ReVival 55

The PRIME logo swirls in the bottom right of the screen, but all is still black. No fireworks, explosive intro music, or any major fanfare.

But we do hear a rolling bass voice that is surprisingly kind to the ears. The words to the song, “Katyusha,” are Russian.

Rastsvetali yabloni i grushi (Apple and pear trees blossomed)
Poplyli tumany nad rekoy. (Mists flew over the river.)
Vykhodila na bereg Katyusha, (Katyusha went out onto a river bank,)
Na vysokiy bereg na krutoy. (Onto a high and steep river bank.)

Ivan Stanislav ambles through the backstage area of the Rogers Arena; Vancouver, BC, Canada. He’s not slated to wrestle this evening, and as such wears his bright red military uniform. We can assume his myriad of medals are glittering upon his breast, though we are watching his broad back.

Vykhodila, pesnyu zavodila (She went out and started a song)
Pro stepnogo sizogo orla, (About a grey steppe eagle,)
Pro togo, kotorogo lyubila, (About the one she loved,)
Pro togo, ch’i pis’ma beregla. (About the one whose letters she kept dear.)

He rounds a corner and makes his way to an office blocked by the large Steel Door o’ Doom. Does Lindsay Troy take this steel door with her everywhere now? There’s at least one large dent in the door that certainly appears to be at Stanislav’s height.

The Russian Bear rolls his neck once, grips the handle on the door, and shoves it open and speaks in a sing-song manner.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh Lindsay Troy…

…but the Queen is nowhere to be found.

Instead, seated on a couch, is her daughter Ami, who looks over at the door and grins.

Ami Troy: Hiya.

Whatever faux-smile Stanislav was wearing evaporates. He releases the door and lets it swing wider, while The Russian Bear is only half ducked through the doorway. He doesn’t bother entering any further, as if the room might somehow fill with poison gas. He looks around.

Ivan Stanislav: Where is your mother?

Ami Troy: (smiling sweetly) She’s not here.

The sweetness of her smile is the direct opposite of Stanislav’s increasingly stormy demeanor. He snaps.

Ivan Stanislav: Well where the hell is she?!

Ami Troy: Wow, grumpy much?

The Merry Mischief Maker frowns as she leans over to pick a bag of popcorn up off the floor by her feet. She sets it in her lap and grabs a handful of butter kernels.

Ami Troy: If you must know, she’s in your locker room…

The impish grin returns to Ami’s face as she shoves the food in her mouth, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk’s.

Ami Troy: …waiting…

CRONCH!

She keeps smiling as she chews, watching Ivan’s temper boil hotter by the second.

Lindsay Troy has just outplayed The Russian Bear, who has unwittingly ceded the initiative in this contest. He snarls and stares at Ami for another moment.

Ivan Stanislav: My locker room?

He wags a finger at Ami, and without another word reaches into the office and swings the door shut, exiting with a WHAM! He pauses, looking at the door for a moment, and tugs it just that much tighter to really cinch it in there, and then moves.

What started as an amble is now a full on march through the Rogers Arena. He’d been here decades ago, and Russian Bears never forget. When he comes to an intersection, Stanislav looks left and right, weaving through the empty halls as his combat boots squeak and crunch beneath his bulk.

He finally arrives at the door with “The Red Army” upon it. He inhales and exhales, adjusts his white tie, fixes his medals, and then pushes the door wide open. His scowl is gone, replaced by a saccharine sweet smile. He ducks under the archway, speaking before even seeing Lindsay Troy.

Ivan Stanislav: Lindsay Troy! You did not need to pay special visit to Red Army locker room simply because I send you beautiful birthday flowers!

The icy glare that greets Ivan is as cold as the Siberian tundra in the dead of winter. The Boss is not here for pleasantries, or for polite conversation. While much shorter than Stanislav, she still manages to stand as tall and as imposing as the Russian Bear himself.

Lindsay Troy: Нахуй твои цветы и нахуй тебя, Иван.

Stanislav stands in the room now, eclipsing the doorway behind him. There is a long sigh that only lungs his size could exhale while his face downturns into a scowl.

Ivan Stanislav: Are we going to do this now?

That icy glare of Troy’s, somehow, turns colder.

Lindsay Troy: Why don’t you tell me what you think “this” is. Really, I’d love to hear it.

With a flourish, Stanislav grabs the door and swings it shut with another slam, and slowly turns back to face Troy. He straightens his back, and slowly approaches her, pointing at her, and himself, as he speaks.

Ivan Stanislav: You know what I am going to say about this Blake Colton thing. And you know it, because you also know that I am right!

Lindsay Troy: So we’re going to downplay what happened two weeks ago as simply “this Blake Colton thing.” That’s what we’re doing here. That’s the decision you’ve made.

Stanislav spreads his arms wide and bellows.

Ivan Stanislav: You can litigate all of this all you want, we both know it will come to nothing, Troy. I do not care about whatever emotional attachment you want to hold for that rat’s nest of a family. An unaffiliated fan of PRIME hopped that rail and hit me with a chair, Lindsay. They are lucky that I do not press charges on them!

Before she can get a word out, Ivan continues, closing the distance between the two of them, and sticking a finger in her direction.

Ivan Stanislav: And you know, Lindsay, I am unashamed to admit it. There are very few outside of Red Army who I respect, but I do have respect for you. Because I know how you are. The Lindsay Troy I know, had she been in that ring, and someone snuck up behind her and hit her with chair?

Ivan leans in close, nearly nose to nose with The Queen. His voice drips blunt sincerity.

Ivan Stanislav: She would have sent them to hospital quicker than even I.

With a viper’s quickness, Lindsay grabs Ivan’s finger and twists his hand away from her face. Her other hand grabs his beard and yanks him downward so they are – for the first time, maybe ever – eye-to-eye. Stanislav grunts as he is pulled downward, his balance off kilter for a moment at just how far he needs to bend.

All coldness in her demeanor has evaporated, and in its place is a boiling, white-hot rage. It takes everything within Lindsay to not explode, to not make Ivan’s premonition manifest, to not become what he says he sees in her.

In not doing so, her restraint may be even more terrifying.

Lindsay Troy: You can save your respect, Ivan.

Her teeth are bared, and she vibrates with anger.

Lindsay Troy: You can save it because I see right through you. What you did to Blake Colton went beyond merely “protecting” yourself. You knocked him down, you knocked him away, and then you deliberately went in for the kill. You weren’t “protecting” yourself anymore. You were sending a message. That, coupled with every single other morally reprehensible “message” the Red Army – specifically, you and Alexei – have sent in nearly two years time, is what makes your entire sob story nothing more than political theater. Nothing more than bullshit.

Stanislav remains bent over, with one big hand on his knee to support his weight. He doesn’t break his gaze into Troy’s fiery eyes, giving as much as she can give.

Lindsay Troy: I should fire you and every member of the Red Army. Including Alexei, even though he wasn’t in Portland two weeks ago. Both your lifetime contracts give you no quarter. But I would hate to deny the fans of repercussions that all of you have coming your way. So, unless you’d like to kick rocks back to Moscow, tonight you’ll be apologizing on air to the entire Colton Family. Sincerely apologizing. And, you’ll be staying away from the evening’s matches, especially the main event. Do I make myself clear?

Stanislav is silent while he keeps his gaze on Lindsay. It’s remarkable just how big of a skull he has. He tilts his head to the side and he offers a smile, speaking in a low growl.

Ivan Stanislav: There she is. There is the girl from twenty years ago. I thought you might have lost your nerve, Lindsay Troy, part-timing it as an executive, getting fitted for wedding dresses, and sitting in your elitist chairs.

He nods his head slowly and rises to his full height once more, looking down at her along the bridge of his nose.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes. You make yourself abundantly clear, Queen of the Ring.

Lindsay Troy: I’m not finished.

Ivan raises a bushy eyebrow.

Lindsay Troy: You will answer to Nate Colton for what you did two weeks ago. Sometime down the road, you will also answer to me for all the things you’ve done since I allowed you to be relevant in our sport again.

If there is any space left between them, the Queen has closed it.

Lindsay Troy: When that day happens, you’ll wish I was still the Lindsay Troy from twenty years ago.

Stanislav’s square chin is nearly buried in his chest as he looks down at Troy, a vein in the side of his head pulsing. He growls.

Ivan Stanislav: I look forward to it. Lindsay Troy.

Lindsay Troy: На вашем месте я бы этого не делал.

The Boss brushes by him, heading for the door.

Ivan stares at the floor where she was and turns slowly, rubbing his upper lip.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, Lindsay?

She pauses and looks over her shoulder. He slides his huge hands into his uniform pants pockets and lifts his chin.

Ivan Stanislav: You never said you wouldn’t do it.

Lindsay Troy: That’s because I’m not you.

The Queen takes her leave, and the Bear is alone once again. Ivan rocks back on his heels and grinds his teeth, singing to himself once again while gazing at the locker room that was now a cage.

Oj ty, pesnia, pesenka devichia! (Oh you, the song, the girl’s song!)
Ty leti za iasnym solntsem vsled. (You fly out trailing the bright sun.)
I bojtsu na dalnem pograniche, (And to a soldier in a distant border,)
Ot Katyushi peredaj privet. (Send him cheers from Katyusha.)

SMASH TO: 

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/09/ReV55-Commercial.mp4

The show feeds cuts away from the loser of ReVival 54’s MAIN EVENT, and him presumably crying about losing in said main event, to signs —

MORE LIKE ENEMI-NOS
STOP TRYING TO MAKE COOLOSSUS HAPPEN
ARE EITHER OF JASON SNOW OR BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD A COWBOY?
WHAT’S LONG AND YELLOW AND IS UNBOUND BY TIME AND SPACE — BANANA DANIELS
THERE’S A UNIVERSE WHERE ANNA DANIELS IS DANIEL ANNAS AND I BET HE’S A REALLY NICE GUY
PUNCH FRED DICK IN THE DICK — AND IN THE FRED
CLAY BYRD IS A BIG DICKHEAD WITH A BIG DICKHEAD TRUCK
GINNY FOR NEW PRIME SECURITY DIRECTOR
FUCK AROUND AND FIVE STAR OUT
BLAKE COLTON THREW HIMSELF INTO THAT RING POST

— and picks up at ringside with Nick and Dick.

Nick Stuart: Hello everyone! Welcome to ReVival! I’m your host Nick Stuart, and sitting next to me is the very much alive and hopefully well, Richard Parker.

Richard Parker: I’m doing just fine, thank you very much!

Nick Stuart: We have a jam packed show for you tonight, featuring the final round on PRIME’s Tag League. But first, we’re kicking off ReVival with Kerry Kuroyama and Sage Pontiff going head to head for Kerry’s ALIAS Championship!

At first, darkness hits. Every light in the arena goes out, causing a buzz among the crowd and a few cell phone camera lights. The video screen shows a single glowing orb at the top of the screen. Lavender. Then another beneath it, blue. Teal. Green. Yellow. Orange. Finally, red–and then around it, the shimmering outline of a human body in lotus position. This image shatters like a glass pane, the shards hanging in the nothingness as if time has slowed down. This holds on the screen as an almost marching drumbeat begins, pulsing throughout the arena.

Where this would normally herald the entrance of Sage Pontiff, resplendent in his kimono, dancing amidst flower petals…now gives us something different. Gone is the good nature and respect hiding the violent intent–this is a man who is honest with himself. As a golden spotlight bathes him, Sage Pontiff emerges. His beard has reached full hermit length, his dreads longer every time we see him. Instead of a robe of silk with a wild pattern, he wears a more simple linen affair with an offset pattern of sacred geometry. His hands are wrapped in tape, he’s barefoot, and he wears loose pants that allow him maximum mobility. The whole affair seems different, the music and the motions familiar but with a vein of menace running through it. His eyes don’t look half-lidded or warm…he is staring at the ring with unnerving, unwavering focus, no matter how dilated his pupils are.

The Bodhisattva throws his head back, causing his dreadlocks to arc and land across his back, as he drops to his knees, eyes closed. Emerging from the back behind him is Paxton Ray, who needs no vein of menace–he wears his like a road sign. He has a towel draped across his shoulder, but he doesn’t mug to the crowd or interrupt what Sage is doing, content to let his friend get into whatever space he needs to get into before a match this big. As the vocals begin, he can be seen speaking to himself, likely a mantra, before kissing his fingers and touching the center of his forehead.

There is no up or down
Your truth is the only master
Death is made by the living
Pain is only intense to you…

He rises to his feet, beginning a slow descent to the ring. Content to take his time as the psychedelic riffs blast throughout the building, he doesn’t seem to even notice the crowd is there–no matter the movement of his body, his head and eyes remain focused and locked on the ring. We can see Paxton saying something to him, which causes Pontiff to nod tersely in agreement. Halfway down the ramp, he cracks his neck on both sides, then every knuckle individually, then begins doing deep side lunges.

Nick Stuart: The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience looks the part tonight, Dick.

Richard Parker: Maybe if he’s auditioning for Dazed and Confused 2.

Sage slides into the ring, kips to his feet fluidly, and then takes a running start and leaps flat footed, landing with a slight wobble on the top turnbuckle–but sticks the landing, staring throughout the arena, finally eyeing the gathered masses who treat him with excited reactions, mostly negative.

The Sun shines every day
The Sun shines every day
Freedom, freedom!
Freedom, freedom…

Finally, he smiles his magazine quality smile and executes a backflip, landing flat-footed with frightening ease for a man of his height. He peels his caftan off, tossing it to Barlow, and lowers himself in the far corner, executing the Malasana Garland Pose with prayerful hands as “Satori Part II” fades out and he awaits the emergence of Kerry Kuroyama, his eyes fixed on the entrance in unblinking brilliance.

Nick Stuart: And now the Champion.

Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady hits the PA. A row of pyros in green and gold cross the stage. The curtain tears aside, and the Alias Champion KERRY KUROYAMA strides into view. With august, almost defiant grace, he unclasps the customized “Wingman Title” from his waist and holds it over his head right as Scott Hunter comes out to join him on the stage.

Scott Hunter also happens to be carrying a surfboard, for reasons that presumably begin with Scott and end with Hunter.

Scott Hunter: Just remember what Bodhi says in Point Break: One, never underestimate your opponent. Expect the unexpected. Two, take it outside. Never start anything inside the bar unless it’s absolutely necessary. And three, be nice.

As they make their way down the aisle, Kuroyama flashes Hunter a look of perplexion.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, Bodhi never said that. That’s Dalton from Roadhouse. You’re mixing up your Patrick Swayze references.

Scott Hunter: Take all your emotions! All your pain, all your love, all your passion, all your rage! Just push it all the way down into the pit of your stomach! And then LET IT EXPLODE LIKE A REACTOR! Ka-POW!

BAM!

Hunter emphasizes the point by punting the steel steps. Kerry continues to look at him questionably before scaling up to the apron.

Kerry Kuroyama: You just jumped from Roadhouse to Ghost. Patrick Swayze didn’t even say that line. Pretty sure it was the subway ghost.

Scott Hunter: Are you trynna say it’s not good advice?

Kerry blinks.

Kerry Kuroyama: …okay, point taken. Anyway, you got my wing tonight?

Scott Hunter: You got it, man! Although I can’t help but feel I’m forgetting something…

The Emerald Apex steps through the ropes, scales a turnbuckle for one last photo-op moment, and joins Scott in his corner.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the WINGMAN CHAMPIONSHIP of PRIME! Per the agreed upon stipulations, either competitor’s selected cornerman has the power to call for a one-time sixty second break at any point in the match!

Kerry nudges Scott and tells him to ditch the surfboard. Hunter dutifully chucks it away, but only in a manner that creates a combination of car accident and yowling cat sound effects.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger! Hailing from Joshua Tree, California, United States, and weighing in at two-hundred and one pounds… the BODHISATTVA OF TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENCE… SAAAAAAAAAGGGE POOOOONTTIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFF!!!!

Pontiff posts up on a turnbuckle and poses to a big ovation.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, accompanied to the ring by Scott Hunter… hailing from Seattle, Washington, United States, and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-two pounds… he is the WINGMAN CHAMPION of PRIME… the EMERALD APEX… KERRRYYYYYYYY KUUUROOOYAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Kuroyama tears off his robe. Hunter snatches it out of the sky. The Wingman Championship rises up overhead. People get super stoked. Before handing off the belt, Kerry steps up to ring center. Sage joins him. They stare each other down for a beat before Barlow splits them up and gives the cue to the timekeeper.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re underway!

The two competitors spend about a half a second circling each other inside the ring.

Then, they’re off.

The two meet in the center of the ring for a collar and elbow tie up. Neither of them can seem to get the advantage, as the two push each other about the ring. Finally, Kerry is able to drive The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience into the corner, and lights him up with an open-palm slap clean across the face.Kuroyama quickly follows up the disorienting slap by driving his elbow into Pontiff’s recently reddened jaw. Still not done, he follows that up by driving his shoulder into Sage’s abdomen not once, not twice, but three times.

Nick Stuart: The Champion starting to cook! Pontiff in trouble!

The Emerald Apex gives the challenger a few inches to move out of the corner before planting him with a snap Dragon Suplex. He wastes no time continuing the onslaught, locking in a rear chinlock. After wrenching it nice and good, Kerry goes for a quick pin.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: That was a lot closer than it should have been!

Paxton Ray slams his hand on the mat a few times trying to rile up Sage Pontiff. Scott Hunter flashes the thumbs down at him from across the ring. Kerry stays on the offensive. He grabs Sage by the hair, pulls him upright, and sends him right back down to the mat with an impressive standing dropkick.

Nick Stuart: Right on the button! Kuroyama is in full control! This attack is relentless! Maybe The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience should take a timeout before this match gets out of hand!

Sage starts to crawl away, trying to flee from Seattle’s Beast beastly barrage. The Champ slowly stalks him down, following behind in the challenger’s blindspot. Then, for some reason or another, before Kerry can Yakuza kick Sage’s head clean off, he stops. It’s Scott Hunter. He’s not there. Well, he’s not there anymore.

Scott has taken off into the crowd, in a frenzy.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter has taken off into the crowd ladies and gentlemen! Good thing Kerry is in control!

RIchard Parker: Jinx.

Nick Stuart: SURPRISE INSIDE CRADLE! Pontiff out of nowhere!

One.

TWO!

ThrALMOST!

Kerry breaks free at the last second, and is not pleased. Sage begins to crawl away on his hands and knees, trying his best to clear the webs…

… or lure Kerry into a trap. Once The Emerald Apex is in range, Pontiff leans forward on his hands, and powerfully thrusts his legs back, mule kicking The Pacific Blitzkrieg clean in the chest.

Nick Stuart: He calls that one “Namaste” I believe!

Richard Parker: Yoga nerd.

The wind is instantly knocked out of the Champion, and the impact from the signature move immediately brings him down to his knees! In order to buy some time, and since Scott Hunter isn’t around to call a much needed timeout, Kerry rolls out of the ring. Pontiff sees this and decides to throw caution to the wind. He dives headfirst through the ropes and crashes into Kuroyama on the outside.

Both men are down.

Barlow begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

Sage rolls over, mounts the Champion, and busts him open with a series of unabated headbutts.

Richard Parker: Champ’s bleeding!

THREE!

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter better have a great answer as to where he is right now. Kerry had this match firmly in control!

FOUR!

The man from Joshua Tree dismounts and staggers to his feet. He reaches down, helps Kerry upright, and goes to Irish Whip him back into the ring. Kuroyama, a student of the game, reverses the move and sends Sage crashing into the guardrail.

FIVE!

The Emerald Apex takes a breath to gather himself. Then, grabs at his face, noticing the blood for the first time.

SIX!

His eyes go wide, like he’s about to be blinded by fury.

SEVEN!

Pontiff, just like his dive between the ropes a few moments ago, went head first into the guardrail and as such remains hanging out with some of the ringside fans. Paxton is urging him to press forward and get up.

Scott Hunter remains nowhere to be seen.

EIGHT!

Richard Parker: If this ends in a double count out.

In an effort to get things back on track, Ashley Barlow leans in between the ropes and starts to holler at Kerry and Sage, urging them to get back into the ring. Her cries however, fall upon deaf ears. Kerry is seeing red. Sage is seeing stars.

NINE!

Nick Stuart: Somebody call a timeout already!

Before Barlow can ruin a good thing, Paxton Ray comes in with the save, calling a timeout before the ten count.

Nick Stuart: Paxton keeps Sage’s championship hopes alive!

Richard Parker: What a guy. I guess no one needed to be crippled.

Even though the timeout is called, Seattle’s Beast ignores it. He has seen the blood on his hands, and now seeks retribution. He lunges at the still prone Sage, but Paxton gets in between the two competitors. Paxton and Kerry start to jaw back and forth at one another. There might have even been a shove or two. However, during the tiff, and very much unbeknownst to them, Sage manages to catch his wind.

Nick Stuart: Sage is up, perched on the top rope, and Kerry doesn’t see him!

Richard Parker: I guess he left his shoes at the Yoga Studio.

Pontiff launches into the air, and lands his second high risk maneuver of the match. It also happens to be another signature move from his arsenal, a Stardust press.

Nick Stuart: “Electric Feel” to the outside! MY GAWD PONTIFF IS A MAD MAN!

Richard Parker: I take back the Yoga jokes.

Though Kerry, Paxton, and Sage are all laying jumbled together as debris, it is Kerry who is worst for the wear.

Scott Hunter remains awol.

Barlow signals that there’s thirty seconds left for the timeout. Paxton finds his feet, and pulls Sage out of the rubble so to speak. He dusts him off as best he can, and…

And…

And.

And after a brief exchange punches The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience in the face.

Nick Stuart: Did Sage just ask him to do that? Is that why they are smiling?

Richard Parker: Sycophants. Who knew?

Sage, with a renewed fire in his eyes, grabs Kerry and rolls him into the ring. Barlow indicates the timeout is over, and the match can resume. Paxton bangs on the mat, screaming for Sage to finish him.

Nick Stuart: Not looking good for the Champ right now!

Both competitors are back inside the ring. Kerry remains at a disadvantage, and it’s about to get much worse. While he’s trying to get to his feet, Pontiff blasts him in the back of the head with a picture perfect Koppo kick.

Richard Parker: Did you see the sweat fly from his head?

Nick Stuart: Kerry could be out!

Slowly, laboriously, Pontiff rolls Kerry over onto his back and covers him. Barlow drops down to make the count.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Kerry kicked out!

Richard Parker: You sure that wasn’t a convulsion out?

Sage slaps the mat, finds his feet, and signals to the crowd that it’s time for the Shamanic Dreamweaver. He grabs Kerry by head, and positions him up to flip pile-driven.

Nick Stuart: If he hits this it’s over!

Right before Sage can end Kerry’s reign, Scott Hunter comes flying over the guardrail and calls for a timeout. Barlow quickly moves to break up the hold, and separates the two competitors.

Richard Parker: Well, he’s back.

Nick Stuart: And it looks like he brought something with him.

Sage goes to the far corner, seething, knowing he was seconds away from becoming Alias Champion. Kerry is seated on the mat with Scott Hunter tending to him.

Nick Stuart: Looks like he’s feeding him something.

Richard Parker: Are those… mushrooms?

Nick Stuart: Breaded.

The cameraman in the corner picks up some of the exchange between Scott Hunter and The Pacific Blitzkrieg.

“Scott, this is NOT the time for Sage Pontiff’s Super Mario powers!”

SLAP!

“ARE YOU GONNA WASTE TIME GIVING ME LIP, OR YOU GONNA TRUST YOUR WINGMAN?! NOW EAT THE MUSHROOMS!”

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff’s Super Mario Powers? Is this real?

Richard Parker: If it is, I need some of them for Night Two of UltraViolence.

Barlow indicates there’s 30 seconds left in the timeout. The Paragon of Professional Wrestling kips up like he’s gotten a b12 shot. Sage is ramping up in the opposite corner, ready to fly across the ring and pick back up where he left off.

Richard Parker: This is it. Final Battle.

Barlow signals that the timeout is over. The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience quickly charges in, shooting for Kerry’s leg. The Champ side steps out of the way, then bounces off the ropes to build up some momentum. He charges towards the challenger, who drops belly first onto the canvas. Kuroyama doesn’t break stride though, instead choosing to hurdle over Pontiff, and rebound off the ropes. Sage springs up to his feet, barely ducks a clothesline attempt, and follows up with a kick directed at Kerry’s midsection. Kuroyama catches the kick attempt, ducks the ensuing up Enzuigiri, and goes to drop an elbow onto Pontiff’s lower back. However, Sage quickly rolls out of the way and to safety.

Nick Stuart: Talk about evenly matched.

Both Champion and challenger find refuge in opposite corners of the ring. Both also have their cornermen riling them up and cheering them on. After a brief moment of respite they dart back towards one another.

Richard Parker: Okay. This is it this time. Final Battle.

Dick is right. The two dash towards the center of the ring, meeting in the middle and refusing to back down from the other. Kicks, punches, slaps, forearms… all on display.

Some are blocked.

Some are eaten.

Finally, The Emerald Apex, after blocking a high kick, gets Sage across his shoulders and drops him with Kuroyama Driver 2. He doesn’t hesitate hooking the leg and holding down Sage’s free arm.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: What an opening contest! Sage was soooooo close, but somehow Scott Hunter came through, and now KK is one title defense away from joining the likes of Coral Avalon.

Sage rolls out of the ring. Paxton helps him to the back. Ashley Barlow hands Kerry the Alias Championship, and raises his arm in victory. Soon thereafter, Scott Hunter joins them in the ring, and the two celebrate a hard fought victory.

The shot cuts away from the ring.

…PREVIOUSLY ON THE RED MANIFESTO…

The Herald runs through a thick jungle, his skin glistening with sweat. Despite his surroundings dear Bentley is still wearing his absurd Red Army Uniform which appears to be rather stifling in this steamy rainforest.

The Herald: It’s right behind him!

He screams as he flails his arms above his head in terror.

Max Kael: Keep running..

The Commissar of the Red Army calmly says as he lifts the hunting rifle up, peering down the scope.

Max Kael: ..almost there..

The Herald goes screaming past Max as the RIA-Ranger levels his shot. Ahead of him the foliage shakes and the sound of wood splintering joins Bentley’s screams. Suddenly what looks to be some kind of lizard monster bursts forth, clawed hands reaching out for Max.

BANG!

Max sips a small cup of tea while sitting in a lawn chair somewhere in a wooded area. This isn’t like the previous jungle, this woodland area is calm, cleaned up and generally the kind of enchanted wood you’d expect to find in a Disney story.

The Herald: Oh Great and Glorious Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, how long are we going to sit here?

Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington sat in a chair next to Max, his own hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

Max Kael: Until I see it, my the Herald.

He takes another sip of tea as his wild eyes continue to stare forward, locked on something in the distance.

The Herald: What if it doesn’t exist?

The Commissar of the Red Army takes a moment to consider the question. He then shakes his head, laughing off the query.

Max Kael: That seems unlikely, after all, why would they have a hedge labyrinth if they didn’t have a Minotaur?

The Herald: It’s really more of a hedge maze than a full blown labyrinth..

Kael rolls his eyes as he takes another sip of his tea.

Max Kael: It’s a confusing hedge with many paths and only one that leads to the exit. That’s all it needs to b-

The Red Right Hand of Communism is suddenly interrupted by the sound of something roaring in the far distance. A smile spreads across the Prime Minister of Maxoptamia’s face as he grabs a high powered rifle from beneath his lawn chair.

Max Kael: No, it’s definitely there. The Minotaur of the Farthington Manor Hedge Maze is real.. Heh-heh..

Standing up from his chair, Max chambers a round before nodding to the Herald. In the distance the imposing grandeur of the Farthington Manor and it’s expansive hedge maze are visible.

The Herald of Maximillian Wilhelm Kael pokes at the rotten wooden doorway of the dilapidated church.

The Herald: Uh.. why are we here?

Max Kael: I just gotta do something real quick. A blessing from the Red Army if you will.. Churches LOVE blessings I heard.

Kael makes his way through the burnt out ruins of the church with an eager expression on his face. Eventually he finds a chair sat where the preacher’s pulpit would usually be. The whole area smells of rancid humans and shame.

Max Kael: ..even the house of Dick. Oh well, this is as good a spot as any.

The Black HEART of PRIME lets out a low giggle as he unzips his pants. The soft sound of piss hitting the floor fills the silence left by Max’s vocal musings. Once finished he zips his pants up and turns back to the Herald.

Max Kael: All done!

THE RED MANIFESTO

We cut to the Red Manifesto Stage where Max Kael is standing by in his crimson Red Army uniform, a fresh new Hawaiian BBQ medal proudly displayed on his chest. However the Commissar of the Red Army is also sporting a black eye and has a bandage covering part of his head.

Max Kael: Worms of PRIME it is I, the Commissar of the Red Army, the Red Right Hand of Communism, the RIA-Ranger himself and the World’s Greatest Sid, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! Hello Canada, the United States’ weird, easily pushed around northern neighbor!

Though the Red Manifesto stage is nowhere near the live audience their audible boos are still audible. They are quickly flushed out with canned laughter.

Max Kael: The last few weeks have been a real test for the Red Army and your favorite Commissar. There have been highs..

A quick video showing the defeats of both the Big Dick Stallions and Hawaiian BBQ are shown.

Max Kael: There have been lows..

We are treated to a clip of Kenny Freeman getting pinned by the Twins? and various examples of both FLAMBERGE and Brandon Youngblood ignoring Max Kael.

Max Kael: But ultimately I, the Best Value Steak in PRIME, have not allowed it to damper my spirit! No, friends, if anything the bad has motivated me to prove not only my worth to Ivan Stanislav and my excellent partner, Kenny Freeman, but it has also motivated me to take more.. Direct action against those who would keep me from my JUSTIFIED revenge against Cecilworth Farthington..

He turns to camera two, his gloved hands clasped together as a cruel snarl pulls up on his lip.

Max Kael: Firstly, let me take a moment to address Brandon Youngblood. You’ve got a nice, pleasant family. A kid with a future, a love interest with meaning and a life worth living. Would be a shame if something were to happen to it.. Dontcha think?

A quick flash on the screen of Max’s visit to Cody’s wrestling tournament. The frame freezes on young Cody. Two X’s are slowly burned over Cody’s eyes as a canned “oooooooh” emphasizes the point. We return to Max who has that golden smile plastered up.

Max Kael: And then there is FLAMBERGE. You know, on ReVival 54 I told Youngblood that whatever happens, it’s on his shoulders. It’s his fault. The same applies to you, Lizard King. Tonight, whatever happens, it falls on your neck and no one else’s. Tonight you pay the price for ignoring me. You’re gonna wish Hayes Hanlon had taken Cecilworth Farthington’s advice and brought a gun to the ring to finish me off when he had the chance… heh-heh..

He winks, or perhaps just blinks out of sync, as he glares down Camera 2.

Max Kael: Dites adieu à la joie, FLAMBERGE.

Turning back toward Camera 1

Max Kael: A fine and well to do “Fuck You” to RIA, Fred Dick, Anna Daniels and all the rest of you losers hiding out on Jabber. I’ll be back and then you’ll all be awash in your salty fuckin’ tears. Die angry you bunch of pussies.

Clearing his throat Max holds up one hand.

Max Kael: On the matter of Anna Daniels, later tonight Kenny and I will face off against Rob Williams and Anna Daniels otherwise known as Fuck Your Tag Team. You know what? Fuck your tag team you repulsive bitches. Rumor is that Rob Williams is a pretty sick guy which is unsurprising, just watching him wrestle gives people cancer.

He stifles a sickening laugh.

Max Kael: And you, Anna, you Time Hooker, I can’t wait to spear you across the ring like a yeasty pap smear test. The only thing sad about leaving you broken, beaten and bloodied in the ring is that nobody will mourn your suffering. It’s just not as fun when I know misery isn’t a group experience. Still, I’ll enjoy feeling your flesh break beneath these hands…heh-heh..

Straightening up, Max waves toward the screen.

Max Kael: We have an excellent show for you tonight at ReVival 55! Enjoy the show!.. FLAMBERGE.. I’m lookin’ at you…

The Red Manifesto music begins to play as Max begins to dance along with it. The Herald appears on the stage next to him, joining in the dancing. They are surprisingly good, the duo having been getting lessons in Russia.

As they continue to hop around and gyrate their hips the credits run over them. Most of the credits are variations of Max Kael’s name. Once completed we cut to our next segment.

The cameras cut to the Rogers Arena’s backstage area where we find Seán O’Neill waiting outside one of the locker rooms. There is an audible cheer from the fans in the main arena who’ve just spotted O’Neill.

No wrestling gear for The SurReal One this evening, instead he’s in a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt, the cameras zoom in on the t-shirt to show a baby-blue and pastel-pink logo for RIA displayed front and centre.

O’Neill is going through the routine of loosening up he normally would when he gets in the ring, rolling his head around to free-up his shoulders and with fingers interlocked, rolling his wrists for the same purpose. Clearly he’s gearing himself up.

The locker room door swings open and RIA strides through into the corridor. This draws another cheer filtering back from the arena, this one considerably louder as the fans demonstrate their excitement at the sight of The PyschoBerry. RIA fails to hide a smirk as she spots O’Neill’s t-shirt and she gestures towards it.

RIA: Oh hey, look at that! Appreciate the support!

The Irishman flashes a grin in return, but quickly assumes his ‘serious face’.

Seán O’Neill: You ready?

RIA: As I’m gonna be.

Seán O’Neill: You don’t sound too convinced!

RIA: Never been in the ring with either guy. Little on edge, but you know me well enough by now to know I’m gonna give everything I got.

O’Neill nods in accepting this perfectly valid point, but he remains determined to fire RIA up as best he can. He points to a conveniently placed nearby mirror.

Seán O’Neill: What do you see?

RIA: Uhh, me?

Seán O’Neill: You know what I see? I SEE PRIDE… I SEE POWER… I SEE A BADASS MOTHER WHO DON’T TAKE NO CRAP OF NOBODY!

RIA turns slowly to look at O’Neill, one eyebrow arched and clearly fighting down a laugh.

RIA: … ‘Cool Runnings’, huh?

O’Neill pauses for just a second to flash another grin at his friend before continuing.

Seán O’Neill: Seriously though, I understand you didn’t get the W on your last run out.

RIA looks utterly bewildered by this.

RIA: Woah woah woah… Different set of circumstances, bud. And if I remember right, the other guy didn’t win either!

O’Neill continues on as if there had been no interruption.

Seán O’Neill: But things are going to be different this time around. Just gotta channel that same energy you had when you won the Alias title against the kid!

He breaks into song to really hit his point home.

Seán O’Neill: Two worlds collide, rival nations. It’s a primitive clash, venting years of frustrations. Bravely we hope against all hope. There is so much at stake, seems like our freedom’s up against the ropes…

RIA tries to get a word in, but O’Neill with eyes firmly shut, is in the zone and continues on.

Seán O’Neill: Does the crowd understand? Is it East versus West? Or man against man? Can any nation stand allllloooonnnneeee….

Sensing this could go on for several minutes, RIA takes things into her own hands, quite literally, as she slaps Seán across the face. The Irishman looks taken aback, it’s unclear whether this is because of the slap or the lack of appreciation for his best Jimi Jamison impression though.

RIA: You done, Frank?

Seán O’Neill: Sorry…

RIA: Listen Seán, I’m cool with you coming out with me for the next few matches, but I ain’t gonna tolerate you getting involved in any way – got it?

Seán O’Neill: One hundred percent. I’m just there to observe.

RIA: Cool. You could even try having a little fun with the fans when you’re out there. Maybe lay off the singing, yeah?

O’Neill shakes his fists in gesture of getting pumped up.

Seán O’Neill: LETS DO THIS THING!

RIA: Have I mentioned that you are kind of an odd dude Seán?

Seán O’Neill: Oh, once or twice.

With that The Technicolor Comforter of Wrestling starts off towards ‘The Argyle Position’, O’Neill following close behind.

The camera cuts in trailing PRIME Five Star Champion Don Winters walking down a backstage hallway. Coming in the opposite direction he notices a man he’s not seen face to face since War Games.

Don Winters: Hess, you got a minute? I’d like to talk to you.

The giant holds up a hand.

Hessian: If this is about Minion harassing Vickie two weeks ago, it’s handled. I’ve already gone through him, me and HR..

Don Winters: I.. what? No. It’s not that at all. This is about you, Angelus. Jiles? The Bandits? What are you thinking?

A look of confusion comes over Hessian as he settles against the nearest wall and folds his arms.

Hessian: …looking out for the team, of course. Is there a problem?

Don Winters: I guess I didn’t realize War Games would turn into a permanent team situation for you. Jiles uses people, you know this! You’re not the first, you’re certainly not the last. We could have made for an excellent team. Equals. Two halves of a whole. Not whatever it is you are under Jiles in the Bandits.

