ReVival 54

The show feed comes to life and the fifty-fourth ReVival is underway. Instead of the show starting inside of the ring, or at the principal’s office, or in the bathroom, or in a skybox, it begins down at the commentary booth.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to the fifty-fourth edition of ReVival! We have an amazing show planned for you tonight! We have tag league action, we have tag team action, we have Brandon Youngblood taking on Wade Elliot! And in the main event—

Richard Parker: I’ll tell them about the main event, Nick.

Nick gladly obliges.

Richard Parker: And in the main event, we—

Both Nick and Dick hold a hand to an ear; acting as if they’re being told something in their headsets. Whatever the cracking news is, it causes Richard Parker to frown.

Nick Stuart: We’re getting word the eGG Bandits have arrived here at Moda Center!

The show feed jumps from the commentary booth and an unhappy Richard Parker to backstage. More precisely the main event entrance. As you might have guessed, it’s a special entrance for those partaking in the main event. Yes, it is odd that it only gets used by the eGG Bandits. Still, that’s not going to stop them.

The door violently swings open like a Honalean dropped his belly against it. Soon thereafter, in steps Bobby Dean and PRIME Hall of Famer, Tony Gamble. Both are wearing electric blue tracksuits and are walking with purpose, determination, or the need of a bathroom.

Nick Stuart: Later on tonight Tony and Bobby take on the debuting Femme Furies in non-tag league action.

Richard Parker: What a shit show that is going to be.

Nick Stuart: Could be, since it’s Bobby’s first match back since ReVival 46. One has to wonder what type of ring shape he’s going to be in?

Richard Parker: There’s a reason it’s a tag match, Nick.

The Beaute from Honalee and The Grin from Yellowpage exit the shot. Next up through the doorway, and having to comically duck down under the jam to safely get through it, in funeral black, yet another PRIME Hall of Famer, Hessian.

Nick Stuart: The former Universal Champion and newest member of the eGG Bandits is also in action tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: I still can’t believe it. Of all people. Big Hess. It just doesn’t make any sense.

Nick Stuart: It should be quite the thriller when he steps into the ring for a singles bout against Johnathan Christopher Hall, who also happens to be a former Universal Champion.

Instead of continuing through the shot like Bobby and Tony, Hessian stands by the door.

Richard Parker: What could he have on him?

Nick Stuart: Who? JCH?

Richard Parker: No, Jiles that crumb. He has to have incriminating pictures from Hessian’s stay on the boat or something. It’s the only thing I can think of!

Not before long, the current Universal Champion, the Trail Blazing Blazer wearer himself, Coral Avalon, is next through the door. Unlike Hessian, Coral’s forehead just clears the jam so he doesn’t have to duck down.

Nick Stuart: There he is. The Golden Bandit, The PRIME Universal Champion, The Captain of the eGG Bandits, Coral Avalon.

Richard Parker: Vomit. I heard a story once about him calling the IRS to see if they wanted any more of his money.

Nick Stuart: He better call them again, because he’s gonna have his hands full tonight as the special guest referee in our MAIN EVENT!

Avalon doesn’t stop, but he doesn’t snub either. He slows down to nod at Big Hess, who nods back, before presumably heading up to his suite.

Nick Stuart: And speaking of the main event.

Richard Parker: Please fall. Please get hit with a meteor, or an anvil. Please slip on a banana peel and break every bone in your body.

Last but not least, and looking like a COOLYMPIAN two dollar bill, in struts Cancer Jiles. Hair, simmering. Funeral, blacking. T, shading.

Richard Parker: God do I hate this crumb.

Nick Stuart: Jiles said he was going to bury the seven foot one, four hundred pound Ivan Stanislav in tonight’s main event. Not just beat him, Dick, but bury him. Is that even possible?

Richard Parker: No.

Nick Stuart: He also said he would do so without the help of the eGG Bandits. I mean, if he’s able to pull something like that off, does he become the favorite on Night Two for Coral Avalon’s Universal Championship?

Richard Parker: That question isn’t even worth entertaining since Ivan is going to fold that loser up like a fresh beach towel.

The King of COOL’s smile is ear to ear while briefly checking in with his seven foot insurance policy. The two then exit the shot and head off in the opposite direction of the other three.

The feed switches back to the Hall of Fame announce team.

Nick Stuart: Is that so?

Richard Parker: That is so. In fact, this time around he squashes the cockroach for good and puts an end to Banditry as we know it!

Nick Stuart: Well, there’s only one way we’re going to find out! First though, we have a ton of amazing action to get through; starting with Bembe Brightwell and Sebastian Gold!

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/ReV54-Commercial.mp4

Back ringside, the camera pans around to our favorite signs of the evening.

COOLOSUS IS COMING
DAYTONA “THE LEGEND KILLER RANDY WHORETON” DIAMONDS
THANK GOD IT’S NOT COLTONLOSSUS
CANCER JILES EATS PUDDING WITH HIS FINGERS
WELCOME GIANT BABY ELLIS
I PAID TO SEE THE GIANT RICHARD PONIES. I AM NOT A SMART MAN.
WADE ELLIOT NEEDS A WALKER TO GET DOWN TO THE RING

That’s all the signs? Alright then. Let’s get the action started!

I get ahead on my motorbike
I get ahead on my motorbike

The Opening riff of “The Living End” coats the arena as yellow smoke covers the top of the ramp.

There’s nothing else but meee!

Sebastian flips through the smoke and lands at the top of the ramp and throws up his hands for the crowd.

There’s nothing else but meee!

The Bastion of Action takes his time heading to the ring, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans.

And an empty roaaaaad
And a cool, cool wind makes it feel so gooooooood

He climbs the top turnbuckle and points to the sky.

Richard Parker: Oh great, another stuntman.

Nick Stuart: Some might say that Harley Walker… walked so that Sebastian Gold could run.

Richard Parker: PRIME has become the Greatest Showman. Next thing you know Lindsay Troy will begin wearing a top hat.

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

Richard Parker: Someone call medical, he’s seizing.

The two men nod at one another as they prepare for the match. Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

Richard Parker: That Bembe Brightwell looks like Slender Man and Sebastian is built like a pack of Marlboros.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold comes out like a bull in a China shop, landing an uppercut to an unsuspecting Bembe. He doesn’t show any signs of stopping as he follows it up with a standing hurricarana. This guy’s athleticism is awe-inspiring for his… structure.

Richard Parker: His structure? Do you mean because he’s built like a pack of Marlboros?

Nick, per the usual, just ignores Richard.

Inside the ring, however, Bembe cannot ignore the high flying masterclass Sebastian Gold is giving him and the fans at the Moda Center. The only time Gold allows Brightwell to get up is when it’s setting up his next aerial assault. Flying DDT followed up by a flying scissors kick followed up by a standing moonsault. You get the idea. Lots of standing and flying shit. For a moment it looks as if Brightwell will be completely overpowered. But the course of history is often moved by tiny, little moments. In a tiny little moment that likely saves this from being a blowout, Sebastian Gold bounces off the ropes for a springboard moonsault just as Bembe remembers he gets paid to fight and is in the middle of an assignment.

Nick Stuart: Wow! Bembe catches Gold mid-air and levels him with a tombstone piledriver!

Richard Parker: Glad he decided to show up.

Nick Stuart: And now The Living Lightning Rod is on the attack. He paints Sebastian Gold with right hand after right hand, sending the smaller man reeling back into the ropes and right into a jumping DDT on the rebound. Sebastian Gold seems to have run out of gas with a complete shift of momentum.

Richard Parker: He came out too hot. Your first match in PRIME is a lot like a boys’ prom night. You build it up so much in your head. The nerves get you. The roar of the crowd. Then it’s over and you never really got started.

Nick Stuart: Uh, what?

Richard Parker: Nothing. Call the damn match.

Rolling with the tide of his momentum, Brightwell hoists Sebastian up onto the top rope facing out towards the crowd. Bembe manuevers with precision in place behind Gold, interlocking his legs in the top rope and wrapping his arms around Sebastian’s midsection. Pulling back with all of his weight, which isn’t much for how tall he is, Brightwell launches Gold into the air and across the ring. Somehow, despite the enormous effort it takes a hundred and eighty pound guy to jettison a heavier man basically to space, Bembe manages to keep his legs locked in.

Richard Parker: Call in the dogs and put out the fire.

Nick Stuart: A ferocious Wicklighter Suplex from Bembe Brightwell leaves Sebastian Gold lying on his back in the center of the ring. It looks like Gold’s debut is coming to an end here folks.

Like a goddamn ninja, Bembe pulls himself up. He smiles at the crowd. There are pockets of boos given in return from the Portland crowd, an act that deeply disturbs Bembe. During the bout they seem to have taken a liking to Sebastian Gold. Maybe he reminds them of a less drunk version of Harley Walker. Or their dads. Who really knows when measuring the psyche of a bunch of wrestling fans?

As Bembe unpacks his own emotional trauma this rejection touches on, Gold recovers and finds himself facing the back of his opponent. He runs at the unknowing Brightwell, running up the ropes like a fucking cat to land a solid kick on the side of Brightwell’s dome piece. Both men crash to the mat, but Sebastian quickly pulls himself and Brightwell up.

Nick Stuart: Gold lands a kick to the midsection and follows it up directly with a knee to the forehead. A STIFF roundhouse kick lays Bembe on his back. It looks like Sebastian Gold has found the fire he had at the beginning of this match because it is currently the Golden Boy’s show! He’s making his way to the ropes now.

Richard Parker: C’mon Bembe! Get it together.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian ascends the turnbuckles, standing on the top rope and looking around the arena to take it all in. The Bastion of Action dives into the air, twisting his body mid air for THE GOLD RUSH! He hooks the leg and Ashley Barlow slides down to the mat beside them.

ONE

TWO

THREE

Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Impressive first showing from the newcomer Sebastian Gold! Both men put on a magnificent show, but ultimately Sebastian proved to be too much for Bembe Brightwell.

We cut to commercial.

..PREVIOUSLY ON THE RED MANIFESTO..

The Herald: This is a lot harder than I was expecting it was going to be.

Bentley collapses into his leather executive chair, exhausted. He’s wearing a little red business suit and a pair of aviator shades. His fingers are covered in gaudy gold rings and there is a faint kiss of white under his left nostril.

Max Kael: The Industrial Chicken Game isn’t easy, kid.

In an all black three piece suit with a red tie Max Kael swaggers into frame. He’s wearing an eye patch that covers a jagged scar; Max’s physical reminder of the Sector Seven Hen Revolts.

The Herald: Yeah but who knew there would be such a demand for FEARCKEN! Who would have thought all the adrenaline and hormones supercharge the flesh, making it hyper addictive!

There are flashes of the Hen Revolts in Max’s remaining eye as his lip curls.

Max Kael: High demand? We only have ONE customer.

The two stare at a map of their sales indicating Max is telling the truth. There is only one person in the entire world who purchases FEARCKEN is, in fact, from Texas. .

The Herald: You think it’s superman?

Before Max can answer a hole is blown through the wall of the office sending both crashing to the ground. As the smoke and debris clear a horde of very stressed chickens clamor toward the two of them.

Max Kael: We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!

The Herald and Max scramble to their feet, rushing out a door which conveniently has a “Facility Self Destruct” switch. Max gives the encroaching FEARKENs one last glance before toggling the switch.

Max stares at the bowl of creamy white mashed potatoes. He is joined by two other judges, a quirky looking old woman and a man wearing a white chef coat.

The Herald: I have prepared purée de pommes de terre, or mashed potatoes as they are known in the Colonies!

Max Kael: Ah. Yes. The potato custard.

Reaching down with a leather glove, Max jabs his middle and index finger into the potatoes. Scooping up a mouthful he smears the puree over his tongue, several blobs splattering across his chin.

Max Kael: Oh, yes, these are delightful! Delicious, even! Made out of potatoes you say?

He continues to consume the mashed potatoes with both of his hands, engorging himself. The other two judges do not react, each sampling the potatoes in their own, delicate way. Eventually a censor bar has to be put up over Max’s face though the disgusting slurping sounds make it past censorship.

The Herald: The secret ingredient is potato!

Everyone nods in agreement. The censorship bar is absent from Max now though he has made an absolute mess out of his mash. It’s on his face and all over his red suit. He looks extremely pleased, like he just shit himself and someone else has to clear it up.

Max Kael: ..ne’er would have guessed it.

Belching loudly, Max leans forward to-

BANG!

The boom mic falls, nearly killing the three judges in the process. A stagehand can be seen running toward the three.

Stagehand Guy: Run! They’ve made it past the barric-

BANG!

The poor stage hand is flung to the ground as a bullet rips through his back. The camera turns to show a flock of angry, half feathered chickens storming forward. Some have guns apparently. Fucking Russian Chickens, man.

Max Kael: They found us! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!

Max and the Herald abandon the other two judges to the vicious talons of the FEARKENs. Dodging back down a rear entrance Max bars the door and sets the building on fire.

Max and the Herald sit before a small desk in one of the many government buildings that call Moscow home. On the other side of the desk is a sheepish older woman with a pair of red rimmed cat eye glasses on.

Public Service Lady: Well it is official, friends. You are registered to vote in Russia!

Both Max and Bentley high-five each other in excitement.

The Herald: I can’t wait to vote!

Max Kael: I always vote for Mickey Mouse. Disney owns everything so you know the Mouse is good at money.

A coy laugh escapes the Public Service Lady’s lips causing both Max and his Herald to turn to look in her direction.

Max Kael: Hey, I think that’s pretty sound reasoning.

Her laugh stops when she realizes that Max isn’t joking. He clears her throat, her eyes flickering toward the picture of Vladmir Putin on the wall.

Public Service Lady: Oh. Well, friends, luckily you won’t have to wait to vote. You’ve already done so by registering. We’ve taken the inconvenience of finding the time to vote, as well as the annoying aspect of choosing by pre-selecting your choice.

Kael and the Herald exchange glances before Max clears his throat.

Max Kael: And who did I vote for?

A smile returns to the Public Service Lady’s face.

Public Service Lady: You have both voted for our beloved leader, Vladimir Putin!

Max Kael: I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years since the Sector Seven revolts.

Max touches the faint scar beneath his glass eye.

The Herald: I can’t believe we negotiated peace with the FEARKENs after fifteen years of cat and mouse games, on Wise and Wonderful Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!

The Commissar of the Red Army nods his head with a tired look on his face. Scratching the scruff of his beard, he inclines his head toward the large mansion with wide open fields surrounding it.

Max Kael: I can’t believe someone trusted us enough with the building and running of a FEARKEN Chicken Orphanage.. And yet here we are.

The Herald: It’s not the dream I thought I’d live but it’s the dream the world has saddled me with… hey.. Max?

The Herald stands next to Max, looking up the hill at the FEARKEN Chicken Orphanage.

Max Kael: Yes, my the Herald?

There is a long silence between the two of them. The Herald looks to have aged sixty years, his hair thin, his face gaunt and covered in wrinkles.

The Herald: ..chickens smell like shit. Like Death shitted the worst kind of poo and then rolled it in sour Indian food.

Another long silence.

Max Kael: ..yup.

THE RED MANIFESTO

Now that we’re all caught up with the major plot points of the last episode, it’s time for that RED MANIFESTO, COMRADES!

We cut to Max Kael standing on his all red stage wearing his red Commissar uniform though it is not sporting any extra medals this week. Very sad.

Max Kael: Worms of PRIME! Welcome to the Red Manifesto! I’m your host, the Commissar of the Red Army, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! We have a lot of ground to cover tonight so I’ll start by addressing the PRIME Tag Team Tournament. Last week Kenny Freeman, COMRADE Kenny Freeman lost us the match against the Twins?.

Canned booing is piped in through the speakers as Max nods aggressively with the feeling.

Max Kael: I know, I know. As one of the better father figures in Kenny’s life I have to say I wasn’t upset. I was just very, very disappointed. BUT this is a new week, a new shot at kicking the lost puppies that are the Hawaiian BBQ right in the dick. A new week to stomp their empty little heads in before we march over them in our quest to recall our loss from the TWINS? at UltraViolence!

While sharing his thoughts Max lifts both of his hands into shaking fists.

Max Kael: Don’t fuckin’ disappoint me Comrade Kenny Freeman! NEXT SUBJECT!

Turning, Max engages with Camera one, winking or perhaps just blinking out of order.

Max Kael: FLAMBERGE and Brandon Youngblood, you two titanic tits WILL find the time for me. Lizard King! Ask Cecilworth about what it is to get on my bad side. Ask him what a jilted Max Kael can do, FLMABLOW-ME!

The Herald darts out on stage in his red tunic waving his Red Army banner.

The Herald: Ooo! Somebody get FLAMBO some injectable ointment cause that was a sick burn!

With that the Herald quickly scampers off stage.

Max Kael: Youngblood! You dumb motherfucker, I tried to be respectful, I tried to give you your space. I didn’t want to fight you, you scary UFO. But just like you gotta be you, I gotta be true to me. And that means doing things future Max may regret. You sleepy eyed, bald piece of anus skin, whatever happens, you’re the one who made me do it.

There isn’t any smile on Max’s face. There isn’t a goofy expression. He’s glaring at the camera as his lip twitches for a moment. The veneer is quickly back up as Max returns his attention to Camera two.

Max Kael: My long time friend, the Ghost of the Industry himself, Stetson King, has recently fallen into a series of violent encounters with foul mouthed, foul minded, foul..fowled cowboy, Daytona Diamond. I remember it like it was last month on ReVival 52.

We enter a hazy memory sequence complete with gentle strumming of a harp and a warm sigh from the crowd effects department.

Unfortunately nobody at the Red Manifesto has bothered to secure the rights to the replay footage of Stetson’s attack on Daytona Diamond. Instead a series of crayon drawings play out the little backstage drama.

Max Kael: While giving Stetson King a tour of the backstage environment here in PRIME, being one of the foremost intelligentsia on the matter, we happened upon a portal to vile skullduggery.

Two stick figures stand before a doorway marked with a skull and crossbones.

Max Kael: That bitch-tiddly-fuck made out of the spare parts of a Kid Rock model, Daytona Diamonds, decided to attack us on his own, true to his dumb-ass nature.

The next image shows a new stick figure jumping through the doorway attacking the first two stick figures. This new one is defined by red eyes, sharp teeth and a cowboy hat.

Max Kael: Thankfully Stetson King is a hero and, as his name might imply, a real King as well. He selflessly threw himself in the way, protecting me, his very good friend of a very long time.

One of the two starting stick figures has been pushed away from the fanged cowboy by the other in this new frame. You’re not sure why but for some reason you can also infer that whoever drew these stick figures also intended you to understand that the fanged cowboy has weird nipples.

Art is strange.

Max Kael: After a brief struggle my hero, Stetson King, the Miller High Life of Cowboys, was able to put the wretched Daytona Diamonds down. Wham! Bam! Biff-eeto town, baby!

The final image shows the two victorious starting stick figures standing over the fanged cowboy with a weird nipples who now has two X’s for eyes. Canned cheering floods over Max’s final words as the guy running the crowd machine let’s Stetson know how much he appreciates him.

Cutting back to Max at Camera two, we’re treated to that well trained, flashy smile that asks “Do diabetic people taste sweeter?”.

Max Kael: The Red Army has a lot of plans tonight, a lot of Communism to see too. If any of you fucking lil’bitches out there that like to troll around on Jabber want to address your JABBLERLORD in person, my office door is open. I won’t tell you where the door is though, why would I make this that easy!? Heh-heh!

With a manic scramble, Max makes his way over to his desk, clamoring into his chair with a throating laugh. He chokes back his enthusiasm, clearing his throat as he turns his eyes to the camera.

Max Kael: I want to take this moment to congratulate Don Winters and Coral Avalon on their successful title defenses. Don is on his way to being THE Five Star Champion of this Era or perhaps any! Simply divine.. Heh-heh.

Then Max remembers that he also mentioned Coral Avalon.

Max Kael: And then there is Coral Avalon! You were supposed to lose the title to Nate Colton so that his match with Comrade Ivan Stanislav would have some real..meaning but I guess it’ll just have to be for the fun of beating the smirks off that pompous Colton Family! Eat dog shit, Coltons, you’re the worst of America!

Leaning forward, Max rests his elbows on the table and sets his head in his hands.

Max Kael: Well that’s all the time we have this week. Join us next week when our guests will be probably vary depending on if FLAMBERGE answers his FUCKING PHONE. Pardon my outburst, I just.. Really.. Really hate being ignored. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!

The Red Manifesto ends rather abruptly as the end credits quickly scroll past the image of Max Kael eating a sandwich at his desk.

The pleasant ding! of the elevator reaching its zenith is followed by light scraping as the doors slide open and PRIME Five Star Champion Don Winters steps out and looks up and down both ends of the hallway. He has been invited up to The Throne Room for light snacks and to visit with PRIME Universal Champion Coral Avalon.

The Revelator saunters down the hall in his trademark suit, Five Star title strapped tightly around his midsection. He mindlessly runs a hand through his auburn coif, tousling it just a little. From down the hallway, he spots a familiar glow reflecting from a familiar follicle-less dome.

A large grin spreads across Don’s face as he approaches the man and what looks to be a merchandise table. A merchandise table in a hallway leading to Coral Avalon’s Throne Room. One would assume that there are zero fans or opportunities to sell merchandise here and yet, Winters finds himself standing in front of a merchandise table.

Steve Harrison, the Vendor King of PRIME himself stands behind the merch table with his arms crossed against his chest. He has many products laid across the table, hanging behind him, and folded in the makeshift open shelves that wobble behind the hanging shirts. He is without Jack Marley today which comes as a surprise to even Steve himself. The Doc sits in a fold up chair to the right of the merch table. He doesn’t pay anybody any mind as he reads a book that Steve couldn’t even pronounce earlier. Doctors, amirite?

Don Winters: Steve Harrison, as I live and breathe! Say, (Don looks up and down the hallway) this doesn’t look like the area that’s most conducive to your business. But hey! Congrats on the big win last time out and tell me Steve, how are you?

Harrison looks up and sees Don. He registers only the business portion and moves his arms from left to right showing fans on the way.

Steve Harrison: You would be surprised what fans will do to get close to their favorite wrestler. Coral Avalon isn’t just popular…he is the champ. We have been surprisingly busy so far and the Cool Coral Comfort cooling headbands have been selling better than that parody movie he was cast in last week. I heard even Hughie Freeman couldn’t complain about the lack of selling for that monstrosity.

The Doc: He asked how you were, Steve.

Harrison pauses and looks up at the ceiling as he thinks to himself.

Steve Harrison: Better than the Cancer Jiles Pit Retrieval Kit. These things might be better off using to sneak into Golf Courses. FORE! But, uh…how are you Donovan? Title looks nice and shiny around your waist.

Don instinctually pats the silver around his waist and smiles.

Don Winters: Tremendous, Steve. And thank you. Listen, are you sure you’re okay? Have you talked to Jack? I saw him last show and we had a good little chat, I told him he needs to talk things out with you. I know it’s not really my business, but he asked for advice. You boys need each other.

Don can immediately tell that Steve isn’t sure how he should respond.

Don Winters: But hey! It’s none of my business after all. I’m just looking out for a couple of guys I might consider friends, and friends look out for each other, Steve.

Doc peers up from his book looking very interested in this conversation and looks intently towards Harrison.

The Doc: Oh, I want to hear this, Steve.

Harrison groans.

And

Groans

And

GROANS!

Steve Harrison: First of all, if Jack had showed up for work today then maybe I could have talked to him. Secondly…it is hard to take you on face value alone on caring about the IHOPs family.

Doc chuckles to himself and puts his book down.

The Doc: Sorry, sorry, Steve definitely has an issue with trusting others after what happened with The Highwaymen.

Harrison gives Doc a look that screams ‘please stop talking.’ He grabs a small pamphlet from the table and tosses it at him.

Steve Harrison: Read this! (Looks at Don) He wasn’t lying even if it wasn’t his business to share.

The Revelator chuckles and demures.

Don Winters: You don’t need to take me at face value, Steve. Look around, up and down the roster and find a single man or woman in PRIME that I have wronged. You won’t find a single one, because I am a man of honor, truth, and God. I guess you don’t want to ask Rob Williams, but that’s a different conversation. Regardless, let me show a little faith in you, show you how serious I am. How much is the Cards for Christ shirt?

The Suplex Saint turns and stares at the wonderful Cards for Christ shirt. No prices are listed because that’s not how we do business in this changing price point economy. Yep, that’s it.

Steve Harrison: Thirty bucks and I will throw in this Poor Whoresman Brand Condom, hard to sell a condom with a hole in the tip…ya know? What size are you? I mean the shirt, you pervs.

The Five Star Champion offers a chuckle, before procuring a wallet from his back pocket. He pulls two crisp twenty dollar bills out and hands them over to The Miracle Man.

Don Winters: Give me an XL, keep the prophylactic, and the change. You’ve got to do one thing for me though, you can call it a ten buck favor or whatever, but you gotta talk to Jack. One of you has to break the ice with the other.

Harrison hands over the t-shirt and grabs the money. Don immediately shoves it over his head and wiggles his arms out through the respective holes. It’s a tight fit with the suit, but this is how a man shows support for his new friends.

Don Winters: Again, it’s none of my business, but it slowly seems to be going that way. Especially if we keep bumping into each other like this.

Steve takes a deep breath and puts the cash in a lock box.

Steve Harrison: I will keep that under advisement but this isn’t on me, this is on him overdoing it.

The Doc: Steve.

Steve Harrison: Ugh, yes-yes, I guess it’s my fault that it even got this far.

Don Winters: There’s no sense in blaming anybody for what’s happened. All that matters now is mending those broken fences. Now, I’ve got a little date inside The Throne Room with Coral, so I’d best be on my way. (Winters nods at both men.) Doc, Steve, you boys have a good night.

Harrison nods back and gives him a respectful nod. He watches as Don walks away and then goes to speak to Doc but Doc speaks first.

The Doc: He seems like a good guy.

Steve Harrison: I guess.

Doc throws the pamphlet back to Steve.

The Doc: Seriously, why did you just make me read a Cancer Jiles cookbook? It is just five pages of Poached eGG pictures with yum written under each of them.

Harrison shrugs with a chuckle.

Steve Harrison: It comes with the Retrieval Kit…neither seem to be wanted AT. ALL.  We are talking about a sweet COOLYMPIAN, from a rundown battleship in COOLsylvania (Wink, wink).

The Doc: Regardless, think about what Don said, Steve.

Steve Harrison: Find my supposed Manager and we will see.

Camera cuts from Harrison and begins to follow behind Don Winters.

As you may already know, it’s ReVival 54. And with it being ReVival 54, we have a chance for cameras to catch sight of a long, lingering view of the skybox overlooking the events for tonight.

Adorned with banners proudly displaying such products as “KNIGHT ENERGY” and “BART’S KICKIN’ CHILI” and “CAMELOT SOLUTIONS”, all of which had a conspicuous “AII” logo on them, this skybox and others like it since PRIME’s visit to Portugal two months ago had a different name. Several names.

It’s the eGG Den 3.0. It’s the Champion’s Advantage. The Den of Conquest. The Best Nest. Noah’s Perch. The Bandopticon. The King’s Court. The Night One Rest Stop. The Bobby Horror Picture Show.

And, most importantly, it’s called The Throne Room.

It’s called that because it is a room and there is a throne there. Duh. Seated upon the throne in the center of the room, overlooking the action, is our Universal champion: Coral Avalon, the King of Conquerors himself. He sits there with a grave expression on his face, a focus and intent. Tonight, he’d be in the ring again, but not to defend his gold but to manage a match with two of the worst scumbags in all of PRIME. One who believes that he is not, and one who’d hand out business cards proclaiming ‘yes, I am a scumbag, fuck you”.

His very serious expression is balanced by the fact that, as brought up on ReVival 52, he did in fact install a stripper pole in the Throne Room, which could be seen just over his right shoulder. There’s also some catering, complete with lemon pepper wings. A certain big Texan is currently enjoying said catering, and we should really leave him alone before he gets extra surly.

He’s probably not proud of that one, but it’s there now. No takesbacksies.

The door swings open with Five Star Champion Don Winters entering the room. He’s now wearing his brand new Cards for Christ t-shirt, freshly purchased at Steve Harrison’s merchandise table literally right outside the door here. It looks a little bulky and uncomfortable over his suit, but we all make sacrifices when we support our friends. Don takes quick stock of the room and nods politely to the Texan perusing catering before turning his attention to Avalon and outstretching his hand.

Don Winters: Coral! How are you? An absolute pleasure to be invited up here tonight. Thank you for the opportunity.

Coral Avalon: Sure, man. No problem. Congrats on keeping your title. Been a wild ride since WarGames, hasn’t it? Twists, turns… saw a man with spiders coming out of his head, that was sure a thing.

Coral shudders. He had to pay for that fumigation out of pocket.

Coral Avalon: It’s just us up here right now. Jiles and them are coming up with their schemes for tonight, and I’m definitely prepared for that.

He smiles as though he’s not.

Don Winters: The less said about Lowell, the better. (Winters laughs.) It’ll be a nice night for a little relaxation, catching up, enjoying some of the wrestling down below. I’m looking forward to it.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, just keep in mind that I won’t be here all night. For whatever reason, they wanted me to referee the main event, and… Yeah, I can probably understand why Nixon and those guys don’t want to referee that match.

He sighs.

Coral Avalon: But yeah, looking forward to a little relaxation for a change. At the very least, less Lowell.

But relaxation, as it turns out, is not always a fish that you can catch.

First, there’s the noise from the hall, distant and echoing, but only growing closer. Boots colliding with a cement floor. Mangled words shouted with an all-too-familiar twang. A looming sense of dread descending on the skybox and then… the door flies open and nearly comes off its hinges. A sweating, breathless Daytona Diamonds with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a second bottle of whiskey in the other bursts into the skybox like some drug-addled cowboy version of Kramer. Wide eyed, frothing from the mouth, blinking rapidly.

He looks to Coral.

He looks to Don.

He shouts when he speaks.

Daytona Diamonds: PORTLAND’S TRYNA FUCK ON ME, BOYS! YOU GOTTA HIDE ME!

Coral Avalon winces only slightly, mostly from the volume.

Coral Avalon: Yes. Hi. Hello, ‘Tona. Welcome back to the Throne Room. Hide you from what?

Don Winters clearly mouths the words ‘Jesus Christ’ as he shakes his head in disbelief.

Don Winters: Lord grant me strength and bless me with peace. Hello again, Daytona.

There’s no time for greetings. No, no. We’re past that. Daytona leans in so close Coral and Don can both hear the grinding of his teeth and practically taste the Drakkar Noir oozing from his pores. Conspiratorially, Daytona’s voice falls to a whisper.

Daytona Diamonds: These fuckin’ Portland hippies and hipsters, boys! I was drinkin’ at a bar down the street and all of a sudden, these fuckers in skinny jeans and dreadlocks and shit started descendin’ on the place like a swarm of locusts! I’m talkin’ real dicknoses here, buddies! I ain’t think nothin’ of it ‘till they surrounded me and that was when I knew I was ‘bout to get shanghaied! They were gonna put me on a tugboat bound for China! I ain’t no sailorman!

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an anti-drug PSA. DARE ain’t got shit on ol’ Daytona.

Daytona Diamonds: So’s, I jump ‘hind the bar, grab a couple bottles of whiskey, call ‘em all a buncha peckerwoods, and take off runnin’! I’m thinkin’ ol’ Mother Troy mighta sent ‘em after me on account of the fact that nobody can beat me and she’s fuckin’ pissed ‘cause she don’t like that I’m the goddang best! Playin’ fuckin’ dirty! So’s, y’all gotta help me out, yeah?!

Coral and Don exchange glances with one another.

Coral Avalon: So, just to get things straight… you were surrounded by, uh… “peckerwoods”, to use your parlance, in skinny jeans and dreadlocks. Are you sure they had malicious intent for you, or are you just not used to being in Portland? Just checking.

Winters mouths ‘Jesus Christ’ once again.

Don Winters: I don’t believe a single word you’ve said after ‘take off runnin’ (Don does his best to mock Daytona’s slurred southern drawl.) I’ll refrain from preaching, but you know stealing is wrong.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, shiit, Donny! You ain’t got to believe it, but it’s the god’s honest tru–

And then, well, the other shoe drops.

???: Incoming!

Avalon, Winters and Diamonds look up to see they’ve been teleported into Mission: Impossible, the first movie, of course, as a man is repelling down the ceiling and towards them at a rapid pace! So quickly, perhaps, said person is going to crash land RIGHT on top of Coral Avalon and renner, I mean render, his championship reign obsolete.

However, as the “incoming” cries sound, the cable holds up and the man dangles perfectly a foot or two over everyone else’s heads from the cord hooked onto his back. Nevertheless, dollar bills are literally dripping out of his pockets.

Reed Young.

Young scans the skybox, nodding his head as if he greatly approves of the surroundings. He sees the players, he quickly glances towards the ceiling and gives a thumbs up. Was someone up there with him? Anyway… Daytona is completely unsurprised.

Daytona Diamonds: Oh! Hey! Whaddup, Reed? You workin’ hard or hardly workin’?

Reed loves hearing Daytona’s voice, it literally gives him the ‘dollar bill tingles’.

Reed Young: (Coughing dust and debris) Didn’t think I’d be allowed back in the Throne Room since that last time!

Young meets eyes with Coral, before trying to unhook himself from the wire. It’s taking a while.

Reed Young: Pretty sure you would’ve had me banned, son!

Young continues struggling to unhook himself and Winters decides to step in. He struggles for a moment as Young kind of spins in place.

Don Winters: Reed, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. (Winters extends his hand, Reed accepts the handshake as he spins back around.) Father Don Winters. Listen, (Don begins unhooking Young and helping him to the floor.) I know your boy hasn’t been doing so hot lately. I want you to give him my card whenever you see him next, tell him I’m available day or night if he wants someone to talk to.

Finally down on solid ground, Young sticks out his hand but raises his eyebrows.

Reed Young: My boy, Fred Dick?

Winters politely shakes his head no.

Don Winters: Jonathan-Christopher.

For a moment there, the hamster in the cage isn’t running. Then it somehow starts again and Reed remembers who Jonathan-Christopher is!

He simply accepts the card and nods absentmindedly at Winters as relief crosses the former wrestling promoter’s face. He looks into the roof again, giving another thumbs up and the cord vanishes to where it came from. I guess someone was up there all along…

Young marches towards Coral Avalon and looms in front of the champion. Reed studies him over from head-to-toe, a slight little scowl crosses his face.

And then…

A wide-eyed, pleasant and honest grin.

Reed Young: Come here, you!

Young wraps his arms around Avalon and gives him a hug! Reed pulls back, only to pinch Coral’s cheeks and let out a sigh of relief.

Reed Young: I’m proud of you! You did it! I love you!

Young looks around the room, seeing numerous confused faces before he tips the cap he isn’t wearing and walks out the door, dollar bills still falling out as he leaves. He’s too rich to pick them up, or he really doesn’t care.

Reed Young: Good luck, Coral! They’re all coming but I know you can handle it!

Coral Avalon: Uh… thanks? Sorry about, you know…

Avalon mimes what can only be described as a yakuza kick without actually getting up from his throne or kicking or anything even remotely described as a yakuza kick.

Daytona Diamonds, having forgotten about the apparent hipsters and hippies that had previously been chasing him, smiles wide and nudges Don Winters with his elbow.

Daytona Diamonds: Goddang heartwarmin’. You love to see it, huh, Donny? Two old pals, huggin’ it out, expressin’ their love like real fuckin’ men. Say, why ain’t you given me no hugs?

Winters looks his rival and erstwhile tag team partner once over and tries to suppress a sneer.

Don Winters: You and I have got a lot reconciling left to do before we’re hugging it out, ‘Tona. I know it’s been copasetic since War Games, and I appreciate that, but sooner or later, the inevitable is going to happen – you doing something to send all this the other way. And until you prove to me you’re capable of keeping it on the straight and narrow with me, I’ll be withholding my embrace.

For a moment, Daytona looks confused.

Daytona Diamonds: Reconcilin’…? C’mon now, Donny! Don’t be a pussy ‘bout it! Inevitable my white ass! I’m straight! I’m narrow! We’re good buddies, Donny! You and me! Cowboys 4 Christ, ridin’ high and crushin’ puss for The Lord!

