ReVolution 162 opens with something slightly unexpected. With the "Moments Ago" logo in the righthand corner of the screen, we get a glimpse of a limousine. It’s stopped in the middle of the parking lot, which is fairly suspicious in and of itself. For added emphasis, Matt Mills is standing a dozen feet from it, mic in hand.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m standing next to Chandler Tsonda’s limousine right now, waiting for the superstar to emerge. There are reports that Tsonda has been suspended from in-ring action and it appears that the Model Citizen is here to discuss those rumors.

Mills looks back at the limousine, which shows no signs of harboring life. He resorts to something that journalism school taught him: on-air stalling.

Matt Mills: He’s notorious for his off-the-cuff persona, but Tsonda had been well-behaved since his return. Still, it comes as a surprise to no one to hear the Sultan of Style’s name mentioned with backstage issues.

As the reporter ends this sentence, he whirls around to see the door opening. Wearing a suit jacket and an indifferent scowl, Tsonda doesn’t even bother taking a step. He grabs his bag from the limo’s cab and takes two steps before he’s ambushed by Mills.

Matt Mills: Chandler! We’ve been hearing quite a lot about a possible suspension for you. Can you say anything to dissuade those rumors?

Chandler Tsonda: Matt, I think you’ve been watching a little bit too much Torres Wilson.

Matt Mills: So you’re…not suspended?

Chandler Tsonda: I’m about as suspended as Cozen is stable. That settle things for ya?

Matt Mills: So the speculation-

Chandler Tsonda: You wanna know how not suspended I am, Mills?

The 34-year old puts on a fake smile, supremely confused by the question. He gives a slight, completely unconvincing nod.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m your friendly neighborhood Number One Contender.

For the Model Citizen, life’s pleasures are the simple things, like the positively wonderful awe on Matt Mills’ face right now.

Matt Mills: (slowly) You’re…the Number One Contender?

Chandler Tsonda: That’s what I’ve been told. And who am I to go against the word of our Executive Producer? For once, Ceep kept his word.

Matt Mills: Executive Producer Cantrell made you the Number One Contender?!

Chandler Tsonda: Yes. I’m a Jewel in the Crown and the man who was this close to ending Lindsay Troy’s second reign. I’m the reason Cozen was able to thrash Troy in the first place. I think I’m a pretty damn good choice. And anyone who doesn’t believe that…

For this split second, it looks like the old Tsonda is back. The cutthroat "I got what I want, so fuck everyone I had to step on to get here" could be lingering. And this is where he can re-emerge, with the Model Citizen so close to the prize he desires.

Chandler Tsonda: (smiles)…is totally not invited to the victory parade.

Even over the pretaped broadcast, there’s a BIG pop for this line. Maybe he hasn’t earned the fans’ full support yet, but the Viet Viper is certainly more hero than villain now.

Matt Mills: Wow…it’s just that…I honestly thought I was about to do your exit interview.

Chandler Tsonda: That’s kinda the beauty of working with me, Millsy. There’s always a chance that I’ll do something outrageous and make this interview the last.

The new Number One Contender to Devin Shakur’s belt eases into his stride, moving away from the limousine and towards the players’ entrance doors of the Conseco Fieldhouse. After a one-second delay, Mills jogs to catch up to Tsonda, thanking his lucky stars that he brought the wireless mic.

Matt Mills: So…you’re set to face Devin Shakur at Colossus V? It must be a massive honor, how do you think you’ll prepare for such a huge match?

Chandler Tsonda: I’m about to wrestle the biggest match in sports entertainment, hombre. That’s all the motivation I need right now.

Matt Mills: Chandler, if you’re the Number One Contender, then where does that land Tyler Rayne?

Chandler Tsonda: Probably in a brothel where he usually spends his nights. Why do you ask?

On his face, Mills wears the look of someone who just stepped in something they didn’t want to. Except he knows he’s going to have to look at what it is once he lifts his foot.

Matt Mills: Tyler Rayne finds himself in the unenviable position of both being your associate and possessing the Golden Ticket. What better way to use the Ticket for than to secure a Universal Title shot at…you said it yourself…the biggest match in sports entertainment?

Confusion has jumped from face to face now, but Tsonda’s doesn’t linger for long. He whirls around as he hears the slam of a car door. Irony of ironies, the man who walks towards the pair is none other than Chandler Tsonda’s opponent for the night: Troy Douglas.

Matt Mills: Troy, can we get a quick word from you?

The PRIME Intense Champion slings his bag over his right shoulder and walks over to Mills and Tsonda, putting PRIME's veteran interviewer right between Douglas and the Model Citizen.

Troy Douglas: A very quick word, if you don't mind.

Matt Mills: Well, your opponent for tonight, Chandler Tsonda, just informed me that he's been named the number-one contender to the Universal Title. Your thoughts heading into your first PRIME main event?

Douglas glances at Tsonda for a moment with a sarcastic "really, YOU?" expression, then turns back to Mills and the microphone.

Troy Douglas: That's all well and good for you, Chandler, but, no offense, I've got a title of my own to worry about right now, so pardon me if I'm not popping the champagne corks for you.

Chandler Tsonda: You won that title from PRIME's version of Rudy. So pardon me if I continue to ignore the fact that you exist. Some day, if you try real hard and eat your Wheaties, you might end up like me. Just without the pretty white smile and legions of nubile female fans.

Douglas feigns shock, but keeps his smile the entire time, unfazed from the Model Citizen's trademark wit.

Troy Douglas: Spare me the "do you know who I am?" speech, Tsonda. It's unbecoming of you. I know the pecking order, and I'm aware of my spot in it, but one night can do a hell of a lot to change that.

Chandler Tsonda: Certainly can. Hell, you keep spouting off, and I might show you how fast you can go from from nobody to humilated-nobody-with-his-teeth-kicked-out.

Troy Douglas: Oooooh, I'm quaking in my boots, Chandler. Quit with the bullshit. You don't need any more rumors about you swirling around the Internets, do ya, Mister Number One Contender?

Tsonda seems half-amused, half-taken aback by the relative newcomer's surprisingly sarcastic tone. Normally, the Model Citizen is the one crafting the clever comebacks, but Douglas isn't giving him any ground. Of course, that doesn't mean the Number One Contender really gives a damn.

Chandler Tsonda: Gee, fella. You and that dinky gimmick title of yours have a lot to say. I've never broken someone's jaw mid-sentence, but keep going. First time's just make my day.

Troy Douglas: Thanks for the advice, but I've always done pretty well following my own set of rules. Don't give me a reason to get angry at you, Chandler. You wouldn't like me when I'm-

Chandler Tsonda: Copyright infringement much, Bruce Banner?

Troy smiles, and adjusts the bag on his shoulder before looking at the entrance to the Conseco Fieldhouse.

Troy Douglas: Well, then I guess I've got nothing left to say. I'll see you at the end of the road, Chandler.

The Intense Champion nods, then turns to walk away, feeling he's made his point. Troy always preferred making the biggest points inside the squared circle, anyway. Tsonda, however, remains next to Mills, with a bemused and quizzical expression etched on the Viet Viper's face.

Chandler Tsonda: Who shoved the pole up that guy's ass?

Matt Mills: I think he's just-

Chandler Tsonda: Kinda having a rhetorical conversation here, Millsy. We good with the Q&A?

Matt Mills: Guess so. Except...

Tsonda takes the veteran reporter's pause as a cue to get the hell out of Dodge, and does that, leaving Mills standing alone in the parking lot, wondering exactly how his exclusive interview just pulled a Roadrunner disappearing act.

Matt Mills: I guess you have it all right there, folks. The Model Citizen says he WILL challenge Devin Shakur at Colossus V for the Universal Title. Tonight, however, he's got to deal with the new Intense Champion, and I daresay that Tsonda and Troy Douglas are going to be the best of friends. If that was any preview of tonight's action, you won't want to miss a second of ReVolution!

Not much to say after that except...

Lights, camera, action.

The loud, angry noise that is "State of the Union," by Rise Against hammers the eardrums. Millisecond frames of past PRIME events snap on the screen one after another.

The heavy guitar turns more consistent as the light shows and pyrotechnics of so many PRIME superstar entrances rattle the retinas, one after another.

The camera cuts to an anonymous backstage. As the lyrics hit, a pair of large, swinging entry doors burst open to reveal Dusk, marching toward the camera with a determined glare.

"IF WE'RE THE FLAGSHIP OF PEACE AND PROSPERITY!"

The camera is swung to the right, only to be met with a fist from Jason Natas. The lens spiderwebs and falls to the floor.

"WE'RE TAKING ON WATER AND ABOUT TO FUCKIN' SINK!"

A hand picks up the shattered lens, bringing it to the squinting eyes of Tony 'The Grin' Gamble, who scoffs and throws it back to the floor.

"NO ONE SEEMS TO NOTICE! NO ONE EVEN BLINKS!"

Facing upward off the floor, the lens reveals Tyler Rayne, who looks downward, smiles, and smothers the lens with a black boot.

"THE CREW ALL LEFT THE PASSENGERS TO DIE! UN-! -DER THE SEA!"

The camera re-opens to the PRIME ring, where Logic and Killean Sirrajin slug it out in the aisle.

"COUNTDOWN! TO THE VERY END!"

Wade Elliott grips the ropes tightly as he stomps a hole in a seated High Flyer's gut.

"EQUALITY! AN INVITATION THAT WE WON'T EXTEND!"

Crucifix leaps off the second rope at the '08 Dual Halo, colliding into "The Flyin' Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins with the Fallen Angel.

"READY! AIM! PULL THE TRIGGER NOW!"

Union Jack hits a picture-perfect dropkick on Jimmy Bonafide as both men crash to the mat.

"IN TIME YOU! FIRMLY SECURE YOUR PLACE IN HELL!"

Troy Douglas is cut down by a Lights Out superkick from Dusk. In a quick cut, he's using his double underhook driver to grab a pinfall.

"STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS!"

Spinning left, the camera finds the looming form of Captain Justice. He cracks his knuckles and flexes, but the lens is quickly diverted away from him as Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liason to PRIME grabs it and focuses it on himself. After a few seconds of face-time, he snarls and face-palms the lens, sending it tumbling away.

"READS 'WAR TORN COUNTRY STILL A MESS!'"

The camera is caught and brought to an abrupt halt, the smiling face of Chandler Tsonda holding it steady. He peers around, as if checking himself out in a mirror.

"THE WORDS: POWER, DEATH, AND DISTORTED TRUTH!"

The lens is wrenched away by the burly hands of Wade Elliott, revealing the Bad Dog's growling visage. He curls his lips in before thumping the Confederate Flag tattoo on his chest with his fist.

"ARE READ BETWEEN THE LINES OF THE RED!"

Thump.

"WHITE!"

Thump.

"AND!"

Thump.

"BLUE!"

"COUNTDOWN! TO THE VERY END!"

High Flyer charges forward, clobbering Hank Cobb with the Locomotive.

"EQUALITY! AN INVITATION THAT WE WON'T EXTEND!"

Lindsay Troy and Cozen trade Muay Thai-style knees, battling it out against their near-mirror image.

"READY! AIM! PULL THE TRIGGER NOW!"

Tony Rolo jumps off the scoreboard at Wrigley Field, connecting with an amazing splash onto Simply Beautiful.

"IN TIME YOU! FIRMLY! SECURE! YOUR PLACE IN HEEEELLLLLLLLLL!!!!"

The camera turns to black and white, revealing the faces of competitors as jagged blue lettering in the foreground presents their names.

Bryan Dawkins vs. Union Jack

Posterboy vs. Torres Wilson

Cozen vs. Los Enemigos XIII and XIV


"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEEELLLLLLL!!!!!"

Dusk vs. Jason Natas

Tony Rolo and Simply Beautiful vs. Team V.I.A.G.R.A.

Tony Gamble vs. Crucifix

"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEELLLLLLLL!!!!!"

Tyler Rayne vs. Captain Justice

Chandler Tsonda vs. Troy Douglas

The camera snaps to a sideview of Killean Sirrajin's face as he storms down the hall. He turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at the camera behind his red-lensed sunglasses.

"'GUILTY!' IS WHAT OUR GRAVES WILL READ!"

The camera spins away and shoots up the hall, where Xavier Kannon steps out of a locker room door. He offers a sly grin before giving a wink and condescending puckering of his lips.

"NO YEARS! NO FAMILY!"

The lens snaps away once more, jetting further up the hall, where another door on the opposite side of the hall swings open, revealing Lindsay Troy's new black cherry look. She manages the trademark smirk, but her eyebrows remain pinched in a pseudo-glare.

"WE DID NOTHING! (NOTHING!) TO STOP THE MURDER OF!"

The camera sprints down toward the end of the hall, where the silhouette of a figure stands.

"A PEOPLE!"

As the lens draws closer, everything remains in darkness, with only two details standing out against the black: The plate of the Universal Title and the sneering grin of Devin Shakur.

"JUUUUUUUSSSSTTT!!!"

Shakur nods his head as if to say "yeah, it's real."

"LIIIIIIIIIKKKEEE!!!"

The PRIME logo slams onto the screen.

"UUUUUUUUUUUUSSS!!!"

Number One by definition.



This is P R I M E.

BA-BA-BA-BA-BOOOOOOOOOOM!

Conseco Fieldhouse just got BLOWED UP...or, at least, the roof did, as the camera does it's patented Arena Flyby to capture thousands of screaming fans ready to see that hot PRIME action.

Nick: WELCOME TO REVOLUTION ONE-HUNDRED AND SIXY-TWO! I'M NICK STUART!

Richard: AND I'M RICHARD PARKER!

Nick: We rolled on through the Motor City last week on our road to Colossus and what a bumpy road it's going to be!

Richard: It's a long way to go yet and not even the re-debuting Nova's best Rick Astley impression is going to smooth the way. That still haunts my dreams, Stuart! Nova in a tux? I must've had a contact high!

Nick: It's true, folks. Nova, the Risen Star, is BACK in PRIME, and it's almost like he never left. We've got a full plate tonight with the capper being Chandler Tsonda, the much speculated and thought-to-be suspended Chandler Tsonda, taking on the new Intense Champion and quickly rising Troy Douglas.

Richard: Think we'll get that suspension speculation cleared up tonight?

Nick: Only one way to find out, Richard, and that's to get this show rolling!

The ReVolution credits end and we are live in the Conseco Fieldhouse where right in that very ring we have... Torres Wilson. Neither Wilson or the ring looks ready for action. The mat has been covered with a green carpet. In each corner, an arc lamp has been attached to the ring post. Torres Wilson wear a khaki suit over a white t-shirt as he stands in the middle of the ring. Behind him are two canvas director's chairs and a trio of stand displaying framed newspaper pages with pictures and stories about wrestlers from the first half of the twentieth century. The Ultimate Insider waits for the "Oh my God ! The show is starting!" cheering to die down before raising up the mic in his hand to his mouth.

Wilson: Ladies and gentlemen! Get ready for the hottest thing to hit Indianapolis since Danica Patrick! I, Torres Wilson, on behalf of The Real Dirt here on FX, am here to give you what you need. No... what you deserve! It's you, the fans, that take the wrestlers here in PRIME and turn them into superstars. Therefore, it is your right to know all about these warriors you pay your hard-earned money to see in combat. This is a journey of discovery and I am your guide. So let's go where very few have chosen to look... Inside the Tights!

The shot changes to one of the entire arena as a graphic appears on the screen.

Voice-Over: Inside the Tights is brought to you by Thommy brand cupcakes!







Voice Over: Thommy says it's torture when you can't have a cupcake!

After the graphic fades, the view returns to a hard camera shot of Torres Wilson.

Wilson: Now we're gonna start off this show with a bang. A star-sized bang. My very first guest made his shocking return last week on ReVolution. This week he's giving his first one-on one interview to yours truly, an honor that is truly humbling. So let's not waste any more time. It's time to go Inside the Tights of... NOOOOVAAAAAAAAA!!!

The lights cut out in the arena, and a stormy sky appears on the video screen.

As thunder booms over the speakers and lightning lights up the darkened clouds on-screen, a voice can be heard speaking in soft, reverberating tones.

"Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time…for y’all have knocked her up. I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe; but I was not offended, for I knew I had to rise above it all…or drown in my own shit."

The stormy sky fades, replaced by a field of stars. One of the stars shoots across the screen, and as the field of stars comes together to form the word "NOVA," Funkadelic's "Maggot Brain (Live '71)" roars over the loudspeakers, Eddie Hazel's guitar screaming with emotion.

At this moment, a spotlight hits the entrance ramp where Nova is knelt, one fist raised in the air. The smoke wafting up from the cigarette hanging out of his mouth swirls iridescently under the hot glare of the spotlight. After a moment, the Risen Star climbs to his feet and makes his way down to the ring. Exposé runs up the aisle from ringside and snaps away at the Risen Star. Nova gamely strikes a few poses for her before sliding into the ring. He attempts a totally hip yet needlessly complicated handshake with Torres Wilson, which is an epic fail. The host motions his guest towards one of the director's chairs, then sits down in the other one.

Wilson: Nova... the Risen Star. A well-deserved Hall of Fame and perhaps the fightingest Universal champion in PRIME history. With such an illustrious past, the question has to be what does the future hold for Nova?

Nova: (Holding up his mic, looking around) Well first of all let me just say…there is NO PLACE LIKE INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA, OH YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAH!!

POP~!!

Torres gives Nova a wry look, and the Risen Star shrugs innocently.

Nova: Well, it’s true, there’s not. Look Torres, I’m not sure what the future holds for me here in PRIME. I’m just happy that there is a future for me here in PRIME. I left in August of ’07 after the most tumultuous year of my life. PRIME held a lot of really painful memories and associations for me, I was mentally and physically fatigued, and I needed a clean break. But what I found – and what I think most people who leave this place will tell you – is that there’s no "clean break" with a place like this. The need to return claws at your insides like an infection. The New Frontier was therapeutic for me in a lot of ways, and I proudly wave that banner today, tomorrow, and next year. But this is PRIME, Mr. Wilson. This is home.

The crowd eats it up, one section starting a small "PRIME! PRIME! PRIME!" chant that quickly dies out of its own self-realization of silliness.

Wilson: Looks like we have a wiser, more mature Nova here. Does that mean the man who went on a chemical fueled rampage to the top of PRIME is a relic of the past?

Nova: (Laughing) I’ve never heard my career so tidily summed up before, but if you wanna call it a "chemical fueled rampage," I’m cool with that. I like that. Listen, most of us in the industry like to drink. We like to party. We’re out on the road all year, and you don’t pass the time praying in your hotel room…at least I never did. Something I think is missing from PRIME today is a willingness to have FUN backstage. We’re here at these shows, in these awesome arenas like the CANSECO FIIIIIIIIIEEEEELD-HIZZOUUUUUUSE!!! (Crowd: POP~!!!) every week, and as cliché as it sounds, people aren’t stopping to smell the roses. They’re cubby-holed up in their locker rooms – and how many of those fuckin’ things do we have, anyway? – and they’re breathing stale, recycled air with basically no knowledge even of what city they’re in. Sorry, I’m ranting a little bit…but I’m still a little…foggy…from the ride over.

A bearded guy in the front row with Acid Bears on his shirt throws up devil horns and screams "YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAHH, FOOOOOGG-AY~!!!"

Wilson: Wow. That almost sounds like you wanna bring a revolution to ReVolution!

Nova: I’m not trying to tear down the power structure or anything like that. I’ve done one of those movements, and they never turn out well…run out of gas and hate eventually. But a cultural revolution…I could be onboard for that. (Turns to the camera) Hey, kids! Uncle Nova says go ask your cousin on unemployment why his living room smells like armpits! (Back to Torres) In the end, if the result of me being here is a better, stronger PRIME, then you’ll not hear a discontented word from this ne’er-do-well. It’s weird, too…CP set me up like I’m some kind of bridge to the "Old World" or something, which is totally foreign to me, but then I realized…with the exception of Rolo, I’m the senior roster member. Killean’s off dealing with his own problems – STAY STRONG, BRO, I got fired once from a company for drugs, too, but it wasn’t HGH, it was THC. Anyways, I realized all my contemporaries are gone, faded. It’s eerie.

Wilson: So are you feeling a bit left out in the new order? How do you plan on getting back into the swing of things and reclaiming your former position of glory? I assume that is your goal rather than just coming back to your comfort zone.

Nova: Maybe my comfort zone IS a "position of glory." >=) Or the "glory position" if you’d prefer. I think if I want to attain the "glory position," if I want to get the most out of it, then I need to get in there DEEP, as far in as I can go, till I can’t push another inch. I have to really get down on all fours, get my knees dirty, apply a little elbow grease and just hammer away. You can’t achieve the "glory position" by just showing up, no idea what’s going on, limp like a wet noodle. You have to become HARD, and pound, pound, pound away until everyone takes a step back and says "Wow, this guy REALLY wants this! Get that shit! Tear it up!"…ya know?

Torres turns and smirks at Exposé down on the floor.

Wilson: Simmer down, girlfriend. He's just talking about wrestling.

Exposé makes a nasty face and flips Torres the bird. He just laughs it off and goes back to Nova.

Wilson: So all this talk of work, will there still be time for play for Nova?

Nova: When there isn’t, I’m done with this gig.

Wilson: Hopefully that'll be none to soon. Unfortunately, while your gig continues this is it for the premiere edition of Inside the Tights. My guest has been the Risen Star, Hall of Famer, Nova... give it up, ladies and gentlemen!

As Nova rises, he receives thunderous applause from all in the arena, including Torres Wilson. The interviewer stands to shake hands with his guest.

Nova: Thanks for having me, Tor.

The Risen Star gives a big thumbs up and exits the ring to cheers from the Indiana fans as Exposé snaps more shots of Nova. Torres Wilson looks at her from the Inside the Tights set and the two share a brief but obvious smile.

"You! Get this DVD to the production truck ready for later. You! No, no, Hubbard no… that one. Yes, you, the normal-looking one… you’re working hospitality, so clip this tie on and go fix you’re hair. Where’s the carpet I ordered for the ring? You, chase that up. You, you and you… try and herd the undesirables over to the other side of the arena. Bribe them with whiskey and cigarettes, they seem to like that stuff. Oh, and if you see a dog anywhere near my guests, shoot it and dump it in Dusk’s room or something."

Yes, ‘tis a busy night for the Kannons.

With his dyed red hair pulled back into a ponytail, beads of sweat run down Gold Patron Meritorious Xavier Kannon’s forehead as he frantically orchestrates a bumbling rabble of PRIME employees.

Eleanor: Um, hello? We, like, totally asked for white lilies. Those are hydrangeas, see? Totally different in, like, every way… and, um, they’re plastic?

Swiping a freshly laundered white towel from the stack that a runner is carrying past him, Kannon mops the sweat from his face before heaving in a calming breath.

Kannon: Right, me and Ellie have some things to take care of, so everyone just follow the orders we left for you. Make it through the night without any more screw-ups and you all get a complimentary Spiritual Audit.

The PRIME employees manage to stifle their groans.

Leaving the chaos behind them, Kannon and Ellie stroll into the bowels of the arena, seemingly hunting down someone in particular.

Kannon: Okay, which one is his?

As her husband wanders down a seemingly endless corridor of dressing room doors, Ellie stops at one of the first they pass.

Eleanor: Like, just a guess… but I’m thinking it’s kinda the one with the picture of the Queen on.

Jabbing a thumb back over her shoulder towards the door, she attracts her husbands attention to the one painted bright red on which a framed photo of ol’ Queen Liz hangs, and beside the Monarch, a bell.

Eleanor: Yep, I’m sticking with this one.

As Xavier wanders back towards her, Eleanor rings the bell, setting off church chimes within the locker room that play God Save The Queen (not the Sex Pistols one).

Eleanor: Ask Jeepers Ceepers why we don’t have a bell.

After ten seconds or so, the locker room door opens to show Jeeves, exquisitely tailored as always in a three-piece suit complete with tails.

Jeeves: I’m afraid your Sovereign and mine is in the midst of his intense and gruelling pre-match routine, and thus unavaila-

"What scallywags are lurking around outside, Jeeves? Slap an ASBO on them! Bloody hoodies!"

As Union Jack’s voice is heard calling out from inside the locker room, Kannon and Ellie lean around the door to get a sneak peek of his gruelling preparations… which would appear to the uneducated eye to involve drinking Lucozade Sport and watching the Antiques Roadshow.

Union Jack: Oh, and that statue thing we use as a paperweight back home is worth £15,000.

Seeing that they’re not exactly intruding upon a last-second intense physical work-out, Kannon and Ellie squeeze past the butler.

Eleanor: We’ll, like, be quick and stuff.

His Castle being invaded, PRIME’s Sovereign shoots up out of his chair.

Union Jack: What is the meaning of this intrusion? The British diplomat in Washington is a close family friend and he’s officially declared this locker room be treated as British soil, belonging to the Queen and free from colonial thieves!

The first couple of Scientology exchange a look… before Ellie shuffles back towards Jeeves.

Eleanor: Your idea, sweetie.

As Jack defends his territory by wielding a commemorative mug marking the wedding of Charles and Di, Kannon takes a few cautious steps further into the room.

Kannon: Easy, Jack. Easy. I come in peace.

Seemingly accepting Kannon’s words, Jack downgrades the emergency level by switching mugs to wield a one marking the wedding of Charles and Camilla.

Union Jack: Alright, peasant. Make it snappy, I’ve got to dish out a good happy-slapping to some bloody hippy in a couple of minutes.

Given just a hint of a welcome opening, Kannon seizes upon it and takes grandly to the stage.

Kannon: Well, Jack, as you will by no doubt be aware, later on tonight I’ll be hosting a special ceremony to finally celebrate my acceptance into the Church of Scientology. While I wouldn’t even think for one second about inviting the gutter-dwellers that make up most of our fellow roster members, I’ve kept a few seats at ringside free for a ‘select’ few roster members. And you, Jack, you fall into that category.

Despite having kept one eye on the Antiques Roadshow, PRIME’s Sovereign appears to be mulling over the Gold Patron Meritorious’ invitation.

Union Jack: How much will it cost me? In fact, how much did your little speech there cost me? Jeeves… how much did letting them in cost me? If it’s over £500, it’s coming out of your Christmas bonus!

Jeeves: Sir, may I remind you last years Christmas bonus consists of a £10 Boots gift voucher and a kick to the crotch. When you’re in a particularly pleasant mood, you'll shorten the run up.

Union Jack [nodding]: Fair point, well made. Now, back to the issue at hand -- this better not cost me too much, Yank!

Kannon: Relax, my imperial friend, there’s no cost. To the knuckle-draggers that surround us, my faith might be so enlightening that their brains simply can’t process it, but I’ve got a feeling about you, Jack. I see you as someone cultured and worldly enough to accept the teachings of dianetics. Not to mention that as a noble representative of the Union, who better to combine their wisdom with our own and bring Scientology to a whole nation?

From outside the door, a hurried runner calls for the Sovereign.

"To the curtain in two minutes. Two minutes to the curtain!"

With the distraction giving him a split second to mull over Kannon’s invitation, Wilberforce’s ingrained mistrust of all things Colonial kicks in.

Union Jack: Oh, I got your number, pal. 118 118, I got your number. I’ve seen the exchange rates lately. Even if I only get a new dumb northerners to give me their beer money for the week, it could buy a house over this side of the pond. Nice scam, Del Boy. Nice scam. As Sovereign, I will not allow your treasonous faith to siphon away the Queen’s currency. Now be off with you, before I have you sent to the tower!

Before Kannon can even argue his case, Jack finishes off the last of his Lucozade Sport and starts to tighten his boot laces.

Union Jack: Go try that rapscallion Bonafide or that ruffian Natas, I’ll have none of your ilk here. Jeeves, escort these scrounging immigrants off British soil! And make another sweep for any bloody Polish... one of them has bound to have slipped in during this little distraction! Probably building some kind of wall in the closet!

Before Jeeves can leap into action, Ellie sends a few hushed words his way in a plum, Bridget Jones accent.

Eleanor: Um, like, can I get a Pimms before we go?

She receives a stern shake of the head in reply.

Eleanor: Damnzzies.

Ushering the first couple of Scientology to the door, Jeeves clears the locker room so that Jack can undergo his last-second preparations by landing a few left jabs on a punch-bag adorned with the face of Diego Maradona.

Union Jack: How’d you like those hands of God, Tubby!

Richard: Nick, I demand that you go out there and lay out the red carpet!

Nick: And why is that?

Richard: Because our master and Sovereign, Union Jack is about to kick some bum’s ass!

Nick: Bum’s ass? Some sentence you crafted there buddy!

Richard: Less of this dissention, urchin!

With that…

"WAAAAAA-HHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Vince Howard: Introducing first, weighing at two hundred and two pounds, standing at six feet and ailing from Hilo, Hawaii…BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN DDDDDDDDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAWWWWWKKKKIIIIINNNNNSSSSS!!!!!!

"Song 2" by Blur hits over the PA system and pyrotechnics illuminate the entrance way as "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Hawkins confidently strides out onto the entrance platform, shooting the fans Hawaiian "hang loose" sign who immediately go apeshit over him.

DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS! DAWKINS!

Nick: The crowd are really behind the Hawaiian here tonight!

Richard: As our liege would say -- "bloody peasants!"

Nick: Good impression. Sounded just like Rex Harrison.

Dawkins makes his way to the ring, still laden with fan adulation. He slides under the bottom ropes, climbs the turnbuckle and signals to the crowd with that same old "Hang Loose" hand gesture.

Richard: He’s done that twice already. He should really get some new material.

Then, Dawkins music promptly cuts out and is immediately replaced by "God Save the Queen" and the crowd already begin to boo, before any announcements are made.

Nick: Wow. They know who’s coming alright!

Richard: The ‘great unwashed’ are bound to react this…it’s like their purpose in life or something.

Vince Howard: And his opponent weighing in at--

"That’s enough from you, jobs worth!"

All eyes dart to the entrance way to see Union Jack approach the ring, with one arm in a bandaged sling and a mic in his other hand. He’s wearing a three piece charcoal grey business suit, with a blue shirt and red and white tie -- he’s also still wearing his Union Jack sequined mask. Rather suspiciously, he is not accompanied by his butler.

Nick: Wait, why isn’t he wearing his wrestling gear?

Richard: Well, he’s obviously injured, Nick. Where are your eyes?

In the ring, Dawkins develops a questioning look and asks the ref just what the hell is going on, whilst Union Jack strides closer towards the ring.

Union Jack: As you can plainly see, I am unable to fight you tonight -- I stretched a muscle punching Diego Maradona in his face. He’s had it coming for a number of years now and I, hahum, over extended myself.

Dawkins shakes his head in disbelief and the ref scratches his head unsure of what to do. The crowd, however, make their feelings on the subject well known.

BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!

Nick: I agree with the crowd…this is a little too convenient.

Richard: What’s convenient? What the hell does that mean?

Union Jack: But don’t worry peasants, your animalistic thirst for blood shall be quenched this evening!

BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Union Jack: Tonight, Bryan Dawkins opponent will be…The master of the Teabag, the conjurer of scones, the champion of the crumpet….JJJJJJJEEEEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Jeeves? Seriously?

Richard: Oh, Dawkins is in for it now!

Nick: WHAT?

Then, from the back, Jeeves appears on the entrance platform wearing his usual three piece suit along with bow tie, however, it seems as though his sleeves have been rather crudely cut at the elbow and his pants cut at the knee. And Jeeves doesn’t look to happy about the arrangements either.

Nick: Well, he looks ready for action, I guess…

Richard: Sure he is, he’s going to kick this damned hippy’s ass!

Jeeves catches up to Union Jack midway to the ring and they both continue toward the ring, with Dawkins still inside the ring shaking his head at the display before him.

Nick: Dawkins sure isn’t liking this!

Richard: Why would he? He’s about to get his ass kicked by a butler! Haha! This is brilliant.

Nick: Of course this whole thing started off last week, Rich. Our resident "Flyin’ Hawaiian" came to the ring to thank the fans for getting behind him at Ultraviolence allowing him to pull off the victory…

Richard: If he needs the fans to pull off anything, he’s in the wrong business. They’re a fickle bunch, they’ll turn on you in a blink of an eye!

Nick [blatantly ignoring his colleague]: …and then Union Jack came down to the ring and condemned him for it!

Richard: But "Our Sovereign" did fight something of a war with that street urchin, Jimmy Bonafide and on his own terms no less -- in a Chicago Streetfight!

Nick: And of course, that led to Dawkins quite rightly challenging Union Jack to a match this week on Revolution, to which our alleged "Sovereign" reluctantly agreed to.

Richard: Alleged?

Nick: And it looks like Union Jack has slimed his way out of the match!

Richard: Slimed? Show some respect you peasant! He’s injured himself punching some Argentinean fellow in the face! That alone should warrant your trust!

Union Jack climbs the ring steps first and waits on the apron for Jeeves to catch up, sit on the middle ropes and push the top rope upwards, leaving adequate room for his master to comfortably enter the ring.

Union Jack: Now, I know what you’re all thinking…how can this lowly butler even compete with an athlete of Bryan Dawkins’ calibre?

Nick: I was wondering that…

Richard: Pffft. I wasn’t.

Union Jack: Well rest assured, Jeeves’ father’s uncle’s nephew’s son-in-law was a professional wrestler back home, so it’s almost in his blood!

Nick: What? That doesn’t make sense!

Richard: Sure it does. Weren’t you listening? He’s got wrestling in the blood!

The ref shrugs at Dawkins defensively.

Ref: Looks like we’ve got a match.

Dawkins shakes his head, but compliantly retreats back to his corner anyway, as Jeeves nervously limbers up and Union Jack climbs out of the ring. The ref calls for the bell and it promptly sounds.

Nick: That’s the bell, this "match" has begun!

Dawkins draws out of his corner first, unsure of what to do with the much smaller man, but Jeeves hesitantly shuffles out of the corner, fists up in front of his face like he’s a bad bare knuckle fights from the early 1900’s.

Nick: What is he doing?

Richard: He’s about to get old school on his ass, Nick!

The two meet in the centre of the ring and Jeeves promptly hurls a few short punches, which Dawkins simply laughs off. Jeeves, eyes now wide with fear and realisation, risks it all by then slapping Dawkins across the face.

Nick: He’s done it now, Rich!

Richard: He’s done what? This is all part of the plan!

Nick: What plan? To get Jeeves beaten to an inch of his life?

Richard: He’s a butler, Nick! What does "Our Sovereign" care?

Rage fires in Dawkins eyes and he’s not seeing this as a joke anymore. Jeeves, attempts a second, but Dawkins blocks it easily and retaliates with a stiff forearm that Jeeves even see coming. Blood spurts from the butlers mouth and he hit’s the mat and does not move.

Nick: He caught him with that one!

Richard: Bah! Cheap shot. Caught him off guard is all.

Nick: He isn’t moving! He’s out cold!

Richard: All part of the plan Nick, I assure you!

Dawkins glares at the fallen body for a few seconds before, shaking his head and placing a foot upon his chest. The ref hit’s the ground and begins to count, whilst Union Jack suspiciously moves towards Vince Howard in a stealthly jog.

Nick: This one is over!

OOOOONNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Richard: All part of the plan, Nick.

TTTTTTWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick: Sure it is!

TTTTHHHHHHHHRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Nick: This one’s over!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The ref raises Dawkins hand in victory, whilst Union Jack slips his ‘injured’ unseats Vince Howard and confiscates his chair. He folds it in half and slides under the bottom ropes.

Nick: Union Jack’s got a chair! What is he doing?

Richard: Like I said, all part of the plan!

Dawkins turns, reacting to the signalling crowd, and…

CRACK!!!!!!!

Richard: Hahaha!

Nick: Union Jack just floored Bryan Dawkins with a steel chair! Oh god! Dawkins is down and he isn’t getting up!

Richard: That’ll teach him to trifle with "The Sovereign of PRIME!"

With Dawkins flat out on the mat, Union Jack stands over him with steel chair in hand and fire in his eyes.

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Doesn’t look injured anymore, does he?

Richard: It was all part of the plan, Nick!

Nick: No, you think?

Richard: Yeah, don’t you?

Nick: You have no idea what’s going on, do you? That’s why you keep repeating ‘it’s all part of the plan’, right?

Richard: No comment.

