Cameras up. A helpful "Moments Ago," in white text, illuminates the black screen. The logo fades.

More black. Differently black black.

It seems ironic that the cameras have to be turned on to show black. After all, that's what cameras show when they're off. But this isn't a Nikon instruction manual. It's a slow pan outwards, which shows the black to be part of a larger blackness, the blackness that Devin Shakur clothes himself in. Fully zoomed out, we see that Devin Shakur isn't up to much. The former Universal and Intense Champion seems to be lazily leaning against a wall in the backstage area.

But there's those eyes. They could stare a hole through steel. Shakur takes a deep breath. The scene is both eerie and creepy, designed, at least partially, to give viewers a bear-sized case of the heebie jeebies.

The sound of leather boots stamping down on the concrete floor causes Shakur's head to slowly turn. The source of the sound comes closer and closer, until the footsteps are damn near right on top of the Man in Black. A snarl rides up the side of his face as he balls his fists. This is Shakur's wing of the arena, and he doesn't damn well want to be disturbed. Whoever's coming does so at their own risk.

With Shakur's terrifying eyes locked in place on the nearest portion of the hallway, a figure emerges. Pan up from the boots to...is that a polar bear fur coat? And oh yeah, that big shiny mother on his waist is the 5-Star Title.

High Flyer.

He walks past Shakur with only the faintest recognition. It happens dozens of times in a night. Only when they exchange words and/or fists do you encounter the PRIMEates backstage. Most of the time, this is how it goes, with harsh stares as the accepted currency. More footsteps pull Devin Shakur's attention back towards whence the Snowman came.

Out they come, pushing past the immobile Devin Shakur.

Jay Phoenix.

Tony Gamble, who gives his comrade a smack on the chest.

Hank Cobb.

The ants go marching, one by one. Every famous face that PRIME has to offer begins to roll through. Everyone's grumbling, whether face or heel.

Scraps.

Lindsay Troy.

Bryan Dawkins.

Fusenshoff.

None of them pay Shakur much mind. Evidently, there's some party that Commie Emo hasn't been invited to. They keep coming, though. After literally every superstar (save a certain roguishly good-looking de facto General Manager and a couple notables) has passed in front of him, Devin Shakur grabs the human caboose, he who is bringing up the rear. It just so happens to be Enemigo VI (what, you don't know how to tell them apart?).

Devin Shakur: The fuck's going on?

Enemigo VI: (points to the direction everyone's headed) Tyler.

Devin Shakur: Tyler?

Enemigo VI: (points more excitedly) Tyler.

Devin Shakur: Why would everyone follow that human plague?

Making a "follow me" motion, Enemigo VI takes off jogging. Shakur merely watches him as we cut to the ring, where the hodge podge of superstars is crowded into it. It is no longer moments ago. Now, it is now. Got it?

Nick: Folks, welcome to ReVolution 185! A bizarre start to the night, as it seems every single member of the roster is crowded into the ring, waiting for some kind of announcement.

Richard: Have I made my case as to why I despise Tyler Rayne?

Nick: Not recently.

Richard: This. Whatever he's doing now. That's why.

In the ring, the PRIMEates all look fairly unhappy. They've been marched out to the ring, for what purpose only Hoyt knows. Tony Davis has just finished making bunny ears on Kaiser Vashaun, unbeknowst to the Intense Champion. Chandler Tsonda, who is noticeably far away from and not talking to Bryan Dawkins, shoots the shit with Jay Phoenix. Hank Cobb and Duke Williams seem to be getting accosted for a hit of their respective flasks by Fusenshoff.

Nick: Okay, this is just coming in, folks. Tyler Rayne is not the man who called this meeting. He's not even here yet!

Richard: Then who the fu-

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

Every head in the joint whips around.



At the top of the ramp, looking down at a roster she helped build, is...

Nick: LISA TYLER!

...yeah, her. Like a preacher on the mount, she's got a microphone. But she used to be an interviewer, and she knows a thing or two about how to soak in a crowd reaction. And with every puzzled look, every fan turning to the person next to them saying "huh?", and every person at home frantically pulling up her Wikipedia page, Lisa Tyler will have these people eating out of her hand.

Richard: The hell's that crazy broad doing on TV?

Nick: I don't know, Richard, but the Vice President of Talent Relations is here, tonight!

Richard: I thought they took her off TV because she was...uhhh...too much of an itch-bay.

Nick: She got a big fat promotion when Prometheus LLC bought PRIME. Let's give her the floor.

Lisa Tyler: Where is Tyler Rayne?

Everybody and their mother looks around. As mentioned before, the Underground Pimp is harder to find than a hot girl in Amish country. Neither hide nor hair can be seen of the man who'll be challenging for the Universal Title in a couple hours.

Lisa Tyler: Hmmph, missing in action. Not surprising. You see, it's Mr. Rayne's...behavior that has forced me to come down here.

The VP seems very at home on the mic, and with everyone wondering what her ultimate purpose is, she has the luxury of taking her sweet time.

Lisa Tyler: Now I was out to dinner with some friends last Wednesday night, so I was fortunately spared the agony of having to watch ReVolution live. But when I got home, eight angry voice messages from the Board directed me to the replays, which were already racking up hits by the thousand on YouTube. Do you know what I saw?

Most of the fans just stand there and wait for Tyler to answer her own rhetorical question. One smartass fan offers up the suggestion that she saw "PORN," in a completely loud, completely drunken voice (which is quite audible when everyone's ears are tuned to a Vice President, be sure). The disgusted sneer on Tyler's face is a clear indicator of her thoughts. She ignores the fan and goes on.

Lisa Tyler: I saw absolute pandemonium. Prometheus probably would've sent down the Vice President of Public Relations to scold you lot, but he's knee-deep in FCC complaints over the images of bare naked female breasts being shown on our program.

There are some things you just know, and one of those things, is that when a woman says "breast" in the same tone that most people use to describe chlamydia, she's a little too uptight for her own good. The boos begin to slowly filter in. Lisa Tyler, it appears, is a killjoy.

There's still a modicum of pop at the mere mention of the word "breast." Natch.

Lisa Tyler: I saw a ridiculous abuse of power as the Intense Champion got strong-armed into a ludicrous handicap match.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Lisa Tyler: I saw the Jewel in the Crown disguise himself as an EMT in order to dole out a half-dozen unprovoked chair shots.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Lisa Tyler: I saw a previously unaccounted-for employee ram a TRUCK into the ring.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Lisa Tyler: And worst of all, I didn't see anyone who cared. I didn't see one person on the PRIME roster step up, least of all Mr. Rayne, and try to clean this mess up. It's to be expected from some of you, but I can barely express what an embarrassment last week was!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: I don't mean to step on any toes, but Lisa Tyler can't discount the effort of men like Bryan Dawkins, Chandler Tsonda, and, yes, Tyler Rayne. They fought their hearts out last week and the fans adore them for it.

Richard: Oh really, are the fans the ones who buy tick...wait, are the fans the ones who pay your sal...SHE'S IMPORTANT, OKAY! JUST LISTEN!

Lisa Tyler: But I'm reticent to blame the talent. Because it was only under the quote unquote "watchful eye" of Mr. Rayne that a disaster like this could ever happen.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

No, he's not here yet. But that's the sound you get when you even mention dude.

Lisa Tyler: So when, on Thursday morning, the Board called me in and asked for my recommendation, I didn't pull any punches. (pauses) I told them that I thought Mr. Rayne should be suspended indefinitely without pay.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: I just popped a boner the size of Guatemala.

The boos prevent Tyler from continuing on, so she waits. It seems like PRIME fans aren't much for suits.

Lisa Tyler: Much to my chagrin, the Board decided not to pursue any punishment for Mr. Rayne. However, the Board decided that it was absolutely time for a change in the PRIME hierarchy. And while this would've been much infinitely more gratifying if Mr. Rayne had bothered to show up on time, the show will most definitely go on without him. So, for the PRIME roster, the fans here tonight, and all of you tuning in at home, I'd like to introduce you to the new power-that-is in PRIME.

Nick: There's a new sheriff in town?!

Richard: Not a moment too soon.

Nick: Folks, this is big. Lisa Tyler is about to bring out the next leader of PRIME.

Richard: Well, the only people not out here are Rayne and Shakur. And since our potty mouth prince is a real long shot, I'd say she's handing the keys to Shakur.

The ring comes alive with chatter, as Tyler steps to the side and waits for the aforementioned new sheriff's music to hit. Every superstar is talking to the person next to them, wondering aloud about who's getting the keys to Cell Block PRIME. The fans are hushed, but buzzing with excitement.

Gnarly pianos, ripped straight from the 80's, hit the sound system. There's a pleasant discord to the sound produced. The song is familiar to some, but it's not the entrance music of anyone who comes to mind.

You're as cooooooold as ice
You're willing to sacrifice our love

Richard: Foreigner? The new boss is using effing Foreigner for their music?

Nick: Can't say I recognize that music.

SKRRRRRRRR! (That's the onomatopoeia for the sound of a record skipping)

The new sound is distorted voices. Following that is the most shreddingest guitar intro known to man. The song is "Away" by Mercy Drive. And it rawks hard.

Nick: That's Son-

Richard: MISTER SILVER, SPORTS ENTERTAINMENT LIAISON TO, AND POSSIBLE NEW AUTHORITY FIGURE OF, PRIME!

Nick: -ny Silver's music!

The lack thereof I can't define
Is there another way?
I've had enough, I've paid the price
To keep the beast at bay

Richard: HE DA NEW BOSS!

SKRRRRRRRR!

Nick: Whoever's coming out certainly has...eclectic taste.

The intro to Ghostface Killah's "The Champ" comes next, with a frenzied trainer yelling at the top of his lungs.

This guy is a bulldozer, with a wrecking ball attached!
He'll leave a ring around your eye and tread marks on your back
He's an animal, he's hungry!

SKRRRRRRRR!

On some sort of "songs with awesome intros" kick, the sound system plays a familiarly stark set of keys, followed by a simple, crunching guitar.

Look
If you had one shot
One opportunity
To seize everything you've ever wanted
In one moment
Would you capture it?

SKRRRRRRRR!

This time, no music follows.

Nick: I'm befuddled.

Richard: Same boat over here.

Lisa Tyler: Ahem.

And once again, every set of eyes in the joint is on the VP of Talent Relations.

Lisa Tyler: I trust that was enjoyable. It's very hard to create an authentic moment of suspense when you're told to introduce the new on-air head of PRIME...

...and that person is you.

Dead silence in the ring.

Richard: Holy crap. Crazy bitch in charge! Everyone run for the hills!

Nick: Lisa Tyler is taking over day-to-day operations in PRIME?

The fans are all still too "wtf" to decide whether to cheer or boo, which seems to be part of Tyler's plan.

Lisa Tyler: When I was working here everyday, paying my dues as a reporter for this company, we pushed the envelope. But there were always limits, lines that weren't crossed. And ever since C.P. Cantrell was dismissed, certain elements in PRIME have repeatedly crossed those lines. And so, the Board has afforded all the powers necessary to manage the roster on a day-to-day basis and restore those limits.

There are some general boo-birds out, but Tyler hasn't said anything that's inflammatory enough to get the people really riled up. Yet.

Lisa Tyler: I don't think I need to elaborate on what this means for Mr. Rayne's power trip, other than to say it is, mercifully, a thing of the past. There are other immediate matters of business to attend to. First off, every PRIME roster member will be subject to an audit performed at my discretion. Whether you're the Universal Champion or the ink is still fresh on your contract, you'll be scrutinized under a new set of rules. Mine. C.P. Cantrell's nifty new cameras will make it very easy to find out who is and who isn't loyal to PRIME.

Richard: Haha, Big Brother in the house. Or is it Big Sister?

Nick: Richard, I don't think the Universal Champion is too pleased with Lisa Tyler!

In the ring, Tsonda has moved towards the nearest rope to Tyler. With the Universal Belt strapped over his shoulder, he jaws up at his new boss. Microphones don't catch the words, but the smirk on Lisa Tyler's face implies that she does.

Lisa Tyler: I'd be upset too, Chandler, if my main event win last week was marred by the deplorable actions of a select few. Of course if Mr. Rayne had been doing his job, this never would've happened. But everyone must be held accountable for their actions! That's why my second edict deals with tonight's sub-main event. Specifically with you, Jason Snow.

The Jewel in the Crown glances up, an indignant look on his face.

Lisa Tyler: Jason, I simply can't have my EMT's at risk. They're too essential to keeping order and stability. Tonight is the first attempt at correcting your behavior. So while the match is a fatal fourway, I have a very special stipulation, just for you. All Jay Phoenix, Lindsay Troy, or Hessian has to do is get a pinfall or submission. You, however, have to eliminate all three of them if you want to win tonight.

Nick: Tyler seems to be coming down even-handedly on the PRIME roster. It does seem a bit strict, though.

The crowd agrees. To this second "edict," there's a mixed reaction. Yay for stacking the cards against Snow. Boo for being a potential megalomaniac.

Lisa Tyler: And in what is the first of many acts intended to clean up after Mr. Rayne, the first thing on that docket is the matter of this handicap match with Kaiser Vashaun.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Lisa Tyler: Normally, I would be in favor of this company's Intense Champion competing inside the ring on a regular basis. But I do not approve of it being as a result of Tyler Rayne's personally motivated actions. Since Rayne wouldn't know what his "greater obligations" are as a company figurehead if they hit him square in the forehead, and clearly, he has a problem with the whole "fair and impartial" thing when it comes to acquaintances of his, I'm throwing that match out.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: HAHAHA! Glorious! Take that, Rayne!

Nick: Kaiser Vashaun's got another night off, thanks to his annoyance of Tyler Rayne last week! And he certainly looks pleased as punch about it!

It's true. In the ring, Kaiser Vashaun smirks triumphantly. In a different corner, the camera catches Lindsay Troy's eyes lifting up to the Rose Garden's ceiling as she shakes her head in annoyance.

Lisa Tyler: Now, there is the issue of tonight's main event, for which Rayne handed himself a Universal Title shot, ignoring the standards of how contendership is determined.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: Oh c'mon! Tyler Rayne is one of the best wrestlers anywhere on the planet!

Richard: Yeah, I'm sure his decision-making process was totally unbiased. Plenty of other deserving people out there, and they can all show up to work on time.

Lisa Tyler: So, tonight's main event, where Chandler Tsonda is supposed to defend against Tyler Rayne...

Now she's just baiting the crowd. A hush falls over the arena, as Tsonda glares up at Tyler from the ring.

Lisa Tyler: ...will go on as scheduled.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick: Darn right, it's what the fans want! Tyler Rayne and Chandler Tsonda for the biggest prize in sports entertainment!

Richard: The fans also want flaming table matches and a women's jello division, Sonny Jim.

Lisa Tyler: There are more changes to come, but I must immediately start the paperwork to mitigate fallout from Mr. Rayne's two-week bender, and I will not be disturbed. Next week, though, in my permanent office, appointments will be given out on a first-come, first-serve basis. That's all for tonight.

No music hits as the new steward of PRIME turns for the back. Her face staying as apathetic as it's been the entire time, she turns back with a last word.

Lisa Tyler: And when Mr. Rayne does show up, would someone let him know that he's been relieved of whatever office he imagined himself having? Thank you.

Before we hit the ReVolution video package, the last shot zeros in on the ring, where the PRIMEates watch their fearless new leader head for the back.

The winds of change have turned out to be roaring gales.

"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, and almost slams into the imposing chest of Hessian. The lens pans up to the Murder Show's face, and is rewarded with a fist that crashes through the lens.

"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 Hank Cobb and Colby Korver of Delta Upsilon Iota and High Flyer and Tony Davis of Team VIAGRA slug it out in the aisle, while Mary-Lynn Mayweather watches on, frowning.

"COUNTDOWN! TO THE VERY END!"

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

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

Fusenshoff lifts an opponent up for the Domination, driving the helpless victim straight down to the canvas.

"READY! AIM! PULL THE TRIGGER NOW!"

Duke Williams strides down the ramp, basking in the crowd's adulation.

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

Jay Phoenix flies through the air, connecting with a shooting star press.

"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, to find a wall of bodies blocking the way. Vejumin Rippa, Scraps and Ruby of Wicked Ways on the left, Jack Conway and Luis Gallegos of The Union in the middle, and Tony Borelli, Carlos Garcia and Dixie Normas of The Trust Fund, on the right.

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

The lens backtracks the opposite way, jetting further up the hall, where another door on the opposite side of the hall swings open, revealing a crutch-less Lindsay Troy in street clothes. She lifts the ROCS from her eyes and flashes the trademark smirk.

"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!"

Jason Snow stands triumphantly on the turnbuckles following his Jewel in the Crown win, sneering at the plebes in the audience, both in the arena and at home.

"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!

Pause for a brief moment while PRIME pays the pills with some exciting commercial products that you'll just fast forward through if you have a DVR.

The return from commercial yields to the bustling audience, a loud murmur waving through the Rose Garden Arena. The camera pulls away from the television screen showing said crowd, placing us in a locker room backstage.

"I'm startin' to remember why I ran off..."

The unique, gravely voice coming from off screen causes the camera to spin 180 degrees, revealing the one and only Bad Dog, Wade Elliott, weary eyes watching the television set, just now discovering the big power shift that just happened in the ring.

RUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

He shakes his head, dragging a heavy paw across his face. He heaves outward through his nose, then looks down and to his right.

Wade Elliott: I'm thinkin' we're better off at the bar down the street, pup.

The lens swinging downward reveals Wade's partner in crime, Angus the Bluetick Hound, and boom! Pop goes the arena.

RUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Angus barks.

Wade sighs.

Wade Elliott: Figured you'd say that.

Angus thumps his tail against the floor, looking up at Wade with hopeful eyes. Truth be told, the dog missed this place a lot more than his master did. Wade's gaze returns to the TV momentarily, before a creaking of his locker room's door brings his attention elsewhere.

Wade Elliott: Funny. Could've sworn I shut it all the way.

It's open just a crack, enough to make the Bad Dog wonder if Portland just doesn't make doors like what he's used to. Wade ambles over to close it, to return to the privacy he was enjoying. As he pushes his weight forward to secure the latch, he sees one hazel eye peering through. When it meets his baby blues, it narrows.

He sighs, rubbing his thumb and middle finger over his eyes.

Wade Elliott: Thought we were to a point where I didn't need to worry 'bout ya spyin' on me.

He opens the door, turning away and stepping back into the room. Of course, opening said door reveals The Queen herself, Lindsay Troy, standing just outside.

Lindsay Troy: And I thought we were to a point where you return phone calls sooner than, um, never. And answer questions from a concerned friend. Oh, and don't leave said concerned friend to Fihlguud's devices against her will.

Wade Elliott: Would ya believe me if I said I lost that phone ya got me? Or got angry an' busted it?

Troy folds her arms over her chest and walks into the room, scowl still very much apparent on her face.

Lindsay Troy: Then I'd ask you why you didn't get it replaced.

Wade Elliott: And I'd tell ya that I'd prob'bly git all ornery with the jackass tryin' to sell me a new one. Lindsay, whatta ya want?

Lindsay Troy: I want the answer to the question I asked you after ReVolution last week. And you'd damn sure better believe I'm not leaving until you tell me.

Wade Elliott (frustrated): Lindsay, this ain't the time, and sure as shit ain' the place.

Lindsay Troy: Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to set up a meeting with your secretary? Maybe we can do a power lunch.

Wade stops, eyes locked on the obviously determined Troy. He curls his lips in, defeated, and takes a seat on a locker room bench against the wall.

Wade Elliott: Good t'see yer still such a pain in the ass...