Daytona Diamonds, grinnin’ wide and offering a quick wink, holds his hand up as if he wants to give Winters a high five. In response Winters rubs his temples and looks over at a bemused Coral Avalon.

Don Winters: (hanging Daytona out to dry.) I can feel a headache coming on. Coral, this was a very brief pleasure, but it was good to catch up. Daytona, I’ll be praying for you. You gentlemen have a good evening.

Coral Avalon: Oh, sure. Later.

Winters heads for the exit himself, keeping his eyes averted from Diamonds as much as he possibly can. Daytona, however, isn’t quite so polite.

Daytona Diamonds: Oh yeah…? Oh yeah?! It’s like that, huh?! Well, fuck you too, Donny! Got that big belt ‘round your waist now, thinkin’ you’re the biggest dick in the gangbang?! You shove them prayers right up your ass, you peckerwood!

Hawking a loogie on the ground, Daytona Diamonds turns sneering to Avalon and Young.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’all believe that dicknose? Some fuckin’ people, man…

Coral gives Daytona an amused smile.

Coral Avalon: Well, you two are like oil and water. Snake oil and holy water, I mean. I think it’s fun to see you two talk to each other, but that might just be the gadfly in me.

Avalon stands from his throne and stretches his legs a little.

Coral Avalon: Anyway, if you guys are hanging around, catering’s over there. I took a little advice from you Whoresmen guys the last time you were here, but I’m afraid the stripper pole doesn’t have a stripper. It’s a whole thing, apparently. Oh, and… Clay got here first. He got here before I did.

Upon hearing his name, Clay Byrd looks up. He narrows his eyes at the two champions, and for a moment, it looks like he might get up. But no, back to the wings.

Daytona Diamonds: Mighty white of yuns, Corky, but this ol’ cowboy’s gonna hit the dusty trail. Can’t stay in one place too long when you got a gang of hipsters on your trail, ain’t that right?

With a tip of his hat and a devil’s grin, Daytona starts heading towards the door, albeit much calmer than he arrived.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’all be good now.

Coral Avalon: Later, ‘Tona. Try to steer clear of the hipsters, though. I heard if they bite you, you become one of them.

Our Universal champion may have seen one too many zombie movies. As Daytona reaches the threshold of the skybox, with this new fear unlocked and fresh in his head, he takes off running, boots clip-clopping down the Moda Center halls.

Avalon chuckles and shakes his head before returning to his throne, and ReVival 54 moves on.

Richard Parker: Well, what’s next Nick?

Nick Stuart: Up next we have none other than the Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience, Sage Pontiff, taking on “Surreal” Sean O’Neill!

And wouldn’t you know it, just as soon as Nick shuts his trap, “Satori Part II” by Flower Travelin’ Band hits the speakers, and out walks the dirty, spiritual, and downright sexy Sage Pontiff.

Vince Howard: INTRODUCING FIRST! From Joshua Tree, California… Weighing in at two hundred and one pounds… THE BODHISATTVAAAAAAA OF TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENNNNNCE… SAGE!!! PONTIFFFFFFFFF!!!

Sage slinks down the entrance ramp towards the ring, a generally cool and suave demeanor that could only come from being both hot and a hippie all at once. He rolls under the bottom rope and arrives at his feet with a grin on his face. He leans against the ropes, casually, awaiting the violence to come.

Richard Parker: Good Lord that man’s sexual energy is as palpable as it is tyrannical.

Nick Stuart: Calm down, Richard.

Richard Parker: … I sometimes wish I was Sage Pontiff.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: Thanks for telling me?

Saving us from the awkwardness, the opening chords of Chevelle ‘s “Comfortable Liar” ring out, signaling the imminent arrival of Seán O’Neill. After a few seconds, O’Neill emerges on the entrance way and takes a second to acknowledge and scan the crowd, he nods in appreciation of his growing support amongst the fans, before starting for the ring.

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

The announcement is reasonably well met by the crowd who are definitely starting to take to the Irishman. Reaching the ring, O’Neill vaults over the top-rope to enter the ring. Turning to the nearest turnbuckle, he climbs to the second-rope, spreading his arms straight out to each side making the symbol of a cross.

Nick Stuart: It looks like the PRIME faithful are beginning to take a liking to O’Neill, Richard.

Richard Parker: Proof that if you market something enough, it becomes profitable, in my opinion.

Nick Stuart: What are you saying, exactly?

Richard Parker: Two words, Nick. Industry. Plant.

O’Neill thumps his chest with his right fist before lowering himself back onto the canvas. He stretches out on the ring-ropes and rolls his shoulders and wrists, as he gets ready to lock up.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we are full go, with both men meeting right in the middle of the ring and locking up!

Indeed they do, a power struggle that O’Neill immediately takes with his thirty pound advantage, applying a side headlock to Pontiff. But Sage has played this game many times, and like a veteran he backs up and into the ropes, uses the momentum to shove O’Neill away! Sean bounces off the ropes on the other side, COLLIDES into Pontiff with a shoulder check, dropping the Bodhisattva.

Sean immediately bounces off the ropes again as Sage kips up! LEAPFROG by Sage, and Sean, a veritable pinball at this point, bounces off the ropes and runs right into an arm drag! Sean is back up! Another arm drag! Back up to his feet again! ANOTHER ARM DRAG!

Richard Parker: ARM. DRAG. CITY!!!

But this time Sage keeps hold of the arm, and transitions smoothly to a wrist lock, and then quickly to an armbar.

Nick Stuart: It’s all the Bodhisattva right now!

Sean’s flailing legs as he fights the pain finds a bottom rope, and after an obligatory count to 4.75 seconds by Elvis Nixon before Sage lets the hold go.

But that’s when the switch, as it were, goes off for Sean, and he climbs right back in this match with a leg sweep that drops the long, limber Pontiff to the mat. Sean immediately goes for the wrist lock himself, only he starts…

Richard Parker: EWWWWW!!! Cut that out Sean. Fingers are not supposed to be bent like that.

Nick Stuart: No… no they are not.

Indeed, though Sage shouts out in pain, we can hardly blame him. No one’s digits were designed for the kind of flexing that Sean is forcing them to do. Eventually, Sage centers, embraces the pain just long enough to do a series of somersaults until he kips up and frees himself from Sean’s grasp!

Snapmare takedown immediately by Sean!

ROLLING NECK SNAP!!!

Sean goes for the cover!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

NOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Sean has absolutely taken the upperhand in this one.

Richard Parker: Not for long, Nick. It’s just a matter of time before Surreal Sean O’Neill gets a Buddha belly-sized ass whooping. Oh, and when he does? I’ll say, “Toljaso.” So be on the look out for that.

Nick audibly groans.

Sean brings Sage Pontiff to his feet and Irish whips him into the turnbuckles!

BIG SPLASH by O’Neill!

He climbs to the middle turnbuckle and begins raining right hands down on the Bodhisattva! The crowd counts along!

ONE! TWO! THREE!

But Sean slows it down a little bit.

FOUR!

He looks out at the crowd. He wants to connect with them.

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

and it seems they want to connect with him too.

EIGHT!

NINE!

ooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOH!!!!!

TENNNNNNNN!!!!

A round of applause for the showmanship as Sean hops down.

Sage, something of a showman himself, slowly stumbles away from the turnbuckle, and FACE PLANTS onto the mat!

Sean once again goes for the cover!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEE– NO!!! SMALL PACKAGE REVERSE FROM SAGE PONTIFF!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEE– NO!!!

Nick Stuart: The Bodhisattva nearly stole one there!

Richard Parker: Just as he’s stolen the minds and hearts and… frankly, my mind and my heart–

Nick Stuart: Would you come off it already? The hell’s wrong with you, Rich?

Richard Parker: Lawd I got the vapors…

And immediately Sean reaches his feet, but the swift footed Sage Pontiff is already up and running!!!

HE FLINGS HIMSELF INTO O’NEILL AND BOTH MEN SPILL THROUGH THE ROPES, OUT OF THE RING AND TO THE FLOOR OUTSIDE!!!

Nick Stuart: What the hell was even that!?

Richard Parker: It’s a gosh darn work of art, Nick, you uncultured degen. Oh, and by the way? Toljaso.

Nick Stuart: You’ve gotta stop this.

Outside the ring, the two competitors begin the painful, slow ascent back to their feet.

Inside the ring, Elvis begins the count.

ONE!

Both competitors struggle, finding their hands and knees in a crawling position.

TWO!

Sage sends a forearm into the side of Sean’s head.

THREE!

Sean returns the favor, jumps up to his feet with the force of one knee as he gets the foot planted on the floor, causing him to stagger backwards.

FOUR!

Sean starts to roll into the ring, but Sage grabs him by the arm and pulls him away from the apron!

FIVE!

SPINNING HEEL KICK FROM THE BODHISATTVA!

Sean O’Neill drops to the ground like a sack of taters.

And instead, Sage Pontiff rolls into the ring.

He catches his breath for just a moment, before climbing the nearest set of turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Oh no. Sage is about to do something completely stupid, isn’t he?

Richard Parker: Is risking your beautiful body to win a match in PRIME completely stupid, Nick? Au contraire, I’d say it’s the ultimate sacrifice.

Sage reaches the top turnbuckle. He looks out at the crowd. Unlike Sean, he has no desire to connect with them. He’s connected to things so much greater.

And with that knowledge in the back of his mind, Sage simply…

F a l l s.

THE CROWD GASPS!!!

Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD!!! A FALLING HEADBUTT FROM SAGE PONTIFF THAT MAY HAVE HARMED HIM AS MUCH AS IT DID SEAN!!!

Richard Parker does not reply, but we all know he’s nothing more than a heart-eyed emoji at the moment anyway.

You can almost hear Elvis sigh as he begins the count out process again.

ONE!!!

But this time, neither man stirs.

TWO!!!

THREE!!!

Finally, Sage begins to climb up to his feet, with Sean O’Neill not far behind him.

FOUR!!!

FIVE!!!

Sage Pontiff meets Sean on the way up, pushes Sean towards the apron, rolls him into the ring.

Sage quickly follows suit.

AND HE RUNS RIGHT INTO A BELLY TO BELLY SUPLEX FROM O’NEILL!!!

Nick Stuart: What the fuck?

What the fuck, indeed. Sage’s momentum somehow allowed him to flip through the suplex and land on his knees.

The only person NOT surprised is Sage himself. Well, and Sean, because Sean hasn’t seen it yet.

In fact, he doesn’t see it until he stands to his feet, turns around, and gets kicked in the midsection by Pontiff!

Pontiff puts the head between the legs!!!

SHAMANIC DREAMWEAVER!!! The perfectly executed Canadian Destroyer by Pontiff!!! He makes the cover!!!

ONE!!!

He hooks the legs!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is yooooourrrr WINNERRRR… SAAAAAAAGE!!! PONTIIIIIIFFFFFFFF!!!

Richard Parker: What an absolutely religious experience this was for me, Nick! I don’t know about you, but I feel like tonight, I found God.

Nick Stuart: …on the corner of 1st and Amistad?

Richard Parker: What?

Nick Stuart: Nevermind. Let’s cut to commercial before you have an orgasm of national television.

Richard Parker: …Yes… before, of course.

We cut to commercial.

The lights of the Moda Center dim and the sweet tones of “Razzmatazz” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begins to play into the collective earholes of the fans in attendance. This is only the second time in PRIME history that this song has been heard in PRIME because the men just about to stand atop the ramp – The Glueminati – don’t tend to come out to the ring as absolute units.

Atop the entrance way we see the whole gang – Joe! FLAMBERGE! Cecilworth! Hayes! fabby. The entire squad. Wow!

Nick Stuart: Well, earlier we thought we’d be hearing comments from Hayes Hanlon to express his recent frustrations with his direction in the company, but it appears that he’s not alone, the whole circus has come out together.

Richard Parker: Are you mad that we get to see all of this wrestling perfection at the same time? Why do you hate good things?

The Glue Boiz march towards the ring, Fabby very much trailing behind, as Joe shoots daggers at him any time he comes close to looking like he’s part of the squad. As they approach the ring, there’s not a lot of playing to the crowd, more of a very efficient entrance into the middle of the PRIME canvas with the aura of men who have matters to attend to. Joe looks at Fabby and gestures towards Vince Howard, clearly expecting him of the Golden Mask to grab the microphone for the Glue compatriots. The former Five Star Champion is the first to take control of Howard’s precious stick.

Cecilworth Farthington: You know, we don’t make a habit of coming out here together, we let our actions do the talking, we don’t feel we need to treat the PRIME audience like absolute dullards and march out here every week to remind you that we exist and we’re really important actually… not naming any armies. Yet, recently, there’s been a bit of a disconnect, we’ve taken the action but the results are not really up to par. I mean seriously, look what we have in this ring right now…

Cecilworth gestures to the Glueminati (and fabby)

Cecilworth Farthington: Hayes Hanlon is a TWO TIME Universal Champion, not once, but twice he climbed to the very top of this industry. My good, close, personal friend and soon to be tag partner in a battle against a Cowboy and Whisky Addict, FLAMBERGE, he’s no slouch himself, also managing to climb to the top of this company as former Universal Champion. Me? Well, I’m just a humble little longest reigning Five Star Champion of the modern era of PRIME and of course we can’t forget Joe, a man who won an award for social media posting. There also appears to be a guy with a mask and I’m not sure what that’s about.

Joe signals to Cecilworth that it’s not worth worrying about.

Cecilworth Farthington: The point is, where have our opportunities been lately? We are the best of the best of the best in this company, when the company went to War Games, it was Glue that were the victors. Yet we sit and see people like Grandpa Youngblood be provided opportunity after opportunity because of what… inertia? No, that’s not good enough anymore and no one is more of an example of that treatment than Hayes Hanlon. Forgotten, like he wasn’t even part of the roster. Well tonight, Glue says no more. No. More.

The rest of Team Glue nod to Hanlon and slide out of the ring, giving him the crowd’s full focus and attention. Hanlon, with a smirk behind the ‘stache, happily takes the mic, bringin it to his lips while reaching his other arm out wide.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s good to be home, Portland!

A mixed bag of reactions. While largely negative, a few Hanlon Truthers burst through the noise.

Hayes Hanlon: What a moment, right? The ReVival’s First Crowned! Mr. Two-Time! The Comeback Kid! Your boy Home! Run! Hayes! Arrives in his home state of Oregon for the first time since he joined the big leagues two and a half years ago!

He takes a beat, allowing the arena to stew.

Hayes Hanlon: And how does the brass show their appreciation?

Another pause, a roll of the shoulder, and flinch of the ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: By keeping the Event Horizon on the freakin’ bench. Again.

He turns to his brothers in Glue, shaking his head with disappointment. They nod in agreement.

Hayes Hanlon: But it’s no surprise, Portland! It’s just another example of a long, looong string of absolutely BULLSHIT booking by Lindsay. Troy.

Oh, that one got all the boos.

Hayes Hanlon: Oh, don’t think so? Take it back to ReVival 48! Where Hayes Hanlon finally squared up with “tHe NeXt DiAmOnd” Nate Colton. The young guns of the future! Only to settle for an upper mid-card slot where, don’t forget, I slapped the hearing aids out of his stupid, corn-fed head.

Another volley of boos, and Hayes ambles across the ring to lean against the ropes.

Hayes Hanlon: And that same night, Youngblood took ANOTHER Universal Title shot on a silver platter against Cuck-King JCH, AND IT WASN’T EVEN THE MAIN EVENT!

Hayes Hanlon: I’ll keep it going! ReVival 51. A “huuuuge” booking for Home Run Hayes against Ol’ Byrd is the Wyrd, just to drop it two spots back so we could watch the biggest, slowest, oldest dudes in PRIME stumble around the ring like shitty versions of Godzilla and King Kong!

Home Run Hayes pushes the sleeves of his black dress shirt up, cracks his neck sharply, and takes a quick breath through the nose.

Hayes Hanlon: And that takes us to tonight.

A beat, and a scan across the Moda Center.

Hayes Hanlon: Not only did the “Queen” not have the guts to give me the main event, or even a match at all, in my HOME. STATE. But she couldn’t even give her own fiancé the main event against Brandon Youngblood for win. Number. Fifty.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s clear to me, man. And hey, I’ve taken a couple lumps lately. But it’s clear that Lindsay Troy is scared to give the Glueminati their FAIR. SHOT. She knows that the only way she could slow us down, slow ME down, was by throwing monsters like Hessian and Byrd at me. And I KNOW she knows that if she ever gives me another main event, or another shot at the Universal Title, that it would ruin everything she has planned…

The Event Horizon can’t even get the last few words of his sentence out as “Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks crashes through the Moda Center. The subject of his ire, Lindsay Troy, strides onto the stage with a microphone already in hand, and walks briskly down the ramp to cheers from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Ask and ye shall receive.

Richard Parker: Pretty rude of the Boss to have her music cut off Hayes like that if you ask me.

Nick Stuart: Nobody did, Rich, and do you want to tell her that yourself?

Richard Parker: Nope, I happen to like getting my paychecks every two weeks, thank you very much!

The Queen jogs up the stairs, wipes her boots on the apron, and slips inbetween the top and middle rope. Her music dies down as she stares at Hanlon and waits a few seconds before speaking.

Lindsay Troy: Quite the ovation you were given there, Hayes.

One beat.

Lindsay Troy: Seems like everyone in Portland’s about as sick of your shit as I am.

Another round of cheers from the Portlanders in attendance. Hayes rolls his eyes.

Lindsay Troy: Let me tell you a little bit about a thing some of us like to call … (air quotes) “tHe pErCepTiOn.” It’s something I have to be cognizant of literally all the time now that I’m in charge of PRIME, because Hoyt forbid it seems like I’m booking my Vae Victis stablemates or my fiancé in main events over, say, two men who are in the main events of PRIME’s next pay per view a month from now. Two men who I can’t goddamn stand, by the way.

Nick Stuart: Lindsay Troy’s preaching to the choir there.

Richard Parker: Am I supposed to agree that putting Jiles in the main event is good business sense? BECAUSE I DON’T.

Lindsay Troy: Or that … what’s another good one … oh, that I let everyone in the Glueminati do whatever they want because Cecilworth and I are BFFs but I’m also somehow holding every single one of you back. That’s very strange to hear when you consider that FLAMBERGE still holds the year over year #1 ranking of the ReVival Era, and that the Boys in Glue position themselves prominently on my shows. As far as you’re concerned, Hayes, if you’d take a look at the big picture, you’d realize that a) putting you against stars of the ReVolution Era like Hessian should be a dream come true for you, and b) if you’d simply fix your shitty attitude, I would have booked you in a match tonight. You can’t seem to get out of your own way, though. Or you refuse to. I don’t know which it is, and I don’t really care.

The Queen shrugs.

Lindsay Troy: You called me out, though. And, now that I think of it, it would be a shame to waste an opportunity for two matchups between the boys in Vae Victis and the Glueminati tonight. So I think I’ll make another one. A little booking on the fly, as it were.

Richard Parker: Oh boy, I’m sure all the side Discords are going to light up once they hear about this!

Nick Stuart: Hush, I want to see where she’s going with this.

Lindsay Troy: What do you say, Portland? Do you want to see Hayes Hanlon have a match tonight?

Everyone cheers, because of course they do!

Lindsay Troy: Do you want to see Hayes Hanlon have a match right now?

The cheers get even louder! Who says Hanlon needs time to prepare, fuck that guy!

Lindsay Troy: Well then… (she grins) …without further ado…

Cue that doom piano.

dunnn dunnn dunnn. dunnn dunnn dunnn. dunnn dunnn dunnn. dunnn dunnn dunnn.

Thunderous drum beats soon follow. A haunting voice wails through the gloom before the lyrics creep through the Moda Center’s speakers.

STRANGER FRUIT
HOW IT GROWS AND GROWS
WE ALL SAW THE SHOOT
BUT WE TEND TO THE ROSE

The real ones know who this is, or at least they’ve laughed at a Helen gag.

The deep divers know why he should be feared.

And this arena fucking erupts at the crossing of this forbidden hype machine door. Hayes snarls, unbuttoning his dress shirt and preparing for battle.

Neon pink and blue beacons swirl around the arena. Gears and tentacles and Plague Doctor masks swirl across the screens.

And then, the boom.

“THE KRAKEN”
HENRY KEYES

A tall and jacked-as-all-hell man strides through to the entrance ramp. He might have 10 abs, and though his hair is grayish-white and his devilish goatee is more salt than pepper, his gregariousness and his Zaddy vibe send the energy of a man in his prime (…his PRIME?).

He has a wild amount of tattoos across his arms and chest, mostly steel and bronze-colored gears with the occasional tentacle and one or two stacks of pancakes. He’s wearing a full-length military coat that is primarily neon pink with PRIME blue and black accents.

And for the biggest marks out there? No. He is not wearing an eyepatch.

Henry Keyes, Co-Consul of Vae Victis, 2023 Flynn Cup winner alongside Lindsay Troy, looks ready for a fucking fight against anyone who’s pissing off his Bestie. His strides are long, swift, and purposeful, only pausing for an instant as he steps one foot through the ropes, watching Hayes to see what this kid might do.

With the smile of a gamesman, he finally enters the ring. Hayes does not care for this one fucking bit and starts jaw-jacking at this maniac interloper. Keyes doesn’t back down for a second and returns verbal fire, and soon they are nose to nose.

The crowd is on their feet in anticipation. Keyes motions to his shoulder and begins taking off his military coat…when…

…

Suddenly, the lights shut off and, almost immediately after, switch to the color of PRETTY PINK©. Practically in-sync with the lights swapping does Lindsay Troy make an exasperated face. Where’s the owl GIF when you need it?

Vickie Hall parades out in her adorable little onesie, complete with the dearest ‘PRETTY PINK© Russian bear slippers’. She marches forward with no theme music accompanying her, as the lighting change was likely enough to make her feel welcomed.

Despite the chorus of boos.

Nick Stuart: Well it looks like the impromptu Hayes Hanlon and Henry Keyes match has been put on pause for the moment, as Vickie Hall is here, and I assume it’s to speak. This is going to be hard to believe but since Jonathan-Christopher lost the Universal Championship, we have not heard Vickie talk!

Richard Parker: I’ll raise you. Vickie hasn’t spoken since before Jonathan-Christopher WON the Universal Championship. Not since the “incident” with Jared Sykes and her broken leg.

Nick Stuart: Her leg was not broken.

Richard Parker: You sure?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Vickie arrives at the bottom of the rampway, realizing she has everyone’s attention but with no Amazing Life Partner or Daddy (not Craig, her real daddy) to help her onto the apron and into the ring, the average fan might think it’s insurmountable for her to go any further.

And the average fan is right.

Vickie Hall was able to walk up the steel stairs but she is NOT able to enter through the ropes, even though her tiny, harmless frame suggests she would very easily slip between the bottom and middle of them without even touching. Nonetheless, Vickie seemingly motions for Hayes Hanlon to open the ropes for her but he doesn’t budge. Next, she looks over at Henry Keyes, who chooses not to act, with a bewildered expression that sends “anyone who can’t enter the ring on their own shouldn’t be in the ring at all” energy. Vickie glances at Lindsay Troy, almost expecting LT to help in a heartbeat. Instead, Troy mouths the words “not gonna happen” with a disgusted shake of her head.

Nick Stuart: This is taking entirely too long.

To the displeasure of everyone involved, nice guy Vince Howard ends up unfortunately having Vickie’s metaphorical claws dig into his back. He isn’t her first victim. She asks for help while batting her eyes in “desperation,” so he removes himself from the time keeper’s table, reaches from the apron and pulls the ropes apart for her. Vickie enters the ring.

Nick Stuart: How can a woman so… resourceful… need help entering? Before you reply with some smart remark, Richard, it was rhetorical.

Troy stares a hole straight into the back of Vickie’s head while Vickie reveals she’s already holding a microphone and seemingly oblivious to the “problems” surrounding her.

Vickie Hall: HELLO, WORLD!

Boos. Hard and heavy.

Vickie Hall: I will keep things curt. Miss Lindsay, you are running a fine show again, as you always do, because you are a superior booker, but I have to confess…

Vickie brings her attention to Hayes Hanlon. For a brief moment there, it almost looks like she reaches for his arm but then swings her own hand back and locks it beside her body.

Vickie Hall: Hayes is right about one thing, you’ve handled him with kid gloves. He deserved a match tonight in his hometown – a proper match – but he most definitely deserves one on your finest pay-per-view!

Hayes nods, ever-so-slightly and still keeping an eye on Henry Keyes, as Vickie keeps rolling on. Now she brings her attention to the fans.

Vickie Hall: I have been speaking to Hayes behind closed doors and I have to say, he’s got A LOT more to give PRIME than what he has over the last couple of months. Hayes is a TWO time Universal Champion and we’ll never forget the Colossus where he FINISHED THE ST-

It’s almost like Vickie has a stroke and snaps back into life within the span of two milliseconds.

Vickie Hall: Hayes Hanlon is one of the founding presents and futures of PRIME and posed for another go at the top of the chain! Who wouldn’t want to see Coral Avalon and Hayes Hanlon get it on!? I know I would!

There are cheers. Maybe it’s for the match, maybe it’s because Vickie mentioned Coral’s name. Anyway…

Vickie Hall: Speaking to Hayes has been a breath of fresh air. Like my father, I, Vickie Hall, need to branch out and find more wonderful dandelions to water-

There’s a loud sense of commotion coming from the rampway, as Vickie tries to keep talking but now this commotion builds around the entire arena. She sighs, lowers her shoulders and snaps around to see…

Jonathan-Christopher Hall marching down the ramp. Hall is FUMING. Well, at least in the way a harmless looking boy like him can project. Jonathan-Christopher wears blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He was clearly in the middle of getting ready for his upcoming match against Hessian later tonight when he saw this situation transpire. The former champion reaches the bottom of the rampway, slides into the ring and immediately b-lines it for Hayes.

Jonathan-Christopher grabs Hanlon by his unbuttoned shirt and starts shouting.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY VICKIE!?

Hall shakes his head uncontrollably, as Hayes merely glances over to Vickie with an expression suggesting “your husband has three seconds before I clock him.”

She does nothing. Lindsay and Henry exchange glances with each other but remain silent.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHY ARE YOU SPENDING TIME WITH VICKIE!?

There’s a furious amount of shaking now. Hayes, taken aback but somewhat amused, shoves at JCH’s chest but finally Vickie is there to intervene. She stands directly in front of Jonathan-Christopher’s face (even though she’s a solid foot shorter than him), lowering her mic and attempts to talk to her Amazing Life Partner quietly, but, of course, there are mics everywhere for the broadcast.

Vickie Hall: What are you talking about!?

Stunningly, Jonathan-Christopher is still frothing at the mouth. He looks down at Vickie for a moment, then back up at Hayes and so it goes.

Nick Stuart: Does Jonathan-Christopher have a death wish? This is not a situation he wants to be in. Despite exiting the ring, I’m sure the Glueminati are close by and would be back out in a moment’s notice.

Richard Parker: Really don’t think JCH notices or cares.

As Vickie continues trying to talk sense into her Amazing Life Partner, Jonathan-Christopher locks eyes with Hayes for another moment.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHY ARE YOU TWO SLEEPING TOGETHER!?

Hanlon can only help but laugh audibly, giving his Glue brethren the “can you believe this shit?” face. Vickie takes a step back, raises her bushy eyebrows and huffs.

Vickie Hall: You need to calm down. I don’t know where this paranoia is coming from (she motions to Hayes) but Home Run and I were just chatting. You know we need more people in the CONVOY, sweetheart. We have to extend our reach to other friends. Everyone else is gaining numbers and we’re losing them like crazy here…

Jonathan-Christopher’s eyes mercilessly scan the canvas mat. Back and forth they go, as his wheels attempt to make sense of Vickie’s comments. Knowing she likely said things just now that she hasn’t in front of Hayes Hanlon himself (namely, getting the CONVOY numbers up) she explicitly winks at him and he smirks in response.

…Which Jonathan-Christopher happens to catch.

Hall, of course, goes batshit bananas.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHAT THE HELL!? YOU WANT TO FIGHT, HAYES!? YOU WANT A MATCH!? I’LL GIVE YOU IT, HOMEWRECKER!

Richard Parker: The poor kid hasn’t been right since he lost the Universal Championship.

Hall charges at Hanlon but this time, The Home Run Kid has had enough.

He levels Jonathan-Christopher with a shot, a grand slam, maybe even two of them at once if that’s even possible in baseball, and JCH is out cold. (Hayes connected with The Walk-Off, albeit couldn’t “set up the at bat” like he wanted.)

Vickie, meanwhile, doesn’t bat an eye. In fact… she shrugs and grins at Hanlon.

Vickie Hall: My man did have it coming.

Vickie smiles at Lindsay, Lindsay sarcastically smiles back at Vickie, who clearly doesn’t pick up on it. Then Vickie leaves the ring.

Nick Stuart: She’s GOING!?

Richard Parker: Yeah. So?

Nick Stuart: Strange…

As Jonathan-Christopher rolls over, and the crowd boos Vickie for leaving her man, Hayes seems content. He has his pay-per-view match. He looks over at Henry Keyes, decides the man isn’t worth his time by flipping him the bird, and hops out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Wait, after all that….Hayes isn’t even going to fight Henry Keyes?

Richard Parker: The bell never rang, Nick. The match never started!

Keyes is PISSED and yells out at Hammerin’ Hanlon, shouting to “get back in here”, to no avail. Troy puts a hand on her Bestie’s shoulder and murmurs something that the mics don’t quite pick up.

Probably something about pancakes.

ReVival heads to the back…

We see Matt Mills and Sebastian Gold, now sporting a metallic gold blazer/black turtleneck combo, his aviators on.

Matt Mills: I am backstage with the Golden Boy, the Bastion of Action Sebastian Gold! Wow, what a mouthful!

Sebastian Gold: I aim to please.

He flashes a winning smile.

Matt Mills: Mr. Gold, tonight you won your PRIME debut against Bembe Brightwell, how does that feel?

Sebastian Gold: Gotta admit Matt, it feels like the perfect beginning. Mr. Brightwell, you were a formidable foe and the perfect opponent for my Act I, introductory fight scene. Now the audience knows what I can do, and they want to see more.

Matt Mills: Mr. Gold, as many know you left a successful career in Hollywood to come-

Sebastian Gold: Whoa whoa, I’ll stop you there, Matt. ‘Success’ is a strong word for my movie career.  Like a lot of kids, I went to Hollywood to become the next Jackie Chan but the farthest I got was Bad Guy #4.

Matt Mills: What was the problem?

Sebastian Gold: All those lines, Matt! So much talk! And following a script? Not for me. Now fights, chases, falls? Those were lines I could deliver. So I trained, worked hard, became an honest-to-god Stunt Performer now playing playing Bad Guy #1 at a theater near you.

Matt Mills: To a lot of folks that sounds like a dream job!

Sebastian Gold: I’m sure it does! But it’s tough, thankless work. You’ve seen for yourself what it does to guys like Harley Walker, it can destroy you! In Hollywood you get punched, kicked, set on fire, hit by cars, and thrown off buildings without a single movie fan learning your name.

He turns and speaks to the camera.

Sebastian Gold: Now the fans of PRIME? They see us. They see the sacrifice, they see the blood running down our faces, no CGI needed. That sound they made when I took flight tonight, that scream of joy mixed with shock and just a pinch of fear? Hollywood could never reach that level of entertainment. But, Matt, you wanna know my favorite difference between Hollywood and PRIME?

Matt Mills: What’s that?

Sebastian Gold: In PRIME, you get a real shot at beating up the monsters.

Sebastian flashes his winning smile once more and addresses Mills.

Sebastian Gold: Always a pleasure.

He shakes Matt’s hand and strolls off-screen.

Matt Mills: There you have it folks! A new face at PRIME, lightning up our screens and I, for one, can’t wait to see how this one ends.  Nick, Richard, back to you!

We cut elsewhere.

The live feed goes backstage, where Wingman Champion Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter are hanging around Argyle, watching the… live feed monitor.

Which effectively means they’re watching themselves, in realtime.

Scott looks at the camera and realizes that he is watching himself watch himself watch himself watch himself… and so on.

He nudges his buddy.

Scott Hunter:  I think we have created a paradox, even though there is only one of them. Look, I am endless.

Kerry Kuroyama: Get serious, Scott. We’re here to do work. And when this bored cameraman finally gets back to work, the real show will resume, and then instead of watching ourselves, we’d be watching the other tag teams in action. Scouting the competition. Studying their moves. Analyzing their chemistry. Deconstructing their dichotomy.

Scott covers up his groin, clearly misunderstanding what a dichotomy is.

Scott Hunter: That sounds like that would hurt a lot.

Kerry Kuroyama: Without a doubt. Got your notebook?

Hunter smiles and holds up a spiral tablet with cool designs painted on the front in white-out.

Kerry Kuroyama: Good. Remember: the green pen is for anything you see that’s good. The red pen is for anything you see that’s bad. Got it?

Enter stage right come none other than recent PRIME signees Fade and Selene, collectively dubbed the Femme Furies.  Selene looks at Kerry first and then Scott before Fade grabs her arm and shakes her head as if to tell her not to say anything.

Kerry looks at his green pen…

Kerry Kuroyama: Won’t be needing this…

…and tosses it aside.

Scott Hunter: (arms crossed confidently)  Well well well, if it isn’t the feminine flurries. I’m sure you are both here to apologize to us for being so unappealing and rude to us a few weeks back, and perhaps wish to offer to us a peace offering of some kind, like a coupon for a free Blizzard at Dairy Queen or a Groupon for a free massage at Massage Envy, but HEAR ME NOW, WENCHES!! We are not to be trifled with! You hear me?!?! TRIFLED! And further more, we will stand right here during your match tonight, and we will write down things on this notebook in bright… red… ink! Whattya think of that, huh?

Scott nudges Kerry.

Scott Hunter:  Huh? Huh? Eh?

Kerry Kuroyama:  Stop.

Scott Hunter:  Okay. But I’m keeping an eye on these two.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott… you are the Iceman to my Maverick.

Scott Hunter: …I thought I was Goose?

Kerry Kuroyama: You are the Gooseman to my Maverick.

Scott points at the taller of the two Furies, and whispers to Kerry.

Scott Hunter:  She’s tall.

Selene steps forward, eyes trained on Kerry.  Fade moves to step forward as well, but Selene reaches back, stopping her from getting in the middle of this particular exchange.

Selene: First…didn’t Goose die and Iceman surpass Maverick in practically every way throughout those movies?

Scott starts to speak but upon hearing this ‘new’ information, stops and turns to Kerry.

Scott Hunter:  Goose died?

Kerry Kuroyama: Even if he did, Gooseman lives on.

Scott Hunter:  Oh good.

Selene glances at Scott for a brief moment before turning her attention back to Kerry.

Selene:  Second, if you think that your grading scales or your colorful markers or your attempts at something that sounds similar to a sad, dying animal trying to be witty…bother the two of us or that we’ve actually any idea why you’re even here…I hope you’ll make a special note in your notepad that we do not feel the slightest…

Fade finally steps in between Selene and Kerry, but the height difference is pretty marked compared to before.

Fade:  What my girl is trying to tell you, Kerr-Bear, is please do us the solid of getting the hell out of here before we have some sort of, y’know…problem.

Selene inhales sharply, tensing up behind her very aggressive partner.  Fade turns back and looks to Selene, her eyebrows arched as if to tell her to get ready while Selene glares at her as if this is going to blow up in her face.

Kerry tsk-tsks, clicks the red pen, and briskly jots something down. When he looks up from the notepad, there’s a smirk on his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: Only joking, of course. Scott and I are actually very eager to see what the two of you bring to the table. Aren’t we, Scott?

Scott Hunter:  No.

Kerry Kuroyama: Go break an egg out there against the Blimp and the Shrimp. We’ll just mind our business here and watch along. And as my wingman here said, it will probably hurt a lot. But no pain, no gain, as they say.

Selene:  Who said that?!

Fade shakes her head quickly to Selene to shush.

Scott’s eyes go wide.

Scott Hunter:  Wait, they’re facing Bobby Dean??? I have had a run-in with him in the past. Be careful, he is clumsy and he will trip and sit on you. Also, do not get too close to him while he is eating or you will lose an arm. He takes his pancakes very seriously. These are tips, even though you do not deserve them. I know nothing of shrimp.

