ReVival 67

The air is quiet as ReVival 67 on the ACE Network begins. There is merely a shot of the Universal Championship sitting atop a podium, glistening in the twenty odd lights that you would assume are being used behind the camera to provide a beautiful sheen to the whole thing. Either that or someone snuck a few of FLAMBERGE’s belt posh tins in his back pocket.

The camera begins to slowly pan out to see that indeed, the holder of the belt which sits upon a red silk pillow is standing next to the Greek erection that holds his current property.

Cecilworth Farthington provides his closest approximation to a smile as he finds himself fully in frame.A dorned in a tan suit, the questionable fashion choices of The Glueminati are not coming to a stop any time soon as Cecilworth addresses the camera head on.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s a beautiful thing to look at, isn’t it? I’m not just talking about the excellent polish job, but the very aura of this championship itself. The Universal Championship. The reason that every single person up and down PRIME’s roster page should be here. It’s referred to as the Pinnacle of Sports for a reason. This belt is the history of the industry, it is the present, it is the future and right now, it belongs to me. For as long as I have this championship, I am the Pinnacle of All Sports.

Cecilworth takes a brief glance at the belt, beholding it in a way that perhaps some people may declare as “too much beholdin’”

Cecilworth Farthington: So many before me saw this belt as a weapon for their agenda. Something not about the merit of the sport, but rather to horde like a dragon in a cave, certain that it would always be theirs. They would decree from the heavens who was and wasn’t good enough to challenge for the belt, turn their nose up at those storming into the cave, and end up paying the price of their own hubris. One man broke that trend, one man showed what being The Pinnacle is all about, and he has trusted me to see his vision forward.

It’s clear just through tone alone that Cecilworth remains irked on the whole “not being able to retire Coral Avalon” thing, because he’s a petty man and that’s the sort of thing that happens with petty men when you think about it.

Cecilworth Farthington: So tonight, we return to the era of battle, we return to people having the opportunity to step up and show what they’re made of. Tonight, we get to see if The Anglo Luchador basically immediately throwing all of his principles out the water for a taste at the top was worth it. We get to see if that big swagger energy was justified. We get to see a man who has been given The Pinnacle of Opportunity.

Farthington provides a mirthful chuckle, because he’s the sort of fella who likes to chuckle in a mirthful style – more threatening that a hearty chuckle based on much research and many sciences.

Cecilworth Farthington: I have my own predictions of how this night will turn out, but I am no infallible man. I am merely here to welcome those climbing the mountain top. Perhaps they plant their flag, perhaps they go tumbling down, that’s the challenge. I see a luchador broken, bloodied, screaming in pain, falling from the very top of Everest itself, questioning if the decision to climb was worth it.

Cecilworth begins to grab the Universal Championship from the podium and starts to place it around his waist.

Cecilworth Farthington: Later tonight, we’ll find out if I’m a psychic or if I’m just chattin’ shit. We’ll see just how ready the man who came for this belt really was when he called his shot.

Cecilworth fully clips the belt around himself, the sheen of the belt beaming even brighter somehow as it wraps around his body.

Cecilworth Farthington: I know exactly what I’m facing tonight, the question you have to ask yourself T A L is… do you?

With a confident pat of the belt, Cecilworth removes himself from the scene, leaving just the podium and the silk pillow as the cameras fade out to hot show introduction action.

ReVival moves on.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/ReV67-Commercial.mp4

We’re in the arena, and you know what that means… it’s time for SIGNS.

JUSTICE FOR fabby BUT ONLY IF IT’S CONVENIENT
fabby DESERVES NO JUSTICE.
NED REFORM NEVER PICKS UP THE TRASH FROM HIS CAMPSITE
DOOZER IS REAL?!
IS MAX AN ILLEGAL ALIEN OR ONE OF THOSE LEGAL ONES?
GO BACK TO TORONTO, TAL
NO REALLY, I LEGITIMATELY THOUGHT DOOZER WAS A MADE UP SCAPEGOAT FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR
IF JILES IS ON COMMENTARY WE RIOT
SERIOUSLY THOUGH… WHY NO WHEELCHAIR ACCESS TO THE RING?
FOR SALE, ONE fabby, NEVER USED
DOOZER IS A MURDERER! I SAW HIM KILL A MAN IN SHOOT PROJECT!
MAX KAEL FOR POPE
MISS LIPPY’S CAR IS GLUE
THIS IS THE CLEANEST THE 5-STAR TITLE’S EVER BEEN
LINDSAY!! I MANAGED TO GET INTO THE ARENA BY DISGUISING MYSELF AND BUYING A TICKET, LINDSAY!! HA-HAA, ONCE MORE, I HAVE OUTWITTED YOU! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND YET, LINDSAY?! THE MORE YOU IGNORE ME, LINDSAY, THE MORE DETERMINED I BECOME!! GEEZ, THIS SIGN IS HEAVY… BUT IT’S WORTH IT, LINDSAY, FOR YOU TO SEE THE MESSAGE!! SEE THE LIGHT, LINDSAY!! SEE THE… OH… HEY, WADE! YOU OUT HERE FOR THE FAN EXPERIENCE TOO? BECAUSE I WAS JUST–OW!! HEY!! UNHAND ME, YOU RUFFIAN!! WAIT, WHY AM I STILL WRITING AS I’M BEING DRAGGED OUT?! WAIT!! WAIT!! WHERE’S THE TRU–
NO REALLY, I LEGITIMATELY THOUGHT DOOZER WAS A MADE UP SCAPEGOAT FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR

Nick Stuart: Well folks, here we are for our opening match, and we’ve got some tag team action!

Richard Parker: That’s right, we have The Intruders… which… well judging by my sheets, that’s what their names are. Literally. First names: Intruder Last Names: #1 and #2.

Richard giggles at the mention of #2, and we all sympathize with Nick.

Currently, both Intruders are already in the ring, waiting for their opponents. Vince Howard is ready to get this party started.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, their opponents, representing The Red Army, weighing in at a combined weight of 336 lbs. They are THE MAAAASTERSSS OF THE MOOOSCOWWWVERSEEEEE:  KENNY FREEMAN AND RANDALL SCHWARTZ!!!

The lights turn crimson, and immediately the crowd begins to boo while a trap remix of the Soviet National Anthem plays throughout the arena. Pyro erupts around the platform as Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz emerge from backstage, with Alexei Ruslan in tow. The duo looks surprisingly confident about their chances of winning, and as they walk towards the ring, Ruslan coaches both of them on, pointing at The Intruders as they approach.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I know in singles combat, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz might not be at their best, but the duo cannot be counted out when it comes to tag team competition. Not to mention that, in many ways, it’s three on one with Ruslan at ringside!

Richard Parker: I assume you mean because of Alexei’s incredible mind and teachings?

Nick Stuart: No, I mean because Ruslan will do anything and everything to ensure victory.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s kind of the name of the game, Nick.

Name of the game or not, Randall and Kenny climb into the ring, while Alexei remains on the apron. He advises them and nods to Randall, who seems to disagree with Alexei, but Ruslan barks again and points at Intruder… yes that’s Intruder #1, who waits for him on the other side of the ring.

Kenny high fives Randall and climbs out, while Alexei hops down to ringside. The bell rings, and the match is officially underway.

Richard Parker: You know, these Intruders are hard to keep track of, with the identical kinds of wrestling gear and those silly masks from a time when Ivan Stanislav was under thirty.

Nick Stuart: Intruder 1 is the slightly smaller of the two, and I use that loosely. He’s still 265 lbs. His compatriot, number 2…

Richard giggles, Nick ignores him.

Nick Stuart: …nearly pushes 300 lbs, and is only 6’1”!

Intruder 1 suddenly roars, loudly, at the crowd with an animalistic bellow. He roars again, and again, and pounds his chest like a gorilla. He whoops. He hollers. He bellows and slaps his head as he psyches himself up.

Randall watches the madness for about two seconds and immediately tags in Kenny.

Kenny blinks, and then climbs into the ring. But Intruder 1 is done waiting. He rushes straight at Kenny, who rolls to the side and out of the way. 1 hits the ropes, hard, and slams into Randall’s back, who was on the apron.

The Entertainer flies off the apron and lands, stomach first, across the ringside barricade. He slowly slides down the barricade to the floor and lays there, while Alexei fans him with his hat.

Inside the ring, 1 swings with an axehandle at Kenny, who dodges, another axehandle, another dodge, another axehandle, another dodge. Kenny sticks and moves, as Intruder 1 just goes hell for leather at him. There’s no finesse. There’s no artistry. He’s trying to pound Kenny Freeman into dust, and he’s getting closer and closer with every swing.

He also yells, a lot.

Rather than dodge to the side, Kenny instead dodges forward after about the fifteenth axehandle, and barrels into Intruder 1. 1 bounces off the ropes and Kenny sends him across the ring. He screams the entire way, bounces off the ropes, and steps over Kenny who hits the mat. He rebounds again, and Kenny leapfrogs…

Richard Parker: I’m seeing a lot of offense but… not real pain. We need more pain!

Intruder 1 bounces off the ropes once more, and as Kenny hits the mat, 1 leaps into the air and splashes him with a sickening thud.

OHHHHHHH!!!!

Richard Parker: There we go! Oh wait, no, that’s comrade Kenny!!

Intruder 1 stands up and he stomps around the ring, gesticulating wildly and bellowing again while Kenny rolls onto his stomach. He tries to kip up, but just kind of flops, so he rolls onto his hands and knees and drags himself to his feet. Intruder 1 tags in Intruder 2. For those of you who are reading the commentary closely, Intruder 2 looks just like Intruder 1, but he’s even bigger.

He also yells louder.

We’re talking Iron Mike Sharpe levels of yelling.

Randall is back up on the apron, and Alexei yells at Kenny to get to work. Intruder 2 charges straight at Kenny, who once again dodges, and 2 charges sternum first into the Red Army corner. He bellows (again) and he’s in no-mans land. Kenny rushes him and shoulder blocks him in the small of the back, and turns him around. Randall grabs Intruder 2’s neck and holds him still, while Kenny blasts him in the breadbasket three times.

Jimmy Turnbull counts against Randall, who releases Intruder 2. Kenny tags in Randall, and the Masters of the Moscowverse drag Intruder 2 out of the corner. They hook him and together, they suplex him into the middle of the ring with a thunderous WHAM!

Randall drops an elbow and goes for a cover!

1…

Kickout by Intruder 2, who surges to a seated position and looks around with confusion. His mask slightly crooked, and he might have trouble seeing. Randall bounces off the ropes and charges Intruder 2 from behind, executing a flipping neckbreaker, which sends the bigger Intruder back onto the mat. Randall winces, tweaking his own back in the process, but drags himself up by the ropes.

Richard Parker: Good continuity by the Masters of the Moscowverse. You can tell how being a long standing tag team can really build up that synergy.

Nick Stuart: Richard, they are “The Intruders” and are both named “Intruder” and wear the same outfits and the same masks and they yell a lot. I think they have synergy too.

Richard Parker: Whatever.

Randall is cocky, though. He grabs Intruder 2 up and tries for a European uppercut. It hits, but Intruder 2 just stands straight and stares death through his two intruder mask holes that-are-covered-by-lattice-to-hide-his-eyes-but-you-know-he-can-see-through-them.

Randall meekly tries for another uppercut, but it has no effect. He looks to Kenny for help, but being in the middle of the ring is a loooong way for help. Randall makes a T with his hands and calls for a timeout.

But there are no timeouts in PRIME.

Intruder 2 grabs Randall by the shoulders and HEAVES him through the air, while Randall Schwartz squeals. He lands on his hip in a neutral corner and howls, begging off Intruder 2.

But, your mother doesn’t name you “Intruder” because you are a merciful individual. Oh no. And Randall learns this quickly.

He’s yanked up by the hair and flails as he’s swung by the roots of his hair and lands, spinning, in the middle of the ring. He scrambles and crawls away, but he’s crawling towards Intruder 1. He lifts his hand up for a tag, only to realize then that he’s all turned around. He tries to instead crawl under the rope and to the outside, but Intruder 2 catches him and pulls him up to his feet. He tags in Intruder 1, who climbs in, and while 2 holds Randall in a full nelson, 1 just unloads a wicked slap to Randall’s chest.

SLAPPPPP!!!

OHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

The “I’m From Moscow” shirt does very little to soften the blow.

Randall staggers away, one hand out for anyone, anyone at all, a fan, Jimmy Turnbull, Vince Howard, Alexei, anyone to tag him out.

All he’s got is Intruder 1. Remember, he’s the slightly smaller one.

Intruder 1 sends Randall into the ropes and positively levels him with an Axe Bomber. 1 goes for the cover.

1… 2…

Kenny rushes the ring and lands a baseball slide, knocking Intruder 1 to the side. Kenny laughs and skips back to his corner. He slaps the turnbuckle for Randall to wake up, but all doesn’t quite go as planned.

Intruder 1 fell right near his corner, and he tags in Intruder 2. 2 charges the ring, but as Randall stares at him from the mat, he watches 2 go right past him, and instead he goes straight for Kenny on the apron!

Kenny is as surprised as anyone else, as Intruder 2 grabs him up and hooks his arm to suplex him into the ring. He pulls him up, and yet… he strains slightly. Which is strange, because Intruder 2 is a big guy, and Kenny Freeman is not.

So why is he straining?

Because Alexei hangs onto Kenny’s feet and literally deadweights himself, hovering above the floor. Intruder 2 yells and tries again, having to lift both Kenny and the dead weight or Ruslan. Intruder 2 calls on the power of all his little Intruder-maniac-warrior-ites and he tries a third time, lifting Kenny up and slowly dragging Ruslan up to about the middle rope. Jimmy Turnbull yells at Intruder 2 to start wrestling the legal man.

Remember the legal man? That’s Randall. But it’s okay, he’s about to make his presence known.

Randall rears back with his foot and plants his foot as hard and deep as he can right there, in Intruder 2’s mini-Intruders.

OHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Well, don’t think we’ll be seeing any Intruder 3 or 4’s coming from Intruder 2.

Ever wonder how many times “Intruder” has been written? I do.

Intruder 2’s roars turn to squeals as he releases Kenny and drops to the mat. Ruslan takes a nasty bump falling to the mat, but it’s all for Mother Russia so he’ll deal. Turnbull gazes around at the absolute wreckage all around, and can’t help but scratch his head.

Randall tags in Kenny, who ascends the top turnbuckle. He sizes up Intruder 2 and leaps off with a frogsplash, landing square on Intruder 2. He nearly bounces off, but he hooks a leg and pulls for all he’s worth.

1…2…3!!!

Winner by Pinfall: The Masters of the Moscowverse!!!!

Intruder 1 can’t believe it. He storms the ring, but Kenny and Randall are already out of the ring, hauling Alexei up, who screams with joy while the Intruders gather themselves up and roar with frustration.

Nick Stuart: Not exactly the best first outing for The Intruders, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing them again soon!

Richard Parker: And a big, practically completely legal win by The Masters of the Moscowverse! Tag Team Titles her we come!!!

We cut elsewhere.

…previously on…
…THE NEWS…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Snark Darkly: Gentlemen!

The silky yet rough voice of Darkly cuts over the loud arguing of angry Russian voices.

Snark Darkly: Arguing isn’t going to change anything. Despite what the rumors say, my client Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is very much alive.

The group of Russian gangsters exchange doubtful glances before turning their eyes back on Darkly. The “leader”, a hulking man with a scarred face and ragged looking beard, steps forward, glaring down at the much smaller Snark.

Gregori: We all saw, on television, what happened to our former leader. Kicked out of Red Army. Beaten like dog. When Moscow backed him, sure, we follow. Now?

A wide smile shines through Gregori’s thick, wild beard.

Gregori: Gregori runs gang.

The smile vanishes from Darkly’s face, replaced with mild disappointment. After a thoughtful silence, Snark lets out a sigh before an unnatural smile unfurls from his face like a dozen unknown geometric shapes.

Snark Darkly: Congratulations on the promotion, Gregori. Of all the people in this room, you’re the one who earned it the most.

Snarky winks before stepping back. Shadows engulf the older man, eagerly reaching out to embrace him. The unnatural nature of what just happened causes Gregori to take a step back.

ZAP!

A bolt of purplish light flies from the shadows where Snark had disappeared, striking Gregori in the chest. The scarred Russian explodes into a cloud of pink smoke which dissipates rapidly.

Max Kael: … Bullseye!

Sashaying from the shadows comes Max Kael holding the Dimensional Erasure Gun he had built for Ivan several months ago. The startled Russian mobsters once again exchanged confused looks. Fear keeps them from reaching for their weapons, each questioning if this is real or some kind of fever dream brought on by radiation poisoned vodka from

Max Kael: Anyone remember that guy’s name?

Everyone looks around, unsure what Max is referencing.

Max Kael: …oh right, right. Let’s try that again, hit me with a reset.

Stepping back into the shadows, Max vanishes as Snark Darkly reappears.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Snark Darkly: Gentlemen!

The silky yet rough voice of Darkly cuts over the loud arguing of angry Russian voices.

Snark Darkly: Arguing isn’t going to change anything. Despite what the rumors say, my client Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is very much alive.

The group of Russian gangsters exchange doubtful glances before turning their eyes back on Darkly. The “leader”, a lean, clean shaven man in a sharp black suit steps forward, pulling a butterfly knife from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist the knife spins open, the blade held toward Snark..

Aton: We all saw, on television, what happened to our former leader. Kicked out of Red Army. Beaten like dog. When Moscow backed him, sure, we follow. Now?

A sneer stretches over Aton’s thin lips..

Aton: Aton runs gang.

The smile vanishes from Darkly’s face, replaced with mild disappointment. After a thoughtful silence, Snark lets out a sigh before an unnatural smile unfurls from his face like a dozen unknown geometric shapes.

Snark Darkly: Congratulations on the promotion, Aton. Of all the people in this room, you’re the one who earned it the most.

Snarky winks before stepping back. Shadows engulf the older man, eagerly reaching out to embrace him. The unnatural nature of what just happened causes Aton to take a step back.

ZAP!

A bolt of purplish light flies from the shadows where Snark had disappeared, striking Gregori in the chest. The scarred Russian explodes into a cloud of pink smoke which dissipates rapidly.

Max Kael: … Bazinga!

Sashaying from the shadows comes Max Kael holding the Dimensional Erasure Gun he had built for Ivan several months ago. The startled Russian mobsters once again exchanged confused looks. Fear keeps them from reaching for their weapons, each questioning if this is real or some kind of fever dream brought on by radiation poisoned vodka from

Max Kael: Anyone remember that guy’s name?

Everyone looks around, unsure what Max is referencing.

Max Kael: …God damn it, maybe this isn’t the right weapon… Gonna need another reset!

Stepping back into the shadows, Max vanishes as Snark Darkly reappears.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Snark Darkly: Gentlemen!

The silky yet rough voice of Darkly cuts over the loud arguing of angry Russian voices.

Snark Darkly: Arguing isn’t going to change anything. Despite what the rumors say, my client Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is very much alive.

The group of Russian gangsters exchange doubtful glances before turning their eyes back on Darkly. The “leader”, an older man with thinning grey hair atop his head steps forward, pulling a pistol from his pocket.

Dimitri: We all saw, on television, what happened to our former leader. Kicked out of Red Army. Beaten like dog. When Moscow backed him, sure, we follow. Now?

A wide smile shines through Gregori’s thick, wild beard.

Dimitri: Dimitri runs g-

ZAP!

A bolt of purplish light flies over Snark Darkly’s shoulder hitting Dimitri between the eyes. The older Russian mobster vanishes in a puff of pink smoke. Peeking over Darkly’s shoulder is the grinning face of Max Kael.

Max Kael:… Nobody remembers that guy’s name, right?

Sighing, Snark pinches the brow of his nose in annoyance.

Snark Darkly: This is going to take all day.

Max Kael: RESET!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Snark Darkly Presents

THE NEWS

With

Kirk the Sports Head

Kai with TRAVEL

And the top ranked Lead Anchor in PRIME

MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL

☠️☠️☠️☠️

The classy stage of THE NEWS lights up as overly intense NEWS music plays loudly. Central to the set is Max Kael seated behind his NEWS DESK wearing his trademark unpleasant smile .

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, I am lead anchor Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, we don’t have a lot of time today so let’s start off with our guest for this week. He’s recently tasted victory for the first time, potentially in his entire life. Please help me in welcoming…

Waving his arms toward a doorway that has appeared a few feet from the NEWS DESK, Max stands.

Max Kael: JAAAAAAACKSON COOOOOOLEY!

The door opens as smoke billows out. After a few flashing lights from beyond the threshold marks the arrival of Jackson Cooley. Is it weed smoke? Yes, probably.

Cooley slides through the door like his snakeskin cowboy boots as covered in baby oil. He’s looking slicker than owl shit in his lime green western suit. What’s that sound? Oh it’s the synchronized shudder of a million women watching Cooley puts the burning joint in his slender fingertips between his lips and then runs his manly hands through his beautiful golden locks.

Jackson Cooley: Thanks for having me, Max. You’re looking pretty good for a dead man.

Max Kael: I do look pretty, don’t I? Welcome to the WON Action News stage, Jackson Cooley!

Motioning to the seat across from the NEWS DESK, Max plops down into his own chair with a soft giggle.

Max Kael: So, normally when I encounter white trash Americans, they’ve got two first names. You’re unique in that you have two last names instead. Has the double last names contributed negatively to your career?

Jackson Cooley: Well, I’m sitting next to you, so yes – it has. But hey, that’s showbiz, baby.

Cooley smirks and takes a seat across Max, keeping eye contact with Max as he ashes his joint on the NEWS DESK.

Max Kael: Yeah…

Fumbling with something beneath his NEWS DESK, Max finally produces a crystal ashtray, one of those lumps of heavy glass that used to dominate 1970ies casinos. He slams it down on the desk then slides it over toward Cooley.

Max Kael: Listen, I know you just recently got into the winners circle, it’s a great feeling and all, but it’s just one win. Over here, ashin’ like you were raised in a god damn bowling alley. Don’t you have a better half somewhere to help you, you know, with your social inadequacies?

Another ash on the desk.

Jackson Cooley: Send me an invoice. I would choose a bowling alley over whatever cess pool they mixed you up in. Where were you raised, Max? Who wanted you? And I’m no lawyer, Max, but I’d advise against talking about my sweet flower. It could be bad for your health.

A callous smirk stagnates on Max’s lips as he stares at Cooley for a moment before licking his lips.

Max Kael: I’m unsure if you’re familiar with my resume here in PRIME but I adore a nice, sweet flower. Especially plucking them from the ground before I pull their delicate pedals off one by one. Know what I mean, you lump of a loser.

Cooley can’t help but smile, snorting loudly to gather the back dripping remnants of coke floating around in his business nostril. He takes one last drag of the joint and smushes it out in the ashtray. A lesser man might hit Max over the head with that ashtray. It’s heavy enough and he’s not lacking for landing space.

But not Cooley.

Jackson Cooley: You’ll rue the day you said that, Max Kael.

With that, Cooley adjusts his bolo necktie and stands, turning his better side towards Max before exiting unceremoniously. Max is caught looking.

Max Kael: We hate to say goodbye but we love to see them walk away.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

“Where in the world is Kai-men SanDiego?!”

A familiar but intellectually distinct acapella son focused on where Kai, baby-momma to Bryan Dawkins, might be. Of course, it’s only about a five second intro but you’d be surprised how much mmbooping can get stuffed into that time.

And then we see her, Kai, ex of Bryan Dawkins, seated in front of a world map. She has a large red hat on and an ill fitting red trench coat. She looks less than terrified, in fact I’d call it more bored than anything.

Kai: Just read the line?

There is a muffled voice off camera.

Kai: Now?

Angry muffled reply.

Kai: Well nobody said anything to me!

Apologetic muffled reply.

Kai: Apology accepted. Okay…

She leans forward, narrowing her eyes as she stares at something off camera.

Kai: The Russians thought they’d find me in the Land of the Rising Sun, but I’m always one step ahead of you, gumshoes. I’ll give you a clue, detectives, a little something to put you on the trail. A clue to the continent I’m currently on. When I look around I see twenty three different countries around me. Tilt your hat toward the cam-Oh!

She tilts the large red hat toward the camera before winking.

Kai: Until next time, gumshoes!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

We return to Max Kael at his NEWS DESK. A familiar figure is with him, armed with a dustpan and broom. Though his face is turned away from the screen, his powder blue tunic and breeches.

Max Kael: Make sure you get all that tall drink of gorilla shit, Cooley’s ash up off the desk.

Turning dramatically toward the camera, the figure reveals themself, though you already know.

The Herald: I, the sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington the Herald of Wise and Wonderful Maximillian Wilhelm Kael SHALL clean up the ashes!

Max Kael: Good for you.

As the Herald begins to sweep up the ashes, Max turns his attention toward the camera.

Max Kael: Well that’s it for the WON Action News Team this week. We’ll be back next week, same segment slot, same segment time! And remember…

Max throws double guns at the camera while clicking his tongue.

Max Kael: Fuck Fred Dick!

We slowly fade out as angry techno music plays. Max hops in his chair while The Herald badly cleans up the ashes white dancing.

From the WON Action News desk we go to nothingness. At first glance it appears as though the broadcast has cut to black. Has someone in the truck pushed the wrong button? Has the ACE Network pulled the feed?? Did Max provide so much entertainment that the system couldn’t handle it and we have a blown transformer somewhere?

No, wait, something just moved. Right there in the middle of the screen. A vague glint of something. A form of some kind. It’s difficult to distinguish against the black. A curious buzz fills the arena as fans gaze at the PRIME*View, trying to work out what’s going on. Many wait eagerly, anticipating a surprise, while others turn to their friends and partners to discuss the break in programming. Some, the more astute observers, notice a form take shape in their periphery as they glance away from the screen. They’d swear it looks human, but the upper half doesn’t quite correlate. It looks blocky.

Light shimmers across the screen, and things become a little clearer. A reflective orb appears in the centre of the blocky portion, next to what has to be a head and shoulders. It looks like…a cameraman?

The ghostly profile starts to shrink. A rim comes into view around the edges of the screen. The silhouette gets smaller still, the rim becomes more defined and beyond it – skin.

We’re looking at a lens, through a lens. The hairs of a cocked eyebrow come into view, followed by a forehead crease, and then a lush head of hair.

Alfredo blonde.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

meow.

The camera pans out fully from the center of the left lens of the T shades, revealing the scene in full.

To the left, a corpulicious Honalean hunched over in his chair, arm draped around the slender shoulders of his greatest achievement, her image stretched and skewed across the bosoms of the hermetically-fitted t-shirt he wears. Dad imparts his knowledge enthusiastically while daughter feigns interest and scrolls through her phone.

To the right, a reflexological wonder twitches voraciously; tongue flicking, elbows jolting, stamping the floor and nodding aggressively as another speedrun record nears completion on his handheld system, all the while gibbering about it being the purest form of training for a sharp mind like his.

In the middle, a towering, glowering hulk of a war dog stands with a large gravedigger shovel in hand, patiently waiting for his master to sic him on someone, soaking in every word of wisdom that is being imparted not unto him, but the grinning serpent by his side. His words are directed towards his charge, but behind the T shades his gaze is fixed on the watchful eye of the camera.

Cancer Jiles: -this is the week we pull it back, draw even, and set a line in the sand. If they want to keep pushing, then you pull them across that line and make them eat dirt. You have the tools, you’ve mastered the craft, show them how the game is played.

The Grin nods in understanding, glancing up at the giant beside him to find him nodding back similarly.

Tony Gamble: No sweat, I’ve got plenty tricks up my sleeve for those chuds.

Cancer Jiles: Good, just be sure they don’t see how the sauce is made. They’re observant, and-

KNOCK KNOCK

The Greek God of COOL doesn’t break stride, clicking his fingers high in the air in front of Hessian’s face and pointing at the door to the locker room while continuing to pump Gamble up. He continues to give, even after losing his title and his Valkyrie. The giant rests the shovel against the wall and trudges over to the door, adopting a less menacing look in case Angelica or Matt should happen to be looking for an interview. He turns the handle and opens the door into the hallway to find a familiar face grinning smugly back at him.

