Three days ago, the PRIME caravan - including the Tony-Kornheiser-esque RV of one C.P. Cantrell, executive producer - was detoured off the main highway between Wichita, KS and Omaha, NE. Stranded for the week in Beatrice, Nebraska, with no way to reach a big city for at least another few days, the PRIME cast and crew did what any self-respecting large-brand entity would do in a similarly heartwarming and lesson-learning fashion.

They buddied up to the locals, made themselves at home and decided to put on a non-televised, unpaid show for the residents of Beatrice.

It was the kind of scripted bullshit that made C.P. sick.

So don't expect to see your executive producer much tonight.

He had no office. He had no desk.

He had no opening credits. He had no timeslot on FX.

There was nothing for this executive to produce.

Ever since the wrestlers started acting funny when they set foot in Beatrice, he knew this was going to be a bad week. So when the curtain came up and the show began, C.P. took the bluetooth out of his ear, swiped a bottle of vodka from the caterers and retreated to his rolling home to pretend that he wasn't really crying.

Cantrell wanted to make sure he would forget this night. When it was all over, everyone else would wish they could, too.

"Troy! Troy!"

His name echoes through the halls, floating up towards the gorilla position where he waits. With a quick turn of his attention, Troy Douglas spots the source of the shouting. An intern, looking all of about twelve years of age is rushing towards the PRIME superstar.

Troy: Excuse me?

Intern: I… uh I… uhh… I’m very sorry, sir."

Troy: I’m about thirty seconds away from marching out to that ring for a match. What’s so important, kid?

The intern looks around nervously, then makes a stupid face, as if he can’t believe what he’s about to actually stand there and say, right in front of a big time wrestling superstar.

Intern: It’s about the match. We were gonna do a blindfolded match…

Troy: Yeah?

Intern: Well, C.P… errr… that’s Mr. Cantrell… he’s made some budget cuts.

Troy: So what?

Intern: … and I’m afraid one of the departments he cut was the Blindfold stock. The large assortment of blinfolds PRIME used to own have gone the way of… well… I dunno, but there gone.

Troy: Even the pink one with "Rolo" glued on in sequins?

Intern: Yes. All we’ve got left is one blindfold.

Troy: How the hell are we supposed to have a blindfold match with one blindfold? That’s not fair to the guy who has to wear it while…

Intern: We’ve reached a decision on that.

Troy: "We"?

Intern: Well… Mr. Cantrell. To keep things fair to both competitors, but to keep with the promised blindfolded match… we’ve blindfolded the referee.

…

Troy:…

Intern:…

Troy: This has been one messed up week.

Nick: Welcome back to PRIME! We’re already in progress with this match, and it’s different!

In the ring, the referee – yes, the referee, is blindfolded and walking around aimlessly, seemingly shouting orders at the popcorn guy in the third row. Natas and Douglas are tied up, jockeying for position.

Richard: Different? This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I mean honestly, why would this be approved?

Nick: I ask myself every time I turn to my right and look at you.

Richard: Yeah, that, and "where did he get that HAIR?"

Nick: Wig shop?

Richard: You shut up. This is the best head of hair since Uncle Jessie circa 1991!

Nick: And back to the action, here’s Natas with a powerful hip toss!

Richard: But Douglas quickly gets to his feet and starts trading blows with the former street fighter, and we don’t mean Zangief or Dhalism – this guy is the real deal!

Douglas probably should have thought better than to stand toe to toe with a striker like Natas, and he’s quickly overpowered and sent into the ropes by Natas. Douglas off and charges back at Natas, ducking under a clothesline and hitting the far ropes for some momentum before hitting a lariat of his own!

Nick: Some nice power there, but he can’t keep Natas down for long, can he?

Richard: His best bet is to try to outwrestle Natas, he’s still getting used to the grappling aspect after so many years of bare knuckle fights. He reminds me of Tank Abbot in UFC, come to think of it.

Nick: Just without the ass-kicking beard! But hold on here, Natas with a boot to the gut – suplex coming…

Richard: No! Douglas blocked it, and he hits one of his own. That’s great execution…what the hell is the referee doing?

Nick: I believe he’s ordering the turnbuckle post to return to its corner.

Richard: Is he retarded?

Nick: Would you pay attention to the match?

BAM! Natas recovered quickly and spinebustered the CRAP out of Douglas, it looks like that one hurt! Douglas tries to get to his feet, but Natas is up first and he’s got plans for him! Knee smash to the gut, and he follows it with a Side Russian Leg Sweep.

Richard: This is great, but the referee is now straddling the rope to try to figure out where the fuck he is in the ring!

Nick: I’m sure he’s got a basic idea.

Richard: Really? Because it looks like he’s having sex with the top rope to me.

Nick: Would you stop it?

Richard: Why are you so whiney today?

Nick: I lost my luggage, it’s a long story.

Richard: What luggage, you drove here with me you ass!

Nick: I left it in Wichita.

Richard: Did you call the hotel?

Nick: They said it’s gone.

Back in the ring, Douglas hits a Brainbuster Suplex, but unfortunately for him the referee isn’t there to make the count. Douglas storms over and yanks him off the top rope. But when he turns around, Natas is waiting with a Lariat that hits with enough force to euthanize an elephant.

Richard: Holy shit!

Nick: Here’s Natas with a cover! The ref is just standing there!

Natas: COUNT YOU ASSHOLE!

The referee gets down into position and counts

ONE!

TWO!

DOUGLAS KICKS OUT

BUT THE REF DOESN’T SEE IT BECAUSE HE’S BLINDFOLDED!

THREE!

(SFX: DING! DING! DING!)

VINCE HOWARD: Here is your winner, JAAAAAAASSOOOON NAAAAAATAAAAAASSSSS!

Douglas and Natas both spring to their feet, confused over the outcome of the match.

Richard: OK, now I’m convinced this blindfolded referee match was a bad idea.

The referee grabs at Natas’ hand, and raises it in victory as his music plays. The ref points wildly in the direction he believes Natas is standing, but accidentally pokes him in the eye.

Nick: And it’s about to get worse.

Natas howls in pain, and Douglas is already heated. Taking off his blindfold, the referee sees two of the baddest men on the PRIME roster starting him down.

And he runs like a 5 year old girl. Natas and Douglas start giving chase all the way up the ramp.

Richard: Serves him right!

Nick: What else is going to happen?

Tchu is sitting in his locker room, about to put on his new gear to see how well it fits.

Tchu: I can’t believe I’m wearing this thing. That was the creepiest person I’ve ever met.

While he’s doing this, Simply Beautiful walks into the locker room.

SB: Howya doin’, boss.

Tchu nods at him, not entirely sure who he is or why he’s wearing so much cologne.

SB: Derek Jeter "Driven"! Smells good, right?

Tchu nods again, and goes back to his equipment bag and pulls out the tights.

SB: Whoa, where’d you get those moon pants? You’ll look like a gay astronaut with those on!

Tchu: Can I ask who you are?

SB: SB.

Tchu: SB?

SB: Yes.

Tchu: What’s the stand for? Stupid Bastard?

SB: No, it stands for Still Breathin’. Which you will be if you watch your mouth.

SB smiles, and Tchu even cracks one.

Tchu: Name’s Matt. Some crazy old man gave them to me. He said his wife made them specially for me, and that I had to wear them at the next show.

SB: Well, this one’s not exactly a standard one. Just throw ‘em away, who cares what that old fart said?

Tchu: To be honest, I’m a bit worried of what will happen if I don’t wear them. He just seemed…off.

SB: Yeah, there’s some off people around here all right.

Tchu: May as well break them in.

Tchu slides the tights on over his jock. At first, nothing happens.

And then he jolts upwards as if shot by an arrow.

Tchu and SB simultaneously: WHOA!

Tchu moves to the middle of the room and shoves SB to the floor.

SB: What the fuck was that?

Tchu: Sorry, I didn’t even do that – whoa!

Tchu immediately starts…breakdancing?

SB: Jesus Christmas! What the fuck are you doin?

Tchu: (as he spins on his head) I don’t know! I can’t stop it!

The tights begin to glow yellow and orange as Tchu executes a perfect 6-Step into a Back-Spin.

SB: Holy shit!

Tchu kips up to his feet, busts out a little robot, and then Body Waves, snaps both fingers, and starts Walkin’ It Out like Unk.

SB: Hold on tight pal, I’ll go get the doctor!

Tchu: What’s the doctor gonna do! You gotta get these pants off me!

SB: I never thought I’d hear that and NOT get excited!

Tchu: Just give me a friggin’ hand!

SB: All right, hold on!

SB tries to grab at the pants, but Tchu kicks his leg out Michael Jackson style right into SB’s gut.

Tchu: I can’t stop dancing! I can’t stop fuckin’ dancing!

SB: I know I know! Relax God dammit, let me get at these!

SB grabs the belt loop and starts to pull them down past his hips, but as he’s working on them a techie walks in through the opened door.

Techie: Um..did I come at a bad time?

SB: What? No! I was just trying to help him stop dancing!

Techie: Hey, I don’t get paid enough to give a shit what you homos do backstage.

He walks away, and SB turns back to Tchu.

SB: See what you did?

Tchu: Please, if I pop-lock one more time I’m gonna throw up!

SB: All right, let me see here…

SB grabs the pants again and tries to just rips through the fabric –

AND TCHU ROCKETTE KICKS HIM RIGHT IN THE NUTS!

SB: Ughh…not again…

SB keels over and passes out on the locker room floor.

Tchu: What the hell!

But before he can see if SB’s all right, he starts to C-Walk his way out of the door.

Tchu: What’s happening?


Twilight Zone Hip-Hop Remix Music FADEOUT!

"Ew. This place smells like ass."

A general colloquialism sputtered out by one Scott Falk, but one that rang true with the roster being condemned to performing in front of a bunch of mom-and-pop banjo-stroking, cousin-poking rednecks. Flanking the mental midget was his gargantuan counterpart, Robert Falk.

Robert Falk: All clear.

Standing on either side of a door, the Falks stood their ground as through the entryway peered Codemaster. He’d had enough of this incredibly sullen hellhole and he wanted to make like a band-aid: quick and as least pain as possible. Donning a "God of War" t-shirt and blue jeans, the Blackest Brother in the Hyrule Kingdom sighed as he took one more look at his surroundings.

Codemaster: Ew… I’ve taken in whiffs of decayed Krakens that have reeked less than Kansas.

Scott: What the fuck are we doing in Smallville, anyway?

Codemaster: We got lost because those monkeys that pilot the PRIME federation starship have been inhaling one too many jet fumes.

Through the door, Beef and El Janito comically and very sadly throw their combined body weight as they travel through it. Steve the Rambling Communist manages to push them both through, knocking them on their bellies as he walks over their prone forms.

Steve: HICKS.

El Janito: OW! Oh, God, the injustice!

Beef: Stop beating me with your feet! They really hurt!

Codemaster: You are correct, Steve. This place is full of those bastards. What could possibly make this encounter any more awry?

A pair of large, looming shadows come from behind the Codemaster, blocking off the light shining behind him.

Codemaster: I didn't realize there could be eclipses at this time of night...

Robert Falk: Boss. Behind you.

The Codemaster turns around and finds himself face to chests with the two bodyguards of Danny Ferguson, Dametreyous Fuqueiawytas and Jim "Polar" Pibb. Behind them is, of course, Danny Ferguson. The Codemaster takes an unconscious step back, and Robert Falk and Steve take steps forward to prevent a possible massacre of the Blackest Brother in the Hyrule Kingdom.

Danny Ferguson: You exist? Again?

Glaring ominously like Maggie Simpson at the Unibrow Baby, The Pokemon Professor grinds his teeth together.

Codemaster: Come on, Chainz. I dare you. Make a move.

Danny Ferguson: I don't have to make a move. Actually, I should dare you. `Cause my guys can smash your guys.

Dametreyous Fuqueiawytas and Jim Pibb look down at Codemaster like he's squishy and could be bounced around like one of those high bounce balls that they give to kids so they can break things. In fact, they're kinda wondering if they could bounce the Codemaster like a bouncy ball.

Jim grunts at him. The Codemaster winces.

Dametreyous, on the other hand, idly shrugs.

Dametreyous Fuqueiawytas: Boss, this guy could help me out.

Danny Ferguson: (incredulous) What.

Dametreyous Fuqueiawytas: I'm stuck in Pokemon Diamond, Boss.

Codemaster: (equally incredulous) What.

Danny Ferguson: Since when in the hell did you play that?

Robert Falk: The only thing he’ll be playing is "wedge this boot out of my ass" after I’m through…

Codemaster: WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, MENDEZ.

Frantically waving his hands around to keep Robert Falk from making a hasty move that would get The Breaker of Kingdom Hearts shitkicked, Codemaster steps in between him and Dam before turning to him.

Codemaster: Y’all ain’t stuck on the Elite Four, are you? Cause you give me twenty minutes, your game, some coffee and a muffin, I’ll be sending their Beautiflies back into the chains of human slavery faster than you can say "Vine Whip!"

Dametreyous Fuqueiwytas: Thanks, guy.

Staring blankly, Pibb and Ferguson exchange glances.

Danny Ferguson: I have no idea what the fuck you just said.

Jim Pibb raises a hand.

Jim Pibb: Ditto.

Codemaster, turning his attention back to Ferguson, takes as many steps as he possibly can while staying within the confines of his Blue Rogue safety bubble and extends a finger.

Codemaster: How about you shut the hell up, Chainz, you fat bastard. Nobody likes you and your killer stuff is as scary as an 8-bit Friday the 13th game. In fact, I’d be pesatas to pesos that you’re just afraid I’m mop the floor with your gas-guzzling spawn-camping ass.

Dametreyus and Jim both look at each other. Then Dametreyus turns to Ferguson.

Dametreyous Fuqueiwytas: Boss, what's he talkin' about?

Danny Ferguson: Something else he came up with when he decided to snort whatever sort of mushrooms he's always talking about. Pay him no mind.

Danny Ferguson then steps as far forward as he feels like going, and then he stops and points a finger at Codemaster.

Danny Ferguson: Why don't you save your crap for the ring? I'll make you the token black guy who gets killed midway into the show by the end of tonight.

Codemaster: Hey, better than being the poser ‘roid monster that no-sells pain like Master Albert and his cheating little bitch shield you need a Giga Crush to break through. I’ll see you out there, Chainz.

Locking eyes one more time, the Codemaster and his posse all size up one another. He turns on his heel, but whips out what appears to be a business card and tucks it into the front pocket of Dam’s jacket.

Codemaster: Hit a brother up and we’ll snuff out some Golems right quick. Rogues, let’s roll.

He, the Falks, and Steve walk away, but not before…

Beef: OH, GOD, THE PAIN! I’M ALLERGIC!

El Janito (sobbing quietly): Ow.

After they leave, Danny Ferguson turns to Jim Pibb and Dametreyus Fuqueiwytas, particularly Dametreyus.

Danny Ferguson: Dam.

Dametreyus Fuqueiwytas: Yes, Boss?

Danny Ferguson: What's a Pokemon?

Dametreyus would find it very hard to explain this to his boss before he had his match.

The Gage County Fairgrounds are packed full of people. People carrying popcorn, beer, and the occasional set of crabs. The universal thing that these people bring with them: cell phones.

Except for Wade Elliott. In a remote corner of the fairgrounds, the Bad Dog lifts up the handle of a payphone. He’s almost an eight of a mile away from the night’s hustle and bustle to make this call. Collecting his coinage, he punches in the requisite numbers and listens for a voice on the other end.

Riiiing.

Riiiing.

Riiiing.

"Hi."

Wade Elliott: Listen, Lindz, I need ta-

"You’ve reached my voicemail. Leave a message."

The usual, wit-laden message is no more. Just the bare minimum; nothing like the usual greeting.

Wade Elliott: Where the fuck could ya be, Lindsay?

