CULTURE SHOCK 2025 NIGHT ONE

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/CS25-Night-1.mp4

Nick Stuart: WELCOME EVERYBODY TO THE SOLD OUT TOKYO DOME!!! THIS. IS. CULTURE. SHOCK. TWENTY. TWENTY. FIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!

Yes, yes it is Nick. How about some signs now?

GET IN THE CAR AND THEN ON THE TRAIN AND THEN ON A PLANE AND THEN IN ANOTHER CAR LOSER, WE’RE GOING TO SKETTI BUCKET
HOORAY FOR IVAN! UNIVERSAL TITLE BELONG TO EVERYONE NOW!
STANISLAV. FARTHINGTON. LOSER HAS TO GET A SHORTER LAST NAME.
THEY SAY MARCH COMES IN LIKE A LION AND OUT LIKE A LAMB. CULTURE SHOCK NIGHT ONE COMES IN WITH AN AUSTRALIAN BEAR AND OUT WITH A RUSSIAN BEAR.
KOALA KARE IS DEAD. KOALA KERRY IS SO MUCH BETTER!!!

Richard Parker: Aww yeah, aww yeah, aww yeah!!!

Nick Stuart: And lo, above the ring, suspended in a cage, the adorable Kerry Koalayama.

We get a shot of the ring where, indeed, a Randall Schwarz cage sits hanging above the ring, and indeed, Kerry Koalayama sits in there with all of his creature comforts. He’s got some ‘lyptus. He’s got a pillow. He’s got a blanky.

Richard Parker: I don’t remember Randall Schwarz ever getting a pillow all the times he was suspended up there.

Nick Stuart: LT likes koalas more than she likes Randall’s.

Richard Parker: Praise be.

We can hear glasses clank in the commentary table mics.

Lights out.

And then, the music. Taiko drums. A shamisen. A bamboo flute.

The PRIMEview lights up with a view of a field of burning cherry blossom trees. Beneath the ruin, illuminated by a flickering orange light, is the silhouette of a samurai. He stands with horns rising from either side of his helm, the lights refracting off the careful metalwork of his armor.

As the music slowly fades and the last cherry blossom turns to ash, a silence falls over the Tokyo Dome… and then the other music hits. “Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson. Ruh-roh. As a spotlight shines down on the samurai, it’s revealed that the armor is covered in rhinestones, cowboy boots sticking out where kegetsu should be, a giant ‘YAMAHA WAVERUNNER’ painted onto the chest piece. Oh yes. Behind that fanged mask of a glowering oni? There’s Daytona Diamonds.

We’d like to apologize to the Japanese people for this terrible cultural appropriation.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring… from Carson City, Nevada…weighing in at two hundred and forty five pounds…

The Samurai stops at the apron and, when he does, two women appear on either side of him seemingly out of thin air. They start to remove each piece of his armor piece by piece, untying knots and removing cords from rivets. This whole process seems painstaking and dumb because… well, it’s painstaking and dumb.

Vince Howard: …he is… The Rhinestone Samurai… DAAAAAAAAYTOOOONNNNNNNNNAAAA DIAAAAAMOOOOONNNNNNDS!

With the last piece of armor pulled away, Daytona Diamonds climbs into the ring with the helmet still on his head. Standing in the middle of the ring, he pulls away the mask to reveal his smirking lips, winking for the camera before walking over to his side of the ring, lifting the helmet from his head, and placing it atop the turnbuckle. As he leans back against the ropes, his eyes go up towards Kerry Koalayama above the ring.

What a fuckin’ world, huh?

The Tokyo Dome goes dark. The capacity crowd cheers in excitement and anticipation.

Then, a soft-spoken but firm and demanding voice resonates through the arena.

I don’t know who you are.
I don’t know what you want.
If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money.

The famous Liam Neeson quote is soon joined by a low, subharmonic drone, setting a foreboding mood and making it clear that things are about to GET SURRIOUS.

But what I do have are a very particular set of skills.
Skills I have acquired over a very long career.
Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.

Despite being an enclosed structure, a gust of wind seemingly begins to blow through the arena, accompanied by a rumble of thunder.

If you let my–KOALA–go now, that’ll be the end of it.
I will not look for you, I will not pursue you.
But if you don’t…

The low pitch drone steadily amplifies into an all-out BLARE. Overhead, electricity crackles…

I will look for you,
I will find you,
And I will kill you.

CRACKA-BOOM!!

A white bolt of LIGHTNING strikes the stage, igniting a wall of green fire that spans the entire length of the entrance platform! At the same time, FalKKonE’s spirited cover of “Find The Flame” begins to pump through the PA with an energy that wills the fans to their feet.

A moment later, Kerry Kuroyama emerges from beyond the curtain. He is clad in tights with a basic silver and emerald pattern. A black hachimaki bearing the kanji for “fighting spirit” rests over his brow. One hand balances the leg of a hefty steel ladder held across his shoulders like some janitorial buster sword.

After spending a beat to soak in the ovation, Kuroyama strides forward and fearlessly steps through the green inferno, unphased by the heat of the flames.

It’s a mere candle compared to the fire burning in his eyes.

Vince Howard: Now approaching the ring… hailing from Seattle, Washington, United States of America, and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-one pounds… please welcome, THE EMERALD APEX… KEERRRRYYYYYY KUUUROOOYYAAAMMAAAAAAA!!!

Kerry’s voyage down the aisle is brief, but every step forward falls heavy with conviction and purpose. His face is intense and all business as he stares determinedly at the ring. All around him, the wrestling fans of Tokyo cheer his name.

Nick Stuart: What better way to kick off PRIME’s first major event here in Japan other than an appearance by the grandson of one of this country’s wrestling legends! Undoubtedly, this is an emotional moment for Kerry Kuroyama, walking in the footsteps of his grandfather, Daisuke Kuroyama, here tonight!

Richard Parker: It’ll certainly be an emotional moment when he has to kiss that ugly animal of his goodbye forever!

Kuroyama halts himself at ringside. At one point, he spots ringside fans holding up a vintage poster of his grandfather in his career prime (no pun intended), but the sight of it causes him to look away. Instead, he pulls the ladder off his shoulders and parks it upright on the floor, and proceeds up the steps to enter the ring.

Nick Stuart: Through all the many trials and tribulations he’s endured since coming to PRIME in late 2023, Kerry Kuroyama has never experienced a battle quite like this! Because there’s more at stake here than any title or place in the rankings… this match will determine the fate of his loyal kompanion, Kerry Koalayama!

Richard Parker: A situation he deliberately created, by picking an unnecessary fight with the Poor Whoresmen and Daytona Diamonds! In my opinion, if he can’t climb up there and claim that disgusting, parasite-riddled thing tonight, then he deserves to lose him!

The Emerald Apex scales a turnbuckle and pumps a fist overhead. He keeps his head tilted up and eyes clenched shut for an extra few seconds, drawing in a deep breath of air and immortalizing the moment to memory. When he reopens his eyes, he scans the cheering crowd a moment longer, and nods approvingly.

Finally ready for war, he drops back to the mat and goes to his corner.

Nick Stuart: Marsupial Mayhem in PRIME’S first ever ladder match of the ReVival Era is almost upon us!

Richard Parker: No, Nick… it’s the Battle of the Birthstones, because it’s EMERALDS against DIAMONDS!

DING! DING!

The bell sounds and immediately Daytona and Kerry collide in the center of the ring, locking up. The duo struggle for advantage, until Kerry finally takes it by transitioning Diamonds into a side headlock. Diamonds tries to escape Kerry’s clutches but that very quickly is revealed to be impossible. Daytona slyly backs himself against the ropes, and uses the forward momentum off the bounce to shove Kerry away. Kerry bounces off the ropes, returns and ducks a clothesline from Daytona! He bounces off the other set, Daytona turns around and –

Nick Stuart: KAKOW!!! YAKUZA KICK RIGHT TO THE KISSER.

Richard Parker: Don’t say “kakow.”

Nick Stuart: It was a sweet Yakuza KICK!

Richard Parker: Even still.

Daytona lies sprawled out on the mat from that Yakuza Kick, and Kerry looks up at his little buddy in the cage, gnawin’ on that sweet, sweet ‘lyptus. Kerry pats his heart, points at the Koala, and then steps out of the ring to the outside.

By god…

By God he’s getting himself a ladder!!!

Kerry grabs one of the many ringside ladders and tosses it into the ring, it lands right on top of Daytona. Damn it, it couldn’t have landed anymore on top of Daytona if it tried. Kerry slides back in the ring and pulls Daytona out from underneath the ladder, dragging him up to his feet.

Kerry places Daytona’s head between his legs.

Nick Stuart: Not sure what Kerry has planned here, Richard, but it’s gonna suck for Diamonds!

Richard Parker: Could say the same thing about my ex-fiance!

Nick Stuart: gasp! Richard Parker!

Kerry starts to lift Diamonds up for some kind of powerbomb or piledriver type of maneuver, but Daytona flails his legs and stops it. Kerry tries it again, but again Daytona flails and gets his feet back on the ground. Kerry goes for it a third time!

DAYUM!!! NO!!! BACK BODY DROP BY DAYTONA ONTO THE LADDER!!!

Kerry arches his back, cries out in pain, but Daytona loves that shit. Making people cry out in pain? That’s his shit! He reaches down and traps Kerry’s arm between the ladder rungs. And before Kuroyama can pull his arm free?

Daytona stomps that shit. He stomps it again. He stomps it again and again and again. Daytona looks up at the caged Kerry Koalayama.

That Marsupial lookin high as a mothafuckin kite yall.

Daytona Diamonds: I’m gonna snort a line of yayo off your head, little buddy! Wouldn’t that be cool?

Nick Stuart: No! No, that would not be cool. That would be animal cruelty and negligence, and just, no. Don’t do that Daytona.

But Daytona made plans already and it’s a huge pain in the ass to change them, so Daytona pulls that ladder away from Kerry and sets it up in the center of the ring.

Diamonds smiles as he steadily climbs up the ladder towards his disinterested, incredibly high prize. He didn’t think it would be this easy. Then again, it’s always this easy for a guy like Daytona! Afterall–

KUROYAMA IS UP TO HIS FEET!!! HE YAKUZA KICKS THE LADDER!!!

Daytona has an expression reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote as the ladder slowly topples over and send him over the ropes, landing hard on the outside of the ring. Daytona writhes around out there like an injured worm. Kerry, meanwhile, sets up the ladder himself.

Nick Stuart: This is your chance, Kerry! Rescue that little guy from Fear and Loathing in Carson City!

Richard Parker: First of all, no one wants to be rescued from partying with Daytona Diamonds. Second of all, this is clear bias on your part and I have higher expectations of you than that, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Pot meet kettle.

Richard Parker: I never said a word about my expectations of me.

Kerry begins his ascent. Rung by rung he makes his way to that precious Koala, who would likely be traumatized by the environment if he wasn’t stoned on the leaf straight out of his gourd, but he is, so it’s probably all good. Kerry reaches the top of the ladder, peers in the cage.

Aww, little guy’s sleeping!

🥹🥹🥹

But that moment Kerry took to admire his buddy might have completely fucked him over. Because Daytona has made his way back into the ring! He scales up the other side of the ladder like he’s a damn wolverine, and–

OH MY GOD!!!

HOW THE WEST WAS WON OFF THE TOP OF THE LADDER!!! THE DIAMOND CUTTER OFF THE TOP OF THAT THANG!!!

Richard Parker: Oh my God in Heaven, they’re dead.

Nick Stuart: So close! Kerry was so freaking close!

Both men lie silently on the mat. Moments pass before anyone stirs at all. Finally, Daytona Diamonds slowly begins to move. He crawls up to his knees, looks over at Kerry. Still looks dead. Diamonds nods, looks up at the cage. He climbs up to his feet and re-positions the ladder. Then, he starts to climb.

Nick Stuart: Welp. This is it. Kerry Koalayama’s gonna become a future member of Narcotics Anonymous.

Richard Parker: That’d be pretty gnarly, to be honest.

Daytona reaches the top of the ladder. He’s about to reach in the cage when an intrusive thought enters his mind. Something like, “What if we send a message to every motherfucker in this bitch by doing a Blood Meridian off the top of this bad boy, right onto Kerry’s head?”

And unfortunately, when it comes to Daytona, his intrusive thoughts win.

He positions himself on top of the ladder.

He leaps!!!

BLOOD!!!

MERIDIIIIIAAAANNN!!!

…

…

NO!!!

Nick Stuart: KERRY ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY!!! HE ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY!!! YES!!!

Richard Parker: Calm your balls, Stuart. I’m over all the yelling and celebrating from your seat.

Nick Stuart: You do it all the time!

Richard Parker: We. Have. Different. Jobs.

Nick Stuart: Do we? Do we, though?

The Japanese crowd certainly appreciates Kerry’s avoidance of the Blood Meridian, a collective sigh of relief audible to the people watching on television.

Daytona’s knees might be fucked, by the way.

But that doesn’t matter to Kerry. If anything, he’s encouraged by the possibility. He climbs to his feet and grabs hold of Daytona’s legs, folds them, and steps over, rolling Daytona onto his back.

Elevated Texas Cloverleaf.

A couple of things to note here. One, there’s no rope breaks. Two, there’s no submissions. In other words, Kerry is not doing this to win the match. No. If he wanted to win this match, he probably could, right now, just by climbing up that ladder.

To an almost self-destructive extent, it seems, Kerry has decided he wants to hurt Daytona Diamonds.

And so, no matter how much Daytona cries, which he does, or screams, which is a lot, Kerry Kuroyama is not letting him go.

In fact, he only seems to elevate it higher.

Richard Parker: Look at your hero, now, Nick! Gaze upon this sadist and see him in his true element. I ask ye, is this a man who ought bring a Koala into his home? Hmmmmmmm???

Nick Stuart: Look, I’m just voting for the lesser of two evils here.

Richard Parker: Typical centrist. Have some balls. Say your pro-sadism in 2025. That won’t come back to haunt you at all.

Nick Stuart: How about you suck it?

For a solid minute or two, Kerry keeps that elevated crab locked in.

Daytona is at his wits end. He has little opportunity at a way out of this. He only has one idea, and it involves the ultimate sacrifice.

Daytona pulls a foreign substance from his groin. A little bit of white powder. Is it cocaine? Is it baby powder? Hell, ask him later. All I know is that white powder is out, yes it is, yes it is.

Daytona tears the bag open and Kerry, sensing some high level fuckery from his opponent, lets go of the cloverleaf and swivels around to face Daytona.

Daytona lies on the ground. Plays possum. Kerry reaches down to pull Daytona to his feet and!

Powder to Kerry’s eyes!

Nick Stuart: THAT SHOULD BE A DISQUALIFICATION!!!

Richard Parker: It’s a ladder match you biased, little prick!

Nick Stuart: Suck my biased, little prick.

Richard Parker: That would’ve been better if you didn’t already tell me to suck it.

Kerry wipes at his eyes as they’re blinded and irritated by the powder. Daytona takes the opportunity to, oh, you know…

Hit a How the West was Won right there in the center of the ring.

Daytona’s feeling good now. Things should be easy from here on out. Set up the ladder. Get the furry fucker. Dip.

He sets up the ladder and climbs up it. Real quick, real smooth. He reaches in the cage.

But Koalayama moves to the other end of the cage. Daytona can’t reach him.

Daytona Diamonds: Come here, bud. Come here. Come here. I said, ‘Come here.’ What part of, ‘Come here,’ do you not understand, jerk? COME HERE!!! COME HERE!!! COME-ACK!!!

That “ACK” was due to one thing, and one thing only.

Kerry Kuroyama doing some Superman shit to get to the top of that ladder with Daytona, pulling him away from that cage and…

Dropping him…

Off the ladder…

With an EMERALD FREAKIN’ FLOWSION!!!

Nick Stuart: YES!!! CALL IT KUROYAMA DRIVER III!!!

Richard Parker: I won’t call it that. I’ll never call it that, ever.

Real fans will see that Daytona Diamonds landed awkwardly there and really SMACKED his head hard on the mat. Like, devastatingly bad. Like, Ashley Barlow having to make herself known for the first time in the match to make sure his neck isn’t broken, bad. Kerry Kuroyama lies on the mat beside Daytona, meanwhile, but slowly climbs to his feet.

Once again, Kerry sets up that ladder.

Once again, Kerry ascends that ladder until he reaches the top.

But this time? This time he brings Kerry Koalayama down the ladder with him.

DING! DING!

Vince Howard: HEEEERE IS YOOOOUR WINNERRRRR… THE EMERALLLLLLD APEX!!! KERRY!!! KUROOOOOOOOOYAAAAAAMAAAAAA!!!!

Kerry gets one arm raised in victory while the other swaddles his little Koala friend.

While medical staff are already on their way to the ring with a stretcher for Daytona Diamonds.

Richard Parker: I hope Daytona’s alright, and can make a quick recovery.

Nick Stuart: I’m just glad it was Kerry who was able to recover that Koala!

Richard Parker: Really classy, bud.

We cut elsewhere.

In a dark, quiet corner backstage at the Tokyo Dome, Rob Williams sits alone holding onto his Universal Tag Championship belt. Half of his body is in the shadow and half the tiny sliver of light that is coming in from out of frame. A cigarette hangs from his lips and his gray hairs shade his eyes. He doesn’t raise his head when he speaks, seemingly into the ether, as he is all alone here in the dark.

Rob Williams: A year ago I sat backstage at the Millenium Stadium in Wales – sat on top of the world. Five Star Champion, spot on one of the War Games teams, undefeated.I felt ten feet tall. Bulletproof.

His face glows as he takes a drag on the cigarette before pulling it away from his lips.

Rob Williams: And then the rug got swept out from under me.

The cherry of the cigarette explodes when Rob smashes it into the wall. Little embers and sparks fly everywhere.

Rob Williams: Donnie Winters crucified me in front of the world and went on to have the most prolific run in Five Star history. Hessian pushed my shit in during the War Games match. Our team had a dismal turnout overall. That bright future began to fade away just like that.

SNAP

Rob Williams: I burned all the ships to get here and I wound up pissing it all away. What does a low down degenerate do when their back is against the wall but lie? Lie to Anna, lie to Troy, lie to everybody. Hell, I had already… embellished… “the Father” just to keep that band of roving lunatics following me around. Why not lie about cancer?

Silence.

Rob Williams: Do you believe in karma?

That little sliver of light gets a bit smaller with the shadow of a lingering figure. At first, it doesn’t seem to say anything or do anything. It just stands there, observing this man for a moment before creeping towards Rob. The shadow, slightly shaggy as it is, holds no judgement against him. Or at least not at the moment. He simply sits and tilts his head as if to say “what the fuck are you talking about, guy?”

Rob Williams: Ah, Bucky. I don’t know. I think I have to make things right and it won’t be quite as easy with some others as it was your mom and dad. Come on, it’s almost time to go fuck shit up.

Rob ruffles the shaggy hair atop Bucky’s head before pushing himself to a stand. Man’s best friend (well, Jacky’s best friend) follows Rob out into the hallway where “The Muse” is waiting with Dingtona. Mighty clever of her to send Bucky in as opposed to the ravenous beast that tries to eat Rob every chance he gets.

Rob Williams: You ready?

Anna breaks eye contact with the dingo long enough to glance at Rob. She nods.

Anna Daniels: Ready as we’ll ever be. This shit’s gotta be easier than teaching your hound to sit.

Dingtona spent a good amount of time being a bit annoyed by the command, never fully trusting it. Especially since it came from the person that bonked him on the head. He does manage to let his guard down enough to get a cowboy hat on. So…baby steps? The wild dog walks towards his owner, almost grateful for the distraction.

Anna sighs before snatching her own Universal Tag Championship from a nearby crate. As they begin their long track together, her phone dings. She smirks a bit as she looks at the message.

Anna Daniels: Jacky says “one moment at a time, mate”. Pretty sure he’s talking to you.

A smirk crosses Rob’s face. He’s about to reply that he’s heard that before somewhere when they come across the current “tag champions”.

Enter FLAMBERGE and Joe Fontaine.

It’s a true The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly situation. Rob tightens his fist, ready to pounce at the slightest act of posturing from the other two groups.

Except it’s not. In fact, it’s not even FLAMBERGE or Joe Fontaine, but rather FLAMBoard and CardJoe being pushed along on a flatbed cart by fabby, who awkwardly nods at Rob and Anna as he continues on his way. And TAL is sleeping like a sweet little six pound, seven ounce baby Jesus in the manger. Crash, who is likely a real person and not sleeping, seems to be focused on his task at hand: goring himself with as many hot dogs as possible.

Amongst the Cardboard Gluevengers, the lazy luchador, and the heaping amount of hotdogs where a man is hiding, Anna sighs.

Anna Daniels: These people are fucking idiots. We can understand having a bit of fun every now and again. But this is game time and they can’t even muster a single damn about any of it.

She shakes her head, trying to push back another rant as the four-legged creatures begin to steal from Crash’s heaving mound of food stuff. At least he’s useful for something.

Anna Daniels: Screw it. If they wanna suck, let them suck. If this whole damn place wishes to decay, let it fucking decay. But we’re taking our pound of flesh in the process. It starts tonight. It starts with these belts and it starts with us.

With dueling nods, Fuck Your Tag Team–and after a few whistles, the dogs–walk away from the scene with one goal in mind. Victory.

ReVival moves on.

We move elsewhere to find RIA backstage. She’s dressed in a white ‘New World Trash’ tank top. On her legs are white, black, light pink and baby blue camo pants, with the pants bloused at her normal kickpads. A black Vae Victis hoodie covers her torso as well. Would this be her attire for tonight’s match? Guess we’ll see soon enough. On her shoulder is an oblong bag, the kind you might carry a baseball bat in. She has a bottle of wild cherry Pepsi in her left hand, which she opens and takes a chug of. She turns the corner and suddenly finds herself standing in sand.

RIA: What the fuck?

She’s not quite prepared for what lies ahead. The entire hallway has been transformed into a beach club.

Well, kind of…

Sand fills the hallway. A dozen inflatable palm trees line the walls and a wide variety of tropical flowers provide a pop of color to the scene. There’s a small tiki hut stand in a few feet away with a young man tending bar. Hell, there’s even a suckling pig roasting on a spit.

RIA: Not in the mood for whatever the fuck this nonsense is gonna be.

Blocking her way is a fence covered with the aforementioned flowers. At the turnstyle sits the newest member of The Red Army, who sits in a reclining beach chair under a sign that reads ‘BRUH’S CULTURE SHOCK BEACH PARTY” and in much, much smaller font “Admission: 86,247 Rubles”.

Bryan Dawkins: Evening RIA – care to join us?

Just past Dawkins sits a small kiddie pool under a heat lamp. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz sit atop an inflatable unicorn and are enjoying their tropical drinks from hollowed out coconuts. Alexei Ruslan sits in a beach chair poolside, his brown pants hiked up and bare feet in the kiddie pool. A thick layer of sunscreen covers his nose.

Shockingly, he looks miserable.

RIA: Firstly, I’d rather drown in that kiddie pool…

Ruslan interjects.

Alexei Ruslan: We can have that arranged, you know…

Without even looking Alexei’s way, the Psychoberry flips him off.

RIA: …with Randall in it, and I can’t stand to be around that motherfucker for more than a minute at a time. Secondly, what the hell is this? Did you even get approval for it?

Dawkins chuckles to himself.

Bryan Dawkins: Oh, it’s fine! I know Lindsay Troy. We go way back!

He flashes a shaka.

Bryan Dawkins: I think some time in the sun would do you some good! Could be a great way to relax before your big match.

RIA squints and surveys the entire scene. The way she’s looking, her hunched shoulders, arms crossed on her chest? She’s not digging it. She turns her attention back to Dawkins.

RIA: Couple things; we’re indoors, dumbass. That heat lamp ain’t the same. As for you knowing LT for a long time… So has Gamble and Ivan, and she barely tolerates both of them. I don’t need to relax before my match, I need to get into a killer mood. I don’t even know how much 86,247 Rubles is anyways.

Dawkins looks over his shoulder toward his fellow Red Army members.

Bryan Dawkins: Another ignorant American, am I right comrades?

Ruslan rolls his eyes while the Masters of the Moscowverse give Bryan a collective thumbs up.

Bryan Dawkins: But it’s fine, RIA…I get it. If you can’t afford it, we do have convenient payment plans available!

Kenny Freeman: Only thirty percent interest!

Randall Schwartz: A real deal, especially in this economy!

RIA glares at the B-Team.

RIA: I’m about to put thirty percent of my foot in your ass if you don’t shut your mouth!

The Rainbow Riot shifts her gaze back to the Bruh.

RIA: I guess I should thank you douchebags. Don’t need to find a foul mood now. Maybe you and Ivan should keep an eye on my match? Cuz-

RIA gently lifts the bag on her shoulder up ever so slightly before letting it settle.

RIA: I got the devil’s mother here and she’s thirstin’ for ol’ Freddy Dick’s blood. And tomorrow, short of me bein’ dead, I’m gonna drag my ass to the Manhunt. And if I come across any of yinz, Imma use what strength I got left to give you a taste of what he’s about to get. See ya tomorrow.