Doctor Ned Reform: A-ha! Just the massively disappointing mongoloid I was looking for! Salutations, friend, I-

SLAM!

The door is shut without hesitation and with such force that the Bandits all jump in surprise and stare over at the Murder Show. Annabelle looks shaken and has receded into Bobby’s arms. Conor’s eyes are bulging in horror, the interruption causing an inadvertent press of B instead of A. The record is no longer in his grasp.

Hessian: Wrong room. Sorry, didn’t mean to-

Doctor Ned Reform (muffled): I see good graces are in as short supply as ring acumen! Nevertheless! I shall- oh…hello sir. Why yes, if you wouldn’t mind…

Hessian grits his teeth and palms his face, returning to Cancer’s side with a growl as everyone relaxes back into their routine. Except for Conor. The Steam Deck cracks in his grasp as he comes to terms with what’s just happened.

Conor Fuse: It’s okay, no big deal, just seven minutes and twenty two seconds of my life that I can’t get back, I’ll be fine, nobody panic, just start from scratch, from the beginning, I’m not mad-

Conor stares at the ceiling and sighs, resetting the level and going at it once again. His digits move mechanically even before he glances back down at the screen. He’s locked in again.

SLAM!

The door flies open again, and once more Conor hits the wrong button. He bites his lip, turning a dark shade of purple as Doozer stumbles into the locker room, hauling two large packages wrapped in plastic behind him. Conor’s eye twitches with every crinkle and scrape.

Doozer: Hey guys, I’m gonna head out for my match now, also some delivery guy just dropped these off. Said they’re for Ian and Tony.

Hessian clears his throat, glaring at Cancer and then Doozer. The COOLYMPIAN no-sells. Doesn’t even crack a smile.

Hessian: We’ve been over this. It’s Hessian. Hess-ee-an. If that’s too difficult then just pronounce it Heshan like everyone else does.

Tony Gamble: What’s for us?

The Grin regards the packages curiously as Doozer drags them over and dusts his hands off before going back to the door to close it, not noticing the bearded face peering in beyond the jamb with a delighted look in his eyes.

Doozer: I dunno, dude said care packages is all.

Two Books turns his attention from Cancer to the bulging bushels of carefully organized gifts contained within two bespoke, handwoven wicker baskets. The baskets themselves barely fit through the door, while the handles arch high in the air, over Tony’s own head.

Doozer: Looks like you and Ian have a couple admirers.

The Murder Show grumbles as he joins Tony in investigating the baskets, brimming with contents that pile up almost all the way to the top of the handles. Conor fizzes in the corner as they carefully peel the plastic open.

Hessian: What the hell…

The giant furrows his brow as he gazes over the treats. No expense has been spared. There’s bags of Wether’s Originals, bottles of Omega-3 fish oil, boxes of TAL-brand WarmCold! muscle relaxers, boxes of AstroGlide and Cialis pills, a frilly pink blanket made of knitted wool, boxes of Easter eggs with Reduced To Clear stickers on them, a multipack of Fixodent, a big bottle of Cortisone – with syringe, a brochure for the Perfect Sunset gated retirement community in south Florida, four candles, fork handles, a bundle of tickets for a multitude of shows including a stage production of War Horse, DVDs including Cocoon, Old Dogs, Gran Torino and Disney’s Up!, a framed still from the movie Walking Tall – Arnold Schwarzenegger’s cameo to be precise, a DIY prostate exam kit, several pairs of bifocals, adult diapers (4XL) and Pampers (Small) respectively, a signed first edition copy of Barbara Cartland’s autobiography, a reprinted hardback copy of Coping With Loss as well as Overcoming Inadequacy by Doctor Ned Reform, one thousand dollars (Canadian), two tickets for the Maid of the Mist (must be redeemed before April 2026), a key fob and manual for a Honda Jazz and a brochure for renowned chiropractor Joseph Betz.

Tony, meanwhile, is fixated on a large card that he’s pulled from his basket.

**Tony Gamble: “**A Gift from Those Who Have It All. To the Dirty, Old (Very Old) Bandits. You two are very old. Did you know that you are very, very old? Because you are. That being said, you two low-life have-nothings deserve a little special something for making the GVG look so good. Enclosed is a basket of items we hope will brighten your dreary, underperforming, wrinkly lives. Though we are staunch capitalists who believe handouts are shameful, today we do the unthinkable: we give. Call it our version of trickle-down economics, a golden stream of generosity, raining down from our perch atop the caste system. Or, as you elderly yokels call it, ‘social security benefits.’ With love (and youthful superiority), The GVG.”

The room is eerily quiet, and that’s when Gamble and Hessian realize all eyes are on them, with the exception of Conor. Tony lowers his head, crumpling the card in his hand. The sound of popping and spurting draws everyone’s attention to Hessian, shaking violently as he holds one of the boxes of WarmCold! in hand, the box crushed in his grip and gel oozing between his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

Hessian: Goddamn…snot-nosed… little pricks…

Cancer simply folds his arms and cocks an eyebrow.

Tony Gamble: And to think I was gonna play nice tonight. Those boys got a hefty receipt coming.

Conor Fuse: OH! OHHHH YES! COME OOON!!

Fuse jumps up from his seat, transfixed by his progress. Staring blindly at the screen of his Steam Deck, he wanders across the room.

Conor Fuse: They said it couldn’t be done! They said it was unbreakable!! THEY SAID-

sssssssqwwwwweeeeeeee!

THUMP

If the room was quiet before, all the air has been positively sucked out of it now. Conor lies flat on his back, the bottoms of his sneakers slick with gel. The Steam Deck is still firmly in his grasp. Alas, the speedrun record is not. His eyes are wide, his mouth agape. The rage is palpable.

Conor Fuse: nnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!!!!!

Doozer clicks his tongue, regarding the scene before him for a moment before heading for the door.

Doozer: So yeah…I’m up next. Wish me luck!

ReVival moves on.

A piercing siren rings out as a blue Fleur de Lis fades into existence on the big screen. As the bluesy riff of Émeute Dans La Prison blares through the arena, images of Montreal flash along to the beat. The first few are glitzy, glamourous landscape pictures of the skyline, but they gradually shift more and more into the underbelly of the city, until images of low-income neighbourhoods adorned with graffiti are playing on the Tron.

The chorus kicks in and out marches Luc Labelle, an almost-permanent scowl etched onto his face. He’s a killer, but not a silent one, as he jaw-jacks in French with any fan that dares to boo him. The man just doesn’t shut the fuck up, no matter whether or not anybody can understand him.

When he finally rolls into the ring, as intense as ever, the young man can’t help but to shit-talk either directly to his opponent’s face or right into the camera. He runs his mouth any chance he gets, all things that the network would surely censor if he were to say them in English. Can he cash the checks that his mouth has been writing?

Richard Parker: Do you think his ass can cash the checks his mouth has been writing?

Nick Stuart: Deja-vu.

“I’m Shipping Up To Boston”by The Dropkick Murphys plays to a mixed reaction from the crowd.

Doozer comes out in an unremarkable, unceremonious fashion. Even the presence of The Cool along with him does absolutely nothing to make this entrance memorable. In fact, the only remarkable thing, besides how unremarkable the entrance is, is that he has some type of collar on him. Think Sierra Madre in Fallout New Vegas.

Nick Stuart: What the hell is that on Doozer’s neck?

Richard Parker: We can’t know for sure, Nick. Probably some weird sex thing. It looks just like the shock collars in Sierra Madre, the downloadable content to the best Fallout game that ever existed.

Nick Stuart: That’s something we can both agree on.

Richard Parker: That it’s a sex thing?

Nick Stuart: No, Dick.

The fans at home not watching this with subtitles on are left to guess whether Nick was calling Richard a dick or referring to him as the shortened version of his name: Dick.

Doozer and Labelle don’t even know any of this witty banter is taking place. The two move around the ring waiting for the bell.

DING DING

And there it is. Labelle proves to be a fireplug, coming out hotter than a Priest during Sunday School. A succession of kicks land to the stomach of Doozer, who quickly keels over in pain. The ring rust is real and Labelle intends to take full advantage of it. He’s young and dumb and full of the confidence of youth. With a precision usually reserved for samurai and angels and strippers named Cinnamon, Labelle lands a nasty Savate Kick to the temple of Doozer, crumpling him to the mat.

Did he crumple or crumble? Who knows.

Nick Stuart: I’m told that was a Savate kick from the impressive newcomer. Labelle seems

Richard Parker: Interesting. Savate is actually a style of kickboxing in shoes developed by those shady Frenchies. It stinks of that egotistical kwah-sohn crap.

Nick Stuart: Right. Jiles seems to be enjoying Doozer getting pummeled.

Richard Parker: A man after my own heart.

Labelle pulls Doozer up, looking to continue on his path of destruction with the elder Eggman. A stiff roundhouse lands before Labelle’s leg comes up for another Savate Kick – but Doozer manages to show a little bit of life and moves out of the way. In frustration Labelle throws a wild haymaker, but Doozer meets him with a shoulder right under the chin. Shocked and awed, Labelle staggers back, his eyes widening. The Old Bull follows it up with a stiff slap – the kind a father would give his son the first time he bucks up.

It gets the same reaction from Labelle.

This isn’t going to be as easy as he expected.

Nick Stuart: The sleeper has awoken. Doozer takes control and slows the pace, grabbing Labelle and scooping him up for a thunderous backbreaker. Both men are a little woozy from the initial back and forth but Doozer is the first to strike, lifting Labelle high above the ground and holding him up in the air before dropping him on his back with a brainbuster.

Richard Parker: Tough lessons for the new kid here in his debut. Lessons aren’t free.

Nick Stuart: With his foot still on the gas, Doozer once again puts Labelle overhead for an atomic drop that sends the young man reeling. Cancer is yelling something at Doozer from ringside but Doozer refuses to be distracted.

Richard Parker: He’s got a little blood in his teeth and instinct has taken over.

Nick Stuart: It would appear you’re right, Richard, as Doozer whips Labelle into the ropes and goes for a lariat- NO! Labelle ducked under the arm. He’s got his arms wrapped around the elder statesman’s waist now and he delivers a vicious German suplex, rolling directly into a knee bar.

Doozer wears his pain on his face as Labelle wrenches on the Boston Bruiser’s leg – much to the amusement of Cancer Jiles. Jiles flashes that million dollar smirk and leans down under the rope, hollering something at Doozer. Clawing at the mat, Doozer tries his best to crawl towards the ropes. Both men fight for every inch, each trying their best to push their will on the other. Normally here, if one man were true good and the other were true evil, the fans would probably be cheering for one or the other. They’re not and the fans aren’t. There’s mixed reactions, some yelling for Doozer to reach the ropes and some hoping Labelle rips his leg off at the hip.

Eventually, much to the behest of Labelle, Doozer manages to grab ahold of the ropes. Ashley Barlow motions for Labelle to release the hold, but he refuses, shaking his head defiantly like a little toddler who has shit his pants but refuses to admit it. Labelle eventually acquiesces under the threat of disqualification. This fun little back and forth seems to help the fans decide who they hate more and it’s definitely Labelle.

He stands above his fallen opponent and soaks in the boos from the fans. Picking a particularly American looking person from the front row, Labelle begins saying something that’s probably in his gobbledygook native French tongue.

Richard Parker: I like the cut of this kid’s jib, despite him being a Canuck. He seems to understand that you have to do whatever it takes to win and that you won’t always win the popularity contest doing so. He’s got a bright future here in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: Sure, Dick, sure. Labelle finally cuts the banter with the fans and makes his way over to the turnbuckles. He leaps through the air, bunching his body up and then stretching out into a missile for a diving head stomp, but Doozer rolls out of the way at the last second. An awful landing for Labelle – his knees buckle under the pressure

Richard Parker: Good thing he’s only knee high to a grasshopper. If that had been Doozer doing that we’d have to stop the match to bring medical out.

Before Labelle can get to his feet Doozer has a head full of his hair, which he keeps hold of as he lands multiple shots in the face of Labelle. Whatever push Labelle had been working with is dead.

It’s the Doozer show now.

The Boston Bruiser lands a picture perfect bulldog, leaving the final remnants of rust behind him in the ring. He’s moving a bit slower than he was at the start – but every step is more calculated. He looks like he’s remembered what he’s doing here. With a loud slap he drops Labelle on his back, hitting another powerslam.

Richard Parker: Come on kid, don’t go out like this.

Nick Stuart: Doozer in full control now as he lays a few kicks to the head of the newcomer Labelle. It’s looking like this might be lights out folks. As Richard has recently taken to saying, call in the dogs and put out the fire because this one is over. The Old Bull lifts Labelle up, hooking the arms. Here comes The Abuser!

BBBZZZZZZTTTT!

Just before landing his infamous double arm DDT, Dooze goes stiff – his whole body seizes. Cancer holds up the fob-like device he was holding in his hand. His smirk stretches ear to ear as Doozer falls to the mat.

Nick Stuart: WHAT DID CANCER DO?!

Richard Parker: What do you mean? It was probably the shakes with that alcoholic bum from Boston. He hasn’t had a nip in a few hours and it caught up with him.

As Labelle slowly get sup, Doozer lays motionless on the mat.

Labelle looks at Doozer and then at Cancer and then back at Doozer. He hesitates for a moment, seemingly confused at the turn of events. But, just like Richard Parker said, the young buck isn’t going to let anything get in the way of etching one in the W column for his debut appearance. He lifts Doozer up and goes behind him, bending over and looping Doozer’s unconscious arms in his own.

The seventy-ish pound (lbs not kg, you sloppy canuck) difference seems like nothing to Labelle as he lifts Doozer above his head. Limply, Doozer’s head dangles as Labelle hangs there for a moment before dropping down. It’s truly sick the way Doozer lands, unable to brace due to being fucking unconscious.

Nick Stuart: La Fin!

Luc Labelle rolls Doozer over onto his back and hooks the leg. Barlow slides down for the pin.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

A chorus of boos erupts as Labelle celebrates his win and medical comes down to check on Doozer.

Nick Stuart: Jiles just screwed Doozer.

Richard Parker: It’s what he does, just ask Jonathan Cristopher-Hall! I knew the kid could pull it out.

We move on.

There are plenty of cool little hangouts backstage at a PRIME show: LT’s office, Stanislav’s Gulag, whatever the fuck Glue is calling their stuff now. There is one place unlike all others, though. The booze is always flowing and there’s drugs enough for you and your baby mama. Those cool hanging lights that rich people have in their backyards hang from the ceiling. There’s black lights and slot machines and a guy selling loosies.

Basically, it fucks.

This magical place is called The Whorehouse.

It’s vacant currently (well, aside from Loosie Dave), but you can hear the voices of the savages who cohabitate in this fucking palace outside the door. It sounds like they’re engaged in a lively argument. What about?

Well, listen and find out.

Rob Williams: HE’S MY GODDAMN THRALL AND I’LL HAVE HIM WEAR A GIMP SUIT IF I WANT!

The door bursts open and fabby is the first through. He’s sleek and stylish in his black leather gimp suit – a nice contrast to that stupid gold mask. Gold. Rob hates Gold.

Rob Williams: Besides, how the fuck is he going to learn to be a Whoresmen if we don’t give him a little shit?

Fred Dick: Who the fuck is dat?

Fred points over to the far end of the locker room, where none other than Jonathan-Christopher Hall is seated, looking directly at the Whoresmen, listening this entire time. JCH has a blank look on his face, while his shoulders are slumped down and he is battling through another bout of depression.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Hi.

Hall barely squeaks out. It’s clear the vibe in the room is “GET THE FUCK OUT. NOW.” kind of tone. Meanwhile, however, there is an additional voice down the hallway, making its way into the locker room.

It’s the voice of Reed Young.

Reed Young: So I said, I said I have so many bloody ideas! Lindsay Troy needs to woman-up and get going on some of my marketing schemes for YOU, my lady! You’re fucking killer!

As Reed finishes his sentence, he walks into the Whoresman locker room with Anna Daniels. Reed realizes something’s off because the rest of them aren’t saying shit. Then he realized where their energy is directed.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Dad!

Young takes a step back, almost like he was hit with a steel chair. He laughs, awkwardly. He looks around the room.

Reed Young: Um, yeah buddy. Oh shit, is that my phone ringing?

It’s not, but he’s going with it. He digs his iPhone out of his pocket and pats Daniels on the back.

Reed Young: Looks like Lindsay Troy is calling me!

She isn’t.

Reed Young: Guess she’s come around to those excellent ideas I’ve got!

She ain’t.

Reed Young: Sorry, kid. Gotta run! Booyakasha!

Young exits the locker room… leaving all of the Whoremen and Whorecadet fabby staring down Hall.

Now let’s assess the situation, shall we? Daytona’s fucked off to god-knows-where. Reed just hightailed it outta here. Rob Williams is a problematic bundle of grump. Fred Dick is…Fred Dick, beyond definition. And fabby is fabby, lacking definition. Here we are dealing with a sad little man that decided to just make himself at home in perhaps one of the worst places to be at. In a situation such as this, somebody has to attempt to be the grown-up.

This burden falls to the one who stabs. Anna sighs like a very tired mom, holds up her hands as if to stop any unnecessary popping off, and strolls toward JC Hall. She takes a deep breath and says…

Anna Daniels: Boi. What the fuck are you doing here?

Before the timid little man can respond, Fred struts as well as his little pudgy legs can allow him and get dangerously close to Johnny-Chrissy. He takes a big ol’ whiff of the cuck’s aura and his face instantly contorts in disgust.

Fred Dick: PEW! You smell that? His ace smells like bitch!

Fred proceeds to growl, snap, and bark at Hall like he’s 45.97% pitbull. Shit, he probably is.

Rob Williams: Aw Fred, chill the fuck out. The fuck do you want, Whitebread?

Jonathan-Christopher tries to gulp before speaking, in order to clear his throat.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I was just, I was, I, I was, well, I was just looking for a new place to stay?

JCH looks around the room.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Figured dad was here.

Pause.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Well, was here.

Maybe JCH is looking for Reed’s love and acceptance and this is the only way he thinks he’ll find it. Who knows? Rob smooths and pinches his beard, his wheels obviously turning. He pulls Fred and Anna in close to a huddle.

Rob Williams: We could make some fucking money off this.

Fred Dick: Whatchu mean? Rob they aces?

Rob Williams: What? N… well, that could work.

A smirk appears across Rob’s face. He’s calculating something in his head and giggling to himself.

Rob Williams: No, no, no. I’m trying to be a different man, Fred. I mean if these two dipshits want to be cool and let their nuts hang, we can teach ‘em – for a price. Think of it as our way of giving back to the community!

Anna’s head peaks out of the huddle. She looks at one man, then the other. One incredibly nervous and clearly lost and the other a useless cryptid. Can you tell which one is which? She sinks down to the huddle puddle again in thought.

Anna Daniels: It would be an interesting experiment, if nothing else. Should we start with our little interloper here? An old fashioned hazing ritual?

Rob Williams: No, we need the money first. But immediately after – yes. Haze the shit out of him.

With that, the huddle breaks. Immediately, Anna digs into her pocket and whips out THE KNIFE. As Anna runs her finger along the blade and Fred crosses his arms, Rob kneels down to the sitting JCH’s level – eye-to-eye like a coach talking to a snot nosed peewee football player.

Rob Williams: We’d love to have you be a Whoredet. But, as you can see by my thrall in his gimp suit here (points to fabby), there’s kind of a waiting list. We could make an exception and let you both through the training course for…. fifty-thousand dollars.

It’s clear by now that Hall feels uncomfortable and regrets this decision.

Wholeheartedly.

What was he thinking to begin with?

Well, he likely wasn’t.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I- I don’t have that kind of money.

He gulps again.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: My spouse does. My dad does. I-

Rob gives his head a shake as he stands up and walks away from Jonathan-Christopher. Feeling the tension in the room is definitely directed towards the man who doesn’t belong there… JCH eyes the door.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Sorry to bother you guys, I’ll just leave now.

Hall stands and starts walking towards the door.

Rob Williams: HEY, SHITBIRD!

Everyone stops in their tracks. You could hear a pin drop.

Rob Williams: Maybe you should ask your wife’s boyfriend to loan you the money?

Fred Dick: Dayum Rob, that’s cold.

Rob Williams: I hope it is and I hope it hurts. If you want to stop being a little piss baby whose wife has a boyfriend, get us the goddamn money. We’ll make a man out of you yet, boy.

Rob puts a hand on the shoulder of JCH.

Rob Williams: Just know it hurts me to hurt you like that. But you need to wake up and realize the crev-ace you’re in. Figure out the cash. Your training starts at Revival 68.

Hall is a deer in the headlights.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Okay…

Another scan around the room and he power walks awkwardly to the dressing room exit door. Leaving just as quick.

Williams rolls his eyes, smirks and the Whoremen move on as ReVival goes elsewhere.

Backstage.

Look, by now you should know the drill. We’ve got Matt Mills looking all professional, but in that “I don’t really want to be doing this right now” way where the frown is barely hidden behind years of experience in masking his contempt. He’s standing in front of a PRIME backdrop. He has a microphone.

He has an idiot.

That idiot’s name is Steve Lemieux, and he also has a microphone because he doesn’t understand how any of this works. Thing is, they seem to be getting progressively odder. Four weeks ago it was your standard fare. During the last show, Steve rolled up with the Bob Barker Special. Tonight he’s holding something that looks like it belongs at a Gwar concert, which is to say that it’s a floppy silicone dong that’s also somehow a goth stegosaurus. Just a disaster of little silver chains and molded plastic armor plates. It’s also got teeth, because of course it does.

This is normally where Mills would make the introduction, but unlike the man he’s currently sharing screen time with, he gets it. The last time he was stuck doing one of these, Steve cut him off the second he opened his mouth to talk, so for now he stands stock still, biding his time.

Steve says nothing.

For a solid thirty-three seconds this is all that happens; two dudes of varying intelligence standing still and looking into a camera lens.

Steve Lemieux: Do, ummm, do you want to start? Or should I start? I don’t know who should talk first.

Matt Mills: I mean normally I introduce these.

Steve Lemieux: Oh. Is that in the rules somewhere?

Matt Mills: Well, no, it’s kind of an unwritten thing.

Steve Lemieux: Because I didn’t see it in the copy I was given. It was all about what you’re not allowed to do during the fake fighting.

Mills clearly mouths the words “fake fighting.” Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

Steve Lemieux: It said I’m not supposed to punch people, but I knew that anyway. Hitting your coworkers is illegal.

Matt Mills: Riiiiight.

Steve Lemieux: There were a lot of words about what happens if you hit someone in the no-no zone, but I would never do that. You’re not supposed to touch people in the private parts unless they say it’s okay.

Matt Mills: …

To call what Matt does here a sigh is unjust, because in the breath that escapes his lungs is the sorrow and anguish of all his ancestors. Every minute spent studying, every dollar put towards this career choice, all seems wasted in the face of Steve Lemieux.

Steve Lemieux: And then I got an email about golfing but all the words were spelled wrong, and…

Matt Mills: Hello, everyone. I’m Matt Mills and with me here tonight is Steve Lemieux.

Steve looks up, wide-eyed and confused. So, you know, pretty standard for him.

Steve Lemieux: Oh, uhh, are we starting? Hello, everyone. I’m Steve Lemieux and this is Lemieux’s Clues with Steve Lemieux and Matt Mills.

Hey, at least he remembered the name this time.

Steve Lemieux: Let’s talk about some topics.

The signature clack of cowboy boots on cement rings out.

Rob Williams: You can’t talk about the topi-disDICK You see, fabby, that’s how you get ‘em.

It’s hard to say if fabby understands the joke. He was muted enough before the gimp suit and chain collar, but now he’s a completely blank slate.

Rob Williams: What the fuck is going on here?

Steve visibly winces, because his virgin fucking ears are very fucking sensitive to fucking curse words.

Steve Lemieux: Hey, everyone, it’s Mister Rob Legend!

Yes, he delivers that line with all the glee of a children’s show host.

Steve Lemieux: Mister Legend is a part of the… ummm… it’s a group of… uhhh… th-they call themselves the Poor… well…

Yeah, c’mon Stevie. Clutch those pearls. Clutch ‘em tight. Kung-fu grip that shit like you’re GI goddamn Joe.

Steve Lemieux: And, uhhh… and also the… (whispering) Fudge Your Tag Team.

My man is now a bright shade of red. Rob jokingly covers fabby’s ears.

Steve Lemieux: Sorry for using harsh language.

Rob Williams: fabby and I accept your apology. So you’re cutting an interview back here? The “Sketti man” back here adding shareholder value for ol’ Lindsay Troy. How lucky fabby and I were to happen upon this fuckery. Take the night, Mills, let’s let Lemieux cut his teeth here.

Rob sucks his teeth and measures up Lemieux.

Rob Williams: Well, let’s go Tenderfoot. You and me – let’s cut an interview.

Steve Lemieux: Oh, I’m so, so sorry. There must be some confusion. I’m not a sketti man. I make sandwiches at LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches in beautiful Peoria, Illinois. I can see how you might be confused, because the Sketti Bucket has its headquarters there. But I do have a question!

Steve puts one triumphant finger up into the air.

Steve Lemieux: Do you know where I can find some information about what I can and can’t say on television? Because there are a lot of people who, ummm… well… they use a lot of the swear words, which isn’t very nice.

Mills raises his eyebrows as he takes a very obvious step back.

Steve Lemieux: I don’t mean to say that you say a lot of bad words. I would never, and not just because I think I accidentally hit Mister Wade last week and made him very mad. I don’t want to make you very mad, too. But… umm…

He kind of trails off at the end, but still levies cockrophone? Dicrophone? Micropenis? The sex microphone. He aims it at Williams’ face, and it’s all Mills can do to not laugh.

Out of pure instinct, Williams immediately slaps the Model D Mic away from his face. Not the fist time he’s done that.

Rob Williams: Down, boy. Goddamn walking around with a dick microphone trying to be proper.

Williams takes a step back just to put some air and space between him and the Meat Mic. Can’t be too careful.

Rob Williams: Well, Steve, I want to assure you I’m nothing like that trash Wade Elliot. So fear not! You got me dead to rights, I talk a lot of shit and seem to fly mostly under the radar. It’s a little secret, come here and I’ll fill you in.

A giant, blacked out arm wraps around Steve’s neck, pulling him in real close to Rob. Rob leans in like he’s about to whisper something to Steve, but instead just begins choking the poor bastard. A couple of shots to the face for good measure.

Rob Williams: You have to grow a sack first, son!

Lemieux drops like a bag of dick microphones as Rob releases him.

Rob Williams: Does this feel fucking fake, Le-mew?

Voice: Jesus tittyfucking Christ, Rob, leave him alone.

Steve winces even harder at the swear word, and the man who uttered it steps on camera.

The challenger for the Universal Championship in the main event later on.

Rob Williams: TOWEL! My favorite lovable loser.

TAL: Can it. It’s bad enough you’re making me feel anything close to a positive vibe for the Glueboiz, but what the f…

The Luchador glances at the man still in the chinlock of one Rob Williams and changes course.

TAL: …heck. What the heck did Steve ever do to you?

Rob Williams: I love when you get all masc with me, towel. Really gets my blood flowing, you know?

One last kick to Steve for good measure.

Rob Williams: Ah he’s just a stepping stone on my journey of growth. Aren’t you tired, Tom? Tired of playing the white knight for all these ungrateful pricks? You been taking the hits long enough bud.

Ron looks down at Steve in disgust. He shakes his head, talking to TAL still but staring at Steve. The slightest hint of pity can be felt in the undertones of the look. Is it for TAL or for Steve?

Rob Williams: You have fun cleaning him up. Come on, fabby.

Ok one last last kick to Steve and Rob puts his arm around fabby’s shoulder to leave. They get a few steps beyond TAL and Rob stops, turning around.

Rob Williams: You know, for what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.

TAL: Gee, thanks.

Rob and fabby start to walk away again, but The Luchador calls to them one last time.

