"This is f*cked."

I know we always pretend like the FX network has no censors, but let's be honest; they do. It might seem shocking that the network responsible for The Shield and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia has people who pay attention to lewd content. They might not be diligent, but hey, they get a paycheck. And besides, it's not like this is some vaguely sexual term buried deep in the last third of the show. No, this is an f-bomb front and center, and even the laziest monkey at the stick of the USS Censor would manage a shooting solution on this one.

Despite having the prestige andposition that SHOULD make him the least likely to drop a four-letter wonder off the port bow, Executive Producer C.P. Cantrell flexes his inner Dana White and kicks off the show with a bleep. Sitting behind his desk, he leans back, both hands covering his face, and sighs.

Across the mahogany, the infamous Cabinet - Nova, Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME and Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas - sits dumbfounded. Well, perplexed. Maybe befuddled. Did I mention they were all holding playing cards?

Nova: So...are you telling me to Go Fish?

Cantrell sits forward, exasperated.

C.P. Cantrell: No. Yes. Whatever, does it even matter?

He takes the short deck of cards sitting on his desk and flips them over, to the frustration and disgust of everyone else.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: WELL NOW IT DOESN'T!

Nova: Yeah, thanks for ruining another game night, Chuck.

C.P. Cantrell: Oh come on, why are we having Game Night at a show anyway?

Nova: Firstly, you know damn well that none of us are permitted to speak to or see each other between episodes of television, lest some embarassing or enlightening personal exchange take place somewhere outside the all-seeing eye of the camera.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Although, to be fair, boss, them cameras be everywhere.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: Dam's right. We haven't really talked aout it since Colossus, but these "new policies" the Board has about cameras following us on the road is maybe out of hand. I mean, last week I caught one of them following me to the herpes clinic.

He looks at the camera in the room immediately, Michael-Scott-style.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: When I was dropping my friend off.

Nova: Just as long as I get the royalties whenever ya'll release "Nova And The Headliner From The Local Strip Club Make A Bad Porno", I'm fine with that. But my point is that game night is what it is. Besides, even if we DECIDED to move it after the LAST time you bitched, and we couldn't hold it on Wednesday, to what day might you think we'd move it? FRIDAY, maybe?

C.P. Cantrell: Look, it's not my choice to move, that's the network. Besides, we'll do better on Fridays anyway.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: So why are you dropping the "life is so HARD" LiveJournal act on us, then? What's the big deal?

C.P. Cantrell: We are drifting up Shit Creek, guys. We're still reeling from Cataclysm. Half of my main event scene is gone. Rayne took out two of them single-handedly. I don't know that I even have control of things right now. And now I have to run this tournament in a state of crisis, without a #1 contender to the Universal Title?

The Cabinet all look at each other, then give a collective "PSSHHHHHT" to their de facto boss.

C.P. Cantrell: What? Why do you three think this is funny?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Cataclysm be what it says on the tin, Boss.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: A game-changer. Makes your world different.

Nova: If you spend all this time lamenting, we could have named it "A Show Where PRIME Loses A Bit And C.P. Wets Himself Over It."

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Point being that we gots to move on. Landscape be different now.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: Kannon was a douche anyway. And can you really tell me that everyone's clamoring for another Troy v. Tsonda or Shakur v. Tsonda match right now?

Nova: Two of the past three Jewel In The Crown winners went on to win the Universal Title, including your boy Chan. Hell, the third guy probably would have won it, too, if not for the sheer awesomeness of the champion at the time.

He puffs out the lapels of his seersucker jacket a little.

Mr. Silver, Sports Entertainment Liasion to PRIME: There are 27 guys back here thinking they've got the in on being the next champion. What people knew of PRIME is going to change by the time this tournament ends.

Nova: It does every year.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: So ain't no reason to be moping right now, boss. We on the precipice an' shit.

Cantrell looks all three in the eye, then down at the playing cards he'd scattered at this desk.

C.P. Cantrell: So, what? I sit back and watch my next star forge his own path? It's just that easy?

Nova: Like clockwork.

C.P. Cantrell: And one of these 27 could be the Universal Champion by this time next year...

All eyes turn to the board across the room where the names of all the JITC 2008 participants are listed for bracketing purposes.

C.P. Cantrell: I could go for that.

"State of the Union," by Rise Against bellows to a start, and ya'll know what time it is.

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 Team VIAGRA slug it out in the aisle.

"COUNTDOWN! TO THE VERY END!"

Bryan Dawkins flies through the air, connecting with a missile dropkick.

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

Troy Douglas lifts someone into the air and drops them with the End Of The Road.

"READY! AIM! PULL THE TRIGGER NOW!"

Jimmy Bonafide hits a flying body press onto a group of wrestlers, sending everyone tumbling to the ground.

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

Dusk cuts opponent after opponent down with the Lights Out superkick.

"STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS!"

Spinning left, the camera finds Kaiser Vashaun, the Next In Line. He sneers into the lens, then grabs it and focuses it on the Intense Title slung over his shoulder. Then he palms the camera and shoves it away.

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

The shot is 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 Killean Sirrajin. He thumps his chest and adjusts the red sunglasses perpetually covering his eyes.

"ARE READ BETWEEN THE LINES OF THE RED!"

Thump.

"WHITE!"

Thump.

"AND!"

Thump.

"BLUE!"

"COUNTDOWN! TO THE VERY END!"

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

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

Tyler Rayne slugs it out with pretty much everyone we could find a clip of. It's a long montage.

"READY! AIM! PULL THE TRIGGER NOW!"

High Flyer does

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

The shot turns to black and white, revealing the faces of competitors as jagged blue lettering in the foreground presents their names. Behind it, the camera sprints down toward the end of the hall, where the silhouette of a figure stands.

"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEEELLLLLLL!!!!!"

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.

"YOUR PLACE IN HEEEELLLLLLLL!!!!!"

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

The PRIME logo slams onto the screen.

Number One by definition.



This is P R I M E.

BA-BA-BA-BA-BOOOOOOOOOOM!

The parking lot.

Complete solitude.

Bliss.

Not a soul to bother him, no sound but the faint hum of the excitable Richmond crowd in the background. In PRIME, moments like this are few and far between. He’d try and make the most of it in this limited timeframe.

Exhaling heavily, he leans back, shoulder blades resting against the concrete pillar. Pulling one of his feet up and placing the sole flat against the pillar, he delves into his pocket and fumbles his rough, calloused fingertips around the small red and white box.

Finally he pulls the cancer stick from its cardboard prison and slides the box back into the pocket of his ragged blue jeans. Pulling it up past the "Pitchfork, New York Hardwear" logo on his black tee, he places the butt between cracked, flaking lips. Next comes the flame. He flicks the Zippo open with a snap of his wrist and ignites the paper within seconds.

A long, therapeutic drag. Sweet nicotine crawls slowly down his windpipe. He inhales, savoring the taste.

It’s been a long time since he’s stalked these halls; almost two months. In fact, save for a few matches here and there, hardly a soul has heard from PRIME’s chief rabble-rouser in any shape or form. Uncharacteristic for a man of his volatile reputation and notoriety.

The suspension had hit him hard, and by the time it had expired he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be a wrestler anymore. But that doesn’t matter anymore. No, that’s all in the past. For tonight, he is reborn under the PRIME looking glass.

Troy Douglas underestimated him at the Great American Nightmare. A grave mistake. Perhaps the former Intense Champion hadn’t expected him to even show up in the first place; a fair assumption, given his track record as of late.

But he did turn up.

And boy, does Troy Douglas know it.

He cocked his head back against the pillar, blowing a thick plume of smoke through puckered lips. Jason Natas was back in business.

Once known as one of the most reviled personalities in professional wrestling, Jason Natas knows that he has a lot to prove. Despite his victory over Douglas, there still remain those who write him off, who say he’s little more than a glorified street thug who isn’t completely unworthy of stepping into the ring with them. It would take a mammoth effort to silence such critics, but The Anti-Superstar is more than up to the challenge.

Knowing that he could be called in for his Jewel in the Crown clash at any moment, Jason soon pulls the cancer stick from his lips and crushes it under the sole of his heavy Dr. Martens. As much as it pained him to leave the solace of the parking garage, accidentally missing his JitC clash on his big ReVolution comeback night wouldn’t exactly look too good on his record.

