ReVival 49

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/ReV49-Commercial.mp4

Barcelona. ReVival 49. Make some noise!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Barcelona. ReVival 49. Show some signs!

I WANTED TO BE A POOR WHORESMEN, BUT I WAS ABLE TO AFFORD THIS TICKET. AND I’M A VIRGIN.
IMAGINE THE IDEAS THAT REED YOUNG COULD GENERATE FROM CORAL AVALON’S TEN-TON THERMONUCLEAR FOREHEAD.
IF YOU AIN’T WHORIN’ THEN YOU MUST BE BORIN’. WHORES UP!
DIAMONDS LIKES FISHSTICKS
XXX EATS CORNDOGS THE WIDE WAY

Barcelona. ReVival 49. Let’s go to Nick!

Nick Stuart: Welcome to Barcelona! We are going to kick off things with a match between two new competitors, one making his debut in PRIME!

“Molly (Sixteen Candles)” by Sponge hits the loudspeaker, prompting Bembe to arrive and make his way down towards the ring. Stopping on occasion to pose for a group selfie or two with the fans, he’s fairly nonchalant in his walk until arriving at the apron. Scaling the top turnbuckle from the outside, Bembe cuts a sick backflip off of it and lands on his feet, then does a cool dance that absolutely does not fit to the entrance theme.

Vince Howard: Entering first, from Colorado Springs, weighing in at 180 pounds…BEMBE! BRIIIIIGHTWELLLLLLLLL!

The white and gold spotlights flash along with “Burning Our Morals Away” as Apollo Douglas steps out onto the entrance way. As always he’s wearing his swan mask and cape. He takes them off and throws them down to the entrance before sprinting down the entrance path and sliding underneath the bottom rope. Once there, he hops up to his feet with his arms spread in his winged pose.

Vince Howard: And his opponent! From Bellevue, Nebraska…weighing in at 213 pounds…APOLLOOOOOO DOOOUGLAAASSSSSS!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re underway here. These two are new to PRIME, and are nearly the same size and style. It’ll be interesting to see how it plays out.

Apollo Douglas moves in, but Bembe immediately begins using his speed, running around Douglas and wrapping him up from behind. He applies a waistlock, but Douglas sends an elbow to Bembe, knocking him back. They grapple again but once again Bembe uses evasive maneuvers to escape, this time sending a forearm to Douglas’s face. Bembe jumps away and runs to the ropes, then comes back. Douglas bends over to send him over, but Bembe lands on his feet and levels Douglas with a dropkick.

Nick Stuart: Well this is our first chance to see Bembe Brightwell in the ring, and he’s showing off his speed already!

Richard Parker: He’s got to be fast, since he’s been struck by lightning so many times.

Nick Stuart: Yes, that’s where he gets the nickname “The Living Lightning Rod.”

Douglas gets back up to his feet but Bembe is already bumping all over the place, hitting the opposite ropes and jumping up onto Douglas’s shoulders before bringing him down in a Crucifix pin.

ONE!

TW…

Apollo frees himself from the pin and gets up to his feet, where Bembe is meeting him for a frankensteiner. However, Apollo is able to catch him and powerbomb him into the mat.

Nick Stuart: Wow! Fast start here, but Apollo Douglas found a way to slow the young man down!

Richard Parker: Good, I was starting to go cross-eyed trying to keep up with him.

Bembe’s speed has halted now as Douglas lifts him up. He moves to the side of him, then levels him with a Russian Leg Sweep, then attempts a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Bembe kicks out. Apollo knows his best shot is keep Bembe grounded, so he drops down and slaps on a headlock. Standing and compelling Bembe to stand as well, he lifts him up for a back suplex. Bembe flips out and lands on his feet near the ropes. Apollo charges him and Bembe dips, grabbing the ropes to send him over.

Nick Stuart: Apollo Douglas has tumbled out of the ring! And it looks like Brightwell has some bad intentions!

Richard Parker: Lightning Boy is going to fly!

Indeed, Brightwell bounces off the ropes and then uses the ropes as a springboard to hit a twisting plancha on Douglas, causing the crowd to erupt in cheers.

Nick Stuart: Bembe hits him! And Richard I must remind you his nickname is “The Living Lightning Rod.”

Richard Parker: I prefer Lightning Boy.

The two spill to the floor. Both men are a little slow to get up, with Bembe being the first to get up. He grabs Douglas and lifts him up, then tackles him into the apron. Douglas writhes in pain, then eats a stiff punch to the face. Jimmy Turnbull is telling the two to get in the ring, but they don’t listen to him because, come on, he’s a ref. But he does have a weapon at his disposal that he can use in a situation like this.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Nick Stuart: Turnbull is trying to get control here, but Bembe doesn’t seem interested.

Indeed, Bembe is trying to slam Apollo Douglas on every surface outside the ring. He slams his face into the turnbuckle post, then grabs his arm and throws him towards the barricade.

Richard Parker: Uh oh!

Douglas plants his feet and reverses the Irish whip, slamming Bembe into the barricade.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Bembe stirs as Douglas slides under the rope into the ring. He lays there, conserving energy, as Turnbull continues his count.

SIX!

SEVEN!

As the count nears ten, Bembe gets to his feet. He sees Jimmy counting, then runs towards the ring and slides under the ring, then immediately jumps onto Douglas’s body.

Nick Stuart: Is he going for a pinfall? But Douglas is just relaxing!

Richard Parker: Maybe we hopes he fell asleep.

ONE!

Richard Parker: He’s not sleeping.

Douglas kicks out, of course, and immediately sends a boot into Bembe’s face. Bembe, who had seemed to use a lot of energy to sprint back into the ring, looks knocked out as Douglas goes to the top rope.

Richard Parker: But Lightning Boy will be if he gets hit with this!

Douglas launches in a springboard senton splash, but at the last second Bembe moves and Apollo crash lands on  the mat. Bembe gets up and immediately does a standing moonsault, then goes for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

TH…

Nick Stuart: Apollo kicks out! But it looks like Bembe is taking off again!

Bembe bounces off the ropes and comes back with a leaping splash. He lifts Apollo up and slams him in the corner, then lifts him up to the top turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: According to my notes here, it looks like Bembe is going for the Wicklighter Suplex!

Bembe climbs up and grips Apollo’s waist, but Apollo begins to send stiff elbow shots to his face, finally sending Bembe to the ground. Apollo turns and launches himself at Bembe, who ducks. Apollo lands on his feet and sees Bembe standing in the corner, so he charges…but misses.

Richard Parker: Lightning Boy is fast!

And just as quick, Bembe lifts Apollo to the top rope and quickly hits the Wicklighter Suplex, using his legs to stay up on the turnbuckle as Apollo crashes onto the mat. Bembe stands up, looks down, and launches.

Nick Stuart: He got him! He calls this the ESD! Pinfall!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner…BEMBE! BRIIIIGHTWELLLLLLLL!

Nick Stuart: Well it was a quick back and forth affair, but Bembe’s speed proved to be too much for Apollo Douglas to handle.

Richard Parker: Lightning Boy…what is the secret of your powers?

Nick Stuart: Let’s now go to the WON Action Newz Team.

We cut elsewhere.

Well, the cold open and Apollo vs Bembe is in the can so you know what that means.

Right?

If you guessed WON ACTION NEWS TEAM then congratulations, friend, you’ve chosen wisely!

However, should you have guessed incorrectly, may scabies inhabit your nethers eternally, you stupid-idiot.

Anyway, TIME FOR THE NEWS.

There is no fancy intro though someone is playing a sexy saxophone in the background. The WON ACTION NEWS STAGE is alive and well despite the Palau Sant Jordi lacking a parking lot outside. Where is this? Is it backstage? Is it on a soundstage somewhere else? Is it even in this dimension?

I think we can all agree that it’s an unimportant detail and let’s just leave it up to suspended belief!

Where were we?

Oh yeah, a sick saxophone being played as we are zoomed in on the place where the INTENSE title used to be. As we slowly pan back to see Max once again staring at the outline of his former title.

Max Kael!: I really do need something gold there.

As we pan back to see the entirety of the stage it is revealed that Max is being measured by a tailor. The tailor in question looks to be an older man, probably in his seventies, looking exactly like what you’d expect an old tailor to look. Go on. I challenge you to imagine it.

Suckers, I just got out of describing that guy.

Tailor: What color were you looking to get this in?

The Lord of Kaelsalvania scratches his chin thoughtfully before snapping his fingers.

Max Kael!: Oh I don’t know. Nothing too flashy. Something between D60000 and AB0000.

The old tailor pauses in his measurements, looking at Max as though he were speaking tongues.

Tailor: ..what the f-

WON ACTION NEWS TEAM

Sponsored by new Serrano MEAT?! That mold makes it gourmet!

We cut away from the title card to Max Kael! seated behind his news desk in his black three piece suit. He’s wearing that uncomfortably forced smile bearing his pearly white teeth. A few hundred thousand years ago this might have been considered a threat display. It still is with dogs which is why Max avoids smiling at them.

A quick flashback to Max walking by a woman walking her dog. He stops, leaning down to pet the twenty pound French Bulldog with a wide smile. The dog leaps at Max’s face snarling as the Unquestionable Kael wails in fear and alarm.

Returning to the present.

Max Kael!: Did we decide that you were all Earthworms so I could avoid confusing pronouns? I think we did. Worms! Glorious, dirt eating, belly crawlers, I know things have seemed pretty quiet and, dare I say, empty around the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE but that couldn’t be further from the truth! No, because the first NEWS story of the episode is about our NEWEST news team member. Please welcome my new chauffeur..

Jumping up from his seat, Max flails his arms toward someone standing behind the camera.

Max Kael!: SAAAAD MIZAKI! Come on up, buddy! Let the people see your beautiful, though sad, face!

An older man wearing a gray chauffeur uniform moves awkwardly onto the stage..

Sad Mizaki: Uh, sir, as I told you before, my name is just Mizaki.

Patting Sad Mizaki on the back, Max laughs and looks toward the camera.

Max Kael!: Oh Sad Mizaki, you’re a riot! I’ll be honest, I don’t speak Japanese so I will never know the mystery of what haunts this man’s eyes.

Mizaki’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms across his chest. Clearly he’s been a good sport up until now but Max is really getting his dander up.

Sad Mizaki: I’m not even Japanese, I’m Korean! And I’m not sad, I am getting angry though..

Max Kael!: SUCH MYSTERY! Okay, I’ll let you know when I need to go to the grocery store, buddy, back off screen!

The chauffeur does a double take on Max. It might have even been a triple take but Mizaki can’t really stand to look at him a third time. So he grumbles to himself and walks back off camera.

Max Kael!: Speaking of traitorous harlots, our next story hits close to home.

Taking a seat back behind his desk Max’s fake smile constricts itself into a bitter scowl. It appears that Max has RBF without his practiced, though still unpleasant, grin.

Max Kael!: ..Violent Purple. Now Crash, I know you’re out there watching your BEST FRIEND doing the news almost completely on my own. Save for my two real friends Sad Mizaki and the Herald. I know she’s manipulative, I know she’s controlling. You probably don’t even know it, Crash, because she’s very good at it. Which is why it pains me, Bronakin Skyduder, to inform you of the following.

He pauses dramatically, allowing himself to take in a deep breath. His nostrils flare as his face reddens, as though he were having difficulty getting the words out. Finally, after some effort, he chokes them up.

Max Kael!: We here at WON ACTION NEWS have received exclusive video footage of Violent Purple accepting a bribe to walk away.. From PRIME Wrestling and Crash Jackson! ROLL THAT BEAUTIFUL BEAN FOOTAGE!

Security footage begins to play showing a black and white video of a shadowy office. Violent Purple can be seen seated in a chair on one side of a desk while an individual whose face is obscured is seated opposite of her.

??????: I am offering. Five million dollars to walk away from all of this. From Max Kael. From Jackson. From PRIME.

The mysterious figure’s voice is strange, vaguely distorted but with a posh, English accent. They drop a check on the desk in front of Violent Purple. She looks down at it and then back toward the figure.

Violent Purple: So the deal is if I take this money you’ll let me walk away?

??????: On my word if you take that money.

Purple snatches up the check and immediately leaves the office as the security footage ends. The whole video is about five seconds long but it’s riddled with strange clipping, as though it had been heavily edited.

Probably not, though, right?

We are immediately taken back to Max Kael! who is wearing a mocking frown, his brow turned upward in faux sympathy.

Max Kael!: Sorry, Samsbro, looks like Delilah wasn’t that into you. I warned you about that one but nope, bros before hoes apparently isn’t part of your bro philosophy. Just as well, Crash, because while I was busy being such a good friend to you, you were busy being a piece of shit who only cares about the women he wants to fuck! You’re fucking pathetic, Jason. I know it. Everybody in the arena knows it. And she knows it. Also, one more thing, furry wrestling boots make you look like a pussy. Sorry, that’s just the fucking NEWS, Crash and burn.

He laughs a terrible, awful, cruel laugh. It boils up from the cockles of his body, from the depths of his wrinkly, ugly balls. It lasts for only a few seconds but the discomfort it creates makes the moment feel like it stretches out far longer.

Max Kael!: And now, to the HERALD who is reporting out in the field tonight! My THE HERALD, you’re on!

The screen cuts to where the Herald is.

Crash: Breaking news…

The Herald is pinned against the wall by the jaded Crash. His eyes look into view as we see a terrified the Herald stuck between a wall and a hot dog. Crash does his best to escalate the situation by shoving a savory hotdog in the Herald’s mouth to shut him up. Bently gags and cries as mustard, ketchup and relish gets smeared on his face.

Crash: I’ve got your boy, Max.

He turns back, further shoving the hotdog into the Herald’s mouth. His prison fails impotently as the dog’s condiments begin to cover his spill out all over his precious blue tunic.

Crash: Come and get him.

The Buffalo Kid stops. He lets the Herald go. He turns around to notice the cameras still on him. The Sub-Marquis eyes roll up as he raises the back of his hand to his forehead. With the hotdog still in his mouth the Herald collapses in dramatic fashion to the floor.

Crash: Bring answers, bro.

Static hits the screen before we cut back to a perplexed looking Max Kael. The shock eventually wears off and a murderous glint in his eyes.

Max Kael!: I was going to end this episode with a few comments about Cecilworth Farthington and that gelatinous manifestation of wrestlings own Machine-Gun Kelly, Fred Dick but I guess you’re going to be taking ALL my time.

Clearing his throat, Max lets a smug sneer ripples over his lips.

Max Kael!: The Herald is a noble sacrifice, both literally and figuratively. He’ll understand why I won’t be coming to rescue him. By the way, why are you owed any answers, exactly? You want answers? Come and fuckin’ take them! I’m right here on the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE! I’m here alone, just me and the twenty or so security guards! Come-on you fuckin pussy ass gadabout! Until then  I’ve got an answer for ya, friend. Fuck you.

Max flips the double birds before spitting at the camera. Some catches on his lip and dribbles down his chin giving him a manic, savage look. That practiced, fake smile clenches down as he straightens his tie.

Max Kael!: ..and that’s the news. Bye-bye!

The screen flickers and then cuts away, the sound of Max giggling angrily(what?) to himself lingers for a few moments before we transition to the next segment.

We cut from the NEWS DESK to find The Anglo Luchador, wearing his mask, a purple shirt with green lettering, custom made of course, that reads “WILL FEUD FOR FOOD,” and khaki shorts, and ambling the hallways backstage at Palau Sant Jordi. Leaning against the wall, one foot planted on the ground, the other one on the wall, knee bent. A sense of unease radiates from behind his mask. His head darts to the left, to the right, looking for something, maybe someone?

He spots what he’s looking for, noted by his head turning sharply to his left. He springs off the wall and raises his hands in the air, making himself wide enough for the person to at least have to move around him to get by.

Even someone as short as…

TAL: Hey, if it isn’t my pal, Tony Two Books!

The camera swivels to see Tony Gamble, in the flesh.

Tony Gamble: Pal… Not sure what’s going on in that head of yours, but calling me pal and wearing one of Zion’s shirts makes me think you’ve been dropped on your head more times than I have. Do I need to call someone?

TAL: Yes, you do. You should definitely call Lindsay Troy and sign us up for a match at Tropical Turmoil. What do you say, Tone? Wanna run back Colossus ‘22? I’ll even let you know what locker room I’m in so you can get things really started. I don’t even care, just as long as you don’t let Bobby in there after he’s eaten.

The Grin groans.

Tony Gamble: How about we pack that in a box labeled storage, put it on the highest shelf, stack like fifteen more boxes in front of it, and promise to get back to it later. Then, we can conveniently stop paying for the unit, and let someone else bid on that bad idea.

TAL: You know, a simple no would’ve sufficed. Unless you’re just yankin’ my chain.

Tony Gamble: I’m sure it would have sufficed, but I wanted to make sure you knew exactly how opposed to having my time wasted by stepping into a ring with you. You see, pal, I know what you’re trying to do and it isn’t going to work. So run along, Stella, I ain’t going to be the one you’re standing over at Tropical Turmoil because you suddenly got your groove back.

The Permascar Superstar shakes his head, palm to TAL’s face.

Tony Gamble: Better yet, let me be the bigger man.

The Luchador’s face is drained of all color, which is weird that you can tell that because he’s wearing a mask.

TAL: You know what, I’m sorry I asked.

The Luchador’s shoulders slump as The Grin walks away on the tips of his toes after their unfruitful, at least for the man remaining in the shot, encounter. He falls back, leaning against the wall with both knees bent and feet on the floor until he sees someone else out of the corner of his eye. Someone who just did his ritualistic news magazine the segment before.

TAL: Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, how’s things?

Max leans out of the employee fridge somewhere in the backstage of the Palau Sant Jordi. Not the PRIME employee fridge, like, the actual employees who work at the building. He has someone named Emmanuel’s tupperware in his hand, his finger stirring the contents. His eyes are wide, like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Max Kael!: I was lost! I can’t read Spanish! I.. wait..

Max narrows his eyes.

Max Kael!: Oh.

Pulling his finger out of the tupperware, the Lord of Kaelsalvania sucks the sauce off his finger thoughtfully before putting it back in the fridge.

Max Kael!: I know where this is going. I’ve tried every single one of those meals in there, all of them terrible, and I’d rather eat the entire fridge than wrestle you at Tropical Turmoil. Jason Snow was right, you’re like listening to your Daddy’s heart, a fuckin’ dead beat. His words, not mine, probably! But for real, fuck off.

The Unquestionable Kael begins to dance. Not, like, the kind of dance you’d expect from Max. Instead it’s like some kind of cheap stripper dance but he’s not taking his clothes off. He’s making that Mone’ while Max dances his way away from TAL, shaking his head and wagging his hand no.

Kael’s rejection stings him even harder because of how he seemed to know what he was going to ask before he even asked. He slumps down onto his butt in the hallway, and his head falls into his arms resting on his knees. His one-Luchador pity party lasts only a few moments before he feels someone bump into him.

Voice: Ignorant Luchador! Obstructing the hallways when you have perfectly good locker room.

The Luchador looks up to see none other than Alexei Ruslan. His mood perks up immediately. Surely, Ivan Stanislav would want another shot at mauling him. Culture Shock was a win, but it wasn’t dominant the way he’d predicted. He shoots up to his feet with surprising vigor.

TAL: Hey, Alexei! Long time no see!

Immediately, Ruslan suspects something. His eyes dart to the left, to the right, his hand moves behind his back.

Alexei Ruslan: What are you up to now, Luchador?

TAL: What, can’t a guy just chat with the manager of a fiercely hated rival? Surely you don’t think Ivan is done with me after I took him to the limit at Culture Shock. What with Coral getting the title shot, his dance card is notoriously free in Portugal.

Ruslan narrows his eyes. It takes just a moment, and then he smiles.

Alexei Ruslan: You… you want to ‘run it back’ with Ivan? Aaaahhaaahaaaaa!!!!

Alexei continues to laugh uproariously, even slapping his hand on the Luchador’s shoulders and squeezing.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh! Oh my! Yes. This is good one. Thank you, Tom!!

And with that, the wily Russian wipes his teary eyes and walks away.

The Luchador stands with his mouth agape, eyes wide. Not even Alexei Ruslan wants to take the bait.

TAL: I don’t, I, I just…

Voice: Cheer up, Tom, it’s good to have the night off sometimes.

The Luchador turns around to find Captain Suleimon, who looks strangely younger than the last time he appeared on PRIME television. And not like he was recast either. Weird.

Captain Suleimon: Unless that is you want to give your old chum Suleimon the one-two in the ring in Portugal. I feel younger than ever, all thanks to my visit to…

TAL: Tarik, thanks, but, I think you were right the first time. Maybe it is good to have the night off.

The Luchador walks slowly off camera as Suleimon stands up straight and sticks his chest out.

Captain Suleimon: Well, I wouldn’t want to show him up anyway. Ah well, time to get back to my job here.

Stagehand: What is your job anyway?

Suleimon ignores him as he walks off, and the camera cuts to another part of the arena.

After seeing what’s up with the Masked Man and others, the show’s feed cuts to Jack Marley and Steve Harrison. The two are standing in the entrance way before Steve’s match that’s coming up next. Jack nods as he watches Steve stretch his legs and arms. Harrison is decked out in his new wrestling gear with long white tights with green. He stops stretching and he starts sweating. Jack has a bag in his hand and is all decked out in IHOPs Merch gear, from the Daytona (not Clay Byrd) Diamonds Cowboy hat, a Cecilworth T-Shirt, and some Cancer Jiles T Shades that are on top of his head.

Jack Marley: Are you ok?

Harrison wipes his brow.

Steve Harrison: [voice shaking] Of…of…of course.

Jack Marley: Were you partying with Cancer Jiles? I told you Cancer Jiles be wanting to party…and you gotta tell him no.

Steve Harrison: Oh yea, that [looks at pretend watch] ten minutes I was free from you the past two weeks I spent it doing lines of coke with that eGG pervert.

Jack rubs his chin and then points at Steve.

Jack Marley: Sarcasm! See, I have learned a lot.

Steve Harrison: Yes, like how to pay off hotel staff so that I cannot leave the hotel. Telling them they cannot serve me alcohol. Only chicken and wild rice, goddamit Jack, I am hungry for a steak and…an old fashioned.

Jack rolls his eyes at the last comment about an old fashioned.

Jack Marley: And look at you now, boss. You are now in fighting shape instead of whatever you were in before. Sad? Pathetic? Lame? Weak? Soft? Runny? Drunk? High?

Steve Harrison: [Points at Jack and then himself] This dynamic is starting to make me itch and NO, Jack, I am feeling nervous which is something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Jack Marley: Oh!

Marley hands the bag to Harrison.

Jack Marley: Here, it’s a gift for your first post Chicago Match since 2010.

Steve opens the bag and pulls out a brand new wrestling robe. It is Green with Vertical White Stripes. He finally smiles for the first time since he put down his last beer two weeks ago. He feels the fabric and then whips around his body and puts it on.

Steve Harrison: I…I…I am not sure what to say.

Jack Marley: [Big Smiling] Thanks is what normal people would say.

The once (and future?) Miracle Man groans at Jack but wraps the robe around his body and takes a deep breath.

Steve Harrison: It has a calming scent, Jack, so uh…thanks.

Jack Marley: Your welcome, boss, so are you good to go now?

The PRIME Merch Master nods slowly and does a few more stretches.

Steve Harrison: I am starting to feel a sensation that I haven’t felt for a long time.

The Live Version from the 2019 Lockn Festival of “Set your Soul Free,” by Trey Anastasio and Derek Trucks begins to play.

Jack Marley: IT’S TIME! Damn…whenever I hear this, I wish I had a phat blunt.

Steve smacks his cheeks with his hands and nods and walks from behind the curtain and slowly down the entrance ramp. He stops and turns his back to the fans and puts his arms to the air as the robe flows behind him.

He turns swiftly and takes a few steps and then a smile comes to his face as he hears the normal mix between boo and cheers for him that he is accustomed to.

He stops and begins to soak in the music, the fans, and the fact it is the first time walking towards the ring in fifteen months. It is surreal to him but also bittersweet for his own personal reasons but for now the only thing he has eyes on is the ring.

It might be a new ring, with new sponsors, and for a new company but one thing is always certain: you wrestle inside it.

He gets to the ring steps and turns back to see Jack Marley waving from the entrance ramp as he is unable to go to the ring with Steve yet. Bureaucracy am I right? Of course I am.

Harrison ignores him and enters the ring. He circles the ring stomping every few steps to see how it feels. Finally he walks to the far corner and leans against the turnbuckle. He takes his robe off slowly and hands it to the ring attendant and gives him words about not damaging it. He takes his position back at the ropes. He leans against the turnbuckle and starts talking to himself as he waits for Sean O’Neill.

Richard Parker: Well after that electric match we have a nice siesta planned.

Nick Stuart: Back to the action now, folks, with Surreal Sean O’Neill taking on Steve Harrison. Harrison is already out here, ready to go!

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

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

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

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

Richard Parker: O’Neill has had a rough go of it lately, but he keeps showing up. The guy has some real grit.

Nick Stuart: But?

Richard Parker: But what?

Nick Stuart: Where’s the cynical barb?

Richard Parker: I don’t know what you mean.

Nick Stuart: Wow, that’s surprisingly positive.

Richard Parker: Calm down, Nick, you’re going to shoot in your pants before the match starts. I’m not saying this will be exciting.

Nick Stuart: And there it is.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon calls for the bell and we are back to the action here in Spain as O’Neill and Harrison circle one another in the middle of the ring.

In the center of the ring O’Neill and Harrison lock up. There are loose cheers from the crowd as the men push one another back and forth, Harrison gaining the initial momentum before O’Neill surges to secure a headlock. O’Neill leans all his weight into Harrison and constricts all air, squeezing as hard as he can.

Richard Parker: Coming out of the gate swinging. O’Neill seems to be trying to pull Harrison’s head off his shoulders.

When Elvis Nixon looks away, Harrison hits a quick sack tap on O’Neill to relieve some pressure before wrapping him up into a German suplex. Both men scramble to get up, but it’s Harrison who gets the first shot. He quickly drops down to deliver a dropkick to O’Neill’s shin, pulling the ground right out from under O’Neill. Surreal’s head bounces off the mat.

