As the clock strikes 10, the fans surge up as one.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Behind the wall of perspex that imprisons them, the PRIME crowd continue to roar as the cameras zoom in on sections for the TV feed, which quickly becomes a wall of signs thrust towards the lens.

*BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!*

In a show of extravagance that could only come from a promotion headed by the Greediest Player in the Game - one Mr T Nelson - pyro deafens and blinds as the stage, aisle, and all the way down to ringside erupts.

With the sound of the captive crowd hammering on the perspex drowning out whatever music plays in the background, the camera zooms through the thick smoke to where the ReVolution announce team of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker sit, remarkably not caked in soot from the pyro statement.

Nick: HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE 98TH EDITION OF PRIME'S REVOLUTION, COMING TO YOU LIVE FROM THE FLEET CENTRE IN BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTES ON WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS "THE NIGHT OF THE 5 STAR"!!!

Richard: Well, despite sounding like a gay Anime DVD, we're looking to make history as, to keep the belt, the A-Listers will have to defend it THREE TIMES in one night. And, if anyone knows about doing it three times a night, it's me, and my money's on them to do just that.

While the Boston crowd impatiently await the show kicking off proper, the TV feed switches backstage to where a white Limo is waved through the security checkpoints, and into a loading bay in the bowels of the Fleet Centre. The blemish-free, brilliant white of the paintjob contrasts with the darkest tint windows as it slows to a halt, within earshot of the rowdy crowd at ringside.

Those at home ready whatever is at hand to hurl at the TV, expecting to see the smarmy mug of Tyler Nelson, or the suave smirk of Killean Sirrajin... and they're obliged by the latter.

But he's brought a guest.

As Killean steps out onto the concrete, checking the shine on his shoes and that his suit jacket hasn't crumpled, a bright head of offensive orange hair emerges from the Limo's shadowed interior. Before her sneakers have even touched down, the panicked figure of Blaine Blair scurries over, eyes already blood-shot, waving a copy of the show's program.

Blaine Blair: Karina! You're here! Thank God! You're up... NOW! As in now, now!

True to his word, the opening pulses of Overseer's "Velocity Shift" can be heard creeping through the concrete from ringside. Letting out a sigh, as if she never gets any peace around here, the K-Wolf tosses her bag to Killean, who in turn tosses it along to the driver as he steps out, almost bowling him over.

Killean Sirrajin: We pay people for that.

Karina Wolfenden: Well, thanks for the ride... now I have to go be a wrestler and stuff.

Killean Sirrajin: Yeah. Good luck.

He delivers it more like an in-joke than a sincere suggestion that she may need such assistance.

As Blaine Blair begins to herd the K-Wolf towards the Gorilla position, the TV feed rejoins the live crowd at ringside as the K-Wolf's lightshow is in full effect.

'SUPERCALIFRAGIALISTICWHENWEDROPWEGOBALLISTIC~!'

Right on cue, she bursts through the curtain, and the volume is kicked up several notches..

Vince Howard: THE FOLLOWING CONTEST IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE FALL!!!

Detached from the fans by the thick plastic barriers, there's little for the K-Wolf to do other than slot into the middle of the standard security detail and be escorted down to the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first: From Albany, New York... weighing in at 161 pounds... SHE IS THE K-WOLF... KARINA WOLFEDENNNNN!!!

Loosening up her shoulders amid the cramped space between security guards, Wolfenden gets her head into match-mode, despite the distractions around her. At the foot of the aisle, she finally sheds off armoured skin, and springs up onto the apron, before vaulting over the top rope... relishing the freedom from captivity.

In the light of recent events, little time is gifted to show or ceremony, and before she even lands in the ring, "What to Believe" by D.S. replaces Overseer.

Dwarfed by the six bulky SCS Security personnel locked in formation around him, Silvio Fiore emerges from the back.

Vince Howard: And her opponent: From Gillian Flats, Kansas... weighing in at 166 pounds... SILVIO FI-ORRRRRRRRRR-RE!!!

A warm reception greets the recent addition to the PRIME roster, who's already impressed them in his early bouts. Unable to make any grand gestures or expressions of personality within the enforced protective bubble, Silvio simply obeys the directive and lets himself be escorted down to ringside.

Running up the steps, the youthful Fiore wastes little time in hopping through the ropes and raising an appreciative arm to the welcoming fans, before allowing the official to check his tape and boots.

As referee Max Newell calls for the bell, the energetic Fiore strides to the middle of the ring, extending his hand to Wolfenden. After turning to spit her gum out through the ropes, Kari looks down at Silvio's hand, getting the feeling he won't start things until he gets a response one way or another. After 10 seconds or so, Kari nods, and gives Fiore's hand a single shake through her gloves.

The split second the handshake is released, Kari snaps herself around into a Spinning Backfist, but the deft Fiore has his wits about him, and manages to grab her wrist before knuckles make contact. Not giving up even a blink of speed to the K-Wolf, Fiore spins his body through, adding torque to Wolfenden's arm with a double-rotation Arm Wringer, forcing her to flip forward.

Landing on her feet, and with half the strain taken off her arm, Kari then has her legs swept before she can try anything else. Dropping down onto her, Fiore wraps the K-Wolf's twisted arm around her neck, trying to keep her pinned down for a quick fall.

"ONE!

T-NO!"

Not even giving the effort the dignity of a two-count, Wolfenden pumps her legs, kicking out, but allowing Silvio to slip in behind her and lock in a Cross-Face Chickenwing... obviously aware that the K-Wolf stands little chance of out-wrestling him on the mat. With her squirming body acting against Fiore, Kari manages to stop the Kansas native from securing his body scissors, then uses stamps of her feet to pin his knees down.

Refusing to give up his advantage, Fiore transitions into a Full Nelson, then bridges up, pinning Kari's shoulders down once again.

"ONE!

TW-NO!"

Again, Kari slams her heels down into Fiore's knees, collapsing the bridge.

Despite being spared an agonising throb within his joints, Silvio doesn't fancy repeating the same trick again, so instead rolls Wolfenden onto her front. Before she can think about improvising some counter-wrestling, Fiore switches to a Half Nelson on the K-Wolf, then ensnares the freed arm with his legs. Rocking his body to build up some momentum, Fiore rolls them both over into a Crucifix Pin.

"ONE!

TWO!

T-NO!"

Using the power packed in her legs to kick free, Kari instantly spins around on the canvas, taking a kick at Fiore's head which the younger opponent is wise to roll backwards and away from. Hopping up to her feet, the K-Wolf looks less than impressed at the youth's 'schooling' of her, while a smile breaks back across Silvio's face, seemingly having enjoyed the opening exchange.

Shaking her shoulders loose, Kari begins to stalk Fiore, while he appears to welcome any attack, poised to counter.

Just as she gets in range, the K-Wolf fires off a Snap Kick to Fiore's knee, catching the joint just as he goes with withdraw it. Seeing him on the back-foot, Wolfenden follows through with a Spinning Backfist with Silvio just manages to dart his head back out of the way of. With not even the briefest of pauses between strikes, Kari again aims a kick at the outside of Fiore's knee, but he composes himself just in time to catch her foot.

Before Kari can attempt the Enziguri that she's already picturing caving his skull in with, Fiore throws her foot up, forcing Kari to flip back onto her feet. But as The Cutting Edge goes to seize the advantage, she shoots forward, rolling into a Koppou Kick that sends Fiore flying backwards, bouncing off the canvas, and flipping onto his front where the buckles catch him.

Never ones to show a whole lost of sympathy, the PRIME fans rise and applaud the harsh shot, while a dazed Silvio drags himself up by the ropes he slips out of.

Seeing her opponent drop against the buckles, Wolfenden follows in with a trio of stiff Snap Kicks to the chest, each one knocking out whatever air that The Cutting Edge manages to suck in. Showing the kind of relentless onslaughts that has taken her to a record number of PRIME wins, Kari explodes off Fiore's chest with a Dropsault, landing crouched, already in the starter's blocks. Launching back up, Karina builds up a head of steam in only a few paces, leaping into Fiore with both knees to the sternum... then, as gravity takes a hold of her, Karina hooks around his head, pulling him into an Inverted Lungblower.

Bouncing off the points of Kari's knees, Silvio kneels, winded, and trying to heave air in through his wheeze. Bouncing back up, Kari sets herself in her kicking stance, and before Fiore can even see it coming, tries to behead him with a Roundhouse Kick.

Sent flying to his side by the ferocity of the kick, Silvio tumbles out through ropes and thumps down onto the ringside mats.

Despite feeling no pain, the ringing in his head slows Fiore down, giving Kari the time she needs to back off across the ring. As the dazed Cutting Edge pulls himself up, Kari begins her run-up, leaping blind over the top rope with a Fosby Flop to crash down at speed into Silvio with the Unethical Experimental. Maybe carrying a little too much speed into the move, Kari bumps against the perspex crowd barrier as she rolls through.

Staring up at the lights, Silvio winces, while Wolfenden rests against the barrier, then pushes herself back up against it.

Wanting to bring the fans to life, despite their captivity, she rhythmically thumps a gloved fist against the perspex, urging the fans to follow the beat until the deafening crashing echoes throughout the arena. As Silvio starts to rise, Kari pushes his head towards the barrier with her foot, pinning it against the plastic so that the vibrations can scramble his brains.

Then, once Wolfenden finally breaks, Silvio immediately ear-muffs himself... a wise choice since Kari follows it right up with another Roundhouse Kick, sandwiching Fiore's head and hands against the barrier with another crash.

Eyes roll back as Fiore slides down the barrier and spreads out on the mats.

Rather than drag Silvio back into the ring, Kari simply rolls back in under the bottom rope, inviting the official to count. Doing his duty, Max Newell starts reeling off the count while Fiore tries to re-align his senses, crawling back towards the ring as the sharp, splitting pain in his head subsides. Onto the apron Silvio climbs, while Kari gets into position behind Newell, poised to strike.

As she sees there won't be a count-out just yet, Wolfenden rushes past Newell, only for Fiore to spring back to life. Grabbing to top cable, Fiore springboards up onto it, then leapfrogs the onrushing K-Wolf. Regaining the speed that saw him dubbed Quicksilver, Fiore rushes to the opposite ropes, leaping onto the middle cable and springboarding off again in an attempt to fly over the head of the K-Wolf once more.

But despite the show, Kari quickly catches on to him, coming to halt just behind where Fiore lands, then almost squeezes his brains out the crown of his skull with an Enziguri Scissors Kick to each temple. Using the nerve-points to collapse Fiore, Kari spins back to her feet, wounds, ready to launch back into action.

As the camera flashes start, Kari flings herself up, turning 180 as she tucks in tightly, seemingly hanging in mid-air to spin through and score a standing 450 Splash. With the fans popping, the K-Wolf bounces back up, then again leaps up, flipping-off gravity to score with a standing Corkscrew Senton. Rolling through onto her feet, Kari finishes the sequence off by springboarding off the middle rope, spinning through to hit an Asia Moonsault Senton.

With Kari's tailbone slamming down into Fiore's ribs, his legs shoot up, allowing her to hook the far for a pin.

"ONE!

TWO!

THR-NO!"

Sitting up, Kari shoots the referee an appealing look, as if she's going to get a successful recount.

Struggling to shake the cobwebs loose, Fiore crawls to the corner, aiding weakened legs by using the ropes to pull himself up. Refusing to go easy on the youngest wrestler to set foot in a PRIME ring, Wolfenden rushes the corner, tumbling into a cartwheel, before springing up and whacking the sweet spot of her right foot against the side of Fiore's head with a Cartwheel Corner Kick.

Grabbing the ropes to swing down to her feet, Kari watches as a groggy Silvio stumbles out from the corner, then rushes him with a Pump Dropkick to the back. Sent flying forward, catching up with his lungs as they threaten to burst out of his chest, Alien-style, Fiore just manages to avoid flying head-long out through the ropes, instead hanging across the middle cable.

Keeping the tempo high, Kari springs up onto the top turnbuckle, then looks down at the prone minor.

Sensing what's coming, the violence-hungry PRIME fans rise and already begin to pop, before Kari leaps off, pumping bother feet down across Fiore's back and neck with a Double-Stomp, managing the grab the ropes to bring her skidding to a halt. A winded Silvio bounces on the middle cable, before Kari turns and flings a kick up into his face, sending the youngster tumbling backwards onto the canvas.

Leaning back against the ropes, she again instigates a deafening rattle of clubbing fist against perspex.

Turning her attention back to Fiore, Wolfenden grabs hold of the top rope, awaiting her opponent's rising. Yanking back on the cable, she springboards with a twist off the top, catching Silvio around the head and spinning through, aiming to spike him with the Dual Halo. But through the throbbing of his head, Fiore manages to counter, sandbagging the DDT, then seamlessly lifting the K-Wolf up and over with a Northern Lights Suplex.

"ONE!

TWO!

T-NO!"

Rather than kicking out, Kari locks her fingers, trying to roll Fiore over into a seated Guillotine Choke, only for the wiry, bendy Silvio to squirm his head free and bridge back to his feet.

Only the blink of an eye behind, Wolfenden kips up, but the second her feet plant on the canvas, Fiore is already at the summit of his vertical leap, before snapping the K-Wolf over with a Huricanrana. Reaching back, the minor hooks both of Karina's legs, and leans as far forward as he can without toppling the pin attempt over.

"ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!"

But as Silvio loads his weight forward, Wolfenden can simply slide her head from underneath her rolled up body, collapsing Silvio forward. Immediately up to her feet, Wolfenden scores with a double-hit Roundhouse Kick to the side of his head, leaving the Cutting Edge wobbling back and forth, before he collapses backwards. As soon as his back is flat against the canvas, Karina hurdles over him and rushes the ropes, springboarding off the middle cable for the Goodnight Moon.

Dazed, but not out-cold, Fiore has the sense to roll over towards her, forcing Kari to abort the move, only just managing to land crouched on her feet.

Exploding back up, Kari flips backwards into a standing Shooting Star Press, trying to catch Silvio off-guard, but the recent addition to PRIME manages to tuck his knees up, crunching into the K-Wolf's ribs as she lands across them.

Quick to take advantage of his winded opponent, Fiore hops up, then hooks the K-Wolf's head. Forgoing the ropes, Fiore simply leaps up, then swings around to spike the K-Wolf on the top of her head with a Tornado DDT. Seeing that she's close enough to the ropes, Silvio bursts up off the canvas and springboards onto the top rope, facing the fans, before hopping back off with an inside-tuck 450 Splash.

Hooking the far leg as it rises, Fiore lays all of his 160 pound frame across Karina's chest and shoulders.

"ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!"

But, just as the Cutting Edge is about to claim is scalp, the K-Wolf's shoulder shoots up. Ensnaring the arm, Fiore rolls through into another pinning combination.

"ONE!

TWO!

THRE-NO!"

Again, just as the three comes down, Wolfenden is able to slip her other arm out from Fiore's trapping limbs.

Before Silvio can try to lock her into another pin, Karina shoots up, Silvio mirroring her, but as he goes for a double-leg takedown, Kari flings her right knee up, catching him in the face. Despite being spared the pain of the crunching impact, Fiore is stunned, allowing Wolfenden to secure her clinch, giving her free reign to fire another trio of knees up into the unfortunate Fiore's face.

Releasing the clinch, Kari watches Silvio stagger back a few paces, then swiftly goes to follow the knees up with a running Moonsault Kick, but again Silvio shows his resilience by arching his head back out of harm's way. Frustrated at her opponent not giving up the fight, Karina then goes to swat the nose clean off his face with a Spinning Back Fist, but once again it fails to connect.

As Kari swings through, Fiore grabs her arms, then spins through for an Unprettier, only for the K-Wolf to harness the momentum and roll herself through into her C-4 set-up. Feeling the Cutting Edge try and squirm free, Kari flings her right foot back, catching Fiore in the face with her heel, before she walks the ropes and sharply flips, snapping Silvio down onto his neck where he folds up to queasy looks from those at ringside.

Spreading the minor flat against the canvas, Wolfenden hooks both legs and counts the pin on her fingers.

"ONE!

TWO!

THREE!"

As Overseer again threatens to rupture the arena speakers with an overdose of bass, the K-Wolf rolls to the outside, where Max Newell swiftly follows to raise her arm in front of the ringside cameras.

With little room for elaborate celebrations amid the current PRIME conditions, Wolfenden is simply escorted back up the aisle by CSC, while Newell slides back in to check on a awakening Fiore.

Upstairs, in the A-List luxury suite, we open on a shot of the 5-Star title, sitting alone on a cocktail table, gleaming just slightly because it was tipped forward in a convenient and photogenic manner.

As we pan out, we find all three members of PRIME’s lone power stable, sitting in the high chairs that surround the table. Danny Ferguson, Chandler Tsonda and the Illustrious Face-Eater are all dressed in their ring gear, all hunched over, and all staring at the belt.

Chandler Tsonda: Neither of you d-bags had better screw this up for me tonight.

Ah, unity.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Speak for yourself, Tsonny boy. You’re the one who nearly lost our precious, like, eight months ago.

Chandler Tsonda: We didn’t even have the belt eight months ago.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Yeah, well you STARTED EARLY!

Danny Ferguson: (rocking the Terry Funk bandana-and-ring-jacket look) Besides, at least Facey and I watched some video this week, and did a little preparation.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I only watched it because told me it was animal porn!

Danny Ferguson: It was a Titan St. James match.

Chandler Tsonda: So close enough?

Danny Ferguson: Exactly. But Chandler, you didn’t bother to do a thing this week. You didn’t scout anyone, you didn’t go to the gym. You didn’t even warm up. If we don’t leave here tonight with this belt, you know damn well that it’ll be your fault, and your ass.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall, Chandlers erstwhile valet, was standing off in the background, but saw a need to interject and defend her client.

Ellie~!: Look, Keanu, don’t lecture Channy on personal responsibility. Wasn’t it, like, YOU who got him into this situation in the first place?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: YEAH!

Danny Ferguson: Chandler, you’d better take the batteries out of your See-And-Say Barbie before she starts something you can’t finish.

Chandler Tsonda: Don’t blame the girl for speaking the truth, Danny.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: YEAAH!

Danny Ferguson: The truth? What Aquanet-addled section of your brain determines that as the truth?

Ellie~!: Oh, I dunno, let’s try that time last week where you were all like ‘Tyler, do this for me, do that for me, don’t fire my good buddy Kyle Lamen, I need another favor, please uncle Tyler, please!’

Chandler Tsonda: You heard the girl. If you hadn’t squatted on Nelson’s balls for most of the last show, he wouldn’t have flipped out and signed this match to begin with. You keep whining and crying about Lamen, and you’ve pretty much thrown us to the wolves. It’s YOUR FAULT we’re here.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: YEEEAAAAAH!

Danny Ferguson: (to Facey) What the hell are you backing him up for? If YOU hadn’t tried to book that match last week, I would’ve never talked to Nelson and he would’ve never flipped out. Hell, if we didn’t even put you in the stable way back when, this never would’ve happened!

