ReVival 68

The Tire Centre is certainly not a tired centre as the crowd of the Ottawa buzz with eager excitement at witnessing and beholding an edition of PRIME’s finest ReVival live, with their own precious Canadian eyes.

The buzz turns quickly to anticipation as the lights of the Canadian Tire Centre turn down. For what, you may ask yourself, why, for the screeching of a guitar, of course.

The warbling of the gee-tar is quickly followed by the following singsongy words:

STOP.

DROP.

AND DRAG ME INTO PLACE.

AND LOCKED THE FIRE ESCAPE.

I’LL BREAK YOUR PRETTY FACE (yeah, yeah)

Yes, indeed, the most upbeat song about choking the life out of someone and then letting them die, “Choke” by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME begins to play it’s rather ear pleasing beat to the Canadian PRIME faithful, who are definitely tapping their toes to a real banger of a jam.

Of course, this song doesn’t come alone, it comes with the PRIME Universal Champion you ordered (you can’t even make Temu jokes because it’s more expensive now).

Yes, indeed, out in front of the crowd and at the top of the entrance way stands the man who defeated The Anglo Luchador in a challenging battle to retain his title on the previous show, Cecilworth Farthington. For this fine affair, Cecilworth has opted for a beautiful teal three-piece suit, the Universal Championship snuggling under the unbuttoned jacket, ensuring that it is on appropriate display.

Nick Stuart: Welcome fans to the 68th edition of PRIME’s ReVival coming to you live from the Canadian Tire Centre in Ottawa. As has become something of a pattern in recent weeks, we’re starting this show by hearing from our Universal Champion…

Richard Parker: And what a beautiful pattern it is! Seeing this beautiful man and his wrestling bod that just don’t quit… what a way to start every week. Do you know he used to avoid the opening segment? He said it was too cold!

Ha.

Nick Stuart: I… well… look we all have our hobbies and passions I suppose, and Richard Parker’s passion for Cecilworth is something I shouldn’t judge.

Richard Parker: Don’t judge, join! Didn’t you see his grace and beauty on the last show?

While Richard Parker slowly begins to calm himself and his stirred loins, Farthington takes in the moment, enjoying the fact he has walked into the show as a rarefied beast, a Universal Champion who managed to hold onto the belt when his first challenger came knocking. Farthington gives a very cheery wave to the crowd as he begins to make his way down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador showed so much heart last week, he had the match won at a few different moments…

Richard Parker: …yet he didn’t win the match, did he? Imagine that. Imagine a universe where The Anglo Luchador is walking out as champion. Disgusting. Disgraceful. Unimaginable!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, it sounds pretty good to me.

Farthington hops up onto the apron and into the ring, taking the microphone away from ring announcer Vince Howard, but in a sort of respectful manner. He asked and everything. Clearly buzzing from the good vibes, Cecilworth absorbs a bit more of the Ottawa atmosphere, and you can imagine, if they could afford it, they would be filling the ring with Canadian Tires in respect of the Universal Champion. Or something like that.

Nothing can bring down Farthington’s mood, he’s looking good, he’s feeling good and he’s ready to talk. That’s why he brings the microphone to his mouth.

Unfortunately…

…instead of hearing words from PRIME’s Champion of the Universe, a COOL breeze comes calling. Very soon thereafter, a familiar electric guitar riff inflates The Tire Center that is so loud, and so obnoxious, all who hear it lose their minds and start booing.

BOOOOOO~!

Well, all except for the Champion standing inside the ring. He maintains his Champion’s reserve.

Richard Parker: That vermin! That weasel! That coward! That peasant! That crumb. HOW DARE HE INTERRUPT AGAIN! Just who does he think he is?!

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles, obviously. Not that I’m condoning his behavior.

Richard Parker: THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION IS STANDING INSIDE THE RING!

Screamin’ Jay starts hitting his notes and a few moments later, just after the “I AM THE COOL” part if you will, The Hunter of Men, the Champion of COOLYMPUS, the HARDEST WORKING PRIME HALL OF FAMER and challenger to the throne, KING COOL, Cancer fucking Jiles, emerges.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!

Richard Parker: I’LL BE DAMNED IF HE THINKS HE’S GETTING TWO PYRO’S TONIGHT! DAMNED I TELL YA! DAMNED!

Nick Stuart: Please stop screaming.

Richard Parker: I CAN’T HELP IT! THE DISRESPECT COUPLED WITH THE FACT I HATE HIM SO MUCH IS JUST TOO MUCH!

After the fiery theatrics, Jiles, his T-shades, his simmering friend Alfredo, and his modified Manhunter blazer all make their way down to the ring. He also has on a pair of funeral-black track pants to go along with the whitest salt shoes ever made. Along his way, King Crumb stops a couple of times to engage those fortunate enough to be sitting ringside. Nothing that comes from out of his mouth is complementary, nor suitable for the air.

Nick Stuart: Try not to scream, but I think he’s coming this way.

Never one to shy away from a confrontation, Jiles does indeed make his way over to Richard Parker. The two exchange words, but the reality of the situation is that the conversation is more of a one sided affair, and that side being the COOL one. Dirty Dick does get the last word in, but that’s only because the bane of his existence had already turned on a heel and slid under the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: HOW THE FUCK DID THAT SON OF A BITCH GET THE VOTES!?!?!

Nick Stuart: You’re still screaming.

Richard Parker: I DON’T CARE!

Once inside the ring, Jiles finally acknowledges Cecilworth by looking at him like he didn’t even know the Champion was down there. The smirk upon the Manhunter’s face while doing so is enough to make a person gag, which is why Richard Parker has stopped screaming for the moment.

Nick Stuart: I wonder if the rest of Bandits and the Glueboys are just backstage beating the ever living shit out of each other since it’s just Cecilworth and Cancer down here?

Dirty Dick is still gagging, so Nick’s question falls upon deaf ears.

Nick Stuart: Nevertheless, that’s our NIGHT TWO, ULTRAVIOLENCE MAIN EVENT standing inside the ring right now.

After some playful back and forth bantering/posturing with deadly undertones woven in, it appears as if Cecilworth is finally going to get his chance to talk. He clears his throat, gazes out at the gathered masses, and…

And…

…and drops the microphone at Jiles’ salty feet.

Richard Parker: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! THAT’S RIGHT, CECILWORTH! FUCK HIM! THAT JERK OFF ISN’T WORTH YOUR TIME!

The Universal Champion, smugger than smug, breezes past his next challenger as if he doesn’t exist and then goes to exit the ring. Before he can do so, Jiles reaches down and grabs the microphone at his feet. He taps on it once or twice to see if it still works and much to the chagrin of everyone, it does.

Cancer Jiles: Say Cecil, before you go running off to forge Hayes’ newest birth certificate, tell me, don’t you want to know why?

Farthington has one foot in and one foot out, but he does stop and turn his attention back to Jiles.

Cancer Jiles: I’m not talking about the forgery, either. I’m talking about the last show. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong but I figured you of all people would want to know why.

The Champ yawns with feverish enthusiasm, and the ever arrogant Manhunter continues toying around with the tension inside the room.

Cancer Jiles: Zeus knows I certainly could have… cut you down……

The PRIME Universal Champion places both feet back inside the ring. The crowd swoons, and it’s for good reason: there’s a high likelihood the next thing out of Jiles’ mouth will be fighting words.

Cancer Jiles: … just like I did to your boy Phil.

There goes the belt. There goes the jacket. There goes the smug mug. There goes the microphone from Jiles’ hand.

Nick Stuart: Let’s hear what the Champ has to say.

Richard Parker: Finally! Time to shut that idiot crumb up! It feels like I’ve been waiting for forever just to hear him speak.

Farthington looks at the microphone in his hand and contemplates a variety of options. Certainly ramming it into the egged dome of Jiles is part of the considerations. After looking back and forward between the microphone and Jiles again, he hurls the microphone back to the floor and glares at Jiles, daring him to pick it back up.

oooOOOooooo

It was an odd noise the crowd made, but that was the best I could do to capture the sound that happens as Jiles gladly goes to pick up the microphone again but is stopped by Cecilworth putting his shiny shiny shoe atop the microphone, pinning it down in place.

Nick Stuart: Someone call the Enemigos. Like, now.

Richard Parker: Maybe the Mounties, too.

Jiles’ eyes are wide with fury; wider than the frames on his T-shades. In fact, he’s so furious you can see the literal steam coming from off of his simmering hair. So, being that he is a cockroach bastard of a human being, he does what a cockroach bastard of a human being would do who happens to be furious.

He spits.

Charcoal in color.

Gum-like in texture.

Right on Cecilworth’s shoe.

Richard Parker: THAT BASTARD!

Nick Stuart: Screw the Enemigos, somebody call Lindsay Troy!

Cecilworth looks down at his ashen and now less shiny shoe and ponders the moment for a minute. Then, he immediately leans in at the bent over Jiles, whispers something into his ear, pats his shoulder and then steps off the microphone and moves back towards the ropes, picking up his jacket as he does so.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but Cancer Jiles is speechless! I wonder what Cecilworth said?

Go get your shinebox.

Richard Parker: Maybe he told him Phil was not only walking again, but wrestling 100 Gorillas to knock some of the rust off should Cancer decide to, as he put it, “cut him down” before the match can happen. That, or to go fuck himself.

Nick Stuart: Could be! Whatever it was though it left Jiles shook!

Smugness valiantly returned, The Champion takes his time exiting down the steps. He never once takes his eyes off of his now flummoxed and befuddled challenger, but that’s probably because he, just like everyone else for once, enjoys a good car crash.

Richard Parker: Two words come to mind. CLASS. ACT. That right there is how it’s done for those of you watching. That’s how you handle an infant shitting his pants at your door. That is why Cecilworth Farthington is the Universal Champion and he’s going to hunt down the hunter at UltraViolence! Just imagine if he would have used a microphone.

Cecilworth makes his way back up the ramp, somewhat in an anticlimactic nature. Albeit orchestrated as such. Meanwhile, Jiles has snapped out of it inside the ring. He doesn’t hide his current emotions either, as evidenced by him picking up the microphone and throwing it at Richard Parker.

Or at the very least his general direction.

Richard Parker: Fucking spineless piece of shit!

Nick Stuart: Well, with the games having begun, I guess welcome to ReVival 68 everyone!

ReVival. Play that video.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/ReV68-Commercial.mp4

ReVival 68.

It’s been a minute since I’ve done this.

Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Hm… what part is next?

Oh yeah.

MAKE! SOME! NOISE!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

SHOW! SOME! SIGNS!

HELP THE INTRUDERS JUMPED ME AND TORE M
WHY IS THERE MISSING FURNITURE ON MY MILK CARTON?
RIP SANDWICH MAN WE HARDLY KNEW YEAST
NED REFORM DOESN’T CRACK THE WINDOW WHEN HE FARTS ON ROAD TRIPS
I REMEMBER WHEN HAYES WAS 19 IN 2022 AND NOW HE’S 33
SIGN DAYTONA STEVENS
CLIPPY WROTE THIS SIGN, THAT’S WHY IT’S SO MERCILESS
THE UNIVERSAL TITLE IS STUCK ON A GUY FROM BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, IS THIS SOME KIND OF TARIFF ISSUE

Nick Stuart: Ladies and Gents — we are live for ReVival 68.

Richard Parker: And you know what that means Nick!

Nick Stuart: No, what?

Richard Parker: We are almost at ReVival 69!

Nick Stuart: You are literally five years old.

We go from Nick and Richard to Vince Howard in the ring, who is standing next to Felix Mullen.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall… introducing first… FEEEEEEEEELIX! MULLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!

And the crowd goes… quiet. Because, they don’t know who Felix Mullen really is. He’s never been on the ACE Network before. I think. It doesn’t seem like it so that’s what we’re going to go with.

Richard Parker: Nick, why is he dressed like that?

Nick Stuart: You mean in a suit, with notecards in his hand, and as if he’s going to give us a speech?

Richard Parker: Yeah, that. He’s not a politican, right? He knows the election happened?

Nick Stuart: I… honestly have no idea.

Back to Vince. Let’s get this over with.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… hailing from Arkhangelsk, Russia, he stands at 7’1″ and weighs in at 400lbs… he is the Russian Bear! IVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN! STANISLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAV!

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir erupts as Ivan Stanislav emerges from the backstage area. Stanislav raises his arms, roars at the crowd, and pointedly makes his way towards the ring. Stanislav points and jaws at several fans along the way.

Stanislav steps over the top rope and thunders into the ring. He raises his arms over his head and bellows at the camera.

Richard Parker: Um, where is Alexei?

Nick Stuart: I saw him backstage and he had a neck brace on. He looked seriously injured.

Richard Parker: And… you bought that?

Nick Stuart: HA! No.

Vince steps out of the ring. Jimmy Turnbull gives his instructions. Felix looks confused, as he points at his note cards. Turnbull then signals for the bell.

DING DING

Ivan begins to walk towards Felix, who simply puts his hand up in the air, freezing Ivan in his tracks. Stanislav looks confused as he looks over at Turnbull. Mullen meanwhile walks over to the edge of the ring and asks for a microphone.

Nick Stuart: What… is going on?

Richard Parker: Look, this is a place with Sketti Bucket and a dickless Fred Dick. This feels tame in comparison.

Nick Stuart: Yeah, sure.

Richard Parker: The best part is I can say whatever I want to say right now because I know Lindsay Troy is definitely not paying attention to this match and is probably staring dreamily into Wade Elliott’s eyes.

Nick Stuart: …we are still on the air.

Richard Parker: So?

As Mullen is handed the microphone, he clears his throat, looks up at Ivan, and then back at his notes.

Felix Mullen: Thank you all for allowing me to come here and debate my opponent, Ivan Stanislav, on the wrongs of Russia and communism. While the moderator over there (points at Jimmy) mentioned something about no eye gouges or low blows, by the look of my debate opponent, I don’t believe we are going to come to such fisticuffs.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Did he say… debate?

Nick Stuart: I think he did.

Richard Parker: Did Wade play a joke on this kid?

Nick Stuart: I sure hope not because he’s going to be in a world of pain in a moment or two.

Richard Parker: I mean, Ivan might be up for a healthy debate.

Felix looks around, slightly confused, but shakes his head as he starts to read from his notecards.

Felix Mullen: Now, communism and why it is for weak-minded people. I will start by outlining that my opponent tonight has been propped up as a Russian hero, even when he loses his mat–

Felix can’t finish the rest of his sentence as a meaty forearm clubs him in the back of the neck. He stumbles forward, dropping his microphone and his notecards. Ivan quickly follows that up with a stiff boot to the side of Felix’s skull, sending him crashing to the mat.

Felix Mullen: Noooooooo, not my notecards.

Ivan reaches down, wrapping his massive hands around the skull of Felix and yanks him to his feet before tossing him into the nearby corner. Felix ricochets out of the corner and into Ivan who hoists him into the air before holding him up there for a military press slam and then driving him into the mat.

Nick Stuart: Things are not looking good for Felix Mullen as Ivan slams his boot into the back of Felix’s skull.

Richard Parker: We may get some projectile brain in a moment if Ivan keeps this up.

Nick Stuart: Let’s hope not.

Ivan reaches down again and pulls Felix to his feet before hoisting him into the air with one hand, dropping him, and connecting with a short arm clothesline that has all of the might that Mother Russian has to offer.

Richard Parker: IRON CURTAIN!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, I don’t think I’m surprised.

Mullen collapses to the mat, wondering if he will get to his research on Lenin or not, when he’s yanked back to his feet and is thrown through the air with a vertical release suplex that sends him across the ring.

Nick Stuart: The Red Scare! This one is over.

Richard Parker: This one was over when Lindsay booked this thing.

Ivan walks over to his opponent and drags him to the center of the ring before placing his boot on his chest as Jimmy begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winner… IVAN! STANISLAV!

Ivan looks down at Felix before unleashing his patented laugh.

DYAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Nick Stuart: Well, that was fun.

Richard Parker: What’s next?

Nick Stuart: Hopefully not another debate.

ReVival moves on.

There are many things that could get you in deep trouble in Canada these days:

Going empty handed to your friend’s potluck.

Calling a Canuck a Hab.

Cutting in line – sorry, in a queue…

…But displaying anything with the ol’ Stars n’ Stripes may be what most likely gets you the closest thing Canadians have to anger: a sternly-worded letter.

Yet, it is not a sternly-worded letter that Blaze Claymore is clutching to outside of the very red-white-and-blue adorned locker room door with the words “Harley Walker” emblazoned in the kind of rhinestones that would make Elvis blush: it’s a photo of Harley. And a pen.

Blaze, who let’s be clear is not Canadian, is dressed in his own gaudy getup of red and white sequence that could however have him confused as Canada’s answer to Liberace. He narrows his focus on the door, raising his free hand and knocking forcefully.

(Muffled voice through door) “If this ain’t the landlord, the law, or a courier bringin’ me more liquor, y’all better have a damn good reason for interruptin’ my evenin’.”

Blaze doesn’t answer, not because he’s a dick – OK, he is a dick – but at least this time it’s because he’s not sure how to respond.

The door does open and we see a somewhat confused but most certainly annoyed Harley Walker emerge, looking into the eyes of his opponent for the evening. with his right hand wrapped around his favorite bottle of liquor, he squints towards Blaze.

Harley Walker: “Well, shitfire—look what we got here. Ain’t every day I got a sequined yard ornament knockin’ at my door. What’d ya lose? Your sense o’ direction or your damn mind?”

Blaze Claymore (nervously twitching): “Neither, sir. Walker. Sir. Mister. Harley.”

Blaze flails and begins to turn as red as his outfit before shutting up and shoving his hands out, presenting Harley with a black and white photo of himself from what has to be 25 years ago, flashing a youthful, pearly white smile while signaling a thumbs up and wearing an American-branded crash helmet.

“Lighting Boy” looks at the photo with a clear mix of escalating confusion and a mix of melancholy. Then he looks back to Blaze, no longer confused, but pissed.

Harley yanks the photo out of Blaze’s hands and waves it in front of his face.

Harley Walker: “What’s this now? You tryin’ to get in my head?”

Blaze recoils and then shakes his head side to side wildly.

Harley Walker: “Then… what?”

Blaze holds out the pen and motions towards the photo.

Blaze Claymore: “I uh… well. I thought before the match we could trade auto…graphs.”

Blaze reaches into his robe pocket and produces a pre-signed 8 x 10 glossy of himself flashing finger guns while wearing a pink leisure suit with some sort of California beach in the background; although it is clear it is not ACTUALLY a California beach, it is a painting of a California beach. A bad one.

Harley’s laughter is loud, unfiltered, and stretches on a bit longer than it probably should. He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling, then takes another swig from his bottle like the liquor might help him process whatever the hell he’s looking at.

Harley Walker: “Well, damn. Ain’t every day a man tries to bribe me with a fever dream.”

He squints at the glossy, turning his head like maybe—just maybe—looking at it from a different angle will make it make sense. It does not.

Harley Walker: “Lord, that ain’t even a real beach, is it? That’s somethin’ somebody’s aunt painted after three glasses of boxed wine. You pay for this or you found it?”

Blaze does not answer. He cannot answer. If he answers, he will die from cringe. So Harley answers for him.

Harley Walker: “Son, I’ve been through hell and bought souvenirs. In my 47 years, I’ve seen men chase their own damn mess after jumping out of an airplane, desperation in their eyes like they could outrun shame itself. I’ve seen the roughest, toughest sons of bitches alive—men who swore they feared nothing—cryin’ for their mommas as they clung to my motorcycle, riding straight through a wall of fire. I’ve watched a whole movie crew lose their lunch, scatter like cockroaches, after my arm snapped in three places right in front of ‘em. But today… today, I have witnessed something so pitiful, so downright embarrassing, it makes all that look like child’s play.”

There’s a flicker in Blaze’s eyes as he clenches his fists, but Harley doesn’t see it. Instead, he steps back and begins to close his locker room door before looking dismissively back at Blaze.

Harley Walker: “Hell. You’re the one I’m fighting tonight, ain’t ya? Well… how about you make yourself useful and warm the ring up for me?”

With a slam of the door, Blaze recoils, holding Harley’s photo and his autograph pen to his chest as he kneels down and begins to collect his 8 x 10 glossy.

Blaze Claymore (frustrated): “What the hell was that?!”

Blaze pauses, turning his head slightly.

Blaze Claymore (panicked): “I thought he would be nicer.”

Another twitch.

Blaze Claymore (even more frustrated): “Yeah, real nice. He laughed at you. At us. So what are we gonna do about it?”

Blaze stands up, a sneer spreading across his face, but it drops just as soon as he appears. He grabs the side of his head and leans against the nearby wall as steps can be heard approaching.