Selene looks at Scott for a moment before she looks back at Kerry.

Selene:  I…do not understand either of you.  Make your notes, Gooseman, please do study them.  I feel as though what I do not understand I will not come to like.

Fade pushes Selene forward and takes one final moment to speak to the two of them.

Fade:  I gotta agree with her.  But, y’know what?  You’re gonna mind yours and we’ll mind ours and this is gonna be the last time we bump into each other!

She nods as if that affirmation matters.

Fade:  Yeah.  Take it easy, guys.

With that, Fade and Selene exit stage left.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, Scott… I’m glad that ended without confrontation. I suppose that’s the end of that, and we’ll never have problems with those two ever again.

Scott scrunches up his nose and starts writing something in his notebook in red.

Scott Hunter:  They walk funny.

They both turn their attention back to the monitors as we cut to ringside.

“Cobra (Rock Remix)” by Megan Thee Stallion and Spiritbox begins to play its ominous opening riff to the audience.  Smoke emanates from the entrance stage.  Selene steps out as the snare starts.  She keeps her hood pulled down over her face and stands deathly still.  Once Megan’s verse kicks in, Fade appears from the smoke at Selene’s feet, a giant grin across her face.  The Femme Furies stand united and look out at the sea of fans cheering.

Fade talks to fans as she bounces down the ramp, waving to people and ruffling kids’ hair and just overall treating the situation as affably as ever.  Selene, meanwhile, walks firm, her eyes look at every person Fade looks at as a target of affection and sees them at targets of suspicion.  Fade rolls into the ring as Selene removes her hood and cloak, letting it fall to the floor.  She hops onto the ring apron and enters the ring as Fade has already done.

Nick Stuart: We’re about to see the Femme Furies in their first action here in PRIME. I’m looking forward to seeing what these two young ladies can do.

Richard Parker: From what I’ve heard, there’s a ton of potential here. But that might not matter much with who their opponents are.

Fade climbs the middle turnbuckle on one side of the ring pointing to the fans and talking to as many of them as she can, blowing a kiss here and there.  Selene stands on the opposite turnbuckle and merely watches the fans, barely even noticing the people that cheer for the two of them.

As Fade saunters to the middle of the ring, Selene hops down and meets her there.  Fade tilts Selene’s head down and the two women touch forehead to forehead for a moment, their eyes closed.  As they open their eyes, both women bump their fists together before they walk to their side of the ring.

You think I’m funny?
Funny how?

The familiar voice of Joe Pesci is heard, but the music that plays after is not Tony Gamble’s usual entrance music. No, as Johnny Newsman steps out onto the stage with The Grin and Bobby Dean not too far behind, the familiar guitar riff and drums that come before Joe Esposito’s opening line are heard instead.

Try to be best cause you’re only a man
And a man’s gotta learn to take it

Johnny Newsman: Heeeeeellooooooo Poooooorelaaaaaand!!

Bobby is wearing his sequined robe over his usual ring gear, but his partner for the night has on a white #0 Milwaukee Bucks jersey over his ring gear and the fans do not sound happy about that.

Johnny Newsman: It’ssss Daaaame Tiiiiime ladies and gentleman’s!!

Newsman himself is wearing a Washington Huskies football jersey as he continues to stand on the stage, while Tony and Bobby make their way down the ramp.

Johnny Newsman: Coming to the ring now, at a Husky weight of almost six hunded pounce!

Rubbing his eyes along the way, Dean finds himself about halfway down the ramp as Gamble starts to climb the ring steps.

Johnny Newsman: BEAAAAAUUUUUTIFFUUUULLL BOOOOOOOBBBBYYYY DEEEEEAAANNNN!!

Tony stands patiently in the center of the ring as Bobby finally makes his way to the ring steps.

Johnny Newsman: TOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYY THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIIIINNN GAAAAAAAAMBLLLLLLE!!

Bobby removes his robe and stands behind Tony, who’s had Meeks back as the gravitational pull nearly pulls him into Bobby’s belly button.

Johnny Newsman: THEEEY AAARRRE THEEE EEEGGG BAAANDIIITSSS!!!

Nick Stuart: What in heaven’s name is a ‘pounce’?

Richard Parker: Listen, Johnny’s unique manner of speaking is why he’s one of the best! Vince should be taking notes right now.

Nick Stuart: Whatever. Anyway, this is quite the intriguing matchup. Youth and exuberance versus veteran experience and patience.

DING DING

In the Bandit corner, Tony and Bobby discuss who should start the match. Neither seems particularly keen on doing so, but finally, Tony rolls his eyes and strides towards the middle of the ring. Bobby gingerly climbs through the ropes and onto the apron.

Nick Stuart: I’ve been informed that the bacterial infection Bobby Dean was suffering from has cleared up, per PRIME medical staff.

Richard Parker: You think that’s why Shorty Scarface is starting?

Nick Stuart: That would make sense, Rich. But it looked like Bobby was doing a lot of whining beforehand, so Tony might have just wanted to shut him up.

Tony looks to lock up with Fade, who’s starting on the Femme Furies side. But all he finds is air, as Fade ducks under and bolts towards the ropes. Gamble whips around just in time to catch a dropkick right to the chest! He rolls as he hits the mat, recovering quickly. He throws a wild haymaker that Fade dodges once again. She sends a few hard kicks right to Gamble’s quad, leading The Grin to yelp out in pain.

Fade takes wrist control on Gamble, tugging him towards the FF corner. Just as she makes the tag to Selene, Tony breaks her grip. Before the woman can engage him, Tony Two Books slides over and smacks an inattentive Bobby Dean on the shoulder. Jimmy Turnbull signals a legal tag, ordering a befuddled Beautiful One into the ring. Bobby climbs into the ring and is immediately met by the fists of Selene. He tries to shove her off, but she stays persistent.

Nick Stuart: The Bandits are a little slow out of the blocks here.

Richard Parker: No surprise there. It’s the Bandits. You got Cancer Jiles leading you, it’s the dumb leading the dumber!

Selene rings the arm of Bobby Dean. She hammers down on the shoulder, drawing out groans of pain from Dean. She starts to pull him over the Furies corner. Bobby tries to use his size advantage to pull back. Selene rears back and…

CRACK

Chops the crap out of Dean’s chest! That proves enough to halt Bobby’s struggle back towards his own corner. Selene makes the tag to Fade, who springboards in with a dropkick that knocks Bobby to the ground. They’re not done yet, though. Fade turns around, with Selene wrapping her up in a rear waist lock. She sends her smaller partner up and over her head, where Fade lands on Bobby with a moonsault!

ONE!

KICKOUT!

As Fade tries to reach down to keep the momentum going, Bobby gets a quick poke to her eye. With the young lady covering up, Bobby stumbles over to the Bandit corner, never really getting steady footing before tagging out to Gamble. Fade turns around and gets yanked down to the mat by her hair!

Nick Stuart: To the surprise of absolutely no one, the Bandits have taken advantage by unfair means!

Richard Parker: Hey, what works, works. You call it cheating, I call it smart.

Gamble stomps away at the downed Fade. He drags the girl to her feet and slaps on a side headlock. He grinds it, leading Fade to try shoving Tony off. No dice, as Gamble stumbles forward slightly, but keeps the hold clamped on. He takes her over his hip, down to the mat. Gamble grinds a knuckle right into Fade’s forehead, drawing both a shriek of pain from her and admonishment from Turnbull. The woman starts thrashing around, trying to find an escape. Her desperate attempt to get free does at least put her in a solid position to wrap her legs around the Permascar Superstar’s head!

Gamble pushes off and scrambles to his feet, but Fade is up just as quick. She snaps off a hurricanrana, taking Gamble over again. He flops over into the corner. The young lady from San Diego charges towards the dazed vet and leaps up with a leg lariat… meeting nothing but ropes and crashing on her shoulders and upper back. Turns out Bobby Dean WAS paying attention this time and yanked Tony out of the corner just in time! Jimmy Turnbull issues Bobby back within reach of the tag rope. Gamble roughly yanks Fade to her feet and shoves her into the turnbuckles. A few overhead rights from Gamble lead to a tag to Bobby. He comes in and leans against Lucia before turning around…

Nick Stuart: OH MAN! Bobby Dean just squashed Fade into the corner with his tuchus!

Richard Parker: His what?!

Nick Stuart: Tuchus. Posterior. Behind. Butt.

Richard Parker: Nick, you’re an adult. You’re allowed to say ass.

Nick Stuart: It’s called being professional, Rich.

A second squash with the Beautiful One’s ass. A third. Selene climbs in the ring to intervene, but Turnbull cuts her off! Bobby and Tony switch off, with Bobby slapping his own hand.

BOOOOOOOO!

Gamble takes the tag rope and uses it to strangle Fade, peeking over his shoulder. When a frustrated Selene finally gets back onto the apron, Happy Heelmore lets the tag rope drop, which Bobby quickly snatches into his hand. Fade flops out of the corner, clutching at her throat. Jimmy has a lot to take in; Lucia clutching at her throat. The fact that Tony Gamble is now in the ring. The crowd raucously showering the ring with disapproval. Turnbull confronts The Grin about the switch. He’s promptly blown off, though Bobby does his best to plead his case from the apron. Tony Two Books continues to stomp away regardless.

He pulls Fade to her feet while Turnbull gives Beautiful Bobby a stern warning. Irish whip and Gamble blasts Fade with a haymaker that sends her back to the mat. Up again and down again, thanks to another right from Tony. On the third trip to the ropes, Gamble bends down, looking to plant Fade with a spinebuster. She managed to hook her arm around The Grin’s head, swing up and plant him down with an improvised and impressive tornado DDT!

Nick Stuart: Big move from Fade! She needs to make the tag!

Richard Parker: Oh yeah? You think so?

Nick Stuart: Of course! You know better, Richard! If she takes any more punish- You’re being sarcastic.

Richard Parker: Well at least you figured it out before you finished that sentence. But yeah, these two girls aren’t gonna have much of a chance if Fade takes any more punishment!

Fade tries to climb to her feet, faltering and falling into a neutral corner. Gamble, disoriented from the DDT, still makes some attempt to follow through. He charges in, but Fade slips in between the ropes to avoid him! Tony throws a frustrated right at Fade, positioned on the apron. She takes the opportunity to slide into the ring, both under the bottom rope AND in between Gamble’s legs! He does his best to recover, but Lucia rolls and makes the tag to Selene!

RAAAAAAAAAAWR!

Tony charges over and takes a pump kick for his troubles! He up quickly, but get scooped up and slammed down in short order! Selene takes a running start and slingshots off the ropes with a moonsault! Instead of going for the cover, however, she glances out to the crowd.

YAAAAAAAAAH!

She rolls Tony over and clutches him around the neck before flipping up and over with an inverted neck lock! Bobby Dean comes into the ring to intervene, but Fade cuts him off with a sling blade!

Nick Stuart: Catch This Fade! The Bandits are in deep trouble!

Richard Parker: They better think of something quick! If they lose, Jiles will… You know what? Nevermind, take the loss and fight another day, boys!

Bobby rolls outside the ring from Catch This Fade. He doesn’t get much of a reprieve, as Lucia comes flying out with a high speed tope suicida! In the ring, Gamble is still locked in the submission hold. He manages to scoot enough to get a foot under the ropes. Turnbull calls for the break, which Selene is quick to obligue with. She grabs Gamble and drags him towards the middle of the ring.

Jimmy goes over to check on the two wrestlers on the outside. As they both slowly rise to their feet, he implores them to get back to their respective corners. Bobby, positioned behind Fade, gives the girl a hard shove into the barricade!

CRASH!

Fade bounces off the metal into a heap. Bobby goes the climb into the ring to assist his partner. Jimmy Turnbull blocks his path, ordering the Beautiful One to the corner. In the meantime, Selene has gotten Tony to his feet and hooked an arm around his head. The Grin steps back ever so slightly and sends a kick right into Selene’s crotch! Though it’s not as debilitating as it would be for a male wrestler, Selene is still clearly caught off guard and in pain from the kick. He quickly slides next to Diana.

Nick Stuart: Stop Laughing at Me! Tony Gamble’s front Russian leg sweep!

Richard Parker: Ol’ Two Books is rolling her over!

Indeed, Gamble rolls Selene over and collapses forward, draping an arm across her. Bobby keeps his massive frame in the way of Fade, giving her no chance to save.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Bobby rolls into the ring, cheering exuberantly. He helps a worn out Gamble up to his feet.

Nick Stuart: The Femme Furies certainly gave the Bandits a stiff challenge, but they might’ve gotten a bit too aggressive at the end.

Richard Parker: Never underestimate the effect veteran experience can have on a match outcome!

Vince Howard: The winners of the match… Bobby Dean and Tony Gamble, THE EGG BAAAAAANDITS!

We cut elsewhere.

Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Wait a minute (unh)
Get it how he live it (unh)
Ten toes in when we standin’ on business

That’s “BIG DAWGS” by Hanumankind.

Which means here comes the Big Dick Stallions.

Fred Dick and STRONK Godson step out onto the entrance ramp, both of them doing a synchronized stanky leg dance to the chorus of boos that rains down on them.

Behind them are the rest of the Whoresman, Reed Young (who has graciously agreed, in Lowell’s absence, to push the whorebarrow that Harley Walker lies in passed out drunk), and Daytona Diamonds, who drives a forklift (Whoreklift?) with a Port-o-Dick stood on the teeth of it.

The gang halts on the entrance ramp.

Fred Dick slaps the fuck out of the microphone. The music cuts.

Fred Dick: I don’t even know or give a fuck what shitty town we’re in right now.

The Portland crowd jeers.

Fred Dick: It’s one of them thaaaaangs, ain’t it folks? Lawd YES it’s one of them thangs! Paxton Ray–

RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Fred Dick: Don’t ever interrupt me again you fat pieces of shid!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Fred Dick: I said IT’S ONE OF THEM THANGS! I’m talgin’ ‘bout blood, folks. I’m talgin’ ‘bout revenge. See, last ReVival in Sacramento, which I thought must be the worst town on the tour until we came to this shidhole, Paxt– DON’T YOU FUGGIN’ CHEER WHEN I SAY HIS MOTHAFUCKIN’ NAME!!! Last week, Paxton Ray–

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Fred rolls his eyes.

Fred Dick: He decided to embarrass me. He decided to make a damn FOO’ of ol’ Fred. Did y’all stupid pieces of dawg shid thank I was just gonna… take that lyin’ down? Didja? Well, see, I can’t. I can’t take it lyin’ down. What do we say about that, STRONK?

STRONK: IT IS JUST ONE OF THOSE THIIIIIIIIIINGS, MAMA DICK!

Fred Dick: And when we take our revenge? When we spill the blood of those who would seek to make us piss our pant on live television and ruin our business affairs on live television and do the Lafayette Lullaby to us on live television?

STRONK: IT IS JUST ONE OF THOSE THIIIIIIIIIINGS, MAMA DICK!

Fred Dick: Yessuh! Yessuh, it’s just one of them thangs!

Fred walks over to the Port-o-Dick resting on the teeth of the Whoreklift. He swings the door open.

Paxton Ray.

But the crowd doesn’t cheer.

No.

They gasp.

He sits on the toilet itself, blood soaked, bruised, battered, half-dead looking, slumped against the wall of the Port-o-Dick. Blood still seeps from his open wounds. His white tank is half red, a peppermint swirl of carnage.

The crowd’s jeers increase in volume, a slow crescendo into the very heights of disgust.

Fred Dick: So you see, Paxton… it’s nothing personal, bud. It’s just one of them thangs! You embarrass me??? YOU EMBARRASS ME ON LIVE TELEVISION YOU DAUGHTER-LESS PIECE OF SHIT!?!?

Fred SLAPS the shit out of Paxton and the crowd reaches a level of outrage that seems a shade untethered, the verbal lowblow and subsequent slap bringing all of Portland’s hatred down on Fred.

Fred Dick: But unlike you, Paxton? I’m a man of dignity. Unlike you, Paxton? I’m a man of integrity. Unlike you, Paxton? I’m a man with class!!!

FUCK YOU FRED DICK, clap clap clapclapclap

FUCK YOU FRED DICK, clap clap clapclapclap

Fred Dick: So I’m gonna give you an opportunity right now, Paxton, to apologize. YOU APOLOGIZE FOR EMBARRASSIN’ ME GOD DAMN IT!!! APOLOGIZE!!!!

Fred SHOVES the microphone into Paxton’s face, basically punches him in the nose with it.

Fred Dick: APOLOGIZE TO ME, PAXTON RAY!!!

Paxton Ray: …fuck…off…pissboy.

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Fred beats Paxton Ray in the face several times with the microphone.

Fred Dick: Can’t nobody say I didn’t give you a chance, Paxton Ray.

Daytona chuckles from his seat driving the Whoreklift. He realizes now that he’s going to get to do this and it’s going to be awesome. He reaches down by his feet, pulls up a long chain, and tosses it to STRONK.

STRONK quickly whips the chain around the Port-o-Dick tightly, closing Paxton Ray inside and securing the door shut. He places a padlock on it for good measure.

Fred Dick: Let it be said that the Whoresman ended this war today, August 23rd, 2024. Let it be said that Paxton Ray, the biggest pain in my acehoe since I joined this two-bit promotion, has been removed from my ace like a hemorrhoid!

This is when Daytona puts the Whoreklift in drive, and begins to move the chained-up Port-o-Dick with Paxton inside it to the side edge of the stage.

And then, right as it reaches the edge?

Fred Dick: Goodbye, Paxton Ray. I hope your daughter sees this shid right here. I really do. I hope your daughter sees what a sorry sunoma bench you really are!!!

Fred dropkicks the Port-o-Dick!

And the Port-o-Dick falls to the ground from the stage!

DOUCHE!!

(That’s an onomatopoeia, not a noun.)

Portable toilet dissolving solution begins to sleep out of of the Port-o-Dick as it lies on its side, with Paxton Ray in it.

FUCK THE WHORESMEN, clap clap clapclapclap

FUCK THE WHORESMEN, clap clap clapclapclap

Fred Dick: It’s over. It’s done. Goodbye forever, Pax. And fuck you ‘til infinity.

“BIG DAWGS” by Hanumankind hits the speakers, and the Whoresmen head back to the back.

We close in on that Port-o-Dick. In this moment, it’s almost like a casket.

We cut away.

The feed jumps to backstage, just outside of the door leading to the Vae Victis private lounge and dressing room. The hallway lights are off, for some reason. Mist rises from the floor. A spotlight sweeps by in large figure-eight patterns.

Music is playing from somewhere. It just so happens to be “Sirius” by the Alan Parson’s Project.

Scott Hunter: (off-camera) LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF PORTLAND… GIVE IT UP FOR YOUR VAE VICTIS VICTORS!

The only thing the Portland wrestling faithful give up are resounding jeers, given the Chicago Bulls intro theme is what’s playing, and they’re not about to do their Blazers dirty like that. There was a whole Super Nintendo game about it, after all.

Anyway, the door opens up. We can see only darkness within.

Announcer: (off-camera)INTRODUCING FIRST… SIX-FOOT-TWO SHOOT-WRESTLING-GUARD FROM SEATTLE… THE SCOURGE OF THE SCOVILLE RATING… YOUR REIGNING WINGMAN CHAMPION… KERRYYYYYYYYYYYY KUROYAMAAAAAAAAA!!!

The Emerald Apex comes jogging out, looking lively and sporting his throwback Vae Victis themed maroon and black tights. The minted “Wingman” Championship is visible through the part in his robe, worn proudly around his waist

Announcer: (off-camera) AND HIS PARTNER… SIX FEET, SEVEN INCHES OUTTA PLAINVIEW, TEXAS… THE MAN WHO PUTS THE POWER IN POWER FORWARD… THE OH-GEE COW-MAN… SO COLOSSAL, THEY NAMED A PAY PER VIEW EVENT AFTER HIM… CLAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY BYYYYYYYYYYRRRRD!!!

Byrd strides out next. He can’t help but glare at something off camera. We track over, finding Scott Hunter creating the effects with a flashlight, a fire extinguisher, and a portable PA strapped over his shoulder.

Clay leans toward Kerry and whispers.

Clay Byrd: …he always doin’ this?

Kerry Kuroyama: It’s our pregame ritual, so yeah. But… this is a first for me, so also no.

Clay can only shake his head. About this time, our favorite junior interviewer slips into the shot.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon.

Simon Tillier: Kerry!

Scott Hunter: Ralphie?

Simon Tillier: Scott…

Clay Byrd: Dunno who th’ fuck y’are, but scram.

The interviewer disappears, leaving a little Simon Tillier-shaped cloud of dust in his wake. With the speed of a venomous rattler, Scott paws the ejected right out of the air.

Scott Hunter: (pulling them all into a circle) Alright, everyone together here. Everyone remember what we practiced. Clay, I want you posted up down low. Ker-bear, you run a double screen in the paint while Clay loops around to the elbow. I’ll fake a pass to Kerry while you, Clay, crash to the basket. I’ll lob it up, you take the pass, go up strong, slam dunk, and we win the championship! WHO’S WITH ME?!!?

Clay Byrd:  How’s about you make sure no one gets in the ring and screws this thing up for us, watch our backs, and let us handle our business without any of this foolishness?

Scott Hunter: (standing up straight) Well I don’t know what you mean by foolishness, but yes, I like that!! What say you, Pacific plunderer?!?!

With grave, quiet stoicism, the Emerald Apex tightens the straps to his elbow pads.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I say, let’s stick it to some glueboys.

Scott Hunter: Alright, WHAT TIME IS IT?!

Clay lets out a strong sigh, nods, and just steers into the skid.

Clarry Byrdoyama: GAME TIME!!

Scott Hunter: I said, WHAT TIME IS IT!?!

Sclarry Byrdoyanter: GAME TIME!!!

They break, and head for the ring.

The PRIME faithful of Portland begin to once more settle in their seats ahead of the next exciting and enticing bout of the evening. The lights begin to dim and for the second time of the night, and third time in PRIME history, “Razzmatazz” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me reverberates out of the Moda Center’s sound system, heralding (NOT THAT ONE) the arrival of the self-proclaimed Princes of Glue – Cecilworth Farthington and FLAMBERGE.

The two men make a clear point to enter as a unified unit, standing atop the entranceway shoulder to shoulder in a display of brotherly bonding.

Nick Stuart: Well, between what we saw earlier this evening and now, it would seem that any tensions within the House of Glue have been greatly exaggerated.

Richard Parker: I have never believed that tabloid muck, written to try and upset the greatest athletes in PRIME. No, I have been a firm believer in the old saying “Glue friends stick together” and that’s what we are witnessing right now, as two of PRIME’s most perfect fighters make their way to the ring.

Nick Stuart: They collect necks, they break arms… arms in particular being at the heart of tonight’s contest.

Richard Parker: Yes, yes, Cecilworth broke Clay Byrd’s arm once, it’s not his fault, he doesn’t know his own strength.

Respectful of the former Universal Champion, Cecilworth indicates for FLAMBERGE to lead the way and conversely, FLAMBERGE extends the same courtesy to the Glueminati’s Financier. After a moment of polite arm extensions, both men nod to each other and stride towards the ring in tandem.

Richard Parker: Look at this beautiful display of mutual respect. The perfect boys!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how perfect Cecilworth is going to be after this contest, a very large cowboy is looking to hurt him quite a bit. If he isn’t careful, he might end up with his own broken limb in a delicious ironic twist.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe you’d say such a thing.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring at this time, standing tonight at a combined height of twelve-foot-even…

Nick Stuart: We have got to stop letting the wrestlers write their own introduction…

Vince Howard: Representing The Glueminati… they are Cecilworth Farthington and FLAMBERGE… THE PRINCES OF GLUUUUUUUUUUUUE!

As they approach the ring, Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE both open the ropes for the other, each trying to encourage the entrance of the other. The stand-off, much like the ring walk situation, is brief, as both men conclude that the best thing to do is pivot into the ring together. With the Princes of Glue position in the ring, “Razzmatazz” fades away, leaving for an audible roar of approval from the Portland crowd.

DUN-DUN-DUN. DUN-DUN-DUN.

DUN-DUN-DUN. DUN-DUN-DUN.

That’s the sound a piano makes when it’s banging out the ominous opening notes to “Stranger Fruit” by Zeal & Ardor. It’s soon joined by the BOOM BOO-CHIK, BOOM CHIK of the tribal drumbeat and echoey OOOH-oooohh vocalizations.

Richard Parker: Ooooooooooh SNAP! Strap yourself in, Nick! We’re gettin’ the full, unfiltered Vae Victis experience tonight!

Nick Stuart: Um… cool.

“Stranger fruit, how it grows and grows,
“We all saw the shoot, but we tend to the rose…”

The house lights come down. The stage lights switch to red. Mist blankets the stage and comes cascading down the rampway. Two big, bold words that ooze nothing less than pure motherfuckery appear on the PRIMEview.

“Stranger fruit is a plant of the well,
“Flesh so bitter, it pick itself…”

V A E   V I C T I S

Three figures appear, obscured in shadows. The first, standing in the middle, has quite a few inches and a cowboy hat. The second, standing on the left, appears to have something glittering and gold around his waist. The third, over on the right, has neither of those things, but does have a pretty bitchin’ hairstyle.

“Stranger fruit, with a beckoning call!
“From crown to the root, this tree won’t fall!”

The lights come up, revealing our usual suspects. Byrd. Kuroyama. Hunter. Three dangerous dudes with attitudes.

“STRANGER FRUIT, GOT HOLES IN THE FLESH!
“BUT IT AIN’T GONNA SCAR ‘CAUSE IT NEV–KRRKRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!”

A shrill blare of static precedes the PA suddenly going dead.

And suddenly we got a situation for our three amigos; no tunes means no vibes of doom and gloom. All we have are three wrestlers standing around awkwardly on the stage, looking to the back for some kind of answer or cue.

Nick Stuart: We, uhm… appear to be experiencing technical difficulties, ladies and gentlemen. We’re getting word from the production team that the sound system evidently ate the tape.

Richard Parker: What?! You’re telling me those brainless amateurs back there can’t even get a handle on their own equipment!?

It’s been said that in times of uncertainty, answers come from those who are most uncertain. It’s therefore of no discernable surprise that Scott Hunter is the one to suddenly step forward and take action.

Scott Hunter: I got this…

From his pocket, Hunter procures a cassette tape, and in a flash, he darts back through the entry-way. Confused and bored chatter spreads through the crowd. Meanwhile, Kerry and Clay are showing signs of impatience. (So are the Glueminati.) Kuroyama shakes his head and begins to pace, while Byrd angrily barks a harsh string of vulgarities upon some poor crew member hiding on the other side of the black curtain.

Fortunately, they don’t have to wait long.

BUM, DUM, BA-DOO-BUMM… BUM BUM DUM DUMMM

BUM, DUM, BA-DOO-BUMM… BUDDA-BUDDA-BUM-BUMM

That’s the sound a synthesizer makes when it’s jamming out the intro to the Human League’s classic “Don’t You Want Me”.

Richard Parker: You gotta be kidding me…

Slowly, Clay and Kerry crane their heads up and stare at the PA speakers in disbelief. Then Scott reappears, looking all business as he leads the charge down the rampway. Byrd and Kuroyama exchange a look, shrug, then follow him down to the ring.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring, accompanied by the Maven of Miami, Scott Hunter… weighing in at a combined weight of five-hundred-twenty-seven pounds… the WINGMAN CHAMPION, KERRY KUROYAMA… the COWBOY COLOSSUS, CLAY BYRD… THIS… IS… VAAAAAAEEEE VIIIIIIIIIIIICTIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSS!!!

They hit the ring, climbing the steps one after another until Kerry and Scott are perched on the opposing corners with the towering Clay hanging out on the apron between them. Once everyone is set, they pose — Scott pumping his arms, Kerry holding up the Wingman Title, and Clay tossing off his hat while throwing up the horns. Behind them, rocket pyros leave trails of smoke forming “V” shapes.

“DON’T YOU WANT ME, BAY-BAY?
“DON’T YOU WANT ME, OOOOH-OH-OH-OOHH!
“DON’T YOU WANT ME, BAY-BAY?
“DON’T YOU WANT ME, OOOOH-OH-OH-OOHH!”

Oh yeah. Vibes are back.

Vibes of doom and glue-oom.

Once the entrance hype settles, it’s very clear: both teams are ready and can’t wait any longer.

Even Scott Hunter is wound up (isn’t he always?) as he hops up and down from outside the ring and the referee calls for the bell.

DING DING

In an interesting twist, it’s FLAMBERGE and Kerry Kuroyama starting. FLAMBO had offered the ring to Cecilworth first but Farthington did the same, he offered to The Neck Collector. With Clay Byrd looming, the fans and company could maybe assume FLAMBO was trying to protect his Glueminati brother, so he stepped into the ring as the official GO man, but Kerry followed, not Clay. Not yet. So, anyway…

It’s nice to see the Glue sticking together with their game plan.

Ha.

Daddy jokes aplenty in this one. Craig get loose.

Elvis Nixon is already on the scene because FLAMBERGE and Kuroyama are getting it on!

Nick Stuart: We are off, not wasting a second!

Richard Parker: The fans want to see blood, I want to see blood. I mean, I’d like to see a killing but seriously, can you even put that on TV these days?

FLAMBO comes in with a running knee strike to Kuroyama but Kerry steers the Frenchman into a free corner. Kuroyama races in and looks for a knee himself but FLAMBO blocks it and sends Kerry head-first into the top buckle padding. Kuroyama stumbles back and the former Universal Champion unloads a plethora of kicks and quick jabs. FLAMBERGE with a jab to the side of Kerry’s right temple stuns The Pacific Blitzkrieg before The Lizard King delivers a high angle hip toss, placing Kuroyama flat in the center of the ring.

A leaping, HIGH HIGH leg drop follows. FLAMBERGE considers a pin but sees Clay is stirring in his corner so knows it’s best not to wake the sleeping giant. Even though FLAMBO could take him, and wants to take him and is seemingly frothing at the mouth to take him.

Nevertheless, FLAMBERGE sends Kuroyama into the ropes and-

BOOM! The Frenchman took too long thinking about WTF he was going to do in order to protect his Glue Guy from Clay Byrd so Kerry hits a running knee. Kuroyama springs to his feet, deadlifts FLAMBO from behind and lands a perfectly placed German suplex with a bridge and a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

Kuroyama drops the pin because he sees Cecilworth Farthington right in front of him to lower an elbow drop. And yet, The Financer is way too smart of a wrestler to end up going through with the elbow when Kerry isn’t there anymore.

Oh, also, here comes the Texan.

The crowd ROARS as they want to see Clay and Cecilworth get it on but everyone WILL JUST HAVE TO CALM DOWN AND WAIT, as the referee screams at both men to return to their corners. Meanwhile, FLAMBERGE and Kuroyama are going shot for shot in a free corner.

Kuroyama gets the better of FLAMBERGE and Irish whips him to the buckle across the way. Wait, no, it’s FLAMBO who changes course in the middle of the whip and still has Kerry by the arm. Our mistake, it’s FLAMBERGE who sends Kuroyama into the corner and races forward with a running knee!

Misses!

Kuroyama ducks and cranks FLAMBERGE in the side of the head with a forearm so hard and strong, spit flies out of the lizard’s mouth. The Wingman Champion continues to unload on forearms, this time placing them right in FLAMBO’s chin. Over and over the shots come, the former Universal Champion is trying to cover up, while Scott Hunter, on the outside, jumps with glee.

Nick Stuart: Does Scott think he’s playing a role in this?

Richard Parker: He IS playing a role! He’s the WINGMAN!

Kuroyama tries for a headbutt but this time FLAMBERGE blocks it. FLAMBERGE with a leg sweep and by doing so, Kerry inadvertently knocks his head against the second turnbuckle pad. FLAMBERGE spins Kuroyama around, props him in the corner and exposes Kerry’s chest.

The lizard licks his lips.

Elbow strikes follow, straight into the stomach. Despite the FIVE count rising, FLAMBERGE wants to go all out and he’s hitting these strikes at such a fast and furious pace.

Nick Stuart: I have no idea how you can cover up from those.

FLAMBERGE tosses Kuroyama into the corner where they first came from. Except this time, FLAMBO doesn’t charge in like he did before.

Nick Stuart: Knowledge applied. FLAMBERGE didn’t connect with that running knee so he’s going to be more tentative with Kuroyama moving forward.

Richard Parker: Might be a good idea. Kerry is already one of the best technicians in PRIME, you don’t want to become vulnerable too quickly.

FLAMBERGE reaches Kuroyama and pops him under the jaw with a long range jab. FLAMBERGE jets back, he’s going to wind up for a kick when Kerry ducks it, slides across the canvas and then positions behind the Glue Man.

Side Russian leg sweep.

FLAMBO crashes to the ground while Kuroyama falls along with him… yet HOLDS ONTO FLAMBERGE in an amazing display… and has the Frenchman back on his feet in no time!

Falcon arrow suplex into a pin!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Kuroyama nods and springs upright. He’s still got hold of FLAMBERGE. Kuroyama tries to lift the former champion off the ground again but this time FLAMBERGE lowers his base. He’s almost sunken straight into the mat and becomes deadweight.

Nick Stuart: Kerry has pure strength but even in the early stages of this one, it’s going to be hard to lift a man that’s pressing himself towards the canvas.

Kuroyama tries to move his hands around FLAMBERGE and instead of going for another suplex, attempts to switch into a choke hold. Cecilworth and Clay are both foaming at the mouth to get tagged in… and FLAMBERGE reaches out for the tag…

But he’s not close enough.

However, FLAMBERGE does break free. He bursts forward and snatches Kuroyama by the neck. The Collector of the Necks in All Shapes and Sizes tries for his own choke hold but it’s blocked. The two jockey back and forth until Kuroyama tosses FLAMBO into the ropes, where Scott Hunter becomes immediately mesmerized by The Glue’s colourful boots. It looks like Scott mumbles the words “nicey, nicey” before genuinely trying to reach out for them and gain a closer look. However, from the corner of his eyes, FLAMBERGE sees arms on the outside moving towards him so in one swift motion he kicks his feet forward and ends up tripping himself up, just a mere step.

It’s enough for Kuroyama to land a yakuza kick! FLAMBO crashes to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Kerry with the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Kuroyama isn’t phased. He pulls himself up, drags FLAMBERGE towards the VV corner and makes the tag.

Clay.

Byrd.

The angry, fuming Texan steps over the top rope and STARES a hole down in Cecilworth’s face. The Finacer’s forehead isn’t as big as, say, Coral Avalon’s on Peyton Manning’s but it’s definitely got a bullseye on it for this one.

Does Farthington know who Peyton Manning is? Doubtful. Does he care? Probity not, either.

Needless to say, the crowd roars as the big Texan burrells forward. He lets FLAMBERGE eat a big boot to the face and then plucks the six-foot man from the canvas and hurls him back down again with a gorilla press slam.

Nick Stuart: I don’t have to say it, but the size advantage is going to play a massive role, now.

Richard Parker: And the FURY!

Clay throws FLAMBERGE like a ragdoll into a free corner and then booms forward with another big boot. He hips tosses FLAMBERGE into the middle of the canvas and steams ahead with a diving shoulder block. Clay tries to throw The Neck Collector towards the corner of the Glue because it’s clear he wants ONLY ONE MAN-

But the former champion has a ton of stamina and recovery left. FLAMBO pops up, leaps in the air and clips The Monster from Plainview under the chin with the edge of his knee. FLAMBERGE delivers a pele kick, followed by a double footed dropkick SQUARE in Clay’s mug. The Bearded Dragon cocks his head, spins around…

And makes the take to Cecilworth!

The crowd is on their feet! The announcers are on theirs, too, as Farthington carefully slips through the top and middle rope, winding his wrists around as he does. Maybe loosening them up to break another arm or something?

Clay merely stands in the middle of the ring, motionless. The dream has come to fruition, a chance to actually get redemption. Byrd takes a short step forward and lowers his gaze to stare directly into Cecilworth’s own right arm.

Richard Parker: Clay is like a dog chasing a car, he doesn’t know what to do right now! He’s frozen!

Nick Stuart: Are we watching the same situation play out? Clay is absolutely locked on target.