Union Jack slams the chair into Dawkins gut, whilst shrugging off the hapless referee.

Union Jack: YOU THINK YOU’RE GOOD ENOUGH TO WARRANT A MATCH AGAINST ME, PEASANT! YOU’RE SCUM. SUBHUMAN SCUM AND YOU DESERVED TO BREATHE THE SAME AIRSPACE AS ME, NEVER MIND SHARE THE RING!!!!

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Nick: Did you hear that? Is he serious?

Richard: Deadly. He’s a cut above this Hawaiian cretin and it’s time Mr. Dawkin’s realised it!

Nick: Whatever! This is a sickening display and Union Jack should be ashamed of himself!

Richard: Why? Dawkins had this coming to him! Damn hippy!

Union Jack drops the chair, leaving Dawkins writhing around the mat in agony. He turns to the still unconscious Jeeves and shakes his head.

Union Jack: Get up you girl!

Nick: Well, this is despicable!

Richard: What is? Dawkins needed a slap and Union Jack gave him one!

Nick: What are you talking about? Dawkins was minding his own business last week and Union Jack stuck his oar in! It had nothing to do with him!

Richard: Nevertheless, Union Jack has done what is right here and that’s the most important thing!

Nick: WHAT?

Richard: Let’s move on…

The locker room couldn’t be more out of the way, a small hovel of a room with only a few boxes for furniture. The tandem of Winston and Lynette, former associates of the Zen Assassin, Crucifix, have decided to sacrifice comfort for privacy. In the sparsely-lit room, Winston struggles to pull on a pair of purple tights. He appears to look uncomfortable, both with the form-fitting spandex and his current actions.

Winston: This isn’t going to work.

From behind a crudely-fashioned curtain, two red sheets draped over a strand of wire, Lynette’s voice can be heard.

Lynette: Of course this will work. You trained with Crucifix for weeks, yes? Do you remember why?

Winston: To learn how to take a beating?

Lynette: Well, yes. But also to learn his style - how he moves, how he fights, how he wrestles.

The buxom blonde pokes her head out from between the makeshift curtains.

Lynette: You knew this day was coming.

She disappears behind the curtains again. Winston reaches inside his spandex and adjusts his man-bits.

Winston: These don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?

Lynette: I don’t know. I can imagine much more.

The bulge in his tights seems to shy away from the comment.

Winston: (mutters) Bitch.

Satisfied with his adjustments, he walks over to where two boxes have been stacked on top of each other. He pulls the tights out of the crack of his butt with his thumb, then picks up the upper torso part of his new costume. The shade of purple matches his tights, but with a giant cross stitched onto the chest.

Winston: Now that’s unsettling. No wonder the man’s off his tit.

He struggles to pull the top over his head, and once again adjusts his man-bits.

Winston: I know I can fight like Crucifix. But I’ve never wrestled in front of a crowd before. And against Tony Gamble, of all people! I’ll be lucky to walk away bloody intact!

Lynette pushes the curtains aside. Somehow she’s managed to squeeze herself into a skin-tight nurse’s uniform, with modifications that allow nearly full-viewing of her top-shelf assets. She gives Winston a come-hither look with her beautiful blue eyes, the tip of her tongue slowly emerging from between her ruby red lips.

Lynette: Don’t worry. I’ll be out there with you. Nurse Goodheart at your service.

She casts a glance at Winstonfix’s tights and rolls her eyes.

Lynette: Good lord, would you tuck that thing or something? You look like you’re ready to stain yourself. Tony Gamble might just snap that thing off and choke you with it.

Winston sighs and adjusts again. His new Nurse runs her hand along the cross on his chest, and he adjusts again. His face turns red and he looks at the curtain.

Winston: I’ll be right back.

As Winston disappears behind the curtains, Nurse Goodheart’s hips sway side to side as she walks over to the stack of boxes. She picks up a mask, almost exactly like the one Crucifix wears to the ring, and stares at it. Her blood-red fingernails trace the cross etched across the front of it.

Lynette: Next week we’ll move to Phase Two of the plan.

The catering area; not exactly the first place that you’d expect to see Jason Natas on any occasion, given his well-document dislike of 99% of the PRIME roster, but this is where we find him tonight. Dressed casually (well, as "casually" as it gets for the guttural New Yorker), The Anti-Superstar lurks over a table of hors d'oeuvres like a vulture. His gloved hand swoops down upon the many plates intermittently to pluck an item of food form its perch, before tossing it into his mouth and grinding it to mush with his worn-down teeth.

After swallowing the remains of a particularly bland sausage roll, Natas makes a sidestep and picks up a small plastic cup, before placing it underneath a plastic water tank. After decanting some of the fluid into the red receptacle, he turns away from refreshments table.

He barely notices the rugged African-American almost walks right into.

Bonafide: Hey, watch it, bro!

Jase cleanses his pallet with a cool burst of water, before glaring at Jimmy Bonafide disdainfully.

Natas: Who the fuck are you telling to "watch it"? Shit, you backstage bitches just get cockier and cockier, don’t ya?

Obviously not immediately recognising PRIME’s PosterBoy, Jason swallows another mouthful of water before extending an arm and pointing towards the refreshments table.

Natas: Go and make yerself useful an’ sort out some of that shit over there. The shrimp tastes like somethin’ that came outta Simply Beautiful’s ass… heck, even this water’s got a funny aftertaste…

Shocked by The Anti-Superstar’s failure to recognise him, Bonafide fails to find the words to respond.

Natas: Well don’t just fuckin’ stand there! Do something!

Jase turns and shakes his head, muttering under his breath.

Natas: Sheesh, goddamn prick.

Unfortunately Jason’s mutter isn’t anywhere near as quiet as he had intended. Bonafide seems to spark into life as he hears the thinly-veiled insult, and raises his voice at the departing Natas.

Bonafide: What did you just call me?!

Still unaware of the fact that the man talking back to him is actually a roster member, Jason stops in his tracks and lets out a frustrated sigh. He knew that he would end up regretting his decision to stroll into one of the backstage common areas; getting into a fight a with a man whom he assumed was your typical backstage lackey wasn’t exactly in his plans.

Natas: How many damn times do I have to tell you…

Nostrils flaring, The Anti-Superstar turns around only to find that The Drama King standing a lot closer to him than he’d thought. Nevertheless, he throws an accusing finger in Jimmy Bonafide’s face and opens his mouth with every intention of continuing his tirade. However, being face-to-face with The PosterBoy seems to set off some kind of trigger in Jase’s head. He slowly drops the finger…

Natas: Wait a minute, I know you…

Bonafide smirks as he folds his arms.

Natas: You’re that Bonafide guy, right? The PosterBoy… The Drama King… The King of New York… The King of All Kings…

Bonafide: In the flesh, man.

Natas: Right. And from what I understand, yer also Union Jack’s BITCH. Correct?

The Anti-Superstar allows a slight chuckle to escape his lips; just loud enough for Jimmy Bonafide to hear. A smirk starts to sketch its way across Jase’s face.

Bonafide: Union Jack's bitch? You must have me mistaken for Jeeves. That' UJ's bitch!

Bonafide begins to laugh, before turning away from Jason briefly. Slotting exactly $1.50 into a nearby vending machine, his eyes scan up and down the various choices as Natas retorts.

Natas: Really? ‘Cos last time I checked it was YOUR shoulders gettin’ pinned to the mat. Anyway, the hell you doin’ back here, Jimbo? This shit ain’t the dark match, ya know? It’s live TV…

Bonafide opens the water and takes a couple of sips before placing the top back onto the water. He walks back in front of Jason Natas and looks him into the eye.

Bonafide: Yeah, whatever. Let’s just make sure you don’t make that same mistake again…

Natas: What mistake?

Bonafide: Mistaking me for Union Jack's ass clown.

Once again, Jason can’t help but smirk.

Natas: Shit, man, what you and UJ get up to in the bedroom is your business… I don’t need to hear about it. Just do me a fuckin’ favour and get your raggedy ass the fuck out of my sight. If I had time to stand around shootin’ the shit with worthless jobbers, I’d be spendin’ more time with Dusk, not you… ‘least that dude loses in style.

Bonafide begins to laugh as he takes the cap off of the bottled water once again. He takes a couple of sips and, with warning, spits the rest straight into Jason’s face.

Bonafide: Oops I'm sorry. How rude of me!

For a moment or two, Jason is without words. He takes a moment to wipe the unpleasant mix of spring water and saliva from his face, before flashing Bonafide a glance that could turn Medusa herself to stone.

Natas: Son, that wasn’t very clever of ya…

Predictably, Natas suddenly throws a fist aimed at the jaw of Jimmy Bonafide. However, The PosterBoy is quick to respond with a jab of his own, and within a matter of second the two are all over each other, exchanging lefts and rights. The ruckus catches the attention of everyone in the room straight away, as the former street-fighter Natas slowly begins to get the upper hand.

As Jason backs his opponent towards a wall, a conveniently placed group of PRIME backstage workers suddenly descends upon the brawling duo like flies to dogshit. Gradually the two are pulled away from each other, but not without one of the ring crew taking a blow to the chin in the process. The camera focuses on Bonafide – who is being held back by at least four PRIME staffers – as the commotion begins to die down.

Bonafide: You want some more, huh?! Name the time and place, Natas. I’ll take you on…

‘Over and Under’ by Egypt Central begins to pump into the arena and the fans in attendance turn their attention toward the Wal*Tron. Having never heard this entrance music before they have quieted to a low grade buzzing.

Nick: Could this be the latest attempt at entrance music for Cantrell?

Richard: I doubt it. Cantrell is down with Mr. Silver so you know he’s going to pick one of his suggestions.

Nick: You’re still just upset that he didn’t like your suggestion.

After a few moments of Egypt Central getting the crowd juiced up a young man walks out onto the stage with a megaphone and…

Nick: Is he wearing…

Richard: NOTHING BUT A SOCK! BRILLIANT!

Suddenly this once completely insane crowd is almost totally silent in shock. Somewhere in the back C.P. Cantrell is screaming and running toward the production truck to try and keep his show from being kicked off the air.

Meanwhile the unknown man begins walking toward the ring with his megaphone and his…sock. Suddenly he begins to trot toward the ring, the smile on his face growing bigger and bigger, and the crowd now in complete silence due to the shock. For those viewing on their TVs at home the other side of the man is also respectfully censored with that blurred view.

Richard: I don’t even know who this guy is but I like him already.

Nick: How could you possibly like this? This is…just…so…

Richard: Gutsy! You don’t see a man with this kind of confidence every day.

In the ring the young man continues to smile as he walks over and receives a microphone from a very leery, and obviously disturbed, ring attendant. He then brings the microphone up to his lips.

Man: I have come out here to make a statement tonight, which I think I’ve almost accomplished, but in the event that I don’t have every single person in this arenas attention…

The guy pauses and puts the microphone down to his side while picking his megaphone up with his other hand and begins to make the most awful sound a person has ever heard.

*SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE *

Nick (Covering putting his hands over his headset): WHAT THE…

Richard: Ok, I’ll admit, that’s a little unexpected and annoying.

Nick: You think?

Immediately the crowd lets out a loud, in unison, groan as they try covering their ears, which only makes the guy in the middle of the ring smile even more. Finally he stops making his annoying sound and brings the microphone back up to his lips.

Unknown Man: Now that I have everyone’s undivided attention I can make my announcement.

He pauses to clear his throat.

Man: I am the most important person in the universe. The person that everyone wants to keep their eyes on, no scratch that, SHOULD ALWAYS keep their eyes on. There can be only one Center of Attention for a company and that person has officially become me! I’m the The Man In Demand, Champ Chamberlain. You will all know me, love me, watch me, and give me your undivided attention at all times. Why you might ask?

Once more Champ raises the megaphone up to his mouth and immediately the fans begin to boo at him knowing what is coming.

Nick: Oh dear God not again.

Richard: I take it back. I love this guy. He’s annoying everyone here, including you, and that makes him ok in my book.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Once more the fans have to cover their ears but this time they also boo as loudly as they can to try and drowned out as much of the awful sound as they can. Champ finally drops the megaphone to his side and begins to leave the arena. The fans continue to rain down their boos on Champ as he happily skips back up the ramp toward the back.

Nick: Thank the Lord he’s leaving.

Richard: Don’t you mean thank Hoyt?

Nick: He isn’t employed here anymore Richard you don’t still have to keep your lips applied to his backside.

Richard: I’m thinking beyond the now and here, unlike you, and so I know I better keep my faith firmly in Hoyt.

Once at the top of the ramp Champ stops and starts shaking his uncovered backside at the crowd, much to their displeasure (except for the ladies of course. This is one fine backside and even if they’re angry they can’t deny this simple fact) before he casually yanks the sock off his, um, most private area and tosses the sock over his shoulder. Thankfully for the sponsors, people watching, and PRIME itself his back is to all cameras so he’s not showing anything off.

Champ: Censorship is for the weak.

‘Over and Under’ begins to play into the arena once more as Champ finally walks back through the curtains and out of the sight of the cameras. The fans continue to boo, those who aren’t still shocked, and Nick simply shakes his head.

Nick: On behalf of PRIME I’d like to say that we apologize for Champ Chamberlains actions here tonight.

Richard: Don’t apologize for me Nick. I think the guy is great. You’re just stifling freedom of speech and his right to stage a protest.

Nick: What was he protesting that meant he had to be naked? The unconstitutional fact that he has to wear clothing!!!!!

Richard: He wasn’t naked Nick. He had on a sock. Get your facts straight.

Nick: Fans we have a SOLID undercard for you tonight, packed to the sloshing brim full of PRIME up-and-comers looking to make their mark on wrestling’s flagship federation! We’ve seen the Atlantic take on the Pacific so far tonight with Union Jack vs. "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins, and now we head ringside for one of PRIME’s most controversial new signings Torres Wilson as he meets Jimmy "Posterboy" Bonafide in singles action!

Richard: Have you seen Bonafide up close? Trust me, he’ll be in "singles action" until some old heiress crone decides she needs a beefsteak to massage her thig-

Nick: TAKE ‘ER AWAY, VINCE!

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

Mobb Deep’s "Quiet Storm" blasts over the PA system, and Bonafide emerges from the back, towel draped over his head. He makes his way down the ramp to the ring and wastes no time sliding under the ropes and then tossing the towel away.

Richard: Geez, Bonafide’s wound tight tonight. Look at him! He’s gonna pass a kidney stone!

Nick: He’s right to be so focused on this match-up. I think a lot of folks have written off Torres Wilson as some punk rep from a TV gossip show, but he scored a solid win last week with Jason Natas over DUI.

The lights in the arena dim to near total darkness. Then the PRIME*View begins cycling celebrity mugshots at a seizure-inducing pace. Mel Gibson. Paris Hilton. Michael Jackson. Lindsay Lohan. Shigeru Miyamoto in cosplay. Shannon Doherty. Nick Nolte. Ashlee Simpson. OJ Simpson. That crazy astronaut lady. As the Wall of Shame flashes by, the mantra of the tabloids can be heard...

Kick em when they're up
Kick em when they're down
Kick em when they're up
Kick em when they're down

Kick em when they're up
Kick em when they're down
Kick em when they're stiff
Kick em all around

Spotlights shine randomly throughout the arena as strobes flash like countless cameras. From the darkened depths of the stands, two figures stealthily step over the guard rail. One slides under the bottom rope as the other stays outside. They remain cloaked in shadows as the music continues.

Dirty little secrets
Dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers in everybodys pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love dirty laundry

The lights come back on as the song fades, and for the second time in as many weeks, Torres Wilson rests in one corner smirking as Exposé stands on the outside, commanding the cameras like amaestro.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Santa Monica, California... weighing in at 237 pounds... He is the Ultimate Insider... TORRRREEEEEESSS WIIIIIIILLLLLLSON!!!

Bonafide steps out of the corner, but Torres sprints across the ring, driving a boot into Bonafide’s stomach and doubling him over before hooking him with a high back suplex.

Nick: Torres exploding out of the box in the opening moments of this match-up and catching Bonafide quite unawares! I’m telling you, Richard, it’s the most dangerous weapon this newcomer has, people’s misconceptions about his in-ring abilities!

Richard: Jimmy Bonafide might argue that the *cringe* German suplex, or *yowch!* the Fist Drop is the most dangerous weapon Torres has!

Sure enough, Torres whips the Posterboy through the head down onto his head with a German suplex before hopping over him, climbing to the second turnbuckle, kissing his fist, and dropping down with that fist over Bonafide’s head. Wilson goes for a quick pin…

Ref: ON-no!

Nick: The Posterboy quick to kick out, but still, smart for Torres to force him to make that extra effort…

Richard: Pfffft.

Nick: Oh, what?

Richard: Listen, I KNOW ring psychology, and you might be dangling from this guy’s nuts right now, but I give him two minutes before he cheats. Blatantly.

Nick: Fine. All I’m saying is, he’s having a good match.

Wilson pulls Bonafide off the mat and slings him against the ropes. Jimmy ducks underneath a clothesline attempt, and then bounds OVER a kitchen sink knee by Torres, somersault-rolling across the mat to his feet. As he does this, he bounds up onto the ropes, about to springboard with a back elbow...

…when Exposé pops off a million-dollar shot, the old-school empty flashbulb falling to the mat below. Bonafide’s hands go up to his eyes and he falls back…into a swinging neckbreaker by Torres that corkscrews the Posterboy into the mat.

Nick: OH! You called it Richard, totally cheap tactics by Wilson’s valet, and THAT might get more than a one-count, and apparently Torres Wilson is thinking the same thing!

Ref: ONE! T-

Nick: Again Jimmy Bonafide not even trying to milk it, and the ref is over giving Exposé a piece of his mind about where to point that camera! Torres going over to the ref now, letting him have the "what-for!" OHHH!! BAD CALL! Bonafide up and he just clotheslined Wilson over the top rope. Torres Wilson catching air and landing in his own crowd of photographers!

Richard: HOORAY, there’s a moment of you getting your ass kicked that’s instantly immortalized by a hundred people.

Nick: Well…it’s all immortalized, Richard. We’re on national TV.

Richard: *Gulp* This…this isn’t the PRIME radio wrestling program? God, I need a gym membership, look at me!

Torres is helped to his feet and glowers at Bonafide in the ring, who’s firing the crowd and signaling at Wilson not to waste any more time.

Nick: Wilson taking all the time in the world walking back up those ring steps!

Torres keeps his eyes on Bonafide as he slowly slides between the ropes and stands back up. Bonafide keeps a distance of several feet, shifting left, shifting right, until he explodes on Torres with a hail of fists, trapping his opponent in the corner and slamming him with knee-lifts.

Nick: Jimmy Bonafide sharpening that striking game! This is obviously revenge for Wilson darting across the ring before the bell even sounded!

Richard: Does he want…

Nick: So help me if you say "Whineken to wash down those French cries," Richard. This isn’t 2003 anymore.

Richard: …fine.

Wilson continues to crumple in the corner as the Posterboy continues to pepper him with left and right jabs. Left. Right. Left, left. Right. Left, left. Right. Right.

Nick: I haven’t seen Torres Wilson’s pupils in years! They appear to be rolling around the back of his head somewhere, and Jimmy Bonafide is taking a big risk here and going for offense off the top rope!

Bonafide hoists Wilson’s legs up, setting him onto the top turnbuckle pad…but Wilson begins fighting it, pounding away at Jimmy’s exposed ribcage.

Nick: Torres Wilson trying not to be the victim of this match-altering superplex…he’s fighting! But Bonafide’s fighting back too! SOMEONE’S coming off this top rope, and not in a good way!

Finally Bonafide ducks a punch and hooks Torres’ arm, hoisting him overhead and slamming him down onto the mat with a superplex.

Nick: But Jimmy Bonafide isn’t going for the pin! He’s going back up top, Rich, probably in an attempt to land the "Ghetto Air" and finish this match!!

Richard: Mistaaaaaaaaaaake.

Bonafide climbs back up on the top turnbuckle, his foe laid out before him…when suddenly one of the cameramen circling the ring’s cameras goes into auto-flash mode, blinking rapidly and causing epileptics in the first couple of rows to run for their lives. The ref, having had it with all this camera BS, struts over and begins yelling at him to take the camera away from ringside. Meanwhile…

Nick: Expose up on the apron…she’s got the Posterboy by the foot! Jimmy Bonafide is hooked at the leg by Wilson’s manager, and the ref isn’t seeing any of it!

Suddenly Torres springs off the mat. As Bonafide is distracted, Wilson jogs up the turnbuckle pads and hooks Jimmy quickly by the head and neck, falling backwards off the top with his signature implant DDT.

Nick: OH MY GOD, TMZ DDT OFF THE TOP ROPE!! BONAFIDE IS TWITCHING!!

Richard: Do we even need to count this one out?

Torres stays on for the pin, and the ref turns back from admonishing the ringside reporter in time to drop for the count.

Ref: ONE!!! TWOOOO!! THREEEEEE!!!

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…TOOOOOORREEEEEEES!! WIIIIIIIILLLSOOOOOOOOON!!!

Nick: Well it wasn’t clean, and something didn’t sit right the entire time, but at least it’s over.

Richard: The readers of this match would likely concur, Nicholas.

Nick: Another nice one for Torres Wilson. Let’s move along.

What kind of soda do you drink?

Are you a Coke person? A Dew Drinker? Did you take the Pepsi Challenge?

While you mull over that question, consider for a moment the two jerks currently standing in front of a Dr. Pepper machine backstage. Their names are --

"BOOOOOOOO!"

No, no -- you people have got it all wrong. Their names are Andreas and Siena van der Wal, and their mission in life appears to be "annoy everything in their path." Dusk, interviewers... heck, that machine they're standing in front of is probably all, "Fuckin' hell, those two human beings blow goat nut." Except none of us speak vending machine (though wouldn't that be great? "Get me a B3 -- gotta have my Cheetos!), so we have no idea.

Anyway, let us join our regularly scheduled "these people are bastards" discussion, already in progress.

Andreas: I don't understand that. Mountain Dew should be green, and that's it. I don't want to see purple and neon fuck blue soda.

Siena: The strawberry melon isn't so bad.

Andreas: They need a wine vending machine backstage. Even if it just dumped out, like, Arbor Mist or something.

Siena: You should suggest that.

Andreas: I don't think C.P. Cantrell likes me.

Siena: Does anyone, really?

"Oh surely, there must be an exception to the rule."

That voice? As snide and condescending as if it were uttered by Siena herself. How Lindsay Troy managed to saunter up on the van der Wals as silently as she did is a mystery that can only be solved by asking Mike Renner, to which his answer will be, "a Wizard did it."

It's Siena that flinches away (people sneaking up on you is scary, y'all), but her... uhm. But Andreas is immediately the Smiling Serpent, that smile splitting his face affably in twain.

Andreas: Ah, Lindsay. So good of you say such nice things about me. Please, let us buy you a soda.

Siena: I only have the one dollar bill, and I'm really kind of thirsty myself, Andy.

Andreas: Nonsense. This is Lindsay Troy. She's deserving of a modicum of respect -- nay, honor around here. After all, she's a noble hero to the Trojan Horses, a woman who has bucked the odds and is always seeking the fair way to do things.

Siena: She's my hero, I'll tell you that. Though I may want to be careful, since she was Mary-Lynn Mayweather's hero too. And we all saw how well that went.

Lindsay Troy: I know what you're doing.

She wags a disapproving finger.

Lindsay Troy: It's not very nice to drive the knife deeper.

Siena's mouth opens in dismay.

Siena: She thought I meant... you thought I meant...

Andreas: It's easy to misinterpret you, dear.

Siena: I didn't mean to imply that you were some horrible psycho-bitch who stomped on Mary-Lynn's feelings.

Andreas: Which we don't think, for the record.

Siena: Not at all! I just meant that I didn't want to have my heart stomped on and my dreams quashed. You really are my hero. Tell her, Andy!

Andreas: It's true. She sings the Bette Midler song to your picture every night.

The Auburn-Haired Harpy's face almost instantly matches her hair. The two colors are equally genuine..

Siena: You weren't supposed to tell her that!

Lindsay Troy: This is all rather charming, what with your annoyingly fake niceness and your twisty reason. Tell me, what are we this week? Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum? Tweedle Dee and Mrs. Tweedle Dee? Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Distant Cousin twice removed? You change so much it's hard to keep track.

Lindsay smiles at Andreas, a certain malicious mischief tugging at the corners of her lips

Lindsay Troy: Be a dear and help a girl out. I do hate not knowing all the guests at the party.

Siena: (mutter) Oh, come on, she hates not-knowing anything.

Andreas: Now, now, See. She's a curious sort, and, really, if we didn't want people to ask, we would just go with the sibling thing -- it's the easiest sell.

Siena: But then I wouldn't get to kiss you.

Andreas: Well, you might, but it'd be chaste. Or weird.

Siena: Neither of which we are.

Andreas: That goes without saying. But, Lindsay -- may I call you Lindsay? You really do not strike me as a fan of the high fructose corn syrup.

Siena: Leave that for her own are-they-or-aren't-they question with Tyler Rayne.

Andreas: So I can only assume -- and be honored -- that you want something from us.

Lindsay Troy: So many things I want, so few of them you can give. But not Tyler Rayne. No, Tyler went poof. He's been Photoshopped out of the yearly PRIME company-wide BBQ and Game Extravaganza pictures. (Grins at Siena) He's not a very tasteful person, you see. (Pause.) Oh, but now that I'm rambling, (back to Andreas) there is just a teensy thing you could do for me.

Andreas: I hesitate to ask what it is she wants me to do.

Siena: Would it help if I said he was taken?

Andreas: Probably not. So I will ask, Lindsay, what it is you need from me.

Troy sidles up to Andreas and easily slips an arm around his shoulders, her finger lazily stroking his jawline.

Lindsay Troy: Would you please tell CoziePosey that Momma's working on arranging another playdate for her? She was oh so sad after she left the last one. Maybe she'd like to try again after Dusky's had his turn?

Andreas: Would if I saw her again.

Siena: Which is such a pain, considering she's supposed to wrestle soon.

Andreas: But we'll be your huckleberries.

Siena: Your Pony Express.

Andreas: Because Cozen? She's looking for a playdate, too. Her favorite game just happens to be the Heimlich Maneuver. Except for that.... well, she's gotta get a bitch choking first.

Siena: Are you willing to volunteer?

Lindsay Troy: I'll be sure to bring along a silver lining for her, once the sun sets.

Andreas: Quickly! We must decipher her arcane coded phrase!

Siena: I'm more interested in my soda.

Andreas: I see what you did there. Because the soda is tastier than dealing with her. That's...

He looks over to the spot occupied by Troy. Like Batman from Commissioner Gordon's office, the Queen has vanished.

Andreas: I hate when they do that.

Siena: Just as well. She had you all twisted up.

Andreas: She's a very striking woman, is all I will say.

Siena: That better be all you have to say.

The conversation? It'll go on like this for hours -- these two are talkers, born and bred, when they die they'll be... quiet finally.

As Andreas and Siena breeze down the hall, the tone of their conversation lowering (and likely changing topics), they do not see a man standing nearby that the cameras do notice. He's a thin man, watching it all from an impassive, stony face that's usually split by a grin or a grimace.

His name?

Nick: (low) That's Tyler Rayne!

We'd stay and chat, maybe find out what it is the 5 Star Champion wants (or, indeed, who it is he was watching)... but we have business to attend to.

Y'know, elsewhere.

Zoom in on the Rayne Man's face...

...and cut away.

Matt: Ladies and Gentlemen, my guest at this time is a relative newcomer to PRIME.. a superstar who calls himself 'The Next Line'. Please help me welcome... Kaiser Vashaun.

From the close-up of Mills, the camera pans out a bit and the well-tanned, Six foot five superstar is dressed sharply in a black pinstripe suit with light blue shirt and tie. The expression he wears on his face is cold and distant. As he waits for the inevitable first question, The Next in Line reaches up and straightens his tie.

Matt: Kaiser, after an impressive debut here in PRIME, the past several weeks have seen your absence from ReVolution. Where have you been these last few weeks?

Kaiser: Dealing with personal issues that have no point in even being mentioned on-air. I've also taken time to heal some wounds.

Matt: What sort of injuries, specifically?

Kaiser: Specifically? Breaking my fist across Dusk's face. And I plan on picking up right where I left off.

The Next in Line cracks his knuckles against the palm of his hand.

Matt: You'll be targetting Dusk th...

Kaiser: No. I'm talking about the Intense title. You see, for my debut the powers-that-be decided to stick me in a match against a champion. And just as I proclaimed myself "The Next in Line", I went into that match and I beat that champion. But do you think that title is now around my waist? Of course not... because unless you're some psycho transvestite running around this place shifting identities like Shang Tsung, you don't get a shot at a championship in your first match. I believe they call it "non-title"... or some bullshit like that."

Matt: Non-title matches are a perfectly normal part of this busin....

The Next in Line cuts Mills off, not appreciating the opinion of the interviewer.

Kaiser: So let me recap for you. I make my impressive PRIME debut by pinning Dusk in the middle of the ring. Nothing happens. A few congratulations backstage... but that's it. A month later, some chump pins Dusk at UltraViolence, and all of a sudden, we've got ourselves a new Intense Champion. And just like that... there's a problem. A that I need to right.

Matt: Have you taken this issue to the appropriate personel?

Kaiser: C.P. ?

Matt: Yes.

Kaiser: I think the bossman is having a rough week. Seems demanding title shots as a 'fuckin rookie' isn't very PC. So, that leaves me with Plan B.

Matt: Plan B?

Kaiser: If the challenger can't ask for a title shot...

The Next in Line smirks, then walks off without ever finishing the sentence. Matt Mills turns and looks to the camera before shrugging his shoulders and dropping the mic, frustrated with the half-interview. The final moment of the scene rings out as a loud "THHHUMMPPHHFF" as the microphone bounces off the floor.

"Hey, dude, wait up!"

Tony Gamble sprints down the hallway, a sheen of sweat present on his brow as he struggles to breathe.

Gamble: Hey, Shak!

Only the trademark black apparel of Devin Shakur is seen as he rounds a corner, a corner Tony seems to take forever to arrive at. Nearly out of breath, Tony leans forward and presses his palms against his knees to support his body from completely collapsing.

Gamble: Where the hell?

He looks around, scanning the hall for his bestest bud and only real friend in the biz, but the Universal Champ is nowhere to be found.

"Who are you looking for?"

Tony springs forward, spinning – read: stumbling – around in the air to find Angelica Brooks standing behind him.

Gamble: What?

Brooks: You looked like you were looking for someone... Who were you looking for?

Tony mouths the word 'oh', his lips forming a picture perfect 'O' that a compass would be envious of.

Gamble: I thought I saw Shakur.

Tony's shoulder slams against the wall as Angelica shoves past him to glance down the hall.

Gamble: (under his breath) What the fuck?

Brooks: Did you see where he went? Everyone's been trying to talk to him, but he's been a ghost since winning at UltraViolence.

Tony rubs his shoulder, his brow furrowed as he shoots daggers into Angelica's backside – probably the cleanest thing ever shot on her back.

Gamble: You ever think he just doesn't have time for people hanging off his sack now that he's done what no one thought he could? I know this may seem hard to believe, since you're clearly a wine cooler type of girl, but fine wine – the best money can buy – is not just swallowed down like common seed... You let it sit and breathe before even taking a sip.

Angelica doesn't seem to understand, but he never expected her to.

Gamble: He'll come out and say his peace when he feels good and damn ready. He's the champ, and the rest of you can kiss the tip.

Brooks: So him and Tzu are through?

It's Tony's turn to raise an eyebrow in confusion, because he could've sworn he heard her say 'you' instead of 'Tzu'.

Gamble: Excuse me?

Brooks: Shakur and Sunny? Are they gonna be on E! with pictures of them in compromising positions with someone other than each other? Because if that's the case I want to be in on that.

Gamble: With which one?

Brooks: I'm easy.

Right.

Gamble: I'm sure you are. Look, I need to get with Devin... He actually wasn't even supposed to be here tonight, but who are we to tell him not to, right. So yeah, I gotta go.

Brooks: Will I see you two at Nova's party?

Gamble, who had just begun to head down the hallway he saw Devin walk down a few minutes earlier, stops dead in his tracks and turns back.

Gamble: Nova's having a party... No wonder Shak's here, how can we not be partying with our boy... Fuck You is back, baby!

Tony heads down the hall, giving a little fist pump to accentuate his cheer as he hollers down the hall.

Gamble: WHOOOOOOOO HOOOOOO!!!!!!

Judging from the PCU, Animal House and Old School posters adorning the walls, it is readily apparent that this locker room has been claimed by PRIME's resident fraternal order Delta Upsilon Iota. And although they may be absent from tonight's card, they themselves are very much present.

Korver is wearing a pair of black athletic shorts, black sandals and a white t-shirt with "Jersey girls ain't trash. (trash gets picked up)" written across the front next to a silhouette of the state of New Jersey. Korver seems to be in an awfully chipper mood, considering the results of last week's ReVolution, when the frat boys not only lost their tag match, but Korver himself also almost lost his ability to breath, courtesy of Jason Natas.

Korver: Yo big fella, I'm gonna go grab a quick smoke out back, you need some fresh air?

Cobb: Naw man, I'm good to go. You enjoy that cancer stick.

Korver: And you enjoy that lipper, jackass.

Cobb: Will do.

As Korver steps out to enjoy the pleasant Indianapolis evening, Cobb closes his eyes and leans back on the locker room couch to enjoy a little rest and relaxation sans-partner. Wearing a pair of black sweat pants and a gray Wake Forest Football tee, Cobb appears the very definition of southern comfort.

The sweet sound of silence, however, is almost immediately interrupted by the reopening of the creaky Conseco Fieldhouse door. As his partner shuffles back across the room for something obviously forgotten, Cobb cannot resist taking a few shots at him.

Cobb: Well at least alcohol doesn't affect your short-term memory. Or are you just fixin' to grab a couple more cigarettes in case some ring rats scamper by the backalley? Ya know it don't matter that much to me, Korv, I'll just start my search for a new tag team partner a lil' bit sooner than anticipated.

"That wont be necessary, Cletus."

Cold metal connects with the back of Cobb's skull before the giant frat boy can register that the responding voice is not that of his tag team partner. No sooner has Cobb collapsed forward onto his hands and knees than a size 14 Dr. Marten is driven into his gut,sending the 6'8" DUI member sprawling across the concrete floor of the locker-room.

Natas: Shit, son. You're pretty fuckin' stupid, even for a frat boy.

The Anti-Superstar un-balls his fist and straightens his fingers out, allowing a set of brass knuckles to slide down his hand and crash down onto the floor with a resounding CLINK. As a throbbing pain pulses like a woodpecker drilling away at his skull, Hank can only watch as the rugged New Yorker pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. He slips it between his lips and flicks open his Zippo before taking a long, cathartic drag.

Natas: Hazardous places to have your back turned, these locker-rooms, never know who's gonna just sneak up on you. Heck, even Matt Mills knows to keep an eye open on the back of his head, ya know?

Jason pauses for a moment as he sucks some of the noxious fumes from the cigarette down into his lungs.

Natas: Dude's gotta be careful around these parts if he doesn't want to wind up gettin' hurt...

The larger DUI member stumbles back to the floor courtesy of a swift Natas haymaker, immediately squashing an attempt to rise back to his feet. Still puffing away like a chimney, The Anti-Superstar blindly grabs a nearby steel chair, unfolds it, and sits down just a couple of inches away from Cobb.

Natas: I think you and I need to have a little heart-to-heart, don't 'cha think, Cletus?

Jase is momentarily distracted by the room's decorations and glances at the various posters on the wall with a disdainful glare and a disapproving shake of the head. He soon turns his attentions back to Cobb, who is still holding his head in pain.

Natas: See, here's the thing; when I tell you and your lil' fuck buddy to keep yer noses outta my business, I mean it, 'kay? Means ya don't "accidentally" stumble into my locker-room, and you sure as hell don't try to hunt me down backstage just so you can flap yer gums.

The Anti-Superstar takes a particularly long drag on his cancer stick. Two successive blows to the head have left Hank Cobb in no condition to get up and put up a fight.

Natas: Yer lucky I'm in a good mood t'night, boy. I'm gonna put last week's little escapade down as a simple misunderstandin'. But make no mistake, you try to pull this shit again and I'ma have to send ya home in the back of an ambulance. You got that?