RIA quickly stomps off. Dawkins shrugs and turns to his fellow comrades.

Bryan Dawkins: Alright bruhs, make space – I’m comin’ in!

As Dawkins kicks his flip flops off and goes to step into the pool, we go back to ringside.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall…

And the crowd says nothing, because I don’t want to find myself suddenly bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument.

Vince Howard: …and is for the PRIME World Tag-teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam championship!

The lights go dark in the Tokyo Dome.

In the brief silence, we hear small pockets of chants fighting for supremacy.

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM! CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

ANGLO! ANGLO! LET’S GO CRASH!

After a few beats,  we begin to hear the first few beats of a slowly-becoming-more-familiar melody. White lights pulse throughout the stadium.

“Razzmatazz” by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME tastefully blasts out.

🎵

WAIT

DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE

NOBODY’S HOME

🎵

As the white lights continue to pulse, green and teal and orange beacons slowly swirl about the stage to reveal a very handsome cardboard cutout lineup of four gentlemen.

Cardsworth.

Hayesboard.

CardJoe.

FLAMBoard.

Each figure strikes a dangerously weird pose with the sort of wild unblinking gaze that can only be achieved from a print shop.

🎵

BUT YOU’VE GOT PARLIAMENTS FILLED WITH PARASITES, PLUS

MARQUEES WITH YOUR NAME IN LIGHTS

A STAR IS BORN AND THAT’S THE TRADE, FOR EVERYONE YOU KNOW

🎵

Teal and green sparks begin to fire off as CardJoe and FLAMBoard are violently kicked over by the very real Joe Fontaine and FLAMBERGE. They take a few steps forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, before turning and fistbumping Cardsworth and Hayesboard.

🎵

LET’S GO PAINT THE TOWN ON OUR WAY HOME

THE BLINKING LIGHTS ARE BREAKING BONES

CAST ALL YOUR SPELLS, AND THEN YOU HAVE

THAT GOOD OLD FASHIONED RAZZMATAZZ

🎵

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, introducing…at a combined height of 11 feet 9 inches…representing the GLUUUUUUUEMINATIIIIIIIII! JOOOOOOE FONTAIIIIIINE, AND FLAAAAMBERRRRGE!

As Joe and FLAMBO begin to march towards the ring, we see fabby behind them, awkwardly steering a jolf cart filled with a complete set of jolf clubs around the fallen cutouts of CardJoe and FLAMBoard. He’s eventually able to overcome these obstacles only after making a real mess of the whole endeavor, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t tip over the whole cart as he does so.

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 hotdog 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: 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!!!

Once in the ring, the two stretch and prepare for the match while waiting for their opponents.

The lights drop to darkness but a lone spotlight on Vince Howard

Silence falls over the Tokyo Dome as they prepare for chaos to unfold and find out which of PRIME’s factions will walk away the undisputed PRIME Tag Team Champions.

Those melodic, fast and heavy riffs draw a pop of pyrotechnics as Little V’s heavy metal rendition of “Holding Out For A Hero” starts to shred the airwaves for the thousands in attendance here in Tokyo.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, the TAAAAG TEEEEAM CHAAAAMPIOOONS

Richard Parker: Lies! I can’t believe Vince would spread such bullshit to these people.

Where have all the good men gone?

And where are all the Gods?

Vince Howard: The team of The Anglo Luchador and Crash…

The new collection of hardheaded heroes walk out from the back to a chorus of hopeful cheers. The Luchador and Northern Light both clutch their belts over a shoulder and are accompanied by their brother in arms, Sebastian Gold, proudly displaying his Alias Title around his waist. The three give each a look of confidence before they share handslaps and fist bumps. Gold departs for the Argyle, should he be needed, as the other two Heroes make their way down the ramp with handling business on their minds.

Nick Stuart: You’re gonna pretend TAL hasn’t held the belts since Zapp left him high and dry? It amazes me how you never fail to disappoint.

Vince Howard: Noooobody’s Heeeeeroooooes!

The crowd’s reaction is electric as the pair of unlikely partners make their way down the ramp and to ringside. Crash is slapping hands with the fans the whole way while wearing a stone-cold, locked and loaded look on his face. Under the Luchador’s mask is a stoic expression of his own as he eyes the ring.

I NEED A HERO

BOOMBOOMBOOM

Fireballs pop off down the entrance ramp to another roar from the crowd. The dust settles however and ushers the lights to come up. The Heroes hand their belts over and make their way to their corner. The crowd settles a bit as Crash and TAL get ready to find who’s gonna walk out of here with those things tonight.

DING DING

Six combatants, one of which comes to us from across the bounds of time and space. Four cardboard people in various states of has-been-run-over-by-a-jolf-cart. One man in a mask driving said jolf cart. A shitload of jolf clubs. One guy whose editor keeps underlining the word “jolf” in red as if it’s not real.

And Jimmy Turnbull to try and control it all.

Yeah, this is gonna end well.

It starts with Anna Daniels and Crash Jackson, and they don’t waste any time getting things going. Once the bell sounds, Crash bolts across the ring to catch Daniels with a running crossbody, but The Muse is quick enough to fall prone.

Nick Stuart: Daniels dodging out of the way of that one, but Crash able to recover in mid-air!

Richard Parker: Rolling just like a hotdog on one of those little wheel thingies that keeps the hotdogs warm at 7-11.

Nick Stuart: Uhh, sure.

Crash dashes in again, but this time is met with a sweep kick that takes both of his legs out. He hits the mat face-first, and looks up just in time to see a punt kick sailing right at his head.

Crash pushes the foot aside, sending Daniels a bit off-balance, and retaliates with a kick of his own. A jumping spinning heel kick takes The Muse to the mat. Crash moves in for a fast cover, but Daniels kicks out before Jimmy Turnbull is even able to make a one count.

Nick Stuart: Both Daniels and Jackson firing on all cylinders to start this one off.

Richard Parker: Okay, so serious question… is it possible to fire on half cylinders? Or maybe like just some cylinders? How many cylinders are there when we talk about cylinders?

Apparently Richard has forgotten the memo about math being dead and all.

Richard Parker: Also what are the cylinders filled with that we can set them on fire?

Nick Stuart: What? No. It’s… it’s a car… nevermind.

Crash tries to press with a burst of speed coming off the ropes, but Daniels manages to cut him off with a sharp elbow strike to the jaw. The move staggers Crash, giving the Timelord an opening. Two swift kicks land in rapid succession to the ribs and jaw – a double-tap where her foot never touches the ground in between.

Nick Stuart: Daniels with the cover!

This time Turnbull is able to make it to the mat in time for a one-count, but that’s all the attempt gets as Crash kicks out.

Meanwhile, on the Glue side of the ring, Joe Fontaine is already signaling for fabby to fetch something out of the jolf bag.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is the first to her feet, and… oh! Pop-up dropkick by Crash sends her stumbling back.

Jimmy Turnbull: Tag!

He makes the tag sign with his hands. It’s somewhere between a fancy clap and a lame self high-five.

Nick Stuart: And Rob Williams now enters on behalf of his team.

Richard Parker: Time for some charred hotdogs!

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Because fire, Nick. Sebastian Gold? Flames? You remember? And Crash is like 90% hotdog at this point?

A beat.

Richard Parker: Look this analogy makes perfect sense to me, and that’s all that matters.

Crash doesn’t waste any time in trying to keep up the pace of this match. He charges at Williams and immediately leaps up for a flying headscissors, but The Legend locks in a firm grip and thunders Crash to the mat with a powerbomb counter.

Richard Parker: That oughtta slow things down.

Hey, no shit, Richard.

Outside the ring, fabby hands off a small item to Joe Fontaine.

Nick Stuart: Williams raining punches now. Jimmy Turnbull is watching this one closely, but there’s not much he can do given the circumstances of this match.

Williams doesn’t go for the cover. Instead he brings Crash right back up to his feet. A knee to the gut doubles Crash over, and a piledriver sends him right back to the mat. This time Williams does go for the pin.

ONE!

TW-

Jimmy Turnbull: Tag!

Nick Stuart: What just happened?

Richard Parker: Count to three? Count to FORE! That’s a tag, so it’s time for the jentleman’s game!

Nick Stuart: You said that with a J, didn’t you?

Richard Parker: Maybe.

Later, the replay will show that while Joe Fontaine did in fact reach over the ropes to slap Crash’s nearest hand, his own feet weren’t exactly on the ground. Still, he did have hold of the tag rope, so there’s that.

Fontaine is all too eager to get in there. He licks a finger on one hand and then raises it in the air, as if testing the wind.

Nick Stuart: What the hell is he doing?

Richard Parker: Lining up his first shot, Nick. Duh.

And on the other hand is the 2-iron, discreetly hidden behind his back. Once Crash rolls out of the ring, Fontaine takes a swing at Rob Williams.

Richard Parker: What?! There are no interceptions in jolf!

But Jimmy Turnbull is there to stop the shenanigans, grabbing Joe by the wrist and forcibly removing the brass knucks from his hand. He’s also doing a fair bit of shouting about the rules.

Richard Parker: But there’s three teams! That would have been totally legal!

Nick Stuart: There has to be some order here, Richard. Otherwise imagine what would happen.

Richard Parker: I am. And the picture in my head is hella fun.

As Turnbull moves to toss the knuckles, Fontaine shoves past him and makes a bee-line right for Rob Williams. Clearly annoyed that his shot was denied, The Dick Decker done goes and decks a dick, planting his foot soundly betwixt Rob Williams’ nethers.

The collective OOOOOHHH is every man in the crowd wincing in unison.

Turnbull turns around just in time to see Joe Fontaine quickly covering Rob Williams, making sure to hook both legs so it’s not totally obvious that he just booted a man square in the cock ‘n nuts.

Richard Parker: And here… we… go.

Jimmy Turnbull isn’t even able to get near the pinfall attempt to try and make a count, because at that exact moment everyone in this match not named FLAMBERGE runs into the ring to break up the cover. This of course summons FLAMBERGE into the fray.

Richard Parker: Well it didn’t take long for this to go to hell.

Nick Stuart: Is this the fun that you were imagining a minute ago?

Richard Parker: Eh, it’s a start.

Tensions run high. The Anglo Luchador has to work extra hard to convince Crash to come back to his corner, as his temper flared white-hot as soon as Fontaine brought weapons into the mix. Anna Daniels splits her time between shouting at Glue and making sure that her partner is okay. Meanwhile, the dull ache and first hint of nausea that follows a solid crotch-shot is what Rob Williams is currently contending with.

After what feels like an eternity, Jimmy Turnbull is finally able to get everyone but Williams and Fontaine out of the ring.

Jimmy Turnbull: Tag!

But in the confusion, The Legend moves a little too close to Nobody’s Heroes’ corner, and now the Anglo Luchador is stepping through the ropes.

Fontaine charges with an elbow smash, attempting to cut off the Anglo Luchador before he can get into the ring, but the Luchador rolls underneath it. He rebounds off the opposite ropes. Fontaine ducks a leapfrog, and stands just in time to clip the Luchador’s undercarriage in mid-air. It’s not enough to damage, just enough to cause him to stumble the landing, but it’s enough of a window for Fontaine to hit a springboard gamengiri that takes the Luchador to the mat.

Richard Parker: You remember the original mission of the Glue Factory, Nick? When Phil Atken arrived and announced that it was time for the young to overtake the old, when now you’re seeing it happen! And when it’s over? Jolfing for everyone!

Both men on their feet again, and Fontaine snaps off a superkick. Then a second. The Luchador staggers, but will not fall. Instead he calls for Fontaine to throw a third. The kick is caught, and The Full Dick Punch Alchemist is spun around right into a striking combination.

Nick Stuart: A right! A left! And a right cross has the challenger reeling!

The Luchador sends Fontaine across the ring with an Irish whip, but Big Joe Cool ducks a clothesline and uses the near ropes to stop his momentum.

Jimmy Turnbull makes the “tag” sign again, but neither man seems to notice. Instead, when Fontaine turns around he’s met with by a charging Luchador who clotheslines both of them over the top rope and to the arena floor.

One more time, Jimmy Turnbull makes the “tag” sign in the air.

Nick Stuart: Did we just have back-to-back blind tags happen?

Richard Parker: I know I saw FLAMBERGE tag himself in on that whip.

Nick Stuart: The second one must have been Crashing tagging in for his team.

Richard Parker: Not that it matters now.

The reason it doesn’t matter is because, with both the Anglo Luchador and Joe Fontaine on the outside, everyone else took this as their opportunity to join the fray. The commotion that occurred in the ring previously when all six combatants were inside has now escalated to its logical conclusion: a big ol’ scrap.

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams has just sent the Anglo Luchador crashing into that golf cart!

Richard Parker: Asterisk jolf cart.

Yes, he says asterisk out loud, because that’s how you correct verbal typos.

Nick Stuart: And Fabby is sent flying!

Richard Parker: Asterisk fabby

Williams turns back around to where the rest of chaos is unfolding. Near the end of the entryway FLAMBERGE is in the process of trading strikes with Anna Daniels, who in turn is trying to keep Joe Fontaine at arm’s length. It’s up to The Legend to even the odds.

Nick Stuart: Chaos unfolding outside the ring! Referee Jimmy Turnbull is having one hell of a time trying to keep this one under control.

Richard Parker: Asterisk rin…

Nick Stuart: RICHARD, I SWEAR TO GOD!

Meanwhile, the cart’s engine is still running, and the Anglo Luchador is making his way back to his feet. He eyes the downed fabby, then glances to the driver’s seat, and finally to the collection of people brawling only a few feet away.

He takes a step towards the cart.

Richard Parker: I think we’re about to witness a bit of light vehiculucha homicide, Nick!

He reaches for the wheel.

Nick Stuart: Not like this!

And shuts off the engine.

Richard Parker: Maaaaaaaan, he was so close to being cool for a minute there.

Then tosses the keys on the ground.

Nick Stuart: Nobody’s Heroes are here to win tonight, Nick. But not at the cost of their own honor.

Richard Parker: Then are they really trying to win?

Almost in response, the Luchador sprints towards the group of wrestlers, parkours off of the guardrail, and takes down both FLAMBERGE and Anna Daniels with a flying crossbody.

Nick Stuart: And what would you call that, Richard?

Richard Parker: Ineffective. He only got two of ‘em!

Enter Crash Jackson, charging across the ring to build up a head of steam and diving over the top rope with a tornillo suicide plancha.

Nick Stuart: Tailgate Dive by Crash!! And now everyone is down on the outside!

Jimmy Turnbull: (Loud, unintelligible admonishing noises)

Richard Parker: Why does he keep shouting? It’s not going to change anything. YOU CAN’T CONTROL THIS, JIMMY!

As folks get back to their feet, the action spills over towards the guardrail where a group of fans all dressed as hotdogs have gathered. Each of them are also wearing an Anglo Luchador mask, except for one person who has his mask at the top-end of his hotdog costume, so the weiner itself is festooned in a jaunty hat.

That is a real sentence I just wrote.

This fan seems to have been the sole outlier in the “where would a hotdog man wear a mask” debate. He’a also considerably wider than the others, so we’ll also assume he’s cosplaying a bratwurst.

Nick Stuart: Looks like the Hot Dog Mafia has found its way to Japan!

Richard Parker: Don’t you mean Hot Doj?

Nick Stuart: Can you please stop replacing letters with a J?

Richard Parker: J’no.

Nick Stuart: There isn’t even a G in that word!

Richard Parker: I know, that’s why I j’added one.

Nick Stuart: I hate this.

Richard Parker: I jon’t care.

Nick Stuart: (sighing) Joddammit.

A pause. It is ever so brief as Nick realizes that he’s been sucked into the j-vortex. The jortex. Which is also the word used to describe the Great Jorts Hurricane of 1885.

Richard Parker: Victory for me!

Nick Stuart: (to himself) Ugh.

Rob Williams grabs the Anglo Luchador by his mask near the stairs, and then rams him down face first into the unforgiving steel. This earns considerable jeers from the gathered Hot Dogs, so when Williams slams the Luchador down a second time he makes sure to keep eye contact with that crew as he does it.

Sensing an opportunity, the now standing Joe Fontaine lines up Williams in his sights, charges, and then vaults off the back of a crawling fabby. For Williams’ sake, it’s fortunate that he is able to duck out of the way in time. For the bratwurst man who just ate the Wang Ten at maximum velocity as a result, not so much.

Nick Stuart: This match has completely broken down! And now we have Joe Fontaine taking out a fan.

Richard Parker: Wiener on wiener violence. You hate to see it.

Nick Stuart: Have some compassion, Nick. That man could be seriously injured.

Richard Parker: Who, Joe? He’s already climbing back over the guardrail.

Nick Stuart: You know that’s not what I mean.

Richard Parker: What? The other guy? I mean it kind of serves him right for the way he was dressed. Like if you’re going to dress as a hot dog at least get the size right.

OOOOOOOOHHH!!!!

That would be the crowd reacting to Anna Daniels getting behind Crash and snapping off a quick back suplex directly into the guardrail. She rolls the Hot Dog Hero into the ring, hoping to continue their scrap from the start of this match, but is pulled off the ring apron by the Anglo Luchador.

Rob Williams moves to the aid of his partner, but is shoved into the corner post by FLAMBERGE. The French Phenom, limping a bit from the chaos outside the ring, sees that there’s a chance to end this match now. He slides in under the bottom rope, meeting Crash in the middle of the ring and making a move right for the grand finale.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE trying to lock in the Marie Antoinette on Cra-OH!!!!

This is countered by the Northern Light scooping Le Protagoniste by the legs and spearing him directly into the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Crash off the second rope… tornado DDT to FLAMBERGE!

Outside the ring, Joe Fontaine is frantically commanding fabby to fetch him something from the jolf bag when he turns into a running lariat by Rob Williams.

The Anglo Luchador finds himself struggling against the camera cable wrapped around his throat as he and Anna Daniels continue a rivalry now years in the making.

Jimmy Turnbull slides out of the ring to try and get a handle on things, but all he can do is watch as a running knee strike from The Muse sends both her and the Anglo Luchador into the crowd.

And then something slides across the canvas towards FLAMBERGE. It’s small, metallic, barely big enough to fit in the palm of your hand.

Nick Stuart: Fabby just slid something to FLAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: You’re still pronouncing it all wrong.

Nick Stuart: Is that…? Yes, it’s that damn 2-iron.

Only it doesn’t make it to FLAMBERGE, because Crash puts his foot down right on top of it before that can happen.

Richard Parker: Oh no. No no. Nononononono.

The crowd reacts with a rising chorus of cheers as Crash reaches down and scoops up the brass knuckles. He looks down at his hand, then at the weapon he holds.

Nick Stuart: Is he going to…

Before tossing them aside.

Nick Stuart: No! Nobody’s Heroes aren’t selling out today!

The Northern Light storms over to FLAMBERGE and draws him up, but the delay is a costly one. A komi goshi throw at a high angle brings Crash down to the mat.

The brass knuckles bounce a little closer.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE in a full mount, and he’s reaching for that damn 2-iron!

Crash bucks up, knocking the French Phenom free, and swats the weapon away where it plinks off the ring apron and to the floor.

Nick Stuart: Crash using the ropes to pull himself up…

Right in front of Joe Fontaine.

Right in front of the 2-iron.

Nick Stuart: OHH!!!!

Richard Parker: YES!!!

Crash crumples to the mat from the blow and FLAMBERGE quickly moves over for the cover. Both he and Fontaine begin yelling for the referee, causing Jimmy Turnbull to slide into the ring for the count.

ONE!

Rob Williams sees what’s happening in the ring and rushes to stop it.

Nick Stuart: No…

TWO!

Anna Daniels and The Anglo Luchador put aside their brawl to try and vault the ringside barricade to get back to the ring as well.

Nick Stuart: Kick out dammit!

THREE!!!

Williams dives for the referee, but by the time he can pull Turnbull out of position the bell has already been called for.

DING DING DING

The crowd response is mixed, but it is damn sure loud.

Vince Howard: The winners of this match… and NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW PRIME WORLD Tag-Team champions…

Jimmy Turnbull retrieves the championship belts and presents them to their new owners. More things to be polished and shined, shined and polished.

Vince Howard: JOE FONTAINE AND FLAAAAAAAAMBEERRRRRGE!!!!

Nick Stuart: The Glueminati has scored their first win of the night, and with it some championship gold.

Richard Parker: A victory that I will honor later with a bit of celebratory jooning.

FLAMBERGE and Fontaine exit the ring with their new championships, leaving fabby to clean up the collection of jolf equipment scattered around the ringside area.

ReVival moves on.

The house lights go dark with nothing but some bright purple spotlights as the unmistakable opening chords of Beethoven’s classic “Fur Elise” begin to echo throughout the arena. The music then shifts into a faster paced, guitar version as the entire building becomes awash in purple lighting. For PRIME fans, it’s been a while – but enough of them remember what this particular sequence of events heralds enough to start booing in earnest.

And then he appears at the top of the stage: a man who hasn’t graced PRIME with his presence in nearly a year – Ned Reform. Sporting his usual look of bald head and medium-length dark brown beard, The Good Doctor is dressed in all his scholarly glory with dress shoes, dark khakis, button-up shirt under a purple sweater, and tweed jacket over the whole shebang. Adjusting his dark-rimmed glasses, Reform seems completely disconnected from the cascade of boos coming his way as he takes in the crowd and smiles widely.

Nick Stuart: A face we haven’t seen here in PRIME in some time – and based upon the reaction of these fans, it sounds like he was not at all missed!

Richard Parker: Hey, come on – this is now educational programming!

The Sage on the Stage takes his time walking to the ring, employing his usual slow saunter interrupted by brief pauses to shake his head in half amusement/half disappointment at the fans. Finally, he enters the squared circle, motioning for a mic and waiting for his music to die out and the house lights to return to normal.

Finally, he raises the mic to his lips… and is met with an undeniable negative reaction. With a deep sigh, he brings the mic back down before shooting an incredulous look toward the PRIME fanbase. He tries again… same result. Shaking his head, Reform walks up so that his bald head is filling the entire camera lens and the camera-mounted mic can pick up what he’s saying.

Ned Reform: I can wait.

This goes on for many more seconds, a game of cat and mouse between Ned and the fans… until The Good Doctor decides to just power through. He gestures broadly as if speaking to every fan in attendance.

Ned Reform: Children! I’d say I’ve missed you, but we all know that would be a lie!

Pause for the appropriate reaction.

Ned Reform: No, my friends… I have made my much-anticipated return to the world of PRIME not because of its loyal fanbase, but very much in SPITE of it. Make no mistake: as I made my grand exit last year, I did so with the gleeful smile plastered on my face akin to one has when escaping the most putrid of prisons. Much like the beleaguered employee happily handing his cruel and incompetent employer his two weeks notice, I was free. FREE I TELL YOU! And yet…

Reform pauses, again dramatically gesturing all around him.

Ned Reform: Here I return. Not to COMPETE, mind you – no, I long ago proved my athletic superiority to anyone desperate enough to work for this company – but instead, I return as a guide. A prophet. A mentor. My friends, Doctor Ned Reform appears before you in the role he knows best: a teacher.

He again stops, this time apparently waiting for the applause that does not come.

Ned Reform: I have only returned to PRIME because I have the opportunity to shape the future! And thus, friends, I milk the suspense no longer. For it is my supreme pleasure to give you the privilege of partaking in history. Should you half-wits someday and somehow stumble blindly into the opportunity to procreate, you WILL tell your grandchildren about this! For you see: right now, DOCTOR Ned Reform makes history! Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you… the FUTURE of professional wrestling and MY newest charges… HUGO VALE! DANIEL GREEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: MY GREEN! VALE! GANG!

The lights dim. Not all the way. Softly. What light remains casts a gentle, yellow-orange hue around the arena as the jingle-jangling guitar of “Cigarette Daydreams” by Cage The Elephant hits the speakers.

Did you stand there all alone?
Oh, I cannot explain what’s goin’ down
I can see you standin’ next to me
In and out somewhere else right now

And out steps two young men, not even old enough to drink, in tweed suits you’ll never be able to afford. Handsome, classic haircuts, it’s all very academic, in an elite prep school way. In another life, the pair would be the worst characters in a Fitzgerald novel. Hugo Vale, old American money reincarnated as a smug, brash asshole, and Daniel Green, a battle-tested gentleman who has made the most of his ample opportunities.

You sigh, look away
I can see it clear as day
Close your eyes, so afraid
Hide behind that baby face
Do-do-do
Do-do-do

They are imminently easy to hate, the way their childish hearts allow them to wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders, and sing their own theme music like drunk lads at a bar together, just as the bass and drum touch the track.

You can drive all night
Lookin’ for the answers in the pourin’ rain
You wanna find peace of mind
Lookin’ for the answer

They are in their own privileged, youthful world as they almost dance together down to the ring, a giggliness to their behavior that betrays the kind of carefree attitude that most people can’t afford.They glide up the stairs and walk to either side of the apron, before stepping through the ropes in unison.

Hugo and Daniel meet Ned Reform in the center of the squared circle. Ned bestows the microphone to Hugo as though it were the sword from his very sheathe.