Lindsay Troy: I've got most of the night to stand here and wait it out, Wade. Unless the Gestapo comes and drags me out first.

The 'Bama Bruiser, digs out his hip flask, spinning the top off and taking a long swig.

Wade Elliott (pulling an arm across his mouth): I went home.

Lindsay Troy: That's a start. Now why?

Elliott's eyes start to darken, locked into Troy's hazel orbs.

Wade Elliott (stern): Family trouble.

Troy's front teeth graze over her bottom lip as she searches for what to say next. Angus pads over to her and nudges her leg with his snout, then presses his side up against her. She looks down, unfolds her arms, and pats his head.

Lindsay Troy: That could mean a lot of things.

Wade Elliott: A lot've things I ain't willin' to chat about on national T.V.

The Country Boy stands up, taking a few big steps to the now less hostile Troy, placing two big paws on her shoulders.

Wade Elliott: I'm fine. Still standin'. Sorry I didn't git ahold've ya. I run off sometimes when trouble calls, thought you'd figured that out by now.

Lindsay Troy (weak laugh): At least you had the ability to run.

Wade Elliott: What the hell's that s'posed t'mean?

Lindsay Troy (quizzical): You didn't know?

Wade Elliott: Didn't know what?

Silence. This is what theater-heads would call a "dramatic pause."

Lindsay Troy: After I got hung by my leg during the Cataclysm match, I had to have surgery on my ankle. Sprained my knee, too. I was on crutches for three months.

That ol' thundercloud we were so used to seeing build up in Wade's eyes returns again, memories of the Cataclysm match against SCCW flooding back. He curls his lips inward, teeth slammed together.

Wade Elliott (trying to keep a steady head): ...how's the ankle now?

Lindsay Troy: Got a nice surgical scar to stay with me the rest of my life but other than that it's nice and healed.

The Bad Dog simmers down a bit, nodding his head.

Wade Elliott: Thinkin' we'd better grab a drink when the show gits done.

Lindsay Troy: If we're even allowed to drink anymore.

She smiles ruefully and backs towards the door.

Lindsay Troy: Thanks for last week, by the way. Even though, y'know, I could've handled the n00b.

Wade Elliott: Hey now! Don't act like ya had everythin' under control! I crashed my rig into the god-damn ring fer you!

Lindsay Troy: And I'm sure Chevrolet thanks you for the purchase of a new truck after you totaled the other one, with economic times being what they are and all.

Wade Elliott: Hell, they're givin' the damn things away these days.

The Queen smirks and passes through the doorway back into the hall.

Lindsay Troy: Find me later, Drifter.

Wade smiles, tipping his hat as The Queen disappears from sight.

Wade Elliott: Yes ma'am.

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Hessian has been on the hunt. He knows he has an important match tonight considering two of his opponents are legitimate threats and one a bonafide legend. This concerns him and as he makes his way through the warren of corridors backstage at the Rose Garden he hopes he can find who he is looking for. Coincidentally, and not unlike the proverbial aforementioned shark, Hessian turns a corner to find none other than Jason Snow leaving his locker room, a stern look of concentration on his own face. Quickening his pace the Murder Show approaches the walking legend and calls on him.

Hessian: Snow! Hold up!

Thankfully for him Snow stops and turns to find the goliath slowing to a casual walk once more as he closes the distance between them. Folding his arms and cocking his head, the Original Villain regards the 7'1" man who comes to him now, staring exaggeratedly upward with narrowed angry eyes – a pissed off lap dog glaring holes into a rottweiler. Stopping at last in front of his opponent tonight, Hessian takes a breath and extends a hand to be taken by Snow in good faith as a warm welcome.

Snow doesn’t even look down. In time, Hessian retracts the gesture, unfazed by the reaction.

Hessian: Snow, glad I ran into you. When I heard about our match tonight I had to make sure and find you, and wouldn't you know it here you are! It's almost like it was scripted or something!

Hessian chuckles and nonchalantly rubs his hand across his chest, his gaze switching from Snow to the walls to the floor as though he bore humility at this 'chance' encounter.

Hessian: I know we both have to prepare tonight but I just wanted to take the time out to find you. See, tonight is my first match against a "name", if you will. I don't think there's a fan alive that doesn't know who you are, for better or worse they've probably rooted or booed you at some point in your career. Me, personally, I can't say I'm not impressed. I was in PCW around the same time as you and I've always considered your ilk the cream of the crop. Now, tonight, I get the opportunity to step in the ring against you and I just wanted to say......

He pauses for a moment and runs a hand over his beard, folding both his arms and locking eyes with Snow, gone is the uncertainty.

Hessian: I'm going to go out there and do my best to cripple you with my bare hands, and I'm honoured I have the chance to do so against a man of your stature. Since I returned it's been a premise to go out on every ReVolution, and put on a show for those fans, and give the guys on the roster a match they'll remember, and I want you to know I will give you the match a champion of your like deserves. To anyone else I would hope that they could in turn give me the fight I desire, but I and everyone with a half a brain knows you're going to give as good as you get...I know how good you are and tonight you'll find out how good I am too.........and that's really all I wanted to say to you.

With a lingering downward stare and something of a smile, Hessian backs away a few steps before turning and striding off. Jason Snow, left puzzled, watches him go. The camera angle widens to show a wide-eyed arena staff hand unlucky enough to see such an encounter, nearly pasted to the wall in hopes he’s not noticed. He has no such luck. Snow turns to him with sharp eyes.

Snow: Who the devil was that?

The staffer hesitates.

Staffer: That was Hessian.

Snow takes this in with a slow nod.

Snow: And what in the hinges of hell was he blabbering on about?

Staffer: Crippling you, mostly. Said it’d be an honor.

Snow: …I see. And what are you doing just standing there when I’m clearly thirsty?

Staffer: …what?

Snow: GET ME SOME WATER, DAMN IT! I have to fight a damned ogre, a homosexual, and an STD-infested transvestite tonight and I’ll not do it dehydrated! Be gone!

Staffer: But I’m not the-

Snow: I SAID BEGONE!

The staffer rushes off in search of water while Snow obliviously continues to roam backstage.

There’s a commotion backstage.

Okay, this is ReVolution, so there are probably quite a few commotions backstage (serious people, it’s called decaf – look into it).

Only one of these commotions involves a man hawking his as-yet-unpublished autobiography to PRIME’s rabid fan base while his ex-wife stands nearby in a bikini.

At least, we hope there’s just the one.

The man: six-foot-nothing with honey-brown hair that is the Platonic ideal of the word "spiky," wearing designer jeans (the kind where you pay a couple hundred bucks for pants that look like you’ve had them for a decade), a black t-shirt (untucked) with his initials embroidered across it in gold.

The ex-wife: just a couple inches shorter than her former husband (which is a difference made up for by those heels), with a fall of strawberry blond hair, wearing a swimsuit that compliments a figure no mother of seven-year-old twins should have.

His name is Hunter ("Peerless" to his friends); hers is Madison. They’ll be your assholes this evening.

(Wait, this is PRIME – they’ll be the next five minutes’ assholes.)

Madi: I still don’t understand why I’m dressed like this.

PHS: Uhm... hello? Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Why do I need a reason? Dixie Normas has nothing on you.

Madi: Except the name.

PHS: Granted.

Madison’s posture is perfect, back arched just slightly, causing... things... to jut out. She does it without thinking about it. It’s got her ex a little distracted (moreso than usual).

Madi: No, I know I look... is there a word better than "fabulous"?

PHS: I was thinking spectacufantabulous.

Sinclair doesn’t even blink at the Raja’s mad word invention skillz.

Madi: It’s just that gratuitous swimsuit modeling is something I haven’t done in years.

PHS: Have you seen these slack-jawed mouth-breathers who bought tickets? I mean, I know I’m kind of...

Madi: We’ll go with "abrasive".

PHS: But you standing there means these pimply-faced motherfuckers stop worshipping Tyler Rayne like he actually has talent and stop by to buy my book. I already have three preorders and we’ve been here for ten minutes.

She rolls her shoulders in a shrug, turning Confederate gray gaze to him, one brow raised.

Madi: That’s great and all, but what about the real reason we’re in Portland? How does the bikini help that?

PHS: The bikini helps everything. But, uh, y’know... what real reason?

Madison cups a well-manicured hand around her mouth and whispers – albeit not very quietly.

Madi: You know. The secret reasoning.

PHS: You... really didn’t learn anything working for Pierce, did you? Trust me, that’s being taken care –

"What secret reasoning?"

Matt Mills is sneaky. He’s also a little pudgier than you might expect, given how much running around he does. We also understand he’s not a bad dancer. But mostly? He’s sneaky rike ninja – there’s a reason the Underground Pimp outfitted him with a cowbell last week, and it wasn’t to make Christopher Walken jokes.

For their part, only 50% of the (totally former, we super-duper promise) First Couple are really surprised by our ace reporter’s appearance. Stand around in a barely-decent-for-network-television swimsuit long enough and you sort of get used to guys skulking around. The Babe We Wanna Bang turns towards Mills, beaming a smile.

Madi: Matt! How are you? It’s been a dog’s age.

Mills: Do we... uh, I mean... when did we –

PHS: (interrupting) Flirt with my ex-wife when I’m not around, okay, guy? It’s polite.

Mills: I-I wasn’t...

Madison reaches out and lays a hand on Millsy’s forearm; it’s a comforting gesture.

Madi: We’ll have to catch up another time. You’d better answer Hunter’s question.

Mills: What... what question? I don’t remember him asking...

PHS: She said something about our secret reasoning for being here, you wanted to know what she was talking about, and I asked what it was to you.

Don’t bother scrolling up. Sabuani no more asked that than Madison and Matt are old friends.

Mills: I’ve been hanging out by Lisa Tyler's office –

Madi: Aww, come on. We know you’ve been lurking outside, not "hanging out."

Mills: And I haven’t seen anything. Well, not anything about you. There’s been... well, there’s been some stuff, let me say –

The Sovereign of the Sport snaps his fingers in Mills’ face.

PHS: Focus, interview dude. Focus. My eyes are over here.

Of course, immediately after demanding Matt’s attention, he turns back to his ex.

PHS: Did you tell him our business had something to do with Lisa Tyler?

The Babe’s upper lip curls briefly in disgust.

Madi: Why on Earth would I do that? Tyler’s not on the list.

Mills: "List"?

PHS: So why does he think we’d deal with her?

Madi: Well, hon, I’ve always said Matty’s never been very smart.

Mills: You know I’m standing right here, right?

Hunter’s brow lifts slightly as he turns back to the reporter.

PHS: We know. Anyway, yeah, there’s a list. And Tyler’s not on it – she didn’t call the number.

Mills: The... number.

PHS: Do you actually watch this show, or are you too busy running around doing interviews?

Madi: I keep telling him that he needs to complain. He’s going to run himself ragged.

The torment of Matt Mills is always entertaining, but Hunter & Madison’s fun and games are interrupted by the arrival of a third person onto the scene. She’s also a woman, though she’s quite a bit shorter than the Raja or the Babe, and wouldn’t be caught dead in heels as high as Madison’s – nor would you put her in a bathing suit. The newcomer is less than five feet tall, with a pinched, pierced face and a head full of dreadlocks, dressed in a business suit, if that business suit was made out of leather.

For you Sabuaniphiles (and why aren’t there more of you?), yes, her name is Cecelia Sicarii. They call her "Rat"; she’s Hunter’s best friend not named Madison.

Rat: It’s done.

PHS: Yeah?

Rat: Yep, you’re signed, sealed and delivered for next week. Tryout match against one of the yokels. I think it’s a security guard.

PHS: Not the big black dude?

Rat: Naw, one’a them little Spics in a mask.

PHS: Rock.

Madi: I still don’t know how you do this.

Rat: And I dunno how yer tits ain’t sagged yet. I told you – correspondence courses.

Madi: (droll) Funny, that’s the same way I do it.

The trio of troublemakers turns down the hallway, leaving poor Matt Mills behind. He’d worry about it, but chances are, he’s got to be somewhere else in five minutes.

Back to ringside.

Nick: So... Hunter Sabuani has a tryout match next week?

Richard: Is it cliché if I say I hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave?

Nick: Yes, it is.

Richard: Just checking.

After tonight's fedwide announcement, catering was hit hard. People have been chowing down, and right now there's quite a crowd.

One member of that crowd is the Universal Champion, Chandler Tsonda. The sight of the man who'll defend his title in the main event brings a formidable pop from the crowd.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The Model Citizen is directing one of his interns, in between bites.

Chandler Tsonda: Once I go into my locker room twenty minutes before the match, I don't wanna see another human being.

Intern #31: Yes, Mr. Tsonda.

Chandler Tsonda: If there's a nuclear holocaust, what will you do?

Intern #31: I'll politely and quietly slip a note under your door.

Chandler Tsonda: Damn right. Because what happens if you interrupt me during my meditative time?

Intern #31: If I interrupt Mr. Tsonda while during his pre-match meditation, he'll hesitate for about one second before stripping me of every speck of dignity that I have.

It sounds like Intern #31 has been trained to answer these questions, given his robotic response.

Chandler Tsonda: You got it, 31. Don't say I never taught you anything.

Intern #31: (whispers) Mr. Tsonda, it's him.

The intern points over Tsonda's shoulder.

Tsonda turns to find none other than Jason Snow leaned against the wall, himself stretching out his neck with half a devilish grin smeared on his face.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

No EMT get-up this week – just the usual leather and snake skin, some strange statement between ridiculous and confident.

Tsonda: Cowards Anonymous meeting get out early?

He bristles, readying for battle. Casually, Snow kicks himself away from the wall and saunters close, but not too close, circling the fuming Universal Champion in a slow methodic pace.

Snow: If I didn’t know better, "champ…"

Snickers softly to himself.

Snow: …I’d say you were upset with me.

Tsonda: You haven’t seen upset. Yet. Dick.

Snow keeps his feet moving, slow, but his eyes never drift from the champ’s. And Tsonda, all the while, seems barely able to keep his temper swallowed. It all seems very much amusing to Snow, his Cheshire cat smile and flaming blue hell eyes.

Snow: Careful now.

Wags a finger.

Snow: You wouldn’t want to do something stupid before your big match. Wouldn’t want to see you hurt and unable to compete tonight.

Tsonda’s eyes narrow. He nods slowly, rage building visibly in the muscles of his shoulders and his neck. Noticing trouble on the horizon, a drifting PRIME security man pulls out his radio and speaks quietly into it, his eyes glued to the confrontation.

Tsonda: I dunno. Maybe I'll get loose for the main by fucking you up right quick. I'll have more than enough left in the tank to keep my gold.

Snow shrugs. Stops at his wall again and folds his arms over his chest.

Snow: Doesn’t really matter to me. Fact is, "champ," I already beat the guy you’re facing tonight. The guy everyone said was destined to win the Jewel in the Crown tournament. I beat Tyler Rayne. I stepped into the ring against the man you’ve been afraid to face, and I beat him. And I’ll beat him again. And again. And again.

Pores sweating confidence, Snow nods slowly.

Snow: I know that.

Points a finger across the distance between himself and Tsonda, his face suddenly more intense.

Snow: And you?

The smirk returns.

Snow: I must admit, some small part of me hopes you win tonight. And then come Culture Shock, I can show you what it truly means to step into the ring with Greatness. You’ve faced some legends and some monsters in your day, Tsonda, but trust me, you’ve never in your life ….

He lets those words linger for a moment, their eyes pounding into each other’s across an eight foot gap.

Snow: …faced anything like me. I am this industry’s nightmare, Tsonda. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to show you that one day.

Tsonda’s had about enough.

Tsonda: Put your hands up.

Snow: What?

Tsonda: Can't say I didn't warn you, bitch!

Tsonda pounces forward, but Snow is a split second ahead of him, side-stepping with a matador’s grace and holding his hands innocently above his head - just as the arriving security team throw themselves into harm’s way. They restrain the champion with difficulty while he swings and curses wildly, engulfed by them.

For his part, Snow seems relaxed and amused, wandering the edge of the commotion with a face painted in provocation.

Snow: Good luck out there tonight, "champ." I’ll see you at Culture Shock.

He considers that for a moment.

Snow: Or maybe not.

For the brief amount of time Tyler Rayne was in charge, Bryan Dawkins’ locker rooms have looked like Rayne took a slice of Hawaii and placed it in the locker room. Lisa Tyler hasn't gotten settled yet, and probably won't care enough to alter the accommodations of this majestic scene. Mini-palm trees decorate the corners of the room, a small amount of sand is placed in the far corner, and tiki lamps and pineapples just add to the ambiance of the room. It’s nothing short of an island paradise, a locker room that no one would love to call home more than Bryan Dawkins.

The Flyin’ Hawaiian sits in the middle of this Hawaiian oasis and sips from a coconut glass and slowly goes to town on a heaping serving of fresh-cut pineapple, courtesy of Tyler Rayne. Although Rayne, Tsonda, and himself were all on shaky ground, Dawkins couldn’t help but realize that Rayne knew how to treat his employees. Because Dawkins isn’t taking part in a match tonight, he realizes that taking it easy on the pineapple is simply not an option worth taking, and is making sure he gets his money’s worth (except for he really didn’t pay for any of this, did he?) of the delicious golden fruit.

After a few moments of the sounds of tropical fruit being practically inhaled, a light knock is heard at the door.

Bryan Dawkins: Yeah bruh, who is it?

Out from behind the door pops PRIME’s Senior Interviewer, Matt Mills, microphone and all. Dawkins gives him a quick nod, and Mills enters the room and approaches Dawkins.

Matt Mills: Hey Bryan, how’s it going?

Bryan Dawkins: Eh bruh, not too bad I guess. You?

Matt Mills: Just doing my job. Got time for a quick interview?

Dawkins sighs.

Bryan Dawkins: Eh, tonight’s not the best night. Maybe next week?

Mills’ normally smiling face turns to somewhat of a frown.

Matt Mills: Well, I’m thinking that after what we all saw in the Main Event, the friendship between yourself, Rayne, and Tsonda is being tested quite a bit.

Dawkins stays silent, trying to ignore Mills’ prodding.

Matt Mills: I mean, after last week, do you have an allegiance to either of them?

More silence from the Hawaiian.

Matt Mills: Both of them?

Still not a word.

Matt Mills: Neither of them?

Exhaling deeply, Dawkins glances at Mills.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh, I know you’re tryin’ to do your job and everything, but c’mon.

Mills doesn’t back down.

Matt Mills: Bryan, all I wanna know is one thing…who are you backing tonight? Rayne or Tsonda?

Dawkins once again gives him the silent treatment.

Matt Mills: Or have you finally had en—

Dawkins interrupts.

Bryan Dawkins: ENOUGH, BRUH! I’ve had it with all of these questions about who I’m backing tonight, and who I’m friends with. Honestly, I should have just stayed in Hawaii this week. Would’ve been a lot easier on the mind…

Dawkins pauses for a moment to recollect his thoughts.

Bryan Dawkins: But if you really wanna know how I feel about tonight? Fine. To be honest with ya, bruh, I don’t care what happens tonight. Those two could go and beat the living hell outta each other and it wouldn’t make a difference to me, because after what happened last week, I’m done with dealin’ with those two.

Dawkins sighs.

Bryan Dawkins: If they wanna go out there and tear each other’s heads off for no good reason other than to stroke their egos, then that proves that those aren’t the guys I was hangin’ out with a few months ago. And it CERTAINLY proves that those aren’t the same guys who were lookin’ out for me when I came into this place and more importantly, when I went through what I went through last October. And if those guys really changed that much, then it’s really true…I want nothin’ to do with them, and I could care less what happens in that match tonight. That answer your question, bruh?