He punctuates it with a shove to Facey, whose chair topples backwards on the minimal force. He rolls back to his feet quickly, cape flapping as he untangles it.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: MEEEE!?!? You dare to blame this on MEE!? I’m the one that holds this group together, you ball-sucking Hollywood ball-suckers!

Everyone falls silent to gaze at their fellow champ.

Ellie~!: Like, you wanna explain that one, junior?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: When people see me, standing in the same ring with Danny Ferguson and Chandler Tsonda, they don't see the powerful trio we are. No, all they see is two douchebags riding my coattails to glory but we're not all bad guys, people! You need to give us ALL a chance. Now I know some of us may look like homosexuals, and some of us have been in some really terrible movies, but come on. I know I'm not perfect. I mean, I still put my pants on one leg at a time! But now I've got two parnters so they can hold them up for me, while I climb on top of a dresser or something high and jump in. THEN I SHALL BE PERFECT! Do you see what I mean?! It takes a team to be perfect! AND WE ARE THE PERFECT TEAM!

Danny and Chandler, at the first of the speech, were about ready to jump him from behind. But his somewhat... positive undertones kept the flow going.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: 5-Star Championships. Tag-Team Championships. INTERNET AND SUPER FUCKING DUPER! We're all very accomplished and we're all very talented. UNLIKE THAT ASSHOLE NOVA WHO CAN'T EVEN GHOST A BONG RIP BECAUSE HE'S WEAK. YOU HEAR ME NOVA! YOUR SHIT IS WEAK! Ahem, I'm sorry. I guess I should get back on track.

Facey digs his toe into the mat a bit, then tilts his head back up to speak.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Tonight, we have a challenge ahead of us. And no, it isn't no bullshit Forskin and our subsequent circumcizion of PRIME. No, it isn't the SuperGays although I hear one of us is squaring off against the senior chapter. Tonight, we all have to prove that WE are the 5-Star Champions for a reason. Now I thank you all for your faith in my abilities, but you still have to support the team! Chandler and Danny need your prayers, folks! They need to know that you believe in them, because honestly their spirits are a little down because they know I have a secret society out to kill me and that only happens when you're fucking famous. Dan Brown famous. But it's alright dudes, you'll get there eventually. In the mean time, you guys can lick my ass. Did I say lick my ass? I meant good luck.

Chandler Tsonda: You aren't even ALLOWED to say shit like that to me anymore; I own you.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: YOU OWN SHIT!

Danny Ferguson: That’s what he just said.

Chandler Tsonda: You owe me $50,000,000!

Danny Ferguson: AND you owe me $50,000,000!

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Dude, I bought you a sack the other night. At least take of twenty bucks.

Chandler Tsonda: I don't even smoke, and this is the first I've ever heard about it. Did you smoke it all already?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: No, I was lying. I never bought a sack. I stole one though. And yes, I smoked it.

Chandler Tsonda: Screw this shit. I’m tired of it. YOU (pointing at Danny) dragged me into this. All you’ve done for us since we started The List is try to find ways to mess with Kyle Lamen because of some weird man-crush you’ve got on him. Now he’s got one foot out the door and you’re breaking down like a pre-teen on the last day of summer camp. So you try to meddle in MY business again, like all I f*cking do here is accommodate your plans. Why don’t you do something for ME, tonight, Danny? Why don’t you go out there and defend MY belt - the one I gained sole possession of when I put it up against every wannabe and shitstain in this place - and maybe when you’re done, we’ll call it even.

Danny Ferguson: Oh...oh...I see. I see how it is.

He gets up from his chair and walks around a little. As we follow him, we catch his manager, Reggie Delray, making full use of the catering table in the corner.

Danny Ferguson: See, I guess I’ve just been remembering stuff wrong. I seem to recall six months ago, when YOU (to Facey) were partying with Tony Danza and recruiting All That veterans to try and beat me, and YOU (to Chandler) couldn’t win a goddamned Revolution match against Paddy f*cking O’Shea! I seem to remember pulling together our team and winning enough matches that people could consider us a force. I seem to remember the both of you spending a lot less time staring up at the lights since I came along. And most importantly, I seem to remember that I was the one who brought that belt into our camp to begin with, and I was the one who made the first defense to legitimize it!

Ellie~!: Uh, like, didn’t Channy help you win that match anyway?

Danny Ferguson: I told you to shut her up-

He starts toward them, but Chandler braces for a fight and Reggie tries to hold Danny back. Facey steps up with hands raised.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: It's been six days, and we're all still waiting ... waiting for someone to come. But what if they don't? We have to stop waiting. We need to start figuring things out. A woman died this morning just going for a swim. And he tried to save her, and now you're about to crucify him? We can't do is. Every man for himself is not gonna work. It's time to start organizing. We need to figure out how we're gonna survive here. Now, I found water. Fresh water, up in the valley. I'll take a group in at first light. If you don't wanna come, then find another way to contribute. Last week, most of us were strangers. But we're all here now. And god knows how long we're gonna be here. But if we can't live together ... we're gonna die alone.

Again, Facey gets a blank stare. Danny snaps everyone out of it with a finger poke to Chandler’s chest.

Danny Ferguson: Regardless of what the retarded kid just said, we’ve spent all this time relying on each other, and getting by as a group. Tonight, we’re all on our own, so maybe we’ll find out who the weakest link of this unit is after all.

Chandler Tsonda: Whatever ‘Terry.’ Wait until I get myself out of this mess, which I again would like to say that I have no part of creating, and then we’ll talk again. I’m Audi.

He snatches the belt off the table, and both of the other men make an instinctive grab for it. With a shrug to shoulder the title and a brief flash of Blue Steel, he heads out the door with Ellie in tow. Danny is still steaming, but Facey, remarkable, is calm.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Phew. Who’s glad he’s gone, huh?

He raises his hand and looks around, trying to get someone else to raise theirs. Reggie eventually complies.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Lots of negative energy in this room, Danimal. Hey, I gotta quick question - if you and Charlie Chan are both out $50 mil courtesy of some cool guy who we won’t mention by name...who’s paying for the suite?

Danny Ferguson: Now is probably not the time for this, Dick.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Dude, I’m just trying to douse the coals here. There’s no better way to facilitate a make-up than by isolating a third party and joining forces against him! Come on, we’re halfway there! At least say you think Nova’s a pole-smoking bowl smoker? Eh? Eh? Now that The eVolution of Tumorelution is out of the picture, you gotta hate someone, right?

Danny’s remarkably quiet, contemplating the evening’s events so far, but he quickly turns to grab Facey by the cape on the Lamen comment.

Danny Ferguson: Just do your job tonight, ok? We’ve got another title defense in two weeks at Rev 100, but tonight is about the 5-Star. So I don’t want to see your face again until we pull the sweep on these fools and show everyone - including Tyler - who runs this show.

He lets go of Facey and storms out, followed quickly by Reggie, who wipes the buffalo sauce on his jacket as he runs out. The cadre of CSC guards waiting outside are visible as the door swings wide and Danny exits, leaving Facey alone.

Facey surveys the room to insure his alonedness before producing a bag of his favorite plant from under the cape.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: (in a low enough tone for no one to hear, mostly for posterity) So you dudes don’t want any of this shit I bought with your cash? Alright, I’ll take care of it myself.

A teenage arena worker is changing the trash bag in the suite as Facey starts to roll up, and being a teenage with a dead-end job, he recognizes that smell anywhere.

Worker: Dude, you lighting up?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Don’t Vetra my shit, son.

Chandler Tsonda is peeved. Nay, steamed. He doesn’t get to do the thing he’s best at: talk shit and do nothing, while he’s forced to do something he hates doing: wrestle. Add this to the fact that the A-List is one more roach clip left on the floor of the communal skybox away from complete war. Oh and remember to point out that he could leave what he believes to be his belt tonight without getting pinned.

And then place him in catering, where there are surprisingly few other PRIME superstars. This creates a recipe for a stewing Tsonda.

As he enters the catering area, he gives the unnecessary push to a member of the staff, trying to prove his own toughness, but what actually happens is that he offers a shove and the guy does not go straight into the catered layouts, but he merely continues on his way. Tsonda can’t even succeed at being a dick tonight.

Chandler Tsonda: Jesus Munro Christ! Why does it smell like a vagina bazaar in here? Well, any of you fucks going to answer me?

That’s right; he’s picking a fight like the really drunk guy at a party who doesn’t know he just fell down a flight of stairs. He’s now using his place in the center of catering as a sort of pulpit, spitting at any and all passerby.

Chandler Tsonda: Don’t you all understand? I’m the Five. Star. Champion. I defended against Lame-Face and Titan St. Knobjob and…ALL COMERS. Do you see Killean Sirrajin putting his belt on the line not once, but THRICE in one night? Do you see Tony Gamble…well….at all?

The crowd doesn’t take kindly to Tsonda creating literal headaches so most of the responses are mumbles of things like "yeah, I never see Killean defend a title that he didn’t even win" or "Titan kicked your ass." That’s right, the ring crew doesn’t have any love lost for Chandler Tsonda, a backstage prima donna if ever there was one.

Chandler Tsonda: My focus is unmatched anywhere in…oh hey muffin!

Yes, the end of that sentence sounds as feminine as it looks in writing as Eleanor Kannon-Hall makes her way over to the side of the Viet Viper.

Chandler Tsonda: Dear, I was just telling these Neanderthals about exactly what I mean to this company. So much so that they want me defending my belt not once, but THREE TIMES THREE TIMES THREE TIMES!

Dear God. He even holds up the three fingers to the camera, hoping for a response, but literally the only sound is the echo of his voice and a stagehand unable to control his laughter.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: I thought we hated that it’s getting defended three times…three times, three times?

Chandler Tsonda: Yes, but-

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: And I thought it was all the little kid’s fault that we got into this sitch in the first place?

Chandler Tsonda: It is, but if life gives you lemons-

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: YAY CITRUS!

The Sultan of Style can give a hearty nod to that, before turning back to the otherwise unoccupied, but still inattentive, stagehands.

Chandler Tsonda: That’s right, my focus is-

Johnny Noble: Questionable, at best.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: Ohmigosh, you’re so our arch-nemesis right now.

Indeed, the appearance of Johnny Noble is more bad news for Tsonda. As part of the challenger triumvirate, Noble has a shot at making it a VERY bad night for Tsonda and the A-List.

Johnny Noble: Good to see our undaunted Five-Star Champion hasn’t been reduced to yelling meaningless threats at…dang, that’s awkward.

Chandler Tsonda: Oh ha ha, you thunderous shithead. From whence do you come? How are you ALWAYS appearing to steal my thunder?

Johnny Noble: Guess I’m just lucky.

Ellie turns to Noble and pooh-pooh’s.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: That’s not very lucky at all, considering we like you about as much as we like fake Louis Vuitton. And we hate fake Louis.

Tsonda throws his arms up.

Chandler Tsonda: I swear to God; I thought Little Vietnam only sold the authentic stuff!

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: Anyway…do we, like, deride you some more now or what?

Johnny Noble: Say, Chandler: I know you’re not one for gentleman’s agreements…well, ya gotta be a man to make one of those, so let’s just forget the first part. Still, if one of us takes the belt tonight, let’s settle this in the ring. I think we both know that you can’t stand not beating me and I feel the same. So what say we have a mat-

Chandler Tsonda: Nope.

Mr. Incredible looks rather surprised.

Johnny Noble: Fine, but if I win-

Chandler Tsonda: Don’t care. Don’t want it.

Johnny Noble: Do I really scare you that much? C’mon, I may be a legend, but I’m not that scary, even to a makeup-wearing punk like you.

Chandler Tsonda: I said no; got it, cock?

Johnny Noble: Fine. (pause) Pansy.

And the Model Citizen still doesn’t rise to the bait. Noble breathes out a short sigh of "well, that’s that" and turns to go away, looking back over his shoulder at the seething Tsonda. Instead of calling over his shoulder, Noble turns on a dime.

Johnny Noble: Just curious, but how’s it feel to have your world crumbling around you? After all the flak you gave me, it puts me in stitches that you get a taste of your own medicine.

Chandler Tsonda: How does it feel?

Oh yes, we’ve got the old "restating the question" to full emphasize the poignant, witty answer.

Chandler Tsonda: It feels SHUT THE HELL UP, that’s how it feels. At least my best friend didn’t pork my daughter.

Not a hair of movement from Johnny Noble.

Eleanor Kannon-Hall: And if the other one wasn’t a massive homo sapien, ya know…

Johnny Noble: Say her name again and I swear on all things holy that I’ll wring your neck, Tsonda.

Chandler Tsonda: We all have our soft sports, don’t we Johnny? It just appears that Iggy’s got what it takes to make Hayley’s moist. He’s got….ack….Ellie…call help!

The end of that sentence would be cut short by the fact that a massive Noble paw is around the throat of Chandler Tsonda, holding him. The smaller Five-Star Champion tries with both hands to free himself, but there’s not hope of that.

Johnny Noble: You’re scum, you know that?

Chandler Tsonda: Wait, wait.

He tries to catch his breath and Noble looses the hold ever so tightly, so Tsonda isn’t forced to choke his words out.

Chandler Tsonda: Tell Iggy that I call dibs on sloppy seconds with your whore of a-

Now this sentence ends because Chandler Tsonda goes onto and then promptly thereafter THROUGH one of catering’s tables. The table cushions him from hitting the cement straight on, but there’s still severe impact involved. All at once, the supposedly safe catering area erupts with chatter and CSC security moves into action, but Noble is on a tear. He pulls Tsonda by the hair from the wreckage of the table as Ellie looks on, bewildered.

He clears off yet another catering table and places Tsonda on the table, then throws his elbow continuously into the lightly protected sternum of his truly hated rival. At this point, Ellie tries to move in to stop Noble, but is brushed aside by security, aided by the giant Titan St. James. TSJ is the one who actually restrains Noble, who nearly takes off his head with a right hook, but Titan catches the hand.

Titan St. James: You wouldn’t want to be swinging fists at me, Mr. Noble.

And as steamed as Tsonda was before, Noble is TEN times that pissed now, kicking over yet another catering table in his rage and then storming off. TSJ watches as security pulls up Chandler Tsonda, who’s grabbing his side in pain. He looks up at Titan and immediately has words for him.

Chandler Tsonda: Weinstein, mind your own fucking business.

The giant former military employee takes a step towards Tsonda and the Model Citizen flinches about ten inches backwards. Satisfied with owning the mental edge over his possible opponent for later in the night, Titan enlists the help of the ring crew to help put the area back to its normal state and Chandler Tsonda licks his wounds, with Ellie at his side, a very small comfort at this point in the night.

The PRIME-a-Tron flickers to life, exposing the arena to the smug mug of Tyler Nelson. The man in charge of PRIME smiles superficially into the camera as the capacity crowd boos, the fans in the front rows pounding their fists on the plexiglass security barricade erected to keep them where they belong.

Tyler: Good evening! I’d welcome all of you Bostonians to the show, but you’ve already paid to get in so why bother?

A satisfied sneer from the CEO as he stirs the crowd up even more.

Nick: Perhaps our fearful leader would like a repeat of ‘The Incident’?

Richard: Don’t bring that up, moron! Do you want to get us all canned?

Nick: What the hell is he doing up there, anyway?

Richard: Does it matter? Until you get the title CEO next to your name, you’d be best advised to know your role and shut your damn mouth! If ya SMELLLLLLLLALALALALA….what The Rich….is…..cookin!

Nick: Oh…sweet…Jesus.

The camera pans back a bit from the CEO’s greedy face, and we see that he’s not in his usual surroundings. Not in his office as normal, Nelson appears to be at what looks like a restaurant. He’s seated at a table covered with a white table cloth and two place settings. A bottle of champagne chills in a sterling silver bucket full of ice. Seated off in the distance, looking bored and rather disinterested in the goings on around him, is Nelson’s new personal protection specialist, Jim Axtell. ‘The Axphyxiator’ leans back in a chair against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.

Tyler: As you can see, I’m not able to be with you there are the arena tonight. I have an important meeting with the head of FX, Mr. John Landgraf. He probably wants to gush about how well PRIME is doing and thank me personally for giving his network another ratings hog, and rightfully so. I’ve overcome obstacle after obstacle in order to make PRIME what it is today. That includes the little Chet Worth fiasco from a couple weeks ago.

The smile slowly dissipates from the lips of the CEO.

Tyler: Speaking of Chet Worth, I know all of you fans would like to hear an apology from him for what he did that fateful night. I’d sure as hell like one, too. I’ve had to do more damage control over the past two weeks than I’ve ever had to do. Over the past two weeks I’ve had to grease more palms and pay for more dinners than I’d care to in order to try and smooth things over, but I’m finally starting to recoup some of the money I lost from the insurance companies so it’s not a total loss.

Nick: Oh cry me a freakin river. That whole thing was not all Chet Worth’s fault, and he knows it!

Richard: Oh contraire! That fat slob worked the fans of PRIME into a feeding frenzy for weeks over that stupid ticket, which DA BOSS~! should have won anyway, and now he’s not man enough to stand up to it.

Tyler: People, Chet Worth nearly sank PRIME with his greed. He nearly ruined everything for you. I mean, look at the security measures we now have to take in order to even put on a show for you!

More pounding on the plexiglass security barrier.

Tyler: If it wasn’t for Chet Worth we wouldn’t have to use that barrier to keep you fans on your side of the railing. If it wasn’t for Chet Worth we wouldn’t have to keep the wrestlers confined to designated areas on the back, caged like animals. If it wasn’t for that son of a bitch Chet Worth, we wouldn’t have had to sign a contract with an outside security company in order to make the network happy! Do you realize how much CSC costs per event? It’s outrageous!

There are various ‘ASSHOLE!’, ‘F.U.!’, and ‘YOU SUCK!’ chants that rise from the fans in the arena.

Nick: Like Nelson really cares about the fans, the other wrestlers, or anyone else for that matter! The bottom line is how much this affects his pocket book, and from what I hear he’s had to shell out a fortune! I LOVE IT!!

Richard: Yeah, wait to see how much he’s taking from your check each week to cover it. Perhaps you should think about putting your house on the market and living in your car for a while.

Tyler: In any event, if Chet Worth were a real man he would come to the show, apologize to everyone like he should, and take his punishment. But that won’t happen, because he’s a coward. So until he decides to own up to what he’s done, I’ll make sure that Chet Worth is on every single black list known to man. He won’t even be able to fill his car with gas when I get done with him.

The insincere smile forms on Nelson’s face once again.

Tyler: You can all thank me later.

A waiter comes up to the table and pops open the bottle of champagne, pouring a glass of the bubbly into a crystal flute and setting it in front of Nelson.

Tyler: Well, I must go for now, but rest assured that I’ll be keeping tabs on the show throughout the night. While the big cat is away, the mice will most definitely NOT play!

The camera fades out as we move to the announce table.

Nick: We all know good and well why Nelson isn’t here tonight!