With a sharp whip pan we are now looking directly at The Anglo Luchador who has stopped, watching as Blaze moans and wails, writhing dramatically along the concrete foundation of the Canadian Tire Center.

Blaze realizes he isn’t alone. He looks up, eyes wide through the gaps created by his spread fingers before jumping to attention and producing the photo of Harley Walker and a pen, gesturing towards TAL.

Blaze Claymore: Oh! You know Mr. Walker, right?

TAL looks over toward Harley’s dressing room and then back to Blaze.

TAL: Look, man… I’m not in the mood.

Blaze doesn’t hear TAL, or doesn’t care, as he steps forward and shoves the photo and pen into his hand, pointing toward the glittery, AMERICA FUCK YEAH door.

Blaze Claymore (pleading): Please! I need you to get his autograph for me. For my collection! He’s just being stubborn because we never knew each other in Hollywood, and I’m new here – but you’re not. So you can get his autograph for me. And, hey, if you do… I can make it worth your while – uh… señor?

The Anglo Luchador is the one holding his head now, trying to sift through the inaneness that is Blaze Claymore.

TAL: Look. I have no idea what your whole…

He looks Claymore up and down, disgust sifting out of the holes in his mask.

TAL: …thing is, but man, I am not interested in being the mediator between you and anyone, let alone the Weekend at Bernie’s Whoresman.

The Anglo Luchador begins to walk away, continuing unabated to whatever his original destination was, that is… until he hears it. A whisper. Lighter than whisper, even… but as loud as a goddamned emergency signal in his brain.

Blaze Claymore (quietly): I bet Cecilworth would have been able to get me his autograph…

The Luchador stops dead in his tracks.

TAL: The fuck did you just say?

He stands still as a statue, still not turning to face the SAG Award Winning* Superstar.

Blaze, teeth gritted, also freezes, eyes wide like a kid who just called his mom the “B Word” to her face for the first time. But rather than walk it back, he doubles down.

Blaze Claymore: I said maybe I should have asked someone who knows how to get the job done to help me out, rather than a The Always Lose-a-dor.

Whether dumb, brave, or certifiably insane, Blaze doesn’t budge as TAL finally turns and looks back, the eyes behind his mask burning with animus.

TAL: Kid. That’s strike fucking two; you don’t want to know what happens if you make it to three.

Blaze smirks before scoffing and shaking his head, looking back to Harley’s dressing room door and then to the seething Luchador. He pauses, seemingly both intrigued and horrified by what a “strike three” could actually look like… but then he decides to stand down, shaking his head with disappointment.

Blaze Claymore: Nobody’s heroes indeed…

TAL keeps his lock on Blaze as he retreats, still clutching his Harley Walker headshot in his hands, before continuing on his way once the Main Event is out of sight.

The camera turns suddenly as we hear a click and see Harley Walker’s locker room door open up with The Lighting Boy himself standing in the threshold.

Harley Walker: Aw’ shit. What the hell, kid. I’ll give you yer’ damned autograph…

He pauses and looks up and down the now empty hallway. He gives it a beat before shrugging, closing the door, and getting back to prepping for his match.

ReVival moves on.

The score from “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” hits the PA system as a wide shot of the arena crowd appears on the digital boards and the frame gets slowly cropped from the top and the bottom, forming a perfect Cinemascope display.

WAAHH WAHHH WAHHHH

We cut to a set of red sunglasses framed dramatically by the two black bars at the top and bottom of the screen.

WAAHH WAHHH WAAAAAAAHHHH

The camera cuts again, this time to the eyes of some random member of the crowd who ducks out of the way, wanting no part of this business.

The rattling of a tambourine and the whistle tones of an ocarina fill the space as we cut back to the pair of red sunglasses, just about to be removed as the black bars raise back up and we zoom out to show the face of Blaze Claymore and we follow him as he steps out from the back onto the top of the rampway.

Blaze is joined by Sonja Cuchilla, who kneels down to roll out the Main Event’s very own red carpet. Wearing a similarly-toned red slip, she places a kiss on the Main Event’s cheek as he adjusts his ornate and shimmering red robe, framed by white fringe, and begins to walk down toward the ring.

As has become custom, Sophia begins to hand out 8×10 headshots to members of the front row, who take them just to be polite.

As the Main Event reaches the end of the rampway, Sonja takes his sunglasses and helps him remove his robe, throwing it deftly over her arm, watching as Blaze slides into the ring.

The lights dim down as the the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sit at the edge of mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown. Three, two, one – BOOM! The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”. Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette. After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring.

Richard Parker: Nick, I believe in God.

Nick Stuart: Is that so, Dick?

Richard Parker: Yeah we’re watching a dead man walking here. He is risen! They should put that on a shirt.

Ashley Barlow checks both men for any foreign objects before sending them both back to their corner and calling for the bell.

DING DING

The bell rings and both men move with a purpose towards their inevitable collision in the center of the ring. What are they out to prove? Harvey wants to prove he’s still got it – the rust hasn’t turned to rot and Claymore is out for vindication after a loss to Anabelle Dean at ReVival 66.

Despite all of this, the men both start a bit slow, but you can feel their tension as they lock up.

Nick Stuart: A classic lock up in the middle of the ring turns into a pushing contest. Blaze is trying to get into the head of the Lightning Boy now with audible taunts and boasts, but Harvey’s not having any of it. He overpowers Blaze, pushing him into the corner and landing a knee to the midsection to break up their little slow dance.

Richard Parker: These Canadian commies seem to hate Blaze just a hair more than Harvey, and, I have to say – I don’t blame them. Harvey looks like the carnival worker who would smoke a joint with you while stinking of bad choices, Old Spice, and 151.

Nick Stuart: Right. I can’t argue with the fans taking a hankering to Harvey as they’re counting with each shot he lands on prone Blaze in the corner right now.

Do people in Ottawa count in English? Fuck it, we’ll go with that.

Fans: SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE!

Richard Parker: Harvey stops just shy of ten – just before completion. We hear that has been a lifelong problem for him.

Nick Stuart: It’s great to see Harvey return to action after living in a wheelbarrow for so long and the fans are happy to have him back. The Lightning Kid locking up with Blaze now and easily lifting the lighter man high up in the air for a textbook suplex. He slams Blaze down on the mat – sending out a firm confirmation that the high octane cowboy we all remember is back and he means business.

Although he looks like the electrifying stuntman who rocked Rob Williams’ dome piece with a toilet lid and went the distance with Coral Avalon, there’s something missing. The wheels are wobbling ever so slightly. Harvey takes just a beat too long in getting himself back up and that’s all the younger Claymore needs to capitalize with a stiff headbutt that sends the cowboy flying backwards. Once again Claymore is quicker on the draw, getting to his feet and leaning back on his haunches to nail Harvey with a spear. This time the old timer manages to get a knee up.

Nick Stuart: Both men in pain from that last ditch effort to stop the spear from Harvey. Harvey is nursing that knee as they get back up and square off near the turnbuckle, but it doesn’t stop him from landing an elbow to the chin of Claymore. He locks Claymore in for a DDT, but Claymore manages to wriggle free.

Richard Parker: Harvey is struggling here to keep up with Claymore, but after a 9 month coma you can’t ask for much more than what he’s got.

Nick Stuart: Indeed, but it isn’t stopping Harvey from giving it his all. He quickly grabs Claymore and slips into a standing back control position to land a vicious German suplex. Both men are on the mat now with Claymore trying to regain his bearings as Harvey wiggles up to a top mount.

Richard Parker: There we go, slow is smooth and smooth is fast.

It’s anything but smooth. The understanding is there, but Harvey’s body is struggling to follow his mind’s intentions. With great effort, he manages to lock in a camel clutch on Claymore.

Richard Parker: The Marlboro Man has awakened.

Nick Stuart: Harvey has a firm grip on the chin of Claymore and he’s just wrenching back with all of his weight now. The fans are cheering for Harvey while Blaze is trying to make it to the ropes.

Richard Parker: What kind of a name is Blaze?

Nick Stuart: A stage name, I’m sure.

Richard Parker: You mean he could’ve picked any name and he went with Blaze?

Ashley Barlow continues to check in on Blaze – he’s in pain but he’s resolved to not giving up. Wiggling left and wiggling right to try and break free of the hold, Blaze just seems to be digging a deeper hole for himself. The few inches from the ropes to where he lies in the ring may as well be miles.

Feeling himself back in the groove, Harvey reaches back to secure the legs. It’s just the window that Claymore was looking for. Blaze manages to slip in between Harvey’s legs. The younger man tugs the elder on the shoulder, spinning him around and catching him for a belly to belly suplex.

From there Blaze works Harvey through a series of chinlocks and rope stretches, each one taking a bit more of a toll on Harvey than the last. Harvey manages to break free of each, but the refraction point is getting further and further away. Claymore works methodically, a shot or two to an extremity followed up by an adjacent submission hold. This goes on longer than any type of interaction like this should with the coup de grace being a camel clutch from Claymore, almost as if to spit in Harvey’s eye.

Nick Stuart: Walker manages to grab ahold of the ropes and breaks free. Claymore climbs to the top now and leaps toward the downed stuntman for an elbow drop off the top. No! Walker moved at the last second.

Richard Parker: He’s still got it!

Nick Stuart: Harvey hits a jarring back body drop before Irish whipping Blaze into the corner. The anticipation is building here because we all know what’s coming.

Harvey grabs ahold of Blaze’s head and gets a running start. The noise Claymore’s cranium makes when it connects with the mat reverberates throughout the arena.

Nick Stuart: Cannonball Run from the Lightning Kid.

Harvey rallies with a second wind, eyes blazing as he signals for the Guinness Record Breaker. He climbs the turnbuckles slowly, his body stiff and chest heaving for air. Maybe it’s the match, maybe it’s his age. Either way, the hesitation between reaching the top rope and his leap of faith backwards proves to be too much. Blaze isn’t there when Harvey lands.

The mat is the only thing to greet Harvey. All of the air sucked out of him, he holds his stomach and rolls around in pain. Claymore is quick to capitalize, Irish whipping Harvey into the opposite corner. The old stuntman skills down, head dropped low. Claymore approaches with a grin.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Blaze is setting Harvey up for the… Blockbuster.

Richard Parker: People talk a lot about it banning moves like high impact or where spinal injuries are common – but it’s this. This one right here should be banned.

Nick Stuart: I can’t argue with that. Despite our objections, Claymore is mounting Walker to deliver his own version of the bronco buster. BUT WAIT! A low blow from Harvey stops Blaze in his tracks.

Richard Parker: That was more of a mid blow,

Whatever it was – it worked. Harvey rallies and picks Claymore up high above before dropping him in a vicious sit down powerbomb. Ashley Barlow drops down to count.

ONE

TWO

TH-KICKOUT!

The fans boo audibly to Claymore’s kickout.

Nick Stuart: Both men are slow to move here. I’d expect Harvey to go charging in with the momentum in his favor, but he seems to be tuckered out.

Richard Parker: Come on Harvey!

Nick Stuart: Harvey is to his knees, but he’s resting there trying to catch his breath. AND CLAYMORE COMES FROM BEHIND! HOLLYWOOOOO!

Whilst all eyes were on Harvey, no one caught Blaze Claymore sprinting at the veteran. A perfectly executed step up axe kick crashes Walker’s noggin into the mat with a little bounce. The young bull wastes no time rolling Walker up.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: Hell of a fine showing for both men tonight.

ReVival moves on.

Oh, hey, it’s Matt Mills and Steve Lemieux, and they’re standing in the same prepared interview location we’ve seen for the last few weeks. The only difference in the presentation this week is the suit that Mills is wearing, and the microphone that Steve is carrying, because clearly that man still has a lot to learn about how this shit works. This week the microphone is a Blue Yeti podcaster special. You know, one of those thicc boi microphones.

It’s not plugged into anything, in case you were curious. Not sure how Steve thinks it’ll work in this case then.

He’s also holding a water bottle.

Matt Mills: Hello, everyone. I’m Matt Mills, and I’m here once again with Steve Lemieux.

Steve, who does not have the greatest handle on decorum, is silent.

Matt Mills: Steve, in just a few short minutes you’ll be making your way to the ring for a match against another PRIME hall-of-famer – the former two-time Universal Champion, Hessian. How are you feeling, hea-

Ah, there it is. That patented Lemieux interruption.

Steve Lemieux: Greetings and salutations, friends and fellows. I’m Steve Lemieux from LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches in beautiful Peoria, Illinois, and I’m here to talk about some heckin’ topics.

Steve takes a big drink from his water bottle, and then uncharacteristically spikes it onto the floor. The move takes Mills aback.

Steve Lemieux: Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.

And immediately torpedoing his tough-guy act, Steve bends over to pick up his litter.

Steve Lemieux: I’ll have to make sure I mop this up later.

Matt Mills: Uhh, right. So, Steve, as I was say-

Steve Lemieux: Mister Murder, I’ve got some thoughts, and now you’re going to hear about them!

Don’t be fooled by that exclamation point. It’s the closest punctuation that exists for “timid guy speaking just above his normal volume while trying to sound tough” that I know of.

Steve Lemieux: I know that everybody saw what happened a few weeks ago against Mister Wade when I lost both of my shoes, my glasses, and also my pants. Well let me tell you that’s not going to happen again tonight. Nosirree, Mister Murder. And do you know why?

Mills looks genuinely surprised by all of this, and quite curious to see where it goes.

Steve Lemieux: Because you have really kind eyes! That’s why.

And just like that, Mills’ interest is replaced by an overwhelming confusion, one that is clearly visible on his face.

Steve Lemieux: And and andandandand a warm smile! Yeah! One that makes people feel comfortable when you walk into the room.

Matt Mills: (under his breath) What the f…

Steve Lemieux: I bet you smell like sandalwood and citrus, and that everybody compliments you on it! I bet that all say, “That Mister Murder sure is a swell-smelling guy with kind eyes. He would never punch a man until his pants fell off.”

Mills turns directly towards the camera. Brow furrowed. Jaw slightly agape. The man has no goddamn idea what the hell he’s witnessing right now.

Steve Lemieux: You’re a big, big, big beef man, big beefy beef big beef man.

Mills’ eyes are darting between the crew members currently off-camera, a man clearly looking for someone to save him from whatever this is.

And then, Steve flexes his tiny noodle arms. But he does it quick enough that it catches everyone by surprise, and the gesture is clumsy to the point that he accidentally knocks Mills’ microphone free from his hand and onto the floor.

A sudden panic washes over Mister Lemieux.

Steve Lemieux: Oh no. Oh no, I’m so sorry, Mister Mills. We… Umm… I do not need a receipt. W-we don’t need to bring ink and paper into this.

And then just like that, Steve runs his skinny-fat ass off camera, leaving Mills to pick his microphone up out of a small puddle of water as we fade back to the ringside area.

Fresh off the Walker v. Claymore barnburner, we head backstage, where the tension is just as high. From the first shot, two things are clearly, visibly taut: the atmosphere, and those cheekbones.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Hark, unmistakable sound of a horde of PRIMEates seeing the one, the only, the clearly perturbed Chandler Tsonda.

And if you happened to notice that Ottawa’s pop is about two times louder than the typical Tsound of Tsonda—well, firstly, congrats, because what a weird skill to be that accurate, decibel-wise—then you’d be a smart cookie, because the other half of the world’s best yet-to-win-a-match tag team cuts quite the imposing figure. You take note when Nate Colton is in the room.

The furrowed brow and tight corners of the Model Citizen’s mouth betray unease. The Tsonda locker room, usually more of a casual greatness vibe, is at wartime attention.

Tsonda paces near the door. Colton is getting his stretches in. Chandler’s two mentees, Jasmine Jeong and Jaime Aguilar, are seated on a plush couch. Jaime is deep in his phone, while Jasmine sits with arms crossed over her chest.

A knock at the door tenses up every set of shoulders in the room.

Chandler Tsonda: On your P’s and Q’s, y’all. P’s, and fucking Q’s. (to the door) Who is it?

Nothing. And then, another polite knock.

The Model Citizen makes eye contact with the New Diamond. A great deal of coiled energy awaits who’s on the other side of that door.

Tsonda swings the door open in a rush…

Chandler Tsonda: You almost got swung on, hermanos.

The camera wide pans to show…a small army of luchadores? Even by the standards of ReVival, a cohort of luchadores in black tactical dress needs significant explanation. The Model Citizen obliges.

Chandler Tsonda: (in the direction of Nate, Jaime, and Jasmine) Cavalry’s here.

The New Diamond seems…perplexed. He’s quickly learning not to expect what Chandler’s about to do, because his guess will always be wrong.

Nate Colton: That’s…some kind of cavalry, Chandler. Where’d you find these guys?

Chandler Tsonda: Just between friends, though, yeah? (lowers his voice) They’re retired Enemigos. When they’re done as foot soldiers for the Troy Empire, they all go into private security. Once an alpha, always an alpha, am I right?

The Model Citizen gives a nudge to the shoulder of the nearest securitymigo, who gives a nod that could mean a truly infinite number of things.

Chandler Tsonda: Best backup that money can buy. Jaime, you listen to these guys no matter what, alright? They’re gonna keep you safe.

The teenager looks up from his phone, and cocks his head with curiosity. Jasmine continues to look like a stock image for “irritated woman giving silent treatment.”

Jaime Aguilar: Do they, like, say anything?

Chandler Tsonda: Well, of course not.

Jaime Aguilar: So you want me to listen to them. But they’re silent.

Chandler Tsonda: Now you’re getting it!

The Viet Viper points to the security luchadore with the black vest that reads “Uno, el Jefe.”

Chandler Tsonda: Uno, come hell or high water, these two (points at Jasmine and Jaime) don’t so much as take a piss without two of your guys with them. Just like we talked about.

Is Uno the security guard’s name? Impossible to say. But the head luchadore nods. The Sultan of Style turns back to his tag partner.

Chandler Tsonda: Sorry for all the cloak and dagger. But with these guys around, we can stay locked in on prepping for Daniels and Williams. And the inevitable Kremlinterference. How we feelin’?

Nate Colton: Feelin’ dangerous, Chandler. Feelin’ like we’re about to show these jokers what time it is.

Chandler Tsonda: Dude, I know you’re just wearing regular ring gear, but when you said that, in my mind, you all of a sudden had on stunner shades, sat astride flaming motorcycle, and were whipping around a sick pair of nunchuks.

Nate Colton: I was always more of a katana kid.

Chandler Tsonda: (under his breath) Such a Leonardo thing to say. (normal volume) You goddamn right we’re gonna show them what time it is. It’s time, in fact, that we added a word to Daniels and Williams’ cute little team name.

No one in the room shows any indication of what Tsonda is talking about, because as is often the case, he is doing bits to and for himself.

It’s a surprising voice that punctuates the silence.

Jasmine Jeong: Fuck Up Your Tag Team. That’s it. That’s the joke.

At no point does Jasmine look up or acknowledge anyone else in the room, although: is that a hint of a satisfied smirk that she was able to ruin Chandler’s punchline? Impossible to say.

There’s a sudden, loud knock on the door. Three loud pounds that break up the conversation within.

Tsonda moves forward to the door.

Chandler Tsonda: (to Uno) You expecting more muscle?

The luchadore shakes his head. The Model Citizen’s tone grows graver.

Chandler Tsonda: Jasmine. Jaime. On your feet. (nods to Nate) They’re with you.

And when the door opens, Tsonda is flanked by a half-dozen of his security team, who see exactly the reason they’re here in the first place.

Outside is a who’s who of badness. Alexei Ruslan, in his neck brace, stands with an oversized gift basket and a card on it which reads “TO: Jasmine and Jaime FROM: The Red Army.”

It’s a really nice gift basket. Like, with all kinds of fruits and the whole basket deal is wrapped in plastic to ensure the perfect amount of freshness.

Behind him stands Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz, both Red Army veterans don’t seem to have the same smile as Alexei. Which means they’re both smiling wide, but they’re just smiles.

Alexei’s smile looks like it could peel the paint off the wall.

Alexei Ruslan: Gift from your comrades in The Red Army!

Even his voice sounds happy. It’s insufferable.

Chandler Tsonda: This one of those door-to-door visits that the judge ordered you to do every time you move into a new neighborhood? Poor little guy.

Ruslan glowers at Tsonda and shakes his head.

Alexei Ruslan: No. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that Alexei was going to come here and punch you directly in throat and crush your windpipe. And then run roughshod through all of these bodies and tear them to pieces. I know this is what you expect.

Ruslan brings a hand to his chest while he balances the gift basket expertly in his other hand.