So, using the palms of his hands, he pushed away from the pillar and took a few steps forward, stepping through the large set of swing-doors as if they weren’t event there.

"Hey, stranger."

He didn’t even notice him sitting there. Legs hanging over a large, black flightcase, shaggy locks of long, brown hair draped over his shoulders, this rugged, bearded man gazed up at Jason Natas with curiosity in his eyes. Natas, meanwhile, was somewhat taken aback; he wasn’t at all used to being acknowledged by somebody in the backstage area, let alone greeted with a somewhat friendly "hey" or "hello".

Jamester: Oh, guess you ain’t too keen on the whole "talking" thing, then?

The former EPW wrestler and fellow JitC competitor slides his body from the flightcase and steadies himself. At 6’6" he’s a little bit taller than Jason and of a much more impressive build. Broad-shouldered and imposing, the veteran grappler looks to be built for war.

Natas: Ain’t exactly served me too well in the past. Now move along, fella. Don’t want none of yer business.

Jamester: My business may be your business if we’re talking about the Jewel in the Crown round tonight.

Natas: Yeah. Yer point?

Jamester: Well I’d hate to have to cramp your style in the PRIME lime-light, so why don’t you give me a minute of your time and I’ll take it easy on you out there tonight.

Throwing his head back with the least of worries on a grin that becomes a laugh, Natas goes to walk forward past Jesse but the Nemesis Warrior steps forward grabs the shoulder of the Anti-Superstar, spinning him around. The two wrestlers lock eyes.

Jamester: I didn’t ask you, I told you.

Jason Natas doesn’t like being told what to do. With a sneer he grabs Jesse by the wrist, dislodging his hand from his shoulder. However, where a few months ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to launch a haymaker into Jamester’s jaw, Jason merely steadies his balance, clenching his fingers tightly, just in case.

Natas: Ain’t the smartest thing to do, settin’ yer hands on me like that. Suggest you be movin’ on swiftly now, partner. Don’t want this one to get ugly, do ya?

The Nemesis Warrior shrugs as puts his hands up in a ‘hold up’ gesture.

Jamester: We’re getting off on the wrong foot here.

Natas: Which foot would that be exactly?

Jamester: Well it may be the one I’m gonna shove up your ass tonight if you don’t kill the attitude and listen to a veteran of my calibre, son.

Jason can only laugh. He shakes his bowed head and allows a smile to etch its way across his craggy features.

Natas: Yeah, like I ain’t heard that one before. Keep puffin’ out that chest and hollerin’ yer greatness from the rooftop, fella, ‘cause you ain’t shit. Matter of fact, you’re lucky I ain’t left a size fourteen imprint on the side ‘o yer head already. A "veteran of you calibre"? Pull yer head outta yer ass, fuck-o. This is PRIME, this ain’t some rinky-dink bingo hall promotion. Can’t just walk through the halls an’ expect everyone to fall at yer feet.

Mimicking the Nemesis Warrior, the Anti-Superstar has to gaze up but a few inches to see into the eyes of the unshaved man, and Jesse returns the gaze as they step forward and put forehead to forehead.

Natas: We meet in the ring tonight and you put up a fight? Maybe then we’ll talk. But until now, ya ain’t worth another second of my time.

Jamester: Well I’ll make sure to do that, but in the mean time why don’t you tell me where I can sign up for a name like the Anti-Superstar?

Natas: You shitting me, Mr. "Nemesis Warrior"?

Jamester: You wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what it takes to be what I have become. More years spent serving up chin-kicks and brain busters to ungrateful pricks like you who think they’re the king-shit-all-mighty because of some second rate title. Let me just tell ya, when you do decide to look for a challenge… I’ll be glad to give it to ya. Free of charge.

Natas: An’ when I find a reason for you being here other than makin’ the curtain jerkers look good, I’ll consider it.

The Anti-Superstar backs away from the Nemesis Warrior and goes to leave but says one last thing.

Natas: Don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ this anytime soon, boy.

But he’s out of hearing range for Jamester to catch the last words.

In the past few weeks, Rhett Locke had probably been referred to as many things. Since the… incident with Bryan Dawkins, it would certainly stand to reason that people have been even less receptive of the Albino Assassin than before. Which is saying something. Monster. Murderer. Whitey. Sure, he’s probably heard it all.

One thing he hasn’t been called, though, is the sexiest man on the PRIME roster.

C.P. Cantrell? Sure, he’s a good lookin’ guy. Even a snazzy dresser. There's probably a demographic out there somewhere that goes for the C.P. Cantrell type. They're not watching ReVolution... but we're sure they're out there. So, unfortunately... C.P. Cantrell doesn't quite cut it as the sexiest man in PRIME either.

Which is why those two bums were in the last seg and not this one.

I bet you're wondering now, just exactly who does qualify as sexiest man on the PRIME roster? Well that's an easy one, kids.

Tyler

Mother Fuckin'

Rayne

"RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Pavlov in action. The fans love him. The ladies love him. You know who else loves him? Cigarette companies across the country. Why? Because Tyler Rayne is a horrible influence and terrible role model. His drinking habits swerve dangerously close to Tony Stark levels of alcoholism. He curses like a sailor. He has vigorous and exciting extramarital relations with gorgeous women. And he smokes like a gods damned chimney.

The parking lot. Where air is free and smoking isn't (yet) against the law. This is where you'll find your 5-Star Champion. Leaning against the car, sucking down the last of little vestiges of cancer. Plain white tee and tattered jeans. He tosses the butt to the ground and snuffs the burning embers with the toe of his boot. When the Underground Pimp looks up, he notices the camera. And standing beside it... Matt Mills.

Tyler Rayne: Somethin' on your mind, kid?

Matt Mills: Just wondering if I could bother you for a few questions.

Tyler Rayne: Bother being the operative word. I was just about to step inside. Figure I can still catch most of that opening match.

The Golden Boy pushes himself from the car and stalks around to the back, where the trunk is just slightly ajar. He lifts the trunk open to drag out his kit bag and 5-Star Title, both of which find prominent resting places on either shoulder. The trunk closes. The 5-Star Champion turns. An interviewer is waiting with an eager smile.

Tyler Rayne: You're not going away, are you?

Matt Mills: No.

Tyler Rayne: Try not to bore me...

Matt Mills: Let's start with Great American Nightmare. It must have been disappointing to walk out without the Universal Title over your shoulder.

Tyler Rayne: Not really.

Matt Mills: You had a chance to win it, though. You could have ordered the doors opened and thrown yourself back into the fray. A lot of people would have flexed a little authority to get at the Universal Title. Why didn't you?

Tyler Rayne: Because that would have been a douche move.

Matt Mills: So the question still stands...

Tyler Rayne: Cute. Do I look like Xavier Kannon to you? No. And what happened to Xavier Kannon? His ass got bounced out of the ring in about a minute flat. Then I flexed that authority to punt his Scientologist ass right into the unemployment line. Devin Shakur? Out indefinitely. His wrestling career... sort of in question right now. He may never fully recover from what I did to him in that Roulette. Disappointing evening? I think not. I accomplished everything I needed to do in that match, Mills. Tink might have retained his fancy title, but I proved once again that Tyler Rayne is, without a doubt... the most dangerous fucking person walking these halls. No one has ended more careers than me. No one has put more competitors down for the count than me. Chandler Tsonda can beat anyone on this roster. I don't just beat people, Mills. I end them.

Matt Mills: Speaking of Chandler, you've been pegged early as one of the favorites to win the Jewel in the Crown tournament this year. Tsonda won last year, which put him in line to win that Universal Title he now carries. What do you think of these early predictions that you are the man to beat in this tournament?

"Millsy, you've got it all wrong. The question everyone wants to know is really... how does a schlub like Rayne expect to live up to the classic standard set by yours truly?"

Well, if anyone were going to challenge the 5-Star Champion for that Sexiest Man in PRIME position, it would be this guy. Ladies and gentlemen, your Universal Champion...

Chandler

Mother Lovin'

Tsonda

Tyler Rayne: Tink, so good to see you. Mills and I were kinda in the middle of someth-

Chandler Tsonda: In the middle of something and you don't even mind giving your ol' pal Chan a couple minutes? You're a standup fella, Rayne, no matter what the censors say.