Mills nods.

Matt Mills: …Thanks Bryan. See ya next week?

Dawkins nods, and Mills makes his way out of the locker room, leaving the Flyin’ Hawaiian alone. And if, by chance, Bryan Dawkins was serious about his allegiances, seeing the High Risk Hawaiian alone would be a lot more common after tonight…

We fade elsewhere backstage to a locker room, where a double-wide standing mirror has been set up. We see that The Union is standing in front of it.

Conway: If you smell...

Luis: Nope. Taken.

Conway: And that's the bottom...

Luis: Taken as well.

Conway: The buck stops here?

Luis: Also used by somebody else.

The two are doing a couple of random poses while they try to do something, which apparently is thinking up a line that they could always say.

Conway: Okay, I've got one. We're on strike!

Luis: We just got hired, and you're saying we won't work?

Conway: Hmm. Workers of the world unite!

Luis: Quoting the Communist Manifesto might be a little off-putting.

Conway: Marx was a jerk for taking that. It's a good line.

Luis walks away from the mirror and goes to his locker. He pulls out what looks to be three bean bags, and, for no apparent reason, starts juggling. He walks over to Conway, who still seems to be poring over a line.

Luis: You could just relax, you know.

Conway: What would relaxing do?

Luis: You won't focus as hard. I mean, we're hard working guys.

Conway: We're doing this for the people, Gallegos. We've got to entertain them!

Luis does a cool little throw in to the air with his bags, and goes from three bags to one-handed with two, then just tossing one bag up over and over.

Luis: Well, hey, if we're doing it for the people, maybe that's all we need.

Conway: But a catch phrase is necessary. I wasn't for a gimmick, but come on. We're trying to show people they can do anything.

Luis: Well, check this out.

In quick succession, Luis suddenly goes from one to two bags, and then two to three, all using his left hand.

Luis: Pretty cool, huh?

Conway: Juggling? That's all you've got?

Luis: Well, hey, if anything is possible for those that try, we might as well start small.

Conway: But the marketing guys...

Luis: Want us to get one so that they can sell over-priced shirts to the fans because we're a new team.

Luis goes back to juggling with both hands, and then pauses.

Conway: Well, okay, so we don't sell out. But we still have to define ourselves.

Luis: Well, there is that poker game with the setup crew later.

Conway: And that does what for our image?

Luis: I don't know. But the ring crew is pretty cool.

Conway: Fine.

The two start walking out of the locker room.

Luis: How about, "United we stand?"

Conway: A Civil War reference? That's so not us.

And the door to the locker room closes.

"That fucking bitch."

Tyler Rayne is not happy. For those who have been watching the proceedings of ReVolution thus far, you’ll know why. For those who haven’t, well… what the fuck have you been doing? You got something better to do on a Wednesday night than watch the best professional wrestling program in the world? No? Yeah. I didn’t think so. Sit down. Grab some popcorn. We’ll catch you up.

Tyler Rayne: I fucking hate Lisa Tyler.

There you go. Now you’re caught up. The Underground Pimp and Power-That-Was stands in an all but empty room. That large desk he "borrowed" from C.P. Cantrell? Gone. The mini-bar and kegerator over in the corner? Gone. His movie posters and comic book memorabilia? Gone. Even the very last of the Baby Dusk dolls had been carted out of the office. If it could even be called an office now. Damn place looked like the Grinch had come through and stolen Tyler’s Christmas. All that was left was the man himself, one shiny stripper pole and the half-naked vixen that attended it.

Vicki the Stripper: This is some bullshit.

Tyler Rayne: Tell me about it.

There are no proper adjectives to describe the intensity of his rage right now. No modifier that could ever do his hatred justice. This was above and beyond the normal retaliations. This was the exact reason he’d written his own contract in the first place. The exact reason he hated the professional wrestling hierarchy. The stuffed suits and puckered assholes of business majors who’d never once seen the inside of a ring. Prometheus LLC and their Board of Directors wouldn’t know a wristlock from a wristwatch, as the saying goes. Not a one of ‘em that could have wrestled enough to shine even Jimmy Bonafide’s shoes. Yet those pompous fucks thought they knew how to run a wrestling promotion. It was everything he’d ever hated about the business.

Lisa Tyler had just stormed in as the living incarnation of all that hate. She was the hierarchy. She walked in representing Prometheus and its Board. Doing their bidding. Lisa Tyler was everything he hated about professional wrestling.

Tyler Rayne: This isn’t over. Not by a fucking long shot.

Vicki the Stripper: What are you going to do?

Tyler Rayne: For now? Nothing. I’ve got too much on my plate to deal with this shit. She played her hand. She knows I’ll play mine. It’ll just have to wait until next week. Do me a favor, will ya?

Vicki the Stripper: Of course.

Tyler Rayne: Go track down Tsonda. Or Mills. That’s probably easier. Let them know there’s a slight change of plans. Lisa can cancel my matches, but the Universal Title match is still on. We’ll make a slight adjustment. Tell Tsonda it’s now an "I Quit" match.

Vicki the Stripper: Tyler, I’m not sure if that’s such a--

Tyler Rayne: I wasn’t asking. I’m in a right proper mood for violence. I intend to have me some. Spread the word. Chandler Tsonda versus Tyler Rayne. Universal Title. I Quit.

Vicky the Stripper: But, you’re not even that good at submissions…

Tyler Rayne: Then I’ll just have to beat him into submission, won’t I? Go. Now.

There’s a certain tone in Tyler Rayne’s voice that does not lend to argument. Vicki is no longer arguing. She scampers out of the room to pass the message.

Chandler Tsonda. Tyler Rayne. I Quit Match.

Tyler Rayne: This isn’t over, Lisa. This is very fucking far from being over.

During the barrage of segments prior to the match, Lisa Tyler felt it appropriate to order all three competitors into the squared circle without any fancy entrances seen by the home viewing audience.

To summarize this for those who don't know, Chris doesn't write original entrances anymore. Ever.

Vince Howard: The following contest, scheduled for one fall, is a Triple Threat Match!

Nick: Another battle for tag team supremacy this week brought on by singles competition.

Richard: LOCK AND LOAD! LOCK AND LOAD! BRING ON THE PAINNNNNNNNNN!

Nick: Didn't you say that last week?

Richard: Probably

Vince Howard: Introducing first, representing The Union, standing 6'5 and weighing in at 255 pounds...JACKKKKKKKKKKKK CONWAY!

Jack gets a nice pop from the Portland crowd.

Vince Howard: Introducing next, standing at 6'8 and weighing in at 348 pounds, representing DUI, he is one half of the Tag Team Champions...HANKKKKKKKKK COBB!

The place explodes for the consummate professional of alcohol awareness.

Nick: Big love everywhere for Hank Cobb.

Richard: I bet you money that he's related to Ty Cobb.

Nick: I really doubt that Richard.

Richard: Might be one of the stories that he uses to get women in the sack. Hey baby, I swing a big bat-

Nick: Alright, I know where that's going and I don't want to offend our new boss.

Vince Howard: And finally, representing Wicked Ways, standing at 6'0 and weighing 219 pounds...SCRAPSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Being the only heel in the match, Scraps gets a lot of heat from the crowd. He gives them some of the business with his thick Boston accent. We can't really decipher what he's saying, so we'll just assume that it's chock full of heelish wit.

DING! DING! DING!

The three competitors, weary of one another, shift their eyes back and forth waiting for the first one to jump the gun and accelerate the match. Scraps has his focus locked on Jack Conway, while Conway is fixated upon Cobb. The big man, having his nearest opponent out sized by almost one hundred pounds, stands in the corner with clinched fists and prepares to throw hands with whoever steps near him.

Scraps makes the first move, charging at Jack Conway and catching him with a right hand to the throat. Conway is stunned, and receives a thumb to the eye while attempting to recover. Scraps connects on a European uppercut and fires the bigger Conway into the ropes. The Union representative reverses the whip and instinctively drops his head, expecting to pop up and have the crowd give him a big reception for hurting the only bad guy in the match.

Richard: Dumb mistake there.

Instead, he gets clobbered in the head with a knee to the temple, and dropped to the mat with a nasty DDT. Scraps jumps up, proud of himself, shouting words of douchebag encouragement to his fallen foe. It's at this point he realizes that Hank Cobb has gone through the opening seconds of the match untouched. The giant grabs a hold of Scraps around the neck and effortlessly flings him into the nearby turnbuckle. The small Irish Lion is helpless to stop a 348 pound splash from forcing the air out of his lungs.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Richard: Oof, and I bet his breath made it ten times worse.

Hank Cobb clutches the throat firmly with his right hand and launches Scraps out into the middle of the ring. The Irish Lion arches his back in agony, while Cobb stalks over to Conway and lifts him off the canvas. A headbutt to the sternum makes Conway dead weight in Cobb's hands. The Tag Champ whips his adversary into the ropes and lifts him overhead in a military press. Portland is dazzled at the pure strength that the big man has, and when he rushes out to the center of the ring, everybody prepares for an "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" kind of move.

Nick: Look at the power that Hank Cobb has. That's a 265 pound man ladies and gentlemen, not many people in the locker room can press someone that heavy without thinking about it.

Richard: Kid is so smashed that he probably thinks that is his score for later this evening.

Unfortunately, their fancy isn't acquired thanks to a dropkicking Scraps, connecting with the shins of Cobb. Conway is thrown to the canvas, and Scraps is on the attack. He displays the acrobatic high flying mentality, leaping off the second rope and connecting with a dropkick to the sternum, staggering Hank Cobb back. Scraps shoots up to his feet and plants a spinning back kick into the gut of Cobb. Once again, he shoots off the ropes, charging full steam ahead. The Tag Champ instinctively throws out his boot as a defensive mechanism, but Scraps is quick enough to duck underneath, bounce off the ropes, avoid an elbow to the head, jump up to the top rope and backflip through the air. His right foot lands square on Hank Cobb's head, forcefully shoving Cobb into the ropes. They are the only saving grace from being flat on his back. Scraps reassembles, fires himself off the ropes again, and uses a recovering Jack Conway as his springboard, flying through the air and landing another forearm to the sternum that propels Cobb over the ropes and down to the floor.

Nick: Wow! Scraps is taking it to Hank Cobb here in the early going. He got the big man out of the ring very quickly. If he keeps this up, he could have the big man at a huge disadvantage.

Jack Conway, not too appreciative of having his back used as a launching pad, rises and goes to attack Scraps. However, the knowledgeable heel throws his foot back just a second too fast for one half of the Union, and Conway goes down in a heap, holding his package in the fetal position.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Nick: That was just classless right there.

Richard: Only cheating if you get caught, and Elvis Nixon is on an acid trip right now so I wouldn't worry about him deciding much.

Nick: How do we have employees on acid trips while they are working?

Richard: Facey got some legislation passed before he exploded at CIII, seldom used but it's legit.

Scraps goes over to the ropes and assesses the situation before him. Hank Cobb is rising and he needs to act quickly to keep his momentum. Continuing his aerial display, Scraps springboards onto the top rope and attempts a Lion Press (Shooting Star) onto the floor.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Richard: Oh fudge it.

Scraps didn't realize that Hank Cobb has other ideas, grabbing him in mid-air and squeezing the energy out of The Irish Lion. Since 219 pounds is nothing to the big man of DUI, he's going to have a little fun at his rival's expense. Rushing over to the ring post, he slams Scraps back first into the unforgiving steel. The Irish Lion screams out in agony, but the pain isn't over. Cobb, with his grip still applied, rushes over to the other ring post and repeats his previous action. Scraps groans again, and tries to fight out of the hold with weakened punches. None of them are having any effect on Cobb, and he just gives a hearty grin at Scraps' effort.

Nick: Cobb is not even breaking a sweat yet.

Richard: Kid probably thinks he's somewhere in the Bahamas grinding and hitting Brazilian dimes from behind.

Nick: What did I tell you about listening to Nas?

Richard: That hippity hop isn't my style since I'm an old and fat white boy with no style.

Nick: Pay attention to what I tell you.

Cobb transfers Scraps into a military press and flings him over the ropes, his body landing atop Jack Conway, who falls back down to the canvas. Cobb pulls on the ropes to get back onto the apron, and steps through the ropes. Conway pulls himself to a standing position and receives an elbow atop the head for his consideration. Cobb delivers a massive knee to the gut and puts Conway onto his shoulders. Remembering what happened earlier, Cobb doesn't waste any time and immediately puts Conway down with a gutbuster. Conway moans and groans in pain, but Cobb isn't finished with him, yanking him back up, locking his arms behind Conway's neck, and using some of his superior strength to lock Conway in a Full Nelson.

Nick: Could Cobb be going for a submission victory here? He's definitely got the strength and good ring position.

Richard: Don't count on it, the only submission that Cobb knows is Last Call.

Nick: ...That was awful.

Richard: I'm smashed myself tonight.

Cobb doesn't keep the hold applied for very long, instead opting to launch Conway back in a Full Nelson suplex that causes Conway to get his first piece of offense in, kicking Scraps in the chest and knocking him back into the ropes. Conway smacks his head against the canvas and Cobb rushes forward at Scraps, leaping into the air and landing a devastating Stinger splash. Somehow, Scraps stumbles out of the corner and doesn't collapse in a heap. Cobb uses this as incentive to rush off the ropes and nail a massive boot to The Irish Lion, flipping him inside out.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Nick: Hank Cobb is making a statement here tonight. He's not in the ring to mess around.

Richard: How many beers do you think he had before going out? Could it be like an Andre thing where he drinks like four cases before coming out to the ring?

Nick: I doubt he's going to be able to stand after that, or flip any cars over that have people who pissed him off inside.

In complete control, Hank Cobb takes a hold of Jack Conway, yanking him off the mat, and lands a brutal knife edge chop. Conway is helpless, thrown backwards into the ropes, taken off the ground, and planted in the center of the ring with a throwaway spinebuster. Cobb, sensing that the end is now for Conway, drops down and makes the first cover of the contest.

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-SCRAPS WITH THE SAVE!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

At the last minute, Scraps used the back of Cobb to land a 360 elbow drop onto the Tag Champ's head. Cobb rolls away from Conway and is the recipient of stomps from The Irish Lion. He's elected to turn up the intensity right now, keeping the pressure on and his foot against Cobb's throat. Elvis Nixon wobbles over and slaps Scraps on the shoulder repeatedly, asking him to break the choke. Scraps refuses, and the five count has to be administered to restore order. One...Two...Three...Four...Scraps breaks and puts a boot into Cobb's forehead. Scraps and Elvis converse about the previous illegality. Scraps points out into the crowd, giving Elvis the promise of seeing one of his many impersonators. Scraps uses the distraction to spider kick Cobb in the balls and receives a massive wave of heat from the capacity crowd.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Nick: Again, just a heaping pile of classlessness from Wicked Ways.

Richard: Like they care, Nick. They are on the winning path in PRIME and aren't taking any prisoners.

Scraps taunts Cobb, enough to the point where the big man exerts strength from his own body to rise up and continue the fight. Scraps belts him with a forearm to the side of the head and takes a hold of his right arm. Rushing over to the nearby ropes, Scraps runs up to the top rope and leaps in Cobb's direction, grabbing a hold of the head, and swinging the DUI member around. Cobb isn't fond of being spun around, even while sober, and is forcefully driven into the mat with a tornado DDT from the smallest man in the match. Scraps dives over and tries to get the quick cover.

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Cobb throws Scraps off him just before the three count. Scraps goes through the second rope and lands on the apron, his right hand grasping the rope. Quickly jumping back up to the top rope, Scraps is airborne before Cobb can even look up. Placing a leg aimed at the back of Cobb's head, Scraps lands the leg drop and puts Cobb face first into the canvas. Conway injects himself back into the match and receives a monkey flip to the outside. Conway smacks his head hard against the ringside mats, rising up in a loopy state.

Nick: Conway is not with it this evening, he's getting brutalized by both competitors.

Richard: Always have to bring your A game into a PRIME ring or you run the risk of getting pwned by the Greatest Tag Team Alive.

Nick: Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Richard: I heart douchebags and Scraps is definitely someone with potential.

Scraps keeps the pace of the match at high octane, bouncing off the ropes, bulrushing ahead, and flying in between the second and third rope with a suicide dive, sending Conway into the barricade and back down to the mats. Kipping up, Scraps delivers a few unflattering gestures to the Portland crowd before hopping back on the apron. Turning his attention to Cobb, Scraps leaps back into the ring, springboards onto the top rope with his back facing the ring and takes flight through the air. An unsuspecting Cobb looks up just in the knick of time to catch Scraps' arm wrapping itself around his neck and The Irish Lion's momentum driving him down into the mat with a reverse DDT.

Nick: Moonsault into the Reverse DDT. Scraps is on a roll right here.

Richard: Great potential in this kid, I'm telling you.

Scraps gets his feet underneath him, charges ahead, and lands a beautiful standing Lion Press. Elvis Nixon drops down for the cover.

Nick: This could be it right here!

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Lacking the power from earlier, Cobb still manages to kick out before the three count. Scraps grows a tad frustrated, glaring up at Elvis Nixon and wondering where the three count was. After seeing two fingers thrown back in his face, Scraps puts a boot in the side of Cobb's face. Jack Conway re-enters the fray, receives a boot to the midsection, and gets his head locked by Scraps right arm. The Irish Lion leaps into the air and forces Conway to spin around before driving his head into the canvas with a MDK (Spinning DDT). Conway doesn't move, drawing Elvis Nixon's curiosity to see if he's still alive. Scraps doesn't care either way, exiting the ring and standing on the ring apron. Not wanting to slow down when he can sense victory, Scraps springboards into the air, and jumps from the top rope in a 450 splash. He lands directly on Conway's spine, forcing a loud grimace of pain from The Union representative. Scraps turns Conway over and goes for the win.

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Hank Cobb comes in at the last possible second and breaks up the count. He boots Conway out of the picture, and tries to get a hold of Scraps, but the little man is too fast, delivering a foot stomp, and sliding away from the big man's grasp. Scraps fires himself into the ropes, charges ahead, and uses the bent knee of Cobb as his springboard, launching himself into the air and attempting a slick hurricanrana.

Unfortunately for Scraps-

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Richard: This isn't going to end well. ABORT MISSION, SCRAPS!

Cobb doesn't comply with the flip, clutching onto Scraps legs, hoisting him back over his head and slamming him down with authority in a powerbomb. With Scraps, Cobb, and Conway all down, Elvis Nixon has no choice but to drop the ten count on the exhausted competitors.

Nick: Cobb might not have been involved in the decision there if he didn't make the save, and what a momentum balancer that powerbomb was.

Richard: I'm telling you, Scraps, potential, not going to lose.

Nick: Cobb can take a tremendous amount of pain Richard, it's going to take everything and the kitchen sink to put this guy down long enough to prevent him from winning.

Richard: A kitchen sink is usually where Cobb ends up by the end of the night anyway. I'm sure if Scraps brings that out, Cobb will end up puking five pounds into it, and he can sneak a victory on Conway.

Cobb and Scraps struggle up to their feet, Cobb needing the assistance of the ropes moreso than Scraps because of his added body mass. Scraps is the first one to his feet and resorts to his high flying background. He goes to the outside of the ring, hops up to the top rope, and goes for a frog splash. Cobb hears the sound of Scraps coming in his direction, spins around, and acquires Scraps in mid-air, clutching him horizontally in his arms. Cobb swings Scraps around and makes a beautiful sound, bouncing Scraps against the canvas with a swinging side slam.

Nick: Cobb is up and I think he's got his second wind here. This could be some serious trouble!