Alexei Ruslan: But I am going to be bigger man and spare all of you such brutal beating. Besides, my neck is injured. So I bring peace offering. Fruit basket for Jasmine and Jaime. I assure you, all these food items, fruit, candy, and the like, are all perfectly healthy and do not contain any nails, razor blades, explosives, needles, syringes, tracking devices, lye, acid, capsules, high-fructose corn syrup, or arsenic.

Alexei pauses as if he double checks his mental list, then snaps back to the present.

Alexei Ruslan: So… here… enjoy!

He offers the gift basket. Like one might a bomb with a burning wick.

The Model Citizen stares back, a hateful pair of adder’s eyes locked on the least trustworthy man in PRIME. He flicks a hand towards Uno, seeming to say with a gesture: go ahead.

And that —a nod, leading to one hell of a thrust kick from the surprisingly explosive securitymigo—is what sends the gift basket skyward, before it topples to the ground twenty feet away.

Chandler Tsonda: Something something them apples, bitch.

It’s quiet. You can hear a pin drop. Or even a pear, along with assorted berries, chocolates, and apples. Ruslan stares at Tsonda and then roars.

Alexei Ruslan: YOU SON OF BITCH!

But Ruslan doesn’t dive forward. No. He ducks backwards, behind Randall and Kenny, who blink and then rush towards Tsonda in the doorway, arms flying.

The Model Citizen meets the moment, locking up with Schwartz, while blindly kicking at Freeman. Per the earlier agreement, Nate Colton stands between trouble and the kids, though he generally is behind the fray because the fray now has a clown car’s worth of securitymigos trying to…well, they’re there.

Chandler Tsonda: (grunts, throws a wild punch that grazes Randall) Ruslan, come get this work, you curdled little fuck!

Securitymigos, like any outside mercenaries at a PRIME show, aren’t allowed to go on offense, per se. So as they crowd around the Red Army and Chandler Tsonda, they begin to create a logjam of bodies, trying to be a neutral force for “security” or at least some semblance of order. There simply isn’t enough space to move from tussle to fight, but it doesn’t stop Tsonda, Freeman, and Schwartz from getting further entangled in a mess of limbs.

Ruslan screams as he snatches up the gift basket.

Alexei Ruslan: We spared no expense with this basket, you sorry rat bastard!

And he lets a premium apple fly. It bounces off of Randall’s shoulder and bops Tsonda in the forehead. Ruslan’s next weapon is a pear. He throws it high and it sails over Chandler’s head and lands somewhere in the room.

Alexei Ruslan: You are lucky I’m injured!!

Chandler Tsonda: (with Kenny Freeman in a headlock.) And you’re lucky there’s animal cruelty laws or I’d put you down, you fuckin’ mutt!

While his wrath for Ruslan is powerful, Chandler is a competitor, and some part of him knows that he can’t blow the whole gas tank on an ultimately fruitless distraction from the Red Army before a tough tag match. He finally lets go of Freeman, and the Tsonda Tsecurity force begins to create a buffer space between the two forces.

Chandler Tsonda: (spits in the direction of Alexei) You insult me, Ruslan. Two weeks to prepare, and the best you could do was come straight through the front door with your D-listers while Ivan primps for his match? Run and go tell the Bear my offer still stands: no funny shit, no outside interference from (points at Alexei) syphilitic goblins. Last chance.

The Model Citizen wags a finger in the general direction of the former Soviet military man.

Chandler Tsonda: Don’t forget to tell Stanislav that you fucked up and never even made it through this door. Tell him.

Ruslan growls and barks in Russian. Despite Randall and Kenny not knowing Russian, they seem to know it’s a call for retreat.

Alexei Ruslan: You will regret disrespecting fruit basket, Chandler Tsonda!!

Ruslan turns and stomps away, with Kenny and Randall flanking him while the Tsonda Tsecurity force fades into the distance, leaving the three members of The Red Army to walk, defeated, down the hallway.

Kenny Freeman: Gee… sorry uh, comrade… he’s right… we didn’t even get through the door…

But despite the anger and the barbs, despite the rebuke and the sharp words from Chandler Tsonda, despite everything that transpired…

…Alexei Ruslan offers himself an acidic smile.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh, comrade Freeman, we got even farther than expected. The night is young…

ReVival moves on.

Brace yourselves, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. It’s about to get real dumb.

Did you know that “Sandstorm” by Darude had lyrics? No, neither did I. And I bet the band would be very surprised to learn that someone had taken their dancehall hit and added words to it. Imagine their shocked expressions as they realized that those lyrics were just a name repeated in time with the synth beat.

Le-le-le-lemieux

STEVE Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-le-le-muh MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-le-lemieux

Le-muh-le-muh-muh-lemieux

It goes on like this for a while.

Vince Howard: From Peoria, Illinois he weighs in tonight at 183 pounds…

There is no crowd reaction for any of this, by the way. No cheers. No boos. Not a goddamn peep. It’s quiet enough that you can hear a single cough.

Vince Howard: He is “Mister Beefst”… STEEEEEEEEVE LEMIIIEEEEEUUUUUXXX!!

Total fucking crickets time out here in the arena.

Steve stumbles out through the curtain dressed like a man who’s ready to clock in for his shift at the local Geek Squad. He’s wearing a pair of khakis, a white polo shirt tucked into those very pants, with some knee pads on the outside of his clothes and – for reasons that probably make a great deal of sense to him – swimming floaties on his upper arms. Oh, and let’s not forget the red, white, and blue sweatband and the well-loved pair of New Balance sneakers.

Steve makes his way to the ring, and almost trips over his own feet trying to ascend the ring steps. Things don’t get any better when he’s on the apron, as after around thirty seconds of trying to figure out the best way through the ropes it’s left to Vince Howard to hold them open so Steve doesn’t get stuck.

Nick Stuart: Welp, this guy is about to get murdered.

Richard Parker: I’m praying this man has a nice life insurance policy.

The building is plunged into darkness as the lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar two silhouettes appear in the ether, one massive and one much smaller, and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figures start to shift, growing both larger and smaller in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

You remember, You remember me, yes,

I remember what we are, I remember only scars,

I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,

I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him. By his side, the dwarven figure draws the hood of his cloak to reveal a mischievous purple grin.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, accompanied by MINION THE IMP! Standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show…HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He tenses his thick, flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena.

See only the master, risen, risen,

After all the silence, all of him laughing

After all the strangers, beaten, driven,

Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm

Do as the book told you see the pages torn,

Make the spell upon them, in human form,

So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,

Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.

The giant stops at the foot of the ring, grabs the top rope and pulls himself up onto the apron as Minion hovers around ringside, jaw-jacking the fans. Hessian takes a stoic glance around before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

You remember, You remember his face,

You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,

I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,

I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as Hessian heads to his corner while the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

DING DING

The bell sounds, and Hessian and Steve lock up in the center of the ring. The two competitors jockey for position, when incredibly, inconceivably, and most of all impressively, Lemieux successfully transitions Hessian to a side headlock, dropping to a knee to force Hessian to his.

Nick Stuart: Huh…

Richard Parker: I’m stunned.

But Hessian, strong and powerful, shoves the much less athletic Steve Lemieux in the back, freeing himself from the headlock. Steve turns around and right into a knee to the gut from the Murder Show, who drops Steve with a chop to the back. Lemieux cries out in pain as he hits the mat. Hessian makes the cover!

ONE! TWO!

Nick Stuart: Kick out by Lemieux!

Hessian brings Lemieux to his feet as he reaches his, but before he can pull out any of his repertoire, Lemieux sends a weak fist into Hessian’s gut, which doubles him over. Lemieux looks around like this is his opportunity! He shuffles around behind Hessian, and shoulder blocks him right in the calves, sending the big man to his knees!

The crowd, normally disaffected by all things Lemieux in the ring, begin to clamor just a bit as Lemieux scrambles to his feet, and finishes Hessian off from his kneeling position with a DDT to the mat!

Lemieux makes the cover this time!

ONE! TWO! But Hessian kicks out!

Richard Parker: Is… Hessian… Getting… Beat up?

Nick Stuart: Inexplicably, it seems Lemieux has gained some momentum here…

Lemieux stands to his feet and starts kicking the downed Hessian in his legs. They’re shitty little kicks, but they’re right in the shin bone, and the pain is just annoying enough for Hessian to quickly reach his feet (well, as fast as a 7’ 370 pound man can), and absolutely MOLLY WHOP Lemieux in the chest with a chop.

Steve Lemieux: AWW BEANSSSS!!! BEANS THAT HURTS!!!

Richard Parker: Actually Steve, Beans is an adorable little dog who lives in Tennessee. Hessian is who you should be shouting at.

Nick Stuart: I love that dog – Hessian with an Irish whip here!

Indeed, Hessian Irish whips Steve into the ropes and winds up for a big clothesline, but he telegraphs it such that even Steve is able to duck underneath it. Additionally, Steve is such a non-athlete that he can basically stop in his tracks due to a lack of momentum, and he drops down and SCHOOL BOYS HESSIAN!!! HESSIAN TRIES TO REMAIN ON HIS FEET, WAVING HIS ARMS AROUND…

BUT HE FALLS!!!

STEVE ROLLS HESSIAN UP!!! HESSIAN’S LEGS ARE FLAILING!!!

ONE!!! TWO!!! THR— NO!!!

Richard Parker: Oh my God, Lemieux just got a near fall on Hessian.

Nick Stuart: Hmm…

Richard Parker: This is a farce. The real Hessian would murder this hamburger man!

Nick Stuart: It’s… unique what’s happening, let’s just say that.

Hugo Vale: (through a megaphone) Hessian, what are you doing you big oaf? Squash this man like a bug!

Richard Parker: YES!!!

At the top of the entrance ramp, the Green Vale Gang stand in their nicest suits, hair perfect, dangerous smiles – Hugo Vale wields a megaphone.

Nick Stuart: Just like they did to Gamble a few weeks ago, these little jerks are trying to distract Hessian.

But Hessian either doesn’t hear them, or doesn’t care. Instead, he climbs up to his feet, takes a few weak chops to the chest from Lemieux, and then drops Lemieux with a headbutt. Lemieux’s glasses manage to miss the contact and stay on his face, but it’s clear the headbutt hurt Lemieux badly by how he clutches his fists and rubs his forehead.

Hugo Vale: (through a megaphone) There you go big boy! Hey, don’t take this guy lightly Hessian – he almost pinned you moments ago!

One ear and out the other. Hessian simply pulls Lemieux right back up to his feet and whips him into a set of turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Hessian starting to look like his usual self again here, Richard.

Richard Parker: This is no doubt thanks to the Green Vale Gang’s influence.

Nick Stuart: Actually he seems to be tuning them out just fine.

Hessian backs into the corner! He does the toot-toot gesture! HERE IT COMES!!!

HESS EXPRESS TO LEMIEUX!!!

NO!!! LEMIEUX DOVE / FELL OUT OF THE WAY AND HESSIAN EATS NOTHING BUT TURNBUCKLE.

Daniel Green: (through the megaphone) For fucks sake, Hess, we just told you not to take him lightly!

Steve Lemieux looks up at the Green Vale Gang with an accusing look, as if to say, “you two are very rude.” Hessian meanwhile emerges from the turnbuckles a little dazed, and Lemieux tries to take advantage.

Richard Parker: BY GOD, STEVE LEMIEUX IS GOING FOR A SCOOP SLAM!!!

Nick Stuart: If he pulls this off…

He does pull it off.

Well, kind of. Steve doesn’t have the strength to lift Hessian, but he does kind of, like, sort of lift his leg a little bit? And then drive his body forward? Anyway, the point is, Lemieux awkwardly does the most pathetic “scoop slam” of all time to Hessian.

Then Lemieux starts kicking Hessian’s shins.

Then he tries to do an ankle lock!!!

Richard Parker: YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!

But Hessian kicks Lemieux away.

Richard Parker: Nick, swear to God, my entire sense of reality is becoming distorted.

Nick Stuart: A bizarre match, indeed…

Lemieux charges towards Hessian, but trips over his own feet and stumbles forward, kneeing himself in the forehead with Hessian’s knee. Hessian looks around.

The GVG are continuing to run their mouths. The crowd is looking around confused. The announcers, they’re losing their minds about the way this match is going, and Hessian himself?

Well, he’s taking control.

Big stomp to Steve’s gut. Another. Another. And another. He reaches down and clasps his big paw around Lemieux’s throat and picks him up. He choke tosses the hamburger man into the corner.

Hessian backs himself into the opposing corner.

Toot.

Mother.

Fuckin.

Toot.

THE HESS EXPRESS!!! IT LANDS FLUSH!!! Hessian backs out of the corner so Lemieux can fall, as he’s sandwiched between Hess and the turnbuckle like a friggin hamburger patty!!!

Lemieux walks out of the corner to the center of the ring.

He lifts a single finger, ready to make some kind of announcement.

Then his eyes roll back and he drops like a sack of French fried taters to the mat!

Hugo Vale: (through a megaphone) Don’t pin him yet Hessian! He embarrassed you! You should do several more of the toot-toot little train maneuver just to be sure he learns his lesson!

Hessian doesn’t even acknowledge Hugo’s existence, he simply makes the cover!!! He hooks both legs!!!

ONE!!! TWO!!! THREEEEEEEEE!!!!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: Well, that brings an end to the most ridiculous match of Hessian’s career, albeit a victorious one.

Nick Stuart: Indeed, we should move on.

But we don’t. We hear “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motorhead hit the speakers. We see Vince Howard raise Hessian’s arm. We see Hessian check on Lemieux and make sure he’s alright.

We watch Hessian exit the ring and walk up the ramp towards the shit-eating grins of Hugo Vale and Daniel Green. They prepare themselves for a fight, and…

Hessian simply breezes right past them. No acknowledgement. Like they aren’t even there.

The Green Vale Gang sneer at one another, not happy in the least with being ignored.

Then, and only then, we cut away.

Oh yay, another Sebastian Gold segment where he comes off like a really cool guy whose career started as a Hollywood failure before the incident. Maybe he’ll ride a motorcycle or tell people he used to do stunts. He will absolutely pick on some wrestler who was huge in their yesteryear.

Do you think he’s unpacked his obsession with older wrestlers in therapy?

Probably not.

Don’t worry, Dear Reader, this is so much more than that.

But, we do start with Sebastian Gold.

Prerecorded

The Parking lot leading backstage to the arena.

We hear the hum of a motorcycle. Sebastian Gold rides in hard and fast on his bike. He *Akira-*slides into an empty space and jumps off (He used to do stunts, ya know).  He hurriedly gathers his things, slings the Alias Belt over his shoulder and runs towards the arena.

Sebastian Gold (mumbling to himself): TAL’s gonna kill for being late-

He runs towards the backstage door when he sees something that stops him.

Sebastian Gold: Ugh.

Standing sentry with his arms spread out across the door frame is Rob Williams. Williams is shirtless, his many scars and tattoos prominently displayed. A comically long Davidoff Late Hour is clenched in between his smiling teeth.

Sebastian Gold: Those things haven’t killed you yet?

Rob Williams: OH, you haven’t heard? I’ve got a new lease on life, kid.

Rob blows a thick cloud of smoke into Sebastian’s face.

Rob Williams: Hell of a run you’ve had with that belt, kiddo. How does it feel, hm? You enjoying it?

Sebastian ignores the throbbing in his injured shoulder and gives a smirking thumbs up.

Sebastian Gold: Yeah. Feels good proving I’m more than kindling. I’m more than what you did to me at Colossus. It must be tough for you, watching the snot-nosed rookie live out his wildest dream while you fade away.

Rob Williams: When you get what you want in your struggle for self, and the world makes you king for a day – just go to the mirror and ask yourself and see what that man has to say. I’m genuinely happy you’re on top of the world, kid – but I want you to remember that for every Ivan Stanilav or Cecilworth Farthington, there’s a thousand mother fuckers who never made it out of the bingo hall. You got a shot right now there’s a thousand men out there would kill for.

Sebastian Gold: You think I don’t know tha-

Without so much as acknowledging Sebastian’s response, Rob continues on.

Rob Williams: And then there’s guys like me. Like your buddy Towel. Just trying to squeeze out the last bit of juice we can. Comes a time where all that shit fades – money, fans, validation. It all goes away and you’re left with figuring out how you fit into this world without the fight. Nothing but memories. Are you going to be proud of what you did with this time?

The elder wrestler tips his cigar in between the two men and the ash falls off the end. It dances through the air almost weightlessly before hitting the ground.

Rob Williams: ‘Fore long it’s all ash, kiddo. Don’t squander this.

Bash takes a moment. He looks around, half expecting the rest of the Whoresmen to come out of hiding and jump him. Did he say he was happy for him? This wasn’t what he was bracing for.

Sebastian Gold: Uhh…yeah. I won’t.

He starts towards the door but stops.

Sebastian Gold: Same for you, Rob. If this “new lease on life” is real, then it isn’t all burned up for you. Not everyone gets another chance. Does this mean you’re in remission?

Rob Williams: Ah, that. Truth be told, I never had cancer. I ain’t done a great job of listening to the man in the glass. You make some real fucked up decisions when you’re trying to win the hearts and minds of everybody but that guy. Ce’st la vie. That’s French. When you’re done with this run, whatever comes of it, look me up.

Sebastian Gold: WHAT???

Dropping his arms, Rob walks past Sebastian.

Sebastian Gold: NO! YOU GET THE FUCK BACK HERE! WHAT???

Rob ignores the stuntman and walks out of view.

ReVival moves on.

We return to ringside where Jimmy Turnbull and Vince Howard are standing by, before heading back to Nick and Richard at the commentary desk.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back folks, we have tag team action up next as Doozer teams with Annabelle Dean to take on the debuting Chaos & Calm!

Richard Parker: Ace Swift and Jerell Jones are ready to prove themselves in PRIME’s tag division, and what better way than by taking two Egg Bandits down a notch?

Vince Howard: The following tag team match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first…

“Out of the Black” reverberates through the arena as Jerell Jones and Ace Swift emerge from the back. In his normal, nonchalant manner, Jerell is looking wildly unbothered and calm. Ace, is…well…the complete antithesis of that. Running from side to side, soaking in the crowd, he beats his massive chest on his rather small frame. He reconvenes with Jerell on the top of the ramp and tries to hype him up. Slapping his shoulders, chest bumping, and trying to shove the gentle giant around, but to no avail.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring at a combined weight of 535 pounds, they are the team of Ace Swift and Jerell Jones…CHAOS AND CAAAAAALM!

Jerell places his hands on Ace’s shoulders, smirks, and tell him to “Calm down lil fella”. Ace’s excitement cannot be contained as they both make their way down the ramp.

Vince Howard: And their opponents…

“Banditstruck” plays as Annabelle Dean and Doozer make their way out to the stage. Yes, you heard that correctly, Annabelle Dean and Doozer. Don’t just take our word for it, though…

Vince Howard: Representing the eGG Bandits, they are the Princess of the Ring and the Boston Bruiser…ANNABELLE DEEEEEEAN ANNNNND DOOOOOOOOOOZER!

See? It is not a statement that should be analyzed any deeper than it needs to be, and yet we see Richard Parker nearly beside himself at the commentary desk as the two Bandits walk down the ramp.

Richard Parker: What the hell? What the hell? What the helly?

Nick Stuart: Richard, why are you talking in riddles again??

Richard Parker: I see him! I sees me a Doozer, Nick!

As the pair enter the ring, we can hear Richard begin singing for seemingly no reason.

Richard Parker: I can see clearly now, the Doozer’s here…

Nick Stuart: This is going to be a long night at the office.

Turnbull checks all four competitors for foreign objects and then calls for the bell!

DING DING

We start things off with Doozer and Swift, the Boston Bruiser quickly sending the Lil Fella to the corner for some stomps to the midsection to take control of the situation. He pulls Swift away from the turnbuckle and toward the ropes for a clothesline, but Ace manages to duck underneath to build up speed…ducking a second attempt at a lariat for a cross body off the ropes to take Doozer down to the mat!

Ace jumps to his feet, looking to follow up as he connects with a standing leg drop for the cover…but Doozer kicks out before the count of one! Swift heads to his corner for the tag, but the Old Bull manages to grab him by the arm first. He sends him into the Bandit corner with a hammer throw, Swift dropping to the canvas as Doozer makes the tag to Annabelle.

Doozer brings the Short King back to his feet, aiding the Princess of the Ring in some double-teaming before Annabelle continues the attack with a few more stomps for good measure…only for Doozer to tag himself back in!

Nick Stuart: Looks like the Old Bull isn’t quite done dealing with Ace Swift just yet!

Richard Parker: Either that or he’s not sure just how Annabelle is going to fare in this bout.

