ReVival 51

ReVival 51 is now emanating from the Albertsons Stadium in Boise, Idaho. It’s the one with the blue football field, very cool, very not shit. Unusually, though, it begins not with Nick Stuart or Richard Parker introducing everyone to the show. It does not begin with fireworks and pyrotechnics. No one’s music is playing to herald the first match. We’re not even looking at the signs yet, that’ll come later and they’re probably really cool and hip and funny.

Let’s set the scene.

The ring has been decorated. An electric blue carpet has been placed over the top of the ring canvas. Balloons in the shape of eggs have been placed on the ring posts, and several wreaths of flowers have been placed in the far corners. There, standing in the center of it all, is Vince Howard. PRIME’s Hall of Fame hammy herald stands as immaculately and as stoically as a man surrounded by Bandit-related paraphernalia can possibly look.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome at this time, your NEWWWWWWWW PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION!

The lights immediately go out.

The now-familiar opening of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” kicks in, and fog spills out over the stage. The PRIMEview comes alive with brief highlights of the end of Tropical Turmoil, conveniently leaving out the pivotal moment when Cancer Jiles threw a Terminal Cancer at both champion and challenger. Whoever put this video together… we’ll go ahead and hide his name and say that he goes by the name of “Punchbox Peyfield”, was very judicious in how to edit things.

When the guitars hit, a single spotlight hits an empty part of the stage and a square-shaped hole opens up in the stage. From its depths rises a throne.

You could see his forehead before anything else, it’s hard to miss that thing really. But the man in the dapper blue waistcoat has a piece of hardware with him that made him undeniable – the Universal championship belt. The crown that he’d sought for so long was finally in his grasp. Crownless no more, the PRIMEview displays a new name for him. One, perhaps, more applicable to his current status as PRIME’s new king.

KING OF CONQUERORS
CORAL AVALON

After a few moments, Avalon slowly rises from his seat. His championship is in his hand as he begins to walk to the ring.

After a few steps, he raises the Universal championship high over his head. Moments later, there’s a wave of explosions behind him, including several coming from the throne itself.

BOOM-BOOOOM-BOOOOOOM!!!

After the explosions, Avalon sets the title belt on his shoulder and heads to the ring. He jumps up onto the ring apron and steps through the ropes. Avalon stands at the very center of the ring, and holds up the belt once more. This time, there’s a shower of sparks raining down from the ceiling.

Avalon sets the championship on his shoulder and walks over to Vince Howard. After shaking the longtime ring announcer’s hand, he takes the microphone from him. After tapping it a few times to make sure it’s still on, with a telltale thunk sound every time, Avalon signals for his music to be cut and he stands ready to speak to the fans for the first time.

There’s one problem with that.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Okay, more like several thousand problems with that.

You see, Boise’s a stone’s throw away from Coral’s adopted hometown in Seattle. The whole Pacific Northwest is home turf for him. And once the music cut off, you could probably hear this crowd from space. Coral patiently waits for the crowd noise to die down a bit, and then he raises his microphone to his lips again.

Coral Avalon: Hey, guys, I—

He doesn’t even get three words out before the crowd reacts.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Needless to say it’s been a whirlwind two weeks since Coral conquered the crown, and the sheer catharsis of his victory could be felt worldwide; certainly inside Albertsons Stadium.

The new champion can’t help but to smile from all the adoration he’s being shown. He bashfully paces about inside the ring, glowing more and more as the fans continue to shower him in cheers and applause. It’s maybe the most positive reaction that any eGG Bandit has ever received.

Well, outside of Philadelphia, anyway.

Avalon pats the air as though he’d like a little quiet, but the fans continue cheering raucously. It’s like Coral had just done a Statue of Liberty play, for God’s sakes. After the noise dies down, Avalon tries to speak again.

Coral Avalon: So, after t—

Nope. Not yet.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Coral bursts out laughing, though the microphone doesn’t catch that. The crowd hasn’t gotten it out of their systems yet, and we’d probably be here all night if this kept going on. Boise isn’t quite the hometown crowd, but it’s close enough when all falls under the Kingdom.

Coral pantomimes his desire for quiet again, but he’s forced to wait through the cheers and the ovation.

Finally, the Universal Champion is allowed to speak.

Coral Avalon: Twenty-two years. That’s how long I’ve been in the game.

Fans cheer as Coral continues.

Coral Avalon: I wrestled my first match down south in front of like ten people. By the end of the year, I wrestled in Action! Wrestling’s Match of the Year and won the Belmont Classic. The sky was the limit. Wasn’t that much different from FLAMBERGE, really, just… uh, maybe a little less swag than that guy.

Unexpectedly, considering that we were now halfway across the world from Europe, fans cheer the mention of everyone’s favorite lizard lad. Coral smiles at this, and then continues.

Coral Avalon: And there were many bumps in the road. So many setbacks. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever be allowed back in a PRIME ring, or wrestle under my own name.

There’s some outcry in the crowd at that prospect.

Coral Avalon: So, I’ve waited twenty-two long years to say… Thank you. Thank you, everyone, for standing by me for as long as you have. Thank you to my lovely wife and the mother of my daughter, Annabelle, who has the patience of a freakin’ saint to stand by me on nearly every leg of this crazy international journey I’ve been on.

He holds up the Universal championship high over his head.

Coral Avalon: Thanks to all of you, I am no longer a “Crownless King”! I am THE King!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

As Avalon is addressing the crowd, the cameras pick up the presence of two men making their way down to ringside as inconspicuous as two of the most conspicuous members of the PRIME roster can possibly be. Which is to say that Bobby Dean and Tony Gamble have both made their way to ringside.

Coral Avalon: This title is everything, this crown that I’ve sought all this time. I will do my part to live up to the standard it deserves. Standards set by guys like Youngblood, and Snow, and Tsonda, and… heck, I’ll throw him a bone and say Jonathan-Christopher, too.

He smiles as he sets the belt back on his shoulder.

Coral Avalon: Now, I don’t know what’s planned for me, or who’s going to walk down this aisle tonight. It could be the boss. It could be Colton, or my old pal Cecilworth. Or it could be Ivan…

BOOOOOOO!!!

No love for the Russians in Boise, apparently. Coral lets the boos settle before he continues.

Coral Avalon: Either way, I hereby welcome all challengers. Take aim at the throne, as I have. I will meet you head on to defend it.

He glances behind him to see Bobby and Tony enter the ring, and then turns fully around to face his fellow eGG Bandits.

Coral Avalon: So, what about you guys?

Bobby has to look around for a while, wondering who Coral could be addressing before eventually pointing straight at Gamble. Gamble, for his part, has an eyebrow raised.

Coral Avalon: You’ve been at my side on my most recent campaign to get to this piece of gold ever since I took the Alias Championship at Colossus that brought me to the Universal. And sure, Tony’s busy tonight.

He almost wants to tell Tony “good luck” considering his opponent, but he doesn’t.

Coral Avalon: But you guys should consider that this “open challenge” doesn’t really exclude either of you. You’ve been here for a long time, never even had a look for this championship. Don’t you think you two deserve it? Why not take the plunge?

Before Bobby the Beaute or Tony the Two can answer the call, Screamin’ Jay does.

In the form of an electric guitar.

BOOOOOO!!!!!!

Out from the back, and to an obvious myriad of booing, The Rotten eGG, Cancer Jiles. He looks different, but only because the color of his tracksuit is funeral black. Oh, and he’s got all sorts of nicks, scrapes, cuts, and bruises covering his usually clean kept face.

Oddly enough, the TRUE KING of COOL doesn’t make his way down the entrance ramp to join his fellow brethren of the shell inside the ring. Instead, he stands idly by at the top of the ramp with his gaze fixed upon a star.

Cancer Jiles: What’s the matter? Not going to invite me down to the ring, Champ? Are you afraid I might do something stupid? Or is it that my… pedigree isn’t good enough for you to be around anymore?

Someone, Coral, realizes that being the bigger man comes with being the UNIVERSAL champion. Well, and having a good heart also helps. Or any heart for that matter.

Coral Avalon: That’s not it at all. Please, come join us in the ring, and hel-

Cancer Jiles: No, I don’t think that I will. In fact, I’d rather stand out here where I know it is safe and won’t get sucker punched.

Coral Avalon: Suit yourself then.

A championship worthy shrug.

Coral Avalon: So, what brings you out here, Jiles? I notice you’re not holding any flowers so that’s off the table. Maybe you’re looking for an apology to that punch you just referenced? Or are you out here to tell me it was me that you were aiming at? Better yet, don’t tell me you’re out here to answer my challenge?

The crowd roars intensely.

Unimpressed, The COOL one snorts.

Cancer Jiles: Good one, Coral, but you got it twisted. I don’t answer challenges. It’s the other way around. People. Challenge. Me.

The newly crowned Universal Champion looks around the ring and finds Bobby, who is comically hiding behind Tony, who are both cowering near the turnbuckles. Yes, that is to say the parents are fighting again so there will be no help from either of them.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured you’d say. Never wan–

Cancer Jiles: However, for you Coral, for you maybe I make an eggception. Maybe I come out of my shell a little bit. I mean, it is a GOLDEN opportunity we’re talking about here, and not for nothing that will always be known as my old belt that you have draped over your shoulder. Well, for as long as you’re holding it anyway.

Coral walks over to ropes nearest the ramp, sits down on the second one, and gestures for Jiles to come on down. Behind Coral, Bobby Dean and Tony Gamble have the collective looks of children watching mommy and daddy fight.

The crowd absolutely swoons for Battle of the Bandits, Part Two.

Cancer Jiles: Or maybe, Coral, maybe I do what I normally do and drive a person so mad they’re left with no other choice. They throw caution to the wind, agree to stipulations they can not overcome, and risk a frostbitten forehead just to get their hands on the COOL.

That sounds familiar.

Ha.

Coral Avalon: Oh, that might have worked a year ago… when I wasn’t the Golden Bandit…

Coral postures with Jiles’ old belt; his confidence radiating. The COOLYMPIAN does his best to hide his disgust, however the frames on his T-shades start to frost giving him away.

Coral Avalon: … and when I didn’t have this!

AGUDFGJHUGEPOPTAGAJK~!

The COOLYMPIAN goes to talk, but the gathered masses roar even louder, and with more raucousness than before.

They silence The COOL.

For now…

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/ReV51-Commercial.mp4

Nick Stuart: Welcome to ReVival 51! Nick Stuart here with Richard Parker, and we’re jumping right into it with a double debut. We’ve got Ozura standing in the ring right now, and he’s about to meet his opponent.

As we do that, we get a glimpse off all the signs in the Albertsons Stadium!

COOLOSSUS SZN STARTS NOW
THIS IS THE SECOND TIME I’VE WITNESSED A FUNERAL FOR AN INANIMATE OBJECT AT A WRESTLING SHOW, AND MY THERAPIST SAYS THAT’S NOT NORMAL
MORE LIKE R.I.P.-DOO
TONY PEES CROOKED
KERRY KUROYAMA, THE THIRD PIRATE OF DARK TUBER
RIA IS STILL MY ALIAS CHAMP YOU’LL GET IT GIRL
HOW COME DAYTONA DIAMONDS CAN SAY P[blurred] BUT WHEN I PUT IT ON A SIGN IT GETS CENSORED
PAXTON RAY IS NOT A FACE. THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK.
NO, UDAHO
I HEAR THE SPANGLO LUCHADOR IS THE REINCARNATION OF THE SKITTLES ALIEN
HAWAIIAN BBQ SOUNDS TOO SPICY
LL IN ALL ITS JUST ANOTHER CRACK IN THE SHELL
I PUT A LOT OF TIME AND MONEY AND INVESTMENT INTO THIS TAG TEAM, SO WHY WOULDN’T I WANT TO FUCK IT?

As the opening riffs of “I Cannot Escape the Darkness” by Those Poor Bastards hits over the PA, Stetson King emerges from the back wearing an all white western duster and a black cowboy hat. He holds his hands palms out, stretched out with elbows bent, resting just above his waist. His hands are covered in black soot.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, weighing in at 215 pounds, from Miami, Oklahoma…The Ghost of Industry…STETSOOOOON KIIIING!

THERE IS A CURSE UPON MY EVERY WAKING BREATH 

As he walks forward, singing along to his entrance, he runs his pointer and middle finger down his face, creating streaks of black from the bottom of his eyelids down to his chin.

Richard Parker: Oooh, I like this guy. He’s a facepaint guy. Those guys are nuts!

AND I CANNOT ESCAPE THE DARKNESS 

Stetson ignores the crowd, their futile attempts to high five him or send jeers his way, as he walks with arms outstretched, smiling as he he makes his way to the ring. He slowly walks up the steps, rubs the dirt from his feet on the edge of the ring, and enters the ring. He removes the duster and hangs it in the corner, placing his hat on top of it. He rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles, stilling smiling gently, only a few teeth showing.

DING DING!

Nick Stuart: All right, this match is underway.

Richard Parker: Oh man, I’m so scared for Stetson King tonight.

Nick Stuart: Why?

Richard Parker: Why? It’s the mystery, Nick! I looked on our website about Ozura’s bio and I found nothing! He could be anything! He could be 400 pounds! And not like Bobby Dean, but a tall 400 pounds! He could be a literal grim reaper!

Nick Stuart: Richard, he’s in the ring right now.

Richard Parker: Then describe him for me.

Nick Stuart: He’s…uh…he’s getting clotheslined by Stetson King!

Richard Parker: Nice save.

Stetson knocks Ozura to the ground, then mounts him and begins assaulting with punches. As Ozura falls, his arm falls under the ropes. Ashley Barlow comes in to warn Stetson about the rope break, but Stetson uses a spare hand and shoves Ashley off. That causes the fans of Boise to boo, because Ashley is the best and must be protected.

Or maybe she doesn’t need protecting at all.

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is asserting herself here, telling Stetson she’ll disqualify him if he doesn’t listen!

Richard Parker: Let the man cook!

Nick Stuart: That’s a very young phrase for a very…not young man.

Stetson finally relents, as he doesn’t want to get disqualified minutes into his first match. He turns his attention to Ozura, who is gripping the ropes. Stetson grabs for his legs, but Ozura kicks him off and gets to his feet, then grapples. He moves behind King and attempts a back to belly suplex, but King escapes out of it and hits Ozura with a headbutt.

Richard Parker: Oh no, they say to never headbutt a Samoan!

Nick Stuart: Is Ozura Samoan?

Richard Parker: I DON’T KNOW!

Ozura stumbles back and Stetson grabs him and tosses him into the ropes, leveling him with a double hand sledgehammer to the chest. Ozura falls and Stetson covers.

ONE!

TWO!

Ozura kicks out. Stetson grabs his head and lifts him up, then guides him to the corner.

Nick Stuart: The information we have on Stetson King isn’t extensive…

Richard Parker: More than Ozura’s!

Nick Stuart: But we do know he likes inflicting pain, he says it’s the only thing that has ever made sense to him. And he’s trying to do more of it now.

Stetson rears back and sends a huge overhand chop into Ozura’s chest, and then another. He grabs Ozura’s wrist and uses his weight to send Ozura into the other side, where he crashes chest first and leans against the turnbuckle. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Stetson charges towards Ozura…and misses!

Nick Stuart: Signs of life from Ozura!

Ozura begins to punch Stetson, then unleashes a beautiful high kick to Stetson’s face, leaving him stunned. He stumbles out of the corner, and Ozura grabs him with a belly to belly suplex.

Nick Stuart: Stetson rolls out of the ring! He’s trying to take a breather!

Richard Parker: It’s smart. Who knows how much more damage this guy is capable of.

Ozura follows Stetson out of the ring, grabbing him and slamming his head on the apron. Ozura quickly rolls him under the ring ropes and steps up to the apron, looking down at his opponent. But quicker than he can react, Stetson whips his legs out, tripping Ozura and causing him to fall back to the outside, his head hitting the apron.

Nick Stuart: Smart move by Stetson King, and he may have grabbed the momentum back!

Richard Parker: He’s certainly eating good in the neighborhood.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Applebees? Get it?

Nick Stuart: Why would you bring up Applebees?

Richard Parker: You don’t know why I’d bring up Applebees while we watch a wrestler we literally know nothing about?

Nick Stuart: No…

Richard Parker: Me either. Just saying nonsense like usual. But boy do I love Applebees. I could sit there all night. Probably would gain 100 pounds though.

Stetson rolls out of the ring and grabs Ozura, then slams him into the ring post. Ozura slumps against the ring post, and Stetson grabs him and rams his shoulder into the ringpost six times quickly. Barlow begins her count, but she doesn’t get to three before Stetson rolls Ozura under the rope and hops up onto the apron.

Richard Parker: Notice how Stetson got up on the ring apron just like Ozura did a minute ago, but he made sure to do it towards the turnbuckle where Ozura couldn’t give him the same treatment. Pretty smart move.

Nick Stuart: Great observation, Richard. And as always I’m astounded with how quickly you can go from nonsense to fantastic wrestling analysis.

Richard Parker: What can I say, I’m just the best.

Stetson steps in between the ropes as Ozura gets up. Stetson goes behind him and grabs his waist.

Nick Stuart: German suplex…Ozura landed on his feet! Ozura grabs Stetson! Huge neckbreaker!

The fans begin to cheer as Ozura pops up with renewed vigor. He looks at the turnbuckle, then points to it before scaling it.

Nick Stuart: Here he comes with an elbow drop…he connects! And here’s a cover!

ONE!

TWO…

Stetson kicks out, rolling over and holding his chest. Ozura slashes a thumb across his throat, then lifts Stetson to his feet.

Nick Stuart: He’s got Stetson…I think he’s going for the Tiger Driver!

Richard Parker: It would probably be all over if he hits it! Maybe!

He grabs Stetson and starts to lift him, but Stetson powers out and hits him with an elbow. Before Ozura can recover, Stetson levels him with a lariat. Ozura tries to get up but Stetson moves him towards the corner and gets to work.

Nick Stuart: He’s hitting him with corner punches! And now he’s transitioning to corner shoulder thrusts! Ozura is on the ground, and here come the stomps!

Richard Parker: Six of each, Nick. He calls that the Mark of Evil.

Nick Stuart: Ozura looks out of it! Stetson King gets him up, lifts him…ASHES OF PROGRESS! He goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner…STETSOOONNNNN KIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

Nick Stuart: Well it was a quick back and forth match but Stetson King came in to inflict punishment, and he certainly did on Ozura.

Richard Parker: Great job by Stetson. Now let’s go get some 10 dollar appetizers.

We cut backstage.

Well hello there! It has been a minute hasn’t it?

Basically an entire month had passed since that deplorable delinquent Crash Jackson rode his damn MONSTER WEINER HOT DOG TRUCK over the legandy WON ACTION NEW STAGE, destroying both it and Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael.

Since June 14th the smoldering remains had been removed, the last vestiges of the past cleaned away to make room for something..

..new..

A single pinpoint of light shines down on an old, familiar face.

The NEWS Babushka, dressed in her ancient Soviet uniform with a red scarf wrapped around her wizened face, peers cheerfully at the camera. Set up in front of her was a dusty looking vintage microphone set, likely from the same era she was born in.

NEWS Babushka: Live from Kaelingrad, the RED MANIFESTO begins!

We get treated to some of that good-good Soviet music that your grandparents told you so much about. Not that modern Russian junk, we’re talking about that sweet, old-school sound they used to sing when crushing Nazis supply lines. The kind of music that sang to the soul of the Free Workers, each voicing joining each other in Communist harmony.

The screen washes a deep, Communist Red. Famous paintings of Soviet Leaders fill the screen with Commissar Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael added in. We see a portrait of Comrade Stalin having breakfast with Max Kael reading an I-pad in the background. A scene of Field Commander Zhukov marshing forces at Leningrad with Commissar of the Red Army dual wielding Mosin-Nagant M1891/30s behind him.

Between the paintings and the Soviet music, we’re starting to get a real clear picture of whats going on here. The music and absurd paintings continue to grind out for a few more seconds before we are dropped down into the set for..

THE RED MANIFESTO

Standing in the middle of a large, red void is the Herald, Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington. Gone is the classic look of the Herald and instead we are treated to the new and improved the Herald. He wears a Red Army military tunic and peak cap. A mask no longer hides away his boyish good looks though there is a degree of vacancy in his expression that we all knew was probably there.

He waves an absurdly large Red Army/Kael Family banner about his head while dancing in place. It’s not like a real good dance, it’s more like an overly excited young man who might need to pee but then, that seems to fit the Herald’s nature.

The Herald: Introducing your host… The Lord of Kaelsalvania, The Prime Minister of Maxopotamia, Stealer of the Abandoned Nicknames from that coward Sid Philips, the Commissar of the Red Army, the black HEART of PRIME, The Red Right Hand of Communism,  the Wise and Wonderful Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael, SECOND of his NAME! LONG MAY HE MAIM!

We cut to a shot of Max Kael sauntering onto the crimson stage. Each new shot seems to expand the depth and dimensions of this ever changing area. Much like the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE had the strange ability to draw things into it, this staging seems to expand as necessary.

Don’t try to think about it too much, lord knows I’m not.

Wearing his crimson Red Army Uniform, Max appears drenched in medals already despite having only been a part of the Red Army for a few months. He has a heavy Soviet trench coat hung over his shoulders like a cape. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a red and gold Red Army microphone, lifting it to his lips as he stares down the camera.

Commissar Kael: Comrades! It is my pleasure to welcome you all here to the inaugural episode of THE RED MANIFESTO, the Red Army’s newest Flagship show. On this fine program I will work as the diplomatic arm of the Red Army, I will reach out to our friends, to our enemies, to any and all walks of life in order to show you all a better way. The Red Army Way.

A wide, unfriendly smile stretches across Max’s face. Now that it’s easy to see his face it is clear he is still carrying a few wounds from his match with Crash Jackson at Tropical Turmoil.

Commissar Kael: But first, before we get things started there is an important bit of business that MUST be attended to. MY THE HERALD?!

As the Commissar bellows, the youthful Communist the Herald springs from the shadows like a house cat that thinks it’s conquered the jungle. However instead of his usual banner he holds in his hands a red pillow for which there is a very garish looking medal of gold and red that looks like a screwdriver being driven into a skull..

The Herald: In recognition of your VALIANT defeat of that weiner worshiping Crash Jackson at Tropical Turmoil you are hereby awarded The Soviet Distinction of the Defense of Lisbon Against Crash Jackson! This is the 2nd Defense Against Jackson award of your DISTINCT career, oh Grand and Glorious Commissar Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael!

Tossing the pillow away the Herald eagerly pins the extraordinarily long winded award to Max’s chest. It joins several other awards which appear to be others Max had defeated in his career here in PRIME thus far. There are also a smattering of other medals that don’t appear to have anything to do with PRIME and are instead legitimate Soviet era medals, orders and honors. Heroic Soviet music plays in the background while Max feigns humility at his new metal.

Commissar Kael: Comrades, it is with great humility and servitude that I accept this great distinction on behalf of the Red Army! It was not only my duty but my pleasure to cast that pathetic fucking shitbag Crash Jackson into the dustbin of history..TWICE! heh-heh!

The low giggle punctuates the dangerous tone in his words while he peers down at his new medal. The Herald dances away from Max as the Commissar puffs his chest out proudly, his medals rattling like windchimes.

Commissar Kael: With the Crash Campaign coming to a victorious close we may now return our attention back to our true task. The destruction of CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON. I haven’t forgotten my promise, lil’ Lord Farthington, and I haven’t lost sight of our business. My hands.. My eager fingers are inching closer and closer to your throat.  Don’t get choked up just yet, Mr. Finishline.. We’re not quite there yet.. mmhmm-heh-heh..

Max mimics the act of strangling someone while he does his best to stifle his deranged, rasping giggle.

Commissar Kael: No, Cecilworth, my old friend, I’ve got one more stop before I’m ready to deal with you. Before I can plunge my bloodsoaked hands into your chest and rip out your fucking lungs.. There’s just one more task at hand. I gonna take away your weird little Reptile Child, I’m gonna RIP HIM away from you.. Heh-heh.. I’m coming for FLAMBERGE, baby.

The Herald once again appears from the side of the stage. He’s pushing a very poorly made wax statue of FLAMBERGE, the kind of thing you’d expect to see at DIsney’s Hall of Presidents. Like, you can tell it’s supposed to be FLAMBERGE but also nobody should be proud about the work that went into this.

Max slithers down from his portion of the stage to circle the wax statue of FLAMBERGE with an evil grin stretching across his face.

Commissar Kael: I’ve heard all the rumors, FLAMBERGE, heard about you being some kind of Lizard Royalty. You know, I don’t know a lot about French lizards, however I do know that that absolute WORST version of Godzilla was a lizard from France.

Kael slinks behind the wax statue, massaging the shoulders as he breathes down its neck. You can probably see the discomfort in the dead, soulless eyes of the statue as it stares blankly forward.

Commissar Kael: Tell me, my sweet Lizard Child, in all your time here in PRIME you’ve been fighting all these big, dumb PRIME apes.. When was the last time you ran into a real snake? Heh-heh.. When was the last time you faced someone with blood colder than your own?

The black HEART of PRIME leans in close to the wax statue’s face, hissing his words like a snake into the wax ear of FLAMBERGE.

Commissar Kael: My dance card is wide open for UltraViolence, Lizard King. I’mma give you this chance to stop me, Neck Collector. You can put a stop to all my plans, maybe even save your friend Cecilworth Farthington’s very life. Come and collect my neck, FLAMBERGE.. If you think you can..

Winking at the screen Max makes a “call me” gesture with his hand. The camera seems to linger on Kael’s malicious gaze as he stares down the camera before the Lord of Kaelsalvania begins to hum ominously to himself.

Commissar Kael:.. Mmmmm.. Happy Birthday to mmeeeee.. Heh-heh.. Happy Birthday… to mmeeeee…

As he sings his own birthday song the Herald once again appears, this time being followed by a baker pulling a massive birthday cake onto the red staging. It’s a ridiculously large cake, like, not a reasonable cake for any one person to have for a Birthday. But then Max is not a reasonable man and he often demands unreasonable things. .

Once again Max feigns surprise at the arrival of the cake.

Commissar Kael: Oh yes! One last surprise for the road! Today we’re celebrating my ONE YEAR BIRTHDAY! That’s right, folks, it’s hard to believe it’s been that long but it’s true! I’ve been walking this planet now for over a year and god damn it feels fucking good! And now, to celebrate, I’m going to eat this whole fucking cake by myself! The communist way! Heh-heh!

Skipping over to his cake, Max dismisses the Herald with a wave of his arms. Saddened he will not get any cake, the Herald mopes away however the baker remains, shuffling around in the background. Max pays them no attention as he snatches a piece of cake up in his hand.

Commissar Kael: Happy Birthday.. To ME.. heh-heh.. Happy Birthday.. To ME! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MAXIMI-

Before the Commissar of the Red Army can complete his song the baker charges forward, shoving him full force into the massive cake!

Max doesn’t have time to react as he is taken completely by surprise. In fact he still has a stupid smile on his face as he sails forward, his feet leaving the ground while his body goes horizontal. It’s a few agonizing seconds in the air before his body crashes down completely through the massive cake.

He’s completely engulfed by the confectionary catastrophe. He slowly rolls over as his entire body is covered in sweet cream and cake, his face a mask of sugar and food coloring.

The baker removes their hat to reveal..

Anna Daniels. Not just any Anna Daniels. A blond Anna Daniels with a smile about as wide as Max’s usual maladjustment. Is she still high? Is she drunk from the abomination cocktail she made during the jet ski funeral? Either way, there is a look in her eyes that isn’t the norm.

Anna Daniels: С днем рождения, гребаный ублюдок!

Throwing the french pastry chef hat down at Max, Daniels sends a stiff kick to the side of the Commissar’s head, knocking him back down into the cake, unconscious. The fraudulent pastry chef proceeds to do the horrible crime of breaking the fourth wall by looking at the camera with a shrug.

Anna Daniels: Or something like that. We don’t know Russian very well.

The Herald can do little but run and scream as The Muse takes her leave.

We cut elsewhere.

PREVIOUSLY RECORDED

Ah, beautiful Boise, Idaho. The City of Trees. Les Bois, if you’re French. Spud City, if ya nasty. A city caught between the splendor of the Pacific Northwest and the restless monotony of the Midwest. Who needs Europe when the city that potatoes built is right fucking there?

The sun is shining.

The birds are singing.

There’s a funeral happening.

At the very banks of the Boise River, as families float down those glistening waters aboard intertubes, foldout chairs have been laid out in front of a crooked wooden podium flanked on either side by two equally crooked speakers. A table full of crockpots and casseroles sits at the back alongside paper plates and twenty ounce bottles of every flavor of Mountain Dew you can get your hands on. A crudely built raft lays anchored to the shoreline by rough hewn rope and, on that crudely built raft, the mangled remains of a recently deceased jet ski sits with an American flag draped over the most ruined bits.

