"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!"

"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!

We’re used to seeing the Executive Producer open the show. He’s the boss, the head honcho, the man who stops the buck,el jefe. Things that happen in his office, no matter its privacy issues, tend to carry an air of importance. And everyone likes to see, right off the bat, that someone is in charge of this madhouse of a sports entertainment company.

But what we’re not used to seeing…is Mr. C.P. Cantrell arriving. It’s no surprise to see the "Earlier Tonight" pop up in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Like Tom Coughlin, Cantrell lives by the rule that if you’re on time, you’re five minutes late. He gets to the arena before almost the entire roster, because oversight requires time. These are all part of Cantrell’s business credo.

Yet even the shrewdest businessman is unprepared for what C.P. Cantrell sees as he approaches his office door. No know-how tells you what to do when your door has been crowbarred open. And that’s clearly what’s happened; more frustratingly, it’s been done before Cantrell has even set foot into one of the fifty-two offices he’ll call home this year

C.P. Cantrell: Hello?

Not a sound, not even a mouse. But Cantrell is a powerful man, even if he’s not particularly excited about the prospect of a prowler. So he maintains that posture as he calls in again.

C.P. Cantrell: You’re about to be captured in the act of a felony on live television. Get ready for your close-up, asshole.

In a moment of irony that surely has Kaiser Vashaun, Lindsay Troy, and Tyler Rayne in stitches, Cantrell karate kicks open the door, wrinkle-free suit and all. Instead of a prowler, he finds….someone else.

"Nice boot, Ceeps. Ever think of throwing on some tights and testing your Executive mettle?"

C.P. Cantrell: Tsonda, you’ve got ten seconds and fifty words, so help me God. Explain.

The Universal Champion, more in the fashion of his frienemy Tyler Rayne, is reclining in Cantrell’s desk chair, feet up on the desk, and trusty crowbar in hand.

Chandler Tsonda: The door was a little…finicky. But it turns out you just need a little leverage, and then, boom goes the dynamite.

C.P. Cantrell: The damage to that door is coming out of your check.

Chandler Tsonda: Noted. You got your listening ears on?

C.P. Cantrell: What happens here if I tell you to get the hell out of my office or you’re fired?

Chandler Tsonda: I throw a tantrum, tie your hands with FCC fines for weeks, and then get Rayne to rehire me, effective immediately.

C.P. Cantrell: You think Rayne’s going to hire you back? He looked like he wanted to put your head on a pike last week.

Chandler Tsonda: Ty and I have our issues, but he hates you far too much to let a little friendly disagreement get in the way of pissing you off.

The Executive Producer puts his hands on his hips, more or less disgusted that he has to deal with this nonsense every week. But we remind you that Cantrell is a shrewd businessman, and so the order of business, at present is to get this problem employee out of his hair.

C.P. Cantrell: Let’s talk, then.

Chandler Tsonda: Got anything you wanna chat about in particular?

C.P. Cantrell: Well, either you can help me go over the quarterly expense reports or you can give me some clue as to why the hell you’re in my office an hour before anyone expected you to show up at the arena.

Up until this point, Tsonda has been making minimal eye contact and acting his usual, flippant self. Sure, the behavior is extreme, but the Model Citizen seems normal, from the gazillion-dollar suit to the Universal Title resting on his shoulder.

But when he looks up at Cantrell, there is a blackness in his eyes, a venomous glare that old heads in PRIME would remember as indigenous to "the early Tsonda years," when the Sultan of Style stood more for self-interested narcissism than anything else. If Cantrell notices the look, he doesn’t let on.

Chandler Tsonda: I wanna know why he was here.

C.P. Cantrell: Chan, please don’t start this.

Chandler Tsonda: I wanna motherfucking know why Ferguson was here.

C.P. Cantrell: Watch your mouth. And Ferguson wasn’t–

Chandler Tsonda: HE WAS!

The explosion from Tsonda is coupled with him slamming both fists against Cantrell’s desk, threatening the integrity of the structure. The Executive Producer’s stoic expression shows that, if nothing else, he can play this game.

Chandler Tsonda: Tell me why you let a guy who tried to break my neck last year back into PRIME. Was it to undermine your own champion, to show me that you’re in control? Or maybe you need to keep pumping the numbers for November sweeps, so you’re willing to tango with the devil to do it?

C.P. Cantrell: You know, I actually scheduled the guy from the Grassy Knoll to wrestle, but he cancelled at the last minute.

Chandler Tsonda: So now I’m a conspiracy theorist because I refuse to play dumb?

C.P. Cantrell: Chan, I think we can be a little more levelheaded about this.

Chandler Tsonda: Show me everything you’ve got on him.

C.P. Cantrell: I’m not setting a precedent of opening up this company’s records to the roster just because you’re on a paranoia bender. You can see exactly what I revealed to the press...which, of course, is nothing beyond a basic contract, but you’re not hearing that.

Chandler Tsonda: (points to his eyes) I saw that rat fuck with these two peepers, Ceeps. If you want me to believe another story, convince me I saw wrong.

C.P. Cantrell: After El Truco left the company high and dry, we got in touch with a road agent.

Chandler Tsonda: I guarantee if you look into El Truco, you’ll find two giant handfuls of jack shit. Probably never existed, just another red herring from Ferguson.

C.P. Cantrell: (ignores Tsonda) The agent put us in contact with a man whom I was told wrestled as El Spiffy!

Chandler Tsonda: Spiffy!’s not a guy. It’s just Ferguson and his stupid mask.

C.P. Cantrell: That's what Wikipedia said, too. But I asked around, and - odds are you already know this - Ferguson gifted the mask and the accompanying persona to some kid on the indies. So as far as I knew, I was getting a cheap, capable worker with name value and a potential Nielsen bump during sweeps week on extremely short notice.

Chandler Tsonda: It never occurred to you that Danny would use this as his window of opportunity to get revenge on me?

C.P. Cantrell: Considering that the guy who showed up did his job, picked up his check, and didn’t contact me again, no. Couple that with Ferguson’s public denial–

Chandler Tsonda: And you’ve got a great cover-up.

C.P. Cantrell: That's quite a theory, Chan, and it's good to know that you have a future in mystery-suspense novels when the wrestling career winds down. But you're just being paranoid about Danny. I just hope that you can listen to him tonight and this can be over with.

Chandler Tsonda: What’s toni….

For the first time in quite some time–it’s been quite an action-packed conversation–the Executive Producer doesn’t say anything. He knows that Tsonda can figure out his intentions.

Chandler Tsonda: Of course…we’re all just whores to the ratings, aren’t we, Ceeps?

C.P. Cantrell: It’s just a videoconference, Chan.

The Viet Viper pushes up and out of the Executive Producer’s chair, grabbing his title and crowbar as he does. As he shoulders past Cantrell, he seems to be plagued by the same doubts that he brought in with him.

Chandler Tsonda: This is fucked beyond all recognition.

A friend might try to comfort Chandler. An enemy might continue to rile him up, to let him think that there truly is something afoot. But C.P. Cantrell is neither friend nor enemy. He’s just a businessman.

So while he spends an extra second watching his champion storm off, his attention turns quickly, to the rest of the night’s business.

Matt Mills may wear cheap suits, drink cheaper whiskey, and take lunch breaks at inopportune moments, but damn if there isn’t a conniving little bastard hiding behind those dull eyes and pasty skin.

Don’t believe me? Check this.

Faith Rodriguez got her ass kicked to the curb after too many rumors of what other things she may have been doing with that ass (and other orifices to remain unnamed) in the locker room. At least half the boys in the back (probably more) could pass for certified clergymen after their in-depth, hands-on study of Faith.

Then there’s Angelica Brooks. Sweet girl. Attractive. Talented. Everything a professional wrestling company could ask for from a female backstage personality. Everything except an overly friendly relationship with a particularly mischievous talent. The kind of talent that has a penchant for causing trouble.

Trouble can be dangerous. Danger can get a girl powerbombed on top of a car. Something like that could put a pretty girl on the shelf for a long, long time. We hear they have nice shelves in Canada.

At the beginning of 2008, PRIME was running strong with three tenacious interviewers clawing and scratching at each other to score the big players. The money promos. Now there’s only Matt Mills. The lone survivor. A sometimes disheveled, most likely underpaid putz who outwitted and outlasted his more popular, more charismatic, more breastacular counterparts. Not too shabby for a guy who didn’t even have a job a year ago.

Now sure, maybe all this exposition isn’t exactly necessary, but there’s only so many times we can introduce Tyler Rayne in gratuitously dramatic fashion. Though we’ve exceeded that quota by a couple dozen by now, this week we thought it’d be nice to share the wealth. Talk somebody else up a bit.

The real point is, Matt Mills is smarter than he looks. Or at least, smarter than any of the ring jockeys will give him credit for. We open on an increasingly familiar scene. Matt Mills waiting patiently in the parking garage. It’s a simple and obvious ambush point. The wrestlers have to arrive at the arena eventually, and when they do, many of them are going to pass through this very spot to actually enter the building. The very spot where Matt Mills is waiting. The very spot Tyler Rayne is stalking toward at this moment. Before Mills can spring his trap, though, the former 5-Star Champion makes it clear he’s even less in the mood than usual.

Tyler Rayne: You’ve got three seconds to back the fuck down or I’ll put you down.

There’s something about working the backstage of a professional wrestling event. It’s probably written in the fine print of the contracts somewhere, but… every night is a gamble. Wrestlers get in a groove. A habit of threatening people. The boss man. Each other. The police. Security. Caterers. Interviewers. Anyone and everyone is a potential victim in this world. So when Matt Mills comes to work, he’s constantly playing a game of Russian Roulette. He’s betting on the odds that this is another idle threat. That this night, like so many others before it, Tyler Rayne is just running his mouth.

Matt Mills: Just one quick que-hhck!

For those keeping score at home, "hhck" is not actually a word. It’s more the sound of a forearm being shoved directly into a man’s Adam’s apple. And that man thusly being shoved directly into a cold concrete wall, held firmly by a stronger, much angrier man who works out on a weekly basis. That’s the thing about gambling, Mills. Eventually the odds will catch up to you.

