Let it never be said that Matt Mills doesn’t earn his paycheque. Despite being subject to a barrage of verbal (and sometimes physical) abuse every time he steps into the building, despite having his pride and reputation torn to shreds by some cocky grappler every single broadcast, the man still turns up to ReVolution every seven days, ready to face another night in the PRIME backstage circus.

As annoying and nauseating as much of the roster may find him, the lengths that the man will go to just to pick up a scoop know no end. What he may lack intact and subtlety he more than makes up for with a single-minded dedication to the job that former contemporaries Angelica Brooks and Faith Rodriguez could only ever dream of. And for every terrible, terrible suit that comes out of his wardrobe and for every overused, clichéd quip that comes out of his mouth, the man further justifies his position by bringing another eye-opening interview to the baying audience.

Tonight he’s on the prowl once again, sniffing out potential interviewees like a bloodhound. Peering through the slightest of cracks in the door of a darkened utility room he’s been loitering in for approximately forty-two more minutes than is socially acceptable, he’s almost vulture-like in his lurking.

Pushing has face up to the gap; his interest peeks as he spies a group of people briskly shuffling around the corridors. Ready to strike, he reaches down and grabs the door handle… only to be overcome by immense disappointment as he identifies the people as being yet another group of backstage workers.

Moving something under his breath and shaking his head, Mills is almost ready to drop this vantage point in favor of another. That is until an unmistakable, bulky figure slowly plods past, swaggering like a sailor and stinking like a smokestack.

Matt Mills has lost count of the amount of times he’s done this. He bides his time, waiting for the opportune moment. Tensing up, he tights his grip on the handle and leans forward.

Three…

Two…

One…

"Jason! Jason Natas!"

He bursts from the room with such haste that he almost trips over his own feet, cameraman in tow. Clad in a typically bland grey suit, Mills canters after the lumbering Anti-Superstar enthusiastically.

Matt Mills: How about a couple of words from you tonight?

Instantly recognising the voice of a man he would gladly decapitate if he thought he could get away with it, the grouchiest guy in PRIME continues to walk through the halls, seemingly increasing the pace. Struggling to keep up with Jason’s change in pace, Mills is undeterred by the New Yorker’s apparent reluctance to talk.

Jason Natas: Dunno if I’ve got anythin’ for ya, Mills. Shit, s’only been two weeks since the last time you an’ I did the whole "interview" thing, an’ you know I ain’t exactly the chattin’ type.

Jason’s gaze is fixed straight ahead; he doesn’t even give Mills the courtesy of a quick glance as he tries to shrug off his advances. Mills, of course, does not relent.

Matt Mills: A big win for you over Dusk last week to overcome the disappointment of exiting the Jewel in the Crown tournament. Is the Jason Natas train back on track?

The Anti-Superstar sighs; disappointed but not surprised that his efforts to get rid of Matt Mills aren’t working very well. He stops in his tracks, taking in a deep breath of cathartic cigarette smoke (come on now, it wouldn’t be a Jason Natas segment without a little bit of Marlboro action) before blowing it out through his nostrils.

He snorts; rubbing his nose into a heavily-tattooed forearm as Matt Mills gleefully thrusts the microphone towards his mouth. Clad in the classic Jason Natas combination of Dr. Martens, ragged blue jeans, an obscure band tee and a bandanna, the NYC grappler flashes Mills his best "go away" look.

Jason Natas: What’d I tell ya, fuck-o? I ain’t doin’ no fuckin’ talkin’ t’night. B’sides, ya got more from me at 177 than most people are gonna get in a lifetime, so don’t fuckin’ push it, son.

Matt Mills: Well what about Brock Shepherd then? You and The One-Armed Wrecking Crew had quite the heated confrontation last week! Do you have any words for the PRIME newcomer?

Drawing breath slowly into his lungs, Jason shakes his head; he still can’t quite believe the persistence of PRIME’s head interviewer, even after countless encounters with the man.

Jason Natas: Fuckin’ leper ain’t worth two minutes of my time. Ain’t got shit for him, just like I ain’t got shit for you.

Matt Mills: But wha-

Jason Natas: Fuck’s sake, man. Take a tellin’. Remember the reason I got suspended a couple ‘a months back?

Matt Mills nods.

Jason Natas: Aight. Well, I ain’t in a massive hurry to get shoved outta this place again any time soon an’ I ain’t gon’ go round swingin’ my fists at any useless prick who gets in my way anymore, but don’t think for a second that I won’t put ya on yer ass if you get the fuck outta here.

Pushing his lips together and furrowing his brow, Jason’s large form looms over the interviewer like a grave spirit. Clenching the microphone tightly, Mills takes a step backwards, a sense of trepidation beginning to rise from his bowels.

Matt Mills: Well uhhh, in that case-

"BRUHHHHHHHHHHHH…"

Matt Mills breathes a sigh of relief as Jason Natas exhales one of anguish.

The Flyin’ Hawaiian. Like a knight in shining armour. With his white sunglasses, Hawaiian shirt, and pineapple in hand, Bryan Dawkins was the God that Matt Mills was praying to just about now. PRIME’s favorite Hawaiian makes his way toward his one-time nemesis and places himself between Mills and Natas.

Bryan Dawkins: …haven’t we learned our lesson yet? Just back off and let the bruh do his job.

Bryan Dawkins acknowledges Matt Mills with a nod. Meanwhile, Jason tries his hardest not to bash his face against the wall. He clenches his fist so tightly that his short, uneven fingernails almost break the skin on his sandpaper-rough palm. Suddenly he steps closer to his former adversary, tapping his fist against his thigh as a means of letting out some stress.

Jason Natas: Oh yeah? An’ what’chu gonna do about it? Hit me in the skull with a pineapple?

Bryan Dawkins: Well bruh, I figured I could put ya on your ass again. Ya know, like I did at UltraViolence? But I guess you’ve probably forgotten all about that already, huh?

No. No he hasn’t.

If there’s one thing that boils Jason Natas’ piss, it’s a gloating Bryan Dawkins. Either way, Jason refuses to give The Flyin’ Hawaiian the satisfaction of seeing him losing his cool. He unballs his hand and uses it to assist another drag from the cigarette.

Jason Natas: ‘Course I ain’t, kid. Remember it like it was yesterday, but don’t think for a second that yer even the slightest of concerns t’me anymore, Dawkins. See, s’like I tell each an’ every one of you fuckin’ retards every week; wins an’ losses? They ain’t shit. So maybe you caught me at UltraViolence, maybe you beat me. S’not like I give a flying fuck. I’ve moved on to bigger an’ better things, Bryan, so do yerself a favor and hit the bricks. B’sides, what ya doin’ out here, tryin’ to reopen old wounds? Ain’t this the part of the show ya spend seein’ how far ya can get that nose of yours up Chandler’s asshole?

Bryan Dawkins: Haven’t changed a bit, bruh. Ya talk and talk and talk and talk, but the only time I see ya do anything is when you’re outta the ring, bruh. At least when I back myself up, it’s in the ring, where it counts. And last time I checked, bruh, havin’ Chan in my corner helped me beat your ass, didn’t it?

Jason Natas: Heh.

The Anti-Superstar folds his arms across his chimneystack chest.

Jason Natas: S’cute kid, really. Ya should be thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ some of that "motivational speaking" shit, ya know? Think ya’d make a killin’. If it’s fightin’ yer after, name the time and place, shitbird, an’ I’ll show ya first-hand what happens these days when a guy sticks his nose in ol’ Jase’s business. In the meanwhile, why don’t ya run along an’ see Chan and Ty? I’m sure they’re just dying to hear you cry ‘bout yer fuckin’ dead girlfriend for the fifteen-millionth time…

Silence.

It had been more than a month, but it still hurt; it was still an open wound. Normally, Dawkins would remark with a trademark witty comeback ending with the word "bruh", but not today. Today, Bryan Dawkins simply walks away…

…for this was a fight he couldn’t continue tonight.

"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!

The sound comes before the picture. It’s a hum that’s synonymous with the age of technology, that quiet whirr of processors and chips and all the confusing stuff that makes computers go but no one except for Bill Gates understands.

Picture illuminates the situation slightly, although the scene doesn’t seem to have much to do with PRIME. A dozen or so yuppie-looking vanilla-flavored persons stare at computer screens. Some type frantically, some scratch away at scrap paper, and others just watch their screens pensively.

This, you might imagine, is what people do for money if they can’t just run around in underpants and beat each other up.

"Flunkies!"

All heads spin in the same direction simultaneously, and the camera follows. It finds the chiseled features that can only mean one thing: the metro-gorgeous Universal Champion. Those features, however, paint a picture of anger, and it doesn’t take much to figure out why.