Hugo Vale: Greetings, plebs. Yes, we are the Green Vale Gang and – I’m truly sorry, Dr. Reform, but do these… pEoPLe understand English? Do you all understand what I’m saying? Actually, it doesn’t really matter, does it? You don’t speak English, you don’t vacation in Maldives, you don’t have nice hair or expensive clothes. Really, it’s just one more addition to an already far-too-long list of differences between brokies like you, and well, us.

Hugo looks out at the crowd. It’s as though, for the first time, he’s utterly surrounded by people who don’t have summer houses. If he were any younger, he’d be frightened. Instead, he runs a hand through his chestnut hair, chuckles to himself, and continues.

Hugo Vale: Anyway, I’m Hugo Vale and you all are… uhm… unimportant? I guess? I don’t know. Who cares? Danny Boy, would you like to introduce yourself to these… ill-fated, Japanese yokels?

Hugo flips the microphone in his hand, offers the handle to Daniel.

Daniel takes the mic and walks a few paces away from Hugo and Ned. He pauses—hesitates—taking in the crowd’s reaction. The Japanese are known for being somewhat reserved, but a low rumble of persistent hatred has begun.

With his high-top fade and impeccable attire, Daniel scans the sea of people—far more than he’s ever seen in one place. Far more than either of the two bare knuckle bouts he competed in previously. Even when he catches the gaze of one or two individuals, their faces might as well be blank, devoid of emotion or defining features. Come to think of it, this is often the case whenever he meets someone new: he struggles to see the humanity in them. They have to prove it, but even then, he remains unconvinced.

Daniel Green: My name is Daniel Green, and you know something… I was gonna keep this respectful. A simple introduction before the GVG goes on to dominate the tag division. I don’t see myself as a bad guy. Because I’m not. And neither is my bro Hugo or the learned and accomplished Dr. Ned Reform.

He looks back at his boys, giving them a nod of acknowledgement.

Daniel Green: But where I come from, respect is earned. You give it to those who show it to you. Anything less earns a punch to the teeth. Well, your pitiful jeers have shown me exactly the kind of people you all are. The kind of people I don’t fuckin’ like. But there’s too many of you brokies for me to swat down in a single night, and I don’t like playing favorites, so I’ll just say this—to each and every last one of you: Ōtani Shōhei wa kadai hyōka sa rete irushi,-kun-ra no josei no hotondo wa shishunki mae no shōnen no yōnimieru.

Roughly translated: “Shohei Ohtani is overrated and most of your women look like prepubescent boys.”

An eruption of boos rings as Green smirks, having garnered exactly the reaction he wanted.

Hugo Vale (off-mic): Danny Boy, I had no idea you spoke Japanese!

Daniel Green: My IQ can’t make welterweight, Hyuge—no cap. If these idiots can manage it, I’m certain anyone can. They’re not even morons; they’re less-ons.

Hugo sneers, tosses a raised eyebrow and self-pleased grin at Ned Reform as he catches the mic from Daniel.

Hugo Vale: They’re all yours, Dr. Reform.

Hugo bestows the microphone to Ned just as Ned had done to him. He graciously takes it and beams proudly.

Ned Reform: My boys, you should be proud of yourself. Not many have the strength of fortitude to stare down the literal dregs of humankind – that is to say, fans of “professional” wrestling – and not waver in the face of their depravity. Take a good look, my friends…

Reform gestures to both Vale and Green as if he were presenting a gameshow contestant with a new car.

Ned Reform: These young men are destined to outshine the common guttersnipe that is the majority of the PRIME roster. My boys… this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

The Green Vale Gang’s theme kicks in again as Reform sticks out his hand for Vale to eagerly shake. He does likewise for Green before taking each man’s hand and raising them high in the air with the smile of a proud papa.

Nick Stuart: This might go without saying, but we’ve witnessed the arrival of a new trio!

Richard Parker: Young and brash – but the question is: can they back that up in the ring?

ReVival moves on.

Outside of the Boiler Room.

The door is closed. A sign is attached to it. It reads:

MAXKAEL JR. STAY OUT. ERRBODY STAY OUT. THIS HEAR IS MY PARDY ZONE. U DONT C ME SHOWIN UP IN YO MOTHAFUGGIN PARDY ZONE WIT NO INVATATION. SO DONT SHOW UP TO MYMOTHAFUGGIN PARDY ZONE WIT NO INVATATION ETHER.

The camera man’s hand slowly pushes the door open.

Red light floods the lens as we step into the Boiler Room. We see “BRF” spray painted all over the walls and boilers. We see empty canisters of spray paint, air duster, and four lokos. We see mountain dew code red bottles and Gatorade bottles full of urine strewn about.

And we see Fred Dick.

He sits slumped against the wall.

His eyes are open, but he doesn’t move. They’re empty. Lifeless.

He looks awfully pale, even with black and gold spray paint stains on his face.

Oh my god is… Fred…

Is Fred Dick Dead?

The camera man nudges Fred with his foot. Fred falls over to his side. Eyes still open.

Camera Man: Fred?

…

Nope, nothing. Fred’s dead, this is really the end. Well, we can’t say we’re surprised. Still, RIA will be let down. Not quite like when–

FRED GASPS AND HIS EYES WIDEN.

HE STARES UP AT THE CAMERA.

Fred Dick: WHAT’RE YEW DOIN IN HERE??? THIS IS MY PARTY ZONE.

Fred punches the camera man in the balls. He falls to the ground and drops the camera.

Fred Dick: GOD DAMN IT I TOLD EVERYONE NOT TO BOTHER ME WHEN I’M PRE-GAMING!!!

Fred stomps the camera man. He stumbles out of the Boiler Room and into the hallway. He knows what mothafuckin time it issss…

Fred Dick: It’s mothafuggin’ Boiler Room Fred time.

We cut away.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…

The ring announcer’s expression is grave and solemn. He stands in the spotlight in the ring center, next to official Elvis Nixon, who is wearing a catcher’s mask and football pads for his own personal protection. In the darkness around them, members of the ring crew are hastily removing the ring ropes and apron.

Vince Howard: The following contest is… an EXPLODING BARBED-WIRE RING DEATHMATCH.

The crowd cheers with bloodthirsty excitement. Vince, on the other hand, looks a bit green in the gills, in absolute dread of what is about to take place. The crew continue fitting the ring for destruction. Cords of barbed wire are strewn around the ringposts. Racks of customized, preselected weapons are set up in opposing corners.

Vince Howard: For a period of fifteen minutes, there will be NO holds barred, NO disqualifications, and NO stoppages allowed in this match!

At ringside, two men in protective uniforms pry open a military ordinance crate with the words “DANGER!! EXPLOSIVES!!” stenciled on the sides. Fans in the front few rows are forced to move further back as the barricade is set beyond the blast radius.

Vince Howard: A winner will ONLY be determined when their respective opponent is left inside the ring when the time reaches zero…

The crew members begin unloading explosive charges out of the ordinance crate and rigging them around the ring. Smaller ones along the wire and plywood boards set in the turnbuckles. Big ones around and under the ring for the grand finale.

Vince Howard: …at which point, the squared circle will EXPLODE.

Again, the crowd CHEERS! On-site professional engineers rig the explosives with a network of wiring affixed electronic timer stationed near the timekeeper.

Vince Howard: We will now introduce the competitors of this match… and may God have mercy on their souls!

The ring announcer leaves the ring before the last set of barbed wire ropes can be set into place.

The lights dim. Instead of “Time Warp”, “The Shape” by Nanoverse can be heard throughout the arena. Light pink and baby blue smoke slowly pours out on the stage. There’s a buzz of anticipation as the crowd awaits RIA. Once the best shifts, she slowly emerges from the smoke.

White ‘New World Trash’ tank top. White, black, light pink and baby blue camo pants, with the pants bloused at her normal kickpads. A black Vae Victis hoodie. Her usual heart-shaped glasses. It’s obvious RIA is dressed for war. The exploding barbwire bat secured in her right hand is even more evidence of that.

She stands there, staring towards the ring. Once the beat changes again, she starts her journey to the ring. There’s no smiling, no dancing, no playful cavorting. Tonight, RIA is all business. She rips the glasses from her face and flings them towards the crowd, her line of sight never leaving the ring.

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

Once she ends up at ringside, she carefully places the bat in the nearest corner. The Psychoberry pulls the VV hoodie off and tosses it to the ringside attendant before climbing the stairs onto the apron. She walks along the ledge, gently running her fingers along the barbwire strands that are the ropes for this match. She carefully steps into the ring, the look on her face telling everyone she’s ready.

Nick Stuart: The Psychoberry looks more than ready for the coming bloodbath! Not a shred of fear in that face! And after everything she’s been put through these past few months, I can’t say I blame her!

Richard Parker: Well, when all is said and done here tonight, and Freddie is done having his way with her, she’ll have nobody to blame but herself!

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t be so sure about that, partner! Never underestimate the lengths a human being will go to in order to satisfy their revenge! And what began as a SLAP may very well end in a BANG here tonight!

Richard Parker: Uh oh… here comes trouble!

Fred Dick stumbles onto the entrance ramp with a microphone in his hand. No music. He has spray paint stains all over his face.

Oh god oh no oh fuck.

It’s Boiler Room Fred.

Boiler Room Fred: JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL. LIVING IN A LONELY WORRRRLD. SHE TOOK THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN GOING AN-Y-WHEEEERE.

It’s incredible. The use of inhalants has somehow raised Freds voice to the perfect octave to sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey.

Boiler Room Fred: JUST A CITY BOY. BORN AND RAISED IN SOUTH DETROOOOOIT. HE TOOK THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN GOING AN-Y-WHEEEERE.

Boiler Room Fred slowly begins marching towards the ring, imploring the Japanese crowd to join him in his song.

Boiler Room Fred: A SANGER IN A SMOKEH ROOM! A SMELLA WIIIIINE ‘N CHEAP PERFUUUUME. FOR A SMILE THEY CAN SHARE THE NIGHT IT GOES AWN ‘N AWN ‘N AWN ‘N AWWWWN!!!

Fred dances outside the ring and starts trying to figure out how he’s gonna get inside this barbwire wrapped monstrosity.

Boiler Room Fred: STRAAAAANGERS! WAAAAITIN’! UP AND DOWN THE BOULERVARD DEY SHAAAADOWS! SEARCHIN’ IN THE NIIIIIIIII–OW FUCK!!!

That’s him getting caught by the barbwire as he tried to roll in the ring. He almost loses his shit about it but he keeps his composure. It DID hurt like shit it DID but also, he doesn’t really feel much of shit due to the astounding amount of drugs in his body.

To those ends, BRF has forgotten he hadn’t made it to the chorus yet. He jumps straight into the shit in the middle of the ring.

Boiler Room Fred: DOOOON’T STAWP! BELIEEEEEVIN! HOLD ONTO THAT FEEeEeeEEeeEeLIIN STREETLIGHTS!!! PEEP HOLE OH-OH-OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!!

Boiler Room Fred, satisfied, puts the microphone down. He then pretends the mic is his penis as Elvis Nixon tries to take it from him. He scolds Elvis for touching his dick and then gives him the mic.

Vince Howard: And the opponent… Fred Dick…

Nick Stuart: What the HELL is that LUNATIC on now?!

Richard Parker: Do you really have to ask, Nick? Clearly, it’s Boiler Room Fred!

Nick Stuart: Well, I have no idea what that would indicate, but considering we’ve seen this insane and detestable individual survive the likes of the Warchamber and Bullrope matches when he’s in his “normal” state of mind, I don’t think this bodes well for a contest where the ring is set to blow!

Dick stands in his corner, completely high as fuck, staring into nothing, and almost completely unaware of his surroundings. Across the ring, RIA stands in her corner, gripping the neck of her explosive bat tight while staring daggers at him.

Losing patience, she glares over to the referee…

RIA: START*…* the FUCKING*… CLOCK!!*

Nixon makes some last minute readjustments to his protective gear, crosses himself, and cues for the bell…

DING DING

1 5 : 0 0

1 4 : 5 9

1 4 : 5 8

Nick Stuart: Buckle up, ladies and gentlemen, because the clock is TICKING, and–HERE COMES RIA OFF THE BELL!!

The Psychoberry tears across the ring in a blue and pink streak, exploding barbed-wire baseball bat held overhead! Fred Dick merely stands there and gawks stupidly as she brings it down on his forehead!

BLAM!

Nick Stuart: MY GOD!

The bat nearly flies out of RIA’s hand from the recoil of the blast…

…but Dick is still standing, unphased and continuing to stare blankly into the air in front of him.

Nick Stuart: WHAT?! HOW?!

RIA blinks in astonishment, but undeterred winds the bat back for another swing…

BLAM!

Nick Stuart: SWEET MERCY, she brought that boom-boom bat right up into Fred’s JAW!!

…and when the smoke clears, Fred Dick STARES BACK!

Richard Parker: And it did NOTHING!

Nick Stuart: I don’t understand!

Despite the cuts and scorch marks left behind by the impacts, you’d hardly think Fred Dick had just been clubbed twice in the head with an exploding barbed-wire bat. RIA shakes her head, refusing to give this up until she splits the pinata open wide, and draws the bat back a third time…

Nick Stuart: DICK CAUGHT IT IN HIS HAND!!

Richard Parker: It’s that crazy Boiler Room energy he’s got!

RIA stares in shock at the hand clutching the middle of the bat. Fred’s eyes continue to appear bleary and unfocused, as though his drug-addled mind were far and away from his physical body. In a single motion, he pulls the bat from the Psychoberry’s grip and tosses it aside. A second later, his raised hand appears…

SLAP!

Richard Parker: DICKSLAP!!

RIA staggers off the impact from Boiler Room Fred’s palm. She quickly rallies and charges ahead, but runs her throat straight into his waiting hand! Still staring emotionlessly into the void, Dick’s hand begins to clamp down on her windpipe.

Nick Stuart: That Dick is CHOKING THE LIFE OUT OF HER!!

Richard Parker: Oh Christ on a cracker, this match is going to be a phrasing nightmare!

The Psychoberry kicks her legs into Fred’s bulbous gut in a desperate effort to free herself. Dick doesn’t feel them, instead turning to the barbed wire ropes and–

POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!!

Nick Stuart: NO, GOD, NO!! RIA WAS JUST THROWN INTO THE EXPLOSIVE WIRE!!

RIA spasms as if she’s been shot, her body and back ROCKED by the small controlled explosions. Fresh flecks of blood appear from cuts from the wire on her arms and shoulders… but before she can recover, Dick seizes her by the head…

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD, NOW THAT BASTARD’S DRAGGING HER FACE ACROSS THE BARBED WIRE!!

Holding her by the hair and neck, Fred GRINDS RIA’s forehead into the top strand of wire, instantly slicing her forehead and painting the untouched canvas with a splatter of BLOOD. Half the crowd screams in terror and revulsion… while half the crowd screams for MORE.

Nick Stuart: We have BLOODSHED, and only a mere couple minutes have ticked away on the clock!

Richard Parker: Well, we knew it was going to get messy sooner or later!

Dick throws RIA to the mat. She immediately clutches at her bleeding face, while the shid-meister seems to be blindly led to something else in the ring. He wanders over to one of the weapon racks…

Nick Stuart: Oh no… Fred Dick has ahold of a CHAIR wrapped with BARBED-WIRE now!

Richard Parker: That is VERY INCONVENIENT for sitting! Why would ANYONE wrap a chair in that!

Fred slides his hand between the back of the chair and wire, creating a giant steel oven mitt.

Nick Stuart: Does that answer your question?

RIA uses the back of her hand to wipe the blood from her from her field of vision, and turns herself around just in time to see Dick looming over her with the chair strapped over his hand with barbed wire! She gets her hands up in time for–

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: CHAIRSLAP!! RIA BARELY got her hands up in time!

Richard Parker: Yeah, THAT time…

RIA rolls off the impact onto her knees, stunned and rocked. Dick brings his chair-strapped hand up again…

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: CHAIRSLAP ACROSS THE EXPOSED BACK!!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: AGAIN!!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: AND AGAIN!!

The King of Wrong Style mercilessly swings away without any regard for human safety, and Psychoberry SHUDDERS INTENSELY with every impact, curling up in agony!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!!!

Nick Stuart: Somebody STOP THIS! He’s KILLING HER!!

Richard Parker: It’s too late for that, Nick! Still plenty of time until the fireworks show!

Desperately, RIA wills what strength she has left to roll to the safety of the other side of the ring. Fred quietly stalks her like a slasher flick villain. She instinctively backs herself into a corner, but keeps her distance from the explosive board propped against the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: Now the Psychoberry finds herself TRAPPED!

Richard Parker: Trapped like the BRAT she is!

Dick pulls back his chair-infused palm, looking for the KILLING BLOW…

…only for RIA to ROLL OUT OF THE WAY! Instead, Dick CHAIRSLAPS the corner, causing it to–

BOOM!!

Nick Stuart: OH WOW!!

The board EXPLODES, sending the chair FLYING in a smoking arc off of Fred’s hand and landing out in the fifth row of the audience!

Richard Parker: Oh man, we’re going to have a lawsuit on our hands after tonight!

Dick eyes begin to flutter. Slowly but surely, he’s coming out of his paint fume-induced trance, and blinks with curiosity at the fresh cuts left behind by the barbed wire as the chair was stripped from his hand by the blast.

RIA: Hey ASSHOLE…

The King of Wrong style turns around into a–

RIA: SHO-RIAAAA-KEN!!!

The RISING UPPERCUT from the Psychoberry BLASTS Dick under the jaw, causing him to reel back into–

POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!!

Nick Stuart: FRED DICK GOES INTO THE EXPLOSIVE WIRE!!!

Dick convulses from the explosions, and sinks further into the wire, a sizzling, bleeding mess. RIA stands panting and fighting through pain, until she looks up at the clock…

1 0 : 0 2

1 0 : 0 1

1 0 : 0 0

Vince Howard: TEN MINUTES remain…

Red chyrons posted around the ring begin to flash, signifying imminent danger! Knowing she’s still got a job to do, she scoops her explosive barbed-wire bat off the mat using her foot and catches it in her hand.

Nick Stuart: Less than ten minutes remain in this match, and while RIA has miraculously withstood a downright UNGODLY amount of punishment, she knows she still has to incapacitate Fred Dick to the point where he can’t escape this rigged-to-blow ring!

Richard Parker: I’d say she’s got her work cut out for her!

With two furious, rainbow-colored eyes glaring through the mask of crimson covering her face, she gives Dick the LOOK of DEATH and points him down with the bat!

RIA: Now it’s MY turn, ya prick!

Without warning, Dick ERUPTS from the cords of barbed wire, tearing ribbons of flesh out of his arms while he unflinchingly lunges at the Psychoberry in a murderous pounce!

Fred Dick: I’LL WHOOMP YER ACE, BIMCH!!!

RIA ducks another SLAP coming for her head…

BLAM!

Nick Stuart: BOOM-BOOM BAT to the BACK OF THE KNEE!! Fred Dick is CUT DOWN TO SIZE!!

With Freddown to one knee, RIA twists into a backhanded swing that catches Dick FLUSH on the temple!

BLAM!

Nick Stuart: And a GRAND SLAM of a SWING to top it off!

Dick is on all fours, his expression finally beginning to register some sense of pain. While he is stunned, RIA hurries to the other end of the ring for distance and comes running back with a head full of steam. She throws herself into a forward flip, bringing the bat around Fred’s throat right before taking the bump.

BLAM!

Nick Stuart: RUNNING SOMERSAULT CUTTER using that EXPLODING BAT for the ASSIST!

Richard Parker: Come on, what happened to that BOILER ROOM energy?!

Dick is on the mat in a bloody and bruised heap. Huffing and puffing like a Big Bad Brat, RIA stands over him with the bat held up, ready for a coup de gras. Slowly, Fred begins pushing himself up.

Nick Stuart: RIA has Fred Dick right where she wants–NO!! He snags an ankle… and SWEEPS HER to the mat!

With renewed energy, the shid-meister ROARS back to his feet with RIA’s boot still in his grip! Before she can react, he hooks both legs and falls back, leading her flying straight into–

POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!!

Nick Stuart: NO-NO-NOOO!! RIA INTO THOSE ROPES AGAIN!!

Richard Parker: HA!! Knew Freddie still had some gas left in him!

Unfortunately for Richard, Dick’s tank was apparently only running on fumes, as exhaustion suddenly sets in and Fred promptly plops right down on his ass in the center of the ring. RIA, writhing in unbelievable pain from another set of explosions, plucks herself free of the wire and drops to mat near the edge of the ring.

Nick Stuart: There’s not going to be anything left of these two by the time the ring is set to blow! Speaking of which, ladies and gentlemen, we are about HALFWAY to the big moment!

Slowly coming back to Reality (that bitch), Fred crawls his way over to his weapons rack. Meanwhile, one of RIA’s arms dangles over the edge of the ring. Somewhat absentmindedly, her hand finds something…

Richard Parker: Hey, wait, what’s RIA going for?

Nick Stuart: Nevermind that! What’s FRED DICK going for!?

Wavering on both legs like a drunken man holding onto grass to keep from flying off the earth, Fred digs DEEP into his rack… eventually pulling out something big and bulky contained within a burlap sack. He pulls the burlap aside to reveal…

Nick Stuart: IT’S A 3D PRINTED ROCKET LAUNCHER!!

Richard Parker: The ULTIMATE DEATHMATCH WEAPON!!

The crowd is SCREAMING in panic and terror as the King of Wrong Style suddenly has a WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION in his insane and out of control hands! Looking so damn unbalanced that he nearly fires one or two wayward rockets into the crowd, Dick somehow shambles over to where RIA is lying and takes aim!

Nick Stuart: No… NO!!

He FIRES…

FFZZZZZZZZ-FFFwwww-THUNK.

…and a 3D printed “rocket” quite anticlimactically slides out of the end of the cannon and fecklessly lands at his feet.

Fred Dick: Shid…

RIA snaps to life, seeming to THROW something…

Splat.

Richard Parker: WHAT WAS THAT?!

Dick is suddenly pawing at his face, as a beige, jelly-like substance is suddenly obstructing his eyesight. RIA uses the barbed wire ropes to pull herself up to her feet, gripping her bat tightly…

Nick Stuart: I think that’s PUTTY from one of the EXPLOSIVE CHARGES!!

The Psychoberry winds up…

RIA: Banana.

…and SWINGS!!

KA-BLAM!!

The FLASH from the explosion temporarily blinds the crowd! Fred Dick flies ASS over TEA KETTLE, his face absolutely charred and smoldering, into a perfect headstand!

Nick Stuart: GOOD GAWWWD ALMIGHTY, SHE JUST USED THAT EXPLOSIVE BARBED WIRE BAT TO SET OFF THAT EXPLOSIVE PUTTY ON FRED DICK’S FACE!!

Still upside down, Dick remains upright and erect (phrasing) for several seconds, before eventually collapsing into a smoking pile of fat, bone, blood, and absurdity. With a wad of putty left over, RIA applies another dollop to his exposed rear end…

…and swings.

KA-BLAM!!

The EXPLOSION on his ASS rolls Fred Dick like a BOULDER–

BOOM!!

Nick Stuart: FRED DICK LITERALLY JUST HAD HIS ASS BLOWN OFF SO HARD, IT SENT HIM CRASHING INTO AN EXPLOSIVE CORNER PANEL!!

Richard Parker: I HAVEN’T SEEN FLAMING ASSHOLE THIS BAD SINCE THE MOUNT RAINIER’S REVENGE TRIALS OF TWENTY-TWO!!

Nick Stuart: THIS MATCH IS ABSOLUTELY OUT OF CONTROL, and… oh my, look at the TIME, Richard!

0 5 : 0 2

0 5 : 0 1

0 5 : 0 0

Vince Howard: FIVE MINUTES remain…

BRRRRRRTT… BRRRRRRTT… BRRRRRRTT… BRRRRRRTT…

Loud, angry sirens wail throughout the Tokyo Dome! Anticipation begins to build as the final few minutes begin to tick away!

Nick Stuart: We’re getting to nut-cuttin’ time, ladies and gentlemen!

Richard Parker: HEY!! That’s a very offensive joke, given who’s involved in this match!

Nick Stuart: Oh stuff it, Rich! RIA made some MASSIVE gains using the environment to her advantage there… but it looks as though she’s got something else in mind right now!

Dick, bloodied and broken beyond recognition, flops and flails in the wreckage of the corner until he’s sitting up against the broken shreds of plywood and wire. Meanwhile, the Psychoberry is headed over to her personalized weapon rack with a crazed grin spreading across her face.

Richard Parker: I don’t like that look in her eye, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Whatever it could mean, it can’t be good news for Fred Dick! What’s she pulling out of that weapon rack?

RIA stands up with something in her hands. Pulling away a piece of tarp, she reveals…

Nick Stuart: IT’S A JERRY CAN!!!

The Tokyo Dome ROARS approvingly! Nodding with them, RIA turns back to where she left Fred. At the sight of the red gas tank in her hands, Fred’s eyes nearly BULGE from his skull!

Richard Parker: SHE CAN’T BE SERIOUS!