The crowd continues to build hype, they are cheering, screaming, shouting, hammering their hands together and clapping for the battle they are about to witness.

Finally, Cecilworth makes his move. He bursts forward and ducks a right punch from Clay. It was a wild, reckless attempt. One that if Clay would’ve hit it, Cecilworth’s head would be in row number five.

Or significantly intended.

Nevertheless, Cecilworth hits the ropes and ducks a back elbow from Clay, too.

Richard Parker: Clay better get his head on straight and stop seeing red-

Cecilworth with a kick to the solar plexis.

Nothing.

Cecilworth cocks his head and drives an elbow into Clay’s gut.

Nothing.

Cecilworth fumes and moves forward again- but he’s snatched out of the air and TOSSED halfway across the ring with a chokeslam throw!

Not to be outdone, he wasn’t the longest reigning Five-Star Champion for no reason. Cecilworth is right back to the center of the ring and stands in front of the Texan.

WHAP!

A hard, merciless slap to the side of Clay’s face.

Byrd lowers his head, runs his free hand across his cheek and then sneers.

Nick Stuart: IT’S ON!

Both men start unloading on each other. It’s with even more intensity than Kuroyama and FLAMBERGE’s initial confrontation at the start of this tag match, given historical context. The crowd is going apeshit insane, and Scott Hunter leaps up and down. The towel falls out of Scott’s pocket but he ensures everyone he wasn’t throwing it in. In reality, no one was asking, because nobody was paying attention to Scott Hunter. (He also didn’t throw the towel anywhere, it literally fell out of his back pocket.)

Cecilworth is eventually outmatched because let’s be real here, there’s a hundred pound difference. Credit for the Glue Man for trying, of course. He’s no bloody pushover.

Clay works Cecilworth into the ropes and then hurls Cec’ to the other side. It looks like Clay is going to put this one to bed with his clothesline but Cecilworth hooks his hands across the top rope as he hits them and stops dead in his tracks. A moment later, Fartington shoots forward and knocks the spit out of Clay with a leaping knee to the face, followed by a back elbow to the side of Clay’s head, followed by a European uppercut, followed by a hard DDT!

Cecilworth’s eyes shoot open. Clay’s right arm is there for the taking as the crowd SCREAMS-

NO!

The Texan pushes The Financer away from him. Cecilworth tries to make another move towards Clay when the giant headbutts the living piss out of Farthington. Or, in this case, the spit. Twice the amount of spit flies from Cecilworth’s mouth in comparison to Clay’s. Farthington stumbles back, and Clay neatly tucks Cecilworth’s right arm behind him.

HAMMER THROW ACROSS THE ENTIRE RING!

Cecilworth lands with a SMACK near the corner of Vae Victis’ corner as Clay stands like a man possessed. He cracks his neck and marches towards the man he intends to ruin.

Another tucking of Cecilworth’s right arm behind his back. Another hammer throw.

Clay screams at Farthington to get up and, to no one’s surprise, The Conga Crusher eventually does. Cecilworth cranks his right arm around, trying to work feeling into it when he sees Clay charging across the canvas-

WHAM!

Cecilworth with a leaping high knee into Clay’s face. Does the impact break Byrd’s nose? It sure sounds like it.

But as Clay pulls his hands away from his face, his nose is NOT broken. His face is red, though. His eyes are bloodshot.

WHACK!

A jumping roundhouse kick from FLAMBERGE follows! Kerry Kuroyama does not take a liking to that and he roars into the ring. All hell is breaking loose!

Richard Parker: You know, I think FLAMBERGE made a blind tag there!

Nick Stuart: There’s no way!

But upon replay, dare we say that Richard Parker is RIGHT. FLAMBO smacked Cecilworth on the back just as Clay and Fartington were ready to unleash more hell on each other!

The Glue and VV are going at it all at once, and it’s a little too much for Elvis Nixon to handle. He screams and waves his hands around. He’s starting a FIVE count, although he doesn’t want to throw this tag match out, either. Meanwhile, thinking he’s helping, The Maven of Miami enters the ring, thinking he’s assisting by trying to break up the brawl. Instead, Hunter drops the towel from his back pocket again and FLAMBERGE ends up slipping on it-

Right into a straight on punch by Clay.

FLAMBO is out.

The Lizard King goes limp as Nixon is able to separate Cecilworth from Kuroyama and somehow, someway, Scott Hunter picks that towel up and exits the ring.

Nixon slides into position to make the count as Clay covers.

ONE.

Cecilworth realizes what’s going on. He charges in but Kuroyama gets into the ring as well.

TWO.

Kuroyama blocks Fartington from the count!

TH-

R-

E-

KICKOUT ANYWAY!

A last second kickout sends the crowd into a frenzy, as everyone thought the match was over! The Frenchman shows just why he’s one of the toughest wrestlers out there. The man who once made Ivan Stanislav pass TF out to win the Universal Championship… there’s still life in The Neck Collector, even if the crowd isn’t exactly thrilled by it.

Clay hammers elbows into FLAMBERGE’s own neck before peeling him off the canvas and tossing him into the VV corner. A tag is made and Kuroyama leaps over the top rope, snatches FLAMBERGE as he does and lands a running release German suplex! Kuroyama stomps FLAMBO into a corner and works the boots until the count of FOUR-POINT-NINE-NINE and then backs away. He gives FLAMBERGE a mere second to pull himself together before Kuroyama is back in there with a running elbow smash. A release tiger suplex follows and Kuroyama looks to be in full control. He lifts FLAMBERGE off the mat and tries for another suplex when the Frenchman breaks free and dives towards the ropes!

A tag is made and Cecilworth is legal, as Clay looks on. It seems like Byrd may attempt to enter the ring but Nixon is right there, after all.

Kuroyama and Cecilworth unload on each other. It’s a European uppercut trade off, as Kuroyama works Fartington towards the ropes, hyper focused on the uppercuts and driving them straight through Cecilworth’s skull. With The Financer potentially reeling, Seattle’s Best hurls his opponent into the far ropes and then races in with the strongest, yet stiffest yakuza kick yet.

Cecilworth collapse to the mat.

Kuroyama locks his eyes onto Cecil’s forehead before he leans down to pick him up…

Desperation jawbreaker!

Farthington is on his feet but Scott Hunter doesn’t like it. The Wingman crawls onto the apron, which means FLAMBERGE immediately makes his way over. Likely pissed because of the couple of inadvertent times Hunter got the better of The Neck Collector, the two exchange brief words before FLAMBO looks to club Scott in the side of the head. Nevertheless, Clay follows in as FLAMBO ducks and Clay ALMOST takes Hunter’s head off! Thankfully, he does not. Scott hops off the apron, however, this leaves Clay exposed for a brief moment as FLAMBERGE lands an axe kick.

And suddenly, almost out of nowhere, as Kerry Kuroyama was collecting himself from the jawbreaker… Cecilworth Fartington snatches the arm and has Article 51 locked in!

The Pacific Blitzkrieg reaches for the ropes… but it’s no use! He’s in the center of the ring!

Richard Parker: This one is over!

Nick Stuart: Not so fast…

Kerry tries to make it to the ropes. With his free arm, he’s trying SO hard to push his way over there.

Cecilworth’s eyes shoot open as he looks at the fallen Clay Byrd, then straight into Kerry Kuroyama.

Nick Stuart: Oh no!

Richard Parker: He’s going to break the arm!?

Sensing serious repercussions could stem from the hold, Scott Hunter reaches into his back pocket and this time he actually used the towel.

Sadly, he tosses it into the ring.

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winners of this match… FLAMBERGE and CECILWORTH FARTINGTON… the Glueminati!

Cecilworth releases the hold as his hand is raised with FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: A hard fought contest! In the end, the Glue pull it off.

Hunter looks sad on the outside but figures he did the right thing, as Kuroyama rolls into the VV corner, taking a glance at his opponents and knowing there will be another day to fight. Clay slowly comes to.

FLAMBERGE and Fartington pat each other on the chest. Both men end up holding the ropes open for the other that neither ends up going through. Showing their unison, they both nod and exit at the same time, on their own.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: In just a few minutes, it’s going to be the Hawaiian BBQ… Bryan Dawkins and Adam Ellis… going up against the Red Army’s Max Kael and Kenny Freeman.

Richard holds up the pinup picture of Agent Zarya posing in a Russian ushanka hat and just the Soviet flag.

Richard Parker: Don’t forget Agent Zarya.  She’s here tonight.

Nick Stuart: Yes she is and I’m sure she’s not in the best mood after this happened last weekend.  Let’s go to MVW’s syndicated Lock and Loaded show that aired on Thursday.

The video screen comes to life…

(8/22/2024 – Missouri Valley Wrestling’s Lock and Loaded Syndicated Show)
…and the camera zooms in on the squared circle, where Adam Ellis and Boris Antonov are locked in combat.

Thunderbolt Smith: Ellis ducks a vicious lariat! The big man from Missouri is not going down without a fight!

The camera cuts to the periphery where Agent Zarya prowls like a wolf waiting to strike. She subtly reaches into her shorts and produces a set of brass knuckles that glinted under the arena lights. She edges closer to Antonov, poised to pass off the illicit weapon.

Suddenly, Ellis’s PRIME tag team partner Bryan Dawkins races around the ring and intercepts Zarya with a lightning-quick maneuver.

Bryan Dawkins: Not today!

Dawkins snatches the brass knuckles away from the surprised Agent Zarya tosses them out of reach.

Antonov, distracted by the commotion, turns his attention to Zarya and Dawkins yelling at each other at ringside.

Adam coils like a spring and launches himself forward.

*SMACK*

Thunderbolt Smith: SUPERMAN PUNCH!  ELLIS HIT IT!  ELLIS HIT IT!

‘Long Haul’ Rick Hall: Thunderbolt, Adam’s fist connected squarely with Antonov’s jaw and sent the Russian crashing to the mat.

Without missing a beat, Adam drops down for the cover as the referee slides into position.

Referee Davey Keels: ONE… TWO… THREE!
(End video)

Back at the broadcast table…

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis avenges his loss to Antonov a few weeks ago with the help of Bryan Dawkins but their the celebration was short-lived.

(MVW’s Lock and Loaded Syndicated Show)
Svetlana Kovaleski, Nikita Kalashnik, Agent Valya, and Zarya surround the official with vehement protests. They demand the match to be restarted, their faces twisted in outrage.

Thunderbolt Smith: They want to restart the match?

Rick Hall: Thunderbolt, the audacity of the Soviet Bloc knows no bounds!
(End video)

Back to the broadcast table where Richard Parker points to the Agent Zarya pinup photo.

Nick Stuart: Finally, this took place in the backstage area after the match.

(MVW’s Lock and Loaded Syndicated Show)
Kellie Burkowski stood ready for an interview Antonov and Agent Zarya approach, their anger barely contained.

Kellie Burkowski: Agent Zarya, after tonight’s events—

Agent Zarya: EVENTS?

Zarya cuts her off, her voice laced with venom.

Agent Zarya: This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Adam Ellis and that meddling asshole Bryan Dawkins are going to get theirs this Friday at PRIME’s ReVival 54.  Count on it.

Zarya’s fury reaches a boiling point and she shoves Kellie and sends her stumbling backward.

Zarya storms off with Antonov following in silence.
(End video)

Nick Stuart: Tensions are running high going into the match between the Hawaiian BBQ and The Red Army.  We’ll see what happens in just a few moments.

We cut slewhere.

We cut to a pre-recorded video ahead of our next contest. We know this is pre-recorded, because of the introductory graphic informing us that…

THE FOLLOWING HAS BEEN PAID FOR
BY THE MASTERS OF THE MOSCOWVERSE

The graphic fades out, revealing Kenny Freeman and Randall Freeman standing inside what appears to be a large warehouse, chock full of a vast inventory of unopened boxes. Precisely what these boxes entail remains a mystery, at least until Freeman speaks up.

Kenny Freeman: Greetings, comrades! Kenny Freeman here, and I wanna talk to you about the newest product from Foodie Magick…the Food-O-Matic 3000 Mark V!

Randall turns around, revealing one of the boxes to us with a big smile on his face as Kenny continues.

Kenny Freeman: That’s right, the Food-O-Matic 3000 that you’ve come to know and love is back and better than ever! This bad boy does it all, folks. It slices and dices even the toughest of food to make your foodie dreams come true…but don’t just take my word for it, watch for yourself!

A side wipe reveals the food processor being demonstrated, as Randall pulls out a large box of STRONKUMMMS brand…well, whatever STRONKUMMMS are, setting them on the table beside the Food-O-Matic. Randall pulls out several packages of the food-esque product, tearing them open before placing them into the processor and closing the lid as we hear Kenny’s voice.

Kenny Freeman: Witness as we cut through one of the hardest substances to presumably be given approval by the FDA, all for the sake of making it edible!

With that, Randall presses the “MAGICK” button signifying the finest processing the machine can handle, before hitting “START”…only for the machine to immediately screech to a halt. This draws a look of confusion from Randall, who raises his hands to his face like the kid from that one Christmas movie.

Randall Schwartz: Uh oh!

Before long, however, the machine starts back up…allowing us to watch the STRONKUMMMS be processed into something resembling wet dog food. At least, one should hope it only resembles wet dog food. Randall opens the lid, taking a good whiff of the concoction…and nearly gags before we cut to Kenny.

Kenny Freeman: And there you have it! Another mystery of the food chain, solved by the Food-O-Matic 3000 Mark V! Get yours today, just in time to make some delicious treats for your Ultraviolence watch party…whether it’s to watch the Freeman-Kael Connection win the tag league finals or, hopefully, see yours truly play the David to STRONK Godson’s Goliath!

Randall steps into frame next to Kenny, holding a glass of what is presumably the processed STRONKUMMMS, dipping a spoon into it for a bite. The Entertainer has to fight with every ounce of his being to not spit the food out, forcing a closed-mouth smile with a dribble of the stuff coming out before Kenny chimes in again.

Kenny Freeman: Act now, and you’ll get a free “I BELIEVE IN KENNY FREEMAN” t-shirt with your order! Foodie Magick is a brand that, much like yours truly, understands what it’s like to be an underdog. I believe in Foodie Magick, and Foodie Magick believes in Kenny Freeman…and so can you! Be sure to call the number on the screen and get your Food-O-Matic 3000 Mark V today! Do it for the Red Army, and do it for your buddy Kenny Freeman!

The Masters of the Moscowverse give a pair of thumbs up as the number to call pops up on the bottom of the screen:

1-800-FOOD-MGK

And with that, we cut elsewhere.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall!

We’re back ringside. And it’s time to get this match underway.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the team of Adam Ellis and Bryan Dawkins… the Hawaiian BBQ!

“Song 2” by Blur plays the duo out as they make their way to ringside.

Richard Parker: I’m surprised we’re even still letting them wrestle. Aren’t they done?

Nick Stuart: They can still play spoiler.

Richard Parker: Great.

As the chorus of Hymn to Red October begins the first out is current Red Army manager, Randall Schwartz wearing his Red Army Junior Officer uniform and a peak cap with the words MANAGER written across it.

Vince Howard: And their opponents!

Next out onto the stage, following closely behind his friend is Junior Officer Comrade Kenny Freeman. He doesn’t look nearly as excited as Randall, instead his face is stoic, some might even say focused. He moves to stand next to Manager Schwartz, an uncommon scowl on his face.

Nick Stuart: Slowly coming out.

Richard Parker: They deserve this!

Dashing out comes the Herald, resplendent in his fancy red Russian Herald outfit waving the crimson Red Army flag with all the fury his skinny body can muster. Bentley runs ahead before spinning around to present the flag toward the other members of the Red Army.

Finally, sauntering out with a callous grin stretched wide across his long face is Commissar Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. He moves to stand next to Kenny Freeman, cracking his knuckles as he looks out over the crowd. The music slowly builds aaaaand..

As soon as beat lays in heavy the lights in the arena flash back on to full as the three men on the stage all salute the Red Army banner being held aloft by the Herald.

Nick Stuart: Are they going to let Vince announce them?

Richard Parker: Come on Nick, you know the answer to that.

Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington holds a custom crimson communist microphone to his lips. Also the Herald has a mini-cap. A little red mini-cape with red lining. It flourishes dramatically, seemingly on its own.

The Herald: Introducing the Future Tag Team Champions of PRIME!..

Max and Kenny proceed to march to the ring as the Herald.. Heralds them. Randall follows waving the Sacramento crowd enthusiastically.

The Herald: ..at a combined weight of Four Hundred and Five Pounds! Or Twenty Eight point Nine stone!

Reaching the ring, Max slithers up the ring steps before stretching the ropes to allow Freeman to enter the ring. An act of kindness? Or one of facetiousness? Hard to tell with Max wearing that practiced, toothy smile.

The Herald: and a combined height of Twelve Foot, One inch or roughly Four meters!

Kenny jumps up cautiously and slips between the ropes that Max has opened for him. He darts over to a nearby corner, climbing it as he gazes out over the crowd. Max steps through the ropes and moves to the center of the ring, flexing his arms with a rigor grin.

The Herald: THE MASTERS OF THE MULTIVERSE PART DEUX: THE FREEMAN-KAEL CONNECTION!

The music slowly fades as Max and Kenny move to their corner where Randall Schwarts finally joins them. Turnbull starts giving his final set of instructions to both team.

The lights then dim inside of the arena as a siren echoes throughout it, like a trumpet heralding the end times.

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

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

Nick Stuart: What the hell?!

Richard Parker: Rose is coming out here to save us from the sight of Bryan Dawkins wrestling!

The Second Coming indeeds come out on stage and slowly walks down the ramp as Dawkins glares at Rose. Freeman as well is looking up the ramp, remembering his match against her at Tropical Turmoil. She smiles at the boys in the ring before circling around the ring and sitting down next to Nick and Richard.

Nick Stuart: I’m being told Rose is going to be joining us for commentary for this next match!

Richard Parker: Oh awesome, I can take this match off! Perfect!

Rose: Sit down, Richard, and let’s get this match started. Lindsay thinks you could use some training and that’s why I’m here.

Richard Parker: …great.

Turnbull finishes his instructions and signals for the match to begin.

DING DING

At the sound of the bell ringing, Adam Ellis explodes out of his corner like a man possessed. His eyes are locked on Kenny Freeman, who barely has time to register the incoming assault. Ellis’s fists fly in a flurry of rights, each one connecting with a sickening thud against Freeman’s forehead. The impact of each blow sends shockwaves through Freeman’s skull, his head snapping back with every punch, as Ellis unleashes his pent-up fury, months of frustration behind every strike.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis is coming out of the gate like a man who found his coffee spiked with rocket fuel! Those fists are flying faster than a politician’s promises on election day!

Richard Parker: Well, well, well. It seems our boy Ellis has a bone to pick with The Red Army. What’s the matter, Adam? Did they forget to invite you to their little communist book club? Take offense to Ginny being kidnapped by Agent… whatever her name was?

Rose: Look who finally decided to show up to the fight. Adam Ellis, ladies and gentlemen, proving that all it takes to light a fire under his ass is a kidnapped girlfriend. And Ivan? Honey, keeping Kenny in The Red Army is like trying to polish a turd – no matter how much you buff, it’s still gonna stink.

Richard Parker: Et tu, Rose? Don’t tell me you’re jumping on the ‘Hate The Red Army’ bandwagon too. It’s getting a bit crowded up there.

Nick Stuart: Rich, my friend, Rose has been locked in a blood feud with Ivan Stanislav for months. Asking her to like The Red Army is like asking a cat to enjoy a bath.

Rose: Oh, Nicholas! Your astute observations rival Sherlock Holmes after a lobotomy. Next, you’ll dazzle us with groundbreaking revelations like ‘fire is hot’ and ‘Stanislav’s charisma could dehydrate a cactus’. Please, continue your Pulitzer-worthy commentary – I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for more earth-shattering insights.

Nick Stuart: And with that, I hope this match is over quickly so I can not have Rose sitting next to me tonight.

Dazed but not down, Freeman stumbles backward. Ellis seizes the moment, grabbing his opponent’s arm and using Freeman’s disorientation to his advantage. With a powerful shove, Ellis sends Freeman careening into the ropes. The steel cables stretch under Freeman’s weight, catapulting him back across the ring. Ellis, timing his move perfectly, catches the rebounding Freeman and, in one fluid motion, hoists him high into the air before slamming him down with a thunderous bodyslam. The ring shakes under the impact, and Freeman’s back arches in pain.

Not content with his dominance over Freeman, Ellis quickly scrambles to his feet. His gaze shifts to Max Kael, standing smugly on the ring apron. Without hesitation, Ellis charges forward, his forearm cocked and ready. Kael’s eyes widen in surprise as Ellis closes the distance. The resounding crack of Ellis’s forearm connecting with Kael’s jaw echoes through the arena. The force of the blow sends Kael flying off the apron, his body twisting in mid-air before crashing onto the unforgiving floor below.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Look at these mindless sheep cheering for Ellis! The man’s treating the rulebook like it’s written in disappearing ink. Where’s the sportsmanship?

Rose: Sportsmanship? From The Red Army? That’s rich. And spare me the crocodile tears for rules, Richard. Old Jimmy Turnbull couldn’t enforce a bedtime on a toddler, let alone wrestling regulations.

Nick Stuart: You can’t deny The Red Army’s been poking the hornet’s nest, Rose. Seems like Adam Ellis is just the latest in a long line ready to deliver some overdue payback.

Rose: Oh, Ellis can throw his little tantrum all he wants. It’s adorable, really. But when the dust settles and UltraViolence rolls around, Hawaiian BBQ will be watching from the cheap seats. Probably the only thing they can afford after I’m done with them.

Richard Parker: That’s a bold claim coming from someone who—

Rose: Save it, Richard. I’d explain my strategy to you, but I don’t have any crayons handy.

As Kenny Freeman struggles to his feet, his legs wobbling like a newborn calf, Adam Ellis seizes the moment. With the grace of a dancer and the ferocity of a tiger, Ellis pivots on his heel, his elbow cutting through the air like a scythe. The crack of bone meeting bone reverberates through the arena as Ellis’s spinning back elbow connects squarely with Freeman’s jaw. Freeman’s head snaps back, his eyes glazing over as he stumbles backwards, crashing into the turnbuckle.

Ellis, relentless in his assault, charges forward. His boots become pistons, driving repeatedly into Freeman’s exposed midsection. Each impact forces the air from Freeman’s lungs in pained gasps. Turnbull, concerned by the onslaught, steps in to admonish Ellis. But Ellis, drunk on adrenaline and the roar of the crowd, merely brushes off the official’s warnings. He backs away, leaving Freeman slumped in a seated position, chest heaving as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

Rose: Well, well, well. Looks like Adam Ellis finally got his head out of the sand and realized what the rest of us have known since… oh, I don’t know, the Stone Age?

Nick Stuart: And what earth-shattering revelation is that, Rose?

Rose: That he’s better off leaving Bryan “Dead Weight” Dawkins gathering dust in the corner. Dawkins makes a better cheerleader than a tag partner. Though, let’s be honest, we’d all be better off if Dawkins took his talents to Japan. Or Mars. I’m not picky.

Richard Parker: I hate to agree with you, Rose, but you’re not exactly wrong there.

Nick Stuart: Come on now, Bryan Dawkins is a crucial part of this team. His technical skills and—

Rose: Oh, spare me the PR spiel, Nick. Dawkins is about as crucial to this team as a screen door on a submarine. Show me where he’s made a difference. Go on, I’ll wait. Maybe we can carbon date his last meaningful contribution while we’re at it.

Nick Stuart: That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?

Rose: Harsh? I’m just getting warmed up. If Dawkins were any more invisible in this match, he’d need a chalk outline.

Sensing blood in the water, Ellis retreats to the opposite corner. His eyes lock onto Freeman’s crumpled form, calculating, planning. Suddenly, he explodes into motion, sprinting full tilt across the ring. Freeman, still dazed, barely has time to look up before Ellis launches into a picture-perfect basement dropkick. Ellis’s feet connect flush with Freeman’s jaw, the impact so severe that the crowd collectively winces. Freeman’s body goes limp, slumping forward onto the mat. From outside the ring, a panicked Max Kael reaches in, desperately grabbing at Freeman’s ankles. With a herculean effort, Kael drags his partner’s dead weight out of the ring, away from the hurricane that is Adam Ellis.

Nick Stuart: Kael’s seeing the writing on the wall here, folks. Freeman’s getting tenderized like a cheap steak, and The Red Army’s chances are evaporating faster than Hawaiian BBQ’s tournament dreams. They need this win like a fish needs water.

Richard Parker: Look at Kael, trying to breathe some life back into Freeman. It’s like watching a cut-rate Dr. Frankenstein with his monster.

Rose: Oh please. What kind of pep talk could possibly fix Freeman’s idea of wrestling? “Hey Kenny, try not to trip over your own feet this time”? Freeman’s not just a hanger-on, he’s practically wallpaper at this point. It’s high time Ivan peeled him off and tossed him in the trash where he belongs.

Richard Parker: Harsh words for Freeman there, Rose. What about Kael?

Rose: Kael? That walking, talking dumpster fire? Don’t get me started on that discount Bond villain reject. He’s lucky I don’t march over there right now and slap him so hard his next regeneration feels it. Maybe I’d knock some actual wrestling ability into him.

Nick Stuart: That’s… quite the imagery, Rose.

Rose: Just calling it like I see it, Nick. The Red Army’s less of an army and more of a circus at this point. And not even a good circus – we’re talking clearance rack clowns and narcoleptic lion tamers here.

Outside the ring, Max Kael scrambles to his partner’s aid, his hands trembling as he helps Kenny Freeman to his unsteady feet. The crowd’s roar intensifies as Adam Ellis, a blur of determination and fury, ricochets off the ropes like a human pinball. In a breathtaking display of aerial prowess, Ellis launches himself over the top rope, his body twisting in mid-air as he executes a picture-perfect Tope Suicida.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Kael, his eyes widening in alarm, instinctively shoves Freeman aside, sacrificing his own body as Ellis crashes into him with the force of a runaway freight train. The impact sends both men sprawling across the unforgiving floor, the thud of flesh meeting concrete echoing through the arena.

As Ellis struggles to his feet, his victory is short-lived. Freeman, seizing the moment, unleashes a barrage of clubbing forearms, each blow landing with sickening precision on Ellis’s neck and back. The crowd winces collectively as Freeman, his face contorted in a mask of sadistic glee, grabs Ellis by the back of his skull. With a vicious yank, he slams Ellis’s face into the ring apron, the crack of impact drowned out by the audience’s horrified gasps.

Dazed and disoriented, Ellis offers no resistance as Freeman rolls him back into the ring like a rag doll. Sensing blood in the water, Freeman nimbly hops onto the ring apron. In one fluid motion, he springboards off the top rope, his body arcing gracefully before he crashes down onto Ellis’s throat with a devastating leg drop. The ring shudders under the impact as Freeman hooks Ellis’s leg for the pin as Turnbull begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: And Ellis kicks out at the last moment!

Richard Parker: Now that’s what I call teamwork! Kael taking one for the team, and Freeman capitalizing like a true champion. This is why The Red Army is a force to be reckoned with!

Rose: Richard, love, you’re not even trying. Ellis got too ahead of himself and thought he could take on all of Russia by himself. Him crashing and burning is just his standard lot in life. That doesn’t mean The Red Army all of a sudden figured out how to wrestle. They’re just thugs.

Nick Stuart: You can’t deny the impact of that leg drop, Rose. Ellis is in real trouble here.

Rose: Impact? The only thing Freeman impacts is our bottom line and not in a positive way. That leg drop had all the grace of a hippopotamus doing ballet. If Ellis is in any real trouble, it’s probably from laughing too hard at these clowns.

Kenny Freeman, his eyes blazing with renewed determination, hauls Ellis to his feet. In a savage display of brutality, Freeman launches his forehead forward, connecting with a sickening crack against Ellis’s skull. The impact sends Ellis reeling backwards, his body slumping against the ropes like a marionette with cut strings. Seizing the moment, Freeman grips Ellis’s arm and whips him across the ring. As Ellis rebounds off the opposite ropes, Freeman pivots, his arm outstretched like a steel bar. The clothesline catches Ellis full in the throat, flipping him end over end before he crashes to the mat, gasping for air.

Mercilessly, Freeman drags Ellis’s limp form to his corner, his boot rising and falling in a relentless assault on Adam’s midsection and chest. Each impact forces a pained wheeze from Ellis’s lips, his ribs creaking under the onslaught. With a sadistic grin, Freeman tags in Max Kael. As Kael enters the ring, Freeman continues his brutal stomping, pinning Ellis in place. Kael, seizing the opportunity, scales the turnbuckle with predatory grace. In a flash, he launches himself, his forearm crashing across Ellis’s unprotected face with a sickening thud.

Dazed and disoriented, Ellis offers no resistance as Kael yanks him to his feet. With a vicious twist, Kael slams Ellis face-first into the top turnbuckle. The impact reverberates through Ellis’s skull, his vision blurring as stars explode behind his eyes. Capitalizing on Ellis’s stunned state, Kael rakes his nails down Adam’s back, eliciting a howl of agony. Ellis slumps into the corner, his body a canvas of pain and exhaustion.

Richard Parker: Now that’s what I call teamwork! Freeman and Kael are dismantling Ellis piece by piece. It’s like watching a master class in tag team wrestling!

Rose: If this is what you define as as a master class, Parker, then you need to stop losing yourself in the eyes of every pretty girl that sits ringside and actually watch a match. None of them are going to give you the time of day and most are probably looking you up to see if you’re on the Sex Offender Registry.

Richard Parker: Hey—

Nick Stuart: The Red Army is in control, though, Rose. You think Ellis should start figuring out how to get himself out of trouble here?

Rose: I mean, if Bryan Dawkins was your tag partner, you’d be in a lose-lose situation. I mean, I guess you know what that’s like actually, don’t you Nick?

Richard Parker: Hey—

Max Kael, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent, saunters to the opposite corner. He locks eyes with Bryan Dawkins, a sneer twisting his features as he taunts the frustrated partner of Ellis. Suddenly, Kael explodes into motion, his powerful legs propelling him across the ring. He launches himself into the air, his body becoming a human projectile as he crashes into Ellis with a devastating splash. The impact reverberates through the corner, Ellis’s body compressing like an accordion under the force.

As Ellis stumbles out of the corner, dazed and gasping for air, Kael seizes the moment. He ricochets off the ropes, building momentum before unleashing a painful lariat. The clothesline catches Ellis full across the chest, the sound of the impact echoing through the arena as Ellis is sent crashing to the mat, his body bouncing limply on impact.

Kael, ever the predator, retreats to a corner, his eyes never leaving his prey. As Ellis struggles to his feet, his legs wobbling like a newborn colt, Kael strikes. He lunges forward, driving his knee upwards in a vicious strike that connects squarely with Ellis’s jaw. Adam’s head snaps back, his eyes rolling as he collapses to the mat. Kael pounces, hooking Ellis’s leg for the pin.

ONE

TWO

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Somehow, Ellis finds the strength to kick out at the last possible second.

Richard Parker: Adam might just want to give up at this point. It would make this less painful for himself. He’s got a kid to think about.

Rose: Sure, he does. Talking about kids though, do you want to know the rumor I heard backstage? Ol’ Bryan Dawkins over there has a kid of his own.

Richard Parker: What?!

Nick Stuart: Rose, I don’t think this is the time—

Rose: Oh Nicky, it’s always happy hour when it comes to roasting Bryan Dawkins. That man’s wrestling career is like a dumpster fire – you can’t look away, but dear lord, does it stink.

Frustration etched on his face, Kael yanks Ellis to his feet. Without warning, he unleashes a brutal uppercut that snaps Adam’s head back, the crack of knuckles meeting chin resounding through the arena. Dazed and disoriented, Ellis offers no resistance as Kael shoves him into the ropes. As Ellis rebounds, Kael’s hand comes down in a vicious chop across Ellis’s chest, leaving an angry red welt and eliciting a howl of pain from the battered wrestler.

CRACK!

Richard Parker: Kael is putting on a clinic here! This is what happens when you mess with The Red Army, folks. Ellis is being dismantled piece by piece!

Rose: Your obsession with Kael is so obvious, it’s like you’re wearing a “I heart Max” t-shirt under that suit. Maybe instead of commentating, you should be writing love sonnets about his devastating… mediocrity.

Nick Stuart: Still, Ellis is in a world of trouble.

Rose: That he may be, but Kael’s entire strategy seems to be “flail around and hope for the best.” You two get your panties in a twist far too easily down here.

Kael’s hand comes down again, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the arena as another chop lands across Ellis’s already reddened chest. Ellis doubles over, gasping for air, his torso a canvas of pain. Seizing his opponent’s weakness, Kael yanks Ellis back to a vertical base, but he’s caught off guard. With a surge of desperate energy, Ellis unleashes a right fist that connects squarely with Kael’s jaw. The impact sends Kael stumbling backward, his eyes glazed.

Hope flickers in Ellis’s eyes for a moment as he turns towards his corner, where Dawkins reaches out, fingers straining for a tag. But Kael, shaking off the blow, pounces. He dives low, catching Ellis’s legs in a drop-toe hold. As Ellis crashes face-first into the mat, Kael smoothly transitions, floating over onto Ellis’s back. Without mercy, he rains down a series of savage forearm strikes to the back of Ellis’s skull. Each impact sends shockwaves of pain through Ellis’s head, his vision blurring.

Dazed and defeated, Ellis offers no resistance as Kael drags him back to the Red Army’s corner. With a casual arrogance, Kael tags in Freeman. Freeman springboards onto the top rope in a display of agility. He seems to hang suspended in the air for a moment before gravity takes hold. He crashes down onto Ellis’s prone form with a thunderous Senton, driving what little air remains from Ellis’s lungs.

Confident in his dominance, Freeman hooks only one of Ellis’s legs in a cocky pin attempt.

ONE

TWO

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ellis manages to kick out at the last possible second through sheer force of will. Freeman’s face contorts in frustration, his sure victory snatched away.

Nick Stuart: Freeman nearly getting the victory there!

Rose: Maybe if Freeman actually took this seriously instead of… whatever the hell that was… he would have picked up the victory there. Poor Ivan, good help must be hard to find these days.

Richard Parker: Talking about Ivan, are you going to step foot in the ring with him?

Rose: When the time is right. He’s got his head clouded over there. I don’t want to face a man who is a fraction of himself, I want the Russian Bear who wants to maul me. Right now, I’m just playing with my dinner, and he’s helpless to do anything about it.

Nick Stuart: I would be careful about poking that bear.

Rose: Trust me, I’d pick the bear over sitting next to Richard any day of the week.

Nick Stuart: That’s fair.

The ring buzzes with anticipation as Kenny Freeman, a smirk playing on his lips, tags Max Kael back in. The Red Army’s well-oiled machine springs into action, Freeman locking Ellis into a tight front facelock. Ellis’s face contorts in pain, his breath coming in ragged gasps as Freeman’s arm constricts around his throat. Meanwhile, Kael ascends the turnbuckle with predatory grace, poised to deliver a crushing blow.

But Ellis isn’t done yet. With a surge of desperate strength, he pushes back against Freeman, driving him into the ropes. The ring shudders under the impact, and Kael, perched precariously on the top turnbuckle, windmills his arms wildly as he loses balance. In that split second of chaos, Ellis seizes his chance. He pivots, his leg snapping up in a lightning-fast superkick that catches Freeman flush on the jaw. The impact sends Freeman tumbling out of the ring, crashing to the floor in a heap.

Rose: Clean up on aisle five!

Nick Stuart: Is Ellis going to get a chance to tag Dawkins in finally?! This could be his big moment!

Richard Parker: Rose, what do you think of Ellis doing your father’s move there?

Rose: Is that what that was? I thought he just got a twitch. He should practice that a bit more; it looked like he may have tweaked his hamstring while doing it.

Adrenaline surging, Ellis lunges towards his corner. His arm stretches out, fingers straining, as Bryan Dawkins leans over the ropes as far as he can. Their hands connect in a thunderous tag that electrifies the crowd. Dawkins vaults over the top rope, a man possessed, as Ellis collapses to the apron, spent.

Dawkins tears across the ring like a force of nature. He catches the still-dazed Kael in his grasp, muscles rippling as he executes a perfect German suplex. Kael’s world turns upside down as he’s driven into the mat, but Dawkins isn’t done. He maintains his grip, rolling through to hit a second, then a third German suplex in rapid succession. The crowd counts along, their roars growing with each impact.