The Miracle Man pulls O’Neill up by his hair and lays a few elbows on the neck of the smaller O’Neill.  The Suplex Saint wraps an arm around the neck of O’Neill and holds on, lifting O’Neill all the way up in the air and holding him up suspended, O’Neill’s feet nearly straight up twelve feet in the air. The ring shakes under the weight and force of the two men crashing down into the mat.

Richard Parker: The Suplex Saint. You know he made that nickname up. Nobody is going to call someone else the Suplex Saint.

Nick Stuart: Harrison once again pulling O’Neill up by the hair, but this time O’Neill hooks the leg and yanks Harrison down to the mat. O’Neill pops up and drops right down into a falling fist drop.

Harrison grabs his forehead and writhes in pain as O’Neill pops back up again. As quick as he got up, O’Neill drops another falling fist right into Harrison’s face. Surreal Sean O’Neill rolls Harrison on his belly and then moves down to pick up his legs. Both legs are hooked into an armpit. O’Neill pulls back and kneels to lock in The Easter Rising.

Nick Stuart: Surreal is going for the kill early on in this match, locking in The Easter Rising. We haven’t seen this move recently, but it’s one of his trademarks.

Richard Parker: Not sure Harrison is going to get out of this one.

Nick Stuart: It will be challenging as O’Neill leans back, bending the knee into Harrison’s back for leverage. Elvis drops to the mat to get face-level with Steve Harrison.

Looking for the tap, Nixon gets down on his hands and knees. He checks in with Harrison, who waves him off with a head shake. This only incenses O’Neill. Agony covers the face of Steve Harrison as O’Neill leans back with all of his weight. The pain in his hips and knees and back is growing with each inch. Trying to mount some type of response, Harrison wiggles his hands and tries to rock from side to side, but the Great White Irish Hype is having none of it and increases the pressure from the knee firmly planted on Harrison’s spine.

The rocking has caused Elvis Nixon to be on the wrong side of Harrison, so he gets up to move to the other side. Before the ref can get fully situated, Harrison finds O’Neill’s crotch with his fist and plays a quick game of whack-a-mole. Key meet lock – O’Neill immediately releases Harrison’s legs. Both men make their way to opposite corners to collect themselves. The fans begin to chant, some for Harrison and some for O’Neill, and both men stand up at the same time. They lean down, priming themselves to charge at one another from across the ring.

Like dueling cannons, they explode from the corners at the same time and meet in the middle of the ring to a tornado of strikes. Kicks, chops, and elbows are traded back and forth. Neither man seems to give an inch, each blow being refunded with a strike in kind. The fans cheer with each shot, their “wooo”s growing into a nondescript roar nearing constant.

Nick Stuart: These men are not backing down at all despite the blow-for-blow action.

Richard Parker: The… you know what, never mind.

O’Neill gets the upper hand, landing three consecutive elbows to the forehead of Harrison, whose forehead splits. This does not deter O’Neill, who is moving with the fury of a locomotive now. Steam may as well be rolling out his ears as he lands a boot to Harrison’s midsection, bending Steve Harrison over towards the edge of the ring. A stream of red rolls down Harrison’s head, leaving little drops on the mat below as O’Neill pulls his head between his legs and locks in the arms of the Miracle Man.

Richard Parker: Time for the Celtic Tiger Bomb!

Before O’Neill can lift Harrison up, the Merch God grabs onto the ropes and uses the leverage to flip O’Neill over his back. Crafty as always, though, O’Neill manages to hit some sort of a modified powerbomb upon impact, pulling Harrison down with him. Both competitors spring to their feet, but once again, it’s O’Neill on the offense before Harrison can get his bearings.

Nick Stuart: O’Neill goes for a kick to the midsection of the dazed Harrison, but it’s just a bit short of connecting.

Richard Parker: A bit?! You could’ve fit a Cadillac in that space.

Realizing he has undershot his attack O’Neill tries to withdraw his foot, but Harrison leans forward and grabs ahold of the boot mid-air. With a yank and turn, Harrison has O’Neill spinning around to look out at the crowd. There, staring at the fans, O’Neill’s gaze remains as Harrison locks in a crossface chickenwing.

Nick Stuart: An exhausted Harrison leans back with all of his weight – SOULSHINE!

Richard Parker: Damn, O’Neill’s head bounced off the mat real funny there. That didn’t look good.

Nick Stuart: It certainly didn’t and now O’Neill isn’t moving.

O’Neill falls back and is sprawled out in the center of the ring, his body gone limp. His eyes roll back in his head. It is hard to tell whether or not he’s actually conscious after his head made contact with the mat.

Not one to squander good fortune, Harrison flops down on O’Neill and hooks the leg for a pin. Elvis Nixon slides next to them for the count,

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING 

Richard Parker: Call the dogs and put out the fire, this one’s done.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon and the medical staff tend to O’Neill as Harrison celebrates his victory.

We cut to commercial.

“Time Warp” pops up on the PA system and the Barcelona bodies roar to life. As RIA bounces out after the intro, the ovation swells even further. Wearing her newly won Alias championship like a bandolier, the Psychoberry beams brightly. She proudly smacks the front plate of the title, which is positioned over her left breast.

Nick Stuart: Here comes our new Alias champion, RIA! I can only assume she’s going to let everyone know what her plans for the title are.

Richard Parker: I’m sure this will be good and not ridiculous at all. Who can pet the most bunnies? First one to decorate a cake wins? Who can walk in the highest heels?

Nick Stuart: Hey Rich?

Richard Parker: What?!

Nick Stuart: I’d like to remind you of the Intense Title match at Great American Nightmare 2022 before you get yourself in more trouble.

By this point in the commentators’ banter, RIA is on the apron and climbing into the ring. Once she does, she takes an exuberant lap, soaking up the adulation of the Spanish PRIMEates. She’s handed a microphone as her theme music fades out, making her way to the middle of the ring. She gets ready to speak, but gets interrupted by a loud chant from the crowd.

TE LO MERE-CES!

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

TE LO MERE-CES!

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

RIA: I have no idea what that means, but I’m gonna assume it’s good and say gracias!

Another outburst of appreciation from the audience.

RIA: Ya know, there was a time where I figured something like this wouldn’t happen. That I was destined to be a bit player in my career. I’m sure there’s people that are gonna laugh, say I’m overvaluing this championship. Ya know what? I don’t care what those people say! Cuz those people are always gonna find a way to shit on you!

She starts to pace slowly.

RIA: I honestly don’t care if I lose this on my first defense. The fact that I made it to this point is what really matters to me. Now, don’t get things twisted, I ain’t plannin’ on giving this up without a fight! Allow me to introduce you to the Lockout Championship!

RIA slips the belt off and raises it in her left hand, high as she can. Another rackous cheer. She slips it down onto her left shoulder.

RIA: So here’s how this is gonna work… There’s four standard ways to win a wrestling match, right? Pinfall, submission, count-out and disqualification. I like a challenge, so I’m allowing my challengers to pick one of those conditions to eliminate from the match! BUT that’s not all! IF I manage to successfully defend the title, that choice carries over to the next match AND my next opponent gets to eliminate another condition!

Nick Stuart: She said she likes a challenge, Richard, but RIA might be biting off more than she can chew here.

Richard Parker: That’s because she’s an idiot! She’s trying to make it HARDER to defend the title?! What sense does that even make?!

There’s a stirring in the crowd around the stage. It doesn’t go unnoticed by RIA, who glares at the sight of an uninvited figure who has come through the curtain without music or theatrics.

Nick Stuart: Hold up, partner, we’ve got some company here!

Richard Parker: What’s that…? (looks) Oh!

The camera pans over, catching sight of man in the black and green tracksuit standing on the stage. There’s an upswell in jeers from the crowd as they eventually recognize who it is.

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama has come out to the stage! But why?

Richard Parker: Clearly, Nick, he’s here to inject some much needed professionalism into this raging clownshow of a victory speech!

The Emerald Apex arrives equipped with a mic in hand. After a few tense moments staring down the hostile crowd, he raises it to speak.

Kerry Kuroyama: So, I’m not one to come out here, interrupt the show, and draw attention to myself with some stock, grandstanding speech, but…

He gestures to the newly crowned Alias Champion standing in the ring.

Kerry Kuroyama: Clearly, we’ve already crossed that bridge, so it seems as good a time as any to say my piece.

A swell of jeering from the crowd fills the air. Kerry waits for it to subside and before leveling his gaze on the Psychoberry.

Kerry Kuroyama: I know I’ve been critical of you as of late… but nevertheless respect perseverance in this sport. Some would say there hasn’t been anyone in this company over the past three years who fought, bled, and sacrificed for their moment of recognition as hard as you have, and I’m inclined to agree. It’s been an incredible journey, for that alone, I congratulate you.

He leads the crowd into a round of light, agreeable applause. RIA’s eyebrows raise slightly as she tilts her head. She glances out to the PRIMEates briefly before her gaze settles back up to the stage.

Richard Parker: See that, Nick? Coming out and congratulating the new champion, giving her flowers in person! Kerry Kuroyama is truly a class act!

Nick Stuart: I’m just surprised he didn’t choke on the massive amount of pride he had to swallow to get that out.

Kuroyama raises the mic once more.

Kerry Kuroyama: But at the risk of bringing a rainstorm to your parade, allow me to remind you that the real journey begins now. And if you weren’t so caught up with patting yourself on the back out of complacency, maybe you’d come to notice the target that’s appeared there.

His face hardens.

Kerry Kuroyama: Because the reality is, there are literally dozens of “bit players” back in that locker room that would love to be standing in your place right now. Wrestlers that have been busting their asses week in, week out, all for the consideration of title opportunities. Or hell, just to be noticed. So I won’t take anything away from the fact that you made it. But if what you’re saying is true, and “making it” is all that really matters to you, then all you’re only proving to every one of them back there that don’t deserve that belt you carry.

He shakes his head, ignoring the next swell of jeers.

Kerry Kuroyama: Because if there’s been one constant in this sport, it’s that champions come, and champions go. And while winning a belt in this place is a commendable feat, it hardly means you’ve “made it”. Especially when you’re coming off a historic reign. Lose your first title defense, and all of this…

He gestures to the ring and shakes his head once more.

Kerry Kuroyama: All of it will mean nothing. You’ll go on to being yet another Abe Lipschitz. Or Anna Daniels. Or… (eye twitches) Rezin. People who “made it”, yet are only remembered for dropping the ball, if they’re remembered at all.

Richard Parker: Daniels I’ve heard of, but… who are the other two he’s referring to?

Nick Stuart: Did you take your brain pills today, partner? I think your memory’s failing you.

Kerry Kuroyama: Where you go from here with your “Lockout Championship” will determine whether the world looks back on this either as your miracle moment…

A derisive sneer creases his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: …or a mere delusion, born from a fluke win.

Boos rain down at the switch flip from Kerry. The cautious curiosity that had occupied RIA’s face disappears in a flash. She saunters up to the ropes, resting her left forearm across the top while her right foot finds residence on the bottom. She raises the microphone in her right hand up to her mouth.

RIA: Fluke, huh? Hey, maybe it was. Maybe this is just a hot steak that’ll fizzle out soon and I’ll come crashing down to earth? Maybe I’m a fraud? After all, seems like I suddenly just figured stuff out. No way I can maintain that, right?

The crowd lets their feelings on that be known as a negative hiss spreads through the arena. RIA slowly steps away from the ropes, her face hardening.

RIA: But… what if I don’t? What if this isn’t just sustained momentum? What if I’ve opened the door, a door where potential becomes realized ability? What then, Kerry? Since you wanna criticize me and my ideals, I’ve got an idea. You can bring your happy ass down here and find out which it is! History might forget me in time, but I’ll make sure you fuckin’ don’t!

Kuroyama, visibly flustered, paces back and forth in place a few times until he’s recomposed.

Kerry Kuroyama: Listen here, you sparkling, fuzzy pile of unicorn shit… you’ve mistaken me if you think I’m suggesting you’re nothing but a fluke. I’m simply pointing out that you talk like one. If you’ve truly opened a door, as you say, then consider me to be the first in wanting to see what’s beyond.

He wags a finger through the air

Kerry Kuroyama: But while I’d love to step in there and find out, we’re not doing it here. Because this wrestling show has been delayed by your self-adulation for long enough as it is. So I’ve got a better idea…

A sneering grin spreads across the Pacific Blitzkrieg’s intensified face.

Kerry Kuroyama: We’ll see what you really are… in Lisbon.

RIA crosses her arms before glaring at the Emerald Apex.

RIA: Man, you sure do like to contradict yourself. Anyway, ya know what? I can be a patient woman. You wanna wait? You want me to kick your ass live, on PPV? Works for me, my dude. But Imma warn you… If you didn’t like the pigeon hat, I can’t imagine you’re gonna love eating crow!

Kuroyama shakes his head in disgust, turns, and disappears through the curtain. RIA gives him a parting gift of two middle fingers. After a slight pause, she turns to play to the amped up crowd. We cut to the back.

Adam Ellis’s gaze is distant, unfocused as he leans back against the cold metal of the locker. The air in the dressing room is thick with anticipation. He can almost feel the vibrations of the crowd’s excitement, a silent drumbeat syncing with his own racing heart.

The door swings open with authority, and Dawn McGill strides in, her presence filling the space like the crescendo of a country ballad during the final chorus. She’s dressed for the spectacle, her black halter top clinging to her like a second skin, her skirt hugging the curves of her long legs, heels clicking on the tile floor with the sharpness of a hammer on a steel chair.

Dawn McGill: Belief, Adam.

She steps closer, locks her gaze with his.

Dawn McGill: Tonight, I want you to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you… and I do. You belong here. You’ve earned every square inch of that ring out there. But sometimes –

Dawn pauses, her voice drops an octave.

Dawn McGill: … maybe you have to take a step back to launch yourself two steps forward.  I don’t know.

His brow furrows, the seed of her words taking root. To retreat was never the plan, yet in her suggestion lays a strategy that pried at his rigid mindset.

Dawn McGill: Maybe, that’s what you need to do. To regroup, recalibrate. That doesn’t mean you don’t belong in PRIME. It means you’re playing the long game.

Adam absorbs the idea, the metaphorical ringside bell chiming in the distance. The thought of stepping back to leap further echoed in the chambers of his resolve, mingling with the adrenaline that preluded every bout.

Dawn McGill: Adam, tonight all you have to do is just let it all hang out against Kenny Freeman. You’ve got nothing to lose.

He looks up, meeting her piercing blue eyes, finding an anchor in their depths. Dawn doesn’t just carry herself; she commands her space – every inch the manager who has seen it all in this business.

Dawn McGill: Leave everything you’ve got out there in the ring.

Dawn’s tone now softens into that sultry edge that can turn heads or steel spines.

Dawn McGill: No matter if you win or lose, I’ve got your back. Whatever path you choose after tonight, I’m with you all the way until Ginny comes back.

Adam’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath, absorbing the weight of her words. The gentle giant within him stirs, readying to transform into the titan the fans came to see.

Dawn McGill: So, buck up little camper.  We’ll beat that slope together.

Dawn turns and strides towards the door leaving Adam puzzled over her last words.  Slopes?  Campers? Dawn’s head swivels back towards Adam.

Dawn McGill: Better Off Dead, Adam.  It’s a movie from the mid-eighties.

The reference sails over his head like a high-flying wrestler’s acrobatics, lost in the generational gap between them. But the sentiment isn’t lost; it anchors him, steadies him.

Adam squares his shoulders, his frame filling the space as he steps from the shadow of the locker. The gentle giant is no longer just a man, but a contender ready to claim his spot in the squared circle. Whether it means charging forward or taking a strategic step back, he is prepared. Because tonight, in the arena of PRIME Wrestling, belief is his stronghold, and Dawn has reinforced its walls.

Adam Ellis: Let’s do this.

We cut elsewhere.

Spain: land of tapas, bullfighting, flamenco, and siestas.

After partaking in the former, Rob Williams is trying to enjoy one of the latter. He is not having much success. Despite his makeshift pillow made from balled-up, unsold merch, it’s not for lack of comfort. Having come from the Indy circuit, sweating and fighting in bingo halls and school gyms across the country, Rob has always been the type who can sleep anywhere. It’s also not due to the stress of facing a seven-foot-two monster Hessian later in the evening. That’s just the work, everybody has to do something to get paid.

No, dear reader, Rob can’t sleep because he’s replaying the last few days in his head. Over and over. And over. You get the gist. One should expect that when one communes with God and visits some type of astral plane, though, right? Surely, but that’s not even what’s whipping The Legend’s ass right now.  Rob can’t sleep because he keeps replaying an offhand comment made by Lem.

“I trust you, Father.” Lem had said.

Maybe Rob heard him wrong. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be after that snafu in the explosive ring match in Japan a few years ago. What else would he have said, though? Father doesn’t rhyme with much. Rob thinks of all the words that sound similar to Father:  farther, bother, gather… farter.

No, it was Father that he heard because it was Father that Lem said.

Leaning against the doorway, having her own small moment, is Anna Daniels. She’s trying to keep some of her confidence up, but the Multitudes in her head just straight up won’t allow such a thing. They cannot help but grouse and grump. Why in the fuck are we here? Not here as in the doorway here or here as in Spain here. But here as in this building here. Why were they here fighting Don Winters if it isn’t going to mean anything? Truth is if given the choice, they’d rather be at home. Still, the Muse is not one to complain about that part much. The job is always the job and she can always take it out on whatever idiot they put in her path.

…but since we’re all here, might as well check up on our…friend? Acquaintance? Alliance mate person? At least the time wouldn’t be a total waste then. The vessel raps her knuckles against the door.

Off in his head, Rob hardly notices. His normal pizazz is lacking.

Rob Williams: Oh, hey Anna.

Anna Daniels: Hey yourself.

There’s a pause.

Anna Daniels: You look like shit. Even more so than usual.

The last part may have been a joke. That first sentence? Very apt. Even so, it doesn’t quite land with Rob. He stares past Anna, talking more to the ether than to Time Mommy.

Rob Williams: What, uh, what are you doing here?

Immediately, an eyebrow raises. Isn’t it usually us that looks everywhere but the person we need to look at?  Especially with him. Which is true. There was always the sense of something else afoot when it came to the man who called himself Legend. But something is off. And by off, I mean more off than usual.

Anna Daniels: That’s a dumb question, ain’t it? We’re checking up on you. Ya know, that thing we tend to do in between the rest of the fuckery around here.

Anna walks closer to him, coming to a stop about a foot away. Reaching out, the back of her hand meets his forehead. Huh. Man’s not hot. So why are there alarms going off?

Anna Daniels: You’re not running a fever. What’s up? Just tired?

Rob Williams: I just haven’t been feeling quite myself lately. You… you’re a good one, Anna. You know that? You’re always trying to take care of everybody else.

Rob puts a hand on Anna’s shoulder and smiles at her fondly.

Rob Williams: Things are just kind of confusing right now. Do you believe in destiny? Predestination and all that?

It’s a good question. It would be easy to scoff off, say no, and be the person most in the universe paint her to be. But looking him square in the eye, this was an honest question deserving of an honest answer.

Anna Daniels: Do we believe that everything is one-hundred percent charted out and we’re forced to walk the road regardless? No. But we do think there are certain things, people, places, whatever. Little fragments that have to happen in your life because otherwise, there’s no point in being you.

That’s the hope anyway. A subconscious rub on her wedding ring gives that away.

Rob Williams: My biggest fear was always that I was destined to wind up like my dad. He worked at a tire plant and was an abusive drunk. A real monster. Talked so big about all the shit he was going to do out in the world, but never the goddamn trailer, died on the clock making the very things that would’ve carried him out. But, here I am, a monster. Do you think I’m a monster, Anna?

In spite of themself, Anna laughs and pats Rob’s hand like a caring mother.

Anna Daniels: You asking that question proves you’re not a monster, Rob. You’re fucked up and lost. Part of you wants to be better, the other part wants to suffer, and both are in a never-ending fistfight against one another. You’ve done some crazy shit to others and to yourself, but that doesn’t equal irredeemable monster from our math.

A pause.

Anna Daniels: Then again, our morality is a bit…wonky.

Maybe he’s not a monster. If someone as good as Anna believes that, it could be the truth. All the same, maybe he needs to be a monster to finish the work. After what he experienced this week, he understands that it is his charge to protect that child from the monsters

Tonight he faces Hessian. The Murder Show. Sounds pretty monstrous.

Who better to fight Godzilla than King Fucking Kong?

Rob Williams: A lot to ponder.

Maybe the pain has been in masking the monster. Hiding it… trying to convince everyone that those big, bad teeth are just for smiling. He can figure this out later. For tonight, for Hessian, these teeth are for eating.

Rob Williams: Thank you, Anna. You really are a good one.

Rob turns to leave, not acknowledging this was his space to begin with. Before leaving, he stops in his tracks, remembering what Lem said. He turns to Anna again. Despite how silly it feels coming out of his mouth, he cannot help himself from pulling on this thread.

Rob Williams: Say, Anna, what’s my name?

The alarms in her head get louder as she blinks in confusion.

Anna Daniels: You’re Rob. Rob Williams. Are you…okay, mate?

If Anna believes he’s Rob Williams and not a monster, he’ll be ok.

Rob Williams: Yeah, uh, (trying to muster his normal bravado) never better. See ya around.

Watching one of her closest people in this universe toddle out of his own room, the Muse gently bangs her head against the wall and exhales. She can ignore all kinds of strange shit. The Multitudes have seen too much to simply call it impossible. But with all this noise emanating from her skull, she knows in a way that an animal feels themselves being watched even when they can’t see the killer.

Anna Daniels: Oh, fuck. Gotta have that conversation soon, ain’t we?

What conversation? Whatever it is, it carries a certain amount of dread.

Cut to ringside.

Revival 49 cuts back to ringside as Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” plays over the sound system and on the video screen, a video plays showing a series of wrestling trophies on a dresser next to an old high school football uniform that has ‘Ellis’ on the back.

An acoustic guitar plays and the vocals begin.

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

Adam comes out on stage accompanied by Dawn McGill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vince Howard: INTRODUCING FIRST, HAILING FROM WARRENSBURG, MISSOURI, STANDING SIX FEET, FOUR INCHES AND WEIGHING TWO HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX POUNDS – ADAAAAAAAAAM ELLLLLISSSSSSS!

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

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

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

Adam Ellis’ theme fades out and is replaced with a trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays over throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage, looking surprisingly confident in his chances of winning the match at hand…and perhaps some of that has to do with Alexei Ruslan standing beside him, much to the chagrin of the crowd as they boo the Master of the Moscowverse as Kenny walks to the ring.

Vince Howard: AND HIS OPPONENT, HAILING FROM LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, HE STANDS AT FIVE FOOT NINE INCHES AND WEIGHS ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY POUNDS. REPRESENTING THE RED ARMY, KENNY FREEEEEEEMAAAAAAAAAN!

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

The bell sounds, giving way to a cheer from the crowd as the two men begin to circle each other before charging into a grapple. Adam Ellis uses his significant height and weight advantage to push Freeman backwards and the Master of the Moscowverse stumbles into the corner. Ellis zeroes in, but Kenny ducks under the attempted clothesline and bounds off the opposite side of the ring and sends Ellis to the mat with a beautiful dropkick. However, both men are back on their feet almost instantly.

Nick Stuart: They’ve come out of the gate quickly here, but Freeman’s speed might give him the edge here.

Richard Parker: I mean, he seemingly can move at the speed of light, or something, so yeah, I’d say you’re right.

The two competitors lock up again, Ellis gains control and whips Kenny into the ropes, catches Ellis bent over waiting for the back body drop. Kenny gives him a stiff kick, which straightens the big Missourian, but only serves to draw a little bit of ire. Kenny grins and rears back with a chop that draws the expected crowd response, but Ellis smiles back and takes a big step forward to Freeman.

Nick Stuart: I may have spoken too soon.

Richard Parker: And Kenny might be about to feel one of those big midwestern paws across his own chest!

SMACK!

The crowd “oohs” Ellis’ own chop echoes through the Palau Sant Jordi. Kenny Freeman yelps in pain. Ellis continues the offensive by whipping Freeman once again, this time tripping him up with a drop toe hold. Adam immediately follows that up with a rapid elbow drop into the small of Freeman’s back. He then struggles Freeman to his feet, hooks a hand to Kenny’s tights and snaps him over with a vicious suplex.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis has been desperate for a win lately, and he’s showing us he wants it here tonight in Barcelona!

Richard Parker: His mama didn’t raise no loser!

Nick Stuart: [sighing audibly] ANYWAY, Ellis looks like he’s attempting to suplex Freeman again, but K-Free is blocking it with his leg.

Richard Parker: Peppering in a couple rabbit punches too! He’s trying to get out of this.

K-Free succeeds in avoiding another suplex by breaking the attempt. He kicks Ellis in the gut, doubling him over and capitalizes with a swinging neckbreaker. Kenny is quick to his feet and throws himself onto Ellis with a standing senton, continuing his offensive. Instead of attempting a pin, Freeman applies a headlock to the downed Ellis, cinching the s-grip in tight as he does. Kenny rears back, torquing Ellis’ neck as Ashley Barlow checks to see if the big Midwesterner wants to continue. Ellis quickly shakes off any idea of throwing in the towel.

Nick Stuart: K-Free has the advantage now, can he capitalize!

Richard Parker: Ellis should just quit! That’s a headlock Ivan Stanislav would be proud of if he were ringside right now!

As K-Free tries to cinch that headlock in even tighter than before, Ellis slowly starts to struggle to his feet, bearing Kenny’s weight as he does. In a flash, Ellis has back suplexed Freeman, breaking the headlock, and in the moment Ellis gathers himself, Freeman rolls himself to the outside for his own respite.

Nick Stuart: What a maneuver from Ellis! He’s slowly getting back to his feet as Kenny struggles on the outside with Alexei.

Richard Parker: Alexei is merely offering suggestions and advice as all seasoned managers do.

Nick Stuart: Right. Of course he is. Always innocent.

Ashley Barlow begins her count on K-Free, but she only gets to two as Adam Ellis rolls himself under the bottom rope to bring his quarry back into the ring. As Ellis stalks around the ring, Ruslan pops up between Ellis and Freeman, pointing a finger into Adam’s chest. Ellis looks left, then right before grabbing Alexei by the lapels, drawing a massive reaction from the Barcelona faithful in attendance.

Richard Parker: Adam Ellis should know that as desperate as he is, beating up Alexei Ruslan won’t count!

Nick Stuart: I hope Ellis throws him thirty rows deep.