Easy to forget that Beatrice, Nebraska is yet to see the face of their former Uni Champion. Apparently, Wade is, as well. And he doesn’t seem to be taking it too well.

From off-screen, Angus loafs over towards Wade, who, with a sour look on his face, puts the payphone back on its hook.

Wade Elliott: Ain’t like her to just go missin’, pup.

The bluetick’s eyes stare back into Wade’s. On some primal level, the concern of the owner has jumped the species gap and infected canis domesticus.

Wade Elliott: She gits along fine. Gotta focus on our main event, right?

Rubbing the top of Angus’s head, Wade starts walking away, but a sound shakes him from the moment.

Riiiing!

It takes no more than two strides before he has the phone in hand.

Wade Elliott: Lindz?

It’s impossible to hear the voice on the other end, even this far away from the Fairgrounds’ main hub.

Wade Elliott: Wait, what?

The eyes of the former Intense Champion light up at something.

Wade Elliott: Yer…oh, fer Chrissakes.

And at a different something, that light dies.

Wade Elliott: Ms. Tyler, no disrespect, but what the fuck are ya doin’ callin’ this payphone?

A long pause ensues, at which Wade’s mouth opens a little wider. The natural bodily response to psychological shock is setting in.

Wade Elliott: What do ya mean ya can’t get in touch with anyone? Everyone’s got their damn cell phones!

Although still unclear in content, the voice on the other end is now louder and rising.

Wade Elliott: No signal? The fuck's that s'posed ta mean?

According to the conversation, Lisa Tyler is calling Wade, who seems surprised to be talking to the former PRIME personnel director.

Wade Elliott: Ya damn right there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on out here! But I couldn’t begin’ ta tell ya what the fuck would jam hundreds of phone signals. Somethin’ about this place…

He surveys his surroundings, all of a sudden feeling very eerie about the whole ordeal.

Wade Elliott: Tyler, I can’t help ya. All I know’s somethin’s amiss in Beatrice. Cunts’re actin’ real strangely and haven’t seen hide nor hair o’ Lindsay. I gotta go find the gal, make sure she’s still tickin’!

Finally feeling the urgency of the Lindsay’s MIA status, Wade slams the phone down. He and Angus take off and when the payphone rings again…

Riiiing!

…there’s no one left to pick it up.

Nick: Folks, we're about to have an unusual match.

Richard: Understatement of the year. The Codemaster's been on the sides of milk cartons for a couple of months, while Danny Ferguson's supposed to be in a hospital bed somewhere, nursing some grade III concussion.

Nick: Indeed. I can't say I reccomend this match, mostly because of the physical condition of one of the competitors.

Richard: Why is Ferguson here, again? Didn't he listen to Christopher Nowinski jumping up and down yelling "CONCUSSIONS ARE BAD!" while the rest of the media is going "Yeah yeah, we're gonna go with the steroids, it's more compelling"?

Nick: I think you just answered your own question, Rich.

We begin with "Diamonds From Sierra Leonne" by Kanye West, and out comes the Codemaster, flanked by his many flunkies. To his front are the three members of Mega Job, filming the Codemaster's arrival. To his sides are the Falk Brothers, the younger, Scott, yelling at the Nebraskan fans because they smell of whiskey, and the older, Robert, just keeping to himself. Behind Codemaster is Alexandria Malone, resident hot chick of the group.

This entire group of miscreants and misfits enters the ring. Yes. The entire group. They all stand behind the Codemaster, as they await their opponent.

And then, 'Soul Survivor' by Young Jeezy ft. Akon hits. The crowd goes crazy. Literally. Some of them put on Napolean hats and start hitting OTHER crazy people with mallets, all while screaming "WATERLOO!" at the top of their lungs. Others are so crazy that men in white coats suddenly appear out of nowhere and start whacking them with butterfly nets. They're all going crazy, because it is DANNY FERGUSON.

Nick: There he is, Richard! It's Danny Ferguson!

Richard: At least he's not a ghost this time.

Ferguson has his own posse. They consist of his massive brickwalls masquerading as bodyguards, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas and Jim "Polar" Pibb; his wrestling manager, Reggie Del Ray; his porn star agent, Allan North; and his other manager, Vicki Siguchi.

Richard: Come on, this isn't fair. Ferguson's got a posse.

Nick: What the hell do you think the Codemaster has?

Richard: Those are his observers!

Nick: OBSERVERS? Have you seen ANY Codemaster match in the last year?

Richard: I don't really remember. He keeps disappearing.

Nick: ...Touche.

Like with the Codemaster's gang, Ferguson's entourage follows the Superstar into the ring. The poor referee in charge of the match, Elvis Nixon, looks to his left and sees Scott Falk prepare a set of brass knuckles on his right hand. Then he looks to his right, and sees Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas cracking his neck. He looks to his left and sees Beef looking like he's carrying a rocket launcher. Then he looks to his right and sees Allan North preparing what can only be described as a "spiked billy club".

Elvis gets in between this mob riot waiting to happen.

Elvis Nixon: All of you except Ferguson and the black guy. Out of the ring. Now.

Surprisingly, the mobs disperse to the outside of the ring. Apparently, they all know the rule in PRIME: Don't fuck with Elvis Nixon.

This leaves Danny Ferguson and the Codemaster in the ring. The movie star and the game star meet in the center of the ring, face to face. They start jawjacking. Who knows what they're saying?

Danny Ferguson: What do you MEAN Halo isn't the only game in existence?

The Codemaster: Dude. They made a game about Hard Money.

Danny Ferguson: They DID?

The Codemaster: Yeah. But you didn't voice the main guy.

Danny Ferguson: Oh yeah. Allan did say something about voice acting, but come on. Do I look like voice acting material?

The Codemaster: Mmhmm. I hear ya.

Danny Ferguson: Well, who voiced me?

The Codemaster: Eric Stuart.

Danny Ferguson: Son of a-!

Danny stomps his foot in frustration.

...

Wait. I said they're JAWJACKING, not making casual conversation!

Danny Ferguson: I mean... uh... hey, look over there!

The Codemaster remains with his eyes fixed on Danny.

The Codemaster: Okay, I've done that stunt so many times even the REFEREES know better. Watch this.

The Codemaster turns to Elvis Nixon and points frantically behind him.

The Codemaster: Look! An eagle!

Elvis gets all wide-eyed and turns around, looking for the eagle.

Elvis Nixon: WHERE!? WHERE!?

The Codemaster: Okay, this guy is clearly new to me.

And then, from behind, Danny Fergsuon catches the Codemaster with a low blow. The Codemaster clutches his manhood and rolls around on the canvas in pain, screaming about how he was hit in the manhood. Hearing the commotion, Elvis turns around and sees the Codemaster in agony, screaming. He turns to look at Ferguson.

Elvis Nixon: What the hell just happened? Did you hit him in the nuts?

Danny Ferguson: No. It's tragic, but after he pointed out the eagle, he turned back towards me to talk some more about my films, tripped over pretty much nothing, and landed on his dick.

Elvis Nixon: Is that even physically possible?

Danny Ferguson: ...He's black.

Elvis Nixon: Fair enough.

And that's when Scott Falk hit the ring in order to complain. Unfortunately, most of his complaints consisted of various forms of "fuck" and how he was going to fuck Elvis's sister. In the end, Elvis tried desperately to get him out, but that's when the Codemaster came from behind and low blowed Ferguson.

Ferguson no-sold it.

The Codemaster: What in the name of Apris? Have you put so many Stimpacks in your system that not only can you attack faster and stronger, but you no longer have any balls?

Danny Ferguson: I'm wearing a cup, you douche.

The Codemaster: Oh. Cheater.

Meanwhile, Reggie Delray has entered the fray of complaining to the referee, only he's complaining about the fact that Scott Falk is complaining. Eventually, the argument between the referee and Delray devolves into an argument between Delray and Falk.

Scott Falk: I'll fuck your mother!

Reggie Delray: What?

Scott Falk: You heard me, motherfucker!

Reggie Delray suddenly pulls out a knife.

Scott Falk: Shit.

Then EL JANITO enters the ring, brandishing a "knife wrench".

El Janito: Knife-Wreeeench!

This is pretty much the cue for the mobs to storm the ring again.

On one side, Ferguson's entourage. On the other side, the Codemaster's posse. Minus Steve. Steve's still on the outside of the ring, filming this Spartan-level madness. He's probably the wisest of them all. Beef and Allan North now approach each other. Reggie has his spiked billy club dildo thing (we don't really know what it is, to tell the truth), while Beef has his rocket launcher thing.

They approach each other, and then start to circle one another. As they circle, so too do the members of the individual mobs.

Danny Ferguson and the Codemaster, long since having left the ring, stand side-by-side on the ring apron, watching things transpire.

The Codemaster: I'm sorry I kept thinking you were Chainz.

Danny Ferguson: It's cool.

Now Reggie and Beef grab each other's free hands, while brandishing their weapons with their other hands, continuing to circle. It's somewhat reminiscent of a knife fight, except one of the competitors has a rocket launcher and the other has something that may or may not vibrate. As they circle, the entourage behind Beef remains behind him, while the entourage behind Reggie remains behind him. Finally, they let go of one another.

Then Robert Falk and Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas approach one another. Neither of them wield anything. They just approach and nod to one another.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Man, what the fuck's goin' on?

Robert Falk: I think we're doing a "shakedown".

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: The fuck's that mean?

Robert Falk: I don't know.

On the other side of the ring, Jim Pibb was with El Janito. To Janito's credit, he hadn't wet himself yet. He does this dance movement where he's supposed to hit Jim with the wrench, but Jim moves out of the way all stylishly. This is sort of akin to a trying to bludgeon a house, and Jim moves about as well as one, too. Jim takes the wrench in the shoulder, and it has about the same amount of effect as trying to hit him with a wet noodle.

El Janito: (whispering) Dude. You were supposed to dodge.

Jim grunts.

Janito cries.

Meanwhile, Alexandria is having more luck with Vicki, as they're doing a normal dance routine. Let's leave them alone, the rest of the male fans in attendance would like that very much.

To the center of the ring, where Scott Falk can be seen doing the Worm.

Reggie Delray?

The cabbage patch.

Finally, everyone backs up, and then all skip to the center of the ring, where they proceed to do a little square dance. Imagine Jim Pibb trying to square dance with El Janito for maximum comedic effect.

I'll wait for you.

...

...

...

Okay, we're done.

That's when Elvis Nixon has enough, and calls for the bell.

He approaches Vince Howard, and tells him a few instructions before the announcer addresses the crowd.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen... the referee has informed me that this match has been ruled a NO CONTEST by virtue of, in his words, "threatening, but well-choreographed dance moves".

The crowd boos this one.

Jim Pibb is so dejected that he lets go of El Janito in mid-dance, causing Janito to literally fly into the eighth row.

The Codemaster shrugs and turns to the Danny Ferguson.

Codemaster: Not exactly how I thought this would go.

Danny has a different issue on his mind, however.

Danny Ferguson: I was *wondering* why those guys were practicing dance moves before this match.

Meanwhile, the commentators finally end their stunned silence.

Nick: Let's... cut to commercial. As quickly as humanly possible.

Richard: AGREED.

The inconspicuous black sedan pulls around the corner, revealing the wide open mess of hysteria that is the Gage County Fairgrounds. Inconsequential little nobodies wave their silly little flashlights about, directing traffic and parking in the most orderly fashion they can manage. The driver’s side window of the sedan drops slowly, revealing the unpleased visage of PRIME’s new Universal Champion, Cozen, still done up in her fabulous Lindsay Troy duds.

The traffic guard ahead, some drooling, cross-eyed dolt who probably still has his mommy dress him, doesn’t recognize the champ, and incidentally, directs her into the general parking area of the fairgrounds. After circling the area like a starving vulture, Cozen finally finds a place to park and proceeds to remove her baggage (wouldn’t she need a forklift for that?) from the trunk. She hefts the gym bag over her shoulder and begins to scan for a way into the building.

Which is when her eyes meet those of a young male fan and shit, as they say, hits the fan.

YMF: There she is! That’s the dirty whore that stole Troy’s title!

Well, that sort of name calling probably isn’t necessary, but you know how these uneducated inbreds can be. The outburst, however, has managed to grab the attention of a few nearby fans. More continue to turn as Cozen stares on, not quite sure just yet how to proceed.

SPLAT!

The remains of squishy tomato run down her hair, streaming into her eyes. A look of absolute disgust befalls her face as she wipes the muck away. More vegetables begin falling about her. Cozen covers her head with her arms, ducking and weaving between the various crops raining down around her. A particularly large potato smacks her in the ear, causing Cozen to drop her gym bag. Meanwhile, the erstwhile group of fans has grown quite large as word of Cozen’s arrival has spread. Large enough to form a mob. An angry mob. With pitchforks and torches.

A mob of angry fans with pitchforks and torches marching toward Cozen.

Angry Mob: BURN THE WITCH!! KILL THE WITCH!! BURN THE WITCH!!

Cozen: Zoinks! C’mon, Scoob, let’s get out of here!

Yes. That’s a Shaggy joke. Don’t worry, it’ll get worse from here.
Cozen snatches her bag from the ground and proceeds to exit, stage left (more cartoons!). She proceeds to weave her way through the parked cars, making a circuitous route to the arena. Bob and weave. Duck and hide. Eventually Cozen makes her way to the entrance, but as she pokes her head over the hood of an ’84 Tempo to check the situation, she finds the mob has beaten her to it. About twenty of these torch-lighting, pitchfork-wielding rednecks are lingering about the entrance.

YMF: Keep an eye out, boys! She’ll have to come through this way. We’ll have that witch up on a stake before the main event!

This is not a problem. We can get around this. Skrulls always have a plan…

Just at that moment, a security guard comes stepping from behind a port-a-potty, tossing the remnants of his cigarette to the ground. Cozen rushes forward, grabbing the man by both sides of the head and pressing her lips to his.

Cozen: Fuck me. Right now.

Guard: Well, golly, ma’am…I dunno. I ain’t never had relations with a real woman ‘fore.

Cozen: (sigh) I’ll bleet like a sheep.

Guard: (insert excited fist pumping) You got yerself a deal, lady!

The two quickly step back behind the port-a-potty…

BLAM!!

SMACK!!

POW!!

THUMP!!

WHAMO!!

The security guard steps out from behind the port-a-potty yet again, adjusting both his junk and Cozen’s gym bag at the same time. Somewhat stiffly, he marches toward the angry mob.

YMF: Halt! Who goes there?

The security guard looks down at his badge.

Guard: Cletus.

YMF: Are ya sure?

Cletus: Um…yes?

YMF: How do we know you aren’t Cozen posin’ as this…Cletus?

Cletus: Well…my name badge says Cletus. So I reckon that must be who I am.

YMF: (nods thoughtfully) Yeah. I guess that makes sense. Alright, we’ll let ya through. But if you see that two-faced whore Cozen, you send ‘er right on back out here. We gonna burn that witch!

Angry Mob: BURN THE WITCH!!

The security guard who must obviously be Cletus and not Cozen in disguise passes quite easily through the mob and into the arena. Once the doors have shut behind him, Cletus gives a heavy sigh, dropping the gym bag and reaching for a zipper at the back of his neck.

ZIIIPPPP!!

And with the same ease that Faith Rodriguez dropped her dress (however will Devin Shakur get laid now?), Cozen unzips her Cletus disguise and steps out of the security guard’s skin.

"Um…ewww."

Cozen, Angelica Brooks. B, the Skrull.

Brooks: So that’s how you do it?

Cozen: Do what?

Brooks: Whatever it is that you…eww. That is so disgusting.

Cozen: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Brooks: I’m talking about the skin you just stepped out of, crazy lady.

Cozen: What skin?

With a sigh, the red head points down at Celtus’ skin.

Brooks: That skin.

The Universal Champion looks down, an honest to goodness look of horror and confusion on her face.

Cozen: I have no idea where that came from.

Brooks: Even though I just watched you step out of it?