The New York native stands up from his seated position and drops his cigarette onto the floor. Without even waiting for a response from the frat boy, he stomps the cig into the floor, a small cloud of ash and sparks trailing his boot as he walks out into the corridor.

"Hey, dicksmack!"

Jase raises his head only to be met with the sight of the returning Colby Korver just a few short metres away. As the other DUI member strides towards him, Jason immediately holds his hands up to declare his innocence of any wrongdoing.

Korver: What the hell are you doing lurking around here?!

Natas: Whoa, at ease pipsqueek, I ain't here to hurt ya.

The New Yorker flashes him a slimey grin.

Natas: You might wanna check up on ol' Cobb though...

As a chuckle trickles its way from Natas' mouth, Colby immediately abandons all thoughts of starting static with The Anti-Superstar and quickly dashes into his locker-room.

Korver: Holy shit... Hank!

Korver quickly darts over to his fallen partner, who is still slumped down on the floor. He sighs out of frustration, remembering the number that Natas had done on him just seven days ago.

Korver: GODDAMNIT!

Did anyone else notice how Lindz just got all hot and bothered all of a sudden? (In fairness, so did Varga, but we try not to mention him least we have to. Or least it be damn funny and easy to make fun of him.)

That’s because when it’s time to "double-click the mouse," as the kids used to say, there is only one screensaver that every woman keeps in (hot and) heavy rotation. That would be a slideshow of images starring PRIME’s 5-Star Champion, 2008 Dual Halo winner, and all around bad ass mutha fucka… Tyler Rayne.

Now most weeks we present to you a very simple scenario. Tyler Rayne minding his own business when, surprise/shock/gasp, a PRIME superstar of your choice walks up and "starts suntin," to borrow a phrase from our boy Fiddy.

This week, we’re going to try something a little bit different, though. This week, the 5-Star Champ is actually on a mission to find someone. A particular someone, perhaps?

Perhaps.

Oh, look here. Who’s that fine chap swaggering down the hall right now chest puffed like a monkey during mating season and arms flapping like an epileptic seal? Why it’s none other than Son-- *ahem*

MR. SILVER, SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT LIASION TO PRIME

…

…

I hope you feel better now, Seth. So, yeah, let’s set this scene one more time.

Tyler Rayne marching toward Mr. Silver.

Mr. Silver swaggering down the hall in Tyler Rayne’s direction.

Tyler Rayne.

Mr. Silver.

March.

Swagger.

A colossal confrontation about to happen. The 5-Star Champion stops dead in his tracks and narrows a glare in the direction of the former Universal Champion. The biggest pain in C.P.’s ass, however, doesn’t seem to notice him. After all, why would someone of such importance and…sheer magnitude of presence ever be concerned with the peon-like existence of some ruffian named Rayne? He wouldn’t. Right up until his swagger damn near bowls Rayne over. Without missing a beat, Mr. Silver simply swaggers to his left, circling around the nuisance as he might any other inanimate and unmentionable object in his way. Only this object steps to the left, once again blocking his path.

Mr. Silver stomps to the right. And Tyler Rayne? You guessed it. Slide to the right.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: Just who the—

The Underground Pimp holds up a single index finger, just inches from the Liaison’s face. Mr. Silver, shocked that some common curtain jerker would dare to interrupt him like that, actually shuts up. For like… two seconds.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: Do you know who I—

That finger is now wagging in his face. Insisting that he desist. After a handful of seconds, Rayne seems satisfied that he has Silver’s attention, and the finger retreats.
Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: I AM—

The finger returns.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: MIS—

Finger.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: TER SI—

Finger.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: GOD DAMN IT! QUIT THAT SHIT OUT, FUCKER!!

The finger? No. Not this time. This time he gets the smile. Which smile? Oh. You know the one. Yeah. That smile.

Tyler Rayne: No.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME: —

Tyler Rayne: NUH UH! No means no, Vinster. Sit back, shut up and have a listen. You may think you’ve got all these dough-brained cum dumpsters ‘round here fooled, but I’m on to your little game, Sonny. And no, it’s not—

He holds up that finger one more time to keep ol’ Silver Tongue at bay. Rayne clears his throat. Loosens his shoulders. Shakes his arms loose. Then, in a grandiose gesture of magnificence and marvelous wonder, Tyler Rayne throws his arms in all directions, as if preparing to morph into the White Tiger Power Ranger. It’s a display that puts Silver’s tribute to the Ginyu Force from last week to absolute shame. It is the most unabashed and horrendous sequence of ridiculous actions this side of Milena posing or Lance Storm dancing. He drops to one knee before thrusting a single, trembling hand high into the air.

…

…

Oh no he didn’t…

OH SHIT! YES HE DID! HERE IT COMES…

OLD SKOOL MIC~!!

Tyler Rayne: MIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SSSSSSSSSSSIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVVVVAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pause for breath…

Tyler Rayne: SPORTS ENTERAINMENT LIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNN to PPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The former Universal Champion stands with mouth agape. Such disrespect. Such… audacity. It’s unheard of. Unthinkable. Absolutely unpossible.

Tyler Rayne: Fuck that smoke screen. I’m talkin’ to the man behind the curtain. Sonny Silver. The vindictive, evil little rat fuck sumnabitch pullin’ strings on America’s newest flag wavin’ dick licker in tights. I see what you’re doin’, kid. Sendin’ the lug out to pull off what you couldn’t. Sendin’ him out after all your old enemies. Kannon. Gamble. Troy. Now me. You may have a lot of people fooled around her, Sonny…but I can see you. Another bitter little ingrate looking for his last shot at revenge. Well lemme clear somethin’ up for ya. Make sure we’re as crystal as the lake ol’ Vorhees crawled out of. Your boy, he’s going to have one hell of a fuckin’ time trying to put my ass down for three. Lotta guys with a lot more talent than that ‘roid monkey have tried and failed. But…on the off chance U.S. Agent does manage to pull a miracle from his gerbil infested asshole… it’ll never make things square ‘tween you and me. You can never erase the fact that you retired without defeating me. Your boy can’t change history. Regardless of how this night ends, I promise, Sonny Silver will still be oh and one against yours truly.

Snatching the mic from his hands, Sonny pushes Rayne back a step and narrows his eyes at the sight of the scarred superstar.

Silver: YOU? Tyler Rayne want to get into MY face? You little shit, you needed a cheap bullshit "mystery opponents" night and a pussy little roll-up to defeat me. Remember that. Remember that while you ran away to whatever part of the fucking world you were in, *I* was running this shit with an iron fist. *I* was the one people were talking about. Not Tyler Rayne being too much of a pussy to take a beating from Devin Shakur. ME. *I* beat Lindsay Troy for the Universal Title while you were sitting there dreaming of what could’ve been. And all this success you got now? Only cause you never faced me at my best, sport.

He sneers more.

Silver: Besi…

"STAND BACK, CITIZEN SILVER!"

Both Silver and Rayne look off to the side like a Martian stood in the middle of the way and started doing the Cha-Cha Slide. For standing before them? None other than the aforementioned bodyguard of Mister Silver… Captain Justice!

…Complete with Full-on Orchestra band behind him. The troupe of about ten or so musicians playing a rather snazzy rendition of "Hail to the Chief" stand firmly behind the Americanimal as he marches like the President himself… only smarter. Marginally.

He stands in between Silver and Rayne, effectively sizing up the Dual Halo winner and 5-Star Champion.

Captain Justice: You, sir, make me SICK.

Spitting harshly in front of the ground Tyler Rayne inhabits, he growls underneath his breath.

Captain Justice: Four score and some odd weeks ago, you had the AUDACITY to sit there, huffing, hawing, and blowing what appears to be hot air when you tell people you’ve destroyed everybody that the office has put in front of you. You call yourself career death, Rayne? I am PRIME’s Avenging Angel sent down from on high to rid the world of SCUM like you. I see the way you march through these halls like you’re the cock-of-the-walk, but until now, you haven’t even BREATHED in my presence, you irritant. I mean it when I tell you as God, Mr. Silver, and AMERICA ITSELF as my witness, I WILL be the one that takes your 5-Star Title away from you. And I start tonight when I prove that you, sir, have a lot in common with a backed-up toilet…

He stares at the sky.

Captain Justice: …Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to utter…

Back to Rayne.

Captain Justice: You’re full of CRAP!

The 5-Star Champion’s eyes widen and his hands rush up to cover a mocking gasp. Such scandalous language! That is to say, the language that’s about to come in response, of course.

Tyler Rayne: That’d be shit, ass hat. I’m full of shit. Now take your beady little peepers off my ball sack and look me in the eyes like a man. It’s real cute of you to come rushing in here like a white knight to save your boy Silver ‘fore he took another verbal beat-down at the hands of the most dominant wrestler in PRIME today. Period. Bar none. Facts and scripture written in stone. Just means that you, however, walked into a whole mess o’ trouble yourself. Understand that there’s only one Captain I respect wears the colors of this great nation of ours…and you, sir, are no Steve Rogers. Hell, you couldn’t even rate as a second-hand Bucky Barnes. So stand the fuck down, soldier boy, ‘fore I commence to givin’ you a preview of the ass kickin’ you are scheduled to receive later this evening.

Captain Justice nods his head. He knows when he’s been bested by the verbal assassin that sports both the Golden Ticket and 5-Star in his possession. His eyes greet Tyler Rayne with a smirk.

PIEFACE!

Justice shoves the Underground Pimp a few steps back with just his palm, nearly knocking him into the wall. Rayne stops himself just short, then snaps his head around to see the Captain – complete with hands on his hips like a hero – laughing.

Captain Justice: You’re done talking.

The 5-Star Champion responds with a laugh of his own.

Tyler Rayne: You’re gods damned right I am.

Quick stat check. Captain Justice is six foot five, two hundred and eighty pounds of pure American muscle. That’s about four inches and seventy pounds he’s got on the Golden Boy. Comes to a fight, those aren’t the kinds of odds you want to be overcoming. Tyler Rayne knows that. He knows that a legitimate fight with the Americanimal (and not a legislated wrestling contest confined to rules and regulations within the squared circle) is not a smart idea.

So what’s a man to do when faced with such circumstances?

We don’t really know, having never been in these circumstances ourselves. We do know what Tyler Rayne’s gonna do, though. He’s going to lunge forward, quickly closing the gap between himself and Captain Justice. Rayne’s lunge turns downward, dropping the 5-Star Champion to a knee and his elbow into the thigh of Captain Justice. A hard, vicious blow that knots the muscle and nearly sends the Americanimal off-balance. With the same swiftness of his first attack, Rayne rises straight up, blasting CJ with a Shuryuken-like elbow right under the jaw. Justice is staggered, but it’s the Zidane-esque headbutt to the chest that sends him tumbling backward, knocking over Mr. Silver in the process.

Captain Justice may have been taken off guard, but he was not taken off his feet. And even through the mask, we can see the scowl contorting his undoubtedly very patriotic features. With a guttural war cry, CJ roars forward, catching Rayne with an unstoppable bull rush. Thick, All-American football shoulders rattle Rayne’s ribcage. Pure US strength lifts Rayne off his feet, slamming him against the wall with all for force of a speeding locomotive. For a moment, the 5-Star Champion goes limp across the Americanimal’s shoulders. Patriotic fists of rage pound against Rayne’s sides, decimating his kidneys and vital inner organs. The brutal beating awakens Rayne from his breathless reverie, and he assaults the red, white and blue beast with a relentless series of elbows to the back of the neck.

With another lion-like roar, Captain Justice pulls away from his prey, but not before wrapping massive mitts of manliness around Rayne’s throat and tossing him across the hall. Mr. Silver scrambles out of the way as the brawl has suddenly come toward him. A wild haymaker from Justice rocks Rayne’s jaw and stumbles him into the wall. Justice follows up with a thunderous fist to the abdomen. Blows so mighty and fearsome they could end terrorism right fucking now. Rayne hocks a mouthful of blood onto the mask of Captain Justice before spreading it across the fabric with a retaliatory forearm. Knife jab to the throat. Snap kick to the quad. Headbutt. Spartan kick to the chest that sends Justice reeling. Roaring elbow from Rayne.

The Americanimal drops to a knee. Rayne spits another mouthful of blood to the ground and drops his fist for the finishing blow…but Captain Justice catches the punch in his own God-fearing hand. At a momentary stalemate, the two find their faces just inches apart. Growling. Snarling like wild beasts let loose upon the world.

David vs Goliath.

Hogan vs Andre.

Wolverine vs The Hulk.

Captain Justice rises with an uppercut that puts Rayne back into the wall. Rayne bounces right off and comes back for more. He gets a size America’s Going To Kick Your Ass boot to the chest. Even harder against the wall this time. Rayne shakes it off and lunges forward again. Both men swing at the same time, cracking each other across the cheeks with wild, furious punches. Above the sounds of rampaging testosterone and amped-up adrenaline come the rapid chatterings of yellow garbed, masked luchadores.

Enimigos I, II, III, V, VIII and XXII (So what? They’ve been outsourcing.) throw themselves between the two savages. It takes all six of the Mexican musclemen to pull Captain Justice away. And meanwhile, who is there to keep the rabid Tyler Rayne at bay? None other than the most bad ass Director of Security in the history of security directing, one Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas. The former D-Ferg and L-Troy bodyguard gives Rayne but a single warning glance that puts the 5-Star Champion on immediate pause. Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, the Enimigos are standing nervously in front of Captain Justice and Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liaison to PRIME.

Tyler Rayne stares through the Enimigos, just below Captain Justice, and right at the mastermind standing behind him. He taps himself on the chest and holds up a single index finger. After a point and smile to Mr. Silver, Rayne holds up a big fat zero. Captain Justice takes a powerful, arena shaking step forward, all six Enimigos and Mr. Silver immediately moving to restrain him.

Captain Justice: We’ll finish this in the ring, knave.

The Golden Boy offers a finger in response, but it isn’t the index he’s been using for most of the night. At the silent urging of Mr. Silver, Captain Justice sees his way out of the hall, which is now subject to one more loogey of blood from Tyler Rayne.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: You ain’t gonna make this job easy for me, are ya?

Rayne offers a contrived laugh while wiping some blood from his mouth, still looking back at the spot that Captain Justice has just so recently vacated.

Tyler Rayne: Wouldn’t be much fun if I did, now would it?

Nick: Well, fans... to be honest, we're not sure WHAT to expect here in our next contest.

Richard: The crazy, Nick. We expect the crazy.

Nick: Andreas and Siena van der Wal went to C.P. Cantrell last week and specifically requested this match-up for their charge, but... no one's really sure what's going to happen.

Richard: The crazy, Nick. The crazy is going to happen.

Nick: Let's go to Vince Howard, up in the ring, for the introductions.

Vince Howard lifts the mic -- with his hand, of course. Though he could probably lift it with his cock.

Vince Howard: The following contest is a HANDICAPPED MATCH scheduled for ONE FALL! Introducing first, in the ring to my left! At a total combined weight of three hundred and eighty-three pounds... LOS ENEMIGOS! TRECE Y CATORCE!!!

The two masked luchadores are, unsurprisingly, not very big. One is tall and thin, one is shorter and stouter.

Vince Howard: And their opponent!

It's here that the Korn usually starts, all ripping guitars and thudding drums.

But that doesn't come -- for a moment, nothing does. It's to the point that the referee taps Vince Howard on the shoulder.

Vince Howard: AND THEIR OPPONENT!

Because it might be all about the volume, see.

Richard: How many times do you think they'll announce that before Vin Howard gives up and goes home... with your girlfriend?

Perhaps it worked, because music fills the Conseco Fieldhouse - just not Korn. Let's try some Nine Inch Nails, instead. "StarFuckers, Inc.," to be precise.

My God sits in the back of the limousine
My God comes in a wrapper of cellophane
My God pouts on the cover of the magazines
My God's a shallow little bitch tryin' to make the scene

It's not the former Universal Champion who parts that curtain, either, but rather the two assholes tasked with making sure she doesn't murder any of the roster, Andreas and Siena van der Wal.

I have arrived and this time you should believe the hype
I listened to everyone, now I know everyone was right
I'll be there for you as long as it works for me
I play a game - it's called "insincerity"

The Smiling Serpent and the Auburn-Haired Harpy emerge onto the stage, the latter in a sleeveless turquoise top and pleated khaki shorts and the former in his typical business casual garb - deep red button-down shirt (sleeve rolled up past his elbow) and tan slacks with his trademark tasseled loafers.

StarFuckers!
StarFuckers!
StarFuckers!
StarFuckers, Incorporated!

And someone gave them both microphones; that person should be drawn and quartered.

Andreas: Ladies and gentlemen and hookers of all ages!

Siena: I think they're called "Hoosiers," Andy.

Andreas: That would certainly make more sense, but I do like mine.

Siena: Touché. It's classy.

Andreas: But we digress. Tonight, you were scheduled to bear witness to the return of the legendary former Universal Champion! We thought we'd straightened out her...her...

Siena: Difficulties?

Andreas: Yes. Straightened out her difficulties. We figured you gents in the ring would be screaming in pain right now, honestly.

Siena: We were sort of looking forward to it.

Andreas: Trouble is...she's gone and flown the coop.

Siena: Vanished into thin air. But that's okay. We went to Mr. Cantrell and explained the situation in exhaustive detail.

Andreas: Perhaps too exhaustive. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It is our regret to inform you that tonight's scheduled bout between Cozen and Los Enemigos Trece and Catorce will not be happening.

Nick: What?

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

Andreas: But don't you gents worry. Mr. Cantrell isn't going to pay you for doing nothing. Isn't that right, sister-mine?

Siena: Unfortunately, it is. That would be bad business. Instead, it has been changed to a handicapped match!

Nick: It IS a handicapped match!

Andreas: Joining Cozen tonight will be quite a fearsome new team --

Siena: I would be terrified to face these two.

Andreas: At a total combined weight of three hundred and...would you say "thirty-five"?

Siena: About that. You know I'm no math whiz!

Andreas: Hailing from The Hague and Hong Kong! The team of Andreas! And Siena! Van der Wal!

Nick: They're wrestling?

Richard: Yeah. Know how I know? Because he just said so. Jeez, man - get your ears cleaned out.

The tandem of talkers makes their way down the ramp, side by side. And they - just - keep - talking.

Siena: Now, I'm sure that Chadwick thought we'd be quite upset by his decision.

Andreas: He likely believed we would fear for our safety.

Siena: But let's be honest here. It's not like this is the van der Wals versus the Queen of the (Bo-)Ring.

Andreas: Oh, I see what you did there. But you're right, dear --

Siena: As usual.

Andreas: This is Los Enemigos. The term "Pencil-Dick" was likely invented wholly on a glance at guys like these.

Siena delicately takes Andreas' hand as the Smiling Serpent helps her up the ringsteps.

Siena: I hear that Killean's... thing...is a tad smaller. Because of the steroids.

Andreas: Take care, dearheart. The network is still annoyed by the "cuntbag" line from last week.

She expels a dramatic sigh, stepping slowly between the top and middle ropes.

Siena: Nazis.

Andreas: I know - it's tragic.

He slides under the bottom rope, rolling up to a knee.

Andreas: Now is when we beat up some helpless [bleep]s.

Yeah, the network just bleeped something from PRIME. Think about that.

Nick: If someone doesn't find a way to shut these two up soon, I swear I am going to request some earplugs from C.P. Cantrell.

Siena: Now, Mr. Referee...check Andy and I for foreign objects --

Andreas: Other than the rod I carry in around my pants, of course.

The ref does just that, confiscating the two house mics that the van der Wals have been tormenting us with. Andreas unbuttons his dress shirt, revealing a white wifebeater underneath.

Nick: These two are serious, aren't they? They're going to wrestle Los Enemigos?

Siena puts her hand on the referee's shoulder as he quickly checks her; in that tight wardrobe, she'd find it difficult to hide anything.

He turns to ring the bell --

(SFX: DING-DING-DING!)

Nick: And we're underway here in Indianapolis! We were supposed to see Cozen take on Los Enemigos Thirteen and Fourteen -

Richard: Trece y Catorce!

Nick: But the Faceless Fighter is apparently still feeling the effects of her UltraViolence loss to Devin Shakur.

Richard: Because of Lindsay Troy, don't forget.

Nick: Looks like it'll be Andreas van der Wal to start off, taking on...I think that's Enemigo Catorce.

Richard: How can you tell which one is Trece and which is Catorce?

Nick: They provided us with notes, Rich.

Richard: Like I read any of the papers they give me.

Andreas and the squat half of the Enemigo pair meet in the center of the ring, the Serpent's fists held up in an old-fashioned boxing stance. Enemigo Catorce glances to the side. His partner shrugs broadly; the crowd cheers.

Andreas? He just swings.

Nick: Left hand! Andreas sneaks in a jab! Van der Wal backs Enemigo Catorce into the ropes...Irish whip -- REVERSED by Catorce! Andreas off the ropes --

Richard: Flying tamale!

Nick: BOOM! Standing dropkick from the masked luchador sends Andreas van der Wal careening into the farside ropes!

The blond man comes up to his knees, eyes wide.

Nick: I don't think Andreas knew what he was in for.

The Serpent walks on his knees to his corner, wrapping his arms around his partner's lower extremities.

Richard: It's funny because he's girly!

Nick: And Siena tags herself in!

Richard: To continue the theme, she'll be masculine.

Siena steps through the ropes, sea green eyes locked on the stout little man. Once in the ring, she dances from foot to foot on the balls of her feet.

Nick: Siena van der Wal now...collar-and-elbow tie-up!

Richard: And once again, I am proven to be correct.

Nick: Siena drops down and whips Enemigo Catorce over with an armdrag!

The Harpy pops back to her feet with a triumphant grin, arms wide.

Richard: Okay, it was just an armdrag.

Nick: Now it's Enemigo Catorce on his knees!

That he is, Mr. Stuart. Siena van der Wal reaches out and backhands the kneeling masked man. On one apron, Andreas winces in mock sympathy. On the other, Enemigo Trece stretches a long left arm as far as it will reach, beckoning for a tag.

Nick: Siena steps in, hauls off and --

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Nick: Blocked! Blocked by Catorce! The luchador reaches up, grabbing Siena around the waist and DRIVING a shoulder into the Harpy's midsection!

Across the ring, Andreas van der Wal's brows arch; he clambers into the ring.

Nick: Andreas trying to get into the ring to save his...to save Siena! Referee Roberto LaCassa moves to cut off Andreas and - TAG! Enemigo Catorce tags in Trece!

The taller luchador slingshots into the ring, helping the little guy up to his feet.

Nick: Andreas' overzealous attempts to get into help Siena have LaCassa distracted, allowing Los Enemigos to work over his...to work over Siena!

Catorce pulls the Harpy up, whipping her across the ropes.

Nick: Los Enemigos have Siena set up for some kind of double -- no! Siena van der Wal holds onto the ropes.

Enemigo Catorce never sees it coming -- and not just because those lucha masks cut off a body's peripheral vision. He glances over his shoulder briefly, but by then, Enemigo Trece is already in the air. The lift the luchador gets is impressive, both vertically and horizontally. Trece twists in mid-flight, the side of a bright yellow boot cracking into the side of Catorce's head. The flying butterfly kick is gorgeous, it is breathtaking...

And it's terribly familiar.

Nick: That's...that's the Beautiful Lie! Enemigo Trece just delivered the Beautiful Lie to Enemigo Catorce! Trece off the ropes, launching himself at Enemigo Catorce! Sick Kick! Sick Kick flips Catorce end-over-end down to the mat!

Richard: I think you'd better edit that. I don't think Trece is a dude.

Enemigo Trece slides up to his/her feet, facing off with Siena van der Wal for a moment before collapsing into a heap on the mat.

Richard: Did you see that? Siena just knocked Enemigo Trece out with the power of her mind!

Nick: That's not Trece! You and I both know who that is under the yellow mask!

Richard: Maybe, but is that important?

Nick: Andreas stops trying to get into the ring as his...as Siena rolls Enemigo Catorce over onto his back! LaCassa didn't see any of that!

Siena van der Wal puts a foot on the chest of Enemigo Catorce with a smug smile.

"BOOOOOOO!"

Nick: Are you kidding me? Are you fu--

Richard: Language!

Nick: Roberto drops into position - Catorce hasn't moved since his partner kicked his damn head off!

ONE!

TWO!

Richard: Trece's stirring, Nicky! Maybe he'll make the last minute save!

THREE!

(SFX: DING-DING-DING!)

Richard: Oh, too late!

Vince Howard: Here are your winners - Andreas and Siena van der Wal and the former PRIME Universal Champion... COHHHHHHHHH-ZZZZZZENNNNN(uh)!!!!

Siena leaps into her...whatever he is this week. Which had better be "lover," given the amount of tongue she's slipping him in the brief make-out session, because we're not sure what fX thinks about incest.

Tragically, some traitorous grip gives Andreas a microphone as Siena slides (slooooooowly) down him.

Andreas: Well. That was an exciting workout, wasn't it, pookie?

Siena (for the first and - let's be honest - probably last time in her PRIME career) is silent; she just nods vigorously, pressed up into the side of a Serpent.

Andreas: You all -- and all of you dumbfucks in the back, preparing to get high with a Neanderthal -- had best understand that you have no clue, no earthly comprehension of what it is you're dealing with.

Enemigo Trece has climbed to her feet, hands digging at the back of the bright yellow facemask.

Andreas: You think you've figured out all the answers --

Siena: (almost purring) We'll change the questions.

Andreas: Allow me to introduce to you, the woman who is already without question the PRIME Rookie of the Year. I give you the fastest-rising Universal Champion in this pitiful meatbox's history. I give you a woman who already has --

He mimes cinching in the katahajime, sticking his tongue out to the side.

Andreas: A woman who has made Killean Sirrajin, Chandler Tsonda, and Lindsay Troy take the long, long nap. And soon to be the fastest two-time Universal Champion in this bloody hellhole's pathetic history.

Enemigo Trece (we bet by now you know the score) has unlaced all of the ties holding her mask together, and looks up toward the hard camera, head canted slightly to the side.

Andreas: I give you Cozen!

With a sharp tug, the mask comes off in her hand.

What are you thinking right now -- what does the Faceless Fighter look like? Are you going to gasp? Does she look like dogs have eaten her?

If it was that easy, it wouldn't be Cozen.

If it was that boring, they wouldn't have done it in the middle of the ring.

From the tip of her head (dark black curls that fall to the middle of her back once freed from the yellow mask) to glittering, almost predatory green eyes, a pert nose and a smooth chin... Cozen would be a normal looking woman, were it not for the one pale blue contact lens and the frightening smile.

She's not Lindsay Troy any more, and she's not Freddy Krueger, either.

So who is she?

"Coming Undone" from Korn kicks up as the van der Wals hold the ringropes open for the Faceless Fighter.

Nick: I cannot believe that these three ruined a match with... with Los Enemigos.

Richard: I know! It was great!

Nick: But Cozen is back and... not Trozen, anymore. We'll be back with something... something else, still to come, Captain Justice takes on Tyler Rayne and Chandler Tsonda faces off with the new Intense Champion -- only on ReVolution 162!

Just from the opening moments of ReVolution, the intelligent viewer can tell it’s gonna be an interesting night for Chandler Tsonda. Having just revealed his NIDSV (Number One Devin Shakur Vanquisher) status, and with a main event match against the Intense Champ still to come, it’s a busy night.

But even on a busy night, a guy needs his alone time. With a loud sigh, Tsonda drops his bags and enters his personal locker room. He’s had the A-List box, but the small personal space suits the Model Citizen much better. He can get focused, and rarely are there drunk groupies puking in the corner.

But tonight, there’s something not right. The stock Tsonda locker room has a couple chairs and maybe a coffee table. But there are trappings of someone else here: the carpet looks wet with footprints.

WOOOOOOSH!

The sound of a toilet flushing confirms that there’s a suspicious person in the Viet Viper’s den. Tsonda moves towards the wall adjoining the small personal bathroom, flattening his back against it, fists clenched for whatever evildoer emerges.

Chandler Tsonda: (under his breath) C’mon, you slimy motherfucker…

The door opens.

Tsonda pivots on his left foot, then puts all of his weight behind stiff kick…

…

...that nearly takes off Bryan Dawkins’s head. The only Hawaiian PRIMEate stands, wide-eyed, paper towel in hand.

Chandler Tsonda: Hot fucking Jesus, kid!

Bryan Dawkins: (still shocked) Bruh, I don’t wanna go around makin’ the rules in your locker room...but ya might wanna announce yourself before ya go kicking innocent folks into the crapper.

The Sultan of Style looks unimpressed with Dawkins’s wit. He snorts loudly and turns his back, walking back towards his bag.

Chandler Tsonda: Kid, I know it’s not written in Hawaiian, but I’m pretty sure that the name on the door universally translates into….well, NOT you.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya weren’t here and I had to piss!

…

And what was that about something being written in Hawaiian? Last time I checked, we spoke English down there. You’re the one who might have the language comprehension problem, bruh…ya know, being Vietnamese and all?

Chandler Tsonda: Whatever. Let's return to the massive inappropriate use of my personal lavatory and washroom.

Bryan Dawkins: Aww, don’t be such a grouch, bruh. I just stopped in for a chat, since ya know…ya kinda skipped out on us last week.

Chandler Tsonda: I took a personal day.

Bryan Dawkins: Personal days? We get those? Sick!

The Model Citizen zips open his bag and starts rifling through his things, settling on a white pair of track pants, his preferred ring attire.

Bryan Dawkins: Why ya got women’s clothes in your bag, bruh? Kinda looks like something LT would wear…and by LT, I’m pretty sure I’m not referring to the guy who used to wear blue and white and haunt quarterbacks for a living.

Chandler Tsonda: Those…are what a potential Universal Champion wears to vanquish foes.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m not judging, bruh, but stealing Lindsay Troy’s clothes just ain’t right. I mean I know Rayne’s got…something for her or whatever…but you too?!

Chandler Tsonda: Me, Dawkins. That’s my ring gear.

Bryan Dawkins: Oh. Right.

An awkward beat ensues.

Bryan Dawkins: My mistake, bruh. Just tryin’ to be friendly. I was just checkin’ to see if ya saw me take out that brute Natas. I actually whipped him pretty good at UltraViolence.

Chandler Tsonda: (indifferent) Cool.

Bryan Dawkins: And, ya know, ya kinda helped me challenge him…so I wanted to let ya know that I beat him and got my first win to boot. It’s been a long couple months since I jumped into that Dual Halo, and now here I am, comin’ off of my first big win. Just figured I’d let ya know, bruh.

Chandler Tsonda: Nifty work, kid.

Bryan Dawkins: Thanks, you were pretty good out there against-

Chandler Tsonda: I know, I buried Gamble so deep they’re using seismographs to try and find him. Listen, if there’s no more bullies you have to deal with, could you maybe scram?

The Flyin’ Hawaiian looks miffed. He thought he and Tsonda were just shooting the shit, and never imagined that the effeminate wrestler might think of talking to him as a chore.

Bryan Dawkins: You don’t have to be such a dick, bruh. At the end of the day, it’s all just wrestling. Winning’s a real good thing, but it’s not the only thing. It’s about the fans, bruh. Makin’ them happy. As long as I’m out there puttin’ on a show and puttin’ asses in the seats, I could go 0 for 100 and still be flyin’ high as long as the fans are behind me. Doesn’t that mean anything to ya?

Chandler Tsonda: (scoffs) The cheers are nice, but they don't have a superlative spot in the Hall of Fame for "Friendliest Wrestler".

Bryan Dawkins: Anyway, ya don’t seem like a guy who’s got too many friends. I was just tryin’ to return the favor you did for me, but the only thing you seem to be interested in is bein’ a miserable bastard.

The Model Citizen glances over at Dawkins, but says nothing. With a sigh, Dawkins makes for the door. Tsonda keeps his gaze trained on the youngster and says nothing, like he’s waiting for Dawkins to say something else.

But the Flyin’ Hawaiian just passes through the door, leaving Tsonda in the solitude that he’s been seeking.

Mega Job are already having one of those nights that they feel they could be proud of. By this, we mean that they've already done one interview tonight and they didn't die in the middle of it. Maybe that's like a career achievement or something. We don't know.

What we do know is that El Janito and Beef are standing in the hallway, and they seem to have a conversation going on. Let's listen in.

Beef: So, how about those balls?

You know what? Maybe we shouldn't.

El Janito: They're good.

Beef: They're made of real cheese, you know.

The camera pans down to reveal that they have a large canister of Planters cheeseballs.

Beef: Right. We're done with this joke, then.

Beef tosses the canister over the shoulder. The following sounds are heard: various pots and pans being knocked off a shelf, a trash can being overturned, a cat screech, and the sound of xylophone keys being struck in a melody. Beef and El Janito don't even seem to care about that weird series of events, as they press on.

Beef: We managed to survive one interview with our organs intact.

El Janito: Well, High Flyer got a lot less scary since we last saw him.

Beef: In our defense, he WAS with Craig Miles at the time. Craig Miles might be the only guy we know that's scarier than Steve.

Steve: (off-camera) DEATH.

Beef: Yes. Exactly.

El Janito: I thought we agreed to not mention his name again.

Beef: What, you think he's like Beetlejuice?

El Janito: That if I say his name three times, he'll suddenly appear?

Beef: Yes.

El Janito: God, I hope not. That's the last thing PRIME needs.

Beef: Well, that and another appearance by the Illustrious Face-Eater.

El Janito: Didn't he show up recently?

Beef: No. Of course not.

El Janito: But I swear that h--

Beef: Look, I look at Wade's dog with suspicion every single day, but we all agreed that that never happened. Okay? Nova just gave us all weed and we hallucinated that whole thing. Let's never speak of it EVER again.

El Janito: But...

Beef: EVER.

El Janito: But...

Steve: EVER.

El Janito: Oh, fine.

Beef pauses, absorbing the awkwardness of the situation.

Beef: We need another interview.

El Janito: Wouldn't we be pushing our luck?

Beef: What's the worst that could happen?

Dusk: What the hell?!

He glares at El Janito, Beef, and Steve with this apprehension to them. Dusk moves his jaw around a few times before settling down.

Dusk: This must be a bad dream. A really bad dream. Like, I just stepped into the middle of a new Muppets movie. Muppets in Hell. Muppets in Paris Hilton's vagina.

El Janito and Beef both look at Dusk.

Then El Janito and Beef look at each other. They start "whispering" to each other.

El Janito: Psst. You had to say it, didn't you? You just had to say "what's the worst that can happen"? Now the most least stable guy in the promotion is right here in front of us. I hope you're happy.

Beef: Psst. Come on. Dusk isn't the most least stable guy in the promotion. That would assume that he had stability to begin with. This guy could flip out like a ninja at any moment.

El Janito: Psst. Don't say "ninja". We don't need Tyler Rayne to ever do Behind Colossus with us, ever again.

Beef: Psst. Yeah, but what do we do now?

Dusk: You know, I *can* hear you two.

Beef: Crap! He's on to us!

El Janito: Play it cool, Beef! Play it cool!

Beef turns to Dusk.

Beef: Hi. We're going to shove microphones in your face and interview you for Behind Colossus: Because Anything Less Would Be Looked Down Upon By Repchak. You have no chance to survive, make your time.

Dusk: Well, first off, I resent being called the least stable person in PRIME as well as being told that I have no stability. I have plenty of stability to be quite honest. Just being around crazy people like Tyler Rayne, Lindsay Troy, and Cozen will make you completely lose your mind, you know? I mean, my closest friend here is High Flyer and he doesn't offer that much sanity either.

He puts his hands in his pockets before rocking back and forth on his feet.

Dusk: But, if you're going to stick microphones in my face, then that's fine. I'm gonna try and be nice, shake of this illusion that I'm completely off my rocker. So shoot, ask me questions.

Beef, confused, turns to El Janito.

Beef: Psst. What's a Cozen?

El Janito: I think that Rayne guy said it was some sort of venereal disease.

Beef: I thought he clearly said "vanareal".

El Janito: That's not even a real word.

Beef and El Janito look at each other and nod. Then El Janito pokes his microphone in Dusk's face.

El Janito: Mr. Dusk! Clearly, you are among the many who know what this "Colossus" thing is all about, right?