Chandler Tsonda: Everyone drop what you’re doing.

The computer people, now easily identifiable as Tsonda interns, by virtue of the fact that the Model Citizen is yelling at them and they’re not putting up a fight, look around at one another.

Chandler Tsonda: Priorities have changed. I don’t give a thimbleful of a shit about the Jewel in the Crown for the moment. We’re switching over every resource to videotape analysis of quote-unquote "El Spiffy".

One of the Tsonda interns raises his hand innocently. The look he gets in return from the Viet Viper is a mixture of confusion and irritation.

Chandler Tsonda: You there.

Tsonda Intern #376: Yes, Mr. Tsonda. My name’s Derrick Watkins and I was wondering–

Chandler Tsonda: Derrick Watkins, unless you were wondering how you could get fired quickly and not receive the four college credits you were promised for this, shut it. This is a State of the Analysis Center and I’ll be damned if I’m taking any questions.

Derrick Watkins wisely recedes into the background, where the hum of computers can hide his muttered curse words.

Chandler Tsonda: Like I was saying, there is a poisonous character in our midst. But it’s not just the main man that we’re worried about. Somehow, someway…

The Model Citizen sighs. Trying to explain his conspiracy theory is threatening to put grey hairs on the most beautiful head of hair this side of Fabio. But he’s lost the freedom of appearing sane; in that way, whoever is behind the El Spiffy! mask has done their job.

Chandler Tsonda: …he’s recruited others to help him. If I start naming names without proof, it’ll just invite more skepticism. But if I can prove that he’s in cahoots with those assholes, then that’s a start.

It’s jarring to see the Universal Champion in such a state. He’s remade his reputation, painting himself a man of the people. But now the sudden reappearance of an old foe has him treading water just to stay afloat.

And even if nobody’s talking about it, there is something very fishy about the varied appearances those Spiffy!’s keep making…

Chandler Tsonda: Well?!

All the interns snap to attention, typing frantically or scurrying out of the room to pursue a "lead." It doesn’t always make sense, life as a Tsonda intern, but it teaches an important lesson to these future business leaders of America: you will never get through life without having a boss who’s crazy.

"Hey, what the…?"

The camera finds Bryan Dawkins in the doorway, looking quite surprised.

Chandler Tsonda: Good to see ya, kid. Step into the Analysis Center.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh…what did you do to my locker room?

Chandler Tsonda: Oh, right. Well, thing is that the wireless network was having some severe hiccups back in my locker room, and I figured you wouldn’t mind switching for the night.

The Flyin’ Hawaiian looks around, clearly still a bit perturbed that his locker room has been transformed into a section of the information highway.

Bryan Dawkins: (sighs)I mean, no, but…I was just tryin’ to have a quiet night to myself…the run-in with Natas earlier wasn’t exactly the greatest moment of my life.

Chandler Tsonda: No problem, kid. First, I give you a lesson, then I hand over the keys to the Tsonda Tsuite. Capice?

A light smile comes over Dawkins’ face, which has aged a couple years in the past weeks. No matter how much he goes to work and does his job, and no matter how many cheers the young man elicits, he can’t just flip a switch and be over Nikkie.

But the godfather of his son has promised to stand by him, to show him the way. And the realization of this promise offers fleeting respite from everything.

Bryan Dawkins: Sounds good, bruh. So…you wanna explain all this?

Chandler Tsonda: This is how you win matches.

Spreading his arms over his technological domain, Tsonda closes his eyes, awash in the comfort of pre-match preparation.

Bryan Dawkins: I…don’t get it? How does this help me win matches, bruh?

Chandler Tsonda: It’s all about being prepared, kid. Now I used to be like you, a brash reactionary high flyer. Fans love it, even if they hate you. And believe me…they did.

A strange moment of pathos for Tsonda, who now finds himself sticking by some of the tactics that made him so unappealing to the fans. He shakes his head, continuing.

Chandler Tsonda: When does the match start, Dawkins?

Bryan Dawkins: After they ring the bell, obvio–

Chandler Tsonda: Survey saaaaaaaaays…nope. The match starts the second you arrive at the arena. From that moment, every step of preparation will come into play in deciding the winner of the match. For example, why do you think I was the first person to pin Kaiser Vashaun in PRIME?

Bryan Dawkins: ‘Cuz of Locke, the murderer? (sighs…)

Chandler Tsonda: What? No, of course not. I won because I spent the night having my interns put together a list of Vashaun’s in-ring tendencies. I knew all about the fact that he has a tough time raising his shoulder to do a correct powerbomb. I slipped out, and the rest is history that The Next In The Unemployment Line would rather forget.

Bryan Dawkins: Gotcha. So you’re sayin’ I should study my opponents for the tourney? Figure out their weaknesses so that I’m ready to exploit them when the time comes? Sounds like a lotta work, bruh…

Chandler Tsonda: It’s a simple lesson, but if somebody had told me this earlier, I’d have been running this place years ago.

Bryan Dawkins: And you’re not worried that all this computer stuff takes your focus off actually going out there and wrestling? I mean, sounds like tons of info for a match that might take…what…fifteen minutes, bruh?

The Sultan of Style pulls his title belt from a nearby chair, wrapping it around his shoulder in his preferred position.

Chandler Tsonda: Kid, you know me well enough to realize that I’ve got the in-ring prowess to back up my big mouth. So do you.

Bryan Dawkins: So it’s like…you do all the necessary preparation, so that once you get out there, it’s second nature?

Chandler Tsonda: You’re a natural at this learning stuff, kid.

Bryan Dawkins: But what about the fact that I’ve got eight potential opponents in the second round? Poses kind of a problem, eh, bruh?

Chandler Tsonda: You’re gonna need a lotta interns, kid.

With all the air of the sage-king Confucius, Tsonda wraps his arm around Dawkins’s shoulder, leading him out of the room and into the hallway, presumably towards his locker room.

Bryan Dawkins: Wait…is your locker room bigger than mine?

Chandler Tsonda: Shit yeah. I’m doing you a favor, little buddy. And I’ll see to it that you get all the pineapple your heart desires.

Bryan Dawkins: Fed Nick his first crushed up pineapple the other day. From the sounds that were comin’ outta that little guy’s mouth, I think he loves it just as much as his old man. I’m tellin ya, bruh…ya should try the stuff.

A smile streaks across Tsonda’s face at the mention of Dawkins’s son. Others may forget that Bryan Dawkins is a full-time dad, in addition to being one of PRIME’s rising stars. But Tsonda not-so-secretly enjoys the updates.

Chandler Tsonda: Sounds like he’s quite…the…

Bryan Dawkins: What’s the prob…oh.

The two have stopped outside what used to be Chandler Tsonda’s locker room. Tonight, it belong to Bryan Dawkins. And Bryan Dawkins has stepped into quite a problem.

A thick red substance covers every inch of the floor, and is leaking out into the hallway where the two men stand. The door has been knocked off its hinges and it, too, is lying down covered in the red goop.

Chandler Tsonda: Him.

Bryan Dawkins: Now, Chan, there’s probably a real good explanation for this. After all, it’s my locker room now. Maybe Locke’s still got hard feelings or…what are you doin’?

The Universal Champion swipes a finger into the red substance.

Chandler Tsonda: INTERN!

As if by magic, one rounds the corner, panting.

Tsonda Intern #49: Sir?

Chandler Tsonda: Taste this.

After a couple muttered comments of an uncouth nature, the intern takes the small dap from Tsonda’s finger, and, somewhat disgustingly, chows down.

Chandler Tsonda: Lemme guess. It’s fucking salsa.

Tsonda Intern #49: Yeah, and quite tasty, if I could add.

Chandler Tsonda: You couldn’t. (turns to Dawkins) You think Chalk White just drowned the room in salsa?

There is only silence from Bryan Dawkins, whose hope of a quiet night seems all but gone. Without another word, the Universal Champion storms off, leaving an unlikely duo in his wake.

Tsonda Intern #49: Should we–

Bryan Dawkins: Nah, bruh…nah.

Later, when asked, some ring workers in the area will report having seen El Spiffy! in the area. Except the Spiffy! was taller and skinnier than they remembered. The ring worker, whose claims seem too rumor-like to be taken seriously, will also remember a flash of black cherry hair.

Marilyn Manson pounds from the speakers and SCCW’s own Clayton Byrd slowly drags his large frame towards the ring, ready for another crack at JITC glory. It doesn’t take long for the tunes to be replaced by Metallica’s seminal "Master of Puppets" and a warm smattering of cheers greets the arrival of the giant Hank Cobb.