Tyler Rayne: The fuck is wrong with you, son? You can’t hear? Or you just fuckin’ stupid?

Matt Mills tries to speak. He sort of makes a gargling sound before the pressure applied to his throat is amplified. The Underground Pimp leans closer. His body weight like an avalanche against Mills’ throat. Rayne’s voice is a deathly serious whisper in the interviewer’s ear.

Tyler Rayne: I’m gettin’ a little sick of these ambush interviews, Mills. See, I figured I lost the 5-Star Title, maybe I’d catch a little break. Get some peace. But, no. Hell, since I’ve lost the belt, you’ve been hounding me more than when I had the goram thing. What month is this now, Mills? November? Fuckin’ November. Eleven gods damned months I’ve been carrying this company. Whole gods damned year. That’s a long ass fuckin’ time, Mills. Long ass time. See, we went through a whole slew of Universal Champions in that time. Half dozen almost. For nine of those eleven months, there was only one 5-Star Champion. One. Lot of people came through the ranks. Lot of people makin’ big names and big splashes. You’ve got your PRIME legends like Sonny Silver and Lindsay Troy. You’ve got the next big thing, Cozen. The return of an icon in Xavier Kannon. Devin Shakur had a breakout year. Wade Elliott was last year’s Breakout Star or somethin’, right? Lined right up to up and dominate PRIME in 2008. Hell, even Sunshine was calling this the year of Dusk. Lot of people tried to put their mark on this year. Lot of people tried to make a name. A lot of ‘em even got noticed. Got some spotlight. But tell me somethin’, Mills. Where the fuck are they now? Where the fuck are any of those sons of bitches now?

The question, of course, is rhetorical. Not that he doesn’t want an answer. Just that Mills isn’t actually capable of giving one.

Tyler Rayne: An entire year passes, and the only thing that’s been consistent… is me. The only person who’s stood up and delivered every single time it mattered… was me. Sure, I can talk about the Dual Halo and the 5-Star Title reign… but that’s not all. I stole the show at UltraViolence when I took Country to his limit. Stupid cunt’s barely been seen since. At Colossus, I proved I’m everything I’ve ever said I am by taking one of PRIME’s finest and finishing what was left of a stagnant and pathetic career. The only brilliant points of relevance Dusk has had in this year were against me. The only time that sack of shit even mattered was when he was in the ring with me. The Roulette? My idea. My competitors. My match. Every pay-per-view. Every ReVolution. I’ve been everywhere. I’ve done everything. I’ve spent an entire year proving to each and every person that tried to step up and knock me off that pedestal that it couldn’t be done. That I was untouchable.

Tyler Rayne: Every person except Flyer. So fuck it. I lost. It happens. See, I thought, though, that after that… shit would calm down. Maybe life would be quiet for me. Maybe I could just sit back and relax for once. After an entire year of carrying this company on my back, after a year of blood and sweat for this place… I just wanted some fuckin’ peace. Maybe that’s asking too much. Uni talks me into the TEAM tournament. I get sucked into this gods damned Jewel in the Crown. And last week? Last week Danny Fucking Ferguson rises from the grave I put him in. I thought I was going out there to compete, just like everyone else. But no. No. Tyler Rayne doesn’t get that luxury. What do I get? I get Hollywood hiding behind some ridiculous luchadore mask to come back and try to steal the JitC out from under me. I get a his nine months of anger and frustration unloaded all over me. The title’s gone, man. The streak is over. I don’t want a fucking bull’s-eye on my back anymore. I don’t want to be the mark. I just want to wrestler. I want to be another fuckin’ name on the roster. I’m tired, Mills. I’m mother fuckin’ tired. Tired of people chasing me. Tired of people gunning for me. Tired of people trying to use my name to further their careers. So do me a favor, Mills. Just back the fuck off. Just… leave me alone, man. I’m not a champion. I’m not a contender. I’m just another wrestler. Spread the word. Let everyone know that I just want to lay low for a bit. Because if people continue to fuck with me… I am going to retaliate with brutal and unmitigated force. If you continue to fucking push me… I will end you. You’ll go the way of Brandon Youngblood and Nitz Donnelly. Danny Ferguson. Wade Elliott. Dusk’s career. Xavier Kannon. Devin Shakur. I’ve ended more careers than any other man in this gods forsaken business, and I swear to Hoyt, if people don’t leave me the fuck alone, I will start ending a whole lot more.

Well. Apparently the Underground Pimp had something to get off his chest. You know what Mills would like to get off his chest? Tyler Rayne. There’s a moment, brief and fleeting, but a moment when Mills thinks the worst is yet to come. A gleam in the eye of Rayne. Something malevolent and dark. Absolutely dangerous.

It passes. Rayne let’s go. He walks away. And Mills is left to compose himself before rushing off to the nearest men’s room.

As the rhythmic beats of "Impacto" by Daddy Yankee begins to play over the arena, blue-violet and gold lights move around to the beat as Elise Ares explodes through the curtain making her way out into the arena. The lights around the arena begin to flicker on and off, then flip to solid and bathe the whole arena in red light. A loud bang of pyro goes off at the entrance as Mobb Deep’s "Quiet Storm" blasts over the loudspeakers. Jimmy "The PosterBoy" Bonafide then emerges out the back with a grin on his face and a wet towel over his head. As the roaring guitars of Ozzy Osbourne’s ‘Crazy Train’ explodes out on the P.A. system and the lights strobe on and off PRIME’s current 5-Star Champion makes his way down to the ring and as the bell sounds the three opponents face off.

Nick: A very noticeable difference in the wrestlers in the ring.

Richard: Your powers of observation astound me – I am glad that you can tell the difference between male and female!

Nick: … I was actually talking about the height and weight differences.

With a mischievous smile on her face Elise Ares, the self-proclaimed Harlot of Blood Alliance Championship Wrestling, bows towards the two men and indicates that they should start things off. Jumping up she perches on the top turnbuckle and crosses her legs, placing her head in her hands as if curious to see how the guys will wrestle.

Nick: Do you think that anyone has told this girl what a triple threat match is?

Richard: You obviously didn’t do your homework, Nicky – this ‘girl’ as you put it was brought up in a wrestling family and has just as much experience as guys twice her age; she knows exactly what she is doing.

Jimmy Bonafide and the High Flyer approach each other, mid-ring, and lock up. With quick and efficient movements the Flyer twists Bonafide’s arm and wrenches it to the side, smiling up at Elise who simply nods and indicates that he should get on with things. Pulling the arm tighter he elicits and cry of pain from Bonafide but, with a quick motion of his own, the larger man ducks under and reverses the move – this elicits a small round of applause from Elise. Grabbing hold of Bonafide’s wrist High Flyer propels himself into a standing somersault, landing smoothly and reversing the move once more – before he can relish the upper hand, however, he is sent crashing to the canvas as Bonafide unloads a standing lariat across his chest.

Nick: Both men looked evenly matched there.

Richard: Flyer possibly show boating a little too much for Ares there; these guys can’t forget that she is part of the match or they will regret it!

Nick: LIKE THAT!!!

As Jimmy Bonafide reaches down to pull Flyer back to his feet he is caught completely by surprise as Elise nips to the top rope and vaults across to land squarely on his shoulders. With flawless effort she propels herself forwards and sends Jimmy crashing to the canvas with a victory roll. As he slumps on the canvas she nips to her feet and jumps onto his chest, landing her full weight on him and winding him further.

Nick: What did she say?

Richard: "¿Que Tal Eso?"

Nick: I know that, I heard her … I meant what does it mean?

Richard: What do I look like? Froogle?!

Ares stands over the dazed Bonafide, thrusting and gyrating her hips above him mockingly. As she turns to walk away she spits down on him and then stops in her tracks as, with a smile on his face, the High Flyer leaps from the top rope and lands across her shoulders, eerily similar to her own move moments before, and sends her flying across the ring with a perfect hurricinrana.

Nick: Looks like the Flyer isn’t too worried about facing a female.

Richard: He has done it before and will do it again – inside the ring there is no gender.

Pulling the fallen Ares to her feet the Flyer whip her into the corner, her back slamming into the turnbuckles. Leaning against the opposite corner for a second he then launches himself across the ring and, as he reaches the middle, jumps forwards into a cartwheel. His feet land on top of Bonafide, who is struggling back to his feet, and the larger man is forced back to the canvas as the Flyer uses the extra momentum to finish his spin and connect solidly against Ares with an elbow to the face.

Nick: Flyer showing Ares that she isn’t the only person who can ‘fly’ in that ring.

Richard: * SIGH * … you would have thought that his name would have given that away!

As the young woman slumps against the ropes the Flyer nips up to the top rope, over her head, and looks towards the crowd. Sensing what is coming they seem to all leap to their feet and scream in appreciation so, with a small smile, he propels himself up and over her backwards, through the air, and lands against the rising Bonafide once more with a text book perfect moonsault.

Nick: That is beautiful to behold!

The referee slides into position as the Flyer hooks Jimmy’s legs while keeping a careful eye on Ares who remains slumped in the corner.

One …

Two …

Three …

Vince Howard: The winner of this match … HIGH FLYER!!!

One day, Matt Mills might end up being the next Vince Howard or Jim Ross. Today isn't one of those days as he's relegated to Josh Matthews status as he stands backstage, microphone in hand waiting for that magical interview that might allow him to show off his skills. Walking down the hallway though, he continued to get these awkward looks from the various competitors, and he just chalked it up to the fact that they were focusing on their upcoming matches for the Jewel in the Crown tournament.

Feeling as if he had been defeated, Mills sits down in a chair and just mopes for a few moments not giving a damn about anything in the world. At that particular moment though, the door behind him opens up, and out walks a man that is instanty cheered by the fans.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Standing there in the threshold is a man who has already moved to the second round of the Jewel in the Crown tournament and would be facing off against Jason Natas later on in the evening. With a smile on his face, he looks down at Matt Mills and taps him on the shoulder. Mills slowly looks up before doing a double take and stands straight up in a hurry.

Matt Mills: D-D-D-D-Dusk!

Dusk: Okay, relax Porky Pig.

