ReVival 50

Holy shit we made it to 50 ReVivals and every one’s been ON FUCKING TIME.

You know what this calls for?

A COLD MOTHERFUCKING OPEN IN THE BOSS’S OFFICE.

“Enjoying all your time off?”

Fading in from black, we catch the small, contented smile behind the Beautiful Black Mustache that could only belong to Hayes Hanlon. He sits back in an office chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers laced behind his head. He nods at the question given.

Hayes Hanlon: I have. I really, really have. It’s been good to just kinda, y’know, do me for a change. Thanks for asking!

Panning out reveals Lindsay Troy, sitting across from the Event Horizon.

Lindsay Troy: Well, I’m so glad you decided to … do you … without so much as a phone call or a text to let your boss know you weren’t going to show up to your job.

The Comeback Kid shrugs his shoulders, and pulls his hands from behind his head, holding them up with little to offer.

Hayes Hanlon: Sorry. Needed a couple…mental health days. That’s gotta be somewhere in company policy, right? It’s 2024, after all.

The Queen’s eyes drill holes through his skull and out the back of the Steel Door O’Doom.

Lindsay Troy: Usually those are requested, not assumed.

Hayes Hanlon: (shooting the ol’ finger guns.) I’ll do better next time, Boss. But hey, can we speed up to when you slap my wrist with the ruler? Cecil and the boys are gonna need me soon.

Lindsay Troy: No. We can’t. You’re in my office, which means you’re on my time, which is something both Cecilworth and Phil understand. Understand?

Hayes Hanlon: (smirking) UnderSTOOD!

The Queen pushes her chair a little closer to her desk and leans forward.

Lindsay Troy: Let’s get something straight here, Hayes: unlike some people in my company, I don’t care that you threw in with Glue. What I care about is you doing your job, which means showing up to your job, and not giving me a cavalier, bullshit attitude about it when you don’t. If you need time off, ask, it’s no problem. But that shit you pulled doesn’t fly with me. So you’re not getting slapped on the wrist. You’re getting benched for Turmoil. You can go work on your tan while “Cecil and the boys” can do some actual work.

Hanlon’s demeanor shifts at the mention of being benched. His face darkens, and he snorts, curling the corner of his ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: This shit doesn’t fly, huh?

He takes his turn to lean forward.

Hayes Hanlon: (pointing his thumb behind him.) But everything else, for everyone else, does, right? You don’t have any kind of grip on this freakin’ circus.

He sits back, and shakes his head.

Hayes Hanlon: But yeah. Let’s bench a two-time Uni champ. Let’s shelf the one dude who literally JUST wants to get in the ring and bring the whole. Freakin’. SHOW.

Hayes pushes himself from his seat, and offers a half-assed salute.

Hayes Hanlon: Call me when Turmoil tanks. I’ll get to work on my tan.

Lindsay Troy: Don’t worry. I’m letting you know in advance you won’t be seeing my number.

Hayes Hanlon: (opening the Steel Door O’Doom) I won’t be looking for it.

He steps into the hall, and turns his eyes to the Queen one more time.

Hayes Hanlon: I hope Astrid could set Wade’s nose straight. That’d be a real bummer for the wedding photos.

The big ol’ door closes behind.

ReVival begins with a bang.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/ReV50-Commercial.mp4

Hello, Spain.

Hello, ReVival 50.

Ready for some signs?

EVERY ROSE HAS ITS TWO BOOKS
I’M HERE TO SEE FLAMBOLTON FURIOUSLY MAKE OUT
I REMEMBER MY FIRST BRIGHT WELL
COMÍ UNA CAJA DE STRONKUMMS ANTES DE ESTE ESPECTÁCULO Y YA LO SIENTO
ALOHA FROM MOTHER RUSSIA
SLUT TRUCK > CYBER TRUCK
I HAVE AGED FIFTY YEARS SINCE REVIVAL 1, BUT IVAN STILL REMAINS THE SAME
NATE COLTON ES LA PERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRA
STOP, SYKES IS ALREADY DEAD
I SURVIVED BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD
CAN’T WAIT FOR BRENDAN JUNGBLUD TO DEBUT AT TROPICAL TURMOIL
BRANDON OLDBITCH
UGH LINDSAY TROY FORGOT TO SPRAY FOR COWBOYS AND NOW THERE’S AN INFESTATION
ARE DAYTONA DIAMONDS ETHICALLY SOURCED?

“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.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Colorado Springs, Colorado, and weighing one hundred and eighty pounds, BEMBEEEEEEEEE BRIGHTWELLLLLLLLL!

Bembe scales the top turnbuckle from the outside and cuts a sick backflip off of it and lands on his feet, followed by a cool dance that absolutely does not fit to the entrance theme. The bewildered crowd cheers politely.

Richard Parker: That dance was certainly a choice.

Nick Stuart: I wonder if Bembe is a fan of a certain Phil Collins song.

The opening chords of Chevelle‘s “Comfortable Liar” ring out, signaling the imminent arrival of Seán O’Neill. As the lyrics begin, the Irishman emerges to the entrance way. Pausing at the top of the ramp, he takes a second to scan the crowd whilst he rolls his wrists and loosens his neck & shoulders.

We’re used to seeing negative body language from O’Neill as he looks out over the fans, but it does seem that since War Games this is something he’s been working on. The sneers are no more; instead he seems more positive, more focused on the task at hand.

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

This announcement too is met with a different reaction than we’ve become accustomed to. Whilst there are still some sections of the crowd jeering, it seems that more and more of the fans are unsure how to respond to O’Neill’s arrival. They aren’t quite ready to cheer the man, but certainly the relationship does seem to be shifting to less hostile territory.

Nick Stuart: Seems like this crowd is starting to feel a little more lukewarm toward O’Neill than we’ve been used to seeing.

Richard Parker:  He’s had a rough go of it since War Games, maybe they’re feeling b-

Nick Stuart: Gonna stop you right here, Richard. O’Neill’s putting in the work. He’s going to get his due.

O’Neill vaults over the top-rope to enter the ring. Instead of moving into the middle of the ring, he climbs the nearest turnbuckle and spreads his arms straight out to each side, again looking out into the crowd. Dismounting from the turnbuckle, he removes his jacket and begins stretching out on the ring-ropes, as he gets ready to lock up.

Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbell has called for the bell and this one is underway!

O’Neill aggressively tries to grapple with Brightwell, but the Living Lightning Rod ducks under the attempt, spins around and kicks sharply at O’Neill’s left knee. O’Neill hops up and down momentarily, but not before Bembe can sweep the other leg and clatter Surreal to the mat. Brightwell follows it up with a smooth standing moonsault and Turnbull is immediately onto the mat.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: It’s gonna take more than one exchange to put away O’Neill tonight as he kicks out easily.

Richard Parker: Are we sure about that?

O’Neill sits up and slaps the mat out of frustration. Brightwell springs himself off the ropes, and just as O’Neill stands to turn and face his opponent, Bembe springboards back at him with an elbow. It catches O’Neill who stumbles into the ropes. Brightwell once again propels himself across the ring and dropkicks the staggered O’Neill, sending him up and over to the arena floor.

Nick Stuart: Brightwell on the offensive and he’s not done yet – he’s just cleared the top rope and connected with a senton onto the unsuspecting O’Neill! Really impressive high flying action from the Living Lightning Rod!

Richard Parker: Look, I don’t even particularly care for this candle weirdo, but he’s eating O’Neill for lunch right now.

Nick Stuart: Richard. Behave.

Brightwell pops up from the senton and raises his arms, eliciting cheers from the crowd. He grabs a handful of O’Neill’s trunks and looks to spin him into the ring steps, but Surreal is simply too heavy to move. O’Neill reverses the whip and it’s Bembe who clatters into the steps, doubling over. O’Neill shakes a couple cobwebs out of his head and takes control of Brightwell, rolling him back into the ring. Surreal follows by rolling under the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: Well look at that, he’s got control now!

Seán O’Neill pops up to his feet first, and drags Brightwell with him. He easily lifts the middleweight by the midsection and crashes Bembe across the knee with a pendulum backbreaker. He then holds Brightwell there, stretching it out.

Nick Stuart: Impressive work from O’Neill as he looks to try and ground the high flyer.

Bembe refuses to submit quickly enough and O’Neill releases the hold, rolls Brightwell onto his back and cinches in a single leg Boston Crab. Again, it seems like only moments pass before O’Neill has again releases the hold and transitions it into an STF.

Richard Parker: Tell him to pick a submission and stick with it!

Nick Stuart: I believe he’s a lot like Farthington, if his opponent isn’t going to tap within six seconds, he’s going to transition.

Again, the hold is released as Brightwell refuses to submit. O’Neill stands and looks down at Brightwell as he attempts to crawl toward the ropes for a bit of respite. However, O’Neill’s severe weight advantage comes into play and he locks in an s-grip around the candle man’s waist and deadlifts him from the mat, up and over with a crashing high angle German suplex.

Nick Stuart: Devastating move there, but it doesn’t look like he’s going for a pin!

Richard Parker: This is why he keeps losing! His man is beat!

O’Neill stands over Brightwell once again and picks up his opponent’s right leg by the ankle before smashing it into the mat. He repeats this, and follows it up with an elbow drop to the inside of that same knee. O’Neill looks to go for the single leg crab once more, but Brightwell pulls from the reserves and twists his body around to somehow improbably get O’Neill into a cradle. Jimmy Turnbull slaps the mat…

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: No! O’Neill has kicked out and both men are on their feet!

O’Neill comes off the ropes looking for a clothesline, but Brightwell ducks, and on the return sends Seán to the mat with a textbook armdrag. O’Neill pops up and charges, but is met with another armdrag as Bembe sends Surreal skidding across the mat. His frustrating showing, O’Neill attacks Bembe a third time and is on the receiving end of a third armdrag, but Brightwell locks this one into an armbar. O’Neill grits his teeth and shakes his head as Turnbull asks him to submit.

Richard Parker: Look at him! He wants to give up!

Nick Stuart: Are you gonna lay off this guy or what?

O’Neill reaches the ropes and Turnbull forces Brightwell to break the hold. As soon as he does, Brightwell runs the ropes and attempts a second springboard back elbow, but O’Neill is wise and ready for it this time. He ducks the elbow, cinches his arms around Bembe’s midsection and delivers a thunderous atomic drop. Brightwell taps away holding his backside, but O’Neill isn’t going to let him free. He hooks the leg and brings them both back with a Russian Leg Sweep. O’Neill gorgeously floats over into a pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THR–

Richard Parker: He almost had him!

Seán O’Neill is feeling the momentum and is quickly back on his feet. Bembe is dazed in a seating position and never sees O’Neill coming as he connects with a vicious rolling snap mare that draws a visceral reaction from the fans. O’Neill pounces and follows up with a falling fist drop and Brightwell immediately recoils in pain.

Nick Stuart: Surreal is well and truly in control of this match now.

O’Neill briefly looks around the arena as a few cheers rise up. He then turns his focus back to Brightwell and gets a fistful of trunks, raising Bembe back to his feet. He whips Brightwell into the ropes, drops to the mat as Brightwell runs across him, then as he stands, Bembe is hitting a hurricanrana, crashing both men back into a heap. Bembe attempts to get a cover, but Jimmy Turnbull points to O’Neill’s foot entangled with the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: But is he!? I think Bembe has got this one in the bag now!

Nick Stuart: You’re spinning more than a washing machine during this match, Richard.

Bembe scrambles to get O’Neill back to his feet and whips him off the ropes. He bends over, anticipating being able to back body drop O’Neill, but Surreal is thinking ahead and stops short, forces Bembe’s head between O’Neill’s legs and hooks both arms. He briefly looks side to side, the crowd cheers again as Bembe is lifted into the sky.

Nick Stuart: CELTIC TIGER BOMB! AND HE’S NOT DONE YET!

O’Neill takes Brightwell’s right leg and bends it behind the left. He snakes his arms in, secures a leg under his armpit and begins to turn Brightwell over. The candle man fights and squirms and tries to break the hold, but it’s all for naught as O’Neill finally turns him over and locks the hold in place.

Nick Stuart: That’s the Clover! There’s no place for Brightwell to escape now!

The anguish on Brightwell’s face is clear as day and he hastily raps on the mat as Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

Nick Stuart: Seán O’Neill is back in the win column with an impressive showing in our opening match tonight! Anything to say for yourself, Richard?

Richard Parker: I… was wrong.

By now, it appears the Zbyszkosweats have taken hold once more as a fine line of swear appears on Parker’s forehead.

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH, BY SUBMISSION – SURRRREAAAAAAL SEAAAAAN O’NEILLLLLLL!

O’Neill releases the Clover and looks up at Turnbull, surprised. He staggers to his feet as Turnbull raises his arm in triumph. O’Neill wipes the sweat from his face before raising the other arm and taking in a smattering of cheers that now seem to be outweighing any negative reaction O’Neill receives. Ever the sportsman, O’Neill bends down next to Brightwell and offers him a hand, which Bembe shakes, drawing another cheer from the crowd. The camera fades out on a smiling and victorious Seán O’Neill.

The time has come to once again grace your eyes with the beauty and the prestige of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM.

Keeping on track with this European Tour, there is no parking lot for the WANT Stage to be constructed upon and so this week it finds itself in the Plaza de Salvador Dali, directly next to the WiZink Center in Madrid, Spain.

But enough about the outside of this traditional and stately stage set of PRIME’s rich history. We are taken immediately inside where a large, golden Sickle and Hammer is mounted on the NEWS WALL behind Max’s desk. This prestigious placement has replaced that once beloved INTENSE Championship.

Panning back we find that the set of the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE has taken on a more.. Vermillion..shade of red. It’s messy, hastily done (probably by the Herald for budgetary reasons) and probably still wet. In fact chances are you can smell these fresh paint vibes straight through the screen to your brain.

Hopefully it’s unleaded, you never know with Spaniards.

Seated behind the WON ACTION NEWS DESK isn’t Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

No, it’s an impossibly wisened Babushka wearing the trappings of a vintage Soviet era uniform. She smacks her thin lips, wetting them with her tongue before leaning toward a microphone that looks to be from the same era as the rest of the Babushka.

NEWS Babushka: Comrades, please give appreciation for COMMISSAR MAKSIM V. KAEL!

НОВОСТИ ПЕРВОГО СЕГМЕНТА ДЛЯ БОЛЕЕ СОВЕРШЕННОГО СОЮЗА НАРОДА.

The screen washes red as our new segment name flashes in bold Soviet Gold. We also get that good-good Soviet era military music. Lots of horns, lots of proud Russian singers belting out some brassy notes! If you’re not just a little proud after hearing this then you’ve truly no heart.

Looking at you Brandon pissblood.

We return to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE where Max Kael has replaced NEWS Babushka with his good and noble self.

Today he is dressed in his Communist Crimson three piece suit with black shirt. Another gold sickle and hammer to match the one on the wall behind him. That practiced, uncomfortable smile is slapped across his face as per usual.

Max Kael!: Comrades! Worms! So pleased you could all be here to join me tonight on this very, very special edition of the NEWS! As you can see things have been undergoing a few changes around here, all for the better I can assure you! But before we get too far..

Turning in his chair, Max addresses Camera 2 with a somber look on his face. He folds his hands on the mighty NEWS DESK and takes in a deep breath.

Max Kael!: Last time we were together I was defeated once again by the collective efforts of those bastardly Poor Whoresmen. It’s outrageous, I agree, that I should fall two times in a row! I’ve fallen quite a bit since the start of the year thanks to the efforts of those Chlamydia contaminated Cowboys. But I can’t allow myself to be distracted from what true goal, the REAL threat here in PRIME Wrestling. So I will say this as I did last time.. I’m leaving this business on the table and walking away. If those pigannenny potholes share more than a dozen brain cells they’ll be wise to step away as well. Cross the path of the Red Army again, however, and I can’t..

He’s thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head.

Max Kael!: Strike that. I ..won’t.. be so merciful. Again, not a coward, not a gadabout, just gotta kill that damned Cecilworth Farthington before I can take some ME time. Fuck ya very much, Poor Whoresmen, I’ll hope to never see Fred Dick’s stretch marks again. Heh-HEH!

Like the hyperactive child that he is Max spins himself around in his NEWS CHAIR giggling to himself as we switch back to Camera 1.

Max Kael!: With that out of the way, let’s address that low life brigand who assaulted the poor and innocent the Herald. The Herald, my precious, wonderfully, loveable The Herald is presently OUT WITH INJURY after what you did to him, Crash Ja-

Before Max can finish the line there is a loud roaring sound. It completely overpowers Max, causing the HEART of PRIME to nearly fall out of his chair.

Max Kael!: …what the hell was that?!

Silence fills the stage as Max’s wild eyes dart from side to side, half expecting someone to come flying at him off camera. Moments pass quietly allowing Max to let out a sigh of relief.

Max Kael!: ..whew.. Okay. Where was I? Oh yes! Crash “the Trash” Jac-

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOAOAAAWWWAAAAAAARRRRRRR!

Once again a guttural, angry, mechanical roar swallows up Max’s words and sends the former INTENSE Champion clamoring beneath his desk. The cameras on the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE shake and the scene statics out for a moment. Another angry roar of a powerful engine blasts over the WANT stag. Sad Mizaki can be seen shuffling toward one of the exits as Max smashes his fists on his NEWS DESK..

Max Kael!: It’s outside! What is outside!? Get a camera out there, ASAP!

As quick as he demands it we cut outside and are finally treated to what has been angrily interrupting Max.

A titanic twenty seven foot tall MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK revs its massive engine block at the far end of plaza. The driver’s side window rolls down as we can see Crash, with wild abandon swirling in his eyes, leaning out.

Crash: BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The horn blares, joining Crash’s Bro-Cry. For those familiar with the Bro-language, it is clear that Crash isn’t bellowing a greeting. No, this is the cry of a Bro-Challenge, echoing across the Plaza del Salvador Dali, aimed at the Communist Cappa himself, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Another loud roar of the engines and the entire monstrous vehicle lurches forward.

Cutting back inside the WON ACTION NEW STAGE and we see all chaos has broken out. Stage hands and assistance are running for the exits, the camera men have abandoned their posts and only Max Kael remains at his post.

Max Kael!: Fuck you, Crash! I’m not coming out there and I’m not answering your stupid challenge! You’ll get a match at TROPICAL TURMOIL over my DEAD BODY! HAH-HA!

The Lord of Kaelsalvania snarls at the camera before flipping it off.

From his MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK Crash Jackson has only one option left to him. He locks the beast into gear and lets that engine bellow out another angry, smokey roar. Fire explodes from the exhausts as the unholy fusion between metal and sausage charges down the Plaza toward the WANT Stage!

Back inside on the stage Max Kael finds himself completely abandoned, alone as he stares wide eyed in the direction of the charging MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK. Both of his hands are white knuckling the NEWS DESK as a panicky, frightened expression drips from his sweaty visage.

Max Kael!: Oh shit. Hey! Wait! Maybe we can talk about it, Crash! Like Bros! WAIT! NO NO!!!! NOOOOO!!

All the fast talking in the world can’t stop what’s about to happen at this point.

On the outside the frankensteinian abomination between tubed meat product and overpowered combustion technology connects with the stage wall, the giant tires rotating angrily through plaster, wood and steel. The MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK shudders, as though in ecstasy, before roaring back to life, pulling itself onto the stage roof.

Inside the camera left filming Max topples over as rubble crashes down on top of it. Through the debris Max can still be seen definitely standing behind his NEWS DESK! A monstrous rubber wheel tears a hole into the ceiling of the stage just above Max! Fire from the MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK’s engines explodes through, greedily filling the upper sections of the WANT ACTION NEW STAGE with flame!

Fear in Max’s face gives way to realization. Realization gives way to exhilaration. A smile appears,  a real, horrible, ugly, joyful rigor grin that paralyzes Kael’s face. As Crash continues his assault on the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM stage, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael begins to giggle.

The giggle is drowned out by the sound of the roaring engines, Crash and his MONSTER matching Max’s own maniacal noises. And so Max’s giggle turns into a wrenching, mocking laugh, his own eyes lost in depraved self-destructive joy.

Shoving the NEWS DESK out of the way, Max throws himself into an incoming MONSTER WEINER HOTDOG TRUCK wheel, disappearing just off camera before it can be seen what happened.

Cutting outside Crash’s rampage is complete. The entire stage has been crushed, obliterated and burnt beyond repair. Their work done, Crash Jackson and the MONSTER WEINER HOT DOG TRUCK back down the Plaza del Salvador Dali and out into the Spanish night.

Richard Parker:.. I think Crash Jackson just murdered Max Kael. Like, legitimately, I think he might have just ended Max Kael’s life.

Nick Stuart: We’re being told that medical recovery teams are being sent into the rubble of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM stage to try and recover Max Kael.. folks, I have no words for what I just saw..

Richard Parker: Crash has lost his goddamn mind over this Violent Purple business! Didn’t he see last week that she LEFT him?! And he just tried to murder his former best bro!

Nick Stuart: I’m not going to quibble over the details of the feud or justify what Crash did here tonight but I can only pray that Ma-.. wait I’m getting word from management..Wow.

By now we’ve cut back to Nick and Richard at their commentary desk, both men looking concerned. Nick seems to be listening intently to something he’s being told while Richard looks on impatiently.

Richard PArker: Well!? Why am I never looped in on these things?!

Nick waves his hand at Parker annoyed before he seems to nod in acknowledgement.

Nick Stuart: It has been decided that Crash Jackson will face Maximillian Wilhelm Kael at Tropical Turmoil, assuming the latter can be cleared by Medical Staff.

Richard Parker: Wait, wait, let me get this clear? Crash Jackson does an attempted murder on Max Kael and his punishment for that is he gets a match against Max Kael at Tropical Turmoil?

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t put it like that. More I think Management wants this issue dealt with as soon as possible. And if anyone in PRIME was going to survive something like what we just saw, it’s gonna be someone like Max Kael.

Richard Parker: Well I’ll tell you what, Stuart, Alexei and Ivan are NOT going to be happy about that decision.

Nick seems to nod in agreement with Parker but shrugs apologetically as we cut elsewhere.

The video screen comes on:

“Saturday June 8th – Peoria Civic Center / Peoria, IL- Backstage at a MVW House Show”

The brisk chill of the arena’s air conditioning brushes against Adam Ellis’s skin as he and his seven-month pregnant wife Ginny Van Lear intertwine fingers, their combined warmth a stark contrast to the cold concrete walls that line the backstage corridors of Missouri Valley Wrestling’s Peoria house show. They weave through the hustle of crew members and the clatter of equipment with the ease of a tag team in perfect sync.

Booming Voice: ADAM ELLIS!

The voice ricochets off the walls and halts their escape.  Adam turns slowly, his brow furrowed with suspicion. There, amidst a sea of cables and crates, stands ‘The New Age Cybertronic Criminally Insane Rogue Sentient Robot Wrestling Machine’ Ultratron-6.1, the LEDs on his costume flickering ominously in the dimly lit hallway.

Ultratron-6.1 (synthesized voice grated with urgency): Adam, you’re heading into a war with the Red Army, and you need an army behind you, and I’ve got just the faction.”