TAL: One more thing before you two snail-trail back to the coke den…

They stop, but only fabby turns around.

TAL: If you really want to stick it to the Glueminati, get fabby a dog. He might not want to go back.

Rob Williams: Who says he wants to go back now?

Rob and fabby exit stage right. The Luchador turns his attention to the Sandwich Man on the ground.

TAL: Hey buddy, you alright?

First there’s groaning, and then a resigned voice coming up from the ground.

Steve Lemieux: Buns and beans, I went and duffed it up again. I hope Mister Legend isn’t mad at me like Mister Wade was.

There’s a brief pause, during which Matt Mills pops back into frame looking at the pile of sad divorcee energy on the floor at his feet.

Steve Lemieux: I’m okay, Mister Angle. If it’s okay, can I ask you a question? I promise to try and not to make you mad, too.

Steve, who is currently starfished on the floor, brings the microphone in close.

Steve Lemieux: Is there a costume department I can talk to so that I can have a cool superhero mask like you?

The Luchador for a moment looks stone-faced, or at least as stone-faced as one can look behind a mask, before breaking and smiling as he leans in, presumably to help Steve off the floor.

TAL: Well, I got mine in Mexico, but I’m sure the wardrobe department has something for you if you really want it.

The Luchador slowly and clumsily, in no small part to Steve’s sandbagging and overall natural inertia, lifts Mr. Beefst to his feet.

TAL: You know, you look like you could use something to eat after that ordeal.

Steve wobbles on his feet like a newborn foal. A foal in khaki pants and New Balance sneakers.

Steve Lemieux: Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a great idea, Mister Angle.

He takes one awkward step forward, and proceeds to fall dead on his face. At present Steve is a human pyramid. Face mushed into the dick microphone. Knees bent. Ass sticking straight up in the air. In the animal kingdom they call this “presenting,” and it’s a show of submission. But this? This is a sandwich man who’s passed out on the floor.

Matt Mills: I’m just going to leave him there.

TAL: Not a bad idea, to be honest. Still feel bad for him, but, uh, he seems…

The Luchador looks at the near lifeless body of Sandwich King.

TAL: …resilient?

Matt Mills: That’s certainly one of the words you can use.

The two walk off.

ReVival moves on.

EARLIER TODAY

We cut to a shot of a conference room in the bowels of the Canada Life Centre. The room that normally hosts press conferences after Winnipeg Jets games is packed with a who’s who of PRIME media talent who have all been personally invited here today…for the second ReVival in a row.

The aforementioned media mingles together, chatting idly in anticipation of what’s been touted as a “major announcement” from the newest member of The Red Army. To say the room is buzzing would be a lie. A soft murmur of hushed talk fills the room, a large majority of our attendees annoyed that Dawkins is already two weeks and fifteen minutes late to a press conference that he himself called.

Just as an exasperated Savannah Scandal approaches the door to leave, it bursts open, nearly knocking the unspeakable bitch out. Flustered, she nearly faints and falls into a conveniently placed chair near the door.

Damn. So close.

Nobody checks on her because everyone here has a brain.

Bryan Dawkins burst through the open door, followed closely by the Official Red Army Interviewer, Speedy Riggs. The diminutive Riggs carries a rather large trophy-shaped item, which is obscured by a black cloth covering. He sits it on the table next to Dawkins, who has taken a seat and grabbed a microphone. Speedy takes a seat on the other side of the object behind another microphone.

There’s a slight groan as Dawkins raises the microphone to his mouth.

Bryan Dawkins: Jeez, what’s up with the long faces?

Dozens of annoyed faces peer back at him.

Bryan Dawkins: Trust me, this…

He vaguely gestures at the shrouded mystery item sitting next to him.

Bryan Dawkins: …is totally worth it.

Another groan, this one with a slight hint of intrigue. I’m not sure how that works, but let’s just go with it. These people are annoyed, but curious. Everyone loves an item shrouded in mystery.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m sure many of you are wondering ‘why did Bryan Dawkins invite us to the arena hours early to talk about the Belmont – a tournament he wasn’t even in?’ and honestly, that’s a pretty good question! But you guys are missing the point!

He throws his arms out in exclamation, smacking into the Belmont tro–I mean, the mystery item, sending it sailing from the table and landing with a loud ‘thunk’ on the stage behind Dawkins.

Bryan Dawkins: Aw shit…

All 130 pounds of Speedy Riggs rushes behind the table, retrieving the…item…and placing it back on the table next to Dawkins.

Bryan Dawkins: Ah, thanks Speedy. Anyway! We’re not here to talk about the Belmont. No no no no no. We’re here to talk about Temu Evel Knievel. Your sham of an Alias Champion. Sebastian Gold.

This is the part where the crowd would gasp and ooh and ah and all that jazz, but based on Dawkins’ actions lately, no one is surprised. Bruh is still salty.

Bryan Dawkins: That no good, lying, thieving son of a bitch who had the fuckin’ nerve to come after me and MY title…and then lack the decency to relinquish that title back to me after that traitorous fuck Max Kael handed it to him on a silver platter.

Crickets. Nobody cares.

Bryan Dawkins: What, so Gold and Nate Colton can have a press conference and you give ‘em a packed fuckin’ house but I do it and it’s like a morgue in here? What gives?

You can hear a pin drop in the room.

Speedy Riggs: Comrade Dawkins! Why don’t we give these fine folks a chance to ask some questions? Maybe that’ll loosen things up a bit!

Bryan Dawkins: I can see why Ivan keeps you around, bruh.

He looks around the room at the sea of faces, most of which look like they’d rather be anywhere but here.

Bryan Dawkins: Ah fuck it, go ahead.

Speedy procures a clipboard and begins to scan the names. His pupils ping pong up and down the list before landing on our first question.

Speedy Riggs: First, we’ve got…am I reading this right?

Speedy looks around the room.

Speedy Riggs: Craig Hamburgers of…the law offices of Hamburgers, Hotdogs, and Chickentenders.

The not-quite ten-year-old emerges from the crowd and approaches the microphone, which is about three feet too tall for him. After attempting to reach for the microphone for a few moments, Dawkins reaches over and nudges Riggs.

Bryan Dawkins: (sighing) Well, we’re off to a hot start here. Speedy, go help the young bruh out.

Speedy rushes to Mr. Hamburgers’ aid, and it takes every ounce of strength in his body to lift the young boy to reach the microphone and pull it down to his level. After sitting the boy down, Riggs rushes back to Dawkins’ side like a retriever to his owner.

Craig Hamburgers: hello yes, my cousin chris told me that if i ate lots of pineapple then girls will like me more, can you tell me what he means, and also why do you like ivan stanislav because he doesn’t look like he surfs a lot, thank you

Bryan Dawkins: Wow, a lot to unpack there…first off, I think your cousin is a smart bruh. But I’m not sure this is the time or place to discuss the many, many benefits of the best fruit in the world.

A slice of the golden fruit materializes out of nowhere – Dawkins immediately takes a large bite.

Bryan Dawkins: As far as Ivan goes, what’s there not to like? From the day he stepped into PRIME, he’s carried this place on his back despite having to fight tooth and nail against the favoritism shown by Lindsay Troy toward Ivan’s opponents. Speaking of atrocities, Lindsay still parades her sham of an Alias Champion around – what has Sebastian Gold accomplished since he arrived in PRIME? A tainted reign as Alias Champion, that’s it.

Craig furiously scribbles on a notepad with his blue crayon, knowing he just gained one hell of a sound bite for his blog.

Speedy goes back to the list.

Speedy Riggs: Next up…I’m not even sure how he got media credentials but…Fred Dick.

The King of Wrong Style saunters to the microphone and pops a squat in front of the microphone, which still sits at Craig Hamburgers’ height.

Fred Dick: Why is you such a piece of fuggin shid, though?

Bryan Dawkins: Y’know, Fred? I’m not sure I know why Sebastian Gold is such a piece of shit. All I tried to do was give the kid some helpful advice. Now look at him. Ready to go 0 and 3 with his new buddies. Thanks for the question, bruh.

Fred duck walks back into the media scrum while Speedy searches for another name. While he searches, the scrum breaks their collective silence as a murmur develops.

It develops of course because standing inconspicuously in the crowd (you simply can’t hide a seven foot tall man in a jackal mask wearing a newsboy cap on his head) is a man.

Nay, a god.

His name is Powerslam Anubis. The Judgement King himself.

He rises and all eyes are drawn towards him as he approaches the microphone. Again, because he stands out. Unlike Fred, he crouches down to adjust the microphone, this time to his own height.

Powerslam Anubis: Greetings, o woeful pineapple in the shape of a man. The great Powerslam Anubis wishes to know if you have seen your kin lately. An entire bunch of them in a curved shape. He wishes to judge them. Harshly. For crimes.

Bryan, wide-eyed at the appearance of the Judgement King, gulps nervously.

Bryan Dawkins: Anubis – good to see you, bruh. I’ve not seen my…kin…but you know what they say about due process and all that. Heh. If you’re looking to judge, I suggest you go find Gold. He’s a fuckin’ thief. Stole my title right out from under me! Judge him for that!

Dawkins laughs nervously as he attempts to force eye contact with Speedy to prompt another question, preferably NOT from Anubis. Riggs gets the hint and immediately jumps to the next names.

Speedy Riggs: Next question…representing Multiverse Magazine, Randall Schwartz and Kenny Freeman!

The Masters of the Moscowverse bee line to the microphone, still occupied by Powerslam Anubis. Randall stands up to Anubis, waiting with his hands on his hips and tapping his toe impatiently. The Judgement King stands down, not because of the Masters, but because he knows this whole thing is a joke. He exits stage left, yanking the door open in the process. Said door actually does the job this time, crushing the seated and already dazed Savannah Scandal.

Again, no one checks on her because why would they, really?

Randall steps up to the mic.

Randall Schwartz: Answer me these questions three.

Bryan Dawkins: Shoot.

Randall Schwartz: What is your name?

A couple members of the media scrum, annoyed that these are the questions Dawkins is entertaining, begin to make their way to the door.

Bryan Dawkins: Comrade Bryan Dawkins.

Randall Schwartz: What is your quest?

Bryan Dawkins: Oh – this is easy! Make Sebastian Gold’s life as miserable as possible.

Randall Schwartz: What is…the air-speed velocity of an unladen eagle?

Dawkins ponders the question for a moment, scratching the scruff on his chin.

Bryan Dawkins: Do you mean the American Bald Eagle or the Golden Eagle of Russia?

Randall Schwartz: I…don’t know.

Kenny shakes his head at The Entertainer, pushing him aside as other reporters jockey for position to ask actual, relevant questions. Dawkins shrugs and turns to Speedy for another victim.

Before Speedy can rifle off another name from his list, a slim man in a green, brown and white argyle sweater over a white collared shirt slips past the other media members and right in front of the microphone.

“Snark Darkly…”

Dawkins almost doesn’t pay attention to the man until he announces his media affiliation.

Snark Darkly: …of WON Action News. Just one question, Mr. Dawkins. What is Kai’s favorite food?

Darkly smiles politely, showing off a mouth jammed with what seems to be a few too many teeth. Dawkins, on the other hand, has zoned out. Almost into a trance…did this bruh really just ask about Kai’s favorite food?

By the time Bryan snaps out of it, Darkly is gone. Bryan scans the room to no avail.

Bryan Dawkins: Who the fuck was that?

Speedy Riggs: Snark Darkly of WON Action News. Says right here, comrade.

Speedy points to a name on the clipboard, prompting a dramatic roll of the eyes from Dawkins.

Bryan Dawkins: I heard him, bruh. Remind me later, we need to talk about that.

A few moments of scribbling on the clipboard later, and we’re ready for our next question.

A pretty girl in her early 20s with wavy chestnut hair and brown eyes skips to the podium. There may be sparkles and flowers trailing after her; she just has that way about her.

Deb Warenstein: Hiiiiiii it’s meeeeeee, Deb Warenstein! During this week’s Dimes and Uggos unveiling, my viewership requested I ask you if you being a dummy bitch has anything to do with Sebastian Gold being better looking than you when you were his age, or if it’s because you’re now surrounded by a bunch of other dummy bitches in the Red Army?

Deb smiles sweetly at Bryan. Her lip gloss glistens under the fluorescent lights. Bryan, on the other hand, has died inside and he’s doing nothing to hide it.

Bryan Dawkins: …Dimes and Uggos? Is that on Vine?

He looks to Speedy, who offers a shrug of his shoulders.

Bryan Dawkins: Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Deb, go back and watch some ReVolution era PRIME shows – Tsonda, Rayne and I had women fawning over us like we were the fuckin’ Beatles. Meanwhile, Gold should check and see if TAL’s got any extra masks lying around. I’m shocked we can show that trainwreck of a face on national television every two weeks. Yikes…

“HAH!”

From the back of the room, Ami Troy’s piercing laugh hits Dawkins in the face like a freight train.

Ami Troy: The one who should go back and watch those shows is you, dumbass. And the answer to Deb’s question is “Yes.”

She tosses a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

Ami Troy: Bitch.

Speedy tosses the clipboard aside while Dawkins exercises great restraint

Speedy Riggs: We’ll take one more question, this one from Tanner Quest of RingDispatch.com!

Tanner steps up to the designated microphone, donning a three-piece suit in varying shades of brown.

Tanner Quest: Bryan, your comments about the Belmont Classic, and Sebastian Gold’s contribution to its history, show a staggering lack of knowledge about the event. Had you even heard of it before you started antagonizing the Alias Champion?

Bryan Dawkins: Tagger, was it?

Tanner: (annoyed) Tanner, actually.

Bryan Dawkins: Doesn’t matter. Anyway Tenner, I think you’re the one showing a staggering lack of knowledge about the event. Were you even alive back in 2008, bruh?

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands up and tosses the table in front of him off the side of the stage.

Bryan Dawkins: I would’ve won the damn thing…but I made the decision to come to PRIME instead. And you must’ve missed what Gold said about the Belmont a couple weeks ago. He said, and I quote, ‘it’s just a cup – doesn’t matter to me!’

Tanner is speechless, probably because Dawkins has Speedy cut the mic off.

Bryan Dawkins: I dunno, bruh…that doesn’t sound like someone you’d want representing a prestigious event like the Belmont. At least I didn’t think so. So I took it upon myself to…rectify that. Show ‘em, Speedy!

Like a magician showing off his latest trick, Speedy yanks the black fabric from the item on the table and reveals a slightly modified Belmont Cup.

GASP

The room is immediately abuzz with chatter .

Defending champion Sebastian Gold’s name has been etched out, replaced with the following inscription in crimson red:

Почетный чемпион 2008 года — Брайан Докинз

Dawkins is all smiles as the cup is revealed.

Bryan Dawkins: You see, I thought it was a disgrace to keep that traitor’s name on the cup, so I made a few modifications! Last year’s unfortunate “winner” has been wiped from the record books…and my honorary 2008 championship designation has been added.

Speedy Riggs: …in Russian, of course!

Bryan Dawkins: That’s right, Speedy! I wanted to make sure the Belmont trophy didn’t bear the name of that disgrace and added nicely to its prestige with–

Before finishing his sentence, the microphone cuts and the lights go out.

Feedback hisses from the loudspeakers, causing everyone to cover their ears. The Feedback softens and hard-cuts to the the SpongeBob theme:

WHO LIVES IN A PINEAPPLE UNDER-

A deep, Russian voice cuts in:

COMMUNISM!

Back to kids singing:

BRYAN DAWKINS!

Static. Feedback. Then voice of Sebastian Gold booms from the speakers.

Sebastian Gold (V.O): You better not’ve chipped the paint, comrade. You think putting your name on that thing makes it yours? Nah. All you’re doing is reminding everyone that stealing gold is the only way you can hold onto it. You want my trophy? Then beat me for it, I’m done with these games.

The volume gets louder; static sparks from the speakers.

Sebastian Gold (V.O): Hey press peeps! I got something to make this clownshow worth it: “To shut him the fuck up, Sebastian Gold challenges Bryan Dawkins for final ownership Belmont Cup at UltraViolence.”

The lights stop flickering, and the static from the loudspeaker ends.

Sebastian Gold (V.O): How does he answer?

After pulling Speedy Riggs out from under the table where he had been hiding during the commotion, Dawkins addresses the media.

Bryan Dawkins: Oh, so now Sebastian is all about returning championships and trophies to their “rightful owners” huh?

He picks the Belmont trophy up, admiring his handiwork.

Bryan Dawkins: You can fuck off, Sebastian. This trophy is mine now. If you want it back, you can find me and take it.

He holds the trophy high above his head with one hand while flashing the shaka sign with the other as ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: Next up on the docket? None other than another Bandits and Green Vale Gang affair! It’s Tony Gamble taking on Daniel Green.

Richard Parker: Genuinely excited to see a Bandit get the ever-living crap beat out of him tonight, Nick.

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

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, from Central Falls, Rhode Island! Weighing in at 198 pounds and standing 6 feet, one inches tall! He is one half of the Green Vale Gang! DANIELLLLLL GREEEEEEEEN!!!

And out steps two young men, not even old enough to drink, led by DOCTOR Ned Reform. Handsome bone structure, 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 in a tweed suit, and Daniel Green, a battle-tested gentleman who has made the most of his ample opportunities, wearing tight-clinging, black MMA trunks.

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

Ned allows them to enjoy the moment, though his face conveys the concern a father might have when his children are being mildly embarrassing. Hugo and Daniel 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. There, in front of the hoi polloi that is the PRIME fanbase, they pose, and soak in the jeers. Ned exchanges a handshake with Daniel and Hugo daps him up before they exit the ring, leaving him there to man the boat on his own.

Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold

“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.

And just behind him is none other than Hessian.

When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones

Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!

I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought

Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, accompanied with Thee Murder Shovel, Hessian, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.

If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah

Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.

Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above

Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!

In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones

Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!

What is within is a strength you’ll never know

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see

He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah

He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.

Yeah, I was born for this

DING DING

The two combatants meet in the center of the ring. They exchange some words and get in each other’s personal space, jawing at one another, until finally, WHAM! A vicious forearm by Daniel Green connects flush with Gamble’s face, sending him reeling backwards!

The Grin’s back finds a set of turnbuckles, and he’s met with a vicious elbow to the jaw, then Green goes to work with body shots.

Nick Stuart: Green takes the early advantage.

Richard Parker: Never a doubt.

Mean-spirited hooks and jabs to Tony’s midsection continues, until Tony sends a desperate foot right into Green’s little Daniels!

Richard Parker: Not the little Daniels!

Nick Stuart: That’s certainly a Welcome to the Big Leagues moment.

Daniel immediately backs away and bends over, clutching his testicles. Immediately he’s dropped with a snap DDT from Tony Gamble!

Hugo pounds the mat outside the ring. Hessian mocks him. Hugo starts to walk over there but Ned Reform grabs him by the shoulder. Meanwhile, Tony Gamble is putting feet to Daniel’s torso! Stomp after stomp after vicious stomp, until Daniel flees the ring, rolling to the outside and right into his corner.

Ned Reform: Take a breath, young man, then sally forth, back into the throes of battle!

Daniel nods, hands on his hips. Exhales. Inhales. Exh–

MOONSAULT FROM THE TOP ROPE BY TONY GAMBLE!!! HE WIPES OUT DANIEL AND HUGO!!!

Nick Stuart: Ned Reform backed away just in time to avoid that high risk, high reward maneuver by Gamble!

Richard Parker: Come on, boys!

Nick Stuart: You aren’t even analyzing the match, you’re just cheering people on now.

Tony Gamble is back up to his feet – he BUCKS at Reform, which causes Ned to flinch and the crowd to cheer, before pulling Daniel Green to his feet, rolling him back into the ring, and following behind him–

Wait a minute, Hugo grabbed Gamble’s foot! He’s preventing him from going into the ring!

Nick Stuart: Daniel Green should be disqualified, or Hugo Vale should be banned from ringside!

Richard Parker: You aren’t even analyzing the match, you’re just cheering people on now.

Elvis Nixon gives a fast five count to Hugo, threatening to disqualify Daniel, and so Hugo releases him. Tony finally gets in the ring, and

SMACK!!!

Nick Stuart: Great Googly Moogly!

That awful smack sound was Daniel Green’s fist landing flush with Tony Gamble’s face.

Tony Gamble hits the mat like a wool sack of taters, and Daniel immediately mounts Tony, sending hammer fist after hammer fist down on Gamble’s head and neck area, who uses his arms to guard himself as best as he can.

Nick Stuart: You get the sense that Daniel is still so raw that he’s relying on his fighting background almost exclusively in this match.

Richard Parker: All due respect, Nick, Lindsay Troy didn’t hire him for his ability to do a scoop slam. This young man has been fighting his entire life! Why stop now when that’s what got you here?

True though that may be, Tony ain’t no fucking punk, either. He sends a thumb straight up and smears it in Daniel’s eye! Danny Boy immediately falls away and clutches at his eyelid, writhing. Tony takes the opportunity to catch his breath and climb to his feet.

Richard Parker: Cheap tactic, but I respect it.

Nick Stuart: Well what do you expect him to do in that situation? Just accept getting hit in the face?

Richard Parker: I said that I respect it, what more do you want from me?

Tony lays a few stomps into Daniel Green’s midsection, before bringing him up to his feet, bending him over, placing his head between Tony’s legs, and DROPPING him with a piledriver!

Tony makes the cover!

…

But there’s no count!

Nick Stuart: Damn it! Hugo is on the apron arguing with Elvis Nixon!

Richard Parker: Genius tactic!

Nick Stuart: OH AND HESSIAN IS OVER IT!!!

He is indeed. Hugo is so committed to the distraction tactic, he doesn’t even notice the massive Murder Express charging towards his station at full speed.

Ned Reform: LOOK–

Hessian whips Hugo’s legs off the apron!

Ned Reform: –OUT!

Hugo’s face eats canvas on his way down to the floor.

Hessian: Right! Cut it out, the both of you!

Hessian returns to his corner and Daniel Green has unfortunately been given enough time to reach his feet.

But there’s a shimmering, gold object wrapped around Tony Gamble’s right hand.

Brass knuckles.

He swings at Daniel, but Daniel ducks it, sends a right hook into Gamble’s midsection, and a high knee into his face! Gamble falls backwards, and the brass knuckles fly off his hand and slide out of the ring…

Right into Hugo’s grasp, who is still picking himself up off the ground.

Meanwhile, back in the ring, Daniel makes the cover!

ONE!!! TWO!!!

Nick Stuart: NO!!! Kickout by Gamble! It’s gonna take more than that, dAnNy boy.

Richard Parker: So unbiased.

Daniel disparages Elvis Nixon for the speed of his count. Elvis has seen so many matches that he doesn’t even acknowledge Daniel’s complaint. This angers Daniel, who gets in Elvis’ face and starts spouting off.

Elvis doesn’t back down. He stands his ground. And right as Daniel rears his fist back to knock Elvis the hell out?

Tony Gamble grabs that hand, spins him around, kicks him in the gut, and drops him with a snap suplex! Tony immediately follows up by swiftly reaching his feet, and dropping a leg across Daniel’s neck! He makes the pin attempt!

ONE!!! TWO!!!

NO! Not enough, not nearly enough. Tony knows that, but it was worth a shot. Still, Tony stands to his feet, slickly giving Daniel another punch to the balls on his way up!

Richard Parker: OPEN YOUR EYES, ELVIS!!!

Daniel gets to his feet clutching his jewels, angry as a hornet. He points to the center of the ring.

Daniel Green: Come on!! Fight me like a man, then, since that’s twice you’ve struck my manhood!!

The crowd swells as Tony looks out at them. Is he going to do it?

Tony Gamble spits…

and then?

HE CHARGES TOWARDS THE CENTER OF THE RING!!!

RIGHT FROM GREEN! LEFT FROM GAMBLE! RIGHT FROM GREEN! LEFT FROM GAMBLE! RIGHT FROM GREEN! LEFT FROM DANIEL! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT!

Richard Parker: YEE HAW! This is a FIGHT!!!

Nick Stuart: But look at Hugo!!!

Hugo, brass knuckles on his wrist, is sneaking up behind Hessian outside the ring!

Hessian turns around just in time to get UPPERCUT IN THE FACE WITH THE BRASS KNUCKS!!!

NO!!!

Nick Stuart: HE CAUGHT HUGO’S FIST!!!

Richard Parker: RUN, HUGO!!!

Ever tried to run with your wrist caught in a bear trap? Hugo is learning just how impossible it is with Hessians big paw wrapped around his wrist. He p r i e s the brass knuckles away from Hugo’s hand.

Then he lets Hugo go.

Hessian thinks for a moment. Something about this feels like a point of no return.

He slides the brass knuckles over his fist.

Hugo does, in fact, finally run.

Meanwhile, in the ring, Daniel has taken the advantage in the exchanging of blows! But Tony is still standing and banging!

Nick Stuart: No quit in the hearts of either of these competitors!

Hessian, almost comically, chases Hugo around the ring until Hugo has nowhere left to run! So Hugo slides in the ring!

Nick Stuart: Get out of the ring!

Richard Parker: You want him to just accept getting hit in the face?

Nick Stuart: He started it!

Richard Parker: Hypocrite!

Hessian follows Hugo into the ring! Hugo turns around just in time to see Hessian swing that brass-knuckle assisted hand right towards his head!

Hugo ducks!

SMACK!!!

…And Hessian’s fist connects with Daniel Green, dropping him immediately to the mat.

Murmurs all across Winnipeg as the realization sets in.

Nick Stuart: No! Not like this.

Richard Parker: Ahahahaha!!! Do the right thing, Elvis!

Hessian’s eyes are wide. He can’t believe what he’s done. He pleads his case to Elvis, but Elvis has no choice. A combatant has fallen due to outside interference.

Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Un-freakin-believable. How long are these kids gonna get away with being little pricks?

Richard Parker: Chill out, Nick, you’ve been a little prick longer than Green Vale Gang has been alive.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match as a result of disqualification… DANIELLLLLLL GREEEEEEN!!!

Hugo wisely makes his way out of the ring, grabbing Daniel by his legs and pulling him out and out of harm’s way.

Daniel is still shaking the cobwebs out as he and Hugo and Ned Reform make their way up the entrance ramp. “Cigarette Daydreams” once again fills the arena.

The Bandits are left in the ring to deal with their emotions about how all this went down.

We cut elsewhere.

The Parking Lot.

Just one of several location-based establishing shots that, when shown on ReVival, indicates a confrontation is moments from occurring.

Fred Dick: HEY, COCKBLOOD!

Told you. Eww, by the way.

The person he’s yelling at is none other than Hayes Hanlon, who in the moment Fred shouted that was quite literally minding his own business and heading into Canada Life Centre, Intense Title over his shoulder.

Hayes turns his head, sees Fred standing several yards away, with several, and this can’t be stressed enough, several bags of Arby’s Beef and Cheddars in his mitts.

Fred Dick: Yeah, I’m talgin’ to YO punk ace, Hayes Hanlon! Now I know I ain’t, “Mr. Sexy” Jason Snow. I know I ain’t Nate “Big Fuggin’ Dickmeat” Colton. I’m just a lil’ ol eunuch, askin’ for the ear of the king what hold the dayum crown. Is that alright with you?

Fred crackwalks (also known as a zombie waltz) towards Hayes.

Fred Dick: Well fug you if it ain’t! On account of I’s got some muhfuggin’ shid to speak at you anyway, bench-made ace boy.

Fred puffs his chest out.

And Hayes looks him up and down, confused.

Hayes Hanlon: Look, man, I don’t wanna rob you of whatever “shid” you wanna say, but I have to ask. Did you actually chop your dick off? Because I saw the Pain Olympics when I was a kid. And real or not, that was pretty fucked up, man.

Fred throws his head back and laughs. Then he snaps it back and stares Hanlon in the eyes.

Fred Dick: If you tryna get me to flash my lasagna here in Winnipeg, son, you barkin’ up the wrong tree. I don’t expose my privates in public. I’m not a pervert. You sick bastard. You’re really a sick bastard. But I ain’t here to talg ‘bout dat mess.