The look on Dusk's face gives it all away as he clearly wants to tackle the Cozen subject, but keeps his lips shut.

Dusk: I guess you could say that. I was part of the triple main-event last year as I went up against Pierce Lavelle, Jonathan Winters, and our current esteemed Universal Champion, who also at one time doubled as the lead member of Rites of Spring. One of the most intense nights of my career. One that I'll never forget and one that I look forward to experiencing once again this year at Colossus V.

If this had been any other interviewee, El Janito might have reminded Dusk that he lost that night. However, because Mega Job already view Dusk as "unstable", it's likely he didn't chance it for fear of being superkicked to oblivion and back.

El Janito: Yes. So, are the rumors true that you will face a celebrity opponent at Colossus V?

Dusk seems... confused.

El Janito: Yes. You, Dusk, going one-on-one against JAY LENO. His chin is invulnerable to all means of Earth weaponry, after all. That includes superkicks! (horrible Gene Hackman impression) What will you do? WHAT... WILL YOU DO?

Dusk: First of all, you're fuckin' nuts. Second of all, if I ever faced Jay Leno one on one, I'd kick him in his balls--, wait, that won't work, now will it? Maybe if I attacked him with a few of his bad jokes then maybe, just MAYBE that'll be enough to stop him. But, that chin could balance him on his feet even if he was knocked ou--

Then, he realizes what he's talking about.

Dusk: What the hell?! You have me talking about Jay Leno and fighting him?! That's beyond absurd. I'm not facing him at Colossus V. Hell, I'm not certain who I'm facing quite yet, but I can promise you this. I'll give you one show that you won't ever forget.

El Janito: Unless, of course, we happen to miss it.

Beef: We, really, could be fired at any time.

El Janito: And we can't afford pay-per-view.

Beef: We're not even sure how we can afford our rent.

El Janito: I thought Beefville just *gave* us the Job Studio.

Beef: No. We've been squatting.

El Janito: Seriously?

Beef: Yup. You'd also think that Beefville would notice the rash of thefts that convieniently coincide with our new studio set.

El Janito: Ssh.

They turn back to Dusk.

El Janito: Anyway. So you claim that you aren't facing Jay Leno. But think of the buyrates, Dusk. Ceeps could be thinking about it. You can't deny the possibility.

Beef: Or, maybe you'd be facing Johnny Knoxville.

El Janito: How will you deal with a guy who would WILLINGLY set his balls on fire?

Beef: Just so you know, getting a some guys to stomp his balls repeatedly in order to put out the fire might not be an answer that anyone other than crazy British guys would think of.

El Janito: Present.

Beef: You're not a guy.

Dusk: I can't believe I got sucked into an amateur version of improv comedy at the corner store. If you two are done talking about re-enacting Rent on the PRIME stage for a moment.

He looks at Beef and Janito with this menacing look.

Dusk: Cantrell can think about buyrates all that he wants. PRIME was making money before he came in and they're still doing the same thing. His ideas aren't anything revolutionary and putting Jay Leno back in the ring reeks of WCW 1998 all over again. And we all saw how that ended. Cantrell seems intent on changing the things that work in PRIME and at first, people will be open to it, but then they'll see that he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. This isn't what he's suited for and you don't mess with the best. And you don't piss those off who have helped secure this promotion.

Beef turned to El Janito and "whispered" to him.

Beef: Psst. I told you he was unstable.

El Janito: (actually whispering) Now's not the time to yell that in my ear. (to Dusk) So, you're denying that you may face Johnny Knoxville?

Dusk: YES!

El Janito: Hm. Okay, but don't be surprised if you're attacked in the parking lot by a screaming man with a jousting stick while riding a shopping cart like a horse.

Beef: Dude. That's how we filmed "A Knight's Tale 2: More Anachronistic Than The HIT".

El Janito: Shush. (to Dusk) Do you have any further comments you want to say about Colossus? Since, you know, that's the point of these little interviews? Even though some people think they're just filler. Jerks.

Dusk: It's where legends are made.

Dusk takes a deep breath in.

Dusk: It's where legends are made.

Beef looks around. He wonders for a second if Dusk had turned into Mr. Kennedy, but since he didn't repeat his name twice, he just shrugs and claps his hands.

Beef: And, that's a wrap. If you don't mind, we're leaving now. We don't want you to flip out and superkick us to death. Well, okay, when I say "us", I mean "me". Janito's life is forfeit. Isn't that right, El Janito?

Beef turns to see that Janito is no longer there, replaced by a cardboard cutout of himself instead. Beef pauses, thinks about it, and then flees from the scene... leaving Dusk alone.

Steve: DEATH.

Well, alone with Steve, anyway.

Dusk: And they call me crazy.

Dusk then walks away as well, leaving Steve there all by himself.

Steve shrugs, and waddles off to join his larger and much stupider compatriots.

The lid of a silver lighter flicks back, and its flame lights the tip of a Marlboro cigarette glowing orange. Resting back against the wall beside the wrestlers entrance, Jason Natas snaps the lid back over with a metallic ‘chink’, before blowing a thin plume of smoke out into the Indianapolis evening.

Closing his eyes, the Anti-Superstar inhales another tarry lungful, seemingly relishing a few moments with only the sound of the traffic rush to bother him.

And it is only a few moments.

Beside him, the door to the wrestlers entrance opens, its long corridor shining a torch-beam of light out into the night. He thinks to himself he should have wedged a crowbar through the handles to buy himself at least five minutes away from the preening, posing and posturing.

"Jason…"

Huffing his lungful of smoke out his snarling nostrils, Jason already has an idea what the voice that shatters the relaxing hum of the traffic wants.

Natas: I already told ya, only flammable things around this cig are me and the guy telling‘ me to put it out, so if ya leave me be, we ain’t got a fire hazard… get me?

He flicks the ash off the cherry of his Marlboro towards the door, where he expects the usual overly-fussy PRIME official to come out and try to nanny him. To his relief, Jason doesn’t seen the new red polo shirts that indicate the officials.

We’ll see how long that that relief lasts.

Natas: Oh, you can just walk the other way, too.

Not very long, then.

Wanting to inhale a refreshing breath of crisp evening air, only to be treated to a smoky aftertaste, is the man recently revealed to be wrestling’s only (thankfully) Scientologist… Gold Patron Meritorious Xavier Kannon.

Following him, for all of two seconds, is Ellie.

Eleanor: Yeah, smoke and mink don’t mix without a good dry-cleaner. See you back inside, sweetie.

As the door swings shut behind XK, he hops down off the step and strolls over to Natas, who tells him to keep his distance by jabbing a plume of smoke his way. Even a distance apart, the contrast between the two men couldn’t be any more stark.

Kannon is decked out in a sharp suit that’s tailored to every last millimeter of his body, his shoes are shiny enough to blind passing traffic, his face given a shave so close that Sweeny Todd would be after hints, and his mane of dyed, vivid red hair screams for attention like a siren as the light catches it.

Natas chooses a vest which displays two sleeves of tattoos and looks like it could have been stolen from a homeless guy (after Jason kicked him to death), his jeans are faded through wear and tear rather than fashion, his face sports stubble that could sand the bark off a tree, and tufts of dirty blonde hair stick out from underneath a tatty brown bandana.

Kannon: Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine aren’t you, Jase.

Being smarmy to it works about as well as being nice to it.

Natas: If you mean that I’ll set’cha on fire if you get to close to me then, yeah, guess I am, Red. Now say what’cha want so I can enjoy my next one o’these in peace.

Going to take another step towards the scrappy New Yorker, Kannon sees it in his shadowed eyes that any further intrusion into his expansive personal space won’t be tolerated.

Kannon: Alright, alright. Now, I know how this business can be. You’re a new, up-and-comer in the biggest wrestling promotion in the world and so far, well, that cancer-stick there hanging from your lip is the only thing you’ve set alight.

Balling his fists, Natas spits the cigarette down at his feet.

Kannon: Now, don’t take that the wrong way, Jase. You’ve been plunged in at the deep end. It can be a lot for a mind to cope with, and with all the pollutants you inflict on your system its no wonder you’ve been lost in the shuffle like the marked card during a Magician’s trick.

Pursing his lips, Natas scrubs his finger-prints off as he rubs his chin.

Natas: This better have a point, otherwise I might have to leave a size fourteen imprint on that pretty lil’ face of yours.

Kannon: I like you. I really do, Jase. Which is why I want to help you. I think that with a clean mind, not blighted by this misdirected rage and what I’m going to guess are father issues and insecurities prompting extreme social withdrawal, that you could turn the corner here in PRIME. Last week showed there are wins in you. Now, I’m having a little ceremony later tonight to celebrate my own salvation, maybe you might like to come have a seat at ringside, see if there’s anything that’d said which hits home with you.

He spreads his arms, an open gesture to try and foster trust.

Kannon: What do you say?

Reaching under his bandana, Natas plucks a second Marlboro from behind his ear and plants it between his lips.

Natas: What do I say?

The Anti-Superstar flicks his lighter open and ignites the tip of the cigarette. He takes another long, satisfying drag on the Marlboro before opening his mouth slightly, allowing the smoke to slowly drift out between his lips.

Natas: I say a hell of a lot less shit than you do. Now, you got ten seconds to head back through that door and go worship whatever little green men Tom Cruise has a hard-on for this week. After that, I start takin’ teeth for my time.

Holding his hands up, Kannon makes a wise retreat.

Kannon: Okay, okay, I know where I’m not wanted. Just remember that I offered you this, down the road, when you’re face down in the gutter, a broken man, coughing up a lungful of blood and trying to remember just who you are.

Flicking his lighter back open, Natas watches the Gold Patron Meritorious retreat to the door.

Natas: That was Sunday morning.

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

A crunchy guitar riff begins to play over the PA system as "Hail Destroyer" by Cancer Bats hits, the lights inside the arena flashing in time with the rhythm.

"TEAR US DOWN!"

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Eventually the lights return to their normal state as the drumbeat kicks in. Jason Natas steps from the back, refusing to acknowledge the crowd’s negative reaction. He begins to walk down to the ring at a steady pace, flexing his neck and arm muscles whilst keeping both eyes focused on the ring before him.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 254 pounds and standing at 6 feet 4 inches tall, he is the ANTI-SUPERSTAR… JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASOOOOOOOOOOOOON! NAAAAAAAATAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!

The Anti-Superstar eventually reaches the bottom of the ramp and climbs up the ringside steps. He steps onto the apron and slips into the ring between the top two ropes as he continues to make his final preparations for the impending battle.

Richard: These fans need to learn how to show someone like Jason Natas some respect! It’s disgusting to hear them booing him as he walks out here! No class, Nick, no class!

Nick: Well, the fans just don’t like him, Richard. Plain and simple.

Richard: Natas is coming off a huge victory last week when he teamed up with Torres Wilson as they defeated DUI. Major victory for him and tonight, he has a chance to become a superstar when he defeats the Lost Soul himself, Dusk!

Nick: Dusk is coming off two straight losses against Troy Douglas and Logic at UltraViolence and last week’s ReVolution respectively. You have to imagine that Dusk is looking to get back into the win column this week and continue his march towards Colossus V.

Richard: Yeah, if he can keep his mind focused, and not centered on Cozen.

Nick: Richard, your mind is always focused on Cozen.

Richard: Yeah it is… Mmmm…

Nick: Gross.

Vince Howard: Introducing his opponent…

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

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

With the opening lines of Kanye West’s "Stronger" ringing throughout the arena, from the back comes the "Lost Soul" himself wearing his trademark trench coat and blue jeans with a pair of boots on his feet. He glares down the ramp at the waiting Jason Natas as Dusk snarls, fired up for this match. He then explodes down the ramp and slides into the ring!

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 250 pounds and standing at 6 feet 4 inches tall… he is the LOST SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUL! DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSK!

Nick: And Natas’ opponent for the night looks pumped and ready to go.

Richard: He looks like that each and every week, Nick, and then he follows that up by getting dropped on his head or being distracted before he’s pinned. So, if Natas goes down that path, I think he’ll end up being just alright.

Nick: I’m thinking that after that pep-talk from Nova earlier in the show, that Dusk will be just fine. Might be able to get his head back into the game and get his victory since defeating Wade Elliott to retain his Intense Title.

Richard: Except that Natas is probably going to rip Dusk’s eyes out of his head. He looks like he could do it.

Nick: I’m sure that’s something that greatly excites you, Richard.

Richard: You honestly have no idea, do you?

Nick: I try not to.

Dusk stands across the ring from his opponent as he sheds his trench coat and throws it out of the ring, his eyes never moving from Natas. He circles around the ring and Natas keeps his distance from him.

DING! DING! DING!

With the sounding of the bell, the two immediately lock up in the center of the ring with a collar-and-elbow tie-up! The crowd behind them chants Dusk’s name as they jockey for position with the slightly larger Natas getting the early advantage as he puts Dusk into a side headlock! Dusk is quick to think though as he wraps his arms around Jason’s waist and pulls him up and slams him to the ground with a side slam! Natas hits the mat hard, but is right back up to his feet as Dusk connects with a fist to the jaw that stuns the Anti-Superstar! Natas retaliates with a knee to the midsection that sends all of the air out of Dusk’s lungs before connecting with an uppercut that causes the former Intense Champion to stumble back a few inches before he’s mowed down with a clothesline from Jason!

Richard: And just like that, Dusk’s on his back while Jason Natas is in complete control of the match.

Nick: An impressive display to begin here from the recently-signed competitor. He’s bringing his grit to this match and hopes to get a victory over one of the big players in PRIME.

Richard: If we’re considering Dusk a big player around here then we all need some help.

Nick: Can’t deny what he’s done so far, Richard.

Richard: Just you watch!

As Dusk begins to get back to his feet, Natas walks over to him and slams his elbow into his upper back! Dusk cringes from the pain as Jason helps him up to his feet before whipping him off the ropes and connecting with an elbow to Dusk’s throat! Dusk goes down to the mat as Natas gets on top of him and begins wailing away with a succession of hard-hitting fists to Dusk’s jaw! The Lost Soul does his best to cover up, but the raw power from Natas allows him to get his shots in easily! Dusk rolls away from Natas as he gets off of him, but he doesn’t stay away for too long as Natas slams his knee into the back of Dusk! He then bounces off the ropes and connects with an elbow rope to the small of Dusk’s back, causing even more pain for the Lost Soul.

Nick: And it’s not looking good for Dusk here as Natas continues to keep the intensity up here and is just controlling the match at this point.

Richard: Word to the wise for Dusk, if you want to win this match, you’re going to have to fight back eventually.

Nick: Good job of stating the obvious there.

Richard: Anytime.

Natas grabs Dusk by the back of the head and pulls him up to his feet once again. He pushes the dazed Dusk into the corner before slamming his forearm into his face, rocking Dusk’s world even more. He then nails Dusk with a hip toss out of the corner and Dusk lands hard on his back. Natas walks up to Dusk before kicking him in the face repeatedly, each kick stronger then the last, until Dusk has rolled away from Natas and is grabbing the bottom rope to break the encounter with Natas! Dusk uses the ropes to start pulling himself up, but Natas is ready for him as he slams his foot into Dusk’s gut! The former Intense Champion doubles over in pain while still holding onto the top rope! Natas then bounces off the ropes and goes to clothesline Dusk over the top rope, but the Lost Soul is ready for him as he manages to dip his shoulder just enough to send Natas over the top rope! However, Natas manages to land on his feet on the ring apron!

Richard: Impressive agility from Natas!

Nick: And Dusk is going to have to act fast if he hopes to get Natas on his back!

Dusk turns around and narrowly dodges a jab from Natas! He then slams his elbow into Natas throat, stunning the Anti-Superstar! He slams his fist into Jason’s face, hoping to send him crashing to the floor, but to no use as Natas holds onto that top rope before firing off a shot of his own to Dusk’s face! The former Intense Champion stumbles backwards from the impact before firing off another jab to the jaw of Natas and quickly follows that up with another one! Noticing that Natas is a little stunned and slow to react, Dusk bounces off the ropes at full speed before hopping onto the top rope and jumps in the air again while wrapping his legs around Natas’s neck and nailing him with a headscissors that sends both competitors flying to the outside!

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

Nick: And an impressive aerial maneuver from the Lost Soul, a trademark of his style as he’s reckless and not afraid to put his body on the line to take an opponent out!

Richard: Something that should attribute to his soon death in the ring, I imagine. I can’t wait for that day.

Nick: You’re rather morbid considering this is a man that has earned his following by being creative and agile, and not afraid to try something new!

Richard: Nick, I don’t think you understand it. I don’t like him!

Nick: Oh, really? You don’t say!

Outside of the ring, Dusk is the first to get up as he begins to slam his boot into Jason’s chest, wanting to extract as much damage as Natas had done to him from the start of this match! You can see the wear and tear on Dusk’s face as he picks up the intensity before grabbing Natas by the neck and dragging him to his feet before nailing him with an uppercut! Natas clutches his jaw before Dusk kicks him in the midsection and plants him with a piledriver! Dusk slowly gets to his feet as Natas is grabbing his neck in pain! He shows no remorse though as he slams his boot into Jason’s face again before pulling him up off the mat and whips him into the edge of the ring backfirst!

Richard: Okay, come on Natas! Wade through this adrenaline rush from him, and then let him have it! You’ve got him right where you want him!

Nick: Does he have him on the mat and is about to get a three count?

Richard: …No.

Nick: Then, I’m certain that Natas doesn’t have him right where he wants him.

Richard: Touche.

Dusk slams his forearm into Jason’s face with a certain intensity to it that’s been missing from this match! He grabs Natas arm and goes to whip him into the barrier, but Jason manages to reverse it and sends Dusk flying into it back first! Dusk winces from the pain as Natas walks up to him only to be met with a jab from the Lost Soul! Still in pain though, Dusk grabs the back of Jason’s neck and rolls him into the ring! Dusk is slow to follow him and as a result to that, Natas is already back up to his feet and as Dusk re-enters the ring, he begins stomping away at him. Dusk continues to fight to his feet though, but Natas is vicious in his attack as he starts nailing him with jabs before sending him to the ground with a fallaway slam!

Richard: And that’s what I’m talking about, right there! Natas enforcing his will on Dusk! It’s only a matter of time before it’s all said and done, Nick!

Nick: We’ll have to see about that, Richard. Dusk isn’t done quite yet, I can guarantee you that.

Richard: It’s coming very soon, Nick, I have a feeling about that.

Nick: You’ve watched Dusk for the past year and a half and you still discount him?

Richard: Every day of my life, Nick!

Dusk scrambles to his feet and as he turns towards Natas, he narrowly misses a big boot to the face from Natas! Jason turns around only to be met with a drop kick from Dusk! He goes down quickly and is able to get back to his feet just as fast as he nails Dusk with a jab to the face! Dusk is stunned by the move as he stumbles into the ropes as Natas turns him around and nails him with a full nelson slam! With the Lost Soul looking down and out for the count, he goes for the cover!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: UGH! I felt that one!

Nick: Yet, Dusk is still not done here, folks! He’s got something left in that tank.

Richard: Yeah, fumes.

Natas glares at the referee before turning his attention back to Dusk and urging him to get to his feet. Slowly, the former Intense Champion fights to his feet and as he does, he’s met with a flurry of jabs from Natas that’s followed up with a haymaker! Dusk looks done for as Natas wraps his arm around Dusk’s neck and looks to be going for the New York Minute! He goes for his finishing maneuver, but Dusk manages to block it to the excitement of the crowd before connecting a bridging Northern Lights Suplex on his opponent! The referee is quick to his position as he begins to count away!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

TH—NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: And Dusk almost got the victory right then and there!

Richard: Come on Jason, this is your time to shine! DO IT!

Both competitors are back up to their feet quickly, but Dusk goes down first as he’s sent to the ground with a clothesline! He’s not down for long though as Natas drags him to his feet and nails him with a few more jabs before he bounces off the ropes! Yet, as he reaches Dusk, the Lost Soul surprises him with a spinebuster that sends Natas crashing into the mat HARD!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick: Dusk with the Broken Glass right there and he has changed the entire direction of this match!

Richard: Come on Natas, don’t let me down!

Dusk slowly gets up, exhausted from the beating he’s taken thus far as he tries to get his energy back underneath him. Behind him, Natas is slowly getting to his feet as Dusk is resting on the top rope, his head towards the ground as he’s breathing hard! Natas finally gets to his feet and begins walking over to Dusk, but as he does, the Lost Soul explodes out of the corner with a superkick to Jason’s jaw!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick: LIGHTS OUT! Out of nowhere!

Richard: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

With Natas knocked out on the mat, Dusk drops down and goes for the cover!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner… DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSK!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick: And Dusk has pulled off the much needed victory over Natas here tonight to get back on the right path!

Richard: Lucky victory.

Nick: Yeah, yeah, Richard! Dusk has something to be proud of here tonight and I’m sure he won’t let you ruin his victory tonight!

As Dusk gets up to his feet and has his hand risen by the referee, he points to the fans and then taps his heart. Another victory for the fans.

VIP Suite, Canseco Fieldhouse, right around Posterboy vs. Wilson…

The panning shot around the suite gives the viewers a sense of its elegance, and a level of class that belies the fundamental boorishness and crudity of any party organized by Nova where alcohol is involved (read: any party organized by Nova). There is a smattering of tables across the expanse of the conference hall, delicately clothed in white with wine glasses and felicitous table settings. Behind the long cherrywood bar several men and women clad in white stack glasses and prepare liquors for the metaphorical Norman Conquest upon their United Alcoholic Kingdom.

In the corner of the room, a gathering of white-frocked caterers surround the former Universal Champion and "Reason fo’ da Season" as a cloud of smoke floats lazily overhead. Nova takes a few pulls off the joint between his fingers, and rests his hand on his knee, a classic position for the man who is, if nothing else, a storyteller.

Nova: So there I was. Three minutes into a keg-stand, and finally I’m wagglin’ my legs because I’m certain I’ve just set a record that will last all night. Now remember, this is light beer. I can go all day long, sun-up to sun-down. If we were talking about Killian’s or something, after about a minute, minute-and-a-half I’ve reached the literal slosh capacity of my stomach, but that wasn’t the case here. So I turn to my man Pablo Boner and his skin’s radiating beams of light and his hair is green and shimmering like a prairie breeze over a grassy hill, and I say, "Fuck, Boner, that wasn’t just any old keg of Natty Light, now was it?" And that’s when the Bone Man decided to tell me there was a sheet of acid INSIDE the keg.

Caterer #1: Are you serious?

Nova: As a heart attack. Don’t ask me how it got there. I never found that out. Somebody had a friend in the keg-pressurizing department, I don’t know, I’m not a golfer. Point is, Boner and I were the only people at this little soiree who spoke any English, and more importantly, DIDN’T speak Croatian. I had consumed an immeasurable amount of LSD on top of a bellyful of god-awful brew. You want a language barrier? There it is.

Caterer #2: Wow. Can I hit that?

Nova: (Handing him the joint) Do it up, Tommy Chong, but if you get too lit and start fucking up Sonny’s dirty martinis, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to stop him from kicking you in the face. Dude may be 37, and may look 51, but you don’t want him to kick you in the face. So anyways, the most amazing thing happened about 5-10 minutes later. I realized I was fluent in Croatian. Now, I’ve had Boner tell me after the fact that I didn’t make a lick ‘a sense the whole night to anybody, but I swear to you all here and now, I connected with people, on a linguistic – but also spiritual – level…best proof of that was this chick who could suck a Boeing Jumbo Jet through the Lincoln Tun-

The Risen Star looks up from his reverie at the sound of double doors being pushed open, and grins widely as the "Queen of the Ring" Lindsay Troy and the "Big Dog" Wade Elliott stroll into the suite.

Nova: We’ll have to continue this story later. Make yourselves useful.

Nova pulls himself out of the chair, waving off the caterer’s attempt to return his joint, and walks over to his friends. Troy leans in and takes a sniff of his clothes, cocking an eyebrow as she stares him in the cloudy red eye-balls.

Lindsay Troy: Really?

Nova: (Grinning) Really. (Turning to Elliott) Wadey L! Long time! Hangin’ in there?

Wade Elliott: Livin’ the dream, friend. How you doin,’ Nov?

The Risen Star gestures around.

Nova: I got some of my best friends showing up to a party in celebration of a brand new PRIME wrestling contract, and my day job is NFW World Heavyweight Champion. I feel better than fuckin’ EVER.

Lindsay Troy: Could have sworn that was because you reek of weed.

Nova turns to Wade, jerking a thumb at the Queen.

Nova: Is she tryin’ to bring the Sour Puss Parade into MY re-signing party?

Wade Elliott: It’d appear that way.

Lindsay Troy: (Cracking a smile) Alright, alright. Congrats, by the way.

Nova: Thank you, by the way. (Without looking away) BARKEEP! Knob Creek on the rocks, and a Rum ‘n Coke – easy on the Coke! Come in, stay for a while.

Just then, the party receives three intruders. They consist of two guys and one midget, and are very clearly Mega Job. Beef and El Janito approach Nova, while Steve immediately grabs a stepladder so that he might be able to reach the table where the food is.

Beef: Hello, Nova! We have come from another world to steal some of your food and film this party. For prosperity, you see.

El Janito: I just want to mention that this camera weighs a ton. How come we make Steve carry it all the time?

Beef: Because he's not a wuss like you.

Nova: Filming for posterity? Generally a bad idea with me, but why not? You guys need a couple of drinks?

Beef & El Janito: REALLY?!!

Nova: Hellz yeah. BARKE-UMMMPH!!

Troy quickly cups a hand over Nova’s mouth.

Lindsay Troy: That’s actually a really…bad idea.

Beef: No it’s not!

El Janito: It’s probably the best idea either of us has ever heard.

Beef: And we’ve heard some doozies!

Nova: (Pulling her hand away) Oh?

Steve: MISTAKE.

Beef: Dammit, Steve, don't blow this for us!

Lindsay Troy: Let’s just say for the sake of American diplomacy, it’s a good idea Yugoslavia doesn’t exist as a country anymore…because a mob of its citizens in the countryside might still collectively recall running two obnoxious Americans out of their town with torches and pitchforks.

Nova: Oh. YO BARKEEP! NO SERVING THESE GUYS! YEAH, JUST THE DUDE RUINING THE ORNAMENTAL FOOD DISPLAY!

Beef’s shoulders slump in defeat, and Janito emits a high whining sigh before trudge off together towards the food table where Steve is a whirlwind of balancing hors d’oeuvres plates. Outside the suite in the corridor, the PRIME Tag Team Champions and potentially copyright-infringing Team VIAGRA (*Waves stick* Back, lawyer scum!) approach the main entrance doors.

Tony Davis: This is gonna be fun!

High Flyer: Yeeeeeah. Yeah, it is. For me.

Tony Davis: ?

High Flyer: I thought you might do the question mark thing. I’m gonna need you to stay out here and wait for me.

Tony Davis: But…but we BOTH were invited.

High Flyer: Yeah, that’s true. But it’s kinda like college…they send out a WHOLE bunch of acceptance letters assuming that not every kid is gonna come to their school, and then they have to build a new dorm or house people in apartments when more people sign on than they expected. Plus it’s crowded and smoky in there, and I know how you hate that. You haven’t been to a concert in ages.

Tony Davis: I don’t know what you’re talking about. And there’s barely anyone in there, I don’t hear a thing.

Davis presses his ear against the door to confirm that the party is not yet raging, and when he pulls his head away, Flyer is gone, somehow having managed to slip inside. Tony sighs loudly, shoving his hands in his pockets. A staffer passes, wheeling a cart stacked with black boxes.

Tony Davis: How’s it going?

The staffer spares Tony a glance, and silently continues on their way. Tony nods slowly.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!"

Inside the suite, Nova turns his head away from Troy as he sees High Flyer approach. The Queen of the Ring groans.

Lindsay Troy: (Jingling the cubes in her glass) What an ideal time to be empty. I’m going for a refill.

Wade Elliott: Same here.

Nova strolls over to the approaching Flyer, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back.

Nova: Hey, Jackie! Long time no see!

High Flyer: And how. I believe the last time I saw you, we were on the NFW Wrestlestock Tour Bus in the fall of ’06, and you had set an empty beer box on top of Sheffield’s head in order to blow shotguns through it and get him high in his sleep.

Nova: Talk about a roundabout method of questioning to see if it worked.

High Flyer: Anyhoo, I’m here for the party. Something in the memo about shots?

Nova: (Nodding) I’m friggin’ impressed. Don’t you still have a match tonight?

High Flyer: One or two won’t kill me.

Nova: Let’s belly up to the bar, then.

The Risen Star and the Neighborhood Lunatic walk over to the bar and pull up a couple of stools.

Nova: Two shots of your fin-

The sound of doors being flung open distracts them. The boys of Delta Upsilon Iota roll in, with Colby Korver leading the charge.

Colby Kolver: Did I smell shots? JAGERBOMBS!!!

Bystander: Isn’t your locker room on the other side of the building?

Hank Cobb: I reckon it is.

Bystander: Okay then.

Nova raises his shot of tequila to Flyer’s, they trumpet the obligatory mutual cheer "Proust!," and knock ‘em back. Nova turns to see Colby literally cartwheeling towards the bar.

Korver: Fill it up again!!! Who's with me?!?

Nova: (Jerking thumbs towards his chest) This guy.

High Flyer: One for the road.

Cobb: Slow down, Korv. Every time you head straight for liquor…

Nova: …he gets drunk and has a great time? BARKEEP! Another round, and let’s double that order!

Hank Cobb: *Sigh* Yup, that sounds about right.

Korver: Take it easy, big fella. What has two thumbs, an off night and an open bar?

Nova: I like this kid.

Beef: Oooh! OOOH!!

The Mega-Jobber’s grunts turn heads as the Codemaster strolls into the party, Godot mask and a smirk on his face. Beef, El Janito, and Steve surround him with camera equipment.

Beef: Sir, might you offer a comment on your opinion of this gathering for the will-be historic documentary of said proceedings?

A microphone is shoved into the Codemaster’s face…as always, a HUGE mistake.

Codemaster: BROTHERS! SISTERS! (looks right at Hank Cobb) BIZARRE MUTANT HYBRIDS!

He puts his hand on his chin as eyes fall on him.

Codemaster: Ha...! A party just isn't a party without two things involved, brothers. One is me... the Blackest Brother in the Hyrule Kingdom, the Breaker of Kingdom Hearts, the King of Kirby, the Prince of Persia, the Tethe'allan Rattlesnake... the one... the only... Codemaster.

Suddenly, a coffee mug is in his hand. God only knows where he got it. He takes a sip of whatever's inside, and he smugly smirks.

Codemaster: The other is something etched in the stones of the Score. And sure, the Score of Yulia might control the lives of everyone and cause wars and chaos for the common man, while Replicas run rampant and eat up the world's Fonons like Pac Man eats pellets, but it is important to know that it's frickin' right in the case that the only thing you need for a party... is Mario.

Suddenly, a guy wearing Mario clothing appears behind the Codemaster.

Mario: IT'S A-ME! MARIO!

Everyone who is drinking slowly looks at their beer, wondering if Nova spiked it with acid or something.

Codemaster: And that, brothers, is what a party is all about.

He raises his hand.

Codemaster: Now where is the booze?

Nova: BIG AL! Get your ass over here! BARKEEP! ROOOOOOUND THREE~!!!

High Flyer: Whew, I gotta bow out. Got an appointment in the squared circle before too long, and this tequila is calling my name in a dangerous "Fuck the match, let’s stay here" kind of way. That, and Tony’s probably still standing out in the hallway.

Nova: Fair enough! A respectable competitor and doting partner is Jack Harmen! Allen, take his chair! Colby, you game?

Colby Korver: I was born for this.

Nova: How about you, Devin Shakur?

Everyone leaps backwards out of their chairs several feet, eyes bugging out to that point where the veins are highly visible connecting their dinner-plate eyeballs to the black sockets in their heads. Then things return to normal. Really the point is they didn’t see Shakur standing right next to them for the past…I dunno, creepy number of minutes.

Devin Shakur: I’m not actually Devin Shakur.

Nova: That’s weird. You look like he looks, you dress like he dresses, you sound like he sounds, and your belt says "DEVIN SHAKUR – THE REAL THING" on it in sequins. That’s one hell of a coincidence.

Devin Shakur (?): Yeah, I’m just an impersonator. See, a while back Mr. Shakur and Mr. Rayne hired a Nova impersonator for a segment where they rapped about dinosaurs and "rollin’ bones."

Wade Elliott: (Shouting down the bar) Yeah, ReVolution 150. Good show.

Devin Shakur (?): Yes, it was. Well, turns out the legal ramifications of that were staggering. So to offset your potential to sue his jet-black pants off, Mr. Shakur hired me to impersonate him in your seg-errr, party.

Nova: Sounds like a shit-job.

Devin Shakur (?): That’s why I’m at the bar.

Nova: Welcome. (Looking past Codemaster) And what’s the story with you two goobers?

Two young men stand off to the side, dressed in khakis and pastel collared shirts. They’re obviously uncomfortable.

Collar #1: We’re, um, interns for Chandler Tsonda.

Nova: Oh, WHAT, Chanwich is too busy fondling boy scouts and acolytes to come to MY re-signing party?!! After all the…ummm…actually, terrible things I used to say about him…BARKEEEEEEEEP! MAS!!

Collar #2: Yeah. Mr. Tsonda is unfortunately very busy tonight, but he sends us along with the message that he’s glad you’re back and hopes you won’t pull a "Danny Ferguson" and steal his spotlight.

Nova: Duly noted. Now pull up a barstool.

Collar #1: We don’t drink.

Nova: Ummmm…you’re interns, so you do whatever the fuck anyone with a contract around here tells you to do. I don’t know what kind of pussy-footing operation Tsondle’s been running, but I know that one of MY interns once robbed a bank BECAUSE I PUT THAT SHIT ON THE FUCKING CALENDAR.

Moment of silence.

Nova: Just kidding. (Collars: Whew!) It was a corner store. Now take a fucking seat. BARKIZZEEEEP! TWO EXTRA!

Codemaster: (idly, to Hank Cobb) Personally, I just made my interns fight each other in Mortal Kombat.

"True story about the corner store. I was there."

At the familiar (God, SO familiar) voice, Nova spins around in his barstool and cries out happily.

Nova: SONNY! There’s my guy!

The Risen Star springs out of his stool and embraces Sonny Silver in one of those "Getting’ a little too turpsy for handshakes" hugs.

Silver: Any of you other FUCKS take so much as a letter off my honored executive title and there will be kicks to the face. (To Nova) Did you explain the kicks to the face to the catering staff?

Nova: Loud ‘n clear. Wanna have a drink? And by "drink" I mean shot of tequila?

Silver: I, sir, would LOVE to!

Magically (because we can do that, it’s his party!) two shot glasses slide across the table nearest Silver and Nova and a bottle of Patron rests comfortably between them. Silver laughs like a kid getting a new PS3 for Christmas.

Silver: C, you truly are a man after my own heart!

Nova: The best for the best, my friend… Eep.

As Nova utters the one jittery syllable, he spies none other than Lindsay making her way into the fray, surfing through the crowd of wrestlers. He quickly turns to Sonny, watching her fight through the sea of party-goers menacingly.

Nova: Uh… Sonny, let it…

Sonny extends a hand to prevent Nova from spouting another word as Lindsay Troy walks up, not taking her eyes off Sonny throughout the entire exchange. Sweating like Michael Jackson at a kid’s playground Nova puts himself in between the two forces colliding for the first time since ReVolution 150.

Nova: Uh… guys?

It seems like all time has stopped and the Welcome Back party for one Caesar Christopher Vega was about to become World War III.

Silver: …Hey, Amazon.

Troy: (curtly) Fuckhead.

The two merely nod as Sonny hurriedly downs the first shot of Patron. Fighting back a hacking fit, he beats his chest to make sure his heart’s intact and nods.

Silver: (choking) Good.

Nova lets a bead of sweat roll down his face, happy his party hasn’t gone to shit.

Nova: Whew. Well, I’m gonna go to the LESS tense side of the party, so I’ll catch you guys later. Lindz.

Troy: Caesar.

The two brush shoulders before Nova departs, leaving the awkward twosome to their own devices.

Silver: So… Been awhile… ish.