Hessian: The only thing I’m under is the obligation to be a man of my word, that’s all. Same goes for you as goes for them, if you need something say something – tag partner or whatever – I’m happy to oblige as long as it doesn’t interfere with Cancer. Coral has the title and Jiles has it in his sights, he needed an insurance policy and I agreed. He came to me first. Where’s the issue?

Don Winters: At least we agree he can’t beat Coral cleanly, but that’s neither here nor there. I look at it this way, Coral had no choice to join the Bandits, but you did. You know you’re better than that, Hess. I know you’re better than that. You’ve got to reconsider this position. I don’t even care if you align with me, but to align with the Bandits…

Winters pauses, exasperated.

Don Winters: Is that all you want? To be a mercenary? Or do you want to fight for something that matters?

Hessian: You’re making it sound like I’ve made a deal with the devil.

Don Winters: You said it, not me. Just look at the relationship between Cancer and Coral over the last year. Look how it deteriorated, fell apart. Cancer is a tiny, angry, jealous man, Hess. He’s going to do the same thing to you that he did to Coral. Why can’t you see this?

The Murder Show shrugs.

Hessian: Because I’m not up on the history of every Tom, Dick and Harry in the company, whatever’s in the past is in the past. I’m going by what I see in real-time, and what I see is Coral Avalon holding the Universal Championship. Looks to me like he’s doing alright..he knows what he signed up for. The man swims with sharks and doesn’t flinch, Cancer’s just trying to get a reaction, that’s the name of the game. I could ask why a certain follower of His Word and Light isn’t the one in my shoes? What did Jiles do to you to where you’re throwing stones rather than trying to save a lost cause?

Don Winters: He did what he always does. He cheated to take me out of the Almasy in my second match here. I might be a forgiving man, but I’m not a forgetful man. I tolerated him at War Games because Coral asked me to tolerate him. That damn yellow mist. I never saw it coming, neither did the referee and just like that it was over. He had no business beating me in that ring. Ever since that night I’ve been watching him, Hess, and he’s never done a good or honorable thing since I’ve been in PRIME. What is there to understand about a narcissist? He doesn’t care about you, only that he gets what he wants in the end. You’re just going to be another discarded tool by the end of UltraViolence. He won’t need you anymore. Maybe if he wins the title he’ll keep you around? But to what end? To what point?

Winters is growing visibly frustrated.

Don Winters: Where’s the ambition, Hess? You’re better than this. Better than Jiles. You have pedigree.

Hessian: Sounds to me like your issue is with the referee and not Jiles. If anything, you learned what kind of animal you were dealing with. Is he worth less because he can’t change his spots? A leopard has as much place in the world as you or I. Don’t demonize me just because I can coexist with it while everyone else cowers back in the village, flinching every time the bushes rustle.

Don Winters: Don’t you dare throw it back on the referee. You know how I feel about professional wrestling, the rules are there for a reason. We get into the ring to abide by those rules and to compete with honor. If you can’t see that, then I don’t know, Hess. Maybe you’re a lost cause to me here. It’s not about cowering, it’s not about fear, it’s about decorum and respect for your fellow competitors, something Jiles has never once shown to anybody in this company. I’ve spent the last five months busting my ass as the Five Star Champion, trying to show PRIME and everyone in it what a real champion looks like.

Winters uncharacteristically spits on the ground.

Don Winters: That’s what I think about a Cancer Jiles Universal Title reign with you backing him.

The Murder Show leans in close and speaks softly as we go elsewhere.

Welcome to the Throne Room!

You may also know it as the eGG Den 3.0, 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, Mr. Avalon’s Wild Ride, the Overcompensation Station, and the House of the Landed Gentry and Ace.

Surrounded by advertisements of relatively questionable products all produced by the mysterious “AAI” company, the luxury box of the Rogers Arena is currently the home of PRIME’s Universal Champion and newly-minted Flynn Cup winner, Coral Avalon. He sits upon the throne that gives this place its eponymous name, wearing his stylish waistcoat. The Universal Championship sits on a display next to his throne.

Unlike the last few shows, the throne isn’t facing the action. Instead, it’s set up on one side of the luxury box so that Coral can see who enters. A long red carpet has been rolled out from the throne towards the doors into the luxury box. The stripper pole is still there, by the way, not that it ever gets used under the purview of the King of Conquerors.

Also, by the catering is a mysterious man who was just in a previous segment and we won’t be questioning how he got here, but let’s just say that if you find him, you can stop reading the Where’s Seán? picture book you’ve clearly been looking at.

Avalon currently looks relaxed, even if his guests should give him considerable pause. After all, he’s had highly questionable history with them.

As we spin around, we see the most precious faces in all of PRIME – Cecilworth Farthington and FLAMBERGE, along with their slightly more angry mustached friend Hayes. Cecilworth appears to be in a more relaxed state after not getting murdered by the cowboy he expected to murder him on the last show.

Coral Avalon: Hey, guys, make yourselves at home. Sorry to say, I don’t have anything here of particularly expensive taste that you’d be used to. Invitation was kind of a last minute, on-a-whim kind of deal. You know how it goes.

Cecilworth Farthington: I will dine on your bed of lies, built upon an empire on deception, you cretin.

Cecilworth pauses for a second and looks at a small plate of cheese.

Cecilworth Farthington: I do like cheese though.

Cecilworth consumes the cheese.

Cecilworth Farthington: Not this. No.

Cecilworth pushes the cheese plate onto the floor, in what could be best described as “cat like petulance”.

FLAMBERGE enters and it’s clear that today was a Fun Fashion Day for him, what with the scaly black jacket and the turquoise necklaces and the shirtlessness. He looks over at Coral’s neck, sees that it has significantly appreciated in value since it was first collected by the Lizard King nearly two years ago, and his gills hum.

FLAMBERGE: Good temp control, Avalon – it is the nice and muggy in here. The dampness, on point.

It’s unclear whether the Frenchman has leaned extremely hard into his identity as a lizard person today or if he’s just insulting his host for something that is surely outside of his control, but before Coral has time to react, FLAMBO has wandered off. It’s more fun to pick at the cheeses Cecilworth discards and eye them suspiciously than it is to trade barbs with someone who isn’t Brandon Youngblood. Hayes Hanlon, meanwhile, had already found the booze.

Cecilworth Farthington: I know we’re not here for you to dingledangle an opportunity in front of us because you align with the bastard gyration man so… what’s cooking? What do you want, Coral?

If Coral Avalon is at all bothered by all of the cheese on the ground like some sort of Vito Valentino spread, he doesn’t let it show on his face.

Coral Avalon: Well, this isn’t entirely why I asked you guys to come in, but I’d been curious about something for a couple of months. It’s just hard to call you guys up and ask this question casually, what with the whole… bastard gyration man situation and all. And knowing you, Cecilworth, me asking the question will probably lead to some sort of blood-rage kind of situation that I’d personally like to avoid so close to UltraViolence. But…

He clears his throat before getting to his point.

Coral Avalon: Genuinely, is Phil doing okay?

There’s signs of a small smile on Farthington’s face as he thinks about the Patriarch of Glue. FLAMBERGE’s warning beacons have been activated and his head turns, unblinkingly, to watch this interaction unfold.

Cecilworth Farthington: Like that friend of yours that you’re about to run head first into at Ultraviolence, he’s also a bastard man. They’re built tough. He’s recovering but it’s going to take something more than Jiles bullshit to end him. I mean he may outlive us all, powered by the ditches of Nevada.

Coral nods. FLAMBO also nods, but slower.

Coral Avalon: That’s good. I mean, I know he’d punch me in the throat the first chance he got. But, I still think he deserved better than what Jiles did to him.

Hanlon gives him a look and a scoff. The first man in the room to be Universal champion squares up his shoulders and steps forward. Avalon watches carefully as Hanlon glares at him. The tension in the room rises. To Hanlon, Avalon sits exactly where he once did nearly two years ago, where he wants to be now. Hanlon squares up… and then brushes the whole thing off with a middle finger and a laugh, before going back to the booze.

Coral sighs at the display, and turns his attention back to Cecilworth.

Coral Avalon: To be honest, I didn’t call you guys in here to settle any scores or anything. If you want to do that, sure. I just got this place, and the carpets are pretty nice, and I don’t want to ruin it with a big fight or anything. But, well… Franco’s right over there, we could make it a whole thing.

The camera pans over to a tall, strong-looking man with a goatee who wore a “Crownless Kingdom” T-shirt and jeans and a Seattle Mariners ball cap. His muscles had muscles. His name was Franco Marchesi, also known as “the Venetian Assassin”, and he was Coral’s longtime tag team partner and fellow Flynn Cup winner. He sat there menacingly. His arms are crossed. He’s waiting for something to happen.

Franco Marchesi: Hey.

The camera pans back to Coral.

Coral Avalon: But honestly, this is Kingdom territory, not Bandit territory. We’re big believers in sacred hospitality over here, and you’re my guests. Probably why Joe decided to remain outside so he can murder me the moment I leave. (laughing) But until then, let’s chat civilly. Enjoy the che–

He suddenly pauses, casting a glance down at the fallen cheese on the ground. He chuckles.

Coral Avalon: …Oh. Yeah, the cheese wasn’t to your liking, got it. I’ll keep that in mind next time I get a skybox.

Cecilworth also looks at the cheese pile, mildly disappointed in his own cheese driven mania.

Cecilworth Farthington: I regret the cheese thing. Both the tossing and the eating. Anyway, I’m not looking for a fight here earlier, but you must know that destroying muscular muscle men’s limbs is kind of my thing, so we don’t need to do the whole “threaten this” “threaten that” game because next thing you know a hedge is on fire.

Cecilworth’s demeanor changes, less aloof, more business like.

Cecilworth Farthington: Coral, I really enjoyed our rivalry last year. It’s the kind of feud that makes a man feel something, feel alive. Sure, I said a few things to your wife and at the time unborn child to make you go on tilt and that’s something that happened a year ago so we can forget it now. Point is, in our hearts, we’re both menaces, chaos demons and well… Jiles has somehow managed to outwit us both. I’m underhanded sometimes but that man, he’s the magma core. You know not to trust anyone, I know you’ll learn from both of our past mistakes with that salty hat fiend but when I say you better not trust anyone. I mean anyone.

Cecilworth pauses for a second.

Cecilworth Farthington: Hi Franco! Definitely not talking about you.

Franco waves Cecilworth off.

Franco Marchesi: Hello. Fuck off, Cecilworth.

Coral Avalon: Franco, ixnay on the ostilityhay. Sacred hospitality, remember?

Franco Marchesi: Eh.

FLAMBERGE takes a close look at a cheddar cube that has miraculously landed at the very top of the discarded cheese heap – “what fortune”, the Frenchman imagines, “that in a miracle of miracles, this is technically not Floor Cheese because it’s only touched cheese and other cheese”, and he begins the very slightest reach of the hand to pick it up.

But then we hear a thud, somewhere very far in the distance. So far that we’re not sure it was actually a thud at all. FLAMBERGE freezes completely in place. The rest of the assembled Very Tough, If Generally Pretty Lean Boys return to acting like normal human beings pretty quickly (if they ever even stopped), but iguanaman stays frozen.

…

Something tips him off – he needs to book it.

Right now.

Coral Avalon: …What’s up with him?

Cecilworth contemplates this quandary with all the fervor of a rocket scientist trying to plan an epic prank where he leaves two people in space for several additional months. That takes a lot of thought! Anyway, he reaches a humble conclusion.

Cecilworth Farthington: Probably just missing the dripping room.

And then they heard the screams.

Let’s go back about three minutes, shall we?

Joe Fontaine is pacing in front of the doors leading into the luxury box known as the Throne Room. In his hands is the driver for his “jolf” set, which is a steel chair with a mean-looking “shovel” part attached to the backrest of the chair. It looks ridiculous, like all of Joe’s “clubs” do. Standing there is the Fabulous Gold Mask, who has once again become the Fabby of burden and been forced to carry that ridiculous “jolf bag”.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, so all of our Gluemates are in there right now with him. No doubt, they’ve already beaten him into a fine pudding. So once they drag him out of there like a pile of blood pudding, the two of us – well, okay, you’re just going to stand there and hand me chairs as I ask for them – are going to beat him until he can’t walk any more and then we’ll keep beating him until he can’t breathe any more.

Fabby gives him a few concerned hand signals. Viewers at home who are aware of American Sign Language would note that Fabby isn’t exactly keen on any of this, and is trying to advise Joe that this might actually be a poor idea that has criminal implications. Of course, we’re in Canada, so everything is lost in translation.

Joe Fontaine: Look. I’ve been yelling about this whole “murder” thing for so long that people are going to think that I’m full of shit when I say I’m going to murder him. Hessian isn’t here for some reason, and Anubis can’t always be hanging around. And if someone big and threatening was in there, surely Cecilworth and FLAMBO and Big Thresh would’ve shouted something like “OH NO THERE IS SOMETHING BIG AND THREATENING” to give us a clue, you know?

Fabby sighs.

Joe Fontaine: Alright, alright, I get it. We’ll just wait out here and see what happens, because what’s out here can’t possibly be more dangerous than what’s going on in there right n–

CRACK!

The sound of steel on bone echoes as one of Joe’s “jolf clubs” connects with the back of an unsuspecting Fabby. This immediately draws the attention of Fontaine as he sees his partner in crime crumble to the ground along with the steel chair. Standing behind the Fabulous Gold Mask is that grinning ghoul of a human being..

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

Max Kael: Joseph Malone Jr., you’re on my naughty list..

Joe Fontaine: Oh, shi–

With a wink, or perhaps a blink out of sync, leaps at Fontaine with a purposeful viciousness. Both hands grab a completely surprised Joe by either head, dragging him away from the door before slamming him into the far wall. Joe’s body crashes against the concrete wall knocking the breath out of him. The Herald shuffles from the shadows Max appeared from collecting the “Jolf clubs” and bag.

Max Kael: You failed to deliver my message to your buddy, FLAMBERGE.

He follows up the toss with a thunderous uppercut that causes Fontaine’s jaw to snap closed, likely busting several of his teeth in the process. Joe’s eyes water as he wobbles on both of his legs barely present. A hard shove from the Commissar of the Red Army sends Joe back against the wall where his body collapses.

Max Kael: You’ve been an annoying little shit on Jabber.

A stiff kick connects with the side of Joe’s head knocking him flat to the ground, unable to defend himself. A low, unpleasant giggle escapes Max’s lips as he reaches down, grabbing Fontaine by his short brown hair.

Max Kael: You’re trying to steal my murder gimmick.

Clucking his tongue disapprovingly, Max drags his dazed victim away from the wall, dropping him a few feet from the door to the luxury box.

Max Kael: And worst of all.. You associate with Cecilworth Farthington. So now, Joseph, I’ve got to make an example out of you. For me. For you.

Stepping over Joe, pulling a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket. Fontaine uses what little strength he has left to try and pull himself away from Max. This amuses his tormentor who simply watches for a moment with a toothy, rigor grin.

Max Kael: ..for FLAMBERGE..

With frightening speed Max leaps upon Fontaine with the zeal of a falcon zeroed in on a field mouse. Though Fontaine puts up a struggle, it doesn’t take much effort at this point for Max to lock on FLAMBERGE’s signature choke, the Guillotte Choke or as FLAMBO calls it, the “Marie Antoinette”.

Max Kael: I took your friend Sid’s names, now I’m gonna take your fucking NECK! Heh-heh!

Tightening his grip, Max yanks back on Joe’s neck with a dark purpose. The smaller man would wail and scream however it’s clear from his reddening face he’s unable to breath. The only sound at this point is Max’ maniacal laughter as he pulls back further.. And further..

Pop-crack!

A sickening pop followed by a low crack and Joe’s body goes limp. His eyes close and all the fight is immediately flushed out of Fontaine. Max releases the hold as the door to the Luxury Box finally flies open, the noise drawing attention at last.

Max Kael: My the Herald we must away! Take the “jolf clubs”!

Releasing Joe’s limp body, Max quickly retreats back into the shadows of the Rogers Arena. He leaves an unconscious Fabby and Joe Fontaine in his wake. The Herald follows his orders and absconds with the “Jolf bag” and “clubs”, prancing off behind Max.

“ALORS! HEY! STOP! HEY!!!”

Loud footsteps out of frame, and a familiar (if panic-stricken) deep baritone with a thick Strasbourgeois accent. FLAMBERGE enters at full sprint from the direction of (we assume) the Throne Room.

His eyes are wild as flames shoot out of them in the direction Max and The Herald have escaped. And then, unfortunately, he sees Joe Fontaine’s mangled state on the ground, and the venom he was so prepared to unleash upon the Commissar of the Red Army has turned inward.

FLAMBERGE never took the threats seriously. FLAMBERGE never gave Max Kael the dignity of space within his thoughts – not now, not while he has unfinished business with Brandon Youngblood. And now, FLAMBERGE sees one of his most earnest friends – a man who’s cheered him on through entirely too much over the last couple years, a man who emceed a funeral for a FLAMBOrghini, a man who took him to Church, for chicken’s sake – and he’s beginning to learn the brutal and unpayable costs Maximillian Wilhelm Kael demands for ignoring him.

Soon, the whole area will be flooded by the other occupants of the Throne Room. There will be yelling. Coral and Franco would be every bit as perturbed by the scene as the Glueminati. For now, though…

FLAMBERGE cradles the fallen Joe Fontaine. Angry tears might be coming.

But we cut away before we know for sure.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got triple threat action coming up next, folks! Sebastian Gold, Crash Jackson, and Rainbow RIA are all set to compete in the following triangle match!

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

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

As the beat picks up, the bolded letters move to arrange ‘RIA’ to raucous cheers from the crowd. RIA strides out, decked out in a hat with an exaggerated crown and bill, heart shaped glasses and a leather jacket with pink and blue tassels. She pauses at the top of the ramp, huge grin on her face and gives the audience a polite wave.

After a beat, Sean O’Neill steps out and joins her on the stage. After a salutory fist-bump, the Psychoberry continues her journey to the ring, adding a whimsical spin near the middle of the entrance way. When the chorus kicks in, the crowd sings along.

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

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a Triple Threat Match scheduled for the first fall! Introducing first, accompanied to the ring by Sean O’Neill, hailing from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and weighing in at one-hundred and fifty pounds… she is the TECHNICOLOR COMFORTER OF WRESTLING… HER! NAME! IS! …RRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

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

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

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

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

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

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

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

UNLEASHING HIS HELL
YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

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

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

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

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

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

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

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

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

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

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!

Vince Howard: And finally, hailing from Los Angeles, California, and weighing in at one-hundred and ninety-three pounds… he is THE GOLDEN BOY… SEBAAASTIOOOOON GOOOOOOOOOLLLLD!!!

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.

As soon as all three competitors are in the ring and ready to go, presiding official Elvis Nixon gives the signal to the timekeeper.

DING DING

All three competitors leave their corners and meet in a deadlock at the ring center. Eyes shift in every direction as they wait for someone to make the first move.

Nick Stuart: The bell signals the beginning of the match, and right away, all three competitors find themselves at a standstill! Who will risk making the first move?

Sebastian looks from Crash to RIA. RIA looks from Gold to Crash. Crash looks from Gold to the hotdog in the front row, back to Gold, then to RIA. Almost unsurprisingly, it’s RIA who finally reaches the epiphany of “ah, screw it”, and immediately begins throwing shots left and right.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s one way to break the ice.

The crowd roars as the trio of Gold, RIA, and Crash break out into a three-way flurry of punches, chops, and elbows, but with the advantage of surprise, it’s the Psychoberry who comes out on top. Sebastian catches a glancing elbow to the temple that sends him reeling, leaving RIA and Crash to pair off.

Nick Stuart: RIA’s got Crash backed into the ropes, and she pushes him off… no, Crash REVERSES and sends her into motion! And Sebastian Gold is waiting at the other end with a BACKDROP over the ropes…

…and safely down on the apron!

Only before Gold can notice, he’s lambasted by a shoulder block as Crash charges back into the action.

Richard Parker: Crash dashed and crashed into ‘Bash!

Nick Stuart: And here’s RIA, springing over the ropes… right into a HEADSCISSOR TAKEDOWN that flips Crash head over heels!

Crash flips over and bounces off the mat while RIA tears back to her feet, firing on all pistons. She spots Sebastian Gold getting back to his feet in a corner, and instinctively charges.

Nick Stuart: HIP ATTACK BY RIA right against the turnbuckles!

Richard Parker: Sebastian Gold must be celebrating an early birthday with ALL THAT FREAKING CAKE up in his mouth!

RIA streaks across the ring the other way, on a collision course with Crash, who has taken refuge in the opposite corner.

Nick Stuart: AND A HANDSPRING HIP ATTACK on CRASH for good measure!

Richard Parker: Early birthdays all around!

In the ring center, RIA raises a leg and twirls herself into a wild pirouette with added slaps to her devastating derriere, earning a booming pop from the fans!

RIII-A!! RIII-A!! RIII-A!! RIII-A!! RIII-A!! RIII-A!!

Richard Parker: Talk about a Weapon of ASS Destruction!

Nick Stuart: The Psychoberry’s daring nature has paid off in the opening moments of this match as RIA finds herself standing tall!

RIA pulls Gold to his feet first and rolls him back to the canvas with a textbook snapmare. She hits the ropes and attempts to follow it up with a SHINING WIZARD–

But the Bastion of Action instinctively DROPS BACK at the last second!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold NARROWLY avoids a Shining Wizard to the back of his skull, sending RIA rolling out of control! Now she’s back up… only for Crash to grab her from behind! He lifts her up–AND BRINGS HER CRASHING DOWN with a Blue Thunder Bomb!

Crash hooks the leg!

One…

Two…

Broken up Sebastian Gold, running in with a kick to the Northern Light’s face.

Sensing an opportunity, Gold gets to work, grabbing Crash by the back of the head and sending him through the ropes to the outside. Alone in the ring with RIA, ‘Bash pulls the Psychoberry back to her feet, and a set of uppercuts sends her collapsing into a corner.

Nick Stuart: Smart thinking on the part of Sebastian Gold, removing Crash from the ring so that he can focus on one opponent instead of two! Crossing the ring now for a head of steam… and here he comes charging the corner with a RUNNING DROPKICK–NO!!

RIA rolls to the side at the last second… but rather than crashing into the turnbuckles, Gold kicks off of them and cartwheels safely to his feet!

Richard Parker: He’s doing that freaky Hollywood stuntman parkour stuff!

RIA puts herself into a motion, aiming right for Gold’s head…

Nick Stuart: RIA with a ROUNDHOUSE–DUCKED by Gold! Now RIA with a SWEEP kick—but Gold sunset flips over her–and quickly comes back the other way with STANDING MOONSAULT that takes the Psychoberry down!! Right into the lateral press!

One!

Two!

RIA kicks out!

Gold stays on her, slapping on a rear waistlock as she attempts to power her way back to her feet. But before he can capitalize, RIA turns the tables by way of a three-quarter facelock and a cutter to send Action ‘Bastian flailing to the mat! Seeing her opportunity to retake control, RIA scrambles to her feet and throws herself into the ropes for some velocity…

…only to stop dead in her tracks.

Nick Stuart: CRASH, from out on ringside, has RIA by the ankle!

Richard Parker: Rather slapdash of Crash, but done with panache!

Nick Stuart: RIA trying to break free, but now Crash has her by the other ankle, TRIPS to the mat, and drags her to the outside!

Ringside fans cheer wildly as RIA begins throwing haymakers the moment her feet touch the mats, and Grand Master Crash throws a few right back at her. The melee goes for a bit until the two look up and see the shape of a human blocking the ring lights above.

Nick Stuart: LOOK OUT BELOW!! SEBASTIAN GOLD VAULTS THE ROPES INTO A CROSS-BODY BLOCK THAT TAKES OUT EVERYONE!!

Richard Parker: That almost looked good enough for the silver screen!

Gold kips up to his feet, pounding his chest and charging up the crowd!

LET’S GO BASH!! LET’S GO BASH!! LET’S GO BASH!! LET’S GO BASH!!

From a distance, Sean O’Neill quietly watches the action unfold. Gold pulls Crash to his feet, rolls him back into the ring, and slides in after him. Crash is still shaking out the cobwebs as he pushes himself back to his feet, giving the Bastion of Action the opportunity to run himself into the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold into motion… RUNNING KNEE LIFT puts Crash to the canvas! And Gold leaps right into the cover!

One!

Two!

Thr–NO!! Crash gets the shoulder up!

Gold takes ahold of Crash by the hair, pulls him up, and attempts to lead him to a corner… but instead, Crash plants a foot into the middle turnbuckle to block him, throws Sebastian’s grip aside, and begins swinging on him without reprieve!

Richard Parker: CRASH and ‘BASH CLASH!

Nick Stuart: With fists that SMASH and chops that LASH!

Richard Parker: Look at them THRASH!

The two trade blows, until Crash blocks an errant left from Gold and peppers him with a series of right-hand jabs. Sebastian comes back with a swinging right hook, but Grand Master Crash ducks it with ease and LANCES the Bastion of Action with WIDE LEFT SUPERKICK the moment he sees his opening!

Gold hits the mat in the heap, and Crash sprints to the corner.

Richard Parker: See CRASH DASH!

Nick Stuart: CRASH up top in a FLASH… and BIG FOUR-TWENTY SPLASH on ‘BASH!! Hooking the legs for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

BROKEN UP BY RIA!!

Richard Parker: And not a moment too soon.

RIA stays on Crash, laying into him with a salvo of overhead strikes to the head and neck. However, the Northern Light weathers the storm and forces his way back to his feet. A blocked clubbing blow turns into a kick to the midsection by Crash, followed up by a snap DDT that puts the Psychoberry into a headstand for a few moments before collapsing into a heap.

Nick Stuart: DDT SPIKES THE PSYCHOBERRY into the canvas! Crash Jackson is an absolute house of fire right now!

LET’S GO CRASH!! LET’S GO CRASH!! LET’S GO CRASH!! LET’S GO CRASH!!

Back on his feet, Crash nods when he hears the crowd, and begins feeling their energy! Sebastian Gold makes it to his feet, but when he moves into tangle with Crash, the Northern Light levels him with a surprise jumping spinning heel kick!

RIA is dazed, but nevertheless willing herself back up. Seeing this, Crash hurries to a corner, hoists himself up to the second rope, and comes diving off the moment she’s on her feet.

Nick Stuart: LFG DDT BY CRASH!! He absolutely DRILLED the Psychoberry!

Richard Parker: She’s gonna have a splitting headache tomorrow after all these DDTs from Crash!

Nick Stuart: Crash hooks the leg!

ONE!

TWO!

NNOOO!! RIA gets the shoulder up!

Crash rolls to his knees, looking to official Elvis Nixon in disbelief.

Nick Stuart: Where does Crash go from here?

Richard Parker: I think there’s only way to go, partner… and that’s UP.

True to Richard’s point, Crash sets RIA into position and scales up turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: Crash is on the top rope, ready to go for the coup de gras… WAIT–GOLD IS THERE!!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! What are these Hollywood stuntpeople made out of?!

In a flash, Action ‘Bastian leaps to the top rope and intercepts Buffalo’s Finest before he can dive off.

Nick Stuart: SUPER HURRICANRANA BRINGS CRASH CRASHING DOWN!!

Richard Parker: SUFFERING SUCCOTASH!!

Sebastian Gold is hurt, but still determined enough to will himself back up to his feet and stumble back to the corner from which he and Crash just fell. Gold scales his way to the top, sets his footing…

DIVES…

…and lands a PICTURE PERFECT SHOOTING STAR PRESS!

Nick Stuart: GOLD CRUSH!! ‘BASH NAILED IT!! HE MAKES THE COVER!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

RIA BREAKS IT UP!!

The Psychoberry drives the double kneedrop HARD into the small of Gold’s back, sending Action Bastion rolling away and clutching his spine in agony. RIA rolls smoothly through back to her feet…

…and moonsaults into ANOTHER double kneedrop across the exposed midsection of Crash!

Nick Stuart: RIA BREAKS THE PIN AND NAILS CRASH WITH THE BEST WINE EVER!! COVER MADE!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

“Time Warp” hits the PA. RIA rises up to her feet, her expression morphing from surprise to maniacal triumph. Elvis Nixon obligingly raises her arm. Soon after, O’Neill joins her in the ring, nodding affirmingly.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match by pinfall… HER — NAME — IS — RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

Nick Stuart: A huge victory for Rainbow RIA, overcoming two major contenders in this triple threat affair! But I have to say, Rich, everybody involved in this match brought it tonight!

Richard Parker: Gold was certainly bold, and Crash showed his characteristic flash, but Psychoberry pulled through tonight. Hopefully, Sean O’Neilll was taking notes.

Nick Stuart: Tremendous showing from all three of these fine athletes! But right now, ladies and gentlemen, we need to go to a commercial break! Stay tuned, as the action continues here at ReVival Fifty-Five!

We cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, we find ourselves at ringside as the trap remix of the Soviet National Anthem blares throughout Rogers Arena, signaling the arrival of Kenny Freeman and his pal Randall Schwartz, drawing the ire of the crowd as they make their way down the ramp.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome at this time, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz…the MASTERS OF THE MOSCOWVERRRRSE!

Nick Stuart: Kenny Freeman is set to team with Max Kael in our main event tonight to face Anna Daniels and Rob Williams, but I’m curious as to what brings Kenny out here right now.

Richard Parker: You know as well as I do why he’s out here, Nick…but I’m not gonna ruin his moment by telling you. Let’s hear the man himself!

The pair enter the ring, with Randall Schwartz requesting a microphone from ringside as he addresses the crowd first with an obnoxious tone of voice.

Randall Schwartz: Alright, alright…shaaaadduuuup. Somebody cut the music!

Whoever is running the audio tech obliges, ending the song as the boos from the crowd fill the void left behind. Something about the crowd continuing to voice displeasure annoys the Entertainer to no end.

Randall Schwartz: On second thought, play that funky music again.

Sure enough, the Masters’ music starts playing again…but this doesn’t drown out the jeers, leading to Randall changing his mind once more.

Randall Schwartz: Alright, that’s enoooouuuuugh.

The music cuts once again, and in case you’re wondering how Kenny is reacting to all this…he has been shaking his head this entire time.

Randall Schwartz: Tonight, the Red Army secures its place in the PRIME tag league finals, but right now? It’s time for my man Kenny Freeman to ADDRESS HIS ENEMIES.

From the boos there arises a smattering of cheers, those “in the know” appreciating the running gag as the Entertainer hands the microphone off to Freeman.

Kenny Freeman: You heard the man, let’s get right into it. Max and I kicked off our tag league action by defeating a pair of men I had my share of issues with, in Fred Dick and STRONK…but despite the victory, I still have a score to settle. See, STRONK beating up our fearless leader Ivan Stanislav has been really gnawing at me the past couple months. The fact of the matter is, STRONK, you have managed to live in my head rent-free since War Games…and guess what, buddy? Rent’s officially due.

Is calling someone out by name grounds to immediately cue up their music? You’d better believe it, because “PRIME Meat (Beast of the Deep)” starts playing inside the Rogers Arena, much to the delight of STRONK’s fans as the STRONKest Man Alive makes his way out to the stage, his manager Lowell Dot Com standing beside him with a microphone in hand. Before he can respond, however, we see STRONK talking to Lowell…and because he’s naturally very, very loud, we can clearly hear him on  the microphone despite not holding it up to his face.

STRONK: WHAT DOES TINY HUMAN MEAN? WHAT DID THE RENTS DO?

Lowell just shakes his head at the Beast of the Deep before turning his attention to Kenny.

Lowell Dot Com: First of all, Kenny, before we get into this order of business…was the case of STRONKUMMS I sent you weeks ago not sufficient to quell your rage? We saw you putting them to such good use a couple weeks ago.

Kenny begins to respond, but the microphone is pulled away from him by Randall, who starts shouting at Dot Com.

Randall Schwartz: We nearly had a Food-O-Matic broken because of that junk, you literal piece of human garbage!

Kenny snatches the microphone back, shaking his head at Randall as if to suggest he might’ve come close to crossing some imaginary line before taking some time to respond on his own.

Kenny Freeman: Lowell, I think you’ve forgotten what business we’re in. This is pro wrestling, where conflicts are best resolved IN THIS VERY RING…and I’ve got enough beef with ol’ STRONK Daddy to feed an army…a Red Army. STRONK, I don’t care if it happens at UltraViolence, Colossus, or on ReVival somewhere in-between…but I will have my revenge for what you did to the Starshy Praporshchik, and you’d better be ready for the whoopin’ that is coming your way when that day comes!

Lowell takes one good look at STRONK, then back at Kenny inside the ring…and proceeds to laugh, almost maniacally, at such a challenge. Eventually, Dot Com responds verbally.

Lowell Dot Com: Kenny, bless your heart…if you really want to have a death wish by stepping into the ring with the STRONKest Man Alive, I am more than happy to sign on the dotted line.

STRONK, for his part, can simply be heard shouting in the direction of the ring.

STRONK: STRONK WILL HELP TINY HUMAN FIND RENTS IN THAT VERY RING.

“PRIME Meat (Beast of the Deep)” plays over the sound system once more, as the fans cheer for the prospect of an exciting grudge match in the works!

Nick Stuart: There we have it, folks! Kenny Freeman looks to go one-on-one with STRONK Godson, and the fans are thrilled!

Richard Parker: I dunno, Nick, I’m worried Kenny may be biting off more than he can chew here…and this might hurt him worse than a pack of STRONKUMMS.

Kenny and Randall watch STRONK and Lowell head to the back, leaving the Masters to dwell upon this ahead of Kenny’s main event tag match alongside Max Kael…as for us, however, we are forced to cut away from ringside!

Somewhere deep in the backstage area of the Rogers Arena, we follow Brandon Youngblood, still clad in street clothes, through a maze of white brick hallways, watching over his shoulder as he glances at overhead signs indicating which part of the arena he’s in.

Ten seconds, twenty seconds, and now Youngblood slows his pace. He’s found the area he’s looking for. One door, two doors… At the third door he stops. It’s slightly ajar. Youngblood squares up to it. After a couple of seconds he knocks.

Brandon Youngblood: You in there?

No response.

Youngblood knocks again, louder this time.

Voice From Inside: Yeah?

Brandon Youngblood: I’m coming in.

Voice: Suit yourself.

Youngblood pushes the door open and enters what turns out to be a small locker room. The room is not well-lit. And its only occupant: Jason Snow.

We find Snow seated on a bench with his head resting against a locker. His hood leaves his face mostly obscured by shadows. We can just barely tell his eyes are closed. Or mostly closed.

Brandon Youngblood: Catching a few z’s before…you know?

There is no snark in his tone, no probing. A genuine question. His body language is open, not tense. Given their history, both in the semi-recent, as well as in the midst of their first foray into the ring as opponents, this is a departure. Easing the heel of his hand against a nearby locker, he looks down at Snow, in seeming meditation.

Brandon Youngblood: Wish I could say the same.

The only indication that Snow is indeed awake comes when he breathes in deeply and tilts his head back a little further. From this angle we see that his eyes are indeed open, but only slits.

There is no vocal invitation, but Youngblood, for his part, isn’t pushing for one; he slouches for a moment, easing down, taking a seat. There’s a comfortable space between them.

Brandon Youngblood: We done this how many times in our lives? Over all of it?

Jason Snow (smirking): A few.

Brandon Youngblood: So much it blurs together. Especially now. Or I’d like to say. I got a pretty good memory. Cursed with it…really.

There is no looking toward The Original Villain.

Brandon Youngblood: The nights since then…there’s been those that I’ve felt the nausea. The anticipation. I’ve felt the worry. I’ve been angry and I’ve been vengeful…I’ve done it with a smile…felt tears stinging my eyes…

Snow’s eyes are closed again.

Brandon Youngblood: Stadiums. Not just that. Movements. This whole thing. PRIME. Now. Was there in the Grand, that Almasy. PRIME came back…and I wanted it on my back. My shoulders…

A rough exhale.

Brandon Youngblood: Everything. Everything I wanted. That I craved back on that night in England, Jason. I got it all. And I thought I knew the feeling. But…it’s not the same.

There’s many paths this can go.

Brandon Youngblood: We aren’t the same. I think people are going to look at us and do that whole…you know what? Fuck that.

Youngblood shifts, looking to Jason for the first time since sitting.

Brandon Youngblood: Right now? I don’t give a shit about what other people think. I don’t care what the recent times say about anything. I don’t care who has what pieces of gold and I don’t…care.

There is a stone sincerity in what he says.

Brandon Youngblood: You say, in a lot of ways, you feel better than ever. And maybe you are. My year? I’d rather forget a bunch of it. For a lot of reasons. But I came to the building tonight…and I felt something I haven’t felt since that night. And do you want to know what that is, Jason? Fear.

Most would be shocked by such an admission from a goliath in the sport. Not Snow, however.

