ReVival 48

ReVival 48 begins not in the ring, but at a lingering shot at the boss’s heavy, Ivan-proofed door.

Such a nice, sturdy door that somehow finds its way into every arena in the world. There’s a beauty there, in that no matter how chaotic and tumultuous the PRIME wrestling world gets, you can always be sure of the immutable nature of this particular door and the even-handed woman who runs the place lurking behind it.

A fist appears on the screen, ready to knock on what has affectionately become known as the Steel Door O’Doom. There’s a moment’s hesitation before the fist hits the door.

Lindsay Troy: It’s open.

It’s when the invite is given that Coral Avalon, dapperly dressed in a blue waistcoat, opens the imposing barrier and walks into the boss’s office. There, we find Lindsay Troy sitting behind her desk on her Throne of Belts.

Yes, this is still a thing too.

Coral Avalon: Hey, boss. Been a while since I’ve come to visit you.

The now-former Alias champion slides smoothly into the chair across from LT’s desk.

Lindsay Troy: I know. And how nice of you to leave the rest of the clowns back at the circus.

She smirks at the Crownless King.

Lindsay Troy: I’m guessing this isn’t a social call, though.

Coral lets out an amused breath.

Coral Avalon: Nah, more business-like. I mean, if you and Wade want to do a double date with me and Annie, we can make some arrangements. God knows, I’d like to be a little less in the company of my present company, you know?

Lindsay Troy: A lot less.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, I know.

The Golden Bandit clears his throat.

Coral Avalon: Anyway, back in Paris, I got through my third defense. Lots of cheers, left the belt in the ring, fun times. And it’s great that Dabney and RIA get to go out there and try to take up the banner of what I accomplished, I wish them well. But, well… When you brought that title back last year, you made it pretty clear that there’s a reward at the end of that journey. And knowing what I do about said reward, I figured I could get Dontona together again and have ourselves a little powwow about who I’m going to challenge.

Lindsay Troy: (raising an eyebrow) Did you mean Daytona?

Coral Avalon: No, Dontona. Don Winters and Daytona Diamonds. It’s their ship name, apparently.

Lindsay Troy: (dead-panning) Ship name.

Coral nods.

Lindsay Troy: Why.

The Forever Alias Champion shrugs his shoulders.

Coral Avalon: You’d have to ask my wife. And also my lawyer, apparently, if you can find him outside of a locker these days. I figured we could do it in the ring, really milk it in front of the Strasbourgians before I make my decis—

The Lady of the Hour holds up a hand.

Lindsay Troy: I’m going to stop you there.

Coral Avalon: Okay. I admit that “Dontona” is a bit of a hard concept to wrap one’s brain around, but…

Lindsay Troy: For the love of Hoyt, shut up about “Dontona,” Coral.

Coral, perhaps wisely, does indeed shut up.

Lindsay Troy: You’re not challenging Don Winters for the 5-Star Championship.

Not so wisely, Avalon opens his mouth to say something, but the boss holds up an index finger, stopping him right there.

Lindsay Troy: And you’re not challenging Daytona Diamonds for the Intense Championship, either.

Coral looks very confused, like a man who came into this office with a plan and now that plan’s going to have to go out of the window like a 1920s stockbroker.

Coral Avalon: Uh, those were both of my choices, though, right?

Lindsay Troy: They were.

Coral Avalon: Clearly, I’m a bit confused here. What am I challenging for?

The Queen looks at Coral like he is the dumbest man alive…..because at this moment, he is the dumbest man alive.

Lindsay Troy: Think higher, eGG Head.

Coral blinks. Then it finally dawns on him exactly what LT is getting at, and he’s rendered speechless.

Lindsay Troy: Keep your mouth open any longer and I won’t need to invest in a fly trap.

It takes Coral all of his mental acuity to ask a one word question.

Coral Avalon: …When?

Lindsay Troy: Tropical Turmoil. Night Two. Main event for the Uni against whoever wins tonight.

Coral Avalon: Oh.

Lindsay Troy: Yep.

Coral Avalon: That’s a lot to take in.

Lindsay Troy: I think you can handle it. You’re retiring at the end of the year, after all, and I think you’ve more than earned your shot at the belt. Better take it now before you hang ‘em up for good, right?

Coral stands up as though he suddenly realized that he’s left his oven on, and makes his way to the door behind him.

Coral Avalon: Well, I guess maybe I’ll sit in on the match tonight, then. Uh, think about that double date idea, would you?

Lindsay Troy: Please tell Annie that Wade and I would love to see her. And Coral?

The Crownless King looks back over his shoulder.

Lindsay Troy: Good luck.

Avalon nods, and leaves as we head to the ring for the opening contest.

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Pyros and rockets exploded up in the rafters and across the stage. A crane shot reveals the interior of Zénith de Strasbourg, packed wall to wall with a screaming mix of native French and German border-hopping fans. As far as the eye can see, fan-made signs frantically wave through the air as they vie for the camera’s attention.

WELCOME HOME, FLAMBERGE, HERE’S YOUR FUCKIN MAIL
I WISH I HAD A STRONK DICK, MINE IS AVERAGEK AT BEST
LÈCHE-MOI PAPA LÉZARD!
PRAYER CIRCLE FOR CECILWORTH’S LIMBS
DAYTONA DIAMONDS SHOOTS CHAMPIONSHIP ROPES
BRANDON PUREBLOOD #NOVAX
HEY HARLEY, JUMP ME
IF JARED SYKES WINS, WE RUN HIM OVER WITH A BUS

The shot comes to rest on the commentary table at ringside, where the regular broadcast team is standing by.

Nick Stuart: Good evening and welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to PRIME Wrestling’s forty-eight installment of REVIVAL! We are coming to you LIVE tonight from the Eckbolsheim, just outside of Strasbourg on the French and German border, and what an absolutely WILD crowd we have in attendance this evening!

Richard Parker: It’s almost as if the Germans and French are trying to compete for who can make the most noise! This event might kick off World War III before the night is through, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Let’s hope that’s not the case, partner, but we’ve certainly got a war happening in this building later on tonight! The Universal Title is ON THE LINE, when reigning champion Jonathan-Christopher Hall faces off against the two-time former champion, Brandon Youngblood!

Richard Parker: We’ll see if the champ even makes it to the ring. I’m sure the memory of their first-round Almasy Tournament match from two years ago is still fresh in the mind of JCH.

Nick Stuart: Also on tonights line-up, Hayes Hanlon and Nate Colton will meet in singles action! We’ll witness rare tag team action when Fred Dick and STRONK! of the Poor Whorsemen face off against the unlikely duo of Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff, Team Crunch and Punch! And, in our main event, the pride of Strasbourg himself, FLAMBERGE, goes head to head with the very man that stripped him of the Universal Title, Jared Sykes!

Richard Parker: Sykes is going to be lucky to leave the arena alive…

Nick Stuart: But to kick things off ladies and gentlemen, we have a contest to crown the NEW Alias Champion of PRIME! Will it be the young up-and-comer and rising star “Fair Play” Dabney Doubleday? Or the longtime fan favorite since the start of the ReVival Era, RIA? Let’s jump right into the action and find out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Southern Nights” by Glen Campbell replaces RIA’s music. A modest blue and yellow pyro flares across the stage before the Brothers Doubleday stride onto the stage and pose to an enormous pop.

Southern nights
Have you ever felt a Southern night?
Free as a breeze
Not to mention the trees
Whistlin’ tunes that you know and love so

The face of competitor Dabney Doubleday is all business as he comes down the aisle, eyes fixated on the ring. Dougie is right on his heels, offering words of support and practically power-walking to keep up with his brother’s determined pace.

Southern nights
Just as good even when you close your eyes
I apologize
To anyone who can truly say
That he has found a better way

Dabney strips off his satin jacket and hands it off to his brother before scaling up to the apron. He poses once more to the delight of the capacity crowd, and steps through the ropes.

Both competitors stare each other down from across the ring, separated only by Vince Howard. Behind the ring announcer, official Jimmy Turnbull holds the vacant Alias Champion in his hands.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and is for the ALIAS CHAMPIONSHIP of PRIME WRESTLING!

Cheers from the crowd. Dabney loosens his wrists. RIA cranks her neck.

Vince Howard: Introducing the first competitor, fighting out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and weighing in at one-hundred and fifty pounds… HER NAME IS… RRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

The European PRIMEates cheer. RIA throws her head back and twirls into a chaotic pirouette while pumping her arms and unleashing a primal warcry.

Vince Howard: And the opponent, hailing from Mayo, Florida, and weighing in at two-hundred and twenty one pounds… “FAIR PLAY” DAAAABNEEEEEEEEYYY DOOUUBLLLEDAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!!!

The Swell Guy raises a hand, smiles, and waves, acknowledging Strasbourg’s favorable reaction, but not dwelling on for long. His attention quickly goes back to RIA.

The two approach one another in the center of the ring. Dabney extends his hand. RIA takes it. They shake, and the fans applaud. When they back into their respective corners, Turnbull steps in and holds up the glittering ALIAS CHAMPIONSHIP overhead so the world can get a look at what’s at stake.

Nick Stuart: A victory tonight could be huge for either one of these athletes! Dabney Doubleday has what promises to be a long and lucrative career ahead of him, and this may be his first major milestone! On the other hand, it can be argued that NOBODY in PRIME has worked harder for this recognition other than RIA!

Richard Parker: The two of them certainly look amped up and raring to go.

In one corner, the Psychoberry impatiently paces back and forth like a rainbow-colored tiger ready to be released from a cage. Across the ring, Dabney reads her ferocity, and keeps his poise like a hunter with his rifle ready.

Jimmy Turnbull cues for the bell…

DING DING

With the crowd cheering loudly in anticipation, they come out of their corners and meet in the center of the ring. Doubleday encircles his opponent, looking for an opening, while RIA shuffles her feet in a fighter’s dance.

In a flash, RIA’s right leg comes up and draws a ‘Z’ through the air with a quick kick trio. Dabney takes the first two in the chest and shoulder, but leans out of the way in time to dodge the deadly third aimed at his head. Unfortunately, he doesn’t sense RIA pivoting around the other way.

Nick Stuart: Spinning backfist claps Dabney Doubleday on the side of the head, but he doesn’t go down! RIA pressing the advantage with another kicking combination now, back him up!

Richard Parker: I imagine it’s better to be on his heels than eating one!

Doubleday quickly backpedals into the ropes to keep himself out of range of a flurry of sharp, wild kicks from the Psychoberry. When he runs out of room, RIA pushes him off to put him into motion. Instead, he digs his heel in and reverses.

RIA takes a bounce off the ropes off the reversal, and now runs straight back into Dabney Doubleday’s waiting back body drop… only to land on her feet! She instinctively bounces back into a hip attack that catches the unsuspecting Doubleday in the small of the back, sending him running chest-first into the ropes.

Richard Parker: That Doubleday derriere couldn’t withstand that rainbow rump of RIA’s!

Nick Stuart: Hip attack from behind Doubleday in motion, and RIA is waiting for the return with a ROARING ELBOW aimed for his head–but Dabney DUCKS! Quick takedown from behind takes the Psychoberry to the mat!

Doubleday pounces on RIA’s back, but RIA fends him off with a snapmare to roll him down to the mat. She follows up with a stiff kick to the back that leaves Dabney wincing, but he swiftly rolls over onto his knees and catches a second aimed for his chest.

RIA bounces on her free leg. Dabney briefly flashes her his proud pearly whites before leg whipping her to the canvas. She scrambles up to her feet, but in her haste, runs straight into Doubleday’s waiting arms, as he scoops her up and brings her down over his knee with a shoulderbreaker!

Nick Stuart: DAYBREAK by Dabney Doubleday, and he goes right into the first cover of this Alias Title match!

ONE!

TWO!

RIA kicks out!

Doubleday pulls RIA right up into a headlock, but the Psychoberry refuses to be held down. Fighting her way back to her feet, a set of stiff elbows poke Dabney’s breadbasket in an effort to shake him. Instead, Doubleday rears up and cinches the head even tighter, eliciting a pained groan from RIA.

Eager to break free, RIA leans in and bulls Dabney into the turnbuckle. Turnbull calls for the clean break, and Doubleday’s hands instantly come up. RIA backs up to the center of the ring, savagely baring her teeth but still in control, for now. The two competitors exchange nods of respect, before throwing themselves into a collar-and-elbow.

Nick Stuart: There they go, right into the lock-up! A very evenly matched and respectable contest so far! Wouldn’t you say so, Rich?

Richard Parker: Yeah, I guess… but respect aside, I hope these two remember what’s at stake here. All this hand-shaking won’t mean anything when it gets down to the wire, and they’re fighting tooth and nail.

From the tie-up, Dabney shoots in low, looking to hook the knees and take things to the mat. RIA stuffs the attempt and wraps up his arm into an overhead hammerlock. They’re locked in a standstill for a few moments, until RIA presses the issue with a pair of knee strikes to Doubleday’s exposed midsection.

With no other option aside from allowing his ribs to be pounded into paste, Dabney breaks away. But when he goes in for another tie-up, RIA is one step ahead, first driving him back into her positioned knee with a reverse STO backbreaker, then wickedly twisting him around into an inverted neckbreaker that drops Mrs. Doubleday’s Perfect Little Gentlemen in the blink of an eye.

Richard Parker: Look away, Dougie! Avert thy virginal eyes!

Nick Stuart: SAKURA SERIES executed with picture perfect precision by the Psychoberry! Now RIA makes the cover, with the Alias Title on the line!

ONE!

TWO!

Dabney kicks out!

RIA pops to her feet, immediately boots Dabney in the chest to put him on his back again, and flips over into a quick senton.

Nick Stuart: STANDING SENTON by RIA, who again makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

TH–DABNEY ROLLS HER OVER INTO A CRUCIFIX!!

Richard Parker: Well THAT backfired!

Nick Stuart: ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–KICKOUT!! Ria back on her feet, and charges–but runs right into a FLATTOP by the waiting Dabney Doubleday!

RIA wills herself back to her feet, but clutching her face and chest, wrapt up in a state of stunlockedness. Dabney meets her on his feet and peppers her with a sequence of right jabs along with plenty of juking and jiving much to the delight of the Strasbourgians.

Nick Stuart: Dabney with some ol’ HAM AND EGGS, lighting up the Psychoberry!

Richard Parker: But no bacon? What sort of monsters are they raising in the Doubleday House!?

He caps it off by winding up his left and blasting the Psychoberry with a hook that sends her rolling to the mat. Muscle memory brings her right back up, but on rubber legs. Dabney draws her in, digs in his heels, and makes his move by throwing her overhead into a suplex.

Nick Stuart: Doubleday counters with a NORTHERN LIGHTS suplex, putting RIA straight down on her HEAD!

Richard Parker: And possibly leaving a little cotton candy-colored stain on the canvas as well!

Nick Stuart: Dabney with a lateral press to cover!

ONE!

TWO!

RIA kicks out once more!

The Psychoberry breaks free and rolls out to the apron for a breather, while Turnbull goes to check on her Dabney uses the opportunity to work the cheering Strasbourg fans and flash his brother Douglas a pair of confident thumbs up.

RIA pulls back up to her feet with the help of the ropes, shaking out the cobwebs. Dabney beckons her back into the action, and she whole-heartedly obliges. RIA charges off the ropes with an elbow, but Doubleday slips behind and wraps his arms around her head.

Richard Parker: Doubleday looking for the KNUTSACK SLEEPER!

Nick Stuart: Knapsack, Rich! KNAPSACK! Dabney’s got the sleeperhold in place, and if takes this to the ground, it could all be–no, wait, RIA BACKS UP INTO THE CORNER!!

Just as Dabney goes for the bodyscissor, the Psychoberry throws all of her weight back and crushes him against the turnbuckles! Doubleday hangs there stunned, leaving him wide open for a RUNNING HIP ATTACK from RIA!

And a SECOND!

And a THIRD!

And a–

Nick Stuart: DABNEY CATCHES HER OUT OF THE AIR… and a TWISTING GERMAN SUPLEX out of the corner turns the tides of this match! He bridges up to put the shoulders down!

ONE!

TWO!

TH–KICKOUT!!

Both competitors linger on the mat, RIA clutching the back of her head and Dabney holding his ribs. On the outside, Douglas begins slapping the mat to will his brother back to his feet, getting a part of the crowd to follow suit, while the other half rallies behind RIA.

Painstakingly, the two rise up back onto wobbly feet. “Fair Play” Doubleday makes the first move with a heavy right hook that leaves RIA reeling.

JAAAAAA

The Psychoberry answers it with an overhead palm strike. Dabney staggers, and comes back with another hook. RIA takes the blow, and likewise comes back with another palm strike.

OOUUUIIII

Another hook.

JAAAAAA

Another palm.

OOUUUIIII

Hook! Palm! Hook! Palm! Hook! Palm! Hook! Palm!

JAAAAAA

OOUUUIIII

JAAAAAA

OOUUUIIII

JAAAAAA

OOUUUIIII

Nick Stuart: These two competitors are throwing fists like there’s NO TOMORROW! With the Alias Championship at stake, WHO will be the first to break?!

All of Strasbourg is cheering loudly as the two continuously exchange strikes, with neither one willing to back down. Finally, the attrition from so many strikes brings the both of them to exhaustion, leaving them teetering precariously before one another. Instead of going down, they fall into each other.

Then, with a sudden burst of energy, RIA pushes herself off.

Nick Stuart: RIA with a SPINNING HEEL KICK–DUCKED by Dabney Doubleday!

Richard Parker: Just barely! Dabney’s gonna be hearing it from his barber the next time he goes in to get that helmet-hair polished up.

Nick Stuart: RIA is left off balance, and Dabney takes an arm and sends her into the corner with the MIRACLE WHIP–NO!! RIA hops to the second rope to avoid colliding with those turnbuckles!

Doubleday charges in, but runs straight into a mule kick by RIA that catches him in the mush and drops him onto his back. RIA resets herself on the second rope, quickly diving off and dropping both knees into Dabney’s chest!

Nick Stuart: KNEES CONNECT!! RIA LOOKING to finish this off with THE BEST WINE EVE–NO!! DABNEY ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY BEFORE SHE CAN COMPLETE THE STANDING MOONSAULT!!

Dabney is up, clutching his ribs, while RIA rises holding her jaw. She immediately bounds forward to press the attack, but runs straight into Doubleday’s drop toe hold to put her right back on her chin.

While she lies stunned, Dabney rolls over her back, hooks the arms, bridges up into a double underhook submission, and sends his lower body scrambling into fast, furious circles.

Nick Stuart: LAZY SUSAN!! DABNEY DOUBLEDAY HAS THE LAZY SUSAN LOCKED IN!!

Richard Parker: Oh, there ain’t anything “lazy” about pulling this off, Nick! This has gotta be it!

The submission locked in place sends the cheering crowd into fever pitch. RIA audibly screams as both of her shoulder sockets are torqued by the repeated rotations. Turnbull leans in to check for the tap out.

The pain is too much for her to answer in any way but a shake of her head. Doubleday’s lower half continues dancing circles around her.

Nick Stuart: RIA is attempting to hang on! But there’s nowhere for her to go! How does she get out of this predicament?

Richard Parker: I don’t think she does, Nick! I think she’d rather let herself black out before she gives in. One of the annoying things that comes with having more guts than brains.

Nick Stuart: RIA’s courage and passion can never be understated, but I’m not sure she has anything left! Dabney Doubleday can practically smell that Alias Championship!

Richard Parker: Hopefully, it doesn’t reek of eggs, given how long it was hanging around those Bandit creeps…

RIA loudly groans in a mixture of pain and rage while Dabney Doubleday’s body continues to orbit around and around and around and around…

And around…

And… around…

Richard Parker: Is it just me, Nick, or is Doubleday looking kinda gassed?

Nick Stuart: You may be right, Rich! Those spins on the Lazy Susan are gradually getting slower and slower! That unique submission maneuver is certainly devastating, but I can also imagine that it expends a great deal of energy to pull off! RIA is fighting through the pain, intent on letting Dabney tire himself out!

Doubleday’s rotations continue to slow, at one point stalling while he draws in another breath, then continuing to move. By now, even Dougie is looking dizzy.

RIA’s rainbow irises disappear into her upper eyelids. Here back teeth grind savagely against one another to fight through the unbearable agony. Her slender arms look like they may pop out of her sockets at any point.

But still, she refuses to tap.

Nick Stuart: Despite his best efforts, this is one submission that Dabney can’t force out of his opponent! I have no idea how RIA is holding on right now!

Richard Parker: And I have no idea how Doubleday can keep going!

Dabney begins to slow again. From the outside, Dougie supportively cheers his on… but then, halfway between north and south, RIA pitches her weight into the opposite direction and ROLLS herself off her front!

Nick Stuart: RIA BREAKS FREE!!

The crowd cheers as the two contenders end sitting back-to-back, arms interlocked. Together, they rise. Resourceful as ever, Dabney bends over his way…

Nick Stuart: Doubleday with a BACKSLIDE–NO!! Ria lands on her feet! RAINBOW RIOT!! UNBELIEVABLE COUNTER by RIA!

Richard Parker: Good thing the oatmeal is good in the Doubleday House, or at least so I hear, because Dabney might have to be taking his meals through a straw after that one!

All of Strasbourg is roaring. Galvanized and sensing the opportunity to capitalize, RIA fights her way back to her feet, but her legs almost immediately give out. Fortunately, she takes a favorable fall into the corner.

She looks at the turnbuckle briefly, and drawing forth every remaining bit of her energy, climbs to the top…

And dives!

Nick Stuart: END OF THE RAINBOOOOOWWW!!!

Her elbow lances Dabney right over the heart. His body spasms once and goes still.

Nick Stuart: SHE HOOKS THE LEG!!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

TTTHHHRRRREEEEEE!!!

DING DING DING

The fans pop to their feet. “Time Warp” hits the PA. RIA rears up in absolute shock. Falls. Rises again. Falls again. She sits on the mat, her expression completely blank. Then Jimmy Turnbull sets something into her lap.

She looks down, and sees her first PRIME championship staring up at her.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the WINNER of the MATCH… and NNNNNNEEEWWWWW ALIAS CHAMPION…

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

RIA-lity hits the Psychoberry like a cold slap to the face. The pain and exhaustion are now but a forgotten memory. She is bounding every which way around the ring in complete euphoria, hoisting the Alias Title overhead for the entire world to see.

Dabney Doubleday is beside himself, disappointment and defeat present on his face. Dougie climbs into the ring to be there with him. It’s a doubly dark day for the Doubledays.

Nick Stuart: An AMAZING and EMOTIONAL ending to a classic match between these two! We just witnessed a hell of a battle! Somehow, RIA pulled it off and earned her first championship in PRIME!

Richard Parker: Accomplishing what two other “Ria’s” could not. Maybe this one really is the “good” one?

Nick Stuart: Dabney Doubleday has nothing to be ashamed of here! This young man found his second gear tonight! Unfortunately, the Psychoberry kept up with him! He may walk out of here in defeat, tonight proved that he’s taken great strides in his budding career!

Richard Parker: So don’t you cry, Mama Doubleday! Your boy done you proud, or some such.

Finally back on his feet, Dabney, ever the swell guy, reluctantly offers the new champion his hand in congratulations. RIA grabs it, only to pull him straight into a tight, passionate hug. Then she gives one to Dougie, before the younger Doubleday has a chance to protest.

Then in a flash, she’s out of the ring, over the barricade, and carving a rainbow-colored trail through the crowd with the Alias Title held high overhead.

Nick Stuart: What a way to kick off ReVival tonight! More action is on the way, ladies and gentlemen, but for now… the news!

There is no introduction this week for the ONE ACTION NEWS TEAM. Instead we are treated to somber sounding music and the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM ACTION NEWS DESK. The set is functionally empty with no more Violent Purple, Ulsa N. Couth or any of the other wacky characters we’ve come to know.

Instead a single light illuminates the NEWS DESK. The NEWS WALL behind the NEWS DESK is empty, an outline of where the INTENSE Championship once hung is all that remains of it.

Max Kael appears, walking from stage right toward his desk. Passing his chair he moves toward the wall, his hands folding behind his back as he stares at the spot where the INTENSE Champion once hung.

Max Kael!: You know for a lesser man losing a title could be soul crushing. Hell, I’ve heard people lose their minds just from failing to win a title so the crushing disappointment of actually losing something you earned? As I said, lesser men would be crushed. But me? Maximilliain Wilhelm Kael, the Unquestionable One, the Lord of Kaelsalvania, Prime Minister of Maxopotamia, he who has defeated death and the grave?

His left hand moves from his back to his chin, stroking it in contemplation as he continues to monologue.

Max Kael!: I’m above such weakness.

The scene cuts to a flashback of Max, still wearing his wrestling gear from his loss to Daytona Diamonds, sitting under a hot shower. He appears to be crying as “Heart of Glass” by Blondie blares in the background. The Herald is seen off to the side dancing his little heart out. After a few moments we return to the present with Max continuing to admire the empty space on his NEWS WALL.

Max Kael!: No, I’m manifesting positivity and creating opportunities for myself. I’m giving my bum hole twenty minutes of sunlight and investing in a juicer. I purchased a membership for something called a Hot Yoga Gym and picked myself up six of those Don Winter’s Bibles.

He cocks his head to the side and sighs wistfully at the outline of the INTENSE Championship.

Max Kael!: I really must get myself some gold to replace my missing INTENSE bobble. And quickly.