The Viet Viper is dressed so smashingly I don't actually have the proper words to descibe it. If there's a category between "spiffy" and "godly"... he'll land somewhere toward the upper limits of that. Mills on the other hand...

Chandler Tsonda: Nice suit, Millsy.

Tyler Rayne: I've got a Benjamin says he bought that shit at TJ Maxx.

Chandler Tsonda: He's still dressed better than you.

Matt Mills: Penny's, actually.

Tyler Rayne: Son of a...

Chandler Tsonda: Pay up, Scruffy.

Tyler Rayne: Yeah yeah. What's the what, Tink? Got so bored you interrupted my ratings drawing interview to swindle me out of a couple bucks?

Chandler Tsonda: My little guy's defending his title tonight. Had to tell him good luck.

Tyler Rayne: Not much of a luck guy, Tink.

Chandler Tsonda: Fair 'nuff. So if I tell you to watch out, that Flyer's better by himself than anyone realizes?

Tyler Rayne: Just 'cuz Hawaii doesn't show up doesn't mean I'm your padawan, Tink.

Chandler Tsonda: Just trying to break you off with some knowledge. No need to get your Badass Anti-Hero Undies in a bunch.

Tyler Rayne: My undergarments no longer fall into the category of acceptable conversation, Chan.

But the Model Citizen has his own locker room to stake out. If you don't think he and the Tsonda interns will be taping and analyzing every JITC match, to have an advantage for a possible Culture Shock showdown...well, you might be riding the short bus to school. But our Universal Champion loves to have the last word.

Chandler Tsonda: Good luck, Ty.

Exit one well-dressed Universal Champion. One not-nearly-as-spiff but so much more suave 5-Star Champion is looking to do the same.

Tyler Rayne: Have a good night, Mills. Seriously... that suit is awful.

Exit one well-mannered 5-Star Champion. That just leaves our ever faithful backstage reporter...

Matt Mills: But I like this suit.

The pyrotechnics had been used up

The music had faded away.

All that was left were three wrestlers inside the ring, with thousands of eyes set upon them.

The first, a former PRIMEate, was making his second appearance with the company. He was successful on the tag team circuit his first time around here, and an impressive appearance in the Jewel in the Crown Tournament would prove that he could succeed as a singles wrestler as well.

The second man was a new face to PRIME viewers, but had been a mainstay in many successful companies throughout his career. He once called Lights Out Wrestling, Global Wrestling, and Evolution Pro Wrestling his home, but was now taking his chance at stealing the spotlight in PRIME. A former World Champion, there was no doubt in his mind that a long run in the tournament would elevate his status as one of the more successful journeyman wrestlers of his time.

The mention of the last man’s name causes mixed reactions from PRIME fans. This man has tasted both failure and success in his stay with the company, most recently being PRIME’s Intense Champion for over two months. The man that has been the proverbial "thorn in the side" of now-inactive former Universal Champion Devin Shakur was now looking to re-establish himself as a force to be reckoned with in the ranks of PRIME.

The three men circled the ring, eyeing one another down, waiting for the match to begin, kicking off their journeys to the end of the Jewel in the Crown Tournament. The contest began with the usual slow-moving feeling-out period. Both Dusk and Jesse Jamester outweighed Vox by around fifty pounds each, so it was no surprise that they didn’t hesitate to go after the smaller competitor.

Dusk and Jamester proceeded to back Vox into the turnbuckle, laying into the former PRIMEate with heavy fists and elbows. Business began to pick up when Vox was dropped to the floor with a shortarm clothesline from Jamester, who was caught not paying attention to Dusk. The Lost Soul locked his hands in a full nelson behind Jamester’s head, and was then sent flying over Dusk’s head, crashing neck-first on the mat with a full-nelson suplex. Dusk went for the quick cover that got kicked out of after a one-count.

Dusk, not to be frustrated, shifted his focus to Vox, who was just getting to his feet when he was met with a forearm smash from the Lost Soul. Vangellus was sent back into the turnbuckle, and was followed shortly after by Dusk. The PRIMEate charged at Vox and set him up for a huge running lariat, but Vox ducked and caught him with a mule kick right under the chin.

That would’ve been all and good had Jesse Jamester not been sizing up Vox from the far corner and was making a B-line straight for Vangellus. Just when he realized he was being sized up, Vox had the shoulder of the Nemesis Warrior thrust into his abdomen with a wicked spear. Jamester wasted no time and began to rain fists and elbows down onto the face of Vox, who was helpless at the moment.

After a few moments, Jamester switched his focus back to Dusk, who was now upright and making his way toward Jesse. The two locked up, and the bigger Jamester backed Dusk into the ropes, and then whipped him to the far side of the ring. On his way back to Jamester, Dusk was tripped up by a drop-toehold from Vox, who had maneuvered himself just enough to get in the way of one of the competitors.

Vox then crawled over to the fallen Dusk and, focusing on his left leg, applied a leg lock while Jamester wasted no time delivering stiff kicks to the PRIMEate’s cranium. Dusk screamed in pain, mostly due to the injury to his left leg sustained at the hands of Cozen at Great American Nightmare, and attempted to shield his face from the kicks of Jamester.

There was no guarding, though, and so he tried a different approach. The next time Jamester swings away, Dusk grabbed his foot, setting Jesse off balance and tumbling back into the ropes.

In that brief window, the Lost Soul fired an elbow into the face of Vox, then spun away from the leg hold. Vox kept it cinched as best he could, but Dusk anticipated that. He tangled himself up with the former Pulse Champion and kept a keen eye on Jamester. When the former Evolution Pro champion stormed out of the ropes with a forearm loaded up, Dusk spun and used Vox as a human shield. The forearm from Jamester stunned him, and he stopped trying to grasp Dusk in any semblance of submission.

The Lost Soul shoved the heavy form of Vox into Jamester and created some distance. Jesse caught the third man and threw him down to the mat, then looked up in time to catch a LIGHTS OUT superkick from Dusk that floored him.

As Jamester hit the mat, Dusk fell on top of Vox and hooked the leg. The count was academic.

WINNER: Dusk

As Jay Phoenix walks into the PRIME arena, before he can even get orientated to find his way through the maze of hallways, a production assistant runs up to him.

Assistant: Mr Phoenix, glad that I caught you.

Jay Phoenix: Well I am pretty easy to catch when I am not moving you know.

Assistant: Erm …

Jay Phoenix: *SIGH* … that was a joke.

Assistant: Ok – I knew that.

Jay Phoenix: So, what can I do for you?

Assistant: Mr Cantrell wanted me to tell you that he wants to see you right away.

Jay Phoenix: Ok.

Getting his bearings Phoenix turns away from the production member, who stands looking confused, and begins to walk away. Recovering his composure the assistant quickly runs after Phoenix and grabs him by the shoulder. Phoenix stops in his tracks and, with a cold stare, waits until the young man removes his hand from his arm.

Jay Phoenix: Yes?

Assistant: Sorry, I thought that you understood that Mr Cantrell wanted to see you.

Jay Phoenix: I do understand that, thank you.

Assistant: … but you are going the wrong way, Mr Cantrell’s office is this way.

Jay Phoenix: I knew that too, but thank you again.

Assistant: … but you are going the wrong way!

Jay Phoenix: Actually I am just going my way, that can’t really be wrong or right, now can it?

Assistant: It can when Mr Cantrell wants to see you …

Jay Phoenix: You already said that, you know, you are repeating yourself now. If you don’t mind I am going to go find the popcorn vendor and get comfortable.

Assistant: … but Mr Cantrell …

Jay Phoenix: I know, I know already – he wants to see me. Good for him! The thing is that I REALLY don’t want to see him right now so I think that I will take his invitation under advisement for now.

Assistant: Advisement?

Jay Phoenix: Yeah, and my advice – to myself of course – is to just ignore that idiot and get some popcorn!

Once more Phoenix begins to walk away from the assistant but this time he is ready and, moving quickly to catch up, the production assistant puts himself in Phoenix’s way – blocking his path.

Jay Phoenix: Yes? I thought that I made it clear that I didn’t want to see Mr Cantrell, despite his …

Assistant: He said that you would say that.

Jay Phoenix: What?

Assistant: Mr Cantrell told me to get you to his office but told me that you would refuse and do your own thing.

Jay Phoenix: Obviously paid his crystal ball premiums this week.

Assistant: … so he gave me something for you. He said that when you had it I could stop trying to get you there; that you would make your own way to the office.

