The garage buried deep within the basement corridors of Salle Mohamed V is desolate and quiet. Various stagehands and PRIME higher-ups quietly make their way through the bowels of the building, eager to begin the night’s events. ReVolution 240, as promised by Lisa Tyler, will be a night that changes the landscape of PRIME forever, and Casablanca has been buzzing since hearing of the guarantee.

The stragglers and fashionably late fans slowly trickle in, and all those set to compete on tonight’s card are already inside, meeting with trainers, getting taped up, and warming their bodies up for the night’s action. Security to the VIP vehicle entrance is still alert because there’s always at least one latecomer pulling in seconds before the show.

On this particular night, a white stretch Chrysler 300 eases up to the security checkpoint, gaining the attention of event security. The driver lowers his window, flashes his PRIME credentials, and waits as the gate lifts to grant him access to the garage. This encounter goes without a hitch, as the luxury car rolls into the garage and pulls up to the building doorway.

After parking, the driver exits and retreats to the rear passenger-side door, which he begins to open.

Camera Switch: Floor Cam

The driver’s polished black shoes and the Chrysler’s 22" stunning chromed-out rims are joined by a pair of flip flops. The flip flops slowly ease onto the ball of the foot, stretching the leg and calf muscles after a (presumably) long ride from the airport.

The driver closes the door after the passenger makes his way toward the building entrance. The 300’s engine turns over and makes its way off to park somewhere in the garage. Meanwhile, the passenger makes his way into the corridor of the building.

Camera Switch: Behind Figure

The passenger is wearing a stark white hoodie with PRIME’s bright blue logo plastered across the back, with the hood up over his head to conceal his identity. He makes his way through a dimly-lit hallway and up a couple flights of stairs, where he is greeted with a schematic for the night’s events. After scanning the paper, he makes a right and heads toward a sign that says WRESTLER RING ENTRANCE. Stagehands and PRIME officials dot the hallway, and each drops what they’re doing after a double-take to assure they’re really seeing who they’re seeing in front of them.

The figure snakes his way through the hallways, past familiar faces and some not-so-familiar to him, to a face he recognizes very well. The head of stage entrances and pyrotechnics stands next to a computer, his eyes glazed over as he stares deeply into the LED-lit screen in front of him. The figure forces a faux-cough, and the PRIME employee, startled, quickly turns to face him. Upon identifying his unexpected visitor, he simply smiles and throws up two thumbs before turning hastily back to his computer screen.

PRIME Stagehand: All ready to go when you are!

Camera Switch: Arena

The arena lights cut out sharply, leaving the fans in attendance in a shroud of darkness, which prompts a huge obligatory pop.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Suddenly, the PRIME*View comes alive with an ECG-like line appearing on the video board. The line is bright orange, and is flat-lined.

After a few seconds of idle activity, the line jumps, if ever so slightly, and with each jump in the line, a heartbeat sound is heard. As the line’s jumps get livelier, the heartbeats grow louder. With the volume increase, the tempo also increases, and after about twenty seconds, the heartbeat is at a steady, brisk pace.

After twenty more seconds, the PRIME*View’s heart rate beats at breakneck speed, and, without warning, flat-lines again.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

An intense combination of sound from the PA system and explosion of pyrotechnics catches the entire audience off-guard, stunning the mass of 12,000 fans in attendance. In the explosion's aftermath, fans begin to hear the faded strumming of Graham Coxon’s lead guitar, bass line of Alex James, and backbeat of Dave Rountree. As the music begins to gain volume, the fans begin to take notice and make their voices heard.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

After a few more seconds of subdued music, Damon Albarn’s vocal makes it clear who has come back to PRIME.

WOO HOO!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Richard: THIS IS WHY BUSH SHOULD STILL BE PRESIDENT!

"Song 2" by Blur blares through the PA system, sending the crowd into an absolute frenzy. Orange and aqua lights bestow the building and a video montage of PRIME’s Resident Hawaiian plays on the PRIME*View. By the time Albarn finishes singing the first verse of the song and makes it to the chorus, 12,000 fans have already gotten their money’s worth, and he’s standing at the top of the ramp.

WOO HOO!

Bryan Dawkins is back in PRIME.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

He stands at the top of the ramp, sans-PRIME hoodie he was rocking earlier, with his signature "…Bruh" t-shirt (now available wherever PRIME merchandise is sold), orange and aqua sunglasses, and Hawaiian-floral patterned shorts. The Flyin’ Hawaiian basks in the glory of being back in front of the fans who love him so, and he paces to each end of the stage, flashing the "hang loose" gesture to each end of the ramp.

He slowly zigzags down the ramp, shaking hands, exchanging fist-bumps, and even taking a moment to have a short photo-op with a young fan of his, rocking some youth Dawkins sunglasses and the "…Bruh" t-shirt. At the bottom of the ramp, Dawkins peers into the ring. Having not stepped foot into a PRIME ring in nearly a year, he takes a second to take the moment in, before hopping onto the apron and springing himself over the top rope and into the ring, eliciting a huge pop from all in attendance.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

He slowly meanders around the ring, the entire time with a huge grin on his face, every once in a while taking a second to hop up onto a turnbuckle to flash the "hang loose" gesture to that section of the crowd. Much to the chagrin of Richard Parker, he glances down at his biggest vocal adversary and flashes his signature gesture toward him as well, before hopping off the turnbuckle and requesting a microphone from Vince Howard.

Howard hands him the microphone, and Dawkins exchanges a quick fist-pound with the announcer. Dawkins has nearly as many fans on PRIME staff as he does in attendance on a given night. He raises the microphone to his mouth, eliciting yet another pop from his adoring fans.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

After a few moments, the crowd finally dies down, and the Flyin’ Hawaiian can make his first remarks on PRIME TV in nearly a year.

Dawkins: …Bruh.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins has the crowd wrapped around his finger and he knows it. Arguably one of the most beloved faces in PRIME’s extensive history, Dawkins is a welcome face for nearly any PRIME fan.

Dawkins: Good to be back, lemme tell ya. It’s been nearly a year, and I can honestly say, I’ve missed each and every one of ya out there.

Dawkins turns to the commentary table, his eyes fixated on Richard Parker.

Dawkins: Yeah, even you, bruh.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Aware of the rift between Parker and Dawkins, the crowd is absolutely eating up anything Dawkins throws out there.

Dawkins: So I’m guessin’ you guys are all out there wonderin’ what I’ve been up to lately? Well, being a full-time dad can sure be a time and energy drainer, lemme tell ya!

Dawkins cracks a smile from ear-to-ear with the reference of his son, Nicholas.

Dawkins: Speakin’ of the little bruh, he’s doin’ great. Little bruh’s already flyin’ around the house, jumpin’ off anything he can climb up, and, of course, enjoyin’ the best food God has put on this great planet of ours.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

With that, hundreds, if not thousands of signs referencing Dawkins’ favorite fruit (pineapple, if you’ve been under a rock for the last three years) are flashed by the crowd. Oh, and we forgot to mention that the "…Bruh" t-shirt that Dawkins and so many of his fans are wearing sport an oversized pineapple with Dawkins’ logo imposed over top of it on the back.

Dawkins: But, back to business. As I sat at home for the last ten months or so, I’m not gonna lie, I kinda fell out of touch with the PRIME universe. Shakur’s runnin’ the show now, Lindz is back in action, the big Hess is the main champ, and Donnelly’s back with some gold. Unfortunately, with Shakur runnin’ around, painting PRIME black with his oh-so-emo ways, there’s nobody left to keep him in check.

Dawkins sighs and posts himself atop one of the turnbuckles.

Dawkins: With Chan and Rayne…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Yep, that’s the sound of about 6,000 eggs simultaneously dropping. It’s amazing what the dropping of the Underground Pimp’s name can do.

Dawkins: …out of the picture, I figured somebody had to step in and make sure Emo and his biker bruh aren’t runnin’ this place into the ground. And I guess that somebody’s gonna have to be, well… me.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The realization that Dawkins is back hits the majority of the fans, who prior to PRIME’s Resident Hawaiian’s last statement, were free to assume that this was just a promotional appearance, possibly for a movie, book, or any other cause worth promoting.

Dawkins: So, as of last week, the Bruh is officially back on PRIME’s payroll.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins: And if ya haven’t figured it out, later on tonight, I can start on my mission to keep PRIME from going emo by takin’ on the big bad biker, Christian Daniels.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins flashes a smile only rivaled by Rayne, eager to please each and every one of his fans in attendance.

Dawkins: I figure that’ll be a good warm up, ya know, since I plan on getting in on the Dual Halo and finally winning that bad boy. Third time’s a charm, right?

Dawkins takes another minute to glance around the arena, taking in the thousands of "…Bruh" t-shirts and pineapple-adorned signs along the way.

Dawkins: So with that, bruhs and bruh-ette’s, I’ve gotta go get ready to do what I do best for you guys. Let’s make this year a good one! And ‘til next time…

Dawkins hops from the turnbuckle and takes his place in the middle of the ring, eyes fixated on the camera.

Dawkins: …hang loose, bruh.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins winks, flashes the "hang loose" gesture to the crowd to accompany his final statement, and makes his way around the ring, slapping hands and fist-bumping his way up the ramp to the sound of "Song 2" by Blur.

The Bruh is back.

Nick: Now THAT is how you start a ReVolution.

Richard: This is worse than when I learned Finkle was also Einhorn.

An angry drumbeat mingles with heavy guitar riffs and the sound of ReVolution blasts through the speakers. The Sound of Madness.

The hulking chest of Big Bear fades back to a wider shot of him leaning against a turnbuckle, right arm extended, staring straight ahead at Tony Gamble. Big Bear charges forward and rocks Gamble’s world with a Chump Buster.

Yeah, I get it
You're an outcast.

The 6'9, 305 pound beast known as Jakob snarling into the camera. Much isn't known about this newcomer, but that will change if he has his way.

Always under attack.
Always coming in last,
Bringing up the past.

Roxy Phoenix shaking it for all the male fans in attendance while Richard Parker flashes a 5 dollar bill in the background.

No one owes you anything.
I think you need a shotgun blast,
A kick in the ass,

Michael Sloan. He hasn't been seen on the PRIME scene in months, but you don't take an individual like this out of a video featuring PRIME. He's been PRIME for the last three years.

So paranoid...
Watch your back!

Tony 'The Grin' Gamble making another one of the greats, Devin Shakur, submit atop a steel cage at Colossus VII, thus ending one of the greatest tandems in PRIME's history.

Oh my, here we go...
Another lose cannon gone bi-polar
Slipped down, couldn't get much lower.

Mitchell Quinlan, a former SCCW star looking to make shockwaves in the land of PRIME.

Quicksand's got no sense of humor.
I'm still laughing like hell.

Katterina Wylde, an international superstar who can more than hold her own. She is shown in a photo from about five years ago with Tyler Rayne, both mugging for the camera.

You think that the cryin to me,
Looking so sorry that I'm gonna believe,
You've been infected by a social disease.
Well, then take your medicine.

Devin Shakur, loopy and spinning, manages to land a Good Times Painful Memories strike on Cozen to capture his first and only Universal Championship.

I created the Sound of Madness.
Wrote the book on pain.
Somehow I'm still here

Christian Daniels snarls to the camera and swigs from his beer. He's only wrestled four times, but try convincing a seven foot behemoth that he can't be in the introduction video. Especially one who has the ear of The Boss in Black. Not easy.

To explain,

Nitz Donnelly is the first man to enter the Dual Halo 2010. He takes the best shot of every wrestler and comes out with a Top 10 finish, solidifying his name as a PRIME superstar.

That the darkest hour never comes in the night.
You can sleep with a gun.

Tyler Rayne flashes the million dollar smirk toward the camera. It melts the hearts of every woman on the planet and a few guys too.

When you gonna wake up and fight... for yourself?

Lindsay Troy capturing the Intense Championship from Matt Ward at Colossus VII.

I'm so sick of this tombstone mentality,
If there's an afterlife,
Then it'll set you free.

The one time secretary of Devin Shakur, Lisa Tyler, has found herself back in a position of power. While she has remained quiet in certain regards, she’s more than capable of laying down the law.

But I'm not gonna part the seas
You're a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You think that cryin to me,

Matt Mills with a microphone in his hand. Yes, you better believe this gambling addict has finally worked his way into the introduction. He'll use the income from being featured in this to create a new online account at Full Tilt Poker. We believe the screen name will be isildur2.

Looking so sorry that I'm gonna believe,
You've been infected by a social disease.
Well, then take your medicine.

Tom Walczak, returning to PRIME after many years. He's big, he's bad, he's Polish, what more do you need to know about him? He's hungry to make an impact.

I created the Sound of Madness.
Wrote the book on pain.
Somehow I'm still here,

Matt Ward brawls with Hessian at King of Kings 2010, trying to get the jump and cash his Universal Championship shot in early.

To explain,
That the darkest hour never comes in the night.
You can sleep with a gun.
When you gonna wake up and fight... for yourself?

Violence Jack defying the odds by defeating both Nitz Donnelly and Alexandra Pierce to walk out the Jewel in the Crown 2010 winner.

I created the Sound of Madness.
Wrote the book on pain.
Somehow I'm still here

The Sentinel dumping Eddie O Neal on his head. He's an absolute beast and a legend in the industry.

To explain
That the darkest hour never comes in the night.
You can sleep with a gun.

Brian Postal's finest moment in PRIME to date, a spectacular debut against Hessian. Unfortunately, he got a steel chair wrapped around his skull for his efforts.

When you gonna wake up...
When you gonna wake up and fight...

The blacklisted Jacob McKail has once again found a home in PRIME and captured a victory over Big Bear with his Fearless Freefall.

I created the Sound of Madness.
Wrote the book on pain.

A flashing flurry of shots dedicated to Alexandra Pierce, The Spider in the Web. A Spider's Kiss for Hoyt Williams, The Sentinel, and Violence Jack.

Somehow I'm still here,
To explain,

The man who said he would never work for PRIME is now under contract to PRIME... Seymour Almasy.

That the darkest hour never comes in the night.
You can sleep with a gun.
When you gonna wake up and fight... for yourself?
When you gonna wake up and fight... for yourself?

Hessian staring down at the Universal Championship, and achieving a status level he's been striving for his entire wrestling career.

When you gonna wake up and fight... for yourself?



Exploding with energy, 12,000 strong have packed the Salle Mohamed V, anticipating one of the biggest shows on the PRIME calendar year, and they have already received plenty with another of Shakur's longtime rivals making a dramatic return.

Overhead pyrotechnics are sent vertical, reaching the top of the PRIME*View before fully exploding in a loud series of BOOM, FLASH, SIZZLE... Alright, maybe not sizzle, but the point is across. We're about ready to crank it up, Green Bay style.

Cameras scan the unusually small building. PRIME is capable of filling 20 to 30k venues on a show by show basis, but Shakur opted for a smaller building to make an easier transition on himself (no matter what dirt sheets say about a roster mutiny if he stuck to his original idea for shows in North Korea and Egypt) between show to show. Plus, PRIME has a worldwide following of awesomeness and most any venue is going to be sold out with the company on a massive upswing. Tonight has been deemed a show that will go down in the annals as one of PRIME's greatest and out of the gate, the company has delivered.

Signs aplenty are held up so that it looks like a giant cue card convention rather than energetic fans looking to get a nanosecond of face time.

"I rise like a Phoenix everytime Roxy is on camera."
"Uh huh huh he said rise"
"Heh heh heh heh"

Quick mark out moment for Beavis and Butthead, making its MTV return sometime in the near future. New episodes, same format and handwritten style.

"How can something be vintage if the wrestler hasn't been around for 2 years?"

"NOVA PROMISED ME WEED! ALL I GOT WAS A LOUSY VOICEMAIL ABOUT CHEESE!"

And so on and so on. A few quick button pushes and the announcers table is in full view with Nick Stuart and... Elvis Nixon? What the? Stuart is dressed as per usual, in his best three piece looking spiffier than spiffy the clown from Bozo's heyday. Elvis is rocking it straight 70s and stands up to give his fans what they are dying to see, a hybrid of Alex Wright and Disco Inferno's dance maneuvers. It truly is the most amazing sight human eyes could ever hope to see.

In both men's ears, the technician backstage gives the countdown

3...
2...
1...

Go!

Nick: Good evening everybody and welcome to what promises to be a bombastic ReVolution 240. I'm Nick Stuart alongside Elvis Nixon, who is filling in for Richard Parker.

Elvis: Thank you, it's a great honor to finally be in the booth, calling the shots once again.

Nick: This is only a temporary gig so don't get too comfortable, Elvis.

Elvis: So I should call off that White House meeting with Willie to light a fatty?

Nick: I'm afraid so.

Elvis: Shucks.

Nick: My colleague told me in the middle of our introduction that he was going backstage on assignment, perhaps one of the few times Parker has gotten this much exercise in such a short time span.

Elvis: Tubby said it was really important I take over and hold true the maxims and concepts he so proudly displays on a bi-weekly basis. Or at least that's what his cue cards are telling me. I only heard the terms bi and maxim. OHHHHHHHHHHH YEAH!

Nick: Well, if nothing else, it will be a pleasure not to have someone jumping down my throat at everything I say.

Elvis: We got the cameras. We got the spotlight. I got the attorneys. Let's bring on the babes.

Nick: We'll get to all the babes momentarily, but first we've got to give a run down of tonight's festivities. Six jam packed matches in what is sure to be another stellar night for PRIME.

Elvis: It'll be a stellar night after the show. Do you know how many people dig my accent around here, baby?

Nick: I can imagine your name alone elicits an immense amount of controversy, let alone the accent.

Elvis: No doubt baby, no doubt.

Nick: In our opening bout, we are going to see the debut of Mitchell Quinlan, former SCCW star, taking on a newcomer himself to PRIME, Brian Postal. How do you see this one playing out?

Elvis: Two guys looking to be on the up and up in the most jive wrestling organization on the planet. They are going to give everything and put on a show. I could see either one coming out victorious, but I'm going to go with the Q, Mitchell Q, for the win.

Nick: And as we just were informed moments ago, Christian Daniels mystery opponent has been revealed in the form of Bryan Dawkins. I think we're both on the same side here in terms of want, but objectively, who do you give the edge too?

Elvis: Baby, this is a tough one. Daniels and Dawkins have a lotta history, they go back a longgggg way. Daniels has got the wrestling experience and he's one bad mother-

"SHUT YO MOUTH!"

Elvis: -But Dawkins is gonna come in fresh, after months of being on the sideline, he's back and seems ready, energized, and eager to take out Daniels. I somehow don't think this one is going to end clean, and it might not end at all.

Nick: Astute observations. Dawkins is also going to have to wonder about ring rust. Even though he's not exactly of the elder generation in PRIME, anybody who hasn't participated in PRIME since Colossus, expecting to make a comeback against one of the nastiest men on the roster is going to find himself on the disadvantage at a time or two. Let's just pray Dawkins has enough of that adrenaline flowing to get himself through the lows of what is sure to be a highly entertaining bout.

Elvis: No doubt baby. And then, we got Tony 'The Grin' Gamble, making his long awaited return to the squared circle, against a GTT semifinalist. Alright, Nick, gonna put ya on the spot, baby, you've had about two weeks to do ya research and figure out, who do you think it could be?

Nick: I'm still oblivious. People from all walks of life fall into this and most of them are not in PRIME at the moment. Angelo Deville and Rich Rollins are dead, but they both won an event, Violence Jack made it through to the finals as well. A semifinalist is pretty damn hard to peg down, but regardless, we are going to be getting a superstar if this person, whoever it may be, has enough talent to get through such a steep field. GTT was the most prestigious tournament in the wrestling world. Many a talent failed in getting through, but if one can make it to the final four, Gamble better bring his A-game tonight, or he might get wiped clean off the map.

Elvis: Well put, well put. Then, we've got Walczak, The Polish Punisher, The Fie Slamma Hamma, ready to take on The Sentinel, seeing his first action in 2011. I saw Walczak as he arrived, and baby, he didn't look to be in a groovy mood if you get my drift.

Nick: You've got to take into consideration that either Devin Shakur or Lisa Tyler sees a great amount of potential in Tom Walczak after seeing what he was capable of. His losses in PRIME have been to Violence Jack, Alexandra Pierce, and Seymour Almasy. Those are not just three of the best people on our roster, but three of the best competitors of all time. He came close to beating all of them. The Sentinel is naturally arrogant and has displayed those tendencies, but Walczak is coming in and looking to get his first win of 2011. I think tonight is the night he could pull it off. Sentinel has never faced someone with the size and power of Walczak, and it could be a bit daunting for him.

Elvis: Then, and this is already being deemed an instant classic, one for the ages, two of those victories against Walczak squaring off, Seymour Almasy takes on Alexandra Pierce.

Nick: This is Devin Shakur working at his finest, and giving the fans exactly what they want to see, top flight competition on a weekly basis with some of the best around, while at the same time working his agenda. He has made his hatred for Alexandra Pierce blatantly obvious, and he considers Seymour Almasy one of his newest investments in PRIME, even if Almasy might not entirely be aware of that fact. He wants Almasy to come out the victor tonight just to further rub it in the face of Pierce.

Elvis: These two are gonna tear it up, and I gotta feelin it ain't gonna end pretty. One of em is gonna be residin in Heartbreak Hotel after being All Shook Up.

Nick: And in our Main Event, the current number one contender to the Universal Championship goes against the Jewel in the Crown winner. Matt Ward competing against Violence Jack in what should be a grueling test for both men.

Elvis: Ward could be getting the raw end of the deal here, baby, plain and simple, because he's got a match with Hessian in a few short weeks in a cell, while V Jack is only, technically, supposed to compete next at Culture Shock.

Nick: A great point. In the bizarro world of Hessian, Violence Jack, and Matt Ward, alliances have been formed and squashed quicker than one can snap a pair of fingers. These two are going to more than likely be perturbed, looking to prove that they are the rightful contender, and I can't wait to see this one unfold right before our eyes.

Elvis: Plus, Olsig is set to return, Donnelly finally answers the AWA, he's definitely in the building. I saw him on a splif... cigarette break, and know he's dead set on answering those remarks.

Nick: We've got all the big names in attendance tonight so let's get this shindig underway.

It's not a camera switch, because this is pre-taped. You can tell it's prerecorded because it says, "Earlier Tonight" in the lower left corner of the screen and because the sun is still out.

The tall redhead pulling the suitcase behind her is Alexandra Pierce; she's dressed down as she usually is coming to a show – loose, light slacks and a scoop-necked, turquoise blouse. With her hair back in a loose, messy tail and those creepy gray eyes covered by wraparound sunglasses, she looks... god help us, she looks likes a woman.

Behind her is a dark-haired teen in jeans and an asphalt-gray t-shirt that displays the atomic symbol "119 – Ad – Adamantium". Quinn Gregory's hair is a little shorter than when we saw her last, and those glasses are a little bit sleeker than the ones Christian Daniels stepped on in Turin.

We catch mother and daughter in conversation, already in progress.

Quinn: I'm just saying that—

Pierce: No.

Quinn: But when Jadian was a problem, we—

Pierce: No.

Quinn: Why not? What makes this any different?

Pierce: It's different because I say it's different. It's different because—

Matt Mills would probably like to be anywhere else but here right now, but he's a trooper and he has a job to do. This particular job involves a microphone and a camera and a smile, along with some questions he's probably not going to like the answers to.

Mills: Alexandra! Alex, just a—

She stops, her stone gray eyes emerging over the rims of her glasses. Matt pauses a moment, frozen by her gaze. There's a reason they call her the Medusa, and not because it sells t-shirts.

Mills: Ms. Pierce...

The glasses come up, and that crinkle across her lips could maybe, perhaps, possibly be called a smile.

Pierce: Matthew.

Mills: Alex, tonight, you'll be facing an actual, living, breathing legend in Seymour Almasy. Almasy has won just about every championship in the PTC, he beat Tom Walczak – who many would argue you lucked out against in Turin – and he beat Violence Jack, the man who holds the only PRIME victory over you.

Pierce: All true.

Mills: And with Seymour's cordial relationship with Devin Shakur, you have to wonder—

Pierce: If Devin or Christian will get involved? I don't wonder that at all, Matthew. I don't wonder if Devin will fire another volley tonight. I don't wonder it because I know he'll be there tonight, somewhere. I know he'll watch this interview. I know that's why it's being prerecorded. I know that Devin is waiting, wondering what I'm going to do.

Mills: I think that's a valid concern, yeah. Your reputation can be a little—

Quinn: "Daunting." She likes "daunting".

Matt chuckles a little, looking down. Alex's unflinching stare doesn't move.

Mills: So are you going to respond?

Pierce: I think it stands to reason that there will be some sort of response.

Mills: But you're not going to say what.

Pierce: I'm not going to say what or when or how. Not now, not here, not to you. So go back to Devin and tell him that he'll have to work a hell of a lot harder—

The Devil's Daughter moves between her mother and Matt Mills. Saving a hand.

Quinn: Whoa! Whoa, now! I don't think that—

Mills: You think I'm doing this as some kind of... of scouting mission? Do you have any idea what these guys have done to me? To us? To this place? Listen, lady—

Pierce: No, you listen...

Quinn: Why don't you both listen, okay? If anyone deserves to be mad about last week, it's me. It's my birthday party he trashed. It was my birthday cake I got thrown into. It was my glasses Daniels stepped on. And, yeah, I'm pissed. But I'm not pissed at Mom and I'm not pissed at the interview guy, okay?

Alex steps back, her hands up.

Pierce: All right. You're right. I'm sorry.

Mills: It's no problem. I overstepped.

Quinn: Great. Now, Devin will get his, but Mom's focusing on Seymour, because – and, I mean, other than the dumb name – the dude is pretty tough and damn talented. So we'll worry about Shakur, sure, but we'll do it after the match, okay?

Mills: Okay. Just... I get a little—

Pierce: I get it. Come on, Quinn. We've got some work to do.

Matt is enough of a gentlemen to hold the door open for them as they enter the arena. As for us, we cut away.

