His was a face that hadn’t been seen since Colossus.

Burned tan skin, neatly trimmed goatee, ‘take no shit’ expression… topped by a red bandana and bordered by thick, dark dreadlocks.

He was about to become more important than he’d ever know.

He would be Jimmy Bonafide, The PosterBoy.

If Xavier Kannon could hear narrative, then he’d have known the answer to the following question.

"Which one is he again?"

Watching The PosterBoy lug his bags through the inner bowels of the HSBC Arena are Xavier Kannon and Eleanor Kannon-Hall, the latter equipped with a D&G clipboard (no, I didn’t know they made stationery either) showing the mug shots of apparently every PRIME superstar.

Eleanor: He’s, like, either… um… Tony Davis, Jimmy Bonafide, or Jason Natas.

Thought process = exclude all without dreadlocks or bandanas.

Kannon: Which of those three is black?

Eleanor: Like, physically… or spiritually?

Rather than getting into a debate with his wife about race transcending skin pigments and becoming a state of mind, Kannon swipes the clipboard.

Eleanor: Hey!

Kannon: Looks like we’ve spotted ourselves a greater-braided, lesser-decorated Bonafide.

Emerging from their observation post, the self-proclaimed First Couple Of Wrestling stroll out into Bodafide’s path…

Kannon: Jimmy, good to see you!

…only for the PosterBoy - eyes closed, head bobbing and iPod earphones blaring - to swagger between them, oblivious.

Eleanor: Um, hello? That is, like, totally hella totally rude!

There’s a little known fact about Eleanor Kannon-Hall’s voice. It cannot be blocked out… not even by a vacuum. NASA recently broadcast her saying ‘Um, like, hello bug alien people, I’m totally from the planet Earth, which is totally fetch and where we’re all hella peaceful and stuff’ into space.

So, yeah, Jimmy’s earphones stand little chance.

Ripping the blaring white buds from his ears, Bonafide turns to the couple, who’ve plastered the most insincere of smiles across their mischievous faces. His reaction? We’ll go with nonplussed.

Bonafide: What?

Despite the PosterBoy’s less-than-cordial reaction, the King of Wrestling doesn’t doubt he can win over the King of NY.

Kannon: C’mon, Jimmy. What’s with the hostility? I’m not a thug like Natas or a pompous Imperialist like Union Jack. No, I’m here for you.

The King of NY’s features reply with ‘Really?’, before relaxing back to their distrusting scowl.

Bonafide: Unless you had a lobotomy, you here for yo’self.

A sigh precedes a placating smile from Kannon as he drops his head, shaking it in disappointment as he strolls the few paces to Jimmy, going to place a hand on the PosterBoy’s shoulder. That would be the same PosterBoy who just read the poorly-disguised cringe on Ellie’s face as ‘Ew, like, don’t touch it, you don’t know where it’s been!’.

Bonafide: Touch me and you’re gettin’ identified by dental records.

Backing away, Kannon pacifies the PosterBoy.

Kannon: Okay, okay, a little distrusting, I can ‘dig’ that. That’s exactly why I’ve sought you out, Jim. You’ve been a model employee since arriving in PRIME, you’ve gone about your business, you’ve picked up the odd win, you’ve got yourself on pay-per-view… and what’s Cantrell done for you?

Jimmy shrugs.

Bonafide: Done what I need him t’do… sign my paycheque.

Kannon: He’s held you down, Jim. Sure, he’s getting you your… how would you put it? ‘Your Paper’, but has that gone up since you signed? I doubt it. Kaiser Vashaun waltzed in and got himself a title shot at the biggest show in PRIME’s history… while you were stuck in the opener wrestling MegaJob. Dawkins swans into the place and was rubbing shoulders with the Universal champion AND his #1 contender… while, um, I don’t see anyone here with you, Jim. Which is why it’s a good job you’ve got good people like me and Ellie looking out for you.

It would be questionable to refer to Ellie as ‘Good People’ while she’s got her hands wedged into her jeans pockets, one holding a rape alarm and the other a mini canister of mace.

She’s, how would you say… ‘un-integrated’.

Bonafide: Yeah, ‘Good People’ ain’t exactly what folk around here call you.

Kannon: That’s because Cantrell has brainwashed them, Jim. But you’re lucky, you’ve missed the past few weeks of anti-SCCW propaganda. He’s gearing the PRIME roster up for a full-on war… a war which his beloved ‘golden children’ Lindsay Troy and Tyler Rayne started. Are you willing to go to war for Chadwick Peter Cantrell, the TV Executive, Jim? Because I’m not… and I’m making it my mission to look out for guys like you, ordinary wrestlers stuck in the middle, who he wants to conscript.

Stance slouched and hands resting deep in his hooded-top’s pockets, Bonafide gives the Gold Patron Meritorious a ‘you finished?’ look.

Kannon: Yes, I’m finished.

He’s good at reading these expressions.

Bonafide: You think I need you watching my back, Red? I had gunshots instead of lullabies when I was a baby, half my High School yearbook have been in the obituary column, and I’ve slept in more jail cells than I have 5-Star Hotel rooms. So, no, I got my own back, I pick my own fights, and I decide who I go to war with.

Before Kannon can appeal to the sneering King of NY, his name is bellowed from down the corridor.

"KANNON!!!"

The building shakes, and Buffalo records its highest ever numbers on the Richter Scale as Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas bounds towards him, any last remnants of joviality removed from his face.

Eleanor: Eep!

As Ellie scurries for safety, Kannon is left like a Rabbit in the headlights as PRIME’s head of security ploughs into him, pinning the Gold Patron Meritorious against the wall with one beefy hand to the chest.

Dametreyus: What’cha doin’, huh? Laffin’ about what’cho lil’ friends did t’Angelica? You hear dis, if I find out’cho knew what ‘dem Sinners were gonna do t’her, I’ll shove dis hand right out’cha back, y‘hear?

After taking just enough amusement from Kannon’s saucer-like, scared eyes, Bonafide takes his leave, popping his earphones back in.

Kannon (breathless): This how things are done nowadays, huh? The Führer sending his own personal security to suppress any dissenting voices?

Before the King of Wrestling can utter another word, Dam pushes harder into his chest, expelling the last of the breath from Kannon’s lungs.

Eleanor: Um, hello, this is, like, totally against article 14, subsection 42a of the Geneva Convention!

Dametreyus: Dis ain’t from C.P., lil’ boy… ‘dis is from me. Keep buddyin’ up’ta ‘dem folks that put innocent women in da hospital, and I’ll personally sent ya to Vegas first-class on Air Fuqueiawytas… takin’ off from ma right boot.

With a grunt, Dam gives Xavier one final shove to the chest, before letting him slip down the wall and onto the tiled floor, gasping for air. Scurrying down next to him, Ellie wisely removes herself from Dam’s path as he nearly rips the doors from their hinges making his exit.

Eleanor: I was, like, totally about to leap in and mace him, but you looked like you had it covered.

"State of the Union," by Rise Against clues everyone in to the start of the show, as if you didn't know.

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 Devin Shakur, 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 Delta Upsilon Iota and Mega Job 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 Xavier Kannon. He raises his forearm, displaying the "PRAISE HUBBARD" scrawled on wrist tape. The lens is quickly diverted away from him as Ellie focuses it on herself and uses it to touch up her blush like it's a makeup compact. After a few seconds of face-time, XK 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 scarred albino visage of Rhett Locke holding it steady. He seems to stare through the lens, into the heart of the viewer, piercing red eyes never blinking.

"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. Tony Davis and Eli VanNess square off throwing forearms. The Princes of New England walk down the aisle, Miranda O'Reily in tow.

"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.

"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.

Devin Shakur vs. Enemigo III

Mary-Lynn Mayweather vs. Savant (SCCW)

"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEEELLLLLLL!!!!!"

DUI vs. Union Jack/Jeeves

Lindsay Troy/Tyler Rayne vs. The Awakening

Troy Douglas vs. Dusk vs. Rhett Locke

"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEELLLLLLLL!!!!!"

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 Cozen steps out of a locker room door. She offers a creepily playful grin before giving a wink and skipping past.

"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, we find Universal Champion Chandler Tsonda holding the belt up to his face, adjusting a few stray hairs for the optimum experience.

"JUUUUUUUSSSSTTT!!!"

Tsonda acts like he just now sees the camera and gives a fake laugh and a wink.

"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!

Nick: WELCOME EVERYONE TO REVOLUTION ONE-HUNDRED SEVENTY-ONE! I'M NICK STUART!

Richard: AND I'M RICHARD PARKER!

Nick: We're LIVE here in Buffalo and folks, this is a heavy night for PRIME. Just one week ago, Angelica Brooks was the victim of a heinous attack from SCCW's Dead Man's Hand faction.

Richard: It was disgusting, Nick. Never in my life have I seen something so despicable. And to THINK that C.P. Cantrell INVITED THEM BACK by booking Savant in a match this week...God...

Nick: It's a controversial decision that's been the topic of numerous backstage debates this week. I'm with the executive producer, though - last week was the start of a wildfire. By letting it burn on his terms, maybe - just maybe - he can get it back under his control.

Richard: There is no control. This is a war. No one is safe in times of war.

Nick: The show goes on, Richard. It's how Angelica - or ANY employee of PRIME - would want. So we press on, and we'll do just that with five packed matches and a whole lot of action.

Richard: Which is fine, but if stuff goes down, don't be surprised if you find yourself being my human shield.

Nick: All in the line of duty. Fans, stay tuned to watch Richard scream like a girl. Oh, plus there's wrestling! So stay tuned for ReVolution!

Richard: (grumbling) On FX...

The mood in C.P. Cantrell's office is somber, as you can expect. A quiet, reflective silence buzzes as we fade in to the depressed, worn-down faces of Nova, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas and Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Dude.

Nova: I know.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Dude.

Nova: I KNOW.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: I just...I don't understand.

Nova: Totally. Why would someone even do that? It's not right.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: It's not human.

Nova: I'm actually a little sick thinking about it.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss...

Nova: You don't even need to say it. I know you don't want us to see you cry.

He stands up and gives Dam a playful punch on the arm...then breaks down and grabs the big guy in a bearhug, sniffling loudly.

Nova: I value your strength, Dam.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss...it's just a fuckin' pizza.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Dude!

Nova pulls away from Dam almost immediately, clearly appalled by the statement.

Nova: JUST a pizza? Are you kidding me?

The Admin Star grabs a pizza box with a Little Caesar's logo on the top (because Domino's is for cocksuckers) and holds it up to the director of security incredulously. A half-eaten pie of what looks to be plain pepperoni slides around inside as he waves his free arm.

Nova: This had the opportunity to be art! Where's the starfruit I ordered? Where's the bratwurst? WHERE ARE THE CHEETOS, DAM?!

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: We still eating it.

Nova: Of COURSE we're still eating it, Dam. We paid for it? Well, the company paid for it.

Sitting at his desk with an uneaten slice sitting on a paper plate in front of him, PRIME's executive producer, the illustrious C.P. Cantrell, looks up at his cabinet. The rings under his eyes are immediately evident - it looks like he hasn't slept in over a week. That's probably an exaggeration.

C.P. Cantrell: (quietly) We did what?

Mr. Silver snaps his fingers, then digs a crumpled up receipt out of his jeans and tosses it onto the desk.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Think I can get that comp'd, C-Pizz?

C.P. Cantrell: (sighing) Just give it to the accountant.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: We have an accountant?

C.P. Cantrell: Nevermind, I'll take care of it.

Nova: You need to eat that slice, Chuck. If you wait until the plate turns clear, you just end up feeling dirty.

As Ceeps pockets the pizza receipt, he looks over at the food and meekly picks his piece up.

C.P. Cantrell: Feeling dirty might be an upgrade at this point.

Nova: Which is why we went out and got some comfort food. Well, the Maui Milwaukee pizza WOULD have been comfort food with the right ingredients. But grease is grease, ya feel me? You need to put something down and stop stressing about this Brooks thing.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Yeah. Speaking as a guy who did a lot of messed up things in my day, it's always a total downer to see the other person keep their chin up. We gotta keep rolling with the punches or this is going to eat you alive.

C.P. Cantrell: I know. I'm coming around - downed one of those giant Monster energy cans before we started. I've been having a lot of them lately, though, so I guess I just need a little kick to really get started.

WA-BOOM~!

As if on cue (because she does have impeccable timing), the office door blasts open via a very hard steel-toed kick. Standing in the doorway is Lindsay Troy, not yet dressed for her match, but with all the pent-up frustrations that she'll be carrying into it.

She stomps pointedly into the room, eyes locked with C.P.'s. Nova, Sonny and Dam all stand up at the exact same time, not out of courtesy, but out of the possibility for having to physically restrain the Queen from, as the phrase goes, "choking a bitch."

C.P. Cantrell: You've got a lot of balls coming in here right now.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: I've been saying tha-

Lindsay Troy: FUCK. OFF.

There's a brief moment of silence as Troy and Cantrell engage in a Frank-Robinson-vs-the-umpire caliber staredown. Silver clears his throat, a little uncomfortable.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Were you talking to me, or...?

C.P. Cantrell: Do you know what kind of shit I've had to deal with thanks to you?

Lindsay Troy: Thanks to ME?!

C.P. Cantrell: Yeah, you heard me. You were the one showing up at the SCCW show weeks ago. You were the one baiting Desade into retaliating. You were the one who got all of us wrapped up in your own personal squabbles.

Lindsay Troy: And you were the one who kept Cozen on the payroll after the kidnapping. You were the one who wanted to save part of your Night Two Money Makers by not punishing Cozen for stalking and videotaping my fucking NIECE. You're so goddamn wrapped up in your bullshit marketing strategies and quarterly numbers that you have done JACK FUCKING SHIT to deal with a situation that snowballed under YOUR WATCH. And then, to put the capper on this snowcone of BS, you essentially OPEN THE DOOR AND WELCOME THEM BACK and sprinkle it with your "oh, it's good for ratings!" tripe. Congrats, you've thrown Mary-Lynn to the wolves. You'd better learn, C.P, and learn quick that when shit gets personal around here, people fight back and they don't give a damn what corporate feathers get ruffled in the process.

Cantrell slams his hands down on his desk. Nova, Silver and Dam all shift their weight a little, getting one step closer to jumping between the two if need be.

C.P. Cantrell: No, you see, that's just the problem - I don't care what playground you came from, this is a fucking business, and I'm a businessman. I'm not a babysitter. It's not my job to mediate your personal squabbles outside the confines of the ring. Take it to the courtroom if that's what you need, but don't bring it back onto my shows. That's what you did, and now Angelica's in the hospital. So don't you goddamn lecture me on my BUSINESS decisions. I invited them back because now it's MY problem and it's going to be MY solution. And not only will I fix this once and for all, I'll do it in a way that will double our overnights this week, because that's what I'm getting paid to do.

Lindsay Troy: And who's going to get hurt next, huh? Mills? Maybe Mayhem comes back and throws Bonafide through a wall? Storms in here with Ashe, puts you through that industrial-strength, solid cherry table when the rest of the Boys aren't around? That's what's going to happen because you're thinking too much like a businessman and less like the people you're supposed to oversee. It's your fucking job to help keep your talent safe, no matter where they are, and because you elected to not do that when you should have months ago, you left me no choice but to fight back on my own because my boss is too much of a fucking pussy to do the right thing over boosting Nielsen ratings and increased PPV buyrates. Don't think for a second that I haven't squared myself with my part of Angelica's injury, because I have. But I'm a businesswoman too, and in my "playground", this shit? Doesn't fly. Ever. And you can bet your scrawny ass that the second I see a Hand member within a hundred feet of that ring-

She stops abruptly when a hand rests on her shoulder. If this was Silver, his arm might be wrenched off at a joint right now. If this was Cantrell, his face would be bleeding. Heck, if it was Dam, he might even get a shot to the ribs because she knew he could take it. But it's none of those three, and the second Nova makes contact, the storm raging behind the eyes of the Queen finds momentary calm.

Nova: Lindz...enough.

C.P. Cantrell: Thank yo-

The Admin Star holds up a hand and gives Cantrell a stern look, a look with more authority and concern than he'd shown since finally one-upping Torres Wilson and settling into his cushy full-time bureaucratic position.

Nova: You too.

Silence pervades once again as Troy and Cantrell stare at each other. Finally, both sigh as C.P. drops back into his chair and Troy breaks off to pace a little back by the conference table. Nova takes a look over his shoulder at Dam and Silver, then straightens the lapel of his seersucker suit and continues.

Nova: Now, you're the businessman and you're the businesswoman. I'm just the Business Utilities Liaison and Securities Head Treasurer, and I think this is bullshit.

He takes a moment to look both of them in the eye and assure they have his attention.

Nova: Regardless of who started it, we're all waist deep right now. Anyone who rocks a PRIME logo - on their polo shirt, on their duffel bag...(looks at Silver)...tattooed on their left ass cheek...

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: (sighing, annoyed) I told you I lost a bet.

Nova: ...all of us became a part of this once poor Brooks hit that car. If you ask me, the lesson learned was simple: we stand together or we get picked apart. So I fail to see what either of you are looking to accomplish right now.

Lindsay stops her pacing and runs her fingers through her hair, balling her fists in it before slapping her hands against her thighs.

Lindsay Troy: (softly) I want it done.

She looks back to the men in the room and again, her eyes find Cantrell's.

Lindsay Troy: Every place I've ever been, someone thought it'd be a bushel of laughs to target my family. If it wasn't Alaina, it was my marriage to Melton, and when that dissolved, they targeted my niece. I'm tired of this shit. I want it done. I want them to be made examples of, and then I want it done.

C.P. Cantrell: (snorting) Well it's not going to get done with a bunch of argui-

Lindsay Troy: (sternly) Which is why I'm looking you in the eye right now and saying I want it done.

The executive producer stammers slightly and pauses just long enough to dispell any rumors that he was cool under pressure.

C.P. Cantrell: O-Okay.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: HELLS yeah.

He sticks his hand out into the middle of them, as if trying to prompt a team cheer. His other hand is already on his security radio.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Enemigos just been WAITIN' to kneecap some muh-fuckas. 'Least I'm pretty sure that's what they sayin', we ain't border-jumped that language barrier yet.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Hey Dam? Let's back up a bit...

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: (hurt) No kneecappin'?

Nova: Not necessarily, homeslice, there'll still be plenty of knees to cap. But let's think about this. The ratings guru here did us a favor; he dangled a carrot out there and the outsiders bit. They're in or near the building. So...now what?

Lindsay Troy: I'm kind of a fan of Dam killing them in the spleen and then reciting Emily Dickinson over their dead bodies.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Be sending 'em to the Pits with a beautiful poem in their black hearts.

C.P. Cantrell: (eyeing Dam, concerned) Right, kneecaps, black hearts, got it. First off, just because some Sin City chick is in a sanctioned match doesn't mean she's getting a fair shake. Our refs run a fair ship, but depending on who you ask, the guy running the show can be kind of a douche.

Silver, Nova and Troy: (in unison) Uh-huh.

C.P. Cantrell: So...(pause as he furrows his brow at their synchronized response)...so if someone makes a guest appearance at ringside during the match - especially if it's Rayne, since I can't stop his ass from doing anything now anyway - then so be it.

Lindsay Troy: I'll be sure to keep that little tidbit in my back pocket.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Well that takes care of the, uh (eyes Troy) cizzunt, there are like, 40 more of them. Besides, seperatist violence isn't just for Golden Ticket holders and luchadors, thankyouverymuch.

He rolls out his neck a little to punctuate the statement. Cantrell waves him off.

C.P. Cantrell: I've got something in mind for the rest of them, but you'll have to wait and see on that. Rag on me all you want about the ratings, but good TV sense is good strategy. Don't tell them what happens in Act Three all the way in Act One, otherwise they won't stick around to see it go down.

Lindsay Troy: Them leaving isn't exactly a bad thing.

C.P. Cantrell: You're right, but it just delays the problem. If you want this done, then we need a more...'active' approach. Trust me, Troy.

Lindsay Troy: Don't make me regret doing so.

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans and moves toward the door, sparing Nova a look before exiting into the hall. As the door slowly shuts behind her, Cantrell sighs and looks at his advisers.

C.P. Cantrell: How do you prepare for something like this? How do you set up an emergency plan to be ready?

Nova: You don't.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: This is wrestling, man.

C.P. Cantrell: I'm starting to see why people don't last long behind this desk.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: (nodding) Because of nights like this one, Ceeps. You either cement a legacy or you get eaten alive. There's no middle ground.

C.P. Cantrell: (looking around at the others) Okay, then. Let's go to work.

Jonathan Rhine looks absently at his "ALL ACCESS" backstage credential, squinting slightly in a manner that makes you feel a little guilty for all the one-eye jokes that have been made over the past month.

Jonathan Rhine: Did we ever tour in this building? I honestly don't know where we're going.

Alongside him, Lance Marshall shifts his weight from one side to the other, saying the same thing with his body language that he'd eventually say with his tone of voice: he isn't terribly excited about being here. Like Rhine, he stares at the back of his own credential, at what looks to be a small layout of the HSBC Arena. Standing a few steps off to Lance’s side is his wife, Alanna. Unlike the two men, her attention is focused on her immediate surroundings, trying to find any small indication of where in the HSBC Arena they might be. Unfortunately, she’s not having any more luck than her two companions.

