As the copyright info fades from the screen, the broadcast starts with an onslaught of picture and sound, as Monster Magnet's cover of MC5's "Kick Out The Jams" blasts and we're thrown into a kaleidoscope of jump cuts.



Along with the music, we get a montage of everything that's led us to this point in PRIME:

Wade Elliott and Tyler Rayne brawl through the crowd, laying into each other like animals.

Dusk superkicking Troy Douglas in the Dual Halo.

Douglas dropping Jason Natas with his double-underhook driver to pick up a win.

Xavier Kannon returns at Culture Shock as the fans go absolutely crazy.

Sonny Silver leads the massive Captain Justice out to the ring.

As Silver watches on from the PRIME*View, Captain Justice assaults Kannon after a match.

Wade Elliott and Tyler Rayne continue to brawl, this time out in the ring as regularly schedule programming is interrupted.

Hoyt Williams raises his eyes to the sky as he asks for the strength for one more round.

Crucifix trumps the false prophet with his own interpretations of faith.

Tony Rolo returns for the Dual Halo as the fans chant his name.

The Specialist welcomes Simply Beautiful to PRIME with a well-placed kick to the balls.

SB returns the favor, much to Rolo's chagrin.

Jason Natas and Bryan Dawkins get in each other's face backstage.

The street fighter and the Flyin' Hawaiian tangle in the ring in one of several matches.

Tyler Rayne slams his Mustang into Wade Elliott's pickup truck, shocking everyone with the ferocity.

Union Jack and Jimmy Bonafide tangle in their two separate matches. First U-Jack gets the win, then PosterBoy evens the series.

Killean Sirrajin tries to face down his positive HGH testing.

Logic debuts in PRIME and promptly gets into it with The PRIME Choice over his life choices.

Team VIAGRA, Delta Upsilon Iota and Risk & Reward all tangle as they vie for position with the tag titles hanging in the balance.

Chandler Tsonda refuses to fight Tony Gamble, but eventually relents as tensions flare.

Devin Shakur knocks Lindsay Troy out on two separate occasions, and revels in his crown and #1 contender status.

Troy brawls with Cozen as Shakur looks on.

Cozen holds the Universal Title high as Troy is left out in the ring.

Troy returns with a fire and all three contenders brawl it out to end the final show.

The montage gives away to a helicopter shot of the Chicago night sky. Pushing through the skyline, the lights in the distance focus attention on Chicago's famed Wrigley Field, brilliantly illuminated against the night sky.

We cut inside as fireworks ERUPT from behind the stadium's famed scoreboard. A sweeping shot stretches from one edge of the outfield all the way across, showing a sellout crowd of PRIME fans both in the stands and packed onto the field.

The stage, entryway and PRIME*View screen are set up in left field, with the aisle snaking out into the crowd to reach the ring. The ring is angled to reflect the baseball diamond on the field (even though the clay and grass is covered to prevent any damage. Massive padding blocks the famed ivy walls, a slight disappointment given the field's historic status, but a necessary evil with the Cubs returning for a homestand the next week.

As the pyro continues to pop, we swing around through the crowd before cutting to the announce desk, where Nick Stuart and Richard Parker, your ever-present party hosts, are straining to be heard above the noise.

Nick: WELCOME EVERYONE TO CHICAGO, AND PRIME'S ULTRAVIOLENCE!

Richard: WE'RE HERE AT WRIGLEY FIELD FOR WHAT COULD PROVE TO BE ONE OF THE MOST BRUTAL AND INTENSE EVENTS IN COMPANY HISTORY!

Nick: That's right, and we've got an absolutely packed card to go with our packed house!

Richard: There are nearly 50,000 fans here to watch eleven matches, including four title defenses!

Nick: There's so much show ahead that we're not going to waste any time talking about it! Let's get things started with our pace-setter for this evening, an Intense Title match!

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall and is for the PRIME Intense Title! Introducing first, to kick off UltraViolence...

The guitar riffs that signal the start of Chris Cornell's "You Know My Name" blast throughout the arena, and are quickly accompanied by a brass section that reaches a crescendo after ten seconds. Flashing on the PRIME*View are four words in succession.

END.

OF.

THE.

ROAD.

Then...

BOOM!

BOOOOOM!

BOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!

Three rapid-fire cannon blasts, each one louder than the last, and the song immediately cuts to the start of the chorus as Cornell's voice kicks in.

Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you
The odds will betray you, and I will replace you.

Vince Howard: He hails from Greensboro, North Carolina and weighs in at 260 pounds...

You can't deny the prize; it may never fulfill you
It longs to kill you, are you willing to die

Vince Howard: He is ... TRROOOOOYY DOOOUGGGLAAAASSSS!!!

The coldest blood runs through my veins
You know my name.

Red and white lights flash throughout the building as the song works through its second verse and Troy Douglas makes his way down to the ring, slapping hands with some of the crowd. Behind him on the PRIME*View, a montage of his greatest highlights play, interrupted every few seconds by END. OF. THE. ROAD.

As the song hits the chorus one more time, he slides into the ring, and salutes the crowd in all four corners. As the chorus ends, the music fades and the lights return to normal.

Nick: One hell of a way to kick off UltraViolence, live from Wrigley Field in Chicago! Troy Douglas, making his debut back in the Dual Halo at Culture Shock will be able to show off his stuff tonight against Dusk, the Intense Champion!

Richard: And Dusk is going to have a large task on his hands as it looks like he pushed the red button on Douglas's back or face to make him fired up. I was walking around backstage and I think Douglas is going to try and murder Dusk tonight, which I wholeheartedly agree with.

Nick: You would. Dusk has been on a mighty tear the last few months, winning a few matches heading into Culture Shock back in March where he defeated Tony Gamble for the Intense Title, and then placed 5th in the Dual Halo. Since then, he's been impressive defeating Wade Elliott to retain his title. And then, he went and got in Douglas's face for not having that fire he would want to see from him.

Richard: Still don't know if that was the smartest move that he could've made, but it's his bed and he has to lay in it now. If he wants to hold onto that title, then he's going to have his work cut out for him tonight. Douglas is one hell of a competitor and this type of match focuses in on the Intense portion rather well. Something that Dusk is proud to emphasize when talking about that title belt.

Nick: The thing you have to wonder about though is if Dusk goes for the more Intense style then the hardcore style if that'll allow Douglas to get into a zone and just wear Dusk out and take the Intense Title.

Vince Howard: Introducing his challenger...

#Th-th-that that don't kill me
#Can only make me stronger

The beat then drops hard as the PRIME*Tron lights up and the lights dim. On the screen, it shows different highlights from Dusk's run in PRIME thus far. From the back comes Dusk, wearing his patented trench coat, and with eyes that could kill at this point in time. At the mere sight of him, the fans go crazy!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 250 pounds and standing at 6 feet 4 inches, he hails from Los Angeles, California! He is the LOST SOUL! HE IS THE INTENSE CHAMPION! DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSK!

Not wanting to waste any time, Dusk rushes down the ramp, his trench coat flying behind him as he slides into the ring! He walks right to the center of the ring where Troy Douglas is standing, waiting for his opponent. Dusk's mouth starts moving, hoping to get into Douglas's head, but Troy puts an end to that really fast as he slams his fist into Dusk's jaw! The Lost Soul grabs his jaw as he walks away from Troy while nodding his head before handing the title over to the referee. He gets rid of his trench coat before walking over to a corner of the ring with a large smile on his face.

Richard: That smile on Dusk's face tells me that he got the exact reaction he wanted to get out of Douglas, and I'm not certain if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Nick: Dusk is playing mind games with Troy, and I'm not certain why.

Richard: Dusk isn't one to play mind games very often with anyone as he prefers the more direct approach, and if he is getting into the mind of Troy Douglas, then things don't bode well for Douglas.

Nick: Douglas though isn't one you want to mess with either. He can handle himself in that ring, that's for certain.

Richard: We'll see how well he can hang though.

DING! DING! DING!

Dusk explodes out of the corner and finds himself locked up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up with Troy Douglas! The two struggle and jockey for position with the slightly larger Douglas getting the advantage on Dusk by throwing his weight towards Dusk's injured shoulder. The pressure on the shoulder pushes Dusk down to one knee where Douglas takes full advantage of the situation by slamming his knee into Dusk's chest! Dusk clutches his chest, letting Douglas free, as Troy bounces off the ropes and slams his boot into the jaw of Dusk! The Lost Soul crumples to the ground and grabs his jaw, but doesn't remain there for long as Douglas grabs Dusk by the neck and starts pulling him back up to his feet.

Nick: I’m just going to take a wild stab in the dark here and say that this is not how Dusk intended on having this match started.

Richard: I’ll agree with this. This is the kind of start that Douglas needed. Dusk is a veteran in terms of performing on a PRIME PPV stage, but right now, Douglas has got Dusk on his heels and out of his game. If Dusk wants to retain this title, he’s going to have to get on the offense and do that fast.

Nick: Douglas is going to turn this into a very physical battle, and depending on how Dusk is feeling tonight, that could either be a good thing or bad thing. Douglas needs to dicate this match. Dusk can’t allow for that to happen.

Richard: Once again, easier said then done.

With Dusk on his feet, Douglas is quick to jab him in the jaw before kicking him in the midsection and knocking him back down to the ground with a snap mere suplex! Dusk though rolls through the pain and gets back up to his feet only to be met with a hip toss from Douglas! Dusk sits up, clutching his lower back while Douglas bounces off the ropes and nails a drop kick to the back of the seated Dusk! Dusk grimmaces in pain as he rolls onto his knees! Douglas is quick to plan an elbow into the back of Dusk before locking in a Camel Clutch on the Intense Champion!

Richard: And this is exactly what Dusk can’t allow happen to him. Douglas excels on that mat, on keeping you grounded. Dusk excels when he’s allowed to move and coming up with whatever comes out of that deranged, sickening imagination of him.

Nick: Exactly. Douglas has done an effective job at taking Dusk out of his game here and that’s just not going to bode well for him if he can’t shake this horrendous start off of him and do it fast. Douglas is using as little energy as possible while inflicting as much pain as possible on Dusk.

Richard: Which, in case we haven’t established quite yet, I’m all for.

Nick: Yes, we know Richard.

The referee checks on Dusk, making sure that he wants to continue on with the match, and of course Dusk fights through the pain! Douglas continues to wrench back on Dusk's jaw, hoping to get the Lost Soul to submit, but Dusk continues to grit his teeth and fight through the pain. He begins to crawl to the ropes, but Douglas is quick to break the hold and slam his boot into the back of Dusk's back! Dusk however continues to fight his way to the ropes, hoping to use them to help him get back up to his feet! Douglas just watches him like a hawk as he gets back up to his feet before slamming a forearm to Dusk's face! Dusk holds onto the top rope as Douglas follows that up with a Europen Uppercut! Dusk somehow manages to still hold onto that top rope as Douglas backs up and then nails him with a lariat to send Dusk to the outside!

Richard: And Douglas sends Dusk to the outside. Now, that can be a double edged sword. You’re going to give Dusk a new environment for him to play around in and give Dusk a very clear opening to make a comeback here.

Nick: You also have to imagine that quite a few fans are tuning into this opening match here at UltraViolence and expecting a very brutal, hardcore Intense Title match. This belt has different meanings depending on who holds the belt and the type of match you’re having. Dusk and Elliott went for the hardcore side. Dusk and Douglas, you should expect to see the much more physical, in your face, kind of style. But, it’s UltraViolence and you know you’re going to see, some, well, violence!

Dusk manages to get back to his knees before Douglas greets him outside of the ring with an elbow to the back of the neck! He then pulls the Intense Champion up to his feet before grabbing him by the arm and whipping him left shoulder first into the ringpost! Dusk collapses to the ground, howling in pain, as he grabs his injured shoulder! Douglas, knowing he has an opening to really put it to Dusk, walks over to him and begins stomping away at the injured shoulder as Dusk can only take the pain and hope it's over with sooner than later. Yet, Douglas hones in on that shoulder as he rips him back up off the mat before nailing him with a belly-to-belly suplex with the impact coming down squarely on his left shoulder!

Nick: And Douglas going after the injured shoulder of Dusk! That shoulder was actually injured in the Dual Halo, and Dusk hasn’t had a chance to get that looked at or fixed because of his hectic schedule over the past weeks. Yet, if he doesn’t take the time to get that looked at, then opponents like Douglas can focus on it and tear him apart for it.

Richard: So frickin’ true, and it’s just a pity that Dusk hasn’t gotten that looked after. A boneheaded move from the Intense Champion.

Douglas then walks over to the nearby ringsteps and dislodges them from one another before taking the top half of the steps and dragging them over to where Dusk is located. The Intense Champion continues to move around though, hoping to get back up to his feet as Douglas lifts the ring steps over his head! However, Dusk is quick to act, knowing that the end of his title reign might be near if Douglas connects with the steps to his left shoulder! He slams his right leg into Douglas's left knee and causes his challenger to drop to his knee and slam his face into the ring steps! Dusk manages to get back up to his feet as Douglas stumbles around in a world of pain before dropping Troy to the ground with a standing roundhouse kick!

Nick: And just like that, Dusk is back into this match! If you’re Troy Douglas, you have to be care about this because Dusk runs off of momentum, and once he starts piecing his offense together, it’s very difficult to slow him down.

Richard: Trust me, Nick, I’m betting you that Douglas has done his research on Dusk. He knew it was only a matter of time before the Lost Soul got back into this match. The idea is letting him have his second wind, and then taking advantage of his first mistake. He’ll do it, trust me.

Dusk quickly slides into the ring as Douglas stumbles back up to his feet. Dusk then bounces off the ropes and runs full speed towards Douglas as he hops onto the middle rope and uses it as a springboard as he goes into a front somersault before landing on Douglas’s shoulders and nailing him with a flying head scissors. Douglas goes flying as Dusk is quick to get back to his knees before bouncing up to his feet and dragging Troy up with him. He nails a few forearm smashes to Douglas's face and then whipping him back first into the ring post! Douglas grimmaces from the pain as Dusk walks over to one of the ringside attendants and yanks their chairs away from them before putting it close to Douglas! The Intense Champion then backs up a few feet from the dazed Douglas before running full speed at him, leaping off the edge of the ring and nailing a legdrop across the back of the head of Troy before smashing his face into the nearby chair!

DUSK! DUSK! DUSK! DUSK! DUSK! DUSK!

Richard: And this is EXACTLY what Douglas couldn’t afford allowing to happen! Letting Dusk use the environment to his advantage is exactly what he wants, and when he can do that, he can inflict a great deal of damage!

Nick: Douglas had this match in complete control, but Dusk has managed to take control from his very grasp. A scary thought when you consider how Douglas just dominated Dusk!

Richard: It’s still not over though, Nick. Douglas can still get Dusk out of this match and take the title for himself. He just has to wait for Dusk to make a mistake. Trust me, it’s coming.

The fans continue to chant Dusk's name as the Intense Champion grabs Douglas by the back of the head and rolls him into the ring! Dusk then hops onto the ring apron before grabbing the top rope and leaping over it before dropping his knee across the forehead of Troy Douglas! Douglas clutches his forehead as Dusk begins pulling him back up to his feet! However, Douglas is quick to strike as he slams his elbow into Dusk's stomach, and then bounces off the ropes before connecting with a flying clothesline! Both competitors get back up to their feet first with Douglas bouncing off the ropes again and going for another clothesline! Yet, the Lost Soul ducks at the last possible second and manages to connect with an elbow to Douglas's face! With Douglas stunned, Dusk knees him in the midsection before lifting him up and slamming him back down to the mat with a power bomb! Douglas collides with the mat hard and Dusk takes that chance to go for the pinfall!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: And Dusk almost got the victory there as it looked like he might have Douglas down for the count.

Richard: Almost did, but almost doesn’t do it in the squared circle, Nick. He’s going to have to do more then that to take out Troy Douglas, who has shown how gritty and tough he can be in his short PRIME career.

Nick: He’s going to need that toughness now if he wants to walk out of here with not only a victory, but the Intense Championship.

Richard: Nick, that’s closer to his grasp then you would possibly imagine, trust me.

Dusk glances at the referee, thinking it was a three count, but then shakes his head. He gets up to his feet and begins pulling Douglas back up to his feet. As he does so though, "Coming Undone" by Korn blasts through Wrigley Field, causing Dusk to drop Douglas and turn his attention to the top of the ramp!

Richard: Oh hell no.

Nick: That’s Cozen’s music! What the hell is she coming out here for?!

Richard: This isn’t going to bode well for Dusk, I have to imagine.

As he glares up there, out walks the Universal Champion, Cozen with a devilish grin on her face! Dusk walks up to the ropes and wonders out loud what the hell she is doing here! He looks over at the referee, hoping he'll do something about it, but to no use! He yells at her to leave, but she doesn't move as she just watches him with a careful eye! With his attention on Cozen, he doesn't notice Douglas sneaking up behind him before spinning him around and kicking him in the midsection! Dusk doubles over as Douglas lifts him up in the air and appears to be going for the End of the Road '08, but Dusk manages to slip out of it! As Douglas turns around though, he sees a foot flying for his jaw! He manages to grab it though at the last moment before taking Dusk off of his feet and onto the mat! With the advantage in front of him, he immediately locks in the End of the Road on Dusk!

Nick: And Dusk has got that Scorpion Death Lock on him and he might not be able to last for too long!

Richard: Dusk isn’t looking too good, especially after being distracted by Cozen who has to be enjoying this!

Dusk starts reaching for the ropes, but Douglas has got the maneuver on as tight as possible! Knowing that the end is near and hoping to fight another day, even as he can feel the pain surging throughout his entire body, he taps out to the dismay of the fans inside Wrigley Field!

DING! DING! DING!

Nick: And Douglas has pulled off what has to be considered an upset! He’s taken out Dusk and won the Intense Title!

Richard: And he might have Cozen to thank for that as she took Dusk off the target there, and gave Douglas the exact opening that he needed! However, it was Douglas who closed it off there, and got the victory!

Vince Howard: Your winner… and NEW INTENSE CHAMPION! TROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY! DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!

The title belt is then handed to Douglas who holds it up high for all to see as Dusk gets back up to his feet. Dusk glances to the top of the ramp only to see Cozen no longer there. He curses underneath his breath as he turns to Douglas who is celebrating. Douglas then turns around only to see Dusk up on his feet. The moment is tense before Dusk extends his hand to offer congratulations to Douglas on picking up the victory over him. Douglas looks at it for a moment before the two shake hands and Dusk presents the new Intense Champion before leaving the ring. You can see the anger in his eyes though as he plans his revenge against Cozen.

Nick: One hell of a display of sportsmanship right there shown by Dusk. He’s gotta be pissed though.

Richard: If I’m Cozen, I’m looking for a place to hide, because Hurricane Dusk is coming after you and it’s going to wreak havoc like never before.

Nick: But, the moment belongs to Douglas who has won his first PRIME Intense Title!

Ladies and gentlemen and whatever the hell Craig is...

Your eyes are not deceiving you.

Mega Job are indeed live and on pay-per-view, prompting fans to call in the PRIME offices screaming something about how they paid forty bucks to get AWAY from those freaks. But alas, it is not to be. For El Janito, Beef, and Steve are indeed preparing for another waste of everyone's time. It's kind of like Frankenstein showing up on Conan O'Brian to point out a light switch. That's the type of waste of time we are dealing with tonight.

Now, El Janito is still wearing his gaudy, ugly, cheap suit. Honestly, he once had a much more expensive suit, but it happened to be propery of the Fans Wrestling Organization and whoever still owned that company apparently finally decided to tell him to give it back. So, here he is, in probably the ugliest suit in human history. Beef, meanwhile, is looking more French than he usually does, probably because he actually has French flags sticking out of the top of his beret. Steve is still very Steve, and that should never change.

Beef decides to make the paying fans feel worse because he starts talking, and nobody wants to change channels without feeling like they might miss something relevant.

Beef: You know, Janito, it takes a lot of effort to become a director of may particular stature.

El Janito: You mean, it takes a lot of effort to be so abysmally bad that the very concept of space-time rewrites ITSELF just to make sure that Manos: Hand of Fate is no longer regarded as the worst movie ever made, but rather your last thrilling tale about a cardboard box named Murray, titled "Murray The Wacky Disgruntled Cardboard Box"?

Beef: I'm telling you, that was an art piece.

El Janito: Speaking of cardboard, what is that and why is that here?

Janito is pointing at a large cardboard cutout of what appears to be Logic. The cardboard cutout of Logic has two diagonal lines drawn on it with permanent marker to simulate that it is "angry". Beef stands next to it, looking all high and mighty, even though he is clearly not.

Beef: This is the best representation I could hope for. He's so inanimate. Just like the real thing.

El Janito: You only say that now because he's not around to hear you.

Beef: Shush, you. And let me borrow your microphone, Josh Matthews. I'LL swing this one.

Beef turns his attention to the cardboard cutout as Janito hands Beef the microphone, grumbling all the while that he shouldn't have been compared to Josh Matthews, as that is quite the low blow.

Beef smiles for the camera.

Beef: Hello, PRIME fans! I am the mighty and most awesome Beef, star director and the possessor of the mighty Mean Beef Machine! I am standing next to Logic, who is of course our nemesis. Logic, nice to see you again.

Beef pokes the microphone at the cardboard cutout of Logic. A few seconds pass, before it seems like someone below the cutout is picking it up, and moving it from side to side to simulate animation, all while someone else, off-camera, speaks in perhaps the wimpiest voice since Urkel.

Logic Cutout: It is so good... no, wait... STUPENDOUS to catch sight of you once again with my optical receptors, Sir Beef.

Beef: Yes, yes, all come to see my mighty Beef self.

Logic Cutout: You are indeed... um...

The sounds of a dictionary being flipped are heard off-camera.

Logic Cutout: ...magnanimous in your...

More dictionary.

Logic Cutout: ...mightiness....

Beef ignores the fact that the wimpy off-camera voice has to look at a dictionary every five seconds, and boasts proudly to himself.

Beef: Indeed. I am so mighty, I bet I could knock you down in one blow.

Logic Cutout: Are you positive? I'm certain that I am much too... sturdy... for your... assailment... to fell me.

Beef: I shall demonstrate. Brace yourself!

And then Beef throws a wicked punch to the Logic cutout.

Logic Cutout: BLARGH! I AM VANQUISHED!

The Logic cutout falls over... only to reveal that something far more meanacing behind the cutout. The voice that had been voicing the Logic cutout yelps and get up, revealing that it is none other than Grundle McMiles, the only man so low on life's totem pole that he's BEEF'S assistant. He quickly faints because seeing something scarier than Beef is too much for him. Beef, meanwhile, has no idea that the real Logic is there. He simply looks up at Logic and frowns.

Beef: Okay, seriously, we put a lot of artistic power into making sure we had those diagonal lines above his eyes. Janito, give me the permanent marker.

Janito does no such thing, because he is paralyzed with fear at this point. Steve takes the opportunity to point behind Beef.

Steve: LOGIC.

Beef: Yes, I know, Steve, but it's just a cardboard cutout. A cardboard cutout can't articulate how much it's going to kick my ass.

Logic: Well, you see, I was actually planning on a bit of "glaring at you angrily until you piss yourself from fear on pay-per-view" first. After that, though, begins the "Logic rips Beef's limbs off and beats him to death with them" portion of UltraViolence.

As if to fit actions to his words, the Pensive Punisher, dressed for his impending battle with Killean Sirrajin, simply glares at Beef, coldly staring down the much smaller man, evil in his eyes.

Beef looks up at Logic for a second.

Beef: Grundle, you've never sounded that manly be...

Beef cuts himself off after he looks down to see Grundle passed out. Instantly, Beef knew EXACTLY what had happened.

Beef: Grundle! You can communicate from beyond the grave?!

Maybe not exactly...

Logic, for his part, continues to glare.

Logic: I truly wonder sometimes how you manage to successfully dress yourself in the morning without the mental effort to do so overwhelming you. Beef, you are truly an incredible...thing.

Beef: Well, I don't like to brag...

El Janito: You do too.

Beef: Okay, so I like to brag a little bit.

Beef sizes up Logic and comes to the conclusion that anything stupid he might say could lead to him being splattered by his nemesis. So, he decides to say the smartest thing he is mentally capable of.

Beef: You look like you want to be interviewed by us for Behind Colossus: Dawn of the Repchak!

It's still pretty fucking stupid, though.

David Walter Smith pauses in his glaring.

And then, he frowns.

Logic: Did I not already particpate...unwillingly, I might add, in a documentary created by you two entitled "Beyond Cyberslam", where you two mocked me incessantly for my...

A slow shudder overtakes the Pensive Punisher, from the tips of his toes to his head, clearly disgusted with his past self.

Logic: ...feelings for Lindsay Troy?

Beef: Us? Never.

Logic: But it *was* you.

Beef: No, no. You were interviewed by someone CLEARLY British.

El Janito: Indeed. Somebody totally British and definitely not me.

Logic: It was...you know what? It does not matter.

Sighing, David clearly sees his chances of relaxing before perhaps the toughest test in career going up in flames.

Logic: If I agree to participate in this, will you leave me alone for the rest of the evening?

Beef smiles a smile that Logic really should have punched off his face.

Beef: Almost entirely without uncertainty.

Logic: Fine.

Beef: Excellent. Janito, get over here.

Janito, needless to say, is not entirely happy about this, and that's certainly almost entirely without uncertainty. He walks over to Beef with this annoyed look on his face, and he points a finger at Beef.

El Janito: Why. Me.

Beef: ("whispering" to Janito) Psst. Well, he just freaks me out. I figure you're just freaky enough to cancel out the freakiness.

El Janito: Gee. Thanks.

Beef: Psst. You forgot to whisper.

Janito chooses to ignore Beef in this instance and walks over to Logic. He raises a hand as a greeting.

El Janito: Hi!

Logic: Hello. We already know each other, I believe. I am David Walter Smith, better known as Logic. You are El Janito, drain on the American welfare system. Charmed.

El Janito: Yes, yes. So, how does it feel to be in PRIME, even though your presence is often thoroughly unwelcomed by the majority of the roster? I mean, good lord, sticking you in a room with Tyler Rayne alone would wreak havoc on society as a whole.

Logic: I will say this about PRIME thus far: they have treated me with respect. Though I at first thought that CP Cantrell had been put up to, as the kids say, "ribbing" me with Lindsay Troy handcuffed to a chair, I soon realized that not to be the case. And besides, there's no chameleon here, and that always counts for something.

El Janito: Oh, by the way, I'm not a drain on the American welfare system. I'm a British citizen, technically, so I'd be more of a drain on the British welfare system.

Logic merely glares at El Janito.

El Janito: ERRR... ANYWAY! Since you're here in PRIME, do you have an overall goal while you're in PRIME?

Logic looks at Janito as if he has grown a second head.

El Janito: Oh, no, did I grow a second head?

Logic ignores him utterly.

Logic: Of COURSE I have a goal in PRIME. My goal is simple -- to capture the PRIME Universal Championship and demonstrate quite clearly that mistresses of disguise, "emo kids", and Mega Job are not necessary in this sport any longer.

Beef: Well, I don't know about you, but Mega Job hasn't been necessary in this sport since 2000.

El Janito: Yet, somehow, we keep getting hired.

Beef: With payment of waffles.

El Janito: We really do need to get around to renegotiating our contracts, dude.

Logic glares at Janito.

El Janito: Oh. Um. So, you would say that your goal is one of those difficult-to-achieve ones? I mean, you'd probably have to deal with your doppleganger, who is only known as... Cigol the Emasculator.

Logic: ...I sincerely doubt that I have a doppleganger. I will, however, have to deal with those who sully the name of this sport. Which, convieniently enough, brings me to Killean Sirrajin...

El Janito: Ah, yes. Mr. Sirrajin. If he indeed DOES exist... Beef and I have this theory that the Serbian guy in Grand Theft Auto killed him and took his place after taking like a million steroids. Serbia's like, totally part of Canada, right?

The expression on Logic's face is one the likes of which the world has not yet experienced. It is a hybrid; as if someone had both shot his puppy, told him Santa Claus didn't exist, and tried to make him believe that the moon was made out of cheese all at once.

Logic: Serbia is in Europe. Canada is in North America. As for the rest of your 'theory'...you may wish to look up a woman named Ann Coulter. I hear that she has made herself quite the living spouting drivel even more baseless than yours, were such a thing possible. I am astounded that people such as yourself continue to exist in this world without evolution preventing your continued survival.

El Janito: That just goes to show you that "evolution" is just bupkis. If anything, I believe the "Sphere Theory" more than this... "Evolution". Besides, hwo am I supposed to get behind something that has Randy Orton in it?

Logic totally wanted to go home now.

Logic: I...have a request.

David Walter Smith sighs, from deep within the pit of his soul, as El Janito looks on.

Logic: Could...*shudder*...Beef please conduct this interview instead?

These are not the words a confident wrestler about to face Killean Sirrajin would make, but rather a man whose education and intelligence are being betrayed by the gross ignorance of those around him.

Beef: Sure.

Beef walks up to Janito, takes his microphone and gives him a smack in the back of the head. He smiles for the camera.

Beef: So, where were we before my cohort decided to start talking about the glory of our Sphere-based religion?

Logic: We were about to begin discussing Killean Sirrajin, and how his enhanced muscles are no match for a man with the only muscle that truly matters: the one between his ears.

Beef: Are you implying, Mr. Nemesis, that the brain is a muscle?

Beef: Wait. Wait. Hang on. The brain isn't a muscle.

For a moment, Logic pauses.

Logic: You're right. Clearly, I have been hanging around you two too long.

Yes, Beef was right. Let that sink in a bit. BEEF. STATE OF CORRECTNESS.

Instantly, confetti falls from the sky as a crowd that isn't really there cheers WILDLY. Beef raises his arms in the air in celebration and almost feels like doing a victory lap around the building, except he doesn't because it's too big of a building. Instead, Beef bows.

Beef: Thank you, thank you. This trial has gone on too long, but I've FINALLY gotten my not guilty verdict! Gavel me, judge Steve!

Cut to Steve, who is suddenly wearing a black robe and menacingly wielding a gavel. He slams the gavel down on a nearby desk.

Steve: DISMISSED.

Cut back to Beef, who still has confetti raining down on him.

Beef: ...Grundle. Cool it with the confetti.

The confetti stops.

Yes, Grundle is conscious again.

By the time the confetti has stopped, though, Logic is already gone, his match against Killean Sirrajin mere moments away, Something, though, has clearly been proven.

Even Logic is no match for Mega Job.

We head backstage to the beautiful Angelica Brooks in front of the PRIME logo.

Angelica: Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome my guests at this time the PRIME World Tag Team Champions; Aaron Andrews and Tyler Chance, Risk and Reward.

Boos are heard from the Friendly Confines as the camera pans out to reveal Aaron and Tyler standing next to Angelica. Aaron stands to her left with his big arms folded and Tyler stands to her right with his hands behind his back.

Angelica: Aaron, Tyler you guys have gained a reputation in PRIME as the least fighting champions in the history of the company. How does that make you feel?

Aaron keeps his arms folded as he takes in her question. He thinks for a moment and then turns to her extended arm holding the microphone to answer.

Aaron: How do you think that makes us feel?

Angelica: Upset?

Aaron laughs at her answer.

Aaron: Not at all you hot Estee Lauder piece of ass. It makes me feel like I’ve done my job as champion. When we won the tag team championships I said that as champions we call the shots. That’s exactly what we’ve done. We proved that we decide our opponents and when we will defend the belts.

Tyler nods in agreement as Angelica raises her brow and then poses her next question.

Angelica: But weren’t you guys forced to come to Wrigley Field tonight to defend the titles?

Aaron is obviously caught off guard at the truth and quickly goes on the defensive.

Aaron: So what if we were. The fact of the matter is that tonight we are going to walk out into historic Wrigley Field and do something that the Cubs haven’t been able to accomplish. Win the big one.

This low blow brings a huge chorus of boos from the crowd inside the National League’s most hallowed landmark.

Tyler: But aren’t the titles going to be hung over the ring?

Aaron glances over to Tyler who has a look of confusion on his face.

Aaron: Yeah. So?

Tyler: Well then we won’t be walking in with them.

Aaron sighs and gets a look of anger on his face.

Aaron: Whatever. The bottom line is me and Tyler are going to leave this shithole as Tag team Champions. There’s no ifs, ands or buts about it. When you are Risk and Reward there’s only two things to do. That’s lure four dumbasses into taking the risk and then watching them crash and basking in the reward. Let’s go Tyler. We’ve got titles to defend.

Nick: And up next, folks, we’ve got a no disqualification match between two guys who have gone from not knowing each other to flat out dislike in the space of a couple of weeks.

Richard: Ah, explosive anger, the best kind.

Nick: PRIME newcomer and former fWo star Logic made a series of comments on PRIME’s official website about Killean Sirrajin’s purported—

Richard: Purported my ASS, he’s failed two tests!

Nick: -- drug use. Killean took exception, and the two men met last week on ReVolution, fighting to a double disqualification. Logic then took the step of asking CP Cantrell for this match, and so here we are at UltraViolence!

Richard: Damn right we are, and Logic’s going to pick up a career making win here. He is in Killean Sirrajin’s head, and he’s even bigger than the Supreme Machine is!

Nick: Logic historically not noted for competing in matches such as this, though, and Sirrajin’s done it all in PRIME. We’ve got a PRIME vet against a PRIME newcomer, and in situations like that, it’s hard to pick against a man with the record of Sirrajin.

Richard: You mean the HGH usage. Logic’s a natural athlete competing against a roid monkey. Clearly a disadvantage for Logic, he probably couldn’t even FIND Killean’s unit if he wanted to kick him in it.

Nick: …

With Nick suitably stunned, we go up to our ring announcer to kick festivities off.

Jacobs: This next contest at UltraViolence is scheduled for one fall, and it is a NO DISQUALIFICATION match! Introducing first!

Cue Saliva.

Ladies and gentlemen please
Would you bring your attention to me?
For a feast for your eyes to see
An explosion of catastrophe

*BOOM! BOOM! BA-BOOOOOOOM~!*

A giant burst of white pyrotechnics and the continuation of "Ladies and Gentlemen" heralds the arrival

Like nothing you've ever seen before
Watch closely as I open this door
Your jaws will be on the floor
After this you'll be begging for more

Welcome to the show
Please come inside
Ladies and gentlemen

Boom
Do you want it?
Boom
Do you need it?
Boom
Let me hear it
Ladies and gentlemen

Jacobs: AND, HIS OPPONENT….

Rather than the exploding opening of the entrance of one Killean Sirrajin, his opponent’s introduction begins with the sinister sounds of an orchestra, slowly whirring to life, growing louder and louder by the moment.

This is Gustav Holst’s finest composition, part of "The Planets".

"Mars, the Bringer of War."

As the song arrives at its crescendo, one David Walter Smith emerges from behind the curtain. Better known as Logic, he glares coldly up at the ring, at Killean Sirrajin, preparing for his first ever PRIME PPV match.

That preparing, though, really isn’t going to last much longer.

Nick: Sirrajin’s on his way out of the ring, and I don’t think he’s going to let Logic make it to the squared circle!

Richard: Typical Sirrajin!

Sirrajin advances on the larger man, Logic’s slow gait increasing in speed as the two bulls charge one another, finally meeting in the aisleway! Rearing back, each man throws a hard forearm to the face, followed by another, and another, and another until the two men are throwing rapid-fire shots, much to the crowd’s delight.

Richard: HERE WE GO, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Nick: I don’t think either man wants a long night! This is going to be explosive, brutal, and one Hell of a contest!

Neither man blinks from the vicious barrage of forearms. Killean finally settles the impasse with a sharp kneelift to the gut, before ramming Logic head-first into the guardrail.

Richard: Come on Logic! HE HAS HALF THE BRAIN YOU DO, THIS SHOULD BE EASY!

Logic recoils from the blow, and Killean tries again, only to find himself met with an elbow to the gut before the Pensive Punisher returns fire, ramming Sirrajin into the guardrail. As Killean totters back, Logic lunges, shoulderblocking the Hall of Famer to the rampway.

Nick: New environment here for Logic, and in one of the biggest matches of his career, no less.

Richard: I’ve got faith in him, though! PRIME’s got big plans for him! We can send him to schools around the country to preach the evils of steroids and HGH!

Picking Sirrajin back up, Logic hooks Killean for a suplex. Sirrajin quickly puts the brakes on, landing a pair of shots to the midsection to stop the suplex. Thinking fast, Sirrajin hooks a waistlock, trying to snap Logic over with a belly to belly, but Logic throws forearms to the face that halt that idea. Seemingly at a stalemate, Logic fires off a hard chop to the chest, returned by Killean.

Richard: And when all else fails, BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER!

Nick: I don’t quite know what it’s going to take to put one of these two down for three, but it’s sure going to be fun for the fans to watch!

Another chop volley between the two men results in reddened chests, but little more. Logic grimaces, winding up with a big straight right to the face, but Killean sidesteps the blow. Spinning Logic around, Killean hooks a waistlock from behind, and the off-balance Logic can only scramble to try and protect himself on a rather bumpy landing.

RELEASE GERMAN SUPLEX.

On the RAMP.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!"

Richard: GODDAMN THAT SON OF A BITCH AND HIS HGH STRENGTH!

Nick: Sirrajin just DUMPED Logic on his head with the German suplex on the steel rampway! No give at all on that, folks!

As if to rub in Logic’s current state of misery, the pained Logic manages to look up from his back, and spots three idiots coming down the rampway. Said three idiots are of course Beef, El Janito, and STEVE, better known as Mega Job.

Richard: Looks like our epic team of documentary filmers are here to follow up with Logic!

Nick: If I was Logic, I think I’d be more hurt emotionally than physically right now.

With a microphone in hand, El Janito kneels down over the pained Logic, pushing the mic in his face.

El Janito: So, Logic, how does it feel to be suplexed on your head on a steel rampway by Killean Sirrajin?

Logic merely groaned by way of reply, pulling himself up to a kneeling position. Sirrajin advances on the Pensive Punisher, and the pressed Logic resorts to a tactic that, were it illegal in this match, he would never use.

LOW-FUCKIN’-BLOW, BAY-BEH!

Richard: Hey, I’ll be damned, Logic found it after all!

Steve’s camera continues to film the action, as Logic takes advantage of the doubled over Sirrajin, setting him up for a piledriver. Logic tries to lift, but Sirrajin throws his weight downwards, desperately trying to avoid the blow.

Nick: Logic trying to drop Killean headfirst on that ramp, and if he succeeds, this thing may be over before it begins!

The Immense Intellectual fires a series of clubbing forearms to the back, to try and soften up the Hall of Famer. With Killean weakened, Logic lifts, successfully getting Sirrajin vertical. The crowd gasps as Logic falls down sharply, sticking Sirrajin head-first on the ramp with a picture-perfect piledriver!

Richard: LIGHTS OUT, BABY! ATTABOY, LOGIC! ALL THAT HGH HAS SAPPED KILLEAN’S STAMINA!

El Janito stoops over Sirrajin, as if trying to get a comment, but suddenly decides better of it and scampers away. For his part, Logic grabs Sirrajin by a boot, dragging the big man towards the ring apron. Once there, Logic scoops him up with relative ease, rolling him into the ring, and following inside to make the first cover of the contest.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick: Sirrajin lives!

Richard: I BLAME THE HGH!

Even with the kickout, though, Sirrajin clearly is feeling the effects of the piledriver. Back in the more friendly confines of the squared circle, Logic seems more comfortable, pulling Sirrajin back up, and clamping on a strength sapping bearhug.

Nick: No DQ rules, or no no DQ rules, Logic’s a competitor that much prefers being in the ring.

Richard: He’s a smart man. Not going to let the crowd’s lust for violence get to him here. He KNOWS Sirrajin’s pedigree, and knows damn well what a win over Killean would do for his PRIME career.

The bearhug is sunk in, but Sirrajin refuses to lay down, firing right hands into Logic’s skull. A series of them forces Logic to break the hold, and Sirrain claps on his own. For a moment, Logic wonders what Sirrajin is playing at…until he realizes his positioning, staring at the outside..
Richard: Oh, fuck…

Popping his hips, Sirrajin ‘s explosive strength comes into play, snapping Logic over his head with a belly to belly suplex! Logic’s body SAILS over the top rope, bouncing once on the apron and then coming to rest on the arena floor!

Nick: WHAT A MOVE BY THE SUPREME MACHINE! GOOD LORD THE POWER THAT TAKES!

With Logic recovering on the floor, Sirrajin senses an opportunity. Climbing out to the ring apron, Killean waits on the Thinking-Man’s Grappler, waiting for him to stand.

Richard: Oh man…this is not going to be good…

Steve the Rambling Communist sets up shop behind Logic at a safe distance, poised to capture a good shot. For their part, Beef and El Janito are raiding the underneath of the ring, pulling out all sorts of weaponry and throwing it in the ring to the cheers of the crowd.

Yes, Mega Job is getting cheered. I know, I know.

And in the interim, Logic has stood up.

Nick: INCOMING MACHINE!

Sirrajin takes three steps down the apron, before leaving his feet to catch Logic in the chest with a THUNDEROUS spear!

"LET’S GO KILL-EAN! *CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP!"
"LET’S GO KILL-EAN! *CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP!"

Richard: GODDAMNIT, WHY DO YOU CHEER FOR THE CHEATER!

Nick: KILLEAN NEARLY CUT LOGIC IN HALF WITH THE SPEAR OFF THE APRON, AND THIS PRIME CROWD APPRECIATES THEIR HALL OF FAMER!

Sirrajin and Logic lie on the mats outside, both men stirring slowly. Killean, obviously, is the first to move, having delivered the vicious spear. Killean’s eyes shoot over to the recently instituted Japanese announce table, and a grin lights his features.

Richard: Well, our poor colleagues from the Land of the Rising Sun are in trouble now…

Before Killean can prepare the table, though, he discovers El Janito, hovering over Logic.

Nick: Um, can we please get rid of Mega Job? We’re trying to have a match here, and—

Logic’s right hand shoots up, grabbing El Janito by the throat. The janitor flails about as Logic pulls himself up to one knee before a very confused Sirrajin. Lunging, Logic tosses the janitor at Sirrajin, and thinking quickly, Killean catches him.

Richard: Oh no…

Nick: What…?

Richard: Here we go folks!

Logic explodes to his feet, raising his right leg in the air, booting El Janito and sending both the janitor and Killean Sirrajin to the floor!

Richard: IT’S THE VAN JANITOR! VAN JANITOR FROM LOGIC!

Nick: God, I hate you so much.

Beef (the Slightly Annoyed) kneels by the side of his fallen comrade, true anguish in his voice.

Beef: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

As Janito took the brunt of the blow, Sirrajin is relatively unharmed. He tosses Janito off of him with relative ease to charge back onto the attack, only to get NAILED between the eyes courtesy of a Logic monitor shot!

Richard: WOOHOO!

Nick: Logic tore the monitor from the Japanese announce table,and DRILLED Sirrajin right between the eyes with it! Killean slumped over the Japanese table, Beef is down trying to help his fallen comrade, this is madness, folks!

Richard: THIS! IS! PRIIIIIIMMMMMEEEE!

With Killean glassy-eyed, Logic rolls his opponent onto the Japanese announce table, prompting announcers and techies alike to scatter.

Nick: What the Hell does he have planned?

Richard: Whatever it is, it’s probably logical.

Turning away briefly, David Walter Smith climbs up to the ring apron, judging the distance between himself and his foe. Too far, he notes. Which mean he needs more height…

Nick: Logic’s climbing up to the top rope, folks! He’s 6’9", 289 lbs! Men his size do not do this!

Richard: I take it back! This isn’t logical at all, but if it hits it’s going to be AWESOME!

Standing perched atop the turnbuckle, Logic looks down at Killean Sirrajin, anger in his eyes. Ten-thousand plus fans stare in awe at the near three-hundred pounder on the top rope, as Beef picks up the camera to steady it, trying desperately to get the shot.

Nick: LOOK OUT!
With a final deep breath, Logic jumps off the top rope, and spreads his wings.

CRAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

Nick: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!"
"HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!"

The proof, as they say, is in the pudding, or in this case, Logic and Killean Sirrajin lying in the broken, twisted wreckage of the Japanese announce table, the Pensive Punisher clutching at his ribs in pain, Killean Sirrajin seemingly unconscious from impact. Having gotten his needed footage, Beef decides that it is time to go, dragging El Janito by the collar to the back to go edit the film.

Richard: LOGIC CAME OFF THE TOP ROPE TO THE CONCRETE, AND HE CONNECTED! HE SPLATTERED KILLEAN SIRRAJIN THROUGH THAT TABLE SO GODDAMNED HARD THE HGH WAS FORCED OUT OF HIS PORES!

Nick: Both men are down, but both ARE barely moving! Logic trying to extricate himself from the wreckage of the announce table, Killean just seems to be trying to get his bearings! That was unbelievable!

In spite of his lack of popularity, Logic finds himself the recipient of a few cheers as he stands on wobbly legs, an arm raised in the air in premature triumph. He reaches down to grab Killean, only to find the Hall of Famer too heavy for him to deadlift.

It is then that he spots the ring. More specifically, the wide variety of weaponry that Mega Job threw in it. Thinking quickly, Logic rolls back inside the squared circle for just long enough to grab a steel chain. Wrapping it around his right hand, he rolls back to the floor, and waits.

And waits a bit more, as Killean struggles to his hands and knees.

Richard: YES! BRAIN HIM! COME ON, LOGIC! THIS IS ULTRAVIOLENCE 2008! THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO BE FAMOUS!

The Pensive Punisher is poised to pummel, but Killean surges forward from his hands and knees, driving his shoulder into Logic’s gut, and driving forward until Logic’s body collides with the ring apron! The blow forces the air from Logic’s lungs, his arms fallen to his sides. Killean notices this immediately, and quickly pulls the chain from off of Logic’s hand.

It is Killean’s turn for vengeance, now, the chain wrapping around his own hand as he rears back to punish Logic with a HARD right hand to the forehead! Logic would go down..but Sirrajin has roared to his feet, his left hand holding Logic against the apron as the crowd counts along with the blows.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FIVE!

Nick: KILLEAN SIRRAJIN IS ON FIRE!

Logic’s head slumps back, a trickle of blood pouring from a wound opened by the contact of chain on skull. The sight of his nemesis’ blood seems to further embolden Sirrajin. Knowing the end to be near, Killean rolls Logic into the squared circle, and re-enters it himself, poised to deliver Supreme Justice to the man who, in his mind, has shown him none.

Richard: Goddamnit all! Why can’t the good guy win around here, JUST ONCE?

Nick: …that statement is so full of hypocrisy that I’m not even dignifying it with a response.

Richard: Actually, you just did, so I win again—

Sirrajin cares little for commentator disputes, of course, and so as soon as Logic stands he surges forward, arm outstretched, poised to clobber Logic…who he notes far too late doesn’t seem to be especially afraid.

Nick: WAIT A MINUTE!

One sidestep later, and Logic is clear of Supreme Justice.

Killean, however, is not clear of the kendo stick that Logic has found, courtesy of Mega Job’s earlier antics.

