shot of Jiles doing the nasty with Annabelle. The big dumb leonine fur cloak, his ring gear, the Alias championship around his waist… the whole thing. He looks around at all of the other Bandits and the security officers, nodding to all of them. Then he turns towards the camera, mouths a silent prayer to himself, and walks forward as the scene cuts to black.

Speaking of black, we cut back to the arena and it’s shrouded in darkness. We do, however, get Monster Siren’s “Real Me” on the PA system. Fog billows out of the entryway, and many Bandits emerge through the smoke. The security team has decided that their job’s done, apparently. As the music begins its slow build to the guitars, the Bandits part in order to allow for a figure – that’s Avalon, let’s not mince words here – to walk out with his head down.

When the guitars hit, Avalon raises his head and the lights come back on. Pyrotechnics go off in a wave in front of him, explosions all around. Fans go wild when they see him, cheering him as he heads for the ring with the Bandits at his back.

Vince Howard: His opponent, being accompanied by the eGG Bandits… residing in Seattle, Washington! Weighing in at two-hundred and fourteen pounds! HE IS THE GOLDEN BANDIT! THE CROWNLESS KING! HE IS THE ALIAS CHAMPION! THIS! IS! COOOOOOOORAAAAAALLLLLLL!!! AVALOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNN!!!

Avalon takes his time getting to the ring, paying little attention to his impatient opponent. He stops to stare at him once he reaches the proper ringside area, and starts to make his way to the stairs to get in the ring… and then walks right past them, much to Zapp’s considerable irritation. Instead, Avalon walks around the ring to give high-fives to fans seated around ringside.

Nick Stuart: It’s been 140 days since Coral Avalon dethroned Chandler Tsonda for the Alias Championship at Colossus. He’s held that championship longer than anyone in the ReVival era of PRIME. No matter what happens tonight, Coral Avalon will not be holding the Alias Championship after tonight. But will he leave here as a victor or will we see a new champion crowned in the first Alias Championship main event in nearly twenty years?

Richard Parker: So no matter what, a Bandit isn’t going to be champion after tonight? It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle in May! Hallelujah!

One lady stands up and kisses him, but that’s just Annabelle. So that’s no big deal.

Richard Parker: Gross.

Nick Stuart: That’s his wife, Rich.

Richard Parker: Oh. Gross. Nobody should marry a Bandit.

Avalon walks around to exchange nods with Stuart and Parker – though Parker pretends to not notice him. Then he walks around to complete the full walk around ringside before he walks up the stairs and into the ring.

Nick Stuart: The referee for tonight’s 15-minute ALIAS CHAMPIONSHIP MAIN EVENT is Elvis Nixon, and I expect him to have his hands full with this one.

DING~!

Richard Parker: Start the clock.

14:59…

Wasting no time, Zap zappers in, and zeros in a Coral’s zenith sized forehead. He attempts a dropkick that is easily thwarted by the Golden Bandit.

Nick Stuart: He’s a zany one, that Zapp.

Richard Parker: Rumor has it the name change is so he’d be the last person listed on the roster page.

Coral is in no hurry. He has time on his side. In fact, he shows a little bit of spunk, and a little bit of flare. He looks down upon Zap, and then he checks an imaginary watch around his wrist.

14:06…

Richard Parker: Good thing I was already sitting down.

None too thrilled with Coral’s pep, Zap quickly gets back up to his feet. He lunges at Coral, attempting a clothesline. Problem is, Coral’s forehead is three inches thick. You could throw a brick at it and you’d feel sorry for the brick afterwards. That said, Zap’s arm ricochets backward, spinning him around like a top.

Nick Stuart: That’s odd. Why do you think someone would do something like that? Last on the roster page?

Richard Parker: Apparently he’s trying to hide from someone.

Nick Stuart: Well he better hope that person isn’t a doctor because it’s a miracle that arm of his is still attached to his body.

Zap swiftly pirouettes right into an awaiting Coral, who then seamlessly delivers a picture perfect inverted atomic drop to the challenger. The move causes Zap’s knees to quickly pinch inward, and he begins to painfully waddle about the ring.

Once again, Coral takes his time, and coolly checks his imaginary watch.

12:12…

Richard Parker: Ha! Since when did he have such panache? I’m used to a turd wanting to shake hands at the end of a well contested match. That guy in the ring right now ain’t him. I wonder what changed?