Richard: Duh! He told us he’s got a meeting with the head of FX. Tyler Nelson rubs elbows with only the most influential people in the world, Nick! Know that!

Nick: That’s bullshit! He’s NOT here because Ivan Stanislav IS HERE! He knows that Ivan will rip him apart!

Richard: Not so fast, my friend! Nelson’s got a nice little insurance policy in Jim Axtell. He’s a former PWC World Champion and is well known in the personal protection industry.

Nick: Axtell doesn’t even like Nelson, Richard. He said so himself.

Richard: Money is the great equalizer, Nick. Axtell may not like Nelson, but he likes his bank account right about now. I hear his wife can’t spend the cash fast enough.

Nick: That’s none of our business, but Axtell doesn’t seem like the type to sell out.

Richard: It’s not selling out if he’s doing his job, like you should be doing right about now. Don’t we have a match or a seg to get to?

Sitting quietly at the desk in the room devoid of any other furniture, Jim Axtell knows what is going to happen. It's like clockwork, really, and it would only be a matter of time before it happened. He’d watched on television over the past few weeks, and it was like death and taxes…guaranteed.


Ivan Stanislav will come barging into the room, demanding that he see Tyler Nelson, and threaten to crush him under "the collective might of his glorious boot heel!"

So typical.

So Ivan Stanislav.

And so, Jim Axtell, the personal bodyguard of Tyler Nelson, sits quietly in the room. He needed a break from the blustering of the CEO. The incessant ramblings of his greatness could only be handled for so long, so Jim excused himself from the restaurant to ‘see to some important security details’ and went to the one place he knew Nelson wouldn’t be.

If Tyler Nelson was at the arena this evening, this room would have been filled with the most expensive, most lavish amenities that Nelson would enjoy.

But it wasn't.

Not only wasn't the room filled with the objects which Nelson adored. It also lacks one other key piece of furniture: Tyler Nelson. Don't tell Nelson that Axtell thought of him as furniture for a moment. That would make his overblown ego even more threatening. ‘The Axphyxiator’ isn’t particularly fond of Tyler Nelson, but circumstances dictate actions from time to time, and Jim needed to take the job. Hopefully it wouldn’t be something he regretted, although that might be inevitable.

Axtell smiles to himself, before suddenly cocking an ear. What is that he hears?

The rhythmic, angry stomping of a man probably tipping the scales at four hundred pounds. Undoubtedly clad in black pants, a black t-shirt, and red suspenders. Quite possibly, the fellow will also have an unkempt beard, Russian accent, and a huge chip on his shoulder.

Like clockwork, the door is booted in, Ivan Stanislav marches into the room, and bellows at the top of his lungs.

Ivan: Ivan demands to see Tyler Nelson! He will now crush him under the collective might of his glorious boot heel!

Axtell can't help but smile. Of course, Stanislav doesn't realize why. With a shrug, Axtell props his feet up on the empty desk.

Axtell: I'm sorry big fella, he's not here.

Ivan: What do you mean, he is not here?!

Axtell: Haven’t you been paying attention tonight? He’s at a so-called business dinner with some suit from FX…although I hadn’t seen the guy as of when I left. Besides, you scare the crap out of him, Ivan. You know how Nelson is! Tuck tail and run, especially when a raving psychopath with a slight lack of fashion sense is one the loose.

Stanislav ignores the blatant jab at his outfit, the rage building in his eyes.

Ivan: He cannot hide forever! Had you not gotten in Ivan's way last week, he would be stain on floor!

Axtell: Look, Ivan.

Jim stands up.

Axtell: I'm just doing my job. You can understand that, can’t you? We’re both blue collar guys. My job is to protect Nelson from bodily harm. That’s what I did last week. I don’t have, nor do I want, a beef with you. But I will do my job to the best of my ability, Ivan.

Stanislav clenches his hands into fists.

Ivan: You're as foolish as Nelson is stupid, James Axtell!

Pointing a disparaging finger at Axtell, Stanislav continues his rant.

Ivan: You are simply delaying the inevitable, James Axtell! Ivan Stanislav will finish what was started years ago. Your employer cannot hide from me every show. Ivan will find him and crush him…and anyone who stands in my way!

Stanislav turns and stomps to the door. A sly smile crosses Axtell's face, but as Stanislav grips the door handle, he pauses.

Ivan: One moment.

Stanislav slowly turns to face Axtell.

Ivan: The worker only is present at workplace. Where job is to be done.

Axtell cocks an eyebrow.

Ivan: So, if you are here to protect Nelson. And you are, in effect, proletarian worker under his watchful gaze.

A light bulb.

Ivan: That means…your means of work IS HERE!

Axtell's face shifts from a grin to a slight wince.

Ivan: DYAAHAA!! You are lying dog! Ivan knew it! If you are here, then Nelson is here!

Jim sighs heavily.

Axtell: I guess that does make some sense, doesn’t it?

Ivan grins wildly and nods.

Ivan: Thank you, James Axtell, I am sure this will warrant you a raise and promotion! NELSON!!!

Stanislav turns on his heel and barrels through the door. Instead of opening the door, he walks through it, and stomps angrily down the hallway.

"YOU CANNOT HIDE, TINY LITTLE WORM!!"

‘The Axphyxiator’ pauses for a moment then starts toward the door himself.

Axtell: Here we go again.

Bill Conti's "Gonna Fly Now" begins with the sound of trumpets and the audience explodes. The trumpets sound again and they're on their feet. The bass kicks in, the blue and white lights roam and flash about the arena, "Mr. Incredible" Johnny Noble walks out and the roof comes off the building! If there's anything that can be said about Johnny Noble, it's that he knows how to get people cheering for him. The pop that results from his appearance at the top of the entryway flanked by the seven guards is pimp. And by that I mean cool beans. And by that I mean that they generally like Noble.

He walks down wearing his latest merchandise: it includes a bigass top hat with his face on it (but it's white, and worn much better than Buff Bagwell ever did with his) and a blue shirt that reads, "Johnny Noble -- By the people, For the people." At this point, he'd be slapping hands, posing for photos, and kissing babies. Well, the plexiglass wall separating them from the fans isn't the best quality, and distorts pictures from all cameras save for those auto-correcting Japanese digital ones (we need to just invade and take all of their technology by force). The hands and babies would have to wait to be kissed and slapped, respectively... no, wait. Gah, point is, between the guards and the high security wall, Johnny Noble isn't getting anywhere near the people and vice-versa.

But he still plays it up. In compensation, he's doing extra posing. Not even the Poser Mobile kind, either. Stopping at the base of the ringsteps, Johnny Noble considers his options. Going up the stairs into the ring, he then pulls off the t-shirt and throws it over the wall to the youngest ringside fan he can see. The top hat likewise, though if doesn't fly so well as a balled-up shirt, and drops off-course. Then he gets in the ring and points to north side of the arena, beating his chest after to work the crowd. Then the east, then south, then west. He does a circular overhead motion (like a tornado) and beats his chest again with the whole arena being worked up.

Behind him, dropkick to the back of the knee. Apparently one of the shorter guards was The Illustrious Face-Eater in disguise. That would explain why Noble had seven guards with him instead of the standard six. Noble down to a knee, Facey hits him in the back of the head with one of their little nightstick dealies. The bell hasn't rung yet, and the A-Lister commands the referee to call for it. He gets that much, begrudgingly, and then razzes the security personnel as they can't get into the ring to stop him (they would've before). The pin is academic, while the crowd is booing immensely.

1....

2.....

Kickout!

Did I mention that the Illustrious Face Eater had to repeat a grade? DAMN YOU, ACADEMICS! The much smaller man must stay on the attack, and it's now a good idea to stomp, stomp, stomp like this is a Broadway production. Johnny Noble pushes himself off of the mat, Facey's lack of power very evident. Crowd-reaction aside, this is the same kind of physical matchup as Billy Kidman vs. Hulk Hogan, and we know how that turned out. Speaking of which, the Face-Eater is pushed away. The crowd cheers as it can for Noble, who meets the former Internet champion with a clothesline to put him down. A big leg drop nets him a count of--

1.....

2!

The Eater of Faces thinks, "No GOTDAMN WAY I'm losing to a legdrop!"

Johnny Noble pulls Facey to a standing position, hitting him with a big punch that doesn't put him down. Three more are accompanied by some sort of "Hoo" sound from the live crowd. I dunno. The final windup only gives What's His Face the opening to fall backward with the low dropkick to the knee. Noble once again takes damage to that right leg. Rolling over onto all fours, Facey stands up and gets pulled down by the nape of his neck courtesy of Mr. Incredible. Noble sits up his diminutive opponent for a Sleeper Hold, but frantic scratching at the eyes is not outside of the realm of things that Eat-Facer will do to keep from being defeated. Scooting forward on his ass, because he's gangsta like that, Eater leans back to kick Noble in the face, because he's wanksta like that. Mr. Incredible falls back on the mat, a Senton on the face serving to lead into the A-Lister's pin attempt again.

1.....

2.....

And the flat press sends Face up off of him, a few feet away. The crowd is chanting to get behind Johnny Noble, and he soaks in their energy to come alive while the Illustrious Face Eater kicks at the man's head. "NO-BLE! NO-BLE! NO-BLE!" They ooze for him to win (as opposed to creaming for someone to win... that's reserved for sexier people). Noble all but no-sells the kicks, punching Facer in the head as he comes to his full height of 6'7". The Face-Eater gets whipped into the ropes for the Hogan Combo, but holds on so that Johnny misses the Big Boot. Rushing in (although for his size it's more of a power-walk), he goes in after the A-Lister only to go over the top rope as Eater pulls down the top rope. Johnny Noble falls out to the floor, which given his size and lack of proficiency in taking high falls only means that he'll be down for a while. In the ring, the Illustrious Face Eater holds the side of his own face, screaming something to the effect of "SWEET CYBORG JESUS that guy hits hard!"

The referee counts the ring out. The people, the good people, are cheering him on to get up. It's a count of four before he does so, and even then he gets up slowly since, hey, that's 53 years and 320 pounds that just fell over the top rope to the floor. By a count of six, he's up and heading back to the ring. The Face Eater dashes to the edge of the ring, hitting him through the ropes with a dropkick to stagger his man backward. That eats up another second, but it's still only the count of eight and Johnny Noble is quick to recover. "NO-BLE! NO-BLE! NO-BLE!" He's got to get in there, got to win this for them. But the Face-Eater doesn't want this match to continue. And he's not the one who has the pressure on him. The rules are in his favor, the advantage. If he loses, it's all over... but he doesn't have to win either. At the count of nine, one more high-flying attack, this one a Suicide Dive over the ropes. Of course, Noble catches him. The Eater of Faces scratches and kicks and does whatever he can to stall. And it works.

Ten!

A countout draw. That's what he settles for. All he had to do. The referee registers the ending with the timekeeper, and the match is announced as a draw. And since he's the kind of guy that he is, Johnny Noble immediately releases the Face-Eater. Big mistake, as he just goes and hits him in the back of the head with the timekeeper's chair. That's when security swarms in, but by then it's too late. The damage is done. The second Five-Star match ends on a good note; at the very least, the A-List hasn't lost any ground. Now onto the main event, where they'll need to win decisively.

The match between "Mr. Incredible" Johnny Noble and The Illustrious Face-Eater is ruled a DRAW.

The PRIME-A-Tron switches to a backstage shot, and the fans in the arena erupt as a side entrance door opens and Nova steps into view.

Nick: Nova has arrived in the Fleet Center!

Richard: For God’s sake, Nick, we aren’t blind. I can spot a douchebag when I see one.

Nick: And you’d know what one looks like.

Richard: Damn right. I sit next to you every week, don’t I?

Nova makes his way down the hall before turning into the relative darkness of the gorilla position. The camera follows him as he jogs up the steps and throws the curtain back to an explosion of cheers from the crowd as "Maggot Brain" plays over the loudspeakers. The angle switches to the traditional ring-facing-entrance cam as Nova steps out onto the ramp and raises a fist to the crowd.

Nick: I, for one, am ecstatic about seeing this man on PRIME television. Nova’s been a ghost for much of the new year.

Richard: Well, that makes one.

Nick: Sounds more like 20,001 to me.

Nova walks down the ramp, slapping a few hands on both sides. He rolls under the bottom rope and stands up in the ring, motioning for a mic.

"NO-VA! NO-VA! NO-VA! NO-VA!"

The fans finally quiet down as a techie hands Nova a mouthpiece. The Rising Star pauses to light a cigarette.

Nick: Let’s hear what he has to say.

Richard: I’d rather not.

Nova: I know there are at least two questions floating around that need to be answered, so that’s more or less why I’m pulling the dreaded in-ring card.

Confused looks from the crowd, except for that one guy in the third row with the "Kayfabebreakersayswhat?" t-shirt. He’s laughing hysterically.

Nova: Number one: Where the hell have I been these last…um…well, I don’t know how long it’s been, but it’s been a while.

Richard: Was that even a question?

Nova: Number two: Why didn’t I care last week when the Illustrious Face-Eater deliberately had me booked in a match only so he could march out with Motoki once it was underway and have it called off, hopefully embarrassing me in the process?

Nick: Now I was wondering about that.

Nova: I can pull a "two birds, one stone" here and tackle both of those at the same time. See, about three weeks or so ago, I started negotiations with another company.

Nick: WHAT?!

Richard: Did he…did he just…OH THANK YOU, GOD! YOU ARE A SWEET AND MERCIFUL GOD!

The crowd boos as though Carlos Mencia had just come out and attempted to be funny by "shocking" everyone with his off-color comments and idiotic noises.

Nova: I know, I know…but this company offered me a crapload of money to be the face of their product.

Nick: I can’t believe this! Who could it be…FUSE? HSW? eWrestling.Org? HATE? *shudder* AWC?

The booing intensifies. Nova grins mischieviously.

Nova: I never thought you guys had such an aversion to Frito-Lay’s Munchies.

The crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief.

Nick: Oh, wow, I almost had a hear-

Richard: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nova: Representatives from Frito-Lay contacted me and asked if I’d be interested in appearing in a series of ads for Munchies. Of course, the first thing that popped into my head was "Why me?" Besides the obvious reasons, I meant more specifically, "Why not the Illustrious Face-Eater? Not only does he share my herb-tastic reputation, but he’s actually an active superstar in PRIME, and thus, seemingly more able to spread the proverbial word about the product in question. This question I presented to the reps. You guys following me?

Many people aren’t, but you can’t please everybody all the time. Dig it?

Nova: Now I happened to have my TalkBoy with me (you’ll remember this handy gadget from Home Alone 2) when I posed this question to the Frito dudes, and I captured their response, which I will now have pumped through the Fleet Center sound system. I apologize for the poor quality. My TalkBoy is old and tired.

A crackling sound…

Nova: Why not the Illustrious Face-Eater? Not only does he share my herb-tastic reputation, but he’s actually an active superstar in PRIME, and thus, seemingly more able to spread the proverbial word about the product in question.

Voice: A well-articulated argument, to be sure. Well, Nova, despite the fact that as you mentioned, the Illustrious Face-Eater has, er, similar lifestyle choices and is an active member of the PRIME roster, we just don’t feel that he would be able to adequately represent the image of Frito-Lay, and of the Munchies product, for several reasons.

Nova: Oh, do elaborate. Please.

Voice: Certainly. First of all, he’s, well, not as tall as you are, and speaking in the parlance of our times, he appears to weigh a buck-forty soaking wet.

Nova: He’s a scrawny fucker, no diggity.

Voice: Indeed. He’s also abrasive, and honestly, makes people uncomfortable to be around him.

Nova: Not a people person. I see where your head’s at, and I feel you.

Voice: We’re glad that you do. The mask also presents a problem for us. People won’t identify with him because of it.

Nova: I know I sure as hell don’t.

Voice: Case in point. You understand now why we want you, and not the Illustrious Face-Eater?

Nova: Because I’m superior in many ways, the most important of which being my attractive, witty, well-acclimated-while-remaining-malleable personality?

Voice: In a rather large nutshell, yes.

Nova: I love you guys.

The camera cuts to Facey staring at a computer monitor in the back, quivering with rage. Several people around him are struggling unsuccessfully to contain their laughter.

Nova is not. In the ring, he’s leaned against one of the ropes, laughing so hard that one might describe it as "guffawing"…if one were so inclined. The crowd shares in the mirth.

Nova: Okay, okay, okay. We could sit here and enjoy each other’s company all night, and believe me, I’d love nothing more, but there is a show to continue, so I must press on. I thought about their offer long and hard (hehe…he said long and…I’m sorry). But then I read over the contract, and I saw the most interesting thing! Apparently, in addition to my own personal payments, PRIME gets a kick-back from Frito-Lay for my work!

Richard: Money, money, money, moooooonay! Moooooooonaaaaay!!


Nick: Shut up.

Nova: That got me to thinking…PRIME has not been my best buddy lately. No one stuck up for me when Motoki suspended me. No one wanted to hear my side of the story. As a result, I’ve been side-lined. Why the shit would I want to put money in the pockets of the people who have treated me with, if I may say so, unparalleled disrespect? I hate advertising, anyway. Perhaps I should just can the whole idea. But then, I thought of a man in a position of power who cares about dead presidents than anything else in the whole world…

The audience boos for the name they know he’ll mention.

Nova:…"the Greediest Player in the Game," Tyler Nelson!

"BOOOOOOO!!! BOOOOOOOO!!!"

Nova: I know, I don’t like him either, but he has stroke, and he loves money, and that works for me right now. I believe we can use this newfangled technology to contact Nels-

"One step ahead of you, Mr. Nova!"

The crowd unleashes boos as Tyler Nelson appears on the PRIME-A-Tron.

Tyler Nelson: Time is money, Mr. Nova, so I’ll be brief. I’ve seen the proposal. I want that kick-back. The question is, what do you want?

Nova: You know what I want.

Tyler Nelson: Reinstatement? Fine, done.

The crowd erupts…probably the first positive reaction Nelson has ever received. The camera switches to backstage, where a split camera shows both Motoki and the Illustrious Face-Eater freaking the fuck out.

Tyler Nelson: Will that do it? Is more required to set this deal in stone and get the cash flow moving?

Nova looks abashed in the ring.

Nova: Nelson! It’s not a matter of being bought off! It’s a matter of respect from my co-workers! I swear, the problem with this business these days is that there’s a price for everything, and the truly priceless aspects of our great industry are being scattered to the four wi-

Tyler Nelson: How about the third 5-Star Title shot tonight?

Nova: YEEEAAAAHHH BOOOOOYEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Nova runs to the corner and jumps up onto the turnbuckle pad, raising his arms to the crowd. The split camera shot returns of Motoki and the Illustrious Face-Eater, looking severely pissed. Tyler Nelson gives the Boston crowd one last smirk from the screen.

Tyler Nelson: I’ll draw up the paperwork.

Nick: Nova is re-instated! And Tyler Nelson, whether intentional or not, just struck a huge blow to Motoki and the A-List by undermining the asian co-owner’s authority in banning him, and removing the only protection Facey had from the Rising Star!