Alanna Marshall: Sorry, guys, I’m just as lost as you are.

Lance Marshall: Here's an idea: indicate north. Otherwise it's not a map, it's just a drawing.

Jonathan Rhine: (letting go of his pass and letting it fall to his neck) Is that from somewhere?

Lance Marshall: (sighing, not really hearing the question) So how long do we have to stay here?

Jonathan Rhine: Come on, man, it's not that bad. Our caravan's just across the border in Canada, we've got the night off, we may as well take in a show.

Lance Marshall: You're right, it's not that bad. I'm just uneasy about this place ever since this Cantrell guy started, I don't know, tampering?

Rhine laughs a little and looks over Lance's shoulder down the hallway, watching a few crew members move boxes in place by the load-in area. He looks down at his sneakers before continuing.

Jonathan Rhine: Recruiting, more like it. He's a little aggressive, but he says my guest appearance turned a lot of ratings. And I had fun. I mean, look around - their show's being run about the same as any of ours.

He gestures down the hallway, then nods at the camera in front of the two of them.

Jonathan Rhine: A few more cameras, but that's their thing, I guess. And it doesn't include the two chicks trying to make my life hell.

Lance Marshall: Uh, didn't, not doesn't. There have been quite a few more cameos on PRIME shows lately. I mean, you saw what happened last week, Jon. Maybe we're desensitized to it a little because we've had to live with the Dead Man's Hand, but God...that was just sick. That's why I'm uncomfortable being here.

Jonathan Rhine: I know. But Lindsay invited us here.

Lance Marshall: Correction. She invited you here.

Alanna Marshall walks over to her husband, swatting him playfully on the arm.

Alanna Marshall: Don’t be rude. It’s nice of Lindsay to be cool with us coming along…

Lance Marshall: …seeing as she doesn’t know either of us from Adam.

Jonathan Rhine: That’s the point, though. She's in the middle of this and she's still trying to extend an olive branch. The least we can do is try to show the same respect and represent SCCW.

Lance Marshall: (snorts) Representing the company that they hold responsible for that attack. Sorry, I'm not trying to be a dick. I just have a bad feeling.

Rhine just nods in response. Before he can say anything, a security door down the hall opens up and Lindsay Troy breezes through. Her walk has a bit of an angry stomp to it, the equal product of her just-finished encounter with C.P. Cantrell and her military-style boots. When she catches sight of The New Life and The Lion, she does her best to turn the brooding scowl into a warm smile, with mixed results.

Lindsay Troy: You made it.

Jonathan Rhine: More luck than navigational prowess. Thank God for Lance's Orienteering merit badge.

Lance Marshall: I tell myself that every day. In the third person.

As Troy gets close, they notice the lines around her eyes and the strained redness in them, the product of too much artificial energy and not enough rest and recuperation. She keeps the smile going regardless...or maybe she forgot she had it going to begin with.

Jonathan Rhine: You doing OK?

Lindsay Troy: (chuckles) Compared to some of the folks around here, I'm spec-fucking-tacular. We're all having a rough week, as you can imagine, but the show goes on. Besides, you're guests tonight, this is nothing you need to worry about.

Lance Marshall: Hopefully...

Lindsay Troy: Yeah. Tempers are high, but we can stay out of the trouble. I've got some...errands to run over the course of the night, but otherwise I'll play chaperone.

Lance offers Lindsay a warm smile of his own, impressed by her indomitable spirit. On their way to the HSBC Arena this evening, Rhine had been filling Lance in on some of what had been going on in PRIME, specifically about things involving the Queen of the Ring herself, Lindsay Troy. That she was able to be this cool after all of that, well…Lance couldn’t help but find himself impressed.

Lance offers his hand to Lindsay.

Lance Marshall: As my wife was good enough to remind me…

Alanna responds with a smile that reads "all in a day’s work".

Lance Marshall: …it is very nice of you to arrange for the both of us to accompany Jon tonight. It also occurred to me that we’ve never really done this, y’know, official like. Hi, I’m Lance Marshall.

Troy sizes up the Lion, eying him over one time, contrasting the deep bass rumble of Marshall’s voice with the hint of goofiness in his voice. Finally, she comes to some sort of conclusion internally…and offers her hand back to Lance. The smile stays on her face but looks less strained.

Lindsay Troy: Father of the Pride, huh? Famous for knocking heads and kicking ass all up and down the Strip?

The look of surprise on Lance’s face is fleeting but it’s enough for Troy to take notice.

Lindsay Troy: Don’t look so surprised, big guy. I’m guessing the cub is at home but where’s the lioness? You know, the one that does all the real work?

The smile on Troy’s face shifts into a friendly smirk. It’s all Lance can do not to laugh. Alanna steps forward, offering her hand to Lindsay.

Alanna Marshall: Finally, someone who gets it.

Lance Marshall: Hey!

Alanna Marshall: (ignoring her husband’s mock outrage) Hi, I’m Alanna. It’s really cool to meet you.

It's a well-documented fact that Lindsay Troy, for the most part, does not get along with other women in the business. She generally goes out of her way to be unnecessarily condescending and downright bitchy to them, and some speculate it's because of her well-earned moniker of being the Queen. The exceptions to this rule are very few and far between.

Alanna Marshall just became another exception, as Troy clasps her hand.

Lindsay Troy: That's my sister's name.

Alanna Marshall smiles at this, her eyes sparkling with the slightest hint of mischief.

Alanna Marshall: That is very cool. We're talking Jack Frost sitting on a block of ice cool. This is, of course, assuming that you get along with your sister...

The smile on Alanna's face softens the words, making it clear that she's just kidding around. Lindsay shakes her head, trying to suppress the chuckle she can feel coming to her lips. It wasn't just the name the two Alannas had in common...

Lindsay Troy: We get along great. In fact, looking at you and the big guy together, you remind me of her in a lot of other ways as well.

Alanna Marshall: Really?

Lindsay Troy: Well, if Lance was four inches taller with a light Texas drawl, I'd say he'd be almost the spitting image of my brother-in-law.

Lance raises his right eyebrow at this bit of information.

Lance Marshall: I'm hoping the good feelings extend to the bro-in-law as well...

Lindsay Troy: I'm keeping him cool. So you're safe.

Jonathan Rhine stands off to the side, watching the interaction between Lindsay Troy and the Marshalls with a smile on his face. Although he's kept quiet, he's relieved to see his friends getting along so well. With things being how they are, it was all for the better for the four of them to be on friendly terms.

Jonathan Rhine: So, Lindsay, how about showing us around the place? Take us to all the happening spots?

Troy looks over to Rhine and smirks.

Lindsay Troy: Sure thing, kid.

She slings her arm around Rhine's shoulders and the four proceed to walk off down the hall.

Lindsay Troy: Say, have you given any more thought to that glass eye thing?

Nick: Our opening contest will feature the return to action of former Universal Champion, Devin Shakur.

Richard: I saw him arriving here earlier today, and boy that dude did not look happy to be here.

Nick: He's not been in the best of moods ever since losing to Chandler Tsonda at Colossus in his home state. The stress of something that enormous could have its lasting effects on almost anybody.

Richard: He's lost Championships before but I don't know, dude did not look with it. I don't know why he even bothered showing up tonight.

Nick: C.P. wanted to highlight the former Universal Champion and well if Shakur wants to get a shot at the Championship again then he's gotta get back in that ring. He's not going to get an automatic rematch sitting on his butt and waiting for opportunities.

Richard: Suppose so, but I smell a potential upset in the making. Enemigo III is looking at this as a chance to get himself into the spotlight, knocking off a former Universal Champion, regardless, is big for someone like him.

Nick: Indeed it is, Richard. We're heading up to the ring now for the official introductions.

SFX: DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is our opening contest here on 171. In the ring already, from Taco Bell and weighing in at 200 grande burritos, ENEMIGO III!

He gets a modest reception, and an exceptionally roaring one from Enemigos L, C, and M. They are considered the futuristic prototypes who can actually be an intimidating presence in PRIME.

Vince Howard: And introducing his opponent-

Interrupting Vince Howard is the wailing sound of Peter Frampton's elongated guitar resonating throughout the arena. A pair of deep dark brown eyes stare into the Wal*Tron (or whatever the fuck we call it these days) and a name appears on the massive screen which makes the Buffalo faithful boo heavily.

SHAKUR

The man that steps out from behind the curtain however is not one that strikes fear into fellow wrestlers as being the best striker on the PRIME roster. His head hangs low and he walks quickly down to the ring almost as if he doesn't want anybody to look at him.

Yet, everybody is and they are voicing their opinions openly.

"CHOKE ON THAT, SHAKUR!"

"YOU GOT PWNED, EMO!"

"I GOT YOUR 30 SECONDS TO MARS MEMBERSHIP RIGHT HERE...IN MY PANTS!"

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

He ignores them all, shuffling his feet to the left and up the ring stairs. It's perhaps the quickest entrance of a showcased superstar in the history of wrestling. Standing over in his corner, Shakur motions with his hands for Howard to finish his introduction.

Vince Howard: He weighed in today at 229 pounds and resides in Raleigh, North Carolina...DEVIN SHAKUR!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Nick: Wow, Shakur's put on ten pounds and I'm guessing it's not of the muscular kind.

Richard: Those microwave brownies can be scrumptious dude, I have a couple every day.

Nick: That's...beautiful, it really is.

Richard: Damn straight it is, and of course to adhere to the mantra of Kurt Angle, I down those bad boys with a big glass of milk.

Nick: It makes you big, strong, and full of gas.

Richard: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Who wants to get put in the Ankle lock?

DING! DING! DING!

The contest starts out with Devin Shakur calmly walking toward the center of the ring and extending his hand toward the confused Enemigo. He's been around the wrestling business long enough to know that heels often times deploy this trick and then institute a thumb to the eye or another tactic to catch their opponent off guard.

Nick: Are you telling me that Shakur is actually going to offer his hand to Enemigo?

Richard: Shakur did hang out with Tyler Rayne last week, maybe he's feeling some sportsmanship.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Enemigo III is having none of it. He extends his hand toward the unceremoniously courteous Shakur and then takes a hold of the limb, flinging Shakur back into the corner and belting him with a right hand across the face. Commie Emo is clearly stunned, expecting a gentleman's start to this wrestling encounter. Instead, he finds another fist slam into his jaw before being whipped across the ring into the diagonally opposite turnbuckle. Sprinting forward, Enemigo III utilizes his 200 pound frame and collides with Shakur, bringing the former Universal Champion out to the center of the ring in a daze.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Nick: Alright, whatever Shakur is doing, he needs to get out of this trance that he's in and get back in the game. These Enemigos aren't known for being exceptional wrestlers but they aren't afraid to try.

Running off the ropes with a great tenacity, Enemigo III connects on a clothesline that backs the heavier Shakur into the ropes. He doesn't have the upper body strength to dethrone Shakur from his feet with just one blow, but that doesn't mean he's going to give up. Throwing himself against the ropes again, Enemigo III leaps into the air and lands another blow to the shoulders and neck of Shakur, which almost tumbles Commie Emo over the ropes and down to the floor. Once more, with feeling, Enemigo charges off the ropes and throws himself at the apathetic Shakur, throwing him over the ropes and down to the floor with a thud.

"ENEMIGO YOU ARE MY AMIGO! ENEMIGO YOU ARE MY AMIGO!"
"ENEMIGO YOU ARE MY AMIGO! ENEMIGO YOU ARE MY AMIGO!"

Richard: That is the single dumbest chant I've ever heard from an audience.

Chris (in front row): Tell me about it.

Nick: Look at this, Shakur isn't even trying to get back up to his feet. I think he's content with being counted out here.

Enemigo III however is not content with that outcome. He came out here to have a competitive match and he's going to achieve that. Dropping underneath the bottom rope, the Mexican standout grabs Shakur by his poodle hair, pulls him up to a standing position, and launches him almost effortlessly into the steel stairs. Normally, this is where a wrestler would cry out in pain at having their back attacked by an unflinching set of steps.

"GRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Not Shakur, he just grumbles and slowly rises to his feet, only to be popped across the lip by the motivated Enemigo. Meanwhile, the bloodthirsty audience is encouraging the Mexican superstar forward.

Richard: This is just appalling to the wrestling business. Why in the hell did C.P trot him out here in this condition? The man isn't fit to wrestle and yet you see fit to humiliate him by exploitation?

Enemigo continues going on the offensive, landing a standing dropkick which puts Shakur back into the barricade. A moment later, he stirs forward like a zombie, the pain not bothering him in the slightest. Enemigo III grabs a hold of his signature black apparel and sends him back into the ring underneath the bottom rope before taking stance on the apron and leaping to the top rope in a springboard. Two seconds later, his 200 pounds come crashing down in the form of a leg drop across Shakur's spine. This actually puts Shakur down, face first into the canvas, and gives Enemigo III his first pinning opportunity.

Nick: COULD THIS BE IT?

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Perhaps out of instinct, Shakur lackadaisically kicks out before the three. Enemigo doesn't waste any available time, pulling his adversary up once again, clasping his arms fully around the neck, and planting Shakur back down to the canvas with a neckbreaker.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Nick: Shakur hasn't bothered to get in one lick of offense so far in this contest. Usually, he's somewhat passive to start, but he's not even offering up a fight here.

Richard: Like I fucking said, exploitation of workers. C.P. is trying to run an old style dictatorship kind of place. C.P. ROCKEFELLER, YOU SHALL PAY!

Enemigo III scurries outside of the ring and onto the ring apron, once again ascending to the air for another high risk maneuver. With his opponent stuck somewhere in the gray zone between "Oh bother" and "ouch", Enemigo flies through the air with grace and lands a rather brutal frog splash that would have Brandon Jacobs go "Ouch" after last night's season opener. Shakur rolls over onto his back and once again Enemigo III goes for a pinfall.

Nick: BIG TIME FROG SPLASH! ENEMIGO GOING FOR THE SLIDE INTO HOME PLATE!

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Richard: And instant replay shows that he didn't get in.

Again, instincts kick in and Devin Shakur puts his foot on the bottom rope and voids Enemigo's pin. The Mexican superstar throws himself into the offense, rising up and putting hard boots into the sternum of his opposition. Elvis Nixon, who seems to be out here the most because his name is the only one anybody can remember in the refereeing industry, even feels sorry for Shakur and has to pull the relentless Enemigo away in order to give him enough time to recover, seeing as how he's still in the ropes.

"LET'S GO ENEMIGO!" *CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP*
"LET'S GO ENEMIGO! *CLAP, CLAP, CLAPCLAPCLAP

Nick: I don't think I've seen such a lopsided asswhooping since The Steve fought Goliath in the 21st century reprint of the Bible.

Richard: Goliath had no chance, dude. Steve was all over him like WHOA!

Nick: Why did I make that asinine joke?

Richard: Don't ask me.

Forcefully being yanked by the hair, Shakur is taken out to the middle of the ring and lifted like dead weight by Enemigo III. Wrapping his arms around the waist of Shakur, Enemigo grunts while dropping Shakur backwards in a German suplex that puts The Man in Black on the back of his neck.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Nick: That'll get you on a six month hiatus.

Enemigo III struggles once again to lift Shakur up, and a shocking sign appears before the Buffalo crowd and the announcers.

Nick: What the hell, Shakur is breathing heavy. My God, he's becoming Richard Parker!

Richard: That fat motherf-HEY!

Nick: You got winded raising your voice.

Richard: It's (exhale) true (exhale) (collapse)

This circumstance appears to be true, Shakur is doubled over and about out of breath. Still offering no fight, Enemigo III brings him up to a standing position and locks the left arm of Shakur behind his back. Maneuvering around to the side, Enemigo hooks onto the leg, and spins Shakur overhead, dropping him on his head and knocking him into a legitimate daze that he might not be able to recover from.

Nick: AN AWKWARD VERSION OF THE HAMMERLOCK SUPLEX HAS SHAKUR IN REAL TROUBLE!

"ENEMIGO! ENEMIGO! ENEMIGO! ENEMIGO! ENEMIGO!"

Enemigo rushes over like Brock Lesnar to Heath Herring after the opening punch, executing a knee straight to the head before bringing Shakur up to a standing position and firing him into the ropes. With great momentum, Enemigo III rushes toward the center and connects on a beautiful spear that puts Shakur on his back. Once again for the cover.

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

"AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW"

A legitimate kickout from the former Universal Champion and now Enemigo is looking for the kill shot and potentially the biggest upset since Cozen defeated Lindsay Troy circa ReVolution 156. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. No longer does he think Shakur is just stringing him along in attempt to further something. With that big time suplex paying off, superstardom is just three seconds away. Enemigo III leaps up to the top rope and puts his back to the ring and to his stunned opponent.

Nick: If Enemigo III can hit whatever he's anticipating on doing, this one could be in the books!

Richard: I really need to get in there and stop this but I need something to get me motivated.

Nick: A twinkie on a string in front of your face?

Richard: Dude, don't joke about that.

Spinning his body with acrobatic efficiency, Enemigo III spins 630 degrees through the air and attempts to land the AJ Styles spiral tap with a reverse twist on it.

Unfortunately, Devin Shakur finally comes to a realization and offers his first kind of defense in this contest. Raising his right knee into the air, he connects on the skull of Enemigo III and the Mexican sensation is sent twisting out of the ring and down onto the floor.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Richard: CLUTCH! BABY! I KNEW HE HAD IT IN HIM!

Elvis Nixon looks down at Shakur and, while he wants to count Shakur for still being on the mat, he has to count Enemigo III down on the floor.

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine

Out cold

DING! DING! DING!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Vince Howard: Here is your winner via countout...DEVIN SHAKUR!

Nick: That had to be the single most pathetic moment I've ever seen in PRIME. The cheapest way someone could win.

Richard: I like to think of it as the most efficient way for a man to win without expending too much energy.

Nick: Shakur is WINDED, out on his back and clutching his stomach. He needs to get back on track. Soon he's not going to be facing people like Enemigo III. A victory like that is not going to help his standings all that much.

Richard: All about the hand being raised baby, all about the hand being raised.

Elvis Nixon raises the hand of Shakur who lethargically rolls out of the ring and down to the floor, exiting without much fanfare through the curtain and into the backstage area, clutching at his side.

Nick: He needs to stop hitting the ice cream and start hitting the gym a little more. Enemigo took him to the limit tonight and it wasn't even that grandiose a contest.

Richard: He got the W and that's all that counts. Sure the dude will come back strong next week.

Nick: He might be released by next week. Tim Sylvia got released from the UFC and he was a former Heavyweight Champion.

Richard: Well Tim Sylvia blows and Devin Shakur is a pimp, plus he's got an entourage that is rockin and you can't fire someone for that. GAMBLE, HOLLA AT ME DAWG, YOU KNOW MY CELL NUMBER! 281-

Nick: Disgusting. We're going backstage probably.

It started when they arrived in Buffalo.

To be fair, the Dead Man's Hand hadn't expected to be greeted as liberators here in the HSBC Arena -- after all, they'd committed the next best thing to inter-federation terrorism at the end of ReVolution 170. There was a reason Mayhem wasn't in Upstate New York this evening, after all; it's one thing to fire a shot across the bow and quite another to continue to pick at the scab.

Still, when they'd gotten off the plane, they'd found a chauffeur frowning as he held a small sign that simply read, "DMH." He hadn't said more than ten words to the four of them, and most of them were directly prompted by a soft smile or light touch from Katsidy. As they'd walked through the concourse, mothers shot looks of disapproval, moving their children to the opposite side. A group of slightly rowdy (and more than slightly inebriated) fans shouted out their feelings, right there in the airport; Lauren Fox had to rein in Phillip Kennedy with a hand on the forearm. The entire trip to the arena, the driver played a call-in sports radio show, and the rest of the city seemed to share the opinion of four drunkards in the airport. Reginald Lovecraft had raised the partition to shut out the noise.

This isn't complaining, merely giving the reader a proper understanding of the mood the four members of the Dead Man's Hand were in when Lovecraft opened the back entrance and the two ladies and two gentlemen stepped into the building.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Perhaps it could have been summed up with that, sure. Or with a description of the scowl that curves the bow-like lips of the intern passing the doorway, a pair of coffee cups in hand.

There are, as we said, just four this evening. The first one in the door is the one we'll see wrestle later this evening. Her name is Lauren Fox (though she was named "Savant" so long ago it might as well be her name). She's in dark, charcoal gray jeans, untucked and unbuttoned men's dress shirt open to reveal the Cannibal Corpse tee underneath, and a face full of metal. Her spray of neon purple braids is bound up in an SCCW bandanna and her thin lips are bound up in a smirk that is entirely unbecoming on her heart-shaped, girlish features.

Savant: I don't think they like us very much here.

See that smug bastard behind Lauren in the tan slacks and light blue, denim shirt with the poker hand over his heart and a black cowboy hat on? That's Phillip Kennedy. He goes by "The Big Stack" and he pretends not to be out of his depth with the rest of them.