Brandon Youngblood: Not the bullshit reason. That match…our match…I went in that night knowing I’d beat you. That I’d take everything you’d built and make it my own. Not for greed. But in reverence. Because it meant more than life to me. It was everything anyone can aspire to be.

There is a reverence in his manner, to the notion of it.

Brandon Youngblood: I’m not haunted by the fact you beat me. That you won. That you survived, or thrived. That match…that fight…it was the entire sport as far as I’m concerned. There’s times since. I’ve fought some of the greatest. But…I feel fear…because tonight…I might be the best I have ever been…and I think I might be the best there’s ever been…but even then…inside me…I…there’s two people I think even the very best I can ever be isn’t enough. And you…

His eyes, like daggers, probing.

Brandon Youngblood: You’re one of them. And the other thing? That even with all of that…that night. THIS night. It won’t matter much in the end. Not for a win or a loss. I mean…that with all this…that it wasn’t…that it can never truly matter to you.

Jason Snow: If you think that night in England didn’t matter to me, you’re wrong.

His eyes are open fully now, and he’s looking at Youngblood. Youngblood turns his head just enough for the two of them to make brief eye contact.

Jason Snow: Any other night, Youngblood, and you would’ve beat me. Any other night. But that night? That was the best I ever was. I don’t know who got the best version of you, and I don’t know if that night was your best, but it was mine.

He leans his head back against the locker again.

Jason Snow: But who knows? Maybe the best is yet to come for both of us.

Closes his eyes.

Jason Snow: Maybe even tonight.

The words connect. Moments pass. Then, Brandon nods.

Brandon Youngblood: Wouldn’t doubt that one bit.

He eases back in his seat, looking away from his opponent, the man he considers a true brother in supreme battle. There are no words. No pithy statements. He just relaxes into the steel, looking outward in the semi-dark.

We move on to something else.

We cut into a shot of a clock. The seconds tick and tock away audibly. Like most clocks, this clock sits above a doorway, garnering at most a passing glance as the room’s inhabitants come and go. They take what they need from it and leave the rest. Such is the life of a clock and they do it without complaint. Oft paid less mind than a wall decoration. But they tick on, dutifully keeping time.

Rob Williams: Goddamnit.

Now and then, though, a clock becomes the linchpin of a story.

Rob Williams: She still ain’t answered and we got…

Tonight, this unassuming, faithful servant adorning the wall above the entrance to the locker room is the backbone of this story.

Rob Williams: …less than an hour to go.

The room is thick with the stress and tension that Rob Williams emanates into the world. He looks at his phone as if he can will it to ring, to notify him that Anna Daniels is in the building, but it doesn’t. Despite carrying a supercomputer that doubles as a timepiece in his hands, he looks to the clock above the door, like it holds some answer for him. It doesn’t.

He’s searched all through Roger’s Arena. No stone is left unturned and no corner is still dark, yet still no sign of “The Muse” Anna Daniels. But there is a sign of someone as the door swings open.

He isn’t from around here. The visitor’s pass dangling from his neck makes that completely obvious. However, the way he had been walking/stalking through the halls made him blend in for good reason. Nods and the occasional friendly word to production members in passing would seep through, but the look in his eyes made it known that he’s here for a reason. And now, said reason has stopped looking at the clock.

Rob Williams: Who the fuck are you?

That acknowledgment brings a manic little smile to the visitor’s face.

Jacky Rex Daniels: The wrong Daniels, mate.

As casually as the words come out, his body language tells a different story. He could feel his hands become heavy already. The right-hand aches prematurely as if to prepare itself as the war drums thunder in his ears. Rob may be taller, older, and been through more wars than any man should ever go through. But when there’s this much fury in a man’s soul, none of that really matters. Jacky closes and locks the door behind him.

Rob’s fists clench instinctively. His eyes dart up and down, measuring the Aussie up. He’s smaller than Rob but built like a pallet of fucking bricks.

Rob Williams: Ah. Yeah, I figured you and I would cross paths at some point. I’m guessing you want your pound of flesh, huh? That’s fucking fair. Well, let’s have you then.

The final embers of the prairie fire that has been Rob Williams might be fluttering into the night sky as the heat slowly fizzles from his flames- but you wouldn’t know it from how he strikes Jacky. His fists move smoothly through the air, connecting with Jacky before the Aussie can register. It doesn’t take long for the trainer to return force, landing several impressive body shots that Rob cannot help but admire. The guy is small, but he’s a fucking nuclear reactor of anger. And why wouldn’t he be? Rob Williams is supposed to be a safe place for Jack Daniels’ wife, secondary only to Jack Daniels himself.

In his head, Rob hears the Father’s voice.

The Father: One bite at a time. We must give up fighting anything and anyone to be free.

Freedom. Freedom from the shackles of his self-made prison. He cannot continue to hurt people and expect to find any peace. To get out of the hole he has dug for himself, he first has to put the shovel down.

And so, Rob lets go, dropping his hands to his side. He allows the fiery Aussie to play the Beaches of Normandy on his face. Blood leaks from every hole in his head and a few new ones as Rob leans into the blows.

For Jacky, realization comes slowly in the rage of battle. Those first hits from Rob brought out the boxer in him, fueled even more so by the previous break in trust and disrespect this so-called legend gave his wife. He’s blinded by a certain amount of bloodlust and the darker elements of himself. Each time Rob gets up, he gets pounded down again just as ruthlessly. There’s power in those blows and there ain’t no bell to ring.

It is only in scoring an uppercut that it clicks. Looking down at his prey, he tries to shake off the pain from his dominant hand.

Jacky Rex Daniels: Hey!

There isn’t a response. Jack kneels down and tries to prop up his opponent as best as he can with one arm. Watching the older man’s gaze become hazy, he gives it a moment to focus. Rob stares at Jacky blankly, his right eye turning red from the blood vessel that has popped.

Jacky Rex Daniels: Hey. Look at me.

Another moment and for the first time, they are eye-to-eye with each other. He lowers the volume in his voice a bit.

Jacky Rex Daniels: Why’d ya stop?

Rob tries to speak but all that comes out is a lump of blood and a tooth or two. He snorts, wiping his arm red with the viscera coming from his mouth. In a sign of peace, Williams holds his arms out with his palms up. He tries to speak again, but there is nothing there. No voice. How could he apologize for this atrocity? There aren’t words strong enough to ask penance for this offense. Rob isn’t speechless so much as he is acutely aware that nothing he can say to Jacky to undo the harm he’s already caused.

Tears join the blood on his face.

Rob Williams: I… I ain’t no good, Jacky. Fucking do me in, man. I deserve it. She was the only one good to me and I betrayed y’all both ’cause I just ain’t no good.

Now it’s one thing to beat the dog out of an unrepentant son of a bitch who doesn’t have any shame in themselves. Doing that is fun. Doing that is worth every single bit of agony you can give a man. But when the guy is begging to be mauled? When he’s crying in a pool of his own blood? It’s a different vibe and a different story. Not to say Jacky regrets it. Defending his Annie’s honor is always worth it to him. Yet this brings a lot of thoughts into his head immediately. In certain places in his head that he won’t talk about, perhaps he didn’t see Rob when he was throwing punches.

Maybe he saw all the people that broke her trust and her hearts.

Maybe he saw his dear old dad, the one who named him after his drink.

All the former Rapscallion knows is in this moment, he sees a small glimmer of himself in Rob Williams. A man with so much doubt in himself that it smothers him. A guy who wants to be better, but can never convince himself he’s worth the effort. How many times in the past few months has he been aching for redemption? How much has he been wishing to be seen as more than his weakest moments? The big difference between the two warriors is that one is fighting and seems to have all the time in the world while the other…

Jacky shakes his head.

Jacky Rex Daniels: Naw. I don’t think I will. The missus might kill me.

And if she didn’t, he’d be beating himself up over it for sure. With a little bit of a struggle, the Aussie gets to his feet. The animalistic rage in his eyes replaced with humanity as he holds out his good hand to help Rob up.

Jacky Rex Daniels: You’re not good, but you’re not dead yet either.

One bite at a time.

Rob Williams: (laughing) Pretty fucking close, brother, pretty fucking close.

The clock, unassuming and faithful in its stead, watches the entire interaction. Time. Time is a funny thing. In another time, these two would’ve gone until one of them couldn’t get up – maybe ever again. A few years ago Jacky, defending his wife’s honor, justifiably destroys this dying old man. Who would blame him? And Rob, being the degenerate piece of shit that he feels like, would’ve used the only medicine he’s ever known to ease the pain of being god’s forgotten child: violence.

But today, the clock holds the perfect time for these two men to be more than they’ve told themselves they could.

Rob takes Jacky’s hand and they both groan as the smaller man pulls the larger up. He’s lighter than Jacky thought he would be – a sign of the sickness. Rob holds on tightly, looking at the ground.

Rob Williams: I’m sorry, Jacky. You got every right to brain me. (looking up at Jacky) I see what she sees in you. You’re a good man.

There’s a lot of things Jack could say to that. Considering the man he practically pummeled into oblivion though, this doesn’t seem like the right time. Instead, he opts to smile a bit which turns into a temporary grimace in turning the door knob.

Jacky Rex Daniels: Come on then. You need to get patched up and I need all the ice in the world. We’ll talk on the way.

Tick tock goes the clock, falling back into obscurity after his five minutes of fame as the two warriors stumble into the hallway and your little peeping tom eyes go elsewhere, you freak.

As the opening riffs of “I Cannot Escape the Darkness” by Those Poor Bastards hits over the PA, Stetson King emerges from the back wearing an all white western duster and a black cowboy hat. He holds his hands palms out, stretched out with elbows bent, resting just above his waist. His hands are covered in black soot. As he walks forward, singing along to his entrance, he runs his pointer and middle finger down his face, creating streaks of black from the bottom of his eyelids down to his chin.

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

Richard Parker: I like this guy enough, but this music.

Nick Stuart: Not a fan?

Richard Parker: This music is so sad that Kurt Cobain

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.

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

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

Rose emerges from the backstage area and the spotlight lands on her. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of black pants with ROSE painted on the sides in purple and a black sports bra. She walks down the ramp — stoic, out of it. The music then fades.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re off! With the ring of the bell, the two meet in the middle and lock up. Stetson King immediately takes control, tossing the much smaller Rose into the ropes and catching her with a huge spinebuster on the rebound.

Richard Parker: Well that wasn’t quite the start I expected, but hey, let’s see what happens here.

Nick Stuart: Stetson keeps his foot on the gas, lifting Rose off the canvas and hitting a German suplex. Rose rolls out of the ring, putting her arms on the side and catching her breath.

Jimmy Turnbull begins the count as Rose, hands on her hips, takes a moment to collect herself. She looks to the ring, but more as a chore or a to-do list than actually looking at Turnbull or Stetson. She shoots Turnbull an annoyed glance and nods, acknowledging his counting, and slides back into the ring. Stetson is immediately on her, pummeling her with a series of chops to her chest that echo throughout the arena. Rose tries to return fire, landing two sloppy slaps to Stetson’s collarbone area, but she is quickly overpowered by the focused “Ghost of Industry”.

Nick Stuart: This match has been all Stetson King so far with Rose showing very little defense, let alone offense.

Richard Parker: Nobody told her.

Nick Stuart: Told her what?

Richard Parker: That she had a match tonight.

Nick Stuart rolls his eyes and returns to the play-by-play, refusing to acknowledge Richard Parker’s quips.

Nick Stuart: King locks up Rose now and pulls her into a headlock. He’s wrenching on her neck while laying elbows into her back. With no other options and knowing the outcome is doubtful, Rose tries to get some movement by leaning back for a backbody drop, but the larger Stetson just lets his weight go, forcing Rose to all fours. He pulls her right back up and bounces her head off the mat with a piledriver.

While Rose has never quite been a fan favorite, there is a bit of frustration beginning to fill the air at the completely lopsided opening to this match. They’re not quite cheering Rose on, but their boos at Stetson are more emotional. But, being the cowboy that he is, Stetson is undeterred by their vitriol, pulling Rose from the mat up to a Dragon Sleeper. He leans back with all of his weight, straining all of the vertebrae and muscles in Rose’s neck.

Nick Stuart: Stetson looking to put this one away quickly as he squeezes with all his might on Rose’s neck.

A switch flips. Something inside Rose wakes up and she introduces her elbow to the crotch of Stetson King. A slight shriek escapes the cowboy as Rose quickly breaks free and scurries to her feet. Before Turnbull can reprimand The Second Coming, she is on Stetson with a flurry of knees to his face. King tries to get to his feet but is met with a perfectly executed Pele Kick

Richard Parker: There she is. Welcome to ReVival fifty-five, Rose.

Rose takes to the top rope, waiting like a predator for Stetson to get to his feet. No longer does the cowboy get up that he’s met with a diving hurricanrana. In an amazing display of her athleticism, Rose launches Stetson through the air with ease, all two hundred and fifteen slams to the mat with a loud thud. With calculated precision, Rose rolls to her haunches and waits, prowling. As the cartoony stars stop circling Stetson’s head and he begins to stand Rose strikes. A perfectly timed leaping knee leads to a direct hit on the King’s chin.

Nick Stuart: The tables have turned and this match is ALL Rose now! Stetson is once again trying to get to his feet, but he’s a step too late as Rose bounds off the ropes with a springboard moonsault.

Richard Parker: She is on fire now.

Nick Stuart: She certainly is. Stetson springs to his feet behind Rose, trying to wrap her up from behind for a German suplex. Rose hooks a leg around Stetson’s knee, anchoring herself into place. He tries once, twice, three times to get her off the ground, but she is just not letting go. This is a pure battle of the wills at this point.

Like a snake wrapped around their prey, Rose squeezes with all her might. Stetson also tries to leverage his size to crush Rose’s midsection. Sensing he’s moving from the German suplex attempt, Rose unwraps the leg and drives it upward into Stetson’s “small town”. It’s just enough for the pressure to be released on her midsection. With precise and definitive movement, Rose wraps an arm behind the head of Stetson.

Rose leans forward, using their combined weight to begin a running pace towards the ropes. The fans, announcers, and viewers at home get to watch in amazement as Rose climbs the ropes whilst holding Stetson in a three-quarter facelock and backflips, slamming Stetson’s head into the mat.

Nick Stuart: What the hell was that?!

Richard Parker: I have no clue, but if she doesn’t trademark it, that’s a big miss.

As Stetson tries to get up his body refuses him. The best he can muster is stopping at his knees, unfortunately leaving him open. Rose strikes, making the most out of this opportunity as she bounds off the ropes, charging full steam ahead. Stetson and Rose make eye contact just as Rose launches into the air.

Nick Stuart: Thorn Prick!

Richard Parker: Well, he had a good start at least.

And now Rose waits, stalking Stetson’s every move, waiting for the opportune moment. The poor bastard pushes himself up to a stand one last time, likely expecting to make a final stand, hoping that he can turn the tide. Alas, before Stetson can figure out which way is up, Rose is running up the turnbuckles once again. Her feet barely touch each turnbuckle as she quickly bounds up and then swims through the air in an inverted flip, catching Stetson’s head in the cradle of her shoulder, arm, and neck.

Nick Stuart: ROSE TO ROSE! Rose hooks the leg as Turnbull drops for the count.

1…

2…

3..

Raising Rose’s hand in the center of the ring, Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Rose stands on the turnbuckle as “What’s Up Danger” starts to play from the PA, receiving a mixed reaction from the crowd.

We cut elsewhere.

Following her first in-ring action in over a month, Rose makes her way through the curtain and into the backstage area, the rest of KING in tow. Her matchup with Stetson King has left her with a myriad of bruises and also reminded her just how long an injured heel can take to really heal.

Spoiler: one month usually isn’t enough time.

The limp is subtle, but it’s there. And after her unexpected run-in with one Russian Bear last week, even Rose isn’t stupid enough to wander these halls alone. However after last week, the security presence in the backstage area is noticeably more elevated than usual. Everywhere you look, more Enemigos.

Seriously, so many Enemigos.

Rose: Well, would you look at that? We’ve made it to the promised land without a single boogeyman or Russian Bear lying in ambush. I’m positively shocked. Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I think I can manage to soap up without an audience.

David glanced at the rest of KING — Jamaal and Cory, headphones firmly in place, exuding an air of cool nonchalance. They, too, half-expected Ivan, Dawkins, or Youngblood to materialize from thin air. Christ, Rose’s enemies list was longer than a CVS receipt.

Indeed, it was. The PRIME locker room was a veritable nursery of fragile male egos, all quivering at the mere mention of her name. Shocking, truly shocking.

David Noble: So… you’re saying you don’t want us to join you in the locker room?

Rose: Oh, David, your powers of deduction never cease to amaze. No, I don’t want three men standing guard while I shower. I’d say I take my chances with the bear — but considering my last encounter with one wasn’t Jeremy Allen White emerging from a kitchen — not quite certain on that either. At this point, cliff-diving seems like a refreshing alternative.

Jamaal, ever the knight in shining armor, chimes in.

Jamaal Ingram: Want us to go find Ivan? Teach him a lesson?

Cory Kensington: Jamaal… no.

Rose: As touching as your offer of vigilante justice is, I’ll pass. Ivan and I have a dance card to punch, but I’ll lead that tango when I’m good and ready.

She fixes David with a look that could freeze hell over.

Rose: Now, if you’re quite done playing bodyguard, I suggest you all toddle off and find something to eat. Preferably something that doesn’t require my constant supervision. I’ll grace you with my presence when I’m less likely to commit justifiable homicide.

Her convoy now moved on, Rose throws the door to KING’s locker room open and steps inside. Almost immediately, a sickeningly sweet aroma fills her nostrils as she flips the light switch, illuminating the room.

Rose seethes.

Rose: Oh you have to be fucking kidding me. That Dawkins dipshit —

The camera pans around the corner, revealing hundreds, if not thousands of pineapples. And not just any pineapples, mind you.

These pineapples have each been intricately carved into skulls of varying size and features. Someone’s been practicing for Halloween.

Unfortunately for Joe Fontaine, none of these pineapples have gone bad. But there are a lot of them. And to be honest, I’m not even sure what we see is really all of them. So maybe some of them are bad. Then again, when’s the last time Joe Fontaine was right about anything? He can’t even commit a little murder on our dear Universal Champion.

Anyway…

The pineapples surround a chair–correction, a golden throne upon which a single pineapple sits.

Rose continues to cautiously walk the room, approaching the throned fruit.

This pineapple is unlike the others in the room.

The face it wears isn’t of the dead.

Rose: Oh, so you’re a sick fuck now, are you?

The camera zooms in on the aforementioned pineapple, which is a spitting image of the Second Coming, all the way down to a crown that sits atop her head. A KING’s crown, some might say.

However, that’s not the only way this pineapple differs – this pineapple is wrapped in barbed wire.

Rose is not amused.

Rose: DAWKINS!

She picks up her pineapple effigy and prepares to sling it toward the wall when–

There go the lights.

Rose: Damnit it Troy, you’ve gotta pay the electricity bill — and not give it to Harrison to pay off–

And then…

THUD

The sound of fruit-on-flesh begins the fracas.

CRASH

It’s followed quickly by the muffled sound of flesh-on-flesh, hand-to-hand combat.

Rose: DAWKINS – you son of a–

The tussle goes on for a short while longer. Grunts, heavy breathing, the sound of the room being rearranged in complete darkness. If one didn’t know any better, they’d think they were watching–actually, nevermind.

CLANG

What follows is a blood curdling scream from Rose.

CLICK

And just like that, the lights come back on, revealing the aftermath of the blackout assault.

Pineapples are everywhere, smashed and exploded. The fruit covers the ceiling, walls and floor of the locker room, creating an absolute nightmare for the arena’s maintenance and cleaning crew.

Rose is on her back, surrounded by pineapples. Her hair is disheveled, pasted wildly across her face with a combination of pineapple juice and sweat.

She clutches her bad foot.

Across the room stands PRIME’s Favorite Hawaiian – Bryan Dawkins.

He wields two weapons – the aforementioned pineapple bust of Rose along with a crowbar.

I don’t need all my fingers and toes to put two and two together.

Dawkins snarls as he paces across the room. Gone is the carefree, laid back demeanor.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya know, Rose, this all could’a been avoided. All ya had to do is apologize for messin’ things up for me against Paxton Ray a few months ago.

Rose: Here’s your apology (raises two middle fingers).

He pauses to pick up his signature sunglasses which were knocked from his face during the assault.

Bryan Dawkins: Instead, ya doubled down. Kept stickin’ your nose in my business and inserting yourself into my matches. While annoying, I tried to stay focused.

He places the sunglasses back on his face and continues.

Bryan Dawkins: And then you brought up my son…

SLAM

Dawkins quickly SLAMS the crowbar onto a pineapple that lays at Rose’s feet, adjacent to her bad foot, causing her to flinch.

Rose: You better break every bone in my bone, swinger-boy.

Dawkins ignores the insult.

Bryan Dawkins: That was where ya crossed the line, bruh. I’m not sure what ya thought was gonna happen when ya brought my family into it, but I guess you’re gonna find out.

SLAM

Another pineapple gone. Meanwhile, Rose has repositioned like a viper that’s been backed into a corner. Ready to respond in the blink of an eye.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya were right a few weeks ago – I don’t have plans for Ultra Violence in two weeks. Well…didn’t…have plans. I do now, bruh. I accept your challenge. And to make it fun, I’ll talk with LT about a stipulation that will allow me to use these.

He gestures at the barbed wire pineapple and crowbar. Rose looks on in disgust.

Bryan Dawkins: Until then, keep my family’s name out of your mouth, bruh.

Rose: You first, chucklefuck.

Dawkins sets the pineapple aside and grips the crowbar tightly with both hands before winding up. He’s got dead aim on the injured foot of his new Ultra Violence opponent.

???: HEY!

A blur of bright color flashes across the screen. Standing in between Dawkins and Rose is the Psychoberry herself, RIA. She’s got her hands up.

RIA: Dawk… Chill, dude. Don’t do this. Do things the right way… Drop the crowbar.

Rose: He’s fucking insane.

Dawkins lowers the crowbar. He pauses, attempting to catch his breath and lower his heart rate after the scuffle.

Bryan Dawkins: You’re right. I’ve got a match comin’ up, so this’ll have to wait. But I’m gonna hold onto these.

He gestures to the crowbar, picks up the barbed wire pineapple and focuses his attention back to Rose.

Bryan Dawkins: See ya at Ultra Violence, bruh.

Rose: Darling, do wear your best. I’d hate for you to be underdressed for your own demise.

He nods to RIA, who declines to reciprocate, and exits the locker room, intent on finding his tag partner ahead of their final matchup against the Big Dick Stallions as we cut elsewhere.

For the second time this evening, we go behind the Steel Door O’Doom.

Only this time, there are two Troy ladies there instead of just one.

Ami, of course, is still on the couch. She still has popcorn, which may or may not have been refilled once or twice given how the evening has gone so far. She still has her perpetually sunny disposition.

Conversely, Lindsay sits behind her desk scribbling something onto some papers and still fuming over her earlier encounter with Ivan Stanislav.

Ami Troy: You should’ve kicked him in the dick.

Lindsay Troy: (not looking up) I should’ve done a lot of things, all of which are worse than that.

Ami Troy: Well, yeah*,* but at least the dick kick would have been funny.

There’s a loud knock on the door and, without waiting for permission to enter, the Bayou Butcher quickly swings the door open and walks inside.

Paxton Ray: Hey boss…got a minute?

Ami Troy: Why don’t people ask permission before entering a room? Anything could be happening in here.

Paxton looks over at Ami and offers an amusing facial mix of embarrassment and frustration.

Paxton Ray: I didn’t hear Wade barkin’ so I figured I was all right.

As soon as he says it, he looks at Lindsay and frowns.

Paxton Ray: No offense t’your man, a’course.

Lindsay Troy: (perturbed) Uh huh…

Ami Troy: (muttering) Be way more than barking going on anyway…

The Merry Mischief Maker has to duck out of the way of a pen being chucked in her direction.

Lindsay Troy: Why don’t you go hang with RIA. Or go yell at Kerry. Go somewhere that isn’t here.

Ami Troy: Since you mentioned it, those are two of my favorite pastimes!

She grabs her food and skips out of the room, offering the Murdergator a wave as she departs. Lindsay turns her attention back to Paxton.

Lindsay Troy: My patience is razor-thin tonight. Don’t wear it down any more than it already is.

Paxton Ray: I get it. I promise ya I do, ‘cause my patience been worn down to the damn bone by Fred Dick. He broke my nose. He threw me off of a ramp in a damn port-o-potty. He teamed up with Reed Young, which don’t really matter much but is still fuckin’ annoyin. I thought I took care a’this prick when ya made the glass boxin’ match, but he’s still makin’ my life a livin’ hell, an’ I wanna end this already. So please, boss, the person with the means, help me end it.

Lindsay folds her hands in front of her mouth in contemplation, turning Paxton’s request over in her head. After a minute, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she places her palms flat on the desk.

Lindsay Troy: You want to make Fred’s life a living hell like he’s made yours?

Paxton Ray: More than Bobby Dean wants t’be first in line at the buffet.

That tiny smile of Lindsay Troy’s grows a little bit wider. She reaches for her phone to send a quick text message, then looks back up at Paxton. Later, he’ll swear he saw a glint of malice in his boss’s eyes.

Lindsay Troy: I’ve got something in mind, then. I’m warning you though, Paxton…I’m not doing you a favor here, either. You want to settle this score once and for all, but the both of you are going to be changed once it’s over. You get where I’m going here?

Paxton doesn’t think too long before nodding.

Paxton Ray: Sounds dangerous. Sounds violent. Sounds like I’m interested.

Lindsay Troy: Then I’m putting you both in my match. The one I’ve changed men’s careers in….and the one I’ve ended them in.

The Queen leans forward, just to emphasize her point.

Lindsay Troy: Paxton Ray versus Fred Dick. In WARCHAMBER.

A mighty roar is heard from the PRIMEates in the Rogers Arena.

Paxton Ray: Warchamber. Hell yeah. I love it.

He pauses.

Paxton Ray: What the fuck is the Warchamber?

The Queen simply smiles.

Lindsay Troy: Stay tuned.

Paxton Ray: Okay. Well…thanks, then. I guess…

Fred Dick: Knock knock.

The office door swings open. In walks Fred, who immediately spins and snaps his fingers at LT snazzy-like.

Fred Dick: It’s ya booooy!

Paxton glares at Fred with contempt. Lindsay keeps on smiling.

Lindsay Troy: Freddick. You might as well hear the news first-hand.

Fred Dick: Whuuuuut? Guuuuuurl let me guess.

Fred looks at LT with a raised eyebrow.

Fred Dick: You gon’ gimme a raise!

Lindsay Troy: If by a “raise” you mean “another match against Paxton Ray,” then yes!

Fred Dick flares his nostrils.

Fred Dick: Whatchu mean another match against Paxton Ray?

Fred finally sees Paxton.

Fred Dick: What the hell is Paxton Ray’s ugly ace doin’ gracin’ my BAWSE LADY with his dumb ace lookin’ face with them tiny, beady, soulless eyes and that dipshid hurrcut?

The Lady of the Hour incredulously snort-laughs; she can’t help it.

Lindsay Troy: Dipshit hair…..have you looked in the mirror….you know what? Nevermind. Yes, Fred you’re facing Paxton Ray again, because your dumb, stupid ass didn’t know when to leave well enough alone after Tropical Turmoil. So now the both of you are gonna settle this shit at UltraViolence.

Paxton Ray: Yeah, Freddie. Ya know what a Warchamber match is?

Fred Dick: I’onno. Maybe like some kinda match what happens at your family reunions when your inbred relatives start mouthin’ off at ya and you pop ’em square in the jaw, causin’ a rumble at the city swimmin’ hole?

Paxton Ray: I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the fuck it is either, but she did say that we’d both be changed after. An’ I dunno ‘bout ya, but when I hear that, I think ‘bout destruction. Devastation. Maybe never bein’ able t’walk again.

Lindsay Troy: Took Cayle Murray awhile to walk again after I got done with him. And Bronson Box still has the scar down his face.

Paxton walks closer to Fred.

Paxton Ray: Good. Maybe I can copy your efforts, boss.

Fred, meanwhile, has turned red. Not from anger, but from a flight or fight response that has caused his blood pressure to sky rocket and his tummy to bubble.

Fred Dick: …are yall dp’in’ me right now? Metaphorically speakin’?

It’s at that moment that Ami Troy comes bouncing back into her mother’s office.

Ami Troy: I forgot my phoooooo—

She trails off once she sees Fred Dick standing there.

Ami Troy: Why do you look like you’re gonna vomit, weirdo.

Fred Dick: Nice to meet in the flesh you fuggin’–

Fred’s eyes find LT.

Fred Dick: Beautiful young lady! Tell me, uh… what is a Warchamber match? Do you know? Your… lovely mama and her… favorite… acehoe? Can I say acehoe? Hell, I done did. FUG. I’m sorry I just… I just need to know.

Ami’s eyes light up with delight.

Ami Troy: Oh my God.

She looks at her mom, then back at Fred. Delightful, devilish giggles pour from her mouth.

Ami Troy: (sing-songy) Fred is gonna di-iiiiiiie!

Ami grabs her phone and skips away again, singing as she leaves.

Ami Troy: There’s gonna be a mur-der! Fred is gonna di-iiiiiiie!

Paxton can’t help but smile at Ami’s song. He looks back over at Fred.

Paxton Ray: I still don’t know what it is. But I know you’re in trouble.

Fred Dick looks at LT. Makes big, anime-style pleasing eyes.

Fred Dick: Bawse Lady… what have you done?

Lindsay Troy: What needed doing. Now the both of you can find your way out of here.

Paxton nods, adjusting his facemask as he shoots one last look at Fred, who is clearly internalizing a full-blown panic attack. Then, he walks out, singing a familiar song as he does.

Paxton Ray: Fred is gonna di-iiiiiie!

Ever have a panic attack? The kind that sends a full bowel of nerves straight through the intestines and right out of the butthole? Well, Fred is having one right now. Though he tries to hide it, a toot plays right out of his cleft ass, sounding like a staccato note from a dented French horn.

His eyes betray him.

As he makes eye contact with LT, he realizes she knows.

She knows he just sharted with fear.

We move along. Quickly.

The camera cuts to an unusually quiet locker room. Two competitors sit, neither in their gear because they have a show off, the first for one of them since ReVival 50. One sits on the bench. He’s dressed uncharacteristically formally for having one segment of television time. Tailored suit, leather shoes, and, oh yeah, his lucha mask. The Anglo Luchador looks down at his phone, eyes glazed over, not focusing on anything but focusing on everything. On a folding chair in a corner, a man is dressed a little more casually, but not much more. Slacks, white A-shirt covered by a loudly-colored blazer. Zapp Scatino is as he normally is in the locker room, booked or not, reading the latest Variety. The Luchador looks up from his phone to break the silence.

TAL: Tonight’s the night, Zapp.

Zapp Scatino: Uh-huh. We find out who’s gonna to transluminate themselves across the squared circle at Ultraviolence for those Tag Team Championships.

The Luchador sighs and rolls his neck to crack the bones.

TAL: I hope it’s The Whoresmen.

Zapp forcefully puts down the periodical into his lap without letting go.

Zapp Scatino: You wanna catch the dia-gonorrhea and shit? You lost your marbles or what?

TAL: Maybe. Maybe not. But they put the only blemish on our record. I want a pound of their flesh.

Zapp Scatino: That reminds me, ribeye’s on sale. Twelve ninety-nine a pound.  I would offer you cut but, ehhhhhh, you’ve been a bit of a dick lately. Besides, I’m thinkin’ there’s more of a, whaddya-who’s-its, opportunity if it’s the Mutli-Perverts of Whatever-the-fuck.

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: Yeah, you might think that, but after the shit they pulled with the Coltons, you would be flying solo at Ultraviolence because I would be in a holding cell. You’ve been in one of those before, right Zapp?

Zapp shoots his partner a sidelong glance worthy of Paulie Walnuts.

TAL: What a dumb question, of course you have. Well, I’m sure it wasn’t for murder one. Multiple counts too. I’d be liable to put several Kenny Freemans in the ground if we faced them. Or is it Kennies Freeman?

Zapp Scatino: Kenny Fuckpants.

TAL: Tomato, potato.

The Luchador puts his phone back in his pocket and stands up to face his partner.

TAL: What if it’s Daniels and the nautical arsonist?

Zapp Scatino: Who gives a fuck? If it’s Fuckpants and Kael, Daniels and Other Guy, or fuckin’ Mike and the Mad Dog….it don’t fuckin’ matter. The results are gonna be the results no matter which of these teams it’s gonna be and you can’t argue with results.  That’s why they’re results.

TAL: So what you’re saying is it doesn’t matter who wins?

Zapp shrugs and nods. The Luchador’s smile beams through his mask like a floodlight.

TAL: Zapp, that’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said.

Zapp Scatino: I’m just a regular Isaac Newton-John over here.

Zapp picks up the Variety and opens it with a flourish. The Anglo Luchador goes back to looking at his phone as the scene ends

The air in the dressing room is thick with anticipation, a pre-match tension that clings to every surface. The scent of menthol and sweat mixes as Bryan Dawkins rolls his shoulders- the laid-back Hawaiian’s ritual dance before the storm of the ring.

Adam Ellis: Hey, Bruh.

Adam Ellis rumbles as he steps into the space, the door swinging shut behind his imposing frame.

Bryan Dawkins: Adam! ‘Bout time you showed up.

Bryan grins, dropping his hands and turning to face his friend. The tension in Adam’s shoulders spoke volumes, but there was a spark in his eye that had been missing lately.

Bryan Dawkins: Got somethin’ for ya.

In the corner of the room a life-sized cardboard cut-out stands of Ginny Van Lear, captured in vibrant color, her red hair like a flame.

Adam’s lips twitch into a smile, a rare moment of levity breaking through.

Adam Ellis: Man, that’s somethin’. Ginny’s gonna get a kick outta this.

Bryan Dawkins: Figured you could use a reminder of what you’re fightin’ for.

Bryan claps his hand on Adam’s broad back.

Adam Ellis: Appreciate it, Bryan. And I didn’t come empty-handed either.

Adam’s gaze shifts toward the door, a silent cue that something—or someone—was about to join them.

The click of the door handle is the only warning before MVW minority owner Joe Bergman steps through, flanked by the unmistakable silhouettes of MVW Security. A knowing look passes between the men as Bergman’s arrival signals more than just a friendly visit- it’s a statement, a reinforcement that Adam isn’t walking this path alone.

Bryan Dawkins: Joe!

Bryan extends a hand which Bergman shakes firmly.  Bryan met Bergman for the first time at the MVW Muncie, Indiana house show the week before.

Bryan Dawkins: Didn’t expect to see you here.

Joe Bergman: Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

With a nod, Bryan and Adam raise their fists and bring them together in a solid fist bump—a pact sealed not just in friendship, but in the unspoken promise of having each other’s backs when the bell rang and beyond.

Bryan Dawkins: Oh… and here’s your crowbar back.

Dawkins returns the crowbar he borrowed last week from Adam as we cut to ringside.

We return to Nick Stuart and Richard Parker at the commentary booth.

Nick Stuart: It’s time to see if Hawaiian BBQ can play the spoiler for The Big.. well you know, STRONK Godson and Fred Dick.

Ricard Parker: Say the name, feel the name, Stuart. The Big Dick Stallions aka THE RARE BOYS!

The arena quaked with anticipation, the roar of the crowd reverberating off the walls inside the heart of Rogers Arena.

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

The opening chords of Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” cascaded over the masses, a siren call that heralded the arrival of Adam Ellis. He emerged from behind the curtain, holding up a life-size cardboard cut-out of his fiery-haired wife, Ginny Van Lear, like a talisman of strength and devotion

Then, as if on cue, Blur’s “Song 2” erupted, its iconic riff vibrating through the air. Bryan Dawkins stepped out, confidence personified, his laid-back demeanor a stark contrast to the electric atmosphere around him. A smile played across his lips, his eyes scanning the sea of fans who were now on their feet, the din growing louder with every step he took.

Vince Howard: …accompanied to the ring tonight by Joe Bergman and MVW Security…

To the surprise of everyone in the building, Joe Bergman and ten stalwart members of MVW’s Security come out from the back and stand behind Ellis and Dawkins.

Vince Howard: Bryan Dawkins… Adam Ellis… they are… HAWAIIAN BBQ!

The declaration was met with a thunderous ovation, a collective voice that echoed through the rafters.

As MVW’s Security team escorted the group down the ramp, each step was met with flashes of cameras and the reach of outstretched hands.

At ringside, Adam defiantly put the cardboard cut-out of Ginny Van Lear, an effigy of defiance and love, in their corner where it would stand sentinel at ringside as Adam and Bryan ascended into the ring.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe that PRIME is allowing all these outsider security guards at ringside!

Nick Stuart: Given the antics of the Poor Whoresmen, I think it’s a smart idea to have a few extra hands at ringside.