Turning back toward the camera, Max swings his arms wide over, the contemplative expression washed away by that practiced, wide eyed smile of his.

Max Kael!: WELCOME TO THE WON ACTION NEWS TEAM!.. Or I Guess the ONE ACTION NEWS DUO at this point, aye my loyal The Herald?

We cut to the Herald who appears to be in a small wood boat holding a large harpoon. It’s comically large compared to the Herald who is barely able to hold it with both of his hands. He wears a steady, brave expression as he scans the surface of the glassy water. Suddenly a single, massive shift of water disturbs the water’s surface.

The Herald: Demon fish! Great monstrous beast of Loch Ness! Look upon me and know thy doom is Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington, the Herald of Wise and Wo-oh kaka-poop! It’s getting closer!

A massive, dark shape breaks the surface of the water, gaining more speed as it rushes toward the Herald and his smaller wooden boat. Where bravery once was, panic has set it as the Herald drops the harpoon. He grabs the two oars and immediately begins thrashing them in the water, desperate to make his escape.

The Herald: AAAAAAH! HEEELP MEEE!!!! AAAA-

The feed is cut as we return to a still grinning Max, now seated behind his NEWS DESK.

Max Kael!: The Herald looks to be having a great time up at Loch Ness with his cryptid investigation! That scamp, he gets himself into the most wonderful mischief, doesn’t he? Speaking of the news team, I’m sure you’ve all noticed several of our WON ACTION NEWS TEAM members have been missing.

A somber look takes grip on Max’s cartoonish face as he clears his throat.

Max Kael! Violent Purple is a harlot and a stupid bitch and she’s poisoning the mind of my good Brosive, Crash Jackson. She’s abandoned her duties to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM and it’s my responsibility to now let you all know she has been officially FIRED. Sorry, sometimes life is flat tits and dirty buttholes.

He shakes his head with a sad sigh.

Max Kael!: But there is still time, Crash, my dude-bro, my good friend! Time to turn away from the corruption and morally bankrupt path Violent Purple is trying to lead you on! Her and her Aunt tried to use me as slave, Bilbro Baggins! She’s trying to do the same! I’ll give you one last chance, Crash, to do the right thing.. I’ll find you later. Bro.

The Unquestionable Kael winks at the camera before the smile stretches back across his face.

Max Kael!: As for Ulsa N. Coulth, the investigation continues but we still have no idea where or what has happened to her. Our thoughts and prayers are with her and her family.. Except that dumb bitch Violent Purple.

Turning toward Camera 2, Max moves onto the next segment in the NEWS.

Max Kael!: Folks, it’s time for the time honored and beloved segment.. WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?! My guest this week is a Jabber bully and inferior to me in all possible ways.. RIA!

A door to the side of the stage opens and RIA wanders in, covered in sweat and trying to steady her breathing. She walks towards the middle of the room, clearly oblivious to her surroundings. Crossing her arms and reaching upwards, she takes hold of the hem of her top and… then notices the camera focused on her.

RIA: The fuck?!

Her head whips around before her body follows suit; a fox trapped in a room it had no real intention of entering. She spots Max and the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM ACTION NEWS DESK. Her eyes narrow, darting back and forth one more.

RIA: … This isn’t the locker room.

Max stares at RIA then back down at his notes then back up at RIA. His brow furrows as he matches her look of confusion.

Max Kael!: Of course this isn’t the locker room.. It’s the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE and I’m LEAD ANCHOR Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.. now WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?! My guest is supposed to be that jabbering Jezebel, that heckling Harlequin, THAT Trollope of ill meaning, RIA. Not some bubblegum goth guuurl. What’s your name, dye job?

RIA cranes her head towards Max before tilting it briefly. She straightens up, raising a finger to her lips, the rest of her hand cradling her chin.

RIA: I’m pretty sure I know her…

A beat. Not two beats, cuz then you’re on the verge of vibing. RIA’s eyes light up, the obvious realization having it her.

RIA: Oh, wait, I’m RIA. HEY! I’m not a trollope, ya MEAT? sucking abomination of jizz and evil science!

She looks around the dimly lit room. There’s not exactly much to take in. She wanders over towards the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM ACTION NEWS DESK, noticing the empty wall.

RIA: Hey Christian Kael, looks like you’re missing a thing.

Max’s confusion only furthers as she reveals that she is, in fact, RIA. His eyes stay trained on her as she moves around the stage, finally commenting on the empty wall.

Max Kael!: Yes! My beloved INTENSE Championship is missing, so kind of you to notice! But we’re not here to discuss home decor… You’re RIA?

He snatches one of the papers off his desk, retrieving a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. Peering down at the paper he mutters to himself before looking back up at RIA. Then back down at the paper. Then back up at RIA.

Max Kael!: Are you SURE you’re RIA?

RIA: I’m pretty sure I am… No, wait, yeah, I definitely am! That’s what they called me when I was coming down to the ring.

RIA scootches closer to the desk before turning around and hopping onto it for a sit. She crosses her legs, resting her hands on the high knee.

RIA: So wait… What are we here to discuss? Cuz lemme tell ya, buddy, I got plenty I could say to you. Very little of it is pleasant.

Max Kael!: I know it can be confusing at times but I’m not Arthur Pleasant, I’m Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. He’s a lot veinier, longer hair.

He motions to hair arm and arms with a disgusted expression on his face as he did his best to emulate Arthur Pleasant’s general unpleasantness.

Max Kael!: But if you are RIA, as you claim to be, then you’ve been summoned here by the powers of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM to answer questions! These questions in fact.

Max waves a piece of paper in the air toward RIA. The paper appears to be blank with little doodles on it of stick figures attacking and killing each other.

Max Kael!: The first question, Supposedly RIA, is an impersonal softball question designed to open up the field and create a friendly rapport between the two of us? Ready? Okay, here we go! Why the fuck you gotta be all over mah boi, Sid –

The scene speeds up as Max rattles through EVERY. SINGLE. Sid Philips nickname. It takes about thirty seconds moving at x4 speed.

Max Kael!: Philips’ balls!? I mean what are you really hoping for there? At the end of the day Sid is gonna Philips to his good friend and confident, me! What the hell, gurl?! Why do you gotta be the other woman!? That’s a lot of questions, sorry about that. When I wrote it out it didn’t use punctuation so it just looked like one long question.

He looks back up at RIA with an intense expression, like he asked an honest question and not just a series of shitty backhanded questions. Either Max lacks all social awareness or he is a fucking shitheel. It’s likely the latter with a splash of the former.

RIA slides off of the desk and walks up to Max. If their size difference wasn’t obvious before, it is now, as Kael towers over the diminutive woman. Despite that, the scowl on RIA’s face shows little intimidation.

RIA: Other woman? Naw dude. I’m the ONLY woman! See, before you slithered your ass into PRIME, Sid and I were already kind of a thing. What am I hoping for? Exactly what I’m getting; a sweet guy that people don’t appreciate enough who makes me feel safe.

RIA looks Max up and down, scowl getting even deeper.

RIA: Better question is what do YOU want with Sid? Cuz I’ll tell ya right now… If you hurt him, put him in danger, if you bring ANY negativity into his life… I’m gonna be wearing your balls as earrings! Do you understand me?

Max stares down at RIA, his smile slipping into a sneer to match her scowl. He looms down at her before the scowl breaks out into a toothy grin.

Max Kael!: Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish but I’m sure you were very complimentary of my good self. All I know is that my good friend Sid is..

He takes a step back and looks RIA up and down. There is a soft cluck of his tongue as the grin on his face takes on a more cruel nature.

Max Kael!: ..well at least twice as much as a small pebble in the sea could possibly satisfy. But you seem smitten so I’ll tell you what, el RIA, like a patch of cancer on my adopted father’s prostate, I’ll just.. Wait. Wait for him to be done with you.

RIA: I don’t think you’re hearing me, so I’m gonna repeat myself a little louder…

With that, RIA’s right hand shoots forward and grabs Max by his Kaels. She squeezes… HARD.

RIA: You will not hurt him. Do you understand?

Max’s eyes go wide. RIA’s hand grabs hold of something bulky and hard. Groin protection. Most of Max’s offensive arsenal is groin based attacks, of course he’d go out of his way to protect it. It’s just.. He never expected someone to grab him there.

Max Kael!:.. Uh.. I hope you didn’t ruin the autograph..

Max coughs awkwardly as he scratches the back of his head. His face turns a little red.

Max Kael!: ..I think this constitutes uh.. Sexual Harassment? Listen, I’ll make you a deal. You.. uh.. Let go of my limited edition signed Don Winter’s Love and Lightweight codpiece and I’ll let you punch me anywhere you like? Then we pretend like this never happened and go our separate ways?

All said, his groin, while protected, remains at RIA’s mercy. The look on her face says it all; disappointment mixed with frustration. RIA reaches into her top with her free left hand and produces a fork. This isn’t just any fork. The prongs have obviously been filed down to a sharp point, perfect for stabbing. Which it does. Right into Kael’s left butt cheek.

RIA: Sexually harass that, ya jagoff!

There is no reply from Max, just a series of screams and ass based insults as he hops around in pain! He retreats away from RIA, ass in hand as he continues to scream about his precious buttocks and how he’d been forked in the butt leaving RIA alone on the stage.

She walks over and takes a seat in the office chair behind the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM ACTION NEWS DESK, propping her feet up on said desk. She turns towards the camera and points.

RIA: This has been Whatever Action News something or other, action action action. I’m RIA, wishing you all a good night! Kerry Kuroyama can kiss my ass!

RIA winks before letting her feet down so she can spin around in the office chair. We cut elsewhere.

Backstage!

The men’s locker room. It’s where they keep the men.

Those men are busy milling around, prepping their gear, stretching, what have you. You’ve been here before; you know how this works.

Let’s focus on one men in particular. That men is Nate Colton; The New Diamond to his fans, Nathan to his mom. He’s freshly arrived to the room; he’s got his bag over his shoulder and his shiny jacket covering what is almost certainly a wrestling-related shirt of some kind. He scopes out the scene, looking for an open spot where he can sit down and prepare for the night’s festivities.

He sees a good spot, with ample space between Bryan Dawkins and the Anglo Luchador. He sets down his bag equally distant from the Bruh and the Lunch Uncle and begins unpacking…though he pauses when he sees the huge ice pack taped to Dawkins’ face.

Nate Colton: Dude. You ok?

Dawkins mutters something, but winces in pain as he does so.

Nate Colton: Jeez, that’s pretty rough. Take it easy and tell me–no, text me about it later, all right?

The ex-Flyin’ still-Hawaiian nods in agreement, and they both turn back to their interests. Unfortunately, those interests aren’t very interesting. Let’s mix it up a little bit.

Apollo Douglas: Hey, sorry, am I interrupting anything in here? I heard some chatter outside, wanted to make sure I wasn’t barging in on anything.

Apollo pops his head into the locker room, the trademark Midwestern-niceties preceding him. As usual, Apollo is dressed like someone who isn’t quite sure that anything outside of professional wrestling exists.

Colton–no stranger to Midwest Nice himself–brightens when he sees this new face. He stands up to shake Apollo’s hand.

Nate Colton: Hey man! Sorry I missed you last show; I meant to talk but then a bunch of stuff came up…you know how it is. You good? Found catering all right?

Apollo Douglas: Ya’, ya’, it’s been good. The food here is nuts, man. I’m used to some simple steak and potatoes back home. Did you see the cheese spread? I didn’t even know that many cheese existed.

Nate Colton: I know, right? And I thought Wisconsin loved their cheese. Anyway…welcome to PRIME! How do you feel after getting your feet wet?

Apollo Douglas: Thanks for asking, but like hell. Stronk… er, sorry, STRONK! is a beast, man. I think I might’ve busted up my forearm on the dude’s skull. It was like elbowing a Peterbilt.

Nate Colton: I believe it. Don’t be too down on yourself, man. That was a really tough draw. Just gotta learn from the experience and keep moving forward, y’know?

Apollo Douglas: Ya’, for sure. Still getting my feet under me. Speaking of tough draws, I saw you got Home Run Hayes tonight.

Colton nods, and he scowls a little bit at the mention of his opponent.

Nate Colton: Dude is no joke. He’s capable of damn near anything in that ring, and with his Glue pals…I got my work cut out for me tonight, that’s for sure.

Apollo Douglas: I’m free, if you need some help against all that beef.

Nate Colton: I just might. So tell me about yourself. What scene did you come from?

Apollo Douglas: Damn, where to start? Got my feet under me back home in Nebraska. Moved through Iowa and Missouri for some Ozarks wrestling. Real mountain man stuff, ya’ know?

Nate Colton: Oh yeah. Been through the Plains once or twice. They don’t get a lot of attention but the crowds there are really fun. Intense, too–there’s a guy my dad knows who used to rile ‘em up so bad that the whole state filed a restraining order against him. Can’t come within a hundred yards of Nebraska.

Apollo Douglas: Wait… Any chance you’re talking about a guy named Frank Douglas? Drunk, mean-as-hell?

Nate Colton: Nah, this guy’s name was Geoff Mac–wait. What was that name again?

Apollo Douglas: Frank Douglas. That’s my dad. Learned a lot from…

Viewers, imagine you’re at the pool on a hot summer day. You’re standing at the edge, your feet burning a little from the hot concrete. You’re dreaming about how good that water is going to feel. Hell, you might even tuck your legs and do a little cannonball.

So you jump in the air…and the very second before you make contact with the water, it freezes over and the sky dumps about a foot of snow all over everything.

That’s pretty much what happens on Nate Colton’s face, because as soon as Apollo mentioned his father’s name, the New Diamond went ice cold.

Nate Colton: I know who he is.

Now, Apollo may be new here, but he’s been around. He knows how to read the room…and the words he’s seeing in this one just got real salty.

Apollo Douglas: Hey man, I didn’t mean anything by it. Are we good?

Nate Colton: Fine.

He says it through gritted teeth, so you can tell he means it.

Nate Colton: If you need anything…ask someone else.

Without another word, he turns his back on the Burning Swan and sits down.

While Colton may no longer be looking at him; Douglas notices that some of the other people in the room definitely are. He slowly backs out of the room.

Here’s where somebody probably should ask “what the hell was that about?” But they don’t. Which is just as well, because they wouldn’t get an answer.

Cut. To Elsewhere.

Welcome back to another bathroom, seemingly the most dangerous place in PRIME these days.

This time, however? Not so dangerous from the start. This time, the Eckbolsheim crowd starts to stir when they see one of our Poor Whoresmen, a fully suited-up Harley Walker, staring into the lavatory’s rectangular mirror.

With a nip of rotgut in one hand and his other hand placed against the counter, Harley is looks himself up and down and then begins some sort of manifestation.

Harley Walker: You are you buddy. Ain’t no changin’ that shit, right? [Starts to unscrew the small cap of the nip bottle.] So cut the shit, be the best you ya’ got in you and let’s square up some ass, yeah?

Harley half-grins, winks, and then raises the nip up with a nod – as if he was saluting… himself? He takes down the nip in one swift swig,  hisses back the burn, and slaps the edge of the sink.

Harley Walker: You’re damn right… Whore’s—

Lightning Boy isn’t able to finish that because there’s a disturbance behind him.

A creaking of the bathroom door, a delightful whistling, and then –

The hulking and ruggedly handsome Rob Williams’ reflection through the mirror.

Harley notices that and chooses not to turn around. Instead, he lets out a frustrated sigh and starts to wash his hands. Rob stands behind him, hands on his hips and shit eating grin on his face. Maybe he’s here to commiserate. Here are two men who seem to have caught a bad hand recently.

Rob Williams: Well if it ain’t the fucking Wonder Kid. Smells like a goddamn distillery in here, bud. You good, old dog?

Nope, he’s here to be a dick, of course.

Harley rolls his eyes, flaring his nostrils a bit to suck back enough air to adequately breathe and contain himself. This was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong everything – but it’s not like Mr. Williams cared too much about that.

Rob Williams: Poor Whoresmen. Cute. Glad you found a home, old dog. I can’t for the life of me see what you bring to the table, but there ain’t much on that fucking table to begin with, right? I been learning new words from this beautiful dark-haired beauty I’m running with and today she was telling me about indicative. I think it’s indicative of just how fucked Diamonds is that he’s palling around with you boys. No offense, of course.

Harley shuts the faucet off, and aggressively flicks most of the water off of his hands before drying the rest off on his pants. He turns around, side-eyeing his antagonist a bit, before smiling with a shrug.

Harley Walker: This damn bladder of mine – ain’t got the body I once had. Tell you what hoss, I’ll be delighted to finish this bullshit up, square it away, right after I let the little muskrat swim. I think you’re gonna like what I have in mind though so trust me, bud. [Harley lightly plops his hand on Rob’s shoulder – seems friendly, also seems somewhat threatening] it’ll be worth the wait.

Rob Williams: Sure, I’ve got nothing but time. I love hanging around waiting for a guy to finish taking a piss. (speaking over his shoulder) Understand, I think you’re a fine guy, Wonder Kid. It’s more the other two. In fact, I have to feel some type of way my boys couldn’t convince you to join up with us, but I get it. I’m a hard-headed son of a bitch myself.

He winks at Rob before walking past him and entering one of the stalls to the immediate right of the sinks. Williams, confused but also intrigued, shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the sink to wash his hands while he waits. Rob wets his hands and runs them through his graying hair, leaning in close to measure the wrinkles in his forehead. He can’t remember some of them and wonders when they began. Meanwhile, Harley starts taking a furious piss.

Rob Williams: He should get that checked out, that can’t be normal.

As if the sound of Harley urinating isn’t torturous enough, Lightning Boy starts breaking out his song.

Turn it up some

Alright boys, this is her favorite song

You know that, right?

So, if we play it good and loud

She might get up and dance again

Ohh, she put her beer down

Here she comes, here she comes

Left, left, left right left

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo! 

Rob Williams: Don’t quit your day job.

From the singing, and the faucet running, Rob doesn’t recognize that Harley has already finished, unlocked the stall door, and is now behind him.

Harley Walker: Partnah?

Rob turns around, only to get completely brained with a toilet lid. There’s even a flicker of liquid that sprays against the mirror – liquid we can only hope is just water. Needless to say, Williams collapses like a sack of bricks to the tiled floor.

In a truly disturbing way, The Legend goes stiff. His arms stick straight up in the air in a way that clearly says his body has stopped communicating with his brain. Blood flows from his cranium, directly into his open eyes, further confirming that something is seriously wrong.

Harley looks down motionless – more stoic than we’ve ever seen him before – and drops the toilet lid next to The Legend.

Harley Walker: (crouches down next to Rob) Us hard-headed folk – you know, like you and I – sometimes we gotta learn the hard way about things. I like to think that we’ll both grow from this experience.

Harley gets back to his feet and clears his throat.

Harley Walker: That being said…

Harley tanks a football kick straight into the gut of the unconscious Rob Williams. He then looks in the mirror, straightens his collar, and walks out the door whistling the tune of his theme.

Alone and broken, Rob Williams is left bleeding out on the bathroom floor as we fade back to the ring for Harley’s match.

Normally the commentators would discuss the most recent events in the evening as well as pumping the viewers up for the upcoming match. Currently, they’re both speechless, completely overcome by the primal violence they just witnessed. Both men try to find the words, anything at all, to break this uncomfortable silence.

Nick Stuart: We’d like to assure everyone at home that medical is attending to Rob Williams as we speak and we will provide an update as soon as we have one.

Richard Parker: I’ve got nothing. We hope The Legend is alright after that vicious attack.

Speak of the devil and he will appear.

The lights dim down as the the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sit at the edge of mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown. Three, two, one – BOOM! The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”. Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette. After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring.

Richard Parker: Jesus, he’s still got blood on him.

Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold

“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.

When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones

Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!

I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought

Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.

If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah

Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.

Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above

Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!

In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones

Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!

What is within is a strength you’ll never know

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see

He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah

He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.

Yeah, I was born for this

Richard Parker: (trying to add some levity) Long entrance for a short man.

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell and the brutality of the last segment is the past.

DING DING 

Nick Stuart: And Gamble comes out like he’s been shot from a cannon delivering a series of boots to Harley Walker’s midsection. He grabs a handful of Harley’s mane and pulls him into a spinning piledriver.

Richard Parker: Serves him right.

Nick Stuart: Gamble isn’t relenting one bit, either. Before Harley can figure out what’s happened, The Grin is on him with left after right after left. Gamble is in a top straddle steady pounding Harley.

Harley has been completely caught off guard. For some reason, he lifts his head back up after each punch, and with each precise blow, his head rocks back. After four or five successive bounces off the mat, Harley musters enough wherewithal to push Gamble off him. Before Harley can get up Gamble lands a stiff blow square in the jaw of the Lightning Kid. He goes for another buy Harley lifts a boot to the crotch of Gamble, stopping him dead in his tracks.

As Gamble bends over and steps back, Harley finally gets to his feet for the first time since the bell rang. He spits a wad of blood to the floor outside the ring. He beckons Gamle with a hand, calling him to charge again. Once the lingering pain in his manhood has passed, Gamble smiles and obliges, running full speed at the Dynamite Kid. With the grace only a semi-retired stuntman could muster, Walker moves to sidestep him into a drop-toe hold.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble is on fire tonight, telegraphing that drop-toe hold and dropping an elbow directly into Harley Walker’s face.

Richard Parker: Walker wasn’t working with much to begin with.

Nick Stuart: Well, beauty is subjective.

Richard Parker: Not with him.

This continual beating elicits sporadic and somewhat surprising cheers for Gamble, who seems incensed by the feedback. Incensed enough to move in for the kill just a few minutes into the match. He weaves himself into position to lock in Smile For Me.

Richard Parker: Whoa, Gamble is really feeling himself tonight.

Nick Stuart: Maybe a bit premature, though. Both men are wriggling and fighting for that top arm.

Going full scumbag, Walker digs a finger deep into Tony Gamble’s eye socket in a move of desperation. It pans out as Gamble quickly relents the assault.

Richard Parker: I don’t want to know what’s under that guy’s fingernails.

The clock ticks by as both combatants struggle to get back to their feet. Walker is up first and he takes a few steps towards Gamble, but he’s met with a jumping headbutt. Leaping headbutt. Vaulting headbutt. You get the picture. This bounding headbutt rocks Walker and sends him back into the ropes. Within seconds he’s joined by Gamble and his tiny fists.

Nick Stuart: Gamble wraps up Walker and drops him on the top rope crotch first.

Richard Parker: He’s a stuntman, he knows how to land to minimize impact.

Nick Stuart: Crotch. First.

Taking advantage of Walker’s disadvantaged state, Walker lands several shots to the Lightning Boy’s head and midsection. The fans count out the shots in succession:

Fans: UN, DUEX, TROIS, QUATRE, CINQ, SIX, SEPT, HUIT, NEUF!

Richard Parker: You ever notice how strange it is that six in French is just “six”?

Walker slumps lifelessly from the top turnbuckle. If Gamble let go of the aging stuntman’s head, he would topple off and fall out of the ring entirely.

Nick Stuart: Now Gamble is climbing the turnbuckles. He wraps Harley up and lifts him high in the air before taking flight backward for a huge brainbuster off the top rope.

Richard Parker: Average sized.

Nick Stuart: You know Gamble is only five inches shorter than Walker, right? Five inches isn’t much.

Richard Parker: Tell that to my ex-wife.

Nick Stuart: Gamble going for the pin now. Elvis Nixon slides down for the count.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT

The frustration on Gamble is growing with each failed attempt at closing this one out. He pounds the mat with his fists before getting up to take his frustration out on Harley’s face again. Pulling Harley up to his feet by his hair, Tony locks his arm around Harley’s head and delivers a snap DDT immediately followed by a hook of the leg. Rolling his eyes, Elvis Nixon reluctantly gets down again for the count.

ONE

TWO

TH-KICKOUT

Nick Stuart: An extremely excited Gamble begins shouting at Nixon. He’s paying no mind to the downed Harley, which could prove to be a huge mistake.

Richard Parker: Why? They’re not in a bathroom or anything. Oh, spoke too soon.

Whether intentionally out of spite from Gamble’s bitching or just out of honest mistake, Nixon somehow misses Harley creeping up to deliver a low blow from behind. He hoists himself up using Gamble to support his weight. Harley wraps both arms around Gamble’s midsection from behind, pulling back with everything left in the tank. Gamble’s head takes an unfortunate path directly into the mat, rendering him motionless.

Both men lay on the mat.

Nick Stuart: German suplex and Harley is back in the match.

Richard Parker: Glad he decided to finally show up to his match.

Even after this offense, Walker has little to nothing left in the tank and cannot manage to get up and capitalize on his efforts. He lays there as Gamble tries to stir, listening to the count from Elvis Nixon.

ONE

TWO

This nearly one-sided fight has left Harley at the edge of destruction, but he isn’t about to let another win slip from his grasp. He pushes with all his might up to a lean. Gamble hasn’t gotten up yet. He can do something with this if he can just manage to get his shit together.

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

With his knees trembling like a little baby deer, Harley somehow manages to stand up one more time. Unfortunately for him, he stands up right into an eye poke from Tony Gamble.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble wraps an arm around Walker and locks a leg in. He’s leaning back and it looks like Stop Laughing At Me is imminent. NO! Walker smashes his free hand into  Tony’s crotch forcefully.

Richard Parker: Ouch! Hey, you reap what you sow.