Troy: Mmm.

She gives a sharp glance around the room to make sure everyone else is otherwise occupied.

Troy: Didn't think you were serious about doing the civility thing in public.

Silver: I know. I even amazed myself. I should win an Oscar… or at the very least, get to be Tony Stark in Iron Man… fucking Robert Downey, Jr...

Troy: Jon Favreau must’ve lost your number.

Silver: That’s what I thou-HEY, WAIT A MINUTE! Don’t patronize me… sides… What’s your schedule like soon?

Troy: I just took over the Empire. Got meetings and shit. But I'm good for Sunday.

Silver: 15th works. Your place, 3 o'clock?

She spares him a tiny, knowing smile.

Troy: The door'll be open.

Silver: Good to know. Also, I think this still goes without saying, but leave Cap out of it. Right now, I've got him focused chasing Rayne.

Troy: Well...that's convenient now, isn't it?

Silver: Who, me sending the big, bad masked monster after your ex? Why, I wouldn't DARE.

Sonny whipsers something else to Lindz, that isn't easily deciphered, but the two nod accordingly to whatever it was and exchange a look before parting ways.

Before Sonny has an opportunity for Nova’s drunken doe eyes to peer pressure him into tasting HOT FIRE~! "The Specialist" himself, Tony Rolo, cuts into the solid line of folks seated at the bar.

Tony Rolo: ‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me. I’ll have a shot, Nov.

Nova: BARKEEEEEP!!! Double-shots for the Hall of Famers in attendance…two of ‘em! (Looking around) That’s all we need, right, guys? Double-shots for any PRIME Hall of Famers, we just need two, right?

The Risen Star’s ribbing garners collective grumbles from everyone around him, and he turns to Rolo with a wink as the bartender slides them the shots. They raise their glassware.

Tony Rolo: Welcome back.

Nova: No place like home.

Tony Rolo: (Cocking an eyebrow at Tsonda’s interns) I gotta tell ya, Nov, I’d fee a LOT more at home if I had a barstool to rest my weary legs on.

Nova: My God, the legend himself, without a barstool! Hin See would roll over in his grave, if he hadn’t been prematurely cremated in a car explosion. INTERNS! Form a barstool for Mr. Rolo!

Collar #1: Umm…sorry?

Nova: Hold your hands out, lock them together, and form a stool for Mr. Rolo to rest himself against.

The interns awkward position themselves in a space for the former Global Champion.

Tony Rolo: If either of you grope my ass, I’ll put out a cigar on your face…and no one will care.

Collars: *Gulp*

Rolo rests himself comfortably on the weight of the interns as they struggle to keep his muscle-bound frame aloft.

Tony Rolo: Drop me and that cigar I just mentioned gets to invite two friends to the party. Say, Nov, speakin’ of home…(Gesturing to the entrance area…yep, we’re referring to the double-doors at the front of the suite as the "entrance area" now, pretty soon it’ll be a "ramp," and before the party’s over there will be Whitesnake-ish indoor pyrotechnics that send dozens to the emergency room)…it would appear that "home" is being invaded by a two-man Legion of Douchebags.

As though the word "douchebag" didn’t naturally conjure up the two smirking faces of the Princes of New England, we’re immediately treated to a shot of them standing in the center of the room, arms crossed in dissatisfaction as Miranda O’Reily buries her face in her hands.

Simon Knox: Disgraceful.

Connor O'Reily: Disgusting.

Simon Knox: Disheartening.

Miranda looks at Connor with disapproval in her eyes, but sighs and throws her hands up as if she's already giving up. However, she does get in one last comment before giving up.

Miranda O'Reily: You have a match in like ten minutes, you know. Don't go overboard.

The barkeep gives the two Princes a pair of glasses. Simon casually slides his glass over to Connor while he turns to their manager and Connor's twin.

Simon Knox: Relax, Miranda. It's just a couple of Mexicans. Last I heard, a broken down, washed up Scientologist beat up nine of them at once. Surely, just half of our collective could beat them with one hand tied behind our backs. While drunk off our asses.

Connor has already doned his first glass, but he gags noticably.

Connor O'Reily: Maybe I should've clarified, asshat. Barkeep, give me whatever you've got that isn't FUCKING HORRIBLE.

Yet, despite this, he still picks up the glass that Simon gave him and he downs it, too. The barkeep comes back with two more glasses, and Simon once again casually slides his over to Connor.

The double doors to the VIP Suite open again, drawing the occasional stare from an onlooker ("Who else has Nova invited to this?" they think. "Does he want to pack us in here like sardines?").

The pair entering... well, their voices draw the attention first. The kind of voices that say, "We are douchebags, and we're here to douche it up." It's a man and a woman...

...okay, it's Andreas and Siena van der Wal. Way to ruin the surprise by reading ahead, jagoff.

Siena van der Wal: Oh, come on, Andy! Just one drink! I hear they'll be passing around the peace pipe! How long has it been since we were at a rave?

Andreas van der Wal: Don't most of the people in here hate us?

Siena van der Wal: A great man once said, "Same thing happens to us when we go to Wendy's."

Andreas van der Wal: And didn't we already call this hedonistic Neanderthal a Neanderthal?

They make their way in, do the Smiling Serpent and the Auburn-Haired Harpy. Both have changed since their sham of a bout earlier; he's wearing black slacks and a white button-down (yes, the sleeves are rolled up) and her dress is a glittery green cocktail dress right along the edge of propriety. She's walking backwards, fairly tugging him in.

Siena van der Wal: Like he wasn't already too high to hear that?

Andreas sighs; she's devilishly charming (emphasis on the "devilish").

Andreas van der Wal: Fine. One drink.

Siena claps giddily, turning back to face the party (AKA, "Her element"). Andreas finds an area diagonally across from the bar, and a spot of wall to lean on (who knew he was a wallflower?). Back at the main bar…

Tony Rolo: Nov.

Nova: (Leaning in front of Codemaster towards Colby) Korver, I’m tellin’ ya, if you’re gonna drink before a match, you have to stay with liquor, by itself. Mixers sit heavy. So does beer, expands in your sto-

Tony Rolo: NOV.

Nova: (Turning) TONY ROLO, YOU HAVE THE FLOOR.

Tony Rolo: Thanks wiseass, I just wanted to tell you some chick is eye-fucking you like a dog in heat. Sorry to interrupt the sausage-fest.

On that note, "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins sidles up on the other side of Rolo, taking a shot from the bartender and cheering in the direction of the boys with a grin. Nova spins around on his stool and sees a short Asian woman dressed to the nines giving him the once-over.

Nova: May I help you?

Asian Chick: Someone said it was your party.

Nova: Want a drink? BARKEEEEE-

Asian Chick: I’m actually good, and so is my hearing…thanks for the free exam. I gotta get going. I’m DD tonight, unfortunately.

Nova: My God, that is unfortunate.

She flashes an amused grin before turning and walking away, at least six sets of eyes bouncing after her as she makes her exit. Well, maybe five.

(Siena van der Wal: Bah, I am so much prettier than that trollop. Don't you think, Andy?)

Apparently, our very own Peanut Gallery tonight consists of one Siena Lenore van der Wal and her... whatever he is to her, Andreas Barnaby van der Wal.

(Andreas van der Wal: Hm?)

(Siena van der Wal: Don't you dare tell me you were staring at her!)

(Andreas van der Wal: Nonsense. I only have eyes for you.)

Codemaster: She certainly seemed like a charm-

Tony Rolo: Tear that ass up, Nov.

Colby Korver: Amen. Split that bitch in half.

Codemaster: Nova, ignore these imbeciles. Cloud didn’t create a bond with Aeris that transcended the fabric of time and reality by "tearing that ass up."

"That’s faggotry! Get yer dick wet!"

Joey Troy, PRIME Hall of Famer and one half of legendary tag team and aptly titled "Crudely Civilized," stumbles into a caterer, knocking her drinks over. He pulls himself up by her breasts and careens over into the group of men gathered around the bar.

Joey Troy: I’m fuck’d up. Speekin’a "fucked up" I have this Kleenex with a present in it for Linzy Troy, where is she?

Tony Rolo: I can tell you where she…

Nova: Ah-ah-ah. (Shooting a scowl at Rolo, who mouths "It’s a good idea") Let ME point you in the right direction, Joseph…

The Risen Star spins Joey around and shoves him off into the general crowd.

Nova: *Sigh* Disaster. Averted.

(Andreas van der Wal: Would have been interesting to see Troy dismember that man.)

(Siena van der Wal: Really. The disaster isn't averted. It started with whoever picked these tablecloths.)

Oh, but the former Universal Champion speaketh too soon.

"WOOOOOOO! Now this is what I call a welcoming party."

The disaster that was averted, yeah, probably should have allowed that one. This guy is worse. Champ Chamberlain walks into the room and right up to the bar where the boys are sitting.

Champ: Look I'm sure I’ve never met either of you two in my life but I can't tell you enough how happy it makes me that you've went out of your ways to throw me this welcoming to PRIME party. I feel so special.

Champ immediately begins to fake gush like a bride to be with the man of her dreams.

Nova: Ummm…are you…who are you?

Champ gives Nova a look like Nova just told him that he likes to have sex with Donkeys. Immediately he has defend his greatness.

Champ (Poking Nova in the chest at every word for emphasis): I'm The Man In Demand, The Center of Attention, The Alpha and ONLY Omega. I. Am. CHAMP. CHAMBERLAIN. You'd do well to never forget such important information again. Got it?

Nova nods slowly at this unexpected influx of information…then turns to Codemaster, flashing his "OH SHIT WATCH THIS" face before resuming poker mode, turning back to Champ and furrowing his brow with an air of seriousness.

Nova: Sooooo. YOU’RE the star I’ve been hearing so much about?

Champ: YEAH?! I mean, yeah, of course I am.

Nova: Well, I’m about to make your year, kid. You see over there?

Champ’s eyes follow Nova’s finger to Beef, who’s lobbing cheese cubes at El Janito’s open mouth.

Nova: You see those two? Those guys ARE fucking Hollywood. They eat and breathe it. Bitches get an appointment with either of ‘em, they go bulimic and practice their best BJ on a yellow squash for WEEKS before they show up at the office. If you gave either of those guys a blood test right now, the results would come back 50% uncut cocaine, 50% uncut genius.

Champ: Oh my GOD. Do you…do you think they’d…

Nova: Dude, this is MY party. You head on over and tell ‘em we’re boys, and by next week, you’ll be wiping your ass with your own headlines. Codemaster, testify.

Codemaster: (Hiding his face) Their…*cough*…cinematic mastery is unrivaled.

Champ: WOW, thank you! I don’t even know what to…thank you, thank you, thank you!

Chamberlain takes off after Mega Job, visions of Brando, Stewart, and Hoffman dancing in his head. Chandler Tsonda’s are still holding the "Specialist" aloft.

Collars: (Trembling) DO WE STILL HAVE TO BE MR. ROLO’S BARSTOOL?

Nova: Ummm…is Mr. Rolo still at the bar?

Tony Rolo: I’d actually like another beer.

Nova: Hear that? He wants another beer.

Collar #1: OH GOD!

Collar #2: MOOOOOMMY!!

Tony Rolo: It’s a tough industry to break into. And both of you need to trim your fingernails.

"Faced with that, or the option to stand…"

Nova turns, his eyes meeting the twin coals of one former Intense Champion, Dusk.

Dusk: …I think I’ll stand.

Nova: That is certainly your decision to make. Want a drink? BARKEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!

Faced with the proposition of drinking, Dusk bites his bottom lip as he's never one to turn down a drink. He stares at the barkeeper and then back at Nova before nodding his head slowly. In the background, the boys of DUI wave to the bar-crowd and make their exit.

Dusk: Gonna have to pass on that drink offer for now. Not with a match coming up. Now, if this was a match with the stipulation that the winner is the one who impersonates Elliott the best, then I'd be there right with you. Thanks though. I can see though that you're just having one hell of a time.

Nova: And I can see that you’re not. What’s going on, dude? What’s all this I hear about you storming around like the Moody Little Raincloud backstage, breaking shit – which I LOVE, don’t get me wrong – and being a general…um, mopey ass-wart, for lack of a better phrase.

At hearing those words come out of Nova's mouth, Dusk shakes his head and sighs. He puts his hands on his hips and closes his eyes for a quick moment.

Dusk: (mutters) Wish I had that drink now.

Then he opens his eyes and looks back at Nova.

Dusk: Things just haven't been good man. Dealing with this fucktard in Cozen and how she just gets in your head... there's something about her. Something different and it's getting to me because I can't put my finger on it. She just gets me so riled up. Then again, I guess a lot of people tend to do that.

He licks his lips as he ponders that thought for a minute. Across the room, Guess Who's Eavesdropping!

(Andreas van der Wal: (low) Look, it's Dusk and he's sad.)

(Siena van der Wal: Aww, I just want to pinch his cheeks! Except for the fact that I'm not sure his bad mood is contagious. And that disease.)

(Andreas van der Wal: Can't forget the disease.)

Dusk: What the hell is wrong with me?

Nova takes another shot, signals for a re-fill, and leans in.

Nova: Listen. The most difficult time of my life was after Lulu died, and then Ariel died. Everyone here hated me. Hated me. I had nobody. But in the ring, it was all business. I had one thing that I’d sacrificed everything else for…my career. And I knew if I fucked that up, I’d be in real shit. What I say to you is…QUIT FUCKIN’ IT UP. You have to get your mind on who’s across the canvas from you, man. When I left last year everyone said "Ohhhh, Dusk, Lavelle, Winters, Shakur, that’s the Class of 2007, they’ll be main-eventing Colossus next year." Well, Lavelle and Winters are gone. Shakur IS main-evening that bitch. And where are you, dude? Kickin’ around, inspiring NO fear in the newcomers who probably see you as a lunatic and a sweet debut win waiting to happen.

Nova takes the second shot, exhaling sharply.

Nova: You need to focus, my friend. You try WAY too fucking hard, Dusk-Bunny. And you’re suffering because of it, and wasting precious time.

Dusk: Did…did you just call me "Dusk-Bunny?"

(Siena van der Wal: Oh, we are so using that.)

Nova: That’s not the point. GET IN THE GAME.

The wrestler actually two years Nova’s senior stands there a brief moment, taking it all in before nodding his head.

Dusk: You're right. Time to take care of business.

He slaps his hand on the back of Nova's shoulder.

Dusk: Thanks man, I appreciate it.

Nova: Not a problem. (Raising a third shot) Good luck tonight. Here’s to hoping the "Lost Soul" finds his way.

Dusk nods, smiling for the first time in so long little dust-clouds poof away from his cheeks, and walks away. Suddenly the doors burst open, causing all heads to turn in that direction (and a "record needle scratching the music dead" noise) as Jason Natas stumbles into the party, looking a little roughed-up. His hands are curled into fists.

Jason Natas: Where are they?!! I know they’re here!

He scans the confused audience. All is quiet for a moment, until the doors open behind Natas…

…and Colby and Hank re-enter, laughing to one another.

Colby Korver: PARTY-KILLAZ have returned, and we brought the beer bon-whooooa.

They stop as Natas’ eyes widen as the sound of the more impetuous member of DUI’s voice. He spins around and lunges forward, but a second before his reach makes it to either of them he’s yanked backwards and flung backwards against a column. Bryan Dawkins stands between them, pointing a finger at the enraged New Yorker.

Bryan Dawkins: This is a party, Natas. You take that shit elsewhere.

Jason Natas: No, I liked my first choice better.

The Anti-Superstar grabs Dawkins, shoving him sideways into a refreshments table, knocking the food over. Again, however, before he reaches DUI he’s tackled, this time by several black shirts who pin him to the ground and pull his arms around behind his back. Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas steps into view, folding his arms across his chest.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Ruinin’ my damn sampler platter. Get ‘im outta here.

Security haul the protesting Natas out of the suite. Dam looks around at the party-goers, all still silent.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: (Turning to Nova) Kick the jams, boss.

Nova: BARKEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!! DAM SAYS IT’S COOL TO KICK THE JAMS! COULD I ALSO GET TWO IRISH CAR BOMBS?!

Meanwhile, out in the hallway (after Natas’ removal)…

"I would advise against this, sir."

Union Jack shoots Jeeves a sideward glance, clearly indicating his displeasure as they continue along the arena corridor. Union Jack is wearing an expensive tuxedo and confident grin (along with his red, white and blue sequined mask -- union jack, not stars and stripes), whereas Jeeves wears a brand new black, three piece suit, cotton wool up each nostril and glazed look in his eyes. He’s also walking with a limp and groaning in agony a few minutes, which his master has already forbade him to do four times.

Union Jack: What would you know about it, you have a concussion?

Jeeves: Nevertheless, Mr. Nova isn’t the type of person to be having a dinner party and even if he was, it is highly unlikely he’d be hosting such a soiree in the Conseco Fieldhouse arena.

Union Jack shakes his head.

Union Jack: Bah! These men are eccentric, Jeeves! They’ll hold a good dinner party anywhere!

Jeeves rolls his eyes.

Jeeves: With respect sir, what evidence do you have that this is a dinner part at all?

Union Jack: Listen to yourself, Jeeves! You’re talking like a bloody Welshman again! I know this is a dinner party because this Nova character was once a PRIME Universal champion! Champions are used to the finer things in life, classical music and the finest cheeses!

They approach the double doors that lead to their final destination and Union Jack pauses for a second to compose himself and pat down his tuxedo.

Union Jack: Besides, who would even DARE invite me to this party if it wasn’t a high class soiree?

Jeeves sighs and ventures ahead of his master, to heave open the double doors grandly.

Jeeves: Very good, sir.

That’s when we hear the music -- it isn’t classic. He catches a whiff of the food -- it isn’t the finest chesses. He notes the dress attire of a few already in attendance at the party -- it certainly isn’t black tie.

Union Jack: Oh, bugger!

Jeeves: Indeed, sir.

Union Jack wanders into the room, wide eyed into the room to confronted by some kind of drunken hooligan with a stupid grin fixed to his face.

Joey Troy: Duuuuuudddddeeeeeeeee, I hope you’re not the stripper!

Union Jack’s eyes visibly widen with rage.

Union Jack: How DARE you! (Looking around in confusion) I thought this, this…party was black tie?

The PRIME elder statesman shakes his head.

Joey Troy: No dude, I HATE Chinese food…but I LOVE Chinese snatch! I thought I saw some over there…

He points to further into the party and stumbles into Jeeves, who reluctantly props him up.

Joey Troy: Whoa! I don’t *urp* feel so--BBBBLLLLLLLLAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Jeeves face turns to that of horror as he lets go of Troy and fixes his eyes upon the mess now covering his suit. Union Jack winces at both the sight and the smell of the disaster and slowly backs away from his faithful butler.

Union Jack: I think you had better wash that off. Meanwhile, for my part I’ll be needing to wash down this appetizer of indignity with some crystal stemware brimming with – AH! Very good!

"Our Sovereign" grabs a glass of wine off the tray of a passing caterer. Conversely, over at the bar…

El Janito: Give me the strongest tequila you've got.

Bartender: You're El Janito. I can't give you any.

El Janito: I'm not El Janito. I'm his dashingly cooler brother... El Tereble. I share El Janito's wickedly good looks, but I am not him. Note my mustache.

Bartender: You already had a mustache before you disguised yourself. Directly in front of me, I might add.

El Janito: Fair enough.

Janito scans the crowd until he eyes a sucker. Like a Messerschmidt in the Blitzkrieg Janito scurries past Union Jack.

El Janito: Yoink!

Union Jack: That... that peasant! (turns his head frantically) Jeeves!

Jeeves: Yes, sir?

Union Jack: Rough him up!

El Janito: Meep!

Nova, already walking carefully because of the weight of the Mexican Devil Juice on his brain, side-steps as Janito darts by, a winded Jeeves in pursuit.

Nova: Now, what’s a pretty girl like you doing ALLLLL alone over in the corner with an empty drink?

The Risen Star plops down on an armrest next to Lindsay Troy, who’s absently toying with her new locks with one hand and swishing the remnants of her drink with the other.

Lindsay Troy: Trying to keep things in perspective.

(Siena van der Wal: Look, over there.)

(Andreas van der Wal: Who is that dark-haired girl, anyway?)

(Siena van der Wal: I think that's Lindsay Troy. We met her earlier. Shell we watch?)

(Andreas van der Wal: Oh, very yes.)

Troy’s eyes quickly dart around the room: Wade, Silver, Flyer, before she swallows the remnants of her now mostly-water beverage. Nova follows her eyes, nodding slowly.

Nova: What’s on your mind?

Lindsay Troy: Everything. Soon, it will be nothing but one thing, and only one thing. Getting to that point is the trick.

Troy’s eyes widen as Nova kicks her legs up onto the footrest on front of her and rolls backward over her chair, landing on his feet. He begins rubbing her shoulders, and leans in a little bit to talk over the music.

Nova: You gotta RELAX. Newsflash, sister: I’m back. And it ain’t just because I got that itch to get the shit beaten outta me twice a week instead of once. I love this place, Lindz. I fucking LOVE IT. And I wanna make sure this CP Cantrell suit is legit.

(Siena van der Wal: Oh, my god, they're fucking.)

(Andreas van der Wal: What?)

(Siena van der Wal: Troy and... that other guy! They're so fucking. That slut is so giving it up for half the men on the roster!)

Lindsay Troy: Oh I'm sure you'll find him charming and knowledgeable, like the rest of us.

She rolls her shoulders a bit, looking to get comfortable against the back of her chair. For his part Nova is practically breaking a sweat from the way he’s working his thumbs against the muscles around the Queen’s royal shoulder-blades.

Nova: Jesus H, Lindz, your knots have knots. I’m serious, you’ve been stretching yourself way too thin trying to be Wonder Woman/Police Chief. There’s a psycho bitch obsessed with tearing you down, a psycho bitch who happens to be suffering from a serious case of P.U.T.S. – that’s Post-Universal Title Syndrome, you can wikipedia it. We’ve all been there, and it can make a person do crazy shit. I rode out of PRIME on horseback. You chopped off hair that saw more battles than most retired Army generals.

(Andreas van der Wal: Oh, dear.)

(Siena van der Wal: What?)

(Andreas van der Wal: I think he thinks Cozen is crazy.)

(Siena van der Wal: But...she kind of is.)

(Andreas van der Wal: What gives this old stoner the ability to say so?)

(Siena van der Wal: He's fucking Lindsay Troy. Really, does he need more of a reason?)

Nova grunts as he presses his thumb and palm against Troy’s neck, then rolls his fist down her spine.

Nova: You need to focus on Cozen. I got my eyes locked on Charles Parker Cantrell like…

"Like a surface-to-air missile?"

Troy and Nova turn their heads to see the "Underground Pimp" Tyler Rayne leaning against a column several feet away. In the background, Wade Elliott casually walks over from the bar.

Tyler Rayne: Do you have, like, a fuckin’ book of catchphrases or somethin’?

The Risen Star keeps his hands on Troy’s shoulders, his eyes narrowing.

Nova: If I did, it’d be a bestseller, for obvious reasons. We’re full up on caterers, but thanks, anyway.

Tyler Rayne: (Holding his arms up) Hey, don’t let me interrupt you two. Just wanted to come by and say, uh...congrats and all that, Rider. You know, for bein' all original and coming out of retirement. I've, like...never seen anyone do that before. Kudos for thinkin' outside the box. Speaking of box...

Rayne shoots a look at Wade.

Rayne: ...this is a party, right?

Now daggers at Troy.

Rayne: Time I went and found some drunk girl to fuck. Say, isn’t that Brooks over there?

Elliott’s hands ball into fists as he steps forward, but Rayne shrugs and turns away from the trio.

Rayne: Enjoy your, uh...eh. Whatever.

With that he walks away, blending into the sea of social butterflies metaphorically fluttering around the floor of the suite. With an air of sultriness Troy tilts her head backwards, strands of dark cherry hair falling away from her face as she looks up at Nova.

Troy: Caes…remind me to have you touch me more often when he’s around.

Nova: …OKAY.

The Risen Star turns away, silently pumping his fists into the air. When he sees Wade laughing at him he gives him the "lock it up" thumb-across-the-throat/gritted-teeth combo. Then suddenly everything in the room goes overcast as black clouds blow in overhead, threatening to rain on the Good Times parade.

Well, not really. But Nova does notice the "King of Wrestling" Xavier Kannon and the indispensable Ellie (no boldsies for non-wrestlers) standing in the suite’s entrance, a sneer plastered across Kannon’s face as he surveys the party. The Risen Star walks over.

Nova: Well if it isn’t the Kannons…Hall. Interest you folks in a beverage? That won’t upset the Flying Spaghetti Monster, will it?

Ellie: They have cosmos!

Xavier Kannon: Eleanor, please. We aren’t staying. I just wanted to come by thank you personally for throwing a massive party on a night that was supposed to be dedicated to the celebration of higher principles in this morally bankrupt industry.

Nova: (To Wade) People are really set on this "stealing thunder" motif, aren’t they?

Xavier Kannon: And just so you know, this collection of ingrates does NOT constitute a party. Beck will be at my event shortly.

Nova: Yeah? Tell ‘im I got some sweet, stinky weed if he’s interested.

Xavier Kannon: I’m sure he has no use for such…intoxicants, just as we have no use for them here. Eleanor, we’re leaving.

Eleanor eye-balls Kannon out of the corner of her eye as she up-ends the dregs of a cosmo into her mouth, wiping her lips. Kannon rolls his eyes and takes her by the hand as they walk back towards the doors.

Nova: YOU KNOW, KANNON, PAIN PILLS ARE STILL INTOXICANTS…schmuck.

The Risen Star walks back over to Troy and Wade.

Nova: Dude, I’m SO happy I didn’t apologize to that douche for knowing in advance he and his nephew were gonna get their asses beat a few years ago. Also, I see no reason any longer to hide from the industry gossip column the fact that I once schooled Xavier Kannon SO BAD, SO CLASSLESSLY in Tekken Tag Tournament, that he didn’t speak to anyone, not even his wife, for two weeks. True story.

CUT-TO: Nova and Kannon hunkered around a 13" black-and-white television with PS2 controllers in their hands as a party RAGES~! in the background. On-screen one figure flamboyantly twirls through the air before stomping the other’s face into a rather weak floor tile of concrete. Nova leaps up, flexing his arms and screaming "OH YEAAAAAAAAH!!" spittle flying from his mouth and landing in his beard. He turns to a still-seated Kannon, towering over him triumphantly.

Nova: YEAH, SON!! WHO’S YO’ HOUSEKEEPAH WHO YOU KEEP IN YO’ HOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUSSE!!!

Xavier Kannon: For the last time, what does that mean?!!

CUT-BACK-TO: Nova, at the party.

Nova: Anyhoo…I need a refresher! (Heading towards the bar) BARKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!

Unbeknownst to most of the party-goers, one-time Jewel in the Crown Tony "The Grin" Gamble stands silently in the doorway of the suite.

But his legs won’t move forward. Huge anime beads of sweat dangle like aquatic nut-sacs from his face as he eyes befall one sworn enemy after another.

Nova.

Dusk.

Lindsay Troy.

Wade Elliott.

Humanity.

Cowardice wins out over valor (which in Gamble’s mind is like saying "Chuck Liddell won out over the cancer-stricken infant"), and in a POOF! of animated smoke, Gamble is gone out the door.

Abrupt.

Random.

Just like this seg which is now finally, mercifully, thankfully coming to an end.

(Andreas van der Wal: That was your one drink, dear.)

(Siena van der Wal: Lies! I had three.)

(Andreas van der Wal: So this is PRIME.)

(Siena van der Wal: Yeah.)

(Andreas van der Wal: And the mighty Nova.)

(Siena van der Wal: Indeed.)

(Andreas van der Wal: Why am I not impressed?)

(Siena van der Wal: Because he's not impressive?)

(Andreas van der Wal: I don't know. The stash was pretty impressive.)

(Siena van der Wal: You're from the Netherlands, Andy.)

(Andreas van der Wal: So I know what I'm talking about.)

(Siena van der Wal: We're just going to keep talking, aren't we?)

(Andreas van der Wal: It's what we're here for.)

(Siena van der Wal: And it's got to be better than this party.)

(Andreas van der Wal: Inevitably.)

(Siena van der Wal: Now, tell me I'm hotter than the Asian girl.)

(Andreas van der Wal: Inevitably.)

Nick: It looks like we're going to finally see the in-ring debut of the Princes of New England, Rich.

Richard: Well, you know how hotly anticipated this is. I mean, they're the Princes.

Nick: They could definitely use an attitude adjustment, though. These guys have managed to rub numerous people the wrong way, even Son--

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

Nick: ...Silver doesn't like them. Okay? And he tends to hang out with the douchebag crowd.

Richard: Pfft.

The lights go out in the Conseco Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, as all eyes turn to the entrance. After all, when the lights go out in a wrestling show, it's obvious that something is going to happen. It's science. You can't fight it.

"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."

"Cult of Personality" by Living Colour hits, and out comes the Princes of New England. Both men, dressed for in-ring action, are wearing matching white and blue tights. Behind them is Miranda O'Reily, wearing an elegant-looking blue gown that matches what Simon Knox and Connor O'Reily themselves are wearing. It should be noted that both men are also wearing their Patriots jerseys, with Connor rocking the Tom Brady jersey and Simon rocking the Randy Moss jersey. This act alone nets them massive boos in Indianapolis. The spotlight shines down on the three individuals, as Vince Howard begins his announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is sch--

Simon Knox: (interrupting) Shut up, Howard.

The sound comes from a microphone held in the right hand of Simon Knox. The music cuts short, as the fans are already dropping some massive boos on Simon Knox and Connor O'Reily. Part of the reason, though, might be the fact that they are proud New Englanders in enemy territory. Simon can only smugly smirk at the thousands of angry fans in attendance, who might be wanting to see the Princes get their faces ripped off by whoever they're going to face tonight.

Simon Knox: Well, I knew we would enter this vile city at some point. PRIME just can't stay away from loser cities with loser people in it.

Boos, of course. What, you think they'd cheer for something like that?

Simon Knox: I mean, Indianapolis has nothing really going for it to begin with. First of all, your college basketball team hasn't even smelled the whiff of a championship in twenty-some years and then hired a coach so useless that he has to violate recruitment regulations just to get ahead. Then, your PROFESSIONAL basketball team is so weak that even just me or Connor, alone, could take them all on.

More boos, as Simon continues to go off on Indianapolis.

Simon Knox: And don't get me started on your fucking Colts. When you're not busy being the Chargers' bitch, you're OUR bitch. Peyton Manning is not the quarterback that Tom Brady is. Marvin Harrison can't even carry Randy Moss's fucking cleats. You got lucky beating us in the playoffs and any other time you face us, you will die and you will die horribly. You'll never get as lucky as you did in 2007 ever again, so enjoy your single fucking title while we rock our four titles with many more to come.

You better believe that Simon is getting booed out of the building right now. Miranda gives him a disapproving look, but then Simon hands the microphone over to her brother, Connor.

Connor O'Reily: Anyway. We were scheduled to come out here and have a match. I don't know who it was supposed to be against. Maybe it was some of those Enemigos. Maybe #1 and #8. ....Okay, seriously, are these guys in any way related to the Villanos?

Connor turned to Simon, who gave his opinion a bit.

Connor O'Reily: Oh. So they're just a bunch of guys from Indianapolis who speak Spanish and are so useless that they can only be called numbers?

Simon nods.

Connor O'Reily: Well, anyway. Fuuuuuuck that shit. You think we came here to make our debut against some fucking Indianapolis Mexicans? Regular Mexicans are bad enough, but Indianapolis Mexicans are the WORST. On top of that, we're not even in the main event for our debut? COME ON. We're the Princes of New England, not some loser, lowborne tag team like... well, every other tag team in this division. Finally, we're to have our debut in this goddamn pigsty you fuckers call Indianapolis?

Connor pauses, absorbing the heavy boos that he and Simon are now taking from the crowd. He looks to Simon.

Connor O'Reily: Say, Simon. What's that thing you usually say when you don't want to be bothered doing something?

Connor holds out the microphone. Simon looks up at the ceiling, his hands on his hips, before he leans towards the microphone.

Simon Knox: I'm too pretty for this shit.

Connor O'Reily: Yeah. Except in this case, it's "we're".

Simon Knox: Verily.

Connor O'Reily: See, we're not gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and let you witness our majesty in the ring. We're going to turn... right the fuck around... go back to the back, and call it a fucking day.

Simon only nods, while Miranda O'Reily looks at her brother as if he is fucking insane.

Finally, Connor tosses down the microphone. "Cult of Personality" cues up again, and both Simon and Connor simply turn around and leave. Miranda is left alone for a brief moment before she, too, leaves.

Nick: Come on! This isn't right!

Richard: Sure it is. They have the right to refuse matches.

Nick: Since WHEN?

Richard: Since... always?

Nick: (sighs) Well, I guess the scheduled debut of the Princes of New England is not tonight... let's just move on.

Wrestling fans are the most unapologetic and devout examples of Pavlovian conditioning to ever grace this great green world of ours. Take the scene at hand, for instance. There’s nothing more than the thump thump of boots on the floor. A pair of raggedy jeans and a Code Red Mountain Dew clutched just below the waist. These three very simple and every day things are enough to put the crowd in an uproar. Mundane objects that have become symbols so synonymous with one particular man, the very sight of them sends waves of joy through an arena full of fans.

The roar is not as deafening or vigorous as it once was. Recent events have caused his "pop" to take a small hit in magnitude. Nevertheless, there will always be sex-crazed women and blood-thirsty men to support and cheer him. His demographic. His people.

His 5-Star Championship glistening like a lost treasure beneath the florescent lights of the arena halls.

He is Tyler Rayne.

You are welcome.

As for the cute little red-head he seems to be so determinedly walking towards? Her name is Mary-Lynn Mayweather. She’s reading a book on law. Something smart and intelligent and wholly uncharacteristic of damn near anyone else on the PRIME roster.

Tyler Rayne: You’re the Mayweather girl, right?

When she looks up from the book, she’s not quite prepared for the captivating smile that greets her. Or perhaps she’s not prepared for a greeting of any kind. After all, when’s the last time someone came looking down these halls for her?

Tyler Rayne: Saw what Her Highness did last week, what with the whole turning you down thing… and I just wanted to offer my condolences. Seems to be her new hobby as of late. Letting people down.

He offers an outstretched hand. A gesture of friendship and trust.

Tyler Rayne: The name’s Rayne.

Cautiously, she accepts his offer. His hand. He turns the shake, fingers gripping ever so gently against hers. His smile. His charm. His lips against the back of her hand.

Tyler Rayne: Tyler Rayne. And the pleasure, love, is certainly all mine.

Her response?

Mary-Lynn hides herself from smiling. She squints her eyes and stares out to the side of Rayne as she slowly retracts her hand from his.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Tyler. I'll try to remember that.

Quickly, Mary-Lynn returns to her book. She's broken eye contact with him, but still seems engaged.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: So what exactly would the great and prosperous Tyler Rayne be doing down my neck of the corridor woods?

She quickly jerks her head up, excited.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Did you kill a man? I'd help you defend yourself against the pirhanna's of the American Judicial system.

And quite quickly, she holds up the spine of her book, "Trademark Law" by Richard W. Stim.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Well, it's not murder, but I'm well versed in various fields of judicial employ. I applied to be a stenographer, but they're still using typewriters. I mean, c'mon. Enter the 20th century already.

Speaking of trademarks, it’s about time for another appearance of that trademark smile. PRIME’s 5-Star Champion, YOUR 5-Star Champion, hell… her 5-Star Champion leans in a bit closer, craning his neck so that he can skim through some of the words on the page.

Yeah, because we’re all so sure it’s her book he’s interested in.

Tyler Rayne: Ya know, this thing might come in handy. Turns out I know a guy trying to infringe on my gimmick. Some schmuck named Chandler Tsonda. You might have heard of him. Runs around here claiming he’s the sexiest man in all of PRIME. Complete bullshit, right?

Mary-Lynn's eyebrows raise. She smiles ever so slightly, but holds herself back.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Depends on your orientation. I'm pretty sure G-Cwok's love Tsonda.

The Underground Pimp (in action) offers a loud, amused laugh at the comment. Not that he’s faking to try and impress the lady. He need not do such silly things as that. He just always has enjoyed a good Chandler Tsonda joke.