Ashley Barlow moves to the Hawaiian BBQ’s corner, checking them over for weapons as their music slowly fades out.

“Big Dawgs” by Hanumankind cranks out over the sound system as the crowd turns from cheers to boos. The lights focus on the PRIME stage as Daytona Diamonds and Harley Walker step out onto the stage. They provide a polite golf clap as the Big Dick Stallions make their grand entrance.

Fred Dick is the first one out, his hands held high as we are assaulted by his aggressive love of the color red. Following him out is STRONK Godson and Lowell who appears to be doing his best not to appear like he is trying to keep a step or two ahead of Godson but slightly behind Dick.

Nick Stuart: Do you think Lowell is looking for a good place to stick a knife?

Richard Parker: How dare you, Stuart! Lowell is loyal to his friends and family in the Poor Whoresmen, he’d never stab ANY of them in the back!

The gang of men make their way down to the ring as the fans continue to plaster them with boos. In the ring Adam and Bryan seem to be focused, their eyes on their upcoming opponents. Dick rolls beneath the bottom rope before popping up to his feet, throwing some loud shit talk in the direction of Hawaiian BBQ. STRONK Godson lifts both of his fists into the air, high above his head.

Vince Howard: ..and introducing next.. From the Whoresmen’s Lair, accompanied by INTENSE Champion Daytona Diamonds, Harley Walker and Lowell Dot Com..

He locks eyes with Ashley Barlow before driving his balled fists down onto the ground.

Vince Howard: STRONK Godson.. Fred Dick.. THE BIG DICK STALLIONS AKA THEM RARE BOYS!

The impact launches STRONK into the air and onto the apron with a smoothness that would make Donkey Kong envious. He stomps between the ropes while Lowell, Daytona and Harley Walker move to the BDS’s corner.

Nick Stuart: A lot on the line here tonight with this match. If the Big Dick Stallions can win here they still have a chance to make it into the finals depending on the result of tonight’s main event.

Richard Parker: Ain’t no way in hell that Hawaiian BBQ is gonna win here tonight. I heard that Adam Ellis almost bailed out of the tournament!

Nick Stuart: And yet here he is, Parker. Don’t believe everything you read online.

With both teams in the ring Barlow calls for the bell!

DING DING

Fred and STRONK don’t stand on ceremony and immediately launch themselves at their opponents. STRONK practically runs over Bryan Dawkins while Fred and Adam Ellis brawl into a corner.

Nick Stuart: That damn Fred Dick has no scruples what so ever!

Richard Parker: And no standards, it’s what makes Fred so delightfully human!

Ashley Barlow immediately begins demanding one of the BDS leave the ring. Unfortunately for referee neither man appears to be in a listening mode as Diamonds cheers them on from the outside. STRONK tosses Dawkins out of the ring before joining his partner, smashing Ellis across the back with a Double Ax Handle across his back.

The attack is enough to stun Ellis, drawing him off Fred Dick who takes advantage by sending a hard right hand across Adam’s jaw dropping him. Barlow has had enough and she interjects herself between STRONK and Ellis. The Godson seems torn between tearing her in half like a phone book and losing the match or obeying her commands. Unable to figure out which to do he turns his eyes toward Fred Dick.

It also appears that Lowell has moved himself into STRONK’s field of vision on the outside behind Dick, barking orders at his thicc boi.

Nick Stuart: Does it feel like there is some kind of power struggle going on between Lowell and Dick over STRONK?

Richard Parker: Don’t be a trouble starter, Stuart, there isn’t anything but love, hot, greasy, sloppy, messy love between the Poor Whoresmen!

STRONK starts to step back to his corner when Dawkins catches the handler of STRONK off guard with a clothes line, wiping him out!

Richard Parker: What the hell was that?! Lowell wasn’t doing anything!

Nick Stuart: Don’t try to profess the innocence of Lowell, he’s no saint.

STRONK immediately exits the ring, no longer interested in Ellis, the focus of his attention on his fallen manager. Inside the ring Fred returns his attention to Adam Ellis, pulling him up to his feet by his hair.

Fred Dick: BLOODMODE!

Calling his shot, Fred cranks back and sends his arm flying toward Ellis with reckless abandon. This fight is very early, though, and there is plenty of fight in Ellis. The skillful grappler ducks beneath the strike before catching Dick with an Arm Trap Neckbreaker much to the delight of the crowd!

Nick Stuart: Probably not wise to declare what you’re about to do before you do it.

Richard Parker: You obviously know nothing of the pageantry of professional wrestling! This is as much about style as it is about skill.

Ellis keeps up the pressure, throwing down a series of kicks before hoisting his much heavier opponent up to his feet. He whips Dick into Hawaiian BBQ’s corner with a thunderous crash. Adam follows this up by charging in behind Fred, connecting with a huge clothesline, stunning Fred!

Nick Stuart: Hawaiian BBQ have recovered pretty strongly from the early attack by the BDS.

Richard Parker: Beginners luck, Stuart!

Nick Stuart: This is the last match of the regular tournament, Richard!

Richard Parker: That may be but it’s these two teams first time facing each other!

Nick Stuart: I.. w.. Okay, I conceded that but I still don’t think that that adage applies there.

A quick tag out between Ellis and Dawkins, who has moved back to his corner after taking Lowell down. Bryan begins to work over Fred in the corner with an aggressive flurry of rights and lefts followed by a stiff back elbow. Another tag brings Ellis back into the ring.

Both men drag Fred from the corner and execute a nearly picture perfect double suplex on the much larger man, his body causing the entire ring to shake. Ellis drops in for a cover..

1..

Kickout!

Richard Parker: A fierce kick out by a fellow Richard!

Nick Stuart: His last name is Dick.. not Richard. Did you think he shortened his last name from Richard?

Richard Parker: Wait, it’s not?

Nick Stuart: That’s not how last names.. Okay, let’s just focus on the match, okay?

Fred kicks out with piss and vinegar. Ellis doesn’t let the quick kickout bother him as he locks Fred down with a headlock. Keeping Dick grounded, Adam modifies his stance as he slowly pulls Fred into a modified STF.

The screams of Fred fill the ring as he struggles to drag himself to the ropes. Thankfully his partner is quick to interject himself, charging across the ring and kicking Ellis across the back of his head forcing him to break the hold.

Nick Stuart: Big STRONK Godson with the save!

Richard Parker: BDS working like a well lubricated sex machine!

Barlow admonishes the Beast from the Deep, sending him back to his corner as Ellis shakes the cobwebs free. Sadly for Adam, it’s Fred who’s back up to his feet first, his incredible endurance on full display.

Crack!

A hard knife edge across Adam’s chest backs the all American hero back into a neutral corner.

Crack!

Another hard chop drives the wind out of Ellis’s lungs as Fred lays in the hard lumber.

Crack!

A third and final chope cuts across Adam’s upper chest, dangerously close to his neck. This drives the Warrensburg native down into a seated position. Fred kicks Adam in the head for good measure before lightly jogging to the opposite corner. Turning, he points at the dazed Adam Ellis before charging forward like the world’s trashiest bull.

Nick Stuart: Oh no, oh no!

Richard Parker: GET HIM! Posterized!

Fred wears down his opponent, driving his ass and crotch down on Ellis’s upper body with his own version of the Bronco Buster. Climbing off, Fred points to his ass as he is inundated with booing. This seems to only entice Fred more as he turns around, ensuring his ass is face level with Adam Ellis.

Nick Stuart: This is just wrong, wrong on so many levels!

Richard Parker: Adam Ellis is gonna have to explain to Ginny how he got pink eye!

Despite his best efforts, Fred is unable to land the Kiss the Ring on Adam’s face as the husband of Ginny van Lear slides between Dick’s legs! The King of Wrong Style lives up to his name as he drives his lower back and ass into the turnbuckle, a look of regret washing over his face.

Nick Stuart: He escaped! Can he tag in Dawkins!?

Richard Parker: That was an illegal move, wasn’t it?! That looked totally illegal to me!

Ellis dives toward his corner, his long arms reaching out as he connects with a hot tag to his partner, Bryan Dawkins!

The Bruh from Aloha State flies over the top rope full of energy and ready to unleash it on Fred. As big Fred Dick comes out of the corner he is caught in a massive Belly to Belly Suplex, Dawkins driving Dick into the mat with authority!

Nick Stuart: The crowd is going wild! Is tonight the night!? Does Hawaiian BBQ have what it takes to bring down the BDS and dash any hopes for a Poor Whoresmen Title run!?

Richard Parker: Don’t even whisper that kind of bad juju out loud, Stuart!

Fred bounces back up, swinging wildly at Bryan who manages to duck beneath the haymakers only to pick up and drop Dick with a Belly to Back Suplex!  The crowd is rallying behind the former Flyin’ Hawaiian as he finishes off the combo by dragging a groggy Fred up into a bridging German Suplex!

Barlow is in position for the cover..

1..

2…

STRONK comes crashing down across Dawkin’s midsection, breaking up the pinfall attempt and squelching some of the fire in Bryan.

Nick Stuart: A breath away, if it happened been for STRONK this might have been over!

Richard Parker: No way, Fred’s just taking a minute! It’s fine! IT’S FINE!

The Godson doesn’t stop there, however, charging into the BBQ’s corner with a forearm to the side of an unsuspecting Ellis’s head. Despite Barlow’s condemnations, STRONK doesn’t appear dissuaded from his course. He grabs Fred’s arm, dragging him to the corner before tagging himself in, a surprisingly smart move by the walking slab of meat.

Richard Parker: I hear that STRONK’s been going to kindergarten recently, that would explain why he’s so smart now!

Nick Stuart: I certainly wouldn’t want STRONK to hear ME saying those kinds of things. Still, a very smart play by Godson!

As STRONK enters the ring legally he finds Dawkins ready for him. Swinging for the fences, Godson looks to take Dawkins’ head off but the speed and prowess of the leaner man means STRONK wounds nothing but air.

Taking to the ropes, Dawkins ducks beneath another Clothesline attempt only to return with a Chop Block to the back of STRONK’s leg. To the surprise of Bryan, however, he bounces off the hardened muscle of the STRONKest Man Alive. A heavy foot nearly crushes Bryan’s head as he rolls backward, keeping his distance.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is gonna need to get out of harms way and come up with a new strategy if he wants to beat the Beast from the Deep.

Richard Parker: I’d love to see him try and suplex the STRONKest man alive, I’ll tell you that much!

That doesn’t stop STRONK daddy from keeping the offensive up. Closing the distance between the two, STRONK widens his stance to catch the pesky little fly buzzing around him annoyingly. Unfortunately in widening his stance, the Godson has stretched his legs a little too wide and Bryan manages to quickly dive between them, avoiding the dangerous grasp of the Beast from the Deep!

Heading into the ropes, Dawkins looks to once again use the momentum he gains from them to assault STRONK’s base however he is tripped by a sneaky fuckin’ Daytona Diamonds. Dawkins nearly falls on his face before recovering, spinning around to point an accusing finger at the Rhinestone Cowboy. For his part Diamonds pleads innocent, making his case to Ashley Barlow who didn’t catch the interference herself. The MVW Security Guards quickly put themselves between the ring and Diamonds who holds his hands up and backs away.

Nick Stuart: The MVW security guards getting involved, doing what they were brought here to do.

Richard Parker: What? Interfere in a match on behalf of Hawaiian BBQ? It’s wrong, I tell you, wrong to have them here, intimidating the Poor Whoresmen.

Nick Stuart: I highly doubt the Whoresmen are intimidated but it is good to have some bodies around to keep those CHEATERS from doing what they do best.

This distraction, however, is enough to keep Bryan’s eye off the prize. STRONK’s powerful hands clamp down on either side of Dawkins head, his eyes going wide with realization.

At first it looks like nothing is happening, Dawkins frozen in place as STRONK holds his head in his thick hands. It’s Bryan Dawkins’ pained screams that alert the audience that something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Nick Stuart: Oh dear, Dawkins finds himself in an extremely undesirable position.

Richard Parker: He’s a damn stress ball for STRONK right now! You ever wonder what it must have looked like when the Titan submersible popped? Get ready, we’re about to have a front row seat to what happened, Nick!

As his face starts to turn red, the Hawaiian Bruh crawls at the vice grip of STRONK as the Beast crushes Dawkins head like a coconut. Bryan’s body begins to shake and convulse as his partner, Adam Ellis, shouts encouragement from their corner. Sadly it doesn’t seem to be helping as no rally comes. Instead Bryan’s flailing and screams weaken and slow. Eventually he stops struggling all together as his arms fall limply at his side.

Nick Stuart: This is it I think, the amount of pressure put on Dawkins’ brain, likely cutting off the blood flow.

Richard Parker: Well he should have just given up and saved himself the stroke.

Barlow checks the arm..

1!

Ashley lifts the arm a second time..

2!…

By now the crowd is booing loudly, ready to count the third fall..

3…

NO!

Nick Stuart: He’s still in it! By God, Dawkins is fighting!

Richard Parker: Impossible! Is wrestling even real!?

Dawkins’ arm stops before it falls entirely, renewed strength flushing into his body. The crowd rallies behind him, excitedly cheering him on as he struggles against the titanic strength of STRONK Godson!

Bryan uses all of his strength to push himself up, kicking back with both of his feet against STRONK’s kneecaps. The gambit works as the Godson screams in pain, releasing the hold on Dawkins head as he reaches down to his wounded knees.

Nick Stuart: A brilliant counter by Dawkins! He’s broken the hold, now he needs desperately to make a tag!

Richard Parker: Fred! Help your boy out!

Fred clamors into the ring only to get caught by a Release Belly to Belly suplex from Dawkins!

Riding on pure adrenaline and the crowd’s support, Bryan unleashes a loud roar before charging STRONK, kneeing him square on the jaw! This staggers the shortest yet heaviest man in this match!

He then throws himself into his corner tagging in Adam Ellis who has recovered from his earlier beating. Both men quickly pick up Fred Dick, tossing him out of the ring before they turn their attention to STRONK Godson. Both men pull the Godson up to his feet and set him up for the same Double Suplex they hit Dick with.

Nick Stuart: Ellis and Dawkins are gonna suplex the Godson!

Richard Parker: Impossible! There is no way!

Unfortunately STRONK Godson isn’t a normal, regular human being. Or even better than average. He’s some kind of genetic freak who may or may not know the secrets of wrestling Math.

Using his incredible power, STRONK Godson lifts both Bryan Dawkins and Adam Ellis up with a Vertical Suplex of his own! Dawkins immediately rolls out of the ring while Adam is stuck alone with a full slab of PRIME Meat. Still reeling from the suplex, Ellis is ill prepared for STRONK slamming his elbow down several times across his neck and back.

Richard Parker: I told you, Stuart, there was no way they were suplexing a human brick shithouse like STRONK Godson!

Having worked over Adam, the big man hoists Ellis up into a Backdrop Driver dumping him on the back of his neck and head!

STRONK doesn’t appear done, however, as he powers Adam Ellis back up to his feet and drops him with another Backdrop Driver, this one with a little more stank thrown onto it.

The Godson drags Ellis by his tights into the BDS’s corner, dumping him unceremoniously before tagging in Fred Dick once again.

Fred’s an eager beaver, Ellis’s attacks still stinging his ego from earlier. He does cold blooded, shitty things to poor Ellis. Stiff kicks to the ribs, grinding his shoe laces across Adam’s face, biting, back racks, he’s just being an absolute Dick here, pun very much intended.

Fred Dick: BLOOD MODE!

Once again Dick calls for his set up, swinging like it’s 1989.

Nick Stuart: I still don’t think it’s wise to call your move before you hit it.

Richard Parker: Live in the moment, Stuart!

And again, Adam Ellis manages to duck beneath the attempted maiming, rolling and jumping to his corner to tag Bryan Dawkins in!

Both Fred and Dawkins meet in the center of the ring, a wild haymaker swinging just past Dawkins head as he fires a knee into Fred’s stomach. Dawkins plants him with a sudden DDT, spiking the big man’s head in the mat hard!

Nick Stuart: He spiked him! Fred’s down!

This draws in STRONK who charges Dawkins. The crafty Hawaiian ducks the STRONK Daddy’s attack causing the thicc boy to head into the ropes. His momentum makes it impossible to stop as Adam Ellis yanks down the top rope sending the Godson crashing to the outside!

Richard Parker: No! NO! Ch-Cheating! Hawaiian BBQ are cheating!

The crowd is going wild, chanting HAWAIIAN BBQ’s name as the team of Ellis and Dawkins rally! With Fred alone and recovering in the ring, Dawkins rolls into action. His MMA training shown off as he smoothly glides over Fred’s body, grabbing his opponents arms as he lock sin an Ezekiel Choke!

Nick Stuart: He’s got the choke locked in! He’s got Fred alone in the center of the ring, dead to rights! He’s fading!

Richard Parker: No! Get to the ropes, Fred! Break the hold! Do something! Tag Team glory is on the line!

It is now Dick’s turn to fail and choke as Dawkins tightens down the grip! On the outside Ellis throws himself off the apron, tackling STRONK into the protective barrier outside the ring!

The cheering turns to boos as Daytona Diamonds once again jumps up on the apron drawing the attention of referee Ashley Barlow. She turns, ordering Diamonds off the apron as Fred Dick frantically begins to tap!

Nick Stuart: That’s it! He’s got him! He’s got him!

Richard Parker: But if there is no referee to call it, does he really have him!? No, Stuart! The match continues!

Unfortunately Dawkins finds that despite the tapping, the bell isn’t ringing. He releases the hold, shoving a barely conscious Fred away before stalking toward Barlow and Diamonds.

Suddenly the MVW Security is swarming around Daytona. He’s ripped off the apron as a full scale brawl breaks out! Harley and Daytona start throwing fists as six MVW security guards attempt to overwhelm them. The pair are pushed up the ramp, despite connecting with several stiff shots.

Richard Parker: What the hell is happening!? These MVW hacks are assaulting PRIME talent!

Nick Stuart: This started with Daytone sticking his sad, coke cavern of a nose into this match and now the MVW security team is doing exactly what they were here to do! Keep this match as fair as possible!

For his part Lowell leaps onto one of the MVW guards only to get hurled into the steel steps. The guard also stomps on Lowell’s balls for good measure before running to join his associates attempting to deal with Walker and Diamonds!

Back in the ring Dawkins returns his attention to Fred Dick..

CRACK!

With both Barlow and Dawkins distracted by the chaos outside the ring neither noticed Fred slipping something out of his ludicrously colorful underwear. Unfortunately for Dawkins, he discovers Dick’s secret when a pair of brass knuckles turn his lights out. His body falls limply to the ground.

Nick Stuart: No! NO! Not like this!

Richard Parker: That Fred Dick is so incredibly powerful! Probably the best striker in PRIME!

Dick screams for Barlow, tossing the knucks out of the ring. As Lowell is pulling himself up the knuckles fly out of the ring and connect with his crotch, once again sending him down.

Fred Dick makes the cover..

1…

2…

3!

DING DING DING

Adam Ellis dives, crashing into both Fred and Dawkins but it’s too late. Ashley Barlow calls for the bell as Ellis looks both surprised and heartbroken, holding up a two in some vain attempt to change the outcome.

Vince Howard: The winners of this match by pinfall.. THE BIG DICK STALLIONS!

Fred doesn’t wait to celebrate in the ring, however, as he quickly joins the brawling outside the ring with the MVW security staff. He is joined by his partner as both sides fight their way up the ramp and to the back.

Back in the ring Adam is attempting to wake up an unconscious Dawkins.

Nick Stuart: An incredible effort by Hawaiian BBQ here tonight. Truly, Adam Ellis and Bryan Dawkins had this thing won if it hadn’t been for that damned Daytona Diamonds.

We cut to commercial.

Fresh off the commercial break, the high angle rafter camera catches a gathering of PRIME talent in and around the ring. Zoom in shots give further clarification. Members of The Red Army stand in the upper right corner of the squared circle (from the hard-cam view). Kenny Freeman, It’s Definitely Maximillian Wilhelm Kael Who’s Alive and Well, We’ve Totally Known This for a While Now! and, of course, Ivan Stanislav with his arms crossed, resting against the buckle, suggesting this may be a giant waste of his time.

Outside the ring sits Reed Young on a tattered lawn chair. Moments ago, he popped it open and stretched like he’s going to be there for a while. We hope not. Beside him stands Fred Dick and STRONK! Godson. Finally, rounding off the group is The King of the Rodeo, which this segment might end up becoming one given the players hanging around at the moment. It’s Daytona Diamonds. Diamonds and Freeman have already made a few suspecting glances at one another. At various times all members of The Red Army have made eye contact with Fred, STRONK or Daytona.

Nick Stuart: There’s history between these two teams and in particular Max Kael! and Fred Dick. However, I was told out of respect to the host party, tonight we have a cease-fire agreement.

Richard Parker: When do the Russians ever tell the truth?

Nick Stuart: You’re not… fighting me on this?

Richard Parker: No, I was legitimately asking: when do the Russians ever tell the truth. I don’t know.

Stuart sighs openly as Vince Howard enters the ring, mic in hand.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s-

???: ‘YA BOY!

The PA kicks on as someone from the back has clearly taken over the airwaves and interrupted the ring announcer. Vince politely puts the mic into his back pocket and exits the ring.

…While Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy, who only appears for MASSIVELY IMPORTANT entrances of LOVE and ADMIRATION, stands at the top of the ramp to a chorus of cheers!

Why cheers? Because TCG usually raps original lyrics to historic songs. It’s rather entertaining.

However, given that there will be no rap today and just a simple introduction, you can expect the boos to come in loud and clear very soon. Particularly when revealing… her.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: BRAP BRAP BRAP! Thank you esteemed guests for making it to this CAN’T MISS reveal of the long awaited ESPN 30For30 trailer – THE FOUR POSTS OF LOVE, capturing my cousin, Jonathan-Christopher and his Amazing Life Partner, Vickie’s rise to superstardom throughout the Almasy Tournament, defeating Cecilworth Fartington in the finals and capping it off with that marquee moment, that Hallmark emphasis, winning the Universal Championship by defeating the Full Blown Narcissist Jared Sykes in the main event of Culture Shock!

The crowd boos. Told you it wouldn’t take long… and Vickie’s not even out yet.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Ladies and gentlemen, lovers and lovees, it is my privilege to introduce to you… the most dynamic couple in ALL of professional sports. He is The Forever Man. The Alpha Male Love Boat. He is no longer The Timid Tiger but The Heroic Herbivore! He is The Vow of Virtue and the former Universal Champion soon to become a TWO TIME champion after defeating Hessian CLEAN in the middle of that very ring two weeks ago! Please let me introduce… JONATHAN. CHRISTOPHER. HALL!

The lights dim and then shut off completely. As new theme music kicks in, a white spotlight roams around the crowd, ultimately falling upon the entranceway. Eventually, a sullen Jonathan-Christopher emerges.

“The Best” by AWOLNATION

Hall wears black golf pants and a plain black t-shirt to go along with his pushed forward and rather unkempt blonde hair. Looking nothing like the man who once started his PRIME Wrestling journey tattooed in “I LOVE VICKIE” gear, Hall merely strolls up beside his cousin and doesn’t acknowledge his existence further.

Thinking JCH is as happy as can be, the formerly dubbed “Nuzzle Lord” starts to nuzzle himself (look it up) in glee of seeing Jonathan-Christopher beside him.

The crowd is already booing wildly, since they know who has to come out next.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: AND NOW…

He can barely get the words out over the vicious Vancouver crowd pissing all over this.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: The lady you’ve all been waiting for!

So many boos.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Strong willed. Iron fisted. Absolutely precious. She is the backbone, she is the tailbone, she is EVERY SINGLE bone in PRIME. She’s PRIME rib, baby-oh-baby-oh-baby. She managed her Amazing Life Partner on the VERY first ReVival main event and she has been the pinnacle of professional wrestling ever since! She led her husband to the top of the food chain! She is respected. She is loved. She is one-hundred percent humble.

Nick Stuart: Who are we kidding?

Richard Parker: Quiet, Nick. I’m listening.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Ladies and gentlemen of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada… (HARD boos), she is WALKING PROOF THE MOVIES AREN’T JUST WHERE YOU FIND YOUR LOVE STORIES, THEY’RE IN REAL LIFE, TOO!!

Gladhappy working on a heart attack to introduce her.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: PLEASE. IT IS MY PRIVILEGE TO ANNOUNCE… her full name was Victoria Cinnamon Young… but everyone knows her as THE REAL MANAGER OF THE YEAR… VICKIE HAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!

“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith

Nick Stuart: We have a time limit on these shows, you know. This is taking forever.

Eventually, Vickie Hall wanders out, looking as if she doesn’t know where she is. Then she’s adorably flabbergasted she’s walked herself right into the middle of everything. How shocking and silly she is!

Stunned and blushing in her PRETTY PINK© onesie, complete with Russian Bear slippers (Ivan’s head is on them, he’s winking and smiling which is totally something he’d do), Vickie wraps her arms around Tristan-Crispin. She wandersa beside her ALP. She acts coy/cute/shy, as she raises her right hand to her mouth and giggles behind it. She sticks her left arm out, waiting for Jonathan-Christopher to take it. However, he does not. He doesn’t move a muscle.

Nick Stuart: Something is wrong with Jonathan-Christopher.

Perhaps Vickie grows impatient but she’s not going to show it. Instead, she shifts her weight forward and walks down the rampway as if this was her plan all along – to go solo and take the lead. Tristan-Crispin trails behind and Jonathan-Christopher trails behind even further.

Reed Young stands from his lawn chair and claps profusely. He looks over to Fred Dick and nudges him, boasting in pride.

Reed Young: That’s my daughter!

Fred grins in a gross, sexual way.

Fred Dick: Hell yeah.

Vickie arrives at the end of the rampway, standing in front of the steel steps. It’s clear she needs help to ascend them, as she always does. She’s looking directly at Jonathan-Christopher for support but once JCH arrives, he simply stands there motionlessly. Tristan-Crispin ends up helping Vickie walk up the stairs instead. On the apron, it’s once again clear Vickie needs help through the ropes. She’s flipping her head back and forth, from Jonathan-Christopher to inside the ring. Except JCH does nothing.

Finally, Ivan Stanislav marches over in a huff. He pulls the top rope up and steps on the middle rope, flattening it nearly to the apron. Vickie blushes and slips into the ring, as Gladhappy and Hall enter on their own time. Stanislav, however, stares Jonathan-Christopher down after the “rude” display – unwilling to help his own wife through the ring ropes. However, not to make a scene at this point in time, Ivan doesn’t bother getting physical with the kid. There’s always backstage for that.

Vickie has a mic in her hand as her theme music comes to a close. The crowd boos, but they’ve been booing nonstop so it doesn’t phase her.

Vickie Hall: HELLO, WORLD!

More jeers, although Gladhappy and Young are clapping. Everyone else is a statue, even her Amazing Life Partner.

Vickie Hall: And world, do I have a treat for you! It’s finally here! My story. The rise to the top! The little girl dream! A real Hallmark movie comes to life, captured by the greatest sports broadcasting company of all time, ESPM!

Nick Stuart: Uhhh…

Vickie Hall: January 21st, 2022, the day I became an official wrestling manager. Unfortunately, a win was not in the cards for Jonathan-Christopher that night (harmless, cute giggle) when he messed up and lost to Brandon Youngblood in the first round of the Almasy Tournament.

Vickie pauses to lower her head but then raise it with pride!

Vickie Hall: October 6th, 2023. Like any love story there’s an arc of redemption. The start of the second Almasy Tournament. I led my wonderful flower man through Rich Patterson in round one, Ray Ray La Bomba round two, Kerry Kure-yo-lama trois (French), the Narcissist We Do Not Speak Of in the semis and Cecilwrath Flowington at the finals, to the trophy and Universal Championship!

Boos continue. By now, Jonathan-Christopher has found an empty corner of the ring. He rests against it and closes his eyes.

Nick Stuart: Something is significantly wrong with Jonathan-Christopher.

Richard Parker: That’s love, baby.

Nick Stuart: No, I’m serious. Look at him. I know he’s been having problems with Vickie on-air. There’s a real disconnect.

Richard Parker: That’s love, baby!

Vickie strolls around the ring, walking up to Stanislav and patting him on the chest. She moves towards Kenny Freeman next and playfully punches him in the arm. She 100% steers clear of Max Kael!; she’s not a complete idiot. Max pouts and slips his gold plated utensils back into his pocket. She winks and blows kisses at her father, when Fred Dick is momentarily confused, thinking Vickie’s blowing kisses at him, so he sticks one hand on Bulls jersey in an attempt to lift up his shirt but it’s too late, Vickie’s eyes are already on the next thing.

Eventually, The Woman of Wonder is again front and center in the middle of the ring.

Vickie Hall: I won’t waste more time. I GOTTA SHOW IT! ESPM has finished our documentary and I am here to reveal the TRAILER for the next greatest entry into the sports world!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall sinks into the corner of the ring, falling all the way down and landing on the canvas. He rocks back and forth uncontrollably, with his hands nervously rubbing the sides of his face.

Vickie Hall: Ladies and gentlemen, and the strange people of Edmonton (so many god damn boos – look up the city of Edmonton and you’ll understand why no one wants to be associated with them), please bring your attention to the BIG SCREEN and watch love unfold before your very eyes!

The arena lights dim. The screen is on.

ESPN

30FOR30

“Time of Your Life” by Green Day

Nick Stuart: (Sarcasm) This isn’t cliche.

…The scene opens with Jonathan-Christopher and Vickie arriving through the talent parking lot at the Enterprise Center in St. Louis, MO, prior to ReVival 36 and the start of the second Almasy Tournament. They look so young and innocent. They’re holding hands, as Vickie smiles at the camera lens while they approach. Jonathan-Christopher tries to open the entrance door with his free hand, while still holding onto Vickie with the other.

Vickie Hall: It’s happening. Tonight we rewrite everything and I will guide my Amazing Life Partner to victory! (Giggle) Oh butterflies in my stomach when I think about it!

Jonathan-Christopher can’t open the door. It’s too heavy with just one arm but it doesn’t matter, we’re onto the next scene.

…Where we fast-forward to last year and round one of the tournament. The second chance. JCH hits Rich Patterson with his finisher, Stand By Me. The pin is made and we’re onto round two.

…Ray Ray and Jonathan-Christopher putting on a back and forth show, until a part of the finish is cut out (likely due to a JCH low blow delivered to Bolamba) but the finisher is there, Stand By Me. JCH pins to move on.

…A promo by Vickie. “Kerry, you are a narcissist. If you look closely, whenever you open your mouth you say the word “I”. “I”, “I”, “I”, “I”, “I”. Always about you, always about Vae Victis. Well I don’t like that, Kerry. I feel anxious when you talk about yourself.”

…A roll up by Hall on Kuroyama and he’s onto ROUND FOUR!!

…Jonathan-Christopher takes Vickie’s hand and holds it in the air during a backstage interview before his match. “My champion; my love! You wish you could have this, Jared. But you can’t. And now I am going to do it. I am going to FINISH THE STOR-”

…Stand By Me. The look on Hall’s face as he drags Sykes’ legs into a pin and the count is made. ONE. TWO. THREE.

…The expression on Vickie’s face, she can’t believe it, she’s so happy!

…The big dance. The show of shows. Colossus. Superdome. Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s hometown. The grand entrance, the… cheers for the hometown kid. At least that’s what’s on the audio file. Man and woman, partner and partner, walking down to the ring collectively. The battle. The physicality from the previously undefeated Cecilworth Fartington. The “best wrestler in the world” sticking the boots to JCH over and over and over. The blood. Sweat. Tears? At times, yes, Jonathan-Christopher was crying. Then the finish. The roll up. The count of three. Cecilworth goes back on offense until he’s told that no, the match IS over! Vickie leaps into the arms of Jonathan-Christopher, JCH falls to the mat as the PRETTY PINK© confetti rains from the rafters! Jonathan-Christopher just won the whole god damn tournament! Vickie can be audibly screaming “NOBODY PICKED US!”

…And then. The Universal Championship. The belt is held high in the air by the referee. The challenger, Jonathan-Christopher Hall on one side and the champion, Jared Sykes on the other. Culture Shock. Wales. A hellacious battle between two bitter rivals. Jonatha-Christopher is desperate, Reed Young cheers from the outside.

…STAND BY ME. The crowd is in shock! Jonathan-Christopher FALLS on top of Jared Sykes without hooking a leg. The music in the background, it’s just like a real Hallmark movie trailer!

…ONE.

…TWO.

…

…

…

Blurred out. Heavy feedback echo. We snap back to ringside where Vickie Hall drops her mic and covers her ears because of the sound. Almost everyone is at least in some discomfort from the audio malfunction.

Except… we’re back on. But the scene doesn’t pick up where it left off. Did Jonathan-Christopher end up pinning Jared Sykes for the Universal Championship? First time watchers may never know.

There’s a small little fire flower emblem in the far right corner of the screen but otherwise, the rest of the picture is a scrambled mess of whites and grays and random colors. However, as this footage stays on the big screen, audio accompanies it.

There’s lots of shouting. Screaming.

Of… pleasure?

The images become a little clearer, although there’s no way to see exactly what’s going on. The scene looks like a bedroom, with a bed, a ton of covers thrown around…

And some x-rated movements???

The broadcast feed quickly swoops around the ring, to mostly wide-eyed amazement. The live feed changes to Reed Young and Fred Dick nodding along at the footage. Fred seemingly loves what he’s seeing. Dick leans over to his newest bro…

Fred Dick: Wow, he’s poundin’ ‘er ain’t he? Pap! Pap! Pap! Pap! Pap! Just like that there!

Reed smirks. It looks like he’s about to add a thought when he quints a little harder and realizes that room looks familiar. It might be his daughter’s and son-in-law’s. The audio perks up with a female voice, potentially confirming…

Confusion crosses the face of Ivan Stanislav, followed by an odd sense of… understanding? He lifts a brow and his mouth opens slowly, and then narrows his brows tightly.

The female voice in the footage, “YES!!! YES!!!! YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!”

Clear as day… it’s Vickie’s.

Reed seems okay with it. After all, it’s his daughter and son-in-l-

“OHHHH, YES! Jonathan-Christopher has never pleased me like THIS!!”

The video feed comes to an abrupt end.

…Leaving everyone else inside and outside the ring, including the fans, perplexed, trying to make sense of what they just saw.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall, however, remains rocking back and forth sitting in a corner of the ring with tears in his eyes. He never once looked at the footage.

Max Kael begins to laugh hysterically.

Vickie merely stands there, motionless. As the crowd slowly starts talking amongst each other, it’s pretty clear everyone is gaining a sense of just a few specific things.

Those things: The video was in a bedroom. There were two people having sex. Most importantly, the screams and cries of the female voice belonged to Victoria Cinnamon Young and the male, while seemingly blonde haired, was not JCH.

Despite Vickie’s inability to physically move her body, her eyes simply shift from right to left and left to right.

Implying guilt?

You tell me.

Finally, like a lingering demon in the corner of the bedroom, just waiting for the right time to strike, Jonathan-Christopher slowly pulls himself up from the corner of the ring, his eyes locked on his Amazing Life Partner. Max Kael slithers over to JCH, albeit for a brief second with a face-eating grin as he nudges Hall in the right shoulder with an under his breath “And to think, I used to call you a cuck as a joke.. heh-heh.”.

Hall’s eyes haven’t moved from Vickie. He doesn’t even acknowledge Kael!’s rather clever comment. In fact, JCH has stopped shaking entirely, but tears still run down his face.

He takes one step from the corner.

Then another.

And another.

Vickie hasn’t moved from the middle of the ring yet her deranged Amazing Life Partner is making his way over.

Eyes. Locked. On. Her.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Is that you?

At first, he asks softly. But the closer and closer JCH approaches, his voice gains steam with each passing word.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Is that you!?

Hall is within arm’s reach of Vickie, who still hasn’t moved.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: IS. THAT. YOU!?

Now standing in front of her, JCH is practically begging and demanding all at once. He leans forward, his arms out and palms in the air. His knees wiggle… and eventually he falls on them.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: VICKIE! TELL ME. IS THAT YOU!?!?

Vickie breaks from her trance. She actually looks past her ALP, ignoring him completely and eyes The Red Army in the far corner of the ring. Specifically, she looks at Ivan. She even acknowledges Max. She’s THAT desperate. She gives an over-the-top cheesy grin, as if everything is a-okay! Stanislav’s response is a stony, Russian facade that is near impossible to read, but it’s clear he’s digesting all of… this. Somehow Max’s face is slowly rising over Ivan’s shoulder wearing a shitty little grin.

Vickie Hall: My man (she takes a breath in-between her sentence, clearing getting worked up but trying so hard to hide it), he’s not thinking straight, you see.

Vickie looks back down at Jonathan-Christopher and starts talking quietly through her teeth.

Vickie Hall: Where the hell did you get that footage?