Nick Stuart: Gamble drops to his knees in pain and Walker moves away and takes a stroll around the ring to regain his composure. He leans in the turnbuckle, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat at the whistling fans. Gamble is still on his knees and Walker is charging him from behind for the Cannonball Run!

The whistling is almost deafening now. Leave it to the French to side with Tony Gamble. The same Tony Gamble who is flat on his stomach now as Harley Walker gets back to his feet, using a solid kick to the ribs of the much smaller man to roll him over. A few more kicks to the ribs for good measure before Walker begins to climb up the turnbuckles. It’s a slow march given the lashing he’s received in this match, giving Gamble ample time to rally a comeback.

But he doesn’t. He lays there, nearly unconscious. Plenty long enough to allow Harley to turn his back to him before launching through the air.

Nick Stuart: Guinness Record Breaker!

Richard Parker: Stuntman. Awful namer of moves. Questionable bathroom practices. This Walker guy is just a wealth of talent.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon with the count… again.

1

2

3

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: Gamble gave Walker all he had, but he just came up short.

Nick Stuart: Classy.

Showering in the whistles, Harley pulls a fresh stoagie from his pack of Marlboro’s with his bloodied teeth. As Elvis Nixon helps up Tony Gamble, Walker pulls a lighter from his jumpsuit and fires the cigarette up, blowing smoke at both Elvis and Gamble before exiting the ring to ride his motorcycle away in victory.

Richard Parker: Fitting move for being in France.

We cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, the former Jake Farley but in reality Jack Marley is seen behind the IHOPs Merch Table. He is currently working by himself but business has been a bit slow this evening. Most fans are just coming up to Jack and laughing at him while taking a picture of his still damaged face from the unprovoked attack by the coward Clay Byrd. Simon Tillier looking as sharp as STRONKS meating ripping teeth strolls into view and walks towards Jack. He gets to the table and puts the mic to his mouth. Jack sees him and looks around confused at what is occurring.

Simon Tillier: Mr. Marley, what do you have to say to all the people you and Steve have deceived?

Jack looks back at Simon like a beer in the Cancer Jiles headlights and fumbles with his watch strap.

Jack Marley: Uh…I’m not usually the one to answer questions.

Simon looks around the corridor and then back to Jack and shrugs towards him.

Simon Tillier: I don’t see Mr. Harrison, is he afraid to answer the tough questions? Has he taken his toupe and gone home?

Jack Marley: I thought you were the nice one.

Simon pauses with a look of surprise on his face. He taps his finger on the mic as he thinks to himself. He stops and then gives Jack a smile.

Simon Tillier: I apologize how I might be coming off but I am just trying to do my job. The wrestling world wants…no…demands answers from Steve on where he has been the last fifteen months.

Jack Marley: Look, even he understands that people want answers but those are not something I can give, mon. I also don’t think anyone will understand if it comes from him right now.

Simon stares at Jack while still keeping the mic at Jack’s mouth. He nods at him with another smile.

Jack Marley: Um…well, I have a new lego man creation!

Simon takes the mic away and shakes his head but his smile stays as always for our lovable scamp of an interviewer.

Simon Tillier: You aren’t trying to change the subject are you?

Jack Marley: Just a second…

Jack turns around to look for his new creation but before he can find it Steve Harrison stumbles into view double fisting Budweiser cans and wearing a pair of jeans that is complemented by a “Conor Fuse is my Hero,” T-Shirt. He looks at Jack and then sees Simon and waves one of his beer can hands at him. Looks back down at that hand and then puts it to his lips and takes a big sip and walks over.

Steve Harrison: SIMON! Want a sip?

Simon recoils in horror as the beer can comes awfully close to his face.

Simon Tillier: No thank you, but I am happy to see you, Steve. I have some questions for you.

Steve Harrison: (Visibly and Spiritually drunk) Clay Byrd damahed my heart and my merchandise.

Simon Tillier: About that…

NOPE

We are on Steve time now.

Steve Harrison: IGOPs is for the p.eoplE and tje peopñe are beinf pushed around by those In manahement posiyions.

Simon squints as Steve becomes even harder to understand.

Simon Tillier: I believe it was because you were selling cocaine snow globes and went on quite a bender yourself.

Harrison waves him off with a twisted smile on his face. Beer flies out of the can in the hand and almost hits Simon in the face.

Steve Harrison: What’s a Littlw cocaine berween f.riebds?

Simon Tillier: Maybe your job and that includes this Merch Table.

Steve pounds his left handed beer and crushes the can like he is Hercules and stares at the roof of the venue and screams.

Steve Harrison: AHHHH, I AM THE STRINGEST!!!!

He goes to throw the can but does not let go of it and his whole body follows his arm as he awkwardly falls on top of the center Merch Table. He just lays there as Jack and Simon stare in amazement and fans circle around and start taking photos. Finally or maybe wow could this get any worse, the table slowly breaks and it and Steve tumble to the floor. The next noise from Harrison is a powerfully loud snore. Jack shakes his head and sighs. He removes the other beer can from Steve’s right hand and tosses it in a nearby trash can. He walks back and looks at Simon.

Jack Marley: Look Simon, do you think what has become of the boss because of Clay Byrds actions is justified?

Simon Tillier: He was just following his bosses wishes and the woman who runs this wrestling promotion.

Jack Marley: I get it…everyone sucks.

Simon Tillier: I wouldn’t go that far…

Jack Marley the former stoner idiot lackey suddenly gets in Simon’s face. Jack’s normal calm demeanor has been completely crushed.

Jack Marley: I WOULD! You know how long it took for him to remember himself and try to grow and become a better person?

Jack shakes his head at Simon as Simon attempts to respond.

Jack Marley: Nah, I’m not done. The whole time he was changing these same people you are defending either wanted him to change back or never accepted he had changed. They are all snakes, Simon. They only want to use his genius and skills to make money off him but they won’t let him make his own money unless they get their hands in his cookie jar. We need that money…HE needs that money because the alternative is not good for anyone.

Simon Tilier: Maybe we could understand if you explain more.

Steve groans and his eyes open back up. He looks at Jack and motions for him.

Steve Harrison: We failed them, Jack…we failed them.

His eyes closed again slowly and a small tear dropped from his left eye. Jack looks back at Simon.

Jack Marley: What happened in Paris has ripple effects, Simon and if that ripple becomes an unstoppable wave you ALL will only have yourselves to blame. We are done here and I wish whoever has to face this upcoming wrath is prepared.

Simon looks confused at what just occurred and then looks at the camera.

Simon Tillier: Well folks, I am not sure we got any answers but coming up next we have a great matchup between Kerry Kuroyama and Crash Jackson. Save a Hotdog for me, guys!

We cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: This next one will be a true clash of styles, partner.

Richard Parker: If you mean that it’ll be a steely eyed assassin going one on one with a complete brain addled boob, then yes, a true clash of styles.

The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway, as a mix of curious silence and spontaneous cheers comes over the crowd. With haste, a figure emerges from the back and stands head high, fist raised, and strikes a pose for a brief second.

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s call” floods the airwaves and brings the lights back up. A chaotic lightshow takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash jumps in the air and stomps both feet in clear view for everyone to see. He roars violently with a fiery, toothy grin before beginning his frantic descent to the ring. Vince Howard’s introduction is swallowed up by the rambunctious reaction from the PRIMEates.

FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING
HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN

Crash reaches the ring while pumping his fist in unison with the beat, being joined by many fans simply out of respect for fist pumping, and scales the stairs at the same hellacious pace before turning around to roar at the crowd again.

UNLEASHING HIS HELL
YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

He leaps the top rope and lands with a thunderous rattle before pacing around the ring and nodding his head repeatedly. He stops in the middle, facing the crowd.

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

Crash steps towards the crowd, slamming his fist into the air and yelling along with the song.

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

He turns to the opposite side of the arena and offers the same sentiment.

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

Much more fist pumping begins with sweat flying off his face and arms, landing on the lucky fans in the front row.

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

Crash points down at the sweat soaked fans who are all pointing at their Crash Jackson merch and t-shirts. They all raise their concession stand hotdogs to Crash’s delight.

Lights fade.

Richard Parker: I just don’t get it…

A tempest rumbles through the darkness.

The sounds of howling wind and pouring rain.

erdant stormclouds fill the PRIMEview.

A flash of lighting.

A deafening crack of thunder.

And without warning, “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady suddenly THUMPS through the PA.

Richard Parker: Now THIS? This I get.

The stage lights up. Flashing strobes. Smokescreen. Green lasers.

A silhouette appears and marches forth from the haze, stopping at the head of the ramp.

The spotlight hits, revealing Kerry Kuroyama, clad in his emerald and silver robe. Eyes forward. Arms up. Knuckles touching, to form a peak over his head.

Rows of white and green fountain pyros erupt at his flanks.

The lyrics kick in.

Focused and fearless, Kuroyama strides down the ramp.

His gaze never leaves the ring.

Vince Howard: And the opponent, hailing from Seattle, Washington, and weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds, please welcome… the Emerald Apex, KERRY KUROYAMA!!

Kuroyama arrives at ringside. He climbs the stairs, steps through the ropes, and occupies the center of the ring.

He faces away from the hard camera, waiting for his music to build to its climax.

When it does, he tears off his robe in a single, swift motion and tosses it aside, gifting the camera a good look at the a green storm dragon tattooed across his sculpted back.

Then he twirls around to face the camera

His clenched fist proudly held up.

His defiant eyes are full of conviction.

The storm has arrived.

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama is laser focused on getting that W this week.

Richard Parker: The Emerald Apex is always focused! He IS the laser!

The two men meet in the center of the ring. Kuroyama is ice cold, he barely blinks as he stares down his opponent… who currently is standing on the second rope leading a rousing, fist pumping chant of BRO at the top of his lungs. Referee Ashley Barlow does her best to try and get Crash to focus up to little avail. One section of rowdy fans in particular, all wearing Crash shirts and holding up hotdogs, keeps drawing Crash’s limited attention away from the task at hand.

Richard Parker: This nitwit needs to get his eye on the ball before the ball puts him into a coma.

Nick Stuart: Not an untrue statement, Richard.

Finally Crash turns to face Kuroyama, The Emerald Apex waiting with an impatient scowl.

DING DING

Referee Barlow dosen’t wait for Crash’s attention to wander again, calling for the bell.

The initial interaction between the two grapplers is a frustrating one for poor Kerry Kuroyama. Several times over Crash reeeeeaches up a hand, signaling for a lock up or maybe a test of strength only to pull away and find that rowdy pack of Crash fans with the hotdogs to a huge laugh from the fans. After the third time Kerry quickly, frustratedly snatches Crash’s hands and pulls Jackson in, laces their fingers and the two men begin battling for control.

Richard Parker: Time to pay the piper, nitwit.

Not anyone’s definition of a ring technician, Crash attempts a little rudimentary grappling only to be out wrestled by ring savvy of Kuroyama.

Nick Stuart: Crash is a little outmatched here in the opening stretch!

Richard Parker: Was there any doubt?

Kuroyama wrenches Crash’s arm behind his back, clearly setting up something only for Crash to duck and roll under his trapped arm escaping Kerry’s clutches. Crash turns and just raw bone shoulders Kuroyama back a few steps and cracks off a clean chin rattling superkick under Kuroyama’s chin.

Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT FROM CRASH JACKSON!

Kuroyama is dazed, Crash capitalizes with a little alternating chop punch action, a deafening BRO chant from the Primeates with each knife edge chop across Kerry’s chest. The Seattle native’s pectorals reddening with each smack from Crash’s big mitt.

Backed into a turnbuckle and inundated with cheers and chants of BRO in his ears Kerry Kuroyama stomps out of the corner and proceeds to whiff several strikes, clearly blinded with anger. Crash dips ducks and dodges, finally avoiding what looks to have been an attempted Squall Line Lariat. After Crash avoids the lariat he spends the next few minutes leading Kerry Kuroyama around like a matador does to an enraged bull.

Nick Stuart: Crash showing off his impressive quickness here, Richard!

Richard Parker: This is an insult to good taste.

Crash continues his flash-like run, snapping off a quick leaping spinning heel kick that clobbers Kuroyama. Crash then plucks the arm and with all his might irish whips Kerry halfway across the ring into the nearest available turnbuckle. The Buffalo native takes a quick step back and proceeds to launch himself with reckless abandon at Kuroyama still dazed and propped against the ropes.

Nick Stuart: BIG SPLASH FROM CRASH!

Crash takes his eyes off the ball, once again distracted by the rowdy Crash crew that pulled away his attention earlier. He leads the rambunctious hotdog eating gentleman in a rousing round of BRO BRO BRO BRO BRO! Referee Ashley Barlow eventually resorting to begging for Crash to focus. As this ridiculous whooplah is going on, we all see Kerry Kuroyama get to his feet like the goddamn Terminator over Crash’s shoulder.

Richard Parker: Do turn around, Crash my boy!

As Crash hops down from the turnbuckle and turns back to the ring his big smile is erased thanks to a brutal Yakuza kick from The Emerald Apex. Crash staggers back into the same turnbuckle he was just joyfully perched on moments ago. Kuroyama wastes little time raining down innumerable, reckless kicks and boots across Crash’s person. Kerry eventually, suddenly reaches down and grabs Crash by the hair, wrenching him to his feet.

Kerry shoves Crash back, spins and waylays him with a neck snapping discus lariat.

Nick Stuart: SQUALL LINE LARIAT FROM KUROYAMA!

Kuroyama scrambles for the cover.

ONE

TW… NO!

Nick Stuart: KICKOUT WITH AUTHORITY BY CRASH!

Kuroyama rolls away and slaps the mat and roars with frustration. He gets to his feet looking to capitalize only to get sideswiped by another skull jarring superkick from Crash who, showing incredible resilience and ring generalmanship, beat Kuroyama to his feet.

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER WIDE LEFT FROM CRASH!

Richard Parker: The dingbat is showing me something here, I’m ill to admit.

The impact of the superkick sends Kerry sprawling back through the ropes, tumbling to ringside with a fleshy thud. Like their psychic, the crowd is on its feet before Crash even signals for anything. As he backs up to the opposite side of the ring he twirls his finger, then LAUNCHES himself in a dead sprint and performs a breathtaking tornillo suicide plancha colliding with a stunned Kerry Kuroyama who was juuuust getting to his feet out on the floor.

Nick Stuart: TAILGATE DIVE!

Richard Parker: Recklessness!

Kuroyama is leveled yet again. Crash staggers to his feet, finds those BROS with the hotdogs, leans back over the railing and leads another huge BRO chant with his new BROS. One of the clearly roasty toasty BROS hands Crash the rest of his concession stand hotdog to which Crash looks happier than anyone we’ve ever seen… “BROOOO!”

The camera pulls back to reveal Kerry standing a few feet away beet red in the face, fists clenched white knuckle tight. Crash just shoots the shooter a big mustard covered smile.

Richard Parker: I think I’m going to be physically sick.

Nick Stuart: Hey, who dosen’t like a nice hotdog?

Richard Parker: SICK.

Kerry launches himself at Crash full bore… to which Crash responds by simply mooshing the rest of his half eaten hotdog right in The Emerald Apex’s face and immediately hucks him back under the bottom rope back into the ring.

Kuroyama is quick enough to his feet but spends a considerable amount of time digging processed meat and yellow mustard out of his eyes. Unbeknownst to Kerry Crash slides in behind him and crouches down. As Kerry slowly turns, flicking away the last of the wet hotdog mush from his face, he’s met with another wholloping leaping spinning heel kick that sends Kuroyama sprawling.

Again showing his almost inhuman quickness, Crash ascends to the top rope before Kuroyama even has a chance to blink away the butterflies.

Richard Parker: Oh, get up Kerry! Come on, lad!

Nick Stuart: CRASH IS GOING UP, RICHARD!

RIGHT as Kerry Kuroyama shakes his head of cobwebs and regains full consciousness he’s absolutely FLATTENED by Crash’s patented corkscrew shooting star press…

Nick Stuart: CRASH DOT COM! CRASH DOT COM!

Crash grabs both of Kuroyama’s legs and pulls back into the pinfall as far and as hard as he can.

The fans count along as Ashley Barlow slides in for the count…

ONE

TWO

THREE!

We all clearly see Kerry’s shoulders push up off the canvas with authority at three point one, but to no avail.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: HE DID IT! Crash just pinned Kerry Kuroyama!

Richard Parker: Well that’s certainly disappointing.

Crash Jackson rolls out of the pinfall with pure joy radiating from a big toothy smile. As he calmbors to his feet Ashley Barlow reaches down and raises his hand in victory. After a little basking Crash ejects to ringside, knowing full well the storm brewing behind him. Kerry Kuroyama is on his knees, fists clenched white knuckle tight.

Nick Stuart: What a win for Crash Jackson!

Richard Parker: I might not care for Crash’s… well, everything. But I won’t ignore the obvious. That was indeed a huge win and well earned over one of the most canny competitors on the PRIME roster.

Nick Stuart: Couldn’t have said it better myself, Richard… sort of.

We cut elsewhere.

Despite what one might expect, an arena in France is not much different than an arena anywhere else in the world. Sure, Zenith de Strasbourg looks like an alien spacecraft that’s just experienced an emergency landing right in the middle of the countryside, but all of the usual suspects are there: Cement floor. Cinder block walls. Arterial hallways and fluorescent lighting and… a loading dock, tucked away and caked in shadows, somewhere at the edge of it all.

That’s where our camera finds itself. A loading dock like any other loading dock. The lights overhead are low and it takes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but standing cloaked in shadows is the figure of a man. A burning ember glows and a wisp of cigarette smoke escapes from where his mouth might be. Where the light catches him, his outfit shimmers and shines like it’s covered in a thousand… rhinestones.

Ladies and gentlemen, your Intense Champion, Daytona Diamonds. He has the belt around his waist and everything. That’s how you know he’s the real deal.

Daytona steps out of the shadows, taking one more draw from his cigarette before tossing it to the ground, stamping it out with his boot heel. A slow grin curls at the edges of his lips as he looks past the camera towards approaching footsteps.

Daytona Diamonds: Gotta say, I ain’t figured you’d actually come n’ meet me like this. How you doin’, pal? Goddang pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.

The silhouette of the other individual cuts a similar look, sans any title. A brown hate, brown coat, about the same height, though not nearly as large. Of course, this isn’t a cowboy hat, but something with a more military flair. There are no rhinestones, certainly not. But there’s more red and yellow on his person. More hammers. More sickles.

Alexei Ruslan’s thick mustache ruffles a bit as he glances up, down, then side to side as he slides both of his hands into his overcoat pockets. He narrows his eyes and speaks just above a whisper.

Alexei Ruslan: I suppose you can say today is lucky day then, Daytona. I am glad this is pleasure for you, but I would much rather know just what this is about. I am busy man.

Daytona smiles like a used car salesman, even placing his hand on Ruslan’s shoulder as he shakes his head.

Daytona Diamonds: I get it, I get it! We’re all busy men, ain’t that right? Movers and shakers, huh? The fuckin’ straws that stir the drink. But lissen…

The Rhinestone Cowboy leans in conspiratorially, pausing for dramatic effect.

Daytona Diamonds: …I reckon I just wanted to apologize to you and yours is all. Y’mighta heard ‘bout my little group, The Poor Whoresmen? Me and Freddy and Harley and… well, STRONK. I reckon when he ran out at WarGames and put ol’ Ivan in a stranglehold, y’all might be feelin’ some sorta way ‘bout that. Now, I don’t want no bad blood between us, y’get me? That boy’s like a puppy in a coop fulla chickens, Al. He didn’t mean nothin’ by it.

Ruslan grimaces slightly as he stares, otherwise deadpan, into Daytona’s eyes. He blinks, slowly, and then allows his grimace to morph into a somewhat awkward and uncharacteristic smile. He mechanically brings his hand across and removes Daytona’s own from his shoulder.

Alexei Ruslan: We do not need straws to stir our drinks, Diamonds. We drink our vodka straight.

He exhales and keeps that serpentine smile plastered on his face.

Alexei Ruslan: But yes, you are correct. You know, when War Games happened, and that overgrown bag of growth hormone toddled down to ring and showed his yellow belly to the world by attacking Ivan Stanislav from behind, yes, we were hardly pleased.

Ruslan instead places his hand on Daytona’s shoulder.

Alexei Ruslan: You have not been here that long, Daytona. Not really. So you, and of course STRONK, probably are not aware of just how many people Ivan has hospitalized. How many times he has been fined for exacting just retribution against those who dare to cross him. Why, it wasn’t even until STRONK opened his mouth that we felt much better about the whole thing. Because only an idiot would be foolish enough to attack Ivan Stanislav and think they would ever remain whole for long. In this regard, your monosyllabic friend proved us right.

Alexei clears his throat.

Alexei Ruslan: But, with that in mind, I do not know if that protects his… handlers… from such just retribution. So while I have no doubt your words are as pristine as, let us say, the virgin snow I know you are so fond of… I hope you have more than words to offer this Russian?

Daytona Diamonds: Heh. That’s a good’un, buddy. Real fuckin’ good. I ain’t been here long, but I weren’t born yesterday. Words are worth a turd in an outhouse. How’s about we grease them palms of yours, pardner?

Right on cue, Daytona takes two steps away from Ruslan and back towards the loading dock’s bay door. With a wink and a flourish, he presses a red button on the wall and a motor overhead whirrs to life, the door starting to lift.

Daytona Diamonds: Feast your eyes! You’re gonna fuckin’ love this!

You feel that? Anticipation. Excitement. The bay door lifts at an agonizingly slow pace, but soon enough, what lies beyond comes into view like a game show prize: two twin jet skis, both painted Communist red. One with a hammer stenciled on the side, the other with a sickle. On their seats, a pair of gift baskets filled to the brim with chocolate covered strawberries, exotic cheeses, artisanal popcorn, and yes, comically large bottles of vodka.

Daytona crosses his arms over his chest, an almost proud look crossing his face as he turns to look back to Ruslan.

Daytona Diamonds: How’s ‘bout that, comrade? I picked ‘em out myself! These suckers are faster’n greased lightnin’, baby!

The silence is… awkward. Ruslan blinks his eyes, yet even he cannot help but grin slightly at the beautiful sight of the iconography and colors of his Former Soviet Union emblazoned across two beautiful pieces of personal watercraft. After yet another moment, he brings his hands behind his back and walks around the jet skis. He purses his lips as he rounds them completely and smirks at Diamonds.

Alexei Ruslan: You know, Arkhangelsk, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav’s hometown, is port city. He always has had special bond with the sea. You have done your homework, Daytona.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s beautiful, pal. Goddang beautiful. Somethin’ tells me that bonds just gonna get deeper ‘cause, buddy, you and ol’ Ivan are ‘bout to rip the everlovin’ shit outta them waves.

Daytona smiles a big, toothy grin as he walks up to one of the jet skis, slapping it on the side.

Daytona Diamonds: But that ain’t all, Al! Jet skis, gift baskets; that’s all just an appetizer! A samplin’ platter, buddy! I wanna make sure we’re all squared up and you boys ain’t gonna have to hold your nose every time one of us Whoresmen walks by, y’get me?

The Rhinestone Cowboy saddles right up next to Alexei Ruslan, throwing his arm across the Russian’s shoulder like they’re old friends.

Daytona Diamonds: Next week, Al. Next week, you and Ivan meet up with me and the boys and we’re gonna give you the best goddang gift you’ve ever gotten. No tricks, no bullshit. Cross my fuckin’ heart.

Ruslan freezes for a moment as his shoulders are squeezed by Diamonds. He nods his head, but his mood is infinitely better.

Alexei Ruslan: In terms of if I ‘get’ you, I do not understand half of what you are saying. I think I speak better English than you, Daytona, but…

He looks over his shoulder towards the two beautiful crimson / yellow jet skis (and the wonderful fruit baskets), and he looks back at the Intense Champion.

Alexei Ruslan: This act of good faith has not gone unnoticed. My curiosity is piqued, and I can assure you Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav will find time for you and your… crew… at next show. I hope it lives up to the hype. This is hard act to follow! Ahem, now if you excuse me, I have some other things I need to deal with…

Ruslan shrugs himself out of Daytona’s grasp and takes a few steps, before turning slowly and to look back at the Intense Champion.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh, and about that ‘no funny stuff’ thing, Daytona? Russians have prickly sense of humor… do not even attempt to be funny.

He turns and walks two more steps and then again turns around.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh… and those two jet skis? I’m certain you arranged transport for them to Arkhangelsk already. No gift in good faith would be given, and then left for us to figure out how to get them home. Da svidanya, Daytona.

He slides his hands into his pockets and turns on his heel and finally walks off, humming the Anthem of the Soviet Union as he leaves.

Daytona Diamonds: Duh sous vide annie to you too, Al!

As soon as Alexei is out of earshot, Daytona puts his hands on his hips and turns to face the two jet skis.

Daytona Diamonds: …now how the hell am I gonna get these things to Urklehangin’elk?

We cut elsewhere.

Backstage, and the whistling has already started. Must be because France is currently looking at Satan and his close friend Other Satan.

Other Satan–er, Nate Colton–is fully geared up, and has his hands stuffed in the pockets of his ring jacket. Despite it being some time since he’s scheduled to compete Jared is also in his ring attire, minus the traditional tape around his fingers and wrists. That’s a last minute addition, done right before The Ritual; always has been.