Kael staggers to his feet, clearly disoriented, but Dawkins is relentless. He grabs Kael once more, this time for a belly-to-belly suplex. Kael soars through the air, his body describing a perfect arc before crashing down on the other side of the ring. The entire arena seems to shake with the impact.

Nick Stuart: And Dawkins is cleaning house!

Richard Parker: Kael and Freeman are trying to do whatever they can to slow him down, but it’s not working.

Rose: Is that supposed to be impressive? Because, well, it’s not. Dawkins has been taking a nap most of the match and you want to reward him for doing the bare basics. Come on you two, you’re embarrassing us on live television.

Nick Stuart: What was Dawkins supposed to do?

Rose: I mean, fake a seizure would’ve been more helpful if you ask me.

Kael wobbles to his feet, his vision blurred from the suplexes. Dawkins seizes the moment, charging forward with a devastating knee strike that connects squarely with Kael’s face. The crack echoes through the arena as Kael crumples to the mat. Dawkins dives for the cover, but Freeman bursts into the ring, breaking up the pin at the last second.

Richard Parker: And The Red Army—

Rose: I swear, if you write another love sonnet about The Red Army, I’m going to break your nose.

Nick Stuart: Oh, I would pay to watch that.

Ellis, refusing to let his partner be outnumbered, re-enters the fray. He catches Freeman with a clothesline that sends both men tumbling over the top rope to the outside. The crowd roars as bodies collide with the unforgiving floor.

Nick Stuart: Ellis and Freeman over the top!

Richard Parker: Is Jimmy Turnbull just going to allow all of this to happen? Ring the bell, Jimmy! Award the match to The Red Ar— OUCH!

Rose: I told you, enough of that.

Nick Stuart: I somehow both love and loathe you all at the same time.

Rose: I have that effect on people.

Back in the ring, Kael, desperate and cunning, waits for the Turnbull’s attention to waver. In a flash, he rakes Dawkins’ eyes. As Dawkins staggers blindly, Kael seizes a handful of tights and rolls him up.

Nick Stuart: Wait— Kael’s got the tights!

Richard Parker: Clever move by the veteran—

Rose: You’re having ‘veteran’ do far too much work there.

ONE

TWO

THRE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins kicks out at 2.9!

Rose: I mean, did you think an eye rake was going to take him out? On second though, it is Bryan Dawkins. Never mind.

Richard Parker: I think my nose is broken.

Rose: I can break it worse if you would like.

Frustration etches deep lines on Kael’s face as he tags in Freeman. The Red Army’s synchronization kicks in, both men grasping Dawkins and hoisting him skyward. The arena holds its breath as Dawkins hangs suspended for a heartbeat before crashing down in a devastating double vertical suplex. The impact reverberates through the ring, Dawkins’ body bouncing limply off the canvas.

Freeman pounces, covering Dawkins for the pin, but Ellis flies in, breaking it up at the last second. Turnbull, asserting control, orders Ellis back to his corner. Dawkins, dazed and battered, crawls desperately towards his partner. Freeman, however, is relentless. He intercepts Dawkins, locking in an STFee with savage precision.

Agony contorts Dawkins’ features as he battles the hold, every inch towards his corner a Herculean effort. Ellis leans dangerously far over the ropes, arm outstretched, fingers grasping at air. The crowd’s roar crescendos as Dawkins, drawing on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed, finally breaks free. With one last, desperate lunge, he tags in Ellis, collapsing to the mat as his partner vaults over the ropes.

Rose: Yay, Dawkins is out of the match. Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him.

Nick Stuart: I doubt it.

Rose: Oh, aren’t you the obvious one.

Ellis explodes into the ring, a whirlwind of renewed vigor. His fists fly in a blur, pummeling Freeman with precision. The crescendo of his assault culminates in a thunderous Superman Punch that sends Freeman staggering, his eyes glazed.

Sensing victory, Ellis scales the turnbuckle, looking to unleash all his fury on The Red Army. But Kael, ever the opportunist, violently shakes the ropes. Ellis teeters, arms windmilling, before crashing to the mat with a sickening thud. Freeman pounces on the fallen Ellis and goes for the cover.

ONE

TWO

THR— NOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And another near fall for Freeman!

Richard Parker: What kind of counting is that Turnbull?

Rose: The kind you clearly didn’t learn in elementary school.

Nick Stuart: Do you like anyone?

Rose: Not really.

Frustration etched on his face from the near pinfall, Freeman tags in Kael. They coordinate for a devastating double team, but Ellis’s last-second duck causes Kael’s elbow to connect squarely with Freeman’s jaw. Capitalizing on the chaos, Ellis locks Kael in a modified STF. Kael writhes in agony, his fingers clawing desperately towards the ropes.

Victory seems imminent for Ellis, but Freeman, recovering quickly, delivers a vicious punt to the groin unseen by Turnbull. Ellis crumples, his hold broken, as the match’s momentum swings once again.

Kael, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent, seizes the moment. His arms snake around Ellis’s neck, locking in the dreaded “Trotsky Choke”. Ellis’s face contorts in agony, his oxygen supply rapidly depleting. Turnbull hovers close, scrutinizing Ellis’s fading consciousness, repeatedly asking if he wants to submit. But Ellis, defiant to the last, shakes his head weakly, refusing to yield.

Richard Parker: Just tap, Adam! Tap!

Nick Stuart: That’s not in Adam’s wheelhouse to do so!

Rose: Excuse me. Are you trying to say Ellis is made of stronger stuff than I am? Because I tapped out against Youngblood.

Richard Parker: Oh, she’s got you there! Break his nos— OUCH! YOU HIT ME AGAIN!

Rose: Sorry, just habit.

Just as Ellis’s world starts to fade to black, Dawkins explodes into the ring. He launches himself forward, his knee connecting with Kael’s jaw in a sickening crunch. The impact releases Ellis from the chokehold, gasping desperately for air.

Turnbull, asserting control, admonishes Dawkins and ushers him back to his corner. In the chaos, Freeman slyly tags himself in. Ellis, still disoriented, struggles to his feet, unaware of the tag. Freeman, with a mocking dance that draws jeers from the crowd, executes his “Follow the Freeman” leg drop, crashing down onto Ellis’s prone form.

Freeman confidently goes for the pin.

ONE

TWO

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Dawkins, showing incredible awareness, ascends the turnbuckle in a flash. He soars through the air, his elbow drop breaking up the pin at the last possible second, keeping his team’s hopes alive.

Nick Stuart: What a save from Dawkins there!

Rose: Oh, he’s still breathing? Great.

Nick Stuart: Did you think he died?

Rose: I guess what you wish for when you see a shooting star doesn’t always come true. Sadly.

Richard Parker: Dark.

Rose: Not as dark as your right eye is going to be in a minute.

Richard Parker: Nick, save me!

Nick Stuart: Not in a million years.

The ring erupts into chaos, a maelstrom of flying fists and tangled limbs. Dawkins and Ellis, finding a moment of synchronicity, grasp Freeman and hoist him skyward. The arena holds its collective breath as Freeman hangs suspended for a heartbeat before crashing down with a double vertical suplex. The impact reverberates through the ring, Freeman’s body bouncing limply off the canvas.

But their victory is short-lived. Kael, ever the opportunist, slithers up behind them. His eyes gleam with malicious intent as he wraps his arms around Ellis, preparing for his devastating “Weapon of Max Destruction”. Just as Ellis’s feet leave the ground, Dawkins springs into action. With a feat of incredible strength and timing, he intercepts Kael mid-move, his arms locking around Kael’s waist. In one fluid motion, Dawkins arches backward, sending Kael flying in a picture-perfect German suplex.

Nick Stuart: Oh my god! Dawkins with an incredible display of strength and timing! A picture-perfect German suplex!

Richard Parker: He’s intercepted Kael mid-move! This can’t be happening!

Rose: It is happening. Try to keep up.

Richard Parker: Kael’s just been sent flying across the ring!

Rose: Well, what do you know. Dawkins actually did something useful for once.

Freeman, shaking off the effects of the double suplex, launches a frenzied assault on Dawkins. His fists fly in a blur, each impact echoing through the arena. As he sets up for his signature “Freeman Special”, Ellis intervenes with a lightning-fast superkick that catches Freeman flush on the jaw. Freeman’s eyes glaze over as he stumbles backward.

The mayhem spills beyond the confines of the ring. Ellis, seizing the moment, scales the ropes and launches himself into the air. His body twists gracefully before crashing into both Kael and Freeman on the outside. Not to be outdone, Dawkins follows suit with a breathtaking plancha. His body soars over the top rope, colliding with all three men and sending them sprawling across the unforgiving floor. The crowd erupts in a deafening roar as the four combatants lie in a tangled heap, each man fighting through waves of pain and exhaustion.

Nick Stuart: Incredible! The ring has descended into absolute chaos! Ellis and Dawkins are showing incredible teamwork, but The Red Army’s cunning tactics are keeping them in the game.

Richard Parker: You’ve got to admire The Red Army’s resourcefulness. They’re pulling out all the stops to secure this victory!

Rose: Resourcefulness? That’s a funny way to spell ‘cheating’. But I suppose when you lack talent, you have to rely on other means.

Nick Stuart: Rose, your unbiased commentary is as refreshing as ever.

Rose: Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Nick. Stick to what you know – which admittedly isn’t much.

Richard Parker: Can we focus on the match? This is getting intense!

Rose: Fine. Let’s see how long it takes for someone to get seriously injured. My money’s on Dawkins.

The combatants drag their battered bodies back into the ring, the previous high-flying antics having taken their toll. Ellis and Freeman, both running on fumes, exchange a flurry of punches. Each impact sends shockwaves of pain through their already aching bodies, but neither man is willing to give an inch. Suddenly, Ellis finds an opening. He launches forward, his fist connecting with Freeman’s jaw in a devastating Superman Punch. The impact causes Freeman to stagger, his eyes glazing over momentarily.

Seizing the advantage, Ellis grabs Freeman’s legs, attempting to turn him over for the Elevated Boston Crab. Freeman, realizing the danger, thrashes wildly, fighting with every ounce of his remaining strength to prevent the hold from being locked in. Just as Ellis is about to secure the position, Kael comes flying in from the side. His elbow, aptly named the “Roaring Hellbow”, crashes into Ellis’s temple with a sickening thud. Ellis crumples to the mat, his vision blurring as waves of pain radiate from the point of impact.

Richard Parker: I think Kael just murdered Ellis!

Nick Stuart: That feels like a gross overstatement.

Rose: I’ll take ‘Everything that is on Richard Parker’s Tinder Profile’ for $200.

Richard Parker: Uh…

Nick Stuart: Did you just leave him stunned?

Rose: Consider it my personal gift to you, Nick.

The tide seems to have turned, but Dawkins refuses to let his partner face this assault alone. He charges into the fray, his eyes locked on Kael. With a display of raw power, Dawkins hoists Kael into the air, slamming him down with a German suplex. Before Kael can recover, Dawkins transitions smoothly into a belly-to-belly suplex, the impact driving the air from Kael’s lungs. As a finale, Dawkins hooks Kael’s leg, lifting him high before driving him down with a fisherman’s suplex that shakes the very foundations of the ring. Kael lies motionless, the rapid succession of suplexes having turned his world into a kaleidoscope of pain and disorientation.

Freeman, witnessing his partner’s predicament, acts on instinct. He lunges forward, his fingers curling into the fabric of Dawkins’ tights. With a forceful yank, he pulls Dawkins off the dazed Kael, sending him careening into the turnbuckle. The impact is brutal, Dawkins’ back arching as it collides with the unforgiving steel. A pained gasp escapes his lips, the wind knocked out of him as he slumps in the corner.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! Freeman just yanked Dawkins into that turnbuckle like he was trying to ring a church bell!

Richard Parker: That’s what I call using your opponent as a human wrecking ball! Dawkins might need a chiropractor after that one.

Rose: If by “chiropractor” you mean “miracle worker,” then yes. Though I’m surprised Dawkins even felt it, given how thick his skull is.

Nick Stuart: Rose, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?

Rose: I call it like I see it, Nick. And right now, I see Dawkins folded up in that corner like a cheap lawn chair.

Seizing the moment, Kael shakes off the cobwebs from the series of suplexes. His eyes focus on Dawkins, who’s staggering out of the corner, still reeling from the collision. Kael coils, muscles tensing, before exploding forward. His fist rockets upward in a vicious “Arkham Uppercut” that connects squarely with Dawkins’ jaw. The impact lifts Dawkins off his feet, sending him flying across the ring like a rag doll. He crashes to the mat, his body bouncing from the force, eyes glazed and limbs akimbo.

Ellis, seeing his partner in dire straits, attempts to rush to the rescue. However, Turnbull intercepts him, arms outstretched, ordering him back to his corner. Ellis argues frantically, gesticulating towards his fallen comrade, but the official stands firm. In this moment of distraction, Freeman seizes the opportunity. With a furtive glance to ensure Turnbull’s attention is diverted, he reaches into his boot, extracting a small, metallic object. With practiced precision, he tosses it to Kael, the illicit weapon glinting under the arena lights as it arcs through the air.

Nick Stuart: Oh no! Freeman’s just tossed something to Kael! This doesn’t look good!

Richard Parker: It’s called strategy, Nick. The Red Army is known for their… resourcefulness.

Rose: Resourcefulness? Is that what we’re calling blatant cheating now? I’ve seen more honest tactics in a politician’s campaign promises.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull seems to have missed it completely! This could be a game-changer!

Rose: Of course he missed it. He’s probably too busy admiring his own reflection in the turnbuckle. Useless as always.

Richard Parker: Come on, Rose. You can’t blame the ref for not having eyes in the back of his head.

Rose: I absolutely can, and I will. It’s literally his job to watch for this kind of thing. But please, continue defending incompetence. It suits you.

The tension in the ring ratchets up another notch as Kael’s fingers close around the foreign object, a sinister grin spreading across his face. The match hangs in the balance, with Dawkins prone and vulnerable, Ellis restrained by the rules, and The Red Army poised to capitalize on their underhanded tactics.

Kael, his fingers wrapped tightly around the foreign object, stalks towards the disoriented Dawkins. His eyes gleam with malicious intent as he winds up for a devastating blow. The crowd holds its collective breath, sensing the impending brutality. But at the last possible moment, whether by instinct or sheer luck, Dawkins’ knees buckle. He drops, narrowly avoiding the incoming strike. Kael, unable to check his momentum, watches in horror as his weapon-laden fist continues its arc, connecting squarely with Freeman’s unsuspecting face instead!

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! Kael just accidentally clocked his own partner! This is unbelievable!

Richard Parker: It’s a disaster for The Red Army! Their own tactics have backfired spectacularly!

Rose: Well, well, well. Looks like cheaters never prosper after all. Or in this case, they prosper right into their partner’s face.

Nick Stuart: Freeman is down! The Red Army’s carefully laid plans have just imploded!

Rose: I’d say it’s poetic justice, but that would be giving these clowns too much credit. Let’s just call it what it is – delicious karma.

Richard Parker: This could be the turning point of the match! The momentum has shifted dramatically!

The sickening crack of impact echoes through the arena. Freeman crumples to the mat, completely blindsided by his partner’s accidental assault. Chaos erupts in the ring as Kael stands frozen, his mistake dawning on him.

Seizing this moment of confusion, Ellis lunges towards his corner. His hand connects with Dawkins’ in a thunderous tag that electrifies the crowd. Ellis vaults over the top rope, a man possessed. He tears across the ring like a force of nature, clotheslining Kael off his feet before the Red Army member can even turn around. Freeman, still groggy from the errant blow, staggers to his feet only to be met with a belly-to-belly suplex that sends him soaring across the ring.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Ellis is on fire! He’s taking on both members of The Red Army single-handedly!

Richard Parker: How does Jimmy Turnbull allow this?!

Rose: I mean, have you seen the referees here? What Lindsay Troy pays her talent, she saves by picking up homeless referees under the overpass.

Ellis, riding a wave of adrenaline, doesn’t let up. He grabs Kael, hoisting him up for a vertical suplex. The impact shakes the ring, Kael’s body bouncing off the canvas. Sensing an opportunity, Ellis seizes Kael’s legs, preparing to lock in his Elevated Boston Crab. But Freeman, showing incredible resilience, climbs the turnbuckle on wobbly legs. Just as Ellis is about to secure the hold, Freeman launches himself through the air, his knee connecting with the back of Ellis’s head in a desperate save.

The crowd roars as Ellis releases Kael, stumbling forward from the impact. All four men lie sprawled across the ring, each battling waves of pain and exhaustion. The match hangs in the balance, with neither team able to claim a decisive advantage in this chaotic melee.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, what we’re witnessing here is nothing short of chaos incarnate! All four competitors are down, and I’m not sure if any of them know which way is up right now!

Richard Parker: You can say that again, Nick! This match has devolved into a war of attrition. It’s like watching four extremely angry, extremely tired cats in a sack!

Rose: Oh please. It’s more like watching a group of toddlers fighting over the last cookie. Except the toddlers are grown men and the cookie is their dignity. At this point, I’m not sure any of them have any left.

Nick Stuart: Harsh words from Rose, as always. But you can’t deny the heart these athletes are showing. The question now is: who will be the first to capitalize on this moment of collective exhaustion?

Richard Parker: Your guess is as good as mine, Nick. But whoever manages to drag themselves to their feet first might just have the advantage they need to end this slugfest!

The ring is a battlefield of exhausted bodies and shattered expectations. Ellis and Kael trade blows in the center, each man running on fumes but refusing to yield. Across the ring, Freeman slowly pulls himself up using the ropes, while Dawkins lies prone, still recovering from the earlier onslaught.

Ellis gains the upper hand, backing Kael into the ropes. He whips him across the ring, preparing for his signature Superman Punch. But as Kael rebounds, Freeman, having finally regained his footing, tags himself in. Kael ducks Ellis’s incoming fist, leaving the Red Army member sailing through the air unopposed.

Nick Stuart: Ellis misses! Kael moves out of the way!

Richard Parker: See? Smarter than the average bear.

Rose: Oh, I see. So now we’re calling “dumb luck” a strategy? I guess that explains why I’ve never seen either of you two near a chess board.

Freeman capitalizes immediately. He catches the off-balance Ellis, hoisting him up for a powerbomb. The impact shakes the ring, Ellis’s body bouncing off the canvas. The crowd gasps as Ellis lies motionless, the fight seemingly drained from him.

Richard Parker: What a powerbomb from Ellis!

Nick Stuart: Hawaiian BBQ needs some momentum in their favor right about now.

Rose: Well, if we’re waiting for Dawkins to turn the tide, we might as well start planning for the heat death of the universe. At least that’s got better odds of happening.

Sensing victory, Freeman turns his attention to Dawkins, who’s slowly staggering to his feet on the ring apron. With a mocking grin, Freeman bounces off the opposite ropes, building momentum for his “Follow the Freeman” leg drop. He leaps into the air, his body parallel to the ground, aiming to crash down onto Ellis’s prone form.

But at the last possible second, Ellis rolls out of the way. Freeman hits the mat hard, pain shooting through his body. Both men lie on the canvas, struggling to move as fatigue and pain threaten to overwhelm them.

Richard Parker: Ellis moved!

Nick Stuart: This could be the change in pace that Hawaiian BBQ needs.

Rose: You two are like broken records, skipping over the same tired beats. I’ve seen more originality in a photocopier.

Nick Stuart: Why are you standing up?

Rose: Doctor said I need to keep the blood flowing through my injured foot. Just mind your own business.

Richard Parker: And why are you taking off your headset?! Rose has just walked away from the commentator table.

Dawkins, seeing his partner in trouble, finally musters the strength to enter the ring. He charges towards Freeman, determination etched on his face.

Just as Dawkins is about to reach Freeman, disaster strikes. Rose, who had been commentating at ringside, suddenly springs into action. As Dawkins passes by, she reaches out, grabbing his ankle. The unexpected trip sends Dawkins crashing face-first into the mat, mere inches from where Freeman lies.

Nick Stuart: Rose just tripped Dawkins!

Richard Parker: Is that what happened? I think Dawkins just has two left feet.

Nick Stuart: You just saw her!

Richard Parker: Pipe down, Nick, she’s right there.

Freeman, operating on pure instinct, seizes the opportunity. He locks in the kneeling step-over-head-hold wrist-lock followed by hooking Dawkins’ far leg. Kael, seeing the situation unfold, rushes to keep Ellis at bay, preventing him from breaking up the count.

Nick Stuart: Freeman Special!

Richard Parker: Is this it?!

Rose: What’d I miss guys?

Nick Stuart: You interfering in the match!

Rose: What?! Me?! Never!

Turnbull drops to the mat, his hand slapping the canvas.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

The bell rings, signaling the end of the match. Freeman rolls off Dawkins, raising his arms in weary victory as Kael joins him in the ring. Ellis slides in too late, his face a mask of frustration and disbelief. He glares at Rose, who sits back at the commentary table with a satisfied smirk, innocently adjusting her headset as if nothing had happened.

Vince Howard: Your winner… MASTERS OF THE MULTIVERSE PART DEUX: THE FREEMAN-KAEL CONNECTION!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: What a victory!

Nick Stuart: What a travesty!

Rose: Oh Nick, get your panties out of a wad. Come on, I just sped up the inevitable.

Nick Stuart: You shouldn’t have done it!

Rose: And yet… I did.

As Ellis looks around — something happens.

The roar of the crowd suddenly turns to shock as Agent Zarya, with swift treachery, infiltrates the ring and slips behind Adam Ellis.

Nick Stuart: WAIT!  THAT’S DAWN McG-

Richard Parker: Agent Zarya.

Nick Stuart: Whatever.

Rose: Great analysis there, Nick.

Richard holds the centerfold of Agent Zarya posing in just a Russian ushanka hat and a Soviet flag.

Richard Parker: See? Agent Zarya.

Dressed in the hat and a bright red USSR top and shorts, Agent Zarya drops to a knee and drives her forearm low to Adam.

Nick Stuart: LOW BLOW BY DAWN… ER… AGENT ZARYA!

Rose: Well, that’s one way to get a vasectomy.

Ellis crumples to the mat and rolls back and forth on the deck as another man dressed in the bright red Soviet colors joins Agent Zarya in the ring.

Nick Stuart: Hold on!  Who’s that?

Richard Parker: That’s the ‘Soviet Hammer’ Boris Antonov from MVW.

Rose: This is becoming very… Russia.

After staring down Rose at ringside, Bryan Dawkins realizes Adam’s in trouble and rolls back into the ring to come to his defense.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins back in to help!

Rose: Yeah, stop looking at me. Weirdo.

Max and Kenny immediately attack Dawkins as soon as he gets to his feet. Bryan attempts to defend himself against Kael and Freeman but ends up being pushed into a corner. After throwing a few wild right hands, he manages to duck under Freeman and tries to get away. However, as he tries to escape, Antonov takes him down with a brutal clothesline.

Rose, stepping away from the commentary table, hops onto the ringside apron.

Nick Stuart: What is Rose going to do?!

Richard Parker: Don’t worry about that, this Antonov guy isn’t nearly as big as Ivan Stanislav but that was one hell of a clothesline he just laid on Bryan Dawk-

Nick Stuart: IVAN STANISLAV JUST RAN DOWN TO THE RING!

Richard Parker: HERE WE GO!  THIS HAS BEEN BREWING FOR A WHILE.

Indeed, the Russian Bear steamrolls down the ramp and rolls into the ring. As he does, Rose hops off the ring apron and backs away from the ring. With a roar, he begins stomping away on Ellis while The Red Army’s Kenny Freeman and Max Kael join the fray alongside Boris Antonov.

Nick Stuart: THE RED ARMY IS ATTACKING ADAM ELLIS!

Richard Parker: And Rose smartly got out of there, no need to get involved in this!

The crowd gasps as the trio rain down their fists like hammer blows over and over as Ellis tries to cover up.

Agent Zarya slinks over and leans over Adam.

Agent Zarya: How are you doing, Adam?

Zarya’s taunt is laced with mocking seduction, eyes glinting coldly as she savors the sight of the fallen hero.

Then… a HUGE roar from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Wait a minute.  Who’s that?

A fiery-haired young woman emerges at the top of the ramp dressed in oversized camouflage shirt and pants with boots.

Richard Parker: IT’S GINNY!

The infant carrier strapped to Ginny Van Lear’s chest that carried the Ellis’s infant child Abbigail Jane did nothing to temper the ferocity in her stance.

Richard Parker: Ginny’s got a shotgun!

The camera zooms in.  Ginny’s choice in weapon tonight does not appear to be what everyone assumes it is.

Nick Stuart: Wait just a minute there.  That’s not a shotgun.

Richard Parker: Then what the hell is it?

Nick Stuart: That’s a Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot BB air rifle.

Ginny cocks the Red Ryder BB air rifle and marches down the ramp.

Richard Parker:  She could shoot someone’s eye out with that!

With each determined step Ginny takes down the ramp towards the ring, the crowd’s roar crescendos into frenzy.

Nick Stuart: The Red Army looks confused in the ring.  They’re all looking at each other, weighing their odds against the wrath of a wife and mother scorned.

Richard Parker: RUN!

The pandemonium inside the arena crescendos as Ginny Van Lear, firebrand incarnate, squares her stance. Red Ryder BB gun in hand, her eyes lock on to The Red Army.

Richard Parker: GET OUT OF THERE!

The Red Army and Antonov scramble over the ropes to the floor but Agent Zarya, once the taunting puppeteer, now finds herself the marionette in disarray.  She gets hung up in the ropes trying to get out of the ring and her escape is cut short by the sting of Ginny’s retribution—a sharp zing to her posterior that sends an audible gasp through the audience followed by an ungraceful tumble through the ropes and out of the ring.

Richard Parker: Did Ginny just…?

The crack from the Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot BB air rifle spoke for itself.

Nick Stuart: Yep, she sure did.

The disbelief in his voice is mirrored by the shock rippling across the crowd.

Richard Parker: Where are the Enemigos when you need them? They should be out here!

Nick Stuart: Maybe the ramp is too sloped.

Agent Zarya, hands covering her BB-riddled derriere, gets up off the floor and hobbles up the steps.  Ginny races around the ring hot on her tail, pursuing her quarry with baby Abbigail secure and unbothered in her carrier.

Richard Parker: RUN ZARYA RUN!

The Enemigos finally appear… racing out from the back and down the ramp in a frenzied rush, an urgency in their step trying to catch up to Ginny.

Richard Parker: It’s about time! Hold on Agent Zarya… the cavalry’s arrived!

Nick Stuart: Looks more like Ginny’s the one leading the charge, Richard. She’s hot on an injured Agent Zarya’s tail, and she’s not letting up!

However, the Enemigos cut off Ginny on the floor and surround her.

Nick Stuart: But the Enemigos act quickly and Ginny has nowhere to run.

Ginny’s quickly disarmed of the Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot BB air rifle.  Two Enemigos take her by the arm and gently… yes, baby Abbigail is somehow still sleeping through all this… escorts her back up the ramp…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…much to the crowd’s displeasure.

Boris Antonov swiftly runs down the steps towards a struggling Agent Zarya.  He swoops in and sweeps her up into his arms.

Richard Parker: That’s it!  Get her out of here!

Antonov sprints up the steps carrying Agent Zarya and disappears into the concourse.

Nick Stuart: Tonight folks, we just witnessed the power of one woman, armed with love, an unbreakable resolve, and a Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot BB air rifle.

Richard Parker: What the hell are you talking about?  She could have put someone’s eye out with that thing!

Both Dawkins and Ellis sit up as the crowd continues to loudly and boisterously voice their express disapproval of Ginny being taken to the back by the Enemigos where we are pretty sure Lindsay Troy will be waiting to have a word or two with her.

We cut elsewhere.

The heavy curtain parts with a whisper as Rose stumbles into the shadowy backstage area from her guest commentating stint, her heart still pounding from her near run-in. The aftermath of her actions weighs heavily upon her—Bryan Dawkins’ pinfall at the hands of The Red Army, a loss she orchestrated. Each step sends a jolt of pain through her injured foot, encased in a restrictive black boot that seems to tighten with every movement.

Sweat-dampened tendrils of hair cling to her flushed face as she reaches back, fingers trembling slightly to gather her locks into a messy ponytail. The backstage area is eerily quiet, the usual bustle of stagehands and wrestlers conspicuously absent. Her eyes, wide and alert, dart around the dimly lit space before settling on a TV monitor, its screen dark and reflective.

Rose approaches the silent sentinel of technology, her reflection materializing like a ghostly apparition on its obsidian surface. She leans in close, the cool glass starkly contrasting her feverish skin. A chill runs down her spine as she adjusts her appearance, erasing the visible traces of her near encounter with the formidable Russian Bear.

Something feels terribly wrong. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as an inexplicable sense of dread washes over her. In the TV’s reflection, a shadow seems to deepen behind her, taking on a more substantial form. Rose’s breath catches in her throat as realization dawns—she’s not alone.

With agonizing slowness, a figure materializes in the reflection, looming more prominent with each passing second. It’s not something, but someone—a presence that radiates menace and unspoken threats. Rose stands frozen, caught between fight and flight, as the mysterious figure draws closer in the television’s dark mirror.

Ivan Stanislav: Роза, похоже, ты быстро передумала, когда увидела, что я выхожу. Интересно, почему? (Rose, you quickly changed your mind when you saw me coming out there. I wonder why that is?)

Rose quickly spins — her black boot not helping matters all that much — and stares down the Russian Bear. Stanislav smiles, but there’s no warmth on his face. This is a man who’s been pushed to the brink. Ellis, Dawkins, Rose, Youngblood, Colton, Glue, Bandits, Troys, and KINGS. They’ve banded together, whether they know it or not, to create an irregular line of defense against him. Against HIS Red Army.

Some have come together out of necessity. Others out of love of PRIME. Some are poltiical. Others are opportunistic. Yet more are simply ambitious. After all, what better shot to take than at one of the biggest and most prolific man and stable to exist in the world of professional wrestling? Stanislav’s words roll over her like a Siberian ice floe.

Ivan Stanislav: Ah, you do not speak my native tongue. Allow me to translate: Something frighten you out there, Rose?

Rose’s lips curl into a mirror image of Ivan’s smile, a glacial expression devoid of any genuine warmth. Her emerald eyes, sharp and defiant, lock onto the towering figure before her. With deliberate slowness, she plants her hands on her hips, her stance widening slightly—a subtle but unmistakable refusal to be cowed by the menacing presence of the Russian Bear.

Rose: Oh, that?

Her voice drips with feigned nonchalance.

Rose: You know, I witnessed quite the spectacle out there. Some overzealous fan in the front row was attempting to set a new record in competitive eating—three hot dogs at once.

She pauses, her eyebrow arching dramatically.

Rose: It was truly a sight to behold, horrifying really. At first, I thought it might’ve been Bobby Dean gone rogue, but word has it his name’s Tony. Tony Dean.

She leans in slightly, her tone taking on a conspiratorial edge.

Rose: You know how it is with these things, Ivey. Why? Don’t tell me you thought I scampered off because of you?

A laugh, light but laced with tension, escapes her lips.

Rose: Come on, we go way back. It was all about Tony Dean out there, nothing more.

As if to punctuate her point, Rose visibly shudders, her shoulders tensing as she feigns disgust at the imagined scene. The tremor that runs through her body, however, seems to betray a hint of the very fear she’s trying so hard to conceal.

The Bear smells blood, and Ivan’s smirk grows more as he looms over Rose, trapping her between the monitor and himself.

Ivan Stanislav: That is good. So many people, Rose, state that Ivan ‘menaces women,’ you know? And I tell them, all the time, they are wrong. I have words with them, yes, I warn them, I let them know where they stand. Why, it is a courtesy. They do not really know what it’s like to have Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav truly menace someone.

Ivan clicks his tongue.

Ivan Stanislav: Why should I care? Ivan is knocked down cards, isn’t he? He is not booked for pay-per-views. Titles stolen from him. Matches where referees, even timekeepers, are aligned against him. Sometimes, it makes one wonder just what stops Ivan Stanislav from giving certain people a taste of what true menacing is. After all, only those who deserve it, get it.

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: And you know a thing or two about that, don’t you? You got in Brandon Youngblood’s business, didn’t you? And that heel of yours, finally healed and operable for UltraViolence… it would be terrible shame if that heel tore under, let us say, four-hundred pounds of pressure, hm? You would have night off at UltraViolence, wouldn’t you?

Rose’s eyes glaze over momentarily, her mind adrift in a sea of confusion. The Russian Bear’s gravelly voice had been a constant rumble, but the words had somehow slipped past her comprehension. It’s as if her mental GPS had malfunctioned somewhere between the neon-lit streets of Albuquerque and the sun-baked highways of Phoenix, inexplicably rerouting her to the pristine, perverse landscapes of Mormon Country.

Snapping back to reality, she finds herself nodding slowly, mechanically, like a marionette with tangled strings. The gesture is noncommittal, a perfect blend of agreement and disagreement – a safeguard against whatever verbal minefield Ivan might have laid out.

Suddenly, a spark of defiance ignites in her eyes. Rose straightens her posture, squaring her shoulders as she locks gazes with the imposing figure before her. Her voice, when it comes, is laden with a dangerous mix of sarcasm and challenge.

Rose: Sure, Ivan, sure.

Each word dripping with faux sweetness. A razor-sharp smile cuts across her face as she continues.

Rose: But let me give you a little advice, big guy. Next time you want to threaten someone, skip the preamble. Just do it.

She takes a half-step closer, tilting her chin up to maintain eye contact with the towering Russian.

Rose: Don’t worry about little old me. I’m a big girl, remember?

Her tone shifts, becoming almost sultry, yet underlined with steel.

Rose: Come on, show me everything you’ve got. All your threats, all your intimidation tactics. Lay it on me, big daddy. I can take it.

The air between them crackles with tension as Rose’s provocative words hang in the air, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of the Russian Bear. Her stance screams both invitation and dare, a high-stakes game of chicken with one of the most dangerous men in the industry.

Her voice drops to a husky whisper, eyes glinting with mischief and malice.

Rose: Or… is there something else gnawing at you, Ivan? Something more… personal?

She pauses, letting the implication hang in the air like a poisoned dart.

Rose: When men reach… your age…

She emphasizes each word with deliberate cruelty.

Rose: …certain… issues tend to arise. Particularly when it comes to performing under pressure.

A predatory smile plays across her lips as she watches for any flicker of reaction in Ivan’s stoic façade.

Rose takes a half-step closer, invading Ivan’s personal space. The height difference is stark, but she swallows the fear that overcomes her.

Rose: Is that why you’re fixating on little ‘ol me? Trying to distract yourself from the real challenge ahead? Worried about your match with Nate Colton, are we?

She chuckles — while showing false concern — a sound devoid of any real mirth.

Rose: It would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? All that talk, all that bravado… only to have someone like Nate pin those massive shoulders of yours to the mat. One. Two. Three.

Each number is punctuated with a soft tap of her finger against his chest.

Rose: See, I’m not worried about Bryan. I’ve got him exactly where I want him. He doesn’t know what’s up or down. You, on the other hand… you seem desperate for any distraction you can find. I mean, I get it. I’m easy on the eyes. But I see something lurking beneath that steely gaze of yours, Ivan. And you know what it’s telling me?

Her confidence radiates like heat as she speaks, gesturing with mock modesty. Rose leans in closer, her lips nearly brushing Ivan’s ear as she delivers the coup de grâce:

Rose: You’re not sure you can actually beat Nate Colton.

Her words are barely above a whisper, but they carry the weight of a sledgehammer.

Rose: Your confidence is shaken. And without that fear, without that aura of the unstoppable Russian Bear…

She pulls back, fixing him with a pitying look.

Rose: What are you, really? Just another aging wrestler, desperately clinging to past glories.

She takes a step back, her eyes never leaving Ivan’s, waiting to see how the cornered bear will react to her verbal onslaught.

It happens so quickly. Those who have been in the ring with Stanislav know that The Bear may be old and lumbering, but when necessary he can be quick. In an instant, Rose’s neck is gone, instead eclipsed by the massive paw of Stanislav. What once was willfully stepping backwards is now being propelled through the air as Rose flies at full arm’s length from Stanislav. The monitor she was staring at prior crashes to the side and Ivan effortlessly hoists her higher in the air, light as a feather, so she is actually eye level with him. He squeezes, constricting her neck to the point where his fingers easily overlap behind her.