As Ellis is taking in the crowd, he slowly lifts Alexei up off the ground, the tips of his shoes pointed downward, scrambling for purchase. He’s saved, however, unbeknownst to Ellis, K-Free took the opportunity to slip around ringside and now he’s sprinting full-tilt at Ellis and dives, chop blocking the Missouran out at the knee. The crowd boos loudly Alexei lands on his feet, patting Kenny Freeman on the back as he does.

Nick Stuart: Damn that dastardly Russian!

Richard Parker: Ellis shoulda never laid hands on the man! He got what he deserved!

Kenny works studiously to roll Ellis back into the ring. He gets onto the apron himself and vaults onto the top rope, balancing for what seems like an eternity before coming down with a frog splash. Ashley Barlow quickly dives into position.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Ellis kicks out! The crowd roars as K-Free slaps the mat in frustration while looking up at Barlow. Kenny decides the time for more offense is now. He begins stomping at Ellis in frustration, boot after boot. He then grabs Ellis by the hair, lifting him back to his feet. K-Free sizes up Ellis and goes for another kick, but Ellis catches it, spins Freeman around and cinches the waist for a German suplex. K-Free is reeling as the crowd begins to chant for Ellis to take advantage.

Nick Stuart: What a struggle this has been! Neither man is able to take control of this match!

Richard Parker: K-Free has got this, baby, I can feel it!

Nick Stuart: You sure about that?

Ellis, now in the driver’s seat, lifts Freeman to his feet and whips him mercilessly into the opposing corner. Freeman thuds into the turnbuckles and takes three steps forward, but he’s too dazed to ever see Adam Ellis leaping through the air.

Nick Stuart: SUPERMAN PUNCH! HE CLOBBERED HIM THERE!

Richard Parker: C’MON KENNY GET UP!

The crowd cheers as Ellis grabs one leg of K-Free’s, then the other. Freeman’s eyes go wide, he knows what’s about to happen here. He begins kicking like a toddler refusing to get dressed for bedtime, but Ellis can’t get Kenny fully turned over with both legs for the Elevated Boston Crab. Kenny finally struggles himself to the bottom rope, hanging on for dear life. Barlow forces Ellis to let go, which he does reluctantly.

Richard Parker: What a pro, he avoided Ellis’ finisher! I told you he’s got this!

Nick Stuart, who has nothing left to say at this point, simply sighs again. Ellis charges for Freeman, who smartly pulls Ellis head and neck down onto the top rope, backing the big man up momentarily. Freeman scrambles to his feet and runs the ropes again. Ellis ducks a clothesline attempt and on the rebound, catches Freeman with another drop toe hold.

But he didn’t release it this time.

Nick Stuart: Look at this! Ellis is transitioning that drop toe hold into a modified STF!

Richard Parker: Oh no!

Parker can feel the Zbyskosweats coming on as Kenny Freeman fights for his life in the center of the ring. His toe is locked. His head and neck are cinched into an s-grip tighter than the one he had on Ellis earlier. His eyes go wide, his nostrils flare, he’s looking all around and Alexei watches helplessly as Kenny Freeman finally taps on the arm of Adam Ellis. Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

Vince Howard: AND YOUR WINNER BY SUBMISSION – ADAAAAAAAAAAM ELLLLLISSSSSS!

Nick Stuart: What a back and forth battle this was and it’s hard to say Adam Ellis didn’t deserve this one! He’s been positively desperate for a win here in PRIME and he’s finally back on track!

We cut elsewhere.

ReVival 49 comes back to life with the sight of everyone’s favorite hot dog, Crash, and he’s fucking hot. Marching around the Palau Sant Jordi with a vigor in his step, he spots the camera and a very unprepared Matt Mills. PRIME’s top-tier interviewer turns to see Crash, anger-chewing a hot dog and fucking fury shining in his eyes.

Crash: Millsy, bro. We gotta talk.

Matt can’t help but cock an eyebrow because this is what they call ‘unexpected.’ He turns to the camera with an open palm before Crash grabs his elbow, kips his palm up high, and crushes it with a super emphatic slap. The highest of fives.

Crash: And by we… I mean me and the netherworld fartsparkle.

Matt looks around, unsure of what’s happening, and then shrugs at Crash.

Crash: Max Kael, bro!

OOOOOHHHHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIITTTTT

Nick Stuart: Crash Jackson might be biting off more than he can chew here.

Richard Parker: No! They can’t split up now! Max needs more idiots to manipulate.

This is the part where Crash shoves Matt away for more confusion and grabs the camera from the front.

Crash: Max…

His pause allows that rage and fury to seemingly spew out of him like a 2 liter style, Mentos infused mess.

Crash: BROOOOOOOOOOOOO

The guttural pain yell from the Hot Dog Hero says it all. His eyes lock back onto the camera, fiery, and starting to swell.

Matt Mills: I’m getting the feeling you want to say someth-

Crash: DUUUUUUUUUDE

Nick Stuart: You can hear it in his voice, folks, that Crash Jackson is…

Crash: BUUUUUUHHHHROOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: …heartbroken.

Crash covers his face, unable to hide his pain and anger, before locking onto the camera. His tears, they flow. His rage, it burns. His face, it quivers. His focus, doesn’t flinch a fuckin’ inch.

Crash: I want you at Tropical Turmoil you horse face shit goblin! Put me in the ring with M-

“There he is!”

Like fourteen, maybe fifteen security guards pile on top of Crash. His words are cut off and it’s clear when some dude in a nice suit strolls up. The cartoonish doggy pile lets up with Crash held in restraint, his super deadly arms and lethal legs held back. His snarl is feral. He’s lost without VP.

Palau Sant Jordi Amigo: Senor Crash, you have been ordered to leave the building because you whooped on the Herald. Let us go collect your things. Oh, wait, we have. Here you go, senor.

He throws all dozen of his steamed buns and perfectly cooked hotdogs at him. They bounce off, as if in simultaneous sequence to display pure sarcasm, as Crash cries even harder. He looks up to spew his hatred for this handling of his things but is cut off by a human caravan taking him out of the back door, using his hard head as a door popper.

Palau Sant Jordi Amigo: And por favor, senor… don’t come back.

Crash is tossed from the door to the floor in a second but not much more. The air in his lungs audibly exits in rapid fashion. Sounds like it fuckin’ hurt. The sound of the feet leaving his exit scene is rapid, then the door slams. Crash looks around, no therapeutic hot dogs in sight, before assessing his surroundings.

The WON Action News Van.

Crash: Bro.

For the first time since not being able to find Violent Purple, he cracks a smile. It fades, but not enough, as he nods his head up and then down, repeatedly. Crash heads off, tears and fury in his eyes.

We cut elsewhere.

We regret to inform everyone that Joe Fontaine is backstage, with the Fabulous Gold Mask following behind him, and that’s really unfortunate. The one figure who isn’t there that’s usually very present in these sorts of situations is Sid Phillips, which Joe is currently lamenting right now.

Joe Fontaine: This is the worst.

It isn’t for any reason that you might think.

Joe Fontaine: Like, really the worst.

Joe Fontaine lets out a sigh.

Joe Fontaine: I have so many ideas and I don’t have anyone to bounce them off of!

The Fabulous Gold Mask, who is following behind Joe and isn’t stuck in Greenland or El Dorado or wherever he lives, pantomimes the fact that he’s right there ready for all of the ideas. Or at least, it’s indignation that Joe isn’t even trying to let him help out. One of those two things is happening right now.

Joe Fontaine: And like, I asked all of my friends if they’d seen Sid. Granted, those friends are FLAMBO, Cecilworth, and Hayes, and they all kinda gave me that weird look they sometimes give me when I ask something, but that’s literally all of my friends and they’ve got nothing!

Fabby points at himself with a head tilted quizzically, as though questioning why he hasn’t been asked yet. He should know better, he’s been in this man’s company for over six months now.

Joe Fontaine: Who else am I going to tell about my grand sweeping epic about a heroic wrestle wizard and his erstwhile companions as they tackle the evil Mount Suplex and its dark overlord Prince Youngblood the Shagger of Skull Thrones? It’s not like I’m gonna roll up in Adam Ellis’s locker area that he shares with all of the other lame-os that call themselves “good guys” and be like “hey, bro, what’s up, nice shotgun wife you’ve got there, anyhoodle here is my grand sweeping epic” or anything. No way. I’m also not going to the Whoresmen’s locker room because I’m pretty sure Fred Dick has done crimes – which we in the Glueminati are very against – and Harley Walker’s got the crazy eyes. And I mean, have you seen STRONK? Cthulhu was going to wake up and then it saw STRONK and was like “NOPE, I’M GOOD, SORRY FOR THE TROUBLE”. Except with, like, Zalgo text. Like what Max talks in sometimes while he’s allegedly being possessed by the Devil or by the spirit of history’s greatest monster Nicholas Sparks.

This entire rant happens to Fabby’s increasing distress and incredulity, as Joe’s wandering and rambling has taken the two of them outside of the production area. They go past a bunch of very bewildered professional wrestlers trying to enjoy their goddamn catering, and into the parking lot.

Joe Fontaine: And don’t even get me started on what’s actually going on in PRIME, because it’s outrageous! All of it is outrageous! The Glueminati are the best thing in PRIME right now, we’ve definitely beaten all comers since War Games, and do you know how many of us are involved in big cool title matches for Tropical Turmoil! None! NONE! I don’t care about titles for myself nowadays but remember when we had a stranglehold over most of the belts in this company? Yeah! I do! So you know what, I—

Joe freezes in his tracks. Behind him, Fabby has frozen several feet behind him and is briefly considering going into hiding.

There are two people having a quiet conversation out in the parking lot. One of them is Sid Phillips, the very man that Joe Fontaine wants to bounce stupid ideas off of. The other one is someone that hasn’t exactly been welcomed in the Glue sphere for some time, the man that helped the Glue Man Group in PRIME since nearly the beginning. The man that is set to challenge Jonathan-Christopher Hall for the Universal championship in a month’s time.

His name is Coral Avalon.

Coral Avalon: Listen, Sid, I don’t want to tell you what to do about PRIME or anything, but…

Joe Fontaine: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?

Coral and Sid both turn around to see Joe and Fabby standing there. Fabby is trying to put himself out of Coral’s line of fight, but Coral’s eyes fix on him well before they ever fix on Joe. Joe is already incensed by the fact that Sid is talking to Coral and not powerbombing him, planning to powerbomb him, or otherwise celebrating over a freshly powerbombed corpse. No powerbombs had, in fact, taken place. We are living in a powerbombless world, and it is very askew.

Coral Avalon: I’m having a conversation with Sid, what’s it look like?

Joe Fontaine: No. No, no, no. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. Negative. Negussy. Absolutely not. No. Non. Fuck you. Nay. No way. Never.

Coral Avalon: I don’t like the sound of one of those in particular.

Joe Fontaine: Alright, clearly, we’re done here!

He points directly at Avalon and shouts in a commanding, supervillainous tone.

Joe Fontaine: Fabby, get him!

The problem with this order is that Fabby has now shuffled well out of Avalon’s line of sight, and is visibly disinterested in running directly into the Crownless King’s fists on the orders of the guy he’s interning for. Coral simply stands there with his arms crossed, unimpressed.

Coral Avalon: So, when is he supposed to, uh… “get me”?

Joe Fontaine doesn’t change his pose at all, but he looks behind him to see Fabby shrinking further and further away.

Joe Fontaine: …Get back here!

Joe grumbles as he stomps off-camera and pushes Fabby into frame, which is pretty impressive considering their noticeable height difference. Once Fabby is in the shot, Joe crosses his arms.

Joe Fontaine: I demand answers! Or Fabby here is going to start rooting around your ass until he pulls the answers free from its cavity!

Everyone in the room stares at Joe like he’s grown eyes on his ears. Fabby is already trying to leave the conversation, but Joe grabs him by the wrist with both hands and won’t let him. He turns back to Coral and Sid as he’s almost dragged away.

Joe Fontaine: What! I’m waiting!

Coral opens his mouth to start explaining, but Sid brushes him aside in a decidedly not-powerbomb kind of way and addresses the room.

Sid Phillips: Hey.

He smolders as he says that, because he really can’t help that that’s what he does sometimes. Sid is a lot of things, and giving off unconscious smoldering himbo energy is definitely one of those things. It causes both Fabby and Joe to stop in their tracks and pay attention to He Whose Hunger For Powerbombs Knows No Bounds. Sid gestures to Avalon.

Sid Phillips: I want this to be clear, I went to him.

Joe Fontaine: What? Why? When? How? Wait, don’t answer any of those. Did you forget that this guy is a Bandit? A fucking eGG Bandit!? This guy bandits eggs! With two capital G’s! That’s how you know he’s serious about banditing eggs! And you’re here fraternizing with the enemy? Come on! Let’s go back to the Gloffice Space, the Gloference Room, Casa de Glue… you know what, I’m done workshopping the Glabin! Let’s just go back to all of our friends and we can have a nice, reasoned discussion about this treachery you’re trying to pull!

Like a petulant child, he stomps on the ground a few times like he’s stomping a goomba in Super Mario Bros.

Sid Phillips: Yeah, uh… No. No, I don’t think I will.

Coral Avalon: You know…

Sid holds up a hand to quiet Avalon before he has a chance to chime in.

Sid Phillips: I got this. [to Joe] Look, Joe. I followed along with you for years trying to help you achieve this insane wrestling dream of yours. I followed along with every dipshit whim you had. When we lost at Culture Shock last year, I know how bad that tore you up and you didn’t want to keep doing this anymore, especially since you love wrestling much, much more than I do. I know Cecilworth was very persuasive.

Coral feels the need to chime in on that one.

Coral Avalon: Thanks for that, by the way.

Sid Phillips: I’m not done. [to Joe] This? This isn’t what I signed up for, Joe. Because more than just the powerbomb thing, I was supposed to help you live out the pro wrestling dream. A task that, clearly, you’re no longer interested in doing. I know what you’d rather be doing, but every time I come to a show and have to sit in the Glueminati locker room to hear you prattle on about bullshit, I start to wonder if it was worth giving up a scholarship to come here.

Joe Fontaine: Oh, come on! That’s not even fair!

Sid Phillips: Remember the Gluebration, and how you didn’t give me – your friend since we were babies and your brother-in-law – an introduction as exhaustive or as excited as you gave Hank? Did you think I wouldn’t notice that?

Joe opens his mouth to respond, but Sid cuts him off.

Sid Phillips [interrupting]: YOU KNOW, I remember what you said right before we had that match at Culture Shock. That speech about us being brothers. And yet… everything you’ve done since that match has proven the opposite. You’ve chosen different brothers instead of me. You spend more time with Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE and Hayes than you spend with me.

Joe has the look of a man who’s upset… and furious.

Sid Phillips: And you know why I think you started doing that? Because I know that deep down, you blame me for what happened at Culture Shock.

There’s a short pause, before Sid throws up his hands.

Sid Phillips: And after this whole outburst about my treachery? Yeah, I’m done. Give Cecilworth my regards. I’m out.

He turns to Fabby.

Sid Phillips: Good luck being me-point-oh, Fabby. You’ll want out just as bad as I do now.

With that, Sid turns and walks out of the parking lot. Joe is wide-eyed as his longtime tag team partner gets into a waiting car, and just as Joe shouts “Sid!” at him, Sid drives off.

Joe looks around in anger before his eyes focus on Avalon, and he points an accusatory finger at him.

Joe Fontaine: You!

Coral smiles at Joe.

Coral Avalon: You know, I told you and Sid a long time ago that I don’t hold grudges for very long.

He takes a significant glance at Fabby.

Coral Avalon: Well, except one.

Then he turns back to a fuming Joe, who is so angry that he can’t find the words.

Coral Avalon: So whatever grudge you’ve got against me? That’s all you, buddy. All I did was lend an ear. The rest of it is all Sid. I’d think about that.

He keeps his eyes on both Joe and Fabby as he walks out of shot, heading off to prepare for an important meeting later in the night. This leaves Joe standing there fuming, while Fabby looks shaken next to him.

Once Avalon is gone, Joe slaps Fabby on his chest.

Joe Fontaine: Why didn’t you get him!?

Fabby has the body language of a man who has no answer and is depressed about it, and ReVival 49 continues on as Joe continues berating him in particular.

As we move away from whatever the Glue Bois just did, we see Angelica Brooks standing there, microphone in hand, and we sigh in relief because we know it won’t get weird and crazy.

Angelica Brooks: Hi, I’m backstage with Paxton Ray…

As the camera pans to The Bayou Butcher, the Spanish crowd reacts. Most of it is boos, but there are enough cheers to be audible, and it’s clear that makes everyone uncomfortable, including Paxton Ray.

Angelica Brooks: …who later tonight will be facing off against Jared Sykes for the first time since their Lights Out Match at Colossus 2022. Paxton, that match was one of the most memorable matches since PRIME reopened, and you suffered the loss. What will you do to make sure tonight has a different result?

Paxton Ray: Well I didn’t bring my chain so he can’t use it t’choke me out, for starters.

Angelica Brooks: A lot has happened since that match. You won the Intense Title, and your team won Wargames at Culture Shock. Meanwhile Jared Sykes captured the golden ticket in the Almasy tournament, won the Universal Title, and lost it to Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Do you think any of those changes will make this match different from last time?

Paxton Ray: Uh, maybe. Jared’s a good wrestler. I been up an’ down since then, but I think gettin’ t’go up against him may bring back some of that competitive fire.

Angelica Brooks: You’ve been dealing with Fred Dick for the last few weeks, and at the last show he almost delivered an embarrassing moment to you. Are you afraid he’ll try to get involved tonight?

Paxton Ray: Afraid? Nah, I hope the little dude comes to play tonight. I’ll be sure t’welcome him t’the ring.

Well, now you’ve gone and done it, Paxton. I hope you’re ready for what’s about to happen. But first, we must do The Intro.

Say his name and he appears. You have summoned the Jarry.

Clap clap.

You have summoned the Jarry.

Cuz they love him in Vegas, New Orleans, and ol’ Boston. But they hate him in Strasbourg, and Paris, it’s loud you know.

You have summoned the Jarry.

You have summoned the Jarry.

This is where the guitar solo goes.

Shake your ass from side to side and sway. You have summoned the Jarry. Big booty. So contagious.

So yeah, Jared is here now. Dressed to compete. Hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt. The typical backstage look.

Jared Sykes: Paxton.

“Paxton”? That’s it? You’re not even going to acknowledge the fact that I just dropped mad bars to the Joe Hendry theme, you chonk-ass bitch? Fine. Guess I’ll just go back to describing things.

Paxton looks over at Jared and smiles. It isn’t the wolfish grin with which he regarded him in years prior.

Paxton Ray: What’s goin’ on, Bluebs?

Jared pauses for a minute, considering the new nickname. What’s odd is that in close to twenty years under the mask of King Blueberry no one’s yet to call him that.

Also it sounds enough like “boobs” that there’s a bit of confusion.

Jared Sykes: Well, I was just passing through. You know, just tryna kill time.

He pulls his left hand from its pocket home and rubs his chin. As always every finger is taped, except there is now a loop of purple around his ring finger instead of the traditional white.

Jared Sykes: But then I heard my name. Had to see what’s up.

He slides his hand back into the pocket.

Jared Sykes: By all means keep goin’. Don’t let me stop you.

Paxton Ray: Nah, we don’t need Angie no more, do we?

Angelica Brooks, ever the professional, shoots a nervous look at the camera and without any other words slides out of the frame. Paxton turns to Jared, then cocks his head.

Paxton Ray: I jus’ realized that prob’ly sounded threatenin’. I jus’ meant I’d rather talk t’ya than talk ‘bout that Dickhole any more’n I hafta.

Jared Sykes: Interesting.

His tone is measured, betraying no emotion. A deliberate choice given the history at play.

Jared Sykes: There something on your mind, Pax’?

Paxton Ray: Yeah, a little. I been thinkin’ a lot ‘bout changes. ‘Bout the reasons we do the things we do, and why we decide t’do somethin’ out. So I just wanted to say…thanks.

Jared doesn’t answer, but he does look quizzically at The Bayou Butcher, who elaborates.

Paxton Ray: Ya helped me make some hard decisions recently, even if ya didn’t know it. I ain’t ever gonna be a good person, or anywhere close, but makin’ the decision t’not be an asshole, or as much’a one, is prob’ly as good as I can get. An’ you’re partly responsible for it.

That red blur over Jared’s shoulder? It’s Angelica Brooks’ hair. There’s a violent history between Sykes and Ray, and the Murdergator is known for leaving a wake of bodies everywhere he travels. Stepping back when the two came face to face was the smart play. More than that, it was the only play. Of course, she’s still a journalist, and this exchange – despite the omnipresent threat of chaos – isn’t something that she’s keen to miss.

Jared Sykes: I’m… Going to need you to explain that for me. I did what exactly?

Paxton Ray: Well…

I guess we aren’t going to get that answer right now, though, because instead we get yelling. Very loud yelling.

“MAKE WAY MAKE WAY FOR THE BROTHERS TIM, YOUR CHANCE OF SURVIVAL IS RATHER SLIM”

Two smaller men walk up to our pair here. The one on the right? You may remember him as Doug Tim, the PRIME staffer who supplies wrestlers with things they need, like shock collars. The one on the left? That’s his brother Rick. He likes to yell a lot.

Doug Tim: I still think it should be “very” slim. Rather makes it sound wishy-washy.

Rick Tim: BUT RATHER RHYMES WITH BROTHERS, IT’S A VERY INTRICATE IN-LINE RHYME, DID YOU NOT LISTEN TO THE VIDEO I SENT YOU ANALYZING THE GENIUS OF MF DOOM AND LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA?

Jared doesn’t turn, doesn’t move at all. He just closes his eyes, and exhales all of the air from his body in one long sigh. Like if a middle-aged balloon was going through an awkward goth phase.

Jared Sykes: (very quietly) Oh no.

He doesn’t open his eyes or even turn his head.

Honestly if someone wanted to kill him with a chair, now would be the perfect time. Feel free to take a swing. I promise not to get in the way. I’m still salty about him no-selling that song a few ‘grafs back.

Jared Sykes: Hi, Doug.

Another sigh, but this one’s much smaller than the last. Guess there was still a little wind left in Jarry after all.

Jared Sykes: (flatly) Hello, Rick.

Paxton Ray: What up, Doug?

We don’t get to hear what’s up with Doug. Instead, Rick steps forward and grabs Paxton’s hand.

Rick Tim: HELLO PAXTON RAY I HAVE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT YOU ESPECIALLY THE PARTS ABOUT YOU HURTING PEOPLE FOR NO REASON SO THIS IS A MIX OF EXCITEMENT AND FEAR NOT UNLIKE MOST OF THE VIDEOS I WATCH WHEN NO ONE ELSE IS AROUND.

Paxton looks from his hand to Rick, then to Jared.

Paxton Ray: …ya know this guy?

Jared finally opens his eyes. His is the expression of a man who is already Very Much Over This Shit.

Jared Sykes: Did you not see the whole thing four weeks ago where he showed up with a mic and got very loud?

Paxton shrugs.

Paxton Ray: I don’t watch TV.

Paxton looks at Doug.

Paxton Ray: This your brother? I can see the resemblance.

Doug Tim: That is hurtful.

Rick Tim: DOUG GIVE ME THE THING IN YOUR BAG.

Doug Tim: This is a bad idea.

Rick Tim: GIVE IT TO ME OR I’LL TELL MOM I HAVE THE TEXT ALREADY TYPED OUT I WILL HIT SEND.

Doug sighs and opens his bag. Rick fishes around in it for a moment, then pulls out…a gator head.

Not a real gator head, and not even a big one. But if you’ve ever been to New Orleans, you’ll see these baby gator heads they sell at gift shops. Rick now holds one in his hands, as well as a Sharpie.

Rick Tim: I AM SUCH A BIG FAN OF YOU PARTICULARLY THE WAY YOU PARALYZED JON RHINE WHO NEVER ACCEPTED MY FRIEND REQUEST ON FACEBOOK AND THEREFORE PRETTY MUCH DESERVES ALL BAD THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED TO HIM CAN YOU PLEASE SIGN THIS AND I AM SORRY IN ADVANCE THAT I ONLY HAD A GREEN SHARPIE AND THE ALLIGATOR HEAD IS GREEN SO YOU’LL HAVE TO PRESS REALLY HARD TO MAKE IT SHOW UP.

Paxton looks down at the gator head and once again looks at Jared.

Paxton Ray: Is he always like this?

Instead of answering, Jared turns to Angie, who wears the expression of a woman who’s not quite sure how to solve the puzzle that’s just been spilled out on the floor in front of her, but still needs to cover it for journalistic integrity.

Jared Sykes: I need a favor.

Angelica Brooks: Umm. Okay.

Jared Sykes: I need you to hit me with that microphone.

Angelica Brooks: I’m not going to…

Jared waves a hand.

Jared Sykes: No no. Not, like, hard or anything. Just, you know…

And then he mimes bonking himself on the head with a microphone. Angie shrugs.

POCK

That’s the sound of a microphone lightly rapping against seriously-dude-the-pink-isn’t-hiding-anything-we-can-still-see-the-grey-ones hair.

Jared Sykes: Fuck! So this is all actually happening.

At last he turns to Paxton.

Jared Sykes: To answer your question, yes. For fifteen years. Yes.

You can’t hear it, but a timer just went off. That timer is in Rick’s brain, and the name of that timer is “Rick, you haven’t said anything in at least a minute, you need to start talking so people know you’re still here.” [It’s actually in all caps since it’s in his head, but I decided to be merciful and translate.]

Rick Tim: I’M A LOT OLDER THAN FIFTEEN THOUGH I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY HOW OLD BECAUSE NO ONE THROWS ME BIRTHDAY PARTIES ANYMORE.

Doug Tim: You’re 43. We threw you a birthday last week. I bought you that gator head.

Doug looks over at Paxton.

Doug Tim: Sorry Pax. He made me. Don’t hit me.

Paxton shrugs.

Paxton Ray: Can I hit him?

Rick Tim: NO.

Doug Tim: As long as it doesn’t break any bones in his face. I have to bring him home in one piece.

Rick Tim: I SAID NO.

Paxton Ray: So like sixty percent strength. I can do that.

Rick Tim: WAIT CAN YOU SIGN THE–

Rick is interrupted by Paxton punching him gingerly in the face. Doug sighs and bends over to check on him as Paxton looks at Jared.