The crowd boos, as they were quite looking forward to seeing Little Dean in action. For his part, Doozer tells Annabelle she’ll get her moment soon before wrenching the arm of Swift to keep him grounded…until Ace manages to counter out, sending the Boston Bruiser to the mat with an arm drag that gets a pop from the crowd! Doozer reaches over to grab the leg of the Lil Fella…but to no avail, as Swift makes the tag to Jerell Jones!

Jones jumps in as Doozer gets back to his feet, and the two trade rights and lefts until Jerell sends the Old Bull to the ropes. This time it’s Doozer who ducks a clothesline, using the ropes to build speed for a flying shoulder block that takes Jones down hard. Cover by Doozer!

ONE!

TW–NO!

Jerell kicks out in time to save the match for himself, but Doozer stays on the attack as he brings Jones back to a vertical position. He motions to Annabelle, asking if she’s ready to which Little Dean nods in response…and Doozer sends Jones flying to the Bandit corner before making the tag to the Princess of the Ring! Annabelle picks her spots carefully as she lands a few lefts and rights, drawing a nod of approval from Doozer as she cinches in a side headlock on Jerell…only to be hoisted up for a back suplex that sends her crashing to the mat!

Nick Stuart: Jones with a big impact as Annabelle is struggling for a tag!

Richard Parker: What a time for a turning point here, Nick!

Dean is crawling toward the corner, but Jones takes control as he pulls her toward the center of the ring for some stomps, keeping her grounded and as far from the reach of the Boston Bruiser as possible. Bringing the Princess of the Ring back to her feet, Jerell sends her toward the Chaos & Calm corner for the tag to Ace…who lands a flurry of offense culminating in a gamengeri that sends her to the canvas once more!

Tag made to bring Jones back in, and the pair make good use of the ref’s count to land a little bit of double-team offense before Jerell takes Annabelle down with a snapmare into a chinlock. Little Dean struggles to get to her feet, as Jones keeps the hold in tight…but the Princess of the Ring manages to get to the ropes to force a break! Jerell keeps the break clean with a nod to Annabelle, who heads back to the corner for the tag to Doozer.

He motions to Jones, as if telling Annabelle to “see how it’s done” as the two men lock up, with Doozer cinching in a side headlock of his own before Jerell counters into a wristlock…but the Old Bull counters that as well, landing a belly to belly suplex!

Nick Stuart: Wow, Doozer taking the fight to Jerell Jones!

Richard Parker: He realizes he’s being seen and making the best of his spotlight, Nick!

Doozer gets back up, motioning for Jones to do the same…to which he obliges, only for Doozer to lock in the collar and elbow into a side headlock takeover. He brings Jones back up for a scoop slam, and again for a vertical suplex. Doozer looks to follow up with a German suplex, but Jones escapes the waistlock to shove the Old Bull away…before landing a hard lariat sending Doozer down to the mat! The crowd starting to get behind Jones as he brings the Boston Bruiser back to his feet once more, looking to inflict a bit more damage before Doozer turns the tables with a DDT sending him to the canvas.

Turnbull begins the standing ten count as both men slowly begin to stir.

ONE…

TWO…

THREE…

Jones is starting to build up a vertical base as Doozer crawls over to his corner

FOUR…

FIVE…

Jerell makes the tag to Swift just as Dean gets the tag in for her team!

Nick Stuart: Here we go, the tide of the match turning quick as Ace charges in!

Richard Parker: Time for Swift to make good on his namesake and pick up the pace here!

Ace lands a flurry of kicks forcing Annabelle toward the ropes, before building up speed…just as Dean lowers the top rope, forcing Swift to the floor outside! Annabelle backs off as Turnbull makes it clear she’s supposed to stay in the ring…but this gives Doozer an opening to go after the Lil Fella himself. He lays in some stomps as the crowd begins booing, and this gets the ref’s attention as he sees the Old Bull just as he backs away with his hands up.

This leads to a discussion between Doozer and the ref as Annabelle leaves the ring purely to bring Swift back in, making the cover as Turnbull drops for the count!

ONE!

TWO–NO!

Jones rushes into the ring to break up the pin! This leads to chaos as Doozer runs in, the two trading lefts and rights before sending each other over the top rope and to the outside. Back in the ring, Swift is back up as he hits the ropes for a leapfrog over the Princess of the Ring…but on the rebound he is caught with a clothesline sending the Short King crashing hard to the mat!

Nick Stuart: Down goes Ace Swift!

Richard Parker: But can Annabelle capitalize?

Little Dean sees her opportunity, and seems to get quite bold and brave as she heads to the corner. Outside the ring we see Doozer has kept Jones laid out on the floor, before turning his attention to Annabelle going to the top turnbuckle. He shouts at the Princess of the Ring, asking her what she’s doing as she goes for a somewhat sloppy moonsault that just narrowly connects before making the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

WAIT, NO!

Dean’s focus on hitting the moonsault kept her from noticing where Swift was in the ring, and the ref stops the count when Turnbull sees that Ace has his foot under the bottom rope! Doozer climbs up on the apron, looking for a tag that Annabelle seems to reluctantly oblige with as the Old Bull comes in. He points to the outside, asking Dean to keep an eye on Jerell before turning his attention to Ace…who lands an enziguri from out of nowhere!

This rattles Doozer enough to give Swift an opening, landing some hard kicks to take the Boston Bruiser to one knee before charging toward him for a Shining Wizard–but to no avail! Doozer dodges it, grabbing Swift in a double underhook before hoisting him up for a lifting DDT to the mat! THE ABUSER CONNECTS…and Doozer goes for the cover!

ONE!

Jones is up on his feet, looking to intercept the pinfall…

TWO!

…but Annabelle gets the drop on him with a double ax handle, forcing him back to the floor to keep him away!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here are your winners, the eGG Bandits of ANNABELLE DEEEAN AND DOOOOOZEEEEERRRRR!

The pair make their retreat up the ramp to celebrate as we hear from Nick and Richard once more at commentary.

Nick Stuart: What a match this turned out to be, folks! Chaos & Calm taking the fight to the Bandits tonight, but Annabelle Dean continues to look impressive as she and Doozer pick up the win at ReVival 68!

Richard Parker: I…I can’t believe it, Nick. Doozer looking–LOOKING, because I SEE him now–really good as he and Little Dean get the W over a very game Ace Swift and Jerell Jones!

As the Bandits continue celebrating on the ramp, we cut away.

Fade in.

You ever see those Olive Garden commercials where everyone is-

Okay, I know what you’re doing now.

I’m on to you.

This whole “they all start the same” routine? I know I gave you a hard time for it these last couple shows, but I wasn’t in on the game. I didn’t know there would be recurring guests to throw in a little spice here and there, so you know what? I’m going to keep my mouth shut this time and let it play out.

Take it away.

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 idyllic, right down to the fast casual Italian decor.

Okay, okay. I’m with you so far.

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!

Alright, pretty bog standard so far. But there’s going to be a guest appearance coming up soon, right?

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!

But wait! The commercial isn’t quite over.

I knew it! I knew you had something up your sleeve. Hit me with the surprise, you passably-attractive food daddy.

Psyche, yes it is!

We’re treated to a shot of the restaurant where happy patrons shovel (literally) scoops of pasta into their mouths. This is accompanied by a little musical number that goes something like this:

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!

What?! Where’s the guests? Where’s the swerve?

Where is Kenny Canuck?

Where are The Intruders?

Another pan of the restaurant. This time a family of five all flash a thumbs up in the direction of the camera.

Where is LITERALLY ANYONE?! This is some bullshit man. I hope Fred Dick comes into real life and kicks your ass in a bathroom for this.

Now we get the official jingle.

🎵Run to Sketti Bucket!

🎵Don’t be a snail!

🎵It’s the pasta that your whole family eats from a pail!

We fade to darkness, but the voiceover continues.

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

Godammit, Matthew, you are the laziest motherfu-

Fade.

We go backstage. A scowling Simon Tillier glares up at a simpering Scott Hunter. We can see the giant double-doors leading into the VVIP room behind them, hanging slightly ajar.

Tillier, the man who is steadfastly keeping PUNK ROCK in the press, is huffing and puffing the minute the camera is rolling.

Simon Tillier: Okay, Hunter… let’s just get this over with!

The junior reporter rips off his sleeveless, patch-embroidered suit blazer

Simon Tillier: If you’re gonna hit me, then just HIT ME! Think I can’t take it? Think I’m going to CAVE to your autocracy? HA!

The thick, red-rimmed glasses come OFF, and Simon Tillier stands with his arms held out, ready for the Maven of Miami’s unbridled wrath.

Simon Tillier: C’mon, Hunter… give me your best shot! I DOUBLE DOG DARE ya!

“Settle down, Simon…”

Kerry Kuroyama, towel draped around his neck and strapped for an evening of pugilism in the black, silver, and emerald standard, emerges through the grand doorway.

Kerry Kuroyama: Don’t embarrass us while we have guests in the house.

Simon Tillier: What do you mean, guuueeeuhhhh…

Tillier trails off and stands completely slackjawed, as a second figure follows Kuroyama out of the VVIP room.

Tall and imposing, the man gives off an immediate vibe of importance. Maybe it’s the silver hair and beard. Maybe it’s the hot pink admiral’s longcoat. Maybe it’s the black and red FIST-logo championship belt draped over his shoulder. Or maybe it’s the unmistakable aura of foreboding FAFO surrounding two-hundred and forty-nine pounds of grease, grit, and goddamb pancake-loving gumption.

“THE KRAKEN” HENRY KEYES.

Keyes savors a moment to look the junior reporter over with all the brevity of a deepsea leviathan assessing his next morsel.

Henry exits to the right. Tillier is left blinking in astonishment.

Simon Tillier: What business does the FIST of DEFIANCE have here tonight at ReVival?

Kerry claps him on the shoulder.

Kerry Kuroyama: Call it a goodwill visit. See, now that Henry has made DEFIANCE relevant once more, Vae Victis is in the process of building bridges between brands. Get to know some of the names and faces in that locker room a bit better.

Simon Tillier: Uh-huh… maybe also scoping out some of the talent, in case of a heavily rumored PRIME and DEFIANCE crossover event?

Kuroyama innocently shrugs, while also not-so-innocently smirking.

Kerry Kuroyama: I don’t know what you’re talking about, Simon. And if I did, then I don’t think it’d be appropriate to divulge that information.

Simon Tillier: (rolling his eyes) Sure, of course… because why would anyone be interested in knowing the truth, am I right? Anyway, if we’re done plugging the other brand here, maybe one of you could tell me what Vae Victis’ current plans are within PRIME?

The Emerald Apex rolls his neck.

Kerry Kuroyama: Plans, Simon? Wherever there’s good wrestling, worthy competition, and titles to be won, WE are there to conquer. That’s been our one and only plan since day one. And lately, we’ve lived up to that creed. Scott here has been gettin’ SURRIOUS with the competition, upgrading from Wingman to his own man. And, well, you know, I’m no slouch myself. Just going into the ring and racking up wins, like surrious wrestlers do. No goofy clownshit here, as you know. Just straight, pure, athletic wrestling.

As he says this, an EXPLOSION from within the VVIP Room sends forth a rolling plume of smoke. A fat, smoking ball of gray fur rolls out and falls at Kuroyama’s feet in a heap.

Kerry Kuroyama: Goddamnit, Kerry Koalayama! Number one, way to undercut my point! Number two, I told you to stop fiddling with that eucalyptus gravity bong! Number three… you okay, buddy?

The reddened, unfocused eyes of the Eucalyptic Apex stare vacantly in the general direction of the human that he assumed was addressing it. He “answers” in the form of a single paw signalling him with an affirming two thumbs up.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay, buddy…

The facepalm Simon has been exhibiting through this is strangely relatable.

Simon Tillier: Right, right… tonight, however, you are set to face off with the nefarious Max Kael. And I have to ask… given your opponent’s, shall we say, “unsavory” nature, do you have any doubts as to–

Scott Hunter: (holding up a hand) Hold it right there. First off, you have asked far more than your allotted number of questions, SIMON. Secondly, I don’t like the things you are insinuating and/or outright saying about my best friend Kerry right now. And THIRD… I don’t like the way you smell…

Scott suddenly sprays something from a small fragrance bottle straight into Simon’s face.

Simon Tillier: (wiping at his face) What the… what the hell is that???

Scott Hunter: Eucalyptus spray. I picked some up when we were in Perth at the Outback Candle Factory outlet in the mall. Kerry Koalayama absolutely loves this stuff. It’s like his cat-nip. It’s koala-nip.

Simon Tillier: What… what do you mean… koala-nip??

Simon slowly turns his head until he is suddenly face to face with Kerry Koalayama sitting on a small perch at eye level. The color drains from Simon’s face as he realizes he is looking deeply into the dead obsidian silver-dollar-sized eyes of a koala held in thrall to the plant-scented goodness now covering every inch of Simon Tillier’s upper torso.

Simon Tillier: Wait… no don’t…. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Kerry Koalaya leaps at Simon, immediately taking to munching on Simon’s hair like a monkey on a cupcake, or like a koala on a very eucalyptus-smelling reporter. The bottom line is, he’s chewing his freaking hair, and it HURTS.

Simon Tillier: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Scott Hunter: (turning back to Kerry) You were saying?

Tillier tumbles out of the shot, thrashing away at the marsupial clung upon his head.

Kerry Kuroyama: I was saying… I’m ready to flush this absolutely sadistic, acidic, parasitic turd of a human being out the airlock. We’re on an express elevator to hell, straight down. I say we grease this rat-fuck son-of-a-bitch right now. Game over, man. Game over! Get away from here, you bimch!

As Kuroyama steps out of the shot, he chucks the towel over his shoulder… only for Scott to deftly CATCH it out of the air on his way after him.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: We have a good one coming up, Max Kael and Kerry Kuroyama.

Richard Parker: I, for one, am ready to watch these boys rip each other apart!

Nick Stuart: Yes, um, of course, Richard. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the good wrestling.

Richard Parker: Exactly what I meant, partner.

We go to ringside.

Vince Howard: This match is… for SEVENTEEN FALLS!

The crowd is like it whoa!

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

RAAAAAAHHHH even the people in Ottawa eat it up.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…

Lights out.

Spotlight on.

Elephant Gun Riot’s cover of “You Should See Me In A Crown” begins to play.

“Bite my tongue, bide my time

Wearing a warning sign

Wait ‘til the world is mine

Visions I vandalize

Cold in my kingdom size

Fell for these ocean eyes…”

The single pillar of light surrounding the stage vanishes, leaving the entrance once again in darkness.

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

Lord of Kaelsalvania, Prime Minster of Maxopotamia, PRIME’s Perfect Predator, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael appears, dressed in his ring gear with a crown sitting lazily atop his head. The fans jeer and boo while Max slowly raises both of his arms.

“I’m gonna run this nothing town,

Watch me make’em bow

One by One by… ONE

One by one by…”

Max half saunters, half dance’s his way to the ring in rhythm with the song paying little to no attention to the PRIME audience. Lost in his own mad vision of the world around him, Max moves to the angry words of the music.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Arkham, Massachusetts… standing at six-foot-four-inches and weighing two-hundred-fifty-five pounds…

Reaching the edge of the ring, Max moves to the steps before climbing them slowly. Reaching the top, he climbs the outside of the turnbuckle and once again raises both of his hands slowly into the air.

Vince Howard: …..MAAAAAAAAAAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAAAAAAAAAEL!

“You should see me in a CROWN!

Your silence is my favorite sound

Watch me make’em bow

One by one by ONE

One by one by oooone!”

Slithering into the ring, Max slinks to the center of the corner where he slowly removes his crown, holding it high above his head before moving back to his corner. The music fades out and is replaced.

Richard Parker: Good to see Max have his game face on.

Nick Stuart: In fairness, throughout every crazy iteration of this guy, when does he not?

Richard Parker: You got me there.

Ominous stormclouds billow across the super-sized panoramic PRIMEview hanging over the stage. The sounds of howling winds, rolling thunder, and heavy rainfall accompany scattered flickers of viridian-hued levin.

KRACKA-BOOOOOM!!!

Bolts of LIGHTNING suddenly strike the stage, heralding the opening beats to “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady.

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

A row of fountain pyros, silver and green, interchangeably erupt from pots arranged around the entryway. Two figures emerge through the storm of fire and smoke. The spotlight hits, revealing KERRY KUROYAMA in full emerald and argent regalia, with eternal wingman SCOTT HUNTER at his shoulder and everyone’s favorite stoner marsupial Kerry Koalayama waddling at his heels. Scott leans in and graciously double-points to the Emerald Apex. Kerry stands at the head of the ramp, arms pumped overhead, DEFIANTly staring down the crowd.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, accompanied by “Wingman” Scott Hunter… he hails from Seattle, Washington, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty two pounds… representing VAE VICTIS… he is THE EMERALD APEX… KEEERRRYYYY KUUURROOOOYYYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!

The Pacific Blitzkrieg scales the steel steps and enters through the ropes, with the Atlantic Guerilla Warfare (nickname pending) and the Eucalyptic Apex close behind.

Richard Parker: You think Koalayama gets into it with Max or not? Also, who’d you have in that fight?

Nick Stuart: I don’t think they get into it but I think we’d be looking at a solid draw.

Richard Parker: (Totally buying into what Stuart is selling) I like it, I do, I do. Lots of biting.

Nick Stuart: That’s kind of where I was going.

With Kuroyama in the ring, referee Ashley Barlow lets Scott Hunter and the adorable marsupial know they better not get involved. She explains the rules to both wrestlers thereafter and calls for the bell!

DING DING

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael and Kerry Kuroyama meet in the middle of the ring and lock up, but it doesn’t take long for Kael to pull away and jam his right knee into Kerry’s gut. With Kuroyama doubled over, Max hits the ropes and flies off them with a ruthlessly looking clothesline and flips Kerry to the mat. On the outside, Scott Hunter seems rattled but puts on his brave face nonetheless and stars clapping his hands together, trying to get the crowd going.

Kael pulls Kuroyama to his feet and hurls Kerry into the ropes. The clapping from all parties is working because this time Kerry ducks a clothesline and bounces off the next set of ropes. He hammers Kael with a shoulder block, sending MWK flying into a corner of the ring. Kuroyama storms over, pushes Kael’s body back and chops him hard as shit across the chest.

Followed by a hammer throw, putting Max on his ass in the middle of the ring.

Kuroyama takes charge. He dropkicks the back of Kael’s head and, if there was a screw or two that isn’t loose in there already, well, now it was totally loose. Kael is flat on his chest but The Pacific Blitzkrieg isn’t going to buy into Max’s lights being out. Kerry immediately scrambles down and peels Kael off the mat, whipping him into a release tiger suplex. Kael’s body goes limp in the process, while Scott Hunter is on the outside telling his VVingman that he might be able to take the pin and the match right here.

Richard Parker: Why, on god’s earth, would Kerry ever listen to Hunter?

Nick Stuart: Well a couple weeks ago, we called a Scott Hunter match when he ALMOST beat Ivan Stanislav!

Richard Parker: You’re point? I missed it.

As the announcers bicker, it doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, Richard’s correct at least in this aspect because the second Kuroyama leans over to collect Mak Kael- he’s bitten right in the nose!

Nick Stuart: Ref didn’t see it!

Kuroyama stumbles around on the canvas, holding his nose in the process. This allows Max to get on his feet, readjust his tights and come booming forward with a forearm smash to Kuroyama’s face and, albeit, his nose.

Kuroyama falls to his knees as Max grins a toothy little grin and rifles off the ropes. He dropkicks Kuroyama in the nose, this time there might even be a trickle of blood that falls out.

Kael is off the mat and into the ropes again but Kerry sees him coming. He low-bridges Kael, so The Black Heart of PRIME™ flips over the ropes but remains on the apron.

Kael looks for a right hand – blocked.

Kael looks for a headbutt – blocked.

Kael looks to bite Kuroyama’s nose again – blocked.

Max seems really pissed ATM. He’s tried three things and none of them worked. Luckily, Kerry Kuroyama is going to help Kael not think anymore because he drills his own hard-out headbutt into Kael’s temple.

MWK falls off the apron and to the floor below, right beside Scott Hunter and Kerry Koalayama.

Kael is having what seems to be a significantly hard time processing the information around him.

OPEN PALM SLAP!

Wait a second, how did Kerry Kuroyama get outside of the ring? Because he’s the one that did it!

Scott Hunter is thrilled at seeing his VVingman, as Kuroyama steers Kael back into the ring and heads inside as well.

WHAP!

Except Max Kael is up first and drills his right knee into Kuroyama’s skull.

Nick Stuart: Nice recovery by Max.

Kael pulls Kuroyama to his feet and connects with a belly-to-belly suplex.