Jay Phoenix: Pretty confident guy Cantrell, isn’t he?

Assistant: Well he is the boss.

Jay Phoenix: OK, ignoring that bit … what is this ‘thing’ that you have for me.

The assistant pulls a brown manila envelope out of his folder – the same size as the one that Cantrell had handed to Phoenix the week before – and hands it over. Phoenix takes it as if it could bite him; his eyes tightening and doesn’t open it.

Jay Phoenix: What is this?

Assistant: No idea – Mr Cantrell just said that you would want to see him after reading it.

With that it is the production assistant who walks of and leaves Phoenix standing, alone, in the hallway his eyes fixed to the sealed envelope.

The camera cuts to the Richmond Coliseum parking lot just in time for an old, black Jeep Wrangler to come screeching to a halt, its oversized tires leaving black tracks trailing behind it several feet. The driver’s exit, significantly hastened by the absence of vehicular doors altogether, sends the entire vehicle shooting half a foot upward with a symphony of squeaking shocks and straining bolts.

This should come as no surprise, however, considering the identity of the good ship’s captain.

"I’ll tell you what, Korv, this baby may look a lil’ worse for wear but it still handles like a Winchester on the first day of deer season."

"And I’ll tell you what…I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about."

And with that brief exchange of pleasantries, Delta Upsilon Iota has arrived at ReVolution 176.

Korver is rocking blue jeans, white Nike’s and a navy t-shirt with "DIKFORE" written across the front, complimented by a backwards Tampa Bay Rays baseball cap. Cobb, on the other hand, wears khaki shorts, brown sandals and a white polo shirt, with the collar appropriately popped.

Hank Cobb: No need to start dolin’ out the profanity so early in the evenin’, what with a whole night with nothin’ to do but relax and enjoy ourselves.

Colby Korver: Maybe you’re right, but I would have liked to have seen the consumption of massive amounts of adult beverages a little higher on your list.

Hank Cobb: Fair ‘nuff. Maybe this will help ease your concerns, Sally.

Reaching into the back of his trusty Wrangler, Cobb pulls out two cases.

Hank Cobb: A case of Bass for you, Mr. Korver.

Colby Korver: That’s an interesting choice.

Hank Cobb: I reckoned that you might want to celebrate the departure of our dear friend Union Jack with a case of British ale.

Colby Korver: And dammit, you reckoned right. So what are you sipping on this evening?

Hank Cobb: Budweiser, of course. I tried to come up with a clever choice to mock our other opponents, but no one even really knew who they were. And now they are gone, like a silent fart in wind.

Colby Korver: Another charming analogy, my good man.

As the frat boys stride across the parking lot, drinks in hand, a booming voice necessitates their immediate and rapt attention.

"Jus da boys I been sent to find."

So says PRIME’s Head of Security.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Da boss axed me to give you dis message. So here it is.

Dam hands Korver a small, white envelope, which he reluctantly accepts with a roll of the eyes and shake of the head.

Colby Korver: This boss of yours, he’s a real jackass isn’t he?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: …

Colby Korver: It’s ok, you can level with me. We haven’t had much of a chance to catch up since the Dual Halo, gotta make up for lost time.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: …

Colby Korver: Come on, you’re among friends.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: …

Colby Korver: Ok, ok, I got it. Cameras everywhere. Trust no one. Just remain completely still and silent if you’re with me.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: …

Colby Korver: I read ya, big guy, loud and clear. And I’m putting it in the vault, no worries.

And with that, Korver moves past the hulking Head of Security and heads into the Coliseum, leaving Dam and Hank Cobb doing something they are both almost entirely unaccustomed to…looking someone else their size directly in the eyes.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Hank da Tank.

Cobb smirks and responds in turn.

Hank Cobb: Obsidian.

And now it’s Dam’s turn to smile, cracking a toothy grin and putting his massive right hand on Cobb’s equally massive left shoulder.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Represent for da big man.

Hank Cobb: Damn right, hoss. And keep this place in line, will ya?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Sho ‘nuff.

Feed returns to the ringside area with free agents Horace Tully and Rudy Simpson already in the ring. "21st Century Pop Song" hits the PA system and the crowd show a positive reaction as Rhett Locke makes his way down to the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following is a first round match in the JITC tournament and will be contested under Triple Threat rules! Introducing, in the ring, Horace Tully and Rudy Simpson! And making his way to the ring, RHETT LOCKE!

Nick: Welcome back folks, and this promises to be a competitive one! It’s Rhett Locke – the man who fell to Kaiser Vashaun at GAN – taking on relative unknown Rudy Simpson, and a man PRIME fans may remember from his time as a part of the Black Sect, Horace Tully.

Richard: I like Tully to win this one, Nick. The guy’s got a real vicious streak about him…

Nick: Horace Tully is a truly brutal competitor, Richard, but don’t count out Rhett Locke either! And what about Rudy Simpson? Nobody knows a thing about this guy, and that could prove to be a big advantage here!

The bell rings as the three competitors circle each other. Tully is the first to move, dashing over and nailing Locke with a knee to the gut before locking up with Simpson. Tully’s strength sees him through, but his attempt to catch Rudy on the rebound is thwarted by Locke who takes him down with a single leg dropkick. Locke drops the charging Simpson with a flapjack, before taking Tully to the corner and stomping a mudhole into him.

Tully battles back, but Simpson takes him down with running headscissors. The cover gets a two count, broken up by Locke. Now Locke attacks Simpson with closed fists, but the high flyer ducks the clothesline, hits an armbar takedown followed by a quick senton splash. He recovers only to walk right into some stiff MMA elbows from Horace Tully who goes to work on Simpson, grinding him down with some ground-based strikes.

The match now putty in his hands, Tully strikes the recovering Locke in the back and downs him with a belly-to-belly overhead suplex for a two count. Locke counters the leglock attempt and springs to his feet, hammering away at Tully’s jaw. Locke whips him to the corner and follows with a spear, but Simpson now darts at Locke and nails an outside crescent kick for another two count.

Balancing his time between Tully and Locke, Simpson goes to work. A few stomps here and there and a moonsault leg drop on Tully. He pays too much attention to Locke, however, but telegraphs Rhett’s clothesline attempt with a lariat of his own, taking both men to the mat. The fans chant, getting behind Locke as all three men battle fatigue to stumble to their feet.

Rudy is the first to recover, and he makes a dash for the ropes, hoping to take to the air one more time for all the marbles. Once he exits the ring, though, Rhett sees his opportunity.

He charges forward with a Yakuza-style kick at Tully, hoping to clock the bigger, stronger man. Unfortunately for Rhett, Tully was more "with it"than he let on. He quickly sidestepped the kick, reeled back and LEVELED Locke on the rebound with a brutal Lariat!

He makes the cover quickly, and by the time Rudy Simpson was ready for liftoff, his flightplan had been changed.

WINNER: Horace Tully

The scene goes backstage to the Church of the Unholy’s locker room where Darth Varga and Wolfen the werewolf are sitting on a dusty, beat up red couch watching some election coverage on Fox News. The mutant humanoid creature CHUD is standing in the background. On the television John McCain is giving a speech somewhere and it is being shown live.

McCain: IT’S OVER! IT’S OVER MY FRIENDS!

Darth can turns to Wolfen, shaking his head.

Darth: Why does he say my friends so much when he talks?

Wolfen: *snarl* These politicians get on my nerves.

Darth: I agree. This election has gone on WAYYY too long. And why the hell are we watching this crap? It’s Halloween! We should be watching some horror movies instead of this garbage.

Just then the Unholy presidential candidate Senator Richard Mabus comes walking in with his security guards. He smiles and waves at them.

Mabus: Hello guys. Gonna vote for me on Tuesday?

Darth shrugs this comment off like it’s nothing.

Darth: Pfft…you aren’t even on the ballots you fucktwat.

Mabus: Why’s that?

Darth: Remember when you got your ass handed to you in the Infinite Gauntlet a few months back and the Church cut your campaign funding?

Mabus suddenly goes mum like a typical politician who doesn’t want to answer a question about something he doesn’t want to talk about.

Mabus: …

Darth: Yeah, that’s why.

Mabus looks depressed and walks out of the room with his head down. Darth shakes his head at the sight of this.

Darth: Pussy.

Wolfen nods his head in agreement.