Once again, PRIME has gathered to say goodbye to a beloved, inanimate object.

The gathered crowd is full of familiar faces, most of whom look positively bamboozled as to why they decided to show up to… well, all of this. Others are making the most of it, enjoying the hors d’oeuvres, and even more are giggling with their peers, prepared for what’s surely going to be one of the biggest shit shows PRIME has ever seen. In the front row, Daytona Diamonds sits dressed in black. A box of tissue paper sits in his lap and a black veil hangs from the rim of his cowboy hat. The Intense Championship, for whatever it’s worth, drapes across his left shoulder.

The rest of the Poor Whoresmen are nowhere to be seen.

The Anglo Luchador, dressed in a fine tailored Italian suit with his lucha mask on, stands looking annoyed. Who can say why he looks annoyed? Someone is claiming to be his long-lost twin and also, he’s at a funeral for watercraft. But he accidentally clicked “Yes” on the e-vite, and even accidental yesses must be honored. A tecnico always keeps his word, or else he’d be a rudo. Also, he is holding several brown feathers in his left hand. Whose feathers are they? Funny you should ask, but now’s not the time.

Off to the side by her lonesome is RIA. On her body is a black long sleeved see-through blouse over top of a black bra. Her legs are clad in skin tight cargo pants and platform boots. Her appearance is very similar to Aaliyah’s in “Romeo Must Die”. It turns out that when you have someone else read an email, ‘jet ski’ and ‘Jet Li’ can sound very similar. What would dressing as an unfortunately passed music star accomplish? Was she expecting to meet Jet Li? Was this just a reference? Damn good questions. Just know and appreciate that she looks spectacular.

Slightly separated from the group stands the Russians, Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan. Stanislav wears a pristine crimson double breasted military uniform with gold buttons and a matching hat. Ruslan, well, you know what he’s wearing. Stanislav holds an entire platter of pigs in a blanket in one hand and tosses them into his mouth, while Ruslan holds a bottle of vodka with a “condolences” card taped to it. The two don’t seem to really know why they’re here, or what they’re here for, but at least Ivan seems happy with the snacks.

FLAMBERGE is planking with a deep sense of shared loss. It doesn’t matter where.

Somewhere in the middle, Anna Daniels appears suddenly, almost as if the universe has willed her into this place. Considering the Muse’s attire for this sad occasion is yoga pants and a sweat drenched tank top with GLASS JAW ACADEMY written on it, we can only assume it did. Honestly, it’s amazing she even showed up to this thing given that she was the reason why the first vehicle funeral happened and is currently teaming with a guy who likes to set sea faring vessels ablaze. There’s an audible “fuck” from her lips as the Multitudes shuffle about in her brain. Noticing her water bottle is empty, she looks at the several acres of Mountain Dew and sighs for reasons unknown.

Further down the buffet line, Bobby Dean and Tony Gamble have set up shop near deviled eggs. Neither have dressed for the occasion, but as Bobby eyes those delicious little morsels, he holds a card in hand with ‘From Coral’ written across the front. Notably, Coral Avalon’s nowhere to be seen and neither is Cancer Jiles until the camera pans to find him standing away from the other Bandits, arms crossed over his chest next to none other than Hessian. The two mean mug the rest of the crowd, talking amongst themselves.

A few feet away, more appropriately dressed, is the Heartbroken Hot Dog. Crash sports a pair of somber sunglasses and black bandana and sport coat, not out of respect but more to express he too knows the pain of losing something so lovely and beautiful and badass as DD’s Jet Ski bestie. To show his sincere support, he begins to walk towards Daytona to the tune of squeaky wheels and sloshing water. Crash emerges from behind the table with a Radio Flyer he acquired barter-style and it’s packed with ripe hotdogs. Pulling a bun from his inner pocket, he leans in towards Daytona, slightly startling the Intense Champion.

Crash: For your loss, hoss?

Daytona looks to the Radio Flyer full of hot dogs and then back to Crash. From behind his veil, we can only assume the gesture has touched him deeply.

Daytona Diamonds: Aw Hell’s bells, Crasher… that’s ‘bout the sweetest thing you could’ve done. I ain’t got much of an appetite right now, but you best believe I’m savin’ that sumbitch for later.

The slightest hint of a smile plays at the corners of Daytona’s lips as he weakly reaches out to take the bun and then grabs a prized weiner from the little red wagon, putting them together as one might do. He tucks it in an interior jacket pocket for safekeeping and looks towards Crash, a whimpering noise slipping out before he finds his words.

Daytona Diamonds: One day, I’ll repay this tiny act of kindness. Not today, but eventually. Mark my goddang words.

Near the podium, Joe Fontaine seems to be discussing something with a man in a full black bodysuit, such that you couldn’t see his face. It’s worth noting that Joe Fontaine is wearing funerary black, but it’s bedazzled. He’s also wearing a cowboy hat in solidarity. It’s also worth noting that the man in the bodysuit has a very particular puppet on his hand. A penguin, to be more specific. In fact, Fontaine’s discussion is specifically being directed at the puppet and not at the man himself.

You see, Don Winters had been invited. Truly, he wanted to appear. That’s what he said, everyone heard him. But Donny Dub couldn’t give the service the gravitas it deserves, according to valid trustworthy source Donny Dub. Thus, His Word and Light has sent a suitable replacement: Pious Penguin.

God help us.

Joe Fontaine: I’m telling you, Double P, this is kind of my dominion. My area of expertise. My calling. My life’s work. You get what I’m saying? Because I’m saying I’ve done this at least twice already. I’m so good at it that I have an award on my mantle for how much I crush this kind of thing.

Joe hesitates, realizing his choice of words, and immediately starts hitting backspace.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, how much I, uh… smash this. No, wait. Kill. Kill? No, no, probably not. Okay, the point is that I’m very good at this whole “viking funeral” thing, even if the Bonafides haven’t talked to me in years and thus won’t supply us with any GUNZ for this particular funeral. And also, we’d probably get in way more trouble for bringing GUNZ this year than we did two years ago. I still can’t believe we got away with that. I mean, that one terrifying tiny guy had a freakin’ minigun, for God’s sakes! Did you know that “minigun” feels like a big misnomer? Because I do! I don’t even know how he fired it!

The puppet nods silently, clearly wishing it was anywhere else. And somewhere beyond Boise, a tempermental ewok-like creature’s GUN sense is tingling.

We cut away from the event’s Master of Ceremonies to another group of mourners including the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian, Bryan Dawkins. Dressed in his finest formal floral wear–a black floral resort shirt, black floral board shorts, black flip flops and a black lei–Dawkins sits with a somber face and a pineapple drink in his hand. As the seats begin to fill, Dawkins rises and makes his way to the…widower? I don’t know how to refer to Daytona, to be honest.

He taps the sullen cowboy on the shoulder and drapes a rhinestone covered lei over his shoulders.

Bryan Dawkins: Condolences, bruh. May the jet ski ride the eternal waves of the afterlife with happiness and joy…

Daytona Diamonds, from behind his veil and through gentle sobs, speaks in a ragged voice.

Daytona Diamonds: Thank you, peckerwood. That was beautiful.

With that, he leaves Daytona with another pat on the shoulder and makes his way toward the floating memorial. Dawkins wades into the river, fighting the current along the way, until he approaches the raft. He produces another rhinestone lei and drapes it across the mangled steering wheel and lifts his pineapple drink into the air. After pouring out one for his homie…I mean, the jet ski…Dawkins makes his way back to his seat with moist eyes.

The clop-clop of flip-flops against heels is heard as Ami Troy approaches from behind the “catering” table. The Merry Mischief Maker’s presence is a bit of a surprise, since she normally doesn’t travel for ReVivals. However, once she got wind of this nonsense, she knew she couldn’t miss seeing Daytona Diamond’s misery for herself.

And that’s why she’s plunked herself right in front of the podium. With a gigantic bucket of popcorn that she can barely wrap her arms around.

Ami looks around, waves at RIA, sticks her tongue out at Alexei, then drops her sunglasses over her eyes and settles in for the show. Daytona peers over his shoulder at Ami, scoffing to himself and muttering… punt? Bundt? Hunt? We can’t hear him, but that’s okay. He does not engage. He. Does. Not. Engage.

A lean, handsome blonde man hangs around the edge of the crowd in an electric blue suit and zebra-print cowboy boots. There is no shirt below his suit jacket and the word “CARNAGE” is just barely peering out from under the breast of his coat. Despite the abundant sunshine, he has a black umbrella stretched out over his head. The man is absolutely bawling. Like it’s honestly obscene and it’s making everyone around him uncomfortable. In between sobs the man wipes his face with the sleeve of his arm, soaking a big ugly frown of tears into the electric blue. He takes a deep breath and looks up to the skies.

Jackson Cooley: (whispering) Why, God? Only the good die young.

From the inside of his jacket the man pulls a half eaten stromboli. Judging by the look on his face, this beautiful Italian innovation in fine dining was not what he intended to remove. With a shrug, he takes a bite and then tosses it on the ground. Digging around once again he removes a small spoon filled with cocaine and loudly deposits the sugar to his boogers. His loud sigh is pained as he waves goodbye to the jet ski before turning and leaving.

Voice: This Baja Blast Mountain Dew Flavor will go great with what IHOPs is serving up for you wonderful people today.

Camera cuts to a big eyed Steve Harrison standing next to the crock pots and the dozens of dozens Mountain dews lining up the table. Harrison pounds a Baja Blast and tosses it into the trash can nearby,

Steve Harrison: Tatum!

Everyone begins staring at Steve but he seems to not notice anything right now. He bends down and picks up a large box and tosses it on the table.

Steve Harrison: Here at IHOPs (stops and stares at camera) a Miracle Enterprise subsidiary we care about our customers and in this trying time as we all weep for the death of a Jet Ski just remember WE are HERE for YOU!

He points at everyone and then opens the box.

Steve Harrison: Back in France I tried to find this beautiful Jet Ski and take it for a ride but the Jason Snow Globe had me gallivanting into memory loss instead. But I realized, if I cannot ride that mofo I can at least immortalize it. Introducing to you here and anyone OUTSIDE the arena and not a cop I give you the Jet Ski Snow Globe!

He grabs an item from the box and lifts it up for everyone to see.

Steve Harrison: COME AND GET YOUR PICK ME UP AS LONG AS SUPPLIES LAST. TRUST ME, THIS SHIT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL THE JET SKI INSIDE YOU!

Harrison sits down and starts fidgeting with another Baja Blast. He cracks the cap and takes a big swig and lays the Snow Globes out as several people start walking over. No names allowed unless a waiver is signed.

Joe Fontaine, meanwhile, has stepped up to the podium. He taps the microphone a few times, and an ungodly amount of feedback hits everyone’s eardrums. It does the job of getting everyone’s attention, though.

Joe Fontaine: Hello, everyone. Today, I… Joe Fontaine, your Master of Funeramonies, have solemnly brought us all together to celebrate the life and times and troubles and tribulations and other T-words of everyone’s favorite beautiful aquatic ride that shone like sea rhinestones and tore ass through the waves like I’m about to tear ass through those tiny weiner dogs we’ve got over there.

He smiles vapidly as he carries on with his opening speech.

Joe Fontaine: Now, there have been a lot of terrible, awful, no-good, shitty, absolutely dreadful things that have happened in PRIME over the last two weeks. Most of which is now verboten, we shall never speak of the cursed name of Tropical Turmoil and all it has taken from us. Especially our jet ski, whose name I think is Doneski.

It isn’t, but you try correcting Joe Fontaine.

Joe Fontaine: In any case, Doneski wasn’t just the crasher of waves, the faithful steed of a rhinestone cowboy. It was a symbol! Immutable, iconic, and definitely not a biohazard after such prolonged contact with said cowboy!

Oh, yeah. With Sid not around, I guess nobody’s going to call out Joe Fontaine for using the “symbol” analogy for a third goddamn year in a row. Then again, how many people were going to admit that this is the third of these sorts of funerals?

Joe Fontaine: And thus, we salute Doneski’s memory… provided Doneski was its name… and now we shall hear from all those that Doneski touched over the many months it’s been around!

Joe nods towards Clay Byrd, who’s found his way to the funeral and is eating an entire fried chicken. Like, the whole thing. He’s holding it by the leg, and he is staring cold in Joe Fontaine’s eyes as he does it. An expression that expertly tells Joe that he is not taking a single step towards the podium. Fuck you. RIA instead wanders up to the vacant speaking space, a can of White Claw in her hand.

RIA: So I totally wouldn’t be here if Kohime wasn’t reading that email that got sent out from the other room. Anyway, I didn’t know the jet ski, didn’t interact with it, not sure I care about it. However, if you sat on that seat any time after Daytona, I would suggest you go get yourself checked. Especially if you have any itching in your no-no places. Anyway, sorry bout your loss and such. I need to find Romeo. Or Han Sing. Or Jet Li. Whatever.

RIA moseys away from the podium, making her way over towards Ami. She leans down and whispers something to her before glaring Daytona’s way.

With an opening at the podium, The Russian Bear, with Ruslan in tow, approaches. He looks down at the comically small podium in front of him. Ruslan carries the plate of pigs in a blanket. The Russian Bear inhales thoughtfully. He’s been to plenty of funerals. Especially when one gets older, they start to see more of them. Moments like these always tug at his heartstrings.

Ivan Stanislav: Это действительно пустая трата времени. Видеть вас всех, стоящих здесь просто для того, чтобы восхвалять технику даже не российского производства, позорно. Я здесь исключительно потому, что какой-то капиталист заплатил за эту еду, и я ее ем. Как однажды сказал Ленин: «Мы капиталистов повесим, а они нам веревку продадут!»

Translation: “This is truly a waste of time.

To see all of you, sitting here simply to eulogize a piece of equipment that isn’t even of Russian make is shameful.

I am solely here because some capitalist paid for this food, and I am eating it. As Lenin once said, “We will hang the capitalists, and they will sell us the rope!”

Ivan pauses and clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: Однако миниатюрные поросята, завернутые в рыхлые одеяла, были восхитительны. А остальное я заберу с собой. До свидания.

Translation: “However, the miniature piglets wrapped in fluffy blankets were delicious. And I’ll take the rest with me.

Goodbye.”

With that, The Russian Bear steps away and offers Ruslan the floor. Alexei hands Ivan the platter.

Alexei Ruslan: Если бы это было в России, я бы подарил каждому из вас, ублюдков, удар дрона.

Translation: “If this was in Russia, I’d give every one of you bastards a drone strike.”

Ruslan nods and starts to walk away from the podium, but he’s halted at the sound of a very loud…

Ami Troy: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ruslan immediately turns feral, turning on his heel and nearly clawing over the podium to get at the source. Ivan loudly ‘oofs’ while holding the tray of snacks while simultaneously grabbing Alexei’s overcoat at the center of the back, reeling him in. Ruslan hurls unintelligible Russian as Ivan drags him backwards. Ami smiles, sweetly, then throws a handful of popcorn in Alexei’s face.

Ruslan once more roars and tries to pull out of Ivan’s grasp, but to no avail. Both Russians, however, are now complaining loudly in Russian at anything and everything in front of them. That is until Ruslan gives up, whips around, and knocks the platter of snacks out of Ivan’s hand.

CRASH!

They stand there, at the podium, and stare at the fallen pigs in a blanket. Ivan looks at Alexei. Alexei looks at Ivan.

Ami eats her popcorn.

Stanislav raises his huge arms and slaps them on his sides with frustration. Ruslan looks sheepish and the two Russians don’t return to their spots. They leave, walking off together towards the horizon… minus snacks.

Next up to the podium is The Anglo Luchador, clearly sweating profusely because his fine tailored Italian suit did not allow him proper cooling in this weather. He gets up to the lectern, adjusts his collar, and then slams the handful of feathers onto the surface.

TAL: Charlotte sends her regards.

As quickly as he got up to the microphone, he darts away, undoing his tie and top three or four buttons on his shirt in the process.

Finally, with the podium empty, Daytona Diamonds stands. On quivering legs, he steps forward to stand for an uncomfortably long time behind the podium, little whimpers escaping his throat before he pulls a sheet of paper out of his jacket. Unfolding the paper, he pushes back his veil to reveal his red rimmed eyes, the tears still falling down his cheeks.

Daytona Diamonds: Alright… Firstly and foremostly, lemme thank y’all for joinin’ me here today to say goodbye to our beloved jet ski. Although my so-called brothers in The Poor Whoresmen decided not to show up, it’s good to know so many of y’all care… They say ain’t no father ‘sposed to go through the pains of buryin’ their child and I reckon now I know… I… I know what they mean…

Daytona pauses to wipe the tears away, a deep breath and a ragged sigh pouring out of him as he tries and fails to regain his composure.

Daytona Diamonds: This jet ski was more than just a personal watercraft… It was a faithful steed, a friend in our times of need, and faster’n a stud hound ‘bout to fuck a bitch in heat. It was a shinin’ beacon in PRIME’s darkness and it made love to those waves in a way that made me proud to be a man… When I first rode this exquisite machine down the Delaware River to cal ol’ Coral Avalon a peckerwood, I didn’t know the kind of bond I was ‘bout to have. This jet ski changed my life just like it changed all of yours…

Another pause, another stifled wail. Daytona’s barely holding it together and it shows.

Daytona Diamonds: It didn’t deserve to die so young, crushed ‘neath the hubris of a garbage truck covered in rhinestones. I think now to the fear it must’ve felt, the horror that swallowed its very soul when it realized it’d never again dance upon the Gulf of Mexico or sip the muddy waters of the Mississippi… We planned to ride the Chattahoochee, but it weren’t meant to be and, for that, I will always live in guilt… and so, we say goodbye to a hero, a warrior in a way befittin’ of its legend… good night, sweet prince. May you forever rip the sickest waves in the Kingdom of Valhalla…

And with those final words leaving Daytona’s lips, he reaches beneath the podium to pull out a bow, several arrows, and a bottle of lighter fluid. Someone in the audience gasps. Shut up, it’s fine, it’s not a gun. On cue, “In the Arms of the Angels” by Sarah McLachlan begins to play through the speakers.

Daytona passes the bottle of lighter fluid to Joe Fontaine as he approaches the shoreline and lifts the bow, arrow notched and tears in his eyes. Dutifully, the blackclad man with a Pious Penguin puppet on his hand unties the rope anchoring the jet ski’s funeral barge to land before Joe douses a piece of cloth with lighter fluid, wrapping it around the end of the awaiting arrow.

Hold your breath, ladies and gentlemen.

Joe lights the arrow ablaze.

Daytona draws back his bow.

He takes aim.

He let’s go.

With a whoosh, the flaming arrow soars through the air, destined for the pitiful remains of the best goddang jet ski PRIME had ever seen. It glides, leaving sparks and embers in its wake, a reminder of how brief our lives truly are and how death comes for us all, but also that there will always be those you leave behind to carry your flame into the future. Take solace in that, friends. For none of us truly die as our memories live in eternity. Though the universe may be a cold place beneath a jealous god’s eye, nothing can extinguish our flame as it rises to an infern—

The arrow lands in the water, ten feet shy of the raft, with an unsatisfying plop.

Daytona Diamonds: Goddangit! Lemme load another one…

Another arrow strung, another flame ignited. See it take fight, a bird of fire and frenzy, a beautiful silhouette against the midday su—

Nope. That one misses too.

A frustrated Daytona Diamonds stands there on the shore, watching as the jet ski and raft float further downriver. Muttering curse words under his breath, he starts to draw another arrow from its quiver when the sound of crunching popcorn next to him gives him pause.

Ami Troy: Damn, Katniss, talk about the odds not being in your favor.

Daytona looks down and sends Ami something akin to a death glare, but way wetter ‘cause of all the tears.

Daytona Diamonds: Have some goddang dignity, Troy! Your mom don’t even show up and now you’re here bein’ a fuckin’ bitch. Whole family’s fuckin’ rotten, I swear to Jesus. Stop it. This is important.

Quietly, thinking that particular distraction is thereby dealt with, Daytona turns his attention back towards the raft floating down the river, lifting his bow and notching another arrow.

Ami Troy: Bet you miss again, Dumbtona.

Daytona Diamonds: Maybe I’d have better aim if a certain fuckin’ cunt would shut her fuckin’ mouth, huh?

Daytona takes aim. Gauges the distance. The arrow’s about to make its majestic journey when a sharp, shooting pain rockets up the Rhinestone Cowboy’s shin as Ami Troy’s foot collides in a well-placed kick. He drops the bow and arrow and grabs his leg in pain, hopping on one foot. To add further insult to injury, Ami whacks Daytona’s funeral hat off his head and replaces it with the overturned popcorn bucket. Buttery kernels cascade down Diamonds’ outfit and get stuck in his hair.

Ami Troy: I doubt it. Good luck with all that though.

Satisfied with herself, Ami skips off. As the popcorn falls away, a seething Daytona Diamonds scrambles to grab his bow and arrow. With the audience watching, he struggles to notch another round.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s it! That’s fuckin’ it! I’m gonna kill her! I’m gonna shoot her in the fuckin’ eye! Someone get that raft back here and put her on it! I’m gonna set her on fuckin’ fire, goddangit! I’m gonn–

Suddenly, there’s a noise in the distance, growing louder and louder. It’s so loud, it makes Daytona’s sudden thirst for vengeance fall to the wayside. The gathered crowd turns to look in unison, wondering what could possibly happen next.

I BACKED MY CAHR INTEW A CAHPCAW THE OTHA DAY
WELL, HE JUST DRO AWF, SOMETIME LIFES’KAY
I RAN MY MOUFAFF A BEEET TOO MUCH, AW, WHAT DID I SAY?
WELL, YOU JUS LAUGHED IT AWF, IT WAS AWW OHKAY

Murmurs in the audience as mid-2000s classic and certified bop “Float On” by Modest Mouse drowns out the languid sadness of Sarah McLachlan. Daytona turns to face upriver, blocking the sun with his hand just as the source of the noise comes into view.

It’s a powerboat. Specifically, a Chris-Craft Stinger 390x painted in sparkling silver, decadent gold, and bejeweled with rhinestones.

Along its side, in cursive script, the vessel’s name proudly displayed: 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓦𝓔𝓣 𝓓𝓡𝓔𝓐𝓜.

And riding aboard this beautiful ship? Well, there’s Fred Dick, STRONK Godson, Harley Walker, and Lowell Dot Com.

Harley Walker parks that beautiful bastard right on the bank by driving halfway up the son of a bitch. Everyone seems terrified, disinterested, or mildly intrigued to see if Harley is gonna wreck the thing.

Harley looks around.

Harley Walker: Is this not a reasonable place to park?

Fred slaps Harley on the back and stands up.

Fred Dick: So…

Fred gestures towards the boat by pretending to splooge all over it.

Fred Dick: Whatcha think?

Daytona stares, still picking popcorn out from his hair. In disbelief? Yes. In shock? Absolutely. But mostly? In love. His lower lip starts to quiver, his eyes welling up with genuine tears. He doesn’t even care if the other wrestlers are watching. This is an emotional moment, goddammit.

Daytona Diamonds: Is… is this for me…?

The Whoresmen all sport grins on their faces, even Lowell.

STRONK: YES.

What can one say when words will never do? Daytona’s trembling, tears streaming down his cheek, shaking his head in awe.

Daytona Diamonds: You… you sonsuhbitches… you… you fuckin’… goddangit! C’mere! Get your candyasses over here! You too, Lionel! WHOREHUG!

Daytona throws his arms out wide as he runs, not walks, towards The Wet Dream. He leaps on board with a single bound, The Whoresmen meeting him with a very brotherly group hug. The audience stares. From the back of this crowd, Anna mouths out “WHOREHUG?” in confusion…before ultimately deciding it’s not even worth questioning and sips on her Mountain Dew/stolen vodka abomination of a cocktail.

Daytona Diamonds: I FUCKIN’ LOVE YOU BOYS!

Fred Dick: We love you too, damn it! Say, wanna take the girl for a spin?

Daytona Diamonds: You’re goddang right I do! Lipschitz, make yourself useful and push this mean motherfucker back into the water!

The Whoresmen all look to Lowell who points to himself in surprise before sighing and nodding, climbing out of the boat and onto the shore. As he struggles to push The Wet Dream back into the river, Daytona takes his rightful place behind the steering wheel, turning his attention towards the gathered crowd.

Daytona Diamonds: Oh. Right. Reckon you dicknoses can go on and fuck off now. We’re done. Shows over. Thanks for turnin’ out, mighty fuckin’ white of you. Help yourselves to the rest of the concessions, I guess.

The Rhinestone Cowboy shrugs his shoulders, clearly no longer caring about the funeral, his peers, or even the shattered remains of the jet ski which are almost completely out of sight. As The Wet Dream plops into the water, a breathless Lowell Dot Com stands at the shore.

Lowell Dot Com: Hoo… Hoo boy, that was heavy. Come on, guys! Let’s get outta he— hey, wait a minute!

Before Lowell can jump on board the boat, the engine fires up. Daytona grips the wheel, flicking a few switches and grinning as wide as the Grand Canyon. Without any hesitation, The Wet Dream takes off down the river at full speed, music blaring louder than the voice of God.

And just like that, this long, arduous funeral came to a close; not with a whimper, not with a bang, but with a shouted battle cry ringing across the whole of Boise, Idaho:

AND WE’LL AWW FLOAT ON OKAYYYYY!

AND WE’LL AWW FLOAT ON AWWRIGHT!

Cut to backstage where Matt Mills stands with a microphone in hand, his practiced smile unwavering.

Matt Mills: PRIME Faithful! Please give a warm welcome to the newest team in our returning tag team division… Bryan Dawkins… Adam Ellis… Hawaiian BBQ!”

Bryan Dawkins appears first, embodying the aloha spirit with his laid-back swagger, those unmistakable colorful sunglasses perched on his nose, and the pineapples emblazoned on his black tights catching the light. He’s wearing one of the newest additions to the PRIME merchandise catalog – a black tee with Dawkins’ “BRUH” logo printed across the front.

Close behind him is Adam Ellis, whose imposing frame is somewhat at odds with the nostalgic Boise State Broncos football uniform he wears and his blue wrestling trunks.

Matt Mills: Adam, Bryan, thanks for coming out and talking to us before your match tonight.

Bryan Dawkins: Millsy – good to see ya, Bruh. Been a minute, ya?

Adam Ellis: Thanks Matt.  It’s great to be here in Boise.  I was six years old the night my father let me stay up and watch Boise State upset Oklahoma in the 2007 Fiesta Bowl.

Matt nods after Adam’s effort at a blatant cheap pop.

Matt Mills: First and foremost…Bryan, I think I can speak for all of PRIME and our fans that it’s good to see you back after that unfortunate injury you suffered against Paxton Ray at ReVival 46! Although it certainly didn’t seem intentional, coming out of a matchup with an injury courtesy of the Bayou Butcher isn’t uncommon. One misstep is all it takes. How are you feeling?

Dawkins flashes those brand new pearly whites before responding.

Bryan Dawkins: Well…you’re not wrong about the Bayou Bruh – he’s no joke and that uppercut certainly did a number on me. But I’ve gotta argue with ya a minute, bruh.

Mills looks confused.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya see, I was locked in going into that match. Was in a good headspace after vacationing in Bora Bora and winning the BBCW Light Heavyweight title. Thought I had everything on track and was ready to walk out of 46 with the dub. And then she screwed it all up…

The camera cuts to a replay of Rose and Dawkins backstage at ReVival 46. Rose, fresh off of mending fences with RIA, is run into by Dawkins as he’s mentally prepping for the upcoming match against Ray. A seemingly inconspicuous interaction.

Bryan Dawkins: Before that moment, I was good. I had a gameplan and was ready to execute. And then Rose got in the way. Threw off the concentration, ya know bruh?

Mills nods. Ellis, on the other hand, realizes this may not be the best time for his new partner to go off on a tangent.

Bryan Dawkins: Know how a single grain of sand can be enough to ruin a–

Before Dawkins can finish what we’re all sure was going to be a flawless metaphor, Ellis nudges the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian away from Mills. He knows that whatever comes out of Dawkins’ mouth next will do nothing but weaken the perception of the newborn tag team.

Adam Ellis: Maybe we should just move on.

Dawkins wanders off screen for a minute, frustrated and attempting to compose himself.

Matt Mills: Point taken. Tell us, how did this dynamic duo come together?

A few moments later, Bryan steps back on screen, seemingly renewed and ready to assume the role of spokesman for the team.

Bryan Dawkins: Sorry ‘bout that, bruh…

A now calmed Bryan infuses his words with that natural Hawaiian cadence, the words slipping out of his trademark grin with ease.