Mills straightens up as Dusk walks further out of his locker room and closes the door behind him.

Dusk: So is there a reason, outside of me being the coolest guy around, why you're sitting outside of my locker room?

Matt Mills: Just a little depressed at this point. Can't seem to get a decent interview.

Dusk: Well, most people around here don't quite consider me to be decent, so why the hell not? You can interview me.

Mills' eyes light up as he looks at Dusk before nodding his head vigorously. Dusk grabs the guy by the shoulder and holds up his right hand.

Dusk: Calm down.

Matt Mills: Well, Dusk, let me ask you this. For the first time, you're moving on to the second round of the Jewel in the Crown tournament. How do you feel about that? Are you anxious or prepared?

Dusk: Honestly, it would have to be the latter of those two options. You know, I've had a chance to talk with the fans the past few weeks, and there's a renewed interest amongst them to see me win this tournament. Some of them are exhausted by seeing the likes of Jason Snow and Tyler Rayne win everything. They want someone they can trust to go out there competing for that title. I might not be the trendy pick to win this tournament, but I do believe that I'm beyond capable of winning it, and doing so in a fashion that will just surprise everyone.

Matt Mills: Now, as you mentioned, there's some rather ro--

"Oh, there's ruffians a plenty. Seriously, there are almost as many flavors of crazy 'round here as we have. All you're missing is a jackass in a fruit suit."

As Dusk turns around, he comes face to face with the Wrestler Formerly Known as the King Blueberry himself, Jared Sykes.

Dusk: Well, well, well...

Even at a distance it's obvious that Sykes is smaller than Dusk by at least half a head, and close to fifty pounds, though size has never stopped professional wrestling's Black Sheep from running his mouth in the past, a fact Lance Marshall could no doubt attest to.

Sykes: Maybe you can get Dawkins to start calling himself Prince Pineapple since, you know, they're not nearly as cool as blueberries.

Still, given this is still hostile territory considering the history between Sin City and PRIME, it's probably not the best idea for him to even be here, let alone trying to make with the ha-ha's.

Sykes: I have to be honest though, I kind of wish we had an albino. We could reenact scenes from Powder.

Dusk: Well, I'm not sure I fit the albino description, but I've got to say, Troy and Rayne love to reenact that final scene in The Brown Bunny. Then again, so do Shakur and Gamble.

Dusk takes a look over at Matt Mills who gladly backs up from the scene, not wanting to get involved in whatever was about to happen.

Dusk: Jared Sykes, I've heard a lot about you.

Sykes: Yeah, the legend of my sex-appeal spreads far and wide. Why, even the mighty Alexandra Pierce is unable to resist my raw animal magnetism.

It's a lie, of that there is no question. Even those with a passing knowledge of Sin City and its workings would be able to attest to that.

Sykes: Speaking of which, I got to say I was a little bit surprised to see you all up in our grille, making with the superkicks on the bad guys last week. Then again, I'm not really one to talk, seeing as right now I'm all "oh hi, I'm in yer' fed winnin' yer belts."

A smile appears on Dusk's face, recalling taking out the Black Ops the week before with a few superkicks, and generally making his presence known. He wanted to break apart DMH piece by piece and last week had been his Grand Opening. As he looks at Jared he nods his head.

Dusk: We'll ignore Pierce not being able to resist your sexual appeal and skip right to the part about showing up in good ol' SCCW. Ashe and that other baffoon are probably still massaging their jaws after what happened last week. I hope to make a little bit of a bigger impact this upcoming week.

Foreshadowing? Oh yeah.

Dusk: Taking down DMH isn't going to be easy, and I wouldn't mind so friends over there.

Sykes: Yeah, about that...

As he speaks he takes a single step back.

Sykes: First, let it be known that I've got nothing against you personally. You seem like a chill dude, but...

His next words are chosen carefully, as the last thing he wants to do is provoke the much larger Dusk. Jared Sykes may not always act in the most rational manner, but the rumors of Dusk's feet are foreboding, and this is not something that Jared wants to test. He's too emotionally attached to his teeth for that.

Sykes: I don't deny that they're kind of a pain in the ass, there's really no arguing that. The kicker is, well... let me put it to you this way. You know how sometimes families have issues? Well when those issues escalate they don't want to bring everyone into the picture, you know? They try to keep it quiet, keep it under control, and settle things their way. And at the risk of sounding like a dick, PRIME tried, dude. They tried, and it didn't quite work out so well. Might just be better to let us deal with it, you know?

Dusk takes in each and every single well chosen word, and decides to throw them out the window as he moves closer to Jared, wanting to make sure that Jared didn't mistake any of his words for softness or arrogance. His red eyes meet Jared's and you can feel the tension growing in the room ten-fold within the past few seconds.

Dusk: I respect that you have the balls to come up to me and say that. So, hopefully you'll have some respect that I don't really give a fuck if the "family" wants to take care of it internally. You want to throw it in my face that PRIME tried to take care of them and failed? Fine, feel free. I was there and saw it first hand. However, you're not the one with Alexandra Pierce literally breathing down my neck. You weren't the one at Great American Nightmare with DMH literally filling the room like the Hand. That was me.

Jared looks like he wants to say something, but Dusk quickly cuts him off.

Dusk: No, you don't get to tell me what I'm going to do and what I'm not going to do. I'm not stepping into SCCW territory to make friends. Quite the opposite. I'm going in there to show Snow Black that you don't fuck with me. Not anymore. She's had her fun in the past, but it's gotten stale like Tyler's come on the back of Troy. You guys have had your chance to put an end to it, and now it's time for an expert in the Desade department to step in and help you guys out. If you don't want to, then that's perfectly fine. However, I'm not going anywhere.

Sykes: Are we going to compare resumes now? Is that how this is going to go?

Oh, that Sykes guy. A little emotional, that one. Good thing he's so pretty.

Sykes: Let's talk a little about things you weren't part of. You weren't duped into thinking Charlotte Ramone was ACTUALLY Charlotte Ramone. You didn't try to comfort the poor girl when her fabricated engagement went all kablooey. You didn't confess, while trying to be a nice guy, that you're a "naked drunk".

If you asked him, Jared would tell you that part didn't sting as much now as it might have a month ago. His next words though carry much more emotional baggage with them.

Sykes: You didn't stand at ringside while Jonathan Rhine was fucked out of his career, and you sure as hell didn't go running after the DMH to at least try to give him a fair fight. Regardless of whatever fascination I may have with Alex Pierce, regardless of much I want to know what makes her tick, if you don't think that puts me in a compromised position than I don't know what to tell you.

He inhales deeply, not quite sure what to expect.

Sykes: But if you want to hang around and play in our sandbox, not like I can really stop you there. I don't think the addition of one dude is going to change a whole hell of a lot, but, you know, whatever.

Dusk: I respect that you have had your problems with the Hand in the past. I really do. Maybe I should've come after the Hand a little sorry and for that, I'm sorry. Alexandra was my problem and instead of dealing with her, I let her become... this. However, I'm not going to sit back and watch her continue to destroy anyone's life anymore. What happened to Rhine was sad and unfortunate, but there are casualties to any war.

Dusk takes a step back from Jared.

Dusk: I'd rather have you on my side then be against you, Jared. But, I won't back down. I just won't.

Sykes: You do whatever you feel you have, pal.

While he may not have the best poker face in the business, for the time being at least he manages to hide the facial expression that normally accompanies an overwhelming sense of "thank God this isn't ending in violence."

Sykes: But to be quite honest with ya', I'm not in the mood to get killed... by either of ya'. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to take myself a little stroll... umm...

He looks first to his left, then to his right, seemingly unable to make a decision on directions.

Sykes: That way.

Dusk looks around and then just nods his head.

Dusk: Sounds like a good idea. I have a feeling I'll be seeing you sooner rather than later.

As Jared walks down the hall, Dusk looks back at Matt Mills who is sort of scared to see what just transpired before him.

Dusk: Sometimes, you should welcome those quiet, dull moments.

Mills couldn't be any more in agreement with Dusk as the Lost Soul walks out of the shot with his mind focusing on his upcoming match against Jason Natas.

Colby Korver is conflicted. Facing one of the building’s vending machines, he seems unable to hide a puzzled expression. As for exactly what choice he’s torn over, we’ll never know.

"If you’re looking for how to select a PBR outta there, you’re barking up the wrong tree, junior."

Korver brawling instincts immediately kick in, as he whirls around with both fists cocked. In his eye resides a wild look the likes of which have not been seen or even spoken of since that Theta Chi douchebag called him a pussy sophomore year.

In the place of said douchebag, though, is one PRIME Universal Champion. Chandler Tsonda, receiver of many cheers from the faithful. His shirt is eye-catching, a red background with large blue block text that reads: "FUCK THE BRADLEY EFFECT". The censors are immediately pleased.

And yes, it's not what he was wearing earlier. He's got three or four backup outfits for every Rev. Gotta stay fresh.

Colby Korver: What’s with the shirt?

Chandler Tsonda: Well, ya see, Colbs, the Bradley Effect is a well-documented cultural phenomenon in which white voters–

Colby Korver: Dude, I’ve taken a Poli Sci class. Seven or eight to be specific. I just meant, why are you wearing it?

Chandler Tsonda: ‘Cuz Barack is my dude.

Colby Korver: Better run fast or the bandwagon’ll be too far down the road for you to catch it. Rims and all.

Korver turns back to the vending machine, which spreads the puzzled look from his face to Tsonda’s.

Chandler Tsonda: Do you…know who I am?

Colby Korver: Of course.

Chandler Tsonda: But you don’t look like you’re in awe.

Colby Korver: Not so much.

Chandler Tsonda: But I have this.

The Model Citizen unhooks the Universal Title from around his shoulder, holding it out in his hand for Korver to see and hopefully salivate over. Instead, the DUI member turns around, looks at the title, and gives an indifferent nod to the Viet Viper.

Colby Korver: Yeah, sweet belt. Reminds me of when we won Greek Week a couple years ago. Oh man, we threw an absolute rager. I mean, you had Pi Phi’s rolling in by the assload, even though they knew we had no booze. People were just dying to get banged by Greek Week champs, ya know?