Richard: Of course it was intentional! Nelson allows for NO incringements on his power! And as much as I dig the A-List and the creator of the Dual Halo, I love "the Greediest Player in the Game!"

Nick: And I love…

Richard: We don’t care.

When it comes to standing in the middle of a ladies restroom, there are many things one expects: ladies, bathroom stalls, sinks, garbage cans, and all the usual amenities that makes the ladies room just that, the ladies room.

And for Karina Wolfenden, the ladies room here was no different from any other. Standing at the sink and looking at herself in the mirror after her match, K-Wolf is untaping, unclipping, de-padding, and coming down from her adrenaline high from her previous match.

It is at this time, however, that this ladies room becomes far different from any other she has ever been in.

The change starts with a loud, rhythmic thumping, like an elephant stomping down the hallway outside of the bathroom. A moment later, the ladies room door flies open and in barrels Ivan Stanislav, right behind her. His reflection takes up the entire mirror as he marches behind her, not even paying her any attention, and kicks open the nearest stall door.

Ivan: NELSON?!

There is a bewildered expression on K-Wolf’s face as she simply stares into the mirror for another moment, before her eyes dart to the side.

Karina: Unless that beard is left over from some wayyy bad hormone treatment, you're looking the the little black silhouette sans skirt.

Cursing under his breath and moving to the next bathroom stall, Stanislav boots the next door open.

Ivan: Come out come out you little snake!

Karina tapes herself back up for a moment, unsure if this interaction will end in an altercation, and Stanislav boots open the last stall and curses one more.

Ivan: Dammit! He is not here!

Turning on his heel and walking back towards the exit from the bathroom, Ivan Stanislav turns on his heel and looks at K-Wolf, his eyes angry and searching, his demeanor frustrated and intense. Karina stares back at Stanislav and a wry smile plays across her lips.

Karina: Is it just me, or has it suddenly gotten old in here?

Ivan: What are you talking about?

Karina gives Ivan a going over once with her eyes, clearly unimpressed and slightly aghast by the suspenders, t-shirt, pants, and boots.

Karina: Nothing. Oh, FYI, door-make-noise-when-knock-with-fist.

Ivan shrugs.

Ivan: This matter is far beyond knocking. It is more important than anything else in this entire building! Tell me, little girl…

Karina blinks once at the words, but lets it slide. This time.

Ivan: …have you seen Tyler Nelson?

Karina runs her tongue along the inside of her lips for a moment as she thinks. Stanislav towers over her, looking down at her with hope in his eyes.

Karina: Yeahhhhhnoooooye-...noooooyessssmaybbbbbeeenoooooYE-... no.

There is a loud exhalation from Stanislav. Enough to blow Karina’s hair slightly.

Karina: Actually, there was a guy who crept in here earlier trying to hide something...

It is now Ivan’s turn to blink.

Karina: ...wait, that was Lindsay Troy.

Ivan scoffs.

Ivan: Damn!

With that, Stanislav turns and barges out of the bathroom just as quickly as he entered, and his footsteps thunder until they’re gone from the ear. Karina blinks and begins untaping again.

Karina: Didn't there used to be a big wall we kept them behind...

In the hustle and bustle of the catering area of the arena, the undertone of people conversing and the clattering of the metal knives and forks on porcelain cutlery is somewhat overly emphasised by the aura of silence and the solitude that engulfs PRIME newcomer Jonathan Winters. In the background, we can see the catering area is crammed with bodies - an eclectic blend of catering staff, CSC security and PRIME workers.

There’s some commotion in the background that Winters doesn’t even bother to acknowledge. Instead, he pushes his plate of scraps away, further into the middle of the table and nurses his cup of coffee as it’s rich, dark contents quickly diminish.

Then, out of nowhere, a tray stacked up with food, slams upon Winters’ table with force. Winters doesn’t even acknowledge the noise, at least not until he’’s finished the last bitter remnants of his cup. Winters delicately places his cup on the table in front of him and then glares up at the massive frame of the perpetrator looming over him, menacingly.

It’s Ivan Stanislav.

Ivan: Who are you? Why are you so special that you think you deserve a table all to yourself? Only true capitalist would rather sit alone as opposed to be in presence of the collective.

Winters had not granted any nobody to sit with him whenever someone enquired. He wanted to be alone and didn’’t particularly care for idle chit-chat. It seems people took exception to this and inevitably, the word spread. He expected no more and cared even less.

Winters stands from his seat and ignores the big Russian monster the best he can, as he makes his way to the exit. However, before he can even make it to the door, a massive hand is placed firmly upon Winter’s shoulder, preventing him from leaving.

Ivan: You do not ignore Ivan Sergeiovich.

Winters glares at the hand resting upon his shoulder, then glares Ivan directly in the eye, still remaining deafly silent.

Ivan: You are one of Nelson’s cronies, aren’t you?

The question hangs in the air, Ivan’’s booming voice adding an extra sense urgency, and it’s difficult to determine whether it is rhetorical or not. Either way Winters does not answer him.

Ivan: You display all of their typical characteristics; ignorance and arrogance in equal, yet insurmountable, proportions.

Winters: Interesting. My ignorance precedes me, but my alignment does not.

Winters once again attempts to make for the exit, but Ivan’s vice-like grip does not waiver and if Winters still intends to leave, he will have to leave without his right shoulder.

Ivan: Then please, enlighten Ivan.

Winters sighs.

Winters: I have no alignment. I do what’s best for me.

Winters violently jerks his shoulder, forcing Ivan to release his grip. Winters allows a brief grimace sweep over his face, before quickly redeveloping his typical placid expression. The exertion obviously injured him more than he would ever let on.

Winters: Anything more is completely irrelevant.

With that Winters leaves catering, leaving Ivan grunt something under his breath and angrily take a seat at the table.

Well that sounds suspiciously like a bunch of washed-up guys too old to be doing what they’re doing. No, it’s not Johnny Noble; it’s the Backstreet Boys. And the crowd tries to contain their general disdain/laughter as the massive (in width) Buddy Kingfisher parades out from behind the curtain, obviously accompanied by PRIME’s new obligatory security detail thanks to…well, thanks to a little something.

So "Larger Than Life" is playing and Buddy is slowly making his way down to the ring, trying to play to the crowd, but that’s a little hard inside a fish bowl (and I don’t mean the type that Face-Eater is enjoying…well…probably right now).

Vince Howard: Coming first to the ring…he hails from Sunray, Oklahoma…weighing in at 383 pounds, he is "The Jolly One"… BUDDY KINGFISHuh?

Well, it’s actually Buddy KingfisHER, but the "huh" results from Ivan Stanislav stepping out. He’s got the regular security detail, but even the CSC guys are a far distance from Ivan, with no illusions about what will happen if they step between the Russian Bear and his quest to find Tyler Nelson. So Vince Howard just steps out of the ring, knowing that Ivan + ring=bad news.

Buddy glances up and sees the equally massive Stanislav, but does his best to ignore the massive Communist (sans Comrade Ruslan, of course), who hurriedly makes his way down to the ring but does not enter. He looks under the apron to see if Tyler Nelson is hiding right beneath the noses of the fans. In the ring, Buddy readies himself mentally, mostly by trying to ignore the fact that his opponent is perhaps the scariest individual in the company right now, Universal Title be damned.

Ivan pulls some random stuff from underneath the ring, tossing it against the plexiglass-ish barrier around the ring, including tables, a trash can, and a back-up ring bell. Satisfied that Tyler Nelson isn’t anywhere near the ring, the Russian Bear seems satisfied to bide a little time by gracing the fans with one of those match thingies.

While he holds a height advantage, Ivan seems impressed that Buddy Kingfisher can match him in girth. He offers his hand out for Kingfisher and the Jolly One sizes up the offer. He decides to partake in this contest of strength. Ivan seems to exert no effort, while Buddy is putting a little bit into trying to force Ivan’s hand (literally). Then, out of nowhere, the Russian Bear pulls Buddy in very close, inches away from his face and lets loose a huge, devious grin, then tosses him at the opposite ropes, while the bell signals the beginning of the match.

The former PCW and OSW World Champ goes for the immediate put-down with a big boot but Buddy just manages to duck underneath it. Kingfisher then seizes the opportunity and immediately busts out THE Fish Hook, slamming the wily veteran to the mat with a tremendous Clothesline from Hell. However, Buddy’s smarter than to think that a mere signature move will floor his legendary opponent. He follows this up with a fist drop and then pulls Ivan up.

Buddy for the immediate snap suplex, hoping to neutralize Ivan’s tremendous skill by taking all the momentum and getting an early win, but you don’t get to play that shit with the Russian Bear. He puts out the leg to stall Buddy and eventually breaks out of the suplex hold, then throws a couple massive right paws right at Kingfisher’s head. Buddy tries not to give up any footing, but he finds himself being forced into the corner.

Finally, Ivan takes of the surroundings with a forceful shoulder block, knocking the wind out of Kingfisher and setting him up on the turnbuckle. With very few options due to Kingfisher’s size, Stanislav opts to stomp a mudhole into Buddy, introducing him to some very unfriendly Russian boots.

The crowd gets slightly behind Ivan, despite the fact that he’s beating up a so-called "good guy" because half of them appreciate that Ivan is scaring the crap out of Tyler Nelson and the other half are smarks and appreciate that Ivan R gAwD. Firmly back in control (and always seeming at ease in the ring), Stanislav lifts Kingfisher by the head and pulls him towards the middle of the ring with a headlock. Kingfisher tries to get out, but even his strength can’t match the iron grip of Stanislav.

With Buddy under his arm, Ivan wrenches on the Jolly One’s neck, then deftly spins behind his foe, lifts (now with at least some visible effort) and tosses Kingfisher (well, drops him with velocity and directional intent) with a fall-away slam that threatens the ring’s integrity. This, of course, brings a massive pop from the fine people because all they really want to see is carnage anyway. Remember, these are the same people who Chet Worth got att…well, you know what we mean.

Despite his spill, Kingfisher is back up within seconds and right at Ivan with a series of back elbows and after one of the elbows sends Ivan spinning, Buddy is right there when he comes back around to set him down with a double-arm DDT. He goes for the pin, hoping the element of surprise will be worth something.

One…

Two…

Thr-

Such a powerful kickout hasn’t been seen in PRIME since…well, since the last Titan St. James match, probably. Ivan comes out of the pinning predicament on fire, taking down Kingfisher with a haymaker and when Buddy refuses to stay down, putting him back on his ass with a gut kick-double axe handle (and those arms might as well be axes, with that type of force behind them).

Ivan can’t waste time waiting, considering he’s on the hunt for Tyler Nelson. He pulls Buddy right to his feet (back facing Ivan’s front, that is) and tries to get a firm grip of him but it just ain’t happening right this second. Buddy squirms out, moves around the back of Ivan and takes him down (with some serious help from gravity) with a full nelson slam, having lifted Ivan a grand total of six inches off the mat.

Even the Russian Bear can’t no-sell that type of impact and he’s slow to get up so Buddy decides to issue a nice little knee to the side of the head, which is a great idea…until you consider that Ivan comes up snarling, genuinely angry with his opponent after the latest strike. You see, Ivan probably came into this match expecting for Kingfisher to roll right over and for his search to be easily continued, but now he sees that he needs to kick it into the next gear if he wants to take the W.

And so he does.

Of course, Buddy Kingfisher doesn’t quite get the memo and assumes he can continue on with his methodical offense, wearing down the Bear for a pinfall in five or ten minutes. Ivan has no plan of staying out in the ring that long. What happens next is sheer mental mastery of the ring: we wouldn’t call it playing possum, but Ivan grimaces and grabs at his shoulder. Buddy, his respectful self as always, waits until Ivan looks up at him, but then goes on the offensive.

Ivan "allows him" to grab his left arm and Buddy jerks the arm up once, twice…and there is no third time. From out of nowhere, Ivan grabs Buddy right around the neck with a nasty sleeper hold, gaining the perfect footing to deliver the perfect ending. When he’s happy with his surroundings, Ivan tosses Buddy to the ropes yet again and then annihilates him with his own personal clothesline, the Red Curtain. The crowd gets seriously hyped now because, c’mon, who wouldn’t pay to see Ivan’s finisher in person? That would be what’s coming next, of course.

To his credit, Buddy still has something left and tries to fight off Ivan as he rises, so the Russian Bear erases this resistance with a powerful uppercut. Coincidentally, the uppercut spins Buddy around and then Ivan is behind Buddy and….well, do I even need to say it?

He grabs Buddy like he’s going to perform a Dragon Sleeper (note: he’s not), then lifts the 383-pound man up into the air. You’d expect that he would leave out the whole stalling part and just for the release version of the finisher with such a massive man, but Ivan lets Buddy hang in the air for a good two seconds (probably as long as he can hold that weight up)…all of this is followed by a Champ Kind Whammy-worthy slam to the mat. Did we mention there were one or two or a thousand flashbulbs going off during this junction?

One…

Two…

Three!

Winner: Ivan Stanislav

Having won the match with considerably more effort than he expected, Ivan rolls out of the ring and proceeds up the ramp (with his security barely in the same zip code) to the sounds of the Anthem of Russia. Meanwhile, in the ring, Kingfisher sits up and (figuratively) kicks himself for falling into Stanislav’s trap, knowing he could’ve lasted longer and maybe even bested the Bear.

The violet streaks, entwining casually with natural blond hair, frame the warm and inviting features of the woman known as Violet Rayne as she walks along the corridor of one of the backstage hallways.

Rayne: I don't see why you even bothered to show up. You are in no condition to be out of bed, much less hanging around backstage here on Revolution. We need to find someone to cancel your match with Winters.

The camera pans to the left, and the focus is instantaneously on that grin.

The Grin.

Tony Gamble.

Gamble: I could beat Jonathan Winters with Pete the PG Tips Chimp flinging crap at the fans as he hangs from my nutsack, and barely even break a sweat. Besides, I couldn't let Titan St. James know he got the better of me. It was a fluke win, and me being here proves it.

Rayne: You're kidding right? You can't even walk.

The camera zooms out, giving us a wider look at Gamble, Rayne, a nurse, and the wheelchair.

Wheelchair?

Nurse?

Gamble is sitting in a wheelchair, his left leg covered with a cast and a brace around his neck, as a very attractive nurse pushes him from behind.

Gamble: Not in the least. That big bastard may have been lucky enough to get one over on me, but you just wait and see what happens when I pull that big beach towel he wears on his head down over his eyes. He won't know--

Violet shakes her head, sighing loud enough to grab Tony's attention.

Rayne: He doesn't wear a towel on his head, Tony. Just because he's from the Middle East doesn't mean--

Gamble cuts her off before she can finish talking.

Gamble: Fine. Whatever. How about I use that dot as a bullseye when I unload a size eight boot on--

Rayne: Do you even remember what Titan St. James looks like?

Violet stands there as Tony looks up at her, chuckling nervously as he shakes his head slightly with a shrug of his shoulders.

Gamble: He lookit like a man?

Violet throws her arms up in frustration and storms off in the opposite direction, as Tony tries to glance over his shoulder to watch her stomp off to no avail. He lifts his head slightly to look up at the nurse. Another rather difficult movement thanks to the brace.

Gamble: Was it something I said?

The nurse shrugs her shoulders before continuing on her way, pushing Gamble down the corridor.

Our misdirected Scottish friend Adam, fresh from a highly-secretive surveillance mission (or a run for fresh coffee – depending who you believe) returns to the once-shared, now-divided, locker-room to find a surprising discovery awaits him...

Adam: Johnny! Iggy!

Yep, it appears that things have finally been smoothed out with the split in Team Superface, much to the relief of all involved (and the great surprise of Adam, who’s managed to spill scalding hot coffee down his leg with the shock of seeing the reunion).

Adam: Ahhh... buggery!

He shakes his leg to try and clear the burning liquid from his jeans before it starts to hit his skin. It’s a bit of a worrying situation to see a bashed-up French-Canadian skater-styled dude and an ageing classic wrestler tearing the trousers off an innocent Scotsman. But, thankfully, it’s not as bad as it may have appeared to a bystander who happened to walk past at the wrong time.

Adam: Cheers guys - saved me a bit of trouble there!

He looks slightly embarrassed standing in just his boxers and boots, so looks about for something to cover himself with – knowing Iggy’s discomfort (putting it mildly) as having the Scot near-naked around him. A towel suffices for now, but it wasn’t anything permanent and certainly wouldn’t do for the rest of the night.

Adam: Umm, yeah... I’m gonna grab a quick taxi to the nearest mall and grab another pair of jeans – I know neither of you guys’ stuff’ll fit me - can I borrow one of your phones?

Just then; the image of Noble’s "mobile telephonicular device" (roughly the size of two small saloon cars, minus the portability) springs into Adam’s mind, causing him to emit a slight grin of amusement.

Adam: On second thoughts; don’t trouble yourself Johnny – I already know how to work Iggy’s.

Ignatius, who was obviously thinking the same thing as Adam was, hands over his ultra-slim cellphone with a wince, a wink and an amused smirk, (telepathic comedy rules!)

Adam: Before I head, y’mind filling me in on what I missed during my recon- (he stumbles) uhh, coffee trip?

Noble raises an eyebrow at Adam’s character slip, but lets it slide.

Noble: Ignatius and I just had a good ol’ man-to-man, figured out it’s all been unfortunate misunderstandings the past few weeks.

He grabs the hurting Ignatius without a second thought and pulls him powerfully into his huge chest with one massive arm.

Noble: All good as new again...

Seeing the ‘group hug’ glint on Johnny Noble’s eye reminds Adam that he has new jeans to pick up - and sharp-ish. He quickly reminds Johnny of his trouser-less predicament and makes his exit – just in time to avoid any rib-crushing team bonding.

Adam: Close one...

He starts flicking through the phone, completely confused by the hi-tech interface, alternately befuddled and amused by the screens and menus he ends up viewing.

Adam: Oh Iggy… a picture of yourself in a mirror? For shame!

He continues through the phone, chortling as he goes at times – calling a taxi now the last thing on his mind, but then suddenly he stumbles across something entirely different…

Adam: Message received 18:59, sender... Hayley Noble?

Ignatius and Johnny’s daughter!? This was big news to the "Number One Son".

"We're rolling."

Tony Gamble. Once again we find him making his way down the backstage corridor in search of Titan St. James, or at least that is what he claims. He lowers his voice to a much deeper tone.

Tony Gamble: Rolling. Rolling down the river.

He tries to look up at the nurse -- who just happens to be drop dead gorgeous, because that is rule number one of having a nurse push you around when you're injured on a wrestling show – but the brace limits his ability to turn his head much more than an inch to either side.

Tony Gamble: You know, a little help on the chorus would be greatly appreciated. You can be Tina to my Ike, without all the beating and rape... Unless you're into that sort of stuff?

No response.

Tony Gamble: Yeah, I was just kidding.

He chuckles nervously.

Tony Gamble: So, tell me something about yourself. Did you always want to be a nurse, or are you just into wearing short skirts and stockings? Do you have one night stands? You know, the important stuff.