*THWACK!*

Richard: GOD, I LOVE A GOOD HEADSHOT!

Nick: LOGIC JUST SWUNG THAT THING LIKE A LOUISVILLE SLUGGER, AND HE HIT KILLEAN SIRRAJIN FULL ON IN THE FACE WITH IT!

Richard: Very perceptive of you!

It is Sirrajin’s turn to come up bloodied, plasma flowing from his nose courtesy of the kendo stick that struck him full on the bridge of the nose. Logic allows a tight smile to cross his lips, before rapidly setting up another Mega Job introduction to the match: a table. Placing it in the corner, the Immense Intellectual sees victory in his sights.

Unfortunately, he also sees Killean Sirrajin coming out of the corner of his eye, and manages to slam a boot to Sirrajin’s gut. Spinning quickly to meet him, Logic wraps both hands around Killean’s throat, lifting the 270 pounder in the air before sitting out with a two-handed chokebomb, and finally giving the poor bored official something to do.

Nick: SITOUT CHOKEBOMB FROM LOGIC! HE’S GOT THE COVER, ONLY OUR SECOND OF THE MATCH!

ONE!

TWO!

THR—SHOULDER!

Richard: GODDAMNIT!

Nick: Close, CLOSE nearfall for Logic! He’s got Sirrajin rocking!

Richard: And now, all he has to do is finish him off!

Grabbing Sirrajin by his tights, Logic hoists Killean back up, setting the big man up for Proof Positive! Logic angles his body towards the table, and hoists, getting Killean off the ground…but a sharp back elbow to the head wound of Logic stops the momentum!

Nick: Supreme Justice thwarted earlier! Proof Positive denied now! What’s it going to take to win this?

Sirrajin himself seems to have an answer, with two more elbows planted to Logic’s bloody forehead allowing him to quickly go-behind the Pensive Punisher, and get a waistlock of his own.

Richard: Oh Hell no…

Summoning the strength he has left, Killean lifts, THROWING Logic over his head with a release German suplex!

Nick: OH DEAR GOD…

*CRAAAASSH~!*

Richard: NO!

Nick: RELEASE GERMAN SUPLEX FROM KILLEAN SIRRAJIN! THE SUPREME MACHINE LAUNCHED LOGIC THROUGH THE TABLE! THE BACK OF LOGIC’S HEAD AND HIS NECK TOOK THE BRUNT OF THE IMPACT!

Sirrajin gasps for breath, his bloodied nose affecting his breathing as he grabs one of Logic’s mammoth legs, pulling the Thinking-Man’s Grappler free of the wreckage, and throwing himself across the shoulders for the cover.

Nick: This is ALL, folks!

ONE!

TWO!

THR—KICKOUT?!

Richard: YES! PRAISE SOCRATES!

Nick: …you know who Socrates IS?!

Richard: Of course I do, and he just willed Logic to kick out of that!

Sirrajin, though, is not so easily thwarted. As Logic’s shoulder comes off the canvas, he neatly grabs hold of the larger man’s arm, using it and a hold on the leg to roll Logic over to his stomach, landing in the back mount across Logic’s back.

Nick: Wait a minute, Sirrajin took that kickout, and used Logic’s momentum to roll him to his back!

Richard: NO! SOCRATES, HE NEEDS MORE HELP!

Logic’s head tucks down, his chin to his chest, hands covering the back of his head as KIllean rains blows down, trying to break Logic’s turtle. He quickly hits upon an idea, and reaches over towards the table wreckage, pulling a shard of table free, and DRIVING it into the back of Logic’s neck! Logic howls in pain, still doing his best to turtle as Killean’s free hand continues to rain down shots, even as Killean rams the jagged piece of wood into the back of his neck.

Nick: Sirrajin is a man possessed!

Richard: IT’S ROID RAGE! SOMEONE STOP THIS GODDAMNIT!

Several more sharp jabs later, and the pain is too much, Logic’s screams drowning out even some of the crowd. Unable to cover up anymore, Logic’s neck is exposed, and Killean takes full advantage, sliding his arm underneath Logic’s throat and pulling back to complete the LAST CALL!

Nick: LAST CALL! HE HAS IT LOCKED IN, AND LOCKED IN TIGHTLY! THE SUPREME JUSTICE DIDN’T WORK, BUT THE LAST CALL WILL!

Logic’s screams continue, as he looks for a way free. His right hand rests inches from the ropes, and indeed it shoots out to grab the middle strand, using it as leverage to try and pull his body up, to ruin Killean’s leverage advantage.

Richard: His hand’s on the rope! WHY ISN’T THE REFEREE BREAKING THE LAST CALL?

Nick: IT’S A NO DISQUALIFICATION MATCH! What’s he going to do, disqualify Sirrajin?

Sirrajin is almost bucked off Logic’s back, but quickly adjusts, chickenwinging Logic’s arm with his own free arm! Killean wrenches back, trying to pry Logic’s hand free from the rope.

Richard: FIGHT IT, LOGIC! FIGHT IT WITH ALL YOU’VE GOT!

Nick: Logic’s left arm is trapped on the other side of his body, away from the ropes! If Killean can pry Logic’s arm free and sit back down, this thing HAS to be over! Logic will have no way out!

With a final, desperate wrench, Killean frees Logic’s hand from the ropes, chickenwinging the arm back so as to prevent a repeat performance, before sitting back down on the small of the back to crank upwards and backwards with the Last Call!

Nick: The referee in position, hovering over Logic, looking at that free left arm!

Logic flails about with it for a moment, finding no ropes in sight. And with no ropes in sight, the conclusion is clear.

Tap out.

*DING DING DING!*

Richard: ONCE AGAIN, STEROID USERS TRIUMPH OVER MORTAL MEN! WILL THE INHUMANITY EVER STOP?!

Nick: THE LAST CALL DOES IT! Logic and Killean Sirrajin went to war here at UltraViolence 2008, but it is Killean Sirrajin’s Last Call that proves the difference in this contest!

Sirrajin, for his part, doesn’t seem especially intent on breaking the Last Call. He continues to crank on the move, even after the bell, prompting scattered boos from some pockets of the crowd. After a few more moments, and prompting from the official, he finally does release, to allow the referee to raise his arm in victory.

Richard: Yeah, the record book will show that Killean Sirrajin won tonight. But let’s face facts, the guy’s loaded up on HGH. What does ANY win he has from here on out ever really mean?

Nick: Richard, the man just—

Richard: No, I’m sick of this! I’m sick of you and all of the other enablers out there who are giving this guy a free pass because he’s a PRIME Hall of Famer! He’s abusing performance enhancing drugs, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s not a winner of any match he participates in from here on out. You can quote me on that.

As Sirrajin leaves the ring, victorious, he looks out at the crowd. Most of those in the crowd still cheer him, but the minority is growing, and growing more vocal by the week.

A handful of "The HGH Choice" and "Killean Sirroidjin" signs dot the sides of the aisle, even as he walks up it with a fist raised triumphantly after his hard fought win.

Nick: Logic slowly making his way up to his feet in the ring now. Unlike my colleague, I’m not one to take away from the achievements of PRIME competitors. Logic gave it his all in there in his first PRIME pay-per-view appearance, but in the end, Killean Sirrajin proved to be that much tougher on this night.

Richard: You disgust me. I’m telling you, the fans are going to come around one day and see that man in the aisle as the sham that he is.

Killean looks back over his shoulder only once, at the sound of a smattering of cheers for the man standing up in the middle of the ring. Blood trickles from his forehead, and from a series of jab wounds in the back of his neck. He clutches at his throat and neck in pain, and if he hears the fans cheers now, he isn’t acknowledging it.

The PRIME Choice knows that, for now at least, he has won his war with Logic.

In his heart, though, he knows that winning the war may be far, far easier than winning the peace.

At the end of the day, events like this tend to lead to a bunch of unanswered questions -- not usually about what occurred, but why. (After all, "oh my heck, Beloved Hero One just bent a steel chair over the skull of Beloved Hero Two!" is...kind of self-explanatory, at least on the face of it.)

One of the questions people should ask after UltraViolence (should, but won't) goes a little something like this:

What was the deal with the bike messenger?

It's relatively early in the night when the girl in the blue Cubs windbreaker first appears. She whips a cherry red bike around the edge of the PRIME*TIME Life interactive exhibit, moving at a pace that's both impressive and enough to disperse the crowd gathered around the Virtual PRIMEate tent. (It's amazing how many of the douchebags who hadn't found their way to their seats wanted to participate in the assault of Xavier Kannon that formed Fuck You).

The biker herself is a slight woman, brow, ears and nose all pierced. Her jeans are snug; the light Cubs jacket is worn loose around a white Alfonso Soriano jersey. Red highlights play along the roots of her pitch-black hair, her eyes hidden by scarlet-framed, mirrored Oakleys.

The thing about bike messengers as an entity is that they ride like maniacs. Our girl is no different, and she quickly becomes a holy terror as we track her backstage. The messenger wends her way around production trucks, over bundles of knotted cable, and under low-slung "PRIME WEEKEND" signs that cross streets.

It's finally a beaten catering truck (emblazoned with a jaunty red-faced image of a hot dog) that draws the girl up short. Enjoying a tasty beverage are a few staffers in black-and-blue polo shirts and (by sheer happenstance, of course), the most vivacious redhead in attendance tonight.

Well, where did you think Angelica Brooks got the coffee that kept that brilliant smile going, no matter what?

Angelica Brooks: Uhm, excuse me, there's kind of an event going on.

The bike messenger slips off those expensive shades, lips quirking into something that probably passes for a smile if you're a bitter twenty-something.

Messenger: Uh, yeah. That's why it's been such a pain in the dick to get back here.

Angie's smile is one of those things that's charming about her, but people forget that she's a reporter at heart, at least these days -- and at least before the big Guess Jeans shoot later this summer.

Angelica Brooks: You mean you meant to interrupt the show?

The bike messenger pulls a small pad out of the back pocket of her jeans, black-nailed thumb flicking through several well-worn pages.

Messenger: I'm looking for some guy named Andrew. Or...

She squints down at the paper.

Messenger: Fuck, my handwriting is for shit. I think it's some name like "Andrew."

Have you ever been in a situation where you just blurt something out without thinking it? Like a word -- or, in this case, a name -- is on the tip of your tongue, and you can't help but saying it?

Angelica Brooks: Andreas?

The messenger squints down at the tiny, squiggly lettering.

Messenger: Could be, yeah.

Angelica Brooks: You're looking for a blond guy with a smile that makes you kind of want to punch... okay, that doesn't really limit your choices. He'll be dressed up nice, with an Asian girl with reddish hair nearby. They're way annoying. And they're probably hanging around with a girl who looks just like Lindsay Troy, but isn't Lindsay Troy because she's a total creeptard.

Messenger: I have no idea what most of those words mean. I'll find him.

Angelica smiles; being insulted is easy after you've spent several weeks trying to interview the Princes of New England.

Angelica Brooks: What are you looking for him for, anyway?

Messenger: I'm going to kiss him on the mouth and declare my eternal devotion to him. What do you think I'm going to do? I have a package for him.

Angelica Brooks: What is it?

Messenger: You ask me that like I'm supposed to have looked in. This isn't "20 Questions," lady. If you see the guy, tell him a tiny flying girl is looking for him.

Angelica Brooks: But you're not flying.

The bike messenger slid on her shades with a smirk.

Messenger: Yeah, but it tends to get people's attention, y'know?

And she pedals away at a high rate of speed. So do we. Just... digitally speaking.

Anger.

Pure anger.

Pure, unbridled anger.

It's all that raged through his veins as he stalked the hall beside himself. The Lost Soul, the Icon of PRIME, had lost his Intense Title because of the bitch he couldn't rid himself of. With UltraViolence going on around him, his mind could only focus on Cozen. And her death. Yes, her death. In his mind, it was time for her to die.

As he storms down the hall, looking for something, maybe her, maybe weapons, or maybe just a warm cup of coffee, folks move out of his way in a hurry knowing that the last few weeks, Dusk had been known to destroy any and everything in his path. He turns the corner, his eyes moving from side to side with a certain intensity to them. He doesn't stay in the hallway for very long though as he slams his boot into a door and causes it to fly open. The name on the door says it all.

TEAM V.I.A.G.R.A.

Inside is Mary-Lynn Mayweather and Tony Davis, both ready to run at a moment's notice as if Godzilla had entered their room. High Flyer, getting ready for the upcoming Tag Team Title match, looks at Dusk a little puzzled, but looks to be up for a fight if he's ready for one.

Dusk: I'm going to kill her. I'm going to literally fucking kill her.

He then looks at Mary-Lynn Mayweather.

Dusk: And if you throw some shit out there about how it's against the law and some other shit, you'll be on my list too.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: I usually like murder. Gives me new clients.

She smiles sarcastically at Flyer, who stares daggers through her as she does.

High Flyer: You want a chainsaw? Mary, grab him a chainsaw out of our snowcart full of weapons.

Dusk though shakes his head.

Dusk: No, no. Chainsaw is too fucking nice for her. Tony, I need seven chickens and a rocket launcher. Go, go, go!

Dusk then turns back to High Flyer.

Dusk: For far too long, I've been nice. You know, my version of nice, but nice nonetheless. I'm going to kill her, Flyer; I'm going to FUCKING kill HER!

Out of nowhere, Dusk slams his hand into a nearby metal locker door. The impact and noise from said punch causes Mary-Lynn to jump in the air, scared of what's going on.

High Flyer: Seems like you want to fuck her 'fore you kill her. I'd at least hope it's before...Mary, calm down. Don't be rattled. Dusk is a puppy to us. We'll watch him go Rottweiler on others.

Tony Davis rushes into scene, holding a rocket launcher.

Tony Davis: I've already put the chickens inside Dusk. It's prepped and ready.

Dusk looks at Davis and nods at the oft-insulted Davis before taking the Chicken-loaded Rocket Launcher.

Dusk: Good boy! I knew you were good for something! I... I'm sorry insulting you-- wait, what the fuck am I saying? I think I'm going to throw up.

He walks around the room with the Rocket Launcher over his shoulder, trying to get over the fact that he apologized to Tony Davis. He then turns back to him.

Dusk: I must right this. Sorry, Tony.

Dusk then points the rocket launcher at Tony and starts firing off shots of chicken at Tony who starts running away from Dusk.

Flyer grabs the rocket launcher by the barrel and redirects the aim skyward. A chicken flies out and gets swatted to bits by a ceiling fan off screen.

High Flyer: I know you want to let off some steam, but firing chickens at my tag team partner moments before WE'RE going out for OUR tag title match is kind of FUCKING selfish, y'hear?

Dusk glares at High Flyer before turning away from him and dropping his head. He curses underneath his breath before looking back at High Flyer with a softer look on his face and in his eyes.

Dusk: I'm-- I'm sorry man. You're right, it is selfish, and I'm, you know, sorry. It's just that this bitch can't seem to leave me alone, fucking with me at every chance, ya know? Tonight, man, was supposed to be our night. Me, retaining the Intense Title. You and Davis winning the tag titles. This would be the night we ruled PRIME. But, she, she had to mess with that dream. She took it away from us and it pisses me off. But, I shouldn't be taking it on Davis or coming in here and messing with you guys. Not now. I should be...

He pauses as he sits down on the bench.

Dusk: I should be wishing you luck as you go out there and kick some ass and get those tag team belts. Because, you deserve it. Just like you've been there by my side, it's now my turn to be by your side. So, get Davis, and you two, go kick some ass. Don't worry about me, just kick some ass.

High Flyer: Your problem's our problem Dusk. We'll deal with her with you, but we'll do it smart, okay? Set up our plan, knock her down to size. No reason to go flying off the handles tonight unless you're gonna go out and interrupt HER match, so... patience is a virtue.

Flyer turns to Mary-Lynn.

High Flyer: A virtue we no longer have. Now. Are we prepared for tonight's evening's festivities?

Mary-Lynn stares confused.

High Flyer: Did you load our cart full of illegal weapons?

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: I did. But I'm still not going to help you cheat.

High Flyer: How many times do I have to tell you, it's not cheating when there aren't rules in place?

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: I’m morally against it.

High Flyer: Well, you work for me; you check your morals at the door. You don’t interfere enough tonight during our match to sway the edge in our favor, I’ll kick your fucking head off, and I’ll fire you.

Flyer turns menacingly as he said this, and instantly becomes jovial when finished.

High Flyer: Alright! Let’s go people! Time is gold here!

Flyer turns to Dusk.

High Flyer: When we’re done here, we’ll be back, and we’ll figure out the SMART way to go about this, okay?

Dusk nods his head.

Dusk: Got it.

High Flyer: Good! Let's go win us some gold! *sings as he walks away* Gold is worth more than the dollar. Like getting paid in euros! JUST LIKE KANYE!

With that, High Flyer, Tony Davis, and Mary-Lynn Mayweather walk out of the room, leaving Dusk there. He watches them as they go, hoping that they do indeed get the victory tonight. But, a few moments pass before Dusk stands up and walks out of the locker room. He didn't intend to go about things the smart way.

He'd do it his way. Now.

(FADE IN: The dangling tag team titles glistens high above the ring. Fans rise in anticipation. A ladder blocks a normal entrance to the ring, as it rests on the entrance rampway.)

Nick: Folks, you see those shining titles hanging in the air? Well, you may have forgotten, but those are the tag team championship straps. Built on the foundation of teamwork and strategy, we integrate as much Violence as we can muster. I give you, a tables, ladders, and chairs match.

Richard: Oh God!

Nick: Dick!

Richard: You’re the dick.

Nick: Just stop it Richard. Vince McMahon isn’t coming here to sue us for stealing his universal match type. Take off the Kevlar.

Richard: I’m more worried about him carrying a harpoon and piercing my rib cage. ‘Roid rage boy. ‘Roid Rage.

Nick: Just two weeks ago, the challengers, DUI and Team VIAGRA, had gotten into a car crash, leaving VIAGRA’s daintily manager Mary-Lynn Mayweather with a concussion and a broken wrist. Team VIAGRA believed this not to be an accident, and have since gotten into two sparring contests.

Richard: One of which includes… YOUR… tag team champions. Tyler Chance, Aaron Andrews. You remember those names? Yeah, that’s the definition of awesomeness.

Nick: Risk and Reward have defended the titles three times since splitting them with Sound and the Fury… and none of those matches could have been considered classic. In fact, before looking down at my sheet of paper here, I hadn’t remembered any of their contests. The Falk Bros. Mega Job?

Richard: Those Mexicans were Legends though; you have no way to dispute that!

Nick: Because I don’t know WHO they were!

That’s when the opening chords to "I Hope You Die" by the Bloodhound Gang fill the arena. As the crowd stands to their feet, they are treated to quite the light show. High Flyer exits first, raising his devil horned hands to the crowd. Tony Davis stumbles out, closing his new DS that he still cannot stop playing. Behind them, Mary-Lynn Mayweather, sporting an arm cast and a large ice cream cart. It looks to be packed with large heavy objects, and a chainsaw sticks precariously out of it.

Team VIAGRA makes their way to the ring. Tony walks directly into the ladder, not even realizing it’s there, knocking it over and landing it with a thud. He shrugs, and continues on his way. This effectively forces Mary-Lynn to shove the cart overtop of the ladder, using brute force, desperately shoving forward with all her might.

As Viagra finish entering the ring, "Master of Puppets" by Metallica drowns out their theme music, and all attentions turn to the stage. Colby Korver and Hank Cobb saunter out, Korver drinking the last of his beer before shattering the bottle on the entrance rampway. Perhaps he should have kept it, and used it as a weapon.

They make their way down to the rings, somewhat of a mixed reaction, even though most of the fans understand the mistakes of their past. DUI enter, and Hank Cobb and Mary-Lynn exchange an exorbitantly long look at one another.

CUE: "Down" by Stone Temple Pilots, and your PRIME, tag team champions. A large light show accompanies Risk & Reward, as they step out, sans title belts. Their championships hanging above the arena, Tyler Chance and Aaron Andrews gave them up earlier tonight to PRIME officials, and they were hard pressed to make sure it wasn’t the last time they’d see them.

Risk and Reward make their way quickly to the ring, not bothering to placate the booing crowd in attendance. As they enter, before the official can even check them, the time keeper’s bell rings three times.

Nick: And there’s the bell! Flyer immediately charges Korver, wasting no time!

Flyer spears Korver up and over the top rope, falling to the outside like Mick Foley would. They land with a hard bounce on the concrete, just steps next to a shrieking Mary-Lynn. Mayweather quickly pushes her snow cone cart full of weapons out of the way, and rushes to a neutral corner.

Richard: How I would like to tap that ass like a beer keg.

Nick: Mary-Lynn’s a consummate professional. I doubt she’d fall for that as a pick up line.

Inside the ring, Tyler Chance and Aaron Andrews were striking Hank Cobb with rights and lefts, sending the farm giant teetering backwards. Cobb falls into the corner back first, shaking the ring from Risk & Rewards assault.

On the other diagonal, Tony Davis was quickly ripping off the turnbuckle padding.

Richard: You know, I don’t inherently hate Viagra anymore. They’re playing this Ultra Violence smart. If only they worked like this all the time!

Nick: Tony Davis has ripped that top turnbuckle off, and Risk & Reward whips Hank Cobb into it! He literally shakes the ring and lets out a howl.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather gasps at Cobb’s situation, as Tyler Chance and Aaron Andrews charge toward Cobb. In desperation, Cobb pushes himself off at the last moment, and double clotheslines R&R to the mat, before tumbling himself like a ton of bricks.

Korver, on the outside, reverses an irish whip which sends Flyer tumbling into his own snow cart, shoulder first. Colby smiles at Mary-Lynn and waves, before sliding back into the ring.

Nick: I can’t tell if Colby is being sincere or just really drunk?

Colby and Davis charge at one another, and Korver gets the upperhand with a swinging double fisted uppercut. Davis slams back first onto Hank Cobb’s back.

Nick: Oh! Colby may have wanted to strike Davis a foot closer to the other side. Davis landed right on top of his tag team partner!

Richard: Well, he’s drunk. You don’t even know what depth perception IS when you’re drunk.

Korver turns to showboat to the crowd, as Flyer has recovered. He springboards on the top rope and flies, wrapping his legs around Korver’s skull and nailing a picture perfect hurraconrada.

Korver slides out of the ring from the move and bounces into the guardrail. Flyer perks to his feet, and feels the fire and energy of the crowd…

Before being taken down by Risk & Reward, Chance going high with a shoulder block, Andrews low with a chop block. Flyer tumbles.

Nick: What a devastating maneuver! DUI may be angry that they stole that tandem maneuver.

Richard: It's common. I mean, they outlawed it in football and people know that it's legal in wrestling... so why not do it. I'm surprised we don't see more horse collars.

Davis and Cobb stumble to their feet and see Risk and Reward standing stall. Chance yells at Andrews to grab the ladder, and Andrews quickly slides out. Tyler turns back and sees his two opponents recovered.

Andrews meanwhile, meets Colby Korver and Mary-Lynn Mayweather, each making their way to the ladder.

Andrews: Hey! You're not in this match.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: I'm sorry. I have to do this or else I'm fired. And kicked in the head. No one likes to be kicked in the head.

Andrews: Why don't I kick you in the head now so you don't have to worry about it happening later?

Andrews tries to throw a kick, but Mary-Lynn ducks it, and Andrews lands his leg on the guardrail, kicking a small child in the front row.

He was a plant. And he was actually a midget.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Don't warn me with what you're going to do. That's like me saying I'm going to headbutt you.

She turns to Korver as she says this. Korver immediately braces himself for impact, but then realizes none is coming.

Mary-Lynn has raced toward the ladder.

Richard: Uh, what's that tramp doing?

Nick: Mary-Lynn hasn't touched a single competitor yet, but she has brought out the second most important prop. And she RACES past Korver, who still thinks she's going to headbutt him!

And as Mary-Lynn reaches the ring, she javelin tosses the ladder into the ring, landing it awkwardly on the ropes. Davis charges toward Tyler Chance in the ring, and gets back body dropped... Davis lands
back first on the awkwardly positioned ladder as he is tossed from the ring, and the ladder catapults into the face of Hank Cobb. The three hundred pound beast is sent sprawling through the ring ropes and down to the cold floor.

With a thud he lands directly in front of the time keeper's table, causing the bell to ring ever so slightly.

Tyler Chance stares oddly at the time keeper when he hears this noise, and walks over to the corner, demanding to know what "the dealio" was. The time keeper quickly explains his mistake, but not before Tyler Chance had already made his mistake.

The Lunatic had recovered.

Nick: The Lunatic’s got that ladder!

Richard: TYLER! HEAR MY GIRLISH SCREAMS FOR YOU!

Tyler Chance could not hear Richard’s girlish screams, and turned to eat steel. Tyler feel backward and through the ropes, landing on top of DUI’s Hank Cobb.

Flyer placed the ladder on his shoulders as Andrews slid in the ring, holding a steel chair. Flyer airplaned himself, and Andrews slammed the steel chair into the ladder to spin it away from him as it came propellering toward. Andrews kept having to slam steel chair into the left side and right side of the ladder as the Lunatic twirled it around his neck.

Nick: Flyer is trying to airplane spin that ladder into Andrews face, but Andrews keeps swatting it away with that chair.

Tony Davis recovers on the outside and rips up the ring apron. Cue: Tables.

Tony slides in two before being noticed by the recovering DUI. Mary-Lynn had come over to help him set up the third table outside, as Korver makes his beeline. Davis slides in, ignoring him, but Mary-Lynn is waiting, and promptly headbutts Korver as he makes the turn around the ring.

Mary-Lynn bounces back, clutching her skull in immense pain. She falls to her knees, and clutches her air cast in caution.

Meanwhile, in the ring, Davis has charged and caught a distracted Andrews with a spear, knocking him back into the corner. Andrews loses his chair as he’s hit, and that allows Flyer come in and finally knock him in the face with his ladder airplane spin.

Too bad he also knocked his tag team partner clean cold.

Nick: And a costly mistake! Aaron Andrews and Tony Davis both slump down in the corner, they’re completely unconscious.
Hank Cobb hit the ring, and roars as he charges toward the Lunatic. Flyer slides underneath, and then races off the otherside, only to be smacked in the face with a steel chair from Tyler Chance on the outside. Flyer hobbles off the other side, just as Korver races in and slides underneath the bottom rope.

Nick: DOUBLE SHOT! The Lunatic’s laid out cold! And Tyler Chance tries to re-enter the ring, but meets Hank Cobb! SOUTHERN JUSTICE! DUI have leveled the competition! Colby’s getting Hank, they’re setting up the ladder! This is it! We could have new tag team champions!

Richard: Korver’s climbing up that ladder, Hank Cobb’s standing guard, but there’s no one that can stop him.

Sliding into the ring is Mary-Lynn Mayweather. Hank Cobb stands his ground, but he seems to soften as she enters.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: You guys, you’re winning fair and square. Congrats. I’m not going to stop you.

Hank Cobb smiles. His fist lose their solidity.

Hank Cobb: Do, you like me?

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Sorry.

Mary-Lynn places her hand on Hank’s and smiles sincerely.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: I do.

And that’s when she sprays him in the eyes with red mist.

Richard: That jezebel!

Nick: I didn’t know you knew the word.
Hank Cobb flails backward, blind, and smacks into the ladder. Korver begins to shake his head "no" in an almost comedic fashion as the ladder TETTERS and FALLS, sending Korver over the top rope and through the table that Tony and Mary had set up just moments earlier.

Hank Cobb falls to his hands and knees, clawing at his own eyes in a desperate attempt to see again.

As the fans go ecstatic, though, the lights suddenly cut to black.

Nick: Uh...

Richard: Shit. I know what this is. YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME TO HELL, DEVILLE!

...

Nick: ..........What?

Richard: Uh. Nevermind.

Spotlights shine on the entryway. And then, suddenly, the words of Malcolm X are heard throughout the building.

"And during these few moments that we have left... I want to talk right down to Earth, in a language that everybody here can easily understand."

Guitar riffs echo throughout the building, as Living Colour's "Cult of Personality" begins to sound off of the public announce system in the arena. The attention of everyone not currently unconscious in the ring turns to the entryway, where there is suddenly a burst of pyro. Then a literal swarm of photographers and cameramen running out to the ring. Some are filming and taking pictures of the in-ring action, while many of the rest are taking pictures of the two men walking down the aisleway.

Nick: What the hell...

Neither of the men look like they're planning to wrestle tonight. Rather, they dressed in "business casual". One man had short brown hair that he intentionally gelled into short spikes, while the other man had slightly longer blonde hair. Both happen to be good looking guys, enough so that girls are already screaming for them. They cooly ignore that, though, as they casually walk around the ring. They end up approaching the corpse of Colby Korver, only to simply walk over the top of him and keep on going... to the desk of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Nick: Uh...

Richard: ...Hi?

The two men sit down next to Richard Parker and grab some extra headsets. Nick looks at them oddly, as though he'd never seen them before, as "Cult of Personality" fades out.

Blonde Man: Hey. Stuart. Quick gawking at us. You're making a scene.

Nick: You just came out with entrance music and pyro, and then you have like thirty cameramen out here! How am I making more of a scene than you are?!

Blonde Man: Fuu. Those guys? They're our... associates. They're helping us keep an eye on our eventual opponents.

Nick: Wait. Wait. Are you trying to "Spygate" the PRIME Tag Team Division?

The blonde man pushes up on his sunglasses in order to adjust them, without taking his eyes off of Nick Stuart. He needs only to nod. It suddenly dawns on Nick the identity of the two men seated next to him.

Nick: Hold the phone, you're the Princes of New England?!

Blonde Man (Simon Knox): In the flesh. You want an autograph or something?

Connor O'Reily: It's Nick Stuart, Simon. He doesn't get our autographs.

Simon Knox: Oh. Right. Nevermind then.

Richard: What about me?

Connor O'Reily: Sure, why not? You're the only fucking sensible one between the two of you.

Richard: (proudly) Hear that, Nick? I'm sensible.

The only sound that can be heard from Nick Stuart is a low, nearly inaudible groan.

As he does so, Flyer stirs in the ring and crawls towards the ladder. Meanwhile, Aaron Andrews slides out to the floor and falls to his hands and knees on the floor. Flyer gets to the ladder and tips it back so that it stands in the center of the ring. At the foot of one end of the ladder, Flyer begins to try and climb. Halfway up, however, Tyler Chance has his leg. He tries to pull Flyer off, but instead, Flyer pivots around and kicks Chance in the face, disorienting him. Flyer then tries to climb up further, but Chance is stunned but for only a moment and he quickly tries to catch Flyer before he can lay claim to the titles. Chance climbs up a rung and tries to power Flyer into a fireman's carry. But Flyer won't let him, smashing Chance's skull with repeated elbows.

Nick: Flyer is blocking the attempted Death Valley Driver off of the ladder! Finally, Chance lets go!

Another boot in the face from Flyer takes Chance off of the ladder. Flyer climbs up one more rung, but opts not to go for the titles. Rather, he takes a chance. He comes flying off the ladder towards Chance. However, Chance catches him with a quick boot in the gut. A front facelock follows.

Nick: ORANGE CRUSH! Tyler Chance catching High Flyer with an Orange Crush right in the center of the ring!

Simon Knox: Clearly, he's an REM fan.

Connor O'Reily: Likes to sit around like a putz and whine about losing his religion.

Simon Knox: While crying to his mommy about how everybody hurts.

Connor O'Reily: While wanting to just be a shiny happy person.

Simon Knox: Let's face it, it's the end of the world as Flyer knows it, and yet... we can't help but feel fine.

Nick: WILL YOU STOP!?

As Chance gets up from the move, Aaron Andrews slides in a second ladder by one end first. Tyler attempts to take the ladder, but it's suddenly intercepted by Hank Cobb, who simply steps on the ladder to prevent Tyler from taking it. At first unaware of why he couldn't lift the ladder, Tyler is suddenly blindsided by the biggest man in the match with a running shoulder block that knocks Tyler down. Seeing this, Aaron re-enters the ring. He attacks Hank from behind with a mounted sleeper, and Hank ends up having to support Aaron's weight. Tyler wants to help, but he's suddenly caught in the face with a forearm from none other than Tony Davis, and then shoved out to the floor. Tony looks to the outside and see Mary-Lynn Mayweather poking a steel chair through the ropes.

Richard: Uh oh. This doesn't look good.

Tony looks at the steel chair for a second, and actually mouths the words, "What, no rock?". But he takes the chair anyway.

Then, with a warcry resembling "FOR NADS!", Tony takes the chair and rockets a blow directly into the face of the 300-pounder.

SMACK!

Hank looks wobbly, as fans cringe in pain at the nearly unprotected chairshot from Davis. Andrews, to his credit, hangs on to the sleeper despite the blow also hitting his arms. Unfortunately, he may live to regret hanging on, as Davis rockets a second chairshot into Cobb's face.

SMACK!

Hank, now fully dazed, falls back onto the ladder.

CRUUUUUNCH!

Nick: OH MY GOD!

Aaron Andrews had the misfortune of still clinging to Hank's back. So when Hank hit the ladder, in reality, it had been Andrews sandwiched between Hank Cobb's girth and the unforgiving steel ladder.

Simon Knox: Fuuu. Flat as a pancake.

Connor O'Reily: Feed him to Mega Job, he's done.

Nick: Unles I'm mistaken, Mega Job eat waffles, not pancakes.

Connor O'Reily: The fuck do I care?

Cobb finally rolls off of Andrews after a painful couple of seconds of lingering on Aaron's corpse.

Tony Davis sees the ladder placed in the center of the ring, but before he gets to it, he takes the other ladder and sets it up nearby, almost perpendicular to the one already set up. Basically, it's facing the camera rather than having its side to the camera. After that, Tony climbs up the original ladder.

Richard: I can't really understand the wisdom of setting up that second ladder when he's just going to climb the first one. Isn't that just asking for trouble?

Nick: Trouble is Tony Davis' middle name.

Simon Knox: ...Tony Trouble Davis?

Nick: Sure, why not?

Simon Knox: Lame.

Davis gets halfway up, but Colby Korver is suddenly among the living. Colby runs up the other ladder, and then suddenly bolts backwards and into Davis with a wicked flying clothesline, knocking Davis off his feet and sending the crowd into a frenzy.

Nick: CLOTHESLINE OFF THE LADDER BY KORVER! He came out of nowhere with that!

The ladder that Davis had been on falls over, once again landing with its top along the ropes. Mary-Lynn Mayweather is quick to go to where Tony is to see if he happened to be okay after that harsh landing.

Connor O'Reily: Didn't we step over his dead body getting here?

Simon Knox: Apparently, he was less dead than we thought.

Connor O'Reily: Unless he's a zombie.

Simon Knox: Then apparently, he's one of those 28 Days Later zombies and not those Romero zombies.

Connor O'Reily: Shame we didn't bring any shotguns with us.

Simon Knox: I figure if we put some of these peons in front of us as meat shields, we can escape long enough to acquire shotguns.

Connor O'Reily: But we'd risk infecting more people with the zombie virus.

Simon Knox: That's just a chance we'll have to take.

Nick: FOCUS ON THE MATCH!

Simon Knox: When the zombie invasion happens, Stuart, you'll be the first to have their brain eaten.

Colby gets up, but he's met with kicks in the gut from the recovering High Flyer. At the same time, Tyler Chance gets into the ring on the opposite side of Flyer and Korver. He charges at both of them, but both Flyer and Korber see him coming and, in an act of impromptu teaming, catch Tyler coming in with a double hip toss that... sends Tyler flying over the top rope!

Only, Tyler does not hit ground.

Instead, he is caught and held up by the literal crowd of photographers and cameramen that the Princes of New England had brought with them earlier in the contest.

NicK: I... I don't believe it, but those cameramen actually CAUGHT Tyler Chance! He's CROWD SURFING your cameramen!

Simon Knox: Fuuuu. No ordinary gaggle of cameramen could catch Tyler Chance like that. No, we hired the best of the best. They kinds of guys that can catch flying weirdos like that peon out of midair if they wanted to.

Nick: Why would you hire cameramen like THAT?

Connor O'Reily: Why wouldn't we? Only the goddamn best gets hired by the Princes of New England. Anything less are garbage.

Simon Knox: Peons.

Connor O'Reily: Worthless.

Simon Knox: Trash.

Connor O'Reily: Insiginificant.

Simon Knox: Waste.

Nick: I GET THE POINT!

Richard: No no, keep going.

A small "TYLER IS METAL!" chant erupts from the smarkier sections of the crowd. Tyler has no way to actually get out of his position, however. As High Flyer kicks Korver in the gut and nails him with an enzugiri, he gets this look on his face like he's even crazier than normal. He climbs up to the top turnbuckles, facing Chance in the crowd of cameramen, and then comes flying off the top rope with a frog splash into Chance, causing everyone to topple over like bowling pins.

Crowd: HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: MY GOD!

Richard: That's not a mosh pit!

Simon Knox: No, actually, that's probably the best paid mosh pit in America right now.

Connor O'Reily: Until we fire them for not doing their fucking jobs and filming this fucking match.

As the crowd continues to go loco roco, Aaron Andrews manages to get to the ladder, prop it back into place, and starts climbing in the attempt to recover the tag titles. He begins his climb, but his ascent is slowed because of the various injuries he's sustained so far in the contest. As he's being slow, Hank Cobb has brought in a table.

Nick: Here comes Hank and he's got a table!

Simon Knox: It's funny. He's usually passed out shitfaced on a table, and today, he's carrying one.

Connor O'Reily: Don't be fooled, Sim. He's clearly shitfaced.

Simon Knox: Or at least he looks like shit.

Connor O'Reily: Probably because he *is* shit.

Nick: Do you guys just rehearse this stuff?

Simon Knox: No, we're just amazingly quick-witted.

Hank sets up the table in a corner, half-propped. He sees Andrews is almost there, so he quickly moves over to him and catches him with a quick low blow, drawing sympathy from any male fans in in the audience. With Andrews subdued, Hank pulls him down and into a crucifix powerbomb position.

Richard: Oh no.

Nick: Hank Cobb has him up!

CRUNCH!

Nick: SOUTHERN JUSTIIIIIICCCCEEEE!

Richard: No! Not our tag champions!

Simon Knox: It's amazing you even know he's half of the tag champions. I can't even remember the last time they defended the titles. Or even who they beat to win the titles. Or... that PRIME itself even remembers that it has tag titles.

Aaron Andrews is dead in the corner following Hank Cobb landing his throwing crucifix powerbomb into a nearby corner and through the table he had set up. Hank takes the opportunity to slide out to the floor again to grab two more items... a second table and a third ladder. He slides the ladder into the ring, and then sets up the table so that it bridges between the ring apron and the nearby guardrail. The biggest man in the match slides back into the ring, and sets up the ladder near the turnbuckles, simply leaning it against the turnbuckles for the time being. However, when Hank finally turns around after setting it up, he sees Tony Davis behind him.

Wielding a rock.

Nick: Oh dear.

Hank actually pauses for a bit. Tony sure looks more meanacing than he ever could when he has a rock in his hand. Finally, Tony takes a swing at Hank, but Hank catches his wrist.

Nick: Hank Cobb was about to get hit in the head with that rock, but he caught Tony's hand! Now he's prying the rock out of Tony's hand! He's got it!

Richard: Shit.

Connor O'Reily: Funny. That's both what Tony Davis just said to himself, and also my exact opinion of Hank Cobb to boot.

Hank Cobb holds up the rock meanacingly, and he's approximently fifty times more meanacing than Tony was with the rock. Tony backs away, and Hank begins to stalk him around the ring with the rock. However, Hank would soon be stopped, not by Davis, but by High Flyer, who slides into the ring and hits Cobb with a steel chair.

SMACK!

Cobb staggers, but does not go down. However, he does drop the rock. Tony Davis turns around to Mary-Lynn Mayweather, still at ringside with snow cart of goodies, and calls for a chair, which she tosses to him. Tony then winds up and hits Hank again.

SMACK!

Hank. Still. Won't. Go. Down.

Simon Knox: Oh, please. Hank has stood up half-conscious before. It's not like this is new to him.

Both Flyer and Davis look at one another as if they know what to do. Both stand on different sides of Cobb, with Flyer behind Cobb while Davis facing him. They both lunged.

DOUBLE SMACK!

Nick: CON-CHAIR-TO!

...

Richard: Oh my God.

Simon Knox: Tom Brady doesn't like it when you take his name in vain, Rich.

Richard: Sorry, my mistake. But still... HANK COBB IS STILL ON HIS FEET!

The fans are actually chanting "WHAT THE FUCK!" at this. Hank Cobb, though still staggering, is actually still on his feet following a double chairshot from Team VIAGRA. Still with chairs in hand, Flyer pushes aside the ladder standing in the center of the ring, and then both he and Davis run into opposite ropes. They both run PAST Cobb on the first instance, but on the second... Flyer goes low and Davis goes high.

DOUBLE SMACK!

Fans: HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: TOTAL ELIMINATION CON-CHAIR-TO! COBB IS OUT!

The fans are actually chanting "holy shit" because Flyer had come from the front and Davis came from behind, which had caused Cobb to land rather painfully on his face from the force of the impact. Either way you slice it, though, Hank Cobb is done for the night.

Team VIAGRA drops their chairs, and Davis moves the ladder back into position and starts to climb. However, High Flyer is suddenly blindsided by Tyler Chance, who gets back into the ring and throws Flyer through the turnbuckles and into the post. He knocks off Davis from the ladder by pulling his foot, but Davis manages to land on his feet. He knocks down Chance with a big clothesline, and then grabs the ladder that Hank Cobb left behind. He creates a brief between the turnbuckles and the ladder by lodging one end of the ladder into one of the rungs of the ladder while simultaneously letting the legs be balanced between the second and top ropes. Tony then goes to the other side of the ladder and starts to climb for the titles, but once again, Chance pulls him off.

Davis lands on his feet again, though, and kicks Chance in the gut.

Connor O'Reily: Man, Tyler Chance is like that annoying running back who doesn't take the fucking hint that what he's doing isn't working.

Davis pulls Chance over to the ladder bridge that he just made. He lifts Chance onto the ladder bridge and follws him up. As soon as he hooks his arms, though, the fans erupt.

Richard: Oh, no. No no no. Not that.

Nick: Davis is looking to use the EQUALIZER ON THE LADDER!

Richard: Come on, this is, like, attempting homicide on his fellow man!

Simon Knox: Fuuuu. Tyler Chance doesn't count as a human being, Davis wouldn't be arrested.

Richard: No fair!

Connor O'Reily: It's just that since Davis also doesn't count as a human being, we'd simply have to put him down like the animal he is if, in fact, he does kill Tyler.

Chance is blocking the Equalizer on the ladder, however, and tries to power the bigger Davis up. However, Davis blocks this and then fires rapid kneelifts into Chance's skull. Meanwhile, as Davis tries this, Colby Korver climbs up to the top rope right where the ladder is lodged. At about this time, Davis lifts Chance up for the Equalizer.

CRUUUUUNCH!

I think now is about time to break out that "PRIME THAT SHIT!" chant that PRIME crows love ever so much, because Colby Korver hit a double stomp on Chance as he was being piledriven THROUGH the ladder. In fact, spiking Chance, while part of Korver's goal, is only half the story. The other half is that Korver uses the boost to leap onto the other ladder.

Nick: OH MY GOD!

Richard: Holy Brady. I think we just had our first attempted homicide on PRIME pay-per-view.

Nick: What about when Clinton Sage shot Dusk?

Simon Knox: When does Dusk *ever* count?

Korver starts climbing.

Nick: Korver's close, but Flyer's on the top rope with that other ladder!

Flyer, who has the ladder standing up while folded in the corner, puts one foot in a ladder rung and pushes off. The ladder falls forward, taking Flyer with it. Then Flyer jumps off and lands on a high rung on the ladder, and immediately blasts Korver with a right hand.

Nick: Both men are fighting on the top of the ladder!

Connor O'Reily: Man, I wish I had peanuts right now.

Simon Knox: Steal some from the fat fuck behind us. He won't notice.

Connor O'Reily: That might require actually getting close to him and smelling his fat smell. Fuck that shit.

Simon Knox: Don't worry. I'm too pretty for that shit, too. Since when did you eat peanuts, anyway?

Connor O'Reily: I don't. I just think they might make excellent things to throw at those fuckers up there.

Korver grabs Flyer by the head and slams it onto the top of the ladder. With one of his hands still holding down Flyer's head, Korver tried to reach up and grab the championships that he and Hank Cobb so desperately wanted. However, Flyer manages to swing his arms frantically, catching Korver in the stomach a few times. This releases Korver's grip on Flyer's head, but not Korver's grab for the titles, as Korver manages to grab the rope that held the titles high above the ring.

Meanwhile, Tony Davis has recovered and so has Aaron Andrews. Davis goes for the Equalizer on Andrews. But Andrews drops to one knee and then throws a punch between Davis' thighs that will, much to the relief of all sane human beings on Earth, probably prevent Davis from procreating. Then Andrews casually lifts his head up, taking Davis up and over the top rope.

CRUNCH!

...And through the table set up on the outside.

But our attention isn't on the suffering of Tony Davis, but on Korver and Flyer, as now both of them have their hands on the rope holding up the titles.

Nick: Korver and Flyer are so very close! Who's going to come away with the titles?!

Connor O'Reily: You know that if we were actually in this match, that question would've been answered like five minutes ago. With us holding the titles over our heads.

Simon Knox: Verily.

Aaron Andrews, fresh off of eliminating Tony Davis from the equation, decides to put a stop to their attempts to win the titles by pushing the ladder out from under Korver and Flyer. However, rather than the intended effect of knocking them both off the ladder.

The crowd erupts.

Nick: FLYER AND KORVER ARE HANGING ABOVE THE RING!

Aaron Andrews, shocked, tries to think of a way to get out of this situation. He opts to try and take both men out, grabbing them by their ankles. But both Korver and Flyer shake him off, only to start kicking at each other.

Flyer, however, manages to sneak in one kick to Korver's face that stuns him. Another kick causes Korver's grip to loosen and cause him to fall off. Andrews has the misfortune of being underneath Korver at the time, and Korver's falling body takes Aaron out.

The fans explode, as Flyer tries to grab the title belts from his position.

Nick: KORVER AND ANDREWS ARE DOWN! FLYER'S TRYING TO GET THE TITLES!

Richard: No!

Nick: HE'S GOT ONE!

Richard: NO!

Tossing the title in the general area where Davis has fallen, Flyer then reaches for the other title.

Nick: AND... FLYER FALLS!

Richard: NO!

Nick: FLYER HAS THE OTHER TITLE! THEY'VE DONE IT!

The crowd roars, as "I Hope You Die" hits the PA system. Vince Howard stands up from his seat, just as the Princes do. The Princes do not say anything, but the sound of Simon Knox's low, dismissive "Fuuu" noise he sometimes makes can be barely heard over the crowd and Howard's announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen... the winners of this match.... and NEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWW PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONNNNNSSSSSSS.... TEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM VIAGRAAAAAAAAAAA!

The visual of the Princes of New England giving a sarcastic golf clap can be seen as High Flyer takes his title and slides out to the floor to collect Tony Davis, who is still down on the floor. Meanwhile, EMTs come out to check on the conditions of Tyler Chance and Hank Cobb, who are both still down after the efforts of Tony Davis and High Flyer.

