"Ugh. Can you believe it? Can you actually believe it?"

A man dressed in a blue suit paces angrily around the front end of his Lexus, arms planted irritably on his hips. They leave them only to accentuate the man’s continuing diatribe.

The Suit: I mean, my God! Four hundred dollars for a parking ticket…in Calcutta?! Four hundred dollars is like…like…well, I don’t know, but I bet I could build my own Taj Ma-freakin’-hal for four hundred dollars!

A woman in the passenger seat of the Lexus pokes her poofy head of blonde hair out of the window.

Poof-Ball: Honey, let’s just go!

The Suit: (Waving a finger) Oooohhhh, no we will not just go. We’re Americans, Diane! We’ll show these brown-skinned Dell computer fucks who writes the parking tick-

BLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!~!

The man spins around instantly at the loud bleating sound, and his worst fears are realized as his eyes move up (his jaw naturally downward) and gaze upon a full-grown Indian Elephant, adorned in full gold-tassel regalia. The man presses himself against the car in horror, a stain spreading across the crotch of his slacks.

Nova: I think you should take your wife’s advice. Besides, this spot is ill and I want to park my elephant here.

The suit can only quiver in surprise as he notices the well-built, close-shaven man riding atop the mammoth, gold belts across his body reflecting out of his black sunglasses. After a moment the trance seems to wear off and the man scurries into his car, bringing the engine to life with a roar and peels away out of the parking garage.

Nova motions his elephant forward until the two of them are suitably inside the lines. Dropping down to the concrete, Nova puts a hand to the floor to stabilize himself and pushes his shades back up his nose with his other. He stands up and breathes deep, a smile crossing his face as he revels in the knowledge that the evening should be a glorious success.

Should be.

"Awesome show last week."

The words, delivered scathingly, halt Nova dead in his tracks as he walks towards the backstage entrance. Looking over, the Risen Star can see the ember of a cigarette burning in the shadows. It falls to the ground and is stomped out. With the exhalation of a smoke cloud, the "Queen of the Ring" Lindsay Troy steps out of the darkness.

Lindsay Troy: I guess those things'll kill ya, sort of like a bad bump to the outside if you don't take it right. At least one thing is good for ambiance.

Nova doesn’t move at first as she approaches, his face unreadable.

Nova: Lindsay Troy? Waiting outside the arena for ol’ Nova? This is kind of role reversal. Well, no, I guess role-reversal would be you sneaking around in my bags looking for underwear or naughty photos of me naked and/or getting it on…but it still is, a little bit.

Lindsay Troy: You don't get to do playful, flirty banter with me anymore. You gave that up in order to bend over and take shaft from Deville, or whatever it is that he passes off as orders.

Behind the comfort of his sunglasses Nova’s eyes narrow, but he smirks coolly.

Nova: Nice dig, Lindz. Really. Hey, maybe now I’ll go backstage and try to keep my anger in check before finally EXPLODING~! on Angelo out of the need to prove that I’m no lackey, thus bringing the whole group down, and aaaallllll because you just planted that idea in my head! Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Lindsay Troy: Just make sure you tell them to "take it easy" on you afterwards.

The second scathing barb of the conversation cuts between him like an electric carver through a turkey, held by Azala Zameer.

Lindsay Troy: Way to really lay it all out on the line there. What would you have done if it really went down? Huh? Maybe get a few half-hearted boots in? Hold my head up while Deville slapped the taste out of my mouth?

The Universal Champion had stepped back, but now he whirls around.

Nova: FUCK! YOU! What don’t you understand about what’s happening here, Troy?! Everyone loves to point out how Fuck You talks a big game, but people are disappearing, Lindz! I don’t want you standing on the other side of that ring, but you’re doin’ it anyway ‘cuz you’re Lindsay fucking Troy, so don’t crying in my cereal if you get exactly what the others promise you will!

The Risen Star rips off his sunglasses and stares her down with eyes weighed down by purple bags of sleeplessness. He lights a cigarette quickly and goes on.

Nova: And what the fuck are you defending, anyway? That lunatic in the office hell-bent on killing me out in the ring every week? The precious backstage atmosphere where Chainz walks around telling child-rape stories and the rest of the lot recycle witticisms while waiting to beat the piss out of each other to grab that piece of the pie? The pie that’s gotten significantly smaller since we doubled our roster size?