Nate Colton: I actually hit up a tailor when we were in Paris; they’re making something for me and shipping it over. Ain’t the kind of thing I usually wear, but I figured what the hell, right?

Jared Sykes: Damn. I should probably give you shit for being fancier than I am, but I’ve also been told I could wear a trash bag since no one will be looking at me anyway.

This is where most people would end the thought, but not our Jarry. Nope.

Jared Sykes: Still, trash bag and a pair of scissors would have been cheaper than the alterations I had to have made.

Was that a sneaky little glance back over your shoulder, my guy? Trying to peep your own butt as if spines worked like comic book covers?

Jared Sykes: You know. For… reasons.

Great. Now that’s out in the universe.

Nate Colton: Heh. I get it, man. But our dance partners deserve the best, right?

Jared Sykes: For sure. But since the best won’t be there, guess they’ll have to settle for us.

Nate Colton: Ha!

“Don’t get the panties you borrowed from Kohime too twisted up, Nate.”

Their attention is redirected, and the looks on Jared and Nate’s face are an easy tell that the voice is not a welcome one. Hayes Hanlon, tights and boots on with his black button up intact. He gives Nate a look of faux-concern while pointing a finger to the Dragonslayer.

Hayes Hanlon: Your boy here can bail on that wedding invite at any time. He wouldn’t want a big, corn-fed, good lookin’ dude like you stealing his spotlight.

The Event Horizon reaches the two at arms length. He sets his hands on his hips, a bullshit smile set behind his ‘stache, then holds his arms out wide.

Hayes Hanlon: Well take a look at this. The Good Guys. Back together again.

Nate Colton: You hear that, Jared? He thinks I’m pretty.

Jared Sykes: Hey there, Tee Bee two-point-oh. How’s the fam?

Hayes Hanlon: In rehab, out of court, getting divorced, or dead. But hey…

Hayes closes his eyes and shifts his face toward Jared, opening them coldly.

Hayes Hanlon: …at least my siblings are still here.

Colton takes a step forward, serving as an obstacle between Jared Sykes and a murder charge.

Nate Colton: Congratulations, Hayes. The dickhead lessons are really paying off.

Hanlon’s dark eyes linger on Jared’s burning stare, but he shifts into a smile as they dart back to the New Diamond’s.

Hayes Hanlon: [giving Colton a somewhat-aggressive slap on the chest] Thanks man! Glad you noticed! Hey, you pumped for tonight? Stoked to jerk the curtain for our good buddy Brandon?

Nate Colton: I’m just excited for the chance to drop you on your head on worldwide television.

The Comeback Kid stifles a laugh, bringing his fist to his mouth.

Hayes Hanlon: What? What? C’mon, Nate. You?

Hayes, holding on to an icy chuckle, gives Colton a “playful” shove to the shoulder.

Hayes Hanlon: Buddy I’ve got like, thirty pounds on your skinny ass! Who’re you kidding?

Nate Colton: You hear that, Jared? He thinks I’m funny.

Colton sneers at the Comeback Kid. His shoulders tense, like he’s preparing to return Hayes’ “playful” shove, but the hands remain in the pockets.

Nate Colton: I don’t think you should be talking about anyone’s strength, Hayes. Especially not the guy who’s still carrying the burden. You know that burden, right? It’s the one that you dropped as soon as shit got hard.

Jared Sykes: (flat, monotone) Hundred extra pounds didn’t keep Balaam from gettin’ tossed either.

If the expression on Jared’s face is any indication, he has pivoted from trying to murder a man with hands to making a man’s head explode using only his brain. Meanwhile, Nate’s words have clearly struck a small nerve in Hanlon, but the Event Horizon is quick to smirk it away.

Hayes Hanlon: That’s the thing about burdens, though! You gotta drop ‘em. Eventually.

Nate Colton: Eventually. Just maybe not the moment they become inconvenient.

Hayes Hanlon: Or boring.

“Vous, enfoirés, pouvez parler de force après avoir bombardé un ours russe…”

Oh, the cheers. The many many cheers.

Before the New Diamond and the Event Horizon can continue to spit back and forth, the unmistakable tone of the Neck Collector arrives on scene. He wearing white from head to toe – which is to say, white lizard-scale blazer, white slacks, and no shirt.

Nate Colton: (muttering) Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hayes Hanlon: What’s up, Julien? Nate and I were just talking about…

Hayes turns back to the New Diamond, looking him up and down.

Hayes Hanlon: …burdens.

FLAMBERGE: Ah, bon, which tracks, given these two sacks of the shit.

Nate Colton: FLAMBO. Y’know, I was hoping to get a word with you tonight.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, well, you know. I would say “get in the line” or something with the quip, but I am happy to cross the paths with the New Biiiiiiiiiiiitch.

Nate Colton: Heard your big speech last show. Gotta say, I was looking forward to the idea of mixing it up with you again…but like every time you open your mouth, I lost interest pretty quick.

FLAMBERGE: I probably would too à votre place…most people do not have the interest in losing their necks.

Hanlon leers at Colton.

Hayes Hanlon: I hope you’re not counting on me going easy on Jake Colton’s Favorite Baby tonight, FLAMB…

FLAMBERGE: Ha! Non, Mustache, feel free to break this man across your entire ass as much as you desire…just leave the neck pour moi, s’il vous plait. The rest is yours.

Nate Colton: Yeah, about that. I got no problem risking my neck…but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do it for someone who talks about me like I’m his shitty middle school art project. I’ll find something else to do for Lisbon.

FLAMBERGE steps closer to Nate, absolutely invading his personal space.

FLAMBERGE: …………..what?

Nate Colton: Sorry, let me say it in a language you’ll understand. Fuck you, fuck Glue, fuck your neck collection. I’m. Not. Interested.

You’d swear there was an issue with your television, but no – it’s all one loud whistle. FLAMBERGE balls up both fists and leans in even closer. Their noses touch. Colton finally takes his hands out of his pockets, also clenched into fists. Muscles tense. Eyes narrow. Beads of sweat form on their brows. Contrary to Nate’s words, they both want this. Not at Tropical Turmoil. Not after their matches later tonight. Right. Now.

Jared Sykes: Oh my god can y’all just kiss and get it over with?

Oh right. He’s still here.

Jared Sykes: Seriously the tension is insane.

FLAMBERGE: I am getting that neck, Colton. One way or another – I am getting. That. Neck.

With each of his final words, his lips find themselves precariously close to Colton’s – but they never touch. The Frenchman snorts, turns, and leaves in a huff with Hanlon, who’s just chuckling to himself in a very macho sort of way.

Jared Sykes: Damn, that’s it? No threats of retribution for later? No promises to take my neck after what happened at Rev 43? You’d think I’d be number one on his list given everything that happened, but nooooooo.

We’re not entirely sure who he’s talking to.

Jared Sykes: Ouch. See? This is why people say I cry all the time.

Just sharing everything, aren’t we?

Jared Sykes: Alright, whatever.

In the distance, we hear one last accented shout.

FLAMBERGE: OH, AND WHEN I’M DONE WITH YOU SYKES, JUST FUCK OFF AND GET HIT BY THAT BUS ALREADY.

Jared Sykes: He’s really gonna hate what I have planned for later.

Nate Colton: You just can’t help yourself, can you?

We cut to the ring.

Vince Howard: The following contest is schedule for one fall…

The Crowd: (in unison) UN CATCH!

They did not get the memo that this particular chant is frowned upon.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…

The sounds of fuzzy distorted guitars hit the speakers as the introduction to “Electrode” by Mystick Krewe of Clearlight begins to play.

Vince Howard: At a total combined weight of four-hundred and fifty-six pounds…

Both Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff step out onto the entrance ramp, and the whistling starts anew.

Vince Howard: The team of PAXTOOOOOOOON RAY!!!!… and SAAAAAAAAGE PONTIFFFFFFFFF!

Nick Stuart: A pretty cold welcome for the team that’s been nicknamed “Crunch and Punch” by the PRIME fans, Richard.

Richard Parker: I’m like ninety-nine percent sure this country hates everyone.

Nick Stuart: At Culture Shock these two men were part of the winning Wargames team, and no doubt they’ll be looking to bring some of that violence into this match.

The two men climb into the ring and await their opponents.

Richard Parker: As long as they don’t plan on sharing it with everyone. I’m on a strict no-violence diet as prescribed by my doctor.

Nick Stuart: Speaking of, have you talked to him about how much you’ve been sweating lately?

Richard Parker: I consider it an honor to be one of the special chosen few who gets to experience the zbyszkosweats, Nick. It means the Lord-O-Plex is working.

Nick Stuart: Well when do we get to move all the fans away from ringside?

Richard Parker: Nicholas, these people paid good money to be here. You can’t just kick them all out.

Nick Stuart: I don’t mean that kind of fan, I’m talking about the… oh, forget it.

Let’s check back in with Vince Howard real quick.

Vince Howard: And their opponents. Weighing in tonight at a total combi…

VROOOOOM!

Fred Dick and STRONK roll out from the backstage area in tricked-out monster truck, engine growling like a caged feral beast with a serious case of indigestion. The crowd boos the Whoresmen as the arena lights flash and pulse in time with the radio ad played in lieu of entrance music.

Announcer: Hold on to your hats, Brimstone Valley! This Saturday night, prepare yourself for the most absurd, bone-crushing spectacle of the century! It’s the DOOMSDAY TRUCK APOCALYPSE!

Lowell Dot Com, marketing maverick that he is, secured the boys a hefty sum to drive a decommissioned monster truck to the ring while advertising a monster truck rally in some methhead town no one’s ever heard of before.

The truck, an imposing beast of chrome and fury, bears the name “Gash Smasher” spray painted across its side in fiery letters. Fred Dick stands in the open cab, flexing his muscles to the booing fans, while STRONK grips the wheel, arms strained and bulging, his face expressionless but his dead-calm eyes deeply focused on trying not to drive off into the throng of fans at ringside.

Announcer: Witness the TERRIBLE MAYHEM as the colossal titan truck, GRAVE MISTAKE, and the unstoppable FAT GIRLS PUT THEIR WEIGHT ON IT smash through anything and everything in their path! It’s a night of high-flying chaos and sexy destruction you won’t believe until you see it!

As they inch closer to the ring, the arena vibrates with excitement—or perhaps it’s from the heavy roar of the truck’s engine and the fact they accidentally snagged a camera cord on their front bumper and now a hundred grand worth of production equipment is being dragged down the aisle.

Announcer: Don’t miss your chance to see the legendary WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE and the ferocious FLAT EARTH CRUSHER obliterate the competition! Watch as these behemoths defy gravity and common sense, leaving a trail of twisted metal and shattered dreams in their wake!

Fred Dick and STRONK climb out of the truck and into the ring. They do the whole “WHORES UP!” bit, though STRONK attempts to fit his entire fist through the hole created by Fred’s thumb and index finger, to which the King of Wrong Style bobs his eyebrows up and down in response, and remarks, “Damn, STRONKY Baby, ‘least warm me up with a tickle ‘n a pinch before ya go elbow deep!”

Announcer: Tickets are vanishing like your hopes and dreams, you inbred trash, so grab yours now at DoomsdayTruckApocalypse.com or call 1-800-CRASH-IT. Join us at the Brimstone Valley Speedway this Saturday night at 7 PM for the DOOMSDAY TRUCK APOCALYPSE! The cops don’t care if you drive home drunk; in fact, they’ll be there themselves! And FIVE-OH get LOADED! So BE THERE or forever question your life choices! And probably die old and confused and aloooooooone!

With a final flex, Fred Dick and STRONK prepare for their match, the echoes of the monstrous truck (which they neglected to shut off) and the announcer’s voice still lingering in the air.

Announcer: DOOMSDAY TRUCK APOCALYPSE: Because nothing says FAMILY FUN like utter vehicular chaos and maybe, if we’re lucky, even a DEATH!

Richard Parker: While that thing is out here, someone check the wheels and see if any of Jimmy Bonafide is still there.

ReVival 1 references? We got ‘em!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: It looks like Sage Pontiff and STRONK GODSON will be starting for their respective teams.

The two men circle in the center of the ring, with Sage trying to test STRONK with leg kicks. The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience has a clear reach advantage, owing to the few extra inches he has in height. And if he stays out of grapple range, then he won’t get thrown around the ring. Not that he’d likely mind, but yeeting and winning don’t often go hand in hand.

One kick seems to sting, and STRONK takes that personally. He lowers his center of gravity and moves – almost scuttles – directly at Sage with incredible speed, all while stuttering from side to side.

Richard Parker: I think STRONK just invented crab style.

The Beast From The Deep closes the distance, and before he can react Sage finds himself pinned in the corner.

Richard Parker: I’m surprised you didn’t chime in there, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Why’s that?

Richard Parker: Well, I just feel like you get weird when we call some of these matches. Figured you wouldn’t be able to pass up a comment like “oh crabs and Dick el-oh-el.”

Nick Stuart: When have you ever heard me say el-oh-el?

Richard Parker: Literally right this second.

ALL CAPS STRONK unloads with a series of clubbing forearms, as if Sage Pontiff is full of the tender sea beef that must first be extracted from its pinchy, beady-eyed shell. It falls to Jimmy Turnbull – the only sane man in the ring – to do what he can and break this up in the corner. It takes him a little bit, during which time STRONK lands two more big shots on Sage, but eventually the referee is able to get between both men.

Sage takes a single step out of the corner and catches STRONK flush with a wheel kick that sends King Stallion to the mat. Sage is on top of him without hesitation, grabbing STRONK by the beard and trying to deliver a headbutt.

Before Pontiff can connect, STRONK grabs both sides of his head and begins squeezing down like a vice. Because of the positioning, and the fact that STRONK’s shoulders are technically still down on the canvas, Jimmy Turnbull is forced to get down and make the count.

ONE

Fred Dick is very animated in his corner as he shouts at his boy to get up.

TWO

STRONK obliges, but he doesn’t let go of Sage’s head. With both men on their feet, Pontiff manages to brace a foot against STRONK’s chest and push himself backwards, breaking the hold. He finds Paxton with his hand outstretched and makes the tag.

Immediately STRONK tries to exert his will, picking Paxton up into the air and attempting a gorilla press, but the Murdergator slips behind him and turns on the punching machine. A right jab. Then a second. A left hook to the body. Some dirty boxing mixed in, just for good measure. It’s a blend of technique both practiced and primal, and the speed at which the punches come catches STRONK DADDY off guard. A right cross lands hard and STRONK staggers. Not one to let the opportunity pass him by, Paxton charges in and connects with a big boot that sends STRONK back into his corner.

For the record, Mama Dick is pissed. You can tell because he’s cussin’ up a storm on the ring apron even before he reaches over to tag STRONK. Also because his other hand is gesturing emphatically with an Air Jordan, one that until recently was on his left foot.

He stomps towards Paxton, but his steps are uneven because of the whole “one shoe” thing. Some threats are hurled. The liberated shoe is also almost hurled. The Bayou Butcher smirks, and then drives his left hand into the belly of the Street Cat, and daddy he starts meowin’.

He also puts a hand up to his eye as if suddenly blinded.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick is… I think he’s trying to tell the referee that Paxton just attempted to blind him.

Richard Parker: He did! Clear as day. I saw it. You saw it. Everyone here saw it.

Nick Stuart: You realize that was a gut shot, right?

Richard Parker: Look, even STRONK saw it! See? I’m pretty sure he just told Jimmy Turnbull something about “Mama Dick’s looking orbs.”

Nick Stuart: I heard no such thing.

Richard Parker: Oh no! Nick, are you okay? Did Paxton punch your ears?

Nick Stuart: He did NOT punch… ugh. Just forget it.

Jimmy Turnbull does not look convinced, but it’s his job to make sure that everyone enters and leaves the ring in one piece, so he’s obliged to make sure that Dick is okay.

Wow, I should have maybe called him Fred in that last sentence, huh?

Anyway, while Jimmy T is having a good, long look at Di… err… Fred, the King of Wrong Style uses the opportunity to jab Paxton Ray in the crotch with his sneaker. It’s a quick snap, the kind where it takes a second before the ache kicks in, but when it hits it hits hard, traveling upwards into the guts before it settles into a slow throb.

Nick Stuart: I think Fred Dick just told Jimmy Turnbull that his shoes are orthopedic, and his “dawgs are barkin’ loud.” Did I hear that right?

Richard Parker: You did, Nick. You did.

Nick Stuart: And now…

Richard Parker: And might I just say how relieved I am to know that Paxton’s vicious attack didn’t permanently injure you.

Nick Stuart: He never left the ring!

Richard Parker: I know the wound is still fresh, Nick. But this trauma will heal. In time.

Turnbull – who is likely going to get a stern talking-to after this – first looks to Paxton, then to Fred who pleads his innocence. If he was going to do anything about it then it would be now, except there’s the revving of a monster truck engine to provide yet another distraction.

Lowell begins driving the “Gash Smasher” away, but not before leaning on the horn. Instead of a loud beep, the arena is treated to a snippet of “Ridin’” by Chamillionaire.

Fred uses this opportunity to slide his hand into the sneaker, and slap Paxton Ray hard across the face with it. By the time Jimmy Turnbull turns around, Fred has his socked foot on the Murdergator’s face, wiggling his toes as he twerks. That is until Sage Pontiff comes flying in with a koppo kick that gets the Street Cat off his partner.

Nick Stuart: This is breaking down in a hurry. And now STRONK GODSON is in the ring as well!

And poor Jimmy Turnbull gets the honor of trying to sort this out. It takes a minute, and there are lots of threats levied, but eventually both Sage and STRONK go back to their respective corners. Though not without jawing at each other first.

Richard Parker: You know, I hate to say it, but I’m convinced everyone in this match has, will, or is currently in the process of committing crimes.

Nick Stuart: What the… why… how?! Who is committing crimes in this match? Sure there’s been some bending of the rules, but…

Richard Parker: They’re called LAWS of physics for a reason, Nick. Ever hear of ‘em? Conservation of mass. How about that one? Says matter cannot be created or destroyed, and yet look at this bulky boy!

He’s talking about The Stronkest Man Alive.

Richard Parker: Jimmy Neutron would be rolling over in his grave.

Nick Stuart: Did… did you mean to say Isaac Newton?

Richard Parker: Who? You know what, nevermind. I’ll just call my close personal friend, Neil deGrasse Tyson, and get his opinion.

Nick Stuart: You do not know Dr. Tyson.

Richard Parker: Fine then. Let me send a text to Stephen Hawking, and…

Nick Stuart: Richard.

Richard Parker: Alright, alright. Fine. Michio Kaku it is, then.

As the dust settles, Paxton tags his partner. While Fred Dick uses what he thinks is a free moment to try and put his shoe back on, Sage Pontiff is already measuring him for something. He springboards up onto the top rope, wobbles for a moment as he tries to maintain his balance, and then catches Fred with a twisting frankensteiner. The momentum carries Fred up to his feet, but he’s met with another burst from Pontiff.

Nick Stuart: Cosmic Resonator! And Fred Dick is down!

Richard Parker: I’m just impressed that he’s still holding onto that sneaker. Those must be expensive kicks.

Fred Dick is up on his feet, but he’s wobbly, and one inch height difference between his feet isn’t doing him any favors. Sage leaps to the second rope, bounds off to the rop rope that’s perpendicular, wavers for just a moment, and then dives back towards the ring. He catches Fred around the head and connects with a tornado DDT.

This finally sends a lone Nike flying.

Nick Stuart: Tremendous display of athleticism by Sage Pontiff!

Richard Parker: And blocked by Fred Dick!

Nick Stuart: Blocked how exactly?

Richard Parker: Mullet took the brunt of that one.

Nick Stuart: You know, I just want to point out that your commentary tonight has been awfully one-sided.

Richard Parker: It’s like you forgot that we watched one of these people paralyze his partner two years ago. Damn right I’m playing favorites.

But Sage Pontiff isn’t done yet. Given the way this match has gone thus far, it could devolve into chaos again at any moment. Have to make things count while you can.

He checks Fred’s positioning on the mat and decides that it’ll work for what he’s got planned.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff going up top! He’s looking for something big to try and put this match away!

Leap. Flip. Twist.

Impact.

Nick Stuart: Electric Feel! And it looks like he got all of that one! Sage with the cover. He’s got the leg hooked!

ONE

TWO

Cue STRONK with the save. He barrels across the ring and lands an elbow smash to Sage that ends the pinfall attempt.

Nick Stuart: STRONK showing off some of that power.

Richard Parker: That’s because he’s… (singing) Three hundred seven point one poooooooooounds… of solid butt musccccccclllllllllle. Mama Dick ain’t playin’ aroooooooound… He’s your son nooooowwwwwww.

Nick Stuart: Those are NOT the lyrics.

Richard Parker: Not to the new song, no. But that last one was a jam.

Nick Stuart: Weren’t the lyrics to that one either.

Richard Parker: You are the Grim Reaper of joy, you know that?

Sage moves to his corner and tags in Paxton Ray.

With STRONK back out of the ring, and the referee having a real bitch of a time trying to keep things in check, Fred Dick army crawls over to his corner and makes the tag.

Nick Stuart: Both teams with a tag, and now we’ve got all four men in the ring!

Richard Parker: Well it’s a good thing that the ref has been able to keep things under control so far oh wait no he hasn’t done that at all.

And he’s not doing it now, as chaos breaks loose in the middle of the ring. All Jimmy Turnbull can seemingly do is watch as the world goes to hell around him.

STRONK charges in and flattens Paxton Ray with a huge shoulder block. Fred Dick is trying to wiggle his foot back into his sneaker while lobbing slaps at Sage Pontiff, only to be kicked back into his own partner. Paxton rises and drills STRONK with a rolling elbow just a second after STRONK pushes Mama Dick out of the way of the impact. A flying corner splash from Sage Pontiff connects on STRONK, as Paxton Ray manages to get his hands on Fred Dick, grabbing him by the throat with both hands and lifting him into the air.

Fred almost loses his sneaker again as he kicks his legs to try and get free.

STRONK shoves Sage aside and charges Paxton, landing a big lariat across his back that gets him to release his grip on Dick.

Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbull has started his count in an attempt to get this match back under control.

Richard Parker: I literally just said he was never in control to begin with. Honestly, Nick, it’s like I’m just never heard, and it’s really starting to impact my feelings.

While STRONK and Paxton square up, Fred Dick steadies himself against the ropes. It’s only when he sees Sage Pontiff already in mid-air that he realizes that was probably a bad place to be. A flying crossbody takes both men over the top rope and to the outside, but it’s not clean. They bounce first off the ring apron before crashing to the floor.

Richard Parker: Well hey, Jimmy T’s finally got the illegal men out of the ring.

And inside the ring, Paxton Ray lifts STRONK off his feet with a textbook scoop slam, before snapping off three elbow drops in rapid succession. After that, a series of stomps follow.

But outside the ring is where things are about to get spicy.

Fred Dick has snuck under the ring in an attempt to get some much needed breathing room. What he’s doing under there is anyone’s guess, but it’s probably not savory.

Sage stands, only to realize that he’s not alone.

Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds is here! He’s…

Got a bottle of whiskey in his hand, it’s still sealed, and he’s holding it by the neck.

Nick Stuart: Good lord!

Richard Parker: Holy tap-dancing Hoyt!!

SMASH!!!

The Rhinestone Cowboy swings the bottle like a club, shattering it over Sage Pontiff’s head. Glass shatters. The front row is doused in a wave of brown liquor. The jagged edge of the broken bottle rakes across Pontiff’s forehead, cutting in deep and opening a series of ragged wounds.

Richard Parker: We’re going to need to get some help out here.

Nick Stuart: More than that, they should stop the damn match!

The Bodhisattva collapses in a field of broken glass, one leg bent at an awkward angle. Blood pours from the wounds on his head and mixes with the alcohol on the ringside mats, tinting it a deep crimson that spills out like smoke.

Sage Pontiff isn’t moving.

Only now does Jimmy Turnbull realize what just happened, but because he didn’t see it there’s not much recourse he has save for two options. The first thing he does is signal to the back that they need medical attention and they need it quickly. The second is to point at Daytona Diamonds, and then make a grand gesture towards the entrance.

Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds has just been ejected from ringside! Hopefully he clears out before the medics can get down here.

Diamonds, still holding the broken neck of the bottle, feigns a celebratory sip from it before tossing the glass aside and making his way to the back.

Paxton Ray is still the legal man for his team, and he’s over at the ropes checking on his partner when he’s blindsided by STRONK. Paxton can feel the rear waistlock, but he’s not able to grab on to the ropes in time before a backdrop driver-style suplex sends him crashing into the mat.

Nick Stuart: And now Paxton Ray is out here in a two on one! Fans, I don’t know how to feel about this.

Richard Parker: Would it be wrong to call this karma?

Nick Stuart: Really, Richard? Really?!

Paxton clutches the back of his head with both hands, but still tries to stand.

It is a strange bit of irony after all, to be responsible for paralyzing your former partner and ending his in-ring career, only to watch one of the few people to befriend you get mauled by broken glass.

If that thought passed through Paxton Ray’s mind, it’s short-lived. A second backdrop driver functions as a soft reset of sorts.

Nick Stuart: A second suplex! But… Paxton Ray refuses to stay down!

There are even a few cheers as the Bayou Butcher fights his way back to his feet. Whether that’s in support of the man himself or just the fighting spirit he’s showing is one that will go unanswered.