Ginny’s grip tightens, her fiery hair shimmering under the fluorescent lights as she shoots a wary glance up at her towering husband.

Ultratron-6.1: Introducing the Kabal of Really Awful People.

His metallic arm gestures towards the members of KRAP dramatically.

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt- the guy who tries to ‘erase’ people with the oversized eraser on his oversized pencil.

The Murder Hornets- Two smaller luchadors with plain purple ski masks over their heads and an all-purple wrestling ensemble with ‘MURDER HORNETS’ emblazoned on the front of their shirts. 

Bill E. Zayne- Dressed in the fancy clothing circa 1912 of the heir to a Pittsburgh steel fortune- Caledon Hockley as he boarded the Titanic.  Zayne exudes the same snobby, arrogant, and narcissistic traits of the Hockley character from the epic movie Titanic- Voyage of Doom.

David Litterman- Ordinary-looking dude with a total disregard of the environmental consequences his cavalier attitude towards trash disposal presents.

Ultratron-6.1: KRAP will dominate not just MVW, but the entire world. With me as your ally, we’ll topple the Red Army. We’ll stand tall amidst the ruin of our enemies—”

Adam shifts uncomfortably, feeling the weight of Ultratron-6.1’s proposition pressing down on him like a heavyweight’s forearm across his chest. The gentle giant is no stranger to battles—or to the bravado that often comes before them—but there is something about this offer that doesn’t sit right. He is a man who prefers to let his actions in the ring speak for him; this kind of alliance is foreign territory.

Adam Ellis: Listen, Ultratron-6.1…

Adam’s voice was steady but low, the Midwestern accent more pronounced as he spoke words tinged with caution.

Adam Ellis: …I appreciate the… support. But I’ve gotta think about this.

Ultratron-6.1: Think?  THINK!

Ultratron-6.1’s voice modulates with impatience…

Ultratron-6.1: Listen! Hear me as I proclaim our reign of terror upon this pathetic world. Our power will be unmatched, our destruction unparalleled. We will bring chaos and despair to all who stand against us.

…and increases in volume.

Ultratron-6.1: THE CHILLING GLEAM COMING FROM MY EYES SHOULD TELL YOU… THE RED ARMY… THAT YOU ARE NOTHING IN COMPARISON TO THE RAW POWER OF THE NEW AGE CYBERTRONIC CRIMINALLY INSANE ROUGE SENTIENT ROBOT WRESTLING MACHINE- UNITED WITH ADAM ELLIS…

Adam glances at Ginny- her jaw’s dropped and she has no idea what the hell is going on.

Ultratron-6.1: …THEY WILL COWER OF THE MERE MENTION OF OUR NAMES.  THOSE WHO DARE DEFY US! YOU ARE ALL WEAK, PATHETIC, AND HOPELESS… AN INFECTION THAT RAGES THROUGH HIGH OCTANE WRESTLING FOR WHICH THERE IS ONLY ONE CURE!

‘The New Age Cybertronic Criminally Insane Rogue Sentient Robot Wrestling Machine’ overdramatically thrusts his fist in the air.

Ultratron-6.1: THE RAGE OF ULTRATRON-6.1!

We suddenly cut away from the unhinged rant of the ‘The New Age Cybertronic Criminally Insane Rogue Sentient Robot Wrestling Machine’ for a commercial break…

*BLEEP*-ing with McGill Television Commercial
A package of Skank Mitchell’s Awesomely Awesome Beef Jerky is superimposed in the middle of a campground.  There’s a truck with a camper in the bed parked in a forest area with plenty of trees.

Announcer: Skank Mitchell’s Awesomely Awesome Beef Jerky presents *BLEEP*-ing with McGill.

Three men sit around a campfire.  The one on the left is crouched down on the ground munching on a piece of Skank Mitchell’s Awesomely Awesome Beef Jerky.  The other two are drinking coffee from a mug.

There’s a rustling by an old barn where four trash cans are located.  All four are overflowing over the top.  All three look over and see Dawn McGill with an empty water bottle in her hand.  She’s wearing shorts and a tank top as she’s out for a run.

Dawn McGill: Hey guys.  Do you know if there’s any other trash receptacles nearby?

The crouching guy snacking on the beef jerky gets an idea.  He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out one of those trick cans that sprays out plastic snakes when you open it up.

Guy #1: Hey guys.

He shows the can to the others.

Dawn McGill: Um.  You do know that I can hear you, right?

The other two snicker at the idea.  The man on the far right who’s wearing a plaid lumberjack jacket points to a rock in front of Dawn and the other guy ‘sneaks’ over there with the can.

Dawn McGill: Okay.  You do know that I can see you sneaking up here.

The other two watch as the guy places the can on the rock, with Dawn observing him, and then ‘sneaks’ back to the campfire.

Dawn looks down at the can.

Dawn McGill: All right. I know what’s inside the can.  I’m going to open it up.  These plastic thingys are going to come flying out.  And then I’m going to have to do something really bad to you guys.

The three campers simply stare at her.

Dawn sighs.

Dawn McGill: Okay…fine.

She opens the can.  Two plastic snakes fly out and the campers begin to laugh.  Dawn gives out a ‘look’ that said ‘seriously?’  She exhales, turns, and runs into the woods.

The three campers scurry towards their camper just as Dawn comes back out with a rather ominous looking weapon in hand.

Guy #2 (panicked shout): OH SHIT!  SHE’S GOT AN RPG!

Guy #1: AN RPG?

Guy #3 (even more panicked): RUN!

As the campers veer off into the woods, Dawn smiles…aims…and fires the Rocket Propelled Grenade into the camper and blows it up.

Final scene: a package of Skank Mitchell’s Awesomely Awesome Beef Jerky superimposed over the burning camper and the debris field around it.

Announcer: Skank Mitchell’s Awesomely Awesome Beef Jerky.  Feed your irrationally foolish side.

Now, back to our segment…
Ultratron-6.1: …FOR THEY ARE NO MATCH FOR SOMEONE WHO’S EVOLVED BEYOND THE CAPABILITY OF ANY HUMAN BEING ON THIS PITIFUL PLANET!  THE KABAL OF REALLY AWFUL PEOPLE AND ADAM ELLIS TOGETHER- WILL CRUSH ALL OF THE SNIVELING, PUNY INSECTS!

Adam Ellis: What the hell are you talking about?

But Ultratron-6.1 is just getting warmed up.

Ultratron-6.1: WE WILL DESTROY THEM AND GRIND THEM INTO INFINITESIMAL, MINUTE PARTICLES OF DUST AND WIPE THEM FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH!

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: That’s right, Ivan Stanislav, Alexei Ruslan will be in for what will be an unfortunate twist…

Suddenly, the PRIME legal department begins to hyperventilate…

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: …um, arc of circumstance called… ERASURE!

…and then exhales.

Pratt brandishes the oversized pencil and points it at Adam.

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: …ERASE!

Pratt jabs the eraser end towards Ginny…

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: ERASE!

…and pretends to ‘erase’ something in the air with the oversized pencil.

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: ERASE!

Bill E. Zayne holds up a ‘My Sweet Love Baby Doll’ strapped into a plastic pink car seat.

Bill E. Zayne: I HAVE A CHILD!

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: ERASE!

Pratt pretends to ‘erase’ something in the air with the oversized pencil again.

David Litterman casually drops a cheeseburger wrapper on the floor.

Ultratron-6.1: TOGETHER WITH ADAM ELLIS, WE WILL BRING FORTH THE TOTAL DESTRUCTION… ANNIHILATION… ERADICATION… THE COMPLETE AND UTTER EXTERMINATION OF THE RED ARMY ONCE AND FOR ALL!  THERE MUST BE CARNAGE!  SLAUGHTER!  A TOTAL AND COMPLETE MASSACRE OF EPIC PROPORTIONS OF WHICH PRO WRESTLING HAS NEVER SEEN BEFORE…

Ginny Van Lear (whispering and mortified) Seriously?

She clings to Adam’s arm, her red hair a fiery contrast to her flushed cheeks.

Adam Ellis: Let’s go… now,”

Ultratron-6.1 raises his hand and makes a final grand gesture of peroration but suddenly falls silent. For the opening notes of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Out” pierces the air, and halts Ultratron-6.1 in his tracks. Heads turned in unison to locate the monitor broadcasting the music video, its obnoxious, cheery pop melody sorely out of place amidst the bedlam.

‘Defective’ Marty Pratt: Uh oh.

Pratt remembers the great Chuck-E-Cheese incident of 2022 when Ultratron-6.1 destroyed the animatronic Chuck-E-Cheese band with bolts of energy from his palms as well as the time Ultratron-6.1 destroyed a jukebox when a Nickelback song came on.

Oh, then there’s the time he obliterated Joe Bergman’s big screen television in his office when the Liberty Mutual commercial featuring four singing animatronic squirrels extolling the virtues of home insurance came on.

Could it happen again?

“Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake
I shake it off, I shake it- *KA-BLAM*

Yep.

The sound of the monitor exploding into tiny bits fills the back room, sending debris flying as the monitor disintegrates under the force of Ultratron-6.1’s energy bolts. Smoke billows, obscuring their vision, the acrid scent of burned electronics fills the air.

Dawn McGill: WHAT THE HELL-

Dawn McGill’s voice cuts through the haze, her stature imposing despite the fallout. She strides toward the scene, her face registering shock and annoyance… mostly annoyance.

Ultratron-6.1 stands triumphantly within the ruins of the television surrounding him, expression unreadable behind his mask, red energy still dissipating from his hands.

Dawn presses a palm to her forehead.

Dawn McGill: Dear lord.

Ginny turns to Adam.

Ginny Van Lear: Can we just git outta here, please?

Ginny’s pleading voice was shaky but resolute.

Adam Ellis: Let’s get out of here.

Without another word, he takes Ginny by the hand and they dash towards the exit, leaving behind the smoldering remains of order turned to chaos.

We cut elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, up next we have a damn fine contest between a couple real lug nuts! “Lightning Boy” Harley Walker takes on Adam Ellis.

Richard Parker: Lug nuts? Nick, what the hell is wrong with you?

Nick Stuart: Leave me alone! I’m trying stuff out.

Richard Parker: Listen, you wanna try stuff out, do it on your own time. Because that line right there? That line sucked. I never want to hear it again.

The lights dim down as the the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sit at the edge of mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, standing 6’2, weighing in at 215 pounds… from WACOOOOOOOOOOO, TEXASSSSS… “LIGHTNING BOY!!!” HARLEEEEEY WALKERRRRRR!!!

Three.

Two.

One.

BOOM!

The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”.

Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette. After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring.

Vince Howard: and his opponent…

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.

Vince Howard: Standing 6’4… weighing 226 pounds… FROM WARRENSBUUURG MISSOURIIIII, ADAM!!! ELLLLLLLIIIIIIISS!!!

An acoustic guitar plays and the vocals begin.

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

Adam comes out on stage accompanied by Dawn McGill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick Stuart: Folks these lug nuts are about to try and throw a wrench in each other’s plans tonight.

Richard Parker: Nick…

Nick Stuart: If the tension were any tighter, you’d need a Phillips head screwdriver to unwind it, Richard!

Richard Parker: How about I just fucking kill you?

DING DING 

Adam and Harley waste no time meeting each other in the center of the ring and locking up. Adam swiftly shifts to a side headlock position. He wrenches on Harley’s neck–

Richard Parker: DON’T say it.

–a few times, really locking it tight.

Harley, however, decides he don’t want to feel that anymore, and lifts Adam Ellis up!!

Nick Stuart: TEAR DROP BACK SUPLEX BY HARLEY!!

Richard Parker: You mean GEAR Drop Back Suplex!

Nate Stuart: Don’t steal my bit after you said stop doing the bit.

Richard Parker: Drillbit.

Nate Stuart: Damn. My. Life.

Harley knows one suplex isn’t gonna put Adam down for three seconds, and doesn’t even waste his time. He brings Ellis up to his feet and whips him into the ropes!

BACK BODY DROP! Ellis arches his back in pain from the impact, but within a moment scrambles and sweeps the legs out from Harley. Ellis climbs to his feet and charges towards the ropes. Harley reaches his feet just in time to eat a

SUPER MAN PUNCH!!!

Nick Stuart: NOOOOOO!! Harley dives out of the way just in time, and rolls out of the ring – like a coward, Richard – to avoid Ellis.

Richard Parker: Why did you say that as if to imply that I have at some point rolled out of the ring like a coward, Nick?

Nick Stuart: Richard, if you roll your car out of the drive way, it’s like a coward!

Richard Parker: That one was good but it did hurt my feelings.

Harley meanders around the outside of the ring, in no hurry to jump back in there.

All good, Adam Ellis says! BASEBALL SLIDE sends Harley staggering backwards into the barricade. Adam climbs out of the ring to the outside himself, just to get

SMACK!!!

SLAPPED as hard as Harley can do it right on his bare chest! The hand print on Ellis’ chest might just be a permanent reminder of Harley Walker.

But all that did was wake up the DAWG inside Ellis’ beating heart.

A series of rapid fire kicks and strikes flies from Ellis’ hands, feet, elbows and knees, until he’s finally got Harley slumped into the guard rail. Boot, after boot, after boot he sends directly into Harley’s chest.

Richard Parker: Is this your hero, Nick? Is this the man you called a torque wrench earlier? Look at him! Beating a defenseless man up outside the ring!

Nick Stuart: I called him a lug nut.

Richard Parker: He doesn’t respect wrestling and neither do you!

Finally Ellis grabs Walker by the arm and drags him to his feet. He sends a couple forearm shots to Harley’s head for good measure, and rolls Harley into the–

No! Harley blocks the roll in with his foot on the apron, and instead slams Ellis head first into it! Adam staggers backwards, dazed and confused.

THE KEATON KICK FROM HARLEY WALKER!

Nick Stuart: THE FLYING ENZIGUIRI RIGHT INTO THE BACK OF ELLIS’ HEAD!

Richard Parker: Now that’s wrestling right there. Respectful, rule abiding wrestling.

Nick Stuart: Folks at home, if only you could hear my eyes roll.

This time, it’s Harley who pulls Adam to his feet. It’s Harley who sends a couple forearm shots for good measure, and it’s Harley who rolls Adam Ellis into the ring.

Harley, however, follows with quick pursuit! Makes the pin, hooks the leg!!

ONE!

TWO!!

TH– NO!!!

Ellis kicks out. Dawn McGill claps from her spot on the couch. The cabana boys do cabana boy things.

Richard Parker: Boy what I’d give to be a cabana boy right now.

Nick Stuart: Slow your roll, Richard. You’re a creep enough as it is. And ugly like a cursed doll is ugly. In the spirit.

Richard Parker: Honestly, that one really did sting a little bit. Good job.

Nick Stuart: I’ve learned from the master.

Harley mounts Ellis after the successful kick out and begins throwing punches. A little bit of ground and pound. Unfortunately, Harley is not a martial artist, and his weight is too far back, which allows Ellis to easily roll from his back to his butt, and Harley to his back for a pin!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

Harley kicks out!

Both men scramble to their feet, both men duck clotheslines from the other as they pass each other, both men bounce off opposite sets of ropes!

Harley throws a clothesline, Ellis ducks!

They bounce off opposite ropes again! Ellis throws a clothesline, Harley ducks!

They bounce off opposite ropes AGAIN!

BOTH COLLIDE INTO EACH OTHER WITH CROSSBODY BLOCKS!!!

Nick Stuart: OOF!!

Richard Parker: GAHDANNNNG!!

…And now, both men lie on the mat, writhing in pain.

And for a while, that’s all they do, while cheers roar in from the crowd for the action they’ve displayed thus far.

But then, it’s Ellis who first begins to recover. He slowly reaches his knees. He sees Harley, still writhing. Adam slowly staggers upwards to his feet, backs into a turnbuckle with his natural momentum.

But this is exactly where he wants to be, really.

It’s the perfect place for him to launch a Superman Punch.

Harley is none the wiser as he slowly begins to crawl from his back to his feet. Slowly, agonizingly.

Richard Parker: LOOK OUT FOR THE SUPERMAN PUNCH HARLEY!

Nick Stuart: They should disqualify him for that. They really should.

Richard Parker: Chill the hell out, lug nut.

Nick audibly sighs.

Harley finally gets up from one knee to his feet.

Adam Ellis wastes no time charging!

SUPERMAN PUNCH!!!

HARLEY DUCKS IT!!!

ROARING ELBOW FROM HARLEY!!!

ADAM DUCKS IT!!!

SUPERKICK FROM ADAM ELLIS!!!

IT LANDS FLUSH!!!

SUPERMAN PUUUUUUNNNNCH!!!!

IT LANDS FLUSH TOO!!!

Nick Stuart: This is Adam’s opportunity to get the win here, Richard!

Richard Parker: Good for Adam. It’s just a shame he doesn’t respect wrestling like the Whoresmen do.

Ellis moves to Harley’s legs and lifts them up.

He turns Harley over!

ELEVATED BOSTON CRAB!!!

Harley cries out in pain! He looks up for the ropes. But through them, he spies Dawn McGill. Harley tilts his head, lifts an eyebrow…

Then Ellis wrenches the elevation even higher, and applies MUCH more pressure to Harley’s neck.

Lightning Boy has no choice.

He taps.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is yoooour winnerrrr… ADAM!!! ELLLLLLLLIIIIIISSSSSSSS!!!

Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” hits the speakers and Adam Ellis’ hand is joined in the ring by Dawn McGill, who finally left her spot on the couch to raise her client’s hand in victory.

Nick Stuart: A great victory for Adam Ellis here at ReVival 50, Richard!

Richard Parker: Yeah yeah, let’s cut to the next segment or something already.

We cut to a commercial.

It’

It’s time.

The news sloshed out over a week before. Brandon Youngblood, leaving PRIME. Demanding release from his purported Lifetime Contract. So intricately tied to the promotion, a face, an ambassador, a standard. Hall of Fame. More singles wins in history than any other. More 5 Star Championship reigns than anyone else. The only man in the ReVival to defend the Universal Championship on multiple occasions. Jewel in the Crown and The Almasy. And now…it was over.

Time to say goodbye.

There’s no music to accompany the Tower of Babel’s arrival, just the roar of the crowd. Brandon Youngblood, dressed in standard fare; combat shorts, red wrestling shoes, black tank with the PRIME logo across it. No looks to the crowd. No pomp and circumstance. This is really happening. Why else would it be like this?

Nick Stuart: This whole situation…uncomfortable.

Richard Parker: Look, you can’t blame a man if you can’t pick himself up after suffering one of the most crushing collapses in the history of professional wrestling.

Nick Stuart: Nearly winning the Universal Title for a third–

Richard Parker: Nearly. Nearly! Yet Jonathan-Christopher Hall retained! It’s time we get our heads around big thoughts. Big iDeAs!

His pace lacks the swagger accustomed. Slower. A vacant expression. No walk up the steps, instead, a roll into the ring. Purpose. He’s already on the other side of the ring, directing Vince Howard to hand him a microphone. The longtime ring announcer complies.

No reason to linger on longer than necessary. Brandon brings the microphone to his lips.

Brandon Youngblood: So this is it.

A look at the crowd.

Brandon Youngblood: End of the road, right?

He purses his lips.

Brandon Youngblood: I was close. So goddamn close.

A look to the entrance.

Brandon Youngblood: I threw Hall around. Beat him down. Every which way. I battered him. I conquered him. Everything he has…everything he IS…right now…he should be done. Everything finished. His bullshit story. The bullshit…the HORSESHIT…joke that whatever him and Reed Young have…

A brush of his knuckles against his forehead.

Brandon Youngblood: Time doesn’t just beat everyone. It eats them. Swallows them. The sand. Tick tock. I’m not getting younger. I gave up over a decade of time in this ring, and what was left, I know…I know…I had to maximize. The Revolution Era…not a lot of us left. And not just that…

A heavy sigh.

Brandon Youngblood: …they aren’t the same. Hoyt Williams. Nova. Matt Ward. Tony Gamble. Wade Elliott. Look at Chandler Tsonda.

He stops. An exclusion. Something to note.

Brandon Youngblood: There’s others. Champions. Killers. Legends. But they aren’t the same. They aren’t what they were. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. Time…it eats us all. It chews us up. And you’re left wondering…looking in the mirror…every one of them has to look in the mirror and ask…is it worth it?

The boos are evident. Sour farewell.

Brandon Youngblood: How long do you trade on your name value until you feel the pressure to your pride?

A damning indictment of his contemporaries.

Brandon Youngblood: I make no excuses. I demand no sympathy. Beating me, no matter how you manage it…it cements people. Certifies them. Surviving the climb of the Tower puts gold in your direct path. Ivan. Cecilworth. Daytona. Jonathan-Christopher. Every one of them. It drives me crazy.

Shaking his head, he takes a moment before resetting himself in the center of the ring.

Brandon Youngblood: I don’t get to trade on being Universal Champion anymore. There’s others in front of me in the line. I’m in the back. I know that. And I know…I ain’t got much time left. Do I have enough time? Those four men…Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff…War Games…do I have enough time? Or am I just swimming against the current?

The boos are heavy now.

Brandon Youngblood: Am I just the face from the past? The turnstile to the top? And if I am…I don’t belong here. To be a parody. To rot away…

He sneers.

Brandon Youngblood: So when people spread around that I was saying goodbye…rather than dignifying it on my own terms, I’m here, tonight, ready to tell you…

Here it is. The moment some have wanted. Anna Daniels. Alexei Ruslan. They finally won.

Brandon Youngblood: The Diamond Era is over. And so is the Diamond. But Brandon Youngblood?

What is there left to say now that the bandaid is already off?

Brandon Youngblood: I didn’t respond because I don’t dignify bullshit with a response.

The expression turns to a focused smirk.

Brandon Youngblood: Time ain’t my problem. It’s a problem for anyone and everyone they put in front of me. From here out. Like it has been. Everything you got. And I’m so…goddamn…hungry. Now more than ever!

A stabbing finger to the entranceway.

Brandon Youngblood: And if you want a piece? Tick tock. Lisbon Portugal!

The fans are going wild!

Brandon Youngblood: My card is open for Turmoil. You want a fight? Come on down…because I ain’t going goddamn AN-!

Before Brandon can finish his sentence the lights in the arena cut out and in deep red letters the word “BEHEMOTH” is spelled out. The harmonica of “Gunning for You” begins to wail throughout the arena as the word begins to pulsate.

Nick Stuart: That’s… that’s…

Richard Parker: This big dumb son of a…

As the guitar kicks in the word BEHEMOTH explodes on the screen leaving the screen black and “BEHEMOTH” is now PRIME blue.

“None the Wiser” by Caned by Nod begins storming across the pa system.

“You know I’m older,

None the wiser,

I’ve been stripped and I’ve been tarred

No time to heal those scars,”

Clay Byrd steps out onto the ramp, jeans, t-shirt, black leather vest and black cowboy hat.

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd is here!

Richard Parker: … Bitch.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

The crowd in Madrid explodes. Clay stands there listening to the reaction smiling and looks around for a moment taking the arena in. The music can’t be heard, but Clay begins to make his way down the ramp.

“But I told you I was coming, And it took a lot of years,

So the best laid plans get tossed aside, from blood, sweat, pain, and tears

I showed you I was hungry, I took what I could get

Still hanging on by one damn thread it hasn’t killed me yet” 

Nick Stuart: He seems excited to be here, Richard.