She makes the rounds with her eyes again. She locks a gaze with Kenny Freeman.

Vickie Hall: Can you help my husband? He’s not well.

Freeman has a “fucking helllll no” expression but before Vickie can interact with anyone further (maybe Max specifically), JCH bursts onto his feet and grabs Vickie by her shirt!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHY WOULD YOU CHEAT ON ME!?

Seeing Vickie’s eyes go wide with fear, Jonathan-Christopher lets go of her almost immediately after. His anger and frustration, however, does not subside.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I LOVE YOU. WHY WOULD YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME!?

Jonathan-Christopher runs over to the ropes and kicks the bottom one as hard as he can. He continues to scream “WHY!?” as tears flow from his eyes and his body shakes like a maniac.

Vickie frantically looks around the ring.

Vickie Hall: Dad- DADDY!?

Reed Young scurries into the squared circle, sliding under the bottom rope right beside Jonathan-Christopher. Young races towards Vickie and embraces her.

Vickie Hall: I need help, daddy. DADDY, I NEED HELP!!

Reed lets go of his daughter and begins to wave towards the back. Meanwhile, Max Kael! has definitely set up shop in the Red Army corner of the ring. He stole popcorn from a kid in the front row and munches it down with that same face-eating grin he expressed to JCH beforehand. He offers a handful of popcorn to Kenny, but Kenny politely declines because he just wants to get TF out of there.

Reed continues to call for help but no one is coming. As Jonathan-Christopher jumps around the ring, yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, Tristan-Crispin tries to help slow down his cousin-

WHAM!?

JCH slams Gladhappy square in the nose! He’s out!!

Nick Stuart: Oh my god!

Having seen ENOUGH, Ivan Stanislav surges into the frame, enveloping the frantic JCH by his scrawny little neck.

The Bear glares down at Jonathan-Christopher, growling Russian through gritted teeth. Yet nothing further comes of this interaction, since security races down the ramp and enters the ring. At the sight of the security, Stanislav releases JCH. Somehow Max Kael’s head once again begins to rise from behind Ivan’s shoulder. He is still consuming popcorn.

Vickie points security in the direction of Jonathan-Christopher Hall… who starts UNLOADING blows on them! Some of the crowd in Vancouver cheer but most, like the other parties surrounding the ring, really don’t know what to make of this.

The numbers game is too much, as Jonathan-Christopher is tackled to the mat and dragged out of the ring. Inside the squared circle, Vickie speaks to her father (and anyone else willing to listen).

Vickie Hall: He’s not right. I have no idea who that was, or what they were doing in Jonathan-Christopher and I’s bedroom!

Reed simply consoles his daughter with a hug and stroke of her hair. Obviously he adds a “there, there”.

Jonathan-Christopher is dragged up the rampway. It takes at least five security guards to get him halfway up. He hasn’t stopped screaming.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WHAT THE FUCK, VICKIE!? I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING. MY MIND. MY SOUL. MY BODY.

JCH is 3/4ths up the ramp.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: THE ALMASY. THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP! WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO WRONG!?

And then, an iconic mustache appears at the top of the ramp

Hayes Hanlon walks out, smirking at the circus below him. The second Jonathan-Christopher sees him, however…

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: WAS THAT YOU!? WERE YOU FUCKING MY WIFE!?

Hayes throws his arms in the air and then points to the screen, which no longer shows the footage, but still.

Hayes Hanlon: Did that even LOOK like me, you little weirdo??! He’s got one or two of my moves, but COME ON!

Jonathan-Christopher can’t be reasoned with. He continues absolutely frothing at the mouth until he’s carried away to the back. Hayes laughs audibly as he watches JCH get dragged behind the curtain, before turning to the crowd with grin that says “can you believe this shit?!”

And for the first time since the video aired, the announcers break their silence.

Nick Stuart: (Somberly) I am stunned. I cannot believe what has to be going on in that poor kid’s head. After everything he’s done for her…

Richard Parker: (Also surprisingly somber) Nick, we can’t tell anything from that footage. It might not even be her!

Nick Stuart: That was definitely Vickie’s voice and she just owned up to the scene being in their bedroom. How guilty can you get!?

The crowd starts booing Vickie, who’s still in the middle of the ring.

Stanislav barks loudly at The Red Army, and the collected members start to pull themselves together. Ivan marches out in front, looking over at Vickie for a moment as he passes by. He gently pats the top of her head, nearly engulfing it, and makes his way out of the ring.

Max slithers by and winks, or perhaps just blinks out of sync as he licks his lips.

Max Kael: Buh-bye for now.

He throws up the universal sign for “call me” before slipping through the ropes behind Ivan. Max makes sure to flip off the Poor Whoresmen on his way out.

Fred Dick: Dang boy yo daughter a sluuuuut! Love ya tho! See ya on the flip side, m’man.

Vickie slumps her shoulders and rests the side of her head against her father’s chest, as Young slowly leads the traumatized Vickie out of the ring. She continues to converse with him off-mic, yet the cameras pick it up.

Vickie Hall: He hasn’t been well for weeks now, daddy…

Richard Parker: See? Jonathan-Christopher hasn’t been thinking straight for WEEKS.

Nick Stuart: We knew that. Now, I think we know why.

Richard Parker: Well either way, you can’t show pornography on television, no matter how blurred. Jonathan-Christopher’s facing a fine, at best. Maybe even a suspension.

Nick Stuart: I’m sure that’s the least of his problems.

ReVival goes to commercial as Vickie continues telling her father how the footage is definitely doctored and Jonathan-Christopher’s gone mad.

Earlier today…

We cut back to the back where we see none other than the team known as Femme Furies sitting at their lockers.  The two of them are somewhat geared up, with Selene wearing her pteruges and a PRIME shirt while Fade is still in her workout gear.  They aren’t dressed necessarily for a fight, but it wouldn’t take them long to get ready for one.  The look on Fade’s face says that at least one of them is looking for that fight as soon as possible.

Fade:  Oye, mira aquí.

Fade snaps her fingers at the camera, bringing the attention in closer to the two of them.  She leans forward, letting her hair fall into her face before she brushes it back to show herself.

Fade:  We got caught sleepin’ against Tony Gamble and Bobby Dean.

She claps her hands together slowly while she rolls her eyes.

Fade:  I’m soooo happy for you boys.  I especially love the tired condescending routine Gamble hit us with on Jabber.

Selene:  We should move on from them, Fade.

The camera pans out to Selene, who is standing tall.

Selene:  It is time you understood us.  We are young, we will make mistakes, but they are ours to make and ours to learn from.  I do not feel regret from being defeated by two veterans.  What I do feel regret from is letting people talk to us and treat us like second class citizens.

She sighs, composing herself.

Selene:  I am a proud woman.  I have learned to keep my head up and my eyes forward.  However, that rigidity comes across as…aloof and withdrawn.  Optimistic to a fault.  Instead, this is what I see here in response.  A bunch of middle aged men and boys that all have their inside jokes and do not just look at the two of us as though we are new, they simply do not look upon us at all.

Fade:  That shit?  That shit right there?  That’s gonna change.  That’s GOTTA change.  See…

Fade rises to her feet.

Fade:  …don’t think we don’t see everything.  We get signed, then a tag team division resurgence happens, we don’t get a spot.  That’s fine.  Try to shake hands, be good little rookies, meet Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter.  Y’all know the two of them, I really don’t think I gotta explain how annoying those two are.

Selene rolls her eyes.

Selene:  How that man defeated RIA to snatch a title is something I stay up at night wondering about…

Fade:  Blind squirrels can still find a nut, Leen.

In a proper “speak of the devil” moment, the camera pivots over to the sound of a door being flung open. Kerry Kuroyama hurriedly strides into the locker room, his Wingman Championship secure over his shoulder.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hop to it, Scott! I’m set to compete in the opener tonight, and we’re already running late.

Scott Hunter follows him in, a large pink surfboard tucked under his arm. He also has white sunscreen smeared over the bridge of his nose.

Scott Hunter: Far out. Like, you are going to dominate out there tonight, man!

Kerry Kuroyama: [nodding to the surfboard] Why do you insist on dragging that thing around again?

Scott Hunter: Whoa dude… what if we run into some tasty waves and I’m not grippin’ my longboard? I might haf’ta scam some dick-dragger for his bodyboard bro, and that would be SO bogus!

Kerry rolls his eyes. When he turns to the bank of lockers, he freezes upon the sight of the Furies.

Kerry Kuroyama: Ahh, shit…

He shakes his head. Didn’t he just say two weeks ago they were going to try their hardest to avoid each other?

Kerry Kuroyama: Umm… [visibly struggling trying to remember their names] Ford… Saline… um, good evening? Hope you don’t mind, but I’m on something of a timetable here…

He tries to move past them.

Fade:  You’re…fucking kidding me.  What…what the…yo, what even is this?

Selene:  Do the two of you just sit up at night on the phone texting what prop comedy skits you watched on Youtube the night before and coordinate this or are you just naturally…

Fade jumps in.

Fade:  …naturally just annoying as hell.  Definitely naturally just annoying as hell.

Selene:  What is this all even referencing?

Fade:  It’s got to be Point Break.  It’s the only surfer movie I can even think of.

Kuroyama stops in his tracks and takes a moment to quietly confer with his own conscience. Do something, or leave it alone? It’s not like he has time for this, given his upcoming title match.

Still… something turns within him.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, buddy, you mind setting the board down for a minute?

Scott Hunter: Bogus…

Nevertheless, Scott props the board up against the wall. Kerry likewise sets his shit down and frees his hands up for whatever may come before approaching the Furies and casually leaning up against a row of lockers.  Fade instantly tries to post up to him, standing as tall as she can against the Alias Champion.

Kerry Kuroyama: I don’t know how long it’s been since they weaned you kids off the tit, but let me do the courtesy of smartening up the two of you on how this industry works. You’re not here to make friends. Lindsay Troy isn’t signing your checks and putting money in your pockets to stand back here and make witty observations. The Ace Network is not currying favor with sponsors and investors for you to be entertained. You’re here for one reason and one reason only, and that is to wrestle. And until the two of you have done a bit more than that, you’re not in any place to talk. Now, if you find us “annoying”, then it kinda sounds to me that the two of you haven’t spent enough time in this locker room, cause I guarantee that what we do barely scratches the surface compared to some of the other goings on here in PRIME. But if I were you, then I wouldn’t get too caught up on what you see outside the ring, because it’s what goes down inside that matters.

He condescendingly bumps a palm against his forehead. Of course! It’s so obvious! Who could have ever thought of such a daring notion?

Kerry Kuroyama: In case you were wondering, my record speaks for itself. It’s all there on tape. But if you kids don’t have the attention span for anything longer than a thirty second TikTok video, you can ask around. Ask anyone who’s shared the ring with me. Ask any of your Pink Posse pals. You’ll probably hear a variety of opinions on who I am as a person, but the one consistent thing that I guarantee you’ll hear from all of them is that hardly anyone hits as hard or gets as serious between the ropes than Kerry Kuroyama.

He thumbs over his shoulder to Scott, standing with arms folded across his chest and doing his darned best to look intimidating.

Kerry Kuroyama: And Scott’s also pretty good.

Scott Hunter: I haven’t lost a match in many months!

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ve only been in PRIME a year, so I don’t pretend I have anything in the way of clout in this locker room. But I’m not above straightening out a pair of punks greener than Douglas firs who stand around here and talk shit with an unearned sense of entitlement. Normally, I’d let your bullshit slide, since I have better things to do before a title defense. But insulting the stylings of my Wingman?

With a sour milk look of repugnance, Kerry shakes his head.

Kerry Kuroyama: Unfortunately for you, that’s where I draw the line. So, while I’m out there here in a little bit wrestling, here’s what I want from the two of you. Run — don’t walk, RUN — on up to Lindsay. Tell her Kerry and Scott sent you. Tell her that we’d very much like to give these two young upstarts she’s taken a liking to an opportunity to put their money where their mouths are. Tell her, as a favor to the both of you, we’ll bring you more mainstream attention than you can possibly bring yourselves by hanging back here and throwing shade at the talent that actually pull in the viewers. Tell her we’ll change your bum lives for the better by kicking the shit out of you at UltraViolence. Cause if you don’t…? Then we’ll come back here and find you. And I will take your head, and shove it up her ass.

He points from Fade to Selene.

Kerry Kuroyama: And then I will take your head, and shove it up her ass.

He points from Selene to Fade.

Kerry Kuroyama: And then we will physically roll the abominable human ouroboros that you have become right up to her office, and make the request ourselves.

Fade listens to everything Kerry has said to the two of them, nodding her head as she visualizes the rather detailed description of her head and the whole ouroboros thing.  She takes a finger and makes the motion of her head going deep in there and she giggles.

Fade:  That’s a good one.

And with that, Fade takes the hand she was using to visualize her cranial journey…and smacks Kerry as hard as she can.  It’s enough to cause Scott and Selene to join the fray as all four start to throw wild punches at one another.  Selene quickly tries to get her hands on Kerry but Fade stands between the two of them, opting to go for him herself.

Kerry Kuroyama: [between giving and receiving shots] YOU’RE! NOT! MAKING! THIS! ANY! EASIER!

Scott Hunter snags the surfboard from the wall and swings without reprieve. Kerry and the Furies hit the deck, but the two Enemigos rushing into the scene to bring some order to the chaos get unequivocally knocked to their feet.

More Enemigos flood the locker room and work in unison to pull the two sides apart. Kerry is about to throw off the three fighting a losing battle in trying to hold him back, but Scott’s hand on his shoulder is what finally convinces him to give up the fight.

Scott Hunter: C’mon, dude! We got a match to get ready for!

Kerry pulls back, and the two Vae Victis wingmen promptly pick up their bags (and board) and exit the locker room.  Selene throws her hands up to let the Enemigos know she was done.  Fade, meanwhile, has both of her arms still held back.  She looks at Selene and grins from ear to ear while Selene clenches her jaw, trying to hold back her anger.

Selene:  WHY DID YOU HIT HIM.

Fade:  He deserved it!

Selene:  SCOTT HUNTER JUST TRIED TO KILL US WITH A SURFBOARD.

Fade isn’t sure what to say to that, as it dawns on her that Scott Hunter tried to hit them with a surfboard as though he were Brick with a trident.  Fade is finally released, leaving the two women to bicker about the situation they now find themselves in.

We go elsewhere.

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

The chunky guitar riff of “Fistfight” by The Ballroom Thieves kicks in as Paxton Ray walks out under the PRIMEView. Paxton sneers as the fans boo, then slowly holds his hand up in the air.

The day I finally met you like I knew I would
You raised me from the wreck of my doubts
You were smiling to yourself as if we both understood
The silent language of the anguish of a heart that sings but doesn’t make a sound

Paxton slowly walks towards the ring, looking around as the crowd rains hate down upon him. He steps up to the apron and steps over the ring ropes, then leans back against them and closes his eyes.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, weighing in at 245 pounds…he is The Bayou Butcher…PAAAAAXTOOOOONNNN RAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!

The big man heads to his corner, and begins a bit of shadow boxing.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray has been waiting for a chance to get his hands on something close to Fred Dick and he finally has a chance.

The lights go out. The crowd lights up. They’re sorely disappointed.

Guitar. Drums. A well-known Southern drawl. We’ve been here before.

Richard Parker: I don’t know why you’d have to put all of Fred’s drama on Daytona. He hasn’t done anything to Paxton Ray.

“Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson. You can practically hear the boos all the way in Washington. At the top of the ramp, Daytona Diamonds emerges from backstage with a middle finger already lifted high to greet his neighbors to the north, grinnin’ that shit eatin’ grin beneath swirlin’ golden lights, the Intense Championship slung over his shoulder like a parrot on a perch.

The rest of The Poor Whoresmen aren’t with him, but don’t worry. We all know they’re lurking backstage like snakes in the grass.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring… from Carson City, Nevada… weighing in at 245 pounds… he is your PRIME Intense Champion… The Rhinestone Cowboy… DAYTONA DIAAAAAAAAMOOOOONNNNDDDDSSSS!

BOOS. OBVIOUSLY.

The march down the ramp is uneventful; a light stroll through a crowd spewing vitriol. The Rhinestone Cowboy doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he spews it right back. The camera picks up a whole slurry of cuss words, insults, and less-than-polite jabs escaping his mouth all the way down to the ring, much to the front row’s chagrin. He climbs the steps to the ring, slips between the ropes, and moves to stand in the center of it all. Beneath the spotlight, he holds up his index, middle, and ring fingers in the shape of a ‘W’. That dubya stands for ‘Whoresmen’, buster, and don’t you forget it!

Nick Stuart: You sure?

Of course, the index and ring finger fall to give way to another flyin’ bird for all those poor Canadians. Couldn’t help himself. You know how it is.

Richard Parker: No.

The King of the Rodeo and/or Ocean moves to stand in his corner, taking off his hat and putting it on top of the turnbuckle just like always, but when he turns to lean back against the ropes, one tiny addition has been added to all the pageantry. Three words, barely audible beneath the music: “Love you, Nat.”

DING DING

While the two commentators are going back and forth Paxton Ray charges across the ring at Daytona Diamonds who scurries off and underneath Paxton’s outstretched arms. The Intense Champion loads up a right hand and manages to slip it in on Paxton on the way by. Paxton is shrugs the blow off and turns towards Daytona slowly.

Richard Parker: HE CAN SENSE MOVEMENT!

Nick Stuart: Wha…

Richard Parker: STAY STILL DAYTONA! HE CAN SEE MOVEMENT!

The murdergator is not in fact a Tyrannosaurus and he clearly sees Daytona, but takes a calmer approach to going after Diamonds this time. He closes the gap, Daytona tries to step to the side but Paxton is already there swinging a left hand. Daytona hits the mat and Paxton’s fist careens forward and smacks into the top turnbuckle. Diamonds scrambles out of the corner and Paxton turns back towards Daytona.

Nick Stuart: And Daytona is still staying away from Paxton.

Richard Parker: Just let him punch you a bit Daytona, it might make him sleepy. He could need a nap, some food, and then you can get him!

Nick Stuart: Thank you, Sun Tzu.

Diamonds realizes he can’t run forever and fires off a low dropkick to Paxton’s knee. Paxton stumbles to the ropes and Daytona scrambles to his feet. Ray storms off the ropes and comes forward swinging a big lariat at the Intense Champion, but Diamonds ducks under and heads to the ropes on his own. Paxton turns and pivots, taking a second towering swing at Daytona.

Richard Parker: OH!

Ray finally smashes Daytona across the chest with a half punch, half lariat like maneuver. Daytona flips all the way over and lands on his stomach. He frantically half swims, half scampers to the apron while Paxton roars in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: What a shot from Paxton there, almost took the Intense Champion’s head off.

Richard Parker: You’re not wrong. Daytona better make sure everything’s attached.

Daytona adjusts himself as Nixon heads to the ropes and implores him back into the ring. Daytona comes through the ropes but Paxton storms over and smashes him across the back of the head with a double ax handle smash. Diamonds swings into Paxton’s stomach, but Ray drags him through the ropes, unphased.

Richard Parker: Is he Michael fucking Myers?

Nick Stuart: I don’t think so. Just very angry. Probably about those things you said he shouldn’t be.

Paxton shoves Diamonds head into the top turnbuckle where he had earlier placed his own fist, and he unloads. The crowd chants in unison with each shot, all the way up to ten. Nixon separates Daytona from Paxton’s fury, only because it’s illegal, and that’s kind of his job though. So Paxton slips right by him and drags Daytona down the rope by his forehead. Daytona finally shoves Paxton off of him and clutches his face.

Richard Parker: Look at this vicious monster.

Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds is getting what he’s had coming! Paxton Ray is dishing it out!

Paxton comes in at Daytona but Diamonds smashes him with a boot to the midsection that finally stumbles Paxton to the side. Diamonds psyches himself up and spins with a right hand across Paxton’s face that is a miracle connection and stumbles Ray backwards. Daytona fires up and smashes Paxton with a rising knee to the face that takes Ray to the canvas. Daytona runs to the ropes and tries to hit Paxton with an elbow drop but Ray rolls out of the way.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds is finally finding some footing in this match.

Richard Parker: He’s the champion! Paxton’s getting tired! Just let him hit you a few more times!

Ray gets to his feet and violently snatches Daytona up into a front facelock and tosses his arm over his shoulder. He lifts Daytona up in the air, Diamonds frantically begins kicking as Paxton tries to drop backwards. He reaches over and grabs the top rope, and Paxton stumbles towards the ropes and Elvis Nixon. All three men flip violently out of the ring and to the outside. Diamonds’ head smashes off of the apron, while Paxton flips over the top rope backwards and to the floor. Nixon thumps off the apron and rolls to the floor. With Elvis Nixon down Fred Dick emerges at the top of the ramp.

Richard Parker: Thank God, there’s Mama Dick! Save Daytona, Mama Dick! Save Daytona!

Mama Dick storms down to ringside, shaking something while yelling obscenities towards Paxton. Ray, to his credit has managed to crawl his way up to his feet after slamming into the barricade.

Nick Stuart: What the hell does that weirdo have in his hand?

Paxton, ignoring the commotion turns toward his opponent and drags him to his feet. Diamonds tries to beg off but Paxton punches him in the mouth.

Richard Parker: MAMA DICK! SAVE HIM!

Fred storms up behind Paxton and taps him on the shoulder. Paxton pivots and pulls back as he sees Dick’s red mullet. Paxton finishes the spin and starts the swing.

Nick Stuart: OH GOD!

This normally is fine, except when Fred Dick has carried a plunger to ringside with him and had just started a swing towards Paxton’s low hanging fruits. Ray grimaces in pain as Fred Dick pulls a barbwire wrapped plunger out of Paxton’s jeans and swings the plunger again and smacking Paxton in the side of the head with the handle.

Richard Parker: He just smashed Paxton Ray in the skull!

Mama Dick does his best and rolls Paxton Ray into the ring and drags Daytona up to his feet. Fred throws Elvis Nixon into the ring, Daytona flops down onto Paxton, hooks his legs, and grabs a handful of tights.

Nick Stuart: Here we go with this again.

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

…………..

……………….

……………………

……………………………

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: HE KICKED OUT! PAXTON KICKED OUT!

Fred Dick is horrified on the outside, Daytona Diamonds is mortified on the inside, Elvis Nixon collapses from exhaustion, while Paxton Ray clutches the side of his head and crawls towards the ropes. Or, more like, towards Fred Dick. Blood streams down the side of Paxton’s head and he swipes wildly towards Fred who shrieks and jumps backwards. He begins flailing the plunger around wildly which catches Nixon’s eye and lets him runaway from Daytona complaining and begging for a three count.

Richard Parker: That was three! There’s no need to keep this going! WHY IS THIS STILL GOING!?

Nick Stuart: Because Paxton Ray has a heart, Richard. Because he’s a tough son of a bitch.

Richard Parker: Imagine saying that a few years ago after Ultra Violence.

Sage Pontiff storms down the ramp and takes off towards Fred Dick. Dick looks up the ramp and back towards Sage before taking off into the crowd with Sage running in pursuit. Paxton snarls and starts to get to his feet but Daytona Diamonds has taken advantage of the Dick distraction and rolls Ray from behind. He grabs a giant handful of Paxton’s jeans and yanks him down to the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

….

………….

……………………

………………………………….

THREE!

Nick Stuart: NO! NO!

Richard Parker: YES! YES!

BOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

DING DING DING

Daytona Diamonds isn’t around to get his hand raised, he’s taken off out of the ring and through the crowd. Paxton starts to storm after him, and instead throws the timekeeper table halfway across the outside as Vince Howard goes to the other side of the ring to announce the winner. You know, just in case.

Vince Howard: Your winner, Daytona Diamonds!

We cut to commercial.

The show comes back from commercial break and picks up with an empty ring.

Nick Stuart: Well, you know what’s next.

Richard Parker: Got my brown bag ready, and my fingers crossed for pop up meteor showers!

The lights slowly draw to a dim. A chill moves aggressively through the air. Smoke starts to billow at the start of the entrance ramp.

Nick Stuart: Say Dick, what are your thoughts on the possibility of there being another  COOLOSSUS?

Richard Parker: Fuck him.

The Crumbotron springs to life, and on it plays a myriad of Terminal Cancers. No one is safe from the rapidfire salt stomp down Memory Lane, current and former Champions alike. Not Bitchboy. Not Snow. Not FLAMBO. Not Colton. Not Crumblood. Not Avalon. Not Stanislob. Not Nova. Not Winters. Not Phil. Not JCH. Not the Saxon. Not Williams. Not Hanlon.

Not even Dirty Dick Parker.

Not.

Anyone.

Nick Stuart: As much as I hate to say, it was quite the Summer of Superkicks for Cancer Jiles.

Richard Parker: Did I say fuck him?

The smoke stops. Silence is everywhere. Anticipation continues to build. It’s mostly dark, with the only illumination coming from off the Crumbotron. Then, a spotlight clangs to life and shines down upon the start of the entrance ramp. Soon thereafter, the most discernible guitar riff in the business hits like am under the blanket Bobby Dean fart.

“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 tracksuit is blacker than ever, and his T-shades blot out the blinding light shining down upon him.

“…I AM THE COOL!”

An intense, scorching, volcanic, hell-fire volley of pyrotechnics illuminates the top of the entrance ramp, engulfing the former Universal Champion. Good thing for him he is inherently cool.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! BOOM-BOOM! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!………

BOOM!

After some COOLYMPIAN peacocking, Jiles slowly starts to make his way down to the ring. As is customary, he finds the one remaining MESSIAH fan sitting ringside and goes out of his way to poke fun at them.

Nick Stuart: Never fails.

Richard Parker: That it’s always a kid?

Nick Stuart: That too.

After getting his fill of happiness, Jiles re-pops the collar on his track jacket and mozies down to the ring. He slides under the bottom and immediately calls for a microphone. While he’s waiting the lights come back on and he manages to squeeze in a few colorful remarks about Richard Parker with the ring side personnel.

Richard Parker: Classless, ultimate coward of life. This next ten minutes can’t end fast enough. I can’t believe he survived Stanislav. TWICE.

Mic in hand, King COOL finds the center of the ring. Of course, he has to wait first before addressing the PRIMEates.

BOOOOO!!!!!!

Cancer Jiles: Very good. Verrry good. I’m glad my success hasn’t soured your opinion of me.

BOOOOO!!!!!!

Cancer Jiles: Alright crumbs, that’s enough. Don’t make me call Hessian out here to shut each and every single one of you up!

BOOOOO!!!!!!

Cancer Jiles: I’ll do it. I swear!

BOOOOO!!!!!!

Cancer Jiles: Fine. You asked for this. Well, booed for it is more like it. Still, oh Hessian!!!!

BOOOOO!!!!!!

Amongst all the booing, a glimmering light. Well, the voice of a glimmering light. From up in his skybox, Coral Avalon chimes in.

Coral Avalon: What’s the matter? Afraid to fight your own battles?

The cheering is uproarious to say the least.

He stands within the Throne Room, also known as the eGG Den 3.0, 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, Mr. Avalon’s Wild Ride, the Overcompensation Station, the House of the Landed Gentry and Ace, the One Stop Crown Shop, and the Den of Wolves. A microphone is in his hand as he visibly paces back and forth. While his tone remains his usual casual self, there’s a restlessness in his body language over the events of earlier tonight.

Coral Avalon: I think the people of Vancouver know the answer to that question…

RAHHHHHHHH!!!

Coral Avalon: But even so… Hello, Jiles. Crumbing it up down there as always, I see.

Avalon continues pacing. Jiles waves to him.

Coral Avalon: I know you’re busy doing… I don’t know, whatever it is you do to prepare yourself for what you’re going to walk into in two weeks’ time when you’re in the ring with me for the Universal Title. …Oh! Speaking of, excuse me.

Avalon disappears from the spotlight for a few moments before reappearing with the Universal Championship over his shoulder. The PRIMEates eat it up and shower him with cheers. Jiles, forever unimpressed, uses an illicit gesture involving a back and forth hand motion to prove it.

Coral Avalon: Sorry if I’m a bit scatterbrained, there was a bludgeoning outside my doors. Pretty upset about it, to be honest. Where was I? Oh, I know. Let’s talk about UltraViolence since I’ve got you there, friend of mine.

The COOLYMPIAN motions to Coral as if to say the floor is his, please enlighten me.

Coral Avalon: It’s crazy to think that we did this whole song and dance last year, too. Back then, you needed the other Bandits to carry me far enough from the ring to win. Pretty funny to think about now that we’re here, isn’t it?

He taps at his chin with his free hand in thought.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, back then, I definitely agreed to a lot of stupid stipulations, just as you planned. Banditjack match? I join the Bandits if you win? What was I thinking?

Avalon laughs mirthlessly. Jiles checks an imaginary watch around his wrist.

Coral Avalon: So, I hope you enjoy your normal wrestling match against me. The stakes are this title belt over my shoulders…

Avalon holds up a finger and digs through his pockets before he pulls out a set of keys. Those keys.

Coral Avalon: …and the keys to the Octane.

The King of COOL smiles, and nods his head up and down appreciatively.

Cancer Jiles: Easy now. Let’s save the keys for the couch, Coral.

Wink.

Cancer Jiles: Instead, since I know it’s almost past your bedtime, I want you to know I’ll probably go and get my hair done before entering into the ring with you at UltraViolence. Not the day of, but the night before. I’m no savage.

The Champ’s eyes roll at his up and coming opponent’s senseless wit.

Cancer Jiles: Hey, ****you asked, bub. I wanted this to be peaceful. Cordial even. This is a special moment for us after all, and instead of joining me down here you chose to stay atop your perch and cast stones down Yellow Dick road.

A very two can play that game shrug.

Cancer Jiles: Also, so you know, since you brought it up and all, but last year if my victory was …tainted, well, then all of your success after it would also be tainted, now wouldn’t it? Even that belt on your shoulder, Coral, the one I put there… even that would be considered the three inch area of doom that connects Bobby’s anus to his nutsack, now wouldn’t it?

An arena wide gasp ensues just at the thought.

Coral Avalon: You didn’t put this belt here. That superkick was meant for me and you know it.

A yawn.

From Jiles of course.

Cancer Jiles: And what is this garbage about a normal match? What? Was the 15 minute time limit stipulation taken by someone on the Night One preshow?

Ha.

The stiff joke stops Coral from pressing.

Cancer Jiles: Allow me to enlighten you about normal, Coral, since we are Bandits and this isn’t my first time. The only thing that’s going to be normal about our match on September 21st is that at the end of it I’m going to pin you for the longest three seconds of your life, and then I’m going to strap that belt that’s on your shoulder around my waist for the second time in my career.

The Champ looks on, unenthused by his cohort’s threats.

Cancer Jiles: That’s what a normal match is for me, friend. I beat you like a drum, and I win the Universal Championship in the MAIN EVENT of UltraViolence. So tell me, Champ, why would this time be any different from the norm?

The challenger oozes smugness.

Coral Avalon: Because you don’t have what it takes. Not really. Bring everything you’ve got. Bring your Hessian. Bring a thousand of them. It won’t be enough. You may assail me however you like, and you will find me not easily broken. Friend of mine, I will be as pleased as punch to deny you your “COOLossus” from within my kingdom.

He smiles defiantly.

Coral Avalon: Your second reign won’t come at my… eggspense.

Cancer Jiles: We’ll see about that.

Cut to the back.

Here we are, the Red Army locker room. Ivan Stanislav, in his red uniform, medals, and white tie, stands in front of the crimson banner of the Soviet Union on one side, and the tricolors of the Russian Federation on the other.

It looks almost like some sort of a presidential address.

Of course, the last time we were here, Lindsay Troy had told Stanislav that he had to apologize for what happened to Blake Colton.

Tick-tock, Ivan, the night is almost over.

Wouldn’t want to distract from the Freeman-Kael Connection’s upcoming Tag League Match.

Wouldn’t want to get fired and lose the chance to beat Nate Colton into paste at UltraViolence.

And so, Stanislav clears his throat. He’s done apologies before. Something about throwing the announce table into the ring, threatening to kill Nick Stuart, injuring technicians… no doubt a misunderstanding. But hospitalizing Blake Colton? Back in his day, there would have been one or two cameras that might have caught that footage.

Now there were stupid Americans with cell phones watching his every move.

He bristles, still staring at the camera, straight on. He shifts his jaw to the side.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME…

Oxygen whistles through his nostrils as he lets the words hang in the air for a moment. Finally, he speaks again.

Ivan Stanislav: As many of you know, there was incident at ReVival 54 involving… overzealous fans who stormed wrestling ring while I was in it.

He cuts his eyes to the side, and shifts his jaw in the opposite direction. Just peel the band-aid off, Ivan. No one in Russia is going to care. Most in Russia won’t even see this without being arrested.

Ivan Stanislav: I defended myself, but sometimes, I need to understand that fans, or would-be wrestlers, are not capable of weathering the full might of The Russian Bear.

Ivan adjusts his tie.

Ivan Stanislav: In Russia, we are not used to such coddling and gentle words, but as locker room leader, it is imperative that I set good example for rest of roster. As such… I would like to take this moment to…

The words catch in Stanislav’s throat. He clears it. And clears it again.

Ivan Stanislav: I would like to… offer… a sincere… ap–

Boos are so easily heard from the ringside area. The crowd is beyond fed up with Ivan Stanislav and The Red Army. His actions have affected mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. Families all over who have clung to their loved ones tighter, because one big sonofabitch took liberties with someone who never had a chance.

Stanislav grits his teeth and huffs angrily. But before he can get the rest of the insincere words out, the door to The Red Army locker room opens.

Enter none other than Nate Colton, from the left. There’s no fanfare, no yelling, no screaming. Just a look.

He stares at Stanislav with a look that…

Well…

There is a word that gets used a lot in wrestling.

It’s usually screamed into a microphone by a red-faced maniac, or used by an announcer to describe two people beating the absolute shit out of each other. It’s the wrong word, though. There are others that far better fit those situations. Hostility. Fury. Rage.

This isn’t any of those.

This is what happens when hostility is ended through unearned peace. When fury burns itself out, leaving only ashes behind. When the rage is held so tightly that release becomes impossible. When the fire inside a competitor’s heart turns it to solid, lifeless stone.

This, dear viewers, is hate.

And as a wise man once said, hate…is cold.

It seems to catch The Russian Bear off guard, if only for a moment. The look of surprise fades quickly, glossed over but Eurasiatic stoicism. Ivan growls as our view shifts to get more of Nate in the frame as well, staring up at Stanislav from a scant… eight feet away? It’s awfully close enough to ignite a powder keg.

Ivan Stanislav: You have a lot of nerve barging in here, Colton, while I am trying to make things right…

Nate Colton: Gonna save you some trouble here. ‘Cause this…that’s something for the lawyers. I know any “apology” is gonna be just as much bullshit as everything else you say…and to be honest, there’s not a single word I want to hear out of your worthless lying mouth.

The New Diamond makes a move toward the door…and then stops, and turns back around to put the full weight of his glare onto Stanislav.

Nate Colton: Actually, that’s wrong. There’s two. And at UltraViolence, the whole world is going to hear you say ‘em.

Now he steps closer to the Russian Bear, closing the distance from eight feet to six…to four…to two. Well within the massive reach of the man-mountain; easy pickings for the most heartless, ruthless man on the PRIME roster.

Nate Colton: You and me…in an I Quit Match.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The words smack Stanislav in the face as his eyes dart around Nate Colton and then settle on his face. The Russian Bear narrows his left eye and his huge mouth twists into a smirk that easily permeates his ragged beard. Muscles in his arms, many times older than the young man before him, flex as his skillet-sized hands clench into fists.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, Nate Colton. I must have really hit a nerve, eh? Look at you, with chest all puffed up, trembling in front of me. I can still hear your mother’s screams after I threw your brother into that post.

Nate Colton: So can I. That’s why this is happening.

The Russian Bear lifts his brow and smiles wider. A grumbling chuckle rumbles through his chest.

Ivan Stanislav: Another career cut short by The Russian Bear? You Coltons are gift that keep on giving. I accept your early retirement.

Ivan leans forward, putting his head nearly eye level with Colton.

Ivan Stanislav: Now get out.

Nate Colton: Fine.

The New Diamond turns his back and walks toward the door.

Of course, this is a wrestling show. Colton is going to stop at the last possible moment, just so he can get in the last word.

So imagine our surprise that when he opens the door…he just lets it close behind him. The camera shifts back to Stanislav, who stares at the door grimly.

We’re just gonna have to wait on that apology.

And the show moves along.

We cut back to ringside, the bell beginning to ring. After it does, the voice of Vince Howard booms throughout.

Vince Howard: This next contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOO time limit.

Nick Stuart: No time limit? Oh my word…

Richard Parker: Fourteen years in the making…and it’s finally here.