RIA twists the cap off and crosses the ring… and begins DOUSING Dick with gasoline!

Nick Stuart: You KNOW she’s serious, Rich! She’s about to do what the Poor Whoresmen tried to do to her all those weeks ago!

Richard Parker: That’s REAL GASOLINE, Nick! I can SMELL IT from HERE!

Fred frantically tries to get out of the corner, but finds barbs lodged DEEP into the skin on his shoulders! He does what he can to plead the Psychoberry off, but obviously, she’s hearing none of it. When he’s good and properly dripping, she pours out a trail across the ring back to her corner.

Richard Parker: Somebody, CALL THE POLICE! This is an attempted HOMICIDE! A poor, homeless, drug-addicted serial slapper is about to be MURDERED!

Nick Stuart: And we’d ALL be better for it, Rich!

With her dastardly smile growing even WIDER, RIA pulls out… the BOOK OF MATCHES…

Richard Parker: No…

She lights one…

Richard Parker: NO!

…and drops it at the end of the trail!

Fwish!

Nick Stuart: THIS IS IT!! Fred Dick is about to be IGNITED IN FIRE!!!

The fire quickly spreads up the snaking trail of gas, crossing the ring in no time. The King of Wrong Style twists, contorts, and thrashes wildly to free himself…

…and at the LAST SECOND–

Nick Stuart: NO!! Dick SLIPS AWAY! But JUST barely…

Scrambling and squeezing himself through the barbed wire at the VERY LAST SECOND, Dick lands on the ringside floor with a heavy THUD before the trail of flames reaches him.

Richard Parker: Oh… my heart skipped a beat there, Nick! For a moment, I thought we were all about to experience the smell of burning Dick!

Fred sits up, breathing a sigh of relief, but…

Nick Stuart: Uh oh… plug your nose, Rich, because I think there’s still a chance of that happening!

…he regrettably doesn’t notice the trail that was formed by the residual gas dripping off of him until he turns around seconds later and sees the fire still burning after him!

Richard Parker: RUN, DICK, RUN!! RUN RUN RUN!!

With a TERRIFIED yelp, Dick begins running, and the fire continues trailing after him, literally and metaphorically hot on his heels! With every step, he leaves behind more gasoline drippage, further fueling the flames chasing after him!

Nick Stuart: He’s got NOWHERE TO GO! Eventually, he’s going to become a HUMAN BARBECUE!!

Desperately, he looks around the ringside area, searching for ANYTHING that could offer an opportunity out of this fiery predicament! The surging trail of fire is only INCHES away!

Then, he SEES it… a blue and white plastic miracle tucked away under the ring!

Nick Stuart: Oh no… I think Fred Dick found the SECRET DRINK COOLER!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! But everyone keeps their post show BEVERAGES in that cooler! What were the ring crew thinking, leaving that out here?!

Without thinking, Dick grabs the cooler, raises the lid, and UPENDS it over himself…

…just as the flames ENGULF his legs!

FWOO–SPLASSHH!!

Nick Stuart: UNBELIEVABLE!! Just as soon as he’s set ablaze, Fred Dick EXTINGUISHES himself using the water and ice from the cooler!

Regrettably for Dick, in doing so, he inexplicably sends no less than two dozen heavy aluminum cans sliding out and punching him in the face. Fred sprawls to the floor, pawing at his already ruined face. By the time he gets back up, he notices a shadow falling over him…

Nick Stuart: RIA CLEARS THE BARBED WIRE AND LAYS DICK OUT WITH THE LEAP OF FAITH!!

Dick flops out of control off the flying senton! Back on her feet, RIA looks down and pulls one of the cans from the cooler off the floor…

Nick Stuart: And what’s THAT in her HAND?!

Richard Parker: She’s got my TWISTED TEA!!

PLAPPF!!

Nick Stuart: RIA JUST PASTED DICK ACROSS THE FACE WITH YOUR TWISTED TEA, RICH!!

Richard Parker: OH, DAMNIT!! THIS ENTIRE MATCH HAS WORKED UP MY THIRST!!

RIA grabs Dick by the hair that’s left hanging onto his head for dear life and CHUCKS HIM face-first into the last set of barbed-wire ropes with live explosives!!

POP!-POP!-POP!-POP!!

Dick JOLTS wildly as the explosions rock his body, thrashing and tearing like a beached whale trying to flop its way back into the sea! The intensity of his throes of pain pull several cords of wire loose from the corner pads, creating an opening on one side of the ring that RIA uses to climb back into the squared circle.

As she does…

Vince Howard: TWO MINUTES… REMAIN!!

0 2 : 0 0

0 1 : 5 9

0 1 : 5 8

Nick Stuart: WE HAVE REACHED THE TWO MINUTE WARNING!! TIME HAS ALMOST RUN OUT!!

Richard Parker: Oooohhh… hurry up and get OUT of there, Dick!

The situation looks grim for the King of Wrong style, who now has SEVERAL strands of barbed wire coiled around his head and dug into his neck. Pulling them free from the ring posts, RIA takes hold and WIRE WHIPS him across the ring into an undetonated corner!

BOOOM!!

Nick Stuart: RIA JUST TOOK HOLD OF THAT WIRE AND WHIPPED DICK STRAIGHT INTO THAT EXPLOSIVE PANEL!

Richard Parker: That PSYCHO!! SHE DAMN WELL NEARLY TORE HIS HEAD OFF!!

Blackened to the point where he looks like a rotisserie scumbag, Dick GROANS in pain and clutches at the wire around his neck. Taking hold of it again, RIA YANKS HIM TO HIS FEET, and whips him to the LAST corner–

Nick Stuart: NO!!

Dick drops to his knees and SKIDS TO A HALT at the last possible second! Undeterred, RIA charges after him…

BOOOM!!

Nick Stuart: RUNNING HIP ATTACK TO THE BACK OF DICK’S HEAD, PUTTING THAT DICKHEAD DICK HEADFIRST INTO THE LAST REMAINING EXPLOSIVE PANEL!! HOW DOES THAT MAN STILL HAVE A FACE AFTER TONIGHT?!

0 1 : 3 0

0 1 : 2 9

0 1 : 2 8

Barely clinging to the last shreds of his consciousness, Fred flops and rolls aimlessly across the ring, leaving smears of blood and pieces of his charred skin behind him. RIA retrieves her faithful explosive barbed wire bat to finish the job…

…but then, Dick finds the jerry can!

Nick Stuart: Oh no… GOD NO… FRED DICK HAS AHOLD OF THE GAS!!

He HUFFS the fumes… and his eyes BURST OPEN!

Fred Dick: PREMIIIIUUUMMM!!

He huffs AGAIN!

Fred Dick: DUUUUUUUUDE!!

Dick suddenly BURSTS back to his feet.

Richard Parker: YES!! YES!! I CAN SENSE BOILER ROOM FRED HAS RETURNED!!

RIA charges and SWINGS…

…only for Dick to PAW the bat aside, scoop the Psychoberry up, and–

Nick Stuart: TOMBSTONE PILEDRIVER!!!

Their bodies sprawl in opposite directions. RIA lies motionless. Dick lies huffing and wheezing.

Then a voice resonates through the Tokyo Dome…

Vince Howard: ONE… MINUTE… REMAINS!!

0 1 : 0 0

0 0 : 5 9

0 0 : 5 8

Realizing it’s either do or DIE in these waning seconds of the match, Fred Dick pushes and struggles his way back to his feet, looking to escape the ring before–

Nick Stuart: POISONRANA BY THE PSYCHOBERRY!!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! WHERE’D SHE COME FROM!?

As Dick gets ROLLED onto the back of his head and neck, the rest of his hair flies off! The impact leaves him somersaulting right back to his feet! Instinctively, RIA pounces upon him…

Nick Stuart: AND A RAINBOW RIOT!!

Dick flops back to the mat off the codebreaker knee-strike, and all of Tokyo is SCREAMING!

0 0 : 4 5

Nick Stuart: RIA’S ON A RAINBOW RAMPAGE!!

With only a few crucial moments remaining, RIA digs back into her weapons rack, and unveils…

Nick Stuart: RIA JUST PULLED OUT A STAINED-GLASS WINDOW!!

Richard Parker: WHAT THE HELL?! WHERE DO YOU EVEN FIND ONE OF THOSE!!

The multi-colored work of mastery, depicting the revered PRIME icon SAINT NOVA, is made of specially colored glass from every color of the rainbow. It’s clearly a custom work, made with a lot of care and precision.

So naturally, RIA sets it into a corner and parks Fred’s face onto it. Then she crosses the ring for distance and CHARGES…

CRRASSSSHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: TREADING METEORA, PUTTING FRED DICK’S FACE THROUGH A STAINED GLASS WINDOW!!

Richard Parker: IT’S A GLITTER BOMB, BUT A HUNDRED TIMES WORSE!!

0 0 : 3 0

Vince Howard: THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING!

Nick Stuart: IT’S DONE! HE’S DEAD! GET OUT OF THERE, RIA! GO! GO!!

Dripping blood everywhere and with shards of glass still falling from her knees, RIA stumbles over to the wire-free side of the ring and hops to the ringside floor.

Nick Stuart: SHE DID IT!! FRED DICK IS ALL ALONE IN THERE!!

In the ring, with shards of glass sticking out of his burnt and heavily lacerated face, Fred Dick can only weakly flail his arms.

Nick Stuart: Now as soon as she’s out of the blast radius, she’ll…

Conflicting emotions cross RIA’s face as she looks between Dick and ticking clock…

0 0 : 2 0

RIA: …banana.

Nick Stuart: I DON’T BELIEVE IT, SHE’S GOING BACK IN!!

Tokyo is losing its COLLECTIVE SHIT as the bloodied and battleworn Psychoberry climbs back into the ring of carnage with only SECONDS remaining!

Richard Parker: She’s going back to SAVE Fred Dick?! But WHY?!

Nick Stuart: Who’s to SAY, partner? In a battle this SAVAGE… this BRUTAL… this UNHOLY… is it possible for two opponents to grow a deal of RESPECT and EMPATHY for one another? After all they’ve EXPERIENCED together in this bloody free-for-all, could it be AT ALL CONCEIVABLE that a single RAY of MERCY be shown to–

As soon as she’s back in, RIA begins STOMPING THE SHIT OUT OF FRED!!

Nick Stuart: Whelp… nevermind what I just said.

0 0 : 1 0

RIA: BANANA! BANANA! BANANA! BANANA! BANANA!

Richard Parker: SHE’S LOST IT!

0 0 : 0 9

Frantic to get the hell out of there, Nixon reminds RIA of the time and scurries out of the ring. With her bloodthirst satiated, she herself turns to leave…

0 0 : 0 8

…but can’t move, as her boot appears to be caught on something!

Distressed, she turns, and–

Nick Stuart: WHAAAT?!?

0 0 : 0 7

And all of a sudden, the Dick is UP!

And before anybody can say phrasing, he–

SLAP…

0 0 : 0 6

The air is sucked out of the Tokyo Dome.

The crowd falls deathly silent.

It takes a moment for everyone to process what just happened.

0 0 : 0 5

Nick Stuart makes the call, bringing the world crashing back into reality.

Nick Stuart: BLOOOODMOOOOOOOODE!!!!

0 0 : 0 4

RIA hits the mat with a sickening THUD! The fans SHRIEK bloody murder!

Nick Stuart: OHGODNOGODINHEAVENPLEASENO!!!!

0 0 : 0 3

Flailing to escape the ring, Fred Dick falls RIGHT INTO THE WIRE…

…and gets HIS ASS STUCK!!

0 0 : 0 2

…but by some blasphemous miracle bestowed by an inane and putrid force within this universe of shit, he TEARS HIMSELF LOOSE from the wire and FLOPS to the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig!

0 0 : 0 1

Back to her feet, RIA’s blood-soaked face fills with FEAR as she sees the clock tick down on its final second, and reality (that BITCH) suddenly sets in.

Nick Stuart: NOOOOO!!! GOOD GOD NOOOO!!!

0 0 : 0 0

KAAHH–BLLAAAAAAMMMMB!!!

The explosion is DEAFENING.

And adding to the eruption of sound, the Tokyo Dome nearly bursts with the SCREAMS of THOUSANDS as RIA disappears within raging plumes of SMOKE and FIRE! The blast sends Fred Dick flying off his feet and contorting out of control, landing in a smoking heap halfway up the rampway!

Black smoke is EVERYWHERE! In the far corners of the arena, we can hear the building’s fire alarms going off. In the crowd, there are sounds of crying, confusion, and utter shock.

EMTs come sprinting down the rampway–literally running over the crispy husk that was once Fred Dick–and disappear into the column of smoke that continues to obfuscate the wrestling ring.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I’m… I’m absolutely SPEECHLESS right now!

Richard Parker: I’m gonna say it, Nick… this… I think this was an all-time LOW not just for PRIME, but for all of humankind!

Nick Stuart: What we just witnessed was nothing short of INSANITY! We need to get some help for RIA right away… and folks, when we have an update on her condition, you will be the FIRST to know. I honestly… Rich, I don’t know how ANYBODY could have survived that! The entire ring was literally just ENGULFED into a towering inferno!

Richard Parker: It’s an image that will haunt me to the rest of my days, partner! But it’s like I said in the beginning… RIA brought ALL of this down on herself!

Nick Stuart: Oh don’t you even start with THAT now! Whatever you may think, the Psychoberry went ALL OUT tonight, and did MORE than enough to prove she can hold her own in a deathmatch environment!

Richard Parker: And yet, even after she had a chance to get clear of the ring, she went back for MORE, Nick!

Nick Stuart: I… look, we’re not having this conversation. I think Elvis Nixon is on hand with the official ruling… as if it needs to be announced at this point.

The official confers with the timekeeper and ring announcer, who quickly go to work.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the… survivor of this match… fffFFFFRRRREEEEEEDD… DIIIIIIIIIIIII–

“BAAAA-NAAAAAA-NAAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

To everyone’s surprise, a RAINBOW and BLACK force of nature shoots out of the cloud of smoke like a living, screaming lightning bolt of rage!

RIA: BAA!! NAA!! NAAAAAAAA!!!

Despite being charred and blown-the-hell up from head to toe, RIA comes tearing up the rampway in a maniacal charge, swinging her explosive bat like a human buzzsaw! Dick SHRIEKS in terror and runs back up the ramp impressively fast for a man who has lost that much blood and braincells.

Richard Parker: IT’S ALIVE!!

Nick Stuart: And PISSED!!

Dick scrambles through the curtain and disappears. RIA is left wavering on the rampway, looking angry and exhausted… until she hears the OVATION of respect from the Tokyo crowd!

The medical crew cautiously approach, and nearly scatter the moment she levels her gaze on them. Then, with a smile, she flops face-first into the stretcher. As they wheel her to the back to receive medical attention, she is snoring loud and clutching her bat tight.

Richard Parker: It’s going to take a while for the ring crew to clean all this up!

Nick Stuart: Sounds like a good time for a refreshing beverage then!

Richard Parker: Don’t remind me…

Nick Stuart: Folks, despite the CRAZINESS that just unfolded, we still have MORE coming up! Culture Shock from Tokyo CONTINUES!

We cut to a pre-recorded press conference where Nate Colton and Sebastian field questions from members of the press. Sebastian’s Alias belt and Belmont Cup sit proudly on the table before him. A reporter is already in the middle of asking a question.

Reporter #1: The Belmont Cup has gone from humble beginnings to one of the most anticipated annual events in pro wrestling with a dedicated following among puroresu devotees. Mr. Colton, what do you think has been the key to its success?

Nate Colton: Obviously, the collaboration with PRIME has been a huge factor–the idea that you can already catch some of these new records on TV is definitely a draw for fans. But what I really want to talk about, what makes the Belmont special to me, is its inclusion. Way back when my dad won it, it looked…about like you’d expect. A bunch of American dudes, mostly white, either grapplers or brawlers. Over time, they’ve opened the doors to new styles—lucha libre, strong style, European catch…

Sebastian Gold: –and stuntmen!

Nate Colton: Heh. Any time there’s a major innovation, or a style goes through a boom period, you’ll see it show up at the Belmont. So it becomes this…showcase of different methods, trainers, philosophies…and brings it all together in one place. There’s a lot of things that make the Belmont Classic special, but I think that’s a big one. Umm…you there, in the red tie.

Reporter #2: Question for you ****Mr. Gold.  As you must know, Nate Colton has topped the PRIME power rankings once more while you…(checks notes) are ranked just above Quinn Fleetwood. Are you worried you’re not living up to the Cup’s legacy?

Sebastian Gold: Uhhh No? Should I be?

The room laughs politely. Nate takes a deep breath, as he clearly has a lot to say about that question, but Bash gets there first.

Sebastian Gold: Look, it’s no secret I had a rocky 2024 in PRIME. There were even times I questioned if I good enough to be here. If I’d wasted all my time and money on another stupid dream. But then I won the Belmont…and it was like the universe told me: ‘You made the right call, kid. You’re home.’ That’s all that matters.

Gold’s confidence causes a light buzz with the media attendees.

Nate Colton: Next question…

He scans the crowd and picks a rather peculiar reporter. A floral shirt is layered under a seersucker blazer and a bucket hat tops off the ensemble. Sunglasses cover his eyes, but the real eye catcher is his mustache, which puts Hayes Hanlon’s to shame. He’s not that out of place, given Japan’s reputation for unique fashion. He grabs a microphone and poses his question.

Reporter #3: Yeah, Sebastian…how’s it feel to be a disgrace to the legacy of the Belmont?

GASP

The room goes silent. Nate and Sebastian share a confused look. Sebastian mouths “who’s that?” to Colton, who shrugs his shoulders at the Alias champ.

“Reporter” #3: Follow up…not really a question, more of an observation I guess. Given the deceitful way you “won” that Alias Title, I’m startin’ to question the legitimacy of that Belmont win, bruh…

Our “reporter” flashes a shit eating grin and drops the microphone before removing the mustache, bucket hat and replacing the regular sunglasses with his patented Red Army issued ones.

Sebastian Gold: Who do you thin- Hold on a sec… “Bruh…?”

He squints his eyes to get a better look at this tropically dressed “reporter.”

Sebastian Gold: Bryan Dawkins sent you didn’t he?!?

The New Diamond facepalms. Kids, am I right?

Bryan Dawkins: I suppose you could say that…

The reporter removes the comically large mustache and bucket hat to reveal that he was, indeed, Bryan Dawkins all along.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya caught me, bruh.

He holds his hands up mockingly.

Bryan Dawkins: It’s a real shame nobody watches the Belmont, otherwise they’d find out you cheated to win that trophy too. Fake Belmont winner, fake Alias champ…judging by how you handled that little fire incident last year, sounds like you were a fake stuntman too. It’s a real shame that PRIME has that kind of character holding one of its titles…

Sebastian Gold: “A FAKE STUNTMAN???” YOU-

In one giant leap, Sebastian is over the table and charging the intruding Hawaiian. The actual reporters scatter. The two men brawl on the floor and the actual reporters scatter. The frame goes sideways. Someone’s knocked over the camera.

The screen goes fuzzy, only the noise of shouts and scuffling can be heard. Then the feed cuts to black.

For whatever reason, Hayes gravitated toward the six-iron.

Maybe it was the thumb tacks. They provided enough visual menace to be intimidating, and gave the club a disco-ball vibe. A very pointy, violent disco ball.

Clad in his ring gear, hair on point, mustache gleaming, the Event Horizon studies the six-iron, giving it a few slow swings, imagining the potential damage it may deliver somewhere in his mind, and trying to wrap his head around it.

Rexton William Bader: Looking goooood, kid!

Hayes raises an eyebrow at the sound of Rexton rolling in. He turns, six iron still in hand. Bader looks momentarily startled, but then continues on.

Rexton William Bader: I know, I know, I’m running a little late, and you were getting a little worried. Thought your new manager wasn’t going to show up, didn’t ya? Well, they tried to fuck me over on the flight by–Anyway, anyway. Here I am. Ready to make you a star.

Hayes Hanlon: A star, huh. I’m sorry, dude, but who are you again? ****

Rexton William Bader: You know what I love about you? Above and beyond your skillset in the ring? That sense of humor. Right, right. Like you don’t know my name is Rexton William Bader.

Hayes cocks another brow, the “re-introduction” not exactly landing.

Rexton William Bader: You know. “The Master.” I used to be a big fucking deal in this business, let me tell you.

Hayes Hanlon: …I’m sure.

Bader looks slightly confused, if not a little annoyed, before mentally regrouping.

Rexton William Bader: Well you’ve heard of me now. And this is the start of–

Hayes holds up his palm, pausing “The Master.”

Hayes Hanlon: Look man, I’m not exactly on the hunt for a manager. This is my first title shot in a year and a half, and it’s against the literal friggin’ Bogeyman.

The comment seems to energize Bader, his eyes growing wide.

Rexton William Bader: Right, exactly! Your title shot. Which I got you, because I’m already working for you, kid. Always in your corner, whether we’re in the ring or not.

Hayes, looking over his shoulders, hoping for someone to arrive to provide reprieve, rolls his eyes.

Hayes Hanlon: (Muttering under his breath.) For fuck’s sake…fine. Just don’t get in the way when I swing this thing.

It appears he might swing it right now, so Bader backs his wheelchair off.

Rexton William Bader: Okay! Okay, great! I’ll head over to the curtain and wait for you then. Match one with Rexton Bader in your corner, and boom, NEW INTENSE CHAMPION!

It looks again like Hayes might take a practice cut, so Bader rolls off, and we’re taken elsewhere.

Heavy, distorted guitar hits the speakers, familiar to fans since the first Colossus of the ReVival.

The PRIME*View opens up in space, floating past planets and nebulas as the music builds. We’re being dragged toward a menacing black hole in the background, faster and faster, the screen shaking more and more violently.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!”

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!!

“Daggers,” by We Came as Romans hits as heavy as it ever has, thundering through the Tokyo Dome. White flash bulbs, place throughout the stands, seeming explode into bright white light, as the planets and suns erupt on the PRIME*View.

Bursting from the back comes the Event Horizon, blasting onto the ramp with a big swing of his six-iron with a hearty roar to follow. It’s more of a baseball swing than a jolf swing, but the point is made.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, our next match of the night is for the Intense Title!! Introducing first! Out of West Linn, Oregon, standing six feet, three inches tall and weighing in at two-hundred and seventy-one pounds! He is a former two-time Universal Champion! Five Star Champion! And War Games victor! Home Run Hayes!! The EVENT HORIZON!!! Haaaaaaaaayesss…HAANNNLLOONNNN!!

Based on his actions two weeks ago, whipping an empty cocktail into the stands before getting on the microphone, it’s likely that the Japanese crowd is voicing their disapproval, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with the music drowning them out. Hayes, the initial adrenaline burst from his six-iron swing relaxing a bit, makes way to the ring, his face perhaps looking a little unsure and uneasy, but doing his best to mask it.

Vince Howard: And apologies…also accompanied by “The Master,” William Rexton Bader!

Hayes looks back awkwardly as Bader rolls out behind him. It’s clear that Hanlon is less than enthused to share a ramp with the strange, wheelchair-bound man, but shakes it off, and continues on with the show.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentleman, welcome back to Culture Shock! Night One! And an enormous opportunity for one of our former Universal Champions to right his own ship.

Hayes climbs the steps and enters the ring. He gives the crowd a look, scanning his dark eyes throughout the dome, before curling his lip and climbing a ring post, thrusting the tack-covered chair into the air, and drawing a thumb across his throat with his free hand.

“DRAW!! THE!! DAGGER!!

CUT OUT THE PAIN!! TO FIND THE POW-ER!!

DRAW!! THE!! DAGGER!!

CUT OUT THE PAIN!!”

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

Nick Stuart: To put it plainly, 2024 was a terrible year for Hayes Hanlon. A fall from grace, and an interruption to what was looking like a meteoric rise and start to a Hall of Fame career. He’s decided to target Jason Snow, of all people, and the Original Villain has responded with, quite literally, silence.

Richard Parker: He’s definitely not getting any sort of war-of-words in this stretch, but at least the kid is showing some initiative!

Nick Stuart: You mean by interfering with Snow’s match against Gamble a month ago? All but forcing Lindsay Troy’s hand to book this match, and ensure there would be a title on the line?

Richard Parker: Call it what you will, Nick, but it’s a hell of a lot more out of Hayes than we’ve seen in the last 365 days. And why Bader is seemingly in his corner? That’s anyone’s guess.

William has made his way to the floor, wheeling around the ring, hollering this and shouting that. Hayes has largely ignored him, and hops down from the ring post, resetting himself and turning attention to the ramp, squeezing the chair in hand.

The music abruptly cuts, and Jason Snow is now walking with purpose down the ramp to the ring.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, fighting from Parts Unknown, Oregon, standing six feet, one inch tall and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-five pounds— JASON SNOOOOW!”

No entrance music, no pageantry, The Original Villain walks up the steps and into the ring. Make no mistake, as Jason stands in his corner it’s clear that he is here to do one job:

Beat Hayes Hanlon as close to death as it takes to pin him for the championship.