Tyler Rayne: Hey, you’re uh…boyfriend isn’t gonna get mad we were talking and all, is he? I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble or anything…

Mary-Lynn stops, and thinks for a moment. She sets her law book on her lap and crosses her arms. She tilts her head to its side.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: You know why I joined PRIME, Tyler?

Tyler Rayne: You mean, other than the excellent catering?

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Because I really wanted to be the sexual equivalent of a hot potato. That's my goal in life. It's all I've ever dreamed of. Since I was six the only thing I wanted between my legs was 18 different penises from a collection of traveling circus freaks.

She rolls her eyes, and returns to her book.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we in the biz like to call "shut down." You’d think a sarcastic, verbal bitch-slap like that would send a boy packin’ for the next pretty face, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. The Golden Boy, however, is not so easily dissuaded. He just flashes that charming, trademark smile and takes a step back.

Tyler Rayne: Cute. Looks like Troy might have told you a little bit more than no, eh? I was serious, though. What I said earlier. Her letting you down like that… not cool. You’re cute, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t exactly go out of my way to talk to every pretty face ‘round these parts. Could honestly be I’m interested in more than just what’s between your legs, kid.

Mary-Lynn doesn’t look up from her book, but does offer a disbelieving scoff between paragraphs. Oh ye of little faith. The 5-Star Champ simply shrugs, smile still shining brightly, and backs away.

Tyler Rayne: Wouldn’t do you to go about believing all the rumors you’ve heard about me. Only most of them are true. If you’re serious about that offer, maybe I’ll clear up my schedule a bit for some murder and mayhem. I’ll catch up with you next week. We can talk about that stellar defense you promised.

Tyler turns to walk away, when Mary-Lynn stands to her feet.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Wait.

Tyler pauses, and turns his head back.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Not many people have taken the time to just say hello. I... I... just expect the worst from people...I'm not ready for... for... anything. I just know I don't want to get involved with a wrestler, no matter who they may be. Which is the primary reason why I'm boyfriendless.

His smile shifts, just the slightest. A gesture of warmth and genuine understanding.

Tyler Rayne: We’re not exactly the most endearing lot, are we? I may be a lot of things, kid, but a liar’s not one of them. I always mean everything I say. So believe it when I said the pleasure was mine. I’ll see ya next week.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather: See you then.

With a nod and a tiny salute, the 5-Star Champion bids her, and thus you, adieu until next time.

"What?"

If Scientists could define ‘The First Law of PRIME’ it would read, any special event organised by a member of its roster will go over about as well as a Marilyn Manson gig at the Vatican.

The Scientists could then helpfully share their discovery with a certain Scientologist.

For the sake of Xavier Kannon’s remaining sanity, Nova’s shindig is being excluded.

Face flushed as red as his hair, Xavier Kannon looms over a huddled-up PRIME Gopher, while Ellie skitters about him like a troublesome fly.

Eleanor: Um, he said, like what?!

Shrinking under the fierce scrutiny of the first couple of Scientology, the unfortunate employee’s words are barely audible.

Gopher: Um, er… I… er, said that the Elfmans and Ribisis called and said they never… um… never received their plane tickets…

Having to look away from the trembling PRIME employees, Kannon stares down at the floor for a few seconds, pursing his lips as he strokes his smooth chin. Just as the unfortunate employee’s heart-rate falls within ‘not going to die in 5 seconds’ limits, the Gold Patron Meritorious’ head snaps back up.

Kannon: THEN GO AND FIND OUT WHICH OF YOUR FELLOW, INCOMPETANT EMPLOYEES WAS MEANT TO ARRANGE THEIR FLIGHTS AND COMPLEMENTARY TICKETS, DRAG THEM OUT TO THE NEAREST BUNCH OF COLD HOMELESS PEOPLE AND SET HIM OR HER ON FIRE SO THAT THEY CAN AT LEAST HAVE SERVED SOME PURPOSE IN THEIR LIFE!

Still with his eyes screwed up from the hair-dryer treatment he’d just been subjected to, the employee shivers, barely able to force his words out.

Gopher: Um… yes… er, yes, sir…

Placing his hands on the petrified Gopher’s shoulders, Kannon turns him 180 degrees and pushes him off down the corridor. Trying to burst into a sprint, the scuffed soles of the employee’s sneakers can’t get any grip on the floor tiles and he face-plants, leaving him spread-eagled and motionless.

Shaking his head, Kannon steps over the Gopher’s body, taking Eleanor’s hand as she steps up over him too, a heel only a whisker away from grotesquely violating the fallen PRIME employee.

Kannon: So where does that leave us?

Referring to her trusty clipboard, Ellie scans down a long list of names, most now with a red line slashed through.

Eleanor: PRIME are being, like, totally Scrooge-y and SO won’t pay for the security needed for Tom and Katie. LAME. John is being all blah selfish blah and, like, flying some kid with cancer to hospital in his plane. Jason and Ethan are filming their Earl thing. Juliette is, like, making another album or something, since no-one told her the Licks are totally teh Sux. Oh, and Leah Rimini isn’t coming because, um, well… I, like, didn’t invite her since she’s a totally heinous biatch.

Wiping a hand down his glistening face, Kannon steels himself.

Kannon: Right, so who do we have here tonight?

Eleanor: Um… Beck, Nancy Cartwright and Laura Prepon… oh, and Jason Dohring.

Kannon: Who in Hubbard’s name is Jason Dohring?

Eleanor: Oh, he was in Veronica Mars… it’s like The Hills, but, like, totally fake.

The world’s Scientific community, bear witness to the First Law of PRIME in full effect.

Eleanor: Oh, that totally reminds me. She’s, like, not one of you and stuff, but I can probably get Heidi Montag to come and totally pretend to be. She’ll turn up to, like, the opening of a kid’s birthday present at five minutes notice… unless LC is there.

Letting out a defeated sigh, Kannon gives the nod. Flipping her phone open, Ellie reveals the fact that she actually has Heidi on speed-dial (although in all fairness, she is #9). Nodding, Ellie looks up to her husband with hopeful eyes… then nods again… then again… then hangs up.

Eleanor: No-can-do-zzies. Her and Spence are, like, at some kid’s birthday party and the presents so totally aren’t getting opened for another 10 minutes and stuff. Want me to try LC?

A vein on Kannon’s forehead makes itself noticed by throbbing close to bulging point.

Kannon: No, I do not want you to try LC. Anyway, it doesn’t matter… Scientology isn’t all celebrity and no substance, and neither is tonight. Just so long as I’m standing in that ring and proclaiming my faith, then tonight will have served its purpose.

Ellie’s shrugs as they head off up the corridor.

Eleanor: S’pose… or I could try Audrina?

Kannon: No.

Vince: The following non-title Tag Team match is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, from Chicago Illinois and New York City, New York, the team of Tony Rolo and Simply Beautiful!

Richard: Ahh, here come your dreamboys, Nicky.

Nick: Screw you, Richard. You're just mad that all of the wrestlers hate you.

Richard: Nonsense! I'm wildly popular! I was invited to Nova's party!

Nick: Gotcha.

Richard: That doesn't change the fact that SB is a loser and Rolo's washed up.

Nick: God, you're a child.

Rolo and SB get a big ovation as they step through the ropes, ready for some tag team action. Rolo, as you most likely know, is a multi-time tag team champion. SB is trying to find some footing in PRIME, but has been impressive even in defeat.

Vince: And their opponents, wrestling out of Los Angeles, California and Mount Laurel, New Jersey, they are the Tag Team Champions, TEEAAAAAM VIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAGRAAAAAAA!

A big reaction from the fans for the champs as well, and they head down to the ring with the bels strapped neatly around their waists. Mary-Lynn Mayweather is at their side. They stride down to the ring, remove their belts, and hand them off to Mayweather as Jimmy Turner checks both teams for foreign objects. SB shouts something about the huge bulge being 'a huge cock, not a steel pipe', and Turner calls for the bell.

Nick: Here we go for some tag team action!

Richard: Can somebody pleaaaseee put SB down and keep him down?

Tony Rolo and High Flyer circle one another in the ring trying to pick a spot to strike out at one another. Flyer locks up with him, slips behind for an armbar and takes him down with a leg trip. He keeps the armbar applied on the ground, laying on Rolo's back. The Specialist reaches behind and grabs Flyer with his free arm around the neck and starts pulling. Flyer releases the hold and gets to his feet, but Rolo is already to his feet and firing away with right hands that bounce of the Tag Team Champions skull.

Nick: Tony Rolo laid claim to being the best tag team wrestler of all-time, and I'm having trouble disagreeing with him at this point.

Richard: Why am I not surprised that you lap up all of his bullshit like was chocolate milk?

Nick: That might be the most disgusting thing you've ever said. And that's saying something.

Rolo whips Flyer into the ropes and nails him with a Standing Shouda that sends him back into the ropes - but luckily for him, his own ropes. He tags Tony Davis in, and shakes the cobwebs out.

Richard: Battle of the Tony's...say, which one are yooooou pulling for, Nick? Your boyfriend?

Nick: Davis and Rolo are trading shots in center ring!

Richard: Oh sure, ignore the gay joke. Keep that closet door locked.

Nick: Go-behind by Davis and a rear waistlock is applied!

Richard: Do your parents know?

Nick: Belly to back suplex on Tony Rolo!

Richard: Man, you're ga-

Nick: Will you SHUT UP RICHARD?!?!

Richard: ...Jeez, take it easy.

Rolo gets to his feet quickly and catches the gloating Davis with a clothesline that brings him to the mat. Rolo drops a quick, pointed elbow to his chest and presses down his shoulders, trying to squeeze in a pinfall, but gets a strong kickout at one. Then, he applies a headlock around the neck of Davis, nearly strangling him in the process. Referee Jimmy Turner checks for the choke, but declares it legal. Rolo reaches out his leg in the direction of Simply Beautiful, who quickly gets his meaning and slaps the foot to tag himself in. He charges at Tony Davis' exposed upper body and hits him with a running Shooting Star Press! Rolo and SB quickly pick Tony Davis up and hit a combo STO! A high five over the fallen Tag Champion - and double elbow drop!

Richard: Look out for High Flyer!

High Flyer just slingshotted into both men, wiping them out with a crossbody!

Nick: All four men are in the ring! Davis just got to his feet and leveled Tony Rolo with a right hand! SB with a kick to the stomach - Double Underhook Suplex on High Flyer!

SB turns around to face the legal man and eats an elbow smash to the face. Davis lifts a knee into his gut to follow, and then fires off a rapid Northern Lights Suplex. Rolo rolls out of the ring, but Flyer and Davis hit a Double Suplex on SB. As Flyer exits the ring, Davis scoops SB up and whips him into the ropes, catching him on the rebound and hitting a Side Backbreaker. SB nips up right away, but Davis is waiting and clobbers him across the back. He follows that with two hard left jabs, and slams his forearm into SB's face to take him off his feet.

Richard: Wow...he just kicked the shit out him.

Nick: But look at SB fight to his feet!

SB starts to get up - and BAM! Tony Davis punches him right in the forehead! SB goes down, covering his face with his hands.

Richard: You were saying?

Nick: Would you please? Anyway, SB needs to make a tag to Rolo.

Richard: He's been in the ring for like a minute!

SB gets to his feet, and sure enough he's busted open at the brow.

Nick: This is not good, SB's bleeding.

Richard: After that? This guy's a fairy, he bleeds too much!

SB looks a bit dizzied, but he puts his hands up, ready to fight. Rolo is trying to get the crowd involved, and they're cheering loudly for SB. Davis locks up with him, and drives a knee into his stomach. Gutwrench Suplex! Davis immediately picks SB up and hip tosses him closer to Team V.I.A.G.R.A's corner. Stomping on SB's chest, he tags High Flyer in. Flyer leaps up onto the top rope and comes down with a Guillontine Leg Drop! He covers SB and hooks the leg!

ONE!

TWO!!

THR-Kickout!

Nick: SB is hurting pretty bad. He's got to find a way to get together some offense so he can tag out.

Flyer picks SB and dropkicks him through the ropes, sending him tumbling to the outside. Before SB can even get all the way back to his feet, Flyer leaps over the top rope with a Plancha Suicida!

Nick: CRASH AND BURNNN!

SB dodged it and sent Flyer right into the guardrail! The crowd pops - but they're instantly silenced when Tony Davis hits SB with an Axehandle Smash off the apron!

Nick: Excellent timing by Tony Davis - but here comes Rolo!

Rolo lays Davis out with a lariat, and picks SB up off the mat. High Flyer gets up behind them and dropkicks them both into the the apron! Rolo turns around, clutching his stomach that bounced right into the ring, and decks Flyer with a right hand! Davis gets to his feet, and SB hits him with a spinning heel kick!

Richard: Is Jimmy Turner gonna take control here?

The referee orders the legal men back into the ring, and as he tries to get Rolo back to his corner, Tony Davis takes a cheap shot at SB and throws him into the ring post! He rolls him back into the ring, and High flyer covers with a leg hook! Turner turns around to see just what's happening, and drops into a pin!

ONE!

TWOO!!

THRE-NO!

SB with another kickout just in the nick of time!

Richard: Shouldn't this guy be dead by now? I mean, aside from escaping the AIDS virus for all these years, he's been getting sound ass kickings week in and week out. What keeps him going? Drugs?

Nick: It's called heart, something you don't know anything about.

Richard: Actually, cardiology is a hobby of mine. That and railing your sister.

SB tries to use the ropes to help himself up, but Flyer straight kicks him right in the chest and knocks him down. He tries to throw SB down and pin him again, but only gets a two count. Scooping SB off the mat, Flyer connects with a Belly to Belly Suplex and goes right into a Bow and Arrow Submission that he calls the Flyerboard.

Richard: Is that Verne Gagne out there? I haven't seen a bow and arrow in...well, ever!

Referee Jimmy Turner checks on SB, but there's no way in hell he's tapping out just yet. SB tries to free himself by striking Flyer with hammer blows, but can't seem to gather up enough force to knock him off.

Good thing Tony Rolo just stormed in and kicked Flyer right in the teeth! Turner turns to get Rolo out of the ring, and SB gets to his feet, bloody and shaken up. Perfect opportunity for Tony Davis to sneak in and hit SB with a Backdrop Driver! Flyer reaches an arm over and pins SB!

ONE!

TWO!!

THRE-KICKOUT!

Richard: Son of a bitch! Somebody just shoot this guy! It's making me sick! He's a friggin' punching bag out there, but he keeps kicking out!

Flyer looks beside himself, and decides he's going to finish SB off. Going over to the neutral corner, he signals for the Snohawk! DIVING HEAAAADBUUUUUUTTTTT!

HITS THE CANVAS! SB rolled away, and he's crawling over to make the tag to Tony Rolo! He reaches...reaches...Tony Davis is in and he grabs SB's foot! SB kicks him off and lunges forward - he made the tag!

Nick: Comeback city!

Rolo hits a lariat on Tony Davis and sends him to the floor below! Flyer gets up, and he's on dream street after missing the Snohawk...

ROLOPLEX!

ONE!

TWO!!

THREEE!!!!

Nick: They did it! SB and Tony Rolo just beat the Tag Team Champions!

Richard: Son of a bitch!

Vince: Here are your winners, the team of TOOONYYY ROOOLOOO AND SIIIMPLEEEEE BEEEE-UUUUTIFUUUULL!

Nick: What a finish!

Richard: Careful you don't stroke out, junior.

Rolo's music hits, and he shakes hands with SB. Could this be a tag team on the rise, considering they just pinned the tag champs? Time will tell, but that was a great win for SB and Tony Rolo!

Dragging her back to the center of the ring, he stands over the Universal Champion and starts to deliver stomp after stomp in an old favorite he hasn’t busted out since The Squared Circle… various stomps to the body a la Ronnie Garvin. The aforementioned star begins to roll over in his grave several times as Sonny targets the body, throwing several stomps all around her body. Arms, legs, torso, head, neck, anything that’s stompable, he throws a boot at. He sits Lindsay up and DRILLS her with a trifecta of kicks before knocking her down with a chop and concluding the powerful striking combination off with a Leaping Knee to the head!

ONE!

TWO!

THR… KICK OUT!

Now beside himself in anger, he wraps an arm around Lindsay’s neck and starts to shake the life out of her with a tightly-applied Sleeper Hold! On her knees in the center of the ring surrounded by fifty-thousand strong, they deflate little by little as all hope for The Queen of the Ring seems lost. Sonny continues to shake her body around in such a manner that she slowly goes limp.

Nick: This isn’t good for her at all! I gotta say it, but it’s looking terribly bleak for Lindsay Troy now!

Richard: She put up a great fight, nobody is underestimating her, but Sonny simply wanted it more tonight!

Thomas Giles has no choice but to check her arm for any signs of passout. He holds the arm high…

ONE!

It falls limp. Lindsay’s face turns shades of colors not meant to be seen in the human form.

"LET’S GO, LINDSAY! Clap-clap clapclapclap!
LET’S GO, LINDSAY! Clap-clap clapclapclap!
LET’S GO, LINDSAY! Clap-clap clapclapclap!"

TWO!

Giles drops the arm again, but she shows no signs of escape. One last time is all Sonny needs to crown a new Universal Champion, the sole reason for his existence in PRIME as he says these days. With blood drenched down her face, she looks ready to head out into that good night. Thomas Giles raises it one last time…

"RUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~!"

Nick: SHE’S STILL IN THIS MATCH! I DON’T BELIEVE THIS HEART SHE’S DISPLAYING HERE TONIGHT!

The arm stops centimeters from the landing point necessary for Giles to make the submission count. Lindsay fights through the pain and the lack of oxygen reaching her lungs. Call it sheer craziness, what have you. She possesses it in loads and to give up the Universal Title right now is not something she plans on doing either tonight or any other night. The Daredevil Dame slowly uses whatever strength her body will allow to take Sonny with her and climb to the ropes, using the second rope as a springboard to take them both down where she comes across his shoulders!

ONE!

TWO!

Sonny has no choice but to let go of the submission hold, finally freeing Lindsay Troy from his grasp. Before she can get any sort of a reprieve, Sonny whips her into the nearest ropes, but doesn’t count on her bouncing back… MOONSAULT REVERSE DDT! The challenger’s skull bounces off the mat at a sickening angle as now both bodies lay on the ring, neither one moving. Those wacky Seattleites continue to go batshit crazy for the back-and-forth main event of the evening. Silver’s eyes grow wide as he tries to figure out what just happened while Lindsay Troy rolls onto her stomach, breathing heavily.

Thomas Giles has no choice but to start the mandatory ten-count. Each number that goes by, Safeco Field echoes throughout while Lindsay Troy starts to make a comeback. Sore arm, sore knee, bloody face and all, she starts to crawl towards the ropes and pull herself back up. Sonny, sore arm of his own, bloody knuckles, sore neck, bloody face and all, does the same to prevent what could be Troy’s last hope for a comeback.

Nick: They’re back up now!

Richard: I don’t believe this! What does he gotta do to keep her pinned?

Nick: At this rate, he’d have to choke her out or get the 52nd Infantry to do the work for him!

The challenger throws a punch, but Troy blocks it and rebounds with a right of her own. Silver bounces off the ropes and comes back again hoping to have better results, but gets nothing but a rigid right. The third time is hopefully a charm as he comes back looking for a left-handed Lariat, but Lindsay crouches before impact. He comes back and walks into a Leg Lariat that rattles his brains!

Clutching the back of his head in pain, Sonny pops back to his feet and gets doubled over with a Low Spinning Roundhouse from the Champion. Hooking a far leg, she applies the front chancery and DRIVES him into the mat with a Spinning Fisherman’s Neckbreaker!

Firmly placed in the center of the ring, Lindsay gets a running start from the ropes and comes back, jumping onto Silver’s chest three times in succession before leaping back and plowing all her body weight into him with a Standing Moonsault!

Richard: What is she now, a Jumping Bean? Stand still and fight him like a man… er.. wait…

Nick: She’s getting back into this… CORKSCREW SENTON BOMB OFF THE TOP!

He calls it right on the money. Just as soon as The Daredevil Dame does her best to try and fight through the agony her sore knee is causing her, she gets to the top as quick as she can and throws all her body weight into a big-time Corkscrew Senton across Sonny’s chest! She rolls him up, Oklahoma Roll-style!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Sonny flops over onto his stomach while Lindsay keeps the punishment going for the former Mr. Silver. A quick Snap Kick to the stomach greets him. A second, third, and fourth follow and Lindsay doubles Sonny over once more, running off the ropes and connecting with a Leaping Somersault Neckbreaker! She rolls through and springboards off the nearest ropes, landing perfectly across his chest with a moonsault reminiscent of the Best Moonsault Ever!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE… SHOULDER UP!

Nick: WHAT A SERIES OF NEARFALLS THERE! LINDSAY TROY’S FEELING IT RIGHT NOW!

Richard: That referee should ban her ass from doing all this flippy-floppy bullshit!

Nick: It’s all legal!

Seeing her options run out with each kicking infuriating her, The Universal Champion takes two handfuls of Sonny’s hair, but an errant thumb to the eye halts her attack. Sonny takes in a few deep breaths to regain his energy and jettisons himself off the ropes, looking for that Yakuza Kick… DUCKED!

THY KINGDOM COME!

Nick: Listen to these fans! Thy Kingdom Come! The Crossface submission and now Sonny’s in the ring with nowhere to go!

Richard: NO, NO, NO! Not fair! Not fair at all! She’s choking him!

She really isn’t, but the way she tears and pulls at Sonny’s neck gives off the impression that The Queen of the Ring intends to dismember her former tag team partner. She covers his eyes with her own torn and tattered hands while scissoring his cast-covered arm. Sonny screams in anguish and does whatever he can to try and make it to the nearest ropes. It’s a struggle, especially after the intense attacks thrown upon him in the last couple minutes.

Scratching at the mat, Sonny pulls all of Troy’s weight on his back as he hysterically squirms around, searching for that elusive bottom rope. The fans reaction to the submission blocks out most of his ability to think, but amazingly, he shows great ring presence by heading towards the nearest set of ropes.

Lindsay pulls back tighter on the neck-destroying hold, but is forced to relinquish her grip when Sonny manages to get a foot underneath the nearby rope, sending the crowd into a fit of rage. Some sparse applause comes up for the hometown boy as he escapes defeat just one more time.

Thomas Giles has to PHYSICALLY pull Lindsay Troy off Sonny’s fallen body and finds himself having to run from the frenzied woman in the process. Seeing the challenger for her title nestled away in the nearest corner now, she runs for her target with intent to kill on her mind, but he cuts her off at the pass with a Hotshot across the top ropes!

Richard: Way to go! Sonny just bought himself some time!

Nick: Indeed! Lindsay was mere moments away from possibly spelling the end of Sonny’s twisted dreams of power… wait, what the HELL is he doing?

Looking out to the roaring crowd, he shakes the doubt from his mind. Right now, in the clutch, doubt is only going to lead to his failure. The former Chairman of PRIME climbs out to the ring apron and starts an arduous ascent that remains very uncharacteristic of him. Queenie slowly comes around, only to be on the receiving end of a DRILLING Hook Clothesline off the top!

Nick: Sonny is truly a man without recourse here tonight! We saw things we’ve never thought we’d see here tonight and that was another one on the Colossus Highlight Reel! Sonny nailed that picture-Perfect Clothesline with great hangtime and now he goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE… KICK OUT!

As Lindsay Troy attempts to shake out the cobwebs, Sonny holds a hand high into the sky and stomps on the mat, waiting for The Queen to get back to her feet. He licks his chops and if you were to catch it from the right angle, an evil glint in his eye that puts the Grinch to shame could be seen.

The Universal Champion comes to and... CORONA DUCKED! She uses all the strength her body can muster to shove him into the ropes. As he comes back, he gets doubled over from a kick and finds himself in position for the Final Judgment. The double underhook is complete, but Sonny shocks her by snapping out of hit and hooking an arm for a Short-Arm-Clothesline… DUCKED BY TROY!

Troy bounces off the ropes and comes back with a Flying Forearm, but Sonny has the wherewithal to duck the blow, smashing directly into Thomas Giles! The lanky referee goes sailing from the impact and goes for a tumble to the outside!

Richard: Man, they sure don’t build these guys like they used to.

Nick: Lindsay missed her intended target and just obliterated Thomas Giles! WAIT!

Richard: HAHA! YES! Way to go, Sonny!

In the midst of all the confusion, Troy gets back up only to get the taste KICKED out of her mouth, courtesy of the Corona! Sonny, knowing for sure the end is near, falls atop her prone body and drapes a forearm across her throat, only for no count to the be made.

Richard: What, no! Sonny had Lindsay BEAT right there! You could count to a thousand after that Corona!

Nick: Well, here comes another official, Roberto LaCassa!

Sonny doesn’t adjust his position one bit. It’s perfect. LaCassa slides right into the ring and into position to administer the pinfall.

ONE!

TWO!

THR… KICKOUT!

Nick: I don’t believe this! Troy’s felt that Corona kick three times in about as many as three months and we thought the third time Sonny nailed it would be a charm, but she’s still in this one!

Richard: LaCassa’s Goddamn fault! If he wasn’t too busy back there snarfing donuts like some fat piece of crap, we’d have the rightful Universal Champion crowned!

Sonny throws several hard knees into the head of the Queen and a jaw-shattering right sends her flying into the nearest corner to be put at Sonny’s mercy. Sonny stomps the proverbial mudhole into Troy’s sternum and nearly walks that son of a bitch dry before sensing the time is at hand to wrap this shit up and secure himself the Universal Title.

He turns her around so he can make his way to the top rope, prying up the dead weight of the Queen of the Ring along with him for the ride. The Corona and the Heel Hook, she BARELY managed to survive, but what he had in mind was going to put this away once and for all. He hooked her up in a modified powerbomb position and readied himself for takeoff, ready to drill Troy through the mat.

"RUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Nick: TROY’S FIGHTING BACK ON THAT TOP ROPE!

Richard: No, she can’t do this!

Will. Stubborness. Call it what you want, but it’s enough to free her from Sonny’s grasp… okay, the wicked desperation headbutts she throws into his head stun him. She finally has an opportunity to put this away…

One hook of the leg…

One headlock…

ONE FALL!

Nick and Richard: HOLY SHIT!

The fans come to life and leap to their feet as the SUPAFISHAMANBUSTA~! Makes its PRIME debut, the STAY OF EXECUTION!

Both champion and challenger hit the mat.

Neither one moves.

With little to no energy left, Troy rolls over and drapes an arm across the chest of the object of many months hatred.

This HAD to do it.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

"Whatever" by Godsmack.

That roof on the Safeco Field? Oh, yeah, it got blown off. If you’d ask somebody that happened to be around the Seattle area when Colossus IV concluded, the roof was last seen flying over the Puget Sound.

Sonny KICKS a shoulder up, but many moments too late. Troy goes flying off him, but that inner driver… her will to survive and everything her late father had taught her came into play tonight and ended with The Queen of the Ring breaking the dreaded Universal Title Colossus Curse.

Nick: I DON’T BELIEVE THIS! IN WHAT HAD TO BE ONE OF THE MOST DO-OR-DIE MATCHES OF LINDSAY TROY’S CAREER, SHE MANAGES TO PULL OUT VICTORY FROM NARROW DEFEAT AND BECOME THE FIRST PERSON – MAN OR WOMAN – TO SURVIVE COLOSSUS WITH THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP INTACT!

Richard: I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THESE FANS, NICK!

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER AND STILL UNIVERSAL CHAMPION… "THE QUEEN OF THE RING" LINDSAY TROY!

Lindsay Troy manages to make it to her feet with much assistance from the referee as she hands her the Universal Championship. She raises it high above her head to a celebration that can be heard by thousands of fans, but comes to a DEAD stop when she sees Sonny Silver, holding the back of his neck in pain, staring at her with nothing short of a bloody, icy stare. Silver and GOLD’s old theme stops when the two come face-to-face. Troy readies herself for whatever can be thrown her way, but nothing is said.

Sonny and Lindsay spent the last half-hour saying it for one another and for every PRIME fan in the world.

He simply nods and leaves it at that, walking out of the ring to allow Troy to have her moment in the sun. "Whatever" by Godsmack blasts throughout Safeco Field one last time as Troy climbs atop a turnbuckle, raising the title into the sky while the pungent combo of blood and sweat still runs down her face.

Nick: What a night we’ve seen! Coming off FOUR great years of Colossus events, this is Nick Stuart and Richard Parking saying good night to all and we look forward to bringing you another year of great moments just like this!

The PRIME logo flashes one more time, showing the scene of Lindsay Troy.

Battered.

Beaten.

But proud.

And more… the Universal Champion.

All hail the Queen.

YOU ARE NOT READY.

Okay, so a Vietnamese guy walks into a locker room, a real pretty boy, looks like a model. But there’s already this punk guy, who looks a little bit skuzzier, but he kinda look liks a model too. No, there’s no punchline, silly. That’s happening, right now.

Chandler Tsonda: Am I an asshole?

The 5-Star Champion barely even looks up. You’d be surprised at how many conversations between these two have started on much, much stranger notes.

Chandler Tsonda: Hey, Guy Who Looks Like A Motley Crue Groupie On Roids!

Tyler Rayne: Sorry, Tink, was so busy not paying attention to you that I…well…you get the point.

Chandler Tsonda: Serious question: is Chandler Tsonda an asshole?

Tyler Rayne: He is. Surprisingly more so when he talks in the 3rd person.

The Model Citizen sighs, pinching his nose between two fingers. This is a physical symptom of stress, which has made a reappearance in Tsonda’s life.

Tyler Rayne: What’s got your panties twisted?

Chandler Tsonda: I was kind of a megadick to the Hawaiian kid.

Tyler Rayne: You? A dick? Naaaaaaaw.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m having a serious moment of regret here. Let’s try to show some emotional depth, Ty.

Tyler Rayne: You’re the emotional kiddie pool here.

The Sultan of Style glares at Rayne, which prompts the inevitable grin, which prompts the inevitable fainting of dozens of women in the audience. It’s like a natural cycle.

Chandler Tsonda: Anyway, I feel shitty about it.

Tyler Rayne: So go apologize.

Chandler Tsonda: El Contendre Numbro Uno does not apologize to curtain-jerker spotmonkey Pacific Islanders!

For the first time in the conversation, Tyler Rayne makes eye contact with Tsonda. He seems genuinely interested.

Tyler Rayne: You’re the Number One Contender?

Chandler Tsonda: Deemed so by King Candy himself, Ceeptron 3000.

Tyler Rayne: Shiny.

Chandler Tsonda: That’s what you’ve go to say for yourself?

Tyler Rayne: What? You want a cookie to go along with it?

Chandler Tsonda: You’re not concerned that your pal Shakur might become my mortal enemy over the next seven weeks?

Tyler Rayne: You mean am I concerned that my good buddy Chandler Tsonda has managed to find himself embroiled in yet another vicious title dispute with yet another pseudo-friend of mine? Or should I be more concerned with the fact that Ceeps hands my good buddy Chandler Tsonda yet another Universal Title shot while his good buddy Tyler Rayne is over here decimating any and all-comers without so much as a main event nod?

The Viet Viper raises a finger in protest, but no words seem to follow suit. Shocking, we know. The Golden Boy rises from his seat to meet Chan Chan eye-to-eye.

Tyler Rayne: Honestly, Tink... I'll be rooting for ya. Just try and keep me out of it, if you could.

Chandler Tsonda: No worries, bro. I'll be so focused on that soon-to-be-mine Universal Championship, I doubt I'll even have time to think about you.

Tyler Rayne: Good.

The Underground Pimp offers his good buddy a congratulatory pat on the shoulder before making for the door. After all, there was this crazy rumor that there would actually be wrestling on this edition of ReVolution. Hell, these two might possibly even be booked for a match. Go figure, huh.

Tyler Rayne: Because I really doubt you'd want me getting in the middle of this.

A wink for good measure before the 5-Star Champion exits. Stage right.

It wasn't long before his first PRIME main event, but Troy Douglas had a few extra things he needed to get off his chest.

Which is why the new Intense Champion, wearing his ring gear and holding his championship belt over his right shoulder, had positioned himself in front of the ReVolution interview set, ready to address the world.

Troy Douglas: I've got a few other things on my mind, folks, so I'll make this pretty quick. A few weeks ago at UltraViolence, I made my first real mark in PRIME. Now, if I've got anything to say about it, this will be the first in a long line.

The fans in the Conseco Fieldhouse obviously don't have any objection to that, and they let Troy know that with a POP that echoes to the backstage area.

Troy Douglas: But, I've clearly got more to think about right now than where I'm headed down the road, so lets get on to the matters at hand. Namely, this shiny leather and metal thing on my shoulder right now.

Troy looks down at the belt, smiling proudly. He may have spent eight years in the wrestling industry, but that still didn't mean he couldn't take a few small pleasures out of what he did.

Troy Douglas: The Intense Title signifies a lot of things in this company, but while I've got the privilege of holding this championship, I want to make sure I embody the word that's always defined this championsip: intensity. To some people, that means violence to the Nth degree. Chairs, tables, barbed wire, jumping off high things, falls counting anywhere from the concession stands to the top of the goddamn Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur. To me, not so much.

To an audience used to Intense Title matches being some of the wildest, most violent encounters in PRIME history, this pretty much seems like blasphemy. But, they give the new champ a little time to state his case.

Troy Douglas: I want to emphasize intensity in competition, intensity in desire, intensity like you've never seen inside a wrestling ring. I may not swing a steel chair or a kendo stick, but I'm gonna hit harder and last longer than just about any man or woman you can possibly think of. I'm going to give everything of myself to keep this title around my waist, against any and all comers. That's right, folks. You want to try me? Go ahead and get in line. Just be prepared to be looking up at the pretty lights when I'm through with you, if you're conscious at all.

That, the PRIMEates could certainly appreciate.

Troy Douglas: That's all I've got to say about that, folks. See you at the end of the road.

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

Nick: What guts this man has.

Richard: Who, Vince?

The opening digital riffs of "Unbreakable" by Fireflight turns all eyes to the entryway, curious to see what condition the Zen Assassin would be in. Those who saw him at UltraViolence witnessed a bloody, beaten man. Would he be sporting his battle wounds openly, or would they be wrapped in gauze? Stitches in his chest and back, or staples?

There was a bit of disappointment when Crucifix finally steps out from the back. He’s wearing a full-body purple costume, with an emblem of a crucifix on his chest that matches the one on his mask.

Richard: What the Hell? We’re having a costume party out here?

Nick: His medical advisor informed me earlier that since Crucifix insisted on competing, he had to keep his injuries covered.

Richard: Crucifix has a medical advisor? Is he his shrink as well?

Nick: I don’t know. I was just given a note, not a resume.

The morbid disappointment at not seeing Crucifix’s scarred flesh disappears when the blonde woman walks out behind him. She’s wearing a white nurse’s hat with a red cross on it, and a white nurse’s outfit with a neckline that plunges down to her navel, revealing plenty of skin and more than just a little cleavage.

The music continues while Crucifix walks down the aisle. No bow, just a bee-line for the ring. His nurse walks as quickly as her white stiletto’s will allow her. Each step hikes her mini-skirt up slightly, showing off where her garter is holding up the white nylons.

Richard: I… I think this might be the first time I’m glad to see this clown. Freak or not, the man knows how to accessorize.

Vince Howard: Accompanied to the ring by his medical advisor Nurse Goodheart -

Nick: Isn’t that one of his associates? I don’t think she’s really a nurse.

Richard: Okay, one: who cares. And two: boobs.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at one hundred and eighty-six pounds… hailing from Detroit, Michigan... The Zen Assassin… CRUUUUUCIFIIIIIIIIIIX!

Nick: This would be a tough fight for Crucifix even if he wasn’t injured. We’re about to see how much he’s recovered.

Richard: It doesn’t matter what shape he’s in.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

"You think I'm funny... Funny how?"

The unmistakable voice of Joe Pesci irritates the eardrums right before Metallica's 'Better Than You' begins to blast through the PA System. Tony 'The Grin' Gamble walks out at the same time the music kicks in, passing a quick arrogant glance toward the crowd before making his way toward the ring once the lyrics of the song kick in.