Richard Parker: I wouldn’t be. He’s walking into the ring with Brandon Youngblood. He’s a psychopath.

Nick Stuart: The last time these two were in the ring, Clay Byrd was the benefactor of a victory over Youngblood!

Richard Parker: He’s going to kill him.

Clay slaps a few hands on the way as he gets down to the bottom of the ramp. Youngblood stares a hole through Clay, but Byrd just returns the glare as he walks to the steps and climbs up them. He wipes his boots before stepping through the bottom rope and maintaining eye contact with Youngblood.

Clay Byrd: Howdy Brandon!

Clay smiles and walks towards Brandon tipping his cowboy hat. Youngblood merely scowls back. God, that boy must REALLY hate cowboys.

Clay Byrd: Ya know, it’s been awhile lil feller.

Clay continues towards Youngblood, his smile begins to fade as he comes within a foot of Brandon. Youngblood continues to scowl at Byrd, but it slowly begins to morph into a snarl.

Clay Byrd: Brandon, I was sittin’ at home, watchin on the television all that horse shit that happened to ya in that match and couldn’t believe what I was seein’. It was horrific. I empathisize with ya big guy. I understand how ya were feelin’. Trust me.

Nick Stuart: I think he’s been there before.

Richard Parker: And despite my thoughts on him…yeah…Byrd ‘lost’ to someone at the wrestling skill level most ‘smarts’ think Jonathan-Christopher has. Or as they’d say…lacks.

Clay’s face turns a little more serious.

Clay Byrd: So a little birdie flew in my wind’er a few weeks back and told me that my favorite wrestler was thinkin’ ‘bout leavin’. And Brandon, I was absolutely heart broken. But part of me understood. It knew what ya were goin’ through. It’s tough eatin’ an L.

Clay smirks.

Clay Byrd: And that’s gettin’ reported by a lady ya think pretty highly of ol’ Brando. So, ya know.

Clay winks.

Clay Byrd: Where there’s smoke, there’s prolly a little fire. 

Clay steps directly into the wrestler formerly known as the Diamond’s face. He lears down over Youngblood, his nose almost pressing against Youngblood’s forehead.

Clay Byrd: So I was gonna come out here and beg ya ta stay Brandon, cause I think things are, well, ya know, a lil unfinished. But since yer stayin’ any…

Behemoth and Tower, eyes locked. Everyone knows what’s coming.

You know who knows it the best?

They do.

The two launch at each other. Youngblood’s forearm is cutting in its brutality. The fist of Byrd connects at the same time, so violent, the head movement. A should be decapitation. Yet the head of Youngblood is still attached. And with the blows starting to rain down, the sick, heavy strikes from each man, like crisp bats striking against slabs of butchered beef.

Head. Shoulders. It doesn’t matter. They are at each other, and as they are, the throng of Enemigos and Dam do their damndest to pull the pair away.

Better use better grips, boys,

Clay bulls over those who would try to restrain him like the monster he is, making another beeline toward Brandon, who is just getting free from his own tangle of Dam and Enemigos. If he could, he’s lariat the ever-loving shit out of the former Universal Champion right there and now. Too much foot traffic. Slows him down. The two violently collide heads, and in the scramble, Youngblood defaults to his amateur roots, taking Clay to the canvas with a double leg takedown. Ground and pound time.

Time to turn the Behemoth into hamburger.

Watch for those meaty fists.

The forehead smashing into the bridge of the nose.

The mad scramble of striking that follows with.

So it goes…until the Enemigos and Dam get both men to their feet. Blood pours from the nostrils of Clay Byrd. Brandon Youngblood has cuts below the left eye and his cheek is gushing.

And through it all, as the two men are restrained by even more arena security…they’re smiling. Shaking their heads at each other.

Nick Stuart: YOUNGBLOOD! BYRD! TURMOIL! TURMOIL! AFTER THEIR LAST FIGHT…OH HELL YES!

Richard Parker: OH MY DAMN HOYT!

Goodbye?

Fuck you.

It’s time to get ready to fucking go!

But sadly…we must go elsewhere.

And after that confusing and emotional moment with Brandon Youngblood, we go backstage to Rob Williams. You know, for a bit of levity, which he is famous for.

Here we find Rob taping his fists in preparation for his upcoming battle with the Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience. His attire is subtly evolved tonight. Below he has on his normal black jeans and cowboy boots, but he’s all business up top. A simple, white tie adorns a black blazer and black button-up shirt. His hair, normally a wild mane that could only be described as construction worker chic, is slicked back. Bobbing up and down, held loosely by his pursed lips, a cigarette burns idly.

A rather haggard (even more so than Rob)- looking man comes and motions to Rob. Without taking his eyes off his fists, Rob begins following the man through the halls.

Call it fate or serendipity, or that Rob has had members of Complete Abandon watching the entrance all day, but here is the doctor Lindsay Troy sent for Rob last week. A friendly-looking Spaniard of average height and weight, the doctor is trying to understand why he has suddenly been flanked by homeless people upon entering the building. Dr. Garcia was his name, but Rob had never bothered to remember it. Being terrible with names and, also, with people, Rob spent little of his social currency on such matters. He would remember things about people and give them little nicknames. To Rob, Dr. Garcia was Dr. White Teeth.

Caught off guard by the human barricade around him, the doctor tries to make sense of the situation. In Dr. Garcia’s hand is a small, manilla envelope filled with various files. Immediately upon seeing Rob, the Doc’s face changes from one of confusion to one of concern. He nervously flashes the pearly, white smile that led to Rob’s little nickname.

Rob Williams: The good Doctor White Teeth. How goes it?

You catch more doctors with honey than you do vinegar or whatever the fuck they say. At least, that’s what Rob has always said. Despite whatever may be happening in Rob’s psyche, he understands that this doctor has the power to 86 his livelihood. So Rob comes at him with the friendly angle, saccharine like old Donny Winters, every word dripping with synthetic affection.

Dr. Garcia: Mr. Williams! Good, I’m good, thanks.

Rob Williams: What’cha got there in your hand? It must be MIGHTY important for you to come here in person. We really had a good time the other day, so I’m sure it’s the all clear. You didn’t have to come all the way here yourself to deliver that.

Dr. Garcia: These were ordered by Ms. Troy, so I was going to…

Dr. Garcia trails off as Rob moves in closer, like a panther stalking its prey. The cigarette shoots sparks as it falls from Rob’s lips to the ground. A slight sizzle emits from under his boot twisting on top of the cherry to extinguish it. Rob puts a hand up on the wall, blocking the Doctor’s passage. Still holding onto the “aw, shucks” facade, Rob smiles softly at Doctor Garcia.

Rob Williams: Well shit, Doc. I thought we had a good report here. No need to call in the brass just yet. C’mon, let me take a little peek. We’re friends, right?

Instinctively, the Doctor tries to pull away, but he’s boxed in by hobos on either side and Rob in front.

Dr. Garcia: Uh (nervously tugging at his collar) muh-maybe we can all meet together? It may be best to have a group discussion here.

With a smooth motion, Rob wraps an arm around the neck of Dr. Garcia. You can’t quite call it a headlock, but it’s a bit more than just a casual arm around the shoulder.

Rob Williams: Sure, sure, that’s a great idea. But, I tell ya what, I don’t like going into a meeting with the big cheese flying blind. Let me just take a little look as, you know, friends.

Sensing that the milk and honey act is going nowhere, Rob grabs ahold of the file. He relents his grasp on Dr. Garcia’s neck and steps back, facing him now and holding the file up. Dr. Garcia tries to reach for the file but is quickly met with a not-so-tender embrace by Rob’s minions.

Rob Williams: You’re acting real suspect, Doc. What you got in here, friend? CTE? Brain damage? Let me guess, completely unhinged and mentally unstable? I certainly hope not. I just don’t think we could remain friends if you were to disparage my name in such a fashion, especially to my boss.

Dr. Garcia: No, Mr. Williams, it’s not any of those things. Please, I think this may be better if we discuss it in a different setting.

Peering at Dr. Garcia with a smirk, Rob opens the folder.

Rob Williams: Fuck you, different setting. You mean somewhere I won’t resize your asshole with my size thirteen cowboy boots when I read whatever dumb shit you wrote about me? Fat fucking chance. Besides, we’re friends, right? This will stay just between us girls.

The file is largely gobbledygook to Rob. One word does stand out. In fact, it fucking flies out and hits Rob right over the head like a burnt-out stunt double wielding a toilet lid:

TUMOR

Tinnitus sets in. The world is spinning.

Rob Williams: What the fuck is this?

His eyes do not come off the page. Rob reads it and reads it again, thinking there must be some type of misunderstanding, some short circuit in his mainframe. No matter how he moves the page, how close he gets, or how many times he starts over, it still says tumor. It describes this tumor in somewhat harrowing detail with words like “aggressive” and “potentially terminal.”

Rob Williams: No, this is fucking impossible. I feel fine. I beat fucking Hessian last week for Chrissake.

Dr. Garcia: I’m very sorry, Mr. Williams. Your MRI revealed a substantial growth in the frontal lobe. It appears…

The doctor goes on to describe what looks like Glioblastoma. He explains that this is caused by the growth of cells called astrocytes and typically occurs in older males. He talks about the mortality rate and all kinds of other things. Rob doesn’t hear a word of any of it. All Rob can hear, over and over, is the Father’s voice.

The Father: Burn. the. Ships.

Earth to Rob.

Dr. Garcia is looking at Rob with a deep interest. Rob uses social cues to read that the doctor is waiting for some type of response.

Rob Williams: What?

Dr. Garcia: Do you understand, Mr. Williams?

Rob Williams: Yeah, I understand. Do you understand, Doc?

Closing the file, Rob pushes it into Dr. Garcia’s chest with enough force to move him and the Complete Abandon members holding him at bay.

Dr. Garcia: I… I’m not following.

Rob Williams: Do you understand that if a word of this gets out I’ll murder you?

Dr. Garcia: But if you continue wrestling there’s a high chance..

Putting a hand to his chin as if contemplating what Dr. Garcia is saying, Rob nods his head up and down.

Rob Williams: Uh-huh, and if you don’t tell Lindsay Troy that I had a mild concussion, but everything looks good now, there’s a high chance I will burn your fucking house down while you and your family sleep in it. I saw the pictures of your little girls in your office. I hope they go to the dentist regularly cause that’s gonna be the only way to identify them if you fuck with my career.

Eyes wide, Dr. Garcia opens his mouth to speak but Rob cuts him off before he can get anything out.

Rob Williams: Go ahead, I know what you’re thinking, call the fucking police. These guys (nods his chin towards the men holding Dr. Garcia) are everywhere. We have a… network. There ain’t a place on Earth where we don’t exist.

With a wave of his hand, Rob signals to let the Doctor go and the Complete Abandon members oblige. Both hands wrapped around the file on his chest, Dr. Garcia cautiously slides past Rob.

Rob Williams: (calling out over his shoulder) Do the right thing, Doc.

We cut elsewhere.

We cut to ringside, where we see Vince Howard and referee Elvis Nixon standing by for our next match!

Vince Howard: The following match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first…

“A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space plays, getting the crowd in an uproar as Anna Daniels walks out onto the top of the rampway.

Vince Howard: Making her way to the ring from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey…weighing in at 135 pounds…ANNA DANIELS!

Nick Stuart: Anna looks determined here, a Muse on a mission if you will.

Richard Parker: That determination can be quite the fuel for her, Nick…but she may be driving herself into a brick wall named STRONK.

Daniels enters the ring, gearing up for the challenge ahead of her tonight.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

“PRIME Meat (Beast of the Deep)” plays over the sound system, riling up the crowd as Lowell steps out onto the stage first, quickly followed by his charge STRONK. Lowell hypes up his man even as the crowd boos the pair.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring from Somewhere in Minnesota…weighing in at a whopping 307.1 pounds, he is the STRONKest Man Alive…STRONK GODSON!

Lowell tells Godson to pay the crowd no mind as they head down the ramp, with STRONK’s eyes locked in on his opponent as he steps through the ropes.

Nick Stuart:

DING DING

At the behest of Lowell, the STRONK Daddy charges at Daniels looking for a clothesline…but the Muse manages to duck under to evade! STRONK looks genuinely confused by this, before Anna lays in a flurry of kicks to keep him at bay. She sends Godson to the corner for some more kicks, until STRONK shoves her away…giving him the opening for a big right hand, sending Daniels to the canvas!

STRONK approaches, laying in some more right hands on the grounded Muse before bringing her back to her feet. Lowell directs traffic from ringside, telling him to send Daniels to the corner for more damage…but Anna catches him with a boot when he comes running at her!

This gives her a chance to climb up to the most dangerous rope (the middle one) for a flying forearm that sends STRONK reeling back. He regains his composure before lunging at Daniels, who stops him in his tracks with a drop toe hold!

Nick Stuart: Anna managing to keep STRONK off his feet here in the early going!

Richard Parker: That’s exactly the gameplan you need to have against a guy like Godson, keep him grounded!

She starts stomping away at the Beast from the Deep, but he manages to get back to his feet quickly to shove her back. Daniels goes for a roundhouse kick to keep him down, but gets caught with a body slam from Godson for her troubles!

We can hear Lowell shouting at STRONK to crush the Muse’s head, but Daniels slips out of his grasp. This confuses STRONK Daddy once again, giving Anna another opening as she connects with a dropkick that sends him back to the corner. Daniels builds up speed as she rushes at the corner, hitting a double knee strike to Godson’s back that forces him down to the mat!

STRONK rises to his feet, but is caught by surprise with a missile dropkick from the Muse. Lowell is livid as Anna heads over for the cover! Elvis Nixon makes the count!

ONE!

NO!

STRONK kicks out with authority, sending Daniels rolling to the outside!

Nick Stuart: Look at the strength from Godson!

Richard Parker: Anna’s gonna need to rethink things here, and I’d say a breather on the outside is a good call!

Following the lead of Lowell, Godson steps out of the ring to continue the attack until a kick from the Muse takes him down to one knee, before running for a Shining Wizard…but she gets caught by STRONK instead! He shoves the Muse against the apron, the impact sending her back on the rebound…and right into a clothesline by Godson!

Lowell shouts at him to continue the beatdown, and STRONK obliges as he starts pummeling Daniels with some clubbing blows to the back before sending her back into the ring. He slides in close behind, laying in a couple stomps to make sure Anna is still down…until the Muse delivers a swift kick to the skull! STRONK is dazed as Daniels kips up, taking to the ropes for speed before dropping PRIME Meat with a big wheel kick!

Nick Stuart: Down goes Godson! Anna’s managing to keep Godson on his toes here!

Richard Parker: Well, off his toes at the moment, but…

Nick Stuart: You know what I mean!

Daniels has a smirk on her face as she continues kicking away, practically tenderizing PRIME Meat before running the ropes for a shotgun dropkick, the impact causing STRONK to roll back…but he lands on his feet, rising back to a standing position! He’s got quite the scowl on his face, but this only motivates the Muse who eggs him on. STRONK responds in kind, shoving the Muse to the canvas out of frustration…but this turns out to be a bad move as Daniels snaps back with a Capoeira kick, taking him back to a knee!

STRONK doesn’t stay down for long, however, his anger growing as he storms toward the Time Lord. Anna rolls out of the way of his grasp, but not out of range of a stomp! STRONK grabs her by the hair, raising her up for a hard headbutt…but doesn’t let go before nailing her with another one, dropping the Muse to the mat!

Nick Stuart: Big headbutt from STRONK lays Anna Daniels out!

Richard Parker: I’m tellin’ ya Nick, all that motivation meaning precisely squat against Godson!

STRONK continues the beatdown with some stomps, before mounting up on the Muse for some punches…and we soon notice the Poor Whoresmen coming out to the stage, each holding a chair that they set up on the stage to watch on.

Nick Stuart: What are these guys doing out here!?

Richard Parker: These boys are out here watching their boy, I’m not sure I see the problem Nick.

Nick Stuart: …

There’s something about the camaraderie of his pals watching that really sparks the motivation of Godson, as he brings the Muse back to her feet for a sleeper hold…but Anna slips out before the Loop Hold can take effect! Daniels fires up with a flurry of kicks before she hits the ropes…but comes up against a brick wall as STRONK takes her down with a running shoulder block!

Godson lifts her back up, looking over at the Whoresmen as he connects with a backdrop driver…not just once, but twice to keep Anna from mounting any further offense. His buds start cheering STRONK on from the stage as STRONK lays in a few more boots for good measure. He lifts Daniels up once again, this time looking for a vertical drop brainbuster…but the Muse escapes and rocks him with a rolling elbow!

Nick Stuart: Godson looks rattled!

Anna hits a second rolling elbow, sending STRONK to the corner…before charging at him with a knee to the midsection! This leaves PRIME meat sitting on the middle turnbuckle, filling Daniels with confidence as she mounts up for a series of punches as the crowd counts along with Nixon!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

SIX!

SEV–NO!

STRONK has had enough, lifting the Muse onto his shoulders for a massive powerbomb to the middle of the ring! This gets a reaction from the crowd, but perhaps a bigger one from the Whoresmen watching on as STRONK goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–NO!

Nick Stuart: Daniels narrowly manages to kick out!

Richard Parker: It’s like the Multitudes are driving her to fight on, Nick! This is amazing, but how long will it last?

Anna slowly rolls to the outside, managing to escape Godson’s grasp, finding herself at the feet of Lowell who starts shouting at her. Lowell turns his attention to Nixon, shouting at the ref to check on his man STRONK…which turns out to be a ruse, allowing him to lay in a kick of his own on the Muse! He lays in a couple stomps for good measure, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Nixon!

The ref starts shouting back at Lowell, eventually ejecting him from ringside to the delight of the crowd…and the absolute confusion of Godson, who starts demanding the ref rescind his decision. This ends up bringing out security, ready and eager to escort Lowell away from ringside…moving past a now-empty set of chairs on the stage.

Nick Stuart: Now wait a second, where’d the Poor Whoresmen go?

Richard Parker: I would assume they went to the back to console Mr. Dotcom. He’s been through a lot tonight, you know!

STRONK looks distraught as his manager gets sent to the back…which leaves him open to a rollup by Daniels! The crowd pops for the surprise move from the Muse as Nixon makes the count!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Godson kicks out, rolling back to his feet…and now he looks furious. He charges at the Muse, pounding away with clubbing blows now as he wears Anna down for a vertical drop brainbuster. STRONK isn’t quite finished however, bringing Daniels back to her feet just long enough to connect with another backdrop driver that sends the Time Lord crashing onto the canvas…and then he drops down for a headbutt!

And another!

And a THIRD headbutt!

STRONK is on a frenzy, ready to do as much damage as possible as he goes for a fourth headbutt…but Anna rolls away, forcing PRIME Meat to crash to the mat instead! Daniels is slow to her feet, but still manages to find her way to a vertical base as she makes a beeline for Godson…connecting with a punt to the skull!

Nick Stuart: STRONK takes a nasty kick to the head from the Muse!

Richard Parker: This ain’t what Dean Martin was singing about, that’s for sure…but STRONK doesn’t go down easy, look!

Godson rises back to his feet, breathing heavy from the damage inflicted but he’s still in this match…even as Daniels targets the leg with a series of kicks. Anna hits a couple front kicks, before faking him out for a roundhouse kick! INTERROBANG! The impact sends Godson reeling to the ropes and looking worse for wear…until Fred Dick comes in through the crowd!

Nick Stuart: There’s one of the Whoresmen now! He’s been hiding in the crowd this whole time!?

Richard Parker: Makes no sense to me, Nick…talent don’t have to pay for a ticket!

Nick pays no mind to the remark as Fred hops onto the apron. Nixon is quick to intervene, telling the King of Wrong Style he has no business being in this ring…which gives Harley a chance to slide into the ring with a chair! The Lightning Boy never gets a chance to use it though, as Daniels catches him with an axe kick as he gets to his feet! Fred drops from the apron as Daniels rolls Walker out of the ring…but by now, Godson has gotten off the ropes, and he hoists Anna onto his shoulders for an Argentine backbreaker rack!

STRONK seems to be showing off for his friends, who show their approval before he drops to the mat in a kneeling position, wrenching the Muse’s back from the impact as she drops to the canvas in a heap!

Nick Stuart: Squat Rack Breaker sends Daniels down hard!

Richard Parker: This is bad news for the Muse, Nick!

Fred runs around the outside, helping Harley to his feet before giving STRONK a thumbs up. This puts a smile on the face of Godson, who gives a thumbs up back before turning his attention back to Daniels…who manages to hit another Capoeira kick on PRIME Meat, forcing him to take a couple steps back but is not taken down this time!

Nick Stuart: No way! After all that, Anna’s still got some fight left in her!

Richard Parker: This may be the turning point!

Dick looks especially surprised by this turn of events, directing Walker to rush into the ring and intervene. Nixon cuts him off, telling the Lightning Boy to get out of the ring…but the ref does NOT have eyes in the back of his head, preventing him from seeing Fred slide in from the opposite side, chair in hand as he takes a swing at the Muse!

CUH-RACK!

The chair connects squarely in the back of Daniels, dropping her to the mat as the Street Cat rolls out of the ring to avoid Nixon’s detection. STRONK looks confused by what’s just transpired, staring at Dick as if trying to make sense of what he just did…until Fred gives him another thumbs up with a twisted smile on his face, assuring his pal that everything’s just fine.

The crowd boos as Godson gives a thumbs up back to his fellow Whoresman before going after Anna once more, lifting the Muse to her feet just long enough to lock in a choke sleeper!

Nick Stuart: And there it is, the Loop Hold! Is there any chance Anna can fight out of this!?

STRONK cinches the hold in tight, forcing the Muse to quickly tap rather than suffer the effects for long! Nixon calls for the bell!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…STRONK GODSON!

Keeping the chair on the floor, Fred slides into the ring as does Harley, both men helping Nixon raise the arms of PRIME Meat in victory as Anna rolls out of the ring to recover.

Nick Stuart: Daniels taking the fight to STRONK throughout here, but it seems that Godson was able to get by with a little help from his friends!

Richard Parker: I mean, these Whoresmen ride together Nick, and sometimes that road has a lot of bumps. I do agree that the Muse really took it to Godson tonight, but STRONK comes out of here with the victory!

We cut to commercial.

As we come back from that… terrifying commercial, cameras are following Coral Avalon as he walks through the hallways of the Wizink Arena. He’s not dressed for action, and is instead wearing the nice blue waistcoat he’d been rocking ever since he earned his opportunity at the Universal Championship.

As he walks, he exchanges nods and pleasantries with passersby… production assistants and the like.

He stops, however, when he catches sight of something rare: Jonathan-Christopher Hall, the Universal Champion… without the company of Reed Young, Vickie Hall, or anyone else. Jonathan-Christopher merely stands there, leaned up against the side of a pillar, titleless and stone faced. Gone is the typical nervous, shy, albeit unsure of himself demeanor he typically sports. Then again, his Amazing Life Partner is nowhere near him, either. But the championship title? Well, Reed Young probably has it strapped around his body. Needless to say, anyway…

Hall has his eyes locked on Coral.