Nick Stuart: Zap did attack him at Culture Shock.

Richard Parker: True, but this seems different. It’s almost like someone else is pulling the strings.

Zap slams the mat in frustration. He then gets up, gathers himself, adjusts his mask, shakes it off, and says a few choice words in Coral’s direction.

Okay so maybe not totally shaken off.

Coral, meanwhile, simply checks that imaginary wristwatch like he’s got alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the time in the world.

10:29…

Not to mention, no matter what happens, win, lose or draw this is Coral’s last night as Alias Champion; so the 15 minute man might as well enjoy it while he can.

Belle can’t wait.

Not Brannigan refocuses his gaze, readies his posture, and charges in. He’s a little more under control this time around than when compared to last. Plus, he chose to stay on his feet, and away from the forehead by driving his shoulder into Coral’s gut.

Nick Stuart: Quick learner.

Instead of driving Coral back and into the ropes, Zap goes off script. He stops his own momentum short. He doesn’t attack though. Instead, he waits the half second it takes for Coral to stop, and then in a burst slips past him. He quickly reaches back, manages that forehead of the Crownless King, traps an arm, and devastates him with a neckbreaker,

Nick Stuart: Zap calls that one BUST OUT! It’s his signature move, and he just hit it out of nowhere to take control of this match!

Richard Parker: The Champion is in big trouble! All that cocky bullshit caught up with him in an instant and I’m here for every damn second of it. I’ll tell you this much, Nick, you can bet that’s the last time he ever checks an imaginary watch.

Nick Stuart: Totally.

Instead of attempting a pin, Zap, still down on the mat mind you, checks his own imaginary wrist watch which sends the crowd into a whistling fit.

8:48…

Richard Parker: This whistling shit could be the craziest thing I have ever seen.

Zap gets up on his feet, and then “helps” Coral get up onto his own following a stiff series of various punches and kicks. Not necessarily a sequence, but a good amount. While he’s helping Coral up, and unbeknownst to Elvis Nixon, he reaches in and rakes at Coral’s eyes; causing him to rear back in agony.

Richard Parker: Getting dirty in there! I like it!

Nick Stuart: You would.

The Champ uses his one hand to cover his throbbing eye, and the other to wave around aimlessly; like he’s walking around in the dark trying to find a light switch and he just stubbed his toe. Granted, in this case the toe is a finger to the eye, but you get the point.

Ha.

A finger mind you, that who knows where it has been.

Then.

While Coral was flailing his one arm around trying to find the light switch so to speak, well, ole Zappy zapped him.

Again.

Nick Stuart: OH MY LORD HE HIT IT AGAIN! BUST OUT! BUST OUT!

Richard Parker: This could be over!

Coral is down. Luckily, he’s down close to the ropes. So close, Zappy has to waste a second or two making up his mind about if he should try to pin him there and take his chances, or drag him and that big forehead of his away from the ropes and then try. He chooses the latter, rolls the dice, and drops down to pin the champ. Elvis Nixon is right there like he owes Zap money from a long time ago and this is how he’s making it square.

1.

In reality, he’s just a good ref.

2.

So good, before he can count three he catches Coral’s boot on the bottom rope.

Nick Stuart: If Zap hooks the leg there it might have been over. Chalk it up to ring rust?

Richard Parker: He should have pulled him away from the ropes and hooked the leg but oh well. Who knows how this plays out now.

Zap pleads his case with Elvis NIxon. Yet, no matter how many times he points at the imaginary watch around his wrist, his whole act falls on deaf ears.

5:34…

Nick Stuart: Nixon could not have been in a better position.

Richard Parker: Zap better zap to and quit wasting time! We’re getting down to the nitty-gritty here! A little over five minutes left. Get back to work!

The Artist Formerly known as Morty must have heard Richard Parker. He stops singing with Elvis, gets Coral back up, moves him into position, and hits him with a snap suplex that lands Avalon dead center of the ring.

Again, Zap tries to cover. He even hooks the leg.

Again, Nixon is right there to make the count.

1….

2……..

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: WOW! That was close!

Zap doesn’t waste any time getting Coral back up. However, in an odd twist you might say, he decides to wear down his opponent by locking him up with an abdominal stretch.