Cozen: No, you didn’t.

Brooks: Yes, I did.

Cozen: You must be mistaken. Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy. Why would I be wearing another person’s skin, Angie? That’s just…creepy.

Brooks: Yes. Yes it is. And you’re Queen Creepy McCreeperton. So what you’re saying is, that, um…the security guard must have just left his skin there.

Cozen: Yes.

Brooks: Like Zoidberg.

Cozen: …Zoidberg…?

Brooks: Um, yeah. You know, crab lookin’ dude. Likes to take off his shell.

Cozen: Hmm. I must find this Zoidberg. And kill him. Before he gives away my secrets.

Brooks: Secrets like…you’re crazy?

Cozen: Yes. I mean…no.

Brooks: Because you’re not crazy? Or it’s not a secret?

Cozen: Yes.

And with that, the Universal Champion that isn’t Lindsay Troy but still looks like Lindsay Troy stalks off in search of this…Zoidberg. The secret must not be revealed…

How convenient it was that ReVolution 157, the ReVolution That Never Will Be, was happening in the same town as the first-ever Mega Job Fan Convention.

Beef: I can't believe some of our legions of fans finally decided to get together and show us the appreciation we so richly deserve.

El Janito: I can't believe they knew how to spell "convention."

Beef: As long as they spell it with P-E-N-I-S, because these Nebraska girls have had enough corn and corn by-products and it's time for a taste of the MEAN BEEF MACHINE!...Wait, the girls aren't made of corn, too, are they?

El Janito: Not all of them.

The two approach a door labeled "MEGA JOB CONVENTION" by virtue of a piece of laminated loose-leaf paper. Yeah, three-hole punch. Ready to meet their adoring public, the two men shove to be the first one inside.

When they enter the room, they notice that they've beaten the crowd, because there is no crowd. There is only Logic, standing in front of them in a clean black suit with matching tie. Sunglasses shield his eyes. He makes no move to acknowledge the Epic Tag Team.

Beef: I hope you're dressed as him, 'cause you don't look anything like m-

The Pensive Punisher lunges forward and jabs a small, futuristic-looking taser weapon into Beef's rib cage. The Slightly Annoyed One shakes a bit before collapsing to the ground.

El Janito looks at Beef, crumpled in a heap on the ground.

Then El Janito looks at Logic.

Then El Janito looks back at Beef.

Then El Janito loo-

Logic slams the taser-type weapon into Janito's midsection as well, giving him the same treatment as his partner. He falls on top of Beef, and Logic pauses momentarily to compose himself.

He pockets the weapon and pulls out a piece of paper from inside his coat. It's a list, and from over his shoulder, we watch him cross out one item on the list.

Mega Job

Smiling to himself, he pocketed the list again. Months, even years of half-baked angles, ill-conceived back stories and Token Weed. PRIME had gone without Logic for too long. Tonight, Logic got his revenge.

Nick: Welcome back to Revolution!

Richard: What the hell is going on tonight, anyway?

Nick: Let's just get through this night with the least amount of pain, Rich.

Unfortunately for Nick Stuart, the pain would probably persist.

The lights fade from the building, and a red, white, and blue hue is seen.

"Hail To The Chief (instrumental)" by 3rd Bass.

Nick: Oh, boy.

Captain Justice bursts through the curtains with both fists in the air, and the crowd makes with the booing. As he passes the entryway, the patriotic pyro bursts behind him and showers behind him. Halfway to the ring, though, he stops.

His music fades.

And then here comes something the fans will REALLY hate.

"No chance..."

Nick: Oh, no. It's Son--

Richard: MR. SILVER, SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT LIASON OF PRIME!

Nick: You know, that was way more tolerable when he was just simply "Chairman of PRIME".

"No Chance" by Dope hits, and Sonny S, er... Mr. Silver, Cha-- you know, you know who the fuck he is. He's that jerk that everyone hates who rubs it in people's faces that he had been the Universal Champion.

Vince Howard: This contest is a tag team match!

Nick: What, so Son-- Mr. Silver's wrestling tonight?

Richard: Apparently.

Nick: Well. Okay then.

The two men head for the ring. Once they get there, the lights come back on and we begin to set up for the next team.

"I Hope You Die" by the Bloodhound Gang.

The fans cheer as PRIME's resident whackjobs come out from the back, with Mary-Lynn Mayweather following closely behind them. They hit the ring, and immediately start by charging Silver and Justice like crazy people. Davis takes Silver, while Flyer starts to rush Justice, but then stops suddenly.

Flyer: You're kinda big.

Justice smashes him.

Flyer: OW!

Captain Justice: It's the American way.

The pounding continues until Davis had sufficiently pounded Silver in one corner, but Justice had pounded Flyer in the opposite corner. Davis tries to whip Silver, but Silver reverses. Meanwhile, Flyer is whipped into Davis. However, Davis and Flyer grab each other by the arms and they begin to do a little square dance in the middle of the ring.

Problem?

They don't stop so they can change opponents. They just kinda keep dancing.

For some reason, a reason that C.P. Cantrell would eventually use to fire a sound guy after this show is over, the PA system kicks in and "Let's Dance" by David Bowie begins to play. Flyer and Davis finally break off from their little square dance, but only so they can individually start dancing.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liason of PRIME looks at Captain Justice.

Captain Justice looks at Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liason of PRIME.

They both shrug.

Then they kill the members of Team VIAGRA in the face.

Finally, the referee decides that MAYBE law and order should be enforced in this match.

Unfortunately for him, nobody's listening.

Though, finally, order occurs because High Flyer throws Sonny Silver out of the ring and then follows him out in the only way he knows how: Flinging himself over the top rope while screaming something incomprehensible. Actually, I don't think Flyer does that last part normally, but let's face it, there's something in the water tonight. This leaves Tony Davis in the ring with Captain Justice.

Tony Davis socks Captain Justice in the mouth.

Justice staggers back, allowing Davis to try a flying cross body on the big, patriotic doofus.

Justice easily catches him in midair.

Richard: We haven't said much in this match, so hi.

Nick: We're just enjoying this action.

Richard: We're just coasting so we can forget about this entire show.

Nick: Yet, we'll collect a paycheck for it anyway.

Richard: Indeed.

Nick: It is so.

Oh, by the way, Justice had smashed Davis into paste with a front slam. Now Justice seems to be calling for the Long Arm Of The Law. He picks up Davis and holds him up, and then he shouts into the air.

Captain Justice: LONG ARM...

And then he throws out his arm.

Captain Justice: ...OF THE LAW!!!

Davis ducks.

Captain Justice: Curses! How did he know to duck!?

Nick: Gee. I wonder.

Davis kicks Captain Justice in the groin. It's okay, folks. The referee didn't see it!

Referee: Actually, I did, I'm just pretending I didn't.

Oh, okay.

Referee: Don't ask why I can hear you, though I wonder why we're doing non-sequiturs like this.

We gave up caring about the quality of this match before it even started. I actually missed some amazing moves doing stuff like this.

Referee: Really?

Sure. Flyer did like a 450 plancha on Sonny just a bit ago, and then Sonny killed him in the face with a couple of kicks afterwards. Oh, and Davis just hit Captain Justice with his inverted double underhook facebuster thing. That one really gets the crowd going, I gotta say.

Referee: Amazing what you can miss when you're not paying attention to it.

You're a referee, though, aren't you?

Referee: Sure. Name's Gerard, by the way. I hate having my nametag say "Referee".

Ummm... oh yeah! We have a match! Lookit that Davis go! Trying to beat that pesky American icon in the name of New Jersey!

Gerard: Hey!

Well, okay, New Jersey's supposed to be part of the United States, it's just that nobody likes that place.

It's kinda like Arkansas in that capacity.

Davis beats on Captain Justice with right hands, and then puts him down with a quick DDT. He goes for the pin, so Mr. Referee...

Gerard: It's GERARD.

...right. He drops down for the pin.

Nick: One!

Nick: Two!

Nick: No!

Nick: Davis is not going to give up! He's looking for the Neutralizer!

Davis picks up Justice and hooks his arms, but Justice blocks and backdrops Davis.

Nick: Justice blocks the Neutralizer!

Justice picks up a dazed Davis and looks to vanquish him.

Captain Justice: HOLY JUSTICE SLA-- BLARGH!

Yes, Captain Justice really does shout "BLARGH!", as High Flyer storms back into the ring just long enough to obliterate Justice's masked face off with a LOCOMOTION.

Nick: LOCOMOTION FROM FLYER! Davis falls on top of Justice! ONE!

Nick: TWO!

Nick: THREE!

And that's it. I got nothing left.

Gerard: Why'd you agree to do this, then?

I was insane and bored. Not a good combination.

Gerard: I hear that.

Davis: Hey, you with the stripes... who are you talking to?

Gerard: Uh... nobody? Nobody at all? And it's Gerard, by the way.

Xavier Kannon isn’t his usual self this evening; you can tell from his attire. He wears a pair of loose-fitting black jeans and a leather jacket opened up to reveal a plain white t-shirt. Perhaps the most surprising thing of all, though, is his hair… instead of being tied back in a ponytail like usual, his strawberry blonde locks are somehow stuck up in a gravity-defying coiffure.

If it weren’t for the fact that his hair is completely the wrong colour and length, you might just mistake him for Danny from Grease.

Why on Earth he is dressed in such a completely ridiculous manner is anyone’s guess, although it’s probably got something to do with the knock on the head he sustained whilst travelling to Beatrice for the event.

Oh hell, who am I kidding… it had everything to do with the knock on the head!

The Kannon/Travolta hybrid walks alone; surprisingly, Ellie is nowhere to be found at the moment. In one hand he carries a wireless ghettoblaster, which he rather carefully swings about as he struts towards the bathroom. There’s been some odd stuff going on around here… but nothing has prepared him for what he’s about to see next.

Tchu comes charging at him, screaming all the way, and Capoeira kicks the wall just beside him, going straight through it. Still shouting, he back rolls out of it and Windmills back to his feet before backflipping, spinning down onto the floor and busting out a few more B Boy power moves.

XK: For the love of Hubbard! That’s bizarre!

Tchu: Hey! You gotta help me! Just take my pants off, please!

XK: That’s a different kind of flirting. I never knew all I had to do was kick a blood wall down! Look, I’m sorry sir, we Scientologists are far too enlightened to consider going down the homosexual route...

Tchu: No, you idiot, it’s the pants that are making me do this!

XK: Um… your pants are gay?

Tchu: NO ONE IS GAY!

Off-screen voice: STHPEAK FOR YOURTHELF!

XK and Tchu: Huh?

Tchu starts breaking out some disco moves, and it’s all he can do not to cry.

XK: This sounds crazy but… are your pants making you dance?

Tchu hangs his head as he does the Running Man.

Tchu: Yes.

Kannon-Travolta pauses for a second and strokes his chin. Then it hits him, he knows exactly what he has to do! He puts his boombox down on the floor and presses "PLAY" on the CD deck.

XK: I’ll see your Running Man, and raise you a little bit of motherpluckin’ Grease Lightning!

Immediately Xavier busts into one of the most ridiculous, over-the-top renditions of a Grease dance that you have ever seen. Ever. Even The Inhuman Being can’t keep his eyes from XK’s wicked dance skills, yo.

Tchu: Whoa! That’s not bad, where did you learn how to dance like that?!

XK: John Travolta himself taught me… a great, great man… almost on par with Hubbard himself!

Tchu: Lemme try…

Tchu’s dancing pants successfully adjust and he performs the dance with a heck of a lot more fluidity than Mr. Kannon-Travolta. Noticing Tchu’s success at performing the dance, Xavier immediately stops and screws up his face.

Tchu: How am I doing?

XK: Terribly!

XK-T, a little bit annoyed at having his nose bent out of place, leans down, picks up the ghettoblaster and shuts it off. Without another word he turns on his heels and walks away, much to the dismay of PRIME’s Wrecking Ball.

Tchu: Hey! Wait a minute… I thought you were gonna help me with these pants!?!

There is no response from The King of Wrestling, who just keeps on walking.

Tchu: … Xavier!?!

Nothing.

Tchu slaps his forehead, feeling like he is doomed to a fate of dancing like a maniac at ReVolution 157 for the foreseeable future.

Nine Hours Ago flashes up on the screen.

Outside the Gage County Fairgrounds, a dark blue Honda Civic pulls up. A rear door swings open before the car can come to a halt, and ‘The Flyin‘ Hawaiian‘ Bryan Dawkins springs out. After checking his watch twice, Dawkins looks around for another clock, having to poke his head in through the passenger-side window to see what the time on the dash reads.

Dawkins: We did it, Bruh! Give it up for the man arriving early… me.

With Dawkins punching the air victoriously to an audience of none, the driver’s and passenger’s door open, and the Hawaiian is joined by PRIME official Max Newell and PRIME communications advisor Rashid Karimi. Not so much his carpool-buddies as the ones who went back for him after he missed his ride from last week’s show.

Rashid: That was only part one, Bryan. Now, who are you facing?

And so the question of why Dawkins is uncharacteristically early. It is, in fact, a very simple reason. He’s unstuck in time and can only anchor himself back in the present day if he finds his variable, a one-off event that he’ll remember forever. In his case, arriving on time, knowing who he’s facing, and when.

Rashid: Well?

The grin of achievement on Dawkins’ face rapidly droops into an almost apologetic expression.

Dawkins: Um… Simplybeauuuuuuujassssssssssssssssonatonyrolosenemaxnewel-

Newell: That’s me.

An audible gulp is expelled from Dawkins throat.

Dawkins: It’s going to happen again, isn’t it?

Both Rashid and Newell expel a sigh as they nod, but Dawkins’ eyes are already locked on the horizon behind them, unresponsive as his consciousness shoots off through the time stream.

Newell: Your choice: Grab a pen and give him a moustache, or put his clothes on backwards?

Seven Hours Ago then flashes up on the screen, and Bryan Dawkins, complete with hand-drawn facial hair, is shoved down onto a bench at the Gage County Fairgrounds.

Rashid: Right. I’ve driven back to Wichita to get you, managed to get lost in the middle of ass-end nowhere, put up with you somehow taking the next step up from awful time-management to actually being booted out of the time stream, and spent the best part of 6 hours trying to get the only thing that will stop your brain exploding I-… oh, just bloody remember who you’re facing, okay?

Newell: We went through that entire book of memory tips we got from that gas station, and you wore down the battery of my DS playing Brain Training, so c-

Dawkins: Yeah… I actually gave up on that and played Mario Kart instead.

Almost ready to hunt down the nearest source of Bamboo, Rashid takes a deep, calming breath.

Rashid: Max, you do it.

Newell: Bry, the next few times your brain decides to re-enact Back to the Future, we can’t guarantee that pink mist isn’t gonna spurt from each of your ears like a boiling ket-… and you can’t hear me, can you? Rash, he’s off again.

Five Hours Ago continues the countdown.

As Dawkins’ consciousness slams on the brakes just short of bursting out of his eyes, he’s met with a frosty reception from Newell and Rashid.

Rashid: Right, last chance, new method. For every time you give a wrong answer, you’re going to slap yourself.

Newell: Or else we leave you tied to the bench and start handing out fireworks to the local kids. Now, who are you facing tonight?

Dawkins: Er… Dusk?

Rashid: Slap yourself.

After giving him an inquisitive look to see if they’re serious, the stern looks he receives back register a solid ‘affirmative’.

Dawkins: Aw, man…

As the Hawaiian goes to belt himself across the chops, his hand pauses mid-swing.

Dawkins: I GOT IT! Cozen… 4th match!

Yes, they wrote it on his hand.

It’s not cheating, really.

Rashid: You still have to slap yourself.

Three Hours Ago ticks us closer to showtime, and Dawkins is still slumped on the bench.

Dawkins: Bruh, totally bored here.