Conway emerges and receives a massive double axe handle to his head before getting shot into the ropes. Conway is helpless to stop the rejuvenated Cobb, who grabs him horizontally and shoots him 180 degrees in a running powerslam. Conway arches his back in pain, but Cobb doesn't give a hoot. He'll buy the man a beer after the match, but his focus right now is putting this match on lockdown. Picking Conway up one more time, Cobb keeps him close, spinning around and landing a devastating discus clothesline that puts Conway on Dream Street.

Richard: Someone find a girl with giant boobs to distract Cobb...BRING ME TYLER RAYNE!

Scraps does his best Tony Gamble impression, sneaking back into the match and bouncing off the ropes, charging forward. He leaps into the air and connects on a knee directly into the spine of Cobb, staggering the big man a bit. That's more than Scraps needs to leap onto the second rope and connect on a standing back kick. Conway gets in the way and trips Cobb over onto his back. Scraps goes over to both Conway and Cobb, crouches down, and leaps high into the air for a standing moonsault. COVER!

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-

Conway doesn't provide anything, but Cobb is able to shove Scraps off both competitors at the last second. Scraps rises up to his feet, a little blown up, and brings Conway with him. Booting him in the midsection, Scraps goes off into the ropes, looking for a prelude to his Doin Work finishing maneuver.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Instead, he receives a huge boot to the side of his head courtesy of Hank Cobb. The DUI mastodon spins around and takes a hold of Jack Conway. Showing some fatigue, a little energy is required to pick Conway into the air and flip him backwards into a breath taking Samoan Drop.

Nick: DEACON DROP! COBB HIT THE DROP! WE ALL KNOW WHAT'S COMING NEXT!

Cobb looks out at the crowd, who is all but begging him to put away Conway and rack up a big win for DUI. Cobb grunts up to a standing position and takes a hold of Conway, yanking him off the canvas and sticking his head between the legs. Cobb locks his arms around the waist, and pushes upward, putting Conway over his back in a crucifix position.

Nick: BALLGAME!

What Cobb doesn't see is Scraps sneak behind him, and deliver a stern boot to the groin. Cobb slumps to the mat, still able to throw Conway out in the Southern Justice. Scraps dives atop the prone Conway and goes for the cover.

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Nick: NO! THIS IS HIGHWAY ROBBERY!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Richard: CLASSIC HEEL MOMENT!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

DING! DING! DING!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Before Cobb can recognize what just happened, Scraps exits underneath the bottom rope, and scurries up the ramp, with his arm raised high in victory.

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THE MATCH....SCRAPSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Nick: Scraps stole a victory right there, Hank Cobb did all the damn work!

Richard: That's how we do it, Nick, that's how we do it.

Nick: What a joke. Cobb came back from the attack that Scraps gave him, and managed to have them both down. That's gotta hurt the young man.

Richard: He'll forget about it after a few beers. Meanwhile, I called it! Scraps keeps the momentum going for Wicked Ways.

Nick: Sickening.

Pacing back and forth in one of many backstage corridors of the Rose Garden, Hessian strokes his beard with one hand while continually slamming the other against his thigh. The pounding noise of flesh on flesh slaps sloppily in an echo throughout the corridor as he finds himself deep in thought. For a moment his conscience, busied with the problem of Fusenshoff and last week's heated confrontation, is rattled as the slapping of his thigh gains a tapping noise. Stopping momentarily he turns to the source of the tapping and finds a sultry female figure striding down the hallway towards him, paying more attention to the tape on her arms than anything in front of her.

Hessian: Well if it isn't...talk about coincidence...

The sound of his voice causes Lindsay Troy to look up. She slows her gait down until she finally stops in front of him. Hazel eyes look him up and down vacantly, giving no impression to the Murder Show as to what she may be thinking. Bringing his hands into prayer he steps forward until their bodies are mere inches apart and glares down at her. In a moment where he's merely studying her reaction, she simply looks up and holds a hand over her brow in exaggeration.

Lindsay Troy: Good thing we're not outside, big man. I think you might just block the sun.

Considering she didn't step back, Hessian smirks.

Hessian: Lindsay Troy, how lovely to meet you!

He backs off again and extends a hand for a welcome shake, pulling away after a second when only her stare returns the gesture.

Lindsay Troy: I don't shake hands if I don't know where they've been.

Running his hand over his beard once more, Hessian folds his arms.

Hessian: I'm happy to have this opportunity to meet you before our match tonight. I've been thinking about it, and I was just wondering if you could help me with something that's bothering me...

Lindsay Troy: Contrary to the rumors that I'm sure Jason Snow has spread since his unfortunate return to the limelight, I don't know what the rash you have is, and since Faith Rodriguez got the heave-ho a year ago, I don't know where you could have gotten it from.

He pauses for a moment.

Hessian: That's...actually not where I was going with this.

Lindsay Troy: Oh.

There's an awkward silence.

Lindsay Troy: Then please, enlighten me with what is sure to be an eloquent speech that will translate roughly to: "rar rar, I'm big man, I squish you" once it hits my ear canal.

Hessian: Right then. Now please don't be offended, but in the past I've had the misfortune of stepping in the ring on numerous occasions with female competitors like yourself and I want to know from you personally that you will provide more of a challenge than the spindly, screeching bimbos I used to have to wrestle in Rush Pro Wrestling. I'm going out there tonight with the intention of making all of my opponents hurt like hell in the morning and maybe get a win at the end for my troubles. I want you to know that I will not and have never held back against any female opponent who was unlucky enough to be booked against me, hell just track down Aimz and let her tell you how scary it is facing me in the ring...Christ, ask Tyler Rayne how scary it is!

He pauses once again.

Hessian: Now I want you to tell me something that will make me believe I'm wrestling three opponents tonight and not just two twats and Snow. Make me understand you as a competitor because from past efforts I have a hard time taking females who choose to compete in a man's world seriously, so tell me...what makes you any good? I don't care if your title history alone reads longer than Jay Phoenix's career. I don't care if you shit championship gold for guys like Fusenshoff to play with, or that a fight with God couldn't end your undefeated streak...I want to know what made your opponents fall to you? Understand that I could break you in half with my bare hands, what can you throw at me that will make me take you seriously in that ring tonight? I want to believe you are a legitimate threat that is capable of hurting me and not just the bitch who focuses on the weakest opponent for the win. So.......legitimize.

During Hessian's affront to the Women's Rights Movement, which he just set back about fifty years, Lindsay Troy had rested her cheek on her hand, while her other hand supported her right arm at the elbow. As the big man was rambling, the expression on her face was growing more and more bored. See where this is going?

When he finally concludes his diatribe, Lindsay lets out the most exasperated, wistful sigh she can possibly muster given the utter drivel she just allowed herself to be subjected to.

Lindsay Troy: Oh, (another sigh) how I long for the day when stupid men will comprehend that the times of the Caveman only exist in [i]The Flintstones[/i] franchise and now, more recently, Geico commercials.

She lifts her head away from her hand, and lazily points a finger at Hessian.

Lindsay Troy: Look, if you want to make this about a woman's place in the world and trace humanity's missteps back to when John Doe Ape didn't rape Jane the Smart Shopper/Homemaker Ape hard enough, go for it. But, that's not my M.O. I don't need to rattle off a laundry list of all the ways I pwn hard, and tell you how many achievables I've unlocked in my lifetime, because at the end of the night you're just going to crawl back under the rock that you've permanently lodged in the Middle Ages and I'd just have been wasting my breath. And can I just tell you how much breath I've wasted over the years having justify my being here to goose schlepping morons such as yourself? It's ridiculous, really. I'm pretty sure it's comparable to how much energy people in this country have wasted trying to figure out the reason why George W. Bush is as stupid as he is. So, I'll tell you what. You go right ahead and try to break me in half, and when you're lying on the canvas with a broken neck trying to figure out why all the little birdies in front of your face have Xs over their eyes, maybe then you'll have found the legitimacy that is so important to you.

The Queen of the Ring moves purposefully around the body of the Murder Show and walks off down the hall. Hessian looks after her and, after a moment, smiles sinisterly and strokes his beard again.

Hessian: Interesting...

Hessian turns around and looks to get himself prepared for the match.

Instead, what he finds is a steel chair making its way directly toward his face.

*THWAP*

The sound resonates throughout the corridor, sending nearby stagehands into a frenzy to escape from the vicinity. Hessian is stunned, stumbling back into a nearby wall. The attacker moves forward and delivers a second ferocious swing to the head, connecting point blank on the forehead and dropping the giant down to the ground in a heap.

The chair drops and the attacker stands over his rival.

His name is Fusenshoff and he just sent a message.

With half of the night already done with, the backstage area of the Rose Garden is a bit empty. Some have left while others are waiting for their night to begin. For Tyler Rayne, though, do nothing and like it is all he can do until his chance at Tsonda’s much-sought-after gold strap. The Underground Pimp walks around an unsuspecting corner to the nearest Code Red access point, giving himself something to do. He kicks out his right foot, popping one of the tabs in and waiting for the song-and-dance of the machine to end. The machine consequently begins to smoke and rattle around. It explodes, knocking Rayne back into the concrete wall behind him. He hears a small giggle.

Rayne: Look. That was intentional. If I had really wanted a drink, you think I would have kicked it? Things always 'splode when I kick them. I knew that. Wait a sec...

He stops speaking. Sure he hasn’t seen this piece of work around before, Rayne takes his eyes to the floor and proceeds to waste the next forty seconds silently examining the woman in front of him form toe to head. She shoots him a suggestive look, crossing her arms at the thoughts of his thoughts.

Rayne: You’re the broad runs around with Skwisgar and that, uh... other guy. Right?

Ruby: Well, junior. You can call me Ruby. And you can call my boys the whole reason you have an audience, tonight. While you just had to get your little match against the champ and prove you're so cool and tough, Scrap’s out there putting the rest of the tag division on notice. Red alert, if you know what I mean?

Rayne looks at her with a blank stare. He doesn’t flinch an inch and looks around.

Rayne: Mm. You say somethin', kid? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Lot on my mind, what with the Universal Title shot and all. Also, you know, totally distracted by your boobs. But mostly... Universal Title shot. You kids are new here and all so you may not quite realize it, but I'm kind of a big deal.

Ruby: Oh, yeah. Such a big deal… Tyler Rayne, Mr. Important… is that why you weren’t granted the match? Is that why you had to make this opportunity happen for you instead of Prometheus coming down to make the big announcement? Couldn’t wait, Ty?

Rayne tenses up and begins to take a deep breath, ready to blow the walls off the arena in this little no-bitch’s face. He stops. Letting the air release through his nose, Ty grins. He crosses his arms and cocks his head a little, so she knows he’s listening. Still, he says nothing.

Ruby: Well, everyone back here knows you're slipping. Fast. Which is why I’m here, really. I wanted to wish you luck.

Rayne: You're here, sweetheart, because I pay the fuckin' bills here. Tyler Rayne puts asses in seats. Tyler Rayne sells merchandise. He also, in case you failed to notice the past few weeks, has a modicum of authority in these halls. So watch your tongue, wench, 'fore you find yourself using it out on the fuckin' street corner.

Ruby looks down to her feet, smiling. She walks up to Rayne, looking him in the eye, and patting him on the rock-hard chest he is so well-known for. She walks by Rayne but turns at the last second, catching his peripheral attention.

Ruby: Think of it more as… a warning. See ya around, big shot.

Rayne: Kids these days. No respect at all.

She's long gone out of earshot. His own quest continues. There had to be another vending machine around here somewhere...

Sitting at her desk, already neck deep in her new responsibilities, Lisa Tyler looks over a handful of undoubtedly important documents. While her eyes dart back and forth across the pages, she speaks, her attention not leaving the paperwork in her hands.

Lisa Tyler: I said no face time until next week.

Kaiser Vashaun pauses for a moment in the doorway, caught off guard by Tyler’s sixth sense. Stepping fully into the room, The Next in Line stands over Lisa’s desk, adjusting the Intense Title that lies across his left shoulder.

Kaiser Vashaun: I just wanted to say ‘thanks’… for canceling that ridiculous match at the start of the show.

Lisa still doesn’t look up, continuing to glance over the paperwork that sits in front of her.

Lisa Tyler: Welcome.

Kaiser Vashaun: I don’t know what Rayne’s problem is… guess it all went to his head. Or maybe he just can’t stomach the fact that not everyone lays down for Ms. Troy the same way he does. Either way, he was out of control.

Lisa Tyler: Precisely the reason I’m now here.

Kaiser Vashaun: And you’ve already made at least one excellent decision. I was hoping… perhaps a second could follow. While Rayne was busy getting his panties in a bunch and booking me to curtain-jerk, he also made some ludicrous, rash decision to book me in a weekly gauntlet, starting at the special show next week, where my Intense title will be on the line every week till I lose it. It’s absurd, and I was just hoping it could go the way of Rayne’s other idiotic dec…

Lisa Tyler: Actually…

For the first time since The Next in Line had entered the room, Tyler looks up from her desk. Folding her hands across the paperwork on her desk, Lisa leans forward, a very ‘business’ look on her face.

Lisa Tyler:… while I fully believe Rayne’s booking of the handicap match to start off the show was a pointless, personal vendetta… I rather like the idea of the gauntlet.

Kaiser’s eyes go wide, and while his left hand holds his precious title in place, his right hand flies up into the air in protest.

Kaiser Vashaun: What? Are you kidding me?! How is this any different? The gauntlet’s just another personal vendetta by Rayne… all pissy cuz I picked on his girlfriend!

Lisa Tyler: First of all, Mr. Vashaun, Lindsay Troy has maintained for months on end to myself, Blaine Blair, and the Board that that there is no "girlfriend/boyfriend status" between herself and Tyler Rayne. When the Audits come around, I am confident that will not have changed. As to your claim to the Intense Gauntlet being another "personal vendetta", you're correct...but, this particular one isn't nearly as pointless. Due to your lack of a match on the King of Kings ca…

Kaiser Vashaun: That wasn’t my fault. C.P. was an idiot who wouldn’t know how to book a wrestling card if his life depended on it!

Lisa seems unphased. She simply stares up at Kaiser and waits for his outburst to finish, then calmly continues on.

Lisa Tyler: Due to your lack of a match on the King of Kings card, the Intense title hasn’t been defended in quite some time. I think a gauntlet is fitting for a championship dubbed "Intense", and I think a hardcore-themed special show, inside a steel cage, is the perfect way to kick things off.

Kaiser Vashaun: I suppose I was wrong. Maybe you really won’t be much of an improvement at all, because it’s obvious you’ve made a bullshit decision in this case.

Lisa Tyler: If only I had a tiny violin for your sad, sad song.

Kaiser Vashaun: If I were you, I’d start drafting up a letter to the Board.

Lisa Tyler: For?

Kaiser Vashaun: Explaining to them that a PRIME superstar is going to miss several weeks of action, because you thought it wise to agree with Rayne and lock someone inside a steel cage with the most intense guy on this roster.

Lisa Tyler: You talk a big game.

Kaiser Vashaun: Ask Troy Douglas… ask Rhett Locke or Jared Sykes… ask them if they think it’s just talk.

The Next in Line turns and leaves the room. Behind him, Lisa Tyler leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, a small smile creeping across her face.

Richard: Guess how much I like Wade Elliott? Zilch.

Nick: Thanks for the editorial. I'll be sure to let him know.

Richard: Wade would never talk to you.

Nick: So you have no problem if I tell Wade you think you could take him in a fight?

Richard: Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Stuart. That's hyperbole.

Nick: In other more pertinent news, we've got four competitors ready to go at ringside.

Richard: No entrances?

Nick: They made their entrances while the camera was backstage.

Richard: They did?

Nick: Yeah, don't you remember?

Richard: Is this Will's scheme not to write four longass entrances?

Nick: I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you.

Fresh off the four most mind-blowing entrances of all-time (there were midgets, a lemur, fourteen pairs of tube socks, and a Cobb salad involved...sorry you missed 'em), each competitor has found a corner. In his corner, Hessian's still trying to shake loose the effects of Fusenshoff's earlier attack, giving himself a couple light slaps on the face to try and clear the cobwebs. Lindsay Troy is testing out her fully recovered leg, making sure that it's ready for all the self-destructive shit she's gonna to do it in pursuit of a win. Jay Phoenix watches the other competitors while doing some light stretching. And Jason Snow, he must be taking lessons from Tony Gamble because there's a PermaSneer on his face. Oh wait, that's probably because Lisa Tyler made it night fuckin' impossible for him to win this match.

Richard: Interesting setup here. Hess is the biggest, Snow's got the most momentum, Troy's the quickest, and Phoenix is the most Native American.

Nick: How...does him being Native American affect the match?

Richard: Unpredictability. Who knows? If he gets hit too hard, he might declare a mourning war on your ass, scalp you, and take your women and children to live with him.

Nick: You watch too much TV.

Max Newell, zebra du jour, checks everybody for weapons. Satisfied that nobody's carrying a mini-gun in their singlet, he calls for the bell.

DING DING DING!

Troy locks up with Phoenix. Snow keeps a watchful eye on Hessian, whose eyes are a tad glassy. The Queen of the Ring puts Phoenix on the mat with a snapmare. She whips her head around, to find that Snow is merely watching the action. Hessian is leaning against the ropes, not looking like a good bet to win this match right now.

Nick: Fusenshoff's probably delighted that Hessian's so out of it right now.

Popping up, Troy sees that Hessian and Snow aren't yet into the spirit of things, so she charges. Hessian's barely ready to stand, no less take a full-force spinning roundhouse heel kick. The blow knocks Hessian face-first towards the turnbuckle, but Troy knows that your focus can't stay too long on any one opponent in a match like this. She sees Phoenix rising (ha!) and makes her move. But Phoenix hasn't place highly in a handful of GTT's by being a dope, and he notices Troy's movement towards him. Exploding up out of his crouch, Phoenix slides underneath a kick from the Queen, rolls to his right, and tosses Jason Snow right into the Queen's clutches.

Nick: Snow got tossed into the fray and I'm not sure he was ready for it!

The Jewel in the Crown stumbles right into Troy's arms, and she's eager to catch him with a reverse underhook DDT. As Troy goes for the pinfall, Phoenix grabs Hessian from behind, spinning him around and tossing several right hands to keep the Murder Show off his game.

One...



NO!

Richard: Snow powers out. He won't be held down by a damn wench!

Nick: Snow's got a track record a mile long, but even he can't like the odds here. He's gotta eliminate everyone else in this match!

After those right hands, Phoenix puts a boot into Hessian's stomach, putting him back against the turnbuckle. Phoenix raises his hands, riling up the fans, then gets the people off their heinies with a moonsault kick that causes Hessian to slump into a seated position. Phoenix turns around, and finds himself face-to-face with Snow. The Eternal Flame swings an elbow at the Number One Contender, but Snow catches Phoenix's arm and tosses him him down onto the mat. Lindsay Troy re-enters the fray, after bouncing off the ropes, with a flying double knee that blindsides both men. Snow stumbles away, but Phoenix is knocked off his feet, having caught a Troy knee to the dome.

Richard: Oh wow, I'm really crying a trail of tears for you, Phoenix.

Nick: Not even in the realm of appropriate.

Lindsay Troy, on the offense for most of the match, looks to continue her winning ways by rushing the corner. As she goes for her straight knee strike, Hessian goes from 0 to 60, going from a seated position and catching Troy by the midsection. As he's nearly double her weight, Hessian's happy to taunt for a moment as he raises the Queen high above his head. And to show himself the dominant male, Hessian raises her high, and then lets simply lets go, which in wrestling terms is known as a gorilla press drop. The Hardcore Monster goes for a cover.

One...