Bryan Dawkins: …it all came down to Dawn McGill. She saw something in us… some serious synergy, ya know? She convinced me that teaming up with big Adam here was the way to go. From what I’ve seen so far, seems like she made a good call.

Adam nods in agreement.

Adam Ellis: Yeah, Dawn put two and two together pretty quick when Bryan and I met for the first time.  She’s got an eye for talent.

Matt Mills: Speaking of Dawn, have you heard anything more from her after she was abducted at an Appalachian Mountain Championship Wrestling show.

Adam just shakes his head no.  Dawkins quickly throws his arm around the shoulders of his taller partner and interjects.

Bryan Dawkins: Obviously we’ve got a bit of a…situation…happenin’ with Dawn right now, but as she would want, we’re all business. We both know what the lucha bruhs are capable of and our attention’s been focused on this first match. Ain’t that right, Ellis?

Ellis, still a bit distraught, affirms the question with a quick nod and walks off.  Dawkins turns back to Mills and lets out a nervous chuckle.

Bryan Dawkins: See bruh? Focused. Heh…

With that, the Hawaiian follows his partner off-screen and toward the ring, as their matchup is up next!

Nick Stuart: Our next match in PRIME’s new and improved Tag League is about to begin, ladies and gentlemen! The team of Bryan Dawkins and Adam Ellis, colloquially known as “Hawaiian BBQ” by the fans, are set to face off the unlikely duo of the Anglo Luchador and partner the Spanglo Luchador!

The Boise faithful cheer once “Cynic” by Local H begins blaring through the PA. The Anglo Luchador steps through the curtain and comes striding down the ramp, followed close behind by the innocuously named “Spanglo Luchador” Zapp Scatino. TAL is charging up the crowd and slapping hands while Scatino sulks after him with slumped shoulders, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following is a team contest scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, at a combined weight of four-hundred and fifty-nine pounds… the ANGLO LUCHADOR… and ZAPP SCATINO… LOOOOOS MELLIZOOOOOSSS(?)!!!

But when TAL turns to check in on his partner, Zapp suddenly sparks up and joins in on the hand slapping and hootenannying with the fans at the barricade. The moment the Luchador turns back to the ring, however, Scatino gives up on the act.

Richard Parker: The Anglo Luchador has a long lost twin…? And it’s… Zapp Scatino??

Nick Stuart: Allegedly. Knowing ol’ Mort, could just be another con. Still, there seems to be some connection between the two, and we’ll see if and how they can coexist on the same side.

Local H is replaced by “Mama Didn’t Raise No Fool” by Garrett Briggs as Adam Ellis and Ginny Van Lear come through the curtain together and advance down the ramp. Ellis is pumped and excited, while his better half looks noticeably agitated after their earlier backstage encounter.

They stall at the bottom of the ramp for a moment before the music switches over to “Song 2” by Blur. The fans pop as Bryan Dawkins steps out next, taking a moment to pose at the head of the ramp before joining his partner at ringside. Dawkins and Ellis exchange a look, and nod.

Vince Howard: And the opponents, at a combined weight of four-hundred and fifty-eight pounds… ADAM ELLIS… and BRYAN DAWKINS… the HAWAIIAN BARR-BEE-CUUUEEE!!!

Richard Parker: Ginny looks angry enough to… well, you know.

Nick Stuart: Shoot somebody? Given what happened earlier, can’t say I blame her. Nevertheless, Adam Ellis will need to stay focused tonight and get on the same page with Bryan Dawkins. Both these athletes come from different backgrounds, but have shared ideals, and this match will be an interesting test to see how they mesh together as a team.

Ellis and Dawkins slide into the ring together while the Luchadors Anglo and Spanglo appear to be bickering over something in their corner. Jimmy Turnbull makes his final checks and cues for the bell.

DING DING

Dawkins and Ellis determine who between them will start over a quick game of rock, paper, scissors, which the former wins. Across the ring, Scatino offers to start on behalf of his team, though the Anglo Luchador would sooner start himself before putting his trust into his “twin”. He meets Ellis in the center of the ring, and the two respectfully slap hands before encircling one another.

They tie up. Adam comes out on top with a side headlock. TAL slips out and goes behind into a hammerlock. Ellis pops him in the mouth with an elbow before reversing out into an arm wrench. The former Intense Champion slaps his shoulder before lucha-flipping forward to reverse the torsion and rolls Ellis onto his back with an arm wringer of his own.

TAL keeps control of the wrists and sets his knee across the arm, but Adam curls up and pulls him off with a leg scissor around the head before kipping back up. Once on their feet, the two competitors pause and stare each other down for a moment while the fans cheer. Ellis glances to his corner where he sees Dawkins calling for the tag, and obliges. The erstwhile Mortimer Kjedelig likewise requests a tag, but TAL assures him he has it handled.

Richard Parker: What’s Anglo’s problem? Not a team player?

Nick Stuart: More likely, not trusting a person of questionable ethics like Zapp Scatino any further than he can throw him!

Richard Parker: Be as it may, trust is the cornerstone of a good tag team, and if he has any hope of this working out, then he needs to get over himself.

The Anglo Luchador moves in for another tie-up, but Dawkins shoots in around him and takes him down to the mat from behind before switching over to front chancery. TAL works his way back to his feet, but Dawkins stays in control, reaching in to hook a leg to assist him in lifting the Spear of Huitzilopochtli off his lone foot and dropping him over onto his back with a fisherman’s suplex with an added bridge!

Nick Stuart: Fisherman’s suplex into a cover!

One!

Two!

And a kickout by the Anglo Luchador!

They scramble to their feet, Dawkins one step ahead. Bryan shoots in low, but TAL sprawls his legs, and counters with a swinging neckbreaker. Popping to his feet, he takes a bounce of the near ropes to give some added zing to a quick senton splash, but doesn’t anticipate Dawkins rolling out of the way.

TAL hustles back to his feet, gingerly clutching his back, but finds himself being bulled into the corner by Dawkins. Bryan takes an arm and Irish whips him the other way, only for TAL to reverse and send him into his corner. He hits the turnbuckles hard, and before he can react, the Anglo Luchador follows through with a vaulting Lucha Splash!

The Luchador twirls and excitedly howls back into the cheering crowd. As he does, Scatino drops from the apron, snags the dazed Bryan Dawkins by the ankle, trips him to the mat, pulls his leg out under the ropes, and slams it into the corner post. Dawkins wails in agony. By the time TAL turns around, his “twin” is back on the apron, shrugging innocently. Ginny, already agitated from an unfortunate run-in with Halon and Stanislav earlier in the night, gives an earful to Adam, but he can only shrug, as he is powerless to do anything.

Nick Stuart: As expected, Zapp Scatino is resorting to his usual shady business…

Richard Parker: The man simply knows when to jump on an opportunity, Nick. Where’s the harm in that?

TAL questions Zapp, who still maintains his innocence, and asks once again for a tag. Needing the breather, TAL gives it to him. Scatino quickly goes in and takes Scatino by the leg before dragging him to the center of the ring and twisting him over into a half crab, again working the leg. Jimmy Turnbull leans in to check on Dawkins, but the Bruh shakes his head, refusing to tap.

Nick Stuart: No dice on this submission attempt, as Bryan Dawkins refuses to give in! But that crab is putting a toll on that leg!

Irate by his resiliency, Zapp breaks the hold and punishes Dawkins with a kick to the small of his back. Pulling him back up by the head, Scatino puts Bryan into motion by pushing him off the ropes and catching him for a powerslam on the return!

Nick Stuart: Zapp hooks the leg off the slam!

One!

Two!

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Certified “BRUH” moment.

Ellis is slapping the turnbuckle, getting the crowd to rally behind his tag partner. Zapp begins to pull Dawkins up again, but is stunned by a forearm to his abdomen. Bryan follows through with a slick fireman’s carry to dump the former Mortimer onto the canvas. Before Scatino can react, Dawkins traps him with a half-nelson, pulls him to his feet, and suplexes him out of his socks!

Nick Stuart: And just like that, the momentum shifts!

Richard Parker: That forearm was clearly below the belt!

Scatino desperately crawls to his corner, where his “twin” reaches over the ropes awaiting a tag. Before he can get there, Dawkins makes a tag himself to Ellis, who charges across the ring and snags a leg to stop him inches away from contact.

Zapp pushes himself up to one leg and hops in place, attempting to counter with a reverse enzuigiri, but Adam releases at the last second and gets clear, causing him to crash onto the mat. The former Alias Champion quickly scrambles back to his feet and comes at Ellis with a running clothesline, only for Adam to duck and tangle him up into an arm-trap neckbreaker!

Nick Stuart: Great neckbreaker by Adam Ellis, who quickly makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!! Scatino gets the shoulder up!

Richard Parker: He’s a Battaglia, all right. Just like his brother Anglo, he never knows when to quit!

The Spanglo Luchador sits up, but Ellis puts him right into a waistlock and keeps control of him while bringing him to his feet. His German suplex has plenty of juice to it, but Scatino agilely rolls through onto his feet and falls back into his corner, slapping the Anglo Luchador’s hand while falling on his ass.

Nick Stuart: Tag made back to the Anglo Luchador!

TAL hops the ropes and charges, but Adam jukes around him into another waistlock, attempting the same German suplex. He stalls halfway through–courtesy of a foot to the groin from Scatino, still seated in the corner, which goes unseen by both the ref and the Anglo Luchador. TAL instead finds an opportunity to lurch himself forward into a wheelbarrow and breaks free with a cazadora armdrag! At ringside, Ginny is steaming with rage, and giving Jimmy Turnbull an earful.

Nick Stuart: Scatino with the LOW BLOW!

Richard Parker: And Anglo capitalized on it perfectly!

Nick Stuart: He had no idea what had happened, Rich! Scatino is keenly waiting until his partner isn’t looking until he slings his mud!

Richard Parker: Hey, out of sight, out of mind, right?

Nick Stuart: Try telling that to Ginny Van Lear!

Richard Parker: Ah, she’s gotten as much use out of Adam’s family jewels as she needs.

Ellis gets back to his feet, but falls into the ropes clutching his undercarriage. TAL advances and lays into his chest with multiple knife edge chops, softening him up before crossing the ring and coming back with a head full of steam! Thinking fast, Adam dips down and reverses with a back body drop that sends TAL to the outside!

Adam enthusiastically pumps an arm, charging up the cheering Boise fans, and is soon after swept to his feet by Zapp Scatino’s running lariat from the apron! Dawkins, unable to stand by and watch this, tries to step through the ropes and put a stop to it, but is quickly stopped by Jimmy Turnbull. Now without the eyes of his partner AND the official on him, the former Kjedelig drops to the floor, grabs Ellis by his blonde locks, and proceeds to choke him over the bottom rope!

Nick Stuart: Would you just LOOK at this!

Richard Parker: I know, right? Ol’ Anglo took a nasty spill there! Somebody better check on him; that’s Zapp’s only brother.

Nick Stuart: Rich…

Scatino’s chicanery is short-lived the moment he sees Ginny coming around the ring with a look on her face that would make the average person’s blood run cold. He backs off, right as the Anglo Luchador comes to and looks between, confusion peeking through his sacred mask.

TAL slides back into the ring, looking between Ellis and Scatino, who is back on the apron. Again, Zapp shrugs innocently, and holds out his hand for a tag. TAL slaps it, but keeps his eyes on his alleged fraternal twin as Scatino moves in to pick up where he left off. The former Alias Champion promptly jumps onto Ellis’ back and slaps on a sleeperhold, squeezing the life out of him.

Adam looks to briefly begin to fade, but then shakes his head and finds his resolve, pushing himself back to his feet with the Spanglo Luchador still clung to his back. Scatino can do nothing but brace for the impact as Ellis charges himself into a corner back-first and sandwiches his opponent against the turnbuckles! While Zapp collapses to the mat, Adam tags Bryan Dawkins back into action.

Nick Stuart: Ellis escapes the sleeper! And now Bryan Dawkins is back in action!

Richard Parker: Dangit, Anglo! Don’t blow this for your brother!

Nick Stuart: Would you stop deflecting?

Dawkins eagerly steps through the ropes, but briefly cooks something up with his partner before he can go back to the apron. Picking up what he’s putting down, Ellis assists Dawkins in pulling Scatino back up, and the two send him into motion with a double whip. Zapp returns off the ropes and yelps as he’s suddenly thrust into the air with a double flapjack, landing HARD on his front side! Ellis and Dawkins pop to their feet, charging up the roaring crowd and exchanging double high fives!

Nick Stuart: The Hawaiian BBQ look to have found their synergy! They are firing on all cylinders right now!

Richard Parker: Filthy swineapples…

Ellis heads to the apron while Dawkins peels Zapp back up off the canvas and sends him ragdolling across the ring with a belly-to-belly suplex! Scatino is left dazed and confused after the hard bump, prepping him nicely for an Ezekiel Choke by Bryan Dawkins!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins reigning in the choke! Could this be OVER?

Richard Parker: Not on your life, Nick!

But before he can cinch it in and drag him to the mat (and, by extension, certain doom), Scatino desperately rushes forward and throws him off, sending Dawkins stumbling wildly into the opposing corner and bumping heads with the Anglo Luchador. TAL reels, clutching his face. Dawkins turns around, only to receive a low dropkick to the knee from Scatino!

Nick Stuart: AGAIN, Zapp goes low when the Anglo Luchador is looking away!

TAL, none the wiser, recomposes himself in time to see Dawkins on the canvas and his “twin” looking for a tag. He slaps the hand and steps through the ropes as the Bruh pulls himself back to his feet with the help of the ropes. The Last Son of Tenochtitlan peppers Dawkins with a combination of rights and lefts to keep him dazed before pushing him off the ropes and sending him into motion.

Dawkins parks himself at the halfway point and reverses the whip. TAL comes back on the rebound, but Bryan catches an attempted hurricanrana and turns it into a ring-shaking spinebuster!

Nick Stuart: MASSIVE spinebuster! Bryan Dawkins has him right where he wants him!

Richard Parker: Dangit, Anglo! You’re embarrassing your dear BRUH-ther here!

Foregoing the pin attempt, Dawkins pulls TAL back up and drapes him over his shoulders into a standing fireman’s carry, prepping him for an Olympic slam. But he suddenly collapses to the mat in agony when Zapp Scatino spears in and takes out his knee with a chop block.

Could just be a trick of the camera, but it ALMOST looks like he’s holding something that rhymes with “ass chuckles”. TAL, completely unaware, quickly recovers and pulls Dawkins up from behind, criss-crossing his arms out in front of him and lifting him up onto his shoulders before falling backwards.

Ellis steps through the ropes and moves in a flash to put a stop to it, but he’s intercepted by Scatino, who drags him through the ropes to the outside.

Nick Stuart: JAPANESE OCEAN CYCLONE SUPLEX!! The Anglo Luchador has him down!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

The Anglo Luchador pops up and pumps in his arms in triumph, but gets only a mixed reaction from the crowd, given the circumstances. Ellis slides back into the ring a second too late, and hangs his head in disappointment.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winners of the match, by pinfall… THE ANGLO LUCHADOR… ZAPP SCATINO… LOOOOOOSSSS MEEEELLIIIIIZOOOOOSSSS!!!

Richard Parker: HE DID IT, Nick! Zapp pulled it off!

Nick Stuart: Oh, I know he did… everyone in this arena but his supposed “twin brother” saw what happened.

Richard Parker: Don’t be sour grapes, partner! You can’t beat the bonds of blood in this sport!

Nick Stuart: To any effect, the Anglo Luchador and Zapp Scatino jump on an opportunity and pick up the win tonight, giving them a leg up in the Tag League. But while they came up short, I can’t help but recognize the promise shown tonight by the team of Hawaiian BBQ!

Richard Parker: A promise for disappointment, maybe! Dawkins is practically a geezer by this point, and Ellis is months away from being stuck in “Dad Mode”.

Nick Stuart: I’ll respectfully disagree with that statement, partner. Hopefully they can bounce back from this shortcoming. For now, let’s continue on with the show…

Luchadors Anglo and Spanglo celebrate together as they make their exit, finally looking on the same page for the first time that night. In the ring, Bryan, Adam, and Ginny regroup, disgust plainly visible on their faces.

We cut to commercial.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, folks. We’re a few minutes away from Crash Jackson versus Steve Harrison, and…

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

The chunky guitar riff of “Fist Fight” by the Ballroom Thieves plays, and the crowd isn’t quite sure how to react. After all, Paxton will always be the man who paralyzed Jon Rhine. He’ll always be the man who tried to (and succeeded a few times) end wrestling careers. But over the past few months, something has changed, though no one can say what.

So when Paxton Ray arrives on the ramp, there is a healthy mix of booing and cheering. Paxton looks out into the Idaho crowd, still not sure how to take their reaction. He nods and begins walking down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: On the last show before Tropical Turmoil, Paxton Ray came out to address the audience, and it looks like he’s making a habit out of it.

Richard Parker: Maybe this time he won’t run headfirst into danger like an idiot.

Paxton rolls under the ring and gestures ringside for a microphone, and one is promptly handed to him. He looks around for a moment.

Paxton Ray: Hey, y’all.

Again the mixed reaction comes, and now Paxton seems almost amused by it.

Paxton Ray: Last time y’all saw me, I sure didn’t look too good. Cuts in my face, my chest, my back. Seems like fightin’ with glass on your fists ain’t a good idea.

He pauses, then smiles.

Paxton Ray: Unless you’re shovin’ those fists into Fred Dick’s ugly fuckin’ face.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

Yep, that’s the formula to get cheers.

Paxton Ray: But listen, I ain’t here t’talk ‘bout Fred Dick no more. We fought. He’s a tough son’a’bitch. I’m a little tougher. But now I’m ready t’talk ‘bout somebody else. Someone Freddie knows pretty well, someone who did a lotta his dirty work for ‘im.

Paxton walks over to the side of the ring facing backstage and leans on the ropes.

Paxton Ray: This dude hit me with a whiskey bottle. He choked me. He called me a peckerwood, whatever the hell that means. An’ I kinda just ignored him ‘cause my eyes were so focused on takin’ out Mama Dick’s little boy. But now that the boy been done took out, it’s time t’talk t’Daytona fuckin’ Diamonds.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Paxton Ray: Yeah, that piece’a shit. He’s here, had a dumb funeral for somethin’ I ain’t ever heard of earlier.

Richard Parker: He’s never heard of a jet ski?

Paxton Ray: An’ not only did he write some checks that need cashin’, he’s also got the Intense Title. A belt I used t’own, one that my buddy almost got a few weeks ago. An’ I figure if I can pay him back and also bring the title back where it belongs, it’s a win-win. So Daytona, why don’t ya come out here an’ pay what ya owe?

But the music that follows is not associated with Daytona.

“Boom Shack-A-Lak” by Apache Indian

The crowd is rather perplexed, as Reed Young emerges from behind the curtain, while doing A LOT of dry thrusting. There’s a wide ass smile on his face as he finally strolls himself down the ramp. Dressed in the same, awful, neon blue and green tracksuit, Young’s pockets are literally dripping $100 dollar bills as he makes his way down. It doesn’t look like he notices and perhaps probably doesn’t care, either. Needless to say, Richard is ready to leave his desk and pick up some of those bills but Nick places his arm in the way like it would be really unprofessional if Richard did that.

Nick Stuart: Reed looks incredibly happy for a man whose “son” just lost the Universal Championship.

Richard Parker: Wow, harping on a guy for moving through emotions rather quickly? It’s called being healthy.

Nick Stuart: (Sarcastic) I’m sure that’s exactly what it is.

However, Nick’s right. Reed thrusts his way down the ramp without a fuck in the world. Vickie’s Loving Father waves hello to a couple of fans in the front row before eyeing Paxton Ray in the middle of the ring. The Bayou Butcher, meanwhile, leans against the ropes with his eyebrows raised.

Young snatches a microphone from the time keeper’s table, after stunningly thanking them for the mic. He rolls into the ring, pockets still dripping out $100s as he does.

Young’s theme music ends as he stands directly across from Ray, the two of them in silence while the crowd tries to make sense of why Reed is here.

Reed Young: Pax, buddy, pal, I gotta hand it to you, you’re as badass as they come!

Young lowers the mic so he can give Ray his own round of applause.

Reed Young: Lovin’ the accent -no matter how fake it might be- (he winks) but most importantly… I think it’s solid booking, dare I say it’s a great IDEA you get some of Draytonta Draymonds!

Yes, he said the name wrong. It’s like he doesn’t even know who Daytona is. Maybe he’s never watched the show before…

Reed Young: PRIME is in desperate need of a blood feud and I’m thinking this is it!

Young moves forward and nudges Ray in the chest, albeit lightly.

Reed Young: Plus you’re from the incredible state of Louisiana, like my son!

The former wrestling promoter takes a step back and emphatically points directly at Paxton.

Reed Young: That’s why I’d like to do something I didn’t think I would do since coming back to the wide and wonderful world of wrestling…

Nick Stuart: Jeesh, Reed has used car salesman written all over him.

Richard Parker: Rather rude. Let the man speak! I’m intrigued and so is Paxton!

Reed Young: Your record is excellent, Pax! Excellent, excellent, excellent! I’ll be honest and tell you I haven’t watched a damn match of yours -yet- but on paper you look S-O-I-L-D!

Nick Stuart: Ummmm…

Reed Young: You’re a damn fine fighter! A prize fighter, if you will, and while my son recovers at home… well, he’s taking a break!

The fans boo. Probably booing at the mention of Jonathan-Christopher’s name and not particularly booing that he isn’t going to be here tonight. Anyway, that’s now how Reed hears it. He brings his attention to the crowd.

Reed Young: Don’t you fans worry! Johnny-boy is currently in the loving, nurturing and tender arms of my beautiful daughter!

Stuart can’t help but provide an audible laugh at Young’s comments. The former Action! Wrestling owner brings his focus back to Paxton.

Reed Young: But I’m not in a place to take a break! I had a taste, Pax, a taste of what it’s like to be at the top and daddy needs another kick at the can!

The crowd boos. Stuart wants to vomit.

Reed Young: So I’d like to manage…

He points directly at Paxton again.

Reed Young: YOU!

While adding his own sound effects.

Reed Young: Raaahhhhh, raahhh, raaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Reed hops up and down, more $100 bills falling out his pockets.

Reed Young: Booyakasha!!!!

The annoying man in his mid-forties (he had Vickie when he was 20) takes a moment to recollect himself.

Reed Young: So what do you say!? I’m BUSTING for BUSINESS!

Paxton has watched all of this with a sort of bemusement. But now that Reed has finally given him an opening to talk, he raises the microphone.

Paxton Ray: Nah.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

Paxton Ray: No offense, my guy. But I’ve had a few managers since comin’ in here. Older guys. Guys who grew up in the business. An’ each’a ‘em wanted somethin’ from me without givin’ much in return. So while I ‘preciate whatever this is, I’m gonna roll solo from now on.

Young looks down into his chest like… like he would never ask for stuff and not give back in return.

Reed crinkles his forehead. He’s confused. Perplexed. Sad?

BRO-energy is gone.

Reed lets out a longgggg huff and then goes into “calm mode”, where he doesn’t need an exclamation mark behind every sentence.

Reed Young: Ah, it’s fine. No offense taken, I get it. This is a take-take-take industry. Oh and by the way…

Young winks.

Reed Young: I never wanted to manage you.

Nick Stuart: LOOK OUT.

Pax hears the crowd stirring. He knows it’s the telltale sign that he’s being snuck on. A swift pivot on his heel, and he finds himself face to face with –

Fred Dick: Nice to see ya you rat bastard son of a bench!

Richard Parker: YES!!!

Pax rears back for a punch, but Fred is armed with pepper spray!

HE PEPPER SPRAYS PAXTON IN THE FACE!!!

Paxton roars, swings a wild punch at Fred that, if it connected, would change the course of history.

But it doesn’t.

Paxton falls to the mat, writhes and tries desperately with his hands to wipe his eyes.

Reed Young: I see you’re familiar with one of my new clients, Paxton! HAHAHA!!

Nick Stuart: WHAT???

Richard Parker: Oh my God! Is this the best night of my life!?

Fred mounts Paxton and sends overhead slap after overhead slap down on Ray’s face.

Reed Young dances in a vaguely hip-hop style.

Reed Young: They see me rollin’! They hate it! Patrollin’, tryna catch me ridin’ dirty! Hahaha! Trynacatchmeridindirty, trynacatchmeridindirty! Bahahahaha!

Fred reaches in his pants. Fans all around the world briefly believe he’s about to hang dong on live television. But he doesn’t. He slides a set of brass knuckles out from his testicle region, and places them on his right hand.

Fred Dick: You think this is some level up shit, FOO’? You think you whoop on one Whoresman, get God damn LUCKY in a fight, and Daytona is the final boss or some shit? Well, this ain’t fuckin Sonic the Hedgehog! This is REAL MOTHAFUCKIN LIFE, boy. And guess what, you little dog fucker? You may have moved on from me. But I’ll never move on from you. Never. I’m the ghost that’s gonna haunt you ‘til the day you die! And I ain’t gonna STOP, ‘TIL I URINATE ON YO’ MOTHAFUCKIN GRAVE, PAXTON RAY!

WHAM! 

WHAM!

WHAM!!!

Three brass knuckle shots to the face.

Paxton Ray is out cold.

Fred stands up from Paxton’s body, and meets eyes with Reed Young.

Reed grins, nods. That’s what HE’S talkin’ ‘bout!

Richard Parker: Are they gonna do it?

Nick Stuart: Do WHAT?

Fred grins.

Fred Dick: Whore’s up!

Fred forms a circle with his fist and lifts it high into the air.

Reed Young sticks his finger through the circle, and makes a fart sound with his mouth when he does it for added effect.

Richard Parker: THEY DID IT! YES! It’s official! Reed Young is a Whoresman!

Fred and Reed hug each other, then appear to do Ring around the Rosie around the fallen Paxton Ray.

Nick Stuart: A bunch of dumb ass peas adds one more dumb ass pea to the pod.

Richard Parker: You better watch your mouth.

Nick Stuart: Let’s cut to something else. Literally anything. Please. For the love of God–

We cut to the backstage area, where we find Seán O’Neill, still dressed in the mourning suit he was wearing at the funeral. The Irishman is standing beside a monitor in the catering area. The monitor is showing a replay of our new Universal Champion, Coral Avalon, opening the show. Currently though, O’Neill’s attention has been captured by a platter of what he’d mistakenly assumed were chicken goujons.

Seán O’Neill: What the…?

He inspects the snack in confusion then gestures to one of the catering staff for an explanation.

Catering Staff: Those are ‘Finger Steaks’ sir, it’s an Idaho thing!

Seán O’Neill: Beef? Who batters and fries beef?

Reflecting for a few seconds, he comes to the conclusion that actually, it’s not a terrible combination. Taking another bite, he gives the catering staff an accepting nod of approval and then fills a plate with several more.

Ready to go take a seat and give the finger steaks a further evaluation, O’Neill turns and walks straight into RIA. A quick look of disappointment flashes across his face as his plate crashes to the floor, before being replaced with a look of annoyance aimed directly at the Psychoberry.

RIA: Uh, shit… My bad, dude.

O’Neill grunts, his eyes still on his fallen finger steaks. His head raises back up, gaze meeting RIA. She studies his face, his expression. In short, he doesn’t look thrilled.

RIA: Why you glaring at me, dude? It’s catering. We can just get you more. No need to mean mug at me.

Seán O’Neill: Oh… yeah, sorry. I guess when you spend as much time looking pissed off as I have the last few years it can be hard to shake the habit. I’m trying to be better now, sorry. Accidents happen, no harm done.

He betrays his words with a brief subconscious look down at the tasty snacks scattered at their feet.

RIA: Alright… Cool… Uh, Imma go now.

Before RIA can take a few steps, Seán calls her back, dropping his voice, to an almost conspiratorial tone.

Seán O’Neill: Hey, look, RIA you have a real connection with the fans. They cheer you, they believe in you. How do you do it? How do you make them care? I’ve been so bitter for so long, I don’t even know where to begin.

The awkwardness RIA was showing towards Seán seems to evaporate, her uneasy expression replaced by a soft smile. She steps forward, hovering just outside of his personal space.

RIA: Ya know, I’m kinda impressed. There’s times people complain about wanting to change, but they don’t do nothin’ about it. Takes some balls to just up and ask for help, no matter what anyone might tell ya.

RIA folds her arms on her chest, head tilted back in contemplation.

RIA: Some of it is stuff I don’t control. I’m undersized, but I’m stubborn as hell and I don’t like to give up. You spent a long time in Japan didn’t you? Fighting spirit, they call it in over there. Also, I dunno, I tend to treat people nicely as long as they give me the same. Oh, also, not every fan is gonna like you, no matter what. But if you appreciate the support you do get, like genuinely appreciate it, people notice that kinda stuff.