Fred points at Hanlon’s Intense Title.

Fred Dick: Warchamber. I won dat bitch. Against a man who paralyzed his best friend. I won it. Explodin’ ring deaf match. I won dat bitch too. And the way I figure it? I earnt me a shot at that sexy ace BITCH on yo’ muhfuggin’ shoulder.

The Comeback Kid lifts and eyebrow, and glances toward his belt. It’s very shiny.

Hayes Hanlon: You think you’re tough, Fred? You think you’re Intense?

Fred rolls his eyes and munches on one of what appears to be a hundred Beef and Cheddars.

Hayes Hanlon: Listen, buddy. I’m from the mean streets of West Linn, Oregon. That’s a life you know nothing about.

Cheese sauce dribbles down Fred’s chin, coats his smile with a milky, yellow layer of paint.

Hayes Hanlon: Look, I’ll be the first to admit that the Intense scene wasn’t exactly my fit. I am way, WAY too good looking for that. But the longer I keep this belt on my shoulder? And look back on my youth? Shit, Fred, there were years where my dad barely cleared 100k!

Fred Dick: (while smacking roast beef) How tragiccccc. Maaaaaaan, FUG YO RICH ACE DADDY. Gimme a shot at dat thang, boy. Come on now. Don’t be a shidhead ‘bout it.

Hayes Hanlon: I dunno, man. Do you have what it takes? Can you take the jolf putter to your freakin’ nose? You ready for me to leave pinholes in that Bulls jersey with six iron?

Fred sighs.

Fred Dick: I’ma shoot it straight with ya, Hanlon. Jolf is a rich man’s game. Sometimes I think I understand the rules, only to realize my mind is too poor to grasp its mercurial nature. The poor man’s plight, such as it is, Lawd yes indeed.

Fred does a slow jack off motion with his hand.

Fred Dick: See this, Hanlon? I can’t do this shid no more, man. My days of strokin’ off are long gone. Everybody I know disappears on my ace. STRONK, ‘Toner, my mama, they all dipped on my ace. Know why? It’s ‘cause I ain’t good for nothin! Nothin, that is, but one thang.

Fred swallows a mouthful of beef.

Fred Dick: And that thang is pushin’ sexy ace muhfuggers like you to the brink. Show you what the edge looks like, nawmean? Make you think, ‘God damn, I’m gonna have to kill this fat, dickless, fat, stupid sumbitch just to win this match,’ only to make ya wonder if ya even got it in ya to kill me. I may not know what a fuggin’ six iron is, Hanlon. And Lawd knows, I never will. But pain, brother? Well, let’s just say, that’s a game I can teach ya a thing or two about… unless you a lil’ pussy foo foo, dat is.

Home Run Hayes smirks behind his ‘stache, perhaps impressed by the Street Cat’s conviction. He steps forward. Close enough to be imposing. Far enough to avoid cheese staining his black dress shirt.

Hayes Hanlon: Buddy, they call me the “Event Horizon” for a reason. I’ve been to the brink. I live in the edge.

The Intense Champ looks Fred up and down, and takes a breath through his nose.

Hayes Hanlon: And if you don’t believe me? Stay close tonight, and I’ll fuckin’ show you.

Hammerin’ Hayes emphasizes with a sharp clap to Fred’s shoulder, and leans in.

Hayes Hanlon: That, and tell Anna to text me back. She knows I like it when she plays hard to get, but I’m not very patient.

Hayes winks at the Street Cat before turning away, making way for the Canada Life Center. Fred sneers as he watches Hayes walk away, smacking his cheese-covered lips.

Fred Dick: I like the way his booty jiggles when he walks.

We fade.

We cut back to none other than the Gluite. It’s different from the Gloffice. Don’t worry about the terminology, we will forever be woppshorking it. Anyway, Joe Fontaine is there. Tag belt around his waist, wearing ye olde bedazzled green suit, and he is ready to play a little jolf for the children.

FLAMBERGE is there too, with a teal jolf polo (collar popped), a white visor, and khaki shorts. He looks like he, too, has the itch for 18 jholes. He’s got a bit of an inquisitive look on his face, and his finger is pressed firmly on the forehead of the third man in this scene.

He’s wearing a platinum mask with a star on the center, which is the landing point of the Frenchman’s finger. He somehow looks even shabbier than fabby. fabby shabby, fabby shabby making the champs crabby.

Joe doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that the man in the platinum mask next to him is significantly smaller than the man in the golden mask we’ve become accustomed to seeing with him. Nor does he seem to even notice how much he’s struggling with the jolf bag, to the point that the jolf bag might actually be carrying him.

Honestly, Joe never really seems all that bothered about anything lately.

Joe Fontaine: FLAMBO, my dude, I can’t help but wonder if something is amiss today. Can’t really put my finger on it.

FLAMBERGE registers where his own finger is placed.

FLAMBERGE: Joe, maybe I can help. Check out where my finger is placed.

Joe turns to regard the shabby fabby.

Joe Fontaine: Yes? What about increddy?

FLAMBERGE: …increddy?

Joe Fontaine: You know, the Incredible Star Platinum Mask.

FLAMBERGE: …oh. increddy. Eugh.

He removes his finger from the mask and instinctively wipes it clean on his shorts.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, I know. Best I could get off on Temu, though. fabbies are not exactly flying off the shelves over there. Or the jhelves.

FLAMBERGE: And you are sure the fabby is GONE gone? It is not in the shed or something?

Joe Fontaine: Checked the shed, checked under the bed, checked with the Dick of Fred, checked everything else instead. It’s nowhere. I’ve even had to check with the lost and found, and they said some nonsense about a “missing person” report!

The Bearded Dragon is struck dumb.

FLAMBERGE: I am the dumbstruck. What, I lost my toothbrush the other day, should I file the report for this as well? Alors, bonjour police, help me find the Oral-B?

He shakes his head and looks again at increddy.

FLAMBERGE: …it looks like its legs will break from the weight of the clubs. I am not good with the furniture repair. Do you think it is travel safe?

Joe Fontaine: Well, no. You know what fabby didn’t do that increddy does?

FLAMBERGE tilts his head to the side.

Joe Fontaine: Complain.

FLAMBERGE: …it complains?? increddy – sand wedje, tout suite!

The Incredible Star Platinum Mask, after much strain, grunting, groaning, and rummaging, pulls out a very standard issue Golf Course Sand Wedge. This disgusts the Frenchman.

FLAMBERGE: I am disgusted.

He violently reaches over to the bag of jolf clubs, immediately finds the club he requested, and pulls it out.

increddy: …

FLAMBERGE: WE SAID NO COMPLAINING!

WHAM!

And he smashes the wedje flush across increddy’s back.

Joe steps slightly to his left, if only because increddy fell to the ground a little closer than his liking.

Joe Fontaine: I wonder what the return policy at Temu is for bad fabbies.

He pauses, considering.

Joe Fontaine: Sorry, “bad fabby” sounds pretty redundant, doesn’t it?

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, but this thing is the ass.

increddy: …

WHAM!

A flush twelve-to-six swing of the custom-bent steel chair with the headrest at a permanent 90 degree angle, like a capital L.

Joe Fontaine: Well, that’s definitely not gonna be covered under the warranty now.

FLAMBERGE: Well, does the warranty mention the anything of the complaining?

Joe Fontaine: I don’t know, who reads the warranty? It’s all written in legalese. I don’t look as lame as a Fleetwood, do I?

FLAMBERGE: Non, not at all.

The Frenchman sighs.

FLAMBERGE: I cannot believe I am saying this…I think we need to get it back.

Joe looks down at the fallen increddy, and does a lot of mental arithmetic with the help of the thing inside his brain that has a knife.

Joe Fontaine: Fuck. We do, don’t we? This one’s busted, and doesn’t bring the room together as well.

He “nudges” increddy’s fallen body with all of the care of a man who bought an actual human man on Temu.

Joe Fontaine: fabby could take at least ten sand wedje shots before we have to stop and fix him. They just don’t build fabbies like that any more.

He considers his words.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, nor should they. But still. Yeah. Probably should go get it back.

FLAMBERGE swings down the wedje again.

WHAM!

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, look at this thing, fabby never leaked out of its eyes like this. I will make the flyers.

Joe Fontaine: I got milk cartons!

He pauses.

Joe Fontaine: Do people, uh… use milk cartons any more? Eh. Whatever. Got ‘em anyway.

FLAMBERGE: We can use the ones in the catering first, and then expand our net from there. I will also see if Nate Colton knows anything. He sucks as much as fabby, maybe they hang out.

FLAMBO tries holding it in, but he can’t, and he giggle-snorts.

FLAMBERGE: Non, but seriously. Milk and flyers. We got this.

WHAM!

increddy: ……

FLAMBERGE: ALORS, I HATE TEMU fabby!!

With that declaration, ReVival moves on.

The Red Army locker room. Adorned with Soviet-era posters and red banners. Alexei Ruslan, dressed in his brown overcoat, per the norm, sits comfortably in a chair while Arina Timofeyevna, clad in her own olive uniform, listens intently from the other side of a table. Ruslan holds aloft one of the sacred texts: “The Communist Manifesto.”

Alexei Ruslan: You see, Arina Rakhila, the essence of communism lies in collective good. It is about ensuring that every comrade has what they need, and that no one is left behind. The proletariat must rise and seize means of production from elites. Such as Linday Troy!

Arina rubs her chin and nods thoughtfully.

Arina Timofeyevna: Starshy Praporshchik is… trying to do just that, then?

Alexei grins.

Alexei Ruslan: Exactly! He is not just wrestler, but symbol of our struggle. His victories are victories for the people!

Ruslan is just getting warmed up as he sits straight and opens his mouth once more….

“YOU!”

It’s not so much a word as a clap of thunder. Standing in the open doorway, with (for the moment merely proverbial) lasers for eyes is Chandler Tsonda.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Before either Arina or Alexei have a chance to process a very angry Model Citizen stepping through the threshold of the Red Army sanctum, they have to process a very different scenario: Tsonda ripping towards Alexei Ruslan at full speed.

Before anyone has pieced together what Tsonda’s doing here, or why he’s at emotional DEFCON 1, the Viet Viper has one hand around Alexei Ruslan’s throat, holding Ivan Stanislav’s svengali pinned to the wall by his windpipe.

Chandler Tsonda: …are fucking dead.

Without his eyes ever leaving Ruslan, Chandler shows a general awareness of the third person in the room. Arina was not necessarily part of the Model Citizen’s planned assault, but he now at least has to contend with her being part of this rather impolite tete-a-tete.

Alexei struggles for air as Tsonda shoves him up against the wall with a thud, knocking the back of Ruslan’s hat forward and letting it fall to the floor.

Chandler Tsonda: (nods his head towards Arina) **Get scarce unless you wanna see a snuff film.

Unfortunately, Arina has no idea what a snuff film is, and to her, she doesn’t know how one would watch such a film when there isn’t a projector in the room. Nonetheless, while she processes this, Ruslan crosses his arms at his waist and makes a V shape with them and slams them up underneath Tsonda’s arms.

In a perfect world, that would have broken his grip. But, as any communist will tell you, we don’t live in a utopia, no matter how hard they try, and instead, Ruslan’s first, second, and third attempt is simply futile.

So he speaks, through a grunting gurgle.

Alexei Ruslan: What… are… yuh… doing?! (gasp) I am… lifetime… contract… holder!!

Chandler Tsonda: Lifetime’s up, leech. But they’ll say you died doing what you loved: wriggling and squealing.

Alexei hisses and snarls through gritted teeth, still struggling to grab at anything to free himself from the Viper. It’s not working.

Alexei Ruslan: You son… of… bitch… you let me… go… and see… how you… fare!

He throws his arm down, straight, and his baton slides out of his sleeve, but it misses his palm and lands on the floor with a sad clatter. He snakes his arm across his waist to his overcoat pocket, but it’s bunched up behind him, pinned to the wall.

Meanwhile, wide-eyed Arina takes two steps backwards and presses a finger to her ear and mumbles excitedly, her back turned to the arguing men.

Chandler Tsonda: (smiles poisonously) Well I don’t have very much incentive to let you go then, do I, comrade?

Whether it’s a softening of his heart, a desire to save his prey for consumption later, or just his arm getting tired, Tsonda lightens up his grip only slightly. Ruslan can now draw labored breath, but he certainly can’t go anywhere, stuck as he is in the Viet Viper’s clutches.

But for the letup in the clench of his hand, Tsonda makes things far more intimate by leaning in very close to Alexei. He puts the opposite fist softly on the wall six inches to the right of Alexei’s head, and draws his own face close to the Soviet.

Chandler Tsonda: I got your folder. Congrats, you’ve played the stupid game of getting my attention. And now you win the stupid prize of me doing my practice runs for the strangulation Olympics on your neck.

The fist that was balled up next to Alexei’s face unfurls. Tsonda brings an index finger out and pokes it right into the side of the smaller man’s head. Alexei turns away, but can only get so far.

Chandler Tsonda: (points) That’s the spot. That’s where I break your skull if you even think about it. It’s a free country. You can put as many threatening photos under the door of my locker room as you like. But if you like (jabs his finger) this skull, and like the way that it’s currently housing your brain, and you don’t want that to change, then think. Fucking. Twice.

Ruslan hisses and bares his teeth, grimacing as the finger digs into the side of his head. Still, he snarls.

Alexei Ruslan: Ivan is going to rip your head off when he sees this…

Chandler Tsonda: I’m just the luckiest ducky, ain’t I? Because Ivan’s not here. What do you want me to tell him your last words were?

“Stop it!”

The words didn’t come from Chandler, and they certainly didn’t come from Alexei. That leaves only one other person.

Arina Timofeyevna: This is enough!

Ivan Stanislav’s assistant places a hand on Tsonda’s arm and squeezes.

Arina Timofeyevna: You can not hurt him, Mr. Tsonda. You are better than this!

Alexei nods, several times. He seems to really agree with Arina.

Chandler Tsonda: (to Arina) I’m really not, darlin’. Say da svidaniya.

Before anyone can say anything else, though, the Red Army door flies open again with Speedy Riggs and an army of Enemigos. They flood the room, grabbing at Tsonda and Ruslan in a textbook “insert and defuse” tactic, pulling them apart.

The moment that Alexei is out of Tsonda’s hands, he starts.

Alexei Ruslan: You are lucky these Enemigos are here to stop me from tearing you apart!!!

Chandler Tsonda: (yells while being dragged backwards) Buy these boys a round of mezcal tonight, Ruslan, because they just gave you a stay of fucking execution!

Alexei breathes hard, staring daggers at the door where Chandler Tsonda was pulled through. He looks down at his trampled hat and lifts it, popping it back into the right place, and sets it on his head. He glares over at Arina.

Alexei Ruslan: He will pay for this…

All Arina can do is wring her hands together with worry.

ReVival moves on.

The feed cuts back to the ring. A team of workers filter out of the ringside area, having just replaced the canvas and aprons with the speed and efficiency of a racing pit crew. Announcer Vince Howard stands ready and waiting in the ring to announce the next match.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the Alias Championship, and will be fought under Stunt Double Rules!

The fans pop. “Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band begins to play over the PA as Sage Pontiff steps through the curtain. PRIME’s resident bodhisattva of brutality pauses on the stage to bow and “namaste” the crowd before coming down the rampway.

Nick Stuart: We have the Alias Championship up for grabs in this next contest, ladies and gentlemen! The reigning Stuntman Champ, Sebastian Gold, enters his second defense against challenger Sage Pontiff, who likewise enters his second attempt to win the title!

Richard Parker: Super Bash Os-Gold has been on a roll as of late, but Sage Pontiff is a tried and true veteran of PRIME!

Nick Stuart: That’s a rarely astute observation from you, partner. Sage has had dozens of battles in the PRIME ring, and tonight could very well be the night the Bodhisattva finally takes championship gold!

“Smile” by Wolf Alice overtakes the PA system. Through a ring of yellow smoke, Sebastian Gold flips out onto the stage and sticks the landing with his arms pumped and the customized Stuntman Championship worn proudly around his waist. On the way down the ramp, he slaps hands with the fans reaching over the guardrail.

Nick Stuart: The champion has arrived, and he looks absolutely ecstatic with this fan reaction!

Richard Parker: Surprised he’s still standing after the number Ben Lynch put on him in his last match.

Nick Stuart: Indeed, Gold had to dig deep to win that match you’re referring to, his first title defense back at ReVival 65. Tonight, he seeks to take the next step forward in his path to earning three wins as the Stuntman Champ… but the question remains as to what he’ll have to sacrifice to get there?

Gold climbs to the apron and poses with the title a minute longer before stepping through the ropes and getting ready. Sage has already found a place in his corner, calmly seated in the lotus position. Vince Howard remains in the ring to do the customary pre-championship match introductions.

Vince Howard: Per the arranged Stunt Double stipulations of this match, both competitors are forbidden from implementing their signature moves, or risk immediate disqualification!

Richard Parker: Oof, I’d hate to be the poor referee who’s in charge of keeping track of everyone’s signature moves!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger! Hailing from New Buffalo, Michigan, by way of Joshua Tree, California… he weighs in at two-hundred and one pounds… he is the BODHISATTVA of the TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENCE… SAAAAAGE POOOONTIIIIIIIFFF!!!

Pontiff rises to his feet and “namastes” the champion standing in his corner across the ring.

Vince Howard: And the opponent… fighting out of Los Angeles, California… he weighs in at one-hundred and eighty-steven pounds… he is the STUNTMAN CHAMPION of PRIME… the BASTION of ACTION… SEEEBAAASTIIIIOOOON GOOOOOOOLLLD!!!

Gold poses once more with the belt before handing it over to the official, Jimmy Turnbull. Turnbull holds up the belt to the four cardinal directions of the arena to present to the fans the prize at stake, then hands it over to the timekeeper.

Nick Stuart: Official Jimmy Turnbull doesn’t look like he wants to waste any time here, and neither do these two competitors! He cues for the bell!

DING DING

Gold and Pontiff come out of their respective corners, circling one another for a few moments before inevitably going into lockup. The struggle for leverage ensues. With a clear five inches over the champ, Sage tries to press his advantage over the champ, but instead, Gold slips behind him and drops him to the mat with a quick sweep of the legs.

Nick Stuart: Gold with the takedown, and transitions nicely into the side headlock to keep Sage grounded!

Richard Parker: Wait a second, I know I’ve seen him do headlocks before! Shouldn’t that be an automatic disqualification since that’s one of his moves?

Nick Stuart: That’s signature moves, Rich! You’re not going to be like this through the whole match, are you?

Richard Parker: I mean… I can be, if that’s what you’d prefer.

Nick Stuart: I don’t…

Bash wrenches back on the chinlock, but Pontiff doesn’t stay on the mat for long, pushing himself to the mat and backing himself into the ropes to push the champion off. Gold hits the opposite set of ropes and comes back with a head full of steam. A running shoulder block levels Sage, and Sebastian quickly bounces to his feet to hit the ropes once more.

Nick Stuart: Gold, the champion, in motion… Pontiff with a LEAPFROG as he goes the other way… and Sage is waiting with the hip-toss–NO!! Bash hops through, reversing with a hip toss of his own! Sage back up… runs into another hip-toss!

The crowd is cheering loud as the champion lands a series of successful throws. Undeterred, Pontiff scrambles back to his feet, only run straight into Gold’s waiting boot.

Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT SUPERKICK by Sebastian Gold! Lifted from the moveset of his fellow hero, Crash Jackson!

Richard Parker: What an unoriginal scrub, stealing his own partner’s moves!

Nick Stuart: That’s the POINT of the Stuntman Rules, Rich! Pontiff now on his back, and Gold goes right into the lateral press cover!

One!

Tw–Kickout!

Pontiff rolls onto his hands and knees, only for Gold to mount his back and pepper his head with rights and lefts.

Nick Stuart: I think Gold may be softening up for Bryan Dawkins’ Garrota here!

Richard Parker: Sage ain’t falling for that…

The Bodhisattva covers up and blocks the choke attempt while pushing his way to his feet, only for the Golden Boy to legsweep him down onto his back and settle him into a kneeling armbar.

Richard Parker: What’s with all this ground and pound? Thought Sebastian Gold was supposed to be the daredevil highflying aficionado, or whatever!

Nick Stuart: Word has it he’s been working close with Sammy Broadway to develop his mat wrestling technique! Something of a smart move, given the theme of this championship is abandoning the familiar and embracing the unfamiliar!

Richard Parker: The theme of this championship is one upmanship, Nick. Or maybe unoriginality. Take your pick.

Not to be outdone this easily, Sage shakes off the submission request from Turnbull, bites his lip through the pain, and steadily words his way back up to his feet. When Gold turns into him in a bid to take him back down to the mat, the Bodhisattva instead plants his legs, fans his arm out of Sebastian’s grip, the finds the champion’s wrist and gives it a twist.

Nick Stuart: Reversal by Pontiff, right into a wristlock! And Gold JOLTS with pain! I think that might be the afflicted shoulder that took a beating in his last defense!

Richard Parker: In other words, Sage just found the sweet spot!

Sage torques the arm and puts even more strain on the shoulder, forcing Gold down onto his knees as fresh pain blossoms around that entire side of his body. Pontiff puts him flat on his back following a stiff kick to the face, then proceeds to step over the arm he’s holding and drops down with a legscissor in place.

Nick Stuart: And Pontiff goes right for a CROSS ARM BREAKER! It’s not every day we see the Bodhisattva go for submission attempts!

Richard Parker: Well, if can’t use his normal moves without being disqualified, might as well try some moves to punish this twerp for creating such a stupid stipulation!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold is in agony right now! That arm has to feel like it’s on fire!

Gold thrashes across the mat while Pontiff continues to extend the arm and twist the wrist. Despite the ruthlessness of his actions, the Bodhisattva’s face appears quite calm and sedated, his gaze getting lost in the lights above him. Still refusing to tap, Gold looks to the ropes only a few feet away and, after much wriggling across the canvas, manages to get within reach.

Nick Stuart: There! Gold has a hold of the bottom rope… but Pontiff refuses to break the hold!

Jimmy Turnbull: ONE… TWO… THREE…FO–

Sage releases, rising up to his feet and backing away in compliance with the ref. Clutching his shoulder, a wounded Sebastian Gold rolls himself under the ropes and falls to the ringside floor.

Nick Stuart: Gold is just trying to make space now in an effort to collect himself and allow for some time for the pain to wear off.

Richard Parker: Or for him to adjust to it, in any case. But I don’t think Sage is interested in waiting around long enough for either of those to happen.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff rolls out on the other side of the ring… the champion is only now getting to his feet, but here comes Sage, coming around the corner… and LEVELING HIM with a running clothesline!

Gold ragdolls helplessly to the floor. He doesn’t stay there long as Pontiff pulls him back up and gives him a violent whip, sending his shoulder crashing into the nearby guardrail. The Bastion of Action cries out in pain as he crumples to the floor mats once more. Sage simply gets him up and whips him AGAIN, this time into the apron!

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff is being absolutely RUTHLESS in the ringside area, whipping the Stuntman Champion every which way, and punishing that shoulder!

Richard Parker: This is all part of the transformative experience, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff has Bastion up again, and he takes ahold of the arm to lead him to the corner… no, NO! NOT THE POST!!

Pontiff swings the arm, driving Bastion’s shoulder HARD into the steel post! Bash flops hard to the floor, thrashing like a fish out of water, while Pontiff relents on the assault only to slip under the ropes and break the ref’s count at seven.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff could take this match back into the ring at any time, but is savoring this onslaught for the time being!

Richard Parker: As am I!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold, the defending champion, is fighting his way back up… but a KNEE to the face from Pontiff puts a stop to that! Now Sage has him by the head, and he’s leading him into a RUN… and–

THUMP!

Sebastian Gold: GYAAAAAAARRGGH!!

Nick Stuart: RAMS HIM SHOULDER FIRST right into those steel steps!

Richard Parker: That arm has gotta be hanging on by a thread by now!

Pontiff finally rolls Gold back into the squared circle and slips in after him looking like a coiled snake, ready to strike.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff is calling back to his previous opponent, Asher Creed, with the LUMINOUS DRIVER powerbomb! He hooks the legs to keep the shoulders down!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT by Gold!

Sage rather methodically gets Sebastian right back up, scoops him up over his shoulder, and drops him down over his knee! Bash screams in agony, yet again clutching his shoulder joint while writhing in unimaginable pain.

Nick Stuart: My God, WHAT a SHOULDERBREAKER by Sage Pontiff! I’m not sure how much more that shoulder can withstand before Sebastian Gold becomes seriously injured!

Richard Parker: Right now, he has to be thinking… what’s the point? I mean, even if the very slim, nearly nonexistent chance he has where he ekes out a win tonight, what shape would he even be in for a third title defense?

Nick Stuart: I couldn’t tell you if that’s what’s going through the mind of Sebastian Gold right now, partner, but I know he’s definitely trying to think of a means to get out of this predicament and bring this match back into his favor!

“AC-TION BAS-TIAN!” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap)

“AC-TION BAS-TIAN!” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap)

“AC-TION BAS-TIAN!” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap)

“AC-TION BAS-TIAN!” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap)

The chant from the Winnipeg fans steadily grows in volume, eliciting a slight whimsical chuckle from Pontiff as he takes in this massive show of support for the reigning Alias Champion. Hearing their voices, the Golden Boy painstakingly pushes through the pain and works his way up to his knees.

Nick Stuart: The fans are clearly behind the Stuntman Champion here tonight… but Sage Pontiff has this match in the palm of his hand! Now he goes to pull Gold to his feet once more… no, BASH SLIPS OUT the BACK DOOR… and OH WOW!!

The fans suddenly POP and Sage’s eyes go WIDE when he suddenly finds himself being raised off his feet! Gold rises up to his full height with the Bodhisattva perched in the Electric chair, then crosses both of his arms and begins the spin…

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold has Sage up for the JAPANESE OCEAN CYCLONE SUPLEX!! Paying TRIBUTE to his ally the Anglo Luchador, competing later TONIGHT for the Universal Title!

Richard Parker: This stupid move makes me dizzy! I hope we don’t have to see it again in the main event!

Nick Stuart: Tonight could be a major night for Nobody’s Heroes if–no, WAIT! THAT SHOULDER IS GIVING OUT!

Before Sebastian can follow through on the backdrop, abruptly collapses onto his knees when the weight of Pontiff proves to be more of a burden than his afflicted shoulder can carry. The Bodhisattva quickly hops off his shoulders and throws himself into the ropes to get some speed…

Nick Stuart: Sage in motion… AND HE NAILS BASH WITH THE FADE-OUT RUNNING KNEE!! He just hit the Stuntman Champion with his OWN MOVE!

Richard Parker: All is fair in love and Stuntman Rules! Gold just got a taste of his own medicine!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff hooks the legs for the pin…

ONE!

TWO!!

THR–KICKOUT!!

Richard Parker: OH, you gotta be kidding me…

Pontiff sits up, laughing to himself. The match being prolonged only adds to the experience. Casually, he gets back to his feet and takes Gold by the hair… only to be stalled by a sharp, stinging sensation in his abdomen.

Nick Stuart: Gold fights back with a JAB from his good right arm… and ANOTHER… and a THIRD!

Richard Parker: The brave little engine who maybe could just keeps chugging along…

Nick Stuart: Bash reaches up… QUICK jawbreaker leaves Pontiff reeling… and now Action Bastian hits the ropes!

Gold, using the very last reserves of his energy, moves like a black and gold streak across the ring. Favoring his mouth, Pontiff pulls his hand away from his lips to reveal a spot of… blood?

The sight of red, seemingly awakening something in the Bodhisattva, suddenly causes him to snap into action. Bash runs straight into his waiting arms, only to be propelled absurdly high into the air and brought down into an obliterating Super Arts Shoryuken of a European Uppercut!

Nick Stuart: BOURBON FOR BREAKFAST!!