Paxton Ray: What were we talkin’ ‘bout?

Jared Sykes: You were about to tell me something about being a better person.

He looks at the brothers Tim then back up at Paxton.

Jared Sykes: Yeah, how’s that workin’ out for you?

Paxton follows Jared’s gaze, then shakes his head.

Paxton Ray: Work in progress.

He slaps Jared on the shoulder.

Paxton Ray: See ya in the ring.

And the Bayou Butcher walks off, leaving Jared with Angie and two Tims.

Jared Sykes: I’m… I think I’m just gonna go.

He starts to walk off, then turns briefly.

Jared Sykes: (to Angie) Good luck with them.

Then he’s gone. Rick straightens up and rubs the sore spot on his face.

Rick Tim: I HEAR THAT YOU HAVE A PODCAST CAN I BE ON IT I WAS JUST THE VICTIM OF A WRESTLING CRIME. YOU ALL SAW IT. DOUG HAS A NECK BRACE IN HIS BAG I CAN WEAR.

But alas, poor Rick, for the production truck has decided your time on this show is at an end. We cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, this next match promises to be an entire can of whoop ass!

Richard Parker: What does that even mean, Nick?

Nick Stuart: I beg your pardon?

Richard Parker: I begged yours first.

Nick Stuart: Anyway, it’s Rob Williams versus Hessian!

Richard Parker: Oh, wow, this promises to be an entire can of whoop ass!

The opening riff of “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains rips through the silent arena.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, heiling from Decatur, Georgia! Standing 6’2, weighing in at 240 pounds… THE LEGEND! ROB! WILLIAMS!!!

Fire lights up the entrance ramp and Rob Williams steps out from behind the curtains. His head hangs down, hair in his eyes as he moves down the ramp, not making eye contact with any of the fans. At a few points along the way he stops in his tracks. He looks out into the crowd as if something catches his attention, but he doesn’t directly look at anyone. Almost like he’s looking for a ghost.

Rob always climbs in the ring as the vocals hit “I’m the dog who gets beat.”

Nick Stuart: And I HOPE he’s the dog that gets beat tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: Rob ain’t a dog that gets beat, Nick. He’s a dog that gets EATS. ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO!

Nick Stuart: The hell is wrong with you?

The building is plunged into darkness as the lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar two silhouettes appear in the ether, one massive and one much smaller, and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figures start to shift, growing both larger and smaller in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

You remember, You remember me, yes,
I remember what we are, I remember only scars,
I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,
I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him. By his side, the dwarven figure draws the hood of his cloak to reveal a mischievous purple grin.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, accompanied by MINION THE IMP! Standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show…HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He tenses his thick flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena. Minion applauds from the stage and retreats backstage.

See only the master, risen, risen,
After all the silence, all of him laughing
After all the strangers, beaten, driven,
Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm
Do as the book told you see the pages torn,
Make the spell upon them, in human form,
So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,
Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.

The giant stops at the foot of the ring and gives the canvas a fond pat before reaching up with both hands to grab the top rope. Pulling himself up onto the apron he gives the crowd another quick stoic glance before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

You remember, You remember his face,
You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,
I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,
I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as the giant grins and heads to his corner while the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

Richard Parker: How about you retire already Hessian? Nobody even likes you dude.

Nick Stuart: That’s not true! Listen to this crowd!

HESS! HESS! HESS! HESS! HESS!

Richard Parker: Are they saying “Best?”

Nick Stuart: Careful, bud.

DING DING

Rob Williams wastes zero time! He charges across the ring and lays a big time forearm into Hessian! Another! Another! Another! But Hessian grabs Williams by his hair and slings him to the ground!

Rob scrambles to his feet and immediately goes back to the forearm shots! And again, Hessian grabs Rob by his hair and SLINGS him to the mat, Rob’s head colliding against it with a sickening thud.

Richard Parker: Come on, Rob! Stop aiming for his mug! Take out his old man legs!

Nick Stuart: Richard, Williams also has old legs.

Richard Parker: Shut up, nerd.

Immediately Hessian reaches down, drags Rob Williams up to his feet. In this moment we can all see just how much bigger Hessian is than Rob, a foot taller, and that frame carrying a whopping 140 pounds more muscle than Williams. Hessian wraps those massive arms around Rob’s waist, pulls him in tightly.

Nick Stuart: Oh! He’s got that bear hug locked in tight, Richard.

Richard Parker: This is like… so boring…

But Hessian doesn’t care what Richard Parker thinks. He just keeps squeezing and applying that pressure to Rob Williams’ lower back. Williams’ face conveys the agony but his pride prevents his voice from crying out in pain. Finally, he RAKES the eyes of Hessian, freeing himself from the hold. Then a diving shoulder absolutely knee caps Hessian, who drops to the knee.

Nick Stuart: ENZIGUIRI BY ROB WILLIAMS! Hessian hits the mat face first.

Richard Parker: ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO!

Nick Stuart: For the love of Christ, please stop barking like a dog.

Rob Williams doesn’t rest on his laurels, however. He slowly, laboriously, drags Hessian up to his feet.

Bad i-fucking-dea.

He grabs hold of Rob Williams’ head, offers him a grin, and then–

HEADBUTT! HEADBUTT! HEADBUTT! HEADBUTT!

And with every headbutt from here on, the crowd chants “Hess!”

HESS! HESS! HESS! HESS! HESS! HESS!

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Ten headbutts in a row. Rob Williams is already trickling blood from his forehead as he drops to the god damn mat like a sack of potatoes.

Nick Stuart: Still bored there, Richard?

Richard Parker: [very obnoxiously] sTilL bOrEd tHeRe, RiChArD???

Hessian moves for a quick cover. Jimmy Turnbull slides in for the count!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE– NO!

Rob Williams kicked out, perhaps out of instinct alone because you KNOW his brain is all shook up. But a kick out is a kick out. And Hessian wastes no time pulling Rob to his feet and whipping him into the turnbuckles!

Hessian charges right behind him! BIG BOOT! NO!!! Rob drops out of the way!

And Hessian’s poor leg now dangles prone over the top turnbuckle.

And Rob Williams?

Well, he knows what to do. He grabs hold of Hessian’s ankle and–

CRACK!!!

Nick Stuart: OOF! Hessian’s ankle absolutely slammed flush into the ring post!

Richard Parker: Just an absolute heady move by the junkyard dawg, Rob Williams.

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

Rob Williams finishes Hessian off with an inverted DDT! He hooks the legs!

Turnbull makes the count!

ONE!

TWO!

TH– KICK OUT by Hessian!

The crowd roars with approval after the PRIME Hall of Famer’s kick out, and Rob turns to argue with Jimmy Turnbull. Whatever Turnbull says in response gets Rob heated, and he stalks towards Turnbull, cussing his ass up and down, backs the referee into a corner…

But Hessian is there! And a short arm lariat sends Rob Williams toppling over the ropes, his body spilling onto the floor!

In no time at all, Hessian finds his way to the outside ring apron, waiting like a giant bird of prey as Rob Williams slowly drags himself to his feet.

DOUBLE AXE HANDLE SMASH FROM HESSIAN OFF THE APRON!

NOOOOO!!! Rob sends an absolutely vicious European uppercut into Hessian’s jaw on the way down, the force from which drops Hessian to the ground!

Jimmy Turnbull begins the count out process.

ONE!

Meanwhile, Rob Williams has a deranged look in his eye. He smacks himself on the head a couple of times, looks around, and sees Vince Howard.

Rob Williams: Get up!

Vince doesn’t have to be told twice. He quickly stands to his feet, but still gets shoved out of the way for his trouble.

TWO!

The Legend snatches Vince’s steel chair he was sitting on and folds it up.

Hessian stumbles up towards his feet.

ROB SENDS THAT CHAIR STRAIGHT INTO HESSIAN’S SKULL!

NO!!! MINION THE IMP PULLS THE CHAIR AWAY AS ROB HAS IT OVER HIS HEAD!!!

Rob turns to deck Minion, but Hessian spins him around!

GRABS HIM BY THE THROAT!!!

AND TOSSES HIM BACK FIRST INTO THE RING POST!!!

CRACK!!!

Nick Stuart: Ouch!

Richard Parker: By all rights that should be a disqualification!

Nick Stuart: WHAT?

Richard Parker: Do the right thing, Turnbull, you coward!

THREE!

Richard Parker: That’s not the right thing, Turnbull!

Rob walks forward, back arched, and narrowly avoids a chop to his throat by ducking underneath! He reaches back and DROPS Hessian with a falling neck breaker!

Both men lie on the mat now, neither one incredibly happy to be in their circumstances. Rob is the first to begin the climb to his feet, and he sees Minion, still holding that chair.

…but Minion swiftly drops it, backing away from the approaching Williams, who decides the chair is more important to him than decking Hessian’s manager.

FOUR!

Williams picks up the steel chair and slides into the ring. He tries to set it up in the corner, but Turnbull isn’t having it. He YANKS the chair from Rob, and before Rob can object, he notices that the air around him grows darker.

Indeed, it seems a massive entity looms just over his shoulder.

Rob slowly turns around to see he’s chest first with Hessian.

BOOT TO THE GUT BY HESSIAN!

HE LIFTS ROB HIGH INTO THE SKY FOR A…

STALLING.

FUCKING.

BRAINBUSTER!!!

Nick Stuart: HESSPLEX!!! THE HESSPLEX!!! HESSIAN MAKES THE COVER!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEE– NOOOOO!!

Richard Parker: ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO!

Nick Stuart: Tonight might just be the night I kill you, Richard.

Richard Parker: You said that last Thursday when I beat you in hearts back at the lodge.

Hessian doesn’t bother arguing with Turnbull about the speed of his count. He simply starts putting in more work. He reaches his feet and delivers a few stomps to Williams chest and shoulders.

He brings Rob to his feet, who instinctively NAILS Hessian right in the crotch with a subtle knee!

Richard Parker: Huh! That’s strange. Hessian is doubled over and Rob didn’t even touch him. Reckon it’s sudden appendicitis, Nick?

Nick Stuart: That is… you are…

Minion the Imp certainly doesn’t see any appendicitis. He sees a god damn cheater in the ring with the man he represents. Something has to be done about it and he’s gonna do it! Minion climbs onto the apron, tells Turnbull he’s too fucking blind to do his job.

And while all that’s going on, the chair that Turnbull discarded has found its way back in Rob Williams’ hands.

Just as Hessian has recovered–

CRACK!!! STEEL CHAIR TO THE CRANIUM OF THE PRIME HALL OF FAMER!!!

Rob Williams quickly discards the chair. Minion is absolute apoplectic trying to tell Turnbull to turn around. But the damage is done. Rob smiles as he grabs Hessian by the skin of his head and drags him to the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: This is a travesty! What was an even back and forth has been spoiled by a desperate Rob Williams here!

Richard Parker: I’m about to fucking bark.

Nick Stuart: Don’t. You. Dare.

OLD TIME ROCK N ROLL BY ROB WILLIAMS!!!

THE CROWD WHISTLES AND JEERS AT THE ROBBERY THEY ARE WATCHING UNFOLD!

WILLIAMS MAKES THE COVER!!!

TURNBULL COUNTS!!!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!

And just like that, Rob has added quite the feather in his cap with a victory over Hessian.

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams has no respect! He’s given an opportunity to go against one of the greatest this sport has ever produced, and he decides to pull a fast one for a cheap victory.

Richard Parker: …ROO.

“Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains hits the speakers and Rob celebrates in the ring, jeers be damned.

We cut to commercial.

We pause for a moment. And then, the piano and drums kick in.

♫…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…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

FLAMBERGE steps out wearing an incredibly elaborate copper jacket and bright teal slacks, with a pair of yellow plastic sunglasses resting across his forehead. No shirt, of course – because fashion.

Joe Fontaine is with him as well, shimmying his hips to “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels. He’s hyped, the fans are hyped, it’s a whole hype vibe in Spain tonight.

Nick Stuart: The United Kingdom, France, and now Spain – all of Europe seems to be united behind the Glueminati!

Richard Parker: I get it when it comes to FLAMBERGE, and maybe even Cecilworth – but Joe Fontaine?? These people need to wake up from their siesta fever dreams!

The Neck Collector and Dick Puncher The Invincible enter the ring and soak in the adulation of the Barcelona crowd.

Then, a familiar chant breaks out – or at least it starts out familiar…

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

…until pockets of fans start to make it their own, which spreads and spreads until it’s as loud as we’ve heard the crowd tonight:

AH SI SI! AH SI SI! AH SI SI! AH SI SI!

Joe and FLAMBERGE grin at this, and Joe motions to a ringside attendant for a microphone.

Joe Fontaine: Ladies and gentlemen! We are here once again to GLUEBRATE! Because how could we not Gluebrate in front of all of you lovely people when our boy, our Glueboi, our most neck collecting of boys… has become the first member of PRIME’s illustrious “ReVival era” to reach TWENTY WHOLE WINS! The first! Nobody else has done it before him! Nobody! It’s all FLAMBERGE! FLAMBO! FLAMBIBLE!

Joe turns to FLAMBERGE beaming towards him.

Joe Fontaine: So congratulations, man! It’s truly an honor and distinction and a privilege to stand before here in GLUEBRATION for you!

FLAMBERGE then motions for the microphone.

FLAMBERGE: Barcelone! GLUEBRATE WITH US!

RAHHHHHHHH AH SI SI! AH SI SI! AH SI SI! AH SI SI!

FLAMBERGE: 20 wins…ouais, this is many wins. Many of them came one after the other after the other, after the other, after the other…in l’année magnifique, the year the FLAMBERGE reached up and TOOK the title of PRIME’s 2023 Wrestler of the Year. I have defeated hall of famers…legends…champions, past and present…and I stand before you today, not only the Neck Collector, not only the Lizard King, not only the first Triple Crown Champion of the ReVival era…I stand before you as a man, ready to become THE Man.

The sunglasses on his forehead keep wanting to slip down and make him look decidedly less cool than the image he’s trying to project, so he takes the sunglasses off his face and hands them to Joe. Joe is thrilled.

FLAMBERGE: I have the battle plan to accomplish this, and I laid it out for the world back in Paris…and after claiming the necks of the would-be up-and-comer Adam Ellis and l’enfoiré le plus égoïste de la planète qui pense qu’il est le personnage principal, Jared Sykes…

Richard Parker: …anyone got a translation book handy?

FLAMBERGE: …I told the world my intentions. I am the honest man, I am the direct man, I do not lurk in the shadows or sneak in the dark – I stepped before the world and declared that at the Tropical Turmoil, I felt destined to dance the dance of the pay per view war once again with a man even worse than Sykes…the biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!

FLAMBERGE: iiiiitch, NATE COLTON!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHBOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: This reaction surprises me, partner – the Next Diamond has always been one of PRIME’s stalwarts and a young man I think we can all look up to!

Richard Parker: That’s because you’re a simple man, Nick – sophisticates like myself and the fans across Europe are all about the Glueminati!

Nick Stuart: Even Hayes Hanlon?

Richard Parker: Stop talking, The Bearded Dragon has more to say!

FLAMBERGE: …so I am here, Nate Colton! And where are you? I read the news, I know that you and your little petite amie Kohime Mori have no intention of appearing tonight!

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

FLAMBERGE: And I am FURIOUS ABOUT THIS! NATE COLTON!! You took all my hatred for you and all my loathing of everything your stupid little family stands for and you beat me in the middle of the ring at Ultraviolence 2022…you TOOK AWAY MY FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP at the following Colossus, with a big heaping scoop of the bullshit from the bald gremlin goblin man that’s stood in front of tremendous amounts of professional wrestling progress, Brandon Youngblood…

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

FLAMBERGE: And to duck me NOW, after EVERYTHING, our past, our present, after everything I have done to build myself from the blank slate of magic that had to fight off clingers and misers and hangers-on at every turn, from the bottomless pit of despair I felt after losing to you who I hate so much and then immediately losing my mentor, Phil Atken, by the heinous sneak attack…I have turned into PRIME’s most devastating collector of necks, and NOW you avoid the match??

BO-

FLAMBERGE: DON’T EVEN BOO! DON’T EVEN BOO! This is not about the putting on the great show for the fans, for outside viewers – this is not about selling the tickets and hyping the collision course of two sides of the same generational talent coin, THIS IS ABOUT ME, AND THE SATISFACTION THAT I DEMAND! I NEED THIS, NATE COLTON, AND YOU WILL GIVE THIS TO ME! I MUST HAVE MY REVENGEANCE, NATE COLTON! I MUST CLAIM THE NECK OF THE LAST MAN TO DEFEAT THE OLD ME, THE YOUNG AND THE STUPID ME! To put away the last shreds of doubt from anyone in the back – that this man, the FLAMBERGE, is THEEEEEE MAN! SO FIGHT ME, NATE COLTON! FIGHT ME AT TROPICAL TURMOIL!!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!

FLAMBERGE holds his arms up and basks in their reaction, turning in the ring to take it in from all angles. When he faces the announcers, the crowd absolutely explodes.

All for the Lizard King.

Well…

…not all for the Lizard King.

Some of that is for the figure that just came through the entrance. A tall, blonde fella who’s in an awful damn hurry to get down to that ring…and raise some hell when he gets there, if the look on his face is any indication.

Nick Stuart: NATE COLTON! NATE COLTON IS HERE!

Richard Parker: I thought we were finally rid of him!

He slides into the ring, and it’s only a matter of time before one of the Glues finds out about the New Diamond’s presence. The lucky winner is Joe Fontaine, who suddenly feels a pair of hands grab him by the collar and belt. Before he knows what’s happening, Colton sends Smooth Joe Cool sailing smoothly over the top rope and down to the floor, along with FLAMBERGE’s sunglasses.

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Richard Parker: How dare you, Barcelona?! You were cheering for Joe just a moment ago!

Nick Stuart: Because they know what’s about to happen, Richard! In fact, I think everyone in the building knows except FLAMBERGE!

Colton sizes up the unaware Ace from the corner, waiting for his moment to strike.

Richard Parker: At least hit him from behind if you’re gonna sneak up on him! Don’t you understand this business at all?

Finally, FLAMBERGE turns and sees the New Diamond, coiled and tense like a mousetrap spring. Colton charges, and a number of things cross FLAMBO’s face in a matter of seconds.

Shock.

Anger.

Hate.

Colton’s lips.

Sorry, not lips.

Forearm.

It’s surprisingly easy to get those confused.

WHAM!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Colton has laid out Le Protagoniste! He’s taking full advantage, too–he’s already on top of FLAMBO and he’s really laying in the shots now!

Richard Parker: A blatant sucker punch! What a scumbag!

Nick Stuart: I thought you appreciated the element of surprise. Probably why he didn’t play his theme when he came down.

Richard Parker: AND he’s got no sense of showmanship!

The initial shock wears off, allowing FLAMBO to fight back. He escapes from the mount, disappointing fanfic writers everywhere, and kips up to his feet. Colton’s right there with him though, and whips him into the ropes. FLAMBERGE rebounds, ducks under a clothesline, and slides beneath the opposite ropes and out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: The Triple Crown finally getting some breathing room here.

Richard Parker: HE’S NOT RUNNING AWAY!

Nick Stuart: Nobody said he was! FLAMBO wants this fight, he just needs a little space so he–OH MY GOD!

In defense of our announcers and also FLAMBERGE, nobody expected Colton to bust out the suicide dive. It’s not something he does normally, but sometimes it’s the fastest way to knock down some son of a bitch that you can’t stand.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: Colton is pulling out all the stops right here! He wants this fight just as much as FLAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: He won’t say that in a minute!

Indeed, Colton is slow to recover from the high-risk attack, and no sooner does he push himself off the floor than FLAMBO strikes with a quick kick from the supine position. It’s enough to stagger the New Diamond, and the Bearded Dragon strikes twice more before standing back up. Once there, he pulls Colton up by the hair and drags him to the announce table.

WHUMP!

…goes Colton’s face as FLAMBO slams it into the wooden desktop.

RRAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

WHUMP!

…again, that stupid, naive, dumbfuck gee-whiz face, right into the table.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

One more time, that awful smile, those pristine teeth, that strong jawline, that…

Whoops.

WHUMP!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!

Colton blocks the next one, and returns the favor. Now it’s FLAMBERGE’s turn to go face first into the announcers’ desk.

Richard Parker: We need security out here, now!

WHUMP!

…that arrogant sneer, that stupid haircut…

WHUMP!

…you know in the right light he’s actually quite–

WHACK!

Nick Stuart: A brutal headbutt from FLAMBERGE, and Colton is staggered! FLAMBERGE slips behind–hammerlock suplex, right on the arena floor! Colton goes down hard and–oh, come on! Joe Fontaine is back, and he’s putting the boots into Colton’s back!

Indeed, Dick Puncher the Invincible has rejoined the fray at this opportune time, stomping away at Colton. The Bearded Dragon stares down his prey, daring him–begging him–to get up. After a few more shots, Fontaine pulls a groggy Colton off the mat, and a sinister grin spreads across FLAMBERGE’s face.

Time to collect.

FLAMBERGE steps in to secure the choke…

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

…only to catch a faceful of Fontaine.

Nick Stuart: What a counter! Colton had just enough in reserve to push Joe Fontaine into FLAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: I thought Mister Goody Two-Shoes Colton was too good to use weapons!

Nick Stuart: A weapon? The hell are you talking about? Joe’s not a weapon!

Richard Parker: He’s an invincible dick puncher! That’s the most lethal weapon there is!

Fontaine staggers backward, and a suddenly revived Colton throws him halfway across the floor with a release German Suplex, before he and FLAMBO get back to business. Both men throw wild haymakers, desperate to put the other man down, much to the delight of the crowd.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Hey, that’s not delight.

It is, however, security.

Nick Stuart: The Enemigos are here to restore order!

Richard Parker: No! Let them fight!

The masked enforcers quickly swallow up all active participants, creating a wedge between FLAMBERGE and Colton. One of them, almost as an afterthought, picks up Joe Fontaine and throws him over his shoulder.

Nick Stuart: We knew there was tension heading into Tropical Turmoil but I don’t think we expected anything like that! Let’s go backstage while we get everything calmed down out here.

Yes, let’s.

Cut to…

The camera cuts backstage to Don Winters, who is facing said camera resplendent in a white suit, and crimson shirt. His hair is styled perfectly, and his eyes, like the Five Star championship secured snugly to his waist, shine like the eternal heavens in the glow of the blinding production lights. The Revelator smiles warmly, lips parting to reveal teeth like ivory keys on a baby grand.

Don Winters: It’s an absolute honor to be here in Barcelona this evening and I want to thank the city for their hospitality. The fans have been tremendous and it’s been an honor and a privilege to pray with many of you over the last week.

A warm applause comes from within the arena, Winters professionally pauses for the moment.

Don Winters: I also wanted to tip my cap to The Anglo Luchador, but publicly. A tremendous opponent that pushed me to the limit at ReVival 47. He’s a man with the heart and spirit of a champion, and I look forward to crossing paths again.

Another applause from the crowd. Winters continues to smile.

Don Winters: But I’m here to talk about Anna Daniels, my opponent tonight. It hasn’t sat well with me recently that she doesn’t seem to understand what forgiveness from His Word and Light truly means. I’m here to show Anna that there is most certainly a fire burning within me tonight. However, I am also here to commiserate with Anna Daniels, and that’s where I want to begin.

Winters rests a hand across the face plate of his Five Star championship.

Don Winters: I’m sorry you were not given a title shot. If it had been up to me, it would have been up for grabs tonight. I want to prove to this company, to every member of this roster, and every fan in attendance or watching around the world that I am a fighting champion for professional wrestling, for the Five Star championship, and PRIME. I want to infuse the righteousness of my faith in His Word and Light with the righteous principles of what my Five Star championship means.

Winters pauses, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed auburn hair.

Don Winters: And if you find a way past me tonight Anna, I would be delighted to offer you a title shot if Ms. Troy were amenable. It will have been earned, after all. However, you seem confused about which things must be earned and which are given unconditionally.

Winters continues to smile, it’s a little unnerving, isn’t it?

Don Winters: You believe that yourself and Rob Williams crucifying me on live television – the hardest truth I’ve ever had to reckon with publicly, meant nothing to me? That it hasn’t changed me? Let me tell you something Anna, it changed everything. I sought and received the ultimate absolution from God and Church. I came back a humbled man and asked for true forgiveness from the people. I walked into Culture Shock a man Rob Williams could not have imagined standing before.

The Revelator laughs, lifting out his arms in the crucifix position.

Don Winters: I had the people at my back. I had God at my back and because of that, your friend, the man that you aided in conspiring to put me on that cross, was strapped to his own. He didn’t walk out of Culture Shock the Five Star champion. As a matter of fact, Rob Williams didn’t walk out of Night One at all.

He drops his arms back to his waist, thumbs tucked behind his title.

Don Winters: And yes, I have forgiven you, Anna Daniels. But you need to know one very important thing: The Revelator never forgets. Rob Williams learned I don’t forget despite my ability to forgive. What makes you think you’re so special? What makes you think you’re so different?

Winters waits, almost like he’s expecting an answer to materialize out of thin air from Anna Daniels.

Don Winters: You’re not different. No matter what you believe, Spacewoman, we are all God’s Children. We are all beholden to His will and it must be carried out. There is forgiveness with thee, Anna Daniels, that thou mayest be feared.

The Revelator drops the smile, staring intently into the camera as it cuts back toward ringside, ready for the Daniels-Winters showdown.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey… weighing one-hundred-thirty-five pounds… she is THE MUSE… she is Anna Daniels!

The crowd cheers as “A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space plays and Anna Daniels walks out onto the top of the rampway. She looks determined as she makes her way down.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels hung Don Winters on a cross a few months ago…

Richard Parker: That did actually happen…

Nick Stuart: This is not the first time in our lives we’ve said that about two wrestlers.

Richard Parker: Probably won’t be the last.

Nick Stuart: We’ll see about that.

Stuart gives up and moves on, as he remains on radio silence while Daniels takes her robe off and waits in the corner of the ring, as her theme song dies down.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

The lights across the Palau Sant Jordi dim as a light gospel tune leads into the familiar strumming of a guitar. A large cheer resounded through the stadium, as they knew their Five Star champion, defender of faith and pro wrestling was about to make his way onto the stage.