Still no response, but our ever-grinning Internet champion presses on despite the frigid Arctic shoulder he receives, as the camera remains fixed on him.

Tony Gamble: Kind of on the quiet side. I like that in a woman. I'm kind of a quiet guy myself. Well, until I'm about to--

The wheels start to get a bit shaky, and the two in front begin to squeak and wobble. The noise all blends in with the quickened pace of footsteps.

Tony Gamble: Uh, nurse?

Still, no answer.

Tony Gamble: Look, I'm sorry if I came across like a jerk but I was just joki--what the Hell?!?!

The Illustrious Face-Eater: SURPRISE, NAPIER! IT'S THE GODDAMN BATMAN!

Facey cracks his head back in a maniacal laugh as he continues to run as fast as he can, sometimes making erratic and colliding turns down random corridors. That's the thing about backstage areas; they're fucking mazes.

Tony Gamble: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMNED MIND!

Gamble's eyes grow wide with fear, his knuckles turning a pale white as he tightens his grip on the arm rests of the wheelchair as it goes careening around another corner, the wheels on one side lifting up off the concrete floor slightly.

How could he know?

Of all people, this was the last person he figured would figure it out.

Tony Gamble: STOP! YOU'RE GOING TO--

The Illustrious Face-Eater: END OF THE LINE, FUCK-O! YOU, AND ALL OF YOUR POSER STONER FRIENDS NEED TO LEARN WHY YOU DON'T FUCK WITH THE FACE!

More maniacal laughing as speed begins to peak. Gamble notices a break in the hallway-no, a drop. Railings on the side of the wall, descending to the floor. This can only mean one thing.

Stairs.

Now he was really fucked.

Tony Gamble: STONER FRIENDS?! MAN, I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU--PLEASE JUST FUCKING STOP THIS!

End of the line was coming. With their speed, the end of the hallway that was once so distant is now a mere moment in front of them. Gamble leaps from the chair, slamming against the wall with a loud thud as the wheelchair goes crashing down the staircase with The Illustrious Face-Eater watching on.

Tony Gamble: YOU DICK! How the hell did you know I was faking it?!

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Faking? I didn't fucking know you were faking. I seriously was trying to kill you.

Facey withdraws a joint from the inside of his mask, lights it, and says very dismissively.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: But that didn't fucking work, did it?

He begins to walk away, somewhat pissed at himself that Gamble survived.

Tony, however, is still dumbfounded.

Not to mention, busted.

Back in the ring, the lights are dim and Snoop Dogg's "Step Yo Game Up" is starting to warble over the arena speakers. Kevin Sandusky, carefully considering the motivational advice in his opponent's music, is already awaiting in the ring, and this is largely because I forgot what his theme song was. We're also short-scheduled on this Revolution because we're trying to maximize our Illustrious Face-Eater airtime.

Kenjiro Ito emerges from the back with all the pomp and circumstance you'd expect of an Asian man with bleach-blonde hair. Seriously, what's up with that? He must be b'dass. So badass he skips that first a.

There's no disputing the intimidating presence of the Cocky Osakan. He does his best to rile the fans without exerting actual energy as he walks the aisle, preparing for his first match since taking the first "L" of his PRIME career against lowly stagehand Silvio Fiore a couple shows ago. The taunts from the crowd focus on that recent loss instead of the steady string of victories that preceded it. You couldn't see it affecting Ito on the outside, but you knew, you just knew, that as he slid into the ring and rolled his shoulders out in preparation for the opening bell, that he was plotting the different ways he could break Kevin Sandusky's face in retaliation. It was the fans' fault, really.

The bell rings and we ared raring to go. Sandusky is quick on the offensive, knowing full well of Ito's resume and eager to show that he wasn't intimidated. He shoots in for a leg, but Ito sprawls away, and Kevin rises into a collar-and-elbow. They push back and forth, and the size advantage for the Japanese warrior gives him the leverage. He pushes Sandusky back into a corner and delivers a blatant open-handed slap, clearly trying to cultivate the repuation that Kev was bucking.

With a "whatever" smirk, Kevin follows him back out to the center of the ring. They lock up again, and Sandusky quickly twists into position, grabbing the wrist and twisting it as Ito is slow to respond. The former Ebola cranks the wrist to bend Ito over, and he complies, but then stands back up, holding his forearm cocked and screaming at the top of his lungs. He pulls his trapped arm in, dragging Sandusky into a hard forearm blow that reminded Kev of the style that Kenjiro had been brought up in. The puro blow floors him, and he takes a quick timeout on the mat before getting back up and shaking it off.

Ito is quite pleased with himself as they circle again. On the lockup, Kevin again is too quick, pulling down a side headlock before the Osakan sees it coming. Ito, however, doesn't seem to worried. He slips into better position and lifts Sandusky off the ground, dropping him back with a hard backdrop suplex. He bounces up, still amused by his "superiority," and coincidentally not noticing that Sandusky got right back up from the suplex. Kenjiro turns around and is the victim of a puro-style forearm of his own. Sandusky cocks the arm and screams, just as Ito had, eliciting a loud response from the crowd.

The force of the blow, combined with the surprise, knocks Ito to the mat near the ropes. He takes the hint and bails out of the ring, begrudging his American opponent for the one-upsmanship. In the ring, Sandusky politely reminds Ito that he knew how to work the Japanese style, too. As if Ito's jaw couldn't already tell him that.

After being accosted by the ref, Kenjiro returns to the ring, rolling in and ordering that Sandusky be kept back while he regains himself. When he feels prepared enough to continue, he steps out and signals for Kevin to do the same. As he does, Ito quickly shoots in and takes him over with a Fireman's carry. He moves to follow it with a rear chinlock, but as he goes for the crossface portion, Sandusky rolls through, coming up with that armwringer he had before. The two get back to their feet, with Kev in position, and Ito tries the forearm again. On this go-round, Kevin passes the wrist and catches the forearm with a modified armdrag to take Ito overhead.

On the rebound, Kenjiro charges and eats the same treatment. And the third time is not the charm, as he is tossed again. This time, Sandusky follows up with an armlock to keep him down, knee on the head, hands locked just below the elbow. It's still early to ask for a submission, and instead, Ito uses his large frame to snag the bottom rope with his foot.

The ref forces the hold to be broken, and as Sandusky releases, Ito's free hand lashes out to trip the official. Thinking it was Sandusky's foot, the ref gets up in Kevin's grill, lecturing him on the long history of respecting officials in competitions of athletic skill. Kevin tries to get away with the lecture, but clearly this ref had been waiting for an opportunity to break out this monologue for several weeks. As he gets to section I-C: The Origin Of The Vertical Stripes, Sandusky's protests are ended, courtesy of a Yakuza kick from Ito to the side of his head. He practically turns inside out at the force of the blow, which struck him from a blind spot. Having been interrupted in mid-sentence, the referee prepares the opening statements of his followup lecture: Proper Etiquette When Someone Else Has The Floor. Ito ignores him, though, and promptly goes to work on Sandusky.

Sitting Sandusky up, Ito applies a full nelson, practically bending him in half. Once Kevin's nose is practically touching the mat, Ito treats his spine like a giant spring, suddenly pulling back and whipping him into the air for a high-angle slam. Kevin writhes in pain on the mat, and the stomps from Ito don't do anything to quell that pain.

Kenjiro is quick to snap Sandusky back up, and he prepares him with a front facelock. The vertical suplex that comes next is nothign fancy, and at this point, people have seen enough rolling suplexes to not think much of the second one. But on the third try, when he lets Sandusky drape across his shoulders a la a Torture Rack, people sense something is up. With a heave, Ito pushes Kevin up with a mlitary press, then tosses him forward and drops to a knee. Perhaps he was doing a courtesy to Sandusky, offering up his knee as a soft place to land. If so, Kenjiro Ito is hardly one to judge what is or is not soft. I hear he sleeps on a concrete slap. Regardless, right now, Kevin Sandusky's back hurts a lot.

Attempting to knock some of the pain from his opponent's back, Ito delivers a clubbing blow, then yanks Sandusky up and hurls him backwards with a belly-to-back suplex. Surprisingly, that only made Kevin hurt more, and we know that because his screams increase. As he tries to fight back to his feet, Ito takes a sec to remind the fans that he is the rule and they are the suck. Then he grabs Kevin around the waist and tosses him with a gutwrench suplex that looks more like the Alexander Karelin neck drop thing.

Kevin lands near the ropes and pulls himself up, but Ito is there to prevent any activity without his approval. He pushes Sandusky back, then whips him across the ring. On the rebound, he looks for a running Yakuza kick, but Sandusky ducks it. Ito quickly turns back and finds himself face-to-foot with a dropkick that brought back memories of Sandusky's days as Ebola III.

The two men are up at the same time, and Kevin has no choice but to use another dropkick. This time, Ito is dazed enough that he makes a cover.

1...

2...

Nopers.

Ito kicks out and both men pounce up. Sandusky hits the ropes, and Ito moves in for the Bakemono lariat. On the swing, though, Sandusky swings behind the arm and into a crucifix. Hanging from Ito's arms on his back, he whips back, slinging the giant Asian overhead for a powerbomb variation, a move most certainly used in tribute to Kevin's Terminal Velocity teammate and soon-to-be-retired PRIME peer, Kyle Lamen. Regardless of who it was meant to honor, the move staggers Ito, and he rolls back head over heels before resting on all fours.

Squaring up, Kevin sees victory within his reach. He waits for Ito to stand up straighter, then hits him with a hard front kick to the chest. Kenjiro stumbles, and the follow-up thrust kick from the former Ebola sends him stumbling back into the corner. He slumps against the turnbuckle, trying to get his bearings back.

Kevin backs up a few steps and levels a warcry at his opponent before charging forward. He leaps for a running martial arts-style high kick, nothing hokey or Johnny-Cage-esque, but mean-looking enough to knock a brother's head off. Unfortunately, he is not awarded such a luxury.

As he comes in to connect on the blow, Ito's bearings return, allowing him to catch Sandusky in mid-air. He crosses Kevin's arms as they flail for balance, and the kind of "ooo-ahhh" sound that usually comes from his hometown Japan crowds starts to build in this audience. Seeing their anticipation through, Ito takes a running start out of the corner before slamming - scratch that, SLAMMING - K-Dusk down with a Liger Bomb variation of Ito's Ice Age. You could've counted to twenty-five.

1...

2...

3.

Winner: Kenjiro Ito

Snoop riles the crowd up as Ito rolls from the ring. The referee follows him for the obligatory hand raise, which takes on special significance this time, as a symbol of Ito's return to the form that had made him such a force in PRIME. His record would no longer be unblemished, but it remained the most impressive since Tchu had arrived just a year ago. Perhaps Ito was relieved to get back on track, but to look at his face, you wouldn't have a clue. All you could tell is that he hates your guts.

Tyler Nelson still hasn’t been found by Ivan Stanislav… but the places to hide are growing thinner with every moment. The parking lot seemed like a good place to search.

As Ivan stomps down the hallway with his eyes straight ahead towards the door, the said door opens and none other than Titan St. James emerges. Titan stops, staring straight ahead at Stanislav, who in turn glares in his direction.

The two large men walk straight at one another, almost as if pulled by some unseen force, and stop eye to eye, staring straight ahead into one another’s eyes.

It is a tense, volatile moment. Stanislav’s hand clenches into a fist, while St. James remains totally cool and calm.

If it had been any other time, St. James would probably have had to fight Stanislav at this moment, but it wasn’t the time or the place. With an exhalation, Stanislav lets out a growl and the two men, almost sensing each other’s agenda, step to the side and walk past one another.

Disaster was averted. For now.

Last week, Matt Ward had been lucky enough to miss all the drama that had hit the PRIME backstage as a result of… well, can’t talk about that… anyways, the week of vacation had given him the chance to observe the new situation before being thrust into the middle of it.

And yet, as he marches through the hall backstage, it seems that witnessing before experiencing has done nothing to make the situation any more tolerable.

With a half dozen security guards surrounding him, The Inhuman Being makes his way to the end of the hall, stopping in front of closed door. In a moment of panic, one of the guards, a short man with a flat top straight out of 1993, jumps in front of the door.

Security Guard: Whoooaaa, excuse me, sir… we weren’t aware this was your intended destination. This is a problem, I’m afraid.

Tchu reaches past the guard and tries the handle, but it turns only a fraction of an inch, and the door doesn’t budge.

Tchu: You’re right. There is a problem. The door’s locked. Looks like I’m going to have to kick it down.

Security Guard: That’s not the problem I was referring to. This is the skybox of Charity M…

Tchu: I know exactly who’s skybox this is, and regardless of what you think… I’m going in there. Whether that means kicking down the door or throwing your ass through it… I’m going in there.

Another security guard steps forward and places a hand against Tchu’s chest as The anti-PRIME takes a step forward toward the ‘menacing’ guard blocking the door.

Security Guard #2: Sir, if you insist on going into this skybox, we’re going to have to accompany you… and please… allow us to gain entrance to the room in a more reasonable, standard fashion.

Tchu: What did you have in mind?

Security Guard #2: Knocking.

Tchu: …oh. Fine…

The short security guard with the square head turns and firmly knocks twice on the door. Before announcing "Security, please open." Several seconds pass uneventfully, and Tchu quickly tires of the wait, sighing and stepping forward yet again.

Tchu: Nice try guys. My turn.

The remaining four security guards who hadn’t already stepped between The Inhuman Being and the door now do so. As they do, the door to the skybox opens and Charity forces a smile for the group of guards she sees standing in the entrance way.

Charity: What can I do for you gentlemen?

The guards all begin to enter the room and Charity complies, stepping to the side to ‘welcome’ their arrival. What she doesn’t welcome, is the last the figure, previously blocked from her view by the crowd of hired company, that steps into the room.

Charity: What the hell is doing here?! That son of a bitch isn’t welcome at this particular location!

Security Guard #2: Please, ma’am, I assure you there won’t be any trouble.

Charity: Maybe you idiots didn’t do your homework before being assigned to this job, but this asshole (she nods her head in Tchu’s direction) is nothing but trouble when he’s around myself and Killean. Just a few weeks ago, he…

Tchu speaks for the first time since entering the room, cutting Charity off in the middle of her little rant.

Tchu: Speaking of Killean… where is ‘your boy’?

Charity turns her attention to The anti-PRIME now, screaming for the unwelcome guest to get the hell out of her skybox. The commotion is enough to cause the door to the personal restroom in the skybox to open. Out steps The PRIME Choice himself.

Killean: What’s going on out here? (He quickly spots Tchu standing over by the doorway) Oh… should have figured. Jesus, Matt, you’re becoming such a pain in my ass that I can’t even take a leak without you causing a ruckus.

The Inhuman Being ignores the sarcastic comment and jumps straight to the reason he had ventured to Charity’s skybox in the first place.

Tchu: This shit with Karina better stop now!

Killean: Calm down, Matt. Sounds like you’ve got a crush on her for God’s sake.

The Supreme Machine walks over to a small fridge in the corner in the room and pulls an ice cold beer from its resting place.

Killean: Listen, all I was doing was having a couple of friendly conversations with a co-worker. No harm in that, right?

Tchu: Friendly conversation? All the years we’ve known each other, and the level of your bullshit still manages to amaze me. So… by ‘friendly conversations’, do you mean threats, maybe bribes? More ultimatums like you threw down on Iggy? Advice about how to take down old friends?

Killean: Any hints or tips that may have come up were simply in the process of shooting the breeze.

Tchu: Right, next you’re gonna tell me they were ‘in the spirit of competition’.

The PRIME Choice takes a long drink from his beer, then smiles as he sits the bottle on a coffee table resting a foot from the expensive black leather sofa in the middle of the skybox.

Killean: Absolutely.

Tchu: If you’ve got it all figured out, if you know all about my strengths and weaknesses and how to take me down… if you’re so goddamn untouchable, why don’t you just step up and take care of things man to man… just you and me in the middle of that ring!

As Tchu’s voice begins to rise, he points out the window overlooking the ring from high above. Several of the security guards begin to position themselves between the two superstars, sensing a potential explosion.

Charity: He doesn’t have to concern himself with you until he’s good and ready! In case you haven’t noticed, he’s the Universal Champion… not you. He’s top dog, he calls the…

Tchu: Do an old friend a favor, and make your woman shut her mouth. I’ve heard crying babies at the movies that are less annoying than her ranting.

Charity makes a disgusted face and looks to her man for support.

Killean: Ok, Matt… you’ve got your point across. You’re bitter, you’re angry, all upset that I’ve been spotted chit chatting with your opponent at ReV 100, and you want to get in the ring and kick my ass. That’s all well and good, but right now, you’ve overstayed your welcome. Security can escort you back to your… oops, I mean… the locker room with all the other chumps on the roster.

Tchu: Sounds like you’re still afraid to take things up with me personally. After four years, I would have imagined you’d finally have gathered up the courage to step into the rin…

Killean: I’ll deal with you soon enough.

The security guards have heard enough and begin to push Tchu out of the skybox. As they escort him into the hall, The Supreme Machine grabs the final words.

Killean: But for right now, Matt, I’d worry about the K-Wolf if I were you. I’ve got this strange feeling that she just might have your number this time.

The PRIME locker room has always been a hectic location, no matter which arena PRIME chooses to frequent, it caters to the various superstars and their differing ego’s. Many friendships and rivalries are housed together, regardless of any possible consequence into the same room and when these new security protocols that have been established are interwoven into the equation, the atmosphere as of late carries with it clear undertones of tension that is most definitely palpable.

One section of this particular locker room has become Winters sanctuary for the evening; it’s seclusion from the rest of the locker room meets his requires better than he could‘ve hoped for. This area of the locker room is segregated from the rest, more than ten feet in any direction you choose to apply and for Winters, this was sheer bliss. However, Winters has come to realise from past experience that one cannot always expect tranquillity to last forever and this occasion is no different from the others.

Winters is sat on a bench, leant back against the wall, eye’s closed, allowing the tension of the locker room to simply wash over him. After a couple of seconds, his forehead ridges up for reason’s as yet unknown and he tentatively opens one eye to see another PRIME newcomer, Buddy Kingfisher, sitting next to him, a stupid grin plastered across his face.

He holds out his hand, looking for an handshake.

Buddy: Hi. You’re Jonathan Winters, right?

Winters glares at the hand and then at Buddy’s face, ignoring both him and his gestured greeting. Buddy develops a confused expression.

Buddy: Are you alright? Are you sick or something?

Winters doesn’t respond, in fact, he barely moves.

Buddy: Winters? Winters? Can you hear me?

Still nothing. Buddy becomes agitated.

Buddy: Help! I need help here! Some one get me a doctor!

With that Buddy begins to shake Winters violently.

Buddy: Wake up Winters! WAKE UP!

Winters opens his eyes quickly and pushes Buddy away.

Winters: I was ignoring you, you moron.

Buddy’s eyes widen.

Buddy: Oh, I see. Cancel the doctor, people. It’s okay, he was just being ignorant.