PRIME newcomer, Brian Postal, is sitting on the butcher paper in the medical room backstage.

Doctor: I can’t let you go on, Brian. You still have a concussion, it’s just not safe. Hessian really did a number on you. Sorry.

Brian: Doc, there’s gotta be something you can do! It’s only my second week. I want to do this. I need to do this.

Doctor: Sorry, Brian. Maybe next week, maybe not. You should be back for 242, though. Hang in there, okay?

Brian leans over to the doctor and whispers in his ear. The doctor has a shocked look on his face. He doesn’t move as Brian pulls away.

Brian: So…?

Doctor: Yeah. You know what? After some… uh… thought, you can go ahead. All clear.

Brian jumps up off the table and heads to the gorilla position.

Brian: Thanks, Doc.

The doctor seems unsure what to do now.

Nick (O.S.): What? What did Postal just say to the doctor?

A Jim Johnson-esque vocal-less entrance theme pours into the arena as Mitchell Quinlan runs out to the ring. Followed by the second appearance of Brian Postal, who bops down to the ring to the groooooovy sounds of Paul Simon’s "You Can Call Me Al".

Elvis: This is a great song!

Nick: I suppose it is. Also, nice chair dancing.

Elvis: Thank you, thank you very mu--

Nick: Should be a great opening bout between these two PRIME up-and-comers!

DING! DING! DING!

The match begins with the typical basic grapple holds and goes back and forth early. Both combatants playing to the crowd with Postal having the slight edge in fan-favoritism due to the beating he withstood at the hands of the Universal Champion. But after a ducked clothesline, Quinlan gets a big pop from the crowd for landing a huge Fisherman Suplex on Postal - landing him on his head hard.

Nick: He calls that the ‘Fisher of Men’ suplex, and he’s the first participant to pull out a Signature Move.

Elvis: Speaking of ‘pulling out’, the othe--

Nick: And I'd rather not get pulled into your political controversial schtick if we can keep it that way.

The momentum of the match shifts back and forth and the crowd seems to be enjoying the opener. The Northern hits an elbow to the stomach, winding Postal. With Brian down on one knee the Sin City Saint bounds off the ropes and comes up from behind looking for the strong lariat.

Nick: Northern Lariat!

Elvis: Uh-oh, baby!

Nick: But that was a vicious German Suplex that Postal just used as a reversal!

Brian climbs to the top rope and shows off a bit for the crowd before jumping off with a swanton dive, followed but a last-second flipping leg drop.

Nick: Going Postal! He’s really in the driver’s seat now!

Quinlan is laid out on the canvas and Postal stands at his head. He runs to the ropes nearest his foe’s feet and springboards off into a elbow drop after throwing his arms out to the side in a wild D’Lo Brown-style finger point.

Elvis: There’s the Postal Elbow. What’s he, I say what's he doing now?

Postal is on his knees slamming the mat hard with both hands and screaming ‘Get up!’ at his opponent. Before long the whole crowd is chanting (and clapping) with him.

GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!

After a few seconds, Quinlan gets to his feet and turns around to face Postal who springs into action and absolutely plants Mitchell into the mat with a Postal Driver, then quickly scrambles over for the pinfall, hooking the leg.

ONE!
TWO!
THREE!

DING! DING! DING!

Postal is making a big scene in the ring, working the crowd as Quinlan gets up, the two men stare each other down in the ring as the audience gets quiet. Postal sticks out a hand for the handshake and Quinlan accepts. The crowd roars in approval. The Sin City Saint exits ringside, head held high as ‘You Can Call Me Al’ explodes over the PA.

Nick: Excellent sophomore performance from the newcomer, Brian Postal.

Brian makes his way backstage, somewhat pleased with the performance. He reaches out and slaps five with a few fans reaching over the guardrail. He's not a household name yet, but at some point in the near future he's hoping to compile enough stock to become one.

After moving over toward the left side of the aisle, his vision becomes blurry. He misses a few hands. Postal points at a sign and then looks up at the PRIME*View, seeing himself in a hazy state. He tries to take another step and make headway up the ramp, but collapses before taking an inclined step.

Nick: Oh My God! What happened?

Elvis: I think that doctor mighta been onto somethin, baby.

Nick: Someone needs to get some help out here. That doctor earlier was right and Postal should not have been cleared to wrestle this evening.

Elvis: Leave it to someone like Shakur to make him go through with it, even if Postal hadn't said whatever he said to the doctor.

Nick: I think this was strictly Postal manipulating the doctor to let him go on, despite the doctor's best wishes. I know the kid wants to make an impact, but risking your body the show after a concussion, and one of the most brutal ones at that, isn't the way to make yourself reputable around PRIME.

Elvis: You make a valid point there, baby. You hate to see something like this happen.

Zebras and paramedics flock to the scene and surround Postal, asking him if he is alright and random questions to assure he knows where he is. He doesn't exactly pass with flying colors, mumbling out answers with 50 percent accuracy. Bernie Roberts flashes the X sign and a gurney is brought out.

Nick: That is one of the downfalls of this business, fans. These performers put their bodies on the line show in and show out to give the best product possible even if they aren't one hundred percent. I can guarantee, or at least I can hope, Brian Postal is not going to complete unless he is one hundred percent medically cleared to.

Elvis: Hope he's alright. Don't want to see a promising career go down the toilet so quickly.

Nick: Let's get backstage, please, now. I'd rather not observe this any longer.

"Hessian! Hey! Champ!"

He shouldn't be startled when his name is called out of the blue, but he is nonetheless. Stuck between the pomp/grandeur of being Universal Champion and prey being stalked from the shadows, the Murder Show can't afford not to be on edge given the size of the bullseye on his large back. To his relief, however, it's only Matt Mills with mic in hand chasing him down and not a naked man with a samurai sword and a hard-on.

Matt Mills: Get ready. You're on in five.

Hessian: Minutes?

Matt Mills: Three...two...one...

Hessian: Aw you son of a b-

Matt Mills: Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm joined at this time by the Universal Champion, Hessian.

For once the mean look a wrestler adopts when they're being interviewed before a match was pure and not just put on for the camera. Realizing this was Mills's revenge for the shove-off last week, the giant unbuckles his title and flops it over his shoulder, staring into the middle distance.

Matt Mills: Hessian, tonight's main event sees Violence Jack face Matt Ward. What are your thoughts on the match that could very well see you gain an advantage going into your title defence in two weeks?

Hessian: What do you want me to say that hasn't been said already? Matthew Kissinger Ward Esquire, the Legend of Legends, is adamant he can beat me. He's got a screw loose if he thinks he can beat me. Maybe it should be him on the couch.

Matt Mills: ...Kissinger?

Hessian: Kissinger asses all the time acting like the goodie two-shoes super hero who has everything coming to him. Tell ya something for free, he's sure as hell got what's coming to him. You wait. In two weeks he'll have it coming to him alright, and it'll arrive on a gurney surrounded by EMTs.

Matt Mills: And Violence Jack?

Hessian: I don't know. Goddamnit, always with the questions. I spend so much time trying to figure that guy out that by the time I do I'll be three months removed from the Culture Shock match and ready to face my opponent at Colossus for my Universal Title. I'm the Champion, Mills. I'm the Culture Shock. I am PRIME. Now if you don't have any more dumb questions I'm gonna go be all I can be, 'kay? 'Kay.

The giant walks off leaving Mills with the mic hanging in limbo. Barely a few yards away a figure turns the corner nearly colliding with him, and another sigh escapes the giant's lips after the initial fright.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Only one person can get such a reaction just by being seen.

Devin Shakur: If it isn't the big bad... getting pretty fat wolf.

Hessian: How you doing, Little Red Riding Hood.

The Man in Black smirks off the condom reference and places a hand on Hessian's shoulder, turning him around and leading him back up the hallway past Matt Mills, who motions for the camera to stick with the pair.

Devin Shakur: I've been thinking, and Hoyt knows when I think the idea is usually spectacular. The King of Kings debacle left a sour taste in my mouth... Make a joke about that and you'll job to Dusk. Even though we've got a special bond -

Hessian: You aren't helping your case here, bub.

Devin Shakur: Let the two sweet teas I had kick in, then I'll be off and running. Anywho, you are getting off too light as we get closer to Culture Shock, and tonight's Main Event probably has you giddier than TMZ if Charlie Sheen overdosed...

The Boss gives himself a Jethro Gibbs smack to the back of the head and continues.

Devin Shakur: So I'll make my point. Tonight's main event is going to involve you.

Hessian: What? The hell it is.

Devin Shakur: On the contrary Wolfenstein, you're not wrestling Ward and VJ. You're going to referee them.

Hessian: WHAT?? I'm the Universal Champion goddamnit I don't need to-

The caffeine just kicked in.

Shakur: You backtalk me again and you really WILL job to Dusk. I'm sure his number is stuck somewhere in an old Rolodex over at headquarters. Let me bottom line this since I've got about twenty places to be. If you can get through tonight with both of your opponents and not cause a riot, then we'll be making significant progress toward you being-

The Boss makes quotation gestures.

Devin Shakur: -all that you can be.

Hessian: ...You're a piece of work, you know that?

Devin Shakur: That's what she said. Just put on the stripes tonight and we'll be peachy keen.

Before the Murder Show can reply Shakur slaps him on the back and totters off down the hall whistling a Sinatra tune, leaving the cameraman to pan in on a close-up of Hessian shaking his head slowly side to side and sneering off into the distance, before gazing down at his title and sighing.

Lance Marshall is perhaps one of the nicest wrestlers in the sport. He is not one to conduct himself inappropriately outside of the ring and is one of the more dominating figures inside of the ring. He's a public relations fantasy for any wrestling company, and that was one of the reasons PRIME has been eager to sign The Lion ever since the closing of SCCW. The company called him on a weekly basis, with Lisa Tyler at the helm of almost every conversation, and pleaded with Marshall to consider a spot in PRIME over other organizations.

Well, since coincidence is hard to believe (some would even argue there’s no such thing), one has to wonder how seriously The Lion considered Ms. Tyler’s offer since he is walking down one of the many corridors of the arena after coming out of her office. The details of what transpired will likely be revealed at a later date, but for the time being Marshall is making his third appearance on a PRIME program in the last two shows.

This time, an interviewer is not up in his grill inquiring about whether or not he has signed with the company. A lone cameraman follows him around as he greets staffers, shakes a few hands, and even signs an autograph for a kid who is wearing an NWC T-Shirt. Marshall remains courteous to everybody and gives a massive wave with his right paw before turning the corner and walking out into the main backstage area. About thirty yards away, Angelica Brooks spies Marshall walking toward the catering area and hopes to grab a quick word about The Lion's status.

But, she, along with everybody else around the interview bullpen, stop dead in their tracks when a much larger man stands in front of Marshall.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Lance Marshall is not often dwarfed by many men. He's 6'3" and runs anywhere from 310 to 330. In front of him, is a man who stands seven feet tall and is currently at 318 pounds.

He is a public relations nightmare. He might be a bit worse for wear after being "caught off guard" by Dawkins, but The Biker still knows when to jump on an opportunity. The two behemoths keep still and glare at one another. If looks could talk, Marshall and Daniels would be exchanging one of the more unflattering conversations conceivable.

Christian Daniels: Lance Marshall... Tha Lion emself, en tha flesh.

Lance Marshall: Christian Daniels. To what do I owe the displeasure?

If Pierce hadn't given Lance the 411 post Quinn's birthday extravaganightmare (we're making up new words) then Marshall would be about 95 percent uninformed of Daniels. He wasn't around when Shakur became a problem at Cataclysm. Their looks still haven't averted and tension is slowly building between the duo. Unnoticed by either man is the fact that the other folks who were present in the catering area have all slowly started to back away.

Daniels: I done seen ya walkin round c'here lately'nya been all tha buzz round back. So wha's yer deal?

Marshall: Could you vague that up for me just a little bit more?

Daniels: Ya walkin round'sa guest er'a wrassler?

Marshall: Now that’s an actual question. I’ve got a two part answer to that. Part One: You can go and ask Lisa Tyler all about what my "deal" is. I’m sure she’d be happy to tell you all about it.

Daniels: Tyler'n I ain't exactly at'tha bar havin beers once'tha cameras go black'f'ya get my drift.

Marshall: Shame, seems like she’d be interesting company. Here’s part two: Why the hell does it matter to you what I’m doing here.

Daniels snickers. If he chewed tobacco, he'd probably follow through on the stereotype and spit into a trashcan right about now.

Daniels: Guess tha look ain't just fer show'en.

Marshall: I can turn on a TV. I know full well about your unique position in this company… and what you did to Alex Pierce’s daughter last week.

Daniels: Wha's der ta complain bout? Girl tried slappin tha Boss'n overstepped her limitations. I ain't do nothin'ta her a lil eyewash ain't able'ta take care'f.

Marshall: You threw a 17 year old girl's head into a cake. Scratch that: you threw a friend’s head into a cake because your little prick of a boss felt threatened. I think even you’ll understand that it’s taking a fair bit of effort on my part right now not to shove your fist down your throat.

Daniels: Ya gon preach'ta me bout how to behave, Marshall, cuz I'll put'ma headphones on'f'ya do.

Marshall: Nah. You’re not worth the time or the energy. I’m just gonna give you a friendly little piece of advice. I am not a 17 year old girl. If you wanna start something, trust me… I know plenty of ways to make you regret that decision.

A brash smile comes across Christian's face as he continues to look down at Marshall. That statement was what brought the tension from slowly building to cutable with a knife.

Daniels: What I done did'ta Quinn, she oughta thank me fer, cuz girls like'at need teachin' and I doubt Alex providin steady parentin'.

Marshall: Sorry, weren’t you the one warning me about giving lectures?

Daniels: S'called'a growin' pain, Lance, ya gotta kid, I gotta kid, we both know consequences'r inevitable. But ya ain'ta lil kid, so ya keep standin' here actin' smug'sa snake oil car salesman, I'mma take time'n bash yer skull in.

Marshall: Wow, look how badass you aren’t. Sorry, Christian, but after shoving Quinn’s face into a cake you’re not exactly inspiring fear in me at the moment. Man like you, in fact, just makes me laugh.

Daniels: What kinda man'em I?

Marshall: Wrong.

Daniels: And yer right, eh?

Marshall: I’m not perfect, no. But I’m also not the one at the end of Devin Shakur’s leash. I’m not the one trying to intimidate and threaten people because your boss had a temper tantrum. Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t have collar burn around your neck. So, yeah, you’re all kinds of wrong… just because you’re so convinced your right.

Daniels: Well'ntha spirit'a bein wrong...

This time, The Biker fulfills his obligation of executing his stereotype and spits on Marshall.

OHHHHHRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

And before the crowd can finish letting out a shocked reaction, Marshall already has Daniels off the ground and slams him back first into a nearby wall. Any and all stagehands flee the area, screaming for security to get out into where the fight is about to break out. Marshall rams his head into the midsection of Daniels two to three more times before The Biker is able to break free and pop a right hand on Marshall's jaw. The Lion is temporarily staggered, long enough for Daniels to reel off an overhand right and back Marshall up. He goes in for a quick elbow, but Marshall moves, hoists Daniels up by the legs and takes him down to the concrete. He tries to mount Daniels, but The Biker maneuvers his legs up and tries to apply a choke hold.

Before either man can gain a sizable advantage, Enemigos flood the scene, coming out of each and every corridor around the area to break up the fight between the two giants. Marshall and Daniels are separated, but are kicking and screaming all the way to respectable neutral locker rooms.

Daniels: Welcome'ta PRIME, motherfucker.

Marshall: You just gonna bark at me all day, little doggie?

Daniels: I'ma bash yer fuckin' skull in, bitch.

Marshall: Keep dreaming, Christian. I would love to see you try.

Daniels: Bank on't son. My dreams always become reality.

Marshall: Get ready for your worst nightmare, then.

Nick: Up next, folks… I regret to inform you all that Seymour Almasy has asked for some time.

Elvis: I'ma take a stab in the ol' dark and reckon he's gonna tell us why he monkey-stomped Jacob McKail into the ground last ReVolution.

Nick: And of course, he has to grace us with his presence in the ring to do so.

If Nick Stuart is expecting a lot of fanfare, however, he’s going to be sorely surprised. Seymour Almasy simply walks out from the back with no music or lights. He’s not dressed in his ring gear, instead wearing a pair of jeans and a PRIME t-shirt that you, YES YOU, can buy on PRIME Shopzone for a reasonable $20.

Elvis: Not wasting any time tonight, is he?

Nick: No, and much as it pains me to admit it, he’s not getting a bad reception from this Moroccan crowd.

Indeed, being one of the better known wrestlers of his era and never having competed in Morocco before has resulted in the Dynast-King receiving a solid ovation from many of the more casual fans. Harder-core fans, though, let Seymour have it with boos. If he notices any of his reception, though, he’s not making it known as he marches to the ring, microphone in hand.

Elvis: I’ve got to admit, I expected more than this. Music, lights, some pyro, maybe lots of clips of McKail’s girl screaming in terror.

Nick: So did I. I can’t imagine what’s in store for us is pleasant, but this isn’t what I had in mind.

Elvis: Maybe he's too focused on taking on the powers of witchcraft later tonight for anything fancy.

Nick: You'd know all about that wouldn't you?

Seymour rolls in under the bottom rope, and taps the top of the microphone to make sure that it’s on. Seeing that it is, he jumps up to his feet, and begins to speak with no further ado.

Almasy: UWF.

Nick: Huh?

Almasy: DWO. XUW. FUSE. Global. GCW. SCCW. The X.

Elvis: Is he just… naming wrestling companies that are less good than PRIME?

Almasy: That’s a list of all of the companies that I worked for in Primetime Central up till December of 2010. I made appearances practically EVERYWHERE. I was the king of PTC, but never once did I compete in its castle. Oh, sure, I’ve been on ReVolution maybe two or three times over the years, mostly to mock this company and all it stands for. I competed in the Dual Halo, but who hasn’t? It’s open invitation. No, I never came to PRIME. I was the one man who "resisted" the temptation. And though Digital Mortality will go down in history as the PRIME Killer –

Just the mention of the Digimon’s name prompts boos from some of the hardcore Italian PRIMEates.

Almasy: I went down in history, until a couple weeks ago, as the one guy who would never sell out. And you know what? I made a lot of money playing that part. I made myself a pretty nice role as the iconoclast, as the guy who didn’t want to go up to the big leagues. As the guy who wanted to be himself. But I’ll level with you all here in Italy: I wanted the call-up as bad as anyone else.

Elvis: KNEW IT! Who could possibly resist the siren song of PRIME?

Almasy: I watched. I watched from whatever corner of the wrestling universe I was in as this company hired talented wrestler after talented wrestler and passed me by. But it was worse than that. I watched as utter wastes of humanity like Rich Rollins and Angelo Deville were given spots. I watched this company hire and fire Brandon Youngblood a bajillion times because it couldn’t confirm whether or not he was a pariah on any given day. I watched as a porn producer, for fuck’s sake, won the once-prestigious Universal Championship.

Nick: There’s something I agree with him on as being sort of ridiculous, actually.

Elvis: I liked Strife’s reign. He used to give me free samples.

Almasy: I finally made it. Finally, with the company in desperate need of more talent, Prometheus did the right thing and let me sign my name on that golden dotted line. Now that I’m here with my dream job, I’m going to make sure PRIME’s a safe place for my dreams. I’m going straight to the top of this company, but on the way there, I’m taking a very brief detour to do the work of the angels.

Nick: Is there going to be a POINT for all of this self-indulgent rambling? Hoyt, he’s been going on and on and on.

Elvis: Give him time. Greatness needs to percolate sometimes.

Almasy: Which brings me to a certain sad sack named Jacob McKail. Jacob, what you did to that kid on the independents? Inexcusable. These people may forgive you, because these people don’t know what it’s like to travel from show to show with little more than hope and a dream. They don’t know what it’s like to wrestle for enough money to pay your gas and dinner. Hell, most of the PRIME roster doesn’t know that. But I do, McKail.

In truth, the crowd doesn’t really know how to react. McKail isn’t particularly loved, nor is Seymour by most these days. Still, Almasy’s comments earn shrieking from his persistent and worldwide female fan base.

Elvis: He’s like the Beatles. Why, when he stepped out of his rental car today, he was mobbed by like thirty—

Nick: No one cares, Elvis.

Almasy: That was a message to you. You are not welcome here. And if you continue to insist on being here, I will jump you backstage every single chance I get until you ask out of your PRIME contract. This isn’t about wrestling. This isn’t you getting to seek your revenge on me, or something asinine like that. I will not step in the ring with an animal like you. Animals that misbehave get beaten. There are a lot of people here I don’t like, Jacob. Lindsay Troy and Violence Jack will never get Christmas cards from me, but I respect their abilities. I will meet them in the ring because they deserve at least that much. You?

By now, the booing and cheering have stopped. Projected on the image of the PRIME*View is the face of the man speaking. Longtime fans of the sport see something in Almasy’s eyes that has never quite been there before. It is something beyond simple annoyance, beyond the typical anger that characterizes most professional wrestlers.

It is unbridled, unmitigated disgust.

Almasy: The only thing you deserve is swift, eternal irrelevance.

The microphone falls from Seymour’s hand to the canvas, feedback echoing throughout the arena. As when he arrived, there is no music, no fanfare, just the platinum-haired Almasy exiting the ring and heading to the back.

Nick: That may be the most serious I’ve ever seen Seymour Almasy, Elvis.

Elvis: Yeah, and try and dispute a thing he just said. You’re going to condone what McKail did?

Nick: No, I’m not, but it also didn’t happen in a PRIME ring, and Seymour Almasy is not a messenger on the side of the angels, nor is he a man who we should let stand up for this great company.

Elvis: Seymour bared his soul. Yeah, he's given PRIME a lot of shit over the years, but that’s business. You and Richard haven’t buried wrestling companies before, Nick? Are you going to say that with a straight face? You and Richard sat here together and buried She Who Must Not Be Named’s company for most of the past two years!

Nick: We’ve also given roster spots, as Almasy said, to people a lot worse than Jacob McKail. One of the great things about people is that we’re forgiving. Jacob McKail is a phenomenal athlete, and he deserves his spot here.

Elvis: I’ll agree with you on the former point. On the latter, though, I’ll agree to disagree. And if Seymour Almasy has his way, McKail WON’T have a spot here for very much longer.

Earlier this evening...

If there is one thing you want to do when you make your in-ring return to a promotion as vaunted and prestigious as PRIME, it is to make your arrival to the building where the performance is taking place in grand fashion. As someone that feels the need to bring tons of attention to himself in everything that he does, Tony Gamble would have nothing less than a full police escort leading the way as the black limousine he just happens to be riding in the back of pulls to a stop with sirens blasting to announce his arrival.

The tall, lanky black man that hops out of the driver's seat and runs around to open the door for the man that not only removed Devin Shakur from active competition, but made countless legends in this sport tap out to his patented submission maneuver the Smile For Me.

Paparazzi flank each side of the red carpet that rolls out from the interior of the car the moment the door is opened, flash bulbs blinding the actual fans still outside waiting for all the members of the night's festivities to arrive. And this one does not disappoint, as the first wingtip shoe steps onto the blood red carpet.

RAAAHHHHH!

The small, yet durable, form of the former 5Star champion reveals itself to a roaring ovation from the crowd.

FINALLY!

THE GRIN!

IS BACK!

IN PRIME!

No one actually says it, but certainly the Perma Scar Super Star deserves a bit of praise and adoration. Who else could boast a win column littered with former Universal champions without ever holding that title himself? Not many, and yet you'd think this man would keep that nugget of information to himself.

Not Scarface... No, The Grin prides himself on being what many would classify as the best technical wrestler in PRIME to never hold the top prize. The man that had the title within his grasp on more than one occasion and came up a bit too short.

Story of his life in the mind of many, and yet the man standing with one hand still on the open door frame has a smile the size of Texas on his face... As if he could do anything else.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen... Tony 'The Grin' Gamble is back.

Nick: Coming up next, our second bout of the evening, and it promises to be one that will be very chaotic from the opening bell.

Elvis: A bad mamma jamma squaring off against a high flying pineapple injecting crazy man like B Dawk.

Nick: Pineapple injecting?

Elvis: Straight into the veins. Gives him the power, baby. The surge of adrenaline to obliterate all mankind.

Nick: What were you doing during that last break?

Elvis: I got a package from C Sheen, Hollywood CA, opened it up, and man I haven't been the same since.

The Nixon jitters and jives, but not in a disco dancing way.

Nick: Dear God, we've been infected with crazy. Hoyt help us all. This one doesn't seem to need much backstory. These two have quite the extensive history, so we're going to take it up to Vince Howard for the in-ring introductions.

Camera Switch: Vince Howard

Vince: The following contest is scheduled one for fall with a 15 minute time limit. Introducing first, from Hilo, Hawaii, weighting in at 202 pounds... THE FLYIN' HAWAIIAN, BRYANNNNNNNNNNNN DAWKINSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

"WOO HOO!"

"Song 2" by Blur.

The Wal*Tron comes to life with the theme, accompanied by pyrotechnics, orange and aqua lighting, and the video package of "The Flyin’ Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins. Dawkins strolls out of the back to an ovation from some of the crowd, to which he replies with the Hawaiian "hang loose" hand gesture, before jogging down towards the ring.

Dawkins acknowledges fans at ringside and plays to the crowd before sliding into the ring and jumping up to each turnbuckle to give the crowd his signature "hang loose" hand gesture. He then dismounts from the last turnbuckle and removes his sunglasses prior to stretching before the bout begins.

BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH! BRUH!

Nick: He looks to be in rare form, ready for the challenge that awaits him on the other side of the curtain.

Elvis: A lot of people say that though, baby. A lot of people, and then they find out the hard way Daniels is straight up Hells Angel.

Nick: You are growing into this role. We might need to get you as a replacement.

Elvis: Would save me from having to take the "accidental" referee bumps.