It had been a hellish war, but somehow, Team VIAGRA came through with the win.

The tag team championships had been decided, but as the swarm of cameramen and photographers that have been hired by the Princes of New England leave the building for the night, a single, yet pretty woman looks at them with disdain. She wears a frilly brown dress that happens to match her brown hair. Her hands are on her hips, and she brings her glare to the last two men to follow the cameramen.

Simon Knox and Connor O'Reily, the Princes of New England.

Miranda O'Reily: What was that?

Simon Knox: What was what?

Miranda O'Reily: Whatever stunt you two just pulled out there. What was that?

Connor O'Reily: C'mon, sis. We were just...

Miranda O'Reily: (interrupting) Interrupting a perfectly fine ladder match with this posse of cameramen you brought down to the ring?! Where'd you even find them, anyway? This is the first time I've heard about ANY of them!

Simon Knox: (sarcastically) We found them at Cameramen R Us.

Miranda diverts her attention to Simon Knox.

Miranda O'Reily: I'm not happy right now, Simon!

Simon Knox is usually the type of guy who would easily be able to deflect the comments of someone of the stature of Miranda O'Reily. However, for some reason, Simon can't seem to find a comeback against the twin sister of his tag team partner.

Miranda O'Reily: You disrupted a match, you insulted everyone involved in the match while on commentary, and you disrespected the champions that won the match. Do you realize what kind of headaches this is all going to cause?

Simon Knox: Hey, why are you yelling at me?

Miranda O'Reily: Because you're supposed to be the half of this team that's actually responsible. Connor, let's face it, he has the attention span of a *brain damaged kitten*. You're supposed to make rational decisions when I'm not around to make them for you.

Speaking of the aforementioned brain damaged kitten, Connor has noticed something that catches his attention, and he walks over to the attention-catching thing now.

That attention-catching thing is a slight woman, maybe five-foot-five, astride a cherry-red bicycle. Her black hair is highlighted red at the roots, her Cubs windbreaker has been balled up and shoved somewhere, because we're down to an Alfonso Soriano jersey and a pair of blue jeans. Her ears, nose, and eyebrow are all pierced and her lips are quirked in confusion.

Hey, look, it's that bike messenger girl again, wonder what she's doing?

Bike Messenger: Hell. Who knew it would be this hard to find anyone around here? I would've charged double.

Meanwhile, Miranda O'Reily is still upset. as she takes it out on Simon Knox.

Miranda O'Reily: How am I supposed to do my job when you guys just keep me in the dark about what you're doing?!

Simon Knox: Well, if we told you what we wanted to do, you'd nag.

Miranda O'Reily: And now I'm not just nagging, I'm angry.

Connor, meanwhile, approaches the bike messenger.

Connor O'Reily: Hel-LO. Can I help you?

Bike Messenger: Hm. I'm looking for Andreas van der Wal. I've got this package that absolutely has to get to him. Can you help me find him?

Connor O'Reily: Hmmm. Let me think about it. (looks up as if he's really thinking about it) Nope. Actually, I'm new here. I couldn't tell Lindsay Troy apart from Easton Hall, to tell you the truth. Probably couldn't tell you much about... what was his name again?

Bike Messenger: Andreas van der Wal.

Connor O'Reily: Right, right. He German or something?

Her lips contort into a soft frown.

Bike Messenger: I'm afraid I wouldn't know.

Aaaaand, back to Miranda and Simon.

Simon Knox: Alright, so you're angry. What of it?

Miranda O'Reily: Look, I may be Connor's sister, but that doesn't mean you can just ignore me. I'm the public relations manager. Do you know what that means, in a nutshell, Simon? It means I'm the one that Mr. Cantrell is going to yell at when he inevitably calls for us and yells about the stunt you idiots just pulled.

Simon Knox: (dismissively) I'm not an idiot.

Miranda points in Simon's face.

Miranda O'Reily: You sure ACT like one.

Meanwhile, back with Connor and the bike messenger.

Connor O'Reily: Well, I'm not him.

Bike Messenger: Would've hoped you'd have said so if you were.

He extends a hand.

Connor O'Reily: Connor O'Reily.

Bike Messenger: Rebekah. With a K.

Connor O'Reily: So, Rebekah with a K, what's the big deal about this package of yours, anyway? It's nothing that important, is it?

Rebekah: Dude, I don't look in these things. It's kind of important, yeah.

Connor O'Reily: So you say. Is it so important that you can't just stop and have a nice chat with a guy like me?

Rebekah: Probably.

Connor O'Reily: Such a shame.

Rebekah: Dude, either help me or don't.

Hey, let's go somewhere less awkward, like Connor's sister continuing to chew out his tag team partner.

Simon Knox: So, what? That was great out there, anyway. It's not like we even attacked anyone physically or did anything other than just come out there and make our glorious debut, like we SAID we would. It's great publicity, you know.

Miranda O'Reily: I would PREFER that said publicity does not get us kicked from the active roster within a week of our being here!

Simon Knox: That's not gonna happen. We're too pretty to be fired.

Miranda O'Reily: You'd THINK that, wouldn't you!?

Simon Knox: Sounded good in my head, that's good enough for me.

Okay, that might have been more awkward. Fortunately, at about this point, Miranda sighs and looks away from Simon. She notices that Connor's nowhere to be found, and gets this agitated look on her face that Simon Knox knows and may actually fear.

Miranda O'Reily: Where the hell is Connor?

She looks around before she spots him with the lovely young bike messenger. She gets an angry look on her face and marches over towards them. Connor probably should have been aware of the sound of a five foot, six inch woman wearing heels marching toward him, but he was too busy trying to make his move.

Connor O'Reily: So, after you find this German guy, you free?

Rebekah: Er...

Fortunately, she never has to answer that question, as Connor's twin sister suddenly grips him by the ear and starts to pull him away from the bike chick.

Miranda O'Reily: (to the bike messenger) Forgive him, he's stupid. (to Connor) I'm SCOLDING you, Connor. That doesn't mean "wander away and do other things"!

Connor O'Reily: Ow! Owowowowow! Leggo of me, sis! You're not supposed to touch guys!

Miranda O'Reily: You don't count as a man. Come with me. Now.

She starts to drag him away, leaving Rebekah all by herself, package at her hip.

Rebekah: So I guess that means you won't be helping?

Still being pulled away by Miranda, he manages one last gesture to Rebekah on his way out.

Connor O'Reily: (his thumb to his ear and his pinkie to his mouth) Call me!

Rebekah: I guess not.

It’s UltraViolence, one of the biggest nights of the year; only understandable then that the ever-diligent Matt Mills is on the prowl for the scoop from one of the night’s competitors. A PRIME-labelled microphone in his hand, he roams the corridors looking for some jibber-jabber. Perhaps he’d find Devin Shakur to get the low-down on his Universal Title shot? Maybe Xavier Kannon might have some choice words for Captain Justice and Mr. Silver? Heck, Jason Snow might even be in the house!

THUD!

Unfortunately the PRIMEate he literally bumps into is a lot less glamorous.

Jason Natas: Outta the way, asswipe.

Mills’ first reaction is to open his lips to utter an apology, but, remembering his last encounter with "The Anti-Superstar", he soon decides otherwise. Dressed for a fight, Natas flashes a sneer at the interviewer, who quickly manages to pull himself together enough to perform his duties…

Matt Mills: Jason Natas! It’s your first pay-per-view appearance here in PRIME! How do-

Jason waves his hand dismissively at Mills, before cutting him off mid-sentence.

Jason Natas: Ahhhh, fuck off Mills. Ain’t got the time. Go find Tsonda or some other snivellin’ little shitcake to keep you company…

With that Natas turns and begins to walk away from Mills, knowing that his match is imminent. However, our intrepid interviewer isn’t going to give up that easily, and soon finds himself alongside Natas, practically forcing the microphone to the New Yorker’s lips.

Matt Mills: Any words for Bryan Dawkins?

Jason Natas: Shit, you don’t take "no" for an answer, do ya?

Without waiting for a response, Jason shakes his head.

Jason Natas: Got nothin’ more to say to that scrawny lil’ weasel. Tonight, Millsy, I’ma let my actions do the talkin’.

Not exactly the answer that Mills was expecting. Slightly taken-aback, the PRIME staffer does his best to keep the interview from dying…

Matt Mills: So uhhh, Jason. You’ve made a relatively slow start to your PRIME career and you’ve yet to pick up a singles victory. How do you intend to prove yourselves to the fans tonight?

With that, Natas stops dead in his tracks. He snorts before reaching into the pocket of his ragged jeans. Link-by-link, he slowly pulls out a long, thick chain, wrapping it around the palm of his gloved-hand. Natas makes a point of holding the chain up for all to see.

Jason Natas: Oh, I’ve got a couple of plans… an’ none of ‘em bode to well for Bryan Dawkin’s pretty lil’ face…

Tightening his grip on the chain, Jason grins.

Jason Natas: ‘Scuse me junior, I’ve got a war to wage.

With that "The Anti-Superstar" brushes past Mills forcefully, knocking the interviewer back a couple of yards. Instead of pursuer the New Yorker, Mills chooses to stay put, perhaps seeking a slightly more agreeable interviewee might be a good idea…

Nick: We’re back at ringside for what promises to be a pretty intense contest between two of PRIME’s newest employees, Richard!

Richard: It’s time for "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins to finally settle his score with Jason Natas, and I don’t think for a minute that this is going to be some pretty wrestling match.

Nick: Indeed, the rivalry between these two men has been quietly bubbling away since these two men first arrived in PRIME… so quietly in fact that much of it has gone over a lot of people’s heads! But make no mistake, Jason Natas harbors a genuine disdain for Bryan Dawkins, and I’m sure the Hawaiian isn’t too keen on Mr. Natas either!

Richard: I wouldn’t imagine so, Nick, but tonight I just think that "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" is going to get his wings clipped by Jason Natas! It’s high-flyer versus all-out brawler, and in an UltraViolence match-up I just can’t look past the big New Yorker!

Nick: I wouldn’t count out Bryan Dawkins just yet! This kid is hella impressive… since coming into PRIME he’s competed against some of the very best in the business and never disgraced himself once! He’s had a great start to his young career, and certainly made a lot more people sit up and take notice than his opponent tonight!

A crunchy guitar riff judders out through the Wrigley and the attention of the fans immediately turns to the entrance ramp.

"TEAR US DOWN!"

Jason Natas emerges from the back and gazes out across the ocean of spectators. With the steel chain from earlier still wrapped around his knuckles he immediately makes his way to the ring, the metallic stomp of Cancer Bats’ "Hail Destroyer" spewing from the sound system.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following is a no-disqualification match! Introducing first, from New York City, weighing in at 254lbs… he is "The Anti-Superstar"… JASSSSOOONNN NATAAAAASSSSSS!

Grabbing onto the bottom rope, Natas pulls himself up to the ring apron before clambering through to the ring itself. He slowly paces around the squared-circle, loosening his grip on the chain and swinging it around a little.

Nick: … looks like Natas wasn’t fooling around earlier on, Richard!

Richard: No sir-e! Look at the thickness of that thing! I get the feeling it isn’t going to take long for this one to get bloody…

"WOO HOO!"

"Song 2" by Blur.

The Wal*Tron 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: … aaaaaanndd his opponent! From Hilo, Hawaii, weighing in at 202lbs… he is "The Flyin’ Hawaiian"… BRYYYYAAAANNN DAAAWWWWKKKIIINNNNSSS!

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 and immediately focuses his attentions on Natas, who flashes him an ominous grin.

Richard: Check that look on Natas’ face! He’s not here to wrestle; he’s here to hurt Bryan Dawkins!

Nick: He’ll need to be on top of his game, though, if he wants to take the win tonight! Bryan Dawkins is a superb competitor with a lot of heart and determination; he won’t go down without a fight!

The two adversaries begin to slowly circle the ring, sizing each other up, before the bell finally rings.

Nick: Here we go!

Jason Natas is the first to make a move, swinging his chain wildly in Dawkins’ general direction. Dawkins, however, is exceptionally quick on his feet and is able to duck the attempt. Before his slower opponent has a chance to react, Dawkins has him flipped down with an arm drag which "The Anti-Superstar" soon springs up from, only to walk right into an identical move! This time, though, Natas is slower to get up to his feet, allowing Dawkins to drop him with a DDT, inadvertently dislodging the chain from Jason’s grip!

Nick: And it’s Bryan Dawkins with the early advantage!

Richard: Yeah, and look! The chain is HISTORY!

Sure enough, despite the stipulations of the match the referee shuffles the chain out of the ring with his foot.

Nick: That can only be a good thing for the Hawaiian!

Holding his head and cursing loudly, Natas begins to rise to his feet. The first thing he sees after regaining his vertical base is Bryan Dawkins’ fist a nanosecond before it connects with his jaw. Jason staggers backwards as Dawkins hits a few more alternating jabs at his larger opponent before grabbing him by the forearm and whipping Natas into the turnbuckles. The Hawaiian is quick to follow up, and after climbing the turnbuckles he finds himself nestled on the shoulders of "The Anti-Superstar," before flipping him downwards with a hurricanrana!

Nick: The fans showing their appreciation for that move as Bryan Dawkins keeps up the momentum!

Richard: He’s looking good early on here, Nick, but Jason Natas possesses one of the meanest haymakers I’ve ever seen! All he needs is one shot…

Nick: He’ll be lucky to get that shot if Dawkins keeps this up!

Instead of making an early cover on Natas, Dawkins instead decides to flash the crowd his trademark "hang loose" taunt; he smiles at their positive reaction.

Richard: Maybe this guy should spend more time actually WRESTLING than playing up to the fans!

Noticing that Jason Natas has begun to rise to his feet again, Dawkins adopts for a new approach, and this time runs against the ropes. He leaps and attempts to catch Natas with a cross body, but the now-vertical "Anti-Superstar" catches him midair…

Nick: Uh-oh!

… and SLAMS him backwards with a fall away slam!

Richard: There you go! The sheer raw power of Jason Natas, there for all to see!

Nick: He plucked Bryan Dawkins out of the sky as if he were a mosquito, Richard!

Richard: And now he’s laying into him with the closed fists!

As confirmed by Richard, Natas is indeed knelt down throwing his right fist wildly into the face of the Hawaiian. With his opponent lucky to still have his nose intact after the shots, Natas climbs back to both feet and begins to stomp away at Dawkins’ gut, holding onto the ropes for extra leverage. "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" attempts to pull himself up, but the force of Jason Natas’ boot is far too much for him to overcome. Jason soon adopts for another change of assault as he flips Dawkins over onto his stomach, before placing the Hawaiian’s neck across the bottom rope. Much to the chagrin of the fans, Natas places his boot on the back of his opponent’s neck and drives downwards.

Nick: What the… is this guy insane!?! This move could CRUSH Bryan Dawkins’ throat!

Richard: But it’s all legal, Nick! This is UltraViolence, you know! Anything goes…

Nick: I know, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, come on!

Natas, perhaps realizing the brutality of his own move, decides to ease the pressure on the Hawaiian and removes his foot. He steps backwards and watches a deep shade of red flush Bryan’s face as he holds his throat in pain, coughing like an elderly horse. Jason chuckles, points at Dawkins, and shouts something that is completely inaudible.

Richard: See, Jason Natas IS a nice guy after all! He let Dawkins go…

Nick: He shouldn’t have used that move in the first place, Richard!

Richard: Why not?! It’s all legal, baby!

Not wanting to give his opponent too much time to recover, Natas pulls Dawkins up by the hair. Noticing that he is surprisingly close to a corner, he quickly turns, before violently thrusting Dawkins through the top and middle ropes, sending his shoulder crashing straight into the ring post! Jeers begin to trickle out from the audience as "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" topples to the outside of the ring like a house of cards!

Nick: JESUS!

Richard: Did you hear the impact on Bryan Dawkins’ shoulder there!?!

Nick: Jason Natas is RELENTLESS here tonight, Richard!

Richard: Clearly he’s keen to make up for what has been a pretty uninspiring start to his wrestling career! He’s certainly making Bryan Dawkins look like his prison bitch at the moment!

This time there is no laughter from "The Anti-Superstar", who slides out of the ring and is immediately on top of his opponent once again. He hauls the high flyer up to his feet, backs him against the barrier, and immediately launches a couple of over-arm chops against his chest. He takes a couple of steps backwards, before looking to clobber Dawkins with a clothesline, but SOMEHOW "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" ducks the attempt! With the New Yorker’s back turned, Dawkins has the presence of mind to hook his heel in front of Natas’ leg, before pushing him in the back, sending Natas falling down face-first into the barrier!

Nick: What a counter!

Richard: Where on Earth did Bryan Dawkins get the energy from that!

Nick: I don’t know, but is that blood emerging from Jason Natas’ nose?! It is! Bryan Dawkins has drawn first blood here!

Sure enough, as Natas turns around a trickle of blood is seen emerging from one of his nostrils. He doesn’t dwell on it, though, and instead manages to telegraph a kick from Dawkins! However, as Natas holds onto one Hawaiian foot, Dawkins leaps and swings the other one around, colliding with Jason Natas’ skull, sending the big man to the floor!

Nick: Enziguri! And Jason Natas is DOWN!

Unlike his roughneck opponent, Bryan Dawkins doesn’t seem particularly keen for this to descend into an all-out street fight, so he grabs Natas by his bandanna and rolls him under the bottom rope, back into the ring.

Nick: Yes, smart move from Bryan Dawkins! He needs to keep this one ring-based; he’s GOT to play to his strengths!

Richard: Absolutely, we’ve already seen tonight how dangerous Jason Natas can be when it comes to straight-up fighting! If Dawkins can take to the skies, he MIGHT have a chance here…

Nick: "MIGHT" have a chance?! Have you seen this guy wrestle, Richard?! He almost beat Xavier Kannon in his debut match! This guy can REALLY fight!

Richard: The only problem with that is the fact that he’s facing a man notoriously known for his street-fighting background.

Nick: Nonetheless! I’ve got faith in PRIME’s High-Flyin’ Hawaiian! If he can take to the skies, I see no reason why he can’t come out of this confrontation with his first victory.

As if Dawkins could hear the commentary himself, he follows Natas into the ring, springboarding up onto the top rope. From there, he leapt up into the air, performing a shooting star press, and landing in the spot where Natas used to lay.

"OOH!"

Richard: And THAT is why he’ll still be winless after tonight. The kid’s too wreckless.

After missing on the springboard shooting star press, Dawkins lay on the mat, clutching his ribs in pain. Natas, not to be wasteful of this opportunity, rolled out of the way just in time and was now mounted on top of the Hawaiian raining down bombs in the form of his fists. Unable to protect himself, Dawkins wriggled underneath his adversary to no avail.

Nick: Richard, Natas is being relentless in his attack on the much smaller Dawkins! And it appears as though Dawkins has been busted wide open!

Richard: That’s what the kid gets for being too careless around my boy Natas.

Nick: Your boy? Alright Tony Kornheiser.

Without hesitation, Natas pulls Dawkins up to his feet and clutches his head under his arm to signal the end for the Hawaiian. Raising his free arm into the air and following with a cut-throat gesture, Natas shifted his weight and…

"OOH!"

…received a swift knee to the genitals, courtesy of Bryan Dawkins! Whilst clutching his crotch, Natas looks up at the referee in disbelief only to be met with a helpless shrug of the shoulders.

Nick: Natas looked at the referee for help following Dawkins’ match-saving low blow, but to no avail due to this being a no-DQ pay-per-view event!

Richard: (sighing) Thank you, John Madden!

Without hesitation, the Flyin’ Hawaiian uses the momentum of the ropes to send himself flying into the Anti-Superstar’s face with a running dropkick! Dawkins follows with a series of swift kicks to the head and leg drops in an attempt to keep the much larger Natas on the ground. Using the ropes to his advantage yet again, Dawkins this time springboards from the middle rope, connecting with a moonsault in the middle of the ring!

Nick: And now Dawkins is on FIRE! We could have our first attempt at a pinfall right here!

Richard: Oh joy…

Dawkins hooks the leg and awaits the count…

ONE...

TWO…

KICKOUT by Natas, sending Dawkins rolling off to the side of the Anti-Superstar, who has only been more angered by the Hawaiian’s recent offensive outburst. He leaps to his feet and charges at Dawkins, who telegraphs Jason’s attempt at a haymaker and ducks underneath, setting him up for another pin attempt, this time in the form of a schoolboy pin…

ONE…

TWO…

THRE—NO! KICKOUT again by Natas, who this time catches Dawkins before he can escape by rolling away. Natas clutches Dawkins’ arm and flings him towards the ropes and connects with a huge boot to the face, sending Bryan crashing to the mat!

Nick: Dawkins nearly came away with the win for the second time during this match, but the only thing he has successfully done is angered the Anti-Superstar!

Richard: What was that? I do believe I hear the fat lady warming up. And it won’t be good for your little beach boy.

Dawkins jumps to his feet from the pump of pure adrenaline and runs straight into a clothesline from hell, courtesy of the Anti-Superstar! Again, after receiving the shot from hell, Dawkins bounced to his feet but ducked Natas’ latest attempt at an assault in the form of a back body drop, and instead connected with a knee to the face!


Stunned, Natas stands erect and catches an attempted kick to the gut, which is followed with Dawkins’ other leg thrusting into his sternum, sending Natas into the ropes. Dawkins runs towards the opposing side and yet again uses the ropes to his advantage, springboarding into the air and catching Natas with a reverse springboard DDT! Natas neck and head snap back and plant into the mat, much to the enjoyment of the crowd!

DAWKINS DAWKINS DAWKINS!!!

Richard: Natas is just playing possum. He’s fine.

Nick: Say what you want, but Dawkins has yet again turned around and taken the momentum of the match!

Without hesitation, Dawkins has found his way to the top turnbuckle, and has also found the time to show his praise to the 50,000-odd fans in attendance by sending them all the "hang-loose" hand gesture that all but few of the fans enjoy immensely.

Richard: If he keeps that up, the only thing he’s going to win is a trip to Chicago’s finest emergency room…

Nick: What are you talking about? I love it!

Richard: You would.

Nick: Dawkins is now showing his appreciation to the crowd, who has no doubt been his motivation through the match! And it looks like he’s gonna end it right here!

Richard: Fat chance.

After showing his appreciation to the fans, Dawkins springs from the top rope, arching high in the air before crashing down onto Natas with his patented Shooting Star Press, which Dawkins has dubbed the HAWAIIAN HANGOVER!

Nick: And Dawkins nails it! It’s all over, Richard! What was that about a fat lady singing for Dawkins?

Richard: …

The Flyin’ Hawaiian hooks the leg of Natas and holds on…

ONE...

TWO...

THREE!!!

As the referee calls for the bell, the crowd erupts with cheers for the Hawaiian, who has pulled off his first victory with the company.

WOO HOO!

As "Song Two" by Blur plays over the PA, Vince Howard announces the accompanying result of the match.

Vince Howard: And the winner of this match …The Flyin’ Hawaiian, BRYYYYYAN DAWKIIIIINS!!!!

Nick: Dawkins has done it! The Flyin’ Hawaiian pulls himself together after a rocky start to this intense matchup with a win over his first nemesis in PRIME, Jason Natas!

Richard: He got lucky. Natas must’ve gotten some of the infield sand in his eye or something.

Nick: But the entire infield is covered…?

Richard: Yeah, whatever.

Dawkins climbs each turnbuckle and salutes the fans, giving them all the "hang loose" gesture and taking in the experience of his first win in PRIME.

There are certain things in this existence that are just next to impossible. Preventing Devin Shakur from blowing his royalty checks on ridiculous items like crowns, soapboxes, and inflatable Sun Tzu dolls (on clearance now at www.PRIMEshop.com), for instance. Keeping Ms. Lohan away from a line of blow. Convincing Paris Hilton that she doesn’t have to blow every dick in the room to stay famous. Or, even more difficult, stopping Jimmy Bonafide from just plain out blowing at life in general.

If one were to ask, let’s say, the PRIME merchandising staff to make an addition to this list, they might include marketing Wade Elliott as an undeniable inclusion. While PRIME’s resident Southern Sparkplug may, in fact, be popular with the fans, it turns out his merchandise is not. Sure, it’s nothing to make a Wade Elliott t-shirt, but it’s something else entirely to actually find a design he’d like. Or get him to promote the damn thing by wearing it out to the ring. There’s always the option of replica drifter hats, which has been explored, but ultimately, how much of a demand is there for silly hats nowadays? After that, what else is there? The man has a dog, but you can’t exactly go about making Wade Elliott leashes and pooper scoopers…

"Hmm. Now there’s an idea."

Of course, as you realize, this exposition, like all of ours, while long, is eventually leading to a point. A point that was just interrupted by your current 5-Star Champion, Tyler Rayne. What idea is that now?

Rayne: Wade Elliott pooper scoopers.

Really?

Tyler Rayne: Sure. We could use them to clean up the ring after his matches. After all, that atrocious flailing of limbs that he likes to call "wrestling"—

We’ll pause for a moment to point out that the man is using his fingers to make air quotes as he says this. Ladies and gentlemen, the side effects of too much downtime with Chandler Tsonda…

Tyler Rayne: —is pretty much similar to his backward ass taking a big shit in the middle of the ring. Hell, that’d probably be more entertaining, now that I think about it…

For a moment, the scarred warrior does seem to be lost in thought. He shrugs it off with a shake of his head, turning attention back to the half-empty bottle of vodka in hand and the shot glass resting on the table before him. The shot glass, it turns out, is that one shining jewel the merchandising team managed to unearth from the otherwise empty and barren hole that is Wade Elliott. Yes, boys and girls, the official Wade Elliott shot glass is available on PRIMEshop.com for only $9.99 while supplies last. And considering Tyler Rayne has just purchased a few boxes of them within the last day or so, that may not be long.

But back to the story. Shot glasses are used for taking shots. Perhaps, a shot of vodka. Which Tyler Rayne takes now. He pauses, relishing in the burn of the alcohol, staring at the cartoonish caricature of Wade Elliott on the side of the shot glass. With an amused smile Rayne turns suddenly, hurling the shot glass into what passes for a small kitchenette within the locker room. The glass smashes against the bullseye of a target pasted against the wall, shards and broken pieces dropping into a plastic container on the floor.

"Not that I have a problem with this kind of wanton destruction, Rayne…"

It’s a voice we all know and love. Or, well, some of us do. At least, most people tolerate it. And by people, we’re referring to those of average height and build, which thusly excludes the hobbit he’ll be facing later this evening in a steel cage. That’s right, kids, it’s Chandler Tsonda, rising to his full height after just pulling a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

Chandler Tsonda: …but I’d prefer you do your whole ironic smashing Wade’s face thing somewhere less in the vicinity of me.

The Model Citizen smiles at his sometime partner before taking a sip, keeping a close eye as the 5-Star Champion rises to retrieve the plastic container from the ground. He shakes the container just a bit, jostling the broken pieces of Wade Elliott within, before setting it up on the counter next to a similarly filled plastic bin. Suffice it to say, he’s been working on that bottle (and those aforementioned boxes of shot glasses) for a few. Now, whether that’s a few days, a few hours, or a few minutes, we’ll leave it to you to decide.

Tyler Rayne: What’s a matter, Tink? ‘Fraid I’ll miss and bust up that pretty girl’s face of yours?

Chandler Tsonda: (laughs) And let you waltz into position of PRIME's premier chick magnet? Never.

Tyler Rayne: Please. As if I haven’t already.

Chandler Tsonda: Long as I’m here, chief, you’re going to have to settle for second best.

This is not an uncommon argument between the two. After all, this little kitchenette is damn near on the brink of implosion attempting to contain such sexiness within its meager boundaries. Simply Beautiful, take notes. This is what it’s supposed to look like.

Tyler Rayne: Speaking of second best, what's the deal with you and the pocket Italian? Slumming it up on the midcard? Tsk tsk.

Chandler Tsonda: Don't care too much. Gonna go out there and make him cry.

Tyler Rayne: Gamble tears. Mmmm...delicious.

Chandler Tsonda: I know it's not exactly the same as the monster truck rally you held in the parking lot last week. But I think Gamble drives a Segway scooter anyway. What with not being able to see over the steering wheel and all.

Tyler Rayne: Zing.

A moment of silence interrupts the flow of the conversation. Tsonda looks like he's pulling a Band-Aid off as he addresses Rayne with the next question.

Chandler Tsonda: So...what're you gonna do about the Wade problem? Other then kick his badly aligned teeth in, I mean.

Tyler Rayne: Just gonna fuck 'im up.

Chandler Tsonda: I beat dude to win the Jewel in the Crown. He's no slouch.

Tyler Rayne: I know what I got myself into, Tink. Just like you gotta go out there and take care of business against The Gambino...

Chandler Tsonda: You gotta end this with Wade?

Tyler Rayne: Indeed.

A stoic moment between the two men. One in which each knows that, despite their friendship, there are some things that have to be done alone. Sure, there are no DQ's at UltraViolence, but you're not about to see Rayne or Tsonda interfere for each other. Honor among thieves and whatnot.

Chandler Tsonda: Then I guess I'll see ya on the other side.

Tyler Rayne: Truth.

The traditional pounded fist ends this little conference with little fanfare. Tsonda, in full ring garb, takes a deep breath and heads off to his match. Rayne, almost an hour away from competing, watches and then turns back to his symbolic dismantling of Wade Elliott.

WHACK - WHACK - WHACK

WHACK - WHACK - WHACK

Inside the private and secluded room, tucked away from Wrigley Field itself, Crucifix warms up by kicking air shield striking pads. Currently, those pads are behind held by a rather disheveled Winston. His white shirt has a streak of sweat down the back, and is missing three buttons in the front. His hair, normally locked in place with various gels and sprays, has broken loose and flops around in front of his face in blonde clumps with every kick.

His sister, Lynette, traces the neck of her white blouse as she talks on her cellular phone across the room. Given the special occasion of a Pay Per View event, she has chosen to wear a short black skirt with a small cross on the front of it. Given that her blouse is open far enough to reveal her wonderous cleavage, support is the last thing on her mind.

The roundhouse kicks are fast, painful, and never ending, much to Winston’s chagrin.

Winston: Are you -

WHACK - WHACK - WHACK

Winston: - almost done

WHACK - WHACK - WHACK

Winston: - kicking me?

Both his purple mask and tights have absorbed ample amounts of sweat. Plenty more still covers Crucifix’s scarred body. Lean muscles drive the kicks, the punches, the elbows, with explosive speed. The Zen Assassin is focused and ready for war.

He pauses and gives Winston a long stare before -

WHACK - WHACK - WHACK

Crucifix: Okay, now I’m done.

The pads simply fall off Winston’s arms, which are hanging limply at his side. He hangs his head and sighs.

Winston: Great. That’s wonderful to hear. Maybe one day next week I’ll be able to lift my arms again.

Lynette covers the mouthpiece of her phone with a manicured hand.

Lynette: Ask him about the money.

She then resumes her conversation.

Winston: What my dear sister is referring to is the wages I’ve been paying you. What I mean to say is, if this great beast of a man renders you incapable of training me, will I be getting a refund?

Crucifix unscrews a bottle of water, lifts the bottom of his mask, and gulps down a mouthful before lowering his mask once again. He pours the remaining water over his head, wetting his hair and soaking the top of his mask.

Crucifix: No.

He tosses the empty plastic bottle at Winston. The Brit cringes as he involuntarily raises an arm to catch the bottle. He doesn’t catch it, and the plastic bounces off his face.

Crucifix: Recycle that, will you?

Winston bends down but can’t reach the bottle without a great deal of visible discomfort. He stands up and kicks the bottle under a nearby chair.

Winston: I don’t think this Hoyt fellow is the only madman involved in the match.

Crucifix: You know something about the ref that I don’t?

Winston: I’m referring to you, cretin. This man is bigger than you, stronger than you, and has an agenda of destruction on his mind.

Crucifix: And he’s got a hate-on for me.

Winston: I have a -

Lynette covers the mouthpiece again.

Lynette: We.

Winston: We have a considerable investment in you. I, for one, don’t like to see that investment in jeopardy. Do you have some form of strategy in mind for beating this man?

Crucifix: Now I know Hoyt’s out of his mind -

Winston: Ring ring! Hello, kettle? Yes this is the pot. You’re black, old bean.

Crucifix: - but since he’s planning on smiting sinners, and there’s a No DQ clause in the match, I’m expecting something diabolical from him. So I plan on beating him by doing what he doesn’t expect.

Winston: You’re planning on running like Hell?

Crucifix: I said what he DOESN’T expect.

Winston: Which is?

Crucifix: Maybe I’ll sodomize him with a feather duster. Maybe I’ll hit him with a bag of broken glass. Or maybe I’ll just out-wrestle him. My main strategy is not to get killed. After that, I’ll play it by ear.

Winston: You’d bloody well better not get killed. I’m paying you to train me.

Crucifix walks over to the chair and picks up his black hoodie. He pulls it on over his masked head.

Crucifix: I’m going for a walk. I have no idea where I’m going to find a feather duster in this place. Don’t wait up.

The Zen Assassin walks past Winston, pushes the pads aside with the toe of his boot, and leaves the room. Once Crucifix has gone, Winston slowly picks up the pads and places them on the chair. His clean up completed, Winston walks over to the nearest wall and leans against it with his back, speaking without his British accent.

Winston: That guy’s gonna be the death of me yet.

Lynette hangs up the phone and slips it into her waistband of her short black skirt. She, too, drops her accent.

Lynette: You don’t know the half of it.

Winston: Explain.

Lynette: That was Dr. Menzel. He has one last job for us.

She traces a finger down his chest, sliding her nail across him and pinches his nipple between her thumb and forefinger. All the while, her seductive smile and smoldering eyes have Winston’s undivided attention.

Lynette: I mean, for you.

Richard: And only then did I figure out that she was fifteen.

Nick: In other, more pertinent news, we’re just seconds away from one of tonight’s most anticipated matchups.

Richard: Italian and Ching Chong. I love interracial.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall and will be fought within the not-so-friendly-confines of a steel cage!

Every PRIMEate worth his salt pops for the stipulation and the small nod to their hometown stadium.

Vince Howard: This match is won by pinfall, submission, or by escaping the steel cage!

Nick: Well, it was a pain in the ass for the ring workers, but that cage is already in place.

Richard: They brought that fucker in with the biggest crane I’ve ever seen in my life.

Nick: PRIME decided that, for the safety of all in attendance and the integrity of Wrigley to put this match before the Chicago Street Fight.

Richard: That way, while they disassemble the cage, we can watch that jobber Bonafide get his comeuppance from YOUR Sovereign and not waste time.

Nick: …precisely.

"You think I’m funny. Funny how?"

It’s a classic line, one recognizable even before its use in PRIME. But the people inside Wrigley Field realize its context. And they’re a little hot under the collar about its implications. A chorus of boos begins to rise up.

Nick: I think we know where this is going…

Richard: To Awesomeville!

With seamless timing, Metallica’s "Better Than You" roars onto the PA at the exact moment that Tony Gamble emerges. Other than the PermaGrin he shoots as he surveys the crowd (admiring the handiwork in turning Wrigley Field into PRIME’s lethal playground), Gamble is relatively emotionless. Maybe that’s because the song explains everything he needs to say.

I look at you, then you me
Hungry and thirsty are we
Holding the lion's share
Holding the key
Holding me back 'cause I'm striving to be

BOOOOOOOOOO!

Nate: I don’t think I hear a single cheer for Gamble here!

Richard: Get your ears checked they’re chanting, "Tooooooooooooooony." It’s called a long o vowel sound.

Tony Gamble marches proudly down the small portion of ramp, no-selling the crowd's jeers and snide remarks as he remains focused on the ring. Up above his head on the PRIME*View, footage from ReV 159 plays, reminding the crowd of his kendo stick assault on Chandler Tsonda.

Richard: I’ve YouTubed that clip at least a dozen times.

Nick: You need to leave your work at work and your creepy at home.

Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you

Vince Howard: Entering first…he weighs in at one hundred eighty-seven pounds…he was the 2006 Jewel in the Crowd and has held three different belts in PRIME…hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada…TOOOOOOOONY "THE GRIN" GAMBLE!

Tony takes his time getting into the cage. He stares into the ring for a few seconds with his left hand on the top rope, before ducking between the top and middle rope to step into the ring. Already, the crowd has seized the moment with a topical chant.

GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS!

Nick: Speaking of creepy, that Grin makes it seem as though Gamble actually enjoys the crowd’s jeers.

Richard: Think of all the great figures you hate to love: Tupac, Rob from Survivor…uhh…the list goes on.

Lock horns, I push and I strive
Some how I feel more alive
Bury the need for it
Bury the seed
Bury me deep when there's no will to be

It does indeed seem that Tony Gamble enjoys the negative reaction. But he enjoys it even more when the PRIME*View switches to footage of Great American Nightmare ’06, at which he pinned Chandler Tsonda to retain the 5-Star Title. The PermaGrin widens and boos increase as this footage plays.

BOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: Choice editing by Gamble’s video team.

SKRRRRRRRRRRT!

Nick: What the…?

That onomatopoetic reference is to the sound of a record scratching. The scratch cuts off the last refrain of Gamble’s music.

Tony Gamble: What the…?

On the PRIME*View, the last clip goes into rewind, then cuts into static.

Richard: This is what you get when you pay Chicagoans to do good work.

But the large video board starts to glow. Wistful violins preface two lines, the sound of which can only mean one thing. The bass is turned up so loud that each word vibrates underneath the seats.

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

The glowing on screen continues and now the PRIME*View looks like it’s white hot. It pulses with the first few acoustic moments of C&C’s "Welcome Home." A murmur amongst the crowd begins to take shape as full-on cheers.

Nick: He may not always be on the right side of the fight, but Chandler Tsonda is certainly going to be the fan’s choice over the scheming Tony Gamble.

As the first scorching guitar riff kicks in, the PRIME*View’s pulse turns into an unwavering image. In black letters on the bright white background: MODEL CITIZEN. After ten seconds of guitar freakout, green and silver pyro illuminate the sky above Wrigley. Four big shots, like rounds of a cannon, go off one after another.

Richard: Rock star entrance much?

In the ensuing smoke, the form of Chandler Tsonda can be made out. He stands at the entrance, looking all epic-like tucked behind curls of smoke, arms folded across his bare chest. At first sight of him, the crowd lets out a mighty pop.

WHOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: Rarely have I ever seen Tsonda receive an ovation like this!

Richard: Jesus, you’d think he just announced the Cubs won the World Series.

Vince Howard: And now coming to the cage…he weighs in at two hundred and one pounds…he was the 2007 Jewel in the Crown and sports a 5-1 Pay Per View win/loss record…hailing from San Diego, California…The Model Citizen…CHANDLER TSOOOOOOONDA!

Richard: Let’s not forget that one loss was a massive chokejob against the Amazon.

Nick: Get real; that was the best match of 2008 so far and neither competitor deserved to take a loss!

Richard: Revisionist history, bud.

But Tsonda knows he can’t be a gorilla in the mist all night. After that picturesque moment, the lyrics jump in and Tsonda pushes towards the ring.

You could have been all I wanted

The Model Citizen slaps a few hands, but his eyes never leave Gamble. At the cage door, Tsonda shifts his neck from side to side and shadowboxes, then steps into the caged area.

But you weren’t honest: now get in the ground

With that last line, two more massive mortars of pyrotechnics go off, making Gamble, Vince, and the referee jump in surprise. A Cheshire grin sits on the face of Tsonda as he leans back against the rope.

Richard: Real funny, Wang Chung.

With the music off, the pre-match posturing is over. As Tsonda checks the wraps on his wrists and Gamble stretches his arms, Elvis Nixon locks the door from the outside. Within the cage is Wesley James, who doesn’t have much to do, considering the match ain’t got a damn rule that can’t be broken.
Nick: The cage match is demanding enough that it requires two referees.

Richard: One to blow the easy calls, the other to defer on calls that should be his. Wait…this isn’t the NBA, my bad.

James checks if both fighters are ready and then calls for the bell.

DING DING DING!

Neither wrestler budges.

Tony Gamble: So here we are, eh?

Chandler Tsonda: Last chance to leave with your dignity, pipsqueak.

Tony Gamble: I was planning on leaving with mine intact and yours in my back pocket.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m not letting you get in the way of Colossus.

Tony Gamble: Then let’s polka, bitch!

Gamble, who gives up two inches in height to Tsonda, charges and slides underneath Tsonda’s legs. The Sultan of Style spins around, but not quickly enough. Gamble catches him with two right hands, then pulls him to the mat with a snapmare.

Nick: A clean start to this match. Somehow, I don’t think the rest of the match will be that neat and tidy.

Before Tsonda can get a steady footing, Gamble whips him at the ropes and catches him for a belly-to-belly suplex on the way back. But Tsonda counters with the leg. Gamble tries once, twice, and failing both times, he improvises. He grabs Tsonda’s left arm, stuns him with an elbow, slides through CT’s legs, then moves back around and pulls the Model Citizen to the ground with a Through DDT.

Richard: The ingenuity! The artistry!

Nick: It was a DDT thirty seconds into the match, Richard. Don’t blow a gasket.

With a moment of time to himself, Gamble plays to the crowd. He flexes and then stomps Tsonda’s downed form, actions that are received with a chorus of boos. The Grin pulls Chandler up by the hair and tosses him towards the nearest turnbuckle, but Tsonda fights back. Gamble goes for a stiff middle kick, but Tsonda catches his foot and spins him three hundred and sixty degrees. After the spin, Gamble is wide open for Tsonda’s second rope sunset flip.

One…

TwoNO!

Richard: I have it on good authority that Tony Gamble is a descendant of the Highlander.

Nick: The Highlander wasn’t Italian.

Richard: Common misconception. His real name was El Highlandrino.

Having tasted his own mortality in the match, Gamble gets up and snarls at Tsonda. The Viet Viper is perfectly content to have Gamble start losing his cool this early in the match. Spurred on by that feeling, Gamble goes for the lock up with Tsonda. With a drop step, Gamble slides around behind Tsonda and pulls his foe to the mat with a bridging German suplex. Over the in-ring action, fans can distinctly hear Tsonda’s shriek of pain.

One…

Two…

ThrNO!

Nick: Gamble did his homework. He’s attacking the weak spot in Tsonda’a armor: his back pain!

Richard: I thought his weak spot was his taste for the flesh of dudes.

Tony Gamble is back up quickly, although the same can’t be said for Tsonda. The Sultan of Style grabs at his back as he reaches his feet. He charges Gamble low with a sweep kick, but the Grin hops over Tsonda’s sweeping leg. Unfortunately for the Grin, Tsonda’s agility is such that he can transition with minimal effort from a sweeping leg up into a spinning roundhouse to take down the airborne Gamble!

Nick: Holy mackerel! Tsonda looks like a spinning top out there.

Richard: That fucker’s got like twenty seven legs!

Nick: And Tsonda’s not wasting any time letting Gamble stay down.

Grabbing his opponent by the shoulders, Tsonda shoves him towards the middle of the ring. Gamble grabs Tsonda’s right arm, but the Model Citizen swings around on Gamble’s left, putting him in hammerlock position behind Tony. With quick hands, he locks Gamble into his slightly modified Cobra Clutch in the middle of the ring.

Nick: The Viper’s Bite! Tsonda’s trying to go submission on one of PRIME’s only remaining submissionists!

Richard: Purists everywhere are crying snide tears of joy.

Gamble’s wiggling, however, has Tsonda’s grip slipping. He wrenches back once to get a better grip, but Gamble continues to fight back, throwing his right elbow back towards Tsonda’s head. In one motion, Tsonda ducks the elbow, drops both hands and raises Gamble high into the air…

Richard: Christ, turn down those flashbulbs, ya bastards!

…slams him down with an atomic drop. The males in the crowd issue a collective "oof!" and Gamble crumples to the mat, as the crowd starts to get behind Chandler.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

With the crowd behind him, the Viet Viper tries to seize the moment. Grabbing Gamble by the head, he sends his wobbling foe shoulderfirst through the middle rope, crashing into the side of the steel cage.

Richard: Isn’t that lunatic up there supposed to be the good guy?

Nick: These Wrigley fans aren’t hiding their distaste with Gamble at all. They’re applauding Tsonda’s actions, despite their vicious nature.

Gamble rebounds off the side of the cage and stumbles right into Tsonda’s grasp. The Model Citizen grabs him in a front facelock, encountering little resistance. Using his weight advantage deftly, Tsonda lifts Gamble up forty five degrees into the air and holds him there for two seconds before flattening out Gamble’s body horizontally and dropping into an implant DDT!

Nick: Golgotha Drop! Tsonda’s setting up Gamble early on for his setup-finisher combo with these impact moves.

Richard: C’mon, Tone. I pawned off some family heirlooms to put money on this fight!

Nick: You did what?

Richard: Nothing, just a little entrepreneurial side business.

Gamble sits up, trying to clear the cobwebs. He looks to both sides and doesn’t see his opponent, largely because Tsonda’s right behind him. The most recent Jewel pulls Gamble up by the head and gives him a knee to the midsection, in hopes of keeping him contained. Grasping Gamble’s head over his right shoulder, Tsonda runs at the turnbuckle.

Nick: Runway Vault coming up!

The Grin wiggles his head free and stops on a dime, then sits out with a low dropkick that catches Tsonda in the back of both knees and sends him to the ropes.

Richard: Stymied!

A moment passes before either superstar moves, but it’s Tsonda who moves first, collecting himself after leaning on the ropes. He turns back towards Gamble, who is still seated in the middle of the ring.

Richard: Gamble, this isn’t a last man sitting match, get the hell up!

There is great confusion on Tsonda’s face, but he doesn’t skip a beat, making a beeline towards his seated foe. He goes to grab Gamble’s shoulders, but then inexplicably starts screaming and puts his right arm over his eyes to shield them.

Nick: What in the name of Ernie Banks…?

To the crowd’s chagrin, Gamble produces an answer. With Tsonda screaming bloody murder and Wesley James trying to calm him down, Gamble puts on a feigned look of shock as he reaches into his elbow pad and shows a handheld canister. The obligatory close-up shows the PermaGrin at its widest and in Gamble’s hand: a travel sized bottle of L’Oreal hairspray.

Richard: Sweet Jesus, he’s an evil genius!

Nick: Folks, Tony Gamble just turned Chandler Tsonda’s own weapon of choice against him. Tsonda used to call that the Shot of Style!

Richard: From here on out, it’s known as the Gamble Pwn.

Nick: And there’s not a damn thing Wesley James can do…there are no disqualifications at UltraViolence. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Gamble finally showed his true colors.

Richard: And surprise, surprise…it’s written into UV stipulations that if a referee stops a match because of a competitor’s health, the match is awarded to his opponent.

Wesley James shakes his head as he sees Gamble walking towards the blinded Tsonda because he knows those words to be true. The Jester shoves James out of the way and tosses Tsonda into the nearest turnbuckle. Because Tsonda can’t see where the blows are coming from, they hit with surprise impact against unshielded chest. After some more taunting, Gamble props Tsonda up onto the top rope. Mounted but unable to see, Tsonda is a sitting duck. Gamble incites the crowd with a neck-slashing motion that is totally okay if Kevin Garnett does it because KG is way more hardcore than anything ever.