Phillip Kennedy: I wonder where we can find that adorable little redhead -- you know, the one that does interviews around here? She's pretty smoking.

Yeah, sometimes we wonder how much he's pretending, too.

The light, smooth voice of another woman trails the younger half of the SCCW Strength in Numbers champions in. The one they call "Katsidy" has hands that never stop roaming, long red nails a stark contrast to the tanned flesh of the Big Stack as she slips a hand around his neck.

Katsidy: Mmmgod, I know. She's cute as a button. I'd do her.

Phillip's head bows slightly with the touch of those expert fingertips, and SCCW's Sex Kitten fits herself neatly to her newest conquest. She's dressed down (well, for her at least) in black slacks that are probably a size or two too small and a white blouse that's unbuttoned to the point it's nearly indecent. She's unlikely to be wearing the same thing later -- if anything, it's likely to be even more risqué.

The fourth of the four (though you just know there are more lurking around here somewhere -- the Dead Man's Hand is wrestling's very own version of the cockroach) comes in last, letting the door swing shut behind him. His face is craggy, salt-and-pepper hair neatly smiled, and he doesn't have the amused smile down. He does have the $1500 suit, though, but this is Reginald V. Lovecraft.

Reginald V. Lovecraft: If you three are quite through with the jokes, this is serious business.

Savant: Oh, come on, Uncle Reggie, just take a moment and consider exactly how much fun this all is.

Katsidy: I mean, really. All Lauren has to do is beat up a lawyer, right?

The Tiny Terror is bumped by a stagehand, shoulder to shoulder; she spins on the man.

Savant: Hey! Watch where you're going, asshole! I'm standing here.

The man with the utility belt (who is not Batman) doesn't look back.

Reginald V. Lovecraft: He is quite aware of that, Lauren. And I believe I have asked you not to call me "Uncle Reggie" quite enough, so do not believe you will continue to rankle me by your use of it.

Fox turns over her shoulder, eyes glittering in a brief smirk. She forces it away to continue the theme of the evening.

Savant: What I don't get is why they're so mad.

She most certainly gets it, but piercings aside, no one in this business does a fake innocent voice with more sincerity than Lauren Fox.

Savant: It's not like we hurt the girl. Silla sprayed her and it was Vincent who broke her. You could even blame Julissa for duping her out there. I wasn't even out there.

Reginald V. Lovecraft: Guilt by association is such a dangerous precedent to set.

Katsidy: No joke. We're just innocent victims of Lexi's overreaction.

Savant: Yeah, we're totally not that bad.

Look how adorable the three of them are! Katsidy has one arm around the Big Stack's shoulders and the other around the waist of her stepsister. Lovecraft stands over them, toweringly tall, as the progression makes its way to the catering area.

Savant: I am powerfully hungry. Need protein for my wrestling debut.

The caterer sees the foursome approach (really, if you missed the fact that Kathryn Shaw is a knockout or that Reginald Lovecraft is tall, the purple hair is kind of a dead giveaway). He reaches over and closes the chafing dish.

Caterer: Sorry. We're all out.

Savant: No way.

Phillip Kennedy: Don't be an asshole, man. There was plenty of food there.

Caterer: It's all contaminated.

Katsidy: Then why don't you want to give it to us, since we're the worst thing to hit PRIME since the Black Plague, apparently.

Savant: Even though we didn't do anything.

"Yet..."

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

It's the loudest people will ever cheer for a three-letter word.

But then again, it's not the word, but the man who says it. Slight pan to the left and, okay, people, you can lose your shit now.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Six-foot-four.

Two hundred and eighty pounds.

Black hair.

Red-tinted sunglasses.

A tattoo that is absolutely not gardening shears.

Killean.
Motherfucking.
Sirrajin.

Mr. Sirrajin, meet the Dead Man's Hand.

Dead Man's Hand, meet the PRIME Cut.

Lauren Fox is not even half Sirrajin's weight and she's a foot shorter than he is, but she steps right up to the Supreme Machine, her smile as gosh-darn-aw-shucks as she can get it.

Savant: Sir, if you're going to yell at us about what happened to Miss Brooks, I just ask that you understand that the responsible parties are --

Killean Sirrajin: Okay, you need to stop with the sweet-little-girl act, because I am not buying it. It's bad enough that we have to put up with you walking in here, thinking you own the place and can just get away with whatever you want. Don't add to your crimes.

Phillip Kennedy: Listen here, big man. Just take your...

Katsidy: Simian.

Phillip Kennedy: Your simian friends and back the truck up a step, you get me? This is the Dead Man's Hand, kid. The group that --

Sirrajin pulls his trademark sunglasses down his nose a little bit, peering over.

Killean Sirrajin: "Kid"? The last guy who called me that ended up passed out at my feet. Do you even know who you're talking to?

Phillip Kennedy: Another tatted-up freak in a business I'm finding is full of them.

Katsidy: Oooh, I know. A gorgeous hunk of chemically-altered manflesh?

Savant: Really, Kath, is that all you ever think about?

Katsidy: Well, no one's ever complained before.

Killean Sirrajin: I like to think I'm a patient man, rook. Unlike most of the roster back in those locker rooms, I didn't come out here and drop you on your head for just wearing those colors. But you'd better know just who the hell you're speaking to, because this is the one chance you have to back up, turn around, and go find whatever bunker you've been assigned, because you're going to need it tonight. Run away, run far and fast away.

Phillip Kennedy: The Dead Man's Hand doesn't run from anyone.

Savant: Uh, yeah, we do.

Katsidy: All the time, Philly Steak.

Savant: Maybe even later tonight.

Phillip Kennedy: I'm sick to death of you guys with your bloated egos. I beat the fucking BloodAngel, and I have half a mind to --

Killean Sirrajin: You have half a mind to... what? You really want to go make another enemy?

For a moment, it looks like Go time and they've been inside for all of two minutes. But the ladies turn towards the Big Stack. Kathryn Shaw's long-fingered hand rests on the side of Kennedy's neck. Lauren Fox's smaller hands find his belt.

Katsidy: Say, Philly?

Kennedy drags his eyes away from the PRIME Choice -- wouldn't you?

Phillip Kennedy: I'm a little busy now, muffin.

Savant: I know.

The Tiny Terror plays a hand across his shirtfront.

Savant: But instead of beating up the guy who's literally wearing rose-tinted glasses... (flicking her gaze over her shoulder to Sirrajin) No offense, of course, sir.

Katsidy: Why don't you come with us? You can be Tyler Rayne; I'll lower myself to being Lindsay Troy.

Savant: And I do a passable Angelica Brooks.

If any of the three notice the slight downturn in Killean Sirrajin's expression, they don't let it on. Kennedy certainly didn't -- the sisters had teased him with thoughts of the three of them... together... before.

Phillip Kennedy: (low, dark) I think that'd be... what's the word? Shiny.

One arm wraps around either of the two girls; Katsidy's giggle is more of a purr as he leads them away. Reginald Lovecraft takes hold of both lapels of his suitcoat, stepping mere inches away from Sirrajin.

Killean Sirrajin: Did you want something, old man?

Lovecraft makes no response, stepping around the Supreme Machine and following the three that are, for better or worse this evening, his charges. The camera zooms in tight on Sirrajin, shaking his head slightly.

Killean Sirrajin: Assholes.

The caterer opens the chafing dish as soon as the Hand is gone, offering the Hall of Famer some succulent chicken.

We cut away, leaving it forever a mystery whether he accepts.

Back in C.P. Cantrell's office, the executive producer is looking up at Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas from behind his desk. We join them in mid-conversation, so the few quiet words spoken by Ceeps don't catch the microphone. Dam nods, then heads for the door. He exchanges dap with Mr. Silver on the way out. Nova, abandoning his pizza, left the office to find Troy shortly after the Queen's exit. Dam heads for the door himself, only to see the knob turn before he even arrives.

The door swings open slowly, the visitor eschewing the usual method of slamming, kicking, or otherwise violently attacking the entrance.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: Ah, the prodigal son returneth.

Slightly dressed down - in that he’s not wearing a three-piece - is the Universal Champion, Chandler Tsonda. Dude is still rocking a classy Donna Karan white button down and black slacks, street clothes to befit a champion. The Universal Title is slung across his right shoulder.

He gives a fist bump to Dam as the director of security proceeds out of the office. The Viet Viper takes a step into the office without further invitation, shooting a look over at Silver. No love is lost between the former foes, but the Liasion gives a raised-eyebrow nod to assure the champ that he's out of active duty.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m here.

C.P. Cantrell: Evidently.

Chandler Tsonda: I wasn't here last week.

C.P. Cantrell: I noticed.

Chandler Tsonda: You aren’t gonna grill me about why?

C.P. Cantrell: Should I?

Chandler Tsonda: (looks around) Am I in the right office? Last time I checked, the guy who works here is a nosy prick.

Cantrell tips his head towards Silver with a rare (for tonight, at least) smirk. The ex-chairman offers only a shaked head and a middle finger in reply, still keeping his attention on Chandler. Ceeps looks back at his champ and straightens up a bit.

C.P. Cantrell: I’d assume that, in absentia, you found time to DVR the show. Which would mean that you know there are far bigger issues than slapping you on the wrist for going AWOL last week.

Chandler Tsonda: (nods) Those Sin City fuckers.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

C.P. Cantrell: The same, yes.

Chandler Tsonda: What’re we gonna do about those assholes?

C.P. Cantrell: (more intrigued than surprised) We?

Chandler Tsonda: Fuck yeah. You leader. Me alpha dog. When a small army of sociopathic circus freaks stomps into our backyard, we gotta rep for ours.

C.P. Cantrell: While I appreciate your newfound loyalty, this is going to get sticky, and I think our champion shou-

Chandler Tsonda: No.

C.P. Cantrell: Pardon?

Chandler Tsonda: Fuckity fuck no.

In the Universal Champ’s eyes, there is anger. It doesn’t appear to be directed at Cantrell, but his chiseled face quivers with some unspoken rage.

Chandler Tsonda: It’s one thing to take shots at Troy. She’s a big girl. One thing to take shots at Rayne. Probably deserved some of it. But nobody on this fucking planet walks into our house, my house…

Tsonda adjusts the Universal Title on his shoulder, the symbol that, for the moment, his claim of being alpha dog is justified.

Chandler Tsonda: …and puts their hands on our people. Brooksy got done like that, and now it’s time for their little outfit to catch every shade of black and blue we can dole out. And not just from the lovebirds. You say the word, I'll have Dawkins at the ready. With homefield advantage, I'll take those numbers.

C.P. Cantrell: As I had to explain to your esteemed colleague, Ms. Troy, it’s not that simple. You start making this about vigilante justice and this company, this business gets put in jeopardy. I don't let them come in here without a plan. So like I said to Troy, trust me.

Chandler Tsonda: Then YOU trust ME. Don't speak in vague generalities, cut me in. There’s no honor left in this belt, or anywhere else in PRIME, if we don’t bury Desade and her scumbucket cronies.

C.P. Cantrell: Weren’t you explaining a new "clean slate" policy to Dawkins, not two weeks ago?

Chandler Tsonda: Been temporarily suspended, per order of the SCCW Fuckbag Clause.

C.P. Cantrell: Just as well. But I’m telling you to wait for me to work it out.

Chandler Tsonda: Patience isn’t my strong suit, Ceepers.

The exectuive producer sends a wary eye to the Model Citizen. Behind him, Mr. Silver clears his throat to draw attention.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: (nodding towards the belt on Chan's shoulder) Considering the bling on your shoulder right now, you're not in position to doubt what our boy Ceeps here can deliver.

There is nothing but silence in response from the Universal Champion. It’s the ultimate "touché" moment. It was, after all, C.P. who dangled a Universal Title shot in front of Tony Gamble and Chandler Tsonda at UltraViolence. C.P. who named Chandler the Number One Contender, despite calls for Rayne, Cozen, et al. to headline the show at Colossus.

Chandler Tsonda: (to Cantrell, with an eye to Silver) You just did what you always do: make the smart business decision. But don't worry, when I write an acceptance speech, I'll make sure to big up you for uncharacteristically sticking to your word.

C.P. Cantrell: Splendid, then. We're on the same page.

Chandler Tsonda: Are we? I'm trying to give the fans someone to rally behind. That's what being a champion means; it's not about making the belt a soapbox. A champion is someone who fights for a cause. And I've got my cause right here.

C.P. Cantrell: Chandler, I'm thrilled that you're taking such an interest in the well-being of this company, but it's under control. My suggestion? You figure out what the hell is going on with your boy Dawkins while I sort this out. When this company needs you and your shiny suit of armor, I'll send up the Tsonda Signal.

Chandler Tsonda: Tsonda Tsignal.

C.P. Cantrell: That's what I said.

Chandler Tsonda: You said Signal.

C.P. Cantrell: This is the definition of semantics.

Chandler Tsonda: Tsemantics, actually.

The producer looks up from his desk, exasperated at his champion's needling. Before he can respond, the Sultan of Style turns on his heel. He takes another look at Silver, who gives him the same "we cool" nod as before, then heads out the door. Cantrell sighs heavily before going back to the matter at hand.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion To PRIME: You know, if we're thinking about war, the Charlies have a pretty good track record...

C.P. Cantrell: Please stop talking.

Backstage at Revolution 171, the mood has been down. Just a week after the vile actions of Mayhem and the Dead Man's Hand, the overall locker room in PRIME has been filled with somber or enraged moods.

This is even true of the locker room shared by two of the biggest assholes in all of PRIME, that of the Princes of New England.

The tag team that proudly hails from the northeastern United States sit around backstage, looking like they just had their puppy run over by a comet. Clearly, something horribly minor happened to them that they see as some huge transgression and as a result, they'll clearly take it out on the city of Buffalo, New York just to be complete cocks.

Connor O'Reily: I can't believe that giant fuckass powerbombed Brooks.

Or, you know, they might actually be upset over something legitimate this time.

Simon Knox: Well, she was the only hot interviewer this place ever had.

Connor O'Reily: Now we're stuck with Matt Mills, and no matter how much I look at him, he just doesn't have that awesome rack to stare at during the entirety of the interview. And you know what? Even if he HAD that rack, I'd probably be a little worried about where he got it.

Simon Knox: Never talk about Matt Mills having a rack again, Connor.

Connor O'Reily: Duly noted.

There is a pause between the two. Connor stands up from his seated position, only to lean against one of the lockers.

Connor O'Reily: Still. She interviewed us.

Simon Knox: Verily, she did.

Connor O'Reily: She tolerated us long enough to get our names out there and make people BELIEVE that we were the best there was. You know, shortly before we proved that by hanging with the best this dump has to offer.

Simon Knox: Verily, she did.

Connor O'Reily: And then some douchebag with more muscles than brains from some no-name promotion comes in and powerbombs her on some loser's Mustang.

Simon Knox: That was Tyler Rayne's. Whom, if you'll remember, I pinned.

Connor O'Reily: As you say... verily.

Connor O'Reily paces in the locker room, clearly annoyed. Simon Knox is not blind to Connor's annoyance, and he soon comes to a realization.

Simon Knox: Something else bothering you, Connor?

Connor O'Reily: It's just... (sigh) It's just that every time I've gone back and watched the tape from last week, it made me glad that your brother made that left turn at Alberquerque and made us miss the show.

Simon Knox: He IS directionally challenged.

A voice from off-screen is heard.

Captain Justice: I'm right over here, idiot.

Simon Knox's only response is to wave his big brother off, and then he turns to Connor with a nod for him to continue.

Connor O'Reily: The only thing I could think of from last week was... what if that had been Miranda? Sure, my sis is annoying, bothersome, always gets in the way of anything I want to do, and is far too nice for her own good... (glances off-screen, presumedly at where Captain Justice is standing) ...but she's my sis. Probably the only person I really care about.

Simon Knox clears his throat.

Connor O'Reily: ...other than you, of course... (pause) If he had done that type of shit to Miranda... I don't know what I'd do with myself. I think I'd go fucking nuts.

There is an uncomfortable pause, as Simon and Connor seem to look away from each other. Finally, the youngest of the three Knox brothers spoke up.

Simon Knox: I would *kill* him.

Connor O'Reily: Seriously?

Simon Knox: I would end his fucking life or die trying.

Connor O'Reily: You've *seen* Mayhem, right? He's not small. He's actually the opposite of the word.

Simon Knox: It doesn't matter. I will fucking kill anyone who hurts Miranda. Doesn't matter if it's Mayhem, Desade, the Dead Man's Hand, the Pony Express, Doctor Doom, Blackheart, or even Steve Knox. They will die.

Connor holds out his hands in a "stop" motion.

Connor O'Reily: Whoa, there, cowboy. I get the point. Murder is the M.O. with Miranda involved. Marked it down. Let's get back to business.

Captain Justice: (still off-camera) You mean this whole "defeat VIAGRA to death" plan of yours? Great plan. I love the part where you have no details at all, whatsoever. It's really a brilliant, masterful plan that's sure to really send them for a loop.

Connor O'Reily: (pause, decides to ignore Justice) ...Where IS Miranda, anyway? She'd have shut that guy up by now.

Simon Knox: I imagine she's gotten into some animated conversation with Cantrell about how well PRIME's ratings have improved since we came into the promotion and that she'll be negotiating massive raises for the two of us.

* . *

Miranda O'Reily is standing around, seemingly concluding what seems like a long rant towards somebody off-camera.

Miranda O'Reily: ...and sometimes, I don't think they really care about me at all. What do you think?

The camera pans to the right, and as soon as the figure standing next to Miranda O'Reily is revealed, a smooth jazz theme starts to play. The black man standing next to Miranda O'Reily casually takes a sip from his coffee mug, adjusts the white tie of his green and tan suit, and adjusts the odd visor that covers most of his upper face.

He is the Codemaster.

Codemaster: Sister, what you need is a fire flower to blow fireballs at them goddamn gasolin guzzlin' Goron grandmothers before they treat ya with any more disrespect. I know some honkies on the down low, they supply the fire flowers. I guarantee you, one of them flowers to the face'll make ANYONE respect the perpetrator of such a fire flower drive by.

Miranda O'Reily stares at the Codemaster.

Miranda O'Reily: I don't think I understand a word you just said. And is "fire flower" some new Nova catchword for "weed" that I'm not aware of? And where is that music coming from?

The Codemaster seems to just stare at the young girl for a second before he simply takes another sip of his coffee.

The Codemaster: Ha...! Everyone on the planet is an accomplice to something. It just happens to be that in this case, it's to fire flower smuggling.

Miranda O'Reily: ...I'm leaving now.

And then Miranda O'Reily storms off, clearly annoyed with the Codemaster, who responds by simply taking another sip of his coffee and turning his head off-camera.

The Codemaster: Tsonda Intern #6... you can turn the music off now.

Tsonda Intern #6: My *name* is Steven.

The Codemaster: ...Far too many of those wandering around lately. I'm calling you Six from now on. Six, be a good little Koopa Troopa and refill my mug.

"Six" groans and collects the Codemaster's coffee mug, and starts to march off, groaning and mumbling to himself the whole way.

The Codemaster: Oh, and Six... I prefer my coffee black.

As we return to ringside, the PRIME fans are up on their feet in worship of the flame-haired Goddess on the stage.

As the thunderous chords of A Seafarer’s Knot by Fair to Midland blast out of the arena’s rumbling speakers, Mary-Lynn Mayweather is joined by High Flyer, his white fur coat dyed pink by Mayfly’s light show.

Vince Howard: The following contest is a PRIME VERSUS SCCW bout, scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, accompanied by one half of the PRIME tag team champions Team VIAGRA, HIGH FLYER… from McCandless, Pennsylvania… weighing in at 125 pounds… she is MARY. LYNN. MAAAAAAAAAAYWEATHER!!!

The PRIME crew show their loyalty by giving Mary the loudest theme and brightest lightshow of the night, their own way of supporting her in the war against the Dead Man’s Hand.

The feeling of pride that the crowd have? That unwavering support? That excitement?

Was always going to be tainted once ‘they’ arrived.

Nick: I can't believe we've even let them back in the building.

Richard: What, a sound asskicking won't satisfy you?

Nick: Only if they get it every day for the rest of their lives.

Mary-Lynn Mayweather stands in the ring, High Flyer on the apron. They wait with an anticipation they'll never be able to name.

Vince Howard: And her opponent!

Kill those lights.

Start up the Nine Inch Nails -- the Pirate Robot Midget remix of "My Violent Heart," the new theme song for the Dead Man's Hand.

You and I, we may look the same
But we are very far apart
There's bullet holes where my compassion used to be
And there is violence in my heart

The federation logo -- the one that's plastered across the big screen all night long -- freezes in place. The letters are shot out, like light bulbs. In their place, seven new letters.

D M H
SCCW

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Into the fire you can send us
From the fire we'll return
You can label us a consequence
Of just how much you have to learn

Vince Howard lifts the mic to complete the unenviable task of the introduction (who would've thought that Vince would hate introducing a pretty girl?). But nothing comes out.

A spotlight locks onto the crowd, where a trio of boo-inducing folks stands. Because it's not safe backstage.