"Out of My Way" by Seether

The PRIME*View stays an eerie shade of black, the man behind the music not believing that a collaboration of highlights would be anything worth a damn. He's business as business can get and is only here for the fight, not the entertainment.

But he can't help but smile on the inside when throwing open the curtain and seeing all the faces trying to act tough. Funny how most people can do that from a distance with him.

The Biker walks out into full view on the stage and stands for a moment. The crowd is blazing hot and eager to see him bite the bullet.

If he's got any jitters, they aren't showing. Death's leader calmly walks down the aisle with military precision, occasionally glancing over at the hostile crowd. Those who were so aggressive and said they'd fight him when he stood on the ramp become passive at his stare.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Raleigh, North Carolina and standing at 7 feet tall, weighing in tonight at 314 pounds...THE BIKER, CHRISTIANNNNNNNNNNNN DANIELSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

But the general crowd doesn't mind their continuation of business giving. Christian grasps the top rope from the floor, pulls up, and steps over the top rope. He walks over to the designated corner and undoes the latches on his coat while the crowd anticipates the beating of a lifetime for The Biker.

Nick: Daniels has been gaining a bit of muscle over the past month. It shows in the definition of his physique. He's not as lanky as he once was, which can only mean more trouble to those who endure those vicious punches.

Elvis: I bet he's juicing, baby.

Nick: I think you are just trying to start wild and crazy rumors.

Elvis: My daddy's death was a wild and crazy rumor. I know where he is. In fact, Elvis Presley has been in PRIME before.

Nick: Sure he has. As who?

Elvis: Who else, Hoyt Williams. DADDY, COME BACK!

Nick: Really have to stop accepting packages from Charlie Sheen.

DING! DING! DING!

Exploding out of the gate is Bryan Dawkins, leaping into the air and cornering Daniels against the turnbuckle. He unloads with a flurry of rights and lefts, getting the crowd energized directly out of the gate.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX!

Before Daniels promptly shoves him backward, halfway across the ring, and charges across. He goes for a clothesline, but Dawkins ducks, and flips backward, landing a Pele kick on the top of Daniels head. It doesn't bring the big man down to his knees, but it teeters him enough for Dawkins to spin around and land a step up enziguri that causes Daniels to grasp the ropes.

Nick: Daniels getting ambushed out of the gate. This is not how he normally likes to operate. He wants to feel the opponent out and then make his moves based off his or her weaknesses.

Elvis: But Dawkins don't want none of that. He's coming out fists a firin.

Nick: Dawkins up on the middle rope. Daniels isn't going to see this coming either – DROPKICK TO THE HEAD!

Elvis: He's targeting the head, tryin to scramble the brain, and get Daniels off his game plan. If he even had one comin in. The man had minimal time to prepare for Dawkins.

Far be it for either Daniels or Dawkins to use that as an excuse. Dawkins advances forward and switches tactics, landing a European uppercut on the big man. It might not be the hardest, but the blending of offenses is definitely throwing Daniels for a loop. A kick to the ribs gets Daniels spinning, while Dawkins backs up to center ring, runs ahead, and leaps over the top rope with Daniels head in his hands. The Biker goes throat first across the top rope and backpedals again.

Nick: A new side of Dawkins we don't often see. He's bringing the fight to Daniels. This is turning more into dominating rather than an ambush.

Elvis: None of the rules were broken, baby. Daniels just won't ready for the fight.

Dawkins quickly rebounds on the floor, flat foot jumping onto the apron, springboarding onto the top rope and arching his body back. It looks as if he could go for a shooting star press, but he changes direction and opts for a clothesline right on the button. The move has enough force to knock Daniels back into the ropes and tie his arms between the middle and top.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: Uh oh. This is not what Daniels wants to have done to him.

Elvis: All tied up with no where to go, baby.

Nick: Just the way you like your women I heard?

Elvis: And the people tryin to bring me down, Nick. Watergate was a conspiracy, baby.

Nick: A conspiracy on the part of Richard Nixon.

With a mischievous grin on his face, Dawkins walks over to Daniels, looks down at him and mouths a few words of encouragement. The only word that can really be made out is "bruh" before Dawkins unloads with a series of knife edges to the chest.

WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO!

Nick: That's nine.

Dawkins flashes the Hang Loose gesture.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Elvis: And that'd make ten.

Daniels is still caught in the ropes when Dawkins pelts him with a right hand. Daniels tries kicking The Bruh away, but has no luck. Dawkins gets around on his right side and winds up, landing a roaring elbow to the helpless Daniels. The Biker takes the shot on the jaw and tries to maneuver his way out of the ropes. Dawkins senses he could be close to achieving this goal and decides to make one final statement. Off the ropes far side, Dawkins rushes back, leaps up, and lands a Shining Wizard that takes both competitors over the top rope and onto the floor.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: Dawkins mixing up some brawling and high flying tendencies here. Daniels could be in for a rough night if he doesn't find some way to create distance and get his bearings back.

Elvis: You know I once beat a bear down with my bare hands?

Nick: That so? What was her name?

Elvis: Called her... Rosie O Donnell. Thank ya, thank ya very much.

Nick: Still better than Richard.

Daniels slumps back against the barricade and doesn't have time to register his whereabouts before getting popped by a right hand from Dawkins. He gets another on the chin and is shoved away. Dawkins catches him with a kick to the back of the hamstring before reaching up and pulling The Biker down with a nasty bulldog across the steel stairs.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: The one place in the contest where we figured Daniels could regain an advantage is now where Dawkins is looking to continue his onslaught. He's not backing off Daniels.

Elvis: I know it goes against the creed of Daniels, but he might want to hightail it out of here. Dawkins got the jump and brother hasn't let up since.

Nick: It's not in the DNA of Daniels to give up or run away from a fight, unless he knows the circumstances are far beyond dire. I think he's going to stick this one out.

Elvis: He's possibly bankin' on Dawkins making a critical mistake. In the time I've observed, he's done that on more than one instance.

But Dawkins doesn't look to be in a botch mood tonight, winding off another knife edge chop to Daniels after pulling him up. He even goes so far as to pull The Biker into the ring by the hair and reach for a steel chair over by the timekeeper's table. He smacks his left hand into the seat and then rolls under the bottom rope.

Nick: Uh oh. Dawkins. This might be his one mistake. I don't think he ever had the intention of coming out here to wrestle Daniels, but more like give him a taste of what he gave-

WHACK!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

In the midst of that arena wide scream, the bell was heard and the match was officially ruled a disqualification victory for Christian Daniels. Although, Dawkins doesn't seem to care. He winds up and brings the chair down across Daniels a second time.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: This was never about the wrestling for Dawkins, even if Daniels came out here and dominated, he was going to resort to this eventually.

WHACK!

Elvis: Daniels is going to be the Hunchback of Notre Dame after Dawkins is through with him.

Nick: I've never seen someone take it straight to Christian Daniels like this. From the getgo, Dawkins was out to prove that he's back and back in a big capacity.

WHACK!

Nick: And he continues to light up the back of Christian Daniels with those vicious chair shots!

Elvis: Daniels ain't gonna be risin up either, baby.

Nick: It doesn't look like it at this rate, and with Shakur stuck in the back handling all the political hooplah, I don't think anybody is going to come out here and help Daniels.

Elvis: Might be the thing that'll bring him back down to Earth.

Dawkins moves the chair vertical and slams the top end of it into the ribs of Daniels, who lets out a loud groan and rolls back to his back. Dawkins observes the weakness, and doesn't let up. He walks around and delivers a pointed and accurate shot to the ribs again. Daniels grunts and groans, crawling on his arms and legs over toward the ropes. He's trying to book it out of here before he gets seriously injured.

Nick: And I want to know how this feels for a bully like Daniels to get beaten down in such a demeaning manner.

Elvis: Probably like he got blindsided in an alley fight.

A grazing shot to the back of the head impedes anymore of Daniels' movements. The Bruh violently slams the chair down and throws his arms up in the air, shouting "BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" at the top of his lungs.

"Song 2" blasts through the speakers while a few medical personnel reluctantly rush down the aisle to assist The Biker. Dawkins goes to a nearby turnbuckle and hops on the second rope, striking a hang loose gesture, getting the crowd even more pumped up.

Nick: Well, ladies and gentlemen, Bryan Dawkins has cemented his comeback and 240 is going to be remembered, amongst other things, as The Return of the Bruh. Daniels caught the wrong side of the Hawaiian's fury tonight, and he paid dearly for it.

Elvis: Guess he ain't like sittin' on them sidelines too much.

Nick: I'd say not, and as these medical people are trying to get Daniels out of here, we're going to take some time once again to advertise the Dual Halo. May 28th and May 29th, a two night spectacle. Culture Shock. It will be in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. Tickets are sold out as we are expecting perhaps the greatest collage of wrestlers to step foot inside two rings. You can damn sure bet if violence like this keeps up, both of these guys are going to be involved.

Elvis: And I'm being told right now we're gonna go to a sponsor break. Hopefully, it'll be a Taxicab Confessions preview. Man, I loves me some of that show.

The camera cuts to the backstage area where we see Matt Mills on the move. He seems eager for a scoop and is moving with pace.

Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I just spotted Katterina Wylde, and I’m currently in pursuit to get a few words with this newcomer.

He keeps moving, spotting the beautiful young woman known as The Dark Angel as she turns the corner. Mills follows around, only to find… nothing. She has completely disappeared, which if you know her you’ll realise this to be a common occurrence. Mills looks completely befuddled by her sudden disappearance.

Mills: Uh…I appear to have lost her. I’ll keep searching and when I find Katterina Wylde, I will send the word and maybe we’ll be able to have a few words with…

Katt: Boo!

Mills looks like he crapped his pants, which causes the arena to let out a collective chuckle. He turns around and finds himself eye to eye with an upside down Katterina Wylde, who is hanging upside down from a pipe. He eyes her up and down, he just can’t help himself, but she notices this, and leaps down from the pipe, which is remarkable because she is wearing a pair of high-heeled boots which barely come over her knee. Her outfit is completed by a black t-shirt which shows a little cleavage and also has the name "CASH" in plain white letters written across her ample chest (as in Johnny Cash, for the uninitiated), and a pair of tight black leather pants, which are tucked into the boots, causing Mills to sweat at the sight of her shapely thighs. Yes, the camera is slowly panning up her body too, giving the guys in the arena and at home a thrill. Katterina smiles sweetly as Mills stammers through his first question.

Mills: M-M-Miss W-W-Wylde…

Katterina opts to mock him.

Katt: Yes M-M-M-Mr. M-M-M-Mills?

Mills snaps out of it, regaining his composure. He’s a professional, after all.

Mills: First of all, welcome to PRIME.

Katt: Let’s start this again, clearly you’re not in the right frame of mind, so…

She grabs a long black leather coat as if from nowhere and quickly closed it up, hiding her cleavage from his gaze.

Katt: Okay, at ease soldier. (Giggles) You can ask your question.

Mills takes a deep breath and begins to speak.

Mills: Well Miss Wylde, to be frank, you haven’t had a very successful start to your career here in PRIME, losing to some top talent, and…

Katt: Okay, sugar bear… time for the serious tone to set in. Stand there, hold the mic, and try not to get a hard-on while you do it.

Katt stares a hole through him, a serious expression coming across her face.

Katt: You’re right, Matt. I haven’t had the best run of luck since I arrived in PRIME. That’s thanks in part to both the talent here being second to none and my own damn stupidity. Right now babe, you’re getting the nice Dark Angel. And frankly, that’s the one that’s been walking to the ring each of those times I have looked up at the lights in defeat. Before I arrived, I had not wrestled for five years, and I forgot to bring out that side of me that always, night in and night out, made everyone standing in the ring suffer the consequences of making the biggest mistake of their life. But maybe there’s that one motivator who can bring that side of me out. Maybe there’s that one opponent who I can stand across the ring from and have that side of me emerge once again.

Matt bravely cuts her off.

Matt: Jakob?

Katt: Jakob. Right. Good boy.

Matt: Can I ask… what is your history with this man?

Katt grows defensive.

Katt: I don’t want to go into specifics. I don’t want to bore everyone with a long story, so let’s just say. I made some mistakes in my life and I plan on never making those same mistakes again. Let’s just leave it at that.

Mills: But Katt, why did he demand you "come home", as he put it which our cameras…

Katt: Matt, I…

Without warning, Mills is dragged out of camera shot, and the cameraman drops his camera and runs, but it is a very sturdy camera indeed and does not break on impact. Katterina holds her ground as the camera see the legs of a man walking into view.

Katt: What do you want now, Jakob?

Jakob doesn’t respond. Her just grabs her by the throat with one hand, lifts her up, and slams her against the wall. Her legs dangle as she gasps for air. Jakob is heard chuckling as he literally has the Dark Angel at his mercy.

Jakob: See how easy it is, Katt? I could take you anytime I wanted. But I’d rather have some fun with you first before I took you back home to him. You need to properly understand your role in life… just like Mercy did.

Katterina defiantly musters up enough energy to spit in his face. He squeezes her throat tighter.

Jakob: Don’t test me…

He lets her go, Katt coughs and splutters as she slumps to her knees.

Jakob: Heh. Now that’s more like it. On your knees where you belong.

Jakob kneels down beside Katterina and gets right in her face as she looks up with rage burning in her eyes. He rises to his feet, and then buries a kick into her ribs before turning around and walking away, leaving her reeling. Mills comes out of the shadows where he ran off to and checks on her condition as the shenanigans backstage continue elsewhere.

After a long pause and for the first time this year, finally...

Janus... Eyesore...

The lights go down and the spotlight shines on the stage. The crowd is with baited breath, awaiting the long overdue explanation.

Nick: We haven't seen Nitz since King of Kings where he was dropped on his head by Violence Jack in the semi-final match in the tournament.

Elvis: I've been waiting for this one for quite a while.

The xylophone rings out with the intro to the song and the signs begin to make their appearance in the crowd.

"Why Nitz Why?"

"Nitz you f*ckin' traitor!"

Just to name a couple. The camera pans the rest of the audience, showing plenty more signs before settling on the stage just as the curtain parts. The the gleam of the gold over his shoulder reflects the spotlight back to the heavens and it's official... Nitz Donnelly is in Casablanca, Morocco.

Nick: Long time no see champ!

Elvis: Well, he's got a different appearance. He's not slapping fives. If he wasn't wearing sunglasses, he'd have a look that could melt metal.

Most of the people pray that the Man in Black doesn't speak the truth, so the cheers remain, followed by a chorus of boos from the faithless. Nitz observes the entire crowd, his arms crossed and his face somewhat devoid of all emotion. He shakes his head and makes his way down the ramp, holding his 5-Star Championship on his shoulder.

Nick: He does look different, but come on. You've seen this man party with the audience. Hell, he swam from a frickin' boat at Colossus and invited people from the crowd to hang with him on his yacht at the Fan Fest. How could he turn on the people who love him?

Elvis: Well, if I can channel my Richard for a second... Shakur pinched him, woke him up from the nightmare he was in and now The High Class Ass is right back where he should be.

Nick: Nightmare?! Yeah ok, a tag team title reign, a 5-Star Championship reign and a semi-finalist in the Jewel in the Crown is now a part of his resume and it's all been just a nightmare? Please...

The Ego, clad in a stunning leather jacket, a black collared shirt, a crisp new pair of jeans and a shiny pair of white shoes steps through the ropes and immediately scales the turnbuckle. He observes each and every individual in the audience from his perch before lifting the 5-Star title high above his head for all to see. He descends from the ropes and picks up the microphone left in the corner. He steps to the center of the ring and replaces the gold belt on his shoulder as the music begins to fade out. Cheers mixed with boos can be heard from the sold out crowd who are no doubt on the edge of their seats, wondering if The Halo's Hero has indeed turned to the dark side.

Elvis: Well he is wearing a lot of black. Man In Black... Nitz is wearing black...

Nick: You're really digging now. Just let the man speak.

The noise immediately dies down as Donnelly slowly raises the microphone to his lips. They part, but nothing comes out as the people get a tad bit impatient. He readjusts and tries again.

Nitz: I've never seen something like this before. All of you people...

His pause is filled with more and more boos. The once confident Ego is left wondering just what is happening as for the first time in a long time, he is rained down on by heat.

Nitz: As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, all of you people should be ASHAMED OF YOUR FUCKIN' SELVES!

And the flood gates are released. No longer is there a mixed reaction, the heat of 12,000 strong erupts like a time bomb. The broadcast table is quiet but Nick hangs his head in defeat as Elvis's face is nothing but a massive shit eating grin. The tide has definitely turned.

Nitz: Yeah you motherfuckers just give it up as I tell the story. You bet, Shaktown came to me in the medical room at King of Kings as I was being treated for a concussion and spoke to me. He talked about what I could be if I joined him. He preached like a sermon the advantages I would have should I take up the fight from his side of the fence. He talked about how far ahead I could be with such little effort and I have to say it felt empowering! It felt fuckin' fantastic to hear what kind of mega star I would be without barely lifting a finger. He told me about all of your people turning me into nothing but a puppet to do your will.

Crowd: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Elvis: Well, seems to me he's confirming what Shakur said.

Nick: …

Nitz: Everyone one of your should be ashamed. Yeah that's right, boo me til your little hearts are content.

And that they do. He is forced to drop the microphone away from his lips and mouth of more until the crowd relents. However they are not sure whether they want to hear another word from the mouth of the Ego.

Nitz: Pussies... it's incredible that after such a long time, you believed the lies and you believed the bullshit. How long has it been now that you've been fed line after line and you ate it up? It's been a fuckin' long time. So needless to say it shocks the shit out of me to see so many people...

The Ego breaks a smile finally as he paces in the ring and adjusts his sunglasses.

Nick: Wait a sec...

Nitz: ...after the amount of shit you've been fed actually BELIEVING the disgusting tripe exiting the big fuckin' mouth of Devin Shakur for the past. TWO. WEEKS!

Elvis: I say bidness is about to pick up.

The roof literally explodes off the Salle Mohamed V once the words sink in.

Nick: I KNEW IT!

Nitz: Yeah, Shakur comes out here and week after week since he's been around PRIME he feeds everyone an endless line of something that smells like it just exited his colon and you all chose to believe him this time?!

He smiles again and wags a finger in everyone's direction, the elated audience still jumping up and down in celebration that the man in charge has once again been lying.

Nitz: That, my fuckers, is why you should all be ashamed.

Nick: This is epic.

Elvis: Maybe not.

Nitz: But I forgive you. Sure all the stories he told were enticing, they would have been to anyone. But maybe it was the concussion that was preventing me from telling him how far to stick his offer up his ass when he came to talk to me in the medical room in December. But as I was sitting in Arizona being treated for PCS and I heard ReVolution from Paris I almost puked. Yet, I stayed silent. I wanted to see what everyone would make of this story of "Nitz joining Devin Shakur". Most importantly, I didn't say a single fuckin' word to Shaktown himself cause I wanted him to stew in the mess he made that he didn't know was there. I didn't reject his ass that night and he immediately assumed I was in like Flynn. Get this straight you sack sucking Emo... we've been friends before but you've changed since then. You should be home slammin' into the gorgeous ass of Sunny Girl but instead you insist on trying to slam it in the ass of everyone in the wrestling world wee after painful week. So now I'm castrating your jewels and saying enough is enough! The AWA? I'm fuckin' out... much like your cock sucking lapdog Christian Daniels should be from the closet that he's stuck so deep in he's finding vintage Star Wars figurines still in their original packaging.

Crowd: RRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Elvis: He's a dead man now.

Nick: As ill advised as that comment may have been, these people are loving every minute of it and he doesn't look one bit concerned himself.

Nitz: Assholes With Attitude... heh, more like Anal with Assholes. What a fuckin' joke...

The Devil is and has always been a gentleman.

Nick: Well, for the first time in a long time, I'm anxious to hear what Devin Shakur has to say. He's just been upstaged by Donnelly, and had his offer firmly rejected.

Elvis: I can't imagine the hound dog is gonna be too happy, baby. Nuh-uh.

Nick: You are far more pleasing than Richard.

Elvis: Thank you, thank you very much.

None of the lights shut off in the building. A stark contrast to the prototypical entrance of Shakur, who comes out with a microphone in hand and no Christian Daniels by his side. The last part isn't particularly surprising, but the fact he's not even cuing up his theme song is a sign that Shakur is far from happy with being rejected.

He brings the microphone up to his lips and looks at the smirk on Donnelly's face. Nothing could bring him down tonight after finally getting his piece.

Shakur: Oh Donnelly, Donnelly, Donnelly... You envy yourself at the moment, but I'd highly recommend wiping that smug look off your face and paying attention for a few moments if you can get it through that pea shaped head of yours.

Elvis: It looks like Shakur's already shaken off Donnelly's foul rejection.

Nick: He's probably crying on the inside.

Elvis: Sort of like when you lose to Disco Inferno in a dancing contest?

Shakur: What you told me in that room was true. You wanted to join the AWA. I know you did, and I thought you were good for your word, but if you want to go ahead and reject my offer, shove it back in my face, and then insult me and mine, go right ahead. It's going to be no skin off my back to see you go. Fact is, much like your words to these people are thin and full of shit, so were my words hyping you. You beat a fraud for that championship and for my money, the belt went from one walking STD to the other.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Elvis: That's no way to refer to Elise Ares. She was a foxy broad, lemme tell ya. This one time after a show, I saw her put her legs behind her head and then stick a -

Nick: Save it for when we cut to the back, Elv.

Elvis: Sorry, baby, sorry.

The Boss puts a hand over his jaw and paces back and forth on the stage.

Shakur: I gave you the chance to get on the greener grass and you decided to stay and rot. You decided rather than live in the biggest spotlight of your career that you'll take the second best. The hometown discount so you can be stuck out amongst the people. You'll be the hard working guy that gets yourself to the top and then in about five years, we'll see you and Bryan Dawkins doing surfboard music videos and sunscreen commercials.

Elvis: I did a couple of those during my waning years.

Nick: Of course you did.

Elvis: You know they wanted me to do the bear skin rug commercial instead of Burt Reynolds? True story, but I told them I was too good for it.

Nick: Might have revitalized your career.

Shakur continues, doing a bit of Hollywooding as they say in poker, selling and pretending to contemplate his next move even though its quite obvious he's already run this scenario through his head.

Shakur: But you know Donnelly, since you decided to turn this down, I've decided that I'm going to go ahead and issue a special stipulation for you at 242 and your title defense against Big Bear. I figure you are going to be a fan of this and at the same time, not. You definitely are going to compete at 242, regardless of whatever the doctor's have said about your concussion. Since you turned down my offer, I'm turning down the possibility of moving this match back. It is going to be you, Donnelly, against Big Bear... in a Ladder Match.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: A ladder match? Shakur just practically handed the title back to Donnelly!

Elvis: That was pretty stupid if I say so myself.

Nick: Donnelly is the king of high flying, a man who could utilize a ladder in ways most people couldn't even fathom and Shakur has said Donnelly is going to regret this? I fail to see how.

Well, almost as if Shakur can read minds, he's ready with the bad news of the night.

Shakur: You see, Donnelly, I said you would love such a stipulation, and I'm sure you do. Hell, it might even almost guarantee that you are going to keep the championship beyond 242...

And that is when the Hollywood act comes to an abrupt halt. Shakur stops dead in the middle of the stage, straightens his stance, and grins at Donnelly.

Shakur: Because, as of this moment, with the rejection you just gave me... I've now put you second on my shit list, right behind Alexandra Pierce. You want to know what that means, kid? Well, unfortunately, I'm not going to be the one to tell you... But I'll make sure that by the end of 241, you get the message loud and clear. Have fun celebrating with your people, Donnelly, it might be the last time you get a chance to do so after I'm finished with you.

"Black Hole Sun" screams through the speakers while Shakur backpedals through the curtain, smiling and pointing at Donnelly. The Ego takes a long stare at Shakur before giving a double bird and then posing on a near turnbuckle with his 5*Star Championship. The crowd pops huge for him and the song is eventually replaced by Eyesore.

Nick: Well, folks, Donnelly came out here and made a profound statement. He is not in the AWA, and has sternly told Shakur to stick it.

Elvis: I don't like it when Shakur is plotting.

Nick: And he says that from experience, folks. This man lost his job for 3 months because of Shakur.

Elvis: Not fun, not fun. I didn't get any babes, even though I played the "I Work with Tyler Rayne" card multiple times, baby.

Nick: But Shakur has said 241 could be the END of Nitz Donnelly, and said by night's end that the message is going to be loud and clear for The Ego. What does he mean by that?

Elvis: Only one way to find out, wait. Shakur loves to make people wait.

Nick: Indeed he does, Elvis, but Donnelly has never backed down from anything before and I don't expect him to do so this time, even if Shakur's record when it comes to executing plans is close to perfect.

Elvis: He's a brave man, but even the bravest sometimes face the wrong kind of music.

Nick: Well, we're going to take it backstage... somewhere.

Elvis: I love me some backstage carnage. Like one of those parties I used to attend back in the day.

Nick: OK, now get on with that Elise Ares bit.

Elvis: Well...

Camera-switch: backstage.

This is the main thoroughfare here at the arena at Salle Mohamed V, the main artery that cuts from the main bowl all the way to the back exit. There are several offshoots, rooms that have been transformed, now locker rooms and storage rooms. Even though we're thousands of miles from these wrestlers' homes and on a five-hour delay from the east coast of the United States, there are still some luxuries that can't be avoided.

Take, for instance, the water fountain.

"BRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHH!"

That cheer is not for the water fountain. It is, rather, for the man at the water fountain, the newly returned "Flyin' Hawaiian" Bryan Dawkins, fresh off his beating over the Biker, Christian Daniels. Hooray for Moroccan fans who know the proper cheers.

Dawkins is bent over the fountain, quenching his thirst from the steady stream of water.

He stands up, and he's not alone. The teenaged girl standing beside him – the one who appeared as if from nowhere, but, hey, she's got ninja in her bloodline – is named Quinn Gregory. You may remember from last week, when said Biker flung her sort of haphazardly into her very own birthday cake, or perhaps when she received her final birthday gift from her mother in the form of permission to spray mist at Tom Walczak.