Darke’s out next, jeered by a significant portion of the crowd that recalls his Global dominance from a time not so long ago. He takes his place in the ring as "Quiet Storm" signals the entrance of Jimmy "The PosterBoy" Bonafide, who takes some time to work the crowd on his way down.

Attention turns to the ramp as Saliva blasts. The reaction from the crowd is almost deafening as the arena prepares for the arrival of Killian Sirrajin.

But something’s up. Even after 30 seconds of music, there is no sign of the Hall of Famer. As the announcers debate the lack of Sirrajin, Christian Darke wastes no time whatsoever and capitalises by attacking Jimmy Bonafide from behind. Soon enough "Ladies and Gentlemen" drifts away, leaving only the sounds of a crowd left confused by Killian Sirrajin’s absence.

Back to the match and it’s a pier six brawl. Darke has Bonafide in the palm of his hand as the two giants, Byrd and Cobb, engage each other in a brawl that threatens to break the ring in half, such is their combined intensity.

We’ll focus on the two smaller men for now, shall we?

Christian Drake, the former Global champion, is using his superior size to great effect and he hardly lets Bonafide get a punch in. He brings The PosterBoy to the floor with a legsweep and looks to apply an armbar, but Bonafide plants his hand on the bottom rope and the referee admonishes Darke when he refuses to break the hold. Darke tries to slow Bonafide’s rise with stomps, but soon enough The PosterBoy ducks under a clothesline and takes Darke down with a leg lariat.

Outside the ring, Byrd is bringing the pain and whips Cobb into the ring steps. He slides in under the bottom rope and spends a couple of seconds watching Bonafide put a beating on Darke with a senton splash getting a two count. Bored, Cobb grabs the smaller man from behind and forces him into the corner, going to work with some stiff body shots followed by a backbreaker for a one count broken up by Darke.

Christian keeps up the fast and furious pace of the match by laying into Byrd, but he doesn’t pay enough attention to Bonafide who takes him down from behind and then dropkicks him out of the ring. As Byrd rises to his feet, Bonafide charges at him with a shining wizard for a two count, before almost being decapitated by a revived Hank Cobb.

The DUI member goes to work and starts having fun. He tosses Bonafide around like a ragdoll and flattens him with a choke bomb, before getting a measure of revenge on Byrd with a big boot and sidewalk slam. He climbs up and looks to take Clayton Byrd to his feet before head-butting him and scoop slamming him into the mat, but Darke slips into the ring and breaks the count again.

Now Christian Darke and Jimmy Bonafide are the men on their feet and the lay into each other again. Darke whips Bonafide against the ropes but both have the same idea on the rebound and flatten each other with simultaneous clotheslines.

Cobb rises up off the mat as the other two fall alongside him. He sizes them up and plays a quick round of "eeny meeny" before deciding that Bonafide is the one who will get his patented Salad Tosser big splash, a move and name that I just made up and actually isn't a trademark of the Hankster (though it should be).

Cobb bounces against the ropes and charges forward with a running start. Before he can leap for the splash, he's taken off his feet by a rising Axe Bomber for Clayton Byrd! The massive Cobb flies through the air to the awe of the crowd. Byrd doesn't notice the show, but he wavers slightly before toppling over into a weak cover on Christian Darke. The referee drops down to count:

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Winner: Clayton Byrd

In any field of expertise, it's always a good idea to seek a little outside advice from those who have a little more history in it than yourself. Such is the case with a certain gravity-defying greenhorn, and thankfully...the first wrestler he approached was more than happy to help.

Unfortunately, that wrestler was High Flyer.

Dark Helmet: No, that's much too slow! We need to go directly to Ludicrous Speed!

Our shot is backstage in a makeshift lounge inside a conference room of the Amway Arena. Backs are turned opposite the viewfinder as "Science Fiction" Rudy Simpson and the belt-collecting member of Team VIAGRA gaze at a television set in front of them. A bag of Newman's Own is repeatedly dug into from Flyer's hand, and the sound of crunching popcorn faintly blends into the dialogue of the movie currently displayed on the big screen.

Dark Helmet: (crunch crunch) That's too slow! We must go directly (crunch crunch) to Ludicrous Speed!

As if it were a training video for a pimply-faced new hire for Burger King, High Flyer has suggested the use of the movie Spaceballs as a proper tool to help Rudy prepare for a match against Darth Varga. While not a bad choice cinematically...

Rudy Simpson: I'm still wondering how this is helping.

High Flyer: (crunch crunch) It won't if you keep talking. Oh! Best part.

Making this piece unnecessarily longer than it needs to be, the two look on as Colonel Sandurz prepares for Ludicrous Speed, ultimately passing Lone Star's Winnebago in a beam of transcending light. The Emergency Stop (Don't Use This Button Ever!) is pressed, sending the evil Dark Helmet crashing into the ship's steel-plated control unit. This prompts a hearty laugh from Flyer, who turns toward Rudy and ejects pieces of popcorn from his mouth with his loud bellowing.

High Flyer: You see that? Comedic genius, I tell you. It's like Abbott and Costello morphed into an immorphous blob and they're both telling concentrated jokes!

Rudy Simpson: Right. And once again, I'm still wondering how this is...mmrmph mmrmph!

Flyer silences the rookie by shoving some popcorn into his open mouth. He leaves his finger over his lips, forcing them closed. A bug-eyed expression across his face as he leans in close.

High Flyer: Lesson numbero eins. When engaged in a match with Darth Vegas, one must always know that parodies are always stupider than the object they mimic, and therefore, may cancell out any serious reference made by the Darthster.

More unswallowed particles of popcorn fly out of Flyer's mouth, hitting Rudy directly in the face. However, the youngster seems undeterred as his eyes light up, nodding knowingly.

Rudy Simpson: Mmrmph mmrmph rummmph!

Obviously, High Flyer has yet to remove the finger over the student's mouth.

High Flyer: Now then, interplanetary space grasshopper...you and I and everyone else knows that inside every turnbuckle lies a button to send the match into Ludicrous Speed. It's why tag team partners are constantly ripping off that padding. So! All you need to do is wait until the ol' zebra is distracted, untie the pad, and send his head crashing directly into it! You'll know it worked when the button's paint leaves a red stain on your opponent's forehead. I mean, it's just that simple... now give me the ten bucks you promised.

Rudy backs away from reach of the mighty shush finger, and shoots Flyer a look of bewilderment.

High Flyer: (crunch crunch) I know that look.

Rudy shrugs his shoulders, kicking a clod of fake dirt underneath his boot and quietly mumbles.

Rudy Simpson: But that's cheating.

SMACK. The sound of Flyer's hand to his own forehead is a little louder due to the movie theater butter topping coating his palm. Shaking his head, he grabs Rudy's shoulder(wiping his buttery remains in Rudy's hair) and plants his ass back down onto the stool.

High Flyer: I've got a pair of goody two shoes you can have. ALRIGHT FINE. You know what? I have a better idea.

Flyer strolls over to a rack of DVD's that stands in the far corner of the room. The camera follows close, picking up a shot of an array of titles on said rack such as Ishtar, Ernest Goes to Camp, Gigli, and The Princess Bride just to name a few. Finger tracing each case, Flyer stops on a DVD that reads "Revolution #".

High Flyer: A-ha!

He pulls the DVD out and displays it proudly, walking over to the television set and nodding at lil' Rudy.

Rudy Simpson: Wait...hold on just a second...that's the Revolution episode that's going on RIGHT NOW. How can they have already released it on DVD when it hasn't even been finished yet?

High Flyer: Incredible advancements in Japanese technology, my fine-feathered friend. Scientists behind such things as the jPhone...

Rudy Simpson: What's the jPhone?

High Flyer: The iPhone... that kills.

The look on Rudy's face can only be described as what the shot looked like whenever Beavis & Butt-Head were asked a question in which they had no idea what the answer was. Mouth slightly agape, no movement whatsoever.

High Flyer: These scientists have made it possible to watch what's going to happen in the future before it even happens...on DVD!

Rudy Simpson: Yeah, but...

High Flyer: But what?

Rudy Simpson: That's a Blu-Ray player.

Flyer's smile immediately whitewashes into a look of utter disappointment, letting the DVD case fall to the ground.

High Flyer: ... Urge to kill... rising...

The multi-champ stands upright, now suddenly determined to finish this mission...resorting to a measure that he absolutely did not want to do...but hey, ten bucks is ten bucks, and he was going to get it, by George! Reaching into his pants...

Rudy Simpson: Please no...

...a sigh of relief is breathed from Simpson when a bag of red liquid is pulled out. Yes, it does resemble a colostomy bag, and yes, the sigh of relief was a little bit premature.