Richard: Nick, this is where you talk about how it’s not fair, et cetera.

Gamble grabs Tsonda’s arms, which just drape over the Grin’s shoulders. Gamble stands and uses the second ropes to propel himself backwards with a technically perfect Superplex. His back hitting the ring first, Tsonda comes crashing into the middle of the ring limply. Gamble lies on his back as well, winded from the taxing move.

Nick: That did not look good, fans. Chandler Tsonda just took a suplex from eight feet in the air squarely on his back.

Richard: Yeah, looks like the lights are on, but the rice farmer’s not home.

It’s a pretty apt description: Chandler Tsonda’s eyes are open, but he looks like he’s about to vomit. He’s breathing heavily, heaving at the chest with one arm trying to stop the shooting pain in his back. Gamble reaches his feet with some effort, but even despite his short breath, he laughs in the face of Tsonda.

GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS!

Richard: C’mon, folks, it’s Tony Gamble. He beat Angelo Deville. He fought champions like Tchu and Nova, not cupcakes like Lindsay Troy. He’s the better wrestler!

To add insult to injury, Gamble spits down onto the unmoving form of Chandler Tsonda. When the spittle comes down on his chest, Tsonda surges up, causing Gamble to jump back. But he immediately collapses again to his knees, with his head and arm against the mat.

Nick: This is ridiculous. Gamble could have this match over with.

Richard: Maybe Tsonda’s got the fire, but it doesn’t really matter when the machine’s broke, Nick.

Nick: Apparently folks, the back injury stemming from Culture Shock’s grueling forty eight hours was worse than we thought. Tsonda looks like he’s done.

With another chuckle, and the title shot at Colossus firmly in his sight, Gamble uses the first rope as a rung, lifting himself onto the side of the cage. He grabs the cage firmly and takes a long look at Tsonda before he continues the slow climb.

Nick: Gamble took some punishment earlier that’s making this climb tougher. But his goal is obvious; he doesn’t want to give Tsonda the chance to kick out and get the fans behind him, so he’s just gonna take the high road.

Richard: He can take his time. I don’t think the crip can walk.

By the time Tsonda stirs, Gamble’s top hand is only a foot underneath the top of the cage. Tsonda looks up and pulls himself up with the ropes. An urgency dictates his movements, but they still seem too slow to stop Gamble from escaping. The faint cheers begin to grow louder, and then they conglomerate. Gamble’s top hand hitting the top of the cage coincides with the Grin getting hit in the face with a powerful, sincere cheer.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

Nick: The fans are doing their part. Will those cheers give Tsonda enough to come back, though?

Richard: Not unless he uses those Asian mind control powers of his.

The Model Citizen takes a deep breath and starts running. He doesn’t have the lungs or the back for it, but he just starts running at Gamble’s side of the cage. The Grin has his second hand on the top of the cage and begins to pull himself up. Tsonda takes off from the mat. Gamble lifts his torso above the top of the cage.

Nick: What’s Tsonda doing?

The Model Citizen springboards up off the top rope and flings himself at Gamble. It’s a crude move, a sloppy flying knee at Gamble, but it catches Tony in the small of the back. This forces him to lose his grip on the cage and sends both men tumbling back to the mat.

WHOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: Oh shi…

Both men hit with a deadened thud. Tsonda lands on his chest, able to put one arm out for some cushion. But Gamble, after flailing from the move, takes the fall hard, right on his shoulder. The pop for Tsonda’s move dies almost immediately, as gasps ring out.

Nick: Chandler Tsonda just sacrificed whatever’s left of his body to keep the match going!

Wesley James checks on each man. Tsonda’s in no shape to be wrestling, but might actually be better off, considering Gamble’s recent fall. The Model Citizen stumbles to his feet and starts the same climb Gamble just attempted. The Grin crawls toward that side of the cage, as the fans once again get behind their horse.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

Richard: To-ny! To-ny!

The Model Citizen struggles to prop himself up onto the top rope. Using that as a foothold, he tries to start climbing, but Gamble grabs a hold of the top rope and starts shaking it. As a result, Tsonda has to hold onto the side of the cage to keep from falling. With this window, Gamble climbs to the top rope himself and starts throwing left hands towards Tsonda. The Model Citizen blocks most of the blows, but a sneaky elbow almost knocks him off the rope.

Nick: It’s a tight rope ballet of violence right here!

Richard: Fall off and you’re toast!

With that momentary advantage, Gamble tries to move quickly up the side of the cage. Tsonda grabs a hold of his foot, but can’t hold on. Gamble slips out of his grasps and towards the top of the cage, as the Model Citizen pursues as quickly as his back will let him.

Nick: Gamble’s only a couple feet above Tsonda, but I don’t know if his back will let him reach up at all.

The Grin pulls himself up and straddles the cage. Victory stares at him from the other side, but the ascending Tsonda finally grabs onto his foot.

Richard: Just kick him and get out!

Nick: Easier said than done, they’re damn high up in the air.

With his right hand, Tsonda keeps a firm grasp on Gamble’s leg, while his left helps him climb up another foot. Now he wraps both arms around Gamble’s leg, trying to pull him off. But Tony keeps his balance well, holding onto the cage for stability.

GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS! GAM-BLE SUCKS!

Nick: The crowd is the loudest I’ve heard them yet tonight!

Richard: They’re eager for a new age of Tony Gamble’s career, as the only REAL Jewel in the Crown.

Using Gamble’s thigh as a climbing tool, Tsonda pulls himself up with both arms. Despite continued blows from Gamble (and looking like he might fall off with each one), Tsonda reaches the top of the cage. He throws a right elbow at Gamble, stunning the Grin for long enough that the Sultan of Style is able to pull himself up onto the top of the cage. With both men straddling the top of the cage, there are flashbulbs galore.

Nick: Careers can end in moments just like this. These two better be careful!

A right from Tsonda.

A left from Gamble.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

A right from Tsonda. Gamble ducks, but in doing so, loses his balance. He flails his arms to catch himself, but Tsonda puts his shoulder down and nudges Gamble far enough off the top that the Grin goes toppling back into the ring!

Nick: Tony Gamble’s out! He’s done!

Richard: But….but…

WHOOOOOOOOO!

The crowd pops at Gamble’s fall. But the cheers also grow as Tsonda begins to stand on the edge of the cage. He’s careful to find his balance and doesn’t take a lot of time. As soon as he’s up, he takes off. You wanna talk about flashbulbs?

Nick: No! NO!

A high-arc moonsault off the top of the cage. The broken warrior comes crashing down.

It’s a brutal collision. The projectile Chandler Tsonda lands on Gamble and shakes the ring. Tsonda appears to be out, but he’s top of Gamble, so Wesley James counts.

Nick: MODEL CITIZEN! OFF THE TOP!

One…

Two…

Three!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via pinfall…CHAAAAAAAAANDLER TSONDA!

WHOOOOOOOOO!

The crowd ROARS to life with a huge pop. Neither man is moving, but the sound of the crowd has Wrigley alive anyway.

Nick: WHAT A MOVE!

Richard: That was…just wow.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

Having seen a moonsault that will be talked about for years, the crowd cheers wildly for Tsonda.

Nick: He’s barely conscious, but he’s a winner.

Richard: Vietcong bastards…

Every backstage area in PRIME is usually a madhouse. Cameras are in every corridor because they never know what to expect. Fighting and incredibly funny wit are usually just around each corner whenever two wrestlers encounter one another backstage. Tonight, however, the backstage area is a fucking madhouse. Being in Chicago is one thing, but for a wrestling company to hold an event inside Wrigley Field is nothing short of a media circus.

Speaking of the circus, Devin Shakur comes barreling around the corner at a high rate of speed. One third of the main event doesn’t look too thrilled and constantly is checking over his right shoulder. What could he be running from you ask?

A middle aged white man follows closely with a media pass around his neck and a pen in hand. Around the Horn fans might recognize him as one Jay Mariotti.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Yes, even in the town where he's a journalist, Mariotti is a heel.

Jay Mariotti: I just need a moment of your time, Shakur!

Devin Shakur: Get away from me!

Jay Mariotti: This is vital information that you need to hear.

Shakur picks up the pace, jolting around another corridor to try and elude his annoyance.

Jay Mariotti: Michael Jeffrey Jordan never ran away from his problems.

Devin Shakur: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! WHERE’S MY MUTE BUTTON?

Meanwhile, down another hallway…

"All I'm saying is that you've got to look at the schedule!"

Lindsay Troy huffs in annoyance as she strolls along, accompanied by an older man with gelled-up blonde hair and who's wearing a three-piece suit. No, it's not Joey Melton...Joey Melton wouldn't have a PRIME staff member toting a small blackboard over his left shoulder, which reads "Club Sandwiches, Not Seals."

Lindsay Troy: Woodrow, you think I don't know my own schedule? I like my schedule!

Where there's a Mariotti, there's a Woody Paige. What's Woody Paige doing here, you ask? Well...he gave up Rockies coverage to Jim Armstrong this weekend.

Woody Paige: Your schedule is too hectic.

Lindsay Troy: I know! That's why I like it! And did Cantrell jump into your body all of a sudden?

Woody Paige sighs his famous "I know what's best" sigh.

Woody Paige: Look, you've got to look at the facts! The only time you've stopped since January is when that hotshot, blonde haired dweebie suspended you. And even then, you didn't take a real break, so it's not like you're totally rested.

Lindsay Troy: I didn't let you hang out with me just so you could nag. Do I have to straighten you out, Paige?

Woody Paige: No, that's my job.

Another sigh from the Queen. She pulls the ballcap she's wearing over her long, curly hair down over her eyes and shoves her hands into her pockets. Woody gives a triumphant smirk.

"I swear to God if you keep following me, I’m going to go find Ozzie!"

Troy’s ears perk up at the sound of the voice coming from around the corner. She knows who it belongs to and her night is about to go from bad to worse.

"Ozzie needs to be fired and we all know that!"

Woody Paige: (bug-eyed) WHAT?

Woody Paige obviously knows who the other voice belongs to. Needless to say, heads are going to roll.

Shakur rounds the corner first and runs smack dab into Paige and Troy. He groans at the sight of Troy but produces a rare smile when he sees Woody Paige.

Mariotti rounds the corner next and sees the former Universal Champion and his longtime nemesis. He repeats the actions of Shakur but flip flops (since he knows how to do that really well) the people.

Lindsay Troy: I’m not quite positive getting an interview from Commie Emo Fuckbag is a step up from the Cubs/Pirates series, but they're both pretty dismal so it probably evens itself out.

Shakur masterfully no sells the snide remark, at least for now.

Devin Shakur: OMG ITS WOODY PAIGE! I R BIGGEST FAN ERR!

Production comes to a screeching halt backstage as everybody stares at fanboy Devin Shakur.

Devin Shakur: …What? Keep rolling, we can cut that out. Ahem, alright...Hey Mariotti, Troy over here knows absolutely nothing about Michael Jordan.

Jay Mariotti: REALLY?

Devin Shakur: And she is absolutely just DYING to know about the Cubs.

Jay Mariotti: I definitely think we can arrange that.

Mariotti walks over to Troy while Paige scoffs.

Woody Paige: If you are going to have him hanging around you then I’m going to hang out with the emo guy over here.

Shakur starts clapping like a seal.

Lindsay Troy: Maybe he can tell me about Rex Grossman too. I hear he's Devin Shakur's idol as far as choking in high-pressure situations goes.

Jay Mariotti stops midstep. His face twists in anger and his hands clench into fists.

Devin Shakur: Pfft, the only way you have a shot at beating me Troy is if Bartman somehow got tickets tonight.

Troy smiles something sinister.

Lindsay Troy: We'll see who the Goat is after tonight, Emo.

Devin Shakur: Ha, the last time you had a clue about anything, Troy, was 1908.

Woody Paige snickers endlessly at the verbal assault. Mariotti looks like he’s about to cry.

Devin Shakur: And another thing, back in 1945-

Jay Mariotti: ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!

Troy and Shakur quizzically stare at the Chicago reporter.

Jay Mariotti: I’ve had it with the two of you. Now I can see why, in yesterday’s column, I picked Cozen to win tonight.

Troy/Shakur/Paige: (bug-eyed) WHAT?

Jay Mariotti: Normally I couldn't be bothered lowering myself to cover this thing you people call a sport, but whatever Cozen is, she's the hottest thing to hit the scene since Michael Jeffrey Jordan graced this town with his basketball godliness.

Lindsay Troy: (to Paige) He's got a hard-on for MJ, doesn't he?

Woody Paige: It's either that, or the sound of his own voice.

Devin Shakur: I would have to go with the latter.

Jay Mariotti: You shouldn’t speak out of turn Paige, that’s why I’m the-

Mariotti holds a pointer finger in the air.

Jay Mariotti: -All time wins leader on Around the Horn.

Paige rolls his eyes and turns to the two wrestlers.

Woody Paige: Alright, I get that you two hate each other, but can you put your differences aside long enough to get rid of this jabroni?

Lindsay Troy: Do you know what you're asking of us?

Devin Shakur: I'd have to (shudder) work with her.

Woody Paige: I'll give you a shoutout on Around the Horn tomorrow if you do.

Devin Shakur: I AM SO DOWN FOR THAT!!!

He immediately spin-kicks Mariotti in the face, and the journalist collapses on the ground in a heap. Shakur leaps on top of Mariotti and begins to unload with lefts and rights. Nobody backstage is willing to help him out while a crazed wrestler is assaulting him. Shakur brings Mariotti up, locks him in a Muay Thai clinch, and starts to hammer out the knees into his chin. Mariotti is dazed and confused after the first one, but Shakur figures three more won’t hurt.

Shakur: I should give you one for every win you’ve gotten on Around the Horn.

Shakur spins Mariotti around for a ready Woody Paige who delivers a hard punch to the midsection.

Woody Paige: I’M STRAIGHTENING YOU OUT, MARIOTTI!

Paige delivers a boot to the gut and spins Mariotti around to get an elbow straight to the forehead from Shakur. Paige goes over to try and convince Troy to join in.

Woody Paige: I’ll badmouth Shakur in the shoutout.

Troy lifts her eyebrows.

Woody Paige: And I'll say your schedule is fantastic.

She smiles, joins in, and the unholy alliance is now officially complete. Shakur spins Mariotti into Troy, who belts him with a super stiff forearm. Mariotti is stumbling around like Ric Flair, which induces Woody to deliver a knife edge chop that drops Mariotti onto his back.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Paige goes down and grabs a hold of Mariotti’s ankles. He spins around the right leg, bends it, keeps the left leg straight, and drops onto his back slowly for a Figure Four. Troy and Shakur put the boots to Mariotti while he’s trying to scream for help.

Woody Paige: YOU SHOULDA LOOKED AT THE SCHEDULE JAY!

Lindsay Troy: Think we can get some points over here?

The PRIME staff member pulls off the cap he was wearing and smiles, then unzips his windbreaker and pulls out a points lever.

Tony Reali: Normally, I don't give points to people who pander for them, but seeing Jay get whooped is putting me in a better mood.

He pushes the lever forward. (SFX: Ba-boop ba-boop ba-boop)

Mariotti continues to flop around while Shakur and Troy put the finishing touches on Mariotti. Troy winds up and delivers a punt to the ribs while Shakur lands a boot right to the mouth. Woody gets helped up to his feet by Troy and Shakur and all three of them stare down at Mariotti. Paige pulls out a miniature Mute button and puts it over Mariotti before walking off with Troy.

Once they round the corridor, Shakur’s eyes shift back and forth before he drops down, reaches into Mariotti’s right pocket, and retrieves his wallet. Shakur looks inside and gives a thumbs up to the camera, flashes all the money inside, and exits from the corridor with wallet in hand.

You would think that after an epic moment like that, there would be no more.

Oh, how wrong you are.

Emerging from a side door is...

THE ONE

THE ONLY

THE MAN

THE MYTH

THE LEGEND

DAN LEBATARD!

He takes one look at the fallen Marriott and, with all the grace and majesty that he's exhibited so many times before, whips out the double gangsta finger guns.

Dan LeBatard: BAM!

Would you like to be a bike messenger?

Because it hasn't gone so well for the smallish, black-and-red-haired girl with a face full of piercings. Rebekah has been randomly hit on, for starters, and none of the people around here have been exactly cordial. Of course, no bike messenger will usually come into this neck of the woods in Chicago, and that's just when there was a baseball game. PRIME's setup for the show was more extensive than your typical Cubs-Pirates game.

But she'd stuck to the job, and she would find this "Andreas" guy yet.

That being said (and not related to the girl's search at all...except how it totally is), the camera catches a conversation between a thin-voiced man and a rich-voiced woman -- both nearly on the edge of laughter -- before its lens finds the speakers.

Man: We need a secret lair.

Woman: Completely. Chicago smells weird.

Man: You noticed that, too? Like...pizza that's been sitting out for too long.

Woman: If this smell is pizza, remind me to never eat pizza again, because I cannot imagine this stench to ever have been appetizing.

There is, by now, quite a sizable negative reaction to the pair's words from the gathered inside Wrigley, as one might imagine. So where are...?

Ah, there they are.

The blond man in pleated slacks the lightest shade of tan possible and a deep blue button-down shirt, sleeve rolled halfway up his arm is named "Andreas van der Wal". (Is that tattoo Lindsay Troy was looking at a double helix?) The woman he's talking to is...we're not sure what nationality she is, actually. Perhaps Chinese? Maybe Thai? In any case, her name is Siena van der Wal, and her dress is more formal than Andreas' business-casual look: a black pencil skirt and silvery, spangly and sparkly in the fluorescent, energy-saving lights.

Oh, and the tall woman between them, eyes flicking back and forth like the two were playing ping-pong (except with words)? That's the PRIME Universal Champion.

Andreas: Miss Siena, have I ever mentioned to you the reason I care so deeply for you?

Siena nods slightly, tucking a lock of auburn hair behind her ear.

Siena: I believe you might have. You find my obnoxiousness adorable.

Cozen: If we get a clubhouse, I would like to decorate it, please.

Siena: Dare I even ask?

Andreas: Probably not.

Cozen: They're selling a super-cool Tyler Rayne poster. Golden Showers!

Andreas: I don't think I can possibly illustrate how much is wrong with that sentence.

Siena: Not without some long, metaphorical cut scene featuring a sign with those words being blown up.

Andreas: By dynamite.

Cozen: What, he's pretty like a snowflake. Plus, he hit Wade Elliott with a car, man. Not only completely badass, but also ridiculously deserved.

Siena: Careful with the "man," Coz--

"Hey!"

The sharp voice comes from slightly off-screen, so let's do the dramatic "pan slightly to the left" thing, even if the odds of this being anyone other than...

Hey, look, it's a girl named Rebekah and she's partially-astride a bicycle! Quel surprise!

Andreas looks over to the girl, his brow arched softly. He is rude enough to not be talking to her, though.

Andreas: Weren't we having a chat, just the three of us?

Cozen: Uhhh...yeah?

Siena: I believe we were.

Andreas: And then we're interrupted.

Siena: By a girl who has to take part of her face off to get on an airplane.

She seems vaguely disgusted; there's a crinkle in her nose and everything.

Rebekah: Wow, you read me like a book.

Siena: It's a gift.

Rebekah: Not quite the word I was thinking, but okay. Either of you two assholes go by the name of "Andreas"?

Siena: What's it to you?

Rebekah: Maybe I'm here to give him a million dollars...as your name is very likely not Andreas, how about you stick it? Goddess, I am sick to death of pompous jagoffs.

Siena: Ooh, "Goddess"! That's mighty progressive of you.

Andreas: Mighty.

Rebekah: You know...the hell with this. I don't care how much they're paying me to do this. I don't care that all of you Douchey McDouchersons think you're hot shit because you wear flashy outfits and your own corporate bullshit rawk 'n' roll plays you out for your deathmatches or whatever. And I really -- and I mean really -- hope you aren't this Andreas guy. Because if you are...there's no message for you.

The male van der Wal's smile is small, like some kind of reptile crawling across his lips.

Andreas: A shame. Because I would be Andreas van der Wal.

It's difficult to properly encapsulate the level of disgust Rebekah conveys at this news. It's in her expression and her posture: the distasteful curl to her lips, the disgusted wrinkle of her nose, the contemptuous cant of her head, and the miniscule roll of her eyes.

Rebekah: Why am I not surprised?

Siena: Just be a dear and give up the package.

Rebekah: I swear...Mr. Renfield doesn't pay me enough.

Cozen: (immediately) Renfield eats bugs.

The bike messenger tilts her head slightly, blinking slowly at the Impressionable Impersonator.

Rebekah: Uhm. What?

Andreas: It's from Dracula.

Rebekah: No. Dude, Mr. Renfield is my boss. Renfield Emergency Deliveries?

She says this as she digs into the pouch at her side, pulling out the papers within, seal now broken. Siena's lips twist into a cruel line.

Siena: I doubt this was open when it was given to you.

Andreas: That would have been highly unlikely.

Cozen: Quite supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

The van der Wals turn bodily and they just stare at Cozen. The champion shrugs a little.

Cozen: What? It looks like fun when you guys do it! Fell a little flat in practice, though.

Rebekah: Oooookay. So here's your big secret message it took me the better part of an hour to deliver. I swear, people thought I was looking for the devil, and I kept being all, "Nah..." They'd nod insistently, but I figured you were one of those douchebags that people thought was a joke, the ones who get a bum rap for doing...the opposite of what people tell them to do. Turns out...that you're one of those douchebags that got that rep because he's kind of a douchebag.

Siena raises a perfectly arched brow towards her blond-haired associate. Her words are again directed solely to Andreas, as if the pierced girl wasn't standing right there.

Siena: The girl had best be going, I think.

Andreas: I think she better had.

Rebekah: It's usually considered polite to tip, you know.

Andreas: Well, this will sound pretty cheesy, but...

The more feminine of the van der Wals slides a sidelong glance to the smiling snake

Siena: Oh, you're not going to go there. Tell me you're not going to go there.

Andreas: ...here's a tip for you, though.

Siena: Oh, I cannot believe you just went there.

Andreas half-shrugs at the auburn-haired harpy, his attention focused on the poor bike messenger.

Andreas: This woman to my left...

Cozen waggles her fingers in an altogether too chipper wave.

Andreas: ...is the most dominant newcomer in the bloody history of this bloody federation. Later on this very evening, she will render bloody violence --

Siena: BLOODY violence.

Andreas: Upon the persons of Devin Shakur, who would probably be fighting in the UFC, if he wasn't such a fucking goofball, and Lindsay Troy, who is, as my mother would say, a "pompous windbag and a wretched cuntbag."

Siena: To be fair, my aunt -- Andy's mother -- is a reckless drunk. And kind of a pottymouth.

Andreas: Cozen will doubtless prove quite successful at this. Imagine what she could do to someone much less capable than Devin Shakur and much... ahh...

Siena: Shorter?

Andreas: That works. Much shorter than Troy?

Siena leans in towards Cozen, whispering softly.

Siena: Make a fearsome face, dear.

The Faceless Fighter complies, her head tilted to the side, borrowed facial features contorting -- eyes wide, mouth gaping, tongue out.

Rebekah may be tough, but at the end of the day...Cozen would eat this girl for lunch. She's got a bicycle, however, which means there's a better-than-average chance that she can get away. She'll take those odds, pedaling madly as the bike swoops away, leaving the Terrible Triad to watch after the girl.

Andreas: That was far too entertaining.

Siena: Ridiculously so. We're bad people.

Andreas: But we knew that.

Cozen pokes her head between the...suppose they're cousins this week, draping her arms over each one's shoulders.

Cozen: So what's the haps? I liked that girl; do you think I'd make a good bitchy bike messenger?

Andreas: Probably, but you know what Dr. Quinones wants.

Siena: And she always finds a way to get what she wants.

Cozen: So what's in the package? Invisible nunchaku? Special knockout drugs to put on my wrist tape? A tiny, tiny gun to shoot Lindsay Troy with?

Siena shrugs a little as they begin walking; Andreas is flipping through the papers.

Siena: Don't know that it matters.

Andreas: Doesn't, really.

Siena: Renfield?

Andreas: Yeah.

Cozen: I hate codes. I need to get a bike. A badass one with a flower on the basket.

Let's get away from these three assholes, shall we?

Nick: Well, it’s been a great show so far and looks like it’s going to be turned up another notch, next we got…

Richard: It’s him isn’t it?

Nick: Him? What do you think this is? The Cannonball Run?

Richard: Do I look like Burt Reynolds to you?

Nick: No. You look like Debbi Reynolds…

Richard [ignoring him]: "Our Sovereign’s" up next and he’s going to beat Bonafide like the street urchin he really is!

Nick: In any case, it is Union Jack versus Jimmy Bonafide up next in a Chicago street fight nonetheless.

The arena lights begin to flicker on and off, then slowly become solid, finally bathing the whole arena in a warm red glow, just as "Quiet Storm" by Mobb Deep blares out of the PA system and "The Posterboy" emerges onto the entrance platform head down and wet towel draped over the back of his head.

YYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Nick: Jimmy Bonafide’s a real fan favourite here, Rich.

Richard: He oughta be. The rest of these peons in the audience are probably street thugs too! Vermin like vermin, Nick.

Nick: What?

Richard: It’s an old saying, Nick.

Nick: I haven’t heard it before.

Richard: It’s an old saying for us Aristocrats and Nobles only, Nick.

Nick: Sure it is.

Jimmy Bonafide makes his way down the aisle, the crowd still giving him the warmest of receptions.

JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY! JIMMY!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, ailing from The Bronx, New York, standing at six feet, five inches and weighing in at two hundred and eleven pounds……. "The Posterboy" JIMMY BOOOOOONNNNNNAAAAAAAAAFFFFFFFIIIIIIIIIDDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEE!!!!!!!

However, before he even steps foot in the ring, his music cuts out and the British national anthem ignites, followed by his usual PRIME*view montage superimposed over the Union Jack flag. The camera focuses, momentarily, upon Bonafide’s face as he turns back towards the entrance way and clearly mouths ‘motherfucker’, but the sound of his voice is completely drowned out by the music.

Nick: Well, Bonafide’s entrance was cut a little short there…do you reckon Union Jack is pulling some last minute mind games here, Rich?

Richard: No, I just don’t think he’s worth the air time!

Vince Howard: And his opponent, ailing from Manchester, England, standing at six feet tall and weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds…UUUUNNNNNNIIIIIIOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNN JJJJJJJAAAAAACCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!

Whilst Bonafide gets back into the ring, Union Jack emerges from the back, out onto the entrance platform very noticeably on his lonesome - his ever-faithful butler is nowhere to be seen.

Nick: That’s weird.

Richard: What the hell are you talking about, Nick?

Nick; Well, Jeeves isn’t out there. What’s up with that?

Richard: Is that a problem?

Nick: Could be if he’s off trying to bribe another referee, Rich.

Richard: The ref’s already in the ring, Nick!

Nick: Well, he’s up to something!

Union Jack makes his way down the aisle, wearing his usual all in one Union Jack coated wrestling attire, this time finishing it off nicely with an extravagant red, white and blue knee length sequined cape.

BBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Well, that says it all! The crowd hate Union Jack and it’s not hard to understand why.

Richard: Peasants!

Union Jack climbs the ring steps and enters the ring via the middle ropes and poses for a second, whilst ordering the ref to remove his cape in lieu of his suspiciously absent butler, Jeeves. Bonafide shakes his head in disgust and turns away from his opponents perhaps too dramatic entrance.

Richard: What the hell’s wrong with Bonafide? Doesn’t recognise class when he sees it? He should be bowing down to Union Jack, not fighting him!

Nick: Rich, crawl any further up Union Jack’s ass and we’ll never be able to get the smell out!

With Bonafide’s back turned, Union Jack decides to start the match off a little early and charges the man, whilst the ref drops his extravagant cape outside of the ring. Union Jack catches Bonafide on the back of the neck with a clothesline.

Nick: Typical! For an aristocrat, Union Jack has no honour!

Richard: You know nothing! This Bonafide thug has been asking for this for the better part of a month now!

Bonafide stumbles forward from the blow, hitting his head on the turnbuckle and reeling backwards. Union Jack grabs his hair and issues him with a stiff European uppercut, knocking him clean off his feet. He falls on his ass, back against the turnbuckle.

Nick: Ouch…that looked like a mean one!

Richard: Well, Union Jack isn’t messing around with this one, Nick. This is a Chicago Street Fight -- this is Bonafide’s territory!!!

Union Jack runs over to the turnbuckle to the left of Bonafide and then charges again, leaping forward with both feet, catching "The Posterboy" across his face and then riding the momentum out through the ropes and to the outside of the ring, landing on his feet with perfect grace.

Richard; "A Very British Make Over!" This one’s over before it’s even begun!

Nick: I think Bonafide’s got a little more fight in him than that!

Outside of the ring, Union Jack cracks a grin and extends his arms out wide for the crowd’s approval, which inevitably, he does not received.

YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!

Union Jack climbs the ring steps once again, but this time stops on the apron and beckons towards the backstage area and towards the ring.

Nick: What the hell is going--wait. Is that Jeeves?

"The Sovereign of Prime’s" butler emerges from the backstage, pushing what appears to be some sort of dust cart, loaded with what appears to be everyday household objects, coupled with a variety of weapons. Union Jack chuckles to himself, before climbing through the ropes once more.

Richard: Aha!

Nick: Looks like we know what Jeeves has been up to then!

Richard: I knew our sovereign would have a plan!

Union Jack then turns his attention back towards his opponent and stalks closer toward him. Still a little cocky, he doesn’t even realise Bonafide’s gotten himself together a little and reacts far too slowly when he reaches out, grabs Union Jack’s tights and hauls forward, face-first into the turnbuckle.

Nick: This is a dangerous match to be involved in, Rich and Union Jack needs to stay on Bonafide constantly here!

Richard: You don’t need to tell me nor our sovereign that, Nick. He knows it, he was getting Jeeves here! He’s got a master plan, you know.

Nick: Oh yeah, what’s that?

Richard: I don’t know…hit Bonafide in the face with an ass-load of weapons?

Bonafide pulls himself up using the ropes, lands a well-placed forearm to Union Jack’s kidney’s, before grabbing the back of his mask and ramming it straight into the turnbuckle. Bonafide allows Union Jack to stumble backwards, before wrapping his arms around his waist, hauling him up into the air and then finally dumping him on the back of his head.

Nick: That was a real mean German Suplex, Rich.

Richard: I think the ref should disqualify him, Nick! He’s intentionally trying to cripple him!

Nick: Well, for one Rich this is a Chicago streetfight…there are no disqualifications in this. Secondly, this ain’t dancing’ -- people get hurt in the ring everyday!

Richard: You got a pretty mouth, you know that?

Nick: WHAT?

Bonafide puts a few choice boots to Union Jack’s ribs, before sliding out under the ring and stalking his opponents butler, Jeeves, his eyes firmly fixed upon the dustcart full of weapons.

Richard: What the hell is he doing? Going to attack a poor, defenceless butler now?

Nick: I think he wants those weapons, Rich. I think he’s aiming to teach Union Jack a lesson he won’t soon forget!

Richard: And what‘s that, Nick? How to be both gay and a damned communist whilst wrestling in PRIME?

Nick: What the hell are you talking about now?

Jeeves quickly puts himself between Bonafide and the dustcart crammed with weapons, but "The Posterboy" only grins and pushes the butler aside with minimal ease. He then sets about the weapons, removing them from storage and hurling them overt he ropes into the ring. Everything and anything is stored in there; from broomstick to STOP sign, from keyboard to shove. Meanwhile, in ring, Union Jack stirs, getting to his knees and crawling over to the ropes, shaking off the drop to his head.

After emptying the dustcart entirely, Bonafide grabs the returning Jeeves the lapels of his suit and shoves him headfirst into the grimy plastic container, where he remains, wiggling his legs frantically, desperate to escape.

Nick: Hahahahahahaha!!! Look at him!

Richard: This isn’t funny, Nick! Bonafide just assaulted a civilian! He should be fired immediately!

Nick: Jeeves, isn’t a civilian, Rich. He’s a damned butler…

Chuckling to himself, Bonafide slides under the ropes and into the ring. He stalks his opponent menacingly, carefully deciding which weapon with which to inflict damage. Ultimately, he decides upon a particularly steady-looking kendo and raises his eye above his head ready to strike like a viper and the crowd love it.

FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP! FUCK HIM UP!

Richard: Oh god…somebody stop him!

Nick: Union Jack has brought this on himself Rich and you damn well know it!

However, before he can strike, Union Jack thrusts himself upward grabbing Bonafide’s wrists thus preventing him from viciously wielding his kendo stick. UJ forces him backwards, lamming him into the corner with visible force, but UJ clenches his teeth in agony, but is unwilling to release his grasp. UJ reacts quickly, forcing his knee into Bonafide’s gut at least five times until his opponent finally releases his grip and doubles over in front of him. Then…

WHACK!!!!

The sound of the reverberations echo throughout the arena and every face captured on camera visible winces at the sound of the blow. Bonafide is sent hurtling downward toward the mat and hard.

Nick: OUCH!

Richard: Ha! That is what our sovereign is capable of Nick, but only when he has to…

Nick: Yes, I’m sure.

Richard: This peasant needed to taught a lesson and taught a lesson he was.

Bonafide doesn’t even move and is pretty much dead weight, as Union Jack shunts him on his back and drops down atop of him for the cover.


OOOOONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Nick: This can’t be it!

TTTTTTTTTWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Richard: Oh but it is Nick! Your boy Bonafide just wasn’t cut out to tangle with sovereignty!

THRRR--

Nick: KICKOUT! JIMMY BONAFIDE KICKS OUT!

Union Jack turns to the ref and holds three fingers up pointedly, but the ref shakes his head and holds two fingers up back to him.

Richard: Union Jack’s questioning the ref’s ability to count to three and he has every right to do so in my opinion! Somebody get that clown an abacus!

Nick: Bah! The count was fine! Bonafide’s just wasn’t ready to lay down and die is all!

Richard: At least…not yet.

Union Jack shakes his head disappointed and stands, dragging Bonafide up to his feet by his hair. Union Jack hits Bonafide with another stiff European uppercut, forcing him to stagger backwards once again. He hit’s a second, sending Bonafide stumbling into the nearest turnbuckle. A sadistic grin spreads itself across Union Jack’s face as he picks up the heavy metal stop sign by his feet and lines himself up perfectly with Bonafide’s position.

Nick: Oh no…what the hell is he thinking????

Richard: He’s going to teach him what it means to get on the wrong side of sovereignty, Nick!

Union Jack charges forward, stop sign first looking to crush the life out of his opponent, but Bonafide, even in his semi-conscious state, manages to dive out of the way just in the knick of time, forcing UJ to slam against the turnbuckle painfully and then fall backwards onto the mat, winded and with stop sign resting upon his chest.

Richard: NOOOOOO!!!!!

Nick: Well that’s just sloppy, Rich!

Bonafide crawls back to the to turnbuckle and painfully scales it.

Nick: I suspect that Bonafide has some sort of concussion here Rich, but he’s scaling that turnbuckle nevertheless!

Richard: Oh the humanity!!!!

Nick: What is he doing?

Richard: Some sickening no doubt!

Bonafide sizes up the unmoving Union Jack carefully, before diving from the turnbuckle hitting a perfect frog splash.

Nick: Ghetto Air onto the stop sign! This has to be over, Richard.

Richard: I’m not so sure, Nick. Looks like that idiot has hurt himself in the process!

Bonafide clutches his stomach and painfully writhes around on the floor beside the still unmoving Union Jack.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: Both of these guys look in bad shape now, Rich. I’d imagine they’re both regretting signing up for this one now!

Richard: Doubtful, Nick. They knew coming into this they were going to give it their all and I imagine we haven’t seen anything yet!

Still clutching his stomach, Bonafide crawls to the ropes with the ref stooping down to check on him. Bonafide shakes his head obviously rejecting the referee’s offer to end the match and drags himself off the mat using the ropes as leverage. After taking a second to further compose himself, "The Posterboy" stumbles across the ring, kicks the stop sign away and slumps down upon Union Jack for the cover.

Nick: This is it!

ONNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
Richard: Kick out my liege!!!

TWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Nick: This is it!

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRE----

Nick: NO!!!! HE’S GOT HIS SHOULDER UP!!!!!

Richard: Thank god!!!!

Bonafide turns to the ref and questions the count before, painfully standing from his kneeling position. He then wanders to the other side of ring to pick up a steel chair, however, whilst doing so, Union Jack gets to his knees and crawls to the other side of the ring, blood pouring out of his mouth.

Nick: Union Jack doesn’t look so hot right now!

Richard: Nonsense! He’s a sovereign! He will endure!

Bonafide slowly turns and stalks Union Jack, who slides out under the bottom ropes and drops to the outside painfully and still on his knees.

Nick: Is he running away?

Richard: Tactical retreat, Nick.

Bonafide drops the chair and climbs out of the ring after him, immediately kicking the downed man in the ribs. Union Jack rolls on his back in agony, but Bonafide doesn’t let up for second, stooping down and hauling "The Sovereign of PRIME" up to his feet by his mask.

Nick: Union Jack’s out on his feet, Rich. Surely he can’t last much longer!

Richard: He’s just setting Boanfide up for a fall, Nick.

Bonafide hits UJ with a left jab, which sends him sprawling backward into the guard rail. Bonafide charges at him, but UJ has enough left in him to duck and dump him over the railings and into the fans.

Nick: It’s descended into a brawl now, Richard.

Richard: Well this is a streetfight, Nick! What the hell did you think was going to happen?

Bonafide is quickly back on his feet, while UJ, still draped over the guardrail is breathing heavily. "The Posterboy" grabs UJ and hauls him head first over the railings. The fans surrounded the, patting the PRIME superstars on their shoulders as the two of them exchange blows with one and other. Surprisingly, it’s UJ who gains the upper hand by breaking out the stiff European uppercuts that once again, rock Bonafide to his very core after the third, "The Posterboy" falls backwards into the gratefully clutches of his fans, whilst UJ, finally getting himself together, hastily jumps back over the guardrails and brushes him down.

Nick: What the hell is wrong with him?

Richard: He just wants to get himself away from those damned peasants, Nick. Their germs are all over him.

Tiredly, UJ slides under the bottom ropes and grabs a table close to him and props it up against the ropes, whilst grabbing a broom and waiting for his opponent to come back for more.

Nick: What is he doing now?

Richard: I’d say he’s plotting Bonafide’s downfall, Nick!

Bonafide climbs back over the guardrail and stops on the spot upon noting UJ waiting for him with the broom in hand. He draws closer to the ring, and UJ matches him, prepared to strike as soon as he’s within striking distance.

Nick: If Union Jack isn’t going to let him into the ring, then just how does he plan on winning the match?

Richard: I don’t think winning the match has even crossed his mind yet, Nick. I think our sovereign is all about putting the hurt on Bonafide right about now!

Bonafide carefully walks around the ring and tries from a different direction, but again UJ matches him footstep for footstep. UJ chuckles and beckons for Bonafide to enter, mouthing the word "coward" in doing so.

Nick: Union Jack is just taunting him now, Rich.

Richard: Yeah and that idiot Bonafide is going to fall for it too! Hahahaha! Priceless!

Bonafide slams his hands down on the mat angrily and slides under the bottom ropes regardless of the consequences. UJ reacts quickly, lurching forward and bringing the broom handle down swiftly, but as soon as Bonafide slides in, he turns to one side, allowing the broom to slam against the map harmlessly. Bonafide is quickly to his feet and grabs a hold of the broom handle just as UJ brings it up to his chest. They struggle for a while, each vying for dominance over the makeshift weapon. Ultimately, Bonafide gains the upper hand forcing UJ into the corner. "The Posterboy" hits him with a knee to the gut, forcing him to release his grip, before throwing the broom out of the ring and hitting his opponent with a vicious knife edge chop.

Nick: Ouch! That one echoed throughout the entire arena!

Bonafide then grabs UJ by the wrist and attempts to hurl him across into the opposite corner, in which the previously position table now lies, but UJ puts on the breaks just before reaching it, clamps Bonafide around the waist with both arms, before hoisting him up and hurling backwards straight through the table.

Nick: That belly to belly suplex was just plain mean, Rich.

Richard: Bonafide has to be taught a lesson, Nick. He can’t mess with royalty the way he has been doing after the past few months.

Through the wreckage of the table, UJ drags the carcass out of the corner and immediately drops on it for the pin.

ONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Richard: I told you our sovereign would be triumphant here tonight!

TTTWWWWWWWWOOOOOO!!!!

Nick: It ain’t over yet, Rich!

TTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHRRR---------

Nick: KICKOUT!!!!!!!!!!!

Richard: No! CAN’T YOU COUNT TO THREE, REF?

Nick: Will you sit down!

Union Jack shakes his head in disbelief, before wearily dragging himself up to his feet. He glances over to Jeeves, who by now has wriggled free of his dustcart prison, and mouths one word -- "ladder".

Nick: What the hell?

Richard: If Bonafide doesn’t think he’s learned his lesson yet, he’s about to!

With that, Jeeves reaches under the ring apron and extracts a shiny metal ladder, which he places on the mat and pushes it under the bottom ropes. UJ picks it up the ladder, wedges it in the corner, in between the ropes.

Nick: This doesn’t look good, Rich!

Richard: Haha! It does to me!

UJ drags Bonafide up by the hair and lines him up with the ladder crammed in the turnbuckle, however, whilst distracted, Bonafide manages to catch him with a knee to a gut and attempts to Irish whip him, however, Union Jack manages to reverse it and sends his opponent sprawling into the unforgiving steel.

Nick: OUCH!

Richard: Hahaha! This is great!

Wincing, Bonafide stumbles out of the corner to catch Union Jack’s patented front-face ddt, right onto a random metal chair.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Richard: "The Sovereign Slice!" Yes! This is it!

Nick: Oh my god!

Richard: This match is over!

Nick: For once I agree! Surely it’s over for Bonafide now!

Union Jack slumps on top of him and hooks his leg.

ONNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Richard: Hahahaha! I told you sovereignty would prevail!!!

TTWWWWWWWWOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Nick: This has been one hell of a War, Rich. UJ deserves the victory…

THRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Union Jack slumps to one side as the ref raises his arm whilst still on the floor.

Vince Howard: And the winner of this bout is….UUUUUUNNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNN JJJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Backstage interviewer extraordinaire Matt Mills stands with both Simply Beautiful AND Tony Rolo, two men who will take part in a brutal Falls Count Anywhere match tonight!

MM: So, gentlemen, tonight you settle your differences in what many people are saying could be the match of the night. Tony, what are your thoughts heading in?

Rolo: Well, Matt, all I know is that this wanna-be, primadonna, n00b is about to get a lesson in the history of PRIME. Chapter One: You don't fuck with Tony Rolo. kid.

SB: You know what Rolo? The only thing I'm thinking about is winning. I've trained harder for this one match than I have for anything in my whole life. I can tell you honestly that it's the most important one for me, because you're the best opponent I've ever faced. But if you call me kid again, we ain't gonna make it to the match...cause I'll kill you right where you stand!

MM: OK fellas, let's take it easy! Just a few more questions.

SB: You know what? Fuck this interview.

With that, SB just turns around and walks back to his locker room.

MM: Um..soo...Tony, what do you think about Simply Beautiful.

Rolo: Well, he's talented, sure, but what does that matter when you're the most inconsistent wrestler in the business? I mean, he loses his three matches, and then beats a Hall of Famer cleanly? The kid can't keep his head on straight, no matter what he says he does. Maybe this ass kicking will set him straight, but I honestly don't even care. I'm gonna win this match, because that's what Tony Rolo does at big shows - win.

Rolo pats Mills on the back, and walks off-camera.

MM: Well, you heard it from the horse's mouth folks! Nick and Rich, back to you guys for the Cage Match!

Angelica Brooks watches silently, unable to properly express in words or even appropriate facial movements exactly what it is she feels. An odd smell assaults her nostrils. Candles flicker, playing odd shadows against the walls of the locker room. She grimaces, shuddering as the razor sharp barb slices another slit into the pulpy flesh of his forefinger. He doesn’t flinch or give any indication of acknowledging yet another rivulet of blood running down his fingers. The originally white athletic tape below his knuckles has been stained a muted shade of pink. He hasn’t spoken since she’s entered the room. Not even bothered to raise his eyes from the task at hand.

The entire scene is beyond creepy. Brooks shivers again, unable to keep the discomfort from crawling across her skin. This is a man she knows. A man she lo… no. In point of fact, this isn’t the man she knows. The fun-loving, jovial prankster whom she became fast friends with upon his arrival to PRIME. He looks like Tyler Rayne. Speaks with Tyler Rayne’s voice and moves in ways that are reminiscent of the 5-Star Champion. But the Underground Pimp’s usual exuberance has been replaced by something dark and foreboding. A shadow, not only cast over him, but that actually exudes from him. An aura of malice that permeates the very proximity of his being. A palpable hostility upon the air.

The interviewer shifts uncomfortably, nervously adjusting the bottom of her skirt.

Angelica Brooks: Ty, I kinda need to get this interview started…

His eyes remain narrowed and focused on the task at hand. In his hand, a length of barbed wire. The 5-Star Champion is, as carefully as possible, wrapping the metal vine of razor-sharp thorns about his left leg, stretching up from just below the shin to where he’s at now. Around the knee.

Angelica Brooks: What…what are you doing?

Still without the looking up.

Tyler Rayne: It’s no secret my leg’s a bust, kid. Particularly after that bang-up job Country did on me last week. Figure he plans on makin’ a mess of it this time… he’ll have to be willing to make a mess of himself.

Angelica Brooks: Isn’t that a little…extreme?

For the first time since she’s entered the locker room, hell, probably for the first time since ReVolution 160… he smiles. An amused grin that fades as quickly as it came. This, however, is his only reply. An unprecedented awkward silence falls between the two.

Angelica Brooks: I guess, um, speaking of extreme… a lot of people are saying what you did to Wade at 160 was—

His head snaps up now, eyes so full of venom the hand at her mouth cannot contain a shocked and frightened gasp. Teeth grind behind thin lips as he glares, heavy, purposeful breaths shifting his scarred chest.

Tyler Rayne: Wade Elliott is a nancy fucking bitch who got what’s long been coming to him. For months now, I’ve had that cock lickin’ inbred breathin’ down my fuckin’ neck. Talkin’ about how much he doesn’t like me. Tellin’ everyone who’ll fuckin’ listen how much of a gods damned cunt he thinks I am. And tell me, truthfully, what’d I ever do to Wade Elliott? What the fuck did I do to that boy got his ball sack so damn twisted? We can barely go an entire episode of ReVolution without that boy droppin’ my fuckin’ name. What did I ever do or say to snag that boy’s ire? Nothin’. Not a gods. Damned. Fucking. Thing. Take a look back at the past two months, sweetheart. Do some fuckin’ research and tell me where the fuck I crossed his fuckin’ line. I’ve done nothin’ but try and stay out of that boy’s way. Exactly what everyone keeps tellin’ me I should’ve done, right? Well, fuck you. Fuck them. And fuck Wade. He’s been talkin’ behind my back for a long fuckin’ time now, and I’ve let it slide. I’ve played the good boy. I turned the other cheek. But Country wouldn’t just let it go. Ol’ boy couldn’t mind his own fuckin’ business. So he got what was comin’.