He takes a drag, exhaling smoke through his nose.

Nova: Want in on the secret? They aren’t worth it. Chet sure as fuck isn’t worth your blood, or Matt Ward’s. And I know that you wouldn’t piss on Danny Ferguson if he caught fire. So what are you doing, Lindz?

Lindsay Troy: I'm your conscience, remember? What I'm doing is standing my ground, even if the people standing with me are less than noble, and if you knew me at all then you wouldn't have even had to ask me that. If you want to hear crying, you should listen to yourself sometime. You're so pissed that you have to defend that title week in and week out, but YOU'RE THE UNIVERSAL CHAMP, DIPSHIT. THAT'S WHAT YOU DO. And if you really felt you were getting the short end of the stick, you would have left by now. You would have taken the title from the referee after you beat Matt, you would have said "Y'know what? I can't deal with the bullshit anymore." And you would have walked, owing Angelo Deville something be damned.

But no. You stayed. And I don't think you stayed out of some pact of friendship with that slimeball. There's some sense of honor floating around in you, because if there wasn't you would have left for greener pastures. You may not want me on the other side of the ring, but I'm there, whether it's the right thing to do or not, and I'm not leaving.

Nova throws his arms up.

Nova: Maybe you should listen to yourself sometime, Lindz! You’re…what did you say…"standing your ground, even if the people standing with you are less than noble…" What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing for the last three or four months?! I’m standing my mother-fuckin’ ground, Lindz, because it ain’t about you, or Tchu, or even PRIME anymore…it was, but not really now…now, it’s about him.

The Risen Star reaches into his jacket and removes a silver flask, but when he turns it up and nothing comes out, he flings it angrily against the wall. It hits the floor and skips two or three times before spinning to a stop. Nova runs a hand over the short hair slowly growing back over his head.

Nova: No turning back, Lindsay. No waltzing back into the office with "Ohhh, sorry Uncle Chester. I was a bad boy for a while, but in the end you were right and I take it all back." I won’t do it. He’s a shit-head. Ferguson’s a shit-head. All the non-shitheads are gone at this point. I fight for scoundrels, Lindsay, but at least my scoundrels don’t dress up in superhero costumes once a week.

Troy: I didn't choose Ferguson. Out of the three men I chose to stand with, two are gone, one thanks to your "scoundrels." Now the playing field's shifted. I can't control that. As much as it KILLS me to say it, I'd much rather see Ferguson swinging a chair at you and your boys than feel it against my own head. Although, it looks like you've been beating yourself up enough without my or Danny's help.

The Queen of the Ring gives Nova's face a really good lookover, which causes him to look away for a moment. When his gaze returns to her face, the anguish visible for a fraction of a second is gone, replaced by a combination of fatigue and indifference.

Nova: Is that all, Ms. Troy?

Troy: It almost never is.

The Risen Star stares at her for a moment and opens his mouth to say something…but closes it moments later, replacing the dark sunglasses over his eyes. Without a word, he turns and walks away from her, leaving Lindsay Troy, as has recently been a motif of sorts for her, completely alone.

Lights.

Camera.

ReVolution!

The capacity crowd in... ... India(?) do their best to imitate the lunatic Americans that usually open wrestling shows as the camera pans over them and lights of varied colors flash and dim. Indian versions of American PRIME t-shirts are highly noticeable, and though we have no clue what they’re specifically saying, wrestling’s not known for it’s complexities.

Nick: Welcome to ReVolution everyone! Coming to you this week all way from Calcutta! We’ve got a great show lined up for you tonight!

Richard: When can we go home? I want a cheeseburger!

The camera shifts, giving us a shot of a large objected, covered in a blue tarp, suspended on a platform high above the ring. Next to it, on the same platform, is another tarp-covered object, this one standing roughly six feet tall. As our eyes focus, we realize that the suspended platform is being slowly lowered toward the ring. The audience seems to realize this as well, and within moment, the noise dies to an excited hush.

Richard: Any ideas what that is?

Nick: Not one.