STRONK’s expression is hard to read. Perhaps it’s confusion about why the tiny human isn’t crushed yet. Maybe frustration at not being able to break the man who’s been making Mama Dick miserable.

CRACK!!

OOOOOOOOOOH!

A wild left hand from the Lafayette Bruiser wipes the look clean off of STRONK’s face, the blow hard enough to draw blood from Beast From The Deep.

Nick Stuart: A huge left from the former Intense Champion!

Before STRONK can react, the volley is fired. A barrage of some of the hardest shots that Paxton has ever thrown all connect with STRONK. It’s not clean, in fact more than a few are glancing blows at best, but the ones that do connect land hard. This isn’t anger. This isn’t the survival of the mud pits.

This is rage.

And of course, Fred Dick is here to ruin it for the Bayou Butcher.

Nick Stuart: Get him out of there, ref! He’s not the legal man.

Richard Parker: At this point in the match, Nick, I don’t expect Turnbull to do anything other than stand around and have red hair.

A surprise Bloodmode drops Paxton to the canvas. And as STRONK recovers, Fred ascends to the top rope. Mama Dick to the rescue! One Slap Box With God ought to be enough.

Unfortunately for Fred, Paxton may be down but he isn’t out.

OOOOOOOOOOH!!

The Bayou Butcher charges into the ropes, which is enough to cause Fred to lose his balance. Thus, Fred Dick loses his footing, falls, and lands right on Fred’s dick.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick has just been crotched on the top rope!

The Street Cat’s hands immediately go to his tenders, and he gasps out what sounds like “Muh jibblets!” before tumbling forward and falling onto the mat. Paxton fires off a series of rapid-fire stomps despite Fred not being the legal man. And when he feels STRONK’s massive paw on his shoulder, Paxton spins, unloads a wild right, and then goes right back on the attack.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray is wrestling like a house on fire!

Richard Parker: Which is weird, because normally those just stay in one place.

The second time STRONK intervenes, Paxton isn’t able to wheel on him. Instead, the Butcher finds himself with an arm around his neck.

Nick Stuart: The Loop Hold! STRONK GODSON has locked in the Loop Hold!

Paxton tries to fight it. He tries to break free, tries to swing at anything he might be able to hit, but it’s no use. STRONK pulls them both down to the mat. The lights start to fade, and soon the whole world is dark.

DING DING DING

Jimmy Turnbull calls for STRONK to break the hold.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match as a result of technical submission…

Really, it’s just a fancy way of saying “referee stoppage.”

Vince Howard: The team of Fred Dick and STRONK! GODSOOOOOOON!

All four men are down. STRONK and Paxton on the canvas. Fred Dick nursing his tender nethers. And outside the ring, Sage Pontiff is getting the attention he requires.

He still isn’t moving.

With the match over and all four men down and out, it seems that we’ll be cutting elsewhere when…

Fred Dick’s big ol’ ass stumbles to his feet, demands a microphone.

Nick Stuart: What the hell does this guy have to say to us?

Richard Parker: Probably something important, Nick, which you’d find out if you’d just hush that mouth.

Nick Stuart: …okay guy.

Fred taps on the microphone, makes sure it works. Douche douche. Yep. It works.

Fred Dick: SAY, BLOOD!

Whistles from the crowd!

Fred doesn’t seem to realize that’s a negative thing. He smiles as he sees STRONK reach his feet.

Fred Dick: STRONKY BABY, grab Paxton Ray’s dumb ass up in a full nelson, I got some SHID to spit into this mic rightcheer!

STRONK: OKAY.

STRONK picks up Paxton Ray, who is coming to but still a little dazed, locks him in a full nelson.

Poor Sage bleeds outside the ring, motionless.

Fred Dick: Harley, bring forth the ceremonial loaf, if you will!

Nick Stuart: Harley? Harley Walker?

Richard Parker: Ceremonial loaf?

“Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” by Trace Adkins hits the speakers.

And indeed, it is Harley Walker. With a briefcase in his hand that’s labeled, “STRONK LOAF,” Harley drunkenly line dances to the ring.

Nick Stuart: I can smell the cheap whiskey and fried bologna from here, Richard.

Richard Parker: I’d like to get a little toot of it myself.

Nick Stuart: Pardon?

Richard Parker: A toot. You know. Like a swig.

Harley’s line dance leads him halfway back up the ramp, but it’s fine, he’s cutting a motherfuckin ruuuuug!

Fred Dick: LOOK AT ‘IM DAENCE!!! HE’S A DAENCIN’ FOO’!!!

Harley finishes his line dance, pats the briefcase like a football, pretends like he’s gonna throw it, then pretends it’s his dick. He thrusts with the briefcase several times.

Fred Dick: Now that right there is sexy as all get out. Takes me back to them days! Laaaaawd them days back at the Cheetah Tittybar and Cigar Lounge! With all them sexy ace benches. Daencin for ol’ Fred!

Harley slides the briefcase under the bottom rope.

Harley Walker: Whores up!

Harley makes a circle with his fist, and Fred puts his finger through it. Harley struts back up the ramp like an old rooster who can still get it.

Fred Dick: Thank ya, Harley Walker! Walker Texas RANGAH!!!

Fred picks up the briefcase and marches over to Paxton Ray. Paxton kicks at Fred, but Fred covers his crotch out with one hand and swats Paxton’s thrashing kicks out of the way until he’s right up in Ray’s face.

Fred Dick: Last ReVival, in ol’ PEH-WEE, you swirlied my ass and whooped on me like I was some punk ass little nerd for you to FUCK ON.

Fred opens the briefcase.

Nick Stuart: Please don’t let that be what we think it is.

Fred Dick: WELL HOW BOUT YOU FUCK ON THIS, PAXTON? BAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!

Fred opens the briefcase and reveals what it contains to the crowd. A mean, massive turd is what it is. Stinky. Sticky. Disgusting. All those things.

Richard Parker: It’s what we thought it was, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Are you sure? It’s the size of a meteorite!

Fred has a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

Fred Dick: Nobody swirlies Mama Dick without getting a little SHID IN THEIR FACE!!! AINT THAT RIGHT, STRONKY TONK??

STRONK: YES. THE POOP MUST BE SMEARED IN THE FACE OF THE HUMAN MAN WHO PUT MAMA DICK’S HEAD IN THE TOILET AND FLUSHED IT. YES. YOU MADE MAMA DICK HAVE TEARS. THAT MEANS PAPA BEST WAS WRONG. POOP DOES NOT GO IN THE TOILET. POOP GOES IN THE EYES AND EARS AND NOSE AND MOUTH OF THE HUMAN TOILET MAN.

Suddenly, the Strasbourg crowd begins to stir… not whistling, but cheering…

Fred Dick: Oh, y’all like dooky play? Don’t surprise me none, hell, yer whole country smells like one big dooky play, if y’ask me. Buncha stankin’ ol’–

BANG!!!

Nick Stuart: IT’S SAGE PONTIFF!

Amazingly, Sage Pontiff gets a loud cheer as he comes in with a dropkick, laying Fred Dick out. STRONK sees The Bodhisattva and lets go of Paxton. He rushes at Sage, but Sage is ready, and they trade blows. STRONK starts to take advantage, pushing Sage into the corner. He holds an arm back for a huge punch, but it never goes forward.

Because Paxton Ray has grabbed his hand.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Richard Parker: Uh…did Paxton Ray just get cheered?

Nick Stuart: I guess he did.

STRONK turns around and gets a stiff right fist from Ray. He sends one of his own to Paxton, who unloads another haymaker. Both men are tired from their match, but Paxton has the advantage, as Sage comes up and helps Paxton push STRONK into the ropes. Team Crunch ‘n Punch look at each other and nod, then send STRONK over the ropes with a clothesline.

Nick Stuart: They better watch out, because Fred Dick is coming to!

Indeed, Fred gets up and runs at the two of them, but they quickly move out of the way and toss him over the rope, where STRONK catches him and sets him down. The two Whoresman scowl up at Sage and Paxton as they begin to walk up to the ramp. Paxton grabs the microphone where Fred left it.

Paxton Ray: Oh, Freddie, Freddie, Freddie, ya wanted t’bring shit into this? Well ya jus’ stepped into a whole mess’a it.

Paxton leans over the ropes while Sage Pontiff beckons for the Whoresman to come back into the ring.

Paxton Ray: I coulda gone harder on ya, an’ ya jus’ told me that now? Now I got the green light t’do jus’ that. So this was fun, ya and your asshole buddy, me an’ my bestie right here…but how ‘bout we do it 1-on-1, say at Tropical Turmoil?

Fred thinks about it for a moment. Ain’t this what he wanted? Ain’t this it?

He looks towards the ring, sneers toothily at Paxton. A nearly inaudible phrase, barely picked up over the arena speakers:

“Sounds like a wet dream to me, Paxton Ray.”

Paxton grins.

Paxton Ray: Oh no, sweet Freddie. It’s gonna be a nightmare.

He drops the microphone as “Fist Fight” by Ballroom Thieves blasts over the speakers. The team in the ring stare down The Poor Whoresman as they make their way to the back.

Nick Stuart: There you have it! Fred Dick and Paxton Ray are going to face off at Tropical Turmoil!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick wanted this, and it looks like he’s going to get it. You have to give him this, though – not many people want to fight with Paxton Ray, and this man is looking for it!

Nick Stuart: Let’s go to commercial.

We cut to commercial.

Backstage. A frustrated Anglo Luchador paces outside of a door, a private locker room afforded to PRIME royalty.

Jason Snow on the nameplate.

He paces and stops and holds his hand to his eyes. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Several times. To the point of nausea, perhaps for the Luchador, perhaps for the audience at home, definitely for Richard Parker at the broadcast desk. Finally, he throws his hands down in frustration, disgust, resignation.

TAL: Fuck it, we ball.

He pirouettes with his fist already up in the air to do the deed, except the door opens as soon as the Luchador faces it.

Jason Snow: You again.

The Luchador raises his finger and inhales deeply.

TAL: Okay, no more games, no more asking around behind your back about how I can coax you into this match. I’m going to tell you exactly why I want, no, NEED this match.

Snow doesn’t move. .

TAL: Look, I’ve been here since day one of this reboot. I’ve been to the heights, and I’ve been knocked off every pedestal I’ve tried to climb onto. I’ve tried fighting for justice. I’ve tried fighting for blood. I’ve tried fighting for every reason imaginable except for one.

Snow remains stone-faced..

TAL: For the sake of wrestling. I looked around the roster for the perfect wrestler to prove that against, win or lose. I thought about Youngblood or Sykes, but I didn’t want to risk losing the camaraderie we built at War Games. I thought about Farthington, but even before his limbs blew up in that tragic, tragic conga accident…

In the distance, a single tear falls from a vending machine wearing a beret.

TAL: …there was always the risk that it would turn into a fight without honor, and I’m fucking sick of fights without honor, Ghost. I’ve spent the last year PLUS fighting men who took cheapshots at me, and that’s why I didn’t approach STRONK either. And Hessian wasn’t right because, man, Hessian wasn’t the guy running roughshod over this place when I was paying attention.

The Luchador points at Snow without touching him. Again, no need for extraneous hostility. The Luchador’s words are true.

TAL: It was you, Ghost.

Snow furrows his brow for only a moment before going back to not caring.

TAL: And that’s why I need this. I need to go up against a guy who never stopped being the best at this fucking sport without any rancor, acrid feelings, spite, contempt. I need to prove to myself that I can chop a man, not because I want to send him home with the shame of a chest that looks like hamburger meat, but because I expect it to return to me until it doesn’t. I want someone who will match me, hold for hold. And I want it all to happen because we both love this fucking sport.

The Luchador withdraws his hand and snorts.

TAL: And I know you keep close to the vest and you probably got a lot of shit going on in real life that dragged you back out of hiding for this, but I heard stories. I know the rumors, and not the silly bullshit ones Mills and his toadie Gary post every Wednesday before the show. You could’ve done literally anything else for money or to pass the time until you died. But you came back, and you came back here.

The Luchador smirks through his mask and laughs.

TAL: And that’s why I think you need this too. Straight up. No pretense. Just you, and me, and a wrestling ring. What do you say?

Snow waits a few beats before answering without changing the expression on his face.

Jason Snow: The first mistake you’re making is you think there can be fights with honor. The honor comes when it’s over. The fight is just the fight.

The Luchador is about to reply when Snow holds up two fingers to stop him.

Jason Snow: The second mistake you’re making is you think I love this sport. I don’t. This just so happens to be the gift God gave me. I am this sport.

TAL: So just give me–

Jason Snow: The third mistake you’re making…

Snow adds a third finger.

Jason Snow: …is you think you’re special. You think you need to prove something to yourself, so you want to do that against me. I don’t know if you’ve taken a look around this motherfucker, but it’s full of guys whose heads I’ve been living in for more than a decade. You see the match I just had with Chandler Tsonda? Every time I step in the ring these days, somebody’s looking to give me the fight of their life. You know why?

The Anglo Luchador just stares.

Jason Snow: Because beating me means something. Beating me is worth more than any title PRIME has to offer. Beating me on my worst day means you go down in history as one of the very best. I mean, hell, that’s what you’re looking for here, right? To see where you stand?

TAL: I need this.

Jason Snow: Just like everybody else needs it. I don’t get anybody’s worst day. I get their best day. Every. Single. Time. Because, like I said, beating me means something. The list of Universal Champions is a hell of a lot longer than the list of people who’ve heard the referee hit three with my shoulders pinned under them. So I get it. You need it. Right, right. But tell me something: Why do I need it? Why does this cranky old man, Jason Snow, need to beat you?

Snow pauses a beat before turning to his right and walking away, letting his eyes linger on TAL as he exits the shot. The Luchador looks at him with bewilderment in his eyes before slumping his shoulders and sighing.

TAL: Well, I guess I’m cursed to do this because everyone on this fucking roster hates me. Guess I gotta figure out a plan B for Tropical Turmoil. Maybe if I talk really loudly about veganism outside the Diamond Mine, STRONK will come out and want to kick the shit out of me.

The Luchador walks off in the other direction while we cut elsewhere.

This part of the show begins with the four worst words to ever begin any segment in the ReVival era of PRIME, mainly because of who says them and where we’re at.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, hear me out.

The Glueminati locker room is bereft of any of its key members outside of… well, the Glue Man Group. We were workshopping a name for this locker room, but we stopped workshopping it because it’s unsalvageable. Seriously, we broke reality last time we tried, and do you know how hard it is to get Anna Daniels to fix it? Because she does. And I think she wants to get paid.

Joe Fontaine and Sid Phillips are sitting in lawn chairs on either side of a big screen TV. They didn’t come with the rest of the furniture in the room, they actually brought those with them. On the big screen TV is the Fabulous Gold Mask on a Zoom call, with terrible enough reception that you have to measure Fabby by frames per minute.

Sid Phillips: What?

Joe Fontaine: Did you see all of the sexual tension earlier tonight?

Sid Phillips: What the hell are you talking about?

Joe Fontaine: Between our boy FLAMBO and that Nate Colton!

Sid casts an aside glance at Joe, not sure if he even wants to engage. On the screen, Fabby appears irate that this is even a topic.

Joe Fontaine: Like, think about it. Really, really think about it. You know how FLAMBO calls Nate Colton the biiiiiiiiiitch? Well, maybe it takes on a different meeting when you consider the power structure of two men in the throes of a passionate, violent love. Like, you have to wonder if FLAMBO is really the top or if he’s a power bo—

Sid holds out his hand.

Sid Phillips: Imma stop you there.

On the screen, Fabby looks very thankful that Sid has interrupted Joe in the middle of one of his tangents. Joe pauses, clearly taken aback by Sid of all people putting a stop to one of his inane tangents.

Sid Phillips: We could be doing anything else right now. We could be watching Hanlon’s next match. We could be going over the gameplan with FLAMBERGE about his match later tonight. Instead, we’re sitting around watching a big screen with Fabby’s dumb ass on it.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, but this is important. Like, the fan fiction community is depending on us to sort out all of the raw sexual tension between our boy and the eldest Colton.

Sid Phillips: Since when did they need help?

Joe Fontaine: Since now!

On the screen, Fabby looks like he’s trying to pull his hair out. Considering that he’s wearing a golden mask over whatever hair he has, this would’ve been quite the feat if he’d done it.

Joe Fontaine: And, like… I wanted to get Cecilworth in on this conversation, but y’know… ever since his limbs exploded gruesomely in a tragic conga accident, he’s been very clear to me that he would like me to respect his privacy in these trying times.

Sid Phillips: He only said “no”, didn’t he?

Joe Fontaine: No. I mean, yes.

Fabby sighs on the zoom call, his arms drooping down like he’s Charlie Brown walking away in gloom if the camera caught ‘ol Chuck at like 2 FPS.

Joe Fontaine: Anyway, let’s call this meeting about FLAMBton into order.

Sid Phillips: I don’t think this is nearly as important as you think it is.

Joe jumps up out of his chair and reaches up into the air, such that he’s reaching past where the camera can see. As if by magic, he pulls down a big corkboard, the kind that conspiracies are usually built from. It also, as a consequence, hides Fabby from view. Don’t worry, Fabby’s still there. He’s just lurking.

On this mysterious corkboard are two pictures. One is of FLAMBO in the middle of their visit to “church” a few months ago, a picture that FLAMBO assured Joe that he would murder him for taking if he ever showed it off and Joe assumed he wasn’t actually being literal about that. The other is of Oinker McGoo, because as Joe will explain much later – he doesn’t actually have a picture of Nate Colton, so Oinkers is the next best thing.

Why Joe Fontaine doesn’t just, I don’t know, visit the PRIME website is beyond any of us.

Joe Fontaine: Now that I have your attention, let’s explain the complicated mechanics of how this ship is going to sail. First of all…

Sid sighs and gets up out of his lawn chair.

Sid Phillips: Joe.

Joe Fontaine: What? I told you, this is important.

Sid Phillips: When was the last time we’ve actually done our job?

Joe stares at Sid like he’s grown a third eye and that eye can do sick powerbombs like the rest of Sid’s body parts.

Joe Fontaine: Today. Right now. We came to work and we sat down here and we’re here in support of our Glue friends!

Sid shakes his head.

Sid Phillips: No. Not that.

Joe Fontaine: Oh come on, what could be more important than this?

Sid Phillips: Joe. We’re supposed to be professional wrestlers, not cheerleaders. And I haven’t done a powerbomb in an actual wrestling match in five months.

Joe Fontaine: You powerbombed a terrible haircut more recently than that!

Sid sighs.

Sid Phillips: That’s not my point and you know it. Is this all we’re going to be doing in the Glueminati? Just sit around in the… what did we workshop calling this again? The Gloffice Space? Whatever, I don’t care. I didn’t travel halfway across the world to sit in a lawn chair in a Zoom call with this weird hobo in a gold mask you found one day to talk about shipping two bitter enemies together.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, but only because love and hate are just two sides of the same coin, and love can bloom on the battlefield! Which is in the ring!

Sid doesn’t say anything. He just picks up the lawn chair he’d been sitting in and throws is casually at Joe’s corkboard in a manner that’s distinctively… not… a powerbomb? What? I’m confused. My world is askew. Joe jumps to the side to dodge the sailing lawn chair, but the corkboard gets knocked down. The TV behind it, though, that’s fine. It’s there in time to see Fabby holding up his hands as though he’d been concerned that the lawn chair might actually hit him in the face.

With Sid’s statement made, he just storms off.

Joe Fontaine: Hey!

Joe stomps his feet.

Joe Fontaine: Sid! Get back here! You’re ruining the big important meeting!

Sid doesn’t answer. In the background, you can hear a door being violently ripped open followed closely by the door being violently slammed shut. Joe stands there looking more than a little irritated at this, and then he turns to Fabby and points a finger at him.

Joe Fontaine: Fabby, that’s your fault.

All Fabby can do is sigh, stand up from his seat, and walk away in visible anger.

Well, let’s go check in on what Ivan’s up to, surely he won’t be concerned about who kisses who!

Backstage at the Zenith de Strasbourg, we are greeted to the broad back of Ivan Stanislav. The Russian Bear isn’t slated to wrestle tonight, so he’s in his crimson uniform. Next to him, Official Red Army Interviewer Speedy Riggs power walks backwards, staring at the camera. The Cuban referee turned interviewer, yet always Red Army member, offers a wide grin. His hammer and sickle tropical shirt swishes as he backpedals.

Speedy Riggs: PRIME! I was just walking around backstage and who did I find, but The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav!

A chance happening… no doubt…

Speedy Riggs: Let’s take this chance to try to get a word with the would-be, should-be Universal Champion! Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav, how lucky I am to bump into you! Every person in PRIME wants to know just what you are up to!

Stanislav doesn’t break his stride as he turns a corner, winding through the backstage area. He stops at a door, eyeing a nameplate written in both French and English, and then turns to look down at Speedy and then over at the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: What am I doing? I am looking for someone, dear Pedro.

Speedy Riggs: Who, might I ask?

Stanislav straightens his uniform and turns just enough so that his multiple medals glimmer upon his barrel chest.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, it is none of your concern. If I find them, I find them.

Speedy nods his head.

Speedy Riggs: Well, I know that many people might think that I am biased towards you, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. They’ll think it’s because you’ve been a friend to me and my family for over half my life. They’ll think it’s because you’re just such a great man! They’ll think it’s just because you’re such a dominant force in PRIME. But still, as the Official Red Army Interviewer, I need to ask you the hard-hitting questions.

Ivan nods his head, his eyes and face thoughtful and yet, this looks awfully well rehearsed.

Speedy Riggs: And so, my commitment to honest journalism requires me to ask you this question, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav: Brandon Youngblood. The Universal Title. This is happening later on tonight against Jonathan-Christopher Hall. The man who promised that YOU would be able to finish your story and get a chance at the title. Your thoughts?

Stanislav cocks a brow and smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: You think I have anything to really say about that situation?

Speedy Riggs: Well I-

Ivan Stanislav: Because I do!

Riggs actually jumps, while Ivan turns more to the camera and motions to move closer to him. It does.

Ivan Stanislav: Since beginning of this year, I have demolished every opponent that has stood in front of me. Why, I had two handicap matches in a row and still won with ease! Meanwhile, Brandon Youngblood gets beaten, pillar to post, losing to the likes of Daytona Diamonds of all people and still HE gets a shot at MY title?

Ivan waggles his finger.

Ivan Stanislav: Lindsay Troy is nothing more than charity case for all subpar members of this roster. Anglo Luchador has chance to win a title, after I annihilated him handily at Culture Shock? Outrageous!

Speedy Riggs: Well Starsh—

Ivan Stanislav: I am not finished! Hall had better win this match tonight, and if he does, I expect to be given what is rightfully mine. And if by some disaster he does not? I am more than happy to crush Brandon Youngblood under my bootheel. Just like I did at UltraViolence! Dear Lindsay Troy, you will eventually run out of excuses. You will run out of sacrificial lambs to put in front of me. And when that day comes, you had better shine up that belt nice and well and get the hammer and sickle sideplates ready, because it is as good as mine!

Ivan lets out a frustrated huff and nods his head.

Ivan Stanislav: Now then, why don’t you both follow me, and we can see if I find who I am looking for, eh?

Speedy nods his head and offers a smile to the camera, but Ivan is already on the move, several long strides down the hallway. Speedy speaks once, before rushing after the Russian.

Speedy Riggs: Let’s go back to ringside, where two capitalist losers are wrestling!

We cut to ringside.

We return to the ring, with Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: This next match is set for one fall and has a sixty minute time limit!

Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. The French fans are going wild!

Vince Howard: Introducing first…FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

The arena’s lights go out, and the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

The opening of “Tryin’” by the Eagles is nearly drowned out by whistles from the crowd. And when Nate Colton steps through the curtain, it gets a whole lot worse.

Nick Stuart: A VERY negative reaction for the New Diamond! I don’t know if I’ve heard anything like this!

Richard Parker: WHAT?!

A frown crosses Nate’s face as he walks down the ramp, his torso covered in his signature blue satin jacket. A far cry from his usual entrance routine; he’s not stopping to hype up the crowd or shake hands with fans.

He’s got no fans here.

Vince Howard: His opponent…hailing from Evansville Indiana…weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…he is the NEW Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

Somehow, the negative reaction gets even louder.

Nick Stuart: –––

Richard Parker: –––

They’re even drowning out the announce team.

Colton climbs the steps, ducks between the ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he goes through his pre-match stretches.

It takes a minute, but the crowd finally starts to quiet down, and we can hear the announcers again.

Richard Parker: –every weekend from 1998 to 2006, and I paid her to–

Nick Stuart: It’s clear that the fans here tonight are not fond of the New Diamond.

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: Anything else you’d care to say, partner?

Richard Parker: Just that the views and opinions expressed in this program do not reflect the positions of PRIME, any similarity between persons living or dead is purely coincidental, and any accounts of this event without the express written consent of Major LeagUe Baseball is prohibited.

Nick Stuart: That should cover it.

DING DING 

The staredown continues.

Nick Stuart: This match is officially underway, and given the way these two are locked eye to eye, you can can cut the proverbial tension with a knife.

Richard Parker: These two were supposed to be the faces of the ReVival going into 2023. 5-Star and Universal Champion. Ace Network put them on billboards, magazine spreads.

Nick Stuart: Most thought that the year, and the future of PRIME…rested in their hands and whoever would come out on top between the two would take that torch. What started with such promise didn’t quite end how either would have liked.