I was blind, but now I see
You made a believer out of me
I was blind, but now I see
You made a believer out of me

A spotlight flashes center stage where The Revelator stands in a dapper white suit, and crimson shirt, the Prime Five Star championship resting comfortably around his waist. He stomps his foot, claps his hands and throws his arms out into the crucifix position, drawing a roar from the Spanish faithful.

Richard Parker: The champ has gone from a steakhouse jacket at 47 to a full suit here tonight!

Nick Stuart: That suit looks rather expensive, does it not?

Richard Parker: (Zbyszkosweating ever so slightly) I think he’s earned it with all that Revelating!

Nick Stuart audibly sighs.

I’m movin’ on up now
Gettin’ out of the darkness
My light shines on, my light shines on
My light shines on

Vince Howard: AND THEIR OPPONENT – WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED FIFTY-FOUR POUNDS. HAILING FROM DETROIT, MICHIGAN, HE IS THE REIGNING PRIME FIVE STAR CHAMPION – THE REVELATOR DOOOOOOOOOOOOON WIIIIIIIIIIIINTERRRRRRRRS!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

I was lost, now I’m found
I believe in you, I’ve got no bounds
I was lost, now I’m found
I believe in you, I’ve got no bounds

The Revelator raises an arm into the air before starting a purposeful march to the ring. He glances around the arena as he walks, but keeps the majority of focus on the ring and Anna Daniels standing within. He reaches the ring and ascends the stairs and vaults over the top rope. The Revelator removes his Five Star championship, handing it over to the ref. Winters then retreats to his corner and slowly begins unbuttoning his suit jacket, sliding it off one arm at a time. He follows that up with the undershirt, unbuttoning the collars, giving Anna Daniels a quick smile, and then working his way down the shirt from the top.

Daniels’ impatience begins to show and Winters slowly slides an arm back into the undershirt, drawing a cheer from the crowd. He laughs, as he rips the tearaway suit pants off, revealing massive tree trunk thighs. He stretches his arms out and waits for the bell.

DING DING 

Nick Stuart: And here we go.

The Revelator stares across the ring at The Muse.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels was once the New Era of PRIME, and now we see her here taking on a member of a newer era who’s had a meteoric rise.

The two slowly take measure of each other from across the ring. A slow circling pace begins, and finally the two come crashing together. Daniels swings a right hand but Winters manages to sidestep his way into a collar and elbow tie-up. He tries to rip an off balance Anna Daniels forward with a form of a judo throw but The Muse manages to put on the brakes and stabilize herself by yanking herself backwards.

Richard Parker: He almost tossed Anna Daniels like a sack of potatoes!

Daniels pushes forward from a lower leverage position, The Revelator torques downwards and Anna Daniels manages to slip her arm free and behind Don Winters by the waist. Winters rotates with a spinning back elbow, but Daniels manages to block. Daniels swings a vicious roundhouse kick at Winters who returns the block with one of his own and steps in closer to Anna Daniels.

Nick Stuart: What an exchange this has been.

Winters reaches for double underhooks but Daniels manages to snap off a kick to the inside of Winters’ thigh. Winters’ eyes light up and Anna Daniels fires off a second one, this time Winters manages to check the leg kick and step into Daniels with a right forearm. Anna stumbles backwards and Winters storms forward, Daniels slips herself between the ropes and Ashley Barlow steps between them. Winters puts his hands up and backs away while Daniels smirks at him.

Nick Stuart: Winters looks a bit frustrated.

Richard Parker: Smart gamesmanship by Daniels there.

Daniels comes back through the ropes and Winters comes in with a blistering knife edge chop lined up, but The Muse sticks her head back on the other side of the ropes and Winters has to back off. Daniels shakes her head with a smile, and Winters storms off the other direction. The second he turns his back, Daniels erupts forward with a leaping double knee between Winters’ shoulder blades.

Richard Parker: Anna’s thinking a step ahead of Don right now.

The blow to the back sends Winters staggering, Daniels drops off of Don Winters’ back and lands on her feet. Winters makes it all the way to the corner and Daniels comes flying in with a yakuza kick that smashes into Winters’ face. Daniels spins around with a spinning back kick to Winters’ midsection. Don doubles over and Daniels shoves his head backwards as Anna climbs up to the middle rope and begins driving right hands down onto Winters’ face.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is all over Don right now.

Barlow begins counting, each blow and the crowd joins in. Before Daniels can get above four, Winters drops low with his arms and shoves himself forward, taking Anna Daniels with him onto his shoulders and sending her flying down to the canvas with a driving powerbomb taking Daniels all the way down to the mat. Winters holds the stack and Barlow dives down for a count.

1!

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Daniels should have taken some air there. I probably need some air… (still zbyszkosweating)

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Anna Daniels really understands that concept.

Daniels rolls backwards to her feet and springs forward at Winters with a side kick that Winters manages to drop his forearm in front of, Daniels immediately dives forward and catches Winters by surprise with a superman punch that once again sends him staggering backwards to the corner.

Nick Stuart: I think Anna Daniels packs a lot more punch than Winters was ready for.

Daniels comes roaring into the corner with a rolling elbow that drops Winters down to sitting on the bottom turnbuckle. Daniels steps backwards a few feet before launching herself forward with a shotgun dropkick that drops The Revelator all the way down to the mat, but still leaning in the corner.

Richard Parker: Winters isn’t trying to stay up, I think The Muse is keeping him propped there.

Richard Parker isn’t always an idiot, and Daniels explodes off of Winters’ chest with the dropkick and rolls backwards. She sprints forward from the middle of the ring with a penalty kick to Winters’ chest. The recoil sends him sprawling, Daniels grabs Winters’ wrist and yanks him towards the center of the ring. Daniels drops down ontop of him for a pinfall.

1!

2!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: We’ve seen Winters absorb some punishment in the ring before, but that was a real shot.

Richard Parker: She might have to try to kill him again… (zbyszkosweating begins more profusely)

Daniels sneers as Winters rolls to the edge of the ring clutching his chest. The Time Lord explodes forward and begins throwing stomps at Winters who is holding the ropes, Barlow manages to get between them and begins to count at Anna Daniels who begins stepping backwards with her hands up. Winters lets go of the ropes and Daniels lunges forward with a stomp, but Winters manages to pop up to his knees and catch Daniels’ boot. He shoves Anna backwards and drives a right chop that snaps across Daniels’ collarbone.

Richard Parker: Blistering shot from Winters!

Daniels stumbles back and Winters comes forward with his own ferocity. Another chop sends Daniels stumbling backwards. Another shot sends Anna into the corner, and Winters follows Daniels in and drives a shoulder into Anna’s midsection. The Revelator snarls and comes forward with a knee to Anna’s midsection that doubles her over.

Nick Stuart: The Five Star Champion is taking control of this match.

Winters grabs Daniels around the waist and rips backwards with a gutwrench suplex that drives Daniels into the mat. Winters gets to his feet and yanks Daniels up with him. He smashes her with another chop, this time Daniels fires back with a right hand of her own that stings Winters across the jaw. Don pulls back and fires another chop that connects, and Daniels fires another right hand. This time, she follows with a toe stomp to Winters. Daniels follows the stomp with a knee to the midsection and a vicious axe kick to the back of Winters’ skull. Anna covers and Ashley Barlow dives in for a count.

1!

2!

….

………

……………

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: A lot of great striking offense from Anna tonight.

Nick Stuart: Absolutely Richard, she’s been teeing off, but Winters hasn’t been a slouch this evening either.

Anna is right back to her feet, Winters rolls on the ground as Daniels sprints to the ropes and as Winters sits up, she comes off with another shotgun dropkick. Winters manages to shove Daniels out of the way and roll to his feet, but Anna is in hot pursuit. Daniels fires off a roundhouse kick but Winters manages to duck under. Daniels regains her balance and manages to spin with a low elbow that grazes the side of Winters’ head. The Revelator shoots upwards and Daniels manages to catch him on the side of the head with a right hand. Winters goes down and covers up.

Nick Stuart: Daniels is proving too much on her feet, Winters might need to find a better plan…

Daniels fires a knee off half into Winters’ forehead and forearms. Don finally drops his arms to his side and Anna grabs both of his arms in a double underhook. She tries to pull him up, but Winters manages to jerk his arms downwards. He rotates around behind Daniels and grabs her around the waist.

Richard Parker: CANONIZED!

Nick Stuart: Anna has been dumped right on her head!

Daniels smashes into the mat, and Winters is over quickly with a cover, hooking the far leg and driving a forearm across Daniels’ jaw.

1!

2!

….

……….

…………..

………………

…………………

……………………….

………………………….

3!

DING DING DING 

Vince Howard: And the winner of this match, your Five Star Champion… The Revelator… DOOOOOOON WINTERS!

Daniels rolls to the outside holding her neck, while Winters is handed the Five Star Championship by the timekeeper.

Nick Stuart: Don Winters with some revenge against the other person that mockingly hung him on that cross.

Richard Parker: Revenge is sweet.

The lights dim in Palau Sant Jordi and turn an all-too familiar shade of crimson. While the general sentiment turns negative (in no small part to the swirling hammer and sickle on the PRIMEtron), surprisingly a different orchestral theme blares through the sound system.

“The Internationale,” the international, nation-agnostic communist anthem, plays instead of the Soviet National Anthem. As yellow and red explosions erupt from the entryway, Alexei Ruslan emerges waving the flag of the Partido Comunista de España.

Richard Parker: I’m being told that’s the flag of the Communist Party of Spain! See! The Red Army has international appeal!

Nick Stuart: I don’t see anything appealing about this cast of characters, Richard…

Richard Parker: Well, supposedly the uh, Poor Whoresman were going to give Ivan and company a second gift, and I guess they’re coming out to collect.

Indeed, while Ruslan walks down waving the flag, Ivan Stanislav, resplendent in a brilliant crimson uniform, glittering gold buttons, and several medals upon his chest, stomps down behind him. He bellows in Russian at the Spaniards, who return the vitriol in their native tongue.

Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz are next to emerge, waving happily at the crowd. They seem completely unaware of the hatred being thrown their way. The crowd’s anger lessens by just a hair when Speedy Riggs pulls up the rear of the procession, waving the flag of Cuba.

By now, The Red Army members are filing into the ring, all five of them. Ruslan and Riggs move to the corners farthest from the entryway and perch on top, waving the flags while sitting. Ivan stands in the center of the ring, while Kenny hands him a microphone and the Masters of the Moscowverse flank him.

Stanislav takes a moment to look at the crowd and surprisingly, addresses them in their native tongue.

Ivan Stanislav: Hola a todos los grandes comunistas en España!!!

The response is still less than warm. He sneers to himself and growls.

Ivan Stanislav: Very well! There is no need to use your language then!

Still, the Russian Bear lightens his mood as he looks back at the Masters, and then at Alexei and Speedy.

Ivan Stanislav: I will not let this sour response rain upon my parade, however. For you see, I understand that Mr. Diamonds and his cadre have more, er, gifts for me to enjoy?

The Russian Bear faces the entryway, still standing in the middle of the ring, and he motions.

Ivan Stanislav: Come then, Daytona and anyone else. Do not keep me waiting!

I make the money, man.
I roll the nickels.
The game is mine!
I deal the cards…

BEEEWAAARRREEE!

Well, it’s not a Communist National Anthem, but it’s still an anthem. Just a decidedly more… whorey one. “Beware” by Death Grips comes rippin’ through the PA system with all the pomp and circumstance of the star stripper at your local titty bar hitting the stage to close out the night. Unfortunately, unlike that stripper, there are no cheers or hoots or even hollers. Instead, there’s boos, jeers, and yes, whistling.

This is usually the part where The Poor Whoresmen would make their way out from behind the curtain but… the curtain doesn’t move. Instead, the sound of an engine revving in time with the bass pours out from somewhere backstage. The camera rushes to the side of the stage to see a large garbage truck covered in rhinestones, graffiti on the side reading in big, bold letters: WHORESMEN. Fred Dick and Harley Walker hang off the tailgate pumping their fists in the air as if they’re ready to hop off, grab your trash can from the side of the road, and make it look sexy.

Nick Stuart: Is that… is that a garbage truck covered in rhinestones…?

Richard Parker: Against all reason or logic, I think it is, Nick! A fancy one! It’s sparkling!

The truck parks itself beside the ramp. Through the front window, we can see Daytona Diamonds behind the steering wheel. STRONK sits beside him in the passenger seat and, in the part of the truck that the actual trash is dumped into, Lowell Dot Com peeks his head out, holding on for dear life. As Fred Dick and Harley Walker jump down, Daytona Diamonds (with the Intense Championship slung over his shoulder!) and STRONK Godson open their doors and climb out of the cab. Lowell Dot Com scrambles down the windshield, nearly falling to the floor.

The Poor Whoresmen (plus Lowell) start to make their way down the ramp, but not before grabbing a few choice accouterments from the back of The Slut Truck (ugh): yellow and red balloons (because balloons are the universal signifier of partytime), blow-up hammers and sickles (now on sale on the PRIMEporium!), and another artisanal gift basket (this time with teddy bears dressed as Stalin, Lenin, and Marx). They ignore the fans as they make their way to the ring.

Once inside, they stand across from The Red Army holding all the bullshit they brought with them. At this point, the PRIMEates aren’t even booing anymore, they’re just flabbergasted.

Daytona lifts a mic to his lips.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, howdy, fellers. Or, as they say in Mother Russia, aloha.

Despite the din of the audience around them, Stanislav and The Red Army are just as equally flabbergasted. Alexei narrows his eyes, wedges his flag in the turnbuckle, and hops off, walking slowly, with mouth agape, next to his behemoth comrade. Kenny is seen murmuring to Randall about…something, as Stanislav looks over at his Red Army comrades. Kenny just shrugs in response as Ivan stares back at Daytona Diamonds. His eyes narrow as he stares down at STRONK and the rest of the Whoresman.

Ivan Stanislav: That word is not Russian, Daytona. I will take your proletarian transport as some attempt to… continue to make amends for what that dwarf foolishly did to me. I still believe apology is in order.

Stanislav growls as he points an accusing finger at STRONK.

STRONK’s expression remains blank as he fails to grasp that Ivan is addressing him for an apology. He turns his big ol’ head mechanically, scanning behind him to see if anyone is there. Finding no one and forgetting his initial intent, he blinks and fixes his gaze on Ivan, his eyes empty and unfocused.

The truth is, STRONK has no recollection of who Ivan is or of the incident where he choked Ivan after emerging from the ocean and walking into Culture Shock back in March. His memory resets roughly every two weeks, leaving behind only disjointed images of the massive steaks he’s devoured and the impressive objects he’s lifted.

Slowly, as if on autopilot, STRONK raises his hand, forming a circle with his thumb and index finger, inviting a comradery-steeped gesture of digital penetration from the former PRIME Universal Champion.

Lowell visibly cringes.

The seven-foot-tall Russian Bear looks at STRONK with a mixture of perplexity and annoyance.

The Shillin’ Villain gently and respectfully grips his client’s bicep with both hands, lowering the King Stallion’s arm.

Lowell Dot Com: (whispering into STRONK’s ear) This isn’t really the, uh, time for ‘Whores Up’, STRONK Daddy…

Fred Dick steps forward, “shields” STRONK with his big, fat ass.

Fred Dick: You’ll have to forgive Mama Dick’s Baby Boy, Ivan. He’s stronger than hell, it’s true, but the boy’s got oatmeal brains, nawmean? “Cowpie brain” they call it on the farm.

STRONK: COW IS WHERE RIBEYE LIVES BEFORE IT IS HARVESTED.

Fred Dick: It sure is! That’s good! You just a learnin’ and a growin’!

There’s a long, long pause from The Red Army side of the ring. We see Kenny once again talking to Randall on the side, and those with an especially keen eye can read his lips as he tells the Entertainer how sure he was STRONK would cause a ruckus with the Russian Bear, who once again catches Freeman with one can best describe as a proletariat side-eye. Stanislav stares into STRONKS’s vapid eyes and sees nothing but… innocence? He looks down at Alexei and shrugs. This seems to placate the simmering Russian as he mutters something to himself. Then, he spreads his arms wide and beams.

Ivan Stanislav: Typical American memory then! DYAAHAAHAA!! So then, you say you have another surprise for The Red Army and rightfully so considering all of this. What is it?

Ruslan rubs his hands together expectantly.

Daytona Diamonds: Dang right, Ivan! And I’ll be good goddanged if it ain’t the greatest present of all time! So, y’see, me and the boys was talkin’ and we was tryna figure out… whaddya get the man who has everything? I mean, look at yourself, buddy! A storied career, muscles for days, a military-industrial complex at your beck and call. Hell, if you weren’t flyin’ high, I’d reckon the sky was fallin’… and then it hit us, Ivey, like a brick through a fuckin’ windshield…

Daytona steps forward. He lifts a hand way up there to Stanislav’s shoulder.

Daytona Diamonds: Ivan Stanislav. Russian Bear. Starsky Properschtick. We want you to join us as The Fifth Whoresman!

Before Stanislav can reply, before he can even reply, Daytona Diamonds takes a step back, spreading his arms out wide as if offering The Russian Bear a hug.

Daytona Diamonds: Mister Stanislav… tear down this wall!

It really is Ivan’s night to be confused. He blinks again, the poisonous words of one Ronald Reagan echoing in his mind. He again looks at Alexei, who shrugs, and then back at the Masters and Speedy. They shrug. He then looks back at the group of misfits in front of him.

Ivan Stanislav: You… want me… to join your group?

Harley asks for the microphone from Daytona, who then raises one hand up at Ivan before staring him down for a second.

Harley Walker: I want you to think of it a little bit differently than that. Think of it as…

Harley then lowers his hand down to offer a shake of hands with The Russian Bear.

Harley Walker: Monopolizing. You above the rest back there know what power in numbers means hoss, so… whatdya’ say?

Fred Dick makes eye contact with Alexei Ruslan. Long, uncomfortable. Fred makes a “V” with his fingers, sticks his tongue through it. Winks.

Ruslan’s face twists first from being quite horrified to disgusted and horrified. While Ivan thinks about the offer. It’s quite the tempting offer, isn’t it? I mean, they came in a garbage truck, after all. And so, Ivan shrugs and smirks, looking at that wonderfully outstretched hand. The Russian Bear claps his hand over it to the gasp of just about everyone in attendance.

Ivan Stanislav: You know… it is tempting offer… I mean… look at you all…

Ruslan can’t believe what he’s hearing, the Masters are in shock, Speedy is speechless. And Ivan? Oh, he just grins.

But it’s a grin we’ve all seen before, and it’s not a happy, nice-guy Ivan grin. We’ve not really seen those before. And so, for those not aware, instead his thick forearm does the talking. It flexes, and tenses, up his enormous trunk of an arm, to his bicep, which stretches against his clean red uniform. His hand squeezes and Harley Walker’s hand, for all intents and purposes, might just have been atomized in his steel grip.

Ivan Stanislav: A bunch of garbage in garbage truck. Not good proletarians working hard. Nyet.

Stanislav turns his gaze towards Daytona Diamonds, while refusing to give Harley Walker back his hand.

Ivan Stanislav: And it is not Mister Stanislav, Diamonds. It is Starshy Praporshchik.

Harley, obviously quite uncomfortable from Stanislav’s vice-grip, does his best to maintain his composure. He lowers his brow and flares his nostrils towards the Bear.

Harley Walker: You can let go of my damn hand now, son.

Daytona Diamonds: Woah, woah, woah! Now, let’s just simmer down here a goddang second!

Daytona Diamonds, against his better judgment, gets between Stanislav and Walker. He grabs either man by the wrist, trying to pull them apart. It doesn’t work.

Daytona Diamonds: Sonuva… Ivan, you dumb fuckin’ Commie, you let Harley go right the fuck now ‘fore I seize the means of tearin’ your balls off!

The entire Red Army shifts their demeanor. In a heartbeat, Ruslan is holding some sort of clear type of baton, perhaps made of glass? Speedy is down off the turnbuckle brandishing his flag, and the Masters of the Moscowverse look ready to pounce.

But Ivan? He’s still smiling. He turns his massive head to look down at Daytona and shoves forward, releasing what is left of Harley Walker’s hand and pushing him away from him.

Ivan Stanislav: How is it that Ivan speaks better English than you, Daytona Diamonds?!

He scoffs:

Ivan Stanislav: I could shove your entire powder filled body in that garish hat of yours, if I wished! You, and your slovenly degenerate…

(that’s Fred Dick)

Ivan Stanislav: …and your addled man-child…

(that’s STRONK)

Ivan Stanislav: …and your suicidal has-been!

(that’s Harley Walker)

Ivan Stanislav: But you are children, rabble-rousing and causing trouble for Lindsay Troy. And in Ivan’s great book, I see no issue with that. Disgusting and filthy as you all are, this is all quite fine by me. And your friend there, the one who lights himself on fire and fires his rear end out of cannons for fun?

He nods at Harley Walker.

Ivan Stanislav: He at least did not piss his red, white, and blue pants when I smashed his hand. So, with this in mind, I respectfully decline this “offer” to join your merry band!

Fred Dick steps forward. Tears in his eyes. Are they real? It doesn’t matter.

Fred Dick: America is my bottom bitch, Ivan. My bread and butter. My rock. My COUNTRY. And you? You came to America for a damn job because Russia sucks, and ain’t got no damn jobs. Okay? I know it. You know it. Sexy Lexy damn knows it. And I know there ain’t not nary an American getting a job in Russia, Stanny bananny.

Ivan grins and turns his attention to Fred.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, you have it wrong, Dick. Someone did come to Russia not just for a job, but for a cause worth fighting for. A cause worth dying for. For I bring to you, Fred Dick, the newest member of The Red Army!! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Nick Stuart: What?!

Stanislav sweeps his arm proudly past all those before him, towards the entryway.

Darkness falls over the Palau Sant Jordi as the crowd noise grows with excitement.

Richard Parker: Lights out, Stuart!

Nick Stuart: Who could it be?

A high pitched synthetic whistle cuts over the sound system. Soon the whistling is joined with a mechanical, robotic voice that quiets the crowd.

More than mechanized, we are weaponized in the fires of industry.
Scorching red the skies, what’s our enterprise?
The Demise of Democracy.

The stage lights up with ominous red light as four heavy duty PRIME smoke machines flood the stage area with heavy, white smoke. A white light pierces through the smoke as about a dozen shadowy figures appear to file out, their identities obscured by the roiling mists.

We are Legion, We are One
Programmed for treason, zeroes and ones.

The figures on the stage turn and begin to walk toward the center. One by one they combine into one figure at the center of the stage, still hidden behind the swirling smoke.

Autonomy-less, automatons
What is your freedom but an illusion?

The beat drops as powerful vacuums suck away the angry red cloud covering the stage. Standing there in a crimson red suit with a yellow handkerchief is the newest member of the Red Army.

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael 

Running one hand over his greasy, slicked back hair, the Lord of Kaelsalvania let’s an arrogant, snarling smile stretch across his thin face. From behind the Herald, dressed in a Communist Red tunic and bearskin hat complete with bear face which looks like it is consuming the top of Bentley’s head. Also he is now sporting a massive Red Army flag which he waves proudly behind Max.

Nick Stuart: Oh god, no, don’t tell me.. Max Kael! has joined the Red Army?

Richard Parker: Look at his suit and the Herald! It’s true, this is real, this is happening, Stuart!

The crowd tries to boo but the thunderous, angry thumping of “J.O.E.L.” by JT Music drowns out any attempt. Swaggering toward the ring in his brand new, sleek suit he makes eye contact with the camera and mouths “This ain’t 97, don’t worry, pops.”, most definitely winking. He turns his attention back to the ring as the Herald falls into what appears to be a coordinated dance in step with the music.

Our will is Iron, we broke your Fist!
A New Horizon for Socialist!
Rockets ignition’, and those don’t miss!
The Reds are Rising, so don’t resist!

As the chorus breaks down Max stops just in front of the ring. The Herald begins to race around the ring flying the Red Army Banner like he was rallying the home team at a homecoming. Bentley does not get that reference, bless his heart, and yet he bravely runs on!

You’re gonna join the Order
Eliminate! Liberty!

Max sings along with the bridge, pointing his finger out at the angry crowd, Spaniards being notoriously anti-Russian these days. Or maybe just Anti-Max, it’s hard to tell ‘cause of the overlap.

You’re gonna join the Order.
Eliminate! Liberty!

The second time through Max continues to chant the lyrics though he moves toward the steps. Red and yellow Pro-Communist pamphlets and recruitment applications rain from the ceiling down on the crowd. The Herald continues to do laps as Max climbs into the ring, wiping his feet off before stepping through the ropes.

Reaching into his pocket, Max retrieves an earpiece/microphone, the kind you’d expect Elon Musk to try and claim credit for making. He plugs it into his ear as the music slowly dies down. As he puts on the ear piece he does his best not to eye fuck the INTENSE title cheating on him with Daytona.

Max Kael!: First, thank you for your warm welcome, Spain! You invented tacos and that makes you pretty cool in my book. Second..

Max turns to look at the Red Army with a somber look on his face, the smile washed beneath his trusty scowl.

Max Kael!: …COMRADES! HEH-HEH-NYAHAHAHAH!

He gives congratulatory handshakes to all the members of the Red Army before turning to look at Daytona Diamonds and his dastardly deadbeats.

Max Kael!: The Poor Whoresmen. Hey, thanks for the two jetskis, by the way who painted those things? They looked like a dog with bloody shits had an accident all over them. Bush League but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

A broad, happy smile from Max as he folds his hands together.

Max Kael!: It’s nice you could all be here for MY big reveal, Whoresmen. And I want you to know that I actually respect your low down, crawling in the mud, reppin’ the hallmark signs of Reagan’s wonderful work with our mentally deranged citizens. I’m actually glad you’re down here, see here in Spain, the land of Tacos, they probably aren’t as familiar with the American Dream. Well..

everybody take a look. This is it.

He sweeps his hand toward the Whoresmen.

Max Kael!: A fat, sociopathic clown, a giant jock with puddin’ for brains, a stuntman named after a geriatric mobile assistance device and Daytona Diamonds, the biggest son of a bitch, bastard production facility this side of Rick Ross.

Fred shoves an accusing finger towards Max.

Fred Dick: MAX KAEL YOU BEEN-A-DICK ARNOLD MOTHAFUCKER!

The smile doesn’t leave Max’s face but his brow seems to furrow a little. He shrugs his shoulders toward Fred and laughs.