Wolfen: *growl* Yeah, what a wuss.

Darth turns his attention back to the television news show, pointing at the screen.

Darth: Is the election over with yet? I mean, how many more hours of this shit is there going to be on television?

Behind them Dr. Acula walks in from the hallway with some Unholy Priests. They continue to not notice him as they continue to talk about the television show. However Darth notices him using the Force and decides to fuck with him the first chance he gets.

Wolfen: *snarl* I wish it would just end. It sucks seeing the same people over and over again on the television.

Darth: It’s also kind of like when we go to work at the Castle of Blood and see the same idiots like Dr. Acula and the Horny Mathematician all the time.

Dr. Acula clears his throat and both Darth and Wolfen look up at him. CHUD is giggling in the background because Dr. Acula looks pissed at Darth for making fun of him.

Dr. Acula: Hey Darth. You ready for your big Halloween night match tonight?

Darth: Yeah, I am. Like I wouldn’t be with the competition I may be facing tonight.

Dr. Acula: You’d better win. This is for the Church and we’re a horror built organization. If you lose tonight, it’ll be humiliating for us.

Darth looks pissed after hearing that.

Darth: Yeah? You mean more humiliating than the fact we’ve been on a long losing streak ever since you took over leadership of the organization?

Dr. Acula looks angry now after Darth’s clear insubordination to his authority as head of the Church Leadership Council.

Dr. Acula: You watch it mister!

Darth gets up and gets into his face.

Darth: No, YOU watch it! I don’t need this bullshit right before my match. See, this is why everyone thinks of us as a big joke. You come in here and run your mouth like some politician. You and the Mathematician do the same shit. You guys are like McCain when he says ‘It’s over!’ You act like it’s over before it’s even happened. You act like I have no chance. Well let me tell you something. I am going to go out there and face some of the best competition in the world. Hell, it’s not some of the best competition in the world. It IS the best competition in the world and I am going to show everyone that the Church of the Unholy is not some stupid organization of idiots, monsters, and various other entities. We are the pre-imminent organization in the wrestling world and now it’s about time we showed it.

Dr. Acula: Just you go out there and win. Otherwise, you deal with me.

Dr. Acula turns and walks out with his Unholy Priests, closing the door behind them. Darth sits back down as Wolfen changes the channel to AMC which is showing Halloween.

Darth: What an asshole.

Wolfen: *snarl* I hate that guy.

Darth then notices the movie and seems happier than before.

Darth: Halloween. Good choice. Got lots of nice kills and a good boobie shot.

Wolfen: *growl* Those are epic boobs.

CHUD: Boobies…

CHUD walks over and sits next to Darth on the couch as someone walks in. The person walks over and stands behind the couch.

CHUD: Is it Dr. Acula?

Darth uses the Force and senses who it is.

Darth: Nah. It’s just the Horny Zombie.

The camera pans back to show the Horny Zombie watching the sex scene in the movie.

Horny Zombie: PPPPUUUUUUSSSSSSSYYYYYYY!!!!!

The four Unholy creatures continue to watch the movie as the scene fades out to creepy music and the when the scene is finally black, bloody red letters appear on the screen and it says HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

What do you when you’re a Hall of Famer, the most prolific title holder in PRIME history, and a scary hulk of a man, to boot, and you don’t have a match on ReV?

Well, from the looks of Killean Sirrajin, the answer would have to be "walk around looking scary." The Supreme Machine seems not to notice the names on the doors he walks by: Troy Douglas, Rhett Locke, Dusk, Jay Phoenix. There’s just a different way you carry yourself when you’ve been to the mountaintop.

As he reaches his own locker room door, Sirrajin doesn’t bother looking around, wrapping his giant hand around the knob.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

What do you do when you’re the Universal Champion, the reigning Jewel in the Crown, and a man with a passion for fashion?

Apparently, you sit in a beach chair outside of Killean Sirrajin’s locker room with a long slender glass full of what appears to be a Long Island Iced Tea, Universal Title draped lazily over your shoulder.

When Sirrajin sees Chandler Tsonda’s mug, he mutters and tries to avoid this encounter by opening the door. Tsonda scoots up out of the chair in an effort to stop him.

Chandler Tsonda: Whoa, Killer. You gonna just do me like that?

Killean Sirrajin: (turns around to face Tsonda) Is there something that I can help you with or is this the same irritating "I’m just here to chat" routine you pull every week?

Chandler Tsonda: The second one, definitely.

Killean Sirrajin: Okay, well, I’m sure your boyfriend Rayne or your little babysitting project Dawkins would love to tell you what a hilarious guy you are, so scram.

Chandler Tsonda: Killy, I think we both know that would defy the logic that had me posted up, relaxation-style, outside your locker room. Clearly, we got business, son.

The blank look that comes back from the defiant Sirrajin could stun a yak. Could be the shades, could be the fact that his fists are the size of soccer balls, all that matters is that he seems intent on not playing the fool to Tsonda.

Chandler Tsonda: Okay, well, in the world the rest of us live in, that’s where you’d say "what business is that, Chan," but I think the frozen Canadian tundra might’ve changed your brain chemistry, so I’ll come out with it.

Tsonda’s hand flinches and all of a sudden, Sirrajin is in defensive position.

Chandler Tsonda: Now, we’ve never really been enemies. Am I right, Killzone?

Killean Sirrajin: We’ve never been friends.

Chandler Tsonda: Right, love that glass half-full mentality ya got goin’. Now, I realize that the Roulette might’ve done a little damage to our little(points to himself and Killean) dynamic…but I just wanted to say that you’re a hell of a competitor.

Killean Sirajin: Our dynamic?

Chandler Tsonda: Ya know, that wonderfully simple "you stay the fuck outta my way, and vice versa" thing we had.

Killean Sirrajin: I always took it as me avoiding you because you don’t have an off switch on that mouth of yours.

Chandler Tsonda: You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.

Killean Sirrajin: So you came here to do what? Hand me a certificate that says thanks for participating?

Chandler Tsonda: Well, you could be a complete douche about this, which would make it infinitely easier for me to take back what I said and remind you how I pinned your ass. Does the sequence "One, Two, Three, Ding Ding Ding" sound familiar?

Each of these men takes a barely noticeable step forward. Two alpha dogs rarely back down from one another. Surely, C.P. Cantrell is off giggling in delight at the prospect of these two stars putting some bloodstains on the backstage area.

Killean Sirrajin: Coming from somebody who consistently shits the bed in the Dual Halo, that’s pretty big talk. You know, as well as I do, that beating me in the Roulette is nowhere close to beating me one-on-one.

Chandler Tsonda: Do I, now?

Killean Sirrajin: Damn skippy.

Chandler Tsonda: You know what the beautiful part about all this is, Killer?

Killean Sirrajin: Do tell, Chan.

Chandler Tsonda: (grins) All you gotta do if you wanna prove that you’re better than me…is follow in my footsteps. You win the Jewel in the Crown, and you’ll get your one-on-one shot.

Killean Sirrajin: You really think I need to win a tournament to get that gold back again? I've been Champ twice kid, you're still getting your feet wet. Maybe it’s not just about you, ya egotistical prick. Maybe it’s about calling that belt my own for a record third time.

Chandler Tsonda: Maybe. But I’ve got a feeling there’s some special comfort you’d take if it was me across the ring from you at Culture Shock.

Killean Sirrajin: When I need a shrink, I’ll let you know.

Just like that, Sirrajin turns and enters his locker room. He’s not the type of guy who has anything left to prove in conversation or in the ring. And while being challenged by Tsonda can bring out his competitive fire, Sirrajin knows that to endure a four-round tournament, he can’t waste time brawling in hallways. And maybe…just maybe, Tsonda knows that, too.

The last sound, as the picture cuts out, is Tsonda shouting at Sirrajin’s closed door.

"All you gotta do is be like me, Sirrajin. All you gotta do is win!"

Nick: So are you ready for our final Jewel in the Crown first round match?

Richard: Is the Pope Polish?!

Nick: … erm, actually no he isn’t.

Richard: C’mon, you got to be kidding me, that line is as old as does a bear shi … erm, defecate … in the woods!

Nick: Well the second one still holds true, but I am sorry to tell you that the Pope is German – not Polish.

Richard: Damn, I didn’t know that.