Richard Parker: You hear that whistling? This crowd IS a hostile environment…and Colton doesn’t seem phased, not one bit. Maybe his sense of giving the fans everything he has is locked to the United States.

Nick Stuart: You could make the same argument for Hanlon here. He hasn’t shifted his expression either. Not a bit.

The dream match between two of PRIME’s most accomplished young originals is building in tension, the Thresher of Hooves being the first to begin the movement. Colton follows, slowly. The two draw close, their eyes STILL not leaving each other. Hanlon, for his part, begins talking, saying something to his opponent. Colton nods, parrying back. Whatever is being said, the agitation begins to grow, with Hayes aggressively pushing Colton back with hands across his chest. Colton, only having moved back a step or two, rejoins, shoving Hanlon back.

Richard Parker: Clearly a lot of love here.

Nick Stuart: These two are definitely trying to size the other up.

Richard Parker: One inch one way and over twenty pounds the other. Though who knows, cornfed midwestern boys got that secret strength.

Hanlon steps back, but plants his feet. A smirk. Then, a smile. A chuckle. A shaking of the head. And when he steps back forward, Colton goes, expecting a shove. What does he get instead?

A big beefy shoulder smashing into him. The sharpness of the blow takes Colton off his feet, and when he rises up, Hanlon is right there, pushing him into the ropes. A quick charge. The New Diamond throws both forearms and hits Hanlon between the eyes. Staggering back a few steps, Hayes feels the waistlock attempt go and smother him. Within the next moment, he slips it, a standing switch, and now he is the one with a belly to back waistlock. A loud roar from the two time former Universal Champion. The former 5-Star Champion wraps both his legs around those of Hanlon, and with a jostling of weight, rolls up The Event Horizon!

ONE

TWO

AGGRESSIVE KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow in perfect position there–

Richard Parker: And so is Hayes!

Nick Stuart: Colton TRIED to beat Hanlon to his feet, but all that happens was Hanlon throwing himself at Colton–

Richard Parker: That’s expert self missile-ship! I imagine this bit of bodily knowledge is from the coaching tutelage of the true strategic mind of professional wrestling, the GOAT of all coaching verbal communicators, the wonderful and most precious exploded limbed man in all of the world, Lord Cecilworth Farthington!

All this, and with the stumble, Hanlon follows through, blasting himself AND The New Diamond to the floor from the ring ropes with a HEAVY clothesline! The mad spill has Hanlon pushing to get back to his feet, all as Colton tries to do the same. Staggered, the pair lock up, trying to push each other to the guardrail. Colton grabs hold of a headlock, using his leverage and strength to try and grind the neck of Hammerin’ Hayes. Hanlon DRIVES Colton’s back into the ring apron, breaking the hold, then shoves him back under the bottom rope and into the ring. Re-entering the ring behind him, Colton tries to get an inside cradle, and does!

Nick Stuart: AND ANOTHER–

Richard Parker: –WAIT–

Nick Stuart: NO! Both of them on their feet SHOULDER BLOCK! ANOTHER big massive blow from Hanlon!

Hayes gets to work quickly, laying a few heavy boots to the fallen Colton, but the former 5-Star Champion is quick to roll away and stand. Nate moves in, Hanlon expecting, only for Colton to feign like he is about to throw a haymaker, only to load up and hit a stiff forearm strike right between the eyes of the Thresher of Glue. Another. And another! Colton feels himself, and then goes for another, but it is Hanlon’s turn to block off the blow, chopping it down with his forearms before hitting a brutal knee to the midsection of The New Diamond, then ripping and grabbing him around the waist, driving him through the mat with a German suplex.

Richard Parker: Good HOYT that boy been putting down the beef since we last saw him.

Nick Stuart: One has to wonder, given the history between Hanlon and Youngblood…and Youngblood appearing to endorse Colton from the jump–

Richard Parker: –that he feels a certain way about it.

Nick Stuart: More than a certain way.

Richard Parker: Oh he HAS to. And especially armed with the knowledge that it might’ve been HIM going against Jonathan-Christopher Hall for the Universal Championship–

Nick Stuart: My thoughts exactly. That has to weigh heavily on the young man’s mind…

Richard Parker: As heavy as any diamond, I’d wager.

Hayes stands up, bringing Colton with him via the hair. Ashley Barlow admonishes Hanlon, who pays her tacit acceptance, all before throwing a heavy knee into Colton’s stomach, whipping him off the ropes and grabbing onto The New Diamond, lifting him up high and planting him with a tilting Samoan Drop! Or so he thinks! Colton grabs hold of Hanlon with a crucifix, and leverages him down to the canvas for a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Colton scrambles to his feet, and Hanlon, for his part, looks to blast him with the fullness of his own body, but Nate side steps him. Hanlon growls, continuing forward, caroming off the ropes, and in running, is caught on the recovery by Colton with a russian legsweep. A chinlock attempt follows, but Hanlon is like a bull, and he refuses to stay down, rising up. A sharp blow to the lower back with his knee. A hammerlock applied. Colton lifts Hanlon up, hitting him with a crisp hammerlock suplex!

Nick Stuart: These two giving us what we were anticipating and more!

Richard Parker: Say what you want to about either of them, and believe me, I have, and still will. But when it comes to skill and execution in the ring, when it comes to professional wrestling, these two, Colton and Hanlon, they’re amongst the very best.

Nick Stuart: Not just for their ages either.

Richard Parker: It’s just that if Colton had that Hanlon killer instinct mentality–

Nick Stuart: And if Hanlon had the personal restraint that Colton–

Richard Parker: Maybe we’re all trampling over just what the last year brought to these two?

Hanlon tries shaking his aching shoulder while Colton starts to lift him back from the canvas with an armlock applied. The Event Horizon growls. A sharp elbow to the breadbasket. And another. And another. Colton has no choice but to let go. Hanlon hit a heavy punch that drops Colton to the canvas. And after he does, the crowd roars in approval. The former Universal Champion takes his time and acknowledges with exaggerated bravado, only for, in the next moment, to turn around, and get the absolute GLUE smacked out of his dogshit face.

Okay, maybe his face isn’t exactly dogshit.

Richard Parker: Woof!

Hanlon nearly crumples from the blow. Colton drives forward with a forearm strike. Another. A back elbow. A headlock. Maintaining his ground, hand locked on forearm. No rest for the weary. Just lots of torque and pressure.

Hayes drives forward, pushing Colton into the corner turnbuckles. Nate tries to maintain, but Hanlon drives him into the corner again. And again. And AGAIN! Released, he steps back, the barrels at Colton, slamming into with a cross body into the corner!

Nick Stuart: My word! What a sharp attack there!

Hanlon pulls himself back up with the ropes, and then launches a back elbow into the corner, smashing Colton into the turnbuckles in the process. He turns around, and throws a right hand. And another. ANOTHER! They’re getting more razzmatazz! Another and another! He starts gyrating his forearm! And then he throws, connecting with Colton, who doubles over. Hayes then throws his entire body with a hip attack into Colton.

From the position, Colton’s body swings back and then down, putting him seated in the corner. A brush of the mustache. Then, with the heel of his boot, he begins to facewash the former 5-Star Champion.

Richard Parker: That’ll get the Indiana off you real quick!

After what feels like an eternity, Hanlon relents, but not before taking a few steps back, charging forward, and connecting with ANOTHER crossbody!

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon is a battering ram here tonight!

Hanlon rolls him over, going for a pin.

ONE

TWO

NOOOO!

Nick Stuart: A close one there!

Hanlon smacks the mat in clear frustration before lifting three fingers to Barlow. As he does, Colton stirs, disoriented while Hanlon fumes. Hayes stops his shenanigans, pawing at Colton’s head, around the ear, and his eyes seem to catch something. A perplexed look. Then, dawning realization. He begins aggressively pointing at Colton’s ears to Barlow. So much whistling. Barlow doesn’t understand what is going on. Colton begins to rise. Hanlon does as well. Before Colton can do anything, Hanlon is quick to elbow him, and then does so again, all before whipping him off the ropes and hitting the tilting Samoan Drop!

Nick Stuart: This is NOT looking good for Nate Colton…

Hanlon stands up, and, digs in with his boots. A load up. Baseball is America’s Pastime, but here, tonight, in France, the Glue Boy is bringing the sport to them! Colton starts to rise, but is very groggy, very battered. It’s rare to see him in such a state. And as he does, the wind up. The pitch!

Richard Parker: OOOOOOH THAT IS A GRAND SLAM! GRAAAAAAAAAAAAND SALAMI DOMME MOMMY BRAM A LANGA DING DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG!

Walk Off, Event Horizon! And as the fans go wild, he leaves the ring, beginning his protracted trot around the bases. One corner, then rounding second. The fireworks are going off! FLAMBO and Cecilworth’s torso and Joe are here for you buddy, and they have a Gatorade bath waiting for you! Or is it wine here in France? Touch third. Raise your hands like you just don’t care.

And get obliterated.

Absolutely.

Fucking.

Obliterated.

Nick Stuart: COLTON HIT HIM WITH EVERYTHING HE HAD WITH THAT LARIAT!

Nate Colton didn’t just smash the ball that is Hayes Hanlon’s head. No. Hayes Hanlon’s head is Brad Lidge, and it is October 17, 2005, and it’s Game Five of the National League Championship Series. And Nate Colton, he’s Albert Pujols. And it’s the top of the ninth inning. If you know, you know. If you don’t, well, it’s damn near twenty years later and that baseball STILL hasn’t landed from orbit.

Whistling. Insane, intense whistling. Colton lays out, and so does Hanlon, who has just been turned inside out, outside in, and been twisted up a few thousand times for good measure. Colton begins to stir first, all as Ashley Barlow’s ring out count draws to six. Doing his best, he lifts Hanlon up, rolling him back in, and following after.

Richard Parker: That’s so foolish! He could’ve just rolled in and taken the win there!

Nick Stuart: Maybe not. Because Hanlon is starting to stir–

Richard Parker: Colton had him!

Nick Stuart: Colton HAS HIM NOW! DRAGON SLEEPER! DRAGON SLEEP–

Richard Parker: HANLON FIGHTING HE’S GETTING OHHHHHHHHHHH–

Nick Stuart: INVERTED SUPLEX! INVERTED SUPLEX! And Hanlon shooting back to his feet and he doesn’t know where he’s at–

Richard Parker: OOOOOOOOH–

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH! COLTON CLUTCH! COLTON–

Richard Parker: WAAAAAIT!

ROLL UP!

ONE

TWO

THREEEEEEEEEEENO!

And Colton, with a struggle, gets the Colton Clutch on again, though, the grip is sloppy this time!

Just sloppy enough from the quickness.

Hanlon throws his head back into the nose of Colton, causing him to break the hold. And in the next moment, he rips at the right ear of Colton, then shoves his head before driving forward with a shoulder block. The blow hits, and as Hanlon throws whatever flesh colored thing is in his hand, he starts aggressively jaw jacking with Ashley Barlow. Loud whistling now. Colton grabs for his ear, gritting his teeth. The effect from the crowd only seems to make it worse. Frustrated, his mind racing, he slams his fist into the canvas. He rises up, side stepping a steaming Hanlon, but now, he hears the crowd in full and winces. Heavy right hand from Hanlon.

Colton throws a forearm strike.

Right hand from Hanlon.

Forearm strike.

Hanlon goes for the lariat.

Colton ducks it.

Nick Stuart: Colton CLUTCH SUPLEX–

The whistling breaks the decibel meter.

And Colton can’t shut it out.

Hanlon slips out. Knee to the midsection.

Richard Parker: OOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Nick Stuart: FLASHPOINT! FLASHPOINT!

There is no hesitation. Colton is brought back up.

Nick Stuart: EPOCH! EPOCH! COVER!!!

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: OH WOW!

Nick Stuart: THE LAST BIT OF THIS MATCH IS INTERESTING! Something…something was in Nate Colton’s ear? And when it was gone–

Richard Parker: Cheaters never prosper!

Nick Stuart: I think…I think it was a ear plug? And that’s not cheating. Especially with how loud the crowds have been on this European tour–

Richard Parker: What?!

Nick Stuart: I said–

Richard Parker: what?!

Vince Howard: Yoooooooooour winner…by pinfall…HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYES! HANLON!!!

The French fans go wild for a Glue Boy doing right.

Frustrated, Colton clutches both his ears, sneering in the direction of the victor, who is waving him by before flipping him off.

Nick Stuart: What a battle! Maybe if not for the whistling…that Colton Clutch Suplex hits.

Richard Parker: Something tells me we’re bound to see this one again. And again. And again.

We go elsewhere.

The scene is backstage where Reed Young stands with the Universal Championship across his right shoulder. Beside him is the actual champion, Jonathan-Christopher Hall. It appears they have some mic time in front of the camera, so this oughtta be good. /sarcasm

There’s also no interviewer around. Wonder why.

Reed points into the camera lens.

Reed Young: BRANDON! Eons ago I took you under my wing and I taught you everything you know now! Your nicknames? I gave you them! Your finisher? I taught you it! Your attitude? I perfected!

Nick Stuart: Does anyone believe a thing this man says?

Richard Parker: I do!

Nick Stuart: Reed is a known used car salesman, and that’s a knock at the most underhanded used car salesmen of all time!

Young taps the title gold with his free left knuckles.

Reed Young: My boy is sick of you! You ruined HIS LIFE, you know that, right? If it wasn’t for you, Jonathan-Christopher Hall would have won the FIRST Almasy Tournament and had the Universal Championship off the hop! You owe this man everything!

Young pauses, looks over at Hall and lightly touches the top of his head.

Reed Young: Now he’s going to TAKE IT BACK!

Young pauses again. He leans towards his son-in-law and starts talking directly to him, in what is meant to be a private conversation that’s definitely not private.

Reed Young: Go ahead, son. Let them know how you’re feeling.

At first, Jonathan-Christopher looks tentative. His eyes quint and his head lowers. But then slowly and surely, his palms roll into balls of fists. He starts shaking, not exactly with anxiety… but anger.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Brandon.

Hearing JCH call the challenger by his real name excites the former Action! Wrestling owner. Young jumps up and down! He is full of joy!

Richard Parker: Jonathan-Christopher said Youngblood’s name! It’s over, it’s over!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: My father is right, you did ruin my life.

Hall pulls at the skin on his face with both hands. He’s trying to find something in himself to keep going.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Now I am going to ruin yours. I am-

Reed Young: THAT’S RIGHT! Brandon, you aren’t going to be a three time champ. You’re going to be a first time chump!

Nick Stuart: (Sarcastic) Original.

Reed Young: Your success WAS tied to my son and now your downfall will be tied to him, too! It’s over for you, old timer. Time to hang them up! Bookaya-

The door to the room FLIES open as the doorway is filled with red military Russian.

Ivan Stanislav: There you are!

Behind Stanislav stands Speedy Riggs and Alexei Ruslan, but the duo remain outside. The Russian Bear marches into the room, reaches in front of JCH and jabs his finger into Reed’s chest.

Ivan Stanislav: For all your booyakashaki’king you have produced NOTHING for The Russian Bear! So shut up, and step aside!

Stanislav glares angrily, and it seems in his heart of hearts that he’s ready to weather massive fines if necessary.

Young looks to his son-in-law and shrugs. Vickie’s father then steers his attention back to Stanislav.

Reed Young: Ivan, Ivan, I know. It’s that narcissist Lindsay Troy, she’s a terrible owner and doesn’t see dollar bills if it was flashed in front of her face! Hear me out, Ivan. Once we discard of Brandon, you’ve got to be next in line! It’s a foregone conclusion!

Young leans in towards the giant. It seems like he’s not scared of Stanislav at all.

Just incredibly ignorant.

Reed Young: Besides, who would you rather face? My up-and-coming son or the man you already beat for the title but might not manage to do it again because he’s got ownership in his back pocket?

Young glances down at the title across his shoulder.

Reed Young: Help a brother out tonight and we will more than help you! It’s got to be booked, I can see it now. Jonathan-Christopher Hall defends at Tropical Tornado against… YOU… IVAN STANISLAV!

Young starts clapping for the idea he pitched.

Sorry, iDeA.

As this charade continues, Jonathan-Christopher Hall mixes between a fine line of sulking in self-pity and swimming through newfound anger.

Ivan Stanislav: Enough… enough… ENOUGH!

The Bear booms as he places his skillet-sized paw against Reed’s chest and compels him backwards, just about out of the camera shot and putting four hundred pounds of Russian between father and son-in-law. Ivan turns to look down at JCH, his shoulders pulled together slightly, his head dipped, but his fists clenched.

Ivan’s tone turns softer as he places his hand on JCH’s shoulder and squeezes.

Ivan Stanislav: Jonathan-Christopher. It is a big night for you tonight.

He grunts.

Ivan Stanislav: Chin up, son. Listen to me.

Hall does what he’s told.

Ivan Stanislav: June 16, 2023, Jonathan-Christopher. I stood across ring from plucky upstart who I felt had no business being in ring with me. This pretty boy, with all tools necessary to be successful… and yet I felt he did not have heart. Do you know who this boy was?

Hall glances down at his feet and then back up at Ivan.

He grunts with frustration and nods.

Ivan Stanislav: It was you, son. And yes, you may have lost, but who would be surprised by this, hm? Everyone loses to The Russian Bear! But you know what? You placed doubt in my heart in this match. You almost won. You almost beat me, Ivan Stanislav, The Russian Bear. Walking legend of this fine sport. You, Jonathan-Christopher, did this.

Ivan nods once more.

Ivan Stanislav: Now, Brandon Youngblood is half the man I am. I beat him handily last year. Barely broke sweat! And you have come so far. I am quite proud of you, seeing you grow into wrestler you are today. Why, if I were your father, Ivan-Christopher, I would be so proud! Almasy winner. Universal Champion. Look at you!

Ivan offers a big, broad, simply proud smile and squeezes JCH’s arm.

Nick Stuart: Since when is Ivan so nice to Jonathan-Christopher?

Richard Parker: Since… always!

Ivan Stanislav: So go out there and beat Brandon Youngblood, like I know you can, Jonathan-Christopher. You have been winning for Vickie. You have been winning for him…

Ivan thumbs over his shoulder at Reed. Young clearly doesn’t “grasp” how he was pushed to the side, he’s nodding along like a mad man, loving every second of Stanislav’s speech.

Ivan Stanislav: ..but now? Win for yourself.

Hall closes his eyes. Once he reopens them, he finds Reed Young, then Alexei Ruslan in the background and finally… The Russian Bear himself.

JCH huffs while he clenches his fists together.

Reed Young: That’s it, my son-

Young’s cut off as Ivan shoots a death stare his way. Stanislav follows this by squeezing JCH’s shoulder. He digs his fingers into the flesh, massaging… and then it turns into more of a squeeze.

Ivan Stanislav: Because if you do not? I will find my way to Universal Title and destroy whoever is holding it, with or without your promise. If promise is kept, and you still have Title? All the better. But if promise is broken? I will lay waste to you, your father-in-law, and leave nothing but wreckage in my wake… and I will still have that title. Come high-water or Hell.

Ivan smiles a shark-toothed grin and slaps JCH hard on the back.

Ivan Stanislav: So go get them, Timid Tiger! Uncle Ivan will be watching with rapt attention.

With that, Stanislav turns and offers one final, long stare at Reed Young, before walking past JCH and out of the room.

Young stands upright, marches over to his son-in-law and claps his hands profusely.

Reed Young: I wish I signed THAT GUY to a contract years ago. Not (pukey face) Brandon Youngblood.

Young rubs Hall’s back.

Reed Young: Do it for yourself, son, just like Ivan said. But also do it for me and Vickie, who believe in you, too. Don’t forget us.

The Universal Champion closes his eyes one more time. He starts shaking with anger.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: To hell with Brandon Youngblood.

Hall marches off. Reed is momentarily stunned as he spit-shines the title across his shoulders and then shouts “WAIT UP” to his son-in-law.

Reed Young: (Off Camera) This is incredible! The transformation in you is almost complete! LET’S GO!!! Booyakasha!!

The scene fades.

We return from the Universal Champion to the Zenith de Strasbourg, the fans buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. Suddenly, the arena lights dim, a loud cheer erupting from the crowd. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP

THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

With the final image fading away and the song having reached its crescendo, a final shot of the Universal Championship upon its velvet table is shown. And then, we cut to black.

A rich history of greatness.

Is tonight the beginning of a new story?

Or does the Killer of Dreams ascend for an unprecedented third time?

We’re at ringside, with Nick Stuart and Richard Parker standing by. The guitars of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” are in the middle of doing their big wail, and none other than Coral Avalon sits down on one end of the commentary desk, right next to his old buddy Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we’re just moments away from the Universal championship match between Jonathan-Christopher Hall and Brandon Youngblood! And we’re being joined by Coral Avalon here on commentary.

Coral Avalon: Hey.

Richard Parker is not exactly thrilled by these turn of events.

Richard Parker: We’re going to need a science team to clean the headsets after this.

Nick Stuart: I’m sorry, a “science team”?

Richard Parker: Only way to deal with the Bandits is with science. You show them science and they’re warded away like they’re vampires.

Coral Avalon: I don’t think that’s how that works.

Richard Parker: Shut up, you!

They’re interrupted when Vince Howard begins his announcements.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest, scheduled for one fall, is for the PRIME Universal Championship! Introducing first…

They’re interrupted by the lights going out. Before anyone has any idea why that is, the battlecry hits the PA system and they immediately come unglued.

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

“BLOODSPORT (WORLD DOMINATION)” by HEALTH hits, and Brandon Youngblood comes out of the curtain like the hero just narrowly escaping the fireball before it consumes the building. You almost couldn’t hear the intimidating beats of his entrance music over the roar of the crowd.

Youngblood, no-frills as always, powerwalks down to the ring with the spotlight lighting his path. Nothing stops him. Nothing can stop him. Intensity etched on his face. The desire to obliterate his opponent and everything he stands for is obvious on his face.

Vince Howard: …Hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada! He weighs in at two hundred and sixty-five pounds! He is… THE DIAMOND OF THE REVIVAL! HE! IS! BRAAAAAAAAAAANDON! YOUUUUUUUNNNNNGGGGGGBLOOOOOOOOODDDDD!!!

Youngblood stomps his way up the steps, his every movement somehow reverberating over the crowd’s noise, and then he steps into the ring. Once inside, he’s practically unable to contain himself, pacing around the ring and waiting for his opponent.

Coral Avalon: I know Brandon well enough to know that he’s not satisfied with the bevy of laurels he already has. He wants this. More than anything.

Richard Parker: I thought the Bandits had an anti-Youngblood pact you had to sign before you joined them.

As Youngblood continues his pacing, Vince Howard prepares to announce his opponent.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The lights dim to PRETTY PINK©.

But then suddenly change to CRIMSON RED(™)!

Richard Parker: What’s going on!?

A white light shines at the entranceway as Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy steps out onto center stage.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: It’s YA BOY!!!

Some of the fans cheer. They know TCG is likely to start one of his custom made raps but instead, Jonathan-Christopher Hall furiously emerges from behind the apron, inadvertently knocking shoulders with Gladhappy as he passes. Hall makes his way to the edge of the stage as Reed Young is next to appear. Young is racing after Hall, Universal Championship Title across the manager’s shoulder. Reed reaches his son-in-law, placing his right hand on Hall’s back and his left hand out in front, as if “holding the champion back”.

Reed shouts towards Youngblood who’s inside the ring.

Reed Young: You darn gone done it now!

Youngblood is deadpan. No fucks given, of course. Not even phased.

Meanwhile, Young looks over at JCH, seeing the boy is seething and trembling at the same time. Reed begins to hop up and down with excitement!

Reed Young: Booyakasha!!

A rock version cover to “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith blares over the PA as Young lifts his left hand, no longer holding JCH back. The Universal Champion storms down the rampway, his eyes locked on the challenger inside the ring.

Nick Stuart: This is a very different Jonathan-Christopher!

Richard Parker: Reed has worked his magic again! What a manager! He might be the Manager of the Year!

Nick Stuart: Be careful, Vickie could be listening.

Richard Parker: Well, Vickie should be one, too! Absolutely!

Hall reaches the bottom of the rampway but his facial expressions are a lot more different now that he’s closer to the man who is perceived to have ruined his life. Youngblood marches around inside the ring, his eyes also locked on Jonathan-Christopher.

Reed catches up to the champion and then whispers in his ear, yet it’s loud enough for the cameras to hear.

Reed Young: Murder him! KILL! KILL! KILL! Booyakasha!

Nick Stuart: Does Reed say ‘booyakasha’ all the time?

Richard Parker: It’s a great phrase. I might start saying it myself. Booya-

Nick Stuart: Stop.

JCH takes another moment or two standing outside the ring. He looks to his left, right and then slides into the squared circle. Hall closes his eyes and falls back into a corner of the ring. It looks like regret crosses his face…

But Reed is on the outside with a THUMBS UP and a “don’t be afraid to ask for help” statement. Literally he says this, right in front of the referee. Elvis Nixon warns Young but Young simply throws his arms in the air.

Reed Young: I wouldn’t do a thing, your honor!

Two years ago, the very first show of PRIME’s ReVival era pitted these two men across the ring from one another, the main event of what might have been the most pivotal tournament in the entire history of PRIME. The paths they took to get here was as long and winding and rocky as they were divergent.