But, hey, she's seventeen now. So there's that.

Quinn: Hey.

Bryan rises, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

Dawkins: Uh, hey. You're... Quinn, right?

She nods, mimicking her mother's most famous nervous gesture – the hair tucked behind the ear.

Quinn: That's me. Wow, I can't believe—I have a hard time imagining that you guys know my name.

Dawkins: Well, your mom's sort of well-known, bruh. Pays to know... y’know.

Quinn: "To know your enemy". That's what you were gonna say, right?

Like her mother, the younger Pierce has an inimitable talent for making people uncomfortable with her stare, and while the girl doesn't have those creepy, creepy gray eyes, she's got eyeglasses (new stylish, designer ones that make her look less hipster and more like the child of a famous person) to peer over.

Dawkins: It sounds a lot worse when you say it like that, bruh.

Quinn: In your defense, it is a lot worse when I say it like that. Quinn Gregory. But you already knew that.

She extends a hand, and he shakes it, gentle but not wimpy.

Dawkins: Bryan Dawkins.

Dawkins: You're not like other seventeen-year-old girls I've met.

Quinn: Have you met many seventeen-year-old girls? Because I haven't seen many hanging out around here.

Dawkins: I get letters, tons of ‘em. You should see them all. And people think the Beatles had fan mail issues…

Quinn: Totally different.

Dawkins: They dig that I'm shirtless a lot.

One dark eyebrow lifts, and, give her credit, she tries not to look.

Quinn: You're shirtless now.

Dawkins: Well, I did just wrestle a bruh.

The girl leans back against the wall, her arms folded.

Quinn: Which brings me to why I came to find you.

Dawkins: Figured there was a reason.

Quinn: Generally is. Listen, I know you didn't do it for me or, y'know... for my Mom. I gather you and Shakur have some... some history, but—

Bryan coughs out a chuckle that's a little bit of a snort.

Dawkins: Yeah, ya could put it that way, I guess.

Quinn: But... I'm not going to lie. It was pretty neat to see that guy get a little bit of what's coming to him. He broke my glasses.

She adjusts the new ones, fidgeting with the frames.

Dawkins: Hey, I’m feelin’ the new ones. But... I'm not one to talk.

Dawkins points to the aqua and orange tinted white-framed sunglasses affixed to his face.

Quinn: Hey, the 3D glasses are neat. Imagine how bummed you'd be if he broke them.

Dawkins: You don’t even know, bruh. He only got a little of what's coming.

Quinn: Only a little, sure. There's a lot more where that came from.

Dawkins: Ha, yeah, you’ve got that right. Still...

He smiles here, and it's one of those smiles that give you an idea of why the tween girls kind of love him.

Dawkins: Still, felt good.

Quinn: I bet. When Mom finally takes her shot, I hope you watch.

Dawkins: When is your Mom taking a shot? With her rep, I figured—

"Quinn Elisabeth Patricia Gregory!"

Quinn: Uh-oh.

She turns a lovely shade of pink, turning her head away. Bryan leans around to look.

Dawkins: No joke. Three names, bruh?

Quinn: Middle and confirmation.

Dawkins: This means you're in trouble, eh?

Quinn: Kiiiiiinda does.

The report of the elder Pierce's boot-heels announces her as much as the shout did. Momentarily, the angry Medusa doesn't even notice that Bryan is there.

Alexandra Pierce: Quinn – what did I tell you about running off?

Quinn: Uhm... don't?

Pierce: And yet what is it that I find you doing?

Quinn: I was... I mean, I was just—

Pierce: You were wandering off.

Quinn: I was just saying to Bryan here that we saw what he did with Daniels, and that it was cool and all.

Pierce: Yes, well—

She favors Dawkins with a small, slightly strained smile.

Pierce: Sorry about this.

Dawkins: Nah, it's cool. Quite a girl you've got there. She's fiercely protective, and smart. Nobody should have to put up with what they did in Italy last week.

Pierce: Sometimes she's too smart for her own good, I think. And... Christian and Devin will get theirs.

Quinn: When Mom? When are they going to "get theirs"?

The Spider blows a sigh out of her nose; it's the kind of sound someone makes when they've had this discussion several times before.

Pierce: Quinn, we've talked about this—

Quinn: And we'll keep talking about it until you make up your mind to do something about it. They threw me into my cake, Mom. I just—

The teen makes a sharp, growling sound, turning smartly and stalking down the hall. Her mother sighs, her left hand balling up in a fist. With her right fingers, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

Pierce: Sorry about that.

Dawkins: No, it's fine. I have... it must be hard.

Pierce: It can be. She's rebellious and she's cranky and she's nosy. We're a long way from home, and there's not exactly anyone for her to talk to around here. Sometimes I feel like a horrible mother for dragging her with me.

Suddenly, she looks back and up to Bryan, her eyebrows climbing.

Pierce: Sorry. I shouldn't... sorry. I'm—

Dawkins: I know who you are.

Pierce: Someday, I hope to find someone around here that doesn't.

Dawkins: Good luck with that.

Pierce: It's a dream of mine. Did I meet up with your expectations?

Dawkins: I expected more three or four syllable words, in all honesty.

That draws a touch of a smile to the GTT7 champion's lips.

Pierce: Well, I will endeavor to correct that.

Dawkins: There's one now. Listen, about Shakur—

She lifts a hand to forestall the rest of that sentence.

Pierce: I know what you're going to say.

Dawkins: I could have been about to tell you what color eyeliner he used to use.

Pierce: You could have. Were you?

Dawkins: Uh, no, not really. I just think that—

Pierce: I don't need your help, Mr. Dawkins. I don't need Matt Mills' help. I don't need Dametreyus or Lisa Tyler or Nick Stuart or the caterer to tell me how to handle Devin Shakur. I have seen people like Devin my entire adult life. I've lived with them. I've worked with them. Hell, I have had drinks with them.

She sighs, turns away briefly and then turns back, closer this time.

Pierce: I appreciate that all of you have had your problems with Devin and you all have opinions about how best to deal with him, but here's the problem: you have all failed. So I appreciate your candor. I appreciate you standing there politely while I reprimanded my daughter. But I will handle my business my way, and I'd very much appreciate it if all of the people in this place would just let me do it.

The Flyin' Hawaiian raises both hands, his easygoing smile returning.

Dawkins: Whoa, eeeeeeeeasy.

Pierce: Sorry.

She pinches her nose again.

Pierce: This is far more stressful than it should be.

Dawkins: It's cool. How many people have talked to you about this?

Pierce: A few.

Dawkins: Well... that spirit, that fire? That's what you need to beat Devin. That's what your daughter wants to see. That's what it'll take. You bring that to Devin, and you'll be fine. Believe me, used to hang around a few bruhs who knew all about how to take care of emo.

Pierce: Thank you.

Dawkins: And if you ever need a body or a pair of fists for something, you know where to find me.

Pierce: I do. And I should...

She gestures over her shoulder.

Pierce: I should get back. She'll be waiting.

Dawkins: Yeah. That's cool. Good luck tonight.

Pierce: Thanks. Good match with Daniels.

Dawkins: So you were watching.

Alex is already drifting down the hall. She calls back.

Pierce: I think you'll find, Mr. Dawkins, that I am watching everything everyone does everywhere.

Swoop in on the returned Hawaiian, one eyebrow coming up past his glasses. He shakes his head.

Cut away.

If there is one thing that Markus Culver knows how to do, it's dress well. When even dressing casual means he spent over two hundred dollars on a shirt, you know the guy is at least a closet metrosexual. So, the fact that he is standing next to a balding man with a horseshoe of hair surrounding the dull glare of his scalp, doesn't seem to be something he is enjoying at the moment.

Culver: I didn't fly you all the way to Morocco to drink yourself into a coma. You have a match in a few minutes and you smell like a damn brewery!

Belch can't describe the lion like roar that emanates from within the gut of the former GTT6 semifinalist.

Culver: By Hoyt, did you eat your dinner out of a trash can?

Culver does his best to wave away the stench, but it is stagnant and seems to hover over him like a rain cloud in a cartoon.

Culver: Why couldn't Caine find the Phantom Republic... Did you just scratch your armpit then sniff your fingers?

Sammy Brown, or what is left of him, makes a face as he inhales deeply with his fingers pressed near his nose.

Brown: Smells like liver n' onions... Just like my momma used to make.

Culver: You're disgusting.

Sammy lifts his head and stares up at the man that personally invited him to Morocco in the first place. The money is decent, and the possibility to make more is good enough reason to hop on a plane and work a match against some top talent guy looking for an easy win. Anything was better than fending off Carl for the last piece of moldy bread the Italian restaurant Sammy resided behind had thrown out for the evening.

Brown: Beggars can't be choosers, Mr. Culver.

Culver: Apparently not.

Markus feels the slight bit of bile begging to be released from within the confines of his throat.

Culver: It's too late to hose you down, but maybe one of the janitors has some Febreze.

Markus walks away from Sammy in search of anything that could help remove the disgusting smell of trash and rotten food that begins to permeate from the pores of Tony Gamble's challenger for the night. Last thing he needs is for Gamble to vomit in front of the crowd.

Sammy just sits there and starts to sniff his finger again.

An old school hip hop beat begins to play through the Public Announce System of the arena. While the music is new, the man that steps out from behind the curtain is someone very familiar. Wearing a grin the size of Texas, and an ego twice the size of Canada, Tony Gamble stands at the top of the ramp and stares out into the sea of fans chanting his name.

ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE!

## Life's got me mad
But if I had a midget I'd be glad
To watch him jump around on my nintendo powerpad
He'd have a big head short legs and long torso
The name that I give my pet midget is little Gordo
I'd teach him tricks like backflips and side kicks
When company came over he'd perform and get tips
While I'm eatin at night, in the kitchen he'd be able
To get the food scraps that I threw under the table
If my midget was ever bad and acted enraged
Then I'd take him to the bathroom and put him in his cage ##

Confident that he has soaked up enough of the crowd's cheers, The Grin marches proudly down the small portion of ramp. Up above his head on the Wal*tron, footage from Revolution 94 when Gamble locked The Illustrious Face Eater into his 'Smile For Me' submission and won the Internet Title plays.

## But If he kept acting up and really made me sick
I'd hang him upside down and poke him with a stick
Little Gordo would be good most of the time though
He'd like to wear a helmet and run around yelling Kaiyo
I'd take him for walks in the park on the weekends
And if he saw other midgets he'd say Can we be friends ##

Tony takes his time walking up the ring steps, staring into the ring for a few seconds with his left hand on the top rope, before ducking between the top and middle rope to step into the ring. The Wal*tron now shows footage from Revolution 106, where Gamble slams Kenjiro Ito face first into the mat with his 'Stop Laughing At Me' signature move.

## He'd only need a 3 foot coffin when he was dead
And he'd be in the guiness book for the world's biggest head
What a funny little fellow, but don't call him a shrimp
Or he'll attack your leg cause Gordos a tough gimp
He'd have a pogo ball that he'd bounce on for hours
And dirty little fathead Gordo would'nt take showers
When Halloween came, he wouldn't be a chump
Gettin all the candy goin round as a tree stump ##

Tony stands in the center of the ring, arms spread out toward the corners of the ring as he circles slowly. Another clip shows on the Wal*tron, this one from the Great American Nightmare; where Tony Gamble became the Five Star Champion by pinning Chandler Tsonda.

## Midget is a midget
Midget Mi-Mi-Mi-Mi-Midget
Midget is a midget
Hey you guys- Word
Midget is a midget
Midget Mi-Mi-Mi-Mi-Midget
Midget (wo-wo-wo-wo-word) is a midget
Like a midget in a urinal, I was gonna have to stay on my toes ##

Gamble drops his arms and starts bouncing from one foot to another like a boxer as he backpedals toward his corner.

DING! DING! DING!

Nick: Here we go, folks. Sammy Brown and Tony Gamble ready to hook it up in Casablanca, Morocco at ReVolution 240.

Elvis: Is it just me, or has Gamble gotten shorter?

Nick: I think it's just you.

Elvis: I think Richard has a lot of patience.

Max Newall is the ref and he signals for the bell. Gamble and Brown stare each other down for a little while and then tangle up in the middle of the ring. Gamble is the first one to get offensive, tying up Brown with a headlock. Brown struggles free from it and runs and bounces off the ropes, hitting Gamble with a shoulder to back him up against the ropes. Gamble bounces off the ropes and stumbles over his own feet to hit the mat hard and Brown drops down for a quick pin.

1!

Nick: Kickout by Gamble!

Elvis: What is it with little things being able to squirm their way out of things... Rats and roaches are the same way.

Nick: Did you just class Gamble with rats and roaches?

Elvis: They all see eye to eye.

Gamble gets up quickly and ties up with Brown again. Gamble spins around behind Brown and hits him with a German Suplex. Brown hits the mat and is slow to get back up. When he does, he is hit with a running clothesline from Gamble. Brown hits the mat and Gamble wastes no time dropping down for the pin.

1.

2.

Nick: Kickout by Brown!

Elvis: Which is funny, because I can picture him forgetting how to kick out in order to remember to brush his teeth.

Brown gets back up and looks at Gamble, who is flashing his trademark smile. Brown charges and knocks Gamble down with a forearm shot to the chest, then starts hitting him in the face repeatedly. Newall comes around and tells Brown to get off of Gamble and gets him off at the count of four. Brown picks up Gamble and connects with a belly-to-belly suplex. As Gamble falls down to the mat, Brown starts connecting with a flurry of kicks to the gut. Brown, satisfied, drops for the pin.

1.

2.

Th-

Nick: Kickout by Gamble!

Elvis: Does Gamble remind you of a ra... Crap, already used that joke. Give me a sec to think of another one.

Brown cannot believe it as he picks up Gamble and hits him with an Atomic Drop. Gamble hops around before flipping to the mat, then quickly gets back up to his feet. As Sammy comes back to take care of Gamble, Tony starts to kick down Brown with a thrust kick/heel kick combo. Brown gets knocked back all the way to the ropes as Tony hits a dropkick on Sammy's back, knocking him out of the ring. Gamble climbs out of the ring as Max starts the 10 count...

1!

2!

3!

Gamble hits Brown with a palm thrust, knocking him into the steel steps.

4!

5!

6!

Gamble picks up Sammy and throws him back into the ring and climbs back in himself. As Gamble prepares to finish off Brown, with a last bit of strength, Brown hits Gamble with a headbutt to the bridge of the nose! Gamble hits the mat like a sack of potatoes.

1!

2!

Thr-

Nick: GAMBLE KICKS OUT!

Elvis: It wasn't that exciting.

Nick: Are you watching the match?

Elvis: Yes, and I'm not acting like a preteen at a Justin Bieber concert.

Sammy cannot believe it as he tries to pick up Tony, but gets a punch to the gut by Gamble that doubles him over. Somehow, Gamble is mustering up strength to fight back. Tony is back on his feet and hits Brown with an elbow shot to the face. Sammy counters with one of his own. Counter by Gamble. One by Sammy. One by The Grin. Then another. Then one more! Tony Gamble is gaining control as he whips Sammy into the ropes. Tony drops down to flip Brown over him, but Sammy notices the telegraphed move as he bounced off the ropes and drives the point of his elbow into the back of Gamble's neck to drop him face first onto the mat. A kick to the back of the head before he dropped down to pin the old man.

1!

2!

3!

Newall signals for the bell, with Sammy Brown being the winner of this match.

Nick: What an impressive match between these two superstars. That match could have went either way.

Elvis: I'm surprised Sammy remembered what a three count was.

The camera focuses in on an abundance of cleavage, and it follows a clear line down to a tight black latex corset. Slender fingers with fire engine red long nails adjust the delicate breasts. Suddenly, tousles of red waves fall to the bust line, and the fingers comb through the ends.

The view continues to show a pair of latex black boy shorts and lengthy stems covered in black fishnet stockings. Heeled boots envelope the sensual female’s feet.

The focus draws back up to the face of the perpetrator. It is the infamous sex goddess Roxy Phoenix… and she has adapted a new but still familiar role, dominatrix. She assumes it expertly with as she slips over her head a latex mask with curved black devil horns and holes for eyes.

The shot slides down to reveal a table containing various sexual sundries. Cat o’nine tails with perky little spikes. A flogger with long rubber slivers. Ball gags ranging in various diameters and colors. Paddles, blindfolds, cuffs, ropes, dildos, and a multitude of other sensual implements are organized perfectly on the long table.

Roxy dons a wicked grin and selects a riding crop as her weapon of choice. In the background, one can hear squirms and muffled cries of struggle.

A giggle escapes her throat.

Roxy: Everyone’s been telling me that you have been real… naughty.

The dim lighting doesn’t show much but a man with a black cloak over his head. He is naked from head to toe, except for a pair of torn white briefs.

She swings her arm back, and the riding crop smacks the impending bottom clothed in white briefs. A passionate squeal follows.

Roxy: Now, now… I know that they’re not wrong.

She groans.

Roxy: I’ve seen you acting bad. So… very, mmm, very bad.

She has obviously had quite a bit of experience in this field. The actions and words come so fluidly.

Roxy deals a few more rounds with the riding crop, until she feels that her unknown victim has learned his lesson.

Roxy: Have you anything to say?

Muffled moans of joy are the only responses.

Roxy: You’re enjoying this a little too much, I think.

She gives a swift kick to his bum, and he falls to his face. Her black foot pins him down, and her hands grab the bit of rope. With some swift dexterity and precision, she hogties the man.

She pulls back on the rope, lifting up his torso. His face is still covered. Hers nuzzles the back of his neck. Her teeth sink into his ear through the cloak. He moans.

Roxy: I want to make you scream. Make you sweat. Break you down. I want you—

A small cell phone jingle breaks the passionate tension in the room. It continues to ring, and Roxy’s brown eyes dart around the room to find the source.

Roxy: You have got... to be fucking kidding me...

Roxy shakes of her head, and she pulls the phone out of the pair of jeans tossed on the floor. She looks at the screen and wickedly laughs. She punches a button.

Roxy: Hi there. Your son’s a bit tied up at the moment. Literally. In ropes.

She pauses toying with the bit of fabric at the top of the cloak.

Roxy: He’s actually paying me.

She pulls the phone away from her ear as though the woman is screaming into the receiver.

Roxy: No, he’s not being held hostage.

Roxy pokes the man’s head, and she giggles.

Roxy: You’re mom thinks I’m a hooker. How cute... I’ll bet your bank account wishes that I was that cheap.

The man shakes his head in total embarrassment. He groans with disappointment.

Roxy: Oh, no, let me put him on the line for you.

Roxy tugs him back with one quick jerk of the rope, and rips the black cloak off his head. It is Richard Parker, and there is a flush of red on his cheeks. She flicks his ear with a swift lick of her tongue, sucking on his lobe for a moment.

He pleasantly moans into the ball gag. She releases her grasp on his wrists, and his head crashes into the ground.

Roxy: Hey, Richie, next time you wanna have a little fun… make sure you tell Mommy so she’ll leave you alone.

Roxy Phoenix tosses the phone on the ground. It lands next to his face, and she crushes it underneath her stiff boot. She turns on a dime and stomps out of the room.

The camera zooms in on Richard Parker as he closes his eyes, filled with mortification. They fade to black as he attempts to shake his head in remorse.

Camera-switch: backstage.

The trouble with teenaged girls is that they like to snoop into other people's business. Take, for instance, the locker room we're currently in right now. The lights are off, and the occupant of the room is nowhere to be found. That doesn't mean the room is empty, but first, let's give the Moroccans a chance to cheer the name on the doorway. There are only a few names who'd generate an ovation just from a nameplate and she definitely qualifies.

It says, "TROY".

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

This is one of the unknown perks of being a hall-of-famer, apparently.

As we said, though, there is no sign of the Queen of the Ring. There is, however, a pale white beam of light from a flashlight, and these cameramen are paid to be snoopy, so let's snoop.

Inside the locker room of our reigning Intense Champion (which is actually hella sweet, yo), we find one person, a wee little Maglite clutched in her hand. As to the identity of this mystery woman, it's not hard to guess. Not only are there few dark-haired, bespectacled women around here, fewer still would wear a t-shirt with the atomic symbol for Adamantium on it and even less are seventeen years old.

Quinn Gregory: Okay, think. Where would she put something she doesn't want anyone else to see? Think, Q, think.

As "locker rooms" go, this is one designed for the Moroccan basketball team, so there's not a lot of locked doors and lots of comfy seats. Quinn pads to the most obviously used locker room, tugging a bag off the bottom shelf. That's when she finds the compartment beneath the locker with a small padlock on it, and that's when we learn that Quinn Gregory is an amateur locksmith.

Or at least we hope she's an amateur. Quinn drops to a knee, transferring the flashlight to her mouth. She slips her glass case out of her pocket and from there... well, it's lucky that she doesn't get her tools out before she hears Significant Noises from beyond the propped-up-so-she-could-hear-significant-noises door.

DAN RYAN (o/s): Maybe there's something getting lost in translation here, but why are we caring about the Silicone Mold again? And by "we," I mean "you."

LINDSAY TROY (o/s): Tracy's like the lost, dopey kitty that got pushed in the well by the big, mean, rapist-but-we-can't-prove-it. Someone needs to pull her out of the water and give her a shake.

Ryan (o/s): This coming from the person who may or may not have threatened to smash bags of kittens while angry.

We're sure PETA will now be on high alert, scanning any previous Lindsay Troy oratory piece to see if this is, in fact, true. The pair's footsteps walk right up to the slightly ajar door, which is thrown open with a mightily CRASH.

Troy's and Ryan's silhouetted figures appear in darkness only momentarily before the light switch is flicked on. The Queen of the Ring stands in front of the Ego Buster, one hand on the door and the other hovering near the light switch. Neither look particularly amused.

Troy: You know what I dislike more than cats, Dan?

Ryan: Men that live in North Carolina who own small, fakey dogs?

Troy: There's that. And snoops who are miniature representations of the Marquis.

Startled, the Devil's Daughter falls on her ass, and she's lucky she doesn't break her teeth on her flashlight. To her credit, she picks herself right up, pocketing her eyeglass case. To her... not-credit, there's this.

Quinn: I can totally explain. Okay, maybe not explain, but I can justify it. Or at least tell you why you suck for making me do this.

Troy: Isn't this amusing.

She moves further into the locker room while Dan attends to shutting the door.

Troy: I'd love to hear this reasoning, considering I'm not the one playing Veronica Mars in PRIME's Noir Theatre.

Quinn: Like, I get it. You're the queen bee around here, the person everyone wants to be. I don't really see it – though I have to give you props for the V-Mars reference – but I get it. And you don't like Mom because... well, I think we both know why that is and I'm just gonna skirt right past that.

The spectacularly erudite eyebrow of the Queen says it all—for now.

Quinn: But... she's trying. She's trying and maybe she'll fail, but you have to lead your little legion of... of guys with grudges and keep making this about what happened two years ago rather than what happened last week or the week before. And that's just... it's whatever. It's so very Troy.

Ryan: Maybe you were too busy with your nose in The Hunger Games two years ago to remember why people hate your mother.

Troy: Angie Brooks got put through a car. Tyler Rayne had to watch it unfold.

Ryan (chillingly, visibly tensing up): My daughter was used as a pawn, while at daycare.

Troy: It may make for a real warm redemption story for you and her, but some of us don't forget that easily.

Ryan: We also certainly don't forgive.

Troy: And perhaps this is beyond the scope of what your specs allows you to see, Quinn, but in case you haven't noticed, this "legion" of mine? Consists of the two people in this room, who are more than justified and right in the way we feel. Your mother made it perfectly clear that she's going to take the hard road on her path to rehab her image, which precisely no loyal PRIMEate is interested in. Yet, we all tolerate her presence. Most better than others.

The Queen pauses for a moment and chews on the inside of her lip. What she's about to say next may be quite unprecedented for her. Then again, attempting to lend a hand to Tracy would fall into that bucket as well.

Troy: I will say that, despite what I feel and how I feel, it's a tad intolerable what Emo Bun and his Traveling Fuckstick did last week.

Quinn: A tad? God, do you even... do you people even hear yourselves? Yeah, Mom screwed you over. Had your friend hurt and... and let Cozen do, y'know, Cozeny things. But that was two years ago. With all due respect, sir, do you think your daughter even remembers what happened? Or is it just kinda you? Whatever, not important, you're just going to keep being the nose-in-the-air We Remember Everything—

The capital letters are nearly audible.

Quinn: But I'm not here because of what happened two years ago. I'm here because someone's been leaving threatening notes for my mother, and Mr. Almasy said that you were—

Troy: Hold the phone. That little amoeba said what?

Quinn: He said you were the only possible suspect for the notes. So I figured, since Mom's in such a bad mood, I'd come find something that shows you're... well, I imagined some really bad words right here.

Troy: I may have played a mind game or two last year when I came back from my sabbatical, but I've already made it perfectly clear straight to your mother's face that I don't want her here.  Neither Dan nor myself need to scribble some notes on scrap paper to drive it home further. 

Ryan: (lost in a hard gaze at Quinn since mentioning his daughter a few moments earlier) You know what I was thinking just now?

Ryan takes a very purposeful step toward the teenager, his stare intense and unshakeable.

Ryan: I was just wondering why in the world I would tolerate a dumbshit little kid like you talking to me like I was your mom telling you to clean your room; like you can smart off and roll your eyes and I’ll be afraid to punish you because CPS might come and take me away..

Troy:  (putting a hand on Ryan’s shoulder)  Dan.. it’s okay.



Quinn: (keeping a wary eye on Ryan) Look, that's what I said, too. I just... it was dumb for me to think it, and I'm sorry, but I don't know what Mom's doing with... with Shakur, and I had to do something. I understand if you're mad, but I didn't take anything, I swear.

Troy: What your mother should be doing is keeping you as far away from those two as possible, even if it means you not being here. But I'm no parent so (her jaw clenches for a fleeting moment) what do I know.