The 5-Star Champion rises to his feet, Angelica cringing as the barbed wire digs into his gear, and presumably, his leg. The Golden Boy snatches that very 5-Star Championship from the table, holding it beside his face for the world to see.

Tyler Rayne: You see this, Wade? You know what this is? This belt…it’s more than just a championship. It’s more than a shiny piece of tin I carry about to make myself look good. This strap right here, it transcends all the usual bullshit. This…

He slaps the belt with his free hand.

Tyler Rayne: …this is a fucking epitaph.

His index finger trails along the surface of the gold belt, as if underlining some hidden words within the sheen and prestige.

Tyler Rayne: Here lies Brandon Youngblood.

Again his finger underlines an unseen scripture.

Tyler Rayne: Here lies Nitz Donnelly.

And again.

Tyler Rayne: Here lies Easton Hall.

Something similar to that infamous smile curls his lips, but like all of his expressions this evening, there is a sinister twist to the otherwise familiar and inviting mannerism. As if everything about him is skewed just slightly into shadow.

Tyler Rayne: You remember how I got this belt, Wade? I would imagine not, as that evening, like so many others for you, is most likely lost to the blackness of yet another depressing whiskey binge. Brandon Youngblood was supposed to defend this title like the champion he claimed to be. Instead, on the very night he would have faced me for this championship, he was overcome with a supposedly career-ending knee injury. Miraculously, however, he recovered from such debilitation to compete in the Dual Halo less than a month later. Brandon Youngblood purposefully faked an injury to get out of facing me in the ring. Brandon Youngblood found a loophole to get out of his PRIME contract without ever stepping in the ring with me. Brandon Youngblood retired from this business to avoid fighting me. Tucked his dick and ran like a bitch. Brandon Youngblood knew what was coming. And he took extreme measures to avoid it.

The 5-Star Champion flips his grip, slinging the title over his shoulder so it still rests prominently within the shot.

Tyler Rayne: Instead of Brandon Youngblood, I had the pleasure of dismantling Nitz Donnelly in the ring that night. I beat him for this title. And to his credit… he came back for more. You might remember that night, Wade. I was having a big party. Celebrate my win. You came by to give me the first of many long and boring speeches about how you don’t like me. ‘Bout how I ought to watch my step. And I, like a great many evenings to follow, played the better man, gave you a nod and a smile, and walked away. Nitz Donnelly gave me everything he had. Nitz Donnelly tried very, very hard to pull this title from my grasp. But he couldn’t. I soundly decimated him at Culture Shock. I defeated Nitz Donnelly for the second time in a row. I beat him so bad… he never had another match. Nitz Donnelly, the Ego of New England, humbled before the majesty of Tyler Rayne. Like Brandon Youngblood before him, Donnelly found his contractual loophole, backed out of a legally binding agreement, and retired from sports entertainment rather than face me in the ring again.

He shifts the championship upon his left shoulder. His right hand rises to twist and flourish in another of his increasingly recognizable gestures. Like a handful of times before, where once there was nothing, now Rayne holds the elusive Golden Ticket.

Tyler Rayne: You may remember the night after that as the night I won this. As if defying the odds and winning the Dual Halo weren’t enough, you might also remember that night as the evening I did something no one else, thus far, has been capable of doing. I. Beat. Cozen. Into. Oblivion. I didn’t talk about it, Wade. I didn’t threaten her. I didn’t give her a warning. I didn’t do all these stupid little things that tough guys like you and Dusk keep doing. I walked right up to her. And I beat. The Crazy. Fucking. Shit. Right out of her. I walked through sixty men and women, the entire PRIME roster and then some, to win this ticket.

Like the magic that brought it, a flick of the wrist and the ticket disappears.

Tyler Rayne: Easton Hall was scheduled to be in your place tonight. He wanted this match, Wade. He begged for this match. And he beat me. Fair. Even. In the center of the ring. To earn this match. But when it came time to put up or shut up… Easton Hall tucked his dick beneath his taint and ran like the Youngbloods and Donnellys before him. When all the bullshit was over. After Culture Shock. After Nitz Donnelly. After the Dual fucking Halo. When it was just down to me and Easton Hall…he ran. Another. Little. Bitch. Another. Retired. PRIMEate.

With that slightly twisted smile curving his lips, Rayne tosses the championship down on the couch. He steps toward the counter, toward three plastic containers. Two of them are recognizable from his appearance earlier alongside Chandler Tsonda. The third contains a steaming and gelatinous looking liquid.

Angelica Brooks: What…what is that?

Tyler Rayne: Glue.

Angelica Brooks: It smells.

Tyler Rayne: It’s hot.

And with that, he dips both hands into the container, turning to ensure that every last fiber of athletic tape around his hands and wrists is covered in the steaming adhesive.

Tyler Rayne: I don’t just beat people, Wade. I don’t just defeat my opponents. I retire them. I end them. People don’t just avoid me. They flee from me. Run, screaming, for the hills. Better off ashamed and forgotten than a victim of Tyler Rayne. I have ended legacies, Wade. I have killed careers.

His hands rise from the container, the unprotected skin blazing bright red from the heat. Without flinching, without acknowledging the obvious pain he must be feeling, or even turning to acknowledge the camera, he takes one step toward the other containers. Toward the broken fragments of Wade Elliott shot glasses. His hands descend. The glue adheres.

Tyler Rayne: I’m not just a champion, Wade.

Broken glass crunches beneath his hands as he twists and turns, the shards and pieces attaching themselves to the tape.

Tyler Rayne: I. Am. A fucking. Reaper.

He raises his arms, now turning them slowly to admire the work. Or perhaps examining to ensure they meet specifications. Angelica Brooks, for once, is at a loss for words.

Tyler Rayne: What is it, exactly, you’ve accomplished here, Wade? You slept with the wife of a man who plays God. And you’ve made a career out of chasing the Intense Title. Not exactly what I’d call a stellar resume. You want something intense, Wade? You want to keep chasing that elusive dream? Well here ya go. Look in awe, Country. Because…

Now he steps into close view of the camera, flexing his forearms, brandishing the glass covered gloves he now bears as weapons of war.

Tyler Rayne: I. Am. Intense.

He takes a step back, widening his arms, showcasing an immaculately sculpted and seriously scarred body.

Tyler Rayne: You’re a tough guy, Wade. Always lookin’ for a fight. Violent, hostile son of a cunt you are. And here we are. Ultraviolence. That what you want, Wade? You want violence?

Another step back, to encompass his whole body.

Tyler Rayne: I. Am. Violence.

Now the close-up. Burning, furious eyes. Venomous. Hostile. Intent.

Tyler Rayne: I. Am. Fucking. Death. Incarnate.

The screen goes black. As dark as the raging storm within. Though the darkness, comes one final thought.

Tyler Rayne: And tonight, Country… Death comes for you.

Nick: Richard, I can’t believe we’re only about half way through tonight’s pay-per-view!

Richard: I know, this has been great. Blood, screaming, probably a lot of broken bones once the injury reports come in… it’s like a dream come true.

Nick: And it’s only about to get better, because our next match we get to see Simply Beautiful try to put himself on the PRIME map against the hometown hero tonight, PRIME’s inaugural Hall of Famer, the one, the only, "The Specialist" Tony Rolo.

Richard: Did he buy you dinner before you dropped to your knees?

"Stillborn" by Black Label Society begins to play, signaling the entrance of Simply Beautiful. As the music blares throughout the stadium Andrew Rossi steps out from the left field entrance way.

While the fans are cheering, and he does not receive a chorus of boos, Simply Beautiful would normally receive a better ovation than this. Fact of the matter is, his opponent is one of PRIME’s most popular stars ever, and they are in his opponent’s hometown to top it off.

Vince Howard: This match features Falls Count Anywhere rules. First, making his way to the ring, standing at six feet one inches and weighing in at 235 pounds, the Italian Icon, the International Sex Symbol, SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL!!!

As Simply Beautiful struts his way to the ring, he doesn't look his cocky self. He looks determined. In fact, so determined, he ignores the few outstretched hands waiting for him and walks to ring in an almost trance-like state, eyes locked on the ring.

Nick: He looks ready for this match, doesn’t he?

Richard: I hope so. I’d like nothing better than to see the new kid on the block show up your boyfriend, Rolo.

Slowly, Simply Beautiful climbs the steps of the ring and hops over the top rope, throwing his arms in the air.

The volume on the music goes lower and lower until it can be heard no more. Silence comes over the stadium. Anticipation can be felt through the crowd.

The drums begin.

The 50,000 plus in attendance jump to their feet in unison as "My Hero" by the Foo Fighters pounds through their bodies at a deafening level.

Tony Rolo steps out into view wearing a Chicago Cubs home jersey with the number ten on it, but his last name featured across the top of the back, which is obviously his way of paying homage to a legend of another sport, the great Ron Santo, former third baseman and current broadcaster for his beloved Chicago Cubs.

The fans are going absolutely crazy. Those on the rooftops are near rioting.

Nick: Never has this song been more fitting than tonight, Richard! Tony Rolo, is in fact, a local hero!

Richard: What!? I can’t hear anything you’re saying!

Nick: I said… forget it, I'll lose my voice if I scream any louder!

Rolo looks around the stadium, the same place he dreamed of playing in as a boy, in awe. He looks out to the bleachers, where he spent many of summer days during his teenage years, not believing he’s actually being given the chance to compete in the historic Wrigley Field. If he weren’t so focused on his match at hand, there would be a tear or two running down his face.

But the fact is that he is all to concentrated on the challenge laid in front of him, as is his opponent.

Vince Howard: This man needs no introduction! He is the first man ever inducted to PRIME’s Hall of Fame. Standing six feet three inches, weighing in at 250 pounds, Chicago, he is YOUR OWN, "THE SPECIALIST" TONY ROLO!!!

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

Nick: I don’t think I’ve ever heard the Rolo chant louder than I do right now… it might even be louder than at Colossus I when he defeated Ignatious Lisieux. And this is an open air stadium on top of it.

Richard: The only time his name was probably screamed louder was last night went you were bent over the arm of his couch.

Nick: I’ll ignore that comment and chalk it up to jealousy.

Richard: Jealous that you’re a pickle smoocher?

Rolo takes the jersey off before getting to ringside and hands it to a young boy in the crowd. From there, he turns his attention to the ring and slides under the ropes.

Nick: This may just be Rolo’s biggest match since returning to PRIME because of the stage this is on. You know he wants this more than usual being in his beloved Wrigley Field.

Richard: What’s so special about this place anyway? It looks like a craphole to me. I had to take a leak in a trough earlier.

Tony Rolo and Simply Beautiful stare at each other from across the ring. There’s no love loss between these two, we all know that. It all started with a kick to the nuts and we will soon see how it ends.

The ref calls for the bell.

DING DING

The two competitors walk to the center of the ring and go nose to nose.

Richard: Can you read their lips?

Nick: No, but I can guess it’s nothing that can be repeated on the Disney channel.

Richard: No shit, Sherlock.

Simply Beautiful pushes Rolo. Rolo pushes him back. Simply Beautiful switches it up and comes back with a short clothesline, knocking The Specialist to the mat.

Nick: And now we’re really under way. Simply Beautiful grabs Rolo before he can get back to his feet and controls him with a headlock.

Tony Rolo pushes Simply Beautiful off him and into the ropes. As his opponent bounces back towards him, Rolo leaps frogs, allowing his opponent to slingshot off the ropes on the opposite side and delivers a dropkick right to the kisser.

Nick: Nicely executed dropkick by Rolo. He peels Simply Beautiful off the mat and delivers a knife-edge chop… and another. Now a big right hand… Rolo has his opponent backed into the corner!

Richard: Only about another five minutes before the old guy’s tank starts to run on fumes.

Nick: The match just started!

Richard: He’s 56.

Nick: He’s only 37, don’t imbelish.

Simply Beautiful retaliates from the corner by driving the back of his elbow into Rolo’s face. The strike puts a few feet of distance between them, giving Simply Beautiful an opportunity to quickly elevate himself to the second rope. He lunges at the former Universal Champion and delivers a textbook tornado DDT.

Nick: Beautiful move by Simply Beautiful… no pun intended. Rolo’s slow to get up. His opponent is stalking him, waiting from the other side of the ring.

As Tony gets to his feet, he turns and is instantly met with a flying cross body, which sends both men flying over the top rope to the matted floor below.

Richard: It didn’t take long for this one to get out of the ring. And my the time on my watch, only 3 minutes until the tank is empty.

Nick: Are you that quick to forget that Rolo lasted over two hours in the Dual Halo just a mere matter of months ago in his first match back in PRIME?

Richard: Please don’t remind me. Those two hours will go down as some of the worst of my life. I’m pretty sure I vomited when Rolo made his surprise entrance in that match. I would have rather slept with your mother again over the option of Rolo returning.

Nick: What do you mean again?

Richard: I mean you were close to having to call me dad.

The two wrestlers have recovered from the fall from the ring. Simply Beautiful tosses Rolo into the brick wall between the floor seating and the regular seating. He rushes at Rolo.

Nick: The Specialist counters with a spinning forearm.

The fans are all trying to reach over the brick wall and guardrails and touch the PRIME superstars. The security guards are doing a good job, though, of shielding the competitors from any crazy superfans.

Nick: Rolo follows his patented forearm up with a German Suplex. Luckily for Simply Beautiful, these would be doing more damage if it weren’t for the extra mats surrounding the entire field.

Richard: Good thing for the Cubs, too, because by the end of the night, PRIME would have destroyed this place. Stadiums built in the early 1900’s weren’t build to hold events like UltraViolence. Wrigley surviving the night still remains to be seen.

Rolo powers Simply Beautiful’s head into the mat now with a piledriver. He quickly rolls on top of his opponent for the first attempted pinfall of the match.

1……...


2………….


KICKOUT!!!

Richard: Much too early for a pinfall.

Nick: Not a bad idea if you can get the three, though.

Richard: That’s an unlikely IF.

Nick: Rolo puts Simply Beautiful’s head between his legs again…

Richard: Not the first time Rolo’s had a man in that position.

Nick: He’s picks him up for a powerbomb!

The Italian Icon grabs Rolo’s head, preventing him from executing the move.

Nick: Simply Beautiful counters with a hurracanranna!

Rossi now climbs onto the brick wall with his back to the sprawled out Tony Rolo. He bends at the knees, leaps into the air, nails the Air Italia – his version of a moonsault.

Nick: Now it’s Simply Beautiful’s turn to go for the pin.

1…………….



2…………………………..



SHOUDLER UP

Nick: That was a close call there, as Rolo was able to barely get his right shoulder up off the mat.

Richard: I didn’t see any shoulder come up.

Simply Beautiful grabs the chair of a fan that happened to be standing. Actually, most of the fans near them are standing at the moment, considering the match is happening right in front of their eyes.

Nick: If he hits Rolo with that chair, it could be all she wrote.

Richard: I told you this wouldn’t last long.

Simply Beautiful winds up, timing for a shot as Rolo returns to his feet... but he never gets the chance for the follow through, as the chair gets yanked out of his grip.

Richard: Hey, that fan just pulled the chair away from Simply Beautiful. What the hell?

Nick: That’s no regular fan, Richard! That’s Brian Urlacher, the Chicago Bears middle linebacker!!!

Richard: Hey no fair! What’s he even doing here?

Nick: Obviously he’s here to support his fellow Chicagoan. You know as well as I that Tony Rolo has a lot of friends around this city.

Simply Beautiful puts his arms out and swears at Urlacher. This exchange gives Rolo enough time to throw on a Tazplex from behind.

Richard: I still don’t think the ref should allow that. He should hand that chair back to Simply Beautiful so he can use it no Rolo.

Nick: I don’t think we’re going to see that happen, Richard. Deal with it.

Richard: Urlacher is overrated. This is annoying. Why the hell would he help that loser Rolo?

Nick: I guess it’s tonight’s version of home field advantage.

SB slowly gets up and dodges a lariat from Rolo, who's arm connects with nothing but steel post.

Nick: Oh no! Devastating shot right to his arm!

SB grabs the same arm and tries to slam it against the pole, but he's blocked and Rolo shoves SB headfirst into it - and busts him wide open!

Richard: Take that, pipsqueak!

SB lies on the floor, blood pouring from his head. Rolo goes to cover him, but SB punches him in the face as he gets to his knees. SB stands up awkwardly and touches his hands to his own blood. He staggers a bit, but regains his footing and shakes off the cobwebs of that blow to his head. Rolo is behind him, and lays into him with an eblow smash right between his shoulder blades that sends him fumbling forwards. Rolo follows after him, but as he does SB turns around, scoops him up off his feet and Spinebusters him right into the guardrail! SB covers!

ONE!

TWO!

TH-KICKOUT!

Nick: Impressive move from the Italian Icon, that's just what he needs to do to win this match-up.

Richard: Are you saying he needs to surprise Rolo?

Nick: No, I'm saying he needs to use the environment to it's fullest, since the nature of the match allows him too!

SB picks Rolo up, leans him back against the guardrail, and hits a Knife Edge Chop right across his chest. He sizes him up, and comes down hard with an overhand chop that leaves a red handprint on Rolo's right pec, and then BAM! SB finishes off the combo with a punch that crumples Rolo to the mat. SB claps and flexes, but the hometown crowd actually lets SB have it with some boos. Undeterred, SB gets right back to work.

Richard: This kid is a pretty big egomaniac, not for nothing.

Nick: I think he was just reacting the way he normally does. He likes to feed off the crowd at certain points in the match, and does things like that out of instinct.

Richard: Yeah, but this is Rolo country...I just threw up in my mouth.

SB picks Rolo up off the floor and lays into him with elbows, backing him away from the ring and over the protective barrier between the wrestlers and the sea of humanity. Security quickly gets in position to keep the fans at bay, but SB and Rolo continue to slug it out, and a large circle is formed around them, people pulling their chairs away as if it were some epic swordfight in the middle of a battlefield. Rolo lands a punch that glances off SB's nose, and SB fires right back with a punch that slams into Rolo's jaw. SB follows it up with two more quick jabs but his right hook is ducked by Rolo, who rises with an uppercut that hits SB like a hand grenade went off in his face! SB rocks back and falls over a chair. Tony Rolo stands in the middle of the circle, arms raised in triumph. He bends over to pick SB up, and slams his head into a chair. SB lies on his knees face down on the chair, blood pouring onto some unlucky fan's seat. Rolo sets up another chair beside it and stands on it - and drops a leg right on the back of SB's head! The crowd lets out a collective "OOOOOOHHH!" at the sickening thud, and SB slumps over and lies on his back. Rolo hooks his leg!

ONEEEEEEE!

TWOOOOOO!!!

THREEEEE!!!

Nick: He did it! Simply Beautiful now has just ten seconds to return to the ring.

Richard: He might be able to make it if security can get everyone out of his way!

As security struggles to move bodies out of SB's potential path, the referee begins his ten count.

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

SB uses the chair to help himself up, and stumbles over to the guardrail, flipping over it and landing on his back as the count reaches three.

Richard: I don't think he'll make it back if he knocks himself unconscious on the way back.

FOUR!!!!

FIVE!!!!!

SB walks a steady pace back towards the ring, it looks like he's going to make it.

SIX!!!!!!

SEVEN!!!!!!!

SB grabs the apron, and hoists himself in just as the count hits eight!

Nick: This match will continue!

And how! Rolo starts stomping away at SB's back and lands a particularly heavy boot to the back of his still bleeding head. Scooping SB up off the mat, he plants him with a DDT that leaves a disgusting splotch of blood on the mat.

Richard: These mats are never gonna get clean at this rate.

Nick: Is SB's cut STILL flowing? My God! The official might want to consider stopping this match.

SB's cut is indeed deep and angry, dark red blood pouring out of it like water from a fountain, but this match is NOT going to end like that. SB drives his knuckles into the mat and forces himself to his feet, beckoning Rolo to bring it on! And he gladly does, leveling SB with a clothesline! The referee gets down to check SB's cut again to see if it's obscuring his vision.

Nick: I think this is it, SB can barely see out there. He didn't even see the two hundred and fifty pound Rolo bearing down on him.

Richard: Look at this, will you! The kid is getting back to his feet!

SB stands again, wiping the blood from his face as he does. What heart! Rolo boots him in the gut and hits the RCD! Rude Crude Drop! Rolo makes the cover again, but the referee refuses to make the count! Rolo glares at him slapping the mat three times. But the ref won't budge.

Richard: What, is this guy on strike?

Nick: I think I got it...the match stipulations clearly state that the only way to negate the pinfall is by returning to the ring on a ten count.

Richard: Thanks, we knew that. Are you feeling a little groggy today, champ?

Nick: Think about it! If you're in the ring, you can't return to it! You need to make the cover -

Both: Outside!

Richard: That makes perfect sense.

Perhaps, but Rolo is incensed. He gets right in the official's face, cursing at him and even shoves him a bit. The crowd is getting restless, they really thought Rolo had it in the bag there. As the referee explains the rules, they Wrigley Field faithful let out a big gasp, and Rolo turns around to EAT A SEXXXXYYYKIIIIICK!!! He falls out of the ring through the middle rope, lying motionless on the floor!

Nick: What an impact! SB just needs to go out and cover him, he might get the pinfall and the win!

But SB doesn't want to just cover him, oh no. He takes a few steps back, and the crowd gets to buzzing...

Richard: What's he thinking here?

Nick: SB charges the ropes - HOOLL-EEEEE SHIT!

SB LEAPS OVER THE TOP ROPE AND HITS A ROLLING SENTON SPLASH! Everyone in Wrigley Field is on their feet, and thank goodness they don't have a roof!

SB grabs at his back in as the crowd goes beserk, and finds it deep down within to roll over and cover Tony Rolo.

ONE!

TWOOOOO!!

THREEE!!!

Nick: Here we go, Rolo now must answer the ten count or Simply Beautiful will be the winner!

Richard: I can't believe what an athlete this kid is!

SB rolls over and sits against the guarrail, monitoring Rolo's progress.

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

FOUR!!!!

Rolo is holding onto the apron on his knees, but can't find the strength needed to lift him up and into the ring. The count continues!

FIVE!!!!!

SIX!!!!!!

SEVEN!!!!!!!

Rolo gets to his feet and swings his right leg onto the apron, but that doesn't stop the count! He needs to get INside the ring!

EIGHT!!!!!!!!

NINE!!!!!!!!!

ROLO IS IN THE RING! The crowd erupts, and SB clutches at his blood soaked head. The blood has turned his blonde hair a disgusting pinkish color, but that's the least of his worries. This match will continue, and he's losing copious amounts of life force. Struggling to his feet, he also gets into the ring.

Nick: Rolo finally stands, but SB is waiting behind him - and he hits his Rolling Cutter! He calls that "Omerta"!! That'll silence him for sure!

SB knows he needs to get Rolo outside of the ring, and does so by tossing him over the top rope and following after him. SB thinks it's over, and goes for the pin - but Rolo instinctively pulls him in for a Small Package!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!

Nick: Quicker than a hiccup, Rolo just pinned Simply Beautiful!

SB stands up, looking more embarrassed than anything else. Rolo stands up smiling next to him, waving to him before pointing the ring, where SB must go to continue the match.

Richard: Gee, that's pretty embarrassing. Kind of like this time where my mother came to visit and I had an ex of mine tied upside down while I was wear-

Nick: Hold that thought for a time when we're both hammered, we have a great match going on here!

SB rolls into the ring, the crowd laughing the whole way, and rolls back out before the count even gets to four. And he does NOT look happy. He meets Rolo halfway from where the Specialist was standing and starts trading haymaker blows with him, making it all the way around the ring and into the stands once again! Security can barely hold them back this time as the fans reach over, patting both men on the back. Someone hits SB with a cup of beer, and a security guard tackles the heckler to the ground!

Nick: Hope you got your money's worth, dope!

SB and Rolo somehow make it all the way PAST the floor seating and into the doors leading to the centerfield press box. A cameraman is luckily waiting on the other side, and gets all the footage. SB picks up a mop and wraps it around Rolo's head! Rolo kicks SB in the stomach and tosses him through two push-open doors, leading to a flight of stairs. SB starts to walk up them, not totally sure where it's taking him but trying to bait Rolo into following him.

Nick: This could be bad if something happens on those stairs.

Richard: Yeah, as in they both could die! What's wrong with that?

Rolo follows SB, who goes all the way up the stairs and exits out through a door - they're in the center field bleachers! The crowd roars as Rolo comes crashing through the door and tackles SB to the floor. He gets into a mount position and tries to apply a Triangle Choke - submissions count as falls in this match!

But SB is able to cut him off and palm thrusts him in the face. Rolo backs off, and the two men square off, high above the ring out in center at Wrigley Field!

They trade punches, both mindful of their step but without an ounce of fear. Rolo throws SB over a row of seats, and then walks over to meet him as he stands up. He tries to hit SB with a right hook, but it's blocked! SB comes back with a shot of his own, dazing Rolo and sending him wavering backwards. He moves in for the kill shot, but Rolo stops him!

Nick and Richard: HOLY SHIT!

ROLO JUST TOSSED SB INTO THE BASE OF THE SCOREBOARD! SB backs up a few steps, dizzily, and slumps to the ground.

Nick: Rolo can just cover him right here! It's over, I think he just broke the poor kid's neck!

But Rolo looks up to the heavens, and out to the sea of humanity watching his every step. Slowly but steadily, he begins to climb the side of the scoreboard.

Nick: What the hell is he doing?

Richard: Either making history, or making HIMSELF history!

Rolo starts picking up his pace, and the fans all rise in unison - shit, they haven't been sitting since he made his entrance! The Specialist finally makes it to the top of the scoreboard, twenty feet above his target.

He raises his arms up over his head, and quickly makes the sign of the cross - AND HE FLIES!

Nick: SUPERFLY SPLASH!!!!!! AND IT HITS! MY GOD IT HITS!

The noise is defeaning. Two bodies, one bloodied and both broken, lie motionless in the bleachers of Wrigley Field.

Nick: I...I think they might be dead.

Richard: I can't believe what I just saw. I - I don't believe it. That was the biggest risk I've ever seen anyone take...

Nick: Rolo's hand just shot up! Listen to this crowd! He drapes it over SB's chest!

ONEEEEEE!

TWOOOOOO!

THREEEEEEEE!!!

Nick: Rolo is down. SB is near DEATH. I don't think either one of these men would be able to answer a count to a hundred, let alone ten!

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

FOUR!!!!

FIVE!!!!!

Rolo pushes himself to his feet, and slumps into a chair. He's soaked in blood, and will probably spend this night and possibly the next few in the hospital.

SIX!!!!!!

SB grabs the chair, and starts to pulling himself to his feet.

Richard: Just lay down! Lay down!

Nick: He can't just quit, he's got a fighting spirit! Tony Rolo won't ever give up!

SEVEN!!!!!!!

EIGHT!!!!!!!!

NINE!!!!!!!!!

Nick: SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL IS STANDING! HE MADE IT TO HIS FEET!

The crowd nearly explodes! Unable to support himself, he falls into the chair right beside Rolo.

TEN!!!!!!!!!!

"My Hero" blasts over the PA.

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER - TONYYYYYYY ROOOLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick: He did it! Tony Rolo has faced down the challenge of Simply Beautiful!

Richard: I'm in total shock. That match was just as brutal as advertised...I really can't believe Rolo pulled out the splash from the Wrigley Field scoreboard! Hell of a match!

Rolo stands up in the bleachers, helping SB to his feet. SB sticks out his bloody hand to Rolo, and Tony just stares at it. As the crowd starts to chant both men's names in between hockey-cheer claps, Rolo slaps SB's hand away!

Richard: Uh-oh! Here comes trouble!

But Rolo grabs SB and hugs him! He raises SB's arm up in victory, and the crowd goes absolutely wild!

Nick: What a great show of sportsmanship!

Richard: That makes me sick! SICK!

SB and Rolo, both men covered in blood, stand high above the ring as flashbulbs go off - only one man was victorious, but both are winners tonight!

Have you ever wanted to be a part of history?

Outside of Wrigley Field, you can be a little part of PRIME history; as part of the PRIME*TIME Life Interactive Fan Exhibit, there's the Virtual PRIMEate booth, where anyone who's willing to pay fifteen bucks can have themselves green-screened into great moments in the federation's history and take home the video.

You act out the parts as per the script, and your friends can watch (and probably laugh as you stumble around like a goof) as you relive some of the greatest things that ever happened in the greatest place that ever happened. Want to be Tchu when he won the Universal Championship? We can do that. Want to be Karina Wolfenden, winning Dual Halo?

Then you'd be just like the tall (and by tall, we mean TALL) woman, currently miming the end of that bout right now.

She also happens to be the current reigning PRIME Universal Champion, by the way.

Cozen: And the crowd goes wild! RAAAAAAAAAH!

No, Cozen. That's not what the crowd cheering sounds like. This? This is what the crowd going nuts sounds like.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

"Time to fuck some shit up."

As Cozen turns around, she narrowly ducks the baseball bat flying at her head at roughly a hundred miles per hour! The end of the bat slams into the Virtual PRIMEate booth, sending sparks everywhere. She rushes away, trying to figure out who exactly went after her when her question is answered as she glances upwards.

Dusk.

Dusk, turning to meet his sworn enemy, looks to be steaming mad as he points the bat at Cozen, frustrated and pissed at losing his Intense Title.

Dusk: You bitch. You just have to stick your fucking nose in my business each and every chance you get, don't ya?

Cozen: You do the fucking up, Craiggie. Broke my brain, twisted my insides. I was... not happy, but close enough for spitting. All I wanted to be was nothing and you insist on being so... there and doing... things. I am not a fan of things being done without things. So I decided to remind you I exist, I think therefore I am. Not my fault, never is, can't blame me, I plead guilty by way of temporary insanity.

Nick: Temporary. Really.

She stands up again, lips curled downwards.

Cozen: I was playing with that. You owe me fifteen dollars. I was going to get to be Sun Tzu next, the Art of Understanding Devin Shakur.

Dusk just shakes his head as he begins to walk closer and closer to Cozen.

Dusk: Word to the wise, you don't want to be Sun Tzu. Unless you like having your wrists slit and Emo Punk Rock playing in the background during sex. But, enough about that. I broke your brain? I twisted your insides. Sister, you were fucked up long before you got here. By who or what, I don't have the slightest fucking clue, and honestly, I could care less. You continue to fuck with me and my brain. I could care less what's happened to you.

He continues to point the bat at Cozen, his anger getting the better of him with each passing second.

Dusk: You walked in here, Cozen, and you fucked things up. You put PRIME on its ear and frankly, if you ask me, we'd be a little better off without you. You cost me the Intense Title tonight because of your inability to just leave shit alone. No more. I've let you stick around this long. That ends. It ends.

Dusk then cocks back and aims the bat at Cozen's head who happens to duck once again in just the nick of time as Dusk destroys a large, elaborate sign promoting the Virtual PRIME booth.

Cozen: (singsong) If you don't stop thaaaaaaat, I'm going to become cross, Mr. Duskers

She spins lightly on one foot -- too lightly for someone as tall as she is, skittering under Dusk's grasp, laughing gaily.

Cozen: This is fun! I say words, you say words, you break things. But in the end, it's your heart that's shattered like a glass thrown into a wall. I'm not picking up the pieces for you.

There's no smile on Dusk's face though. No sign of emotion other then anger. He glares at Cozen, wanting to rip her from limb to limb even as he feels a small pang of compassion for her. It's that oddity that might be slowing Dusk down. The fact that he slightly feels sorry for her.

Dusk: I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Cozen. Especially since you seem to think that my heart is so involved here. What would happen to you though, Cozen, if your heart was broken? What would happen if you were forced to stop living your life as someone else and assume your own identity? I would have to imagine that it would be your pieces that I'd be picking up right about now.

He clutches the baseball bat in his hands tightly.

Dusk: Take your pleasure now, Cozen. Because soon, you will feel pain. You will feel sorrow. And you won't know what to do with yourself. And you'll be left a quivering mess with no one there to hold your hand through it all. Like I've always told you, we're not that different from one another, and I know the endgame here. I know your endgame. I know what lies at the end of that tunnel that haunts you in your dreams.

He rolls his tongue around in his mouth as he continues to stalk her.

Dusk: It's now your life that will be fucked with. For far too long, I've let you get to me and now no more. I show you a taste of your own medicine and see how you like to deal with it. I'll continue to smash things, Cozen, but those objects won't be shattered as much as you'll be. Trust me.

Dusk then swings the bat again, though not at Cozen, but at a random table that just buckles under the weight of Dusk's strength.

Cozen: Can't shatter a vacuum, sugar. It is infinite and endless, as far as the eye can see. When you reach inside to pull out the secrets, you'll just pull out the pain.

Dusk sighs in frustration, turning the bat on the monitor that so recently depicted Cozen-as-Karina winning the Dual Halo (a feat that the Faceless Fighter failed to achieve, of course). Cozen unleashes a wicked peal of laughter, like something straight out of the Wizard of Oz.

Cozen: I should have you follow me around --

Another woman's voice interrupts the Impressionable Impressionist.

"What is that racket?"

"You better not have broken a bunch of -- oh, it's just you."

The newcomers onto the scene are... well, they are for super-certain "assholes," but have, at times, claimed to be husband and wife, brother and sister, best friends since childhood, and (earlier tonight) cousins. Andreas and Siena van der Wal are two douchebags, sure, but they're two douchebags with an agenda when it comes to the Universal Champion.

He is a thin man on the small side (Cozen is barely shorter than he is) with blond hair and thin glasses, the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up just past his forearms. She is a shapely Asian girl with hair dyed auburn and eyes that appear to always be rolling. Together, they fight crim--wait, no, together, they try to control the Universal Champion. Sometimes it works out.

Other times, there's a guy like the Lost Soul to mess things up.

Andreas: Come, Cozie.

Siena: Time to stop playing with the kiddies.

Andreas: You have a match.

Siena: The main event in two consecutive pay-per-views.

Andreas: This time, I like your chances.

Cozen: Tyler Rayne rocks soooooooo hard, yeah.

Dusk's eyes flow around the room at an alarmingly fast pace, aware of the situation that he finds himself in. With the baseball still in his possession, he decides to take control of the situation as he steps in between Cozen and the van der Wal's. He eyes the van der Wal's rather suspiciously, trying to figure out who exactly these crazy people are.

Dusk: Sorry, she's not going anywhere. Unless you intended for her to go to hell. Now, I guess the million dollar question on my mind is, who the fuck are you guys? No, wait; let's see if I can answer that one on my own accord.

He points his baseball bat at Andreas.

Dusk: Blonde hair. Skinny. Thin glasses. We'll name you Tweedle-Fucking-Dee. Enjoy the new name. And as for you...

He then points the bat at Siena.

Dusk: Rather shapely. Auburn hair. You know, you seem oddly familiar. But, you shall now be christened Tweedle-Fucking-Slut. Or any variation that includes the word slut. Because, you're a slut. I can see it in your eyes. Slut. Slut. Slut.

Siena, not rather happy with being called a slut, explodes.

Siena: I'll have you know, you blithering idiot, that I am not a slut! My name is Si--

Dusk though isn't quite interested in hearing what she has to say as he puts the bat right against her throat.

Dusk: See, herein lies the problem. You actually think that I give a fuck. Nope, not anymore. You're connected to her then your life becomes a living hell. So, this is your chance. Leave her to me and take the Universal Championship down to Cantrell so he can crown a new PRIME Universal Champion. Or, see what it's like when I'm really pissed off. The ball is in your court.

Andreas: Miss Siena, do control your temper. Obviously, this chap has had a bad day.

Siena: I think...

She swallows, wetting her lips.

Siena: I was busy giving some random intern head to have seen what happened. Being a slut and all. Did you trip or something?

Andreas: That must have been it. Embarrassment at being uncoordinated.

Dusk walks a little closer to Siena, coming within inches of her.

Dusk: Did I trip or something? That's rich, coming from you. Your money train is about to come to an end, Miss Siena, or hasn't anyone told you? Grave things happen when you fuck with a Lost Soul? Need an example? Good.

With his attention totally on the van der Wal's, Cozen takes the opportunity to snatch the baseball bat, hanging at Dusk's side now, from his grasp and throws the baseball bat out of the room and far away from Dusk.

Cozen: Oopsie! Three strikes and you're out! You let my BFF go, Duskers, or else we will get in a slapfight and I will gouge your eyes out and eat 'em up.

Andreas: You might consider your options here, Mr. Maloof.

Siena: Think this one through, hon.

Andreas: Neither Miss Siena nor myself are abnormally large.

Siena: Though I will kick you so hard, your testes will scramble like eggs, sweetie.

Andreas: Then you have her -

He gestures at the champion, who's twirling her hair around a finger.

Andreas: Who proved tonight that she simply has to be breathing the same air as you do for you to choke. So why don't you be reasonable --

Siena laughs aloud.

Andreas: Next time, I promise I'll bring a dictionary to define that one for you -- and just walk away. Live to fight another day. Would be an awful shame if they had to add "That time that Dawn got his head split open out on Waveland Avenue" to the Virtual PRIMEate Booth next time out.

Siena: Though I would pay fifteen -- hell I would pay $150 dollars -- for that.

Their banter is fast-paced, back and forth like a rapid-fire game of badminton. Except badminton doesn't usually irritate the Icon of PRIME. Cricket, on the other hand...

Dusk: You must think of me as someone rather scared of death. Wrong.

Dusk wastes no time as he grabs Andreas by the throat. The small man starts squirming around quickly, hoping to get away from Dusk, but it's no use as he brings him in close so he can see his burning red eyes, letting him know what kind of man he's really dealing with here.

"Put him down, Dusk."

The voice is recognized immediately by everyone in the ring and as Dusk glances behind him, he sees C.P. Cantrell standing there with several security guards. Dusk sighs rather loudly as his eyes nearly burn a hole through Cantrell.

C.P. Cantrell: Have you had fun harassing a member of my main event later on this evening and her entourage? Put him down, now.

Yet, he doesn't listen at first.

Cozen's voice is low; she's looking down, hair falling in front of her face.

Cozen: Let him go, Dusk.

It's the first time during this that she's called him by his proper ring name.

Dusk: I think these two need a lesson that you just don't get to mouth of to whoever you want.

Cozen: I SAID, "LET HIM GO, DUSK! You think I'm some adorable fucking wreck in the brain, but you ask Lindsay Fucking Troy what I can do to someone's life. I have played nice with you -- too nice. Shiny gold belt, make it go away; push all your buttons in, make them stick. But if you push me... you will not be the one who is fear. You will be the one who is fearing.

For the first time, Dusk smiles.

Dusk: I gave you time to warm up Cozen, to let you get used to everything. The kiddie games are now over. Now it's time for the grown-ups to play. Are you ready to play? Because, the games I play, they involve life or death. And I win. I always win, Cozen. So, you now get to see what really lies behind these eyes, and it's a sick and twisted world there. One that you're not ready for. But, don't worry; you will be, soon enough. When you lose that title tonight and your world falls around you, those pieces won't be left untouched. I'll be there to pick them up and throw them right back in your face.

C.P. Cantrell: Dusk...

Dusk: You want him, Cozen? You really want him? Good.

Dusk then throws Andreas at Cozen, sending both of them into the wall. He then looks at Cantrell.

Dusk: I'm tired of playing games, Cantrell. The camel's back is now broken. You've just touched the edge.

Dusk then walks out of the room, brushing past the security guards, and leaving Cozen and the van der Wals behind.

Vince Howard: The following Divine Rights match is scheduled for ONE fall!

Richard: PRAISE HOYT!

Nick: Oh not this again. Really, must you do this all the time?

Richard: You know, you’re as ungrateful as you are ugly.

Nick: Wait, is this about the wart? I told you I’m getting that frozen off.

Vince Howard: Introducing first...

Where are the people that accuse me?
The ones who beat me down and abuse me
They hide, just out of sight
Can’t face me in the light
They’ll return, but I’ll be stronger

"Unbreakable" by Fireflight

Vince Howard: From Detroit Michigan, weighing in at one-hundred and ninety-three pounds... the Zen Assassin...

CRUUUUUUCIFIIIIIX!

Richard: Here comes the freakshow. Dead man walking.

Wearing a dark purple mask adorned with a golden cross across the front, Crucifix steps out to greet the fifty thousand fans. Most cheer, some boo, but the Zen Assassin bows to all of them before making his way to the ring.

Nick: Crucifix is looking lean and mean. He’s definitely ready for this match.

Richard: He’d better be. Divine Rights match! A match pitting my personal Jesus, Hoyt Williams, against the pile of roadkill who calls himself Crucifix.

Nick: Hoyt Williams made his return a few weeks back and voiced his displeasure that the state of America.

Cut to: Revolution 159

Hoyt Williams: Rain down in anger not on whom you wish to strike revenge, but crucify the innocent in your selfish acts of aggression. Again the angry mob of Americana acts irrationally. Men loving men, vulgarity in the schools, and sex everywhere! This is your world you created it I’m no long here to save it, but RATHER DESTROY IT!!!

Cut back to: Nick & Richard

Richard: You people have all sentenced yourselves to holy destruction. Tonight it starts with the false idol, Crucifix.

Nick: The stipulations state that if Hoyt wins this match, Crucifix has to remove the mask bearing the cross he wears on his face. If Crucifix wins, Hoyt is going to wear a cross on his face.

Richard: If that maniac pulls out a knife and tries to carve anything into the face of Hoyt Williams, there’s going to be Hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay.

Nick: Why, are you going to stop him?

"Reach Out, and Touch Faith!"

Vince Howard: And his opponent, a PRIME Hall of Fame Champion hailing from Chicago, Illinois… weighing in at three-hundred and thirty-one pounds… … He is "Your Personal Jesus"…

HOYT… WILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAMMMMMMMMSSSSSS!!

"Your own. Personal. Jesus.

Someone to hear your prayers. Someone who cares."

The triumphant beat of "Personal Jesus" by Depeche Mode blasts throughout the arena as the Religious Icon of PRIME bursts into Wrigley Field with a look of both anger and disgust on his face. His eyes burn with righteous fury, looking at the unwashed masses who boo and disrespect both him and everything he believes in. With both fists taped, Williams makes his way to the ring.

Nick: He is NOT looking happy.

Richard: Are you kidding? He looks great! He’s going to look even better after he shows the World the ugliness Crucifix is hiding behind that mask. That’s the same ugliness each and every one of you non-believers have, hiding behind your own masks of self-importance!

Nick: For the record, that sermon does not reflect the view of PRIME or any of its employees.

Richard coughs.

Nick: Except this one.

With both men in the ring, referee Thomas Giles signals for the bell.

DING DING

Perhaps locking up with a six-foot six inch, three hundred thirty pound isn’t the best idea, especially given Hoyt’s current frame of mind. That doesn’t stop Crucifix from making the effort. The collar-elbow tie up lasts only long enough for Hoyt to get his footing. Then, with a mighty shove, Williams sends Crucifix bouncing across the length of the ring like tumbleweed. Undaunted, Crucifix is back on his feet and charges at Williams, forcing yet another lock up. This time, Hoyt takes a few steps before hurling Crucifix across the ring, through the ropes, and onto the floor at ringside.

Nick: There’s power, and then there’s power.

Richard: More like there’s power, and then there’s the Divine Might of Hoyt Williams.

The referee steps out of the way as Williams walks up to the ropes. Outside the ring, Crucifix wraps his fingers around the second rope and pulls himself up onto the apron. Hoyt reaches down and grabs him by the head with both hands. A quick shoulder block knocks Hoyt back a few steps, giving Crucifix just enough room to pull off a springboard dropkick. Hoyt snatches him out of the air and walks around the ring with him, almost cradling him like a small child. In the massive arms of Hoyt Williams, Crucifix looks very much the part.

The Zen Assassin struggles against Hoyt’s powerful limbs, but Williams is still able to drop him across his knee. After delivering the backbreaker, Hoyt doesn’t release his grip on Crucifix. Instead, he lifts him up, drops him across his knee a second time, and then casually rolls him away. Crucifix has a hand on his lower back when he gets to his feet, but Hoyt’s on him immediately and those powerful arms wrap around the smaller challenger. He lifts him almost effortlessly in a bearhug. With his arms pinned against his body, Crucifix can’t find the leverage to maneuver himself out of the hold. All he can do is look into Hoyt’s face, and what he sees isn’t promising for his well-being.

The overhead belly-to-belly suplex lets Crucifix breathe while he’s in the air, but hitting the mat with the grace of a car wreck victim makes him miss being crushed like a boar in an anaconda’s coiled body.

Always in motion, always pushing the pace of the destruction, Hoyt grabs Crucifix by the throat and jerks him to his feet. He then whips him into the corner, barrelling after him in with a clothesline that almost separates the masked head from his scarred shoulders. Rattled, Crucifix shakes his head to try and clear the cobwebs.

That’s when he looks up... waaaay up... into the face of Hoyt the Destroyer.

Hoyt Williams: Time to cleanse your sins.

Crucifix: I need to cleanse my shorts first.

Williams doesn’t find that to be very funny. He decides to explain that via some very hard punches to a stunned Crucifix.

The first punch rocks the masked head like a bobble head.

The third one drops him to his knees.

The tenth knocks him through the ropes again.

For a moment, Ref Giles looks like he wants to say something. Issue a warning, make a threat, do something to show that he’s still in charge. Hoyt looks down at him, and Giles decides to go with the much safer "stay out of the way and count to three when applicable" plan.

Meanwhile, out on the ringside floor, Crucifix hopes the World will stop spinning long enough for him to remember where he is. He finds out, too late, that he happens to be at the end of Hoyt’s boot. Hoyt then lifts him with what looks to be a gutwrench suplex, but at the apex of the move he hurls Crucifix away like a shot putt. Soaring through the air upside down, the only thing that stops Crucifix from flying over the barricade is the ring post that got in his way.

WHACK! Crucifix strikes the steel.

THUD! Crucifix falls on his head.

Nick: The Zen Assassin is going to have to find a way to counter the superior power of Hoyt Williams or he’s in for a long night.

Richard: Maybe he’s hoping that Hoyt will eventually tire himself out. By the time that happens, Crucifix will be lucky to only be maskless. At this rate, he could end up headless and limbless as well.

With the fans cheering nearby, Crucifix’s hands find the ringpost. He fights to steady himself while he struggles to his feet. Williams explodes towards him, his toes digging into the ground with every quick step. Crucifix turns around and realizes he’s at the center of a Hoyt Williams bullseye.

Hoyt pulls the trigger.

Bang.

That would be the sound of Williams hitting the ringpost.

Nick: Look at him move! Crucifix was playing possum!

In one quick, flowing motion, Crucifix jumps out of Hoyt’s way and lands on the apron. Hoyt barely has time to stumble backward before Crucifix jumps on him with a flying headscissors.

Nick: Crucifix unloading with left and rights, and plenty of both! I’ve lost count of how many he’s thrown!

Richard: If he thinks that’s going to save him, then that mask needs some better ventilation.