Nick Stuart: Snow/Youngblood 2. And if it is anything like the first…folks…you will want to tell everyone you know who isn’t watching to tune in. If you are a lapsed fan of PRIME? This might be something you never thought you’d see. Two of the greatest in the history of this sport…are set to clash. The first time was one of the single most intense battles there’s ever been. On that night…they fought for the richest prize in all of combat sports.

Richard Parker: But tonight?

Nick Stuart: Perhaps…with their history, with everything between them…this time…could mean even more.

The inside of Rogers Arena darkens, the shift in ambiance causing the fans to rise to their feet.

THEY
ARE NO LONGER
YOUR PEOPLE
TO SAVE

A primal roar from some beast from the depths of Hell bellows after. Feral. Unrelenting.

It’s then that Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges throughout the stadium, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glows a stark red before turning black. Through it, a powerful tower, the sharpness cutting behind it creating a Y.

The Tower of Babel.

The PRIMEView comes alive with the PRIMETron of Brandon Youngblood. Across it is a variable who’s who in the sport of professional wrestling, countless who have walked the hallowed halls of PRIME, and in them, a staggering constant; they all wilt before raw, unbridled physicality and domination. Suplexes. Strikes. Spinebusters. The highlight reels of catching and destroying would be challengers. The championships won. The accolades minted.

Sets of red and white laser lights from on high and below cut through the air, and then, Brandon Youngblood arrives. Clad in a white branded hoodie over his singlet, he stalks his way onto the ramp, his eyes forward toward the ring, focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. From both sides, the loud bang and blinding white of pyro explodes in powerful bursts. As the smoke bellows, he paces forward, the stadium lights now back on in full. Once to the arena floor, rather than ascend the steps, Youngblood makes his way over to the announce table, reaching past them and grabbing a steel chair as well as a microphone.

Richard Parker: Oh really? This is going to go there from the jump?

Brandon walks to the steps, making his way up them, his dominion whole on the ring apron. At the halfway point, he steps between the ropes, taking the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…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. Steel chair in hand, Youngblood unfolds it before putting it center in the ring, taking a seat and partially unzipping his hoodie. The music dies down, and slowly, so does the crowd. He throws back the hood, drawing the microphone near his lips.

Brandon Youngblood: I’ve been waiting for this match since Culture Shock in 2010. Over fourteen years. I never thought it would happen. The world didn’t think it would happen. And it’s here now.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Brandon Youngblood: And for so long…I’ve got split focus. Divided all over. And I’m frustrated. And I’m pissed off. And I’m angry.

A slight pause. In the past, maybe there’d even be a smirk of self awareness. Not now, unfortunately.

Richard Parker: Isn’t that his default state anymore? Has anyone been listening to him for like…the last…ever?

Nick Stuart: Even on the Youngblood scale, things have been at a noticeably intensive place for quite some time.

The Hall of Famer continues.

Brandon Youngblood: And I go after people. I go after people I hate. I go after people I tell myself I hate. I go after people who are my friends. I go after them. And I break things. I tear through security. I hit people and get hit and we bleed and then we fight and people…

As if for show, he flashes his knuckles to the crowd before pausing, then regathering himself.

Brandon Youngblood: This match…this match is important. This match…this one…Snow. We both know what we did the first time. What we were fighting over. What we did. And tonight…nothing is getting in the way of that. Not. Anything.

His stare is fraught with intensity.

Brandon Youngblood: Not anybody.

Short punctuated bursts.

Brandon Youngblood: Not me.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh

Brandon Youngblood: Jason. This fight has to matter for both of us. And I won’t let anything get in the way of that. So I am going to take care of what I need to take care of so it’s out of sight. Out of mind. Dealt with. So…I’m going to say this once…

He snarls the name.

Brandon Youngblood: Max Kael…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Brandon Youngblood: Get your ass in this ring…now.

The sentiment brings with a wall of sound from all around. Anticipatory baying bloodlust.

Brandon Youngblood: You wanted FLAMBERGE to get him out of the way. And FLAMBERGE…he didn’t want you. He wanted me. And we have history. A fight to settle. You are the odd man out. I don’t give a shit. You come for me? I will give you a fight. You come for my family?

He rises from the seat.

Brandon Youngblood: I’m saying this once. Get. Your. Ass. In. This. Ring. You don’t get a say in this. Kenny Freeman…he’s going it alone tonight. You get in the ring now…or I’m coming to get you. You understand? No funny business. No games. After what happened last week…it’s okay.

Facing the entrance, his arm over the top rope.

Brandon Youngblood: Kael…I’m telling you…get IN this–

♫…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

FLAMBERGE steps through the back, and he looks…off. Something’s broken. The cool calm demeanor he displayed when he was exploring the cheeses of the Throne Room? Gone, blowed up. Maximilian Wilhelm Kael took care of any spark of joy FLAMBO had left in his day after what he did to Joe Fontaine earlier tonight.

This may explain the barbed-wire-wrapped kendo stick he’s dragging behind him. He has a microphone in his other hand – maybe he’ll use that to explain the rest.

FLAMBERGE: Ah ouais, yes, KAEL. KAEL IS MINE NOW, YOUNGBLOOD – YOU WILL NOT ALSO TAKE THIS FROM ME, LIKE YOU WISH TO TAKE ALL THE REST IN YOUR GOBLIN WAKE. I’m going to…I’m going to…KAELLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!

He thrashes about and flails wildly, even uncoolly, maybe assuming that if he’s lucky he’ll catch Max sneaking up on him – but no dice this time. FLAMBO’s rage has tipped the scale, and he’s not engaging the Reasoning centers of his brain very successfully at the moment.

FLAMBERGE: YOUNGBLOOD! You are at fault in this too! GET YOUR ASS UP HERE! I WILL DESTROY YOU, AND THEN I WILL DESTROY THE MAX KAEL, AND THEN EVERY. THING. EVERY. THING. Where is the fucker Kael Max? WHERE IS HE YOUNGBLOOD, WHAT DID YOU DO? Fuck him, FUCK YOU, BRING HIM HERE, I HATE YOU, I-

Brandon Youngblood: FLAMBERGE!

The cut off here is stark. No Julien. No condescending lilt. It’s so concerted. It’s so…stark in the miasma of machismo that is the lifeblood of the “don’t blink” mindset each has shared toward each other over the years.

Brandon Youngblood: I didn’t DO anything to him. Not yet. Not yet…look–

FLAMBERGE: Non, YOU look!

Lot of bass in that voice, kid. But maybe some of it’s earned.

FLAMBERGE: After the things the Kael Max did to Mssr. Joe, SOMEBODY is going to pay for it tonight…and if you are sitting there in that ring, telling me the FLAMBERGE that you cannot produce this devil Kael…it may as well be you who pays.

He throws away his mic and begins slowly slithering towards the ring, still dragging the barbed kendo stick behind him.

Brandon Youngblood: Kael is going to pay, FLAMBERGE.

The Lizard King does not appear appeased by this sentiment. Youngblood, for his part, is dauntless, despite the barbed kendo stick, despite the absolutely furious nature of the man before him. Finally, Youngblood takes a step back, as though inviting FLAMBO into the ring.

Brandon Youngblood: You want what’s left? Gladly. Whatever you want. Whatever you and yours think works. That’s for you to decide. And I get it because Joe is your–

FLAMBERGE isn’t listening, not with his ears anyway. He’s just glowering. Sid Phillips had smouldering – this is Sid-smoulder-level glowering. He’s reached the steps at this point and doesn’t seem to indicate that he’s slowing down.

Brandon Youngblood: –I’m not fighting you on this. My fight isn’t with you. But I have to do this, Julien–

“Fight isn’t with me, fuck you” eagle-eyed lip readers discern from the Frenchman. Again, the Tower of Babel, when calling out to the Neck Collector by his birth name, is often doing so as a way to demystify him. This is the utter antithesis of that. There is genuine concern now flashing across Youngblood’s face. This is genuine. He doesn’t want to fight him…and he doesn’t blame him for his anger and indignation. But…he also…can’t let him have it. A ticking time bomb. None of the wires are the right one to cut. This situation…is fucked.

Brandon Youngblood: –he wants to come after my kid Julien…and I’m sorry…*genuinely sorry…*but no one can do that. No. One.

There’s a sternness but a growing acceptance. And with it…a dawning. Max Kael wanted FLAMBERGE because he wanted him out of the way, so he could take out Cecilworth Farthington. The Neck Collector and the Tower of Babel, however, were too busy with each other, with something brewing for years and years between themselves. And in the **end…the man they began not acknowledging had perhaps gotten exactly what he wanted.

Without having to spill any of his own blood to do so.

Resigned to fate.

Brandon Youngblood: No. One.

We are quickly taken backstage, to the Red Army locker room where a grinning Max Kael is watching the show. He is clearly enjoying the chaos his actions over the last few weeks have caused. A low chuckle escapes Max’s lips as he rubs his hands together with fiendish delight.

Nick Stuart: That damn Max Kael’s disgusting actions have stirred up a real hornet’s nest here tonight.

Richard Parker: Ignore Max Kael at your own detriment, Stuart. A month ago neither of these men gave a shit about Kael. Now Youngblood and FLAMBO are ready to murder each other for a chance to kill Max!

Back in the ring, both Youngblood and FLAMBERGE are drawing ever closer. And as they do? A preemptive strike. The Enemigos start coming to the ring, also seeming resigned to becoming fodder.

Nick Stuart: Folks…folks…we are supposed to be about to have A MATCH!

Richard Parker: A big one at that! But good lord…we’re about to get a car crash. A demolition derby…of human destruction. All through mutually assured destruction! This is–

Inevitable.

Familiar Authoritative Voice That Hits Like An Owl Vanguard: Hey…children.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

On the stage now: The Owner, The Operator, The Renaissance Woman, The Hall of Famer, The One That Has Won Enough Belts That She’s Made Them Into A Literal Throne, The Queen of the Ring…take your pick. They all apply.

Lindsay. Troy.

Nick Stuart: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh–

Richard Parker: The principal is here–

Lindsay Troy: Far be it for me to let you, you know, ruin the show, or anything–

Her glower matches her tone. She has not had a pleasant evening, and she means business. Youngblood and FLAMBERGE? They are looking in her direction.

Lindsay Troy: And far be it for me to try and untangle this knot you two have managed to get all kinked up.

Like a mother tired of dealing with her unruly cubs.

Lindsay Troy: And far be it for me, Max…

Quick cut to Kael on the screen, with a “who, me?” expression on his face.

Lindsay Troy: …that even knowing you as I do, you’d think that Weird Place garbage is going to fly here, especially after everything you’ve been pulling…Brandon. FLAMBERGE. You both want to beat the ever loving hell out of Max. But you see, you both have a match signed and sealed for UltraViolence. One on one. It’s what you wanted. It’s what was drawn up. It’s how it is. Not to mention…depending on the result of tonight’s Tag League Main Event, Max might already be going to UltraViolence to compete.

booo

Lindsay Troy: Buuuuuut…

raaaaa–

Lindsay Troy: Luckily for both of you…someone could read the tea leaves and made sure to keep things a little…open ended.

Uh oh.

Lindsay Troy: Max…you started all this making demands. Despite being in the Tag League, you still demanded FLAMBERGE. When you didn’t get your way, you pushed your way into what was going on between FLAMBERGE and Youngblood. So how about this? How about I give you what you wanted?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh

Lindsay Troy: At UltraViolence…Brandon Youngblood. FLAMBERGE. Max Kael. Triple Threat.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The announcement is made. And now that it is, FLAMBERGE and Youngblood are back to staring at each other.

Lindsay Troy: You both want him? You got it. Now…here’s the thing; I know you both still are out for his blood. And I know you both are so pig headed, that you’ll rip each other apart to do it. So…to protect you…from each other…from yourselves…if any of you three touch each other…the match is canceled.

Youngblood and FLAMBERGE are caught by that announcement. Then, they glare back at each other. Tense moments. They are so close. This could go down right here, right now. And on most nights, it would.

Lindsay Troy: Oh…and Max? Here’s a little present from me to you…if you touch any ****member of the Gluemanati? If you even think to yourself, “Hey, I’m going to pay a visit to someone’s house, and when I do, I’ll get a can of gasoline and some matches and start a fire?” I’ll bar you from ever being able to be in the same building as Cecilworth for the rest of your PRIME contract.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Lindsay Troy: Now, do me a favor and behave yourselves.

The Lady of The Hour bids adieu and left behind are the Enemigos, who have surrounded the ring, The Neck Collector, and The Tower of Babel, just in case.

We cut back to the Red Army locker room once again. Max’s face is somehow more hideously contorted by his wide grin. His plans have come to fruition and now he has his match against FLAMBERGE and Brandon Youngblood at UltraViolence. However, just as he begins to revel in  his victory, he also realizes that he will be in a ring with two men who now have a reason to want to kill him. The smile falters as the wrestling math checks out, the color slowly draining from his face. With that reaction we return back to the ring.

Nick Stuart: I think the Commissar of the Red Army just realized he got his wish, a match with two of the most vicious, dangerous men in PRIME!

Richard Parker: He got this far with his plan, Stuart, don’t you think a man as clever as Max Kael hadn’t prepared for this? It’s fine, he’s fine, everything is fine!

FLAMBERGE, one last time for tonight, is frozen to the spot. God, he’d love to do it right now – destroy the Last Diamond and collect the remains of his neck – but the law has been laid down and, really, the golden opportunity has presented itself. A moment’s patience in exchange for the chance to unleash PRIME-sanctioned holy hell upon the Bad and the Ugly at UltraViolence.

Fine.

With a slow exhale, he backpedals and makes his way back up the ramp as Run The Jewels plays him out.

Left behind?

Brandon Youngblood, pulling his hoodie off, now fully free to focus on a match 14 years in the making. A chance to even the score. A chance to achieve vaunted singles win number fifty.

Youngblood.

Snow.

Next.

Youngblood is in the ring.

Snow is tired of waiting. He storms into the ring and orders Turnbull to start the match, not even giving Vince Howard time to even do wrestler introductions.

DING DING

The ringing of the bell barely fades before Snow and Youngblood collide in a furious exchange of blows. Fists pummel flesh, the sound of impact echoing through the arena.

THWACK!

CRACK!

THWACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Youngblood’s larger frame gradually overpowers Snow, driving him backward until his spine presses against the turnbuckle. A predatory gleam flashes in Youngblood’s eyes as he rams his boot into Snow’s midsection, forcing the air from his lungs in a pained gasp.

Seizing his opponent, Youngblood attempts an overhead belly-to-belly suplex, but Snow’s agility saves him. He lands on his feet, spinning to face Youngblood, who turns just in time to meet Snow’s flying forearm. The impact sends Youngblood crashing to the mat, his head bouncing off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Holy smokes! This match has exploded right out of the gate! Snow and Youngblood are unleashing years of pent-up rivalry, and the Vancouver crowd is going absolutely ballistic!

Richard Parker: You’re not kidding, Nick! These two warriors have dissected each other’s playbooks, reliving every moment of their storied history. It’s like watching a chess match played at the speed of light!

Nick Stuart: Snow’s agility is on full display here, Richard. He’s moving like a man possessed, ducking and weaving through Youngblood’s offense!

Richard Parker: Meanwhile, Youngblood’s raw power is shaking the very foundations of this arena! Did you see how he manhandled Snow after that initial charge? I tell you, Nick, these two aren’t just the gold standard in PRIME – they’re rewriting the book on professional wrestling right before our eyes!

Snow wastes no time capitalizing on his advantage. His boot finds Youngblood’s chest and face repeatedly, each strike fueled by pent-up rage. Youngblood, his face a mask of determination, absorbs the blows, refusing to succumb. This only serves to infuriate Snow further. He unleashes a barrage of clubbing forearms, targeting the side and back of Youngblood’s neck with surgical precision.

The onslaught forces Youngblood to stumble into the ropes, where Snow sees an opportunity. With lightning speed, he entwines Youngblood’s arms in the ropes, leaving him defenseless. Snow’s boots find Youngblood’s midsection again and again, each impact eliciting a grunt of pain. Turnbull’s warnings fall on deaf ears as Snow, consumed by his desire for retribution, bounces off the opposite ropes and drives his boot across Youngblood’s exposed face.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Snow’s relentless assault on Youngblood is bordering on sadistic. He’s exploiting every opening and pushing the limits of what’s legal!

Richard Parker: You call it sadistic, Nick, but I call it brilliant strategy. Snow knows he can’t match Youngblood’s raw power, so he’s wearing him down methodically.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull needs to get control of this situation before Snow does some serious damage to Youngblood.

Richard Parker: This is the kind of ruthless efficiency that separates the good from the great in PRIME. Snow’s showing why he’s still a force to be reckoned with!

Snow’s aggression reaches new heights as he steps through the ropes, maintaining his assault on the trapped Youngblood. A rear naked chokehold further constricts Youngblood’s already labored breathing. Ignoring Turnbull’s increasingly frantic demands, Snow rains down forearm strikes on Youngblood’s unprotected chest. Each blow lands with a sickening thud, Youngblood’s torso reddening under the onslaught. In a move born of malicious creativity, Snow leaps from the ring apron, still clutching Youngblood’s throat. The ropes snap back, catapulting Youngblood onto the ring mat as Snow falls to the floor. Youngblood’s hands instinctively flying to his abused throat as he gasps for air.

Richard Parker: Unbelievable! Snow’s using every dirty trick in the book to maintain control. This is the kind of ruthless efficiency that separates champions from contenders!

Nick Stuart: I have to disagree, Richard. Snow’s tactics are bordering on unsportsmanlike. There’s a fine line between strategy and outright brutality.

Richard Parker: Come on, Nick! This is PRIME, not a tea party. Snow knows what’s at stake here, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top.

Nick Stuart: Be that as it may, Richard, I hope Turnbull keeps a close eye on this situation. We want a fair fight, not a street brawl.

The action spills to the outside as Snow drags Youngblood from the ring by his boot. A knife-edge chop slices across Youngblood’s chest, leaving an angry red welt. Youngblood retaliates with a chop of his own, but Snow is ready. A spinning back elbow catches Youngblood off guard, dropping him to one knee. Snow’s fingers entwine around Youngblood’s skull, wrenching his head back before driving his face into the unyielding ring apron. Snow, his eyes wild with unrestrained fury, hurls Youngblood into the ringside barricade. The impact reverberates through the arena as Youngblood’s body crumples to the floor. Snow pounces, his boots finding Youngblood’s chest in a relentless assault.

Nick Stuart: Good grief! Snow is absolutely relentless out there. He’s treating Youngblood like a punching bag!

Richard Parker: That’s what I call dedication, Nick. Snow knows he can’t let up for a second against a powerhouse like Youngblood.

Nick Stuart: But at what cost, Richard? This level of aggression is bordering on reckless. Snow might be expending too much energy too soon.

Richard Parker: Sometimes you’ve got to risk it all to win it all, Nick. Snow’s strategy might be risky, but it’s keeping Youngblood on the defensive.

Nick Stuart: Well, Snow better stay aware because Turnbull is counting and this could end in a double count-out if he’s not careful.

As Snow attempts to drag Youngblood to his feet, a spark of defiance ignites in Brandon’s eyes. His fist drives into Snow’s midsection, momentarily halting the onslaught. Summoning reserves of strength, Youngblood explodes upward, his uppercut connecting with Snow’s jaw. The crack of impact echoes as Snow’s head snaps back, his eyes momentarily glazing over. Seizing the moment, Youngblood hoists Snow onto his shoulder. Time seems to slow as he drops Snow throat-first across the barricade. The sickening thud is followed by Snow’s strangled gasp as he clutches at his throat, desperately trying to draw breath.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood’s turning the tables here! That barricade shot might have crushed Snow’s windpipe!

Richard Parker: It’s about time! Snow’s been dishing out punishment, now he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull up to an eight count.

Richard Parker: Well, that would be a disappointing end to this.

Youngblood, recognizing the opportunity to regain control, slides into the ring and back out, resetting the Turnbull’s count. His arms encircle Snow’s waist, muscles straining as he lifts and arches backward, executing a textbook German Suplex. Snow’s body describes a perfect arc before crashing onto the thin padding covering the arena floor. His hands fly to the back of his head, face contorted in agony as the impact reverberates through his skull. Youngblood looms over him, a mix of satisfaction and grim determination etched on his features.

Richard Parker: Youngblood’s showing why he’s a force to be reckoned with! That German Suplex on the outside was a game-changer.

Nick Stuart: Indeed, Richard. Snow’s early momentum has been completely derailed. He looks dazed and confused after that impact.

Richard Parker: This is where Youngblood’s experience comes into play. He knows exactly how to capitalize on his opponent’s disorientation.

Nick Stuart: You’re right, but let’s not count Snow out just yet. He’s shown incredible resilience throughout his career.

With practiced efficiency, Youngblood rolls Snow back into the ring, following close behind. Snow struggles to his feet, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Youngblood, sensing weakness, charges forward like a freight train. His spear connects with devastating force, driving the remaining air from Snow’s lungs. Snow’s eyes bulge as he gasps silently, his body folding around Youngblood’s shoulder.

Without missing a beat, Youngblood transitions into a ground-and-pound position. His forearms and elbows rain down on Snow’s face and upper body, each strike punctuated by a grunt of exertion. Snow’s head snaps left and right under the barrage, his attempts to cover up proving futile against Youngblood’s relentless assault.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is absolutely dismantling Snow here! The sheer brutality of this assault is hard to watch.

Richard Parker: It’s not brutality, Nick, it’s dominance! Youngblood is showing why he’s one of the best in the business.

Nick Stuart: But at what cost, Richard? Snow looks like he’s barely hanging on. This could be over any second now.

Richard Parker: Don’t count Snow out yet! He’s been in tough spots before and always finds a way to claw back.

Desperation fuels Snow’s efforts to create space, his hands pushing against Youngblood’s chest. But Youngblood’s determination is an immovable force. He captures Snow’s flailing arm, twisting it into an agonizing Fujiwara armbar. Snow’s face contorts in a silent scream, his free hand clawing at the mat as he tries to drag himself toward the ropes. The sanctuary of the ropes seems miles away as pain lances through his shoulder and elbow. Just as his fingertips graze the bottom rope, Youngblood releases the hold, dragging Snow back to the center of the ring like a predator toying with its prey.

Nick Stuart: The tenacity of these two athletes is simply astounding! Snow’s desperate reach for the ropes shows he’s not ready to give up yet.

Richard Parker: Youngblood’s not letting him off that easy, Nick. Dragging Snow back to the center? That’s veteran ring awareness right there.

Nick Stuart: You’re right, Richard. But you have to wonder how much more punishment Snow can endure. Youngblood’s relentless assault has been brutal.

Richard Parker: That’s what separates the champions from the contenders, Nick. Youngblood’s not just winning; he’s sending a message to the entire PRIME roster! Especially after some recent losses, he’s coming back with an edge. Could old Youngblood be showing his head again?

Nick Stuart: I don’t think you’re that lucky.

Youngblood’s hands encircle Snow’s waist, muscles straining as he hoists his opponent skyward for a vertical suplex. For a moment, Snow hangs suspended, his feet pointing toward the rafters, before gravity reclaims him. He crashes to the mat with bone-jarring force, the impact resonating through the arena.

Before Snow can even process the pain, Youngblood is on him again. With fluid grace born of countless hours of practice, he transitions into a cross armbreaker. Snow’s arm is hyperextended, his elbow stressed to its limit. Gritting his teeth, Snow summons every ounce of his considerable strength, attempting to power out of the hold. But Youngblood’s technical mastery proves superior, his grip adjusting to maintain the punishing pressure.

Richard Parker: Youngblood’s technical prowess is on full display here! That cross armbreaker was a thing of beauty.

Nick Stuart: Beauty? That looked downright painful, Richard. Snow’s arm might be seriously compromised after that submission attempt.

Richard Parker: That’s the price of competition, Nick. Youngblood’s doing whatever it takes to secure the victory.

Nick Stuart: True, but you have to wonder if Snow can mount any kind of offense with his arm in that condition. This could be the turning point of the match.

Sensing the fight ebbing from Snow, Youngblood releases the hold and steps back. Snow stumbles to his feet, his arm hanging limply at his side. A fire reignites in Snow’s eyes as he launches into a desperate flurry of wild punches and kicks. For a heartbeat, it seems he might mount an improbable comeback.

Youngblood, however, remains calm in the face of the onslaught. He ducks under a haymaker, Snow’s fist whistling harmlessly overhead. In one smooth motion, Youngblood wraps his arms around Snow’s waist and arches backward, executing a perfect belly-to-back suplex. Snow’s world inverts as he’s lifted off his feet, then slams back-first into the mat.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood’s relentless assault continues! That belly-to-back suplex might have been the final nail in Snow’s coffin.

Richard Parker: You’re right, Nick. Snow’s looking like a fish out of water right now. Youngblood’s dominating every aspect of this match!

Nick Stuart: But let’s not count Snow out just yet. We’ve seen him pull off miraculous comebacks before.

Richard Parker: True, but against this version of Youngblood? Snow needs more than a miracle – he needs divine intervention!

As Snow writhes on the canvas, every breath sending shockwaves of pain through his battered body, Youngblood circles him with predatory focus. He waits, watching as Snow struggles to his knees, before pouncing. His arms snake around Snow’s head and arm, locking in a vicious dragon sleeper. Snow’s face contorts in agony, his free hand weakly batting at Youngblood’s arms. Turnbull hovers nearby, watching closely as Snow’s resistance begins to flag. Each second in the hold drains more of Snow’s strength, his struggles growing increasingly feeble. The question hangs in the air: how much more can Snow endure?

Richard Parker: This dragon sleeper is absolutely brutal! Youngblood’s got it locked in tight, and Snow’s fading fast.

Nick Stuart: You’re right, Richard. Snow’s in a world of trouble here. His face is turning an alarming shade of red.

Richard Parker: That’s the price of glory, Nick! Youngblood’s not letting up, and why should he? This could be his ticket to victory!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard. Snow’s shown incredible resilience before, but this might be too much even for him. Turnbull’s watching closely – this could be over any second now.

In a desperate bid for freedom, Snow’s hands find the back of Youngblood’s skull. With a burst of adrenaline, he leaps up and over his opponent, breaking the punishing hold. The sudden release sends both men staggering, but Snow recovers first. As Youngblood spins to face him, Snow’s boot rockets into his midsection, doubling him over with a pained whoosh of expelled air. Seizing the moment, Snow clamps Youngblood into a front facelock, his arms like steel bands around Youngblood’s head and shoulder.

With a grunt of exertion, Snow hoists Youngblood skyward, the muscles in his back and legs straining with the effort. For a heartbeat, Youngblood hangs suspended, and then Snow falls backward, driving Youngblood’s head into the canvas with a sickening thud. The brainbuster reverberates through the arena, leaving Youngblood splayed motionless on the mat, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Snow has somehow turned the tables with that devastating brainbuster!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe my eyes! Youngblood was in complete control just moments ago!

Nick Stuart: This is why you can never count Jason Snow out. His resilience is truly remarkable!

Richard Parker: But at what cost, Nick? Snow looks barely able to stand himself after that exchange!

Snow, battered but determined, struggles to his feet. His chest heaves with each labored breath as he stumbles to the ropes. Using them for momentum, he rebounds across the ring, his elbow cocked. With precision born of countless matches, Snow’s elbow crashes down onto Youngblood’s sternum. The impact forces a strangled gasp from Youngblood, his body instinctively curling inward. Undeterred, Snow hauls himself up once more, again using the ropes to launch himself.

This time, however, Youngblood’s survival instincts kick in. As Snow approaches, Youngblood explodes upward, his hands finding purchase on Snow’s midsection. In one fluid motion, he hoists Snow high, preparing to drive him into the mat with a devastating spinebuster.

But Snow isn’t finished.

With cat-like reflexes, he wraps his arm around Youngblood’s neck mid-lift. Gravity takes hold, and Snow uses the momentum to drive Youngblood’s head into the canvas with a thunderous DDT. Both men lie motionless for a moment, the toll of their battle evident in every labored breath.

Richard Parker: Holy smokes! Did you see that DDT? Snow pulled that out of nowhere!

Nick Stuart: Incredible reversal by Snow! Just when we thought Youngblood had him, he turns it around.

Richard Parker: Both men are down now. This match has been an absolute war, and neither seems ready to give up.

Nick Stuart: You’re right, Richard. The sheer determination of these two athletes is awe-inspiring. Who’s going to be the first to capitalize?

Summoning reserves of strength, Snow crawls to his feet, his movements sluggish but purposeful. He reaches down, grasping Youngblood’s limp form, and begins the arduous task of dragging him to the nearest corner. Every inch is a struggle, but Snow’s face is a mask of grim determination.

Upon reaching the turnbuckle, Snow ascends to the second rope, his legs trembling with fatigue. He steadies himself, then launches himself, driving both feet into Youngblood’s exposed chest. The impact is like a thunderclap, Youngblood’s body bucking upward before collapsing back to the mat. Gasping and clutching his sternum, Youngblood rolls onto his stomach, his face the definition of agony.

Snow, seeing his opponent’s vulnerability, summons a final burst of energy. He grasps Youngblood, muscles straining as he hoists him upward. With a roar of effort, Snow bridges backward, executing a perfect deadlift German Suplex. Turnbull drops to the mat, his hand slapping the canvas immediately.

ONE

TWO

TH — NOOOOOOOOOOOO

But before the final count, Youngblood’s shoulder jerks upward, a defiant last-second kickout.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe it! Youngblood kicked out at the very last millisecond!

Richard Parker: That’s the heart of a champion right there, Nick. Youngblood refuses to stay down!

Nick Stuart: But you have to wonder how much more either man can take. This match has been an absolute war.

Richard Parker: It’s matches like these that define careers, Nick. We’re witnessing something special here tonight!

Frustration etches deep lines on Snow’s face as he rises, his eyes never leaving Youngblood’s prone form. With deliberate malice, he grasps Youngblood’s head, and drags him toward the ropes. Youngblood’s attempts at resistance are feeble, his body still reeling from the onslaught. Snow positions him precisely, draping Youngblood’s throat across the middle rope.

There’s a moment of dreadful anticipation before Snow springs into action. He bounces off the opposite ropes, building momentum, then launches himself forward. Snow’s full body weight comes crashing down across the back of Youngblood’s neck, driving his throat into the unyielding rope with brutal force. The impact elicits a choked gasp from Youngblood as he tumbles to the mat, hands flying to his abused throat.

Turnbull immediately steps in, admonishing Snow for the ruthless tactic. But Snow is beyond caring about rules or warnings. He brushes past Turnbull, his focus solely on his gasping opponent. With cold efficiency, Snow grasps Youngblood’s ankles. Youngblood, his head and neck trapped under the bottom rope, is helpless as Snow leans back, using his body weight to catapulting Youngblood’s already damaged throat into the bottom rope. Youngblood’s face contorts in silent agony, his oxygen supply cruelly restricted as Snow rolls to his knees.

Richard Parker: Now that’s what I call strategy! Snow’s showing us why he’s a master in that ring. Youngblood’s getting a taste of his own medicine!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard. This seems excessive. Snow’s treading a dangerous line between competition and cruelty here.

Richard Parker: Excessive? Please! This is what separates the champions from the pretenders. Youngblood’s tough talk isn’t saving him now!

Nick Stuart: There’s a difference between being tough and being reckless, Richard. Snow needs to be careful or he might find himself disqualified.

The unrelenting assault takes its toll on Youngblood, who rolls out of the ring in a desperate bid for reprieve. He crashes to the arena floor, gulping in ragged breaths as he clutches his throat. Snow, sensing victory within his grasp, isn’t content to let Youngblood recover. He steps through the ropes onto the apron, looming over his struggling opponent.

As Youngblood stumbles to his feet, disoriented and gasping, Snow strikes. His leg pistons out in a vicious Apron Pump Kick that catches Youngblood flush on the jaw. The impact snaps Youngblood’s head back, but remarkably, he remains standing, swaying like a tree in a gale. Snow, emboldened by Youngblood’s vulnerability, ascends to the second rope. In a display of high-risk bravado, he launches into a springboard moonsault, his body arcing gracefully through the air.

But Youngblood, drawing on some deep reserve of strength and instinct, manages to regain his senses at the crucial moment. As Snow descends, Youngblood’s arms shoot up, catching his opponent in mid-flight. The sudden reversal leaves Snow suspended for a heartbeat, confusion and fear flashing across his face. Then, with a roar of defiance, Youngblood pivots and drives Snow face-first into the unforgiving edge of the ring apron.

The sickening crack of impact echoes through the arena as Snow’s body goes limp, sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! Youngblood just drove Snow face-first into the apron! That was a devastating counter!

Richard Parker: Are you kidding me? That was a cheap shot! Snow had him dead to rights with that moonsault!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t call it cheap, Richard. It was a brilliant display of ring awareness from Youngblood.

Richard Parker: Ring awareness? More like sheer dumb luck! Snow’s the one who deserves praise for that high-risk maneuver!

Youngblood, his chest heaving with exertion, takes a moment to gather himself. The tide of the match has turned, and he intends to capitalize. With a grimace of determination, he reaches down and grasps the back of Snow’s skull, hauling him to his feet. Snow, still dazed from the apron impact, offers little resistance as Youngblood drags him around the ringside area.

With a sudden burst of strength, Youngblood hoists Snow up and drives him back-first into the unyielding steel steps. The clash of flesh against metal reverberates through the arena, accompanied by a pained cry from Snow. He crumples to the ground, his back arching in agony as he gasps for air, each breath sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body.

Richard Parker: This is outrageous! Youngblood’s resorting to these brutal tactics because he knows he can’t beat Snow fair and square!

Nick Stuart: I have to disagree, Richard. Youngblood’s simply using the environment to his advantage, which is perfectly within the rules.

Richard Parker: Rules? Ha! Where’s the sportsmanship in ramming someone into steel steps? Youngblood’s crossing a line here!

Nick Stuart: Let’s not forget, Richard, that Snow was the one who initiated the more ruthless tactics earlier. This is just the ebb and flow of a highly competitive match.

Seizing the momentum, Youngblood slides smoothly into the ring and back out, resetting Turnbull’s count and buying himself more time to punish Snow outside the ropes. With methodical cruelty, he grabs Snow by the arm and whips him violently toward the barricade. Snow’s body twists in mid-air, unable to brace for impact. He crashes into the barrier with a sickening thud, his form contorting grotesquely on impact.

The collision leaves Snow slumped against the barricade, his eyes unfocused and limbs akimbo. Youngblood, relentless in his assault, closes in. His fists become battering rams, delivering a series of clubbing blows to Snow’s exposed back. Each strike elicits a grunt of pain from Snow, his body jerking under the onslaught. Youngblood’s face is a mask of focused aggression, years of pent-up animosity fueling each punishing blow.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is absolutely dismantling Snow out here! This is a side of him we haven’t seen in a long time.

Richard Parker: This is going too far, Nick! Someone needs to stop this before Snow gets seriously injured!

Nick Stuart: It’s a brutal display, but let’s remember – this is what both men signed up for when they agreed to this match.

Richard Parker: Signed up for? Snow didn’t sign up to be assaulted! This is beyond competition, it’s becoming assault!

Just as it seems Snow might succumb to the barrage, a spark of defiance ignites within him. As Youngblood winds up for another strike, Snow ducks with surprising agility. The sudden movement catches Youngblood off-guard, his fist whistling harmlessly through the air. In that split second of imbalance, Snow strikes. He slips behind Youngblood, arms encircling his waist in a tight grip. Before Youngblood can react, Snow arches backward, executing a textbook German suplex on the unforgiving outside floor.

The back of Youngblood’s head bounces off the thin padding, the impact reverberating through his skull. Both men lie motionless in the aftermath, the toll of their grueling battle evident in every labored breath and trembling limb.

FIVE!

SIX!

Turnbull continues his count, adding urgency to their predicament.

SEVEN!

Finally, at the count of eight, both wrestlers begin to stir, their movements sluggish and pained.

Richard Parker: Would you look at that! Snow’s still in this despite Youngblood’s cheap shots. That’s the heart of a true champion right there!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t call them cheap shots, Richard. Both men are giving it their all in this grueling contest.

Richard Parker: Giving it their all? Ha! Youngblood’s flailing around like a fish out of water, while Snow’s showing us what real wrestling looks like!

Nick Stuart: I think you’re being a bit unfair to Youngblood, Richard. He’s proven himself just as resilient as Snow in this match.

As Turnbull’s count nears its conclusion, both Snow and Youngblood struggle to their feet, their bodies protesting every movement. Snow, drawing on reserves of strength, is the first to fully rise. With grim determination, he grasps Youngblood’s limp form and begins the arduous task of rolling him back into the ring. Snow follows, sliding under the bottom rope, his eyes fixed on his prone opponent.