Ivan Stanislav: Listen to me, you little сука…

Ivan snarls and shakes her, forward and back, while Rose crosses her arms at the forearms below this arm and shoves upwards, trying to dislodge Ivan’s hand and arm. It doesn’t work.

Ivan Stanislav: Did you learn nothing from Brandon Youngblood? The man who made you submit in front of all those in PRIME? The man who I defeated in UltraViolence cage last year? Are you so stupid as to think your ignorant words somehow will shield you from truth, even when it is so clearly in front of you?

Stanislav wheels around and SLAMS her into the wall next to him, carrying her around as if she were a doll. He lifts her higher, up over his head, and applies more pressure. He willingly moves closer, allowing her to kick at his chest with no effect.

Ivan Stanislav: I could break your neck right now, as simple as stem of a rose. Or maybe, I just squeeze until your smart mouth goes silent and none of us have to listen to your words any longer, eh?!

And he does just that, squeezing tighter now, looking up at her.

Ivan Stanislav: Where are your words now, my dear?

Rose’s emerald eyes widen in shock and terror, bulging as if they might burst from their sockets. Her gaze, once defiant, now locks onto Ivan’s with a primal fear as she feels the very essence of life being squeezed from her body. The world around her begins to blur, edges darkening as oxygen deprivation sets in.

In this moment of crisis, a fleeting thought races through her fading consciousness: she had always known this was a possibility. The dangerous game of prodding the Russian Bear, of dancing on the knife’s edge of his temper—it was bound to have consequences. But the thrill, the rush of adrenaline from each verbal jab, had been too intoxicating to resist. Now, suspended in Ivan’s vise-like grip, she’s paying the ultimate price for her recklessness.

Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity. Rose’s lungs scream for air, her body trembling involuntarily as it fights against the inevitable. Just as the darkness threatens to consume her entirely, salvation comes in the most brutal form.

Ivan’s fingers suddenly uncurl, releasing their death grip. Rose plummets unceremoniously to the ground, her body a limp ragdoll. She crumples onto the cold, unforgiving floor with a sickening thud, limbs splayed at awkward angles.

For a moment, she lies motionless, the only sign of life the ragged, desperate gasps as her body frantically tries to replenish its oxygen supply. Each breath is a painful reminder of how close she came to oblivion. Slowly, color begins to return to her ashen face, the fog of near-unconsciousness gradually lifting.

As Rose’s senses slowly return, she becomes acutely aware of Ivan’s towering presence above her—a mountain of muscle and menace, a silent reminder of the dangerous game she’s playing and how close she came to losing it all.

Rose’s body convulses as she rolls onto her hands and knees, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Each desperate gasp for air is a ragged, painful sound that echoes in the tense silence of the backstage area. Her chest heaves violently, lungs burning as they greedily suck in oxygen. Sweat beads on her forehead, mingling with strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail, plastering them to her ashen face.

Her eyes remain tightly shut, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she struggles to process the harrowing experience. Behind closed lids, her mind races, replaying the terrifying moments of helplessness in Ivan’s grip. The phantom sensation of his fingers around her throat lingers, a chilling reminder of her brush with mortality.

Above her, Ivan looms like a colossus, his massive frame casting a long shadow over her crumpled form. His steely gaze bores into her, a palpable weight that she can feel even without looking up. The silence stretches, charged with unspoken tension, as if the Russian Bear is patiently waiting for her next move.

Slowly, painfully, Rose raises her head. Her eyes crack open, bloodshot and watery, but a flicker of her earlier defiance still burns within them. She locks gazes with Ivan, and despite her vulnerable position, a sardonic smile twists her lips. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse and raw, barely above a whisper, but laden with unmistakable mockery:

Rose: Where’s… your shadow, Ivan? Your faithful… lapdog Alexei?

She pauses, drawing in another labored breath before continuing.

Rose: What’s the matter? Did he… finally get tired of… being your errand boy?

She forces out a dry, humorless chuckle that sends her into a brief coughing fit.

Rose: And now look at you… the great Ivan Stanislav… having to soil those… precious hands of yours.

Her words hang in the air, a brazen challenge despite her weakened state. Rose’s eyes never leave Ivan’s face, knowing she has one more thing to leave him with.

Rose: Какая жалость. (What a shame)

Stanislav smirks while looking down at her.

Ivan Stanislav: Cute, little Rose. Count your blessings, my dear. My hands have been soiled with blood, brains, insides, outsides, and far more since Afghanistan. But you? Not tonight, by dear.

He winks.

Ivan Stanislav: You see, turning my hands crimson is a favorite pastime of mine… and tonight I am only getting started…

Without another thought, Stanislav turns on his heel and walks away, whistling some Russian tune as he goes.

As Ivan’s eerie whistling fills the air, Rose drags her battered body across the floor, wincing with each movement. The cold, unforgiving surface of the wall sends a shiver through her as she presses her back against it, seeking some semblance of support.

The haunting melody of Ivan’s tune seems to dance around her, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of her situation. Suddenly, a small chuckle bubbles up from her throat, surprising even herself. It starts as a soft, almost hysterical giggle, but quickly crescendos into full-blown, boisterous laughter.

Tears form at the corners of her eyes, whether from mirth or pain is unclear. As her laughter begins to subside, leaving her gasping for breath once more, a wry smile plays across her bruised lips.

Rose: Well, at least he took my advice.

Her voice is still rough and gravelly while her eyes, glittering with a mix of pain and perverse amusement, lock onto Ivan’s imposing figure.

Rose: It makes it more fun that way, doesn’t it, big guy?

Her words hang in the air, a bizarre blend of provocation and twisted appreciation while we cut elsewhere.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Folsom, Louisiana, weighing two-hundred-twenty pounds… JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALLLLLLLL!!

“I Don’t Want to Close My Eyes” by Aerosmith takes over the PA but Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t emerge from the back. Instead, it’s the PRETTY PINK© woman herself, Vickie Hall.

Dressed in the most *adorable (*subjective) outfit sporting her trademarked color, Vickie is all smiles as she marches down the rampway without her Amazing Life Partner.

Nick Stuart: Don’t tell me Vickie and Jonathan-Christopher are having marital troubles again.

Richard Parker: What? That’s news to me! Don’t go creating lies here, Nick. There’s a rumor post Lindsay Troy puts on the PRIME website every week for that. When have Vickie and Jonathan-Christopher EVER had problems?

Nick Stuart: You- you’re not serious. (Long pause) Are you serious?

Richard Parker: Love has a strange way of showing its face. Vickie and Jonathan-Christopher are deep in it!

Nick Stuart: They’re deep in something alright.

Vickie arrives at the bottom of the rampway and sticks out her arms towards the top of the entrance, creating space for her man to appear.

The theme music stops, she raises her overly bushy eyebrows…

And then the theme music starts up again.

“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith.

Vickie acts like there wasn’t a break between their theme song as a rather sullen looking Jonathan-Christopher Hall appears. Dressed in his PRETTY PINK© board shorts, which is definitely a step up from the “emo” looking black and white pair he wore a month ago when tagging with Ivan Stanislav, Jonathan-Christopher walks out to boos, although significantly less jeers than his wife Vickie had directed towards her.

Jonathan-Christopher keeps his eyes locked onto the ring, past his ALP. He doesn’t walk with a lot of emphasis in his step, either. Then again, has he ever?

Nick Stuart: The fact Jonathan-Christopher can’t even make EYE CONTACT with his wife right now suggests something’s up.

Richard Parker: No it does not. He’s focused on his opponent IN THE RING.

Nick Stuart: Hessian ISN’T EVEN OUT YET.

Richard Parker: He isn’t?

While Parker acts like Hessian and the Egg Bandits are around (because by no means would Richard admit he is wrong), Jonathan-Christopher does exactly what Nick Stuart noticed. Hall reaches the end of the rampway and can barely even glance at Vickie before shuffling past her and rolling into the ring. Vickie, however, acts like there’s no problem whatsoever. She even shouts encouragement from her position as Jonathan-Christopher waits inside the ring.

Nick Stuart: (Sarcastic) Yep. This is going really well.

Richard Parker: (Not catching it) Absolutely!

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: And his opponent, 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.

Ashley Barlow checks in with both competitors, satisfied with their responses he calls for the bell.

DING DING

Richard Parker: It’s lights out… and away we go!

Nick Stuart: Are you feeling ok Rich?

Richard Parker: I am now that Vickie is here.

Nick Stuart: Wonderful…

We’re off to a slow start as neither man charges toward the other. Hessian hasn’t moved a muscle since the bell rang; he appears to be waiting to see what The Forever Man is going to bring to the party. His eyes follow Hall with laser focus however, he may not have gone on the offensive just yet, but you can rest assured The Murder Show is ready.

The calm emanating from Hessian is a stark contrast to Jonathan-Christopher Hall. The former Universal Champion is pacing from side to side, muttering to himself, he seems to be struggling to decide where his attention should be. He seems completely oblivious by the rallying efforts of Vickie, shouting encouragement from ringside; she even tries to get the fans involved, without any joy.

Richard Parker: Look at Hall; he’s channelling the energy from Vickie!

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure about that.

Richard Parker: (Sarcastic) I can only tell you what I see Nick; I can’t see it for you.

Hessian calls out to his opponent, the ring-side microphones pick it up clearly.

Hessian: Are we going to do this thin…

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, as if the words were a call to arms Hall flies across the ring, launching himself towards Hessian with an attempted crossbody press.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that was wise.

It’s an impressive sight, seeing a man over six feet tall and two hundred and twenty pounds bounce off another man, like a basketball bouncing off a hardwood court – but there is no better way to describe what just happened. Hall slowly picks himself up off the canvas and looks up into the eyes of the man he didn’t even manage to move an inch. The focus remains in Hessian’s eyes, but he still hasn’t gone on the offensive. He waits for Hall to get back on his feet.

Richard Parker: Wise? It was just plain stupid.

Nick Stuart: The idea is solid enough, try to take Hessian off his feet, but I think Jonathan-Christopher is going to need to find another way to achieve that goal.

Hall, still muttering to himself, feints a strike before spinning out at the last second to come around behind Hessian in uncharacteristically fluid technique. Wasting no time he drops to connect with a chopblock. Hessian stumbles forward a few steps, but it’s not enough to take the big man off his feet. The Murder Show turns back to face Hall, and surprisingly offers a nod of acknowledgement, he still makes no attempt at offence however.

In what is one of the riskier strategies we’ve ever seen on an episode of ReVival; Hall turns his back on Hessian. He makes his way into the corner and grabbing the top rope with both hands he shakes them violently. A small portion of the fans rise to their feet, cheering him on, this gesture takes Hall by surprise and he stops shaking the ropes, looking out into the crowd with a brief look of confusion. A look that is mirrored by Vickie at ringside, she quickly replaces the look with one of enthusiastic support and thumps the canvas from below the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: Where is this guy’s head at?

Nick Stuart: There’s no question we’ve been looking at a different Jonathan-Christopher Hall recently.

Richard Parker: Vickie needs to get Hall’s head back in the game.

Nick Stuart: Interesting that Hessian isn’t taking advantage of this, he almost seems like he’s testing Hall out.

Richard Parker: Well, he’s an idiot too!

Both competitors move towards each other, ready it seems to re-engage. Hall spins, attempting to catch Hessian off guard with a spinning heel kick; Hessian is ready for it however. He catches the foot, and with Hall’s momentum carrying him around to face the big man, Hessian lights up his chest with a one handed chop that echoes through the arena.

Hall starts to fall back from the impact of the chop, but Hessian, still with one of Hall’s legs trapped, shows his monstrous strength to pull him back and straight into a thunderous lariat.

Richard Parker: LARIATOO!!!

Looking down on his felled opponent, Hessian still seems reluctant to pull the trigger. Hall, lying flat on his back, slams both his elbows into the canvas and lets out a shout of frustration. Hessian takes a few steps back, once again allowing Hall to get to his feet.

Nick Stuart: You have to wonder if it would be kinder to put Jonathan-Christopher out of his misery.

Richard Parker: He’s just playing with his food.

Hall springs back to his feet, quicker than Hessian had expected, and runs towards his opponent, he ducks Hessian’s attempted clothesline and bounces off the ropes. Before Hessian can turn to meet the change of direction, Hall delivers a running dropkick to his left knee. This time the effort is enough to send Hessian to the canvas.

Richard Parker: TIMBER!!!

The muttering has, for the moment at least, ceased. Hall is showing uncanny focus in this moment, he doesn’t waste a second. He grabs Hessian’s left leg and holding it up he unleashes a non-stop barrage of stomps to the knee. A yell of pain from Hessian before awareness of his positioning kicks-in and he grabs the bottom rope.

Ashley Barlow steps in to warn Hall he needs to release the leg. Hall seems oblivious to anything not shaped like Hessian’s left knee in that moment however and he continues to stomp away regardless.

ONE!

STOMP STOMP STOMP!

TWO!

STOMP STOMP!

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher is taking advantage of the count to continue his onslaught.

THREE!

STOMP STOMP STOMP!

FOUR!

STOMP STOMP STOMP!

FIV…

Hall, finally snapping out of his rage, realises how close he is to getting disqualified. He lets Hessian’s leg drop and walks away, allowing Barlow to check on The Murder Show. Vickie tries to get Hall’s attention, but he doesn’t even look in her direction, retreating into the far corner of the ring. It looks like he intends to allow Hessian the same courtesy he’s been afforded in allowing him to get to his feet.

Vickie has made her way around to stand close at this point, cheering her man on. No sooner has she got close to him, Hall seems to have a sudden change of heart; he launches himself across the ring. Ashley Barlow just manages to scramble out of the way in time, but Hessian, who hadn’t yet got back to a fully vertical base, is met with another chop block – He crumbles with another yell of pain.

Richard Parker: Sublime strategy from Vickie there!

Nick Stuart: I’m still not as convinced as you seem to be that all’s well in paradise, Rich.

Richard Parker: Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong would it?

Hall starts mumbling to himself again, as if he’s in conference with himself on what his next move should be. He stops short though as he, along with the entire of the sold out Moda Center crowd, witness Hessian sit up in one swift motion. Just this simple gesture from Hessian has sent the crowd into a frenzy. The intensity of Hessian’s gaze would be enough to strip paint from walls.

The crowd threaten to take the room off the building with their reaction. Hall, quite understandably, quickly backs away, hands outwards in a ‘calming’ gesture. Hessian reaches his full frame, and although he is now favouring his left knee, his earlier patience has clearly met its limits. The crowd break out in chorus.

HESS’ GUNA KILL YA! HESS’ GUNA KILL YA!

Richard Parker: Uh oh!

Nick Stuart: Yup!

With a shrug of resignation, Hall takes another run at Hessian, again trying his luck with the crossbody press. This time, rather than let him bounce off his chest, Hessian catches him up and makes little show of hoisting Hall up and over his shoulder.

Wasting no time, Hessian walks into the corner and plants Hall, facing out into the crowd on the top turnbuckle. Lowering Hall’s chest to horizontal with the top rope, Hessian delivers a massive clubbing blow. Unable to defend this, Hall falls back against the inside of the corner, his legs hooked over the top rope resulting in him falling into the ‘Tree of Woe’ position.

The crowd react, sensing what is to come. Hessian looks out over the fans, first to those on his right, then quickly to those to his left – they roar their approval. Hessian rolls out of the ring; he takes a second to shake out his left leg, his knee still clearly feeling the effects of the earlier stomping spree. A second later he has grabbed both Hall’s arms and begins an onslaught of his own.

Nick Stuart: BELLS OF OLYMPUS!

Richard Parker: This was not part of Vickie’s strategy.

Nick Stuart: Not many strategies survive first contact with the Bells!

After some admonishment from Ashley Barlow, Hessian decides ten rings of the Bells will be quite enough for one day, he releases his hold on Hall. The former Champion crumbles to the canvas.

Hessian takes his time getting back into the ring; Hall remains motionless the entire time. Hessian picks up the limp form of Jonathan-Christopher to stand upright, he struggles to maintain his feet unsupported. Having seen enough, Hessian grabs Hall’s forearm and pulls back, sending his opponent for a trip to the ropes and back.

As Hall’s momentum carries him back, Hessian scoops him up in a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker. Rather than deliver with his customary double-rotation however, Hessian simply releases Hall in mid-air. With nowhere to go but down, Hall crashes to the mat. Hessian hooks the leg to make the cover.

Nick Stuart: That’s a new twist on one of the classics. A different variation to the Tilt-The-World on display from Hessian this evening.

Richard Parker: That’s just plain nasty.

ONE….?

One, right? Where is the one-count?

TWO….?

Surely, that’s a two-count now?

Richard Parker: GENIUS!

Nick Stuart: CHEAT!

The lack of count causes Hessian to release the pin attempt and look up. Standing on the apron, arguing with Ashley Barlow, Vickie Hall has made the all-important save for her man. A look of mild irritation passes over Hessian’s face as he climbs back to his feet. He begins a slow walk to where Vickie and Barlow are arguing. Vickie isn’t hanging around though, one look up at The Murder Show is enough to have her quickly scrambling down from the apron.

Hessian wastes little time returning to where Jonathan-Christopher Hall is making a valiant effort to get back to his feet. Taking up a stance behind the unaware Hall, Hessian allows him to get to his feet, and then scoops him straight up and back down with a massive atomic drop.

The impact from the atomic drop sends Hall jumping forward, where his midriff has an unwanted collision with the top rope leaving him hanging half outside the ring, half inside. Hessian smiles and holding his left arm out straight, he makes the motion of drawing and releasing an arrow with his right. The crowd are on their feet once more, and Hessian doesn’t disappoint them. He grabs Hall’s ankles, pulling back sharply and releasing just as quickly.

Nick Stuart: AMERICAN LONGBOW! Hessian is playing all the hit’s tonight!

As much as the crowd enjoyed seeing the American Longbow, most find it hard not to grimace as Hall is sent flying through the air, connecting with a sickening thud to the ringside barrier.

Hessian rolls out of the ring and makes his way to Hall’s position. However, before he can reach his prey. Vickie springs over her man and starts screaming at Hessian. Hessian, with the patience of a saint, endures the tirade for much longer than most people would consider acceptable. Vickie begins trying to push him back, failing miserably she changes tact and starts hammering him with slap after slap. As she can’t reach his face she is simply slapping anywhere she can get a hold of.

Her frustration reaches a crescendo when Hessian, no longer able to contain himself, lets out a laugh that booms around the arena. Ashley Barlow is furiously trying to get between the seven foot two colossus and his five foot three assailant, without much success. His efforts are rewarded though; Hessian indicates to Vickie she should look behind her back.

She turns to the sight of a mischievous purple grin, and two eager little hands reaching out to grab her. The scream that explodes from her tiny frame, threatens the structural integrity of every pane of glass in the arena.

Richard Parker: Get away from her you little pervert!

Nick Stuart: She forgot about Minion!

It’s all too much for Vickie, and abandoning her attempts to stop Hessian she turns and runs up the entrance ramp, putting as much distance as she can between her and Minion. Much to the fans’ delight, Minion follows after her as quickly as he can. Seeing this, Vickie flees the scene entirely, disappearing into the backstage area. Not to be beaten so easily though, Minion continues his pursuit.

Richard Parker: Someone check Vickie is ok!

Nick Stuart: Has anyone checked if Jonathan-Christopher is ok?

Richard Parker: Hessian has…

Hessian, unobstructed at last, has indeed reached Hall. Dragging his opponent to his feet, he shoves him under the bottom rope, and then slides back into the ring himself, ready to make the cover.

Before Hessian can get back to his feet however, Hall springs to his own feet, wraps his right arm around Hessian’s neck and drives him head-first into the canvas with a DDT with everything he has left in him behind it.

Richard Parker: He was playing possum.

Nick Stuart: Much as I hate to admit it, it looks like Vickie’s distraction bought Jonathan-Christopher Hall the time he needed to recover.

Hessian was completely caught off guard by the unexpected offence. Determined not to let the opportunity slip again, Hall hoists the bigger man to his feet and attempts to hit a falcon arrow. A combination of Hessian’s larger frame and the damage he has taken himself, Hall can’t get the move completed as effectively as he’d like.

But the wind is in his sails now, with Hessian planted in a perfect position near the turnbuckles, Hall finds a burst of speed at the bottom of his energy reserves. He quickly ascends to the top rope and hits a flawless frogsplash.

Nick Stuart: Hall hits The Space Between Us!

Richard Parker: And, it was, well… better than usual, like really looked good!

As he comes crashing down on top of Hessian, rather than position himself for a cover, Hall lets his momentum roll him forwards onto his shoulders and then up to one knee. He springs back to his feet and turns, jumping over Hessian as he runs back to the corner. In a stunning show of athleticism, he climbs the turnbuckles in the full stride of his run and then pulls his weight backwards as his foot pushes off the top turnbuckle. You might have thought you’ve seen some pretty impressive looking moonsaults in your time, but this one might just take top spot.

Nick Stuart: Wow.

Richard Parker: Yup.

Nick Stuart: Wow!

Richard Parker: Yup!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall hooks the leg with every fibre of his being. Ashley Barlow drops to the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Barlow signals for the bell, this one is over. Hearing Barlow’s call to the timekeeper, Hall releases the cover and weakly rolls off Hessian. Every last bit of energy he’d had left went into that burst of brilliance that got the job done.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: A great win for Jonathan-Christopher Hall, pinning The Murder Show.

Richard Parker: Just like Vickie planned.

Nick Stuart: She definitely played a part in this, but let’s not take anything away from Hall. He had to earn that one the hard-way.

Richard Parker: She played the key part, as always. You saw how scatterbrained he was during the match.

Nick Stuart: He definitely doesn’t seem his usual self at the moment, but tonight just raises more questions than gives us answers I think.

We cut to commercial.

As we return to the Moda Center, the camera treats us to a sweeping shot of the ringside seats. Look at all those excited fans! Huge smiles, waving hands, loud screams. Some of them even look kinda familiar!

Nick Stuart: Look at that! The whole family’s here!

Indeed they are! There’s a whole gaggle of folks in satin jackets. Most of them are helpfully labeled with the wearer’s name. There’s also a midde-aged woman trying very hard to look ten years younger, and a young man with dark hair and a black satin jacket with an unfamiliar logo. All of them are sporting “The New Diamond” T-shirts, available now at the PRIMEporium.

A helpful TV tech puts up a graphic to help us identify everyone.

THE COLTONS
Jake, Mallory, Blake, Jennifer, Benjamin, Dennis

Richard Parker: They came all this way to call Nate a failure? Seems rude.

Nick Stuart: They’re here to show love and support to a member of their family, Richard.

Richard Parker: If he wanted their love and support, he should have won. When my high school lost in the State Championship, my father didn’t speak to me for a year!

Nick Stuart: That…explains a few things, I think.

The crowd starts buzzing again; they’ve been waiting a whole three minutes without seeing anyone be insulted or get their head bashed in and they’re getting antsy. Let’s help them out.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/Colton-video.mp4

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!

…goes the crowd as the New Diamond appears on the stage below the PRIMEView. He seems to be in pretty good spirits as he jogs down the ramp, slapping the hands of fans as he goes. Once Nate arrives at ringside, he makes a beeline for his family, where they all take part in a group hug.

Richard Parker: Boo! Do something interesting! Give your little brother the finger!

Nick Stuart: [sigh] A nice display of familial affection here from the Coltons. You can really see how much they care about each other.

Richard Parker: Punch your mom!

Nick Stuart: Oh my God, will you shut up?

From there he makes a stop at the timekeeper’s table, where Vince Howard hands him a microphone and PRIME’s regular timekeeper–whose name is not Elmer but we’ll call him that anyway–gives him an unnerving stare. Finally, Colton climbs the steps and enters the ring.

Nate Colton: PORTLAND OREGON!

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!

Nate Colton: LEMME HEAR YOU!

RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nate Colton: Feels really good to come out and see you all. Of course, I was hoping I had something big and shiny to show off to all of you…

A solid chuckle from the audience.

Nate Colton: Can’t lie to you good folks…that one hurt. More than losing the Five Star, more than falling just short in the Culture Shock Battle Royal…hell, more than any beating I’ve taken since I came to PRIME. To get so close, so close, to the top of the mountain…just to fall short. Having to walk out of that ring without the Universal Title…that just about tore my heart out.

Richard Parker: And rightfully so! Now Cancer might win the belt again at UltraViolence and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!

Nate Colton: And I know what I’m supposed to do right now…what everyone else does. I’m supposed to cuss Coral Avalon up and down for standing in the way of my dream. But I won’t…’cause that’s dumb as hell. What was he supposed to do, not try to win?

Another decent laugh. A few cheers, but the New Diamond brushes them off.

Nate Colton: Fact is, Coral beat me square. It doesn’t feel good to say that, but you’re not going to see me badmouth him for it out here tonight, or backstage later, or on some stupid bullshit internet podcast next week. ‘Cause he’s the goddamn Universal Champion, and he deserves better than that. So while a lot of people out there might say he doesn’t deserve to hold that belt…you can rest assured Nate Colton ain’t one of ‘em.

Applause for sportsmanship. You can practically hear Richard Parker rolling his eyes.

Nate Colton: Now some of you might be asking how I come back from this. Well, that’s easy. I pick myself up, dust myself off, and get to it.

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nate Colton: See, a lot of people talk about failure like it’s something to be ashamed of. So they run from it. They lie about what happened, they shift blame, they keep spinning the wheel until the responsibility lands on anyone other than them. Well, that ain’t me either. A wise man taught me that time spent making excuses is better served making progress. He’s here, by the way.

Nate points at the crowd where his father stands. The old man throws one arm around his wife, and raises the other in acknowledgment.

RRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!

Probably the biggest pop Jake Colton got in his life.

Nate Colton: You know, I didn’t even know they were coming tonight? They lined up these seats hoping they could be here to see a grand celebration. But when that didn’t happen…they came anyway. There ain’t enough words to say how much I love them all. It’s because of them that I know…my story ain’t done yet.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nate Colton: They’re the ones who will give me the strength to make it back to the top of the mountain. And right now, I’m gonna promise them…and everyone else watching, here in Portland or at home…that one day, I will be the Universal Champion!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!

But it’s not all RRAAAAAAAAHHH. There is, in fact, quite a bit of BOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Ha! Looks like Mr. Clean’s not as popular as he thought!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s what they’re jeering at, RIchard!

As boos begin to materialize in the arena, eyeballs and camera lenses move to the entryway, and there’s a reason for the sudden negative reaction.

A four hundred pound reason.

The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav, lumbers out from backstage. But he’s not alone. It is, for lack for a better term, a veritable army behind him. A Red Army.

Kenny Freeman.

Randall Schwartz.

Max Kael.

And even Agent Zarya, who hobbles slightly as she walks, courtesy of a certain BB Gun earlier.

Richard Parker: Hey, where’s Alexei?

Nick Stuart: What? You think he’s not around? Culture Shock 2022: Ruslan literally hid under the ring for an entire day to weasel his way into the cage. Slashed ambulance tires…

Richard Parker: He was exonerated!

Nick Stuart: …steel batons, brass knuckles, you name it. That squirrel Russian is surely around here.

Regardless, The Red Army fans out around the ring, surrounding it, while Stanislav climbs up the ring steps slowly. He grins at Nate Colton for a moment, The New Diamond clearly unhappy by the interruption, but he makes no attempt to deter his entrance. And Stanislav obliges.

The Soviet Giant climbs into the ring and pulls a microphone from the back of his pocket and bellows.

Ivan Stanislav: We have heard enough out of you, Nate Colton!

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Ivan glares at the crowd, looking this way and that, he waves a large hand towards Colton.

Ivan Stanislav: All you had to do was pin Coral Avalon. Three seconds. And you could not even do that!

Ivan smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: I have. Easily. Avalon did everything he could to beat you, you goody-two-shoes fool, and so he did!! You see, this is what you and all those fools in the back do not seem to understand. In order to win in PRIME, you need to make sure you finish the job, Nate Colton!

Ivan shakes his head. He sneers across the ring and then speaks directly to the crowd.

Ivan Stanislav: And you could not finish the job! You and all those rats who crawl at my boots. The Coltons, the Avalons, the Bandits, the Youngbloods, Ellis’, the list goes on and on. You foolish people put your blind faith in those who, yes, cannot finish the job!

Ivan wheels around and points at Nate, stepping closer to him.

Ivan Stanislav: He may not say it, but even your father is disappointed in you, Nate! And I know, deep inside, beneath the pretty American good looks and the big, stupid smile, you hide that shame deep within your breast day in and day out!

Nate Colton: Ivan…for once in your life, shut the fuck up.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!

Nate Colton: It’s pretty obvious you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me, or my dad. Not like that’s ever stopped you…just about every time you open your big fat mouth, you prove to the world that you don’t know shit about shit! And I’ve had just about all I can stand!

Ivan snarls and bares his teeth, but restrains himself as best as he can, which isn’t very much.

Nate Colton: I’m sick of the lies, Ivan. I’m sick of the insults. I’m sick of you treating people like trash because they won’t lick your boots. And if you ain’t got the sense to shut your big fat mouth, I’ll happily shut it for you!

Ivan shakes his head and smiles, wagging a condescending finger.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh ho, dear Nate Colton. Indeed, Lindsay Troy gave you stay of execution when she booked you in match with Avalon. You saw it plain as day. Even though you hospitalized a member of my Red Army, I would be insane to injure you when you had match against Coral Avalon. But Nate, there is one problem, little boy.

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: You lost. Your immunity is over. Mommy Troy has released you from her protective breast and now? Nothing is stopping me. And what better time to rip you apart than in front of not just your siblings, but your broken father and helpless mother!!! GRAAAAHHHH!!!!

With a roar, Stanislav drops the mic and launches himself at Colton. Like an avalanche from the Urals, he barrels towards him.  Yet, Colton deftly sidesteps. Stanislav bounces off the ropes and comes back, swinging high, but Colton steps to the side once more and goes low, hitting Stanislav in the breadbasket. Ivan pivots on his heel and swings with a massive haymaker that would have been capable of beheading someone.

But Nate isn’t there. He ducks, pops up, and takes it right to The Russian Bear, head on!

Nick Stuart: Colton and Stanislav are going at it right now!!!

Richard Parker: Ivan just wanted to talk to him and Colton sucker punched him!!

Regardless of what Richard thinks, there’s no denying it. Ivan Stanislav is an unmitigated force of destruction. His size, his power, and his experience is legendary. A soviet machine when wrestlers were made of different stuff. Not better or worse, but different. Big, burly overpowered monsters of brute force. However, Ivan is a different beast altogether. He’s not just powered by strength, but ideology, rage, hatred, grievance, and retribution. Men and women have fallen to this overwhelming combination of forces that he wields so expertly.

And yet there might just be protection from it. Perhaps, just perhaps, a means to overcome the unstoppable. A means to beat the unbeatable. A means to fatigue the indefatigable. Perhaps it’s youth. Maybe it’s heart. Some may say it’s the energy from the fans. But whatever it is, Nate Colton has it in spades.

And there’s nothing Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav can do about it.

Colton roars and unloads on Ivan. He’s seen him belittle his friends, torment his loved ones,  and insult his family. Ivan has threatened his love, minimized his father, and run roughshod, virtually unchecked, for almost two years.

Time to pay the piper.

He drives Stanislav back, ducking low, dodging this way and that, his youthful body and excellent footwork taking The Russian Bear apart as he drives him into the corner and climbs up to the second turnbuckle, raining down lefts and rights on that huge skull. Stanislav rocks, his arms too big, his reach almost too far, and his balance off kilter as one large foot literally wobbles in the air, while the other foot, planted, keeps him aloft. With a guttural, bestial roar, Ivan manages to shove Colton off.

Yet, it’s going to take more than that. Nate falls to his back, rolls, and before Ivan can even lurch out of the corner, he’s back on him. Lefts and rights. Rights and lefts. The crowd erupts, The Red Army makes to enter, but Ivan, somehow, waves them off amidst the flurry of blows that he stubbornly absorbs.

The Bear isn’t done yet.

He sounds like a beast in a mortal battle with some scrappy animal, who has no business being this tenacious but has caught him on his back foot. Ivan shoves Colton off again and shakes the cobwebs. The Russian blearily staggers out of the corner. He’s wobbling, and it shows.

It’s not the timezone difference that has nearly put Ivan Stanislav on dream street.

Nate drives his shoulder into Ivan’s stomach and powers him back into the corner once more. The ring shifts, the ropes bounce, the crowd roars. Colton’s ears ring, pressure builds inside of him as his body operates like some damned instrument of American destruction. He plants a hard punch to the side of Ivan’s square jaw, and his eyes go stupid.

The Russian has been there before. Despite superior firepower. Better experience. Longer training. The mujahideen put him in his place decades ago. They put his entire nation in its place and crippled it. Soviet strength was nullified, their tactics were obliterated, and the Russians ran away to lick their wounds. Off kilter and shell shocked, they had little else they could do.

But Ivan Stanislav isn’t one to run from a fight. Nate Colton isn’t some religious fanatic, even if, in this moment, he’s beating the ever-loving hell out of him like he is.

Still, there’s other options than retreat or taking a beating.

Option C: Ivan waves his arm amidst the rain of forearms and fists.

And that is all that it takes.

The Red Army slides into the ring, as one, and they descend on Colton. They drag him off of their leader, throwing him to the mat, and fists and feet rain down upon him. The mere seconds of a reprieve is all the Russian Bear, known for weathering tremendous punishment, needs. He closes his eyes tightly, grits his teeth, and shakes his head.

When his eyes open they are no longer foggy and disjointed. No longer confused and shocked. Now, there’s clarity, purpose, and a whole lot of rage. Yes, red is Ivan Stanislav’s favorite color, and through those eyes the entire WORLD is swathed in scarlet.

Nick Stuart: Oh, this is ridiculous! The Red Army bearing down on Colton like a pack of wild dogs!

Richard Parker: Their leader was under attack, Nick! If Nate didn’t want this to happen, he should have kept his hands to himself…or brought his own damn army!

Nick Stuart: I think you spoke too soon, Richard! Look!

Indeed, there is a stirring at the guard rail, as several members of the Colton family look to join the fray. First over is Jenny, who doesn’t bother looking back to see if anyone else is going. Benjamin is next, followed closely by Dennis, and then…

…

There is a protocol for situations like this.

The camera cuts to a wide shot of the audience, careful not to show the ring or anything going on inside.

The ring announcers stop talking.

Somewhere backstage, the Enemigos have been sent into action. They’ll arrive in…about a minute.

Just let security handle things, then get back to business.

Until such time, all we have to run on is what we can hear.

The crowd is still cheering for the action in the ring. That action is providing plenty of thumps, thuds, and crunches.

And then…

A piercing scream.

A few words from Nick Stuart. His mic is muted, but the camera mic still picks him up.

Nick Stuart: Oh, God! Don’t do–no! NO!

A sickening impact.

CRUNCH!

Thousands of gasps, all at once.

And a massive, mocking laugh.

“DYAAAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAA!”

[Cut.]

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/Flynn-Cup-2024.mp4

[Cut.]

The feed returns inside the Moda Center, and the scene we see is very different.

The ring, the floor, the ramp…all filled with Enemigos. Many of them, along with Dametreyus, have swarmed around the Red Army. Agent Zarya has a black eye, Randall Schwartz’s shirt is in tatters, and Max Kael’s smile is full of blood. Ivan Stanislav looks ready to charge right back into battle, and Kenny Freeman seems eager to follow.

Some distance away are the Coltons, looking equally bloodied and battered but no less willing to continue. More than willing, in fact–Nate is red-faced and screaming at Stanislav. The specific words might be why the audio keeps dropping out.

Meanwhile, back on the ramp, a group of EMTs are wheeling a stretcher toward the entrance. Following right behind are a man and a woman; the man is wearing a blue satin jacket with his name on the back.

But who’s on the stretcher? The Red Army are all still present. Jennifer, Benjamin, and Dennis are right there with Nate. Jake and Mallory are with the EMTs. So that only leaves…

Oh, no.

Oh, no…

I know we all just witnessed a horrible scene, but you know what would be a great palate cleanser for that entire scene? You’ll never guess!