Richard Parker: Shades of his pal, Paxton Ray!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold went out like a LIGHT! We may have a new champion here as Sage Pontiff MAKES THE COVER!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–KIIIIIICKOUT RIGHT AT THE LAST SECOND!!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how he did it, but somehow, Sebastian Gold found that last bit of energy he needed to pop the shoulder off the mat!

Richard Parker: That was Sebastian Gold’s signature last minute kickout! Give him the DQ, Jimmy!

Despite the near fall, Pontiff doesn’t get emotional. He slowly rises to his feet, removes the dreads from his eyes, and glares down at the wounded Golden Boy with a gaze of murderous intent. Then he stoops over, grabbing Bash by the wounded arm–

–only for it to snap to life, and curl him to the mat trapped within a tangle of hooked legs and arms.

Nick Stuart: MAGISTRAL CRADLE!! Right out of the Anglo Luchador’s PLAYBOOK!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

Pontiff kicks out, a half second too late. “Smile” hits the PA, and the arena fills with the thunderous boom of thousands of fans cheering in unison.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match… and STILL reigning stuntman champion…

SEEEEBAAAAASSSTTIIIAAAAANNN GOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLD!!!

Nick Stuart: A hard-fought second defense for the Stuntman Champ, Sebastian Gold!

Richard Parker: A desperate, shot-in-the-dark, one-in-a-million fluke, if you ask me! Gold didn’t beat Sage to win this match! He merely survived him!

Nick Stuart: Be as it may, despite unbelievable punishment at the hands of the Bodhisattva, Sebastian Gold continued to hang on when it mattered, and jumped on the opportunity as soon as it presented itself!

Sage quits the ring and heads back up the ramp, shaking his head in frustration. He’s already lighting up a spliff, readying his mind to move on.

Turnbull retrieves the custom stuntman title and hands it to Gold. Bash makes an effort to rise up, but falls to his knees, wincing while still favoring the left shoulder. Eventually, he swallows down the pain, retrieves his title, and forces his way back up to acknowledge the cheering fans.

Nick Stuart: With that win, Gold comes within one step of becoming one of only an esteemed few to carry the Alias Title through three successful title defenses! But it’s been a hard and physically demanding road just to get this far! Does he have enough to see himself to the finish line?

Richard Parker: These answers and MORE, on the NEXT Dragonball Bash!

Nick Stuart: Stay with us, ladies and gentlemen! ReVival 67, live from Winnipeg, continues!

ReVival moves on.

Fade in.

You ever see those Olive Garden commercials where everyone is smiling, and eating, and drinking, and just having a grand old time with life? Happy families all enjoying each other’s company. None of the kids are screaming. No one is arguing. It’s downright…

Wait.

Wait just a goddamn minute.

This is the same bit as before, isn’t it? The commercial that was used for the first two Sketti Bucket offerings. I know it is. The wording is the same. It’s the goddamn same, and no one is going to tell me otherwise.

…

Nothing?

We’re just going to keep plowing ahead like this isn’t the laziest shit ever?

…

Alright, fine.

What sets it apart is the food. Sure, it has that same mass-produced look as your average chain, only there are no obvious plates. Instead everyone seems to be eating out of a bucket in different shapes, sizes, and colors. This is where the logo fades into view.

But since there isn’t one yet, we’ll just give you the name of the joint:

SKETTI BUCKET

And then there’s the voiceover.

Voiceover: Come on down to Sketti Bucket, the family-friendly pasta experience that everyone can enjoy! We’ve got skettis in all shapes and sizes. Try our traditional skettis, or take a trip to Southern Italy with our skettucini. Looking for something to fill you up? Let our bucketini carbonara do the trick!

Now we get a panoramic shot of the interior of the restaurant, which reveals it’s not just the pasta that comes in buckets. There’s a salad bar running through the center of the restaurant, and patrons line both sides to fill their bowls with fresh greens using tiny plastic shovels, like what you’d find in a set of beach toys.

Voiceover: Every meal at Sketti Bucket comes with a trip to our salad trough. Choose from dozens of options with your choice of dressing!

At least Poutine Pail was new. New restaurant. New decor. Kenny Canuck was there. You tried, man. Two people put effort into that.

Voiceover: And don’t forget to try our four delicious sauces. Classic marinara. Creamy alfredo. Garden fresh pesto. Aaaaaaaaaaaand purple! At Sketti Bucket there’s something for the whole family to enjoy!

But this? This is just sa-OH GOD WHAT THE SHIT?!?!

SUDDENLY!

Two bulky masked men in wrestling trunks and boots SUDDENLY! burst out of the kitchen, knocking over a server in the process. Naturally, the server was carrying an entire yoke full of buckets at the time; so naturally, sketti goes flying all over the goddamn place. It’s a technicolor bloodbath out there, and we’re only getting started.

Intruder #1: WE HAVE SOMETHING FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY TO ENJOY! PAIN!

Intruder #2: SUFFERING!

Intruder #1: THAT IS A SECOND THING! I HOPE YOU HAVE A COUPON!

Intruder #2: I DO! IT’S RIGHT HERE!

Intruder #2 holds up his fist. Intruder #1 inspects it closely.

Intruder #1: THIS COUPON IS GOOD FOR A FREE ASS-KICKING!

Shouldn’t it be on his foot, then?

Intruder #2: WE’RE HANDING THEM OUT TO EVERYONE IN THE PRIME TAG TEAM DIVISION!

Intruder #1: WHEN DOES IT EXPIRE?

Intruder #2: NEVER!

Intruder #1: THAT WILL CUT INTO OUR BOTTOM LINE EVENTUALLY!

Intruder #2: BUT NOT BEFORE WE CUT A LINE INTO THEIR BOTTOMS! WITH OUR FISTS!

Nope, don’t like that either.

Intruder #1: BE WARNED, MOSCOWS OF THE MASTERVERSE! GREENDALE GANG! SURFEX PRESSBRO! WEIRD HIPPIE DUDE AND HIS ALLIGATOR FRIEND!

They don’t read the news, apparently.

Intruder #2: BEWARE, GLUE BANDITS! EGGMINATI! HOEBODY’S NEROS! FU–

Hey. HEY.

There’s kids here, man.

Intruder #2: …CUSS YOUR TAG TEAM! AND ESPECIALLY HAWAIIAN BBQ!

Oh, they really don’t read the news.

Intruder #1: YOUR BLOOD WILL RUN LIKE CLASSIC MARINARA, AND YOUR TEARS WILL FLOW LIKE GARDEN FRESH PESTO!

You should see a doctor about that.

Intruder #2: WE WILL MIX THEM TOGETHER AND DROWN YOU IN THE RESULTING PURPLE SAUCE…AND THEN DEVOUR YOU WHOLE!

To emphasize their point, both men grab a bucket from unsuspecting customers. Intruder #1 shovels the sketti into his mouth with his bare hands, while Intruder #2 holds it above his head and pours it into his mouth. Or tries, anyway. His mask and chest are now a lot more purple than they were before.

Intruder #1: YOU CAMMOP HOLL THE–

Intruder #2: DON’T TALK WITH YOUR MOUTH FULL!

Intruder #1 spits whatever sketti he hadn’t yet eaten back into the bucket, then slams it down in front of a restaurant patron. Not the one he stole it from, of course.

Intruder #1: YOU CANNOT HOLD THE DOOR AGAINST US, PRIME! LIKE IT OR NOT, WE’RE COMING IN…

Intruder #2: AND WE’RE COMING FOR YOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

They charge off in a seemingly random direction, upending tables, dislodging diners, and flinging sketti in their wake. They crash through a wall, because doors are for cowards, and then they are gone.

Now we get the official jingle. Well, official-ish.

🎵Run to Sketti Bucket!

🎵Just don’t intrude!

🎵Please don’t wear the skettis, skettis are food!

Voiceover: Sketti Bucket. Open at 11501 West Cottonwood Road in Brimfield, Illinois!

Fade.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall is at it again. This time, however, he is outside a locker room door as he quietly pulls up the handle and slips inside, undetected.

The door reads “RED ARMY” but as JCH enters the locker room, there’s no one inside.

Hall’s hands are shaking while he tries to make himself comfortable at the far end of the room, setting his duffle bag down and looking like he’s getting ready for his upcoming match.

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t Jonathan-Christopher fucking Hall sneaking around like a rat in our locker room.”

Seemingly appearing out of the shadows comes Rose — blue jeans, black t-shirt, pissed off eyes — who locks in on Hall, remembering their encounter from two weeks prior. Hall, simping his way up to The Red Army’s door and Rose not letting him in. Now, after having struck out earlier in the evening with The Whoresmen, he has slithered his way into another locker room, hoping to gain favor.

Except, Rose isn’t on board with these plans. Not even close.

Rose: What exactly is your issue? Did you not pick up the message last time around? Or is your brain so addled that you’re suffering from short-term memory loss? Has being a cuck for the past year damaged your brain that badly?

Rose inches bit by bit towards Hall, cracking her knuckles in the process. It’s been a while since she’s put her hands on anyone and the thought is sounding quite appealing at the moment.

Jonathan-Christopher shakes his head no.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Listen, I don’t want any trouble but I need help.

Hall alludes to his upcoming match with Steve Harrison. He twitches once before talking.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Besides, I was part of this team before you.

Wrong choice of words.

Then again, was there going to be any combination to calm her down?

No. The answer is always no.

Rose: Part of this team? You were never part of this team. Trust me, I looked through the charter documents. The roster logs. You were simply a tool to be used by The Red Army as they saw fit. This is your problem, Hall, is that you live in a delusional world of your own making. You couldn’t see that Vickie was using you while she fucked people behind your back. You couldn’t see that Ivan wanted nothing to do with you unless you provided something he needed. You are incapable of seeing the reality around you.

She grabs Hall by the back of his neck and yanks him to his feet.

Rose: Time to go. You get to choose which way you want to go. I prefer stomping your face in, but I figured I would give you an option to save some face. Not like you have anything worth saving. Not enough Kenergy if you ask me.

JCH has seemingly, however, given in.

He lowers his head, despite the fact Rose’s hand is around his neck.

Jonathan-Chirstopher Hall: It’s okay, I’ll just leave.

But before Hall walks out under his own power, he flinches a couple of times. It ALMOST sounds like he said “ruthless bitch” under his breath but this is Jonathan-Christopher, right. It’s also so faint he probably didn’t.

Except, Rose seems to have heard the same thing, and a situation that was already at like a 6 or 7 on the scale, is now teetering on a ten based on the look on her face.

Rose: What the fuck did you just mumble under your breathe?

Hall looks up, confused and surprised, shaking his head in the process.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I didn’t say anything!

It comes across sincere, as if he really didn’t say it or wasn’t aware that his thoughts had slipped out as words. Needless to say, Rose gets in his face, seconds away from letting loose.

Rose: You called me a ruthless bitch?! It’s funny how now you got the balls to mutter something, but when that whore of a wife of yours was running around sleeping with every wrestler that passes for having a dick you reverted to a grade-a pussy.

Then, Rose extends her arms out, pushing Hall away from her. Before she can lunge at him, the locker room door flies open and Enemigos — who were watching the action unfold backstage because how else are they supposed to know when shit flies off at the handle — stumble in, separating the two in a hurry.

It’s not like JCH wants to fight, but he’s kinda fucking rattled at Rose going off on him for something he didn’t even say (even though he did? No one is sure???). Enemigos are everywhere now, moving Hall out of the locker room as Rose continues to shout in his direction.

Rose: Get off of me!

She continues to push the Enemigos, desperate to get her hands on Hall, but the other Enemigos swiftly remove JCH from the room as Rose stands off with the Enemigos before ReVival moves on.

Anna Daniels: We allowed you to pick one song from the jukebox as a treat and you pick Nickelback?

The tired mom voice is back. Indeed, the vocal stylings of Chad Kroger echo through the Whorehouse leaving nothing but suck in its wake. fabby simply stands there, not even attempting to explain himself. Not that he could anyway with the gimp mask zipped up. She sighs, absent mindedly twirling THE KNIFE around.

Anna Daniels: Okay, okay. You know what? That’s our bad. We shouldn’t judge your shit ass music taste too harshly. You’ve never had the experience of being a real boy before. We’re sorry, alright?

If he heard the apology, it didn’t register given that his eyes are locked on that blade. The stab wound on his right ass cheek does not need a twin. THE KNIFE stops its swinging and seems to…disappear(?!) as the Muse turns towards the arcade machine.

Anna Daniels: Here’s the issue, fabs. You’re like Pinocchio except instead of Jiminy Cricket trying to teach you to be human, you’ve had the Glue Sticks calling you furniture. We think you might’ve internalized that to the point that you can’t imagine being anything else. Rob put you in that gimp suit and you probably don’t feel a damn bit embarrassed, do ya?

fabby doesn’t move. Anna continues to psychoanalyze while shooting meteors.

Anna Daniels: Honestly, if you like being humiliated, that’s cool. That would explain a lot. Why else would you put up with being berated, degraded, treated like less than nothing? It has to be a kink. Otherwise, what do they give you, really?

The arcade machine suddenly rumbles with BEWARE, I LIVE! loud enough to actually make fabby jump. He probably shit in his suit which would be horrible if it was rented. fabby dashes off like a scalded dog. Anna sighs as if considering letting him go but the thought is easily erased. She stomps on the comically long leash with one foot, stopping him short.

Anna Daniels: GET BACK HERE AND FACE THE SINISTAR, YOU LITTLE SHIT!

SINISTAR (from the machine): RUN, COWARD! I HUNGER!

Anna Daniels: THAT’S NOT FUCKING HELPFUL!

…he was supposed to be helpful?

In a rather nice display of flexibility, the headfucker that isn’t on the leash is now pounding away at the buttons. Half of her body is trying not to get eaten by the angry metal space god. The other half is dedicated to reeling fabby in like a fish.

SINISTAR (still from the machine): I AM SINISTAR.

Anna Daniels: Still less annoying than Canada’s worst band.

The thrall–nifty word!–has his nails dug deep into the floor. His attempts at…attempting cause gauging as he is slowly dragged across the dressing room/pleasure palace. Soon enough, he is back where he started. The machine RAAAAAAAAHHHHHHGGGGGGHHHHS in pain of being defeated (for now) and the screen flashes with enough colors to make Reed Young froth at the mouth.

Anna gives fabby the stinkeye.

fabby, in an attempt to not get murdered, motions to the jukebox. Then to a randomly acquired copy of Little Women. Then a head tilt in confusion.

Anna Daniels: You really think he’s singing “Little Women must’ve damn near killed you”? What the hell is wrong with you?

The gimp shrugs as we march on to something else.

Pre-Recorded…

A sweaty Anglo Luchador runs up the marble stairs of some important building. The Rocky theme plays. He gets to the top, and pumps his fist, and screams into the air in triumph. Crash and Bash are already sitting at the top. Bash clicks a timer.

Sebastian Gold: Again.

TAL: But-

Sebastian Gold: YOU WANNA BE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION OR NOT, MAGGOT?!

Bash blows a whistle. Crash grabs his hotdogs. He nods to the Luchador, ready for their tribulations ahead, and gets a head start.

Sebastian Gold: AGAIN! DOWN THE STAIRS, YOU DRIED OUT CRUMPET!

TAL huffs and trots back down. Crash bounds because, what could go wrong? Full inventory of doggies accounted for, by the way.

CUT TO…

Our Heroes are now in an abandoned warehouse where Bash has parked his bike. He’s holding his trusty tire iron.

Sebastian Gold: First things first, if you can dodge a tire iron, you can dodge a jolf club.

TAL: Wha-

Sebastian whips the tire iron full speed at TAL’s head. Crash casually dips while chewing. We do not see the result of said tire replacement tool.

CUT TO…

TAL, now with a bandage on his head, runs an American Gladiator-like obstacle course that seems to be hotdog themed.

TAL is in the middle of it. The Gauntlet of Dogs is unrelenting, even to those who have been climbing the PRIME mountain their entire life

TAL: Why do I feel like…

He dodges a falling bucket of foot-long hot dogs. How did Bash get a bucket that big? The world may never know.

TAL: …foreshadowing for a conversation I’m going to have this week?

He runs forward and dodges swinging ketchup and mustard bottles, then jumps onto a giant gas-station-gourmet-roller thing, rotating in a backwards pattern for maximum fragrance. The Luchador must climb to reach the finish.

Crash: Oh shit! Bro, look at that glorious trophy of a fine ass, thick-to-the-skin, sexy bitch right there!

Every one of the Heroes turns their gaze upward. It’s a real surprise when TAL takes off his belt and climbs the hotdog like Mulan. He gets to the top, exhausted, starving. Only to see Crash munching on the glorious trophy dog.

Crash: Sorry, bro.

CUT BACK TO…

Back at bootcamp, Sebastian yelling into TAL’s face.

Sebastian Gold: WHAT IS YOUR NAME, MAGGOT?

TAL: Thomas Francis Xavier Battaglia.

They get in each other’s faces.

Sebastian Gold: AND WILL YOU BE THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION??

TAL: AYE-AYE, CAPTAIN!

Crash passes by eating a hotdog and gives a thumbs up.

CUT TO…

The present. In the locker room. Yes, we did a montage to hype The Anglo Luchador’s battle against a submission expert. To be fair though, that’s the only serious thing about Cecilworth Farthington. Like, the absolute only serious thing about him.

TAL: I was right. I did speak to an American Gladiators enthusiast this week.

Sebastian Gold: Hey, how did you get into Lemieux’s interview?

TAL: I’m a weirdo magnet. I mean, my best friend is a one-eyed homicidal joshi, I somehow share agents with a human steroid, and Coral Avalon only seemed to want to hang around me when he was wearing his weird berry-shaped sex mask.

The Heroes all look at each other and shrug. Except Crash, who scratches his chin.

Crash: Bro had a berryhead sex mask? What a weirdo. But, point is LoochUncDor… you feelin’ solid about this? I know I am.

The Anglo fuckin’ Luchador looks down at the floor and shakes his head. The tension is thick, like Mother Nature is pregnant for the third time, for y’all have knocke…

No, wrong former Universal Champion.

The man behind the mask slowly lifts his head and looks each of his newfound colleagues in the eye for a moment before speaking.

TAL: I think I’m ready to beat Cecilworth to the Finish Line and take the thing I’ve worked on for over three long years.

Sebastian Gold: Hear, hear! Let the Age of Heroes begin!

ReVival moves on.

We return ringside to Nick Stuart and Richard Parker, standing by.

Nick Stuart: Folks, up next we have something of a grudge match between two former allies here in PRIME.

Richard Parker: Hey, the Bruh, Bryan Dawkins, saw an opportunity to rise above Crash Jackson and he took it. It’s Crash Jackson whose all upset about his friend growing, if anything this is a one sided rivalry.

Nick Stuart: I have my doubts about that, Parker.

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

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s call” floods the airwaves and brings the lights back up.

Vince Howard: The following match is for one fall, introducing first…

A chaotic lightshow takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash stomps out onto the stage. Pacing atop the ramp, Crash stares out at the crowd with grim determination before heading for the ring..

FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING

HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN

Crash reaches the ring, pumping his fist only once upon reaching the ring. He quickly climbs in, pumping his fist once more in the center of the ring before retreating to his corner.

Vince Howard: … he stands at five-foot-eleven inches and weighs in at two-hundred-thirty-eight pounds… “The Northern Light” CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACKSON!

“A Warrior’s Call” slowly fades out as Crash stretches out his legs and arms, surprisingly subdued. His eyes turn toward the stage as he awaits his opponent.

Nick Stuart: Did you notice that Crash looks more focused coming out? Not his usually high energy self.

Richard Parker: Maybe he hasn’t had his limit on Hot Dogs today.

The Canada Life Centre goes dark for a moment before a crimson and gold pyro engulfs the stage in a fiery explosion. “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army follows the thunderous fireworks display drawing boos from the crowd.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

Stepping out onto the stage steps Bryan Dawkins, the newest member of the Red Army. Standing atop the stage he gives the audience a passive glance before his head turns toward the ring. Though his eyes are hidden behind his Red Army issued crimson and gold sunglasses, you can tell he’s locking eyes with Crash Jackson down in the ring.

After his brief pause at the top of the ramp, Dawkins begins to trot toward the ring. Those former fans who might have chanted “Bruh” have now taken to booing the former Flyin’ Hawaiian though it doesn’t seem to bother Dawkins.

Vince Howard: … standing at a flat six-foot and weighing two-hundred-thirty-two pounds… Nobody’s Bruh… BRRRRRRRRYAN DAAAAAAAAAAAAWKINS!

Sliding into the ring, Dawkins quickly jumps to his feet before testing the ropes. Satisfied in their tensile strength, Bryan moves to his corner, opposite of Crash. As he removes his sunglasses it is confirmed that he and his opponent have, indeed, locked eyes.

Ashley Barlow signals for the be-

The Centre is bathed once again in darkness as the crowd explodes in excitement.

Nick Stuart: What the..

Richard Parker: The Canadians have forgotten to pay their energy bill again!

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

The lights snap back on in Winnipeg as Maximillian Wilhelm Kael appears on the stage in his black three piece suit and #D60000 red bowtie. The crowd immediately begins to boo when they realize who has arrived. Both Dawkins and Jackson immediately turn their gaze toward the stage, toward the man both men have a reason to hate.

“I’m gonna run this nothing town

Watch me make ‘em bow

One by one by one.

One by one by…”

Max twiddles his fingers toward Bryan and Crash before sauntering his way toward the commentary table. Dawkins immediately begins to complain to Ashley Barlow while Crash is visibly fighting the urge to charge commentary. As Max takes a seat, his music fades and Barlow finally signals for the bell.

Nick Stuart: Oh great… looks like we’re getting company.

Richard Parker: Stand up, Parker, we’ve got a… we’ve got a something with us!

Max Kael: Gentleman and Nick Stuart, you regrettable reptile of a reprobate. How exciting this must be for you, to have me so close by!

DING DING DING DING!

Dawkins immediately rushes Crash, whose eyes are still locked on Max at commentary. Fans share their feelings about this by booing the former Bruhnado.

Max Kael: Now that was a great move by Dawkins, taking advantage of a distraction like that.

Richard Parker: I was about to say that!

Nick Stuart: A little underhanded I feel. Now Max, you’ve got history with both of these men, who do you want to win? Or rather, who would you like to see lose?

Max Kael: Yes!

Knocking Crash into the turnbuckle, Dawkins hammers away with a series of stiff right hands. The force slowly forces Crash down to the bottom turnbuckle, raising his arms to do his best to fend off Bryan’s furious assault. Finally Barlow manages to wedge themself between Dawkins and his opponent, warning him of a potential DQ.

Richard Parker: Referees these days, back in my day they’d let these two sort out their business!

Max Kael: Referees really are more of a nuisance than a help in the ring, I swear.

Nick Stuart: For rules breakers, maybe.

Dawkins backs up, his hands held up as he rolls his eyes sarcastically at Barlow before shoving her out of the way, kicking Crash in the side of the head before stomping away once again. Barlow begins to administer a five count. Dawkins relents quickly, chuckling to himself as he drags Crash up to his feet.

CRACK!

Crash lights up Dawkins chest with a crispy knife edge chop, following it up with a right and left punch, staggering his surprised opponent back into the ropes. Throwing himself into the opposite ropes, Jackson is true to his name as he crashes into Dawkins with a crossbody sending both men over the top rope and to the ground.

Nick Stuart: Incredible athletics by Crash, sending both himself and his opponent to the outside!

Max Kael: I actually taught him that move, Stuart.

Richard Parker: Wow, you’re such a great teacher!

Max Kael: PRIME’s number one uplifting force!

Nick Stuart: I think I’m gonna be sick.

The first to his feet is Crash Jackson much to Winnipeg’s delight. Pulling Dawkins up to his feet, Crash smashes his opponent’s body into the barricade with a loud thud. Jackson picks up Bryan and whips him hard into the barricade on the far side of the ring. Dawkins hits hard, crumbling to the floor as he screams out in pain.

Richard Parker: Crash showing a real mean streak right now.

Max Kael: Yeah, I gave him that mean streak, you know?

Nick Stuart: You taught Crash how to have a mean streak?

Max Kael: He sure didn’t learn that from “Golden” Greg Davis.

Approaching the down Dawkins, referee Barlow demands they get back in the ring. Crash looks at her then down at Bryan before he looks up at Max, seated next to Nick Stuart.

Max Kael: Go away! Stuart, make him go away! I’m feeling very threatened!

Crash points an accusing finger at Max, yelling something as he begins to approach. Max quickly drags Nick Stuart between himself and Crash.

Nick Stuart: Leave me out of this!

Max Kael: Be a hero, Stuart! I came out here to help you, it’s time you repay the favor Nick!

The distraction of Max leaves Crash open to getting clubbed by a recovered Dawkins. Crash is knocked forward, colliding with the commentary table.Dawkins lurches forward, kicking Jackson to the ground before he turns his eyes on Max.

Max Kael: What is it with these guys, Nick?! What have you been telling people!?

Richard Parker: I told you, Stuart, you’re too hard on Max and you’re promoting violence against him!

Nick Stuart: Maybe you should pay less attention to my words, Max, and more attention to the heinous actions you’ve carried out against both of these men!

While still hiding behind Stuart, Max yells something at Dawkins resulting in the former Bruh angrily flipping off Max before turning his attention back to Crash. Dragging him up, Bryan executes a picture perfect belly to belly suplex on his opponent, dropping Jackson hard on the floor.

Dawkins bounces back up to his feet, wrapping his arms around Crash’s waist before pulling him up into a release German Suplex! Crash’s body once again hits the floor with a loud splat.

Max Kael: That man is dead.

Richard Parker: And just like that, the match is over!

Nick Stuart: I have faith in Crash Jackson, come on!

Scrambling back up to his feet, Dawkins slides into the ring and immediately demands Barlow administer the ten count.

One…

Two…

The crowd starts to rally behind Crash Jackson, who begins to stir back to life.

Three…

Four…

Using the commentary table, Crash drags himself up to his knees before collapsing back to the ground.

Five…

Six…

Seven…

Crawling toward the ring, Crash manages to get his hands around the ring skirt.

Eight…

Nine…

Dragging himself up, Crash manages to slide under the bottom rope before Barlow finishes the count as the crowd explodes in cheers.

Max Kael: Oh he made it, how exciting.

Nick Stuat: You don’t sound excited.

Max Kael: OH HE MADE IT, HOW EXCITING!

Dawkins, furious that he didn’t get the count out, rushes forward once again, putting the boots to Crash, knocking him into the ropes. As he continues the attack, Barlow once again is forced to administer a five count drawing the fromer-Bruh out of his attack to once again argue with the ref.

Turning away from Barlow, Bryan is taken off his feet by a surprising Springing Cross Body from Crash! The Northern Light rolls back up to his feet and hits the ropes again. Just as Dawkins staggers back up he’s caught by a returning with a Flying Head Scissor. The Red Army’s newest member is sent flying back down to the mat!

Stunned and confused, Dawkins gets back up to his feet, spaghetti legged, only for Crash to connect with a Spinning Heel Kick that turns the Bruh inside out! Crash hooks the leg!

Nick Stuart: This could be it!

One…

Two…

Kickout!

Richard Parker: Could have been but it wasn’t, Stuart!

Crash doesn’t waste any time, quickly jumping up to his feet before grabbing both of Dawkins legs. Despite his best efforts, Dawkins is unable to fight off his opponent as his legs are folded and his body turned into an Elevated Sharp Shooter!

Nick Stuart: He’s got it locked in, his own custom sharpshooter, he calls it the JaxSS!

Max Kael: I taught him that mo-

Nick Stuart: Oh shut up!

Crying in pain, the crowd rallies fully behind Crash Jackson!

“BRUH IS BULLSHIT! BRUH IS BULLSHIT!” chants mingle with cries of “TAP!” as Crash leans back, torquing Dawkin’s own back and applying more pressure to his legs. Howling, Dawkins begins to drag himself toward the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins might have to give into crowd pressure here!

Richard Parker:  This is hardly fair to Dawkins! Stupid Canadians should be cheering for Dawkins!

Max Kael: Well, they are Canadian.