But Youngblood, demonstrating a surprising burst of speed, is not as incapacitated as he appeared. As Snow enters the ring, Youngblood springs into action. He hooks Snow’s leg with a perfectly timed drop toe hold, sending Snow careening face-first into the middle turnbuckle. The impact is jarring, Snow’s head snapping back as he collides with the padded steel. He staggers backward, dazed and vulnerable, his earlier momentum abruptly halted by Youngblood’s cunning counter.

Nick Stuart: Incredible! Youngblood just turned the tables on Snow with that drop toe hold!

Richard Parker: Are you kidding me? That was a cheap trick! Youngblood was playing possum the whole time!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t call it cheap, Richard. That’s just smart wrestling from Youngblood.

Richard Parker: Smart? It’s underhanded! Snow was showing true sportsmanship by helping him into the ring, and this is how Youngblood repays him?

Youngblood, seizing the opportunity presented by Snow’s disorientation, springs to his feet. In one fluid motion, he positions himself behind the stumbling Snow, hands clasping around his waist. With a grunt of exertion, Youngblood hoists Snow high into the air, muscles straining under the weight. For a moment, Snow hangs suspended, his fate sealed. Then, with devastating force, Youngblood falls backward, executing a perfect release German suplex. Snow rotates in mid-air, unable to control his descent. He crashes to the mat face and chest first, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

The arena winces collectively at the brutal landing.

But Youngblood isn’t finished. As Snow struggles to all fours, fighting through waves of pain and dizziness, Youngblood charges across the ring. His knee, like a battering ram, connects with Snow’s temple with a sickening impact.

CRACK!

The strike is precise and devastating, immediately opening a cut above Snow’s eye. Blood begins to flow freely, trickling down Snow’s face in crimson rivulets. The sight is shocking, a vivid testament to the brutality of their contest. Snow collapses to the mat, his body limp and unresponsive. Youngblood stands over him, chest heaving with exertion, a mixture of grim satisfaction and weary determination etched on his features.

Richard Parker: This is outrageous! Where’s Turnbull? He needs to step in and stop this brutality before Snow gets permanently injured!

Nick Stuart: Turnbull’s allowing the match to continue, Richard. He’s giving both competitors the chance to fight through this.

Richard Parker: Fight through it? Snow’s barely conscious! Turnbull’s negligence is putting Snow’s career at risk here!

Nick Stuart: I understand your concern, Richard, but let’s not forget that both Snow and Youngblood are seasoned professionals. They know the risks involved in this level of competition.

Richard Parker: Yeah, Youngblood seasoned in cheating!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Youngblood, seizing control of the match, unleashes a devastating trio of rights that crash into Snow’s already bleeding forehead. The impact is sickening, each blow sending a spray of crimson droplets arcing through the air. Snow, dazed and disoriented, can’t even muster the strength to protect himself. His arms hang limply at his sides as Youngblood’s fists find their mark again and again. The crowd winces collectively with each thunderous impact.

Capitalizing on Snow’s vulnerability, Youngblood grabs the back of Snow’s skull, dragging him to his unsteady feet. With a cruel twist, he slams Snow’s head into the top turnbuckle. The padded steel offers little cushion, and Snow’s legs buckle beneath him. He stumbles away, his movements uncoordinated and weak.

Youngblood, relentless in his assault, sees an opportunity. As Snow staggers, Youngblood drops low, driving his shoulder into Snow’s knee with a vicious chop block. The sudden attack sends Snow crashing to the mat, his face contorted in a silent scream of agony. He clutches at his leg, every movement sending fresh waves of pain coursing through his body.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is taking full advantage of Snow’s weakened state, showing no mercy in his relentless offense!

Richard Parker: This isn’t wrestling, Nick, it’s a mugging! Someone needs to rein Youngblood in before he goes too far!

Nick Stuart: Both of these competitors knew what they were getting into, Richard. It’s the price of pushing their limits.

Richard Parker: Limits? Snow’s reaching the breaking point, and Youngblood’s just enjoying the carnage!

Wasting no time, Youngblood focuses his attack on Snow’s injured limb. He grasps Snow’s right ankle, his fingers digging into the flesh as he hoists the leg skyward. For a moment, Snow hangs suspended, his back arched off the canvas, before Youngblood brings his full weight down. Snow’s knee crashes into the mat with a sickening thud that echoes through the arena. The impact sends a jolt of white-hot pain shooting up Snow’s leg, eliciting a guttural cry of anguish.

Snow rolls onto his side, both hands clasped around his throbbing knee. His face is a mask of pain, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to will away the agony. Youngblood, seeing his opponent in distress, presses his advantage. He begins a relentless assault, each boot driving into Snow’s exposed chest with pinpoint accuracy. The strikes land with precision, each impact forcing the air from Snow’s lungs in pained gasps. Snow’s ribs bloom with angry red marks, a testament to the brutality of Youngblood’s attack. Turnbull hovers nearby, watching closely, ready to step in if Snow can’t continue.

Richard Parker: Turnbull’s gotta be seeing this, right? Snow’s not just wrestling Youngblood, he’s fighting for his very survival!

Nick Stuart: It’s certainly a test of endurance and resilience, Richard. Snow’s proving he’s got the heart of a lion.

Richard Parker: Heart or not, Nick, Youngblood’s not giving him any room to breathe. It’s like watching a lion toy with its prey!

Nick Stuart: Youngblood’s strategy is ruthless, but it’s effective. Both men are pushing themselves to the absolute limit tonight.

Despite the onslaught, a flicker of defiance still burns within Snow. With agonizing slowness, he begins to pull himself up using the ropes. Each movement is a battle against pain and exhaustion, but Snow grits his teeth, determined to continue. Youngblood watches with a mix of surprise and grudging respect as his opponent regains his footing. Snow, swaying unsteadily, locks eyes with Youngblood. There’s a moment of tense anticipation before Snow explodes into action. He charges forward, ducking under Youngblood’s outstretched arms and rebounding off the ropes. With the last of his strength, Snow launches himself at Youngblood, connecting with a thunderous running clothesline that sends both men crashing into the corner.

The impact momentarily stuns Youngblood, but Snow is too weak to capitalize. He clings to the ropes, fighting to remain upright as his legs threaten to give way beneath him. Youngblood, shaking off the cobwebs, seizes the moment. He grabs Snow, shifting himself away from the corner with brutal efficiency. In one fluid motion, Youngblood bridges backward, executing a perfect Northern Lights Suplex. Snow’s world inverts as he’s lifted off his feet, then slams back-first into the mat. Youngblood maintains the bridge as Turnbull drops to the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Snow manages to get his right shoulder up!

Richard Parker: Unbelievable! How does Snow keep finding a way to fight back like this?

Nick Stuart: It’s all about heart and determination, Richard. Snow’s not ready to give up just yet.

Richard Parker: But how long can he keep this up? Youngblood’s relentless!

Nick Stuart: That’s the question, isn’t it? Snow’s digging deep, but Youngblood’s not letting up either.

Frustration etches deep lines on Youngblood’s face as he rises, his eyes never leaving Snow’s prone form. With a grunt of effort, he hauls Snow to his feet, his grip like iron around Snow’s wrist. Youngblood whips Snow towards the ropes, the sudden momentum causing Snow to stumble. As Snow rebounds off the ropes, Youngblood is ready. He catches Snow mid-stride, hoisting him high into the air before driving him back-first into the canvas with a thunderous spinebuster. The impact drives the air from Snow’s lungs in a pained whoosh, his body bouncing slightly off the mat.

Youngblood, sensing his advantage, doesn’t let up. He drops to his knees beside Snow, raining down a series of vicious elbow strikes. Each blow lands with pinpoint accuracy, targeting Snow’s already bloodied face. The elbows slice across Snow’s features, reopening cuts and creating new ones. Crimson streaks paint Snow’s face, a grisly testament to the match’s brutality. Snow’s attempts to cover up are feeble, his arms rising weakly only to be batted aside by Youngblood’s relentless assault. Turnbull hovers nearby, ready to stop the match if Snow can’t defend himself, but Snow’s occasional twitches and grunts of pain indicate he’s still in the fight, if only barely.

Nick Stuart: Snow’s resilience is something to behold, but he can’t keep taking hits like this forever.

Richard Parker: It’s a travesty, Nick! Youngblood’s tactics are downright dirty, and Turnbull’s just letting it slide!

Nick Stuart: Both competitors are pushing their limits, but Snow needs to find a way to turn this around.

Richard Parker: Turnbull’s got blinders on! Snow’s giving everything he’s got, and it’s still not enough to get a fair call!

Youngblood, breathing heavily from exertion, rises to his feet. His eyes, filled with a mix of determination and barely contained rage, never leave Snow’s battered form. With deliberate slowness, he reaches down, fingers tangling in Snow’s sweat and blood-soaked scalp. He drags Snow upright, unmoved by his opponent’s groans of pain. In a sudden burst of energy, Youngblood drives his shoulder into Snow’s midsection, forcing what little air remains from Snow’s lungs. Using his momentum, Youngblood bulldozes Snow across the ring and into the corner. Snow’s back slams against the turnbuckles, his head whipping back to collide with the top pad.

For a moment, Snow hangs there, suspended by Youngblood’s shoulder, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Seizing the opportunity, Youngblood begins to climb the ropes, dragging Snow with him. His intention is clear – a high-risk maneuver to finish the match. But as they reach the top turnbuckle, a spark of survival instinct flares in Snow’s eyes.

With a sudden burst of energy, Snow begins firing off a series of desperate right hands. The punches lack power but find their mark, each one rocking Youngblood’s head back. Youngblood’s grip loosens, his balance on the top rope becoming precarious. Snow, sensing the shift, summons his remaining strength. He drives his knee upward, catching Youngblood flush in the face. The impact causes Youngblood to teeter backward, arms windmilling as he fights for balance.

Snow seizes the moment, clamping Youngblood in a front facelock. With a roar of effort that seems to draw on his last reserves, Snow lifts Youngblood high. For a heartbeat, both men are suspended in mid-air, the crowd holding its collective breath. Then gravity takes hold, and Snow jumps forward while releasing Youngblood, driving the back of Youngblood’s skull into the second turnbuckle with a sickening thud. The impact reverberates through the arena, leaving both men crumpled in the corner.

Richard Parker: Unbelievable! Snow just turned the tables on Youngblood with a jaw-dropping maneuver!

Nick Stuart: Absolutely incredible, Richard! Snow’s resilience is nothing short of awe-inspiring. That brainbuster was exactly what he needed in that moment.

Richard Parker: He’s digging deep, fighting back with everything he’s got left in the tank!

Nick Stuart: And the crowd is loving every second of it, witnessing a true battle of perseverance!

The brutal turnbuckle brainbuster has left Youngblood in a heap, his body limp and unresponsive. Snow, driven by a cocktail of pain, adrenaline, and raw determination, is the first to stir. His movements are sluggish, every muscle screaming in protest, but a newfound fire burns in his eyes. He grasps Youngblood by the back of the skull and begins the arduous task of dragging him to the center of the ring. Each inch is a battle, Snow’s legs threatening to give out with every step.

But he perseveres, fueled by a potent mix of rage and the primal desire for victory. Upon reaching the ring’s center, Snow summons a burst of strength that seems to come from his very core. He hoists Youngblood upward, muscles straining under the dead weight. For several agonizing seconds, Snow holds Youngblood vertical, the veins in his neck and arms standing out in stark relief. The crowd watches in awe, sensing the titanic effort behind the display. Then, with a guttural roar, Snow falls backward, driving Youngblood into the mat with a thunderous suplex. The impact shakes the entire ring, Youngblood’s body bouncing slightly off the canvas before lying motionless. Snow, spent by the effort, lies alongside his opponent, chest heaving as he gulps in ragged breaths.

Nick Stuart: What an incredible show of strength and determination from Snow!

Richard Parker: That’s right, Nick! Snow’s showing the heart of a champion, and I’m loving every minute of it!

Nick Stuart: He’s proving that he can dig deep and fight back, even when the odds are against him.

Richard Parker: If he keeps this up, Youngblood’s in for a rude awakening. Go get ’em, Snow!

But Snow isn’t finished. Drawing on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed, he rolls toward Youngblood. With practiced precision, he grasps Youngblood’s arm, twisting and contorting it into a painful cross armbreaker. Youngblood’s eyes snap open, a strangled cry of pain escaping his lips as the hold is locked in. Snow wrenches backward, hyperextending Youngblood’s elbow to its limit. Youngblood writhes in agony, his free hand clawing at the mat as he seeks some form of escape. But Snow’s grip is like a steel trap, unyielding and merciless.

Youngblood’s face contorts in a rictus of pain, sweat and blood mingling as they drip onto the canvas. Turnbull drops down, asking Youngblood if he wants to submit. Pride and determination war with agony on Youngblood’s features. In a desperate bid for freedom, he begins to roll, using his superior weight to try and break the hold. Snow counters, adjusting his position to maintain the pressure. The two men become a tangle of limbs, rolling across the ring in a brutal dance.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of torment, Youngblood’s foot finds the bottom rope. Turnbull calls for the break, and Snow, after a moment’s hesitation, releases the hold. Both men separate, Youngblood cradling his abused arm while Snow rises slowly to his feet, a grim look of satisfaction on his blood-streaked face.

Richard Parker: He’s got to have tapped out, Nick! There’s no way Youngblood could withstand that pain!

Nick Stuart: It certainly looked dire for Youngblood, but he’s managed to hang on by the skin of his teeth!

Richard Parker: I don’t buy it! Turnbull’s giving Youngblood every chance in the book!

Nick Stuart: Regardless, Snow’s proving he’s got more left in the tank, and this match is far from over!

As Youngblood struggles to his feet, using the ropes for support, Snow sees his opportunity. He charges across the ring, moving with a speed that belies his exhaustion. Youngblood turns just in time to see Snow approaching but is powerless to defend himself. Snow’s knee lifts, driving hard into Youngblood’s midsection with a sickening thud. The impact doubles Youngblood over, a whoosh of air escaping his lungs. He staggers backward, gasping for breath, but Snow is relentless. Seizing Youngblood’s head and arm, Snow falls backward, executing a gutwrench suplex. Youngblood’s body arcs through the air before crashing to the mat, his head and shoulders absorbing the brunt of the impact.

But Snow isn’t done.

In one fluid motion, he rolls through the suplex, maintaining his grip on Youngblood. With practiced ease, he transitions into a cobra clutch, his arm snaking around Youngblood’s throat while his other hand clasps behind Youngblood’s head. Snow wrenches backward, stretching Youngblood’s neck and shoulder to their limits. Youngblood’s face contorts in agony, his oxygen supply drastically reduced by the punishing hold. His free arm flails weakly, seeking some form of escape, but Snow’s position is too secure. Turnbull circles the two wrestlers, checking to see if Youngblood wants to submit. But even in his pain-addled state, Youngblood’s pride won’t let him quit. He shakes his head weakly, refusing to give in despite the torturous hold.

Nick Stuart: This is a battle of wills, Richard. Snow’s showing no signs of letting up.

Richard Parker: Youngblood’s gonna tap! I can feel it, Nick! He’s reaching his breaking point!

Nick Stuart: The determination on both sides is incredible. Neither man willing to give an inch.

Richard Parker: Come on, Youngblood! You can’t withstand this much longer!

Youngblood, drawing on some deep reserve of strength and determination, begins to fight back. His legs strain as he pushes against the mat, slowly but surely rising to his feet despite the punishing hold Snow has him in. Snow, caught off guard by this display of power, finds himself lifted off his feet, his arms still wrapped around Youngblood’s head and neck. Youngblood, his face a mask of grim determination, begins to stagger backward. Step by painful step, he drives Snow into the corner, using the turnbuckles to finally break the cobra clutch.

The impact causes Snow to loosen his grip, and Youngblood seizes the opportunity to create some space between them. He turns, ready to press his advantage, but Snow is quicker. With explosive energy, Snow launches himself out of the corner. His arm extends like a battering ram, catching Youngblood flush across the chest and throat with a devastating clothesline. The impact is thunderous, lifting Youngblood off his feet and flipping him end over end. He crashes to the mat, landing awkwardly on his neck and shoulder, his body splayed out in an unnatural angle.

Richard Parker: Snow’s unstoppable tonight! Youngblood’s looking like a ragdoll out there!

Nick Stuart: Snow’s intensity is off the charts, Richard. He’s seizing every opportunity.

Richard Parker: Youngblood’s got no answer for this onslaught! It’s all Snow all the time!

Nick Stuart: The crowd is electric, witnessing Snow’s relentless pursuit of victory.

Sensing that victory is within his grasp, Snow summons the last of his strength. He limps to the corner, each step a battle against fatigue and pain. With agonizing slowness, he begins to climb the turnbuckles. The crowd watches in tense silence as Snow ascends, fully aware of the risk he’s taking in his exhausted state. Finally reaching the top rope, Snow pauses for a moment, steadying himself as he stares down at Youngblood’s prone form. In that instant, time seems to stand still.

Then, with a roar that seems to draw on his very soul, Snow launches himself into the air. His body arcs gracefully, descending toward Youngblood with frightening speed. At the last possible second, Snow tucks his chin, aiming the crown of his head directly at Youngblood’s forehead. The impact is sickening, a dull thud that echoes through the arena.

Both men lie motionless in the ring’s center, the toll of their brutal battle evident in every line of their battered bodies. For several long moments, neither man stirs, and the referee begins a count.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Both men are giving it their all, refusing to back down!

Richard Parker: Stay down, Youngblood! Just stay down! You’re done!

Nick Stuart: The determination and willpower on display here is absolutely incredible!

Richard Parker: You’re not proving anything, Youngblood! Just quit!

SIX!

SEVEN!

At the count of eight, both Snow and Youngblood begin to show signs of life. They roll away from each other, struggling to all fours. As they slowly rise to their feet, the extent of the damage becomes clear. Youngblood’s face is a crimson mask, blood flowing freely from a gash opened by Snow’s devastating headbutt. The sight is shocking, a vivid testament to the match’s brutality. Snow, despite his own wounds, stands tall. His face, streaked with his own blood, bears a look of grim satisfaction. The two men lock eyes across the ring, mutual respect mingling with the burning desire for victory.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe Youngblood’s back on his feet! He should’ve stayed down!

Nick Stuart: But look at that warrior spirit, Richard. Youngblood’s not backing down despite the odds!

Richard Parker: Ha! At least he’s wearing a crimson badge of honor now. That blood’s a fitting trophy!

Nick Stuart: It’s a testament to the brutal nature of this match and the heart both men are showing tonight.

Snow, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pain and determination, seizes the momentary advantage. He grasps Youngblood’s waist, muscles straining as he hoists his opponent high into the air. For a heartbeat, Youngblood hangs suspended, his fate sealed. Then, with a roar that seems to draw on his last reserves of strength, Snow falls forward, driving Youngblood into the canvas with a thunderous powerbomb. The impact reverberates through the arena, Youngblood’s body bouncing slightly off the mat. But Snow isn’t finished — digging down for something primal.

Before Youngblood can even register the pain, Snow drags him back to his feet. Again, he lifts Youngblood skyward, this time with even more force. The second powerbomb is even more devastating than the first, eliciting a collective gasp from the crowd. Youngblood lies motionless, his chest heaving as he struggles for breath. Snow, driven by the pure need for victory, attempts to lift Youngblood for a third time. But Youngblood, summoning strength from some hidden reserve, suddenly shifts his weight.

He slips behind Snow, his arms encircling Snow’s waist. Before Snow can react, Youngblood arches backward, executing a perfect German suplex. Snow slams back-first into the mat, the back of his head bouncing off the canvas. Both men lie still, chests heaving.

Nick Stuart: Incredible! Both men are showing superhuman resilience in this match!

Richard Parker: Snow, you idiot! Why didn’t you go for the pin after those powerbombs?!

Nick Stuart: The sheer determination on display here is awe-inspiring. Neither competitor is willing to give an inch!

Richard Parker: Youngblood, just stay down already! You’re only prolonging the inevitable!

The brutal exchange has taken its toll on both wrestlers. They struggle to their feet, their movements slow and pained. As they rise, their eyes lock, a silent acknowledgment of the battle they’re engaged in. They meet in the center of the ring, neither willing to give an inch. Suddenly, Snow lashes out with a European uppercut that rocks Youngblood back on his heels. Youngblood responds in kind, his fist connecting with Snow’s jaw. Back and forth they go, trading thunderous blows, each impact echoing through the arena.

Snow begins to gain the upper hand, his uppercuts becoming more frequent and more powerful. Youngblood staggers backward, his back pressed against the turnbuckle as Snow unleashes a barrage of strikes. Turnbull moves in, warning Snow to back off, but Snow is beyond hearing. He takes a step back, then charges forward, intent on crushing Youngblood against the turnbuckle. But at the last possible second, Youngblood sidesteps.

Snow, unable to stop his momentum, crashes shoulder-first into the steel ring post. The sound of impact is sickening, and Snow crumples to the mat, clutching his shoulder in agony. Youngblood, battered but still standing, sees his opportunity to turn the tide once more.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe it! Snow had him! He had him dead to rights and Youngblood just… just moved!

Nick Stuart: That’s the veteran instinct of Youngblood coming into play. He’s been in tough spots before and knows how to survive.

Richard Parker: Survive? Snow’s got this in the bag, he just needs to finish it!

Nick Stuart: Don’t count Youngblood out yet, Richard. He’s shown incredible resilience throughout this match, and now he has a chance to capitalize on Snow’s mistake.

Seizing the moment, Youngblood pounces on the stunned Snow. He grasps Snow’s head and arm, muscles straining as he hoists his opponent up. With a roar of effort, Youngblood falls backward, executing a textbook dragon suplex. Snow’s body describes a perfect arc before crashing onto the canvas, the back of his head and shoulders absorbing the brunt of the impact. The move is devastating, leaving Snow splayed out on the mat, his eyes glazed and unfocused. But even in his dazed state, some primal instinct for survival kicks in.

As Youngblood moves in, thinking to capitalize on his advantage, Snow suddenly springs to life. Drawing on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed, Snow explodes forward. His shoulder connects with Youngblood’s midsection in a spear that would make football linebackers proud. The force of the move lifts Youngblood off his feet, driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh. Both men crash to the mat, Snow atop Youngblood, who lies folded almost in half from the impact. Snow and Youngblood lie motionless in the center of the ring, both men pushed to their absolute limits.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable! Both men are down after that devastating exchange!

Richard Parker: Come on, Snow! Get up! You’ve got him right where you want him!

Nick Stuart: The sheer willpower on display here is astounding. Neither man is willing to concede defeat.

Richard Parker: Snow, you’re so close! Get to your feet and finish this! Youngblood’s done!

The arena holds its collective breath as Snow begins to stir. With agonizing slowness, he pulls himself to his feet using the ropes for support. His eyes, though clouded with pain, burn with determination as they fix on Youngblood’s prone form. In a move born of equal parts desperation and bravado, Snow begins to climb the turnbuckle. Each step is a battle against fatigue and injury, but Snow perseveres, finally reaching the top rope. He steadies himself, then launches backward in a moonsault that seems to hang in the air forever.

But Youngblood, displaying the same indomitable will that has characterized this entire match, somehow finds the strength to roll out of the way. Snow crashes to the mat, landing hard on his stomach and knees, pain etched into his face. Youngblood, seeing his chance, forces his battered body into motion. He crawls to the corner, using the ropes to pull himself up to the second turnbuckle. With a strength that belies his exhausted state, he reaches down and grasps Snow, dragging him into position.

Youngblood secures a half-nelson, his arm snaked under Snow’s and his hand clasped behind Snow’s head. For a moment, they teeter on the edge of the turnbuckle, a tableau of impending devastation. Then Youngblood leaps forward, bringing Snow with him. Snow is unable to protect himself as they crash to the mat. The impact of the half-nelson suplex from the elevated position is catastrophic, Snow’s head and shoulders driven into the canvas with sickening force.

Richard Parker: Ugh, come on! How is Youngblood still in this? He’s like a cockroach that just won’t die!

Nick Stuart: What we’re witnessing is the heart of a true champion, Richard. Youngblood’s resilience is nothing short of extraordinary.

Richard Parker: Heart? More like sheer stubbornness! Snow’s thrown everything at him, and he just keeps coming back!

Nick Stuart: That’s what makes this match so captivating. Both men are pushing themselves beyond their limits, showcasing why they’re at the top of their game.

In the aftermath of the devastating half-nelson suplex, Youngblood drapes an arm across Snow’s chest, and Turnbull drops to the mat, his hand slapping the canvas.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

THR— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

At the very last millisecond, Snow’s shoulder jerks upward. The near-fall sends a jolt of electricity through the arena, a collective gasp of disbelief rising from the spectators. Both men lie motionless in the ring’s center, the toll of their grueling battle evident in every line of their battered bodies. Slowly, painfully, they begin to stir. Snow and Youngblood drag themselves to their feet, using the ropes for support, their legs trembling with exhaustion. They lock eyes across the ring, mutual respect mingling with the burning desire for victory.

As if moved by some unspoken signal, they lurch towards each other. Snow, summoning one last burst of energy, suddenly spins, his arm extending in a discus lariat that catches Youngblood flush across the chest and throat. The impact is thunderous, lifting Youngblood off his feet and flipping him end over end. He crashes to the mat, landing awkwardly on his neck and shoulder, his body splayed out at an unnatural angle.

But Snow, running on pure adrenaline and fighting spirit, doesn’t go for the pin. Instead, he staggers out of the ring and begins clearing the announce table at ringside. Nick and Richard scramble out of the way as Snow tears apart their workspace, clearly planning something monumental.

Nick Stuart: What is Snow thinking? Our announce table isn’t part of the match!

Richard Parker: Oh, come on, Nick! This is getting good! Snow’s about to do something epic!

Nick Stuart: But why does it have to involve our equipment? We need that to do our jobs!

Richard Parker: Who cares about equipment? We’re about to witness history in the making!

Snow’s eyes, wild with a mixture of pain and unbridled fury, lock onto Youngblood’s prone form. With a sudden burst of energy, he lunges forward, fingers closing around Youngblood’s ankle like a steel trap. In one fluid motion, Snow yanks Youngblood from the ring, the larger man’s body crashing to the arena floor with a sickening thud. Before Youngblood can even register the pain, Snow is on him, grabbing the back of his blood-stained skull and drives Youngblood’s forehead into the unforgiving edge of the announce table. The impact is horrifying, the crack of skull against plastic echoing through the arena.

Crimson streaks smear across the PRIME logo adorning the table’s surface, a grisly testament to the match’s brutality. Snow, consumed by a primal rage, doesn’t relent. Again and again, he slams Youngblood’s head into the table’s edge, each impact sending a spray of blood arcing through the air. The crowd watches in stunned silence, awed and horrified by the display of savagery. Finally, Snow pauses, his chest heaving with exertion. He surveys his handiwork for a moment before roughly manhandling Youngblood’s limp form onto the announce table.

With a predatory grace, Snow ascends the ring apron, his eyes never leaving his target. He balanced on the edge, tensing for a moment before launching himself into the air, elbow cocked and ready to deliver a crushing blow to Youngblood’s sternum. But at the last possible instant, survival instinct kicks in. Youngblood rolls, barely avoiding Snow’s descending form. Snow crashes through the table in a cacophony of splintering wood and twisting metal, his body disappearing into the wreckage.

Richard Parker: No! This can’t be happening! Snow had him! He was about to end it all!

Nick Stuart: Incredible instincts from Youngblood to roll away at the last second. And look, Turnbull has started his count with both men outside the ring!

Richard Parker: Who cares about the count? Snow just went through our table! Is he even alive under there?

Nick Stuart: This is a critical moment. Whoever can make it back into the ring first might just walk away with the victory here tonight.

The seconds tick by agonizingly slow as both men lie motionless amidst the debris.

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

At eight, Youngblood stirs, his movements sluggish and pained. With Herculean effort, he grasps Snow’s limp form, dragging him towards the ring. Every inch is a battle against pain and exhaustion, but Youngblood perseveres, finally managing to roll Snow under the bottom rope just as Turnbull’s count reaches nine. Youngblood follows, his own entrance into the ring no less labored.

Both men are a horrifying sight, their faces masked in crimson, the white canvas beneath them quickly staining red. Youngblood, drawing on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed, hauls Snow to his feet. For a moment, they stand face to face, a tableau of determination and suffering. Then, with a roar that seems to come from his very soul, Youngblood hoists Snow high into the air. In a breathtaking display of strength and technique, Youngblood executes a head-driving German suplex, seamlessly transitioning mid-air into a recoiling Roman front suplex with a side grip – the devastating move known as the Bloodplex.

The impact is thunderous, Snow’s body bouncing off the mat from the force of the slam. Youngblood, his own body trembling from exertion, drapes an arm across Snow’s chest. Turnbull drops to the mat, his hand slapping the canvas.

ONE!

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TWO!

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THREE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But somehow, someway, Snow’s shoulder jerks upward just before the three count. Youngblood rolls off, his face a mask of disbelief and frustration as he stares at the ceiling, the taste of victory turned to ash in his mouth.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe it! Youngblood hit the Bloodplex with everything he had!

Richard Parker: YES! Snow kicked out! He’s still in this! I knew he had it in him!

Nick Stuart: Everyone in this arena thought it was over. The Bloodplex has finished countless opponents before.

Richard Parker: But not Jason Snow! He’s proving why he’s one of the best! Youngblood must be in shock right now!

The brutal exchange has left both men reeling, but the insatiable hunger for victory drives them on. Youngblood, his movements fueled more by will than strength, drags Snow to his feet. With a grunt of effort, he whips Snow towards the ropes, the momentum causing Snow to stumble. As Snow rebounds, Youngblood pivots, his elbow cocked for a devastating discus strike. But Snow, drawing on some deep reserve of instinct and awareness, ducks at the last possible second. Youngblood’s elbow whistles harmlessly overhead as Snow passes beneath it.

The missed strike causes Youngblood to spin, leaving him momentarily vulnerable. Snow seizes the opportunity, launching himself forward with every ounce of strength he can muster. His forearm connects with Youngblood’s face in a thunderous impact that rocks Youngblood back on his heels. Both men stagger, the toll of their grueling battle evident in every labored movement.

But neither is willing to concede.

They scramble to their feet, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Suddenly, Snow explodes into action. He leaps forward, his hand outstretched in the dreaded Iron Claw. His fingers find purchase on Youngblood’s face, digging into flesh already slick with blood and sweat. The force of Snow’s attack sends both men crashing to the mat, Snow maintaining his vicious grip even as they fall. He uses the momentum to roll on top of Youngblood, pressing his shoulders into the canvas. Turnbull is there in an instant, his hand slapping the mat.

ONE!

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TWO!

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THRE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

At the last possible moment, Youngblood summons the strength to kick out. Snow rolls off, frustration etched on his blood-streaked features, as the realization sinks in that even his most devastating moves aren’t enough to keep Youngblood down.

Richard Parker: Turnbull must have forgotten how to count! That was clearly a three!

Nick Stuart: Both Snow and Youngblood have dug deeper than we’ve ever seen before. Their resilience is astounding.

Richard Parker: I’m telling you, Nick, Turnbull needs to get his eyes checked. He’s missing clear pinfalls left and right!

Nick Stuart: The sheer willpower on display here is nothing short of miraculous. These two are redefining what it means to leave it all in the ring.

Richard Parker: You’re just ignoring me at this point, aren’t you.

Nick Stuart: Yep.

The match has become a war of attrition, each man pushing beyond the limits of human endurance. Snow, his movements sluggish but determined, begins to pull Youngblood to his feet. But Youngblood isn’t done yet. With a sudden burst of energy, he lashes out, his fist connecting with Snow’s jaw in a sickening impact. Again and again, Youngblood’s fists find their mark, each blow sending sprays of sweat and blood into the air. Snow staggers under the onslaught, his defense crumbling. Seizing the momentum, Youngblood lurches towards the ropes.

He rebounds off them, building up speed for a clothesline that threatens to take Snow’s head off. But Snow, operating on pure instinct, ducks at the last second. Youngblood’s arm passes harmlessly overhead as Snow evades certain doom. As Youngblood spins around, disoriented by the missed attack, Snow strikes. His leg lashes out in a devastating superkick that catches Youngblood square between the eyes. The impact is thunderous, Youngblood’s head snapping back as he crashes to the canvas, laid out cold.

Snow stands over his fallen opponent, swaying on his feet, his legs threatening to give out at any moment. The crowd watches in tense silence as Snow’s body finally betrays him. He collapses onto Youngblood, draping an arm across his chest more by gravity than intent. Turnbull drops to the mat, beginning his count.

ONE!

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TWO!

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THRE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: That was three! That was clearly three! Turnbull, you’re robbing Snow of his victory!

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe my eyes, Richard. Snow hit that Snake Eyes with everything he had left in the tank. The impact was devastating.

Richard Parker: It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! The ref is in Youngblood’s pocket! There’s no other explanation for this travesty!

Nick Stuart: The resilience of these two athletes is beyond comprehension. Youngblood kicking out after that Snake Eyes defies all logic and expectations.

The ring has become a battlefield, both combatants pushed far beyond their limits. Snow, his body a roadmap of pain and exhaustion, struggles to his feet. Every movement is an exercise in agony, his muscles screaming in protest. Across the ring, Youngblood stirs, his consciousness returning in waves of pain. With agonizing slowness, he pushes himself to his knees. The simple act of rising seems to take every ounce of strength he has left, his body shaking violently with the effort.

Snow, seeing his opponent’s vulnerability, staggers forward. He grasps Youngblood, attempting to pull him upright, but Youngblood’s legs buckle, unable to support his weight. He crashes back to one knee, gasping for breath. Snow, undeterred, tries again. This time, Youngblood manages to stand, if only for a moment.

Seizing what might be his last opportunity, Snow wraps his arm around Youngblood’s massive frame. He positions himself, preparing for a Northern Lights Suplex that threatens to drive Youngblood through the very canvas. Snow summons every last reserve of strength, attempting to hoist Youngblood skyward. But Youngblood, operating on pure survival instinct, manages to block the move.

In a sudden shift of momentum, Youngblood throws his weight foreward. Snow, caught off guard, finds himself pulled down. With lightning quickness born of desperation, Youngblood maneuvers Snow’s arms under the heels of his boots. He presses down with all his remaining strength, driving Snow’s shoulders into the mat in a perfectly executed sunset flip. Turnbull, positioned perfectly, drops to the canvas.

ONE!

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TWO!

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THR

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EE

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!

DING DING DING

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! THIS IS A TRAVESTY!

Nick Stuart: YOUNGBLOOD HAS PULLED IT OFF! AND IF YOU ARE A PRIME FAN, YOU REMEMBER THE REVERSE HAPPENED AT CULTURE SHOCK 2010!

Richard Parker: I’m going to be sick to my stomach.

In the ring, Youngblood is trying to find the strength to get to his feet.

Vince Howard: Your winner…

Turnbull helps Youngblood up to his feet and lifts his arm in victory.

Vince Howard: BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!

Youngblood stumbles away from Turnbull, needing the ropes to keep himself on his feet. Snow, meanwhile, is lying on the canvas, staring at the ceiling, unbelieving he’s been beat and in the manner in which he was beat.

Nick Stuart: Such a crazy match. And I bet these fans are hoping for a rubber match between them.

Richard Parker: And maybe we can get a real ref in there!

Nick Stuart: Okay, Richard, calm it down. Let’s head backstage as we get ready for our main event!

We cut elsewhere.

From the ring, ReVival heads backstage…specifically, to Lindsay Troy’s office where the Queen is pouring a couple fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler.

Normally, she’d wait until after **the show before having a drink or two, but tonight has been a night. And the fact she hasn’t started sooner than now should be considered a lesson in restraint.

With her beverage poured, and some peace finally obtained, Lindsay lifts the glass to her mouth to take a much deserved sip.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Of course, nothing good lasts long in PRIME.

Lindsay Troy: (growling) Oh for Hoyt’s sake, what now.

Pale and sickly, a less-than-stately Rob Williams slowly pushes open the Steel Door O’Doom and darkens her doorstep. His hair is matted with dried blood and he wears the same on his face like some crude, barbaric war paint. One eye is swollen nearly shut. Rob smiles a big, bloody smile at Lindsay, revealing the empty space where his middle tooth was before his chance encounter with Jack Daniels earlier tonight.

This is not the first time Jack Daniels and kissing a married woman has left him in this state.

Rob Williams: Hey, Boss Lady. Mind I come in?

Lindsay scrutinizes the walking car crash that collapses into a chair in front of her desk, then takes a sweet, overdue sip of alcohol.

Lindsay Troy: Yes, actually, I do mind. My night’s gone about as well as you look and all I want right now is one moment of uninterrupted peace and quiet.

She takes another sip.

Lindsay Troy: But I guess I won’t be getting that.

The smell of bourbon lingers in Rob’s nostrils. He’s a few days sober now and despite never really being into bourbon, he feels the calling. Bourbon is like black coffee, nobody likes the shit. In the beginning, at least. Why would you choose black when you can add color, add joy? People begin drinking bourbon and black coffee because someone they aspired to be did it. Some who, preaching from the pulpit of their soapbox or refusing to back down from a fight they weren’t sure they’d win, captured the admiration of the little child inside the beholder. And now, pinching their nose, they try to get just a bit closer to that ideal.