Two....
NO!

Richard: Snow to the rescue!

The Original Villain puts a hellacious stomp into the back of Hessian, bringing him off the cover. But Phoenix doesn't give Snow much time to celebrate, charging in from behind and slamming that allegedly orgasm-causing mug into the mat with a two-handed facecrusher (Scotty Too Hotty, how little we knew ye!). Phoenix stays on the warpath, attacking Hessian with a flying forearm smash. It doesn't take the Murder Show off his feet, though, so Phoenix stays at it. Jay goes to whip Hessian at the opposite ropes, but the brawn of Hessian comes into play now, as the big man reverses the whip. Phoenix bounces off the ropes and flies at Hessian with a cross body block, but the big man is adept at countering this type of offense. He catches Phoenix and brings him down onto his knee with a crunching pendulum backbreaker.

Nick: Ouch. Phoenix was on a bit of a roll there and Hessian just put the kibosh on his offense.

Snow and Troy rise at the same time and damn near bump into one another. Marks everywhere pop boners, as two of Primetime Central's greatest stare one another right in the peepers.

Richard: Smack her, Snow! Beat that wench into submission with your logic-based male thought process!

Nick: Don't you know, Richard?

Richard: Know what?

Nick: Jason Snow won't lay a finger on a woman. Lindsay Troy or anyone else...but he's still a scumbag.

Richard: You're just mad you never thought up that AMAZING trick with the EMT costume.

But Lindsay Troy doesn't take anybody's charity, especially not that of someone who's so damn pleased to call her a wench. Troy's elbow smash spins Snow around, and from there it's easy for the Amazon to put him on the mat with a reverse DDT. But before Troy can get up of her own volition, Hessian wrenches her up by the hair, talking some kind of smack as he pulls her face inches from his own.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: Well, Hessian will get his share of cheers in PRIME, but you won't win any fans by roughing up PRIME's favored daughter.

With Hessian taunting the Queen, Snow sees an opportunity to score his first elimination. He rolls up Hessian in a schoolboy and Max Newell slides in for the count.

One...



Two...

NO!

Richard: Real classy, Troy. He refuses to hit you and you stop a pinfall that would have NO effect on you.

Nick: It's called competitive spirit.

Richard: It's called hypocrisy.

The save by Lindsay Troy leaves Snow and Hessian on the mat, with Phoenix still getting to his feet, grabbing at his back. So Lindsay Troy does one of the things that made her famous (the others being her smart mouth, a helluva fighter's spirit, and her...very-nice-to-look-at figure): she goes up top. She climbs to the top rope, takes a second to size things up, and...liftoff. Gracefully going horizontal as she gets vertical, Lindsay Troy pumps, and then flares out every limb she's got, coming down on both Snow and Hessian with a Five-Star Frog Splash.

Nick: What a five-star frog splash from the Queen!

The ring rocks slightly from the impact, and Jay Phoenix finds himself the only person standing in the ring. Like Troy before him, he decides to go top-rope. He makes it in one bound, and he doesn't take Troy's moment to size things up, immediately bounding off backwards with a twisting corkscrew moonsault that has him landing right on Hessian.

Nick: Thunderstorm from Phoenix!

Richard: That big German fella is up shit's creek.

Phoenix crawls over slowly and makes the cover, hooking Hessian's leg.

One...



Two...



ThreeNO!

The Construction of Destruction gets a shoulder up, but is clearly feeling the effects of the two high-impact aerial moves. It takes a moment, but Troy and Phoenix both get to their feet. They exchange a look, and Phoenix points to Hessian. Troy, remembering Hessian's hair-pulling antics, gives a stoic nod. The two cruiserweights pull Hessian up and whip him at the opposite rope, taking him down off the comeback with double elbows right to the big man's grill.

Richard: Collusion!

Nick: Phoenix has had about enough of Hessian for one lifetime in the past month. And Troy, well, you know how the Queen tends to hold a grudge.

Phoenix pulls Hessian up and shoves him into the corner. Meanwhile, Snow rolls to the outside for a momentary rest. He leans against the apron, watching the action in the ring. Max Newell doesn't notice him yet, thus no count is started. But with Hess in the corner, Phoenix and Troy continue their double team moves...for the moment. Showing considerable tag team prowess, Phoenix whips Troy (in a friendly manner) at the corner, giving her extra momentum as she hits the corner with a big body splash.

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Following up Troy's offense, Phoenix comes in with a big body splash of his own, and Hessian topples face first out of the corner onto the mat. Phoenix and Troy look at one another, then down at Hessian, then back to one another.

Nick: I dunno how much more this tenuous partnership can last.

Richard: Until Troy uses her womanly guiles to screw over Phoenix, that's how long.

Phoenix raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. Troy rolls her eyes.

Richard: Are you kidding me? You too, Phoenix?

Nick: I know, scruples are such an awful thing.

Richard: Scruple you, Stuart.

To reiterate, Lindsay Troy takes no one's charity. She goes for a stiff kick to Phoenix's midsection, but the Eternal Flame catches her leg. He has a real "uh oh" moment, and it lasts right up until a Troy enziguiri meets the side of his face, knocking him off his feet.

LIND-SAY! LIND-SAY! LIND-SAY!

The only person left standing in the ring, notices Snow lurking on the outside, leaning on the apron. Not a great place to be, especially when a Lindsay Troy baseball slide comes through, jiggling Snow's teeth more than a little bit.

Richard: What a succubus.

Most likely sick and tired of Snow's rest period, Troy rolls the Original Villain back into the ring, following him by way of the stairs. This leaves her perched on the top rope. Hessian is the unlucky victim. She sizes up the big fella, and takes flight.

Nick: Crowning GloOH!

That yelp comes when Lindsay Troy, twisting off into position for a Tornado DDT, is caught by Hessian in a bearhug. Holding Troy high in the air, Hessian looks fit to make good on his words from earlier. From out of nowhere, though, a flying double axe handle makes Hessian stumble and drop Troy, who lands on her feet. Now Troy and Phoenix don't love one another, but they love Hessian even less. They go back to the double team method, pulling Hessian up and whipping him at the ropes. But this time, it's Hessian who shoulder blocks both Phoenix and Troy to the mat. With his massive paws, Hessian pulls Troy and Phoenix up by the respective scruffs of their necks.

Richard: He might have lifted a weight or two in his day.

Nick: That strength is unreal!

He now lifts them both up into a shoulder-mounted bearhug, compressing their backs and gloating. Behind Hessian, Snow reaches his feet, and does nothing but watch the scene unfold. Showing off his Samson-esque strength, Hessian flips Troy and Phoenix, bringing them down with sickening impact onto their necks.

Nick: Double Hellevator! Sweet mercy!

It's not five seconds that pass before there's another impact.

Jason Snow's boot? Meet Hessian's jaw.

Richard: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSNAKE EYES! YES!

The superkick catches Hessian so unaware that there's no defense for it. And coupled with Fusenshoff's earlier blows, it leaves the Hardcore Monster with his lights out.

One...



Two...

But in a fatal fourway, there's always somebody to break up your well-deserved pinfall.

Three!

Almost always.

Nick: Hessian just got eliminated! He did all the legwork and Snow's trying to profit off of it!

Just barely conscious enough to roll out of the ring, Hessian does so with a pained look on his face, slamming his fists against the apron.

Richard: That's one big, angry retard.

Nick: He's not retarded.

Richard: I'm being proverbial.

Nick: You're being an idiot.

Snow's plan, one has to admit, is pretty great. He waits, coiling that leg like some kind of really snake that bites you and then hits you in the face with a brick. And as Lindsay Troy rises, Snow gives a virtuoso encore performance, uncoiling the boot right into the face of the two-time Universal Champion.

Nick: Snake Eyes!

Richard: Tactics, Nick. Mother. Farting. Tactics.

Snow hooks the leg, looking for his second elimination.

One...



Two...



Three!

Nick: And Lindsay Troy is gone, folks.

Richard: Snow's one more of those babies away from the biggest upset in PRIME history.

Nick: Let's not start coronating him just yet.

Richard: We already did it, Nick. It was called King of Kings and he proved that he's some kind of ass-kicking demigod of wrestling. Know what? Now that I think about it, he might be a cyborg.

Snow wears a curlingly evil smile as Jay Phoenix struggles to his feet.

Nick: Watch out, Phoenix!

Richard: Bury His Heart at Broken Jaw.

Nick: ENOUGH!

But it's more of the same. Phoenix gets to his feet, takes two steps to try and find his feet, and Snow uncorks the most famous superkick in the biz (with grand apologies to Dusk). A gasp goes up in the crowd.


That gasp is the sound of a third consecutive Snake Eyes missing as Jay Phoenix nimbly ducks underneath the kick, then gives Snow some just desserts, with a side thrust kick that nearly knocks the Original Villain's block off.

Nick: Lights Out! Phoenix mounting a valiant comeback! Two men who proved their mettle in Global Title Tourneys are going mano y mano!

Richard: Exclamation points!

PHOE-NIX! PHOE-NIX! PHOE-NIX!

Urged on by the crowd, Jay urges Snow up with his hands, ready to punish Snow's cowardly tactics. And when Snow reaches his feet, he's in for a world of hurt. A Phoenix kick to the gut is followed by the Eternal Flame getting Snow in the double underhook standing headscissors that can only mean one thing.

Nick: Phoenix Rising!

But Snow hasn't been through the hell that Phoenix has been through. He hasn't taken the Hellevator, hasn't put his body on the line. Because Jason Snow knew from the moment Lisa Tyler said it that he was going to have to out-think his opponents to win. Phoenix wrenches once, trying to lift Snow, but the Canadian is the man with more left in the tank. He lifts, showing immense shoulder power, and puts Phoenix on his back with a sloppy-but-effective spinebuster.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: Snow's just too sick wit it.

Nick: Sick wit it?

Richard: It's from the AND1 Mixtape Tour, dude.

Nick: You don't even like basketball.

Richard: MY GODSON, JASON SNOW!

Snow pulls Phoenix up, making a throat-slashing motion that would indicate the match is about to be over. But Phoenix won't have it, tossing right hands that send the Number One Contender retreating towards the ropes.

Nick: Phoenix has Snow on the defensive!

Snow swings wildly to try and stop Phoenix from gaining momentum, but he puts too much into the swing, and when it carries him past Phoenix's sidestep, all it takes for the former RUSH World Champion is a small cradle to bring down his opponent.

One...



Two...



Three!

Nick: Snow just BARELY kicks out!

Richard: Lulling your boy into a false sense of security.

Nick: Pretty good lulling.

Richard: He's one of the best lullers in the game today.

With both men on their feet at the same time, we get a classic moment. A right from Snow is followed by a right from Phoenix is followed by a right from Snow is followed by a right from Phoenix. Phoenix delivers a second right hand and looks to be on his way to a giant move.

A giant wave of disdain comes from the direction of the West side crowd. We are talking massive amounts of heat. Worse than global warming. Phoenix belts Snow down with another right hand and turns around to see the disturbance first hand.

Nick: What in the hell is he doing out here?

Richard: Marketing.

Nick: He's distracting Jay Phoenix!

Meet Peerless Hunter Sabuani casually walks through the crowd with his ex-wife Madison (who is looking absolutely HAWT in her bikini.) They are mingling amongst the Portland faithful in a (seemingly fruitless) attempt to sell Sabuani's autobiography. Needless to say, Phoenix is pretty annoyed by the whole ordeal and goes over to the ropes to berate the twosome.

Nick: Someone get this clown out of here. He's doing nothing to help out any facet of this match.

Richard: Easy there, killer.

Jason Snow uses this pristine advantage to spin Jay Phoenix around and give him a thumb directly into the eye.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: Classy, as always.

Phoenix is blinded, and this provides Snow a perfect opening. He grabs Phoenix in a front facelock and lifts, dropping him hard with a vertical suplex. Just seconds later, Snow bounds to the top rope. He gives a big award-winning-but-not-because-he's-a-douche smile, then takes off.

Richard: They shouldn't allow that move on TV.

Nick: What are you talk-

Richard: BECAUSE IT'S X-RATED!

The moonsault brings Snow crashing down onto Phoenix, where he hooks the leg.

One...



Two...



Three!

Nick: We're never gonna hear the end of this.

Richard: Nor should we! A heroic effort by a heroic man!

DING DING DING!

Max Newell helps Snow to his feet, raising the Original Villain's hand. Snow looks down at Phoenix with that same devilish smile on his face, happy to stick it to Lisa Tyler's plan for punishing him.

Nick: Jason Snow had every reason to lose this match, but he came up victorious. I just wish he would've been able to do it without compromising his integrity.

Richard: Integrity hasn't ever gotten anyone laid, Nick.

As "Right Next Door To Hell" blares, the fans shower Snow with jeers. But for now, the Jewel in the Crown doesn't ever hear them. He's passed another test, and looks like a man on a mission, a man with his eyes towards Culture Shock.

Clink Clink Clink

Thunk Thunk

For those familiar with the use of these most famous of sound effects, you might be wondering why the soon-to-be-contending for the Universal Title Tyler Rayne would be fetching his own bottle of wonderfully delicious Code Red Mountain Dew. Shouldn’t a man of his influence and authority be able to snap his fingers and have six topless women deliver cold, frosty mugs of the refreshing liquid?

Yes. He should. In fact… he could. However, this is a night unlike any other. Precisely because he is the soon-to-be-contending for the Universal Title Tyler Rayne. Precisely because, in order to claim such an esteemed prize, he’ll have to beat the could-be-a-friend-or-the-biggest-douche-this-side-of-Ferguson Chandler Tsonda.

The weights of responsibility hang heavy on Rayne’s shoulders. Authority. Leadership. Friendship. Loyalty. Success. Prestige. There’s a lot of shit going on in that man’s mind right now. A whole mess of distractions.

He doesn’t want to be served. He doesn’t want to be waited on.

He just wants to walk. He wants to drink a Code Red Mountain Dew and shuffle aimlessly down the halls. Wander listlessly. Irresponsibly. So he does, never bothering to look up from counting tiles on the floor as he turns that corner…

Through the wall, in a hallway running perpendicular to our Code Red Swigging friend, is a man concerned with more than just wandering aimlessly. No, this fella has a purpose, a target, as he takes one big stride after another, worn out work boots thudding through the corridor. Problems rattle around in the iron skull of his as well, but none so important as the one currently taking priority...

"Cain't never rely on this god damn place to have any proper god damn bourbon!"

Angus the Bluetick Hound, trotting to the side, barks in agreement.

The 'Bama Bruiser digs for his smokes and Zippo, lighting one up and taking a long drag before rounding the corner...

Bump.

Bump.

Both The Golden Boy and Bad Dog stop dead in their tracks, chest thudding into one another. An ominous "oooooooooooh" roils through the crowd as the former Five Star Champion looks slightly upward, and the Blue Collar Brawler tilts his gaze slightly down.

They engage in epic stare-down, as per usual.

But neither face yields to anger or hatred. Rather, uncertainty sprawls across them. Rayne's eyes remain wide, while Elliott's lips curl inward.

Angus whines.

Rayne looks one way, Elliott the other..

Elliott looks one way, Rayne the other.

Rayne scratches his neck, Elliott scratches his back.

Rayne breathes in deep, Elliott clears his throat.

Tyler Rayne: 'Sup.

Wade Elliott: Evenin'.

Tyler Rayne: So...

Wade Elliott: So.

Tyler Rayne: Um...

Wade Elliott: Hmmm...

Tyler Rayne: This is kinda...

Wade Elliott: ...yup.

Silence.

Tyler Rayne: Do you...?

Wade Elliott: Ain't sure. Are we...?

Tyler Rayne: Not certain.

Wade Elliott: Hmm.

Another pause.

Wade Elliott: Well...alright then.

Tyler Rayne: Good talk, see you out there.

The two walk past each other without resistance, leaving the camera focused on the wall.

And we go elsewhere...

Chandler Tsonda has a natural aura of suave and sophistication that is most often mistaken for arrogance. He walks around with the sense that he's the best wrestler in the world, bar none. He's got the hardware to prove it and a track record that only a handful of roster members to ever grace PRIME can match up against. Most of the giant names to walk through the halls of PRIME have fallen before his feet at some time or another.

However, tonight, things are slightly different. He's not facing three people in the Roulette who weren't legitimately ready for the contest. He's not facing Danny Ferguson. He's facing the most talked about wrestler in the PRIME Universe, Tyler Rayne. A match that will go down as one of the classics in ReVolution history.

Tsonda leans against a wall near the gorilla position, swinging his right leg back and forth, trying to shake out any tightness. Nerves...or some other anxiousness has made his usual pre-match routine impossible. All of the backstage hands slide around him or avoid The Model Citizen completely, not wanting to disturb 'Da Champ' and get a verbal tongue lashing of epic proportions. He needs complete focus if he's going to tackle a task this significant only weeks away from facing Jason Snow.

Unfortunately, for the Model Citizen, one person doesn't care about his interrupting his energy flow or pre-match stretching ritual. A black trench coat and dress shoes appear on Tsonda's left, which he ignores completely, hoping that the person will have enough common courtesy to leave him alone after getting snubbed.

No dice. The person continues to stand there and grabs hold of Tsonda's right arm, swinging him around so they are face to face.

Devin Shakur: Word to the wise, boy, don't ever ignore me again.

The CV Main Event stand eye to eye, in their first encounter since Shakur becoming sidelined, and their second since the night Shakur lost the strap to Tsonda in his home state.

Tsonda, upon seeing Shakur, is more than happy to pat the Universal Championship wrapped firmly around his waist as a friendly reminder.

Chandler Tsonda: Devvy, long time no see, how you been? Suave? The midcard life treating you alright?

Keeping a poker face that would impress Patrik Antonius, Shakur doesn't change expression. Instead, he takes a step to Tsonda and closes the distance between the two.

Nick (OSV): This could explode at any minute.

Richard (OSV): I'll take the jacked up angry former Emo guy right now. Who wants to lay money?

Devin Shakur: Cut the fancy talk Chandler, I'm here on business.

Chandler Tsonda: If you want another shot at my title then get in line, starts around the block. And I hate to discriminate, but fluke champions gotta go to the end.

The only modification made to Shakur is an increase in his blinking. He's not going to be baited into a verbal sparring match with The Model Citizen.

Devin Shakur: ...Anyway, I've got a proposition for you. One that I think you might be interested in hearing because of recent events.

Chandler Tsonda: You don't have anything I need or want, squeaky. But nothing I say is gonna shut you up, so why don't you roll out the red carpet for your latest stupid idea?

Devin Shakur: I'm going to be the only one of us having working organs in about twenty seconds if you don't cut the smart ass talk and listen to what I have to say.

Chandler Tsonda: Don't people usually say three or five seconds? You lose a step or something, maybe courtesy of those twenty chairshots from Ty?

Devin Shakur: Do I have a giant sign that says "Ignore" hanging over my head or something? Christ, even Gamble wasn't this annoying.

Chandler Tsonda: No "Ignore" sign, but your eyeliner is...Jesus, it's god-awful. I'll even lend you one of my interns to fix that shit.

Shakur's hands twitch just a little bit, the desire to clock Tsonda and handle his own business becoming a tad more enticing.

Devin Shakur: I can see I'm going to have to talk through your horrible wit, since I can't talk directly to you. I have a lucrative offer that would make you one of the most recognized names to ever grace professional wrestling.

Chandler Tsonda: Been there, done that, big man. Ya know, when I used beating you at Colossus as springboard to megasuperawesomestardom.

Shakur realizes that in order to get through to Tsonda, he's going to have to no sell every joke that The Model Citizen makes.