You can try but you'll never understand
This is something that you'll never understand
Can you hear it now?
Hear it coming now?
Can you hear it now?

On the left, that's Reginald V. Lovecraft, Esq., half of the SCCW Strength in Numbers champions, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly in place, and dark blue power suit as perfectly pressed as the one made infamous by woman these people represent. On the right, that's Kathryn Shaw (she prefers "Katsidy"), her Sin City red dress cut low (and by "low," we mean "Jesus, that's a pretty navel ring she's wearing -- I can make it out all by itself"). She's the one with the headset microphone.

Katsidy: Now, now, Vinnie, honey, I told you earlier that I'd be doing this. So you save up your voice, mm?

Howard shakes his head in the ring.

Richard: Vince, you dog.

Katsidy: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the super-lawyer-girl's opponent! Representing the greatest wrestling federation on the planet, SINNNNN CITY CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING!

On hands and knees we crawl
You cannot stop us all
Our bones, our skin
We will not let you win

>"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Nick: You know, it really sucks that a whole federation full of quality people are getting painted with --

Richard: Screw that! BOOOOO!

Katsidy: She is also a proud member of the Dead Man's Hand!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The Sex Kitten turns at the vitriol-laced explosion of hatred.

You have set something in motion
Much greater than you've ever known
Standing there in all your grand naivety
About to reap what you have sown

Katsidy: Oh, spare me your crap. I could have each and every one of you limp-dicked PRIMEates eating out of the palm of my hand and you know it. You think Dusk would turn me down?

Her grin for the ring is a much less pleasured, much more spiteful thing.

Katsidy: You think High Flyer wouldn't turn away from the girl who is, hello, totally crushing on him if I said the right words?

Nick: Give me a break. This crew is so goddamn full of themselves.

Lovecraft says something; it's off-mic and it draws a sharp nod from the Siren.

Katsidy: Of course, that would have to imply you apes have dicks, nevermind that I'd probably have to touch them. So let's go back to the introduction, then. Let's see, SCCW is awesome and we rule it... oh, yeah. She is the prized pupil of my best friend...

"BOOOOOOOOO!" Shaw doesn't have to say the teacher's name to get the fans In the Know to booing.

Katsidy: Best of all, she is my baby sister! She is Lauren Fox! She! IIIIIIIIS! SAVANT!

Time will feed upon your weaknesses
And soon you'll lose the will to care
When you return to the place that you call home
We will be there - we will be there

Richard: Okay, here's what I want to know.

Nick: Yes, she's eighteen.

Richard: Good to know, but... where's that Kennedy guy? Didn't he show up with them?

Behind the slim form of her stepsister and the massive one of the Elder Statesmen, Lauren Fox is nearly invisible. She's five-five and a hundred and twenty-something pounds in gray jeans and a black Cannibal Corpse t-shirt. Her nose is pierced through the nostril, lower lip with a ring across it.

Her dark eyes settle on Mary-Lynn Mayweather as the three of them stalk towards the ring. Her smile is unsettling -- equal parts adorably perky and kind of twisted. And her hair is bound into a mess of purple braids.

On hands and knees we crawl
You cannot stop us all
Our blood will stain
We will not go away

Once they force their way through the adoring throng to ringside, Lovecraft extends a hand to assist the Sex Kitten over the barricade -- she doesn't quite flash her panties, though she might as well. For her part, Lauren bounds over the steel, sliding under the bottom rope and coming to her knees.

Her smile for the referee is much nicer than the one she had for Mary-Lynn Mayweather; it's the smile that makes her seem like a real girl.

On hands and knees we crawl
You cannot stop us all
Our blood, our ways
Will never leave this place

As "My Violent Heart winds to a close, the bashful smile doesn't prevent the PRIME referee from stepping in to check the Dreadlocked Deceiver for weapons, though.

Oh, did they mention Mary-Lynn got pimp-smacked into the steel steps by the Dead Man’s Hand last week?

Because that would be why she’s not exactly waiting in her blocks for the starter’s gun.

Nick: You do it, Mary!

As Savant endures the indignity of standing one-legged like a Crane while her footwear is checked for anything from a subtle spike to a shoe-bomb, Mayweather gallops across the ring and flies at the off-balance Sinner. Wrapping an arm around Savant’s neck, Mary-Lynn slams the back of her opponent’s head into the canvas with a falling clothesline.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The crowd? Loving it.

Flyer? Punching the air.

The SCCW contingent at ringside? Lodging what appears to be an official protest with the timekeeper.

Nick: She’s been waiting a week for this, and Mary-Lynn Mayweather wasn’t about to wait another 5 second before getting her hands on one of the Dead Man’s Hand!

Richard: Her disregard for the rules can’t end here, either. To combat the hand, she’s going to need to stretch every boundary.

With the ringing off the bell accompanying the throbbing of her head, Lauren grabs the ropes and hurriedly scrambles up, only for Mary-Lynn reward the effort with a standing dropkick that lands pin-point on the Sinner’s chin.

Although more at home in the air, Mary-Lynn familiarises herself with the canvas, dropping down to reel off a string of vengeful forearms to Savant’s face, each one bumping the back of her opponent’s head off the mat.

Nick: Hit-and-run is where Mayfly can impose herself on this match early. She’s against an opponent with little formal wrestling training, and that might hinder her in trying to ground Mary.

Richard: It’s what wrestlers try to do against fighters… stand anywhere but toe-to-toe.

What fires back at Mayweather is a flailing of nails, knuckles and heels as Savant lashes out off of her back, forcing the PRIMEate to hop back to her feet… flashing a goading smile down at The Dreadlocked Deceiver.

Taking it a little better than many SCCW followers would have expected, Savant pulls herself up, checks her pierced face for blood, then offers a mildly-impressed pitter-patter of applause.

Nick: I have a feeling that there won’t be much more applause from The Hand if Mary-Lynn keeps this up.

Richard: I’m not even sure if that could be called applause, Nick. That was more like wishing death upon someone via the medium of clap.

Cracking her neck, then her knuckles, Savant strides domineeringly into the middle of the ring, challenging Mayfly to meet her. Buoyed by her early hits, Mary-Lynn accepts, and the duo entwine in a snarling collar-and-elbow tie-up.

Savant wastes little time in grabbing a handful of red hair to help her cause, while Mary-Lynn in turn wastes little time in pleasantly surprising the Sinner by grabbing a dreadlock to even the odds.

Nick: Mayweather taking it upon herself to even things up there.

Richard: She’ll need to keep doing that… if she doesn’t go as far as Savant when it comes to anything in this match, she’s in trouble.

According to Savant’s anatomy, this apparently causes the right knee to fly out, crunching into Mayfly’s ribs.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Nick: And that’s what the applause was for… a false gesture to sucker Mary in.

Richard: Accept applause after the match, but not a second before that.

With Mary-Lynn doubled over, Savant backs a few paces away, then charges back at the redhead to deliver another knee, this time to the side of Mayweather’s head. Sent corkscrewing down onto the canvas by the impact, the VIAGRA member lands spread-eagled, open for Savant to follow up the knee with a hasty flurry of stomps.

From across the ring, Lovecraft locks eyes with Flyer, trying to goad the Snowman by cracking a sick smile of satisfaction at Mary’s pain.

Slithering past the referee as he tries to force her away, Savant plants the sole of her boot into the side of Mary’s face, grinding the tread into the redhead’s cheek. Stooping down, The Dreadlocked Deceiver grabs two handfuls of hair, pulling Mayfly’s head off the canvas…

Nick: I don’t think it’s by accident that The Hand have maybe their most sociopath member in this match. This match is a message, and sadly for Mary-Lynn at the moment, she’s the medium.

…before letting go and crushing Mary-Lynn’s head under her boot.

Grabbing her cheekbone, Mayweather thrashes on the canvas, then desperately reaches for the ropes.

Feeling its rude to watch a hurt opponent struggle, Savant gives a helping hand, dragging Mary-Lynn across the middle rope. Apparently that effort was awfully tiring, as The Dreadlocked Deceiver feels the need to take a breather, resting her weight across the back of Mayweather’s neck and choking her across the cable.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Not even giving the Sinner the luxury of a five-count, the referee forces The Crown Princess Of The Dead Man’s Hand off of Mary, but the second his back is turned, Katsidy lashes a stinging slap across her face.

Nick: I’d complain here, but I hate to say I say that coming before even Katsidy did.

Basking in the hate of the crowd, Katsidy licks her reddening palm where it stung Mayweather, then tans her own hide with it.

As the referee faces a riled-up High Flyer, Savant drops a knee down between the shoulder-blades of Mary-Lynn, pulling back on her head with two handfuls of hair… then somehow sensing the referee’s attention in order to break the torturous hold just in time.

Richard: This match might just be a story of how Mayweather was too ‘Nice’ to combat The Dead Man’s Hand. This will be a fight that’ll require PRIME’s dirtiest fighters, the cut-throats.

Flashing the referee a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, The Dreadlocked Deceiver grabs Mary-Lynn’s arm, pulling her up off the canvas, then whipping her the short distance into the turnbuckles. Without enough time to turn, Mary takes the impact chest-first, before her hair is again grabbed by Savant, who flings her down to the canvas by it.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Wagging an accusing finger, the referee warns the Sinner, who shows keen multi-tasking skills by both managing to ignore the official and kick Mary-Lynn in the ribs all at the same time.

Nick: Savant is just working over Mary-Lynn Mayweather here on ReVolution.

Richard: And it’s not any accident that we haven’t seen her go for a cover yet. A quick pin after a few moves is not what Savant is out here for… and this might not end until the referee has to step in and say it’s over.

Backing away to both placate the PRIME official and give herself a run-up, Savant urges Mayweather to get back to her feet, which the VIAGRA member manages to do with the help of the turnbuckles and more than a little discomfort.

Scuffing the soles of her boots against the canvas, Savant readies herself, then rushes the corner… where Mary-Lynn manages to swing both her legs up, ensnaring The Dreadlocked Deceiver’s neck.

Nick: Savant just rushed into a trap!

Too quick for Savant to react, Mary-Lynn unhooks and foot and slams it down onto the crown of her opponent’s skull, then lets go of the ropes either side of her just long enough to cross her arms. Another heel bounces off a dazed Savant’s head, before Mayweather uses her cross-grip to propel herself into a spin, snapping the Sinner over with a headscissors.

Nick: C’mon, Mary!

Richard: If she’s smart she’ll keep the memory of what Savant just put her through and channel it right back at her! It’s time for Mayweather to give as good as she got.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As Savant stares up at the lights, Mary-Lynn drags herself back up using the ropes, trying to stretch out or walk off her aches and pains.

Understandably rubbing the top of her throbbing head, The Dreadlocked Deceiver burst back to her feet swinging, but Mary-Lynn darts under her lashing-out arm, hops onto the middle ropes, then flies off with a forearm to Savant’s forehead.

"MA-RY-LYNN! MA-RY-LYNN! MA-RY-LYNN!!"

A hit of adrenaline surges through Mayfly’s body, energy visibly brimming up within her as she hops on the spot, waiting for Savant to rise.

Nick: If home-field advantage has any place in wrestling, these PRIME fans are trying to push Mary-Lynn to victory here. The Hand may have an extra man at ringside, but these thousands of fans want to even the odds.

Urged on by High Flyer, and choosing to ignore the rather-less-helpful suggestions of Katsidy and Lovecraft, Mary-Lynn meets a rising Savant with a forearm to the jaw, ducks a retaliating swing, then leaps up to take down the Dreadlocked Deceiver down with a Huricanrana.

Reaching back, Mayweather ensnares Savant’s thrashing legs.

"ONE!

TWO!

T-NO!"

Trying to reverse the pin, Savant pushes Mary-Lynn’s shoulders down with her legs, only for the VIAGRA member to harness the momentum and roll back through onto her feet. Oh, and she also dropkicks the Dreadlocked Deceiver square in the face while she’s there.

Nick: What a kick! She might be better known as a high flying daredevil, but when you’re fighting out of revenge, a kick to the head is too good to pass up!

Seeing the Sinner laid flat-out on the canvas at her feet, Mary-Lynn hurdles her fallen opponent and rushes the ropes, going for an Asai Moonsault…

Richard: HEY!

…until she sees Lovecraft grab the middle cable.

Nick: Why don’t they just make their opponents wrestle with an arm tied behind their back? The Hand are showing here that they’ve no interest in a fair fight.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Giving into his frustrations, High Flyer storms around the ring towards the Sin City contingent.

In the ring, Mayweather remains calm, instead making an about turn, hurdling back over Savant, and scoring with the Moonsault off the opposite ropes.

"YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"

Hooking Savant’s far leg, Mary makes the cover, only to find that the referee is occupied keeping Flyer and Lovecraft from coming to blows… no doubt a little more eager to do so with Katsidy playing the damsel in distress, shielding the SCCW tag team champion from the Lunatic.

Richard: The Hand know their strengths better than any group we’ve seen here in a while. They want to deliver a message through Mary-Lynn, they put her up against a complete sociopath. They want a referee distraction, they bring Katsidy out here… hell, I’m going cross-eyed trying to watch a match while she’s out here with us.

Somehow staying calm despite her desire for vengeance and the extracurricular surrounding the match, Mayweather traps a rising Savant’s neck in a quarter-nelson. Nodding to the top turnbuckle, Mayfly brings the PRIME crowd to their feet, relishing the prospect of a Dead Man’s Hand member paying the price for their actions last week.

But, as Savant struggles, pushing Mary nearer to the ropes, a late arrival to ringside denies them their satisfaction.

Nick: Wait.. That’s…

Richard: DAMNIT!

From over the barricade, a figure rushes up the steps, along the apron, then SMASHES Mary-Lynn in the back of the skull with a brutal lariat.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As the disgusted PRIME fans deflate with a venting of rabid jeers, Mayweather slams down face-first into the canvas, the sickening impact move swatting her limply onto her front.

Running down off the apron, ‘The Big Stack’ Philip Kennedy skids to a halt just short of the fuming PRIME fans, immediately spinning back to admire his handiwork.

Nick: How many more do they have? Are there another couple under the ring? This is ridiculous.

Richard: They’re pack-hunters, Nick.

Across the ring from the interference, Katsidy guides the referee’s wandering eyes up to hers, then directs him back to the ring where Savant drags Mary-Lynn away from the ropes, takes a cheap-shot forearm down into her out-cold opponent’s face, then makes the cover.

"ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!"

That wasn’t how a heroine’s revenge against her brutal attackers was meant to go.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Angry, sickened and cheated, the PRIME crowd rapidly become hostile, only a burning effigy or two away from a full-blown riot.

Nick: How many more times are The Dead Man’s Hand going to do this on PRIME soil? How many more times are they going to humiliate us?

Richard: I hate to say it, Nick, but they’re a massive faction within a federation… PRIME can barely get half their numbers on the same page for more than five minutes.

Nick: Well PRIMEates had better put rivalries and grudges to the wayside until this thing is over, or Blaine might as well toss Desade the keys to our head office.

Sensing that even a professional security team might not be enough to get them safely to the back if the storm keeps brewing throughout ringside, Kennedy pulls a smirking Savant from the ring and gestures across the ring for Lovecraft to cover Katsidy’s hasty exit.

Aided by Flyer being more concerned for the wellbeing of his unconscious ally, The Dead Man’s Hand make a hurried exit from ringside, not sticking around for the formalities of Savant having her hand raised.

Vince Howard: The winner of the match…

PRIME’s ring announcer almost wishes Katsidy would cut him off again, just so he doesn’t have to be the one who makes it official… but he’s not so lucky.

Vince Howard: … Savant.

Yes, no bold, no capitals. That sums up Vince’s sickened delivery.

With PRIME’s sound team not dignifying the stolen victory with The Hand’s music, the quartet head back up the aisle to the PRIME fans’ own composition, which they could quite aptly name ‘I Hope You All Die’.

Low and heavy clouds open into a tumultuous Buffalo night. On the ultimate scale of deducing rain, tonight would have to fall under the category of "FUCKING POURING", just two spots above "Cats and Dogs". Lightning has also been spotted in the area so many individuals aren't opting to stay outside in the dreary weather where their clothing can be soaked and four hundred dollar haircuts ruined.

Except for one person, sitting in a lone folding chair just outside the parking lot. He is enveloped in precipitation and looks like his favorite cat just got run over by an 18 wheeler and he had to witness it. Then the driver felt like a douchebag and decided to run it over about six more times.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Devin Shakur.

Commie Eeyore (HI LINDZ) sits with his head hung low, still wearing his signature black dress attire which now, thanks to the heavy rain, form fits his body. In just under a month, he's gone from headlining Colossus in his home state to fighting Enemigos and barely achieving a victory. To make matters worse, SCCW and PRIME appear to be in full on warfare while he's stuck in his depressed rut, completely left out of the fray.

Nobody should want his services anyhow, the man is a shell of his former self.

Not to mention the fact that he's got Mega Job and Tony Gamble following him around. That alone would make even the most attractive individual unapproachable.

Speaking of the entourage, which is safely tucked inside the arena and pristine dry, The "Universal Champion" is prancing around to "Walk Like An Egyptian" while doing the dance. Beef and El Janito are reverting back to their filming days and taping this extravaganza.

Yet, for Devin Shakur there is a silver lining. There is one person on the PRIME roster willing to stand by and comfort him during his hour of need.

Steve the Rambling Communist.

Standing behind him with a boom box held high in the air that is playing the song from The Incredible Hulk. Somehow, he's just as dry as those inside.

As Gamble does his little dance, Beef and El Janito look outside to see Shakur. The two of them shrug and then turn to T3h Grin.

Beef: Hey, Tony. We're gonna go interview Devin for a moment. Keep dancing in the background, it might provide some amusement since we don't think this interview will go well.

With some caution, Mega Job make their way outside, immediately becoming drenched. One would assume they would go running in fright, as even the slightest aberration has the tendency to scare these two. However, they remain undeterred and progress forward, Beef holding the camera and El Janito holding the microphone. Risking their lives, they get feet away from The Shakur.

El Janito: Uh...Devin?

Devin doesn't raises his head to acknowledge either of them.

Devin Shakur: Thanks for noticin' me.

El Janito: Everything alright, buddy?

He still doesn't raise his head.

Devin Shakur: Do you ever get the feeling that nothing you do matters anymore?

El Janito: We're Mega Job, Mr. Shakur. It happens ALL. THE. TIME.

In the background, Tony Gamble does the robot.

Devin Shakur: I shouldn't have even bothered asking that question, I apologize.

El Janito: We're willing to accept your candor. Seriously though, why the long face?

Now that he's been prodded, Shakur feels it acceptable to unleash his woes upon Mega Job.

Devin Shakur: I have nothing anymore, Janito, nothing. I've lost my ability to care because I've lost anything that makes me care. Did you see me out there? I looked like a kid without his soul. An Enemigo took me to my physical and mental limits. An. Enemigo. Why am I even around here anymore if I'm being strained by a Mexican castaway?

El Janito: Come on, what would Tony Gamble do without you around?

In the background, Tony Gamble begins to do the hokey pokey and turn himself around.

El Janito: I'm sorry. Forget I asked that. Um... so why the sitting out here in the rain? Even the Enemigos wouldn't sit out here in the rain.

Beef: Unless they're paid to do it.

El Janito: Yeah. Unless they're paid to do it.

Shakur has kept the depressed look on his face ever since his hand was raised in victory almost twenty minutes ago, a feat that would make Patrik Antonius shudder.

Devin Shakur: Because real wrestlers who do enough to earn their annual salaries are supposed to sit inside comfortable locker rooms and have unscheduled backstage encounters with their fellow brethren. Me, I'm not one of them anymore. I'm an old model of what a Champion once was. I'm a CD Player. VCR. Cellular phone that just takes calls. Sour milk, past its expiration date. Hopefully if I'm lucky, a whisper of wind will carry me away into the endless abyss and I'll be forgotten peacefully.

El Janito: Then why aren't we in our comfortable locker rooms, having unscheduled backstage encounters with our fellow brethren?

Devin Shakur: You're not real wrestlers.

Beef: He's got us there, dude.

El Janito: That's true.

In the background, Tony Gamble is doing the Worm.

El Janito: Nevertheless... come on. You were Universal Champion. Only a handful of guys can possibly say they were that high up on the card. I mean, hell, Beef and I just now got up to "curtain jerking Colossus" status, ourselves.

Beef: Yeah! Even though I don't remember who we faced, now.

Devin Shakur: That's the anguish of getting up high on the totem pole, kids. Once you get there, people expect things out of you. Responsibilities get placed upon your shoulders. You are seen as a leader to others. You are a person of interest. People want to actually nitpick your brain and find out what you are thinking. Cameras follow you around incessantly, looking for the next sound byte or when you might make a blunder that can make a paparazzi crew filthy rich.

In the background, Tony Gamble is doing the Macarena.

Devin Shakur: I don't want responsibility. I don't want expectations looming over me. I don't want their attention anymore. I don't want anything out of them and I don't want anything out of myself. I realize that my talents are gone and never again will I be the man that once walked through those halls claiming to be the best. Before anybody can realize it, I will go completely out of style and only experience a revival when I end up stuffed in a coffin while Steve plays The Incredible Hulk song at my funeral.