Two Hours Ago

Dawkins: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

One Hour Ago

Dawkins: All early and no late make Bryan a dull Hawaiian… All early and no late make Bryan a dull Hawaiian… All early and no late make Bryan a dull Hawaiian…

Showtime

You might think a down-home fella like Wade Elliott would be as happy as a pig in shit being in down-home Beatrice, Nebraska. You’d be wrong, but you might think it. You thinker, you.

No, in fact, Wade Elliott is doing what he does best: being quiet, sullen, and generally unapproachable. It’s like his thing around here. We find him currently disposed with poking his head into a remote corner of the fairgrounds. He moves towards the door of a trailer marked "LINDSAY TROY" and knocks.

Wade Elliott: Lindsay, ya in here?

No response from inside. Saying a couple prayers in his head that Lindsay isn’t in an uncompromising situation, garment-wise, Wade flings the door open to find…

…nothing. Not even a bag to indicate that the recent divorcee of the Uni Title has made it to Beatrice, Nebraska. A trailer is prepared for someone who may never show up. What to do, what to do?

But then a flash of that legendary hair, down to the backs of her elbows. From the back, she might be just like any other ridiculously tall, attractively framed woman. But Wade knows better; she’s the rare woman who won’t up and split on his honky tonk ass.

Wade Elliott: Lindsay!

She doesn’t hear the Bad Dog, causing him to jog after her. As he comes within fifteen feet, he yells again.

Wade Elliott: Lindsay, hey!

"That name is no more. Don’t waste your breath on the departed and disgraced."

A cold, unfeeling voice. A swift turn reveals the face that, last week, changed PRIME forever. Cozen, the greatest phenom in PRIME history. Coming face-to-face with Wade Elliott again, the situation being just as tense, if not more so.

Cozen: Sugar…I didn’t think we’d get a second date so quickly.

Wade Elliott: Got about three more words before I reconsider my stance on givin' you the gift of crutches.

Cozen: We both know that, behind that dreamy Southern accent, you won’t harm a hair on my pretty, little, Lindsay-looking head.

Done with this interaction for good, Wade sidesteps. Cozen intercepts.

Cozen: Don’t you want to square-dance? Just for a minute?

Wade: Not goddamn second’ve my time fer…whatever the fuck it is ya are underneath all the lies.

Cozen: Lies are the way that we explain things truths do not capture.

Wade: Stop’ speakin’ in fortune cookies and say somethin’.

Cozen: Should I say I told you so? You told me how big bad Troy would put me in a hopistal…but look who called in sick with the sniffles and big, watery eyes. Is that woman so instrumental to this place that she gets bereavement leave whenever she happens to lose?

Wade: (angrily) Yer. A fuckin’. Cunt.

The Bad Dog attempts to sidestep to the right. The Faceless Fighter even goes so far as to graze Wade’s arm with a purposefully errant fingernail. He whips his arm away, his voice rising.

Wade: Fact is, I prob’ly wouldn’t lay a hand on ya. Too afraid of gettin’ yer breed o’ slime on me.

Cozen: How can you be that mad, Wade? I did what Tsonda couldn’t do. What Nova couldn’t do. I beat everyone’s princess. And what’s better? I ruined her, in front of thousands of people who assumed she was out there warming up for UltraViolence. I broke her. Fair and square, Elliott.

Wade: Ya think a street fight’s a lady-like way to decide things?

Cozen: I don’t know, Mr. Former Intense Title Champion. Do you?

The wry smile on Cozen’s marked face extends as she runs a hand up and down her very new, very gold hardware.

Wade: It’s not that I’m mad at ya…

Cozen: Do tell, oh wise and-

Wade: (spitting at her feet) I just think yer the lowest kinda cunt there is.

Without mincing words, Wade finally completes his retreat from this conversation by returning from whence he came.

Richard: Is it just me, or has this night been crazy?

Nick: No, it's not just you. It's been very... strange.

Richard: Okay, and now we're bringing out Psychopants?

Nick: Yep, pretty much.

Richard: So this is going to get better!

When we cut to the ring, it's clear that even Vince Howard is creeped out. He hasn't randomly hit on a ring rat here at the Fairgrounds or anything.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL with a fifteen-minute time limit! Introducing first!

"WOO HOO!"

"Song 2" by Blur.

The PRIME*View comes to life with the theme, accompanied by pyrotechnics, orange and aqua lighting, and the video package of "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins. Dawkins strolls out of the back to an ovation from some of the crowd, to which he replies with the Hawaiian "hang loose" hand gesture, before jogging down towards the ring.

Vince Howard: He hails from Hilo, Hawaii and weighs in at two hundred and two pounds! "THE FLYIN' HAWAIIAN!" BRYAN! DAWKINS!

Dawkins acknowledges fans at ringside and plays to the crowd before sliding into the ring and jumping up to each turnbuckle to give the crowd his signature "hang loose" hand gesture. He then dismounts from the last turnbuckle and removes his sunglasses prior to stretching before the bout begins.

Nick: Dawkins waiting in the ring now as we await the arrival of --

BROKEN GLASS ALL AROUND YOU!
Tried to hide, but they find you every time
Even with everything you try to do
People can still look and see right through you

"The Wreckoning" by Nonpoint booms through the crowd.

Vince Howard: And HIS opponent!

The PRIME*View jumps to life with five letters in rapid succession.

C
O
Z
E
N

Vince Howard: From Gage, Nebraska!

There's a small cheer from fans that don't know any better.

Nick: I'm going to get really, really sick of that in a hurry.

Lookin' like you came from a magazine
Regular jock star/beauty queen
Covered in labels but barely able to talk for yourself
So you look at other people and you help yourself

Vince Howard: Weighing in tonight at one hundred and sixty-four pounds, she is the NNNNNNNEW! PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPION!

*BoomBOOMboomBOOMboomBOOMboomBOOM*

Nick: Here she is... the very... odd woman who made Lindsay Troy pass out last week.

Richard: She was tired, y'all.

There she is, in red and black, still wearing Troy's face, though it has a scar across the left side of her face. The Universal Championship is snug around her waist.

You have your passport, so you can be identified
In case the most important thing is lost (your life)
And every chance you take just to be satisfied
Is just another link in the chain of your wrecking ball

She stops at the top of the ramp, unsnapping the belt from around her waist. She stares at her reflection in the shiny, shiny gold for a long moment.

A link in the chain of your wrecking ball
A link in the chain of your wrecking ball
A LINK IN THE CHAIN OF YOUR WRECKING BALL

Then her head snaps up, the intensity so quick it looks as though someone flipped a switch. The title falls to the wayside, left in the aisle.

Many fast strides take the Faceless Fighter to the ring.

Nick: Cozen rushing to the ring! What made her so mad?

Richard: I think the concept of oxygen irritates Cozen.

[SFX: DING-DING-DING!]

Nick: And Dawkins meets her! Clothesline, dive roll underneath -- Dawkins continues on by and -- flying forearm! No! Cozen drops down into the splits!

Richard: SPEED KILLS RICHARD'S BRAIN CELLS.

Nick: Dawkins stops on a dime, turns around; Cozen's already pivoted up to her feet and -- BAM!

The sound of foot-on-flesh echoes through the fairgrounds.

Nick: Beautiful Lie! Beautiful Lie! Flying butterfly kick catches Dawkins in the face!

Richard: A few more of those and he'll be the Toothless Hawaiian!

Nick: That wasn't funny.

Richard: I know, I feel odd, too.

Nick: Dawkins spun around by that kick and --

A sudden roar from the crowd.

Nick: Piano Wire! Piano Wire! That's the hold! That's the hold that won Cozen the Universal Championship!

Richard: They do NOT pay this whackjob to work by the hour, do they?

Nick: Dawkins is flailing! Dawkins is struggling!

Richard: Maybe he's tired, too. Jetlag or whatever.

Nick: But we drove!

Richard: But he's from Hawaii!

Nick: Cozen grits her teeth and --

Richard: How do we know it's a girl, anyway?

Nick: I'm not prepared to have this discussion... Dawkins turns and -- short elbow! Short elbow to the face loosens one arm! Dawkins takes off running and --

It's been an odd night.

People aren't acting like themselves -- including the one among them who's entire shtick is that she acts like other people.

And then Bryan Dawkins fell on his head.

Richard: ...man.

Admittedly, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. In an ideal world, Dawkins' elbow shot to the bridge of Cozen's nose gained him a little more separation. In an ideal world, he runs to the corner, up the turnbuckles and flips and spins backwards in a corkscrew Asai moonsault.

In his head, this move hits the champion square, and he hooks both legs and scores a hugely impressive victory.

The Gage Fairgrounds... are not a perfect world.

The shot to the nose didn't get him the separation he needed to pull off the move, but he tried anyway. Now, Bryan Dawkins isn't a big guy, but Cozen's not got any way to mimic Lindsay Troy's strength -- she's all about speed and precision, is our new champion. So she's overbalanced, falling awkwardly to the ground, one leg bent underneath her. Her impressive debut streak almost ends with a torn ACL.

As for Dawkins, he's pulled down at the apex of his jump.

Good news: The motion and the flipping break the katahajime before he loses consciousness. His head and right shoulder land buried in Cozen's midsection.

Bad news: he lands on his head and right shoulder.

The Hawaiian Hangover, it's not.

This all happens in an instant. Dawkins instinctively rolls off of Cozen. The two face in opposite directions, torso against torso.

One arm draped across each other.

Max Newell slides across the mat.

Nick: Newell slides in for a pin count!



ONE!!!







Richard: But who's getting pinned?




TWO!!




Nick: I have no idea!



THREE!

[SFX: DING-DING-DING!]

Nick: The match is over, but we don't know who won!

Richard: I bet it was someone with boobs.

Nick: So you're saying that Cozen won?

Richard: Or that Bryan Dawkins has man-titties.

Nick: A win for Dawkins would be...

Richard: The most impressive thing a man from Hawaii has done in Nebraska ever?

Max Newell and Vince Howard are in consultation. Howard steps back, lifting his microphone.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has determined that...

Vince Howard is a pro at this. One of the reasons is his ability to stretch things out.

Vince Howard: BOTH competitors' shoulders were on the mat!

Little smattering of boos. Kissing your sister and all.

Vince Howard: Therefore this match has been ruled... a draw!

Nick: This one never got off the ground, folks...

Trainers help Dawkins (still holding his head) and Cozen (her ribs are owie) to their feet.

Nick: But I'd love to see it again down the line! Let's go backstage for more...

Richard: Crazy batshitosity.

Nick: Yes, that.

PRIME’s Intense Champion, The Lost Soul, Dusk…

… and guest.

With his arm around the beautiful, talented, witty, and gorgeous Lindsay Troy[/kissingLindz’ass], Dusk makes his way down a corridor, each step taken with a certain swagger. It’s easy to see how having a woman like Lindsay Troy right by your side will give a man that confidence.

Its not as easy to see where that swagger comes from when said ass-kicking gal is a life-sized cardboard cut-out.

Yes… a cardboard cut-out. Ordered from PRIMEShop.com.

Yup. The Lindsay Troy in question is no more real than the one who The Intense Champion locked lips with at ReVolution 155. Actually… its less real. At least at 155 it was a real person (Cozen is human, right?).

Still, it’s hard to argue with the confidence being displayed by The Lost Soul on this evening. And then the champ bumps into a kind of familiar face.

Scotty Ward… younger brother to awesomeness that is Tchu.

Dusk: Scott! How are ya, man? Thanks for the lift to the hotel last night. They threw me out, but it’s the thought that counts.

Scott: Um… I’m not sure that’s actually Lindsay Tr…

Dusk: So, how’s Auntie B.?

As The Intense Champ asks on the status of Scotty’s sick great aunt, he leans over and kisses Lindsay on the cheek.

Scott: Uhh… actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. See, I probably should have mentioned to you last night about our family tree. I’m actually cousin’s with a pretty famous guy, and…

Dusk: Yeah yeah… I know. Tchu.

Scott: No, Tchu is my brother. I’m talking about my cousin. You see the "B" in Auntie B is actually for her last name.

While Scott goes on, Dusk slowly slips his arm behind Lindsay Troy and slides his hand down, giving her a firm squeeze on the tush.

Scott: Ok… this is getting a little too weird. So I’m just gonna say it. The ‘B’ stands for…

But before Scotty can finish, a mountain of a man dressed like The Terminator after an evening with the guys from Queer Eye, comes bounding into the hallway.

Scott… Batista.

Dusk turns around to look at ‘The Animal’. Batista’s eyes show a great rage, the kind of rage that makes a man go out and get a sun tattooed around his belly button and then grab a set of ropes and shake them violently. The Intense Champion doesn’t flinch, instead, he spins, putting himself between The Animal and "Lindsay Troy".

Dusk: Stand back, Lindz. I’ll handle this.

Batista: You sonofabitch! You superkicked Auntie B!

Dusk: I did what I had to! She looked like she was in pain. I did the right thing!

Batista: LIKE HELL YOU DID!

Dusk: Just ask the people.

Did Dusk do the right thing in superkicking Auntie B?

Yes: 0%

No: 1%

Who is Auntie B: 48%

I don’t Fucking Care: 57%

Scott: Where the hell did that come from?

Batista: You let your ego… and you need for sleep… get in the way of better judgement. I would have never superkicked Auntie B!

Dusk: What about a Batista Bomb.

Batista: Nah… she ways more than Umaga… and we all saw how that went.

Dusk: Listen, Dave. I stand by my decision. Scott told me she was hurting. You don’t hurt when your unconscious. Everybody knows that. Plus Scott said he would give me a lift to the hotel if I kicked her.

Scott: I did not!

Dusk: We’ve all accepted it, Dave. All of us except you!

The Animal lunges forward, but The Lost Soul is ready and quickly snaps his leg into the air, planting the heel of his boot firmly on the jaw of Batista. The big man collapses in a heap on the ground. Turning back to Scott, Dusk acts as if nothing has happened.

Dusk: Hope ya enjoy the show tonight, Scotty.

With cardboard Troy in hand, The Intense Champion makes his way off, disappearing around the corner. Scotty is left standing in the middle of the hall, looking at Batista, completely out-cold on the ground. With a heavy sigh, Scott scratches the top of his head, ruffling his hair.

Scott: Ya know… I think that poll added up to more than 100%.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall is not having the best of nights. Her husband still hasn’t recovered from the knock on the head he sustained travelling to Beatrice earlier in the week, which has seemingly caused his personality to regress by some five or so years. She has no idea how on Earth he is supposed to prepare to face Tony Rolo this evening, but she knew that pretending to be John Travolta probably wasn’t a good start.

Kannon: I’m telling you, Ellie! There must be SOMEBODY that’s as enlightened as us around this place! Heck, maybe even TOM CRUISE himself is here! Imagine how great that would be!?!

Ellie rolls here eyes.

Ellie: Yes dear…

With his wife’s arm in one hand and an antiquated ghettoblaster in the other, Xavier ups the pace.

Xavier: WAIT! You there!

Kannon-Travolta immediately bolts towards a backstage staffer who has just stepped out of a nearby tent with a "COTTON CANDY" label overtop of it, and nearly knocks Ellie off her feet in the process. The staff member immediately recognises the voice of The King of Wrestling, but screws his face up with confusion when he notices his retro/casual attire and ridiculous coiffure.

Xavier: Excuse me sir, I’m looking for Tom Cruise… and if you haven’t got him for me, I want to see Isaac Hayes or Kirstie Alley! Surely one of them must be around here… if not, can you PLEASE point me in the direction of somewhere I can purchase a Snapple from? I’m parched!

Staffer: Uhhh, I’m sorry… what?

XK-T tuts.

Xavier: Ugh, come on Ellie, this peon clearly isn’t worth our time!

Without even giving the poor staff member a chance to compose himself, Xavier again darts off with his wife in tow.

Ellie: Xavier, can’t you, like, loosen the grip a little bit, it hurts!

The protests of his wife are enough to bring Xavier Kannon-Travolta to a full halt. He indeed relinquishes his grip and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can do so his ears hone in on the sound of Hawthorne Heights wafting through the fairgrounds.