Rudy Simpson: Uhm...

High Flyer: SILENCIO! Now, I didn't want to have to do this, but the truth is...I like you, kid. You got spunk, you got rad facepaint, and you got money that I'm not going to get unless I help you win that match! (Extremely fast)I also lost my copy of Spaceballs and wish to steal your copy when you're inside jubilant celebration. (normal)Now then...

Flyer digs into his pocket, and retrieves a neon green straw. Poking it into the bag, he strides over to Rudy and offers it up to him as if it were a delicious Capri Sun, coaxing the straw toward his lips. Obviously, "Science Fiction" is a little hesitant about drinking red fluid that had been resting against Flyer's thigh for God knows how long.

High Flyer: Drink up! But just a sip. It's like vamp blood but not.

Rudy Simpson: What...what is it?

High Flyer: Silly Jedi. This is...THE BORSCHT...and it is always with me!

Rudy Simpson: The borscht?

High Flyer: No, you idiot. THE BORSCHT. Drink of my bag, and THE BORSCHT will be with you, too! Until you excrete it later, in which case you will never be capable of beating me, since I am the keeper of THE BORSCHT.

Rudy stares at the bag momentarily, until throwing all caution to the wind and taking a hearty sip of the cold tomato soup. A look of wretched disgust crosses his face as he manages to choke down the awful THE BORSCHT.

High Flyer: Now...we haven't much time to complete your THE BORSCHT training, so obviously, we'll cut into this not pre-taped montage.

Queue Neil Young's "Rockin' In The Free World", and queue a bunch of scenes depicting Rudy Simpson's training regiment.

# There's colors on the street #
# Red, white and blue #
# People shufflin' their feet #
# People sleepin' in their shoes #

Simpson, struggling with a large sack that's almost twice his size on his back, flips it over next to a washing machine in a seedy basement. Flyer stands next to him, nodding in approval as Rudy pulls out dirty socks, underwear, pants, and V.I.A.G.R.A. t-shirts and places them inside the washer. Pouring detergent inside before closing the lid and turning it on, Flyer grabs his shoulder and shakes his head in disapproval. He hands him a container of Snuggle fabric softener and points to the machine, demanding his clothes smell like the stuffed bear on the commercials.

# But there's a warnin' sign #
# on the road ahead #
# There's a lot of people sayin' #
# we'd be better off dead #

With a putter in his hand, Rudy takes a beautiful swing that sends a red golf ball around the loop-de-loop and rolls just a few feet away from the hole. Flyer nods his head approvingly as he drops his green ball onto the tee pad, stopping it in place with his foot. His shot...not so great, as he putts with a little too much force, sending the ball careening around the loop and into a grassy knoll off to the side of the course. Flyer turns his back as Rudy shrugs, walking over to retrieve the ball and placing it down onto the green exactly one millimeter away from the hole. Flyer turns and pumps his arms in approval, then throws the putter high in the air in victory.

# Don't feel like Satan, #
# but I am to them #
# So I try to forget it, #
# any way I can. #

The trainer and trainee stand and listen with intent at a local Best Buy as the sloppy-haired teen employee explains all the benefits of purchasing a Blu-Ray player.

# Keep on rockin' in the free world, #
# Keep on rockin' in the free world #

With one hand holding a scoop and the other scraping up a caramel-colored mound of canine shit, Rudy raises it up and proceeds to dump it inside a paper bag held open by Flyer. A BIC is retrieved, and the two sneak up on someone's unsuspecting porch...light a flame, ring the doorbell...and run away giggling like schoolgirls. As they pass the mailbox, the camera focuses in on the "CANTRELL" in stickered lettering on the side.

# Keep on rockin' in the free world, #
# Keep on rockin' in the free world #

And the montage comes to a close, revealing Flyer and Simpson standing at the exact same spot we had left them.

High Flyer: So...how do you feel?

Rudy Simpson: Actually...a little bit queasy...

High Flyer: Excellent, my friend. That means it's working!

Flyer smiles as he turns him in the opposite direction and gives a friendly kick to Rudy's butt, sending him off to destroy the one known as Darth Varga.

High Flyer: THE BORSCHT is strong with this one.

He nods with pride as he takes the bag containing the remainder of THE BORSCHT and places it back into his pants. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about the hole that was poked in it with the straw...

High Flyer: EXCELSIOR~!

Flyer frowns, looking down at his borscht stained trousers.

High Flyer: ... I hate buying new pants. I always buy the freaking piano at Nordstroms and forget entirely about buying pants. Anyway, FLYER FLY~!

And with that, he leaps off frame, much as the Hurricane would have done back in the day.

There are two ways to deal with disrespect. One is the moral high ground, and the other, well…it’s the option currently being espoused by the Universal Champion.

"Auuuuugh!"

It’s not a word. It’s a cry, a shriek, and the closest thing to a roar in Chandler Tsonda’s verbal repertoire. That sound is also a precursor to another sound: a table, filled with various printed promotional material, crashing to the floor. Several flyers for King of Kings, previously on the table, gently glide through the air around the Viet Viper.

Tsonda doesn’t see it. He’s moved on to the next act of destruction, kicking over a large trash can, which spills its contents unceremoniously. With a mighty heave, Tsonda takes the can and heaves it with both hands towards the nearest wall. The only sound to be heard is Tsonda’s labored panting; everyone who might’ve been in this area cleared out when they saw the incensed champion heading this way.

"Fussy little cunt, aren’t ya?"

Except for one.

Jason Natas’s newly-trimmed blonde hair is covered, as usual, by a bandanna. The rest of his outfit probably costs as much as Tsonda’s left shoe, but one might argue that he’s going for the badass couture look. The pleased sneer on his face would make 99% of the population very, very uncomfortable.

Chandler Tsonda: (pants)If you know what’s good for you…get the fuck outta my sight.

Jason Natas: Funny ya should say that, boyo. Ain’t ever had much luck at knowin’ what’s good fer me. But those words, comin’ from your mouth? Shit’s just funny.

When the Anti-Superstar calls his bluff, Tsonda quietly seethes. After Spiffy!’s latest attack, he’s in no state to take on the fresh and ready-to-brawl Natas, so physical coercion is out of the question. Besides…there’s not a man in PRIME, save the scarce Wade Elliott, who can hold their own in a down-and-out street fight with Natas.

So, like we said…quietly seething.

Jason Natas: Looks to me like somebody’s playin’ ya like a fiddle. An’ all Mr. Big Bad Champion can do is break some shit backstage?

The punchline would be something like "that’s pathetic," but Natas doesn’t need to say it. He knows it stings more than Tsonda has to think it to himself.

Chandler Tsonda: A lotta grapefruits from a guy who just struck out twice in a tournament that I already won.

Jason Natas: An’ you must have the balls of a fuckin’ rhinoceros t’be talkin’ shit to me, considerin’ everything.

Chandler Tsonda: Considering…"everything?"

Jason Natas: That Enemigo buddy of yours is stompin’ you out and fuckin’ your shit up, makin’ ya look every bit the sissy little bitch I always knew ya were. Cantrell’s champ is all over the place; throwin’ a bitch-ass sissy fit, makin’ himself look like a little fuckin’ girl, an’ ol’ Ceeps ain’t even lifted a finger. Sounds like the champ doesn’t have much protection. An’ now he’s all alone with the nastiest wolf in the pack, mouth writin’ checks that his ass doesn’t have a chance of cashin’.

The Anti-Superstar takes a step forward, doing his best to pressure The Viet Viper.

Chandler Tsonda: You think that, with enough of those gravelly-voiced threats of yours, I’m gonna pull up my dress and run for the hills?

Jason Natas: Seems about right, Sally.

Chandler Tsonda: Well, I’m still standing here, daring you to hit me or step the fuck off.

Jason Natas: An’ I’m tellin’ ya that the special treatment you get for bein’ Universal Champion just expired. Ya should know that heapin’ further misery on yer fuckin’ pitiful existence wouldn’t bring me any extra pleasure, but you make a statement like that again…an’ I’ll have no choice but to take you up on it. Other words, fuck you, Mr. Champion.

Chandler Tsonda: Fuck you back, you fucking mutt.

Jason Natas: Fuckin’ right.

When we say that the Anti-Superstar shoulders past Tsonda, it’s somewhat of an understatement. He deliberately makes his path go through Tsonda, and the shoulder bump might’ve caused a down-and-out brawl another night. But Natas doesn’t turn around, and Tsonda doesn’t give him the pleasure of any more conversation.

Tsonda sneers as Natas walks away, then he continues on his labored stomp, toning down the property destruction as he storms toward the research hub he'd set up in Bryan Dawkins his locker room.