If his face is any evidence, Chandler Tsonda does not know.

Chandler Tsonda: You lost me at…the opening your mouth part.

Korver shrugs and turns back to the vending machine. He and Hank Cobb exist on a different set of morals and cultural values than most PRIMEates. And they’re distinctly unapologetic about it, a fact which has made them cult heroes, with a bigger following than one might expect.

Colby Korver: Sprite or Coke?

Chandler Tsonda: You’re asking me which one to get?

Korver turns back to Tsonda and unleashes a Cheshire grin, as he pulls from his jeans pocket a small silver flask.

Colby Korver: I meant which one’s gonna be a better chaser for this vods.

Chandler Tsonda: Vods?

Colby Korver: Vokda, bro.

Chandler Tsonda: Why would you be drinking vodka?

Korver looks around, as if there’s some right answer written on the ceiling. A small smile creeps back onto his face, as he gives an answer that pretty well details his outlook on things.

Colby Korver: Uhh…why not?

Chandler Tsonda: Shouldn’t you and the Hulk be getting ready for his JITC match?

Colby Korver: We’re cool. I’m not worried ‘bout Cobb pulverizing whoever they put in front of him, if he feels so inclined. I'm just not sure that we wanna dance to ol’ C.P.’s fiddle.

Chandler Tsonda: What, you think your sophomoric anti-establishment gig is more important than getting a shot at this?

As Tsonda gestures again to the Universal Title, Korver takes a long look at the belt. After seconds of silence, he responds.

Colby Korver: It's gold and leather to me. An impressive combo, no doubt. But it’s not worth going for it, for Cobb or me, if we’ve gotta be Ceep's little pledge bitch.

Chandler Tsonda: Kid, your priorities are more messed up than Devin Shakur’s ankle.

"Why? ‘Cuz we ain't nothin’ like you?"

The towering figure of Hank Cobb enters stage left, carrying two heaping plates of food from catering. He hands one to Korver, keeping his eyes trained on the Universal Champion. Hank Cobb appears to be somewhat distrustful of Tsonda’s intentions.

Chandler Tsonda: Don’t get me wrong. I think Ceeps is a prick and a half. But he’s the only leader I’ve ever respected. He kept his word about getting me my rematch last year.

Colby Korver: One honest turn doesn’t undo a year's worth of dickhead moves.

Chandler Tsonda: So you think you’ll get ahead by dicking around with Jay Phoenix?

Hank Cobb: Maybe it ain't exactly about Phoenix?

Chandler Tsonda: Oh? What exactly is this Frat Manifesto then? Before all this, the most important decision you had was what kind of thirty rack you were bringing back to the hotel room. Now it’s on you two to check Cantrell’s executive power?

Colby Korver: I’m sure you can understand where we’re coming from, bro. For two years straight, you were the heel around these parts, and then, the next week, Chandler Tsonda is suddenly the champion of goddamn justice.

The Sultan of Style is relatively speechless. The only response he can muster up is a raised eyebrow at the smaller DUI member.

Colby Korver: You think we didn’t have ReV Tivo’d every Wednesday at the chapter house?

Hank Cobb: Comes on after C2K, man. Best night of television around.

Chandler Tsonda: People change.

Colby Korver: That's what changed people say. Some don't. We’re not planning on it.

Chandler Tsonda: Just saying…there’s a lotta opportunity on the table with this tournament. You can both be overnight celebrities.

Hank Cobb: We’ll take that into consideration. But we ain't doin’ it just because some weasel in a suit tells us to.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m talking about never having to toil in the tag division again.

Hank Cobb: Listen, champ. We like taggin'. Takes a lot more than just goin’ out there and kickin’ ass.

Colby Korver: (clears his throat)Ahem.

Hank Cobb: Although we don't mind that much either.

Chandler Tsonda: Suit yourselves. But...it’s worth it to play ball with Cantrell.

Hank Cobb: Maybe for you.

The Model Citizen looks up at Cobb, purses his lips to speak, then just mutters to himself and shakes his head, before walking off. No last word, just the utter confusion that arises when two completely different worldviews collide. Tsonda is all about staying on the mountaintop, while DUI is content to Tap the Rockies and see what happens.

Death, taxes and Jason Natas slowly destroying his lungs.

Whoever said there were only two certainties in life obviously wasn’t a PRIME fan.

Leaning against a wall backstage, The Anti-Superstar takes a drag on his freshly-lit Marlboro Red, sucking the noxious smoke down into his lungs without a hint of hesitation. The smell alone is enough to draw a look of revulsion from a passing backstage worker, who pulls a clipboard close to her chest and hastens her pace as the mere presence of the reviled PRIME grappler drives her from the area.

Clad in an outfit of denim and leather, and with a black and red bandanna covering much of his newly-shorn dirty blonde hair, Natas appears a lot calmer than a man who’d been bounced from the JITC tournament twice in consecutive weeks has any right to be. But then again, he’d never been one to care for wins and losses in the first place, so why start now?

Working his way through the cancer stick, Jason casts his eyes around the corridor, not wanting to be victim to another Matt Mills ambush anytime soon. A plethora of C.P. Cantrell’s hired hands shuffle idly around the corridors, none of them significant enough to attract the attention of The Anti-Superstar.

Except for one.

Pushing himself from the wall, Jason squints as a well-built figure lumbers in his general direction. Bald, with a pair of neon green sunshades wrapped around his head, his body is the vehicle for a startling black prosthetic that can only belong to one man.

Brock Shepherd.

Stern and stoic, The One-Armed Wrecking Crew pays no notice to The Anti-Superstar. He keeps his head low and tries to walk on passed, but Jason Natas can’t let that happen. Not on his watch.

Natas: Hey, Conehead. Fuck’s wrong with yer arm?

Freezing in his tracks, the Amputee Poster Boy diverts his attention to the behemoth toking on the finest Marlboro has to offer. Trying to batter away the comment with a stifled chuckle, Shepherd removes his shades so he might get a better look at the beast.

Shepherd: I'm sorry. Are ya talkin' to me? See, I can understand a little bit of most languages but I'm not fluent in faggot so I didn't quite catch what you're saying.

Brock steps up to Natas, pokes an investigatory digit into the chest of the Anti-Superstar and tries as he might to stare him in the eye.

Shepherd: Lemme, guess, yer the big dog in these parts? Yer tryin' to show off ya bark and lemme know jus' how bad yer bite is. But the truth, ya just can't growl like ya used to since ya been de-sexed and all. Am I right?

Natas: Hmph.

The grumpiest man in PRIME casts his eyes downwards at the finger poking into his ribcage.

Natas: You value that thing?

A few seconds pass and still Shepherd doesn't move a muscle, maintaining the prod and the stare. Natas grabs his wrist, pushing the accusational finger and the hand it's attached to away.

Natas: Obviously not. Listen boyo, I don't know who the fuck ya think ya are, but ya should really be careful what yer doin' aroun' these parts. Dangerous environment like this, never know what might happen if ya lay yer filthy mitts on the wrong guy.

Shepherd: Is that s'posed to intimidate me?

Natas: Let you be the judge of that one, fuck-o. If it was me in yer situation, just sayin' I'd be treadin' a little more cautiously is all. I mean, ya ain't exactly sittin' up on cloud nine, are ya? First roun' loss to Dawkins of all people an' that unfortunate "arm" situation can't be doin' ya any favours. Not exactly settin' the world on fire, eh kid?

Shepherd grimaces as he tries to maintain the fire boiling in his belly. The lack of a hand tended to be a sore point for the One-Armed Wrecking Crew and not only was it the bain of his existence, but the butt of all jokes around him.

Shepherd: I know yer s'posed to be playin' the bad guy. Ruffle a few feathers here. Poke people in the eye with the burnt stick there. But I've seen a million guys like you before. You're like a paint job on a Volkswagen beetle. Sure it looks good enough but there's jus' nothin' under the hood, now is there?

Having had his hand tossed aside before did not seem to put Shepherd on the back foot whatsoever and he prodded Natas in the ribcage once more.

Shepherd: Now if you're done, I've got better things to do like pick at Cantrell's bunions or somethin'.

Brock Shepherd spins on his heels after giving Natas one more poke and attempts to move away. Obviously, he isn't too familiar with how Jason Natas operates yet.

Natas: Think yer the big man 'cause ya got some two-bit title from some inbred hick fed that nobody gives a shit about?

The Anti-Superstar flares his nostril; Brock Shepherd would not be having the last laugh, not if he could do anything about it.

Natas: Yeah, s'right. See, ya can't just show up here, throw yer weight around an' expect anyone to pay attention to ya like that. Just ain't how it works 'round here. An' I should warn ya, nobody fuckin' talks to me like that, 'specially not some bald, armless fuckin' leper who's only been here five minutes. So right about now I suggest you keep walkin' 'way, else we gonna have a little situation on our hands.

Face flush with red rage, Brock Shepherd has heard one missing limb jibe too much. Furious, he turns around, practically forehead-to-forehead with The Anti-Superstar.

Shepherd: You're really start to test my fucking patience, asshole.

Jason snorts, unpertrubed by the apopleptic One-Armed Wrecking Crew. Pinching the remains of his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, Jason inhales deeply, trapping the smoke in his mouth as he plucks the narcotic from his lips. He maintains his gaze for a few seconds, furrowing his brow, before pursing his lips, blowing a thick, steady stream of cigarette smoke into Brock Shepherd's face.

Natas: 'Bout time.

Ttssssssst...

The sound of the cigarette extinguishing on his prosphetic limb is the straw that brock the camel's back for Shepherd. Without so much as a second thought he shoves Jason in the chest and throws a fist into his jaw. Recoiling, Jason rubs his jaw and dives in.

Both men exchanging wild blows, swinging for exach other without any precision. It doesn't take long for the inevitable to happen, as, out of nowhere, a strategically placed group of backstage workers notice the commotion and jump in. It takes them a good few seconds and about eight of their number to pull the men from each other but they manage eventually. Raising his hands, brushing the staff away, Jason slowly backs off, glowering at Shepherd.