It’s murder.

It’s in the air as thick as anything. Murder is the case that they gave us, and nobody’s innocent. Mostly because the Fabulous Gold Mask is here, and let me tell you, that dude’s probably guilty of murder somewhere. Probably why he has the mask and lives in Greenland (allegedly). Fabby has once again taken the role of the beast of burden, as he carries a novelty-sized golf bag loaded up with folding chairs of different makes and qualities and horror. While Fabby is a large, broad-shouldered man who is clearly a professional wrestler, even he has difficulty dealing with the heft of the thing.

Also, Joe Fontaine is here, and everyone loves Joe Fontaine! Right now, he’s skipping along, humming a dumb tune to himself.

Joe Fontaine: (singing) Murder murder murder mur-derrrr…

In his hand is what Joe would describe as a “three iron”. Let’s let Joe explain what it is real quick, he’s got time.

Joe Fontaine: You know, the best part about the “three iron” is this: yeah, sure, it’s pretty lightweight. They built this thing for children, you know? So it’s real easy to swing, but it’s kind of low damage when it comes to DPS, right? So, that’s where the razorwire comes in. It’s like a buff, really makes the whole “three iron” thing sing like a beautiful murderous instrument of murder, you know?

Fabby’s expression, under his mask, suggests a man who would really like to explain to Joe that it would be exceedingly difficult to murder a man with a tiny chair for children, razorwire or not. He’s also wondering why it’s the three iron that’s the tiny one, but that’s not exactly at the forefront of his many, many, many objections of the current situation.

That situation is that Joe Fontaine and the Fabulous Gold Mask are once again standing out in the upper deck of an arena, and they are once again outside of the luxury box known as the Throne Room – where PRIME’s Universal Champion, Coral Avalon, happened to dwell.

Joe Fontaine: Listen up, Fabby. Clean all of your earholes, including the one in your butt.

Fabby will be doing no such thing.

Joe Fontaine: Hessian just got through fighting that weird cuckold guy that talks to himself and also answers himself. You know, the kind of guy that’d roll up in your Discord server and start answering himself in GIFs, that guy. And that huge Texan guy that scares me and might try to throw me into a locker has gone off for his government-mandated absolute beating at the hands of Big Cece and Neon Genesis FLAMBagelion. That means that there’s nothing standing between us and murdering Coral Avalon until he dies and is dead.

Fabby lets out a big sigh. He clearly doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be anywhere but here.

Joe Fontaine: What? You want him dead, too, right? Okay, look. I will graciously allow you to watch me murder him. Normally, I’d charge for this sort of thing, you know?

Joe turns to the doors.

Joe Fontaine: Okay. Let’s kick this thing down. On three! One!

Fabby tenses up.

Joe Fontaine: Two!

He’s ready to spring into action.

Joe Fontaine: Th–

The doors fly open, and both Joe and Fabby are forced to retreat backwards. There, standing before them, is another giant. It isn’t Hessian. It obviously wouldn’t be Ivan. No, this one is…

Powerslam Anubis: Behold, mortals! Despair if you will against my glory, for the great Powerslam Anubis has arrived!

So, if you’ve ever seen an ebony-skinned man wearing a big ceremonial jackal mask standing before you in full pharaoh’s regalia, shirtless, and carrying a staff with a set of scales affixed to one end, you should definitely seek professional help.

Joe Fontaine: ……Okay, what the whole fuck are you doing here?!

Powerslam Anubis: O woeful mortal, your attempts to pass judgment upon the King of Conquerors have not gone unnoticed before the ever-watchful eyes of the great Powerslam Anubis. Or anyone, really. But there is but one reason I am here in the hallowed halls of a fellow member of the Kingdom, standing before you as its guardian of the threshold.

He clears his throat, anticipation building in the air.

Powerslam Anubis: The great Powerslam Anubis reads Jabber, and thus knew what you were planning to do tonight.

Joe stares at him for a while, reality dawning on him that maybe openly talking about his plans to murder someone as well-connected and as well-liked as Coral Avalon on Jabber wasn’t the best plan in the world. I mean, everyone knew when exactly he’d shoot his shot, too.

Joe Fontaine: Fuuuuuuck.

Powerslam Anubis: Verily, you are fucked.

Anubis takes one step towards the pair, and the pair take one step backwards in response. Joe tightens the grip on his three iron.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, you know what?

Fabby looks at Joe with concern forming underneath his mask. He’s not actually going to pick a fight with a literal god, is he?

Joe Fontaine: …RUN AWAY!!!

Joe throws the three iron at Anubis and then flees like the devil (or the powerslam version of the Egyptian god of funerary rites) is chasing him. His acceleration is such that he leaves Fabby in the dust. Fabby looks up at Anubis, who looks down upon him. Eyeing him. Sizing him up.

Powerslam Anubis: Oh ho.

Anubis smiles without teeth.

Powerslam Anubis: Your judgment would be most interesting to consider, o woeful golden child.

Fabby sighs and slowly sets down his giant novelty golf bag. Clearly, he doesn’t want to lug that thing around as he makes his exit. Fabby gestures at Anubis, and then he walks away. Anubis watches him leave, and places his hand under his chin in contemplation.

Powerslam Anubis: “I’m not worth judging”? Heh. As if. Why, I should go and judge him right no–

Coral Avalon: (off-camera) Anubis! Weren’t you going to check on how Blake and the Coltons are doing?

Anubis stops what he’s doing, and while we can’t see his expression underneath his jackal’s mask, his body language suggests that he’s quite disappointed that he’s not going to get to judge Fabby for anything. He leaves the scene muttering to himself.

Powerslam Anubis: …That is not how I intended to find Nate Colton this evening.

With that, the Judgment King heads off and ReVival 54 moves on.

The Portland faithful explode 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 once again is charging up the crowd and slapping hands while Scatino looks towards TAL and slaps a few hands as he goes down the aisle.

Nick Stuart: These two are in the lead in the tournament, and have been on quite a run.

Richard Parker: They cheat, look at them.

Nick Stuart: What? The Anglo Luchador and Zapp have been a breath of fresh air compared to their opponents tonight.

Richard Parker: Depends on who’s eyes you look at it from, Nick.

Nick Stuart: No, I don’t think so Richard. It’s pretty cut and dry.

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(?)!!!

TAL turns to check in on his partner, Zapp is already a little sparked up and joins in on the hand slapping with the fans at the barricade. Eventually they make it to the ring.

When suddenly,

Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Unh, yeah
Wait a minute, unh
Get it how he live it, unh
Ten toes in when we standin’ on business I’ma…

That’s Hanumankind’s “Big Dawgs,” and once that beat drops, Reed Young bursts out onto the entrance ramp, gesturing wildly behind him with thumbs up and fist pumps. And then, from the back, come Fred Dick and STRONK Godson.

Vince Howard: And their opponents… at a combined weight of six hundred and seven pounds… THE BIG DICK STALLIONS!!!! ALSO KNOW AS, THEEEEEEM RAAAAARE BOOOOOOYSSSSS!!!

They griddy out onto the entrance ramp as Reed Young leads them down to the ring. Their griddies look like shit. They are not swaggy but they believe they are. So much so, they griddy all the way around the ring like some kinda fucked up pagan ritual.

They griddy up the ring steps. They somehow griddy awkwardly through the ropes and into the ring, where the griddying continues. Zapp has had enough of whatever the Whoresmen have concocted and jumps Fred Dick from behind with a running double ax handle to the back of Fred Dick. STRONK doesn’t notice what’s happened to Mama Dick until the bell sounds and the lights go up.

DING DING

Richard Parker: LOOK AT THIS! SCATINO! CHEAP SHOT!

Nick Stuart: I think you can do anything you want to Fred Dick and it’s allowed. That’s in your buddy Cecilworth’s rulebook.

Fred falls through the ropes and Zapp looks back towards TAL who is now wide eyed staring eye to eye with a very, very, angry King Stallion. Scatino runs in with two clubbing fists to STRONK. The effects are pretty, well, mid. STRONK stumbles and turns towards Scatino and swings a clubbing forearm. Zapp ducks backwards and TAL comes in with a right hand to the side of STRONK’s head. STRONK Daddy turns back towards TAL. Reed Young is up on the apron screaming at Turnbull.

Richard Parker: Look at this! Double teaming STRONK!

Nick Stuart: I mean yeah, that’s probably just what it takes…

Turnbull finally turns from Young and starts to usher Scatino to his corner. Zapp protests as TAL rolls under another big blow. Godson spins and TAL manages to send him over the top with an arm drag. The Luchador tries to lock in a hammerlock, but STRONK rips him forward. TAL reaches for a headlock on Godson, but STRONK flings TAL into the ropes. The Luchador briefly looks twenty years old as he launches back off the ropes with the momentum and plants a dropkick to Godson’s knee.

Nick Stuart: TAL is fighting smart here tonight, keeping away from Godson. Hit and run.

Richard Parker: COWARD! STAND AND FIGHT HIM!

Nick Stuart: That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Stand there and take concussions. I mean I know TAL is kind of an idiot, but he’s not that stupid.

STRONK drops to his knees and TAL looks back towards Zapp, Scatino reaches out but TAL presses ahead on his path to wear out a practical demigod. TAL stands with his back to a neutral corner, Godson gets back to his feet and storms forward towards TAL. The Luchador springs up onto the middle rope, and then climbs to the top rope like the ropes are stairs, and leaves Godson swiping at air. TAL steps down off the ropes the same way he ran up and turns behind STRONK.

Nick Stuart: Great athleticism from TAL!

Godson whirls around and TAL dares get close enough to throw a right hand, the blow connects with STRONK’s face but the human M1 Abrams steps forward and finally one of those clubbing forearms connects. The Luchador stumbles backwards from the blow, and Godson lunges forward.

Richard Parker: Incredible straight line speed from STRONK.

Godson is whipped over with another arm drag from TAL who waists zero time with the hammerlock and instead uses the arm to yank Godson forward and smashes a knee into the side of Godson’s head. STRONK Daddy is stunned, visibly wobbling, TAL reaches over and tags Scatino. He gives Zapp a few words and  Scatino steps through the ropes.

Nick Stuart: I think TAL has had enough of the big guy for a minute, you expend a lot of energy with the strategy they are taking.

Richard Parker: That won’t work with STRONK, look at him. He’s enormous.

Fred Dick has made his way back to the apron after Scatino’s attack, he and Reed Young are clapping on the mat in unison for STRONK.

Nick Stuart: Why is he on the floor with Reed?

Richard Parker: He’s cheering on STRONK?

Nick Stuart: Who’s STRONK supposed to tag?

Sure wasn’t Fred Dick. Scatino steps through the ropes and takes up a spot in his own corner. Godson slowly climbs to his feet and turns toward Zapp. He marches forward, Scatino is not the wrestler that the luchador is. He tries to side step STRONK, but Godson closes the gap and smashes a forearm off of Zapp’s chest. The blow sends Zapp staggering backwards and Godson storms forward. STRONK takes another big swing and this time Scatino jabs STRONK in the eyes with a thumb.

Richard Parker: Look at this cheating! Blatant cheating!

Nick Stuart: Godson has tried to kill people in there, he’s a literal whirl of indiscriminate muscle bound violence. Zapp is just surviving!

Richard Parker: Nick Stuart, showing bias. I never thought I’d see the day.

Turnbull warns Scatino, and Zapp looks like he could actually careless that there is a person speaking in his general direction right now. Mind focused on surviving, he continues to attack the soft spots and digs his fingernails in above Godson’s eyes. STRONK reaches for Zapp’s forearm, but Scatino rips the nails down across Godson’s eyes. Scatino retreats back to the corner and tags TAL.

Richard Parker: Neither of them want to be in there with STRONK! Look at this!

Nick Stuart: I think they have a strategy here Richard, and they’ve had the explosive Godson on the defensive from jump street.

The Luchador springs into action stepping in with a low right leg kick to the back of Godson’s knee. The blinded Godson tries to stumble away but TAL fires off a spinning backfist that blasts Godson across the jaw. The King Stallion’s head snaps to the side, STRONK wobbles, but doesn’t fall. TAL looks towards the ropes and takes off, he springs into them and Turnbull, has his eyes on STRONK and misses Reed Young tripping TAL on the far side of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Oh c’mon! This is why Richard, this is why I’m a little biased. Here we go with this.

Richard Parker: You sound like this guy on the internet that really hates an old big fat wrestler in a thong and a very bad Evil man and his friend Dick.

Nick Stuart: What does this have to do with anything?

Richard Parker: Anyway, back to the action.

Turnbull turns over and shouts at Young to get back to his corner, Zapp is shouting at Reed as well, drawing his own warning from Turnbull again for the eye rake. TAL turns towards a still wobbling Godson and makes a TALcision and springs off the ropes again and careens in with a flying forearm, but Godson takes the Anglo Luchador out of the air like he’s a pixelated wingalinged ducky thing and Godson is an 8 year old on Christmas in 1988 wielding an NES zapper.

Nick Stuart: OH! WOW! WHAT A LARIAT!

The Luchador flips asshole to mouth hole about six times in the air, he looks like sonic the hedgehog but going the opposite direction, ok, it’s really only twice. But y’know. TAL smashes to the canvas and Godson stumbles to the corner and Mama Dick finally graces us with his fantastic presence.

Richard Parker: And here comes Fred Dick.

Nick Stuart: To take advantage of Godson’s kill, he’s like a literal hyena.

Richard Parker: And STRONK is his FRIEND the LION who LIKES HIM AND IS FRIENDS WITH HIM.

Nick Stuart: You don’t have to shout when you quote things he’s said.

Richard Parker: I think it’s necessary to provide authenticity.

Nick Stuart: Help me.

Fred steps into the ring like the big dumb idiot he is and winds his arms up and comes down with some shake, rattle and roll Greg Valentine elbow to the forehead. Dick winds up again, and brings down a huge tomahawk chop to TAL’s shoulder this time. Fred backs himself up into the ropes and comes roaring in with what half looks like a sliding lariat and tries to take TAL’s head off.

Richard Parker: Oh no, what a beating for the poor Luchador.

Nick Stuart: You said you liked him last week.

Richard Parker: That was last week, this is now.

TAL tries to roll away kicking and holding his neck as Dick covers him, hooks a leg, and points to the sky and counting along with the ref, absolutely assured of his pending victory.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Oh c’mon! That’s crap Turnbull and you know it!

Nick Stuart: I think Turnbull is getting enough of that from Reed,

Fred Dick is astonished this is the case, but Turnbull reassures him that, this is indeed the case with two fingers in his face. Dick slaps his hand away and half rolls himself up to his feet. Fred stumbles his way forward before turning backwards to the Luchador. He fires off a kick to TAL’s face, but the luchador covers up with his forearms and manages to make his way up to his feet. TAL fires a right jab that catches Dick by surprise in the nose, and stuns him in place.

Nick Stuart: That one caught Fred by surprise!

Dick reaches up to his face to feel for blood and the second right jab comes, and TAL is off to the races. The left hook to the body follows and it staggers Fred backwards. The Luchador continues the explosion of offense with a follow up uppercut that snaps Dick’s head back and sends him stumbling his way into Scatino’s corner. Fred Dick has found the wrong side of town, and Scatino absolutely wallops him with a short arm lariat from the apron. Dick does a backflip and lands on his face.

Nick Stuart: Reed Young is irate!

Richard Parker: And he should be! They cheated!

Nick Stuart: Reed Young, who is not a competitor in the match, tripped The Anglo Luchador!

Richard Parker: Listen Nick, I’m sure there’s good people on both sides of this argument.

TAL bends down and immediately begins stretching Fred out with a la de a caballo. He reaches over and tags Scatino in, who steps through the ropes and absolutely unloads a right hand into the side of Fred Dick’s face. Zapp nods to the Luchador who steps back through the ropes, he steps in and boots Dick in the stomach almost launching him to the center of the ring. Scatino follows in and heads past to the far ropes. Reed Young strikes again.

Nick Stuart: AGAIN! We’re doing this again!

Turnbull whirls in a split second this time and begins commanding Young to the back. Reed jumps up onto the apron and Scatino heads over to take a swipe at Young but Reed takes the right hand on the chin, but a huge wad of phlegm flies into the air, and a pair of brass knuckles is passed from Reed to Fred Dick.

Richard Parker: SCATINO! NOT REED! NO! HIT TAL!

Dick instantly slams the knuckles on, turns around and absolutely levels Scatino. Zapp hits the mat like a bag of bricks and Dick tries to take another swing but TAL dives into the ring and breaks up the attempted manslaughter. Brass knuckles go flying, in a minor miracle and a rare act of actual coordination and some minor professional wrestling ability, Fred manages to slap STRONK on his way to an ass beatin’ at the hands of TAL through the ropes. Turnbull acknowledges the tag and Godson storms into the ring and snatches Scatino up off the mat in an instant. Zapp, already a quarter conscious, is spun around for a loop hold, the second the move is applied Zapp begins tapping out.

DING DING DING

Turnbull calls for the bell but Godson keeps choking Scatino for a moment, until TAL rolls into the ring and takes a swipe at Godson with the recovered brass knuckles. He runs to the ropes, shouting like a madman up the ramp as STRONK is being walked backwards up the ramp while being guided gently back by Reed Young and Fred Dick’s retreat.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, by submission… BIG DICK STALLIONS AKA DEM RARE BOYZ!!!

Richard Parker: They live, the Big Dick Stallions are still alive in this tournament!

Nick Stuart: I was really hoping they weren’t.

We move on.

From the finish of BDS vs. Twins?, we go backstage to find Wade Elliott heading for the Argyle Position and his match against Brandon Youngblood. The Bad Dog doesn’t walk alone, however; the Boss is by his side, accompanying him on his trek, and looking heated from her earlier interaction with Hayes Hanlon, JCH and Vickie Hall, and everything that just went down with Ivan Stanislav, the Red Army, Nate Colton, and the rest of the Colton Family.

Lindsay Troy: I swear to god I’m going to fire Ivan. Or I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fire him and then I’m going to kill him. I’ve fucking had it with his shit.

Wade Elliott: (grumbling) I’d rather be dealin’ with that shit over this shit.

Lindsay Troy: Hey…

The Queen frowns, and grabs his shoulder, stopping their stride.

Lindsay Troy: I thought we were past this.

Wade Elliott: Is what it is now, but Lindsay, I still think it’s a big god-damn mistake. Brandon’s an’ my shit ain’t meant fer the ring.

Lindsay Troy: Then where does it belong, exactly?

Wade Elliott: Fucked if I know. A bar. Some back alley. A gunfight in th’street.

Lindsay Troy: That sounds like the old Wade talking. And you promised me we weren’t going back to that.

She steps in front of him as they reach the curtain. An object in her hand has been hidden from camera view, but she lifts it to reveal Wade’s old drifter’s hat.

Lindsay Troy: New Wade is going to walk out there and give Brandon Youngblood the fight of his fucking life.

She sets the drifter’s hat on his head, pulling it snug.

Lindsay Troy: Both of you are going to get it out of your system, and then you’re going to invite him over for whiskey and cigars and you’ll both put it behind you.

Wade Elliott: Alright, now yer pushin’ it…

Lindsay Troy: No arguing. And no more of this crap until after the bell rings.

She leans in and gives him a quick, hard kiss against his beard. It leads to a moment of softness in his sharp blue eyes, but what lies beyond Argyle demands no such thing.

Lindsay Troy: I’m heading to the hospital to be with the Coltons.

Another quick kiss, softer this time.

Lindsay Troy: Give him hell, Drifter.

Wade exhales through his nose, nods, and steps past his Queen, ripping the curtain aside and following his music toward the field of battle.

Southern twang, and a steady drum. The crowd begins to rise as the music picks up The PRIME*View snaps to life with an aerial view, following a large, black pickup barreling down a dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The entrance strobes as “Step Up (I’m On It) by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster wails away, the camera panning to the front of the pickup, zooming in close on an Alabama license plate, and revealing just two words:

BAD DOG

“Too long, and too little,
Tell me when you gonna bring it on.
Small fights, and big stages,
Never terrified enough to run.”

Vince Howard: From Pine Ridge, Alabama!!

A big frame in a wide-brimmed drifter’s hat hides in the strobe lights, that hat tilted down a touch, the fans bellowing in the arena.

Vince Howard: Standing six feet! Four inches tall! Weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds!

The smoke starts settling, the lights start trailing.

Vince Howard: A former PRIME Intense Champion!!

The chorus hits, and the Son of a Bitch himself strolls out to the top of the ramp, one fist in the air.

Vince Howard: THE BAD DOG!!!!! WADE!!! ELLLIOTTTT!!!!!

RUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The Blue Collar Brawler takes it in for a moment before making his way to the ring, the arena going absolutely ape-shit for the Southern Sparkplug’s arrival. Meanhile, the music rises as Wade climbs the far turnbuckle. He removes his hat, holding it high in the air as the chorus hits heavy.

“ALLLL LIIIINED UP AND BUILT FOR PRESSURE!
(STEP UP! I’M ON IT!)
SAAYY YOOOUUUR PEACE LIKE IT’S THE END!!
(STAND BACK! WE’RE MOVIN’!!)”

He drops to the floor, tossing his hat ringside. Next to go is his gray t-shirt, revealing the tattoo of Angus the Bluetick Hound on his left pec. The music trails, and he takes place in his corner.

The Arena darkens. The shift in ambiance has the fans rising to their feet. And then, a declarative statement.

THEY
ARE NO LONGER
YOUR PEOPLE
TO SAVE

The roar that follows is primal. Unrelenting. Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through the arena, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glow a stark red before turning black, the Tower of Babel logo cutting through the dark, prominent and surging. 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, The Dream Killer arrives. Youngblood is in no hurry, stalking his way onto the ramp, eyes forward and focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. Reaching the point before the descent, he stops, surveying the crowd at his flank. His arms fold across his chest, his head high up and his chin pointing forward.

From both sides, the loud bang and blinding white of pyro explodes in powerful bursts.

As the smoke bellows, he slowly paces forward, the arena lights now back on in full. Once to the arena floor, he stops, staring at his opponent in the ring. After a few tense moments, he 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: 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 his opponent, his head tilts to its side.

DING DING

Youngblood and Elliott stare each down from across the ring while the Portland crowd is at a fever pitch behind them. Elvis Nixon looks pensive as one would with two weathered PRIME veterans creating an ocean of tension in the ring.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood public about his desire to go back to his amateur roots, but he keeps getting thrown in there with these roughnecks. Clay Byrd in Portugal, and now Wade Elliott here.

Richard Parker: It’s not like Youngblood hasn’t made a history out of pummeling people.

Nick Stuart: Of course, but the Bad Dog even now is not someone who’s going to let someone outpummel him.

Richard Parker: Please, he’s how old now? He hasn’t been put down yet?

Youngblood wipes away the sweat beading on his brow and advances on Elliott with his arms up in wrestling stance. The Diamond lunges in at the Bad Dog for a lockup, the latter seeming a little disoriented at it given their contentious recent history. He returns in kind but forcibly breaks and shoves Youngblood away, shaking his head to clean the cobwebs out. Youngblood lunges in again, but Wade slaps him away and slugs him with a clean right haymaker that leaves the Diamond holding his jaw.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Wade wants this to be a wrestling match, Rich.

Richard Parker: Of course not, Nick, he couldn’t chain a grapple combo together if you spotted him the first two holds.

Elliott charges in with a lariat attempt but Youngblood dodges it. As Wade turns around, the Diamond goes low, taking him out with a double-leg. Wade immediately puts his dukes up to protect against the mounted punches, but Youngblood anticipates it, staying low and whipping him over with a single crab as somewhere backstage, Don Winters slams his hand on the nearest flat surface shouting “EMOTIONAL DAMAGE!!!”

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure Wade is going to have a choice here. Youngblood has found an in, and he’s going to keep picking at it like a scab.

Richard Parker: Look, I’m already nauseous that I have to look at this old redneck, and then in two matches, Cancer Jiles is going to be able to cheat at will inside of a cage. I don’t need you to be invoking body horror.

Nick Stuart: Richard, if picking a scab is body horror to you, I don’t want to know how you’d actually react if you watched a movie like The Fly or Eraserhead.

The Bama Bruiser is able to lunge for the ropes, causing Papa Plex to break the hold. Youngblood pounces in as soon as Elliott is clear of the ropes, going for another double leg. However, the Bad Dog stands his ground, not allowing Youngblood to close his legs and take him down. Instead he clubs him in the back, trying to break the Diamond’s grip.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is trying like hell to turn this into a grappling match. You’d think he would let his emotions run high, but I think he wants to teach Elliott a lesson here.

Richard Parker: I heard Wade spent five years in the second grade. You can’t teach him lessons. He won’t let you.

Youngblood goes lower, whipping Elliott back and rocking him long enough to pounce with the mount before he can get his hands up. The Diamond starts raining his fists down, but Elliott starts counterpunching, a chaotic crossfire of fists flying everywhere, hitting each other and going wide but rarely landing on each other’s faces. Nixon has to brave the flurry to get between the two and separate to restore some order to the match. Both wrestlers rise to their feet, looking more ornery than they were at the start.

Nick Stuart: This match hasn’t even gotten out of the blocks, and I have goosebumps. Such intensity.

Richard Parker: Youngblood brings that out of everyone he wrestles, but I think you know you don’t need to coax that hayseed too much to get him riled up.

Wade yells “C’MAWN!!” at Youngblood before putting his dukes up. The Diamond fakes like he’s going to reciprocate but then dosey-dos behind him with a rear waistlock. After a struggle, he whips the Bad Dog down to the canvas, chest and face first, with an Olympic style takeover. Before Elliott can move, Youngblood slides up and locks in a grounded side headlock.

Nick Stuart: And now Youngblood is turning this into what he wants, his kind of match.

Richard Parker: I just hope he doesn’t get sick from the stale whiskey smell.

Nick Stuart: Will you stop it?

The Diamond wrenches on Elliott’s neck tight as the Bad Dog’s eyes go wide. He raises his arm to try and regain some leverage, but Youngblood cinches the hold in further back, transitioning into more of a bulldog choke. Elliott kicks his feet, almost into a flail, but he finally hooks his foot around the bottom rope. Youngblood exhausts the five count before he breaks the hold.

Nick Stuart: I can’t remember seeing anyone manhandle Wade Elliott like this.

Richard Parker: That’s because most of the fighting he’s done since the ReVolution era has been in bars.

Youngblood turns around expecting Elliott to be staggering to his feet, but the Bad Dog is not completely rung yet and charges in with a clothesline. The Diamond ducks, swings around and…

Nick Stuart: GERMAN SUPLEX!

…with a bridge!

ONE!

TWO!

But Elliott kicks out.

Youngblood slams the mat out of frustration at the kickout. He grabs Wade by his salt-and-pepper hair and locks him by the arm, short-arm whipping him in the beginning motion of a spinebuster, but as if through pure instinct, Wade lands a haymaker to the top of Youngblood’s head. He releases his grip, allowing the Bad Dog to get a head of steam behind him…

Nick Stuart: WADE ELLIOTT SHOWING BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD A LITTLE BIT OF SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY.

Richard Parker: I don’t know why he calls his lariat by such an ironic name. That’s not hospitable at all.

Nick Stuart: *audibly facepalming*

The Bad Dog roars to the crowd, who roars back at him. He steps back and winds up, hitting Youngblood with another lariat, sending the Diamond back to the canvas as soon as he gets up from the first shot. Elliott staggers over, bends down on one knee, and shows Youngblood how a Southern man punches someone already on the ground.

Nick Stuart: The Bama Bruiser still has life left in him!

Richard Parker: Either that, or the worm in the tequila he drank before the show has taken over his brain and is piloting him like the Eva.

Nick Stuart: I didn’t know you liked anime.

Richard Parker: I don’t.

The Bad Dog breaks his barrage on Nixon’s five count and gets back to his feet, pumping his fist in the air. Youngblood staggers to his feet, but before he can shake off the cobwebs, Elliott finds his gut with a boot, and then…

Nick Stuart: MEMPHIS DEATH CERTIFICATE!

The piledriver compresses Youngblood’s neck a few microns before he splays out on the canvas, ready for Elliott to cover him…

ONE!

TWO!

But the first Universal Champ of the ReVival kicks out.

Wade slams the mat in frustration.

Nick Stuart: That was a pretty mean piledriver, but I think it’s going to take a little more than that to put away the Ace of the ReVival.

Richard Parker: Look, I hate giving the guy credit, but if I had to deal with Ami Troy as a stepdaughter, I’d think everyone else was an easy out by comparison.

Elliott waits a beat on his knees, looking out to the crowd, before getting back up on one knee to grab Youngblood by the head. However, the Diamond has recovered enough and evades him with a shoulder roll before capturing him into a rolling front cradle for a quick pin…

ONE!

The Bad Dog kicks out in startled fashion.

Youngblood pops to his feet and shakes the cobwebs out before Elliott gets up looking like he’d just seen someone try to run off with his truck. He charges forward like a man possessed, but the Diamond anticipates him, dropping to a knee, using the Bad Dog’s own momentum against him, and wrangling him with a fireman’s carry. In a fluid motion, he hooks one arm around the back and shoulder of the Bad Dog, lacing it in a half-nelson before cradling him for another pin attempt…

ONE!

TWO!

Elliott kicks out again, this time feeling the effects of Youngblood’s technique more than his adrenaline will let him.

Youngblood is relentless, wrapping his legs around the midsection of Elliott in a bodyscissors before grabbing the near leg and, in seamless motion, rotating around the joint into a kneebar. The Bama Bruiser slams both arms against the mat in flailing motion, but yells expletives at Nixon, each more ribald than the last, every time he’s asked if he wants to give up. Finally, Youngblood gives up the ghost, pops to his feet, and slashes across his throat.

Nick Stuart: I wonder which finish Youngblood will pull out here? He has an array.

Richard Parker: Whichever one it is, I fear for all the whiskey in the state of Oregon tonight.

Youngblood drags Elliott to his feet and wraps his arms around the Bad Dog’s waist.

Nick Stuart: I think he wants the Bloodplex, Rich.

That is indeed what he wants, but Elliott won’t give it to him. He peppers the Diamond’s head with back elbows until he breaks his grip. Then, Wade turns around and slugs Youngblood, his head turning around and spit flying out in a beautifully gross arc.

Nick Stuart: Looks like there’ll be more mileage on ol’ Wade’s pickup tonight after all.

Richard Parker: Oh God, don’t tell me Big Nashville’s gotten to you too, Nick.

Elliott’s eyes are wider than the full moon. He stares a dagger through Youngblood before yelling at him in his best defiant angry bar patron voice…

Wade Elliott: YOU WANNA RASSLE, HUH? ALRIGHT THEN, LET’S’ RASSLE YOU BALD SON OF A BITCH!

The Bad Dog marches over to the Diamond and locks in the roughest and tightest side headlock you’ve ever seen. Wade drags the Suplex Daddy to the middle of the ring and wrenches on that headlock like it’s 1972 and it’s his big finish.

Nick Stuart: Well, British grappling this ain’t, but I guess if Wade Elliott is going to indulge in a little grapple sicko action…

Richard Parker: I’d make a snide comment here, Nick, but I’m genuinely impressed that Wade knows how to do one of those.

The Diamond finally is able to loosen the Bad Dog’s grip on him enough to shove him into the ropes. Elliott hits them chest first, and before he can react, he’s caught in the overhead arc of a rebound Youngblood German release suplex. Both men are sucking air on the canvas as Nixon begins his count…

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Both men start to stir.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Youngblood crawls to the ropes while Elliott rises to one knee.

SIX!

SEVEN!

Nixon breaks his count as Youngblood climbs to his feet with assistance of the ropes while Elliott is on spaghetti legs. They stagger over to each other, and Elliott strikes first with a wild haymaker. Youngblood shakes it off, but instead of going to his roots like he has all night, he responds with a right cross.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood got the Bad Dog to play his game, and now Elliott has the Diamond reciprocating!

Richard Parker: I don’t know, I think Youngblood might do a little bit better here than Elliott did prior.

They trade blows for a few hits, the crowd reacting positively to both men instead of the traditional “BOO/YAY” that normally happens in these exchanges. Funny how that happens with two babyfaces. Huh. That rarely happens in PRIME.

Anyway, after a few exchanges, Youngblood starts to lay his shots in without waiting for an answer from the Bad Dog. Several right hands land on Elliott’s forehead until the Diamond uncorks one big shot that sends Elliott to the canvas. Youngblood turns around and rolls his neck around, cracking it, thinking about what he’s going to do next. However, he forgets that you can’t really take a breather when you knock the Bad Dog down to the canvas. After a moment, Elliott sits up, rubs his head, and leaps to his feet, coming at the Diamond with a flurry usually reserved for a bellend causing problems at the saloon sometime after last call.

Nick Stuart: IF YOU’RE GONNA BE DUMB, YOU GOTTA BE TOUGH!!!!

Elliott raises his fist to the crowd to massive cheers before dragging Youngblood to his feet again to try for his Roughneck finisher. However, Youngblood feels the move before he can lock it in and knees the Bad Dog in the gut before he can lift him into the air. While Elliott is doubled over, the Diamond grabs him by the waist. Gutwrench suplex. Wade staggers to his feet, this time his spaghetti legs more overcooked than al dente. Youngblood grabs him. Half-nelson suplex. Cover…

ONE!

TWO!

……

………..

……………………

NO! The Bad Dog kicks out!

Youngblood pounds the mat before grabbing Elliott by the waist to his feet. Another run at the Bloodplex?

No.

Elliott once again is true with a blind back elbow but before he can capitalize, Youngblood charges in with a lariat. But he misses the Bad Dog with it, and before the Diamond realizes it…

Nick Stuart: OH MY! Wade Elliott just kicked Youngblood square in the back!

Richard Parker: NO! THAT’S CHEATING!

Youngblood staggers into the ropes before turning around. As he staggers forward, he walks straight into the arms of the Bama Bruiser.

Roughneck.

Wade covers…

ONE!

……

………..

………..

TWO!!!

…………..

……………………….

………………………………………

………………………………………………..

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner, the Bad Dog…. Wade…. ELLLIOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTT!!!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Aww man, he’s going to be insufferable now.

Nick Stuart: (ignoring his broadcast partner) A hard-fought win for the Bama Bruiser here. But both competitors left it all in the ring.

The screen cuts to commercial.

If the match ending said that we fade elsewhere, well, guess what, scratch that out. No, we aren’t fading to black, or going to commercial, or any of that nonsense. Instead, the camera follows Brandon Youngblood up the ramp. A little worse for wear from his physical bout, a prominent contusion on his face, he makes his way to the PRIMEview, hands on hips, head tilted downward.

Suddenly, there is a crackle of static powering through the arena sound system. The PRIMEview flashes to a quick test pattern, then, to digital snow. After a few bursts and tumbles, the screen settles on an amateur wrestling mat, with two late teenage boys circling, grappling with one another. The apparatus used is shaky, a touch of heavy breathing going along with a heavy amount of crowd noise.

One of the boys looks very familiar, especially if one were to shave bald his wild mane of dirty blonde hair. Clad in a purple and white singlet, he tries to hand fight his way through his opponent, a young man in blue, red, and white. Shorter and less built than the familiar face, this wrestler sweeps the hands away, grabbing around the waist of his opponent, fighting, managing to trip him and then going for a grapple and spladle no dice. The boy with the wild hair is making progress, trying his best to wrench the kid before him and work him onto the canvas. Precious points. Both sweat profusely. The waning moments. And then, the whistle sounds, and the kid in blue, red, and white throws his arms in the air, all as the one in purple kneels, pulling at his headgear before slamming it onto the mat.

A chyron shows in the corner of the screen.

2024 U.S. Marine Corps Junior & 16U Nationals
215 Ibs Finals
Sorry Cody, But If You’re Not First, You’re Last

Loud cheering. Clapping. And then, the lens, having steady, swings around, showing the face of the person behind the recording.

Their smile draws instant boos from everyone in the crowd and stops Youngblood dead in his tracks.

Nick Stuart: THAT’S…

Richard Parker: MAX KAEL!

Is it cold in Fargo? Because Kael finds himself decked out in Eau Claire Memorial Old Abes purple. See the logo on the chest? This isn’t live; this event transpired days ago. No being at two places at once. But being there, so inconspicuous?

It was a message.