Nick Stuart: Snow doesn’t have a lot to say these days. In fact, he literally hasn’t said a word in what seems like years.

Richard Parker: You could learn something from him, Nick.

Referee Ashley Barlow holds the Intense Championship belt up between the two competitors before handing it off to ringside and signaling to fight.

The bell rings and after a deep breath Hayes immediately charges Jason—

HE SWINGS THE 6-IRON—

THE STEEL CHAIR COVERED IN THUMBTACKS GOES RIGHT AT SNOW’S FACE!

But Snow saw it coming from a mile away, ducking the wild swing, and as Hanlon turns back around Snow meets him with a massive uppercut that staggers Hanlon. A stiff forearm, followed by a second causes Hanlon to drop the 6-iron and stumble back against the ropes. Snow aggressively Irish whips Hanlon into the opposing ropes and on the rebound nearly takes his head off with a stiff clothesline which drops Hanlon like a bad habit. After Hanlon’s head ricochets off the canvas and brings him up to a sitting position, Snow promptly follows up with a basement dropkick to the face, flattening Hanlon, and Snow covers for—

ONE!

TWO!!

TH—RESILIENT KICKOUT BY HANLON!

Snow open-palm smacks Hanlon in the temple. Then he stands up and kicks him in the temple. Hanlon holds his head in pain as Snow runs off the ropes and on the rebound drops a knee onto Hanlon’s temple for emphasis!

Bader, sucking in that sweet, sweet O2 through his nasal cannula, slaps the apron with one hand and hollers something unintelligible from the outside as Snow hits the ropes again, unrelenting with his offense, and on the rebound leaps higher above Hanlon’s head—

ANOTHER KNEE DROP—

But Hanlon rolls out of the way in the nick of time and Snow’s knee meets the canvas, inflicting pain on himself. As both competitors recover, Bader wheels himself over to the 6-iron and slides it to the middle of the ring between the two men. It’s closer to Hanlon, but Snow notices it first and rushes over, getting a hand on it…

STOMP—

HANLON STOMPED SNOW’S HAND INTO THE THUMBTACKS!

Nick Stuart: Ooh, that’s gonna affect his Old Man Strength tonight!

Richard Parker: You were doing so good talking like Snow. Or should I say, not talking like Snow…

The O.V. retracts his hand and grasps it by the wrist in clear pain as Hanlon wags a finger at Snow, shaking his head as he, the larger competitor, looms over him, waiting for Snow to get to his feet, and as he does…

RIGHT HAND JAB TO SNOW’S FACE—

FOLLOWED BY A RIGHT UPPERCUT—

Snow is asleep on his feet and Hanlon plays to the crowd by windmilling his around and around, winding up before throwing a big—

HAYMAKER—

NO! HANLON MISSES!

A KNEE TO THE GUT BY SNOW DOUBLES HANLON OVER!

And right on cue Snow grabs the 6-iron, and rears back…

THWACK!!

SICKENING 6-IRON SHOT TO HANLON’S BACK!!

The crowd ooooh’s as Hanlon arches his back, the thumbtack holes already beginning to ooze blood, glistening under the lights. Bader arches his head back in his wheelchair, and as Hanlon steadies himself on all fours Snow shows that he’s not yet done—

THWACK!!

ANOTHER 6-IRON SHOT—

THWWACK!!!

AND A THIRD!!!

Hanlon collapses prone onto the mat as Snow tosses the 6-iron aside and then rolls Hanlon supine into a lateral press—

ONE!

TWO!!

HANLON GETS A SHOULDER UP AT TWO AND A HALF!!

Snow stares at Barlow who holds up two fingers, then takes a few steps back. In a change of pace he stops, and waits for Hanlon to stir, stalking him from behind as Hanlon, while holding his back and grimacing in pain, slowly and shakily gets to two feet. Bader slaps the apron rhythmically, shouting “Hayes!” Snow raises his arm up with his fingers spread apart, measuring the distance between himself and his opponent as Hanlon turns…

SNOW LEAPS—

OLD MAN STRENGTH!!

NO—HANLON CAUGHT SNOW IN MID-AIR ON HIS SHOULDERS!!

Nick Stuart: This spells trouble for Snow here.

Hanlon slowly turns with Snow on his shoulders, still grimacing in pain from those chair shots, and sees that 6-iron out of the corner of his eye. Snow sees this too, and with every step Hanlon takes towards that thumbtacked chair Snow tries to wriggle free a little harder, but Hanlon is already tilting…

Stalling…

ENORMOUS SAMOAN DROP ONTO THE 6-IRON!!

Bader is clutching at his chest as if his angina is acting up again, and the crowd once again ooooohs as this Snow this time writhes in pain. Hanlon, looking to the crowd for some sort of inspiration, pulls himself up by the ropes. Snow meanwhile has little punctures all over his back now too, and he clutches at them as he fights to get back up to two feet. Slightly staggering, he charges at Hanlon, who was readily waiting…

HANLON SCOOPS SNOW UP—

“IT’S PARTY TIIIIME!” Hayes shouts as he turns, aiming for that trusty 6-iron—

SCOOP SLAM ONTO THE 6-IRON!

Snow bolts upright immediately after the impact, arching his back, and almost as if he was shocked back to his feet he walks right back into Hanlon’s waiting arms—

HANLON SCOOPS HIM UP AGAIN—

ANOTHER SCOOP SLAM ONTO THE 6-IRON!!

Snow jolts back up again, stumbling back into Hanlon—

ANOTHER SCOOP SLAM!!

ANOTHER!!

SCOOP SLAM AGAIN!!

BAH GAWD—

IT’S A SCOOP SLAM PARTAYYY!!!

Snow finally powers down after an egregious amount of scoop slams, and Hanlon covers him, hooking a leg—

ONE!

TWO!!

…

SNOW GETS A SHOULDER UP, GRATING HIS BACK ON THE TACKS IN THE PROCESS!!

Hanlon annoyingly looks at Bader, who has started a slow clap. Hanlon looks to the crowd, who have begrudgingly followed along, and joins in himself, circling around the ring. Snow’s back is a bloody mess, which is on full display as he claws his way to the ropes. As Snow reaches up to pull himself to his feet, Hanlon polls the crowd and points to the nearly busted 6-iron. The cheerful response prods him to pick it up and hold it along his arm as if it were a wing, and he flaps it as if powering up as he jogs in place in the corner gearing up for a big lariat…

THUNNK!!

WHAT?!

BADER JUST CRACKED HANLON OVER THE HEAD WITH HIS OXYGEN TANK!!

Nick Stuart: What?! Did Bader mean to do that?!

Richard Parker: That feeble old man wouldn’t hurt a fly, Nick! It was just a senior moment!

Hanlon, face glazed-over, pauses the showboating. He wobbles around to Bader on the outside, who takes a deep sniff of oxygen through his nasal cannula, and puts up a finger as if to say something, before going completely tall and stiff, and cross-eyed…

TIMMMBERRRRR!!

DOWN GOES HANLON ON HIS BACK, LIKE A GIANT DOERNER FIR!!

As the crowd boos Bader, he urges Snow to cover Hanlon, and Snow desperately crawls on all fours towards Hanlon as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast right now. He’s crawling, scratching…

Clawing…

Snow throws an arm over Hanlon’s chest—

ONE!

TWO!!

BIG TREE FALL HARD!!

…

THR—

NO!!

HANLON GASPS FOR AIR, GETTING A SHOULDER UP AT 2.9!!

Nick Stuart: Hanlon still has life, here!

Richard Parker: Your play-by-play career though? That’s a different story…

Both competitors are down at this point, and the crowd is jonesing for more carnage. Bader slaps the apron and makes a hissing sound, gesturing for Snow to look at the 6-iron, which is barely holding together at this juncture. Snow looks over to the jolf club, then back to Bader who’s nodding enthusiastically. Snow gets up and picks up the 6-iron, then stalks a groggy, slowly-rising Hanlon who looks like he’s lost at sea…

Hanlon turns and Snow lobs the chair at Hanlon’s face—

HANLON CATCHES THE 6-IRON—

SNAKE EYES!!!

SNOW SUPERKICKED THE 6-IRON RIGHT BETWEEN HANLON’S EYES!!!

HANLON IS DOWN!!!

Richard Parker: Call it a night, Nick, This one’s over!

Snow whips the 6-iron away and hooks a leg for the pin as the ref counts—

ONE!

HANLON SCREAMS AND BENCH PRESSES SNOW OFF HIM TO BREAK THE PIN!!

Hanlon sits stark up right, his intense eyes looking to the crowd for more fuel to feed this second wind, and both Bader and Snow stare at Hanlon in horror.

Nick Stuart: We’re just getting started, Richard!

Richard Parker: That must have been it— how is Hayes still conscious?!

Bader and Snow exchange a look and after a moment, Bader nods and flips the ring skirt up. He slides a table out from underneath the ring and gingerly lifts it up, leaning it against the ring. But he’s a little to feeble to slide that table into the ring himself, so Snow exasperatedly hobbles over to help, and as he’s doing so the crowd notices someone power walking down the ramp—

IT’S FABBY!

AND BY THE LOOKS OF IT, HE’S HERE TO CADDIE FOR HANLON!

The Fabulous Gold Mask is in the house, with jolf cart in tow, and he immediately confronts Bader, who sits back in his wheelchair and feigns innocence, huffing and puffing into his nasal cannula, and as Fabby gets closer Bader turns up the oxygen, acting as if he’s having an asthma attack!

Fabby turns around and shakes his head, and it looks like Bader has gotten away with this one as he begins to breathe easier…

UNTIL FABBY UPENDS BADER’S WHEELCHAIR!

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a manager fight at ringside, folks!

Richard Parker: That’s elder abuse! Where are the authorities?!

Bader is down, and sprawled out on the outside as Fabby leans over him, pointing a finger in his face as if to say I never trusted you, and as Fabby turns to the ring to check on Hanlon—

DROPKICK TO THE FACE THROUGH THE ROPES BY SNOW!

Fabby goes flying into the crowd barrier, and crashes to the floor next to Bader, both managers down now, and the crowd boos Snow as we turn our attention back to the ring…

Snow drags the table into the ring, clicks both legs into place, and flips it upright before turning to Hanlon—

FLASH POINT!!!

THE DESPERATION STIFF, SWIFT JUMPING SHOULDER SIT-OUT JAWBREAKER OUTTA NOWHERE BY HANLON DROPS SNOW!!!

Hanlon crawls ontop of Snow, and hooks both legs as he puts his back on Snow’s chest for the pin—

ONE!

TWO!!

THIS IS IT!!

THREE—

NOOO!!

SNOW KICKED OUT AT 2.999!!

Hanlon holds up there fingers and pleads with the ref, who holds up a firm two in response as Snow stirs behind him, clasping his jaw. Then Hanlon looks to the table, and then to the crowd—and then to Fabby…

HANLON JUMPS TO HIS FEET!

He throws both arms out to the side…

He slowly reaches towards the ceiling…

HIS FOREARMS AND HANDS ARE SHAKING—

HE’S ABSORBING THE CROWD’S ENERGY!!

Richard Parker: Stop stealing my energy, you thief!

Nick Stuart: Would you give it a rest, Richard?

The crowd is on their feet in anticipation now, cheering on Hanlon as Snow groggily gets vertical…

HANLON SHOVES SNOW INTO THE ROPES…

REBOUND—

EPIC SPEAR BY SNOW!!

The crowd voices their frustration and Snow acknowledges, in response gesturing for them to shove it, before dragging Hanlon to his feet. Hanlon’s hobbled, bent over and clutching at his abdomen while Snow with all his strength manages to Irish whip Hanlon to the corner at a frightening, breakneck speed—

HANLON CRASHES INTO THE TURNBUCKLE, FLIPPING UP INTO A SEAT ATOP THE TOP TURNBUCKLE!

Hanlon’s lights are on but nobody’s home, and Snow follows up by locking Hanlon’s feet into the cables and shoving his upper body down into the tree of woe.

Nick Stuart: This is not good for Hanlon.

Snow kicks at Hanlon’s abdomen to boos from the crowd, then grabs the 6-iron and winds up as he approaches Hanlon—

THWACK!!

SNOW BROKE THE 6-IRON OVER HANLON’S ABDOMEN!!

Hanlon’s chest is beginning to match his punctured back now, and he undulates in pain as he hangs upside down. Snow meanwhile makes a menacing face towards everyone he comes into eye contact with as he circles back to the opposite corner.

Snow charges at Hanlon—

DROPKICK TO THE ABDOMEN!

Hanlon’s in big trouble here, writhing in pain and stuck upside down in the corner of the ring. Snow meanwhile wastes no time, and drags the table over to the corner, setting it up under the body of hanging Hanlon and punching Hanlon in the face a few times for good measure.

Snow steps to the apron and climbs the turnbuckle above Hanlon, who’s shoulders are pinned onto the table top at the point, and Snow makes the same claw taunt he made before his first attempt at the Old Man Strength…

CRACK!

2-WOOD BY FABBY TO THE BACK OF SNOW!

Fabby winds up again—

CRRACK!!

Richard Parker: Drive for show!

Fabby hoists a jolf club out of the cart, and hands it to Hanlon, pointing to the groggy Snow sitting above him. Hanlon looks at what was given to him, then up at Snow, and sighs before rearing back the wooden chair with a brick mounted to its headrest—

PUTTER HEADSHOT TO SNOW!!

Nick Stuart: And putt for dough!

Snow is out, and dangles backwards dangerously over the ring post, his feet tangled in the ropes now keeping him from falling. Hanlon meanwhile crunches up and positions himself crouching on the top turnbuckle…

Hanlon stretches his arms out to the side…

HANLON REACHES UP TO THE SKY…

THE CROWD IS FEEDING OFF HIM…

HE’S FEEDING OFF THE CROWD…

Richard Parker: Aaahh! He’s doing the thing again! Stop it!

Nick Stuart: No, you stop it!

Fabby grabs his jolf cart and dumps the contents from within it onto the table below the two competitors—

JOLF TEES SPRINKLE ALL OVER THE TABLE!!

The sound of thumbtacks falling onto the table has the crowd in a frenzy now, and Hanlon hoists Snow up with a double handed choke and turns 180 degrees over the table—

SITOUT DOUBLE CHOKE BOMB THROUGH THE TABLE!!!

AVALANCHE EPOCH TO SNOW!!!

THUMBTACKS ARE EVERYWHERE AND ALL OVER BOTH COMPETITORS!!!

Richard Parker: It’s a blizzard out here, Nick!

Hanlon places his hands over the supine Snow’s chest—

ONE!

FABBY’S COUNTING WITH THE REF—

TWO!!

BADER’S TRYING TO PULL HIMSELF INTO THE RING—

…

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: It’s over! Hayes Hanlon did it!

Ashley Barlow hands the Intense Title to a kneeling, exhausted, and bloodied Hanlon, who stares at it in shock as Fabby gets in the ring and pats him on the back!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your NEW Intense Champion— HAYES HANLONNNN!!!!

Fabby congratulates Hayes, who holds the title up high in the air, soaking in the moment as both Snow and Bader look on, licking their wounds.

Culture Shock moves on.

FADE IN:

INT. A DOME IN TOKYO – CULTURESHOCK. NIGHT ONE.

The CAMERA literally drops into the scene as drone footage, night vision style, feeds into the A/V systems showing an unsuspecting BLAZE CLAYMORE pondering to himself as he stands in front of a break room table.

We watch as he cautiously reaches for a carrot and hovers his hands over no less than three cream-based dips that all look the same.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: Jesus Christ, it’s like Sophie’s Choice back here; except this is like… three choices. Meryl Streep only had two!

BLAZE remains oblivious to the drone behind him… that is until…

VOICE: HIYAH!

STATIC explodes across the feed as we SMASH CUT from night vision to an over-the shoulder shot of one BEN LYNCH walking into the Tokyo Dome break room with a dripping mop in hand, handle first. We PAN RIGHT to see a sputtering kids toy flopping around on the carpet as an awestruck Blaze absent mindedly reaches back and dips his carrot into one of the three unidentified white sauces and bites down like Bugs Bunny before spitting an orange glob on to the floor.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: UGH! Horseradish! The worst kind of radish! And… the second worst kind of horse!

BEN LYNCH lifts the mop above his head, dirty floor water dripping on his shoulders as he SMASHES the drone one more time to send the plastic and metal pieces flying to every corner of the room as BLAZE keeps munching on the “awful” horseradish covered carrots.

CLOSE UP.

BEN throws the mop down in disgust and then turns to BLAZE with a concerned look on his face.

WIDE SHOT.

BEN LYNCH: Don’t mind me. We have to be careful these days, friend.   [He leans in and whispers] Not a whole lot makes sense anymore.

BEN looks at the drone amoeba scattered throughout and gives it one final kick for good measure. It finally dawns on BEN who stands before him. BEN’s eyes widen and his jaw drops to the floor.

BEN LYNCH: As I live and breathe! Blaze freakin’ Claymore? The Blaze Claymore? Fresh outta the pen and standing before Ben?  Equipped with a carrot nub and a droplet of veggie dip on his chin. This is a high, high, high honor.

He points at a plate with logs of mystery meat that have an odd glow stacked like a pyramid.

BEN LYNCH: Do yourself a big favor. Don’t eat those. They say it’s Russian.  I see a platter of nuclear turds.  Plus, a gaffer ate one earlier and he’s head first in the porcelain right now.  Sounds like Mongolian throat singing in there.

CLOSE UP as BLAZE recoils his hand from the table, assessing the situation – the dip gauntlet, the mystery meat, and the broken drone – and gasps in shock.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: Wait. Did you say you knew who I was?

CUT TO BEN, who nods his head enthusiastically.

BEN LYNCH: Do I know who you are?  Of course I know who you are. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen the sequel to Jacob’s Ladder!

BLAZE CLAYMORE: Ah! Yes! Jacob’s Chute! That one is very special to me. I believe Leonard Maltin called it “A monument to Hollywood’s ability to try and squeeze blood from any stone” and considering how many great Stones there are in Hollywood, that is saying something. Oliver Stone. Emma Stone. Alicia Silverstone. The Incredible Burt Wonderstone…

SMASH CUT to BEN.

BEN throws his hand out and stops BLAZE on a dime. BEN looks down for an awkward moment. He raises his head slowly, grins, and then lowers his arm.

BEN LYNCH: Stop right there, mon frère.  First, Jacob’s Chute is a master class of sequel cinema that doesn’t deserve to be made but does get made anyway because someone (like me) will invest in the uniqueness of the film and pump money into the pockets of people (like Blaze Claymore) to make millionaires out of humans whose sole purpose in life is to manipulate the degenerates and take over the world.  Second, I apologize for not pausing at any point during that last statement. Third, c’mon guy, you can’t squeeze blood out of a freakin’ stone…

BEN chuckles to himself and then looks at BLAZE as if what was said is the most stupid thing ever.

BEN LYNCH: Pssh stones don’t bleed and you know it. It’s basic Stoneology.

CLOSE UP.

BEN taps the tip of his finger on his temple and glares at BLAZE.

REVERSE SHOT.

BLAZE gives BEN’s words some initial thought but then his eyes light up and look around frantically before finally reaching over and finding his stack of headshot photos. He grabs one off the top and yanks a Sharpie off of a hanging necklace where they are looped together like pretzels at a beer festival. He uncaps the pen and begins to scribble something before standing back and smiling.

He snags the photo and happily presents it to BEN.

ZOOM IN.

As we look over BEN’s shoulder we see the words:

“To You, Keep strong. Cancer sucks. Love, Blaze”

BEN looks up, utterly confused, but BLAZE, on the other hand, seems as pleased as punch.

BEN LYNCH: Cancer does suck.

BEN turns to the camera, smiles, and then winks.  He looks back at BLAZE.

SMASH CUT.

BEN LYNCH: Thank you. I’ll cherish this. It’ll go right next to my pill bottle of Peter O’Tooles pubic hairs that came off the set of The Ruling Class. But, as much as I love memorabilia, and random acts of kindness that do nothing but make me ill, I must move on with my journey in the grand metropolis of Tokyo!  I’m on a Manhunt, Blay-Clay; much like yourself.  Speaking of which! Good luck tomorrow, chum. Hopefully we lock eyes, lock up, and lock the hearts of millions as we battle to the death!

BEN stomps his boots on the floor.  He tilts his head upward and just out his chin. Then, he dramatically points to the heavens.

BLAZE looks around and then does the same.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: How long do we need to do this for?

BEN watches BLAZE continue to stomp on the floor and point to the sky.

BEN LYNCH: [Shrugs] I dunno?  I stopped after one.

BLAZE immediately stops.

360 MATRIX SHOT.

BEN LYNCH: Maybe that was like some kind of outer dimensional shift?  Like, why did you just glitch out like that?  [He shakes it off] Anyway, Mr. Claymore, it’s been an absolute pleasure to spend time with you and doing absolutely nothing of substance.  But! I must carry on.  Bid you adieu, tip of the cap, toodle freakin’ pip.  Imma put a feather in that cap and call it macaroni tonight, boi.  Oh, and Blay…

BEN creeps forward.  He’s very close to BLAZE’s face.

BEN LYNCH: …don’t eat the meat.

TRACKING SHOT.

BEN walks backwards, gesturing toward the rolls on the table, raising his fingers to his throat and making wild “execution” gestures as he exits the room, keeping an eye on BLAZE as he does while BLAZE just keeps his eyes – and finger – focused toward the ceiling.

After a few awkward seconds BLAZE  lowers his gaze and his finger, seemingly trying to process all that just happened. As he does his hand absentmindedly reaches toward the craft services table and toward the pyramid of meat…

BEN LYNCH: WHAT DID I SAY!?

WIDE SHOT.

BLAZE yelps in surprise as he turns but BEN has already fled the scene, leaving behind a shocked, confused, and hungry BLAZE CLAYMORE.

FADE OUT.

We are taken quickly to some unknown corridor in the back of the Tokyo Dome where we catch Angelica Brooks mid-word:

Angelica Brooks: –ster Snow! Jason Snow! If I could just get a word with you.

The shot widens to reveal PRIME’s former Intense Champion, Jason Snow, stalking toward us. Brooks’s back is to the camera, but she turns as Snow passes by, Snow with a look in his eyes like he’s trying to find Hayes Hanlon to reclaim his title right here and now.

Angelica Brooks: If I could just ask you a few questions about what we SAW out there. Mr. Snow?

Snow brushes by her without so much as looking her way.

Angelica Brooks: Can you at least tell us if this was planned all along? Did Rexton Bader really come to PRIME looking for a client or did you bring him to PRIME to give you an–

Rexton William Bader: Shut up! You don’t talk to him!

Indeed, Rexton William Bader has come on the scene, thrusting himself, wheelchair and all, between Angelica Brooks and Jason Snow. The shot widens again, this time to downward, and we see Bader in all his glory, with his newly dented oxygen tank atop his lap.

Rexton William Bader: No! No, you don’t get to talk to him no more. You want to talk to him? You talk to me! Ispeak for Jason Snow now.

Angelica Brooks: …I really don’t want to talk to you.

Rexton William Bader: Don’t talk then.

Brooks opens her mouth to call after Jason Snow one more time, but Snow has been walking away with this whole time and has now disappeared.

Rexton William Bader: What you just saw out there was a masterpiece. What you saw was a master plan. My master plan. What you just saw was the best professional wrestler since Rexton “The Master” Bader, defending his championship by any means necessary. You think we care that he lost? All Jason Snow cares about is getting his pound of flesh. And I think we can all agree he got that tonight.

Bader taps his dented oxygen tank.

Pointing at Brooks…

Rexton William Bader: I speak for Jason Snow now. And what Jason Snow has to say to you, all of you, is this is just the beginning. We’re coming for all of you.

The shot lowers until we see, again, the dented oxygen tank in Bader’s lap, at which point Bader berates the camera man for trying to film his dick, and, on that note, we are taken elsewhere.

It’s funny to think how quickly time has passed since September 23, 2022.

The day when Ivan Stanislav returned to PRIME.

It was supposed to be for one night only. A single evening. A nostalgic nod to a man who had his time and it had since passed.

That’s not quite what happened.

The Siege of Leningrad lasted 872 days and is considered one of the longest and most destructive sieges in history. When it was all said and done, the Soviet people were victorious. As his favorite national anthem states:

We fought of the future
Destroyed the invaders
And brought to our homeland
The laurels of fame

Ivan Stanislav has terrorized PRIME for 903 days. He’s not the one under siege. Rather, he’s been bombarding PRIME himself. It’s only a matter of time before they crack and crumble. And, unlike his countrymen, PRIME is not composed of strong Russians and stubborn Soviet people.

And he just might be on the verge of breaking her back.

The red flag and yellow hammer and sickle before us represents less of his communist ideals and more of his own persona. Deep down, Ivan likely understands this. There’s no going back. No return to past glories.

Yet, that symbol holds as much weight now as it did then, at least for the wrestling fans. When they see that banner, they know trouble is on the horizon.

Ivan stands prepared for combat, donning his gray shirt adorned with Soviet symbols, red suspenders and black pants. The Universal Title is securely fastened around his sturdy waist, and with the red banner hanging behind him, it’s undeniable he’s accomplished everything he set out to do.