Shepherd: Watch your back, fuckface!

The Amputee Poster Boy is raging, struggling to break away from the group of men who are having a hard enough time restraining him. No such problems for Jason who manages to remain calm, maintaining his cool. A sharp, knowing smirk curls across his lips. Brock Shepherd wouldn't be forgetting this any time soon, and that suits Jason just fine.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Boys and Girls. Children of all Ages. PRIME ReVolution proudly presents to you, this featured contest. A first round, triple-threat Jewel in the Crown tournament, match-up. One fall to the finish. Winner advances to round two. Losers go home and cry to their mommas. Let’s start this shit up.

It’s Filter! It’s Crystal Method! It’s Trip Like I Do. And if you haven’t heard it, it’s awesome. It’s also the introduction of Christian Darke. Everybody say hello.

Celestial Furnace. Disarmonia Mundi. Crazy name. Wicked song. That’ll bring us Jared Sykes.

From one metal monster to the other, cue up that Metallica. Here comes Hank Cobb.

So that’s three in the ring, which is convenient considering this is supposed to be a triple threat. Now, if you’ve ever seen a triple threat before, you should know how these things go. There’s a lot of shifty eyes and cautious lunges toward one of the two opponents, but no real commitment. It’s a weird sort of circular dance between three half naked dudes. Well, Hank Cobb doesn’t dance. He might stand on a dance floor and drink some beer while Sorority Sally grinds her ass up on his Pledge Pole… but that’s different. Hank Cobb doesn’t dance. And he certainly doesn’t dance with other dudes.

The Greek Goliath lunges at the closest body to him. Which just happens to be Jared Sykes. Cobb might be the biggest man in the ring (by at least a hundred pounds or so), but he’s certainly not the fastest. Sykes rolls forward, right out of Cobb’s grasp…and into a clothesline from Christian Darke. No time to revel in the sneakiness, though. There’s a big boot coming from Cobb.

Now, we might mention again that Cobb is, by far, the biggest man in the match. So once he gets rolling, there’s not much either one of these guys can do to stop him. Like for instance, now, when he lifts both Darke and Sykes from the ground and brings them together for a little meeting of the minds.

Old fashioned double noggin knocker.

That’s enough to daze a guy. Three hundred and fifty pounds of feisty Fraternity brother tossing you in the corner and laying all sorts of heavy elbows in your face? That’ll fuck your world up. Just ask Christian Darke, cause that is totally happening to him right now. Cobb pulling some moves from the Big Man’s Wrestling guide, he isolates Darke in a turnbuckle and just demolishes him with a series of back elbows and knee lifts, finished off with a big running powerslam in the center of the ring.

Cobb goes for a pin. Instead of a dub, he gets a kick to the back of the head from Sykes.

Credit to the smallest guy in the match for not backing down. He’s blasting away at Cobb with fists and forearms and whatever else he can throw. It’s enough to stagger the big man, but not enough to put him down. So Sykes goes to the air. He strikes from all sides with dropkicks and axe handle smashes. Nothing too fancy, just a lot of quick springboard maneuvers to disorient the big man. Sykes finishes his blitzkrieg with an impressive hurricanranna that puts Cobb right flat in the center of the ring.

Still not enough to stop him, though. Cobb stumbles to his feet, dazed but not yet out. Darke is up now, too, and he and Sykes team together to take on the greater threat. A barrage of punches backs Cobb to the ropes and a double dropkick puts him over the top and down to the mats.

Before Cobb has even hit the floor, Darke sneaks in the rollup, complete with a handful of tights, but only pulls out a two count. Sykes hops right back to his feet. The two exchange words before they start exchanging punches. Sykes with an advantage…

Boot to the gut. Snap suplex. Standing moonsault. Pin. Kick out.

Sykes pulls Darke up. Irish whip. Reversal. Sykes ducks the clothesline. Bounds off. Leaping start and… BOOM!! Knees to the chest! Darke down again. Sykes with a pin.

Cobb in for the save! Big clubbing blow to the back of the head. Sykes bounds to his feet, only to succumb to the power of the big man… big belly-to-belly suplex! Sykes is up and groggy which only puts him in more of a position to be man-handled. Up on Cobb’s shoulders and then there’s running and throwing and a crucifix powerbomb over the top rope. Southern Justice, baby.

Now the big man turns his attention to Darke. A kick to the gut and another show of strength puts Christian Darke up in the position that Jared Sykes just so helplessly found himself a moment before. Our second Southern Justice of the night…

...but Christian Darke manages to wiggle just enough to position his arms and wrap his legs for a Peruvian Neck Tie! Cobb has nowhere to go, and he's getting choked the hell out! The big man down to a knee. Then both knees. He's kneeling but refusing to give up.

Cobb is holding out. Holding out...

Jared Sykes crawling back into the ring. Cobb is seconds away from tapping out. Sykes falls up against the ropes. He's clearing his head. Going for the save.

Sykes scales right up the back of Hank Cobb. An amazing feat of strength made even more stunning by the modified corkscrew cutter he executes on Christian Darke! It's not the most perfect version of the Emergence Theory, but it's damn impressive and enough for a three.

Winner: Jared Sykes

Rise Against plays us back from commercial and Matt Mills is standing in the ring, beaming proudly and artificially. He waits for the music and the crowd to die off just enough so that he can boom his fake announcer voice. It's not often that Mills gets to do these in the ring. He likes to make them count.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like your attention for a special segment of our program.

Eyes roll nationwide. Mills couldn't be a bigger drama queen if he started wearing dresses.

Matt Mills: As we all know, there were some rumors thrown about regarding the identity of a certain masked man who made a guest appearance in last week's main event.

"SPIF-FY! SPIF-FY! SPIF-FY!"

The chant doesn't roll like thunder, but it begins to rumble amongst the upper decks and slowly worm its way down. "El Spiffy!" garnered over 2 million search hits on YouTube in the past week. People weren't keen to the Little Bastard before, but they were learning. Plus, everyone loves a chant.

Matt Mills: That's right, El Spiffy!. Well, since his appearance last week, a lot of the speculation has focused on Danny Ferguson. After denying those rumors all week long, Danny has agreed to appear today and refute the false information. Ladies and gentlemen, live via satellite, DANNY FERGUSON!

A roar rises up from the crowd, and it grows louder as the nearly-forgotten visage of "Superstar" Danny Ferguson. A PRIME staple for nearly three years, Ferguson was alternately hated and loved, but always noted for his personality. That personality is notably absent in the worn features of the man on the screen.

Danny is...subdued, for lack of a better word. Tired eyes and beaten features betray the carefully coiffed and meticulously manicured image that Ferguson and his various handlers had worked so hard to create during his parallel PRIME and Hollywood careers. He looks like a man who hasn't worked - or cared - in several months. IMDB will prove that statement half-right.

Matt Mills: Welcome, Danny.

Danny Ferguson: Thanks.

There's a pause, as Mills gives Danny the freedom to make an opening statement that never comes. Instead, the actor on the big screen seems suddenly out-of-place, uncomfortable in the very position that made his name something worth remembering to begin with.

Danny Ferguson: Are we going to do this, or...?

Matt Mills: (to the rescue) Right, then. As you know, Danny, many people speculate that you appeared last week as El Spiffy!-

Danny Ferguson: Bullshit.

Matt Mills: Excuse me?

Danny Ferguson: I bit my tongue and played the press release game all week, but if I had to go to all this trouble and let cameras in my home, I'm not going to let any more of my time get wasted. So all this El Spiffy! noise is just that; I've got too much going on in my career right now to spend time playing around.

Matt Mills: So you've got some upcoming projects?

Danny Ferguson: (defensive) I've got some irons in the fire. Nothing worth talking about here.

Matt Mills: Actually, Danny, I think the fans would love to hear what you're up to since leavi-

Danny Ferguson: Maybe some other time. Ya'll asked me here to talk El Spiffy! and how I'm not him. Well I'm not him. So if that's all-

Of course that's not all. Is it ever all? Did you ever think that would be all? "Welcome Home" cues up to the delight of the restless crowd, and Chandler Tsonda appears at the top of the ramp, title glistening and eyes afire. His accompanying entrance video temporarily bumps Danny from the PRIME*View, but when the champion reaches the ring and the actor returns to the screen, the veiled fury on the Viet Viper's face is not matched by Ferguson. To describe Danny's reaction as apathy would be giving him too much credit. For a moment, it's not entirely clear that he knows his former teammate and erstwhile nemesis is even there. Tsonda himself removes all doubt when he grabs the mic from Mills and motions for the screaming fans to calm it down.

Chandler Tsonda: Evenin', dick.

Danny Ferguson: Chan, this-

Chandler Tsonda: Didn't think you'd be showing your face around here any time soon, what with your recent hooded escapades and all.

Danny Ferguson: Chan, I know you're probably the first person to think I was behind all this, but I promis-

Chandler Tsonda: Oh yeah? And why should I think that? Because you left the company shortly after trying to break my fucking neck?

Danny Ferguson: I said I was sorry.

Chandler Tsonda: You left a comment on my MySpace, Danny. Do I look like a fucking punk band? NO ONE uses MySpace anymore!

Danny Ferguson: Jesus, Chandler, will you let it go? I'm-

Chandler Tsonda: LET IT GO?!

Tsonda storms back and forth across the ring, pacing with the kind of furious stomp that another dark-skinned, eyebrow-raising top dawg champion made popular back in the day. He never takes his eyes off the screen, and finally raises the mic again.

Chandler Tsonda: Let it go? You could have killed me! You could have ended my career!

Danny Ferguson: And was I the first? Or the last?

The sudden snap from the Superstar is accompanied with more emotion than he'd shown since the video conference began. There's no anger in the voice, though, just frustration and near-exhaustion.

Danny Ferguson: I'm sure it's tough being the champion, Chandler - you've reached the highest point in your career, and now you can't even enjoy it. You're paranoid, looking for an excuse to believe you're being persecuted or held down even though you're standing at the top of the mountain. Am I the only enemy you made in your career? Am I the only person who could possibly want a shot at you, the champion of the biggest fed on the block?