Who could have captivated this woman like that? Rob wonders thoughtfully, scratching at his chin as he searches for the words.

Rob Williams: Look, I’m sorry I barged in here. I, uh, I just wanted to come here and eat my humble pie. You been good to me and I lied to you, straight-faced. I’m fucking sorry about that…

Pregnant pause. Rob’s eyes are locked on his cowboy boots- the bits of blood and muck dried on them. The thinned-out leather that’s just flexed to the point of nearly bursting – the seams giving it all they’ve got to keep his feet from busting free. He takes a deep breath before continuing.

Rob Williams: …but, I ain’t no fucking Revelator. You ain’t gonna find my ass out there boohoo-ing to the fans all begging for their mercy and shit. They fucking spit on me. Fuck them. Always been a proper dick and I will be until I spit out my last breath. That being said, I am coming to you hat in hand, asking to give me the mercy. What I’m saying, I guess, is I appreciate what you have done and want to keep going out there until I fucking can’t anymore. I… I ain’t got anything else. It’s all there is.

Rob nods his head up and down, his confidence growing with each bob. This is what he came here to say. He’s laying it all out there and willing to accept the consequences if Lindsay Troy tells him to go pound sand. He finally lifts his head to look at her.

Rob Williams: If you’ll have me, I’m yours until the end. So what’s it gonna be, Troy?

The Lady of the Hour’s hazel eyes bore holes through the Legend’s baby blues, and a minute goes by before she says anything.

Lindsay Troy: You’re a real dummy if you thought I didn’t know something was going on with you.

She sets the glass down on a coaster.

Lindsay Troy: I don’t appreciate being lied to, though, and despite you still wanting to compete until your wheels fall off, I have a personal and professional responsibility to make sure you’re still healthy enough to do that, whether you like it or not.

Lindsay leans back in her chair, her eyes still locked on Rob.

Lindsay Troy: That said, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you from here on out. You’ll be checking in with me and Astrid regularly; not with whatever quack doctor you managed to convince to sign off on your medical release. And if at any time I don’t think you can still go, you’re done. Got it?

The thing about bourbon and black coffee is that they are an acquired taste. Not the flavor, but more as you become more aware of the white underbelly of this world, the horrors that take place, and man’s true nature. Best not cross this one again, Rob thinks to himself. She has seen more than her share and she is definitely a true fan of bourbon.

Rob Williams: Crystal clear. I’ll do my absolute best not to die in your ring. And I’ll keep you and the good doctor fully up to date on what’s going on. I’ll, uh, I’ll see myself out.

“The Legend” pushes himself up. His body hurts, his pride hurts, but the deed is done.

Rob Williams: Say, Troy, how do you take your coffee?

Lindsay raises an eyebrow, thrown off by the question.

Lindsay Troy: Splash of cream, pinch of sugar. Why?

Rob smirks, spinning on the heels of his cowboy boots. He holds a hand in the air as he walks out of the office and shuts the door, finally giving the Queen the peace and quiet she’s been craving.

We move along elsewhere.

Backstage the cameras have once again found The Murder Show and The Revelator, apparently still in the midst of the same heated discussion from earlier. There’s a little more bass in the giant’s voice, and a hoarseness to boot.

Hessian: You don’t have to question my integrity, and you don’t need the Five-Star Title to show everyone what a real champion looks like either. All you’re doing is proving you’re the better wrestler. If you want actual respect and decorum then beat Kuroyama for the Alias Title and stipulate that the only way to get a shot at it is if no one can say a bad word about the contender. See how that works. Assholes are inevitable. What’s with the lack of confidence anyway? If Jiles is using me and planning on betraying me, what makes you think there wouldn’t be repercussions?

Don Winters: How quickly you forget nobody has defended this title (he pats the Five Star championship around his waist) in this era more than I have. I would have had to relinquish the Alias if I were in this position with that title. I’m not worried about insults and bad words, I’ve been crucified in front of the entire world on television. And it’s not your integrity I’m worried about Hess, it’s what possessed you to get into this situation in the first place. It’s not about repercussions when he does turn on you, it’s about putting yourself in a spot for it to happen at all. You’re one of the most fearsome champions this company has ever seen in any era and you’re giving yourself short shrift by aligning with the Bandits. I guess I’m sorry I expected more of you.

A twitch of the eyelid.

Hessian: So you’ll suffer a crucifixion to save your own skin but you won’t throw yourself on the cross for anyone else? I’m trying to give everyone a chance here…

Don laughs, but he’s not smiling.

Don Winters: I’ll throw myself on the cross for anybody with a good and just cause. I can only judge folk on the actions I see them take and not once in the last twelve months has Jiles proven to me he is capable of doing something for anybody other than himself. There’s only two people I’ve found completely irredeemable in PRIME. Jiles and Diamonds. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of second chances, Hess, but there’s just something deep down within me that can’t abide by what you’re doing here. So what now, do we just go around in circles all night?

The giant takes a pause, considering how bad things must be for The Revelator of all people to be taking this stance.

Hessian: I’m sorry, I gave my word, I have to see it through.

Don Winters: (shaking his head) I’m really sorry to hear that, Hess. I guess if I can’t make you see reason, appeal to your own good senses, and I won’t even try to make this a religious affair, but perhaps there is another way.

Hessian: If it involves Cancer I’m going to have to stop you right there..

Don Winters: I understand you’re too principled here to walk away from Jiles. It’s been a long night and I’ve come to accept that. But there’s nothing saying that I can’t show you what professional wrestling is supposed to be. In the ring. You and me. No outside distractions. No Bandits. Two men settling their differences the old fashioned way: beating the hell out of each other.

Winters smiles as he unstraps the belt from his waist and holds it up in front of Hessian.

Don Winters: As far as I can tell, neither of us have been booked for UltraViolence. I’ve got a record to tie in the modern era for defenses of any title, and it would be a pleasure to take Cancer’s muscle away from him, at least for one night. Look at me, Hess. I’m standing here with God on my side while you’ve got an alfredo-haired Satan telling you what to do and when to do it. Maybe we should ask him if you’re allowed to have a shot at my Five Star Championship first? Do you think he’d say yes? Do you think he’d let you do it?

A look of surprise comes over the giant.

Hessian: I’m sorry, are you going Old Testament on me right now? I don’t want to fight you, Don. The only thing you’re showing me is that no good deed goes unpunished. Is that the kind of thing you preach to your congregation?

Don Winters: I preach love and acceptance, Hess. I preach His Word and Light. ****(He pauses and holds up his free hand, palm facing outward toward Hessian.) Dear Lord, please forgive me for what I’m about to say. Protecting Jiles is a good deed all of a sudden? Are you out of your fucking mind!? Unbelievable.

The Five Star Champion tries to regain composure, but it’s long gone.

Don Winters: Yeah, this is what I want, Hess. It’s the only way I’m going to get through to you, isn’t it? Down on the Threshing Floor. Separation and Revelation. You refuse to take my word? Then let it be at UltraViolence, my Five Star Championship on the line and I will show you the path to God’s love and my Absolution.

Hessian: Are you absolutely sure about that?

Winters simply nods and extends his hand.The Murder Show sighs and grips it firmly.

Hessian: If that’s what you want, so be it.

A beat.

Hessian: I’m sure the boys’ll get a kick out of me getting a title shot, straight after a loss. You can explain that one to Jonathan-Christopher..

Winters scoffs.

Don Winters: He knows where to find me. He’s got my card.

Winters is still fuming as he trudges down the hallway, throwing a balled fist into the wall beside him as we cut to commercial.

The arena sits in bated anticipation for the main event for what feels like an eternity.

Nick Stuart: After all we’ve seen over the last week, we have to ask will Anna Daniels accompany Rob Williams to take on the Freeman-Kael Connection.

Richard Patrick: You mean The Walking Dead? I doubt Williams can even get TO the ring in the shape he’s in, let alone take on Freeman and Kael alone.

A familiar, distinct, and sequenced guitar riff smashes the uncomfortable silence in the arena. By the time you can identify it, the gravely voice of Eric Burden belts out…

There is a house in New Orleans
They call The Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I’m one

Rob Williams appears at the top of the ramp. Alone. He’s shirtless, his blood from the beating he received earlier in the evening wiped clean. His ribs are wrapped in a similar tape as his hands.

Richard Parker: You speak of the devil and he will appear.

My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new blue jeans
My father was a gamblin’ man
Down in New Orleans

A few fans cheer in sporadic, unsynchronized pockets as Williams makes his way down the aisle. He does not see or hear them, his vision locked in completely.

Now the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk
And the only time he’s satisfied
Is when he’s on a trump

He stares at the ring, not seeing anyone in the ring. Not at Ashley Barlow or the PRIME logo or Vince Howard. No, he stares at the ring itself, like it’s alive – like he’s staring at the symbiote that has lived off his hopes and dreams and sucked all that is good from him.

Oh mother, tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the house of The Rising Sun

All of that and yet, he returns once again. Despite being alone, despite getting the shit kicked out of him earlier in the night, despite literally dying – he climbs up on the apron and gets into the ring once again.

Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I’m goin’ back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain

Walking around the ring, one hand loosely on the top rope, Rob breathes it all in. The fans and their chants. The distinct smell of sweat on plywood and canvas. He does not have many more of these moments coming and he knows it and regardless of the outcome or the damage he’s done, he is enjoying this moment.

Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call The Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I’m one

Rob takes his place in his corner and nods to Vince Howard.

Ready for war.

There is a shift, as The Rogers Arena is bathed in darkness as the lights cut out. The slow, steady synth of MATAM’s “Hymn to Red October (Trapstep Vrs)” begins its slow build. Red light washes the stage in a crimson glow as the crowd turns to booing, aware of who is about to show up.

Nick Stuart: This is it, Parker, the final match of the Tag Team Tournament before we reach the finals! This match determines if it shall be the Freeman-Kael Connection versus the Twins? or if it will be a three way dance between the Big Dick Stallions, F-Your Tag Team and the Twins?.

Richard Parker: The Red Army is winning here tonight and then going to UltraViolence to secure their revenge against the Twins?!.

Nick Stuart: They’re gonna have to overcome Rob Williams and Anna Daniels here tonight, no small feat.

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.

Next out onto the stage, following closely behind his friend is Junior Officer Comrade Kenny Freeman. Gone are any charming smiles or goofy grins, those having been replaced with a serious expression. He’s looking more vascular, more cut, more determined than ever.

Richard Parker: Max’s work with Kenny has really been something, Stuart.

Nick Stuart: I question the Commissar’s methods but the physical results can’t be argued with.

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 scuttles down the ramp ahead of the Red Army, circling the ring with the banner held high.

Finally, sauntering out with a callous snarl plastered across his long face is the Commissar of the Red Army, his arms held high. Despite the bandage on his face and the multiple bruises, he’s looking eager, hungry and perhaps a little more deranged than normal.

As soon as the 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.

The Herald: Please rise for the introduction of the future Tag Team Champions of PRIME!

Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington holds a custom crimson communist microphone to his lips. The Herald flourishes his little mini-cape as he prances back up the ramp.

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

The Herald: ..at a combined weight of Four Hundred and Fifteen Pounds! Or one hundred and eighty eight point two Canadian Kilograms!

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, golden tooth 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. The Herald scrambles backstage leaving his comrades to their destiny, good or bad.

Nick Stuart: Well, here we go folks! Main Event! ReVival 55! One show removed from UltraViolence and it couldn’t have more serious implications! FYTT needs this win to stay alive!

Richard Parker: The Freeman-Kael Connection might already have clinched a spot at the Pay-Per-View due to the Big Dick Stallions winning, but they’d like nothing better than to have momentum going into the pay-per-view. No one wants to wrestle a three way tag match when you could go two to two instead!

Nick Stuart: There’s some bad blood between Kael and Daniels as well but… where is The Muse?

Rob Williams stands poised in the ring, unfazed by his lack of tag partner. Commissar Kael stands on the apron, sporting a black eye and a bandage on his brow, while Kenny speaks with him. Kael seems to be giving K-Free some pointers, while Randall Schwartz nods sagely from below.

Nick Stuart: I have to say, it can’t be denied that Kenny Freeman has shown newfound focus since tagging with Max Kael. It looks like he’s actually put on some weight as well.

Richard Parker: Well, studies show that if you tag with a partner who is willing to literally eat your face, it helps focus you and promotes stress eating.

Referee Ashley Barlow calls for the bell, and the ReVival 55 Main Event is underway! The crowd is abuzz as Kael points at Williams and slaps Freeman, ushering his comrade forth.

Nick Stuart: No Ivan Stanislav at ringside. That’s good. Clearly Lindsay Troy’s threat to fire him should he interfere this evening has taken hold.

Richard Parker: Or that jerk Nate Colton is still trying to pick a fight with him. It doesn’t matter, The Red Army always triumphs over losers like Rob Williams! Anna Daniels probably said F*ck my tag partner and is joining The Red Army as we speak!

Kenny and Rob lock up in the middle of the ring, but it’s rather elementary for Rob, who has the height, weight, and leverage advantage. He cinches K-Free in a side headlock and wrenches it on, spitting a wad of phlegm over at Kael’s corner. Kael gives him a bras d’honneur in return.

Freeman slaps Williams’ side and shoves him into the ropes, Williams off. He goes for a shoulderblock, but Freeman hits the mat. Williams on the rebound. K-Free leapfrogs. Williams off the ropes again.

Nick Stuart: Here we go!

Kael is there in an instant to drive his knee into the back of Williams as he bounces off.

Richard Parker: Hey, it’s not The Red Army’s fault that Williams’ partner isn’t here. This is for all the rubles!

Williams winces and staggers forward. Kenny smirks and rushes to meet him.

Nick Stuart: Williams out of nowhere!

Williams CRUSHES K-Free with a lariat out of nowhere, playing possum,  smirking as he does. Freeman corkscrews in the air and lands on his side, grabbing the back of his head while his feet thud on the mat over and over again.

OHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Kael rolls his eyes and slaps the turnbuckle. Williams reaches down to grab Freeman, but Randall Schwartz snatches his fellow multiversal communist by the ankle and drags him out of the ring.

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

The crowd lets their sentiments be known as Kenny staggers around the ring with Randall’s arm around him. He walks all the way to his corner and climbs the apron and back into the ring. He offers to tag Kael in, but Max is unwilling, instead ordering Kenny back into the fray. Kenny nods and exhales, facing Williams once more, who beckons him for some more.

Freeman obliges, rushing towards Williams. Kenny jukes and fakes out the bigger Williams and buries a knee in his midsection. A swinging neckbreaker later, Williams and staring at the lights. Kenny makes a cover.

1…

There’s barely even a one count as Rob kicks out.

Nick Stuart: It’s gonna take a heck of a lot more than a swinging neckbreaker to take out The Legend!

Freeman, quick as can be, however, drops an elbow once across Rob’s chest, then another, and then pauses and rakes his boot across Rob’s eyes. This does little more than piss Rob off, who surges to his feet while weathering a forearm from Kenny. He barrels Kenny into the corner and unloads with a stiff punch to Freeman’s side. He hooks Kenny and biel throw’s him across the ring.

Kenny sails through the air and lands on his hip with a THUD! He rolls backwards, fortuitously landing in his corner. He reaches up to tag Max, but Kael shakes his head and instead hauls Kenny up and pushes him back towards Williams.

Freeman and Williams lock up again. Williams with a suplex, but Kenny reverses it into an inside cradle. There’s no time for a count as Rob kicks out, but Kenny hops back up to his feet with a smirk on his face. Rob gets up a bit more slowly and Kenny is on him. Clubbing a forearm over his back, but to relatively little effect. Rob responds with a sudden slap to Kenny’s face, stunning him. He follows up[ with an elbow to the side of Kenny’s head, staggering him. Rob stalks after Kenny, when Kenny ducks and grabs Rob’s pants and pulls him into the Red Army corner.

Kael is there to start hammering on him, and while Rob fights Kael, Kenny buries his forearm into Rob’s back. He struggles, fighting a two front war while trapped in a corner. Kael turns him so his back is against the turnbuckle and rakes his eyes, while Kenny peppers him with kicks in the bandaged ribs.

Barlow starts to count.

1…2… 3… 4….

At the last moment, the two commies stop their assault on Williams, who is still fighting. Kenny backs up to let Rob out of the corner. He staggers out, but Max is quick to drop to the floor, grab his boot, and trip him. He falls hard on his stomach, and Kenny drops a stiff knee to the back of his neck once, and then again. Max hops to the apron and now he calls for the tag, which Kenny obliges.

Max climbs into the ring and lifts Rob up in a front facelock. Kenny springs to the top rope and dives off, dropping a double ax handle across Rob’s ribs. He roars in pain and drops to a knee, while Kael keeps the pressure on. Max drags Rob out of the corner, hooks an arm, and lifts him in a very slow, but deliberate suplex.

Max lifts Rob immediately and sends him back into the Red Army corner. Once more, Kenny now hammers him from behind, while Max charges and buries a shoulder into Rob’s stomach. Rob tries to fight back, shoving Max back with all that he can. He tries to leave the corner, but Kenny grabs him by the head and hops off the apron, bending Rob’s neck in a sickening way, sideways, across the top rope.

Rob stumbles but remains upright, holding his neck while Max snatches him up from behind. Barlow admonishes Kenny, which gives Rob enough time to mule kick Max directly in the junk! Kael’s knees buckle and he falls back onto his rear end, and then takes a wicked kick to the side of his head for his trouble.

Rob for the pin!

1….

2….

Nick Stuart: No!

Freeman springboards off the top rope and crashes into Rob, breaking the pin. Freeman rolls to his feet, while Max drags himself up with help from the ropes. Rob is on his hands and knees when Kenny drops an elbow across the back of his head. Ashley gets in Kenny’s face and orders him back to his corner. He nods and goes back, while Max, with a sadistic look in his eyes, stalks Rob with a noticeable limp.

Richard Parker: Do it for Stalin, Max!!

Max sends Rob into the corner and drops him with a drop toe hold, and then makes his way back over to Kenny and tags him in. Max makes no attempt to leave the ring, as the two instead stalk across the ring to Rob. Barlow gets in Max’s face and starts counting him out of the corner. Max just flashes her a golden grin and a blink/wink of sorts.

Kenny grabs Rob’s hair and takes an elbow to the midsection for his trouble. Max follows suit, and he gets a punch in his waist. The two swarm him, but Rob fights back, an elbow to Max, a chop to Kenny, a headbutt to Max, and then…

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE NOGGIN KNOCKER!!

Indeed, he slams both Kenny and Kael’s heads together. Max rolls out of the ring, while Kenny sees stars. The crowd grows electric as Kenny throws a wild punch, it’s blocked, he throws an opposite punch, blocked, and Rob boots Kenny in the stomach and plants him with a DDT.

BOOM!

Kenny flops onto his back while Rob makes the cover.

1…

…2….

Max is on the apron looking to climb in. Barlow stops the count and hops up to her feet to intercept Max.

Nick Stuart: C’mon! Williams had Kenny down for over three seconds now!! It’s just impossible to stop all this humanity!

Richard Parker: Wouldn’t be so bad if his PARTNER WAS HERE TO HELP HIM!

Rob slaps the mat several times, realizing this pin isn’t happening, and drags Kenny up. Max leers at Ashley and gnashes his teeth, arguing back to her as she fights with him to get into the corner. Randall Schwarts hops up on the apron behind Rob, but Rob is ready. He turns and snatches up Randall as the crowd erupts. He drags Randall over the top rope and dangles him across the ropes at the thighs.

Nick Stuart: NO!

It’s the low blow heard around the world. Kenny Freeman has absolutely been training with Max Kael. It’s a “GIVE ME YOUR BONES” level of low blow, and with dealers choice, Kenny chooses to bury the toe of his boot as deep into Rob’s groin as possible.

OHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Rob drops Randall in a heap, he falls on his head and rolls not out of the side of the ring he’s closest to. He’s too disoriented. He rolls all the way across the ring to the other side and makes his exit. But the damage is done. Rob is on his knees, his back to Kenny, who kicks him in the side of his head as hard as he can.

Rob falls like a felled tree. Max cheers. The crowd erupts with anger. Kenny goes for the pin, but Ashley interrupts him, pointing a finger into his face and yelling at him.

Nick Stuart: The Red Army is just too much for one person. Especially in a tag match like this, you can’t fault Ashley Barlow, she knows what she’s doing, it’s just so many moving parts.

Kenny pushes past Ashley and hooks the leg.

1….

….2….

Rob drapes his foot on the bottom rope.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael may have been teaching Kenny Freeman the ways of inflicting as much soul crushing punishment on a person as possible, but that might have come at the expense of ring awareness.

Freeman drags Rob out to the middle of the ring and pins him again.

1…

……2…..

…..KICKOUT by Williams, who barely musters the will to shake the cobwebs out of his head and his poor damaged balls. Kenny groans and pulls Rob back up, who still is trying to fight. He’s gone through a lot, against three members of The Red Army.

Kenny raises his arm up in the air and bellows loudly, with an uncharacteristic glint of wickedness in his eyes.

But it’s all The Legend needs.

He operates off of instinct, a desire to show these two assholes just what he stands for. To show both of them that he can do this on his own if needed. That they’ll be seeing red all right when the night is through, and they’ll be hearing that Old Time Rock And Roll!

Rob snatches Kenny and suddenly and rips his head forward into a DDT, cinching in Old Time Rock and Roll, he swings Kenny’s neck up into a diamond cutter and crushes him with it. Kenny lands with a thunderous BANG! and bounces onto his back.

The crowd erupts!!!!

Nick Stuart: That’s it!! He nearly knocked Kenny Freeman out of his boots!!

Rob leaps onto Kenny and hooks the leg!!

1!!!!

2!!!!!

But there is no three. There’s a shadow though.

Belonging to Max Kael.

Kael flies through the air and double stomps directly on top of Rob, and Kenny. Rob struggles once more to stand, while Kenny rolls over and holds his stomach. Kael bounces off the ropes and completely blindsides The Legend with The Red Right Roaring Elbow to the back of his neck. Blood spatters out of Rob’s mouth as he falls to his knees, and then slumps to the side.

Barlow blanches, but pulls herself together and yells at Kael again, who skips across the ring and climbs to the apron. He screeches to Kenny.

Max Kael: FINISH HIM,  COMRADE KENNY!

Kenny slowly stands. Williams isn’t moving. Kenny stumbles over to the inert body of Rob and hooks him in The Freeman Special!!!

Richard Parker: FREEMAN SPECIAL! THAT’S IT!!

Williams’ instinct wills him to not tap out, to not black out, to not give into the onslaught that he’s been subjected to. He bellows, with blood pouring out of his mouth, and tries to keep fighting. Kenny roars, Max dances, and Randall claps.

The crowd tries, desperately, to will him on, but it’s a slow, painful death for Rob Williams. There’s nowhere to go but down. Nowhere to look but at the back of his eyelids. His lungs sear with pain and lactic acid, his muscles have been pushed to the brink. Mentally, he’s been under constant assault since the bell rang.

And it’s time to call it a night, because there’s no shame in it. No one would blame him. No one would fault him. There are some battles you just cannot win. Even when you want to. Even when your life is on the line. This is what The Red Army does. They’re a cancer, assaulting PRIME. Overwhelming their opponents with not just a blatant disregard for the rules, but also an uncaring attitude for anyone but their own.

So, when the silver/white phoenix emerges from the ringside area, no one pays her much attention. It gracefully leaps onto the apron, and immediately onto the top turnbuckle.

Richard Parker: WHOA wait!!!

And Anna Daniels, the Muse, launches herself from heights any member of The Red Army could only dream of reaching, and somehow, as Kenny sits deeper into the Freeman Special, she nearly beheads him with a missile dropkick that causes at least ten people in attendance to puke, not just from shock, but also pure joy.

There is nothing holding back the audience now. They lose their (sorry commies) collective shit.

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Richard Parker: She’s not supposed to be here!!

Nick Stuart: All you did was complain about Anna Daniels not being here. Now she’s here. The Muse is here! The other half of FYTT!!

Richard Parker: They double teamed Kenny, that’s illegal!!!

Ashley lets it all happen, despite Richard’s protestations. Max Kael screams bloody murder, and she just looks at him from within the ring and rolls her eyes. Anna Daniels doesn’t linger in the ring, she skirts to her corner. She yells for Rob to wake up.

He doesn’t move.

Max screams for Kenny to get up as well.

He doesn’t move.

The crowd lets their preference be known.

FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM!!

FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM!!

FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM!!

Half of them are cheering Rob and Anna. The other half are telling the Freeman-Kael Connection to go fuck themselves. But everyone is invested.

Freeman starts to crawl towards Max, slowly, slightly in a crooked line as he tries to see straight. Rob rolls over, and stares up to see Anna there in his corner, and it’s just what he needs. With shaky arms, and no doubt some level of concussion, he starts to crawl towards The Muse, her form wreathed in the spotlights overhead.

He makes a last ditch effort for the tag and makes contact. Kenny is almost to Max!

Anna leaps over the top rope and rushes across the ring. She doesn’t intercept Kenny, she high knees Max off the apron.

Richard Parker: Look ou~~~!!!

Max flies into Richard Parker’s side of the announce table and knocks him out of his seat. Now it’s just Anna and Kenny in the ring, and one is beyond fresh. She sends Kenny into the ropes and nails a hurricanrana. She then lifts Kenny up and launches him into the corner. Williams is lying on the apron. She sets Kenny up on the top turnbuckle, follows him up, and fisherman suplexes him off the top rope into the middle of the ring!! She floats over for the pin!!!

1….

2….

Somehow, Kenny kicks out. Kenny of old would have been toast, but not Comrade Kenny Freeman. You’d think someone had a gun to his family with the way he keeps fighting. Max, meanwhile, has untangled himself from Richard Parker, and now begins to climb back up onto the apron.

Richard Parker: Hello? Can you hear me?

Nick Stuart: We hear you, Richard.

Richard Parker: I think Max bit me!

Daniels doesn’t show surprise, or shock, or even frustration at the Kenny Freeman kickout. Just determination. She drags Kenny up and sends him into the ropes, he rebounds and slides between her legs, popping up groggily behind her and throwing himself through the air at Max. He makes the tag!

Max surges into the ring, relatively fresh since he had Comrade Kenny doing much of the work. He’s a feral animal, pouncing at Anna with the intent to consume her face. He does his best by grabbing her hair and headbutting her. Daniels bounces back into the corner and roars back, kicking Kael in the stomach. Kael staggers back and bounces off the ropes in similar fashion and slaps her. She bounces off the ropes and goes for a lariat, but The Red Hand of Communism catches it and falls back, his knees up, and drives her sternum first into said knees.

Daniels flies backwards into the ropes. She hooks the top rope with her arms, backflips over it, and lands on the apron!

Max, meanwhile, had rolled to his feet and charged at her, not expecting Daniels to recover in such a way. He still opts for a shoulder charge through the middle rope, but when Daniels hops on said middle rope and flattens it, while also shifting to the side, Kael flies headfirst between the ropes and tumbles to the floor!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels has come to fight with determination and fire! Rob Williams, meanwhile, has dragged himself up to a standing position, finally!

Kael stands and turns, only to be hit with a springboard plancha by Daniels. Ashley Barlow starts to count, but no one is really paying attention. Daniels whips Kael towards the steel post, but Kael reverses it and sends her careening its way instead. She turns, barely, and crashes side first into the post with a sickening smack and twists to the floor.

Kael takes a moment to raise his arm, much to the ire of the crowd, many of which are standing. While Daniels gets to her hands and knees, Kael straddles her back, palms the front of her face, and buries a finger in each of her nostrils. He wrenches back with glee, cackling as he pulls back with all his might!

Nick Stuart: This guy is sick!

Richard Parker: He’s barely one year old, cut him some slack!

Barlow pauses the count to admonish Kael, and then starts to count again.

5….

Kael wrenches back more and cackles, before shoving Daniels’ face down into the floor, smacking her cheek off the padding. Blood drools out of one of her nostrils as she rolls onto her back. Kael still stands over her and grabs her by the throat with both hands, lifting her up and slamming her into the apron. He presses his forehead against her own, and snarls hateful words in her face, grinning wickedly the entire time. Daniels coughs, and shoves her forehead back into Max’s, muttering words with her own. This enrages Max, and he releases her throat and swings for the fences…

…but Anna isn’t there. She drops in a split, and with Max doubled over above her, she swings up and punches him square in the throat!!

Richard Parker: She’s really got the… papers shuffling “Best Value Steak of Professional Wrestling…” wait, who comes up with these nicknames?

Nick Stuart: Russians.

Kael is reeling, coughing hard and struggling to catch his breath. A direct shot to the throat by a very pissed off Anna Daniels will do that to a person.

Ashley Barlow is still counting to ten.

8…..

Anna pops up, smarting still from the corner shot, and rolls Max into the ring. She climbs up on the apron, slides into the ring, and tags in Rob. Rob enters gingerly, still having taken a great deal of punishment. Daniels climbs to the apron, puts her boot up on the top rope, and Rob slams Max’s face into it. Max winces and reaches out from all the way across the ring for Kenny to tag.

Nick Stuart: Even Stretch Armstrong would struggle to reach that far!

Rob drives Max into their corner, and it’s time for him to take some punishment. He fights angrily though, clawing like a cornered badger, kicking at Rob and biting at Anna as Rob chops him thrice, pulls him out of the corner, and gutwrench suplexes him into the center of the ring. Rob goes for the cover.

1…

2….

Kickout by Max! Rob is still slow to get up, while Anna is recovering quickly on the apron. Kenny reaches out to Max, willing him for the tag, yearning to help the communist cause. The Exiled Lord of Jabberdom crawls towards Kenny, while Rob sits up slowly and Anna beckons him for the tag.

Something draws the attention of the fans, as several look up towards the entryway.

Nick Stuart: Now what is this?!

The Big Dick Stallions, Fred Dick and STRONK, emerge from backstage and walk down towards the ring. The action continues in the ring, with Max tagging in Kenny, and Anna catching a quick tag from Rob. While they go at it in the ring, there’s more outside to be seen.

Fred and STRONK are no doubt looking to cause some trouble. That’s what Whorsemen do, after all. But there’s two people they hadn’t counted on.

Two Twins? who aren’t Twins at all!

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador and Zapp!!

Just as Fred and STRONK get ready to charge at the ring and make their presence known, TAL and Zapp emerge behind them and immediately start going at it with the Big Dick Stallions. They are effectively cutting them off from any interference. Zapp barrels into Fred Dick and the two of them collapse on the ramp, brawling away. TAL, meanwhile, decides to play like a piece of tape on a musclehead’s back and jumps on the broad, wide back of STRONK and holds on for dear life.

Completely distracted from that square thing with ropes ahead of him, STRONK flails around, trying to get his huge meathooks behind him to grab TAL, but to no avail.

Still, all isn’t going too well in the ring. Barlow is distracted by the shenanigans outside, and that means the tag match is, once more, a handicap match.

You see, Anna Daniels was holding her own against Kenny Freeman as best she could. They were brawling in the middle of the ring, with Kenny firing off chops, and Anna responding with closed fists. But the second that Barlow is distracted is all it takes for Randall Schwartz to slide into the ring. Rob Williams tries to intercept, but Max is too quick and spears him out of the way.

And Randall delivers a chop block that would knock down a Siberian fir, directly to the back of Anna’s right leg. She roars and falls to one knee, and Kenny obliterates her face with a direct knee to her jaw. Kael and Williams both tumble out of the ring, onto the apron, and then fall unceremoniously to the floor.

Elsewhere, STRONK has managed to fling TAL off his back and into the barricade, and then goes to help Mama Dick. He grabs Zapp from behind, and throws him (and because Zapp won’t let go of Fred, Fred) both across the ramp next to TAL. STRONK smiles proudly.

In the ring, Kenny drops a huge legdrop from the second turnbuckle on Anna Daniels and goes for the pin. He yells for Ashley, who turns and starts to count.

1…

2….

Kickout by The Muse!!

Kenny drags Anna back up to her feet. She’s limping heavily now from the chop block, courtesy of Randall Schwartz. STRONK lumbers towards the ring once more. Fred rises to catch up to STRONK, but is tripped up by TAL, who holds onto his leg. Zapp first makes to go after STRONK, but someone runs by him instead? He instead goes after Fred as well, while the two streaks of humanity who ran by?

Nick Stuart: HAWAIIAN BBQ!!

Adam Ellis and Bryan Dawkins had also seen enough. The Tag League wasn’t going to kick off with this amount of bullshittery. Not on their watch. Together, they bulldog an unsuspecting STRONK to the floor, driving him straight into the floor with authority.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis and Bryan Dawkins, along with The Anglo Luchador and Zapp Scatino, are somehow keeping law and order outside so this match can continue!

It’s not lost on Adam Ellis, all the crap he’s had to deal with, courtesy of The Red Army. They’re so close and yet so far away, his morals telling him not to crash the match, even if he knows they’ve cheated. Even if he knows they deserve it. What kind of an example would that set for his newborn baby, when she would eventually watch her father’s matches?

All that being said, Randall Schwartz is fair game.

Schwartz doesn’t see it coming. Ellis rounds the side of the ring and completely blasts him with a clothesline that nearly knocks him out of his socks!

RAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

The melee outside the ring devolves even further, but the disruptors are outnumbered. A tag team apiece on a single competitor. Fred Dick can only do so much with the Twins badgering him, and STRONK, for all of his power, only has so much bandwidth when fighting against Hawaiian BBQ.

Max and Rob have finally extricated themselves from one another, with each back in their respective corners, both competitors bloodied and resting on the top ropes. But in the ring, it’s all Anna and Kenny. Freeman locks up with Anna, the two jockeying for control, they grunt and groan, struggling to gain the upper hand. Kenny goes for a knee, but Anna blocks it. Anna tries to catch Kenny in a suplex, but he blocks it as well. They reposition, struggling with one another again, but Kenny, somehow, hits Anna with a jawbreaker.

With Anna staggered, Kenny grabs The Multitudes by the wrist. However, out of the crowd appears the Intense Champion — Daytona Diamonds.

Nick Stuart: What the hell is he doing here?!

Richard Parker: This match needs more cowboys!

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: We should have the cowboy conversation, Nick. It will blow your mind.

Nick Stuart: No, no I don’t think I will.

Diamonds hops onto the ring apron and waves at Kenny Freeman. The distraction is nothing, but Freeman sees the stablemate of STRONK and immediately releases his hold on Daniels and rushes towards Diamonds. Daytona though hops off the ring apron just before Freeman can get his fingers on him. He stands on the arena floor and waves one more time to him. He turns around and Daniels is ready for him.

She aims for a roundhouse kick, and Kenny dodges slightly to one side, on point.

But it’s not a roundhouse. Not exactly.

Nick Stuart: INTERROBANG!!! DIAMONDS DISTRACTED FREEMAN LONG ENOUGH TO GIVE DANIELS THE OPENING!

With extreme grace despite her exhausted state, Anna Daniels adjusts her weight and the kick goes from the fake roundhouse to a brutal Brazilian Kick, that comes crashing down on the otherwise scott-free Kenny Freeman. It crushes the back of his head and sends him careening face first into the mat.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

It happens so quickly, most people on the mat are stunned. Ashley Barlow doesn’t react when Daniels immediately goes for the pin. Max Kael, even, didn’t see it coming in such a fashion. But naturally, Anna Daniels did. And so did Daytona Diamonds.

And so did her partner, Rob Williams, the man she’s been in sync with since the crucifixion.

1…..

Kael climbs into the ring.

2….

Kael dives to break it… but Rob is a step ahead, having seen this coming from a mile away, he launches his body at Kael and the two crash off to the side.

3!!!!!!!

Kenny digs down deep and he kicks out as quickly as his brain can allow, but it’s one millisecond too late.

VINCE HOWARD: HERE ARE YOUR WINNERS! FYTT!! ROB WILLIAMS AND ANNA DANNNNIELLLLSSS!!!

It’s still pandemonium all around the ringside area. Inside, Daniels stands while Kenny grabs the back of his head. She helps Rob up, while Max slides out of the ring and slaps the apron with rage. Together, the two of them, Rob and Anna, The Time Lord and The Legend, stand victorious.

Nick Stuart: This is incredible! This win might not push FYTT into the final at UltraViolence, but this is easily a marquee win for this tag team. These two friends. One could say this is even better than a championship. This is a historic run between two historic members of the PRIME roster! All thanks to Daytona Diamonds!

Richard Parker: Oh who cares! Now we have a three way match at UltraViolence?! Big Dick Stallions vs. Twins?! Vs. Fuck Your Tag Team!

Nick Stuart: Folks, we’re just about out of time. Next time we see you, we’ll be at UltraViolence!!!!

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.