Establish his Red Army.

Defeat PRIME’s heroes.

Claim the Universal Championship.

But there’s always more work to be done.

He’s already shattered the eGG Bandits.

Now it’s time to dry out some pesky Glue.

Ivan’s voice thunders with overwhelming pride, his angular Russian accent bending his English words.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME! We stand at precipice of Culture Shock, but journey is not yet complete. There remains unfinished building that demands my attention!

The Universal Champion’s grin is wide and fierce as he plants his hands on his hips, his thick fingers wrapping tightly around the edges of the Universal Championship like a conqueror claiming his prize.

Ivan Stanislav: A vile and sticky infestation has been allowed to fester within PRIME. They’ve clung to Lindsay Troy, exploiting their connection to her and her family, greedily seizing opportunities they have never earned!

Ivan grins crookedly, his gaze piercing through the camera with fiery intensity.

Ivan Stanislav: I dispatched Max Kael to obliterate Glue once and for all. I sent him to confront Cecilworth Farthington. I thought, put two wrestlers with daddy issues in the same ring and perhaps they could annihilate each other.

Ivan sighs deeply, making a show of it.

Ivan Stanislav: Alas, that was not to be. It falls upon me to end this story once and for all. I have not paid Cecilworth Farthington much heed as of late, because frankly, I find him nothing short of ridiculous. With his absurdities and perpetually aloof demeanor. We all know PRIME has no shortage of clowns.

Ivan shakes his head with resolute determination.

Ivan Stanislav: I see a darker, more desperate side to you, Farthington. Lindsay Troy might be all chummy with you. PRIME may be too obstinate to heed my words, but I have heard you mocking and desecrating the memory of Comrade Rose’s father, Dusk- a man to be revered by PRIME’s faithful. Yet, you get a pass.

Ivan’s expression drops.

Ivan Stanislav: But there is something else that I find amusing, Cecilworth, beyond your desperate antics. You fancy yourself a wrestler, the master of wrestling ring, no less. You believe that through your so-called skill, you should command respect.

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: Respect is earned, boy. Not given. And so, Cecilworth Farthington, you do not command respect.

Ivan rolls his shoulders with menacing calm.

Ivan Stanislav: I have watched you claw and writhe and debase yourself in futile quest for respect these past weeks. You scream at me after I’ve wrestled, bleating about your shot at Universal Title. Sitting at ringside as Lindsay Troy’s pet “enforcer” for no other reason than because she likes you, desperately trying to somehow appear worthy of the opportunity that was handed to you. Given to you. Note that, Cecilworth. You did not earn it.

Ivan waggles his finger with disdain.

Ivan Stanislav: I choose those words deliberately, Cecilworth, because you have, indeed, earned none of this. Deep down, you know in your heart you haven’t earned this opportunity. Your friendship with Lindsay Troy is the sole reason you have this chance. It’s the reason you were the last entrant in Murder Rumble years ago. Isn’t it?

Ivan lets out a dark grumble.

Ivan Stanislav: It’s what granted you a Five Star Title match against Don Winters, even though Clay Byrd defeated you in your previous singles match. And it’s what has given you this chance now, despite not wrestling, one on one, since last year.

Ivan winks with a hint of malice.

Ivan Stanislav: We all know it, Farthington. But a man with money and influence can only glide on thin ice for so long.

Ivan shrugs with indifference.

Ivan Stanislav: That is why you haven’t earned my attention, either. Why should a hard-working member of the proletariat even consider a pampered, silver-spoon-fed pretty boy worth a second glance, let alone words?

Ivan’s grin turns smug.

Ivan Stanislav: However, you can now count yourself fortunate, Cecilworth. You have now managed to earn something! A complete mauling in just mere moments. Yes, you have accomplished little during your time in PRIME, but your dear friend Lindsay Troy has at least granted me the privilege of this great honor. You, Cecilworth Farthington, are about to discover, with brutal swiftness, that this Universal Title is far beyond your grasp. The other titles you have held, whether in PRIME or elsewhere, might have suited you well enough. But not this one!

Ivan spreads his arms and grins.

Ivan Stanislav: So celebrate, Cecilworth Farthington! You are about to earn something for a change! Tonight, in Tokyo Dome, when you find yourself staring up at me while on the mat and you realize that your pathetic attempts at victory are futile, just remember that, at least, you finally earned something you so rightfully deserve and ask yourself, was my attention worth it?

Ivan belts out his laugh.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME! I stand before you as Universal Champion! For 903 days, I have bombarded this federation, and Universal Title is around my waist. I am embodiment of victory. The red banner behind me is not just testament to my past, but my present and your future. And you, Cecilworth? Get ready to reap what you finally, at long last, have earned. DYAAHAAHAA!!

And now, to the Pinnacle of all Sports.

We return ringside of the Tokyo Dome, a wide shot filtering on through, the stadium lights up. The Japanese fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. The pomp and pagentry. Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The official for the following contest..Elvis. Nixon.

A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is THE MAIN EVENT OF evening and is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!

Suddenly, the Tokyo Dome’s lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all. The two Champions most synonymous with success in the ReVival, and all the same, it is this titan who surmounted them both upon this pinnacle.

30th, 35th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. The utter embodiment of The King of Conquerors.

34th Champion
CORAL AVALON

With the final image fading away and the song having reached its crescendo, a final shot of the Universal Championship upon its velvet table is shown. And then, we cut to black.

The Financier. The steward of PRIME’s longest reigning faction. His entrance into the promotion came with much ballyhoo, and instantly, he placed himself at the very top of its echelon. A dangerous puzzle of razor wire to be solved. An unyielding grip. A smirk. In the art of wrestling, he is Picasso. Rembrandt. Da Vinci. Yet he stands on this night at a daunting precipice; his PRIME career has been defined, by him, as the bridesmaid. The ultimate runner up.

A dangerous view when it is held by a man who has stood as one of the greatest champions of the modern era.

Yet his path involves a literal mountain, not a metaphorical one. The Bear, old as the Earth, has stood as inevitable and unyielding in practically all conflicts which have come to his door. Even more so the ones he himself has sought out. Twice he has become Champion, yet despite the joy that comes with the conquering, he too carries with him the potential dread of failure. Winning the Championship is difficult; defending it is the truest of tests. Where the iron is forged.

Such is the way. Such a symbol for a hearty people would have it no other way.

What comes is a clash of opposites. Of different views and different ways. Different beliefs and different skills. Who is it that shall claim supremacy?

Such a large thing…

This battle for the soul of PRIME.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall… and is for the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP!

From the Universal Title history video to the center of the ring we go. Tens of thousands are in the Tokyo Dome, with bated breath for their Night One Main Event.

The arena slowly begins to darken, as the opening moments of “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begin to slowly reverberate. As the riff reaches it’s peak, the whole crowd is awakened with bright lights shining down upon them as out from backstage steps Lord Cecilworth Farthington.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… the challenger! Standing at 6 feet tall and weighing in at 197 pounds, he hails from Buckinghamshire, England! He is the leader of the Glueminati! CECILWORTH! FARTHINGTON!

The camera quickly zooms into the self-assured smile that’s cracked upon the face of The Fiancier as he swaggers down to the right, both arms inserted into the pockets of a plain black hoodie. The jovial face of Farthington doesn’t entire match his purposeful march to the ring, his shoulders swaying to the tune of “Choke”.

His hands never leave the pockets as he slowly rolls under the bottom rope and leaps up into the ring. He slowly raises his left arm up into the sky and gives the crowd a cheeky little wave as he takes his place resting against the ring corner.

Nick Stuart: Our main event just moments away and you can feel the electricity in the ring.

Richard Parker: That’s simply from Farthington showing up here.

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t feel true.

Richard Parker: Well, I don’t deal in feelings, I deal in truth.

Vince Howard stands in the middle of the ring, but he doesn’t bother to bring the mic to his lips to announce the Universal Champion. Alexei Ruslan is already jogging down the entryway to the ring.

Richard Parker: Just when you think Culture Shock can’t get any better, we have comrade Alexei!!

Ruslan bounds up the steps and into the ring, shooing away Howard as he takes the microphone from him. He stands in the middle of the ring, with over 50,000 people watching him. There’s a cacophony of boo’s for Ruslan. But he doesn’t seem fazed in the least.

He swings his arm wide.

Alexei Ruslan: Good evening, Tokyooooo!!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Alexei Ruslan: I am not about to let some second-rate announcer call in OUR Universal Champion!!!

Ruslan glares at Howard, then turns triumphantly to face the roaring ocean of PRIME fans. The anticipation in Japan has been building for months, all leading to this electrifying moment when PRIME bursts into the legendary Tokyo Dome for one of the most spectacular shows of the year. And PRIME has exceeded all expectations. Night One of Culture Shock is destined to be an unforgettable spectacle etched into the annals of history!

But it’s not over. Not yet.

Alexei Ruslan: Comrades!! It gives me profound pleasure to stand before you this evening! To announce a man who needs no introduction!

Ruslan smirks in the direction of Cecilworth Farthington.

Alexei Ruslan: A man from humble roots, in a frozen port city nestled within my great Motherland! A man who never came from wealth! A man who never came from plenty!

Alexei turns to the opposite side of the ring, to address that side of the crowd.

Alexei Ruslan: A warrior and a fighter, who fought and earned each and every accolade he ever achieved! A man who brings honor and glory to my beloved Russia and to all hard-working, honest people throughout entire world!!

Ruslan straightens his back.

Alexei Ruslan: He is your two-time Universal Champion! The largest and strongest champion to ever hold such a title, regardless of era in PRIME! He is the leader of The Red Army! He is a national hero and worldwide phenomenon! He is unstoppable!!!

Alexei turns to another side of the ring.

Alexei Ruslan: He is unbeatable!!!!

Once more, he turns, to face the entryway.

Alexei Ruslan: He is indefatigable!!!!!!

Alexei then turns to the hard cam and smirks.

Alexei Ruslan: He is my friend and brother! He towers at 215.9 centimeters and weighs approximately 181.5 kilograms! He is the PRIME Universal Champion!!! He is the Russian Bear!!! He is IIIIVAAAAAANNNNNNN STAAAAAANNNNNISSSLAAAAAVVVVVVV!!!!!

The lights in the Tokyo Dome dim to an ominous crimson hue, casting a dramatic glow over the arena. The sharp, rhythmic clatter of marching jackboots resonates loudly through the PA system, setting the crowd on edge. Suddenly, an electric guitar riff slices through the air, its sharp notes reverberating within the Dome. An air siren joins the cacophony, its piercing wail causing some attendees to press their hands tightly against their ears. This was no familiar Soviet National Anthem. Over the rising din, a commanding voice booms, cutting through the noise with authority.

REFORM LINE… CHANGE… UP!!!!

The deafening blast reverberates through the entryway, sending vibrations through the floor as “Hell March 2” by Frank Klepacki & the Tiberian Sons blares from the speakers, filling the Tokyo Dome with its electrifying beats. To the right of the entryway, a cascade of red, white, and blue flames leap into the air, their heat palpable even from a distance. On the left, a matching display of red and yellow flames shoots skyward, casting an intense glow. At the center of this fiery spectacle, Ivan Stanislav strides confidently forward, the gleaming Universal Championship belt cinched tightly around his robust waist, its polished surface reflecting the chaos of lights and flames around him.

Nick Stuart: Here we are, folks! We’re glad to have you with us into the evening hours here at the Tokyo Dome. Culture Shock Night One, 2025, is almost in the books, but not yet. Ivan Stanislav is the last one to walk out tonight. It’s now only a question as to who will walk back when it’s all said and done!

An aerial shot captures the electrifying scene in vivid detail. In the center of the ring, Alexei, clad in brown, stands with his fist thrust triumphantly towards the towering presence of The Russian Bear. The crowd, a roiling mass of excitement and anticipation, surrounds him, yet Ivan Stanislav stands out unmistakably, a mountain of a man amidst the throng. His powerful arms shoot skyward as he releases a thunderous roar, the sound echoing through the arena. The Universal Championship belt, its metallic sheen glinting under the stadium lights, cinched around his waist. Though the belt appears almost diminutive against his massive frame, it doesn’t lessen the aura of honor and achievement it bestows upon him.

Ivan takes his first deliberate step down the ramp, his boots thudding against the metal with each footfall. The bright overhead lights cast a sharp shadow behind him as he moves. His eyes scan the audience, and he pauses occasionally to lock eyes with a spectator, curling his lips into a sneer or letting out a low, menacing growl. The crowd’s reaction is predominantly boos, but there are some cheers as he continues his march towards the ring.

Behind him, on the massive PRIMEtron, a relentless display of savagery unfolds. Stanislav’s journey through the wrestling world is depicted, from his clean-shaven beginnings in PCW, to his weathered and battle-hardened appearance in OSW, through his notorious antics during the ReVolution Era, and finally as the legendary titan of the ReVival Era.

The scenes flash one after another, showcasing moments of intense carnage. Legendary figures and journeymen, both young and seasoned, technicians and would-be monsters, high-fliers and luchadores, heroes and villains alike, appear on the screen. Each is flung, slammed, crushed, battered, mauled, subjected to the Iron Curtain, and launched by The Red Scare with unrelenting force. Amidst all the chaos and destruction, one thing remains constant: the undeniable dominance of The Russian Bear, whose prowess and power reign supreme over all.

Nick Stuart: My own reservations about Ivan Stanislav are well documented. There’s no avoiding that. But I can’t deny the fact that regardless of what you think about him, Stanislav is one of the most seismic members of the PRIME roster. He cheats…

Richard Parker: Now hold—

Nick Stuart: …he breaks the rules. He bullies and threatens those who dare to get in his way. But even I have to admit that it takes more than that to have that title around your waist. This man should have hung up his boots decades ago, but here he is. Still, he’s got his work cut out for him. Cecilworth Farthington has been aching for this opportunity, and now he’s inches from clinching the title for himself!

Ivan marches purposefully down to ringside, his boots thudding heavily against the floor. He pauses at the bottom of the steps, his eyes locked on the ring, before slowly making his way up, each step deliberate and steady. Standing tall on the apron, he turns sharply, his muscles tensing as he lifts his fist high, a fierce roar echoing from his chest. Behind him, Alexei’s eyes gleam with pride, a wide grin spreading across his face as he watches. Meanwhile, Stanislav steps over the top rope with ease, his massive frame casting a shadow as he prowls around the ring, surveying the scene with a predatory gaze.

Nick Stuart: They don’t make ‘em like Stanislav, that’s for sure. And to be honest? Wrestling has evolved past this man. Giants like him used to be par for the course. They used their size and weight and power to make up for smarts and technique. That doesn’t cut it in this age of wrestling. The modern wrestler is faster, more savvy, more educated, and requires less to do more. And yet, Ivan Stanislav has fought against the hourglass and has stubbornly declared that he has what it takes, and I hate to admit it, he’s proven it.

Ivan turns his attention to a part of the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until they land on a group in the distance. Though they are far from the ring, their presence is unmistakable. Only thirty or forty strong, the group stands united, their fervor encapsulated by the large flag of the Russian Federation held aloft by the spirited individuals. The flag ripples in the breeze, its colors vivid against the sea of humanity. Ivan raises his arm, pointing firmly toward them, and lets out a booming roar. The response is immediate; they erupt in cheers, their voices carrying back to him as they wave the flag with renewed vigor, pride lighting up their faces.

Richard Parker: Look at that, he’s got a section! Hah!

Nick Stuart: So what makes Ivan Stanislav different? The truth is, and I might be criticized for saying it, it’s his heart. Coral Avalon, one of the greatest champions in PRIME history, bar none, took Stanislav to task. He attacked every joint and ligament in his aging body. He outfoxed him consistently throughout the match. But it wasn’t enough. How many times has Stanislav gone up against the modern wrestler and been triumphant? It’s not his size or his strength, it’s something more. It’s gotta be heart. I won’t say whether I think that heart is in the right place, but that may be his greatest strength: Ivan Stanislav’s inability to accept defeat. And that’s why I think, Richard, this’ll be the greatest challenge facing Cecilworth Farthington. Ivan will not give up. He may be rendered unconscious. He may be disqualified. But he has never, once, given up.

Richard Parker: You mean beyond the fact that Ivan is over a foot taller and over twice his weight? Yeah, you could say that. Farthington is going to have to break every bone in that man’s body if he wants to be victorious. But you know, I think he’s prepared to do just that.

Ivan pivots to face another part of the bustling Tokyo Dome, shading his eyes with one hand as he scans the towering structure. His gaze climbs upwards, past rows of excited spectators, until it locks onto a specific skybox. There, silhouetted against the bright lights, a petite figure stands by the window, her hands pressed tightly over her chest as if trying to still a racing heartbeat. Ivan moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alexei. Together, they fix their eyes on the distant figure, their expressions serious and unyielding, as if trying to communicate something profound through the distance.

Finally, the two old comrades turn to face each other. Ruslan grabs Ivan’s burly arms and speaks to him loudly, his shoulders rising and falling as Ivan nods his head. He embraces Stanislav and kisses him on the cheek, before the Universal Champion unbuckles the Universal Title.

He hoists the Universal Championship high above his head, his muscles flexing as he lets out a thunderous, defiant roar that echoes through the arena. The crowd erupts in a mix of cheers and jeers, their energy palpable. With a nod, he passes the shining belt to Ruslan. Ivan strides around the ring, his movements deliberate and commanding, while Alexei slips through the ropes and drops to ringside. The Russian Bear grabs the upper rope and gives it a few testing pulls, his muscles bulging beneath his skin. He stretches his powerful arms and shoulders, his eyes scanning the audience, before lumbering to the center of the ring. There, under the bright lights, he steels himself to defend his title as the undisputed apex predator in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: You can feel these two are going to tear this place apart.

Richard Parker: It’ll be worse than that time when Godzilla attacked the city!

Nick Stuart: Which time?

Richard Parker: You know… that time!

Nixon gives his final set of instructions and then signals for the start of the match.

DING DING

Cecilworth immediately darts in, looking to establish his technical advantage with a series of European uppercuts to Ivan’s chest. The Russian Bear barely flinches, his expression unchanged. Farthington transitions to leg kicks, attempting to chop down the giant. With lightning quickness, he ducks a wild swing from Ivan and applies a sleeper hold, but the champion’s neck is too thick. Ivan simply reaches back, grabs Cecilworth by the trunks, and launches him across the ring like a ragdoll. The Conga Crusher slams into the turnbuckle chest-first. Ivan stalks over and hoists him high into the air with a military press, holding him there and walking around the ring as the crowd boos intensely. With a dismissive grunt, The Russian Bear drops Farthington with a crushing gutbuster. Farthington writhes on the mat, clutching his midsection as Ivan drives a massive boot onto his chest.

Nick Stuart: We’re witnessing exactly what many feared might happen – Ivan Stanislav is using his overwhelming size and power advantage to absolutely manhandle Cecilworth Farthington in these opening moments here in the Tokyo Dome!

Richard Parker: Don’t count Cecilworth out so quickly, Nick! The Conga Crusher is just feeling out his opponent. This is tactical genius at work. Farthington’s letting Ivan burn energy early while he looks for weaknesses.

Nick Stuart: Tactical genius? Richard, he just got thrown across the ring like yesterday’s newspaper and gutbusted into next week!

Richard Parker: All part of the plan, Nick. Cecilworth Farthington didn’t become the money behind the Glue Factory by being stupid. He’s the most technically sound wrestler in PRIME today, and he’ll find Ivan’s weak point. That Soviet mountain may have the size advantage, but Cecilworth has the superior mind for this sport.

Nick Stuart: Well, he’d better find that weak point soon, because right now Ivan’s boot is making a pretty convincing argument for brute force over technical finesse.

Ivan yanks Farthington up by his hair and whips him hard into the ropes. The Russian Bear charges forward, looking for a massive lariat, but Cecilworth ducks at the last moment and bounces off the opposite ropes. He comes back with renewed vigor, unleashing a flurry of knife-edge chops that echo throughout the Tokyo Dome. Ivan grimaces slightly before catching Farthington with a massive headbutt that stops the technical wizard in his tracks. The Soviet Giant follows up with a thunderous one-handed scoop slam on the rising opponent, lifting Cecilworth effortlessly before driving him into the mat with bone-rattling force. The crowd winces collectively as Stanislav drops a stalling elbow drop onto Farthington’s chest. Ivan makes a casual cover, draping just one arm across his challenger’s chest.

ONE

TWO

Farthington kicks out!

Richard Parker: See? What did I tell you? The Conga Crusher isn’t going down that easily!

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth showing some resilience there, but Ivan Stanislav is just toying with him at this point. That was barely even a real pinning attempt.

Richard Parker: Or maybe Ivan couldn’t hook the leg properly because Cecilworth is already working on destabilizing his center of gravity. The Russian Bear is moving slightly slower after those chops. Farthington’s precision strikes are gradually eroding Ivan’s armor!

Ivan looks down at Cecilworth with disdain before dragging him up by his arm. The champion launches into a series of brawling punches that back Farthington into the corner. Nixon begins his five-count, but Ivan ignores him, continuing the assault. When the count reaches four, Stanislav finally backs away, only to charge in with a massive corner splash that nearly flattens Farthington. The Russian Bear then grabs his opponent by the throat, dragging him out of the corner, and hits a thunderous chokeslam in the center of the ring. The impact seems to shake the entire Tokyo Dome. Rather than go for another pin, Ivan reaces down and methodically transitions into a bearhug, squeezing Farthington’s midsection and lifting him off his feet. The champion walks around the ring, showing off his power as Cecilworth’s face contorts in pain.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav applying that crushing bearhug now. With his massive arms and 400-pound frame, he could potentially break Cecilworth in half!

Richard Parker: This is where Farthington’s technical expertise comes into play, Nick. The bearhug might seem like a disadvantage, but it puts him in close quarters where he can work on those pressure points and joint manipulations.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure what match you’re watching, Richard, but Cecilworth looks like he’s about to pass out from the pain!

Nixon checks on Farthington, lifting his arm once to see if he’s still responsive. The arm drops. He lifts it a second time, and it drops again. On the third check, Cecilworth suddenly comes to life, his arm staying up as he begins to fight back. He drives his elbow repeatedly into Ivan’s neck, targeting the same spot with surgical precision. The Russian Bear’s grip loosens slightly, and Farthington seizes the opportunity by delivering a thumb to the eye that Nixon doesn’t catch from his angle.

Ivan releases the hold and stumbles back, momentarily blinded. Cecilworth wastes no time, bouncing off the ropes and hitting a flying European uppercut that staggers the champion. The Tokyo Dome crowd erupts as Farthington follows up with a series of knife-edge chops, the sound of each impact echoing throughout the arena.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Richard Parker: There it is! I told you Cecilworth was just biding his time! The Conga Crusher has turned the tide!

Nick Stuart: Farthington showing signs of life after that thumb to the eye that Nixon completely missed. Now he’s firing off those European uppercuts that have become a staple of his offensive arsenal!

Richard Parker: It was a veteran move, Nick. When you’re facing a monster like Ivan Stanislav, you use every advantage you can get. That’s just smart wrestling.

Capitalizing on his momentum, Farthington continues his assault, targeting Ivan’s right arm with precise strikes. He grabs the massive limb and twists it into a wristlock, transitioning smoothly into an armbar attempt. Ivan grimaces but powers out by simply lifting Cecilworth off the mat with his trapped arm. Farthington adjusts quickly, wrapping his legs around Ivan’s neck in an octopus stretch that brings the giant down to one knee.

GLUE! GLUE! GLUE!

The technical wizard cranks back on Ivan’s arm, applying pressure to the shoulder joint. Nixon asks if the champion wants to submit, but Ivan’s face contorts into a snarl. With a roar that shakes the Tokyo Dome, The Russian Bear surges to his feet, Cecilworth still attached, and drives him backward into the turnbuckle with crushing force. Farthington’s hold breaks as he gasps for air. Ivan follows up with a thunderous backbreaker across his knee, then casually tosses Cecilworth to the mat like discarded trash.

Nick Stuart: Just when Farthington seemed to be building some momentum with that octopus stretch, Ivan Stanislav reminds us why he’s the Universal Champion. That backbreaker might have folded Cecilworth in half!

Richard Parker: It’s a setback, sure, but don’t write off The Conga Crusher yet. He’s showing progress already, more so than most have against him! Did you see how he had Ivan down to one knee? That’s progress!

Nick Stuart: Progress or not, Cecilworth is back to square one now. And Ivan looks even more motivated to inflict punishment after being momentarily put in a compromising position.

Ivan stalks his prey, eyes narrowed with mounting anger. He grabs Cecilworth by the hair and hoists him up, bellowing something in Russian that echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome. The Soviet Giant transitions into a devastating delayed vertical suplex, holding Farthington upside down for nearly thirty seconds as the blood rushes to his head. The crowd counts along with each passing moment until Ivan finally completes the move with a thunderous impact that bounces Cecilworth’s body off the canvas.