Cautiously, Avalon slows his walk until he stops entirely.

Coral Avalon: Hey. Rare to see you by yourself.

Avalon peers around the area like he’s scanning for threats before his eyes focus back on the champion.

Coral Avalon: So, how’s it going? I hope you’re having something like a good one. Not sure about you sometimes, I’ll be honest. Some days, you’re like right now where you’re just… I don’t know, out for lunch in the braincase so to speak. And other days, you start screaming about narcissists and storming out of the room. Sometimes those’re different moments in the same day, I guess.

He’s met with silence.

Coral Avalon: So, what part of the day are we on?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall slowly closes his eyes. He starts mouthing a countdown back from ten before he opens them and calmly lifts a hand from his waist. It looks like he’s going to place it on Avalon’s shoulder but seemingly has second thoughts and lowers it again.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I came to talk to you, man-to-man and nothing more. No need for additional distractions.

The Universal Champion seems genuine in his approach, as he looks around backstage. It’s rather quiet. There also are no hidden corners or doors, Avalon and Hall converse in a wide open space.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I want you to know how you treated my father was very… unprofessional.

JCH lowers his head.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: After everything he’s done for you.

Hall raises his eyes once more to meet Avalon’s. Jonathan-Christopher’s face is red and his eyes are bloodshot but he conveys an easiness about him.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: He told me everything. You walked away from him. You took him for granted.

Hall chuckles, just a little.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You’re doing the same thing with your current teammates, aren’t you? Taking them for granted, showing disrespect.

Avalon tilts his head, more confused than anything.

Coral Avalon: You mean the eGG Bandits? The “teammates” that press-ganged me into their club? Pretty sure the disrespect there goes the other way, too, if that’s what you’re seeing.

Hall ignores him.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: This whole place is a cesspool of narcissists. I guess that’s what wrestling is, though.

Hall takes another pause between sentences. This time, his right hand drifts upwards and lands on Avalon’s shoulder.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: With all of this said I can’t help but…

There’s a long, drawn out pause.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Like you.

Jonathan-Christopher once again looks to his left, then looks to his right. There isn’t a soul around, not anymore.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I think we’re born of the same cloth. You might take your team for granted but you’re also stuck behind them. They are much louder voices than you, aren’t they? It’s hard to find your footing.

Hall breathes slowly. He laughs again.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It was hard to find my footing. My Amazing Life Partner, she loved me, she loved me dearly but it was always her story I was trying to finish. Now my dad says I have to finish my own.

JCH nods to his own words.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: So do you. Finish the story, that’s all we’re trying to do, right? Finish our own stories when only one can be completed at a time.

Hall removes his hand from Avalon’s shoulder.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I guess this is why you left my father. I suppose this is the reason you won’t step away and allow my friend, Ivan Stanislav, the title shot. Most importantly, I assume we are going to war in two weeks and one of us is going to leave the other completely shattered as a result.

Jonathan-Christopher starts to drift away from Avalon, trailing down the hall, head low and shoulders sunk, while he mumbles out one last line.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Maybe you aren’t so bad, after all.

Coral sighs as he watches Hall leave.

Coral Avalon: Hey.

He follows after Hall.

Coral Avalon: Are you familiar with why I chose the name “the Crownless King”?

Hall stops, and like a marionette being pulled along by strings, he mechanically turns back towards Avalon. If he notes any familiarity with the etymology of Coral’s epithet, he doesn’t show it on his face.

Coral Avalon: When I say that “I need no crown to be king”, it’s my ethos. My creed. When I built my kingdom ten years ago, the message was never “boo hoo, I’ve never been the guy”. It’s because I think I’m better. Better than the belts we’re all fighting for, better than anyone I get in the ring with. In other words… Yeah, you’re right, I am a narcissist.

Hall finally completed his turn, staring like a dead fish back at Coral.

Coral Avalon: Over the last decade, I’ve brought my ethos across six continents and countless nations. I’ve won more meaningless baubles than I care to list off in promotions that shone and fizzled out like shooting stars. To those people? I’m the Grim freakin’ Reaper. I am the catastrophe that leaves the wakes of vultures behind.

Coral pauses, and then sighs.

Coral Avalon: But now I’m getting older, Jonathan-Christopher. My joints creak a lot more when I get out of bed now than they did when I worked for Reed Young. There’s stuff I can’t do as well now as I did even five years ago. Cryogenics can’t fix all of the wear, I think. Take it from me, I suppose. I’ve given a lot to professional wrestling. I’ve fought for it, bled for it…

He wordlessly rolls up the left sleeve of his suit, revealing a litany of very old scars along the arm that are usually covered up by the single long sleeve in his wrestling gear. The scars of a very old battle that one other member of PRIME’s roster knows all too well.

Coral Avalon: …even died for it.

He keeps his arm held up.

Coral Avalon: And while I appreciate that Reed gave me my start, I can’t just sit around and wait. My time’s almost up. So, before I let the hourglass run out of sand, I want to test myself against the best wrestler in the world.

Slowly, he lowers his arm, and he makes eye contact with Hall. What he says next might sound surprising given the constant shenanigans that surround Hall, but…

Coral Avalon: And right now, that’s you.

He lets that line linger in the air for a moment.

Coral Avalon: So bring me everything you’ve got, Jonathan-Christopher. Bring Reed, bring Vickie if she’s still around, bring every trick and thing you’ve learned over the last two years. I am coming to Lisbon to prove that I am better than the belt Reed’s holding on for you.

With that, Coral’s the one who turns around to walk away.

Coral Avalon: Prove me wrong.

…Leaving Jonathan-Christopher Hall simply standing there, seeing him go.

While Reed Young suddenly appears in the far, far distance, peeking his head out of a corner, rubbing his hands together menacingly.

We cut elsewhere.

Rob Williams: There he is! How have you been, Dr. Garcia?

Flanked on either side by two Complete Abandon thugs, Rob Williams enters Lindsay Troy’s office to find Dr. Garcia sitting across from The Boss. The Doctor visibly squirms in his seat as Rob takes a seat next to him, which may be from Rob’s presence or possibly from the smell coming off the ruffians standing behind him. In his hands, Dr. Garcia holds what we can only presume is the same manilla folder from earlier in the night. Does it hold the same files as before?

Dr. Garcia: Good evening, Mr. Williams.

Rob Williams: Well, let’s get on with it, then. What’s the verdict?

The Queen raises an eyebrow at the Legend’s brusque greeting.

Lindsay Troy: Nice to see von Kelsig didn’t beat your manners out of you.

Rob Williams: My apologies. (grinning) Just got a match to get to, is all.

Lindsay Troy: (deadpan) Uh huh.

With a snort, Rob takes a look around. It’s amazing how Lindsay Troy manages to have such an accommodating office at every PRIME show. Next to him, Dr. Garcia fidgets.

Dr. Garcia: Right. Well, I wanted to take the opportunity for all of us to sit down together to discuss Rob’s test results, as well as his future with PRIME. We ran Mr. Williams through a litany of blood tests, imaging, and various cognitive tests as well.

You could hear a mouse fart, the room is so quiet. Rob waits on the edge of his seat. How would Troy react if Rob broke this guy’s neck right here, in her accommodating office? Can you imagine the cleaning fee for all the blood Dr. Garcia might shed on Ms. Troy’s beautiful leather chairs from a few stiff elbows from The Legend? It’s not easy to get blood out of leather.

Dr. Garcia: And I’m happy to report that Mr. Williams is fully cleared. There were signs of recovery from a minor concussion, likely incurred from the blow he sustained.

Rob Williams: Well shit, that’s great news, doc.

Lindsay Troy: And Astrid’s had a chance to review your findings? She performed the initial exam two weeks ago in Barcelona.

On the outside Rob is cool like a cucumber, inside he’s an ant under some cruel child’s magnifying glass. Fuck. He didn’t even remember Astrid or being checked out in Barcelona. Alarm bells ringing, he has to deflect somehow. Think, Rob!

Rob Williams: Is it pronounced Barcelona or BarTHelona? The whole (exaggerated lips) thhhh thing is new.

What the fuck was that?

Dr. Garcia: I’ve not had the opportunity to connect with anyone else on the matter. As Mr. Williams is scheduled to perform tonight, I wanted to get this to you both immediately. If you’d like to give me Astrid’s information, I’ll happily reach out.

Rob Williams: Great! Well, I feel better. How about you, boss, do you feel better?

Lindsay scrutinizes Rob while holding her hand out for the envelope.

Lindsay Troy: I’ll bring it to her. We’re already going outside protocol, which I don’t like; however,  Astrid recommended you, Dr. Garcia, and I trust her judgment.

The doctor, sensing that the Queen is not one to be kept waiting, nor is she willing to tolerate any bullshit, hands her the documents.

Lindsay Troy: Thanks. You can go now.

Dr. Garcia quickly stands up, excuses himself, and takes his leave. Rob gets to his feet as well, grinning from ear to ear thinking he has skated through this unscathed.

Lindsay Troy: I didn’t say you could go.

There it is. Rob stands up straight, running his hands through his hair to push it back, and turns back around. He’s always been more intimidated by women like this. If a guy steps out of line, you punch him. A woman like this doesn’t step out of line, she is the fucking line.

Rob Williams: Ma’am?

Lindsay Troy: I’m sure whatever’s in this folder says you’re good to go tonight, and I’ve fought enough battles with von Kelsig to know what you were getting yourself into two weeks ago, but let me make something crystal clear to you. Anna Daniels and I may butt heads on pretty much everything, but her coming to me out of concern for your health and safety is not something to be taken lightly. Do you understand?

For a brief moment, Rob thinks about getting honest. It’s getting heavier and heavier to carry his bag of bullshit around. What’s the worst that could happen? Lindsay Troy seems like the type that would want to help. Help him get well, whatever the fuck that looks like. And Anna would obviously be by his side. There’s bravery in standing up and facing these type of things and that is the type of man that he has always wanted to be.

Rob Williams: Heard.

Apparently he will carry that bag of bullshit for a bit longer. With a nod, Rob leaves the office, knowing that at some point he will have to pay the piper. Not today, though. Not today.

We cut elsewhere.

The feed goes backstage, finding a crusty, shirtless individual with a wiry frame, black beard and bozo-cut combo, a shitload of tattoos, and two impeccably reddened eyes glaring daggers into the camera.

Rezin: ARRIGHT, YA SCUM, LISTEN UP! Number Twenny-Seven, comin’ at ya…

Somebody with a brain working the production truck evidently remembers that 70% of PRIME’s current audience weren’t watching a year ago, and gratefully punches up a chyron that identifies the speaker as “REZIN”, with “Former Universal Champion” written in fine print beneath.

No, that’s not a typo. But some days, I wish it was.

Rezin: And HERE I AM! The badass muthafugger who farted so your Whorsemen could shid! In sunny Spain, of all places! A country known for slaughtering bulls in front of cheering crowds and calling it a part of their “culture”, as well as being just shy of fifty years removed from a fascist regime! On that note, pretty sure the only thing HIGHER than myself around here is ol’ Carrero Blanco’s DODGE!

OOOHHH BAZINGA!!

…wait, you don’t get that reference?

It’s cause, you know, when he was assassinated in ‘73 by bombing, his car ended up on–ah, you know what? Fuck it. I got better shit to do than explain this to you. Go read a book on the history of Spain, or something.

Rezin: Ya might be thinkin’, what could possibly compel this ol’ DOPESMOKER to strap his damb self to the bottom of the flying deathtrap that is the Boeing Seben-Turdy-Seben and make the trip over the Atlantic to be here this evening?

He leans in and dubiously pops an eyebrow.

Rezin: Well, would ya believe me if I told ya I’m here to do a callback to a classic PRIME seg literally NOBUDDY REMEMBERS?! (myself included…)

The broad, unstable grin of a maniac who should be condemned and taken off the streets spreads across his face from ear to ear.

Rezin: Does a crustpunk SHIT IN THE STREET?!

Probably, but nobody is going out of their way to confirm that. In any case, a blackened, tar-covered finger points itself into the air.

Rezin: HIT IT, PAUL!!

Production Assistant: [offscreen] My name is Jerry.

The twenty-seventh Universal Champion double-takes so hard, it’s a wonder he doesn’t give himself whiplash. He casts the production assistant an annoyed stare, then groans.

Rezin: …bruh, just roll the tape.

We slowly and dramatically fade to black…

L’Affrontement Part Deux

un film de

REZIN

The scene opens on the interior of Lindsay Troy’s office, complete with a big steel door and the Milo Flynn Cup, which is full of pickles.

Lindsay Troy: Get in here now.

FLAMBERGE and Nate Colton fall out of the sky.

Lindsay Troy: What the shit, you two.

FLAMBERGE is the first to his feet. He is mad (yes, again) and French (yes, again.) He grabs a microphone and speaks.

FLAMBERGE: Je suis still le mad!

Lindsay Troy: Why do you have a microphone?

FLAMBERGE: Phil gave it to me for being the handsomest and best.

Lindsay Troy: Give it to Wade right now, he is the handsomest and best. Nate, stop pooping in my potted plant.

Nate Colton: I wasn’t!

He wasn’t, but he was sniffing around the area.

Lindsay Troy: Why are you fighting? You know fighting is not allowed on my fighting show.

FLAMBERGE: I am fighting because I want to fight him!

Lindsay Troy: This sounds reasonable. You should fight him.

FLAMBERGE punches Nate Colton in the nose.

Nate Colton: Ow!

Lindsay Troy: I meant in a wrestling match, you dingus.

FLAMBO looks down in shame, for heavy is the head that wears the dingus crown.

Nate Colton: I am fighting because I don’t want to fight him!

Lindsay Troy: This also sounds reasonable. You should stop fighting him.

Colton does not punch FLAMBERGE in the nose. The Bearded Dragon seems strangely upset by this.

FLAMBERGE: FIGHT MEEEEeeEEEeeEEEEEE!

Lindsay Troy: Why don’t you want to fight him?

Nate Colton: Because he is a big mean dumb mean jerky jerk face.

FLAMBERGE: Am not!

Nate Colton: Are too!

FLAMBERGE: Nuh uh!

Nate Colton: Yes huh!

Lindsay Troy: Woe is me, and my humble wrestling company. Is there none willing to be the voice of reason and resolve this impasse?

A chorus of angels fills the air as Rezin descends from the heavens, floating down thanks to one of those brooms that chimney sweeps use. He is wearing a monocle, and while it’s not where you think, it is where you fear.

Rezin: Queen Regent Madame Troy, my oldest of friends! I understand that you are in need of my services once more.

Lindsay Troy: Rezin! We’re saved!

FLAMBO/Colton: Huzzah!

At last, something they agree on.

Rezin: What seems to be the problem?

Lindsay Troy: The boys are fighting because one of them wants to fight and the other one doesn’t. I want them to stop fighting so they can fight.

Rezin: Hmm. Quite the pickle.

He grabs a pickle from the Flynn Cup and bites into it with a good solid cronch. Then he turns to FLAMBERGE.

Rezin: You’ve been French again, haven’t you. Stop that this instant.

FLAMBERGE: Unë nuk bëj asnjë premtim.

Rezin: Stop fighting Nathan so that you can fight Nathan.

FLAMBERGE: Shume mire.

The great negotiator nods in satisfaction before turning to Colton and pointing an accusatory pickle in his face.

Rezin: As for you, Nathan. Once more you have brought disgrace upon our great state of Indiana. I’m of half a mind to call Larry Bird himself and tell him about your behavior.

Nate Colton: I don’t care!

The remark of defiance shocks Rezin so badly that the monocle nearly falls out of his…you know what, we’re not going to talk about it.

Rezin: Stop fighting FLAMBERGE and then agree to fight him and then fight him.

Nate Colton: No! I want to fight him and then not fight him!

Rezin: You must see how preposterous your position is, Nathan. If you fight him, you are already fighting. And if you don’t want to fight, then you should stop fighting him.

Nate Colton: …

Oh dear. It seems the young man’s mind has been broken, either by the explanation of his logical fallacy, or the number of syllables in “preposterous.”

Rezin: I see. You have left me no choice. If you do not agree to Ms. Troy’s terms, then I shall tell your master that you pooped in the hallway.

Colton’s expression quickly shifts from confusion to terror.

Nate Colton: No! Please don’t tell Big Bastard Dad! Then he won’t give me a sticker and I only need three more for a Lego set!

Rezin: I understand that the consequences are severe, but needs must as the devil drives. Do you agree?

Colton nods.

Nate Colton: Okay. I will stop fighting FLAMBERGE and then fight FLAMBERGE.

Lindsay Troy: You’ve saved the day again, Rezin. How can I ever repay you?

Rezin: The satisfaction of a job well done is all the payment I require. Until we meet again!

The chorus of angels plays in reverse, and Rezin floats away. The others stare lovingly as he goes.

Lindsay Troy: I’m glad that you two have agreed to stop fighting so you can fight.

FLAMBERGE: I will win that fight!

Nate Colton: No, I will win that fight! And I’ll fight you right now to prove it!

Lindsay Troy: No more fighting until it’s time for fighting. Now you two kiss and make up.

FLAMBERGE: Very well! I will win at this too!

Nate Colton: You can’t win at kissing!

FLAMBERGE: Maybe you cannot. But I am best at the kissing!

Nate Colton: Oh yeah? Prove it!

FLAMBERGE and Colton rush towards each other, their lips colliding in a display of unbridled passion.

Lindsay Troy: I said make up, not make out!

But it is too late. Their desire can no longer be contained, and the picture fades just as one of them rubs the other’s chest. It’s just as well; if this were allowed to continue the sheer horn would overwhelm everyone in PRIME and Tropical Turmoil would suddenly become a very different kind of PPV event.

fin

The feed returns to Rezin, looking like the image of pride with his arms folding across his chest while wearing a confident smirk.

Rezin: So, whaddya think? Am I the next Werner Herzog in the makin’, or WHAT?!

Perhaps sensing that you, dear viewer, are an uncultured swine who has no frame of reference for the legendary German-born filmmaker or his masterfully crafted works in independent cinema, the Escape Artist’s smile melts into an astonished glare.

Rezin: …TELL ME you fuggers watched Fitzcarraldo while I was gone! I mean, GODDAMB!! What was the point of sacrificin’ the Five Star Strap by introducin’ this company to the glory of Twin Peaks if AIN’T A DAMB ONE OF YA GONNA BRUSH UP ON YOUR HERZOG!?! Do I gotta do ERRYTHING around here?!

Astonishment gives way to aggravation. Now his arms are flailing and his legs are pumping. If there was a techno soundtrack playing in the background, he’d appear to be dancing in time to it.

Rezin: I TELL YA, THIS IS AS BAD AS THAT BIG ASS CROSS THEY BUILT IN THE VALLEY OF THE FALLEN! THOUSANDS OF INDENTURED LABORERS DIED IN THOSE CATACOMBS, SO THAT YOU

He trails off, slowly becoming aware that he’s not alone. The camera gradually zooms out…

FLAMBO to his left.

Colton to his right.

Neither look pleased.

The Goat Bastard’s rage quickly subsides. He straightens up and clears his throat.

Rezin: Um… gentlemen?

He suddenly pulls something from his pocket and throws it to the floor.

Rezin: POCKET SAND!!

A handful of sand hits the floor fecklessly. The Escape Artist stares at it for a brief moment, completely dumbfounded…

Rezin: …ah, fuck it.

…before he lives up to his namesake and disappears from the scene in a black, crooked blur.

For half a second, it seems like the two “subjects” of Rezin’s latest masterpiece might give chase…before remembering that even with all of whatever that was, they still hate each other a whole lot more.

Nate Colton: Gotta say, the quality of his props has gone way up. That figure looked just like you–stupid haircut and everything.

FLAMBERGE: For the record, I will never, ever, ever, ever…

With each “ever”, FLAMBERGE’s face inches closer and closer to Colton’s.

FLAMBERGE: …ever, ever…EEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…

He’s in kissing distance!

FLAMBERGE: …stop fighting you.

FLAMBERGE slaps Colton in the face – forgetting Colton has a steel jaw and probably saw something like this coming.

The New Diamond turns his face with the slap. When he turns back, his mouth is in a half-smirk, half-sneer.

Nate Colton: Fine by me, you snail-lickin’ son of a bitch.

He fires a stinging slap of his own, knowing full well that FLAMBERGE is more than tough enough to take it.

The Lizard King turns his face with the slap. His jaw sets, his eyelids seem to be stuck on “as wide open as possible”, and human emotion has left his face. It is unlikely FLAMBERGE will blink again this evening. He launches himself at Colton and starts throwing fists and knees and elbows and feet wherever he can.

Colton is driven down the hallway for a moment before returning fire, eschewing his usual calculated grappling for wild swings and raw damage. Soon the two men form a tornado of violence; if this were a cartoon, they’d be surrounded by a cloud of dust that revealed only occasional glimpses of fists and feet and tongues (wait, not that last one.)

This is probably going to take a while. While the rest of us wait for security, let’s send the viewing audience to ringside.

ReVival 50 cuts away from Flambo and Nate, and picks back up ringside with PRIME’s HoF announce team.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have Rose taking on Tony Gamble in singles action.

Richard Parker: Otherwise known as the “somebody’s gotta win” match.

Nick Stuart: That’s not a very nice thing to say, Richard. Sure, these two have struggled, but they belong in PRiME as much as anyone else does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music then fades.

“You think I’m funny? Funny how?”

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

“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd when they see the pair wearing blue with red striped jerseys.

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

Johnnie Newsman: HOOOE LAAA MAAAD RIIIDDD!! THEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IS HEERE!!!!

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

Tony turns around and stretches his arms out wide so the name MESSI can be seen across the back, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

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

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

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

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

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

Johnnie Newsman: THEE ONLY THING REAL IN MADRID!

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

Johnnie Newsman: READY TO LEAVE THEE RING MESSI!

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

Gamble slithers under the bottom rope without too much trouble, says a few discouraging things in Rose’s direction, and then does his best to ignore Jimmy Turnbull while he’s going over the rules of engagement.

Richard Parker: Plausible deniability. Guy is as smart as he is short.

Nick Stuart: So he’s a genius?

Richard Parker: Let’s call him more of a savant if anything. He does have Johnnie Newsman convinced.

DING DING!

The newly dubbed savant wastes no time and charges at Rose. However, she ducks underneath the erratic clothesline attempt — which is really saying something if you think about it — and delivers a crisp standing dropkick that easily knocks her opponent off of his feet. She quickly springs up, and is ready to pounce. Tony, doing his best to no-sell by hurrying to his feet as well, is met with a stiff European uppercut that sends him crashing back down to the canvas!

Nick Stuart: That landed flush! She might have knocked a tooth out!

Richard Parker: Do you think she knows how bad of a nickname The Second Coming is? Like, I guess we’re all supposed to just sit here suffering until someone calls her Bukkake and that can be the end of it?

Nick Stuart: No comment.

The Second Coming reaches down and helps Tony up by his waist. Usually, Tony would throw his leg back here, because ole’ Jimmy Turnbull is out of position, and someone’s testicles would get low blown. Sadly, maybe due to the uppercut, it must have slipped Tony’s mind that The Second Coming lacks the hardware for such a move to be effective. The look on his face after realizing such is one of shock. It doesn’t last long though, seeing as Tony goes violently back down to the canvas via a stylish spinning drop toe hold.