When he arrives on the scene, he sees the door to the room hanging slightly open. Seeing as how he was already dangling precariously on the edge of a huge blow-up, this was just the irritation he didn't need. Running forward, he kicks the door open with some sort of karate-style shit. The doorknob slams into the adjacent wall and Chandler bursts in, startling the man he was expecting to catch. Or rather, startling the closest available facsimile to the man he wanted to catch.

The mask is there, hiding wide eyes and an "oh shit" expression. It just so happens that those eyes and that expression happen to belong to a Buick-sized African-American man who is still holding a keyboard in one hand. At the sight of this bigger, blacker El Spiffy!, Chandler is equally enraged and wounded.

Chandler Tsonda: And you also, Dametreyus?

"El Spiffy!": (under his breath) ain't gon' take the last cheese danish next time...

Chandler Tsonda: What?

"El Spiffy!": I said, uh, no habla Ingles.

Tsonda's nostrils flare, but instead of charging the intruder and exacting his revenge on the spot, he weighs the pros and cons of leaping at the man who he THINKS is behind the mask, and instead turns to one of the many computer monitors in the room.

Almost immediately, his furor is converted to a look of concern.

Chandler Tsonda: Did you...did you put a virus on my system?!

"El Spiffy!": El Muerte Negro, my negro.

Chandler Tsonda: "The Black Death"?

"El Spiffy!": Uh, si.

Chandler Tsonda: (staring at the floor) Get the fuck out.

"El Spiffy!": Uh, yo soy i los-

Chandler Tsonda: I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!

The outburst startles "El Spiffy!" again, and he shuffles toward the door a few times before slipping out into the hallway and breaking into a jog. As he disappears from view, another crew member walks by in the opposite direction.

Crew Member: Hey, Dam.

"El Spiffy!": STOP SNITCHIN'!

The Viet Viper just stares at the glowing blue computer screen in front of him, veins starting to rise in his head as he stews over this latest development. The repeated harassment was nearing critical mass, and now he knew that the longer he waited, the more opportunities "El Spiffy!" would have to keep messing with him.

Chandler ripped the monitor up from the table and threw it at the wall, breaking it to pieces. His breaths come heavy as he stands in the dark room, the light from the hallway casting shadows across his furrowed brow.

This was no longer the time to sit back and play the noble, gallant champion. This was time to take action.

"Escape Pod For Intangibles" by Hopesfall hits and "Science Fiction" Rudy Simpson comes walking out with Theresa Applewhite. They walk to the ring and Simpson climbs inside to a good ovation from the fans as Applewhite takes her place at ringside.

Nick: Simpson looks ready for his match this evening.

Richard: I call this the Twilight Zone match of the evening.

Nick: What are you talking about?

Richard: Well one guy thinks he’s from outer space and the other guy thinks he is a character from a movie that takes place in outer space.

The arena lights fade to black and the entrance is filled by a dark red light. The entrance aisle is filled with an eerie fog looking fog as "Imperial March" from the Star Wars, Episode V: Empire Strikes Back soundtrack begins playing over the loud speakers. Darth Varga comes out to the ring. However, as he does, he is jumped from behind by someone wielding a lead pipe! The camera quickly zooms in to show that it is James Varga!

Richard: THAT’S JAMES VARGA!

Nick: WHAT?! WHAT’S HE DOING OUT HERE?!

The smoke in the aisle dissipates, the music fades out, and James continues to beat down Darth. He then pulls him to his feet, drags him to the ring, and rolls him in. James then climbs into the ring and tells the ref to call for the bell.

Nick: What the hell is this? Darth is unconscious and unable to compete.

Richard: That much is obvious.

EMT’s come out to check on Darth and the ref points to James and tells him something. James can’t stop laughing and asks him if he’s serious. Just then the bell sounds and James turns around only to be caught in a quick Keyhole Roll! The ref goes for the count!

One…

Two…

James gets his shoulder up! James to his feet and Simpson takes him down again with a dropkick as Darth is rolled out on a stretcher. James then rolls out to the floor to regroup only to be confronted by some of the Church’s Unholy Druids who aren’t too happy that both Darth and the Horny Mathematician have been sent to the hospital tonight because of James.

Nick: Uh-oh. I think Varga’s sneak attacks have backfired this time.

Richard: I don’t think he cares.

James turns around only to be hit by a Plancha courtesy of Rudy Simpson.

Nick: PLANCHA FROM SIMPSON!

Richard: Nice move there.

Simpson pulls James to his feet and rolls him into the ring. He then hesitates and looks at the Druids for a moment before crawling in only to be booted in the head by James. James shakes out the cobwebs and then starts laying the boots into Simpson’s midsection. James then pulls Simpson to his feet and hits him with a European Uppercut. Simpson staggers back only to kick James in the midsection. James charges in again and the same thing happens. The Druids then climb up on the apron and James sees them.

Nick: This doesn’t look good.

Richard: You’ve got that right. Who knows what the hell is going to happen now.

James goes over and slaps them both in the face hard! The Druids fall off the apron. Simpson turns James around and grabs him into a small package. However James kicks out before the ref can go for the count and both men are back to their feet.

James goes for a roundhouse right but Simpson ducks it! When James turns around Simpson catches him with the Dustin Diamond Cutter! Simpson goes for the cover!

One…

Two…

THREE!!!!

The bell sounds and Simpson is declared the winner by the referee. The Church comes running out at this point but James runs into the crowd and disappears before they can get him.

CHINK!

"Thought two fellers might be able to sort out their differences with a pair of brewskies."

Jason Natas, who had been taking it easy inside of his locker room, span to the sound of glass on glass finding the One-Armed Wrecking Crew standing in the door-way of his locker-room with a pair of Heinekens.

Natas: Ain’t no "differences" b’tween us, Conehead. Matter of fact, ya ain’t even on my raider; yer a fuckin’ joke.

Brock laughs and meanders in, with both arms extended, the beers in his good hand. He shrugs at the Anti-Superstar and smiles.

Shepherd: Awww... c'mon. Mean, a couple of fellers like you and me could make this place their own, right? Two rough an' tumble sons of bitches. Don't mean to speak ill of yer mama and all, but we're the meanest SOB's on the fucken PRIME roster, right?

Shepherd kept coming closer, not fearing the Anti-Superstar, as so many had before.

Shepherd: Shit, Jas'. Me and you could even pro'ly take a run at Flyer and Davis' straps. The One-Armed Wreckin' Crew and the Anti-Superstar could run rings 'round them boys. Don'cha think? We're a pair of regular bad ass motherfuckers. Whaddaya say me an' you knock down these beers and let bygones be just that... bygones.

Jason cocks his head to the side, curious of the intentions of the One-Armed Wrecking Crew. Standing firm and resolute, he casts his gaze down towards the beers in Shepherd’s hands.

Natas: Well first-off, I oughta be throwin’ yer head through the wall over there for thinkin’ ya can just stroll into my territory like ya own the place. Ain’t wise to be tryin’ my patience like that, Shep. Ain’t wise at all. Ask Dusk if ya don’t believe me.

Shepherd: Ain’t no need for that, man. I’m not here to kick up the shit, just here with a little peace offering is all.

Shepherd smiles a toothy grin and, using his thumb, dislodges one of the already-loosened bottle caps, sending it tumbling to the concrete floor.

Shepherd: Besides, you think I’d be wasting a cold one on ya if I was here to fight ya?

The smile remains as Brock pulls his head back and pours ice cold beer down his throat. He nods, a satisfied "ahhhh" escaping his lips. The Anti-Superstar, meanwhile, remains unconvinced by Brock Shepherd.

Natas: Alright fella; listen close and listen good. I ain’t in this game to make friends – shit, I ain’t in this life for a fuckin’ popularity contest – so don’t think that by wavin’ a bottle ‘a beer in my face ya can sway me. ‘Sides, why the fuck would I wanna be puttin’ my trust in a guy who, last time I saw him, was tellin’ me to "watch my back, huh?"

Again Brock’s reaction leaves the Anti-Superstar utterly dumbfounded. The One-Armed Wrecking Crew chuckles, laughing off Jason’s hostility.

Shepherd: Don't get yer panties in a twist, sweetheart. There’s no beef here. What we had, you and I, was a little misunderstandin’, nothin' more - nothin' less. It happens all the time, y'know? What I’m sayin’ is we just sweep it all under the doormat, forget it ever happened. An' it’s just like I said; me an’ you? Two of the baddest motherfuckers on the roster. We team up and you know people are gonna be quakin’ in their boots.