That if need be, he could be anywhere he wanted to go. That there would be no stopping him to achieve what he wanted. Red Army playbook. The old familiar feeling from near a year ago, rolled out by the Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav.

The toothy grin simmers to a more human expression. And yet, the tone of his voice, threatening as it was, should send chills up the spine of anyone with family they wish to protect.

Max Kael: Tough break, Brandon. Really wished we could hash this whole…FLAMBERGE…thing out in person. Celebrate a big family moment. But alas…here we are…

Youngblood’s stare is undaunted. There is no wavering. His entire body trembles in rage.

Max Kael: …with you nowhere to be found…and me…here…and it’s all your fault.

The Dream Killer bolts forward, to the back, pushing his way through Argyle, storming forward.

Max Kael: Do the right thing. Leave the Lizard Boy to me. And keep away from our friend. And if not…

The sound pushes through even to the back.

Max Kael: …maybe I can teach your son how to be a real wrestling champion…

The furious movement of Youngblood follows him through the backstage area, his march to the Red Army locker room. There is no knock on the door; he starts punching it, then, throwing knees, kicking at the door handle. Wooden splinters. Pieces of frame ripped out of the hinges.

Max Kael: …with a firm helping hand…heh-heh.

Nobody is there. Is it a ruse? Were they even here before? After weeks of not even acknowledging the existence of Max Kael and his want of FLAMBERGE…now it was time for the roles to be reversed.

How pitiful it is to rage and feel so small…all because someone didn’t want to listen.

We go elsewhere.

The show feeds cuts away from the senseless ramblings of The Last Zirconi, and picks back up inside the Moda Center with a pan of a wild audience.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! It’s time for the MAI— wait just a second here. What’s going on?

The lights suddenly go out. It’s pitch black. The fans rise to their feet. Anticipation is quickly building. Seconds, that seem like minutes, start to pass.

Nick Stuart: Wait. What’s that up on the PRIMEview? That’s not a montage. That’s…

Richard Parker: Does that say what I think it says? Is this fucking guy serious?

Nick Stuart: It seems so, Dick.

Up on the Crumbo words appear in salt white lettering.

The Pinnacle of All Crumbs

As the words begin to scroll upwards Star Wars style, an instrumental version of “My Way” by Frank Sinatra begins to play. Then, soon thereafter, Lindsay Troy’s voice, AI generated most likely, starts to read along.

Nova
ReVival 3 and 18

No one thought Cancer Jiles was going to defeat Nova in the second round of the inaugural Almasy Invitational– let alone for Nova’s GOLDEN TICKET. Yet, fate has a funny way of messing with people’s plans, as Cancer Jiles would go on to pull off the upset of the tournament. However, this would not be the last time the two would face off, and you might say the stakes were even juicier for their second go around. Jiles was the UNIVERSAL Champion, and the first challenger to his throne was Nova. Sadly, for PRIME, it was not meant to be for their beloved hero, and the road to COOLOSSUS was paved in their tears.

Flamberge
ReVival 10

When Cancer Jiles stood across the ring from Flamberge at ReVival 10, the COOLYMPIAN was coming off of back to back losses to the then Universal Champion, Brandon Youngblood. In other words, King COOL needed the win. The Young Frenchman did not disappoint, and pushed the downtrodden Jiles to the absolute limit; almost stealing victory out from underneath him. At the end of the day though, it was force fed Foot Saltimbocca for Flamberge, but not the end of him. Not like the next person on this list.

Julian Bathory
UltraViolence 2022

There were supposed to be three, but then two decided that three was one too many. Thus, a coronation by blood, through buckets of blood, ensued. The UltraViolence MAIN EVENT was more about survival than anything else. Survival, because of what losing meant. After all, to have done what Julian Bathory and Cancer Jiles had done and not win, not become the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION, well it certainly wasn’t worth looking over your shoulder the rest of your life for.

Nate Colton
ReVival 36

It was Jiles’ long awaited return to the MAIN EVENT, and of course it was against Nate Colton. Not only that, it was Round One of the Second Annual Almasy Invitational, and it was for Jiles’ GOLDEN TICKET. Up until then, Nate had been two steps ahead of the COOLYMPIAN, getting the better of him on multiple occasions. However, that night things were different. That night, unlike those other nights, Jiles had something he didn’t have before. A rabbit’s foot the size of a forehead.

The Anglo Luchador
ReVival 42

It was a battle for street cred, and it would not be an easy one. The Anglo Luchador and Cancer Jiles tore the literal house down in their MAIN EVENT matchup to see whose block would reign supreme. In this battle of hometown favorites the two would go on to destroy heirlooms, artifacts, an entire vending area, literal walls, and everything else in between. The Wells Fargo Center had seen its fair share of chaos over the years, but nothing ever like this.

Ivan Stanislav
ReVival 54

STAY.

TUNED.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe… He might actually get killed tonight. This might happen, Nick. This really might happen.

Nick Stuart: We’re about to find out!

Coral Avalon is in the ring. It’s time for the main event. Let’s go.

The lights dim. A cool breeze moves through the air. Smoke begins to fill the top of the entrance ramp. Up on the Crumbotron a merry montage of superkicks plays.

Nick Stuart: Does Jiles add another kick to the montage tonight?

Richard Parker: No.

Nick Stuart: So you’re not worried at all that you might be bumped from the rotation?

Richard Parker: No.

A spotlight clangs to life and shines down upon the entrance ramp. Then, the most discernible guitar riff in the business hits like a superkick to the face.

“I’m the one your mama warned you about”

“When you see me, I will leave you no doubt”
“I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth”
“I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth…”

Out from the back steps The Greek God of COOL. His hair simmers, his boots sprinkle with salt, and his T-shades blot out the blinding light shining down upon him.

“…I AM THE COOL!”

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!

An intense, scorching, volcanic, hell-fire volley of pyrotechnics illuminates Moda Center.

Nick Stuart: If he was worried, you sure wouldn’t know it. Jiles looks true to his name. COOL.

The COOLYMPIAN stands at the top of the ramp, gyrating away without a care in the world. He removes his T-shades, casually tosses them up above his head, and the monster standing behind him snatches them out of thin air.

Nick Stuart: They’re going to do that every time aren’t they?

Richard Parker: Kill me now.

BOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

The sound that soothes Jiles’ immortal soul brings an even wider smile to his face. He basks in it for a moment before walking down to the ring with Hessian trailing closely behind him. Along the way his Coolyness shares a thought or two with some of the ringside guests; even the plebs seated along the ramp get some of the vitriol.

Nick Stuart: Look out, Dick, he’s on his way over here and he’s looking right at you.

Nick’s right, the hardest working man in PRIME is in fact making his way over to commentary. He completely no-sells Nate’s presence as the time keeper, and directly proceeds to belittling Richard Parker into oblivion. Joke after joke, rib after rib, Jiles even knocks off Dick’s headset; and asks him if he wants to appear in the montage for a second time.

Nick Stuart: Real classy.

Parker goes to stand up for himself, literally, but the seven foot insurance policy “gently” shoves him back into his seat. Of course, upon seeing this — and more so the astonished look on Dick’s face —  Jiles laughs at the top of his lungs, then enters the ring to share the hot goss with Coral.

Nick Stuart: Don’t worry, Dick. He’s just scared.

Richard Parker: I hope Ivan kills him.

Crimson lights. Hammers and sickles. An all male Russian choir.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, from Arkhangelsk Russia, weighing in at…

BOOOOOO!!!!!!!

The Portland, Oregon crowd makes their opinions known. To the point that Vince Howard struggles to be heard. It’s a mix of red blooded American anger and “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choice.

Vince Howard: ….-hundred pounds….

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Vince Howard: …ussian….. Bea…  IVAN STAAAANISSSLAVVVVV!!!!

Nick Stuart: We have to see this monster again?!

Richard Parker: Okay okay okay, we don’t know exactly what happened earlier…

Nick Stuart: What?! We most certain did! We saw—

Richard Parker: There he is, IVAN STANISLAV!!

The largest member of the PRIME roster, Ivan Stanislav, stomps out from backstage with Max Kael next to him. The Russian Bear ignores the pyro, the boos, and the jeers.

He ignores the trash that is thrown his way.

The Moda Center does everything in its power to let The Russian Bear and The Red Army know that they are no longer welcome within their walls. But it doesn’t matter.

Because no one is going to make him leave.

Stanislav moves with pointed purpose as he stomps down towards the ring, his nostrils flaring. He ignores the middle fingers and epithets. The box of popcorn that glances off his right shoulder only fuels the rage inside of him. Despite what happened earlier with Nate Colton and Rose, Stanislav looks, for the most part, none the worse for wear.

With agility that belies his strength, Stanislav steps up onto the apron and fluidly strides over the top rope, the weight of his combat boots flexing the mat as he is now inside the ring. Jiles slides out to the far side of the ring, holding a meeting with Hessian. Max smirks and remains on his side, “hyping” the crowd by raising his arms.

They aren’t hyped.

Not for Ivan. Not even for Jiles. There’s no losing in this match. Two reviled members of the PRIME roster are going to hurt one another and that’s a win/win in their book.

Nick Stuart: Look, Cancer Jiles is a menace…

Richard Parker: AMEN!

Nick Stuart: But Ivan Stanislav Russian superweapon incarnate. A Soviet nightmare manifest. A man who will stop at nothing to destroy any and everything in his path with an army behind him. He threatens, openly, all that is sacred to PRIME and so many have tried to stand up to him… and so many have fallen. So many have left because of him.

The Soviet Giant of PRIME looks down at the empty seats where the Coltons sat earlier. He pauses, and then points at the seats. Believe it or not, the boos grow louder.

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

It does nothing to deter Stanislav. He throws his head back and laughs the laugh that we’ve heard for decades. A laugh of pure joy, often associated with suffering.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

As if trying to battle the massive man in the ring, the crowd does their best. It doesn’t matter the politics. It doesn’t matter the opinions. It doesn’t matter the spin. Ivan Stanislav is an interloper, an aggressor, a meat grinder. An invader who arrives upon these shores once every two weeks to make someone suffer. And this night has been no different.

USA!!! USA!!! USA!! USA!!

Max leaps up onto the apron and pretends to be a conductor, drawing his arms up and down and chanting as well, mocking their attempts. Stanislav draws a hand to his ear as if to listen more, and then his own response, once more.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

There’s only one other person in the ring. Coral Avalon. He’s in the corner, but stares at Stanislav with silent resolve. These two have been in the ring together before. He knows the measure of the man. He’s been on the wrong side of poor officiating in the past. But there’s a difference… and Stanislav is about to learn.

The Russian Bear turns from the seats and glares at Avalon. He marches over to him and points a massive finger at him, wagging it all the time. He jaws at Avalon, his words an angry rumble that one can’t quite make out.

And Avalon answers. He power walks towards Stanislav, cutting off his lumbering advance. The Universal Champion-turned official yells back at The Russian Bear, showing no fear. He claps his hands together three times, indicating that HE is in charge. Ivan’s frustration grows, and he shows it. He wipes his sweat-slick brow and flings it at Avalon, finally turning his ire to Jiles and Hessian at ringside. He points down at Hessian and bellows at him, and then at the King of Cool. There’s a slow eruption which morphs into a new audible rebuke of Stanislav from the crowd.

FUCK-YOU-STAN-IS-LAV! CLAP-CLAP-CLAPCLAPCLAP

FUCK-YOU-STAN-IS-LAV! CLAP-CLAP-CLAPCLAPCLAP

FUCK-YOU-STAN-IS-LAV! CLAP-CLAP-CLAPCLAPCLAP

Max stops conducting and sneers, while Ivan finally stops letting everyone in the immediate are (excluding Max of course) that he hates them all and wants to kill them. He stomps over to his corner and finally raises his arms over his head, bellowing loudly.

Ivan Stanislav: URAAA!! DYAAHAAHAA!!

If Alexei Ruslan had been there, special guest referee Coral Avalon might have personally kicked him out of the building. We mean that literally. Man’s got a mean yakuza kick. Nevertheless, the King of Conquerors begins his latest conquest – the successful refereeing of a main event match – with a call for the bell.

DING DING

This might seem obvious to you and I, but it bears repeating: Ivan Stanislav is not a small man. He is in fact a large man. One might say “very” large. Also, he’s in suspenders.

He moves towards Cancer Jiles with every intention of doing what bears did: tear him from limb to limb and leave him a torso with immaculate Alfredo hair. Jiles, naturally, does what he always does in situations when a man attempts to kill him and render him a torso – he slips said torso through the ropes and waits for the referee to force Ivan to back off and give him space.

Only, uh…

…Oh, look, Coral Avalon might be a little easily distracted here. Which is to say that he’s a bit busy having a debate with one of the cameramen and not actually paying that much attention to how much Ivan is menacing Jiles in the corner. From the entrance ramp, Hessian has to point out to the Universal champion that maybe he should do something about that.

To which, Coral responds…

Coral Avalon: Nah, he’s fine.

Cancer Jiles is very much not fine. Ivan grabs him by the neck and begins throttling him, pulling him through the ropes until he’s almost standing on the second ropes. Then, with a mighty heave, Ivan does what he does best.

Yeet.

Jiles is thrown, mercilessly, to the ground. He lands on the other side of the ring, near the other corner, hard enough for the ring to bounce. This causes Avalon to turn from his debate with Hessian to see what happened.

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon is not exactly a conventional referee.

Richard Parker: I heard he’d only done one Zoom call and it lasted thirty minutes, and ten of those minutes were complaining about how much over the line The Anglo Luchador was in their basketball game.

Nick Stuart: …….I didn’t know that Elvis could ball.

Richard Parker: Yeah, I also heard that Elvis knows the Chaos Dunk, but chooses not to use it. Good thing, too. Last thing we need is to be in some weird post-apocalypse where Vince Carter is a robot and Michael Jordan and Michael Jackson have combined into one being.

Nick Stuart: What?

Yeah, what?

Anyway, while that bullshit Richard Parker was talking about was going on, Ivan has marched over to Cancer Jiles and has started to give him the business. You know what? Sorry, “the business” feels a bit too capitalist. Uh. Socially mandated workflow. Something like that. In any case, Ivan traps Jiles in the corner again, putting his boot up against his throat and choking him against the turnbuckles with it.

Coral recognizes that maybe he should start a five count, so he does. Ivan breaks at four and a half, of course, and contemptuously stares at the night’s referee. However much referee Coral Avalon may respect Ivan, it is not returned in kind. After all, Coral has something in his possession that Ivan doesn’t feel he ever lost.

Ivan turns back to the crumb, and… oh. There’s a thumb in the eyes.

Nick Stuart: No matter how big you are, the eye will forever be a weakpoint.

Richard Parker: Well, the bullshit parade has started.

Nick Stuart: We’ve barely started this match.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but Jiles got a move in. And that’s bullshit.

Avalon admonishes Jiles for the eye poke, but Jiles gives not a single fuck. In fact, he climbs up on the second ropes and grabs another big handful of Ivan’s big face. Well, more specifically, his eyes. Ivan is blinded by this, and Max is yelling at Coral about the whole eye gouging thing.

So, Coral looks at Jiles and says…

Coral Avalon: Hey.

That’s it. That’s all he says.

Thirty minute Zoom call, folks! You’d think he’d know all of the rules, but maybe Coral isn’t exactly all that motivated about the health and safety of these two tonight.

Ivan, therefore, takes matters into his own hands. He shoves Jiles as hard as he can (which is pretty hard) and Jiles falls out of the ring and to the floor in a heap.

OOOOOOOHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Yes! YES! YESSSSSS! DO IT AGAIN!

Nick Stuart: Unbiased professional broadcaster Richard Parker, ladies and gentlemen. And after what Ivan did earlier tonight?

Richard Parker: Look, that was that. This is a crumb. It’s different.

Ivan shakes off the damage done to his eyes after a moment’s pause, and then he steps over the top ropes and heads out to the floor to meet Jiles. Now, normally, the referee would begin to administer the ten count in order to get everyone back into the ring so that there could be a proper match.

Coral Avalon is not really interested in that. Instead of remaining in the ring to count to ten, he slips out underneath the bottom rope and gives a light suggestion to Ivan to return to the ring.

Ivan’s response?

Ivan Stanislav: Go die.

Avalon does not go or die. And it doesn’t matter because when he goes to crush Jiles beneath his heel, Jiles catches him in a drop toe hold that sends Ivan face-first into the stairs.

CRASH.

Gravity is a harsh mistress, the bigger you are, etc., etc. Point is, Ivan takes that pretty hard. Jiles immediately goes to grab a steel chair. Now, that would normally be grounds for a disqualification in these sorts of matches. But Jiles throws it into the ring instead of into Ivan, and gives Coral a look. You know, that “dare you to stop me” kind of look. Coral stares at Jiles for a long moment, then looks at the chair lying conspicuously in the ring.

Then he shrugs and goes back into the ring in order to get rid of it.

Now, while this is all going on, Jiles is going to get a second chair. Because he can. Once he does, he stalks after the giant with the chair, and slams it into his back.

CRACK!

Ivan reacts less with agony and pain like most normal human beings who may or may not have been subject to some Russian super soldier program – allegedly – so all this chairshot nonsense really just annoys him. He stands up straight and turns around to face Jiles.

Jiles, nonplussed, hits him again.

CRACK!

Ivan is stunned from this one, and he backs away shielding his face. Jiles takes the chair and then rams it into his gut. Now, at this point, Coral Avalon should have noticed what was going on out on the floor. But man, his shoelaces! He’s got to fix those. So while he’s doing that, Ivan and Jiles continue to cheat outrageously.

Nick Stuart: I don’t mean to question Coral Avalon here, but…

Richard Parker: FOR GOD’S SAKES, TURN AROUND!

Now, let’s talk about our good, good friend Maximilian Wilhelm Kael.

Max is an opportunist. He sees an opportunity with a distracted referee. So he comes up behind Cancer Jiles and loads up the Dreamweaver.

Now, this isn’t Jiles’ first rodeo. He knows something is coming up from behind, because he knows he’s not exactly getting to do any of this for free – even with a referee that doesn’t seem entirely concerned with his or Ivan’s safety. So when the Dreamweaver comes out, Jiles’ head moves. The chair gets launched from his hands and…

SMACK!

…right into Ivan’s head.

You’ll never believe what Jiles does next. His trick knee acts up, you see. Serious condition, you know, happened when he climbed up COOLYMPUS long ago. His leg kicks the man of a thousand (stolen) nicknames low and Max falls over like a tree, landing near the commentary table.

Ivan is staggered, and Jiles goes to retrieve another chair.

Richard Parker: Can someone stop this maniac?

Nick Stuart: Don’t let him hear you. I think he’s got his salt shoes on.

By now, Coral has finally decided to take an interest in this match. And by that, I mean he walks over to that side of the ring right around the time that Ivan gets fed up with all of this nonsense. Jiles goes for Ivan’s head, and Ivan easily bats away Jiles’ chair with one big bear paw of a hand. Then he grabs Jiles by the head and, well…

…I hope the front row is insured.

Nick Stuart: WATCH OUT!

OHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: JILES GOT LAUNCHED INTO THE CROWD!

Richard Parker: YES!

Avalon watches this happen with all of the concern of an eGG Bandit, which is to say that he hopes that Jiles bounced when he landed. Fans scatter, a few of whom were unlucky enough to be unable to get out of the way in time and got crumbed in the process.

Avalon leaves the ring as Ivan goes out into the crowd to collect Jiles and make his life even more hell than it already was from being, you know, Jiles. Any other referee would’ve started a ten count. Any other referee would be advising to take this match to the ring.

Coral Avalon, on the other hand, knows exactly what to do.

Nick Stuart: Avalon is… Is he…

Richard Parker: WHY IS THAT FAN GIVING HIM HIS POPCORN!?

I mean, Avalon did a fiver from his pocket and handed it over, along with a fist bump.

In this economy, that probably doesn’t quite cover the cost of the popcorn, but hey! Fair trade!

Avalon finds a nice seat on the top turnbuckle, a great vantage point for the brawl that’s erupting in the crowd. Then he chows down while he watches things escalate, which is exactly the opposite of what he should be doing as a professional wrestling referee.

Thirty minutes! Zoom call!

Richard Parker: They should never let an eGG Bandit referee a match again after this. I won’t allow it. I’ll turn in my badge and my Hall of Fame credentials and that coupon I’ve been saving up for when I go to Subway again before I call another match like this again. This is a disgrace. This is an affront. This is blasphemy. This i—

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: Ivan gets hit by a chair!

Richard Parker: (unintelligible gibberish)

Nick Stuart: Are you okay?

Richard Parker: I WASN’T FINISHED, PIZMO!

Jiles had thrown the chair from his position on the ground at Ivan’s head, and it hit him. It stunned him. But Ivan is not deterred. Jiles gets up only to be snatched up in Ivan’s arms again. Then Ivan throws him deeper into the crowd.

CRASH!

So, you know, Jiles is having a great time right now. Fantastic.

Ivan takes a contemptuous look at the Universal champion seated on his perch who isn’t exactly doing anything about this situation. He sneers his hatred at him. Coral’s response is to throw a piece of popcorn into the air and attempt to catch it in his mouth, completely nonplussed. It bounces off of his nose and tumbles to the arena floor.

Ivan ignores him and stalks after Jiles, who is crawling away from Ivan because he is a very large man who can’t stop yeeting him into things. Case in point, he grabs Jiles and…

CRASH!

…throws him into the front row, closer to where the ring is.

More fans scatter. It’s chaos. There should really be some order here that only a referee can establish, and…

…Oh, he’s checking his nails. You know, that’s pretty important actually, you don’t want dirt under there or anything, and… why did he not visit a pedicurist before he came to the show I mean Jesus.

Sorry. Where were we? Oh, yes. Yeeting.

With a great heave, Ivan yeets Jiles one more time over the ringside barrier.

THUD.

That’s probably got to hurt.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles is doing his best impersonation of a ping-pong ball right now!

Richard Parker: Throw him HARDER, comrade!

Nick Stuart: Well, we know how unbiased Rich is tonight.

Jiles’ survival instincts kick in and he crawls underneath the ring skirt and disappears underneath the ring. Ivan glares at him, and then at the referee sitting on the top rope eating popcorn. Coral, helpfully, points down at where Jiles disappeared to.

Coral Avalon: He went that way!

Ivan is more than a little suspicious at how helpful Avalon is being here. Nevertheless, the Russian Bear has no recourse. He has to collect this crumb and crush it underneath his heel. So he flips up the skirt and grabs Jiles by the ankle, and rips him from underneath the ring with one hand.

There’s, uh… there’s a couple of problems with this.

The first is that someone else got dragged out from underneath the ring along with Jiles. The second problem is that this someone else is dragging something else out with him.

SSSSSSRRRRRKKKKK!

Richard Parker: What was THAT!?

Nick Stuart: That’s a fire extinguisher!

Richard Parker: I know that! Why did it hit Ivan in the face!?

That’s because of the first problem as previously discussed. His name is Tony Gamble, and he’s a fuck. He snuck underneath the ring when no one was looking after he and Bobby Dean faced the Femme Furies earlier in the night, and he got a hold of our second problem – the aforementioned fire extinguisher. Needless to say, Ivan is covered in white shit and he’s not happy about it.

Gamble scurries away, especially as Max Kael is giving chase to him. Well, Max’s pace is more like a leisurely jog, because he will catch Gamble eventually. Kael chases Gamble up the ramp, and only stops chasing him when Gamble retreats behind the Hessian that stands at the entrance ramp. Hessian takes one step towards Max, and Max makes the heroic decision to not piss off the seven foot tall behemoth and backs away quickly.

Meanwhile, Jiles has entered the ring. Avalon sighs and leaves his perch, setting down his popcorn in the corner. He goes to finally start doing his job and start a count.

And Ivan’s back in at two, so we don’t yet know if Coral Avalon does indeed know how to count to three.

Jiles is on Ivan like salt on an egg, dropping quick elbows and stomps on Ivan’s head and shoulders. He goes for the cover, but before Avalon can even drop down for a count, Ivan launches Jiles three feet in the air while kicking out.

Richard Parker: Yes! Launch him higher!

To his credit, Jiles is back on his feet and trying to keep Ivan down. It’s just that Ivan cannot be kept down for long. The Russian Bear rises to his feet and gets his paws on Jiles again. He yeets him into the corner hard enough that Avalon only narrowly avoids getting smashed himself, and then Ivan charges and crushes the COOLYMPIAN in the corner with all four hundred alleged pounds of weight and power.

Ivan steps away, and Jiles manages to make it three steps forward before he flops down on his face like he just had a particular mushroom-based energy drink. Ivan turns Jiles over and puts one foot on his chest for a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

Nope.

Ivan is naturally displeased by the cadence of this count, and he tries to menace the King of Conquerors over the “slow” count. Avalon is not particularly menaced and calmly holds up two fingers for Ivan to see. Ivan sneers.

Then Jiles uppercuts him in the balls, and he stops sneering.

OOOOOOHHHHH!!!

Coral shrugs his shoulders as he notes to the camera that he didn’t actually see that because he was looking up at Ivan and not down at Ivan’s junk. He’d probably say something along the lines of “boy this referee gig is a lot harder than it looks!”

Richard Parker: WHAT IS THIS REFEREEING JOB!?

Nick Stuart: I mean, he didn’t see Ivan get hit in the groin…

Richard Parker HE COULD HAVE INFERRED WHAT HAPPENED! I AM SO ANGRY, NICK! I AM SO, SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW.

Nick Stuart: Richard. Since when are referees allowed to infer things? They can only judge what they see, you know.

Richard Parker: I AM GOING TO CALL THE REST OF THIS MATCH IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. YOU CAN’T STOP ME. THAT’S HOW MAD I AM.

Nick Stuart: I’m turning your sound down on my headset now.

Richard Parker: YOU CAN’T TURN ME DOWN! I’LL JUST YELL LOUDER!

Ivan staggers to a corner, but he doesn’t go down. Because of course he doesn’t. Avalon does his best to gently admonish his stablemate(?) Cancer Jiles.

Coral Avalon: Hey, uh, don’t do that again.

Jiles’ only response? The one finger salute, of course.

Now, this might be grounds for a little confrontation. But Jiles brushes this off and goes on the attack. He pounds away on Ivan in the corner, hammering him with right hands and eye pokes. He even bites him a little, and Coral had to administer an honest-to-god five count to get him to stop.

Jiles gives him a glare, the kind where he’s probably wondering why Avalon is even bothering when he should be helping a fellow Bandit, but while he’s doing this, Ivan takes another big bear paw and shoves Jiles off of him. Jiles lands on his back, rolls over to his feet, and…

OHHHHHH!!!

…dies.

Nick Stuart: WHAT A WICKED LARIAT FROM IVAN!

Richard Parker: MY ONLY REGRET IS THAT HE WAS NOT DECAPITATED.

Ivan goes into the cover, and Avalon counts.

ONE.

TWO.

NO.

At this point, Ivan Stanislav is angry beyond sense. He stands up and confronts Avalon about his counting. Avalon will not stand down from this confrontation, and continues to insist that it was two, he can count to three, and his counting is fast enough.

Ivan turns and picks up Jiles like he’s a child, putting him in position for Kurchatov’s Bomb. It’s going to be a bad time for Jiles if he lands this where he’s thinking – probably the ring post, if we’re being honest. Instead, Jiles fights out of it, punching Ivan until Ivan is disoriented enough to let go.

Jiles kicks Ivan in the knee, which puts Ivan on one knee. Then, Jiles rears back.

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOLJ—OH NO!

Richard Parker: OH NO!

Oh no.

Ivan ducks it. And who is behind Ivan right now? Why, it’s Coral Avalon.

So, our referee’s blind now. What to do? Well, after Ivan uppercuts Jiles so hard that he’s propelled two feet off of the ground and down onto his back, Ivan decides that the only thing to do is to get rid of him. He grabs Avalon and yeets him right out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Avalon is out of the ring! We have no referee!

Richard Parker: WE HAD NO REFEREE TO BEGIN WITH, CLEARLY!

The moment Avalon hits the ground, chaos immediately ensues.

Max Kael takes the opportunity to enter the ring and put the boots to Cancer Jiles. Ivan joins in. Boots are being put upon the leader(?) of the eGG Bandits.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Hessian!

Richard Parker: OH NO!

Hessian climbs over the ropes and rocks Max Kael with a headbutt when he turns to see what just happened behind him and why there’s so much of a commotion. He spins Ivan around and the two biggest men in all of PRIME begin throwing bombs at one another.

Nick Stuart: They’re at it again! HESSIAN AND IVAN! IVAN AND HESSIAN! BACK AND FORTH!

Richard Parker: DON’T LET THIS HALL OF FAME BANDIT BEAT YOU, IVAN!

Of course, there’s more than one Hall of Fame Bandit in the eGG Bandits. Behind Ivan, Tony Gamble has scaled to the top rope, and he leaps off and onto Ivan’s back with a sleeper hold!

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble is like a backpack on top of Ivan!

Richard Parker: COME ON! GET ANOTHER REFEREE OUT HERE, THIS ONE IS USELESS!

Max Kael recovers from the headbutt and leaps on Hessian’s back in much the same way. The two goliaths end up grappling with one another to try and prevent their adversary’s “backpack” from falling off. Gamble throws a punch at Max. Max returns one in kind. It’s dumb. It’s chaos. It’s…

Nick Stuart: THE MASTERS ARE HERE!

That’s right. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz have run down to the ring. They immediately pull Gamble off of Ivan and throw him from the ring. Then they keep kicking Hessian until he falls to one knee, and that lets Max Kael get an even better grip on the sleeper hold he has on Hessian before putting him to the mat with a Dreamweaver.

Then the Masters and Ivan get in a stomp party on Jiles in the corner, who is getting real battered and bruised at this point and probably deserves all of it if we’re being honest.

A shadow, however, looms over the ring.

Richard Parker: …what in the Great Value fuck is that?

High above the ring, a shadow clad in black starts dropping from the rafters, held aloft only by the power of maybe the world’s sturdiest cable and mechanism to have ever existed. The fans erupt upon seeing it.

RAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

There’s three features about this figure that are for certain. The first is that he’s wearing a black leather trench coat that somehow fits his rotund body. The second is that he’s carrying a baseball bat. The third is that he’s wearing a latex mask of the only main member of the eGG Bandits not at ringside.

He lands (safely, we should stress) with enough of a thud to alert the members of the Red Army of his arrival. The man in the Bobby Dean mask stands there for a few seconds to undo the mechanism connecting him to the rafters. Randall Schwartz charges him, and a baseball bat right to the gut puts him to the ground. Kenny Freeman gets the same treatment.

With the Masters down, the man in the Bobby Dean mask removes his mask, revealing…

RAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: IT’S DEAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!

Well, duh.

Richard Parker: …You know what, I’m done for tonight. I didn’t come here for Operation Dumbo Drop. This is too much Banditry for one day.

As Richard Parker can be heard audibly removing his headset and slamming it down on the table, Bobby’s luck runs out when he goes up against Max Kael. Max ducks the baseball bat when it’s swung at him, and then he hits him with a Dreamweaver so hard that Bobby’s pink-eyed corpse flops on the ground motionless. Max celebrates with his arms held up in the air…

…and then turns around.

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!

The vaunted superkick, the deadliest weapon in King Crumb’s arsenal. It hits Powerbombenheimer right in the face, knocks him through the ropes, and out to the floor. He turns around and gets goozled by Ivan. Ivan screams in Jiles’ face and then launches him into the air with a massive chokeslam!

Outside of the ring, referee Coral Avalon has found a bottle of water to wash out his yoljk-stained eyes. His expression is more than a little displeased. Seeing Ivan covering Jiles once again, he stands and slides back into the ring.

ONE.

TWO.

TH—NO!

Ivan is irate. He’d weathered the carnage of the eGG Bandits and the Red Army fighting in the ring. Bobby Dean lies motionless on the apron. Hessian is down on one knee on the floor. The Masters are convalescing on the floor from baseball bat-related pain. Max Kael is out. And Tony…

Wait, where’s Tony?

Oh, there’s Tony. Are those…

Nick Stuart: …Tony Gamble has a telephone book! No, he has two!

Richard Parker could audibly be heard shouting “OH COME ON!” about this situation.

Tony brings the phone books into the ring and then goes to attack Ivan. Before Coral can even tell Tony to get out of the ring, Tony finds himself immediately regretting his decisions in life. Like, immediately.

You see, Ivan Stanislav has a maneuver in his arsenal. It’s greatly feared. It’s the sort of move that a man of Ivan’s size and shape and age and ethnic origin really shouldn’t be doing, but he does it because fuck you. And when we say “fuck you”, I mean that he almost exclusively seems to use it on one man in particular.

So when Tony Gamble runs up to him, Ivan leaps on top of him. And there is a long, agonizing (for Tony) moment where Tony is carrying all of Ivan’s girth and mass on his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: HU… HURRICANRUSSIA!?!

Needless to say, it’s not very pleasant for Tony or his spinal column. Ivan crashes down on top of Gamble, and…

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!

The superkick rocks Ivan almost the instant he lands from the Hurricanrussia. The timing is almost too perfect. The only thing is…

…Ivan doesn’t go down.

Oh, sure, he’s rocked. Even Ivan isn’t unaffected by the power that Cancer Jiles puts into the Terminal Cancer. But Ivan doesn’t go down. Much to Tony Gamble’s agony, because Ivan is still on top of him. Jiles goes wide-eyed, but he backs up and aims a second on—no, it’s blocked.

With one hand.

Because Ivan Stanislav is unstoppable, unbeatable, and indefatigable.

Jiles gets shoved back, and Ivan slowly gets to his feet to the relief of the Tony Gamble underneath him, flat as a pancake.

Avalon takes the opportunity to pull Tony Gamble off of the canvas to get him out of the ring, and we should be giving him some sort of award for managing to do so without the aid of a spatula. Jiles goes for Terminal Cancer again, and Ivan swats it away a second time and goozles Jiles again.

Nick Stuart: Ivan has Jiles by the throat!

One problem.

Avalon is still getting Gamble out of the ring. He doesn’t see what’s going on inside of it. So he doesn’t see Jiles doing what Jiles does best – he gets out of trouble. And by “get out of trouble”, I mean he does something that would ordinarily get him in trouble if the referee – that’s you, Coral, this is on you – had seen it.

He spits the yoljk in Ivan’s eyes.

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOLJK! HE HAD MORE OF IT!

Ivan is blinded. And Cancer Jiles has one more trick up his sleeve. Or two, rather.

Tony left his phone books in the ring. Jiles stacks them up, and stances up. Then he does the two step, landing on the phone books, and…

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER TERMINAL CANCER!

This time, finally, the giant falls down. The ring shakes like a localized earthquake, and Jiles falls on top of the monstrosity. Avalon turns, sees Ivan’s face caked in yoljk, sighs… and then makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE! 

DING DING DING.

There’s a mixed reaction. Don’t get us wrong, nobody is happy to see that Cancer Jiles has won a match. But some are happy that Ivan Stanislav had, for the first time since UltraViolence two years ago, been pinned in the middle of the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… your winner… CAAAAANCERRRRR!!!! JIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILES!!!

Jiles looks up at referee Avalon contemptuously. He’s battered. He’s barely certain that his limbs are still attached, and when he stands up and demands that Avalon raises his arm in the air in victory, he doesn’t expect that Avalon would actually do it. And boy, that clearly hurt. Jiles tries to COOLy play off the fact that he’s definitely going in the cryostasis after tonight.

Avalon and Jiles, the two men that will meet in Seattle for the PRIME Universal Championship, stare each other down in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: A lot could happen here…

Richard Parker puts his headset back on, because he yelled a lot of unintelligible things while Ivan was getting superkicked several times, and nobody could hear him.

Richard Parker: Hello!? Can you hear me!? I need to complain about the disgrace that just happened! An absolute disgrace! A con job! What in the Sam’s Club shit just happened!?

Ultimately, it’s Avalon who acquiesces. To the victor go the spoils. The King of Conquerors backs away from Jiles, never taking his eyes off of him. Hessian climbs back into the ring, carrying a delirious Tony Gamble with him. Bobby’s back up on his feet, and the effort of doing that has left him quite winded. The eGG Bandits celebrate the victory.

They’re just going to do it without the Golden Bandit, who slips out through the bottom ropes and out to the entrance ramp.

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.