Devin Shakur: I've noticed that your relationship with Rayne has become a bit...strained as of late. You were once the friendliest of bros, and now you are facing in a Main Event match on ReVolution.

Tsonda's tune changes slightly, the witty guard dropping for a moment.

Chandler Tsonda: Get to point-making, Shakur. I'm not interested in pillow talk about who I do and don't have problems with.

Devin Shakur: My point, which I could have made about five minutes ago if you had shut your mouth, was that I have a way to completely rid of your Tyler Rayne problems.

Chandler Tsonda: I've got a solution too: go out there and show him why I'm the champ and he's just a loudmouth.

Devin Shakur: Your solution is flawed, Chan Chan, because that leaves him to hang around and continually annoy you. Although, considering the amount of shit you've given me, that might not be a bad karmic resolution.

Chandler Tsonda: And considering the amount of shit you gave everybody when you were the most fraudulent Champion since Clyde Fucking Walkins , I think everything works out fantastic.

Devin Shakur: ...How would you like to be the man who takes Tyler Rayne out from professional wrestling?

Tsonda pauses and stares at Shakur with a little more seriousness than before. He didn't assume that the point was that significant.

Chandler Tsonda: Wait...Two questions. Why do you need me to handle something that you should be doing? And didn't you ask the kid to do this last week?

Devin Shakur: Well at least you are capable of seeing a portion of the trees. The reason that I'm asking you this is because I think it would be beneficial to you. He's been a thorn in your side for a long while and you two have been on somewhat of a downswing in your roller coaster relationship. Why not just solve all your problems in one felt swoop? All you have to do is put a little hot sauce on his leg with this.

Shakur reaches into his trench coat and retrieves the same pipe that he presented Dawkins with last week. Tsonda becomes a tad apprehensive knowing that Shakur has a weapon and is swinging it in his hands.

Devin Shakur: Think about it, Chan. You've just defeated Tyler Rayne to become the longest reigning Universal Champion in the history of PRIME. An accomplishment unto itself. So how do you cap off the night? You take this pipe and smash in the most talked about superstar right now. You injure him. Take him out. Cripple him. Make him incapable of ever returning to the sport. My God, can you grasp your head around the amount of buzz that would receive?

Even though Tsonda thinks Shakur is a complete and utter tool, he has to consider the possibility of what that would represent. He would become the most notorious wrestler in the world along with proving to be the best around. Most people aren't going to be able to turn such a prospect down with ease.

Except Tsonda.

Chandler Tsonda: Pass.

The crowd erupts. They don't want to see something like that happen on what has already been a great exhibition of wrestling.

Devin Shakur: What, you worried about becoming Public Enemy and Douchebag number 1? Trust me Chan, you've had enough of that experience. It won't be hard for you to slip back into that role.

Chandler Tsonda: I've done enough slimy shit for one career. Why don't you make sure to fill my quota for me, hombre?

Tsonda walks up to Shakur and pats his Universal Championship one more time.

Chandler Tsonda: Now, I'm going to go over here to the "No Douchebag Former Champions Clawing For Fifteen More Minutes of Fame" section. Ciao, psycho.

Tsonda walks by Shakur, leaving The Man in Black holding the pipe once again. With a deep sigh, Shakur puts the pipe back in his pocket and walks over to a nearby stagehand.

Devin Shakur: Where is Tyler Rayne's locker room at?

Stagehand: Down the hall and to the right.

Shakur turns around and heads in that direction.

Devin Shakur: Guess you just have to get inside their head the hard way, huh?

Shakur rounds the corner and goes out of camera range.

Backstage and around the corner.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Yeah, there’s a surprise – they don’t like him already and he’s not even officially on the roster yet.

Hunter Sabuani’s grinning as he walks towards one of the blue double-doors that lead from the Rose Garden to the great wide open. The Raja, who has had quite an interesting night of biographies and bikinis and being punched in the beak. The woman at his side, she’s his ex-wife, Madison, and if you missed earlier in the show, you missed the greatest swimsuit ever invented by man.

PHS: So I’m thinking we should go have sushi.

Madi: I’m not exactly... dressed... for a restaurant.

PHS: I told you, the bikini saves everything. Besides, you’d just have to give the maitre d’ one of those little smiles you used to give me and he’d totally melt. Like I used to.

The Babe loops her arm through Hunter’s elbow, leaning in slightly.

Madi: Like you still do.

It’s not exactly thrilling conversation, but nor is it the kind of mustache-twirling villainy that one might expect from two people who arguably just cost the Eternal Flame his match. But you’ve just gotta question if they’re even aware that they did so; they seem kind of oblivious. Case in point: Hunter turns over his shoulder, glancing towards the camera (and the stands).

PHS: They’re kind of rowdy tonight. Think Snow is out there or...

Madi: I don’t know, but they take "rowdy" to a new level. I think I’m going to have a handprint.

She juts her lower lip out in a mock pout, looking up to him. (The fact that she can do that only because she’s leaning on him is saying something – we’re not talking Tony Gamble short, but he’s not a big guy.)

Richard: (low) I’ve never wanted to be a fan before.

PHS: Do I have to hire someone to protect you? I mean, some of the guys around here have a reputation...

The Babe’s laugh is like a splash of brandy in an expensive glass.

Madi: I think I’ll be fine. Troy’s got them so nervous around women that they’ll jump at my shadow.

PHS: Yeah... wait, she’s a woman?

Madi: We had a five-minute conversation about her breasts a few months ago.

The diminutive, leather-clad Rat opens the door from the outside; just beyond, there’s a car idling.

Rat: Come on, let’s go! I had to hip check a parking attendant to get the car.

Madi: That’s probably because he couldn’t see you.

Rat: No, there’s some resentment burbling about you two.

PHS: What’d we do?

Rat: That Phoenix guy is kind of well-liked.

PHS: Wait. The guy who punched me? What’d I do to him?

Rat’s brows beetle over her beady little eyes as she gestures frantically.

Rat: Bubba. Listen. You were just out there.

PHS: To sell my autobiography. These cockmasters haven’t signed me to a contract yet, so some dough would be nice.

Rat: And he was wrestling!

PHS: So?

Rat: You cost him his match.

Hunter stops dead in his tracks; so quickly that the woman on his arm nearly falls.

PHS: No way.

Madi: I think there might’ve been a match going on, yeah.

PHS: Man, that was uncool of me. Tellya what, I should go back and apologize. Tell him we’re Even Steven after he popped me in the face. I don’t let many guys do that.

Madi: Well, there was Clay Byrd.

PHS: Who?

Madi: Nevermind.

Rat: Let’s go. You can apologize next week.

Sabuani turns, looking dead into the center of the lens (has he known it was there the whole time?). He jabs a finger towards it.

PHS: Next week, Jimmy Jean Phoenix, I promise. We’ll totally apologize. We’re good people, and I don’t want to piss the boys off before we’re even hired.

Rat: Fine. Just go now.

The sound of a siren sneaks into the hallway behind the woman Sabuani calls the Little Dynamo.

Rat: Now! GO GO GO!

Perhaps surprisingly, they listen.

PHS: What’d you do? You said you just hip-checked a guy.

Rat: I might’ve... done more than that.

And they’re out the door.

The scene fades backstage to what looks to be an impromptu poker match. It looks like the setup crew is biding their time, and the organizers are none other than the Motor City Maniac, Jack Conway, and the California Beach Bum, Luis Gallegos. The chips seem to be evenly dispersed at this point.

Luis: Jack, dude, you gotta' calm down.

Conway: I am calm. This is my poker face.

One of the other guys at the table speaks up.

Guy One: It looks more like you're pissed, and with the hands you've been getting I'm not surprised.

Jack: Guy, just deal.

Apparently, the man's name actually IS Guy, pronounced in the French or Canadian manner. Suddenly, just before the betting starts, Wicked Ways strolls on to the scene.

Rippa: Looks, Scraps. These guys are playing pokers! Let's play.

Scrap: Watch out, Veljumin. It might be for something other than money.

Picking up some of the chips, Scraps scoffs at the general situation. Gallegos turns around, as Scraps has happened to grab some of his personal stack. Standing, Luis looks less like he's trying to be intimidating and more like he's just acknowledging the arrival of the two men.

Luis: Bro, I think that you might want to wait until next week. We've already passed out all the chips.

Conway: And there's no buy-in for another three weeks. We did just start this, after all. Having on guy con everybody just because he knows how to wouldn't be fair.

Luis: Well, that, and all of us are a little short on the non-plastic fundage.

The entire table shares nods, and Gallegos shrugs.

Luis: I guess you two could watch or something.

Conway: This is just how we felt like unwinding after my match tonight.

Scraps: Well if your Poker game is anything like what I've seen from you two in the ring, just remind me to stop by the bank.

Conway stands, finally taking offense at something.

Conway: You've got a big mouth, considering the size of your endowment.

Luis: Jack...

Conway: Either shut your mouths and watch the game, or shut your mouths and walk away. Your call.

Luis: Jack...

Conway: WHAT?

Jack looks back at the table and sees the rest of the guys are staring expectantly at him.

Guy: It's your bet.

Jack: Oh. Check. Unless somebody raised.

Rippa motions towards Conway.

Rippa: Whoa. Somebodies got up a bit on the crankies, yeah?

Luis turns and talks directly at Rippa.

Luis: Got up, lives. It's just kind of a general blur of him being annoyed at something or other.

Conway: Luis...

Luis: I've been trying to mellow him out, but it doesn't seem to help.

Conway: HEY, GALLEGOS, IT'S YOUR BET!

Luis turns back and checks the flop. He sighs.

Luis: Fold.

Scraps, putting on a false look of concern over the game, stands behind the table.

Scraps: Say, Luis. What'd you have?

Rippa: Yeah. Whats you haves, nancy pants?

Luis turns around, and waits. As he hears others fold, and then hears the groans after the turn, and a yell of "Yes!" from Guy as he rakes in the chips, he turns around and sees that Guy had a full house - tens over pocket aces - and turns back.

Luis: A nine and a seven. I was working on a straight, but with two tens and a five, no way it would happen, at least not that I'd wanna risk.

Conway: Not that it's real money, but the dude plays smarter with poker than he does with his life.

Luis: I keep telling you, helmets put me off-balance.

Rippa: Oh mans! I hates the ones where yous have to choose. Fold 'er, hold 'er.

Scraps shakes his head, still deeply concerned over Gallegos' situation.

Scraps: Tough break, buddy. You guys got a favorite hand? Oh, I know I do.

Gallegos smiles, spotting the obvious opening.

Luis: Oh, dude, I have a feeling I know what your favorite hand is. Your right one is your perpetual date, even money.

Conway: Gallegos, that was rude.

Luis: What? Those guys in DUI told some worse ones.

Conway: That's because they're frat boys.

Scraps' glare is stone cold. Rippa doubles over and pats his knee, standing up to slap his partners' back, too.

Rippa: Right hands. DATES! Booo-hahaha!

Scraps turns, slowly, to his larger and more-entertained colleague.

Scraps: Like that, did ya?

He turns back to the players seated before him.

Scraps: Actually, Lois, I was referring to the other kind of hand, the kind made up of five cards. It might sound weird, but there's one hand I know I'll never lose with.

Another one of the players speaks up.

Player Two: King seven?

The rest of the table follows suit.

Player Three: Pocket sixes?

Player Four: Ace two suited?

Guy: Whatever hand you happen to be playing with at the time?

Everyone else: WHAT?

Guy just shrugs.

Guy: What? I can win with anything, and you all know it.

Mumbles of assent proceed to follow. Luis looks back to Scraps.

Luis: So, what is the one hand you can't lose with?

Rippa: Yeah, Reds. Which is this almighty hand?

Scraps looks around the table, holding out his palms facing the cieling.

Scraps: CLUBS!

As the words register in Conway and Gallegos' heads, Scraps picks up Guy and launches him head-first over the table. Doing so, Rippa immediately joins what he calls "a good time" and flips the table on its' side, scattering plastic chips and money everywhere. The scene becomes that off hysteria and violence rather quick. The backstage crew all go to assault Scraps, who suddenly finds himself in over his head, while Gallegos and Conway are forced to try and stop the Swede from continuing to have a "good time". Scraps folds up Guy's chair and begins to play Major League Baseball featuring Ken Griffey Jr. for Ninetendo 64. First up, the fat one. Next, the bald one. Next, Guy. Next, the Swedish Shark.

Scraps: Shit! Veljumin, I'm sorry man.

The Swede stops, looking only at both members of the Union in a daze-and-confused expression.

Luis and Conway step forward, having also grabbed some folding chairs.

Rippa: Hey... when did we starts playings musical chairs?

Luis: You've ruined our game and hurt a friend, dude. You need to chill.

Conway: Scraps, we already had one match tonight. We don't need a second.

Guy sits up and looks around.

Guy: Did anybody get my final chip count?

Scraps: Figures. Typical yellow-bellied losers. Too busy worrying about this sap to put up a fight? Come on, Veljumin. Let's get your head looked at while we leave these failures to their game of Go Fish.

Scraps leans in, looking at Conway's face and surroundings. Luis stifles a laugh and almost drops his chair because he's shaking so hard. Conway, on the other hand, just raises an eyebrow.

Conway: Got anything else to add while you're staring?

Scraps sniffs the air before replying

Scraps: You smell that, Shark?

Rippa looks around, smelling his own armpits. Veljumin, still a bit dazed from that unintentional chairshot is swaying form side to side and trying to stand still. It is somewhat humorous to watch.

Rippa: I smells nothing, Scraps.

Scrap fixes his eyes with Conway's in a longer-than-realized stare down. Luis suddenly starts waving his hand in the air, and looks over at Scraps.

Luis: DUDE! I think that the term, "He who smelt it dealt it," applies here.
Conway: Gallegos, stop being so juvenile.

Scraps laughs at the pair before him.

Luis: Did you just call yourself a piece of shit?

Conway: I think he did.

Scraps: Actually, I was referring to the poor showing you two have in the ring and, as I have just learned from your tear-jerker story of Guy and the 6 Poker Dwarves, your general existence. Shit. Crap. One big, brown log that lies in the gutter waiting for the rain to wash. It. Away.

Rippa scratches his head and then begins to frantically jump up and down.

Rippa: So really's, you just solved the riddles that what Scraps' smells was not really's craps...it was you's guys!

Gallegos and Conway share a look.

Luis: Not exactly the brightest bulb in the hardware store, is he?

Conway: I'm not sure he'd even be in the lighting aisle in the first place.

Luis: Time to make some music?

Coway: Most definitely.

Scraps: Music?

Rippa: Hardware stores?

Before either man can react, Scraps suddenly receives a Con-Chair-To from Conway and Gallegos. The Union drops the chairs and walks off, leaving Rippa to try and figure out what they meant.

Rippa: Scraps, I don't thinks they can really play musics.

(In the distance, Conway and Gallegos are still talking.

Conway: That was a bit flat at the end.

Luis: Damn. I was going for a C major.

As Rippa turns to find his ally turned into a flesh pile on the floor, Ruby approaches from behind. she looks at Veljumin who is looking at the ground and then realizes what has gone down.

Ruby: I leave you two alone for five minutes...

Ruby looks flustered as the camera fades to somewhere else.

Methodically wrapping his wrist tape around a scarred right wrist, Tyler Rayne is making the final preparations for his match against Chandler Tsonda. His black issued military boots are laced tight. His knee pads are snug. He's gone through the pre-match stretching ritual and gotten his mind focused.

This is going to be another defining moment in his PRIME career. One that will officially cement his legacy in the PRIME lore.

Tonight, he's going to become, inarguably, one of the greatest superstars to ever step in a PRIME ring.

Tonight, he will become the Universal Champion.

Tonight, he will deny Tsonda the right to become the longest reigning Universal Champion ever.

A polite knock on the door and a "It's Time, Rayne" signifies that the moment is indeed here.

Tyler Rayne: Thanks, kid.

Rayne turns around, facing the wall with an intense glare. His history with Chandler Tsonda is well documented, and fans have been salivating at the prospect of this epic showdown. Tsonda is still riding high, having held the Universal strap since August.

And Tyler Rayne is...Tyler Fucking Rayne.

Rayne walks over to the giant six foot mirror in the right corner of his locker room and stands directly in front of it. He stares deep into his own eyes. His own soul. He's got to show everybody that he is the greatest wrestler in the world, not Chandler Tsonda.

Another knock at the door does nothing to break his focus. He's already had enough interruptions this evening, and doesn't need another one minutes before the curtain will be thrown open.

But that doesn't register with the fist hitting the door, as the intensity only increases. Rayne growls and turns around, ready to knock the interruption on their ass and head to the ring.

Tyler Rayne: Goddammit, kid, I said I heard you the first-

When he throws open the door however, he's taken aback by who is standing on the other side. Cloaked in a long black trench coat and a pale face chock full of rage is Devin Shakur.

Tyler Rayne: ...Fucker.

Devin Shakur: Hello, Tyler. Nice night, isn't it?

Tyler Rayne: ...Son, I gotta ask...Are you fucking out of your mind-

Devin Shakur: If I am, I would put the blame squarely on your shoulders.

The Underground Pimp doesn't acknowledge Shakur's previous comment.

Tyler Rayne: -Because no motherfucker can be this stupid, to step in front of me before a match like the one I'm about to have.

Shakur cracks a seldom seen smile and tilts his head to the right.

Devin Shakur: Well...Could someone be crazy enough to pull that off?

Tyler Rayne: ...No, because even the craziest people know-

Rayne takes a step to Shakur, coming nose to nose with his rival. His eyes are cold. His nostrils are flaring. If this were anywhere other than national television, Shakur would already be on the ground writhing in unfathomable agony.

Tyler Rayne: -What I'll do to them if they decide to fuck with me.

Although, not many people would put it past Tyler Rayne to commit murder with millions of people watching.

His fists clinch. All of the muscles in his legs tighten, preparing to uncoil if necessary. Rayne desperately wants to throw a knockout blow and drop this nuisance to the ground for all the mind games that Shakur has been playing over the past few months.

Meanwhile, Shakur keeps his statuesque form, blocking Rayne from maneuvering around and out of the way. Something is going down one way or the other.

Devin Shakur: Well, do what you have to do Rayne, but you know that no matter how bad you hurt me, you won't win the war.

A thought crosses The Underground Pimp's mind and his stance drops for a brief second, assessing the situation in front of him. Those last words are a bit unsettling. Is this even the real Devin Shakur standing in front of him? Is there going to be another light show? Twenty clones appearing out of the blue? Rayne's eyes begin to shift a little more, taking a glance over his shoulder to ensure that nobody has compromised his locker room.

Shakur notices this reaction and gives a hearty chuckle, forcing Rayne's attention back on him.


Devin Shakur: There's nobody around Rayne. I don't have twenty lookalikes or a light show planned. It's just the two of us here. Mano a Mano.

Tyler Rayne: That so? No bullshit?

Devin Shakur: None whatsoever.

Quickly placing his pointer finger and thumb at his chin, Rayne gives a nod to himself and throws a lightning fast right hand.

But a hand that clearly doesn't belong to Devin Shakur flies into the scene and blocks the fist from reaching Shakur's face. The mysterious man shoves Shakur back and stands in front of Rayne. Eyes to...neck.

Rayne's eyes slowly move up eleven inches and look the face of a man that he hasn't seen in over three years. One that he thought long dead or drawn into isolation by international authorities hunting him like a dog.

His seven feet is accompanied by over three hundred pounds, a long jean jacket vest, and tattoos covering every inch of flesh on his arms. He's the stereotypical biker who nobody would want to encounter in a bar or dark alley.

Christian Daniels: Evening, Tyler.