Indeed, Steve is still holding the boom box while the song plays on a continuous loop.

Devin Shakur: So leave me be. Let me wither away while people castigate me for being a failure because that's what I deserve after all that I've done to them and to this federation.

El Janito: (at a loss for words) Uh... dude, we suck at cheering people up.

Beef: He's emo. Eeyore. ...Emoyore.

Mega Job seem to have given up all hope, and it is only fitting that Tony Gamble starts to Safety Dance over to Devin Shakur, all while holding an umbrella and avoiding getting drenched. They both give a surprisingly disgruntled look towards The Grin, hoping he can shine some light on the darkened Shakur.

Placing a hand on the shoulder of his compadre, Tony Gamble leans down and produces the most sincere moment of his PRIME career.

Tony Gamble: You complete me.

Then, like an epiphany, it hits Commie Eeyore. He looks up to his longtime friend and realizes that there is someone out there who cares for him and who doesn't want to see him wailing around like this. Someone who has been there from trying to gain a foothold in this business to winning the Intense Championship to the painful repetitive losses against Wade Elliott to the success of knocking Cozen and breathing the rarefied air of Universal Championship glory.

And now he's here again to lend a helping umbrella.

Shakur stands up, leaves his chair behind, and crams underneath the big black umbrella with Tony Gamble. Mega Job at their side and Steve behind them with a boom box, everybody walks back inside toward the HSBC Arena.

Richard (OSV): THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL!

Nick (OSV): Stop crying you pansy.

The hallway. The quintessential collision course in PRIME. Hundreds upon hundreds of brawls have broken out here. Dozens of plots devised. And that one time, there was a crazy fan who got chased down by security and MAN was that a sick takedown…ahem.

This hallway, though, is about to feature some star power. And not that weak white dwarf star power, we’re talking red giants, baby. Wait for it. Wait for it.

And go.

Chandler Tsonda pops into the picture, walking with a purpose down the right side of this particular hallway. Making pretty good time, considering he’s in formal business attire. Such good time that he rounds a corner just a bit too fast. Which would be bad, considering who’s just around the bend.

Tsonda barely has enough time to slam on the brakes before he crashes into Lindsay Troy, who is walking away from VIAGRA's locker room after Mary-Lynn Mayweather's match. The disaster averted, Troy frowns at Tsonda's lack of awareness and takes a swig from the water bottle she snagged on her way back to her locker room.

Lindsay Troy: Might want to watch where you're strutting, peacock. I don't think water looks good on Armani.

Chandler Tsonda: All potentially hilarious one-liners aside, you’re just the woman I need to see.

Lindsay Troy: If you make a joke about giving me fashion advice, Clinton Kelly, I’m tattooing my bootprint onto your mug.

Chandler Tsonda: Yeah, I’m sure we’d all like that very much, but can we talk serious business for a second? The Weather Channel’s showing a serious shitstorm, originating in the Las Vegas region.

Lindsay Troy: And? Last week, you were on summer vacation while some of us were fending off Desade’s standing army.

The Universal Champion takes a deep breath, knowing that he’s not about to convince Lindsay Troy of anything she doesn’t already believe. However, there needs to be a peace between these two paramount stars of PRIME, or there can be no hope of an allied front against Sin City’s worst.

Chandler Tsonda: Troy, you must realize that I’ve put aside my usual "stay away and hope you’ll do the same" strategy towards you. I’m ready to lead PRIME against SCCW.

Lindsay Troy: Position’s been filled. I’ve got actual beef with the Spider. You’ve got misplaced bravado from that shiny thing around your shoulder.

With a long finger, Lindsay Troy points to the very same prize that made her a megasuperduperstar in PRIME. It’s been hers twice, and it might be back in her hands soon enough. But for now, Lindsay Troy devotes most of her brain activity towards getting back at Dead Man’s Hand.

Chandler Tsonda: Whatever it is, I’m gonna start kicking in faces until Brooksy’s feeling all better.

There’s a long silence between the two, who just eight months ago were preparing to do battle for the Universal Title.

Lindsay Troy: Fine.

Chandler Tsonda: So…you and me, we put aside the obvious differences.

Lindsay Troy: Like the fact that you spend more time on your hair than me.

Chandler Tsonda: And the fact that you have mannish hands.

Lindsay Troy: Or the fact that, hey, I beat you at Culture Shock.

Chandler Tsonda: Right. We’re not gonna let any of that come between us working together for this goal, eh?

Lindsay Troy: Of course.

Chandler Tsonda: Might even call us…frenemies, no?

Lindsay Troy: Let’s not take it too fast there, tiger. You make sure you’re swinging at their people, and we’ll be happy as clams.

Chandler Tsonda: Great. See you on the front lines.

Lindsay Troy: Ditto.

And just like that, Troy’s off to prep for her match, while Tsonda’s of to do some weird Asian and/or metrosexual stuff we don’t even know about.

The Union Jack flag.

At first you can see nothing but its majestic grace, as the camera fades to colour from black, dominating the screen effortlessly with magnificence. You automatically realise who’s dressing you find yourself currently perusing and if you haven’t figured it out, then your pretty dumb. Or as some parts of the world call it, "American".

"I hardly think this appropriate wrestling attire, sir."

It’s the familiar voice of Jeeves and as the camera pans outwards, you see him standing upright there in the middle of the dressing room, back straight adopting his normal dignified posture, a pot of steaming Yorkshire tea in the background (at this juncture it should be noted that any other tea -- except for maybe Twinings Everyday Normal Tea at a push -- tastes like piss). Except, Jeeves’s usual finely cut butler suit’s arms are torn right off, as well as the shirt underneath it and his stringy thin bare arms are now merely coated with hefty elbow pads which look entirely out of place.

The camera pans out even further to see Union Jack standing opposite him, observing his ever faithful butler intently, idly stroking his chin. He, of course, is wearing his usual head to toe tights covered in the Queens Union Jack colours.

Union Jack: Stop being such a girl, Jeeves! This isn’t a fashion contest, this is the world of professional wrestling!

Jeeves [sighing]: Very good, sir.

Union Jack: Now that we’ve kitted you out in more than suitable wrestling attire, I think we should run through precisely how you’re going to take down that bumbling gobshite Hank Cobb!

Jeeves seems taken aback.

Jeeves: Me, sir? Surely we--

Union Jack holds up the palm of his hand to demand silence and shakes his head dismissively.

Union Jack: Come now, Jeeves! You’re the one who picked a fight with the fellow last week, I think you need to be a man rather than a tortoise and deal with him!

Jeeves appears to be slightly outraged.

Jeeves: I didn’t start anything, it was you…wait. Tortoise?

Union Jack blatantly ignores him.

Union Jack: I think you need to go for the legs and take him down to the mat. If his legs are too powerful for you, then run away like a child from Gary Glitter! Then just hit your finisher and…[he pauses for a second] you do have a finishing manoeuvre don’t you?

Jeeves nods.

Jeeves: Yes, sir. The Armbar.

Union Jack’s eyes widen.

Union Jack: The Armbar? Are you serious, Jeeves? You couldn’t make a gimp submit with that!

Jeeves: I’ll you know, I made many men submit it my day working the fares!

Union Jack shakes his with disbelief.

Union Jack: Whatever. Now, second on the agenda is the name of our Tag Team. What do you think?

Jeeves: Perhaps we should consider the more simple route, sir.

Union Jack raises a speculative eyebrow.

Union Jack: And what might that be?

Jeeves: Jeeves and Union jack?

Union Jack eyes him warily.

Union Jack: I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.

Jeeves scrunches his face up, confused.

Jeeves: But wasn’t that in itself an answer, sir?

Union Jack ponders the notion for a time, before shaking his head with strenuous signs of irritation.

Union Jack: Jeeves, that’s irrelevant you ballbag!

Jeeves nods with acceptance.

Jeeves: Very good, sir.

Union Jack: What about…The Invincible Team?

Jeeves digests it and after a time shakes his head.

Jeeves: Not a good idea, sir.

Union Jack: And why’s that, Jeeves?

Jeeves: Because the team’s initial would be: TIT.

Union Jack nods.

Union Jack: Duly noted. What about: The Great Arsehole and Norman?

Jeeves [sighing]: I take it, you’ll be Norman?

Union Jack nods.

Union Jack: Correct!

Jeeves: Perhaps we should just remain Union Jack and Jeeves, sir.

Union Jack pats Jeeves on the shoulder and makes his way to the locker room door.

Union Jack: It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? Now let us go do battle.

Jeeves sighs.

Jeeves: Very well, sir.

They leave.

Passed down from owner to owner, kept secret (well, until now), kept safe, is a book. In this compilation of scribbled, coded notes and cryptic diagrams is contained the most essential knowledge for those looking to bring order to the Arkham Asylum of wrestling promotions…

Where to find your mofo’ing roster.

"Keep sniffing, Beatnik."

By a handful of thin, greasy, mousy hair, Xavier Kannon leads a dishevelled-looking teenager through the backstage corridors, yanking his head back every few seconds for him to take a sniff.

Sniffer Slacker: Errrrr, it’s… which way is that?

Eleanor: Righ-

Kannon: Left.

Sniffer Slacker: Oh, yeah, er… go Righleft.

With a shake of the head that bemoans every cent of his taxes that had been poured down the educational shitter, the Gold Patron Meritorious tugs the lanky kid - his wiry frame like a mast from which a baggy Azala Zameer ‘Snack Daddy’ t-shirt hangs - left down the corridor.

Oh, yeah… this is how you find a certain Hall of Famer who goes by the name Nova…

"Enrique, what did I say, huh? I said, ‘Enrique, for the love of God and your boyfriend’s tight ass, we are NEVER ordering Crab Rangoon for the catering tables again. We had people throwing up in the halls – fuck, man, I watched a janitor break his mop over his OWN head and wave the sharp end at me like a caveman! WHY, THEN, GIVEN ALL THIS, do I detect the not-so-subtle aroma of crab meat and cream cheese in the air?"

Kannon’s twacker-tracker leads him around the corner, where an irate Admin Star stands clad as always in his white and navy-striped seersucker suit, aquamarine eyes staring down through black tortoise-frame glasses at a clipboard in his hands. A honking doobie – if you’ll pardon the expression – hangs out of his mouth, belching smoke.

Nova: (Holding up a finger) Wait. My stoner-sense is tingling. Someone close by likes to get down with the Bobby Brown. (Cupping his hands) Arak-mal-toolath! Con-bon-bai? Con-bon-bai? (Turning back to Enrique) It’s a secret stoner language, you can’t understand it.

Xavier Kannon: (Rolling his eyes) We found him. Fantastic. You can go now, peon.

Sniffer Slacker: (Sniffing the air) Oh my GOD. That weed smells AMAZING.

Nova: You want in? I could spot you some. I got some o’ dat Funk-A-Lunk. Mr. Nice Guy. Queen SHIVA. I got that Cess-Boom-BADA. That Broken Arrow. Northern Aggression. That Skeeza-Da-Skunk. That Tree-Top-O-Da-Trunk.

Enrique: Those are Wu-Tang lyrics.

Ellie: Oooh! Can I get a peach Bellini?!

Sniffer Slacker: I…I want it all. I WANT IT ALL, MAN.

Kannon: Hello? If you’re through conducting a drug deal on live television, it’s time for you to stand up, as a PRIME Hall of Famer, and speak out against CeePee’s crusade. Killean and Troy are leading the charge, Rolo is facedown in a Vegas gutter somewhere, so that leaves PRIME with - Hubbard help them - you, as the voice of reason. Are you going to sit back while he treats PRIME like a trashy reality TV show? Do you think if Blair and Tyler pulled the strings we’d be in this situation? No. Because putting on a wrestling show is enough for them, but not for the guy we got to run the show fresh off masterminding Celebrity Real Big World Gone Wild or whatever he did.

Nova stares at the self-proclaimed King of Wrestling, his face blank, his eyes blinking occasionally. Silence for a moment.

Nova: Okay. I need to know what YOU’RE smoking to make you think you could approach me with…really ANY issue, and expect me to side with you over my boy Chucky PARKS.

Xavier’s complexion blossoms.

Nova: (Doobie now sheathed, lighting a cigarette) Okay, I’ll admit…I don’t need the bullshit any more than you. I was happy with a wrestling show.

A…smile on Kannon’s face?

Nova: And if I actually bought this idea that you, the Epitome of Self-Absorption, cared enough about PRIME to approach me, your antithesis in as many ways as you care to flatter me with, with your concerns about the future of these hallowed halls…well, I might help you.

Smile’s gone.

Nova: But I know you, well enough anyway to know that you could give a shit if CP turned PRIME into the heavyweight version of America’s Best Dance Crew as long as you got plenty of air-time and a big briefcase full of MONEY. You have an agenda, and I don’t want any of it. So no. Let ‘em cowboy up if they want to. I trust Lindz and Killah Deez to make the right decisions when it matters. That girl’s got impeccable character judgment, for real. Hell, if she pointed out an old woman in the street and told me to deck her in the face, I’d probably do it and then ask her why. And you know what? I bet I’d find out that old bitch deserved it.

Kannon: Make peace not war, Nova. Isn’t that what they were chanting while you were being conceived in the back of a campervan all those years ago? Because of Cantrell’s reckless actions, a lot of innocent people are going to be hurt… just look at Angelina.

Nova: Angelica… douchebag. And you’ll pardon me if I’m messing something up here… memory can go on the fritz sometimes…but wasn’t it YOU who threw a temper tantrum and ruined Jon Rhine’s chances of joining the Air Force after he popped your party balloon? Wasn’t you who instigated the whole sordid affair, the SCCW jokes, YOUR constant willingness to give Rhine more exposure by publicly heaping loads of loathing upon him? Now we’ve people I’ve never heard of power-bombing our bombshells, but I don’t personally remember seeing any of them before the Main Event at Colossus V Night One, when they helped YOU walk out with your hand raised. What happened, XK? You seemed happy to reap the benefits of Sin City’s talent and sponge up the limelight for all it was worth until this whole shebang snowballed *gasp* BEYOND YOUR CONTROL.

The Admin Star grins and takes a drag of his cigarette. Kannon waves his hand in front of his face irritably.

Nova: Now you want someone to play janitor. Why don’t you do it yourself, Xavier? Why don’t you call a convention for SCCW and PRIME and tell everyone to hug it out? What’s the matter…worried that the King of Wrestling would be laughed away from the podium? Or worse…ignored?

Xavier Kannon: I never said I’d win any popularity contests. You, on the other hand…

Nova: …will have no part of your Silence the Violence sham campaign. The world doesn’t exist so you can manipulate people and situations to your advantage week-in and week-out. Besides…

The Hall of Famer flicks his cigarette away, pushes his glasses up his nose, and offers Kannon his beamiest Cheshire cat grin.

Nova: …you know I love a good stable war. >=)

The arena darkens some and the British National Anthem, "God Save The Queen" hits on the PA system and both Union Jack and Jeeves emerge onto the entrance ramp.

Richard: PRIME’s newest and unarguable best tag team!

Nick: What the hell are you talking about? This is their first match!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, weighing in at a combined 402lbs…UNION JACK AND JEEVES!!!!!!!!!!

Union Jack and Jeeves make their way to the ring side by side and surrounded by a personal security, four strong.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Union Jack make it to the ring, just as the music dies down and is replaced "Master of Puppets" by Metallica.


Vince Howard: And their opponents weighing in at a combined weight of 650lbs….DELTA UPSILON IIIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAA

DUI emerge from the back much to the audiences delight.

DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI!DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI! DUI!

They make it to the ring, eyes firmly fixed upon their opponents.


DING DING!!!!

Nick: Well, the bell’s gone but the ref’s still trying to get Union Jack’s entourage to exit the ring! This ridiculous, Rich!

Richard: The only thing ridiculous about this, is your face Nick.

Nick: That’s a bit harsh...

The ref ushers Union Jack’s "Royal Guard" Security force out of the ring and Jeeves climbs through the middle ropes to take his position in his corner. The former manager and current butler and his master have a final huddled discussion of tactics in the corner, whilst Hank Cobb of DUI is elected to start in the turnbuckle. After a few seconds, Cobb’s patience wears thin and he complains to the ref but Union Jack breaks up the huddle before the official can intervene.

Nick: Well, FINALLY we’re going to see some action!

Richard: On a side note Nick, I have a question for you.

Nick: Go on.

Richard: What does a man with a twelve foot dick have for breakfast?

Nick: I dunno.

Richard: Well, this morning I had eggs! Ha!

Nick:...you about done?

Richard: Just about, yeah.

Both Cobb and Union Jack emerge from their respective corners and square up to each other in the center of the ring, the much larger Cobb looming over the British Nationalist quite effortlessly. Then, Cobb pushes UJ backwards, his unintentional strength flinging "Our Sovereign" right back into the turnbuckle with a thud.

Nick: Cobb’s here to do business and his business just so happens to be kicking ass!

Richard: Union Jack is a much more refined wrestler, Nick. He isn’t stupid enough to get into any displays of power with this Neanderthal!

Nick: Well, let’s face it Rich he may not have much of a choice!

Union Jack visibly gulps before tagging the startled Jeeves and ushering him towards the 6’8" monster in one hand gesture. Jeeves glares at his master questioningly, before reluctantly climbing through the ropes and rather unsurprisingly, this creates a smile on Cobb’s face five miles wide.

Nick: Well, this doesn’t look promising! If we thought Union Jack and Hank Cobb were a little unmatched in size, what do we make of this?

Richard: You’d be surprised, Nick. This isn’t as uneven as you might think.

Nick: What makes you say that, Rich? Jeeves isn’t exactly pumped!

Richard: Jeeves is an old school firecracker, Nick. He’ll have Cobb on the mat and crying before he even knows what’s happened to him!

Nick: Yeah, right.

Jeeves reluctantly moves farther out his corner and more toward the center of the ring, Cobb still smiling. Then, quickly Jeeves rushes forward, gets down on the mat and grabs for Cobb’s leg and tries to haul the giant down.

Richard: Like I said, Nick. Firecracker.

It doesn’t even nearly work; now laughing, Cobb grabs Jeeves by the scruff of his suit and hauls him up into the air and onto his feet. Jeeves glares at him, shocked and scared all rolled into one.

Nick: Look at the power of this man!

Richard: Can’t deny that. All cavemen are pretty strong though, Nick.

Nick: Cavemen?

Now on his feet, Cobb hits Jeeves with a thunderous knife-edge chop, which sends the butler flying across the ring. Immediately, he sits up grasping the bottom ropes, his face etched in pain and holding his chest painfully.

Nick: He felt that!

Richard: Hell, I felt that!

Cobb shoot another wide grin to Union Jack, then looks to close in on his prey. However, as he draws nearer Jeeves gets it together enough to get on his knees and scramble under Cobb’s legs and towards the other side of the ring. Jeeves is up on his feet by the time Cobb turns around and so charges at him full speed, hurls himself into the air and tries to catch the man unawares with a flying forearm. Cobb doesn’t react, but then he doesn’t need to. Jeeves bounces off Cobbs chest like a fly off a windshield and crumples down the mat like a broken accordion.

Nick: Well, Jeeves is dead!

Richard: What the hell happened there?

Nick: I think we both know, Rich.

Richard: Correct. Cobb cheated. Don’t know how, but he cheated. Bastard.

Cobb hauls Jeeves up into the air, tags in Korver and then hits a vicious sidewalk slam on Union Jack’s hapless Butler, whilst Korver springs over the top rope and hits a lethal leg drop. Not that it matters much, Jeeves was pretty much knocked unconscious by the sidewalk slam mere moments earlier and barely reacts to the concurrent leg drop.

Richard: Jeeves needs to get out of there and fast!

Nick: That’ll be tough, I don’t even think he’s breathing!

However, before a cover can be made, Union Jack’s personal security team catch the ref’s attention and shoot a number of questions, which immediately catches the attention of both member of DUI, who join the argument.

Nick: What the hell are they doing?

Richard: Looking after their clients, Nick. Obvious, ain’t it?

Sensing a opportunity to act, Union Jack swiftly climbs into the ring and drags Jeeves right the way over to his corner, propping him up against the turnbuckle and then climbing back outside to the apron as if nothing had happened. Once done, UJ’s security force disengage the argument, leaving both DUI and the ref to concentrate on the match.

Nick: That is despicable!

Richard: No, it’s smart. If DUI can bend the rules a little with their double teaming, I don’t see why Union Jack and Jeeves can’t follow in suit!

Nick: That’s entirely different and we both know it!

Both DUI and the ref are a little shocked to see Jeeves’ improved ring position, but the ref can’t help but declare the tag legal once Union Jack slaps the lifeless hand of his faithful butler, despite the protests from Cobb and Korver. Union Jack climbs back into the ring and slides Jeeves under the ropes, whilst at the other end of the ring Cobb climbs out of the ring and Korver prepares for battle.

Nick: Well, I’ll be surprised if Jeeves can take further part in this match, Rich!

Richard: You continue to underestimate the man, Nick! He’s a tough son of a bitch and he’ll be right back into this once he gets a breather!