Nick: Don’t worry – it was only the biggest thing to happen to the Catholic Church in two decades so why would you hear about it!?

Richard: Drop it!

Nick: OK, so are you ready for this match?

Richard: Let’s just go with the easy answer – yes!

Nick: We still don’t actually know who is going to be facing whom here, and neither do the competitors.

Richard: They will find out when we do; we just know that all the entrents to Jewel in the Crown are backstage and will know what match they are in – and who they are facing – when their name is called…

Nick: And speaking of that – here comes tour first wrestler!

I aaaaam smellin’ like the rose
That somebody gave me
On my birthday deathbed…

The PRIME*view flickers into life as a bold, black typeface flashes intermittently with action shots.

A N T I

A short pause before the lyrics kick in again.

I aaaaam smellin’ like the rose
That somebody gave me
‘Cause I’m dead and bloated!

Finally Stone Temple Pilots kick in with "Dead and Bloated" as PRIME’s Anti-Superstar appears at the top of the ramp, gazing disdainfully out across the hordes of jeering masses. Eventually Jason Natas begins his descent, cracking his knuckles as he walks down the ramp at a slow but steady pace.

Vince Howard: Hailing from New York City and weighing in at 254 pounds...

After reaching the bottom of the ramp Jason climbs up the ring steps and walks along the outside of the apron. With one hand on the top rope, he turns and offers a fierce sneer to the masses before eventually turning and entering the ring.

Vince Howard: The Anti-Superstar … Jason Natassssssssss!

Nick: Jason Natas picked up a big win at the Great American Nightmare over Troy Douglas.

Richard: You have got to be thinking that he wants to win this match and move on to the next round of the Jewel in the Crown next; THAT would be a very big win indeed!

Nick: Richard, I think that everyone in this tournament wants the same thing you know, Natas isn’t any different.


The arena lights fade to black and the entrance is filled by a dark red light. The entrance aisle is filled with an eerie fog looking fog as "Imperial March" from the Star Wars, Episode V: Empire Strikes Back soundtrack begins playing over the loud speakers.

Vince Howard: The second entrant … Darth Vaaaaaaaaaaaarga!

Darth Varga comes out to the ring from the back flanked by Ninjas of Doom. He storms to the ring and climbs inside as the Ninjas head to the back. The smoke in the aisle dissipates, the music fades out, and Darth gets ready for action in the ring.

Richard: … really?

Nick: Well PRIME has brought us many surprises throughout the years but I have to admit that seeing Darth Varga in that ring …

Richard: … as an entrant in the Jewel in the Crown tournament!

Nick: Indeed … that has to be one of the biggest surprises so far!

Natas leans back in the corner, eyeing up the man mountain that is Varga as he pulls at the top rope.

Vince Howard: The third and final entrant in this first round, Jewel in the Crown tournament match …

‘Right Next Door to Hell’, by Guns ‘N’ Roses, blares out over the P.A. system as suddenly every fan in the arena is on their feet – some are cheering, some are booing but all of them are standing up, watching the entrance ramp excitedly.

Nick: That music …

Richard: … it can’t be!

Nick: It is – IT IS!

Vince Howard: JAAAASOOOOON SNOOOOOOOW!

One of wrestling’s most recognisable men saunters out onto the entrance ramp and pauses, looking around at the audience and soaking in the atmosphere. With a small smile he makes his way to ringside, eyes focussed on the two men inside the ring – two men who stare right back at him, apprehension obvious in their eyes.

Richard: You know that I said that Natas had to be wanting to win this and prove that he is the next big thing?

Nick: Yeah?

Richard: I changed my mind – I think that, now, he just wants to survive this one!

Nick: … and considering that Darth Varga is one of the biggest men in this tournament, and THE biggest man in this match, he doesn’t look all that confident anymore.

As Jason Snow steps up onto the ring apron, and through the ropes, the bell rings. Before the referee can even get into position Snow has launched himself across the ring and taken the unsuspecting Natas off his feet with a running lariat. Before Natas has even hit the canvas Snow has thrown himself, literally, onto the massive Varga with chops and punches, forcing the big man against the ropes.

Richard: Snow not wasting anytime here!

Nick: He knows what he is doing; he is the smallest man in the match so has to dictate the pace.

Richard: Ouch … well someone should tell Varga that!

Using the ropes for extra momentum Snow grabs Varga by one arm and propels him across the ring. At least he tries to. Before he can let go of the behemoth Snow finds all momentum has stopped as he comes face to face with a short-arm clothesline that sends him crashing to the canvas … all of Varga’s massive three hundred and thirty pounds landing beside him.

Nick: That clothesline from Hell certainly lived up to its name there!

Richard: I am surprised that Snow wasn’t sent there, literally, with the amount of force behind that move.

Nick: People may joke about Varga but, when they are facing him in the ring, you don’t see too many of them laughing!

Reaching down Varga locks Snow’s legs into his own before reaching down and pulling back on the smaller man’s neck and chin. Dazed as he is Snow has more than enough ring awareness to know that he is in trouble – and in pain. Reaching his hands out he tries to grab the nearest rope but is mere inches away.

Richard: I am actually impressed here; Varga has Snow in a textbook perfect STF!

Nick: … as shocked as I am to say this we could see an upset here; Snow has nowhere to go!

Richard: INCOMING!

Unseen by Varga Jason Natas has got back to his feet and seeing the predicament that Snow is in – though obviously caring more about hi own chances in the match rather than his erstwhile opponent – Natas lashes out with a vicious boot to the back of Varga’s head. The STF is released and Snow rolls to the ropes as Natas continues to stomp on the back and head of the larger man.

Richard: Nothing pretty about Natas in the ring.

Nick: Maybe not, but it is getting the job done, isn’t it?

Richard: Actually – no it isn’t!

Despite the impact from the blows Varga struggles to his feet until he is back to a vertical base. Despite the fact that his opponent towers over him Natas doesn’t let up the attack, unloading with punch and strike after punch and strike until, eventually, Varga drops to one knee. The crowd cheer for Natas’ endeavour.

Nick: Now that is something that you don’t hear everday!

Richard: Even Natas seems a little perturbed to be cheered!

Looking out at the audience, Natas seems confused to find people applauding for him. Leaning back against the rope he uses its momentum to propel himself forwards and catches an already shaky Varga with a clothesline attempt of his own. Varga shakes but doesn’t go down further than one knee. Natas moves back to the ropes and repeats the process and, again, Varga shakes but doesn’t fall. A third time Natas uses the ropes and a third time he propels himself towards Varga.

Richard: Once too often!

Before Natas can connect with another clothesline Varga reaches out and catches him around the throat. With a burst of strength Varga lifts him into the air before dumping him, on the back of his head, to the canvas with a sickening chokeslam. Dropping to the canvas he lays his full weight on the dazed Natas as the referee slides into position.

One .,,

Nick: Snow not letting it get any further than that!

With a flying elbow drop to the back of Varga’s head Jason Snow interrupts the count before the referee’s hand can fall for a second time. Varga rolls off Natas who lies in the middle of the ring. Before Varga can recover Snow unleashes a boot to the midsection, which sends the big man back a step. Changing tactics slightly Snow unloads with roundkick after roundkick to Varga’s left knee.

Richard: It is like watching a lumberjack at work.

Varga’s leg gives out and he drops to one knee again. Before Snow can move, however, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord of the Sith reaches out one hand and, his eyes clenching in concentration, forms a claw as he mimes choking the former PRIME 5-Star Champion.

Nick: Erm … what is he doing?

Richard: I believe that HE believes that he is using the force …

Nick: Is it working?

As Varga tightens his non-existent grip Jason Snow stands motionless in front of him.

Richard: Nah.

With an incredulous shake of his head Jason Snow blurs into motion and lashes out with a superkick that catches the kneeling giant square in the chin. As his eyes roll back in his head Varga collapses backwards.

Nick: Lumberjack indeed – Snow just cut him down like a Redwood!

Jason Snow drops down for the pinfall attempt.

One …

Two …

Three …

DING DING DING

WINNER: Jason Snow

Turning a corner, Jay Phoenix bumps into – literally – the duo that makes up Delta Upsilon Iota, Colby Korver and Hank Cobb. Catching his balance, Phoenix comes face to chest with the much larger Cobb, Phoenix steadies himself. As the men acknowledge each other they hold up matching envelopes and – at the same time – try to speak.