Winters shakes his head and sighs.

Buddy: So, uhm, why are you so ignorant? Are your social skills simply not up to par yet? Were you raised by wolves and you're still learning the art of communication?

Winters mutters something under his breath and pushes himself from the bench.

Buddy: Wait! Where is the fire friend? Where are you going?

Winters walks away silently and Buddy quickly gets to his feet, ready to follow in suit.

Buddy: Can I come with you?

Again, Winters remains silent and Buddy shrugs, automatically assuming his answer is yes. However, when Winters realises that Buddy is in fact following him, he pauses and glares at him questioningly.

Winters: No.

Buddy develops a confused expression.

Buddy: No, what?

Winters sighs.

Winters: You can’t come with me.

Buddy appears a little hurt by Winters comments and immediately stops in his tracks.

Buddy: Oh.

Winters shakes his head and exits the locker room, leaving Buddy standing there looking incredibly dejected.

Buddy: Was it something I said?

"I Am" by Godsmack is mid-verse as we return to the ring area. The Internet Champion, Tony Gamble, is sneering at the ringside fans as he walks out. Oh wait, that's just the way he normally looks. My bad. He reaches the ring and drops his belt, aqcuired less than a month ago from that Illustrious Face-Eater. Raising a fist and ignoring the crowd reaction, he seems a little less interested in tonight's show. However, you probably could've guessed that by the fact that his normal valet, Violet Rayne.

His attention is not peaked at all by the opening chords of the Foo Fighters' "All My Life," but the crowd certainly turns their focus to the entrance. There, they see the impending PRIME arrival of Jonathan Winters. The former WWA star steps out to the entrance with a firigd shoulder to the "new guy" pop that he receives. He wastes a little time while making it to the ring, but that's what apathetic, misanthropic aloof dudes do.

We do the intros, the ref checks, and the bell rings. Let's get it on.

Both men circle and jockey for position, looking for that opening. Gamble attacks first, looking for a wide leg sweep, but Winters one-ups him in the worst way. He sidesteps, floating away from the sweep, and uses the momentum to spin into a low roundhouse, practically KO'ng the I-Net champ before he even gets started. Gamble crumples back and instinctively rolls to his stomach to minimize damage. Winters is quick to cover him and begins reigning down crossface blows like he's The Ultimate Fighter.

Gamble wriggles free of the barrage and hits the opposite ropes. Winters, momentarily disoriented, turns around and eats a lucha-style spinning headscissors takedown. When they hit the mat, Gamble keeps his legs locked for a simple submission attempt. The position keeps Winters out of his comfort zone and unable to use his trademark kicks. Instead, he resorts to matwork, trying to fight his way out of the hold. Sensing blood (not literally), The Grin shifts his position, attempting to move to a different hold. His superiority over Winters on the mat is easily established, but he clearly had not finished his scouting report, because he would've known that the simple headscissors was the best place for him early in the match. Instead, as he tries to roll behind for an amateur-style par terre position, a sharp elbow from Winters halts his progress.

With separation created, Jonathan pushes away and then flies back for an enzuigiri that called up memories of Pele. Gamble stumbles, dazed by the blow, before falling back into a corner. He attempts to stand, but Winters charges with a hard knee to the gut, following it with an elbow to the back of the neck. As Gamble slips to the ground, Winter stands him back up and props him in the corner, holding him up just long enough for a high roundhouse and a spinning backfist. Seeing that the champ is sufficiently subdued, Jonathan Winters takes this moment to back off and admire his work, sizing Gamble up for the next flurry.

The Grin steps out of the turnbuckle, then falls back again.

He pulls himself up on the ropes, and then tumbles over, slumping back to the mat.

On his third try, he makes it out a few steps before an errant turn sends him back into the corner, using the ropes to support himself.

Not willing to play along with this nonsense, Winters gives up on his "sizing this sumbitch up" position and approaches the fractionally-conscious Italian. He reaches out and grabs Tony...

..and in a flash, Gamble snaps out of his daze, now proven to be an act, and slings himself behind Winters for one of those swinging schoolboy rollup things. The ref was as surprised as the rest of us, and if he had been in better position, perhaps this wouldn't just be a two count.

1...

2...

Winters kicks out with relative authority at 2.7. Gamble lets up as he kicks, and channels a certain Samoan Submission Machine, switching from a pinning combo into a submission like that. He keeps one leg and uses it to flip Winters over to his stomach, then begins locking the leg for his Queen Angelito variation known as "Smile For Me." Internet Title historians would remember that this is the move that won Gamble the belt, but the only Dotcom belt historian on record is Adam Dick, and he doesn't want to talk about it.

The move never quite gets locked in. As Gamble tries to get that second leg entangled to finish phase 1 of the hold, Winters snaps it with a kick, the heel of his boot striking Tony right between the eyes. Instantly, Jonathan is back on his feet and The Grin is not happy. He holds his face and tries to shake it off. When he finally feels fit to continue, he stands up and steps forward...right into Winters' superkick. The sound echoes through the arena and everyone winces. From the looks of it, Gamble's face had been arranged even worse than it already was. The count, as you imagine, is elementary.

1...

2...

3.

Winner: Jonathan Winters

"All My Life" cues up again as Winters stands and gets his hand raised. It was a short and decisive victory over a reigning PRIME champion. He couldn't ask for much more as an introduction to the fans.

Gamble is already sitting up by the time Winters leaves the ring. He let one slip away, but he was still the champ. One thing was certain, though, as he locked eyes with his conqueror on the ramp: next time, he would be ready.

Poor Silvio Fiore. Not only did the dude have to curtain-jerk with, perhaps, one of the craziest bitches in North America (we don't count South America; those Guadelejarians are pretty fucking bonkers), he also isn't allowed to rest after such a difficult task. No, you see, some people actually have to do something besides have fun on a weekly-televised basis. Something like work.

And Silvio, poor poor Silvio Fiore, he is one of these people; tending to PRIME's more internal workings that don't have to deal with the entertainment. At least you don't think they do... Maybe poor Silvio Fiore isn't so poor, because he doesn't feel one bit aprehensible towards fulfilling his duties.

Even if it means cleaning up a massive mess of vomit that a person happened to leave in the middle of the backstage loading area.

By now the match is out of his mind. He'd just wrestled against Karina Wolfenden, one of the big stars in the PRIME constellation. Having had that experience, he should be ecstatic about all the press it's going to get him to have gone through that match. However, it couldn't be further from the truth. The boy takes it one match at a time, and when the match is over he moves on. This happens for wins and losses, which is why he thinks nothing of his debut victory over Kenjiro Ito.

The roller bucket for clean-up already has the mop and antibacterial agent mixed. Silvio guides it along by use ot the mop handle while the loose cloth at the end soaks in the cleaner. Even at a low concentration, the smell is very noticeable. Not quite Pine-Sol, but close to it. Having been told exactly where the emesis was located, it isn't hard for Fiore to find it. It's yellow-greenish; the young man doesn't want to think of what was ingested for it to look like that.

Mop out of the bucket, he notices a tent. That's right, a tent. It's one of those "all-sides coverage" things that they sell on QVC every summer. It could easily sleep 8 people. Silvio obviously thinks that this is strange, but sets to work anyway.

Out the corner of his eye, he notices a rumble in the walls of the tent. Movement from within, he thought, betraying his original notion not to do such a thing. But this is such a curious event!

The tent rumbles a bit more, and now Silvio has stopped mopping (only cleaning up about 1/5th of the puke), and the flap semi-quickly begins to open.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: *Hack!* These fucking zippers!

With the flap all the way open, Facey explodes outside the tent (did you expect someone else) with a cloud of smoke following his wake. He carries a doll in his hand, with somewhat familiar features, and a cigarette hanging between his lips. For some odd reason, he has another lit cigarette in his free hand.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: What the Fuuuc*hack!* do you think you're doing?!?

Facey stumbles as he struggles to take another drag off of his cigarette(s), and coughs immediatley after inhaling.

Silvio Fiore, now knowing that nothing's actually happening, goes back to his work. He uses a mop quite well. One would think that it's second nature, but a lot of people have poor mop control. They splatter it on the ground, then wish-wash it all haphazardly. The circular motion of his mop is truly a sight to behold. But I'm boring you. Yay! Mission accomplished!

Silvio: What health codes demand.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Health codes are for people with standards, or unhappy restaurant managers. I AM NEITHER, I AM SIDIOUS! And now you try to ruin my careful and nefarious trap with your bullshit mop?!

Facey takes a drag and attempts to blow it in Silvio's face, but just coughs out before he can lean in.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Jesus Allah, these things fucking suck.

Meanwhile, in a distant land, George Lucas is having his corp of Paralegal Droids draw up the paperwork to have Facey sued for calling himself Sidious. The actual courtroom work will be handled by the Prosecutor Clones. Silvio Fiore, in the meantime, chooses to ignore the simultaneous blaspheming of two religions. This vomit isn't going to clean up itself. Not like the ultra-intelligent Japanese vomit, which not only cleans itself, but does your taxes while you wait.

Silvio Fiore: While I'm ruining your trap, I suppose you could humor me, or probably vice-versa in this case, and tell me what you were trying to accomplish?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Well, first I was all in game-mode for this big Gauntlet thing we have going, but then that dick-face Nova was all like "you're a gay and these people think so too" and I was like "well fuck that" so then I was all pissed off and I saw Jack Napier and I was like that fucker's supposed to be dead and I saw his Internet Title so I tried to kill him by shoving him down a flight of stairs because he's in a wheel chair oh shit I probably should have mentioned that earlier fuck I fucked up the whole story here let me start the story over again. Ummm, how does it go? Oh yeah, so I was kicking Vetra's ass like three months ago--

Silvio Fiore: Yeah, we weren't talking about that.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Good thing, I needed to catch a breath. What were we talking about?

Silvio doesn't respond. He merely widens his eyes at Facey, then down towards the puke he's mopping.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Dude stop undressing me with your eyes; it's really creepy. Anyways, so I was all pissed off that I couldn't kill Napier so I decided to vent my frustrations on Nova and figured the best way was to leave a trap for him so I puked up a hole bunch of orange chicken and lo mein noodles from Panda Express because that place is the fucking shit and their egg rolls are so good and dude you should fucking try the egg drop soup but yeah that's what's on the floor because I was hoping Nova would walk by and slip in it.

Facey is quiet for a second, fishing for a response. Silvio nods for him to continue.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: So yeah I puked but then I realized that it smelt really bad and people aren't usually attracted to shitty fucking smells so I was just like whatever I'll do my voodoo thing so I broke out my voodoo tent and carved a voodoo doll of Nova and I decided that the best thing to do was clambake the voodoo tent with cigarette smoke so I could give that hippy bastard lung cancer but I tell you what that's a lot more hard work than I thought it would be because god damn does it give your lungs a work out. I've NEVER been so tired from walking ten feet in my life!

Naturally, after hearing that story, we're all thinking what Fiore is thinking.

1) I didn't catch any of that.

2) I'm glad I didn't catch any of that.

3) Amazing he could talk that long.

4) I can't believe that it went that long without somebody walking up and smacking him.

And then unlike Silvio, who's a decent and clean-minded guy, there are a few sickos here who are thinking that Facey's great lung capacity and dulled gag reflex must have been honed through years of sucking off other men. I'm looking at you, Chandler.

Silvio: So... it never occurred to you to challenge Tony Gamble to a rematch, so you're going after Nova, only instead of a match because that would make sense, you're trying a plan so haphazardly low-ball convoluted that even Cobra Commander wouldn't sign off on it?

And at no point does Silvio stop mopping. The sooner he's done, the faster he can get out of here.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Dude, I thought I told you to stop mopping!

Silvio still does not stop. He just shakes his head.

Silvio Fiore: You didn't.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: WELL FUCKING STOP! It still might work!

Silvio: ..... You said that you changed your plan to try to give Nova lung cancer by zipping up a voodoo doll in a tent. This has nothing to do with your new idea. And even if you did, since I was called out here to clean up your mess, it's easily seen and smelled... no one with opposable thumbs would fall for this.

Face-Eater puts both of his cigarettes out (he hadn't been smoking them for the past minute and a half or so, but he sure was pretending) in Silvio's mop-cart. He's livid now, for some insane reason only he could conjure up.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: ARE YOU SAYING VOODOO IS A SHAM?

The surface of the cleaning mixture bursts into a quick flame. Cleansing products are normally flammable, not that Facey remembered that. The bucket isn't a sustained burn, just a quick blaze and then it's out.

Silvio: Voodoo is entirely a matter of belief in the power of the magic and the person attempting to wield it. I'm ambivalent toward voodoo itself, but I doubt you have any ability to use it effectively should it be legit.

And let's not forget that he's still mopping.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! I JUST SET YOUR BUCKET THE FUCK ON FIRE! I'M A STRAIGHT AND COOL CRISS ANGEL.

Facey eyes Silvio, who says nothing.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: STOP FUCKING MOPPING!

Shamefully, the puke pile is so massive that Silvio is only halfway done.

Fiore looses a sigh. He really wants to get this over with. And there's nothing shiny to distract Facey with. The job's gotta be done, but how? Silvio gets an idea.

Silvio: Hold on a minute.

Fiore, leaving the mop, disappears from the loading area. No, not a spontaneous teleportation, ass. He just left out the way he came in. It isn't long before he returns with two CSC guards. They're more yellow-shirt security, though these ones are armed with tazers and nightsticks.

Silvio: Okay, just cover the tent and the guy in the mask there. He's behaving in a hostile manner, so I believe you're free to use any force you believe necessary to keep him under wraps. I just need to clean up this mess he made.

The guards approach Facey with folded arms, intimidating and forming a human barrier between he and his trap. Of course, he shuts up real quietly and stares at them nervously. Fiore continues about his mopping, quietly, as Facey begins to slowly sneak out of the scene.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I guess I'll just.... leave you alone then...

He drops the Nova Voodoo Doll to the side, and quickly sprints down the corridor and out of sight.

Silvio Fiore: Finally.

The two guards glance towards each other, the threat now out of mind, and begin to strike up a casual conversation.

Guard 1: So, yeah, I agree with what you were telling me earlier. HAMAS has no business in a position of parliament.

Guard 2: It's just so intimidating, that their people actually elected a terrorist group to run their country.

Guard 1: Tell me about it. The PLO better take measures to keep the peace around there.

Guard 2: Well they tried. Unfortunately, their talks with HAMAS went to shit after a--

The Illustrious Face-Eater: VOODOO, MOTHER FUCKERS!

*BOOM*

Guard Number Two goes down, plummeting into the pile of puke and sending it splashing all over his partner. Silvio, somehow, saw this coming and found cover.

As the First Guard tries to comprehend what has happened, he looks back down the hallway to see the Illustrious Face-Eater, with a potato gun. Yes, a PVC pipe potato gun that is usually assembled with parts from Home Depot. He quickly discards the cannon and sprints down the hall, the conscious guard now on his tail.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: THE TRAP WORKED! MWAHAHAHAH!

Yes, the trap worked. Apparently the guard falling into the vomit somehow hurts Nova. But we've long since stopped trying to understand the machinations and underlying mental framework of The Illustrious Face-Eater. Silvio Fiore gently rubs the bridge of his nose with the thumb and index fingers of his left hand. Looking at the security guards, he sees his next job.

Silvio: Throw those shirts in this bag, I'll get you some replacements. There are some antiseptic wipes on the side of the bucket there.

What’s that noise? OMG THE ORCISH HORDES ARE RIGHT OUTSIDE HELM’S DEEP.

No, actually it’s just 20,000 strong clapping and stomping in unison as the Rising Star and the champion of 1/3 of the 5-Star Title stand across the ring from each other for the first time ever.

Nick: Ferguson looking strangely alone in that ring right now, for the entourage he usually carries in tow.

Richard: Pfft. Fergs doesn’t need his crew to render this stoner worthless. Actually, I take that back. It would take Pibb and Fuqueiawytas to board up the entrance to the 7-11.

Nick: Did you think of that all by yourself?

Richard: With a little help from the internet.

Nick: At any rate, fans, we’ve arrived at the second defense of tonight’s show, and the 5-Star Title is STILL under the control of the A-List! Now Ferguson has to make good on the second defense against one of PRIME’s toughest competitors in Nova!

Richard: Toughest to understand, maybe. What a whackjob. Just goes to show, kids…there’s no hope with dope.

The bell sounds. Nova and Danny begin circling one another slowly before Danny shoots in for the takedown. Nova remains on his feet as Ferguson backs him into the ropes, and gets off a couple of forearm shots to Danny’s back. Danny drops down further and surprises the Rising Star by flipping his legs up into the air and sending him over the top rope. Nova lands on the apron, but Fergs is already halfway done with a discus punch that connects with Nova’s domepiece and says "Hey, domepiece, I’m Mr. Fist. Eat shit and die."

Nova tumbles off the apron to the floor, and Danny follows suit as the ref begins a ten count. Ferguson grabs Nova by the hair and rams him face-first into the guardrail to a set of "ahhhhs" from the crowd. He grabs the former 5-Star Champion and tosses him towards the ring steps. Nova reaches them, leaps up onto the top step, hops over to the second rope and springs off with a cross-body block that sends both men down.

Nick: The ref is still dutifully counting this one, and both men are down!

Nova makes it to his feet first and grabs Danny by the cancerous tumor growing out of the hole where his heart used to be, rolling the former child actor under the bottom rope into the ring and stopping the count. Inside, Danny climbs to his feet and the fans cheer as both competitors stand facing one another.

Back to square one.

Nova charges with a standing side kick that Ferguson ducks under, the latter taking out the former’s leg in the process. Nova falls to the mat and Danny wrenches on a leg before stepping over and stomping Nova’s head into the mat. He grabs a handful of the Rising Star’s golden locks and yanks him up (a little too quickly for the ref’s liking) before clubbing him with rights that back Nova up against the ropes. Danny lands a few shots to Nova’s midsection, doubling him over, before grabbing hold of him and flinging him backwards over his head. Nova lands awkwardly in the middle of the ring.

Nick: You can really tell that Danny is adopting more of the style of the man he’ll be portraying on the silver screen…since when is Danny Ferguson a brawler?

Richard: Since who the hell cares, Nick! Nova’s getting his ass kicked!

Troo dat, Richie-dizzles. Danny runs at Nova and goes in for a baseball slide to the head, but Nova peels himself off the mat just in time and drives an elbow into Fergie’s face. Nova pulls Danny’s hands away from his face and climbs to his knees before driving a forearm back down across Danny’s nose. As Danny clutches his wounded money-maker (okay, let’s not over-do it), Nova rolls back, grabs Danny’s legs, and flips over the top of him for the pin.

Nick: SURPRISE PIN!!

Richard: ACK!!

Refnasty Judgebottom: One!

.

.

.

.

.

Two!

.

.

Danny shoots a shoulder up and rolls away, his eyes wide with surprise. Too close. As soon as he turns around, Nova plows into him, sending them both into the corner. Nova pulls back, a forearm across Danny’s chest, and begins slicing into him with knife-edged chops.