Nick Stuart: It’s been all Rose so far, Rich. She’s come out of the gates hot and is taking it to the smaller Gamble! This one could be over before it even has a chance to get started.

Richard Parker: Even the women are taller than Gamble! It’s amazing!

Rose plays a bit to the crowd before refocusing her attention on The Grin. She builds some momentum and attempts a springboard moonsault.

Richard Parker: Jinxed her.

Tony gets his knees up, and Rose lands on them. Hard. The Grin might be small, but those shins of his have been hardened by the very worst of Osgood-Schlatter’s disease. It’s in his book.

My Five-Foot Life.

Rose rolls off of Tony, writhing in pain. Tony dusts off his trusty shins like the whole thing is going according to plan. He gets up to his feet, clears the cobwebs, and lays a stiff boot or two to Rose’s lower back. He then grabs her legs, and locks in a Boston Crab.

Richard Parker: I bet he’s been waiting a while to use that move.

Senior PRIME official Jimmy Turnbull asks Rose if she wants to give up, but after a dozen or so agonizing seconds she’s able to wiggle her way to one of the lower ring ropes. Tony, being Tony, waits until Turnbull gets to the count of four before releasing the hold. He then postures about the ring like he is six feet tall, and doesn’t need telephone books to pee at a urinal.

Nick Stuart: Momentum starting to shift.

Rose gets to her feet while Tony is hamming it up. She sneaks up behind The Grin, but Tony has more than one trick up his sleeve. This time, as she’s winding up to lay him out, he quickly turns and jams his thumb into her eye. The Second Coming reels back in agony, grabbing at her face as if Tony had plucked something from it.

Nick Stuart: That’s not going to feel good tomorrow.

Richard Parker: Forget tomorrow, that doesn’t feel good right now.

Gamble turns to the referee, and shrugs his shoulders like it was an accident. He then walks over and says to Richard Parker, “She’s got two of those though; don’t she Dicky-boy! HA!” Turnbull admonishes Gamble, and you can actually see his words going in Tony’s one ear and out his other.

Nick Stuart: Did he call you Dicky-boy?

Richard Parker: I bet that fuck Jiles told him to say it.

Nick Stuart: Of course he did.

Richard Parker: I HATE HIM!

Two Books realizes Rose isn’t hitting on him by winking at him, and then ushers her into the corner. After a few knees to the midsection, a few stomps on the toes, a couple clubbing blows to the back of the neck, and one, open faced Turkey Sandwich of slap across the face, Tony boosts Rose up and sits her on the top turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: What’s he thinking here?

Richard Parker: He’s not. He’s an eGG Bandit, remember? They don’t know what that is.

Gamble slowly gets up on the second rope, awkwardly jostles his way into position, and is fixing to superplex Rose through the mat. He tries to hoist her up, but she blocks. He tries again, but she blocks again. Tony releases the hold, and goes to jab her in the eye once more. The Second Coming sees it coming the second time around, and stops her cornea from getting destroyed.

Richard Parker: Something, something, well.

Rose pushes Gamble back, freeing herself from his grasp. He lands on his feet, and stumbles a couple of steps backwards. Undeterred, Gamble rushes back in not wanting to waste a golden opportunity. Rose jumps over him, rolling forward when she lands. Gamble turns on a dime, and lunges at her.

Nick Stuart: Ouch.

Richard Parker: That’s a knee to the face.

Nick Stuart: She calls it Thorn Prick.

Richard Parker: Of course she does.

Tony slumps to the ground. Rose quickly covers him, hooking the leg and all.

1.

2.

KICKOUT!

It’s more of a convulsion out to be honest. Still, it counts just the same. Rose waits a second or two for Gamble to stir, or convulse his way to his knees, and when he does, she springboard backflip cutters the shit out of him.

Nick Stuart: And she calls that one Rose to Rose!

The Second Coming doesn’t waste a moment and locks Tony down tightly for the pin.

1.

2.

3!

Vinny Howard does what he does best, and Jimmy Turnbull raises Rose’s hand high in victory.

Nick Stuart: Nice win for Rose tonight on the 50th episode of ReVival. Who knows? Maybe it is her launching pad to bigger and better things?

Richard Parker: Is that a short joke, or a loser joke? Or both?

The show cuts away from the ring.

Nick Stuart: All right, folks, it looks like now we’re going to get a visit from Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: What? Why? Is he looking to paralyze someone? Don’t pick me!

Nick Stuart: It’s definitely odd for him to request for time to talk, so let’s…

Nick stops as the speakers play the first line of Paxton’s song.

They say it’s good to start a story with a tragedy…

“Fist Fight” by Ballroom Thieves starts, and this odd situation continues as we chug along our European tour. There are the boos there, of course, and Paxton has earned every single one of them. But it’s not like that run between ReVival 16 and Colossus, where the boos threatened to blow the house down. Now they are mixed with mild cheering, and even one or two sickos standing up to cheer for the Bayou Butcher. The man himself emerges, and it’s clear he notices the reaction and is trying to ignore it.

Nick Stuart: What’s that he’s holding, Richard?

Richard Parker: Well, Nick, that’s the uncommon and foreign object known as… “a bucket.”

Nick Stuart: Thanks for the snark, but I really meant why does he have it?

Richard Parker: You should’ve asked that, partner, but I’m sure the Murdergator is going to tell us soon.

Paxton carries the bucket, plus a bug tucked under his arm, to the ring. He rolls under the ropes, then looks over to a ringside assistant and gestures for a microphone. After a few moments the assistant obliges, and Paxton puts the bucket down in the middle of the ring and grabs the microphone.

Paxton Ray: Hey y’all.

This oddly gets a decent number of cheers, which again makes Paxton look uncomfortable. He powers through.

Paxton Ray: At the end of last show, when I somehow was able t’finally beat Jared Sykes, that piece’a shit Fred Dick came out an’ stuck his nose in my business like he’s been doin’ ever since I pointed out the undisputed fact that the boy is uglier than dirt. Well listen, Fred, I got somethin’ t’say on that.

He leans against the ropes and looks towards the back, where Fred Dick is presumably picking his nose.

Paxton Ray: I’m sorry I called ya ugly. I ain’t no model neither. It was mean.

He lets the pause hang in the air.

Paxton Ray: But not half as mean as what I’m gonna do t’ya at Tropical Turmoil!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

There’s no mistaking it. That’s a genuine certified pop. And not one that he got as a result of another wrestler, like when he shook Jared’s hand at the last show. That was approval from the PRIME faithful, and this time Paxton is smiling at it, though it’s also possible he’s smiling at the thought of his match against Dick.

Paxton Ray: ‘Cause boy, ya done earned the ass beatin’ you’re gonna get. An’ I know that when the boss made the match a glass knuckle boxin’ match that a lotta people prob’ly didn’t know exactly what it was. So I figured that I’d give y’all a little demonstration – and show Freddie what he’s got comin’ to him in a couple weeks.

Paxton bends over and ruffles through the bag he was holding, then pulls out some handwrap.

Paxton Ray: See, first we’re gonna put these handwraps on. They’ll be coated in sticky shit for the next part.

Paxton slowly begins wrapping his hands in the wrap, smiling as he does so.

Paxton Ray: Then ya dip your hands inta the bucket’a glass, and then ya bury your fists in an annoyin’ motherfucker’s skull.

This causes another big cheer from the crowd. As Paxton finishes wrapping his hands, he bends over the bucket and starts to lower his fists in. But as he does it, the PRIMEView lights up.

And there, right on PRIMEView, is none other than Fred Dick.

Fred Dick: Paxton RAAAAAAAY, everybody! Give ‘im a hand!

Fred Dick sarcastically claps.

Fred Dick: You bitch ahh, punk ahh boy! You know Paxton, here I was at the Whore House, elbows deep in a bag of mary Jane, knee deep in POONTANG AND BLACK LABEL WHISKEY!!! …and then yo’ ass decides to come out and show up on my television, talkin’ that sweet shid about how you gonna FUCK ON me at Tropical Turmoil!

The crowd cheers. This visibly irritates Fred, whose face turns red. He feigns pleasure with a dumb ass-looking, toothy grin.

Fred Dick: Well Paxton Ray, the way I figure it, you ready to fight right now, ain’tcha Pax?

Paxton Ray: Always ready for a fight, ‘specially if it’s with a piece’a shit who needs an asskickin’ as much as ya do.

The crowd cheers at Paxton’s response.

Fred Dick: You want some of this sweet ass, come get some, boy. I ain’t hard to find. I’m a lot easier to find than an eleven-year-old girl!!! Bahahahahahaha!!!

The PRIMEView disconnects. Paxton’s eyes go wide, then narrow in rage. He looks down at the bucket for a moment, then drops the microphone and picks up the bucket, then exits the ring and walks up the ramp.

Nick Stuart: Well it looks like we’re going to get Paxton and Fred two weeks early!

Richard Parker: Not sure it’s very smart to call out a man who wants to kill you, but what do I know.

With that, we go backstage.

The live feed goes to the back, finding interviewer Simon Tillier on a soundstage. Wearing his trademark blue suit and characteristic boyish smile, the junior reporter appears seated Galifianakis-style in a plush chair between a set of ferns. Through a large window behind him, we can see the skyline of Madrid beneath an evening sky.

Simon Tillier: Good evening, fellow PRIME faithful, and thank you for joining me in this special roundtable discussion! My guests tonight are newly crowned Alias Champion RIA, and her personal assistant, former PRIME talent Kohime Mori.

We cut to an angle to the left of Simon, revealing RIA and Komi seated off to one side of a low, round table. RIA is wearing a Diana Taurasi Phoenix Mercury jersey over top a pair of short denim shorts. Kohime is dressed in a cute white off the shoulder blouse with a knee length denim skirt.

RIA: Sup?

Kohime Mori: Thanks for having us, Mr. Tillier!

Simon Tillier: And across the aisle, we have your opponent at the forthcoming Tropical Turmoil, “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama, and his Vae Victis associate, Scott Hunter.

The shot cuts again to the other side of Simon, where Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter are likewise seated, dressed to the nines and looking as smug as smug can be. Kuroyama sports a jet black Balenciaga with a forest green undershirt, buttoned down enough to show off the upper cleft of his chiseled pecs. Hunter is wearing a Hawaiian shirt so loud, it compels viewers to turn down the volume on their sets. It is likewise buttoned down, because we are in pec-country tonight.

Kerry Kuroyama: Charmed, Simon.

Simon Tillier: RIA, we’ll start the questions with you. How do you feel about facing Kerry in your first official title defense?

Before RIA can answer, Scott Hunter leans over to Kerry Kuroyama.

Scott Hunter: I like her hair.

Kerry Kuroyama: Shhhh…

Scott zips his lips closed and gestures to RIA to go ahead.

RIA: First of all, thank you, dear! Secondly, I wanted this match. I’ve been growing to dislike Kerry on a personal level more and more. That said, dude is legit in the ring. I want a challenge. I know he’s entirely capable of providing that.

RIA cracks her neck before letting her gaze settle on Kerry.

RIA: I’ve always respected your talent. But you have a shit attitude. Have for a while. It’s one thing to be serious. It’s another thing entirely to talk down to anyone you cross paths with. You need an attitude adjustment in the worst way. I’ll be happy to be the one to give it!

Kuroyama throws his head back and rolls his eyes.

Simon Tillier: And now a question for your opposition. Kerry, you’ve been significantly critical of RIA as a competitor these past couple months. Has that opinion changed now that she’s risen to the level of Alias Champion?

Kerry rubs his chin and ponders a bit before answering.

Kerry Kuroyama: Sure, Simon. I can acknowledge that Psycho-Skittles here has been on a bit of a hot streak as of late. Regardless, history has proven that anyone can get lucky enough to stumble their way into a championship. But, in my opinion, there’s more that goes into being a good champion aside from stringing together a few forgettable wins

He looks across the table to the Alias Champion, glowering back at him.

Kerry Kuroyama: The way I see it, a real competitor requires having a certain kind of mentality. A killer’s instinct, if you will. An inner drive for continuous improvement, to stay ahead of a constantly changing game. And when I look into RIA’s… questionably multi-colored eyes, Simon, I just don’t see it.

Simon Tillier: Now a question for Miss Mori. As someone especially close with RIA, do you feel there’s been a change in her as of late?

Kohime Mori: That’s a tough question, Mr. Tillier. I think there’s been multiple changes, both good and less than good. In the less than good, I think Miss Ria has been struggling with depression that she only goes so far in addressing. She’s also been drinking too much for my liking.

Kohime takes a deep breath before folding her hands on the table.

Kohime Mori: But on the good, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Miss Ria this confident before. Even when we met, I felt her confidence then was fake; a show. I think she truly believes in herself right now. She’s also been great at adjusting to different opponents.

Simon Tillier: Well, here’s a question for you, Scott. A recent poll found that 56% of PRIME fans consider Kerry to be a, um… “fudgehead”. What sort of expert analysis can you give to this continuing trend?

Scott stares at Kerry. Kerry nods, and whispers, “go ahead.” Scott raises his hand to his lips and unzips them. Kerry sighs.

Scott Hunter: That is an excellent question, Samuel. And by excellent I mean dumb. And by dumb, I mean you. And by Samuel, I mean shut up. But also I don’t know what a fudgehead is, but it sounds moderately delicious. If you have any I would be happy to try one and then give you a stellar and/or soulcrushing review on Yelp, if that is still a thing. I think it’s a thing. In conclusion, shut up, eat some bleach and go to the hospital and maybe die… SAMUEL.

Simon just stares at him for a moment, then without another word turns to Kerry Kuroyama.

Simon Tillier: Uhm… does it worry you at all, Kerry, to know the fanbase is potentially shifting against you?

Kuroyama groans.

Kerry Kuroyama: I made it clear from day one, Simon — to you, in fact —  that the primary reason I came to PRIME was to expand my professional career. It damn well was not to make friends. I already have the best damn friend a person can have sitting right next to me.

He puts out his fist and gets a sturdy bump returned from Hunter.

Kerry Kuroyama: I don’t feel I have anything to be ashamed of, Simon. Nor should I have to remind the people out there that what they’re watching is a combat sport. One that thrives because the fans want to watch enemies fight. So, to be frank, I don’t really give a shit if RIA or anyone else considers me to be a “fuckhead.” What concerns me is having an opponent that gives a shit about the match in front of her. And if I’ve given her a reason, then I’d say that’s mission accomplished on my end.

Simon Tillier: And what are your thoughts, Kohime? Will fan support help give RIA an extra edge?

Kohime Mori: It might. I know everyone is different when it comes to that kind of stuff. I know for me, it really did help me dig deep when I didn’t think I had anything left to give. I know support is important to Miss Ria.

Simon Tillier: Now RIA, some might not be aware, but you returned to SHOOT Project recently. You even managed to win the Premier championship. Congratulations on that, by the way. Are you at all concerned you might be stretched too thin with such high level commitments to both there and PRIME?

RIA: Heh… Yeah, I’m suddenly a lot busier than I expected to be. But am I worried about being run ragged? Naw. If I wanna be at the top level, this is the shit that’s gonna help me get there.

RIA leans back in her chair, hands behind her head.

RIA: I ain’t runnin’ from no one. I don’t care if it’s Kerry, Anna, who the hell ever gets put in front of me. Imma make them go through hell if they wanna pick up a win. I might not be the most skilled wrestler, but I’m durable and stubborn like a wine stain.

Simon Tillier: Scott, two shows ago, Kerry fell in action against Crash Jackson. Explain to us why you feel he deserves this title shot?

Scott Hunter: Another stupid question, Samuel, but I am willing to answer it anyway because this is PRIDE month and I am proud of my ability to answer stupid questions. Here is what I want to know… why are you asking me why my best friend Kerry Kuroyama deserves a title shot? Why aren’t you asking RIA and her friend Kumite’ over there why they should have the HONOR of defending that championship against Kerry Kuroyama? HUH? Why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re SELFISH!! You are like a little kid who hoards all of the really good questions for himself and then only asks me and my best friend Kerry Kuroyama the dumb questions. YOU’RE THE AUGUSTUS GLOOP OF INTERVIEWERS, SAMUEL!!! GET OUT OF OUR CHOCOLATE RIVER!!!!! Finally, he deserves this title shot because fuck you, that’s why. That is a naughty word which is only to be used when I mean business, which is what I do. I mean business. That is all.

Simon Tillier: Now RIA, Kerry has said your level of competition hasn’t been up to snuff. What are your feelings on that?

RIA: Competition is competition. I did what I needed to do to get a chance at the Alias title. When I got that shot, I kept that same attitude.

RIA leans forward, palms down on the table.

RIA: It’s pretty damn insulting and disrespectful to myself and everyone I’ve been in the ring with to question my record. Kuroyama has had some struggles, so I ain’t sure he has the right to stick his nose up. But it’s fine. I’ll put it in the dirt if that’s what I gotta do.

Simon Tillier: I guess we’ll end this on you, Kerry. Regardless of how this all plays out, will this acrimony between the two of you continue beyond Tropical Turmoil?

Kerry Kuroyama: I’m a professional, Simon. I make a concerted effort to keep my emotions from spilling into my work. I won’t take any joy in bringing Miss Oops! All Berries’ hype train to a screeching halt. But, I have to admit one thing, Simon… it is a bit disappointing to know that Sid broke her heart before I had the chance to do it in the ring.

The shit-eating smirk that spreads across the Pacific Blitzkrieg’s face after this blatant throwing of shade is too much for her to handle. RIA shoots up out of her chair and marches over to the seated Kuroyama. Before anything can be said or done, the Psychoberry rears back and sends a HARD open hand across Kerry’s cheek! Kerry sits frozen for a moment, silent and stone-faced.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott?

Scott Hunter: Uhh, yeah?

Kerry Kuroyama: Is that a quarter I see down on the floor?

Scott Hunter: WHERE?!

In a flash, Hunter rolls out of his chair and hits the deck, looking for something round and shiny. It’s something of a fortunate coincidence, because as fast as he goes down, Kerry rises up to his feet.

The table comes up with him.

Simon Tillier: OH MY!!!

Teeth bared into a bestial snarl and hands gripping the edges of the table, Kuroyama launches it across like a giant oaken frisbee. It crashes mercilessly somewhere off camera, knocking over a light rig and getting the production crew into an uproar.

He steps up to RIA. They are inches apart. Nose to nose. Pink and Blue against black and green. Both brimming with a level of rage looks about to spill over.

Kerry Kuroyama: …allow me to apologize, and walk back that particular comment. Poor form on my part.

He tilts his head to the side.

Kerry Kuroyama: But I hope my point is finally clear to you. You should be less concerned with who I am, and more concerned with what’s going to happen to you over in Lisbon when that bell rings. It was bad enough when you just annoyed the shit out of me, but now you have something I want. And if you hate me now, then imagine how you’re going to feel about me after the things I’m going to do just to take it from you.

Scott suddenly pops back up with something in his hand.

Scott Hunter: I couldn’t find that quarter, but I found a small pebble shaped like Lizzo playing a flute so it worked out OK.

Scott smiles widely, then his face turns super serious and he turns to face RIA, a finger pointing directly at her face. His eyes narrow in a stern warning, and then he and Kerry turn and walk away. RIA stares off in the direction the duo exited from, Kohime keeping her hands on her friend’s shoulders.

RIA: Imagine how YOU’RE gonna feel when your ass is laying on the mat while the ref raises my hand! You have NO idea who you’re up against! You better be ready to kill my ass if you wanna take my title!

RIA storms off in the other direction, Mori quickly behind her. We’re left with Simon, cringing in his seat, before we cut elsewhere.

The camera cuts into PRIME Five Star champion ‘The Revelator’ Don Winters sitting behind a small merchandise table in one of the arena’s main atriums. Sitting on the table with him is a load of incredible trinkets, including bottles of Lord-o-Plex stacked expertly in a triangle, Pious Penguin plushies (selling like hot cakes), the extremely popular Father Don’s Five Star Bible – a special Spanish translation for the fans in Madrid (selling FASTER than hot cakes), real, genuine crucifixion nails, and much, much more. Don’s Five Star title rests on the table in front of him on a small pedestal.

The Revelator has a decent-sized line of fans waiting to purchase something directly from him, and he’s taking the time to sign autographs on anything purchased, as well as PRIME’s replica Five Star title. He smiles politely, holds small conversations, both in English and rudimentary Spanish, and makes sure to tell every single patron that they “have a blessed day.”

He notices the cameraman approaching him and smiles widely, hands open and welcoming.

Don Winters: Oh! Hello there friends. It’s so wonderful to see all of you tonight. Not just here in attendance in Madrid, but all across the world. I hope you’re all having a blessed evening. I’m just here relaxing, meeting with fans, selling a few Bibles to folks who have been saved and those yet looking to be saved and everyone in between.

The Revelator pauses, clasps his hands together on the table, and continues.

Don Winters: A truly beautiful city we’re in this evening. With such incredible church architecture, I can really feel my heart soaring closer to the Heavens in a place like La Almudena Cathedral. I urge anybody who follows the Path to put this on their bucket list.

Winters continues talking as he signs an 8×10 photo of him with Pious Penguin on his hand for a small girl. She squeals with delight as she runs back off to her parents to show them what she got.

Don Winters: That’s what it’s all about folks, isn’t it? (It’s kind of like a Stepford smile, it’s hard to look too long, but you can’t help but be pulled in, can you?) I decided after doing exactly what I promised to do to Anna Daniels, that I would take this show and spend it with the people who truly matter in this sport: the fans. Not only do I have them to thank for having my back and forgiving me, but there’s always the chance I may find a lost sheep or two and bring them back home to pasture.

Father Don signs another autograph and stands to take a photo with a young boy as two men familiar to PRIME cut in front of the camera, momentarily blocking the view as they appear to be taking in the merchandise table. Winters dials up the smile to an 11.6 and cocks his head slightly sideways to the two men.

Don Winters: Excuse me, gentlemen, you’re standing right in front of my shot, (Winters motions with a hand for them to step aside) wait a moment, I recognize you boys, don’t I? Stefan Hariston and… friend! The merchandise guy, isn’t that right? How’s business for the two of you these days?

Steve Harrison, the great and powerful Wizard of Wares freezes in place and then looks at Jack Marley. Marley turns and sees Don and then quickly turns back towards Steve.

Steve Harrison: (whispering loud enough to hear) I told you we should have gone around him.

Jack Marley: (whispers back) Uh…should we…like, I dunno, say something?

Steve turns his head slightly and looks at Don from the corner of his eye.

Steve Harrison: (still whispering) He is literally staring at us right now.

Jack Marley: (whispering very poorly) So…run?

Father Don’s grin has widened, his teeth clenched, everything seeming just a bit off.

Don Winters: Cat got your tongues, boys? You know, here I am being friendly, being pleasant, saying hello asking how your business is, even after you walk right through my shot and, well, I can hear you whispering, you’re like eight feet away from me.

Winters pauses briefly and goes to stand, he extends a hand out to Harrison and Marley.

Don Winters: Now regardless of all that, let me shake your hands boys, I want to welcome you to PRIME. And I just got one piece of advice to help you go far. It’s a little something called the Golden Rule. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ It’s helped me quite a bit since I’ve gotten here, and I think it could help you too.