The Psychoberry’s hands move down to her hips. A mischievous grin creeps across her lips, eyes shining with friskiness as they stay locked on O’Neill.

RIA: I got an idea… Why not experience it first hand? You and me, one on one at ReVival 52. I think you’ll see that not only am I great at rallying the crowd behind me, but it puts a hell of a lot of pressure on my opponent. Whaddya say?

A look that says ‘why not?’ crosses Seán’s face as he ponders the challenge. He’s always been someone who learnt best from doing rather than talking after all. He proffers his hand, which RIA shakes, her grin widening.

Seán O’Neill: Yeah, that works for me. You’re on!

As RIA walks off, O’Neill turns back to the catering staff and flashes a grin of his own as he reaches for a fresh plate.

We cut elsewhere.

The Merch Maniac is bending down stretching his quads. He is adorned with his beautiful Green Robe again but the person who ‘gave’ it to him, Jack Marley is nowhere to be seen. On queue Jack Marley comes busting down the hallways towards Steve. Harrison looks up from stretching to see Jack “running” as fast as his legs can take him. It’s not very fast and Steve begins laughing at Jack trying to run. Jack finally gets to Steve and Steve looks at him in horror. Jack’s face is a beaten mess. He has a black eye, a big lump on his head, and a swollen lip that has a deep cut.

Steve Harrison: First, where the hell have you been? Second, what the fuck happened to your face?

Jack Marley: Imndjshdjskhshsh

Steve Harrison: (sarcastic) Oh yea, of course I understood that marble mouth nonsense.

Jack’s head drops but he then puts his right index finger up as he has thought of something. He pulls out a phone and starts typing in it and then shows Steve the screen.

Steve Harrison: (reading) I fell down a hill and my cell phone broke. This is my new prepaid phone. I got real quick on the way to Idaho.

Harrison looks back at Jack with a look on his face that is clearing judging him.

Steve Harrison: Uh huh, you at all want to change your story?

Jack looks down at his phone and pauses deep in thought. Looks up and shakes his head. Harrison sighs and shrugs his big, massive shoulders that carry the weight of Clay Byrd’s bullshit.

Steve Harrison: Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but I am sure you were doing something that I didn’t authorize because you want to help.

Jack types away and then shows his phone again.

Steve Harrison: (reading) Everything is fine…mon.

Harrison rolls his eyes.

Steve Harrison: Ok, Jack, I want to trust you here but there are some things we need to talk about when you don’t look like a crash test dummy.

Jack starts typing away again and shows Steve.

Steve Harrison: (reading) Once there was this kid who Got into an accident and couldn’t come to school…

The Vendor King smiles slightly and then shakes his head.

Steve Harrison: Seriously? That damn song is going to be in my head the rest of the night now!

Marley mouths sorry and tries not to laugh since his whole head hurts.

Steve Harrison: You missed the Jet Ski send off and I am assuming you still haven’t gotten your managers license…that I never asked you to get by the way. So, I am not actually sure why you even showed up.

Jack types again, ugh this is getting annoying for our hero Steve Harrison as he reads again.

Steve Harrison: (reading) Fred Dick Bukclub meeting. (Stops reading) I am pretty sure whatever you heard was a joke. Fred is probably five Jet Ski Snow Globes in right now and has a match with STRONK right after my match.

Jack’s head drops again, obviously sad that I guess his buddy Fred Dick didn’t keep him in the loop about the Book Club. Of course, Jack has a new phone so, who dis, amirite?

Steve Harrison: Ugh, just relax until you feel better.

Jack nods back towards Harrison and begins typing again.

Steve Harrison: (reading) Good luck, boss! (Stops reading) I have a few more stretches to do before that music hits…

Stretches are going to have to wait because as if LT was spying on Harrison to mess with him, his music begins to play. “Set Your Soul Free,” begins grooving as Harrison stops in place with a surprised look on his face. He angrily looks at Jack and then points for him to go. Jack in all his beaten the fuck up glory nods and turns and walks away.

Steve turns and his robe moves beautifully with him as he steps towards the entrance. He smacks his cheeks to psyche himself up and then walks defiantly through the curtain and to the blaring music and violence crazy yells of the Boise faithful.

He takes five steps and then stops and puts both of his arms in the air as he closes his eyes and subconscious head bobs to the guitar. He smirks and begins walking towards the ring giving a few high fives to some fans and shrugging at some who have Clay Byrd signs and are booing him.

The Suplex Saint gets to the ring and enters with a spin, his robe flowing behind him. He walks to the far left corner and leans against it and begins to stretch his quads again as he awaits Crash Jackson’s entrance.

Set Your Soul Free,” begins grooving as Harrison stops in place with a surprised look on his face. He angrily looks at Jack and then points for him to go. Jack in all his beaten the fuck up glory nods and turns and walks away.

Steve turns and his robe moves beautifully with him as he steps towards the entrance. He smacks his cheeks to psyche himself up and then walks defiantly through the curtain and to the blaring music and violence crazy yells of the Boise faithful. 

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Montréal, Quebec, Canada, weighing in at two-hundred fifty pounds, THE MIRACLE MAAAAAAN … STEEEEEEVE HARRRRISSSSSON!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH~!

He takes five steps and then stops and puts both of his arms in the air as he closes his eyes and subconscious head bobs to the guitar. He smirks and begins walking towards the ring giving a few high fives to some fans and shrugging at some who have Clay Byrd signs and are booing him.

The Suplex Saint gets to the ring and enters with a spin, his robe flowing behind him. He walks to the far left corner and leans against it and begins to stretch his quads again as he awaits Crash Jackson’s entrance.

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

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

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

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

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

Vince Howard: And his opponent, hailing from Buffalo, New York, weighing in at two-hundred thirty-eight pounds, he is THE NORTHERN STAR! CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH! JAAAAACKSOOOOOON!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH~!

UNLEASHING HIS HELL
YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

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

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

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

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

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

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

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

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

The music begins to die out as Crash locks in on his opponent with an alarming stare, holding a violent gaze and snarl that raises red flags all over the place.

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell as Crash and Harrison step to each other in the center of the ring. There’s a lot of gesticulating, head bobbing and finger pointing from the Heartbroken Hot Dog as Harrison just kind of laughs off the barrage of insults.

Richard Parker: Crash Jackson is reaching untold levels of ‘Bros per Minute’ in the ring at the moment!

Nick Stuart: I can’t imagine Steve Harrison is going to take much more of this.

He doesn’t, and shoves Crash away, but Jackson comes right back at him firing away insults and all the bros you’ve ever wanted or needed. Harrison shoves Crash away a second time, but this time Crash comes back with an eye poke. Harrison doubles over holding his eye and Jackson quickly DDTs the bigger man to the mat.

Harrison sits up, more stunned than affected by the impact this early on. Crash charges back at Harrison with a PK style kick to the lumbar region and the Miracle Man grimaces as he clutches at the affected spot. Crash pulls Harrison back to his feet with a hammerlock before whipping him into the ropes. Harrison ducks an attempted clothesline and rebounds with his own as Crash violently thuds into the mat.

Nick Stuart: We’re seeing an extremely aggressive Crash Jackson here and it looks like it’s gotten the better of him!

Richard Parker: He bro’d one too many bros.

The Merch God is quickly on his feet and drags The Northern Light up with him. He begins laying right forearms into the side of Crash’s face with little resistance, backing Jackson into the corner. Harrison retreats to the far corner before sprinting across and drop kicks the cornered Jackson in the shin, crumpling him to the mat.

As Crash attempts to get up on one knee, he clutches at his shin, just as Harrison is cutting through the ring diagonally again and connects with a dropkick right into Crash’s hot dog receptacle. With Crash flat on his back, The Suplex Saint drags Crash back into the corner and then rolls himself out of the ring.

Harrison stalks to the backside of the ringpost and grabs Crash’s legs, and forcefully crotch-shots him into it. He then wraps The Northern Light’s legs into a vicious ringpost figure four, torquing the straight knee with force as he does. Nixon starts his five count and Harrison reluctantly breaks it off at 4.85.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Harrison is trying to keep Crash from walking here.

Richard Parker: Hard to beat a man you can’t get off the mat, Nick!

Nick Stuart: A rare, salient point, Richard.

Crash Jackson struggles to support himself on the middle rope as he slowly clambers back to his feet. The Merch God coolly rolls back inside the ring, approaches Jackson, grabs a fistful of blond locks and slams the back of Crash’s skull into the mat. Harrison continues his offensive, lifting Jackson to his feet before executing a perfect side Russian leg sweep and floating it over into a pin. Elvis Nixon quickly hits the mat for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: No! Crash barely lifts a shoulder to avoid the three count! Steve Harrison slaps the mat in frustration, he’s not happy with the speed of that count and he’s letting Elvis Nixon know!

While Harrison is distracted, Crash attempts to school boy him into a pinning combination, but both men roll through and and end up on their feet to a big cheer from the crowd. Crash sneers at Harrison, while the Suplex Saint spits onto the mat. The two met collide with a collar and elbow tie up. Crash releases the hold first and deftly sends Harrison to the mat with a drop toe hold. As Crash stands, he is abruptly back on the mat with a senton, smashing into Harrison’s back.

Crash Jackson, sensing opportunity, vaults himself onto the top turnbuckle. He brings his fingers to his lips, miming that he’s smoking, before he gracefully leaps, clutches twice and crashes down onto Steve Harrison’s back. Crash himself bounces off The Merch God, clutching at his midsection from the impact.

Nick Stuart: 420 Splash! 420 Splash!

Richard Parker: But can he make the cover?

Crash claws, struggles and crawls, using what energy he has left in reserve to roll Steve Harrison over. He can only half-drape an arm across the Miracle Man’s chest, while still grabbing his ribs.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: And this time it’s Harrison who gets his arm up in time! We’ve got a great see-saw battle happening here tonight!

Both men are heaving as they lay beside the other. Harrison starts to stir first, using the ropes as leverage to pull himself up. Crash does the same, but still appears to be nursing the after effects of the 420 Splash. Crash, gathering every last aggressive bro-cell in his body, stands at full height, gritting through the pain and swings wildly at Steve Harrison. Harrison easily ducks the haymaker, inches in a waistlock before hammering The Northern Light back into the mat with a well-executed Saito suplex. Steve Harrison isn’t quite finished and forces Crash back to his feet while standing behind The Heartbroken Hot Dog. Harrison reels back and demolishes Crash’s neck with an enzu lariat, Jackson somersaults and flops onto his stomach as he lands.

Harrison continues his offensive, locking in an STF to the prostrate Jackson, wrenching it in deep. Crash screams out in pain as best he can through The Suplex Saint’s imperious s-grip locks tighter and it looks as though Jackson has nowhere to go. He grasps at Harrison’s forearm, trying to break the grip, but there’s nothing doing.

Richard Parker: He’s gonna pass out!

Nick Stuart: It might be in his best effort to submit, but wait, what’s he doing?

Richard Parker: He’s grabbing Nixon! Disqualify him!

As Crash Jackson flounders, looking for any sort of purchase, he reaches out and grabs hold of Elvis Nixon’s pant leg and pulls. Nixon topples forward onto both men, mercifully freeing Crash Jackson from the hold. Steve Harrison is apoplectic, shouting at Nixon to disqualify his opponent, but Nixon shrugs it off as an honest mistake on Crash’s part.

Nick Stuart: For lack of a better word, Steve Harrison is pissed.

Harrison leaps to his feet and grabs the dazed Jackson and connects with a disgusting brainbuster. Crash pops on the landing, making it look like his head was on a spring. Harrison immediately goes for the cover and Nixon is in place to count.

ONE!

…

…

TWO!

…

…

THR–

Nick Stuart: AGAIN! Crash Jackson just barely survives it again!

Richard Parker: I guess when a screwdriver touches your brain you forget a few things, like when to quit.

Nick Stuart: Both men have shown some incredible fighting spirit tonight and the fans are on their feet for this one!

Harrison looks to lift Jackson from the ground once more, but he is caught into a small package as Crash uses his natural quickness to garner the advantage.

ONE!

…

TWO!

…

NO!

Steve Harrison kicks out, both men are heaving, but are back to their feet in a flash. They begin trading forearm blasts in the center of the ring, like for like, blow for blow. Harrison grabs hold of Crash’s wrist on an errant shot and whips him cross-ring. As Crash tries to leap for an attempted headscissors, Harrison catches him as Crash’s leg’s get around the shoulders of Harrison. The Merch God drops The Northern Light with a release powerbomb and rolls him through it. Crash, now sitting upright and dazed, never sees the knee coming from behind.

Nick Stuart: ENLIGHTENMENT!

Richard Parker: The end is near for Crash Jackson!

Harrison grins and sets up behind Crash and loops his arm into the chickenwing hold.

Nick Stuart: He’s looking Soulshine, if he hits it this match is over!

In the next moment, the hold was released, Steve Harrison was doubled over clutching his crotch. An unseen back kick from a desperate Crash Jackson struck true blue balls leaving the Suplex Saint in dire straits.

Richard Parker: Disqualify him again! Unbelievable chicanery from the Hot Dogger!

Nick Stuart: Nixon didn’t see it! Nixon didn’t – OH MY! WIDE LEFT! WIDE LEFT!

The superkick sends Harrison’s jaw flying backwards and gravity does the rest as his body collides to the mat. Crash Jackson raises an arm to the crowd getting a massive cheer as he once again vaults to the top rope. He raises his arms up high and corkscrews off the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: CRASH DOT COM! HE’S HIT IT! HE’S GOT THE COVER!

ONE!

…

TWO!

…

THREE!

Crash Jackson looks surprised as he gets to his feet and Elvis Nixon raises the victor’s hand. Steve Harrison rolls out of the ring and slaps his palms on the apron in clear frustration.

Vince Howard: AND THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH… THE NORTHERN LIGHT… CRASH! JAAAAAAACKSOOOOOOON!

We cut backstage.

The corridor is long, dim, and the Anglo Luchador’s footsteps echo as he walks purposefully down it. We hear the crowd give a cheer as he appears on screen, but whether or not The Luchador hears them, we don’t know. And then another pair of footsteps creep up, quiet at first, growing louder, and now a voice, tinged with the same echo.

Voice: Hey, hang on a second.

TAL stops, turns, and when he sees whoever is approaching, one foot instinctively drops back to support his weight, ready for a fight.

It’s Jason Snow.

Jason Snow: No, no, nothing like that.

TAL waits.

TAL: Okay, then what do you want?

For a second the two eye each other. And then Snow sticks out his hand. TAL looks at it. Snow nods.

Snow: You got what you wanted. A match with Jason Snow. And you beat me. 1-2-3 in the middle of the ring.

The Luchador rubs the back of his neck.

TAL: Funny about that. Feels the same as if the result would’ve been reversed.

No response.

TAL: You know, I heard the legend of Jason Snow from a lot of people. Lindsay. Brandon. Caesar. They made you out to be a literal Sun God.

The Luchador’s eyes squint.

TAL: And they somehow undersold it. The only thing I can say? I got what I wanted, and now I only wish I was around during the ReVolution to see how it would’ve gone down then. When we were both younger.

Jason Snow: I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m better than I ever was. Other times I think maybe I’m not who I used to be anymore. Tell you the truth I’m not sure which is the truth. But I guess that’s what everyone here’s trying to figure out right? Who’s the best. We’re all trying to figure out if it’s us. Or if it’s still us.

He puts his hand out a second time and this time TAL shakes it.

Jason Snow: Congratulations on the win. And good luck. I’ll see you around.

TAL: I probably will. I’d love to run this back. Jason.

Jason Snow: Maybe we will. And maybe it’ll be me desperate for the match against you.

The Luchador nods. Snow slowly nods back as they break their handshake. As Snow walks off, the Luchador sighs and lets his guard down finally, at least until he hears another voice behind him.

Voice: Hey, Tommy Twinsy!

The Luchador turns around and groans as he sees none other than his tag partner, The Spanglo Luchador, walking up behind him.

TAL: Take the fuckin’ mask off, Zapp. You’re not fooling anyone.

Spanglo shakes his head but complies, revealing that he is in fact Zapp Scatino former Alias Champion and the middle of a half-circle of mutual torment with Kohime Mori and Tony Gamble.

Zapp Scatino: Ah madone. Anyways, I was goin’ through our things and came across this photo…..

Zapp pulls out a family photo of Tommy Battaglias, his wife, and his kids.

Zapp Scatino: I was wonderin’ if you’d loan me one of your kids for a coupla days. It can be the ugly one if ya want, I ain’t picky.

The Luchador facepalms for a moment before getting a look on his face he previously only reserved for Joe Fontaine.

TAL: Alright, first off, neither one of my sons are ugly. Write that down in your notebook. Second, ABSOLUTELY NO I WILL NEVER LOAN YOU ONE OF MY KIDS FOR EVEN ONE SECOND, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN THINKING?!?

Zapp Scatino: Whoa! We’re twins! What’s yours is mine and so and on and some such. Not like I’m askin’ to fuck your wife.

Zapp Scatino looks at the increasingly incensed, bright red look on The Anglo Luchador’s face.

Zapp Scatino: Oh shit! You want me to fuck your wife while you watch in some kind of sick reverse Parent Trap sex game.  You sick fuck! She’s not even my type! She’s looks kind of….well….

Zapp Scatino states at the family photo for a moment.

Zapp Scatino: …she’s not not attractive, in the right light.  Alright, Butch, I’ll play hide the cannoli with your wife while you jerk it in the shadows, but I’ll need to get shitfaced to do it.  Why you’d want me to do this thing for you, as morally incomprehensible as it is, it’s your business, maybe she’s a solid six in the face but a two in the sack, and watchin’s the only way to get off, I ain’t gonna kink shame. It must be real humiliatin’ for you to ask me this. Alright, I’ll suck it up, after all, what’re brothers—-

TAL: I’m going to give you to the count of three to get out of my face before put you in a coma and look for a new partner on Craigslist. One.

Zapp looks defiant.

TAL: Two.

Zapp Scatino: We’re family.

His face breaks a bit, eyes softening. A small “gulp” is audible.

TAL: Thr…

Zapp Scatino: Fine! But I’m keepin’ this!

Zapp holds up the photo in the air and storms out, slamming a door behind him.

Zapp Scatino (from the outside): I wouldn’t’a banged your wife anyway! She looks like a real bitch!

The Luchador has a look akin to Doc Rivers in one of the many gifs showing his shocked face.

TAL: By the feathers of Quetzalcoatl, how the fuck did I get roped into this team.

The camera cuts elsewhere.

To say that things have started off a little crazy here in Boise is pretty par for the course when it comes to PRIME, considering there was a funeral for a jet ski earlier, so to see a young lady wandering around the back with a bag of popcorn is probably not something that would surprise many. In a white floral sundress and her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Olivia Henderson looks to be exploring the backstage area. With her favorite wrestlers Justine Calvin and Jared Sykes no longer on the roster, she has decided to look for her second favorite power couple –  Nate Colton and Kohime Mori.

Rounding the corner with her head angled back to shove a handful of popcorn into her small mouth, she doesn’t notice the man with his back to her until she bumps into him. She bounces onto the floor with a thud, as her popcorn spills out all over the floor. The figure starts to swivel around with a hint of irritation in his tone and body language.

John Obvious: Goddamn. Haven’t even been on for a cup of coffee and you people already want to run it with John Obvious?

The newest signee shoots a befuddled brow at the youngster and hits reroll on his prior approach.

John Obvious: They’re hiring kids now, too? Not sure how I feel about this one. What are you about one, one’oh five? All I’ll say is don’t send the IWC after me for this. I didn’t put pen to paper.

Olivia is slow to rise, rubbing her bottom as she looks up at the much larger man. He doesn’t look familiar, but it’s obvious he’s a wrestler.

Olivia Henderson: I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.

His snark gives way for a bit, a bit of uncharacteristic empathy peeking its head out through his exterior.

John Obvious: Right..just..be more careful next time. I could’ve been anybody. There’s a lot of meaner bastards than me out there, you know?

She nods her head and extends her hand toward him – palm side up.

Olivia Henderson: You don’t look like a mean man, but you do talk like one so that will be five dollars for the swear jar.

Taken aback by the sharp wit, John’s tone changes up yet again.

John Obvious: Don’t you have someone else you can shakedown for pocket change? Get outta here.

Just as quickly as she stretched out her hand, she withdrew it with a smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders.

Olivia Henderson: Well, can’t blame a girl for trying. Are you new here, I’m pretty sure I knew everybody on the roster.

John Obvious: I guess Troy needed a little boost in the star power department. Don’t worry. I’ll put boot to necks soon enough, kid.

Her eyes widen as the smile on her face grows.

Olivia Henderson: So you are new! Are you here to take Jared’s place alongside Mr. Youngblood and Mr. Colton? They can really use some help, because there’s a bunch of mean people here in PRIME.

Speaking of, the PRIME hall of famer known as the Permascar Superstar comes walking up behind his daughter. Placing a hand on her shoulder as he leans down a little closer to her ear.

Tony Gamble: You shouldn’t be bothering the ring crew, sweetie. I’m sure he has a lot of work to finish up before he has to help reinforce the ring for the second main event later tonight.

An air out the nose chuckle and smirk consume the lower half of JO’s face, accompanied by a nod with a tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

John Obvious: Yeah, man. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be sure to drop sack in your corner while I’m at it. You know, just so we’re clear whose ring we’re talking about.

If the smile on his face was capable of fading away, it would have at the mention of the word sack in front of his daughter.

Tony Gamble: I’m pretty sure you have dreams to eventually stop setting up the ring and start stepping into one, but keep using language like that in front of my daughter and you can kiss those dreams goodbye.

Olivia tugs on her father’s shirt and motions for him to come close.

Olivia Henderson: I think he’s already going to be a wrestler here dad, he said something about Troy bringing him in for star power.

Tony looks back at the larger man standing across from him, but doesn’t recognize his face.

Tony Gamble: Is that so…doesn’t change the fact that he needs to watch what he says around you.

JO’s smirk turns a little softer as he lifts both hands, palm facing outward in front of him.

John Obvious: No worries. Good luck with Youngblood.

Tony watches him as he walks away, his hands on his daughter’s shoulders as he guides her down the hallway.

We cut to ringside.

We cut from the backstage shot of Anna Daniels and Rob Williams to the stoic face of Vince Howard, who is paid a lot of money to do a very good job.

Vince Howard: The following PRIME Tag League match is one fall and has a twenty-minute time limit. Introducing first…

I bought my first real six string
Yeeeeeeah at the Five and Dime!

Nick Stuart: You gotta be kidding me.

Yep, that’s Summer of ‘69. And that’s Fred Dick and STRONK Godson stepping out onto the entrance ramp, assuming power V stances with their legs.

They then power clap over their head, in unison, to the sweet, sweet sounds of Bryan Adams.

The Big Dick Stallions are soon joined by Reed Young, who pops open a Monster Energy drink right there on the entrance ramp and chugs it, establishing dominance over the entire arena.

Vince Howard: The team of FRED DICK! And STRONK! BIG DICK STALLIONS aka THEM RARE BOYS!

The trio march to the ring like they mean business. STRONK is the first to climb onto the apron. He sits on the middle rope and holds them open for Mama Dick to step through. Reed Young refuses. Instead, he climbs up onto the apron, turns to the crowd, forms a circle with his fist, and goes to town on that circle with the index finger from his other hand. He laughs dominantly.

Inside the ring, STRONK and Fred perform a mini dance routine that incorporates the Charleston, twerking, and more power clapping.

Nick Stuart: I can’t make what I just saw vanish from my mind.

Richard Parker: Why would you want to?! That was the greatest entrance I’ve ever seen.

Nick Stuart: …why are you twerking?

Richard Parker: The real question is… why aren’t you?

Vince Howard: And their opponents…

The arena lights cut out and strobing white lights shine from the floor near the entrance at the top of the ramp. An awful and untalented bass line booms from the PA system, followed by an overly dramatized Boston Irish accent.

This one’s going out to all the scumbags, lowlifes, and outsiders.

Fuck Your Tag Team appears at the top of the ramp, the white light shining from the floor behind them, casting vast shadows across the ring of their outlines. “Wasted Youth Crew” by Blood for Blood offends the ears of everyone in the arena.

Fuck you
Fuck you
Fuck you
and fuck society too.

Rob Williams and Anna Daniels look locked in, staring at their opponents as they slowly make their way to the ring, ignoring the jeers of the fans. Rob slaps the popcorn out of a fan’s hands before climbing into the ring.  Anna dances around avoiding every fan’s hand that goes to reach out for her before sliding under the bottom rope and slithering to her feet.

Fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
and fuck the world.

Vince Howard: The team of ANNA DANIELS! And ROB WILLIAMS! FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM!

Once in the ring the two stretch and prepare for the match.

Nick Stuart: The first night of the PRIME Tag League! We saw Twins? win earlier in the evening, who will join them?

Richard Parker: For some reason my money is on Fred Dick and STRONK.

Nick Stuart: Is that because you put money on them?

Richard Parker: Yes and I’m not ashamed.

Jimmy Turnbull gives his final set of instructions as Rob Williams and STRONK decide they will start for their teams. He then signals for the start of the match.

DING DING

As the bell rings, Williams locks eyes on the imposing figure of STRONK. He storms out of the corner, launching himself at the STRONK DADDY with a vicious clothesline aimed at his chest. Yet, STRONK doesn’t budge. He stands there and looks down at his chest, trying to figure out if Williams hit him or not and looks perplexed at the move Williams attempted. He looks up at Williams, glaring at The Legend’s arms, and pointing as if he’s mocking him.

Nick Stuart: Well, Rob Williams doesn’t look like he’s pleased with STRONK’s reaction right now.

Richard Parker: Are you kidding me? This is hilarious! STRONK looks legitimately confused — as if Rob Williams should have been able to do more than that!

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure STRONK even knows what he is doing right now.

Richard Parker: I think Fred Dick just shid himself!

With frustration evident on his face, Williams changes his tactics. He takes a few steps back, then rushes forward before lowering his shoulder for a powerful tackle. The impact echoes throughout Albertsons Stadium, but STRONK merely takes a single step backwards, still upright and seemingly unaffected.

Richard Parker: Rob Williams looking more and more pissed as the moments pass by.

Nick Stuart: STRONK looks legitimately confused. I’ve never seen someone so confused.

Richard Parker: Do you think Rob always has… performance issues?

Nick Stuart: Do you want to ask him?

Richard Parker: Only if STRONK is in front of me.

The crowd watches in disbelief, as Williams, not a small guy, seems unable to make a dent in STRONK’s defenses. Determined to change the perception, he grabs STRONK’s arm and attempts to whip him into the rope. However, STRONK plants his feet and becomes an immovable object. Rob strains, his muscles bulging with effort, but STRONK remains rooted to the spot.

Nick Stuart: Did STRONK eat his Wheaties this morning or something?

Richard Parker: I mean, as much as fun as we can make about Rob Williams about this, I’m starting to think that Fred Dick put glue on STRONK’s boots or something.

Nick Stuart: Williams is looking rather bewildered at this.

Richard Parker: Do you think Anna Daniels is regretting her life choices right now?

Nick Stuart: I think she always is.

In the blink of an eye, STRONK suddenly pulls Williams towards him, effortlessly lifting The Legend off his feet and into his arms where he cinches in a bone-crushing bear hug. Williams’ face contorts in pain as STRONK applies pressure, the air being squeezed from his lungs. Jimmy Turnbull checks on Williams, who stubbornly refuses to submit, considering the match (and his pride) are on the line.

Richard Parker: Is Williams going to tap?!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think I would want arms like STRONK wrapped around my body like this.

Richard Parker: Is that a yes or no?

Nick Stuart: I would give up. Williams though? I don’t see that happening.

Just when it seems Williams might pass out, STRONK releases the hold, casually tossing his opponent across the ring like a rag doll. Williams crashes to the mat, gasping for air, his usual dominance shattered by STRONK’s incredible display of power.

As Williams struggles to his feet, STRONK stands in the center of the ring, arms raised, basking in the mixed reaction of awe and boos from the crowd. He turns to his corner, nodding to Fred Dick, signaling for a tag.

Simultaneously, a battered Williams crawls towards his own corner, exhaustion in his eyes as he reaches for Anna Daniels

STRONK, with a casual stride, reaches his corner first. He tags in Fred Dick, the brawler now entering the fray with a predatory grin. Dick slips through the middle and top rope, dancing in his corner before pointing at his shoes and grabbing the tongue of them and pumping them up.

Richard Parker: NO WAY! DOES HE HAVE PUMP SNEAKERS?!

Nick Stuart: You do know they don’t do anything, right?

Richard Parker: SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH! IF MY MOTHER BOUGHT ME THOSE, I COULD HAVE BEEN A SLAM DUNK CHAMPION!

Nick Stuart: I highly doubt that.

Richard Parker: YOU DOUBT ME?!