Korver and Union Jack wearily circle each other in the center of the ring, before finally locking up in a collar and elbow tie up. UJ directs the grapple towards the turnbuckle, where he promptly raises his hands wanting a clean break and the ref is forced to pull Korver away. In doing so, however, UJ manages to catch Korver in the eye with a thumb, following up his advantage with a vicious European uppercut, sending him stumbling backwards.

Nick: Union Jack seems to have the upper hand here, but let’s not forget he’s all alone out there! He’s got nobody to tag, Jeeves is still out cold!

Richard: Ah, but he’s British Nick and therefore made of sterner stuff!

Nick: Pfft...

Down to one knee, Union Jack catches the stunned Korver with a knee lift sending him sprawling to the mat. UJ wastes no time and rebounds off the ropes and then hits the "By Royal Appointment" running knee drop.

Richard: That’s it. It’s over.

Union Jack immediately slumps over Korver, looking for the pin.

OOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.......

TTTTTWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOO......

THRRR---

Nick: Kickout! Korver kicks out!

Union Jack shoots the ref a displeased glance, before dragging Korver up by the hair and forcing him back against the ropes. Then, he hurls Korver across the ring with an Irish Whip then ducks down looking for the backdrop. However, upon hitting the opposite ropes Korver deftly tags in Cobb, rebounds and then catches UJ with a boot to the face knocking the Englishman backwards. He then grabs UJ’s head, whilst Cobb drops to one knee and charges out looking for the bulldog, but dropping UJ’s face down upon Cobb’s knee.

Nick: That looked nasty and this one could be all over!

Richard: Cheap double team tricks again!

Nick: Bah! They’re a coordinated tag team, Rich. That’s why they’ve got the upper hand here!

Richard: Yeah, right. That’s it.

As the ref shepherds Korver out of the ring, Cobb chuckles and doesn’t even attempt the pin, instead opting to drag UJ to his feet via his mask. Cobb pushes the Sovereign back a little, before nailing him with a vicious big boot to the face, which sends UJ sprawling backwards, through the ropes and out of the ring.

Nick: Ouch!

Richard: I think Our Sovereign lost a few teeth there!

Nick: Wouldn’t surprise me with that big wader connecting with his face!

Unwilling to relent his attack, Cobb follows him outside of the ring, where he’s immediately accosted by the four members of UJ’s security. Meanwhile, Jeeves drags himself to his feet, see’s the fracas below him and rather strangely takes to the top turnbuckle.

Nick: What the hell is he doing?

Richard: I have no idea, but I reckon it’s gonna hurt.

Cobb and the Security team turn to see just what in the is going on to find Jeeves hurtling toward them and with high cross body takes them all out in swoop, somehow garnering approval from the audience.

JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES! JEEVES!

Seeing this, Korver gets into the ring and seeing that most of UJ’s security force are back on their feet, since Hank Cobb took most of Jeeve’s death-defying leap, bounces off the opposing ropes before hurling himself over the top ropes taking them all down in one swoop. The ref exits the ring in a desperate attempt to sift through the chaos.

Nick: Oh dear good. Looks like a car crash out there!

Richard: That right there just levelled the playing field.

Nick: Yeah, keep telling yourself that!

By now, Union Jack is up and so slides under the ropes back into the ring whereupon he simply lies there, gasping air. After a time, Hank Cobb gets himself together enough to make it into the ring also and drags UJ up by his hair again, however, on the way up UJ has the strength to stop himself and hits him with a vicious low blow. Blow doubles over in agony, allowing time for UJ to jump to his feet, grab Cobb’s head and hauls him down for a vicious front-face DDT.

Nick: The Sovereign Slice!!!!!!!!!

Richard: It’s all over!

UJ drapes himself over the unconscious Cobb, just as the ref slides back into the ring.

OOOOONNNNNNNNEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

TTTWWWWWWOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

THHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Richard: Team Union Jack wins!

Nick: Not without help from their ‘security guards’ they didn’t.

Richard: A win’s, a win Nick. Don’t be bitter.

Vince Howard; The winner of this match....UUUNNNNNNIIIIOOOOOONNNNNNN JJJJJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!

With all of the mess resulting from PRIME's escalating war with Sin City Championship Wrestling, there are two individuals who, at the moment, have this conflict only at the very backs of their minds. The first is a huge man wearing a mask with an American flag design on it, and the second is a smaller, brown-haired woman who wears a purple dress. Her arms are crossed.

Captain Justice: Miss Miranda, are you still upset over last week?

Miranda O'Reily: Yes. I am.

Captain Justice: It was an unfortunate incident, but I don't see why it was my fault. I am but a man. Well, okay, I am but an American superhero. But still. Why is the blame resting on *my* shoulders? It's a heavy enough burden alone just supporting the will of America itself on my shoulders, you know.

Miranda O'Reily: You were *driving*. How can you claim to be the beacon of America if you can't find your way to an American arena on time?

Apparently, these two aren't even talking about the SCCW invasion, but the fact that the Princes of New England missed Revolution 170 last week.

Captain Justice: Well, Simon or Connor certainly could have driven.

Miranda O'Reily: But you were the one who declared that (as manly a voice as an eighteen-year-old girl can make) "worthless scum like those two clearly have no sense of direction", (normal voice) took the driver's seat, and said you'd take care of everything. Do you realize how bad this makes me look to have all of the people I'm responsible for completely no-show an event? One week with you in my employ and you've already caused me more than a few disasters.

Captain Justice: Miss Miranda, certainly you're not holding the sprinkler incident against me, too?

Miranda O'Reily: You ruined a perfectly good dress that I was making.

Captain Justice: But that was Simon's fau--

Miranda O'Reily: Simon is a lot of things, among them being one of the biggest jerks I know... but I don't recall him activating sprinkler systems just for kicks before you arrived. No *wonder* Mr. Silver dropped you off on me.

The Americanimal hangs his head low. Apparently, he's been defeated by a girl, given that he doesn't say anything after Miranda's rather harsh last line. Even Miranda feels bad about it, and she looks away.

Miranda O'Reily: I'm sorry. That was unkind of me.

The Captain seems to be shaking.

Captain Justice: It's true. (seemingly holding back tears) I've fallen from grace! I can't even beat a drugged up Canadian! There's no hope for me! I should just end it all!

He pulls out a knife. Miranda stares at the knife for a bit before she comments on it.

Miranda O'Reily: Okay, first... don't kill yourself. Second, are you seriously going to follow Devin Shakur's example? And third, if you *are* going to kill yourself, don't do it with a plastic knife you picked up from the catering table. It's embarassing.

Captain Justice looks at the knife, himself, before he throws it over his shoulder as if it's nothing.

Captain Justice: If there was a flaw in my plan, it's that.

?: If there was a flaw in your plan, it was not asking me to kill you for you.

Waltzing up with their tag team championships, Team VIAGRA beamed. They were Mary-Lynn-less, but still kept their swagger.

Captain Justice: Are these additional villains I must vanquish, young Miranda?

Tony Davis, for the first time, has noticed something. That is the material of Captain Justice’s flowing cape, which has caught both his attention and his afficiation. Justice quickly flung his cape away from Tony before he could grasp it.

Captain Justice: Stay away neer-do-weller! You shant lay your plebian hands on the embodiment of the LAW!

Tony Davis stares dumbfounded. High Flyer watches amused.

High Flyer: We’re just Team VIAGRA. We’re legally licensed by the American Government to prevent erectile dysfunction while watching PRIME programming. It’s a dastardly disease that affects the greatest of all of us, at one point in our life. If anything good Captain, I would say we are fighting on the same side of the law. Perhaps we could form a modern day Justice League, but with a better name. Like, the League of Awesomeness.

Miranda O'Reily: (muttering) Please don't utter the word "awesome" around here. I hear it enough from Simon's other brother, or Simon himself trying to mockingly describe said brother.

Captain Justice: ...Miranda, are these two... men... trying to trick the great Captain Justice?

Miranda O'Reily: No, I think they mean what they say no matter how crazy it sounds.

Captain Justice: Even still, (points at Flyer) that one looks a little less American than normal and (points at Davis) that one looks like he's not even from Earth. (no longer pointing) Clearly, they are up to something that's not in America's best interests!

Captain Justice leans towards Miranda O'Reily and whispers.

Captain Justice: They could be terrorists.

Miranda O'Reily: They are *not* terrorists.

Captain Justice: How do you know? That one (points at Flyer) could be hiding explosives underneath his mohawk.

Miranda O'Reily: The only thing explosive under his hair is his mind, I don't think you need to worry about weapons of mass destruction or whatever crazy reason you think you have for going to war with these two.

Tony Davis reaches out to touch Captain Justice's cape, and once again, Justice smacks his hand away. Davis looks as if he's physically in pain, clutching his wrist.

High Flyer: Captain, while I have you here, I have a question as a concerned citizen. As a non-terrorist, yes, I know it's disbelievable because my hair always looks shocked... and having read the Patriot Act, I know that all Superheros are forced to answer the questions of a civilian. So, I was only using courtesty as a tactic to quelch this horrible repugnant putrid air of mistrust... What would you do if America were... let's say... in the wrong?

Captain Justice seems... confused?

Captain Justice: I don't follow.

High Flyer: Let's say... George W. Bush bombs a school in Iraq. He kills forty seven children, seven adults, and 3 American civilians. BUT, he says he's killed Osama Bin Laden. BUT, it turns out after Bush is out of office and now located on the mystical island of Lost to escape war crime punishment, that we find out, Osama Bin Laden never existed, that he was a voice in George Bush's head that told him to blow up things, an old pyromaniac instinct surpressed by a psychiatrist as a toddler by his pappy... What would you do? Would you just like, go off and fight for England or something? Cause that'd be pretty fucked up.

Flyer tilts his head to the side.

High Flyer: Hey, random thought. Think Palin's sucked McCain's cock yet? I mean, he does have us to help him achieve!

At this comment, Flyer shudders. (Or perhaps, everyone shudders)

Captain Justice now looks even more confused.

Captain Justice: I'm glad I put you on mute shortly after you said "America is in the wrong", because I'm pretty sure none of that would've made any sense.

Miranda O'Reily: I heard the whole thing and I wish I hadn't.

Flyer turns to the cameraman.

High Flyer: Should we edit that out? We can edit it out. Alright guys. Cut. Why are you shaking your heads like that? Whatever.

Flyer turns back.

High Flyer: HOW did you get here so EARLY!?! I thought you used that special google maps website I annoynomously e-mailed you about eleven days ago.

Captain Justice: Wait, that was YOU? You were the one who made us go to CANADA!

Miranda O'Reily: You're the one who was driving.

Captain Justice: I felt unclean and tainted just by setting foot in that doomed and pestilent land!

Miranda O'Reily: You didn't even know we were in Canada until we were on our way back after Simon took over driving duties.

Captain Justice: I trusted that map! It had the American flag on it! It couldn't have been wrong!

Miranda O'Reily: (sighs) At least that's one mystery solved. (turns to Flyer) Thanks for hurting my reputation, by the way. Much appreciated.

High Flyer: Yeah, well, here's a reference from me. It'll probably unlock just about any door or imaginary window you'd like. However, I specified specifically that the Connor Knox mutated hybrid of yours can't be included. I have no qualms with you, so you know. Only your diluted and misguided associates.

Flyer then turns to Justice.

High Flyer: And I apologize to you Captain. If I had known Canada had not been invaded and claimed by America, I would never have sent you there. Cross my heart and hope Tony dies.

Tony was about to reach out and touch Captain Justice's cape, but for some reason, Tony's lucidity is in effect tonight, and he actually reacts.

Tony Davis: Don't kill me with your lies dude.

Tony Davis resigns himself to not being able to touch Captain Justice's cape. Now bored with the situation, he pulls out his Nintendo DS. Captain Justice immediately tackles him to the ground.

Captain Justice: HE HAS A BOMB!

Flyer stares down at his struggling tag team partner, as he walks over to Miranda's side. She jerks a little bit, but Flyer simply crosses his arms.

High Flyer: You know, it's interesting being a manager. I never really saw the world from your side. It's weird, managers wrestling, wrestlers managing, like Justice over here. Y'know, the great thing about managing is the fact you don't get hit in the head so much. I mean, it's not even a quarter, it's like a tenth. It's amazing. I feel like I could jog a marathon right now. Wanna join one with me? I feel totally unconcussed.

SMACK!

The chairshot's sound is much akin to that of a shotgun, and the man holding the smoking chair is none other than Simon Knox.

Simon Knox: How about now, motherfucker?

Connor O'Reily: Dude, how come you always get the snappy lines? I wanted one, too.

Tony Davis continues to squirm underneath Captain Justice. Simon Knox looks down at him, and smacks Connor's side to gain his attention.

Simon Knox: Should we knock him out too?

Connor O'Reily: He probably wouldn't even understand what's going on.

Tony Davis: I swear, I'm going to pay that cable bill. It's just, this economy... STOP HOUNDING ME!

Connor O'Reily: You know what? Fuck it.

With Davis still underneath Justice, Connor positions the steel chair not unlike how a golfer would position his club before teeing off. Connor seemingly looks out to the distance, presumedly at some sort of green several hundred yards away.

Connor O'Reily: FORE!

Tony Davis: Four? MY MORTAL MATHEMATIC EN--

SMACK!

Tony Davis falls unconscious. He would no doubt wake up hours later from the blow, stumbling dazily in a desperate search for an ice cream cone.

Dropping the steel chairs, the Princes of New England look down at their fallen prey, with Simon looking down in particular at High Flyer while Connor O'Reily simply helps Captain Justice get up to his feet, and Miranda O'Reily simply looks on in annoyance and disappointment at all three men.

Simon Knox: You guys probably thought this was over at Colossus, didn't you? You beat the upstarts, time to move on? Yeah, right. You won't ever hear the end of us. Even if you crippled us, we'd just chase you in wheelchairs. Even if you killed us, we'd just haunt you. Even if you fucking exorcised us, we'd come back. And that shit's gonna continue until we get those titles off of your carcasses. Next week? You're on *OUR* turf. See you then.

Simon walks away, moving past Miranda despite her disapproving glance. Connor follows suit, leaving the Captain with Miranda all over again.

Captain Justice holds up the Nintendo DS that Tony Davis had in his possession, and looks at Miranda.

Captain Justice: ...False alarm. This does not appear to be a bomb at all.

The only thing Miranda can do is put the palm of her hand to her face and groan, audibly.

Ever wonder what your favorite PRIMEates are up to just hours before the show? Do you stay up at all hours of the night, pondering upon the activities of Lindsay Troy? Perhaps Jonathon Rhine takes in lunch at his favorite restaurant, Long John Silver’s, before trotting off to "One-Eyed Willy’s Shack o’ Patches"? Does Chandler Tsonda spend hours in Bath and Body Works picking out the perfect exfoliating scrub and softest loofah sponge? (Actually, that answer is yes.) Is there a 24-hour emo emporium where Devin Shakur can buy his favorite shade of guyliner? Is it right next door to the "Colored Balls and Candy Striped Poles Clown Consortium," frequent shopping stop for everyone’s favorite Hobbit half-breed, Tony Gamble?

These are all questions we may never know the answer to (except that Tsonda thing), but one thing we do know is where this guy’s been all day. And who is "this guy," you ask? Why none other than the PRIME 5-Star Champion, 2008 Dual Halo Winner, Covington County Pie Eating Champion and one bad ass sexual gods damned tyrannosaur… Tyler mother fuckin’ Rayne. At this point, we shouldn’t even have to tell you about all those screaming women out in the arena. You should be accustomed to the lip wetting abilities of the Underground Pimp. The cataclysmic effect his mere image can have on a woman’s carnal desires. That should all be a given at this point.

So we’re not even going to mention it.

What we will mention, though, is that Tyler Rayne is in a right foul fucking mood. Shenanigans aside… this has been one hell of a seven day stretch. Just one week ago, right here on this very program, an invader from SCCW… a dastardly evil and demented member of Desade’s Dead Man’s Hand… Mayhem… powerbombed poor little Angelica Brooks on the hood of Rayne’s Mustang. Angelica, Hoyt be with her, has been lying unconscious in a Pittsburgh hospital bed ever since. And Tyler Rayne, up until he caught a flight about five hours ago… hasn’t once left her side.

Needless to say, the physical devastation of one of his closest friends in PRIME has not sat well with The Golden Boy. He is… irritable, to put it mildly. Although, at this precise moment, he is marching very determinedly down these halls.

Destination? The locker room of one Lindsay Troy.

If fortune were smiling, Tyler Rayne would walk right into the Queen of the Ring’s locker room without incident. Unfortunately, it just hasn’t been Rayne’s week. And it wouldn’t be none too exciting if no one was here to get in his way, now would it?

That particular someone in his way? A brick wall some like to refer to as Killean Sirrajin.

The explosive response for the Supreme Machine is enough to rival Rayne’s own beloved reactions. Perhaps even surpass them. Killean, much to the chagrin of Tyler Rayne, has planted his massive frame quite firmly in the hall leading to Lindsay Troy’s locker room. The 5-Star Champion cannot move past him to the left. He cannot move past him to the right. (Just trust us, he tried.) He simply cannot move past.

Rayne: May have escaped your keen notice, Alpha Flight… but you’re in my fucking way.

Now one would think that Killean would have his own response for the straight edged, foul mouthed Dual Halo Champion... but Tyler Rayne has this 'tude that can just rub off on certain people. Unfortunately for him, Killean seemed to acquire the 5-Star Champion's top notch sarcasm.

Killean: Might wanna write yourself a memo that reminds you that I just don't give a fuck and I have a few bones to pick with you, skinny.

Rayne: Skinny? Wow, that’s clever. Well ‘roid monkey, this best be entertainin’. I could use a good laugh.

The PRIME Choice grins, turning the other cheek to the 'roid monkey comment... for now.

Killean: Truth be told, the crabs in your pants seem to have you on edge tonight, so instead of entertaining you, I'll take a more direct approach. It's no secret that I don't like you and I'm pretty sure you don't like me. I do however get along with Lindz and I trust her judgment. I don't really care why you feel like playing the humping dog to her tight denim covered leg but I can assure you that one wrong step with her and you'll spittin' up pieces of my boot for the next ten years. Wouldn't do much good for your luck with the ladies would it?

Rayne: Is there something in the fucking water here? Is there like some weird fucking byline in the PRIME handbook that says cock smokin’ substance dependents need to ride my crawl about Uni? If you really trusted her judgment, you’d fucking trust her judgment and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. However, I’m getting a crazy sense of déjà vu. So unless there’s somethin’ else on your mind, Alpha Flight, feel free to watch old vids of me and Wade Elliott having this exact fucking conversation. Assume my feelings and responses remain the same.

Killean: I assume nothing, kid, so we'll just see how you hold your own. But I'll give credit where credit is due. You've been almost unstoppable out there and you won the Halo. But before you pull out your nuts, I'm not here to swell your ego.

The Supreme Machine lifts the sunglasses off his face and plants them on the top of his head, holding the hair from hanging in his face. He locks his eyes right on Rayne's beady little orbs.

Killean: Since I came back, I've beaten everyone I faced except the Crazy and we all know what kinda bullshit that was. You lost to Captain Justice... I ran right through him. So if you wanna interview potential contestants, if you wanna be the guy who calls the shots for the main event at The Nightmare, then I suggest you look no further.

Sirrajin crosses his arms.

Killean: Otherwise, you could ignore me, be the jackass like you always are, and the only thing you'll be calling is the nurse to turn up your morphine drip to dull the pain. I'd suggest option number two, where you be a man, perhaps show everyone that Tyler Rayne might just have a tad bit of common sense and maybe we could part on some better terms.

Rayne: If you were interested in parting on better terms, you wouldn’t have stopped me in the hall to threaten me like the schoolyard bully. As it pertains to the Roulette… you get the same answer as everyone else. I’ll take it into consideration. Word to the wise, though. Crossing swords with the guy booking the match you’re trying to get in… probably not the best idea. Certainly not a good way to endear yourself.

Killean smirks, looking at the ground for a second and then right back up.

Killean: Actually, I intended to grab your attention and think I did it quite well, don't you? I mean, the fact that you stuck around this long through what you call "crossing swords" has to say something about what 's really going on in that mind of yours. So maybe I'll cut you some slack and let you be on your way, 5-Star.

The PRIME Choice steps to the side, ushering the Underground Pimp with a pat on the shoulder towards The Queen's dressing room as he holds his smile, pulls his sunglasses back over his eyes and makes his way off in the opposite direction.

Backstage, one big black brick wall is about to earn the largest ovation of his career.

The Dead Man's Hand, to put it mildly, enjoy stirring the pot.

So it really shouldn't be much of a surprise that, even after making their presence felt multiple times this evening, the contingent of the Hand representing the SCCW Strength in Numbers Champions remain backstage, clapping one another on the back for a job well done.

Results, to the Hand, are unimportant. Results of matches, anyway.