Xavier: For the love of Hubbard! What on Earth is that noise!?!

Ellie: I don’t know… but is it really worth investigating further?!

Xavier: Of COURSE it is!

Travolta—I mean Kannon rounds the corner and discovers that the music is coming from a tent which temporarily serves as the locker room for none other than PRIME’s Commie Emo, Devin Shakur. The King of Wrestling makes a rather grand entrance, thrusting his way through the entrance to the small tent, only to see a lonesome stereo, which is the obvious source of the music.

Kannon, with wife in tow, cautiously in a way that would make Ethan Hunt proud makes his way toward the stereo and presses the power button. The music dies off, yet there is a faint vocal still heard within the room somewhere, which catches XK off guard.

Kannon: Who goes there?

Silence.

Kannon: Tom? Tom Cruise? Is that you?

The vocals have now turned to sobs. Kannon follows the sound until he finds Devin Shakur curled up in the fetal position with a classic "deer in the headlights" look pasted across his face.

Shakur: (Whining) Heyyyyy man, turn that back on. I was reflecting.

Kannon: Uh, what? Say, Devin…you wouldn’t have happened to see Tom Cruise or Katie Holmes around here, would you have?

Ellie rolls her eyes behind her husband and turns to walk away. Kannon hears her departing and quickly turns to encourage her.

Kannon: Thatta girl, Ellie! You go find our fellow Scientologists! I won’t be far behind!

Devin, looking quite confused at this point, stands up and strides over toward the stereo, where he presses the play button and the air is filled with the sweet—no, emo sounds of Hawthorne Heights. He then goes back to his corner, and assumes the fetal position once again. Kannon sighs and makes his way out of the tent, muttering to himself…

Kannon: …well, he’s no use. Now to continue the search for Mister Cruise!

Black Label Society assaults the ears and the sense of morality of all the Beatrice locals. Mothers in the crowd do their best to get the young sons not to listen to this garbage, but the boys in their denim shorts and their black t-shirts just head-bang along with the song.

Of course, all feelings are reversed when Simply Beautiful steps out from the back. From the bandana to the gyrations, this is not what those young men were expecting. A groan lifts up from the males in the crowd while the mothers stop hearing the music for just a bit and strain to get an eyeful of the young Italian.

Nick: Simply Beautiful isn't the type of person to endear himself to the locals.

Richard: You can't expect them to appreciate classier items.

Nick: Right, like bandanas, or maybe like your Barry Manilow records.

Richard: Those are rare!

Nick: Yeah, hard to find a copy that the owner didn't smash to save the younger generation.

As SB galavants (yeah, that's right, fuckers, he galavants) to the ring, he tries to rub up on some locals to a negative reaction. Jumping up into the ring, he raises his arms and gets only boos from the Beatrice locals. Even the mothers aren't willing to give the man a little cheer.

"Stillborn" is replaced by "Mars, Bringer of War." The classical piece is much more soothing to the Nebraska sensibilities, but that still didn't deter a few fathers and bachelors from declaring the possessor of such a fruity theme song to be a little limp-wristed.

When Logic emerges from the back, standing tall over virtually everyone in the arena, only a few still pose questions to his fortitude, and fewer still insist that they could kick his ass.

Logic steps into the ring, and SB charges him before the bell even rings, throwing some hard forearms to stumble the big man before he even got his feet.

Nick: Surprise attack by SB! He needs every advantage he can get against the Pensive Punisher!

Logic stumbles up against the ropes and SB pursues, Irish whipping him off the ropes. On the rebound, Logic reverses the whip and sends his opponent across the ring. He ducks for a backdrop, but SB grabs his head for a tornado DDT. Instead of being pulled down by the move, though, Logic keeps his feet and turns the momentum of the spin into a tossing flapjack, essentially getting the same impact he wanted from the backdrop.

As soon as SB lands, Logic drops a leg across his neck and rolls him over for the pin.

He gets a quick one-count, but nothing more. SB tries to sit up, but gets locked in a rear chinlock from the big man.

With enough energy, SB manages to get to his knees, and then to his feet, despite the best efforts of his opponent. He stomps on Logic's foot, then gives him a few elbows to the midsection to get free.

He takes a few steps away and gets leveled from behind by a clothesline. Logic immediately pulls him back up and applies a front facelock, but SB shows some wrestling chops and hits a duck-under, slipping behind the larger man. Rather than attempt any kind of power move, he jumps up for a sleeperhold.

Logic charges forward, trying to smash the International Sex Symbol into the nearest turnbuckle. SB shifts his weight and keeps himself free from damage, though. He sinks the hold deeper, and Logic begins to fade a bit, stumbling out into the middle of the ring.

He drops to a knee and the referee swoops in to check for a submission. Logic refuses to give up, though, and SB doesn't wait around for the comeback. He steps over the big man's leg and bulldogs him down into the mat.

He pounces for the pin immediately, and gets a two-count before an emphatic kickout.

Frustrated, SB stands up and looks to finish things off for good.

Nick: He’s sizing Logic up...that’s a lot of sizing to be done...

Richard: Keep it down, it’s SexyKick time!

Nick: Is that what you tell the ladies before you jump in bed?

Richard: Why don’t you ask your mother?

SB lunges forward with the superkick, but Logic is able to recover in enough time to anticipate the move. The Pensive Punisher quickly swings a forearm up, deflecting the kick with a blow to the calf and spinning The Italian One around. Before SB has a chance to recover, Logic grabs him from behind, lifts him hiiiiiiiiiigh in the air and drops back hard, KO’ng SB with the Proof Positive!

Nick: What a backdrop driver! This one’s over, kids!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Holst plays again as the Pensive Punisher rises to his feet, looking out into the Beatrice crowd. The men can’t argue much anymore - for a dweeb, he was pretty darn good in the ring.

At this point, Tchu is pretty desperate. He’s been dancing non-stop, to the point of near-exhaustion. If he can’t get these pants off soon, he’ll never be able to wrestle tonight.

As he Electric Slides down the hallway, he gets an idea…

Tchu: Maybe if I can catch myself on something – it’s my only shot.

Tchu tries to catch his pants on the doorway, but accidentally slams into it hip first instead.

Tchu: OW! FUCK! All right, that’s not working. I have to finesse it a little bit if I want to get out of this.

As Tchu desperately tries to dance his way out of his pants, one of the pyrotechnics walks by – the same guy who thought he walked in on an impromptu SB/Tchu love session.

Tchu: (moonwalking away from the techie) Hey! Can you help me!

Tech: Sure…can you stop dancing first?

Tchu: That’s what I need help with!

Tech: I don’t think I want to dance with you.

Tchu: I don’t want to dance with you either you moron! You need to help get these pants off of me!

Tchu starts boogie-ing his way back over to the Tech, who starts backing up away from him.

Tech: honestly, I really don’t want to dance with you, so if you’ll just back off and stop sexually threatening me we’ll both be on our way.

Tchu: Listen asshole, it’s the pants. For some reason I can’t stop dancing!

Tech: …

Tchu: Well?!? Are you going to help me or not?

Tech: Are you on drugs, mister?

Tchu: No.

Tech: Really? Cause you sure look like you’re tripping balls right now.

Tchu: I’ve never…SON OF A BITCH!

Tchu does a Flip Wilson split, and helicopter spins his way back to his feet.

Tchu: Can you just help!

Tech: What do you want me to do? You want some bread?

Tchu: I’m not drunk you ignorant bastard! Just cut me out of these motherfucking pants before I Riverdance my way UP AND DOWN YOUR FUCKING BACK!

The Tech shrugs and takes out a small swiss army knife, and makes a slit in the top of the pants.

He grabs at the pants, as does Tchu, and after a short struggle, they’re able to rip them off!

Tchu collapses to the floor, but he looks like he’s been through hell.

Tech: Hey…you’re not dancing anymore!

Tchu: I…told…you…it was the….pants…

From down the hall, by the ring area, we can hear "I Fucking Hate You" by Godsmack.

Tchu: Oh shit.

Tchu springs to his feet and runs to his locker room to grab his pants, lest he be late for his match!


Fade out.

High Flyer kicks open a door backstage and stands in the doorway momentarily, dressed to the nines in full military-style camouflage, topped off with a Rambo-style vest stocked with knives. He surveys the scene with his night vision goggles, but can't quit figure out why they don't work against the flourescent lights in the arena - I mean, it IS nighttime, right?

High Flyer: (ripping the goggles off) Pieces of crap.

CUTTO:

JUMPTTO:

FADEOUT

FADEIN

Flyer dives into the room and takes cover against a table. Tony Davis walks in behind him, considerably less chalant. He's dressed the same, but since Flyer took all the knives from the cutlery set they bought at Target, Tony's vest is packed with ladles, a rolling pin and a mean-looking whisk.

Tony Davis: I don't think they're filming the G.I. Joe cartoon here.

High Flyer: Quiet! I got a tip that someone is watching episodes of television online outside of the 17-day range without ad revenues being fed to the WGA!

At that point, a note falls out of his pocket that says, and I quote, "Someone is watching episodes of television online outside of the 17-day range without ad revenues being fed to the WGA."

Tony Davis: What does Canada have to do with this?

High Flyer: It's BLASPHEMY! We didn't go months without scripted television to see it disrespected like this! So here's the plan...

JUMPTO:

FADE TO BLACK

FADE IN

CUTTO:

Team VIAGRA kicks down the door to the next room to perform their sting. As they rush in, though, they are ambushed by Logic, who takes down each man with the mystery weapon that he used earlier on Mega Job. Davis and Flyer both collapse, and as Logic stands over them, he takes the list out of his pocket and crosses out one more item.

This was gonna be easy.

Tchu vs Devin Shakur vs Chandler Tsonda

This match started off with all three men being cautious of one another, neither wanted to make the opening mistake. Tchu and Tsonda decided to be the first to lock up, Tchu gaining the advantage and bringing Tsonda back into the corner. Shakur took his opportunity and sniped Tchu in the back with a leg kick, and advanced on Tsonda with elbows and forearms to the head. Tchu immediately got back in, launching Shakur backwards with a German suplex. Tsonda took an arm, twisted the limb, spun back around, and landed a reverse Russian leg sweep on the bigger Tchu. Tsonda got up to his feet and received a lethal strike to his sternum from Shakur, knocking him down onto his ass. Shakur went for another strike, but Tsonda ducked, sweeping out the leg, rising up, and delivering a spider kick to Shakur, bloodying his nose up. Tchu seized the opportunity and rushed in, catching Tsonda in a Saito suplex, sending him overhead and onto his neck. Tsonda clutched at his back and Tchu had free reign to deliver vicious stomps to the helpless Tsonda.

Shakur meanwhile connected on a front dropkick that fucked Tsonda’s shoulder up in so many ways. Tchu attempted to go for his FTW submission, but Shakur fought for Tsonda and took the hold away. Shakur brought Tchu up and isolated, stinging his chest with chops and kicks. An Irish whip into the buckle at first proved beneficial for Commie Emo, until he rushed in to try and sweeten the deal. Tchu caught Shakur in mid-air, lifted him up onto his shoulders, and planted him into the canvas with a Death Valley Driver. Tchu was all but ready to put Shakur away when Tsonda delivered a rifle kick to his dome, shocking the Inhumane Being. Tsonda delivered more sternum kicks before nailing a back heel kick to put Tchu on his back. Tsonda took a hold of Tchu’s arm and unloaded with lightning fast boots before dropping a leg on the limb and using the pain as a means to cover Tchu. The biggest man in the match managed to kick out just before three.

Tsonda and Tchu continued to brawl, Tsonda relying on uppercuts and knee strikes in order to garner an advantage. Meanwhile, Shakur was on the outside ready to whip up something special for this unusual crowd. Once Tsonda whipped Tchu into the ropes, Shakur took flight, springboarding into the air, and delivering a 360 spin kick to Tchu, rolling under, leaping up onto the second rope behind Tsonda, backflipping a landing a DDT. Everybody in the crowd was shocked to see Commie Emo go airborne. He made the attempted cover on Tchu, but The Inhumane Being kicked out at the last second.

Shakur rushed off the ropes and went for a Shining Wizard on Tchu, but failed and instead encountered a Tsonda kick into his sternum, knocking the wind out of his sails. Picking Commie Emo back up, Tsonda hooked him around the head, locked the arm up, and kicked out Shakur’s legs, sending Commie Emo forehead first into the canvas, knocking him out. Tchu rushed in for the kill, sneaking up behind Tsonda and trying to lock in an FTW, but the resilient Tsonda slid underneath and managed to sneak a rollup in on Tchu for a victory.

At a frantic pace, still fully blindfolded, the referee from the opening night’s contest runs down the hall. Why is he running? Because, after his mishap(s) in the first match, Troy Douglas and Jason Natas are chasing after him. And chances are, if they get ahold of him… he’ll end up broken in about seven or eight pieces.

People lucky enough to be watching this spectacular broadcast are probably wondering to themselves... "Why is he still wearing the blindfold?" Well ask yourself this... "Would it really be as interesting if he could see where he was going?" Yeah, didn't think so.

Slamming into a wall, the ref drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes as the theme from Benny Hill plays in the background. Behind him, heavy footsteps and angry voices can be heard.

Troy: Lousy piece of sh…

Jason: I'm gonna shave that Zebra's spots, foh reelz!

Shaking the stars digitally positioned over his head by our brilliant production crew, the ref jumps back to his feet and continues running in some direction. His sprint takes him past PRIME Intense Champion, Dusk, and his cardboard companion. The ref stops briefly and turns to Dusk almost instinctively, though he he still cannot see him.

Ref: Wow, you can really smell the scent of desperation lingering in the air. How does it feel to have your hand in the cookie jar, only to find out they were dog biscuits after you took a bite?

Dusk: IT WAS REAL TO ME, DAMN IT!

Ref: You try too ha…

With a violent shove, Dusk sends the ref bouncing against the wall.

Ref: Ow! Sorry… hey, which way do I need to run to make sure I’m going in the opposite direction of those two guys who want to kick my ass?

Dusk: That way.

The Intense Champion points.

Ref: Thanks!

Unfortunately, the ref runs in the opposite direction Dusk had pointed. Fortunately for him, Dusk had tried to lead him into disaster, so crisis adverted.

Meanwhile, Troy and Jason continue their pursuit, closing the distance.

Troy: I get first crack at him when we catch up.

Jason: No way! That fools gonna wish he never messed up after I get through droppin' 'bows on his narrow ass.

The three sprinting gentlemen find themselves coming up to the parking lot. Douglas and Natas increase their pace, trying to catch the ref. But, before they know it, the zebra-striped official is darting in and out of cars (and in one case running straight into the hood and violently tumbling across it).

Jason: Where the hell's he goin'?!

The ref suddenly stops at a blue Honda Civic and jumps in. Oddly enough, the engine roars to life and the cars tears off, burning rubber and screeching into the Nebraska night.

Troy: What the hell?!

In the blink of an eye, the car is outta sight, off into the evening, barreling down the road.

Jason: You see that shi…

Troy: This week needs to be over fast.

Jason: Word... I don't even feel like myself anymore.

As the two angry superstars turn and head back towards their locker room, the sounds of car horns honking, and metal crashing can be heard ringing through the evening air.

Danny Ferguson and his bodyguards still hang around backstage, even after the little... weirdness that happened to be the match with Codemaster earlier in the night.

He has some business to attend to before he rides off into the Nebraska sunset (and possibly gets himself lost just like the rest of PRIME did). So, imagine his surprise when his attempts to find someone instead gives him another person entirely.

A certain somebody who used to be his friend, like a Chandler Tsonda, for example.

Tsonda's expression immediately fades and he and Ferguson lock eyes. He drops a toothpick out of the corner of his mouth.

Chandler Tsonda: It's you.

Danny Ferguson: It's me. 'Sup Chan.