Nick Stuart: Yes. Because you had knees of an eighty year old when you were fifteen years old.

Richard Parker: BECAUSE I DIDN’T HAVE PUMP SNEAKERS!

Williams though rolls to Daniels, with her outstretched palm awaiting the tag, and slaps his hand against hers just as Dick finishes pumping up his sneakers. Daniels saunters into the ring with a focused look on her face. As Fred rushes at her, she ducks underneath his wild swing.

She then counters with a swift kick to his midsection, causing Dick to double over in pain. Seizing the opportunity, Daniels executes a perfect snap suplex, sending Fred crashing to the mat. Dick refuses to stay down as he bounces back to his feet and swings again — however, Anna’s agility is on full display as she dance around him — and again. Enraged, Fred charges forward with a clothesline, but Anna ducks underneath, using his momentum against him. In one fluid motion, she grabs Fred’s arm and twists it into a hammerlock.

Fred howls in pain, caught off guard by Anna’s nimbleness.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels showing her skills and Fred Dick is unable to do a single thing about it.

Richard Parker: She’s turning him into a pretzel! He thought it was embarrassing losing to Paxton Ray, just imagine how embarrassed he will be if Anna Daniels makes him tap out.

Nick Stuart: You’ve given me new ideas that I now want to see happen.

Fred tries to power out of the hammerlock, but Anna is relentless. She transitions seamlessly into a wrist lock, forcing Fred down to one knee. With Fred in a vulnerable position, Anna slams her boot repeatedly into rib cage of the kneeling Dick. Fred groans in pain as Daniels unloads on him, kick after kick landing perfectly without Fred being able to do a single thing about it.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is putting on a clinic here tonight!

Richard Parker: She’s got Fred Dick howling like a little girl. I don’t know if I’ve seen anything better than this moment.

Nick Stuart: Are you just saying that because you’re scared that Anna will punt you in the head?

Richard Parker: That is a legitimate fear, Nick! Don’t you minimize it!

As Fred struggles to his feet, Anna shifts her strategy. She releases the wrist lock and instead goes for a spinning heel kick, catching Fred square on the jaw. He staggers back, dazed, and Anna capitalizes by charging forward and hitting a running bulldog, driving Fred’s face into the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a bulldog! Anna Daniels is unstoppable right now!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is seeing… car bumpers… weird. He probably needs to get out of the ring in a hurry or else this could be the first loss for Big Dick Stallions.

Nick Stuart: You could have just said Fred and STRONK.

Richard Parker: Yes, but where is the fun in that?

Anna, sensing victory, quickly moves to the top rope. The crowd’s anticipation builds as she balances herself and measures her opponent. With precision, she launches herself into the air, executing a flawless moonsault that crashes down on Fred’s midsection.

Nick Stuart: Moonsault! This could be it!

Richard Parker: Stick a fork in him, he’s done!

Anna hooks Fred’s leg for the pin as Turnbull slides into position and begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

Before the referee can count to three, STRONK charges into the ring, breaking up the pin with a thunderous stomp to Anna’s back. The crowd boos loudly as Turnbull admonishes STRONK and forces him back to his corner.

Nick Stuart: Come on! That was uncalled for!

Richard Parker: STRONK just saved the match for his team, Nick! That’s what he is here to do. Do you want a man that is 307.1 pounds to crush your back like he’s Bane?!

Nick Stuart: …No.

Richard Parker: Then shush! I’m trying to save you man!

Anna rolls away, clutching her back in pain, but she refuses to stay down. Gritting her teeth, she pushes herself up and glares at STRONK, determination etched on her face. She yells at him, but STRONK simply shrugs his shoulders, uncertain as to why she is yelling at him.

Fred takes advantage of the distraction caused by STRONK’s interference. With a burst of energy, he lunges at Anna, catching her off guard with a powerful lariat that sends her crashing to the mat. He quickly goes for the cover, hooking her leg as Turnbull starts the count.

Nick Stuart: This could be it! Can Fred Dick steal the victory here?

Richard Parker: After that lariat, I think he just might!

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

At the last possible moment, Anna kicks out and Williams cheers his partner on. Fred slams the mat in frustration, unable to believe that Anna still had the strength to continue.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Anna Daniels just kicked out!

Richard Parker: I thought that was it! Fred Dick should keep an eye out for random punts in the night if he keeps this up.

Nick Stuart: Listen, Anna Daniels doesn’t just randomly show up and start punting people in their homes.

Richard Parker: She did it to me!

Nick Stuart: And you probably deserved it.

Fred, clearly irritated, drags Anna to her feet and whips her into the corner. He charges in with a shoulder thrust, driving the air out of her lungs. He then lifts her up onto the top turnbuckle, but Anna fights back, delivering a series of forearm shots to Fred’s head, causing him to stagger backward.

With a sudden burst of energy, Anna leaps off the top rope, going for a missile dropkick only for Fred Dick to swat her away and sends her crashing to the mat. The King of Wrong Style grabs Anna by the ankle and drags her into the corner, before sitting her up in the corner. Fred Dick moves to the opposite corner and then runs full speed at Daniels, connecting with a Bronco Buster!

Richard Parker: Oh, Anna is going to kill him.

Nick Stuart: The only thing that will be Posterized is Fred’s skull on her mantle.

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is seriously not all their in the brain. I’m certain of it!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, I’m pretty positive you might be right on this one.

The Street Cat, feeling the momentum shift in his favor, climbs to his feet and taunts the crowd, soaking in their boos. He turns back to Anna, who is slowly getting to her knees, clutching her midsection in pain. Just as Fred moves in to continue his assault, The Muse springs to life, catching him off guard with a surprise roll-up pin.

Nick Stuart: Roll-up! This could be it!

Richard Parker: No way! Not like this!

ONE!

TWO!

Fred kicks out just in time, and both wrestlers scramble to their feet. The Time Lord, not wasting a moment, charges at Fred, but he counters with a knee to her midsection. He follows up with a quick DDT, planting her head into the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a DDT! That was brutal!

Richard Parker: Anna Daniels is in trouble now.

Fred drags Anna to her feet and whips her into the ropes. As she rebounds, Fred goes for a Karate Chop, but Anna ducks under it and bounces off the opposite ropes. She leaps into the air, catching Fred with a flying forearm that sends him stumbling backward. As Fred tries to get his bearings, Anna gets back to her feet and connects with a Back Stabber!

Nick Stuart: What a comeback by Anna Daniels!

Richard Parker: She’s not giving up without a fight! Punt him! Kick his head off! Give these fans in Boise something to remember.

Nick Stuart: …I think this entire card will do the trick.

Richard Parker: You can never be too certain, Nick!

Merch Czar measures Fred, who is slowly getting to his feet, and launches herself at him, connecting with a punt to the side of his skull that takes him down.

Nick Stuart: PUNT! She nailed all of that!

Richard Parker: My nightmares are coming true! AHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Seriously, you have a microphone. You don’t need to yell.

Richard Parker: Don’t minimize my PTSD!

Anna hooks Fred’s leg, and Turnbull slides into position to make the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

Pudge Dick kicks out at the last possible moment, and Anna looks frustrated but determined. She pulls Fred up and attempts to set him up for a suplex, but Fred blocks it and counters with a headbutt, sending Anna crashing to the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a counter by Fred Dick!

Richard Parker: This match is all over the place! Who’s going to come out on top? Not that it matters, because let’s be real, someone’s getting embarrassed here.

Nick Stuart: Seriously?

Richard Parker: Just calling it like I see it, Nick!

Both competitors are exhausted, lying on the mat and trying to gather their strength. Slowly, they begin to crawl towards their respective corners, looking to tag in their partners.

Nick Stuart: Who’s going to make it first?

Richard Parker: This could be the turning point!

Fred reaches out and tags in THE BEAST FROM THE DEEP, while Anna manages to tag in The Legend. Both fresh competitors enter the ring and charge at each other, with Williams delivering a series of rapid punches to STRONK. However, STRONK absorbs the blows and shoves Williams away with a powerful push.

Nick Stuart: I think we saw this movie before.

Richard Parker: I thought it seemed familiar.

Williams, undeterred, charges at STRONK again, this time delivering a dropkick to his knee. STRONK staggers but doesn’t go down. Williams follows up with another dropkick, targeting the same knee, and STRONK finally drops to one knee.

Nick Stuart: Williams is chopping down the giant!

Richard Parker: He’s got to keep the pressure on! STRONK could probably eat him for breakfast if he didn’t!

Nick Stuart: You think STRONK is into cannablism?

Richard Parker: The man walked on the bottom of the ocean, he could be into anything!

Williams bounces off the ropes and delivers a running knee strike to STRONK’s head, finally bringing him down to the mat. He quickly goes for the cover, hooking the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

STRONK powers out, shoving Williams off of him with authority. Williams looks frustrated but resolute as he pulls STRONK to his feet and sets him up for a DDT. However, STRONK counters, lifting Williams into the air and slamming him down with a spinebuster.

Nick Stuart: What a spinebuster by STRONK!

Richard Parker: STRONK DADDY! THIS MAN IS SOMETHING ELSE!

Nick Stuart: …are you Lowell? What’s your deal? Trying to become his manager?

Richard Parker: Lowell is a bit creepy.

STRONK covers Williams, and Turnbull begins the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

Williams somehow kicks out.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Williams is still in this!

Richard Parker: How did he kick out of that?

STRONK drags Williams to his feet and whips him into the corner. He charges in with a massive clothesline, crushing Williams against the turnbuckles. He then hoists Williams up onto the top rope, setting him up for a superplex.

Nick Stuart: This could be the end for Williams!

Richard Parker: If STRONK hits this, we’re all dead. Do you know how much force would be created here?!

Nick Stuart: That’s two good points in one match.

Richard Parker: We should evacuating, immediately!

Just as STRONK is about to execute the superplex, Williams fights back with a series of punches to STRONK’s midsection. He manages to shove STRONK off the ropes, sending him crashing to the mat. Williams, perched on the top rope, takes a deep breath and leaps off, delivering a picture-perfect flying elbow drop to STRONK’s chest.

Nick Stuart: Elbow drop from the top rope!

Richard Parker: Now’s his chance!

Williams hooks STRONK’s leg for the cover, and Turnbull slides into position.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—

Before the referee can complete the count, Fred Dick charges into the ring and breaks up the pin with a stomp to Williams’ back.

Nick Stuart: Come on! Not again!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is doing whatever it takes to win! That’s why this man is a genius! That’s why he has PUMP SNEAKERS!

Anna Daniels, seeing Fred’s interference, rushes into the ring and tackles him, sending both of them tumbling out of the ring. The two continue to brawl on the outside as the crowd goes wild.

Nick Stuart: All hell is breaking loose!

Richard Parker: This is chaos!

Back in the ring, Williams and STRONK slowly get to their feet, both exhausted and battered. They exchange a series of punches, neither willing to back down. Finally, Williams ducks under a wild swing from STRONK and lifts him up, delivering a thunderous slam that shakes the ring.

Nick Stuart: What a slam by Williams!

Richard Parker: This could be it!

Williams covers STRONK, and Turnbull starts the count.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

STRONK kicks out with authority, sending Williams flying off of him. The crowd is on their feet, roaring in disbelief as both men lay on the mat, completely spent.

Both competitors lie on the mat, sucking in deep breaths as they try to summon the energy for one last push. The crowd’s anticipation reaches a fever pitch, every fan on their feet, eyes glued to the ring.

Nick Stuart: This has been an incredible match! Both STRONK and Williams have pushed themselves to the limit!

Richard Parker: I don’t know how much more either of them can take, Nick. This has been brutal! STRONK is being pushed to his limit and he know his limit is quite high!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, well, Williams is no slouch.

Richard Parker: (mocking Nick) Oh, are you trying to be Williams manager?!

Slowly, STRONK and Williams start to stir, using the ropes to pull themselves up. They lock eyes once more, each knowing that the next move could be their last. STRONK charges forward, looking for a devastating clothesline, but Williams ducks under it and counters with a superkick that staggers STRONK.

Nick Stuart: Superkick by Williams! STRONK is reeling!

Richard Parker: This might be his chance to finish it! It’s seemed like Williams as of late has been a bit of a sad panda bear.

Nick Stuart: …sad panda bear?!

Richard Parker: I said what I said!

Meanwhile, on the outside of the ring, Anna Daniels and Fred Dick continue their fierce brawl. Anna, fueled by determination, lands a series of rapid punches to Fred’s face, backing him up against the barricade. Fred, desperate to gain the upper hand, rakes Anna’s eyes, causing her to stagger back in pain. He then connects with a backhand slap across her chest!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels and Fred Dick are tearing each other apart out here!

Richard Parker: This is chaos! Yet, none of this is going to matter if they’re not back in the ring, helping out their partners!

In the ring, seizing the opportunity, Williams runs to the ropes, gaining momentum before leaping into the air and delivering a massive flying knee to STRONK’s jaw. The impact sends STRONK stumbling backwards into the corner, dazed.

Nick Stuart: What a knee strike! STRONK is in trouble!

Richard Parker: He’s got to capitalize now! Could you imagine if Rob Williams puts STRONK down?!

Nick Stuart: I’m just wondering how many steaks STRONK is going to have to eat to get over it.

Richard Parker: Poor Idaho. Never having meat in their state ever again.

Outside, Fred seizes the opportunity and grabs Anna by the hair, dragging her towards the steel steps. With a grunt of effort, he attempts to slam her head into the unforgiving metal, but Anna blocks the move and counters with a sharp elbow to Fred’s ribs. She then grabs Fred and connects with a German Suplex — sending Dick’s head and neck crashing painfully into the stell steps!

Nick Stuart: What a counter by Anna Daniels!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick’s going to be feeling that one tomorrow! I don’t think those Pump Sneakers are going to help him with that one.

Nick Stuart: No, I don’t think so.

Richard Parker: SadPanda.gif

Nick Stuart: …what?

Williams charges at the cornered STRONK and delivers a running dropkick, crashing both of his boots into STRONK’s chest. The force of the blow sends STRONK slumping down into a seated position against the turnbuckles.

Meanwhile, Anna, not wasting any time, climbs onto the barricade and leaps off, delivering a flying knee to Fred’s jaw that sends him sprawling onto the floor. The crowd roars in approval as Anna stands over her fallen opponent, breathing heavily but clearly in control.

Nick Stuart: Pandemonium is going on inside AND outside of the ring! Anna Daniels is showing no mercy!

Richard Parker: She’s a force to be reckoned with! Meanwhile, Williams is taking it to STRONK! After the opening salvo, I didn’t think that was possible!

Nick Stuart: Yet, none of this matters if neither of them get the pinfall!

Richard Parker: Those two points are important, I guess?

Nick Stuart: Yes, Richard, in a tournament the points are always important.

Richard Parker: Okay, okay. Sheesh. Give me a break.

As Fred tries to get back to his feet, Anna grabs him by the arm and whips him into the ring post. Fred’s shoulder collides with the metal with a sickening thud, and he crumples to the ground, clutching his arm in pain. Anna, sensing she’s got Fred Dick right where she wants him, moves in for the final blow.

Williams climbs to the top rope, looking down at the prone STRONK. He takes a deep breath and leaps off, aiming for a diving double foot stomp. At the last possible moment, STRONK rolls out of the way, and Williams crashes hard into the mat.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is relentless! She senses blood and is going to make Fred Dick pay.

Richard Parker: Fred Dick might need a trip to the hospital. Or a good cuddle with a car bumper. One of the two.

Nick Stuart: Meanwhile, STRONK looks to be recovering.

Richard Parker: That’s not going to bode well for Rob Williams. Or Anna Daniels for that matter.

STRONK, showing incredible resilience, gets to his feet and grabs the stunned Williams. With a roar, he lifts Williams into the air and delivers a devastating powerbomb, shaking the ring with the impact.

With a determined look in her eyes, Anna lifts Fred up and positions him for a suplex on the outside. She struggles for a moment, but her sheer willpower allows her to lift Fred off his feet and slam him onto the hard floor. Fred writhes in pain, clearly dazed and unable to mount any further offense.

Nick Stuart: What a suplex by Anna Daniels! What a powerbomb from STRONK!

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is done for! Rob Williams is done for!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think either of them are done, Richard.

Richard Parker: They could be, you don’t know!

Anna, satisfied that Fred is out of commission, turns her attention back to the ring, ready to assist her partner and finish the match. She begins to make her way to the ring when Reed Young pops up and tries to get in her way. She lifts her boot and he quickly runs away in the process.

Meanwhile, STRONK covers Williams, hooking the leg as Turnbull slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

Anna Daniels attacks STRONK to break up the pinfall. She continues to stomp away at the back of his skull, but STRONK GODSON powers through it and stares at Anna before going for the attack. Anna though is nimble and moves out of the way quickly, knowing she can’t let STRONK get a hold of her.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is using her speed and agility to stay one step ahead of STRONK after breaking up the pinfall!

Richard Parker: She has to, Nick! If STRONK gets his hands on her, it’s game over!

Nick Stuart: You have to imagine Anna wanted no part of STRONK — knowing that Rob was the better choice.

Richard Parker: Well, that sounds like a sound strategy.

Anna continues to evade STRONK, using her agility to her advantage. She ducks and weaves, landing quick strikes whenever she finds an opening. Meanwhile, Williams begins to stir, realizing that the momentum of the match might just swing back in their favor.

Nick Stuart: Williams is getting back up! This could be the turning point!

Richard Parker: They need to double-team STRONK if they want to win this. One on one, he’s too much to handle!

Nick Stuart: And here comes Williams, ready to join the fray!

Williams joins Anna in targeting STRONK, delivering a series of kicks to his legs to bring him down. Together, they manage to force STRONK into a corner, where they both unleash a flurry of strikes, keeping him off balance.

Nick Stuart: They’re working together to keep STRONK down! This is incredible teamwork!

Richard Parker: This might be their only chance to put him away!

Williams and Anna, sensing the opportunity, set up for a double team move. With STRONK reeling, they execute a perfectly timed double dropkick that sends him crashing to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Double dropkick! STRONK is down!

Richard Parker: This is their chance, they need to end this now!

Anna quickly climbs to the top rope as Williams positions STRONK in the center of the ring. With precision, Anna launches herself, hitting a spectacular frog splash onto STRONK. Williams then covers STRONK for the pin as Turnbull slides in for the count.

Nick Stuart: This could be it!

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: FRED DICK WITH THE SAVE!

Nick Stuart: These two are going to regret everything when it’s all said and done. This is only their first match in the tournament!

Richard Parker: FIGHT FOR—

Nick Stuart: Are you trying to get us sued?!

The crowd erupts into chaos as all four wrestlers are now in the ring, battling it out with everything they’ve got. Turnbull struggles to maintain control as the action intensifies, each team desperate for the victory.

Nick Stuart: This is mayhem! I don’t know how they’re going to pull this off!

Richard Parker: With sheer willpower and a touch of insanity, Nick! This is what PRIME is all about!

Nick Stuart: And the fans are loving every second of it!

Williams and Anna regroup, eyeing STRONK and Fred Dick with determination. They know this match could go either way and that every move counts. Anna signals to Williams, and they prepare for one final coordinated attack, aiming to secure their hard-fought victory.

Nick Stuart: This could be the decisive moment!

Richard Parker: They need to act fast before either STRONK or Fred Dick recovers!

Anna and Williams nod at each other, their strategy clear. Williams charges at Fred, delivering a swift knee to his midsection, causing him to double over in pain. Meanwhile, Anna focuses on STRONK, who is slowly getting to his feet. With lightning speed, she delivers a spinning heel kick that sends STRONK back to the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a combination! They’re taking control of the match!

Richard Parker: They can’t let up now! This is their chance!

Williams lifts Fred to his feet and whips him into the ropes. As Fred rebounds, Williams catches him with a perfectly timed spinebuster, slamming him into the mat. He quickly transitions into a pin, but before Turnbull can start the count, STRONK barrels into Williams, breaking up the pin.

Nick Stuart: STRONK saves the match for his team!

Richard Parker: This guy is unstoppable!

Anna, seeing Williams in trouble, rushes to his aid. She and STRONK exchange blows, but STRONK’s sheer power gives him the upper hand. He grabs Anna by the arm and whips her into the corner with incredible force. Anna crashes into the turnbuckles, grimacing in pain.

Nick Stuart: Anna is in trouble! STRONK is dominating the her!

Richard Parker: She better think quick or she is going to be a pancake in that corner.

Nick Stuart: It looks like her partner is going to stop that from happening!

Williams, determined not to give up, gets back to his feet and charges at STRONK. He manages to land a series of punches, but STRONK absorbs the blows and lifts Williams into the air, delivering a thunderous powerslam.

Nick Stuart: Powerslam by STRONK! This could be it!

Richard Parker: Williams is in serious trouble now!

STRONK covers Williams, and Turnbull slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

Anna, summoning every ounce of strength she has left, breaks up the pin with a flying elbow drop to STRONK’s back. The crowd erupts in jeers as Anna helps Williams to his feet, both of them determined to keep fighting.

Nick Stuart: Anna saves the match! This is incredible!

Richard Parker: They’re not giving up without a fight!

Williams and Anna, knowing they need to act quickly, set up for another double team move. They position STRONK in the center of the ring and deliver a devastating double superkick to his chin, sending him crashing to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Double superkick! STRONK is down!

Richard Parker: This is their chance!

Williams covers STRONK as Anna keeps an eye on Fred Dick, ready to intercept any interference. Turnbull begins the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NO!

Fred Dick, with a last burst of energy, dives into the ring and breaks up the pin. The crowd is on their feet, the tension in the arena palpable.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick with the save! This match is unbelievable!

Richard Parker: These teams are giving it everything they’ve got!

Anna, furious at Fred’s interference, grabs him and throws him over the top rope, sending him crashing to the floor outside. She turns back to STRONK, who is slowly getting to his feet, and delivers a series of rapid strikes to keep him off balance.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is relentless! She won’t let STRONK get back into this!

Richard Parker: They need to finish this now!

As Anna soars through the air for a Frog Splash, STRONK gets his boot up and it lands flush against Anna’s jaw! She falls back onto the mat as STRONK gets back to his feet, connecting with a headbutt after absorbing a series of body shots from Rob Williams. STRONK then fires off a boot to the midsection before connecting with a vertical drop brainbuster!

Richard Parker: How are any of these four still moving?!

Nick Stuart: Drugs? Alcohol? MEAT?

Richard Parker: All of those sound like viable options when I consider who is in the ring.

STRONK then reaches down and pulls Rob Williams up to his feet where he then puts him into a choke sleeper! Williams thrashes against the arms of STRONK — beefy, meaty arms — but the STRONK DADDY refuses to release his grip. Turnbull checks on Williams, who refuses to give up. Anna meanwhile begins to make her way to her feet, but before she can move, Fred Dick grabs her by the ankles and yanks her out of the ring.

Richard Parker: This could be it for Rob Williams!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels can’t save him now!

Richard Parker: Rob is going to have to think of some—

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: How rude?! I WAS TALKING!

Nick Stuart: Did Williams tap out?!

Turnbull looks around and finds the time keeper standing up. He walks over and is told something that is inaudible to the fans at home and in the stadium.

Nick Stuart: What is going on?!

Richard Parker: You know what, how long have we been out here for?!

Jimmy nods his head and looks over at Vince Howard, giving him a set of instructions.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen… this match has been ruled a time limit draw! The timekeeper has informed the referee the match has hit twenty minutes!

STRONK, still holding onto Rob Williams, lets him go and looks confused as Fred Dick looks over at the big guy and shrugs his shoulders.

Richard Parker: A time limit draw?! These two teams lost all track of time!

Nick Stuart: I’m stunned. These four were going so hard and frantically! We want a winner!

Richard Parker: Well, Nick, you can’t handle a winner!

Nick Stuart: …yes, yes I can.

In the ring, Jimmy Turnbull informs the four competitors the match is over. Anna Daniels looks spitting mad as she kicks the ringside barricade and yells out something about this is all Lindsay Troy’s fault and that PRIME is… well, we can’t repeat that. Nope.

Richard Parker: I think Anna Daniels might punt everyone in sight.

Nick Stuart: Yeah, this might be a good time to go to commercial.

Richard Parker: Good thinking, partner! Quick, go!

We cut to commercial with the last image of Anna Daniels about to punt a mascot in the stadium.

The feed jumps to the back, and right away, we see the dashing duo of KERRY KUROYAMA and SCOTT HUNTER marching down the hallway side by side.

There’s music playing too, for some reason. To the tune of the “Pinky and the Brain” theme from Animaniacs.

IT’S KER-RY AND THE SCOTT
KER-RY AND THE SCOTT
ONE’S SU-PER SE-RI-OUS
THE O-THER IS NOT

Kuroyama is sporting his trademark Emerald Brillo Sebastian Cruz ensemble, with the newly acquired Alias Championship proudly displayed over his shoulder like a Klingon warrior’s sash. Scott has a bright yellow sequined jacket with blue trim, over a shirtless torso, and parachute pants in color that matches the blue trim of the jacket.

THEY’RE VAE VIC-TIS BROS
AND EVE-RY-BO-DY KNOWS
THEY’RE KER-RY
KER-RY AND THE SCOTT, SCOTT, SCOTT, SCOTT…

Perfectly timed to the end of the melody, their march comes to a company halt before the standard interview backdrop. Faithful reporter SIMON TILLIER is standing by with a mic in hand, toothy grin as white as pearl and snazzy suit as blue as Justin Sane’s hair.

Simon Tillier: Gentlemen, allow me to welc–

Simon is abruptly cut off and nearly knocked off his feet when the brass bell of a ridiculously large heraldry trumpet suddenly appears inches from his face and Scott blasts out a deafening and horrendously sour fanfare melody.

Scott Hunter: HEAR YE! HEAR YE! ALL PRESENT PLEASE PROSTATE YOURSELF BEFORE THE PRINCE OF THE PACIFIC!! THE EMERALD EGALITARIAN! THE GREEN GOBLIN! THE HIGH SCORE ON THE JOUST ARCADE MACHINE AT A TRUCK STOP JUST OUTSIDE OLYMPIA, WASHINGTON!! THE PRIME ALIAS HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!!! HE IS THE ONE AND ONLY… WAIT FOR IT… (yes Scott actually says ‘wait for it’)…KEEEEERRRRRYYYYYYY KUUUUURRRRRROOOOOYAAAAAAMMMMAAAAAA!!!!!!

Beaming with pride, Kuroyama gives his compadre an appreciative nod.

Kerry Kuroyama: Stellar intro as always, Scott. Good and proper. I tip my glass to you, sir, for being a man of class and character.

He thumbs over to the fumbling Tillier, twisting a pinky into one ear to restore his hearing.

Kerry Kuroyama: Unlike this mook…

Tillier finally recomposes himself.

Simon Tillier: Uhh, Kerry?

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon.

Simon Tillier: First of all, I suppose I should say congratulations on your triumphant showing at Tropical Turmoil. How does it feel to finally be recognized as a champion of PRIME Wrestling?

The Emerald Apex fills his lungs with a deep breath of satisfaction.

Kerry Kuroyama: It’s a vindicating conclusion to a strange and stressful journey, Simon. Since I came to PRIME last year, I’ve suffered trials and tribulations alike. Humbling defeats. Painful lessons. Being in the same room as Vickie Hall. But then came Lisbon, where I finally achieved the very thing that brought me here. The honor and distinction to call myself a champion.

He unslings the Alias Championship from his shoulder and holds it in front of him.

Kerry Kuroyama: You and so many others have come to know me as someone who carries an awfully large chip on his shoulder. But I’d be lying if I told you this came easily. It took plenty of sacrifice and personal reflection to get here. I had to dig deep to take this, and I’m sure I’ll be digging even deeper to keep it on my waist. Believe me, Simon, it was a hard road to get here…

He briefly loses himself in the gilded faceplate of the championship belt before returning it to his shoulder.

Kerry Kuroyama: But a necessary one. Because before I could call myself a champion, I had to first prove that I could fight like one. To the world, the locker room… and maybe even myself. I suppose when I look back on this period in my life, I’ll see that the journey was less about winning a title, and more about stepping up to that level.

Simon Tillier: Indeed. Of course, that comes as no small credit to the degree of competition brought by your predecessor…

Kuroyama nods.

Kerry Kuroyama: …RIA.

Only he isn’t addressing the interviewer when he namedrops the previous Alias Champion. The camera dollies back to reveal none other than the Psychoberry standing there, in the flesh. On her body is a Pittsburgh Penguins jersey, black and customized with Sidney Crosby’s number and nameplate. The jersey’s oversized and almost functions as a dress, barely covering a pair of black yoga shorts worn over top of fishnet tights. Black knee high converse boots cover her feet. Cue the music…

THE MOST COLORFUL OF CREATURES IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!
OUR NEXT INTERVIEW FEATURES RIA THE GIRL!

RIA: Eh, enough with the singin’ already!