The man who won that main event was Brandon Youngblood, the perennial main-event player. The man most synonymous with the Revival of PRIME. Up until tonight, the Universal Championship had only shown its true luster around the waist of the Tower of Babel. All other Universal champions are measured against him. The stalwart. The foundation. The Diamond.

And the man standing across from him was the Universal Champion, Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Despite being in PRIME since the beginning, it felt like he came out of nowhere to win the very tournament that had so soundly rejected him just the year prior. He followed that up with taking the Universal Championship from Jared Sykes. Yet, despite his successes… he hadn’t even been the main character of his own story. He’s the puppet king. Tonight, he hoped to write the first chapter of a new story – one that starred him.

While it didn’t show on his face, Brandon Youngblood smiled on the inside. Like a shark that smelled blood.

DING DING

The ringing of the bell brings the otherwise delirious attention of Jonathan-Christopher Hall to focus, and he realizes that this is reality. He is, in fact, reliving the nightmare of the first ReVival. He is in the ring with his boogeyman. PRIME’s very own Baba Yaga.

And when the fucking Baba Yaga comes a-callin’ in their chicken leg hut and starts licking their chops about what a fine meal you’ll make, you’d best believe you’d want to be in the next county over. Maybe the next country. Maybe JCH should be considering other planets, I hear Erata Prime’s nice this time of year.

Either way, when Youngblood takes a step forward… and JCH stays put. It’s a different energy from two weeks ago, when Hall turned his pink pants yellow in one moment. He’s not running away. He’s not pissing himself. He’s here to prove that he is the Universal champion. And who better to prove that against than the man most synonymous with the championship?

Richard Parker: Look at him, Nick! Witness him! He’s standing up to his bully! His tormentor! Truly, he is a role model!

Nick Stuart: You’re joking, right?

Richard Parker: Why would I joke about something like this!?

Finally, JCH completes his “standing up for himself” mentality by winding up.

SMACK!

A shot across the bow, in the form of a slap straight to the face. Jonathan-Christopher Hall had put his whole being into that one slap. It’s a message, spoken loud and clear and without words: “I will not be scared of you any longer.”

Brandon Youngblood didn’t even flinch.

Coral Avalon: Big mistake.

Youngblood suddenly shoots for JCH’s waist. Before Hall had any concept of what just happened, overwhelmed as he was by the speed of a two-time Universal champion who happened to be built like a beat-up old truck and hit just as hard when it runs you over, he is flung mercilessly to the ground with a German suplex. Hall bounces off of the canvas, falls on his stomach, and manages to slide out of the ring.

Reed Young goes from excited to utterly terrified in the blink of an eye. His charge, his son-in-law, just got dribbled like a basketball by the Diamond.

Brandon Youngblood is not known for hesitation. He believes in the grand old tradition of “fuck it”. The moment he sees JCH fall out of the ring, he’s quick to go to the side of the ring and slide out before senior referee Elvis Nixon can stop him.

Nick Stuart: We’re barely into this match and we’re already out on the floor!

Coral Avalon: Dangerous. Out there is where Hall is unpredictable. Guy’s like a cornered animal, you threaten him enough and you’re getting the claws.

Richard Parker: Yeah, because he’s a tiger! Rawr!

Coral Avalon: Did you… just make claws with your hands when you did that?

Richard Parker: ……No.

JCH gets to his feet in a daze, and is unable to register that Brandon Youngblood is coming after him until he takes a clubbing clothesline to the back of his head and falls to the ground hard. Reed Young takes many cautious steps back as Youngblood stares a few daggers in his direction, before he collects his son-in-law and delivers another thunderous German suplex on the floor. JCH lands in a roll and actually manages to get to his feet, only to collapse backwards into the guardrail.

The fans in Strasbourg are going nuts for this, of course, a thunderous ovation as JCH is already on the ropes after the first bit of action.

Coral Avalon: Far be it from me to criticize Brandon, but he can’t win the title out here.

Nick Stuart: Clearly, he’s looking to punish him.

Richard Parker: Why, though? JCH is just a little guy, you know?

Hall crawls away on his hands and knees, ultimately making it to the commentary desk.

Nick Stuart: Out here in front of us, now.

Richard Parker: Oh no, here comes that murder golem in a white singlet…

Indeed, Brandon Youngblood has come around the corner with hate in his heart and murder in his eyes. JCH gets to his feet, only for Youngblood to sneak in behind him and lift him up like he’s doing a back suplex.

Nick Stuart: Guys… we might want to move.

The moment that Youngblood stands up straight with JCH balancing perilously on his shoulder, Youngblood tosses him high into the air. Stuart and Parker immediately have to clear the area as gravity sends JCH to certain oblivion.

CRASH!

Table? Yeah, that’s going bye-bye.

Nick Stuart: JCH just got tossed through our announce table!

Richard Parker: We’re not even three minutes into this match!

The table collapses the moment JCH hits it, and Brandon Youngblood stands over him like a Terminator who doesn’t feel like he’s gotten the job done yet. Perhaps he should’ve thrown him higher? Either way, he absorbs the fervor of the French crowd as he considers what to do with JCH from here, until his eyes lock in with that of Coral Avalon. The Crownless King does not move so much as a muscle after JCH crashed through the table mere feet from him, and the two old rivals share a glare with one another. Would it be Youngblood going up against Avalon at Tropical Turmoil? It’s hard to say. This match isn’t over yet.

One man who does have something to say about this situation, though, is Reed Young. The former Action! owner is trying his best to get in on the action, but he’s being stopped by referee Elvis Nixon.

After deciding that staring down a man who isn’t a part of the match won’t bring the Universal championship back to him, Youngblood goes to collect JCH and pull him to his feet and…

OOOOHHHHHH!!!

BOOOOOOOO!!!

That first sound? That’s in reaction to JCH uppercutting Brandon Youngblood right in the diamonds. The second sound is, of course, the reaction of everyone else when they realized that the Universal champion resorted to a low blow.

Nick Stuart: A vicious low blow from JCH! Elvis Nixon is not watching the action!

Coral Avalon: About what you’d expect from Reed, honestly.

Avalon might have said that calmly, but it’s definitely through clenched teeth.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall isn’t much of a wrestler as he is an opportunist. As Brandon Youngblood is stunned from the uppercut to the junk, Hall decides that the best course of action? Making sure that the front row – full of Vosses, mind you – deserves the opportunity to experience the action first-hand. Hence why he takes Brandon Youngblood and launches him over the guardrail and into the laps of Papa Voss and a few of his eldest children.

Richard Parker: Oh, that’s a lawsuit.

Nick Stuart: Do you think the Voss family have just one lawyer representing them?

Coral Avalon: Yeah, it’s probably another Voss.

Richard Parker: Ah, Lawyer Voss. I bet they have regular correspondence with Lawyer Plague Doctor. You know how lawyers are.

Coral Avalon: Considering the lawyers I know… probably not true.

Hall rolls back in the ring, clearly still hurt from getting flung through the table. The only thing he can do as he lies in agony on the canvas is to scream at Elvis Nixon to start the ten count.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is looking for the countout!

Richard Parker: Brilliant! Why beat Brandon Youngblood the normal way when you can just get him counted out?

The count’s up to four as Youngblood is pulling himself off of various Vosses. At six, he gets back over the guardrail. Youngblood glares at JCH as he re-enters the ring at the count of eight, and that glaring is only ceased when JCH runs up and kicks him right in the head with a marvelous punt.

Richard Parker: Ooh! Right to that bully’s head!

Nick Stuart: That’s a blow that could’ve definitely given Brandon Youngblood a concussion!

Indeed, Youngblood seems rattled by the blow, and JCH immediately goes in for the cover. It only gets two, but there’s two reasons for that. The first is that the referee had seen JCH put his feet up onto the second ropes for more leverage. The second is that Youngblood kicked out anyway.

There’s a lot of admonishing going on, and JCH is getting briefly intimidated by the referee who is doing that admonishing. He’ll claim that he had no idea that was illegal. Finally, JCH turns his attention back to Youngblood whose bell was clearly rung. He drops a leg on him, and goes into a chinlock.

Nick Stuart: Chinlock applied, JCH is trying to wear down Youngblood.

Coral Avalon: Nah, he doesn’t have a good grip on it. Youngblood’s only caught because his bell was rung. Once he gets his bearings, he’s slipping right out of that.

Richard Parker: Nah, he’d win!

Almost the instant those words escape Richard Parker’s lips, Brandon Youngblood wakes up. It’s almost effortless the way that he gets to his feet and lifts JCH up for a back suplex. It’s all the Universal champion can do to tilt backwards and land on his feet before he could be suplexed. He hits the ropes behind him and comes back with a flying back elbow that knocks Youngblood down.

Nick Stuart: That’s Chasing Vickie! And Youngblood goes down!

Coral Avalon: You’d think he’d rename it.

JCH goes for another cover, but it’s another two count as Youngblood kicks out with authority. JCH grasps his air in frustration, and turns to Reed Young for encouragement. Reed’s very energetic and he’s jumping up and down, but that’s not really giving Jonathan-Christopher the answers he needs in this specific moment. He has Brandon Youngblood on the ropes, but he’s unable to finish him.

Hall sees that Youngblood is already getting to his feet, so he decides to go to the well once more. He runs the ropes, flying backwards for the Chasing Vickie.

Nick Stuart: Chasing Vickie aga—NO!

The entire momentum of the flying back elbow comes to a sudden complete halt when Brandon Youngblood catches him in mid-air in a waistlock, the elbow stopping mere inches from hitting Youngblood’s face. JCH has the look of a man who does not want to be in this position, like an unruly child being picked up by their suplex daddy and is about to be sent to their room with NO supper or GameCube.

Nick Stuart: GERMAN SUPLEX!

Youngblood only releases the suplex once JCH hits the ground, meaning that Hall takes the full force of the suplex right on the back of his neck and his shoulders. It’s enough to keep even the resilient Timid Tiger down.

Coral Avalon: Nobody does a suplex like Brandon Youngblood. Most wrestlers can do a suplex. I can do a suplex. Brandon does it like he owns the very concept of it.

Richard Parker: Well, they keep calling him the Suplex Daddy.

Coral Avalon: Ah, a real pater suplexilas.

Fans and Vosses alike cheer and stomp their feet as Youngblood recovers. JCH needs the ropes and Reed Young’s encouragement to do the same, because the fans are decidedly not behind him in the moment. JCH finally gets to his feet and throws a big right hand at Brandon Youngblood.

Youngblood doesn’t even flinch. He takes the punch right to the face and his unimpressed expression speaks volumes. And by that, I mean that what’s spoken is “wtf are you doing are you high?” JCH might as well have been punching a wall, even as he unloaded a second blow to the face. And a third. When he goes for the fourth, he’s interrupted by the absolute worst thing he could possibly be hit in the face with.

Youngblood’s skull, courtesy of a headbutt.

OHHHHHH!!!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall hits the ground, holding his face and writhing in pain. Even Youngblood staggers a bit, as he’d already been rocked once by a punt to the head form Hall and this blow doesn’t exactly help with that.

Richard Parker: Disqualify him, Nixon!

Coral Avalon: For what?

Richard Parker: You can’t go around ruining a man’s moneymaker like that with a headbutt! That’s a very handsome man! His sex appeal rating is TEN THOUSAND!

Coral Avalon: …I beg your pardon?

Youngblood eventually recovers from his own headbutt, and pulls Hall back to his feet. Okay, let’s actually call it for what it is. Hall had been lying on his stomach one moment, and then Youngblood deadlifts him off of the canvas for another German suplex. Hall is in desperation mode now. He’s reaching for the ropes as he’s being lifted, but they’re inches from his grasp. He wants to kick Youngblood in the groin and risk the disqualification, but the angle is poor and he can’t hit him in the Diamonds.

The only place he can go is down.

BOOM.

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER GERMAN SUPLEX!

Richard Parker: Get out of there, Jonathan-Christopher!

Outside of the ring, amidst the cacophony of vocal fans who are starting to count along to the suplexes, Reed Young is apoplectic. He’s trying to encourage his son-in-law, but the electric Strasbourg crowd is drowning him out. This all leads to JCH getting to his feet and stumbling right into the warm and loving embrace of Brandon Youngblood. I’m sorry, that’s a typo, I meant “cold and merciless clutches of Father Suplex himself”.

Brandon picks up JCH and introduces him to the Exploder. You might know the Exploder Suplex as the delinquent of the Suplex Family, the one that starts jukeboxes by punching them and jumps sharks on his jetski. Makes the Exploder pretty familiar with Daytona Diamonds, actually.

Nick Stuart: Brandon Youngblood is conducting a suplex symphony out here in Strasbourg, and I can barely hear myself think!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall is experiencing a deluge. An irresponsible and dangerous amount of suplex energy is radiating out of the Diamond as he approaches Hall again. A half-nelson could mean the end for JCH, so he fights him. Elbows, elbows, elbows, elbows. It’s enough to finally get Youngblood to relent on the half-nelson suplex that could’ve meant the end of his title reign, and JCH kicks Youngblood in the gut and lands a DDT that looks more like Hall fell and took Youngblood with him.

It’s enough to keep Youngblood down.

JCH scrambles to the corner, and clamors up to the top rope like a man desperately trying to escape the fireball before it shoots through the tunnels he’s trying to climb out of. That fireball is Brandon Youngblood, by the way. Just the sheer energy of him. Hall gets to the top rope and flies off.

Nick Stuart: THE SPACE BETWEEN US!

The frog splash connects on Youngblood, and Hall goes for the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

NO.

Coral Avalon: He’s not done yet!

Youngblood kicks out, and JCH crawls on his hands and knees in desperation to referee Elvis Nixon, begging him about the accuracy of his count. He’s beside himself. He wants this to be over. He wants the threat of the Diamond to be gone forever.

There’s only one thing left for him to try. The move that won him the Universal title (let’s forget that whole “on the belt” business here). The move that had, uh… stood by him this whole time.

He waits for Youngblood to get up, and then he grabs his arms.

Richard Parker: This is it!

Nick Stuart: Hall is looking for Stand By Me!

He lifts him up, and spins him around, and…

RAHHHHHHHH!!!!

BOOM!

…dies.

Nick Stuart: HALF NELSON SUPLEX FROM YOUNGBLOOD! WHAT A COUNTER!

Hall lands hard halfway across the ring on the back of his neck, and he ends up lying face-first on the canvas with his butt sticking up. Like a worm in mid-crawl. The position doesn’t last before Hall topples over onto his side, lifeless. Youngblood crawls over and makes a cover.

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPES!

Nick Stuart: Hall got the foot on the ropes, and… wait! WAIT! WAIT A DAMN SECOND!

He’s saying this because you can barely see Reed Young’s excited digits as he hides from camera-view. After all, he doesn’t want anyone to know that he put Hall’s foot on the ropes.

BOOOOOOOO!!!!

Not that it’s much of a secret to the throngs of French fans (and the odd and extremely related Australian contingent), who loudly boo what’s been done.

Nick Stuart: That snake in the grass! That tracksuit Judas!

Richard Parker: What? My monitor went out, I didn’t see anything.

Nick Stuart: He’s out here in front of us, how could you miss him!?

Richard Parker: I was changing a contact lens.

Coral Avalon says nothing. He’s too busy trying to contain his anger. Reed Young immediately jumps up and continues to be the one-man cheerleading squad for JCH, who might actually be deceased right now, has anyone checked up on him?

Oh, he’s breathing. That’s good. I think.

Youngblood pulls JCH back to his feet. If one suplex won’t do him in, then another one or two or baker’s dozen would certainly do it. JCH is a gelatinous substance, his Armor Class is definitely 6, and he’s definitely leaving residue of himself in the ring with every waking second he’s experiencing the glory of Father Suplex and His Wacky Family Reunion. What, you think the Voss family’s the only one having a reunion tonight? Nah nah, let Papa Plex cook, y’all.

There’s a very, very ominous energy with the waistlock he applies to JCH. Fans know that there’s one particularly murderous suplex that Youngblood likes, the kind that makes tombstones out of men. If the half-nelson suplex doesn’t get the win, then the Diamondplex is coming.

Coral Avalon: Here we go.

JCH is fighting it. He’s not able to actually make Youngblood break the grip on the waistlock, but he is able to prevent himself from being lifted bodily off of the ground like a child by grabbing onto the second ropes. Eventually, Youngblood yanks him off and delivers yet another thunderous German suplex.

There’s just one problem.

Elvis Nixon’s in the way.

Nick Stuart: No! Elvis Nixon just went down!

Richard Parker: Why did he just stand behind them!?

Despite the senior referee’s best efforts, he’s knocked down when JCH’s arm clips him on his way down from the normal, bog-standard German suplex. Youngblood is nonplussed. He marches over to the fallen JCH and lifts him off of the ground and delivers another German suplex. Hall can’t even bounce up after impact any more, he’s as cooked as cooked can be. Remember what we said about “let Papa Plex cook”? Yeah, we’re getting treated to a full course meal right about now.

It’s all JCH can do to try and escape through the ropes, but Papa Plex wants to put a little garnish on his meal. He grabs the escaping JCH with a waistlock, looking to put things away. It looks over. It loo—

SMACK!

Two things happened.

The first is that Reed Young had found a steel chair under the ring, and the moment he had the opportunity, he blasted Brandon Youngblood across the head with it like he’s a homerun hitter with the world’s least practical baseball bat. The physically fit Young’s chairshot rings out like a cannon and is promptly followed by a chorus of some of the loudest boos you might ever hear in Strasbourg. Youngblood falls backwards into the ring, a small trickle of blood on his face.

The second is that Coral Avalon immediately tears off his headset and comes after Reed Young. Reed, recognizing the imminent danger of the Crownless King’s pursuit, hightails it out of there. He jumps the guardrails and is gone. Avalon goes to pursue him, but he hears something terrible happening behind him.

JCH is lying on top of Youngblood, and Elvis Nixon is making the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: You’ve got to be kidding me!

Richard Parker: Yes! Yes! Yes! The Hallmark Journey continues!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match… and STILLLLLLLLLLLL PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! JOOOOOOONATHAN-CHRISTOOOOOOOOPHERRRRRRRR HAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!!!!

Coral Avalon has a frustrated look on his face as he sees Elvis Nixon hand the Universal championship over to Jonathan-Christopher Hall, who is lying as motionless in the ring as his opponent. With his former boss in Action! gone, Avalon climbs onto the ring apron and watches Hall as he tries to recover.

There’s a moment of grim realization on Hall’s face when he sees the man staring daggers at him. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Hall knows that the man staring at him wants what is currently is, and that he’s next in line for a shot at that title.

So Hall does the only thing he knows he can do in this situation – he gets out of the ring. He gets out and he takes the Universal championship with him. He’s halfway up the ramp before Reed Young, miraculously, manages to find his way back to his man.

In the ring, Coral Avalon’s eyes have never left Hall or his father-in-law, even as he’s checking up on Brandon Youngblood. The expression on Youngblood’s face isn’t just pain.

It’s anger.

Nick Stuart: Brandon Youngblood looked to have this one sewn up, but once again, Reed Young is the difference maker! Just like in Cardiff!

Richard Parker: I can’t hear you over the sound of all this love in the air, Nick!

It’s booing, Richard. It’s called booing.

Amazingly, though… ReVival 48 has one more match left. So for now, let’s go to commercial.

After what Strasbourg will surely consider their greatest night in modern history, we’re getting ready for FLAMBO. We’re getting ready for Jarry fuckin’ Sykes, bro. Before this goes down, cameras come to life in a hallway where Crash, Violent Purple, and his hot DOGterouge are seen marching for the doors. Crash slows down, raising a finger.

Crash: I smell a fuckin’ hot dog, bro!

VP tries to stop him but, goddamn, the camera pans to see Maximillian Wilhelm Kael tap dancing with an umbrella at the juncture. He’s waiting for Crash with a sinister sneer.

Max Kael!: Oh, joyous day, calloh callay! The smell of this… uuurgh.. hotdog… uuurgh.. reminds me of my favorite.. uuurgh… processed meat tube.

The sound of a bull snorting goes off. Violent charges at Max. Crash dives, planting himself like he’s in a Australian Rules Football throw in. Mid flight, full block going on, VP snarls at Max. The Lord of Kaelsalvania dances from side to side, his hands lifted up like a boxer as his grin stretches wider. The kind of smile that’s inches away from tossing down a whole twelve pack of Oscar Meyer’s.

Max Kael!: Kitties got claws! You see this, Bro vs. Wade, she’s crazy! A psychopath you can’t control! Blood thirsty and hungry for nothing but to ruin our wonderful broship! Me, the Brofessor, Max! You’re friend, Crash..

The Unquestionable Kael lowers his hands, interlocking his fingers as he tries to look as innocent and cute as possible. He bats his eyelashes at Crash, pouting as he looks more like some twisted caricature of what innocence looks like.

Crash: What’s in Belarus, bro?

Max’s facade breaks down at the mention of Belarus. The pout tightens into a sneer as he straightens up, a darker demeanor taking over. His hands move to his tie, tightening the knot as his eyes flicker toward Violent Purple.

Max Kael!: Send the witch and the rest of your.. Uuuurgh.. Friends.. Uuurgh.. away and we’ll talk.

Bro. Let’s go.

Crash turns to Violent Purple. She glances with a confused look. He kisses her cheek before spinning out of her arms and facing Max, face to face. Violent looks confused, touching where he kissed her before rolling her eyes. She leaves with the others after giving Crash and Max a pair of narrowed eyes.

Crash: I swear… if you don’t give me that fuckin’ hotdog…. and tell me what’s goin’ on!”

Max watches the others leave, his hands folding behind his back, the scowl on his face melting back into a grin as they disappear. Pulling his hands back around Max reveals a loaded red snapper hot dog, a precious delight from his home town of Arkham.

Max Kael!: ..what was it you wanted to know about, Crash? Belarus? Well, Tony Sabrono, what I can tell you is that Violent Purple and her Aunt, Ulsa N. Couth, put that factory in Belarus and were the ones that were running it. Couth was the investor there and when my family purchased the company, they decided to move assets out of the country.

The Lord of Kaelsalvania sniffs the hot dog and then holds it out toward Crash.

Max Kael!: A few months ago I did take a trip out to Belarus, true, but only to look over some paperwork with the local government to ensure our exit from the area was smooth. I learned that shortly after I left there was an accident at the factory and it burnt down. So tragic.

The final word is spoken as a cruel hiss between clenched teeth.

Crash: You… are not… safe, bro.

Kael tosses the hot dog away, brushing his hands off in disgust as he shakes his head.

Max Kael!: Oh Crash, my little Brotato, you have no idea how true that statement is. I can see that Violent Purple has been poisoning your mind with these.. Crazy.. Ideas. It’s my fault, I’m the one who sent her over here. I’m sorry, Brobi-Wan Kenobi, I’ve failed you. But don’t mistake my contrition as weakness. Consider what you do here very..very.. Carefully, Crash. I’d hate to see you get hurt.. Really hurt.

The fury and fire of a lion washes over the Hot Dog Hero. He steps to Max like a friend, but this time, as a foe. He offers a nods with understanding toward Max before lunging forward.

SMASH BROTATOES, BOYYEEEEEE

RAHHHHHHH!!!

Crash smashes Max with a headbutt. This causes the Lord of Kaelsalvania to real back, clutching his nose. He stumbles back, his scream muffled by his hands.

Crash: You’re gonna answer for what you’ve done, bro.

Lowering his hands, Max reveals a bloodied, broken nose. Dark vitae drips from Kael’s nose as he points a crimson finger at his former Brosive.

Max Kael!: ..you’ve f̶̧̛ṳ̵͂ͅc̵̹̭̉̿k̷̨̳̑͑ě̸̺͜d̴̤̈͝ up Jason. You just have no idea how badly.. Heh-he-uurk!

The act of laughing fills his airway with blood causing him to gag, sporting up a jet of blood before it spits up more blood onto the ground at Crash’s feet.

Max Kael!: NINJA VANISH!

One of those famous PRIME fog machines is suddenly activated filling the area around the Unquestionable Kael. Obscured by the sudden wash of dry ice induced mist, Max makes good his escape.

We cut elsewhere.

A wild strike of lightning! A booming clap of thunder! A masked man walking through the rain! It’s amazing what even the cheapest CGI will do now behind a green screen, but the allure seems to wash away as the figure comes into view without a drop of moisture on him or his Colorado Avalanche jersey. While the faux storm continues to pour, Bembe Brightwell stands poised, showing no signs that he’s even bothered by the weather conditions.

Bembe Brightwell: Hello. I’m a professional athlete and cuh-cuh-cuh-ca-candle collector, Bembe Brightwell. You might remember me from wrestling muh-muh-muh match. I come to you through the wind and the rain…

After a pause, Brightwell tilts his eyes upward and repeats the last line with added emphasis.

Bembe Brightwell: THROUGH THE WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WA-WIND AND THE RAIN…

It takes a moment, but the sound of a loud warehouse fan begins to stir and blow a gentle breeze through the mesh material of Bembe’s hockey jersey. Soon after, the sound of a wave sprinkler can be faintly recognized, followed by tiny drops of moisture landing within view.

Bembe Brightwell: …that I have officially signed a contract with PUH-PUH-PRIME. Literally ten seconds before I came here to film this, actually. I have to puh-puh-pugh-puh-pee, but I was so excited about telling everyone that I’m holding it until after! Why am I so enthusiastic that I’m risking bladder rupture to tell you this nuh-nuh-now? Because PRIME agreed to one of my BIGGEST demands!