Max holds on, gritting his teeth as he does. It looks like he wants to nail another one.

And does.

Max STILL holds on. He’s going for a third.

Connects.

Max HASN’T LET GO. He’s got Kerry Kuroyama reeling.

German suplex INTO A BRIDGE!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Kuroyama with a strong and forceful kickout as both men roll to their knees. Kael seeths as he drills a forearm into Kerry’s right temple but Kuroyama replies with one of his own. Back and forth the shots go as both men are trying to get on their feet, while subsequently aiming to knock each other down in the process.

It doesn’t matter. Neither man has given an inch or taken a yard and yet they are pumping each other silly!

Kuroyama finally gets the better of Max, but only for a second, as he winds back for a final blow-

Max goes for the eye gouge!

This time the referee DOES see it, although Ashley Barlow is not going to throw the match out. At least not yet. Well, maybe she was going to, but Max Kael was super quick into the ropes and upon coming back he’s CRUSHED with a Kerry Kuroyama powerslam and a pin!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Kuroyama holds onto Kael’s right arm as he pulls them both to a vertical base. Kerry connects with a side Russian leg sweep, still holding onto the side of Max Kael as he flips around and applies a modified chinlock sleeper.

Kael, however, is in the ropes rather quickly.

Kuroyama drops the sleeper. On the outside of the ring, however, his VVingman cheer him on. Kuroyama takes a couple of steps back and the second Max Kael shows signs of life…

He’s crushed with a yakuza kick!

People will swear they witnessed Kael’s head do the Exorcist thing but then again we are in Canada and furthermore we are in Ottawa and these people are really messed up Ottawa Senators fans. But this is wrestling, not hockey, and this is Kerry Kuroyama’s time. Not someone else’s.

With Kael wandering around, looking to be put out of his misery, Kuroyama reels him in and lands a super high angle, LOOOOONNGGGG time in the air gourdbuster!

Kael goes SPLAT and Kuroyama is looking for the end…

When suddenly Max springs to his feet, cranks his neck to the side and roars forward, catching Kerry off guard with the Question Mark Kick!

Followed by an Arkham Uppercut!

Nick Stuart: Max is going to steal this thing! We have a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Kael slams the canvas, fury going through his eyes.

Nick Stuart: That was definitely a two count!

Richard Parker: Yeah, try telling Max that!

Kael drags both himself and Kuroyama to his feet. He connects with a backbreaker, followed by an elbow drop to the heart and another cover!

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP.

Max isn’t taking no for an answer. He hooks Kuroyama into the air and lands a brainbuster. The air inside the ring is knocked out. Kerry is DOA.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Nope. Not DOA.

Kael slams the mat. He’s very angry now… and he might be letting this headspace get the best of him. While he stumbles into a corner of the ring, his eyes are locked on Kuroyama, who’s struggling to get to his feet.

Finally Kerry’s on one knee…

Then one leg…

Now both.

Kael charges.

POWERSLAM BY KUROYAMA!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Kuroyama seems to have regained a second VVind. He drags Max to his feet and delivers a crescent kick to the side of Kael’s head. While the Number One News Sources in PRIME Entertainment remains on his feet, he’s wobbly.

Snap dragon suplex.

Another snap dragon.

Finally, a snap dragon with a bridge and a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: We are developing quite the little back and forth pinfalls!

Kerry rolls to the center of the ring, while Max is trying to find his whereabouts. As Max stands, he sees The Pacific Blitzkrieg ready to go.

And Max Kael simply rolls out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Wait, where’s he going!?

Richard Parker: Fresh air.

Max furiously storms up the rampway. At first, Kerry remains at the ready in the middle of the squared circle.

However.

However!

It’s becoming more clear that Max isn’t just walking up the rampway to collect his thoughts, no.

He’s legitimately walking away.

Like, he’s already gone to the back.

Ashley Barlow is at a count of EIGHT.

Kuroyama looks confused for a moment. Hunter is disappointed. Even Koalayama seems sullen. Or high.

The crowd, definitely, is pissed.

NINE.

Richard Parker: First the Ottawa Senators lose and now this!

Nick Stuart: Richard, you don’t watch hockey.

Richard Parker: (Remembering that indeed he does not) Oh yeah, right!

TEN!

DING DING DING

The bell sounds and Barlow raises Kerry’s hand.

Vince Howard: The winner of the match… Kerry Kuroyama!

Kuroyama looks a little disgusted and off put, and yet content with the W at the same time as Hunter and the other Kerry enter the ring to congratulate him.

Richard Parker: Damn. We were just getting started on this one, too.

Nick Stuart: I agree.

Richard Parker: Max isn’t right.

Nick Stuart: I agree.

PRIME goes elsewhere.

We return backstage following Kerry Kuroyama’s victory over Max Kael to find that one of the hallways has been decorated. Posters depicting an unflattering image of a man in a golden mask and a sleazy ash gray suit passed out in a lawn chair somewhere on Farthington Manor grounds have been plastered on the walls.

Each of these posters have been lovingly sent through a copy machine, and bears this message:

MISSING: one (1) fabby
Last seen doing whatever, we’re not sure actually.
If found, please return to the Gluite.

Now, you might be asking what else decorates this hallway. Well, on the nearby table is a well-crafted pyramid of milk cartons. Each of these milk cartons has an even less flattering picture of a man in a golden mask and sleazy ash gray suit scratching his ass. These cartons have a message written on them, which reads: “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS fabby?”

Joe Fontaine is standing there with a stack of papers under one arm and a milk carton in his hand. He’s in his usual gaudy green suit and he has his tag team championship belt around his waist, because that’s normal attire around here.

Joe Fontaine: Do you think we overdid it?

He’s talking, of course, to his tag team championship partner, FLAMBERGE. FLAMBO’s yellow plastic sunglasses are too large for any human face, and his teal and copper suit would be best described as “SO European”. He too wears his tag team championship around his waist, because friends who wear championships together retain championships together.

FLAMBERGE: I actually worry that we have not done enough. Our bag man remains at large.

Joe Fontaine: Good point. I was thinking about investing in some sort of automated messaging system for whenever people walk by here to loudly declare that we have a theft on our hands.

Clearly, neither of these men have watched a single minute of the very show they’re on, or else they’d know where their fabby was at: likely getting stabbed by Anna Daniels. Mildly.

Joe Fontaine: I swear, no one’s got any decency around here. Going around, stealing our fabbies, forcing good citizens to have to find a fabby on Temu and getting fuckin’ increddy instead. Disgraceful! Sad! Dissadful! You’re with me on this, right, FLAMBO?

FLAMBO makes a vague gesture with his shoulders that can’t easily be defined in any way except by FLAMBO himself. And he’s not talking.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais.

Oh, nevermind.

Applaud comes in from off camera and we pan over to find Fuck Your Tag Team. Rob is reading one of Joe’s flyers.

Rob Williams: You can’t be fucking serious, right?

Rob crumbles up the flyer and tosses it, landing perfectly on the forehead of Joe Fontaine. It bounces off, lands on FLAMBERGE’s shoulder, and then hits the ground. FLAMBERGE only mildly looks annoyed by the fact that the crumpled up flyer landed on him. Or maybe that’s just a lizard reaction to most things. Sometimes, there’s a third option to fight or flight, which is “remain still and collect more data”.

Speaking of reactions to things, Joe Fontaine has one. He blinks, and he says…

Joe Fontaine: Ow.

Anna Daniels also has one, namely giving the side eye at the fabby wallpaper.

Anna Daniels: Typical Glue. No fucks given unless it inconveniences them.

The Time Lord tsks at the entire situation.

Anna Daniels: You disappoint us, boys. Truly. If you’d given even a bit of thought, you would know exactly where he was and who had him the entire time.

It isn’t like they’re even hiding him either. fabby is literally a few feet away at the catering table in his gimp suit, trying to steal some snacks and making a silent prayer that no moose (mooses? meeses?) is anywhere remotely near him. Nor are they hiding the leash that keeps the Whoredet tied to the duo.

FLAMBERGE: Oh, vraiment? You have a lead?

FLAMBO grabs the milk carton sitting atop the pyramid, mimics the action of “crumpling” it (hard to do, notably, because liquids), and tosses it, bouncing off the forehead of Rob Williams, ricocheting off of Anna’s elbow, and splatting on the ground, making the beginnings of a real mess on the ground.

Joe Fontaine: Man, now we’re going to need a fabby to clean that up.

He does not specify the how of a fabby cleaning up that mess. He doesn’t need to. It’s harrowing, that’s what it is.

FLAMBERGE: Non, c’est bon, the complainy one is going to solve all our problems for us. And then – you know what that means…

He’s clearly setting Joe up to say something jolf-related. He even lowers his enormous sunglasses and raises his eyebrows several times in a universal “eh? eh?” sort of manner.

Joe Fontaine: …………Free milkshakes at the local jolf course clubhouse? Sorry, the jlubhaus?

FLAMBERGE: Jlubhaus milkshakes.

They fist bump. It’s awful.

Rob Williams: If you two don’t cut the fucking Juno act so help me god I will shove (points at Joe) your head so far up (points at FLAMBERGE) your ass that you might actually show some fucking emotion. You ever seen a man put another man’s head in his ass? It’s spiritual.

With a swift karate chop, Rob sends the mountain of milk cartons tumbling.

Rob Williams: fabby is with us now. He’s learning to be a proper Whoresmen. We got your fabby and you got our belts.

Joe Fontaine: Weird.

He turns to FLAMBERGE, a confused expression on his face.

Joe Fontaine: That’s weird, right? I don’t think I’d fit.

Rob holds his hands up director style with Joe’s sweet little head in the center of his finger square.

Rob Williams: Oh it’ll fit. It’ll fit real nice.

It’s taking a lot for Anna not to facepalm. She gives a tug towards fabby who looks and facepalms for her before returning to harvesting crackers in his mouth like a BDSM squirrel.

Anna Daniels: It would only be your head, Joe. Now granted, Julien’s asshole might be incredibly tight.

Rob Williams: INCREDIBLY tight!

Anna Daniels: But what better way to loosen it up than by creating some sort of fucked up Glue centaur while taking our belts and our fabby? You two get to make jokes. We get to make you jokes. Everybody wins.

A pause.

Anna Daniels: Except for temu fabby. Making him disconnect you two is just damn unfortunate.

Rob nods in agreement with his partner in crime and then pokes FLAMBERGE in the chest.

Rob Williams: We’re gonna shove Joe’s head up your ass and just keep feeding you and feeding you and feeding you.

FLAMBERGE slaps away Rob’s hand.

FLAMBERGE: Listen, I understand this obsession with entering my asshole. Especially from you –

He pokes Rob back in the chest.

FLAMBERGE: – because believe it or not, you are not exactly the sneaky with the glances you toss the way of le “dumper”.

Rob blows kisses at FLAMBERGE.

Joe Fontaine: Imagine if all of the people who talked about Sykes or our good, best friend Hayes Hanlon and their big ‘ol badonkadonks had actually gotten a load of the bounce house our man FLAMBERGE has. Very tight, very svelte, very much not a thing you just invite all the squatters into and take up residence without invitation.

FLAMBERGE: Mais alors, you threaten my friend Joe, and now we have the problem. And it occurs to me that you were so busy “burning the ships” when you got here that you may not truly appreciate the reputation I have earned when facing those who wish so very, very strongly to become glue. Ask your partner, the complainer, she knows.

At that, Anna slaps FLAMBERGE harrrrrd across the face, sending his enormous sunglasses a solid 10 feet away on the fly.

SMACK

FLAMBO recoils at this and holds his hand to his cheek.

Rob Williams: God DAMN!

Joe Fontaine reacts to this very differently. He holds up a hand as though to let everyone know he’s got a response, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fancy white glove. You know, the kind worn by nobility. He takes his time to put this glove on, and admires the handiwork that’s gone into the construction of this fine piece of fabric. Then he takes his glove off and slaps Rob Williams across the face.

smack

Rob Williams does not even blink at this.

Rob Williams: What the fuck was that? Jesus boy,  that’s no more than foreplay where I come from. Getting me all hot and bothered – I’m redlining here.

Anna’s not amused by Rob being hot and bothered (because when isn’t he hot and bothered?). Instead, she calmly walks over to FLAMBO’s way-too-big-for-his-face sunglasses, walks back to the group, and snaps the sunglasses in two.

Anna Daniels: Complainer. That’s all we are to you. Huh. Guess all that time we wasted making you an actual fucking team means nothing. **Or did you get brainwashed by Troy?

She shakes her head and sighs with a certain…weight to it.

Anna Daniels: Guess that doesn’t matter anymore. You want fabby back? ReVival 69. We’ll put him on the line. You put up those belts. Winner takes all. That’s the offer. We won’t even ask for our neck back, collector bitch.

FLAMBERGE: Make sure you put up your fake pretend belts as well, espèce d’idiot, tu casses toujours mes affaires…

Rob Williams: Kookoomachoo to you, too, asshole.

It’s a tense staredown. So tense…that you’ll just have to wait.

Because it’s time to go elsewhere.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall is standing with Angelica Brooks.

Angelica Brooks: Jonathan-Christopher, you requested this time today. What’s on your mind?

JCH is a little more ready to go than normal.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Thanks for the time, Ms. Brooks. I’ve got a few wins in a row now under my belt, trying to do it on my own. It’s hard, Angelica, I’m not going to lie to you.

Hall sucks back pain before it works its way into his emotions.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: But I’m doing it. I hope I’m proving to everyone I’m worth investing.

Brooks nods along but leans in to clarify like the good journalist she is.

Angelica Brooks: You mean this message is for Vickie?

Hall slightly shakes his head yes but doesn’t look like he wants to engage any further.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And others. Let’s just say if I keep rolling, I’d love a meeting with Ivan Stanislav, too. I should be in the Red Army.

On cue. Out of the shadows.

Emerges her.

No, not her.

The other her. Rose.

Like she was waiting for JCH to bring up the Red Army this entire time.

Rose: Hall, you can’t seem to pick up a hint to save your fucking life, can you? The moment I heard that Angelica was meeting with you, I knew I had to see what a coward has to say. And you want a meeting with Ivan? Why? Because I’m so mean to you?

Rose chuckles.

Rose: You somehow never see what everyone else can see. You’re blind to the realities you live in, unable to get out of your own way. You want a meeting? I’ll secure it. Ivan will meet you in the ring at ReVival 69 to hear your grievances.

Rose inches towards Hall until they’re mere centimeters away from each other.

Rose: You thought you had it bad with Vickie? That was a picnic. For the record, I’m 100% that bitch.

Rose walks away, looking over her shoulder at Hall.

Rose: See you in two weeks time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

JCH stares blankly at Angelica. It’s like he saw a ghost. Poor guy opened up, but didn’t expect Rose waiting. He should’ve been smarter.

Then again, he wouldn’t have married Vickie and begged to get her back in the first place.

Touché.

Revival goes elsewhere as JCH gulps. He didn’t even have to win another match. He straight up got his wish.

Well, one of them.

We find the once beloved Former Flyin’ Hawaiian seated in an otherwise empty locker room. Not the official Red Army locker room, mind you…but a locker room, nonetheless. The worn leather of the chair provides some comfort to an otherwise icy atmosphere – things haven’t exactly gone in Bruh’s favor in or out of the ring.

The modified Belmont trophy sits on a table next to Bryan, who just kind of stares off.

Without warning, the door bursts open but Dawkins fails to react.

It’s Alexei Ruslan, with his medically required neck brace (thanks Chandler Tsonda you barbarian) and a look of determination in his eyes. He claps his hands three times.

Alexei Ruslan: Okay Dawkins. No good proletarian ever sat on his ass. We have work to do!

Bryan finally fixes his gaze on Ruslan. After slightly cocking his head at the medically necessary neck brace, he rises to meet Alexei’s eye level.

Bryan Dawkins: Not sure we do, bruh. But ya know, being a Red Army member and all, what’s the deal? Gonna go advance science a thousand years and bring Dusk back from the dead? Or does the buck stop at finding someone’s enslaved parents?

Ruslan tilts his head to the side, not used to Dawkins looking him straight in the eyes in such a way. He puffs up his chest and feigns, oh so legitimately, a hint of pain in his neck.

Alexei Ruslan: It does not matter what you think, Dawkins. What matters is what your Starshy Praporshchik requires. Now. Less thinking and more doing. Got it?

Bryan Dawkins: Hmmm…

He pauses for dramatic effect.

Bryan Dawkins: Less thinking, huh? Seems like you have that covered…if you had a single thought rattling around that dome of yours, Kenny’s parents wouldn’t be the only ones brought back. I’m a little lost on the ‘more doing’ part – you haven’t put one second of effort into lookin’ for weeks.

Alexei’s mustache shifts to the left and then to the right as he bares his teeth.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh? Listen son, if you have issue with Red Army, you are more than welcome to take it up with Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav…

He takes a step back and sizes up Dawkins before scoffing.

Alexei Ruslan: But, if you want to talk about doing nothing well…

He motions with both hands towards the Bruh.

Alexei Ruslan: Look no further. No title. No support. No backup. What have you done to earn anything from Ivan Stanislav? Nothing. All you have done is bitched and bitched and bitched and bitched!

He steps forward and points his finger in Dawkins’ face, his voice rising.

Alexei Ruslan: We need wrestlers in The Red Army, not whiny do-nothing cry babies! Unless you live under rock, Kenny Freeman has been winning, Bryan. Maybe you should TRY IT SOMETIME!?

Dawkins steps closer to Alexei, coming nose-to-nose with Ivan’s right hand man.

Bryan Dawkins: Alexei, unless you want me to put you in a real neck brace, I suggest you get the fuck out of here. I’m sure you’ll run back to Ivan and tell him I said that. Hell, since you’re so good at pulling off miracles, you can bring Stalin back from the fuckin’ grave and tell him too.

He turns his back on Ruslan (editor’s note: not a smart move) and returns to the worn leather chair.

Bryan Dawkins: You can tell Ivan we’ll have a much different conversation later. Wouldn’t wanna fuck up the rest of his plans like he’s fucked up mine…

Alexei fights every urge to pounce on Dawkins as he turns his back to him. But… he’s got that hurt neck all right. Instead, he marches back to the door where he had entered and turns on his heel.

Alexei Ruslan: Hate to break it to you, Dawkins, but you are talking to a former World Champion. Get your head out of your ass and maybe you can learn something from me. After all… what have you ever done? Sit and mope. I’ll get someone useful, like Kenny and Randall.

He snorts, and in a flash Ruslan is out the door once more. Dawkins slumps into the chair and rubs his temples. Alexei may have taken the air from the room when he left but there’s another pressure building in the room.

CLANG

The Belmont trophy sails across the room and slams into one of the locker stalls. Bryan stalks the fallen trophy, folding chair in hand, and raises it high above his head.

CLANG

CLANG

CLANG

CLANG

A handful of overhead swings later, the trophy is a mangled mess, dented to hell and back from the onslaught. Bryan collapses onto the floor, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him. His eyes begin to well…

BANG

The door explodes open as a determined Bash Gold marches towards Dawkins. He’s in full gear despite not being booked tonight. He’s expecting a fight.

Sebastian Gold: Hey! You thought you could dodge my challenge, you tropical coward!t? Did you think Sebastian Fucking Gold would lay down and-

…nothing? Absolutely no reaction from the man who has made it a point to needle and poke and prod for most of 2025. Just blank, dead eyes.

Bash’s demeanor shifts, his face going from hunter to savior in a blink.

Sebastian Gold: Shit, bruh are you alright?

Still no response.

Is he dead? Nah, Bash can see Bryan breathing. But he’s a shell of the obnoxious Bruh who has been a thorn in the Heroes’ side since he rejected their help months ago.

Sebastian spots the banged-up Belmont on the floor. The sight doesn’t make him angry, just sad. He walks over to the broken trophy, picks it up and examines it.

He walks back over to Dawkins and drops the dented trophy next to him, and points to it.

Sebastian Gold: This you, bruh? Is this really who you are now? Cause the Dawkins who beat me last year – this ain’t him. In fact, I haven’t seen him around in a while.

No response again. Gold kneels down to Dawkins’ level.

Sebastian Gold: Do they have something on you, bruh? Come on, now’s your chance. If you need help, let us help you.

For the first time, Dawkins moves his head to acknowledge Bash’s presence, but he doesn’t say a word.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: Next up folks, four of the premier wrestlers in all of PRIME. It’s Nate Colton and Chandler Tsonda, teaming up once again. Their opponents this time around – The Muse and The Legend, Daniels and Williams.

Richard Parker: Say their name Nick!

Nick Stuart: FYTT!

Richard Parker: Say it…

Nick Stuart: Fuck Your Tag Team.

Richard Parker: Damn right!