Jay Phoenix: Have you seen this?

Hank Cobb/Colby Korver: Have you seen this?

All three men pause for a second, taking in the matching envelopes and the note of concern evident in all the voices. Taking a breath, Phoenix holds up one hand to quiet the frat boys and then looks at Colby.

Jay Phoenix: No, I haven't seen yours, but I have seen this …

Taking a single sheet of paper out of his envelope, Phoenix hands it over to Colby as Hank looks over his shoulder.

Colby Korver: Well I’ll be a skinny pig’s fat uncle, Cantrell’s throwin’ you right into the Jewel in the Crown tournament? Congratulations, boss.

Jay Phoenix: I know. Cantrell still can’t get it into his head that I don’t want to be part of PRIME; I take it that you don’t want to be part of the tournament either?

Colby Korver: Actually, that dickhead has taken it upon his himself to suspend me from competition until further notice. Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity to brush up on the Richmond University co-ed scene.

There is a quiet chuckle from behind Phoenix and all three men turn to see Cantrell himself standing there, a smirk on his face.

C. P. Cantrell: Now, now – it isn’t quite like that you know.

Korver moves to rush past Phoenix but Cobb holds him back as Cantrell holds up a hand in warning.

Colby Korver: You little schmuck, sending a sealed envelope to do a man’s job.

C. P. Cantrell: Don’t do anything that you will regret, Colby, my friend, at least not anything that you will regret more than your actions at Great American Nightmare. You didn’t think that I was going to let you away with your disgraceful actions at Great American Nightmare, did you? I gave you two ingrates a chance here in PRIME, you could have been great and all you had to do was one small favor for me.

Cantrell clears his throat, as a look of disgust spreads across his face.

C. P. Cantrell: But you couldn’t … wouldn’t … even do that! Rather than wrestling Phoenix, as requested, you made fast friends, laid down in the middle of the ring, and, most importantly, let him make me look stupid.

The three impatient wrestlers start to interrupt, but Cantrell silences them.

C. P. Cantrell: Quiet! I am a reasonable man you know, and all I want to do is make PRIME the best damn federation in the world. But night after night, week after week, I have people like you three jokers making that almost impossible for me. I don’t like playing the fool and I WON’T let you bring PRIME down around my ears!

Jay Phoenix: … but …

C. P. Cantrell: Still talking, Mr. Phoenix, so how about while my lips are moving you just keep yours closed, mmkay? So, where was I? Oh yeah, a little punishment to suit the crime seemed to be called for, so it’s pretty simple. At the Great American Nightmare, Colby Korver there laid down and took the pin. He disobeyed me to help out someone that he hardly knew … so, as a result, he is placed under suspension and is not cleared to wrestle until further notice. I don’t care if he wants to come along and hold Cobb’s dip can for him, but until I say otherwise he is no longer an active member of the PRIME roster! I am not without reason, however, so seeing as how the Pride of North Carolina there has no tag team partner, I am going to give him a little present and enter him in the Jewel in the Crown tournament too.

Jay Phoenix: That isn’t fair, it is me that …

Cantrell leans forwards and pokes Phoenix in the chest.

C. P. Cantrell: Do you see my lips, Phoenix? Do you see that they are still moving? What is it with you that you cannot follow simple instructions? No, don’t answer that – I don’t care! You see I realized something last week and that was that you are actually too stupid to know what is really best for you, what is best for me and what is best for PRIME … but I listened to you, and the fact that you will do anything for the people you care about. I would venture a guess that that includes these two meatheads doesn’t it?

Phoenix looks a little confused, but sharing a glance with Korver and Cobb he nods his head in response to Cantrell.

C. P. Cantrell: See, that is actually something that I like about you, Jay – you are one of the true good guys. That is why I decided to give you a shot at the Jewel in the Crown too … and before you say it, I realize that you don’t think that you work for PRIME, but I have a little incentive for you, my friend … on top of not going to court, airing your dirty laundry in public and becoming bankrupt of course.

Jay Phoenix: Which is?

C. P. Cantrell: Ok, I had stopped for a breath there so my lips weren’t moving – I’ll give you that one. The incentive is simple … you take part in the Jewel in the Crown tournament, you do your damn best to win it and I will think about letting Korver back into the ring. However, if I think for one second that you are not giving one hundred percent, if you try any of your tricks to get out of actually competing then I have a feeling that Delta One here will be breaking down rings on the indy circuit by Christmas.

Jay Phoenix: You would fire him if I don’t compete?

C. P. Cantrell: No, Jay, not ‘would’ but ‘will’!

The three men – Jay Phoenix, Colby Korver and Hank Cobb – stare in shock at Cantrell, who just smiles smugly back at them.

C. P. Cantrell: This isn’t personal you know – I just want to do what is best for PRIME and if that means pushing you guys into doing the same thing then I am willing to do just that. Now, why don’t you guys have a little chat and catch up – I’m sure that you three now have quite a lot to talk about!

Cantrell turns on his heels and heads in the other direction, leaving the three men in shock behind him.

Black issue military boots.

Tights stitched with the words Underground Pimp

A scarred body which tells ten thousand stories of pain

The face only a mother (yours, mine, everybody's) could love

Incessant cheering from the 13,481 fans who have packed the building tonight.

This could only be the pinpoint description of one individual...

Tyler Motherfucking Rayne (yes, the motherfucking is his trademarked middle name)

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

We covered the cheering, but dammit he's so lovable.

Standing in front of the mirror finishing the tape on his right wrist, The Golden Boy prepares himself for another Five Star Title defense. It's a Championship that he's elevated to alpha title status in PRIME over the course of multiple months. He's been the single most dominant force in 2008 and tonight he's looking to add another notch to his belt.

Cracking his neck from side to side, Rayne hears a knock on the door and instinctively nods in response. He picks up the Five Star Championship belt from the leather couch and walks toward the gorilla position.

When the door knocks again, Rayne grunts, and throws open the door to see an apathetic stagehand who is about six days overdue for a shave and triple bypass surgery standing in front of him.

Tyler Rayne: I know kid, five minutes until I go on. The knock gave that away.

The stagehand stands stalwart, pulling tattooed arms from behind his back to hand Rayne an envelope. On the front, it has the letters 'DEATH' written in crimson.

Tyler Rayne: Cute Halloween gag, who is it from?

The stagehand gives a shrug and starts to walk away, forcing the letter into Rayne's hands.

Stagehand: (Winters-esque monotone) Didn't say, I got paid to deliver it. Have a nice day.

Tyler Rayne: (muttering under breath) ...I bet you make a nice singing telegram don't you, fucking jackass.

The Underground Pimp holds the letter up to the light, trying to decipher if anything harmful is inside. After deducing that he's safe, a quick genie style snap of his fingers produces a letter cutter from thin air.

Tyler Rayne: Who the fuck writes letters anymore? Shit

With one swift slice, Rayne opens the letter and flings the envelope into a nearby trashcan. Swish. YES, AND IT COUNTS!

When the individual pieces of papyrus (oh yeah, this is a monumental letter) fall into his hands, Rayne haphazardly flips them back into order. Leaning up against the wall, he begins to read them silently.

"Dear Douchebag,"

"I bet you've heard the reports by now that you fractured my ankle with your plethora of chair shots, tore ligaments in my leg, and put me on the sidelines for twelve miserable weeks. I bet you are real proud of yourself aren't you? Go ahead and smile..."

"Come on. I'm watching this on TV. Give me a little hate, Ty."

Rayne spins 90 degrees to the right and delivers a toothy smile and middle finger to the camera.

"Good. Because that is the last time you will ever smile because of my name. I am going to see to it that you become a prime example of what happens when somebody decides to sully my good name and ruin my body. You know...son, what I did to you was fucking petty theft compared to your actions. You wanted, no scratch that, you NEEDED someone to come and help you out when SCCW decided to try and take control of the ship. You were the one who hopped over the fence knowing goddamn well what kind of dog was on the other side. You were the one who offered me the bone in exchange for my bite. You didn't have to do it. I'm sure somebody else out there would have gladly been your huckleberry with the kind of booty you were swinging around."

Rayne places the first page behind the rest and continues reading.