Jason Natas is tetchy, uncomfortable as a situation that is completely alien to him begins to envelope him. Not once since entering PRIME in April has anybody ever approached him backstage seeking his allegiance. Hardly surprising, given his stoic "trust nobody" outlook and generally odious behaviour. He tried his hardest to avoid unnecessary communication with his roster-mates, especially early on in his PRIME career, and he’s well-renowned throughout the locker-room as being the last approachable man in wrestling.

And yet here was Brock Shepherd, offering him a cold beer and a pledge of allegiance, just seven days after a heated spat between the two had to be split up by a conveniently-position PRIME security team.

Something wasn’t right.

Natas: Ain’t gonna lie t’ya; the tag team thing? Ain’t gonna happen. My business is exactly that - mine. An’ I don’t need nobody in my corner to stick their oar in.

He shifts his weight from one foot and the other, then back again. Carefully, Jason considers his options.

Natas: An’ forgive me if I ain’t exactly jumpin’ at the chance to take ya up on yer offer, ‘cause honestly, I haven’t the slightest spark of interest in bein’ some kinda ally to yeah, Shep. But I guess if it means I’ve got one less reason t’ be lookin’ over my shoulder…

He pauses, words trailing off temporarily.

Jason glances and Shepherd, looking him up and down. Aside from Brock’s obvious physical misfortune, the similarities between the two of them are immense. Both are of hefty, rugged builds; rugged torsos of granite built for war and peppered with the scars of war. To the average PRIME fan, a Brock Sheperd/Jason Natas tandem would make perfect sense.

Natas: … well, maybe we can come t’some sort ‘a arrangement.

The width of the smile on Shepherd’s face suddenly increases as he once again extends the bottle towards Natas.

Shepherd: You see? I knew ya’d come to yer senses!

Carefully, still not completely dropping his guard, Jason grabs the beer from Shepherd’s hand and pops the cap.

Natas: Yeah, yeah.

The Anti-Superstar shrugs. Finally he shifts his vision from Shepherd; pulling his head back, swallowing a mouthful of beer.

CRASH!

Before Jason Natas knew what struck him the first thing he saw was red. The red being his own blood running down his forehead before the ground came up to kiss him on the mouth.

Brock Shepherd had smashed his own beer bottle right on the forehead of Jason Natas. Clobbering him good and proper and the One-Armed Wrecking Crew was swift to remove Natas' bottle from his hand. Brock lines up like a pitcher and throws the second bottle hard into the back of the Anti-Superstar's head.

KERRR-RUNCH!

Natas rolled around on the floor while Brock Shepherd smashed a few boots into his belly. He rolled Natas onto his back and straddled his chest and began to punch on the syllables.

Shepherd: NEVER!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: EVER!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: TRY!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: YOUR!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: SHIT!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: ON ME!

PUNCH!

Shepherd: AGAIN!

PUNCH!

Shepherd rises to his feet, standing over Jason Natas, whose face was hidden behind a mask of crimson red blood. The Amputee Poster Boy kisses his prosthetic hand, which was covered in Natas' blood. Then he ran his forearm across his mouth to remove the blood which had transferred from his prosthetic to his face.

Wiping his prosthetic on a white towel from Natas' locker room Shepherd smiles a sadistic smile before tossing the towel over Jason's face.

Shepherd: Shit, fuckface. You better clean yerself up an' look a little respectable. I got a little epiphany for ya, Jas'.

He chokes on his own laugh.

Shepherd: Know the only thing more embarrassin' than havin' one hand?

He pauses, as if Natas might respond, but he's too busy clutching his face as medics arrive in his locker room, stepping carefully around the smashed beer bottles.

Shepherd: It's havin' yer ass handed to ya by a one armed man. Notably, the One-Armed Wreckin' Crew. See Jas', yer ego's writin' checks that yer body can't cash. An' I'm outta beers so... guess I'll be seein' ya.

Pushing medics aside to leave the locker room, Brock Shepherd can't help but chuckle to himself as he just laid out the baddest sonofabitch on the PRIME roster. Heading out into the corridors he knew he'd had one victory for the night.

One that would make things just that little bit more interesting between he and the Anti-Superstar.

Like you heard earlier, Mills works hard for the money. So when we find the man backstage, red-faced under his cake HD makeup and showing the wear that it required to set up this next little segment, you gotta take a moment to appreciate. You won't, though, because let's be honest, no one likes Matt Mills.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, one week after bringing you the exclusive comments from Danny Ferguson regarding this mysterious El Spiffy! controversy, I am one step further to getting to the bottom of this mystery.

He shuffles his feet, the pause lengthened by a combination of smugness and nervousness. Finally, the camera pulls back to reveal PRIME's #1 interviewer (by default) standing alongside the enigmatic El Spiffy!

Matt Mills: Here tonight, I, Matt Mills, bring you the first-ever on camera interview with...El Spiffy!

The masked man clears his throat. You have seen this schtick enough to know how it goes. The mask is the same, but everything else has changed. This isn't the man in black who interrupted Ferguson's video segment last week. This isn't the car-jacking midget he chased off at the end of the show. This isn't the black man that was cornered in the ReTsearch Room, nor the tall, feminine "man" lugging the gallon jugs of salsa around.

This time out, El Spiffy! is taller than Mills, but not towering. The mouth of the mask is overrun by stray beard hairs poking through at all possible angles. The lecherous look in the man's eye is matched by the twisted grin on his face. A well-tailored, professional-looking suit in a deep slate gray contrasts strongly with the yellow, red and green of the mask. Before Mills asks his first question, he takes note of the man's weathered and worn hands. As he wrings them over and over, a ring with a very unique "§" symbol is visible.

Matt Mills: Now, um, El Spiffy?

The luchador raises his hand to the sky, and EL MICRÓFONO DE LA VIEJA ESCUELA lowers down from out of nowhere and into his hand.

"El Spiffy!": El Spiffy!

Matt Mills: Like Steve Holt!?

"El Spiffy!": Uh, si.

Matt Mills: Ok, then. El Spiffy!, you have spent the last couple weeks terrorizing Chandler Tsonda - is there a reason you're going after the Universal Champion?

"El Spiffy!": Um...si.

Matt Mills: Do you intend to continue this antagonism?

"El Spiffy!": (under his breath) of course you stupid fucking... UHHH, si.

Matt Mills: And to what end will you continue these attacks?

"El Spiffy!": (sweating it out a little) Uh...si?

Mills shakes his head and "El Spiffy!" lets out a sigh, trying to signal the interviewer to back off with his eyebrows...which are hidden under the mask.

Matt Mills: No, but WHY?

"El Spiffy!": Uh...

He quickly turns away from the camera and lets off a string of vocabulary that would have to be edited on the Telemundo broadcast of our program (ReVolucion).

"El Spiffy!": Coño, cabron, y maricon, y hijo de puta, mierda!

He turns back around and stares at Mills for a few seconds, but sees that he's not getting any leeway.

"El Spiffy!": Uh, uno, dos, grande...um...con queso...cinco de mayo...

Mills just nods along with the answer, and "El Spiffy!"s shoulders sag.

"El Spiffy!": Look-

Before he can say another English word, a loud bang from down the hallway attracts their attention. The camera swings toward the source of the sound to find Chandler Tsonda headed toward them with a steel chair in his hand. The camera swings back to "El Spiffy!", who looks right at it in a moment of panic.

"El Spiffy!": Arriba, arriba, andele, andele!

The masked man sprints off in the other direction, leaving EL MICRÓFONO DE LA VIEJA ESCUELA twisting in the wind, and leaving Mills and the cameraman to the devices of the Universal Champion and his un-equalizer. Tsonda reaches Mills in a jog, but stops there, not pursuing further. Matt immediately launches into full-blown Numbah One Interviewah mode again.

Matt Mills: Chandler, what do you-

Chandler Tsonda: Eat a dick, Mills.

He grabs the mic and shoves Matt aside, reducing the scene down to just he and the camera. He stares straight into the lens and delivers his next few words with an unflinching stare.

Chandler Tsonda: Listen to me. I don't care where you are or even who you think you are at this point. It ends tonight. If you want so badly to keep jacking with me and my business, then you will stop pulling it behind my back and you will meet me in the ring TONIGHT. The Universal Title is on the line. Cantrell, sign the contract, I don't give a shit. Whoever's behind all this bullshit, I'm smoking you out. COME AND GET ME.

He throws the mic down and storms off in the other direction, leaving Matt, the cameraman and the viewing audience in a sort of excited shock. The camera stays on Tsonda as he walks off, and he slams down the steel chair to a cacophony of steel on cement before we cut away.

