ReVival 62

ReVival 62 opens with a shot of PRIME’s new Intense Champion, one Jason Snow, walking cameraward down a long white corridor. Head down. Hood up. We can see just enough of him to know it’s Snow, and he’s carrying a duffle bag out of which peaks the Intense Championship belt.

No sound, save for the footsteps and the echoes. And then…

Voice: Aaayyyy, there he is. Mr. O.V. himself.

The sarcasm in the voice is distinct. Snow seems to know even as he stops in his tracks. Looks up. And there, entering our shot from somewhere behind the camera, is the one and only Hayes Hanlon. Hayes saunters closer. We can see Snow’s eyes now. Home Run Hayes seems a little out of sorts. Drunk? Maybe, enough for a grin to creep beneath his ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: I’m glad I caught you before the show gets going. Because, dead honest, I wanted to see if you caught the end of the last show. You know…

Hayes holds his arms out wide, and Snow doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

**Hayes Hanlon: …**to see if you had any notes for me.

Again, nothing from the Original Villain. Hanlon scoffs, and steps closer to Snow.

Hayes Hanlon: C’monnnnn, nothing? No analysis? No notes in the margins?

Jason Snow: …

The Event Horizon nods, and thumbs his nose.

Hayes Hanlon: That’s too bad, man.

Snow hasn’t blinked the entire time.

Jason Snow: …

Hayes Hanlon: You know, I’m gonna keep hoping the Original Villain **shows up one of these days. I really, reallywant to see that again. But I’m probably gonna end up disappointed, aren’t I?

And again, all Hayes receives is a cold, emotionless stare.

With a smirk, and a snort, Hanlon walks forward, bumping Snow shoulder to shoulder as he passes by.

Hayes Hanlon: Never thought I’d see the day.

ReVival 62… let’s go.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/ReV62-Commercial-Updated.mp4

Now… time for…

SIGNS!

KITTY FREEMAN IS A DRAW
TONY GAMBLE IS UNDEFEATED THIS YEAR!
TSONDA ONLY LEFT TO GET MORE PLASTIC SURGERY DONE
OUR TSAVIOR HAS RETURNED
A VICKIE HALL ATE MY BABY
EUCALYZE LEGALYPTUS
IVAN IS RED, CECILWORTH MAKES GLUE, THE BANDITS HAD ONE TITLE, NOW THEY HAVE TWO
CANCER WON THE FIVE STAR. GOT IT ALL ON VIDJA. VICKIE AND KOALAS BOTH HAVE CHALMYDJA
KERRY KOALAYAMA FOR UNI CHAMP OR WE RIOT
THE ONLY BANDITS I RESPECT ARE CORAL & BLUEY’S DAD
GOOD ONYA FOR BOOKING ANNA DANIELS AGAIN

Nick Stuart: HELLO EVERYONE, AND WELCOME TO PERTH ARENA IN BEAUTIFUL PERTH AUSTRALIA FOR REVIVAL 62!

Richard Parker: Gotta be honest here, Nick. I prefer Sydney.

Nick Stuart: Nobody asked you. See, that’s the thing about questions. You don’t have to answer them if no one’s ever asked.

Richard Parker: me-ow.

The arena lights dim as “Shake the Room” begins to play. Golden spotlights sweep across the crowd before a synchronized golden pyro burst lights up the stage. A spotlight reveals Asher Creed stepping out, exuding charisma and confidence, dressed in a white-and-gold hooded jacket. At the top of the ramp, he pulls back his hood and raises an arm, mouthing, “Shake the room!” as the crowd erupts. Walking to the ring with purposeful energy, he fist-bumps fans and acknowledges kids in the front row with the declaration, “This one’s for you!” Climbing the steps, Asher pauses to scan the crowd before stepping through the ropes. At the center of the ring, he raises both arms as golden pyro shoots from the ring posts. He removes his jacket with a flourish, steps onto the middle rope, and shouts, “We shake this room together!” before the music fades, leaving the crowd buzzing.

Nick Stuart: After a very impressive outing in his debut, Asher Creed returns looking to get his first victory.

Richard Parker: We’ll see. I don’t trust this guy. Something about him. Something about his face.

Nick Stuart: You’re one to talk.

Richard Parker: Shut the hell up.

Nick Stuart: Nice Rob Williams impression.

“One Finger and a Fist” by Drowning Pool hits the speakers and, at the count of ten, MD Storm runs out. He pauses for a moment at the top of the ramp, offers a smile to the fans and heads towards the ring, index finger held up on his left hand, a fist up from his right. He enters the ring and moves to his corner, awaiting the bell to sound.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Here we go!

Asher Creed is immediately met with the gusto you’d expect from someone making their debut, and unfortunately for Asher, this MD Storm guy is all brawl. He bursts from his corner like a bat out of hell and with a bevy of forearms, knuckles and elbows, sends Asher reeling back into the turnbuckles, where things certainly aren’t going to be easier.

Storm bashes Asher several times in the chest, and then climbs to the middle turnbuckle. He hammers down shots on Asher’s head. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine!

oooooooOOOOOOOHHHH!!! TEN!!!!

Storm hops off the turnbuckles. Asher slowly staggers out of the corner and topples over onto the floor of the squared circle.

Nick Stuart: It’s all Storm early here!

Storm immediately locks in the Bay Lock! The cross-face submission! Storm wraps that bad boy in and doesn’t let go. To Asher’s credit, he hasn’t yet mounted a shred of offense, but he is not willing to go easy into his second loss. With his one free arm he reaches out to the nearest set of turnbuckles! His finger tips are JUST long enough to firmly touch those ropes, and Storm must relent.

MD reaches his feet and looks out at the crowd for applause, who offer it up. This guy has been storming the barn from the moment the match started and is showing zero signs whatsoever of slowing–

SMACK!

A JUMPING KNEE STRIKE FROM ASHER CREED DAMN NEAR KNOCKS THE TEETH OUT OF MD STORM’S MOUTH!

Nick Stuart: Great googly moogly!

Richard Parker: You can say that again, brother.

Nick Stuart: Great googly moogly!

Richard Parker: shrugs audibly somehow You can say that again, brother.

Nick Stuart: Great–

Asher Creed scoops MD Storm off the mat and slams him right back down onto it. He follows that up with a Senton Bomb right across the sternum of MD Storm!

Asher runs across the ring, bounces off the ropes, leg drop– no! MD Storm rolls out of the way of that one. Storm reaches his feet, but Asher swings his already extended leg around and sweeps Storm’s feet out from under him from behind! Asher kips up, but Storm reaches up and pulls Asher down into a small package pin attempt!

ONE! TWO! THR–

Nick Stuart: Oh my gaaaawwwd MD Storm dang near stole that one!

Richard Parker: He sure did. But guess what? No one cares, because he didn’t get the three.

Nick Stuart: Why are you being such a butthole, dude?

Richard Parker: Buttholes don’t care about your feelings, Nick!

Ashers kick out attempt leads both men up to their feet at nearly the same time, but MD Storm is a lick quicker, and he licks his hand, and–

SMACK!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Gives an absolutely brutal knife edged chop to Asher Creed.

And then he does it again.

SMACK!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

And again.

SMACK!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

And again.

NO. Asher Creed finally blocks one and sends a vicious hook right into Creed’s liver, folding him like a chair as he falls to the mat.

My god.

Richard Parker: Great googly–

Nick Stuart: No. That’s my bit. You can’t just steal bits.

And immediately Asher Creed makes the cover, hooks the leg!

ONE! TWO! THREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

NO!!!! NEAR FALL!!!

Asher reaches his feet and pulls MD Storm up to his own. He whips Storm into the ropes, but trails behind him, and right as MD Storm bounces against them, he meets a clothesline from Creed that sends him over the top and to the hard floor outside!

Asher takes this moment to engage with the audience in the center of the ring, pounding his chest, imploring this live arena in Perth to make some noise!

Meanwhile, MD Storm has reached his feet on the outside of the ring, and he looks extremely angry. He marches up the steps and onto the ring apron, steps through the ropes, walks up to Asher, and slaps the absolute piss out of his mouth.

Richard Parker: Great googly moogly.

Nick Stuart: …fuck you.

MD Storm follows that up with a kick to the gut! He applies an underhook to Asher Creed’s arms.

THE CHARM CITY CROSS!!! UNDERHOOK DDT!!!

MD STORM MAKES THE COVER!!! HE HOOKS THE LEG!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEE!!!

.

.

.

.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

KICK OUT RIGHT AT THE EDGE OF DEFEAT BY ASHER CREED!

MD Storm pounds the mat. He’s been so close to winning his debut match and yet hasn’t been able to put the cap on it. Storm drags Creed to his feet, gives him a couple forearm shots, and whips him into the ropes.

Asher Creed bounces off the ropes and BRUTALIZES MD STORM WITH A DISCUS LARIAT!!!

Nick Stuart: Great googly moogly!

Asher senses it. The tables have turned, the tide favors his ship. He beckons MD Storm to reach his feet. The crowd lifts into a bit of a frenzy with their energy level. They wanna see what comes next. Storm slowly, irritatingly crawls up to his hands and knees. Then reaches one knee. Then stands to his feet.

MASSIVE SPINEBUSTER BY ASHER CREED!

MD Storm writhes, but with survival instinct and adrenaline he moves back to his feet and–

SIDEWALK SLAM BY ASHER CREED!!!

This time Storm doesn’t move. And Asher Creed is the one who lifts him up to his feet. He scoops Storm up and–

CHARGES ACROSS THE RING!!!

RUNNING POWERSLAM BY CREED!!!

ASHER MAKES THE COVER!!! HOOKS BOTH LEGS!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is yoooooour winnerrrrrr… ASHERRRRR CREEEEEEED!!!

Asher Creed has his hand lifted in the center of the ring for the first time at PRIME.

Nick Stuart: Well Richard, it was hairy at times, but Asher Creed showed resolve and resilience, picking up his first of perhaps many victories here at PRIME!

Richard Parker: I still don’t trust his face.

Nick Stuart: K.

We cut elsewhere.

…Previously on…

…THE RED MANIFESTO…

Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head: Yeah I have no memory of what I was before I was, well, before the current condition I am in.

The spike in the center of the undead head flickers and sparks as he speaks. The sound of his voice doesn’t emanate from the rotten hollow of his decaying maw but rather seems to echo from the spike itself.

Cmmdr. Oleg Barkova: Incredible. I can’t believe any of this worked. No offense, but two months ago if you told me I’d be having an interview with the resurrected head of a former professional wrestling manager? I’d have called you such a liar!

The Commander shakes his head in disbelief as Lowell’s head jiggles side to side.

Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head: Hey, how about we give me a name, huh? It’s got to be annoying typing out Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head over and over again.

Cmmdr. Oleg Barkova: Sure, comrade, what did you have in mind?

After a few moments of silent contemplation the cloudy dead eyes light up with excitement.

Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head: I’ve been crazy about the name Kirk for the last three seconds. Let’s go with that!

Oleg amends his notes, nodding along with the head.

Cmmdr. Oleg Barkova: Kirk it is!

Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: Awesome!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael slithers through the halls of the Arkham Embassy, his mustache twitching with irritation.

Max Kael: My The Herald? My The Herald where the hell are you?!

Stalking through the darkened halls like a shadow freed from it’s caster, Max’s irksome expression grows in the silence.

Max Kael: Where the hell is that worthless half-Farthington!? I’ve been back for over a month now and he’s not at my beckoned call!? What the fuck is up with that?!

Turning a corner he sees Oleg seated at a table interviewing the rotten, decomposing head that was formerly Lowell Dot Com but is now going by the name Kirk.

Max Kael: Oleg! Where the fuck is my The Herald?

Looking up from his interview log Oleg shrugs his shoulders.

Cmmdr. Oleg Barkova: Last I heard he was doing Herald business with the Alias Champion, Bryan Dawkins.

His face flashing red, Max stamps his foot in anger.

Max Kael: Goddamn it, who the fuck cares about Bryan Dawkins!? This is getting out of control. Oleg! Demand that Bryan Dawkins appear on The Red Manifesto this week to answer for his crimes!

The commander nods, giving the undead head a little side glance as Max storms off.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael: And so, as you can see, it works just like this.

Turning, Max pulls what looks to be a tricked out Sci-Fi blaster out of a holster on his waist. He closes one eye, aiming the weapon at PRIME European Champion, Igor Killkoff.

Igor Killkoff: …Wait, N-

Before his objection can be registered a beam of blue energy encircled by crackling golden lightning fires from the barrel of the weapon Max is holding. It strikes Igor in his massive, muscular chest, washing him in a rainbow of hungry light. In a bright flash he’s gone.

Ivan and Alexei blink away the brightness caused by the man’s sudden disappearance.

Irritation and anger of the sudden display melts away into uncertain confusion. The two look at each other then back at Max.

Alexei Ruslan: What just happened?

Max Kael: I erased Igor Killkoff and the PRIME European Title from existence across all time, space and dimension!

Ivan and Alexei trade glances.

Alexei Ruslan: I’ve never heard of any Igor Killkoff.

Ivan Stanislav: And there is no… what did you call it? European Title?

Raising the barrel to his lips, Max blows some of the swirling pink smoke away.

Max Kael: I know.

He winks, or perhaps blinks out of order toward the two men.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael: WORMS OF PRIME!

The voice of the RIA-Ranger chimes through the Red Manifesto stage as pipped in cheering, hooting and whistling fill in the background noise. Max Kael is seen seated behind his red desk.

Max Kael: What New Year it’s been for me! New stache, new duds and I, I don’t want to start any rumors or nothing, but I might have myself a new significant other.

Waggling his eyebrows, Max winks, or perhaps blinks out of order, toward the camera as the crowd noise machine offers a “Oooooooooo” followed by more whistles and monkey hooting. Feels like a real 90s Talk Show vibe right now.

Max Kael: I don’t want to say their name right now but rest assured, I think there’s a chance they’re the one! Anyway, enough about that, is everyone excited to see the reunion of Violent Purple and Crash “Brain Damaged Into Being Smarter” Jackson later tonight!?

Positive crowd reaction, lots of cheering. Someone even starts a Rickie Lake chant that we’re going to pretend is a Max Kael chant.

Max Kael: Alright, calm down, calm down! Let’s talk about our first guest tonight. You all know him as the Alias Champion… I know him as the guy I helped prop up to become Alias Champion… BRYAN MCVA- I mean… BRYAN DAWKINS!

With little hesitation, Dawkins enters from stage left, slinging the Alias Title to one side before launching himself in Kael’s direction. He latches onto Kael’s crimson lapel and lifts the larger man off of his feet.

Bryan Dawkins: YOU MOTHERFU–

Out of the corner of his eye, Dawkins sees the blinking red LED, indicating they are LIVE! He loosens his grip on Max’s jacket and takes a step back. Max brushes himself off while wearing a sinister grin.

Max Kael: Calm, calm, mister Dawkins! Mothers can be fragile things, I’d hate for something uncouth to happen to a certain mother I know.

His brow sets as the lines in Max’s face shape his expression into a vicious snarl. The two sit though its clear things are very tense.

Bryan Dawkins: Don’t fuck with me, Max…where is she?

Giggling, Max shakes his head struggling.

Max Kael: I have no idea what you are talking about, mister Dawkins…heh-heh..

Bryan Dawkins: We had a deal…this wasn’t part of it!

Batting his eyes at Bryan, Max leans back, his arms crossed.

Max Kael: You got custody of your child, just as I promised for your successful defeat of Crash Jackson. So far as I am aware, I’ve kept my end of the bargain, you’re the one crying. I helped make you a success and here you are, throwing it back in my face like I’m the bad guy! Like I’m the villain here.

Bryan Dawkins: I told The Herald that I didn’t want the help…at least not right now. And I CERTAINLY didn’t mean it like this.

There is a moment of silence between the two as they lock eyes. The smile on Max’ face wavers slightly as he leans forward in his chair.

Max Kael: … ah yes, my The Herald. Another element of my power helping you advance your own, tired, drained career. The only reason you have that ALIAS title is because I, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, gifted you the services of my the Herald and his Heralds. The most interesting parts of you were given to you by me. So don’t come to me because you can’t keep track of your stupid, interpersonal relationships. She’s probably happier without you in her li-

Dawkins leaps over the desk, executing a Lou Thesz press onto the Commissar of the Red Army. Again he clings to Max’s jacket with one hand, reigning down heavy fists with the other. He wails away as the feed abruptly ends.

…Due to Technical Difficulties…

…We’ll Be Right Back!…

We cut back to Max standing on the crimson Red Manifesto stage, his suit and tie a little scuffed up from the “technical difficulty” with Dawkins. The Commissar of the Red Army seems to have moved on as he sports his traditional toothy, unpleasant smile.

Max Kael: And now we’ve come to it, the Main Event of the Manifesto, the headline story of 2025, the segment twenty three of segment one…

His leather gloved hands wring together as his hideous grin stretches painfully wide.

Max Kael: … the Reunion of Violent Purple and dear, pathetic, sad ole’Crash Jackson! So first things first, come on out former Best Friend, Cuuuuh-hurr-HurAAAASH JACKSUUUUUUUUUUUN!

Canned booing plays as a door on the right side of the crimson stage opens up to reveal Crash Jackson. Crash storms out on the stage looking like he’s ready to throw down right now. He’s stopped, however, several Red Army guards rush forward to hold him back.

Max Kael: Woah, woah, woah now, mister Jackson, please stay on your side of the stage until I’m ready to hand off Violent Purple, mmkay sweetie? This is just as much for my protection as yours, my hands were made for slapping bitches and sometimes I lose myself in the bloodlust.

The Red Right Hand of Communism dances in place, shadow boxing but instead it’s just different variations of slaps.

Max Kael: Now it’s been a good, long time since the two of you last saw each other, right? If I remember right, she accepted my payment to run away on holiday rather than be your manager. What a story, what a heart jerker, jerking them heartstrings, aye? Heh-heh…

With a half skip, half swagger, Max skiaggers to a door on the left side of the stage.

Max Kael: …honestly, man, it’s been pathetic. Watching you run around trying to find her, as though she was some lost treasure hidden away. At first I thought it was kind of funny, you know, until it wasn’t. Then I got bored. And then I got sad because I saw just how bad things were for ya. I thought stabbing you in the head with a screwdriver might help fix whatever is wrong in your heart and your head for this skank… but I guess I was wrong.

Kael’s voice sounds sad, depressed even as he says the word wrong. There might even be a slight tremor in his voice.

Max Kael: Ugh. Makes me want to vomit just saying it. I was Wrorouugh. Wrouugaaahh. See, can’t even repeat it! Anyway, being the good guy that I am, I decided to put an end to your misery. And so… without further adieu…

He turns slowly to look back at Crash, his face contorted into a prideful cruelty. Like a psychotic cat eager to show you it’s newest kill, Max eagerly fumbles with the door handle, throwing it open to reveal…

… a diminutive shape, a swath of dark cloth wrapping… something. The identity of the figure is engulfed in the shadowy folds of a heavy cloak and hood. Max’s greedy hands stretch out and pulls the mysterious individual through the doorway. A sickening giggle slides between Kael’s clenched teeth as he forcefully shoves the cloaked woman down onto the stage.

Max Kael: Later losers… heh-heh..

Offering the camera a casual salute he absconds through the open doorway where the mysterious woman had just been standing, slamming it closed behind him.

As the cloak drops away a pale, grey haired wisp of a woman is revealed. Her eyes are sunken into a thin, fraile face. The skin seems paper thin and pulled taunt across more bone than muscle. It takes a moment but it does indeed appear to be Violent Purple though more a ghost, malnourished and sickly.

It’s her gaze, however, that is the saddest part of her. Green eyes, dulled and staring off at something no one else can see. She doesn’t look at Crash but seems to stare through him. She doesn’t respond to his voice, his touch, it’s as if she’s not even really there.

She’s Violent Purple but she’s also missing so much of her. Not just physically but mentally.

Crash had some of her back…

…but whatever had been done her was still keeping the rest.

Picking her up, Crash dashes back out the door he had been on as silence washes over the crimson set.

ReVival moves on.

Sebastian Gold is already in motion tonight. He’s on the prowl for a guy who helped him not die at Colossus via fire and has an appreciative amount of hotdogs in his arms to express his thanks. He approaches the part of Perth Arena where they told him Crash would be. He gets close enough to hear grown-man crying, super-snotty sniffles, and heavy-heart groans from the Northern Light’s locker room. The Alias contender passes the threshold of the doorway and sees Violent Purple in the corner, balled-up, and retreating from her new environment.

Crash: Bash, bro…

His eyes take a long, hard look at the shell of the woman he’s been fighting for. They drift back to Bash with a tide approaching. Gold notices the change in Crash’s tone. They match eyes.

Crash: This is what they’re doin’, bro. Max. Works with Ivan. Blackmails the Bruh…

Crash cocks his head, figuring Sebby G was part of the plan all along, and shrugs.

Crash: We gotta put a fuckin’ end to this…

Sebastian takes in the scene before him.

Sebastian Gold: I’m s-sorry, bro, I…

The words escape him. Not that they’d do much anyhow. It’s time for action.

Sebastian Gold:  You two are gonna be fine, okay? You gotta be by her side more than ever now. Just lemme know what you need. And bro, I swear on the corpses of god and Steve McQueen that I won’t let them get away with this. Wewon’t let them get away with this.

The Northern Light is on the verge of fucking tears, but he knows the score. Sebastian Gold is gonna go out there and give the Red Recruit a fight. The fight of his life. Action Bastian gets a sad yet stern nod from the Hot Dog Hero.

Crash: Go get ‘im, Bash

There’s a slight exchange of eyeballs, but they resonate. Crash thinks of those responsible for his bride-to-be before landing on Max and his newfound Comrades. Sebastian flaunts the glimpse of glory, knowing that beating their newest recruit would shake the fences of PRIME‘s strongest hold. Gold winks before realizing that’s probably not as cool of an exit as he wanted.

Crash is definitely crying. Sebastian Gold is still contending for that Alias belt. The Red Plague took out a lot of people getting to where they are.

Not us.

Sebastian Gold: This one’s not just for me…

There’s that moment when you get a chance at glory. Then there’s that one that makes it a part of history. The Alias Title only comes around a few times.

ReVival moves on.

The show feed switches to ringside with Nick and Dick.

And a very cool guest.

Richard Parker: What are you even doing down here?

Nick Stuart: I know I didn’t invite him.

Dirty Dick’s disgust is real.

As is Nick’s.

Cancer Jiles: Aw, say it ain’t so, boys! Truth is I missed the both of you so much I just couldn’t help myself.

Truth is Jiles is present because Hayes was one of the many who infringed upon his victory lap during the last show and now salt is due. It could also be because he’s trying to flee a sex-crazed demon.

Both.

Richard Parker: I bet.

Nick Stuart: Anyway, up next we have an interesting bout between former 5-Star and Universal Champion, Hayes Hanlon, and current Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind Hot Dog Eating Champion, Crash Jackson.

Cancer Jiles: Sorry to interrupt, but I think now might be a good time to remind everybody who the current 5-Star Champion is?

Richard Parker: Is it the same person who Hayes beat to become UNIVERSAL Champion?

A mirror-tinted roll of the eyes ensues before things get back on track.

Nick Stuart: Crash Jackson was in action on the last show against PRIME Hall of Famer, Hessian, and though he ultimately succumbed to the Hess Express; he did put up quite the impressive effort in defeat.

Cancer Jiles: BIG. HESS!

Nick Stuart: Whereas Hayes is looking to start 2025 off on the right foot after ending 2024 with a surprise loss at Colossus to PRIME rookie sensation, Blacksheep Biaz.

The Eggsecutoner would love to say something about it, but he’s too busy laughing.

Richard Parker: Don’t forget The Comeback Kid was also involved in the… eggstracurricular activities as ReVival 61 went off the air. HA!

Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

Cancer Jiles: Boooooo!!!!!

Richard Parker: Get a life, crumb.

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.

Vince Howard: FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

Cancer Jiles: Worst entrance in all of sports, tell me I’m wrong?

Richard Parker and Nick Stuart: Wrong.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

Hanlon hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

Cancer Jiles: This is me yawning.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. Before hopping down to the mat he shares a few words/gestures with his old pal on guest commentary, then takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

Nick Stuart: No love loss it would seem?

Cancer Jiles: What’s wrong with his lip?

Richard Parker: So mature.

Next out, contestant number 2.

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!”

Cancer Jiles: What’s this guy’s last name again? Mulder? I guess I can just wait for Vince to say it.

Nick Stuart: Don’t hold your breath.

Richard Parker: On second thought.

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!”

Nick Stuart: Jackson is moving pretty well for a guy who went pillar to post against Hessian just two weeks ago.

Cancer Jiles: Maybe they have Cryostasis aboard the Mothership? Maybe it’s the hot dog water? Who knows?

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.

Cancer Jiles: I’m getting dizzy watching this guy– is that part of the bit?

Nick Stuart: No.

“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.

Nick Stuart: Both men are inside the ring and look ready to go.

Senior official Jimmy Turnbull goes over the rules, does a quick check of the boots, and then calls for the bell.

DING DING

Hayes and Crash charge at each other with zero hesitation, and collide in the center of the ring. They immediately start to exchange rights and lefts with Hayes, the bigger of the two, taller anyway, getting the better of the heated exchange. As such, he’s able to bully Crash back into the corner.

Nick Stuart: Stiff kick to the guy by Hanlon!

Crash buckles over from the stiff kick, the wind knocked clean out of him. The Homerun Kid continues the early onslaught with more kicks and punches, ending it with a heart leg drop to Crash’s lower back. Relentless, Hanlon then quickly locks in an arm bar, and while he’s wrenching it nice, he finds a certain crumb sitting ringside to have a short chat with.

Richard Parker: Yeah, what he said.

Cancer Jiles: I still can’t believe our medical staff allows him to wrestle with his lip looking like that.

Crash is able to wiggle his way to the ropes, and eventually Turnbull forces Hanlon to release the hold. Instead of following up the offense with more offense, this time around Hayes chastises the ref and takes his eye off the ball.

Cancer Jiles: THAT IS NO WAY TO TALK A REFEREE! I’VE NEVER!

Richard Parker: More like, you always.

Cancer Jiles: Okat, you got me there.

Nick Stuart: DON’T LOOK NOW! INSIDE CRADLE!

Jackson quickly rolls the unsuspecting Hayes up, and Turnbull wastes no time dropping down to make the count!

1!

2!

Cancer Jiles: This could be over!

Nick Stuart: KICK OUT at the last second!

Hayes springs to his feet with bad intentions. He reaches out, grabs Crash by the arm, whips him into the ropes, and MISSES a rabid clothesline attempt. Crash continues on, bounces off the ropes once more, and lands a running cross body block on his way back.

He sticks the landing.

1!

2!

KICK OUT!

Nick Stuart: Another close call!

Angry, Hanlon powers the fuck out, and then both men find their feet. Another exchange breaks out in the middle of the ring. Punches, chops, slaps, kicks, knees, the lot. The bigger Hayes once again gets the better of Jackson, but this time around instead of using his size to do so he jabs Crash in the eye. Jackson, very much in agony, reels backwards and towards the ropes. Hanlon charges in, and sends him over the top rope with a stiff running back elbow.

Nick Stuart: I bet that one hurt.

Richard Parker: Looked like he lost a tooth.

The former Universal Champion plays it up to the crowd, taking a home run trot around the inside of the ring. He touches all the turnbuckles as if they were bases, ending where Crash Jackson is. Problem is, by the time Hanlon reaches home, Crash has had ample opportunity to recover. Being such, Crash reaches out, grabs Hayes by the ankles, pulls him so Hayes winds up in a very precarious position — his nuts in a ringer — and wishbones him with the ringpost.

Nick Stuart: Ouch.

Richard Parker: I guess he doesn’t have to worry about knocking anybody up for the foreseeable future.

Cancer Jiles: Hmmm….

Crash rolls into the ring under the bottom rope, and helps High Pitch Hanlon to his feet. As soon as both are upright, Crash sends Hayes back down to the mat with a drop toehold. Crash springs to, Hanlon labors to his knees, his nuts still very much up in his throat. After sizing Hanlon up, maybe for a little bit too long, Crash lunges forward, and attempts to take Hayes’ head off with a superkick.

Nick Stuart: He calls that one Wide Left I believe.

Cancer Jiles: He’s about to start calling it Never Again, I guarantee.

Richard Parker: You’re not the only person who’s allowed to throw a superkick, you know?

Cancer Jiles: I am if I’m out here, Dick.

Crash does indeed miss, and as such leaves himself open to a vicious counter attack German Suplex that sees him bounce halfway across the ring. Hanlon rushes to his feet, finds Crash,  points at a certain someone not in the ring, and then scoops up his opponent and slams him in the center of the squared circle.

Cancer Jiles: Crumb.

Richard Parker: I love a good party.

Hanlon points at a certain someone again, and then performs another scoop slam. He does it again, until finally, he scoops up Crash, holds him there, points, and right before he can slam Crash in the center of the ring, The Hot Dog Hero wiggles free. He lands on his feet, and behind Hanlon…

Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT!

Richard Parker: BUT THIS TIME IT’S GOOD!

Crash sticks Hayes with a superkick, clean and flush, and Hanlon drops to the canvas like a bad case of Herpes on Prom Night, as does Crash. Instead of inch worming his way to a cover though, Crash lays there on his back, sparks up an imaginary joint, and takes a few puffs from it before trying to pass it to Jimmy Turnbull.

Cancer Jiles: You can tell Jimmy would be game, just after the show was and not during it.

Richard Parker: Lightweight.

Smoke break over, and with Hanlon still very much in the field of dreams, possibly assisted there by the imaginary second hand, Crash scampers to and then ascends to the top turnbuckle. He motions to the crowd that he’s about to do something very stupid and dangerous, but that doesn’t seem to stop them from cheering his lunacy on.

Nick Stuart: This could be it! Hanlon is still down! COULD IT BE CRASH DOT COM!?!

Richard Parker: What the??? Is that… a hot dog vendor?

Before Crash can leap through the air and wow the masses with a Corkscrew Shooting Star Press, a whiff of something catches the inside of his nostril. Whether it be the hot dog water, the dog itself, the bun, the fixings, the whole stand, WHATEVER, instead of possibly finishing off Hayes Hanlon, Crash Jackson hops down from the top rope to investigate.

Cancer Jiles: This idiot.

Richard Parker: I bet he’s got the munchies.

The vendor reaches ringside, prompting JImmy Turnbull to slide out of the ring and make sure it’s not Flambo or Big C or some other Glueboi in disguise. While he’s out there, Hanlon, who may have been laying in wait, or just enjoyed having a catch with Roy Hobbs, sneaks up behind Crash and repays the favor.

Direct hit, low-blow.

Richard Parker: Eye for an eye, a nut for a nut.

As if on cue, the vendor backs away from the ring, and Turnbull turns around just in time to see Crash getting the ever living shit FLASH POINTED out of him. He slides in the ring, and right into position to make the count.

1!

2!

3!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: That’s it! It’s over! Hanlon wins!

Richard Parker: Great, the worst member of the PRIME Hall of Fame can leave now!

Cancer Jiles: Oh, I’ll be back. Don’t you worry. Me and Vick might be front row for the main event.

Richard Parker: Wonderful.

Hanlon rolls off of Crash, finds his feet, and gets his arm raised by Jimmy Turnbull.

Vince Howard: And here is your winner……The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Hanlon falls down to the canvas and rolls out of the ring without incident. Turnbull checks in on Crash who is still reeling from the effects of the FLASH POINT.

Nick Stuart: A match of ups and downs, and in the end it’s decided by a hot dog vendor. Poor Crash, it looked like he had him, too. No doubt Hayes Hanlon played a part in it.

Richard Parker: Original Villain for a reason, Nick.

Cancer Jiles: Yeah, good ole Jace Parker Hanlon. Definitely explains the lip.

The show feed cuts away.

We cut to The Throne Room.

Long the domain of the King of Conquerors, the PRIME Universal Champion, it has been here for over 200 days and shows no signs of going away any time soon. Sponsored by “Perth-A-Cola”, some sort of Australian cola manufacturer partly owned by Avalon Industries Inc., the Throne Room is vibin’ tonight.

Coral Avalon sits in his throne, already in full ring gear and wearing a new “KING OF CONQUERORS” T-shirt, one that’s just a picture of Avalon surrounded by cartoonish scenes of his successful title defenses. Yes, that means Fred Dick gets royalties for his likeness being used, why do you ask?

The Universal Championship sits on a display next to the throne, as usual. Avalon is seated in what we will describe as “the gamer lean”, in that he’s sitting up in his chair while watching what’s in front of him intently.

And what’s in front of him that’s worthy of such a lean?

Cecilworth Farthington: Coral! You got home safe! Or got here safe… the point is you didn’t die and I love that for you.

Yes, indeed, not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, the lads of the Glueminati had found themselves in Coral’s special box. It would be safe to say that FLAMBERGE and Hayes Hanlon – currently represented by his life-sized stand-in Hayesboard, as the real Hayes just competed and they haven’t yet installed a portal between ringside and the Throne Room – do not have the same level of concern about Coral Avalon’s physical health and wellbeing as the group’s Financier.

Cecilworth takes a look around the Throne Room.

Cecilworth Farthington: You’ve redecorated. I don’t like it.

There is a very awkward pause for a few seconds, but perhaps it would feel like a lifetime to others.

Cecilworth Farthington: I love it!

Again, not a comment that went down all that well with his brothers in sticky business. There’s no cheese, for starters, which is quite frankly a red flag and a major downgrade.

Coral Avalon: Yeah, I made sure the catering is easier to access. Do you know how difficult it is to keep a giant sad cowboy fed and happy around here? It’s like I’m raising a pet, and it’s from Texas.

FLAMBERGE’s outfit isn’t entirely in frame, but it’s got familiar colors and the glimpses we catch are FLAMBOyant. His attention is focused on a box. It’s open, for now, and we don’t see its contents – though he shows them to Hayesboard before letting out a big “HA!”. After adjusting whatever the contents are, we see FLAMBERGE shut the box and start peeling what appear to be large stickers to place on the outside.

Coral tilts his head at the lizard part of the Glue congregation, or the Gluegregation as some might call it.

Coral Avalon: I’m almost afraid to ask what that’s about.

Satisfied with his sticker placement, FLAMBERGE straight up Irish Goodbyes, leaving Cecilworth staring at the cardboard representation of Hayes Hanlon. Cecilworth shifts awkwardly around for a few moments, processing the situation, eventually shrugging his shoulders and turning back to Coral.

Cecilworth Farthington: Busy night, I guess. New product launch. I think that’s a European thing.

Hayesboard: … (cardboard for so European)

As if trying to justify his own sentences, Cecilworth tries to explain further.

Cecilworth Farthington: British is a different thing.

The eyes of Farthington would be declared as apologetic if he ever did such a thing. Farthington, remembering the last time a Glue member was not in the suite with the crew, has a sudden, worrying thought, looking at the space where FLAMBERGE occupied moments earlier.

Cecilworth Farthington: Hope he doesn’t get murdered. Maybe this should’ve been more of a wholesale cardboard situation.

Coral Avalon: I… I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’s usually the one that does the murdering, I thought.

Avalon’s words bring a surprising amount of peace to Farthington.

Cecilworth Farthington: That’s true, I saw it. I think half of what Max leaked on me started with our lizard friend.

Coral Avalon: Well, a lot of leaking in general happened from what I saw that night. The sort of thing people try to avoid doing, I’ve noticed.

Bleeding. He’s talking about bleeding.

Coral Avalon: But yeah, he’ll be fine. It’s FLAMBERGE, what’s there to be worried about other than that worrying feeling that we’re all just walking, talking neck receptacles to him?

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh thank god, I’m not alone in my ever ending nightmare. I think it’s why I stay on his good side. My doctor always said my neck was very precious and…

Cecilworth realises that he is saying too much of his inside thoughts with his outside mouth.

Cecilworth Farthington: So anyhoodle, about tonight…

Coral Avalon: Yeah. I know. There’s a big mean Russian and his wacky mess of problems to take care of tonight. Do we have a plan, or do we just wing it? I think we’re fine either way.

He mutters “probably” underneath his breath.

Cecilworth Farthington: Well, the human mess is owed a few receipts. Ivan tried to enable my actual murder and therefore…

Cecilworth thinks very carefully.

Cecilworth Farthington: I reckon having a plan is a good idea.

Coral Avalon: Planning, it is! Alright, so…

Coral turns to the camera, staring at it for a long period of time. Like he’s staring into everyone’s souls, at once.

Coral Avalon: Perhaps we should plan in private.

He pauses, as the camera takes the hint and starts to back away from Avalon and Farthington.

Coral Avalon: Hayesboard can stay, though.

The camera leaves, and ReVival 62 moves on.

We cut from PRIME’s longest reigning champion to our newest. Bryan Dawkins sits in his locker room, the Alias Title propped up on the table next to him, while applying a heavy wrap of black athletic tape to his wrists. He wraps each wrist with precision, making sure they’re ready for his upcoming inaugural defense against Sebastian Gold.

The Dole sponsored catering table sits untouched – on this night, Dawkins has no need for distractions, no matter how delicious they may be. He flexes his wrists and tests his tape job when the door opens.

Dawkins’ expression is partially hidden by his sunglasses as the one and only Alexei Ruslan slips through the doorway.

Bryan Dawkins: Figured I’d be seein’ you sooner than later, bruh.

Ruslan adjusts his crimson tie and shrugs his shoulders, adjusting his brown overcoat.

Alexei Ruslan: So… have you made a decision?

Bryan Dawkins: I have…but why spoil the surprise?

Alexei cocks his head slightly and narrows his eyes, unamused by Bruh’s game.

Bryan Dawkins: Mind if I tell him myself?

Ruslan inclines his head and smirks.

Alexei Ruslan: It is customary to report to the Starshy Praporshchik before your match anyway… after you.

Without hesitation, Dawkins tosses the roll of tape back into his bag, tosses the Alias Championship over his shoulder and exits the room. He briefly peeks over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Ruslan, who walks with both hands behind his back, innocent as ever.

Bryan Dawkins: This way, right bruh?

Ruslan nods his head as they wind through the backstage area.

Alexei Ruslan: Indeed. Ahem… so are you ready for your match?

Dawkins stops dead in his tracks. He pulls a 180 and gets nose-to-nose with the Russian Bear’s right hand man. Ruslan pulls his head back and snaps a hand to his hat, lest it fall back off his head.

Bryan Dawkins: Look Lex, I get it. You’re doin’ your job, tryin’ to vet me before letting me into the club…

Ruslan takes one step back to create space and lifts both hands innocently. He smiles wide.

Bryan Dawkins: …but this conversation is between Ivan and I. So respectfully, bruh…let’s save the chit-chat.

Alexei’s face immediately shifts to a scowl as he mouths words to himself, no doubt in Russian, and follows after Dawkins as he turns around. It’s not long before they arrive at a big, red door (Stanislav brings his own furniture, does he bring his own door too??). Alexei steps in front of Dawkins and pushes the door open.

Inside we’re transported to a Soviet soldier’s wet dream. Military marches, an oversized desk and chair, Soviet and Russian flags, pictures on the walls, you name it. The legendary Russian Bear is dressed for combat already, with a big main event on the horizon. He stares at himself in a mirror and turns his head to see Alexei, and then Bryan Dawkins.

Alexei Ruslan: Vanya, someone here to see you…

Ivan hefts his pants up higher along his stomach, creating slack in his crimson suspenders, but says nothing. Dawkins scans the propaganda filled room and then locks eyes with the behemoth.

Bryan Dawkins: I’ve decided…

Bruh’s face offers no indication of the decision that follows. Ivan and Alexei share a knowing glance, satisfied that the Hawaiian has come to his senses.

Bryan Dawkins: …but first, I need something.

Ivan looks over at Alexei, who looks back up at Ivan. Ivan shifts his jaw to one side.

Ivan Stanislav: You need something from me?

Ruslan scoffs, but the duo watch the Alias Champion curiously.

Bryan Dawkins: Max…

Dawkins corrects himself.

Bryan Dawkins: …err, Commissar Kael has taken someone from me. I need to get her back. Call him off.

Shark-toothed grins emerge between both Stanislav and Ruslan as they look at one another. Ivan clears his throat and brings his hands up to his suspenders and grips them.

Ivan Stanislav: Ah… that.

He says and rocks back on his heels before regarding Alexei.

Ivan Stanislav: What do you think, Alyosha?

Ruslan muses.

Alexei Ruslan: I think we would do anything for a member of The Red Army.

The former Flyin’ Hawaiian pushes.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m sure it’s that easy. You’ll do anything for me as long as I join, right?

His eye roll is apparent even behind the shade of the orange and aqua lenses.

Bryan Dawkins: But the second I’m no longer useful to the Red Army and its cause, I’m sure I’ll end up like Joe Fontaine and she’ll…

Dawkins chokes back the lump in his throat.

Bryan Dawkins: …I just need to know that when I come through for the Red Army, you’ll come through for me.

Stanislav moves, glacially, towards Dawkins, allowing his full height to dwarf the Alias Champion. Ruslan skirts to the side, until the Russians begin to cover him on two sides.

Ivan Stanislav: You walk into my room, when I have match, and require some oath of honesty from me?

Bryan Dawkins: Ya know bruh, you’re not the only one who’s got a match tonight.

Ivan pushes a huge finger into Dawkins’ chest.

Ivan Stanislav: I would do anything for my comrades in The Red Army. So long as they uphold their duty to defend our cause. You come through, Champion, and I’ll make sure she’s in your arms.

Bryan takes a step back, away from the Russian’s giant paw, and crosses his arms to protect both his chest and title. He throws a side eye at Alexei, who looks on in disgust. He gestures toward the Alias Title.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m gonna come through and it starts tonight when I yet again take down Sebastian Gold. I’ve taken him out once and took out his buddy to get the title…it won’t be a problem, Ivan.

Ivan purses his lips and strokes his chin thoughtfully, the bristles of his beard crinkling while Ruslan glances between the two of them.

Ivan Stanislav: I have not heard what your stipulation is for title defense yet. What is it?

Dawkins grins at the two Russians.

Bryan Dawkins: Falls count… where I choose.

The Russians both incline eyebrows simultaneously.

Bryan Dawkins: It’s the ultimate advantage against a guy like Gold. He’s into all that flippy shit, right?

Ivan purses his lips thoughtfully.

Ivan Stanislav: As master of HurricanRussia, indeed, one must watch out for, ahem, flippy… moves.

Ruslan wrinkles his eyebrows… out of Ivan’s view.

Bryan Dawkins: So I make the falls count where there’s nothing he can yeet himself from.

Dawkins leans against Ivan’s massive desk, proud of himself.

Bryan Dawkins: It could be anywhere! Outside the ring, up on the stage, in catering…hell, falls could count only right here in the Red Army locker room!

Ivan looks down at Alexei, who looks back up at Ivan. Oh, they’re scheming, and together, they look back at Bryan and both nod together.

Ivan Stanislav: Perhaps you need to think bigger, comrade Dawkins. Not just falls count anywhere, but falls count… anywhere The Red Army is present?

Ruslan grins. Did these two just read each other’s minds?

Bryan Dawkins: Never really thought of it that way, but I like it…

Dawkins locks eyes with Alexei.

Bryan Dawkins: Can I trust you, bruh? Gotta keep this baby (gestures to the Alias Title) in the Red Army, ya know?

First… a little chuckle from Ivan.

Then, a longer chuckle from Alexei.

Louder chuckle from Ivan.

Dawkins takes their laughter as confirmation and joins in the hilarity, laughing with his now-fellow comrades.

Ivan finally lets it rip.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

In the meantime, Alexei gets in the camera’s face and presses his hand against the lens, shoving it outside of the office. Only Ivan’s words are heard.

Ivan Stanislav: Let us talk about some other things, comrade Dawkins…

Ruslan slams the red door in the face of the camera, leaving the Alias Champion and his Red Army comrades alone.

ReVival moves on.

The opening chords of “Time Warp” sound across the Perth Arena. The usual video for RIA flashes between scenes on the PRIMEView. As she appears from behind the curtain, it’s obvious the attack from the Whoresmen is still physically affecting the Psychoberry. She’s eschewed her normal entrance attire, save for her heart shaped glasses.

Nick Stuart: While I have to commend RIA’s toughness, I’m not entirely sure she’s ready to get back in the ring.

Richard Parker: Are you kidding?! Look at her! She looks like crap! I’ve seen TP bombed houses less covered up than her!

Indeed, RIA does have a number of bandages on her person, mostly around her arms and legs. She decides against doing the Time Warp dance, but does still interact with the crowd on her way to the ring. Stopping just short of ringside, RIA nonchalantly tosses her glasses out into the crowd.

Vince Howard: Representing Vae Victis and the New World Trash!… From Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania!… Weighing in at 150 pounds… THIS IS RIIIIIIIAAAA!

The Rainbow Riot approaches the ring and slides in under the bottom rope before gingerly climbing to her feet. She walks over to the nearest corner, leaning on it and gazing out at the audience. RIA gives a weary smile before clapping a bit. She then turns her attention to the center of the ring, ready for the action to get underway.

VInce Howard: And her opponent…

“Satori Part II” by the Flower Travelin’ Band hits on the PA, and Sage Pontiff walks out hazily to a mixed reaction. Not everyone trusts him, but those who do appreciate the run he had with Paxton Ray before his partner’s, well, disappearance. Pontiff blithely walks down the ramp albeit with sinister intent in his eyes.

Vince Howard: …from Joshua Tree, California, weighing in at 201 pounds, he is the Bodhisattva of the Transformative Experience… Sage… PONTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFF!!!!

Sage slides into the ring and stares daggers at RIA, though dulled over time not forgetting their shared history.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: A rematch of Colossus 2022. I wonder what RIA thinks about Sage mellowing out lately thanks to his friendship with Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: I don’t. I mostly just wonder if Sage knows where to find the good ayahuasca down here.

Nick Stuart: audibly facepalms

The two wrestlers circle each other with RIA still clearly licking her wounds from earlier.

Nick Stuart: Even if this match isn’t as hard-hitting as the one from over two years ago? Gotta think RIA might be in bigger trouble thanks to that vicious attack from the Whoresmen earlier.

Richard Parker: Oh, you’re still whining about that. Look, if taped a bunch of raw chicken to myself and swam in crocodile-infested waters here, would you feel sad if I got eaten?

Nick Stuart: Yes I would because you’re my friend.

Richard Parker: Jesus, Nick, way to take the wind out of the sails on THAT comparison. God.

RIA and Sage lock up, but Pontiff immediately gets the upper hand as RIA crumples to her knees, breaking the hold. Sage backs off for a moment before winking to the crowd and putting a boot to her head.

Nick Stuart: Perth does NOT like that move from the Shaman.

Richard Parker: I think this whole kinder, gentler Sage Pontiff is a little overstated. Either that, or Australian drugs aren’t as good as American ones.

The Bodhisattva preens to the crowd a bit as RIA struggles to her feet. Sage quickly strikes, laying in mid-kicks to a clearly staggered RIA. The Psychoberry crumples to one knee, holding her ribs, clearly suffering the attack of not just her opponent, but of several Whoresmen earlier in the night.

Richard Parker: If you had just let me finish my analogy earlier, you’d have known the crocodiles in my analogy were the Whoresmen, and you just don’t get involved with them on a personal level.