His raspy voice brings an even greater uneasiness into the scene. A lifetime ago, these two were rather chummy acquaintances through another man, Devin Shakur's best friend. Christian and Tyler often drank together long into the morning hours after every wrestling show. They brawled in many barroom fights on all seven continents. They shared horror stories of murder and mayhem that would make the normal person lose their lunch, breakfast, and previous night's dinner.

In short, Christian Daniels knows Tyler Rayne like the back of his hand.

The grin on The Man in Black's face would put all of Tony Gamble's endorsements in serious jeopardy.

Despite the surprise he's holding inside, The Underground Pimp gives his standard greeting to the giant.

Tyler Rayne: ...Christian

Christian Daniels: Man, you've come a long way. All the way down from the little leagues of WoW, GHW, GCW, and now lookatcha, on the biggest stage of the biggest wrestling federation in the world about to face Chandler Tsonda. I'm actually proud of you, boy.

Not many people can call Tyler Rayne "boy" to his face and get away unscathed. Christian happens to be one of the few exceptions.

Tyler Rayne: I doubt pride has fuck all to do with why you risked coming out of hiding and exposing yourself on national TV.

Christian gives a smirk and adjusts his biker jacket, cranking his neck to both sides while keeping his eyes on Rayne.

Christian Daniels: Those fucks will never let anything stick on me, shit son, you of all people should know about eluding the pigs and feds. But yes, you are right, I'm not here to talk with you about pride. I'm here to put you on notice.

Tyler Rayne: Woulda never guessed.

Christian Daniels: See, boy, I ain't exactly fond of what you've been doing lately. In fact, I think it's a giant fucking crock. Breaking Dev's ankle just because he scammed you out of a title shot? The fuck else were you going to put in that goddamn spot? Give me a break. He even gave you a hand in helping with that other place.

Tyler Rayne: I'm not particularly fond of the Emo Douchebag to begin with, and that little stunt was the icing on the fucking cake.

Christian Daniels: How I roll, boy, if you pull off that kind of shit, you are asking for one giant asswhooping. Now, I could do it right now. Hell, nothing would make my day but to snap your leg like a fucking twig and leave you screaming like a little bitch, would kind of fuck all your shit up wouldn't it?

Rayne resumes his fighting stance. He's never been the one to back down from a challenge, even if the seven foot equivalent of himself is the one calling him out.

Tyler Rayne: Bring it, Ogre.

Christian Daniels: Cute, two minutes in and I already got one of your fucking nicknames. Boy, let me bottom line this for you before one of these pricks with a headset comes round the corner and gives us the business about why you ain't out by the gorilla. You done started a war, not just with Dev, but you've started one with us, and you know goddamn well how we operate. You know damn well, Ty, that I'm not going to sit idle and let you work your charming magic on this.

Tyler Rayne: Get to the point, Tommy Lee, I do have a life to live you know.

Christian Daniels: Two. Wow. Flattering. There ain't ever going to be any kind of truce called to this until we're done destroying you and everything about you. I'd be paying very close attention if I were you in the next couple weeks, because you will get to know me and our old boys very...very well. Perhaps, we'll go across the locker room and pay your little flavor of the month Lindsay a little visit.

Tyler Rayne: Kid is more than capable of handling herself.

Christian Daniels: Maybe we'll drop in on Katt and remind her of just how powerful we can be.

Tyler Rayne: Give me something to be scared of, otherwise I'm going to floor you right now.

Christian Daniels: Heh, alright...

Christian closes the gap between Rayne and himself, staring down to look The Underground Pimp dead in his eyes.

Christian Daniels: Or maybe...We'll make the long drive over to where Angie Brooks is resting and pay her a little visit, make the job that Mayhem did on her look like something a couple teenagers would do. By the time me and the boys are done with her, she's going to have first class accommodations. Her own private room with a spectacular view...Just hope that she isn't claustrophobic or afraid of worms...

A macabre smile appears on the face of Christian, and Rayne can't hold back, throwing a right hand with all of his power. Normal men would drop to the ground, stiff as a rock, and wake up in a hospital room wondering what the hell happened.

Christian only straightens up and laughs out loud.

Christian Daniels: You started this one, boy, we're gonna make sure that it's fucking finished. You just never know what we're gonna do next. That's our advantage....

Christian taps Devin on the shoulder and motions that it's time to exit.

Christian Daniels: Good luck out there, Ty. Nice seeing you again.

The Underground Pimp with clinched teeth gives Christian a double bird and watches as the duo of Shakur and Daniels exit from the scene. Shakur turns around and gives his own wicked grin.

A long moment passes before the same stagehand that knocked on Rayne's door moments earlier gives him a tap on the shoulder.

Stagehand: It's time, Rayne.

Rayne doesn't acknowledge his presence, instead staring straight ahead. His mind has been altered just moments before the biggest match of his PRIME career.

Which is just what Devin Shakur wanted.

Nick: Lets take you back in time – August 22, 2007.

On the big screen…

The referee begins to count.

1

2

3

4

Nick: Powerful roundhouse kick from Tsonda. Rayne looks stunned.

5

6

Rayne begins to stir and climbs the ring apron, Tsonda lunges but is caught by Rayne. Rayne grabs him into a suplex. The fans’ look on in complete shock as Rayne dangles Tsonda above his head from the ring apron. Rayne drops backward and connects with a suplex to the outside. Tsonda hits the mat with an almighty thud.

"HOLY SHIT" "HOLY SHIT"

Nick: The most used chant.

Richard: Holy Hoyt, Tsonda took a bad fall.

Rayne and Tsonda are motionless on the outside. Fans’ on the front row are in show, unable to comprehend what just happened. Slowly Rayne begins to stir and the chants begin once more. The referee lost the momentum of his count watching the move.

7

8

Rayne jumps through the bottom rope breaking the pin, he slides back out and lifts Tsonda up, Tsonda responds with some weak lefts and rights but Rayne slides him into the ring. Sliding in after Rayne is dealt a swift kick to the gut, he remains on the floor, trying to cover his body from the kicks as Tsonda delivers kick after kick.

Rayne grabs Tsonda’s ankle and flips him. The two take a breather, but suddenly Tsonda spring boards to his feet, ignoring the pain from the suplex. Rayne attempts to grab him into a belly-to-belly, but Tsonda slips under the legs and goes for a school boy pin.

Richard: Fast moves from Tsonda.

Hoyt: Like I said, that's the rumor in the bathhouses and saunas across the country.

Nick: You seem to know a lot about this rumor...

Hoyt: Don't be disgusting, pervert, I am all-knowing so I have to deal with this kind of insider info. It's a cross I bear for you every day.

ONE!

TWO

TH-!

The fans’’ eyes are glued to the screen, which flashes forward…

Back in the ring, the ref begins to stir, as does Chandler Tsonda. Outside, Tyler backs Hoyt up to the barricade with punches, but Hoyt responds with a poke to the eyes. As Tyler stumbles back he's drilled with a mean lariat.

Nick: He's assaulting one of the competitors!

Richard: Rayne started it! Besides, he was in need of an Act of Contrition.

Nick: Do you have a book of those jokes or something?

Richard: Yeah, the St. John's edition. Ass.

Hoyt pulls Tyler up by his hair and hoists him onto a shoulder. He turns and slams Rayne against the ring post, then pivots and plants him on the ringside mats with an abbreviated Crucified & Saved. Inside the ring, the referee is back on his feet and shaking off the cobwebs. Without another breath, Hoyt rolls Tyler back into the ring and hightails it for the ramp. He curses silently to himself, clearly not getting the result he wanted - or the right guy.

The official clears his head and sees both men down and barely moving. He starts the count...

1...


2....


3....


4....


Chandler drags himself to Tyler and heaves his body on top for a weak pin.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

CoCa hits the speakers again as a dazed Model Citizen sits back on his heels and tries to assess the situation. Rayne holds his back and writhes around a little as the referee checks on him. Chandler wonders about his mysteriously wounded opponent...then lets his eyes wander up the ramp, to where Hoyt Williams is watching the proceedings.

With an audible curse, Tsonda pushes back up to his feet. He jumps up on the ropes and shouts at Hoyt from the ring, beckoning him back to finish what he tried to start. In response, Hoyt merely raises his arms and looks to the heavens. He disappears through the curtain and the Model Citizen watches him go, shouting a few unrepeatable phrases.

Nick: Well, it looked like Hoyt's plan to attack Tsonda didn't pan out tonight, but I don't think Chandler's just going to let it go with that.

Richard: If he wants to avoid Hoyt's Wrath, he would.

Running a hand through his hair, Chandler finally turns to help Tyler Rayne up to the applause of the crowd before we cut away.

Coming back to the live shot, there’s palpable electricity in the air.

Nick: Ladies and gentlemen, this match has been a long time coming. A lot has changed in the year and a half since these two met in one on one competition. Chandler Tsonda is now the Universal Champion. Tyler Rayne is at the pinnacle of his career. The proverbial unstoppable force against the immovable object.

Richard: And live on Revolution!

Nick: That’s right – a free gift from us at PRIME to all of you.

Richard: Or maybe Tyler Rayne’s gift.

Nick: Whatever the case. The Universal title will be on the line! Live! Right here on Revo-

Before he can continue, Duff McKagen’s old familiar bass line begins to rip through the arena, followed by the unmistakable hollow squeal of Slash’s guitar.

"Right Next Door to Hell" by Guns in Roses

Nick: Wait! What!? What’s he doing here!?

Richard: Gracing us with his presence!

"I take a nicotine caffeine sugar fix
Jesus don’t you get tired of turnin tricks
But when your innocence dies you’ll find the blues
Seems all our heroes were born to lose

Just walkin through time – you believe this heat
Another empty house, another dead end street
Gonna rest my bones, sit for a spell
This side of heaven, this close to hell"

With outstretched arms, Jason Snow appears smirking at the top of the entrance ramp, the entire building around him rattling from the booing fans. He soaks in it, and when he’s good and ready, he starts his stride toward ringside, flashing that arrogant grin at whatever camera he spots in the distance.

Richard: You’re looking at the next Universal Champion, Nick! Right there! Jason Snow!

Nick: Whatever. Right now, he has absolutely no business out here! Tyler Rayne has made it very clear what will happen to anyone who interferes in this match!

Snow stops in front of the ring to stare at it, and just when it seems he’s about to step up onto the canvas, he makes a quick turn on his heels. Immediately, Richard makes room at the commentary table (much to Nick’s horror), and Snow takes a seat next to them.

Richard: What a wonderful surprise! Look at this, Nick! Jason Snow! In the flesh! Right next to us!

Nick: …great.

Richard helps Snow with his headset.

Nick: I hope you don’t have any ideas about interfering Snow. Tyler Rayne has made it explicitly clear that-

Snow: Silence plebe! Can’t I innocently observe the competition from a close, but safe distance?

Nick: After last week, I don’t think you can be trus–

Richard: Silence Nick!

In the ring, Vince Howard waits patiently for Snow’s music to die down.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for our Main Event of the evening! The match will be contested under "I QUIT" rules, and will be for PRIME’s Universal Championship!

And then, suddenly, and yet so beautifully predictably, the lights go out, and the arena plunges instantly into an absolute lifeless black. The audience’s rumble turns to a roar.

And we wait.

Trickling rain, hypnotic above the waves of the crowd’s noise. Anticipation rises in the dark, as it always does – almost like a religious experience.

And then suddenly back to silence. Back to waiting. Back to – what’s this? Unusual…

Slashing guitars, pounding drums, and an arena full of crazed fans getting sucked into the rhythm they’re usually denied. Pounding like snakes through your body until your eyes are pried open wide and your waiting and needing and craving –

THE MOMENT IS NOW!

"Wha-Wha-Wha-HIT IT!

Orgasmic.

Thousands of fans explode in unison, lights springing to life in the same instant. The camera searches for Tyler Rayne, but only for a moment, and he’s found at the top of the entrance ramp, staring straight into the ring.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, weighing in at two hundred and seventeen pounds… The Underground Pimp… TYLER -

With a little extra something…

Crowd: -MOTHERFUCKIN

Vince Howard: RAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYNNNNNEEEE!!!

The trek to the ring is a measured one and Rayne looks as focused as he ever has. He works the kinks out of his neck as he steps into the ring, engulfed in the roar of the crowd, his head bobbing subtly along.

"Stick em up, yeah, stick em up
A- stick em up, yeah, stick em up
Yeah stick em up
Come on come on come on come on
Yeah"

Nick: Tyler Rayne looks incredibly focused! And he’s going to need to be. I’ve got goosebumps, Richard.

Snow: I’m going to be sick.

The music dies, leaving Tyler Rayne to wait for his champion. Leaving the crowd to simmer. Leaving them to rest their lungs.

But not for long.

"I said ‘kiss me – you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days

The soft acoustic section from Coheed and Cambria’s "Welcome Home" takes over, and then as the guitars begin to pound and squeal, thousands of fans bang their heads right along.

"You could’ve been all I wanted
but you weren’t honest
Now get in the ground
You choked off the surest of favors
But if you really loved me
You would’ve endured
my world"

Vince Howard: And his opponent!!!

ROAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR

Vince Howard: Out of San Diego, California, by way of Hanoi, Vietnam…

Nick: Would you listen to this place!?

Vince Howard; And weighing in at two hundred and six pounds… He is the Model Citizen, and PRIME’s reigning, defending, unnnndispuuuuted Universal Champioooooooooooonnnnnnn!!!

Nick: You can feel the floor vibrating!

Chandler Tsonda appears at the top of the ramp, both focused and relaxed, and his chest heaves a breath deep as if filling his lungs with the very aura of the arena.

Vince Howard: CHANDLERRRRRRRRRR

Runs a finger over PRIME’s Universal Championship belt, draped casual over his shoulder, tracing the letters in the gold.

Vince Howard: TSOOOOOONNNNNDAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

His music is playing, his fans are cheering, and most importantly, his opponent is waiting in the ring, some hundred feet away.

Their eyes lock.


Tyler Rayne.

A friend on any day until recent ones, and on this one, just another man aiming at his title. That’s what this is all about – what it’s always been about. Tsonda takes his eyes off Rayne for a moment to look down at the championship belt on his chest.

And then with a nod, to himself more than anyone else, he starts down the ramp.

Nick: One of the greatest champions in PRIME’s history.

Snow: So far.

Richard: Yeah, Nick – so far!

Tsonda steps through the ropes and raises his hands to the delight of his fans, the title high above his head. As the music dies, he passes it over to Bernie Roberts who makes the rounds, from corner to corner, showing the audience what this sport is all about. The PRIME Universal Championship. The top of the mountain.

Tyler Rayne’s eyes are on it like everyone else’s – locked.

Tsonda’s eyes are on Rayne.

DING! DING! DING!

Nick: Here we go!

They circle each other in the ring, Tsonda gliding his hands along the ropes and Rayne crooked slightly at the waist. Fans of each of them and fans of both of them are leaned forward.

Both men explode forward in the same instant, Rayne with a right hand and Tsonda with a forearm smash. Both connect but neither are nearly enough to deter the other and they fire a second and a third time until they end up locking horns in the center of the ring. Tsonda looks to swing Rayne into a quick headlock but is beaten to the punch – or rather he’s beaten to the knee that cracks into his ribs. Tsonda doubles over for the briefest of moments before flying back up with a stinging left that does nothing but ignite a flame under his opponent who answers directly back with a right. Left from Tsonda! Right from Rayne! Elbow! Forearm!

Nick: This is devolving into a street fight!

Tsonda swings one more time, but Rayne ducks quickly under and flies forward like a madman, grabbing his opponent with both hands by the throat. Tsonda doesn’t miss a beat, mirroring his opponent and the two dance the strangle from one end of the ring to the other.

Nick: Well there goes the friendship!

Snow: This is brilliant! Choke that peasant! Choke him!

Nick: Which one?

Snow: I can’t tell the difference between these simple bastards! Choke his peasant throat!

Rage-faced and wild eyed, neither man seems to be getting an edge, and they lean sideways into the ropes threatening to spill out onto the floor. Bernie Roberts seems torn between breaking them apart and allowing them to strangle each other, wondering where to draw the line between "I Quit" rules and unapologetic chaos.

They tumble onto the canvas, rolling, each getting the upper hand for brief moments until they’re rolled onto their back. Tsonda looks for a cross-face and Rayne lands a right! Rayne fires a barrage but lands barely a shot before Tsonda bucks him off and both men scramble to their feet and lock up again. This time it’s Tsonda with the knees. Drives them ferociously into Rayne’s abdomen and sternum, driving him back toward the corner. Swings a short-arm clothesline. Rayne, a step ahead, ducks under, and immediately takes hold of the champ’s arm and fires him into the ropes. Tsonda springs off like a jungle cat, ducks Rayne’s own clothesline attempt, hits the opposite ropes, and launches instantly into a cross body!

Nothing but air.

Rayne’s already on the deck and Tsonda soars harmlessly over top and crashes to the mat. Rayne’s on his feet in an instant looking to capitalize. As Tsonda’s getting back to his feet he’s met with a hard knee to the sternum that drives him back to the ropes. Rayne fires a second time and then a third, doubling the champ over. He wraps Tsonda up for a DDT attempt, but Tsonda’s still got way too much life – with a quick burst of energy, he lifts Rayne up, popping his head out from beneath the arm, and slams the Underground Pimp down in a spinebuster!

Nick: Fast and furious to start off. No one’s able to get an edge for long.

Rayne rolls away, reeling and yet smiling, and both men come to their feet simultaneously, staring at each other. Tsonda’s smiling too. Rayne gives him a nod.

Nick: I think they’re remembering why they’ve respected each other so much for so long!

Richard: Respect is for suckers.

Snow: For plebes! There aren’t nearly enough groin shots in this match!

Tsonda waves his challenger in.

Rayne rushes forward, unleashing a flurry of elbows and forearms that Tsonda does his best to stave off, hands up like a boxer. Rayne continues to pound away, keeping Tsonda on his heels long enough to adjust his aim lower with a kick that drops Tsonda to his knees. Before Tsonda can react, Rayne flies in with a knee to the face that flattens the champ.

Tsonda rolls onto his belly, trying to shake the cobwebs out quickly, but Rayne is like a predator. Immediately he’s on top of his fallen opponent, driving an elbow two times, three times into Tsonda’s viciously into Tsonda’s back. He pulls back for a fourth and seems to think about it for a moment, staring…

Richard: DO IT! He’s not your friend – he’s your opponent!

…And this is about the championship. Tyler Rayne drills Tsonda one more time in the back and the champ reels, trying his best to cover his old sore spot with his hands and forearms. Trying to struggle to his feet, or at the least, role over on his back. But Rayne smells blood now, and with Tsonda defending his back, he slides a knee directly to the side of the champ’s head.

Nick: What a vicious display by the challenger!

In control now, Rayne drags Tsonda away from the corner and climbs to the top turnbuckle. Flashbulbs begin to sparkle the arena like party decorations, building to an epileptic nightmare as Rayne launches himself from the top.

Nick: TRIPLE SHOT!

NO!!!

Snow: Gwahahaha! Look at that peasant flop!

Rayne lands awkwardly, Tsonda having regained just enough of his senses to get out of dodge. The Underground Pimp rolls away reeling, holding his right knee, and eventually spills out under the bottom rope and onto the arena floor.

Nick: I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Tyler Rayne for that so early.

Richard: Now we know why.

In the ring, Chandler Tsonda is recovering, but he doesn’t waste time. As soon as he sees Tyler Rayne get to his feet, he flies toward the ropes, leaping over them. For a moment it’s beautiful – Tsonda’s body flying high and graceful amidst camera flashes and a great gasp from the awed crowd – and it ends in wreckage, his spinning elbow crashing like carnage defined against Tyler Rayne’s jaw.