The arena lights cut out and strobing white lights shine from the floor near the entrance at the top of the ramp. An awful and untalented bass line booms from the PA system, followed by an overly dramatized Boston Irish accent.

“This one’s going out to all the scumbags, lowlifes, and outsiders.”

Fuck Your Tag Team appears at the top of the ramp, the white light shining from the floor behind them, casting vast shadows across the ring of their outlines. “Wasted Youth Crew” by Blood for Blood offends the ears of everyone in the arena.

“Fuck you

Fuck you

Fuck you

and fuck society too.”

Rob Williams and Anna Daniels look locked in, staring at the empty ring as they slowly make their way towards it, ignoring the jeers of the fans. Rob slaps the popcorn out of a fan’s hands before climbing into the ring.  Anna dances around avoiding every fan’s hand that goes to reach out for her before sliding under the bottom rope and slithering to her feet.

“Fuck you

fuck you

fuck you

and fuck the world.”

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall!

The crowd can’t resist joining in.

ONE FALL!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, at a combined weight of three hundred seventy five pounds… from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey – ANNNNNNNAAAAAAA DAAAAAANIELLLLLLSSSSS! From Decatur, Georgia… THE LEGEND RROOOBBBB WIIIIIIILLLLLLLLIIIIIIAAAAAAAMMMMSSSS! FUCK! YOUR! TAG! TEAM!

OHHHH FUUUUUUUUUCK THIS TAG TEAM!

OHHHHHH FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKK TTTHHHIIIIIISSSSS TTTAAAAGG TTTEEAAAMM!

This announcement brings the crowd to song in the style of Seven Nation Army, Anna’s eyes narrow and Williams responds by flipping the fans the bird in response. After a few rounds of the chorus, the fans pipe down momentarily, that is until…

The arena’s lights go out once more, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd.

Vince Howard: And their opponents… First, hailing from Evansville Indiana…weighing in at two hundred forty pounds… he is THE NEXT DIAMOND! He is… NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.

Nick Stuart: The fans are on their feet as usual for Nate!

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’

These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.”

After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs. The PRIMEView displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background. Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face.

Vince Howard: And his partner, from San Diego, California… by way of Hanoi, Vietnam… THE MODEL CITIZEN! CHHHHHHHHHANDLLLLLERRRRRR TTTTTTTSSSSSSSOOOOOOONNNNNNNDDDDDDAAAAAAAA!

Amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and acknowledges his team-mate. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell to open this tag-team contest.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we are underway!

Its Williams and Tsonda who start the match as the legal competitors, they circle each other somewhat cautiously before they lock up. Williams manages to get the better of the grappling and twists Tsonda into a side headlock. Rob can’t resist the opportunity to ‘put a little stink on it’ as he tightens the headlock and grinds the knuckles of his free hand against the back of his opponent’s head.

He’s not quick enough to take full advantage however – the lightning fast Chandler Tsonda slips out of the headlock, and having taken Williams by surprise, he grabs the forearm and pulls Rob into an Irish whip. As Williams rebounds back towards him, Tsonda delivers a picture perfect Japanese arm drag.

Nick Stuart: Wonderful technique from Tsonda.

Richard Parker: He didn’t mean to do that.

Nick Stuart: I assure you he did.

Furious, Williams springs straight back to his feet, turning and setting off at pace he throws himself towards The Viet Viper. Tsonda is ready for him though, and plants both feet on Rob’s chest with a beautiful dropkick that sends The Legend back to the mat once more.

Chandler watches as Williams rolls over towards his corner, where the outstretched hand of Anna Daniels awaits him. Rather than trying to prevent the tag, Tsonda turns to his own corner and tags in Colton. The crowd buzz in anticipation as the new competitors stride towards each other.

Anna feints with a punch, and quickly follows with a stiff roundhouse kick; it catches Nate’s ribs with enough force to double him over. Pressing her advantage Anna grabs his head and starts firing off a series of knee strikes, each one staggering Colton back towards one of the neutral corners.

As Anna closes in to grapple with Colton in the corner, The New Diamond slips past her and suddenly it’s Daniels who finds herself on the defensive in the corner. Nate delivers the sort of chop that is particularly celebrated in North Carolina. The fans respond appropriately.

WOOOO!

Colton brings Anna out of the corner quickly, delivering a snapmare. He wastes no time in following up with a rear chinlock. But before he can lock in the hold, Anna escapes. She throws herself off the ring-ropes and crashes back into Nate with a running high knee, a split second later a bicycle high knee connects. The fans look on anxiously; they’ve seen this one before. As expected, Anna then delivers a springboard into a shooting star knee drop, completing her signature ‘Retrograde Am-knee-sia’ combination.

Richard Parker: HELL YEAH!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels pulling out the big guns early doors.

Daniels hooks the leg, and Jimmy Turnbull slides into position to make the count.

ONE…

TW-No!

Nate kicks out just as Turnbull’s hand reaches the canvas for a second time; the sigh of relief from the fans is audible.

Nick Stuart: Just the two count on this occasion.

Anna, keen to stay on the offensive, drags Nate into her corner – Jimmy Turnbull acknowledges the tag to Williams. Colton manages to get back to his feet, only to find himself playing the role of ‘the filling’ in a FYTT sandwich. Williams and Daniels unload strike after strike, each one sending Nate back into the range of the other.

Richard Parker: Now you’ll see what a real tag-team can do.

In their corner, a frustrated Chanlder Tsonda is screaming at Turnbull, reminding the junior referee to enforce the rules and stop this double-teaming. The Michigander obliges and threatens to disqualify Daniels. Ignoring his threats until the last possible moment, Anna continues to volley shots off of Nate until Turnbull reaches a count of four. Finally she raises both hands, palms forward in token of surrender, and takes her place on the apron – making an exaggerated show of taking hold of the tag-rope.

Looking very pleased with the work they’ve done so far, Williams takes a little too long in his attempt to hoist Nate Colton up into position to deliver a brainbuster. As a result he learns a valuable lesson – you never count out a Colton! Nate brings a knee down on top of Rob’s head allowing him to drop down behind him – immediately he tries to make his way to Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: Colton trying to make the tag.

Before he’s made a few steps however, he is halted as Williams grabs his leg and starts pulling him back toward the FYTT corner. Nate struggles to a vertical base, made all the more difficult as Williams keeps a hold of his left foot. Williams gives Nate’s foot a few quick tugs, not enough to take Colton back to the canvas, he’s just playing with his food – and from the shit-eating grin on his face he is enjoying it.

Richard Parker: Ha! You’re going nowhere kid.

Said shit-eating grin turns to a look of confusion as Williams notices that Nate is grinning back at him.

THWACK!

Nate delivers a step-up enzuigiri, which sends Williams stumbling back into the turnbuckles. Anna slaps his back, tagging herself back into the match. Springing forward she lunges to try and catch Nate’s leg, but it’s too late. Tag!

Nick Stuart: Sorry Rich, you were saying?

Richard Parker: Piss off!

Tsonda flips over the top-rope acrobatically, achieving the desired purpose of having gained some momentum in doing so; he uses every bit of that momentum to hurl himself at Daniels with a lariat.

Richard Parker: Now that’s some Cowboy shit!

Nick Stuart: Cowboy shit?

Richard Parker: I have no idea; it just seemed like the right thing to say!

Anna scrambles back to her feet, but Tsonda follows up with another immediate lariat. The crowd are on their feet, as the adrenaline fuelled Model Citizen lets out a roar of determination.

Chandler picks Daniels up off the canvas, and hooks her head in a front headlock. The fans take the volume up another notch as Tsonda lifts Daniels up into the air, and crashing back head-first to the mat with a picture-perfect stalling lift implant DDT.

Nick Stuart: Chanlder with the Golgotha Drop!

Tsonda hooks the leg.

ONE…

TWO…

THR-No!

At the last moment, Rob interjects himself to save the contest with a stiff kick to Tsonda’s face that breaks the pinning attempt.

Nick Stuart: Williams with the save!

Williams stomps down on Tsonda’s chest with a barrage of kicks before dragging him over to the FYTT corner. Anna slowly makes her way across and they make the tag.

Rob climbs back into the ring and wastes no time in hoisting Tsonda up for a powerbomb. Once again though, Chandler is too quick. He flips backwards, incredibly landing on his feet. Furious, Williams charges at him, but before he can reach the opponent, he gets an up close and personal meeting with Chandler’s left boot.

Nick Stuart: Superkick from Tsonda. You can never anticipate the incredible agility of The Sultan of Style!

Richard Parker: Incredible fragility more like. That was sheer desperation; he knows that with all his back problems, that powerbomb would’ve been game over.

Tsonda reaches over to his corner and tags Nate back into the contest. Colton waits for Rob to get back to his feet, before connecting with a running forearm.

Standing over the downed man, Nate quickly looks out to the crowd, a grin on his face – The crowd react as you’d expect with thunderous cheers. Nate gives them a nod of approval and bends down to pick Williams up.

In one fluid motion, Evansville’s favourite son brings Rob Williams upright, and then immediately throws him with an exploder suplex. Colton spins around, grabbing Williams by the head; he repositions him and delivers a snapmare. Before Williams has any chance to react, Colton pulls his head back and applies a headlock.

Nick Stuart: Amazing technique from Nate Colton with that series, and now he has the dragon sleeper locked in.

Maintaining the hold, Nate pulls himself upright, bringing Williams along with him. Now the fans are practically foaming at the mouth, they know what Colton intends to do from this position.

With absolutely no interest in disappointing them, Nate delivers his trademark inverted suplex.

LET’S GO COLTON!

LET’S GO TSONDA!

Richard Parker: Aw crap! He’s going to win isn’t he?

Nick Stuart: It’s certainly looking in his favour at this point!

Williams is slow to get to his feet, his back is turned to his opponent – and that’s exactly what Colton was hoping for. He is waiting to pounce, arms outstretched, fingers wiggling in anticipation. It’s time to end this; it’s time for the Colton Clutch Suplex!

BAM!

With the entirety of his focus on Rob Williams, Nate is blindsided by Anna. She enters the ring and immediately delivers a Brazilian kick, connecting with Nate’s jaw.

Richard Parker: YES! That’ll teach him, you can’t take your eyes off of Anna!

Nick Stuart: The Time Lord and her Interrobang saved the day for FYTT.

Tsonda launches himself back into the ring with a springboard forearm, which takes Daniels off her feet. At the same time, Williams and Colton get back to their feet and begin slugging it out, exchanging punches.

Jimmy Turnbull tries in vain to regain control, but reluctant to take any serious action, he is helpless to stop the chaos ensuing before him.

Tsonda and Daniels collect each other too. Now all four competitors are exchanging blows; Williams, Colton and Daniels throwing punches whilst Tsonda is throwing forearm shots.

Nick Stuart: The referee needs to try and get this thing back under control.

Richard Parker: Nah let them fight.

Anna drops down and bails out of the ring, leaving Williams at the mercy of Nate and Chandler. Nate says something inaudible to Tsonda, pointing to the top turnbuckle at the same time. Chandler nods in approval and hoists himself up into position.

As he does so, Colton picks Williams up and positions him in Tsonda’s flight path. He hooks the leg and delivers a second exploder suplex.

Nick Stuart: Great teamwork here.

CRACK!

Tsonda spun around, ready to launch himself off the top rope with a moonsault – But Anna Daniels hadn’t been idle. Steel chair held in both hands, she wraps it around Chandler’s skull.

Tsonda falls backwards into the ring, and Jimmy Turnbull having seen the entire exchange calls for the ring bell, shaking his head in disapproval.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Your winners, by disqualification – NATE COLTON AND CHANDLER TSONDA!

Anna slides back into the ring, still holding the steel chair. A furious Nate Colton gets right up in her face. The two exchange insults, but not wanting to miss out on the fun, Williams crawls over and reaches up from the canvas to kick Nate in the Colton family jewels. Nate buckles over double, and Anna adds insult to injury by bringing the steel chair down across his back.

Nick Stuart: Get these two out of here.

Richard Parker: Oh come on, they were robbed of the win.

Nick Stuart: In what world Rich? Tsonda and Colton were seconds away from winning the match clean.

Richard Parker: They don’t look much like winners right now.

With FYTT standing over their victorious yet downed opponents, and the fans hurling all sorts of abuse in their direction – ReVival moves on.

WE BUILT THIS CITY!
WE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK AND ROLL!
BUILT THIS CITY!
WE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK AND ROOOOOOOOOOOLLLL!!

Nick Stuart: What’s this jack ass want?

Richard Parker: Don’t talk shit about my friends behind their back, Nick.

Fred Dick steps out onto the entrance ramp and everybody in the crowd starts booing because he’s about to fuck on them and they don’t want him to. But since this is merely a metaphor, it’s not against the law. He walks down the ramp like he thinks he’s hot shit, and also, has some white hot shit to spit on the microphone. After waddling a little further down the ramp, he pulls himself into the ring under the bottom rope and climbs to his feet.

He grabs a microphone from some asshole ring dick, and starts putting in work.

Boos rain down. He sighs.

Fred Dick: Would y’all shut the fug up and kiss my ace? God dayum, I’m tryna say my piece.

They only boo louder.

Fred Dick: WHEN I SAY TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TO KISS MY MOTHAFUGGIN ACE, I EXPECT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU PIECES OF OTTAWAN SHID TO FIND YO MOTHAFUGGIN LIPS, CLOSE THEM SHIDS, AND PUCKER. THA FUG. UP. SO THAT I CAN SAY MY PIECE!!!

The boos only multiply. Fred paces around the ring like a caged dog as he waits for the heat to die down.

Fred Dick: Alright y’all made y’all’s point. So lemme make mines. See, lots of people is out there talgin’ all kindsa mad shid. Sayin’ some ol’ bullshid like, ‘Fred Dick can’t become Intense Champion, because he’s a fat lazy piece of shid who mutilated himself due to peer pressure, which Hayes Hamlom would never do!’ Yeah they are. They even sayin’ some STUPID ACE bullshid like, ‘Ain’t no way Hayes HAMLOM, who sexy as hell and finer than a fuckinnnnn, Ionno, dick made out of ice cream, is ever gonna lose to that loser-ace, illiterate-ace psychopaff, Fred Dick.’

Nick Stuart: I’m gonna be honest. It’s unclear if Fred is purposefully mispronouncing Hanlon’s last name, or has simply forgotten how it’s pronounced.

Richard Parker: 3D Chess, Nick.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Always keep them guessing.

Fred Dick: And to those stupid ace people, talgin’ thar stupid ace fuggin’ shid, I say this: Y’all can go pull pud with a handful of gravel! Bahahaha!!! BECAUSE I’MA GONNA WIN DAT INTENSE TITLE!!! I’MA GONNA WIN THA GOD DAMN SHID OUTTA DAT INTENSE TITLE!!!!

The fans have literally been jeering him the entire time he’s been talking.

Fred Dick: I just wish we could time travel to later tonight when I win dat bench. But we can’t. All of us gotta sit through a borin’ ace rookie showcase match. Ben Lynch? Whodahellisdat? Canker Jilet? Whodahellisdat?

When Fred says ‘whodahellisdat?’ His voice rises to a falsetto and he shrugs really hard.

Fred Dick: But after that dumb shid is over, I swur to GAWD – I’m puttin on the show of my life. Hamlom, you may have fugged my ex, but you haven’t fugged the war. And come tonight, when the bell sounds? Oooooooh WEE! It’s gonna be MY ACE gettin’ MY HAND RAISED, and MY TITLE gettin’ put on MY SHOULDER. And if you don’t believe that? Then you don’t believe in Dick. And if you don’t believe in Dick? Then you don’t believe in anythaaaaang!

Fred drops the mic like he just said something profound.

WE BUILT THIS CITY!

Ugh. We cut elsewhere.

The show feed cuts away from the rookie shenanigans inside the ring to more mature, veteran, pillar of PRIME type of affairs taking place backstage.

There he is.

Cancer Hurst Jilesy.

Oddly, like at the start of the show, The King of King Crumbs is all alone. Well, not completely alone; lauded CNN Anchor, Chris Chickentenders is with him, but still.

Might as well be alone.

Jiles is dressed for his up and coming battle. His KFC tights are on. His salt boots are laced tight. His hair is simmering. His T-shades sparkle. In fact, if looks could kill, someone go and call the coroner for Ben Lynch.

Chris Chickentenders on the other hand, well, I am sorry I made a mistake. I confused Chris’ slim, pool boy, concave chest frame for that of JCH’s. Both of them look prepubescent so sue me. Anywho, Jonathan-Christopher Hall is standing in front of King COOL looking very timid. Too timid. And yet there he is, not backing down.

Chewing on Jiles’ patience.

Cancer has a look ok his face like “fucking say it or get your teeth kicked down your throat. Again.”

Hall finally spits it out.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Is it… is it true?

As he says this, there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: You and… and… and… and…

For fuck sales junior, SAY IT.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And… and… and…

Jiles is really getting that super kick ready. Terminal. It better be. Better knock him out of his misery forever.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And Vickie broke up?

Since he took so long to say it, The COOL should probably let him weave in and out of this hope and torment and whatever else this clearly unstable schmuck is going through at the moment.

At the same time, Jiles sees Hall is twitching and mumbling to himself. It sounds like JCH is talking to himself.

Okay. Mercy. Jiles lets the boy in on the truth.

Cancer Jiles: Who the fuck is Vickie?

Ha.

JCH wilts.

Cancer Jiles: Pull yourself together, Jon. You can’t be acting a fool over some scamp.

Wring words.

From simp to… mad man? Watch.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: THAT SCAMP YOU SO BRAZENLY REFER TO HAPPENS TO BE MY AMAZING LIFE PARTNER!

JCH showing mad vibes he hasn’t really before.

Cancer Jiles: Oh, that Vickie. Thanks for reminding me– I’ve been meaning to RETURN her calls. We agreed to take some time apart but I guess once you go COOL you never go FOOL. HA. HAHAHA. HA. Get it.

Suddenly, Jonathan-Christopher is calm. Dare we say he has joy in his eyes. Something no victory in PRIME can buy him…

Hope.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: She’s single again. Okay, okay, she’s single. She’s not with him.

Hall pauses. Jiles looks like he’s going to say something but… Jonathan-Christopher answers his own statement.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: She can come back to me! Oh, I can show her I’m sorry. I was wrong! Right, me?

At this point, why would Jiles say anything? He’s just enjoying the show. How many people are in there?

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I have to make plans. I have to welcome her back and tell her how I’ve changed!

Hall looks at Jiles and then runs away.

Cancer Jiles: Poor crumb.

The shot cuts away to greener pastures.

Backstage.

A man stalks through the backstage hallways, in a bad mood. Maybe it’s because he just lost his match. Maybe it’s because he came into physical contact with Rob Williams, and will need a new round of shots because of it.

We’ll never tell.

Regardless, Nate Colton is headed back to the locker room. He’s covered with sweat. He might be covered with blood. He’s definitely covered with disgust, because whatever The Legend has going on might be contagious.

Good news, now that his match is over he’s got nothing to worry about except cleaning up and getting back to the hotel.

Oh, and Jason Snow.

The two nearly bump into each other, but they stop up in time and keep a cautious distance.

Nate Colton: Jason. Anything you wanna say?

Jason Snow: …

Nate Colton: Figured as much. Look, you don’t have to say a damn thing to me; you don’t owe me anything. But you owe two words to that girl back in Calgary, and I intend to make sure she collects.

Jason Snow: …

Nate Colton: Far as I’m concerned, you’re just as responsible as Hayes. I know he won’t apologize unless I beat it out of him, but I expect better from you.

Nothing.

Nate Colton: Well. Just so we know where we stand.

“WHO SAID “STAND!?” WHO IN THE FUCK IS BACK HERE TALKING ABOUT STANDING UP ALL WILLY NILLY AS IF SOME OF US AREN’T SO FORT–

Rexton William Bader rolls into the scene, with an intensity matched only by the rolling of Nate’s eyes, but instantly goes quiet when he sees the transgressor is Nate Colton. Bader’s face softens and we can see some calculation going on behind his eyes.

Nate Colton turns his back on Snow to face Bader. Snow simply folds his arms and watches.

Rexton William Bader: Oh hey, look who it is. Nate Colton. Just who I was looking for. Hey listen, kid. I was meaning to tell you. What you did last week, sticking up for me like you did? Because, if you haven’t noticed: I’m in a wheelchair. But it meant a lot to me.

Bader holds his hands up.

Rexton William Bader: Now I know. I know what you’re thinking. I probably know why you’re back here talking to my client, Mr. Snow. You’re wondering what it was I saw in him that I didn’t see in you. I know. You’re wondering why I chose to bestow my vast, vast knowledge of the wrestling industry onto him instead of you.