THAT’S RIAAAAAA!

Arms crossed on her chest, RIA looks the pair down. No glare, no smirk, it’s rather hard to read what or how RIA is feeling at the moment.

Scott Hunter: (tenses up)  Hey, hold it just one minute!! You can’t just waltz up here in an outfit that looks really nice and an ass that won’t quit and stick your nose into our business!!! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESSING WITH???

Scott suddenly relaxes.

Scott Hunter: Why are your eyes so relaxing and mesmerizing?

Kerry looks at him with a ‘w-t-f’ expression. RIA moves up to Scott and gently pats his cheek.

RIA: Chill, big boy. I ain’t here to fight.

Before things can further escalate, Kerry pulls his compadre back with a firm hand on the shoulder. Scott points his index finger warningly at RIA’s face, watching her like a hawk.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, my dude… I appreciate you sticking up for me and all that, but maybe we can reel it in a bit, yeah?

Scott Hunter: (still pointing) I don’t have a fishing pole, so I don’t know what you mean by reel it in, but I’m not letting this one out of my sight. She’s wily.

RIA moves her head back and forth slightly, and as she does Scott follows her with his finger.

Kerry Kuroyama: Quite right, but see, what I was thinking was–hey… wait a sec!

As though suddenly spying something in the other direction, Kuroyama’s eyes go wide with excitement. He leans in to Scott and points to an object on the wall.

Following his gaze, Hunter’s eyes light up when he spots a glowing red dot on the wall.

Kerry Kuroyama: Look! It’s the ghost of that damn cherry tomato you ate three weeks ago! It came back to haunt you!

Unbeknownst to Scott, Kuroyama’s other hand holds at his hip a small and easily concealable laser pointer.

Scott Hunter: AHHH!! WE MEET AGAIN, MY CRIMSON FRUITED NEMESIS THAT LOOKS LIKE A VEGETABLE!! AT LAST YOU WILL MEET YOUR DOOM!!! 

The red bead of light suddenly zips along the hallway, and Hunter thrashes wildly after it.

Kerry Kuroyama: (calling after him) Get it, Scott! Tell that sweet paranormal bastard what’s up, and remind him of his place in society!

Lightly chuckling to himself, Kerry hands the laser pointer off to Simon and gives the junior reporter a polite shove in the direction of the departing Hunter.

Kerry Kuroyama: Keep him busy, eh?

Simon rolls his eyes as he’s jostled from the frame, leaving the two Tropical Turmoil opponents to themselves. While her expression was hard to read earlier, there’s no misunderstanding the frown on RIA’s face now.

RIA: Listen fuckhead, I only got one thing to say to you!

Her expression melts to one of a melancholy smile. She holds her hand out.

RIA: You were the better wrestler at Tropical Turmoil. You deserved to win.

Kerry looks inquisitively at the open hand hovering before him and grunts.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll agree I was good that night… but “better?”

He shakes his head before shaking the hand.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll respectfully disagree. You surprised me that night. You fought like a beast, and pushed me in ways I didn’t think were possible. I’m only standing here now with this because you forced me to be a better competitor than I’ve ever been. That makes you the better wrestler, in my eyes.

RIA’s eyes widen, clearly taken aback by Kuroyama’s words. Once her hand is free, both arms wrap her up in a self hug as she shyly looks down at the floor.

RIA: That’s… That’s some damn high praise, coming from you.

Clearing his throat, Kerry’s demeanor suddenly grows more compunctuous than normal.

Kerry Kuroyama: More importantly, though… I owe you an apology.

RIA can’t help but snort as a smirk pops up onto her face.

RIA: Yeah, cuz that went real well last time. Didn’t that kinda start this whole mess?

Kerry Kuroyama: I mean a legit apology. Because I was wrong about you. I understand now why you connect with those fans and command respect in that locker room. I’m sorry for my behavior. And, for the things I said. I know it doesn’t take away the pain I’ve caused you, nor does it make me any less of a fuckhead. But I’m going to bear the regret, regardless. Just wanted you to know that.

RIA’s smirk shifts into a more legitimate smile.

RIA: Apology accepted! And for the record… You’re not that much of a fuckhead. Just a little bit of one. Later, champ. Do what I couldn’t do.

She blows a kiss Kerry’s way before sauntering off. When she’s gone, Kerry stands in quiet contemplation for a few lasting moments…

…until he becomes aware of the glowing red dot on his forehead.

WHAP

Scott Hunter: Gotcha!!… Dangit… missed. (Scott looks around as the red dot disappears) You win this round, but we will meet again…

Kuroyama scowls beneath the veil of mesh of the oversized butterfly net that has been draped over him.

Kerry Kuroyama: …tough luck, Scott. Sure you’ll get him next time. On that note, I thought we agreed that your patented “Cryptid Catcher” was for only for the snagging of bothersome locker room pests, like lucha-cabras, trashsquatches, and Arthur Pleasant.

Scott Hunter: I have added spectral tomatoes to the list.

Kerry Kuroyama: Can you just get this thing off me?

While Hunter removes the net, the interviewer Tillier reenters the shot with a proud little smile spread across his face.

Simon Tillier: So, Kerry… what’s next? How do you plan to define your reign as Alias Championship?

Kuroyama throws the junior reporter a glare as he swipes Scott’s distraction device from his hands and subtly stuffs it into his pocket.

Kerry Kuroyama: Glad you asked, Simon, because as it so happens, I’m not the type to rest on my laurels. Complacency is the end of progress, someone famous once said.

Scott Hunter: It was me. I said that when I was trying to squeeze out a particularly stubborn number two last week.

Kerry Kuroyama: With one goal fulfilled, my sights are set on the next. Specifically, walking into and out of Lumen Field as champion. Securing a statement victory at Ultraviolence, in front of my hometown of Seattle, in a way that no wrestler has ever done in the history of this sport. This championship has given me that opportunity. Unlike your average title that serves as a measuring stick to a wrestler’s strength, skill, agility, constitution, and willpower…

Scott Hunter: Not to mention stamina, speed, fingernail sensitivity… 

Kerry’s hand firmly clasps Hunter by the shoulder and gives it a supportive shake.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I intend to define my reign by testing my challengers’ trust.

Scott Hunter: I don’t know if I believe you… 

Simon arches an eyebrow.

Simon Tillier: How do you intend on doing that?

Kerry Kuroyama: My chosen stipulation for this newly christened WINGMAN CHAMPIONSHIP brings a new dimension to the average wrestling match. No longer is this a mere one on one contest. Both competitors will be allowed their own selected cornerperson. Obviously, in the case of yours truly, there’s nobody else I’d rather have in my corner than this handsome son of a bitch standing right next to me.

Scott Hunter: (smiling at Simon) I’m a handsome son of a bitch. 

Kerry Kuroyama: For the would-be challenger? Could be a manager. A tag partner. A friend from the locker room. Their mom. Their dog. Doesn’t really matter, because the twist is that they–along with Scott here–will have the power to call for a break in the action at any single point in the match. During which time, both competitors will return to their corners for a quick breather… before picking things up right where they left off.

Simon Tillier: So… someone on the sidelines to call a timeout? And you’re saying it can happen at any point during a contest?

Kerry Kuroyama: [nodding] Anytime, Simon. During a pinfall. During a submission hold. At a point where the momentum is about to shift. No matter where and when, we’re talking a complete reset in the action. But it can only be done once.

Simon Tillier: Sounds… um…

He wants to say convoluted.

Simon Tillier: Interesting, I guess. But I suppose I can see how a potential challenger would need to put their faith into whoever they choose to have in their corner.

Kerry Kuroyama: I know I have the utmost faith in mine. Because if there’s anyone I can rely on to have my best interests at heart, it’s Scott Fucking Hunter.

Scott Hunter: That is not my middle name, but I do have your best interests at heart. I am also your plus one at weddings and bar mitzvahs.

Kerry Kuroyama: Anyway, Simon, we need to roll. Scott and I have a lot of work to do to get ourselves ready for the next show.

Scott Hunter: Call me butter, cuz I’m on a roll!! This was fun! What are we gonna do next week?! 

Kerry Kuroyama: The same thing we do every show, Scott. Try and take over the wrestling world!

And with that, the newly self-proclaimed Wingman Champion, plus his trusty Wingman, turn and walk out of the shot, played off by the song.

THEY’RE KER-RY
KER-RY AND THE SCOTT, SCOTT, SCOTT, SCOTT…

Simon simply looks into the camera, and shrugs.

The scene cuts elsewhere in the arena with Hessian and Minion the Imp walking down a hallway, scanning the doors. The giant’s left elbow is still bandaged up and on show, and in his hand he clutches a bottle of Praskoveyskoe with a little red bow wrapped around the neck. Minion is clad in his robe, his ghoulish purple mask set on the back of his head with the backstrap pulled across his forehead.

Minion the Imp: Again, why are we doing this? What message are you trying to send here?

Hessian: No message, just paying an old friend a visit.

Minion the Imp: You really need to elaborate on what you think a ‘friend’ is, ‘cos between this and your little Bandit arrangement? The atmosphere don’t exactly feel friendly.

Hessian: I don’t imagine it would, from your perspective.

Minion scoffs as ‘The Murder Show’ finds his target, pulling up in front of a specific door and knocking three loud times. The signage on the door?

IVAN STANISLAV
THE RED ARMY
POSITIVELY NO TROYS!!

It takes a few moments before the door opens, revealing Speedy Riggs (in his Red Army hammer and sickle tropical shirt) standing on the other side. The former PCW and OSW referee has had plenty of opportunity to see Hessian up close and personal during the matches of yesteryear. More than any other member of The Red Army. He blinks and inclines his head up, up, up until he stares into Hessian’s eyes and obvious fear grips him.

Speedy Riggs: Hess… Hess… Starshy Praporshchik!

Riggs shrinks back into the room as we see more inside. Ivan Stanislav sits at a desk that he has dragged into every arena, with a Soviet Flag (and plenty of pictures of Putin, Stalin, Lenin, etc) all over the walls. Behind him, Alexei Ruslan gawks. Stanislav is reading something, with glasses on his face as he pulls them off and slowly rises. Ruslan looks ready to throw hands (ready to throw hands, but he’s not about to step any closer to Hessian). Riggs simply dematerializes. Seriously, he’s just gone.

Ivan Stanislav: Hessian… it has been long time.

Ivan’s already dressed for the match against his visitor later this evening. He grips his black pants and hefts them up around his thick waist, causing slack in his red suspenders while he rounds the desk to close the distance. Ruslan follows behind him, both he and Minion looking comically small.

Hessian: Ivan, long time indeed. Hope you don’t mind, I brought a little something to mark the occasion.

‘The Murder Show’ straightens his back and squares his jaw as he presents the Praskoveyskoe, while Minion utters a displeased breath.

Hessian: It’s a pleasure to finally be doing business with you. I remember Jay Storm mentioning your name when he recruited me out of the DWWF to the PWA. Here we are all these years later.

The Russian Bear pays Minion no mind, though Ruslan stares at him from behind his lifelong comrade. Ivan takes the bottle and grins at the red bow. He lifts a bushy eyebrow.

Ivan Stanislav: It is not very often that someone brings Ivan alcohol.

He chuckles and hands the bottle to Alexei, who takes it and holds it up to the light, as if to look for poison.

Ivan Stanislav: This has been long time coming, Hessian. I remember all those years ago, when you were just like little boy running around in costume, along with your little dwarf here.

Stanislav finally sizes up Minion for a moment, then looks back at Hessian. He eyes the top of ‘The Murder Show’s’ head and shifts his jaw.

Ivan Stanislav: Well, at least one of you grew up. You have my thanks for the drink. I have no doubt you have yearned opportunity to test your mettle in ring with The Russian Bear, and now, dear boy, you have your chance.

‘The Murder Show’ nods in acknowledgement while Minion mouths something at Alexei through gritted teeth. Hessian subtly palms his manager across the face, holding him back from making a move while maintaining eye contact with his Russian counterpart.

Hessian: You’ve earned that drink. I wasn’t kidding in that blurb when I said this is an honor, Ivan. I watched you go to war with Meanstreak in PCW while I was teaching Jay Phoenix in PWA. I was making my name in OSW when you and Tempest captivated the world. I carved out a Hall of Fame career in PRIME, starting with retiring Vampir Nosferatu and ending as a two-time Universal Champion, hoping for the opportunity to face you some day. Lo and behold, two decades later, it’s some day.

The giant (the one with the beard) nods to the bottle.

Hessian: You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re still able to do this at the highest level. Take that whisky and toast your good health.

Stanislav glances over at the bottle thoughtfully, and looks back at Hessian. The Bear seems at a loss for words as he shakes his head to himself and nibbles his lower lip.

Ivan Stanislav: You really did keep a close eye on me, did you not? Hah! It has not been easy, but yes, I think I am doing well with all these rugrats running about PRIME. I did hear what you said, and feeling is mutual, Angelus. You may have marched to beat of drummer not quite in step with my own sensibilities, but I respect one who conducts themselves and thrives in their own way.

He clears his throat and rocks on his heels.

Ivan Stanislav: So yes, you also have my respect. And this is not something Ivan Stanislav gives out willy-nilly.

A bemused grin crosses Stanislav’s face, not having to look down for once when talking to someone, he seems to relish the opportunity to look at someone head on.

Ivan Stanislav: So then, you really think you can defeat The Russian Bear?

Alexei responds with a knowing smile and a slow shake of the head towards Minion whose eyes bug, then narrow, as he returns silent emphatic nods. Von Kelsig ponders an answer as he clasps his hands behind his back, conscious of his posture while subconsciously moving the bandaged elbow out of sight.

Hessian: I think out of all the main events I’ve been in since I returned, this one has my full attention..

It’s a subtle jab that prompts Minion’s face to pucker with smugness, all of which he directs at Alexei. But he makes the mistake of catching Ivan’s eye in the process. His ridiculous expression suddenly melts away to a blank stare. Cautiously, he shifts to a similar pose as Hessian and nods respectfully with a serious look in his eye, as though he were disciplined.

Hessian: ..and I think if anyone in PRIME is equipped to keep you down for three seconds, it’s me. The question is can you endure ‘The Murder Show’?

Ivan grins and lifts his eyebrows.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME is rife with pretenders and blowhards, I certainly hope you can prove me wrong. I suppose we shall see.

The Russian Bear nods to Hessian and offers his huge hand to the man.

Ivan Stanislav: Удачи, Ангелус. (Good luck, Angelus.)

‘The Murder Show’ politely reciprocates, gauging Ivan’s grip as they shake hands. No undue pressure applied, he notes, despite the mention of his main event status that he knew must be playing on the Russian’s mind. Appreciative of the gesture, Hessian relaxes his hand. Stanislav, however, doesn’t release Hessian’s hand. He looks him eye to eye.

Ivan Stanislav: From one old warrior to another, Hessian. You see what is happening in PRIME. It is laughingstock of fools and idiots. Hardly worthy of men like us. Whoresmen, would-be clergymen, tarnished diamonds and corruption infecting everything from top to bottom. Coral Avalon is Universal Champion. You have dealt with all of them at War Games.

Ivan thumbs at himself with his free hand.

Ivan Stanislav: You know what I stand for. You know what I can and will do. The Red Army endures. It always will. I will rip the guts out of PRIME and bathe it in her crimson blood. You could join us, you know?

Hessian’s face visibly lights up at the offer while Minion is aghast, and most displeased with Alexei’s confident change in stance. With their hands still locked together Hessian pulls Ivan in closer, and doesn’t blink.

Hessian: I’ve seen every iteration of the Red Army come and go though, remember? Each time the group resurfaces you’ve got different soldiers at your back, you and Alexei are the only constant. No disrespect to your comrades but I’m not a flash in the pan. You and I together would be something more permanent, more biblical, than the Red Army.

Minion gasps at the prospect of such a union, and where he would even fit in it. He tugs at Hessian’s leg, nervously clearing his throat.

Hessian: But we can talk about that another time. Tonight, we fight.

Ivan Stanislav: Indeed we do.

With that, Ivan releases Hessian’s hand and allows him to leave with a nod. Minion opens his mouth ready to fire off a volley but a click of the fingers from ‘The Murder Show’ brings him silently to heel as they depart to prepare for the match. Somehow Speedy Riggs emerges behind them. He might have been hiding under the desk. Ruslan stares where Hessian stood and looks up at his bigger comrade.

Alexei Ruslan: You didn’t seriously think he’d take you up on the offer, did you?

Ivan shakes his head but says nothing. Alexei looks at the alcohol once more and crosses his arms over his chest and grumps.

Alexei Ruslan: And he definitely doesn’t look an inch taller than you. Someone is padding their numbers…

Ivan simply grunts out a chuckle.

Ivan Stanislav: Open that bottle… then we have work to do…

We cut to ringside.

The lights in the stadium dim, the screen goes black and a crack of lightning fires “None The Wiser” by Caned by Nod hits the speakers as the word “BEHEMOTH” bursts onto the screen in blue font and the camera jerks to the concourse of the first deck at Albertson’s Stadium. The Monster from Plainview storms down the walkway and through the aisle out into the crowd and a single white spotlight.

Vince Howard: And first, standing six-feet seven inches tall, and weighing 295 lbs., hailing from West Plainview, Texas…

Nick Stuart: Fast turn around for Byrd, Brandon Youngblood on night one, Hayes Hanlon two weeks later in Boise.

Richard Parker: Nobody ever said he was smart.

Clay thrusts his arms into the air, horns up, the crowd roars and The Behemoth stomps his way down the aisle, and across the blue field. He slaps hands with a few fans and steps up onto the apron. He wipes both feet, before stepping through the ropes and into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Big opportunity here for Clay Byrd. He’s also in the deep end of the pool right from the jump since coming to PRIME.

Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.

Vince Howard: FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

DING DING

The bell rings. Bring out the cattle, it’s a total beef show. Muscle on muscle. And Clay Byrd, despite the concept that he is just a big dumb cowboy man, moves to the center of the ring, engaging in a wrestling stance. He knows what he is in the ring with; a young hoss, a bull of the woods, The Thresher of Hooves. Former two-time PRIME Universal Champion. The 2022 Rookie of the Year. A pillar of the ReVival Era.

Hayes Hanlon is there to greet him, easing in, his hands outstretched. The two slowly circle, the tension building.

Richard Parker: The build up to the fireworks. The heavy artillery.

Enough time passes. It’s time to engage. They both go to lock up in a collar and elbow tie.

Nick Stuart: Both men seem to be giving each other due respect in regards to their strength–

Except, as Byrd steps into it, Hayes steps away, running his hand through his hair, a confident little strut in his step as he moves to the ropes. A waxing of his mustache by his fingers and a shake of the head.

Nick Stuart: –spoke too soon.

Richard Parker: Clay is seething there too. And that’s the deal. Hayes Hanlon isn’t Brandon Youngblood, Byrd. He’s not just going to get in your face and try to fight you.

Nick Stuart: Byrd just standing there, watching as Hanlon is motioning to the crowd, trying to goad the Boise fans…

Richard Parker: And that’s on Clay. What are you doing? He’s RIGHT THERE! Go on and fight him if you think so–

Nick Stuart: And Clay Byrd RIPS Hanlon toward him, spinning him around, and Hanlon DECKS him with a lethal right! And ANOTHER!

Richard Parker: Need to hit him someplace softer, that head is hard as a cinderblock!

Nick Stuart: And Clay Byrd SHOVES Hayes Hanlon and the Event Horizon is sent head over heels there! He’s getting up OH! BYRD BIELS HIM ACROSS THE RING!

As Hanlon realizes that, perhaps, maybe he should be a little bit more…engaged…Clay Byrd stands across from him, digging the ball of his boot into the canvas, kicking up, like a bull ready to charge forward. The Event Horizon looks up, hands outstretched, his expression more worried than it was previous. The Cowboy Colossus beckons him up to his feet, his finger stabbing to the middle of the ring.

Nick Stuart: From what I’ve seen from Clay Byrd in the past, I would’ve expected him to go full bore right from jump against Hanlon. But this bout, he’s affording the young competitor a lot of rope.

Richard Parker: And if he keeps it up, that rope will be the same one used to choke him completely out.

Nick Stuart: Another thing that, from my research, is something Byrd would very much like to avoid. Or perhaps over the past year, he’s made a greater effort to protect his neck, both proverbially and literally.

Hanlon rises, and, pursing his lips, nods his head, a smirk growing across his face. Almost as if saying ‘alright, big man. You want to stand next to me near the urinal and compare meat? That’s cool, I ain’t judging.’ The pair finally lock up, the size difference evident, but in this scenario, Byrd has to base out rather far to not give up leverage too easily. The Behemoth gets the initial surge, but The Event Horizon then pushes back, and, with a sudden surge, tries to drive Byrd into the corner. Byrd staggers, but Hanlon gets position around the chest of Clay, push shoving him into the corner, and, when they arrive, driving his shoulder into the stomach of his opponent. Again. And again.

Clay winces, the spittle flying from his maw. Hanlon breaks off, smacking the Cowboy Colossus with a chop across the chest. And another. Another. Another for good measure. The sting of the blows is framed across Byrd’s expression. Hanlon surges his shoulder against the body of Byrd, grabbing the near arm, ready to launch irish whip him across the ring.

The attempt is foiled. Byrd, with one arm, yanks Hanlon back into the corner with him, and, with the heel of his hand, smacks THE ABSOLUTE PISS out of Hanlon. He takes a few steps away, and charges into the corner with intent on a body avalanche, but Hanlon recovers, escaping just in the nick of time. With his sternum in the turnbuckle, Byrd is further punished with Hanlon hitting him with a jumping shoulder block, then yanking him by the hair, smashing him into the canvas with a sinister neckbreaker.

Elvis Nixon admonishes him for pulling the hair, warning him if he does it again. Hanlon blows him off, getting to a knee, trying to find a Boise 10 out in the crowd, and, well…pickings are slim for the Thresher of Hooves and his eye, so he just puckers his lips and gives a mock flex.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon…his last contest, he picked up a statement win against the likes of Nate Colton. And while he’s had blips on the radar, a surprising loss against Hessian, losing on of 2024’s most hotly contested feuds against Brandon Youngblood, make no mistake…this man savaged Jared Sykes at Colossus. He beat Chandler Tsonda. He played a major role in the Gluemanati’s victory at War Games.

Richard Parker: And he has all the reason to want to punish Byrd, not just because of being benched from Tropical Turmoil, but to really stick it to Lindsay Troy.

Nick Stuart: Hayes rising from the canvas, grabbing at the hair–

Richard Parker: Nixon, I wouldn’t

Nick Stuart: Hanlon SMACKING away the hand of Elvis Nixon, and he’s jaw jacking with him now!

Richard Parker: The young man is becoming quite the cuss, isn’t he?

Nick Stuart: Hanlon grabbing onto Byrd and jerking him up SCOOP SLAM and that rattled the ring! LEG DROP! Hanlon with the cover!

ONE

TWO

NO!

Nick Stuart: Not enough to keep Byrd down, and now, he’s got the Cowboy Colossus by the head, wrenching him with a chinlock, OH ELBOW FROM OVER THE TOP! Hanlon getting up and TWISTING HIS BOOT ON THE FACE OF CLAY BYRD!

Richard Parker: And Hanlon gives zero crap as he swaggers forward!

Hanlon, arms outstretched, beckons to the Boise crowd, antagonizing them. Such a wide smile on his face. And Clay Byrd, he does his best to get up, only to have Hanlon charge forward and hit him with a heavy blow from his thigh and knee right to the face.

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER wash of the face with his boot!

Richard Parker: And that has to suck all the more with that long beard of his!

Hanlon is in his element, watching the Cowboy Colossus slowly try to get up.

Hayes Hanlon: Looks like that Tower of Babble Bullshit beat the dog out of you, hoss!

Hanlon laughs, jogging in place in the corner. He starts swinging his arms, getting ready.

Hayes Hanlon: Get ready for a REAL lariat, you cowfried BITCH!

The Event Horizon charges forward, ready to strike.

Decapitation.

Not just Clay Byrd.

Hayes Hanlon too.

Richard Parker: HOLY DAMN HOOOOOOOOOOYT!

Nick Stuart: WHAT A BLOW! WHAT A BLOW! OH MY WORD!

Hanlon definitely connected, but in the follow through, he was hit with a hellacious Texas Lariat from the rising position by The Monster From Plainview. The Event Horizon did his damage, and then proceeded to somersault in the air and flop violently onto the canvas. The fans let out a mighty roar in the wake of the blow, the highlight reel making shot a work of brutal professional wrestling art. Both men lay on the canvas for a good spell, with Clay grabbing the ropes, pulling himself upward to a stand.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd! Clay Byrd becoming more and more a PRIME native son, and these fans here in Boise are behind him!

Byrd spits out a gob of mucus and blood. His teeth, stained crimson, flash for a moment as his fiery eyes seek out his opponent, who himself is struggling to pick himself from the canvas, reaching out for the ropes. The Cowboy Colossus smashes him with a driving kick, as though trying to kick in a door, and begins to stomp the absolute everloving piss out of Hanlon.

Richard Parker: Jeeeeee-Hoyt!

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd is having NONE of Hayes Hanlon now!

Wrenching Hanlon off the canvas, he once again biels him across the ring. He then clobbers him into the corner with a heavy thrusting boot. A grip around the body. Belly to belly suplex! COVER!

ONE

TWO

NO!

Byrd breaks away, but not before landing a forearm shot to the head of Hanlon, and, as he rises up, quickly dropping his shin across the Event Horizon’s throat, driving it into his windpipe.

Richard Parker: That’s absolutely SAVAGE!

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd! Clay Byrd! And Elvis Nixon is counting, and he’s going to disqualify him OH he lets up and DRIVES HIS KNEE INTO HAYES HANLONS HEAD! Hanlon trying to get away BACKDROP SUPLEX! BACKDROP SUPLEX! COVER!

ONE

TWO

THRE-NO! FOOT ON THE ROPES!

Nick Stuart: Hayes…Hayes…Hayes Hanlon…he’s in for a battle now. He’s in for a real fight now! And his eyes are glassed over and he doesn’t know where he is–

Richard Parker: He’s grabbing the bottom rope, wrapping himself around it–

Nick Stuart: OH! CLAY BYRD KICKING HIM IN THE KIDNEY’S! The liver! Hanlon in real trouble here and OH! Hanlon driving his head into Clay Byrd and was that…was that low–

Richard Parker: I don’t know…I don’t know but man that is cloooooose–

A replay brings a fountain of boos. Hanlon headbutted Clay Byrd right in the no-nos. And Elvis, he stands there, shaking his head, knowing he would be in his rights to call the match right now, but that the argument could be made that the blow was unintentional. He yells at Hanlon that this is his last warning, that if he does anything else, he WILL call for the disqualification. Hayes, for his part, flips off Nixon.

And as Clay Byrd tries to recover, The Event Horizon gives off a sinister chuckle.

Nick Stuart: That no good bastard!

Richard Parker: He’s just smiling because he realizes the tide has turned.

Nick Stuart: Because of his breaking of the rules! We need to do something about this, whether it’s give the officials more power to call matches, or stricter enforcement of the rules, but this is ridiculous.

Hayes pulls himself off the canvas, scooping Clay up and hitting a scoop slam. Then, another scoop slam. Another scoop slam.

Another one.

Another one.

Scoop slam after scoop slam.

Scoop slam after scoop slam on the Cowboy Colossus.

It’s a SCOOP SLAM PARTY!

And the cherry on top!

DEATH VALLEY DRIVER!

Oh wait, but there’s more. The fans are howling their disapproval, and it just seems to make The Event Horizon stronger. Hayes deadlifts Clay Byrd from the canvas, grunting heavy, showing the world that, when he wants to, this raw boned bastard is one of the strongest the sport has. He muscles Byrd onto his shoulder, delaying, delay, delaying…SAMOAN DROP!

COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEENO!

Clay Byrd kicks out just in the nick of time.

Clay Byrd survives.

Just to find himself in the Northwest Necktie!

Nick Stuart: BYRD! BYRD! OH HIS BODY IS CONTORTED, TWISTED, HE’S IN AGONY! OH MY WORD A MAN HIS SIZE SHOULDN’T BE FORCED TO BEND LIKE HE IS!

Richard Parker: HE’S GOING TO BREAK HIM APART AT THE JOINTS!

Clay struggles, he struggles as best as he can, but he’s so far away from the ropes. He reaches for them, trying to drag himself through.

Hayes releases, driving his boot into the back of his head, and thrusts his arms out.

His point is made.

Hayes Hanlon: Not here to bore you all!

He’s yelling at them all.

Hayes Hanlon: I’m here to show you what the main event is all about!

Such ease. Such swagger.

Hayes Hanlon: You simple bitches, this is a once in a lifetime experience I’m giving you. Drink it in!