Nick Stuart: One flaw in that analogy. Outside of Anna Daniels, the crocodiles would be smarter… OH MY GOD! Sage Pontiff not letting up, a brutal axe kick to the back of RIA’s skull!

As Nick so accurately describes, the back of Pontiff’s heel finds the back of the skull of a clearly crouched RIA. She crumples to the mat, and Sage rolls her over for the first nearfall of the match…

ONE!

TWO!

RIA quickly kicks out after the two-count registers, hurting, but still far from being on the brink. Sage with catlike reflexes makes sure to keep pushing her, however, wrangling her in a front headlock while she’s still prone on the mat.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff smells blood.

Richard Parker: Like a crocodile.

Nick Stuart: What? Sharks smell blood, dude.

Richard Parker: So do crocs! I read it somewhere!

Nick Stuart: I’m going to start fact checking your sources, Rich.

As the Psychoberry struggles to her feet, pushing up on her legs and against Pontiff’s grip, he relents ever so slightly before realizing where the momentum was heading and breaking the hold voluntarily. He drops back against the ropes and fires in with a slower, more deliberate spinning heel kick that lands his ankle flush against RIA’s nose.

Nick Stuart: And there’s the actual blood!

Richard Parker: AND IT’S FRIDAY!

Nick Stuart: What’s that have to do with anything?

Richard Parker: A TWITTER ACCOUNT HAS A SONG ABOUT CROCODILES ON FRIDAY!! NOOO!!

As blood rushes down RIA’s upper lip and mouth from her nose, Sage follows up with a crushing knee to her chin and then a somersault leg drop across her throat as soon as she hits the mat on her back. He goes for another cover…

ONE!

TWO!

RIA’s kickout is a little slower this time.

Nick Stuart: RIA never got out of the blocks, and let me tell you, she’s paying the price for standing up against the Whoresmen tonight for sure.

Richard Parker: Once again, going back to…

Nick Stuart: I swear to Hoyt, Rich, if you make another ham-handed attempt at a reference to crocodiles, I’m going to feed you to one.

Sage smiles before reaching down to pick RIA, bloodied face and all, back up to her feet. However, the fight has not completely left her yet.

Nick Stuart: Jawbreaker from the Psychoberry! Could this be the opening she needs?

As Pontiff stumbles back, RIA raises her fist to the roaring approval of the Perth faithful. She bounces off the ropes looking for a lariat but Pontiff gets his wits about him, ducks under, and takes her down with a HARD crucifix driver that silences the crowd’s nascent enthusiasm.

Richard Parker: See Nick? Crocodiles. IT ALL LEADS TO CROCODILES.

Nick Stuart: My broadcast partner, proof that you can get CTE by merely WATCHING wrestling.

Sage once again preens to the crowd while peppering the fallen RIA with soccer-style kicks all along the side of her body. The boos rain down upon him, as if his team with Paxton Ray and the camaraderie they built never happened. He sits RIA up only to put her back to the canvas violently with another spinning wheel kick, his opponent’s blood spraying in the air like a fine mist. The Bodhisattva opens his mouth as if to catch particles of it, causing the crowd to erupt in a “YOU SICK FUCK!” chant.

Nick Stuart: I can’t say I disagree with them.

Richard Parker: Of course not, you’re not one enough with the universe to get my crocodile references, let alone understand the mind of a true guru of violence.

Sage feigns a “Namaste” sign and climbs the nearest turnbuckle, where he delivers the Electric Feel to an almost-convulsing Psychoberry. He remains on top for a cover…

ONE!

TWO!

…

…

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: These kickouts are getting more and more pained. And I swear to God if you follow up with a crocodile reference, so help me Hoyt…

Richard Parker: quietly it’s flat fuck friday ya fuckin’ losers

Sage squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, inhaling deeply before rising to his feet. He makes prayer hands before opening his eyes in a blood-curdling rage and landing the bottom of his boot on the stomach of the Psychoberry. A faint trickle of new blood creeps out of the corner of her lip.

Nick Stuart: Folks, RIA is in bad shape here. Almost like she had taped raw chicken to herself and waded into a creek full of crocodiles.

Richard Parker: Nick, I didn’t know you had it in you.

Nick Stuart: sigh I told you, you’re my friend. I can’t stay mad.

As she sucks air heavily, RIA struggles to her feet but is aided in a not-so-friendly manner by her opponent, who takes the opportunity to shove her hard into the ropes, but not hard enough to cause a rebound. Instead, he drops back, charges in, and…

Nick Stuart: NAMASTE! The kick sends RIA over the top and I’m not sure how much longer this match needs to last.

RIA, bleeding from her nose and mouth, tries to gasp for her second wind, but she only finds herself draped over the guardrail. At that moment, a figurative lightbulb goes off over Sage’s head as he drops back again, gets an even bigger head of steam, and vaults CLEAN over the top rope, twisting his body and again landing a form-perfect spinning wheel kick on the back of the Psychoberry as she’s draped over the guardrail. The forced impact of ribcage on steel bar causes a massive cough spraying blood in the direction of retreating fans hoping not to have a Yank’s blood staining their Friday night finery.

Nick Stuart: At some point, Elvis Nixon has to think about stopping this match.

Richard Parker: There are four things you don’t do. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, and you don’t cross the Poor Whoresmen before you have a match with Sage Pontiff.

Nick Stuart: What was the fourth thing?

Richard Parker: huh?

Nick Stuart: You said four things you don’t do and you named three.

Richard Parker: Oh, and you don’t walk into a creek in Australia wearing raw chicken.

Nick Stuart: audibly sighs

Pontiff violently grabs RIA by the back of her neck and throws her under the bottom rope. He slides back in the ring, and in one swoop, he makes the cover…

ONE!

TWO!

…

…

…..

NO! KICKOUT!

RRRAAAAHHHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: RIA has life yet, RIchard!

Richard Parker: I gotta admit, I didn’t even see this display of resilience coming,and I’ve been making crocodile references this entire match!

Nick Stuart: What does that have to do with anything?!?!

Richard Parker: EVERYTHING!

Pontiff rises to his feet and yells “IT’S OVER” to the crowd as he picks RIA’s head up and puts it between his legs. The Shamonic Dreamweaver? That’s what you’d think might happen if the opponent were, say, Felix Mullen or Quinn Fleetwood. No, that’s not what happens here. Not by a longshot.

What does happen is, well, I’ll let the commentators tell you.

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD! RIA JUST HIT SAGE PONTIFF WITH A DESPERATION HEADBUTT!

Richard Parker: Right in the crocodile eggs too. F in the chat, boys.

As Pontiff doubles over in pain, RIA wipes the blood off her face and raises her fist straight into the air as the crowd roars in approval. She drops back…

Nick Stuart: LARIATOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Pontiff turns inside, and RIA makes the quick cover, hoping to steal a victory in shock…

ONE!

But Pontiff kicks out authoritatively. RIA slams the mat and gets up, waiting for Pontiff to do the same. He shoots to his feet, but in his haste, he walks right into a LOCK CUTTER! She covers again…

ONE!

TWO!

Pontiff kicks out a little slower this time. RIA grabs Sage by his dreads, but he lands a desperation shot to her gut this time, doubling her over.

Richard Parker: Too little too late for RIA here, sadly. Unlike the lifespan of crocodilians in the Earth’s fossil record, RIA’s effort in this match will come up short.

Nick Stuart: You fascinate me in the worst ways sometimes, Richard.

Sage calls for the Shamonic Dreamweaver again, giving prayer hands and shouting “NAMASTE!” This time, his groin area is free from any additional trauma, and he does get the initial flip over.

However, they were too close to the ropes. RIA grabs onto the middle rope, causing Sage to flip over onto his head. She sees her opportunity and climbs onto the top of the turnbuckles with swiftness, leaping before he can even motion to get up…

Nick Stuart: THE END OF THE RAINBOW! THE END OF THE RAINBOW!

She uses her legs to push her and the fallen Pontiff away from the ropes, hooks the leg, and covers…

ONE!

TWO!

….

…….

………….

THREE!!!!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner… RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

RAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

RIA pops to her feet, hand raised by Elvis Nixon with the other one holding her midsection after surviving through a vicious beatdown and a hellacious match.

ReVival moves on.

Backstage at the Perth Arena and with the fans voices being piped in at ringside, it’s clear they don’t like what they see.

Something something Soviet flag something something.

Where there’s the Soviet flag, there’s Ivan Stanislav, and as he walks into the frame in front of the flag, his grinning visage shows little happiness and all malice. This isn’t a segment. It’s a mandate.

DYAAHAAHAA!!

His voice booms into the arena, his hands on his hips. The Red Army grew at Colossus, and their ranks seem to be growing with Bryan Dawkins. Like Stalin and the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, is anyone safe?

Their newest acquisition, Rose, walks into frame with him. The Second Coming might be considerably shorter than the Starshy Praporshchik, but she carries with her an air of authority all her own. Whatever issues Stanislav and Rose might have had in the past, for now, they seem to have put it behind them.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME! Now that opener, boring matches are over, it’s time for the Red Army portion of broadcast!

He slaps his huge hand on Rose’s shoulder, engulfing it. She winces and a hint of… annoyance, perhaps, shows on her face.

Ivan Stanislav: With Rose, then Bryan Dawkins, and finally yours truly competing! There is some tag team scuffle in mix as well, but no one cares about that!

Ivan booms, proudly.

Ivan Stanislav: The glorious flower of Russia, our dearest Rose, is going to take Chandler Tsonda apart. That broken down, shattered shell of a man. Indeed, Lenin’s favored daughter will deliver him to you all in pieces!

Rose: (A cold smile plays across her lips as she shrugs Ivan’s hand off her shoulder) You know what’s funny about Chandler Tsonda? Growing up, I had to hear my father complain about him constantly. “All style, no substance,” he’d say. “Man spends more time preening in the mirror than actually working on his craft.”

She steps forward, her eyes gleaming with that familiar dangerous intensity.

Rose: And now here you are, Chandler, proving Dad right again. You could have come back anywhere, challenged anyone. Instead, you waltz in here thinking you can take on The Red Army? (She lets out a sharp laugh) That’s not confidence – that’s the kind of hubris that gets people hurt. Badly.

Her voice drops to an almost intimate whisper.

Rose: You’re not the legend you think you are anymore, Chandler. You’re just another relic trying to recapture past glory. And me? I’m the reality check you never saw coming. (Her smile turns predatory) Consider this your formal invitation to retirement. Trust me – it’ll hurt less if you go willingly.

Ivan grins, though the camera is zooming in on the intense eyes of Rose, and cutting off most of him above her head. His voice, however, is omnipresent. His hand no longer on her shoulder, just his barrel chest and suspenders behind her.

Ivan Stanislav: Another “legend” led to slaughter. The thorns of Russia’s Rose shall draw crimson blood for all of PRIME to see!

The view zooms out a bit more, as Ivan looks down at Rose.

Ivan Stanislav: Ready to win one for Mother Russia, Rose?

Rose spins around, looking at the Russian Bear dead in the eyes.

Rose: Keep your lap dog at bay and we won’t have a problem like last week. I’m bringing a victory home to The Red Army tonight.

Just like that, The Second Coming spins on her spot and marches away, heading to the Argyle for her match against the Hall of Famer. Stanislav’s grin evaporates as he watches Rose walk away and as the camera fades out, he narrows his eyes.

ReVival moves on.

Simon Tillier is backstage. His suit is black. His shirt is black. So is tie. And his hair? Yep, he dyed that black as well.

Everything is black. As black as the human soul on the night of the full moon on the Norwegian tundra.

Except his face, which is both white AND black. Of note is the facepaint, which is somewhere between The Crowd and the lost fifth member of Kiss.

Simon Tillier: EEEEYYYYUUUUURRRRGGHHHH!!!

Standing by are the tandem of Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter, along with newly anointed mascot Kerry Koalayama sitting on the shoulders of the Emerald Apex.

Simon Tillier: BBBRRRRRRUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!

The Vae Victis Wingmen are looking both uncomfortable and confused as the junior reporter rasps and growls unintelligibly at them. Koalayama reacts very little, though it’s apparent that the inane screaming is harshing his vibe.

Simon Tillier: KKKKWWWAAAAAARRGGGHHHH!!!

Scott leans in to Kerry and speaks in a not-so-subtle whisper.

Scott Hunter: …Kerry?

Kerry Kuroyama: Sup, Scott?

Simon Tillier: AAAAAAAWWWWWWWRRRGGGHH!!!

Scott Hunter: I think something’s wrong with the interviewer.

Kerry Kuroyama: That appears to be the case, yes.

Scott Hunter: Let me try something.

Kerry steps to the side briefly as Scott rummages around in a small bag. He pulls out a roll of Tums tablets and holds in Simon’s direction, but this just makes Simon lean forward toward Scott and bellow right in his face.

Simon Tillier: FFFRRRRWWWOOOORRRGGGHHH!!!

Scott flinches and steps back.

Scott Hunter: Did… did we break him?

Kerry Kuroyama: Nah, I think Simon’s just in his black metal phase. He’ll be fine, soon as he realizes how niche his market is.

Simon Tillier: ZZZGGGRRRRFFFFFFGGGGHHH!!

The Emerald Apex just nods, as though he can make out this animalistic braying.

Kerry Kuroyama: Shoulder has healed nicely, Simon. Thanks for asking. Shouldn’t be a problem in the match later. Scott and I are at a hundred percent, and ready to rumble.

He elbows Scott.

Kerry Kuroyama: Right, Scott?

Scott Hunter: Ready to rumble, yes. Shoulder healing, absolutely. Simon growling like a wounded marsupial who ate a bad burrito, sure. Scary face paint, affirmative. Weird hair, si señor. Upsetting my koala friend, uh huh. Refusal to accept my gift of antacid relief, rude…

Hunter continues to speak at length, and black metal Simon ov Tillier glares intensely while hanging on every word. Koalayama just zones the fuck out and chows on the euc.

Meanwhile, Kerry Kuroyama appears distracted with something else. Eagerly, he glances down the near corridor… watching and waiting, as if expecting something to appear.

Then we randomly cut to…

Daytona Diamonds: YOU FUCKIN’ SLACKJAWED BITCH! I CURSE YOUR FUCKIN’ NAME! A THOUSAND HELLS, YOU GODDANG PECKERETTE!

They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but what about scorned cowboys? Daytona Diamonds, face full of rage. His cowboy hat conspicuously missing from atop his cowboy head. Hands balled into fists, veins bulging from his neck and forehead. He’s not running so much as he’s walking briskly, each footfall a stomp as he makes his way down the hall. The camera pans to the sound of mocking laughter, just in time to see Ami Troy at the opposite end of the hall, holding Daytona’s hat above her head.

Ami Troy: Dumbtona, what’s it with you and losing your hat whenever I come around? Is this your lot in life? Being the biggest dum dum walkin’ who can’t keep his hat on his head?

She twirls it around her finger.

Ami Troy: Guess if you want it back, you gotta catch me!

Daytona Diamonds: I SWEAR TO SWEET FUCKALL, IF I FIND ONE GODDANG TORTILLA CHIP IN THAT HAT, I’M GONNA CHOKE THE FUCKIN’ PISS OUTTA YOU, TROY! SO HELP ME GOD! I’M GONNA FUCKIN’ KILL YO–

The feed cuts back to the earlier interview set-up, with Tillier standing with Scott Hunter and Kerry Kuroyama.

Scott Hunter: Singing inappropriate music for a family friendly audience, by all means. Getting on my nerves, certainly. Smelling like a pirate, roger. About to get punched in the face, agreed….

Simon Tillier: EEERRRRMMRRRRRGGGHHH???

In that instant, Ami Troy dashes by the scene of the interview. On cue, Kerry lifts the Eucalyptus Apex off of his shoulders and hands him over to Scott.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hold that thought, Simon…

He takes two steps to his left, clears his throat, listens for the approaching footsteps…

…and a moment later, an enraged Daytona Diamonds swings around the corner, running straight into Kuroyama’s waiting YAKUZA KICK!

Simon Tillier: BBBRRRRRAAAAAAALLLLLGGGGHHH!!!

Scott Hunter: (jumping out of the line of fire) SWEET BISCUITS AND GRAVY!!!!

Diamonds is on his back, holding his jaw and moaning in pain. Kerry stands over him and tsk-tsks.

Kerry Kuroyama: Daytona Diamonds…

He leans in and says it with the deliberate and disdainful lilt of a Texas sheriff.

Kerry Kuroyama: Glad I bumped into you actually. Been thinking you and I should have a dialogue…

Kerry boots him onto his belly, kneels into the square of his back, and torques the shoulder with an armbar.

Kerry Kuroyama: First, pal… I’m not all that keen on you harassing my girl. Apologize to the lady, if you would be so kind.

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t apologizin’ for jack shit! She stole my goddang ha–

Kerry twists the arm. Daytona thrashes in torment.

Kerry Kuroyama: It wasn’t a request. Apologize.

Ami Troy: (very much enjoying this) Yeah! Apologize!

Daytona Diamonds: …I’m fuckin’ sorry, alright?! Now let go of my fuckin’ arm!

After holding it a moment longer, Kuroyama eventually obliges, but remains sitting on his haunches. Ami hands off Daytona’s hat to Kerry Koalayama, who takes it in his tiny paws and starts munching on the brim.

Kerry Kuroyama: Good… now, the other thing. I want you to understand something, Daytona. UNDERSTAND… that you and your krokodil-addled improv troupe are finished with the circlejerking clownshit. UNDERSTAND… that the only reason you were able to get away with it for this long is because I’ve been preoccupied much of the past year with pursuing my personal ambitions. UNDERSTAND… that because you crossed the line two weeks ago with RIA, you have forced me to step in and unfuck a situation that your crew have odiously brought upon our doorstep. UNDERSTAND, Daytona… that from here on out, it will NOT be pleasant living for you and the other Jabber trolls and grave pissers. Anna and Rob are going to learn this first hand in that ring later tonight. And Fred’s going to figure it out here in a few minutes…

He flashes the camera a bit of a wink wink, nudge nudge smile.

Kerry Kuroyama: As of tonight, Vae Victis is putting a stop to the bullshit and restoring a sorely needed sense of order here in PRIME. So, I’ll be clear as I can here: If any of us see a Whoresman literally anywhere other than wrestling a match in the ring, we will fucking bury you.

He leans in close to the Rhinestone Cowboy’s ear.

Kerry Kuroyama: …you dig?

Kerry backs off, and Daytona scrambles to his feet in a heartbeat, red-faced and cursing. Were it not for recognizing himself outnumbered, he undoubtedly would be throwing fists in a heartbeat.

Daytona Diamonds: Kerry, you no good peckerwood! You fuckin’ scum suckin’ leech! You’re gonna regret this, y’hear me?! Fuck you, fuck RIA, and fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck ya’ girl Ami! You wanna bury somethin’?! How ‘bout I bury deez nuts in your goddang mouth?! Fuckin’ dicknose! I’ll fuckin’ end you! The Poor Whoresmen run the game, boy! We deal the cards! We do what we fuckin’ want! Y’hear me, Kerry?! Y’hear me?!

Slowly, the red fades from Daytona’s complexion as he stands there in the middle of the hallway, veins still throbbing in his forehead, teeth all grinding as he tries to catch his breath. He looks over towards the cameraman and sneers.

Daytona Diamonds: The fuck you lookin’ at?!

With a quick slap at the camera sending the angle pointing down towards the floor, the scene fades to the sound of The Rhinestone Cowboy stomping away, still shouting barely intelligible promises of revenge.

ReVival moves on.

We cut to Fred Dick, on his way back from catering. His plate is piled high with all manner of foods; some chicken wings, mac and cheese, a small steak, some breaded shrimp, all of it covered in a layer of hot sauce that drips off the dish at random intervals and onto the floor. The Street Cat opens the door to the room of the Perth Arena designated as the Whorehouse, careful not to drop any of the delectables he’s gathered. The hot sauce, though? All over the place.

Fred closes the door behind him. The room is empty, outside of Anna Daniels standing at a table. She’s dressed in her fuzzy white coat, the hood up, seemingly getting in the zone for her later tag match.

Fred Dick: Anna, Anna, Bo-Banna Bananner banner bo nanner, haha! WHUDDUP GURRRRRL?

Fred sets his plate down, eyes darting between each morsel, his brain in overdrive when it comes to making a choice. He reaches a hand forward, but pulls it back, the appendage moving to cradle his chin in contemplation.

Fred Dick: Hmm, which taste does ol’ Fred want to taste in his mouth first?

As Fred continues to struggle with this very obvious and important life decision, Anna moves a hand up to pull her hood down. Her pink and blue hair is a bit tussled, but still looks good. Pink and blue hair? Yep. ‘Anna’ stalks closer.

Fred Dick: Eeny. Meany. Miney. Moe. Ketchup. Tiger. By its. Toe.

In her right hand, ‘Anna’ is carrying a baseball bat that her earlier posture had concealed. Wrapped around the barrel of said bat is a generous spool of barbwire. With the Jabber of the Year recipient still deep in contemplation, the weapon is raised up…

*CRACK*

Fred Dick: SHIIIIIIII–SUNUMA BENCH!!!

Fred scurries to his right, the bat having smashed into his upper back. As Fred turn to face his attacker, RIA (yeah, time to drop the ruse) sends another blow to Fred’s right knee, dropping him instantly. RIA begins walking away, giggling manically as she does. The Psychoberry doesn’t leave, though. No, she merely locks the door to the Whorehouse. RIA slips the coat off and tosses it to the side.

RIA: Don’t wanna get blood on the jacket! Sis would piiiiissed at me!

She again cackles, eyes wide, her green irises shining, her lips curled into a malicious grin. RIA(?) saunters over and swings her right arm down, smashing the object against Fred’s back once again. He screams out in pain.

Fred Dick: GOD DAMN YOU RIA LAMPSHADE!!! GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL!!

The Toxic Queen snickers at the defiant declaration, the evil smile never leaving her face.

Ria Nightshade: Oh, so you know it’s not Rainbow? Wow, you’re only 75% as stupid as I thought you were! Well… maybe more like 80. ANYWAY! You dumb bastards really thought you could take us out?!

Another blow to the back, with the accompanying yell of agony. The Street Cat starts to try to crawl towards the door, which seems pretty damn far away when a psychotic harpy is beating on you with a dangerous weapon.

Ria Nightshade: You know how many people tried to take us out? Transphobes and misogynists when we were a teenager!

The bat makes contact again, the barbwire pulling small pieces of the jersey Fred wears back with it.

Ria Nightshade: The Unholy Cyber Army tried to end us when we beat their big dumb asses and they couldn’t finish us!

Again, a blow of rage crashes across Dick’s spine. The crawl, which was already snail-like to begin with, slows even further. The Bulls paraphrenia is starting to cling to the King of Wrong Style’s person, wettened by the blood that’s seeping out of the various wounds caused by the beating.

Ria Nightshade: Sage Pontiff tried to finish us and look how that went! Did you motherfuckers truly believe we wouldn’t be back?!

This attack hits the upper back, just below the neck. Fred has pretty much stopped moving. Well, everything except his mouth.

Fred Dick: ALL WOMEN LOOK THE SAME!!! YOU KNOW THAT’S TRUE!!! THAT’S HOW YOU FOOLED ME WITH ANNA DANIELS JACKET!

Ria’s eyes widen and her grin fades.

Ria Nightshade: The fuck did you just say?!

The Hardcore Harlot grips the handle with two hands now. One shot, two shots, three shots, all with the most ill intent in them that Ria can muster. By this point, the bandages covering her wounds have loosened and slipped, revealing some of the damage the window and chairs had done; nasty cuts and gnarly bruising cover various parts of Ria’s body. Lightly panting, she glares down at the mess of Fred Dick at her feet.

Ria Nightshade: We ain’t done just yet, ya piece of shit!

Nightshade switches her grip, grabbing the bat BY THE BARBWIRE before crouching down by the mostly limp Fred Dick’s face. She roughly takes hold of his hair, jerking his head back.