The cameras return ringside as Fusenshoff circles the ring, boxing the air to the beat of his entrance music. Ready for another shot at glory, the EPW wrestler watches as Dame Dillon appears from the backstage area, rapping his way to the ring and pulling off the impressive feat of sounding nowhere near as tumbleweed-inducing as R-Truth.

The over-the-top bombast of Chris Cornell’s "You Know My Name" is up next and the fans cheer the arrival of the veteran former Intense Title holder. Troy Douglas slaps hands with a few fans on his way to the ring, before sliding under the bottom rope and focusing his attentions on his adversaries as Linkin Park begins to play. A typically negative reaction greets Dani Fuhrer who tries his best to pay no attention as he saunters down.

"Wild-Eyed Boy" by Birds of Tokyo hits and Fusenshoff is punished for paying too much attention to Brock Shepherd’s entrance. He’s clobbered from behind by Dani Fuhrer and this one’s underway.

Taking Fusenshoff to the floor as Douglas and Dillon go at it across the ring, Fuhrer lays into the EPW competitor with some vicious stomping. Dragging Fusenshoff across the ropes, Fuhrer drapes his neck across the bottom rope and uses his boot to choke the life out of him. Inevitably he is admonished by the referee, and takes it out on Fuse’ by pulling him to his feet, backing him into the corner and hitting a dropsault.

Meanwhile Troy Douglas is in control against Dame Dillon, using his size and strength to great effect. He pulls the guest star close and drops him with a short arm clothesline, before hitting the deck and locking on a reverse chinlock.

Having taken his time to get down to the ring, The One-Armed Wrecking Crew is in now and he’s a house of fire, clobbering Dani Fuhrer with his prosthetic limb and downing Douglas with a dropkick to the aging veteran’s knee. He pulls Dame Dillon up and plants his good fist into his gut a few times before dropping him with a double underhook DDT. Hooks the leg…

…1!

…2!

Broken up by Fusenshoff! The EPW’er takes Shepherd up but Brock’s able to power out, launching a few left-handed strikes into Fusenshoff’s gut. He whips the guest across the ropes but Fusenshoff counters with a knee smash that sends Shepherd reeling. After a couple more solid strikes, The ‘Shoff (yeah, that’s right) drills Shepherd with a DDT and an elbow drop. He makes the cover…

…1!

…2!

Shepherd manages to kick out. Meanwhile Fuhrer and Douglas are back at it, locking up in the centre of the ring. Of course Troy Douglas wins the test of strength but Fuhrer squirms out and takes Douglas down with an arm drag, transitioning into an armbar. The hold doesn’t last long though, as Dame Dillon soon charges and dropkicks Fuhrer square in the jaw. Now it’s Dame Dillon’s turn to cover…

…1!

…2!

And this one’s broken up by Fusenshoff, who drops an elbow across the back of Dillon’s head. Fusenshoff pulls Dillon up and clotheslines him over the top rope, following him out of the ring as Troy Douglas sees the fallen men around him and decides to take advantage. He pulls both Fuhrer and Shepherd towards the ring, knocking their heads together, before running off the ropes and hitting a fist drop on Fuhrer.

Again Douglas goes for the mat game, playing to his strengths, but he doesn’t count on the suddenly resurgence of the Amputee Poster Boy! Shepherd viciously kicks the former Intense Title holder in the side of the head! As Douglas goes down, clutching his skull, Shepherd stomps away before picking him up by the hair and backing him against the ropes. A couple of knees to the gut are followed by a bulldog from Shepherd who hooks the leg.

…1!

Almost immediately broken up by Dame Dillon, who, having seemingly taken care of Fusenshoff on the outside, pulls Shepherd off of Douglas. It’s a battler of the brawlers now with both men exchanging blows in the centre of the ring. Dillon manages to block a Shepherd haymaker with his forearms, allowing him time to knee Brock in the stomach. He immediately applies a front facelock, but Brock spins out and delivers a stomach kick of his own!

With Dillion dazed, Brock grabs him and hits the Shepherd's Delight! He hooks the leg and makes the cover as Fusenshoff tries to get in the ring and stop the fall!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Winner: Brock Shepherd

Inside the Church of the Unholy’s locker room, Darth Varga and the rest of the Church are looking very pissed off at the moment. The main reason for this is the fact that they were Rick Rolled Mr. T style by their associate James Varga which to them was a slap in the face. Darth, Wolfen, Dr. Acula, the Horny Mathematician, and CHUD are all growling over what happened still even days after the fact.

Darth: That bastard is a dead man!

Wolfen nods his head in agreement.

Wolfen: *snarl* I’ll kill him myself if I have the chance.

Dr. Acula: I can’t believe he Rick Rolled us.

Darth: And you guys were WARNED by ME not to associate with that mother fucker. And look at what happened. We made us look like a bunch of fucktards on PRIME television.

Dr. Acula nods his head.

Dr. Acula: Yes, you did say that and we didn’t believe you.

Just then an Unholy Druid comes running in to give them a message.

Druid: HE’S HERE!

They all turn and look at him.

Darth: Who’s here?

Druid: JAMES! HE’S HERE! IN THE PARKING LOT!

They all look at each other and Dr. Acula starts barking commands.

Dr. Acula: LET’S GO KILL THAT MOTHER FUCKER!

He then turns to the Mathematician.

Dr. Acula: Stay here. We need someone to guard the locker too.

The Horny Mathematician nods his head.

Mathematician: Right.

The rest of the Church runs out of the locker room leaving the Mathematician by himself. As the door shuts behind the rest of the Church, someone appears out of the darkness behind him who then pulls out a knife and puts it to the Mathematician’s throat. He then comes out of the shadows to reveal James Varga himself, looking ever psychotic due to sleep deprivation and insanity.

James: Guess who?

He cackles evilly.

Mathematician: OH CRAP! IT’S YOU!

James: DAMN RIGHT IT’S ME!

James then gets a sick smile on his face.

James: Ok fucktard. It’s your lucky day. I’ve decided to make you be the messenger to tell the rest of those idiot’s what is going on.

The Mathematician gulps as James starts looking ever more crazy.

James: I want you to inform them of what I’m about to say. They are a NOTHING compared to me. I am the nightmare that you all are trying to hype yourselves as. See you have to live in darkness and not be fake, Hot Topic posers like yourselves in order to grasp the true meaning of the words dark and evil. I’ve lived in the darkness my entire life. You guys just watch movies with dark themes and cheesy horror flicks just to try and by a fourth as fucked up in the head as I am.

The Mathematician looks confused.

Mathematician: What?

James: What I’m saying is that this is the Age of Varga. Not Darth, but JAMES Fucking Varga. Get it? The dark time is here and now. This is the last generation of mankind and I am here to usher in the coming of the third Antichrist and World War III as predicted by Nostradamus. Worldwide destruction is what I have in mind. In the future there will only be darkness. How bleak the future is my old friend. Especially for you…

The Mathematician gulps again as James motions that he is going to use the knife. James instead then throws him down to the ground and puts the knife away. As the Mathematician tries to get to his feet, James runs across the locker room and punts him in the head. His boot cracks against the Mathematician’s skull and the Mathematician falls over unconscious from the vicious boot he just received. James then looks down at his carcass and smiles.

James: Fade to black, my friend. Fade to black.

James then walks out of the room and closes the door behind him, leaving the Mathematician lying in a heap as a message to the Church that their time is up.

There is a strange buzz in the air when "Oye Como Va" (Old School Remix) hits the sound system. Love for Tito Puente Jr. aside, people are…confused. Anyone who ever saw him loved El Spiffy!, as he was patently unhateable. But now, Spiffy! has come, apparently, to make war on their champion. And they cannot, and will not, stand for that without some very serious justification.

So they boo. Not in the largest numbers, but they boo. After the first section of drunken blue-collar workers takes the loyalist approach, the boos start to come in more readily. El Spiffy!, though, is all smiles.

Nick: Spiffy!’s gotta be happy that he got what he wanted. He’s got Tsonda, one-on-one for the strap!

Richard: It doesn’t strike you as odd the way that guy just looks…a little too pleased with himself?

The smile does seem a little heavyhanded, a little…much. And since when did Danny Ferguson have scars on his chest? It would take an observant man to notice all these coincidences…but something’s just not right.

Tsonda doesn’t belabor the point, stalking out to C&C’s "Welcome Home" and the roar of adoring fans who want, more than anything, to know the identity of the man behind the mask. He tosses the Universal Belt aside and hits the ring hard, pre-empting the bell with a running dropkick at his opponent.

Richard: Is that a tattoo on his right arm?

Nick: Yep. Apparetly this Spiffy! has gone all the way with this disguise, even investing in fake tattoos to conceal his identity?