With Williams trying desperately to keep his footing, Crucifix takes the big man off his vertical base with a hurricarana. Hoyt no sooner lands on his back, then Crucifix is on his feet and rolls into the ring to break the referee’s ten count. Williams rolls onto his side slap the ground beside him in frustration. Crucifix watches him as he gets to his feet, shrugs, and runs in Hoyt’s direction. Just as the big man turns around, Crucifix leaps onto the top rope and dives at him with a Burning Phoenix Elbow.

Crucifix: COWABUNGA!

The impact from the flying Thai elbow strike sends Williams crashing into the barricade back-first. Crucifix continues his high-speed assault with several quick body blows, a hard thigh kick, followed by a double-tap kick that ends with a roundhouse blow to Hoyt William’s jaw. Overwhelmed by the barrage of blows, Hoyt stumbles forward and Crucifix grabs him by the hair, rolling him into the ring.

Nick: This is insane! It’s like all that pain just woke up Crucifix in a big way!

Richard: And if you’ll notice, even after all of Crucifix’s cute little chop sockey kicks and punches, Hoyt Williams is still on his feet.

Nick: Both men are running on pure adrenaline, knowing what’s at stake for each of them.

Richard: Bull. Crucifix is running on Fear, and Hoyt Williams is fuelled by Divine Justice.

Even after the masked man’s onslaught, Williams is the first to get to his feet. Crucifix stands and just ducks in time as Hoyt’s fist whistles by his head. Crucifix launches a counter attack and kicks Hoyt in the stomach, then whips the big man into the ropes. Hoyt comes flying back at him, quicker than he anticipated, and bulldozes Crucifix off his feet. Crucifix tucks and rolls with the blow, ending up back on his feet. He jumps onto the second rope and flips in the air. Hoyt anticipates the Storm Hammer and drops to the mat, waiting for Crucifix to land so he can grab his leg and pull him down to the mat.

He waits two full beats before he realizes that Crucifix faked the leap.

He turns his head in time to see, then feel, Crucifix land the Asai moonsault.

The pain suddenly gets much worse.

Nick: Crucifix Crossface! Crucifix Crossface on Hoyt Williams!

Richard: No! NO!

Nick: Hoyt’s a looooong way from those ropes.

Richard: There’s no way Hoyt Williams is going to let a bastion of sin like Crucifix defeat him. There’s no way.

Nick: It looks like the strategy of out-wrestling the bigger man is paying off.

Richard: His offense has been like a bug hitting the Holy Windshield that is Hoyt Williams.

Giles is on his knees, asking Hoyt if he wants to submit. Williams has his eyes shut, blocking out the pain, suffocating it with his anger. Crucifix clasps his hands tighter, pulling back as hard as he can. But with Hoyt’s superior size, he drags himself closer and closer to the ropes. He pays for every inch gained, but in the end Williams manages to grab the ropes.

That doesn’t mean Crucifix plans on letting go. After all, what’s the ref going to do, disqualify him?

Richard: For the Love of Hoyt! Get in there ref!

Seconds tick by. The bottom rope shakes as Hoyt Williams pulls on it. The referee can only repeat the instruction for Crucifix to release the Crossface. Hoyt’s lower body starts moving and he works his leg over the bottom rope. With every ounce of strength left in his body he manages to pull both himself and Crucifix out of the ring.

Richard: Hoyt Williams, Divine Warrior of the Almighty, has over a hundred pounds of muscle over Crucifix. He’s got almost a foot in height. He’s also stronger than just about everyone Crucifix has ever faced. You tell me how Crucifix is supposed to win? He can’t even keep him in his finishing hold!

Fans lean over the barricade, trying to touch their respective heroes. Crucifix is up first, and with Hoyt on his hands and knees, he launches a kick. The foot doesn’t land on Hoyt’s chin. No, the Divine Warrior of the Almighty gets to his knees in time to see the foot breeze by him. He then shows his appreciation for the refreshing cool air by attempting to turn Crucifix into a human sock puppet with a hard uppercut to the groin.

Several men in the front row double over. One almost faints.

Crucifix vomits in his mask and drops to the ground like he’s been shot. Which might be preferable to the pain he’s currently enduring.

Nick: Oh my –

Richard: Balls! You don’t need to see Crucifix’s face to know his eyes have just rolled back into his head. It’s a good thing he’s so hideous – there’s no chance he’ll miss the fact he can’t reproduce anymore.

With Crucifix in the fetal position at ringside, hands sandwiched between his legs, Hoyt sucks in a deep breath and looks out at the crowd. Most of them are booing him, which doesn’t seem to have any effect on Williams at all.

Hoyt Williams: Not a single soul worth saving among the lot of you. Pathetic.

Richard: He... he’s not including ME with this riff-raff, is he?

Nick: Of course not. He’s talking to the people in front of him, not the ones with their head up his ass.

Richard: ... now that’s just uncalled for.

Hoyt looks down at Crucifix. Thomas Giles is starting an extra long ten count, barely counting at all. Hoyt isn’t concerned with the count anyway. He bends down and lifts the apron wrapped around the ring.

Nick: What’s he looking for?

Richard: He might be looking for Crucifix’s testicles. He could sweep them up, put them in a jar, and sell them on eBay.

Nick: Well whatever he was looking for, judging by the very unholy look on his face -

Richard: Blasphemer.

Nick: Please. Hoyt Williams is pulling something out.

Hoyt holds up a chair wrapped in barbed wire.

Richard: A nod to his Bed of Thorns match back at UltraViolence ‘06?

Nick: Who knows what goes through this man’s head.

Fans scatter as Crucifix rests his hands on top of the ringside barricade, tightening his grip on the steel as he pulls himself to his feet. A few people closest to where he’s standing are certain they smell something foul coming from behind the mask, most likely vomit. His legs are still shaking, and his breathing comes in rattled gasps. To his credit, he’s managed to get up after potentially having his testicles ruptured.

The problem is that he has his back to the man with the barbed wire chair.

One swing, and he pays for that mistake.

It isn’t so much the blood that startles the fans nearest the chaos. This is professional wrestling, after all, and bloodletting comes with the territory. It also isn’t the fact that a three hundred and thirty pound man just hit a man roughly half his size with a chair wrapped in barbed wire.

Hoyt didn’t hit Crucifix in the back with the chair. He flayed him with it.

And despite the mask covering his mouth, his scream as he drops down to his knees is heard loud and clear by fifty thousand shocked people.

Nick: Look at those cuts down Crucifix’s back!

Richard: Once those close, they’ll just look like the rest of the boo-boos on this guy’s body.

Nick: I can’t believe you can be so glib about this!

Richard: C’mon, you didn’t watch "The Passion of the Christ"? The Romans did alot worse than Hoyt Williams just did. Christ was almost whipped to death before he carried his crucifix. It’s only fair that David Cross gets to suffer the same way if he wants to continue to carry the Crucifix on his face.

Nick: That’s not only sick, but wrong on so many levels.

Giles is out of the ring in a heartbeat, bending down beside Crucifix and watching the tiny rivulet of blood trickle down the back of his trunks, down the soles of his boots, and starting to form a small puddle underneath him.

Thomas Giles: What do you say Crucifix? Want me to stop this?

Crucifix: Hk... Hk... Hk...

Hoyt Williams: You heard the man, ref. He wants to continue.

Thomas Giles: He didn’t say that.

Hoyt Williams: Okay I want it to continue.

The referee looks at the growing puddle of blood beneath Crucifix’s kneeling body. He sees the masked man’s trembling arms jutting out at his sides.

Thomas Giles: I have to stop this match.

Hoyt Williams: That’s blasphemy. And this is a boot to the head.

Giles takes a second to process what he’s just heard. Unfortunately it’s a second too long. Hoyt drives his boot into the official’s head, knocking him into the barricade and rendering him unconscious.

Richard: Looks like there’s no one left to save Crucifix.

Fifty thousand people watch, either on monitors or with their bare eyes, as Crucifix slowly bleeds out through trenches in his back. Those select few with the cherished front row seat can see the masked man’s body quiver, his hands open, fingers twitching. Hoyt looks at these people and stares at them long and hard, prompting them to abandon their seats and take a few steps back from the barricade out of fear of suffering the same fate. Hoyt walks around to the front of Crucifix.

He swings the chair again.

It’s more of a spray that comes through the mask this time, a hoarse gurgle of blood and phlegm.

Hours later, when ringside fan Mike Smith gets home and hops on the Internet to tell his friends what it was like to be at the Pay Per View live, he’ll have plenty to tell them about the Williams / Crucifix match. The one thing he won’t forget to mention, what he’ll never forget, is seeing actual pieces of flesh hanging off the bloody barbed wire wrapped around the chair.

Nick: Okay, enough is enough. Someone has to step in and stop this.

Richard: There has to be a winner in this match. You know that, I know that, and both of those men – well, one man and one mortal deity – they both know it too.

Hoyt slides the chair under the bottom rope. Crucifix, on the other hand, is lying face down in a pool of his own blood. With the toe of his boot, Hoyt lifts Crucifix's head. He moves his foot, and the masked head splashes back down into his life fluids. Hoyt seems satisfied at this, and grabs Crucifix by the throat. He pulls him up, grabs a thigh, and presses Crucifix into the ring over the top rope. Like some kind of Rorschach test, Hoyt casts a critical eye at the bloody ink blot where Crucifix hits the mat.

He sees victory.

Nick: Can we get someone from the back to come out here? Hello? If anyone in the back can hear me, send another referee out here. We need to get some medical attention for Crucifix!

Richard: If nothing else, the guy can say he made history.

Nick: History? How do you see that?

Richard: I've heard of guys wearing a Crimson Mask. This has to be the first Crimson Shirt I've ever seen!

Nick: I don't know who needs help more - Crucifix, Hoyt Williams, or you.

Hoyt seems almost amused as Crucifix somehow fights to a vertical position. He walks up to the bloody masked man and grabs a handful of his hair. He pulls him close, smelling the bitter stench of the blood and vomit that is oozing through the mask and out the neck hole.

Hoyt Williams: It is done.

He's so close, he can see Crucifix's eyes through the mesh in the mask. Oddly, the eyes are looking right into his own.

Crucifix: You don't know how right you are.

The elbow uppercut catches Hoyt by surprise. He falls back a few steps, taking a handful of Crucifix's hair with him. A Burning Phoenix Knee drives him back even further. Neither man notices the commotion in the crowd, a blonde man climbing over the barricade while a blonde woman, bearing a striking resemblance to the man, gets into a shouting match with one of the security personnel.

Nick: What fan in their right mind would get involved in a match like this? Does this guy have a death wish?

Richard: Hey, isn't that the British dude that's been hanging out with Crucifix?

It is, in fact, Winston. It is also quite obvious that he's terrified to be on this side of the barricade, and takes a deep breath to gather his nerves before sliding under the bottom rope.

Hoyt Williams kicks the weakened Crucifix in the stomach, doubling him over. Williams jams his head between his thighs and grabs him around the stomach. As he bends down to pick him up, Hoyt feels something bounce off his back. Maybe a fan threw a cup, or a bag of popcorn, or -

Winston: H-Hey! Yeah you, you w-wanker! Put him down!

Hoyt turns his head. Winston is holding a folded steel chair in his shaking hands.

Nick: I want to say that he just attacked Hoyt Williams. I mean, technically he did.

Richard: He hit a Hall of Famer with a steel chair!

Nick: It didn't look like he could have broken a balloon with that shot. That being said, this guy's most likely about to die.

Richard: Oh he's totally dead.

Winston doesn't try to lift the chair again. He seems to hope that by holding it by the legs, right at chest level so the big man can see it, it will be enough to get his point across. What that point is, though, is never clarified. Hoyt flips Crucifix up effortlessly in a powerbomb position, but instead of slamming him to the mat, he takes a few running steps toward Winston and then throws Crucifix at him like a red and purple missile.

Crucifix hits the chair. The chair hits Winston. Winston shrieks and falls through the ropes.

Richard: So much for his masterful plan. Unless of course, his plan was to look like an ass on Pay Per View. In which case, Mission Accomplished.

Outside the ring, Thomas Giles is starting to recover. The crowd is yelling for him to get up, which strikes him as odd since the fans seldom ever root for the official. When he sees the blood, he snaps back into awareness and begins looking for Crucifix. By the time he realizes what's going on, it's too late to do anything about it.

Hoyt leans on the top rope and looks down at the little man crawling back to the safety of the barricade. Security surrounds him and hoists him over the railing, continuing to carry him through the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Williams sees that Giles is recovered and is trying to get back into the ring. Time to finish this match and destroy the -

Whatever that thought was, it is cut short by the mighty swing of a baseball bat connecting with his temple.

Richard: What the Hell was that?!

Nick: Dragon's Tail! A devastating roundhouse shin kick from Crucifix!

Richard: I never would have thought he'd get his leg up that high. I guess that's the fringe benefit of not having testicles anymore – extra flexibility in the crotch.

Hoyt drops to his knees. With the last of his strength, Crucifix measures Williams and drives another Dragon's Tail into the side of his head. A third, this one to the side of the neck, and Hoyt's eyes roll back into his head. He crumbles to the mat, face-first, and Crucifix falls back into the nearby turnbuckle. He forces himself forward one step, two steps, and drops on top of the prone giant.

Nick: Crossface! Crucifix has the Crossface applied to the unconscious Hoyt Williams!

Richard: He cheated! That limey bastard distracted the Divine One!

Nick: Thomas Giles is checking on Williams... he's out! He's calling for the bell!

Richard: Robbery! This can't be allowed to stand!

Nick: You know what this means?

Richard: Can we get someone from the back to come out here? Hello? If anyone in the back can hear me, send a competent referee out here. We need to get some medical attention for Hoyt Williams!

Nick: That sounds familiar.

The bell sounds, ending the match. Crucifix limply falls away from Hoyt, who has yet to recover. Resting on one elbow, Crucifix looks up at Thomas Giles who raises an arm to signify his victory. Crucifix shakes his head and reaches into his boot.

Richard: Screw medical help, someone call a cop! If this maniac pulls out that knife -

Nick: He doesn't have a knife. What is that?

What he has, is two thin pieces of metal. Giles tells him that the match is over, and warns him not to do something he's going to regret. Crucifix wipes a hand across his bloody chest and smears it in the referee's face.

Nick: That's disgusting. Is... is Crucifix giggling?

Richard: The loss of blood has given him brain damage. These are the slowest paramedics I've ever seen!

Nick: I'm glad to see you're concerned about the man.

Richard: Hoyt needs help! C'mon EMTs!

Nick: ...

Crucifix takes the two pieces of metal and slides them together into what looks like a cross-shaped cookie cutter. His giggling is getting louder, and he stuffs the metal through the top of his mask.

Richard: What is this idiot doing?

He crawls over to Hoyt, who has just started to recover and has managed to get to his knees. He starts to look for the referee, but as he turns his head he comes face to face with an also-kneeling Crucifix.

A snickering Crucifix.

Who then headbutts him in the face.

Both men shriek and fall away from each other.

Richard: He's bleeding! Oh my Hoyt he's bleeding!

Nick: That metal cut through the mask and into Hoyt Williams' forehead. I can only imagine what it did to Crucifix.

Richard: If he stops laughing, maybe you can ask him. This guy is off his tit. Seriously. He doesn't need a doctor, he needs a straight jacket.

A straight jacket doesn't come. As Hoyt Williams lies on his back holding his bloody forehead, three EMTs come out with a medical kit and a gurney. Hoyt rolls out of the ring and pushes them out of the way, still pressing his hand to his forehead.

In the ring, the laughter has died. Gurgling has resumed.

The fans are silent.

Nick: Words really can't describe the feeling in the air. This is disturbing, to say the least.

Richard: This doesn't mean anything. Crucifix is destroyed, a broken man! Hoyt Williams fought overwhelming odds! A double team, THREE Dragon’s Tails, and TWO Crucifix Crossfaces to -

Nick: Enough, okay? Just... enough. Let's cut to a commercial.

Richard: And now…the match I’ve been waiting for all night.

Nick: Really?

Richard: Yes. Of course.

Nick: Wade Elliott versus Tyler Rayne? You’ve been waiting on this all night?

Richard: Edge of my seat, Nick.

Nick: I’m going to regret this, but… why?

Richard: These two are going to beat the unholy bejesus out of each other. And I hate both of them. So no matter who wins… I win.

Nick: I should have seen that coming.

Richard: You really should have.

There’s a shiver runs up your spine first time you hear that twang. Reminds you of Burt Reynolds and Ed Beatty and all kinds of shit you never want happening on a camping trip down South. It takes a second to realize the banjo isn’t any indication of future requests to "squeal like a pig," but rather the opening of a Southern classic. Add a bass drum to the background and an animated Southern town to the PRIME*View, and what you’ve got are the beginnings of a Wade Elliott entrance.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Where I come from it's grits an' gravy, not champagne n' caviar"
"Got pickup trucks, ain't no Mercedes, that's who we are!"
"Oooooh"
"Yeah, wouldn't change a thing"

Vince Howard: The following CONTEST is scheduled for ONE FALL and is for the PRIME 5-STAR CHAMPIONSHIP!! Introducing first…from PINE RIDGE, ALABAMA…he weighs in tonight at TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR POUNDS…THE BLUE COLLAR BRAWLER…WWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE ELLLLLLLLLLLLLIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now there’s a big ass truck rollin’ through the animated city, and just as it barrels through the town, so does the ‘Bama Bruiser himself barrel out from behind the curtain and stalk down the long walk to the ring.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

"I ain't no saint, sometimes a sinner, an' I can't tell ya why"
"But I get up every mornin' an' thank The Man above"
"Oooooh"
"My life is good"

Wade Elliott does not acknowledge the warm reception of the crowd. He does not turn wave to the kids screaming in the front row, or the resident rednecks in the upper decks waving their Confederate flag. He marches with intent, stomping up the stairs and ducking between the ropes to enter the ring.

Nick: The Bad Dog looking very serious tonight.

Richard: If Tyler Rayne hit you with a car, you’d probably be pretty serious, too, Nick.

Nick: If Tyler Rayne hit me with a car, I’d probably be dead, Rich.

Richard: Hmm. May have to have a word with him about that.

The lights above the ring and near the entrance shut down quick and fast. What lights can be turned down throughout the stadium flash out, too. Relative darkness. The PRIME*View shines brilliantly white, screen bouncing with the familiar wipe of static. As if the feed has lost signal. That lasts for a few seconds before it clears, just a bit. Like watching scrambled porn.

In point of fact, it is scrambled porn.

Nick: What the…

Richard: Think we can get someone in the back to clear this picture up? Maybe adjust the tracking?

Ask and ye shall receive. The picture clears up just enough that we can make out the image of the man in the scene. The girl moaning next to him? Yeah, well, her face is still blurry. But there’s no mistaking the infamous smile splitting the man’s face. The stubble. The mischievous gleam in his eye. The image freezes, and above his grinning façade appear a series of shining, flashing letters. Dirk Diggler style.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tyler Mother Fuckin’ Rayne

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

A wink from the Underground Pimp ignites the corner of the screen. The film begins to burn and skip before disintegrating completely, leaving the PRIME*View in black. Through the darkness, out of the speakers, comes the disembodied voice…

And whosoever shed man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed, for in the image of God made He man.

An explosion rocks the entrance. Flame and pyro bursting up to lick at the bottom of the PRIME*View. The PRIME*View itself is flashing images of flames. With Tyler Rayne himself walking through them. And just as his gigantic counterpart does, the 5-Star Champion himself steps from through the flames on the stage, championship belt slung over his right shoulder and eyes held steady on the ring.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vince Howard: …fighting out of TOKYO, JAPAN by way of BAJA, CALIFORNIA…he is the CURRENT PRIME 5-STAR CHAMPION and ONLY UNDERGROUND PIMP OF PROFESIONAL WRESTLING… TYYYYYYYYYYYLLLLLEEEERRRRR RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

The most he gives is a half-hearted wave to the explosion of the crowd.

Nick: It seems that most of our fans have forgotten their ill feelings toward Tyler Rayne over the past week.

Richard: Stupid people have short-term memories, Nick. That is a scientific fact.

The 5-Star Champion hops up to the apron and cautiously ducks into the ring, never taking his eyes from his opponent. Cold, steel eyes. For those who may have missed it earlier, this is the first good look we get at Tyler Rayne’s hands. Both wrapped halfway up the forearm with athletic tape. Both covered in shards of broken glass. His left leg wrapped from shin to knee in barbed wire.

Nick: I think Rayne might be taking this no disqualification thing just a little too far.

Richard: There’s no such thing as too far, Nick. Especially when it comes to Wade Elliott.

Nick: That’s an excellent point, Rich.

Tyler Rayne shrugs off his championship, handing it over to referee Wesley James. The ref holds the title high over his head, showcasing the prize up for grabs. Neither Wade nor Rayne look at anything other than each other. Unflinching. Unblinking.

Nick: It’s not often I say this, but I think the championship is secondary to the personal issues boiling over between these two.

Richard: Vehicular manslaughter will do that to you. Or so I hear.

The referee signals for the bell, and our match is under way.

Ding! Ding!

At the sound, both men go tearing across the ring, racing at full sprint to tear each other apart. There’s no question that Tyler Rayne is faster. We all knew that going in. So when Wade Elliott throws his muscular arms out to wrap up the champ, it’s not too surprising that Rayne isn’t there anymore. He’s on his way down, hands wrapping around Wade’s calves and jerking back. Pulling Wade’s feet out from under him. The Southern Sparkplug falls back, slamming against the canvas. Rayne is immediately on top of him. Mount position. Rights and lefts dropping purposefully toward Wade’s head. Wade’s large forearms are taking the brunt of the attack. Shielding his face from harm. But broken glass does not play kindly against flesh, whether face or forearm.

Nick: I think this match just set a new PRIME record for quickest bloodshed.

Within seconds, the bits of glass have done their work. Wade’s arms are littered with tiny lacerations. Rayne swings his right fist down for another blow, and with a quickness unexpected from the ‘Bama Bruiser, Wade reaches out to catch the wrist with his own right hand. Rayne swings the left, only to have the same happen there. Despite what must be debilitating pain, Wade holds firm to Rayne’s arms. The 5-Star Champ tries to pull away, but the struggle is futile. For as much as he is faster than Wade, Elliott will always be stronger than him. Rayne stands, removing himself from the mount to try to get more leverage. This only leaves an opening that Wade is more than happy to take advantage of. A swift kick upward places Wade’s shin straight into the most sought after genitalia in PRIME. Rayne almost crumples, if not for Wade still holding him up by his own hands. However, with Rayne momentarily on dream street, Wade uses his strength advantage to shove Rayne’s own fists up into his forehead.

Nick: He just made Rayne punch himself.

Richard: Bloody brilliant.

Nick: Bloody being the operative word here.

Indeed, it doesn’t take more than that one self-inflicted blow to put a few fresh cuts into the champ’s worn forehead. Rayne stumbles back, still trying to swallow his testicles back down, which gives Wade a chance to get up. And put one devastating right hook into the side of Rayne’s head. Rayne immediately drops flat on his ass, damn near out cold, leaning awkwardly against the bottom rope. Wade snarls at his opponent as he rises to his feet, then lumbers across the ring, springing off the ropes and building speed like a rolling juggernaut before placing the sole of his work boot across Rayne’s face with a two hundred and fifty pound face wash.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blood splatters across the outside mats, the force behind Wade’s boot instantly busting or breaking something inside Rayne’s mouth. The Bad Dog snatches a handful of dark hair and drags Rayne up to his feet. Wade scoffs and shoves Rayne into the corner. Big knee to the abdomen. A second. A third. Wade backs up, allowing Rayne to stumble a few steps forward. That work boot rises again, planting itself firmly into Rayne’s sternum and kicking him sternly (hehe) back into the turnbuckle. This time Rayne doesn’t pop back out, and Wade takes a few more steps away to get some running distance. Another lumbering sprint across the ring…

Nick: Wade looking for the big corner clothesline here…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Rayne got his knees up! Wade Elliott just took a chest full of barbed wire!

Wade retreats to center ring, hand clutching at the newly opened wounds on his chest. Rayne takes a half second to catch his breath before bursting from the corner, using Wade’s own thigh as a jumping point. With the extra little springboard, Rayne leaps about seven feet in the air, coming down on the top of Wade’s skull with the point of both elbows. Wade drops to a knee. Rayne follows with a snap kick to the right side of the head. A snap kick from the left goes straight to Wade’s ribs. And sticks.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: The barbed wire is stuck to Wade’s skin! It doesn’t look like Rayne can pull it out.

Instead, Wade pulls the 5-Star Champion forward, into waiting arms. Wade cinches his grip and snaps his hips, marshalling all of his considerable strength into tossing Rayne right over his head.

Nick: Exploding T-Bone suplex! Not a move we see often from Wade.

Richard: Or ever. I didn’t even know this yokel knew what a suplex was.

Rayne hits the mat hard. Very hard. The impact itself is what bounces Rayne back up to his feet. Not his own will. He drunkenly bounds off the ropes, spinning in confusion and stumbling back toward the middle of the ring. Wade Elliott explodes from the ground, rising from the canvas and blasting Rayne with a clothesline of such force that Rayne literally flips inside out.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Vicious clothesline! Variation on the Southern Hospitality there. Wade with a cover!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Rayne gets a shoulder up! The crowd is really getting into this one!

Richard: Of course they are. Nothing like seeing two guys beat the unholy shit out of each other to get the fans going.

Nick: Richard!

Richard: What? We’re on pay-per-view. I’m allowed one.

Wade rises from the cover, dragging Rayne up by the hair along with him. What Rayne drags up is his right arm, as fast and hard as he can into the groin of Wade Elliott.

Richard: Another low blow! I love it!

Nick: I suppose turnabout is fair play.

With Wade’s momentum lost and his hands cupping his Southern-style nuggets, Rayne presses an advantage with a rising European uppercut. Wade staggers. A dropkick to the knee brings him down and the follow-up enziguri pitches Wade forward, neck falling to rest against the middle rope, head hanging outside the ring. Rayne looks down and smiles, sprinting to the opposite of the ring to get some added momentum from the far ropes. He runs up Wade’s back, leaps over the top rope, and comes down with the left knee across the back of Wade’s neck.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Southern Sparkplug flails his arms, swatting away at the burning pain at the back of his head. Rayne hits the outside pretty hard and limps to his feet. Wade is still hung up in the ropes, and Rayne limps forward to give him a humiliating backhand across the face. Wade is dazed and half out of it, which gives Rayne time to dig about under the ring and pull out…

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: A ladder! Rayne’s pulling out the ladder!

Richard: Maybe he’s going to use it to reach up to that spot he thinks he holds in this company.

Rayne props the six foot ladder up on his shoulder and launches it forward, blasting Wade in the face with the top of the ladder.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade falls back into the ring, holding his face and rolling about in the pain. Rayne hefts the ladder up again and tosses it over the top rope. It lands, not surprisingly, on top of Wade. Rayne hops up to the apron, grabs the rope with both hands, flipping himself over the top and into the ring with a leg drop. Onto the ladder. With Wade underneath.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade immediately pushes the ladder off, but can’t do anything after that than clutch his ribs. Rayne is spasming on the mat as well, holding his ass. Rayne musters up the strength to stand first, limping over to Wade and putting a considerable effort into dragging the Drifter to the center of the ring. Rayne stands next to Wade, his back to the opponent, and winks at one of those ever-present smokin’ hotties in the front row before executing a back flip.

Nick: Standing Moonsault…

Back up on his feet in an instant. Now the front flip.

Nick: Standing Shooting Star! And now Rayne with the cover…

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THRE-- NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Wade kicked out!

Rayne sits up, smacking his hands against the mat in frustration. Despite his endurance, Wade still hasn’t quite recovered. Still face up on the mat, Rayne takes this advantage to go back to what works best. Punching people with broken glass. This time, however, Wade isn’t quite aware enough to get his arms up to block the shots. Rayne’s got a handful of hair and is using his other hand to pound brutal and measured fists into Wade’s forehead. The Bad Dog is busted and bleeding. There’s nothing the referee can do to stop the brutality. It’s not like Rayne’s listening to any of his admonishments. Without a saving grace, Wade digs somewhere within himself to find the energy to raise his arms. To wrap his hands around Rayne’s throat. To squeeze. To strangle. The punches cease almost immediately. Rayne’s eyes begin to bulge. His face changes shade to something kind of blue. Wade regains his bearings. Rises to his feet. Drags Rayne up with him. Lifts the 5-Star Champion up in the air. Still choking. Still strangling. Then…

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

…a thunderous double-chokeslam. Comic book sound effects rule. Rayne lies motionless on the mat. Wade stumbles back toward the ropes and snatches up the ladder. He stalks over to Rayne and body slams the ladder on top of him. Wade lumbers to the ropes, bounds off… big Hogan-esque leg drop on the ladder.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade holds his now throbbing thigh, but manages to shove the ladder away and hook Rayne’s leg with only the one hand.

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THRE-- NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: I really thought he might have had it on that one.

Now it’s Wade’s turn to be frustrated. He scoops Rayne up. Now the body slam onto the ladder. Rayne arches his back, screaming in pain. Wade stomps a boot to the midsection to flatten him back down. Rayne coughs, spitting up a shower of blood, and rolls off the ladder. The champ tries to crawl away. Wade opens the ladder before snatching Rayne’s ankle and dragging him back. With the toe of his work boot and a few well-placed kicks, Wade nudges Rayne into the waiting jaws of the open ladder. And then slams the ladder shut.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And again.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: That… had to hurt.

Tyler Rayne remains bloody, probably broken, and very unmoving within the closed legs of the ladder. Wade takes a moment, pretty assured he has a few now, to catch his breath before he makes his next move. The Bad Dog surveys the ladder, measuring it with his eyes. He positions himself carefully beside, then bends, an impressive show of strength that has him lifting the ladder with Rayne inside up on to his shoulders.

Nick: He couldn’t be thinking what I think he’s thinking.

Richard: I can only hope he is.

The entire stadium is standing, waiting to see what Wade will do. He’s got the ladder up across his shoulders. Spins it ninety degrees and…

KAAAAAAA-THHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: REBEL YELL! REBEL FRICKIN YELL WITH THE LADDER!!

Richard: Now that hurt.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Wade drags Rayne out of the ladder…

Nick: This one’s over!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THREE!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Wait…

In the ring, Wesley James is shaking his head and waving his arms.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: The referee says it’s no good! He’s indicating that Rayne got a shoulder up! The match continues!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Richard: Unbelievable.

Wade pushes himself to his feet. He’s exhausted. Beaten. And very, very angry. The look he shoots Wesley James is almost enough to make the ref piss himself. Before ol’ Wes has a chance to soil his pants, however, an errant ladder flies through the air and catches Wade in the side of the head. The Southern Sparkplug staggers, shocked and surprised by the unexpected attack. Rayne limps over the ladder and sprints, best he can, at Wade. Rayne leaps into the air, wrapping both hands around the back of Wade’s neck and pulling the Drifter down onto his knees. Barbed wire and all. Wade snaps back, staggering into and off the ropes. Stumbles forward into a drop toe hold.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Face first across the ladder!

Wade stays down on the mat, holding his face. Rayne staggers to his feet, limps over to the ladder, and uses it to roll Wade onto his back before slamming the ladder down on top of him. Rayne spits a mouthful of blood onto the canvas before making another attempt to sprint toward the ropes.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Springboard Moonsault! On the ladder!

Rayne pushes himself to his feet, clutching his ribs. He steadies the ladder, making sure it stays firmly in position on top of Wade before moving. He more falls into the ropes than runs to them this time.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Springboard Shooting Star Press! Another cover!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THRE-- NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Rayne looks absolutely dumbfounded. What’s it going to take to put Wade down for good?

Richard: I hear he lays down for other people’s wives. Maybe he ought to try that.

Nick: Oh, get off it!

Rayne punches the ring mat in anger. He hobbles to his feet, limps over to the ropes, and kicks the bottom rope in frustration. He paces in anger before lifting up that ladder and throwing it over the top rope. With a shake of his head, Rayne rolls to the outside and limps over to that smokin’ hottie he winked at earlier.

Nick: What the hell is he doing now?

Richard: Getting a phone number?

Nick: Why would he do that?

Richard: Why wouldn’t he?

Rayne chats up the smokin’ hottie while drinking a beer offered by one of the men seated next to her. The girl giggles a bit and then stands, pulling her Golden Showers t-shirt over her head.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: I…he…uh…I don’t know what to say.

Richard: Listen closely, Nick. For once, it seems are fans have the right idea.

The smokin’ hottie stands there, slightly flush, but obviously enjoying the attention. Rayne is using the t-shirt to wipe the blood from his face, because, well, it’s kind of hard to use your hands when they’re covered in glass. From the back of the stadium a chant begins to rise, growing in power just as the girl is sitting down.

SHOW YOUR TITTIES!!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

SHOW YOUR TITTIES!!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

The girl stands again, waving to the crowd. She teases them with a finger beneath her bra strap.

SHOW YOUR TITTIES!!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

Wade is just now beginning to stir inside the ring. Rayne is ignoring the show, deciding instead to begin another search for weapons beneath the ring.

Nick: Does anyone realize there’s a match going on here?

Richard: SHOW YOUR TITTIES!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

That, kids, is the sound of fifty thousand strong getting a free show from the smokin’ hottie in the front row. With another wave to the crowd, the hottie begins to refasten her bra.

THANK YOU, HOTTIE!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

THANK YOU, HOTTIE!

CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

Nick: Well, at least the fans here in Chicago are courteous.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

More gratuitous female nudity? No. That’s the sound of fifty thousand strong noticing that Rayne has pulled a table out from under the ring. The 5-Star Champ slides the table into the ring, making sure that Wade isn’t getting to frisky in there. Wade’s up to a knee, but not moving too quickly, so Rayne takes the time to duck back under the ring and drag out a black bag.

Nick: I can only imagine what’s in that bag.

Richard: Better be a rubber. Never know where that girl’s been.

Nick: The match? Please.

Rayne pulls himself onto the apron just as Wade is getting to his feet in the ring. With a little less flash and glamour than usual, Rayne hops up to a questionable balance on the top rope before leaping into the ring at Wade.

Nick: Springboard dropkick! Wade knocked all the way to the outside!

Which works out well for Rayne, because now he’s got himself all kinds of time to set up the table. After, of course, he hobbles to his feet. Everything about Rayne’s movements is a step slower. He winces with the effort of just setting up the table. Once set, Rayne places the bag down on the table and begins digging through it.

Richard: You’ve got to be kidding me.

The first thing out of the bag is a pack of Camels. The second is a book of matches.

Nick: Well…I guess Rayne thinks he’s got this well in hand. Not sure I’d advise a smoke break here.

The cigarette remains unlit, dangling from Rayne’s lips, while he pulls the third and final object from the bag.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lighter fluid.

Nick: Rayne just pulled a bottle of lighter fluid from the bag.

Richard: And he’s squirting it all over that table.

Nick: This is not going to end well at all.

The 5-Star Champ continues to douse that table with the flammable fluid, consuming a great deal of time that’s not being spent paying attention to his opponent. You remember Wade Elliott? The big, pissed off Southern bad ass who is quietly sliding the base of the steel ring steps into the ring. The same Wade Elliott that is digging under the ring for, not one, but two steel chairs. Remember him? Yeah? Well…apparently Rayne doesn’t. The Underground Pimp is shaking out the last few droplets of fluid onto the table when Wade stalks up behind him, steel chair raised way above his head and…

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Vicious chair shot across Rayne’s back!

The lighter fluid falls from his hands. The cigarette falls from his lips. The matches fall to the canvas. Rayne falls to a knee.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Across Rayne’s head!

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: And another one over the head!

Rayne crumples to the mat. Wade stalks over, yanking Rayne up by the hair and dragging him over near those steel ring steps. Wade manhandles Rayne into the double underhook position.

Nick: He could be looking for a Stars and Bars here…

Wade lifts Rayne up into that underhook piledriver position and takes a step up. Then up to the second step. Then up on the third. Wade looks around, Rayne at his mercy. The crowd rises to their feet again, ready to see some crazy shit. Instead, they see Rayne’s foot leaning forward and then dropping back, snapping that barbed wire against Wade’s face. Two. Three times. Wade’s grip loosens and Rayne manages to slide out. Rayne springboards off the middle rope, spinning to plant that left shin into Wade’s forehead.

Nick: Hell of a springboard kick from Rayne! Wade is down!

Without trying to get up or waiting to recover, Rayne rolls himself toward the edge of the ring and falls unceremoniously to the outside. He pushes himself up to his knees, and resorts to his favorite standby. Digging under the ring for more shit to throw at Wade.

Nick: God only knows what he’ll find under there this time.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Richard: Another ladder.

Nick: A bigger ladder.

Almost twice as big, actually. Probably ten, twelve feet tall. Rayne has to force himself to his feet to pull the whole thing out. He looks down at the ladder, looks out to the cheering fans, looks back down at the ladder and then shakes his head. Rayne pushes the ladder aside and pops his head back under the apron.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

He begins to pull another ladder from the ring.

Richard: Didn’t he just do this?

And continues to pull.

Nick: I’m pretty sure we just saw this.

And keeps pulling…

Nick: Uh…how big is this thing?

Richard: Funny. Brooks asked me the same question last night.

And keeps pulling. Finally he pulls the legs of the ladder out from under the ring and somehow stands it up next to him. It’s close to three times his height…

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: That thing’s got to be…what? Eighteen, twenty feet tall?

Richard: It’s pretty effin’ big, Nick.

Nick: I don’t even know how they kept that thing hidden under the ring.
It takes quite a bit of effort, especially in his current state, for Rayne to muscle that ladder up over the top rope and into the ring. He rolls in after the ladder and tries to muscle it up, but sees Wade leaning against the steel chair, trying to muster some strength. Rayne tosses the ladder down, letting it land uneasily across those steel ring steps, and bends to pluck up the other chair Wade brought into the ring. The two men limp their way to the center of the ring. Wade, having a little more time to recover, is the first to take a swing.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Right on the crown of Rayne’s skull. The champ falls to a knee, shakes off the blow, and rises with a chair shot of his own.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Across Wade’s face. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. Wade bringing the retaliation.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now Rayne’s turn.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rayne.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rayne drops to both knees, chair sliding from his grasp. Wade throws his own chair down, wipes the blood from his face and lumbers toward the ropes. The challenger bounds off as fast as his beaten body will let him, smashing the champion’s face with the sole of his work boot.

Nick: Big boot! Rayne is out!

Richard: Again…

Wade pauses, hands on his knees, to catch a breath. He doesn’t waste too much time, though, stalking after Rayne and dragging the champ up into a bear hug. Wade carries Rayne over to the corner and sets him up on the top turnbuckle. Rayne tries to shove Wade away, but is too weak to do anything more than lay his hands on the Bruiser. Wade plants a big right across Rayne’s jaw just to keep him dazed, and then very carefully, very slowly, begins to scale the rope after him.

Richard: Uh…

Nick: Um…

Richard: Is Wade Elliott climbing the ropes?

Nick: Yes. I believe he is.

Richard: Is it ridiculous to say that this might be the craziest thing I’ve seen all match?

Nick: I’m having trouble finding an argument.

Wade hooks Rayne’s arm up over his shoulder. Up the second turnbuckle. Pulls Rayne up and stands on the first. The fans are standing throughout the stadium. Wade grabs the waistband of Rayne’s tights and lifts. Rayne goes vertical, up over Wade’s head. Wade falls back.

CCCRRRRRRAAAAAAAAACCCCCKKKKK-AA-BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: SUPERPLEX! ACROSS THE LADDER! RAYNE’S BACK LANDED ON THAT LADDER!

The ladder itself is bent to hell from the force of the impact. Wade is out of breath, unable to capitalize. Rayne isn’t moving.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Wade slowly rolls to his side, pulling himself toward Rayne’s broken body and lazily tosses an arm across the champ’s chest.

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THRE-- NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: How the—

Richard: Why the—

Nick: What the—

Wade shakes his head in absolute disbelief. He rolls over to his breath, taking some more time to catch his breath. Slowly he pushes himself to his feet. Even slower he stumbles over to the ropes, painfully pushing one leg up over the top rope as he begins to climb out. Suddenly, Rayne springs to his feet, throwing himself across the top rope and jostling it. The rope bounces right up into Wade’s junk, vibrating and jolting all kinds of things that, well, just shouldn’t be. Wade freezes, straddling the rope, completely unable to move for the pain. Rayne pushes down on the top rope, pushing himself up in the process, and shakes the rope vigorously. This, as one might think, is not at all a good thing for Wade’s reproductive organ. Rayne stumbles away, falling against the adjacent rope. He tries to wake himself back up. He looks to Wade, still hung up on the ropes. Looks across the ring. Looks at that ladder, despite the leg being bent all to hell, still balanced precariously across the ring steps. Rayne pushes himself up again, hobbles toward the far ropes as fast as he can, bounds off and steps to the side. One foot on the top of the ladder drops it down like a weighted see-saw. His next step takes him to the next rung. Then the next.

Nick: Holy--! Rayne’s sprinting across that ladder! He’s actually running up the ladder!

The 5-Star Champ hits the middle of the ladder. Then the next rung and the ladder begins to tilt downward. Rayne leaps into the air. Knees forward. Wade turns, unable to do anything but watch as Rayne’s body flies through the air at him. Catches him flush in the chest. Knees first.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: FOREPLAY! FRIGGIN’ SON OF A--!

The impact of the move launches Wade from the top rope and to the outside. Rayne can’t do much else but continue his trip through the air, tumbling right outside after Wade.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: Both men are down on the outside! That’s the same move that ended Danny Ferguson’s career. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it might have ended Wade’s tonight.

Neither man is moving.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Yes. They’re still going. No, they haven’t moved yet.

Nick: Both men still down at ringside.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: No one’s moving…

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Richard: Oh sheezy. The fans breakin’ out the dueling chant.

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Tyler Rayne is not moving.

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Wade Elliott is not moving.

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Nick: I think this one might be done.

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Richard: I think you might be right.

LET’S GO WA-ADE!! LET’S GO RA-AYNE!!

Nick: The ref’s just going to have to call it.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: NO! Rayne’s getting up. He’s getting up!

Slowly, very slowly, Rayne climbs his way up the announce table and to a vertical position. He looks down at Wade, who still isn’t moving. Rayne shakes his head, damn near falls over when he takes a step, but catches himself on the edge of the ring just before he spills. Another pause to catch some breath, and Rayne slides into the ring. He hobbles over to the steel steps and falls to both knees. He pushes that big ladder off to the side.Unable to stand, he resorts to just shoving the steps out of the ring.
Nick: Looks like Rayne is clearing some space in the center of the ring.
Rayne crawls to the side of the ring. He rolls out, damn near falling on top of Wade. Rayne tries to pull Wade up, but the Southern Sparkplug is out cold. Dead weight. The 5-Star Champ takes another pause to catch his breath. Muster some strength. With a heavy sigh he bends, wrestling Wade’s unconscious body up from the ground. Dead lifting the challenger up onto the ring apron. Damn near exhausted, it’s the last of Rayne’s strength to just push Wade into the ring. Rayne rolls in after him, but doesn’t even have the strength to get up.

Nick: Both of these men are just used up, Rich. Running on complete fumes here. I don’t even know how they’re still going.

Richard: I think I’ve died three times just watching this match. I cannot begin to fathom how either of them is still trying to compete.

Rayne stumbles to his feet. He staggers around the ring and grabs the table he set up what seems like forever ago. He drags the table toward the center of the ring, then turns his attention to that giganamous ladder. Rayne bends and somehow lifts the ladder up, spreading it open. One of the legs is still all kinds of fucked up, but it’s got three good legs and, well, hell at this point, Rayne doesn’t even care. He staggers back over to Wade’s body and lifts the Sparkplug once again. Another considerable effort lays Wade out across that table. He stumbles again, falling to his knees at the ladder. One hand up the rung. Then another. And the first up again.

Nick: Rayne is literally pulling himself up this ladder. His legs barely have the strength to hold him up anymore.

The entire stadium is standing on their feet. They watch in eager anticipation as Tyler Rayne drags himself up the ladder. One rung at a time. Quarter of the way up. Halfway. Three quarters. He stops. Eyes heavy.

Nick: It looks like Rayne might pass out right there on the ladder.

Richard: Too bad for him. Because it looks like Wade’s just waking up.

In fact, he is. Wade is beginning to stir on the table, and as Rayne forces himself to climb one more rung up that ladder, Wade rolls off the table. The farther up the ladder Rayne goes, the more the ladder begins to wobble. Wade crawls about the canvas on all fours. His hand, by pure accident, falls upon something as he’s trying to push himself up. He forms a fist around the object and stands. The ladder wobbles. Rayne ascends another rung. Wade opens his fist to reveal the object.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Oh hell no…

Richard: Oh hell yes…

In his hand, Wade Elliott holds a book of matches. He tears one match away. Strikes it. The flame ignites. Wade looks up to Rayne, now resting across the top of the ladder. Rayne stares back down at him. Wade tosses the match onto the table.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

With a growl and renewed determination, Wade stalks around the now flaming table and toward the ladder. Rayne waves one hand down at Wade. Bring it, you fucker. Wade puts a foot on the ladder. Wobble. One rung up. Then two. Then three. Wobble. Rayne gets a second (third? fourth?) wind. Now he’s yelling down at Wade. Motioning for him to hurry. Wade’s halfway up. The stadium is on its feet. Flames lick up from the table at Wade’s boots. He doesn’t notice anything but Rayne. The ladder wobbles. Tilts. That bent leg buckles just a bit. Both men pause to regain their balance. Wade climbs again. Almost there. Rayne grabs a handful of Wade’s hair. Wade swats him away. Another rung up. Wobble. Another. Wobble. Wade and Rayne are now nose-to-nose at the top of the ladder. Not fighting. Not swinging. Just staring. Hating.

Richard: This thing’s about to go off.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade with the first punch. The ladder rocks to the left.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rayne retaliates with a glass-laden strike of his own. The ladder rocks to the right.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wade.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rayne.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Left.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Right.

CCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The bent ladder leg finally buckles and gives way. The ladder collapses from under the two. Rayne is falling. Swinging punches. Wade is falling. Swinging punches.

KAAAAAAA-THHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: HOLY SHIT! BOTH MEN JUST FELL OFF THE LADDER! THROUGH THE FLAMING TABLE!!

Richard: That was fucking awesome.

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Ring techs dive into the ring, spraying down the competitors with fire extinguishers. Smoke rises from the pile of splintered wood and broken bodies. Wesley James is down on the mat.

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THREE!!!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: It’s over! It’s over! Finally this match is over!

Richard: But I can’t see a damn thing! I can’t see who won!

As the smoke literally clears and the remnants of CO2 settle, two broken bodies lie in the center of the ring. And through the broken wood and coats of white foam, it is clear that one man has managed to stretch his arm over the chest of his opponent…

…

…

…

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the WINNER of this match… and STILL--

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vince Howard: --5-STAR CHAMPION… TYLER RAYNE!!!

You can’t even hear his music over the sound of the fans. Still screaming. Both men are still lying in the middle of the ring. Unmoving. Nick Stuart and Richard Parker are still at ringside. Disbelieving.