Ria Nightshade: Kiss it, you fucking bitch!

Fred weakly attempts to put his hands up, but the nearing sharp barbs quickly put an end to that. Closer and closer… Another hard yank of his hair.

Ria Nightshade: I SAID KISS IT!!!

Whether out of fear or forced obligation, Blood Mode’s lips pucker. The barrel is mashed into them, along with the rest of Fred’s face, with Nightshade taking a moment to twist and rub the prickly instrument in. She releases his hair, letting Dick flop flaccidly onto the floor. Ria stands, grabbing the bat by the handle with her left hand, shaking out her right which is now dripping with blood. She scoffs, the smirk returning to her face.

Ria Nightshade: Who looks the same now, you stupid prick?

Despite her overall condition, the Toxic Queen bounces towards the Whorehouse’s door jovially, unlocking and opening it. Coincidentally, standing on the other side is one Anna Daniels. Nightshade’s smile grows larger.

Ria Nightshade: Oh my god! Sis! How are ya?! Been awhile! Borrowed your coat for a second, but don’t worry, I made sure not to get any blood on it!

The Muse looks at Nightshade.

Anna Daniels: Hey, sis.

Then to the bloodied mound of Fred Dick.

Anna Daniels: Seems you got what you wanted.

Then back to Ria.

Anna Daniels: You know this shit ain’t gonna end well, right?

Nightshade giggles.

Ria Nightshade: It’ll be fine! See, after Rainbow had her match, I was all “Move over, bitch, I’m driving!” So I grab THIS bad boy-

Ria proudly holds up the blood caked bat.

Ria Nightshade: that we brought with us and went to find this place. A text sesh with Ami fixed that pretty quick. So I barge in, ready to cave in some skulls, but nobody was here. Then I saw your coat I was all “Lemme have some fun with this!” I put it on, waited and Dumb Dick was the first one that entered. Whatever fragrance you wear is AMAZING, by the way. As for the future…

Nightshade smiles broadly.

Ria Nightshade: I’ll be carrying this slugger around with me going forward. So anyone that wants to try their luck is more than welcomed to!

Anna snickers. A grin forms on her face.

Anna Daniels: Bitch, that’s what you all should’ve done in the first place! We were warning you for a reason!

Just as she looks back up at her sis, the grin lowers its wattage somewhat.

Anna Daniels: But we weren’t talking short term and one of you has to know that. You get this one for free, Shady-kins. At least on our end. The boys? Who knows. If we have to dirty our hands though…

She doesn’t finish the sentence. There’s no need. She side-steps Nightshade to enter.

Anna Daniels: Now we gotta make sure this idiot doesn’t die.

Nightshade shrugs as the Time Lord steps past her.

Ria Nightshade: Make sure he thanks you for keeping his dumb ass from bleeding out! As for your other words? You know me better than that. I ain’t Rainbow. Well meaning as she might be, I ain’t gonna give ya some bleeding heart speech about doing the right thing. I’m more than happy to watch ya do whatever ya want. That said…

Ria takes a step out the door.

Ria Nightshade: I will protect us if you choose to come after us. Please. Don’t make me do that.

Anna Daniels: You really want to have that conversation? Save it for lunch.

Speaking of lunch, Anna snags a chicken wing from the messy plate.

Anna Daniels: You better go before–

She looks back. Nightshade and all the RIAs with her are gone. She shakes her head as she wills her fellow lasagna haver up. A chomp on the chicken.

Anna Daniels: Typical. Alright, Baby Bop. Let’s go.

As she tries to get what’s left of Fred Dick medical attention, we cut back to ringside.

Vince Howard: This next match is for SEVENTY-EIGHT FALLS!

The PRIMEates are like “wha???”

Vince smiles.

Vince Howard: Just kidding. This match is for the all amazing ONE FALL!

The fans of Perth LOVE that they were duped because WRESTLING IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN, HEAVEN FORBID VINCE HAS A LITTLE FUN!

Vince Howard: Representing the Red Army. 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!

Richard Parker: You know, I am really excited for this! Under Ivan Stanislav’s leadership, I wonder what our little RED Rose is going to do. I’d like to see some anger and intensity!

Nick Stuart: (Confused) She’s… she’s always angry, Richard.

Richard Parker: (Honestly shocked) Is she now? Well okay then.

A gentle yet deliberate electronic pulses as if it’s underwater. A soft synth pad floats in and expands, filling all of the cracks that are left behind before reverberating electronic elements creates a dreamy world.

I still got your lip balm in my Jacq
Time to throw that shit away

Richard Parker: I’m surprised Ivan’s let her keep this theme song.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think she submitted another one to our sound team but I bet upon hearing this music, Ivan will likely change this the next time.

Stepping out from the backstage area is the Second Coming, Rose, as “bb.” by Naika plays through the stadium. The fans are on their feet, cheering her on, as she moves to the center of the stage. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of red army tights with ROSE painted on the sides in red and a black sports bra.

Oh, I, oh, I’m in my bag
Getting finer by the day
And I don’t ever wanna feen you anymore

She drops to one knee on the stage as the spotlight lands upon her. Her left fist touches the metal stage and she punches it twice, feeling the electricity in the air.

When you’re going through the motions
Losing focus, losing grip
Pick myself up off the floor
I’m not hurting anymore…

Richard Parker: Okay, I am seeing some faint touch of communism. This is enjoyable.

Nick Stuart: (Acting like Parker a moment ago) Is it now? Well okay then.

The buzz from the fans grows louder.

I swear, for a second there
I forgot what a bad bitch I was

She then explodes to her feet with a sudden step forward as pyro and fire go off behind her.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Richard Parker: Idea! And I’m talking one of those incredible Reed Young ideas! I’d like to see this theme performed in a deep, Russian voice the next time she’s out!

Nick Stuart: Why don’t you let her know.

Richard Parker: No thanks.

What a bad bitch I am
I’m feeling good
Right on track

She marches to the ring, eyes locked and focused, ignoring everyone around her except for what lies in front of her. She rolls under the bottom rope and hits the ropes twice before moving to her corner, determined.

It feels so good to be bad

Nick Stuart: Rose is going to try knocking down the comeback from Chandler Tsonda!

The music then fades.

Vince Howard: And her opponent… also from San Diego, California but by way of Hanoi, Vietnam… he is The Model Citizen… Chandler Tsonda!

I said kiss me, you’re beautiful
These are truly the last days

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home”. After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, a smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green and gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Richard Parker: I like it. No time wasted. I mean, I don’t like him exactly, thinking he can come back and run all over this roster but I don’t mind that we are ready to go!

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is our referee and we’re starting!

DING DING

Tsonda and Rose circle around the ring, looking for their opening when Rose forgoes the semantics and takes charge at Tsonda’s chest with a running knee. She catches him, she throws him into the ropes and meets Chandler there the second he bounces off. Another knee. A swift DDT follows. Rose springs to her feet.

Nick Stuart: Looking to make a move FAST, seeing if Tsonda is in wrestling shape or not. It’s not a bad strategy at all.

Rose kicks Tsonda in the chest before pulling him up to a vertical base and then knocking him back down with a leaping knee strike into his nose. She hits the ropes this time and delivers a measured knee drop to the forehead of Tsonda. Once again, she keeps in control of the action as she drags Tsonda upright and connects with a roundhouse kick.

Nick Stuart: It’s not often – particularly after wrestling a man like Ivan Stanislav – where Rose is facing an opponent of similar size. Yet she’s keeping her same approach as if Chandler Tsonda was three-hundred pounds or six-foot-seven. I doubt we see her attempt to lift him. Strikes and submissions are my bet.

Richard Parker: Bet? BetMGM or another gambling app?

Tsonda is back on his feet but once again he’s sent to the mat via a hard-out headbutt from Rose. This time, Chan doesn’t move. Rose slides over and hooks the leg for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Back to work Rose goes. She sends Tsonda into a corner and sprints in with an elbow to the head. She snatches Tsonda’s skull and tucks it under her right arm, about to run out of the ring with a running bulldog attempt- no! Chandler pushes Rose away! However, RED ROSE lands on her feet. She snaps around to see Tsonda coming so she drops to the mat in a heap but ensures she trips up Tsonda in the process.

Chandler goes head-first onto the mat, which allows Rose to slither over and snatch him by the neck in a modified bulldog choke!

Tsonda reaches out… he’s near the ropes but not close enough. Rose pulls back harder on the neck.

Richard Parker: I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rose deploy a move such as this.

Maybe Parker’s right, but regardless it looks like the bulldog choke is just a quicker transition for Rose to drop the hold, roll across Tsonda’s body and grab his right leg.

Single leg Boston crab. She drags him to the center of the ring as she locks it in.

Tsonda shouts and reaches towards the ropes. He’s A LOT further away now!

Nick Stuart: Dare I say you are right, partner. It looks like Rose’s strategy was to ground Tsonda, potentially slow his ability to get oxygen, and then go for the dagger. The legs. Take Tsonda’s movement right out from under him and work into one of Rose’s strengths.

Rose continues to have the hold locked in while the crowd cheers for Chandler to do something.

Richard Parker: Do you think Ivan is proud of her?

Nick Stuart: Are you… seriously asking me this? The match isn’t even over yet!

Richard Parker: Oh yeah, right.

Tsonda tries to push up and off the mat. He’s also trying to use his left leg, the free leg, to kick Rose away. But Rose leans back as hard as she can-

Unfortunately she leans back TOO much so now Tsonda has his arms wrapped around her neck and head!

Rose has to drop the hold, so Tsonda drops his. He rolls into a corner and starts knocking feeling into his right leg.

Nick Stuart: The damage MAY be done. Before Tsonda can get going with his own offense, one of his strengths has been taken!

Rose is up. Tsonda, with help from the corner buckle, is also up. Rose races in but Tsonda steers her into the corner. Tsonda with a kick, another, another. Suddenly, he has to stop because the feeling in his leg… it’s gone numb.

Rose snatches the leg and twists it as she falls to the canvas. Tsonda shouts in pain and collapses on the top rope. Rose is once again on her feet, she dropkicks Tsonda up and over the ropes. Chandler hits the apron and falls off to the ground below.

Rose bounces off the ropes on the far end. She’s going full tilt.

Plancha!

BUT CHANDLER TSONDA CATCHES HER.

Instead…

It’s a powerslam!

The crowd gives a cheer as Tsonda stands, stumbles backwards and ultimately falls over.

Nick Stuart: Unreal catch by Chandler Tsonda, grabbing Red Army Rose out of thin air and hitting her with a running powerslam thereafter!

Richard Parker: The kid got lucky!

Nick Stuart: Kid? We are talking about a significantly decorated wrestling legend who’s pushing fifty.

Richard Parker: They’re all kids to me, Nick!

Fair, we guess. Anyway, Tsonda rolls into the ring, while Ashley Barlow is at a count of FIVE.

It takes until SEVEN for Rose to shake her head on straight and enter the ring herself. However, Tsonda is waiting for her.

Stalling implant DDT, followed by a shotgun dropkick to the side of Rose’s face.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Tsonda’s right leg is working fine now.

Richard Parker: He’s pushing fifty, we’ll see about that.

Tsonda drags Rose upright and throws her into a release belly-to-belly suplex. Rose lands almost halfway across the ring, as Tsonda comes in again with another shotgun dropkick square on the jaw!

Tsonda pulls Rose up and looks for a snap suplex when suddenly, he lets go of her and grabs the small of his back.

Richard Parker: Injured already!? You came back too soon, Chandler!

Rose uses this as an opportunity to hit Tsonda with a ripcord clothesline, sending him to the mat. She starts stomping on Tsonda’s bad knee and also the small of his back where he was grabbing… and still is.

Rose drags Tsonda up and Irish whips him HARD into a corner. Chandler hits and sticks as RED ARMY ROSE (RAR, let’s make it a thing people) comes running in with a RED RIGHT HAND.

Or elbow.

Or a little of both.

Tsonda is on roller skates as he stumbles around the canvas, looking to be put out of his misery. Rose smacks into the ropes and races in-

Powerslam by Tsonda!

Nick Stuart: You don’t see that kind of flash from Chandler too often.

Richard Parker: It was the only move he could do. It was a smart play, using Rose’s momentum against her.

Tsonda with a schoolboy rollup follows!

ONE!

TWO!

ROSE SLIDES AWAY!

Richard Parker: Tsonda trying to put this away quickly. That’s not a bad call, either. Might as well.

RED ARMY ROSE hits the ropes before Tsonda can get to his feet. She leaps onto his shoulders and looks for a hurricanrana when Tsonda anchors himself to the mat, and Rose can’t flip him over. Instead, he hooks her hands behind his legs…

STYLES CLASH!

The PRIMEates give a wild cheer for the sheer fluidity of this move, which is also somewhat becoming all the rave in various circles, as Tsonda flips Rose over and hooks a leg. He counts along with his free left hand.

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP!

Tsonda is stunned but nevertheless, he slides across the canvas and flips into the ropes. A springboard leg drop follows as he confidently looks into the crowd. The Model Citizen springs to his feet, albeit he grabs his back for a second and shakes out his right leg. The cobwebs are gone, hopefully, because he’s already on the second rope.

Missile dropkick. This sends Rose stumbling backwards into a corner of the ring. Tsonda sprints in with a running knee lift, connecting to Rose’s mouth!

Tsonda has Rose’s head under his arm… he’s looking for a running bulldog when Rose pushes him off and Tsonda suddenly has to come to a screeching halt because he’s holding his right leg.

A spinning drop toe hold by Rose, morphs into another single leg Boston crab attempt!

But this time Chandler Tsonda is right near the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Can he get them!?

The answer is…

NO!

Wait, sorry.

The answer is YES! Barely!

Rose has to break the hold as Ashley Barlow counts, but she won’t let go until the count of FOUR. RED ARMY ROSE finally does but she is coy, clever, and super angry as usual. She drags Tsonda off the mat and dummies him with a European uppercut.

The Model Citizen is still on his feet. He is certainly struggling, however. Rose lands an implant DDT and then tries once again for the single leg crab.

Richard Parker: It’s a good strategy. Not only does it work the injured leg of Tsonda that Rose started to attack, it puts all that pressure on his back. Dare I say, this is the RED ROSE I desire!

Nick Stuart: Sometimes I can’t with you.

Tsonda is in the middle of the ring this time, Rose won’t make that mistake twice. She also won’t lean back to the point her opponent can grab her head. Although… she has not spun Chandler completely around just yet…

INSIDE CRADLE BY CHANDLER.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Rose is up. Tsonda is up.

ROSE WITH A SWIFT ROUNDHOUSE STRIKE!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is DOWN.

Rose with the cover!

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPE!

Rose screams at referee Ashley Barlow, feeling like Rose saw that out of the corner of her eyes: the leg fell upon the ropes too late. Needless to say, the match goes on. Rose stands and readies her knee, perhaps it’s going to be the Red Army Thorn Prick-

Tsonda stumbles out of the ring, over the ropes (likely by accident) and stands on the apron.

Rose is going for the Thorn Prick anyway-

Tsonda hangs her up on the top rope! RED ROSE stumbles into the ring as Tsonda shoots himself onto the top rope and leaps off, landing on Rose with a HARD hurricanrana!

Chandler stands to the cheers of the crowd. He peers over to a corner of the ring…

Nick Stuart: He might be thinking Model Citizen here.

He is, initially. But his back has tightened up on him. He has to change course quickly, because Rose is getting to her feet.

Narcissist Noose instead!

YAAAAYYYY!

The rack neckbreaker connects. Although Tsonda seems to be in a lot of pain, he rolls Rose over, hooks a leg with one hand and grabs his own painful leg with the other.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… CHANDLER TSONDA!

Nick Stuart: What a victory in Chandler’s return match!

Richard Parker: RED ROSE needs more ARMY RED in her.

Nick Stuart: She wrestled a damn good one, almost had him.

Tsonda’s hand is raised as his theme song plays and the crowd cheers. ReVival goes elsewhere.

The din in the arena as ReVival returns from commercial turns into a faint roar that explodes as soon as the square-jawed Japanese man with the black towel around his neck barks the phrase “プロレスは神聖なスポーツだ!

Subtitle – Pro wrestling is a sacred sport!

Local H. “Cynic.”

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Aww jeez, I thought I wouldn’t have to endure his ass this week.

Nick Stuart: Well, it looks like he was able to secure some ring time after his match with Max Kael was bumped to the next show. Besides, can you argue with all these fans here in Perth?

Richard Parker: I can, and I will. You forget that I once belonged to no fewer than 37 different message boards, and I had over 400 thousand tweets before I was banned from X for calling Elon Musk a hairball that an aardwolf coughed up.

Nick Stuart: An aardwo… you know what, I’ll just stop.

The Anglo Luchador basks in the applause at the top of the ramp for a moment before beginning his stride to the ring. He’s dressed in khaki shorts (it’s summer down under), sneakers, his lucha mask, and a t-shirt with a crocodile on it that reads “Flat Fuck Friday.” His Tag Team Championship belt is affixed to his waist, the only way a tecnico should wear a championship belt. He slaps hands with various fans on his way to the ring as they continue cheer and chant his name.

Nick Stuart: Conspicuous by his absence is Zapp Scatino. In fact, we haven’t seen him since Colossus.

Richard Parker: Eh, knowing him, he probably either was denied a passport or he booked a flight to Austria and is now eating weinerschnitzel in Vienna.

Nick Stuart: I really can’t argue with either of those possibilities, and that’s scary.

The Luchador slides underneath the bottom rope and pops up right in front of Vince Howard, asking for a microphone. PRIME’s ring announcer obliges, and The Luchador taps it to make sure it’s working before signaling to cut his music.

TAL: Perth! What’s up!?

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

TAL: So, here I was, at the tail end of one month here in the lovely country of Australia, looking forward to wrestling my first match here, ever.

Richard Parker: I find it hard to believe he didn’t wrestle in this country. Didn’t this yutz wrestle nearly everywhere?

TAL: But due to circumstances beyond my control, that’s not happening. I’m not sure why The Anglo Luchador vs. Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael isn’t happening here on Australia’s lovely West Coast, but it’s not, and I’m bummed.

The crowd lets up a mix of boos for circumstance and soft cheers for the sentiment.

TAL: It’s alright, it’s alright. I mean, stuff happens all the time, right? I could stand here and slander Max, and lord knows with my history with the Red Army, the material would be plentiful. But I’m not, because that’s not entirely what’s on my mind right now.

The Luchador looks down at the belt around his waist then back up at the crowd. He shrugs with a wry smile.

TAL: So, you all know I currently consist of one-half of the PRIME Tag Team Champions. Which is great!

RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

TAL: But the problem is that you need two wrestlers to field a tag team, and even though a long time ago, in a career that might as well be in a different lifetime, I ran a gimmick of gimmick infringement, well, I really would like to think I’ve grown and I don’t want to impinge on the memory of King Blueberry winning Survivor while teaming mostly with a mannequin.

Nick Stuart: Is he doing what I think he’s doing?

Richard Parker: I hope so. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a good self-immolation on a wrestling program.

Nick Stuart: Your mind really is a scary but fascinating place, Richard.

Richard Parker: Thank you!

Nick Stuart: That wasn’t a compliment.

TAL: Now, I’ve not seen hide nor hair of Zapp Scatino since Colossus. One week of radio silence, okay, maybe he’s prepping for Christmas. Two weeks, is he back in witness protection? But now, what, six weeks of this? I’m starting to think I’ve been ghosted.

BOOOOOOOO!!!!!

TAL: So I am left with a problem, and…

The Luchador is interrupted.

Run the Jewels. Greg Nice and DJ Premier. “Ooh La La.”

These fans in Perth watch the show. They saw what happened at the end of the Sydney show. This man’s emergence is unlikely to be a safe, positive thing.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

FLAMBERGE steps through the curtain in what can only be described as a half-majestic, half-ridiculous outfit. Tailored copper slacks with polished white shoes. A tailored teal jacket that legitimately looks like the skin of an assortment of lizards. Oversized yellow plastic sunglasses. The hair is way up there today, and even pointing a bit forward. The beard is lined up. He’s holding a gift box.

The gift box may have a label on the outside; FLAMBO’s left hand covers it, while his right hand holds a microphone.

Nick Stuart: We all saw FLAMBERGE’s offer to The Anglo Luchador in Sydney – to stand by his side and fill in for the missing Zapp Scatino. What do you think that’s all about?

Richard Parker: We’ve been watching this man for years now, and we’ve seen how the Lizard King operates – unpredictably. He’s PRIME’s Hot Pocket – you won’t know if he’s feeling ice cold or boiling lava hot until it’s too late!

Stuart is likely stunned into silence. FLAMBERGE looks out at the booing crowd as he slowly begins to make his way towards the ring, raising the microphone, the accented cello of his voice hitting some sort of amplifying resonant frequency in the building.

FLAMBERGE: Ooh la la, Perth!

BOOOOOahh oui oui! ahh oui oui!OOOOOO-

FLAMBERGE: Et alors, bonjour, Anglue.

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!

FLAMBERGE: I am glad you have chosen this time and this place to discuss this topic, mon ami. I…admit, to you, to the world, that I have not enjoyed this long wait between the ask and the answer. I am not the sort of man who enjoys the waiting around. And it occurred to me during this waiting, that ah – zut alors, of course, there is the perfectly logical reason you have dragged me along like the fish on the line for so long.

By now, FLAMBO is approaching the ring steps. TAL’s eyes are steely, studying this man, studying the box. Wondering how much material he could get out of the audacity of this Gen Z stereotype and his hideous outfit, then really taking a moment to soak in the sunglasses. They’re too big, FLAMBERGE. They’re too big.

FLAMBERGE: Then the dawn hit me…you might just be waiting for your friend to call you back, to answer the messages. That perhaps the Zapp Scatino just missed the flight, or the other somethings that happen to the dumb and the old.

The Neck Collector climbs the ring steps and enters the ring.

FLAMBERGE: And so, how do we bridge this gap, non? How does the FLAMBERGE convince the Gluechador that perhaps the Triple Crown – Le Courrone Triple – would serve as a significant upgrade to a man who had his neck collected not once, but twice by Roi Lézard?

The Frenchman removes his oversized sunglasses and places one of the hinges into the front of his pants, sort of enabling his dick and balls to withstand bright lights. Maybe this is a European thing. This soon becomes a secondary issue as viewers study Julien Lavigne’s eyes – unblinking, perhaps a little wide, definitely on the manic side. They don’t match the rest of his face or body posture, which are generally smooth and collected.

FLAMBERGE: Maybe…with a gift.

He places the box down incredibly gently on the ring mat. Once he releases the box, it’s like a jolt runs through his chest and shoulders. All smooth fluidity or graceful movement gives way to a very sudden departure, perhaps a broken fight or flight button – and with haste, he’s out of the ring, storming up the ramp, and he’s out. The Luchador’s confused eyes radiate out of his mask like floodlights, but he shakes his head and picks the microphone back up to his mouth.

TAL: I’ve never known you to hit and run like this, Julien, but I guess after last week, you glue goons are a little less adhesive? Anyway, who wants to see what Lizard Boi left me as a gift?

The crowd gives a mixed reaction, half of them curious, half of them thinking – perhaps even knowing – that it’s a trap.

TAL: Not a reaction that gives me the warm and fuzzies, but I mean, we all did see the end of ReV two weeks ago, right? Maybe it’ll be the Coke Zero that son of a bitch VENDBERGE owes me. OR maybe it’ll be a feral bearded dragon. Either way, there’s only one way to find out.

Before The Luchador goes to pick it up, we get a clear shot of the box FLAMBERGE left in the ring. It’s labeled “Courtesy Samples – The Glue Factory” with a white cartoon pegasus spreading its wings across the sides.

TAL: Courtesy Samples?