Tsonda doesn't respond, seething quietly as a roundabout way to admit Danny has a point. Meanwhile, a murmur begins in the crowd, apparently agreeing with the Superstar-via-satellite.

Danny Ferguson: Hell, Chan, they showed me the tape of last week. When did this become about you anyway? The guy in the mask didn't even go after you, he was putting receipts on that d-bag Rayne.

The murmur continues, and breaks out into out-right shouts in some parts. It seems to go beyond just agreeing with Danny, but he continues anyway. In the ring, Tsonda remains silent, listening intently.

Danny Ferguson: This is just another harsh reminder of the reality you've been ducking since you started in this business: the wrestling world doesn't revolve around Chandler Tsonda. So if you don't fucking mind, I'd like to be left alone.

He rips his mic loose and stands up in his chair. Chandler stomps forward in the ring, as if he could stop it.

Chandler Tsonda: Danny! GODDAMMIT, Danny!

Shouting at the screen as Ferguson disappears from view and the feed cuts, Tsonda doesn't notice the crowd murmur breaking into a full roar. The screaming - meant to notify him of an intruder on the scene - goes unheeded.

When El Spiffy! jumps the rail from the ringside seats and slides into the ring, it's already too late for the Model Citizen.

Nick: He's here! El Spiffy!'s here! I told you he wasn't Ferguson!

Richard: He of all people would know how to use a body double. Although...

Richard notices what everyone else does. This El Spiffy! is different from the man who made a shocking appearance last week. The mask is the same pattern, same design, same colors. But the body is different - less built and taller. Of course, those details are little hard to tell. The black pants and black dress shirt combination is awfully slimming, after all.

Richard: You've got to be kidding me. That's Shak-

Nick: Shocking, I know! El Spiffy! is making a statement here! He's going right for the champion!

As the PRIME*View goes black, Tsonda turns around - and into a devestating roundhouse kick from El Spiffy!! He goes down like a ton of bricks, dropping his mic and his title. Almost immediately, Los Enemigos Security burst out from the back, and the luchador antagonist bolts from the ring, escaping from whence he came before his fellow masked men could get a hand on him.

Nick: And he's back through the crowd! At this rate, we'll never find out who's under that mask!

Richard: You're joking, right?

Nick: Why, do you have some "insider information"?

Richard: No, but I've got eyes! Did you not see what that guy was wearing?

Nick: Yes, the very same mask we saw last week!

The crowd boos the cheap assault on their favored champion as the masked man vanishes into the crowd. Meanwhile, Chandler Tsonda remains splayed out in the ring, the last words of his former ally ringing in his ears thanks to that headkick. If he really did believe that the world was out to get him, this new development wasn't going to help much.

For Dusk, all eyes were on him. Everyone felt like this would be his chance to finally break free of the constraints he continually found himself in. Recent victories over Jimmy Bonafide, Cozen, Jesse Jamester, and Vox had given people the thought that he might be the dark horse of the Jewel in the Crown tournament. With all of the attention on people like Tyler Rayne, Jason Snow, Jay Phoenix, and Bryan Dawkins, it gave Dusk the chance to surprise people. Considering his longevity and status within the company, some would find that hard to believe, but it couldn't be any closer to the truth if it tried.

Walking through the backstage area, Dusk finds a lot on his mind in this particular moment. Recently, he had been pulled into more meetings with Lisa Tyler and the brass in Chicago about his place in the company. With all of the recent injuries and departures, Dusk had found himself to be one of the longest lasting members on the PRIME roster right alongside Killean Sirrajin, and Tyler was essentially trying to put the weight of the company on a handful of people as well as praying that Jason Snow and Jay Phoenix would pan out.

Few even thought he could make it past the first round. He had proved them wrong. No one would give him a chance to get to the Semifinals at King of Kings, but he knew the thought racing through the minds of people like Dawkins and Snow; please don't let me have to face Dusk. He had embraced his new role as the wild card. No one thought he could win the match, but you certainly didn't want to face off against him. Especially when he requested to have a match on this card.

Much like where he finds himself tonight, squaring off against Jason Natas. It's even funnier when Dusk, already dressed for his match, bumps into Natas as he turns the corner.

Well, this should be fun...

Dusk: Jesus, Jason...

Startled by the sudden appearance of one of the most odious men in the business, Dusk re-adjusts his stance. Jason, meanwhile, tag a drag on one of his seemingly ever-present Marlboro's, before plucking what remains of the cancer stick from his mouth and stomping it into the floor.

Natas: 'Cha lookin' for, Bubbles?

Jason glowers at his opponent for the night, his facial expression stern but not particularly menacing. On closer inspection it would appear that The Anti-Superstar too is dressed for the match, albeit somewhat unconventionally. A black Alice in Chains tee clings tightly to his bulky upper body, while a pair of ragged denim shorts extending just past the knees hang from his waist and a pair of hefty Dr. Martens are tightly wounded to his feet.

Dusk: Who’re you, Kevin Smith? Anyways, I heard Tsonda was throwin' a bitchin' party up in his room. Figured I'd drop in. So, yeah, you wearin' that to the ring? I mean, I know the 80's are trying to make a comeback and all, but taking it a bit hard, don't you think? Did you even remember you were on the card for the night?

Unamused by what he perceives to be an attempt at humor from Dusk, Jason snorts.

Natas: Heh. Cute. Fuck d'you think my name is, "Dawkins"?

Dusk: Fair enough. Is that subject a little touchy for you? Don't want to recall the last time you walked in the ring with me?

The Anti-Superstar allows a forced smile to spread across his dry, cracked lips. Shaking his head, Jason balls his right hand into a fist, cradling it in the palm of his left.

Natas: On the contrary, Bubbles. Been lookin' forward to it. After all, havin' "lost to Dusk" sittin' at the bottom of yer resume will do dreadful things to a man's reputation. Nah, you might-a caught me last time, but don't think for a second that I ain't gonna tear you a new one tonight, kid. I owe it to ya.

Dusk: Lot's of people seem to think they owe me a new asshole. Not quite certain what's wrong with my current one though. Plus, really, losing to me is damaging your reputation? I would've thought being eliminated alongside Darth Varga not once but twice would've really killed it or teaming up with Jimmy Bonafide. See, because when you step into the ring with me you're dealing with a man who has won the Intense Title, has finished in the top 5 of the Dual Halo, has main evented Colossus not once but twice, and is in the second round of the Jewel in the Crown tournament. So, joke all you want how it's hurting your reputation, but it's time to look facts straight in the teeth, Jason.

Dusk's red eyes are showing a fire in them that just tells Jason that he's ready for the match later on in the evening. Jason though is not one to ever have backed down from a fight, no matter where it takes place.

Natas: Shit, son, you think I teamed with Bonafide through choice? Come on, now. I know you an’ I ain’t exactly drinkin’ buddies, but’cha gotta give a guy more credit than that…

Shaking his head and clearing his rough, tobacco-ravaged throat, Jason refuses to flinch from Dusk’s stern, steady glare.

Natas: ‘Sides, winnin’ an’ losin’? I ain’t one to dwell either way. I came in here with one goal in mind, to kick against the pricks, an’ you know what? That shit ain’t changed since day one. See, this business is full ‘o jumped-up lil’ shitcakes, runnin’ ‘round the halls, prancin’ around like a bunch ‘o fuckin’ faggots, waivin’ their accomplishments around like someone actually gives a fuck. S’what I’m all about, Dusk, makin’ wrestlin’s pansy-ass Hollywood bitches look like fuckin’ worms. An’ from what I can see right now, you look like you’ll fit the bill jus’ nicely.

He takes a very slight step back, taking in the full sight of the former Intense Champion with a smirk.

Natas: So I don’t care how many titles you’ve held or how many main events you’ve managed t’worm yer way into, ‘cause Intense Title reigns an’ fifth place finishes ain’t gonna help ya much when yer broken, beat and scarred. The bigger the reputation, the more joy I take in rippin’ it to pieces, and if yer all ya make yerself out t’be… shit. Think I might jus’ have some fun out there t’night.

Dusk just nods his head.

Dusk: You know what, Jason? I've met men like you. Enjoy the pain and dishing it right back up. You have this idea in the back of your head that you're the righteous saint that will right us all. Well, let me fill you in on something. Just listen to me. At the end of the day, you're still at the bottom of the totem pole. You couldn't make it out of the first round of the Jewel in the Crown. As a matter of fact, you haven't been able to do anything meaningful with your career. You might take me down and enjoy taking down a man with a big reputation, but at the end of the day no one sees you as nothing more than a man striving for nothing.

Jason opens his mouth to say something to Dusk, but Dusk quickly cuts him off.

Dusk: I'm not done. You want to bring everything you've got? Good. Bring it. I want you to because you know what you are to me? A warm-up match. You can look at me as a Hollywood bitch and that I'm going to fill whatever perverse quota you've set up inside of your head, but you know in the back of your mind it's not going to be easy. Because, if it was that easy you would've beat me last time. Instead of being at the bottom of the roster, you would be the shooting star. Instead of looking up at Dawkins, Dawkins would be huddled in a puddle of his own pineapple shit looking at you. You want to hate "us" because in the end, you want to be "us".

Now that Dusk's done, Jason just waves him off.

Natas: A’right. A’right. Know what? Talk’s cheap, bubbles. Let’s cut the crap, see how well you fare when the cards are down…

Slowly, Jason begins to back away. He doesn’t take his eyes off Dusk immediately, instead keeping his field of vision fixed as he backs away.

Natas: Be seein’ ya out there, fella. Hope you enjoy this as much as I will…

As Jason walks away, Dusk just stands there shaking his head.

Dusk: Hope you enjoy this as much as I will... That's saying something from a guy who enjoys shoving anal beads up his asshole at an Evanescence concert and shedding tears while Amy Lee laughs at your inadequacies.

The final refrains of the stone Temple Pilots fade from the PA as Jason Natas stands ready in the centre of the ring. Shinedown hits the speakers and Dusk strolls down to a massive reception from the fans. Reaching the bottom ramp, The Lost Soul enters the ring and stares straight at The Anti-Superstar, ready for battle.

DING! DING! DING!