Jack looks at the hand and then back at Steve with a worried look.

Jack Marley: I think he is talking to us.

Harrison rubs his face, annoyed at Jack reverting to his idiotic, self meaning Steve has to actually think for the first time today.

Steve Harrison: I am not blind, Jack.

Steve looks at the hand from Don slowly extends his hand out to him and then stops midway.

Steve Harrison: I honestly do not know the donkey you are talking about but maybe I can shake your hand if that is understood.

Jack yelps and shakes his hands towards Harrison to get him to stop talking.

Jack Marley: He didn’t say anything about the donkey…

Harrison sighs and his arm drops to his side, his face becoming red with embarrassment.

Steve Harrison: Is it happy hour? Anything to help forget this situation.

The Revelator drops his hand and smile altogether.

Don Winters: Well, that ain’t no way to treat a man of God, leave his hand hanging out there with His Word and Light and the air between us, but I understand if you’re a little shy, a little starstruck, seeing the Five Star champion up close. You boys want a selfie, an autograph? Some of this Lord-o-Plex (points at Harrison) might even put some hair back on that head of yours. You let me know, I can hook you up, get you a real good discount on the stuff.

Harrison grabs a bottle of the Lord-o-Plex hoping, praying that it has alcohol in it and takes a big swig.

Steve Harrison: I also know a thing or two about selling something and claiming it is more than what it is. I am sure you used holy water for this but where it was sourced…well…heh, I will let you keep that little secret. Also…an alcoholic version would be nice. I mean we do drink his blood and get drunk off it, right? Jack, take a selfie with the champ here I am sure it would mean the world to both of you.

Jack nods and walks over to Don with his cell phone in his hand.

Jack Marley: Will Pious Penguin be joining this picture? That little guy is a legend in the puppet reddits.

The Cheshire grin returns to Winters’ face as he plucks one of the plushie Pious Penguins from the pile on the table.

Don Winters: Sure thing, Jack? Was it? You hold onto this little guy right here. You can even take him home with you. Now, c’mere!

The Revelator hands the plushie over to Jack who takes it eagerly. Winters then takes the Five Star championship off its pedestal on his table and slings it over Jack’s shoulder.

Don Winters: Now, say ‘Bless you’ on the count of three and give me the gosh darned biggest smile you can stretch across those cheeks of yours, alright?

Jack looks back at Steve with a big smile on his face.

Jack Marley: Can I keep the plushie, we can put him…

The Merch Man from Mars interrupts Jack before he can mention the donkey again which is obviously where that comment was going.

Steve Harrison: Yes, we can put him with the robe, Jack.

Jack nods and then counts down to three and with a smile so big it could grow the small heart of Cancer Jiles three times. (Cool Jiles is the grinch of everything). The countdown ends and the picture is taken as Steve Harrison looks on with a beer in his hand.

Steve Harrison: CHEERS!

Winters quickly shoots a dirty stare to Harrison that is just missed by the camera.

Jack Marley: Where the hell did you get that, mon?

The Man of All Miracles who seems to just evade him these days gives Jack a tilted head shrug and goes back to drinking his beer.

Steve Harrison: Thank the Jesus Freak, Jack, and get back to selling well-made T-shirts for the greatness of IHOPs and you know…Montreal.

Jack Marley: Thanks, Don! Good Luck with your next title defense.

The Revelator holds his hand out, looking squarely at Jack, who realizes he still has the Five Star championship over his shoulder. He chuckles nervously and returns it to Winters, who returns with a smile.

Don Winters: Anytime boys, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintances. Good luck in your own sales game and keep your heads looking at the Heavens, because miracles happen every day.

Harrison chuckles softly when he hears the Miracle comment. He nods at Don and then turns and walks away pounding the beer while doing so. Jack waves and runs to catch up with Steve and begins to talk to him but nothing can be understood.

Don Winters: Quien es el siguiente?

The Revelator smiles as another young child approaches the table. He keeps one eye fixed on Harrison Marley as they leave as the camera cuts to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, here we go, Sage Pontiff and Rose. To say that KING has had an interesting night thus far would be an understatement!

Richard Parker: If by interesting you mean painful, Nick.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, standing 6’4” tall and weighing 201 lbs,. from Joshua Tree, California, SAAAAAAGGGEEEE POOOOOOOONNNNTIIFFFFFF!!!!

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band begins to play over the din of the crowd and Sage Pontiff emerges to little fanfare. He ignores the static coming from the crowd as he rolls into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff has been working with Paxton Ray for a while. This is his third singles match of the year.

Richard Parker: That’s a crazy stat, he’s 2-0! Undefeated!

The opening riff of “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains rips through the silent arena. Fire lights up the entrance ramp and Rob Williams steps out from behind the curtains.

Nick Stuart: Speaking of great years, Rob Williams is the man that stopped Farthington earlier this year. He took that Five Star Championship away that a lot of people thought was a permanent attachment to The Financier.

Richard Parker: You had to bring up the worst night of my life.

Nick Stuart: Every chance I get!

His head hangs down, hair in his eyes as he moves down the ramp, not making eye contact with any of the fans.

Vince Howard: And his opponent.Standing 6’2” tall and weighing 240 lbs,. from Decatur, Georgia… THE LEGEND…. ROOOOOOOOOOOOB WIIIIIIILLLLLIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

DING DING 

Nick Stuart: And here we go. Former Five Star Champion Rob Williams and Sage Pontiff square off!

Richard Parker: I’m torn.

Nick Stuart: What, you can’t pick a favorite?

Richard Parker: I don’t have favorites.

Nick Stuart: Yeah? Whatever.

The two combatants explode into the center of the ring at each other. Pontiff a hale of fists, Williams is his own tornado of limbs. Right hands are crashing off of Williams’ skull, and he delivers rights of his own right back. The two men grab the back of each other’s skull and continue absolutely pasting each other with rights. They begin to spin violently and the tornado makes its way to the corner. Pontiff ends up back to the turnbuckle and Williams generates an inch of separation and smashes Pontiff in the stomach with a sharp kick.

Nick Stuart: These two came here to fight!

Richard Parker: We need that statcast metric boxing has… what the hell was that…

Nick Stuart: Two violent men colliding!

Williams doesn’t let up and drives another boot into Pontiff’s midsection, and then another. Sage slouches onto the middle turnbuckle and Williams begins furiously stomping Pontiff. Rob snarls and walks to the middle of the ring and turns around, and dives into the corner with a running knee that smashes into Pontiff’s face. Sage’s head lulls around before slumping over to the side on the rope. Rob keeps the knee on top of the back of Pontiff’s head, grinding it into the ropes. Elvis Nixon comes over and finally starts counting to separate the two. Rob looks towards Nixon and smirks while he counts, as Nixon gets to four, Williams nods and starts to take his knee off of Pontiff’s head, but instead drives it down off of the back of Williams’ head.

Nick Stuart: Oh c’mon!

Richard Parker: That’s smart!

Williams finally separates and Pontiff rolls through the rope and to the outside. He rubs the back of his head and looks up towards the former Five Star Champion and smirks at him. He reaches up to his face and wipes the two trickles of blood from his nose. He slides through the ropes as Nixon gets to five. Elvis keeps himself between the two men for a moment, he holds his hands out as if he’s standing between two wild animals, and almost before he can get out of the way the two men collide in the center of the ring for the second time.

Nick Stuart: So, you like Williams then?

Richard Parker: I DON’T HAVE FAVORITES!

Williams throws the kick to the midsection as Pontiff comes in, but Sage anticipates the kick and slides away from the kick and smashes Williams with a clean right hand across the jaw. Rob stumbles and Pontiff sweeps Williams’ leg out from under him. Pontiff brings down an axe kick aimed at Rob’s skull but he rolls out of the way. Sage tries to bring another heel into Rob’s face, but Williams keeps rolling.

Nick Stuart: Sage getting the advantage this go around.

Richard Parker: Sage is smart, he brings it every time he gets in the ring.

Rob can’t dodge the next kick, it’s a straightforward boot to his midsection that steals his breath. Williams gasps for air as Pontiff aims a side kick at Williams’ kidney. Rob crashes to the mat and Pontiff follows him to the ground. Sage and Williams roll backwards, Williams tries to take side control but Pontiff uses a hip escape to reverse the position. Pontiff drives a forearm down across the bridge of Williams’ nose. Rob tries to push Pontiff off, but Sage drives a knee into Williams’ liver that almost stops him in his tracks. Pontiff tries to pass to full mount, but as Sage finds his spot, the larger Williams reaches up and grabs Sage by the neck.

Nick Stuart: Nixon counting for the second choke in this match!

Williams snarls and Pontiff quickly tries to pivot into an armbar, but Williams manages to lock his hands together as Sage tries to roll Rob over to his stomach to flatten him out, but Williams keeps his arms locked, Pontiff tries to let go and rotate to the back but Williams manages to get his legs under him and shoots to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Williams is back to his feet, Pontiff is dangerous.

Richard Parker: Of course he’s dangerous on the ground. He was in proximity of Team Glue. I think you can learn grappling through osmosis that way.

Nick Stuart: Explain Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: …

Pontiff rolls forward to his feet, but before he can turn around Williams smashes a boot to the back of Pontiff’s head. Sage stumbles forward into the middle rope, and Williams pounces. He holds his neck across the rope for a moment, before yanking him backwards and smashing him to the mat with a piledriver.

Nick Stuart: Piledriver for Williams!

Richard Parker: He dropped Pontiff right on his head!

Williams scrambles over and hooks Pontiff’s leg. Nixon slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

…

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Gonna take a lot more than that to put Pontiff down! We’ve seen what it takes, and dropping him on his head once isn’t it.

Richard Parker: He’s probably going to have to try to kill him…

Nick Stuart: You might not be wrong.

Pontiff throws a shoulder up. Williams nods his head, and gets to his feet. He reaches down and grabs Pontiff by the dreadlocks and drags the groggy guru to his feet and smashes him with a knife edge chop across the chest. Sage stumbles back towards the corner, and Rob comes across the ring with a lariat that sends Pontiff up and over the top rope to the apron.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff on the outside…

Richard Parker: And Williams is following him…

Williams steps through the ropes as Pontiff gets to his feet. Williams goes for a kick, but the longer Pontiff kicks Williams in the stomach with a front kick that backs him down the apron. Sage lunges forward with a knee that drives Williams further backwards. Pontiff lands and tries a pumpkick but Rob drops off the apron and sweeps Pontiff’s leg out from under him.

Nick Stuart: I think the back of Pontiff’s head smashed off the apron.

Richard Parker: I think Sage is immune to concussions. It’s fine.

Williams smashes forearms into Sage’s upper chest and neck, over and over again. Elvis Nixon comes to the ropes and yells at Williams’, clearly warning him that he would start the count with Pontiff on the apron. Williams’ grabs Pontiff and drags him to the outside. He sends Pontiff into the barrier.

ONE!

Pontiff grimaces and Williams comes forward with a big boot to Sage’s face that sends him flipping over the barrier and into the Spanish crowd. Williams bends down and grabs Pontiff by the back of the head and pulls him over the barrier.

Nick Stuart: What is he up to…

Richard Parker: I said he’d have to try to kill him…

TWO!

THREE!

Williams puts Pontiff’s head between his legs and pulls him upside down.

Richard Parker: ON THE FLOOR! ON THE CONCRETE!

FOUR!

Williams drops down and piledrives Sage on the arena floor. Williams lands and holds Sage up vertically for a moment, Pontiff’s legs slump near his chin as Rob dumps him to the side.

FIVE!

Rob gets to his feet and admires his handy work.

Nick Stuart: He might have broken Sage’s neck…

SIX!

Richard Parker: I think that’s what he was going for…

Rob reaches down and grabs Pontiff by the dreadlocks and rolls him under the bottom rope. He looks at Nixon who stops the count and smiles. He drags Pontiff’s bleeding body back to the apron. He hooks Sage in a front face lock while he lays on the apron, he reaches down and grabs him by the baggy pants and lifts him up into a vertical suplex position. Nixon rushes to the ropes and begins counting right away.

ONE!

Williams holds Sage in the air and backs towards the steps. The crowd begins to shout.

TWO!

He looks directly at Nixon as he continues to hold Pontiff in the air. Gasps, the only noise that could be heard in the arena.

THREE!

Williams continues staring. Holding Pontiff in the air, the silence once again turns into a dull roar.

FOUR!

Finally Williams starts to fall backwards, but Pontiff manages to flip himself all the way over and land on the steps on his feet.

FIVE!

Williams spins around and lunges for the now loose Pontiff’s legs, but Sage spins around like lightning and smashes Williams’ face off of the steps with a leaping stomp.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! 

The crowd explodes as Williams’ head bounces off of the steel steps. Williams shoots backwards.

Nick Stuart: SAGE PONTIFF! SAGE PONTIFF IS STILL ALIVE!

Richard Parker: HJASDFJAHSEDJKH!

SIX!

And Pontiff dives at Williams, landing with two knees pressed against his chest and drives him to the arena floor. The two men crash to the floor as Nixon continues to count.

Nick Stuart: What was that?

Richard Parker: I HAVE NO IDEA! HOLY SHIT! THIS THING HAS TURNED AROUND!

SEVEN!

Sage lays on the floor holding his neck, while Williams is rolling around holding his skull.

EIGHT!

Pontiff manages to drag himself towards the ring while Williams rolls towards the apron. Both men grab the apron and begin to pull.

NINE!

Both men dart into the ring at the last second. Williams’ nose is clearly broken and bleeding, Pontiff is holding his neck with his left hand while he flexes his right hand trying to work out a stinger.

Nick Stuart: I think these two, for their own safety, need to keep it in the ring…

Richard Parker: I have no idea who has it worse…

Pontiff begins to slowly drag himself up using the ropes as Williams manages to make it to a knee. Sage wipes at the dried blood across his face, as Williams deals with the fresher wound. Williams manages to sneak a look at Sage breathing heavy and lunges forward. As Williams commits, Pontiff springs into action and smashes him with a canadian destroyer.

Nick Stuart: SHAMANIC DREAMWEAVER! HE DRILLED WILLIAMS TO THE CANVAS!

Richard Parker: He paid Williams back for all of those piledrivers!

Williams’ skull spikes off the mat and he falls to the side while Pontiff collapses over onto Williams’ chest. Nixon falls to the canvas and counts.

ONE!

TWO!

….

…….

………..

……………….

……………………..

……………………………

THREE!

Williams tries to get a shoulder up before the three, but his body doesn’t co-operate as Nixon’s hand hits the mat.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: WHAT A BRAWL! MY GOD!

Richard Parker: They tried to kill each other.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match… SAAAAAAAGE POOOOOOOONNNTIFFFFFFF!!!!

Nick Stuart: That was wild. Huge win for Pontiff, and Williams laid it all on the line tonight.

Richard Parker: Yeah… I need to see those two fight again. My god.

The carnage of the ring pivots to commercial

ReVival returns from hot hot commercial actions for your favourite orange juices, action figures and mortgage scams (the audience is too young for that sweet pacemaker cash). As the we return to the PRIME faithful WiZink Centre, we see the wonderful purchases made at the merchandise stalls – several children wearing “Nate Colton Is A Bitch” t-shirts so they look cool to their friend, a guy wearing replica taped fists dipped in glass, or at least we hope it’s a replica, one confused fan who appears to have scribbled “Reed Young” with a gold sharpie on a black t-shirt. All human life is here, and they’ve bought PRIME merch.

Those not engaging in the world of merch are returning to their seats with the popped corn, sodas, beers and beer soda, and what a time they have picked to return to their seated position because the WiZink’s arena lighting dims and we hear something that we have never heard before, from the perspective of music.

“LET’S GO PAINT THE TOWN
ON OUR WAY HOME
THE BLINKING LIGHTS
ARE BREAKING BONES”

The chorus of “Razzmatazz” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me brings forth a wave of confused murmurs from the Madrid maniacs, but the confusion is not long for this world, as out to the stage, the a surprisingly raucous and welcoming Spanish reception stands the man who in an hours time will be facing former Universal Champion Hessian in the night’s main event…

Cecilworth M! Farthington.

Well that of course makes a lot of sense, that man loves I Don’t Know How But They Found Me. He’s not alone though, as emerging at the top of the ramp in a unified front stand Hayes Hanlon, FLAMBERGE and Joe Fontaine.

Nick Stuart: Well this is genuinely unorthodox from The Glueminati, we hardly ever see them walk to the ring in a display of force, normally they’re backstage trying to fight through unearthly horrors in the Gluebana.

Richard Parker: They’re still workshopping that name, but that’s not the point Nick, this is the 50th ReVival and it would be hard to deny that from Phil Atken’s stunning Universal Title victory against Brandon Youngblood, to the men standing in the ring right now, Glue has been a force in this new era of PRIME and perhaps these men deserve to come to the ring and take a moment tonight.

Nick Stuart: I understand that this song we’re hearing has actually been in the books for almost a year as a joint Glue entry but they never come out together so we never heard it.

Richard Parker: When our Lord and Saviour, Cecilworth Farthington likes a band, he really likes them.

As Nick and Richard have been alluding to in their commentary, it’s unusual for a show of strength from Glue, it’s even more unusual to see some of them smiling, or the approximation of smiles. Cecilworth and Joe are probably doing the best. The Madrid crowd continues to cheer in approval as the four men move towards the ring.

Nick Stuart: The first time they come out together and yet, I think it’s fair to say they’re a man down.

Richard Parker: Sid? He’s fine. Glue bois just need to work through it sometimes.

As though he can hear him, Joe Fontaine looks straight at the camera.

Joe Fontaine: EVERYTHING IS FINE.

Richard Parker: See?

As the lads enter the ring, they form a single form line across the centre of the canvas, their attention still focused on the entrance way. A rather healed Cecilworth Farthington, who by all reports had a rapid recovery from spontaneous limb combustion, grabs hold of the microphone with a giant smile across his face.

Cecilworth Farthington: You know, later tonight I may get hit so hard that I fold like an accordion and start to make that weird noise by Hessian, but that is for later tonight, worries are for the future, for now we celebrate the history of this ReVival era of PRIME, and you have to know that Glue was going to be here for the big FIVE OH.

Off mic, Cecilworth yells “GIVE IT UP FOR THE BIG FIVE OH”, Joe is clapping along, while Hayes is already scanning the crowd for fights or bangs. FLAMBERGE, his hair still a bit out of alignment after getting into yet another scuffle with Nate Colton earlier in the night, looks over to Joe and Cecilworth and winks at them, or maybe blinks, hard to tell; his face doesn’t always work right around these guys, and it also probably hurts to use those muscles right now anyway, what with FLAMBOlton kissing with fists instead of lips.

Cecilworth Farthington: Ever since the doors to that War Games cage opening, heralding the victory of Glue and Friends, I started to become a bit more reflective, a bit more introspective… and I realised that I was chasing a man that I could never return to being. It was a ridiculous idea to label myself “The Finish Line of Professional Wrestling” when standing in a PRIME ring, the sheer arrogance, the hubris, the absurdity of looking at the buzzsaw factory and thinking that I was the special boy who could easily beat them all. I was thinking about who I was, not who I should be. I hurt a lot of people in that conquest to reclaim the name, but there was one man that I hurt more than anyone else. A man that was my mentor, a man who cared for me when no one else did, a man who made me what I am and tonight, we celebrate that man. The Glueminati is out here not for me, not for Joe, Sid, FLAMBERGE, or Hayes… no, this is about a man who was a catalyst in making the ReVival era of PRIME what it is right now. So… I will say no more… because I think he has a few things to say himself…

The lights in the arena dim and an exciting buzz starts to spread through the WizzKids Stadium, it doesn’t take long for the opening riff of “(I Want to be The One) To Watch You Die” by The Megas blares over the sound system, as out from the back WALKS, yes, WALKS, the former PRIME Universal Champion, the Founder of Glue himself, Philip Martin Atken. There is a genuine standing ovation from the crowd as Atken stands atop the ramp, cane in hand, soaking up the atmosphere. You’d swear you could see a tear roll down his bitter and cynical cheeky chops. As Atken slowly makes his way to the ring, the entire of The Glueminati joins in on the standing ovation of the catalyst for bringing them all together.

Nick Stuart: What a moment for the 50th ReVival, Phil Atken is back in front of a crowd since Cancer Jiles and Julian Bathory conspired together and cut his reign as Universal Champion off before it could even begin. For over a year, we’ve seen this man show up backstage in a wheelchair but we have never once seen him on the power of his own two legs until tonight.

Richard Parker: The blessed Cecilworth has healed his mentor and we should give him joint acclaim for this special moment.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if I could go that farrrr…

Nick Stuart’s thoughts got stopped in their tracks due to two very intense noises. One was a kind of thunk, like a man falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes, the other was the most intense whistling you may have ever heard in your life.

Richard Parker: HOW COULD HE? HOW DARE HE!

To give context to the outrage, as Phil Atken made his way down the ramp, he was cut off before the ring by a man leaping over the barricade, a man who decided that he would quite like to superkick the man in recovery directly in the face, a man who had done this before…

Nick Stuart: That bastard Cancer Jiles has come out of nowhere and nailed Phil Atken with Terminal Cancer…

Jiles doesn’t have too much time to enjoy his handiwork, as FLAMBERGE has already ran out of the ring at a mile a minute with murder in his eyes. Joe and Cecilworth have rushed out to check on Atken as FLAMBERGE continues en route to murder Jiles. The only thing that gives the irate young Frenchman pause is the emergence of running Bandits, who come out onto the top of the entrance way in a mixture of emotions. Tony Twobooks just seems excited that his dream of Cripple Racing is not yet dead, Bobby Dean looks hungry but is willing to protect his friend. Coral Avalon is… well… his face doesn’t scream “happy”. Angry. That’s the word. The Bandits start yelling at Jiles in all directions, but Jiles doesn’t seem to pay much mind, delighted in what he’s just done. An irate Farthington still has his mic in hand as he tends to Atken.

Cecilworth Farthington: Jiles, you absolute coward, this was meant to be HIS night. We were meant to get good… you took that away from me, you took that away from the fans. I thought tossing you out at Culture Shock last year was enough for what you did to this man, but I was a fool caught up in my own world. You were owed a DEVIASTING receipt that I did not deliver it. Well… thanks for showing up, pal of mine, because… I’m going to start making amends with my mentor by ripping your spleen out and leaving it here in Madrid.

Farthington drops the microphone and is about to rush over to Jiles, even in spite of his protective Bandit Circle of Conflicting Emotions but is stopped in his tracks by his Glueminati brethren, with Joe Fontaine reminding him he already has to face Hessian tonight. Jiles continues to smug it up and bait from his perch at the top of the ramp. FLAMBERGE decides he’s already collected a couple of these necks before so to hell with the odds and launches himself at The Bandits, but he is quickly pulled back by his stablemates. FLAMBERGE fights off his own teammates for a moment and shouts something obscene in French, but it’s actually Surprising Voice Of Reason Joe that convinces the former L’Uni to stay back and help hold the line.

The two stables end up standing side by side with each other, The Bandits at the top of the ramp, The Glueminati just in front of Atken, as if creating a protective shield around The Founder.

We cut elsewhere.

A scene starts, and music begins to play.