His face contorts as he slowly goes to open the box with his right hand while cradling it with his left. As he opens the lid, his expression changes from confused to horrified. Aghast, even. His eyes widen, and the box slips out of his grasp as it falls to the mat. The impact causes the contents of the box to spill out, revealing what they are.

Bottles. Bottles with labels. Glue bottles with labels.

TAL: No.

The camera zooms into the bottles as they roll around the ring. Those bottles and their labels?

They read “Zapp Scatino”.

The Luchador wings the microphone across the ring, the sound of its impact with the top turnbuckle causing an ear-piercing blast of feedback echoing throughout the arena. He slides out of the ring and rushes to the back.

Nick Stuart: I… I think the Glueminati means business in 2025, Rich.

Richard Parker: I’m just surprised they were able to make Zapp into glue. He always seemed too greasy for that.

Nick Stuart: Jesus Christ, Rich.

ReVival moves on.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors backstage, we find Seán O’Neill prowling with a simmering intensity. His mood is unmistakably foul, radiating an aura of barely contained rage. The Irishman strides purposefully down the corridor, yanking each door he passes open, then just as quickly slamming each one shut behind him with a reverberating thud as his target continues to elude him.

Though he is not wearing his usual wrestling gear, there is a fighting look about him. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both of his hands are heavily taped, in a clear indication of his intent to throw fists this evening.

The flickering fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across his face, highlighting the determination and fury etched into his features. His eyes, sharp and focused, scan the corridor with a predatory gaze, every muscle in his body coiled with anticipation.

For the unfortunate young soul about to round the corner, this was truly a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Perth is a city blessed with countless sun-kissed beaches, and this young man looked no stranger to them. Clad in a polo shirt bearing the logo of the RAC Arena, it was evident that he spent most of his free time basking in the coastal splendor. His long blonde dreadlocks framed his face, a rather desperate attempt at a goatee clung to his chin, and his ensemble was completed with a pair of Bermuda shorts and flip-flops.

It was his great misfortune that what could potentially be his first encounter with a professional wrestler would be with the fuming Irishman. Had the young fellow instead stumbled upon Sage Pontiff, one can only assume he would have enjoyed a much more positive experience.

O’Neill’s eyes shot towards him the moment he turned the corner, striding with purpose he reached the arena employee in an instant and accosted him.

Seán O’Neill: Hey, you! Have you seen Cooley?

A dumbfounded look spread across the young man’s face.

Arena Employee: Errr, I dunno what that is mate?

Seán O’Neill: Cooley fucking Jenkins or something like that, I don’t know! Same height as me, lanky fucker – looks like he’s never worked out a day in his life. Long blonde hair, blue eyes, big old fucking chin. Walking embodiment of a wank-stain. You seen him?

There is no response from the employee, his eyes dart past O’Neill. In the silence you can almost hear the gears in his pot-raddled brain trying to work out if he could slip by and out-run the larger man.

Closing his eyes, O’Neill takes an audibly deep breath and then speaks again, slowly enunciating each word.

Seán O’Neill: Have. you. seen. someone. who. looks. like. That?

There is another long silence where the young man tries, with some difficulty, to access his short-term memory. After a few moments, which feel like hours to Seán, a vacant looking smile appears on the employee’s face and he nods his head.

Arena Employee: Come to think of it mate, I did see a cunt looked like that! Yeah, ‘bout ten mins ago mate, he was heading to the dunny!

This time it was O’Neill’s turn to look confused.

Seán O’Neill: The fuck is a dunny?

Arena Employee: The bog mate, the loo… the toilets.

Seán O’Neill: Where?

The young man thumbs over his shoulder, back in the direction he’s just come from. Not wanting to waste any further time on this pursuit, the Irishman bundles past heading in the indicated direction.

The employee mutters under his breath, but unfortunately the sound carries, the tone is enough to convey the meaning behind the words.

Arena Employee: Bloody Drongo!

The employee mutters under his breath, but the sound carries, and O’Neill halts immediately and glares back at him. Realizing his mistake, the young man’s eyes widen as he turns on his heels and sprints in the opposite direction.

Seán now turns his attention back to his search, rushing down the corridors. Two turns later, he comes to a stop in front of a door marked “Disabled Toilet.” Testing the handle, he’s surprised to find it unlocked. He yanks the door open forcefully and then comes to a complete standstill, a look of horrified disgust replacing the anger on his face as he takes in the scene before him.

Cooley: Do they not knock in Ireland?

Standing in all his glory, Cooley has nothing but his cowboy boots on. His belt is tied around his neck and the top of the bathroom door stall. What the hell was he doing in there? What are any of us doing? Just trying to not feel so alone.

Cooley: You like what you see, bud?

Seán immediately brings his left hand up in front of his face to save himself the sight of Cooley’s manhood. Sensing from this, that O’Neill is not there for a free show nor to let him complete his work, Cooley holds up a finger.

Cooley: Uno momento.

A large line of cocaine sits on the toilet paper holder. Cooley turns his back to the speechless O’Neill and snorts the line in its entirety. His body tenses and he shoots up, rubbing his nose furiously.

Cooley: I said GODDAMN! I bet you’re here for a little comeuppance, right? Well, I’ll tell you buddy, it hurt me a lot more than it hurt you when I slapped you around and I been feeling bad. I got a little something for you as a.. peace offering,

Still butt ass naked, Cooley reveals a duffle bag. A super popular, well known bank name is stamped on the outside of it. With a quick push from his feet he sends the bag sliding along the floor, it comes to a rest right in front of O’Neill.

Seán O’Neill: The fuck is this shit ‘little buddy’?

The Irishman felt the renewed use of the name from their previous encounter was now very appropriate, in light of what he’s just witnessed. (Yup, that’s right folks, we’re going there!) (Ps. It’s very uncool to body shame people and God made you perfect just the way you are.) (Pps. Also O’Neill totally looked and it’s worked just fine for Cooley so far.)

Cooley: Matanah Shel! It’s an olive branch. A little sorry from me to you. In short, it’s a bag of money.

Hard rectangular edges bulge at the soft lining of the duffle bag.

Cooley: Go on, little buddy, open the bag.

O’Neill is obviously wary. The kind of wary like when you have a raccoon trapped in your trash can. You have to get him out and you want to love him, but he’s feral and doesn’t understand things like cute or friendship. There’s something in Cooley’s smile that should’ve put O’Neill at ease, though. It’s a genuine smile. This guy totally wouldn’t charge you $100 for a gram.

With brow arched in suspicion, the Irishman reaches down for the bag, and is genuinely surprised by the weight. It certainly feels how you’d expect a bag of money to feel. He looks up at Cooley who gives him a solemn nod of approval.

Ziiiiiiiiiiip

SPLAT!

Exploding from within the bag, blue ink covers the scene. As the unfortunate soul to open the bag, and set off the trap – O’Neill got a face-full, or should I say, an eye-full. He staggers back away from the bag, desperately trying to claw the ink out of his eyes. A verbal tirade that would remind onlookers of Joe Pesci in Home Alone, O’Neill shouts every swear word he’s ever heard (and he’s fucking Irish!)

Cooley: HA! You actually fell for it!

A solid elbow to the nose drops O’Neill to the ground. In between writhes of the fallen O’Neill, Cooley lays a few well timed kicks to the Irishman’s crotch. Cooley surveys the scene. Carnage. Another satisfied customer. He stands over O’Neill and does the helicopter before landing one more kick for good measure on his way out the door.

ReVival moves on.

Sebastian Gold power walks down a hallway precariously balancing a stack of dawgs in one arm and condiments in the other. He turns the corner, headed for the locker room he shares with Crash…

Sebastian Gold: Hey bro, you missed your post-match dawgs at Catering! You good?

…and almost turns the hallway into a Jackson Pollock painting when he nearly runs into his opponent, PRIME’s Alias Champion. Bryan Dawkins leans against the wall, title slung across his shoulder as he wipes his hands with a wad of paper towels.

Bryan Dawkins: You mind, bruh?

He tosses the used paper towels into a nearby trash can and grabs a few napkins from Sebastian. He uses them to wipe down the Alias title. What is that…ketchup, mustard?

Bryan Dawkins: Just wanted to stop by and wish you luck tonight.

Sebastian Gold: Somehow, I don’t believe that.

The used napkins suffer the same fate as the paper towels. Dawkins refocuses on his opponent.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m not gonna lie. I was pretty surprised when the powers that be swapped out Black Sheep Baez for…you. Goin’ from a bruh who just beat a former Universal Champion to a bruh whose biggest accomplishment to date is not dyin’ after bein’ set on fire was a choice, for sure!

Dawkins offers a mischievous grin to his challenger. Gold hides the hit to his ego under a practiced smirk.

Bryan Dawkins: But that’s not really why I’m here, bruh.

Sebastian Gold: Then get on with it, bruh. Or you know what? Take your time. Maximize your minutes as champ, you don’t have many left.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m here to try and give you some advice. A long time ago, I had a mentor who used to call himself a Model Citizen. He taught me how to be a professional wrestler. Taught me how to navigate the world of PRIME and really…how to become a big star.

Dawkins inches closer to Bash.

Bryan Dawkins: He also taught me that sometimes you have to make decisions for yourself that may not make sense to anyone else. Decisions that make you seem selfish. Decisions that leave your friends behind.

He looks back at the door to Crash’s locker room.

Bryan Dawkins: Those decisions can propel you to the top, Bash. Look at me, bruh. I start makin’ decisions with my own well-being in mind and I end up with this.

He points to the Alias Title.

Bryan Dawkins: And with the help of the Red Army, this Alias Title is just the beginning. Let this be a lesson for ya, bruh. Pick your allies wisely. Ya don’t see Crash walkin’ around with anything these days except for a broken heart and a dozen hot dogs. Is that really who ya wanna hitch your trailer to?

Dawkins sighs and shrugs.

Bryan Dawkins: Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Look, all I’m sayin’ is don’t be a hero to try and save someone who can’t even defend himsel–…

Dawkins stops mid-sentence, mockingly covering his mouth in surprise. Sebastian’s smug veneer falls off to reveal panic. His eyes darts to Crash’s locker room. What did he do??

Bryan Dawkins: I’ve probably said too much. See ya out there, bruh…good luck with our stip tonight.

Dawkins flips his sunglasses up, offers a quick wink to his opponent and heads toward the Argyle position. Gold ignores him, bursting into the locker room.

The room is in complete disarray with personal belongings strewn about and Crash crumpled against the far wall, covered in condiments and pieces of hot dog.

Sebastian Gold: CRASH! Crash, wake up, buddy.

Sebastian rushes over to check on his fallen bro. He tries to elevate his head but it only lolls back down. He lets go and looks down at his hand now smeared with Crash’s blood.

Gold grits his teeth, his face red with anger. He’s not getting away with this.

Sebastian Gold: I need some help over here!

He yells, running offscreen to find a med team.

ReVival moves on.

Vince Howard: The following is an ALIAS TITLE match. The selected rules are FALLS COUNT.. ONLY IN THE PRESENCE OF A RED ARMY MEMBER!

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 MEEEE

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 MEEEEE

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

AN EMPTY ROOOAAAAD
AND A COOL, COOL WIND
MAKES IT FEEL SO GOOOOOOOOD

He climbs the top turnbuckle and points to the sky.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A deafening blast of aqua, orange, and white pyrotechnics explode before those oh-so-familiar two words that begin “Song 2” by the English alt. rock band Blur induce a standing ovation from the crowd.

WOO HOO!

The capacity crowd’s cheers are directed at one man who just so happens to be standing at the top of the ramp. The former Flyin’ Hawaiian.

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Bryan Dawkins with the Alias Championship slung over his shoulder..

Vince Howard: Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds, hailing from Hilo, Hawaii…He is the ALIAS CHAMPION… BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Dawkins flashes the crowd his signature “hang loose” gesture, and soon enough, he’s sauntering down toward the ring, crossing back and forth to throw high fives to random fans. Eventually making it to the ring, he slides in and hops to each of the four turnbuckles, jumping to the top and flashing the “hang loose” sign yet again. Atop the final turnbuckle, he removes his signature aqua and orange sunglasses and tosses them to the frenzied crowd.

Alexei Ruslan is seated at ring side giving the crowd a dismissive wave.

Nick Stuart: It looks like the Red Army member who will be looking over this match will be Alexei Ruslan… this should be a fair and unbiased affair. That’s sarcasm for people reading the transcript.

Richard Parker: Look at the pot calling the kettle black, Stuart! You’re making a lot of judgments about a man as honorable and beloved as Alexei Ruslan.

Elvis Nixon retrieves the Alias Title from Dawkins, showing it to Sebastian Gold before holding it aloft for the crowd to acknowledge.

DING DING

As soon as the bell rings Sebastian charges across the ring, slamming down rights and lefts across a surprised Dawkin’s upper body and back! The crowd is going absolutely crazy at this hot start.

Nick Stuart: As stated earlier, the only way to win this match is to score a pinfall or submission in front of a member of the Red Army. I can’t help but feel like this stipulation benefits the Champion.

Richard Parker: He’s the Alias Champion, every stipulation should benefit the Champion, that’s called strategy.

Outside the ring Alexei quickly springs to his feet, his brow furrowing angrily.

Getting forced back into the corner, Dawkins covers up as Elvis Nixon steps in, forcing an irate Gold back. Bryan uses the respite too even the playing field out, barks something at his opponent. Gold seems to yell something back as Dawkins comes out of the corner, his guard up.

Nick Stuart: The emotions are running hot in Gold tonight, he’ll want to keep those in check if he wants to become a Champion tonight.

Richard Parker: You see the genius of the Red Army? They have Gold beaten for Dawkins before the match even started!

Nick Stuart: Nothing is set in stone, Richard.

The two circle each other before going for a tie up. Dawkins, fast despite his age and injuries, slips beneath Gold’s arms, kicking Seb’s leg out from under his leg.

Alexei claps, cheering on from the outside as his man starts to regain control of the match. Dawkins doesn’t relent on Sebastian’s leg as he pummels the knee with a flurry of striking offensive. The crowd boos as Dawkins stands over Gold who is curled up, specifically covering his damaged leg.

Richard Parker: Look at that genius offensive from Dawkins! I bet Alexei coached him on that!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is a veteran of the game, I’m sure he was able to come up with that tactic on his own, Parker.

With a handful of Gold’s hair, the Alias Champion hoists the challenger to his feet before executing a nearly perfect release German Suplex, dropping Seb right on the back of his knee and shoulders!

Popping back up to his feet, flashing that trademark “Hang Loose” hand gesture, he is met with a mix of cheering and boos. He looks almost shocked at the reaction however Alexei claps his hands and cheers as loud as he can to make up for the boos.

Richard Parker: What a real friend that Alexei is. Unlike these criminal minded Australians, having the audacity to boo their… our Alias Champion!

Staggering back up to his feet, Gold seems to catch a second, throwing himself at a distracted Dawkins. Turning, Dawkins is caught in a Hurricanrana, flipping down hard onto the mat as Sebastion Gold captures his legs into a pin!

Nick Stuart: He’s got him in a pin! This could be it!

Richard Parker: You’re so sure, Stuart?

Unfortunately as Nixon looks around, Alexei Ruslan appears to have completely disappeared. The referee informs Gold that he needs to be in the presence of a Red Army member to make the pinfall, causing Gold to release the pinfall with a dejected look on his face.

Richard Parker: Uh oh! Gold should have been paying attention to where Alexei was, he might have to take this match to the bathroom!

Nick Stuart: Where is Alexei!? There is no way he snuck off to use the bathroom, Parker! He’s hiding! Hiding to save Dawkins!

Richard Parker: Such accusations! Terrible, bias rumor mongering!

Scrambling up, Dawkins spins and swings his arm, looking to connect with a lariat however the faster Gold manages to duck. Throwing himself into the ropes, Dawkins generates momentum as he bounces back at the challenger!

He’s caught in the gut with a kick causing him to fold over. A knee from Gold knocks him back up. This is all followed by a roundhouse kick that turns Dawkins inside out, his body smashing to the ground like a sack of dirty old bricks.

Nick Stuart: The Triple Threat! The Triple Threat! But where the hell is Alexei!?

Richard Parker: All the skill in the world doesn’t matter if you can’t find a Red Army member when you need’em, huh? A shame, really.

Looking around the ring for Alexei, Sebastian Gold’s face is once again one of dejection. He leaves the downed Dawkins in the ring as he slips between the ropes. Looking around the ringside, the local Perth crowd are quick to point toward the ring skirt. Pointing toward the underside of the ring, the crowd erupts into cheers.

Nick Stuart: Go get him, Gold! Figure out where that damn Russian is hiding!

Richard Parker: He’s not hiding, I’m telling you!

Pulling away the ring skirting, Gold looks beneath the ring for a moment. After a few seconds of hunting, Gold appears to have found something. With a great yank, Alexei Ruslan is pulled out from beneath the ring and exposed to the Perth Arena once again!

Nick Stuart: He was hiding beneath the ring the entire time!

Richard Parker: He wasn’t hiding! He was checking the ring stability! An old Veteran like him knows when a ring doesn’t sound safe! Quick! Dawkins! Save Alexei!

Gold grabs Alexei by the lapels of his uniform, hoisting him up to his feet as he exchanges a few tense words with the old Russian.

Out of nowhere Bryan Dawkins comes flying over the top rope, colliding with an unprepared Gold! Both men collapse to the ground in a heap as Alexei barely escapes. Pulling Dawkins over Gold, Alexei frantically waves Elvis Nixon over to make the pinfall!

1…

2….

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: He nearly had him! Gold lives on despite Alexei’s efforts!

Richard Parker: Alexei didn’t do nothing! He’s just supporting his friend!

Gold throws his shoulder up as Alexei curses aggressively in Russian. The crowd boos and those boos only increase as Maximillian Wilhelm Kael appears on the stage, his hands in the pockets of his red three piece suit. Alexei waves Max toward the ring, barking orders in Russian as the Commissar lazily approaches.

It’s Dawkins who is back up to his feet first, rubbing his jaw as he drags the challenger, Seb Gold up to his feet. The two exchange fists as Alexei and Max look on. As Alexei cheers Dawkins on, Max appears bored, yawking and chatting with nearby fans.

Richard Parker: Finally! Another Red Army member at ringside to help make sure we can get a fair pinfall!

Nick Stuart: Spare me, Parker, the last thing we need is Max Kael at ringside!

The two fight their way toward the ramp where Dawkins suddenly grabs Gold by the waist and tosses him like a baby with a belly to belly suplex! Gold’s body is crushed down onto the stage, the air driven from his lungs as Alexei jumps up and down with excitement.

The Alias Champion returns to ringside and retrieves a table from beneath the ring. Alexei offers to help him set it up but Dawkins waves him off. Bryan pauses for a moment when he realizes that Max is also at ring side. The two stare at each other before Dawkins is blasted from behind by a recovered Bash!

Richard Parker: What are you doing Dawkins!? Focus on Sebastian!

Nick Stuart: What’s that damn Alexei Ruslan up too now?!

Alexei picks up a steel chair and charges forward, ready to strike Gold only to get caught mid swing. Alexei looks at Max who shrugs before the old Russian has the chair ripped from his hands!

CRACK!

The steel connects with Dawkin’s head, his lifeless body falling onto the table he had just set up. Max offers a casual golf clap as Alexei stares daggers at his fellow Red Army Member.

Richard Parker: WHAT!? WHAT IS GOING ON!?

Sebastian Gold doesn’t pay attention to any of the ringside drama, instead immediately climbing to the top rope…The crowd has risen to their feet, cheering Gold on!

Nick Stuart: GOLD CRUSH FROM THE TOP ROPE TO THE TABLE OUTSIDE! MY GOD!

Richard Parker: MAX?! What the hell are you doing!?

Gold crashes down on Dawkins, the table he is on exploding sending wood and metal in all directions! Both men are lifeless though Gold’s body is on top of Dawkins! Alexei immediately ducks under the ring once again to help avoid a pinfall.

Max kneels down next to both men, his eyes locked on Dawkins as Elvis Nixon begins the pinfall.

1..

2…

3!!!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner… AND NEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW ALIAS CHAMPION… SEBASTIAN GOOOOOOOOOLD!

The crowd is roaring at this point as “The Living End” blasts over the Perth sound system. Elvis Nixon helps Sebastian out of the broken ruins of the table. Alexei crawls out from beneath the ring with a look of shock on his face, uncertain what had happened until he sees Max, still knelt down next to Dawkins body, staring daggers into his unconscious face.

Richard Parker: What just happened!? What did Max just do?!

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a NEW ALIAS Champion in Sebastian Gold, Parker! Both men fought it out but Dawkins slipped when he saw Max. From there, Gold was able to secure a very hard fought victory!

ReVival moves on.

Live overhead shot of the arena, fans going crazy, phones and lights. We’re approaching the homestretch of the night and PRIME has thus far delivered on its promise to Australia. From this distance you can just barely see Vince Howard entering the ring.

Cut to a shot of Howard as he squares up to the camera. Confusion in his eyes. But then he gets his game face on.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we would ask you to rise from your seats and welcome a very special guest. He is the former…

Checks his card.

Vince Howard: …SIX TIME RVW champion, whose career was cut tragically short after his deployment to Iraq during the Gulf War of 1991.

Nick Stuart: Oh wow. Get up, Richard.

Vince Howard: And now, finally making his long-awaited return to a wrestling ring after THIRTY-FOUR YEARS, ladies and gentlemen, please join PRIME in welcoming the one, the only…

Most of the audience is on their feet. Many of them can be seen behind Vince Howard craning their necks to get a look at the entrance.

Vince Howard: Rexton William Baaaaaaaadeeer!

The massive audience claps politely as a very traditional, horn-heavy version of “The Star Spangled Banner” begins to play, and there, at the top of the entrance ramp, appears a wheelchair-bound man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, dressed in faded army fatigues, aviator sunglasses, and an American flag bandanna. Strapped to his chair there is an oxygen tank, the hoses from which are currently looped around his neck but not in use. His face–thin, black mustache–is so expressionless he might as well be catatonic. It conveys just one thing: This is a man who’s Seen. Some. Shit.

Close behind him are four PRIME officials, one of whom takes control of the wheelchair and begins the long trek to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Gotta admit, Richard, I’ve never heard of RVW.

Richard Parker: Under the advice of legal counsel, I’m not supposed to talk about the 80s.

Nick Stuart: So you have heard of it?

Richard Parker: Not supposed to talk about the 80s.

Nick Stuart: And this guy was a six-time–

Richard Parker: Can’t hear you, Stuart.

Once the quintet gets the to the ring, half of the officials hop onto the apron and they begin the awkward process of hoisting Rexton’s chair up and over the top rope. Then one official delivers Rexton to the center of the ring before bowing back out.

At this point, finally, we see some movement in Rexton’s face. He turns his head slightly, taking in the sight. The Australian audience is on their feet, paying their respect to an American wounded warrior.

Just as the Star Spangled Banner begins to fade, Vince Howard, smiling, politely hands over his microphone before leaving the ring to Rexton.

Rexton William Bader: I–

He has to stop for a moment as the Australian audience grows a little louder.

Nick Stuart: Great show of respect here. This is why we love Australia.

Rexton William Bader: I just want to say… after years of rehabilitation, both physical and mental…

Nick Stuart: It’s hard to even imagine what he must have gone through.

Rexton William Bader: …and after years of battles with addiction…

Nick Stuart: An unfortunate reality.

Rexton William Bader: …after dark nights of the soul that I don’t want to even describe… I have finally, after thirty-four long years, clawed my way back from the brink of hell, and arrived here in PRIME, the greatest wrestling organization in the world today…

Nick Stuart: What a moment this must be for him.

Rexton William Bader: …and you sick fucks don’t even have the decency to equip this ring with a proper God damn wheelchair ramp.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: He’s not wrong.

For a moment the audience is stunned. The most polite among them can’t help but clap–the man IS still a paraplegic, after all–as if Mr. Bader has just made a valid point, but within a few seconds the boos begin to overtake the nervous cheers.