Max Kael!: Since becoming a member of the Red Army, I haven’t retained as much of my English as I used to. You know, lack of use. So I’m not entirely sure what you said, but I assume Been-a-Dick was a cousin of yours or something?

He shakes his head and looks at Ivan apologetically before offering Dick a bow.

Max Kael!: My intention is not to offend you, my savage American Native, but rather to lead you from the Trail of Tears you people experience in your swamp water lands back to civility with a taste of Eastern European hospitality. I promise that regardless of the results of this match I will not carry any kind of grudge against you or the rest of the.. What was it? Purrdorse Men? I’m sure they can clear this up in post editing. I’m terrible with American Native names.

Max offers the weakest, most limp wristed handshake toward Fred.

Fred approaches Max, a disgusted look in his eye. Nevertheless, Fred sticks his hand out for a shake…

But both men swerve each other, pulling their hands back, slicking their hair back, and walking backwards to their respective corners. Max nods to Ivan, who bellows once and The Red Army begins to consolidate ranks. The Whoresman, for their part, don’t so much consolidate ranks as begin to meander away, with Diamonds approaching Fred Dick with a slap on his ass for good measure.

While the members of the Whoresman file into their rhinestone garbage truck and The Red Army file out of the ring area, Max and Fred circle one another in the ring. Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

Richard Parker: Here we go! Newest member of the glorious Red Army! Max Kael!!

Nick Stuart: And sporting very proletarian attire, if you will, with the red pants, white tanktop and black suspenders!

Fred Dick actually turns his back to Max and twerks his ass, because of course Fred Dick would do that. Max twists his head to one side and grins, lurching towards Fred who quickly turns around and swings for a slap, but Max stops before he’s too close. Max lurches again, once more faking out Fred, who swings once more and tries to recover by trying his best to hold some sort of faux martial arts stance.

It doesn’t look legit.

Max gives Fred enough time to regain whatever composure he has, while at the top of the entryway, Ivan and Daytona Diamonds are trying to convince the other to leave the entryway. Ivan motions first, in a gentlemanly manner, while Daytona takes his hat off and sweeps into a bow and offers Ivan to leave first. The two no sell one another, before realizing what the other is thinking, and then together they start to power walk, and then race, down the entryway to their respective man’s corners.

The Herald, meanwhile, is bouncing from foot to foot cheering on Max in the ring.

Fred tries for another sudden right handed slap, but Max is more on the defensive. He catches Fred’s forearm and steps to the side, locking his arms around it, grasping his wrist, and twisting his hand backwards. At his side, Max stares at Fred’s beautifully pudgy digits and BITES.

Fred howls in pain while Jimmy suddenly starts to count.

1….

Nom nom nom….

2….

Nom nom nom….

3….

Fred blatantly stomps on Max’s foot and breaks the bite. He bell claps Max across the ears, chops him so he backpedals into the ropes, and chops him again, hard, on the rebound. Max rebounds again, and ducks the followup chop. He turns on a dime, while Fred turns as well, and punches Fred directly in the nose.

Nick Stuart: OW!!

Fred grabs his nose and doubles over into a swinging neckbreaker. Max floats over him and hooks a leg.

1….

Kickout by Fred Dick!

Fred pushes himself up, only for Max to stomp on his fingers again. He squeals loudly and powers up to his knees, only to get a knee to the face for his troubles. Max drags him up by the hair and hooks his arm to try to suplex him. But Fred blocks it. He tries again, and gets him halfway up, but Fred kicks his legs and returns back to the mat. Rather than use that momentum to suplex Max instead, Fred gives Max a taste of his own medicine and bites his side. Max throws an elbow across the broad, oh-so-soft back of Fred. Fred releases the bite and rises with a sudden headbutt to Max’s chin, reeling him.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think we’re gonna see a technical masterpiece here, Richard.

Richard Parker: Hey, that’s okay, I’m liking this!!

Fred palm strikes Max in the chest and spins for a backhand. Max ducks just in time and springs upwards with a knee strike to Fred’s sternum. Fred wheezes while Max sends him into the ropes.

Something strange happens.

Fred falls out of the ring on one side.

Max faceplants to the mat on the other.

You see, as Fred lumbered towards the ropes, Ivan just so happened to “accidentally” grab the top rope and yank it down to the bottom rope, basically sending Fred flying ass over teakettle to the floor in spectacular fashion.

At the same time, Daytona Diamonds grabbed Max’s foot on his rebound, and the Unquestionable Kael fell face first onto the mat.

Jimmy Turnbull, meanwhile, looks very confused. He turns to Daytona first and admonishes him, but the Intense Champion spreads his hands and feigns innocence. Max hops to his feet and glares down at Diamonds.

Meanwhile, Ivan seems to have “accidentally” moved his boot and stands on Fred Dick’s hand, smashing it beneath his weight. He stands nonchalantly while Fred pounds on Ivan’s boot over and over again and claws at his pants.

Turnbull catches it and takes his turn to admonish Ivan. Stanislav now feigns innocence and removes his foot from Fred’s hand, and then gasps in shock and apologizes.

Nick Stuart: We’re really dealing with some bottom of the barrel types in this match, aren’t we?

Richard Parker: Speak for yourself!

Fred shakes his hand and gingerly climbs to the apron. Max rushes him but takes a slap to the face for his trouble. Fred shakes his hand though, still smarting from all the punishment he’s taken. He climbs back into the ring and drags his tongue along his injured hand, and then slides it sensuously through his hair.

Richard Parker: This boy ain’t right.

Nick Stuart: You think?!

Fred licks his palm once more and tomahawk chops Max on the crown of his head. Max wobbles, and takes another one. Fred sends him into the ropes and hits him with a back elbow. Max bounces back again, and Fred locks his hands behind his head and hip thrusts in a rather grotesque manner while licking his lips. Course, that’s okay to do with some folks. You know, folks who might be horrified, or shy away in disgust.

But Commissar Kael isn’t one of them.

He surges forward with a sudden lariat while Fred’s eyes get as wide as saucers. He takes it hard and stumbles clumsily into the corner. Max follows him and chops the ever loving shit out of him. Chop after chop slams against his big buttery man breasts, causing them to bounce and wallop beneath his Bulls Jersey…

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure what I’m seeing here Richard, but I am sure glad it’s not being put into words for me to read.

Richard Parker: Seriously, that’d be terrible…

Fred’s head rolls to one side as he tries to catch his breath. Max sends him across the ring to the other side and dropkicks him in the chest. Fred looks completely gassed as he stumbles out of the corner. Then?

Ivan claps his hands loudly, causing Jimmy Turnbull to look at him.

And Max completely tees off and blatantly kicks Fred Dick as hard as he possibly can directly in his very own dick. We’re talking full wind up, pointed toe, completely in the jibblies. Really digging in there. There might have even been a toe wiggle at the end.

Fred howls in pain and completely crumples in the middle of the ring.

The Herald cheers loudly and climbs halfway up Ivan’s body.Before Max can go for a pin, Daytona hops up onto the apron and waves his hat while pointing to the Intense Title. Max, like a moth to the flame, turns his attention to Daytona, who hops off the apron and taunts him further. Max crawls halfway through the ropes and spews venom at Daytona, while Fred rolls, splayed out on his back, and pushes both hands into his pants and takes “inventory” of himself.

Turnbull checks on Fred, who is ugly crying in the ring while pawing at what’s left of his manhood. He shakes his head slowly and wants to keep fighting on, being the true, er, professional that he is. Max is almost out of the ring, when Jimmy grabs him and ushers him back in.

Fred stands slowly, there might be a bit of baby vomit oozing out of the corner of his mouth. With his hand still in his pants he decides to leave his balls alone, and does pull out a balled up fist.

For he not only had a dick and balls in his pants, but also brass knuckles.

Fred swings for the fences, and Max barely gets his arms up in time to “block” the shot, but the damage is done as Fred’s metallic fist slams into Max’s forearm. Max lets out a howl of frustrated rage and backs up, blocking another punch, and another, as welts begin to form on his forearms.

Fred follows up with a chop with his off hand to Max’s side, catching him, and then hits paydirt with a followup with the knucks, hitting him in the jaw. Max falls back into the turnbuckle and flops to the mat.

Stanislav bellows angrily and pounds the mat, shaking the ring. Turnbull checks on Max while Fred ditches the knuckles to Diamonds. Then, Fred goes for the pin.

1…

2…

Max has the wherewithal to drape his leg over the rope! Turnbull stops the count. Fred stands up and shakes his head, turning to Turnbull to bitch about all his “shid” officiating. Stanislav reaches in and slaps Max’s cheek a few times with his huge hand to rouse him. The Unquestionable Kael rolls his eyes and slowly sits up, shaking his head and rattling his jaw.

With fire in his eyes, despite the sudden blow with the knuckles, Max surges to his feet. He roars at Fred, who turns. Max takes two purposeful steps towards Fred and slaps him directly in the left ear, as hard as humanly possible. Fred screams and grabs his ear, staggering backwards and between the middle and top rope. He lands unceremoniously next to his fellow Whoresman, Daytona Diamonds.

Stanislav bellows near the announce table.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!! That is The Red Right Hand!! And you see him, Commissar Kael!! He is unstoppable!

Max laughs sadistically in the middle of the ring.

And then falls backwards in a heap and just lays, splayed out, in the middle of the ring.

Stanislav frowns. You can almost hear the “womp womp.”

Fred, meanwhile, drags himself up Daytona’s legs. He’s moaning about his dick, his balls, his ear, while Max is in dreamland in the middle of the ring.

Nick Stuart: This match really is a trainwreck.

Richard Parker: It’s entertaining though!

1….

2….

3….

Turnbull begins to simultaneously count out Fred Dick and the inert Max Kael. The Herald pushes the flag into the ring and pokes Max with it while Ivan pats Bentley on the back and encourages him.

Max stirs. He might even giggle when the flagpole pokes his ribs.

4….

5!

Fred does his best impression of an elephant seal as he wriggles into the ring, with Jimmy Turnbull instead focusing just on counting Max’s shoulders. Fred moves to one corner and starts to undo the turnbuckle, but Jimmy isn’t having any of that. This gives Max time to very slowly roll onto his side. He grabs the flagpole and Stanislav reels him to the side of the ring.

Max drags himself up with help from the ropes once more and lays with his back against them, while Fred pushes past Turnbull and shouts at Max. It’s not really intelligible, and we’re not sure if he’s really shouting, or just can’t hear himself thanks to The Red Right Hand.

Max seizes Fred and grabs him by the face, shoving both of his thumbs into Fred’s eyes. Fred screams and drops to his knees, and turnabout is fair play, and he low blows Max for good measure. Max releases Fred’s eyeballs and drops to his knees.

With both men on their knees, Fred slaps Max.

Max slaps Fred.

Fred slaps Max.

Max slaps Fred.

Fred slaps…

…this goes on for a while…

However, when they’re both done, Fred has the upper hand (palm?). He’s slapping Max two for one now, particularly on the jaw where he had been hit with the knuckles earlier. Max remains on his knees, woozy, while Fred drags himself up to his feet. Wheezing, heaving, possibly emasculated, Fred bounces off the ropes and palm strikes Max to the back of the head, dropping him like a sack of Russian grain. He rolls him over and collapses on top of him.

1….

…2….

Kickout by Max!

Fred sits up with frustration and screams, once more “Bullshid!!!!”

This time, he hooks the leg.

1…

2….

Max tries to kick out, but Fred grabs his pants and tugs harder without Turnbull noticing.

3!!

Winner: Fred Dick!

When Turnbull calls for the three, Fred releases the pants and Max kicks out, but it’s too little too late. Stanislav surges into the ring and bellows at Jimmy. Of course, it doesn’t do any good because it’s all in Russian. Fred Dick rolls onto his back and stares up at the lights. Daytona Diamonds cheers on the outside. The Herald cries.

Yet when Max drags himself up, he can’t help but grin slightly. He shakes his head at Ivan, who pushes into the ring and looks prepared to turn Fred Dick into crimson pudding on the mat. Max shakes his head and calms Ivan down while Fred is pulled out of the ring by Daytona. The Herald meets his two comrades in the ring while Max exchanges words with a seething Stanislav, but the two seem to come to a certain agreement while they watch the two Whoresman leave the ringside area.

Nick Stuart: The Poor Whoresman score another win over Max Kael, but Fred Dick hardly got out of that one unscathed. And again, they win in underhanded fashion!

Richard Parker: It seems like Max is letting them slide for now, but for how long? And now, he’s a member of The Red Army?! If there’s one thing I know about The Red Army, they don’t forget a slight. This should be interesting in the future, Nick!

We cut to commercial.

Backstage in a small dressing room stands Scott Hunter. This dressing room is so small, in fact, that there is only room for a small wooden bench and a single sink with a small round cracked mirror above it. It is so small that there is only about ten square feet of space. There is also a mop in a bucket against the wall. There is also a shelf with some spare toilet paper.

It’s a janitor’s closet is what it is.

Scott sits on the little bench and holds a small spray bottle in his hand. He raises it to his face and we see the word “water” scrawled on it in black sharpie. He quickly squeezes the trigger and douses his face in water, making it look like he’s been crying.

He immediately begins fake crying.

Scott Hunter: Look at me. Look at what I have been reduced to. Sure, I may look like a sweet, lovable, virile, strong, attractive, talented young man, and I may be up to date on my vaccinations, and I may have finished every episode of the Handmaid’s Tale because of how much I love a good comedy, but truly I have sunk so very very low.

Scott frowns the saddest most pathetic frown in the history of frowns.

Scott Hunter: For one thing, I haven’t won a single match in PRIME this year. I haven’t lost one either, but let’s focus on the negative here. Furthermore, after making some only very mildly offensive jokes and failing to retrieve the magical pendant that keeps Lindsay Troy looking young, she took a motorcycle glove which was bearing balls and cracked me upside of the head with it. It turns out that I do not bear balls very well, because I went straight into a very deep sleep.

Scott sighs.

Scott Hunter: Actually that part wasn’t so bad. I needed that nap and I slept for a good week and a half. It was a very VERY deep sleep. I believe the doctor in the emergency room called it a “coma.” That is the deepest sleep you can have. I highly recommend one. But when I woke up from my wonderful coma nap, I found two things to be true. First of all, my thumb was more wrinkly than an entire nursing home. It seems I suck my thumb when I coma sleep. Secondly, I couldn’t find my very good best friend Kerry Kuroyama anywhere. Currently his whereabouts are unknown.

Scott stands up and leans over the sink, his hands on either side supporting his weight, and looks into the broken glass.

Scott Hunter: I would like to stand here and tell you all that it’s going to get better. I’d love to tell you that big things are coming up for Scott Hunter. That is my name. I wish I could look out at a beautiful sunset and feel… anything… anything but endless hopeless misery. I just want to feel warmth inside again. I want to know what it’s like to be alive!! But I can’t! I just can’t do it anymore. That is why, and I know this might seem drastic, but believe me, it’s necessary… right here on ReViVal 49 I am officially announcing my re…

Something buzzes loudly from his front jacket pocket. Scott frowns and digs around inside and pulls out his phone, He looks at the screen and sees a photo of himself and Kerry Kuroyama at the Washington State Fair. Scott is holding up a stuffed leopard and is smiling widely. Kerry is frowning and wishing he were dead. Over the photo is the name of the caller: “Ker Bear.”

Scott Hunter: Oh hey… yeah at the arena… no not in the dressing room… no… janitor’s closet… yes… JANITOR’S CLOSET… ok no problem… yeah my bad on that… see you in a second…

*click*

Scott sheepishly stuffs the phone back in his pocket and cringes.

Scott Hunter: Um.. nevermind all of that I just said. I changed my mind. Yay Vae Victis!! Okay bye.

Scott hurriedly opens the door and rushes out into the hall.  We cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Well, it’s rare that we get a match from the Bad Dog, but something tells me he’s the one who wanted this match.

Richard Parker: Why would he? He already broke poor Daytona’s nose.

Nick Stuart: Without getting into the reasons why, he’s a former head of security, and the Whoresmen have been wreaking havoc on this company.

Richard Parker: They’re just guys havin’ fun, Nick.

Southern twang, and a steady drum. The crowd begins to rise as the music picks up The PRIME*View snaps to life with an aerial view, following a large, black pickup barreling down a dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The entrance strobes as “Step Up (I’m On It) by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster wails away, the camera panning to the front of the pickup, zooming in close on an Alabama license plate, and revealing just two words:

BAD DOG

“Too long, and too little,
Tell me when you gonna bring it on.
Small fights, and big stages,
Never terrified enough to run.”

Vince Howard: From Pine Ridge, Alabama!!

A big frame in a wide-brimmed drifter’s hat hides in the strobe lights, that hat tilted down a touch, the fans bellowing in the arena.

Vince Howard: Standing six feet! Four inches tall! Weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds!

The smoke starts settling, the lights start trailing.

Vince Howard: A former PRIME Intense Champion!!

The chorus hits, and the Son of a Bitch himself strolls out to the top of the ramp, one fist in the air.

Vince Howard: THE BAD DOG!!!!! WADE!!! ELLLIOTTTT!!!!!

RUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The Blue Collar Brawler takes it in for a moment before making his way to the ring, the arena going absolutely ape-shit for the Southern Sparkplug’s arrival. Meanhile, the music rises as Wade climbs the far turnbuckle. He removes his hat, holding it high in the air as the chorus hits heavy.

“ALLLL LIIIINED UP AND BUILT FOR PRESSURE!
(STEP UP! I’M ON IT!)
SAAYY YOOOUUUR PEACE LIKE IT’S THE END!!
(STAND BACK! WE’RE MOVIN’!!)”

He drops to the floor, tossing his hat ringside. Next to go is his gray t-shirt, revealing the tattoo of Angus the Bluetick Hound on his left pec. The music trails, and he takes place in his corner.

Vince Howard: And his opponent!

BEEEEWAAAAAARRRRREEEE!

And just like that, every single PRIMEate in attendance starts to boo on cue. “Beware” by Death Grips rips through the arena, loud enough to make the cheap seats shake. The PRIMEview lights up with The Poor Whoresmen logo and, just like that, the boys come through the curtains. Fred Dick and Harley Walker and STRONK Godson and… they all stop and point towards the curtain. An explosion of glittering pyro shoots into the air, pop-pop-popping as Daytona Diamonds makes his way out.

White, rhinestone-covered suit.

Cowboy hat atop his head.

Smirk on his lips.

Intense Title slung over his shoulder.

He stands at the top of the ramp, middle finger held high in the air because fuck Barcelona.

I close my eyes and seize it
I clench my fists and beat it
I light my torch and burn it
I am the beast I worship

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring and accompanied by The Poor Whoresmen… weighing in at two-hundred and forty-five pounds and standing at six-foot-one…

Daytona Diamonds and the rest of The Poor Whoresmen make their way down the ramp, flipping off the fans and shouting insults.

Vince Howard: From Carson City, Nevada… he is THE RHINESTONE COWBOY and YOUR INTENSE CHAMPION…

The chorus of boos are almost loud enough to drown out the music. The Poor Whoresmen climb the stairs and move to the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: …DAAAAAAAYYYYTONNNNAAAAA DIAAAAAMONNNNNDDDDS!

In the center of the ring, Fred Dick shouts out the two words that absolutely nobody wants to hear.

Fred Dick: WHORE’S UP!

All four of the men throw their hands into the air, three fingers held up in the shape of a ‘W’. Their fingertips meet in mid-air before they pull their hands away, hootin’ and hollerin’ and causin’ a ruckus. As Fred, STRONK, and Harley make their way to ringside, Daytona moves to his corner of the ring.

As always, he places his cowboy hat on top of the turnbuckle before letting his jacket fall to the mat. He passes the Intense Championship through the ropes to Fred Dick and, if you can read lips, you might see him saying, “Keep it real close by, Freddy. Might need it.”

With the rest of The Whoresmen in his corner, Daytona leans back against the turnbuckle with his arms splayed out along top of the ropes. He cracks his neck, waiting for the bell to ring.

DING DING

The Bad Dog moves to the center of the ring, beckoning for Diamonds to move from his resting spot. Diamonds shakes his head and defiantly shrugs his shoulders. Elliott again yells at him to get his ass out of the corner, laden with profanity with the words “yeller-bellied” somewhere in there, but again, Diamonds balks. Finally, the Bad Dog makes his move.

Nick Stuart: If I were Daytona Diamonds, I might get a move on it.

Richard Parker: Well, if I were Daytona Diamonds, I would just pull out my six shooter and end this match right now.

Nick Stuart: Okay, number one, wow, Richard, wow. Second, even if it wouldn’t get him disqualified, he’d still be arrested for attempted murder at the very least.

Elliott stares hard at the Rhinestone Cowboy while the Intense Champion just sneers at him.

Richard Parker: Then why isn’t Paxton Ray not only behind bars BUT getting cheered these days, huh Nick?

Nick Stuart: HE DIDN’T USE A GUN! THERE ARE LAYERS TO THIS. THAT’S NOT ONE OF THEM.

Richard Parker: Why so loud, Nick? Pay attention to the match. Wade’s about to do something stupid.

Wade grabs Diamonds by his long hair and whips him end-over-end onto his ass. The Champ shoots up into seated position, holding his posterior and holding a look of shock on his face. The Bad Dog wrests him into a headlock and drags him to his feet.

Richard Parker: See, I told you he was gonna do something stupid. A headlock in an Intense Rules match?

Nick Stuart: Layers, Richard. LAYERS.

‘Tona shoves the Bama Bruiser off him and shoots to a standing stance. Elliott turns around, and the two get in each other’s faces, jabbering at each other inaudibly to the rest of the audience. Finally, Diamonds smirks, looks back, and…

CRACK

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD, what a sickening headbutt!

Richard Parker: I love it! Daytona is trying to pay Wade back for breaking his nose!

Wade holds his face and checks his hands. No blood yet, but the strategy is engaged. ‘Tona yells as he bounds to the ropes and yells for one of the Whoresmen to get him a weapon. Harley obliges with a steel chair.

Nick Stuart: Bad intentions for the Bad Dog.

Richard Parker: Maybe Wade just shouldn’t have broken Daytona’s nose now, huh.

Nick Stuart: Ami Troy is his stepdaughter, Richard.

Richard Parker: And she’s an enemy of the state in Russia. Your point?

Daytona winds up with the chair and…

CRACK

Wade gets his hands up to block part of the shot, but the impact sends him to the canvas on his back. ‘Tona, wanting to get out of dodge, falls on the Son of a Bitch…

ONE!

But Elliott kicks out with cantankerous authority.

Daytona scrambles to get the chair to attack again, but Wade rolls out of the way from the first shot. He looks to survey the scene outside of the ring, but each of the Whoresmen stands sentinel, looking to cut him off. STRONK especially shoots the Bruiser a nasty look.

Richard Parker: I think STRONK Daddy can smell the Alabama white sauce on him.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think STRONK needs culinary reasons to wanna smash someone getting in the way of one of his good friends.

Richard Parker: No, but it might help with the pulverizing process.

He turns around to find the Intense Champion bearing down on him with the chair again. He rolls out of the way, leaps into the corner, spry for a man of his age, and gears up. ‘Tona swings and…

CRACK

Although this time, the crack is the chair hitting the top of the turnbuckle. The recoil causes the Champ to drop the chair. Elliott gears up and…

Nick Stuart: SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY! Damn near took the Champ’s head off!

Richard Parker: It’s not a very hospitable move, Nick. I always wondered why he called it that.

Elliott goes to grab the chair, but he feels a tug on it before he can lift it to his body. The mighty STRONK has his mitts on the other end, and it’s a game of tug of war that he knows he’ll lose, so he curses and lets go.

Nick Stuart: The Whoresmen aren’t as dumb as they look, it seems. They’re not directly getting involved but they’re keeping Wade away from his weapons!

Richard Parker: I can’t get past you thinking they look dumb, Nick. I think you need workplace sensitivity training. These are sterling gentlemen dressed to the nines!

The camera cuts to Fred Dick picking his nose with the hand he’s not holding the Intense Championship, his Jordan jersey untucked and his Airs untied.

Nick Stuart: I rest my case.

Wade gets to his feet and yells out another loud profanity, but not as loud as the yelp he would utter afterwards when…

Nick Stuart: LOW BLOW FROM THE CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: Legal as a gunshot in this match!

Nick Stuart: And I’m the one who needs workplace-mandated training, Jesus. Do I have to fear for my life on commentary?

Richard Parker: Not unless you start doing biased slanted journalism against Ivan again.

Wade drops to the mat while holding his Lil’ Doggies, and ‘Tona yells to Harley Walker, who rummages under the ring until he finds…

Nick Stuart: A BULLROPE?

Richard Parker: AHHAHAAHA YESSS BEAT THE HAYSEED WITH HIS OWN IMPLEMENT OF DESTRUCTION.

Nick Stuart: Rich, Wade’s from Alabama; a bullrope is Texan.

Richard Parker: Eh, you’ve been to one Southern state, you’ve been to them all.

The Cocaine Crusader flings the rope around the Bruiser’s neck, steps on his back, and pulls for a few moments before slacking it, sitting on his back, putting both sides of the rope under his armpit, and clubbing Wade with vicious crossfaces from behind.

Nick Stuart: Daytona is really serious about breaking Wade’s nose!

Richard Parker: Relax, Nick, he’s already bagged the boss, and it’s not like he can get any uglier.

Two, three, four, five clubs from behind, but Wade’s nose remains unbroken. Frustrated, Daytona drops the rope and again calls out to one of his Whoresmen. This time, STRONK provides a kendo stick from out of his back for the ringleader of the group to the massive whistles of disapproval from the Barcelona crowd.

Daytona holds the stick like a baseball bat, waiting for Wade to get to his feet. Finally, the Bad Dog rises, and Daytona swings. However…

Nick Stuart: HOLY CRAP! Wade Elliott just batted the shot away!

Richard Parker: DRUG TEST HIM! THAT’S ILLEGAL!

Nick Stuart: Richard, you advocated for Daytona to shoot him earlier.

Richard Parker: Drugs are way worse than violence.

Once again, the camera cuts to Fred Dick, who, with his free hand, is shoving cocaine up his nose, poorly.

Flummoxed, Daytona raises the kendo stick over his head, but he leaves his own Orphan Shooters wide open.

Nick Stuart: You know what they say, Richard.

Richard Parker: He who laughs last didn’t get the joke?

Nick Stuart: Jesus, Richard, no, turnabout is fairplay. Didn’t you just see Wade Elliott boot Daytona Diamonds in the groin?