Not content with the damage inflicted, Ivan follows up with a series of stalling elbow drops, each one more devastating than the last. He then applies a shoulder claw, digging his massive fingers into Farthington’s trapezius muscle. Alexei Ruslan shouts encouragement from ringside as Nixon checks on the challenger, whose face is contorted in agony. Ivan transitions the hold into a massive powerbomb, lifting Cecilworth high above his head before driving him down with such force that the ring shakes.

Richard Parker: This isn’t good, Nick. Ivan’s unleashing his full arsenal now.

Nick Stuart: The Russian Bear is in complete control! That powerbomb might have cracked the ring canvas! Now he’s going for the cover!

Ivan lazily drapes an arm across Farthington’s chest, a smirk on his face as Elvis Nixon drops down for the count.

ONE

TWO

Farthington barely gets a shoulder up at 2.9, causing the Tokyo Dome crowd to erupt!

FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON!

Richard Parker: The heart! The determination! Cecilworth Farthington refuses to stay down!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how he kicked out of that, but the challenger is showing incredible resilience! Ivan Stanislav can’t believe it – look at his face!

The Universal Champion’s expression shifts from surprise to rage. Ivan grabs Farthington by the throat, lifts him up, and launches him into the corner turnbuckle. The technical wizard crumples to a seated position, but gets no reprieve as The Russian Bear charges in with a massive corner splash that nearly folds Cecilworth in half from the champions knees crashing into him. Ivan then drags him out to the center of the ring, positions him on his knees, and delivers repeated knife-edge strikes to the chest that echo throughout the Tokyo Dome.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

After thoroughly punishing Farthington with strikes, Ivan lifts him into a stalling gutwrench suplex, holding him upside down while shouting to the crowd in Russian. When he finally delivers the suplex, Cecilworth lands awkwardly on his neck and shoulder. Not missing a beat, Ivan transitions into a bearhug from behind, squeezing Farthington’s already damaged ribs and lifting him off his feet. Nixon checks on the challenger, whose face is turning various shades of red from the pressure.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav is squeezing the life out of Cecilworth Farthington! This standing bearhug is cutting off circulation and oxygen!

Richard Parker: Come on, Cecilworth! You’ve been in worse positions! Find a way out!

Desperate to escape, Farthington begins driving short elbow strikes to Ivan’s temple. The first few have minimal effect, but he keeps targeting the same spot with surgical precision. Eventually, the Russian Bear’s grip loosens just enough for Cecilworth to slip down and deliver a jawbreaker that creates momentary separation. Ivan stumbles back, shaking his head, while Farthington collapses to his hands and knees, gasping for air.

Before Farthington can fully recover, Ivan rushes forward with a massive boot to the face that flips the challenger onto his back. The Soviet Giant then grabs Cecilworth’s legs and applies a crushing Boston Crab, sitting back with all his 400 pounds of weight.

Richard Parker: This is bad! Ivan’s applying that Boston Crab with every ounce of his massive frame! Cecilworth’s spine might snap!

Nick Stuart: Farthington is in serious trouble here. He’s nowhere near the ropes, and Nixon is asking if he wants to submit!

Richard Parker: Do something, Cecilworth!

Cecilworth’s screams of agony fill the Tokyo Dome as Ivan pulls back even further. The technical wizard claws desperately at the mat, trying to drag himself and Ivan’s enormous weight toward the ropes. The crowd begins a rhythmic clap, willing Farthington to fight through the pain. After what seems like an eternity, Cecilworth manages to twist his body and deliver a series of strikes to Ivan’s knee. The Russian Bear’s balance falters momentarily, allowing Farthington to roll through and escape the hold.

Both men scramble to their feet, with Ivan reaching Cecilworth first and attempting a massive lariat. With surprising agility, Farthington ducks the strike and bounces off the ropes, hitting a running knee strike to Ivan’s midsection that actually doubles the giant over.

FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON!

Richard Parker: There we go! The momentum is shifting! Cecilworth has found his opening!

Nick Stuart: For the first time in this match, Ivan Stanislav might be vulnerable! Farthington sensing his opportunity here in the Tokyo Dome!

Capitalizing on the moment, Cecilworth delivers a series of rapid-fire European uppercuts to Ivan’s jaw. The champion staggers back toward the ropes but remains on his feet. Farthington charges forward, only for Alexei Ruslan to grab Ivan’s boot from outside, stabilizing him. Nixon misses the interference, and as Cecilworth approaches, Ivan catches him with a devastating short-arm clothesline that turns the challenger inside out.

Nick Stuart: Did you see that? Alexei Ruslan just interfered from the outside! The referee completely missed it!

Richard Parker: I didn’t see anything, Nick. You’re imagining things. Ivan simply found his footing and caught Cecilworth with that clothesline.

The Universal Champion stands over Farthington’s prone form, his massive chest heaving with exertion as a thin sheen of sweat begins to form on his brow. Ivan reaches down, grabbing a fistful of Cecilworth’s hair and yanking him to his feet with disdain. The Russian Bear bellows something in his native tongue before whipping Farthington into the ropes with such force that the challenger nearly flips over the top upon impact.

Ivan charges forward, looking to meet Cecilworth’s return with a devastating lariat, but the technical wizard drops to his stomach at the last second. The Russian’s momentum carries him into the opposite ropes, and as he rebounds back, Farthington is ready. He leaps up with perfect timing, catching Ivan’s right arm and twisting it into a vicious standing wristlock.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth with that textbook wristlock! The first real sustained offense we’ve seen from The Conga Crusher tonight! After spending the better part of ten minutes being thrown around like a rag doll, Farthington might have finally found a weakness in the Soviet armor!

Richard Parker: I told you, Nick! Technical brilliance beats brute force when applied correctly! Farthington’s targeting that right arm – the same one Ivan uses for most of his power moves. This is exactly what I predicted would happen once Cecilworth got his bearings.

Nick Stuart: Predicted? Richard, you were practically writing his obituary two minutes ago when Ivan hit that thunderous clothesline!

Richard Parker: A minor setback in the grand scheme of things. The Conga Crusher was gathering valuable intelligence that whole time. Look at the precision of that wristlock – he’s zeroed in on Ivan’s power source. It’s like finding the exhaust port on the Death Star!

Nick Stuart: I’ll admit, Farthington showing some real wrestling acumen here. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves – Ivan Stanislav is the PRIME Universal Champion for a reason. That 400-pound frame can still do a lot of damage, even with one arm compromised.

Richard Parker: Just wait and see, Nick. Now that Cecilworth has found the blueprint, this match is about to shift dramatically. The Russian Bear doesn’t look so intimidating when he can’t use that right arm for his signature power moves!

Stanislav grimaces in pain but attempts to power out, only for Farthington to transition smoothly into a hammerlock, cranking the champion’s arm behind his back at an unnatural angle. The Tokyo Dome crowd comes alive as they sense a shift in momentum. Cecilworth applies increasing pressure, his technical expertise on full display as he manipulates the joint with surgical precision. Ivan’s face contorts in agony, a rare sight for the seemingly impervious Russian Bear. When the champion tries to back Farthington into the corner to break the hold, the challenger counters with a quick sidestep, maintaining his grip on the compromised limb while delivering a series of sharp knee strikes directly to Ivan’s elbow.

Seeing the champion momentarily staggered, Farthington capitalizes with ruthless efficiency. He releases the hammerlock only to grab Ivan’s wrist and wrench it into an arm wringer, violently rotating the already damaged appendage. The Russian Bear lets out a guttural roar that echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome, his free hand flailing uselessly as Cecilworth drops to his knees and drives Ivan’s elbow directly into his shoulder. Before the champion can recover, Farthington transitions seamlessly into a cross armbreaker, his legs wrapping around Stanislav’s neck while hyperextending the targeted arm. Nixon drops down to check if Ivan wants to submit as the giant’s face turns a deep shade of crimson, veins bulging in his neck as he endures the excruciating pressure on his compromised joint.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington is putting on a technical clinic here! That cross armbreaker could snap the arm of any normal human being, and even the mighty Ivan Stanislav appears to be in serious trouble!

Richard Parker: This is exactly what I’ve been saying all along, Nick! The Conga Crusher is methodically dismantling the Russian Bear piece by piece. Look at that technique – textbook execution! Farthington isn’t just targeting the arm; he’s systematically destroying it!

Nick Stuart: I’ve never seen anyone control Ivan Stanislav like this! The champion hasn’t been able to mount any significant offense since Cecilworth locked onto that right arm. The question now becomes: how much damage can Ivan’s limb sustain before it becomes completely useless?

Richard Parker: Or before he taps out! Don’t forget, Ivan’s pride might be his downfall here. There’s no shame in submitting when your arm is being bent in directions the human body wasn’t designed for! If he doesn’t tap soon, Cecilworth might just take that arm home as a souvenir!

With a desperate surge of strength, Ivan manages to roll toward the ropes, nearly reaching them before Farthington adjusts his strategy. The challenger releases the cross armbreaker only to grab hold of Ivan’s massive hand, isolating his fingers with malicious intent. Cecilworth applies a figure-four to the digits, bending them backward at angles that elicit audible gasps from the Tokyo Dome crowd. The technical wizard’s face shows cold calculation as he methodically works over each finger individually, hyperextending them one by one while keeping his knee pressed firmly into the Russian’s already compromised elbow.

Ivan’s eyes widen in shock and agony as Farthington transitions to a modified wristlock, now focusing his attack on the champion’s thumb. With surgical precision, he wrenches the digit backward, threatening to dislocate it entirely. Referee Elvis Nixon leans in closely, asking if Ivan wants to quit, but the Russian Bear responds with a defiant roar despite the visible trembling in his massive frame. Cecilworth’s expression remains unchanged as he increases the pressure, using both hands to bend Ivan’s fingers against their natural range of motion while driving his knee repeatedly into the champion’s wrist bones. The crowd winces collectively as the sickening sound of joints popping echoes through the arena.

Nick Stuart: Dear God! Farthington has moved from breaking down the arm to absolutely brutalizing those fingers! This is beyond strategy – it’s turning into methodical dismantling of Ivan Stanislav’s entire right side!

Richard Parker: It’s brilliant, Nick! Think about it – even if Ivan somehow survives this onslaught, how’s he going to execute any of his power moves with mangled fingers? Can’t grip for a powerbomb, can’t clench for a clothesline, can’t even make a proper fist for those Russian haymakers he loves so much!

Nick Stuart: There’s strategy and then there’s… whatever this is. I’ve seen Cecilworth be technical before, but this cold, calculated attack feels almost personal. Look at his face – not a hint of emotion while he’s practically disassembling the Universal Champion digit by digit!

Richard Parker: That’s the Cecilworth Farthington difference! The Conga Crusher doesn’t just want to win – he wants to leave an impression. Ivan Stanislav has been untouchable for months, tossing challengers around like children. Well, you don’t beat a mountain of a man by matching his strength; you chisel away at his foundation until he crumbles!

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon continuing to check if Ivan wants to submit, but the champion’s pride won’t let him quit. The question is: at what cost? We could be witnessing career-altering damage to that hand right now!

The Russian Bear’s face contorts into a mask of pure fury. With a primal roar that reverberates throughout the Tokyo Dome, Ivan twists his massive body and drives his left elbow directly into Farthington’s temple. The unexpected strike causes Cecilworth to loosen his grip just enough for Ivan to scramble desperately toward the ropes. Farthington recovers quickly, diving to recapture the damaged limb, but he’s a split-second too late – Ivan’s left hand clutches the bottom rope, forcing Nixon to demand the break.

Richard Parker: NO! He was so close to breaking that giant paw! Farthington had him dead to rights!

Cecilworth reluctantly releases his hold but stays within striking distance, his eyes fixed on Ivan’s mangled right hand. The champion pulls himself up using only his left arm, his right dangling uselessly at his side. As Ivan turns to face his challenger, Farthington explodes forward with renewed purpose, ducking a wild left-handed swing and capturing the Russian’s compromised right arm once again. In one fluid motion, Cecilworth drops to his back while hooking his legs around Ivan’s massive torso, wrenching the damaged arm into a devastating Fujiwara armbar. The Universal Champion’s face turns crimson as Farthington applies excruciating torque to the already hyperextended elbow, threatening to snap the joint entirely.

Nick Stuart: Fujiwara armbar! Farthington went right back to that damaged limb without missing a beat! The technical mastery on display here is absolutely breathtaking!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s seconds away from losing that arm completely! No amount of Russian pride is worth permanent disability! The man needs that arm to LIVE, Nick!

The Tokyo Dome crowd rises to their feet as Ivan’s free hand pounds the canvas in agony, his body trembling under the strain. Alexei circles the ring in a panic, shouting instructions in Russian while gesturing frantically toward the ropes. Cecilworth intensifies the pressure, arching his back to increase the leverage on Ivan’s elbow as Nixon drops down to check the champion’s status.

Just as Ivan appears on the verge of submission, the Russian Bear summons a reservoir of strength from deep within his massive frame. With a guttural roar that shakes the very foundations of the Tokyo Dome, he plants his feet firmly on the mat and begins to stand, lifting Farthington’s entire body off the canvas despite the excruciating pressure on his damaged arm. The crowd gasps in disbelief as Ivan rises to his full seven-foot height, Cecilworth still clinging desperately to the Fujiwara armbar. The champion turns toward the nearest turnbuckle, his face a mask of pain and determination.

Nick Stuart: My God! The inhuman strength of Ivan Stanislav! He’s vertical with Farthington still attached to his arm!

In a desperate bid to maintain the hold, Cecilworth adjusts his grip, inadvertently giving Ivan the opening he needs. The Russian Bear lunges forward, driving Farthington back-first into the turnbuckle with bone-crushing force. The impact causes Cecilworth to release the armbar, and before he can recover, Ivan delivers a thunderous headbutt that sends the challenger staggering forward. Despite his compromised right arm hanging limply at his side, the champion pounces with predatory instinct, grabbing Farthington by the throat with his good hand and launching him halfway across the ring with a devastating one-armed throw.

Richard Parker: This can’t be happening! Stanislav shouldn’t even be able to MOVE that arm, let alone fight back!

Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion showing why he’s been so dominant in PRIME! Even with one arm essentially taken out of the equation, Ivan Stanislav is still the most physically imposing force in professional wrestling today!

Ivan stalks his prey with renewed menace, his damaged right arm dangling uselessly but his left more than capable of inflicting serious damage. When Farthington struggles to his feet, the Russian catches him with a running lariat that nearly takes his head off. The champion follows with a series of clubbing left-handed blows that drive Cecilworth into the corner. Nixon initiates his five-count as Ivan unleashes his fury, forcing him to back away at the count of four. The momentary reprieve gives Farthington a chance to catch his breath, but the technical wizard looks genuinely rattled considering the recent events.

Cecilworth shakes his head vigorously, clearing the cobwebs as Ivan charges back in. At the last possible moment, Farthington sidesteps the attack, causing the champion to crash shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. The impact draws a grimace of pain from the Russian Bear as it jars his already damaged right arm. Seizing the opportunity, Cecilworth springs forward with a flurry of European uppercuts that rock Ivan backward.

Nick Stuart: Farthington fighting back! Those European uppercuts are finding their mark!

The technical wizard follows up with a series of knife-edge chops that echo throughout the Tokyo Dome, each impact leaving an angry red welt across Ivan’s massive chest. The champion absorbs the punishment, his face contorting with rage rather than pain. When Cecilworth attempts another uppercut, Ivan catches his wrist with his good left hand and pulls him in for a thunderous headbutt that stops the challenger’s momentum cold.

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear might only have one good arm, but that skull of his is still fully operational!

Both men stagger back, momentarily dazed from the collision. They lock eyes across the ring, mutual respect begrudgingly forming amid their vicious contest. Without warning, they charge at each other simultaneously, meeting in the center of the ring with a violent clash. Ivan throws a left-handed haymaker that Cecilworth answers with a European uppercut. The two begin trading blows in an increasingly frenzied exchange, neither willing to give an inch.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got an old-fashioned slobberknocker in the Tokyo Dome! Technical finesse has gone out the window as these two warriors test each other’s resolve!

Richard Parker: Farthington can’t win this kind of fight, Nick! He needs to get back to targeting that arm before Ivan turns him into Russian borscht!

Ivan’s powerful left-handed strikes find their mark with devastating impact, while Cecilworth’s more precise shots target the champion’s chin with surgical accuracy. The crowd rises to their feet as the intensity escalates, each blow seemingly more vicious than the last. Farthington begins mixing in kicks to Ivan’s right side, attempting to force the champion to defend with his compromised arm. When Ivan instinctively raises his damaged limb, pain shoots across his face, creating an opening for Cecilworth to land a crushing knee strike to the midsection.

FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON!

The challenger follows up with a running knee lift that rocks Ivan backward into the ropes. The Russian Bear bounces forward, walking directly into a perfectly timed spinning back elbow that drops him to one knee. The Tokyo Dome erupts as Cecilworth stands tall over the champion, the momentum swinging violently back in his favor.

Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion down to one knee! Farthington is taking it to the Russian Bear!

Cecilworth stands over the kneeling champion, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he savors the moment. The Tokyo Dome crowd reaches a fever pitch as Farthington measures Ivan for what could be the finishing blow. Just as he cocks his fist back, the Russian Bear’s eyes snap open with renewed fury. In one explosive motion, Ivan surges upward, driving his shoulder into Cecilworth’s midsection and hoisting him high into the air with his good arm. The champion roars as he rotates and drives Farthington into the canvas with a devastating one-armed spinebuster that shakes the entire ring.

Richard Parker: GOOD GOD! Where did THAT come from?!

Nick Stuart: The champion finding reserves of strength that defy explanation! That spinebuster might have broken Farthington in half!

Ivan rises to his feet, his massive chest heaving with exertion and rage. The momentary vulnerability has been replaced with unbridled fury as he glares down at Farthington’s crumpled form. The Russian Bear unleashes a series of thunderous stomps, each impact causing the canvas to reverberate throughout the Tokyo Dome. Referee Elvis Nixon begins counting, warning the champion about his aggression, but Ivan pays him no mind. His face is a mask of pure rage as he continues the assault, focusing his stomps on Cecilworth’s chest and midsection.

BOOOOOOOOO!

After nearly flattening his challenger with the relentless stomping, Ivan reaches down and peels Farthington off the mat like a piece of paper. The champion hoists him overhead with his left arm, parading around the ring before marching decisively toward the ropes. With a contemptuous grunt, Ivan hurls Cecilworth over the top rope, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap.

Nick Stuart: That’s completely unnecessary! Stanislav could be disqualified for this blatant disregard for the rules!

Nixon immediately admonishes the champion, holding up five fingers to indicate he’s starting a countout. Ivan dismisses the warning with a wave of his good hand, pacing the ring like a caged animal while shouting in Russian. Meanwhile, at ringside, Alexei Ruslan circles around to where Farthington is struggling to regain his footing. With the referee’s attention focused on keeping Ivan at bay, Ruslan delivers a series of vicious stomps to Cecilworth’s back and ribs.

Richard Parker: Uh oh, Alexei’s just helping clear the ringside area, Nick! Safety first!

Nick Stuart: Are you kidding me? Ruslan is assaulting Farthington while the referee is distracted! This is a complete breakdown of order!

Alexei delivers one final stomp to Cecilworth’s ribs before slyly backing away, his mission accomplished. Nixon turns his attention to the outside, continuing his count as Farthington writhes in pain on the floor. The technical wizard clutches his midsection, his face contorted in agony as he struggles to process what just happened.

Richard Parker: Cecilworth better get moving! Nixon’s already at four!

Nick Stuart: After that blindside attack from Ruslan, Farthington can barely move! This is completely unfair!

FIVE!

Cecilworth grabs the ring apron, using it to pull himself up to his knees. His normally perfect hair is disheveled, sweat pouring down his face as he fights to regain his composure. The Tokyo Dome crowd begins a rhythmic clap, willing the challenger back to his feet.

SIX!

SEVEN!

Farthington plants one foot firmly on the ground, pushing himself upward with visible effort. His legs tremble beneath him as he finally stands, clutching the ring apron for support.

Richard Parker: He’s up, but he looks like he’s about to fall over again! The count is at eight!

EIGHT!

Just as Nixon reaches the brink of the countout, Ivan Stanislav suddenly lunges forward, shoving the referee aside and vaulting over the top rope with surprising agility for a man his size. The Russian Bear lands heavily on the floor, his eyes locked on Farthington with predatory intent.

Nick Stuart: What is Stanislav doing? He was about to win this match by countout!

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear wants more than a victory, Nick – he wants to make a statement! Ivan doesn’t just want to beat Farthington; he wants to break him!

Ivan stalks toward his prey, his massive frame casting a shadow over the still-recovering Farthington. The champion grabs Cecilworth by the throat with his good hand and slams him viciously into the ring barricade. The impact echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome as Nixon frantically waves his arms, trying to restore order to the match.

Nick Stuart: This is devolving into chaos! Nixon needs to get this match back into the ring!

Cecilworth, showing remarkable resilience, responds with a desperation thumb to the eye that momentarily blinds Ivan. The technical wizard follows with a series of knife-edge chops that back the champion up toward the announce table. Ivan absorbs the punishment, his face contorted with rage rather than pain, before catching Farthington with a devastating headbutt that stops the assault in its tracks.

The headbutt staggers Cecilworth backward, giving Ivan the opening to grab him by the throat. The Russian Bear hoists Farthington into the air and drives him down onto the padded floor with a thunderous chokeslam that draws gasps from the Tokyo Dome crowd. Nixon restarts his count, frantically urging both competitors back into the ring.

ONE!

Richard Parker: That chokeslam might have cracked the foundation of this building! And he did it with ONE ARM!

Ivan stalks around his fallen opponent, shouting in Russian as Alexei applauds from a safe distance. The champion reaches down to continue his assault, but Farthington suddenly springs to life, sweeping Ivan’s legs out from under him. The Russian Bear crashes to the floor with a thunderous impact, his head narrowly missing the steel steps.

TWO!

Both men struggle to their feet, glaring at each other with equal parts respect and hatred. Cecilworth strikes first, driving a series of knee lifts into Ivan’s midsection before whipping him toward the barricade. The champion reverses at the last second, sending Farthington crashing into the steel instead. The technical wizard’s body crumples on impact, but he somehow maintains his footing.

THREE!

Nick Stuart: These two warriors are destroying each other out here! Nixon is trying to restore order, but neither man seems interested in taking this back to the ring!

Ivan charges forward like a freight train, looking to crush Farthington against the barricade, but Cecilworth sidesteps at the last possible moment. The Russian Bear crashes shoulder-first into the steel, the impact jarring his already damaged right arm. He lets out a howl of pain that echoes throughout the arena.

FOUR!

Capitalizing on the champion’s vulnerability, Farthington grabs Ivan’s damaged arm and slams it repeatedly against the ring post. Each impact draws another agonized roar from the Russian Bear as the crowd winces collectively.

Richard Parker: That’s the arm! That’s the weakness! Farthington’s gone right back to the blueprint!

FIVE!

Cecilworth continues his methodical assault, wrapping Ivan’s arm around the ring post and using the steel structure as leverage to apply excruciating pressure to the already compromised limb. Nixon’s count continues, but both competitors seem oblivious to it, lost in their personal war.

SIX!

Nick Stuart: We could have a double countout here! Neither man seems concerned with getting back into the ring!

Ivan finally breaks free with a desperate lunge, tackling Farthington with his full weight and driving him back-first into the announce table. The furniture buckles but holds as both Nick and Richard scramble to safety. The Russian Bear grabs Cecilworth by the hair and violently slams his head onto the table surface.

SEVEN!

Richard Parker: They’re about to crash through our table, Nick! This is getting personal!

With a surge of adrenaline, Farthington counters with a jawbreaker that creates momentary separation. The technical wizard follows up with a perfectly executed DDT that drives Ivan’s head onto the thin padding covering the concrete floor. Both men lie motionless as Nixon’s count grows more urgent.

EIGHT!

Nick Stuart: Both men down! Neither of these competitors may make it back into the ring!

Alexei Ruslan begins pounding on the apron, shouting desperately at his longtime partner. The noise seems to stir Ivan from his stupor. The champion rolls onto his stomach and begins crawling toward the ring, using only his left arm to drag his massive frame. On the other side, Cecilworth shows signs of life, struggling to his knees while using the ring apron for support.

NINE!

Richard Parker: This is it! Whoever makes it in first could win the Universal Championship!

In a desperate final lunge, Ivan rolls under the bottom rope just as Cecilworth summons the strength to slide in from the opposite side. Both men collapse onto the canvas as Nixon’s hand halts just short of completing the ten count. The Tokyo Dome erupts in a thunderous ovation for the sheer will displayed by both competitors.

Nick Stuart: They made it! Both men back in the ring by the skin of their teeth! The Universal Championship is still on the line in what has become an absolute war of attrition!

Both men struggle to their feet, exhaustion evident in their movements. Farthington, seeing the Russian Bear’s compromised right arm hanging limply at his side, summons a burst of energy and charges forward. He unleashes a flurry of European uppercuts that rock Ivan’s head back with each impact. The champion attempts to counter with his good arm, but Cecilworth ducks under and delivers a textbook arm drag that sends Ivan crashing to the mat, landing directly on his damaged limb.