"But no. You decided to choose me. Because deep down in your mind you knew that I was the best around even when I was dilapidated and downtrodden. You knew what I possessed, which makes your actions against me thrice more hilarious. What did you honestly expect me to say, Ty? Thanks for the title shot, I love you, let's go find that place on Hollywood Boulevard where you can get a hummer for 20 bucks and be lifelong partners? I'M AN ASSHOLE, TY! OF COURSE I'M GOING TO PUT MYSELF BEFORE YOU! So I took out the lovechild of PRIME's first homosexual couple, big fucking whoop."

"You should have known it was coming."

"Everybody else did."

"It's who I am and it's who I will always be."

"You didn't want to have a spat with Tsonda so you took me out. In exchange for bruising 'The Bruh's' hamstrings you shatter my ankle? I pity you, Ty. Because what you have set in motion cannot be altered or stopped. I've never been taken out of the wrestling ring for longer than two weeks by somebody else's hand. I've always been the one putting people on the shelf. I now appreciate the opportunity to hurt people that much more because I won't get to for three months."

Rayne shuffles another page behind and taps his foot on the floor, a little impatient with the author.

"You would have to be a blubbering idiot, moreso than you are now, not to know how this is going to end. With each chair shot that you delivered to my leg, you put another nail into your coffin. That shit is going to be shut and sealed so tight that no amount of charm and cunning nature will allow you to escape. I'm ready for you, kid. Gone is the man who sat out in the rain because he lost a material fifteen pound piece of gold. I don't need the Championship anymore and I don't want it. Instead, I want your head on a fucking pike. I need your fucking head on a pike. I will have your fucking head on a pike."

"Think about it. Everybody considers you the best. By default, you are the easiest guy in the world to get motivated for."

"And you shattered my ankle...Took away my livelihood...Forced me to rehabilitate just to be able to move my feet forward."

"You can't imagine what I'm thinking about doing to you Ty, your mind isn't that sadistic. And yes, I'm well aware of your past exploits...All of them."

Rayne rolls his eyes and flips to the final page.

"Soon, Ty, I'll come for you and when I do, there will be no going back. Accomplish everything that you want to while I'm gone, because when I come back I'm going to make it my sole mission to ruin your career and ruin your life. End your life. That's the only way one of us is going to move forward is if the other one goes down in the heat of battle."

"Even Death has someone to tell him when his clock runs out. You have three months, Tyler, and then the hourglass turns the other way."

DS

Rayne gives a snicker at the concluding line and folds the letters into their original format, places them atop the trashcan and puts a giant boot on top of the pile.

Tyler Rayne: Looking forward to it, motherfucker.

And walks toward the gorilla position.

It’s funny. People forget, given the success of his new team, that High Flyer is a legend. They forget that he’s fWo royalty, that he’s as respected a man there is in the game today. People think, when they hear the awesomely famous (or famously awesome) riffs of "Crazy Train," they’re looking at an underdog.

But people forget.

What they remember, though, is what you’ve done for me lately. And Tyler Rayne can’t be matched, as far as that goes. Dual Halo winner, 5-Star Champion extraordinaire, defender of PRIME against SCCW’s more nefarious forces. The only things he’s yet to tick off the list? Universal Championship. Jewel in the Crown. We can’t think of many others.

People remember all this when they hear the dopewhiteboy rhymes of Quarashi, telling you fine PRIMEates to "Stick ‘Em Up."

A nod between competitors says all the things about respect, gamesmanship, and pride that don’t need to be voiced. And then they speak with fists. Flyer’s the first to take the pulpit, issuing the first piece of offense: a flying neckbreaker. Rayne’s not long down, though, and when a roundhouse kick leads to the first pin attempt of the match, the fine folks in the crowd know they’re in for a treat.

It’s not close, but it’s close enough that it shakes Flyer into urgency. After getting Rayne down, the veteran and tag champion tries to get his opponent in his patented surfboard variant submission, but has to settle for an armbar. Rayne’s a squirmy, evasive fucker.

Nick: He wanted the Flyerboard there, but Rayne’s not about to put this match in the referee’s hands like that.

The challenger nearly nets the (kind of) upset when his scoop piledriver narrowly misses snagging a three count, but Rayne doesn’t seem to be shaken at all. You don’t get to be 5-Star Champion for going on a year by shitting your pants in the big matches. Tyler Rayne, above all, is a big match type of guy.

Flyer gets caught up in his own success, and Rayne uses that his advantage. Reversing a whip, he hits a dropsault to the chest, follows it up with a DDT, then a gnarly set of dropped shins/knees (who can tell what hits where) into Flyer’s back. Even a wily vet like Flyer lets out a mild shout of pain at that one. But he shoulders up again and the match continues.

Rayne doesn’t let up. After a bit more ring tomfoolery, in which Flyer bides his time and Rayne tries to put him away, the champion lands what he’s been looking for: The Deathscythe.

One…

Two…


Three!

A rarity, the cheer at the end of a three count isn’t for Rayne. It’s for another narrow escape by the tag champion, just barely shouldering up. And they say tag wrestlers are soft!

Neither man wants to quit, as the match passes the ten-minute mark. Flyer keeps mounting a small amount of momentum, but Rayne puts it down every time. Flyer will get in two good forearm shots, but Rayne will block the third. Nothing changes when the fans start to get into the match, as each man receives his fair share of encouragement.

FLY-ER! FLY-ER!

TY-LER! TY-LER!

Richard: I’m gonna get a headache if these two schmoes don’t find less alike sounding names.

A gasp goes up from the crowd when Flyer sidesteps a middle kick, puts his boot into Rayne’s gut, and puts him on the mat with a Michonoku Driver.

Nick: Could be it! FlyerDriver could put it away!

But that ain’t the case. Rayne kicks out, showing to Flyer and the fans just how much he has left in the tank (which is not too much, but enough that he’s not going out like a chump). Flyer doesn’t relent, but sees an opportunity go whizzing by, when his double underhook setup is reversed, Rayne rising up and putting him on the mat with a roughshod spinebuster.

The huffing and puffing makes it clear that something is going to finish this match, and soon. But the shifting waves of momentum, the way that each man struggles to his feet in likewise fashion, it’s unclear just who’s in better position to walk out with the 5-Star belt.

But the moment unfolds just like it should, out of nowhere. There’s a God’s-honest-this-is-boring whip to start it all. Flyer tries the whip, but Rayne, always crafty, reverses, tossing Flyer at the opposite ropes. Channeling his inner bull, Rayne charges.

Nick: This doesn't look good for High Flyer...

Tyler pulls his knees up to his chest and flies forward, Tony-Jaa-style. He's looking to finish Flyer the same way he'd taken out Kannon or Mayhem or so many others. What he lacked, at this moment, was an inherent desire to maim Flyer, a desire that was present during those previous deployments of Foreplay. His only particular motivation in this case is protection of the 5-Star belt, a title that propelled him to stardom in PRIME and at this point had become somewhat of an afterthought to the various other baubles and praises of Tyler Rayne.

Motivation to keep the belt, you can imagine, isn't the same as motivation to hurt the other guy. Nor is it the same as motivation to WIN the belt, which has High Flyer flying high right now. And pardon the pun, but I'm being literal.

As Rayne takes flight and pulls up his knees, Flyer rebounds off the ropes, takes a few paces and jumps. With a slight scissoring of his legs, he fired forward with a soaring Yakuza kick, catching Rayne above the knees and below the chin and sending him into an inadvertent backflip.

Nick: LOCOMOTIVE! LOCOMOTIVE! Flyer just hit a jumping Locomotive on Tyler Rayne!

Rayne lands flat on his face and Flyer falls to his knees. He immediately dives on top of the Underground Pump and rolls him over. He hooks the leg deep and the referee makes the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

WINNER and NEW 5-Star Champion: High Flyer

Nick: WOW! He did it!

Richard: I can't believe it!

Nick: High Flyer has just ended the seven-month reign of Tyler Rayne!

Richard: Really? Just like that?

Nick: I can't believe it either! Just a week ago High Flyer and Tony Davis put down their nemeses at Great American Nightmare! Now a new chapter in his career - and that of Team VIAGRA - starts right here!

Tony Davis and Mary-Lynn Mayweather hop into the ring and grab High Flyer, embracing him as the crowd roars. The official brings by the 5-Star title, and Jack Harmen grabs it and hoists it to the sky. The shot focuses on that belt as the copyright information flies up on screen, and we fade to black.

P R I M E