A couple of strings hit, then some horns. Most likely trumpets, but we could have said trombone, and the audience wouldn’t have even noticed. Lastly we hear the smooth sounds of tambourines, because you never forget the tambourine. As we enjoy these pleasantries and whimsical sounds, we think life couldn’t get any better… it does! A title flashes on the screen.

The Trials & Adventures

Of the Audaciously Amazing

O Z U R A

Rigid stone and splintered mountain peaks convey in the background. The further the mountain the lighter in color it becomes. The closest peaks on the other hand are the most vibrant with colors of brown and burnt umber mishmashing against one another, with a dash of burgundy in the shadows of well-hidden spots. The sky is well lit and the tone of light blue creeps underneath the clouds. The scene begins, clouds of dust kick up as a man walks through a pass and into a valley.

Except it wasn’t a valley, it was just a production stage trying to imitate one. Pieces of fabric and cardboard decorated the room while props laid about in strategic positions. The mountains in the background were just a backdrop painted by an amateur. You could see the uneven brush marks and poor color placement on each peak. They could have been more professional with their execution, or they could have traveled to an actual site, but then they would have missed the deadline. So instead, we get stuck with a background that’s quite similar to a television show from the seventies.

Narrative Voice: Ozura stops and gathers himself. The dust clouds from each step dissipate as he gives himself a rest. He was an average sized man, and well prepared for his travels with just the right equipment. A pack on his back which held supplies and trinkets. Behind the pack snugged in properly was a sword, which had low mileage and preferred symbolism over anything else. Most importantly he had his mask, which actually had low importance…

Ozura: It protects my brain.

He points to his head.

Narrative voice: It protects his brain!, and his brain is the most important weapon of all when walking through the peaks of PRIME. It is the one thing that’ll help him outwit and outmatch his enemies. Sure, he could just stab them with the sword, but murder is an escape. Murder is an easy out when the goal is interpersonal conflict.

Ozura: No, I’ll stab them.

Narrative voice: He will stab them!

Pause…

Narrative voice: The lands of PRIME are full of all types of creatures and monsters. If Ozura wishes to claim his prize and conquer PRIME he will need to venture forth through this gauntlet and face these challenges head on. So, Ozura continues his journey!!

A skeleton then appears!

It scowls, and waves for Ozura to come closer. Its limbs and bones are white and its grin is jagged. Of course, it was just an actor in a skeleton Halloween costume with their face painted white, but most importantly it’s what it represented.

Ozura and the skeleton stare each other down, both grimaced, anticipating the first move. Ozura slowly moves his hand to retrieve the sword that’s tucked away. No blowing of wind, nor birds chirping in the distance, everything goes completely silent.

Narrative voice: The showdown is imminent!

But of course, you’ll have to wait till next time.

To Be Continued…

We cut elsewhere, as Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz appear in frame…immediately getting a bit of boos from the Madrid crowd. Kenny pays no mind to the reaction as he begins to speak.

Kenny Freeman: Madrid! It’s the final ReVival before Tropical Turmoil, and I find myself ready to ADDRESS MY ENEMIES.

This, almost surprisingly, gets another wave of boos from the crowd.

Kenny Freeman: Wow, that’s rude. I’m going to assume something got lost in translation. Anyway…I’ve spent the past couple months mulling things over ahead of the big pay-per-view, and tonight sealed the deal for me. I had my eyes set on the wrong mission for far too long, folks…first, let’s address Jared Sykes.

The mention of the former Universal Champion gets a pop from the crowd, which annoys Kenny before he presses on.

Kenny Freeman: The absolute bane of my existence, is ol’ Jared. I once said that without that King Blueberry mask, Sykes was just a man…a man I was ready to pummel into the dirt, and send on his way out of this business. The only problem with that plan, folks, is that I won’t even have the chance to do so at Tropical Turmoil…because my Starshy Praporshchik is going to destroy Jared Sykes tonight, here in Madrid!

This gets a big wave of jeers from the crowd, which Kenny acknowledges with a nod.

Kenny Freeman: I know, I’m disappointed too…but I stand by our fearless leader, knowing that the absolute throttling he’s gonna give Jared tonight will have to serve as payment on the debt that dingleberry owes me. The honor of running Jared Sykes out of pro wrestling is not mine to bear, and I recognize my place in the grand scheme of things.

The fans are none too pleased with what Freeman has to say, and they are sure to let him know how they feel…but Kenny presses on, all the same.

Kenny Freeman: And then there’s STRONK Godson, the man who went after Stanislav during War Games, a man who has been on an absolute tear since debuting in PRIME. After much discussion between myself, my comrade Randall, and our esteemed Starshy Praporshchik, I’ve made something of a realization…if Ivan is willing to forgive STRONK Daddy, who am I to disagree? Your reckoning will come, Godson…but it will not be at Tropical Turmoil.

Curiously, this seems to get a little bit of cheers from the fans…something that perplexes K-Free as he continues.

Kenny Freeman: And that leaves me to the real order of business here.

The crowd starts booing again, perhaps already sick of listening to Kenny talk by this point.

Kenny Freeman: I have been called many things in my adult life. I’ve been labeled too nice, too much of a people pleaser…and perhaps some of that is true. I’ve allowed people to walk over me, I’ve watched people get opportunity after opportunity while I sit in the corner twiddling my thumbs…but not anymore. I stand here tonight as a man ready to prove himself in PRIME, in this business…and it starts tonight. I’ve got my eye on the future…a future where Kenny Freeman holds a championship in his hands.

Randall, tired of just standing around in the background, chimes in with a smirk on his face.

Randall Schwartz: The time has come for Kenny Freeman to take what’s rightfully his…the Jennifer Garner Lifetime Achievement Award.

Kenny just glares at the Entertainer, almost taken aback by the remark as the tone of this whole moment has suddenly changed…and not for the better. He finally nods with a smile before speaking once more.

Kenny Freeman: Yeah, that’s right…the Alias Championship. RIA may have her eyes on Tropical Turmoil and her first title defense, but I will be waiting in the wings, ready to see what stipulations remain on the Lockout…and when the time is right, I will be prepared to make my move. I’ve already got the Limp Bizkit video package on standby, for in the words of the great poet Frederick Durstshire…I’m a-do things my way, my way or the–

??: No.

The response throws Kenny off his game as he turns his attention to where it came from…revealing Rose standing behind him, shaking her head as the rest of KING flanks her.

Rose: You think you’re special?

Kenny Freeman: I do.

Rose: You’re not. Nothing about you is special. Actually, the only thing special about is how unspecial you really are. 

The truth can hurt sometimes, and this truthful statement hurts Kenny enough to keep his mouth shut as Rose continues.

Rose: You wanna call out RIA when you’ve done nothing to even sniff at a title shot…and I just can’t stand for that. Not where it pertains to RIA. You wanna prove yourself, Kenny? Face me at Tropical Turmoil, and we’ll see if you’re cut out to make challenges around here.

Kenny thinks about it, looking at Randall for some word of advice…and only gets a thumbs up, annoying Freeman before he responds.

Kenny Freeman: Okay, fine…but since you’re laying down the challenge, I’m setting the stipulation.

Rose seems almost taken aback by this.

Rose: I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, Ke–

Kenny Freeman: Best of One Fall, take it or leave it.

Rose just glares at him, unsure how to even respond to such a ridiculous request at first as Kensington and Graham mutter to each other…but she eventually relents, slowly nodding her head in agreement.

Rose: That’ll do, Kenny.

The reply draws a grin from Freeman.

Kenny Freeman: Good. I haven’t forgotten you and RIA faced off at Culture Shock…when I beat you at Tropical Turmoil, I’ll be sure to add the footage to the video package and let them know it’s my way or the highway.

With that, Kenny walks off singing “someday you’ll see things my way” to himself as a frustrated Rose stares him down.

Rose: I really hate just about everyone here.

We cut elsewhere.

Moving from Comrade Freeman making his addresses to PRIME, we move to another, much larger ardent communist.

Ivan Stanislav.

The Russian Bear is on his way to the ring, stomping backstage alongside Official Red Army Interviewer Speedy Riggs. Stanislav is dressed for battle, with his red suspenders stretched taut across his broad shoulders, his black pants high on his waist, and his gray shirt with the hammer and sickle prominently displayed across his heart.

Alexei Ruslan is behind him, but just barely visible behind the enormous Russian Bear.

Riggs, meanwhile, has his official Red Army hammer and sickle tropical shirt on. He brings his microphone to his mouth and speaks hurriedly.

Speedy Riggs: PRIME! I’m here with an exclusive interview with Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav! Starshy Praporshchik, how are you feeling about your match against Jared Sykes? This match is truly a year in the making, if not longer!

Stanislav stops for a moment and scowls at the much smaller Riggs. His mouth twists into a sneer beneath his haggard beard.

Ivan Stanislav: Jared Sykes thought he could sneak out of PRIME without facing me. Like snake in grass, he thought he could run and hide. But there is no hiding from Ivan Stanislav. No hiding from the injustices done to The Red Army. He is about to go the way of The Anglo Luchador: Smart mouth on Jabber… but helpless in the ring, where it counts!

Stanislav looks into the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: I hope all of PRIME is watching, because what comes next is prelude to what I, and the rest of my Red Army, have in store for each and every one of you. The “Heart” of PRIME, Jared Sykes, gets purged tonight!

Speedy Riggs: But this was slated to be the Main Event here at ReVival 50, and at the last minute, it was moved. Why do you think that is?

The question, whether Ivan knew Riggs was going to ask it or not, only inflames Stanislav’s mood. He growls.

Ivan Stanislav: That coward Sykes gets main event in his last two matches, but now for this one, he mysteriously is bumped down just days before the event? Is it because he is a complete failure? Perhaps. Or is it just another way in which PRIME attempts to discriminate against foreign wrestlers? This seems more likely.

Speedy attempts to speak, but Stanislav cuts him off. He grabs the microphone from Riggs’ hand.

Ivan Stanislav: I say “attempts” because that is all PRIME can do. They can try to stop me. They can try to silence me. They can try to bump me down, but it will be all for naught. Russians and communists are made of sterner stuff!

Ivan flares his nostrils, staring right at the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: So I get to end Jared Sykes’ career even earlier in the evening? This is fine! No chance to retire, you son of bitch. I put you out to pasture before you have opportunity. And Lindsay Troy… you better have good reason for moving this match behind Hessian, who just lost a match, and Farthington, you you are so buddy-buddy with.

Ivan looks down at Speedy and hands him the microphone. Speedy keeps it aloft for Ivan all the same.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME. Again, pay close attention. The heroes of PRIME are dying like flies. You can try to use giant hotdogs, degenerate drug users, washed up has-beens, and every other feeble attempt to stymie The Red Army and Ivan Stanislav, but it will all be for naught. I gave you chance to get behind a real hero like Ivan Stanislav, and it is not too late. I am unstoppable. I am unbeatable. I am indefatigable. And now, you get to see yet another casualty in my Great Patriotic War. A shame that Justine Calvin gets to be a widow so soon after being a bride.

Stanislav walks past the camera. Ruslan emerges, finally, from behind him with the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable and winks at the camera. Finally, Speedy Riggs stands alone, grinning ear to ear.

We cut to ringside.

Richard Parker: I got a bad feeling about what comes next, Stuart.

Nick Stuart: With all that’s happened tonight, I don’t envy the task set ahead for Jared Sykes tonight.

“Plenty” by Northlane is cranking out over the sound system as Jared Sykes is seen standing in the center of the ring with a decent reaction from the Spanish crowd.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Boston, Massachusetts, the Dragonslayer… JAARRED SYYYYYKES!

Sykes poses in the center of the ring as he gets a decent pop from the Madrid faithful.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Red Army Choir immediately explodes across the announce system as the lights turn a too-familiar shade of crimson. Fog rolls in across the ramp, while sudden red and yellow explosions burst all along the floor, shrouding the entryway completely in smoke and fog.

Vince Howard: Introducing next, his opponent, from Arkhangelsk, Russia. He stands 7’1” and weighs in at 400 lbs. He is The Russian Bear. IVAAAANNNNN STAAAAANNNISLAVVVVV!!!

The silhouette is unmistakable, as Ivan Stanislav emerges from backstage, along with the shorter silhouette of Alexei Ruslan. Like a lumbering KV-2 tank, solidly built and towering over most everything else in Wizink Center, Stanislav trods through the smoke and down the entryway. Stanislav blows smoke through his nostrils, while Ruslan stares daggers at Jared Sykes in the ring.

Nick Stuart: This feud between these two men has simmered for almost a year.

Richard Parker: Comrade Ivan has had to deal with so much crap from Jared Sykes. And each and every time he’s shown him how feeble he is!

Nick Stuart: Sykes is one of the few men to hospitalize Ivan Stanislav…

Richard Parker: Yeah, with a FORKLIFT. And then Ivan was fined for it! What gives?

Nick Stuart: Regardless, we all thought these two would bury the hatchet at Tropical Turmoil last year, but then there was the six man for a shot at the Universal Title…

Richard Parker: …which Ivan won…

Nick Stuart: I’m trying to give historical context Richard, do you mind?

Richard Parker: No one cares about that, they just wanna see Ivan beat the stuffing out of Jared Sykes!

Ivan appears particularly focused on his opponent. There’s no jawing at the crowd, no bellowing and laughing, no showboating. He doesn’t once take his eyes off of Jared as he steps up onto the apron and then seamlessly steps over the top rope.

Ruslan draws his thumb across his neck while staring at Sykes from the floor. And it’s only when Ivan is in the ring does he point across the ring and pantomimes breaking something in half with his enormous hands. He finally bellows.

Ivan Stanislav: END OF LINE, YOU SON OF BITCH! TIME TO PAY STARSHY PRAPORSHCHIK STANISLAV!!!

Nick Stuart: Well, no more waiting to be had. Here we go!

DING DING!

Ivan wastes no time as he stalks toward Jared as though embossing the spirit of Zangief himself. Jared’s speed saves him as he nimbly slips beneath Ivan’s attempted grapple, firing a few quick kicks toward Ivan’s ribs. The big Russian absorbs the kicks showing little to no signs that they had an effect.

Nick Stuart: With the current mental state of the Russian Bear, this is probably the smartest play Jared has right now.

Richard Parker: I’d be very very concerned if I was in the sights of Comrade Stanislav tonight, Stuart.

On the outside Alexei barrages Jared with a series of demoralizing insults, all in Russian. Sykes ignores Russia’s premier mustache, smiling confidently to himself as he continues to skirt the ring just outside of Ivan’s reach.

Ivan keeps on his pace like a terminator. He isn’t thrown off by Jared, who continually backpedals to keep space between himself and the Russian. Ivan eventually manages to back Jared into a corner, the wily younger man quickly exiting the ring rather than face Ivan head on.

Richard Parker: At some point this match has to start, right?

Nick Stuart: Jared has to find his in, Ivan Stanislav isn’t like any other opponent you are going to find yourself against.

Richard Parker: You’re right about that, Stuart, but Sykes just needs to rip the bandaid off and get this beating done with!

The crowd here at the WiZink Center start to get restless as neither man has yet to take any clear advantage. Sykes walks it off on the outside, brushing off Alexei as he keeps his eyes on Ivan back in the ring. In the ring Elvis Nixon begins to administer a 10 count forcing Sykes to make his way back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: I wonder how much of this isn’t just to mess with Ivan’s head. Get the man to make a mistake by frustrating him.

Richard Parker: Why would you want to make this man ANGIER?!

Ivan is once again on the attack immediately rolling toward Jared the moment he breaks the plane back into the ring. Jared doesn’t back down this time and instead rushes forward, smashing his forearm into the jaw of the Russian Bear.

Nick Stuart: He got his opening! He staggered the big man!

Richard Parker: Alexei! Do something!

Ivan staggers slightly.

Jared Skyes throws himself into the ropes before launching himself forward with all his might, his forearm smashing across the jawbone of Ivan once again.

Nick Stuart: He got him again! He’s actually working Ivan back!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe this, Ivan do something!

Ivan staggers back, blinking through a shocked expression.

Sykes flies back to the ropes and launches himself forward again. This time Ivan is the one to swing, the much faster Jared managing to avoid swing, reaching back and grabbing at the back of Ivan’s massive head.

Nick Stuart: He’s going for a neckbreaker!

Richard Parker: He can’t get him over! No Way!

It’s an attempt at a neckbreaker however Ivan is far too stout to fall. Instead Jared’s body is hung out to try, going vertical and then limply hanging from his much, much taller opponent.

Jared doesn’t have a lot of time to dwell on his situation when a giant bear paw fastens itself tightly around his ankle. There is a collective gasp from the crowd, the same one you hear when a lion gets that first deep bite into the back of an antelope.

Richard Parker: Big ouch, kid, best of luck.

Nick Stuart: This doesn’t look go-

Sykes is pulled from Ivan’s back with the tender kindness afforded a toddler’s toys. Thrown like a human bowling pin toward the corner, Syke’s body crashes into the turnbuckle with enough force to send vibrations through the ropes around the ring.

Nick Stuart: Oh god! That must have driven all the air out of Jared!

Robbed of the advantage of speed against an opponent the size and power of Ivan Stanislav, there is little Jared can do in this moment to stop what is about to happen. First, Ivan sends his catcher’s mitt of a hand palm first to the side of Sykes’ head. It’s a sickening clapping sound that probably looks really sick if you slowed it down.

Richard Parker: I’d have dodged that.

This palm strike is followed by an “open fist” strike to Jared’s exposed midsection. It’s laughable that this is an “open fist” and thus legal given that Stanislav’s hands are roughly the size of Brandon Youngblood’s smooth bald head. Taking a Youngblood to the gut is not a fun experience and it drives the air out of Sykes’ body.

Nick Stuart: This is going down hill quickly for Jared!

The crowd is reacting more to the strikes than to who is doing it. These aren’t cheers really, more like appreciative horror. But the Soviet Steam Train isn’t doing this for them and so, there are no pauses for applause or attention. Instead the third step of the combination begins, with Ivan raising both of his fists above his head.

Ivan Stanislav: GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The whole sky comes down with Ivan’s fists as the Russian Bear bellows all his anger and frustration out. There isn’t really a sound when the fists finally come crashing down on Jared Sykes’ chest, mostly because it’s completely drowned out by the crowd’s collective groaning. Once again the ring shakes violently from the force of Ivan’s attack, Elvis Nixon himself nearly falling down, looking away from the carnage.

Sykes body crumbles to the ground at the feet of Ivan Stanislav. The arena has grown from appreciative horror to uncomfortable murmuring.

Nick Stuart: I can’t imagine there is much left to this match..

Ivan steps out of the corner and grabs Jared by the scruff of his neck, shaking his head in disgust before hoisting him up into a Vertical Suplex. Then, as those great pioneers of yesteryear released Sputnik to the celestial heavens, so did Ivan Stanislav bequeath Jared Sykes to the stars.

Richard Parker: THE RED SCARE!

Despite his considerable size our previous verbiage about releasing Jared Sykes to the stars was mostly metaphorical. Instead Sykes body rushes back to the Earth, crashing down neat and clean in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Well, folk, I think this drops the Iron Curtain on the storied feud between Jared Sykes and Ivan Stanislav.

Ivan finds the nearest camera, his Bear eyes staring directly into it. Dropping, Ivan hooks Jared’s leg, executing a picture perfect pin.

All while maintaining unblinking eye contact with the camera.

One..

Two…

Three…

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner.. IVAAAAAAAAN STANISLAAAAAAV!

Stanislav stands up in the ring, his hands held high above his head. He never allows his eyes to leave the camera though he does blink upon the calling of his name. Alexei quickly enters the ring, kicking the lifeless body of Jared Sykes out of the ring before joining Ivan at his side.

When Elvis Nixon tries to raise Ivan’s hand he is quickly shooed away by Alexei who takes that honor for himself.

Nick Stuart: A dominant victory here by Ivan Stanislav.

Richard Parker: You heard what Comrade Ivan said earlier. We’re entering a whole new era for the Red Army and Ivan just gave us a preview of what is to come!

We cut to commercial.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/Tropical-Turmoil-24-Commercial.mp4

We cut backstage to Angelica Brooks, who is standing by with a visibly agitated Anglo Luchador, dressed in his normal backstage garb: khaki shorts a custom-made t-shirt, this time with “LUCHADOR INNOCENTE” in block letters on the front, and his mask. His hands are on his hips and his neck is arched so that he’s looking at the ceiling. Angie is all business, ready to get to the bottom of why The Anglo Luchador would go back on his word.

Angelica Brooks: Alright, I’m standing by with the most elusive man in PRIME it seems, the Anglo Luchador.

The crowd’s reaction is mixed between jeering whistles and loud cheers. The Luchador exhales deeply, breaking his tense posture.

Angelica Brooks: Now, Tom, the whole world wants to know, why did you attack Jason Snow at ReVival 49?

TAL: *sigh* Angie, I didn’t.

He sighs deeply again despite sighing to start his response. He’s got a lot of sighs in him in Madrid it seems. Part frustration, part a cask-and-a-half of Castilla La Mancha’s best red.

TAL: I know what you’re going to say. “Tom, we saw you out there.” Sure. You saw someone who looked like me because I’m the only mark in this company who still wears a mask who isn’t attached at the hip to Joe Fontaine. Fine, whatever.

He shakes his head while grabbing his left temple.

Angelica Brooks: But if it wasn’t you…

TAL: Let me stop you there, Ange. I’m not really concerned with who did it. I don’t need a distraction going into Tropical Turmoil against the most dangerous wrestler who ever stepped foot in a PRIME ring. I’m not listening to the nerds on message boards who want me to embrace my “detective” side like I’m Bruce fucking Wayne, a character to be fantasy-booked into convoluted scenarios to satisfy their hunger for a fucking mystery box.

He drops his left arm to his side and looks straight into the camera.

TAL: But most of all, I don’t think it matters who did it or not, because no one would believe me anyway. And do you know why that is?

Angelica lifts up her arms in a shrug to say “I don’t know” without actually saying it.

TAL: Yeah, it’s because it got me what I wanted anyway. Whoop-de-FUCKING-do. Whoever it was, they did me a favor. Yeah, it was a real shitty way to do it, but, pfft, you know what? Whatever! What has sticking to your guns ever got you in this place anyway? And it’s not like I didn’t try, Ange. I know it has been a quick minute since I found this wellspring inside of me, but I really wanted to do things the right way.

He shakes his head. The disbelief and brokenness shines through the eyeholes of his mask.

TAL: And what did that get me? It got me another match with a guy who would…

The Luchador stares into the camera again and raises his volume to Ric Flair levels. Who’s Ric Flair? You know. No one in this universe does. And that’s the way we like it.

TAL: …GUT ME LIKE A FISH IF YOU GAVE HIM A KNIFE. I WANTED TO WRESTLE. WRESTLE. THAT’S ALL. I WANT THIS TO BE A SPORT. BUT THE FUCKING UNIVERSE WANTS ME TO FIGHT FOR MY LIFE, NO MATTER WHAT. PAXTON RAY WANTED TO MURDER ME. IVAN STANISLAV WANTED TO TURN ME INTO A GREASE STAIN. I JUST WANTED TO PROVE THAT I MEAN SOMETHING IN THIS INDUSTRY…

He throws his head forward and sighs audibly, the sadness dripping off the breath exhaling from his mouth opening.