Nick Stuart: Farthington targeting that injured arm again! That strategic focus has been the story of this match since he turned things around!

Richard Parker: This is wrestling INTELLIGENCE, Nick! Most challengers try to match Ivan’s power and end up getting flattened. The Conga Crusher is dismantling the Russian Bear piece by piece!

Ivan grimaces in agony as he clutches his right arm, struggling to rise from the canvas. Sensing his opportunity, Cecilworth pounces with predatory instinct, grabbing the champion’s wrist and wrenching it into a vicious hammerlock. The technical wizard drives his knee repeatedly into Ivan’s elbow joint, each impact eliciting a roar of pain that echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome. Nixon moves in to check if the champion wants to submit, but Ivan defiantly shakes his head despite the visible trembling in his massive frame.

Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion is in serious trouble here! Farthington has systematically broken down Ivan Stanislav’s power base throughout this match, and now he’s going for the finish!

Richard Parker: I’ve never seen the Russian Bear this vulnerable! Cecilworth has found the formula that no one else in PRIME could figure out!

Farthington transitions smoothly from the hammerlock into an octopus stretch, his legs wrapping around Ivan’s torso while maintaining the pressure on the damaged arm. The Russian Bear’s face contorts in agony as his massive frame is bent into positions it was never designed to accommodate. The Tokyo Dome crowd rises to their feet, sensing a potential submission as Cecilworth cranks back with increasing pressure.

FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON!

With a desperate surge of energy, Ivan manages to power out of the hold, using his 400-pound frame to simply overpower Farthington’s leverage. The technical wizard doesn’t miss a beat, bouncing off the ropes as Ivan staggers forward and slams his boot into Ivan’s midsection. With perfect timing, Cecilworth executes his patented “Worthless” Fisherman’s Buster, hoisting the 400-pound champion up briefly before driving him down with sickening impact.

Nick Stuart: WORTHLESS! Farthington hits his setup move! The Russian Bear is down! This could be it!

Richard Parker: Ivan Stanislav just got planted by a man half his size! The Conga Crusher’s technique is overcoming raw power right before our eyes!

Farthington’s eyes narrow with predatory focus as he stalks the fallen champion. The crowd noise crescendos, sensing the potential end of Ivan’s dominant reign. Cecilworth grabs Ivan’s damaged right arm, positioning himself for the Article 51 Cross Armbreaker that could force the Russian Bear to submit. Just as he begins to apply the hold, Alexei Ruslan leaps onto the apron, frantically waving his arms and shouting in Russian.

Nick Stuart: What’s Ruslan doing up there? Nixon needs to get him off the apron immediately!

Richard Parker: He’s just checking on his longtime partner! That’s compassion, Nick!

Elvis Nixon turns his attention to Ruslan, demanding he return to the floor. The distraction gives Ivan precious seconds to recover, but Farthington refuses to release the compromised arm. The challenger calls out to the referee, trying to maintain his positioning while Nixon deals with the interference.

Nick Stuart: Farthington had the Article 51 locked and loaded! This blatant interference from Ruslan is changing the entire complexion of this match!

With Nixon distracted and Farthington’s attention split, Ivan summons a surge of primal fury. The Russian Bear roars defiantly and drives his left elbow directly into Cecilworth’s temple with devastating force. The unexpected blow sends the challenger staggering backward, momentarily stunned. Ivan seizes the opportunity, rising to his feet with newfound determination, his face a mask of pure aggression.

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear is back on his feet! Alexei has done his job and then some.

Before Cecilworth can recover his bearings, Ivan charges forward like a freight train, delivering his signature “Stalin’s Sickle” facepalm chokeslam that lifts the technical wizard high into the air before driving him down across the top rope. The impact folds Farthington in half, leaving him draped precariously over the rope as he gasps for air. Ivan doesn’t hesitate, grabbing his opponent and executing a massive “Communist Crunch” coconut crush that draws a collective wince from the Tokyo Dome crowd.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav has found his second wind! That Communist Crunch may have scrambled Farthington’s brain! And where is Elvis Nixon? He’s still dealing with Ruslan at ringside!

Richard Parker: The Universal Champion is reminding everyone why he’s been so dominant in PRIME! One opening and the Russian Bear is back in control!

Ivan drags Farthington to his feet by his hair, the challenger’s legs wobbling beneath him. Despite his compromised right arm, the Russian Bear hoists Cecilworth overhead with his good left arm in a staggering display of raw power. He marches around the ring, parading his opponent like a trophy before violently driving him down with a one-armed powerslam that shakes the entire ring. The impact leaves Farthington sprawled on the canvas, his technical precision replaced by desperate survival instinct.

BOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: The tide has completely turned here! Farthington had this match well in hand until Ruslan’s interference, and now look at the punishment the champion is inflicting!

Not content with the damage already done, Ivan places his massive boot across Farthington’s throat, applying pressure until Elvis Nixon finally returns to count. The Russian Bear releases at four, only to drag the challenger up for a thunderous “Kurchatov’s Bomb” powerbomb into the turnbuckle. The crowd gasps as Cecilworth’s body folds upon impact, slumping to the canvas in a heap. Ivan looms over his fallen prey, his chest heaving with exertion but his eyes burning with renewed purpose.

Richard Parker: Ivan is systematically dismantling The Conga Crusher now! That’s what a true champion does – they weather the storm and come back stronger!

Nick Stuart: Farthington dominated the middle portion of this match with his technical brilliance, but right now it’s Ivan Stanislav’s raw power that’s telling the story. The challenger needs to find a way to interrupt this momentum before the Russian Bear can land his finishing blow!

Ivan stalks around the ring, his eyes locked on Farthington’s prone form. The champion signals to the crowd that the end is near, drawing a cascade of boos from the Tokyo Dome. When Cecilworth finally struggles to his feet, Ivan pounces with predatory instinct. He grabs the challenger by the waist and hoists him high into the air with his good arm, showcasing superhuman strength despite his injury. With a thunderous roar that echoes throughout the arena, the Russian Bear executes his devastating finishing move – The Red Scare – launching Farthington through the air in a vertical release suplex that sends him crashing to the canvas with sickening impact.

Richard Parker: THE RED SCARE! Ivan just launched Farthington halfway across the ring! It’s over, Nick! Count it!

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington may be unconscious after that Red Scare! The Universal Championship is about to stay with the Russian Bear!

Ivan stands over his fallen challenger, savoring the moment before going for the inevitable pinfall. Suddenly, the crowd erupts as Joe Fontaine sprints down the entrance ramp with a set of jolf clubs in hand. He slides into the ring, causing Nixon to turn his attention away from the match.

Nick Stuart: What in the world?! That’s Joe Fontaine! What’s he doing here with those jolf clubs?!

Richard Parker: He’s here to even the odds for Farthington and the Glue Boys! Though, not sure I like his idea of going after Ivan.

Fontaine rushes past Ivan though, who turns in confusion as his victory is interrupted. The distraction proves momentary as Joe charges toward the ring apron where Alexei Ruslan stands. Ruslan’s eyes widen in shock as Fontaine leaps through the ropes, tackling him to the floor outside. The two men begin brawling wildly at ringside, Fontaine swinging the jolf clubs as Ruslan desperately tries to defend himself.

Nick Stuart: Fontaine and Ruslan are tearing each other apart on the outside! Elvis Nixon is completely distracted by this chaos!

Ivan stands bewildered in the center of the ring, his impending victory interrupted as he watches the brawl unfold at ringside. The champion’s momentary distraction proves costly. Behind him, Farthington stirs, summoning his last reserves of energy. With both the referee and Ivan’s attention focused on the external chaos, Cecilworth sees his opportunity. He rolls to his knees and, with a cold, calculating glint in his eye, delivers a vicious low blow that catches the Russian Bear completely unaware.

Richard Parker: Wait a minute… did you see that?!

Nick Stuart: Farthington just hit a low blow with Nixon’s back turned! The desperation move of a man who refuses to lose!

Ivan doubles over in excruciating pain, his massive frame folding in half as he drops to his knees. His face contorts in agony, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he clutches his groin. Farthington wastes no time, scrambling to his feet with renewed energy. The technical wizard circles behind the vulnerable champion, his expression devoid of emotion as he methodically sets up his next move.

Richard Parker: Say what you want about the methods, but this is SURVIVAL INSTINCT at its finest! Farthington is doing what it takes to keep his championship dreams alive!

Nick Stuart: That’s one way to put it! Nixon is still trying to restore order at ringside while Cecilworth is taking full advantage of the situation!

Farthington grabs Ivan’s damaged right arm, positioning himself to apply his devastating Article 51 Cross Armbreaker. The technical wizard’s face shows cold determination as he prepares to force the Russian Bear to submit. Suddenly, a flash of red streaks down the entrance ramp as Rose of The Red Army sprints toward the ring.

Richard Parker: Is that Rose?! What’s she doing here?!

Nick Stuart: The Red Army is getting involved now! This Universal Championship match has descended into complete chaos!

Rose slides under the bottom rope and immediately tackles Farthington before he can apply his finishing move. She drives him to the mat, unloading with a ferocious barrage of lefts and rights that echo throughout the Tokyo Dome. The crowd erupts as Farthington covers up, trying to protect himself from the unexpected assault.

Richard Parker: Rose is beating Farthington like he owes her money! This match is completely out of control!

Nick Stuart: After what Farthington said about her father during the ReVival 64 main event, can you blame her? I’m surprised she stayed in the back as long as she did!

With a desperate surge of energy, Cecilworth manages to get his feet up and kicks Rose off of him. She stumbles backward but quickly regains her footing, her eyes burning with intensity as she prepares to charge again. Before she can resume her attack, Hayes Hanlon and FLAMBERGE – The Glue Boys – race down the entrance ramp to Farthington’s aid.

Nick Stuart: Here come The Glue Boys! Hayes Hanlon and FLAMBERGE rushing to even the odds!

The cavalry doesn’t stop there. Behind The Glue Boys, the remainder of The Red Army – Bryan Dawkins, Kenny Freeman, and Randall Schwartz – storm down the ramp, their faces set with determination. Elvis Nixon throws his hands up in exasperation as the ring is rapidly surrounded by warring factions.

Richard Parker: It’s an all-out war, Nick! The Red Army and The Glueminati are about to tear each other apart!

Nick Stuart: What started as a Universal Championship match has devolved into faction warfare! Elvis Nixon has completely lost control here in the Tokyo Dome!

As Rose prepares to lunge at Farthington again, Hayes Hanlon rushes into the ring and grabs her by the ankles. With one powerful motion, he drags the furious woman out of the ring as she claws at the canvas, screaming obscenities. Outside the ring, the Intense Champion and the Second Coming immediately start trading vicious blows on the floor.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon just yanked Rose out of the ring like he was reeling in a marlin! The Glue Boys are making sure Farthington has his fair shot!

Richard Parker: Fair shot? The Glueminati is interfering just as much as The Red Army! Where’s your moral outrage now, Nick?

Inside the ring, FLAMBERGE slides under the bottom rope just as Bryan Dawkins approaches from the opposite side. The Glue Boy wastes no time, driving his elbow directly into Dawkins’ face with a sickening crack that echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome. The impact staggers Dawkins, but the Red Army member shakes it off with surprising resilience, his eyes narrowing with focused rage as he begins battling back with a flurry of body shots.

Meanwhile, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz converge on Joe Fontaine, pulling him away from Alexei Ruslan. The jolf enthusiast fights like a man possessed, swinging the clubs wildly as the two Red Army members drag him toward the barricade. Ruslan, his face bloodied from the assault, stumbles back toward the timekeeper’s area, his usual composure completely shattered.

Richard Parker: This is absolute pandemonium! The Red Army and The Glueminati are tearing each other apart while we still have a Universal Championship to decide!

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is practically begging for security to restore order, but they can’t get through this human wall of warfare!

In the center of the ring, Ivan Stanislav has finally recovered from the low blow, his massive chest heaving with exertion and rage. The Russian Bear’s eyes lock onto Farthington with murderous intent as both men struggle to their feet. Cecilworth, sensing the champion’s fury, backs away cautiously, his technical wrestler’s instinct searching for an escape route that doesn’t exist.

Ivan charges forward like a freight train, catching Farthington with a devastating clothesline that turns the challenger inside out. The impact shakes the entire ring as Cecilworth crashes to the canvas, his body crumpling from the force. The Russian Bear wastes no time, grabbing his opponent by the throat and hoisting him high into the air with his good arm, showcasing his inhuman strength.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s found his second wind through pure rage! This could be the end for Farthington’s championship aspirations!

With a primal roar that echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome, Ivan launches Farthington high into the air with his devastating Red Scare. The vertical release suplex sends the challenger crashing down with bone-crushing impact, his body bouncing off the canvas as the crowd gasps collectively. The Russian Bear immediately drops down for the cover, his massive frame pinning Farthington to the mat.

Richard Parker: The Red Scare! It’s over! Count it, Nixon!

Elvis Nixon, finally refocused on the match, drops down for the count as Ivan hooks Farthington’s leg with his good arm.

ONE!

TWO!

Somehow, someway, Cecilworth’s shoulder jerks upward just before Nixon’s hand hits the mat for the third time!

Nick Stuart: FARTHINGTON KICKS OUT! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! HOW DID HE SURVIVE THE RED SCARE?!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! That’s impossible! Nobody kicks out of the Red Scare! NOT AT THIS STAGE OF THE MATCH!

FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON! FARTHINGTON!

The Tokyo Dome erupts as Ivan sits up in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock. The champion turns to Nixon, holding up three fingers and shouting in Russian, but the official definitively signals it was only a two-count. At ringside, Alexei Ruslan pounds the apron in frustration, screaming instructions to his longtime partner.

Ivan’s expression shifts from shock to unbridled fury. The Russian Bear drags Farthington to his feet by his hair, the challenger barely able to stand as his legs wobble beneath him. With a look of pure contempt, Stanislav sets up for another Red Scare, determined to put his resilient opponent away for good.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s going for a second Red Scare! Farthington might not survive this one!

Just as Ivan begins to lift Cecilworth, the challenger drops his weight and drives his elbow directly into the champion’s damaged right arm. The impact sends a jolt of pain through Ivan’s compromised limb, causing him to release his grip with a howl of agony. Farthington doesn’t hesitate, bouncing off the ropes and connecting with a perfectly executed running European uppercut that rocks Ivan backward.

Richard Parker: The Conga Crusher is fighting back! He’s going back to the damaged arm strategy!

Sensing his opportunity, Cecilworth follows up with a series of knife-edge chops that echo throughout the arena. Each impact leaves an angry red welt across Ivan’s massive chest, but the champion absorbs the punishment, his face a mask of defiance. When Farthington attempts another uppercut, Ivan catches him with a thunderous headbutt that stops the challenger’s momentum cold.

Both men stagger back, momentarily dazed from the collision. Around the ring, the chaos continues as security finally begins to separate the warring factions. Hayes Hanlon and Rose continue to trade blows near the entrance ramp, while FLAMBERGE and Bryan Dawkins have fought their way up onto the announce table.

Nick Stuart: Our table! Get off of there!

Inside the ring, Ivan and Cecilworth circle each other cautiously, both men battered and exhausted but refusing to yield. The Russian Bear makes the first move, charging forward with surprising speed for a man his size. Farthington sidesteps at the last moment, causing Ivan to crash shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. The impact jars the champion’s damaged arm, drawing another grimace of pain.

Cecilworth pounces immediately, grabbing Ivan’s compromised limb and wrenching it into a hammerlock. The technical wizard transitions smoothly into a standing armbar, hyperextending the already damaged joint with surgical precision. Ivan’s face contorts in agony as Farthington increases the pressure, threatening to snap the limb entirely.

Nick Stuart: Farthington has that arm again! He’s been targeting it all match, and now he might finally break it!

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear is in serious trouble! That arm has absorbed so much punishment – there’s only so much even Ivan Stanislav can withstand!

Nixon drops down to check if the champion wants to submit, but Ivan defiantly shakes his head despite the visible trembling in his massive frame. With a desperate surge of strength, the Russian Bear lifts Farthington off his feet, carrying the challenger on his back as he staggers toward the ropes. Before he can reach them, Cecilworth adjusts his strategy, releasing the armbar only to grab Ivan’s damaged wrist. In one fluid motion, he drops to his back while hooking his legs around the champion’s massive torso.

Richard Parker: ARTICLE 51! FARTHINGTON’S GOT THE CROSS ARMBREAKER LOCKED IN!

Nick Stuart: The signature submission of Cecilworth Farthington! And it’s on that damaged arm! Ivan Stanislav might have no choice but to tap out!

Ivan’s face turns crimson as Farthington applies excruciating torque to the already hyperextended elbow, threatening to snap the joint entirely. The Universal Champion’s free hand pounds the canvas in agony, his body trembling under the strain. At ringside, Alexei Ruslan circles in a panic, shouting instructions in Russian while gesturing frantically.

Cecilworth intensifies the pressure, arching his back to increase the leverage as Nixon drops down to check the champion’s status. Ivan’s eyes bulge with the strain, veins popping in his neck and forehead as he endures what appears to be unbearable pain. The Tokyo Dome crowd rises to their feet, sensing a potentially historic submission victory.

Nick Stuart: The Russian Bear’s arm is being bent at an angle the human body was never meant to experience! How much more can he take?!

Richard Parker: Ivan Stanislav has never submitted in PRIME! But there’s a first time for everything, and Farthington might have found the formula!

The champion’s face is a mask of pure agony as Farthington cranks back with everything he has. Nixon leans in closely, checking for any sign of submission. For a moment, it appears Ivan’s free hand might be rising to tap, causing the crowd to reach a fever pitch of anticipation.

Instead, with a primal roar that shakes the very foundations of the Tokyo Dome, the Russian Bear somehow rolls toward the ropes, dragging Farthington’s entire body weight with him. Cecilworth adjusts his grip, trying to maintain the hold, but Ivan makes one final desperate lunge. His massive left hand shoots out and grasps the bottom rope with an iron grip.

Nick Stuart: HE’S GOT THE ROPES! Nixon has to call for the break!

Richard Parker: Farthington had him! The Russian Bear was SECONDS away from tapping!

Nixon immediately signals for Farthington to release the hold. The challenger complies, but not before giving the arm one final wrench that draws another howl of pain from the champion. Ivan clutches his mangled arm, using the ropes to pull himself up while his appendage dangles uselessly at his side. Cecilworth rolls away, struggling to regain his composure after expending so much energy on the submission attempt.

Suddenly, Rose breaks free from Hanlon’s grasp at ringside and slides under the bottom rope. Hayes follows immediately after, tackling her from behind as both competitors spill into the ring in a tangle of limbs and fury. The Tokyo Dome erupts as their brawl threatens to overtake the championship match itself.

Nick Stuart: What is this?! Rose and Hayes Hanlon are fighting IN THE RING during a Universal Championship match!

Richard Parker: Nixon needs to get control of this situation immediately!

Nixon throws his hands up in exasperation, stomping over to separate Hanlon and Rose. He physically inserts himself between the two, demanding they exit the ring and allow the championship match to continue. As Nixon focuses on getting Hanlon toward the ropes, Rose suddenly breaks free. Her eyes lock onto Cecilworth Farthington, who’s still recovering near the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: Nixon’s attention is completely on Hanlon! Rose is loose!

With lightning quickness, Rose charges across the ring. Farthington turns just in time to see her approach but can’t defend himself. She connects with her devastating Thorn Prick finishing move that drives Cecilworth face-first into the canvas with a sickening impact. The challenger lies motionless as Rose stands over him, a satisfied smirk playing across her face.

Richard Parker: The Thorn Prick! Rose just laid out Farthington while Nixon was distracted!

Before Rose can inflict any additional damage, Hayes Hanlon abandons his argument with the referee and charges back across the ring. He grabs Rose by the waist and drags her screaming toward the ropes. In one fluid motion, Hanlon hoists her onto his shoulders, steps through the ropes, and delivers a thunderous Epoch Bomb that drives Rose back-first onto the padded floor outside. The impact echoes throughout the Tokyo Dome as both competitors lie motionless on the outside.

Nick Stuart: Epoch Bomb on the floor! Hanlon and Rose might have just taken each other out of the equation!

With Nixon still trying to restore order at ringside, Ivan Stanislav finally manages to pull himself to his feet on the opposite side of the ring. The champion’s face is a mask of pain and exhaustion, his damaged arm hanging limply at his side as he surveys the chaotic scene. His eyes fall on the prone form of Cecilworth Farthington, still unconscious from Rose’s Thorn Prick.

The Russian Bear takes a tentative step forward, sensing his opportunity to end the match once and for all. Before he can reach his fallen challenger, Joe Fontaine slides into the ring from behind with one of his jolf clubs clutched tightly in both hands. The crowd erupts as Fontaine springs to his feet directly behind the unsuspecting champion.

Richard Parker: Joe Fontaine is back in the ring! What’s he doing with that jolf club?!

With Nixon still dealing with the chaos at ringside, Fontaine taps Ivan on the shoulder. The champion turns around, his eyes widening in surprise. Before he can react, Fontaine connects with a vicious swing that cracks the jolf club against Ivan’s forehead. The Russian Bear staggers backward, blood immediately trickling down his face from the impact.

Nick Stuart: Fontaine just cracked Ivan across the skull with that jolf club! Nixon is completely distracted!

Not satisfied with a single strike, Fontaine follows up with repeated blows, each one connecting with sickening force against the champion’s skull and shoulders. Ivan drops to his knees, his massive body swaying as consciousness begins to leave him. With one final overhead swing, Fontaine connects with a blow that sends the Russian Bear crashing face-first to the canvas, a pool of crimson forming beneath his head.

Richard Parker: Dear God! Ivan Stanislav has been absolutely destroyed by Joe Fontaine! The Universal Champion is out cold!

With Ivan unconscious and bleeding on the mat, Fontaine tosses the bent jolf club aside and rushes over to Cecilworth Farthington. The challenger remains motionless after Rose’s attack, completely unaware of what’s transpired. Fontaine grabs Farthington by his arms and drags his limp body across the ring, positioning him directly on top of the fallen champion.

Nick Stuart: Fontaine is dragging Farthington on top of Ivan! This is chaos!

Satisfied with his handiwork, Fontaine slides quickly out of the ring and rushes up the entrance ramp. He grabs Hayes Hanlon, who’s just beginning to stir after his Epoch Bomb on Rose, and pulls him away from ringside. The two men retreat up the ramp as Nixon finally turns his attention back to the championship match.

The referee spins around to find Cecilworth Farthington seemingly covering Ivan Stanislav in the center of the ring. Unaware of what transpired during the chaos, Nixon drops down to count the fall.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: WHAT?! FARTHINGTON DID IT! CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON IS THE NEW UNIVERSAL CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe what I just witnessed! Nixon had no idea what happened! Farthington conquered Stanislav!

The Tokyo Dome erupts in a mixture of cheers and confused boos as Elvis Nixon retrieves the championship belt. Cecilworth Farthington begins to stir, his eyes fluttering open with genuine confusion as Nixon raises his hand in victory. The new champion sits up, looking around bewildered as the referee presents him with the Universal Championship belt.

Nick Stuart: Farthington doesn’t even know what happened! He was knocked out by Rose’s Thorn Prick and has no idea that he just became the new Universal Champion!

Richard Parker: This is what happens when you cross Farthington! He’s the greatest to ever do this and it’s about time he showed the world what he’s capable of!

Medical personnel rush into the ring to attend to Ivan Stanislav, who remains unconscious and bleeding on the canvas. Alexei Ruslan pushes past the referees and officials, his face a mask of concern and fury as he kneels beside his fallen partner. The remainder of The Red Army gathers at the entrance ramp, held back by security as they shout threats toward the retreating Glueminati.

Cecilworth Farthington slowly rises to his feet, the Universal Championship clutched in his hands as the reality of the situation begins to dawn on him. His expression shifts from confusion to a slow smile as he raises the belt above his head. The Tokyo Dome explodes with a mixture of cheers and boos, the controversial finish doing nothing to diminish the historic moment.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new Universal Champion! Through calamity, Cecilworth Farthington has dethroned Ivan Stanislav here at Culture Shock!

Richard Parker: This isn’t over, Nick. The Red Army won’t let this stand. Ivan Stanislav didn’t submit, he wasn’t pinned legitimately – he was assaulted with a foreign object! Farthington may have the belt tonight, but he’ll have a target on his back the size of Russia once The Bear recovers!

As the show draws to a close, Cecilworth Farthington stands tall in the center of the ring, the Universal Championship belt raised high above his head while medical personnel tend to the fallen Ivan Stanislav. The image of the blood-soaked canvas, the new champion’s triumphant pose, and The Russian Bear’s motionless form tells the story of a championship changing hands under the most chaotic and controversial circumstances imaginable.

Nick Stuart: From the Tokyo Dome at Culture Shock, where Cecilworth Farthington has just become the new Universal Champion in a finish that will be debated for years to come, this is Nick Stuart saying good night!

We see Farthington climb to the top of a turnbuckle, hoisting the title over his head as another era in PRIME begins.

FADE.

TO.

WHITE.