Buoyed by their earlier confrontation, both men charge into the lock-up. Dusk gets the upperhand with a hammerlock before dropping to his knees and using both arms to sweep Natas’ legs. Natas floored, Dusk applies a headlock for a few seconds, before propping Natas up in a seated position and dropkicking the back of his head.

The former Intense Champion goes to work, dissecting Jason Natas with a mat based assault to which the New Yorker is practically helpless. An armbar and a harmstring pull later, Dusk looks for a Boston crab, but the strength of The Anti-Superstar is enough to tide him through and soon Jason plants his hand on the bottom rope. Trying his luck, Dusk goes for a pinfall…

…1!

…2!

Jason kicks out.

Firmly in control, Dusk pulls Jason up and looks for a suplex, but Natas has the presence of mind to jab him in the side. Forced to break the hold, Dusk holds his side in pain, leaving him wide open for some brutally strong strikes from Jason who drives his fist into Dusk’s abdomen time and time again. Following up with a roaring elbow that takes Dusk to the floor, Jason drops an elbow across his opponent’s chest before grabbing Dusk by the arm and pulling him across the ring. Dusk’s throat on the ropes, Jason drives his boot down on his opponents head before he is reprimanded by the ref.

The Anti-Superstar brings Dusk to his feet and backs him against the ropes. After a couple of stiff shots to the chest he puts Dusk in a bearhug position and drives him into the mat with a belly-to-belly side suplex.

…1!

…2!

Dusk gets the shoulder up. Annoyed by this, Natas storms across the ring and pulls off a turnbuckle cover, allowing Dusk enough time to recover and hit a reverse DDT into the pin.

…1!

…2!

Kickout. One hand on the ropes, balancing himself, Dusk stomps away on Jason Natas, driving his boot down hard into his chest. When Natas stops writhing, Dusk whips him across to the opposite corner and follows up with a clothesline transitioned into a bulldog. He pulls Jason up, but The Anti-Superstar violently kicks at Dusk’s wounded knee. Dusk doesn’t like this one bit and retaliates with a running STO. Again he hooks the leg.

…1!

…2!

This time, Jason’s foot is on the rope. Dusk pulls himself up and looks to lock-up with Natas, but Jason manages to shrug him off, before blatantly slapping his opponent in the face. In a surprising show of agility, Jason ducks around Dusk and takes him to the floor with a chop block to the back of the hurt knee, before hoisting his leg up and driving the knee down hard into the mat.

Jeers raining, Jason picks Dusk up and slowly pulls him across towards the exposed turnbuckle, but the referee blocks his way. Not wanting to mess around, Jason violently shoves the referee out of the ring, before bringing Dusk’s forehead crashing down into the exposed steel, not once, not twice, but thrice. He lets go and Dusk falls backwards, a wound opening on his forehead.

Dusk is out and Jason knows it; only problem is, so is the referee. Dazed on the outside of the ring, the referee gathers himself only to be yelled at by a vehement Anti-Superstar.

The referee recovers in enough time to witness Jason delivering the New York Minute to Dusk in the centre of the ring. He slides in under the bottom rope and delivers a slow, groggy count…

…1!

…2!

…3!!!

"Dead and Bloated" belts from the speakers as a chorus of boos falls down on Jason, the fans obviously not happy with what they’ve just seen. After casting a glance at his defeated opponent, Jason shrugs the referee away and disappears up the ramp. Job done.

WINNER: Jason Natas

The red Church of the Unholy logo appears on the screen followed by a voiceover.

V/O: The following announcement has been paid for by the Church of the Unholy.

Creepy horror music begins playing in the background as Church members Sith Lord Darth Varga, the werewolf creature Wolfen, the deformed CHUD, the midget demons the Goofies, and the giant Big Tony appear on the screen in what appears to be a dungeon within the Castle of Blood, the Church's new hideout. Darth has a microphone and smiles as the horror music continues to play.

Darth: Well, as you all know by now I have been eliminated from the Jewel in the Crown tournament. However PRIME has graciously allowed the people already eliminated to stay on through the pay-per-view if they wish. I have taken them up on this offer but now I have a dilemma.

Wolfen looks confused.

Wolfen: *snarl* Dilemma? I didn’t know about any dilemma.

Darth: This is what’s going on. See now that I’m out of the tournament, I have no one to play with.

CHUD: (mockingly) Awww…

Darth shoots him a look like he wants to kill him and the CHUD shuts his mouth then and there. Darth then turns back to the camera.

Darth: Back to my point. Since everyone here in PRIME is cowering with fear and doesn’t want to face me, I am putting out an Open Challenge to everyone here in PRIME. Whomever wants to face me, bring it on.

CHUD: Didn’t Vince do this already?

Wolfen: *growl* Yes, like eight hundred times.

Darth sighs.

Darth: Then I challenge anyone here in PRIME to a Hell in a Cell match!

CHUD: VINCE ALREADY DID IT!

Darth clutches his fist with frustration and CHUD starts choking from the dreaded Force Choke of DOOM~!

Darth: FUCKING VINCE!

CHUD: *cough* I… *gasp* I… *wheeze*

Wolfen: *snarl* Darth, knock it off.

Darth: (angrily) WHY?!

Wolfen: *growl* Because Vince has done everything.

Darth releases the Force Choke and CHUD tries to catch his breath as Darth turns to Wolfen.

Darth: He has?

Wolfen nods his head.

Wolfen: *snarl* Yes. Vince has been doing this for years and years. He’s done everything but let a celebrity with the World Championship.

Darth raises an eyebrow.

Darth: Which Vince are we talking about? Because Russo did that…

Wolfen: *growl* I mean McMahon.

Darth: Ah, ok. You’re right. Anyway…

Darth turns back to the camera.

Darth: PRIME, open challenge. Anyone got any balls? Bring it on and be destroyed…FOREVER!

Darth then uses the Force and turns off the camera causing the scene to fade to black.

Bryan Dawkins still isn’t used to it. The silence. Nowhere in his life, except for this refuge of a locker room, can he be without immediate responsibility. The other one hundred and sixty-six hours of the week–he knows, he’s been up for the vast majority of them–belong to his newborn son.

For these two hours, though, The Flyin’ Hawaiian is free. Free to ply his trade, showing the world why he’s one of sports entertainment’s rising stars. Free to be amongst friends, bragging about Nick’s bright eyes and glimmering smiles. But also free to think, which inevitably leads to morose reminiscences.

Nikkie.

Sitting on the bench in his stark locker room, Dawkins seems deep in thought. His feet are up on the bench, and his chin nearly touches his chest. His limbs are like a fortress, inside which his mind can pay proper undisturbed tribute to her.

"Dawkins!"

The noise startles him, nearly knocking him off the bench. He stares at the door, where the familiar voice sounds again.

"You naked in there?"

Bryan Dawkins: Uh…no, bruh.

That wasn’t what he expected to be asked, apparently. But the question is matched by the surprising of his locker room door abruptly swinging open, which is followed by the unsurprise of seeing Chandler Tsonda as the culprit. Yes, we just coined the word "unsurprise." In Latin, it means "what one feels when Chandler Tsonda just happens to drop into your locker room."

Chandler Tsonda: Well…?

Bryan Dawkins: ...?

Chandler Tsonda: Well, I can’t let the first Tstudent of the Chandler Tsonda Academy of Awesome win a Jewel in the Crown match without a celebration, that’s what.

Bryan Dawkins: The Academy of Awesome?

Chandler Tsonda: You like?

Bryan Dawkins: I don’t…get it, bruh.

Chandler Tsonda: I figure with all the success you’re ‘bout to have in the tourney, I’ll be able to start selling how-to videos like Tom Emanski. Make a killing with all the potential wrestlers out there.

Bryan Dawkins: Chan, I dunno if ya really wanna be bankin' on my chances–

Chandler Tsonda: Oh man, how much do you think I’d have to pay Ian English to do the commercial?

Bryan Dawkins: English, bruh? He’s probably–

Chandler Tsonda: I don’t care! Money’s not an issue, we’re doing it. It’s about inspiring the people, kid. Ya know?

Bryan Dawkins: Sure. Whatever floats your pineapples, bruh.

(Editor's note: What?)

The youngster turns his back on Tsonda and walks over to his gym bag, where he begins to fiddle with the bag’s contents.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re not fighting tonight.

Bryan Dawkins: Say what?

Chandler Tsonda: You don’t have anything in that bag, you just want an excuse not to talk to me.

The Flyin’ Hawaiian lets out a deep sigh, finally turning back around to face Tsonda. The Universal Champion folds his arms in disapproval.

Bryan Dawkins: Sorry...not really in a celebratin' mood. Ya get it, right, bruh?

Chandler Tsonda: Jesus, kid. That’s all you had to say. We’re not chicks. I’m not about to go talk to Rayne about you behind your back.

Bryan Dawkins: I’m surprised the two of ya are even speakin' after the last three weeks. I've seen ya jaw jackin' before, but jeez, bruh...gettin' a little intense, dont'cha think?

As soon as he lets go of that sentence, Hawaii’s favored son regrets it. He clenches his jaw as he watches Tsonda silently respond.

Bryan Dawkins: I didn’t mean it like that, Chan.

Chandler Tsonda: You did, don’t worry about it. Me and Rayne agreed to disagree a longass time ago. It’s why we get along.

The junior member of the conversation scrunches up his face, trying to imagine how, exactly, that makes sense. But Tsonda continues, launching into typically animated hand gestures as he speaks.

Chandler Tsonda: It’s just that, we’ve never had a big honkin’ piece of gold in the middle of things. And now that queefstain Ferguson…

No words. A rare phenomenon for the verbose Viet Viper.

Bryan Dawkins: Spiffy!...? It’s really him?

The Model Citizen’s eyes take up…that look.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m sure as the motherfucking sky is blue, kid.

Bryan Dawkins: But...he’s beaming in live tonight just to say–

Chandler Tsonda: To say that he’s not something that I know he is. Dawkins, if you ever trust me on anything, let it be this.