Nick: OH MY GOD!

Rayne’s body stiffens straight and a close camera catches his eyes roll up before he crumbles in a heap. For his part in the carnage, Tsonda is not unscathed, having crashed heavily into the barricade.

Snow: That’s right plebes! Demolish each other! Culture Shock can’t come soon enough!

Nick: Come on, Snow – even you have to admire what you just saw!

Slowly, Tsonda picks himself up and wipes his brow of sweat. At his feet, Rayne is moving, but not in any great volume. Tsonda lifts one of Rayne’s legs, taking a moment to stare down at the man. What is that in the champion’s eyes? Whatever it is, it doesn’t deter him long, and a moment later their legs are tangled like a pretzel.

Nick: FIGURE FOUR LEG LOCK!

Rayne is delivered from a starry oblivion and back screaming into reality on a river of searing agony. He springs upward but there’s no escape – nothing but pain. Nothing but his grim circumstance and the tendons in his legs stretching so tight that he believes – he truly believes – they might break.

The words "I quit" don’t seem much on his mind.

Bernie Roberts hovers over and Chandler Tsonda leans back. Rayne screams out. Grabs the barrier with slippery hands like it might ease the pain. It doesn’t.

Nick: This could be it! Chandler Tsonda has Tyler Rayne in a horrible position here!

No more than the words hit the wires, a new look of determination paints Tyler’s face, and with great struggle, he begins to turn over. Tsonda fights, but with his hands on the barricade and pure desperation, Rayne is able to pull himself onto his stomach.

Suddenly, it’s Tsonda in screaming white pain.

Bernie Roberts leans in, asking Tsonda the obvious question, but Tsonda only shakes his head vigorously. On his belly, he begins to crawl toward the nearby time-keeper’s table, dragging Rayne behind him. When he gets there, the officials scatter, and Tsonda reaches up clumsily for a weapon. His hand lands left of the ring bell… right of the ring bell…

…on the bell hammer.

Nick: No! This is too much! Don’t do it!

Tsonda looks down through flashes of lighting white agony, staring at what parts of Rayne’s left leg are exposed to him. He hesitates, enduring still, hammer in hand.

Snow: DO IT, METROSEXUAL! DO IT!

With one final scream, Tsonda rolls to his side a few inches and gives in to the pain enough to smash the hammer brutally down onto Tyler Rayne’s knee.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

They’re both screaming now.

Snow: I’ve never been more entertained in my life!


Despite Rayne’s best efforts, with his knee damaged now, he can’t hold Tsonda trapped. The champ escapes, scrambling, and knocking over the table in the process.

Tsonda’s up first, and with Rayne hobbling, he grabs a fistful of hair and tosses him under the bottom rope, back into the ring. He follows slowly, and once in there, he waits, waving his challenger to his feet.

Snow: …the hell is he doing?

Nick: It’s called sportsmanship Snow! It’s called respect! Those are two things you wouldn’t know anything about!

Rayne rises slow, his right knee unable to bear much weight. A smile creeps across his face one more time, and it’s met by Tsonda’s on the other side.

Two men at the height of their craft.

This is what it’s all about.

Tsonda explodes forward but Rayne is equal to the task, side-stepping the champ and slinging him into the ropes. Rayne ducks down for a back-body drop but Tsonda leaps over with ease and hits the opposite ropes. Comes back with a clothesline, but Rayne is underneath and sprinting to the ropes on his own.. When they meet in the center, each with incredible momentum, Rayne leaps forward but Tsonda catches him mid-air. Before the champ can slam him down, Rayne twists upward and plants his face into the mat with a tornado DDT!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Nick: Split-second execution!

With the champ on his back, Rayne wastes no time, immediately grabbing Tsonda’s legs and rolling him into a Boston Crab. Tsonda pounds the mat as Rayne puts his weight into it, the referee rounding the action to get a look at Tsonda’s twisted face.

Roberts: Is it over, Chandler?

Tsonda shakes his head.

A few moments later, Rayne breaks the hold, and frustrated, he begins driving boots into the champ’s legs, working his way up to his ribs. Tsonda scrambles away – tries to escape beneath the bottom rope, but Rayne drags him back to the center, turning Tsonda over once more.

Nick: What’s he going for now?

There’s no time to find out.

Chandler Tsonda thrusts an up-kick directly into the Underground Pimp’s famous groin.

Snow: So much for your sportsmanship, plebe.

Rayne doubles over, stumbling toward the ropes for support and Tsonda uses them to pull himself up. Before either man is really recovered, they’re scorching paths toward each other again, meeting in the center of the ring with Rayne throwing a roundhouse right. Misses. Tsonda comes back with a drop-toe hold that plants Rayne in the canvas. Tries to follow up instantly with Viper’s Bite, but Rayne scoots out throw his legs and out of harm’s way.

For only an instant.

Tsonda turns, and turns firing – roundhouse kick to the face!

Snap!!

Tsonda staggers back, and before he has a moment to recover, he’s flattened beneath the champ with a running cross body! They crash into the mat, Rayne on bottom, and nearby a trail of blood makes a line on the canvas from Rayne’s recently kicked forehead.

Tsonda comes up slowly, fatigue and pain having taken his toll to go along with months of defending his championship in cities all over the world. He pulls Rayne to his feet, not in the best shape himself, and whips him with all the fire he can muster into the opposite turnbuckle. Rayne crashes there, back first, and slumps.

Tsonda takes a moment to assess the situation.

Everyone knows what’s coming next. Tsonda knows. The crowd knows. Hell, even Tyler Rayne knows. Not that there’s anything he can do about it.

Tsonda joins his opponent in the corner, moving behind him and up onto the second turnbuckle. Rayne, bleeding all over himself, struggles in vein. And then…

Nick: RUNAWAY VAULT!!!

Runaway Vault.

Tyler Rayne lies flattened in the center of the ring, a mess of blood, sweat, agony, and heart. Whether there’s consciousness or not is up to the viewer.

Tsonda hovers over him, calling Bernie Roberts close. Demands Rayne say the words that’ll end it. Demands he quit.

Rayne says nothing, for heart or for lack of ability.

Tsonda fingers sweaty hair away from his face, frustrated. He turns to the corner once more, breaths heaving in a red chest. He moves slowly over and begins to climb, carefully, his muscles now sore and burning. The crowd is peaking again – on their feet, all, for their champion. And for their challenger as well, fallen and bloody or not.

Tsonda stares down from his height. Lifts his arms in the air.

Nick: HERE IT COMES!

Snow: FALL, YOU WORTHLESS BASTARD! FALL AND BREAK YOUR DAMN NECK!

Nick: MODEL CITIZEN!!!

Model Citiz –

Nobody home.

Tsonda hits all mat and no flesh, and in the aftermath is reduced to crumpled scrap metal. And Rayne beside him, in a state no better.

Snow: Excellent!

Nick: Someone’s at the ramp! Someone’s coming down! It’s…

Snow: If he gets to interfere then I get to interfere!

Nick: Bryan Dawkins!!!

Indeed, the Flyin’ Hawaiian stands cautious at the top of the ramp, staring down at the carnage in the ring with hands on his hips. He comes forward slowly without a glance at the screaming fans on either side of him.

Nick: He’s got to be hoping this comes to an end soon.

As he gets to the ring, both men are finally beginning to recover. Chandler Tsonda on his hands and knees and Rayne sitting up, holding his pounding, bleeding head in both hands. Tsonda notices Dawkins first and yells out something that will forever be lost, drowned in the crowd’s roar. Rayne looks over next, the gash above his eye, bitten into his scar tissue, is both long and deep.

Richard: Somebody get this guy out of here! He’s distracting them from killing each other!

Rayne and Tsonda come to their feet slowly, their stares alternating between each other than their friend on the outside, and then to each other again where it remains.

Tsonda comes firing out of the gate, only to run directly into a muay thai elbow smash the sees him stagger into the ropes. Rayne follows up from behind with a flying knee that digs deep into the aching muscles of Chandler Tsonda’s bad back.

Rayne looks appealingly to the outside where Bryan Dawkins has turned away.

Under the blood, there’s regret on Tyler Rayne’s face as he turns back to his target. He delivers two, three, four vicious boots into Chandler Tsonda’s ailing spine. He drops down with an elbow. Rams methodical knees into it. Tsonda, crawling away from the ropes, wears his suffering plain on his face.

From above, Rayne continues to fire, following Tsonda around the ring until Tsonda is flat on his face, no longer able to crawl. He rounds the champ’s body and pulls his face up off the mat, saying something to him while Bernie Roberts is right there to make the call. When it’s obvious Tsonda’s not giving in, Rayne lets his face fall back to the canvas.

After a moment of deliberation, Rayne takes a seat on Tsonda’s back, reaches up and

Nick: Cross-face! How much more can Chandler Tsonda take!?

Richard: This is about the championship, Nick! This is everything!

Tyler Rayne applies all the pressure he can, and yet still, the champion won’t break. Outside, Bryan Dawkins has ventured close to the ring, staring in appalled at the pendulum destruction.

He can’t take it anymore.

Dawkins puts his hands on the mat to slide into the ring, but Tyler Rayne heads him off, releasing the hold to point a warning finger in the Flyin’ Hawaiian's face. Luckily, a camera is close enough to overhear.

Rayne: This is the way it’s gotta be. Stay out of it!

Dawkins body language protests, but Rayne shakes his head. Words measured level.

Rayne: This has to happen.

He turns back to his opponent, still down. Slowly, Rayne pulls Tsonda up by the hair – Tsonda, with nothing but the whites of his eyes visible. He tucks the champ’s head beneath his arm for a suplex. Signals to his screaming fans while other fans scream for him not to do it. Still other fans scream for the sake of screaming.

Nick: This has to be it! Chandler Tsonda is about to be Varga’d!

But he’s too close to the ropes – too close to the turnbuckle. With what fleeting strength remains him, Tsonda grabs hold of the top rope in mid-air, leaving Rayne struggling to bring him down on the top of his spine. Twice he tries. Three times. Blocked, all, by nothing but Chandler Tsonda’s will to survive. A fourth try, and this time Tsonda uses all his strength to hold the rope – too much. He pulls it down and the both of them go tumbling out of the ring.

Again, too close to the corner. They crash simultaneously onto the ring steps, sweat, blood, and limbs flying in all direction.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Nick: It’s time to call it off! They can’t go on like this!

Snow: Are you kidding!? I could watch this all night! GET UP YOU PANSIES! I’d have gotten up by now! (To Richard) I’d have gotten up by now.

Richard: Tyler Rayne’s blood is all over our table.

Dawkins hovers nearby, his hands on his head, staring down at whats left of both champion and challenger – Rayne like a horror movie throw-away, smearing blood down the steps as he slides to the ring floor, and Tsonda… Tsonda just looks unconscious.

While both men struggle to recover, a production crew member comes by to towel up the blood on the announce table. There are droplets on Richard’s face and stains in Nick’s suit that will likely never come out.

Snow: Give me that! You’re doing it all wrong!

Snow rips the towel from the man’s hands and begins to wipe himself off, paying no mind at all to Nick, Richard, or the table in front of them.

As Tsonda and Rayne slowly come to their senses, Bryan Dawkins tries in vein to have them call the match a draw. Neither man came this far for a draw – losing would be better, at this point.

Leaning on the bloody steps for support, Tsonda fires a desperate right hand that snaps Rayne’s bloodied face back, nearly toppling him, but Rayne comes back with one of his one. Tsonda’s nose is bloodied, but battered as his body is, it’s the least of his concerns. He throws one last right hand at Rayne’s face, knocking him off balance, and then when Rayne is coming back for a right of his own, Tsonda surprises him with a baseball slide into the ring steps – clipping Tyler Rayne at the knees with the force of a small vehicle.

Tsonda delivers a few boots before sliding Rayne into the ring and following slowly in after him. Rayne, still clutching the right knee that has taken the brunt of the match, is for the most part helpless as Tsonda staggers exhausted above.

He targets the knee, much as Rayne targeted his back earlier, with a series of vicious boots, and from there he drops down and slaps on a sloppy, desperation heel hook! Rayne screams, trying to roll with the maneuver before it can do serious, and permanent damage. Rayne holds fast, rolling with him.

Dawkins is on the apron now, half his body in the ring, but nothing he can do. It has to be this way. It has to.

Finally, Rayne is able to use his free leg to kick Tsonda away. With all the strength left to him, he rises to his feet to stare the champion down one last time…

…But the leg is too damaged. Too brutalized. It collapses beneath him and he goes down with it in a heap. Bleeds all over himself. All over the mat.

Tsonda capitalizes immediately, dropping a heavy elbow into Rayne’s sternum. Flattens the knee against the canvas and smashes his own into it.

And then, standing in Tyler Rayne’s blood, his own body demolished and aching and begging for him to be done with this, Chandler Tsonda looks down at his battered opponent and realizes this won’t be enough. Realizes that Tyler Rayne will die in this ring. Remembers, perhaps, what it is that makes Tyler Rayne so great.

Aching body and all, Chandler Tsonda steps through the ropes and gingerly climbs down to the arena floor.

Nick: What’s he doing?

Tsonda grabs a chair.

Snow: Whatever it takes! Maybe he’s not such a bad champion after all.

Chair in hand, Tsonda begins to climb the mangled ring steps to the ring. He eyes Tyler Rayne with something that might be empathy – might be regret. And yet he knows well that this is the only way. The only way.

And then as he steps through the ropes, Bryan Dawkins takes hold of the chair.

Surprised and exhausted, Tsonda pulls it toward him, and the two engage in a short tug of war that Dawkins ultimately wins. He wrenches the chair away from Tsonda’s hand and flings it aside, eying the elder champion hard.

Dawkins: Not like that. You do what you gotta do, bruh. But not like that.

For a moment their eyes lock, the champion and the prospect, and then slowly, Chandler Tsonda nods and re-enters the ring. His wounded opponent is trying to stand again, and again, the effort proves useless. Rayne crashes back down on his side as Chandler Tsonda approaches, lording over him.

Rayne looks up, one limb useless and covered slick in a mix of sweat and blood. Chandler Tsonda considers his options.

Knee Bar…

…BY TYLER RAYNE!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

Mir-Lesnar style, Chandler Tsonda trips up and goes down, Tyler Rayne pouring his heart and soul into the effort to tear his leg off. Tsonda drags himself to the ropes, but the ropes won’t help him – not under these rules. Bernie Roberts stands aside, there only to listen for the two magic words. And so, Tsonda remains in agony, feeling his knee hyper extend. Had Rayne been fresh, it would likely have popped. Tsonda kicks frantically with his free leg, but Rayne is an animal, and he knows that this is his chance – his only chance – to finish the match.

Tsonda pounds the mat but refuses to quit. Refuses to let words from his very mouth lose him a championship.

Rayne is fading – fighting exhaustion. He pulls with all he has left, but all he has left isn’t much.

Tsonda rolls onto his back. Pounds the mat a few more times. Breathes through the pain. Breathes in the crowd, a boiling sea all around him. His back is aching – his leg is breaking. And yet still he fights. With his free leg, he pushes with all that’s left inside of him – guts, heart, and determination. Pushes desperately with the knowledge that as close to Rayne is to breaking, his leg is closer. Pushes and kicks and fights and claws and … Tyler Rayne’s bad leg gives up the squeeze, for only an instant, but an instant too long. Immediately, Tsonda grabs that leg’s foot and traps it, again, in a heel hook. Rayne gives his knee bar up for dead.

But he doesn’t give up the match.

Refuses.

Nick: Something has to give! We’re talking about their careers here!

Richard: And their ability to walk.

Rayne cries out, tries rolling as he did before, but the hold is doing damage every second it’s applied.

But he won’t quit.

Not this night.

Not in this match.

…and Tsonda knows it.

He breaks the hold and stands up, again regarding his challenger. Admiring him, perhaps, in the canvas below. And then he turns around and stares at the corner. If ever there was a time – this is the time.

Chandler Tsonda climbs achingly to the top rope, and there, he stares out into the crowd and then down at Tyler Rayne, helpless. He raises his hands high above his head. Takes a moment to breathe. And then he takes flight.

Nick: OH MY GOD!!!

MODEL CITIZEN REDUX!!!

The corkscrew moonsault lands clean, Tsonda’s body crashing like twisting hell into Tyler Rayne’s.

Nick: There’s nothing left of him!

Richard: I don’t think there’s anything left of either of them!

And perhaps that’s true. For some time, both men lie motionless in the ring, but when Chandler Tsonda finally comes to life – Tyler Rayne remains still. Tsonda crawls across his body, rolling him over onto his stomach. He pulls himself on top and snakes an arm beneath Rayne’s.

Richard: VIPER’S BITE!

Nick: I think Tyler Rayne is out cold!

The referee is coming to the same conclusion, slapping Tyler Rayne’s face and getting nothing in response. His body is limp beneath Tsonda’s weight.

Nick: What – what happens now?

Tsonda is lost in his determination, and still he applies pressure without knowing that his opponent no longer has the ability to end the match. The roar of the crowd funnels to a rumble and then to a buzz, and then quieter still until the arena feels eerie.

Snow: Plebe – what the – what the hell do you think you’re doing!? I said! Damn it –

At the announce table, Bryan Dawkins wins another tug of war, this time with Jason Snow, and he rips the bloody towel from the guest commentator’s grip. As quickly as he can he tosses it over the top rope where it lands at Bernie Roberts’ feet. Bernie doesn’t need a better excuse.

He waves the match off.

DING! DING! DING!

"Welcome Home" by Coheed and Cambria

Nick: It’s over! It’s over!

Tsonda rolls off Rayne, only now realizing how much damage was actually done. Together with Bryan Dawkins, he slaps Rayne’s face, trying to bring him back. Vince Howard enters the ring and drops Tsonda’s championship in front of him, but Tsonda leaves it there until Tyler Rayne’s eyes flicker to life and, startled by the snap of consciousness, he tries to sit up.

Only then does Chandler Tsonda take hold of his championship and pull himself to his feet. Only then does the crowd release their anxious breath and explode.

Chandler Tsonda is still the champion.

Vince Howard: Your winner! Annnnd STILL PRIME Universal Champiooooooonn… CHANDLERRRRRRRRRR TSOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNDAAAAAA!!!

Nick: He’s marching toward Nova’s record for the longest title reign in the history of P- Hey! HEY! Where are you going!?

Like a vulture sensing death, Jason Snow is up and on the ring apron, leaving his commentary headset long behind. Dawkins helps Tyler Rayne, the last challenger, out of the ring, leaving Chandler Tsonda face to face with his next challenger.

There’s always another one in line.

Always a target on the champion’s back.

Tsonda slings the title over his shoulder, trying his best to look like he has another fight in him. He stands his ground in the center of the ring as Snow steps forward, arrogance in his smile, and what space is between their faces narrows from a foot to a half foot to an inch.

Nick: Culture Shock 2009!

Richard: I can’t wait!

Snow takes things one step further, tapping Tsonda’s Universal Championship hard with his index finger. And in response, Tsonda delivers a quick shove that sends Snow stumbling backward, and then stumbling and tumbling and finally tripping over his own feet and falling to the canvas, prompting the audience to erupt.

Tsonda wastes no time leaving the ring and hobbling up the ramp after Tyler Rayne, who’s being helped to the back by Bryan Dawkins and Bernie Roberts. Tsonda shoves Roberts away and takes his place beneath Rayne’s arm. The trio move slowly toward the curtain, Chandler Tsonda occasionally looking over his shoulder to the ring, where the next challenge is already on his feet again – already waiting.