Quinn: I'm here because... well, because. Just... whatever. You want to videotape yourself humiliating me? I'm not sure you'll be able to do more than they did. But I didn't mean anything by it, and I'm frankly tired of defending her to you. So what's it going to be?

Ryan: (eyes narrowing) Nobody's holding you here.

Gregory rocks up to her toes, peering past the abysmally tall pair.

Quinn: Oh. I thought you'd locked—you know, nevermind.

She took a broad step to the side.

Quinn: I really am sorry that I... I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually. But I'm just gonna...

She thumbs to the door.

Quinn: Gonna go. Maybe I shouldn't listen to people around here. Maybe I should ignore reputation and previous actions and not accuse people based on what they used to be.

Troy: I think that was a subtle reference to something, Dan. I just don't know what it was.

Quinn doesn't respond, trying to duck through the door quickly before they change their mind. Ryan, however, stops her with a very… very firm grip on her arm. Quinn looks down, realizing that until the angry Texan allows it, she’s not going anywhere.

Ryan: I want you to know… that when your mother involved my daughter, she waived her right to safe passage anywhere I am, at any time, for life. I consider it a crime with no statute of limitations, and considering you are HER daughter, I would make sure I was very careful around me… in the future. QUINN.



He lets go of her arm and Quinn bolts from the room.  Ryan watches the door close slowly behind the teenager, then turn his attention to his sister-in-law.  Troy is crouched over her bags, rooting around to see how much truth is in Quinn's promises.



Troy: Shockingly enough, the kid wasn't lying.

Ryan:  I hope she realizes I wasn’t lying either.

Troy:  Oh, I'm pretty sure everyone knows that wasn't lip service.

She rises to her feet, arms akimbo.  She stares at her bags for a moment, pondering something, before addressing Dan again.

Troy:  I'm torn.  On the one hand, having dealt with Shakur and Daniels for longer than most, I do feel badly that Quinn took a face-dive into her cake last week.  On the other hand, I'm don't think it'd be such a bad thing if Emo just...disposed of the mother hen.

Ryan:  Honestly, I'm over this Days of Our Lives bullshit. Eventually you just deliver a final decisive blow and be done with it.

Troy: In time, Dan.

She walks past him and shuts the door.

Troy: In time.

He hasn’t slept in days and the bags under his eyes are evidence of much more stress. His bloodshot eyes scan every inch of the arena as his large frame gingerly paces throughout the empty and eerily silent hallways. The noise and orderly chaos he has grown accustomed to is gone only to be replaced by maddening silence. He begins to sweat as panic grips his large body.

Hessian looks in every direction and quickly realizes he is very much alone. He continues his march through the halls, listening to his own heavy footsteps on the concrete. Every now and then he hears a second pair of footsteps behind him, these not as loud but every bit as sinister.

He turns but only finds an empty hallway laughing at his broken mind.

"The fuck" he mutters as he quickens his pace. Hessian suddenly stops and laughs to himself. He is jumping at nothing but conjecture and even if there is truth to the rumors, he has dealt with the man before and can do it again. Keeping a manufactured smile plastered on his face, he slows his pace until he hears footsteps drawing near behind him. The bravado he’s instilled in himself quickly vanishes as he once again quickens his pace.

No matter how hard he looks and how much he waits, he can't imagine a scenario where someone stalks him. Putting the blame on stress and an over reacting imagination, he takes a deep breath and finally finds himself in the midst of the catering area. There are lots of people around; lots of witnesses. With his mind at ease, he spots who he’s been looking for.

The small blonde sits alone at a back table twirling a banana back and forth in her slender fingers. She looks bored as she people watches.

Hessian: Seat taken?

Tracy shakes her head in disinterest. Angelus Von Kelsig isn’t exactly who she is looking for.

Hessian: What's wrong with your face?

Tracy: Well, you’re not exactly who I’ve been waiting for.

He frowns, maybe the rumors were true.

Hessian: You mean-

Tracy: It’s stupid right? I mean, he hasn’t been seen in months and all of a sudden someone spreads a baseless rumor and all I can do is sit and wait helplessly like the fat girl on prom night.

Hessian: So you haven’t...

The Murder Show glances nervously around.

Tracy: I wouldn’t be sitting here all alone if I had. What do you care anyway?

He lowers his voice.

Hessian: Goddamn you you know why. You'd do well to care as much as I do too.

Tracy: He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me; if he wanted to he would’ve by now. And don’t remind me what we did. I remember very well the day I ruined my life.

Hessian: It was supposed to be the day you got it back you silly bitch.

Tracy: Nice Hessian, very nice. You done or is there something else you want to get off your chest?

Hessian: No. Just don't forget any of it. Don't you dare forget anything of what happened. Or why.

She’s listening only half intently as her concentration is drawn to a dark shadow behind the Universal Champion. He notices her gaze wander and spins his head to see nothing but an empty space.

Hessian: What is it?

Tracy: Oh nothing.

She says as she smiles from ear to ear. She stands and pats the giant on the back.

Tracy: You take care now and watch your back. That title around your waist must draw a lot of unwanted attention.

With a renewed vigor in her step, she walks off humming a tune to herself. Goosebumps form on Hessian’s arms as he suddenly feels dirty. With a sigh, he looks down at his Universal Title to remind him what all the trouble is worth.

Christian Daniels refused treatment from any medical personnel after his match. He'd have to admit someone got the better of him for once. A man he helped torture into a cage against Devin Shakur at Colossus VI, and ultimately helped defeat in the actual match. Now, Dawkins came back, electrifi... Wait, I'm being told we'd have to pay for using that word... Started off 240 with a bang, and then lit Daniels up for a good six minutes before bringing a steel chair into play.

No one was more surprised at the surprise than The Devil in Black, who is now harboring Daniels inside his office. He's not exactly the best medical professional in the world, but he's had some training over the years and is trying to tend to his brother's wounds as best he can. He pads the back and then wraps four revolutions of tape around the middle of Daniels back, before slowly turning him around. He puts more padding across the forehead and hears a knock on the door.

Shakur: Piss off!

He turns back to his brother and wonders if there is anything else that can be done. Thinking on his feet, he goes over to the mini-refrigerator, crouches down, and grabs an ice pack and does his best Derrick Rose (MVP BABY) no-look pass to Daniels, who catches it and places the ice pack on top of his head. The door is tapped again.

Shakur: Who the fuck is it?

No response. Typical around here, people seldom show Shakur any formal respect when trying to get a moment of his time. Most feel as if they have a right to barge in whenever they please. A passing moment occurs whether Shakur wonders if he should answer the door or continue helping his brother. He opts to go for the latter, and just as he's about to prop Daniels feet up on pillows, a barrage of thumps and raps on the door infuriate Shakur enough to stand up, grit his teeth, and storm to the door. He swings it open and slams it shut behind him, standing out in the corridor before realizing who is in front of him.

Shakur: What in the blue fucking hell do you wa... Oh, wonderful.

A camera switch reveals that Shakur's nuisance is none other than Bryan Dawkins. The fans give him his standard reception.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins: EMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And within seconds, Shakur puts face to palm and smacks himself. He should have figured this meeting would come sooner or later, but after all the spotlight hogging Dawkins has done this evening, he figured it wouldn't happen until 241. So much for assumptions.

Shakur: Gee, another... superstar deciding that he can run the show just because of the morons that brought him up. What can I do for you? How's the little kid? Did you have enough pineapples in catering? Have you been able to get that peanut size brain of yours enlarged? Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?

The Bruh decides to remove his custom made sunglasses and puts them around the chain on his neck. He gives The Emo a glance, who is being protective of the door leading to his office. Dawkins notices and makes his next observation.

Dawkins: What'cha hidin' in there, bruh? You actually find a woman who would take enough money to get down with you? I thought the only one with those parts around here just got his…her? ass kicked a few minutes ago. Regardless, bruh, gotta put a sock on the door.

Shakur: Rayne teach you that back when you guys were on the road?

Dawkins: Standard college etiquette, bruh. Didn’t need Rayne—

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins: --to teach me that.

Shakur: We're not in college, Dawkins, we're in PRIME. The best wrestling organization in the world.

Dawkins: Where for the right amount of money they'll let any self-righteous douchebag become majority owner. Right, bruh?

Shakur: I'd be careful if I was you, bruh, the surprise has already worn off and the next time you decide to step in a ring, I'm going to make sure damn sure whoever your opponent is knows the exact extent of your neck injuries.

Dawkins: Go ahead and tell ‘em that. I might not be 100 percent, but you can't stop me from bringing these people what they truly want to see. PINEAPPLE ACTIONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dawkins flashes those "hang loose" hand gestures that the crowd loves oh so much.

Shakur: These are the same people who will cheer for anybody who hates me, regardless of who it is. Look at Matt Ward. The guy turned his back on the people and yet, he comes out and delivers a piece against me, saying how much he hates me, and everybody goes bonkers for him. All you have to do is hate me and you get over. That's how much of an impact I have in this business. You on the other hand, the best thing you ever got was me putting you on my back and carrying you to your biggest Colossus moment ever, breaking your neck. You were forever immortalized as being my bitch, Dawkins, and until you go out there and beat someone of worth, when you aren't ambushing him or her, then you won't be anything more than the fourth set of feet in the Tsonda, Rayne, Troy vehicle that is hellbent on trying to end me.

Dawkins: Wow, that was deep, bruh. Mind telling me next time when you are gonna write a book so I know when to take a cat nap? It's OK, bruhs and bruhettes, you can wake up now. Emo is done rambling.

A chuckle from the anti-Shakur contingent, which is basically the entire audience.

Dawkins: Sure, Emo, you got one over on me at Colossus, good job. Take a victory lap. I'll make sure the speaker guy plays your favorite Fall Out Boy song while you drape a flag with your face on it over your back. You earned that lap, bruh, but fact is ya knocked me out for a bit, but I’m baaaaaaaaaaack.

Dawkins flashes a Rayne-esque smile.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Shakur: People like you don't ever learn do they? I spared you in that cage, Dawkins. I could have not only ended your career, but I could have ended your life. I got a lot of flak in the back for it from Tyler because I took out one of her "promising up and coming superstars" and a man who was supposed to fill the void for Rayne and Tsonda if they ever decided to step down. Trust me, if you can't beat a perennial mid-carder like High Flyer, then you don't stand a chance in the world of becoming a top tier talent in this industry, no matter whose coattails you ride.

Dawkins stands asleep in place, again eliciting another roar from the audience. When he feels he's done, he sells the fact he was sleeping, rubbing his eyes and glancing around.

Dawkins: Oh, sorry, bruh, again, need that warning. How's Daniels doing? I think I clocked him with that chair so many times he should get a tattoo of my gorgeous mug to commemorate that ass whoopin'. I hear that’s what they do in prison. Get your ass beat, have your assailant’s mug tattoo’ed on ya. Just ask Jay Mariotti.

Shakur rolls his eyes.

Dawkins: Okay, so he didn’t go to jail. You got my point, bruh. And sooner or later, whether you like it or not bruh, we're gonna collide in that ring again. No matter how much ya hate it, you won't be walking out the victor.

A chuckle from Shakur.

Shakur: Wow, you really do prove that the mind is the first thing to go with age. You've been away from the business for quite a while Dawk, and I don't know if you've noticed it or not, but PRIME is changing. Changing for the better. We've got far tougher competitors than we've had in quite a while, and if you decide to keep giving me lip, then I'm going to make it my mission to put you through the ringer and have you face all of those individuals. How does a gauntlet of Violence Jack, Walczak, Almasy, and Hessian sound for the next time you step in the ring?

Dawkins: Bruh, you can stick me in there with anybody ya like and I'll give it my best. I might not beat all of 'em, but you won't ever break me or my spirit. Besides, since we're in the mood of gift giving, I've got a little present of my own I'd like to give you.

Shakur: I don't want a pineapple, Dawkins. Those things taste like piss.

A stern finger point from Dawkins, who gets right in Shakur's mug.

Dawkins: Look, BRUH, I can let a lot of things slide since I know your word is about as good as Charlie Sheen's, but you do NOT insult the pineapple.

Shakur: Why don't you go ahead and do something about it instead of trying to intimidate me. You know it'll do you no good.

Dawkins: Whatever, bruh, in fact now I know I'm going to give you what I was planning on giving you.

The Bruh reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a CD case. Shakur glances down at it and sees the title "Swiss Army Bro-Mance" which was done by New Found Glory and... you guessed it, Dashboard Confessional.

Shakur sighs and snatches it from Dawkins.

Dawkins: I even got Chris Carrabba to sign it for ya, bruh. Take a look on the inside.

Another sigh, but Shakur decides to open up the CD and look inside. Indeed, there is a folded note with Devin's name addressed on the front.

"Devin – Stop stalking us. No, we will not play a private concert at your house and cut our wrists for you."

A belly laugh from Dawkins, who takes the CD out of Shakur's hand and puts it back in his pocket. Shakur shakes his head, turns, and slams the door in Dawkins face.

Dawkins: Man, he has no idea how much trouble I went through to get that autographed. Ungrateful punk. Oh well, off to catering. Emo better have that place stocked.

The Bruh struts down to the catering area while Shakur slumps onto the nearest couch and puts his head in his hands.

Perhaps The Sentinel came into this match with a bit too much confidence and decided to underestimate The Polish Punisher, because he entered the match and tried to win with blind and outright aggression. Walczak, a man who has been put through the ringer in recent weeks, wasn't standing for any of it. He took hold of the much smaller Sentinel and planted him with a massive headbutt out of the gate. When Sentinel got to his feet, Walczak dropped him again with a hip toss and leg drop across the throat.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Elvis: That's worse than Roseanne sittin on ya baby.

Nick: I thought you only did 70s references.

Elvis: I can break the mole once in a while.

Walczak took the overly aggressive JITC semifinalist and slung him across the ring like a lawn dart before rushing over and splashing him, sucking all of the wind out of the masked up and comer. Walczak then mounted Sentinel and pummeled him with a plethora of rights and lefts. The Sentinel tried to cover up, but Walczak refused to stop the onslaught and even threw in a few elbows for good measure.

Nick: Tom Walczak is a man on a mission tonight. He's suffered consecutive losses to Alexandra Pierce and Seymour Almasy and something tells me he's sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Elvis: This is like a Nam ambush attack, Sentinel was definitely not expecting this.

Nick: Or one of your hits in the 70s?

Elvis: Don't push me, son. I'm still the greatest singer of all time.

The referee eventually forced Walczak off when Sentinel got his foot on the rope. Walczak wasn't deterred, giving the referee and Sentinel the respect they deserved, before grabbing Sentinel by the throat and holding him there, shaking him in the process. The referee again had to break the hold, which Walczak willingly obliged to once the count came up to 4.9. He then switched out and gave a fierce belly to belly suplex onto Sentinel.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: God, Walczak is displaying the full arsenal this evening, fans.

Elvis: It's like he was me before I realized how much shit I was going to get in after Watergate. I fucked as many whores and did as much blow as I possibly could. Man, you think Sheen is bad today? Oh no, son.

Nick: So then how did you die on the toilet and then again in 1994?

Elvis: I'm a cool cat baby, I got nine lives. You know Tupac and I are recording an album at the moment?

Walczak pulled Sentinel up with ease and grabbed hold of him, preventing him from moving away, and brought him to center ring where he lifted him up and took the wind out of his sails with a demeaning spinebuster. Sentinel looked to be out of it, but Walczak was not finished. He took hold of Sentinel once again and grabbed him around the waist, flipped him up, and brought him down in a nasty looking brainbuster, holding the gut instead of the head.

Nick: My God, that was crude, rude, and just downright ugly. Sentinel needs to kick it into gear and quick if he wants to get himself a chance in this match.

Elvis: Good luck on that one. Walczak's already back on him. Already back on him, momma.

Continuing from the theme of pick them up and then drop them back down, Walczak grabbed hold of Sentinel and snapped him off in a DDT. Sentinel turned over, and Bernie Roberts all but gave Walczak the look as if to say "go ahead and pin him" but Walczak refused. The Polish Punisher took hold of Sentinel one more time and grabbed him around the throat, hoisted him high, held him in the right arm and walked around the ring to display him for all to see, before planting him dead center with a chokeslam.

Nick: And that, as most Walczak historians know, is the set up. The Polish Powerbomb is on the way.

Indeed, Nick was speaking truth. Walczak reached down and took hold of Sentinel, stuffed the head between his legs, and threw him up with a powerbomb. Walczak held Sentinel on his shoulders a quick second to get optimal position on the downside, and dropped him with extreme force, almost shaking the ring with the impact. He covered and that was all she wrote.

Winner: Tom Walczak

Nick: Tom Walczak with, what can be only described, as a statement win here on ReVolution 240.

Elvis: He showed everybody that he is indeed a monster, baby.

Nick: Monster might be an understatement. For anybody doubting Walczak's abilities, he just showed everybody that he is not a joke, and that maybe he was just getting the ring rust off in the past two shows against Almasy and Pierce.

Elvis: Those aren't exactly the easiest of people to make your return against.

Nick: Another astute point. Walczak with a dominating performance, and if I'm being told correctly, you might want to go and gear up for your match, because I'm being informed Parker is on his way back down here.

Elvis: I'll be waiting in the ring baby, everybody should give him a rousing ovation for that performance, baby.

Nick: It was great to have you out here on commentary, Elvis. Hopefully you can do it again soon.

Elvis: Back at ya. Elvis... has left the desk.

The only portion of the show that doesn't feature violence or physical confrontation occurs when Richard Parker, dressed in a black "Pacquiao Vs Hatton" shirt and jeans (because it was the only outfit someone could find in his size on such short notice) walks down the ramp with his head held way down low in shame. He receives a standing ovation and howls of laughter from the capacity crowd, while Nick Stuart removes his headset, stands up, points, and gives a deep belly laugh at Parker.

A few of the male fans actually try to extend their hands out and give Parker some legitimate respect, but all he hears are waves of laughter. Finally, he decided to man up and put his money where his mouth was, but ended up getting owned by his own mother. He had the biggest chubby of his life and with one word from his mother's voice, it went down, and now he'll probably never engage in coitus (are we doing that theme game again where we have to use specific words, Ward?) again.

Nick has fallen to his knees in uproarious laughter while Parker dejectedly makes his way around ringside. Richard hears everything from "nice undies, fat ass" to "Mama's boy" which eventually grows into a building wide chant.

MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY!

Richard mutters a few words under his breath and then takes a moment to avoid the ringside steps. Elvis Nixon gives him a round of applause and the famous Eric Estrada point. But even he, the perpetual ladies man, cannot contain his laughter and ends up doubled over, almost flipping out of the ring and landing ass up.

Richard reluctantly plops down into his seat and throws on his headset before slamming his fists into the table and looking over at Nick, who is still down and pointing at him. He kicks at the table, shoves the laptop off, and mouths at his broadcast colleague. This is the greatest moment of Nick Stuart's life and he'll be damned if he is going to have some fat guy threatening him take it away.

Richard: Good evening you bunch of fucking pussies, I'm Richard Parker. Let's get this part of the show over with and move on with our daily lives. What you saw... Was what you saw. Yeah, I fucking got embarrassed...

MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY!

Richard: GROW UP YOU FUCKERS! I GOT CLOSER TO ROXY THAN YOU EVER WILL!

MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY!

Another frustrated kick from Parker while Stuart somehow manages up the courage to get back into his seat and put the headset on. He's now downgraded to a case of the laughing fits, trying to muster up an ability to speak coherently.

Richard: Go ahead, get it all out of your system now, because one day, with all the fucking technology we've got and the way our economy is growing in that department, I'm going to have even worse shit on you, my friend.

Nick: I... De... Man... Wow, you are a fucking idiot.

Richard: I put my money where my mouth was, Nick. I proved that I could go in there and hang with Roxy, and dammit... FUCK YOU, MOM! YOU RUINED MY LIFE ALL THROUGHOUT CHILDHOOD AND NOW YOU ARE TRYING TO RUIN ME AGAIN! WHY ARE YOU WATCHING THIS? HOW DID YOU EVEN GET HBO? I DIDN'T ORDER IT FOR YOU!

Speechless. Nick Stuart is speechless, but for the sake of professionalism and continuity, he tries to talk.

Nick: I'm... I... I'm down.

Another removal of the headset and laughter at Parker.

MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY! MAMMA'S BOY!

He points and laughs at Parker with his right index finger while pounding the table with his left fist. Parker sighs and stuffs his head down into the table.

Camera-switch: Backstage.

They call this the "gorilla position". It's the part of the arena that the wrestlers wait in for the first thunderous chord of their entrance music to blare before they race up the steps. It's narrow and cramped, and right under a lot of speakers, so it can be loud.

It can also be kind of awkward. Witness: Seymour Almasy comes around the bend to wait at the bottom of the steps, only to get a view of his opponent in just a few moments that very few – we mean very few – people have gotten. Pierce has a grip on the scaffolding that they build the PRIME*View out of, and she's done a pull-up, toes pointed in the pike position. The angle and the flexibility of the Spider put the Dynast-King face-to-posterior with his opponent.

Seymour stops and he stares, but only for a moment before he clears his throat.

Almasy: This isn't precisely how I envision my opponents.

Alex drops from the girder, turning to face the former champion of everything.

Pierce: I would hope not.

Almasy: I would wish you good luck, but... well.

Pierce: I'd be surprised if you did, honestly. You don't seem the type.

His brow lifts, smile widening. It's the picture of amusement.

Almasy: Oh? And what type do I seem?

Pierce: The type who's looking for that last taste of fame. A man past his time who will do anything – say anything – to return to that spot at the top of the mountain. A sad old man forever running with retirement on your heels.

Seymour steps backwards, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Almasy: I see. Well, if I may, you are a monster aping humanity, going through the motions of what you imagine heroism is, forever one step away from going back to the way things used to be. Eventually, you'll slip up and you'll disappoint your lovely daughter and that woman you love whose name we're not supposed to say.

Pierce: Fair enough. I trust tonight is about making a statement about what you will do to Lindsay for the Intense Title?

Almasy: Only if you admit tonight is about venting your frustration at what Devin has done to you and Quinn these last couple weeks.

Pierce: Perhaps we both have reasons to prove ourselves.

Almasy: We do. That doesn't mean we won't be able to have a fair, equitable contest, does it?

Her chuckle is quiet and kind of dry.

Pierce: Do you take me for a fool?

Almasy: No more than you take me for.

Pierce: I do my research, Seymour. You haven't precisely proven yourself to be an on-the-level competitor.

Almasy: You jumped a security guard before the bell, and your win over Walczak came when your daughter spat mist in the man's face.

Pierce: It was her birthday gift.

Almasy: Be that as it may. I do wish you luck, Alexandra, if only so far. The better you look, the more impressive my win will be.

"Okay, so you need to—"

Enter Quinn Gregory herself; the Devil's Daughter bears a squirt bottle and a short smile.

Quinn: Are you yelling at someone again?

Pierce: No, I'm—

Almasy: She's been quite polite, Miss Gregory. I'm sorry your search tonight proved fruitless.

Quinn: Whatever, dude.

She hands the bottle to her mother, continuing past to duck past the stairs to the elevator contraption that will raise them up into the arena.

Pierce: I couldn't have put it more succinctly myself. Good luck, Seymour – oh, and if you ever manipulate my child to point her at one of your enemies again, I will see you leave the arena in the back of an ambulance.

She follows the girl, Almasy's response at her back.

Almasy: Your threats would carry more weight if you already hadn't proven yourself unwilling to follow through on them. And they were a good deal more threatening when you had an endless army behind you. Now you're just one woman, Alexandra. Be careful when you're playing with the big boys.

Alex calls over her shoulder.

Pierce: I will... when I'm playing with the big boys.

The Spider joins her daughter on the elevator. Almasy goes partway up the steps, his jaw set and his eyes focused ahead.

It is at that point that Seymour’s erstwhile comrade at arms, one Allen Brown appears, at the top of the steps, clutching a mug of coffee in his hands.

Almasy: So, Allen, you’re going to help me tonight against that crazy redheaded nutjob, right?

Even visored, one can see the Codemaster’s mental wheels turning in search of a good excuse.

Codemaster: Ha…! Sorry, no can do, I’ve got a raid in fifteen minutes. Can’t go on without me backstabbing, you understand. Good luck against Desade tonight.

With that, the Breaker of Kingdom Hearts is off to backstab some raid bosses.

Almasy: Wait a minute, we’re in the same guild! We don’t raid until Friday…

At that moment, Seymour realizes that he’s going to have to deal with the Desade problem alone.

Cut away.

The Devil in Black has still got a ton of business left before the night concludes on what has already been a groundbreaking ReVolution. However, he always takes time to soak matches in and gain knowledge about his wrestlers. He'll definitely make the time of day to plop down on the couch and study a match between his newest investment, Seymour Almasy, and hated rival, Alexandra Pierce, in what is being described as a show stealer and barnburner by those previewing the card.

Christian Daniels is curled into a ball on the other couch, quietly reading Card Player magazine (for the next time he and Matt Mills run into one another in Las Vegas) and an article about pot-limit omaha and its pitfalls when a hand raps against the door. Daniels perks up, a hand on his back, while he dog-ears the page he was on and gingerly walks over. Another thump causes Daniels to bark in frustration.

Daniels: Hold yer damn horses ya (whispering) fuckin' shitbag.

Grabbing the lever, Daniels swings open the door and is prepared to clock anybody but the pizza delivery guy, who would for once be there in under 30 minutes with his delivery.

Well, there's one other guy he wouldn't clock, but only because he's got a meeting with Daniels other half.

Standing before The Biker is a man that was advertised to appear this evening on 239, the reigning and defending Dual Halo champion, Vangelus Olsig.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Daniels: Make't quick, son, we got more important matters'ta tend'ta.

Olsig, looking flawless in an suede black designer suit, brushes Daniels off and struts into Shakur's office, looking around at the accommodations. They are far greater than any those in the general locker room receive, even Olsig himself during his days as Universal Champion in his own private dressing room.

Olsig: More important matters you ogre? I assure you not. History and a comfortable little slot in the Hall of Fame says that very few are more important than I.