Chandler remains silent, and looks away from Ferguson. Thoughts of how they last left off floated through his mind, and lingered in the air.

Chandler Tsonda: So...

Danny Ferguson: So...

Chandler kicks his feet, scuffing the bottom of his shoes on the concrete floor.

Danny Ferguson: ...Yeah.

Chandler Tsonda: ...Yeah.

Ferguson takes an idle glance towards Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas, who is no doubt just as uncomfortable with this encounter as Danny himself is.

Danny Ferguson: So. Uh. What's up?

Chandler Tsonda: Not too much. Just getting rid of the bitter taste of betrayel, y'know. I'm spitting a lot.

Chandler proceeds to spit onto the foot of Dametreyus.

Chandler Tsonda: It's like drinking Diet Dr. Pepper Cherry Chocolate... or chewing tobacco... I just can't get the taste of you almost killing me out of my system.

Danny Ferguson: It was the heat of the moment. Let's let bygones be bygones here.

Chandler Tsonda: And here I thought you knew me... And I thought I knew you! We don't usually let bygones be anything but present, it's our nature! I don't even know what I said but you're still a jerk.

Tsonda crosses his arms.

Danny Ferguson: Come on, Chan. Don't be like that. Remember the good old days? Like, for example, remember when we were tag team champions? With Facey?

Chandler sighs.

Chandler Tsonda: I really do miss how he used to eat people's faces.

Tsonda looks off fondly for a moment, but it's all too brief.

Chandler Tsonda: Did I ever ask you how prison was?

Danny Ferguson: Hey, hey. Don't go there. Although, remember when we escaped from police after that one debacle last year?

(Flashback, last year...)

Danny Ferguson and Chandler Tsonda are speeding down the street in what can only be described as the Bluesmobile. Both guys are wearing sunglasses, and Tsonda is driving. Behind their vehicle are thirty police cars, all trying to put a stop to the car chase.

Danny Ferguson: You sure you can drive in the dark wearing sunglasses?

Chandler Tsonda: Don't worry. I'm a master.

Suddenly, the car shakes as if it had just bumped over something.

Danny Ferguson: What the fuck was that?

Chandler Tsonda: I think it was either an old guy, or a bicycler. I'm not quite sure.

Danny Ferguson: Take the glasses off, Chan, or at least turn on the headlights.

(Present day...)

Danny Ferguson: I don't know how we got out of THAT mess.

Chandler Tsonda: I do. We ran over Anna Nicole Smith. They effectively rewarded us by not punishing us. Which I'm not exactly sure if that's considered a reward or a punishment?

Danny Ferguson: You gotta admit. The world is a much better place now.

Chandler Tsonda: Better is so... perspective... but yes, I'm glad that bitch is dead. Too bad the economy died with her and all. And the whole Iraq thing, everyone wanting to ban China from their own Olympics...well... the world is certainly less annoying.

Danny Ferguson: When did you get so political, Chan? Man. Remember when we ran for political office?

(Flashback, some time ago...)

Danny Ferguson and Chandler Tsonda are standing a campaign platform. Both guys are wearing suits. Both Jim Pibb and Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas are in the background, dresses as Secret Service agents.

Danny Ferguson: And I promise you, actors will never go hungry again!

Chandler Tsonda starts whispering something in Danny ear, causing him to turn back to the audience.

Danny Ferguson: And models! Models won't go hungry either!

A reporter, actually El Janito, raises his hand.

El Janito: What about the Mexicans?

Ferguson pauses to confer with Tsonda, Pibb, and Fuqueiawytas. Finally, he turns back to the reporter.

Danny Ferguson: Fuck the Mexicans!

(Present day...)

Danny Ferguson: It's a shame it didn't take off after that.

Chandler Tsonda: That's nothing compared to the time we didn't get to take off.

(FLASHBACK... 18 months or whatever ago.)

Chandler Tsonda and Danny Ferguson are sitting side by side on an airplane. They seem to be quite agitated.)

Stewardess: Now, there's been an issue with the runway. It seems someone sky dived onto the wing of our plane. We won't be able to take off for the next three hours.

Tsonda and Ferguson grumble. Ferguson looks out the window, and notices the crew scrubbing who looks to be then Ilustrious Face Eater off of the side of the wing.

Danny Ferguson: Huh... think we shoulda let Facey drive with us?

Chandler Tsonda: Nah, he'll be alright.

Face's body falls off the wing to a thud on the outside of the plane after Tsonda says this. That's when I now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry starts as the in flight but not flying movie. Tsonda and Ferguson then both proceed to attempt to cut their own wrists.

(Present day)

Chandler Tsonda: Man... what I would give to lead a normal life AND, still be able to leap out at people and attack them.

Danny Ferguson: Speaking of that, do you remember when we tried to attack the fortress of the evil Tyler Nelson?

(Flashback, a long while ago.)

Chandler Tsonda and Danny Ferguson are standing outside of a floating terror castle, presumedly belonging to Tyler Nelson. Both are wearing full body armor, and beside them is a catapult. Inside the catapult is a very familiar face, who is none too happy about possibly being used as ammo. Ferguson points a sword at the floating terror castle of Tyler Nelson(?), and makes a bold proclaimation.

Danny Ferguson: This is it, guys. The final battle. It's either us, or him. Are you with me?

The man shuffles uncomfortably in the catapult.

Man: I object to this.

Danny Ferguson: Listen. Chet. You're the only one who can do this.

Chet Worth: Why the hell is that?

Chandler Tsonda: Of the three of us, you're the least pretty.

Chet Worth: Gee, THANKS.

Danny Ferguson: Look. We hired some guys. They sterlized the catapult for you.

Chet Worth seems pleasantly surprised.

Chet Worth: Really?

Chandler Tsonda: Nope.

Tsonda pulls a lever and Chet goes flying towards the castle.

(Present day...)

Danny Ferguson: That COULD be why Chet kept giving me the stink eye ever since then...

Chandler Tsonda: He was never really the same after that, that's for sure. Remember when I caught him masturbating to the QVC channel?

(Flashback : some time ago)

FOOTAGE NOT FOUND

(Present Day...)

Chandler Tsonda: No video? We were able to fling Chet in the air via a catapult but we couldn't show him jerking his gerkin. That's America for you.

Danny Ferguson: Well, we gotta keep this thing at TV-14, you know.

Chandler Tsonda: Our job isn't the FCC's job. I can say fuck and shit all I want but I can't just pull my pants down and splooge everywhere? I'll be honest, if PRIME let it happen, we'd set record numbers. So much of that neglected 18-29 female market, and the larger and more desperate but unable to touch me 30-80 female makert.

Danny Ferguson: Lucrative markets to be sure, indeed.

There's an awkward pause.

Danny Ferguson: Oh, hey, remember the time we saved the world from Martians?

(Not too long ago, maybe?)

Danny Ferguson and Chandler Tsonda stand and watch as a giant flying saucer comes down from the sky. They look up at it.

Danny Ferguson: My God.

Chandler Tsonda: It's... it's...

They think about it, and then they both simultaneously come up with the same answer.

Danny Ferguson & Chandler Tsonda: ...Tacky.

Danny Ferguson: Do we have the catapult?

Chandler Tsonda: Right here.

Chandler Tsonda gestures at the catapult, which has somehow magically appeared next to them. Danny Ferguson examines it for a bit, before he has a very displeased look on his face.

Danny Ferguson: Well, where the hell is Chet?

Chandler Tsonda: He didn't want to come. Something about how he's too good to be our ammo any more.

Danny Ferguson: Hang on just one second, Chan.

Ferguson pulls out a cell phone, speed dials a number, and waits for the receiver to pick up.

Danny Ferguson: It's me. I need your help.

Ten minutes later, Killean Sirrajin sits in the catapult, an unamused look on his face.

Killean Sirrajin: I don't think I'm allowed to be here.

Then he just gets up from his position, and walks away. He then comes back with a huge rocket launcher, almost twice as big as he is himself. He points it at the UFO.

Killean Sirrajin: THIS is how you take care of Martians.

And then Killean explodes the flying saucer, gives high fives to everyone around, and then they go out for beer.

(Present day...)

Chandler Tsonda: I don't remember Killean being there.

Danny Ferguson: .........Come to think of it, neither do I.

Chandler Tsonda: I do remember the beer. Lots and lots of beer.

Danny Ferguson: Me too.

Chandler Tsonda: Come to think of it, I am pretty drunk right now.

Danny Ferguson: Me too!

Chandler Tsonda: How much you got left?

Danny Ferguson: Just a bottle of jack. Of course, Wade Elliot never locks his locker room.

Chandler Tsonda: You think he'd shoot us if we just barge in?

Danny Ferguson: Not only would he shoot us, he'd also sic his damn dog on us. Definitely not worth it.

Chandler Tsonda: Be worth it if we used Chet as a distraction. Or a human shield. Where is he nowadays?

Danny Ferguson: Oh, you didn't know?

(Last year...)

Tyler Nelson: You're fired.

Chet Worth: Dammit!

(Present Day...)

Chandler Tsonda: I think I'm gonna call him with Cantrell's phone.

Tsonda flips open a cell phone and dials.

Chandler Tsonda: Hey! Chet! Yeah, it's 'Sond. How's it going. You have enough peanuts?... Yeah... Yeah... oh, so... Circuit City pays pretty well huh? ... Yeah, no, I'm just here with Fergie.

Danny Ferguson: Don't call me that.

Chandler Tsonda: Wanna come to a PRIME show and be used as a human shield? We want to steal some liquor from Wade Elliot... Oh... You're much happier not being shot at and tossed from catapults... I see... Well, bye.

Tsonda casually flips the phone closed, not waiting for an answer.

Chandler Tsonda: Prick won't do it. Says he's in Mexico. I call bullshit and laziness.

Danny Ferguson: Oh well. I'll buy you a drink after the show.

Chandler Tsonda: Really?

Danny Ferguson: Sure. We're all gonna go so plastered we'll forget tonight ever happened, anyway.

Chandler Tsonda: Ain't that the truth.

(There's a slight awkward pause. Danny and Chandler just stand there for a moment.)

Danny Ferguson: Yup....

Chandler Tsonda: Yup...

Fade.

Tyler Rayne is amidst a massive quagmire. He’s already seared his name onto the annals of PRIME history by winning the Dual Halo. He’s got the Five Star Championship and analysts are already calling a future Universal Championship title reign inevitable. His name is once again world renowned. Women want to be with him. Men want to be with him.

But he’s public enemy number one.

Usually, none of this would matter. Fame is something Tyler Rayne is accustomed to. Douchebag is his unofficial middle name. Lackeys and groupies are something he deals with on a daily basis. The one variable making this all the more uncomfortable is Lindsay Troy. She’s not exactly on the same page with him anymore and it’s rather upsetting to The Underground Pimp. He believed he was in the right at the Dual Halo, and she’s upset. Now square offs and ninjas stars are in their future. Tyler Rayne wants to revert back to the way things were.

So he’s not exactly thrilled when Wade Elliott’s back slams into his head.

"Watch yer goddamn..."

Elliott spins the rest of his body around to meet his head, locked dead upon The Underground Pimp.

Wade Elliott: ...self.

A moment of intense alpha male staredown.

Wade Elliott: Fuck're ya doin'? Shouldn’t you be out plottin’ to put me on the shelf or somethin, y’know since that’s kinda yer shtick now.

Unafraid, Rayne closes the distance between the two.

Tyler Rayne: Country, if I wanted to put you out, I would have done it months ago. You still breathing is a blessing in disguise.

Wade Elliott: Keep yer blessings ta yerself, cunt. Ya seen Lindsay? If ya cared about her as much as ya rail on about, then ya'd be worryin' that dainty little head of hair that ya-

Tyler Rayne: Please, tell me you aren’t trying to give me advice on women. I’ll know more about a woman in fifteen minutes than you will in a lifetime.

Wade Elliott: And I’ll know more about Lindsay in fifteen minutes than you will in a lifetime, cunt. Which is why I give a flyin' fuck that she ain't nowhere to be found. I'm tired of-

Tyler Rayne: You know, while we’re on the subject of being tired of shit. I’m honest to God sick and tired of you pretending to be the best friend who doesn’t have any intentions hidden underneath that drifter cap. We know how the story goes: You pretend to be there for her at every turn, grow closer, you two share a couple moments, and BAM you try to lean in for the Hollywood kiss, she pulls away, and then comes back saying that it feels right or some goofy shit.

Wade Elliott: Keep that mouth flappin', cunt. Yer about two seconds from bein' a permanent piece o' that wall.

Tyler Rayne: In fact, I got a suggestion for you, Country. Take a little O out of the Cheerios box, find a piece of gravel, tape said gravel on top of Cheerio, drop to a knee, and propose to her?

The ‘Bama Bruiser extends his tree trunk right hand and lifts Rayne off the ground, stapling him to the wall.

Wade Elliott: No more jokes, fucker? I don't need ya as my problem tonight; I need ya to get the fuck out of my way so I can find Lindsay and make sure she's alright. Somethin' ya don't seem to have the slightest interest in.

Tyler Rayne: Get…the…fuck…off…me

Wade Elliott: Just because the rest o' this fuckin' place is gone apeshit doesn't mean I'm gonna play nice with ya. If I have to take ya behind the barn and beat a lesson into the back of yer skull-

Tyler Rayne: Thanks for asking, but every time I've been on a date behind a barn, it's ended badly.

The Bad Dog tightens his grip around Rayne's neck.

Wade Elliott: Ya've got precious time until Lindsay realizes yer good fer nothin'. I'd use it wisely, maybe say some prayers. 'Cuz, sooner or later, I'm gonna make what ya did to the redhead look like a fuckin' honeymoon.

Tyler Rayne: It’ll be a cold day in fucking hell before you put my ass in the ground, Country.

Wade Elliott: I feel a breeze comin’.

Elliott drops Rayne down to the ground, making his ass slam hard into the tiled concrete. With a scoff and a spit two inches from Rayne’s hands, Elliott tips his cap down and walks away from the Five Star Champ.

Tyler Rayne: I’m going to beat the southern out of that prick one day.

The scene opens in Tony Rolo’s locker room backstage. The crowd are up on their feet!!

RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO...

The chant can be heard through the concrete shaking the very foundations of the stadium. The Specialist is sitting on a bench lacing up his boots, minutes before his big match with Xavier Kannon. He’s wearing a "Tony Rolo stole my ho, doh!" t-shirt. The shot zooms out to show Nick Stuart holding a mic to his face.

Nick Stuart: I’m down here with PRIME Hall of Famer TONY ROLO!

Rolo finishes lacing up his boots, beside him is a six-pack of Budweiser. He tears two off, keeping one for himself he throws the other to Nick Stuart.

Nick Stuart: Sorry Tony, I can’t, I’m calling your match next.

Tony Rolo: Don’t bother Nick, it won’t last that long anyway!

Spray shoots from the opening of the can as Rolo tears off the ring pull and downs it in one, wiping the bubbles from his mouth with the back of his taped-up hand.

Nick Stuart: So why did you ask me down here Tony?

Tony Rolo: I’m still feeling PRIME out Nick, and you’re the only constant point of reference I can trust - not like that cock sucker Parker!

A cheer erupts from the crowd.

Tony Rolo: Last week Chunder Tsonda got lucky! I think he stole slaphead Nova’s hair, I know he stole Kid n Play’s stylist from House Party, and he damn well stole my victory over Captain Jackass!

Nick Stuart: That match was...

Rolo starts pacing like a caged tiger not even hearing the commentator.

Tony Rolo: But that was last week. This week instead of Captain Jackass I have another super hero to school in the ways of the old school.

Nick Stuart: Xavier Kannon?

Tony Rolo: Some say he’s Machiavellian I say he’s macaroni; you won’t find a cheesier motherfucker than that jerk-off!

Nick tries hard to remain impartial.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that...

Tony Rolo: Xavier Cum-Cannon. The human money shot. You’re a slimy customer, and, anal squirting aside, you stand in my way and I’m gonna knock the jizz outta you, then I’m gonna knock the shit outta you.