Rexton William Bader: Oh here it comes. The boos. Yeah, boo, fuckers. Boo a war hero. Boo the man who sacrificed his wrestling career in service to his country. Go ahead. Just makes you look like assholes. Show your true colors, Australia. Show how you treat the Mobility Challenged. Go on. Boo. Australia. Where’d you learn to fuckin’ talk anyway?

Rexton’s own accent has by now revealed itself: New England. Thick. The boos, of course, have gotten nothing but louder.

Rexton William Bader: This place smells like kangaroo shit and pine cones! Every God damn one of you is the descendant of a God damn criminal, and you sound like it! Booing a God damn paraplegic WAR HERO! Go ‘head. Go ‘head. Boo, fuckers. I should sue this whole God damn place, every last fuckin’ one of you, for the humiliation I just suffered, bein’ carried into this ring like a fuckin’ invalid.

He raises the aviator sunglasses and looks directly into the camera, his face a big cluster of pockets of skin.

Rexton William Bader: Get your shit together, PRIME!

The boos are hot and heavy now.

Rexton William Bader: You will treat me with respect! Do you have any idea who I fuckin’ am? I am the six time–SIX TIME–RVW champion! I traveled the world as Rexton “The Master” Bader, and I was well on my way to becoming the greatest professional wrestler in the history of the sport! But that honor was stolen from me! And I did not come back here after all that time and all that struggle just to be booed by a bunch of koala-fuckin’ inbreds! I. Did. Not!

The first drink has been thrown into the ring. It is followed quickly by a second.

Rexton William Bader: I want him removed! That’s a lawsuit! Right there in the blue shirt! That’s a God damn lawsuit!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know whose idea this was, but it could easily get out of hand.

After some wild arm-waving and finger-pointing, Rexton catches his breath, scowling, long enough to continue.

Rexton William Bader: So what have I come here for? Why has Rexton “The Master” Bader, after all this time, FINALLY made his way to a PRIME wrestling ring? Well. After thirty-four years, I have decided that my injuries are too great, and that…

He takes a moment to compose himself.

Rexton William Bader: …I will never wrestle again.

Nick Stuart: He’s just coming to this conclusion now? After thirty-four y–

Richard Parker: Hush up and show some respect for a hero.

Rexton William Bader: It breaks my heart, but it’s true. I will ne– … I will nev…

A couple of deep breaths with the help of his oxygen tank.

Rexton William Bader: I will never wrestle again. Oh God. Oh, that was hard. That’s a hard thing to admit. It’s time. Try though I have–and God have I tried–I will never walk again. It’s finally time to give up the dream. But I didn’t come here to tell you that.

Nick Stuart: So what did he come here for?

Rexton William Bader: I came here to announce, that while I will never fulfill my potential to become the greatest professional wrestler in the history of the sport…

And now, maybe, just maybe, he cracks a smile. If you can call it that.

Rexton William Bader: I have decided to become the greatest manager in the history of the sport.

Here come the boos again.

Rexton William Bader: That’s right, fuckers. Get used to this face, because it’s gonna be all over your screens. Because while I may no longer be able to bestow my physical gifts upon the world, I can still bestow my knowledge–being the would-be greatest of all time–one ONE LUCKY WRESTLER!

Nick Stuart: Who’s he talking about?

Rexton William Bader: And I will pluck this lucky wrestler from obscurity and I will turn him into the lean, mean killing machine that I was once destined to be. We will win championships, we will win accolades, we will share whores and money. I will become the man behind the wrestler who goes down in history as PRIME’s greatest.

He pauses a beat, allowing the boos to swell one more time.

Rexton William Bader: I will be the conduit for greatness. So who among you, PRIME, will I select? Who will I take to the top of the mountain? Well. In the coming weeks, I’ll figure that out. But for now, PRIME…

He raises the aviator sunglasses one more time.

Rexton William Bader: …I’m watching you.

He lowers the glasses and drops the microphone amid a thunderous chorus of boos, but even so the microphone is still close enough to catch him yelling at the nearby officials, “Now get me out of this God damn ring, and God help you if you drop me! And don’t think I can’t feel my dick because I can! You touch me in my dick and that’s your career buddy! Do you know who my fuckin’ lawyer is?” Et cetera.

ReVival moves on.

It’s amazing the lengths a man will go to, to not be seen.

Take Nate Colton, for example.

He’s deep within the guts of the Perth Arena, searching for somewhere he can be alone. Away from prying eyes, nosy questions, and judging glares. A place where he can find some peace.

It won’t work, of course. As a wise man once said, “No matter where you go…there you are.”

Also, he’s being followed by a camera operator. So that doesn’t help.

He’s committed to the plan, doomed though it may be, as he shuffles through the long-ignored hallways. Into the bowels–nay, the very anus–of the building.

Nate Colton: Hope I can find my way back…

We hope so too.

Nate Colton: Dunno if I’ve ever been this deep before.

Oh, Nathan. Yes you have. It’s been a while, though…about a year and a half.

Remember the last time you made some mistakes? Crossed some lines? Hurt people who didn’t deserve it?

This is where it led you.

He starts checking the doors as he walks, but most of them are locked. He’s almost to the end of the hall when a knob finally turns.

The New Diamond opens the door, revealing very little about the room inside. Pitch black. Dead silent.

Perfect.

He flicked on the light switch, knowing full well that it would ruin one of those descriptors.

He didn’t expect to ruin both.

“Ahhh!”

The light revealed a figure in the room, suddenly covering his eyes.

Nate Colton: Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here. I’ll go some–

Nate’s mouth curls into a scowl as realization dawns.

Nate Colton: Oh. It’s you.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall sulks down onto the floor in a seated position, continuing to rub his eyes.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I- I didn’t know where else to go.

He lowers his head and struggles to hold back a sniffle.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I didn’t think anyone would find me.

Hall sticks his hands together and twiddles his thumbs, as he stares at the ground.

The New Diamond looks down at the Vow of Virtue, his face covered by a look of…

Anger?

Sadness?

Disgust?

Pity?

Yeah, that about covers it.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: So, um, how are you doing?

Nate Colton: I…have been better. How about you?

JCH doesn’t know what to say. He’s trying to find the words, but nothing comes out of his mouth. So he sits there, and Colton stands there. It’s rather awkward silence.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Um, I don’t know if you heard but Vickie and I split.

You don’t say? Colton, obviously, isn’t surprised.

Nate Colton: Yeah…I heard something about that.

JCH tries to look up but it’s clear he’s hiding his face for specific reasons. Like, maybe he’s trying not to cry.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I thought I was giving her everything. I wanted to, you know. I can’t believe what happened…

Nate takes a deep breath. He leans down and tries to catch JCH’s full attention, not caring if Hall has tears in his eyes or not.

Nate Colton: Hey. HEY.

This is it. This is where it all comes out.

All the misdeeds that Hall has been party to since coming to PRIME. The constant cheating. The tainted victories. The chocolate waterboarding. Oh, and that time he drove Nate face-first through a stained glass window with the world watching.

The bill has finally come due, in the form of a man who has taken more than he can stand. A man whose patience is paper-thin, and whose supply of mercy has long since been exhausted.

Time to get what you deserve, Jonathan-Christopher.

Nate Colton: You’re better than this.

The look on Hall’s face. It’s like. It’s like.

It’s like no one has ever said these words to him before.

(Spoiler: they have not.)

He doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s dumbfounded. So he sits there and listens.

Nate Colton: I’ve been there, man. Hell, I wasted about two years of my life chasing after someone who never gave a shit about me. She cut me out of her life, over and over, and I’d keep taking her back…and she’d do it all again. Might as well have torn my heart out and stomped on it.

Jonathan-Christopher doesn’t move, he is listening intently, with every part of his body.

Nate Colton: But finally I had enough. Cut her out of my life, the same as she did to me. Hurt like hell the whole time…but it was worth it. Now I’m in a better spot–I’m with someone who doesn’t play games, doesn’t treat me like I’m not important. She actually cares about me, and it makes all the difference in the world.

Hall is genuinely stunned at Colton saying how he handled it.

Nate Colton: Vickie’s a black hole. You could have given her the whole universe, and it wouldn’t have been enough. She ain’t worth the time and thought you already gave her, and she damn sure ain’t worth more of it. You need to get her out of your head, before you can fix your heart.

Silence falls upon the room, as Nate said his piece and been as real to JCH as dare, we say, anyone has.

Jonathan-Christopher shuffles on the ground. First to his left, then to his right. It’s like he’s going to be there for a while.

He stares blankly ahead, right at the white brick wall. He’s expressionless.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Thank- thank you?

His voice raises upon the ending, but he still sounds genuine. If nothing more, his body language suggests he’s taking this in.

And it’s going to be a while.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I need some time to myself.

Hall lowers his head again, as Nate Colton, who threw his whole life on the table for Jonathan-Christopher looks down and gives a slight nod. But just before he makes his exit-

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Hey, Nate?

Nate Colton: Yeah?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Can you turn the lights back off?

Colton nods.

Nate Colton: Sure thing.

The New Diamond does just that and exits the room, leaving JCH in the darkness. Colton isn’t there to hear it, but Hall squeaks out one final expression.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And thank you.

Back to ringside.

We’re back at ringside, where we’re gearing up for the next match.

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

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

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

Fuck you
Fuck you
Fuck you
and fuck society too.

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

Fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
and fuck the world.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest IS scheduled for one fall! Introducing first… representing the Poor Whoresmen! First, from Mount Perdition in Gallifrey! ANNNNNNNAAAAAAA DAAAAAANIELLLLLLSSSSS!!! Her tag team partner, fighting out of Decatur, Georgia! He weighs in at two hundred and forty pounds! THE LEGEND! ROOOOOOOBBBBB!!! WIIIIIIILLLLLLLLIIIIIIAAAAAAAMMMMSSSS!!! Together! They are! FUCK! YOUR! TAG! TEAAAAAMMMMM!!!

Richard Parker: I hate that he can get away with that and I can’t.

Nick Stuart: I’m sure he gets fined every time he announces it, but he’s a professional. If anything, it’s Rob and Anna that’s to be blamed.

Once in the ring, the two stretch and prepare for the match while waiting for their opponents.

The stomping beat of Survivor’s “Burning Heart” pumps through the PA as the house lights come down. PINK stagelights rhythmically pump in time to the music, while the PRIMEview flickers to life with an animatic…

On the screen, a Ferrari Testarossa blazes a trail of smoke through a vast neon Outback, occupied by two shadowy riders.

The silhouette behind the wheel burns within a blue and gold fire. He stoically pushes up his shades, with his fore and middle fingers forming a V, which remains on the screen.

“Two worlds collide, rival nations!
“It’s a primitive clash, venting years of frustration!
“Bravely we hope against all hope!
“There is so much at stake, seems our freedom’s up against the ropes!”

The figure in the passenger seat radiates with green and silver electricity. As he reaches up to the rearview mirror to inspect himself, the crook of his arm forms another V, which also stays on the screen.

“Two worlds collide, rival nations!
“It’s a primitive clash, venting years of frustration!
“Bravely we hope against all hope!
“There is so much at stake, seems our freedom’s up against the ropes!”

As the sportscar tears further into the untamed wilds ahead, eventually disappearing into the horizon, the twin V’s float up to the center of the screen.

“Does the crowd understand?
“Is it East versus West, or man against man?
“Can any nation stand alone?”

Two words fill the screen…

V A E     V I C T I S

BOOM!!

Pyrotechnics herald the entrance of the WINGMEN of Vae Victis striding out of the entryway and stepping onto the stage. “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama pumps his arms overhead and Scott Hunter FLEXES his pythons like a true BOSS, earning themselves a loud and passionate reaction from the Aussie wrestling fans.

“IN THE BURNING HEART!

“Just about to burst!
“There’s a quest for answers, an unquenchable thirst!
“In the darkest night, rising like a spire!

“IN THE BURNING HEART — THE UNMISTAKABLE FIRE!!”

After a few beats, KERRY KOALAYAMA pulls up between the duo of Kuroyama and Hunter, riding in the back of an RC toy dumptruck. He is, as always, mowing down on eucalyptus leaves and too high to realize where he is or what is happening. Despite this, he somehow gets the biggest pop of the night.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, coming to the ring accompanied by “The Eucalyptic Apex” Kerry Koalayama… at a combined weight of four-hundred and seventy-seven pounds… the MAVEN of MIAMI, SCOTT HUNTER… the EMERALD APEX, KERRY KUROYAMA… please welcome, VVVAAAAAAAAEEEE… VVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIICCTTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSS!!!

Kerry and Scott descend the rampway side by side and walk the aisle. Like an eagle spotting a wounded rodent, Kuroyama stares down the ring with a stoic, practically voracious level of focus. Hunter swings his HYPE TOWEL over his head and slaps hands with the fans. Their koala kompanion, meanwhile, trails behind them in a winding and uncoordinated path, bumping into the guardrail multiple times along the way.

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama and Hunter are pictures of confidence here tonight! One has to wonder, could this be the year the Wingmen of Vae Victis make a presence in PRIME’s burgeoning tag team division? A win here tonight over the Poor Whoresmens’ resident tag team of Daniels and Williams could be a potentially defining step forward in their ambitions!

Richard Parker: Not if FUDGE Your Tag Team has anything to say about it! We saw Kerry Kuroyama practically dig his own GRAVE earlier tonight with what he did to Daytona Diamonds! The Poor Whoresmen are hardly the type to just let that go by unanswered!

Nick Stuart: There’s definitely been a culminating tension between the talents of Vae Victis and the Whoresmen these recent weeks! This contest tonight could be a sign of how things will eventually shape out!

Upon reaching the ringside area, the Wingmen nod to one another and bump fists before climbing up to the apron, going to either corner post, climbing the ropes, and POSING to more pyrotechnics and fanfare!

“IN THE BURNING HEART!

“Just about to burst!
“There’s a quest for answers, an unquenchable thirst!
“In the darkest night, rising like a spire!

“IN THE BURNING HEART — THE UNMISTAKABLE FIRE!!”

While they’re doing that, Koalayama hits the throttle and crashes his means of conveyance into the steel steps, sending him lazily tumbling across the mats. He doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s too intoxicated to feel anything.

With both teams in the ring, Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell, and…

DING DING.

…Okay, if anyone thinks we’re about to have a standard, normal, everyday tag match around here, then you don’t really know the Poor Whoresmen all that well. The moment the bell rings, both Anna and Rob decide “fuck your tag team” (hey, it’s in the name!) and rush down Kuroyama and Hunter.

Fists, they fly.

Nick Stuart: WE’RE STARTING RIGHT AWAY! KUROYAMA AND DANIELS! HUNTER AND WILLIAMS!

Richard Parker: Oh god, duck and cover!

Kuroyama tosses Daniels out and follows after her. Hunter knocks Williams through the ropes with a boot and goes right after him, following him to the outside to continue the brawl despite both of them being the legal men. As if legality meant a goddamn thing in this one, much to the chagrin of Jimmy Turnbull.

Now, obviously, things are already out of hand. Whoresmen and Vae Victis are fighting together, mass hysteria. There’s also a Kerry Koalayama running around with its hands on its head, barely comprehending what’s going on. Because of the weed, I’m sure. There’s a Dingtona Diamonds, too, and God help us if we know what’s up with that thing. It looks like it wants to bite everything, but it’s especially staring at Rob Williams with hunger in its eyes.

Nick Stuart: Who let a dingo out at ringside?

Richard Parker: I don’t know, but keep it the fuuuu— heck away from us.

Anyway, Daniels charges Kuroyama with murder on her many minds, but the Emerald Apex ducks the attempt at fucking his head (with kicks) and sends her flying into the crowd with a back drop.

Meanwhile, Williams and Hunter are beating the unholy piss out of each other right there in front of Kerry Koalayama, and that must be traumatizing for the poor koala mascot. Meanwhile, Dingtona Diamonds is stalking around doing dingo things. Great times.

Richard Parker: Okay, look. I was okay with there being a loose koala out and about, but that’s a dingo. A Whoresmen dingo. That’s the second-worst type of dingo, the first being the one that ate that baby one time.

Nick Stuart: …What?

Referee Jimmy Turnbull is an old hand at these sorts of tag matches, so he naturally has no clue how to proceed. He resolves to go to the outside so as to bring order to this chaos personally. He gets out there and…

Richard Parker: JESUS NICK THERE IS A LOOSE DINGO OUT HERE SOMEONE CALL ANIMAL CONTROL I’M SCARED

…Yeah. The fucking dingo isn’t Somebody’s getting fined for this, and it ain’t me. The first thing this horrible creature does is go after Jimmy Turnbull. Why? Well, he’s the closest and he’s got a striped shirt, and that’s all of the reason Dingtona Diamonds needs. A dingo after his namesake’s own heart, I tell you. Jimmy does the reasonable, sane thing. He runs. He runs like the devil is chasing him, and that devil’s in dingo form.

Mr. Turnbull should, perhaps, be fortunate that he did all of those exercises with our former and mysteriously disappeared head referee, because he’s fleeing in mortal terror right now. Dingtona Diamonds might as well be a Terminator. He could not be bargained with. He could not be reasoned with. He knows nothing about pity or remorse or fear. And it will absolutely not stop, ever, until Jimmy Turnbull’s ass gets bit.

Nick Stuart: I… I have never seen this before in my life. And I was here when Mega Job was a thing.

Richard Parker: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

So, you know. There’s no referee.

That suits the Poor Whoresmen just fine. Rob Williams manages to poke Scott Hunter in the eyes. Hunter reacts accordingly…

Scott Hunter: MY PANCREAS!

And then Rob turns to see a scene straight out of Benny fucking Hill, with Jimmy Turnbull fleeing from a dingo. He mutters a few curses, because he knows that might be his fault. He’s blaming Harley for it. Even though Harley might be ash now, fuckin’ flamethrowers. The wheels turn in the dead man walking’s head. Simple math – long thought to be forbidden in PRIME – gave Rob his answer. No referee equals NO RULES.

He kicked Scott Hunter in the balls.

Scott Hunter: MY ARTICHOKES!

Yeah, that’s what I said.

Richard Parker: I never want to attend an anatomy class with Scott Hunter.

Nick Stuart: Neither would I, Rich.

Rob smiles amid the boos of the crowd, and he immediately grabs Kuroyama and throws him into the crowd after Anna Daniels. What follows is tantamount to a mugging, two Whoresmen kicking and stomping and stomping and kicking on a Kerry Kuroyama who just wanted to wrestle and maybe take some revenge for one of Vae Victis’ own. When they got bored of that, which took a while, they tossed Kuroyama over the railing and back to the ringside area.

Daniels decided she wasn’t bored of the stomping yet and did more of it to Kuroyama. Meanwhile, Williams goes under the ring and pulls out a steel chair. You know it’s a Whoresmen steel chair because it has Fred Dick’s beautiful face right on the seat. He poses with it, showing everyone what’s about to happen. Also, he strums it like a guitar. A Dicktar, if you will. Then he rears back and hits Kuroyama right in the back with it, sending the Emerald Apex to the ground writhing in agony.

Anna Daniels stands there with her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes. He could’ve hit him in the head, at least!

Nick Stuart: This is a catastrophe.

Richard Parker: And we haven’t even gotten any of the other Whoresmen yet! It’s hard keeping up with that group as it is, and we’re just unbiased observers with no real dingo in this fight.

Nick Stuart: Sorry, “dingo”?

Richard Parker: I said dog. What did you think I said?

Nick Stuart: *a long, drawn-out sigh in dire need of alcohol he cannot partake in while being professional broadcaster*

Now, with all of this going on, Jimmy Turnbull jumps the barrier and escapes the dingo. Rob quickly hides the Dick Chair under the ring, and tosses Kuroyama back into the ring. By golly, we might actually have a wrestling match! Williams gets back into the ring, drops an elbow, and covers Kuroyama for a one count.

Rob Williams goes back to stomping on Kuroyama, but he soon picks him up and pulls him into a snap suplex, bringing the big Seattle native down. A floatover into a cover gets a two count, and now Rob’s getting mad. He tags in Anna Daniels and the two, together, whip the Emerald Apex into the ropes. A double flapjack flattens Kuroyama, and the Muse quickly goes into the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

No.

Kuroyama shoots the arm up off the canvas. So Anna Daniels bites his fingers, because we all know at least one of the Multitudes was raised by dingos. Wolves. I meant wolves. Goddammit. Kuroyama yells and screams, and referee Jimmy Turnbull quickly counts to five at a cadence that’s very much in the “I just got chased by a fucking dingo so I am very nearly done with this shit” school of thought, so Daniels stops biting and glares at him.

She tags Rob back in, and the two of them once again whip Kuroyama into the ropes.

A funny thing happens, though.

An attempt at a double clothesline from the Team What Fucks Other Tag Teams is broken through when Kuroyama puts his elbows up. He bounces off of the opposite ropes and turns the Whoresmen inside out with a pair of lariats.

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE CLOTHESLINE FROM KUROYAMA!

Kuroyama doesn’t really know where he is. He’s as lost as a man who stepped unknowingly into the Warp. He looks towards a corner. Is that fucking Tzeentch?

No, that’s Scott Hunter.

I know, I get them confused all the time.

Anyway, Kuroyama rolls towards Hunter and makes the hot tag.

Nick Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER IS IN!

Richard Parker: What can he do?

A lot, as it turns out.

Have you ever seen a Scott that is angry? Neither had I, until right now. Turns out, you might not like him when he’s angry. Rob Williams runs at him the moment he stands up, and eats the ‘ol one-two. Then Hunter winds up, and then winds up, and then winds up, and then… you get the idea. He’s winding up so much that his arm might get tired, but when the punch finally came, Rob Williams flew off of his feet like he was hit by a shotgun.

Anna Daniels gets up and tried her hand at this whole Scott Hunter experience. However, he side-steps the boot that was coming for his head and then lands a huge hiptoss as she turned to try again.

Kuroyama comes back in, and the two Vae Victis mates send Daniels into the ropes for a…

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE HIP TOSS!

Anna Daniels is used to being in orbit – space alien person thing and all – but it usually didn’t come in double hip toss form. She flies so high and so far that she lands near the ropes, bounces once, and falls through the middle and bottom ropes. Kuroyama follows after her, leaving his tag team partner to fight the former 5-Star Champion.

And Scott Hunter is up to the task.

Rob Williams is back to his feet, only to get a face full of punch. And not the fruit kind, but the fist kind. (Scott Hunter might think he’s serving the fruit kind, though. (Don’t tell Scott we said this. (He scares us.))) Rob is rocked backwards into the corner, where Scott hits him again hard enough that Rob’s legs kick out from under him and he’d probably fall to the ground were it not for the turnbuckles.

Hunter whips Williams into the opposite turnbuckles, except Williams has the awareness to reverse it. Only, Hunter has the awareness… Okay, Imma stop myself right there. He doesn’t have any sort of that. He just sort of reverses the reversal and sends Rob into the turnbuckles. Rob’s back hits the turnbuckles, and then Hunter catches him with a big back body drop that sends Rob flying.

Nick Stuart: Rob Wiliams is like a pinball out there!

Richard Parker: Oh no, that makes Rob Williams the flipper. That’s terrifying.

So, that’s not looking good for Rob Williams. Let’s check in on Kerry Kuroyama and Anna Daniels, and…

Oh.

Okay. So I don’t want anyone to panic, but…

Richard Parker: OKAY, NO. STOP. THAT DINGO IS BACK, THAT’S WAY MORE TERRIFYING!

…Dingtona Diamonds is back. And it’s very interested in a specific prey.

As Kerry Kuroyama throws Anna Daniels into the barricade, he turns to see that there is a problem. A big problem. The mascot that he and Scott Hunter picked up for this tour, the… koala known as Kerry Koalayama, the Eucalyptic Apex itself, is being stalked by Dingtona Diamonds. Its leash drags on the ground behind it. Kerry looks in the ring, and sees Scott Hunter in firm control of things against Rob Williams.