The foursome walk, side by side, down the middle of a long hallway. Lauren Fox -- Savant -- walks along side "Uncle" Reginald V. Lovecraft, who offers the young woman a degree of support after her battle with Mary-Lynn Mayweather. The other pair saunters alongside them, wrapped around one another as if trying to show PRIME exactly why they hail from SIN City Championship Wrestling. The duo known as "Kensidy" to some (and "Really Annoying Pricks" to most) follow alongside Savant, Katsidy showing considerable concern for her half-sister, Kennedy seemingly keeping an eye out for trouble.

Katsidy: You gonna be okay?

Savant: Of course...ow. I'll be fine.

Thoughtfully, Lauren rubs a knot on her forehead, "Uncle Reg" holding her up as they continue down the hallway. Phillip Kennedy is the only one of them seeming truly pleased at the moment, cracking his knuckles.

Kennedy: Alright then. One bitch down, two to go...

Lovecraft: ...at a later time. High Flyer and Tony Davis will be dealt with on OUR terms. Not theirs. Such is the way we operate, Mr. Kennedy. You would do very well to remember this.

Kennedy punches his open hand, as if Lucille Ball being told by Ricky Ricardo, for the umpteenth time, that no, she can't be in the show.

But if it's trouble that the Big Stack wants, it's trouble he's gonna get, because coming around the bend is 6'6", 350 pounds of rather overworked as of late Head of PRIME Security, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas:

Kennedy: Shit, I'll handle this.

Both Katsidy and Savant wince inwardly as the Big Stack disengages from the Sex Kitten's lusting embrace, clapping the large man on the shoulder.

Kennedy: Dametreyus! How you doin'? Mind if I call you Fuq for short?

Almost immediately, Reginald V. Lovecraft, sensing his partner being a moron, places Savant in the care of Katsidy, and steps up alongside the Big Stack to mitigate any likely damage.

Lovecraft: Mr. Fuqueiawytas. I imagine that you are here to throw us out of the building?

The F-Man (Yeah, I know, but how many times do you expect us to type that name?) nods, a toothy smile forming.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Gave you ya time when the chick had the match. Grace period's over. What I told Mayhem las' week goes double for you four...quadruple, even.

Kennedy sizes up the giant. Yes, he's 6'6" and 350 pounds, but Kennedy's the sort who is always looking for a fight when it comes to impressing his running ground. Call him a new frat brother, if you like.

Lovecraft: I apologize for my partner's behavior. However. Before we leave peaceably, I would like to ask that you relay a message to two individuals in the PRIME locker room for us, since I am doubtful you will allow us to go ourselves.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Ain't a muh'fuckin Testi-gram, son. Text those fools.

Lovecraft: There will be no nee--

Kennedy: It's a simple message. Just go tell Team VIAGRA that the Dead Man's Hand does the fucking around here. Not PRIME. Not Lindsay Troy, not Tyler Rayne, and not any of the other idiots that the Emo Amazon Connection can find to put in our way. Oh, and if they'd like to do something about it...we're not really that hard to find. We're on Cinemax, you're probably watching it late at night hoping for softcore porn anyway, so you may as well tune in to watch REAL wrestling. VIAGRA, what a stupid name. I don't NEED Viagra, isn't that right, Kitty Kat?

The Sex Kitten pauses from rubbing her stepsister's forehead to smile brilliantly.

Katsidy: Of course it is, Philly Bear.

The brilliant grin skims away from Kennedy to Dam, not losing an iota of strength.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Happy as I is to see a white boy gettin' ass, you best hope they was watching the monitors, 'cause I ain't rememberin' all yo bullshit.

Katsidy: Couldn't you just let us stay a little longer? My sister needs medical attention...

Savant puts on what may best be termed her "pathetic" look. To his credit as a human being, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas surveys it for about five seconds before replying.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Free clinic down the street. All that body work done up on her grill, you gonna fit in just fine.

Katsidy: But--

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Didn't come for no discussion.

The mammoth of a man points an equally mammoth finger in the direction of the door. The order is clear.

And in this case, the Dead Man's Hand will accept it. The foursome file slowly out, without protest, save from Phillip Kennedy.

Kennedy: Is this another of those times we have to run away? I really don't like those very much.

Lovecraft, Katsidy, and Savant all sigh simultaneously.

Clearly, you can take the poker player out of Las Vegas, but you can't take the Vegas out of the poker player.

Or something.

So, for some reason, Mega Job is still employed with PRIME. I know, it's a huge shock to us all. One would think that they'd have been fired as soon as they were done with Behind Colossus, but leave it to Mega Job to somehow retain their jobs. Anyway, the cameras are watching as the two taller members of Mega Job walk side-by-side down the hallway. While they walk, they talk. Why? Because they're poor, impoverished, are only paid in waffles, and can't afford to own six Nintendo DSes like Tony Davis can. That's why.

Beef: So, I was thinking.

El Janito: You do that now?

Beef stares at El Janito for a bit, clearly annoyed with his hetero-life partner and fellow failure at life. The staring is followed by some grumbling, which is then followed by some muttering, and then some groaning.

Beef: (deadpan) ...I was thinking.

El Janito: Fine. I'll accept this strange turn of events. What were you thinking about?

Beef: We need to start filming a television series.

El Janito: Excuse me?

Beef: Something like reality TV. Something cheap, cost-effective, and well within our less-than-nil budget. I mean, the boss was into that stuff, right? He made his amazing reputation on it, right? He knows THE FULL, man. I want to know The Full. He's like The Rock. I'm sure The Full tells people to know their role. Or their song. Actually, I'd like to see The Rock host American Idol. I'm sure crooning a couple of verses of "Smackdown Hotel" will cause all of the ladies to swoon. Even I might swoon. He's the Rock, for God's sake.

Steve, who is simply waddling behind Beef with a red-colored snowcone in one hand and a huge bottle of Jack Daniels tucked under his other arm, simply points at Beef. Somehow.

Steve: HOMOSEXUAL.

El Janito: (ignoring Steve) Is this leading anywhere, or is this story time with Beef?

Beef: Look, my point is, we need a TV show. If not a reality show, then at least something like 24. I want to begin and end all of our segments with a timer that goes BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. And I can be Jack Bauer.

El Janito: You are *not* Jack Bauer.

Beef: Why the hell not?

El Janito: The only one among us who can be Jack Bauer is Steve.

Steve: (pointing at himself... somehow) BAUER.

Beef: Steve gets *ALL* of the cool roles!

El Janito: He's *STEVE*.

Beef: ...Point taken.

Yes folks, this is apparently what brings in the ratings on these wrestling shows. So as Mega Job stroll down the hallway, Jimmy Bonafide is leaning against a wall taking a sip from a bottle of water. He is bobbing his head to his iPod again, much like earlier in the night. Although his eyes aren't closed this time and he notices the people entering his vicinity.

Bonafide: Hey assholes, I gots a bone ta pick.

As the Poserboy pulls out his earbuds, Mega Job keeps on walking like nothing ever happened. Bonafide gets a bit frustrated at being ignored. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles twice.

Bonafide: ASSHOLES!

The trio of Mega Job stops.

Actually, no. That's not really what happens.

Rather, *Steve* stops, and then he grabs Beef and El Janito by their pants legs to stop them, all while he's still holding a snowcone and a rather large bottle of Jack Daniels without dropping either item. Beef and El Janito, oblivious, try to keep walking only to find that no forward motion can be made.

Finally, they stop and look down at Steve, who simply points at Bonafide. Jimmy Bonafide stands there with this frustrated and annoyed look on his face, staring holes through the two members of Mega Job.

Beef: ...Who is that?

El Janito: I don't know. Some guy?

Beef: What's he want with us? We're Mega Job. Nobody wants to bother us.

El Janito only shrugs.

Bonafide: I'm thinkin' ya need an education. Sayin' I'm not satisfied with the outcome at Colossus would be a big understatement.

The Posterboy cracks his knuckles and looks at Mega Job like he's ready to throw down, even though 3 on 1 would mean the odds are against him.

El Janito: So was the rest of the internet.

Steve is completely disinterested in Bonafide and simply walks away.

Beef: Dude, where are you going?

Steve: MODEL.

And then Steve is gone.

Beef: ...I didn't know he was into America's Next Top Model.

The loud clearing of Bonafide's throat brings Beef back to the reality of the situation that Mega Job is now confronted with.

Beef: Okay. Again. Who are you, again?

El Janito: I think he's Jimmy Bonafide.

Beef: Who?

El Janito: Poster Boy.

Beef: Who?

El Janito: How can you not remember him? We faced him in a match at Colossus.

Beef: We did?

El Janito: IT WASN'T EVEN A MONTH AGO!

Beef: Who'd he team with, again?

El Janito doesn't even respond with an answer this time, he just simply smacks his own forehead and turns to Jimmy Bonafide.

El Janito: Alright. You clearly look like you want to kick the crap out of us. You know the rules. You need a partner to help in the beating.

Beef: He has partners?

El Janito: No. He doesn't even have friends. And why do you keep asking ignorant questions?

Beef: I seriously don't know this guy.

Bonafide: I seriously don't need no partner.

"But you got one."

For the third time in the night, the crowd can be heard going completely apeshit crazy when the man behind the voice is shown.

Killean: I need a decent fight to keep me busy next week. It would especially be satisfying to pay you guys back for the unsatisfying experience that was Behind Colossus. You game Jimmy?

Bonafide: I'm game, Killer.

Beef: Could you excuse us one sec?

Beef walks away from Bonafide and Killean Sirrajin for a moment, but not before grabbing El Janito by the back of his shirt and dragging him over into a small huddle. Beef reaches off-camera at this point and grabs Grundle McMiles. Janito does the same, only he manages to grab Enemigo XIII.

Beef: Okay, guys. I gotta admit. This doesn't look good for us.

El Janito: That guy doesn't have eyes. He just wears sunglasses all the time to hide the deformed holes that used to be his eye sockets.

Beef: We've seen him without sunglasses.

El Janito: My statement stands.

Grundle McMiles: Once, I was poked in the eye with a feather and I was half-blind for a year.

Beef: Who said you could talk, Grundle?

El Janito: We could just not accept the match.

Beef: We can't not accept.

El Janito: Why not?

Beef: Why not? Why NOT accept it? Come on. If we win, we might actually get a raise.

El Janito: How could we possibly get a raise?

Beef: ...MORE waffles.

El Janito: That's more waffles than any mortal man can fit in his stomach.

Beef: We'd never go hungry AGAIN.

El Janito: (turns to the Enemigo) ...Hey, don't you have anything to contribute to this huddle?

Enemigo XIII: No.

Beef then pokes his head out from the huddle and looks over at Bonafide and Sirrajin, who amazingly haven't made much of a move to break up the huddle. He points at Bonafide and Sirrajin and laughs.

Beef: You fools are in for the fight of your lives next week! What will you do when our strategy of breaking your fists with our faces works? WHAT WILL YOU DO!? AHAHAHAHAH--*COUGH**CHOKE**COUGH**COUGH*

Beef's endless coughing causes him to leave the view of the camera, leaving El Janito to sheepishly look at Bonafide and Sirrajin.

El Janito: He, uh... he's not good at laughing maniacally.

They all take off in the other direction, leaving Killean and Posterboy rolling their eyes.

Bonafide: Ya didn't havta do that man.

Killean: I hear you, but you've been working hard around here. You deserve some backup. But a quick word of advice...

The PRIME Choice walks down the hall, Posterboy deciding to walk with him.

Killean: Don't get caught hanging around with that jerkoff Kannon and his blonde airbag too much more. Regardless of the fact that you probably didn't wanna be there, it's a good way to make enemies these days and possibly get jumped. Just sayin'.

As ReVolution returns to ringside, the fans jam-packed into the HSBC Arena eagerly await the night’s main event. Well, it’s hard to properly gauge the extent to which they’re awaiting, but if you base it off the number of young fans who’re holding up signs that only they think are funny, or were funny up to the 500th time (call it the Just a Big Loser syndrome), then ‘very eagerly’ might even be warranted.

One fan even has the audacity to suggest that ‘Xenu Sucks’ in scribbled marker-pen on green card. Well, maybe he’d like to try single-handedly ferrying billions of souls across the universe before exploding every volcano on Earth, then we’d see who sucks.

Anyway. We have the full-to-capacity arena, we have an assortment of fans that only PRIME could attract, so do we have a main event for them?

"Good evening, PRIME fans."

Not yet.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The PRIME*View flickers into life, beaming out the face of Gold Patron Meritorious Xavier Kannon, devoid of its usual smugness.

Kannon: Due to the regretful, imperialistic actions of Chadwick Peter Cantrell and his bribery of PRIME’s upper-echelons, I have taken it upon myself to address you, the PRIME fans, directly. Even though your narrow-mindedness has compelled you to shun me, and my enlightened ways, I urge you to do what is right for PRIME…

He takes a thoughtful pause.

Kannon: … and go home.

To a crowd who’d paid good money to watch their PRIME heroes up close, being told to leave before the main event isn’t exactly what they’re wanting to hear.

Kannon: For the survival of this company, the protection of its wrestlers, and the safety of its employees, I call upon every fan here in Buffalo to head towards the nearest exit and tell PRIME’s Executive Producer just what you think of his reckless actions.

SHUT THE HELL UP! SHUT THE HELL UP!

Kannon: Those of you watching at home, this company needs you as well. Take that remote control and change the channel. I call upon you to boycott ReVolution until new management can be installed, management who will not treat my fellow wrestlers and I as pawns in his quest to engineer feuds with our competitors for cheap ratings boosts.

In all fairness, he actually sounds at least 39% sincere.

Kannon: To my fans who remained loyal to me, who’re not afraid to embrace the nourishment of the soul through the teachings of L Ron Hubbard, I know this will be a dark time for you. But be strong, persevere, and know that when you can finally tune back in to a liberated ReVolution, I will be here waiting for y-

The new, improved PRIME*View 300X - from Kannon to static in 0.4 seconds.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"

For those wondering if a viewer boycott is top of an executive producer’s wish list… that would be a ‘No’.

Usually pristine hair frazzled and tufted, an enraged C. P. Cantrell storms up to Kannon. Forgetting that every fight he’s had in his life has been conducted through Lawyers, the executive producer goes nose-to-nose with the decorated wrestler, struggling to restrain himself.

Kannon: Just so you know, I’ve already been roughed up today by your own personal Gestapo, so all I need is for you to raise one of those manicured little fingers to touch me, and PRIME’s Lawyers will be taking the plunge from the nearest ledge rather than have to deal with the court case.

Yanking off an already loosened tie, un-tucking his shirt, then rolling his sleeves up, a raging Ceep struggles to prevent himself fulfilling XK’s prophecy.

Cantrell: What is this really about, huh? I didn’t give you a shot at a belt so now you’re trying to undermine me just when PRIME is at its most precarious? You’re having some little tantrum because I’m not fawning over the almighty Xavier Kannon so you try and put cracks in our defences just as The Dead Man’s Hand are thumping at the gates?

Their foreheads press together, eyes fiercely duelling… the suit refusing to back down from the tights.

Kannon: Ceep, I really don’t think it’s wise to be anything less than happy-smiley to me.

Cantrell: You’re where you are in PRIME because that’s where you’ve left yourself. You came back and everyone said PRIME was witnessing the revitalised Xavier Kannon, a legend back to his very best… then Crucifix made you tap out. That was meant to be a blip, you were meant to excel in crunch PPV matches… and Captain Justice damn near decapitated you. So then you finally hit a streak, shout it from the top of the mountains to anyone who’ll listen that you should be getting a shot at this belt, that belt, and then? Rhett pins you.

There’s a shudder of reaction as Kannon is reminded of his upset loss 7 days ago.

Cantrell: So, tell me, how many signed up to your little anti-war crusade tonight? How many people will follow YOU? Half the roster? Two thirds? Three quarters? Or did you find that everyone else with a PRIME contract is actually willing to stand up and fight for their promotion?

Kannon: Oh, we all know that anyone who actually listened to their conscience and sided with me might as well kiss their chances of any career here goodbye. Natas might have won his Colossus match, but you’ll find a way to bury him unless he wraps himself in the PRIME colours. You’ve probably got Douglas and Kaiser suddenly all buddy-buddy with Fed Pride because they know the alternative is to wrestle before anyone even bothers putting all the seats out.

Cantrell: That would be ‘None’ then.

Seizing on Kannon’s telling silence, C.P. continues dressing down his rebellious employee.

Cantrell: You know why that is? Because unlike you, the rest of the PRIME roster want to make their name out there in the ring rather than by being a nuisance - an irritant - back here, out of harm’s way. You don't want to be on our side? FINE. You're not welcome. Just stay out of the way.

Tearing himself away from the duelling glare, the riled-up Executive Producer strides away from the put-in-his-place Scientologist… before turning back to offer up a few final words.

Cantrell: Oh, and if you want to see just how much your little campaign did to stop ‘My War’, tune in to Temptation… I’m guessing you know when it is.

C.P. then storms off to what he perceives as bigger issues, leaving XK behind to stew. Unfortunately for the executive producer, he didn't have the historical perspective that others might. This little tirade wouldn't keep KAnnon out of his hair...it would merely send the King of Wrestling back to the drawing board with a purpose.

Refreshed and dry after his long spiel out in the pouring rain, Devin Shakur emerges from his locker room running a towel through his mop hair.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Unfortunately for the down on his luck Emo, the Buffalo crowd still isn't enthusiastic about meeting his acquaintance, even on the form of a PRIME*View (or whatever the fuck it is called). Throwing the towel over his shoulder, Shakur makes his way down Corridor 20 A in search of the Exit. With his head still hung low, it appears that Tony Gamble's encouraging and heartfelt line from earlier did nothing to soothe Shakur for the long haul. He still lacks purpose, passion, and a Championship to cradle on his shoulder.

The occasional stagehand, on the verge of wrapping up the show, gives Shakur an unrequited courtesy wave. Normally, he would ignore them just to be a douchebag, but now he doesn't feel worthy of accepting their waves. Rounding one more corner, Shakur sees the Exit sign clear in sight.

However, so does another, more vociferous couple.

"He is just, like, a total, like... meanie-head!"

We won't give you three guesses as to who that couple are.

Knowing where they're not welcome, the first couple of Scientology (sorry, TomKat, they came first) - Xavier and Eleanor Kannon - head straight from their dressing down from C.P. Cantrell to the exit.

One seems a little less vociferous than the other.

Eleanor: I mean, like, who does he think he is? What is an Executive Producer anyway? What, like, is that? Someone who produces who has executive powers and stuff?

Her husband is making his own remarks about PRIME's ExP, only keeping them to himself, unintentionally sparing Cantrell a massive headache due to the onslaught of profanity which would have been unleashed.

Eying Shakur, Kannon finally breaks his stewing silence.

Kannon: Abandoning the sinking ship too?

With a deep sigh, and oblivious to Kannon's plight, Shakur looks over at The King of Wrestling.

Shakur: Everybody already abandoned my ship weeks ago. I'm floating around and waiting for the water to officially fill my lungs.

Giving one another a side-ways glance, Kannon and Ellie share a 'um... okay' look.

Eleanor: Yeah, I'd, like, totally be depressed too if I liked like Rumour Willis.

Those within earshot are anticipating one of the most quick witted men in PRIME to shoot back with a quirky remark and thus instigate a furious war of words.

But they are highly disappointed.

Shakur: Normally I'd find a pack of bubble gum, do my hair up real fancy, and make fun of your use of like and totally, perhaps ask how many Airhead candy pieces you've eaten today...But I don't think it's worth the trouble. From the looks on your faces, you two appear to have enough of that on your hands as it is.

Eleanor: I, like, totally don't get him.

Kannon: He's a wrestler whose livelihood is tied to Ceep's handling of PRIME... that's enough to depress anyone. Everyone saw what The Hand did to Mayweather earlier, and that was a match booked by PRIME, on PRIME soil. Anyone who goes to Temptation under Cantrell's banner doesn't have a hope of walking back out again, and after that, I'd give this place two weeks max. Just remember to switch the lights off if you're the last one left, Dev.

Shakur: Don't worry Xavier, I'm not a Motel 6 and I don't think leaving the light on is kind.

Eleanor leaves, still a little perplexed at the sight of Devin Shakur in his current condition. Finally, she turns her head away from the scene and continues in the conversation with her hubby. Shakur, meanwhile walks over to the vending machine and places a dollar inside the designated slot. Out pops a Code Red Mountain Dew, perhaps something to enlighten Commie Emo's darkened mood.

Any mention of Code Red however usually signifies the appearance of one man and one man only.

"You complete me? Jesus Fuck son, you really are in need of a pick me up."

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Yeah, that guy, the one and only Tyler Mofuckin' Rayne.

And he's brandishing something that fans usually aren't accustomed to seeing him carry, two baseball bats. Shakur looks down at them and gives a deflated sigh, while fans speculate that the awkward Rayne/Shakur scenario might have hit a snafu.

Devin Shakur: So...Death, you've come for me?

Tyler Rayne: The fuck are you...Oh, the bats, no they aren't for you...Well they might be, but primarily they are for bashing SCCW cockbags who see fit to try and run roughshod over me.

Devin Shakur: Might as well hit me with one anyway, would make me feel a lot better.

Rayne cocks his head to the side and gives a long stare at his fellow superstar. He doesn't fully understand why Shakur is feeling so down about himself and tonight, he really doesn't have the patience to deal with his act.