Daniels: Keep insultin me'n I'll turn ya'nto'n ogre.

Olsig: Where is Shakur? I practically laid the bricks for this place and I have an appointment to discuss my future here with him.

A roll of the eyes and point of the finger to the other couch shows Olsig to where Shakur is rising. He walks over to his desk, hands stuffed in pockets, and sits down behind his mahogany fortress. Olsig snidely looks at The Devil in Black and scoffs.

Olsig: I should have known you would be low budget, Shakur. Not even a red carpet welcome, a shake of my magnificent hand, or a proper bow as a sign of respect. Things were so much classier under Hin See's rule.

Daniels: I'll make tha' carpet red fer ya'f ya want.

Olsig: And would you silence the mutt over there, otherwise this meeting is adjourned and I'll be on my way.

Shakur: Watch a video or something CD, this won't take more than a few minutes.

A growl toward Olsig before Daniels drops to the couch and continues his reading, also putting in his custom black noise canceling headphones.

With a hand gesture, Shakur encourages Olsig to sit. The Prince of Delusion glances down at the chair observantly and meticulously, ensuring it is safe enough for him to sit in.

Shakur: I can assure you the chair is plush, comfortable, and Tyler Rayne hasn't been in it recently so any possibility of catching an STD is out of the question.

Olsig's own specifications seem to have been met and he slowly drops himself in, crossing his legs, lifting a hand to his chin and glancing across the desk at Shakur.

Shakur: It's good that you actually showed up. I was afraid you wouldn't.

Olsig: My word is oath, Shakur.

Shakur: As is mine -

Olsig: Debatable.

Shakur: We've both got something the other one wants so I'm going to skip all the formalities of where have you been, why did you leave the last time, and what not. I'll cut right to the chase.

Olsig: There isn't anything you have that I am interested in, or can't obtain with my own good looks and charm.

Shakur: Actually, I can disagree with that twofold. One, I've got the opportunity for you to become the biggest star in PRIME -

Olsig: You're a couple of title wins late for that.

Shakur: And two, someone very near and dear to me has something you might be interested in.

Olsig: You can't be speaking of the Universal Championship, since your playboy no longer has that. Speaking of such, what was the deal with that? Why would you elect someone so amateurish and so juvenile over someone with such debonair and panache such as myself?

Shakur: To be frank, you were a pain in the balls at that particular time and I would rather have had you opening the curtain and setting up the ring rather than representing my company as the top dog.

Olsig: Greatness is often misjudged, a fact all champions at some point come to accept. Something you and I would both know about. I'm always condescending to those beneath me, Shakur, another commonality between the two of us.

Shakur: And you aren't being at the moment are you? Because I could just as easily kick you out with someone who is very eager to do the same to you, physically.

Olsig: I also know of a few outside endeavors I could partake in. My phone has been constantly ringing ever since my departure, and I am quite certain one federation would gladly embrace my services in a heartbeat. GCW. I hear Karina Wolfenden has set up shop over there. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't she a PRIME Hall of Famer as well? Two of PRIME's greatest, putting on showcases for a company that's not PRIME. That wouldn't be a very good look, now would it?

The letters infuriate Shakur to the very core. He's lost business to them before and in the battle of supremacy, he would hate to lose a Hall of Famer so close to Culture Shock and the Dual Halo.

Shakur: Stop with the song and dance, Olsig. You wouldn't be in my office if you didn't think I had something or this meeting would be worthwhile to you at some point down the road.

He's also quite astute at cutting through verbal red tape. Olsig straightens his posture and his facial expression just the same.

Olsig: What do you want, Shakur?

Shakur: I want two things out of you: Your name on a contract -

Olsig: The money and accommodations would have to be right, but I could possibly see that.

Shakur: I'm richer than Turner in his PRIME, kid. Just don't jack it up to A-Rod money and you've got a deal on that.

Olsig: Then I'll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork and something ought to be finalized by week's end.

Shakur: Second, I want you to take out Lindsay Troy.

The name Lindsay Troy causes an unsettling camera shift, one that has been familiar all evening. A man is watching through Shakur's second door in the back of the room. One that has been destroyed more times than not, and has a few holes available for viewing and listening. Heavy breathing is heard, and the menacing eyes are seen, but no face can be matched to either.

Olsig: Why do you want me to take out such an infernal piece of human waste like that?

Shakur: Two reasons: One, she's about to come close to breaking your Intense Championship streak, and something tells me you hold all records and rewards near and dear to your heart. They are a representation of your legacy in the business.

A reluctant nod from Olsig.

Olsig: 361 days, Shakur. That's how long I held the Intense Championship, channeling my extraordinary prowess to cement it as one of the most covenant honors in this company. She hasn't even closed in on 180 full days yet. That totals up to Half the length and none of the skill.

Shakur: All the more reason to nip this in the bud now. If Almasy fails at 242, she's got nothing standing between her and the second highest reign in the company. If she gets by you, the board has already told me I can't institute a 24/7 rule on another champion, and that I have to be fair with my title defenses. I figure why not have a champion capable of taking her out possibly waiting at the end of the road for her?

Olsig: That was '06. I moved on to bigger and better things since then.

Shakur: So you want Lindsay Troy, a woman who is the antithesis of Intense, to hold a record you've held, and will more than likely hold, until the federation's conclusion? The second longest of any Championship reign in the federation's history? Is that what you want?

Shakur is starting to think three or four moves ahead of Olsig now, bringing about legacy and further driving the point home. With a loud sigh, Olsig responds.

Olsig: That certainly would be an insult to all the blood, sweat, and tears I poured into that division. I personified the very essence of that belt. I hung a man from a noose to secure it. I crippled Emilio Rage to defend it. I nearly got ReVolution kicked off of FX during my cage match with Kyle Lamen. I personified that belt and turned the division into the most revered in the company.

Shakur: And second, she has been a thorn in my side ever since I can remember. Ever since I was on my way up. She's stood in my way every single time I've tried to accomplish or achieve total dominance. If someone was to take her out, permanently, or embarrass her enough to keep her out of my hair for a good six to seven months, they'll be handsomely rewarded.

Olsig: In what capacity?

Shakur: You know damn well what capacity I'm speaking of. A shot at the big time. A shot at ultimate glory. You'd be moved up to the discussion for the Universal Championship. Guaranteed. I know you aren't below that, the best championship, bar none, in the entire world of wrestling.

Olsig: And all I would have to do is take out Troy?

Shakur: In the Worst. Way. Possible. I'm giving you license to do whatever it takes if you sign on the dotted line and then make sure that bitch stays out of my way long enough to deal with my other problems.

Another long pause by Olsig. He's technically due a rematch at the Universal Championship, but odds are unless he fulfilled the request of Shakur, The Devil in Black would look the other way or bring about some political clause stating how his departure nullified such a privilege. He's also got a 5*Star Championship match as per his Dual Halo request, but the same concept could apply in that instance. He also feels that he is far better than Troy in every aspect, and could easily wipe the floor with her if need be.

Olsig: Actually, the more I think about it, the more it stimulates my savage nature; taking out Lindsay Troy. I like it. It sounds... fun.

Olsig grins menacingly.

Olsig: You've got a deal. But you better keep your end of the deal, or the fun I'll have taking out Troy will seem like a Monday morning statistics lecture compared to what I'll do to you. Savvy?

Shakur: You do your job and you'll be made, Olsig.

Olsig: By any means necessary?

Shakur: Do your worst. She deserves it.

Olsig: Then I guess I've got no other alternative do I?

Shakur: I'd hope not. Nobody else around here can strap the kind of rocket to your back that I'm offering.

Olsig: You've got your man, Shakur. The contract for my return to PRIME has just been signed with Lindsay Troy's blood.

Shakur: Marvelous.

And the deal is sealed with a handshake. Shakur and Olsig keep the grip on for a few seconds, before both standing up and walking toward the exit. Shakur opens the door for Olsig and shows him out, before shutting the door and turning back to Daniels, who lifts up his left earphone.

Daniels: Deal done?

Shakur: It's done.

Daniels: What'cha gonna do next?

Shakur: Handle Donnelly.

Daniels: Same way ya did err er different?

Shakur: Same. I'll save the physicality for next week.

Daniels: I'll hang back en.

Shakur: Do that. I'm going to take note of this match and then go find my guy to dispose of that egomaniac. Get ready for later.

Richard: If I didn’t know better, I’d say Devin Shakur really didn’t like Seymour Almasy very much, because the run he’s been on is absolutely and utterly brutal.

Nick: Tom Walczak in his debut. Violence Jack last week. Alexandra Pierce tonight, and we already know that he’s going to be challenging the Queen of the Ring, Lindsay Troy, for her Intense Championship in two weeks on ReVolution 242. Even assuming he gets the night off at 241, I don’t know if anyone in PRIME history’s had to go through that sort of competition in four matches.

Nick: Alexandra Pierce is the GTT7 Champion. She’s also quicker than lightning and can fly around the ring like nobody’s business. Seymour Almasy has, historically, had a very difficult time with opponents who possess Miss Pierce’s skill set.

Richard: That’s all in the past, Richard. Seymour’s not living off his past laurels –

Nick: Doesn’t he call himself the best wrestler in PTC, like, all the time? You know, considering PTC doesn’t exist anymore…

Richard: A mere triviata! Regardless, Almasy’s upped his game since coming to PRIME. He takes fewer chances. He’s got the skills he needs to grind Alexandra Pierce into dust. And I, for one, hope he does it.

Nick: For both of these competitors, a win here has to boost them to near the tippy-top of the PRIME rankings. Almasy winning this would mean he beat both the Jewel in the Crown AND the runner-up to that title in back to back weeks, which even I have to admit, is absolutely insane if he can pull it off.

Richard: Let’s give this one to Vince. Sometimes, I really love my job even more than usual.

Camera-switch: Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: This contest is scheduled for one fall with a twenty-minute time limit! The man in charge of the action is referee Bernie Roberts!

This Moroccan crowd is so chipper tonight that they give a nice ovation to the referee.

Vince Howard: And now, the participants!

Howard: This contest is scheduled for one fall, with a twenty minute time limit! Introducing first!

The building fades to black.

And then, perhaps the most distinctive opening to a theme in Primetime Central’s ten year history. It’s a small handful of chords that herald the arrival of a man who, for better or worse, was synonymous with the now deceased inter-promotion.

*dum-dum DUMMMMMMMM!*
Dum-dum DUMMMMMMMMM!*

Xavier Kannon has "Rock is Dead." Angelo Deville has "Sympathy for the Devil." Rich Rollins has "Born of a Broken Man."

And, well, Seymour Almasy has "Otherworld."

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Howard: He stands five feet, seven inches tall! He weighs in tonight at one-hundred seventy-eight pounds!

Go now, if you want it
An otherworld awaits you
Don't you give up on it
You bite the hand that feeds you

The PRIME*View lights up as Mr. Howard begins his introduction to reveal a sight that many PRIMEates never thought they’d see: the image of Seymour Almasy taking on opponents from all over the wrestling world. Sharp-eyed fans can spot his PTC battles with luminaries such as Karina Wolfenden, Kimbusa, and the Back Alley Brawler. Now that he’s faced Tom Walczak, hey, we’ve got some actual PRIME clips for you!

Even with his video playing on the PRIME*View, though, there is no movement on the rampway. The lights remain out. Back in the ring, Vince Howard looks down at his cue card, and sighs. Really, they don’t pay him enough money to deal with people like Seymour, sometimes.

Howard: He REMAINS undefeated in PRIME, and considers himself, not his opponent, to be the Best Wrestler in the World!

Richard: 2-0, baby! Every week, you’ll have less to say about it!

Nick: If he’s able to go to 3-0 tonight, I might stop giving him grief about it.

Richard: If he’s able to go to 3-0 we should just give him the Universal Championship and be done with it.

All alone, cold fields you wander
Memories of it cloud your sight
Fills your dreams, disturbs your slumber
Lost your way--a fallen knight

Perhaps appropriately, it is only once his ego is stroked that Seymour Almasy himself is there, poised on top of the stage when the lights return. He stands with little fanfare, his long, platinum hair falling down to mid-shoulders, both arms raised triumphantly before the contest has even begun. He looks as readily dressed for a rave as for combat, a pair of tight black leather pants clinging to his body, the black wrestling boots the only concession to the fact that he is here to compete.

Howard: He is the ONLY former three-time PTC Global Champion! Ladies and gentlemen, THE DYNAST-KING, SEEEEEEEEEEEY-MOUR ALLLLLMAASYYY!

His walk down the aisle is purposeful, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Almasy seems nonplussed by the return to a negative reaction.

Nick: The crowd back to booing Seymour tonight.

Richard: Yeah, I don't know. Why do we cheer a witch?

Nick: Because she's the best wrestler in the world?

Richard: That's what she said!

Nick: That... is fitting, actually.

Once Seymour finally arrives at the ring, he slides under the bottom rope in one quick movement, and is on his feet in a neutral corner in the blink of an eye. Tonight, he’s noticeably nervous in spite of all of his rhetoric, and he remains in his corner, casting a wary eye towards the entrance ramp.

Nick: Seymour Almasy does not look happy, ladies and gentlemen.

Richard: He’s been thrown into the fires of this company with as rude an initiation as anyone I’ve ever seen, Nick. Tom Walczak one week, our Jewel in the Crown the next, and the GTT champion the week after.

Our rakishly handsome ring announcer stands in the middle of our ring, letting the anticipation build.

Vince Howard: And his opponent!

The lights dim as a soft, twinkling keyboard lead-in builds to "Prelude 12/21" by AFI.

This is what I brought you
This you can keep
This is what I brought
You may forget me

Above the entranceway, the PRIME*View lights up with time-lapsed footage of a thundercloud rolling across the sky. The clouds get darker and darker... and we zoom out of Alexandra Pierce's signature thunderhead gaze, just two eyes looming in the black.

I promise to depart
Just promise one thing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep

Her name is scrawled across the screen in red like blood, six letters that have proven to be more than enough in her career.

Vince Howard: From Tampa, Florida and residing in Oakland, California!

Richard: What, she’s not from Paris this week?

Nick: Part of this country was French occupied. Good call on her part.

D E S A D E

As the music kicks in, the lights all bloom to life at once, a small elevator to the side of the stage lifting a pair of figures up from below.

Vince Howard: Accompanied to the ring tonight by the Devil’s Daughter, Quinn Gregory!

This is what I brought you
This you can keep
This is what I brought
You may forget me

The lights flicker with the beat of the song, and our two figures are illuminated from below. Alexandra Pierce is not the most attractive woman in the sport – she does not, for example, have an ass that sears corneas – but she may well be the most striking. Her singlet is snow white, with a blood-red templar's cross cutout across the front. Her rust red hair is wet and hangs in over her eyes, but that gaze is visible, glare focused dead on the camera.

Her daughter, one Quinn Gregory, is dressed as usual for her, right down to the Adamantium atomic symbol shirt from earlier.

Vince Howard: She is the former Sin City Championship Wrestling LiveWire, Gateway, and Strength in Numbers Champion! She is the GTT7 Champion! The Spider in the Web! The QUEEEEEN of Lies!

Seymour Almasy paces back and forth in the ring, prowling the squared circle like a trapped animal. He cracks his knuckles as he watches perhaps the Best Wrestler In The World make her way to the ring, listening to Howard complete the introduction.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, this is Alexandra Pierce – DEEEEEEEEEEEEE-SAAAHHHHHD!

I promise you my heart
Just promise to sing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep

Pierce makes her way down to the ring, eyes on the ring, like a phantom. She rubs one hand along the tape binding the other.

Richard: Almasy is wearing grooves in the ring, looking at her. I don’t think his eyes have left Alexandra Pierce since she made her appearance.

Nick: Maybe he wants her. She does sometimes look like something out of a video game.

Richard: …who died and made you Richard Parker?

Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep

Alex takes the apron in one leap and launches herself over the top in a second, rolling up to one knee. Her opposition for the evening is grim-faced and stony-eyed. There’s no smack-talk from Seymour Almasy, in spite of all of his earlier bravado on the evening. He knows this isn’t going to be fun at all.

Quinn Gregory, for her part, settles into the corner farthest away from the entrance ramp, as per her mother’s orders.

Nick: My colleague said it last week, and it’s my turn this week. Call your friends, kids, because this is going to be something special.

DING DING DING!

Richard: Almasy and Desade eye to eye at the opening bell! Not literally, though, the witch has two inches of height on him.

Nick: Here we go again with the witch discussion.

Richard: Thankfully, from all of his gaming, I’m sure Seymour knows how to deal with witches. I’m a big fan of the Monty Python approach, myself.

Nick: Um, we have a match going on, and Almasy starts it off! Forearm to the face of Alexandra Pierce! Second, followed by a third, and he shoots the Queen of Lies into the ropes! Almasy jumps, spinning roundhouse kick, he calls it the Jecht Shot…ducked by Alex! Pierce spins low, trying to sweep out Almasy’s legs…but he jumps over it!

Richard: Both of these two are just so, so agile, Nick.

Nick: Both leap for dropkicks, and their feet tag one another’s in the air! Both scrambling back to a knee, hands raised in a fighting posture, and we’ve got a standoff in Casablanca!

And a polite ovation from this altogether swell crowd.

Nick: Pierce, as we know, favors the Spider’s Kiss, that falling double-knee jawbreaker. She also has that craaaazzyy spinning Impaler known as the Mastermind. From Almasy, we’ve seen but one weapon, that nasty moonsault double kneedrop he calls the Paradigm Shift. He’s hit two solid, well built men with it, and you’ve got to think he could cave in the more slender Pierce’s ribcage if he hits it.

Richard: Almasy goes for a right hand, but it's blocked, wait, not already!

Nick: Pierce wants the Spider’s Kiss! She jumps for it, hooks the back of Almasy’s head…but Seymour falls backwards with her! Alexandra gets hot-shotted on the top rope, throat first! Big counter from Almasy, and Seymour takes charge of the contest!

Richard: He’s a wily veteran too these days, Nick. He’s come a long way from 2002 when he debuted. Hell, if he makes it to 2012, he’ll have been in the sport ten years.

Nick: Seymour stomping away at Pierce’s prone form, and now he’s got a boot over the throat, pulling back on the ropes for leverage! Roberts in there, giving Seymour the five count, and Almasy breaks at four.

Richard: He knows what he’s doing. Beating witches like Alexandra isn’t easy, but you can’t cast spells if you can’t breathe or talk, right?

Nick: You won’t give up on this, will you?

Richard: Witches do their best work when good men do nothing, Nick.

Nick: Seymour has picked Pierce back up, and slings her into the ropes. Almasy wants a kick, no, Pierce slides under and jumps! Picture-perfect hurricanrana from the Queen of Lies sends Seymour careening across the canvas! He gets up and charges…

Richard: Look out for the one where she turns you into a frog!

Nick: Kneelift by Pierce! She had Almasy thinking something else, and she caught him right underneath the chin with it! She jumps and hooks the head of the staggered Almasy, and swings him around with a modified Tornado DDT! She’s on top for the cover almost immediately!

ONE!






TWO!

Richard: Kickout!

Nick: Two count only for Alexandra, as Quinn Gregory cheers her on from ringside! Seymour’s trying to turtle up in the ropes here as Pierce kicks away at him, lobbing kicks to the legs and the body, wait, Seymour finally catches one! Seymour caught the kick, Pierce looking for the enzuigiri, ducked by Seymour, and he moves quickly to lock in the step-over toehold facelock! Almasy has the STF locked in, and Pierce’s upper body is about as far away from the ropes as can be!

Richard: Attaboy! Go show that witch who is boss!

Nick: Seymour pulling back on the submission -- wait a minute! That’s a choke! Almasy has his arm sunk down around Pierce’s throat! Roberts warning him, one, two, three…Almasy breaks the choke, but now grabs both of Pierce’s wrists, instead!

Richard: The Hell is this going to be!

Nick: He’s still got the step-over toehold, but now he’s pulling on both arms! He’s got a modified surfboard applied from this position. I don’t know how much pressure he can put on, but without her hands, I don’t think Pierce can make the ropes!

Richard: RPG dork knowhow beats witchy codex knowledge any day of the week!

Nick: Seymour transitioning again -- oh come on! He’s got Pierce by the hair! He’s pulling at her hair with both hands, as hard as he can, contorting her! Get in there, Bernie!

Richard: Actually, I hope he takes his time. It’s kind of nice seeing her all helpless and unable to cast hexes and spells right now.

Nick: Finally, finally Almasy breaks the hold, and he follows up with a stomp to the back of Pierce’s head. Seymour picking Pierce up, and he has her set-up for a piledriver, arms are straitjacketed, this looks like the Time Compression…

Richard: Look out! Those witchy legs aren’t tied up!

Nick: Pierce counters with the hurricanrana!





ONE!


TWO!



Richard: He’s rolling through! Almasy held on to the wrists!

Nick: He did indeed! He’s got Pierce set back up for it one more time! Lifts her vertical…and SPIKES her on her head with the straitjacket piledriver! He calls it Time Compression, but it’s more likely Desade’s vertebrae that got compressed!

Richard: Seymour has the cover now!






ONE!






TWO!





KICKOUT!


Nick: Long two count on that exchange, maybe two and a half or two and three quarters before Pierce rolls the shoulder off the mat!

Richard: Seymour needs to stay on her from here if he wants any chance to finish this contest on a good note.

Nick: Seymour seems to be taking your advice. He picks Pierce up, sets her on the top rope, and he climbs right up after her, but walks into an open palm strike from the GTT7 champion!

Richard: Oh man, this isn’t good…

Nick: Almasy and Pierce slugging it out on the top rope! Left from Pierce! Right from Almasy! Seymour is reeling after another shot! And another! Another!

Richard: Come on, Seymour! Fight! Fight! Fight!

Nick: Almasy’s trying to load something up, maybe a kick of some sort, but Pierce is taking careful aim of her own! They’re both looking for a big kick to the head!

Richard: Who’s going to get it first?

As it turns out, they both hit at roughly the same time. From his perch, Seymour falls gracelessly to the mat, body splatting on the canvas. Pierce, though, is less fortunate, her body falling from the top rope. It lands on the ring apron, absorbing some of the impact before she bounces off of it and lands hard on the mat-covered concrete at ringside.

PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT!

Nick: Good gravy! Almasy and Pierce scored with the high kicks at the same time! Almasy fell backwards into the ring, but Pierce fell to the apron, and then the floor! She managed to block some of the impact with her arms, but she’s got to be in worse shape right now as Bernie Roberts begins the count!

Roberts: 1!

Roberts: 2!

Richard: Neither competitor moving, but Seymour’s got one distinct advantage! He may be motionless, but he’s motionless in the ring!

Roberts: 3!

Nick: Damnit, you’re right! If Roberts reaches ten, this thing’s over by countout! If they were both in the ring, or both out of the ring, it would be a draw, but by sheer fortune, Almasy is in position to win this match!

Roberts: 4!

Richard: Quinn tries to get her mother back up! Almasy’s eyes just opened in the middle of the ring. I don’t think he knows where the Hell he is right now!

Roberts: 5!

Nick: Of course he doesn’t, he just got kicked in the temple!

Roberts: 6!

Nick: Almasy’s up to his knees in the middle of the ring! I think he just realized that Pierce is out of the ring! Damnit! He’s going to steal another one, just like he has since making his debut, by the skin of his damned teeth!

Roberts: 7!

Richard: It’s better to be lucky than good, Nick. And when you’re lucky AND good, the sky’s the limit!

Roberts: 8!

Nick: Quinn Gregory is at her mother’s side, exhorting Desade to get up! Pierce is on her knees, both hands on the apron! She’s trying to shake off that huge impact she took, but I don’t know if she can do it in time!

Roberts: 9!

Nick: We’ve got the counto—no! Pierce slips underneath the bottom rope just before the ten count! Quinn Gregory is thrilled at ringside, and this contest will continue!

Roberts makes a big, grandiose gesture that they should compete, even though Alexandra is only up to a knee and Almasy is leaning in the corner. Far be it from him to pass up a golden opportunity.

Nick: Almasy charges Pierce in the corner! The Spider pivots up to her feet and out of the way! Almasy tastes turnbuckle! Almasy staggers out of the corner! Kick to the back of the thigh by Pierce! Now to the midsection! Right hand! Pierce follows through – uraken!

Richard: Blocked!

Nick: Almasy knocks aside the backfist! Pierce spins the other way for a second! Almasy steps in! Exploder suplex! Exploder suplex into the goddamn turnbuckles!

Richard: Burn the witch!

Nick: Almasy plucks the Spider off the mat! He's going – fireman's carry! Birth by Sleep? Birth by –

Richard: She landed on her feet! Only a witch could do that!

Nick: Pierce with a knee to the kidneys! She hooks the arms in a chicken-wing! Mastermind? Mastermi—

Richard: He breaks free!

Nick: Spins around! Knee to the midsection! He pulls Pierce back by the hair into an inverted facelock! He could be going for the Dirge of Cerberus!

Richard: Isn't that the same move Pierce's girlfriend calls the Freetekno?

Nick: That is the former SCCW champion's finisher! Seymour spins through – Pierce! Pierce cartwheels out! Pierce cartwheels out! Sole-butt kick! And a high knee! Almasy staggers back into the corner! Pierce turns, running start and – koppo kick! The heel of her boot caught Seymour right on the bridge of the nose!

Richard: She's like a frickin' Gumby!

Nick: Almasy looks like he's out on his feet! He drops to a knee! Pierce charges! Glimmering warlock! Ducked! Seymour ducks the step-up enzugiri! He stands up into the fireman's carry! He's going for Birth by Sleep again! Again Pierce slides off the back! Reverse mat slam! She reaches up for the legs!



ONE!






TWO!



KICKOUT!

Nick: Almasy got the shoulder up! Pierce to the corner! Pierce bounds up to the top rope! She could be going for the moonsault double-stomp that beat the Sentinel at King of Kings!

Richard: The Witch's Stake!

Nick: It's not called that! Almasy down! I still don't think he knows where he is!