He makes a decision.

He grabs that leash.

Dingtona Diamonds tries very hard to get away from the Emerald Apex, but he stands his ground and prevents the dingo from getting any closer to a particularly stoned and uncaring Kerry Koalayama, chewing on more eucalyptus. He just needs to drag the dingo over to the corner and tie it to the ringpost, as Rob Williams should have fucking done earlier in this contest.

One problem. Anna Daniels sneaks behind him and re-enters the ring as Scott Hunter is about to lock in his patented figure four leglock on Williams. She gets a good running start and punches Hunter right in the head.

Nick Stuart: DANIELS WITH A SUPERMAN PUNCH!

This blow rocks Scott Hunter, who staggers backwards drunkenly in a haze. Rob Williams recovers just in time for…

Nick Stuart: INTERROBANG!

The Brazilian kick just about takes Hunter’s head off, but he staggers right into the waiting arms of Rob Williams…

Nick Stuart: INTO THE OLD TIME ROCK N’ ROLL!

The cutter flattens Hunter, who flops onto his back after the impact. Williams casually slides backwards, hooks the leg, and gives Kuroyama the finger while he’s still struggling with the dingo.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

There’s cheers for Anna Daniels, but a lot of boos for Rob Williams. Don’t worry, that’s about to change in a bit, but… Well, first, let’s go to Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: The winners of this match… FUCK! YOUR! TAG! TEAAAAAMMMM!!!!

The moment Mr. Howard finishes his announcement, Daniels and Williams put the boots to the fallen Scott Hunter. Kerry Kuroyama finally ties the leash to the ring post, and even though he’s pissed off about how he and Hunter have lost the match, he’s out to bring some justice to things, and…

Nick Stuart: NO! A LOW BLOW!

From who?

Why, Daytona Diamonds, of course! When did he get here? Well, he did not Animorph from Dingtona Diamonds, that’d be fucking stupid. He just ran down and took the opportunity to uppercut Kuroyama right in the nuts.

Richard Parker: Oooooh… right in the Black Mountains!

Kuroyama clutches those mountains in pain, leaving his head open for…

Nick Stuart: HOW THE WEST WAS WON!

Diamonds scores the cutter, roars at the air, and then starts viciously stomping away on Kuroyama’s head. It’s the kind of anger you didn’t often see out of Daytona. It’s the kind of anger that only happens when you’re possessed of a powerful chemical rage and lots and lots of designer steroids that you’d give to fucking horses. Daytona stumbles a bit on one of the stomps and decides “fuck it” and uses it as an excuse to drop down on top of Kuroyama and continue pummeling him with his fists.

Scott Hunter reaches out to try and help him, but he’s buried underneath an ocean’s tidal wave of boots from the other Whoresmen. Fans boo, because they’re angry at the injustice going on right now.

Diamonds is now attempting to strangle Kuroyama with the ring ropes, stomping down on his head while his throat is on the bottom rope. Anna Daniels keeps him from struggling free. Rob Williams gets the Fred Dick chair again, and he seems ready to use it for crimes again.

And then the crowd cheers.

Nick Stuart: CLAY BYRD IS HERE! HE’S HAD ENOUGH!

He also has a steel chair. That’s also something he’s got besides “enough”.

The Whoresmen scatter like shattered sugar glass after a chair gets thrown to them. Nobody wants any part of an angry, pissed off Cowboy Colossus that’s armed.  The Whoresmen leap into the crowd and they’re gone, the damage having been done.

Nick Stuart: This was mayhem from beginning to end, but the Whoresmen got the win tonight.

Richard Parker: Yes, yes, that’s great SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE DINGO.

Dingtona Diamonds is still there. It’s not happy about being tied to a ringpost. And it’s looking threateningly at anyone who’s coming near it.

We’ll, uh… ReVival 62 be back after we sort this out!

Sometimes there’s a bit of scene-setting when it comes to the innards of wherever ReVival is taking place, and Australia is no different. Just because the toilet swirls the opposite way when we’re down here doesn’t mean foreplay is dead. There’s an art to the establishment of ambiance, the way that location is a character all in itself, and of course—

“STANISLAV! I’m not done with putting hands on Red Army members tonight, so get your bitch ass out here!”

Sometimes, we just get a PRIMEate coming in hot.

Chandler Tsonda is coming in hot. And it’s not just that he’s a dime. (I mean, of course, he is.) He’s visibly still, well, warm. And wet. Ok, how can this not be horny? The simple fact is that he’s still in his ring gear from a heck of a tussle with Rose. He’s still beaded with sweat, and only the towel draped over the back of his neck would tell you that he’s in the back, instead of in the ring.

He’s got the look and the pace of a man on a mission. He would appear to be on a quest, looking for a certain someone. Stagehands come and go as the camera moves with the Model Citizen, who addresses assembled crew members.

Chandler Tsonda: Anybody seen a big ol’ ten foot goober in military cosplay gear? Anyone? Five hundred bucks to anybody who can point me in the direction of Mount Didn’t Know They Stacked Shit That High.

Some ears and eyes perk up, but the energized swagger of Tsonda is more about perpetual motion than stopping to do detective work. And also, he’s got a tad bit of crazy in his eyes, and all the crew members know the look of someone who should be avoided. Tsonda keeps his pace, striding forward, monologuing.

Chandler Tsonda: A modern miracle, this backstage area. A place where a Sasquatch sized man wearing bright red can somehow up and vanish since I saw him an hour ago?!

The Viet Viper turns a corner, and without breaking stride, kicks over a table storing backup supplies of merch. He missed brat summer in PRIME, so it’s going to be a very brat 2025, evidently.

Chandler Tsonda: (reddening, yelling, once again to no one in particular) I tell you what, I am about to make my ‘me problem’ an EVERYBODY FUCKING ELSE PROBLEM if I don’t get some suspenders in my sights in about five sec…

The screech from the opposite hallway is like a banshee’s wail all the way from Siberia, complete with the accent.

“Who in Hell is making all this racket?!”

Alexei Ruslan barrels out with rage in his eyes.

Alexei Ruslan: Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav has a—

Ruslan stops dead in his tracks upon seeing Chandler Tsonda and the rage in his eyes. From behind, Speedy Riggs, Kenny Freeman, and Randall Schwartz follow, with Speedy bumping into Alexei, Kenny into Speedy, Randall into Kenny, then Kenny back into Randall, Speedy into Kenny, and Ruslan nearly toppling forward. He scrambles to catch his hat from falling off his head.

Chandler Tsonda: Well, toodle-fuckin-loo, comrades.

The Model Citizen takes stock of the motley crew.

Chandler Tsonda: (looks down) My Whoop tracker says I’m still in heart rate zone 3 from the match, so can one of you be a doll and grab the big nasty? They say do cardio first, and then strength so I’m plenty warmed up to put my fist through his front teeth.

Ruslan listens to Chandler, but he clearly doesn’t understand what he’s saying. He grunts.

Alexei Ruslan: What in Stalin’s name are you saying?

It’s Kenny Freeman who clears his throat.

Kenny Freeman: Uh… comrade, Mr. Tsonda says that his heart monitor is really bumping, so he wants one of us to get the Starshy Praporshchik, because he wants to punch him in the face.

Alexei looks back at Kenny and grumbles.

Alexei Ruslan: I did not know you spoke ebonics, comrade.

He whirls around to look at Chandler. Somehow, Speedy Riggs has teleported behind every other communist body, but the Masters of the Moscowverse, no slouch of a tag team, is close behind Ruslan and he knows it.

Alexei Ruslan: Listen to me, Mister Model. (wags a finger in Chandler’s face) You do not have any authority to ask anything of anybody. Certainly not Ivan Stanislav. You might make teeny-bopper girls swoon, but you are nothing to anyone of substance!

Ruslan does his best to belly up to Tsonda. He’s taller by a few inches, he appears larger thanks to his overcoat, but there is no doubt who the athlete is in this staredown.

Chandler Tsonda: Alex—can I call you Alex?—I don’t mean to provoke the great and glorious Starship Whatever You Called Him’s number one weed carrier, but if you put that finger in my face again, I’m going to show you the substance of what it looks like when a finger gets broken so hard that bone sticks out.

This, now this, is the meeting of two poison-tongued men. Chandler smirks with self-satisfaction while Alexei very slightly, but clearly, backs down.

Chandler Tsonda: So, politely, I’d like for you to get on the red phone to Arkhangelsk, and tell him I want him out here. Now. I’ve waited for long enough. Very. Patiently. And as they say down here: (the worst Aussie accent you’ve ever heard) I’m rarin’ fer a scrap, mate.

Back in the arena, those willing to oblige a ludicrously cheap pop let one loose. But while Tsonda’s not above doing bits, the fire in his eyes stays trained squarely on Ruslan. His desire for the great Russian Bear to come out and fight in this here hallway seems quite authentic.

Still, Ruslan isn’t one to back down from an argument.

Alexei Ruslan: Still the snot-nosed brat you were back in ReVolution Era, Chandler Tsonda. You gave us good laugh back then with your preening and peacocking, and still you are…

Nonetheless… Speedy Riggs has gone from being behind the throng of Leftists, to running down the hallway.

Alexei Ruslan: I think you have not recovered from quadruple concussion Ivan gave you last time you thought you could stand up to him! You have not grown up one iota since back then! This is what motivates you? Vengeance?

Ruslan points to the downed merch table courtesy of Tsonda earlier.

Alexei Ruslan: And I’m telling Lindsay Troy what you did to that table and she is going to FINE you!

A earthquake, which seems to speak Russian, rumbles from where Speedy took flight.

“Что за херня происходит, Алексей?”

A bewildered Ivan Stanislav’s footsteps are heard before he is seen, but he does emerge from down the hall, standing behind Freeman, Schwartz, and Ruslan. He doesn’t seem to be aware that Tsonda is there.

Ivan Stanislav: The arena is THAT way, Alyosha!

There happens to be a small army (a Red Army, as it happens) standing between the two wrestlers, but you would never know by the death stare moving in the direction of Tsonda to Stanislav. The size discrepancy between the two of them, the four-on-one advantage, it all paints quite the picture of the strength in numbers that makes the Red Army so formidable.

Chandler Tsonda: (pointing at Ivan) You.

The Model Citizen has gotten his wish. The Bear is here. Tension crackles.

Chandler Tsonda: You might be even uglier than when I left.

Ivan’s demeanor doesn’t brighten in the least. He wrinkles his nose as he gazes over the heads of his comrades and down at the stomping mad Tsuperstar.

Chandler Tsonda: (gesturing to the Red Army) You’ve definitely attracted more of these little plague rats following you around. Call off the lackeys and let’s see who walks away from a fight. Glorious Leader wouldn’t run from a chance to squash a pestersome little guy like me, wouldja?

Stanislav takes careful stock of the situation. You know. Weighing how far he could possibly throw a hundred and eighty-seven pound man. No, scratch that. A completely furious, fired up, take-no-prisoners, Hell-for-leather man who has waited a year to repay a receipt. He could throw him pretty far, but how much damage would he weather?

Ivan might be a communist and not believe in receipts, but he knows what they are. Especially as he prepares for a Main Event match with some of the best in the business (whether he’d ever admit it or not). So, Ivan waves his hand nonchalantly.

Ivan Stanislav: You have to forgive me, Mr. Tsonda, but I am about to have my tag match with Jonathan-Christopher Hall. You know, the man who was with me when I sent you horizontal on stretcher last time we met? Far be it for me to deny PRIME opportunity to see their Lifetime Contract Holder in Main Event at one-hundred percent!

Tsonda, for his part, measures Freeman, Schwartz, Riggs, and Ruslan, estimating cost in his head. The cost of how quickly he could dream of disposing of them, and what condition it might leave him in for the big bad. One does not get nicknamed Viper for one’s careful, measured approach to life.

But Tsonda knows what (he assumes) Ivan knows: 4-on-1 is lunacy, 5-on-1 is reserving a spot in a hospital bed. And while patience isn’t in the top-100 Tsonda virtues (#73: Excellent at understanding when a lamp needs to be a statement piece, versus just providing utility), Chandler knows that tonight isn’t the night.

Chandler Tsonda: I waited six months. What’s another week of waiting? You can get touched anytime. And once I catch you lacking, you’ll be looking over your shoulder forever and ever, Bear. Just you wait.

Tsonda gives Alexei Ruslan a very nonthreatening, but decidedly venomous-in-intention BOOP! right in the chest with that same wagging finger.

Alexei yelps and nearly jumps out of his boots before snarling. But he doesn’t attack. There’s a much more immediate prize this evening, and the last thing the Russians need is a pissed off Lindsay Troy.

Chandler Tsonda: To paraphrase what some plucky lads once said about your sister-in-fascism: You have to be on guard every day, you have to hope these jamokes back you up every Revival, you have to watch your six with every corner you turn. You gotta be lucky all the time (winks) I just have to be lucky once.

Ivan growls overtop everyone.

Ivan Stanislav: Save your quotations for your fans, Chandler Tsonda. I go to destroy leader of Glue and Universal Champion. Watch monitor and maybe you will realize folly of your ways. Let us go, Alyosha.

Ruslan narrows his eyes and mutters.

Alexei Ruslan: Next time…

But he is also more than happy to recede behind the Masters of the Moscowverse, Ivan, and Speedy Riggs. He walks down the hall, and Ivan grunts and follows after him, leaving the Masters of the Moscowverse to serve as a sort of human wall, preventing Tsonda from following. Speedy Riggs is somewhere back there too.

It’s awkward. Randall, in his “I’m From Moscow” shirt, tugs on his mustache and makes awkward small talk.

Randall Schwartz: So, uh, liking Australia?

The Model Citizen takes the world’s longest blink, as if Schwartz just addressed him in fluent Finnish. Speaking of finish, the two try to make sense of one another, as the camera fades to Glue.

Tag team action awaits the PRIME faithful of Perth, it is moments from the main event of the evening and yet we find ourselves in the backstage area, close to, but not quite at the entrance into the ring area and alongside the camera, there is also a Cecilworth Farthington, who even though he himself requested the time, appears to be on a call.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yeah, it was weird… even the minotaur liked him, and I didn’t even know that beast could speak until the weekend. The place has something new every day, I swear.

There’s a brief pause, enough to have the camera catch Cecilworth’s brow furrow in a rather frustrated manner.

Cecilworth Farthington: Of course I’m sure about this! If I wasn’t sure about it, I wouldn’t be doing it, would I? I’d be doing a bloody conga line, or yelling advice at FLAMBERGE about his own moves that he already knows about. I could do that all day every day, but no, things have and will continue to change.

It’s at this point that Cecilworth “notices” that camera for the first time.

Cecilworth Farthington: GOTTA GO!

And without waiting for the response, he tosses his phone over his shoulder. You’d expect someone was waiting to catch it, but there wasn’t anyone, so it just falls onto the ground below to a clattering noise. Cecilworth shrugs his shoulders in response.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’ll worry about that later.

Turning his full attention to the camera, he rubs his submission tactician paws together in glee, clapping his hands together after suitably warming them up and gives what constitutes as a “warm smile” for an Englishman towards the camera.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh yes, hello PRIME! Well, me and Coral had a lovely ole chitter chatter up in his boxhole earlier and you may be wondering exactly what is going on. You may be wondering what my game is, indeed, what Glue’s game is. Perhaps you see a dastardly plot ahead. Perhaps you worry that things could fracture in the temporary Gluliance with a Bandit. I get that, particular with that alfredo haired Five Star Goon lurching around.

The slight warmth of Cecilworth’s face around Coral turns to a very sour expression when he even hints at the continued existence of Cancer Jiles.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m just here to tell all of you here in Perth, and everyone watching at home… don’t worry about it.

The sour expression returns to a mirthful chuckle.

Cecilworth Farthington: No, seriously, don’t even give it a single thought. Don’t want to give your brains any wrinkles now, that’ll show that you’re aging and I care about all of you fine PRIME fans being as youthful as possible.

Cecilworth lifts his index finger to his temple as he mutters “no wrinkles” to himself, and also to the camera he is in front of.

Cecilworth Farthington: There’s all this chit, and even chat, about Don Winters last week and all the stompy stompy stompy business and people wanting to analyse what it means and how it connects to the Glunar New Year. It’s really simple, we all just wanted to kick the ever loving life of the beloved father. I mean he was trading off my name for long enough, even when he couldn’t get the job done. FLAMBERGE just likes mauling people, it’s just his nature. Hayes, he just wanted to remind everyone of his glorious facial hair, and how dangerous he is. Particularly after that awful incident with the sheep that left the flock.

Cecilworth manages to control his impulsive thoughts, and therefore resists the urge to go “baaaa” after his last comment.

Cecilworth Farthington: Speaking of trading off my name… hello Jonathan, it’s me, Cecilworth! I guess we remember the Almasy slightly differently, you think you “won” by yourself, while I remember a clown car of a convoy saving your life from the mauling I was providing unto you. I know you’ve got your big, burly friend, well, acquaintance, well, man who barely tolerates your existence, well, man who actually loathes you, well… you get the point with that.

Cecilworth stops his train of thought before he goes to the “well” too often.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’d like to test just how malleable your bones are this evening, but I’m guessing the near-future dimension patient with his addiction to “juice” will try and stop me from this experiment. Then again, given his special juice, his limbs might destroy themselves from any kind of light jogging.

Everyone is now pondering what a power walking Ivan may look like, that’s just how these things work on a scientific level.

Cecilworth Farthington: Still, myself and my future new best friend, Coral, we’re rather good at this whole wrestling thing. We both enter tonight with no pretenses, but we also enter with no fear. For we know who we are and we know where we came from. In the end, I’m just so excited to test things out and see how far we can take it until it all just…

Instead of finishing his thought, Cecilworth instead snaps his fingers, which causes the scene to immediately fade to black, and gleeful little chuckle from Cecilworth is the only noise still heard.

ReVival moves… to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, here we are! The Main Event. A litany of legend in PRIME! Former Universal Champions Ivan Stanislav and Jonathan-Christopher Hall take on Cecilworth Farthington and current Universal Champion, Coral Avalon!

Richard Parker: Stanislav and Hall have tagged four different times so far and their track record has been almost unblemished. They’ve not only defeated Avalon in the past, but Tony Gamble, Nate Colton, Chandler Tsonda, and Coral Avalon! Not a small feat!

Nick Stuart: Perhaps, but Coral Avalon is on a complete tear right now, and lets be real, Cecilworth Farthington is the most dangerous technical wrestler in PRIME, and last I saw, Stanislav wasn’t exactly the most limber of roster members.

Richard Parker: He doesn’t need to be limber, his ligaments are made from Russian steel!

While our announce team bickers, Vince Howard takes center stage as the Perth Arena explodes with excitement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following tag team match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, weighing a combined weight of 620 pounds, from Arkhangelsk, Russia and Folsom, Louisiana respectively: IVAN STAAAANISLAAAAAV and JOOOONATHAN-CHRISTOPHERRRRR HAAAALLLLLL!!!

An explosion rocks the entryway as the lights fade to crimson and the Russian Red Army Choir’s rendition of The Soviet National Anthem booms throughout the arena. The Perth crowd, like the Melbourne crowd before them, certainly doesn’t have any more communists in their ranks as they begin to boo loudly.

The biggest, and oldest, member of the PRIME roster, Ivan Stanislav, stomps out from backstage with Jonathan-Christopher Hall at one side, and Alexei Ruslan at the other. Stanislav takes center stage between the two shorter men, raising his huge arms into the air and roaring defiantly at the crowd.

Hall looks focused, but perhaps introspective as he stares not at the ring, but at the floor ahead of him, pushing his brows together as he mumbles to himself and nods in affirmation. The trio stomp down towards the ring, unfazed by the frosty reception.

Nick Stuart: What a night we’ve already had, Richard, and this match could headline any of our pay-per-views. So many different career defining opportunities here.  A chance for Farthington to get revenge for the Almasy tournament two years ago. Stanislav has never once taken his eyes off of the Universal Title since Colossus 2023. Hall has his own issues with Coral Avalon. And Avalon, with the Bandits, have dogged the Red Army to no end.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but I think you have to give the cohesion edge to Stanislav and Hall. I don’t think the egos of Farthington and Avalon are going to mesh. Farthington’s head is proverbially big, and Avalon’s is literally the biggest head on the planet!

Nick groans while Stanislav steps up to the apron and over the top rope. Hall takes the ring steps and climbs in, while Ruslan slides in and walks over to Elvis Nixon. He takes the opportunity to try to school Nixon in officiating.

Nick Stuart: It could come down to that man too, Alexei Ruslan. He’s always out there, scheming…

Richard Parker: Or you mean, “strategizing.”

Nick Stuart: Strategizing?!

Richard Parker: Hey, some people strategize with steel batons. I don’t judge.

Stanislav and Hall move to the corner, where Ivan places a huge hand on Hall’s shoulder and talks to him, going over what might actually be a pre-match strategy of sorts. Ruslan finishes with Nixon, pointing at his eyes, and then at Nixon’s, with the official ordering Ruslan out of the ring.

Ivan levels one more hard gaze down at JCH, and slaps his chest once and nods once more, with JCH mouthing “okay, okay…”

The pring and prang of the guitar chords in the opening of “Choke” by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME brings the Perth Arena into darkness, signalling the arrival of the partner of the Universal Champion in this merry mix-up of a sporting exchange, The Financier of The Glueminati, Cecilworth Farthington.

There is a bit of quiet in the arena, until the song gets to that part about breaking pretty faces, and the yeah yeahs that follow. It is at this point, the lights go back up and bask the former Five Star Championship in spotlights from all directions. Cecilworth stands atop the entrance, a small new product sample offered by FLAMBERGE in his hands. He holds it up to the light for careful inspection, clearly stalling his time in making his way to the ring.

Nick Stuart: There’s been a bit of an attitude shift in Cecilworth Farthington as of late and look, I get having a building a bit of an edge after the 2024 he went through, but this, this is just making a mockery.

Richard Parker: Zapp Splat Goo.

Nick Stuart: You’re okay with this?

Richard Parker: The Glueminati can do no wrong, they can only be wronged, particularly God’s perfect grappler.

Cecilworth looks towards what is waiting for him in the ring, and instead of marching forward towards battle he takes a bit of time to make some adjustments in the tights department, shoving FLAMBERGE’s kind gift down there. I mean given Cecilworth’s attire, there would be space for little else at this point. Taking a few more moments to just let the match sink in, he begins a slow but purposeful stride down the entranceway.

Nick Stuart: If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cecilworth was afraid of what awaits him on the other side of the ring.

Richard Parker: That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard you say Nick. No one fears JCH. Well, apart from JCH himself, I don’t have time to get into that whole mirror situation again.

Nick Stuart: You know exactly what I mean, Dick.

Richard Parker: Wow, rude.

Cecilworth gets around halfway down the entrance and pauses, letting “Choke” fade away, but getting no closer to the other half of the main event of the evening.

The lights go out, and Monster Siren’s “Real Me” hits the PA system. It starts right when the guitars are meant to go, so once the wailing of guitars hits, the lights hit the stage and Coral Avalon is standing there as a sentinel. Universal Championship wrapped around his waist, his leonine fur cape over his shoulders, the King of Conquerors walks out to a huge ovation from the Perth crowd. Best of all, no Bandits to really spoil the good mood!

He walks until he stands side-by-side with Cecilworth Farthington, and holds out his fist. Cecilworth stares at the fist like Coral is handing him a dead fish, and eventually Coral gives up on the gesture and the pair head to the ring.

Vince Howard: THEIR OPPONENTS! First, from Buckinghamshire in England! He weighs in tonight at one hundred and ninety-seven pounds! He is the FINANCIER OF THE GLUEMINATI! HE IS! CECILWOOOOOOOORTH! FAAAAAAAARTHINGTOOOOOOONNNN!!!!