Colton looks over his shoulder at Snow like, “Is this guy for real?”

Snow, of course, doesn’t say anything.

Rexton William Bader: And I can’t say I don’t understand. Because I mean… Well, look at him. He’s old. He’s bald. He ain’t exactly the most pleasant company. Obviously. Or a–what you call a–intriguing conversationalist. All that’s true. So I can understand why someone in your position–younger, bigger, way better hair–might wonder why I chose him over you.

Nate Colton: I’m not.

Bader doesn’t even notice Colton has spoken.

Rexton William Bader: Well all I can tell you, lad, is I have my reasons. And, much like the Lord, I work in mysterious ways. You have to remember, young man, I’ve been in this industry a long, looooong time. Hell, before you were even born, when I still had my good strong legs, I was on my way to being the kind of star you and Mr. Silent treatment behind you could only dream to become. And with such wisdom comes–

Nate Colton: Been meaning to ask you about that. You wrestled in…where did you say it was? RVW? Where was that based out of?

Rexton William Bader: Wait wait wait, let’s not get caught up in details. Let’s just talk about why I didn’t chose you, but why I can offer–

Nate Colton: Reason I asked is, I was talking to my old man about it…he’s been around a bit, y’know. And he’s never heard of the place. He’s never heard of you.

Rexton William Bader: Your father wrestled?

It is clear now that Bader, in reality, has no clue who Nate Colton is.

Nate Colton: You could say that. I mean, he was never “the guy,” he wasn’t a household name or anything like that. But Jake Colton wrestled all over the world for twenty years, and worked with damn near everyone in the business. So if you wanna tell me about some of the guys you worked with…I’m sure the old man knows a few of them. The wrestlers you beat for your…six titles, was it? Or the referees who raised your hand. Or the guy who signed your paychecks.

The New Diamond leans in ever-so-slightly, packing an awful lot of menace into a single word.

Nate Colton: Anyone.

Rexton William Bader: Okay but wait. LISTEN. Whatever you were just prattling on about, I wasn’t listening. But only because I HAVE A BRILLIANT IDEA.

He looks past Colton, to Snow, and gives him the universal symbol of one’s own genius by pointing at his own temple.

Rexton William Bader: This is what I’m talking about with you all the time–why I’m gonna be an even better manager than a wrestler. Because I have ideas like this. What if you–

Pointing at Snow.

Rexton William Bader: –and you…

Pointing at Nate Colton.

Rexton William Bader: …team up? No seriously though. I know you can see through Hayes Hanlon’s bullshit too, Nate. I know you can tell that he’s a danger to everyone around him, even me, AND I’M IN A FUCKING WHEELCHAIR!

[whEEl-chEH]

Rexton William Bader: Between the two of you, I’ll bet you could stifle all his dirty tricks and give him the beating he’s always deserved. Jason, Jason… What do you say?

Snow looks mildly annoyed.

Rexton William Bader: He’s in! And how about you Nate?

Nate Colton: How about you stop talking to me like I’m stupid? As much as Hayes needs an ass-kicking–and he needs one like oxygen, I ain’t gotta tell you–you must be out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll buy that. ‘Cause that–

He points at the Original Villain.

Nate Colton: –is one of the most cold-blooded killers that ever set foot in the ring. I can’t trust him. And I sure as shit can’t trust you–

Suddenly, Rexton finds himself on the receiving end of Colton’s accusatory finger. He’s about to continue his rant, but the words die in his throat when he sees Bader’s eyes go wide. Bader is looking over Colton’s shoulder, at Jason Snow.

Rexton William Bader: OH MY GOD SNOW WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT BASEBALL BAT?

Colton whirls around, ready to defend himself, only to find Snow still just standing there with his arms folded. Colton looks momentarily confused.

Then, realization dawns, and he looks ashamed of himself.

Nate Colton: Oh, God dammit–

Momentarily.

And then…

Oxygen tank.

THUNK!

It takes everything Bader has to get the length required for his swing to reach the back of Colton’s skull, but he gets there, and it’s a good one. Colton goes down face first and stays there. Whether the blood is new or from his match, we don’t know, but we can see it on his back, and on the new dent in Rexton William Bader’s oxygen tank.

Jason Snow, very casually, kneels down and gives Colton a couple of pats on the face to see if he’s awake, but now they’re finally speaking the same language and he gets nothing. Colton is completely out.

Snow looks at Bader. Still a little annoyed.

Rexton William Bader: Don’t just stand there. Come on. Let’s get out of here before that gigantic what’s-her-face shows up and makes you pay another fifteen grand for us defending ourselves. We’ll get to Hanlon in two weeks.

Snow stands up.

Rexton William Bader: We’ll get him good. I promise.

Cut to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Coming up next, we have the career journeyman, Ben Lynch, looking to make a huge statement in PRIME against his opponent…your favorite…

Richard Parker: HE’S NOT GETTING PYRO AGAIN, PARTNER! HE’S NOT GETTING PYRO AGAIN! I WILL FIND A CINDER BLOCK, SOME ROPE, AND THE NEAREST BRIDGE, I SWEAR TO GOD.

Nick Stuart: …Cancer Jiles.

Richard Parker: I SWEAR. TO. GOD.

Deep guttural breaths, and then a guitar riff kicks out of the arena speakers. “NML” by the one and only PPL MVR blasts out as fans start to get to their feet. It’s a mixed reaction – given Lynch’s opponent, he’s getting a few cheers-by-default – but there are plenty of pocket chants of “JERK-ASS WOO-BIE” clap clap clapclapclap as well.

As the vocals kick in, Ben Lynch emerges in his familiar Guy Gardner tee, black pants, and white boots.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall!

Lynch begins a slow, cocky strut to the ring, arms outstretched.

Vince Howard: Introducing first! From Chicago, Illinois, weighing in at TWO hundred TWENTY five pounds…BEEEEEEEEEEN –

Commotion!

BOOOOOOOOO!

Before Vince can finish his introduction, we see Cancer Jiles sprinting behind Ben Lynch! He rushes forward and clobbers Lynch with a smashing elbow to the back of the head!

SMASH!

Nick Stuart: Oh no! Cancer Jiles isn’t waiting around!

Richard Parker: …….WELL, THIS PROBABLY MEANS I’M RIGHT ABOUT THE PYRO!

Lynch is staggered and drops to his knees. Jiles follows up with a sprinting short dropkick to Lynch’s face, which sends him sprawling to the ground. Referee Ashley Barlow shouts at Cancer from inside the ring – it’s unclear of he hears her, because he’s now mounted Lynch and is throwing punch after punch after punch at his opponent.

After he feels his fists have done enough, Jiles rises.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

He then brusquely peels Lynch off the ground, grabs him by the head, and shoves him into the ring steps!

THUNK!

And in a fluid motion, he bodily heaves the battered Lynch beneath the bottom rope, rolling him into the ring.

Jiles, polite fellow that he is, “fixes” the jostled ring steps before using them to step up and into the ring. He delivers a swift kick to Lynch’s ribs for good measure before making his way to the opposite corner at Ashley Barlow’s stern instruction.

Barlow takes a moment to check on Lynch to see if he’s fit to compete. Lynch is pissed, and while he’s already breathing heavily and slow to get his bearings, he brushes off the referee’s concerns.

Cancer cracks a wry sinister grin before removing his T-shades and gently placing them on the ring apron outside of his corner. He hops lightly from foot to foot and smooths his stupid alfredo hair back as Lynch uses the ropes in his own corner to gradually get vertical.

Barlow checks on Lynch one more time. Lynch hawks a reddish loogie on the mat.

Ben Lynch: Just ring the fuckin’ bell.

Satisfied that she did what she could to protect the talent, Barlow signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Ben Lynch is starting this match with a major disadvantage.

Richard Parker: He must’ve said something to that scumbag backstage about the rotting pile of trash that just dumped Jiles’s stupid a-

Nick Stuart: -As we’ve heard recently, there seems to have been a change to the relationship status of Cancer Jiles and Vickie Hall.

Richard Parker: SHE DUMPED HIM! SHE TOOK HIS SHRIVELED BLACK HEART AND FLUSHED IT DOWN THE TOILET! And don’t get me wrong – the only person in the world I’ve heard say a genuine kind word about Vickie Hall is her once-forever-life-partner, Jonathan-Christopher…I guess what I’m trying to say is, it couldn’t have happened to two more deserving gutter people.

Nick Stuart: Well right now, Ben Lynch may be on the receiving end of a vicious – OH!

As Jiles looks to tie up Lynch and torture him some more, Lynch fires back with a surprise right hook! He follows up with another! A third swing – dodged by Jiles, followed by a rake to Lynch’s eyes!

As Lynch clutches at his face, Jiles proceeds to stomp-stomp-stomp at Lynch’s toes, happy to continue scoring with opportunistic potshots in lieu of traditional grappling.

Seeing his opponent staggered, Jiles bounds for the side ropes, charges in, and sends Lynch crashing with a perfectly timed knee clip! Jiles with the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

NO! Lynch gets the shoulder up!

Jiles shrugs it off and gets to his feet. Lynch is still down, and Jiles sees this as an opportunity.

King Crumb makes it to the corner and begins climbing to the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles may be going for the missile dropkick here.

Richard Parker: You know what I realized?

Nick Stuart: What’s that?

Richard Parker: SOMETIMES, RICHARD PARKER IS RIGHT ON THE MONEY, AND CANCER JILES WILL NOT RECEIVE TWO ROUNDS OF PYRO TONIGHT HERE IN OTTAWA!

A few fans near the commentary booth hear the Local Town Shout-Out and pop for it.

Jiles is now perched, and Lynch is staggering to his feet. Jiles likes his chances and flies…

NO! Lynch avoids the drop kick! He mounts the Coolympian and throws some strikes of his own!

Jiles rolls him over! It’s a hockey fight on the mat! Lynch is on top now! Now Jiles! Now Lynch!

Lynch finds leverage, gets Jiles’s arm positioned over his shoulder – VERTICAL SUPLEX!

Lynch goes for the cover!

ONE!

NO! Jiles kicks out almost immediately!

Jiles scrambles to his feet, and soon the two opponents are facing each other on their feet, Lynch looking worse for wear.

Jiles, not paid by the hour, throws that kick…

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles with Terminal Cancer!

Richard Parker: NO! The Jerkass Woobie got out of the way!

Nick Stuart: Don’t let him hear you call him that!

Lynch sees maybe the first real opening he’s gotten all night, and he goes for the grapple. He’s improvising here, trying to twist and pull Jiles’s arms hither and yon in an attempt to get King Cool off balance.

The stretches and holds go from less and less familiar to more and more familiar to the fans at home, and soon, Lynch has Jiles’s head between his thighs in a standing headscissors! He goes for the underhooks – one is locked in, but he’s struggling to get the other.

Jiles, slippery as they come, refuses to let Lynch get this hold on. And then he sinks down…

OHHHHBOOOOOOOOO!

…and whips the back of his head up, connecting with Lynch’s downstairs.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles may have just inadvertently hit a low blow there –

Richard Parker: Inadvertent? Inadvertent?? NOTHING that scumbag does is by accident!

Nick Stuart: Referee Barlow doesn’t seem to have seen anything illegal.

Richard Parker: TYPICAL.

While the legality of Jiles’s “maneuver” is up for debate, its efficacy is not, as Lynch is immediately forced to release Jiles from the complicated setup he was working on.

Jiles follows up with a neckbreaker for good measure.

THUD

And instead of going for the cover, Cancer Jiles, like the sonofabitch he is, makes his way back to his starting corner, picks up the T-shades he had delicately placed on the apron, and puts them back on his face in as cool a motion as he can muster.

BOOOOOOOOO!

He runs his fingers through his alfredo hair and takes a deep breath, soaking in the hate.

Nick Stuart: While we’re at a small pause in the action, I want to pick your brain, partner. What do you think our Universal Champion, Cecilworth Farthington, whispered to Jiles earlier ton-

Nick isn’t afforded the opportunity to finish that thought.

CRAKOWWW!!

Terminal Cancer.

Jiles whirls around and shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Well, nevermind, I guess!

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…CANCERRRRRR JIIIIIIIIIIILES!

Jiles looks up at the entrance ramp and cups a hand to his ear.

Cancer Jiles: Where’s my fireworks, crumbs?

Richard Parker: YOU’RE NOT GETTING THEM, SCUMBAG! YOU’RE NOT GETTING THEM!

It’s clear that Jiles doesn’t hear Richard frothing at the mouth at this time, not that it would have bothered him if he had.

“I Am The Cool” blasts through the arena speakers to a further chorus of boos.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles was all over Ben Lynch tonight – tough break for the “Curtain Jerk Nowitzki”.

Richard Parker: I can’t wait until we can steal that one and use it for Jiles again.

Nick Stuart: We still have a huge Intense Championship match in our main event tonight, but first – this!

ReVival moves on.

Nothing left but to put on the grand finale. Camera crew’s probably ready to pack it in, especially the guys, gals, and gentlethems who shoot footage backstage. Surely, there wouldn’t be anything intriguing this late in the sho—kidding, of course. Here’s a terrified-looking young woman running down a hallway.

She’s not a household name yet, though she’s on her way. Her name, whether known in your household or not, is Jasmine Jeong. She’s the future of wrestling.

Right now, she’s the present of…well, sprinting through the backstage area.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I’m not sure what we’re seeing, but that’s Chandler Tsonda’s young protege, and she is moving!

Shout out to the cameraman who’s still got the legs at the end of the night to keep up this pursuit, because Jasmine runs towards the camera at a brisk pace. She calls behind her.

Jasmine Jeong: Vamonos! We gotta get back!

In tow are two of the securitymigos. Clearly, Jasmine has not been allowed to go anywhere solo, not with the Red Army on the loose, and the threats made against her.

She keeps hustling, her speed putting the two luchadores to shame. Only when she comes to a fork in the hallway does she stop, and she’s huffing. The security members catch up, silent as ever.

Jasmine Jeong: (between heaving breaths) Those dummies think that Ruslan already made his play, but…but I think that might’ve just been a distraction. I think they wanted to wait until Colton was out of the picture, until Chandler had already wrestled a match and…listen, we just need to get back there.

Securitymigo #1: …

Jasmine Jeong: It seemed like a good idea to leave at the time. Chander’s match was over. We were in the clear. Now I’m not so sure. (points) That’s catering, right? Don’t they put all of the locker rooms just off the hallway? So we can shortcut back to Chandler’s locker room?

Both luchadores shrug. They’re paid for their sparkling personalities and ability to regulate, not their knowledge of the arena bowels.

Jasmine Jeong: Fine. Follow me.

With just a touch of uncertainty, Jasmine leads the luchadores through the catering area into an adjoining hallway. Everyone is at a jog, thinking that their comrades may be in danger. Jasmine hangs a right through a set of push double doors.

Jasmine Jeong: We should be able to cut through here.

Another extra room for catering with serving counters along the walls and rows of cafeteria tables with benches. A pair of doors lie ahead, and the youngster approaches, but finds herself stymied by doors that don’t budge. Jasmine has miscalculated the route back to the Tsonda locker room. She turns to face her security, who have fallen just out of frame.

Jasmine Jeong: Shit. Let’s turn ba…

She never finishes the sentence, because when Jasmine wheels around, she sees one member of her security team already on the ground. The other luchadore lets out a gurgling sound, as he is choked into unconsciousness.

The reason why the luchadore is gurgling turns her blood to ice.

No one lasts long in a sleeper hold cinched in tight by Ivan Stanislav. The Russian Bear, satisfied with having taken out the second securitymigo, lets the man’s limp body fall to the floor. Time to tap the Admiral Ackbar sign.

We haven’t seen much of Ivan Stanislav since his opening match. The Russian Bear is showered and fresh in his wrestling attire. Crisp dark shirt and pants, combat boots, suspenders. He’s even wearing a strong smelling cologne. But there’s nothing inviting about this situation.

His leather boots crunch as he turns his full attention towards Ms. Jeong. He stands farther away from Jasmine, yes, and yet he seems to loom just within arms reach.

It’s not just Ivan Stanislav that’s the problem. The clanging behind him indicates that he’s not alone. Alexei Ruslan, neck brace and all, wraps a chain around the inside handles of the double doors and holds the chain tight.

Trapped in the Bear’s Den.

Stanislav roars at the cameraman, who first begins to lower his equipment.

Ivan Stanislav: YOU STAY!!

The scene is set. Jasmine Jeong is the future of wrestling. She’s athletic. She’s young. She’s got fire and ability. That’s why Chandler Tsonda has such great faith in her. But compared to the height, weight, and sheer presence of Ivan Stanislav, she is so, so small.

There are rows of cafeteria tables on each side of them, and the occasional folding chair sitting upright at the heads of some of the tables. Not long ago, this place was bustling with PRIME superstars. Many of which would like nothing more than to stand in Stanislav’s way and stop his advance.

But they’re all gone. Most aren’t even in the building.

Ivan advances, slowly. Ruslan stays by the door. Neck brace or not, he’s got his baton at the ready.

Ivan Stanislav: Tut… tut… are you lost, little flower?

Jasmine Jeong: Worse. Cornered by some creep who’s like a hundred years old and his (glances at Alexei) little haunted doll? I don’t want to end up a mail order bride, so I’m gonna dip.

Jasmine takes a step. Ivan barely has to, in order to block her path.

It’s less a step from the Bear, and just a shift of his weight. Those who stand close to Stanislav realize just how much space he takes up. But he shakes his head, and puts a massive paw out.

Ivan Stanislav: Nyet, nyet, nyet… listen to Ivan, Jasmine. Just listen to me. You are learning to wrestle, yes? You wish to be wrestler? What has Chandler said to you, about me? I am certain he has it all wrong.

Jasmine Jeong: I don’t need him or anyone to tell me because you’ve got some of the most evident ‘‘menacing uncle’ vibes I’ve ever seen. I gotta get back to my friends.

She says the words, but she doesn’t even attempt to move this time. Jasmine has to crane her neck upwards to make eye contact with the towering Russian. Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: You are young. What, twenty-two?

Alexei, back at the door, chimes in.

Alexei Ruslan: Twenty years old. Born 26 September 2005.

Ivan offers some sort of a smile that is barely seen beneath his beard.

Ivan Stanislav: Twenty years old. Jasmine. Listen. I know what you think. Twenty years old. World is full of heroes and villains. Wrongs which must be made right. I too was there. But world does not work that way. I am not monster, but to those who wish to hurt the weak and prey upon hard workers of world.

Ivan does sound emphatic, at least.

Ivan Stanislav: Look at our world. Rich elites destroying lives of innocent in selfish quest for more money. And it happens here. PRIME has stolen from me, Jasmine. PRIME has ridiculed and abused and abandoned me. Chandler Tsonda is part of them Jasmine. Selfish. Self-centered. And he will abandon you. He will hurt you. He will side with his own self-interest and of his elitist handlers.

The Bear pats his barrel chest.

Ivan Stanislav: But I can show you truth, my dear. Ignore them, and simply listen to me. To us! What do you say?

Jasmine Jeong: (nods) Our world is a hopeless fuck. And ‘selfish, self-centered, abandons his people’ sounds like the same Chandler I know. When you’re right, you’re right.

A confident smirk, one reminiscent of another relevant person being mentioned in this conversation, crosses Jasmine’s face.

Jasmine Jeong: But him, I know. You? You’re gross, you sound like one of the DSA bros that’s constantly in my DM’s, and my ick is on another level. (points to Alexei) And anyone who’s friends with that nasty mannequin looking boy over there is…yeah, no.

There is a momentary pause as Ivan looks back at Ruslan, who shrugs. The Russians have no idea what was said, but they’re really good at translating on the fly. So Ivan shakes his head and looks back down at Jasmine, and moves closer to her, looming over her. His voice is less diplomatic and more resigned.

Ivan Stanislav: You throw your lot in with them? Very well. You know, Chandler Tsonda is legendary wrestler. He can teach you great deal, Jasmine. He can tell you all about those who are dangerous in wrestling world. But I, dear girl, can show you.

There is an allure to what Ivan says. This is, after all, one of the greatest wrestlers of all-time, offering an open door to a PRIME hopeful and someone who dreams of being a roster member instead of a VIP guest invite to ReVival.

But you need to know that Jasmine Jeong has learned from the best at what stubborn, headstrong confidence gets you.

Jasmine Jeong: Show me what? How to look like yassified Hagrid in suspenders? How to lose a championship belt? How to choke in the Manhunt and get shown up by a guy half your size? Must be tough to have all that size and still be a one-pump chump.

Ivan straightens his back and stares down at her, his Russian face completely flat and emotionless. He looks over his shoulder towards Alexei, who still holds the chain around the door with one hand. The Bear speaks the tongue of the Motherland.