Richard: (grumbles) Doesn’t look fake to me…

Tsonda gets to his feet, trying to whip Spiffy! to the corner, but the Mexican (who appears to have fluctuated in size again, and stands about two inches taller than Tsonda) reverses and throws Tsonda towards the turnbuckle. The Model Citizen is able to hop, backwards, over the charging Spiffy!, pulling down the Spiff Star for a pin attempt.

One…
Two…
NO!

Nick: Near miss!

Tsonda gets back to his feet, but Spiffy! is up even more quickly. Ring rust, which should be rearing its ugly head, seems nonexistent for the luchadore. He looks as comfortable as a pig in shit.

Richard: Wasn’t El Spiffy! a tiny dude? The guy in the ring is brawny. Is no one else seeing this?!

Nick: People change, Richard. You think everyone in PRIME was born this big? They put in the sweat and tears in the locker room. Stay focused on the match.

As they stand across the ring from one another, Tsonda’s face goes ghostly white. With Spiffy! in front of him, the evidence is impossibly clear, and the conclusion clearly impossible. Has the man Tsonda proudly calls a frienemy betrayed that bond?

He doesn’t get his answer, as Spiffy! charges and takes off with both knees.

Richard: That move look familiar to you, Nick?

Nick: Yeah, it’s a flying double knee. I’ve seen it dozens of times before. You feeling okay, Richard?

As the color commentator continues his grumbling, the move misses. It’s too telegraphed, and Tsonda has too much time to duck underneath. As Spiffy! bounces back off the ropes, the Universal Champion takes him down with his own trademark maneuver, a stalling lift implant DDT that seems particularly vicious. Tsonda, it appears, is incensed over this crossing of lines, perpetrated by his Team Jewel Halo teammate.

Nick: Golgotha Drop!

But for all his talk of match preparation, there’s nothing that can prepare Tsonda for what comes next.

He immediately drops down and starts tearing at the mask, trying to rip it off and expose this two week ruse as what he believes it was: a way for Tyler Rayne to get in his head and come after his belt without just asking for a shot.

Unfortunately for Chan, Bernie Roberts has watched a few lucha tapes in his day, and he understands the referee's role in any kind of mask-tearing venture. He immediately pulls Tsonda free from El Spiffy!, citing the history and tradition of lucha libre, among other well-time expletives, to keep the champion at bay. Spiffy!, meanwhile, rolls free and trickles all the way out of the ring.

As the camera focuses on the injured luchador...several hands reach out from underneath the ring apron and pull him in.

Richard: What the hell?

Nick: What? What happened?

Richard: Did you not see that? Are you blind?

Nick: Um, I was focused on the ring, what were you looking at?

Chandler pushes away from Bernie and heads toward where El Spiffy! rolled out. He leans over the ropes to find his foe vanished into thin air.

As Chandler continues the search, confused by this sudden turn of events, the ring apron on the opposite side flutters, and El Spiffy! emerges. Except...not really?

This El Spiffy! follows the same pattern we've seen for several weeks - the pattern of not being in a pattern at all. Looking nothing like the cocky lothario who began the match, this El Spiffy! is taller...much taller. And the hair is longer...much longer. And that certain ruggedness in his face is now replaced by what a more secure man might refer to as beauty. Oh...and then there's the boobs. They're real, and they are glorious.

Richard: You have got to be kidding me.

Nick: El Spiffy!'s pulling the old switcheroo on Chandler Tsonda! He came out on the other side of the ring!

Richard: He? HE? Seriously, this is a joke, right? Am I on some fucking Jamie Kennedy-Ashton Kutcher bullcrap?

Nick: Will you keep it together? This is a huge main event!

Richard: This is madness!

La Reina Del Anillo slides into the ring behind Tsonda as the crowd goes wild in a mix of confusion and excitement. The Viet Viper turns around into a roundhouse kick from El Spiffy!! He goes down quickly but bounces back up into another kick. On his third rise, he's pushed into the ropes.

El Spiffy! goes for an Irish whip, but Chandler reverses it. As soon as the luchador(a?) hits the other cables, Tsonda is there, Yakuza-kicking the history and tradition right off that mask. Spiffy! goes up and over the ropes, tumbling to the mats below.

Chandler rushes out after his foe. He grabs a handful of black cherry hair and looks to pull it into a facelock, but suddenly he's struck from behind by a heavy forearm to the back!

He stumbles forward and turns around to see ANOTHER El Spiffy! standing before him. Unlike the previous two, this one has weathered, leathery skin and a long gray pony tail.

Richard: Mickey Rourke?

Not quite...there's something a little more Noble about this one. Either way, Chandler stumbles back as if he's seen a ghost from his past. He wasn't ready for that one. As he retreats, he bumps back-first into another El Spiffy!...the same one who initially came to the ring.

Nick: What the...there's two of them?

Richard: Oh thank god, I really thought I was crazy. Like, I was concerned for my mental state. You can see them, too? Finally?

Chandler backs off again, and as he finds himself backing into a corner near the fans, the other El Spiffy!'s emerge - the black dress shirt and pants, the twisted grin, the scruffy beard and suit coat. They all crawl out from under the ring and slink towards Tsonda, like a sort of Zombie Spiffy! Apocalypse.

Nick: There's another one! And another! What the hell?

Richard: This is like, my whole last three weeks, condensed into one line.

With nowhere to go, Chandler opts to fight through the growing army. He throws a stiff elbow into one and them stomps on the foot of another. One cup check to a third later and he sees daylight and springs onto the apron.

Instead of getting in the ring right away, though, he immediately springs onto the ropes and propels himself backward, arcing beautifully into the air and crashing down on the whole lot of them with a Model Citizen moonsault!

Nick: He just hit a Model Citizen onto El Spiffy!

Richard: Which one?!

Nick: ALL of them!

In the chaos, Bernie Roberts stops being distracted by...you know, whatever distracts referees. He notices that one competitor in this match has somehow multiplied himself. If there's one thing Bernie hates, it's references to Michael Keaton movies. This shit won't stand, ya'll. DQ's a comin'.

The bell rings and the match is thrown out, but we're well past that at this point. Chandler slides back into the ring and whirls around, challenging all of the Spiffy! clones at ringside to come in and get him.

Nick: They're everywhere! We're being overrun by El Spiffy!'s!

Richard: And punctuation!

As Bernie Roberts tries to restore the surrounding area into some semblance of sanity, much less order, Chandler Tsonda goes in the opposite direction and tries to incite a riot between himself and the cadre of masked strangers surrounding the ring.

Nick: I have no idea what's going on here!

Richard: Welcome to my past two weeks. At least I know I'm not the only one.

Tsonda throws his Universal Title down in the ring and dares any one of the El Spiffy!s to slide in and challenge him. He focuses in on the Spiffy! with the scars and tattoos that had originally come out to the ring to meet him. Keying in, he outright challenges that man to step back in and get what he is so eager to dole out.

Chandler remains so focused on the pandemonium surrounding the ring that he doesn't notice one of the masked men finally answering his challenge and sliding into the ring behind him.

Nick: Wait, who is that?

Richard: All of those people and you're confused about only one?

Before he can turn around, Chandler is spun to face the El Spiffy! who answered his call. His eyes grow wide before he's scooped into the air by the man with especially tan skin and especially rippling muscles. Without much hesitation, "El Spiffy!" drops to his knees and spikes the Model Citizen into the mat, leaving him crumpled into a heap. The crowd goes crazy as their beleagured hero is struck down.

Nick: WHAT?

Richard: Seriously?

Nick: Was that...

As the crowd response grows to a mix of cheers and boos, "El Spiffy!" slowly pushes up to one knee, then to his feet, all the while staring down at the Universal Champion. Then he reaches up and yanks off his mask.

Nick: ...a Box Office Bomb?



Danny Ferguson looks out into the crowd, chest heaving with anger, eyes cold and dead. His upper lip curls past a smirk into a full sneer, and he throws the mask down on Chandler Tsonda's chest.

Nick: OH MY GOD! IT WAS DANNY FERGUSON ALL ALONG!

Richard: What? NO!

Nick: Yes! It was him from the start! He fooled everyone, but he was behind this El Spiffy! ruse!

Richard: Have you been watching the show the past two weeks? Seriously?

Nick: It all makes sense now!

Richard: No it doesn't!

Nick: How could I have been so blind!

Richard: I want to die.

The Orlando crowd is beside themselves as Danny Ferguson - "Superstar" Danny Ferguson - stands over the fallen form of his ex-teammate. It had been eight months since he vanished from the wrestling world, eight months that saw his ally rise to the highest level of the company. Chandler had accomplished everything that had been demanded of him as champion.

As of tonight, though, someone else would be making demands.

P R I M E