Richard Parker: Odd choice with… a little over four minutes left.

4:09…

Zap’s got it synched in, too. Well, when he’s wrenching back he’s laboring with the forehead of course; as heavy and off balancing as it is. Still, he’s got it locked in as good and well as anyone else could.

Maybe not Ivan or Hessian, but you get the point.

Then, the crowd starts to come to life. They rally for the current Alias champion. Zap is not a fan, mostly because that tight grip he had before starts to loosen.

Richard Parker: What happens again if Coral wins? He gets to go to Mars with all the other eGG Bandits? Isn’t that what Lindsay Troy said?

Nixon checks on Coral who is feeling the vibe, and while that is happening Zap reaches back and uses the top rope for some much needed added leverage.

Nick Stuart: Coral vacates the Alias Championship, and in exchange gets a shot at either the INTENSE or FIVE STAR championship. His choice.

After a couple of crucial seconds killing Coral’s comeback momentum, the ref finally realizes what’s happening and demands Zap release the hold. He does. He smells the blood in the water.

Richard Parker: So no long trip they never come back from. Got it. Just have to pray for  internal strife and unavoidable cataclysm to bring them down.

Coral is on his hands and knees trying to find the courage. Zap is standing over him, in complete control.

The only thing going against Zap right now is time.

He has it.

Not a lot of it.

Nick Stuart: WE’RE AT THE TWO MINUTE WARNING!

1:59…

The announcement plays over the whistling fans, and causes Zap to kick it into overdrive. He scoops up Coral and goes for a bodyslam. Coral however shoots over the top when he gets lifted up, and winds up landing on his feet behind Zap. He wraps his arms around Zap’s waist, drives him forward against the ropes, holds through the bounce back, and rolls him up for a pin!

1!

2!

Zap’s legs are hamster wheeling away. One might even say he could generate enough electricity to power an aircraft carrier; he’s moving them so vigorously.

And then.

KICKOUT!!!

Zap springs to his feet in a hurry. Coral is still a little too beat up to be moving as fast, but he is righteous so he still tries. Zap charges in, going for the kill shot. Coral ducks under. Zap hits the breaks. He turns. He swings. Coral successfully dodges again, and instead of hitting Coral, Zap hits Elvis Nixon.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is down off of that inadvertent blow, and it couldn’t come at a worse time in this match! We’re down to the final minute!

00:59…

Richard Parker: Here we go. I knew it. Shenanigans. Be on the lookout for you know who. I bet he had something to do with it!

Coral and Zap look at each other, then at Elvis laying there, then back at each other, then once more at Elvis, who to his credit has already started to stir. Then, the two engage in a flurry of moves and counters that ultimately, after a spin out counter to a third neck breaker which led to a counter of Excalibur which led to a backdoor full nelson slip out, and there were precious seconds left…

…the unthinkable happens.

Nick Stuart: Oh my god.

Richard Parker: Did he just?

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon just hit Zap with Terminal Cancer! Never in my life!

Nixon is on the canvas, groggy, but aware. Zap’s there too, but he’s not so aware. And he’s also on his back, so not the best place to be. Avalon doesn’t hesitate. He quickly drops down and hooks the leg.

1….

2…………

3!

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon has done it! He’s no longer the Alias Champion! Wait. That just sounds wrong, but weirdly it’s true. And, we’re celebrating it!

Richard Parker: go team.

Belle, Coral’s wife, hops the guard rail, grabs the Alias Championship, and hands it to her man. After a brief exchange about her trying to get him fired, and possibly a tear or two, she goes back to her seat,

And the crowd goes crazy.

Nick Stuart: Zap proved he was game. He’ll be just fine moving forward. Coral may have gotten the better of him tonight, but he held his own against one of the best wrestlers walking. Once some more of the rust wears off I think he’ll be right back in contention for a championship in PRIME.

Richard Parker: It’s bullshit. Terminal Cancer. Like. What a fuck.

Nick Stuart: On that note, that’s all for ReVial 47. I’m Nick Stuart. He’s soon to be breathing into a brown paper bag! See ya again in two weeks time, France!

This.

Is.

…Coral Avalon, The Crownless King and forever GOLDEN BANDIT, holds up his illustrious Alias Championship one the last time before leaving it to rest in the center of the ring.

PRIME.