## 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 ##

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 Revolution 94 when Gamble locked The Illustrious Face Eater into his 'Smile For Me' submission and won the Internet Title plays.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at one hundred and eighty-seven pounds... hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada... He is, Tony 'The Grin' GAAAAMMMBBBBLLLLLLEEEE!!!

## Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you ##

Tony takes his time walking up the ring steps, staring 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. The PRIME*View now shows footage from Revolution 112, where Gamble slams Jason Snow face first into the mat with his 'Stop Laughing At Me' signature move, then follows it up by locking Snow in the 'Smile For Me' and makes him tap.

## 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 ##

With a wide grin painted on his face, Tony soaks up the negative reaction of the crowd. Another clip shows on the PRIME*View, this one from King of Kings, where Tony Gamble became the Jewel in the Crown Champion when Angelo Deville passed out and succumbed to the strain and pressure of Tony's 'Smile For Me'.

## Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you ##

Nick: Does Gamble seem a little... distracted in there?

Richard: There’s a pair of breasts staring at him from ringside… and it looks like it’s a few degrees colder at that altitude.

Nurse Goodheart bats her eyelashes at Gamble, who ignores her to focus on the masked man in the ring. The referee signals for the bell, and the two men lock up. Crucifix comes out with an arm, which he twists into a wristlock. Gamble quickly escapes it by reversing into a wristlock of his own. Crucifix wastes no time in making his way to the ropes.

Richard: Crucifix is looking a little gun-shy out there. It’s understandable, given the fact that he’s in the ring with Tony Gamble.

Gamble holds the arm until the referee reaches a four count, then kicks Crucifix in the butt while he backs away. Crucifix seems to have taken that personally and charges at Gamble in a running double axe-handle motion. Tony takes him down with a quick drop toehold and slides up quickly into a side headlock. A second later, Crucifix pops out with a reverse hammerlock, forcing Gamble forward until his chest touches the mat. The Grin pushes up with his free hand, leveraging himself back to his feet. One one-armed cartwheel later, Gamble escapes the hammerlock. He spins and nails Crucifix in the face with a fast, closed right hand. Gamble tilts his head to the side and watches Crucifix scramble on his hands and knees, crawling to the ropes where Nurse Goodheart hugs his head to her chest.

Richard: I never thought I’d say this, but I really wouldn’t mind being Crucifix right now.

Nick: I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to really want to be in there.

Richard: Can you blame him? Tony’s looking to make an impact at his expense, and that masked goof isn’t helping his cause at all right now.

Inside the ring, Gamble taps his wrist to indicate that time’s wasting. The crowd, formerly behind Crucifix, has started to react to his antics with confused silence. Nurse Goodheart pushes Crucifix back and tells him to take care of business. Crucifix gets to his feet, but looks at Goodheart as if he’s not sure what she means.

Nick: He’s got his back to Gamble…

Richard: German Suplex! One of the best in the business, if I do say so myself. It looks even better when done to that masked maniac.

Nurse Goodheart slaps the mat in frustration once Gamble folds Crucifix up like an accordion. He doesn’t hold it for a pin, opting rather to let Crucifix get back to his feet so he can do it again. And he does, with a great deal of satisfaction. The Grin stands up and stomps Crucifix in the chest, hard and repeatedly.

Nick: Crucifix has had almost no offense in there. It’s going to be a long night for him if he doesn’t do something soon.

Gamble yanks Crucifix to his feet and whips him into the turnbuckle. Nurse Goodheart covers her eyes, and Tony plants a boot in the purple belly of the Zen Assassin. He steps back, sizing Crucifix up for another boot, when out of the blue Crucifix catches him with a roundhouse kick. The fans get loud, finally having something to cheer about. Another kick to the head, but this one is blocked. The Grin catches the foot, sweeps out the other leg, and one twisted limb later he has Crucifix trapped in a figure-four leglock.

Richard: He’s tapping! Gamble has him beat!

Nick: Where’s the referee?

Richard: It looks like he’s lost in Goodheart Canyon.

The referee is on the other side of the ring, admonishing Nurse Goodheart for climbing up on the apron. Opting to capitalize on a golden opportunity, Gamble notices his ring position and grabs the ring ropes directly behind him, pulling himself up by the top rope.

Richard: He’s gonna snap Crucifix’s leg! His medical insurance is going to be taking a beating!

The official, finally noticing the cries of pain coming from behind him, catches Gamble using the ropes and orders a break. Grudgingly the orders are followed. Crucifix climbs to his feet and tries to shake out his tortured leg. Satisfied it can support weight once again, Crucifix turns and catches another quick right hand from The Grin. Gamble whips him off the ropes, and sends him flying on his return with an overhead belly to belly suplex. He goes for the pin –

... One

... Two

... Kickout

Crucifix escapes the pin, but gets no further to a vertical base than his knees. Gamble’s shining wizard enzigiri makes short work of that. He takes the Zen Assassin and whips him into the ropes again. Crucifix reverses the whip, but as soon as Tony’s skin meets rope Nurse Goodheart grabs his foot.

Richard: Hey, Gamble better be careful out there. He got his foot caught in Nurse Goodheart’s cleavage.

Nick: You know he didn’t -

Richard: I know Crucifix had something to do with it. That’s all I know. Never trust a man in a mask.

Gamble stops, reaches down, and grabs a fistful of blonde hair. That gives Crucifix the opening he needs. He winds up and lands a kick to the back that crumples Gamble to the mat in a painful pile of Grin.

Bas Rutten: Liver kick! Liver kick!

Richard: Security!

Bas Rutten is escorted from the area. Nick and Richard look at each other, confused.

In the ring, Crucifix traps Gamble with a Thai clinch, and starts firing piston-like knees into Gamble’s stomach, sternum, and chest. He maneuvers Gamble into the corner, where he fires off ten more powerful knees. A snap mare later and Gamble is sitting on the mat, where he catches a kick to the back. Crucifix hits the opposite ropes, then flattens Tony with a shin kick across the chest. He collapses on The Grin.

... One

... Two

... Kickout!

Not wanting to lose his momentum, Crucifix takes Gamble up and over with a somewhat shaky suplex. He tries again for the quick pin.

... One

... Two – Kickout!

With the crowd now more or less coming back around to his support, Crucifix climbs to the top rope. Nurse Goodheart starts yelling at him from ringside. Crucifix takes his eyes off the prize for one second, and it costs him. Gamble kips up to his feet, takes a quick stutter step, then shows his amazing athleticism by jumping from the mat to the top rope and clipping Crucifix with a springboard jumping heel kick!

Crucifix tumbles from his perch, snapping his throat over the top rope on the way down. He hits the mat in a heap, and Gamble hooks the leg for the pin.

… One

… Two

… Three-ish

The referee didn’t see it, but The Grin caught Nurse Goodheart out of the corner of his eye as she put Crucifix’s foot on the bottom rope.

Richard: AGAIN! What a cheater that Crucifix is!

Nick: But Nurse Goodheart -

Richard: Well obviously a beautiful woman like that had to be intimidated, coerced, into this dastardly life of crime.

Nick: (sighs) Yes. Obviously.

Tony rolls out of the ring and Goodheart breaks into a run, desperate to escape the wrath of Gamble. He chases her around two corners before noticing that the cameraman has her up on the PRIME*View, her ample assets jiggling with every step. He stops and looks up at the screen, somewhat amused, and the joke isn’t lost on the rest of the fans in attendance.

Nick: Good job cameraman, way to be on top of things.

Richard: I can think of two things I’d like to be on top of right now.

Nurse Goodheart’s expression of panic disappears when she notices the PRIME*View. She walks up to the smirking Gamble and slaps him across the face. The smirk disappears and he grabs her by the throat.

That’s when Crucifix lands on both of them with the grace of a jumbo jet.

Inside the ring, the referee starts his ten count. At Five, both Crucifix and Gamble stir. At Seven, Crucifix has pulled himself under the bottom rope, At Nine, Gamble does the same.

Almost.

The official can’t see Nurse Goodheart holding Tony Gamble’s foot, keeping him out of the ring. As the referee counts Ten, Nurse Goodheart looks up and sees the glare of Gamble burning a hole in her forehead. Her survival instinct kicks in, and she bolts up the aisle.

Richard: Highway robbery! Gamble was ripped off!

Nick: I’m not sure what to say about this. It… it doesn’t seem very characteristic of Crucifix to have someone interfere like that.

Richard: The guy is a nutcase! Who knows what characteristic he has!

Gamble slides into the ring just as Crucifix has his hand raised. He spins the Zen Assassin around.

Richard: YES!

Nick: Gamble just dropped Crucifix with his patented ‘Stop Laughing At Me!’ facebuster!

Richard: He might have lost this match, which you and I both know he didn’t -

Nick: Well -

Richard: But in the end, it looks like Tony Gamble got the last laugh after all.

CRAAAAAAAAASSSSSH!!

A bottle ricochets off the back of the bar, knocking liquors left and right. Several yards away from the bar, Nova wobbles in place, a golf club in his hand. He sets his beer down on the ground, takes aim, and whacks it with the club, sending it twirling into the cherrywood finish. Suds and glass go everywhere.

Tony Rolo: SPLENDID!!!

Rolo tucks his club between his legs and claps for the shot. The two men are alone in the VIP suite now, the raging party of less than an hour ago having filtered out. Peeps is busy, gotta lotta other segs 2 do ‘n shitz. Nova and Rolo have nowhere to go…

…except down Memory Lane.

Nova: (Turning to Rolo) Lemme asp you sum’thin. Seerius lee.

The Specialist sets his beer down and begins lining up his shot.

Tony Rolo: I’m listenin.’ (Swing!) DAMN!!

The bottle is clipped off to the left, shattering against the crème-colored wall next to the bar and dribbling down towards the floor.

Nova: Da’yoo trust See Pee Cantrell? Ya know…ta LEED PRIME. Not ta fuggid all up?

Rolo turns around, his golf club swinging past Nova’s head (duck!), and stares the Risen Star in the face. Then he takes a drink from another beer. Then more staring in the face.

Tony Rolo: I think ‘eez a self-servin’ COCKSUCKER. I think thur ALL self-servin’ cocksuckers, datin’ back to…hoo wuz it? Toe-she-ah-kee…Toe-mo-kee? Ahhh, fuckivino…

Nova: Or Tyler Nelson…

Tony Rolo: …or tha’ fat fuck widda beard…

Nova: Like da Who sed, man…godda new boss, same as tha old boss…

Tony Rolo: (Finishing another beer and flinging the bottle) DIRECT. AKSHUN. It’s tha only wayda influence any of those fuckers. Trust me, Nov. They’re…they’re gonna see whadime tokkin’ ‘bout soon enuff, too.

Rolo flings his golf club at the bar. It makes a satisfying racket as it shatters several bottles and unhinges a shelf, causing at least a dozen more to clatter to the unforgiving tile on the floor.

Nova: Hey…HEY, Tony, you’re not gunna doo nuffin crazy, are you?

The Specialist turns back to the Risen Star with an Alzheimer’s-esque bewilderment in his eyes.

Tony Rolo: Huh?

Nova: Whud-eye I sed before was…that looks reely fun.

Nova launches his own golf club through the air and down onto the oasis of expensive spirits. The two men share a laugh, then pulls from a bottle of whiskey taken out of the bar.

Twenty minutes later…

A hand pushes open one of the double doors to the VIP suite, revealing a modest amount of damage to the once-pristine conference room. The camera moves into the dim-lit room, scanning around until it settles on a pair of legs poking out from next to an armchair. The camera moves around until its view of Nova, alone and passed out on the floor, is unobscured.

Voice: Oh, this is just too perfect.

The camera shakes a little as a hand picks a chair up by the leg. A loud shattering noise is heard, then the hand carries a chunk of the leg with it as the camera approaches Nova. There is a wooden table not far from where he lays, and the camera shakes again as its operator obviously uses the chair leg to help smash the table in. Then the hand drops the chair leg and grabs Nova by the ankle, dragging him across the floor and slumping him in a half-seated position against the ruins of the table.

Voice: Fuck you film school, THIS is composition.

For good measure, a hand sprinkles some sawdust and a little bit of garbage over the Risen Star. Then the camera moves back several feet.

Voice: Now…smile for the camera.

We’re treated to the whirrrrrrrr-click-click-click-click of camera shutters as Nova’s face is illuminated by flashes. Then the shot fades to black.

The catering room has been a hotspot backstage in PRIME since its inception. It's believed that the animosity dates back to the dawn of man, when neanderthals would battle over the carcass of one's kill. The desire to feed brought out passionate emotions of anger and aggression. Same sort of thing here, only with a cold meat tray standing in place of a wild boar's rotting corpse.

At this current moment, the table of goods is being scavenged by PRIME's reigning Intense Champion, Troy Douglas. His hands work fast, assembling a small roast beef and trukey sandwich that he adds to his plate next to a few mixtures of vegetables. His light pre-match meal preparation is brought to a momentary halt as a figure stops straight across from him on the other side of the table.

Kaiser: Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Kaiser Vashaun, and you are a fraud.

PRIME's newcomer holds out his arm, as if waiting for a handshake he knows isn't coming after the bitter greeting. Troy Douglas ignores the extended hand, choosing instead to focus on the comment made.

Troy: Beg Pardon?

Kaiser: I introduced myself. Kai...

Troy: Got that part. The other thing...

Kaiser: Ah, that part. What I said, was that you are a fraudulent champion.

The manner of Vashaun's words quickly changes. The joking and sarcasm gives way to a seething, yet understated seriousness.

Kaiser: As I understand it, you're PRIME's Intense Champion. But I take issue with that. Weeks before you ever accomplished your title victory at UltraViolence, I stepped into the ring with Dusk, and I pinned him 1-2-3. At the time he was lying on his back looking up at the arena lights in a daze, he was still the reigning champ, and as far as I'm concerned, that makes "your" Intense title... my property.

Troy: And because of that I'm a fraud?

Kaiser: I'm afraid so.

Douglas ponders the train of thought for a moment, trying to put two and two together and come up with the same answer as Kaiser. But the more he thinks about it, the more it seems that the numbers add up to a heaping pile of bullshit.

Troy: You'll excuse me if I don't quite agree with your rationale.

Kaiser: You don't have to agree. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm coming for that Intense Championship.

Troy: Hey, I'm more than willing to defend this title against any and all challengers, but standing around whining and complaining, then pounding your chest while you shout to the world about all the wonderful things you've accomplished... not doin' much to help your case, son. Better start seeing about distancing yourself from the pack. I'm sure there's a helluva lot of people looking for a shot at this title, so you might as well get in line.

There's a brief moment of tense silence. Douglas's words can nearly be seen soaking into his antagonits skull. Then slowly, Kaiser begins to nod his head as the corner of his lips tilt upward.

Kaiser: I guess you hadn't heard... I'm the Next in Line.

In casual form, KV grabs the sandwich from Troy's plate and takes a large bite

Kaiser: Good stuff.

He holds up the sandwich for a moment, then takes another bite while walking away from the catering table, as if he hasn't just stolen another man's kill.

"Big Brother truly is watching, I suppose, if that Big Brother happens to be a former reality show maven who is probably practicing how to walk like he has a load in his suit pants as we speak."

Perhaps more than anyone else in PRIME, David Walter Smith is used to being incessantly followed by cameras. As a former reality star, he's used to them.

Doesn't mean he enjoys them.

Logic: Has no one read 1984? George Orwell's vision of a dystopian future sadly did not take into account the future existance of Sonny Silver, but with the way PRIME is being run, he was more accurate than he might have believed...

Backstage at PRIME is always an interesting proposition. Logic, though, tries to avoid interesting whenever possible. He currently does this by means of "Ze Curious Mega Job Tracker", made for him by Doctor Curiosity during a recent visit.

Currently, he stands by one of the omnipresent Snapple machines backstage (rumored to have been requested by Xavier Kannon) drinking a peach iced tea, and enjoying his night off after a hard fought win last week over Dusk.

Cue Mike Renner laughing hysterically somewhere.

As the big man stands pondering his future, as it is so often wont to happen, an incident occurs that alters the course of Logic's day. Considerably.

One moment, Logic is thinking of possible opponents for next week.

The next moment, he has a pretty good idea of one.

Lynette: My apologies!

The back of one Pensive Punisher happens to be wet, courtesy of a spilled Snapple. The large man turns around to see standing there Lynette, self-appointed manager of one Crucifix.

Lynette: It slipped from my hand...

She is somewhat sheepish, gesturing to the now half-full bottle, lying on the ground.

In truth, Logic isn't especially annoyed. Sure, being wet and sticky sucks, but where some people would see affront, Logic sees opportunity. The Dual Halo might have been before his arrival, but he watched the match on PPV.

And he saw Crucifix absolutely demolish it, the Crucifix Crossface racking up victim after victim after victim.

A win over Crucifix, following up a win over Dusk, would mean wonders.

Logic: Don't worry about it...Lynette, I believe? Accidents happen.

The Thinking-Man's Grappler turns immediately away from the manager, setting his eyes upon the competitor whose sole loss in PRIME remains to Tyler Rayne.

Logic: You were in the fWo, were you not?

Crucifix: Uh, yes?

Logic scratches his jaw, looking over the masked competitor.

Logic: Something...is not quite right. Not quite as I remember with you, but nonetheless, that does not currently matter. What DOES matter, however, is that you have proven yourself to be an impressive competitor in PRIME. And as such, you are a man that I must defeat if I am to become the Colossus that I know myself capable of being.

Crucifix: Wait, I don’t know if -

Lynette: Perfect. Though I doubt you have what it takes -

The blonde fingers a lock of her hair, looking the big man up and down while pausing momentarily in his crotch area.

Lynette: - to get the job done.

If Logic is angry, or, well, emotional in any way, he doesn't show it.

Logic: I will make sure that Mr. Cantrell hears of our request to do battle, Crucifix. See you next week, In the ring.

Before he is gone, though, the Pensive Punisher has one final word of advice.

Logic: Pray. Though I can't say it did too much for the man strapped to the symbol you're named after.

Nick: Next up, folks, we’ve got a non-title match between Captain Justice and Tyler Rayne, but what the HELL did we see with them earlier?

Richard: A chilling look at Tyler Rayne’s future! Captain Justice had enough of that guy running his mouth, so he walked right up and piefaced him!

Nick: They slugged it out until half the national guard got in the way! And here we are! A win for Tyler Rayne would keep up his INCREDIBLE winning streak, but a win for Captain Justice tonight would SURELY put him in contention to the 5-Star Title. Vince Howard, take it away!

Vince Howard: The following non-title contest is scheduled for one fall!

The crowd begins to murmur, a few of them igniting some lighters. A burst of static through the speakers accompanies a static snowstorm up on the PRIME*View.

The static fuzz fades into a sketchy blur of silhouettes and bouncing horizontal lines. The entire scene shifts along the lines, producing two or three of the same skipping image. The vaguely human shapes seem to resemble a trio. Perhaps a man and two women. We’ll assume they’re women because the man, who’s face becomes clearer as the rest of the scene begins to blur more, is none other than the 5-Star Champion himself.

"Stick ‘Em Up" by Quarashi.

The fans EXPLODE with a reaction made up of about 70% cheers, 30% jeers for the Underground Pimp himself. The cameras try to find him near the PRIME*View, but that does absolutely no good, so the tech monkeys try to spot him through the crowd.

Sure enough, at the top of the nose bleeds, Tyler Rayne stands in the midst of a section of rowdy drunks, drinking up a storm and holding the 5-Star Title high above his head.

Nick: And here comes arguably the HOTTEST man in PRIME today!

Richard: I knew it! You closet case! You LOOOOVE the cock!

Nick: No, Richard! If you’d have let me finish, you’d let me say that NOBODY is on as big a roll as Tyler Rayne right now. The current 5-Star Champion, longest-reigning current title holder since February and the 2008 Dual Halo winner on TOP of that! With huge victories over Wade Elliott and Simply Beautiful, he’s looking to keep his major winning streak intact.

Vince Howard: First, making his way to the ring from Baja, California, weighing in at 217 pounds, he is the PRIME 5-Star Champion… THIS… IS… TYLER RAYNE!

Polishing off the last of a cup of beer, Rayne makes his way over the barricade before sliding into the ring, showing off the 5-Star Title to all sides of the ring. The longest-reigning active champion in PRIME today screams in reciprocation from the raucous crowd enjoying his company before he hands the strap over to referee Max Newell. Standing in his corner patiently, he awaits the challenger…

Lights fade.

Red, white, blue hue.

GO!

'Hail to the Chief [instrumental]' by 3rd Bass.

Parting the curtains like the Red Sea, Captain Justice walks out and throws both fists in the air to a chorus of jeers. Once he reaches the entryway...

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Standing with a shower of patriotic pyro behind him, CJ makes his way to the ring. After a successful leap onto the ring apron, the New Face of PRIME stalks the ring and climbs inside, again, with both fists in the air.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, from the Great City of Gothametropolis, weighing in at 280 pounds, CAPTAIN JUSTICE!

Making his way to the ring, sans Mr. Silver (probably still a little bit sloshed from Nova’s "Welcome Back" party, The Americanimal stalks the apron like a bull ready to charge before hopping over the apron, staring face-to-face with Tyler Rayne, who doesn’t back down from the Patriotic Powerhouse.

Nick: Speaking of hot acts in PRIME, Captain Justice has been nothing short of DOMINANT in his very short stay in PRIME. He narrowly lost to former Universal Champion Lindsay Troy…

Richard: RECOUNT!

Nick: But he had a STELLAR performance in the Dual Halo in his own right, plus he nabbed one of the biggest singles victories of his career by defeating Xavier Kannon DESPITE his own manager trying to stop him. A win here would certainly give Captain Justice some bragging rights towards the 5-Star Title!

As Newell calls for the bell, both combatants come to a head. Rayne starts talking some trash to the giant, who responds in kind with…

Crowd: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

A WICKED slap damn near forces the taste from Tyler Rayne’s mouth as Captain Justice smirks underneath his mask, grinning a shit-eating grin that would make Mister Silver proud.

Captain Justice: Fight, knave. At least act like you have a spine!

Rayne, with head cocked back to the side, wipes a trickle of blood from his lips and chuckles a little bit at the first blow landed by the Captain and returns fire…

Nick: STANDING ENZUIGIRI! ALREADY, RAYNE ON THE OFFENSIVE!

The giant doesn’t fall down, but he does teeter, allowing Tyler to go on the offensive with a stiff succession of forearms, all landing on his chiseled jaw. Seeing the big man still rocking, Tyler bounces off the ropes and SMACKS him across the jaw with a wicked Leg Lariat that keeps teetering the Americanimal.

Nick: Tyler Rayne, just like all his other competition, is really taking the fight to Captain Justice!

Rayne, slightly shocked the big man hasn’t fallen down just yet, runs to the ropes again and floors him with a nasty Pump Dropkick, sending Captain Justice through the ropes and onto the outside! Sitting back up, he stops momentarily to take in the electric crowd here tonight before he bounces off the ropes…

SLINGSHOT HEADSCISSORS TAKEOVER!

Nick: What athleticism by Tyler Rayne! He’s using what brought him to the dance by taking the fight to Captain Justice with his speed and striking ability!

Richard: He’s CHEATING! He’s not standing still so Captain Justice can maul him!

Gritting his teeth, Captain Justice tries his best to shake the cobwebs out while Tyler Rayne continues to bring the punishment, pummeling him about the head with a succession of knees. With the big man stunned, The Underground Pimp tries to whip him into the guardrail, but Captain Justice puts the brakes on that shit and DUMPS him violently onto the mat with the Great American Drop!

Richard: THERE we go! The old Rope-a-Dope!

Nick: Call it whatever you want, but Tyler Rayne just took a Samoa Drop from a 280-pound man on the outside! That’s gonna effectively kill ANY momentum you get going on!

Using the apron to pull himself back to a vertical base, Cap J. adjusts his mask and wipes a trickle of blood from his own lip before picking the fallen 5-Star Champion up by the waist. With Rayne gasping for air, Captain Justice PUSHES him back-first into the ring post, sending a shock of pain racing through the Dual Halo winner’s spine!

Not letting up, the New Face of PRIME delivers a trifecta of clubbing forearms to the small of Rayne’s back before powering him up with a Military Press! Showing off for the crowd at this point, Captain Justice smirks before HURLING him through the first and second rope, dumping his lifeless form back inside.

Richard: THAT is how business gets taken care of! Pound-for-pound, Captain Justice has gotta be the strongest person in PRIME… next to Killean "Where’s My Needle?" Sirrajin, of course!

Heading back inside the ring, he follows up the punishment with several vicious stomps to the head and back of the Underground Pimp, basically taking steps to try and grind his enemy’s face underneath his boot. Satisfied, he shoots the half and goes for the first cover of the match.

ONE!

TWO!

THR… NO!

Tyler Rayne shoots the shoulder up at the count of two, encouraging Captain Justice to hurt the Underground Pimp a little more. Tossing the dead weight into the nearest corner, he buries a series of boots into the chest of Rayne before leaping to crush him in the corner… TYLER MOVES! He uses the second ropes as a springboard and turns back, connecting with a nasty Gamengiri-style kick to the face of Captain Justice, knocking him on his back for the first time in this contest!

Nick: WHAT A COUNTER FROM RAYNE! He’s gotta stick and move if he’s going to combat the Captain’s size and power advantage!

With the Indianapolis crowd firmly behind the 5-Star Champion, Rayne cradles his back to make sure that everything is intact before he waits for the giant to get back to his feet. He grabs him by the head and RAMS a nasty volley of his signature knee strikes, each one more violent than the last.

Busting open the lip of the giant a little bit more, Tyler backs him into the nearest corner and keeps the big man off his game by rocking him with kicks to the chest, ending the series in a NASTY Roundhouse Kick to the face in the corner, sending Cap J. to his knees.

Nick: Tyler Rayne has just adopted this new meanstreak brought out by the likes of his encounters with Wade Elliott! He’s even got Captain Justice on all fours now and I don’t recall anybody ever dissecting him like this!

The beatings Rayne had taken on the outside seem to be all but shaken off as Captain Justice has been brought to his fours, trying to recover from the brutality inflicted upon him by Rayne. He lights up the big man’s chest with a STIFF kick that’s so impactful, beads of sweat fly from the barreled chest of his opponent. Three more greet him, making Captain Justice gasp for air as the burning sensation in his chest overtakes him.

As the big man tries to regain his bearings, Tyler climbs out to the apron and hops atop the turnbuckle, measuring up his target… He flies…

DOUBLE KNEES TO THE FACE!

Keeping his weight pressed on the top of Captain Justice, he hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THR… NO!

Rayne tugs at the mask of the big man, almost trying to pull it off him, but Justice throws a nasty Haymaker into the stomach of the 5-Star Champion. Backing up, Tyler Rayne looks for something reminiscent of a Springboard Moonsault, but the Captain sidesteps his attempt at the offensive maneuver. Rayne lands on his feet, but walks right into a VICIOUS Justice Served Spinebuster!

Nick: Captain Justice got all of that Front Spinebuster Slam on Tyler Rayne and just like that, you could feel a big shift in momentum!

Richard: There we go! He’s got that nutcase right where he wants him!

Glancing down at his chest, the stinging red welts left on his chest only incense the beast into further dishing out punishment, so he sits atop Rayne’s chest and PUMMELS him with some of the most powerful blows ever landed on PRIME television! Tyler does his best to block the onslaught from the giant, but the power advantage the Captain wields over him leaves him with the upper hand. At the count of four and a half, the Captain backs off for a minute, then delivers a VICIOUS punt kick directly to the chest of the 2008 Dual Halo winner.

Richard: IT’S GOOD!

Nick: Tyler Rayne, as good as he is, may have just unlocked a sleeping giant in Captain Justice!

Richard: Oh, this is getting good.

Forcing him back to his feet, The Hoss of a New Millennium Irish whips Rayne CLEAR across the ring, chest-first into the buckle! Rayne collapses back to the canvas in a scarred and burned heap, clutching his rib cage tightly.

Richard: Check this out! Sheer domination, my friend. DOMINATION!

Captain Justice grabs two handfuls of Tyler Rayne’s shaggy mane and pounds him several times with a set of forearms before powering him up and over into a Vertical Suplex… he holds it…

Five seconds…

Ten seconds…

Twenty seconds…

Nick: What power! He looks like he’s barely trying!

Richard: His power is so great, the cure for cancer is in his tears! And he’s such a badass, he never cries.

Nick: Did you steal that form the Chuck Norris Random Fact Genera-

Richard: NO! SHUT UP!

As Rayne feels the blood rushing to his head, Justice simply THROWS him backwards, landing sickeningly on his back. Justice sits up and rolls over, placing all his body weight into two palms across the 5-Star Champion’s chest.

ONE!

TWO!

THR… KICK OUT!

Nick: Rayne showing some great tenacity, but this is exactly what CJ has done to opponents in the past: break them down little by little with power moves!

Once again with the momentum on his side, the Ameircanimal sits atop the turnbuckle, keeping a firm grasp of his opponent. Saluting the crowd, he POWERS Rayne up with a Rear Naked Choke – keeping the dead weight up – while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. The referee counts to five, trying to keep the giant from harming him illegally, so Justice lets him fall.

Nick: Was that goof just reciting the Pledge of Allegiance?

Richard: HEY, HEY, HEY! That’s THE Pledge of Allegiance, butthole!

Rayne falls to the mat, choking while Captain Justice laughs boisterously. The fans JEER the Patriotic Powerhouse, but he simply chalks it up to them booing the life out of Tyler Rayne and keeps on the attack, pinning him to the nearest set of ropes before BLASTING him with an Open-Handed Chop!

WHOO!

WHOO!

WHOO!

Even though they hate his guts, they can’t help but let the "WHOO!" fly proudly. Charting a new course of action for the match, the Captain rolls him through with a snapmare and he follows it up by running to the ropes and PUNTING Rayne in the head for a second time with a nasty boot to the skull, knocking him flat on his back.

Nick: Rayne’s the definition of a pain sponge, but right now he needs to think of a way to come back from this.

Richard: Pain sponge? What the hell is a pain sponge?

Nick: Means he absorbs pain.

Richard: Like a sponge?

Nick: Yeah.

Richard: …idiot…

Slashing a thumb across his throat, he sits the 5-Star Champion up and wraps him up in a modified Seated Abdominal Stretch hold, pulling backward. The Captain grits his teeth with each twist of the hold, trying to contort Rayne’s body into ways not meant to be twisted in.

Captain Justice: GIVE UP, MONGREL! THE WORLD TIRES OF YOUR FILTH!

Tyler Rayne: (gritting teeth) CLOSE… YOUR… PUSSYHOLE!

He yanks back harder, all but torturing the former masked menace called MDK.

"LET’S GO RAYNE, LET’S GO! Clap-clap!
LET’S GO RAYNE, LET’S GO! Clap-clap!
LET’S GO RAYNE, LET’S GO! Clap-clap!
LET’S GO RAYNE, LET’S GO! Clap-clap!"

Nick: Rayne’s in dire straits right now! He’s been punished in the last few minutes and now, Captain Justice isn’t letting up!

Switching up the submission hold, he now tries to HUMBLE~! The 5-Star Champion by tugging away at his neck with a modified Camel Clutch submission while CJ has a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades. Tyler raises a hand to the rowdy Indy crowd and squirms to both his knees. In shock, CJ tries to apply the pressure and squeeze Tyler Rayne’s head into oblivion, but the Underground Pimp won’t have any of that shit, elbowing him vehemently to try and free himself!

He finally makes it to the sought-after base and starts Throwin’ ‘Bows into the top of CJ’s thick skull, stunning him. Rayne tries to make it back to his feet, but Justice grabs him and THROWS him over the head with the PRIME-Plex!

Nick: AGAIN, CAPTAIN JUSTICE COUNTERS!

Justice, having had enough of Rayne’s crap, looks to the closest corner and undoes the turnbuckle padding, ripping it off in one go. The fans jeer, but Captain Justice takes a bow for what he’s about to do… KIP UP INTO THE ENZUIGIRI!

With CJ now back against the wall for a moment, Tyler tries an irish whip, but CJ blocks it with a kick to the stomach. Taking a page out of his playbook, he whips Tyler to the ropes, but the Underground Pimp comes back and SPRINGBOARDS off the second rope, connecting flush in the face with the Un-fucking-believable!

Nick: RAYNE COUNTERS INTO THAT SIGNATURE MOVE!

Richard: Go on and say it. You know you wanna!

Rayne, biting his lower lip and trying to suck in the vicious beating he’d taken in the last few minutes, comes back at the giant as he tries to make it back to a vertical base with the second Zidian Zidane-style headbutt thrown this evening! CJ goes barreling back into the corner, where a game and ready Tyler Rayne leaps with all his might, scrambling the brain matter of the Americanimal with a Jumping Knee Strike in the corner. The fans cringe upon the impact of the attack, but Rayne follows it up out of the corner with a modified Tornado DDT! Roaring with the ferocity of an alpha dog in the wild, Rayne kneels over and hooks both legs of the New Face of PRIME.

ONE!

TWO!

THR… KICK OUT!

Nick: So CLOSE! What a contest between these two men! Just laying it all out here tonight as two very proud athletes.

Richard: He should be BANNED for using headbutts and knees like that!

Nick: What about Devin Shakur?

Richard: …Shut it.

Rayne kicks a leg and waves for Mr. Silver’s protégé to get back to his feet, practically foaming at the mouth to deliver the killing blow that’ll hopefully put CJ away. As slowly as he’s ever moved in this contest, the winded giant picks himself up, but gets hooked by Tyler Rayne in a Cutter-like position. He runs to the ropes, looking for some sort of Shiranui-like maneuver, but Justice hangs on, letting Rayne flip out and over behind him! Tyler goes for a rear waistlock, but Silver’s charge elbows him in the face. Stunned, the Captain tries to take advantage by grabbing him by the head…

Captain Justice: LONG ARM OF THE LAW!

Nick: Here we go… No! Tyler ducked!

Rayne ducks through the hold and runs to the ropes, looking for a Corkscrew Cross Body… CONNECTS… CAPTAIN JUSTICE ROLLS THROUGH!

Richard: WAIT! HE REVERSED HIS REVERSAL!

Justice, seeing his opening, runs to the corner with the undone turnbuckle padding and SPIKES him face-first into the exposed steel, knocking the 5-Star Champion loopy.

Nick: HEY!

Richard: HEY! Captain Justice didn’t know that turnbuckle padding was there!

Seeing an opportunity to end it, Captain Justice sneers to the crowd and laughs before underhooking Tyler Rayne beneath his head…

Captain Justice: LONG ARM OF THE LAW!

Richard: HAHA! GOT HIM!

Rayne hits the mat at a sickening angle, crashing and flipping stomach first from the impact of the Burning Lariat. Sitting atop his chest now, Captain Justice hooks the leg and buries a forearm into the face of the battered Rayne!

ONE!

Nick: NO, NO, NO! HE CHEATED!

TWO!

Richard: YES, YES, YES!

THREE!

"Hail to the Chief" by 3rd Bass.

Collapsing in a heap of sweat and trickles of blood, Captain Justice barely manages to roll off the body of the 5-Star Champion. Taking a respite, the JEERING crowd do everything short of rain down trash upon the Americanimal.

Nick: I… I don’t believe it!

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER… CAPTAIN JUSTICE!

Richard: HAHAHA! I CAN! HE TOLD YOU, HE TOLD EVERYBODY HE WAS BETTER THAN TYLER RAYNE AND TONIGHT, HE JUST PROVED IT! HE BEAT THE DUAL HALO WINNER AND FIVE-STAR CHAMPION!

Nick: Fine. Let’s call a spade a spade! He beat Rayne, but did he do it fairly? No, he didn’t! And look at him! Rayne punished him far more than any other body I’ve seen during his PRIME stint! Now, you can bet he’s not going to shut up about this!

His words do indeed ring true as Captain Justice has to utilize the very corner that aided him in victory as a way to stand. Climbing outside the ring now, he hobbles up the ramp, still sore as fuck from easily the stiffest competition – true in every sense of the word – he’s faced in his PRIME tenure thus far. But as his eyes lock with those of Tyler Rayne, who now just manages to come around and glare menacingly at the New Face of PRIME, said New Face of PRIME marches up the aisle with his head held high (OW! Neck hurts) in victory.