With his fingertips within reach, Dawkin’s hopes are dashed as New York’s Finest drags him back to the center of the ring, sitting even further back!

In a last ditch effort to break free Bryan turns his body and reaches back, grabbing Crash by the hair and ear, yanking him back!

Referee Barlow admonishes Dawkins however the damage is enough to force Crash to release the hold. Staggering away, holding his face, Crash is half blinded, allowing Dawkins some time to recover.

Max Kael: If Bryan Dawkins wants to pick up the win here, he’s gonna have to be… more.

Nick Stuart: Though I am loathed to agree with you, I think you’re right.

Richard Parker: Holyshit, this is the first time I think Stuart’s ever been right about something!

As Crash staggers around the ring he is unfortunate enough to run into a partially recovered Dawkins who smashes him into the mat with a desperation Spinebuster! Bryan drops and hooks the leg! Booing fills the Canada Life Centre!

One!

Kickout!

The crowd explodes as Crash kicks out at one! Dawkins’ face flushes red as he shakes his head in frustration. With a full hand of Crash’s hair, hoists the Hot Dog Hero up to his feet before snapping him back with a rolling German Suplex!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins is undeterred in his quest to leave Crash broken in the ring.

Richard Parker: Crash kicked out at one and disrespected Bryan, now he’s gotta show that hot dog idiot a lesson!

Somehow Crash is able to roll back up to his feet, roaring with pent up rage toward Dawkins!

SNAP!

All that rage gets kicked straight out of the back of Crash’s head with Dawkins connecting with a brutal Brogue Kick.

Nick Stuart: KATYUSHA KICK!

Max Kael: Good bye teeth!

Richard Parker: Another RED ARMY Victory!

Crash’s body collapses limply to the ring as a smug Dawkins drops down, hooking the leg. Fans continue to share their disappointment as Barlow drops for the pinfall.

One…

Two…

Thre-KICKOUT!

At the last possible moment Crash throws his shoulder up breaking the pinfall. Dawkins immediately gets in Barlow’s face complaining about the speed of the count.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe that idiot kicked out!

Nick Stuart: The crowd is going CRAZY! What is it going to take to keep Crash down!?

Max Kael: Most impressive indeed!

On the outside Max stands up, applauding sarcastically, grabbing Dawkins attention. Moving past Barlow, Dawkins points at Max and starts yelling something.

CRASH!

Max Kael: Fu-bbbzztt!

A random fan in a hoodie jumps over the barricade behind commentary and smashes a cup of beer into the back of Max’s head! Kael tumbles to the ground covered in beer and glass as the crowd once again explodes.

Pulling back the hoodie reveals PRIME’s own Jackson Cooley, who is staring daggers at the Lord of Kaelsalvania. As Max clamours back to his feet Cooley continues the attack, plastering him with rights and lefts!

Nick Stuart: Jackson Cooley is out here throwing hands into the face of Max Kael! Finally someone shut him up!

Richard Parker: This is terrible! I finally had a commentary partner who is as smart as me!

Attempting to escape, Max falls over the barricade and scrambles toward the exit through the crowd. He is followed closely by Cooley who manages to get a few more stiff shots in as the Canadian crowd cheers.

Back in the ring Dawkins has a smug, satisfied look on his face seeing Max driven away. Pointing and laughing, Dawkins shakes his head, returning his attention to the match.

ROLL UP!

Crash, having recovered, sweeps up behind the distracted Dawkins, kicking his feet into the mat to put as much elevation on the pin as possible!

One…

Two…

Three!

DING DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match by pinfall…. CRAAAAAAAAAASH JAAAAAAAAACKSON!

“A Warriors Call” blasts out over the PA system as Crash quickly exits the ring leaving an absolutely stunned Dawkins behind. Jackson pumps his arm once before turning and heading to the back leaving little time for celebration.

Richard Parker: Nooooo!

Nick Stuart:  Crash Jackson catches a distracted Dawkins with the oldest trick in the book, the Surprise Roll up! Folks, we’ve still got a ton of action tonight, stay tuned!

ReVival moves on.

The feed cuts backstage, within the peristyle opulence of the VV-I-P lounge.

We’re immediately treated to our third consecutive appearance of the ever-irascible Punk Rock Simon Tillier, regaled in his vest of patches of unreadable wrestling logos. The junior reporter defiantly puffs away at a cigarette in clear view of a “No Smoking” sign, looking agitated, twitchy, and downright paranoid.

Waiting beside him, “the Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama stands as a living statue of flesh, bone, and nascent destruction. He’s in his casual ensemble for the evening: hair tied back, five o’ clock shadow, and an absurdly patterned black and green silk shirt unbuttoned down to the goddamb abs.

Simon Tillier: How’s it going, people? Here we are, yet again… another ReVival, another obligatory Vae Victis interview. I’m here with Kerry Kuroyama, and…

Simon warily looks around.

Simon Tillier: …only Kerry Kuroyama, as it would appear. Which is a good thing, because to be honest, folks? I’m not all that interested in being assaulted–again–for the crime of doing my job. Crazy, I know… but I mean, all any of you living in America right now needs to do is look out your window on any given day to see our society being assaulted by the cold, iron hand of authoritarianism, so I guess it’s nothing new, right? Violence begets violence in this world, and most of us are just fine being silent observers. But me?

The junior reporter fervently shakes his head.

Simon Tillier: No, folks, I refuse to be silent! And no matter how often they knock me down, I will pick myself up! I will fight on, for the endless pursuit of the TRUTH! The WHOLE TRUTH! Because THAT’S what JOURNALISM is about, man! Wouldn’t you agree, Kerry?

Kerry opens his mouth as if to speak…

Then, out of nowhere…

Scott Hunter: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHCHICKENANDBISCUITS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Scott Hunter leaps through and lands a huge double axehandle from somewhere out of frame that crumples up Simon Tiller like an accordion. Scott stands over him with a frowny face, hands still clasped in front of him as if he could drop the hammer again at a moment’s notice, and holds the pose just in case there are any signs of life from the poor interviewer.

Slowly and carefully, as if preparing for action if Simon so much as twitches, Scott reaches down and plucks the microphone from off of Simon’s chest where it landed. Without taking his eyes off the poor Mr. Tillier, Scott reaches back and hands the microphone to Kerry.

Kerry Kuroyama: Sorry, Simon. Scott’s got a thing against punk rock guys. Reminds him too much of… well, you know who.

Tillier groans weakly on the floor at their feet.

Simon Tillier: (strained) Ugh… that’s fair…

Kerry Kuroyama: If it’s any consolation, you’re getting off relatively easily compared to what’s waiting for Ben Lynch. Scott, fill the kind people in on what’s in store for PRIME’s latest gutter-trash acquisition…

Taking over the interviewer duties, Kerry hands the mic over to Hunter to speak.

Scott Hunter: (looking down at Simon, then back up again) First things first, my opponent this week and his racially insensitive last name have no business even being in PRIME. We have a ‘soap required’ policy, last time I checked, and this man has clearly not partaken in the hygienic pursuits in quite some time. Second things second, I don’t like his dumb face, his dumb hair, or his dumb face. I know I said his dumb face twice, but that is because it is EXTRA DUMB. Usually, it takes at least two weeks for me to notice how extra dumb someone is, but this time I noticed it right away, on account of just how incredibly dumb he is.

Scott looks over at Kerry, who gives him a reassuring nod.

Scott Hunter: Right. So here is what’s in store for Benjamin Dewayne Lynch. I plan on beating him up quite badly in a manner that will be both rough and elegant, twisting him into knots and making him wish he were back in the garbage can on Sesame Street where he grew up. I will punch him in the face, kick him somewhere around his hip region, and then elbow him right on the side of his dumb face, but I will wear an elbow pad this week because he is dirty and could give me elbow lice. I do not want to have to go back to the school nurse and have her search through my elbow hairs again. And then, most importantly, I will do my very best to tear his lower leg from his upper leg before placing him gently on his back and applying my famous figure-four leg lock. If I have time I may give him a good talking to about personal cleanliness and why it keeps girls from liking you, as well as how to express yourself without using dirty poop words. But the tearing of the lower leg from the topper leg is the most important part. You might even say it is the Lynchpin of my plan.

Scott looks over at Kerry again, really proud of that one.

Kerry turns away from the camera to hide the fact that he is indeed corpsing.

Scott Hunter: Anyway, that is what is in store for Ben Lynch. Bad times, lessons on not stinking so much, and DEATH. Prepare yourself for doom, sir. Also, find soap. Thank you.

Scott gives a half-bow, then hands the microphone back to Kerry. Scott holds in place for a moment, but then suddenly and swiftly twists around into a karate pose over Simon Tillier, whose eyes go wide before he rolls his eyes back in his head and flops back to the ground like a fish.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, Simon? You did it. Like a real journalist, you found the truth. The whole truth. I think you’re getting the Pulitzer for this one, my man. I commend you. Anyway, Scott… you ready to GET SERIOUS out there?

Putting on his game face, Hunter heads out in the direction of the ring. Kerry nods approvingly, and follows.

From below our view, Simon groans in pain.

Simon Tillier: (strained) Pulitzers are… for… sellouts…

ReVival moves on.

We cut elsewhere backstage where we follow Doc to a room that reads ‘The Five Star Family.’ He turns and grabs the camera and opens the door. Inside the room The Miracle Man, the Five Star Godfather himself sits in a chair tying up his wrestling boots. Standing up and leaning against the wall is William Morris. He makes a move as soon as the door opens incase he had to defend his Octopus ally. Harrison looks up and smiles at the camera and gives it a nod and the thumbs up.

Steve Harrison: Unfortunately for PRIME that Octopus memo about not being interviewed by their puppet employees spear headed by that corrupt organization Vae Victus is still in tact. Tonight we got Doc on the camera so I am sure this will go great. To kick things off we got this fancy sparkling water.

Harrison points towards a table to the right of where Morris is standing. It is full of Canada Dry Sparking Waters.

Steve Harrison: We have…

He stares back at the table and frowns.

Steve Harrison: We only have freaking sparkling water? I don’t even like sparkling water…who dropped the ball?

Morris leans over and with one of his huge hands that looks like a damn baseball mit grabs one of the waters. He snaps it open and takes a big sip.

Steve Harrison: Really?

William Morris: Ellis is missing. I am certain he did this to troll us.

Harrison reaches down and grabs his wrestling bag. He opens it up and looks inside and lets out a deep breath and nods to himself.

Steve Harrison: Title is still safe and when the hell were one of you going to tell me that the damn cockroach disappeared?

Doc: (Holding Camera still) It has been at least a week since I saw him.

Steve takes the belt out of the bag and looks it over.

Steve Harrison: Well MY title is clean so he must have done that so I wouldn’t realize was planning on running away.. We are behind here and William what do you think he is doing right now?

William Morris: Plotting.

Harrison sighs.

Steve Harrison: The moment he found out I was initiated he put this in motion. I cannot even enjoy my time before my match because of this shitburger. I always have to put up with these talentless hacks stealing my deserved spotlight. I can’t even celebrate with my family with a clean championship belt without some bad news.

William Morris: Should I…

Steve Harrison: Find where Ellis went? Yes, Will, maybe you should get on that.

William gives Steve an annoyed look and crushes the can of water in his hand, the remaining water splashes up in the air and then to the floor.

Steve Harrison: Um, yes…you know, whenever you can buddy. We all fam here.

William Morris: I was going to ask if I should get us some after match beers.

Ol’ Banditsbane, the man the battleship pines for shakes his head slowly and sighs towards William.

Steve Harrison: Not to go find Ellis?

William Morris: No.

Steve Harrison: Ugh, then yes…we should have some after match beers.

William Morris: Then?

Harrison smacks his head with the palm of his left hand.

Steve Harrison: FIND ELLIS, WILLIAM! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH YOU?

William takes a step and gets a bit wobbly. He steadies himself and then sits down on the floor. Doc removes the camera shot from him to a confused looking Miracle Man who stares incredulously at Will I Am Morris.

William Morris: I think the waters have been drugged.

Steve Harrison: Great, Ellis becomes some cartoon character villain after being zero fun for so long. I swear, Doc, as soon as I wake up from my slumber the world just sets itself against me. I haven’t even done anything wrong. Ok, so maybe I berated the fans but what karma would care about the sweat stain low IQ masses that infest our shows? If anything I was just being an honest upstanding citizen.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

A loud shriek interrupts the champion as Vickie Hall comes bursting into the scene. She immediately runs up to Harrison and without a fuck in the world…

She starts unloading physical punches onto his chest.

It’s just that, well, she has literally no strength whatsoever. They are barely making a smacking sound.

Well, they aren’t making any sound.

Harrison has a look on his face like “WTF”, while also trying not to laugh at the sheer patheticness of this all.

Vickie backs away. However, her shoulders are upright. Her face is still pissed.

Vickie Hall: You RUINED my man’s reign. You are a coward, a dipshit and a full blown narcissist!

She points her index finger directly at him.

Vickie Hall: You’re time’s going to come, buddy. I am going to bask in glory at the man who finally defeats your chicken shit ass.

Harrison wipes his chest off from where some little fly landed a few times and chuckles to himself and then stares at the camera.

Steve Harrison: Then this little dick pixie has to barge in us. I swear PRIME is out to get us now that The Immortal Jellyfish has some gold. So, Vickie…between the many strokes of a hand job you perform for… your studies, do you ever check the show layouts? You know…who is wrestling or WHO I am wrestling next?

Vickie stares at Harrison blankly. It takes her a moment to speak, after hearing such stupidity.

Vickie Hall: I do what I want, when I want. I am my own person and if I want to check out the wrestling card, I will. No, Steven. I don’t want to. When a BANDIT beats your ass, when my man Cancy gets his opportunity back, he’ll take it. He’s a MANHUNTER. He’s the BIG GUNS. He’s got a big gun.

Vickie shakes her head.

Vickie Hall: And also, don’t talk to me about hand jobs. You men are pathetic. All you see is sex.

She literally made a “large dick” comment a second ago but whatever.

Vickie Hall: Your days are numbered, see. Because you thought beating Cancer Jiles was the end. Babe, when you mess with me, it’s only just begun.

Vickie’s loud and proud. While she couldn’t beat up Harrison physically, she definitely did so verbally. Boom.

Steve Harrison: Ah yes, sorry to hurt your delicate sensibilities Miss Rusty Trombone. Let me spell it out for you since I am not going to solve adult illiteracy tonight. Unfortunately, I am not beating a Bandit tonight but I am facing a Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

Vickie’s nonchalant face doesn’t flinch.

Vickie Hall: I don’t care.

She looks Harrison over.

Vickie Hall: I hope you both lose.

PRETTY PINK© walks away.

However, she sticks her head out the doorway.

Vickie Hall: Can one of you slam this door for me. I- I need to make a dramatic effect but… little old me lacks the strength to do so!

She seems irate and leaves anyway.

The door doesn’t shut behind Vickie as she has the strength of Luka at two weeks not the insane 18 month strength from that monster baby. Doc moves with the camera still in hand and shuts the door. Harrison sits back down and begins to laugh. William is still sitting on the floor but now he is looking to the floor and holding both of his ears. He looks up and then at Steve, His eyes are dilated. This man was a former death match wrestler and has done time in jail but…

William Morris: Is the Orc Child done screaming?

Harrison throws his arms up at the ceiling just going nuts about all the dumb shit that has happened since the camera started rolling.

Steve Harrison: This might be a good time to end this.

Doc: Anything you wish to say to your opponent tonight?

Steve Harrison: JayCeeHaitch, I am going to make that THING even more embarrassed of having been with you. Sad times but at least you all have me as your Five Star Champion! Cut it and get William some water…oh and the beers to wash down the beat down I am going to perform later.

Scene cuts and we head towards the next match between Scott Hunter and Ben Lynch.

We return to ringside to find that Vince Howard is standing in the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall…

We won’t sully that with the return chant.

“Burning Hearts” by Survivor hits, and Scott Hunter slowly makes his way to ringside while adjusting his wrist tape. For a man who is famously… let’s be generous and say “spacey”… he is surprisingly focused for tonight.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Miami, Florida… he weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty-five pounds… SCOTTTTTT HUNNNNNTERRRRRRRRR!!!!

Hunter reaches the ring and takes the stairs to the ring apron before entering the ring. There, he raises his hands in the air for the fans to cheer him.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter’s been riding a wave of momentum since his impressive showing at Manhunt. He even fought Ivan Stanislav to a draw.

Richard Parker: We’re still awaiting official judgement from the Soviet side of things about that match.

Nick Stuart: No. No, we are not.

As Nick and Richard banter about things that probably aren’t happening right now, it’s time for a big Lynchtrance. The music hits, the drums pound, and the Jerkass Woobie saunters out after a long wait.

Vince Howard: His opponent… fighting out of Chicago, Illinois, weighing in at two hundred and twenty-five pounds… the JERKASS WOOBIE… BEEEEENNNNNN LYYYYYYYNNNNCHHHHHH!!!

The Antagonist walks out to a chorus of boos. Sorry, I meant strut. He struts out. Cocky smirk on his face, clearly judging all of you. We’ll ignore the fact that he looks like a man who would complain about the hot dogs to hot dog bun ratio in packaging.

He heads to the ring. He snatches up a sign that says “i came here to see fabby”, and gives the sign holder the biggest look of disapproval to have ever been given on a single ReVival. And this is a roster that had Ned Reform on it, so you know that one was bad. He makes a big show of running to the ring before hitting it with a big slide, then rises to one knee and stares directly at Scott Hunter.

Richard Parker: This guy. Something about him, I like. It’s probably the sign-ripping. We should really confiscate more signs from fans. Maybe close the signs channel while we’re at it.

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

With Lynch in the ring, and Scott Hunter ready to go, senior referee Elvis Nixon calls for the bell and we’re ready to go.

DING DING

Ben Lynch looks cocky as he looks across the ring from Scott Hunter. Perhaps he believes he has every reason to be. After all, Scott Hunter is kind of an idiot. Mind you, an idiot who managed to draw with Ivan Stanislav just two weeks ago, but still an idiot. Nevertheless, the two lock up. Or, at least, Hunter makes an earnest attempt to lock up. Lynch, on the other hand, breaks off at the last minute and saunters towards the corner like he’s going to go pick up his Starbucks order.

Scott Hunter stands there with his hands on his hips.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure Ben Lynch wants to be doing that with a guy like Scott Hunter.

Richard Parker: What do you mean? He’s a conjurer of submissions. He’s never going to collar-and-elbow tieup you when he wants to. He does it precisely when he means to!

Ben smirks as he turns around, an—

Scott Hunter punches him so hard that Lynch does a full-on pirouette and lands on the canvas on his back in a daze. Lynch does the only thing he can do in this situation. He immediately bails, rolling under the bottom rope and escaping to the outside.

Lynch is wobbly-legged as he tries to regain his bearings. He doesn’t see Hunter slide out of the ring from behind. He’s pulled around with a big hand on his shoulder, and then Hunter punches him in the face again. Lynch flies to the ground in much the same way that buses don’t, and lands hard on the mat. He holds his hand up, begging for mercy.

Nick Stuart: Lynch is not having a good time out here in front of us, and…

CRASH!

The whole “begging for mercy” thing is all a ruse, of course. The moment Hunter goes to press his advantage, Lynch grabs a handful of his tights and pulls him into the commentary desk. Hence the CRASH.

Lynch pulls Hunter to his feet and pretends to throw him back into the ring. Instead, he turns Hunter around and throws him into the table again.

CRASH!

Nick Stuart: Stop that!

Richard Parker: Seriously!

The look on Ben Lynch’s face tells the story of a man who’d fuckin’ do it again. But he relents, for now, and throws Hunter back in the ring. Lynch stomps on Hunter’s head once he gets back in the ring, before grinding the flat of his foot against his face. Very mean, very Jerkass Woobie of him.

Lynch pulls Hunter to his feet and muscles him down with a snap suplex, before floating over into the cover. It only gets two as Hunter shoots his arm up off the canvas. Seamlessly, Lynch grabs Hunter’s hand transitions into a wristlock, before trying to bend Hunter’s fingers in ways that God, Jesus, and Mrs. Lynch never intended. Hunter’s yelling as Lynch grinds the hold down. Lynch positions his left leg behind Hunter’s head, and tries to turn this thing into some sort of fucked up abomination of a wristlock.

Hunter, though, fights back. He grabs hold of Lynch’s leg and pulls himself to his feet, with Lynch along for the ride until he’s sitting on Hunter’s shoulders.

And then Scott Hunter sends Ben Lynch to hell.

Nick Stuart: POWERBOMB!

Hunter is on his knees with Lynch down in front of him, and all he needs to do is make the co—

Oh.

Thaaat’s a triangle choke.

Whoops.

Richard Parker: NO GOOD!

Lynch plays just enough possum to wrap his legs around Hunter’s head, and pulls Hunter’s arm through to apply the hold. Most mortal men would probably be tapping out before passing out in this case. Scott Hunter is no mere mortal, though. He’s indisputably the best Scott, after all. So he pulls Lynch up, practically with one arm, until the Jerkass Woobie is up on his shoulders once again.

Then he drives him down with another powerbomb.

It breaks the hold, and both men need time to recover.

Nick Stuart: That took a lot out of both men, so it’s possible that whoever gets up first might win this match.

Richard Parker: Ooh, #18.

Nick Stuart: Excuse me?

Richard Parker: Oh, I started itemizing all of the cliché commentary lines recently. I’m sure I’ll forget to do this later. Anyway, that one’s #18.

Nick Stuart: …

As this conversation is going on, Lynch gets up first.

Richard Parker: Oh, hey, Ben Lynch is up first! I guess he’s going to win!

Lynch paintbrushes the back of Hunter’s head a few times. On the third occasion, though, Hunter grabs Lynch’s wrist before it can make contact with his head and rises to his feet.

Lynch’s eyes go wide as Hunter punches him in the face, hard enough to launch him into the corner.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Hunter!

Richard Parker: Get out of there, Ben!

He does not. Ben is stuck in the corner and eats punches in the face for breakfast. It’s not even breakfast time. So those are dinner punches. They’re like dinner rolls if they were baked by an asshole.

Richard Parker: Nick, the narration’s lost its mind again.

Nick Stuart: What?

Hunter whips Lynch into the opposite corner, and then smashes him with a charging clothesline that avalanches him. Hunter pulls away, and Lynch walks two steps forward. He takes a wild swing that hits the third Scott Hunter he swore was there, and then falls flat on his face.

Hunter looks like he’s ready to put things away. He pulls Lynch to his feet and sends him into the ropes before catching him in a scoop slam position. He winds Lynch up and plants him to the mat hard enough to pop Hunter himself up a few inches. The moment Hunter’s back on his feet, he leaps up and drives the point of the elbow into Lynch’s chest!

Hunter stays on for the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

NO!

Nick Stuart: Lynch barely gets the shoulder up!

As Hunter looks up at senior referee Elvis Nixon, Lynch takes the opportunity to roll out of the ring to collect himself. Hunter goes through the top and middle ropes and grabs Lynch by the head to pull him back inside, but Lynch manages to sneak in an eye poke to stun him.

Richard Parker: There you go! Everyone has a weak point, and it’s the eyes! Unless you have no eyes, I guess. Then I guess that’s not that much of a weakness maybe.

Lynch rolls back inside as Hunter tries to clear his vision. A waistlock follows, and then it’s a German suplex with a bridge.

Nick Stuart: GERMAN SUPLEX FROM LYNCH!

ONE.

TWO.

THRE–NO.

Hunter manages to kick out in time, and Lynch jumps up and gets into Nixon’s face about the count. Nixon rolls his eyes, having done this song and dance plenty of times before with a lot of other jerkasses – woobie or not. Lynch realizes that it’s a lost cause to argue with the zebra, and whips a stunned Scott Hunter into the ropes.

When Hunter comes back, Lynch goes to nail him with the uranage neckbreaker.

Nick Stuart: Lynch, looking for Eraserhe– NO!

A hard elbow to the side of Lynch’s head breaks up the attempt to finish things, and Lynch staggers towards the ropes. Hunter presses his advantage, charging Lynch and… Lynch low bridges him to the floor.

Lynch rolls out to the apron. He’s not a high flying kind of guy. But he measures Hunter and leaps off with a flying double axehan–Oh.

Oh no.

Hunter catches him in midair before smashing him with a brutal spinebuster that looks like it would’ve busted the spines of Lynch’s ancestors.

Nick Stuart: SPINEBUSTER!

Richard Parker: Oh no!

Ben Lynch might need a visit to Dr. Fihlguud after that one.

Hunter peels Lynch off of the mat like he’s removing a sticker from the back of his iPhone, and throws him back into the ring. He follows in after him, and waits for Lynch to get to his feet. It takes him some time. The Jerkass Woobie doesn’t even know which part of Canada he’s in, but he definitely doesn’t like it.

He’s so dazed that he puts his back to Hunter, and even Scott Hunter wouldn’t pass up on an opportunity like this one.

WHAM.

Nick Stuart: HUNTER’S MARK!

Lynch hits the ground hard, and Hunter wastes no time wrangling him to the center of the ring to apply the submission hold that he invented (citation needed) and everyone loves (citation definitely needed).

Nick Stuart: FIGURE FOUR LEGLOCK!

Richard Parker: Oh no!

Ben Lynch is trapped in the center of the ring, and while the Bob Ross of Submission Wrestling should otherwise be perfectly capable of finding an escape from this hold, he’s practically out of it. In fact, he’s so out of it that his shoulders are down on the mat, and Elvis Nixon buys this as a viable pinfall.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

It takes a little doing on Hunter’s part to release the hold, but he’s able to untangle himself from the leg lock. Once he’s back to his feet, Vince Howard makes the announcement.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… SCOOOOTTTTTTTTTT HUUUUUUUUNTER!!!

Nick Stuart: A big win for Scott Hunter, especially after fighting Ivan Stanislav to a draw last show!

Richard Parker: Where is he getting this from? I swear he wasn’t like this before Manhunt.

Nick Stuart: Nevertheless, that’s another big win for Scott Hunter!

The scene fades as Elvis Nixon raises Scott Hunter’s arms into the air.

We return from commercial to find the aspect ratio of the broadcast cut to PANAVISION and we know what that means…

The score from “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” hits the PA system as the camera crew does swoop pans across the crowd before abruptly cutting to an extreme closeup of a set of very familiar eyes locked in on the screen…

Then we cut to another set of eyes; these are even more familiar because they belong to PRIME play-by-play announcer Nick Stuart.

Nick Stuart: What the- get that camera out of my

WAAHH WAHHH WAHHHH

We cut again, just inches away to a close up on the eyes of Richard Parker who squints, doing his best Clint Eastwood impression.

Nick Stuart: Don’t encourage this!

We cut back to the first set of eyes as the black bars peel back, IMAX style, to reveal the face of BLAZE CLAYMORE, walking confidently out from the back and onto the rampway.

BOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: The fans here in Winnipeg are NOT happy to hear Ennio Morricone here tonight, Nick. But, I suppose Candians are more used to Poutine Westerns and not Spaghetti Westerns so that tracks.

As Blaze positions himself at the top of the ramp, Sonja Cuchilla, the woman seen with Blaze at ReVival 66, joins the Main Event with a giant tote bag slung around her shoulder with “MOVIES m’ STUFF” printed across the front.

She winks at Blaze as they stroll down the rampway and Blaze, true to form, begins to hand out 8 x 10 headshots of himself to the fans seated nearby – only to have them promptly ripped up and thrown on the ground.

Richard Parker: I don’t understand, Nick, those could be worth something someday! They might as well be tearing up free money!

Blaze holds the ring ropes for Sonja as she slides in, adjusting the VERY heavy looking tote back as she does. He then gestures to ringside for a microphone as Ennio Moriconne’s score slowly fades and the Main Event looks around, peering at the crowd through his red-tinted sunglasses as the boos just get louder.

Claymore slaps the top of the microphone loudly.

POP. POP. POP.

Nick Stuart: Christ! My ears.

The auditory assault gets the fans to shut their mouths and cover their ears as Blaze begins to slowly walk the ring.