Nick: That might be one of the single most brutal and devastating matches I’ve ever seen here at UltraViolence. And we’ve still got more to go.

Richard: Neither of these two is going to be the same after this. I can only hope they’ve both sustained some sort of career ending injury.

Nick: I wouldn’t be surprised if you got your wish, Rich. I think we’re going to need the EMTs out here just to drag these two out of the ring. Let’s shoot it to the back while we clean up this car wreck. Jesus O’Malley…

How do things like this make it onto the broadcast?

You'd think, with all the intricate thought (seriously, bet there are charts) that goes into all of this, that none of the truly damning moments would ever caught by the cameras -- no matter how many of them C.P. Cantrell bought for the federation as his first act as Executive Producer.

In the defense of the plotting, sometimes there isn't anywhere to have these discussions. Sometimes one cannot run off to, like, a cave or something to answer that important phone call. Sometimes, the people that guys like Cantrell hire are actually kind of good at their jobs.

Surprised us, too.

The set-up at Wrigley Field made it even harder to find that nook to have the super-secret evil conversation -- the sprawling area surrounding the stadium was filled with a glut of people between the production trucks and makeshift locker rooms -- "trailers" is the technical term. (Really, can you imagine cramming the tumultuous personalities of PRIME into the Cubs' clubhouse? One dire pronouncement from Hoyt Williams and the place may be consumed with the divine fire.)

All of this is a fancy way of explaining why the cameras are able to cut backstage (read: outside) to catch the following telephone call, joined in progress.

The speaker we hear is a woman, quiet-voiced and darkly amused. The one we don't is some kind of monster, with fangs like knives.

The second sentence there may be a lie.

Woman: No, it's taken care of. None the wiser.

There's a short pause, which the cameraman spends looking for the particular nook where this conversation is occurring.

Woman: Nah, they're about as sharp as... (soft laugh) 'Bout like that, yeah. They'll learn. Maybe. Probably not, though. Cozen did abduct Troy, and not even she twigged.

Sometimes, it's a good thing that the television set doesn't transmit smell. For every creepy guy that wants to smell Eleanor, there's a Tom Wolczak, and do you want to smell that much Pole?
The camera closes in on a plume of acrid gray smoke, and...it's safe to say that probably doesn't smell very good.

Woman: Nah, pretty sure she'll be in regardless. Kathi's spoken to a doc to line up some good pain meds. (more soft laughter) I didn't say that. But, yeah, there are some decent prospects.

A couple teenagers -- kids, really -- dart past the cameraman, nearly bowling him over. They're just punks, though, one buttoning up a crisp new Chicago Cubs jersey. #23, Alfonso Soriano.

Teenage Punk: Maaan! Best five bucks I ever spent!

Punk Teenager: I know, dude -- they charge, like, sixty bucks for those at the Team Shop!

Teenage Punk: Plus? She was hot!

Punk Teenager: More like smoking!

The two laugh as they disappear into the sparse crowd. The cameraman retraces their steps, circling around a large half-circle of a tent.

Woman: Yeah, I saw him -- he's capable, especially if he has the resources we've heard. The others are small fish.

The pause that follows is a lengthier one, filled by the cameraman coming up on a girl with a long fall of honeyed curls with a sleek black cellphone tucked under one ear.

The girl clutches a pearl white compact in one hand, touching up her lipstick with the other. Casual in blue jeans and a rosary, she's got an expensive set of sunglasses tucked into the collar of a classic "Queen of the Ring" t-shirt. The trashcan to the woman's immediate left smolders slightly.

Though she never looks at (or seems to notice) the camera, the tone of he woman's voice smoothes out, word choice and arm movements making her seem more elegant and ladylike than many of the other women we've seen tonight; ruby rings glint on her fingers.

Ah, live television.

This is what happens back in the truck when something odd and unexpected like this goes down. The cameraman radios in, indicating he believes he's found something. The folks in the truck take a look at his footage and decide whether or not to juggle the show's lineup to fit in something extraneous. In extreme cases, Matt Mills or Angelica Brooks is dispatched as "eyes (and a mic) on the ground."

In this case, it's a video package for the main event that C.P. Cantrell signs off on bumping off tonight's broadcast (PRIME would like to thank the band Atreyu for use of their song, "Becoming the Bull" in the unaired video.)

On-screen, the woman closes her phone against her leg, slipping it into the pocket of her well-fitted denim. As she turns to look past the camera, the girl shares a smile with the pay-per-view audience that could be called nothing save "impish." She slips her sunglasses back onto a cute little button of a nose.

Matt Mills will arrive in a few moments, but the woman will be long gone. He'll ask around after women meeting the woman's description, but no one will remember seeing her -- nor any woman rocking the old school Troy t-shirt, actually. He will, eventually, investigate (read: peer into) the trashcan nearby.

The fact that he finds the burned remnants of a black wig, roots highlighted red, should not be worrisome... right?

How do these things get on television? Sometimes, it's completely by accident.

Others, it's completely on purpose.

Are you willing to bet which one this is?

The viewer at home is taken away from the action at Wrigley Field and is instead thrust into a world of countless celebrities flashing by at a frantic, seizure-inducing pace while framed by the green and black of the FX network. Over the moody electronica song playing in the background comes the unseen voice of FX.

"First we brought you Dirt... "

Paparazzo Don Konkey snaps picture after picture hidden in a tree.

Starlet Julia Mallory falls for the seductive wiles of her lesbian drug dealer Garbo.

Editor Lucy Spiller wheels and deal on her cell phone while in the back of a limo.

"Now we bring you The Real Dirt!"

A bald Britney Spears goes on a gas station rampage with an umbrella.

Owen Wilson is leaving a hospital after his suicide attempt.

Tears fall down Paris Hilton's face as she sits in the back of a police car.

"More than the latest from the streets of Hollywood, The Real Dirt uncovers the dark side of the entire pop culture spectrum. From rich kids to rock stars to pro wrestlers... "

Danny Ferguson is handcuffed following his arrest for the murder of the Illustrious Face-Eater.

Xavier Kannon stand close to Tom Cruise at a Scientology function, both grinning broadly as Ellie Kannon-Hall and Katie Holmes look beautiful and bored behind them.

A paper showing the positive results of a steroid test is displayed with the visage of Killean Sirrajin superimposed over it.

"And bring you all the inside information from the arena... Torres Wilson."

A well groomed, athletic looking young man stand in a dark room sot in black and white. Dressed in an understated manner with a sports coat over jeans and a t-shirt, he looks at the viewing audience with great sincerity.

Wilson: Hello, viewers worldwide. My name is Torres Wilson. I will be you guide into one of the most secretive industries in existence... professional wrestling. And I'll not by being an outsider looking in, but by putting my own well-being on the line in that very ring. But this isn't about me. It's about the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts."

The image changes to that of Russell Crowe punching a man that looks a lot like Torres Wilson holding a microphone. The electronica music stops as the black and white face of Torres Wilson reappears, grinning ruefully as he lightly rubs his jaw.

Wilson: And sometimes, the truth hurts a lot.

The camera pans out on Torres Wilson as Don Henley sings...

Dirty little secrets
Dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers in everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love dirty laundry!

THE REAL DIRT

Coming to FX

Nick: Up now we have a match that may well have blown the roof off if we weren’t out-doors here at Wrigley Field.

Richard: As much as I’d like to agree with you, Nick, and as much as I hate saying anything against this fine promotion that Mr Silver built from the ground, I have to say PRIME have dropped the ball here. We pretty much gave this match away on free TV already when Captain Justice OBLITERATED Xavier Kannon a few weeks ago on ReV.

Nick: Well, I won’t even pretend that I’ve understood all the twists and turns Son-

Richard: MR SILVER, SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT LIAISON TO PRIME!

Nick: -ny has been pulling, but one thing I know for sure is that Kannon will be ready to fight to the last against Silver’s ‘Americanimal’.

An out-of-tune, orchestral rumble spreads up from Wrigley Field, which can only mean one thing…

No Chance by Dope, and the arrival of PRIME’s first ever Sports Entertainment Liaison, Mr Silver.

Like a hate-fuelled Mexican Wave, a collective jeer spreads around the stands and washes down through the floor seats, all focussed at the smirking, suited-up man arm-flapping-power-walking out onto the stage.

Nick: Will you sit down and stop saluting.

As if the Imperial March should be playing, a flat-out LEGION of uniform, black-clad security dressed like they’re expecting a riot form around Silver, eclipsing him. Encased in his human and Kevlar shield, Silver swaggers down to the ring, Vince Howard deciding any attempt at an intro would only be derided.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

His Dope entrance music drowned out by the mixture of open stadium and rabid crowd, Mr Silver finally arrives at the ring, where his security detail peel away at the ring-steps and ominously head to the crowd-side of the barricades.

Nick: Silver does realise he isn’t actually in the match, right?

Richard: As long as he liaises on sports entertainment with the man who signs our paycheques, he can do what he wants!

Nick: He doesn’t have a proper staff role!

Richard: YOU are the one who does not have the proper staff role!

Flapping and strutting up the steps, Silver twirls his right finger up around his head, then accusingly thrusts it at Vince Howard.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: These ropes won’t open themselves, you know.

A grumbling Vince reluctantly opens the ropes for the official PRIME staff member, only for Silver to swagger across the adjacent apron and step between the ropes under his own steam.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

He wasn’t doing a whole lot to endear himself to the Chicago crowd. Big surprise.

Unbuttoning his jacket, Silver flaps a lap around the ring, looking defiantly out into the jeering fans before coming to a halt in the centre of the ring. Holding his right palm up to his face, Silver huffs a breath onto it, shines it up on his jacket, then extends it up to the heavens.

Or, more plausibly, the lighting rig.

On cue, the OLD SKOOL MIC~! descends down towards Silver’s palm, only for a breeze to blow it off course, ruining the Sports Entertainment Liaison’s choreographed routine and causing him to angrily snatch the swinging mic out of the air.

Nick: Please let therebe a power failure, please let there be a power failure, please let there be a power failure…

Richard: Please. What kind of bush league promotion would have a power failure at an outdoor PPV?

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: I said ‘NO WIND’… don’t make me come up there.

Bizarrely, it’s unclear whether he was addressing the lighting rig or heaven.

Grumbling the moment out of his system, Silver then clears his throat and adjusts his cuffs before raising the mic to his lips.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, HOT COLLEGE CHICKS OF LEGAL AGES…. MR SILVER PRODUCTIONS, IN ASSOCIATION WITH PRIME, BRINGS TO YOU THE MATCH OF THE AGES, THE ULTIMATE BATTLE OF NEW VERSUS OLD, GOOD VERSUS EVIL, JUST VERSUS CORRUPT… AND IT IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE MONUMENTAL FALL, WITH NO COWARDLY COUNTOUTS AND NO PUSSY DISQUALIFICATIONS!

Just like his Mom once told him, if he speaks loudly enough, then people will stop booing him for just a few seconds out of anticipation.

Red, white and blue lights drench the UltraViolence set.

Hail To The Chief by 3rd Bass then heralds the arrival of the Future of Sports Entertainment, thoroughly reinstating the boos.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Chest puffed out, shoulders back, strong jaw held rigidly up, Captain Justice marches out onto the stage, only his sturdy frame and sure footing stopping the hateful reception from the live crowd blowing him back through the curtain.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: INTRODUCING FIRST… HAILING FROM THE FINE AMERICAN CITY OF GOTHAMETROPOLIS… STANDING A TRUSTWORTHY 6’5 AND WEIGHING IN AT A PATRIOTIC 280 POUNDS… HE IS AMERICANIMAL… THE FUTURE OF SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT… THE HEROIC HOSS… HE IS CAPTAIN JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSTICCCCCCCE!!!

Unfaltering amid the rampant booing of the vocal crowd, Justice thrusts both fists skywards, erupting a missile-silo of pyro from behind the PRIME*View which blankets the sky in patriotic explosions of red, white and blue.

Nick: Are you crying?

Richard: This is… beautiful. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

Striding out through the shower of golden sparks that cascade from the top of the giant screen, a determined Captain Justice stampedes down the aisle… not a single fan stretching an arm over the barricades in fear of a limb being ripped off.

With Silver applauding from the ring, Justice executes his vertical leap up onto the apron, prompting further pyro to explode from each ringpost as his feet slam back down. Striding back and forth along the apron, Justice pumps himself up, before again thrusting both fists into the air, triggering yet ANOTHER burst of red, white and blue from the top of the stand behind him.

Nick: He’s American, we get it.

Richard: Do you get it, Nick? DO YOU? I knew you had a bit of the Canadian about you. Go on, say you love this country, if you dare! GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM!

Nick: I’m American, idiot.

Richard: Well, you’re not as American-y as me or him.

As the Captain bounds into the ring, almost shifting it a foot back and forth as he runs the ropes, Silver’s smirk sours as the crowd begin to cheer in anticipation of the Hoss’ opponent.

KAN-NON! KAN-NON! KAN-NON!

Seeing Silver’s reaction on the PRIME*View, a full-on ‘KAN-NON!’ chant breaks out, making the Sports Entertainment Liaison look as if he wants to vomit.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: And his opponent…

The lights all around Wrigley Field then shut off, blacking-out the scowling Silver. 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 night.

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

…then have no fear…

…the crowd is here…

A lone spotlight shines brightly onto the UV set, illuminating a blizzard of flickering golden confetti that swirls in the evening breeze. Spinning amid the golden storm, arms outstretched stands Xavier Kannon, hooded jacket shrouding him as soaks up the ovation.

…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 lights around the set are flicked back on, Eleanor is shown standing in front of her man, leading him down the aisle as he tosses the hood of his jacket back to reveal… MATT MILLS?

Richard: I knew it! I knew he’d pussy out!

Ellie shoots a grin and wave down at the ring.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: The fuck?

Nick: What’s Matt Mills doing there? Why would he be… unless… Kannon is…

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The crowd then ERUPT as the lights around the stands and ring come back on, catching Xavier Kannon springboarding onto the top rope behind Captain Justice, then leaping off to land a crunching Flying Forearm to the back of his masked head.

Nick: KANNON IS BEHIND HIM! MILLS WAS A DIVERSION!

Richard: What? Huh? Um… Silver knew that. He knew that… he just didn’t want to ruin the surprise!

The impact sends the Heroic Hoss lunging forward, colliding with Mr Silver and sending the Sports Entertainment Liaison tumbling out through the ropes and down onto the mats.

Richard: That’s against the rules!

Nick: It’s UltraViolence, Richard. There are no rules!

Richard: Yeah, but there are rules, and then there are RULES.

Not needing any sort of prompting, the time-keeper sounds the bell.

Ding, ding!

Orchestrating the fans to turn it all the way up to 11 by throwing his palms up to the night sky, Kannon scores with a Dropkick between the Captain’s shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward and dropping down across the middle rope.

KAN-NON! KAN-NON! KAN-NON!

As the fans chant his name, Kannon yanks back on the top rope and slingshots himself over to score with a knee to the back of Justice’s head that springs him back up. Much to the crowd’s approval, Kannon aims a kick back at a rising Silver, knocking him flat on his ass.

Richard: Oh, come on!

Nick: Kannon knows he’s out-powered by Justice, he knows that Justice is in better physical condition, so he’s going to have to rely on everything he’s learned over the years to beat him.

Richard: I dunno, ‘Being Deville’s Bitch’ is a new way of winning to me.

Again going off his feet, Kannon flies over the top rope to catch the Americanimal with a Slingshot DDT, channelling all his opponent’s weight down through his bulky neck. With Ellie arriving at ringside to cheer her man on, Xavier tugs Justice away from the ropes and hooks the far leg.

"ONE!

T-NO!"

Before the referee can even reach two, Justice powers out of the cover, sending Kannon rolling almost the whole distance across the ring.

Captain Justice stumbles up, giving his head a short and shark shake to clear it, only for Kannon’s left fist to snap his jaw around with a jab. Ellie claps in time with Kannon’s feet stamping the mat as he stings the Heroic Hoss with a second jab, then a third, then a fourth. The crowd get in on the act, counting along the blows as Kannon keeps on his toes, dodging a lunge by Justice to connect with a fifth, sixth and seventh.

Nick: Kannon is making the most of the lawlessness of UltraViolence to out-box Justice early on here.

With Silver leaping around ringside, ordering the crowd to cut it out with slashing waves of the his arms, Kannon channels Ali, a butterfly and a bee to score with an eighth and ninth. As he weaves in for the tenth, Justice launches a haymaker, forcing Kannon to abandon the punch to catch the colossal limb in a ¼ Nelson, allowing him to throw a trio of sharp knees up into the Americanimal’s side.

Winded, Justice drops down to one knee, much to Silver’s anger… but much to Kannon’s delight as he takes advantage by SMASHING his jaw with a step-up knee-strike.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!!

Richard: The Captain is just waiting for Kannon to punch himself out. Rocky vs. Clubber Lang, FTW.

His muscle-bound mountain of a body turning to jelly, Justice collapses onto his front, allowing Kannon to wind up a Pendulum Elbowdrop to the back of the neck. As Ellie high-fives some of the jubilant ringside fans, Kannon heaves to roll Justice onto his back so that he can cover.

"ONE!

TW-NO!"

Despite the onslaught of strikes by the pumped Kannon, the Heroic Hoss again can’t be held down for even a two, and he thrusts his arms up, throwing Kannon up and over the top rope as if he were some piece of gym apparatus.

Nick: Wow. I might not care for his manager much, but that sure is one impressive specimen.

Richard: It’s nice to see there’s a bit of objective sanity somewhere in you, Nick.

As the crowd deflate, Silver smirks, Ellie’s jaw drops, and Kannon just manages to grab onto the ropes to avoid dropping all the way down onto the floor.

By the time Kannon secures his footing, Justice has already risen, prompting the King of Wrestling to rush and springboard onto the top rope, flying off with a Dropkick that catches the Americanimal BANG in the middle of the chest. Despite the precision of the air-strike, Justice only staggers back a pace or two, prompting Kannon to hurl himself back into the ropes and rush PRIME’s most patriotic star.

Before Kannon can even decide what move to pull off, Justice steps into him and tries to behead the King of Wrestling with a scything Lariat… only for XK to somehow duck it in time and swing up to trap the Captain in a Crucifix.

Nick: Kannon managed to duck through into the Crucifix, but I don’t think he has anywhere near the momentum and leverage to take him down.

That’s as far as he gets.

The crowd suck in a collective breath as Justice stands in the centre of the ring, Kannon locking his arms but unable to even weigh him down an inch, despite Ellie’s screams of encouragement.

Showing no emotion under the stars ‘n’ stripes mask, Justice jerks Kannon up onto his shoulders, breaking the Crucifix, before holding the King of Wrestling aloft in a Military Press.

Nick: Wow.

Richard: yeah, makes hitting someone with a few jabs look pretty shit compared to that, huh?

Out of desperation, Kannon manages to reel off a couple of leverage-hampered right hands, but Justice replies by pumping his body up, lifting XK out of striking range. With Kannon helpless, Justice parades him around the ring, in front of his concerned wife, winding up stood over Silver.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Justice looks down to him, devout, for guidance.

Kannon looks down at him, eyes narrowing, brow lowering, a stern shake of the head.

Nick: Now why is he seeking Silver’s approval? He might be the wrestler with the most potential in all of PRIME, yet he’s still on Silver’s leash.

Richard: He’s showing respect for his Sensei.

Silver holds out a fist, extends the thumb, then turns it south.

As the crowd again hush, Justice obeys his manager’s command and surges forward, tossing Kannon up into the night air and sending him CRASHING down onto the ringside mats, letting gravity and the floor punish the King with a brutal double-team.

Richard: When Newton invented gravity, I bet he never thought it could look that awesome.

Nick: ‘Invented gravity’, really?

Richard: What, did you skip Physics for Chess Club?

As one, the crowd wince.

Sliding out of the ring, the referee checks on Kannon right away, trying to ignore Silver stooping down to offer his own diagnosis of the injuries. A dark shadow is then cast over the trio as Justice drops down between the wreck on the floor and the lighting rig above.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: It’s UltraViolence, Stripy.

As the official tries to warn Justice off, Silver reminds him of the stipulations for the night.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: Might wanna get his wife out of here. She gets a bit emotional when her husband gets the shit kicked out of him. It’s touching, really.

With no rules to obey, Captain Justice has no qualms about pushing the referee aside grabbing a handful of Kannon’s log, strawberry-blonde hair. Looking out into the crowd, from children booing with thumbs pointing down to adults cussing with fingers sticking up, Justice releases Kannon… only to raise up his right boot and CRUNCH his torso with a sickening stomp.

JUS-TICE-SUCKS! JUS-TICE-SUCKS! JUS-TICE-SUCKS!

Nick: When the PRIME trucks drive off, I think they’ll leave a hole the size of Justice’s boot in Wrigley Field.

As Silver points down at the writhing King of Wrestling, urging his charge on, Justice turns away from the crowd, shaking his head at their choice of favourite. Strolling around his fallen opponent, Justice picks his spots and stamps brutally down onto Kannon a further three times.

Despite every bone feeling like it’s in a thousand pieces, XK knows he has to get away, and somehow manages to crawl up onto his knees, trying to escape the bombardment.

Captain Justice: See? He runs like a COWARD! Like a THIEF!

Finally showing a hint of emotion under his mask as his face looks down with disgust at Kannon, Justice strides back towards the King of Wrestling and PUNTS him with an almighty field goal kick that sends Kannon flying up, onto the ring steps, and tumbling painfully back off the pointed steel.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Nick: You have to wonder if there’s anyway of stopping Captain Justice once he builds up a head of steam. How do you reverse this momentum?

Richard: Simple… you don’t.

With Ellie covering her eyes, not daring to peek through as he husband lands the length of the ring away from her, Justice pursues him, tossing the steps aside.

Pulling Kannon back to his feet by his hair and tights, Justice scoops him straight up over his shoulder before SLAMMING him down onto the mats, the force pretty much negating any cushioning effect. As a grimacing Kannon arches his back up off the floor, Justice pins him back down with a boot, walking across the King of Wrestling’s abdomen.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: Again.

As Justice drags XK up, Silver pulls the ringside mats apart, peeling the cushioning away from a patch of cold, unforgiving steel-grate flooring that covers the field. Stepping up to the plate, Justice throws Kannon down with a harsh Scoop Slam with such force that the grating almost breaks the skin.

Nick: This is UltraViolence. There’s no count-outs, no disqualifications… Justice can just brutalise Kannon at ringside and the referee is powerless to stop him.

As the cameraman at ringside catches a close-up of Kannon’s teeth grinding through the pain, before his expression is further pained as Captain Justice scores with a high leaping Elbowdrop to the chest.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A convulsing Kannon rolls over, his back criss-crossed red where the steel dug into his flesh.

Mr Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: Take it to the ring, finish him bang in the middle.

Diligently following his master’s orders, Justice grabs Kannon by the upper arm and yanks him up, swinging the King of Wrestling back into the ring. A groggy Kannon slaps a hand down onto the canvas, trying to drag himself away from the ropes, but a fully recuperated Justice is already standing over him.

Richard: This is the best methodical destruction you’ll see in a wrestling ring, Nick. He’s taken Kannon and just chipped away at him until there’s barely anything left.

Reaching down, the Americanimal pulls Kannon up by the head, slaps on a front facelock, then effortlessly pulls him up for a Vertical Suplex, then stalls in. And stalls it. And stalls it. And stalls it.

Nick: He’s not even having to adjust his footing… this is effortless.

Richard: Did you know that receiving just a drop of blood from Captain Justice will put you 1,000 times over the limits of our Wellness Program? He’s running in jet fuel.

Kannon’s face swells a deep, sickly red as all the blood in his battered body gives in to gravity and amasses nearer the canvas. Finally, after over a minute of unflinchingly holding XK aloft, Justice kicks his feet up, dropping his opponent with a devastating Suplex.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Showing off his agility by rolling back onto his feet, Justice crosses his arms in triumphant fashion as he plants a boot in Kannon’s chest.

All that’s missing as the referee counts is an American flag.

"ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!"

And a three count.

As the crowd finally have something to cheer again, Captain Justice looks down at the referee as if he’d just sodomised the President.

A winded Kannon tries to crawl for safety while Justice walks down the referee, but it’s not nearly long enough to recover, and within seconds the Heroic Hoss has harshly whipped him into the turnbuckles.

With Kannon only just able to hold himself up on the ropes, Justice looms down upon him, then delivers a CRUNCHING shoulder to the ribs, almost leaving Kannon’s lungs hanging out of his mouth. Another brutal shoulder doubles Kannon over, dry-heaving, offering no resistance as he’s whipped into the opposite buckles.

His whole body jarred by the impact, the King of Wrestling stumbles blindly out of the corner, where the Captain DESTROYS him with the Justice Bullet.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Nick: As much as I hate to say it, I think the bell may have tolled for Xavier Kannon here.

Richard: Well, the fact he’s wearing his ribcage on the outside was a big hint.

As Kannon lays motionless, spread-eagled on the canvas, Justice plants both hands into Kannon’s chest and waits for the referee’s count.

And waits.

Nick: What’s going on here?

And waits.

Rather than counting, the referee is distracted on the apron, but rather than it being Ellie using her ‘charms’ to keep the official from counting, Mr. Silver is up vocally arguing some technicality.

Nick: His man has the match won, so why on earth is Silver distracting the referee?

Richard: He… he’s… he has his reasons, Nick. We just wouldn’t understand them.

Always deeply suspicious of the man who has somehow wormed his way into being Cantrell’s #2, the crowd aren’t sure whether to cheer the reprieve for Kannon or jeer the antics of Silver.

Nick: There’s something not right here. Is Silver wanting to just prolong the beating, or has he got money on Kannon?

Richard: Hey, he’s likely 100,000,000-1, so who wouldn’t have an outside punt.

Finally, the referee dismisses Silver, dropping in double-quick speed when he notices the cover.

"ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!"

Just as the three is about to come down, Kannon rolls a shoulder up off the canvas to a roar from the crowd.

Still stood on the apron as the aggrieved Captain Justice rises, Silver begins to berate the referee for not making the count in time, jabbing a fierce finger the way of the Zebra-stripes while blanking out the bewildered Captain.

Nick: Justice is demanding to know why he hasn’t just been announced the victor, and he has every right to.

Richard: He’s here because of Mr Silver, he should show some gratitude and get on with it!

Finally giving his attention to the Heroic Hoss, the Sports Entertainment Liaison simply orders him to go back on the offensive and not burden his brain with ‘the thinking’. With the face visible under the mask looking none too pleased, the Americanimal breaks away and calls for Kannon to rise, at least making it sport.

Captain Justice: Stand for me, coward. At least show you have a spine.

Looking like he doesn’t have a clue what state he’s in, let alone which arena and at which show, Kannon somehow manages to keep his footing, despite legs looking as if they could buckle at any second. Dusting his hands off, the Heroic Hoss lines the King up, then attempts to mow him down with a Big Boot.

Whether it was intentional or simply his body giving out on him only Kannon will know, but he drops under the strike, leaving Mr Silver wide-eyed on the apron as the sole of the Captain’s mammoth boot looms upon him.

Bailing, Silver drops down to the apron… but for some reason keeps hold of the top rope, leaving the Captain with no way to slam the breaks on and causing his charge to tumble from the ring and CRASH down onto the mats beside him.

Nick: Now, come on! What was that?

Richard: I don’t know what you mean, my monitor blacked out.

Nick: I can see the picture on it right now.

Richard: Oh, er, silly me… I was looking at my, um, clipboard.

As the crowd begin to sense foul play, Silver simply adjusts his jacket, lets out an over-exaggerated sigh of relief, and makes out to the ringside cameraman that he’s just escaped a near-death experience.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: Silver just pulled down the ropes on Justice to buy Kannon more time, and you saw it to. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he’s orchestrating something here.

Having suffered his goliath body impacting off the floor, a groggy Captain Justice slaps a hand down on the ring apron and tries to pull himself up… Silver maybe wisely backing away around the corner under the guise of trying to walk-off a leg strain.

In the ring, Kannon feeds off what encouragement comes from the crowd, seemingly split by the bizarre actions of Silver.

Nick: The crowd are letting those in this match know exactly what they think. Is Silver just trying to script this match? Is Kannon in on this? Is Justice going to stand for it?

Richard: See, you’re getting it now, Nick. It’s intrigue. It’s the hook.

Nick: It’s an insult to all those who’ve gone out tonight and left their hearts on that canvas after fighting with all they have.

Knowing he can’t play safe, Kannon rebounds off the ropes, building up a head of steam to fly out of the ring with a Suicide Dive, smashing his hurtling body into Justice’s… but not managing to shift him. Catching Kannon, the Americanimal stumbles forward to where the may has been pulled up from the steel grate, but before he can leave Kannon broken across the metal, Silver AGAIN interjects himself.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: This is just getting ridiculous. Why don’t Silver and Kannon just have another match, since they seem to be the two running this one.

Richard: Oh, please, like Silver would dilute his genius by scheming with that relic.

This time, the crowd well and truly smell a rat, and turn on the match with venom, pouring disdain down upon what was meant to be one of the night’s most fiercely contested battles.

With his manager blocking off the steel, Justice instead spins away and swings Kannon up for the Topsy-Turvey, but the extra recovery time gives Kannon the chance to counter with a Tornado DDT, bouncing the Heroic Hoss off the top of his masked skull.

Despite the last-ditch, make-or-break counter that XK pulled out of the bag, there’s no rousing cheer from the fans, who continue to turn on the match in growing numbers.

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!

Nick: I’m with the fans on this one, and I didn’t ever think I’d see the day where I endorse the crowd turning like this on those in a match.

Richard: Well go out into the crowd and sit with them, then. Nobody’s stopping you.

As Ellie crouches beside her husband, finally having the chance to check on him, Silver points down at both of them as he backs away around the corner of the ring, holding, mouthing something to them that’s obscured by the post.

With the DDT on the floor having knocked him senseless, the colossal Captain doesn’t have the strength in his limbs to resist as Kannon manages to pull him up by the mask. Throwing the Cap’s arm back around his neck, Kannon heaves with all his might to lift the Heroic Hoss up to sit him the crowd barrier, where security have to keep the angry fans back.

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!

Refusing to look at the betrayed ringside fans, Kannon simply hammers away on the back of Justice’s neck with a string of forearms, before scoring with an Enziguri. As the Americanimal sways on the barricade, almost toppling off, Kannon pulls him down to the mats with a Hangman’s Neckbreaker.

Nick: You want to sum this up? I just saw a kid tear his Kannon sign in half. That’s all you need to know.

Richard: I hope they throw the little gimp out for littering.

In vain, Ellie tries to get the backing of the crowd with some cheerleading, but they’re having nothing of it, refusing to go along with the tainted match.

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!

Going about his business regardless of the hostile crowd, Kannon pulls Justice up into a reverse chinlock, before grapevine the leg and again compacting the neck of Justice with a Russian Legsweep Inverted DDT.

Again, the crowd pop that would have normally been reserved for such a moment is engulfed in apathy and disgust.

Richard: What is wrong with this crowd? This match is a rollercoaster! It’s got twists and turns a plenty.

Nick: It’s a fix!

Richard: It’s being conducted by the greatest wrestling mind alive today!

Finally giving in and jawing back at some of the hostile ringside fans, Kannon heaves Justice into the ring, glancing at Silver out of the corner of his eye, they’re steely gazes cancelling each other out.

Nick: Now that look, the camera just caught it, what was that about?

Richard: Wow, paranoia! Want us to sit in an aluminium-foil box?

As the dazed Justice tries to crawl up, Kannon awaits him with a standing head scissors, trapping him ready for the Hallmark. Just about managing to lock his tired arms around Justice’s waist, Kannon goes to heave him up, but can’t peel the soles of his feet off the canvas.

Keeping Justice’s head trapped, Kannon hops up, stamping both feet onto the canvas to ring the Captain’s bell. Feeling the Hoss weaken, Kannon again springs up, jarring the neck as he thumps down a second time. Scoffing at the crowd reaction, he again hops up, but this time the Americanimal straightens his body, tossing Kannon over onto his back.

Holding his spine, Kannon tries to bounce right back up, but Justice is there waiting, plucking him up and into a dizzying Airplane Spin. Around and around he spins, centrifugal force playing havoc with Kannon’s organs before he’s tossed off the ride and into a Flapjack.

Slowing his spin down, Justice’s feet seem to be playing Twister with themselves as he stamps them down randomly, before collapsing in a dizzy heap. Once he recovers, the Americanimal goes to the outside and takes a minute, looking under the ring. He eyes Mr. Silver, this time mouthing that he wants to know what’s going on!

Mr. Silver: NOTHING! NOTHING AT ALL! ACCIDENT! SHIT HAPPENS, NOW FINISH THE JOB!

Nick: It appears Captain Justice has certainly had enough with whatever shadiness is going on and he’s getting ready to put the hurt on Kannon, but what more could these two do?

Richard: Paranoid much? BRING OUT THE WEAPONS!

With the sounds of forty-thousand plus roaring in approval of what he’s doing now, the Captain starts tossing in a veritable goulash of weaponry into the ring.

Two trash-cans.

Kendo stick.

Lead pipe.

Stop sign.

Truly amazing things, but the PCW Hall of Famer cuts him off at the pass with a STIFF pair of boots to his face, courtesy of a Baseball Slide!

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!

Richard: Here we go! Xavier Kannon took advantage of that distraction and it allowed him to go to the outside!

The injured Kannon doesn’t forget the brutal assaults thrown his way by the muscle-bound charge of Mr. Silver, so he measures his target. He reaches underneath the ring and whips out a thick cookie sheet, begging for Cap J to get back to his feet. Once he does so…

TWHACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Three brutal shots greet the Americanimal across his cranium, sending him stumbling back a few steps. Kannon follows it up by throwing the sheet at the giant’s head. Instinctively, Captain Justice catches the cooking utensil, which makes Kannon’s evil grin curl upwards…

SMACK!

Nick: Ouch! It’s a good thing Captain Justice sports a mask because no doubt in my mind he’s gonna need it to hide the bruises!

Richard: When you say shit like that, I can’t believe you wonder why guys like the Princes own you so very hard.

After dropkicking the metallic instrument into his head, Kannon rolls the dead weight of the Captain underneath the ring. In the Kannon Korner (alliteration!), Ellie cheers in approval of her man as he wields a trash can lid, one for each hand. Silver doesn’t look that concerned, considering his charge has been hurt, but mainly keeps a stone-cold glare on the match.

He goes to town on the Patriotic Punisher (trust me, I’ve got a million nicknames), BRUTALIZING him with shot after shot of each trash can lid, denting them severely as each blow lands more violently than the last. To conclude the destruction, he SLAMS them both into his skull, effectively sandwiching the rather questionable superhero of PRIME, sending him crashing to the mat. Kannon, rather than going for a pinfall right away, grabs him by the head and twists his neck around, DRIVING him into one of the bent Trash Can lids with a vicious DDT! He goes for the pinfall!

ONE!

TWO!

THR… NO!

Nick: Captain Justice can certainly take some punishment!

Richard: He’s fighting with all of America on his side! He’s going to show this Barbadian piece of crap who runs things around here!

Nick: Justice better get in some offense soon, otherwise he won’t be running anything! That is, if Silver will even LET him!

Continuing to watch very nervously, Mr. Silver slams balled fists on the apron as he watches his charge continue to take a nasty pummeling. Kannon drops a succession of elbows into the nape of CJ’s neck, putting a hurt on the giant. He goes to grab the lead pipe and measures up the giant once again, looking to put an end to this match by giving his noggin a knocking it won’t soon forget. He swings for the fences, but a NASTY boot to the head knocks Kannon out! Slapping a fist on the outside, Silver mutters something to the fallen Kannon that the camera clearly picks up.

Mr. Silver: Get up, get up, get up…

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!


Richard: Just when it looked like that cheating Kannon bastard was gonna steal the victory, the mighty foot of Justice grinds evil underneath it!

Nick: Come on! It’s OBVIOUS to all but Captain Justice at this point that it’s a fix! This is an affront to all those who are here tonight to use this platform to pour their hearts out!

Shaking the cobwebs from the vicious assault, Captain Justice begins delivering the boots to the prone form of the PCW Hall of Famer, striking any visible body part he can hit. Gritting his teeth, he throws Kannon to the ropes and DRIVES him damn near through the mat with a vicious Great American Drop! His variation of the Samoan Drop does more than its fair share of damage, immediately putting a hurt on the injured ribcage suffered by him just a few weeks ago.

Gasping for air, Xavier struggles to a knee, trying not to give into the pain but his labored breathing against injured ribs only adds on to his current suffering. Sliding outside the ring, Captain Justice takes apart the steel steps and TOSSES them into the ring with virtually no effort at all before rolling back inside.

Nick: What strength! I’ve said it time and time again since Captain Justice debuted in the Dual Halo, tossing even guys like Wade Elliott and Killean Sirrajin around like rag dolls, but it still rings true.

Richard: That, my friend, is the power of what AMERICA is! Pure, unadulterated, killyouintheface brute strength!

Propping the steel steps into the ring, Captain Justice grabs Kannon by two handfuls of hair before climbing up slowly. He entraps one of Kannon’s legs and looks out to the hate-filled Chicago crowd.

Captain Justice: TO THE DEPTHS OF HELL WITH YOU, KANNON!

He attempts to possibly look for a piledriver of some sort… the Hallmark, to be specific. The fans only increase the jeering as he tries to lift Kannon, but Xavier has enough sense in him to wrap an arm around the leg of CJ, keeping himself grounded. He lifts and tries to power the giant upwards, but it does no good, so he uses what may be his last resort to keep from having his career ended on one of PRIME’s grandest stages…

Nick: SEVEN-TEN SPLIT!

Richard: NOOOO!

Nick: Somewhere, Simply Beautiful and Tony Rolo are looking on, jealous of the power behind that shot to the lower extremities of the Captain!

Every man in the arena holds their respective pills in sympathy pain as Captain Justice doubles over, falling off the steps and crashing to the mat while Xavier falls opposite. Not necessarily a face-like thing to do, but for his own self-preservation, Kannon breathes a sigh of relief to have pulled himself out of such a terrifying predicament. Rubbing two hands through his messy hair to be rid of the sweat, Kannon uses the ropes to pull himself back to his feet.

The Once and Future King measures up Captain Justice in the corner and runs at him, connecting with a VICIOUS Step-Up Knee Strike in the corner that rattles the big man’s brains. Backing up a step, he runs across the ring and does it a second time, smashing a STIFF knee upside the head of PRIME’s superhero. He follows this up by locking in a ¾ Nelson Headlock before throwing a nasty trifecta of knees aimed directly on his forehead! After the Captain goes reeling into the closest corner again, Kannon goes back to the outside and digs underneath the ring apron, looking for more plunder.

Nick: Kannon’s finally got the giant on the ropes now, what’s he looking for?

Richard: Finding his testicles, but he’s getting ice cold. Try Ellie’s mantle, XK!

He struggles with the object of his desire, but the fans start to go crazy when a ladder gets whipped out from underneath the ring. Not having seen the last of the ladders since the three-team TLC match earlier in the night, Kannon spends a little too long fiddling with it before…

Nick: OH, MY GOD!

Richard: OH, MY GOD!

Crowd: HOLY SHIT!

Silver: PRIME THAT SHIT!

Out of NOWHERE, especially considering he’s a muscle-bound 280-pounder, Captain Justice SOARS over the top rope, perfectly clearing the top cable to bring all his weight down atop the body of Xavier Kannon!

Nick: I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW! NO WAY A 280-POUND MAN DOES THAT!

Richard: WAY! YOU THINK MR. SILVER WAS KIDDING WHEN HE CALLED HIM A SUPERHERO?! HE CAN FLY!

Even The Sports Entertainment Liaison of PRIME is taken completely aback by this turn of events. In all the time he’d been training Captain Justice for the PRIME ring, there was absolutely no way he foresaw that maneuver in the arsenal of his ward. While Ellie freaks out over her husband’s current state (Read: squashed like a bug), the Captain is the first to his feet, looking impressed he was able to pull off the No-Hands Plancha. Rolling both the ladder and The King of Wrestling’s body underneath the ropes, Captain Justice stalks his prey, throwing boots into the head and neck of the fallen Midas.

Taking the trash can, he places it on the body of Kannon before STOMPING it across his chest cavity, making Xavier scream bloody murder. After letting out the howl, Ellie screams something at Sonny that isn’t quite clear. On the other side of the ring, Sonny doesn’t look nearly as enthused that Kannon is now the recipient of such a beatdown. In fact, he looks worried.

Nick: What IS going on between Silver and the Kannons, if anything? They’ve been at each other’s throats for some time, but Sonny’s not nearly as jovial as he once was now that Captain Justice is in complete control?

Richard: He’s probably just upset that the match has gone on this long!

Captain Justice has his way with Kannon for the moment, whipping him into the closest corner overlooking the timekeeper’s table, CRUSHING him with a nasty Body Avalanche. Kannon slumps over, now in completely dire straits as Captain Justice holds a hand out, ready to put an end to the match.

Richard: This poser calling himself the King of Wrestling can’t take too many more shots like that!

Nick: Wait a damn minute!

Hopping atop the apron to AGAIN yell at the poor Zebra-striped ref for no reason, Mr. Silver vehemently hops onto the apron and starts shouting at the referee. Captain Justice ignores the fallen Kannon for just a moment, demanding to know what his employer is doing.

Mr. Silver: HAVE YOU NOT BEEN SEEING THIS MATCH, REF?! DO YOUR FUCKING JOB!

Nick: He IS trying to do his damn job, Silver!

Richard: Come ON! What’s next, sniper in the grassy knoll in case Captain Justice starts to win?!

While Captain Justice doesn’t see is Ellie sliding in a steel chair to her husband, who has basically thrown the nonexistent rules of this hogwash of a match completely out the window. Tired and aching, but ready for one final strike, he grits his teeth as he begs for The Future of Sports Entertainment to turn around.

Nick: Kannon’s ready to swing!

He runs just as Captain Justice turns around…

HE MOVES!

…But Sonny doesn’t!

THWACK!

Nick: OH, MY GOD!

Richard: MISTER SILVER, NO!

The chairshot echoes throughout the arena like a gunshot, but when Xavier Kannon realizes his grave error, he turns around ready to correct it… but a massive hand GOOZLES around his throat…

Captain Justice: LONG ARM OF THE LAW!

The Burning Lariat DECAPITATES Xavier Kannon, sending him flipping into a complete rotation before crashing lifelessly to the mat. He climbs atop the chest of Kannon, pinning both hands onto his chest.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

As Hail To The Chief by 3rd Bass plays throughout the arena, Captain Justice wipes a bit of sweat from his brow, immediately rolling out of the ring to help his manager up. Having his bell rung from Kannon’s chairshot, Sonny barely finds the strength to stand on his own two feet as he’s helped up.

Nick: I… don’t know what we just saw on this stage, but Captain Justice, despite whatever scheme has been concocted, walks away with one of the BIGGEST victories of his career over Xavier Kannon!

Gritting his teeth, Xavier is helped up by Ellie, still grounded on the mat and trying to regain his air after having it driven from his lungs with the Captain’s finishing maneuver. Kannon and Ellie lock eyes with Mr. Silver as he heads up the ramp, both parties expressing something resembling disgust.

Nick: We better have our questions answered SOON because this entire match was a farce.

Richard: How can you say that! It had EVERYTHING! Intrigue, suspense, violence, EVERYTHING!

Nick: Well, folks, it’s been a huge night, but we’re at the home stretch and when we return here in a few moments, Cozen defends her Universal Championship against BOTH Devin Shakur and the woman she stole the belt from, Lindsay Troy!

Nick: Fans, we're just minutes away from the main event here at UltraViolence!

Richard: Where we take the concept of a catfight, and we blow it up.

Nick: It will be Lindsay Troy and Devin Shakur, challenging the... ah, mysterious...

Richard: "Mysterious" is a good word for it.

Nick: New champion, Cozen, in a three-way Texas Death Elimination Match! Matt Mills is standing by out on Waveland Avenue to get some final thoughts from the champion.

What would you do minutes before you have to fight two of the toughest folks in your profession? It might be different if that profession was "accountant" or "gourmet chef" -- in those cases, we'd recommend stopping and trying to figure out how the train veered so far off the tracks.

If you're a professional wrestler, however (nevermind the PRIME Universal Champion), things are different. It's what's expected.

When we cut outside to Waveland Avenue, we find our... let's go with "eccentric"... champion in a short, manmade alleyway between two tents decorated with the federation's logo. How our cameraman found her is one question. How the guy in the suit found her is a testament to the reasons he was rehired.

What music is playing in the blue iPod Nano strapped to her left arm is one of those questions you'd never believe the answer to.

Matt Mills: Cozen! Cozen, if I could just have a couple moments of your time?

The champion glances up briefly at the smaller man, then goes back to what she was doing -- in this case, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, with her head tipped low and a tiny, tiny smile across her lips.

Matt Mills: Is that... is that a "yes"?

Cozen: Did I punch you in the throat?

Matt Mills: Uh. No. Was that an option?

Cozen: Depends on how irritating your questions are Matty.

If there is a hitch in Mills' voice, borne from his odd encounter with Siena van der Wal last week in Milwaukee, Matt's too much of a pro to let it bother him.

Matt Mills: Many people have questioned your reign here in PRIME...

Cozen: Those people are jerks.

Of all the people for our impressionable impressionist to pick up affectations from, Andreas and Siena van der Wal would not be high on anyone's list. But this propensity for interruptions is straight out of their playbook.

Matt Mills: Your victories over Chandler Tsonda and Killean Sirrajin have quieted some of the criticism, but how does it feel to go into tonight's match-up and not even be considered the favorite?

Cozen: It will make watching these hazel eyes I wear roll up into their real owner's head all the more glorious. I have said for weeks that I am the empty void against which you should judge yourself. That there's no there here. But does that mean I am completely devoid of everything - just plastic parts and wires? No, Matthias. I am human, just like you. Just different pieces, perhaps more of some and less of others.

Matt Mills: And your special guests? It's a no weapons match, remember - the only one here at UltraViolence that I think you can be disqualified from. Not that I have paid very much attention - I have this headache, see.

Cozen: They are just spectators. My very own crowd to go wild. I give you my word they're not here to ruin Lindsay's night.

Matt's lips twist into something approaching a frown -- it's safe to say it's doubt. Cozen's head rocks to whatever music is being delivered into her ears.

Matt Mills: What happens if Lindz -- or Devin! -- knocks your head off there tonight? Do you disappear back into the hole you crawled out of?

Cozen's lips move along with the lyrics of the song she's listening to.

Cozen: A loss tonight. A loss tonight?

She turns her head to the left slightly, eyes cocked up at Mills.

Cozen: A loss tonight means twice as much hell tomorrow. I... ooh, this is the good part!

The phenomenon you are witness to is known colloquially as "headbanging".

Matt Mills: What are you listening to?

He reaches for the Nano on her upper arm.

Cozen: Uhh. This band called, "None Of Your Business, Ass." If you lay a hand on me, I will break your fingers off, one at a time, like splinters of old, brittle wood.