Richard: You can bet that's not true!

Nick: Pierce leaps! Almasy rolls in! Pierce lands on one knee! Almasy comes to his feet! He charges Pierce! Shining SUMMONER! Step-up hurricanrana! Pierce goes headfirst! Pierce goes headfirst!

Richard: Three-and-oh, baby!

Nick: Almasy rips the Spider up to her feet! He hooks the front facelock! Look at that cocky grin! Almasy lifts Alexandra Pierce for a suplex! He's holding him –

Richard: Who knew Almasy was that strong?

Nick: She's a hundred and forty pounds! Almasy spins through! He calls this the Cataclysm? He calls this the –

That's the sound of some twelve thousand people gasping in astonishment.

Richard: WHAT IN THE—

Nick: PIERCE WITH A GODDAMN UPSIDE-DOWN SPIDER'S KISS! ALMASY COLLAPSES LIKE HE'S BEEN SHOT!

Richard: No! No, no, no!

Nick: Pierce up to her feet! Alex to the corner! She leaps up to the top rope—

Richard: That's way too far away?

Nick: Pierce RUNS THE ROPES! ROPE RUN SHOOTING STAR PRESS!

Richard: How the hell does she do it?

Nick: The Spider with the cover!


ONE!








TWO!






THREE!

*DING-DING-DING*

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER... DEEEEEEEE-SAAAAAAAAHHHHHHD!

Nick: Alexandra Pierce with a pair of unbelievably athletic moves, and she secures a hard-fought win against the Dynast-King! Seymour Almasy has proven that he's not all smoke and mirrors, and Lindsay Troy is in for it in Abu Dhabi!

Richard: And by, "in for it," you mean he'll be Intense Champion.

Nick: But Alexandra Pierce is well on her way to proving she's the best wrestler in the world!

Richard: And that won't matter because she's facing Devin Shakur!

Nick: What a match that was, and we still have the main event to go—Violence Jack and Matt Ward one-on-one! What will Hessian have to say about that?

To say Devin Shakur has had a bad light would determine how one looks at his rollercoaster tenure as PRIME's head honcho. He's been made a fool of, and his idealistic dream of having an unstoppable group in all aspects has been brought to a halt from the time being. His elder brother is getting knee deep in his own affairs, and more people look to be turning or shunning him than ever before. One could argue it comes with the territory of being the most nefarious figure over PRIME's last five years, but few and far hated individuals garner and keep as much heat as Devin Shakur.

His one upside has been the manipulation of a returning Vangelus Olsig, but he knows with each reward comes repercussions. Who else is waiting in the wings to knock him and his AWA group off? Time tends to speed up each week so it won't take long for The Devil in Black to find out.

But, he's about to put a stop to one potential threat, perhaps his biggest, right about now.

He stands outside of a locker room door with a gold name plate marked 'Walczak'

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

With the obligatory boo out of the way, Shakur balls his right hand into a fist and pounds on the door five times. Inside, Walczak grunts and groans, having just gone through his match with The Sentinel. Shakur heard through the grapevine The Polish Punisher just got back from the trainer's room and he doesn't want Walczak packing his bag and heading for the airport without getting a word in first.

"Who is it?"

Shakur: Open the door or I'll shitcan you on the spot.

A mumbled "Goddammit" leads to springs on the couch being heard, an indication Walczak is heading toward the door. The big man takes a few seconds to lumber over before swinging open the door and stepping into the frame. He fills it from floor to apex, standing over Shakur by eight inches and snarling down at his boss.

Walczak: What do you want, Shakur? I don't have time for anymore of your pat on the back talks. I'd rather just leave for the night.

Shakur: I'm sure you would, but unfortunately you've got other business to think about before doing that.

Walczak: 'Fraid I don't. I'm not interested in anything you have to offer me.

Shakur: You don't even know what my business is.

Walczak: You are like the annoying telemarketer who just won't quit. Your business doesn't interest me, no matter how intriguing it might be. I couldn't have been clearer last week when I told you.

Shakur: Not even if...

Walczak turns his back on Shakur and heads toward the couch. He was in the middle of watching a tape of his performance, but will likely get the tape shipped to his hotel room by a staffer. The Polish Punisher goes to his gym bag and does a quick scan to ensure everything is there before using his right pointer finger to lift it over his shoulder.

Shakur: ...It involved a shot to become the 5*Star Champion?

The bag stops in mid-air. Walczak tilts his head over his left shoulder and looks back at Shakur. His body turns around to match.

Walczak: You are going to give a guy who just won his first singles match in 2011 tonight a 5*Star Championship match?

Shakur: Heh, I never guaranteed a shot at the belt, just an opportunity at it. You'd have to... as we in the biz say, jump through a hoop first.

The giant flips the bag onto his shoulder and stands, arms folded, in front of Shakur.

Walczak: You've got thirty seconds to give me a reason to remain interested.

Shakur: I won't need thirty seconds, more like ten. You take out Nitz Donnelly at 241, do it convincingly, like you did with Sentinel, and I'll make sure you are on the Culture Shock card in the 5*Star match.

Walczak: Donnelly? I have nothing against him.

Shakur: But he's got something against me. He made me a fool out there tonight after I gave him the keys to the palace, and I told him he was going to be put to the ultimate litmus test to see whether or not he actually belonged as a champion in my federation.

Walczak: And you consider me that? Why not have one of your cronies handle the job for you?

Shakur: It's too predictable that way, plus if you want to have an opportunity to make people realize just how bad and big Tom Walczak can really be, what better stage to do it than on a championship stage? You are just another one of the boys until you get some gold over your shoulder, and then you matter. You want to matter, don't you?

The Punisher takes a moment to think over the proposition. He does want to make an impact on PRIME and be seen as something other than comedic fodder to Tony Gamble in PRIME's history. After seemingly making his decision, he nudges Shakur away with a big palm and walks down the hall. Before he turns the corner, he shoots a no-look response.

Walczak: I'll think about it. You'll have my answer at 241.

And like that, Walczak is gone, headed for the exit and never to be seen in Morocco by Shakur or any of the 12,000 fans who packed the building tonight.

But The Devil in Black has a Cheshire cat's grin on his face. He knows he's got someone to thwart The Ego now.

Glancing down at his map of superstar locker rooms, Shakur heads down the hallway and meets up with Christian Daniels. Both men round the corner and open a door.

Nick (OSV): Where are they off too now?

Richard (OSV): Who knows, man.

Camera Switch: Parking Lot

In the distance is a hooded figure dragging behind (presumably) him his carrier bag. The camera bobs up and down as the crew is in pursuit of the figure. This finally stops as they are now a spitting distance, and as the panting of the crew is audible, a slightly fitter Matt Mills steps in front of the screen. Cue the smile.

Matt Mills: Mitchell! Mitchell! Hey!

The walk slows, but is not an immediate stop. Even when he comes to a stop there is a lengthy moment before he turns to face the camera. His shoulders heave up and down, and there is a flash of a smile as he takes a few steps inward.

Quinlan: I suppose I ought to have stopped before you got to whistling and hollering me down like some dog. What’s got you out of the arena tonight, Matty?

Matt Mills: I could ask the same of you.

His left hand comes to rub his chin before settling into a point at Mills.

Quinlan: New signee leaving show early the type of story that’ll move you the ladder?

Matt Mills: Eh…

Quinlan: Here, let me do this for you. If you’d please.

Mitchell stands with his hand outstretched, awaiting the microphone to be place into it. Puzzled and half upset, Mills obliges.

Quinlan: Thank you. Now, let’s just gaze into your eyes for a second and extract the boring, repetitive questions you had prepared. Alright, I am getting… that you really would rather be at the casino. Believe me, I get it. Why do you think I am doing this whole, ‘beating the traffic’ routine?

Mills looks ready to defend himself, but the microphone stays firmly at the chest of Quinlan.

Quinlan: Alright, now we are wasting air time. Let’s get to the hard hitting questions. Firstly, was this the impression you had hoped to make on the PRIME audience in your debut match?

There is the mandatory awkward pause of a guy interviewing himself.

Quinlan: No, hell no. You think I came out here, all the way out here to Casablanca to lose? You think that if I honestly did not believe I had what it takes to entertain this crowd that it’d be greedy enough to steal a paycheque? I’ll give my hats off to the Postman, he gave me more than I could handle tonight, and this is a big first win for him.

I think switching the microphone to his right hand, and the change in posture is to represent the emerging interviewer.

Quinlan: What do you think was the key to Postal’s win tonight?

Left hand, relaxed shoulders.

Quinlan: Well, really, I would have to say that he was sneaky enough to not appear in the Italian ReVolution program I bought last week. That or he simply was the better man tonight. Shit, I know the man he faced tonight was not the man he’d hope to be. No longer the confident champion of a federation past. No, someone gave my head a shake, and I cannot tell you that you are looking at the same guy that submitted Lance Marshall.

Right hand, stiff.

Quinlan: Are you worried then that that injury has lessened you as a competitor?

Left hand, slouched.

Quinlan: Well, it’s not like a four month layover between matches did much to help, either. It’s going to be a journey to get back to where I was, and I may never get there. I may never again be the Spirit of the LiveWire, but I will learn to succeed in some fashion or another. Perhaps the technician is dead, and the Northern is just a guy about the fists flying and heads smashing. I guess we’ll have to stay tuned to figure that one out together.

Right hand, you know the drill.

Quinlan: We’ll, thank you for your time, and best of luck going forward here in PRIME.

Extending the arm again, he returns the microphone to Mills.

Quinlan: That wasn’t so hard, now was it?

Matt Mills: I’m not touching that one. But I did have one last question. Why are you wearing a hoodie in 75 degree weather?

A blank look dawns on Quinlan’s face as he looks truly stumped by that last question; incidentally the only question asked by someone else.

Quinlan: Huh, I couldn’t really tell ya. Maybe it’s got something in common with the fact that I just interviewed myself?

Matt Mills: I think we might be able to piece that together…

Quinlan: So, if we are done here… I kind of have a boring night that I want to get to, so…

Matt Mills: Uh, yeah.

Quinlan: Great. Welp, take’r easy, gents. Goodnight, you magnificent Morocco.

With another comical smile, Mitchell grabs the handle of the bag and turns into the sunset. As he walks away, the camera closes to black as it zooms into the back of his sweatshirt.

Elsewhere…

Camera-switch: backstage.

She's exhausted.

Alexandra Pierce isn't the same woman she was when she debuted in the sport – or even when she faced Lindsay Troy and friends back at Cataclysm. That was a woman who relied on her brain to get by. This is a woman who leaves it all on the line every time out, and the bumps and bruises and scrapes from that match with Seymour Almasy are the kind that will stick with her, especially since she has no one but her daughter to spend time with, since Devin Shakur will not hire The Redhead We Cannot Name.

Speaking of her daughter, Quinn's darted past the camera, turning on her heels to shout back.

Quinn: I still can't believe we're going to—

Pierce: Just... for once, do what I ask, okay?

Quinn: Okay. But only because he beat you up something fierce. We're still going to have words about this. I'll get Dam to have some people prep the car. I really hope you don't expect to just—

The glare shuts the girl down. Quinn's hands come up in surrender, and her sneakers squeak on the tile as she turns back to dart down the hall.

That's when Alex's limp becomes a little more prominent, her head a little bit lower. The match took more out of her than she'll let on around her daughter, and she's not immediately cognizant of the camera watching her as she pushes into the locker room.

"I hope you don't mind that I let myself in."

The sentence freezes her in place. Her back straightens, left hand in a loose fist. She really doesn't want to go again, not after that match, but she will if she has to, and this is the kind of guy who'll push the envelope.

Pierce: Devin.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

After receiving his standard reaction, camera 24 swings around to fully capture The Devil in Black sitting on Pierce's leather couch, feet propped up on the footrest, a candy cigarette dangling from his mouth and one in his ear. He is decked from head to toe in Armani's blackest and most expensive wear and has a sad look on his face.

Shakur: You know Pierce, I came back here and expected you to be infuriated at my presence, but you go and give me the standard King of the Hill greeting, first name basis, trying to make this as impersonal as possible. I'm terribly disappointed in you. I would have expected something more. I mean... For Christ's sake, what would have happened if Quinn came back here on accident and found me here? Would you still be all docile and bland then? Let me give you some advice... Stop bringing her to the shows. Let her hang around with the redheaded tattoo parlor and show me what you are capable of, because otherwise I'm going to have to get you riled up the only way I think I can...

He points in the direction where the girl went with his left index finger and does a throat slashing motion with his right hand.

Pierce: Her spring semester starts on the first, so you won't have to worry about her anymore.

That he'll have to worry about her she leaves unspoken.

Pierce: What am I supposed to do, Devin? Should I have stormed out to open the show? Demanded your head on a platter? Thrown stuff around in your office? And what would that have gained me? Would you have backed down? Thrown your hands up and given up on your ridiculous crusade? No, you wouldn't have. So I chose to show up and do my job.

Shakur takes the candy cigarette out of his mouth and twirls it around his fingers while staring back at Pierce. Another sigh. He's going to have to think of another way to poke and prod Pierce into exploding like the caged animal he knows is rumbling on the inside.

Shakur: Well, hopefully it goes well, maybe she'll appear on one of those Teen Mom MTV shows and make a name for herself instead of living in your shadow. Lord knows whatever institution you got her in, private or public, is going to provide and ensure the safest place for her. Hell, I might hire someone to knock her up. You know I'd do it.

The smirk on his face suggests he's thrown money at more ridiculous causes.

Shakur: And maybe I did expect you to come in and go bananas, Pierce. After all, I ruined a birthday party your daughter is never going to get back. You called me a bastard. You gave me a look that would kill, but still you come back and don't show me the proper respect? Who the hell do you think I am, some midcard hack trying to attach himself to your coattails and ride you to a claim to fame?

Suddenly, the cigarette leaves Shakur's hands, fast enough that it grazes Pierce on the side of her face. Even her lightning fast reflexes couldn't have caught it.

Shakur: Sorry, I can be a bit of a clumsy one at times.

He lies on par with Charlie Sheen. The smirk afterward indicates such.

Shakur: But you are right about one thing, Pierce, had you gone berserk and caused a scene, I wouldn't have given up. Although, at the same time, you trying to act like a goody-goody isn't going to stop me from trying to get you to open up. In fact, it is going to make me try that much harder to have you do such.

Pierce: I would expect nothing less, Devin. I expect this is the part where you get to "make my life a living hell" until I snap. I have to admit, it's kind of weird to be on the other side of this.

Shakur: Well, the offer to trash all my stuff is still on the table. I even got cheap stuff – feel free to go to town.

Alex leans back against the doorframe, her posture deceptively casual.

Pierce: I think I'd rather sit back and wait. I don't think you have any sand, Devin.

Shakur: "Sand"? I don't have my pocket Wade Elliott to English dictionary on hand.

Pierce: I don't think you have it in you. It may be silly or insane of me to suggest it, but... I want to see what you're actually willing to do. You're a child, Devin. A child who apes their betters, tries to be tough by watching their idols on television. I'm sure you have a whole roll of highlights of my lowlights.

Shakur could barely keep a straight face from the moment Pierce claimed him to be a child. It was the second time she's made such a claim. He's been on a business binge all night, and a chance to relax and exchange some banter with his most bitter rival (at the moment) has turned into her calling him out.

It wasn't what he was expecting. It feels like a chess game and Pierce is trying to make moves.

Shakur: A child? I ape my betters? Tough by watching my idols on TV? Pierce, you don't even know who my idols are. Let alone do I watch TV often enough to give a crap what fictitious pricks conjure up in a one or two hour episode. You want to know about my toughness, Pierce? Hell, I'm sure you'll go ahead and use this material against me at some point, but frankly I can care less. I grew up in a home without a mother, a father who abused me, that's been documented. I became a man after a biker gang took me in, taught me the ropes. And believe me Pierce, I got initiated... the hard way.

He lets that sink in for a moment, but keeps as calm of a tone as he can. He knows Pierce is trying to reverse psychology and rile him up. He continues his reverse of the reverse.

Shakur: I went to prison for six years, Pierce. Armed robbery. I've got scars on my body that made Rayne squeamish, and I'm sure would make someone with such a high and mighty attitude like yourself puke on command if I even undid one button of my shirt. I'm a goddamn bomb, Pierce. When I explode, the carnage can be felt a mile out. You can ask Rayne if I'm a child. You can ask Tsonda if I ape my betters. You can ask Dusk, Winters, Lavelle, Hessian, Gamble, Dawkins, Nelson, Big Bear, Walczak, Ferguson, Cozen, and Troy if I try to act like my idols on television. I've got a laundry list of people in this business I've ruined because they've crossed me. Calling me a child, Pierce? You are right, that is insane.

She doesn't miss a beat in responding.

Pierce: The thing of it is... I don't care about what you have done or who you have done it to, Devin. I don't care who you've ruined or whose career you've shortened or how many scars you have or bodies you have left in your wake. I don't care. This isn't personal to me. This isn't a crusade or a war or a fight to the death between two gladiators.

She steps forward – and when she does, she catches sight of the hulking silhouette hidden in a recess in the room. Christian Daniels is never going to win at hide and seek.

Pierce: This is a job, Devin. This is a task that I have been hired to do. Tyler Rayne asked me to come to PRIME and take care of you. You ruined my daughter's seventeenth birthday. You and your pet cretin have three times now threatened my little girl's well-being. You think I haven't heard that every day since Amy brought her back into my life? And yes, I will say her name, even if you'll dock my salary for it.

Another step forward, her arms swinging at her sides.

Pierce: You grew up without a mother and with a father who beat you? Good for you. I grew up the youngest child of privilege, and the same day my father died, my brothers made sure I had no claim to the family inheritance. They sent me to England penniless, destitute. I was plucked off the streets and I fought to take back everything I had ever lost. When I was on top of the world and I'd ground the National Wrestling Council down for no other reason than because I could... Wyatt Connors conspired with my brothers and they locked me away for almost two years.

The Boss in Black is seated, which makes this the only time he'll ever look up at the Spider in the Web.

Pierce: Don't compare scars with me, Shakur. Yours might be on your body, but mine are on my soul. You still take pride in them. You wear them like badges of honor – look at me, this is what I did – but I am trying to heal from mine. So you won't get a rise out of me. You won't make me force my hand. You will wait – this entire bloody federation will wait – until the next Ice Age if that's how long it takes me to decide to move. And when I move... you will know about it. You will know, Devin. But not before then, you overeager, overactive child.

It wasn't the fourth time Pierce called him a child that changes the look in Shakur's eyes, but rather the entire speech. The body vs. soul argument and assumption Shakur wears his scars like they are badges of honor.

The footrest is slammed back into the couch and makes a violent thud. Shakur keeps his eyes dead on Pierce as he rises from the couch.

Shakur: CD, get the car, forget what we had planned.

Emerging from the shadows, Christian Daniels gives Pierce a snarl and then goes over to the door.

Shakur: Shut it on the way out.

As requested, Daniels closes the door, leaving the two competitors alone. Whether or not Shakur is still playing reverse psychology is debatable. He hasn't had a look on his face like this since 190.

Shakur: I'm a job to you, Pierce?

The Devil in Black takes a step toward Pierce and now they are two feet from one another.

Shakur: The smartest of us can sometimes make the dumbest mistakes... Al.

The flaring of Pierce's nostrils indicates she's still not fond of Devin calling her by that nickname.

Shakur: Yeah, I've got sources who tell me you aren't appreciative of that, so rest assure I'm calling you it Every. Chance. I. Get. You say I'm a job to you, Pierce? Go ahead, say it again.

Pierce: With pleasure. You are a job.

Shakur: A job... I've been called every vile thing in the dictionary, but right there... you've insulted me far more than any chant, any retort, anything I've been deemed. I'm the next thing on your list, Pierce? You probably got other people on your mind too. Hessian? I'm sure you want a chance at that Universal strap. Violence Jack? Revenge for him beating you to get that opportunity? Let me get one thing into your head now to save us both a lot of talk... I'm not a job, Al. You do NOT get to come into MY FUCKING HOUSE and tell me that I'M JUST A JOB. Anything to do with Tyler Rayne is fucking personal to me. And a lot of those names I listed... Were because of Rayne. They were the result of him and his attempts to beat me into the ground night after night, whether it was in the ring or politically. I KILLED HIM, PIERCE. I ENDED HIS LIFE. HE WAS DEAD ON THE OPERATING TABLE. BRYAN DAWKINS BROKE HIS FUCKING NECK BECAUSE OF ME. CHANDLER TSONDA HAS A BROKEN BACK BECAUSE OF ME. LINDSAY TROY COULDN'T WALK INTO PRIME FOR GOD KNOWS HOW LONG...

He takes that final step, bringing them nose to nose.

Shakur: ...But I'm a job to you, Al? You told your story and I told mine. You want to know what I heard? A whole lot of fucking similarity. We both had to fight for what we got. You grounded the National Wrestling Council just like someday I'm going to ground PRIME. I got sent into a world I knew nothing about. A world where I had to fight for survival. TWICE. You think prison is fucking easy when you are an eighteen year old fresh off the street? DO YOU? DO YOU THINK LIVING WITH THESE SCARS IS EASY? THERE'S A REASON I DON'T SHOW THEM, PIERCE! I'M SCARED TO LOOK AT MYSELF IN THE MIRROR BECAUSE ALL I SEE ARE THE HORRORS OF MY PAST...

His breathing rises. His rage intensifies. His fingers shake and then ball into fists, which reach up and grab at his hair. His eyes are those of a wild maniac.

Shakur: But... I'm a job? No, Pierce, I'm not someone you are coming in and taking out, then moving onto your next conquest. When Rayne brought you in, I became your life. I am going to become your life. This isn't personal between us, Al? That is where You. Are. Wrong. You say I won't make you move. I won't force your hand because you have healed from the scars on your soul? The thing of it is Pierce, I don't have a soul. I don't have a heart. I have no compassion for those who stand across from me. None whatsoever.

He laughs and tilts his head down briefly before bringing it back up.

Shakur: This isn't personal to you... yet. No, I haven't even begun to get personal with you, Pierce. I haven't begun to show you what I'm capable of, and since you are dying to see it so bad... I don't like to keep the curious waiting. By the time I'm done with you, the move you make won't matter One. Mother. Fucking. Bit. because I will turn you back into that psycho that you are trying SO. HARD. to fight off and then I will break her. I will break you, Al. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. You will be nothing more than a pretty face by the time I'm done with you. You will have no soul because of me. I will make sure that you hate me. Every night when your eyes shut, you won't be able to think of anybody else but me. You'll see my face in every dream. You'll see my face in every single person that walks by you. Every person who insults you, you will hear my voice. I'll be the ghost on your shoulder that you can't shake. I'm not going to be a face in the crowd, Pierce. I'm not going to be the next on the list. You better take my word as fucking gospel, Al. When I make my next move... It'll be personal. When I make my last move... You. Will. Be. Finished.

There's a moment here, a moment where the entire arena holds its breath. For two people who began talking about how casual these things are, this sure has gotten intense in a hurry.

Her nostrils flare again, her eyes widening slightly. Her fists have balled. These are two horrible people on opposite ends of the path of redemption. It's all Alex seeks, and it's the last thing Devin wants.

Pierce: Good.

And then she steps back again, forcing her hand open, finger by finger.

Pierce: I don't want Hessian. I don't want Jack. I don't want the Halo. I took this job, because while I've lost matches, I've never been challenged before. Spacely pinned me. Xavier Kannon pinned me. A host of people have pinned me, Devin, but... all I want is the challenge of it. I miss the thrill of the hunt, the blood pumping through my veins. You're just a job, Devin, just another man I've been asked to destroy, and all I've wanted – each and every time – is to see them do it to me first. You don't make grandiose claims about being the best wrestler in the world unless you want someone to prove you wrong.

She takes a second stride back, palms lifted and empty.

Pierce: So go ahead. Show me you're not just a job. Show me I should give a damn about this place when the woman that I love is thousands of miles away, putting her body on the line against people I've never heard of. Show me that I shouldn't walk away. But don't think I'm going to play by the rules that Tyler did or Troy does. Don't think I'm just another hero thrown against you like a wave against the shore. Don't think I'm any of that. Because I'm not.

She smiles, and it's a deadly, dangerous smile. It's Desade's smile.

Pierce: I'm a monster. I'm a monster and a villain and a knave and a scoundrel. I'm a nasty piece of work. You may think you're a bomb, Devin, but I'm a nuclear missile. I'm the one they call when there's no one left. If you want to dance the dance, you've got to know the tune. Maybe I'll regret calling you a child. Maybe I won't. But for now... I guess we'll just have to see, won't we?

And Shakur smiles back at her. It's not enough to send the crowd into a frenzy like the Desade smile just did, but its enough to send chills down the spine of those who remember the past.

Shakur: I know all the tunes on the jukebox, Pierce. Trust me, you'll be hearing the right one sooner rather than later.

He falls backwards onto the couch and props his feet up.

Shakur: And you are a monster, a villain, a knave, a scoundrel? Good, make all those claims, because the people in this company, and the people all over the world know me as one name... The Devil. Simply The Devil. A piece of shit like JW Oswald doesn't deserve to have my name and Angelo Deville in his prime as The Devil's Don was a shell of what I am as. Nobody ever calls The Devil a child, Pierce, and remains the same... Nobody.

Pierce: So be it, Devin. I welcome you to try.

Shakur: I never just try anything, Al.

Pierce: Enjoy Istanbul. It's one of my favorite cities. I think we'll see each other again there.

The Medusa picks up her bag and lays her hand on the doorknob (it doesn't actually lock, or it would've been locked and Daniels and Shakur wouldn't have been inside).

Shakur: I look forward to it.

She doesn't quite turn back.

Pierce: You say that now.

Shakur: I'll say it then.

Pierce: Have a pleasant evening, Devin.

Swoosh-cut away. Time for some answers elsewhere.

After a long, hard battle against the toughest woman in professional wrestling today, Seymour Almasy is intent on getting the hell out of Casablanca, and going somewhere where he can take a nice long rest.