A mixture of reactions for the Financier, but it’s overwhelmed by the continued cheers of the dream team walking to the ring.

Vince Howard: His tag team partner! Residing in Seattle, Washington… he weighs in at two hundred and twenty-four pounds! HE IS! THE KING! OF! CONQUERORS! HE IS! THE GOOOOOLDEN BANDIT! HE IS! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPION! COOOOOOORAAAAAALLLLLL AVAAAAAALOOOOOONNNN!!!!

The pair reach the ring, and both enter with some amount of caution. After all, Jonathan-Christopher Hall is right there! Also Ivan. Ivan is maybe the bigger concern. Like, literally.

Nick Stuart: At two hundred and sixteen days, Coral Avalon has now become tied with his old nemesis Chandler Tsonda for the second-longest reigning Universal champion in PRIME’s history. But are his days numbered? He’s walking in tonight surrounded by enemies, and those enemies may also include his own tag team partner.

Richard Parker: Honestly, he’s a Bandit, so I hope he falls off a cliff and dies and nobody shows up to his funeral.

Nick Stuart: …Okay.

In the Pink and Red corner, there’s hardly a discussion at all – JCH volunteers himself as tribute and stays in the ring as Ivan steps over the top rope and to their team’s corner, as Alexei sneers on.

We say “hardly”, because there is plenty of external processing and assurance mixed with pleading coming from Jonathan-Christopher – an insistence that he’s got this, that he’s going to prove to Ivan he’s going to “make up for last time”. In contrast, Ivan is all business and doesn’t respond at all. The big picture is: he’s already one step closer to the thing he wants most, another Universal Championship, and now it’s time to set himself up for success by absolutely destroying Coral Avalon. JCH is more than free to run interference until the right opportunity presents itself.

In the eGGlue corner, it seems almost cordial, with each offering to either start the match or to defer in a confusing little back-and-forth that’s kind of cute, actually. Lots of polite chuckles, particularly from the Financier.

However, this stops when they see who the legal man will be from the opposition – and Farthington’s expression turns a bit darker, a bit more serious. He’s had a bone to pick with Jonathan-Christopher Hall ever since the Almasy final. “Let’s see you have the best match of your life again, fucker”, Cecilworth’s eyes say.

DING DING

Elvis Nixon knows better than to wait any longer – two men are in the ring, one from each team, start this right now.

And his instincts prove to be correct, because soon, there’s a commotion in the crowd.

Nick Stuart: This all-star tag team main event is underway, and we have two – hang on a second, what’s going on behind us?

Richard Parker: I don’t want to look, partner.

Nick Stuart: Why not?

Richard Parker: Bad things happen when I look.

Soon, the commotion grows to assorted shouts and yells and boos from the crowd. The camera pans up.

At the top of an aisleway, we’re on the cusp of a tussle. Cancer Jiles and Vickie Hall are trying to make their way down the aisle and, presumably, into two seats in the arena.

They are absolutely SHOWERED with popcorn and thrown beer and trash and any other projectiles the fans can grab. Vickie shrieks and yells at some non-blonde fans, calling them “fugly betches” before getting splatted in the face with nachos. Jiles looks out to the ring and yells out about how he “hasn’t seen so many crumbs in a main event since Dangerous Mix”. The sea of trash and the commotion and the growing realization that Dametriyus ain’t about to save their asses, Jiles and Vickie retreat, middle fingers in the air.

The fans in the arena cheer at this. Our attention is finally refocused back to the ring, where we see that JCH is looking up that aisle – heartbroken, longing, determined to fight – and as Jiles and Vickie depart, he turns his attention back into the ring.

Just in time for his face to say hello to the sole of Farthington’s boot.

Nick Stuart: YAKUZA KICK! Where did that come from??

Richard Parker: I guess that means whatever that was, it’s over?

Nick Stuart: It’s over now, you can look.

Richard Parker: Nope, can’t look, won’t look, it’ll only jinx it.

Hall is stunned by that charging kick and splats to the mat. Farthington turns and winks to Avalon at the cheeky homage to one of Avalon’s famed Armaments. Farthington quickly drags the felled JCH away from the corner and puts on an arm bar – Hall begins fighting out of the predicament and soon shoves off the Conga Crusher.

Farthington is still on his feet and Hall is still on his knees, however, and Farthington comes charging in, throwing a knee trembler – Hall dodges just in time! He gets to his feet in a hurry and throws a desperate kick! Farthington catches the foot and yanks, dropping Hall back to the mat!

Hall’s ankle gets wrenched and twisted as Hall yelps out in pain. Avalon claps and shouts encouragement to his teammate. Stanislav stares across the ring at Avalon. After a moment, Avalon notices this and the claps stop. He looks back at Ivan.

Nick Stuart: As we heard earlier tonight, we have a GIGANTIC match scheduled for ReVival 63 in Tokyo! Avalon will defend the PRIME Universal Championship against yet another former champion, The Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav.

Richard Parker: The Soviet Giant is ageless, partner – and he’s as cunning as it gets. The championship is ABSOLUTELY in jeopardy of changing hands. Lest we forget – PRIME Universal Champions have a history of losing the belt right after Colossus. Hayes Hanlon in 2023, FLAMBERGE in 2024 – you know what they say about things coming in threes.

Hall is able to make it to the ropes before his ankle gets truly mangled. Referee Elvis Nixon begins the five count – Farthington releases at about 4 and a half. Nixon gives the Financier a warning, but because Nixon is presumably a Poor, this rolls off Farthington’s shoulders like so much water to ducks.

Coral reaches his arm out and Cecilworth gives the tag. The Perth crowd erupts into applause as PRIME’s reigning Wrestler of the Year locks in for his first in-ring action of the year.

Nick Stuart: Tropical Turmoil rematch right here!

Coral is spry on his feet and he locks up with JCH, who is immediately overmatched. It’s not long before Coral has transitioned into a front facelock, lifted Hall high in the air, and planted him with a vertical suplex. Like a true champion, he follows up immediately with a series of snap kicks to Hall’s torso, lighting up his ribs in particular. Avalon glances towards Stanislav and gives him a little wink, before taking a step back and – raising his leg up high? And – swinging it back down?

And it connects?

Richard Parker: …was that an Axe Kick from Coral Avalon??

Nick Stuart: Did you catch that look towards the Russian Bear? That was FLAMBERGE’s kick, and that was a message about their upcoming match!

Richard Parker: …what did the message say?

Nick Stuart: …what do you mean, what did it say?

Alexei Ruslan is pleading for Ivan to enter the match, for pride if nothing else, calling JCH an embarrassment; Stanislav’s expression is unchanged as Avalon shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO! Shoulder up by JCH!

Avalon drags JCH into the eGGlue corner and slams him to the mat once for good measure. He makes his way to the top turnbuckle as Farthington blind tags himself in.

Immediately after the tag, Avalon flies through the air and drives the wind right out of the Forever Man with a big frog splash! Farthington bounces into the ring, hops onto the second turnbuckle, and mashes JCH’s face with a diving knee drop! He goes for a cover of his own!

ONE!

TWO!

TH…JCH Counters! He’s got a tight roll up on Cecilworth!

ONE!

TWO! Cecilworth kicks out!

Alexei is not happy, not one bit. Ivan scowls, but remains stoic – studying, waiting, preserving his BBE (big bear energy) for the moment to pounce.

Cecilworth always feels a little yucky in going for pinfall attempts, because with most pinfalls, you don’t have the opportunity to rip a man’s limb out of its socket – and after that near-fiasco, he decides he needs a palate cleanser. Farthington presses a knee into Hall’s cheek, pressing it into the mat, before reaching down and grabbing JCH’s left hand. He grabs fingers – index and middle in one hand, ring and pinky in another – and with a snap, sends them in different directions.

OOOOOOOH!!

He grabs Hall’s hand again and wrenches it backwards, keeping that surely illegal knee pressed squarely into face. Nixon, agreeing that this is surely illegal, begins a five count. Farthington looks up at Elvis, looks down at Hall’s face, and looks up at Elvis again by the count of three. At the count of four, Farthington lifts his knee up, creating the legal separation required of him by this mean official, before throwing that knee straight back down into Hall’s face.

There are a lot of unhappy faces in the arena and around the ring between Hall, Nixon, Ivan, and Alexei. Hall for his part isn’t giving up the fight, and he isn’t even crying – he’s showing some real goddamn resilience, is what he’s doing. He sees how far he is from his own corner and quickly understands that he’s going to need to get out of this hole himself.

Nixon’s at three again, Farthington lifts the knee again, Farthington strikes the knee again – which sucks, quite frankly, if you’re Jonathan-Christopher – but in that small gap, he was able to reposition his legs underneath him. He’s starting to get some leverage, and with some serious effort, he’s got a knee under him – then a foot. Farthington holds onto this completely improvised hold as long as he can – when it becomes untenable, he releases and throws a sudden SLAP that connects with Hall’s face!

WHACK!

…Hall no-sells it.

OOOOOHHHHHHHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: The amount of punishment Jonathan-Christopher Hall has taken in this match, where did THAT come from?

Richard Parker: Look, you can see the welts forming on his face – that HAD to hurt, right??

Farthington repeatedly slaps Hall in the face, two times, three, four. As the palms swing forward, Hall steps through them, and soon his forehead is pressing into the Financier’s. Something guttural is unlocking itself, and the final sign that it’s fully broken out comes in the form of a cracking headbutt!

THONK

Farthington is dazed by the hit, and the adrenaline that had coursed through Hall may be running low because he looks a little stunned by his attack as well – but he’s given himself space. Like in his outside life, maybe this was the goal all along.

He hurries as quickly as he can to tag in Ivan – and by “as quickly as he can”, it’s important to note that the adrenaline has actually now run out and it’s a dazed stumble-stupor, but at least it’s in the proper direction. Coral shouts to Cecilworth to either get moving or to tag out, as he’s in no man’s land. Cecilworth does some quick mental calculus, sees a limb still attached to an opponent’s body, and instincts take over – while JCH’s arm is outstretched, high in the air, hoping to slap any part of this 400+ pound target that he can, Farthington rushes towards JCH quickly and delivers a chop block…but as Hall crashes, he’s made up just enough distance, and his palm ends up tapping the back of Ivan’s hand, which had been resting on the top rope.

Elvis Nixon motions for the legal tag that has been made, though Farthington may not have seen it from his angle – or presumed that he got to his target before it was too late. It was more of a light “tap” than a classic hand-on-hand slapping “tag”, so the telltale sound cue wasn’t there for the Financier to register.

Which is a problem.

Because while he’s thrilled to have this opportunity to remove Hall’s leg from his leg with any number of delicious holds, the shadow of a bear now looms over him.

Ivan palms Cecilworth’s skull and lifts him to his feet. He grabs hold of armpits next. And then, Farthington is thrown clear across the ring by a Biel Throw!

CRASHHH!

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!

The momentum of the throw causes Cecilworth to bounce, then roll, then exit the ring under the bottom rope, splatting on the ringside floor! Hall gingerly exits the ring and gets some well-needed rest. Alexei is disgusted at Hall, but pleased to see Ivan’s immediate dominance.

Coral hops to the floor to try to help his teammate up, and he’s moderately successful. Ivan motions somebody to get into the ring, because he’s only done the one move and he has so much more to give to these Westerners.

Coral and Cecilworth talk strategy for a brief moment and nod in agreement. Coral and Cecilworth, rather than entering the ring, flank around the outside, jogging towards the Red and Pink corner. Ivan knows war and he knows he doesn’t care for a double envelopment, and he focuses his attention on the legal man – after all, sooner or later, Cecilworth has to re-enter this match.

Nixon’s count is at five, and suddenly, both Coral and Cecilworth are feinting charges in the direction of either Alexei or Jonathan-Christopher, who is still recovering from his earlier beatings. Ivan finds himself playing defense on both sides, as his partner is in no condition to help, and Alexei knows not to cost Starshy Praporshchik this match by getting involved physically.

Nick Stuart: Are you surprised seeing Coral Avalon and Cecilworth Farthington working this well together?

Richard Parker: “The enemy of my enemy”, or something, but you’re right – look at the weight distribution here, even if you removed JCH from this match, Avalon and Farthington would still be lighter than their opposition. Cooperate or die!

With a nod, Cecilworth and Coral each hop onto different sections of the ring apron, one on either side of the Red and Pink corner. Ivan knows he’s running out of time, and Cecilworth’s going to be able to break Nixon’s count at a moment’s notice – but how to deal with this, two men working together against one man forced to defend three targets?

How about a trade, of sorts?

Ivan reaches down over the top rope and hoists JCH high into the air with incredibly little effort, and he HEAVES Hall straight into Coral Avalon! They’re both knocked off the apron and tumble to the floor!

CRASHHHHHHHHH!!!

OHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The flanking maneuver is no more, and it only cost one member of the Love Convoy. Too bad Zion couldn’t be spared for this instead, but we all make choices in life.

After activating his IEH (Improvised Explosive Hall), Ivan turns towards the second threat. Cecilworth experiences a fine range of emotions – wonderful to see JCH getting hurt again, shame that the flank didn’t work, ah hell there’s a bear I have to fight alone now.

Cecilworth attempts to chop down the tree, first with sharp kicks to the shin with the point of his boot. Ivan acts like it’s nothing. “I’ve already been no-sold once this match, it isn’t happening twice”, one imagines running through Cecilworth’s head, as he blatantly rakes the eyes of the much taller man, much to the admonishment of Elvis Nixon who’s getting pretty pissed at this British douche who won’t listen to his interpretation of the rules. Ivan clutches at his face for a moment and winces, and Cecilworth tries to follow up with some elbow smashes, which are a little more effective than his earlier kicks.

Alexei shouts something in Russian to his Starshy Praporshchik and Ivan’s face lights up with rage. He catches a Farthington elbow and responds with an absolutely crushing lariat that flips Farthington midair. Cecilworth attempts to get back up, but Stanislav walks forward and uses all 400+ of his pounds to step on his spine, which is not in fact a chiropractic adjustment and instead horribly painful.

On the outside, Coral and JCH are on their feet and brawling. To some surprise, the exchange is pretty even, Hall using his raw athleticism and slightly longer reach to get in some solid strikes.

Back in the ring, Stanislav positions Farthington in a standing headscissors. In a fluid motion, he lifts, raises, and SLAMS Farthington to the mat with a powerbomb!

Richard Parker: Even better than Sid Phillips!

Nick Stuart: Would you stop??

He presses a foot to Cecilworth’s chest, and Nixon counts!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-FARTHINGTON GETS THE SHOULDER UP!

Ivan’s balance staggers a little bit from this, and while Cecilworth doesn’t feel up to getting vertical again, he knows a target when he sees it, and he reaches out for one of Ivan’s feet and begins to twist. This staggers Ivan’s balance more, and soon he’s hopping on one foot. It’s an awkward position, and Ivan tries shaking off this Englishman to no avail, and this is an issue now.

Ivan doesn’t want to focus on Farthington – JCH is the one who’s supposed to be on limb defense, not him – and this whole scenario is not in service to his ultimate goal of crushing the bourgeoise Coral Avalon and reclaiming the Universal Championship – and so he opts for the quickest way out, using his enormous frame to reach over and grab a ring rope.

It’s very loud in the arena at this point, and Farthington’s had his bell rung a bit by that powerbomb, so it’s possible he didn’t hear Elvis Nixon’s count start – by the time it hit 4 and Farthington again refused to release a hold, Nixon decides to personally intervene and reaches in to help separate boot from hands. No one is happy about this – Ivan doesn’t want THIS much help, Farthington’s got that limb juice going, Nixon just wants someone to listen to him for once.

The hold is eventually broken up. As Ivan hops down to the ring floor, he winces and hops for a second – hang on, did Cecilworth actually do some damage, what a fucker. Cecilworth groggily makes his way to his own corner and finds no one there to make the tag, and he slumps down.

No one is there because the ringside brawl between Avalon and JCH has escalated into proper grappling. JCH has Coral in a DDT position, but Coral is able to power out and send JCH flying with a back body drop – JCH IS CAUGHT MIDAIR BY IVAN! Coral turns, tired and a little more beat up than expected, planning on fighting with JCH some more, only to see that Ivan has turned JCH into a battering ram that’s headed straight for Avalon’s huge dome! Skulls collide and Avalon goes down!

Ivan, with his mighty strength, still has JCH securely in his arms, even if he’s more of a log than a man at this point. Elvis Nixon has another ten count going, and Ivan realizes that this time it’s about him. He surveys the scene – Coral’s down, Cecilworth is isolated and beaten up, JCH is…fine, probably. And so, he carries JCH over his shoulder up the ring steps, calmly walks to his corner, and sets JCH down. It’s the same way one might transport produce.

Yes Elvis, Ivan hears that you’re at seven, he’s stepping back into the ring right now, ease up. He looks over his shoulder one more time and sees that Farthington wants to get back up, but is struggling; Coral is still down on the outside; and JCH, how are you? Do you hear Ivan? Do you understand what you must do right now, and what Ivan must do right now? Good? Good.

Ivan raises JCH’s arm by the wrist and slaps his hand. Tag made, and Ivan is free to pursue his real interest – beating the shit out of Coral Avalon.

JCH starts to become aware of where he is and who’s across the ring from him – “huh, I must be fighting better than I thought”, one imagines running through JCH’s mind, because he has a sudden look of confidence on his face. Cecilworth is on his feet, keeping an eye out for Coral, but knowing that he’s got a fight ahead of him. At least this time it’s not a bear.

Outside the ring, Ivan has added 1 to his Yeet Counter as he flings Coral into a set of ring steps. Nixon shouts about this, but he’s got another issue at hand that draws his attention

JCH and Cecilworth lock up in the middle of the ring and after some struggle, JCH gets the upper hand. Cecilworth tries to counter out of JCH’s hammerlock by rolling through, only for the pair to roll through again, and JCH connects with a rolling DDT!

He reaches for one of Cecilworth’s arms, and then the other, and he’s really REALLY trying to lock in a double chicken wing. On the outside, Ivan has added another 1 to his Yeet Counter, this time Coral is flung into a barricade.

The sound is enough to distract Elvis ever so slightly again, and Cecilworth uses the opportunity to throw in a cheeky little mule kick that connects low on JCH.

BOOOOOOO!!!

JCH doubles over, and Farthington wastes no time – driving Hall into the mat with his patented fisherman brainbuster!

Nick Stuart: WORTHLESS CONNECTS!

Richard Parker: No pinfall attempt, could that be a mistake?

Nick Stuart: Farthington is always going to try to win a match with a submission if he has the option, and take a look, he’s going for it!

Indeed, Farthington is working hard at locking in Article 51. JCH has the wherewithal to clasp his hands together in an S-grip, saving one limb from the devastating cross armbreaker.

The two grapple hard in the ring, while on the outside, Ivan looks for the hat trick. He stalks Coral on the outside – but Coral springs up! He catches Stanislav with a drop toe hold, sending Stanislav’s face squarely into the same set of ring steps Coral was thrown into before! Alexei is absolutely apoplectic, shouting for Nixon to intervene, and this diverts Nixon’s attention again.

The timing is unfortunate for the eGGlue team, because Farthington is REALLY close to locking in Article 51 – and there it is, the crowd is on their feet hooping and hollering and cheering, but Elvis is yelling to the competitors on the outside over how long they’ve been out there and how nobody listens to him.

Ivan nearly gets to his feet, holding fingers to his nose to look for any red. Coral springs forward and drops Ivan with, of all things, a Russian Leg Sweep that drives Ivan’s forehead squarely into one of the corners of the steps, and we have a gash on our hands.

In the ring, JCH is trapped by the Article 51, and out of instinct he taps the mat a couple times – when he doesn’t hear the trademark DING DING DING, he frantically looks around, and notices Elvis’s back is turned – save from the loss, but not saved from this hold, and JCH knows this could end in a limb snap. He shouts at Nixon to try to get his attention, but the unfortunate thing for him is that Coral has chosen in this moment to climb to the top rope. Nixon’s attention is split between the two scenes – he knows JCH is calling for him, but this is a dangerous situation on the outside, too.

It’s too late. Coral is airborn…and HE SMASHES STANISLAV WITH THE CARNWENNAN!! Ivan is in a heap on the floor! Coral slowly gets back up, high fiving so many Australians, catching his breath with his back against a barricade, looking into the ring.

Nixon, satisfied that at the very least he doesn’t have to deal with this shit anymore, turns his attention to the ring. The Article 51 is still locked in, but JCH is crawling, pushing his feet, anything he can to inch towards the ropes, which happen to be in Coral’s direction. Cecilworth takes a second to peek up and he sees how close they are to the ropes – and then he locks eyes with Avalon. How badly does Farthington want this goddamn limb? Really goddamn badly, and so he wrenches INCREDIBLY HARD on that arm, causing JCH to yell out in horrible pain.

The force of the pull finds a way to bring Cecilworth’s head beneath the bottom rope, which is famously an illegal position. Elvis begins yet another five count. JCH is frantically tapping, but Elvis doesn’t award the eGGlues the victory from this, what with the illegal submission.

Coral is shouting encouragement to Cecilworth and tries to gather himself to his feet, still rocked from Stanislav’s powerhouse offense, hoping to make it to the corner for a tag, but it’s a struggle.

Cecilworth looks at this Coral Avalon – this feeble world champion, this incredible base for future glue-based Product Samples and something burns him up inside.

Maybe it’s also the fact that he has a strained limb in his grasp, and the rush of feeling a rival frantically trying to get away from you.

Coral Avalon’s won so many matches in a row, hasn’t he? So many matches. And he has such a shiny championship belt that could be polished so much better in other hands. His own hands, perhaps.

Time to start taking things from the King of Conquerors.

Cecilworth snarls and burns a hole in Avalon’s skull with his eyes. Coral is taken aback by this, and then suddenly, one of Ivan’s meaty paws has found its way around Coral’s boot, stopping his forward progress. Coral is stuck, and hesees that Elvis’s count is nearing five – he’s running out of time to catch up and save this thing before –

DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Elvis Nixon waves his arms and heads over to Vince Howard, shouting angry instructions.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winners tonight as a result of a DISQUALIFICATION….

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Vince Howard: The team of Ivan Stanislav, and Jonathan-Christopher Hallllllllllllll!

Coral finally wrenches his boot free and storms towards Cecilworth. Farthington, for his part, is super pleased with how this whole thing worked out – he’s directly hurt two people in one fell swoop. He finally releases the hold and JCH rolls away, clutching at his wing, seriously hoping that nothing broke. Coral angrily enters the ring and confronts Cecilworth, which is a shame because they had gotten along really well in the lead-up to all this.

The disconcerted confusion turns to full-on jaw-jacking between Avalon and Farthington. We don’t catch much of the specifics, but the last line comes from Farthington, and we actually catch it pretty clearly.

Cecilworth Farthington: DO something.

Coral is surprised at this.

He doesn’t have to be surprised for very long, as Stanislav delivers a clubbing lariat to the back of Avalon’s head. Farthington, for his part, has finished his contractually obligated combat for the day and calmly heads towards the exits. Stanislav brusquely hoists up his downed comrade and sort of scruffles his hair a little bit. It’s not appreciated by Hall, but there’s not much he can do about it.

Nick Stuart: Maybe not the win that Stanislav and Hall were looking for, but a win is a win. Let’s not forget that next time on ReVival, Avalon defends the Universal Championship against the Russian Bear!

Richard Parker: I was going to ask you what you thought Cecilworth was on about, but then I remembered who we’re dealing with, here. We may be looking at faction warfare pretty soon, partner – the eGG Bandits hold the gold, but the Red Army and the Glueminati want it, too!

Nick Stuart: Thank you for tuning in to this edition of ReVival! We will see you next time from TOKYO!

Stanislav looks down at Avalon and laughs his trademark laugh as we…

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.