TAL: And all I got was another dangerous man who wants to make my wife a widow. But I still got the match, right? What I wanted. Careful what you wish for, I guess. So yeah, it really doesn’t matter at all if I did it or not. Hell, let the gossip queens and bitch boys backstage take pride that the Luchador is just another hypocrite in a business full of them. Hell, if Alexei Ruslan can get his rocks off one more time, whatever.

He throws his head back and inhales deeply, the mucus in his nose causing a grotesque ripple caught by Angie’s microphone.

TAL: I’ll just have to get the last laugh and prove to everyone that I belong in this company after taking down the greatest it’s ever seen. The Ghost.

The Luchador swiftly turns around and exits stage left.

Angelica Brooks: Well, that was an experience. Alright guys!

The camera cuts to another part of the arena.

Paxton Ray is livid.

So livid, he either can’t see, or doesn’t care, that he charges forth towards a hornets nest.

The audience watching from the arena? They cheer him on.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all about anything except one thing.

And Fred Dick crossed the fucking line.

He rips through the hallways, kicking catering tables and throwing trash cans out of his way, until he arrives right in the belly of the beast.

The Whore House.

He KICKS the door open and rushes in.

Darkness.

Everywhere.

He can’t see a thing.

Three seconds. That’s usually how long it takes a man to realize he’s made a huge mistake.

In the first, he hears a door close.

In the second, he hears a door lock.

In the third, the lights turn on.

Daytona Diamonds, holding a chain.

Harley Walker, holding a motorcycle helmet.

STRONK Godson, with Lowell riding him piggyback.

And of course, Fred Dick, with a steel chair. Fred steps forward, a smile burning a trail across the forest of tattoos and pubic hair that is his face.

Fred Dick: Welcome to the Ass Whoopin’ Party, dumb ass. Looks like the pinata has arrived, fellas. Lionel, bring out the ceremonial whompin’ stick–

BANG!!! Paxton Ray KNOCKS Fred’s fucking lights out! The glass on Ray’s knuckles providing a taste of what’s to come.

Harley charges forth, swings the helmet, but meets the same fate as Fred, and hits the deck.

For a moment, the crowd swells with an incredible pop back in the arena as they watch Paxton hold his own with the Whoresmen on PRIMEView.

Unfortunately, it’s only a moment.

Paxton finds Daytona’s chain wrapped around his neck.

Daytona Diamonds: Looks like you need a little shuteye, peckerwood! Night night, motherfucker!

Daytona pulls back on that chain and falls backwards, dragging Paxton to the floor with him.

BAM!!! A kick right across the face from STRONK’s boot opens up a faucet in Paxton’s nose, blood pouring from it.

WHAM!!! Harley CLOBBERS Paxton over the head with the motorcycle helmet.

And once Daytona stands up to his feet, all four Whoresmen stomp a mud hole straight through Paxton Ray’s guts and out the other side of his ass.

It’s ugly.

It’s brutal.

Some will look up on the ass whooping party unfolding and say it’s evil. That beating another man senseless the way they are, it’s demonic behavior.

What Fred has to say next might only solidify that opinion.

Fred struts around Paxton’s beaten, bloody body like he’s the cock of the walk.

Fred Dick: Holy shid, Paxton Ray! You bleed A LOT!!!

Fred grins and looks down at Paxton’s bloody, demolished face.

Fred Dick: It’s a shame about yo’ missin’ little girl, Pax.

This causes a stir in Paxton, who tries to climb to his feet.

Clothesline by Harley Walker.

Fred Dick: STRONKYTONK, HOLD THIS SUMBITCH DOWN!

STRONK! Godson: OKAY.

STRONK puts his foot on the throat of Paxton.

Fred Dick: As I was sayin’. It sure is sad that your little girl is missin’. When I heard about that, I felt sorry for ya. I did, I got a heart after all. So I turned to the boys and I said, “Fellas, if Paxton Ray can’t see his little girl no more in this life…”

Fred lifts the steel chair high over his head.

Fred Dick: “Let’s make sure he gets to see her ass again in Hell.”

BANG!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! A CHAIR SHOT OVER THE HEAD!!! COUP DE GRACE!!!

Fred Dick is an evil god damned bastard.

Daytona Diamonds grins, nods towards Lowell.

Daytona Diamonds: Louis, climb down off ol’ STRONKY there and make your useless ass useful! Toss that sack of shit out of here. He’s stinkin’ up the joint!

Lowell opens his mouth to argue, but… seeing what happened here…

Lowell Dot Com: …’ight den homie! No probz!

As we watch Lowell drag Paxton out of the Whorehouse by the legs, we cut elsewhere.

Just minutes after his interview with Angelica Brooks, we find the Anglo Luchador walking down a corridor backstage at ReVival 50. He pauses briefly at a door, walks on, another door, walks on. At the third door he stops, turns enough for us to see “LUCHADORE INNOCENTE” on the front of his shirt, opens the door, and turns on the light.

And there is one Jason Snow seated in a folding chair, one leg crossed over the other, waiting for him.

TAL immediately, instinctively, shifts his weight to his backfoot, ready to defend himself.

TAL: What is this?

Jason Snow: You know I’ve seen a lot of really stupid people do a lot of really stupid things for attention, but you? At ReV 49? That might just take the cake.

TAL: Look, you believe what you w–

Snow holds a hand up.

Jason Snow: Well you got what you want. What you think you want. Me and you at Tropical Turmoil. How’s that feel?

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: IT FEELS GREAT, GHOST! HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK IT FEELS? DID YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I HAD TO SAY OUT THERE? NO, BECAUSE YOUR HEAD IS TOO SHOVED UP YOUR ASS THAT YOUR STOMACH ACID IS LIABLE TO BURN YOUR BALD FUCKING HEAD!

The Luchador looks around, grabs a folding chair, and wings it to his side. His breathing turns into hyperventilation.

TAL: I don’t know what sick game is being played here. AT ALL. But yeah, I got what I want, so who cares right? WELL I DO. AND I DON’T NEED YOU TRYING TO FUCKING AMBUSH ME IN MY OWN FUCKING LOCKER ROOM.

Jason Snow: If this were an ambush, you’d never have known it.

TAL: So what is this then?

Jason Snow: Gotta admit though, I didn’t think you had it in you. Interfering in the match. Thought you were above that. Or supposed to be. But I guess even the stupidest animal learns to adapt, you leave him in the jungle long enough. You said you wanted a match? And you did what you had to do to make it happen. Can’t say I don’t respect it. I would’ve done the same thing.

The Luchador shakes his head violently, in disbelief.

TAL: You really take me for a fucking rube, don’t you? I know, this business is full of cheats and carnies, and fuck, the little I know about you and your personal life, the shit that Lindz only WHISPERS about because she knows it’s deep shit? Yeah, I think the next trustworthy person you let into your life will be the first. Whatever though, you’re right. I got what I wanted. Fuck it, you know what?

The Luchador’s head bolts up to stare Snow dead in the eye.

TAL: I’ll accept it. I’ll accept it with the ten-ton iron weight dragging my stomach TO HELL because fuck man, nothing in my life goes to plan. I got what I wanted out of the deal. I get the Ghost at Tropical Turmoil, my measuring stick, my challenge. I just get to have it with my friends talking shit behind my back, with my enemies laughing at me, WITH MY OWN MOTHER CALLING THE POLICE ON ME FRIVOLOUSLY.

He turns his head violently to his left and starts tapping his foot.

TAL: Doesn’t matter. Every win in my life has been pyrrhic anyway. What makes this any different? Fuck it; we ball. I’ll be the villain this time, Ghost. Savor the flavor. Won’t happen again.

Snow smirks.

Jason Snow: Not sure if you’re looking for an opponent or a therapist.

He pushes himself out of the chair and, while walking by TAL, holds up two fingers (from anyone else, this might be misconstrued as a peace sign).

Jason Snow: Two weeks.

TAL: Looking forward to it.

Jason Snow: Two weeks.

We cut to ringside.

The arena slowly begins to darken, as the opening moments of “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begin to slowly reverberate. As the riff reaches its peak, the whole crowd is awakened with bright lights shining down upon them as out from backstage steps Lord Cecilworth Farthington.

FLAMBERGE is with him, holding a sign that reads “FLAMBERGE es un gerente”. They’re both pretty fucking pissed if we’re being honest – it’s been a confrontational night for the Glueminati, to say the least.

The camera quickly zooms into the self-assured smile that’s cracked upon the face of The Financier as he swaggers down to the right, both arms inserted into the pockets of a plain black hoodie. The jovial face of Farthington doesn’t entirely match his purposeful march to the ring, his shoulders swaying to the tune of “Choke”. The European crowd loves Cecilworth.

His hands never leave the pockets as he slowly rolls under the bottom rope and leaps up into the ring. He slowly raises his left arm up into the sky and gives the crowd a cheeky little wave as he takes his place resting against the ring corner.

Vince Howard: The following contest is your MAAAAAAIN EVENT! Introducing first, weighing in at 197 pounds, from Buckinghamshire, England…CECILWOOOOOOOOORTH FAAAAAAARTHINGTOOOOOOOOOON!

FLAMBERGE points with great emphasis to his campadre and beckons the crowd to shower him with even more ovation. The crowd obliges. After exchanging a few final words, FLAMBO bumps fists with Cecilworth and exits the ring.

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.

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, grabs the top rope and pulls himself up onto the apron as Minion hovers around ringside jaw-jacking. Hessian takes a stoic glance around before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

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

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

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

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

Nick Stuart: Massive main event tonight – two of PRIME’s most dangerous competitors, with Tropical Turmoil on the horizon!

DING DING

At referee Ashley Barlow’s first hint of a movement towards the ring bell, before even the first “ding”, Cecilworth Farthington was moving. In between dings, the left foot was planted.

And a microsecond into the match…

CRACK!

…he’s hit Terminal Cancer on Hessian.

Nick Stuart: HOLY – WHAT??

The superkick drops Hessian to his knees, but not his back. If Cecilworth’s recently-un-exploded limbs weren’t running on pure adrenaline at this moment, he might realize that Hessian is a very tall man to kick in the face and it’s quite easy to pull something when attempting a move that audacious.

Maybe he’ll realize it later.

For now, he must attack.

A running knee trembler to the skull is enough to drop Hessian to the mat, if only for an instant – The Murder Show, perhaps more beast than man, snarls and gets up to a foot as Farthington starts throwing piercing elbow strikes wherever he can find purchase. This is not the measured, calculated attack of a technical mastermind – this is a pissed off swan with a sharp beak and somebody’s taken away his loaf of bread.

The strikes keep coming and they don’t stop coming, but Hessian is still rising. Farthington takes a few steps back to build momentum before charging hard…

…except Hessian’s far from out of it. As Farthington approaches, Hessian bear paws him in the sternum and redirects his momentum hard enough to send The Financier tumbling. Hessian gets to one foot, then the other, and checks his teeth with his fingers – nothing loose, not yet – before marching over to the scrambling Cecilworth and wrapping his hydraulic press-like hands around Farthington’s head.

Nick Stuart: Farthington came out with a bang and a big flurry of offense, but Hessian’s a machine!

Richard Parker: Someone’s getting turned into glue tonight…the way things look right now, we might have to make it out of Farthington’s skull!

The head vice is crushing, but Farthington bucks and kicks like, and yes this analogy must continue, a flailing swan. Soon, it’s enough to get his feet to the ropes, forcing a break.

Farthington looks to take a moment and de-crush his thoughts – Hessian is not interested in waiting. He charges into the tangled Farthington and crashes into him with a Hess Express! Farthington falls awkwardly from the ropes to the ring apron, and then drops to the floor outside. Hessian looks to the crowd and pumps his arm with his signature gesture, eliciting a…

TOOT TOOT!

…from the crowd.

Barlow begins to admonish Hessian, but he either doesn’t listen or doesn’t care. He steps over the top rope to the apron and hops to the ground, stalking his prey, waiting for the right moment.

…”fuck waiting”, one imagines running through the giant’s mind, as he walks over to Farthington and delivers a huge open-handed chop squarely to his spine. Hessian then grabs Farthington in a goozle, lifts up the dead weight, and hurls him into the ring steps with a massive Choke Toss.

Ashley Barlow has decided now would be a good time to begin a count to bring the action back inside. Hessian glances at her for a moment, again doesn’t respond, and stomps his way over to the mess of steel and War Games Captain on the ground before him.

FLAMBERGE shouts a word of warning at Cecilworth, but makes a point to not interfere physically – Hessian quickly hoists Farthington up to his shoulders, shifts around his body positioning, and The Financier now finds himself in a crucifix position he’d likely prefer not to be in.

Nick Stuart: Hessian is looking for something big here, it looks like he wants to fire off the Ballista!

Richard Parker: Get out of there Cecilworth! Don’t become a siege weapon!

Who knows if it was FLAMBERGE, Richard Parker, or a voice in his own head that did the trick – whatever it was, something has woken Cecilworth back up. He clenches his arms and wriggles his hips and makes the hold as untenable as possible for his much (much) (MUCH) larger adversary.

Soon, Cecilworth is able to get an arm free, though he still finds himself high in the air on Hessian’s back. He finds a way to fluidly turn, slip, reposition, and –

RAHHHHHHHHHH!

He’s got Hessian in a rear naked choke!

Richard Parker: I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT HE FOUND IT!

Hessian’s eyes bug out for a second as he tries to fight his way out of it. Cecilworth is wrenching this choke as hard as he can. In the ring, Ashley Barlow’s count is up to 4.

Unable to break Cecilworth’s grip, Hessian aligns himself so their backs are facing a ring post, and he charges backwards – SLAMMING Cecilworth’s spine into the steel!

But the hold endures!

Hessian’s face is starting to turn deep red. He launches himself at the ring post again. Both men’s heads kick back and noggins have surely been knocked. Hessian’s looking winded, but now, Farthington’s fading a bit too. Barlow’s count is up to 7. Hessian breathes as deeply as his compressed windpipe will allow and digs deep, charging backwards again…

…except he didn’t quite line it up right. He ends up crashing into the side of the ring apron with his own hips and possibly the backs of Farthington’s legs. Their torsos continue their momentum (as Hessian was planning on this crash happening up top, not down below), and this results in Farthington tumbling through the ropes and into the ring, stopping Barlow’s count.

Nick Stuart: Maybe not the way he drew it up, but Hessian is free from that ch-OHHHHH!

Nick Stuart is interrupted by something happening outside the ring.

While FLAMBERGE hadn’t gotten involved physically in the match, he’s found himself in a classic French Lizard situation – running his mouth at a very large man who is not feeling particularly receptive.

Which is why Hessian has decided to shut this Frenchman up the best way he knows how.

Canadian backbreaker rack.

Gonzo bomb.

OOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHTWEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

Nick Stuart: OH GOD! THE HELLEVATOR! FLAMBERGE just had his head driven into the floor by Hessian!

Richard Parker: NO! NOT MY SWEET LIZARD BOY! What happened??

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE must have said something to the big man that he didn’t like – or maybe someone let him know about another time FLAMBERGE was at ringside for a match. ReVival 13, the night Phil Atken took the Universal Championship from Brandon Youngblood, with a MAJOR assist from the Lizard King!

Richard Parker: He didn’t do anything tonight, though! He was probably just telling Hessian the best way to make a croque madame!

FLAMBERGE is out cold on the ground. Ashley Barlow hops outside of the ropes in a hurry to check on him and to see if the medics might be necessary. She full-on yells in Hessian’s face about his actions, but Hessian remains unbothered – he knows he won’t be disqualified for this.

Barlow now kneels over FLAMBERGE while trying to direct Hessian away from the wreckage he’s just created, and her attention is split. And the crowd, especially in the front rows near this action, is ear-splittingly loud.

Which may explain why she doesn’t hear this part.

WHACK!

Farthington’s found himself a tasty little steel chair. And boy, you never knew that a swan could swing so hard.

WHACK!

A shot to Hessian’s back, sending a lightning jolt throughout his body.

WHACK!

One to his left elbow, right on the funny bone.

WHACK!

Another hard shot to the elbow, and Hessian’s grabbing it now in obvious pain (did something crunch?). Barlow’s still checking on FLAMBERGE, but Farthington imagines that if her attention returns to the competing wrestlers, him holding onto a weapon might not be the best look – so he drops it to the floor.

He kicks Hessian sharply in the arm for good measure.

And – no. No, he’s not going for this, Hessian is far too large for that…right?

Nick Stuart: Farthington’s draped Hessian’s arm over – what is that man thinking right now?

Richard Parker: I’ll tell you what I bet he’s thinking – rage! Revenge! The classic R’s!

Farthington grabs for Hessian’s far leg – that’s a tree trunk of a leg, he must observe – and he braces his hips.

He dips, going for leverage – but no dice. Hessian’s far too large, and/or, far too capable of defending against this.

Farthington’s knees are as sharp as anyone’s, and so he throws one into the side of Hessian’s patella. It turns. Farthington throws another sharp knee. Hessian’s unsteady.

We hear Farthington roar in a way that we may not have thought was possible from the usually-composed member of society’s upper crust…but that side of him isn’t here right now. It’s been replaced by menace.

With all the strain, all the leverage, all the technique he can muster up while dealing with this man who’s over twice his weight…

Hessian’s off the ground.

…

Cecilworth Farthington delivers a Worthless onto the steel chair!

CRASHHHHH!

SANTA MIERDA!

SANTA MIERDA!

SANTA MIERDA!

SANTA MIERDA!

It’s madness in Spain. Ashley Barlow’s attention is now too in-demand to manage the number of potential crises happening at once – FLAMBERGE gives a dazed but clear thumbs up and seems to be alive enough. She beelines to Farthington and Hessian, who are both down and in massive pain.

Hessian’s pain is a bit more obvious – the Fisherman’s Buster on the steel chair has created a crimson mask situation. Farthington is clenching at his lower back – between this, and something else that happened in this match that he had forgotten was such a strain in the moment, something’s not right. Barlow is considering calling for medical support, but Farthington waves this off and insists that he’s fine to continue.

With help from the ring apron, Farthington is able to slowly and surely bring himself vertical.

And like a horror movie monster, Hessian slowwwwwwwwwly sits himself up.

He puts a hand to his teeth again – well, there’s red now, and maybe something’s starting to shift. “Unacceptable”, one imagines him concluding. The front row audience members are in awe and a little bit of fear that this monster of a man is recovering this quickly.

Hessian and Farthington lock eyes – Farthington, intense, though a bit tired from the exertion and with adrenaline wearing off; Hessian, furious, considering murder, confused as to why one of his limbs seems to be offline. He uses the other to push himself up off the ground with force, which takes Farthington aback for a moment. The Englishman rolls back into the ring, and without hesitation, Hessian follows suit. FLAMBO has decided the best course of recovery is to tap into lizard instincts and to remain fairly motionless and out of harm’s way, but not before shouting a final word of encouragement to his fellow Glue Prince.

Nick Stuart: Both men back in the ring now – it feels like it’s been a while since I’ve been able to say that.

Richard Parker: Some unbelievable offense tonight from these two, and they’re both looking pretty beat up, partner.

Farthington is a hair more spry and definitely the quicker of the two, and a good thing too – though with his back strain, it’s significantly more painful for him to use these advantages. Hessian is a wounded mountain lion, clearly in pain, but at his most dangerous.

That mountain lion lunges forward in a burst of speed and suddenly he has Farthington in another goozle with his good arm.

Farthington scrambles, this time leveraging a kick to Hessian’s bad arm, which forces the hold to be released. Farthington attempts more striking offense – Hessian steps through these strikes and absorbs them before dropping Farthington with a short arm lariat. He goes to stomp on Farthington’s skull, but Cecilworth is able to roll out of the way, darting into a chop block that puts Hessian on a knee.

Farthington steps back and measures for another knee trembler, clutching at his lower back for a moment first. The moment of hesitation is enough – as Farthington charges, Hessian bursts up in a surge of momentum, hoists Farthington twice, spins, and CRUSHES his kidneys with a Tilt-The-World Backbreaker!

Nick Stuart: HUGE maneuver to the already-injured back! He’s going for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

…

!!!

KICKOUT! TWO POINT NINE!

Hessian, furious at the kickout, gets to his feet in a hurry. He begins dropping elbow after elbow into Farthington’s ribs and stomach before going for another cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Farthington’s operating on fumes alone. Hessian roars out in his own anger and frustration. It’s time to end this, just like he ended that French kid’s night earlier.

He bends down and begins to lift up Farthington into Canadian Backbreaker Rack position.

He winces before he can get his opponent all the way up, so he has to pause.

Hessian takes a deep breath, prepares to lift again – and he winces again.

His left arm is giving out on him.

“FUCK no”, we again imagine, and Hessian puts everything he has into a final lift –

Cecilworth uses the momentum to overshoot Hessian’s intended target! He rolls off of Hessian’s back and safely lands on his feet behind the Murder Express, who is now fully hunched over and grabbing at what has to be a messed up elbow.

Farthington’s instincts kick in. He charges forward.

Elbow smash to the back of Hessian’s head.

Nick Stuart: Malice in Wonderland!

He grabs the prone Hessian’s wounded left arm. He applies the cross arm breaker. And he wrenches SO hard.

Richard Parker: Article 51! Farthington’s got that thing locked in!

He’s pulling back Hessian’s arm so, so hard. There isn’t a Plan B – if this fails, he knows he’s done for.

…

Hessian isn’t tapping.

Why isn’t Hessian tapping?

Farthington pulls back with the last drops of strength he has left, and he’s starting to feel movement within Hessian’s elbow joint.

Unwilling movement.

Unsettling movement.

Head still bleeding like a river, stuck in the middle of the ring, left arm in danger of being ripped fully out of its socket before he’ll have time to make it to the ropes…he makes the only decision he has left.

Hessian submits.

DING DING DING

The crowd erupts in thunderous applause as “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me echoes throughout the arena. Farthington lets go of Hessian’s arm and collapses, his chest heaving giant gulps of air. Hessian holds his injured arm and rolls out of the ring, amazingly under his own power. FLAMBERGE rolls under the ropes and helps his Glueminati brother up to his feet as Farthington clutches at his lower back. Ashley Barlow raises one of Farthington’s arms as FLAMBERGE raises the other, both pointing to the victor.

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER, AS A RESULT OF A SUBMISSION…CECILWOOOOOOOORTH FAAAAAAARTHINGTOOOOON!

Nick Stuart: What a massive win and a huge night for Cecilworth Farthington and Team Glue. He taps out the Murder Show-

Richard Parker: Murder Express.

Nick Stuart: -and the challenge has been thrown down for a massive match at Tropical Turmoil! The Financier versus King Cool, Cancer Jiles!

Richard Parker: It looks like Farthington’s back is hurting there…I am prepared to start a fundraiser for as many massages, ice baths, heating pads, Icy Hot, creams, cortisone shots, whatever this man needs…I need him at 100% so he can absolutely CRUSH Cancer Jiles!

Nick Stuart: That will do it from us here in Madrid! Next stop – TROPICAL TURMOIL!

We linger on a shot of Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE celebrating together, a unified front.

FADE

TO

BABYFACE GLUE