Nick (OSV): That man’s been through Hell the likes of which few PRIME athletes can say. I don’t like him. I may never like him, but I can at least admit that much.

Richard (OSV): And he’s got Troy in two weeks for the Intense Title. Lindsay likes to use barbed wire. And Chinese throwing stars. Hardcore is not exactly Seymour’s environment.

Still, as Almasy walks backstage, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, there is a tight smile on his face. He’s done nearly it all in PTC, and after a career avoiding PRIME – or not being hired by PRIME, as the case may be, there’s a definite sense of pride in these performances; ones that show that he, at the ripe old age of thirty, after a career that should have blown out both of his knees, can still bring it with a different style.

That pride, however, doesn’t last very long, because Seymour himself isn’t coherent long enough to enjoy it.

Nick (OSV): Almasy’s down! Quick, someone get the camera behind him!

The man standing behind him is, perhaps predictably, Jacob McKail. He is unarmed, unless you count the malice radiating from his every pore as a weapon. The blow that knocked Almasy down is best called a rabbit punch, a hard, straight right to the back of the head.

Richard (OSV): Oh, Hoyt, this isn’t good.

Nick (OSV): McKail’s gotten to Almasy!

Jacob’s tactics aren’t pretty, as he settles for grinding Almasy’s face against the cold, hard concrete of the backstage floor.

Richard (OSV): Fangirls the world over are going to call for that man’s head!

Seeing security coming out of the corner of his eye, McKail knows that his time is limited. Grabbing Almasy by the hair, he pulls the prone Seymour up to a 45 degree angle, before viciously driving the Dynast-King face-first into the concrete floor. Moments later, a veritable phalanx of yellow-clad Enemigos, having been dressed down after Almasy’s attack on McKail weeks ago, take no chances, swarming the man known as Fearless, and dragging him away from Seymour’s seemingly unconscious form.

Nick (OSV): McKail’s being carried away, but the damage has been done!

Richard (OSV): Go to commercial! Something! Anything! Shakur is going to flip his shit when he sees this! That man’s supposed to face Lindsay Troy in two weeks on a huge ReVolution!

As the paramedics come in to deal with the battered Almasy, the final image before ReVolution cuts to its Main Event is Jacob McKail’s face. His eyes burn with rage, as if barely able to scratch the itch that was vengeance on the man who both assaulted him physically and emotionally. The man who would deny him his spot here in PRIME.

Judging by that look, it would take a simpleton indeed to declare this matter settled.

Vince Howard: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is your main event of the evening! Introducing first, hailing from Dayton, Ohio and weighing in at two hundred and forty four pounds he is the number one contender to the Universal Title... the Inhuman Being... MAAAAATT WAAAAAAAAAARD!

The lights in the arena go out and after a momentary blackout in the arena Godsmack's 'I Fucking Hate You' roars through the PA. The entrance flashes shades of blue as the number one contender makes his way through the curtain onto the stage to a roar of applause from the crowd. He takes a few seconds to regard the crowd before proceeding to the ring, cursing under his breath.

Nick: Ward looking peeved and understandably so.

Richard: What's he got to be annoyed about? Hessian competed last week and will again next week, there's no disadvantage to Ward meeting V-Jack tonight.

Nick: Both contenders to the title are facing each other tonight under the ruling of the Universal Champion. It's giving the edge to the Murder Show in the run-up to the title match at Two-Forty-Two.

While the fans holler along with the entrance music, Ward climbs atop the closest turnbuckle and throws his arms out in the trademark T, roaring at the fans as GodSmack is faded out and Dimmu Borgir's 'Puritania' fills the arena with boos.

Vince Howard: AND HIS OPPONENT! Hailing from Boston, Mass. and weighing in at two hundred and thirty two pounds he is the JEWEL IN THE CROWN, VIOLEEEEEENCE JAAAAAAAAAACK!

He strolls onto the stage with a calm demeanour, clad in his robes and flanked by Von Krauser, Ender and Sanada, VJ makes his way to the ring with a bead drawn on his opponent. Black streamers rain down on the aisle, fired upon him by the more deviant section of the house crowd who follow the beat of the black heart of the Bringer of the Black Gospel.

Richard: Okay Nick, so Hessian had to slog it out with a rookie last week one on one, and this week Ward has to contend not only with VJ and his heavies but Hessian officiating too? You do see where I'm coming from on this?

Nick: Of course. It'll be interesting to see how this one plays out since, depending on the outcome of the title match in two weeks time, we could be looking at the Culture Shock main event right here!

Disrobing, Violence Jack enters the ring and makes a casual taunt to the fans who aren't shy of a vehement roar of disapproval. Half smiling at their ire, VJ turns to his followers and nods, at which they take up position around the ring; Ender and Von Krauser on either side and the monstrous Hayate Sanada stands with arms folded at the bottom of the ramp.

Nick: Jack isn't short of a back-up plan, that's for sure.

Richard: Shanahan has the numbers, Hessian has the size and Ward has the heart to fight back against it all. This is going to be interesting.

Ward is quick to get in the face of his opponent who cocks his head to the side and listens to the earful of abuse that the Inhuman Being spits at him, nodding slowly and smiling.

"Kingdom of the Worm" by Motorhead.

Nick: And here comes the champ!

Vince Howard: Introducing the official for this bout, he is the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION...HEEEEESSIIIIIAAAAAAAAN!

The giant ambles out from behind the curtain, clutching the strap of his title in hand and letting it drag along as he gazes over the bodies in and around the ring. Nonchalantly raising his belt overhead and tugging on the emblem adorning his oversized referee shirt, Hessian hocks up and launches a wad of spit into the air before carrying on down to the ring to a majority of loud cheers from the house.

Richard: The only reason he looks like a champ right now is because of his size. He doesn't carry himself with the decorum of someone like Matt Ward.

Nick: I guess that match with Brian Postal last week threw Hessian off kilter. He had grand designs on a Snow-like reign and the only guy to step up was a newbie with green fingers and wet ears.

Stopping at ringside beside Hayate Sanada, the giant launches his title belt over the ring high above the heads of Jack and Ward and smacking into the chest of the timekeeper.

Richard: Nice catch.

Then the Champion regards the Sect soldier, getting in his face and saying nothing but with the glare in his eyes. Sanada doesn't back down and the confrontation draws the attention of Ender and Von Krauser who slither back to the ramp side of the ring and stand by the giant Jap. Still throwing jibes at Father Shanahan, Ward is infuriated when Jack holds up two fingers to his lips and walks away from his opponent to watch his allies and the giant. As one of the cameramen race around to the stand-off the mic picks up Hessian's booming voice as he gestures to VJ's followers.

Hessian: What? What are you gonna do?

The giant chest bumps Sanada back a few steps, prompting everyone into an offensive stance.

Hessian: You want to take a shot at the champion? Huh? Tough guy. You? No? You?

The giant gestures at each man respectively before throwing two thumbs back over his shoulders.

Hessian: You're barred! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!

That's the prompt for Sanada to step up to the giant, but before his open palms can even slap Hessian in the chest the giant strikes out with a God Smack that sends the monstrous Asian to the floor in a crumpled heap. Ender and Von Krauser are on him in an instant and quickly bring the Champion to his knees with a flurry of kicks and punches.

Nick: Oh come on! This match hasn't even started and Violence Jack's cronies are already setting about Hessian!

Richard: They're not the only ones!

In the ring, Matt Ward takes advantage of a distracted VJ and hugging him from behind pops his hips and drills his opponent with a German suplex. The bell doesn't ring as he quickly mounts Jack and begins firing into him with lefts and rights, while at ringside Hessian explodes upwards, catching Wilhelm Von Krauser in his arms and slamming him into the mats with a spinebuster before spinning and catching Blake Ender with a clothesline that spins VJ's lieutenant inside out. Hayate Sanada shockingly shakes off the effects of the uppercut and gets back to his feet. He doesn't know where Hessian suddenly retrieved his steel chair from but unfortunately for the largest of Shanahan's followers it connects with his skull with a dull crack.

Nick: Hessian cleaning house now with that steel chair from the front row while Violence Jack counters Matt Ward and connects with some hard punches in the ring.

Brandishing the steel chair in hand, and rocking back and forth in time with the HESSIAN chant that has broken out around the arena, the giant warns VJ's followers off to the back, pulling the weapon back and getting ready to swing as Von Krauser and Ender grabs Sanada and head up the ramp cursing the giant.

Nick: Triangle hold! If Matt Ward can knock VJ out before Hessian rings the bell, he's got this won before it's even begun!

Richard: Which won't be long now that Hessian has beaten off the brat pack there.

Launching the steel chair up the ramp, the giant growls as it clatters next to the startled followers of Boston's Bastard Son. As they disappear behind the curtain the giant sorts his shirt and notices the action in the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope and calling for the bell.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Nick: And the match is under way!

Hearing the bell, Violence Jack kicks forward and lands awkwardly on his back with his legs hitting the ropes. Sticking them straight out, he latches on his with boots, but before Hessian can intervene Ward breaks the count, pushing his opponent off him and getting back to his feet. VJ is hot on his heels but Ward is that little bit faster, pitching forward and connecting with a dragon screw, rolling VJ up for a three count.

KICKOUT!

Jack manages to push Ward off, but glancing at the referee finds that he didn't even make an attempt to count. Scowling at the smirking Champion, VJ blocks a right hook from Ward and pushes to his feet, doubling Ward over with a kick to the gut and hitting the ropes behind him for momentum as he executes a bulldog. However, Ward manages to get his weight behind a counter shove, sending VJ to the mat before shooting a glare at Hessian.

Nick: Both competitors looking to gain the vital psychological advantage here over Hessian, but the champion doesn't seem too concerned.

Charging into VJ, Ward connects with a spear that sends both men tumbling through the ropes and thumping to the mats at ringside. Without missing a beat, they launch into another brawl upon hitting the floor, rolling over one another and exchanging hard shots as Hessian watches from the ring.

Richard: Hessian knows how to count to ten, right?

Nick: If he does he's not letting on.

Richard: Why would he count? Those two men have a shot at his gold, he's as well letting them kill each other.

As Ward gets up, VJ springs from the mats and connects with a shoulder block sending Ward crunching into the guard rail and following up with a high knee to the face. Picking him up, VJ drops to the mat connecting with a DDT and gets back on top throwing fists without stopping for breath.

Leaning on the ropes, Hessian watches the action and stares out at the crowd who begin roaring random numbers that slowly culminate into a unified ten count. Neither the champion nor the competitors take heed of the count, instead Hessian swats the air over VJ and Ward and climbs over the top rope, hopping to the floor and walking over to the announce table.

Richard: Crap. Here comes trouble.

Instead of stripping the announce table in preparation for some kind of spot, Hessian pulls up a chair and a headset and steals a gulp of Nick's water and clearing his throat.

Nick: What are you doing here? You're supposed to be officiating this contest Hessian, get back out there and do your job!

Hessian: And risk them being a hundred percent for their matches with me? More fool you Nicholas.

Richard: Yeah Nicholas, let the man do his job how he sees fit.

Nick: Richard you've got a little something on your nose there...

Richard wipes his nose.

Richard: That got it?

Nick: No more over this side.

Richard wipes again.

Nick: Oh I'm sorry, it's Hessian's ass.

Richard: Oh very funny. Just because the world doesn't turn according to you.

Nick: Or just because you suddenly become everyone's number one fan when they come to the announce desk where they might hear you insulting them.

Hessian: Forget it boys let's focus on the action- BAH GAWD! Tchu breaks out of that mounted offence by Jack with a cheeky throat thrust! Not exactly Brazilian jujitsu but it did the job to get the demented VJ off of him.

Nick: And what happens when there's a pin attempt?

Hessian: I don't know about that, but looks like we might get one soon as Ward picks Jack up and sends him spine-first into the unforgiving turnpost! BAH GAWD! These two warriors are – excuse the pun – in their prime and looking to take the Universal Title from me in the coming weeks, and with offence like that it probably won't make a difference at all when I go Al-Qaeda on their asses!

Nick: And you think you can keep pace with either of these men considering you nearly got your ass handed to you by Brian Postal last week?

Richard: Nick Stuart, ladies and gentlemen. World's dumbest announcer.

Hessian: You're talking out your ass Nick. I damn near killed that boy last week. I just threw out VJ's backing singers without much effort. What makes you think either of these plum tuckers can go toe to toe with the Murder Show? I'm the Universal Champion for a reason. Critics be damned. This company has NEVER seen a force like me before and I will dominate that son of a bitch, and that son of a bitch too and any other jumped up little fool that thinks they can take my title from me.

Backing up, Ward runs full steam into VJ who steps to the side and drops to his knees causing Ward to slam shoulder first into the steel. He lets out a yelp and hits the mats next to Jack, who grabs him by the hair and pulls him to his feet, executing a snap suplex that brings both men crashing down in front of the announce table.

Nick: Get out there and officiate Hess! Come on!

Hessian: I'm sure they'll let me know when they're good and ready to finish this thing. How about you do your job and call this thing Nick?

Nick: Kind of hard when the Universal Champion is out here making a mockery of himself.

Hessian: Mockery, yeah okay. You want to see professionalism? Jack just connected with a brutal snap suplex on the mats. Next he's going to go to the apron, maybe top rope if he's feeling froggy, and drop Ward into the announce table. You might want to move your things.

Richard: Yes sir!

Nick: You've got a nerve Von Kelsig.

As Richard moves his drink and shifts his seat to the side of the table Violence Jack plants a boot into the gut of Ward and as he curls into the foetal position, the Bringer of the Black Gospel checks the steel steps behind him and to Nick's surprise hops up onto the apron and takes a few steps back to the turnpost, sizing up his opponent.

Hessian: You watching Nick?

Nick: I'll believe it when I see it.

As the Inhuman Being pulls himself up and leans over the announce table, the sight of Hessian on commentary fills him with confusion, and turning around comes face to face with the knees of Violence Jack as the number one contender at Culture Shock flies through the air and connects with the double knee smash sending both men skidding over the announce table, missing Nick by a whisker and dropping down behind the desk.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard: Good God! What a shot by Jack!

LET'S GO WA-ARD LET'S GO! *CLAP* *CLAP* LET'S GO WA-ARD LET'S GO! *CLAP* *CLAP* LET'S GO WA-ARD LET'S GO! *CLAP* *CLAP*

Hessian: The fans rallying behind Ward now after Violence Jack just-

The Murder Show leans over and gets in the Inhuman Being's face.

Hessian -EMBARRASSED HIM!

When the blurry double vision settles into one vision of Hessian's scowling mug, Ward kicks out with both feet narrowly missing a broken nose for the champion. Jumping back in shock, Hessian can only watch in anger as Violence Jack pulls himself up huffing and holding his side and reaching down for his opponent only to receive a shot to the chops sending him staggering back into Richard.

Richard: Goddamnit Jack.

Inadvertently, Richard pushes Jack forward giving him the momentum to jump up onto the announce table and onto Hessian.

Hessian: What the-

As though going for a monkey toss, VJ kicks off of the stunned champion and moonsaults through the air landing squarely across the body of Matt Ward, rewarded by cheers from even the biggest Jack haters, even if they are in the uniquely dialectal form of

PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT!

Nick: What athleticism from Violence Jack!

Richard: Shit was that my fault?

Nick: What a moonsault! Hessian has been sent crashing into the timekeeper and in one fell swoop Violence Jack has taken both men down!

Pulling himself up by the guard rail, VJ clutches his side still, breathing heavily, and without stopping for a breath launches into a kicking frenzy on Matt Ward. It's only when he sees the giant getting up from the mess of bodies and equipment next to the announce table that he realizes what he has done and makes a move for the ring.

Richard: Hessian looks pretty pissed off.

The Murder Show starts roaring and checking his ears only to find the headset has been knocked off his head. Looking about him, he sees Matt Ward holding his gut and coughing in front of him under the legs of Nick and Richard while Violence Jack hops up onto the apron, shoots him a devious grin and enters the ring, crossing to the far side and leaning against the corner to get his breath back.

Nick: That's what happens when you don't do your job Richard. It shappens.

Richard: It shappens?

Nick: Think about it.

Richard: I'd rather think about an escape plan right now because it seems like Hessian is going to take out his aggression on Matt Ward.

The Champion glares at Ward and, spying his title on the floor, picks it up and straps it around his waist before stomping over to the Inhuman Being and

Nick: Crap here it comes.

Hessian: ONE!

Even the fans are shocked at Hessian's strange decision to referee instead of lay the smack down on everyone.

Hessian: TWO!

Hearing the count, Matt Ward begins to stir while Violence Jack chuckles to himself in the ring, rubbing his hands together methodically and licking his lips.

Hessian: THREE!

Nick: The Murder Show at a three count now and Ward is on his hands and knees while Violence Jack watches from the ring.

Hessian: FOUR!

The giant suddenly reaches down and pulls Ward to his feet and to everyone's surprise pats him down and straightens him up, asking if he is okay to continue before roaring

Hessian: FIVE!

As Ward scowls at him Hessian escorts the Inhuman Being around the announce table when suddenly

Nick: LOOK OUT!

Violence Jack barrels over the top rope, soaring through the air and colliding with Hessian and Ward and knocking them to the floor.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick: What a suicide dive! Whether he meant to catch Hessian or not I can't say but Matt Ward definitely took one hell of a knock there!

Much to the chagrin of the crowd, Violence Jack gets up before either of his victims and taunts the arena to an ovation of boos. Rolling back into the ring he throws his arms out and cackles, while Hessian takes a moment to digest the dull pain in his gut before pushing Matt Ward aside and getting to his feet.

Nick: The Universal Champion is shooting daggers at Jack; has the Jewel in the Crown winner overstepped the boundary here?

Richard: Damn skippy he did. I can see Hess's neck vein throbbing from here.

Sliding into the ring, Hessian gets in VJ's face and the crowd come alive. In broken English the packed arena calls for the giant to tear the Bringer of the Black Gospel apart.

Nick: Violence Jack's unique threshold for pain is about to be tested to the max. He's taken some punishment and dished out just as much but what will he make of the Murder Show if the Champion decides to let loose?

Richard: Hess already let him off with that moonsault, I don't think he's going to let it slip a second time.

Mouthing off to VJ, Hessian suddenly stops himself and cranes his neck back to look at Ward who is once again picking himself up off the floor.

Hessian: ONE! TWO! THREE-

The Inhuman Being stares up at the ring in disbelief as Hessian counts.

Hessian: FOUR! FIVE! SIX!

Nick: Good God in Heaven that's the fastest ten count I've ever heard!

Richard: Ward's gonna get counted out!

Hessian: SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TE-

Matt Ward slides into the ring right on the last flick of the tongue and charges past Hessian and into a shocked V-Jack with a flying back elbow out of nowhere!

RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Nick: Ward back with a vengeance now as he takes it to VJ!

Stomping a mudhole into VJ, Ward picks him up and whips him across the ring while Hessian watches on with interest. On the rebound VJ is scooped up by the Inhuman Being and planted with a mighty spinebuster. Ward pops back up from the momentum and collapses onto the top rope, taking a moment to get just enough breath to climb to the second rope.

Nick: Ward jockeying for position...

VJ refuses to stay down, getting to his feet in time to catch a huge cross-body from Ward. Both men hit the mat but using Matt's momentum against him VJ rolls his opponent over for a cover but without missing a beat Ward rolls his opponent back over and hooks the leg for a cover.

Nick: Damn it count!

Taking a moment to register the pin attempt, Hessian casually drops to his knees and plants one big paw into the mat.

ONE!

KICKOUT!

Matt Ward: You gotta be fucking kidding me?

The mics pick Ward's voice up clearly and some laughter rises up from the first few rows as Ward gets up along with Hessian and slams two palms into his chest. The giant glances off to the side looking none too pleased with the physical contact as Ward bombards him with trash talk, while VJ gets up slowly behind him.

Matt Ward: That should've been three, asshole! Count faster!

The Bringer of the Black Gospel stalks his opponent, and when Ward turns to face him he gets the full force of a boot to the gut as VJ hoists him up for a vertical suplex and then with all his strength turns to the ropes and brings Ward's full weight down across the top and using the bounce back to pull him vertical again and overhead for a modified Hangman's neckbreaker to great boos from the crowd.

Nick: Detonator Bravo! He could have it here!

Violence Jack makes the cover.

ONE!TWO!THRE-KICKOUT!

Ward kicks out and kicks VJ away, using his rage to power to his feet and slam into Hessian screaming "What the fuck was that?" to which Hessian simply replies

Hessian: You said count faster.

Spinning on his heels Ward is obviously dazed but still manages to duck the clothesline from VJ which he only manages to slow to a light smack across Hessian's chest, but the very idea of it enrages the giant. VJ's eyes go wide as Ward strikes from behind and locks in the Kata Hajime.

Nick: FTW! Ward has it locked in! Look at the ring positioning, VJ has nowhere to go!

Richard: VJ only just escaped with his life after nearly striking Hessian there and that was enough distraction for Ward to lock in his submission hold.

VJ struggles against the Inhuman Being's grip, his face quickly reddening and his arms waving around helplessly. All the time Ward stares into Hessian's eyes as veins bulge over his arms and neck and face and VJ slowly loses consciousness, unable to get out of the hold. Gradually his arms go limp until eventually they rest against the canvas.

Nick: Wow, that must be the quickest I have seen anyone knocked out by the FTW. Look at the rage in Ward's eyes.

Richard: Look at the disdain in Hessian's. He knows Ward is thinking about what that move would feel like on the Universal Champion.

Reluctantly, Hessian gets to one knee and grabs VJ's wrist. Elevating the arm, he releases and watches as it thumps against the canvas.

ONE!

Raising it again, Hessian watches as once more it flops to the mat, and the crowd come alive.

TWO!

The giant reaches for the wrist again, stops short of picking it up, stares into Ward's face and to the shock of the crowd spits in the eye of the Inhuman Being.

Nick: What in God's name?

Richard: The hell did he do that for? Ward has this thing won!

Violence Jack is released from the hold immediately and suddenly it's Matt Ward facing down Hessian. Both men adopt the stance and begin circling VJ's body ready to throw down. Grabbing his referee shirt at the collar, Hessian roars and tears the fabric straight down the middle with ease, throwing the remnants into the crowd and beckoning Ward to take a shot at his scarred body.

Nick: This was never a fair fight to begin with. Matt Ward wanted to prove how much better he is than Hessian, Hessian just wanted his two opponents to rip each other to shreds and

Richard: And Violence Jack was probably banking on this very moment right here.

As the air returns to VJ's lungs the Bringer of the Black Gospel glances up to see both men circling him. Too fatigued to smile he coughs up a slight chortle before rolling onto his side and gulping down oxygen.

Nick: Who's going to strike first?

Richard: Ward is worn out from this match, if he makes a move on Hessian he's done for, but at the same time he won't back off.

Nick: And what's stopping Hessian from lashing out?

As if in answer to Nick's question, Violence Jack suddenly jumps to his feet. At the same instant both Ward and VJ throw out a superkick at the Universal Champion. Hessian's head snaps back as both feet catch him square on the jaw, knocking him to the floor. The fans let the boos fly as the giant hits the deck. With a half smile on his face Ward turns to V-Jack, and the smile disappears as the Bringer of the Black Gospel kicks him in the gut and executes the Olympic slam, spiking Ward's head into the canvas and making sure to deposit the body next to that of the Murder Show.

Nick: R'lyeh Anthem! Hessian is down! This match is descending into chaos!

Richard: Jesus Christ was that coordinated? It happened so fast I couldn't even tell.

Throwing himself on top of Ward's body, Violence Jack grabs the limp arm of Hessian next to him and smacks it against the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Vince Howard: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Your winner......VIOLENCE JAAAAAAAAAACK!

"Puritania" by Dimmu Borgir hits the PA once more and the sadistic Violence Jack rises to his feet, raising his own arm in victory over the fallen bodies of Hessian and Matt Ward.

Nick: If that was a coordinated attack on the Champion then Violence Jack just used Matt Ward like a pawn in a game of chess! He just stole that victory!

Richard: All three of these men are tied to destiny by that Universal Title, Nick. Whatever semblance of rules we saw in this contest are well and truly out the window now as Violence Jack celebrates his victory.

Seeing the belt still fastened around the waist of the Champion, VJ pulls it off and turns to the crowd, climbing to the top turnbuckle and raising it in celebration. What he doesn't notice as the roof of the arena blows off with the ferocity of the boos is the giant silhouette rising up behind him.

Nick: Uh oh, this celebration is about to be cut short.

Richard: Behind you VJ! BEHIND YOU!

Feeling the movement of something behind him, VJ hops and turns in mid-air, landing face to face with Hessian and into a giant paw around his throat.

Nick: Here comes the Chokeslam!

Hessian holds Violence Jack in his grip for a moment, watching as his eyes bug out from the grip around his neck. As the arena fills with cheers now for a Hess-sized gorefest, the giant grabs his title from VJ and simple pushes him back into the turnbuckle, leaving him clutching his throat and gasping for air as the Murder Show backs off to the ropes and steps over them, hopping off the apron and backing up the ramp.

Nick: What...

Richard: Where's the bloodshed? Where's the murder, man?

Hugging his title to his chest, Hessian mouths inaudibly to Violence Jack who looks about as confused as everyone else as to why he didn't get an ass kicking just now. Gazing out at the crowd, Hessian sneers before disappearing behind the curtain.

Nick: You know Richard there's no doubt that Hessian is a legend in this sport. One of the most outrageous and hardcore sons of bitches we've ever seen compete in the squared circle.

Richard: Yeah?

Nick: But he hasn't been the same since winning that Universal Title. And I don't like it.

Richard: Well you might not have to dislike it for long because after what we saw VJ and Matt Ward pull out tonight Culture Shock is going to be one Hell of a show.

Nick: Without a doubt Richard. Folks the closer we get to Culture Shock the locations get more exotic and it seems the action follows suit. From Casablanca, Morocco, I'm Nick Stuart.

Richard: And I'm Richard Parker. Good fight!

Nick: Good night!