A silent moment of recognition passes between the two men. Not often will Tsonda invoke his elder status on Dawkins, but when he does, the new father chooses to listen. Understanding without proof is the definition of faith, and the man’s got it in his mentor. A slow nod, accompanying his words, confirms this.

Bryan Dawkins: When you’re done hunting down the bruh in the mask, ya gonna have some time to give me pointers on the Jewel? I mean, bein' the last winner, I figured ya could give your lowly protege some tips, right?

"Don’t know if that’s necessary, Hawaii. I heard they’re already carving my name into the trophy."

Usually this is the part where we give you three chances to guess who just walked in the door. Or perhaps drop into some long-winded hyperbole about screaming women wetting their pants. However, the terribly serious expressions from both the Universal Champion and his padawan are far too somber for such shenanigans.

Tyler Rayne: Wow. Tough room. Ooookay. So two guys walk into a bar and the third one-

Chandler Tsonda: Interrupts, as usual?

Tyler Rayne: Did you really just say th-

Chandler Tsonda: Don't you have any respect for student/teacher confidentiality?

Bryan Dawkins: I don't think there is such a thing, bruh.

Tyler Rayne: Well, Tink, I see you've still got that tampon crammed up your cunt.

Bryan Dawkins: Guys. Please.

An uncomfortable silence blankets the room. Though no words are exchanged, there's plenty being said in the cold stare shared between last year's Jewel in the Crown winner and this year's Dual Halo winner (let's face it, kids...there's a lot of talent in this room).

Tyler Rayne: Whatever. Hawaii, I just stopped by to wish you good luck in the tournament. Best man win and all that bullshit.

Bryan Dawkins: Thanks.

It's a quiet and simple response. Tsonda and Rayne exchange another look, this one devoid of the previous hostilities. An acknowledgement of concern between two friends. It's not hard to tell that the Flyin' Hawaiian isn't feeling so high tonight.

Tyler Rayne: Um...look, kid, if you ever wanna talk or somethin'...I'm around. I know what you're going through and... shit, nothing's going to make it go away. But if you wanna hole up in some backwater dive and slam back some vodka pineapple's...you've got my number. Tink, if you need help with Hollywood, sa-

Chandler Tsonda: I can handle Ferguson just fine, Scruffy.

Tyler Rayne: You mean like you handled him in the Halo?

Chandler Tsonda: Shit's changed since then.

Says the Universal Champion to the former 5-Star Champion.

Tyler Rayne: 'Spose it has.

There's an awkward silence. All three of them trying to avoid each other's gaze. Well, at least the two of them. Dawkins sort of spaced out in his own thoughts awhile ago. There doesn't seem to be much more to say, so the Underground Pimp just shrugs and shuffles toward the door.

Bryan Dawkins: You too, Rayne.

Tyler Rayne: Eh?

Bryan Dawkins: Good luck to you, too.

Tyler Rayne: Oh.

Another look between PRIME's most talented sex symbols. Their ask the question ever lingering above their heads. The one neither is quite willing to ask just yet.

Tyler Rayne: Thanks, kid.

He turns and walks away.

After Marilyn Manson’s rendition of The Door’s track ‘5 to 1’ has accompanied Clayton Byrd to the ring, the sounds of "Jackson, Mississippi" has done the same for Kaiser Vashaun and then, finally, "Walk On Water" by Ozzy Osbourne has heralded the living legend that is Killean Sirrajin down to rapturous applause.

As the referee finishes explaining the rules of the match to each man he nods ringside and the timekeeper’s bell rings out to start the match.

DING DING DING

Richard: Tonight’s main event officially underway now!

Nick: Killean Sirrajin back in the ring – I can’t wait for this match!

Richard: Luckily for you, then, you don’t have to!!!

Like an avenging triumvirate of warrior angels fresh from a war in heaven the three men stand in the center of the ring and unload with punches and forearms. With a staccato flurry of blows that could almost be rehearsed, so precise is the three way exchange, the behemoths each try to make their mark on the match – and each other - as early as possible.

Nick: It is such a weird sight to see Sirrajin look so small!

Richard: … even Vashaun himself is being towered over by the man mountain that is SCCW’s Clayton Byrd!

Nick: Ouch!

Richard: What – did I miss something, who got hurt?

Nick: No-one – it was just the mention of SCCW; that name still smarts after Cataclysm.

Seeing a small gap in the pace Byrd seizes the opportunity and steps between both of his PRIME opponents, lashing out with a lariat to each side that sends both men crashing to the mat. Pausing where he stands, above and between each man, Clayton suddenly drops to the mat and crashes and elbow directly into each man’s sternum, forcing the wind out of their bodies.

Richard: Speaking of smarting – that has to hurt!

Nick: Indeed; Byrd may not be pretty to watch but he is effective!

Lumbering back to his feet the big man pulls Vashuan up by the neck but as the Intense Champion is halfway up he suddenly brings his head up under Byrd’s chin before dropping to his knees, forcefully. Byrd is launched backwards, clutching at his chin, and he lands on the canvas as the referee checks on him.

Nick: I hope that he has a good dentist!

Richard: He is a small town, Country boy … do you think that he has ever seen a dentist?!

As Vashaun prowls, catlike, towards the downed Clayton Byrd he is suddenly stopped short and – for a split second – confusion plays over his face as he feels himself leaving the ground. Too late he realizes his predicament but he struggles in vain as he is sent up and over as a recovered Killean Sirrajin grabs him from behind with a German suplex. Holding onto Kaiser’s waist Kilean bridges up and holds on for the pin as the referee slides into position.

One …

Two …

Nick: A near count there.

Richard: That was just shock; I don’t think that Vashaun is out of this one just yet!

Rolling Vashaun over onto his front Killean drops a succession of three elbow drops onto his opponents lowers spine. With the third blow Vashaun moans out in pain and, with a burst of effort, scrambles to his feet just as Sirrajin does. Grabbing him around the waist and legs Vashaun just manages to lift him off his feet and leans forwards, dropping the Supreme Machine onto the back of his head with a spinebuster. The referee looks around him, seeing all three men still on the canvas, and beings to count.

One …

Two …

Three …

Nick: Please tell me that this isn’t going to end in a no contest?

Four …

Five …

Richard: OK … that isn’t going to happen!

Using the ropes to get back to his feet Clayton Byrd runs across the ring just as Kaiser Vashuan is getting to his own feet … but, just before he can, his face is introduced to the big man’s boot and he collapses back to the ring. Spinning around Byrd then catches Killean Sirrajin with a boot to the midsection and as the former champion buckles over, winded, Byrd pulls him into a headlock before lifting him up and over with a long vertical suplex. Sirrajin’s face reddens as the blood rushes to his head and then, suddenly, Byrd drops to his knees just before he can drop the PRIME cut … Vashaun is back on his feet and has taken Byrd down with a drop kick to the back of his legs. Killean slumps to the canvas as Vashaun gets back to his feet and, grabbing the kneeling Byrd in a front face lock, plants his head and face into the ring with a variation of a DDT. Rolling over onto him, keeping one eye on the barely moving Sirrajin, Vashaun calls for the referee.

One …

Two …

Three …

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, and progressing to the next round of the Jewel in the Crown Tournament … KAISER VASHAUN!!!!!!!!

Chandler Tsonda pushed through the exit doors of the Municipal Auditorium and made a note of how truly awful Jacksonville smelled. Maybe it was just the sour mood that he was in thanks to the night's events. Maybe it's because his senses were dulled courtesy of a very familiar-looking roundhouse kick from "El Spiffy!" earlier in the night. Either way, he wasn't a happy champion, and that usually doesn't bode well for the road crew.

He stepped out and heard a rustling sound echoing from somewhere in an otherwise-empty performer parking lot. On another night he might chalk it up to transients or determined autograph seekers, but tonight he'd seen and experienced enough to believe otherwise. Tucking his gear bag back, he ran into the rows of cars, locking on to the spot where he'd parked his own rental.

Chandler Tsonda: (through gritted teeth) Goddamnit...

He made it to his row and saw exactly what he was expecting - a masked man hunched over the vehicle, engaged in nefarious acts. The man sensed his presence and abandoned the strive for perfection, abandoning ship and trying to escape swiftly.

Chandler Tsonda: Hey!

The Viet Viper gave chase, sprinting after El Spiffy! down the row of cars, bag still in his hand. When it seemed like the scampering luchador was about to escape, he made a desperation heave, hurling his belongings. The bag hits the runner square, knocking him to the ground. El Spiffy! instantly rolled over to his back, trying to retreat backwards and keeping his eyes on Tsonda like he were backing away from a horror movie monster.

Chandler Tsonda: What the...fuck?

He noticed that El Spiffy! seemed smaller, but thought that it was forced perspective since the guy was on the ground. He noticed that the luchador had changed clothes from earlier, but thought that he had ditched the all-black to avoid getting caught by security. Unfortunately for Chandler, the moonlight struck the man on the ground just so, and he also noticed the large scar twisting the masked man's lips into an unsettling perma-grin. At that, he didn't know what to think.

The shock was enough to buy El Spiffy! time, and the luchador quickly scrambled to his feet and sprinted away into the darkness. Chandler entertained the idea of giving chase, but so many thoughts were swirling around in his head that he didn't quite know what he would do or say if he caught the man.

Retrieving his bag, Chandler returned to the scene of the crime - his rental car, or what was left of it. The air had been let out of the tires, the gas had been siphoned out into a gascan sitting next to the vehicle, and the windshield was covered with what looked to be a message in guacamole.

"cuidado con el máscara"

Chandler Tsonda: "Be careful with the mask?" That's not even proper syntax.

He throws his bag onto the hood of the car and shouts into the darkness, eager to be violently angry about something.

Chandler Tsonda: YOU HEAR ME, FUCKFACE?!? IT'S NOT EVEN PROPER SYNTAX!

The empty blackness of Jacksonville laughs back at Chandler, but he couldn't feel more silly at this point. Any power or confidence he felt by winning the Universal Title was slowly being stolen from him, and this, he thought to himself, was what he was being reduced to - a mystery enemy, or something more than that. In fact, as he gathered his bag and headed inside to call a cab, he had no idea what the hell was going on. And that's what concerned him the most.