Brightwell smiles with boyish glee through the mouth hole of his yellow and burnt orange mask. One can only imagine what PRIME had to concede to get such a talent that no one has ever heard of!

Bembe Brightwell: See, human be-bee-be-n-beings have to have loves in their life, but to be mentally hell-hell-hell-healthy, those pleasures must not be in excess. That’s why I don’t get doe-doe-dopamine drips from stuff like championships, being the best in the buh-buh-buh-buh-business, or even winning a match! I gots me three loves in my li-li-li-li-li-li-li-li-life. Dessert, sex in the va-va-va-vaginal and butt holes with few or no strings a-a-attached, and the skruskru-skruummmm-scrumpti…NICE scents of a lit wick singeing wax.

Bembe puts a hand to his cheek, palm facing out word as if he’s sharing a secret with the audience.

Bembe Brightwell: That’s a cuh-cuh-candle to the layperson. So I told the PRIMES in the hiring department that I didn’t need tuh-tuh-tuh-titles, pub-puh-puh-puh-preh-preh-prestige, or truckloads of cash! All I need is a couple a dozen candles per match! And guess what? Those SUH-SUH-SUCKERS could have countered and said I only get ‘em if I win the match! But they didn’t! I get the FREAKIN’ bay-bay-babies, win, lose, druh -druh-druh-draw or Tim McGraw!

The artificial wind and rain commence to pick up power, only triggering Bembe’s desperate need to urinate even more.

Bembe Brightwell: So, PRIMEates, if you want the Bembe B. that tries really really huh-huh-hard, check me out on Wrestleflixx or at Paramuh-muh-muh-muh-muh-mount. If you want the Bembe B. that doesn’t give a RIPS and is gettin’ his regardless if he gets his weenie stomped, you’re in the right puh-puh-puh-place! The Living Lightning Rod is in candle heaven!

We cut to ringside, where Vince Howard is ready to get our main event underway.

Vince Howard: The following match is our MAIN! EVENT!

The fans immediately rise in the Zenith de Strasbourg, foaming at the mouth for the start of this main event.

Nick Stuart: Man, the fans here are loud!

Richard Parker: As they should be! They’re about to see a future Hall of Famer in action.

Nick Stuart: Yep, and FLAMBO as well.

Richard Parker: Oh, you think Jared Sykes is a future Hall of Famer?! Ha! Don’t make me laugh.

There’s a buzz through the arena.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Boston—

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

As the fans drown Vince out, six idiots emerge from the entrance, each one carrying a sword. Don’t worry, they’re made of foam. The swords, I mean. Wouldn’t want to trust these dorks with actual metal. That’s how stabbings happen. Oh sure, it would be completely accidental, but there would still be a trip to the hospital, and the police would have to get involved, because “I slipped and accidentally ran my friend through” is the kind of thing that flies in the middle ages but not here.

And just so we’re all on the same page, the crowd doesn’t yet realize these men are idiots, or that the swords aren’t real. But when that clicks, oh boy is it going to get ugly.

There’s a buzz in the arena. After all, there’s only one match left, and the hometown hero gets a chance to avenge himself against the man who took his Universal Championship.

Speaking of which…

I am dangerous…

And this is where Strasbourg loses their collective shit. There’s an eruption of cheers in anticipation of the Lizard King. Tomorrow these people will be telling their friends that, for one night only and in front of the city he was raised in, FLAMBERGE went throwback with his first theme music.

…dangerous, dangerous, dangerous

And then each of the six men throw their hoods back (they were wearing hoods, FYI) to reveal their faces, and the mood in the arena changes rapidly. Like cruising along at 60mph only to slam headlong into a brick wall.

Behold Lance, Ian, Nevin, Devin, Zephram, and Taylor. They are the Troy Boys, so you can see why no one would trust them with proper weaponry.

I am dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, dangerous

Real quick – those swords? Approximations of Joyeuse, Precieuse, Durendal, Hauteclere, Almace, and Curtana. All blades of legend from Charlemagne and La Chanson de Roland. Not that we expect the audience to grok that, but still.

And then the Troy Boys all reach inside their robes (that’s what the hoods were attached to) and each one tosses a stuffed lizard onto the stage before whacking the holy fuck out of them with their cosplay props. The whole thing is very stupid.

France agrees, which is why there’s so much whistling.

I am dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, dangerous
I am dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, dangerous

And now at last we get to the mastermind behind the dumb shit everyone just witnessed, because here comes Jared Sykes through the entryway, grinning, and vibing, and bopping his head in time to IAM’s groove.

Je pose du verbe sur un papier
Compose des textes et les scande, oui ma langue est déliée
Mon délit est de parler haut
Relater ce que mes consorts, n’exprimeront jamais dans un micro

Nick Stuart: Fans, we have seen Jared Sykes put himself in some questionable situations before, but this… this is…

Richard Parker: Look, I want to hate him, but… Actively trying to piss off an entire nation? I’M SO CONFLICTED, NICK!

Make no mistake, the crowd is angry. Big angry. All caps MAD. So mad that they drown out Vince Howard as he attempts to make the ring introduction, which is why that dialog hasn’t even been included here.

Les camps sont marqués, nous sommes simples électeurs
Mais rien n’empêche d’apporter plus de terreur dans leurs erreurs
Je pensais ne même pas les affleurer
Mais j’ai dû déjanter quand le juge a voulu me convoquer

And yet here’s Jarry – or, Le Jarry!!!!! given what it says on his tee shirt – dance-walking his way to the ring and having to dodge things thrown his way. The camera even catches a glimpse of him singing along. No, he doesn’t know the words; he’s just mouthing syllables and hoping they line up.

Ce n’était pas la première fois pour un groupe de rap
Que la censure frappe et les citations tapent

At last, tonight’s villain slides into the ring, removes his hoodie and tee shirt, and then moves over to the corner and lays across ropes like it’s his own personal lounge chair.

…

The speakers are quiet for a moment, but the crowd sure as fuck isn’t.

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! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI!

Richard Parker: I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK!

Nick Stuart: WHAT?

Richard Parker: WHAT?

Nick Stuart: I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING OVER THIS CROWD!

Richard Parker: I CAN’T HEAR YOU, BUT THIS IS OUT OF CONTROL! HOLY HELL!

♫…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…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

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

It’s a fucking riotous ovation.

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

Genuinely out of control.

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

He’s not wearing teal and copper tonight. His gear is all white, with a diagonal red stripe extending from his right hip to his left thigh. The flag of Strasbourg – Strasbourg, son maison.

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…he’s not even gonna try to be subdued.

FLAMBERGE: LEVEZ-VOUS, PUTAINS DE PIEDS! ALLONS-Y, PUTAIN!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

He’s pumping up his arms HARD, fired up in a way we’ve only ever seen…well, no, actually. We’ve never seen him like this.

At War Games, he may have looked like he was ready to kill a man…tonight, in the Zenith de Strasbourg which is just a short ride from his childhood home, in front of thousands of screaming French fans who completely, utterly, beyond all doubt speak with one mouth that This Is Our Fucking Guy – explosions are on the table. They’re basically already happening.

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!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH

Vince Howard: IL EST LE COLLECTEUR DE COU!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Vince Howard: FLAAAAAAAAAAMBERRRRRRRRRRRRRRGE!

Cecilworth Farthington has joined his fellow Glue Prince and looks out into the crowd. What a fucking sight this is. How very interesting indeed.

Nick Stuart: DID YOU KNOW THAT VINCE HOWARD KNEW FRENCH??

Richard Parker: I CAN’T HEAR YOU – BUT DID YOU HEAR VINCE BUTCHER THAT FRENCH??

The Lizard King stomps up the ring steps, powers through the ropes, and raises his arms wide, soaking it all in one more time.

And then, it’s time. Farthington departs for the backstage area. Ashley Barlow issues her final set of instructions. Sykes walks over and whispers something in FLAMBERGE’s ear, and we’re off.

DING DING

At the sound of the bell, with a buzz of electricity in the air, both competitors close the gap between them and immediately enter a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Sykes, who puts the ass in bass, uses his strength to push FLAMBERGE into the corner where Ashley Barlow orders for a clean break. Sykes does so, slowly, while keeping his hands in the air. FLAMBERGE, with the roar of the crowd behind him, drives his forearm across Jared’s jaw, dropping the former Universal Champion to one knee.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

FLAMBERGE explodes with a knee to the pristine face of the Dragonslayer. Jared slumps onto the mat while Ashely admonishes The Neck Collector, but as FLAMBERGE looks out at the crowd, they’re wanting more from him.

Nick Stuart: The crowd here in Strasbourg are simply electric.

Richard Parker: For a nation of pansies, I’m surprised at their thirst for violence.

Nick Stuart: This is a country that beheaded their King once.

Richard Parker: So if FLAMBERGE loses this match, he could lose his head? That would make for must see TV.

Nick Stuart: I was hoping they’d just lop your head off.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s rude.

FLAMBERGE drags Sykes to his feet and connects with a knife-edge chop that leaves a stinging impression on the chest of the Heart of PRIME. The Lizard King quickly grabs him by the wrist and goes to whip Sykes into the ropes, but JARRY reverses it and sends FLAMBO instead. The Bearded Dragon flies off the ropes with the speed and agility that only a man whose bones are younger than the ring gear that Sykes is wearing could have. He connects with a flying crossbody that sends both men to the mat with FLAMBERGE getting to his feet in a hurry and cracks a discus elbow into the face of the man who took his Universal Championship from him. Sykes rolls out of the ring, not pleased with how the opening moments of this match has proceeded.

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes with his hands on his hips and he looks annoyed to say the least.

Richard Parker: You would look annoyed to if tens of thousands of people were whistling at you louder than I’ve heard a group of people whistle before. I mean, it sounds like a cacophony of never-ending whistles in here. Make it stop!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t if I could. Sykes is marching back and forth, his steps threatening to put a hole into the arena here.

Richard Parker: Barlow is giving him some space, but you can tell she wants to get this match on the road. You think she’s got a hot date tonight?

Nick Stuart: I don’t care. Nor do you. Sykes is now walking up the steel steps and looks ready to get back into this match.

Sykes steps through the ropes and is immediately tackled to the ground by the Neck Collector. FLAMBO fires off a series of forearm strikes that land flush on Jared’s right cheekbone, but the Dragonslayer manages to get his feet into FLAMBERGE’s chest and kick him away. With the separation he needed, Sykes gets to his feet and connects with a running clothesline that sends FLAMBERGE crashing to the mat. The Lizard King refuses to stay down though and gets back to his feet only for Jared to connect with a bridging Northern Lights Suplex and Barlow immediately begins her count.

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And FLAMBERGE kicks out at the last second.

Richard Parker: WHAT?!

Nick Stuart: The sound in the Zenith de Strasbourg is deafening! These fans are showering Sykes with their disapproval.

Richard Parker: You call that disapproval?! I call that five seconds from storming the ring and setting him on fire!

Nick Stuart: With that ass, they’re going to need a lot of lighter fluid.

Sykes gets to his feet, looking down at FLAMBERGE, who is grabbing at the back of his neck. He looks out at the fans, who are yelling and whistling at him and smiles at them before he bounces off the ropes and connects with a leg drop across the Lizard King’s throat.

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

As Sykes rises, he waves at the fans to shower him with their hate. And they respond in kind.

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

He grabs The Lizard King by the back of the neck and pulls him to his feet before connecting with an uppercut. FLAMBERGE stumbles back into the ropes and Sykes follows up with a swift kick to the midsection. He puts the former Universal Champion into a front facelock before lifting him up in the air for a vertical suplex. He holds him there for a moment before dropping him ribs and torso first across the top rope. FLAMBERGE hangs there as Sykes runs to the ropes before springboarding off the middle rope and connects with a missile dropkick to the side of FLAMBERGE’s skull. He falls back into the ring as Sykes stands above him.

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

Richard Parker: Oh, a little bad boy streak being shown by Sykes right now. I think I like that.

Nick Stuart: You would. He hasn’t done anything illegal.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but he’s right on the line. He’s like a tease.

Nick Stuart: You need help.

Jared watches as FLAMBO begins to climb to his feet and then connects with a forearm strike to the back of his neck. FLAMBERGE stumbles forward before grabbing onto the top rope to stay vertical. Sykes grabs him by the wrist and whips him into the ropes before connecting with a back body drop. FLAMBERGE though manages to land on his feet and as Sykes turns around — hearing the sound of feet on the mat instead of a back — and is met with a spinning heel kick to the midsection. With the Dragonslayer doubled over, FLAMBERGE bounces off the ropes and slams his knee into the side of Jared’s skull. Sykes falls to the ground, grabbing at his head, while FLAMBERGE grabs both of Jared’s wrists and begins stomping away at his opponent’s chest.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And FLAMBERGE is stomping the holy hell out of Sykes.

Richard Parker: No, keep it in there!

Nick Stuart: Each shot is stiffer and harder than the last one. Sykes is trying to yank his arms away from FLAMBO, but it is useless. And the Zenith de Strasbourg is coming unglued with each kick!

Richard Parker: Give it to them, FLAMBO!

As FLAMBO lets go of Sykes’ wrists, the Dragonslayer collapses face first into the mat. FLAMBERGE walks around the ring, the fans feeding him with energy, and him taking it all in. In front of his people. He moves towards Sykes, dropping an elbow across the back of his skull. Sykes rolls away, slamming his boots into the canvas from the pain he is feeling. FLAMBO drags Sykes to the nearby ropes before stepping on the bottom rope, launching himself into the air and driving his knee into the face of his opponent. Jared immediately grabs at his face in pain while FLAMBO gets back to his feet and slams his boot into the small of Sykes’ back.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE is taking it to Sykes now, finding his rhythm. You have to imagine he’s taking the energy from this crowd — as well as the fury he must have felt when he lost the Universal Title to Sykes.

Richard Parker: A dark day in PRIME history.

Nick Stuart: Well, Sykes lost that title to Jonathan-Christopher Hall—

Richard Parker: A great day in PRIME history.

Nick Stuart: Thanks Richard. Who successfully defended his title earlier. You have to imagine the winner of this match would have the inside track to a future title challenge.

Richard Parker: Possibly. Not if Sykes wins though.

FLAMBERGE reaches down and pulls Sykes to his feet before uncorking a knife-edge chop. Sykes grabs at his chest in pain, which gives FLAMBO the opening he needs to connect with a slicing elbow across Jared’s unprotected face. Sykes stumbles away from FLAMBO, but the Lizard King closes the gap in a hurry before connecting with a clubbing blow across the back of his opponent. FLAMBERGE then yanks Sykes to a full vertical position and pushes him into the corner before drilling his knee into the midsection. Jared feels the air expelling from his body and is unable to stop FLAMBERGE from connecting with a Judo Throw out of the corner, landing him in the center of the ring.

Richard Parker: Things are not looking good for the Dragonslayer!

Nick Stuart: No, it doesn’t as FLAMBO’s feet dance across the face of Jared!

Richard Parker: Surprisingly good rhythm if you ask me.

Nick Stuart: …what?

Richard Parker: I’m just saying, I didn’t expect the French to have any rhythm.

FLAMBERGE immediately floats over to Sykes and drives his knee repeatedly into the right shoulder of the Dragonslayer. Each shot is measured and focused on impacting the shoulder joint as much as possible and you can see the mind of FLAMBO at work as he does so. He grabs the right arm of JARRY and drops onto the mat before beginning to lock in an armbar. Sykes immediately resists this attempt and FLAMBO fires off a series of right kicks to the side Jared’s head. This forces Sykes to relent and once he does, FLAMBO locks his legs around the arm and wrenches back, causing Sykes to groan in pain.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE doing some serious damage here to Sykes and you can see the pain in Jared’s face.

Richard Parker: It would seem like the smartest decision here is to just give up. Go home and fight another day.

Nick Stuart: Have you ever watched a Jared Sykes match?

Richard Parker: Not willingly.

Barlow checks on Sykes, who refuses to give up. FLAMBERGE holds tight to Jared’s right arm while the crowd behind him roar in approval. Jared rolls slowly until he manages to pin FLAMBERGE’s shoulders to the mat while the Lizard King keeps his hold locked in. Barlow immediately begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

And FLAMBERGE manages to get his left shoulder up just slightly, but has to loosen his grip on Jared’s arm in the interim. Sykes immediately deadlifts FLAMBO off the mat and hoists him onto his shoulders. FLAMBERGE fires down a series of elbow strikes across the forehead and crown of his opponent’s skull. Sykes releases his hold on the Lizard King and FLAMBERGE lands on his feet as a result. He then grabs Jared by the back of the neck and charges into the nearby corner before slamming Jared’s right shoulder into the top turnbuckle!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And Jared stumbles out of the corner only for FLAMBERGE to put his right arm into a hammerlock and launch him shoulder first into the steel ring post!

Richard Parker: Oh, FLAMBERGE is picking Sykes apart right now. You hate to see it.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think you hate it at all.

Richard Parker: You’re right. I don’t.

Jared, slumped against the middle turnbuckle and his right shoulder pressed into the cold steel, groans in pain as he slowly rolls onto the ring apron. He massages his right shoulder, feeling tightness and pain radiating from the spot. Jared slowly gets to his feet and sees FLAMBERGE rushing at him full speed. Sykes gets his left forearm up in the nick of time and slams it into the Lizard King’s face. FLAMBERGE stumbles away from the shot and as he turns back to Jared — shaking out the cobwebs in the process — he is met with a flying forearm from the Dragonslayer, sending both competitors to the mat.

Richard Parker: Okay, so new plan. Destroy both shoulders — and maybe his feet and ankles for good measure — and then FLAMBO can win this.

Nick Stuart: Sykes is harder to put down than you can imagine, there’s a reason why he’s one of the best to ever do this.

Richard Parker: One of the best? According to whom?

Nick Stuart: Ask anyone in the locker room!

Richard Parker: Okay, I’ll start with Ivan Stanislav.

Nick Stuart: No, not him.

Sykes is back to his feet, brushing the hair out of his face, and stomps down across the chest of the Lizard King. He reaches down and pulls FLAMBERGE up to his feet before driving him back-first into the nearby turnbuckle. With FLAMBO stunner, the Dragonslayer connects with a stiff shoulder into his opponent’s midsection. The Neck Collector stumbles out of the corner, grabbing at his ribs. Sykes watches him before he closes the gap, driving his elbow into the back of the neck of the Lizard King. He then spins him around short-arms him into a backdrop driver! With FLAMBO laid up on the mat —

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

— and the fans showing their disdain for Sykes, Jared goes for the cover as Barlow begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Barlow checking on FLAMBERGE, making sure that he doesn’t have a concussion after he managed to just kick out.

Richard Parker: That’s how dangerous Sykes is in the ring. He does a simple move and the person in the ring with him has to worry about if they’re going to be concussed or not. Come on!

Nick Stuart: I imagine Sykes could use a test dummy for his moves if you want to sign up.

Richard Parker: I heard that’s what he uses El Hijo del Super Cool Guy for.

Nick Stuart: He does not!

Sykes gets to his feet and brings FLAMBERGE up with him before pushing him into the ropes. Jared connects with a right jab that sends sweat flying off of FLAMBO’s audience into the crowd. The Neck Collector fires off a boot into Jared’s midsection that only infuriates the Dragonslayer as he unloads with a series of rights until FLAMBERGE is basically grabbing the top rope to keep himself from sinking to the ground. Sykes yanks FLAMBERGE off of him and then connects with a Lightning Spiral that puts FLAMBERGE sprawled on the canvas. Sykes then crawls over and hooks FLAMBO’s leg for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Keep letting Jared spend all of his energy, FLAMBO! You’ve got him right where you want him.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think this is part of FLAMBERGE’s plan though as the fans in the Zenith de Strasbourg roar in approval of their hometown boy.

Richard Parker: Of course they love him. In Boston, I heard that Jared had to pay the fans to cheer him on!

Nick Stuart: That didn’t happen.

Richard Parker: Prove it!

Nick Stuart: …no. I will not entertain your foolishness.

Sykes makes his way to his feet and puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head while he looks down at FLAMBERGE. He reaches down and as he does, FLAMBO fires off a kick that connects with the side of Jared’s skull. Sykes stumbles away, rubbing the spot where he felt the Neck Collector’s boot. As he does, FLAMBERGE gets to his feet in a hurry and puts Sykes into a rear waist-lock. He lifts him up and connects with a German Suplex, dropping Sykes on the back of his head. FLAMBERGE locks his fingers and rolls through it, dragging Sykes to his feet and lifts him for a second German Suplex. Sykes though fires off a series of elbow strikes that catches FLAMBERGE flush on the jaw. As FLAMBO releases his grip, Jared fires off a swinging backfist that connects with FLAMBERGE’s jaw, dropping him to one knee.

Nick Stuart: And Sykes manages to stall FLAMBERGE’s momentum. Sykes now popping over to the nearby corner and climbs onto the second turnbuckle — and he drops his knee across the sternum of the Neck Collector.

Richard Parker: Is that legal? I don’t think it’s legal.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think you actually know the rules of wrestling.

Richard Parker: I sure do. Just, you know, need clarification from time to time.

Sykes gets to his feet and walks over to FLAMBERGE, who is on his knees and trying to make his way to his feet. Jared slams his boot into the back of FLAMBERGE’s skull, which gets everyone in the arena heated.

PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT! PHWWWWWWWHT!

FLAMBERGE continues to fight his way to his feet, rubbing the back of his skull, and Sykes fires off a clubbing forearm across the neck and back of the rising Neck Collector. FLAMBERGE fights through the pain and connects with a Pele kick, catching Sykes in the back of the skull. Jared stumbles away, landing in the ropes and uses them to keep himself vertical. FLAMBERGE gets back to his feet in a hurry and rushes at Sykes. Jared lifts his left boot into the air and FLAMBERGE manages to slide underneath it at the last second — sliding out of the ring in the process. He lands on his feet on the arena floor, grabs Jared’s feet and takes them out from underneath him, slamming him face first into the canvas.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And that could be a significant game changer for FLAMBERGE, who is looking to capitalize on it in a hurry.

Richard Parker: He’s back on the ring apron — and these fans are loud as hell.

Nick Stuart: Hometown boy! FLAMBERGE just launched himself into a somersault through the top and middle rope as Sykes is getting back to his feet and just connected with a DDT on the Dragonslayer!

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE getting it done!

FLAMBO gets back to his feet as he looks out at the fans — his people. He watches as Sykes, dazed and out of it, stumbles back to his feet before bouncing off the ropes and connecting with an axe kick! Sykes, lying face down on the mat is helpless as the Neck Collector begins to lift him off the mat. Jared though collapses back onto the mat, seemingly lifeless. FLAMBERGE reaches down to pull him up again only for Sykes to pull him into a inside cradle and Barlow begins to count immediately.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: That’s cheating!

Nick Stuart: It’s not.

FLAMBERGE gets back to his feet in a hurry and so does Sykes, who is behind him. Jared immediately leaps into the air and jumps onto FLAMBO’s shoudlers before connecting with a Poisonrana! FLAMBERGE is spiked on his skull and rolls through, out on his knees. Sykes gets to his feet and hoists FLAMBO off of the mat before putting him into a reverse facelock. He begins to lift him up, but as he does, his right shoulder gives out on him and he drops FLAMBO onto the mat. The Dragonslayer stumbles away, rubbing at his injured right shoulder and tries to fight through the pain. As he turns back towards FLAMBERGE, the Neck Collector connects with a spinning back kick that lands square in Sykes’ midsection.

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE had the long game plan in mind all along!

Nick Stuart: His attacks on the right shoulder forced Sykes to bail out of the Omega 13!

Richard Parker: And FLAMBO bounces off the ropes! Axe Kick!

Nick Stuart: He could be setting up Sykes for the finish of the match!

Sykes lies on the mat as FLAMBERGE walks over to him and hoists him off the mat before slipping his left arm under the chin of the man who took his Universal Championship away from him. He tightens the grip and locks in the Guillotine Choke!

Nick Stuart: Marie Antoniette!

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE wants to remove the blemish from his record and he might do right here and now.

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is signaling for the bell! It’s all over.

DING DING DING

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

FLAMBERGE releases his hold on Sykes, who slumps back to the mat — unconscious. The Neck Collector makes his way to his feet while Ashley Barlow grabs his wrist and raises it in victory.

Vince Howard: Your winner… FLAMBERGE!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The sound in the Zenith de Strasbourg is deafening, nearly drowning out Vince Howard. FLAMBERGE moves to a corner of the ring and climbs to the top, taking in the appreciation from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: What a victory for the Neck Collector!

Richard Parker: Collecting the neck of the Dragonslayer!

Nick Stuart: And in front of his hometown!

FLAMBERGE stands on the top rope and takes it all in, with a smile on his face. Then, the crowd begins to chant.

NATE COLTON IS A BIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH! NATE COLTON IS A BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!

Richard Parker: The fans here in Strasbourg get it! Nate Colton, your days are numbered! The Neck Collector is coming for you.

Nick Stuart: And you can see FLAMBERGE is enjoying the noise from the crowd!

Richard Parker: As he should.

Nick Stuart: Well, next show we head to Spain! A very different crowd and one that might appreciate Nate Colton more.

Richard Parker: They shouldn’t.

Nick Stuart: Alrighty then. For Richard Parker, I’m Nick Stuart. Good night and thank you!

We fade out from a shot of FLAMBERGE, soaking in the adoration from the fans in the Zenith.

THIS.

IS.

PRIME.