Ivan Stanislav: Alyosha, pora zapirat’ dver’. (“Alyosha, it’s time to lock the door.)

Ruslan replies with his own cold, bitter response.

Alexei Ruslan: S udovol’stviyem, Starshiy Praporshchik Stanislav. (“With pleasure, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.)

In an instant, Ruslan produces a padlock from his pocket and a chilling ‘click’ later indicates that there is no way out short of a blowtorch. Ivan turns back towards Jasmine, opening his mouth to speak while one of his skillet-sized hands clenches. But there’s one problem.

Spoiler: the problem is a fist.

With a lightning palm strike, Chandler’s mentee knocks a bit of taste out of the Bear’s mouth. And it’s not just taste that goes flying as she lashes out, punctuating with a quip that would make the Model Citizen proud. Things are moving fast, but the video feed certainly suggests the flight path of a tooth, such is the ferocity of the strike.

Jasmine Jeong: (with a snarl) When a girl says no, it’s not a suggestion, you douchebag. Learn some fucking consent.

If Jasmine understands the gravity of what she’s done, and the depth of water she now finds herself, it’d be impossible to say, given her steely brow and infernal eyes. Stanislav’s head snaps back and his torso straightens. For a moment, it looks like he might topple, the Russian Bear felled by one hell of a blow.

But then, his head snaps back and he looks down at her, blood oozing from between his lips and into his beard. He looks amused and opens his mouth, sliding his huge tongue over the gap where one of his upper teeth used to rest just seconds ago. He spits blood off to the side and grins.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh, Jasmine. That tooth was over sixty years old. I hope hitting me was worth it…

There’s a whoosh before a backhand the size of a freight train slams into her. Her arms fly up just in time, but it’s not enough. Her body snaps backward, pain exploding through her ribs as she crashes into a cafeteria table.

From afar, Alexei calls after her with a hand to the side of his mouth.

Alexei Ruslan: You should have taken the fruit basket!!

The Bear is relentless, grabbing her while she’s recovering. She throws a practiced jab, but it thuds helplessly into Ivan’s midsection, buried beneath granite muscle. He barely flinches.

Ivan Stanislav: You must fight harder, little one.

He grips her hair and hurls her off to one side. She smashes into another table and falls beneath it, sliding between bench and tabletop.

Ivan Stanislav: I did not want any of this, Jasmine Jeong!

He stalks her with seismic bootfalls. He yanks the table upright and sends it skidding in one arc, exposing her beneath. The table slams into the far wall with a shuddering crash. Jasmine, dazed, drags herself beneath the next table like a wounded animal, doing her best to hide.

Ivan Stanislav: Titles mean nothing in PRIME. Hard work is just to be scoffed at! Do you not understand?!

He chucks the second table aside. Only two left. She crawls under the third as he advances, his words are cannonfire.

Ivan Stanislav: I tried, Jasmine. I did. But what does it matter? Vae Victis interfering in match with Scott Hunter? And for what?!

The third table is airborne before she can duck further and she rolls under the last table.

Ivan Stanislav: Troy letting me be bludgeoned in front of my family and lose Universal Title?! Tsonda in league with her and stealing my assured victory at Manhunt!? Attacking my oldest friend and comrade?! Threatening Arina?! And you, you stupid little girl, knocking out my tooth?!

He stares down at the top of the table and smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: Tooth for a tooth it is!

He sweeps the fourth table aside, but she’s gone. There’s silence. Jasmine isn’t there. Ivan looks up and finds her, back against the nearby wall and then sees the object flying through the air.

A microwave.

It crashes into his face with a loud ~DING!~. He groans and curses in Russian as glass and plastic rains down like tiny meteors. She rushes past him.

Almost there.

But not far enough.

A massive hand snatches the entirety of her head and rips her off her feet as if she were weightless. He throws her like a baseball and she sails through the air, crashes into the brick wall, and crumples onto the serving counter below. Ivan picks glass out of his hair, and face.

Ivan Stanislav: PCW World Champion. OSW World Champion. Two time Universal Champion, Ivan Stanislav, in opening match?! Did they have good laugh?!

Jasmine wheezes, the side of her face swelling as she tries to move, wincing in pain as she stares up at Ivan. He booms.

Ivan Stanislav: Who is laughing now?!

He grabs her by the neck and the waist, hoists her over his head, and sends her crashing to the floor with an unforgiving thud. She heaves, rolls onto her stomach, and crawls inch after agonizing inch towards the doors. She sees Alexei laughing, but she’s not watching him. She looks through him, at the chain around the door, through it and the padlock to the door itself.

Open the door Chandler. It’s the perfect time for the cavalry. She’s seen it dozens of times on dozens of episodes of both ReVolution and Revival. Time to knock Ruslan into next week and send Ivan running like the coward he is. Break the chains and open the door. He’ll save her. It’s time.

But he doesn’t.

The biggest boot imaginable sends her flopping and skidding across the floor.

Ivan Stanislav: Perhaps if Troy played fair, you would not be in such peril?

Another boot. Another scream as she crashes into some fallen folding chairs.

Ivan Stanislav: Perhaps if Chandler did not stick his nose in my business, you would be safe and sound?

He plucks her from the floor as if she were a bundle of flowers, her legs dangling limply in the air. She weakly lifts a twisted chair and pathetically hits him in the arm. He bats it out of her hand like it was a twig.

Ivan Stanislav: If I were Universal Champion like I should have been? If I had won Manhunt like I was destined to do? If they did not abuse their power at my expense and coddle those they love? None of this would have been necessary. I am sorry that they have brought you to this.

He draws her close to him. He can smell the blood on her lips, and she can smell his.

Ivan Stanislav: You are brave girl. But never strike the Bear unless you want to be in the war.

He hurls her once more into the wall and she hits with incredible impact. Jasmine crumbles to the floor and lays like a broken, motionless toy. Ivan takes his time, stalking her until his huge boots are next to her. He lifts a massive boot as the shadow falls over her prone form, prepared to crush her into oblivion. The world holds its breath as she closes her eyes and accepts the inevitable.

Ivan Stanislav: Da svidanya, Jasmine!

Yet, the Russian Bear stares down at the battered, bruised young wrestler, barely clinging to consciousness. He watches her, trembling, just barely, blood pooling from her lips and nose and slowly, he lowers his boot back to the floor. He looks back at Ruslan.

Ivan Stanislav: Nasha rabota sdelana, tovarishch. (Our work is done, comrade).

They are gone.

And by the time the Securitymigos have broken into the room alongside a haunted-looking Chandler Tsonda…

…all that remains is a neck brace, balanced upon her motionless body.

We return to ringside, for the main event of the evening.

And what are we greeted by?

We built this city! We built this city on rock and roll! Built this city! We built this city on rooooock and rooooooll!”

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from Argyle onto the entrance ramp. He’s not alone, accompanied by Fuck Your Tag Team and fellow Whoresmen, Rob Williams and Anna Daniels.

Oh, and also, in his hands, a big Bumper with a crude approximation of a female face on it.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is THE MAAAAAAAIN EVENT FOR THE EVENING and is for the PRIME..INTENSE CHAMPIONSHIP! Introducing first…from Chicken City, Georgia, he is the Street Cat, the King of Wrong Style, and a member of the Poor Whoresmen…FREEEED DIIIIIIIIICK!

He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more. At least, as best as he can while hauling a big ass bumper. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell.

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

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

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

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

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The Intense Champion glimmers from around his waist. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know. Behind him? Well, it’s FLAMBERGE and Joe Fontaine. And they are armed.

With Jolf clubs.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY ONE POUNDS!!

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

Vince Howard: He is THE PRIIIIIIME! INTENSE CHAMPION! The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

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

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

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

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

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times, ripping the Intense Title from his waist and pumping it skyward while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

DING DING

Richard Parker: INCOMING!

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick ROARING toward Hanlon with that…that bumper–

Richard Parker: AND IT’S ALL LEGAL–

Nick Stuart: Hanlon sees it! Fred swinging for the fences!

Richard Parker: OOOOH!

Nick Stuart: Slide! Hanlon slides between Dick’s legs and he’s up and WILD SWING–

Richard Parker: HOME RUN HAYES! He’s Home Run Hayes for a reason!

Nick Stuart: –ducks and that bumper is out of Fred’s hands–

Richard Parker: Need a better grip Bum Fardo!

Nick Stuart: Hanlon ABSOLUTELY RIPS HIM with a forearm…grabs under his jersey and BIEL TOSS! Right across the ring!

The flex from the Intense Champion is long, drawn out. The smirk is absolutely infuriating. So self assured. So confident. So…massive. Fred Dick doesn’t care. He shoots back up to his feet and starts making guttural noises. Animal? Vaguely human? They’re loud. They’re weird. It’s hard to process their exact origin. But his cheeks are red. White Trash Santa Claus. Wrong to say?

Fred Dick: YOUARENODDAFADERYOUACEFUGGINACESUGGIN–

Taro! Hanlon lets the King of Wrong Style charge outward, and when the Shidman turns heel, he gets absolutely mollywhooped by a leaping shoulder block. Awful place to be. Before Dick can rise (heh), Hanlon snares him around the neck with a chinlock, shushing the challenger for his Intense Championship, wrenching the hold at every opportunity when The Street Cat tries to wiggle free.

Dick’s hands grab at the rippling forearm of The Event Horizon, trying something, anything, to get loose. The piglike squeals bellowing from his maw do no favors, only cause the Intense Champion to laugh and shake his head. The audacity! Dick tries to throw his mulleted head backward, to catch Hanlon in the bride of the nose. No dice.

Freddy boy isn’t in the ring with someone like him…someone of limited wrestling ability. Hanlon is a prodigy. Chiseled from a mold. All the aspects one looks for in a wrestling star, The Event Horizon exudes. He’s been to the mountaintop and has become a Triple Crown Champion. The Thresher of Hooves. 100% Grade A beef.

Do you think he’s getting any support from Anna Daniels or Rob Williams? Any slapping of the mat? Any encouragement? One of them chopped his damn dick off! You think THEY care? Well…they may…but not like us. They ain’t like us. No, there’s a simmering tension on opposite sides of the ring between Fuck Your Tag Team and The Glueminati. Except…even that is odd. FLAMBERGE is…FLAMBERGE. Joe is ready with 7-iron because it’s time to put Anna to the test about its alien properties.

Fred Dick isn’t getting out of this. He’s spitting. Drooling. But his struggle isn’t for glory and gold. For the sport of wrestling. No. His mewling cries are from the bellows of Maury Povich Hell.

Fred Dick: –NAWDAFADDER–

Richard Parker: What is he…

Nick Stuart: Something about a…father?

Richard Parker: –wait…

Another attempt at throwing the head back. Hayes just brushes it aside and avoids it whole cloth. A heavy wrenching of the neck. His knee is now firmly planted into the upper portion of his challenger’s back, right between the shoulder blades. These bones feel brittle in his massive hands. Maybe he can squeeze the marrow out of them.

Or maybe, he can stop yelling from the intense sensation enveloping his forearms, as Fred Dick sinks his fingernails into them. Like thorns. Hanlon’s grip loosens. Dick throws his head back. This time, he catches his opponent on the bridge of the nose, making him see stars, his eyes watering, a stumble. Ole Fredrick is back on his feet, charging to the near ropes, bouncing off, and throws his crotch into the Intense Champion’s face. Like a hip attack, but from the front.

Having a large man’s pelvis smashed into your maw is not a wonderful visual, but in this instance, it feels even worse. Hanlon cradles his head, trying to guard himself. The King of Wrong Style pursues, throwing wild boot stomps…well…wild Jordan stomps, all over the body of the Intense Champion. As silly as things felt to start with, the escalation is quite shocking for at least one man in the immediate vicinity of the ring.

A tightening of the legs of the sand wedge in FLAMBO’s grasp…

All at the sight of Fred grabbing Bumper. Rubbing the big lipped face. Putting it between his legs and acting like it’s his pee pee. Yes, this is a thing that is happening. Oh, that gets a woop from Rob Williams. Ha ha! Ha. And it’s all fun and games…until Bumper is swung over The Street Cat’s head as though it were John Henry’s Hammer…

Hanlon narrowly rolls out of the way.

Fred Dick follows him. Hammer smashing Bumper into the canvas. Following him as though this were some power up in the Donkey Kong arcade game. Fred is the kind of guy who would say Billy Mitchell is a pretty cool guy. That’s what we’re dealing with. This is a Hell Man and we must stop him.

Oh wait, that was Reality creeping into the narration for a moment.

Anywhoodle.

Fred keeps a’swinging. And Hayes, he keeps a’rolling.

Until Fred stops.

Because FLAMBO is standing on the ring apron.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A perplexed look from The Street Cat toward The Lizard King. The tension is palpable.

Then, Fred thrusts his crotch toward him.

BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUM

Fred Dick went up high. Then, he stayed up there, on Hanlon’s shoulders. For a while. A long while. Long enough that Hayes could parade around the center of the ring a pair of times. But the loud crash indicates it was all worth it, especially given Fred Dick’s splayed out corpse form. Delayed Samoan Drop. Hanlon dusts his hands off. Then his shoulder. He checks his forearms and hopes he doesn’t have rabies. Cancer Jiles would claim this because he knows The Event Horizon is already riddled with Hepatitis.

Hanlon plants his boot firmly on the chest of Fred, stepping over him before taking off to the ropes, then launching himself downward with a heavy elbow, dropping every bit of his weight and power into the sternum of his challenger.

He doesn’t even hook the leg.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

No respect. No respect at all. Hanlon rubs his forearm like sandpaper against the face of Fred, who starts kicking and trying his best to fight. He is seeing red. He wants to kick this asshole…the acehole…right in the nards. He is filled with bile and hatred. He worries that he’s dealing with his precious STRONK 2’s second father. This is a matter of life and death! And the Intense Championship is on the line!

And Hayes fucking Hanlon doesn’t give one iota of a shit.

He gets up, yanking Fred to his feet by the hair, belting him in the stomach with a kitchen sink knee. Once again, he biel tosses his challenger across the ring, and when Fred tries to get back up, Hanlon is already throwing himself full bore in a cross body. Nearly three hundred pounds of muscle. That has to feel great.

The air whooshes from the form of Dick. This Intense showdown hasn’t devolved into blood and barbed wire. Maybe it will. The particulars around the ring are auspicious, but even then, their dance is very Cold War in implementation. And all the will and desire for Fred Dick to be an ass kicking machine is for naught, as his desperation attempt to blast Hanlon in the nuts with a low blow is brushed aside, followed up with a heavy boot to the face. Wrestling against sloppy shitty brawling. A prodigious talent and a pillar of PRIME against a stinky little bathroom fighting gremlin who has had much success in drawing so many skilled wrestlers into wild brawls. Hanlon, though, is denying him the opportunity.

Denying him the guts.

Giving him nothing but straight sizzle.

Eat your heart out, baby.

Dick tries another low blow, out of desperation. No quarter given. Instead, Hanlon has him up, his waist grabbed around his massive arms.

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

German.

Suplex.

High tip toed bridge!

ONE!

TWO!

THR-NO!

Anna Daniels and Rob Williams slide into the ring.

So do the Glueminati.

Standoff.

Hanlon doesn’t care. He’s laughing. Clapping at the show. He pantomimes in the direction of a cradled Fred Dick, as though saying ‘look at your boy. Maybe you should clean this shit up.’

Elvis Nixon isn’t having it, aggressively darting between the tag teams, ordering them out of the ring. Hanlon, for his part, gets up, and drops a leg across Fred’s head. Another cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–NO!

No!

A kickout. Fred Dick bellows. He crawls on his elbows and knees. An outstretched hand. Are those tears in his eyes? He cries out for Bumper, locking eyes on…them? The Intense Champion lets him spend the energy. Let’s him do his little tragic crawl. And why not?

The Epoch is coming.

But first, dash this mutant bastard’s hope for the remotest of chances by kicking that stupid goddamn bumper out of the way at the last second.

Fred Dick is getting close. So close. Hanlon is ready the smash his boot against it. His muscles are already locked in to put a heavy dollop of mustard of this Epoch. Make it extra special. Give these plebs up here in Canadastan something to fondly remember and live by.

The King of Wrong Style reaches out–

The kick is coming–

And it connects–

Right between the legs of Hayes Hanlon.

The blow is so bad, his eyes cross. Drool falls from his mouth. Fred hits him with a tomahawk chop. A palm thrust. He throws his knee aggressively in his face. He mounts Hanlon and starts slamming the back of his head into the canvas. Is that enough for you? How about the massive headbutts smashing into the grill of The Event Horizon? So brutal, a mouse begins to develop over the right eye. Bell clap to the ear. A disorientation of epic proportions. Fred Dick has been in Warchamber, has fought for the Universal Championship, has been blown apart in an Exploding Ring Death Match…

Hayes Hanlon didn’t realize he was in the ring with a tough ace som bisch.

In a stupor, The Event Horizon rises…

Fred Dick: BLOODMODE!

THHHHHHHAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWACK!

Nick Stuart: DICK! DICK! DICK CONNECTS! HANLON CRUMBLES TO THE CANVAS IN A HEAP! RISES UP THE ROPES!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

Nick Stuart: SLAP BOX WITH GOD! SLAP BOX WITH GOD! COVER!

ONE

TWO

THREE!

THREE!

THREE?

More like two point nine repeating.

More like Hayes Hanlon got his ankle on the bottom rope, because the whole sequence happened so close to the edge of the ring.

Disgusted, Rob Williams aggressively pushes the foot off the ropes.

The Sand Wedge comes flying at his face.

Cold War over. Glue on Whoresman violence. Don’t put your grubbly little paws on one of The Glueminiti’s own. After all, Hanlon is The Thresher of Hooves…not a…hooves…being touched…

Fred Dick is irate. He pleads his case with Elvis. No dice. And then, seeing Bumper, he realizes what he must do. Time to show a slugger who a real power hitter is. Jolf is occurring on the outside of the ring. Attempted Jolf and Jolf adjacent fighting crimes. The King of Wrong Style loads up, waits for the ball to be placed on the tee.

And when it is…

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!

Nick Stuart: EPOCH! THE EPOCH! THE EPOCH!

Sit out with the pin. Fred Dick is done.

ONE

TWO

TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

That noise…that noise.

Hanlon saw the oxygen tank hit just before it connected. The commotion from the crowd drew his attention. Too late. It’s odd, how when one wills it to be clandestine, the will of a man in a wheelchair can still overcome. It helps when you have an Original Villain to move things along.

Nick Stuart: BADER! THAT OXYGEN TANK! AFTER WHAT HAPPENED TO NATE COLTON EARLIER–

Richard Parker: Oh HOYT do you see the blood pouring from his head–

Nick Stuart: Nixon is irate! He’s demanding Snow and Bader away from ringside! But the damage has already been done! And…Hanlon…Hanlon’s head is cut wide open, from that blow, from the mouse from earlier–

Richard Parker: Wait…wait…WAIT, FRED DICK IS ON THE TOP ROPE AND HE’S GOT THAT CAR BUMPER–

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT! OH MY HOYT!

Nick Stuart: FRED DICK JUST CAME OFF THAT TOP ROPE AND SLAP BOX FROM GOD’ED THAT BUMPER INTO HAYES HANLON! AND HE’S COVERING HIM! HE’S COVERING HIM! AND FYTT AND THE GLUES ARE NOWHERE TO BE FOUND!

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING DING DING!

Fred Dick instantly rolls off the pin, cradling Bumper against his chest as he drops to the outside of the ring. What follows next brings him back to his feet, stumbling forward to the time keeper’s table.

Vince Howard: YOOOOOUR WINNER…ANNNNNNNNNNNNNND NEW…

The Glueminiti disengage, as does FYTT. Hanlon’s head is pissing blood as he digs his fingers into the canvas, trying to push himself up. FYTT? They’re with their boy, who earlier they really didn’t do much to cheer on. But now they’re cheering. And why not?

Vince Howard: IIIIIIIIIIIIINTENSE CHAAAAAAAAAAAAMPION! FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!

Nick Stuart: After everything had been coming up Glue, is this the first domino to fall? What does this mean going into UltraViolence and ever before?

Richard Parker: Oh my Hoyt, THE BLOOD!

Indeed, the blood. Hanlon’s eyes may be glassed over, but he can make out the shapes. Jason Snow. William Rexton Bader. Oh, those bastards were going to pay for this.

All as Fred Dick takes hold of the PRIME Intense Title, throwing it skyward, tears flowing from his eyes,

Fred Dick: I DID IT FOR YOU STRONK 2!!!!!!!!

He did indeed.

Fade.

To.

Ace?