Tyler Rayne: Emo, I'm already fucking cheesed tonight and having to hear your woe is me bullshit is ABOUT to make me crack you with one of the damn bats. Did you come home one night and find Sun Tzu with six guys on top of her or some shit? Did you?

Commie Eeyore doesn't respond, knowing full well he's about to get admonished.

Tyler Rayne: No, you lost the belt. Big fucking whoop. Yes, it's a big deal, but do you know how many fucking times former champs get rematches? Trust me, as dumb and as stupid as you are, we ain't got many motherfuckers who are ready to contend for the belt. Primarily because I'm content with watching all of you circus freaks run around and beg me for shots rather than walking up to Tink and taking the fucker. I mean who we gonna put in there, Dusk? Jimmy Bonafide? Union Jack? Get the fuck out of my face with that shit.

Devin Shakur: New faces would provide new intrigue, you gotta admit that.

Tyler Rayne: I ain't gotta admit dick, son. Tsonda would beat all three of them up in a New York minute and still have time to strike a Five Second pose for the benefit of those with flash photography. Now, enough of the black cloud bullshit because I've got a reason for seeking you out. I honestly don't know where you stand on the SCCW/PRIME fiasco and quite frankly I don't give a fuck-

Devin Shakur: It wasn't right to beat up Angie to get across that kind of message.

Tyler Rayne: No fucking shit, Captain Obvious. I'll get to the point which I shoulda gotten to about ten minutes ago. I want you to take one of these fucking bats. I want you to follow me and if the situation calls for it, I want you to fucking bash some SCCW douchebags in.

Devin Shakur: What's the point? Violence doesn't solve anything, only makes things worse.

Tyler Rayne: It fucking solves a ton of shit and it's going to solve this.

Devin Shakur: What do you need me for? I'm sure there are a ton of other people willing to sacrifice their time for the cause of war.

Tyler Rayne: Because I ain't offering any of those "other people" a shot in the Roulette if they take the bat I'm offering-

A tidal wave just hit Shakur.

Devin Shakur: Wait-

Rayne extends the bat forward.

Tyler Rayne: You are good, Emo. Get your head out of the clouds and you are one of the best. Not the best, but one of them. I can use a crazy motherfucker like you on my shoulder.

Shakur looks down at the bat. While it's true, he really doesn't care if SCCW shows up and takes over the joint, a shot in the Roulette is something that will awaken the beast that once held the Universal Championship and defeated Cozen on two different occasions.

Tyler Rayne: So are you in? One time offer.

He takes another long look down at the bat and the consequences that are sure to follow. Hanging around with Tyler Rayne hasn't exactly been known to get people pampered and waited upon hand and foot, Brooks can attest to that better than anybody.

Nonetheless, he wants that Universal Championship back.

He takes the bat from Tyler Rayne and flashes that smirk which has made so many people despise him over his tenure in PRIME.

Devin Shakur: Let's rock it.

And it just made Buffalo blow up with cheers.

"Tha-tha-- that, that don't kill me!"

Richard: Man do I hate this guy!

Nick: You, and apparently a section of the PRIME-al fans we have in attendance!

Richard: Just like last week! Ahahahahaha!

"Stronger" by Kanye West hits the speakers and the crowd breaks into an even split of boos and cheers. Some cheering for the man they knew as Dusk, others jeering him just as last week. When Dusk steps out from the back he seems very intense, a look in his eyes that says only one thing: Win. When The Lost Soul enters the ring he steps to his corner and waits patiently for the bell to ring.

Kanye West's egomaniacal lyricism is replaced by "21st Century Pop Song" by Hymie's Basement. Rhett Locke steps out from the curtain to a rather surprising amount of cheers considering the events that have taken place. He can't help but smile as he walks down to the ring. A slide underneath the rope propels him to his corner.

Richard: The only thing worse than that asshole, is this asshole!

Nick: How eloquently put.

Richard: Pull your head eloquently out of Rhett Locke's ass, Nick.

Nick: ...Are you drunk?

Richard: I may or may not have been sippin' on that Patron throughout the evening.

"You Know My Name" by Chris Cornell hits the speakers harder than your mom hit you for shitting yourself when you were 8 :(. The crowd gives a thunderous applause to the recently dethroned Intense Champion as he emerges from the backstage area and onto the entrance ramp. Pyrotechnics blast like a motherfucker while he stands there, breathing it in. However, in an instant Troy Douglas runs down the ramp, slides under the rope and dropkicks Dusk right in the chest!

Nick: Heeeere we go!

Richard feigns a loud, obnoxious yawn.

Dusk staggers backwards against the rope from the impact and Troy Douglas goes up in the air for another, this time it topels Dusk over the top rope and to the outside! Rhett only watches in a rather impressed fashion as Douglas runs against the ropes, slingshots off and baseball slides at Dusk on the outside. Dusk only catches him by the feet and slings him out of the ring and to the cold floor!

Nick: A nice counter from Dusk, interrupting the momentum Douglas was building up at his expense!

Douglas reaches his feet just as Dusk turns around and they lock up. However the crowd begins stirring as Locke climbs the top rope and jumps off, performing a corkscrew plancha onto both men!

Richard: *sarcastically* woohoo, what an impressive stunt.

Nick: Even you have to admit it, Richy boy.

Richard: Richy boy?

Nick: Why not?

Locke reaches his feet first but the crafty veteran in Dusk sweeps the legs right out from under him. Douglas grabs Locke by the hair and throws him back into the ring. Dusk sends Douglas' head into the wrestling mat, before sliding in himself. The Lost Soul tries to superkick the Albino but Locke ducks. Immediately, Dusk turns around and clotheslines the living fuck out of Rhett.

Richard: Richy boy? Honestly!?

Nick: Richy girl any better?

Richard: If you call me Richy anything, other than Richy Badass, and I'll have your head on a silver platter.

When Dusk turns to keep working on Rhett he runs right into a boot from Megatron, followed by a Fireman's Carry Gutbuster! Douglas locks Dusk into a camel clutch, but the recovering Rhett moonsault dropkicks Douglas in the head, who releases the hold and goes down! Rhett makes the cover!

1!
2!
Troy kicks out with a force and Rhett rolls off of the pin. The Lost Soul catches Locke as he reaches his feet with a mighty boot to his stomach and sets up what ends up being a huge jacknife powerbomb!! Rhett looks like the lights are out.

Richard: One dickhead down, two more to go.

Nick: You baffle me sometimes, Richard. You really do.

Troy Douglas is back up to his feet and he dropkicks Dusk right in the back of his knee. With the force of a mighty tornado, Douglas locks Dusk up and drops him with a half-nelson suplex! Dusk, who rarely skids across the ring, does so. Douglas reaches his feet and seems to have complete control of the match...

until the crafty Rhett Locke comes from seemingly nowhere and spits black mist right in Douglas' eyes.

Richard: Disqualification! Referee, do something instead of just sitting on your hands here!

Nick: The referee must not have seen what happened.

Richard: Locke bias.

Douglas is blinded, and Rhett goes for the Ace Crusher known as Truth or Consequences. Troy must've done his homework, however, as he pushes Rhett away and gets himself out a surprising and quick end. Rhett sends a boot into Douglas' gut but before he can try his finishing move once again, Dusk superkicks Locke right in the temple! He covers and hooks the leg, starry eyed and soon to be victorious!

One!
Two!
Thre-- Douglas breaks it up just in time, ignoring his burning retinas to insure Dusk doesn't escape with the victory!

Richard: Awwwww, come ON! Just end this thing already!

Annoyed, Dusk reaches his feet and spears the living shit out of Troy Douglas. Douglas folds in like a lawn chair on the impact in spite of his 6'5" frame.

Dusk, however, turns around just in time to get met my a right fist from the smaller Locke. Left, right, left, right! Both men are trading back and forth. Douglas is reaching his feet, all three men now trading fists with each other!

Nick: Surely something's going to happen soon here...

Richard: Good. I'm hungry, drunk and these jackasses are ruining my evening.

A sharp elbow from Douglas catches Rhett Locke across the jaw, and the Albino stumbles back.

As soon as there's distance created when Locke falls away, Dusk tags Douglas with a punch and then dodges away. Troy's counter-punch whiffs and he finds himself extended. The Lost Soul lunges forward and catches him with a superkick! The former Intense Champion goes down like a ton of bricks.

Nick: There's the superkick! He used that to eliminate Douglas in the Dual Halo!

Dusk watches Troy go down, then resets his feet. He turns back to Locke, who's still doubled over from the shot he took. Dusk grabs Rhett and spins him around, but as Locke turns he spits a cloud of black mist into his eyes!

Richard: What the hell?

Nick: The black mist! Dusk is disoriented! You know what's coming next!

Indeed, Dusk stumbles around for a bit before walking right into an Ace Crusher from Locke. The crowd explodes as Rhett connects with the move!

Nick: Truth Or Consequences!

Rhett rolls Dusk up with a deep leg hook and the refere makes the count.

ONE!
TWO!
THREE!

Hymie's Basement cues up again as Rhett Locke stands - victorious - to a big ovation from the crowd. His lips dyed a contrasting black from the mist, he brushes the hair from his face and raises a hand to the audience as the other is lifted by the official.

Nick: One week after beating Xavier Kannon, Locke picks up ANOTHER huge win. He's on a roll here in PRIME!

Richard: Great, this is just what we need as the face of our fed - some pasty Albino weirdo.

Nick: Like it or not, Richard, it could be undeniable soon enough.

As Dusk wipes the mist residue from his eyes and Troy Douglas checks his jaw, Rhett Locke walks up the ramp, awaiting what the future holds for him in PRIME.

Backstage, a barbecue and a roast are both happening.

Last week, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas threw the Dead Man's Hand out of the arena and Angelica Brooks got jumped. Now, we're not saying there's a connection, just facing facts. This week, after the shenanigans the SCCW Strength in Numbers Champions have already perpetrated and tried to perpetrate, you'd think they were expecting to be thrown out of the arena.

And you'd be kind of right, considering that there's a whole tailgating thing going on out there. Not to mention members of the Hand we haven't seen all night. Sure, there's Katsidy (dolled up in her "Kiss The Cook" apron) flipping burgers, and Savant with a soda can to her head because, hey, ow. No, the Dead Men of note would be the two redheads.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

On the left is the not-really-a-member member, the SCCW Universal Champion, Amy Campbell, DC sneakers up on an oil drum. She's got a hot dog in her hand, but it doesn't have a bite taken out of it. On the right? That's the Head of the Dead, the Spider in the Wheelchair, Alexandra Pierce.

Come on, you knew she wouldn't be far; don't kid yourselves.

The Red Raver stares at the hot dog, doubt and fear in her mismatched gaze.

Aimz: God, the jokes write themselves.

Desade: Mm. I must take your word for it. If you will excuse me?

Aimz: Yeah, yeah. I'm drawing inspiration here. Just don't wheel so far away that you get capped by the yokels.

Pierce doesn't response, wheeling around the farside of the RV that the Hand has claimed as its own.

"I spent all night hoping I’d run into you people."

It’s a familiar voice with an unfamiliarly gruff tone to it. Chandler Tsonda steps out from a shadowy corner of the parking lot. A sliver of his face remains covered by dark shadows, looking all badass and shit. He’s still wearing the title on his shoulder. Moonlight shimmies off of the PRIME Universal Title.

Chandler Tsonda: Well, Wheels, it doesn’t look like you’re the brawn. So that'd make you the brains behind this motley crew. Desade, is it?

Pierce's pale expression is illuminated by the light overhead and the fluorescent streetlight nearby, shadows lengthening the curtain of hair that hangs in her eyes.

Desade: Mr. Tsonda. I was wondering which of you would try to push us off their land. You realize I simply have to raise my voice slightly and you will face an onrush of foes.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m aware of your little squadron, yes. But you wouldn’t call them just yet. You’re not gonna unleash an unprovoked attack on the PRIME Universal Champion. Whatever you do to me will be relayed into the arena by C.P.’s million little cameras. And PRIME’s roster will rain down hell on you and your people.

A Cheshire grin slides across Tsonda’s face.

Chandler Tsonda: What I'm saying is...let's give peace a chance, darling.

Desade: Peace is my middle name, Mr. Tsonda. I have been rude. Good evening, Chandler. How may I be of assistance?

Chandler Tsonda: Evening, ma’am. (bows) Troy was your Welcoming Committee, but I guess the Nevada school system isn’t so good. So I’ll repeat the message. What you can do "to be of assistance" is hit the Handicapped Exit. Stay off our shows, and leave our people alone.

Desade: Mm. Lindsay is the problem, but I think, even if I was to order all of my men and women to never lay a finger on anyone in Cantrell's employ, it would still be too late. I can tell you that they will be in Ottawa for my dear friend Amy's final, glorious defeat of Jonathan Rhine -- of this, I am almost positive. I am afraid circumstance -- albeit circumstance of my own making -- has spun this wildly out of your ability to control, Chandler.

Her smile is small and almost kindly. The type of smile a schoolteacher might use -- it's entirely false, of course.

Desade: I apologize you were belated in delivering your message, however.

Chandler Tsonda: Yeah, see there’s a reason that I’m not the big boss, here in PRIME. I don’t really take excuses well. I kinda just expect things to be done how I want; I know, I’m seeing a shrink about it. But, even though I like your little "agent of Chaos" speech, and I could see how you might be reticent to withdraw your people so early into the first round of hostilities...

The Universal Champion cracks his knuckles loudly. Whether it’s a nervous tick or a symbol of physicality, we won’t ever know.

Chandler Tsonda: ...it ends. Here and now. Or you’re gonna start seeing a lot more us in your backyard, stirring this shit until the whole neighborhood stinks.

Desade: I will tell you the same thing I would tell Lindsay or Tyler if they were here. Take care walking in my playground, for you will not get a second chance to make that first impression. You are brave, Mr. Tsonda. To come here alone, to threaten me off. Foolish, but brave. Make no mistake.

One gloved hand rips the curtain of her hair away, depositing it back on her head. It won't stay there for long.

Desade: We are not going to stay secure behind our walls and wait for Tyler and Lindsay to come for their revenge. This is not a fucking movie where the bad guy is holed up in a dark room, waiting for the hero to kick in the door. No matter how wise your advise, I cannot -- will not -- listen. For the moment I do, I have opened a door I am not prepared to close. So come if you must, Chandler. I could not stop you, even if I wished it.

There’s a nod from the Universal Champion, a strange moment of acknowledgement. Perhaps hostilities have gone beyond the brink, reached a veritable point of no return.

Chandler Tsonda: So much for diplomacy, eh?

The Viet Viper takes a long, hard stare at Desade. Maybe he’s trying to look for some good inside her (unlikely that he finds it) or maybe he’s just finally putting the enemy’s face in his head. Regardless, it’s a strange, quiet moment in the dark.

Pierce smiles at Chandler. It's genuine and kind and sweet and --

Desade: To me!

And it's another damn lie.

They flow around the vehicle; Campbell and Lovecraft on one side, Shaw and Kennedy on the other. The Tiny Terror comes from underneath the RV, suddenly not so banged up.

Aimz: Who the hell is this guy?

Desade: It would seem the tide has turned, young Chandler.

And it would seem, Desade, as if it was turning again. The security doors that lead from the parking lot to the arena burst open and all eyes move to C.P. Cantrell. The executive producer storms out into the Buffalo night air, having visibly picked up a few tips on "walking with a purpose" from his time on the job. However, there's not much time to focus on Ceeps' McMahon-(or Silver-)esque stomp, because attention quickly switches to the small army of PRIME employees behind him.

Kaiser vashaun. Delta Upsilon Iota. Captain Justice. Troy Douglas. Jimmy Bonafide. Team V.I.A.G.R.A.

The United PRIME Front stops as their leader (by contract, not necessarily be Democratic choice) slows to a stop just beyond Tsonda. The Dead Man's Hand contingent buzzes in a kind of amused satisfaction at the response they've generated.

C.P. Cantrell: (to Tsonda) What did I say to you?

Chandler Tsonda: (smirking) Hey, I made it out here without needing to be rounded up. Sounds like we're on the same page after all.

C.P. Cantrell: Chandler...

Aimz: This is why I prefer SCCW, really. Our Universal Championship isn't treated like a leash.

Chandler Tsonda: Well, that and your inability to earn PRIME's through sucking dick.

Aimz: Really? I've heard differently about you...

C.P. Cantrell: Desade. I didn't think you'd show your face this week.

The Director brushes the bangs from her eyes in a well-timed moment.

Desade: And why's that, Mr. Cantrell? Because you threatened me on Temptation? Your own roster doesn't respect your orders; why should?

C.P. Cantrell: No, see, I KNEW some of your lemmings would be here. But I didn't expect to see you here personally. If you're as smart as you try to talk, then you knew we would be looking to answer what you did to Brooks. So I didn't expect you to face the music there.

Desade: And how IS Angelica?

The sound of shattering glass draws everyone off to the side beyond the Hand. The rear window of the RV that brought Desade's legion to the HSBC Arena is now in pieces on the asphalt. Tyler Rayne holds a baseball bat, patting it against his palm to shake off any shards that were lodged in the wood. Alongside him, Devin Shakur holds a bat of his own, backing up the Underground Pimp in an unlikely-but-not-totally-odd pairing.

Tyler Rayne: Say her name again and it'll be your last word.

Rayne and Shakur step away from the vehicle, forcing the Dead Man's Hand to back away slightly, getting themselves boxed in.

Aimz: Look at this...you put one girl through a car hood and suddenly you're facing the Tet Offensive.

C.P. Cantrell: Not quite. (jerking a thumb over his shoulder) I brought them. (nodding to Rayne and Shakur) They came on their own.

Tyler Rayne: Was hoping the big guy with the bad judgement woulda showed up. Skulls is skulls, though. Can always crack his later.

C.P. Cantrell: We made a mistake last week. I made a mistake. From now on, you and anyone like you are second-class citizens in a PRIME building. You don't show up without me - or them - up your ass.

Desade: So you gathered all these strapping young men just to repeat what you're security goon and your champion have already made clear. Is that all you planned?

C.P. Cantrell: Yeah. For tonight. But when yo-

A door slams beyond where Rayne and Shakur stand. Some shadows shuffle around before Lindsay Troy steps out, having tailed the Underground Pimp from the locker room area. But it's not Troy that distracts the executive producer. It's the company she keeps. Jonathan Rhine, Lance and Alanna Marshall follow the Queen out, standing to the side of the action.

C.P. Cantrell: What the hell is HE doing here?

Rhine and Marshall exchange a look. Both were drawn out when Troy, their host for the night, made an unexpected dash to the scene to keep Rayne from doing anything rash. Cantrell's eyes are locked dead on The Lion - the one who he WASN'T trying to sign to a PRIME contract, and the one who had confronted him at an episode of SCCW's Temptation. History and circumstance were not on Lance Marshall's side at the moment.

Lance Marshall: Me?

C.P. Cantrell: You're not any more welcome than they are!

Lindsay Troy: C.P...

C.P. Cantrell: If ANY of your kind show up here, you're going to have to pay for the Sins.

Lindsay Troy: C.P.!

C.P. Cantrell: THIS IS PRIME, GODDAMMIT!

The crowd behind the producer roars at the over-enthusiastic battle cry. Devin Shakur joins in the rowdiness, taking the baseball bat off his shoulder and swinging it into the ribcage of the unsuspecting Marshall. The Lion doubles over, and the PRIMEate army continues their cacophony.

Alanna Marshall: Lance!

Lindsay Troy immediately shoves Shakur away, but Tyler Rayne steps in between them, keeping his bat pointed at Rhine to keep him away. The New Life turns to check on his friend along with Alanna. Turning away from Rayne with a deep scowl, Lindsay shouts over the growing rabble.

Lindsay Troy: CANTRELL!

The Unified PRIME Front surges past Cantrell and storms toward the Dead Man's Hand. Before the two sides clash, Los Enemigos spill out onto the scene via the security doors, creating a neon yellow buffer. Following the Enemigos out, Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas barks something into a radio. The sound of police sirens fill the air as backup arrives to prevent the ugly scene.

Lindsay Troy: CANTRELL!

Red and blue lights bathe the scene as the PRIMEates struggle mightily against their own security to get their hands on the Hand. Tyler Rayne remains between Devin Shakur and Jon Rhine, opting to pick a different spot for the retaliation he's craving.

In the middle of the action, C.P. Cantrell watches the ruckus he's incited, then pulls away and stomps back towards the security doors. He stops and takes one final look at the scene, his face flashing between red and blue as the Buffalo police arrive on the scene.

Desade is nowhere to be found, having disappeared from the scene when things grew heavy. Cantrell looks for her, but it's to no avail.

Lindsay Troy: CANTRELL!

This was NOT what the Queen had in mind when she and the producer got on the same page earlier tonight. Unfortunately, he seemed to be in no mind to discuss the issue further. With another deep breath, he disappears through the security doors and lets them slam behind him.

The Dead Man's Hand may have been the ones who incited the war with PRIME.

But when C.P. Cantrell declared that war, it was all of SCCW that he set in his sights.

P R I M E