Blaze Claymore: How about those Maple Leafs, eh!?

BOOOOOOO!

Blaze looks genuinely confused at the reaction until Sonja leans in and whispers something to him, and he waves it off dismissively and whispers directly into the microphone.

Blaze Claymore: Jets, Maple Leaves, whatever. We all know they’re going to lose to the Kings in the finals.

BOOOOOOOOO!!!

Blaze looks up and then down at the microphone, shrugging.

Blaze Claymore: Look, I’m not out here tonight to talk about how the last time a Canadian team won the Stanley Cup was when I was three months old – the sport your country invented by the way – I am here to congratulate Annabelle Dean on her debut win!

RAHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Seems like the crowd wants to see little Belle out here tonight, Nick.

Nick Stuart: It’s a trap!

Richard Parker: Nice Star Wars reference.

Nick Stuart: Huh?

The Main Event gestures to Sonja who unshoulders the bag and sets it at her feet, watching as Blaze confidently engages the crowd.

Blaze Claymore: As someone who won their own debut match and had no one congratulate me, even though I defeated a literal doctor, I just knew I couldn’t let the same thing happen to Annabelle.

Blaze reaches down into the tote bag and begins to pull something out.

Blaze Claymore: That is why I am gifting the Dean family every Blaze Claymore film I could find ****by raiding every local video rental store I could find! All they need to do is come on down to accept.

Nick Stuart: I can’t think of a better way to keep Annabelle or Bobby away from the ring right now than the threat of owning a Blaze Claymore movie let alone an entire tote bag of them. Jesus. Why are there so many?!

Richard Parker: He’s a prolific actor, Nick. We’re in the presence of Hollywood royalty!

Nick Stuart: Or maybe just the court jester…

Blaze holds up a VHS tape with a sticker on it reading “FIRE SALE. 99¢” over the title.

Blaze Claymore: Ah! This is a classic. “Don’t Tell Dad the Nanny’s in a Coma!” A real comedy classic with a bit of an important lesson for the kiddos. I played “Hospitalized Man #2” opposite one of the Baldwins. Or maybe it was some bald guy named Wyn?

Blaze reaches back into the tote bag like a lounge lizard version of Santa Claus.

Blaze Claymore: Oh! Or how about this one? “Hare Bud!” The story of a rabbit who wins the long jump in the Olympics! A real Easter crowd pleaser.

Blaze continues to dig around in the bag as the crowd begins to grow restless.

Nick Stuart: This is like some kind of Black Mirror version of the Criterion Collection. The Why-Terion Collection!

Richard Parker: But he’s only through two movies, Nick! According to his IMDB page, Blaze has appeared in at least 150 films since 2005!

Nick Stuart: How!? How is that even possible!?

Blaze holds up another VHS, this one with what looks to have some kind of nightmare CGI face on it.

Blaze Claymore: Oh! You’ll love this one! It’s about a university administrator who becomes a chocolate addict and ruins his chance at a perfect life. It’s called Requiem for a De-

The disjointed sound of “You’re the Best” by Joe Esposito playing over Chappel Roan’s “Hot to Go” sounds throughout the arena as the confused crowd looks to the entrance. Equally confused, Blaze Claymore turns towards the entrance as well.

Nick Stuart: Do they not know whose music to play?

“Beautiful” Bobby Dean bursts forth through the curtain as the crowd cheers, smiling triumphantly as the large man plays to his adoring public. A shy Annabelle Dean slowly emerges, almost as if she doesn’t know what to do or where to stand, she simply walks towards the center of the stage and offers a tentative wave.

Richard Parker: Wait, they’re not going to the ring?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if we have enough time left in the show for Bobby to walk allllll that way.

Indeed Bobby shoes no inclination in going to the ring, instead he pulls out a microphone, presumably from his pocket, but with Bobby

Bobby Dean: Listen here Glazed Smores.

Blaze’s face turns sour.

Blaze Claymore: It’s Blaze Claymore.

Bobby Dean: That’s what I said. Anywho, allow me to say, from one loser to another, thank you for your congratulations! We worked hard for this victory and it’s always nice to be appreciated, but seriously, VHS? I prefer my adult films burned onto DVDs or through KaZaA.

Bobby Dean smirks while raising his eyebrows suggestively at Blaze’s companion.

Bobby Dean: She knows what I’m talking about.

An embarrassed Annabelle shakes her head before hiding her face in her hands, as Blaze’s sour expression turns downright rancid.

Blaze Claymore: You know what? You’re out of the will! These gifts are now just for Annabelle and not you, pops. And you keep Sonja’s face away from your perverted eyeballs and her name out of your flipping mouth!

Bobby straightens up and looks over at Annabelle who looks at her father with pleading eyes. The elder Dean instead doubles down.

Bobby Dean: Calm down there, Will Smith, I don’t need to know her name, let alone say it.

(Cue lecherous eyebrows.)

Bobby Dean: Besides**,** even if you did make it up here in one piece to try and lay a hand on me, I saw your match against Annabelle and you’ve got the strength of a wet noodle.

Blaze looks over at Sonja who mirrors Annabelle in her embarrassment, trying to hide her face behind the “MOVIES m’ STUFF” tote bag. He begins to climb through the ropes and out of the ring.

Blaze Claymore: You did a lot more than watch, old man. And I’ll have you know I’ve got the strength of seven-layer lasagna that was baked too long and got real, real firm!

Bobby Dean: And I’ll have you know, I have yet to meet a lasagna I couldn’t finish!

Blaze Claymore: The only thing you know how to finish is your daughter’s matches for her! Do you really have **that little faith in your own flesh and blood that you had to CHEAT to make sure she’d win?

Blaze stops at the base of the ramp, locking eyes with Bobby Dean, seemingly ready to close the distance between them at any moment.

Bobby Dean: Cheat!? How dare you sir! My daughter won fair and square!

The two men begin to step closer towards one another and Annabelle goes from embarrassed to looking concerned. She steps forward to place a calming hand on her father’s tense shoulder..

Blaze Claymore: Do I need to run the footage back for you, old man? Or is your memory receding as fast as your hairline?

Sonja now steps out of the ring to try and place a calming hand of her own on Blaze’s shoulder, but the two men continue to step towards one another.

Bobby Dean:  Are you calling me a liar?

Blaze Claymore: No. I’m calling you a cheat and a liar!

The microphone drops with a thud from Bobby’s hand as his fists close to a clench and Annabelle quickly steps in front of her father placing both hands on his chest in an attempt to stop him from escalating this. Blaze’s microphone soon follows suit as Sonja attempts to do the same as the younger Dean.

Richard Parker: We may need some more assistance out here!

Nick Stuart: Hey, if Blaze wants to end his PRIME career right here and now, I say we let him!

As if reading his mind a bevy of Enemigos rush out from the back! A trio of masked security join Annabelle in restraining Bobby and pulling him towards the back; meanwhile, Sonja and a different set of Enemigos are pulling Blaze the opposite direction as the crowd goes wild.

RAAHHHHH!!

Richard Parker: Let’s head elsewhere as we try and get the ring presentable again for the next match. Even JCH doesn’t deserve to have Blaze Claymore VHS tapes distracting him tonight.

Nick Stuart: On that …. I think we can agree.

We go elsewhere.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Fred Dick still has an impressive collection of Arby’s Beef and Cheddars bags in his mitts.

Is there even an Arby’s in Winnipeg?

Oh, there is? That’s surprising.

Anyway.

Gnoshing away on them beefs and cheddars, the King of Wrong Style watches from the shadows that he is doing a poor job of hiding in.

And in the hallway, one Rexton William Bader babbles away on his phone, air tubes hanging over his neck, rolling lazily down the backstage hallway.

Rexton William Bader: “–can’t believe they’re asking Jason Snow to pay thirty grand in fines, and then tacking on late fees if he doesn’t pay. What kind of bullshit is that? He gotta pay for everyone dumb enough to get in front of Hayes Hanlon throwing a hissy fit? No, no, don’t get me wrong–he’ll do it. He’ll pay. And another thing. The dressing room they gave me doesn’t have a wheelchair accessible bathroom. I mean, well, it does, but the way they mopped the floor in there, it was like my wheels were made of skates. Yeah. Pissed all over myself. I know, I know. Anyway. Keeping a tally for when it comes time to go to the safety board. Lawsuits right out the ass in this place. It’s amazing, re–”

Bader’s head whips down the hall, to find the Intense Champion himself strutting in his direction. Intense Belt over his shoulder, and a sneer behind the ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: (pointing to the stitches and bandage along his hairline) How about this one? Is that a lawsuit you wanna get involved in?

The Event Horizon stalks. Measured steps, closer down the hallway as Bader looks over his shoulder.

Hayes Hanlon: What? Snow’s not around? What a damn shame.

Bader puts the phone on his lap and begins to wheel back, slowly, creekily.

Hammerin’ Hayes walks closer. Slowly.

Hayes Hanlon: What a shame.

The Intense Champ then places his shoe against the base of Bader’s seat, between the legs.

Hayes Hanlon: But I guess he’s been a silent majority lately, hasn’t he?

Hanlon shoves the chair hard with his foot, sending it, and Bader, rolling back. Rexton frantically grabs at his wheels to slow the roll.

Rexton William Bader: Hayes, Hayes…

Smiling.

Rexton William Bader: I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I think, me and you, maybe we had a misunderst–

Hayes Hanlon: Man, I don’t know where the hell you came from, Bader, but I’m getting pretty friggin’ tired of you and that oxygen tank.

Hayes steps forward, kicking into the wheelchair again, sending it rolling further.

Hayes Hanlon: Sorry, was that a lawsuit?

Another kick, forcing Bader to grip the wheels to keep from tipping over.

Rexton William Bader: Sir, this is a wheelchair you’re k–

Hayes Hanlon: Or that?

Rexton William Bader: Hayes, look at me. ****I’m in a wheelch–

And another.

Hayes Hanlon: Or THAT!!??

“That’s enough.”

The Comeback Kid doesn’t look; he doesn’t need to. PRIME’s only got so many Dudley Do-Right motherfuckers, and just one would bother sticking his nose in here. Instead, Hayes shakes his head with a snicker, before looking up to glare at the New Diamond.

Hayes Hanlon: Shit, Nate, you really just can’t leave me the hell alone, can you?

Colton steps into the shot, looking exactly how we’ve come to expect him–fresh kicks, blue jeans, signature ring jacket…and a stern expression on his face.

Nate Colton: Sure I can. Just as soon as you stop trying to injure people who can’t defend themselves.

Rexton has slyly positioned himself on the safe side of Nate Colton.

Hanlon scoffs, and laughs with a bright smile at Colton.

Hayes Hanlon: For real, dude? This guy has managed to clean my clock twice now. You weren’t so friggin’ self righteous then, were you, DiAmOnD?

Nate Colton: Yeah, well. Maybe I could have stopped one of those if some shitbag hadn’t smoked me in the head when I wasn’t looking.

Rexton William Bader: Guys, it’s been good catching up, but I think I’m–

Hayes Hanlon: That’s rich, because I don’t recall anybody asking you to “stop” a freakin’ thing. Youngblood’s not here to hold your hand right now, man. And Sykes left you in the dust a while ago. And so far? Nobody’s put that Sheriff badge on your chest yet.

Rexton William Bader: Yeah I’ll just be on my wwWWWAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?

Hanlon rears up, and plants his foot against Bader’s chair one more time, kicking it hard, and sending Rexton into the legs of the New Diamond.

Hayes Hanlon: Now’s your chance to fuck off, Nate.

Rexton William Bader: That’s enough! I don’t know if you’ve fucking noticed, but I’m in a FUCKING WHEELCHAIR! That means I CAN’T FUCKING WALK asshole! This is a FEDERAL FUCKING CRIME! People get the chair for picking on the paraplegic community, fucker. They–

Nobody’s paying attention.

And Nate Colton, to no one’s surprise, has not fucked off.

Nate Colton: Damn near two years now, and you still don’t understand.

The New Diamond regards the Intense Champion with a look of scorn, mixed with disappointment, mixed with…pity? Certainly not the way you should be looking at a four-time champion.

Nate Colton: Trust me, Hayes. I wish I could just let you and Snow beat each other to death. I’d step over your bodies on my way to catering. They’ve got a waffle bar tonight.

The fact that he’s skipping Waffle Night should explain how serious the situation is. And also why Nate’s in such a bad mood.

Nate Colton: But no. Whenever you two–and this shithead–get together, you can’t control yourselves. So someone needs to be the adult in the room…and we all know goddamn well it ain’t gonna be you.

Hayes Hanlon: And that’s you, Nate? You’re the “adult in the room?”

The Comeback Kid takes short steps forward, adjusting his belt on his shoulder. Colton steps directly in front of Bader, putting himself in between Jason Snow’s mouthpiece and the advancing Event Horizon.

Nate Colton: It’s a low bar around here. Shame you can’t reach it.

The Event Horizon snorts, and smiles at the New Diamond.

Hayes Hanlon: I’m not too worried about that…

And in an instant, Hayes shoves Colton hard in the chest. Nate stumbles back, unfortunately into Bader’s chair. Doing his best not to injure a man in a wheelchair, Colton back-rolls over Bader and onto the floor.

With quick thinking and agility, Nate rolls with the momentum, and finds his footing.

Just in time to take the Intense Title square to the god-damn nose.

Blood splatters against the belt’s silver polish, and the New Diamond falls hard against the floor. Hayes stands over him, belt in hand, breathing fire through his nose.

Hayes Hanlon: …the bar can always get lower.

Meanwhile, Bader is flabbergasted at the events taking place, looking left and right between Hayes and Nate.

Rexton William Bader: Like I was TRYING to do before, I’m just gonna go mind my own business now. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Hanlon. Fucker. That’s who I was on the phone with just now. And he’s good. He’s real good. You keep your bullshit up and I’ll OWN that mustache of yours. Prick.

Hanlon responds with one more good hard kick to the chair, sending it rolling back one more time, coming to a stop against Colton’s stirring body. Hayes leans in close to Bader with a vicious sneer

Hayes Hanlon: Tell Snow that the both of you better back the hell off. It gets a lot worse from here. Tell Nate the same when he wakes up.

Hanlon stands tall and turns, leaving Bader behind to mutter more threats. And from the shadows, Fred has watched the violence unfold and – for the first time in a long time – felt a phantom tingle in the Ghost of Dickmas Past. The smash to the nose, the shit talk, it was like God Himself had blessed Fred with a view of all his kinks combined into one.

Fred Dick: I’m turned all the way on right now. Holy shid–

Hayes turns his head, catching Fred’s voice from the shadows, and laughs through his nose.

Hayes Hanlon: Told you I’d fuckin’ show you.

With a sneer, Hayes places the bloody Intense belt back to his shoulder, and saunters off down the hall. Fred, on the verge of phantom-busting, watches his ass jiggle away, until he’s interrupted by a voice from the shadows.

Mysterious Janitor: Hey buddy.

Fred gasps, turns around.

There stands a janitor, lingering in the shadows like a spider.

Fred Dick: The hell you doin’ creepin’ on me like some kinda psycho?

Mysterious Janitor: Well, if you’re feeling horny, how about you slide on back here, into my little web in the darkness?

Fred Dick looks at the Janitor.

Fred Dick: Man, I’m just saying, it feels like you’re the type of guy that’s gonna end up going to Hell.

Elsewhere…

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one-fall! Introducing first…rom Folsom, Louisiana…

“The Best” by AWOLNATION hits the speakers.

Vince Howard: THE FOREVER MAN! THE VOW OF VIRTUE! THE ALPHA MALE LOVE BOAT!

Nick Stuart: Vince is still on this, isn’t he?

Richard Parker: Say what you will, maybe this will help JCH gain a stiff upper lip.

Vince Howard: JONATHAAAAAAN-CHRISTOPHERRRRRRRR HAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!

A sullen Jonathan-Christopher Hall emerges from behind the REVIVAL logo. He sports black board shorts, frizzy blonde hair and heavy bags under his eyes that suggest he’s going through another depressive episode. This time, though, he’s doing maybe just a hair better, holding it together a hair more strongly, keeping his chin just a little higher. If waves of depressive tears are coming, he’s doing a decent job holding up the dam.

Hall reaches ringside. He rolls under the ring, and slinks to his corner, waiting for his opponent.

The lights dim and the slow melodic song of “Monsters,” by Phish begins to play. Steve Harrison slowly emerges to the entrance ramp. His green robe flows behind him as he takes a few steps. His eyes are closed as he stops at the top of ramp:

“Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my head

Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my head”

Steve’s eyes open at the last mention of Monsters and “Set Your Soul Free,” by Trey Anastasio w/ Derek Trucks begins to rapidly play. He puts his arms in the air and nods towards the crowd as he begins to walk a bit faster down the ramp.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, from… currently unknown, weighing 250 pounds and standing six feet five inches tall…. PRIME Five Star Champion…. Steve Harrison!!!!

He smirks as the fans react to him, he doesn’t seem to care if they boo or cheer as he concentrates on the ring he will be competing in tonight. He gets to the steps and swiftly makes his way up and into the ring.

He walks to the middle and looks out at the crowd and then runs from one corner to the other and then leans against the turnbuckle and takes his robe off and hands it to the ring attendant as he prepares mentally for the battle ahead.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re underway! The championship may not be on the line, but this could provide major momentum going forward to whoever wins!

Hall and Harrison waste no time locking up in a tight collar-and-elbow, The Forever Man looking to show off some of his improving technical chops against the reigning Five Star Champion – and it’s effective for a moment, until Harrison uses his size advantage to press Hall into the ropes.

Harrison keeps the pressure on, and soon Hall is properly tangled into the ropes. Referee Ashley Barlow steps in and begins a five count; Harrison looks at her, releases on 3, and then chops Hall squarely across the chest!

WHACK

JCH winces for a moment, then finds a way to get free of the ropes – just in time to get stuck in a front facelock! Harrison pulls Hall’s arm over and hoists him up – front suplex to the ropes!

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s stomach can’t feel good after that one!

Richard Parker: After everything he’s been through? A ring rope to the gut is probably child’s play!

Hall stumbles onto the ring apron and kneels over, holding his stomach. Harrison takes a few steps back, charges, and lowers the shoulder!

SMACK, SPLAT

Nick Stuart: Ouch, that shoulder tackle from the Five Star Champion just sent the former Universal Champion crashing to the floor!

BOOOOO!

Ashley Barlow admonishes Harrison, who steps through the ropes and stalks his opponent from the apron. Hall’s back is turned as he slowly gets to his feet. Harrison points at Hall, measures, and teases that he’s going for a big high flying maneuver~~…

…only to gently hop to the floor, march forward, and club the back of Hall’s neck with an elbow strike.

BOOOOOOOOO!

Hall reels from the strike, but turns and fires a right hand of his own! It connects!

Another right from JCH! The referee’s counting both men out, and she’s at 3 – Hall grabs the back of Harrison’s bald head and looks to throw him into the ring steps – Harrison reverses! – HALL REVERSES BACK! Hall is sent headfirst into the steps!

THUNK

Richard Parker: Look at pretty boy Hall working a little dirty!

Ashley Barlow: 5! …6!

Nick Stuart: The Almasy champion rolls back into the ring, and – hang on, he’s rolled back out, it looks like he just wanted to reset the referee’s ten count!

Richard Parker: Huh. Another surprise!

JCH makes his way over to Harrison, who has a welt forming on his forehead, and positions himself behind the Miracle Man – German Suplex! JCH raises an arm in celebration and looks to follow up – Harrison has just enough time to recover, pops up, and delivers a German Suplex of his own!

The referee’s fresh count is up to 6 – this time, Harrison rolls under the bottom rope, then back to the outside, to break the count.

Harrison proceeds to stomp on the grounded Hall. He then grabs Hall by the trunks and the scruff and HEAVES him into the ring steps!

THUNK

Richard Parker: An eye for an eye from the Jellyfish!

Harrison doesn’t stop there, as he grabs the back of Hall’s head, pulls his hair, then slams his face over and over into the top step!

THUNK THUNK THUNK

A trickle of red begins to meander down Hall’s forehead.

Ashley Parker: 6! …7! …8!

Satisfied that he’s gotten the better of the exchange on the outside, Harrison throws Hall back into the ring and follows in close pursuit.

Harrison stomps at JCH’s head and torso a few more times before shooting the half!

ONE!

TW-SHOULDER UP!

RAHHHH

The Five Star Champion frowns a bit – then gets to his feet, lifts up JCH, repositions in a fluid motion – SAITO SUPLEX! Another cover!

ONE!

TWO!

TH-SHOULDER UP!

RAHHHHHHHHH!

Harrison is annoyed again, and this time it seems like his anger is being directed at Ashley Barlow. He slaps his hands together three times, a classic “Count Faster” request that always goes over well with wrestling officials.

JCH has found a way to roll away from the center of the ring and beneath the bottom ropes, and he uses the space to catch his breath a bit. After his somewhat heated conversation with the referee concludes, Harrison turns his attention to where he remembers leaving JCH, only to see that the Forever Man is much further away. The good news, at least in Harrison’s mind, is that JCH is a bit wobbly and has to use the ropes themselves to get vertical.

Harrison sees the opportunity before him and begins to run – rebounds off the opposite ropes, charges full speed, lowers his head for a HUGE shoulder tackle…

Hall pulls down the top rope! Harrison goes ass-over-teakettle crashing to the floor!

Hall, his forehead a bit more bloody, seems to have his wits about him enough to fight again – and he leaps high in the air…

Frog splash!

THUMP!

It connects!!

OHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: The Space Between Us just got a whole lot smaller for Steve Harrison! JCH got ALL of that splash!

Richard Parker: Eugh, the minute I try to like this guy, I remember what he calls some of his moves. Next you’re going to say he’ll Crash Into Me.

Nick Stuart: …well he certainly crashed into Steve Harrison! Back and forth momentum, and so much of it taking place outside the ring!

Both men are down on the outside, either catching their breath (JCH) or checking to see whether or not their ribcage just exploded (Harrison). Barlow is forced, once again, to begin a ten count. JCH gets to his feet first, after some struggle.

He goes over to the prone Harrison and tries to lift him up and bring him back to the ring, but Harrison is larger, heavier, and not interested in helping – and so those 250 pounds suddenly feel like 500 pounds of dead weight. JCH uses all his might to try to move Harrison, and he almost succeeds – only for Harrison to wrap his arms around JCH! He squeezes as hard as he can, almost in a bear hug!

JCH struggles to get loose and starts throwing back elbows, one of which catches Harrison squarely in the knot that’s formed on his shiny dome – this forces the break, and JCH throws a spinning back kick in a flash!

Harrison ducks, and rakes Hall’s eyes!

BOOOOOO!

Ashley Barlow: I saw that Harrison, bring it back in the ring! 5! …6!

JCH stumbles a bit on his feet, hands over his face, and Harrison connects with a stiff lariat that drops Hall!

As Barlow’s count reaches 8, Harrison hops up to the apron, steps between the top two ropes…and slowly, sarcastically, winkingly, he steps back outside again, resetting the count. The referee admonishes Harrison again, but the Jellyfish lets these matters float on past…

…or at least he tries to. Barlow forces Harrison to turn and face her!

OHHHH!

And lets him know that he’s getting on her last nerve! The two bark at each other some more, Harrison again telling her that if she counted faster earlier in the match, they wouldn’t even be having this discussion –

and very suddenly, Harrison is no longer on Barlow’s eye level!

THUNK

Nick Stuart: JCH just grabbed Steve Harrison’s feet and pulled them out from under him! His face just smacked the ring apron HARD, partner!

Richard Parker: Hardest part of the ring! That welt’s looking worse!

Indeed, what once was a bump has now turned into half of a golf ball on the top of Harrison’s skull. He holds his hand to it and winces almost immediately at the touch with how much it smarts.

JCH follows up with a falling DDT!

THUNKKK

RAHHHHHHH!

He pops up and pumps up the Canadian crowd! A chant even breaks out!

J-C-H! J-C-H!

J-C-H! J-C-H!

Richard Parker: The kind of love he never got from Vickie!

Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall is one of the most successful wrestlers of the ReVival era – he’s a former Universal Champion, a winner of the grueling Almasy tournament…and I think the fans are starting to give this man more credit!

It washes over Hall like a hug, a lovely wave, and he almost sheds a tear about it…

Ashley Barlow: 5! …6!

Ah, hell – there’s still a match to win, and JCH knows he can’t pin Harrison on the outside. He goes over and gets Harrison to his feet – much more successfully than the last time he tried – and he dumps the Jellyfish beneath the bottom rope and into the ring. JCH quickly follows in pursuit, steps into the ring, and snatches his opponent!

He’s going for the chickenwings, double and elevated!

Nick Stuart: JCH looking for Stand By Me!

Richard Parker: AGAIN with that crap!

Nick Stuart: But Steve Harrison is fighting back! Their arms are locked together, it’s a battle of strength and will now!

Harrison pushes as hard as he can and finds a way to escape the predicament – and he launches forward! He’s going for his own chickenwing, with an extra side of crossface!

Nick Stuart: Harrison going for the Harracle here! Back and forth – no! JCH escapes, and it’s a chickenwing battle! Hall has it locked – no, it’s Harrison! …no! It’s Hall!

Each man grapples and reverses and turns and spins in an increasingly complicated technical sequence, each in pursuit of their own chickenwing holds. It’s honestly a little silly to look at, but don’t tell these two competitors that – ESPECIALLY not Harrison, who’s looking angrier and angrier the longer it’s taking him to put away JCH and the longer his head continues to throb…

…and then, it registers to him what he has to do. He sees the drying smudges of blood on Hall’s face – no longer an active bleed, no longer a significant concern for the Forever Man.

Harrison decides “fuck it, let’s change that”, and throws his head forward into Hall’s!

THOKK

HEADBUTT!

Both men stumble back. Hall is bleeding again, the noggin knocker opening up the cut a bit wider than before. Harrison is just as bad off, and he holds his head in serious pain; though, seeing the blood coming out of his opponent feels like a solid consolation prize.

After a few moments, it’s Harrison who achieves first clarity, and he charges at Hall, leaps low, and drills him in the shins with a dropkick! This sends Hall crashing to his knees, and he begins to army crawl towards the ropes – Harrison rebounds off the opposite ropes, sprints, and CRUSHES the back of Hall’s neck with a Knee Trigger!

Nick Stuart: ENLIGHTENMENT BY THE FIVE STAR CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: It may have been TOO enlightening, look!

JCH’s torso is through the ropes and dangling precariously outside, the only thing keeping him from going full “splat” being his feet, which are tangled in the ropes. Harrison knows he has his man if, ironically for tonight, he could actually keep him IN the ring, and he tries to frantically pull his opponent in by his feet…

…he doesn’t have the grip! JCH becomes untangled, but the balance is too far outside, and he falls to the floor for what feels like the hundredth time this match! Harrison is mad – maybe at himself, DEFINITELY at Ashley Barlow who’s telling him again to keep the action in the damn ring (he was trying, ok? My god), and 100% at Jonathan-Christopher Hall, who should’ve been pinned about 12 minutes ago.

He argues with Barlow again, and even motions that maybe he’ll just stay in the ring and go for the count-out. Barlow, fresh out of warnings for this man, doesn’t begin her ten count and insists that Harrison deal with this newest outside-the-ring situation he’s caused, and essentially indicates that she’d be happy to start counting when he gets off his bullshit.

Visibly pissed, Harrison steps through the ropes, staring daggers at Barlow the whole time. She just gives a flat “I won’t be bothered by you” stare right back at him, and begins counting. We catch a loud “UNBELIEVABLE!” from Harrison as he steps through the ropes. He slowly makes his way over to the prone JCH, who leaps up and throws a stunning right hand into Harrison’s face!

RAHHHH!

Richard Parker: He’s still got fight left in him!

It quickly turns into a hockey brawl, both men firing fists into their respective head injuries, both men wearing down from the struggle as Ashley Barlow’s count reaches 4.