THWACK!!

Danny howls, but before he can grab his chest there’s ano-THWACK!!

Yeah, another one of those. Nova hits a third, and then a fourth. Hilariously, Danny’s skin is already so red in general that it’s difficult to see where the blood vessels are popping. Fergie’s screams assure us that they are. On his fifth attempt, however, Danny blocks the chop and rams a forearm into the side of Nova’s head. With his left hand, Danny pulls Nova’s head to the side, and then begins raining down forearms once again as the Rising Star struggles helplessly.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM-WHAM-WHAM!

Nova’s grip on his adversary loosens, and with a grunt, Ferguson hoists him up across his chest…

…and as the flashbulbs light up the ring, he tosses Nova behind him over the top rope with a fall-away slam. Nova hits the mats and rolls to the guardrail. Danny takes a moment to breathe, leaning against the turnbuckle.

Richard: No, no! Stay on him! He’s yours for the taking!

Nick: I have to agree, at least on strategy. Danny has Nova in a good place right now to close this match down. But we have to remember, Rich, Danny has starting putting on pounds to resemble Terry Funk, and he’s probably kind of winded right now.

Richard: Yeah, but he’s…awwww, come on, see?!

Amazingly, Nova is shakily clawing at the guardrail to hoist himself back up. Seeing this, Ferguson grins and begins climbing to the top rope as the fans start going crazy.

Nick: What’s Ferguson going to attempt here?

Richard: Hopefully nothing stupid! Danny! You have your whole life in front of you!

As Nova makes it onto two feet, he looks up, and time stops for a moment as Danny Ferguson, in this moment Terry Funk, takes flight with a gorgeous moonsault off the top rope.

And catches two size 12s in the bread basket as Nova reads the move and hits a standing dropkick on the 5-Star Co-Champion. Danny collapses on top of Nova, who pushes him off after a moment. The fans are still cheering the move. Nova grabs Danny and drags him into the ring, going for another pin attempt.

Refdong LeChumpstain: One!

.

.

.

.

Two!

.

.

.

.

Thre-

Danny gets the shoulder up barely, and Nova wipes his hair out of his face in frustration before lifting Ferguson up. He hooks the arm and leg and raises an arm to the crowd.

Nick: He’s calling for the Remix to In-NOVA-tion! This one could be over!

Nova lifts Danny off the mat several inches before Ferguson blatantly drives his free knee into the Rising Star’s nards. Nova drops him, and collapses to his knees on the mat, holding his bruised nuts.

Nick: WHAT?!

Richard: Wow…such a blatant nut-shot sure is ballsy…hehehe…

The ref is frozen, almost unsure of what to do. It shouldn’t go unpunished, but to throw out a title match because of it? Fortunately for him, Danny makes the decision for him. He levels Nova with a kick to the head before walking over and rolling out of the ring. He shoves one of the seated cameramen aside and grabs his chair, turning his head back to the crowd only to hock a target-less loogie. It lands on a baby’s face. The innocent are always caught in the crossfire.

Ferguson rolls into the ring as Nova climbs up, and waits behind him. Like clockwork, as he turns around, Ferguson cleans his clock with a steel chair-shot. The ref calls for the bell.

Nick: Oh come on! He’s throwing a fit because Nova took everything he had to dish out!

Richard: Chill out, Nick. In the business, they call this ‘method acting.’

Nick: Well, Nova wins this one on a DQ, which means Ferguson takes a loss but not, most importantly, the loss of the 5-Star Title…but the real question is, what now?

In the ring, Danny lays down another chair-shot on Nova before laying the chair out on the mat. He lifts Nova up and…

Nick: BOX-OFFICE BOMB ON THE STEEL CHAIR! Can someone stop this please?!

Richard: Look, someone’s coming to help!

Nick: Really?! YE-wait, that’s the Illustrious Face-Eater!

Richard: Hahaha! SYYYYYKE!!

Facey slides under the ropes and gives Nova’s prone form a few decent stomps, cackling happily the whole time. Security begins filing out onto the stage, and Danny stops Facey, with some difficulty, from continuing the punishment. Danny snatches the 5-Star Title from the ref’s hands and the Tag Team Champions escape through the crowd.

Nick: This kind of crap from the A-List got old a long time ago.

Richard: *Sniff* Still feels like the first time for me.

Ignatius Lisieux is in pretty bad shape: both mentally and physically. Still smarting from the savage beating received at the tainted hands of his so-called "friend" back one week on ReVolution 97, the "MVP" slowly scuffles through the hallways of the arena, doing his utmost to avoid making eye contact with any familiar faces.

As if the beating hadn’t been bad enough on its own, in order to "soften" the French-Canadian further the axis of evil had booked him in an Intense Title match with Vangelus Olsig later that night. To say Lisieux was under-prepared would be an understatement. His face bore no expression other than that of pain, he gripped his battered ribs for dear life - he wallows like this, in solitude, until his trusty amigo approaches from the rear.

Adam: Hey Iggy, wait up!

Actually thankful to have some company more than anything, Lisieux struggles to emit a smile as he turns to face his Scottish running buddy, before stumbling forward a little worringly…

Adam: Whoa there!

The "Number One Son" reaches out and prevents the fall before looking up at his long-time associate with worry etched on his face.

Adam: Are you seriously telling me you’re gonna face Olsig in this state? Killean really busted you up good…

The French-Canadian scowls a little through pursed lips at the mention of the "Supreme Machine" before regaining his balance again.

Ignatius Lisieux: I’ve got no choice man, not if I want to eat this week…

Adam: Shit, me or Johnny could loan you some cash man. It wouldn’t be a problem.

Ignatius shakes his head instantaneously, unwilling to accept charity.

Ignatius Lisieux: Thanks for the offer man, but I really can’t… besides, I’ve been worse than this before…

Adam doesn’t respond with words, his face tells the whole story. He hadn’t ever seen his buddy in such a bad way - the beating had been nothing if not thorough.

Adam: Well suit yourself… but y’know I’m here if you ever need anything… I know you don’t exactly have many people in your life right now…

Just at that moment, a glint shone in Adam’s eye, an opportunity had arisen…

Adam: …well I know you’ve got me… you’ve got Johnny… then there’s Hayley.

Stunned silence abounds. Ignatius’ jaw drops a little bit as he looks at Adam in disbelief…

Ignatius Lisieux: How’d you-

Adam: -your phone, I’m sorry bud but I needed to borrow it and then, I guess I just-

Ignatius Lisieux: -does Johnny know!?

Adam: Hell no!

Ignatius lets out a sigh of relief as he slumps down in an appropriately-placed folding chair.

Adam: I kinda figured it was a clandestine deal with the fact that you’ve never mentioned anything to me about it…

Obviously hurt to be on the fringes of Iggy’s life once more, Adam trails off in order to allow the French-Canadian to explain himself.

Ignatius Lisieux: It’s complicated, okay? I think I love the girl… seriously. I just know Johnny’s not gonna see it like that, though…

Adam: The age thing?

Ignatius Lisieux: Age, the lifestyle - the relationship between us… he always said he didn’t want her getting involved with any wrestlers.

Adam: Surely it’s different with you though, yeah?

Lisieux shakes his head again; a solemn picture was now drawn on his face.

Ignatius Lisieux: It counts double for me. You can’t tell him man; I know I can trust you anyway.

Adam: Yeah there’s no worries there man… but you can’t keep this charade up much longer. He’s bound to find out eventually.

Ignatius Lisieux: I know, I know… but when he does I want it to be on my terms, I want to do this the right way. If I can just wait ‘til after Colossus-

Adam: -whoa… Colossus is six weeks away man…

Ignatius Lisieux: I know… but it needs to be then, it’s the ideal time.

Adam rolls his eyes at the absurdity of the situation before commenting again…

Adam: Well it’s up to you, totally. You have my word that I won’t say anything.

Ignatius Lisieux: Thanks bro; that means a lot.

Relieved at the end of the brief inquisition, the French-Canadian stretches out a right hand in order for the Scotsman to help him up…

Ignatius Lisieux: Anyway… it’s time to win back my title.

Adam: Heh, you always did suit that belt…

The two-thirds of Team Superface begin to head off as – not for the first time lately – a Machiavellian member enters the scene. Karina Wolfenden is there and she has probably heard everything.

Ignatius Lisieux: Karina…

Lisieux is instantly shocked as Adam’s eyes grow a little wider at the unfolding drama…

Karina Wolfenden: Don’t mind me, just headed to get some Gatorade - or something…

The French-Canadian eyes her up and down suspiciously before tipping his head towards her and allowing her to pass through him and his buddy. She ushers a cheeky smile towards the two of them before confidently striding on through. Adam speaks in hushed tones…

Adam: You think she heard anything!?

Ignatius Lisieux: Didn’t seem like it… plus – she’d surely never stoop that low, even if she did…

Adam: Yeah, you’re probably right. Man is she fine…

Ignatius Lisieux: Tell me about it.

The two superstars swiftly turn to check out the Wolfenden rear-view before turning back to each other with frat-boy style grins…

Adam: Damn.

Ignatius Lisieux: I heard that.

Food has an alluring quality, and people tend to enjoy it. So, its no surprise that the catering room can be a very popular place, especially when its one of only three or four locations backstage a person is allowed to be. Yet, this late in the evening, with the show nearing its end, the typical crowd has dwindled down. Meals are no longer a priority… just getting to the airport and catching the next flight to the next town... or maybe home for a short couple of days.

With all that said, only two souls occupy the catering room, though its soon to be three.

The door to the room swings open, the creaking of its hinges echoing through the large open space. Quite irritating, the noise catches the attention of one of the occupants of the room. Karina Wolfenden turns in the direction of the disturbance. Titan, meanwhile, just continues to wolf (no pun intended) down the remainder of the nights available entrées. Then again, it seems Titan is in the catering room every minute he's not in the ring, so he's probably grown accustomed to the noisy hinges.

For his audience of one, Tchu steps through the doorway, looking like he's had better days. The K-Wolf sighs. She had come in only to grab a bottle of cold water, but it quickly begins to look like she won't escape without more than she had come for.

Tchu: Please tell me this is going to stop.

Karina: Huh?

Tchu: Tell me it was nothing and that you're not about to cross that line.

Karina: Psychic powers dwindle after sunset. Care to elaborate?

The Inhuman Being lowers his head for a moment. It seems that something has replaced the anger from earlier in the evening. The rage he had wanted to unleash upon Killean not more than half an hour earlier seems to have given way to something more human. Something like… disappointment.

Tchu: You know what I'm talking about, Kari. This whole thing with Killean…

Karina: Ahhh, so you mean the line you and Iggy decided to draw for PRIME?

The K-Wolf raises an eyebrow, shooting an inquisitive look in the direction of her opponent for ReVolution 100.

Tchu: Selling out. I've got all the respect in the world for you. More so than anyone I've probably ever squared off against. So please… please tell me you're not making friends with that dickhead and looking to join the corporate team.

Karina: And you just assume that's what this whole thing has been about?

Tchu: Killean more or less said as much. I mean…what is it that you want? Do you want the advantage when we step into the ring? Do you want the inside information? Kari… if you want to know my strengths and weaknesses, if you want to know my life history… all you have to do is ask.

Karina: Really?

In a moment that is both extremely intense and very much out of character for The Inhuman Being, Matt Ward begins to confess a great deal of very personal information in what almost seems a pleading manner.

Tchu: I wear an elbow pad on my left arm because I fractured my elbow in nasty fashion when I was eleven years old. Doctors had to stick three steel pins through the arm of a terrified kid just to hold his elbow in place. I wear the protection because, like all damaged joints, its twice as susceptible to re-injury. I've got sensitive ribs. Killean broke two of 'em in the Underground and I bruised them pretty badly again here in PRIME. So, there a weak point. Kick the shit out of them and you'll be well on your way to a victory. Then there's the emotional stuff. My boss tries to screw me over every chance he gets. My wife walked out on me, and I haven't seen her in months. I haven't held my baby girl since before Christmas… so you could say I'm a little less than stable emotion…

Karina: Matt, you can stop.

Tchu: Ok…

His words sound nearly lifeless, as if they were being uttered by a beaten man, even though there has been no battle. Karina takes a drink from the bottle of water, making sure to savor every last drop and quench entirely the thirst that had led her to this confrontation.

Karina: I've talked to Killean about 3 times in ,y life. Rumor floating around backstage is that the two of you exchanged more words than those added together earlier tonight. Yet nobody is accusing YOU of 'selling out'. So how about you extend me the same courtesy since you have so much 'respect' for me, instead of just jumping to conclusions, huh?

Tchu: I'm sorry.

Again, the Inhuman Being lets his head drop in what appears to be shame, failing to live up to his nickname.

Karina: And remember, this match was your idea. Just a friendly competition between two superstars who respect each other. Killean shouldn't even matter in all this, unless you MAKE him matter. You want to wrestle the best to stay sharp for your inevitable match against him. As for me, I just want my opportunity to take a step towards evening up the score between us.

Tchu: I know. You owe me a loss.

The K-Wolf finishes off her water and throws the empty bottle into the nearby trash bin, the plastic rattling against the steel bottom of the empty can. The noise bounces around the room, slowly fading out.

Karina: I owe you two, Matt… and I'm getting one of those back at 100.

Oh no. The wizards are at it again...

Fucking wizards.

Here's what happened: Olsig came to the ring, Iggy didn't. Olsig demanded a count, and got the count-out victory.

Iggy? Well, he didn't care.

Why? Because screw Tyler Nelson, that's why.

Winner: Vangelllllllllus Olsig

No one can say that Buddy Kingfisher isn't tough in his own right. Sure, he's got a mean lariat, but here he is not too long after a match with Ivan Stanislav, and he might be feeling it, but he's not letting it get him down. In fact, here he is skipping down the hallway (and the requisite hard footfall because of it). The 350+ pound man is enjoying himself, probably with a tune in his head, and as he is prancing down the hallway in as manly a manner as possible, a door ahead of him opens and shuts. Out pops Silvio Fiore, broom in hand. Kingfisher waves, as the young man acknowledges him.

Silvio: Buddy, hey there. How's everything?

Buddy: Oh, Silvio, I feel absolutely terrible about last week. I hope you know I'd NEVER try and take a good person like you out in that manner. I just must have slipped or something. I couldn't hold my head up like I wanted to.

Buddy shrugs his shoulders in sadness. For those of you that missed it--

*SLAP!*

What the hell is wrong with you? We present ReVolution free of charge every week. The least you could do is watch it, jerkass.

But anyway, in an 8-man tag match, Buddy Kingfisher was the unlikely executor of a moonsault to pin Silvio Fiore. But Buddy is forgetting, or didn't know in the first place, that it was forced upon him by way of Travis Reed pulling him off of the top rope. The Cutting Edge had 383 pounds coming down on him; that's over 200 pounds more than the kid weighs. Kingfisher, being a fun and nice guy, not one to want to hurt people, that's weighed on him for the past week. Working in Sillvio's favor, he couldn't feel it... he just couldn't kick out.

Silvio: Don't worry about it. X-Ray said everything was fine, no broken bones. I suppose you caught some of your weight on instinct.

Buddy just looks at Silvio with a nervous look before shaking his head like a dumbass.

Buddy: Yeah... let's go with that explanation.

After a short pause Buddy just smiles and goes on not even wanting to continue that part of the conversation.

Buddy: So anyway... since I felt bad and all, and I hate feeling bad cause I'm a fun-loving kind of spirit ya know. Well, I thought I'd just tell you that if you ever need a favor or anything I'm there. I'll make that up to you somehow.

Fiore nods in appreciation. There's not much I have to add to that. It's a heartfelt nod. He accepts the apology. What more do you people want from me?

Silvio: I can't think of any favors right now, but you can join some of the crew and I when we head out for dinner later.

Kingfisher perks up, a big grin on his face. The road to reconciliation.

But suddenly, a grin of reconciliation is turned into a look of worry as unto the scene appears the Intense Champion, Vangelus Olsig, in a much more calmer approach than in recent weeks.

Vangelus: Ah...What do we have here? Beavis and Buttface, I see. What are you two discussing...who's going to be on top this time?

Snickering at his own snide remark, Vangelus eyeballs the pair of superstars.

Buddy looks at him with a confused look on his face.

Buddy: I hate to be the kind of guy to correct a fellow wrestler, but I believe the name of the show you were refering to was actually Beavis and Butthead. Simple mistake I'm sure but I thought I'd let you know anyway for future reference.

Buddy then simply smiles at Olsig as if he just did him a huge favor before turning back to talk to Silvio again. Suddenly, however, Vangelus yanks Kingfisher back around so that the Wal-Mart employee is facing the champ.

Vangelus Olsig: Believe me...I got it correct. And when did you figure that you had enough calibur to correct me? I mean, what have you done that warrants you the opportunity to correct such a historical champion as I? I am the Intense Champion, and you are nothing more than, what? A former Core Legacy champion? Please.

Buddy simply stares for a moment trying to figure out what it was that he did wrong. He was only trying to help for goodness sakes. How could he have done anything wrong?

Silvio: Would you stop going around citing your resume? You've already got the job.

Suddenly, Vangelus leaps forward attempting to attack Silvio, only to be restrained by a fast-thinking Kingfisher.

Vangelus Olsig: Gets your hands off of me, punk!

Vangelus immediately pushes Kingfisher off of him as he gets in the face of Silvio, sure to point one finger in the face of his foe.

Vangelus Olsig: You listen here, buddy. You are on death row right now, you got that? I am two seconds away from leaving you lifeless in the middle of this corridor, so DON'T try me!

Buddy simply stands just the side of the two with a look of shock on his face. How could he have possibly done anything this bad since arriving here tonight that he was about to get Silvio in more trouble. Buddy quickly reacts once more, pulling the Intense Champion away.

Buddy: HEY! Now that is just rude! Silvio didn't do anything to you. Maybe you need to walk back out that door and comeback in and try this again the right way with some manners.

Buddy then pushes Olsig away from him with a powerful shove. The Intense Champion isn't going to take this lying down; in fact, he now has two people he wants to leave flat on their backs at this moment. Charging forward, Vangelus has his mind set on ending Kingfisher right in the middle of the corridor.

Vangelus Olsig: Son of a Bit-...

"COOL OFF."

Loud, and direct. It was aimed at Vangelus Olsig, but words weren't enough and the voice wasn't stand-alone. Olsig found long, powerful arms wrapped around him from behind to restrain him.

Vangelus: What the hell?!

He throws a back elbow, something easily caught by Kenjiro Ito.

Kenjiro: Watch yourself, Ol' Bean. You're getting into the way of my unfinished business.

Staring down Ito with bewilderment in his eyes, Vangelus responds.

Vangelus Olsig: Let me put this in simple english terms for you. Me handle business...you back off. Savvy?