Drink it in, you Idaho rednecks, you utter trash. Hayes Hanlon is providing your miniscule lives with meaning. Arms outstretched. Chiseled. A man’s man.

A man’s man who turns around and gets ANNIHILATED with a spear tackle.

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD! THAT SHOT! THAT SHOT!

Hayes staggers up, maybe his entire rib cage reduced to dust. The price of exposing it with his vanity.

Nick Stuart: TEXAS LARIAT! TEXAS LARIAT! TEXAS LARIAT! BYRD HOOKS THE LEG!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING 

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: CLAY BYRD IS TWO AND OH IN PRIME! BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD, AND NOW, HAYES HANLON! THE ONLY TWO MEN IN THE REVIVAL TO HOLD THE UNIVERSAL TITLE TWICE, AND CLAY BYRD HAS BEATEN THEM BACK TO BACK!

Clay staggers from the pin, rolling out of the ring, thrusting a powerful fist in the air and roaring before having to double over, with a wince.

Vince Howard: YOOOOOUR WINNER…CLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! BYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYRD!

Hayes looks outward into the Boise night from the canvas, a meaty hand grabbing at his neck.

The Cowboy Colossus pounds his chest, King Kong. A snarl and a snort in the direction of The Event Horizon, flipping him off as he makes his way toward the ramp.

Nick Stuart: What an IMPRESSIVE ReVival debut for Clay Byrd. The Behemoth isn’t just someone you need to watch…he’s a damn threat you have to take absolutely seriously.

With that, we go elsewhere.

Reed Young walks backstage with a pleased look upon his face. He arrives at the locker room reading “LOVE CONVOY”, opens the door and enters to a rather perplexed and disheveled Vickie Hall, sitting directly across from the door, leaning forward, her arms resting on her knees. She looks up.

Vickie Hall: Daddy, what’s going on? You’re… with Fred now?

Vickie sees the camera behind her father and tilts her head in confusion. Reed, meanwhile, wanders into the room while rubbing his hands together. It doesn’t seem like he’s able to understand his daughter’s… concerns.

Reed Young: Honey, there are some delicious talent inside these walls! I’d be a fool not to extend myself! Gotta branch out, honey!

The former wrestling promoter takes a seat beside his daughter, as Reed lowers his energy from BRO to, like, perhaps, the level Vickie needs him to be at.

Reed Young: Jonathan-Christopher is reeling, he’s not even here tonight and we don’t know when he will be good enough to wrestle again. He’s destroyed and right now he needs the love of his life, not me.

Vickie halts her body language. She merely glares at her father until she stands up and walks towards the entrance door.

Vickie Hall: Oh, daddy…

PRETTY PINK© gives her tiny head a shake and walks out. However, her voice is audible down the hall.

Vickie Hall: Have it your way.

Even though her voice makes its way into the locker room, Reed is already on his phone checking out how his name is trending on Twitter (or X, whatever you want to call it). Young’s face lights up and he gushes. If there could be mini little hearts floating around his face right now, there would be.

He gives a hard fist thrust forward.

Reed Young: Damn I have so many ideas! Oh man, this is going to get the mojo going! Booking of the Year? Probably!

He closes his eyes and smiles.

Reed Young: Booyakasha!

ReVival goes elsewhere.

Parking Lot,  Albertson’s Arena, Boise, ID, Pre Show

We see Chip Trager sitting in the driver’s seat of his 1993 Plymouth Laser. He has done unspeakable things to obtain that car but  it is everything to him. As he sits in his ride he recalls that he has always longed for two things- a fancy sports car and the glory of the squared circle. He had obtained both. Why didn’t this feel better. Although he is alone in the car he begins to speak.

Chip: Mother. I’ve done it. I’m here! Are you proud of me? You are? I knew you would be! It was a long drive from Big Creek to get here and as usual there wasn’t enough to eat but I made it. Mother, I’m here. PRIME.

Chip thinks of the many years he had watched PRIME and they play like a highlight reel in his mind. When he was lucky enough that the foster homes had a tv and even luckier enough he was able to watch it, he loved wrestling. He was always ever so grateful to have a roof over his head but sometimes the family’s were not as nice as he hoped they would be. But when he got to watch Hoyt Williams or Lance Jackson wrestle, it was like there was nothing else in the world. He learned all the lessons a young man needed watching the wrestling. Play fair, work hard, believe in yourself. The American way.

Chip: I’m going to go out there and introduce myself to all those people, Mother, fine hard working people. Good Americans of Idaho who are excited to see me. Can you believe it Mother? Me, excited for the Chipster? Will they cheer? God I hope so, Mother. I know you will be. Wherever you are I know you will be watching and I know you are proud of me. I’ve never even seen your face but I am sure it’s beaming with pride.

He looks up at the American flag, waving gloriously above the stadium and knows he will be ok. America, the place where anything can happen if you work hard enough., Even Chip Trager can make it here. Though the circumstances of his life had been less than ideal, as always, he felt blessed.

Parking Lot Albertson’s Arena, Boise, ID, Post Show

Chip: Oh mother, It didn’t go so well, I know you watched and are proud anyway but maybe I hope you missed it.

Chip had felt so ready. He stood in Argyle position, waiting for the opening notes of John Cougar Mellencamp, he would walk out. Maybe he would flex? Maybe even do a little strut? But his mind kept wandering. Moments before he had been backstage. Hoping to see Clay Byrd or Crash Jackson when he was the full card for the night. “Fuck your Tag Team v.s. Big Dick Stallions”? This was indecent! Why would they let these men wrestle with names like that?

Chip: And when I walked out, listening to John sing about the two best things besides wrestling, rocking and the USA, I just couldn’t concentrate. Kids could see this! Kids were in the audience! How could this be allowed? This sport that had taught him all the best lessons in life was now featuring big dicks and cuss words! Mother I was ashamed. By the time I got out there all I could manage was a wave and a hello. No one cheered, really, maybe a few people? I wasn’t quite Rock Startling but maybe it was OK? What’s that mother? You thought I did good! Oh thank you, I was hoping you would say that. I’ll never let you down, Mother, never.

Chip starts the reliable old Laser and heads for the parking Lot of the Springhill Suites. He has found a nice spot in a corner of the lot where he could sleep that night. Maybe someday he would stay in the hotel. Like all big dreams Chip quickly banishes the thought from his mind, knowing how dangerous a dream can be. He closes his eyes and attempts to sleep but all he could see was that sign. Fuck your tag team. Big Dick Stallions.

We cut elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have two Hall of Famers going up against each other for the seemingly 97th time. On one side there’s Brandon Youngblood. The Last Diamond, two time Universal Champion, inaugural Seymour Almasy winner, and undefeated against the eGG Bandits. He’s done it all here in PRIME, Rich. Done. It. All.

Richard Parker: He really has, Nick. No task is too big when those straps come down. He’s beaten everyone it seems. Even the so-called hardest working man in PRIME. TWICE. For the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP. Isn’t that right?

The shot pans out a little, revealing to all that the saltiest man alive has joined the Hall of Fame announce team. King COOL didn’t want to take away from Tony’s big moment, so he walked down to the ring during the earlier Chip Trager segment. That’s what he said off air about it to Nick and Dick anyway.

Sure.

That’s what it is.

Cancer Jiles: I heard he likes pasta.

Collective heavy sighing ensues.

Nick Stuart: On the other side, standing tall atop of two telephone books is Tony Gamble. Rich, what does Tony have to do tonight in order to win this time around? Remember, these two met at Colossus last year and needless to say things got a little messy.

Richard Parker: He has to pray, and renounce any allegiance to this crumb sitting next to me. That’s what he has to do. That, and only that. Then maybe he’s got a shot.

Cancer Jiles: That’s cute, Dick. Real cute. Say, it’s a shame about your boy, ain’t it? Have you talked to Cecil since he got kicked in the face? That’s not a trigger for you is it? If I say kicked in the face, you don’t flashback to when I — accidentally — kicked you, do you? Because I would hate for that to be the case, if it is indeed, the case.

Richard Parker: You bastard!

Cancer Jiles: That’s not a trigger for you is it? If I say kicked in the face, you don’t flashback to when I — accidentally — kicked you, do you? Because I would hate for that to be the case, if it is indeed, the case.

Richard Parker: You goddamn, no good, dirty, low down, soulless, remorseless, classless, rotten egg of a human being. You coward. You cockroach. You are scum, and I can’t wait to see you fall from your Ivory Tower. AGAIN. And he will get you back. I promise it. AND, AND, you crumb, you will rue the day you ever crossed Phil Atken. I promise that, too.

The COOL is straight shining after Richard’s undressing. He’s got his feet up on the table, he’s  arrogantly chewing a fresh piece of gum, and the back of his cool head rests in the bosom of his interlocked hands.

Nick Stuart: So, about the match we’re about to watch? Anything?

Richard Parker: I have a question for Cancer.

Nick Stuart: Guess not.

Richard Parker: Considering how the show started tonight, and, well, obviously you didn’t walk down to the ring with Tony, so I have to ask; is everything okay inside the carton? I know you said you didn’t want to take away from his moment when we were off air, but are you sure it’s not that Tony didn’t want you to walk down to the ring with him? You know, because you are a vile cockroach whose only claim to fame is knowing how to cheat at life?

Cancer Jiles: No comment.

“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. Normally Tony and his personal announcer would come out wearing something with their current location’s rivals logo on it, but Boise is so damn boring that they do not have any rivalries – which is what happens when no professional sports organization feels your state is worthy of a team.

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

Johnnie Newsman: HEEEY THEEERRRE BOOOY SEEE!!! THEEE LAAAST MAAAN LAUGHING IS HEEERE!!!!

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

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak as 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, while 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 A-PEELING HERE IN SEATTLE’S SHADOW!

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

Johnnie Newsman: WITH A SMILE AS RARE AS A HUCKLEBERRY SHAKE, HEEE IIIS!

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

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY

Gamble walks up the steps, then without wiping his feet he climbs between the middle and bottom ropes to get into the ring.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN

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

He walks to the center then drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters. That damn grin wide for all to see.

Yeah, I was born for this

Cancer Jiles: Such a handsome guy, ain’t he?

Richard Parker: Yup, with a smile only a mother could love… and maybe a daughter. I noticed he didn’t come over and say hello to you. What do you think that is all about?

Cancer Jiles: He’s locked in. Plus, we’re men. Better yet, we’re Bandits. We don’t need to shake hands and tug on each other’s dicks for good luck.

Richard Parker: Even Coral?

Saved by the bell.

Not that bell.

The proverbial one. The inside of Albertsons Stadium darkens, the shift in ambiance causing the fans to rise to their feet.

THEY

ARE NO LONGER

YOUR PEOPLE

TO SAVE

A primal roar from some beast from the depths of Hell bellows after. Feral. Unrelenting.

It’s then that Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges throughout the stadium, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glows a stark red before turning black. Through it, a powerful tower, the sharpness cutting behind it creating a Y.

The Tower of Babel.

The PRIMEView comes alive with the PRIMETron of Brandon Youngblood. Across it is a variable who’s who in the sport of professional wrestling, countless who have walked the hallowed halls of PRIME, and in them, a staggering constant; they all wilt before raw, unbridled physicality and domination. Suplexes. Strikes. Spinebusters. The highlight reels of catching and destroying would be challengers. The championships won. The accolades minted.

Sets of red and white laser lights from on high and below cut through the air, and then, Brandon Youngblood arrives. No red compression sleeve on this night. He is in no hurry, stalking his way onto the ramp, his eyes forward toward the ring, focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. Reaching the point before the descent, he stops, surveying the crowd at his flank.

From both sides, the loud bang and blinding white of pyro explodes in powerful bursts.

As the smoke bellows, he slowly paces forward, the stadium lights now back on in full. Once to the stadium floor, he stops, staring upward toward Tony Gamble, then, towards his forever rival, the COOLympian, Cancer Jiles. Rather than ascend the steps, Youngblood makes his way over to the announce table, eyes trained on Jiles, his finger stabbing toward him.

The jaw jacking isn’t audible between him and Jiles, but it’s clear, each man knows how to get underneath the other’s skin. A fight could break out at any moment between the pair, and it wouldn’t be shocking, especially with each man trying to get the last word in.

After a few tense moments, and a flipping of his middle finger toward the COOLympian, Brandon walks to the steps, making his way up them, his dominion whole on the ring apron. At the halfway point, he steps between the ropes, taking the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: His opponent…hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at two-hundred sixty pounds… he is…THE TOOOOOOOOWER! OOOOOOOF! BAAAAAAAAAAAABEL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

Impossible to read is Youngblood as he holds court, and as he glowers at The Grin, then Jiles, then back to Gamble, all before his head tilts to its side, arms folding across his chest.

Before calling for the bell, and even though Tony still plans on breaking them, Ashley Barlow goes over the rules with the two Hall of Famers. Bless her heart. She also takes a moment to admonish Jiles, and tells him that no one is getting super kicked on her watch.

…

DING DING

The action starts off fast between the two Hall of Famers. Tony charges in, feigning reckless abandon while trying to trap his prey. Brandon, wise to the game, doesn’t bite and quickly side-steps out of the way. However, instead of acting upon an early opportunity to attack, The Last Diamond backs off and out of the range of Tony’s true motive, the counter. He then waves a finger in Tony’s direction, as if to say, “not today, Tony”. Gamble smiles like only he can, and then calls Youngblood “old”.

Nick Stuart: That’s one way for the match to start.

The two-time Universal Champion doesn’t take too kindly to the remark, his own advice, nor Tony’s obnoxious smile and barrels in. He misses with a clothesline, yes, because Tony is so small, but bounces off the ropes and tries again; this time finding the mark.

Nick Stuart: He knocked the sweat off of him!

The Dream Killer doesn’t stop there, he continues on because Brandon Youngblood can run through Tony Gamble and not lose any momentum. As such, Brandon bounces off the ropes once more, and on his way back lands a MASSIVE leg drop from the top of Babel’s Tower across Tony’s face.

Mainly his jaw.

Cancer Jiles: You’d think whoever is writing this match is trying to blow Brandon’s ACL out or something with all this running around he’s doing.

Youngblood reaches down to grab Gamble and lift him up to his feet. However, Gamble is narrowly able to jab a narrow thumb into Youngblood’s eye, which causes the Canadian-born suplex machine to reel back in agony. The Grin finds his footing and then plays around with his jaw for a bit, making sure he can still smile wide.

Cancer Jiles: Shake it off, Tommy. You got this.

Nick Stuart: It’s Tony.

Cancer Jiles: It is?

Tommy Two Books calmly walks over and lights up Youngblood with a chop across the chest. He chops him again. And again. And again.

Nick Stuart: Those chops are having ZERO effect on Brandon Youngblood.

And again.

Richard Parker: I’m sure it doesn’t help that Tony has to chop up to reach him. Much harder than chopping down.

And again.

And then, after Ashley Barlow can’t watch any more, again, puny, pathetic, Tony Gamble chops him. This time around though, after lulling Brandon to sleep with a series of open hand flea and tick bites, Gamble doesn’t chop up at Brandon’s chest. No, he chops up, right at Brandon’s throat.

Like, precision throat chop to the carotid.

Tony even uses his other, fresh hand when doing so.

Youngblood drops to his knees, almost blacking out.

Gamble, being a prick, and instead of capitalizing on the situation, decides it’s better to stand next to Babble Brains and make a height joke instead. Of course, it kills, and causes Jiles to fall out of his chair in a heinous uproar.

Richard Parker: Beats him talking.

Nick Stuart: You aren’t going to get any argument out of me.

Gamble lands a stiff closed fist, which has significantly more of an impact than the prior chops. He quickly moves in on Youngblood after the punch and drops him with a short DDT.

Ha.

Nick Stuart: HIGH IMPACT!

Gamble hastily goes for the cover, but is only able to secure a two count. Dissatisfied with the result, he quickly tries to pin Youngblood again, and this time around he’s only able to get a one count. Steadfast like an engine that could, he tries again and promptly gets thrown three feet up in the air and out of the ring. Ironically enough he lands near Jiles, who is still on the ground laughing.

It’s not awkward.

Not even when Brandon Youngblood leans over the top rope and asks them if they are going to kiss.

Jiles retakes his seat after of course taking a moment to berate Youngblood for his comment. Something, something, alfredo threats.

The Grin shakes the cobwebs and fearlessly rolls back into the ring. Before he can get up though, Youngblood starts to lay the boots to him in a way that would make you think he was trying to stomp out a cigarette. He then drops down, and twists Tony’s leg into a more awkward position than just a few moments ago. Gamble, being lucky, is near the ropes. Though, it does take a very painful handful of seconds for him to get to them.

Barlow gets to the count of four before Youngblood releases the hold.

The Last Diamond wrangles Gamble up, hoists, and then drops him on the back of his head and neck with a stiff German Suplex. He then pops back up, Tony in tow mind you, and then hits a release German Suplex that launches his opponent halfway across the ring.

Richard Parker: Gamble looked like a lawn dart!

Gamble winds up rolling all the way to the edge of the apron, and Brandon Youngblood stalks all the way over to get him. When Youngblood reaches out for him, Tony tries to gouge the eye again but Youngblood blocks it. Tony tries with his other hand, his throat chopping hand, but Brandon blocks that, too.

Cancer Jiles: This is going to sound crazy, but Tony’s got him right where he wants him.

Nick Stuart: If crazy involves a broken leg, destroyed knee, broken neck, broken head, broken thumbs, then sure you might be right.

The Grin starts to wiggle, trying his best to break free. He squirms, and he squirms, and eventually he’s able to do so; safely landing on the outside of the ring. Before Brandon can react, Tony reaches under the bottom rope and pulls Youngblood’s feet out from underneath him. He doesn’t try to drag him to the outside, but instead opts to just slam the back of Youngblood’s knees into the edge of the apron.

Again.

And again.

Tony would have done it again, but Youngblood manages to pull away from him. Pain, actual pain, will do that for a person. Maybe Brandon is faking it, and trying to parlor trick a trickster.

Doubtful.

Nick Stuart: Dare I say it, but Brandon Youngblood looks to be in some trouble here. That apron is unforgiving. No give at all.

Richard Parker: Cheaters cheat, right Cancer?

Cancer Jiles: If you call doing whatever it takes to win cheating, yup.

Gamble wastes no time scurrying up onto the apron, and then climbing all the way up to the top turnbuckle. Youngblood see’s what’s happening, but his knees are throbbing and he can’t really move too well at the moment. Not to mention, as soon as Tony ascends he leaps through the air with no hesitation attempting what the kids might call a YOLO moonsault.

Cancer Jiles: He looks like an angel.

Richard Parker: Graceful lawn dart if anything.

Who knows why Tony took the chance that he did? Maybe because you only live once? Maybe because he’s trying to impress someone? Maybe because the way you counter such a move is by lifting your knees up?

Regardless, it works.

Cancer Jiles: BOOM! Stuck him!

Youngblood eats every pound of Tony’s imposing frame. So, a plate fell from a high ledge onto his abdomen. Gamble does indeed stick the landing, and he even manages to hook the leg.

Well, as best as he can.

1.

2.

Nick Stuart: Did he just pin him?

Barlow looks at Tony, and signals Youngblood caught his breath at 2.9.

For description.

Richard Parker: THAT WAS CLOSE!

Nick Stuart: One thing is for sure, this is a different Tony Gamble than the one Brandon juggled at Colossus. I bet the positive impact Coral has had on him is part of the change.

Cancer Jiles: Cool chest hair, Nick. Shave it.

Richard Parker: He’s not wrong.

Nick Stuart: Thank you.

Richard Parker: I didn’t mean you.

Gamble rolls off of Youngblood and takes a knee next to his opponent. He starts to plead with Barlow over the count…. a little too much. While Tony is doing so, Youngblood is able to recuperate. He reaches out, and snatches Tony by the leg he previously worked over. This time around though, Tony is caught in the middle of the ring with his pants down around his ankles.

Not actually, but you know what I mean.

The rest of the match happens very fast. Youngblood winds up hooking Tony’s heel, and before Jiles can stand up and save the day, or maybe not, Gamble has to make a business decision about whether or not he wants to endure a tremendous amount of excruciating pain.

Tony Two Books taps.

Youngblood instantly releases the hold, almost as if he’s relieved the match is over.

Jiles’ face quickly turns the color of his hair.

Barlow calls for the bell.

DING-DING-DING!!!!

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, THE TOOOOOOOOWER! OOOOOOOF! BAAAAAAAAAAAABEL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

Youngblood struggles getting to his feet, but is able to do so long enough to get his hand raised. Gamble rolls out of the ring towards Jiles, who looks disgusted to say the least. Be it with Tony, or Brandon, or both, or whatever, who knows.

Nick Stuart: Just think, the last time around Jiles and Bobby carried Tony out. Granted, that was much a different match.

Richard Parker: As much as I hate Tony right now for costing Cecilworth against Crumbo, I got to give it to him tonight. He turned back the clock and gave Youngblood a damn good run for his money.

Nick Stuart: Sure did. There’s lots for Tony to be proud of in defeat, and he can walk away from this match with his head held high atop two books. But, in the end, PRIME’s Tower of Babel gets back on track and stands tall.

Richard Parker: Do you know why Jiles left this bottle of Jack Daniels down here?

The show cuts to commercial.

ReVival 51.

Boise, Idaho.

The bitch is here.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Oh good, you got the memo. “The Second Coming” Rose strides confidently through the bustling backstage area, the heels on her black boots clicking sharply off the concrete floor with each purposeful step. Stagehands and crew members pause in their work to look on, taking in her striking appearance: a pair of well-fitted blue jeans, a crisp white top, and a sleek black leather jacket that gives her an air of effortless cool.

Rose: Anyone catch sight of the Pineapple Man? You know, the guy who can’t stop saying “Bruh.” Last name Dawkins, first name Dickweed. Obsessed with pineapples. Always got a table drowning in them. On second thought, just point me toward the pineapple shrine, and I’ll handle the rest.

Even though she is sporting a pair of stylish black sunglasses that obscure her eyes from view, there is a palpable intensity about her. Clearly she’s not happy with being blamed by Dawkins earlier in the evening for suffering an injury two months ago she had nothing to do with. Her gaze is sweeping the area with a keen focus, as if she’s meticulously searching for someone — not just any person, but a specific individual — to direct her simmering ire towards. Her presence commands attention, and the atmosphere around her crackles with anticipation and tension.

She turns the corner, runs into a person—not the specific person, though—and stops in her tracks.

“So when are you and Big Dog coming back? Place hasn’t been the same without you guys.”

Because the person blocking her path is none other than The New Diamond himself, fresh off a victory against the Neck Collector himself, FLAMBERGE. See all of the nicknames we have here in PRIME? Keep up!

Nate Colton: Nah, I understand. Family comes first. Speaking of; I finally saw the Yarn Buddies my mom ordered. Yeah, she had them all on the dining room table when I got back home. Gale must be some kind of knitting wizard.

Rose stands there, hands on hips, foot tapping, her perturbed look barely hidden by her black sunglasses.

Rose: Nathaniel, are you serious right now? Could you not block the entire hallway, standing there, being… well, you? Some of us have important things to do, Russian giants to chop down, Hawaiian pineapples to smash, and quite frankly, none of it has anything to do with you. We have places to be, people to meet, and tasks that require our full attention. [waves Nate away] Shoo, Nate, shoo! Step aside and let the rest of us get on with our day. We have no patience in being delayed, especially not one caused by you just standing there, yapping away.

Nate pauses and turns to see The Second Coming standing there. His expression is a mix of surprise, apology, and intrigue as he steps back from the center of the hallway, taking a position against the wall. But then an idea crosses his mind, and his eyes glimmer with curiosity. It’s a moment suspended in time, where Nate is visibly processing her appearance and the potential implications it might have.

Nate Colton: Ope. Something just came up; I gotta go. Take care, Dabs.

He ends the call and puts his phone away, never taking his eyes off of the Second Coming.

Nate Colton: Hey…can I talk to you for a minute?

Rose processes the question in her mind, her thoughts swirling as she tries to respond. For a brief moment, Nate is confident he’s caused her brain to stop working for approximately half a second, a fleeting but noticeable pause. Her eyes narrow slightly as she contemplates, and her hands move to the sunglasses perched on her face. With a deliberate motion, she pushes them to the top of her head, revealing her eyes, which now seem to be scanning Nate Colton — trying to think about what Colton could want with her.

Rose: It depends. Are you going to scold me for drugging your best buddy, The Anglo Luchador? Or maybe for giving your girlfriend’s boss a much-needed reality check? Just so you know, I stopped getting those fatherly lectures when I was thirteen, and I’ve cherished the peace ever since. So, if you’re planning to play the moral high ground, you might want to think twice. I’m not exactly itching to revisit those glory days.

Nate Colton: Nothing like that. Just wanted to say that I saw the way you stepped up to Ivan Stanislav two weeks ago…that was really impressive.

Rose cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to process Nate’s unexpected compliment.

Rose: Thank… you? This isn’t some kind of trick, right? You butter me up, get me to drop my guard, and then hit me with, “Oh, it’s adorable that you think you can stand up to Ivan”? Because I didn’t take you for that kind of person, but maybe we’re rewinding to your Savannah Scandal days for all I know. That Nate, though, I doubt he could’ve pinned FLAMBERGE in the middle of the ring in Lisbon. So maybe you should just… not.

A flash of annoyance crosses Colton’s face. Maybe from the mention of Savannah Scandal, or possibly FLAMBERGE. Probably both.

Nate Colton: I didn’t pin him; I…y’know what, that’s not important. Look, I ain’t gonna pretend I’m a fan of…most of what you do, or the way you treated Tom or Ria. But Ivan and his army? They’re doing real damage around here, in a way that the Glues and Bandits and Whoresmen aren’t. So anyone standing up to them is great news. Makes their lives harder, and hopefully it makes everyone else realize that they can do it too.

Rose: And yet… what are you actually doing about it, Nathaniel? Because you have the power to do something if you can muster up enough fucks to do so. You’re at the top. Stop being like those other lackeys you admire. Don’t be like Brandon Youngblood, blabbing about how you’re the line in PRIME, but actually be it. Be the leader you ought to be. Be better.

Nate Colton: I…look, I’m trying, okay? But leadership isn’t just smashing some douchebag’s head with a chair. It’s also building other people up, so they know they’ve got choices other than being a victim or quitting. That’s what I’ve been trying to do these last couple months…giving folks a little bit of help getting to their feet.

Rose looks away for a moment, reflecting on everything Colton said.

Rose: Leadership is about standing up and doing the right thing when people are being knocked around, Nate. No one lifted a damn finger for my father when Phil Atken waltzed in. You might think the Glues are harmless, but I was there when my father had a concussion and was cluelessly puking his guts out night after night. Just think, if someone had literally done anything about Phil back then… we wouldn’t be stuck with the Glues now.

Rose begins to walk away when she pauses.

Rose: Well, I guess someone did. Julian Bathory. [beat] Cancer Jiles. [beat] Hope you’re not planning to sit on your hands and wait for them to do something about it. [beat] Oh, by the way, my father saw a lot of himself in you. Take that however you like.

Just like that, the Second Coming brushes by The New Diamond, back on her search for the Bruh.

Rose: If anyone’s seen a table full of pineapples, could you be a peach and point me the right way?!

Nate Colton: I think I saw it earlier, it’s a left at the next…and, you’re gone.

He leans against the wall, letting out a deep sigh.

Nate Colton: That could have gone better.

And now he’s talking to himself. That’s not great.

Nate Colton: She’s got a point, though.

I wonder what Ivan Stanislav thinks about all this. Only one way to find out!

….the previous segment, with Rose giving a piece of her mind to Nate Colton before continuing her search for Bryan Dawkins while Nate Colton reflects on her words seamlessly switches over to the view of someone watching Nate Colton and Rose via an old style backstage monitor. Suddenly, the duo are “switched off” as the monitor goes black.

Who turned them off and has been watching?

Why, Ivan Stanislav of course.

We’re back in his dressing room. Upon his desk, the bottle of Praskoveyskoe that was so graciously given to him by Hessian is half empty. He’s sitting behind the massive steel desk, dressed for combat. Ruslan is to his left, arms crossed over his chest. To his right, Max Kael mirrors Ruslan in a dazzling crimson and black suit and tie. He appears to still be removing cake from portions of his outfit with an annoyed expression. Ivan pushes himself up from his desk and adjusts a stray suspender.

As the camera pans out some more, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz are standing along the wall at attention in their own wrestling gear. Speedy Riggs stands by the door with the Herald, who is wildly waving the red banner.

The Red Army is collectively collected.

We’re moments away from a titanic matchup between two legends in their own right. Past Universal Champions, championships which have crossed federation and generational lines, men who have changed the landscape not just with their intensity, but also their longevity. Relics of a bygone era. Big men who no longer fit the current ‘mold’ of modern wrestling.