Mills' hand retracts, like a snake that had been struck. But the tension in the Faceless Fighter's eyes only lasts a moment, before a grin blooms to her lips. Of course, this occurs while she stands, which would make it much easier for her to follow through on her threat.

Cozen: (nearly-but-not-quite-laughing) I'm just messing with you, Matty. Andreas gave it to me; it's some band called the, uh...

Her voice becomes a conspiratorial whisper.

Cozen: The Sex Pistols.

She returns to her normal tone with a small, almost shy grin.

Cozen: I really like this one song. I think it's called, uhm... "God Save The Queen"? Because they must fall; I alone am God. And I don't think it's in the cards for me to save Lindsay. Not tonight. It's too hard a job.

Before Matty can ask her anything else (like what the hell she's talking about), the Faceless Fighter strides past him into the sea on chaos out on Waveland.

Flummoxed, Mills shrugs at the camera. It's an ignominious segue to the Queen in question.

Walking down the hallways of PRIME, Mary-Lynn Mayweather drags her feet as she walks. Her head lowered slightly, she seems absolutely drained. She still hasn't undressed from her ringside attire, and as such, each step became ever more excruciating.

By her side was the Lunatic, High Flyer, a smile on his face, oddly enough.

High Flyer: Mary.

Mary-Lynn doesn't respond. They continue to shuffle down the hallway together.

High Flyer: I know what this is. You're questioning my strategies. I like that. But realize you're under my employ for the time being Mary. You want to venture out into that cold strange world alone, you're more than able to. I wouldn't exactly say you're ready though.

Mary-Lynn looks away. She doesn't feel ready herself. Then again, it's the only reason she's not.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: So... where do we go from here?

Flyer smiles, and points to a locker room door, name tagged with one of PRIME's biggest stars. Mary perks up.

Three knocks follow.

"I'm fifteen minutes away from killing the Skrull and the Emo in the face. WHAT IS IT?!"

Flyer turns to Mary-Lynn and almost winces.

High Flyer: Wow, she’s changed. (shouts) Hey Lindz! It’s Jack. (no answer) Listen, I know you probably hate me or at the very least don’t trust me anymore… but I don’t hate you. I wanted to wish you good luck! (long pause, no response) Just… I’d like to clear the air before I die!

In a fury, Lindsay Troy swings open the door quickly. She immediately crosses her arms.

Lindsay Troy: You’re not dying. Shame.

High Flyer: I’m not, but… haaaaave you met Mary?

Lindsay regards the younger, shorter woman with slitted eyes from underneath her ballcap.

Lindsay Troy: Did he ever tell you about the time he tried to blow Ivy McGinnis' face off? Because if he hasn't, that's why I hate him.

Mary-Lynn stares starstruck for a second too long. Lindsay's words wash over her, and only after moments does she recognize exactly what Lindsay Troy had actually said.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: (shouts to Jack) You blew up a girl's face!?

High Flyer: It was accidental!

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: (to Troy) He said he was going to kick my head off and fire me if I didn't interfere during our tag match. Made me feel so... dirty. And not in the good way.

Lindsay Troy: Moving on to indentured servitude, Jack? Guess that's a step up from exploding crosses.

She looks at Mary-Lynn again and notices her starstruck look has returned.

Lindsay Troy: What's with the kid?

High Flyer: She's apparently in love with you. Wants to have ten million of your babies.

Mary immediately punches Flyer in the jaw, sending him reeling, moreso from shock than anything. He smiles to her.

High Flyer: She's fresh, no worse for my wrong doings. Green and clean, Mrs. Sparkle light. Intelligent, well versed, limber, athletic. She's my star pupil. The one good thing I've done in this business.

Mary-Lynn can't help but beam at this remark.

High Flyer: She's got the potential to do right where I've done wrong... and that's why I can no longer teach her...

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Wait... what are you saying?

Lindsay Troy: He's saying you're an orphan now. And, he's leaving you on my doorstep.

The Queen of the Ring casts her eyes up to Flyer and her perpetually cross look returns.

Lindsay Troy: This is not a good idea, and you know it.

High Flyer: It's a better idea than seeing her succumb to the same fucking mistakes I made. And yeah, you heard me. I made mistakes. Too fucking many. You got better? I'd love to hear.

Lindsay Troy: I'm amused that you think I haven't made mistakes of my own.

High Flyer: I bet yours haven't blinded people.

Lindsay Troy: Point. But I've done some reddish things myself, and she seems (pause) impressionable.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Why are you people talking like I'm no longer in the room? Just because I'm young doesn't mean I'm retarded. I'm gonna make some mistakes Fly. I don't know why you're tryin' to avoid that. We just freaking re-watched Batman Begins last week! 'Why do we fall Jack?'

High Flyer: I'm giving you an option to be better than I was, better than Troy was, and way better than Sonny Silver has ever been. You'd still be our manager, we could still travel on the road together, you're still...

Flyer tries to say something, but the words don't come out. He turns to Troy.

High Flyer: And I'm giving you the option of calling me up on any possible favor you might need, no matter how ridiculous or insane it is, no matter what time zone or planet you reside. I will even fucking help you MOVE if you ask me.

Flyer grits his teeth.

High Flyer: Any party that wants to end this at any time, they're more than able to, amicably. As long as we all stay frosty together... I'd say that's win win.

Mary-Lynn looks back to Lindsay, whose eyes are still fixed on Flyer. The Queen of the Ring eventually directs her gaze back to Flyer's protege, taking note of the way Mary-Lynn is looking at her. There's something hopeful there. An eagerness. And, a naivety.

Lindsay Troy: I'll need some time to ponder this.

High Flyer: Take it. Take all the time you need. Just know that my goal for Mary here... well... let's just say Cozen has become a mutual enemy. (Flyer claps his hands) Good luck beating her tonight. I'mma be watchin' intently. Kick her once in the face for Dusk if you could. I'm sure he can't get enough of that.

Lindsay Troy: (smirking) Asking me to do something for Dusk is asking for too much.

She steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind her.

Lindsay Troy: Guess it's about that time.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: (speed-talking) Try using Fermat's Principle. I-E: Shortest path between two points... y'know, try to win it early. Lots of roll ups and just keep her shoulders down as much as you can. It's dehabilitating emotionally, psychologically negative, no? OH! And remember physics! The least amount of force you execute, and the more you use your opponent's force against them, the easier your work becomes, and the longer you can last!

She smiles up at Troy, her eyes sparkling in the lights of the hallway. Troy's smirk widens.

Lindsay Troy: And Shakur?

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: (still speed-talking) Well, I'd tempt him with sexual favors and kick him in the groin, but I think his penis even hates you... so... I'd keep my distance, perhaps try to burn his emo hair off his head with some lighter fluid, see what sort of reaction that nets. Perhaps tell him he's ---

Lindsay Troy: (cutting her off) Emos have vaginas. Not penises.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: ... Hmmph... Learn something new every day.

Lindsay Troy: Indeed we do.

Troy lifts a hand to the brim of her hat, her other hand rests on her forehead, and pulls the cap off. She plunks it down on Mary-Lynn's head, noting the not-so-snug fit with another smirk.

Lindsay Troy: You will hold this until I make a decision. You will not adjust it. And you will take this free bit of advice as seriously as if someone were to hand you a winning Powerball ticket: You will not follow in my footsteps. Far too dangerous a path. Do you understand?

Before Mary-Lynn can speak, Troy nods her head up and down for her. With a smile to Flyer that borders on malevolent, the Queen stalks off down the hall, the hand that was on her forehead now resting on the back of her head. Flyer looks after her, as does Mary-Lynn from underneath the hat.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: She has a bigger head than I thought.

High Flyer: All the more to fill you up with knowledge... of course, you haven't logistically accounted for her curls, which turn a 7 1/2 hat into a 12.

Flyer lets out a deep sigh.

High Flyer: What I wouldn't give to have those curls without the mouth, y'know? (off her looks, quick pause) How's the hat fit? Snug? Good thing you have that enormous forehead.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Hey! (shouting) Good luck Queenie!

She waves as Troy disappears around the corner, head low and chuckling softly.

116 days

2,784 hours

167,040 minutes

10,022,400 seconds

The road of Devin Shakur from Numbah 2 Contender of the WOHDDDDD to the rebellious pseudo-king of the people to the belligerent douchebag stuck in between an identity crisis ends tonight. Ever since he choked Hoyt Williams out on Revolution 150, his mouth has been flapping non-stop. He has taken the horses known as destiny and inevitability to this moment. Now they have to cross the finish line.

Shakur sits Indian style in an empty space amidst the backstage cacophony with his eyes shut. Noise is rampant in preparation for the Main Event but Commie Emo isn’t paying anybody a lick of attention. They aren’t important right now. He’s focused on two people and one belt, a belt that belongs around his waist.

His endless physical training has gotten the body ready. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to become the top dog in PRIME. They can cart him out on a stretcher, in a body bag, doesn’t really matter. So long as he has the belt.

As for the mental side, let’s just say Shakur has done more than enough to clear any demons from his mind.

Shakur feels a tap on his shoulder and opens his eyes. From this position Tony Gamble actually looks rather tall.

Without a spoken word, Shakur unfolds his legs and rises.

He’s ready.

Stop and think, for a moment, about how rarely this life ever goes according to plans.

If you are Lindsay Troy, you had just survived a hellish night at Culture Shock, defending your Universal Title against Chandler Tsonda, besting Tchu for the PTC Unified belt, and surviving the Dual Halo and the drama contained therein. You’d been kidnapped - yeah, fucking KIDNAPPED - by a Jennifer Jason Leigh wannabe, and you were looking forward to kicking her face in en route to UltraViolence and a new challenger, the perpetual nuisance of Devin Shakur.

If you’re Shakur, you’d been sitting in the on-deck circle for nearly two months, watching Tsonda get dispatched and chomping at the bit for your chance to overthrow the Queen, the woman whom you hold personally responsible for all of PRIME’s ills, be it slumping ratings or your own inability to break the glass ceiling. You had already demonstrated your ability to knock the woman out - a feat that sounds much more impressive when you consider it in context - and now all you needed was four turnbuckles, a referee and a bell to make it official and give you the belt that was rightfully yours...at least as far as you were concerned.

The Man in Black and the Woman in Gold were on a very dangerous collision course, destined to meet here in Chicago for a brutal, emotional encounter with the top prize in PRIME on the line. Unfortunately, the speed bump that they had both overlooked became a full on roadblock.

Cozen. Put that name anywhere in a sentence and it brings everything to a grinding, ugly halt. The quick brown Cozen jumped over the lazy Cozen. It’s awkward. It derails things, grammar and Universal Title reigns alike. The Faceless Fighter had looked upon Troy’s PRIME life with longing eyes of indistinct color. It wasn’t the belt that she wanted so much as the daily existence that surrounded it...but the belt would be a good start. And so the Pauper waged war upon the Princess mentally, emotionally and physically, an all-out assault that came conveniently timed after the previous all-out-assault that Troy had survived.

In an instant, plans changed.

Suddenly Shakur was the top contender to a woman who only LOOKED like the one he was trying so hard to best. Suddenly Lindsay Troy was missing the vindication she needed in facing down her own doppelganger. Suddenly Cozen discovered that the very real identity of Universal Champion trumped any assumed persona of Troy, or Autumn Sullivan, or anyone else, for that matter.

Suddenly the main event of UltraViolence had shifted to a much more personal, much more brutal, much more emotional encounter.

An absolute bitchin guitar rift resonates throughout the field. Fingers slowly move on the strings and belligerent fans want to cut their collective wrists.

Oh yeah, this guy again.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Drums pound over the speakers as Frampton fires up an acoustic version of the classic song, Black Hole Sun. The curtain opens up and PRIME’s Number One contender to the Universal Championship steps out onto the stage. Walking with arrogance, Devin Shakur stops atop the ramp and thrusts his arms high into the air, setting off a wave of red and black pyrotechnics behind him.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Ignoring the enraged masses, Shakur begins the longest walk down the aisle he’ll ever endure. Fans are giving him mad heat while he performs a spin move before hitting the ringside mats.

Nick: It’s put up or shut up time for Shakur here tonight folks.

Richard: No kidding, dude is going to have to give it his all.

The lighting casts Shakur in a magnificent glow, the fifteenth shade of pale up from the fiftieth, while he climbs up the stairs and walks into the ring. Amidst the hatred from the crowd, he walks over to his corner and crouches down, waiting for his opposition.

Nick: If Shakur's out first, you know who's coming out next!

Richard: Don't remind me. This Two-Troy thing has been giving me headaches for weeks. If I didn't know any better, this is some elaborate conspiracy plot by both Troy and Cozen to make my head explode.

Nick: So long as it's the one on your shoulders...

The crowd buzzes, filling the silence that's come with the cutting of Shakur's music, until the lights blink out in the arena and the silence is replaced with a raucous roar as they wait for "Adrenaline" by the Roots to cue up.

It never does.

Instead, familiar pulsating drum beats and swirling guitar chords blast through Wrigley's sound system.

HEY! HEY!
Oh, Mister Backstabbing Son of a Bitch.
You're livin' in a world that'll soon be dyin'.

While Sully Erna angrily spits the opening lyrics, a hole that had emerged in the center of the stage after Shakur made his way to the ring slowly begins to close, a platform raising to the surface the last Universal Champion. A spotlight shines down on Lindsay Troy, who has her head lowered and her fists clenched at her sides, but the brightness against the black contrast essentially white-washes her out, giving the appearance of just a silhouette.

And I know, I know,
Everybody knows you try to be like me.
But even at your best, as a man you couldn't equal half of me.

I am realizin'
That everybody's lost their simple ways.
And now that it's here
I see it all so clearly.
I've come face to face with the enemy.

Ohhh the enemy...

Troy's hands suddenly fly to her head, grabbing her long, curly hair and yanking it off her scalp. What was her hair falls onto the stage and there's an immediate gasp that flies through the crowd. The stage lights come on, eliminating the silhouette.

Richard: Holy shit...

Nick: Is...is that still Lindsay Troy?!

It still is the Queen of the Ring standing there, but it's a vastly different Troy. Her long, luxurious hair, has been chopped up to a bit above her shoulders, straightened out into jagged frays. The color, once resembling wood on fire, is now the color of black cherries.

Troy looks out into the crowd, eyes taking in their reaction. With a mischievous, wicked grin, she stomps down the ramp, steel-toed shit-kicker boots clanging against the metal, black-cherry tank top clinging to her torso and black leather bootcut pants hugging her waist and thighs almost indecently.

Flashbulbs illuminate Wrigley Field as the Queen proceeds down the aisle, eyes trained on Shakur in the ring, who looks rather non-plussed (because Chris is mad that I beat one of his PTC Arcade scores). She climbs into the ring, cracks her knuckles and stretches out her taped-up arms.

Have you ever wondered how much Wrigley Field spends on electricity? Or how much PRIME is spending, just on pyrotechnics tonight?

As Vince Howard waits in the ring (ladies, he's listed), and Devin and Lindsay glare each other down...

We wait.

And we wait.

And we --

**BA-DOOM** There went the neighborhood -- and half of the people sitting near the PRIME*View's hearing.

GUITARS. Korn. "Coming Undone."

Keep holdin' on when my brain's tickin' like a bomb
Guess the black thoughts have come again to get me
Sweet, bitter words - unlike nothing I have heard
Sing along, mockingbird, you don't affect me

Searchlights bloom to life throughout Wrigley Field, searching the dugouts, the stands, across Waveland Avenue. But there is no sign of the Faceless Fighter.

Two figures (one male and one female), neither very large, make their way through the curtain. The man wears perfectly pleated tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a smile that's a mile wide, his blond hair gleaming in the now-flickering houselights. The woman is wearing a sequined sea-green number (it matches her eyes), a little too short and a little too low-cut, her auburn hair in a series of curls that fall over her shoulders. This couple... or these friends... or this family... sure brings the pretty.

That's right - deliver it to my heart
Please strike - be deliberate

And then the lights go out.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Wait - I'm coming undone
Irate - I'm coming undone
Too late - I'm coming undone
What looked so strong, so delicate

The PRIME*View lets us know the name of the champion (like we don't already) a good deal before the introductions. It's the first thing to light up, red letters looming out of the gray miasma on the screen.

COZEN

Four spotlights blare down from the top of the screen, illuminating just the entranceway in light that's just a little bit... off. It's tinged a little bit red, and it illuminates our champion, the Faceless Fighter, the Anonymous Attacker, PRIME's resident nutjob, along with the two talkative... we'll go with "assholes"... who've glommed onto her.

Cozen is dressed to compete this week -- and if it looks familiar, it should. Black and red glossy leather pants, the left leg reading, "COZEN" down one leg. Both hands wrapped in extra-thick black tape. The scar from her match with Troy is all but gone; even so, her resemblance to the Queen is only superficial right now -- people might look at them and say, "Hey, are you two sisters?" but they wouldn't mistake Cozen for Lindsay Troy. The t-shirt is turquoise, however, as it was last week. It reads, "Cozen Is Impersonating Me!". They're available now in concession stands and on the PRIME website.

Wait - I'm starting to suffocate
And soon I anticipate
I'm coming undone
What looked so strong, so delicate

The champion unbuckles the Big Gold Belt from around her waist (the brass name tag STILL is blank) and holds it over her head. Flashbulbs go off -- like her or hate her (okay, most of them hate her), she's the PRIME champion and you want a picture of the PRIME champion.

Andreas and Siena follow the Faceless Fighter to the ring. One leap takes her to the apron; an uncharacteristically showy flip over the top rope brings her into the ring. The two circle around to the corner Cozen selects as the champion surrenders the title belt to Bernie Roberts and Vince Howard lifts the microphone to his mouth.

VH never gets his time to shine around this bitch, and it's about time the world came to know. Just 'cause the boy ain't named Buffer and ain't imploring anyone to ah-RUM-BAHL doesn't mean he doesn't command respect when he raises that mic. Oh, and ass. He wishes he could command more ass.

Vince Howard: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S TIME FOR OUR MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!

A cheap pop rises up from the Chicago crowd and you bet your ass that ol' VH is flying at half-mast.

Vince Howard: This match is a 3-Way Texas Deathmatch under elimination rules, and it is for the PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP!!!

The crowd roars once again, and Vince takes it in as if any motherfucker in the building is cheering for his ass.

Vince Howard: IIIIIIIINtroducing FIRST, wearing black...hailing from Raleigh, North Carolina...he is a former TWO-TIME Intense Champion and is the current NUMBAH ONE CONTENDAH to the Universal Championship! Standing at 6'1 and weighing in at 219 pounds, he is the MAN! IN! BLACK! HE! IIIIIIIIIIIIIIS! DEVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN SHAAAAAAAAKUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUR!!!!!

The boos come hot and heavy for Shakur, who only shrugs them off with a sneer. The focus is evident in his face, a far cry from how he's carried himself earlier in this feud.

Vince Howard: AND second...wearing the deep red and black...hailing from Tampa Florida...she is a former TWO-TIME Tag Team Champion and TWO-TIME Universal Champion...she is the FINAL PTC UNIFIED CHAMPION! Standing at 6'3 and weighing in at 170 pounds, she is THE QUEEN OF THE RING! SHE! IIIIIIIIIIIIIS! LINDSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY TROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY!!!!!

The roar of the crowd practically cuts Vince off, a big no-no in Howard-land. He gives them time to die down, as Troy raises a fist to the sky to signal to her loyal supporters.

Vince Howard: And FINALLY, in the black and red...hailing from Chicago, Illinois and accompanied to the ringside area by Siena and Andreas van der Wal...her meteoric rise in PRIME has been nothing short of earthshaking, finishing second in the 2008 Dual Halo in her first match and winning the Universal Championship in her second...she is the RRRRRRREIGNING! AND DEFENDING! PRRRRRRRRRRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPION!! She is the Faceless Fighter! SHE! IIIIIIIIIIIIIS! COOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZEN(uh)!

Cozen does nothing to acknowledge the boos that holla back, only staring across the ring at the object of her obsession. This isn’t the Lindsay Troy she remembered...this isn’t the Lindsay Troy she WAS. The short, dark hair, the new ring attire, it wasn’t fair.

She changed the rules.

Bernie Roberts wrests the Universal Title from the grasp of the Faceless Fighter. Cozen’s typically ironclad grip upon the leather is loosened given her preoccupation, and Bernie holds the belt up for all to see before handing it over outside the ring and calling fo-

Before the bell even rings, Cozen charges across the ring at Troy and the new locks, displaying a kind of furor beyond what has normally been shown in public. Unfortunately the blind passion doesn’t make her any quicker or any more discreet, and the telegraphed charge is deftly sidestepped by the Queen of the Ring.

Troy parries the lunge and Cozen slams into the turnbuckle beyond her. As the champion turns to rebound, she’s cracked across the face by a short and sharp kick.

The Queen smirks slightly, an unconscious move that quickly fades. Part of her is proud that the change in her look provoked the expected response. Part of her is relieved to have some power shift back to her side, after being so annoyingly vulnerable for the past month.

While Cozen rubs her jaw, Troy quickly looks over her shoulder to survey Shakur. Ever the schemer, this seemed like a perfect time for Devin to make his move and lay Troy out again, as he’d made his entire gimmick of #1 contender out of kicking her at times she deemed painfully inopportune. But when she checks on the former Intense champion, he’s nowhere to be found.

Still standing in the corner and watching the proceedings, Shakur sports a smirk of his own. Many were quick to point out his role in the match when the main event shifted to Cozen v. Shakur, and later Cozen v. Troy v. Shakur. His mission was upset, his purpose needed redefinition. But to the man in black, nothing had changed. His mission and his purpose always centered around the Universal Title, regardless of the Amazonian camera-whore who was sporting it.

The three-way main event took him from #1 contender to third wheel in Cozen/Troy II, and that meant he didn’t need to go balls out to win. It meant that he had the choice of spending this entire match getting in the middle of the World’s Most Awkward Catfight, or he could sit back and wait for his spots.

So as Troy checks over her shoulder to check on the Numbah One Contendah, all she sees is the back of him as he swiftly bails from the ring to give the ladies plenty of room to handle their differences…however few of them were only skin deep.

Nick: What the hell is Shakur doing? Taking a break?

Richard: Why waste his energy when he’s not priority number one to either of those chicks?

Nick: Maybe because the Universal TITLE is on the line?!

As Troy turns back from Shakur’s vanishing act, she’s caught on the jaw from a rising elbow from Cozen. The Queen stumbles back and any concern about the third wheel vanishes, thus validating his strategic choice.

Richard: Look, they’re going to tear each other apart no matter what he does. Cozen outlasted all but one person in the Dual Halo and Troy has carved out her name here by surviving adversity.

Nick: So he’s acting like a coward to preserve his cardio? After all his talk about knocking people out?

Richard: He went ahead and switched his style up! If they hate, then let ‘em hate, and watch the titles pile up!

Nick: You’re lucky we’re in Chicago, otherwise I wouldn’t let you mishandle Kanye West like that…

Richard: No worse than Dusk and VIAGRA handled him!

Nick: What?

Richard: Nothing. I said I was quoting 50 Cent!

Nick: Then you have no excuse…

Troy stumbles back, more stunned than hurt, but the ensuing spear tackle from Cozen quickly evacuates the air from her lungs. Flat on her back in the center of the ring, Troy moves to cover up as she regains her bearings, rolling to her stomach before the doppelganger can get to a mounted position. Cozen remains relentless though, almost by definition. As Troy tries to cover, the Faceless Fighter plants a knee in her back, keeping any of that breath from coming back right away.

Maintaining a position of power, Cozen shifts to the upper body. Keeping one arm pinned down with her free leg (the one not planted in Troy’s kidney), she wraps up the other with a simple chicken wing.

Nick: What’s Cozen looking for here? A submission?

Richard: Troy wouldn’t give up, we saw that in their last match. No, this looks more like…torture…

With the index finger of her free hand, Cozen traces the thin scar along her cheek, a keepsake from Troy during that first match. Then she takes that same finger and admires the nail…not long, but long enough, and cut in such a way to make it sharp. Without any further hesitation, she jabs that nail into Troy’s cheek, in her closest approximation to the same location on her own cheek.

Troy immediately begins to fight back, trying to buck the Faceless Fighter off. Cozen keeps her balance, though, and slowly drags the nail down the side of Troy’s face, drawing blood early into the match.

Nick: I can’t believe what she’s doing! She’s trying to scar Troy!

Richard: Hey, if you can’t change yourself to imitate someone, then you just change the person you want to be…

Nick: I didn’t know you were an expert on identity theft, Rich.

Richard: I’d prefer if you called me Mbutu, deposed prince of the Nigerian country of Nigeria.

Troy finally succeeds in throwing Cozen off, pushing to her hands and knees while the Universal Champion rolls to a corner to admire her work. The Queen of the Ring runs a hand along her cheek. It’s a glorified papercut, a thin line that will sting in the shower but heal completely in a few days.

Before Troy can move to retaliate, Shakur springs to action. From outside the corner where Cozen had recoiled, the man in black grabs her by the hair and drags her down across the middle rope, using his third-wheel advantage for the first time to put the early hurt on the Faceless Fighter.

Richard: See? It’s working out for him!

Cozen flails, but the element of surprise gave Shakur too good a grip to be pulled away from. Devin locks eyes with the Queen of the Ring and tries to wave her over for the first double team of the match. Troy balks initially, but Shakur gestures with more emphasis, and the crowd responds in kind, equally egging Troy on, urging her to take an unprotected shot at her rival. Eventually, she backs up a bit into the ropes, signaling silently to all interested parties that she’s about to follow through.

Leaning back into the ropes for the extra boost, Troy springs forward and takes off across the ring, leaping towards Cozen…and then proceeding to clear the top rope and slam into Shakur on the outside with a plancha!

The allure to waylay Cozen was great, but it was like eating a candy bar to cure your hunger – a quick fix. If she was going to make the face-snatcher pay, she was going to take it slow. And taking it slow meant also juggling the perpetual nuisance that Shakur had become. She’d expected for this. She’d planned for it. It was not news to her. It did, however, come as a bit of a surprise to Shakur.

Troy popped up and delivered a quick shin kick to the head of Shakur, stunning him even further. Then she turned and gave a hard elbow to Cozen, who had remained draped over the middle rope. She falls back into the ring and Troy slides in, looking for a mounted position for some ground and pound. Before she settles in, Cozen sweeps, bringing Troy down alongside her. Troy pivots and tries to recover as Cozen uses the sweep to get back to her knees. The two women lock up on their knees, pushing back up against each other to rise to their feet.

Troy pushes Cozen back as they rise, and as the champion is backed into the ropes, she stops pushing back. As the Queen stumbles forward from the lack of push, she’s met with a different type of resistance – a Muay Thai knee that grazes the jaw. The blow shrugs her off into the ropes, and Cozen immediately slips behind, looking for a choke. As soon as she wraps the arm around the neck, though, Troy grabs it, whirls and drops to her knees, using the momentum to toss Cozen over her shoulder with a simple arm throw. Once again, both of them land on their knees, but as they rise, this time it’s Troy who uses the opportunity to slam a knee into her foe. She moves hastily, though, and the impact of the shot sends both of them sprawling backwards.

Troy lands on her ass and scrambles back up. Dazed from the immediacy of the knee, Cozen’s a half-step slow, and she pulls herself up on the ropes. Right as Troy moves in for another unprotected shot, Cozen is dragged to the mat by Devin Shakur outside the ring. Troy’s Yakuza-style thrust kick misses high and she ends up tangled in the ropes. Shakur takes the moment to flip Troy off, catch her hard in the thigh with the point of his elbow, and then drag Cozen out of the ring to do his own work.

As soon as she hits the ground, Cozen looks for a leg sweep, but Shakur is nimble enough to sidestep the attempt and bring the heel of his opposite foot down on the torso for a fierce axe kick. The blow stuns but doesn't incapacitate, and Cozen immediately pulls her legs up into a guard position, ready to block any follow-up from the Jared Leto-lookalike. Shakur grabs one foot at the ankle and tries to swing it away to open up another shot, but Cozen uses her free leg to tag him the jaw with an upkick.

Shakur stumbles back just as Lindsay Troy slides out of the ring, and he immediately shifts his focus (that's the left yellow button for kids playing at home on the N64). He throws some quick jabs, not putting together a full combo, and Troy blocks them all before coming across with a hook of her own that catches him at the same point on the jaw.

Nick: Shakur doesn't look happy about that! Is Troy able to stand with him on the striking?

Richard: Nobody can stand with him!

Nick: Troy just did, and she doesn't look to be backing down too much. I've heard rumors about the training she went through to prepare for this match, she looks ready for Shakur.

Richard: What, you mean the match prep went beyond a haircut? BFD, Shakur will find her breaking point.

Nick: Maybe, but how far does he want to go with testing her when the Universal Title hangs in the balance?

With distance created between them, Shakur rolls his neck out before putting his fists back up. Troy doesn't hesitate or back down, ready to answer him with anything that happens. Shakur starts with a quick combo, connecting on a jab before Troy blocks the follow-up hook and jab. Troy throws back, but Shakur blocks both and counters with a leg kick. He moves in for another combo but Troy circles back and away, tagging him solid with a cross thanks to a slight reach advantage.

Before the kickboxing match goes any further, Cozen enters the fray, attempting to fly in with a flying knee that both of the others dodge. She lands between them and throws an elbow Troy's way before being struck down by a knee to the thigh from Shakur. When she turns to the Man in Black, Troy puts a fist in her liver and crumples the Faceless Fighter to the ringside mats.

Nick: Probably not the smartest approach by Cozen.

Richard: Look at her track record - without the benefit of hindsight, has anything she's done seemed like the smartest approach at the time?

Almost as soon as Cozen collapses, Shakur grabs her by the hair and delivers a series of sharp Kawada kicks, to the almost-delight of the crowd. Before he really gets up a head of steam, though, Troy pushes him away, grabbing a handful of hair herself and continuing the Kawada kick assault from the other side.

Shakur immediately runs back, planting a foot on Cozen's back and raising his other leg to catch Troy in the temple with a Shining Wizard! The Queen falls back, stunned, and Shakur stands over her for a moment before turning back and collecting the battered Enigma. He rolls Cozen back into the ring and looks to continue his assault unobstructed.

Richard: Once again, being the odd man out here is clearly working to Shakur's advantage.

Nick: No doubt he's got some help there, but putting himself between two women who want to tear each other apart certainly isn't going to help his own cause much.

Richard: Yeah...I could've told him that...

In the ring, Shakur reaches down to pull Cozen up beyond all fours, but the Faceless Fighter grabs his ankle and rolls out, swinging her body around to try and lock him up in a kneebar. Shakur swivels and pulls his leg away before she can wrap him up though, and Cozen ends up on her knees. Devin moves in to strike but she pounces up immediately and throws a high roundhouse, narrowly missing his head and backing off. Shakur tries desperately to hide the fact that his face just lost a bit of color.

Richard: Did she...

Nick: ...just throw a Good Times, Painful Memories?

Richard: ...yeah?

Nick: ...yeah.

The universal Champion rises to her feet as Shakur gives her room. Almost instantly, she assumes his stance, bobbing the same way he sets up his strikes, circling back with a distinct hitch in the gait, dangling that foot to set up the roundhouse. The crowd "OOOH"s at the revelation and Shakur straight up drops his stance, unsure of how to proceed.

He didn't think she'd ONLY been studying Troy, did he?

Nick: I don't know how accurate she is or how long she can keep it up, but Cozen just put Shakur on notice that he's hardly a forgotten entity in this match. She's as ready for him as she was for Troy!

Of course, the flip side of this coin is that a man of Shakur's personality doesn't blink at the taste of his own medicine. After years of being teased for his emo-like tendencies, he finally would have an example of it all working out in his favor. He'd spent years beating himself up mentally and emotionally - who was better suited to do it physically?

Shakur assumes his stance again and presses forward. Cozen mimics his movement and circles along with him. He throws a leg kick that does minimal damage, but leaves himself open for a counter. Once again, Cozen goes for the high-roundhouse, but this time she was baited into it. He immediately shuffles to the side and grabs her opposite hand - the one she dropped when she threw the kick - shoving it down between the legs for a wrist-clutch exploder suplex. The Faceless Fighter is thrown overhead as Shakur immediately rolls to his feet. Before she can recover and retaliate, she's met with a running knee smash from the Man In Black that serves as a "don't pull that shit on me again" request.

Richard: I can't believe how hard these three are hitting! This one's going to end quicker than usual, because all these three care about is trying to knock each other out!

Nick: That's why the ten count is the only way to win! If we made pinfalls acceptable, this one would have gone about five minutes!

Richard: Yeah, at least now they have seven more seconds to give off the appearance like they're fine...

Cozen's dazed, but hardly out. Luckily for her, Troy returns to the ring before any further damage can be done. And when I say "returns to the ring", I mean she slingshots herself over the top rope with a spinning wheel kick that catches Shakur flush and sends them both tumbling to the ground.

Shakur is up, but so is Troy, and she fires the first shot, looking for a thrust kick to capitalize on Shakur's lack of guard. The Man in Black catches the shot, though. Troy follows through immediately with an enzuigiri, but Devin ducks it, ready again. Troy lands on her feet with one leg stretched out behind her, and she flips forward, catching Shakur under the jaw with the free leg and rolling free of his grip.

As Troy rises to her feet, she's met with a savate kick from Cozen that sends her tumbling into the nearest turnbuckle. The doppelganger pursues and looks for a flying knee, but Troy catches and dumps her on the top tope. It's not intended to rack her, just leave her prone for when Troy smashes her in the face with a forearm and sends her tumbling down on the apron.

Nick: Troy didn't even need provocation to work tight with Cozen, the past month of history is all the provocation she needed!

Richard: You're too ugly to have your face stolen, otherwise you would understand!

As Cozen hits the ground, Troy makes no effort to hide the fact that she's straight up stomping the Faceless Fighter's grill. There's no better way to ruin the life of the best Master of Disguise since Dana Carvey then by ruining those wonderful base features. Oh, she also might get a concussion, so that's fun.

Bernie Roberts steps in and starts the count on Cozen...

ONE!

TWO!

Troy steps away from Cozen and almost right into a Good Times, Painful Memories, the one kick that has felled her many times before. She managed to catch herself, though, and Shakur stepped back slightly, enjoying the fact that he almost got her. In that moment, Troy uses her long legs to throw a front kick into Devin's midsection. As he doubles over, she charges forward with a swinging DDT that keeps him grounded.

FIVE!

Using the ropes for leverage, the champion pulls herself back up and re-enters the ring, ignoring the fact that she was just knocked loopy. She was already loopy; this was not news. Besides, Troy and Shakur had taken a beating so far as well, and she was not willing to relent the title so easily.

As Troy rises from the DDT, Cozen comes charging in with a shin to the face, basically running the Queen down. She reaches down and grabs a clump of black cherry hair in each hand and proceeds to start SLAMMING Troy's head into the mat!

Nick: Oh my God...

Richard: Well, it's not pretty, but it's effective...

Troy tries to swing her legs up and grab hold of something for a submission or reversal, but the sheer force and speed of Cozen's attack - product of a woman scorned - is too much for her to take, and she is unable to fight as the slamming continues.

Shakur, wobbly but still going, sees what's transpiring and opts to sit back and wait, to see how things develop.

Cozen continues to slam Troy's head into the mat, more or less unabated without Roberts able to interfere or Shakur willing to break it up, and everyone grows slightly uncomfortable once it becomes painfully obvious that Cozen had no intention of stopping. This is when the identity-stealing goes too far, and this is when something had to be done.

Devin Shakur was hardly a knight in shining armor, but his interference had less to do with Troy getting brutalized and more to do with Cozen enjoying herself a little too much. He charges in and plants a shining wizard right under the Skrull's jaw, sending her sprawling backwards and letting Troy fall limply to the mat.

Nick: Thank God he finally stopped that

Bernie Roberts checks on the Queen, but has no choice to start administering the count.

ONE!

TWO!

Shakur pursues Cozen and hits her with some more Kawada kicks. From the ground, Cozen throws out a leg and kicks him in the midsection, sending him tumbling back. As she rises up to her feet, he throws a leg kick that sends her back down to her knees, then a Roger Huerta-style front kick that nearly sends her through the bottom/middle ropes.

FIVE!

SIX!

SEVEN!

Troy pushes up to all fours, then rolls over to her butt and sits in the corner. She waves off Bernie's count...it was possible to stand, but she just didn't want to at the moment. 30-something head slams into the canvas and all that happened is her bell got rung. Some might think she was related to Claire Littleton, who can survive a rocket blast and get the same recovery, but if Troy was related to Claire then everything in the fourth-wall-breaking PRIME/LOST crossover I've done in the past 3 years will have been a lie. So, um, scratch that.

Shakur pulls Cozen up and rests her against the ropes, then begins to scale the turnbuckles.

Richard: Shakur's going high risk?

Nick: He's gotta be looking for the end here, with his top-rope finisher!

Richard: HOLY SHIT!

Nick: That's the one.

Sitting on the top rope, Shakur grabs ahandful of Cozen's hair, making it fairly clearthat he intends to bring her along for the ride. He yanks Cozen up far enough to apply a single underhook, with full intention to double it up on the other side and finish with something resembling an overused crowd chant. Instead, though, the Faceless Fighter wriggles free from the blow.

Cozen lands on her feet facing the turnbuckle as Shakur's left sitting on the turnbuckle pad. He attempts to improve his position, which currently rests on this side of "prone", but a quick atemi jab behind his knees stops his momentum and sinks his weight back down on the buckle. From there, Cozen reels back and delivers an upwards palm strike with the kind of force that you'd expect a motion blur and some weird Japanese animation to accompany it. Well, except for the whole thing about not actually making contact.

As the strike flies inches from his jaw, Shakur had the awareness to lean back out of range, and instead gets the Universal Champion served to him on a platter. He grabs her at the wrist and scoots back off the turnbuckle, falling backwards to the apron but wrapping his legs around her head in the process.

Nick: Triangle choke! Cozen stopped Shakur's finisher attempt, but Shakur just countered with a flying triangle choke!

Richard: You can't earn a ten-count elimination off a submission attempt, Nick.

Nick: You can if you choke them out!

Richard: Look at you, Captain Bloodlust.

Nick: I'm still pumped from watching UFC 84.

Richard: Yeah...totally couldn't tell.

Cozen is dragged to the ropes by her arm and head as Shakur locks in the hanging triangle choke, trying to drag the life out of someone who arguably never really lived to begin with. Cozen flails but has little respite as the added force of being draped across the cable gives her little room to do anything but throw weak knees at Shakur's kidneys.

Across the ring, Troy watches the scene unfold before fully rising to her feet. She doesn't give the situation much thought before taking off towards the opposite corner, her long legs taking only a few steps before bounding to the middle rope catty-corner from the rest of the action. She bounces from the rope and spins 270 degrees before landing on Cozen's shoulders, kicking downward mostly for a boost but partially to deliver a little M. Bison stomp to the Skrull. The third of her triple-jumps to set up this moonsault sends her sailing backwards out of the ring, executing the full backflip before planting both feet into the grill of the hanging Shakur. The force of the kick instantly breaks his hold as his head smacks against the corner of the apron. The force of Troy's accelerated flip sends her sprawling back into the ringside barricade. As she watches Shakur crumple to a heap in front of her and Cozen do the same in the ring, she decided it was worth the sacrifice.

Nick: OH MY GOD! LINDSAY TROY JUST HIT A TRIPLE-JUMP MOONSAULT-DROPKICK OUTSIDE THE RING!

Richard: Can't really say I've seen one of those before, Nick.

Nick: I can't really say we'll ever see that pulled out again, Richard! She looked like she was running on instinct with that one!

Troy manages to get up first and grabs Shakur by a handful of poodle hair. She drags him into the ring and then climbs up on the apron, looking for The Crowning Glory. Unfortunately, Shakur and Cozen both rise to their feet around the same time, and Troy's got a bit of a choice on her hands. What's a girl to do?

The Queen takes off from her perch, twisting into the air and coming down for the tornado DDT part of the Crowning Glory as she grabs Shakur by the head. The two of them spin for a full revolution (but not a full ReVolution, mind you) as Troy swings her legs up. When they get close enough, she wraps her legs around Cozen's head, flying headscissors-style, and legs go of Shakur, transferring that spinning energy as she twists down to hurl her Faceless Foe straight into the nearby turnbuckles.

Nick: Nice change of pace there by Troy! She went for the Crowning Glory but switched off into a spinning headscissors!

Richard: Is this gymnastics or wrestling?

Nick: I think all the face-punching should have made that clear.

Richard: How much gymnastics have you watched?

Shakur is hunched over in the middle of the ring after getting spun out by the CG setup. Troy springs back to her feet and runs up to him, hopping over leapfrog-style and locking her legs in place for the By Royal Decree flipping powerbomb. Before she can flip, though, Shakur pulls back down on her legs, forcing Troy back off of him and landing her on her butt in front of him. He immediately throws a roundhouse, looking to finish his makeshift version of the Reality Check. From her back, though, Troy throws up a leg to block the kick before rolling backwards to get back to her feet.

Once up, Troy throws a low leg kick before springing up to throw a high kick with her other leg in a combo. Shakur stumbles back, dazed. Troy pushes in and looks for a follow-up, but Shakur tags her with a quick elbow and right hook.

They circle and look for another exchange, each moving slow as the wear and tear of the match is showing its effects. Shakur fires a jab and Troy parries and hits him with a leg kick. Shakur shakes it off and throws another combo, finishing with a knee to the midsection that nearly doubles Troy over.

Troy fires backwith a hard uppercut and Shakur falters. Following through, Troy whirls around with a back spinning heel kick that slashes down and catches Shakur on the cheek. His legs turn to jelly slightly, but he manages to throw a hard left cross when Troy completes the spin, sending her tumbling back and giving him a chance to throw an elbow and a flurry of jabs and crosses that leave her on shaky ground as well.

Nick: These two are trying to finish each other off right here! They're going for the killshot!

Richard: But they both completely forgot about Cozen, and you can't ever forget about her!

Indeed, Shakur and Troy had grown so focused on taking each other out that they'd neglected the 800 pound gorilla in the ring, aka the reigning and defending champion. Cozen, who had been bred for just this kind of moment, when guards are let down, sprung into action. She charged out of her corner, dipping her body as she spins before throwing her legs into the air for the beautiful arc of The Beautiful Lie, her patented butterfly kick. The move is perfectly aligned at the dueling forms of Troy and Shakur, and the soaring power behind the move strikes them in that order. It catches Troy across the jaw and temple. The Queen tumbles back immediately, taking the brunt of the blow without any time to resist or block.

With momentum, Cozen continues through and catches Shakur at the edge of the chin, a sweet-spot that could have easily led to one of those flash-KOs that you don't realize until you see the replay. Shakur had the benefit of Troy in his favor, though, as the initial impact took some of the force off the blow. It still catches him clean, though, and he's spun around completely as Cozen follows through with the spin and lands gracefully on her feet.

As Shakur spins, though, he throws his body into the air, putting all he had into one final shot before collapsing. His plant leg is completely off the ground and his eyes are glazing over as he throws a desperation kick, owing any power behind the move to Cozen's own momentum and the wonderful science of kinetics.

As soon as Cozen reaches her feet, Shakur's foot SLAMS into the side of her head with what can only be explained as a jumping Good Times, Painful Memories, something that looks straight out of a drunken-style martial arts exhibition. Shakur falls straight back after contact, completely felled by The Beautiful Lie. Cozen doesn't even wobble after all of that spinning weight killed her in the face, dropping backwards in a heap.

Bernie Roberts, presiding over the action, can only sit back and watch as the crowd roars.

Nick: OH MY GOD! COZEN JUST HIT THE BEAUTIFUL LIE, BUT SHAKUR COUNTERED WITH GOOD TIMES, PAINFUL MEMORIES!

Richard: Can you even call it that? It looked like he just spun his body around and swung wildly.

Nick: It connected, though, and all three of our competitors are down and out! Bernie's starting his count!

ONE!

TWO!

All three are moving, more "out on their feet" than "out cold." Shakur manages to roll to his stomach, while Cozen is trying to move something and Troy's legs kick absently at the air.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Shakur pushes up to his knees and grabs the ropes, hauling himself as best he can despite looking completely gone. Cozen, meanwhile, has propped herself up on an elbow.

SEVEN!

EIGHT!

Shakur pulls himself up to the top rope, enough to break his own count. Cozen is also close to standing, as the total impact of Shakur's desperation shot was still less than if he'd given it to her head on. That's what she said. Sorry, couldn't resist.

Troy is still down, holding her head and feeling like she's in a bad sequel to Saving Private Ryan and stuck on the beach scene. Everything is buzzing and bright and oddly faded. What she does see, though, is the blur that looks like Shakur on his feet, and the blur that looks sort of like her if she wasn't really her about halfway there. She had to hand it to Cozen, that butterfly kick is a world-destroyer. Here she was on her back, two seconds from elimination with nothing left to do but watch. Actually, she wouldn't hand a fucking thing to Cozen, least of all the Universal Title.

NINE!

As the Faceless Fighter tries to push up to her feet and break the count, Troy's leg swings out and pushes her off balance, sending her sprawling back to the mat with no hope for recovery.

TEN!

Nick: OH MY GOD!

Richard: HE'S DONE IT! HE'S DONE IT, DAMMIT!

Shakur takes a step away from the ropes and tumbles to a heap as "Black Hole Sun" cues up over the speakers at Wrigley Field. The boos are hot and heavy for what just happened, but with all that's gone down tonight, and all that they'd watched him go through, a few fans can't help but give the Commie Emo...actually, fuck that, the NEW UNIVERSAL CHAMPION his propers for pulling out the win.

Nick: Ladies and gentlemen, it has been nearly three months since Devin Shakur secured his shot at the Universal Title. He's gone through plenty in that stretch, and he's made some others go through even more, but here he is at the end of the line...

Richard: ...MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Bernie Roberts helps Devin Shakur back to his feet and props him up against the turnbuckle. The Man in Black is handed the Universal Title, and he furrows his brow, head still swooning slightly as he struggles to compose himself.

It's only then that the belt comes into focus, and it's only then that he hears his own theme music struggling to be heard over the raucous Chicago crowd. It's only then that he sees Cozen and Lindsay Troy down in the ring, being attended to by medics and other officials.

It's only then that Devin Shakur realizes he's just won the Universal Championship.

Devin Shakur: No shit...

He takes the belt from Bernie, but opts not to raise it high given his current state. Besides, no one out there in the stadium or watching along at home would care about it half as much as the guy staring at the belt in the ring right now.

And there would be plenty of time to gloat in the weeks to come.

Nick: Are we witnessing the start of the Devin Shakur era in PRIME? Is the Black Period beginning here tonight in Chicago?!

Richard: Who knows, Nick. After what we've seen tonight...who knows what to expect once we go on the air.

Nick: That's the truth. So, fans, I guess all you can do is wait until the next time that PRIME logo hits your screen - that's when the madness begins again. For Richard Parker and NEW Universal Champion Devin Shakur - I can't believe I just said that - I'm Nick Stuart, GOODNIGHT FROM ULTRAVIOLENCE!

The PRIME logo cues up on the screen and we fade to black on The Man In Black, and the bright shiny new gold accessory that really ties his whole ensemble together.

P R I M E