Richard Parker: No, I was too busy getting tips on how to find the best cocaine from Fred Dick.

Nick Stuart: YOU JUST SAID DRUGS WERE WORSE THAN VIOLENCE.

The Bad Dog takes advantage, planting the Champ’s head between his legs, pulling on his rhinestone-studded flared wrestling pants, and banging him to the canvas with a pulling piledriver. Not content, he goes to grab the kendo stick, but again, a Whoresman pulls it away. This time, Harley Walker removes the implement from the ring. Frustrated, The Bama Bruiser rushes over to the Champ and puts his boots to the ringleader of the group to the roar of the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Spain loves El Perro Malo, Rich.

Richard Parker: Are you trying to pander, Nick? That’s my job!

Wade holds his right arm up, index finger pointed in the air, and rotates his wrist signaling something big coming up. He lifts Diamonds up onto his back.

Nick Stuart: Wade looking to end it with the Roughneck!

Richard Parker: There’s no justice in this world, ever.

Nick Stuart: Wait and… NO! Harley’s on the apron! Goddammit, I know this is Intense Title rules, but they gotta get the Whoresmen outta here!

Richard Parker: Look, you’re the one telling people that shooting a gun is illegal in these kinds of matches. I think you need to put the rules aside, settle down, and let the chaos wash over you like the soft Mediterranean waves on Majorca.

Walker pulls Diamonds off the back of the Bad Dog, which causes Wade to turn around with fury in his eyes and spittle forming so quickly on his lips that it’s getting caught in his moustache. His rage is cut off because, well, there’s a 300-lb.-plus manlet standing in front of him swinging his meaty arm right at his face.

Richard Parker: AHAHAH WADE, EAT SOME PRIME BEEF.

Nick Stuart: This is getting out of hand. It’s four-on-one!

Richard Parker: Sounds like Wade should’ve called up Big Dam or something.

Nick Stuart: You know Dametreyus can’t get involved.

Richard Parker: Sucks to suck then!

Wade stumbles back right into the grasp of Diamonds, who spins him right round and clubs him with a lariat. The King of the Ocean points at his head like he’s smart, which in this case you can probably hand that to him, and lifts the Bad Dog back off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: This is an outrage, even for an Intense rules match.

Richard Parker: Look at you, clutching pearls all of a sudden. None of this would happen if they just let people have firearms.

Nick Stuart: I really hope for your sake HR isn’t watching.

Wade stands on spaghetti legs as Diamonds drops back, dips back on the middle rope as he hits it, and then charges forward.

Nick Stuart: SIX SHOOTER!

He covers…

ONE!

TWO!

But the Bad Dog kicks out.

Diamonds calls for a chair, which again, Harley obliges him. He sets it down flat, picks up Wade, and slams him on top of it hard. He then sets the chair up, picks his victim up again and a slam INTO the unfolded chair.

Nick Stuart: OUCH!

Richard Parker: Wade’ll be fine, he’s suffered worse in bars down in Tuscaloosa after Bama losses.

Wade’s back arches as he holds it, yelping like someone’s doing unanesthetized surgery to him. Diamonds preens for the crowd before covering.

ONE!

TWO!

…

…..

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott might be an old salt, but he’s a tough old salt.

Richard Parker: Look, you know my feelings, but I’ll give the devil his due. He’s tougher than the steaks he orders when he’s out on a date with Lindsay Troy.

Nick Stuart: Will you stop it?

The Rhinestone Cowboy shoots up onto his knees and puts both hands on his head. He finally snaps, grabbing the chair and peppering Wade with shot after shot after shot. All the Bad Dog can do is cover up because the assault is relentless.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how much more punishment the Bama Bruiser can take here, Richard. This is becoming difficult to watch.

Richard Parker: I don’t think it’ll be over until Diamonds breaks his nose or if Wade can win without that happening.

‘Tona screams and throws the chair out of the ring, nearly hitting STRONK, who barely moves to avoid it. He covers Wade, but a funny thing happens.

Elvis Nixon can’t even get to the mat before the son of a bitch kicks out.

Richard Parker: TEST HIM! TEST HIM FOR BATH SALTS!

Nick Stuart: No, this is CLASSIC Wade Elliott! He says it himself, “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough!”

‘Tona’s eyes grow wide again. He shakes his head spastically before leaning back for a big wind-up punch, but Wade no-sells it. Tries again, and the same thing happens. Third time, the Champion kicks him in the dick, which for a moment slows down the angry march of the Bad Dog. However, almost as soon as he bends over and holds his groin, Wade shoots up, even more anger in his eyes.

Richard Parker: Uh oh.

Wade leaps on the Champion with furious intent, raining blows upon him until he crumples to the mat, which signals for the Whoresmen to hop onto the apron.

Richard Parker: Lights out for the Bama Bruiser. Time for the insurance policy to kick in.

But something strange happens again. Like a man possessed, Wade pops up and first charges at Harley Walker, slugging him with a big elbow before he can enter the ring. He feels the presence of Fred Dick, still holding the Intense Championship, behind him. He turns around and lariats him out of his Air Jordans.

But then there’s the 307.1-pound elephant in the room.

STRONK and Wade meet each other in the middle of the ring, trading shots in a veritable clash of the titans. Neither one can gain a foothold at first, but finally, Wade wears down the mammoth, getting in consecutive shot after consecutive shot until the big man stumbles back and falls out of the ring. Wade shoots up with both hands in the air to a roaring Barcelona crowd.

Nick Stuart: WHAT A MONUMENTAL EFFORT FROM THE BAD D… OH NO, LOOK OUT!

It’s too late.

As Wade turns around to find ‘Tona, he sees the Intense Champion already charging at him with his title belt.

SMASH

The gold faceplate connects flush with Elliott’s nose. Blood spurts downward as the Bad Dog crumples to the mat. Diamonds, exhausted, covers the now-bloodied Bama Bruiser…

ONE!

TWO!

….

…….

………

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner, by pinfall, Daytona…. DIAMONDS!

The crowd whistles their discontent furiously.

Nick Stuart: It took the entire heft of the Whoresmen to put The Big Dog down, and he still almost came out on top. The heart of a Champion, even at age 52.

Richard Parker: Doesn’t matter. Diamonds won, broke Wade’s nose, didn’t need the gun. Deal with it.

Nick Stuart: *sigh* Let’s cut backstage.

There is a conference room backstage in the Palau Sant Jordi arena, and tonight, it’s in use. A long table separates two men and their seconds as they prepare to conduct the business that would take them to Tropical Turmoil.

On one side, you have an immaculately dressed Coral Avalon in his blue waistcoat, sitting as casually as though he’s having a morning tea. The Crownless King is flanked from behind by a familiar, kinda ugly man in a bowler hat and a gray suit and tie. Only, the tie is actually an elaborate napkin. Fans might know him as Coral’s lawyer who apparently specializes specifically in wrestling law, Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.

On the other side of the table, there’s a few important pieces of information. The first is that the display that the Universal Championship should be sitting on top of lies empty. The second is that the belt is actually being cradled by a man in a loud, neon blue and green tracksuit, like an emotional support championship belt. A distant third, we suppose, is the champion who sits at his end of the desk like a deer in the headlights.

As professional wrestling contract signings go, this is pretty non-standard to do this backstage instead of in the ring.

Coral Avalon: So I know how these things usually go, and I’m not really in the business for nonsense. Let’s just keep it simple, sign this thing, and we’ll meet again in a month.

Oh, Coral, you know better than to want to keep things simple when Reed Young is around.

The former wrestling owner looks to his left, right, over to his son-in-law, back at Coral Avalon, to his right, left again, he clutches the title even tighter against his muscular chest, and then eyes the floor.

Reed Young: I don’t know how you did it, this is not the match I would have booked. Ivan Stanislav against my boy, Jonathan-Christopher Hall in a concrete construction dog kennel ladder match would have been my choosing…

Young sighs. He slowly raises his eyes from the floor. For such a boastful, loud, dare we say annoying man, brimming with confidence but most importantly, pure ignorance, the expression upon his face when he looks into Avalon’s eyes this time expresses… hurt.

Reed Young: Coral, I want to be real with you for a moment. You were like a son to me. I raised you. We laughed, we cried, we had a great time. I’m the one who gave you the start to your career. Even though you’re wasting your time away on goon island with those misfits…

Young straightens out his back.

Reed Young: I’m surprised you would want to hurt me and come after my new son.

Young leans across the table and takes Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s left hand. With his own right hand, Reed squeezes it tightly.

Reed Young: My boy is pure. His love for my daughter runs deep. We are both waiting for her to return, pleased and content. In the meantime, we have to maintain time. My boy right here, he is deserving of this championship reign. It should go on and on and on as he blossoms into a ruthless, killing machine. No one wants to see his reign end after he pummelled Brandon Youngblood, another one of my creations, into the ground.

Young presents a frowny face.

Reed Young: So why would you try taking this away from him?

Young leans forward.

Reed Young: Do you hate me?

Young leans onto the table.

Reed Young: You want to get me back, don’t you? I did something to you back then?

Young starts crawling onto the table.

Reed Young: You want an apology? Well I am sorry for whatever I did.

Young is, like, totally on the table now, more than halfway across it.

Reed Young: Is it money you want? I buy you out of the match?

Young rests on his knees. With the belt still draped across his shoulder, he suddenly snaps both arms outright and dollar bills EXPLODE from inside his neon tracksuit. Bills flutter in the air, filling the room. Soon enough the table and empty chairs are covered in money. Even Coral Avalon himself has a $1 dollar note dangling on the top of his nose.

Young looks impressed at his “magic trick”.

Reed Young: And there’s a lot more in the piggy bank to buy you out of this one, Coral…

Coral sighs and slowly removes the dollar bill from his nose, placing it gently on the table and then sliding it back towards Reed.

Coral Avalon: Okay, I don’t know how you did that and that might be something I ask you about later when we’re not discussing a Universal title match, but… I don’t actually have a grudge against you, Reed. But I don’t need money, or an apology, or revenge, or anything else that you have.

He points at the championship belt that Reed has in his clutches.

Coral Avalon: I just want that. I’ve wanted it since I walked through the door two years ago, and I’ve wanted it long before even that. When the people holding it were named Snow or Tsonda or Troy, I wanted it then.

Young merely blinks.

Reed Young: But my son needs the title, too…

Hall sits there, motionless.

Coral Avalon: He hasn’t said a word since we sat down. (he turns to JCH) Are you okay over there, Jonathan-Christopher? Blink once if yes.

The actual Universal Champion lowers his head and closes his eyes. He slowly starts breathing in and out. Meanwhile, Reed Young shakes his head.

Reed Young: So it’s like that, is it? You don’t want money, you don’t hate me, but you want to take the title away from my son? Didn’t you already have a title? Was that not good enough for you?

Young looks around, as if expecting Lindsay Troy to suddenly show up. He clutches the title belt with both arms.

Reed Young: Can we get you a second Universal Championship? I’d be okay with that.

Coral Avalon: I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work, Reed. Not that I’m an expert on how Universal Championships work or anything, but usually there’s just one Universal belt and everyone guns for it.

He raises a hand, smiling.

Coral Avalon: Present company included.

He brushes aside a few more dollar bills on the table.

Coral Avalon: I’ve earned my shot, I’ve paid my dues. This match is going to happen regardless, this is just the boring paperwork beforehand. So please don’t tell me that I flew my lawyer out here just to eat at all of the expensive restaurants, it’s hard enough to get him to do anything as it is.

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: I’m standing right here!

Coral Avalon: I know.

There is a moment of silence as Reed Young, still on his knees in the middle of the boardroom table, hangs his head in defeat.

And then…

SLAM!!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall hammers both fists against the table and shoots up and off his seat. His face is in full view now and it looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week. Dark bags under his eyes, his eyes are also bloodshot. In Avalon’s defense, his question from earlier is likely to be answered. Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t blink once.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Fuck you! My father has given you everything and this is how you repay him!? By HURTING him!?

Even Reed seems shocked, as he slowly crawls off the table and back to his seat while a literal, frothing at the mouth JCH leans forward on the desk and stares daggers into his upcoming challenger.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: My dad is right, every god damn person in this place is the same! Selfish, but pretending not to be! Cutthroat, at each other every single day! No accountability!

Hall’s body is trembling from head to toe.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I am sick of it! Did you see what I did to Br- Bra- Brandon!? HE GOES TO THE BACK OF THE LINE!

Saliva pours out of Jonathan-Christopher’s mouth.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: (Mocking Coral’s previous comments) The match is happening, regardless…

JCH twitches.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Fine. By. Me.

The champion grabs the contract and (barely) signs it since he’s shaking with so much frustration.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: My father never should’ve raised you! Ungrateful!

Hall points at Avalon.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You are an ungrateful… NARCISSIST!!

Jonathan-Christopher throws the pen across the room and storms out of the office.

…leaving Reed Young quivering in his seat, rolled up into the fetal position.

Reed Young: Well, I…

Coral exchanges looks with Gavin, who realizes that he’s barely going to get to do any lawyering today, and lets out a sigh. He passes his contract over to Gavin for examination.

Coral Avalon: Did he… uh, Reed, did your boy just throw a temper tantrum and then stomped out of the room like someone told him “no GameCube” over something as simple as me wanting a shot at the title?

Gavin hands the contract back to Coral after a beat, and whispers something in his ear. Coral nods to him, picks up the pen, and signs the contract.

Coral Avalon: Oh, and thank you for not actually putting a concrete construction dog kennel ladder match in this contract. Would’ve been tough to explain to my wife.

Young raises an eyebrow.

Reed Young: I… didn’t?

ReVival goes elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: Up next, we have Cancer Jiles and Jason Snow. Another big test for the returning veteran.

Richard Parker: A test of patience. My patience. I’d like to never call a Jiles match again.

To ringside.

Vince Howard: This match is for ONE FALL!

And every so often when Vince really lays into the whole ONE FALL thing, the crowd eats it up.

Richard Parker: At least it’s not two falls. Thank god for that.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… weighing two-hundred-thirty-five pounds… he is The Original Villain… Jason Snow!!

Snow marches down the ramp like a man ready to do one thing, win.

Nick Stuart: Locked in and focused for this one, and a chance to go three-and-o since the comeback.

With Snow in the ring, the lights slowly draw to a dim. A chill moves aggressively through the air. Smoke starts to billow at the start of the entrance ramp.

Nick Stuart: I hate saying it because it’s cliche, but I’ll be damned if this doesn’t have a big fight feel stamped all over it.

Richard Parker: Fuck him.

Up on the Crumbotron a myriad of Terminal Cancers play for all to see. No one is safe from the rapidfire salt stomp down Memory Lane. Not The Draw, not Bitchboy, not FLAMBO, not Colton, not Crumblood, not Avalon; not even Dirty Dick Parker.

Not. Anyone.

Nick Stuart: Oh look, I see you’ve been added to the Terminal Reel. Any thoughts about it?

Richard Parker: I hope Jason Snow, the greatest Champion this company has ever seen, reaches down that crumb’s throat and pulls out his esophagus. That’s how I feel about it. I hope he gets hurt so badly tonight he’s relegated to a hospital bed for the rest of his life.

Nick Stuart: Tracks.

The smoke stops. Silence is everywhere. Anticipation continues to build. It’s mostly dark, with the only illumination coming from off the Crumbo.

The Spanish crowd starts to near inquisition-like levels…

Richard Parker: I don’t know how I’m going to live if this bag of shit is able to do the impossible.

Nick Stuart: You’ll be fine. It’s not like he routinely makes the impossible look easy.

Richard Parker: No, he makes it look cool and I fucking hate him for it.

A spotlight clangs to life, and shines down upon the start of the entrance ramp. Then, the most discernible guitar riff in the business hits like a STRONK punch to the face; causing everyone to do what Phil Atken can only dream about.

Stand up.

“I’m the one your mama warned you about”
“When you see me, I will leave you no doubt”
“I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth”
“I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth…”

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Coolympus, by way of Philadelphia… weighing two-hundred-eighteen pounds… he is THE COOL… Cancer Jiles!

Out from the back steps The Greek God of COOL. His hair simmers, his boots sprinkle with salt, and his T-shades blot out the blinding light cast upon him.

“…I AM THE COOL!”

An intense, scorching, volcanic, hell-fire volley of pyrotechnics illuminates the top of the entrance ramp, engulfing the former Universal Champion. Good thing for him he is inherently cool.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

BOOM-BOOM!

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!………

BOOM!

After some COOLYMPIAN peacocking, Jiles slowly starts to make his way down to the ring. As is customary, he finds the one remaining MESSIAH fan sitting ringside and goes out of his way to belittle the ever living shit out of the nine year old girl.

Nick Stuart: That was completely uncalled for.

Richard Parker: Disqualify him right now! Send a message!

Nick Stuart: Ut-oh. Don’t look now but he’s coming this way!

The Maestro does indeed walk over to where the Hall of Fame duo is sitting, and antagonizes Richard Parker enough to make him remove his headset and stand from his seat. Luckily, for Richard and more importantly Jiles’ wallet, that is as far as it gets.

Nick Stuart: Sit down, Rich. Leave it to Jason.

Content with his shit stir, Jiles spins on a heel and finally turns his attention towards his opponent. Well, kind of. King Crumb walks about halfway up the steps before coming to an abrupt stop. He then points at Snow, who is across the ring minding his own business, and instructs Jimmy Turnbull to keep him back so his Coolyness can enter the ring.

Richard Parker: Cut the shit already! I’ve had enough of these stupid mind games!

Jiles postures for a few more seconds before stepping between the ropes. He tosses his T-shades to Tony Gamble who as it turns out has been present the whole time. He was encapsulated inside Jiles’ shadow, much like Jiles is when Coral’s around. So yeah, you couldn’t see him. Plus he’s short and doesn’t have his phonebooks.

Nick Stuart: I guess Tony is going to stay down here for the match.

Richard Parker: More stupid mind games from the biggest idiot on the roster. He should be locked up for this!

Ref Jimmy cracks the corny instructions and then calls for the bell.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! ReVolution versus ReVival! Christmas Past versus Christmas Present for the chance at being Christmas Future! The Original Villain versus King COOL! I got goosebumps, Rich!

Richard Parker: Yeah, well I just threw up because you ruined Christmas.

DING DING

Jiles walks over to the referee and hides behind him. Well, not so much hides as in he’s trying to shield himself away from the long-standing veteran.

Richard Parker: What the hell!?

And yet Jiles has been around the block himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Jason Snow marches over and tries to grab Jiles from around the ref. Jimmy moves to the side and a snickering Jiles moves towards Snow with an eye poke.  It catches the Original Villain in one of his two eyes as he staggers back and Jiles takes off into the ropes. The former Universal Champion looks for his superkick but Snow sees it coming with his good eye and ducks. Snow takes three steps forward and clobbers Jiles with a short arm clothesline.

Richard Parker: I thought it was over right there.

Nick Stuart: Well if anyone can scout Terminal Cancer, it’s the guy with the same finishing move.

Richard Parker: (Trying to make sense of it) Superkick… party?

Snow delivers another short-arm clothesline and both men fall to the mat. Jiles takes a moment to spit outside the ring while his opponent looks unphased and disgusted all in one.

Jason is the first on his feet. He drills his right boot into the side of Jiles’ right ribs a couple of times before peeling Cancer off the canvas and tossing him into the ropes. Jiles bounces off the ropes but then Cancer changes course. Before Jiles can run into Snow, The COOL sees the ref instead and runs behind him once again, with a shit eating grin on his face.

Nick Stuart: Nobody has time for this nonsense.

Richard Parker: That’s the thing. This idiot knows what’s up. He’s going to frustrate Snow, who has no patience for this nonsense you speak of.

Richard is… right??? As Snow marches over, Jiles pushes Turnbull to the side and tries for a low blow. This time, however, Snow closes his legs at the last possible second and traps Cancer’s leg in there.

Snow twists his body and falls to the mat as Jiles cries out in pain as he does, his knee bent in the process.

Nick Stuart: This wasn’t a bad idea. You hurt Jiles’ right leg, he’s less likely to go for that superkick later on.

Richard Parker: And he’s going to need it. After all, we’ve got a superkick party going down!

Nick Stuart: Stop. It was clever the first time. Now you’re pandering.

Snow drags Jiles to a corner of the ring. He rests Jiles’ right leg across the bottom buckle when he hops down on it with the heel of his boots.

The COOL grabs his knee and shouts, as if shouting should allow Jimmy Turnbull to jump in there and suddenly make Jason Snow go away.

Snow drags Jiles onto his feet and holds his waist the entire time. Snow with a German suplex and a bridge!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT.

Nick Stuart: Trying to end this early, I can respect that.

Richard Parker: I’d like all Cancer Jiles matches to last the least amount of time possible.

Snow hurls Jiles into the ropes. Jason is running towards Jiles too and the second they both hit the ropes, Snow rams his right knee into Jiles’ chest. Then Jason reels Cancer in for a vertical suplex… but the wily Philadelphian escapes.

Jiles hits the ropes on the other end and comes flying in with a superkick attempt but Snow once again ducks it! Jiles gets his right leg caught in the ropes and then Jason crushes Cancer to the mat with a hard, discus clothesline.

The ref slides into position, thinking Snow is going for a cover but instead the former champ hooks his opponent into an anaconda vice!

Jiles shouts. He looks for the ropes but he’s a little too far away…

Until he realizes his right leg can get there. It grazes the bottom rope…

However, Snow immediately pulls Jiles to his feet and drops the leader of the Egg Bandits on his head with a backdrop! On the outside of the ring, Tony Gamble cringes in pain from merely watching.

Jiles rolls around on the canvas, clutching the back of his neck. Snow lifts Jiles up-

Jawbreaker by Jiles!

Snow shoots in the air, falls back first into the ropes and ultimately out of the ring.

The crowd jeers as Jiles gets to his feet. He sees Snow recovering on the outside so he steers himself towards the ropes and then slingshots off with a crossbody!

Jiles’ chest goes right through the OG Villain as Cancer is quickly back on his feet-

THUMP!

And steers Jason Snow into the steel steps!

Tony Gamble moves to another side of the apron, as Jiles takes a moment to grab the back of his neck before sliding into the ring. Gamble claps him on.

Nick Stuart: You have to think Cancer really hurt himself when he was dropped on the back of his head.

Richard Parker: Don’t get me excited.

Inside the ring, referee Jimmy Turnbull is counting out Jason Snow but Jiles seemingly wants the count to be done faster so he gets in Jimmy’s face. Ironically enough, this ultimately stops the count as Jimmy now has to defend himself.

Nick Stuart: Hey, hold on a second!

Tony Gamble interjecting himself into the match? Actually, no. He’s still one ring post to the right. Maybe he thought of getting involved and tackling Jason Snow, he was walking over that way but we will never truly know because something else is going down.

Through the crowd, TAL appears! The Angelo Luchador very quickly hops the railing, helping Jason to his feet-

Well, not really.

WHAM!!

Dragon suplex and Jason smashes into the steel steps again! He takes the landing in the back of the head!

TAL looks into the ring and sees the ref is still distracted. The Luchador lowers his head, jumps the rail and vanishes to wherever the hell he came from.

Nick Stuart: That’s one way to capture Jason’s attention!

And NOW Tony can get involved. Although The Grin does nothing more than lift Jason and roll him into the ring. Cancer still stalls and occupies Jimmy‘s focus completely on him.

With Snow DOA, The Main Event is literally licking his chops as to what he’s fallen into.

Jiles pushes Jimmy to the side. He races over and hooks a leg!

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPES!

Jiles slams the mat with his right palm, as he stares at the referee, insinuating it’s Turnbull’s fault the three wasn’t completed.

Richard Parker: YOU were the one who didn’t drag Snow away from the ropes, you idiot!

Jiles pulls a wobbly Snow to his feet. He takes a few steps back and gears up for Terminal Cancer… when Snow collapses. Jiles leans down to lift him up again…

But Snow was playing possum!?

Maybe.

Or maybe he was just desperate.

Roll up of death!!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

The crowd thought it was over but the match moves along. Both men pull to their feet. It takes Jiles a moment since he’s in a bit of shock and it takes Snow a moment because the back of his head is bleeding from the dragon suplex into the steel steps. Thanks, TAL.

Jiles rakes Snow’s back. He looks for an atomic drop and lands it. Jiles bounces off the ropes but this time Snow clobbers him with a desperation spear! Jason rubs the back of his head as he peels Jiles off the canvas, looking to toss The COOL halfway across the ring with an exploder suplex.

Jiles lands on the back of his own head!

Nick Stuart: Both men have hurt their heads here.

Richard Parker: Yeah, well Cancer’s isn’t bleeding.

Nick Stuart: Yet. We know he can gush blood.

Richard Parker: You love to see it. No, actually. You love to see it. I love to see it. Let’s see it!

Snow marches over and collects his opponent while Gamble tries to rally his guy.

Thumb to the eyes by Cancer. Jiles slips around Snow, latches onto his waist and then pushes Snow into a corner. As the ref wants a clean break from the corner, Jiles tries to kick Snow below the belt but Jason blocks it and shoves Jiles to the middle of the ring. The vet races over, leaps in the air, but Cancer catches the OG Villain with a flying elbow smash.

Jiles falls to the mat, hooks a leg…

And takes a handful of tights, too!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Snow and Jiles are on their feet. Cancer looks like he’s going to take a swing at Jason but instead he pushes the referee in-between them!

Nick Stuart: You can see Snow’s patience beginning to evaporate.

Richard Parker: Beginning!?

Snow shoves Turnbull to the other side of them and this is when Jiles tries for the mist.

-Well it looks like he was going to. Instead, Snow grabs Jiles by the jaw and drills his right forearm through it!

Jiles is stunned. Snow leans back and attempts his superkick-

But at the very same time Cancer Jiles makes a play for his!

Both men’s heels hit each other, like a lightsaber battle, or something along those lines.

Richard Parker: It IS a superkick party!

Snow looks for a clothesline but Jiles ducks.

Richard Parker: A terrible party, mind you.

Jason ends up in the ropes but Tony lightly trips Snow up as he does.

Richard Parker: One of those parties you never want to see again.

The Greek God of COOL unloads Terminal Cancer…

And once more it meets the air.

Nick Stuart: Narrow miss.

Richard Parker: Jiles is a coward. He’s been looking for the easy way out all contest.

Nick Stuart: You say this like you’re surprised.