Rolo’s fiery oratory brings the crowd to their feet.

RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO...

The camera pans to follow Rolo as he brings out a wheel chair painted yellow, the ever faithful Nick Stuart is still on hand to hold the mic.

Tony Rolo: Ask me about this Nick.

Nick Stuart: What’s with the wheelchair Tony?

Tony Rolo: I’m glad you asked Nick. Last week I had Captain Jackass. This week I have Professor Xavier and after tonight he’ll be an ex-man AND an ex-wrestler. To show no hard feelings I got him this chair, so after I’ve gifted him a disabled body to match his disabled mind he’ll still be able to do his other job as a gay porn star.

The camera zooms in to where Rolo is gesturing. The chair has a hole cut out of the ass section for easy access. It gets a cheap pop from the thousands in attendance.

Tony Rolo: Up until now Nick I’ve tried to play nice, but not anymore. It’s time thieves like Chunder Tsonda and cripples like Xavier Cumbum release why I’m here. Spiritually I have no where else to go. Who do you see first in the Hall of Fame? Who first brought the fans to the house of PRIME? Who was first to shed blood for this company? I gave it my all! And Nick?

Nick Stuart: What Tony?

The Rolomaniacs in the arena go wild as PRIME’s Goldenboy rips off the "Tony Rolo stole my ho, doh!" t-shirt and puts his face against the camera.

Tony Rolo: Now it’s time to take back MY pound of flesh starting tonight! Who the fuck are you Xavier Kannon, skulking around blowing smoke out your ass in the house that Rolo built? I know who I am! I am Tony fucking Rolo... I am each and everyone of these hardworking blue collar PRIMEates... I AM PRIME!

RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO, RO-LO...

Nick Stuart: There you have it folks, a very strong promise that Rolomania will run wild tonight!

Drums? Check.

Slowly building guitar that then wrenches hard and launches into the prelude? Check.

Dave Grohl’s grimy mustache? Checkity check.

"My Hero" by the Foo Fighters is playing if you hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

Richard: *groans*

Nick: For some people here, seeing Rolo is worth the price of admission! He’s a PRIME legend and a damn great showman!

Out steps the Specialist, 250 pounds of red-blooded, ass-kickin’, puss-garnering shrine to American maleness. He plays to the crowd, inciting a big pop when he raises his arms to call for more support.

Nick: Gage County knows that, despite all the chaos this week, they’re getting one hell of a show from this man!

Vince Howard: First…from the Windy City in Illinois…weighing in at 250 pounds…HE IS PRIME’S GOLDENBOY…TONY ROOOOOOOOOOOOOLO!

Repeat pop.

The music switches out, as cheering and applause flows in through the speakers to compliment that of the crowd, and the opening chords of Superstar by Lupe Fiasco jab through the darkness.

If you are what you say you are… a Superstar...

…then have no fear…

…the crowd is here…

A lone spotlight shines brightly onto Kannon, although the usual confetti has been bypassed. Spinning amid the light, arms outstretched, stands Xavier Kannon, hooded jacket shrouding him as soaks up the crowd’s response.

…and the lights are on and they wanna show…

…oh, oh, oh, oh yeaaaah!

…yeah… yeah… yeah…


With Matthew Santos’ vocal echoing into the distance, the screeching intro to Rock is Dead by Marilyn Manson deafens those unlucky enough to be near a speaker.

As light floods back into the fairgrounds, Eleanor is shown standing in front of her man, leading him down the aisle as he tosses the hood of his jacket back. Striding with purpose down the aisle, Kannon slaps a few of the hands stretching out into the aisle, while a member of PRIME security either side of his wife fend off any gropes.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, to be accompanied by ELEANOR… from Merlin Bay, Barbados… weighing in at 226 pounds… HE IS THE KING OF WRESTLING… XAAAAAVIER KAAAAAAANNON!!!

Nick: This is a dream matchup, folks. Two names synonymous with professional wrestling in our generation going at it!

Respect flows between the two men, acknowledged by dual head nods. As the bell rings, they’re upon each other (no homo). Rolo leverages his weight advantage into an early headlock, which he wrenches hard. Kannon tries to squirm out, but Rolo swiftly puts Midas on the mat with a running facecrusher.

Richard: Too early in the match to start non-sequiturs about an Ellie swimsuit calendar?

Rolo waits for XK to rise and then lunges with short-arm lariat that just barely misses. After ducking, Kannon gives a kick to the gut and pulls down Rolo with a jumping tornado DDT! Despite the flurry of early offense, Kannon wants more. The King of Wrestling heads to the top rope, eliciting a pop from the crowd. There, he lords over the ring with a watchful eye as Rolo pulls himself up.

Nick: XK channeling his younger years, taking to the top rope here!

Rolo tries to find XK in his field of vision, but doesn’t succeed until his opponent is no more than a flash in the corner of his eye. With little warning for Tony, XK comes cascading down with the powerful swipe of an elbow! Rolo doesn’t drop, but he spins away from his attacker, grabbing his jaw. This leaves more room for Kannon to stay on the offensive and he does just that. The King of Wrestling runs at the dazed Rolo and seamlessly transitions into a hangman’s neckbreaker.

Richard: Put Rolo in the wheelchair he deserves!

Midas throws a couple more stomps the way of Tony Rolo, softening up the 36-year-old for further punishment. He pulls Rolo up by his light brown locks, signaling for an early conclusion by pulling a finger across his throat.

Nick: Could be over early!

But in his survey of adoring fans, Kannon stops. He stares, jaw agape, into the crowd.

Richard: Umm…Ecks Kay? Ya know, like…bash his brains in?

But he can’t. The King of Wrestling is frozen in place, awestruck at something in the crowd. The camera simultaneously whirls around and zooms, the effect being a nauseating focus on a white male. His dark brown locks sit, unchanged, on his shoulders. There’s very little emotion on his face. And oh, those glasses…

Nick: Is that?

Richard: DON’T SAY IT!

Nick: It’s long been a given that PCW refugees tend to find their way into PRIME, but I can’t imagine that…

Your play-by-play man can’t even finish his sentence. He’s as surprised as XK to see this particular man on PRIME premises. Maybe it’s something about the Twilight Zone nature of this week; but there’s no doubt that the man sitting in the front row isn’t quite sane. One might call him crazy…

…well, Krayzie, at least.

Nick: People, I don’t know how to respond, but Jeremy "Krayzie" Howard seems to be in the building! Kannon sold out his mentor for power and fame in PCW…his moral corruption during that time makes Richard look like an acolyte.

Richard: I’m a perfect mirror of Faarooq, now that you mention it.

And the bitch of this is…amidst this serious moral quandary, faced with a man he betrayed years ago…Xavier Kannon is blind. Blind to the fact that Tony Rolo is up and well.

Howard sees the rising Rolo, but his face doesn’t change one bit. Behind devilish black shades, he seems to be staring into Christian’s soul…or something.

None of that matters within a second time, though, because Rolo spins his fellow legend and lifts him by the tights. Cameras flash, fans yell, and the world keeps spinning. Except for Xavier Kannon, who crumples on impact from the fisherman buster.

Nick: ROLOPLEX! ROLOPLEX!

It becomes a matter of One.

Two.

Thrizzy.

Winner: Tony Rolo

Richard: Uhh…don’t look now, but the Krayzie one isn’t in attendance anymore.

Nick: What the….?

While Tony Rolo celebrates (with the brunt of the crowd and Dave Grohl’s lyrics as secondary noise), Xavier Kannon tries to shake the cobwebs. Tries to look at the spot just occupied by JKH…but there’s only a pair of black sunglasses left.

Richard: Hey, Parker, aren’t you supposed to pay attention to who wins and shit?

Nick: I’m…just a little surprised by the events of this match outside the ring. Has Jeremy Howard disappeared into the night with that small act of retribution?

Richard: I dunno, but this Gage County business is no good. Are you sure we haven’t crashed onto The Island?

Nick: I could make a joke about Nova and a monster being made of smoke…

Richard: But I’d make fun of you ruthlessly all night! Nice win for Rolo, let’s move the eff on.

We shall, but not forgetting the look of complete befuddlement on the face of Xavier Kannon.

Backstage, the roster has grown weary of the hunting being done by Logic over thecourse of the evening. Cornered in the catering area, the Pensive Punisher finds himself staring down every member of the roster who would logically be in the area at this given moment without it providing an immediate conflict with previous segments.

Logic: Please, if you-

Jason Natas: He tried to attack me in because he didn't believe that I'm being bankrolled by shady sports agents!

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, it is kinda fishy.

Jason Natas: Sorry Mr. "I'm Bryan Dawkins But Not The Famous One And I Couldn't Change My Stage Name To Something A Little More Hawaiian!"

Bryan Dawkins: You want to go, bruh?

Tony Rolo: (refocusing everyone) Look, if you've got a problem with our roster, then you've got a problem with me.

The Pensive Punisher looks Rolo up and down.

Logic: Actually, you're clear. Old guy making a comeback - makes perfect sense to me.

Tony Rolo: Really?

Logic: I mean, I don't know why a guy your age makes so many dick jokes, but-

Rolo lunges and Logic before he has a chance to finish, and the roster goes into an uproar. Finally, Tchu steps out to try and calm the crowd.

Tchu: Look, not everyone here has a problem with Logic...

Ellie: Easy for the guy with black tights and no discernible personality to say!

High Flyer: He gave me this!

Flyer points to a yellow tag hanging from his right ear. Most everyone notices that it's the same kind of monitoring tag that researchers put on animals before releasing them into the wild. Tony Rolo, however, notices that it's in his right ear.

Tony Rolo: Heh, fag.

The rabble is roused again as everyone is screaming for the head of Logic, but Tchu tries to calm the masses again.

Tchu: I think we can work this out peacefully. (to Logic) Is there some kind of compromise we can work out?

Logic: There are too many offenses to be overlooked. These transgressions must be dealt with.

Tchu: Ok, now I think you're being a bit ridiculous.

"I agree."

The new voice turns everyone's attention to the other side of the catering area, and a growing group of strangers staring down the scene. All look to be in their late teens or early twenties, with a couple who skew slightly older. They're dressed in either cargo shorts or jeans, and pretty much all looking slightly more pale than your average person.

At the front of the group, the speaker keeps his arms folded across a gray "Northwestern Wrestling" t-shirt that he's probably wearing just to look cool. Standing a few inches taller than the rest of the group, he's flanked on either side by a shorter - and obviously Canadian - man, and a woman who looks conveniently like the waitress in this week's Cozen RP.

Logic: Excuse me, I-

Woman: Wish we could.

Man: Problem is, you being around keeps us from doing what we do...

Third Man: There's no place for Logic here in PRIME. - Mike

The woman turns to look at this new speaker.

Woman: You know, you don't need to say "Mike" after everything.

Mike: Sorry, force of habit..........-Mike.

A younger man steps out from the group in a faded "Buffy" t-shirt and glasses, and directs everyones attention back to Logic.

Younger Man: So best be on your merry lest this gets uglier than you already made it.

The Pensive Punisher stares down this new group for a few seconds, then looks back at the gathered members of the roster, who themselves are looking pretty confused at these new arrivals.

Finally, Logic lets out a deep sigh, realizing he's completely outnumbered.

Logic: Fine. You win. But there's one more thing I must do.

He steps toward the gathered wrestlers, and everyone tenses slightly, not sure of how to act. And let's be honest, without a laptop handy, this new group does more flinching than tensing, but who's writing this shit anyway?

Logic: I can forgive most of your transgressions, but there is one evil that cannot go unchecked. One force so illogical that I will not stand idly by.

As he approaches the group, he's angling towards one man: The Bama Bruiser. The Big Dog. Some other nicknames I can't remember because I'm too lazy to open his roster page.

Wade Elliott sneers at Logic as Angus The Bluetick Hound growls angrily.

Wade Elliott: If'n ya know what's good fer ya, ya'd keep right the fuck on walkin', ya fuckin' cuntflap.

Across the room, the handlers all turn towards a taller man with a goatee. He just shrugs.

Goatee: Like I fucking know. "Excessive Use Of Genitalia Slang On Cable TV"?

Logic continues to fix his piercing glare on Elliott, who grows angrier by the minute. Angus continues to growl, baying loudly at the large, stoic man. Elliott, forgetting his own problems at the moment, focuses on holding Angus back as the dog grows more and more wild.

Wade: Calm yer ass, boy, ain't nothin' worth gettin' worked up over.

Angus: AWOOOOOOAAAAAHHHHH FUCK THIS FUCKING SHIT!

All eyes in the room suddenly fall on the big dog with the big mouth. Before anything else can be said, Angus reaches up and pulls off his face, revealing...a mask.

With a marijuana leaf on it.

Danny Ferguson: Oh goddammit.

Repchak: Oh goddammit.

Everyone Else: Oh goddammit.

Fighting to get out of his fairly elaborate Bluetick Hound costume, THE ILLUSTRIOUS FACE-EATER stands up and stretches his shit out. He throws the dog mask down in front of Logic and tries to smooth out his cape.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Ok, fine, YOU GOT ME.

He spins around to survey the room, making sure to raise some middle fingers to the usual suspects.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I was using this disguise so I could get close to the Universal Title and unleash THE MOTHERFUCKING ANGLE TO END ALL ANGLES and finally claim what you fuckers denied me for so long! AND I WOULD HAVE GOT AWAY WITH IT TOO IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU MEDDLING KIDS AND THAT DOG!

Lindz: But-

Will: Yeah...just let him go.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Well I say BALLS TO Y'ALLS, 'cause I'm-

As Facey turns around to gesture to the roster, Logic plunges his strange weapon into the former Intense, 5-Star, Tag and Super-Fucking-Duper Champion's side, shocking him and felling him instantly.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: (on the ground, between heavy breaths) One more time.

Logic hesitates, then hits him with the weapon again, shocking him into relative unconsciousness.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: That's good shit.

He falls limp (some say he's always been that way SICK BURN) and Logic turns back to the handlers.

Logic: It had to be done.

Repchak: Preaching to the choir, buddy. Maybe we've misjudged you.

Logic: Thank you. I'd like to think that there's a place for Logic in PRI-

A keyboard smashes across Logic's head and he drops to the ground. The other handlers gather around.

Mat: I'm surprised at how easy that always works.

Darryl: Let's get the trunk.

Chris: Yeah, we've gotta get back to that hole in the fourth wall before it closes up forever.

Craig: Or until the next time you run out of RP ideas.

The two of them get into an impromptu slap fight before some of the others pull them apart to focus on the topic at hand. A giant box is wheeled up, and Logic is stuffed into a big burlap sack. The trunk is opened up to reveal that it's full of other similar-looking sacks, labeled "Reason", "Subtlety" and "Pete". The handlers pick up the sack at once and dump him into the trunk. After it's locked, they slowly filter out of the area, one-by-one, each giving a nod to a certain member of the roster on their way.

With the crisis averted the area clears. Before we fade out the camera pans down to where The Illustrious Face-Eater had fallen...only to reveal an empty floor, with only a blood trail leading to a nearby manhole cover (yeah, indoors, fuck you) as a sign. The music rises to an epic crescendo, and then cuts to black.

L O S T P R I M E

You know what’s awesome about Matt Mills (even though he’s a complete tool)? He doesn’t wear skimpy dresses and show obscene amounts of cleavage like Angelica Brooks. Well, at least not while working the ReVolution backstage segments (thank God).

You know what’s not awesome about Matt Mills (besides him being a complete tool)? He’s fidgety. He can’t stand still and his eyes are all shifty. Like he’s nervous about something. But what’s to be nervous about when you’re three seconds away from interviewing the Queen of the Ring, Lindsay Troy?