Aside from being insulted (his English was better than many native English speakers), the Cocky Osakan is annoyed that he has to "call" his target. Pulling Olsig a couple of feet back, he steps in the way, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kenjiro: And I'll put this into "Self-Centered Whiteboy Jackass" terms so you can understand. I've got my own score to settle with the Cabbage Patch Kid and it goes deeper than your being a completely laughable person.

Buddy, having stood there in complete silence for the last few moments trying to take all this hate and aggression that he didn't understand, finally speaks up.

Buddy: Guys, guys, we're not in junior high anymore. We're all adults here. Is there really any need for the name calling and all this hatred? Why don't we just sit down with a nice sandwhich and maybe some good old Sour Cream and Onion chips and try and work this whole silly misunderstanding out. I mean I really can't see how saying it was Beavis and Butthead and not Beavis and Buttface has turned into a reason for World War 2 to break out.

Ito and Olsig stare blankly at Kingfisher for a good three seconds before acting together, shoving at either shoulder to push him away so that the real men could continue talking. Ito turns his attention back to the Intense Champion.

Kenjiro: You're going to have to put your little hostilities on the back burner. Fiore wounded more than just my nose when he put me out. Even if it was just for a couple of weeks, he took something from me you'll never understand much less have -- pride and honor.

Buddy, from behind Silvio, and with sadness once more.

Buddy: Was it something I said?

Fiore pats Buddy on the shoulder.

Silvio: No... this is just the way they are.

Back with the two men who seem to have a problem with Silvio, they're in their own conversation now.

Vangelus Olsig: Now, I know you're new to the scene and all, but in case you've forgotten...I am the Intense Champion, and with good reason. I've made a living off of bashing clowns like you, so unless you want to become another statistic, I suggest you back off while the gracious offer is still on the table.

Kenjiro: You're Intense Champion because you're allergic to actual wrestling, and because you've never faced anyone like me. But if you're going to throw out threats, please do try to attack me. We'll see how far you'll get now that your commotion has attracted security.

Indeed, CSC presence was making itself known. And they were within their rights, duties, and orders to stop any aggression backstage. They'd be unmerciful and thorough; especially since none of them wanted to have to be the one who took a dock in pay.

Kenjiro: Or, you can stay calm for more than two seconds, act rationally for once, and maybe we can both get what we want.

Vangelus Olsig: What I want is a piece of both of these clowns and...

Vangelus glances at his watch.

Vangelus Olsig: There goes those two seconds. Tell me when I can cash in my grand prize, Sir.

Meanwhile, Silvio Fiore and Buddy Kingfisher, seeing that this no longer demands their presence, are heading off. Ito turns and sees them leaving.

Kenjiro: Hey! No one said you could leave!

Silvio: I'm sorry, I didn't think I had to ask, as I'm not descended from you and you don't sign any of my checks.

Buddy: You ain't our daddy!

Silvio: Yes, that was the gist of it.

Ito grates his teeth. That won't be good for his enamel. Slapping Olsig's shoulder, the Bad Will Ambassador proposes a catch-all.

Kenjiro: Okay, listen. We both want to get our hands on Fiore, and you'll apparently begin a feud with anything at the drop of a hat so long as it has a pleasant temperament. So how about we take this to the ring? You and me against the Happy Time Smile Band over there.

A simple nod from the champ signals his immediate approval.

Kenjiro: You would do well to lay off the junk food. Your carefree lifestyle won't agree with your impending cardiac arrest.

Buddy: You'd do well to realize I've lost 10 pounds, thank you very much!

Kenjiro: Evacuating your bowels doesn't count.

Buddy quickly covers his mouth as if a dirty word was just said.

Kenjiro: Very good. Now do that unless the plate in front of you has a salad on it.

Buddy: I ate a salad once. Got food poisoning from it.

Vangelus: So now you see that those who draw my ire might actually deserve it?

Ito nods. Buddy once again gets a look of confusion on his face. This isn't unusual for poor Buddy. He is often lost. And not in that good "Wins an Emmy" kinda way.

The Cutting Edge gives Buddy another pat on the shoulder.

Silvio: I think you should just walk away now.

Buddy gives Silvio a look and just nods. He must know what he is talking about. He is a good guy after all.

Vangelus: Next week, boy.

Silvio: I know. You don't leave me alone.

The fans are going nuts as we return to the arena. It's time for the evening main event and the competitors have already made their way into the ring and are standing on opposite sides of the ring staring at one another. Tsonda vs Titan for the 5-Star title. Some how the A-List has managed to hold onto their title the entire night through wins by Ferguson and Facey.

The bell rings as Titan and Tsonda begin to slowly circle the ring staring at one another. The tension is as thick as it could possibly be. Main event. ReVolution. 5-Star title on the line. Will the A-List walk out this evening having successfully defended their belt three times in one night?

A punch drops Tsonda to the mat. A hard right hand from the massive man known as Titan was all it took to put him down. But he quickly sprung back up to his feet only to be met by yet another thundering right that sent him right back to the mat. Make it three times as Tsonda popped up once more and gets knocked right back down with yet another powerful shot by the man mountain Titan. The fans are going completely insane as they watch and cheer for Titan to finally end the A-Lists perfect night.

"TITAN! TITAN! TITAN!"

The chant continues to grow louder and louder as Titan reaches down and scoops Tsonda off the mat and slams him down with a devastating backbreaker. Tsonda hits the mat arching his back in a great deal of pain. Titan wastes no time reaching down and dragging him back up to his feet. Titan then quickly picks Tsonda up off the mat, by his throat, and just tosses him back first into the corner cause all the air to seemingly rush out of Tsonda as he slams into the corner only to be caught with a hard forearm from Titan rushing into the corner and slamming into Tsonda.

"TITAN! TITAN! TITAN!"

As Tsonda starts stumbling out of the corner he is caught by Titan and suplexed through the air with a Belly-To-Belly that sends Tsonda flying across the ring and sliding back first into ring post on the other side. Tsonda is just absolutely wrapped around the post in pain. Titan wastes no time as he slides out of the ring and runs toward Tsonda to take his head off but in his haste doesn't account for Tsonda still having his wits about him and moving out of the way leaving only post for Titans shoulder to find. Titan rocks off the ring post, spins around, and falls to his back on the outside to the horror of the fans. In the ring Tsonda crawls around trying to get his bearings back about him as on the outside Titan starts to slowly get toward his feet. Just as Titan gets all the way up to a vertical base and turns around to try and slide into the ring he is caught in the chest with a perfectly placed baseball slide that sends Titan back first against the newly constructed barrier that surrounds the ringside area to keep the fans away. This time its Tsonda who wastes no time as he quickly bounces off the opposite ropes, leaps up onto the top rope in front of Titan, and flies off of it with a front flipping plancha that takes Titan and Tsonda to the mats outside the ring.

Despite their hatred of Tsonda and The A-List the fans can't help but be impressed by both the fact that Tsonda is still in this match and by the nice high risk move he just pulled off. A moment later Tsonda gets to his feet and after a couple of well placed boots to the head and chest Tsonda drags Titan up to his feet and rolls him into the ring. Tsonda quickly follows him in and drags Titan up to his feet once more landing two very hard and very well exectued chops to the chest of the large man before kicking him in the gut and dropping him head first into the mat with a DDT. Tsonda quickly goes for the first cover of the night.

1...

2...

KICKOUT!!!! With athority that throws Chandler off of him and across the ring. Titan goes to get up but is met by a hard kick to the head from Tsonda who'd quickly gotten to his feet and kept the attack on the monster of a man. Tsonda then quickly leaps up onto the second rope, spring boards off, and drops an elbow across the back of Titan's head. Not one to let up on an opponent who could probably kill him if he wanted to Tsonda quickly bounces off the other set of ropes and this time drives a knee into the ribs of Titan cause the big man to roar in pain as he rolls away from his attacker. Tsonda quickly follows suit and drops another knee into the ribs of Titan. Tsonda then drags Titan back up to his feet and lands a few quick forearm shots to the chest and head of Titan trying to weaken the man a bit more. Tsonda then whips him into the ropes and goes for a spinning back elbow but gets caught and dropped down into the mat, hard, by a spinebuster style move that rocks the ring and knocks the air right out of Tsonda.

"TITAN! TITAN! TITAN!"

After a few moments Titan attempts to pin Tsonda for the first time.

1...

2...

3..NO! Tsonda gets a shoulder up!

The fans reign down boos at the fact that Tsonda is able to get his shoulder up. Once more delaying their celebration of the dethroning of The A-List. With hope still on his side Tsonda slowly gets up to his feet only to be taken down by a hard charging clothesline from Titan. With a second wind Titan now appears to be ready to take this match away from Tsonda. Tsonda bounces off the mat and is taken right back down to the mat with a huge charging forearm that drops him to the mat. Titan then reaches down and pulls Tsonda to his feet and quickly drops him back down to the mat with a vertical suplex. Titan then reaches back down, yanks Tsonda up again, whips him into the ropes and drops him to the mat with a Somoan drop upon his return. The impact sends the fans into another frenzy. Another cover.

1...

2...

3..SHOULDER UP!

Once more the boos reign down as Tsonda continues to fight the onslaught from Titan. After landing a few quick punches to the face and head Titan gets to his feet, dragging Tsonda up along the way, and picks him up and slams him into the mat with a sideslam and then gets back up and drops an elbow quickly into the chest of Tsonda. Then another, and another, and another. Finally Titan stands up, lifts Tsonda up, and whips him into the ropes, catches him and lifts him onto his massive shoulders and spins to go for a powerslam style move only to have Tsonda slide down from behind and drop him to the mat with a reverse face buster style move that drives Titans head into the mat. A cover.

1...

2...

3..KICK OUT! ONce more Titan kicks out and this time he is quickly to his knees, just as Tsonda gets to his feet and goes for a side kick only to have it caught by Titan who then gets to his feet as Tsonda's eyes widen in shock and he pleads for Titan to just let him go. Titan spins his leg out, causing him to turn his back, and picks him up for atomic drop but Tsonda is able to reverse it by flipping through and landing behind him and pulling Titan down with a roll up from behind. He grabs a hand full of tights.

1...

2...

3....

DING! DING! DING! The fans explode in anger as Tsonda quickly slides out of the ring and is handed the 5-Star title. Having just stolen a victory from the giant man who is quickly to his feet and in shock over the fact that the referee missed the pulling of his tights. Titan begins pleading his case to the official who can only shake his head and say that he didnt see it as Tsonda weary, but smiling, stumbles back up the ramp with the 5-Star title in hand.

Nick: I don't believe it! I just don't believe it!

Richard: Believe it Nick. BELIEVE!! The A-List have sweeped the matches tonight and have retained the 5-star title on three seperate occassions tonight. DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?

Nick: This wasn't a miracle. It was a damned travesty Richard!

Richard: One mans travesty is another mans miracle. Praise Hoyt the A-List have retained!!!!

He had to be here somewhere. The stench of the capitalist pig was in the air, and Ivan Stanislav was hot on the trail. The Russian Bear stalks through the bowels of the arena, searching room to room in his quest to find Tyler Nelson.

He was here. Ivan could feel it in his bones. Tonight would be the night Nelson paid.

Down the long corridor Stanislav marches, his chest heaving as he snarls in anger. He reaches the door to his right and opens it with one mighty thrust of his fist, sending the door off its hinges.

Ivan: NELSON!! WHERE ARE YOU, DOG?!

The Russian sticks his head through the door.

Nothing.

Ivan: RARRR!!

Stanislav seethes with anger as he takes off down the corridor again, heading for the next door on the left. He kicks the door in and bellows wildly.

Ivan: TYLER NELSON!! IVAN IS HERE!!

Again, and empty room greets the Russian Bear. Ivan roars in frustration as he heads down the hallway again. An intern cowers against the wall, hoping to blend in and avoid the wrath of Stanislav. The young man has no such luck. Ivan grabs him by the shirt and hoists him up to eye level, snarling as he brings the intern face to face.

Ivan: Where is he? WHERE IS NELSON?!

As the front of the intern’s pants begins to show the tell-tale sign of urination, he stammers something in gibberish, prompting Stanislav to drop him unceremoniously to the floor. The intern screams and runs off the down the hallway, disappearing out of sight. Ivan watches for a moment, his upper lip curled in a mixture of anger and disgust, then turns his attention back to his hunt.

There’s one more door. One more chance at redemption on this night.

The hulking figure of the massive Russian stomps to the door, pausing only for a moment before kicking it in with his foot. The door partially hangs from the hinges as Ivan bursts through the doorway and into a room made up to look like a restaurant. Ivan’s eyes grow wide with delight.

He was close.

There was the table that Nelson had been sitting at earlier, the two place settings still atop the white table cloth. The bottle of champagne was still chilling, albeit now about three-quarters of the way gone. And off to the side, leaning against the wall in his chair, was Jim Axtell. The personal protection specialist has a rather bemused look on his face as he watches Ivan storm the room.

Ivan: A-HA!! I have found Nelson’s hideout!

Stanislav quickly scans the room, but finds no evidence of the prey which he was hunting. He turns back to Axtell, and angry growl in his voice.

Ivan: Ivan will only ask one time, James Axtell. Where is Nelson?

Axtell looks at Ivan and shrugs his shoulders.

Jim: I, uh…I don’t know, Ivan.

As Stanislav stares down Axtell, he notices a mischievous glint in Jim’s eyes as he quickly glances over toward the table. Ivan furrows his brow as he looks over at the round table with the white table cloth covering it.

The white table cloth that hangs all the way to the floor.

The white table cloth that hides anything that might be under the table.

With no further hesitation Ivan springs into action. He strides over to the table and picks it up, hurling it with ease across the room. As the table crashes into the wall we find that underneath the table, curled up on his hands and knees, was indeed the CEO, Tyler Nelson.

Ivan: DYAHAHAHAHAHA!!! LOOK AT THE COWARD DOG!!

Nelson springs to his feet, his face white as a ghost and eyes wide as saucers. He immediately begins to backpedal.

Tyler: Hey there…Ivan. Fancy meeting you here.

Terror drips from Nelson’s voice as it cracks several times while he speaks. Stanislav bears down on the CEO, clenching his fists.

Tyler: Look. I know-

Nelson swallows hard as he backs into the wall, startling himself. He snaps his head to look at the wall, then back at Ivan. In the background, Axtell has risen from his chair and slowly made his way toward the two men, but still lays back a bit.

Ivan: Finally, you have nowhere to go! Ivan will have his revenge tonight for the past, and for Alexei! You have done your last bit of damage, Tyler Nelson! Ivan will end you TONIGHT!!

A voice pipes up from behind the bear, briefly drawing his attention.

Jim: Ivan. I know you want to rip his head off, and while I understand your anger I have to remind you that I have a job to do. Whatever I think of Tyler Nelson and what he stands for, I gave my word that I would protect him from harm. If that means that you and I have to go at it again…then so be it. I’m asking you, man to man, not to do anything that will force me to have to stop you.

Stanislav turns his head slightly, just enough to catch Axtell’s form from the corner of his eye.

Ivan: And Ivan has told you before that there is no quarrel between us, James Axtell. This is no business of yours. You may have job to do, but that does not matter to Russian Bear. Ivan will crush you both if need be.

Stanislav slowly cocks his massive arm back, his fist aimed right at Nelson’s head.

Tyler: Axtell!! DO SOMETHING!!

Jim: Ivan….don’t do it, man.

Tyler: STOP HIM NOW!!

Jim: SHUT UP, NELSON!!

Stanislav ignores them both as he seems to be in a trance, visions of pounding Nelson’s head through the wall dancing in his head. Axtell tries to reason with Ivan one last time, his voice as soothing as the tense situation can allow.

Jim: Listen, Ivan. Just take a second to think about what you’re doing. You’re risking your freedom, and over what? Tyler Nelson? It’s not worth it.

Stanislav’s voice is cold and calculated.

Ivan: Ivan has thought of consequences over and over. The time is now.

A low roar begins to swell up from Ivan’s chest as his arm muscles flex. Nelson squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they will go, seemingly muttering a prayer as he awaits the blow that inevitably will come.

Ivan’s arm shoots forward, on-line with the middle of Nelson’s face. Axtell springs forward, reaching out to try and catch the Russian Bear’s arm, but he isn’t in time. The iron fist of Stanislav speeds toward the face of the CEO.

Tyler: PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!! I’LL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT!!

Another inch and Nelson might have never saw the sunrise again.

The fist that had been trying to decapitate Nelson veers off course at the last millisecond, instead putting a hole in the wall next to Tyler’s right ear. The dust and particles from the drywall fall onto Nelson’s shoulder like a bad case of dandruff. The arrogant, cocky CEO of PRIME is reduced to a humble wimper.

Tyler: I’ll give you what you want.

Stanislav bends down, pressing his forehead against Nelson’s.

Ivan: When?

Tyler: Well, I need time to train and prepare….I think six months should do it?

Stanislav removes his fist from the wall and cocks his arm back again.

Ivan: Not good enough. WHEN?!

Nelson stares at the fist, his mind racing for an answer.

As Ivan’s arm twitches closer to Nelson once again, the answer comes.

Tyler: COLOSSUS THREE!! Colossus three….

Ivan pauses, pondering the offer. An interested Jim Axtell looks on as Ivan slowly lowers his arm.

Ivan: So it shall be. Be ready for your doom, Nelson.

The Russian Bear takes a step back, smirking at the CEO. Nelson tries to regain some semblance of composure and control.

Tyler: There is one stipulation, however. Until that match at Colossus three, you cannot lay a hand on me. No more threats. No more hunting me down when I’m trying to hide. You leave me alone until then.

Ivan rubs the stubble on his face with his massive hand. It was worth it.

Ivan: Da. Ivan will allow you to exist until match. Then Ivan will destroy you in front of whole world.

Stanislav turns and exchanges a semi-respectful look with Axtell before heading toward the door. Never one to be one-upped, and finally letting his nuts out from their hiding place, Nelson yells at the Russian Bear as he walks out the door.

Tyler: By the way. You’ll be having a little warm-up match at Revolution 100.

Ivan stops, but doesn’t turn around.

Ivan: Which pawn will you throw at Ivan this time?

A nervous, yet arrogant smirk befalls the CEO as the name rolls off his tongue.

Tyler: Titan St. James.

The Russian Bear offers no response other than a stern look on his face as he exits the room. Nelson looks over at Axtell, who has made his way back over to his chair and is leaning against the wall once again.

Tyler: And where the hell were you at while I was being assaulted? Am I not paying you to take care of thugs like that?

Jim: Far as I can tell you don’t have a scratch on you, so it seems like I did my job just fine. I’m not one of your hired hitmen that go out and attack people. I specialize in self defense. I’ll keep you safe, but I’m not going to take people out just because it suits your fancy. If you can’t deal with that, then I might as well pack up and leave.

Tyler: Whatever. Hopefully Clint will get out of the hospital this week and I can have him do your dirty work. Until then, let’s get the hell out of here. I have to change clothes.

Axtell chuckles out loud.

Jim: Yeah, I wouldn’t like the feel of shit in my pants, either.

Nelson storms out of the room in a huff, the smirking Jim Axtell following.