How many times has a man knocked on Lindsay Troy's locker room door? A billion? Make that a billion and one, although the visitor is not who you might expect. You see, it's not someone Troy calls a friend, not an Elliott or a Nova. But it's not necessarily someone who she calls an enemy, like your Cozens and Silvers.

But you can bet a handful of wadded up cash that the Queen of the Ring isn't ecstatic about Chandler Tsonda knocking on her door.

Chandler Tsonda: Troy, open up.

As no one else can, Lindsay Troy makes Tsonda wait until the very last second. As he turns his shoulder, the door opens. The crowd pops wildly at the appearance of the "new look" Troy.

Chandler Tsonda: Hi.

The response from the two-time Universal Champion and future Hall of Famer is a blank expression.

Chandler Tsonda: I'm sorry, did I interrupt a game of charades or something?

Lindsay Troy: Two words: sounds like "go away."

The look that Tsonda shoots back is the type of "are you done?" glance that might work on most people. Lindsay Troy will NEVER be called part of "most people". She continues unabashedly.

Lindsay Troy: What, are you here on behalf of a new metrosexual Asian courier service? Because I really hope it's not to have some sort of "chat" with me.

Chandler Tsonda: I'm here on serious business. Momentary peace?

The Model Citizen puts up both hands. It's the best way that Tsonda, who once made it his only goal to take Troy off her throne, can show he means no harm.

Lindsay Troy: I've found that moments are fleeting and miracles happen every day. Case in point, it's a miracle I haven't slammed the door or dropkicked you in the head.

Chandler Tsonda: Nice to see the new 'do hasn't made you any less of a crabby bitch, but whatevs. I came here to ask you what it's like.

Lindsay Troy: Is this pre-op research?

Chandler Tsonda: Ha ha. What's it like, knowing that you're miles away from the Universal Title?

Lindsay Troy: Isn't that a question better suited for your former tango partner Tony Gamble? Or, I could always call up a Video Daily Double of me wiping the mat with you to jog your memory of your last bid for glory.

Chandler Tsonda: I'm not here to gloat about the way things are. I just wanna know what it's like, now that it's all over. We both know that if you want another Uni shot, it's gonna be a long time coming. Silver chased you and you chased Silver. And we all waited for our shots. And waited. And waited. Now, Cantrell and his faceless powers that be have decided you're out for a while.

Lindsay Troy: (inhaling deeply) Have we (exhaling) missssssssssssed the developments of me wanting to murderdeathkill the Crazy?

Chandler Tsonda: Right. Well, you seem to love having these fireside chats with everyone else. So tell me this one thing. What does Lindsay Troy have to say about the love affair with the belt?

It would appear like Troy is reluctant to share information with Tsonda. Fairly so, since their history is checkered, at best.

Chandler Tsonda: C'mon, Troy.

Lindsay Troy: Come on, come on, come on. Where are we going, Chan Chan? You've been on the Universal Title Road for some time, but you keep hitting potholes. Can't get that alignment right. All rattle-y. I've defined that belt for a new era, it doesn't define me. But I've never left the Road. Came to a fork and I'm taking the one less traveled. But it'll make all the difference. I'll come out of the woods and get me back to where I want to be. And when I'm there, you can ask me how sweet the third time is, if your head is still above water.

There's a thick silence that floats down between them, as Tsonda lets this all sink in. Troy, for her part, smiles at Chandler as his face scrunches into thought.

Lindsay Troy: Anything else, Channy? Been awhile since we've chatted, would hate to see you have to fight Megatron when your mind is swimming.

Chandler locks eyes with the Queen, who is still smiling at him. He nods like something just clicked in his head.

Chandler Tsonda: Good looks for you.

The Model Citizen throws her a curt smile of his own, spins on his heel, and walks off to meet his main event encounter.

"I can't believe this shit."

Tony Gamble, his hair still wet and dripping onto his shoulders, is stuffing his ring gear into a duffel bag. Muttering under his breath as he does so, the man seems to have lost his mind.

Gamble: First I have to walk into that damned joke of a party to find Nova forgot how those people treated him when he was clawing his way to the top and is actually having drinks with them... Can you believe that? I mean, after all the shit I did for him...

Slamming his hand on the table where his bag lies, Tony can barely contain his anger.

Gamble: I made sure Tchu didn't take that title from him... I was the one who had to suck it up and do all the dirty work while he got all the praise, and he has the damn nerve to sit there with a hand on Troy's ass while toasting a drink with Dusk... DUSK!!!

Cracking, Tony takes a hold of the bags straps and tosses it across the room.

Gamble: And to top it all off, I get jobbed by a set of tits.

He laughs at this, though he does not find it to be the least bit hilarious.

Gamble: What you said the other day was true... I need to stop goofing off and focus. I don't know what I was thinking, but from here on out you better believe that I'm not going to rest until people remember just who the hell I am.

His eyes lock on something across from him.

Gamble: What do you think, is it believable?

The camera pans to find the Devin Shakur imitator from Nova's party bound and gagged. He struggles slightly, then simply nods his head as tears begin to fall from watery eyes.

Gamble: Good answer.

As ReVolution returns, the ringside area has undergone a vast make-over since Rayne and The Captain departed. It appears… civilised. Any minute trace of canvas, mat or concrete has been obscured by red carpet, three sides of ring ropes are woven with ivy or lights, and the best furniture has been brought out to replace the trusty, foldable ‘whack-over-a-head’ chairs.

Nick: Wel-

Richard: Sorry, Nick, going to have to stop you there. I, Richard Parker, have been chosen as the officially endorsed and exclusively licensed lead announcer for this ceremony, so I’ll be taking it from here.

It’s safe to say that Nick Stuart looks less than distraught as he simply lounges back in his chair and gestures for Richard to knock himself out.

Richard: Very gracious of you, Nick. Over to Vince Howard.

Nick: That was it?

Richard: Quality not quantity, Nick. No wonder Scientology never chooses you as their officially endorsed and exclusively licensed lead announcer for their ceremonies.

In the guest laden ring stands Vince Howard, clutching a stack of cue cards.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, good evening and welcome to this special ceremony, brought to you jointly by PRIME and the Church of Scientology.

"HUBARD SUCKS!" roars a fan from ringside.

Richard: Security to section G, bring your bear-mace.

Vince Howard: In the ring at this time, representing the Church of Scientology… first, he is a Grammy-nominated recording artist, BECKKKKKKKK! Beside him, she is an Emmy-winning voice-over artist and known the world over as the voice of Bart Simpson, NANCY CARRRRRRRTWRIGHT! Next, we have the actress and model, from That 70’s Show, LAURA PREPPPPPPPPPPPPPPON! And, finally… him, on the end. That guy.

Nick: Who is that one again?

Richard: He was in Veronica Mars… it’s like The Hills, but, like, totally fake.

Beside Vince Howard stands a man who lacks the aura of celebrity that 3 of the 4 guests have about them. Neatly suited, he looks a bit like Scientology’s version of Bible Salesman. Think music teacher dressing as a librarian.

Vince Howard: Now, at this time I hand proceedings over to your master of ceremonies, he is the head of the Scientology Mission of Indianapolis, Mr Grant Fielding.

He raises a hand as if to tell the crowd not to applaud. They must all be telepathic and saw it coming.

Grant Fielding: Thank you, and I am now proud to introduce to you all a man that has finally found the answers he’s been searching for his whole life, a man who can finally experience a clean and revitalised mind, and a man who has bravely declared his faith proudly in front of millions. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, accompanied by his stunning wife, Eleanor… XAVIER KANNON!

While Vince Howard secretly fears for his job, the crowd erupt into the kind of rabid jeer that lets anyone watching know their views on the Church of Scientology. As the seconds pass, there’s no pumped-in cheering of Superstar, and no screech of Rock is Dead… instead, soft classical music flitters out of the arena speakers.

If it was designed to calm the crowd, it failed epically.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Surrounded in all directions by a mass of security guards, Xavier and Ellie walk our arm in arm. With Kannon still pristinely suited-up and Ellie having changed into a black dress similar to Hepburn’s in Breakfast of Tiffany’s, the couple pose between every step for the official photographer who snaps from inside the security huddle.

Grant Fielding: Let’s give the man a warm hand.

Fielding doesn’t quite ‘get’ it.

As Kannon approaches the ring, Beck, Nancy, Laura and Jason rise from their seats to applaud, while at the announce desk, Richard Parker mimics their standing ovation and waves a mini, commemorative flag.

Richard: Isn’t this a great moment, Nick. Just think, when your grandchildren ask you where you were on this day, you can tell them that you were si-

Nick: Sleeping.

Security peel off around the ring, leaving Kannon to lead Ellie up the carpeted steps and onto the ring apron, where Fielding opens them for her. As his wife begins the meet-and-greet, while keeping an eye out for any Champagne on offer, Kannon follows her in, received by Fielding with a warm handshake.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Yeah, the crowd still aren’t into it.

Richard: And this isn’t just a proud day for Xavier Kannon, this is a proud day for PRIME. What better way to show that we’re a tolerant and forward-thinking promotion?

Nick: I’ll write you a list. Mind if I stop when I hit 1,000?

Beck is met with a hug, Nancy and Laura with a kiss to each cheek, and Jason Dohring with… a puzzled look as to who he was again. With the niceties out of the way, the classical music fades out and Grant Fielding ushers Xavier to the middle of the ring.

Not seeing a glass of Champagne in site, Ellie slumps down on the seat beside Dohring, muttering to herself.

Grant clears his throat.

Grant Fielding: Xavier, in front of our gathered guests, the thousands of fans in attendance, and the millions watching around the world, it is my honour as the head of Scientology’s Indianapolis Mission to both officially invite and welcome you to the Church of Scientology, and to let you know that we’re honoured to have you.

Yeah, this is getting booed out of the building. The kind of booed out of the building where the celebs look awkwardly back and forth at one another.

Grant Fielding: Now, please take the microphone, as I’m sure you’ve prepared some words.

SHUT-THE-HELL-UP! SHUT-THE-HELL-UP! SHUT-THE-HELL-UP!

The crowd attempt to pre-empt him.

A proud smile illuminating his face, Kannon takes centre stage, looking out into the crowd and soaking it up.

Kannon: Grant, thank you. A thank you also to Beck, Nancy, Laura, my beautiful wife Eleanor, Richard Parker, and… that guy. Oh, and how could I forget, a deep, deep thank you from the bottom of my heart to ALL my fans here tonight.

His beaming smiles cranks up just a little as he triggers another eruption.

Kannon: Oh, that’s right… you all turned your back on me, didn’t you? Silly of me to forget. But I don’t blame you, no, I’m not a vengeful deity who will judge and inflict eternal torment on you. It’s the world we live in, you don’t know any better. In this world, nobody wants to see anyone else find happiness. Nobody wants anyone else to have peace of mind. So why would you people want me to find freedom, to unlock my mind to clarity, to find enlightenment?

Safe to say, that’s not how to win a crowd over…

TOM’S-A-HOMO! TOM’S-A-HOMO! TOM’S-A-HOMO!

…not that they were ever there to be won over.

Kannon: It’s envy, and it’s fear. Not everyone has the courage to take that step towards the truth, and resent those of us who find it, and can free our minds. Just take a lesson from my special guests here tonight… Beck, take him for example. Heralded as one of the most innovative and complex minds in music today, not bound by any musical formula or convention. And he can do all that because he can think on levels that others don’t realise are there, so they just have to sit there strumming the same chords while he invents a whole new genre.

The crowd can’t quite bring themselves to jeer Beck, so stick to their favourite target.

TOM’S-A-HOMO! TOM’S-A-HOMO! TOM’S-A-HOMO!

Kannon: It’s okay, it’s okay… we don’t expect anything better from you. PRIME may be the pinnacle of the wrestling business, the biggest, brightest and best promotion on the face of the planet, but it’s the wrestlers that put us on that pedestal, our fans are just the same peons that watch SCCW or GCW.

SHUT-THE-HELL-UP! SHUT-THE-HELL-UP! SHUT-THE-HELL-UP!

As he lands more and more jabs, the mood turns nastier, and the ominous security presence at ringside look as if they’re ready to kick off. Up out of his seat, Jason Dohring shares a few choice words with some of the fans at ringside, while Nancy and Laura look none-too-comfortable amidst the barrage of abuse.

Kannon: But as soon as you can accept that, then your road to salvation will open. I too was at rock-bottom, at my lowest ebb, not seeing a future for myself, but now here I am. All you people need to do is realise that you’re nothing, and you can sta-

--CRACKLE--

Kannon: -rt on your path to self-improv-

--CRACKLE--

Kannon: -ment.

Looking none-too-happy at the technical problems, Kannon slaps the mic, but as he does so, the lights around the arena begin to flicker on and off.

Kannon: Okay, I know what this is. This is ears being death to the truth, trying to disrupt the message because they fear the freedom that it bri-

Before he can spit out his theory, he’s interrupted by the deafening crackle as the PRIME*view flickers with static.

Kannon: Okay, that’s enough. NO IGNORANT PEON IS GOING TO EMBARRASS ME HERE IN FRONT OF MY GUESTS! I HAVE ASSURANCES FROM CANTRELL THAT ANY PRIME STAR RUINING THIS MOMENT WILL BE SEVERELY DEALT WI-

And then the mic goes dead, much to the delight of the crowd.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

In the ring, a voice-less Kannon stalks, joining Dohring in verbally sparring with the fans, until the brief moment of silence in blown apart by a swelling guitar riff.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH-

-AGH-

AGH-

AGHHHH!

A guttural roar almost explodes every speaker in the arena, causing Nancy Cartwright to topple off her chair as Piece By Piece by Strata rocks the Conseco Fieldhouse.

I found these plastic parts and wires,
Let's split me open at the seams,
And rip out everything inside,
Make room for all these new machines,
Sew me up, pray that I survive,
A brand new me…

Piece by Piece.

Nick: You’re kidding me…

It appears that the crowd were, as Kannon so eloquently put it, just the same peons that watch SCCW… because they know this music.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

And through the curtain he walks, their saviour, their new hero…

The New Life.



JONATHAN RHINE

Richard: Security! Time to test those new unbreakable batons!

Nick: He’s standing on a PRIME stage… "The New Life" Jonathan Rhine… the dethroned champion of, well, our competition!

Richard: What are they waiting for? Club him like a baby seal!

Nick: He’s technically here by invitation of C.P. Cantrell, you heard what he said last week! He literally welcomed anyone from our rivals to come to ReVolution… but I’m not sure this is what he has in mind, and judging by Rhine’s SCCW Highwaymen t-shirt, I’m not sure if he’s here to sign up!

Jonathan Rhine has a microphone in his hand, indeed his does. And he’s nodding. As he waits for the applause and cheering to die down, he nods once more, and again after that. Just a nodding machine, our Rhine is.

Richard: Don’t even let him talk! He can only spew filth!

Rhine raises the microphone to his lips and pauses for a moment before delivering his big words, his monster speech, his…

Rhine: Uh…hi?

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Nick: Well spoken, this one.

Rhine: Sorry for the little brain freeze, folks. I just…wow. This is PRIME. I have to say, I kinda like it.

There’s more cheering, and Rhine chuckles.

Rhine: Now, I do want to start off by quelling the fears of a certain CEO of SCCW. And to apologize to Mr. Cantrell. No, I’m not joining PRIME.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Rhine: But you can put that booing away, because you’ll be seeing plenty of me. See, even though I might not be collecting my paychecks from Cantrell, and even though I had to pay those guys in the back just to play my theme song…

Richard: That’s right! Get back to your Podunk federation!

Rhine: I show up when I feel there’s a mission to be fulfilled. And Xavier? XK? The LEGENDARY Mr. Kannon? You’ve given me a hell of a mission.

The fans go off again as Rhine chuckles, leaving Kannon with a confused if not disgusted countenance.

Rhine: See, I’m not sure if you know much about me, and I don’t blame you if you don’t. I mean, yeah, I’m a former champion in the Sin City, I was the man who ended Clinton Sage’s career… but you’re Xavier Kannon. The King of this business. The man. You’re too busy ruling your court to look down at the peons, or whatever other dumb royalty analogy you can fit in your usual twenty minute rants. But if you knew anything about me, you know I have a little code of ethics. It gets mocked everywhere I go, I’ll admit.

Richard: Because it’s dumb! And outdated! Just like you!

Nick: He’s 23, Richard.

Richard: I meant dumb.

In the ring, a silenced Kannon tries to roar into his mic, but can’t raise his words above the din of the crowd.

Rhine: But it’s gotten me results. And this code of ethics tells me that I just cannot let this sort of ceremony stand. This celebration that spits in the face of everything that these fans believe in. Not the religion, but the way you go about it. I mean, seriously, X, do you even listen to yourself?

Rhine walks down a few steps, shrugging his shoulders.

Rhine: I’m not usually the one to do this, I’ll admit. I am not the guy who likes to clamour for attention and come to the ring with a big entrance to get a reaction… I usually leave it to the blowhards like, well…

Rhine gestures to the ring, where Kannon shakes his head and Dohring threatens to storm up the aisle.

Rhine: Yeah. This isn’t my territory. But there’s something about taking a legacy, something that everyone knows and respects you for… and just shitting. All. Over. It. People think of Xavier Kannon and they think of all of the things you’ve accomplished in the ring. But now? They’re going to think of two things. They’re going to think of you turning coat when you couldn’t beat Silver’s protégé…

Rhine then raises his hand over his head, encircling the entire arena.

Rhine: And this moment. The moment where you tried to show how badass you were, but then a little wrestler you don’t even know about came and interrupted it. I’d usually feel bad about ruining someone’s moment like this, but it’s gotten to the point where you need something like this to realize the mistakes you’re making. So…

He looks around the arena, and once more at The Gold Patron Meritorious.

Rhine: Hope you learn something from this, like maybe to appreciate what you had instead of ruining it. The show’s yours again.

Piece by Piece hits again as Rhine stays underneath the PRIME*view for a second longer, looking at Kannon’s outraged expression, before smirking and heading to the back.

Richard: This… this… this was a declaration of war!

Nick: This was the reality check that Kannon needed.

With Rhine having departed, a crackle brings life back to his microphone, which Kannon shoots straight up to his lips, only to stall for words.

WE-WANT-RHINE-BACK! WE-WANT-RHINE-BACK! WE-WANT-RHINE-BACK!

Kannon: You… you…

Turning to look out into the crowd, each and every fan in attendance revelling in the moment. The moment that was meant to be one of his greatest, his proudest, that had turned into his most embarrassing and disastrous.

Kannon: You… you peons don’t deserve this! None of you do! You see Beck there? Beck? Yeah, he was going to play a new song EXCLUSIVE to this ceremony, and you would have been the only fans to have ever seen it live! But now? No, you threw it away! And Nancy, well, she was going to… um… do Bart Simpson’s voice, but now that’s gone. You flushed it away, each and every one of you ingrates.

As he stomps around the ring, Kannon lashes out at the lavish props it had been adorned with, bringing the ceremony to a destructive end.

Kannon: Actually, don’t even look at us as we leave. You don’t deserve it. Just close your eyes and try to picture Rhine’s face by the time I finish with it. I said to stop looking at us. EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES NOW, AND STOP INSULTING ME AND MY FRIENDS HERE BY CASTING YOUR IGNORANT GAZE UPON US!

Fully in the midst of what is colloquially referred to as a ‘shit-fit’ Kannon storms out of the ring, calling back for Ellie and their guests to follow.

Richard: Nick, take that tie off and pass it here so I can cut it up and wear it as a black armband. This is truly a day to be mourned, a day of sadness…

Nick: Oh, yeah… by the looks on the thousands of fans’ faces here, we’re in full party mode.

Thrashing his arms through the air in front of him, Kannon orders the fans to fall silent and avert their eyes, every look burning him as he retreats up the aisle and storms back through the curtain, pausing only to spit two words at the nearest camera.

"You’re dead."

"Pardon Me. Thanks."

Wading through bustling hallways, offering up a perma-smile to any muscle-jerk who looks even remotely interested, scattering for a buzz that'll land her extra camera time...it's basically business per usual for one Angelica Brooks. But what would business per usual be without a spontaneous clash with a stranger...

*BUMP!*

...like that.

Angelica Brooks: Oh My! I am so sorry...please, ju-...

"It's okay."

Angelica scrambles to brush the minimum dirt off of the stranger who stands steadfast, cloaked in all black and a pair of dark shades that compliment his long, bronze hair. Persistent in her remorse, She proceeds to apologize frantically.

Angelica Brooks: Sir, I am truly sor-...

"Trust me. It's fine."

Offering a courtesy chuckle, she pauses for a moment before coming to a realization.

Angelica Brooks: Let me guess...you're here for the party.

"Party? What party?"

The stranger slowly removes his shades.

Angelica Brooks: The one that Nova....is....thowi-...

Cautiously, Angelica glares deep into the revealed eyes of the stranger.

Angelica Brooks: Wait a mi-...Vangelus Ol-...?

*Cue Suspense Music*

DUN

DUN

DUN

DUN!!

Before the words are permitted to fully escape, the man quickly forces his hand over her mouth, pushing her up against the wall thus drawing a small gasp.

"Shhhh....not Vangelus Olsig....

...Dani Fürher."

Her eyes bubble over as she reminisces on the persona that Vangelus Olsig occupied before departing from the Dark Age way back in the '04-'05 era of PRIME.

Dani Fürher: Now, since you're here, I determine that you do me a small favor. You run and tell whoever is in charge around here these days...that I'm back. Got that? I...am...back.

After receiving a decent measure of assurance, he releases his grasp thus allowing Angelica to catch her breath, as well as her composure all the while he calmly struts away from the scene.

Angelica Brooks: I-I....ummm...I'll tell them, sure. But, ummm...may I ask why? I mean, you're already in the Hall of Fame.

Stopping in his tracks, he slowly turns around.

Dani Fürher: ...I forgot something.

And in the greatest cinematic scene to hit PRIME since Boda's crucifixion, both persona's slowly glance up at a nearby monitor which is running a promo for Devin Shakur...

...and the Universal Championship.


"A man travels the world over in search of
what he needs, and returns home to find it.
-George Moore

Nick: And now, it’s time for our main event! Chandler Tsonda, a man who very passionately feels like he deserves to be the number one contender for the Universal Title, going up against the Intense Champion, and a man who would like to raise his status in PRIME, Troy Douglas.

Richard: Do you know how to take a breathe? Relax? Not have to talk a million words in three seconds?

Nick: Well, if I had a partner that I wasn’t carrying as much as I have to with you, I’d probably talk less.

Richard: Nick, you need to start treating me with some kind of respect around here. Love me, Nick, don’t shun me. It’s not fair to me.

Nick: That’s never going to happen, Richard, I promise you that much.

Richard: So closed off to the rest of the world, Nick. You need companionship. It’s so sad to see a sexually repressed man each and every week who has to lash out by attacking his partner in the booth each and every week.

Nick: Okay, enough of this. This is disturbing.

Richard: Just admit it, Nick! ADMIT IT!

Nick: Vince, take it away!

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall and is our main event for the evening! Introducing first…

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: And the Intense Champion has to be salivating at the mouth at a chance to take down Chandler Tsonda!

Richard: He’d have to be a fool not too! This is a great chance for him after picking up the Intense Title at UltraViolence to continue climbing up the ladder. I’m not going to lie, Douglas has been impressive since his debut here at the Dual Halo and he hasn’t slowed down in the least bit.

Nick: Tsonda though is a man possessed as he wants a title shot against Devin Shakur after defeating Tony Gamble at UltraViolence in a match that was even referenced to by C.P. Cantrell as having a possible title shot attached to it.

Richard: Chandler Tsonda is a beast in the ring and deserves his chance on the greatest stage of them all at Colossus V.

Nick: He very well might get that opportunity, Richard, and defeating Troy Douglas tonight will only improve that chance and his status in the eyes of everyone.

Vince Howard: Introducing his opponent…

"I said 'kiss me, you're beautiful'
These are truly the last days'"

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor's "Dead Flag Blues" fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria's "Welcome Home." After twelve seconds, the bitchin' guitars start to kick ass, as green and silver pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the WalTron displays the words "Model Citizen" in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan's reaction at the top of the ramp, staring down his opponent. And amidst the hazy green and silver smoke, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and awaits the start of the match.

Vince Howard: Standing at 5 feet 11 inches and weighing in at 195 pounds, he hails from San Diego, California! He is the MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODEL! CIIIIIITIIIIIZEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN! CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDLEEEEEEEEEEER! TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONDAAAAAA!

Nick: And there goes the Jewel in the Crown winner, Chandler Tsonda! He’s gotta be itching to get his hands on Troy Douglas and have another statement match.

Richard: It’s because Tsonda does truly deserve his shot! You know it Nick, these fans know it, and the entire world knows it! Let Tsonda Free!

Nick: That will NEVER get over, Richard.

Richard: SURE IT WILL!

Tsonda glares at his opponent with a certain hatred there. Almost as if Douglas is the one holding him back.

DING! DING! DING!

With the sounding of the bell, Tsonda explodes and runs right at Douglas before firing away with a mixture of forearms and stiff kicks to his abdomen. However, with the size advantage with Douglas, he’s able to use it as he slams his knee into Tsonda’s gut at the smallest opening he sees. He follows that up with a clothesline that sends Chandler crashing to the ground. Tsonda doesn’t stay down for long though as he gets right back up to his feet and dodges a jab from Douglas before kicking him in the midsection and then planting him in the ground with a running bulldog! Chandler quickly gets back up to his feet before smashing his knee into the chest of Douglas, causing the Intense Champion to clutch his chest in a world of pain.

Richard: See, that’s a man possessed!

Nick: Tsonda’s been impressive in the early workings of this match, but he’s being more physical then he tends to be. Not a good idea to continue down that road seeing as how Tsonda’s opponent is not only the Intense Champion, but a good deal larger then him.

Richard: That doesn’t scare The Model Citizen, Nick!

Nick: It will if Douglas starts hammering away at his back.

Richard: Then, hopefully that won’t happen.

With Douglas getting back up to his feet, Tsonda bounces off the ropes and goes for a clothesline, but Douglas manages to duck it before reaching back and connecting with a neckbreaker! Chandler clutches his neck as both athletes get back up to their feet in a hurry and Douglas connects with a haymaker to Tsonda’s jaw that sends the Model Citizen into the corner. Douglas follows that up with a stiff elbow to Tsonda’s jaw before backing up and running full speed at him for a clothesline! However, the agile Tsonda manages to get out of the corner in just the nick of time and Douglas slams chest first into the corner! As Douglas stumbles backwards, Tsonda sees his opening as he rolls him up in a school-boy pin!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: SO CLOSE!

Nick: Tsonda nearly got this match over with in a hurry with that school-boy roll-up! Douglas has to be smarter on his feet if he hopes to get the huge upset here tonight!

Richard: He’s good, but he’s not Tsonda good. Not yet at least.

Nick: That remains to be seen, Richard. Douglas is extremely efficient in that ring and can still punish Tsonda greatly if Chandler isn’t careful.

Richard: We’ll see.

Tsonda gets back to his feet in a hurry as Douglas does the same. As Tsonda walks over to his opponent, Douglas explodes with an European uppercut that rocks Tsonda’s world! Douglas then grabs the arm of the Model Citizen and whips him into the ropes before slamming him to the ground with a sidewalk slam! The pressure on his back is enough for Tsonda to arch his back and wince in pain! Douglas doesn’t waste any time though as he pulls Tsonda up on his feet and sends him right back down with a hiptoss that focuses on that back issue of Chandler Tsonda! Douglas then follows it up with a dropkick to the back as Tsonda rolls out of the ring from the work done on his back!

Nick: And Douglas is finally getting his offense in here and has Tsonda reeling after that exchange!

Richard: Douglas got a little lucky. Tsonda’s going to get his head back into the game right here and now, and then it’ll be all over. Just you watch.

Nick: Troy Douglas is not someone to consider lightly Richard, and I think you’re about to find out why.

Richard: Yeah, yeah, Nick, I’ve heard it all before. Prove it.

Nick: I think he’s going to do just that.

As Douglas watches Tsonda on the outside of the ring he grows impatient and rolls out of the ring to meet his dear opponent as he nails him with a forearm to the face before spinning him around and connecting with a release German Suplex that sends Tsonda to the floor in a world of pain! Douglas gets back up to his feet quickly as he walks over to Tsonda and slams his boot to Chandler’s face before rolling him back into the ring. He slides in after Tsonda who’s on his knees and trying to get to his feet as fast as possible. Douglas helps him since he’s such a nice person, but then sends him flying into the ropes before connecting with a lariat! Tsonda goes down in a slump and Douglas goes for the cover!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: There you go Tsonda, kick out!

Nick: Well, he didn’t have a choice unless he wanted to lose the match.

Richard: Good point.

Nick: I tend to have those.

Richard: If that’s what you would like to think then I’m not going to say anything.

Douglas gets back to his feet and just waits patiently for Tsonda to do the same! Slowly, Chandler starts to fight through the pain to get back on his feet, and as he turns around, Douglas is ready for him as Tsonda walks right into him and is met with a spinebuster for his troubles! Chandler clenches as his back slams into the mat, feeling all of the pain in his back. Douglas then grabs Tsonda’s legs and looks to be going for the Scorpion Death Lock! As he goes to turn Douglas over though, Tsonda manages to shift Douglas’s weight and rolls him up once again!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: And Douglas manages to kick out!

Richard: See, that’s how the mind of Chandler Tsonda works!

Nick: Bail yourself out when you see trouble coming?

Richard: Exactly! Douglas wanted to put on that Scorpion Death Lock and that’s just not going to happen around Tsonda! Just not going to happen!

Back in the ring, Douglas is back up to his feet first, but Tsonda’s not far behind! Troy goes for a fist to the jaw, but Tsonda manages to duck it as he runs underneath Douglas and leaps onto the middle rope before connecting with a moonsault on Douglas! Tsonda fights back to his feet, gritting through the pain , but Douglas doesn’t stay down for long as he gets right back up as well and manages to get Tsonda into a collar-and-elbow tie-up! Once again, his size advantage comes in handy as he gets Tsonda into a side headlock, but Tsonda is quick to push Douglas off of him and into the ropes! As Douglas comes back at him, he kicks him in the midsection before nailing him with a Golgotha Drop!

Nick: And Tsonda with that Implant DDT!

Richard: Great move there by Tsonda and the move that will end Douglas, I promise you!

Nick: Don’t be so certain!

Tsonda slowly gets back up to his feet and drags Douglas up with him before kicking him in the midsection! He then bounces off the ropes and appears to be going for a swinging neckbreaker, but Douglas digs down deep and manages to connect with an elbow to Tsonda’s jaw! The impact sends Tsonda back into the corner as Douglas is quick to follow up with a running corner splash! Tsonda nearly falls in the corner, but Douglas holds him up as he lifts him up onto the second rope and it’s clear to the fans that the End of the Road is coming up for Tsonda! As Douglas goes to hook his arms though, Tsonda slams his head into Douglas’s, sending Douglas down to the mat! He doesn’t stay down for long as he gets right back up as Tsonda gets off the second turnbuckle and kicks Douglas firmly in the midsection before connecting with the Runway Vault!

Richard: AND THERE WE GO!

Nick: Tsonda with that Diamond Dust seemingly out of nowhere, which he has done so well throughout his entire career!

Richard: That he has and that’s why he’s about to put away Douglas!

Nick: That might be very true…

Tsonda then hooks Douglas’s leg as he goes for the pin!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

…

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner… CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER! TSSSSSSSSSSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONDAAAAAAAAAA!

Richard: And that right there is why he is the man worthy to compete for the Universal Title!

Nick: He might very well be and after that impressive victory, he will have some more weight to that argument.

Troy Douglas thought that the sounding of the bell meant his night was over.

Troy Douglas was wrong.

The Intense Champion rolled out of the ring and backed up the ramp, but it wasn't until he turned around that he saw the figure of a man standing directly in his path at the top of the ramp, sneering and clapping sarcastically.

Kaiser Vashaun.

Douglas tries to walk right past Vashaun, but the Next in Line provides a rather forceful roadblock, bumping the Intense Champion right in the chest and pushing him back a few inches. Troy shakes his head and tries to ignore it, but Vashaun says something that is barely picked up by a shotgun mic on one of the cameras.

Kaiser Vashaun: That enough distance for ya ... fraud?

And then the man who fancied himself as the uncrowned Intense Champion shoved the man who carried the belt one more time.

Now, Troy Douglas is normally a calm, even-tempered man. Especially for someone who makes his living fighting large, intimidating men on national television. But, something about the way this guy was talking to him, something about the way this guy was deliberately trying to get under his skin, really didn't sit well with the man who was once unfortunately saddled with the moniker of "Megatron".

He gets pushed, he figures he might as well push back. Troy issues back with a shove of his own, but Vashaun just shoves right back, and much like when flint meets tinder, this spark very quickly threatens to become a raging inferno.

The two continue shoving, Vashaun firing back with insults all the while, with Troy looking like his short fuse is about to run out and the entire situation is about to blow.

Troy Douglas: Shut up, you son of a bitch!

Kaiser Vashaun: Make it happen.

The Intense Champion just couldn't take a challenge like that lying down, could he?

Vashaun shoves him once more, hard this time, and that's all Douglas needs. He rears back, ready to plant a straight right hand on Kaiser's temple, and finally let the punch go.

Except, it never quite gets there. Because just as Troy is about to unleash himself, a cadre of PRIME security personnel interject themselves between the two men. Vashaun backs up, smirking the entire time, and while Douglas does his best to fight through the wall of Rent-A-Cops, his tired body is no match for a dozen men with at least some training in riot prevention .

Kaiser Vashaun, on the other hand, seems perfectly happy to let Douglas continue to reach his boiling point, watching as his target struggles to push past the frenzy of security. As he calmly walks to the back, he has one more seed to plant.

Kaiser Vashaun: I'm Next in Line, Douglas, and you're just a pretender to my throne. Sooner or later, you're going to learn that.

Considering all that has just happened, Troy Douglas is very much hoping for sooner, rather than later.

Another show in the books.

Another night survived without any deaths or felonies to Mgmt.’s knowledge.

These moments of respite have become as precious to CP Cantrell as to new parents, realizing the quiet that they once took for granted is now their most treasured resource. He knows he’ll have to pay – AGAIN – for the door to the office to be re-seated and hinged. Just like in Detroit. Just like in Chicago. Before CP took this job he had heard the phrase "Beating the door down to get in and see you" but thought it a tired cliché.

Ha. Ha, ha.

When the night ends like this, the Executive Producer surrounded in cool air-conditioned darkness after switching off his desk lamp, when he can roll back his desk chair, scoop up his laptop case and walk to the door in peace, CP Cantrell feels every bit the capable leader of the wrestling monolith that is PRIME.

He feels like it’s all under control.

CP turns the knob on the door, locking it as he pulls it away from the frame…

…to see a hallway bathed in blinding flashbulbs.

"Mr. Cantrell! Do you have a statement?!"

"Cantrell! Cantrell! What does PRIME have to say about the debauchery in the VIP suite earlier tonight?!"

"Have you read Torres Wilson’s breaking story?! Can you confirm the allegations?!"

CP doesn’t feel his laptop case slip from his hand and bounce across the floor. His mouth hangs open as a sea of reporters shove microphones into his face, along with copies of a story printed off the internet with the headline "INDY-SCRIBABLE DEBAUCHERY!!!" above a shot of Nova passed out amidst the wreckage of the VIP suite.

"Is it true that underage employee Connor O’Reily was served alcohol inside the party?!"

"Is it true that drunken brawls punctuated a series of live sex acts?!"

"Is it true YOU personally delivered a new contract to Caesar "Nova" Vega for another year?!"

"Mr. Cantrell, do you have a comment on the status of your superstar?!"

CP takes a deep breath. Nova ruined his triumphant unveiling with that ridiculous song. He criticized the cleaner, more regulated backstage environment on national television. He apparently opened a hole in the floor and allowed Hell itself to supplant any semblance of order or civilization in the VIP suite. But this is a situation where cooler heads MUST prevail.

CP Cantrell: Yes, I do have a comment…

…

Oh, fuck it.

CP Cantrell: …he’s fired.

The PRIME logo flashes across the screen and we fade to black as the reporters surround the CEO.