Well, you’ll see, when the camera gives a wider view (that’s your cue, video monkey) and we see Lindsay Troy (?) standing next to Matt Mills. Well…it might be Lindsay Troy. She’s tall and commanding and three different kinds of cute (says Tyler Rayne). There’s the long brown hair, though the streaks of red and gold have lost much of their previous luster. Devin Shakur’s favorite pair of pants and the "Eyes Are Up Here" t-shirt that’s seen better days.

The Queen of the Ring is even flashing her unmistakably cocky yet somehow likeable grin. There is, of course, the one notable exception of that hideous (it’s not that bad…) scar etched into her face. A big ol’ jolly "fuck you" from the former owner of the PRIME Universal Championship strapped around LT’s waist.

…

Oh.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m standing by with--

Trozen: Oh, Matt, come on now. Don’t be so silly. You really think the people need an introduction? To me. Let’s not play this whole "generic rookie interview" gig. Okay? You’re better than that.

The interviewer looks horrified by the interruption. His gaze lingers on the amalgamated champion for some time before continuing.

Matt Mills: R-r-r-right. S-sure thing. So how’s it feel to have…to have won—

Trozen: Retained.

Matt Mills: --the Universal Championship af-after—

Voice: ...After putting together one of the biggest acts of dopplegangery since Invasion of the Body Snatchers?

Oh the interruptions! Can’t somebody please let Matt Mills finish a sentence?

Danny Ferguson, who earlier in this night competed in a farcical matchup against the Codemaster, walks up to the new Universal Champion. He stops within five feet of her, but only because the two mountain-like bodyguards directly in front of him had like a five feet radius.

Also. Nobody tell Danny how dated that reference was.

Danny Ferguson: So, are you trying to be Legsay, or are you trying to be Gamble... or are you some creepy child of the two from an alternate dimension in the future?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, tone down the science.

If you're wondering, Danny may or may not be trying to catch a role in the next Star Trek movie.

Danny Ferguson: Can it, Dam. (turns his attention to Trozen) Anyway. I imagine you're part of some alien sect trying to destroy the human race by impersonating them, but I assure you, you don't fool MY eyes. (dramatically) Not for a second.

Okay, maybe he might be trying out for one of those government alien conspiracy movies, instead.

The faux Lindsay (but real champion, bitches) cocks her head to the side like a bird. Well, more like a velociraptor. Because Shane (that’s me) likes dinosaurs and Jeff Goldblum more than Animal Planet. After only a second of confusion, the smile returns to Trozen’s face. She half shoves Matt Mills out of the way to approach Ferguson, all friendly and Lindsay like.

The big hand of Dam, however, puts an end to all that. He stops her approach with one big paw, but immediately pulls his hand away once she’s stopped. Probably afraid of catching crazy cooties. A flash of rage digs deep into the scar on her face, contorting Cozen into all kinds of cold and evil and insanity.

Cozen: Touch me again and I’ll break off the pinky. And kill you with it. In the eye.

Idly, Dametreyus turns to Ferguson, but Ferguson just shrugs. Then Dametreyus idly wonders if now would be a good time to discuss a pay raise, but thinks better of it and simply stares down at Cozen as if he'd pick her up and then use her as a club to bludgeon grizzly bears to death.

Ferguson gives a mock laugh.

Danny Ferguson: How adorable that you two are getting along so well.

Now Cozen and Dametreyus slowly turn away from each other, but mostly to glare at Ferguson.

Danny Ferguson: Hello? Sarcasm? Come on, Dam, I know you're familiar with that. And you. Dopplecozen. They don't have sarcasm in Doppleopolis?

Cozen: No. We have sarcasm. And wittier comebacks. And an understated sense of humor. It’s a whole society of clever little individuals with witty retorts your writers wouldn’t understand. Also, we like to eat human kidneys.

Dam and Danny both exchange the classic WTF look. So does everyone else who heard that last sentence. Yes. Even you did. We saw it. Don’t lie.

Cozen: See. Sarcasm. I don’t eat kidneys. That’d just be…crazy. An appendix, though…

Danny Ferguson throws his hands up, already infuriated by this conversation.

Danny Ferguson: Great. She mind snatched Anthony Hopkins and now she's impersonating his most famous roles.

Danny sighs.

Danny Ferguson: Look. You're just a little creepy, and not in a Jaiver Bardem sort of way. I'm talking a Neverland Ranch kind of creepy. THAT kind of creepy. So, here's my advice. You won the title.

Now he narrows his eyes, almost as if doing so would give him the Cyclops-like ability to emit beams from his eyes so as to smite the Skrull in front of him.

Danny Ferguson: Now quit wearing that face.

Cozen: Only if you quit wearing yours first.

Danny Ferguson: Then we're at an impasse.

The lesser known of Ferguson's bodyguards looked at him.

Jim "Polar" Pibb: Boss, we're not in a street.

Danny Ferguson: (facepalm) The help I hire.

Cozen: Oh, don’t be so hard on him, Ferg. He makes for a great comic relief. Now come here and give your old friend a hug, will ya already?

Danny Ferguson: Since when were we friends, doppleganger? You may have the same face... apart from that Gamble-like scar. You may have the same insane ideas about how to dress. You might even be taller than me... this week, anyway. But you should already know that I know that you're not her.

Jim "Polar" Pibb: But do YOU know that she already knows that you know that she's not Lindsay?

Danny Ferguson all too clearly realizes why Dametreyus is the brains of the bodyguarding outfit. He turns back to Cozen.

Danny Ferguson: Anyway. I don't give hugs to fans. Take a number. Preferably a high one. Close to infinity, if possible.

That curious look crosses her face again. She stares at Danny. Studies him.

Cozen: You’re right. We’re not old friends. You’re not Danny Ferguson.

Insert creepiest smile you’ve ever seen.

Cozen: I watched him die.

The smile turns more innocent. Her next words come out almost in sing-song. Child-like. She mimics the actions with her fingers, similar to how small children enjoy describing their favorite Pixar films.

Cozen: Watched you fall. Tyler Rayne. Sexy. Lovely. Hunky. Flying across the ring. Through the sky. Knees to the chest. … BOOM!

Her hands smack together in a thunderous clap.

Cozen: Danny Ferguson flies. No grace. Fall down, go boom. No more Danny Ferguson. So if I’m not me, than who are you, Ghost of Danny Ferguson? Because you can’t be you. I watched you die.

There was an eerie silence, as Danny Ferguson just stares at Cozen for like a minute before he responds.

Danny Ferguson: (flatly) That was my stunt double.

Her response is just as eerie as that silence. A children’s rhyme.

Cozen: Liar, liar pants on fire. Killed your girl with Piano Wire. Well…kind of.

Danny Ferguson: You underestimate the magic of television.

Cozen: Even though I was there?

Danny Ferguson: Yes.

Cozen: Even though I heard the sound of you dying?

Danny Ferguson: Yes.

Cozen: Even though Lindsay Troy reacted like you had died?

Danny Ferguson: ...Yes.

Even Dametreyus has to question this one.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, maybe you should rework your story.

Danny Ferguson: Quiet, Dam.

Cozen: You should be nicer to him, Danny. It’s obvious Dam is the most entertaining part of your little Penn and Teller act here. If you don’t have something…relevant to say, though, I really must be going. Champion stuff to do, you know? Oh…I guess you wouldn’t.

Danny Ferguson: Ha. Ha. Ha. Good one. Perhaps I should let you do the champion thing. God knows, the ratings can be worse. PRIME's survived Sonny Silver's title reign, after all. Go do your thing. I'll do what everyone else does on a Wednesday night and watch something else.

He turns to Dametreyus and Jim.

Danny Ferguson: Guys. We're out.

Ferguson turns to leave, his bodyguards right behind him in case Cozen tries anything sneaky like... I dunno. Attack from behind.

Loyal viewer, you’ve been tuned in all night. You know, better than most, that something’s rotten in Denmark. Yes, all your favorite PRIME faces are in attendance, but there’s something a little…off. Well, Wade Elliott’s got the same feeling. And so he’s going to, reluctantly, seek out the one man who might have answers.

"Cantrell!"

The gruff voice startles the Executive Producer. He’s done with his day job, ready to kick back, watch the main event, and get the hell out of Dodge. For its lack of structure or planning, the show has been a pleasant surprise. But Wade Elliott is the antithesis of a pleasant surprise.

C.P. Cantrell: I’m kinda off-the-clock, but how can I help you?

The Bad Dog pants from his sprinted path here. It takes him a moment before he can catch his breath.

Wade Elliott: Yer not worried about everyone ‘n their mama actin’ like a damn looney?

C.P. Cantrell: You know what a wise man once told me, back my job was to get coffee and not talk?

Wade Elliott: Keep up yer good work?

The head honcho gives Elliott a death stare, but the Bad Dog ain’t the type to be intimidated by a slick business suit and some expensive shoes.

C.P. Cantrell: He told me that if the show goes on, it’s a success. And despite a couple minor hitches, the show went on. Bing bang boom, good guys win. (looks down at his watch) Now don’t you have your main event…excuse me…my main event to go participate in?

Wade Elliott: I’m tryin’ to find Lindsay.

C.P. Cantrell: Ah yes, our esteemed EX-champion. Is she not in attendance? Hmmph…a nice change of scenery, without her hogging every millimeter of limelight. Don’t you think?

Wade Elliott: I fuckin’ don’t, now that ya ask.

A moment of tension, one in which Wade would love to give Cantrell some seriously hands-on lessons in wrestling offense, occurs.

C.P. Cantrell: Dandy. Well, if you see Troy, tell her she’s fined for an unexcused absence. The next time will be a suspension.

Wade Elliott: How’s she s’posed ta find this fuckin’ place anyway? The only folks here are the ones dumb enough ta get lost.

C.P. Cantrell: Like you?

Wade Elliott: Like the cunt who’s supposed to be in charge o’ makin’ sure their entire fuckin’ company doesn’t get lost.

C.P. Cantrell: Use that low-wattage brain of yours to choose your next words very carefully, Cletus.

Wade Elliott: Ya know, I would, but I got this itchin’ feeling yer not gonna remember ‘em, anyway…cunt.

The Executive Producer’s expression twists sideways, contorted with confusion. The Bad Dog is already mobile by the time Cantrell comes up with an appropriate response.

C.P. Cantrell: You’re fined for conduct detrimental to operations, Wade!

Having failed at finding Lindsay and finding an answer to why ReVolution has been so damn strange, Wade gives the only response he can.

He lifts his right arm high, one tall, slender middle finger extended back towards Cantrell. The boss spits in disgust before he, too, makes his merry way elsewhere.

Tony Gamble vs Tyler Rayne vs Dusk vs Wade Elliott

Once the bell rang, all hell broke loose. Rayne, Dusk, and Elliott charged forward like bulls at the rodeo, tearing each other limb from limb. They all wanted to decapitate the other all the while Gamble stood against the corner filing his nails. Elliott managed to claim advantage during the brawl, sending Dusk to the outside and smashing Rayne up against the turnbuckle with a devastating splash. Gamble decided to make his move, rushing the ropes and nailing a beautiful tope con hilo on Dusk, rocking his world and putting him back down on the mats.

Things went from bad to worse when Rayne got tied up in the ropes by Elliott. For over twenty punches, Rayne suffered at the hands of his nemesis while Dusk and Gamble traded hands on the outside. Finally, Rayne was released and the next victim was sent to Elliott by way of PRIME’s midget. Dusk tried his hand, managing a little offense with a couple clothesline, but Elliott mauled The Lost Soul with his raw brawling technique, military pressing Dusk over the ropes and down onto the floor. Promptly, Gamble snuck in from behind, connected on a low blow, and went for a cover. Elliott kicked out just before the three count!

Gamble started going to town on the former Intense Champion, delivering boots to the head and sternum. Rayne managed to find his way back into the fray, connecting on a reverse hurricanrana that sent Gamble tumbling to the floor again. Now it was The Underground Pimp’s turn to bring the pain. Emphasizing his martial arts background, Rayne unloaded with a series of Muay Thai strikes, unloading with a huge knee that put Wade in the corner. Rayne went for the kill with a Facewash, but Dusk connected on a kick to the back of Five Star’s head, dropping him to the ground.

Dusk executed a springboard to the top rope and nailed a beautiful shooting star press onto Elliott. After missing a cover, Dusk tried to go for the quick victory with the Lights Out, but was stopped by a knee to the head courtesy of Tyler Rayne. The Underground Pimp followed with a snap Northern light suplex and would have gotten the W had it not been for Gamble rushing in to drop an elbow to the package.

Gamble pulled Rayne up to his feet, spun around with a hammerlock, went through Rayne’s legs and connected on a Through DDT. Unfortunately, The Bama Bruiser decided to spoil Gamble’s party by rushing in with a boot to the skull that almost made Gamble nine feet tall. I have no idea what the fuck that means. Elliott took Gamble by the hair and slammed his head into the post ten times with the crowd calling out the numbers. Elliott turned around and almost got his clock cleaned with a Lights Out from Dusk, but ‘Ol Wade ducked the shot. However, he could not duck a superkick courtesy of Tyler Rayne. Dusk turned and received a spinning heel kick upside his head, knocking him down to the canvas.

Gamble made an attempt to steal the win, but Rayne lifted him off Dusk and launched him over the ropes before making his own cover. Dusk had his foot on the rope, and Rayne wished he was somebody else because Elliott delivered a front dropkick that knocked him cold. Elliott then went for his own cover only to have Dusk and Gamble break up the predicament.

Dusk brought Wade up and threw him into the ropes, closing the gap immediately and connecting on a Lou Thesz press. Dusk threw hard rights and lefts while Gamble stomped on the legs. Elliott was helpless to the onslaught until Dusk decided to jump off and bring him up. Dusk shot Elliott into the ropes one more time, caught him in the middle of the ring, and landed a Broken Glass spinebuster. The crowd got extremely pumped, hoping to see Dusk continue his resurgence. Gamble tried to sneak in another low blow, but Dusk caught the foot, lifted it up toward Gamble’s head, and flung him overhead with a nasty leg capture suplex. Dusk continued to get pumped up until he saw Tyler Rayne’s shin heading straight for his head. With no time to duck, Dusk took the blow and dropped to the mat like a sack of potatoes.

Elliott attempted to bring himself back into the match at this point, clubbing Rayne from behind and whipping him into the ropes. Much to The Bad Dog’s chagrin, Rayne ducked underneath the boot, rushed off the ropes, building as much momentum as possible, and took Elliott’s breath away by nailing the Foreplay. Rayne went for the end right there, only to have Gamble literally pull Rayne off of Elliott and connect on a Stop Laughing At Me, driving his head into the canvas.

Gamble tried another sneaky pinfall, but Dusk managed to land a nicely angled Lights Out on Gamble, putting him face first into the canvas. Dusk saw his opportunity and dropped down for the pinfall. Likewise, Elliott saw the opportunity and gave Dusk some Southern Hospitality, knocking him stupid in the process.

Everybody seems to have forgotten Tyler Rayne, who springboards into the air and plants both knees in the face of the Big Dog.

Elliott collapses to the mat in a heap, and with everyone else KTFO'd in their own right, Tyler Rayne becomes the odd man out. And in times like these, the Odd Man Out becomes the winner.

One!

Two!

THREE!

WINNER: Tyler Rayne

As the Beatrice crowd continues to cheer on the main event, we suddenly cut to new Universal Champion Cozen waking up in the middle of a non-descript bedroom. White sheets, white paint on the walls, nothing distinguishable or unique.

The champion wipes the cold sweat from her brow and pants heavily, still trying to come down from her episode.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

Next to her in bed, a second body shifts, shrouded in darkness. Cozen swallows hard, takes some more deep breaths and responds.

Cozen: Nothing, honey. I just had this terrible dream.

"What happened?"

Cozen: I dreamt that the entire roster tried to steal my gimmick.

The company flicks on a switch and sits up next to Cozen, revealing herself to be Jennifer Garner, or more specficially, Sydney Bristow.

Sydney: What gimmick is that?

Cozen: Dude, not cool.