Jason lunges forward and connects with a swinging neck breaker. However, upon landing, Snow seems a little woozy. The back of his head trickles blood.

Snow falls into a corner of the ring, eyes locked on Jiles, waiting for him to get up.

Nick Stuart: Could we see Snake Eyes!?

Jiles is really, really slow to get on his feet. Eventually, though, he’s there. Even though Gamble tried telling The COOL to stay down.

Cancer grabs Turnbull with a weak, shit eating grin.

Jason’s had enough of the games! He’s going to send Snake Eyes through both of them if he has to. He takes a hard step forward…

Low blow by Jiles! Cancer drops to his knees and finds Jason Snow’s old man crotch right before the vet could unload a superkick on either of them.

Of course, Jimmy couldn’t see shit since he was caught in the crosshairs.

Jiles hits the ropes.

A running, perfectly placed Terminal Cancer connects.

Richard Parker: God dammit!

Jiles collapses onto Snow and hooks a leg.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Tony Gamble pounds the mat as the crowd groans, Jiles raises his hands and Vince Howard makes the announcement on the winner.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… Cancer Jiles!

Nick Stuart: I have to wonder if it wasn’t for TAL getting involved-

Richard Parker: Whatever. This night is ruined.

Snow rolls onto his chest while he runs a hand through the back of his injured head. ReVival goes elsewhere as Jiles celebrates, albeit sealing, since he’s a little gassed.

The camera cuts to a backstage hallway, a close up view of the back of Jason Snow’s bloody scalp, while Snow stalks purposefully. Finally coming to a locker room door he throws it open. Inside, we see The Anglo Luchador, on a bench, zipping up a gym bag, apparently preparing to make his exit.

Jason Snow: YOU SON OF A BITCH!

TAL startles to his feet at the 100 decibels of rage directed at him.

TAL: Jesus fuck dude, calm your tits.

Jason Snow, fresh from his match against Cancer Jiles, eyes bulging out of his head, cheeks flush, spittle flying from his mouth, blood on his shoulders and back, the wound on his head visible through the blood, gaping.

Jason Snow: Right now. Right fucking now!

Snow lunges at a visibly confused Luchador, and TAL sidesteps him.

TAL: Oh so now you want to fight me? Back here? In a fucking locker roo…

Snow takes a step and shoves TAL backward before he can finish his thoughts. TAL’s back hits the wall but, rather than retaliate, he holds his hands to the side, non-threateningly.

Snow’s teeth are clenched.

Jason Snow: Come on. This is what you wanted.

TAL: In the ring. Either we do it in the ring and have a real match, a fair fight, or we do it back here and you commit a felony assault.

He might be smiling.

Snow looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He tilts his head. Then he smiles back.

Jason Snow: Felony assault it i–

Voice: I don’t think so.

Both men look toward the doorway in sync with the camera angle widening, and there we find Lindsay Troy standing in all her authoritative glory.

Lindsay Troy: If this happens, it doesn’t happen back here. It happens in the ring at Tropical Turmoil. Those are your choices. Do it there, or don’t do it at all.

For a moment Snow looks like he wants to commit felony assault on her too. Then he straightens himself and takes a step backward from TAL, nodding at him.

Jason Snow: You want a match with me?

TAL: Yeah, I do.

Jason Snow: Yeah?

TAL: More than anything.

Snow smirks. He backs off another step.

Jason Snow: Fine. You got your match.

He points at TAL, backing toward the door now…

Jason Snow: Careful what you wish for.

…and with that he turns, punches the open door, and makes his exit, leaving TAL and Lindsay Troy staring at each other.

TAL makes a vague gesture with his chin toward the no-longer-present Jason Snow.

TAL: He needs stitches.

Lindsay Troy: He needs a lot of things. But you, of all the people I thought would be a bullshit artist…

TAL: Hold up, what?

Lindsay Troy: You gonna tell me that wasn’t you who attacked him?

TAL: What, I was, I was in here the whole time! Goddammit, what the fuck happened out there?

The Queen rolls her eyes and sighs.

Lindsay Troy: Ugh, I don’t have time for this.

She storms out of the locker room while the Luchador stands with his hands outstretched.

It’s always good when we come back to the ring to find Vince Howard standing there with that smile on his face like he’s very excited to be doing announcements. Which he usually is. Unless someone utters the words “total combined height”, anyway.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest scheduled for one fall is your MAIN EVENT for the evening!

“They say it’s good to start a story with a tragedy.”

The familiar guitar riff of the Ballroom Thieves’ “Fistfight” hits the PA system, and Paxton Ray immediately bursts out of the curtains underneath the PRIMEview. Usually, this would be where the fans would start booing the Bayou Butcher and give him all of the hate and scorn in the world, but there’s an unusual amount of cheers mixed in with the boos/whistles/whatever Barcelona does.

The day I finally met you like I knew I would
You raised me from the wreck of my doubts
You were smiling to yourself as if we both understood
The silent language of the anguish of a heart that sings but doesn’t make a sound

Paxton raises an arm into the air as he walks down to the ring slowly. He doesn’t spend a lot of time acknowledging the fans, because he’s all business. He steps up onto the apron and enters the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Lafayette, Louisiana… he weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty-five pounds! THE BAYOU BUTCHER! PAAAAAAAXTOOOOOOONNNNNN RAAAAAAAYYYYY!!!

Nick Stuart: A bit more of a positive reaction tonight than what we’re used to for Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: Well, let’s face it, the man’s a saint compared to whatever demon Fred Dick violently burst out of when he was born.

Nick Stuart: Richard.

Richard Parker: What?

The lights fade to nothing, and then the first note hits. Deep, resonant, and with it comes a flood of white light that washes over the crowd. As the sound fades, so does the light.

Northlane. “Plenty.”

I’ll never be ready to meet a memory

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring…

A steady rhythm follows, building to something. With each note comes a pulse of white, like a heartbeat slightly out of time.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Boston, Massachusetts…

The only thing louder than the thundering guitar coming through the speakers is the explosion of the crowd. We’re not in France anymore, so cheering is back on the menu. Hooray, cheering!

Vince Howard: And weighing in tonight at 201 pounds…

The guitar rips into frenetic tapping riff, and with it blue and purple lights begin pulsing over the crowd in time with the beat. A figure appears at the entryway, and the cheering gets louder.

Seriously, fuck whistling.

Vince Howard: JAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEED SYYYYYYYYKES!!!

When the dirt crushes my bones
And the worms call me their home
If I’m asked to start again
I can’t pretend I’m ready
I can’t pretend
I’ve had plenty

Jared makes his way to ringside before sliding in under the bottom rope. He throws his hood back, tosses his sweatshirt over the rope to the floor, and waits for the bell. It comes once Vince Howard has left the ring, and we get this show on the road.

DING DING

When these two men met at Colossus a year and a half ago, the circumstances had been much different. Paxton Ray, the monster that he’d been and to some extent still is, had just taken Jonathan Rhine out for good. An uncaged animal brought back into PRIME at the behest of a man who wanted to run headlong into him. The same man that now stands across from him, unfearing.

The biggest difference here compared to that violent, unhinged main event in Madison Square Garden is that Jared Sykes isn’t immediately jumping Paxton Ray like a cornered animal. Paxton isn’t exactly smiling at the thought of hurting him, either. Instead, these two men that once hated each other so much that their sheer antipathy could only be expressed in a violent fight far divorced from professional wrestling, circle one another looking for the collar and elbow.

Richard Parker: I was, uh… expecting more face punching to start.

Nick Stuart: Almost eighteen months is a long time, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well, it kinda felt like yesterday to me so I think my perception of time is jacked up. Think I’m gonna blame the local Time Lord, that always goes well.

When the tie-up came, Paxton easily pushes Jared Sykes to the corner with his leverage and strength advantage. Referee Ashley Barlow administered and five count, and to the astonishment of many watching, Paxton Ray actually does relent and give Sykes his space.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray is usually a man who only knows one direction, straight through you. So it’s interesting that he actually backed off there.

Richard Parker: I remember the gator teeth, too.

Round and round they go, circling one another before another lock up. This time, Sykes ducks under the attempt and snatches a waistlock on Paxton. This doesn’t last, as Paxton rips open Sykes’ grip and actually transitions into a arm wringer and into a hammerlock. After a few bewildering moments of Paxton actually using a wrestling hold, Sykes instinctually grabs Paxton’s head with his free arm and turns the hold into a side headlock takeover, using his lower center of gravity to pull Paxton over.

Paxton almost gets counted down, but Barlow only counts to two before Paxton rolls his shoulder. After a few moments to gather his bearings, the Bayou Butcher manages to return to his feet and attempts to suplex Sykes out of the hold.

Sykes, however, flips over Paxton’s shoulder and lands on his feet. Instinctively, Paxton turns and swings a punch in Sykes’ direction. However, Sykes ducks the punch and then grabs Paxton for another side headlock takeover. Unfortunately, Paxton blocks it by lowering his stance, leaving Sykes in an awkward position where he’s awkwardly sprawled out trying to muscle his much taller opponent over. Paxton pulls Sykes up into a waistlock, but Sykes slips out and catches a drop toehold to bring Paxton to the mat. An attempt to slide into another side headlock is avoided by Paxton, who slips out. When Sykes scrambles to his feet, Paxton is there to throw another big punch.

Recognizing the imminent danger of getting hit in the face by a man who could fold him like laundry with one good punch, Sykes ducks and runs into the ropes behind Paxton. Paxton takes another swing at Sykes on the rebound, but Sykes ducks that one too. When Sykes comes back, he leaps into Paxton for the crossbody.

And Paxton easily catches him.

Nick Stuart: Caught! Paxton caught him in mid-air!

Paxton immediately drops Sykes down with a scoop slam, hard enough to make the ring shake.

Richard Parker: He just dropped Sykes like a sack of garbage, Nick! And I bet he didn’t even sort out all of the recyclables when he did it!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think garbage of any kind should be handled like that, Rich.

Richard Parker: Yeah, you’re right. You run the risk of breaking the bag open and then all of the garbage spills out onto your floor and then that’s just your whole day, man. All of those tissues of jiz—I mean, uh… all of those, um… you know what? Nevermind.

Nick Stuart: Keep it PG, Rich.

Paxton takes advantage of Sykes being down, backing into the ropes and then coming back with a big standing splash. He makes the cover, but Sykes shoots the arm up at a one count.

Paxton, perhaps having exhausted any semblance of his wrestling skill, goes back to what he knows works. He knows that if he’s going to beat Jared Sykes, a former Universal champion, he needs to play his own game. So he pulls Sykes to his feet and pushes him into the corner. Sykes covers up, knowing what Paxton wants to do with him trapped. Unfortunately, Paxton is in his element now, and a body blow lands hard enough to double Sykes over and send him to the canvas, writhing in pain.

Nick Stuart: Good grief, what a shot to Sykes’ ribs from Paxton!

Richard Parker: Good body blow’ll take you out just as good as a good punch to the face, just with the added benefit of making you wish you’d never been born.

Nick Stuart: You sound like you know this from experience.

Richard Parker: Yeah, well, bad Taco Bell is like a punch in the gut sometimes.

Paxton doesn’t want to wait around and listen to Sykes’ screams. A small part of him just wants this to be over. He pulls Jared up to his feet and shoots him into the ropes, getting into the stance he usually does when he’s ready to pop someone up and put them to sleep with a particular Lullaby. But Sykes grabs the top ropes and stops his momentum. Paxton sees this and charges Sykes, who drops down and pulls the ropes down with him. Paxton can’t stop his momentum and goes tumbling out to the floor.

Nick Stuart: Outside of the ring, that’s dangerous. We know what happened between these two at Colossus.

Richard Parker: I still kinda see that night in my nightmares, to be honest. Usually, I’m only in my underwear.

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

Sykes doesn’t waste time. He moves to grab hold of the top rope, and after setting his feet he launches himself over the top rope and down onto Paxton with a cross body. He manages to land on his feet after the impact, stumble once, and high five a waiting Spaniard fan. Sykes walks around for a moment to shake off the effects of his landing before he grabs Paxton and goes to throw him back into the ring.

Paxton wants none of that.

Paxton puts the brakes on, grabbing the ring apron. Then he turns and wallops Sykes with a hard clothesline that sends the Dragonslayer to the ground.

Nick Stuart: Huge clothesline from Paxton!

Richard Parker: They’re right out here in front of us, and I don’t like it.

Nick Stuart: It’s been nearly eighteen months since these two men tried to actually kill one another in a non-sanctioned match at last year’s Colossus, and bad things could happen out here just like in New York.

Case in point. Paxton pulls Jared up to his feet and then throws him bodily into the barricade.

THUD!

The barricade does not give as Jared Sykes hits it upside down, and then flops to the ground like a dead fish. Fans are going crazy as Sykes holds his back and writhes in pain. Paxton walks after Sykes, but stops when he looks up and sees that Barlow is already up to a six count. Grumbling about a fast count, Paxton pulls Sykes to his feet and tosses him back into the ring.

Sliding back in, Paxton goes on the offense, literally kicking Sykes while he’s down. He pulls Sykes up and grabs him in a front facelock and then rather roughly drops him down with a snap suplex. He goes right into the cover, but it only gets two when Sykes shoots the shoulder up off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Paxton is in control here, and you have to think that he’s well aware of how resilient his opponent is.

Richard Parker: Pretty sure he’s got a few marks on his neck that does all of his thinking about Sykes for him.

Paxton gets up, and after a surly expression to referee Barlow, he drops an elbow on Sykes. Then a second one. Then he gets up and does a third one, staying on top of Sykes for another two count. Paxton winces, but he doesn’t argue with Barlow about this count. Instead, he snatches up Sykes in a chinlock and pulls him up to his feet. Another body blow has Sykes once again wondering what he’d done in life to deserve such pain, doubling over and barely grabbing on to the side of Paxton’s jeans.

Paxton stares down at him. The last time they met one-on-one, they tore chunks out of each other. Now, halfway across the globe, the Bayou Butcher doesn’t have the same spite and “because I can” energy as he once did. As Sykes slowly gets to his feet, using Paxton as his handhold to do so, Paxton puts his hands on his hips and lets the Dragonslayer get to his feet.

Once he’s vertical again, Sykes throws a right hand at Paxton, but Paxton barely budges. A second right hand does more of the same. Paxton invites Sykes to try again, so Sykes does. This one has a little more mustard behind it, and Paxton actually turns his head a bit after the impact.

Then he smiles. Yeah, that’s the stuff.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think it’s a good idea to get into a slugfest with Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: Good ideas and Jared Sykes go together like peanut butter and Vaseline. It’s not good and you feel icky afterwards and God help you when you have to clean up after youself.

Nick Stuart: …….What?

Richard Parker: I didn’t say anything.

Paxton turns back to Sykes and invites him to try again, even putting his hands behind his back as though daring him. Sykes obliges, but this time he hits a hard elbow that actually rocks the Bayou Butcher. A second one sends Paxton into the ropes. Sykes seizes on the opportunity to try and whip Paxton into the ropes, but Paxton reverses. It looks like it’s going to be the Layfayette Lullaby when he launches Sykes into the sky upon Sykes’ return, but before the fist can meet him in the air, Sykes turns his body and lands the dropkick!

OOOOOHHHH!

Paxton scrambles to his feet, only for another dropkick to send him into the corner. Sykes gets up and charges, landing another dropkick right in the corner that sends Paxton staggering out. Sykes then charges out of the corner and…

Nick Stuart: Cutter from Sykes! This one could be over!

Indeed, Sykes goes into the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

NO.

Sykes can’t believe it, but he knows he needs to put this one to bed as quickly as possible. So he pulls Paxton to his feet and starts to try for Omega 13. If he can land it, this one would be academic. Instead, Paxton fights his way out of it and turns in place, grabbing a front facelock and looking for… well…

Nick Stuart: Oh no. Not the brainbuster! Anything but that!

Thousands of people in attendance hold their breath as Sykes is lifted vertically into the air and is held there. Paxton has altered lives and ended careers with this one maneuver, one so deadly that he doesn’t execute it very often. But then, without warning, Paxton sets him back down on his feet. Second thoughts.

He tries to lift Sykes up again, but Sykes suddenly shifts his weight and drops down with another cutter!

Sykes wants to scramble into the corner, but Paxton wisely rolls to the ropes before Sykes can do so. Sykes goes on the attack, hitting a recovering Paxton with a charging elbow that sends Paxton through the ropes and to the outside. Sykes wants to follow up, trying to pull Paxton over the top rope and into position for one of his very many dangerous maneuvers designed to make people die. Instead, Paxton fights out of it, manages to get himself back on his feet on the apron, and then rams Sykes into the turnbuckles.

Sykes tumbles out of the corner and referee Barlow needs to check on him to make sure he can still go.

Paxton starts to step through the ropes, but he can’t go any further.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Wait… wait a damn minute! That’s Fred Dick! Fred Dick is out here!

Richard Parker: What the Dick is that Fred doing here?

Well, at the moment, he’s grabbing Paxton by his ankle to prevent him from leaving the ring. Paxton, realizing that he’s been grabbed, turns back through the ropes and stares daggers at the King of Wrong Style. Fred Dick realizes that he might have fucked up a little, and he’s pleading some innocence with Paxton despite all of the evidence pointing against him.

Paxton realizes he’s still in a match and he steps through the ropes to enter the ring. However, Sykes meets him there and hits him with a big DDT before he can full get out from the ropes, spiking Paxton nearly on his head.

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes is taking advantage of Fred Dick’s distraction!

Richard Parker: I don’t even think he knows he’s there.

Well, that’s mostly because Fred Dick has ducked under the ring apron, out of sight of the referee. It’s also because Fred is looking under the ring for something. Sykes, unaware of the presence of this Dick, pulls Paxton in for a flatliner.

Nick Stuart: THIRD DEGREE! This is how Sykes pinned Paxton at Great American Nightmare two years ago!

Sykes floats into the cover, hooking the leg.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE-KICKOUT!

Somehow, Paxton doesn’t succumb to David McBride’s finishing move a second time in two years. Sykes goes to the outside and looks to put things away with the other finishing move of Crash and Burn, the Domino Effect springboard Blockbuster. However, he notices something is amiss when he sees Fred Dick lurking below him with a steel chair, and the moment’s distraction gives Paxton time to get out of the way of the springboard blockbuster before Sykes can land it. Sykes lands in a tumbling roll back in the ring, relatively safe from outright, uh… crashing and burning (god dammit).

A bunch of things happen at once, so let’s take some inventory.

First of all, let’s let Nick Stuart address the first thing.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick is on the apron, and he’s got a steel chair!

Yeah, so that’s a problem. I mean, Fred Dick is usually a problem even on his best days, just ask my cousin Reality. Second cousin, twice removed. We don’t talk, too many strong opinions about hoagies. Anyhoodle, Fred Dick is on the apron and this draws the attention of referee Ashley Barlow.

The second thing that happens is that Jared Sykes is trying to recover his momentum after Fred Dick’s distraction kept him from landing the deathblow in this contest. He charges in on Paxton.

Paxton, caught between a Dick and a hard place, does something that no one expects: He doesn’t meet Sykes head-on. He ducks.

As a result, the flying elbow doesn’t hit Paxton. It instead hits Fred Dick. Or rather, it hits the chair that Fred Dick is holding. Fred falls off of the apron, but Sykes holds his arm in pain, clearly not expecting that to happen. When he turns, Paxton Ray is more than happy to put his lights out.

Nick Stuart: LAFAYETTE LULLABY!

Richard Parker: It’s over!

Paxton falls on top of Sykes and barely gets an arm over him.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

A mixture of cheers and boos hit the Palau Sant Jordi as “Fistfight” hits the PA system.

As Paxton Ray lies in the ring, spent, he raises his arm in triumph. Outside of the ring, Fred Dick spends a lot of his time hopping mad, jumping up and down repeatedly in sheer frustration, and he kicks the guardrail in anger. He’s hopping up and down holding his now-hurting foot as Vince Howard makes the announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match…. PAAAAAXXXXTOOOOOONNNNN RAAAAAAAYYYY!!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Fred Dick meant to give Paxton the assist there, but he definitely changed the complexion of this match.

Richard Parker: Yeah, to a pale and pasty complexion.

Paxton crawls his way to the corner, before settling into a seated position. He watches as Jared Sykes slowly recovers from the match, holding the side of his face where the left hand of the Bayou Butcher put his lights out. He watches as Sykes stumbles to his feet after using the ropes to get back, and he watches as the Dragonslayer recovers from his stumble and stares down at the seated Paxton Ray.

A long time ago, this scene might not have played out the way it is now. Too much bad blood. Too much anger. Too much of a monstrous desire to harm others. But time is a strange beast indeed. Jared Sykes looks down at his hand, and then slowly extends it out towards Paxton.

Paxton raises an eyebrow. It takes him a few moments to reach up to the top rope and pull himself back to his feet. One step, then two. Paxton looks down at Jared’s extended hand, then at Jared… and then shakes his hand.

RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Never thought I’d see the day.

Richard Parker: Neither did I, Nick.

The interaction is all too brief. Sykes disengages and rolls out of the ring, heading to the back with a future in having difficulty chewing his food waiting for him.

In the ring, Paxton Ray calls for a microphone.

Show’s not over yet, folks.

We should be fading to black at this point, but we don’t, because Paxton Ray is gesturing at Fred Dick as he roars into a microphone.

Paxton Ray: Fred Dick, I ain’t got much left in the tank, but it’s more than enough for your fat ass, so get in the ring so I can beat ya inta next week!

Again Paxton Ray gets the unfamiliar cheers, and he tries to ignore them.

Paxton Ray: Ya been makin’ my life a livin’ hell since I had the audacity t’call ya ugly, but damn boy, mirrors all across the world been callin’ ya that since before I ever met ya! Now get in here so I can make ya even uglier!

Fred Dick does not oblige. Instead, he remains safely outside the ring, and rips a live mic from the hands of Vince Howard.

Fred Dick: Shut the fug up, y’fuggin bitchmade ol’ COOT. Always talkin’ that sweet shid, always runnin’ that mouth. Actin’ like you runnin’ these streets. Motherfucker, these here is MY mothafuckin’ streets. You don’t walk on my streets demanding a piece of ass from me. I don’t put out until I get paid, bitch boy. And I don’t get paid until you and me is in Portugal.

The Bayou Butcher smiles down at Dick.

Paxton Ray: Damn, ain’t ya jus’ a yella-belly. Actin’ big an’ tough when ya got your army, but when it’s jus’ us your little stubby legs start shakin’. Almos’ like ya know ya can’t beat me.

Fred Dick chuckles, a grin on his face that indicates anything other than pleasure.

Fred Dick: These legs ain’t stubby, Paxton Ray. Hell naw. These legs righ’cheer was made by THE LAWD, designed especially to STAND ON BIDNESS. And upon these legs perfectly crafted by the divine hand of Gawd, there ain’t a chance in hell I COULDN’T beat you, boy.

Fred Dick laughs.

Fred Dick: I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back, boy. I could beat you if you my legs was tied to my wrists, boy. I could beat you if I was paralyzed after taking seven of your MOTHAFUCKIN FINISHERS, boy. I could beat you if–

So, who is the next to get it?
I’ll take the life of anybody trying to change what’s left.

“Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks blasts aggressively through the Palau Sant Jordi, cutting Fred Dick off (heh) mid-rant. THA BAWSE, Lindsay Troy, walks out onto the stage amidst an onslaught of cheers. She already has a microphone in hand, and she looks not at all pleased as she waves off her music.

Fred Dick looks like he’s right in the middle of shidding himself.

Lindsay Troy: Oh no, please, Fred, don’t let me interrupt you. Go on and finish your sentence. You could beat Paxton Ray if what.

Fred stands in wide-eyed bewilderment. Every time he tries to peacock and show his ass out at the ring, she shows up.

He looks down at the floor, eyes lowered, defeated looking.

Fred Dick: Well… I was gonna say, ‘I could beat you if your knuckles was dipped in glass, boy.’ But he started all this, Bawse. Not me. This is Paxton’s fault. PAXTON YOU SUMBITCH!!! YOU GETTIN’ MY ASS IN TROUBLE WITH THE BAWSELADY!

The Queen casts a frigid glare in Fred’s direction, then lifts her eyes toward the Bayou Butcher leaning against the ring ropes, then settles them back on the festering boil in front of her.

Lindsay Troy: Y’know, Fred, there are few people I dislike more in my company than Paxton Ray. Did you know that I’ve already fired him once for that paralyzing incident you decided to make light of a little bit ago? And that the only reason he’s back here is because of a favor to Jared and Jon? I bet you didn’t know that, because you’re a shit for brains. You have somehow – just by merely existing – managed to make me, and many, many other people, not hate him as much as we hate you. That’s quite an accomplishment, Fred. I feel like it deserves to be celebrated.

Fred’s mind is in an absolute pretzel, and we can all see the dough pouring out of his puzzled eyes. On the one hand, this feels like a compliment. But on the other hand, she ripped him a new one.

Finally, Fred clutches hold of the only response he has to any of that, loads that sucker up, and lets it fly.

Fred Dick: It’s pronounced “shid.” “Shid for brains,” you meant to say.

Lindsay Troy: ……kay. Regardless if it’s shit or ….. shid …… you’re going to have a difficult enough time pronouncing anything after the end of June, Fred. You think you can beat a man who came up in illegal pit fighting if you had your knuckles dipped in glass? I think I’d like to see you try, because that’s your stipulation for Tropical Turmoil. Glass knuckles boxing match…Fred Dick versus Paxton Ray, one on one, in Lisbon!

The Spanish crowd roars with approval!

And Fred Dick drops to his knees in dismay. He looks up at Paxton Ray, still leaned against the ropes…

…and happier than a pig in sh…id.

Fred Dick: This is a conspiracy! Lindsay Troy, all due respect, you on some SKRATE UP BULLSHID RIGHT NOW.

The Lady of the Hour tucks her curls behind her ear and chuckles.

Lindsay Troy: Fred, I dunno why you’re so upset. I told you you deserved to be celebrated. And this is what we in Vae Victis like to call a good ol’ fashioned Murder Party.

She grins.

Lindsay Troy: Good luck, dipshit.

“Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks hits the speakers and the crowd goes absolutely ballistic! Paxton Ray, glass knuckles, and Fred Dick’s stupid face!

Lindsay Troy heads to the back, leaving us to gaze at Fred Dick’s fuming expression until we

FADE

TO

PAXTON RAY’S SMILING FACE.