But oh, there’s more. It’s not just the two men.

The Red Army, a scourge of federations wherever it goes, is still together in some form decades after its inception.

Some might say it’s because of Stanislav and Ruslan. Some might be right. But perhaps, just maybe, there are still those who believe in the cause. Or maybe, now so far removed from the collapse of the Soviet Union, it is a collection of those who just believe in each other. Stanislav regards the group as he looks around.

Ivan Stanislav: Once more into the breach, comrades.

Ruslan/Kael/TheHerald/Schwartz/Freeman/Riggs: Oooorah!!

Ruslan, who had his hat tucked under his arm, places his cap firmly on his head and follows Ivan as he rounds the desk, with Max following behind, the Masters, and then Riggs pulling up the rear. It’s a procession of the proletariat.

As Stanislav exits the room, he looks down at the camera and speaks conversationally.

Ivan Stanislav: How many “heroes” will you throw my way, PRIME? And how many more will sleepwalk their way to certain defeat?

He continues walking, not looking at the camera, giving us a view of The Russian Bear’s profile. A technician squeezes against the wall so as not to be crushed by the unified steps of The Red Army.

Ivan Stanislav: Like ants, they gather in an attempt to defeat me. What? Nate Colton feels he can take up the mantle of defender of PRIME? The flag that was torn out of the bleeding hands of Brandon Youngblood! Could he be a fresh Diamond, meant to replace one shattered by an indefatigable Russian drill?

Ruslan guffaws behind his larger lifelong friend.

Ivan Stanislav: Wilting flower, the little rose, wishes to puff up her chest and try to stand in my shadow?

Maximillian makes no effort to hide a snarling chortle. To his side the Herald waves the Red Army banner proudly.

Ivan Stanislav: Lenin ingrained in us the unrelenting nature of our struggle. The war is never over, it only subsides for brief respites. There will always be obstacles, delays, and bursts of aggression. The enemy will never cease their attempts to quell our movement. Cowards will forever try to hinder our advancement and stifle our progress.

Stanislav stops for a moment and looks down at the camera for a moment. He winks and smiles.

Ivan Stanislav: But as consistent as this may be, so is the fact that you never learn, PRIME. Three years now, Ivan Stanislav has been here. Three years, no one has been able to defeat me. Not in any legal way, at least.

That’s not quite true. Yes, very few have stood over The Russian Bear since he’s arrived, but he is not perfect. Of course, no one is going to argue against Ivan at this moment. The truth is that Ivan Stanislav himself might believe his own lies.

Ivan Stanislav: The Anglo Luchador? Destroyed. Jared Sykes? Gone. Brandon Youngblood? Broken. Nova? Burned out. I could go on and on. They fade away. The Red Army endures.

Stanislav resumes walking, with his comrades in tow. Once more we look at him from his profile. Despite his hiatus, his presence has always been there, somewhere, lingering in the consciousness of wrestling fans.

Ivan Stanislav: But PRIME, you can never escape the inexorable cycle of would-be heroes sacrificing themselves for a shot at untouchable glory: defeating the unbeatable Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav. To stop the Red Army. These deluded souls are nothing more than sacrificial lambs egged on by the manipulative Lindsay Troy, fed false hopes by their blind and misguided fans. You, too, fall victim to your own destructive individuality, crashing headfirst into The Russian Bear and his unstoppable Red Army like a helpless wave against an unbreakable dam.

Ivan nears the Argyle position. We’re just about there now.

Ivan Stanislav: The echoes of greatness that once resounded through these halls have faded, replaced with a pervading mediocrity. Chandler Tsonda, Matt Ward, Dusk – where are they now? The mere mention of their names invokes a sense of longing for the past, for the fleeting moments of brilliance they brought. In their wake, you are left with pale imitations – Colton, Ellis, RIA, Rose, and perhaps even Byrd. They are nothing but liars and charlatans, pretending to be what they can never truly become.

Randall Schwartz whoops down the line.

Ivan Stanislav: Truth is, PRIME, I have been nice to you. We… have been nice to you. We tried to work with Lindsay Troy. We tried our best to play by your crooked rules. And for what? For misguided fines? Booking snubs? Censorship? I’m through pulling punches. You have all had it easy. No more.

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: My generosity has concluded. We’re no handsome fools lying about dreaming of Glue. We are not drug abused misfits, Bible thumpers, yellow Bandits, hot dog gorgers, or part-time fiance’s sucking up to some “Queen.” I am Starshy Praporshchik Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav. We are The Red Army – fierce, unyielding soldiers who will stop at nothing to defend our homeland and ideals, and annihilate our enemies.

Ivan waits just shy of the Argyle position now, with the Red Army all about him. He turns to address them, ignoring the camera, his arm raised high.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrades! Tonight, Lindsay Troy has foolishly offered another victim to be devoured by The Red Army! We will remind her, and the world, of our unstoppable might!! We will bring honor to Mother Russia! Glory to the international communist revolution! Glory to the Red Army! Forever we march in triumph as one!!

The Red Army cheers in unison, while Ivan turns to the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: The Red Banner rises once more. Watch closely, all you heroes. You might just learn something.

And then, it’s not loud, but it doesn’t have to be…

Ivan Stanislav: Dyaahaahaa…

We cut to ringside.

The arena is buzzing awaiting the HUGE, literal, main event between the former two-time Universal Champion from the ReVolution and the hulking, dominant Universal Champion from the ReVival.

Nick Stuart: This might be, by weight, the biggest main event in PRIME history. Hessian and Ivan Stanislav, two titans of the ring in the most literal sense.

Richard Parker: I haven’t seen this much beef since the last time I went to Fogo de Chao.

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 centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

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

The lights in Albertsons Stadium turn crimson and the Boise crowd immediately responds with boos and vitriol.

The Russian’s wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nick Stuart: It’s been a long time since Americans have had the… pleasure… of hosting Ivan Stanislav. It looks like they haven’t missed him.

Richard Parker: Ivan has his issues, don’t get me wrong, but this is a historic match decades in the making. Hessian is the biggest competitor in the ReVival Era to stand up to Ivan Stanislav. Heck, he’s taller than him, but I do have in my notes that the Russians contend this statement…

Nick Stuart: They would. But regardless, Stanislav has the weight advantage on Hessian, but Hessian is about ten years younger than The Russian Bear… furthermore…

Stuart’s words are suddenly drowned out by a sudden explosion sound. Not the Soviet National Anthem, but instead victorious Russian voices, speaking English.

UNSTOPPABLE!!

No music. No Ivan or Alexei. No anthem. The PRIMEView switches from the Soviet flag to archival footage of Ivan Stanislav.

-Stanislav, clean shaven and much younger, stands victorious. It’s October 2001 in PCW. He has a boot on his battered and defeated nemesis, Meanstreak, and he becomes the PCW World Champion.

UNBEATABLE!!

2002. The blues of PCW have given away to the oranges of OSW. Stanislav once more stands in the ring with Ruslan at his side. He’s grizzled now, with a beard and gray hair showing. He holds the OSW World Championship in one hand while a purple haired female is held in his other massive arm. The crowd, shockingly, cheers him.

 INDEFATIGABLE!!

UltraViolence 2023. Far older. Many more lines across his face. An undeniably battered, wounded, and bloody Russian Bear, stands over Brandon Youngblood for his ascension to Universal Champion. He appears exhausted, he fought for this match, tested to a degree that even his younger days would have struggled to endure, yet it cannot be denied that he is standing over the former champion, victorious. The Russian Bear still has it.

IVAN STANISLAV!!

“The Soviet National Anthem” finally explodes throughout the arena.

Vince Howard: And his opponent! Accompanied to the ring by Alexei Ruslan. He stands 7’1” tall and weighs in at 400 lbs. Hailing from Arkhangelsk, Russia. He is The Russian Bear. The leader of The Red Army. IVANNNNNN STAAAANNNNISLAVVVVV!!!

Stanislav emerges to a cacophony of explosions around the entryway with Ruslan in tow. The Russian Bear raises his arms over his head and bellows an angry roar, blasting the smoke in front of him outward.

Nick Stuart: To say Ivan has been annoyed as of late would be an understatement. But when isn’t The Russian Bear annoyed?

Richard Parker: You know Bears, they like their hibernation, and this guy just doesn’t rest! No wonder he’s cranky!

Ivan is in no hurry walking down the ring. He basks in the anger and frustration of the crowd. Over his head, the PRIMEView continues to show scenes of his illustrious career.

-Stanislav and Ruslan standing in a PCW ring in Russia, when they became the first and only Co-World Champions…

Ruslan makes a motion to the huge screen and pantomimes a belt around his waist. His smug grin only grows as he points and laughs at some of the fans. He thumbs his nose at them, and laughs so hard he holds onto his waist. Stanislav boots one of the barricades and sends it shuddering down the aisle. Members of the crowd gesture offensively at Stanislav, but the Russian Bear laughs and waves them off. Above, the footage shifts.

-The Russian Bear years ago, pinning the now current PRIME Universal Champion Coral Avalon. Ruslan is on the outside, cheering wildly.

Ivan trudges down a few more feet and walks to the other side of the aisle to piss off some more fans. He wipes his brow with his hand and flicks a huge dollop of sweat across the face of some poor screaming woman. She heaves as she gets a good taste of Russian sweat straight in her mouth. Ruslan removes his hat and waves it over his face, as if to cool himself down from having so much fun at the American fans’ expense. The image above shifts once more.

-Ivan converts Jared Sykes, the “Heart” of PRIME, into a rocket and sends him straight into orbit not a month ago. The European fans watch in horror. Could this Russian, and his government, do this to them after Ukraine?

Nick Stuart: Hessian returned to PRIME when Ivan was at his lowest. When he lost the Universal Title to FLAMBERGE…

Richard Parker: Lost is a strong word.

Nick Stuart: Lost is the correct word! Battered and beaten, he left en route to a hospital while The Murder Show took center stage! Twenty years ago, Hessian might have been overshadowed by Stanislav, but he has now become The ReVolution Era’s last Universal Champion. He claimed his place in the annals of history. He broke out behind any shadow that Stanislav might have cast. Stanislav can say what he wants about his self-reported greatness. Yes, he has a Universal Title run. Yes, he has a lifetime contract. Yes, he has end of the year awards and accolades. But Hessian is a PRIME Hall of Famer. No complaining, no moaning, no yelling can refute that. Nothing, said in English or Russian, can deny that fact. Hessian earned it, himself!

Richard Parker: I’m sensing some unfair bias Nick.

Stanislav rounds the ring now, eyeing Hessian who stands in the far corner. He points up at Hessian and waggles a finger, but instead makes his way closer to the announce table. He points at the Soviet hammer and sickle proudly displayed on his barrel chest and bellows at a local fan. Still, more accolades from on high.

-A bloodied Stanislav throws a wild uppercut at Culture Shock 2024 and nails The Anglo Luchador, sending him flying across the ring.

The Russian Bear stops midway around the ringside area and eyes the ring. He kicks the apron once to test if it will actually handle his weight, combined with Hessian. Satisfied, he continues his slow trek around the ring.

Nick Stuart: I cannot understate the gravity of… hey!!

Ruslan commandeers a headset at the announce table for a moment.

Alexei Ruslan: UNSTOPPABLE! UNBEATABLE!! INDEFATIGABLE!!! HE IS IVAN STANISLAV, PRIME!! NO ONE, NOT THE SMALLEST OF LUCHADORES, NOR THE BIGGEST OF HESSIANS, CAN STOP HIM!!!! AAAAHAAHAAA—

Thankfully, Nick wrests control of the headset back. Ruslan doesn’t allow this to dampen his spirits as he waves cockily at Minion the Imp.

Stanislav grips the top rope and effortlessly steps up onto the apron, and then fluidly steps over the top rope. The canvas sinks slightly between the two massive competitors. Ruslan takes his place in his corner, while Ivan points to the crowd, and then back to the PRIMEView, which shifts to footage of the flag of the Former Soviet Union. It waves majestically from afar and Stanislav grips his suspenders, straightens his back…

…and laughs.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

He lets out another raucous laugh. His laughter drowns out the hatred of the locals. Ruslan’s cheering nullifies their displeasure. The crimson lighting mutes their negativity. And as the lights return to their normal shade and the music fades away, there, before the crowd’s very eyes, stand two larger than life legends made manifest. Ghosts of a bygone age, still fighting after all these years.

Nick Stuart: This is a match that has been hypothesized countless times online. Hypothetical “flame wars” between fans of old school wrestling. Who would win? Who is stronger? The Russian Bear or The Murder Show? Now, folks, we are going to see. This is history in the making! What a hell of a way to end this milestone that is ReVival 51!

The grizzled, aging, venerable Russian Bear’s laughter stoops. He wipes his combat boots on the apron, rolls his neck, and with a confident grin nods across the ring at Hessian. Stanislav lets out a loud “ooorah!” and prepares for another battle in what’s been a decades long, never ending patriotic war.

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

The two titans of PRIME circle each other, both stone faced. Hessian’s face is like stone, while Ivan gives his best Soviet sneer. Finally, they lock up, and the crowd gasps because…

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav opens with, uh, a hammerlock?

Richard Parker: Hey, Ivan is not shy about telling anyone his history in grappling in Russia!

Nick Stuart: Rich, he threatened me with bodily harm. I tend to zone out when he says anything.

Richard Parker: Hater.

Nick Stuart: Look Rich, there’s Cancer Jiles and the Anglo Luchador talking about cheesesteaks.

Richard Parker: hisses

The Russian Bear goes from the hammerlock into a side headlock and wrenches, smiling and preening for a crowd that is booing the shit out of him. Hessian, not used to being in there with someone who can manipulate his body, let alone match him for strength, flails his arms trying to escape. He gets his arm around, grabbing Ivan’s waist and trying to lift him up into a backdrop suplex, but Ivan blocks it, spins around into a rear waistlock, and slams big Hess down with an Olympic-style takedown. Ivan pops up from the mat and raises his arms to utter JEERS.

Nick Stuart: Ivan showing a side of himself that we’ve NEVER seen here in PRIME.

Richard Parker: You’re a fake fan, Nick. Real heads would’ve watched old footage of Soviet Socialist Championship Wrestling on RuTube.

Nick Stuart: How many viruses does your computer have, Richard?

Richard Parker: We’re down in the hundred-thousands now. God bless Geek Squad.

Ivan gets down in a squat stance, beckoning for Big Hess to get up. The Murdershow rises to his feet while moving back, trying to regroup. The Bear lunges in for another collar-and-elbow, but Hessian sidesteps him and with impeccable timing…

CRACK

Nick Stuart: Dear God! I bet they heard that headbutt in Pocatello!

Richard Parker: It’s not fair, Hessian doesn’t have a brain, he shouldn’t be allowed to do headbutts.

Nick Stuart: Rich, Hessian is probably one of the smartest men on the roster.

Richard Parker: Not compared to Ivan or Alexei, he isn’t.

Ivan stumbles forward, and Hessian shakes his head, indicating the cat-and-mouse game has ended. He drives his big boot square into the small of the Bear’s back three times before Ivan stops trying to get up. Hessian goes to work, driving his knee onto the Soviet hero’s thoracic spine and locking in a camel clutch.

Nick Stuart: This is more what the fans expected to see. Grinding brutality.

Richard Parker: What’s so wrong with subverting expectation every once in awhile?

Ivan does his best to keep his verbal reactions to himself, like a dignified agent of Soviet Russia would, but The Murdershow keeps wrenching. Finally, the Bear makes one last flail with his meaty paw and grabs the bottom rope. Hessian is liberal with the count, but releases between four and five, not wanting to lose a match via disqualification so early on.

Nick Stuart: I don’t like the look Alexei Ruslan has on his face right now. He’s scheming, I know it.

Richard Parker: You can’t prove that in a court of law.

Nick Stuart: Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a judge then, huh.

Richard Parker: I don’t know. I heard Harlan Crow has your cell number.

As Alexei bangs on the apron, Minion keeps an eye on him from a safe distance. Ivan slowly rises to his feet, holding his back, but Hessian gives no quarter, firing in with two clubbing overhand blows, sending the Bear chest first into the ropes. As he stumbles back, The Murdershow grabs him and plants him hard on the canvas with a big back suplex. The two-time former Universal Champion rises to his feet, snorting before raising his arm.

Nick Stuart: No one, and I mean NO ONE has manhandled the Russian Bear like this. Guys like Hanlon beat him through attrition and massive feats of strength, but Hessian is no ordinary man.

Richard Parker: I think he should be tested for horse steroids, if we’re being honest here.

Nick Stuart: HORSE ST… you know what, I’m not even gonna push back on that one.

Right as Hessian turns around, Ivan picks the ankle, again showing some of the amateur grappling prowess from years long past. He climbs the ladder and grabs Big Hess right in that side headlock again, this time on the canvas, but the Murdershow powers up, pushing the Russian Bear to his feet. He shoves Ivan into the ropes and stands his ground. Ivan charges in off the rebound, and they collide.

But neither man budges more than an inch.

Nick Stuart: Are we finally going to get what we expected?

Both men’s eyes widen, nostrils flare. Ivan takes a step back and slams into Hessian’s chest like an elephant seal trying to impress a mate. The Murdershow only flinches slightly before cocking back and repeating the impact.

Richard Parker: HOSSSSSSSSSSSS FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!

They take turns slamming their hulking frames into each other. Mass on mass, the reverberations echoing through Albertson’s Stadium like thunderclaps in an open field during a hurricane. The crowd cheers both men colliding like cars in a demolition derby. For a moment, they forget that they absolutely loathe the Russian Bear and want the Murdershow to end him. They are lost helplessly and hopelessly in the most violent joining of bodies seen in Idaho perhaps ever.

Then Ivan ruins the whole thing by poking Hessian in the eyes.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: Once again, Ivan Stanislav taking a shortcut. The fans are letting him have it

Richard Parker: Hey, he doesn’t get paid by the hour. He let the proletariat have their fun, but he’s got work to do now.

Hessian stumbles around the ring holding while Ivan belts out a huge DYA-HA-HA. He follows up by grabbing the stunned Murdershow by the shoulder, whipping him off the ropes, and CRASHING to the mat with a huge powerslam that shakes the ring, the foundations of Albertson’s Stadium, and possibly the Earth’s crust itself. If the Yellowstone Caldera goes off sometime after this show, you know who to blame. Elvis Nixon drops to the mat for the first nearfall…

ONE!

TWO!

Hessian kicks out with authority.

Ivan yells something Russian-sounding at Nixon while Alexei looks around the ringside area with paranoid eyes. That little wrecker Minion has to be up to something, at least in his mind. Ivan puts a boot to Hessian and then brings him up to his feet, straining with great effort to bend the massive Angelus Van Kelsig over his knee in a most uncomfortable position. Finally, the Russian’s will wins out, and he finishes his flourish with a hard stomp to the canvas, jolting the Murdershow’s upper back with great prejudice.

Nick Stuart: Hammer and Sickle from the former Universal Champion!

Richard Parker: Bow before the awesome power of the Russian Bear, manhandling Hessian like this with grace and ease!

Nick Stuart: I think we should test Ivan for horse steroids too then.

Richard Parker: hisses again YOU CEASE THIS SLANDER AT ONCE.

Hessian writhes in pain on the mat while Ivan with the smuggest look on his face plants his gigantic boot on his victim’s chest and steps over him with the other. Hessian’s eyes bulge almost to the point of exiting his skull. The Russian Bear laughs again before covering with the nonchalance of an opponent of Ikan Jobtayu in the distant past.

ONE!

TWO!

Hessian kicks out again, somehow with more malice and force than before.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if Ivan should be taking Hessian lightly here.

Richard Parker: Please, there’s only room for one gigantic world-eater, here, and Ivan is showing you who that is.

Ivan wrangles Hessian into a front facelock.

Nick Stuart: Ivan looking like he’s going for the Red Scare here! Can he get Hessian up for it though?

Richard Parker: Watch him!

Ivan tries lifting Big Hess up, but he’s blocked. Feeling that it might be a bit premature, Ivan lets go of the front facelock and grabs Hessian underneath his armpits, pivoting to the Iron Curtan. However, right as he gets the Murdershow an inch off the canvas…

CRACK

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER big headbutt from Hessian!

Richard Parker: You called him the smartest wrestler on the roster, but he’s killing his own brain cells to beat Ivan Stanislav! That’s how much of a threat the Russian Bear is!

Ivan stumbles back, a trickle of blood inching its way down his nose into his thick moustache. He makes the Ben Stiller-in-Dodgeball “NOBODY MAKES ME BLEED MY OWN BLOOD” face before charging in with a clothesline…

…that Hessian ducks.

Ivan bounces chest-first off the ropes, staggering back into the waiting arms of Hessian who wrangles him into a dragon sleeper.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav is about to get himself an Epidural!

Richard Parker: I NEED TO SEE ANGELUS’ MEDICAL LICENSE!!

Hessian drops the Bear on his knee with extreme prejudice once, twice, three times, each time with a thud causing two men in the mezzanine level to remark whether or not Ivan’s heart is about to stop at that moment. Finally, he tosses Ivan down, roaring to the approval of the Boise crowd. He covers…

One!

Two!

But Ivan kicks out.

Nick Stuart: I think the Murdershow is about to begin, Richard.

Richard Parker: MURDER IS A CRIME! WE ARE A CRIME-FREE ZONE HERE!

Hessian makes the throat-slash gesture before lifting the Russian Bear back to his feet. He puts Ivan’s head between his legs and tries to lift him up for a powerbomb, but the Bear dead-weights him enough to halt progress. Big Hess tries again, but Ivan breaks out. Hessian thinks quickly on his feet and clubs his foe in the head while grabbing his arm.

Nick Stuart: Short arm clothesline from the Murdershow! He’s got Ivan on rollerskates!

Richard Parker: Wrestling on rollerskates. Nick, you really do have some of the strangest ideas sometimes.

Nick Stuart: And sometimes, I think you’re on horse hallucinogens the stuff you say.

He covers…

ONE!

TWO!

…..

…….

…….

But Ivan kicks out!

Hessian looks absolutely feral. He signals for the “TOOT TOOT,” which can only mean one thing…

Nick Stuart: HESS EXPRESS BOARDING…

Richard Parker: NO! He missed! Praise Hoyt!

Ivan ducks at the last second, and then looks over at the turnbuckle. He climbs up.

Nick Stuart: I don’t like the looks of this.

Richard Parker: Could we be seeing the Hurricanrussia here?

Nick Stuart: He hasn’t tried that move on anyone but Tony Gamble so far! I don’t know if it’ll work.

Richard Parker: I’m gonna drop the whole “I like the bad guys” facade right now for a moment. Did it really work on Gamble?

Nick Stuart: Touche.

Ivan leaps from the top rope with all the grace a 400-lb. human specimen carved from granite would, landing legs around Hessian’s face. There was one problem though.

There was no rotation.

Hessian caught him, and…

WHAM!

Nick Stuart: Well, the Hurricanrussia double-secret didn’t work here.

Hessian signals for the end after countering the Hurricanrussia with a powerbomb. Except there’s one problem.

On the outside, simultaneously with the Hurricanrussia attempt, Alexei Ruslan was scheming. He snuck around the ring while Minion was intently watching his big brother whiff on his signature setup move and then counter the other mega-superheavyweight’s odd highspot. He didn’t notice Alexei behind him, baton brandished, and in the confusion, Minion took a big lump to the back of the head with it.

And now, he’s in Alexei Ruslan’s clutches.

Nick Stuart: NO! NO! That lapdog Ruslan has Minion captive! Hessian is beside himself!

Ruslan’s chokehold grows tighter and tighter around the small man’s neck, but suddenly, a roar comes up from the crowd. It’s not Hessian exiting the ring. It’s a blond-haired kid in sweatpants and sneakers charging down the ramp.

Nick Stuart: NATE COLTON! NATE COLTON IS HERE!

Richard Parker: What’s this hayseed doing? He doesn’t belong here!

Nick Stuart: Maybe his conversation earlier with Rose helped get him in the right direction?

Richard Parker: Oh, great.

Colton makes a beeline for Ruslan, who drops Minion and runs around the ring in his best Benny Hill gait. His old frame is no match for the superior condition of The Next Diamond, who snags him and…

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH SUPLEX TO THE LAPDOG!

Richard Parker: I’m going to be sick!

Hessian cheers and nods to Colton, but all the while, he didn’t realize Ivan had gotten up behind him. Big Hess turns around, but it’s too late.

The Bear grabs him with his meaty claws and tosses him in the air.

Red Scare.

No nearfall.

Hessian is picked up against his will again.

Iron Curtain.

Sure, the Murdershow doesn’t fly as far as a Gamble or an Anglo Luchador or even a Hanlon would. But he skids on the mat, feeling the impact of the Soviet war machine’s brute strength.

A cover.

One.

TWO.

….

……..

………

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner, Ivan… STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANISSSSSLAVVVVVVVVV!

Boos rain down from the highest levels of Albertson’s Stadium as Stanislav doesn’t even wait for Elvis Nixon to raise his hand. He bolts out of the ring to check on Alexei while Nate Colton, having done his good deed for the day saving Minion from the treacherous clutches of Ivan’s longtime manager and friend, dives the other way into the ring to check on Hessian. Stanislav checks on Alexei, who is still down but slowly recovering on the outside. After medical personnel get to Alexei, Ivan turns back and he slides back into the ring to meet the Murdershow as he is slowly being helped to his feet by Colton. Nate turns towards Ivan, but Hessian steps in front of Colton between the two men.

Nick Stuart: Oh no, what could Ivan have up his sleeve?

Richard Parker: Nothing! That’s a short-sleeved shirt. He can barely fit a pack of smokes up there smuggling those ribeyes he has for upper arms.

Ivan and Hessian lock gazes in the middle of the ring, the Murdershow, the Russian Bear, seven footer to seven footer. No hiding from the eye contact, just locked. The crowd grows anxious. A dull hum comes over the venue. Hessian sticks his hand out towards Ivan. Stanislav looks at his fellow behemoth’s frying pan sized right hand. Then back up to the Murdershow.

Richard Parker: DON’T DO IT IVAN! HE’S ON HORSE STEROIDS!

Nick Stuart: Will you calm down? These two men have known each other for decades.

Ivan accepts to a mixed reaction from the crowd who’d like nothing more than to see the Murdershow knock the hated Russian down a peg or two. However, sportsmanship is sportsmanship. Hessian holds up Ivan’s arm, and points to him. The crowd gives an absolutely confused reaction, and then.

Richard Parker: NO! NO!

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!

AKHDSJAHSSKDHASKASKJRHFGKJSDFHGKJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Funeral black jumper, t-shades, SALTforce 1’s that smash almost through the throat of the Russian Titan. Stanislav falls backward grasping at his throat, a look of shock on his face as he rolls out of the ring towards Alexei. Nate Colton is stunned. The crowd is buzzing.

Richard Parker: WHERE DID THAT ASSHOLE COME FROM!?

Nick Stuart: NO IDEA RICHARD! BUT NATE NEEDS TO GET…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Hessian and Jiles turn on Colton. Nate begins flailing fists while struggling to get his jacket off, Jiles and Hessian both attack. Jiles comes in boot first, while Hessian takes lumbering swing after lumbering swing. Finally it’s too much and a right hand from Hessian connects solid and Colton goes on the defensive in the corner. A wave of Enemigos led by Coral Avalon pours out of the back.

Nick Stuart: THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION IS HERE! AND HE’S GOT SECURITY WITH HIM!

Richard Parker: HE’S OUT HERE TO HELP JILES! HE’S GOING TO KILL NATE COLTON!

A  second reserve wave runs down to restrain Ivan, Hessian is still trying to throw fists with Enemigos hanging off of him. Jiles is ushered to a far corner by an Enemigo. He reaches down, checking his busted open lip from where Colton had connected with a right hand. Coral Avalon slides in between the two groups, he briefly checks on Nate Colton who nods and he turns back towards Jiles. T-Shades. Coral looks back to Colton who is struggling towards Jiles against the Enemigos. He turns back to Hessian who has twirled an Enemigo out of the ring and into the second wave. Followed by a second one, Ivan begins to roar and struggle with Enemigos hanging off of him. More security rushes down the ramp. Coral looks back to Colton and then back to Jiles. Dame and Wade are both coming through the curtain. Coral keeps his arms out standing between Colton and Hessian. He looks back towards Jiles.

Nick Stuart: NO! NO!

Richard Parker: I TOLD YOU CORAL! I TOLD YOU HE WAS GOING TO DO IT!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The right leg of the COOLympian is ripped from it’s sheath for the second time. Terminal Cancer connects directly on Coral Avalon’s massive forehead, Nate Colton rushes forward at Hessian, and Dame and Wade slide into the ring followed by another group of event security.

Nick Stuart: IT’S BEDLAM IN BOISE! WE’RE OUT OF…!

BLACK