Amazingly, JCH gets the better of the exchange against the larger man! He throws one, two, three more big rights, takes a few steps back, and throws a charging flying back elbow (one wonders if that’s still called Chasing Vickie, or if we’ve moved onto calling it something like Who’s The Boss given, you know, things) – it connects!

Ashley Barlow: 6! …7!

JCH leaps into action and begins setting up for the Stand By Me! He just about has Harrison in position…

NO! Harrison powers out!

Ashley Barlow: 8!

Hall runs back at Harrison – Harrison ducks – BACK BODY DROP – Hall splats to the ground!

Ashley Barlow: 9!

It’s hard to tell if Harrison realizes just how late in the ten count this is, because is face gives the impression of someone who feels in control of the match, like it’s time to send him in the ring, hit him with the Harracle, and call it a night.

So he does that – at least the first part. He rolls JCH in…

Ashley Barlow: 10! Ring the bell!

DING DING DING

OHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: What in the world just happened?

Nick Stuart: Harrison looks as confused as us, it looks like the ref is having a conversation with Vince Howard, let’s listen to the call here…

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner as a result of a count out! The Forever Man! JONATHAAAAAN-CHRISTOPHERRRRRR HALLLLLLLLLLLL!

“The Best” by AWOLNATION blasts through the speakers and Steve Harrison is PISSED! He screams at Barlow over the call – Barlow, for her part, has heard it all and can’t be bothered. As JCH gets to his feet, she raises his arm in victory and points. Hall looks a bit surprised, but as he hears his music playing, he taps his forehead – sees the red, gets woozy, gets over it – and turns towards Harrison.

He does the universal hands-across-belly motion one does when they indicate they sure do believe they should be a champion, and that this is where the belt would go.

Nick Stuart: Big win against a PRIME champion for Jonathan-Christopher Hall!

Richard Parker: Next time might not be non-title action for Steve Harrison, you know he’s going to come into his next match in some sort of way after how this one shook out!

Nick Stuart: Coming up, our main event of the evening – Cecilworth Farthington looks to defend the Universal Championship from The Anglo Luchador! But first, this!

We cut away.

Crash: The Hot Dog Hero emerges from catering, forever hungry, stuffing his face. With a swipe and smile, it’s clear he’s ready to put himself on the line should Looch Bro need it.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Without eyes ahead, New York’s Finest runs into a pedestrian on accident. He grips the man’s shoulders, notices how fuckin’ boney they are, before shuffling back with fists ready. Why fists ready? Because it’s boney. Like, too boney. Way too many bones.

Woven together or just clanking together between pieces of meat. It immediately triggers some primitive reaction in Crash to prepare for a fight.

Snark Darkly: Crash Jackson, my boy.

Lips stretch into the friendliest smile Darkly had ever tried to put on thus far. Though he strains at first, the smile stretches into abnormal proportions resulting in Snark to puff out his chest in pride. More smile means more friendly. He tucks his hands into his pockets peering at Crash from beneath the brim of his Panama Jack hat.

Snark Darkly: My client would like a word.

Crash: Don’t have time for that, Mr. All Broney. I’ve got to go show my boy some love.

An unpleasant, warm breeze wafts down the hall behind Crash. It almost feels like this dense, foul scented breeze runs long fingers across Jackson’s shoulders. As soon as the sensation is there, the tainted air is immediately sucked back out of the hall.

Max Kael: Crash, buddy, paaaal. Nobody to super-kick a door in my face this week, ya lil’Crashcal…heh-heh..

A few feet behind Crash lurches the Lord of Kaelsalvania. He wears a smile but there is nothing friendly about it.

This is the reason for the fistballs.

Crash: You slimy motherfu-

Shadows shift. Lights flicker. In a jump cut, Max escapes a swing from Jackson the way a curveball treats Aaron Judge.

WHOOSH

The lone Hero spins to face his greatest foe. Met with upward, open palms. And that… smile.

Crash: Did you have somethin’ to say or just lookin’ for the heat, homie?!

Max folds himself in the middle with an exaggerated bow.

Max Kael: Easy, Crash, easy. You’re showing promise with this more… hmm… cool and collected version of Crash Jackson. Let’s keep it that way, cool and collected. Now..

Snapping back up to his full height, Max glowers over his former friend like some unwanted storm cloud.

Max Kael: Do I need a reason to say hello to my good friend… well former good friend? Especially so close to our anniversary. Does Violent Purple even remember? Hmm. Was she even still around?

Max presses his finger against his lips thoughtfully before he side eyes Crash. The Northern Light flinches, unsure of VP’s exact whereabouts, before he steps chest to chest with Max.

Crash: Your head would be a nice anniversary gift.

Max snickers. Crash doesn’t move. Kael does another half-hearted gesture. The lights flicker again. Crash wants out.

Crash: Whatever you’re up to Max… give it a break, bro.

Max Kael: Well you know what they say Crash?

Both Max and Darkly slink back down the hall behind Cash. The shadows stretch out and collect them, both slowly vanishing back to wherever they came from. Max’s voice lingers for a moment longer.

Max Kael: No rest for the wicked… heh-heh.

ReVival moves on.

We return ringside of the Canada Life Centre, a wide shot panning up from the center of the ring. The fans in Winnepeg are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. The pomp and pageantry. The camera returns from its rise, to Vince Howard, microphone in hand. Beside him is Senior Official Elvis Nixon, the regular for such assignments now, his arms held behind him, expressionless as he stares outward to the crowd.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

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

A subtle nod. There are a few claps, but nothing overwhelming. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard for his signature call.

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 Canada Life Center’s lights dim, a loud roar belting from the crowd. 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

When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.

In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a  silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.

Yet here he stands, rightfully, an Emperor of the ring.

36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON

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.

One never knows if they will ever have another bite of the apple.

The Financier understood that. So close so many times just to be in a position for a taste, only to falter. The sweetness is precious, sacred. It’s why he felt empowered to make the most of that opportunity. To complete the mission he, at first, seeded. Now, he is one with it. Consumed with and of it.

Such an imperative is fueled by the thought of a singular opportunity, but what if such a thought is unfounded? After all, the future has yet to be written, whether they be ordained or not. The Shogun has had both immense peaks and horrific valleys. He fights with all his passion, all his desire, all of his skill, and leaves it upon the canvas in which he, once again, seeks the most ultimate of prizes. Many might not have thought he could fight his way back.

They also thought he’d be unable to surmount all but one of them in the unbridled killing fields of the Manhunt. Despite such assessment, even the Lord Emperor Champion fell to him on that night.

Improbable, but not impossible. You don’t need to be a hero to accomplish the goal…

But it might help in the face of such a sticky situation.

The show cuts back down to the ring with Nick and Dick.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! The pinnacle is over! It’s MAIN EVENT — UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP is on the line — TIME!!

Richard Parker: I’m already on the edge of my seat, and it has nothing to do with you know who being down here. What? No plus one? Sorry not sorry.

“You know who” is, well, you know who. He made his way down to the ring during the pinnacle of all sports, making sure to yawn and laugh a whole bunch while doing so.

Cancer Jiles: Now Dick, that’s no way to treat a fellow Hall of Famer. Besides, you know why I’m out here. I got dibs, Jack. Tell them all at home watching why.

Dirty Dick swallows his tongue. However, Nick the Quick does oblige the special guest commentator.

Nick Stuart: Yes, you somehow miraculously won Manhunt on the backs of your brethren. That said, and as such, who do you want to win here tonight? Who do you want to face at UltraViolence for the Universal Championship?

The King of Crumbs takes a second, and appears to be in a state of deep thought and consideration.

Cancer Jiles: Does it even matter?

Ha.

The arena lights darken, and the PRIMEView goes blank for a moment.

Tense silence.

And then a blinding flash of white light materializes, not into the square-jawed Japanese man we’re used to seeing on the screen for the challenger. No.

A silhouette of a man standing facing a sunset.

“When I came back, I swore to myself this run wasn’t going to be a failure if I didn’t win the Universal Championship.”

Jump-cut to footage of The Anglo Luchador running away from Balaam, the Mask of Malice, at Culture Shock 2022, then back to the silhouette.

“And for awhile, I believed it.”

Jump-cut to a bloodied Luchador, clutching the Intense Championship, then back to the silhouette.

“I felt a scratch though. I don’t know when, but it started tearing at my insides.”

Jump-cut to the Luchador slumped in the ring, an out-of-focus Brandon Youngblood victorious with the Universal Championship behind him, then back.

“Why stick around so long? Everyone who was here from start still around got to the top.”

Jump-cut to a montage of Hayes Hanlon, Cancer Jiles, and Jared Sykes sending the Luchador to the canvas.

“People cut the line in front of me.”

The montage continues with Ivan Stanislav, FLAMBERGE, and Cecilworth Farthington doing the same, then back to the silhouette.

“I gotta tell you, there were times I thought about walking into that sunset and going home to be a family man.”

Jump-cut to The Luchador sitting in the corner, limp and defeated, then back to the field.

“People in this company, in my life, hell, even my family, told me to hang it up.”

A second figure with longer hair sidles up next to the silhouette, and two shorter figures move in.

“But I also told my kids that if you have a task, you need to see it through, pass or fail.”

Jump-cut to Manhunt, the Luchador pinning Farthington. Jump-cut again to him and Zapp Scatino walking to the ring, then to him facing down Jason Snow before going back to the family in black on the sunset.

“I have to see this through. It’s now or never. I’m not getting any younger. My body creaks, my head aches, and it gets harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning.”

The main silhouette bends down and delivers a kiss to the shortest member of the group.

“Am I okay if this doesn’t happen?”

Jump-cut to The Luchador staring off at the ramp in the ring, ready to fight.

“I hope I don’t have to find that out. Winnipeg. PRIME. Wrestling. I’m coming for the Universal Championship.”

Back to the silhouette, the main one turning around and moving forward, predictably revealing him to be The Anglo Luchador.

TAL: And I’m not leaving here tonight without it.

BANG!

One monumental burst of pyrotechnics dovetails into “Cynic” by Local H.

YEAH!

The Anglo Luchador steps out on top of the stage, black towel draped around his neck, flanked by Sebastian Gold and Crash Jackson.

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

The other Heroes pat him on the shoulders as his head bows before scooting back behind the curtain.

Richard Parker: All this excitement just to see him get tapped out in 30 seconds.

Nick Stuart: Rich, I don’t think The Anglo Luchador, who came within a hair’s breadth of winning Manhunt over the man sitting next to us here, is going to roll over and die here in the main event of ReVival 67.

Richard Parker: He’s from Philadelphia. They choke there. It’s habit.

Cancer Jiles: yawns

Nick Stuart: We were at the same Super Bowl party, Rich.

Richard Parker: Yeah, I don’t remember much about the game, I was too busy making acquaintances with a hot little number.

Nick Stuart: The only hot little number you were familiar with that night was the crab rangoon dip.

Cancer Jiles: I bet even the dip shot him down.

Richard Parker: audibly seething

The Luchador slowly stalks to the ring, taking in the gravity of the moment.

Vince Howard: The following match is for the PRIME Universal Championship!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!

Vince Howard: Introducing first the challenger. He hails from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and weighs in at 211 pounds, and he is the Spear of Huitzilopochtli, a member of Nobody’s Heroes, and the first Intense Champion of the ReVival. He is The Anglo…. LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Listen to that reaction, Rich!

Richard Parker: Can’t, I put in my noise-cancelling earbuds.

Cancer Jiles: 💤

The Luchador finally reaches ringside, sliding into the ring, and popping to his feet with his arms in the air. He ventures over to the corner to await Mr. Finish Line.

Nick Stuart: Say Jiles, is there any part of you pulling for the guy who grew up on the same streets as you did?

Cancer Jiles: Tommy is more of a Suburban Saxon than a city one, so no.

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.

Richard Parker: There he is! THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! YOUR CHAMPION! OUR CHAMPION! MY CHAMPION! AND MY GOD DOES HE LOOK GOOD WITH THAT BELT AROUND HIS WAIST! MUCH BETTER THAN YOU EVER LOOKED WITH IT!

Cancer Jiles: Now you know that is a lie. No one ever looked better than I did with that belt around their waist. NO ONE. Not to mention this idiot has a hoodie covering it like it’s got on a damn burka.

The camera quickly zooms into the self-assured smile that’s cracked upon the face of The Financier 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 entirely match his purposeful march to the ring, his shoulders swaying to the tune of “Choke”.

Nick Stuart: He’s all smiles right now, but rest assured the Champion will have his work cutout for him tonight in his first title defense.

Cecil’s hands never leave the pockets of his hoodies 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.

Elvis Nixon retrieves the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP, shows it to TAL, shows it to the audience, hands it over to a ringside attendant that’s seated far away from Cancer Jiles, and then goes over the rules of engagement with both competitors before calling for the bell.

Cancer Jiles: Say, did I ever tell you guys the story about the time Doozer egged Cecil right in the kisser?

Ding!

NIck Stuart: HERE WE GO!

Champion and challenger stand across the ring from each other. They remain stoic, as if the match itself is playing out inside their heads at a hundred times the speed. What works, what doesn’t, and what will ultimately give them the upperhand. Finally, after a good thirty seconds of mentally stretching each other, they both start to walk towards the center of the ring.

Then…

SLAP~!

Cancer Jiles: What did The Anglo Luchador’s five fingers say to Cecilworth’s face!?

Nick Stuart: Holy cow that spun the Champion around like a top!

Richard Parker: WHAT A CHEAP SHOT!

Farthington seethes. TAL smiles, and goes for another slap across the champ’s face. This time though, Cecil blocks it, and then lands a stiff European uppercut that sends the challenger to his throne reeling all the way back to the corner.

Richard Parker: You gotta wonder if The Anglo Luchador is dehydrated now after all that spit just when flying out of his mouth, don’t ya?

Dirty Dick snorts resoundingly.

Farthington charges TAL and delivers a flush elbow to his sternum. Then, he uses the top rope as leverage to wrench poor Tommy’s arm, and from the sound of TAL’s screaming one could safely assume it does not feel good.

Cancer Jiles: What’s that, Tom? You want more onions on your cheesesteak?

Ha.

Senior PRIME referee Elvis Nixon threatens Cecil to break the hold, and reaches the count of 4 before he does so. TAL drops to the canvas clutching at his arm. Cecil and Elvis have a small sidebar chat that seems to be going one way. TAL gets to his feet, only to be properly and unceremoniously scoop slammed by Farthngton who then immediately goes back to “talking” to Elvis Nixon.

Richard Parker: No surprises here, but the PRIME UNIVERSAL Champion is in control of all aspects of the match! We might be able to make the 11:30 flight at this rate!

Cancer Jiles: I fly private so he must be talking to you.

Nick Stuart: We know.

When Cecil returns his attention to Tom, he realizes his adversary is no longer inside the ring, and that TAL has rolled under the bottom rope and to the outside to gather himself. Cecil doesn’t give chase though. Instead, he once again turns his attention back to Elvis Nixon and demands he start his count at 4, or at the very least, three.

Nick Stuart: What was that about being in control?

Nick is referring to TAL reaching under the bottom rope, grabbing Cecil by the ankles, and then pulling him outside of the ring. After a flurry of rights and lefts, The Anglo Luchador Irish whips a dazed Cecilwoth into the barricade, and then follows that up by Irish whipping him again into the STEEL RING STEPS!

CLANG~!

Cecil hits the stairs stiff, and instead of tumbling over them he simply sticks to the side. Tommy rolls into the ring to break the count, quickly slides back out, grabs the Champion and lands a standing suplex on the outside.

THUD.

Nick Stuart: The Champ in a bit of trouble here! The Anglo Luchador going back to his Intense Championship roots may have caught him off guard!

Cancer Jiles: I don’t care how good you are; it’s nearly impossible to out wrestle that crumb. I know. Trust me. Taking the action to the outside, and beating the shit out of him there is a much more viable winning strategy.

Nick Stuart: Uh, thanks for the expert analysis?

Farrthington rolls around on the outside like he’s on fire. TAL helps him back up to his feet, and rolls him back into the ring. Instead of following suit, the Philly native ascends the turnbuckles, and launches a missile dropkick at his competition.

Nick Stuart: DIRECT HIT!

Richard Parker: NO!

TAL quickly scurries over to Cecilworth’s prone body and goes for a pin!

Nick Stuart: He’s got a leg hooked!

1!

2!

FOOT ON THE ROPE!

Cancer Jiles: Guess you could say he hooked the wrong leg. TypicAL.

Ha.

Nixon points to Cecil’s foot and the match goes on. TAL tries to get back up to his feet, but while doing so Cecil is able to wrangle him up for a roll up!

1!

2!

KICK OUT!

TAL powers outs, gets up to his feet without incident, launches a clothesline that Cecilworth barely ducks under, and gets rolled up yet again. This time around though it’s via crucifix pin.

1!

2!

WIGGLE OUT!

Cecil is first to his feet, with TAL somewhat slowed by frustration. He swings a closed fist, but the Philly native is able to sidestep it, and roll Cecilworth up with a pin of his own.

NIck Stuart: HOLY HELL! LA MAGISTRAL CRADLE OUT OF NOWHERE!

1!

2!

KICK OUT!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Elvis Nixon has gotten up since the first pin attempt! What an exchange!

The crowd swoons at the action, and both champion and challenger retreat to their respective corners to plot another course of attack. Instead of meeting in the middle like last time, they start to circle one another. The pace picks up a bit, and after a leapfrog here, and a drop toehold there, and after Tom wiggles free of a side headlock with ten buttons worth of flare, and then locks one in of his own that Cecilwoth is able to craftily twist his way free of… they retreat once more to their respective corners.

Nick Stuart: Round three.

Cancer Jiles: Quick, someone go and tell them that half the arena is asleep already and Lindsay Troy is screaming in my headset to interfere in the match and inject some entertainment.

Richard Parker: Imagine you weren’t a cheating pig whore of a human being, and actually had to wrestle one of these men straight up? No Hessain. No Banditry. No Tony under the ring. What would you do then?

Cancer Jiles: I would kick them in the face.

Richard Parker: You would lose, that’s what you would do. You’re fooling yourself if you think otherwise.

Cancer Jiles: And you’re fooling yourself if you think I won’t kick you in the face again.

For this go around Champion and challenger once again meet in the middle of the ring. No slap, just your basic, run of the mill, collar and elbow tie up. The two jockey about, going from corner to corner, along the ropes, across the ring, pillar to post, trying their damnedest to get a slice of leverage for a bit of control.

Alas, after going around the world, neither are successful.

A stalemate.

No, not Hayes Hanlon, but a tie.

As such, they both break the hold at the same time, and once again retreat to a respective corner to rethink their strategy.

Nick Stuart: Something’s gotta give!

Cancer Jiles: The Saxon needs to take the action back outside the ring and continue doing damage out there. If he keeps trying to out wrestle Crumbington eventually that chicken’s wing is going to get broken.

Richard Parker: KEEP TRYING TO OUT WRESTLE HIM TOM!

For rounds 4, 5, and 6, Cecilworth and The Anglo Luchador go back and forth, stretching arms, ankles, fingers, legs, knees, necks, elbows, shoulders, groins, abdomens, and backs via maneuvers I do not know the names to.

It is a master class of chain wrestling, toughness, escapism, and counterintelligence all rolled into one.

There are many instances throughout the exchange where even Cancer Jiles himself seems impressed. Cecil had TAL in a submission move that Jiles was once in. Jiles called it the “Fancy Lad” because it felt like you got ass fucked by a gentleman, and he was shocked TAL didn’t submit. Then, The King of COOL remarked during the end of stalemate number 6, also known as round 6, that the crowd had finally woken up after both men were standing on top of their heads via the back bridge position, and still managing to successfully fend the other off.

Truth be told the crowd has been hot since the back to back to back to back pin attempts, and Jiles is just a salty dog.

No shit.

Cancer Jiles: It’s about time these two did something interesting. I thought I was going to have to hit a bitch with the sleeping salts to wake this place up. Ya know, for PRIME. Plus, I can’t have these guys sullying the good name of the MAIN EVENT I’ve spent the last four years building up.

Nick Stuart: So you think you could do what they just did?

Cancer Jiles: What? Retreat to the corner?

Nick Stuart: The back bridge.

Cancer Jiles: With a shower cap on.

Richard Parker: Get the fuck out of here you could do that. My ass. Oh, and Steve Harrison says hello and that the 5-Star Championship is two months pregnant and he’s not going to do the right thing.

Cancer Jiles: That’s so funny I forgot to laugh, DICK.

Rickard Parker: ha. I didn’t.

Exhaustion, frustration, and pain are starting to set in. While impressive as it might be that neither TAL nor Cecilworth can really get the upper hand on the other, both are still sustaining a lot of damage while trying to do so.

Needless to say, the match has endured, and it has been stretched, and almost submitted. As Nick alluded to earlier, something’s got to give, and since nothing else seems to work, Cecilworth, with that same smile he walked down to the ring with, now stands in the center of it with his hands high up in the air.

Nick Stuart: A test of strength?

Richard Parker: It’s not like Tom is imposing. They practically weigh the same and are the same height. I checked.

He did.

Cancer Jiles: It’s a trap. This match is about to be over if Tom isn’t careful. He needs to keep that pride of his in check, and not be from Philadelphia.

TAL, being from Philadelphia, does not know how to say no and meets the challenge head on. He rushes towards the Champion, eager to prove his worth. They lock hands, and in an instant, a flash, TAL, for all his wrestling, finally pays the price.

Richard Parker: ARTICLE 51! IT’S OVER!

Cecilworth has it locked in. It’s not synched in, but it is locked in. The only problem is TAL, and all his ring awareness, on his way down to the ground wound up near the ropes. He can’t reach them yet, but after what seems like an eternity of arduousness, he reaches out with all his might and is able to grab the bottom rope. He does pay a hefty price for surviving the hold and prolonging the match though: he won’t be using his left arm any time soon.

Cancer Jiles: Hopefully he’s a righty.

Nixon makes The Conga Crusher break the hold, and TAL rolls out of the ring in intense pain. Cecil starts to argue with Nixon about whether or not The Anglo Luchador tapped or not before reaching the ropes. After a moment, and an unappreciative shove from the ref, Cecilworth finds his prey ailing on the outside. Not wanting to go out there, but also not wanting him to recover, he chooses the latter as being of more importance and decides to give chase. TAL meanwhile, is not running away, but he is moving in the opposite direction of Cecilworth while trying to see just how fucked and useless his arm is really is.

The frown under his mask says it all.

Not good.

Not good at all.

It doesn’t matter though.

No, all that matters is he’s got a dream of one day holding that Universal Championship as his own. To be the one of one, and sit amongst his peers with his head held high as righteous and dignified PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION.

No matter what.

Cancer Jiles: bock, bock, bock-bock-bock, I told you guys that chicken was gonna get his wing clipped if kept on wrestling around with Cecilworth.

Nick Stuart: You said broken.

Cancer Jiles: Whatever. Regardless, the damage is done. If Cecilworth even flicks him on the arm I bet Tommy would pass out from the pain. Tough break, too. He was standing toe to toe in there for a while.

Eventually Farthington catches up to TAL, and things do not go according to plan. Call it sheer desperation, call it a last ditch effort, call it baby in the corner, but Cecilworth, as soon as he passes by the ringpost, gets surprised BARREL ROLLED. Albeit the Tornillo has been modified from over the top rope to into the ringpost.

DING~!

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador must have figured his arm was already toast anyway, so what’s the difference if it slams between Cecilworth and the ringpost!

Richard Parker: From the looks of it he figured correctly. His arm is already starting to swell around the elbow, and… as much as it pains me to say it, when the back of Cecilworth’s head smacked against the ringpost it sounded like the opening bell getting rung.

Cancer Jiles: Indeed it did.

Nick Stuart: What are you so smug about?

Cancer Jiles: You haven’t noticed because you are a plebeian, but we’ve reached the point in the match where both of these crumbs have suffered enough punishment to give me an indisputable edge heading into UltraViolence. That, Nick, is why I am so smug.

Cecil is seated on the outside. His back is against the ringpost, his eyes are rolling around inside their sockets, and is quite woozy.

Tommy is seated opposite of him. His back is against the barricade. He is cradling his left arm like a baby, and no doubt fighting through immense pain just to stay coherent and awake.

Elvis is in the ring and isn’t counting because who knows what number round it is now, but it doesn’t really matter since things are shaping up to be the final one anyway and he’s a pro’s ref.

Somehow, TAL and Cecilworth, presumably both ready to vomit but for different reasons, get themselves upright — more like will themselves — and fumble their way back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: If The Anglo Luchador is going to have any chance at all he’s got to figure out a way to finish this thing off quickly. No back and forths. No chain wrestling. Total Kill shot. I don’t know how he does so with his arm the way that it is.

Cancer Jiles: Philadelphians are a lot of things. Always down but never out is one of them.

Richard Parker: He doesn’t stand a–

TAL stuns Cecilworth by using his bad arm to slap him across the face again. Obviously the impact isn’t what it was at the start of the match, but it’s the sheer principle that does the damage. Just the insolence causes the Champion to boil, and to see red. He reaches out for TAL’s bad arm, looking to tear it from his body and give it to Hayes Hanlon to hit baseballs with.

BUT, history has a funny way of repeating itself.

Nick Stuart: LA MAGISTRAL CRADLE! AGAIN!

1!

Surprisingly, TAL’s “worse for wear” arm isn’t in a horrible position. In fact, it is a miracle it held up through the quick transition, and maybe even a bigger miracle that it wound up being the arm underneath of Cecilworth.

2!

Not to mention, Cecil is still very much woozy, and very much dazed, and very much confused as to how he wound up for a second time inside the cradle of brotherly love.

Still.

Dreams do come true.

Just not tonight.

Farthington, ever the savvy vet, squirms his way out of a three count while staying inside the cradle. He doesn’t free himself, rather, knowing TAL only has the use of one arm, he stays inside, rolls around like a greased up Brit, and tries to suffocate The Anglo Luchador via Article 97.

Trumped up word for death hold.

Valiantly.

Bravely.

So closely.

The Anglo Luchador goes out on his shield.

Elvis Nixon for some reason raises the challenger’s good arm three times to make sure he suffers some sort of brain damage, and then calls for the bell. Cecilworth releases the hold, and both competitors lay dormant on the canvas.

DING~!

Nick Stuart: What a match! What a battle! Cecilworth Farthington retains! Glue reigns supreme!

Richard Parker: He killed him! WOW! He did it! He really killed him! I can’t believe it! Why didn’t that idiot tap?!! Stupid Philly ape.

Nixon fetches the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP, hands it to Cecilworth, and then helps him up to his feet to raise his arm. Though victorious, it’s clear the Champ is still feeling the effects from smacking the back of his head against the ringpost, and from possibly a litany of other injuries he might have sustained here tonight.

Or maybe he knows who now awaits him.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, and STILLLLLLL UNIVERSAL CHAMPION, THE CONGA CRUSHER, THE FINANCIER OF GLUE, CECILLLLLLLLWORTHHHHHHH FARTTHHHINGTOOOOONNNNN!!!!

Jiles’ headset is off, he is standing, inching closer and closer to the ring, all the while the thought of ruining a good thing is on his mind. Presumably anyway. Why else would the hunter of not only men but of also good times be smiling like he is?

Contrary to Richard Parker, The Anglo Luchador is alive and has rolled out of the ring and hopefully towards the hospital. There was a fear ringside that one of Jiles’ shoes were going to be used in order to wake him, but he came to on his own accord.

Nick Stuart: What a night! What a show!

Richard Parker: Thank. God. Cecilworth won. A masked Universal Champion might have been the death of this company.

Nick Stuart: That’ll do it for ReVival 67, tune in two weeks from now to see—  JILES!

Little Nicky didn’t all of a sudden become a Cancer Jiles fan, instead he is reacting to Jiles sliding under the bottom rope and coiling up to Termiblast the exhausted, stretched, and most definitely concussed Universal Champion into oblivion.

Richard Parker: That cockroach better not! He could end his career!

However, instead of the salts and maybe a preview of things to come, and quite possibly the crippling of another Universal Champion, a stare down ensues.

ULTRA

VIOLENCE

AWAITS