Moments later, some random hot girl begins making her way to the ring, much to the pleasure of the audience. She skips down to the ring, bouncing in all the right places (and oh, how the bitch knows it). Once in the ring, she takes a moment to strike a few poses.

Richard: I don’t know what this is about, but I think I’m going to like it.

Finally, the ridiculously hot and ridiculously random girl raises the microphone to her licorice lips, flicks her eyebrow, and speaks.

Random Hot Girl: Hello everyone! I’ll be your Master of Ceremonies tonight.

Nick: Master of Ceremonies?

Random Hot Girl: Throughout wrestling history, there have been accomplishments, and then there have been accomplishments. There are champions, and then there are champions. There are great deeds, and then... there is.... G-reatness!

Nick: Oh, for the love of God...

Many of the crowd boo, but most are too afraid, for the wrath of a random hot girl is far more terrifying than that of any monster or giant that might occupy the ring. Most of them keep their mouths shut, and the random hot girl smiles, to herself more than anyone else, knowing full well the power restrained behind an elastic and a couple of D-cups.

Random Hot Girl: The first man that I’m going to introduce to you needs no introduction at all. He’s won all there is to be won; he’s feared by each and every man, woman, and child in the entire world. And still, in 2007, he is one of the most dominant forces in wrestling today...

More and more members of the audience break the hypnotic powers of the random hot girl’s chest, finding a voice to boo with.

Random Hot Girl: And in GTT3, he did something truly special - bulldozing his way through the largest field in the tournament’s history. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce, the Cadillac of Wrestling, GTT3 Champion!!!!!! Angelooooo Deviiiiiiiiille!!!!!!

Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste...

Angelo Deville appears at the top of the entrance ramp, bathing in the disrespect he’s paid - extending both arms, even, to welcome it. He takes his time making his way to the ring, and long before he gets there, his music is cut and the random hot girl continues.

Random Hot Girl: Next, we have a former TWO TIME GCW Champion... not that that means anything, I guess... and the man who dominated GTT5, destroying everything in his path. He is the GTT5 Champion! He is Rich... The Renegaaaaade... Rolliiiiins!

Rich Rollins bursts through the curtain, hands in the air, his trademark smirk painted on his face. Perhaps he has a back injury - at this point, no one’s really sure. Either way, he’s walking toward the ring while "Born of a Broken Man" by Rage Against the Machine rips through the arena. He joins Deville there, and the pair wait, casually checking out the random hot girl from behind.

Random Hot Girl: And finally... the man of the hour... he returned to wrestling after a three year hiatus and quickly formed, with the two men behind me, the most dominant stable in the history of professional wrestling. He is a former FOUR TIME PCW Champion... He is you GTT6 Champion... and more importantly...

She pauses for the briefest of moments...

Random Hot Girl: The mere SIGHT of him has been KNOWN to cause ORGASMS! Ladies and Gentlemen, your GTT6 champion - JASOOOON SNOOOOW!!!!!!!


Despite several respectful claps, from wrestling fans who see past the face and heel personas, the overwhelming audience response is pure acid. Triumphant trumpets wail a victory song, and within moments, the Original Villain himself appears, standing on a platform that’s hoisted on the shoulders of a dozen slave-labour children.

On either side of the entrance ramp, doves are released. They flutter upward, terrified by the noise, in a beautiful display. Snow swats at them as they fly by his head, winding up, inevitably, in the rafters... someone didn’t think that through.

The children carrying Snow to the ring huff and puff - one of them collapses to one knee, and Snow nearly falls off his platform. In the end, the child regains his footing, and after a quick icicle glare, Snow resumes his triumphant pose atop the shoulders of slave-children as they carry him slowly to the ring, where he’ll join two other GTT champions - his Fuck You stablemates.

Snow enters the ring calmly, flicks a smile at the random hot girl, and follows immediately up with a warning glare. She knowingly turns her head, fearing the "inevitable" orgasm that comes with staring in Jason Snow’s direction for too long. Smugly, the GTT6 Champion turns away from her, toward the crowd.

Jason Snow: Believe me, peasants, this isn’t where I’d like to be holding my "G-reatest Wrestler Ever(!!!)" ceremony, but I can’t be blamed for Chet Worth’s stupidity and his choice of venues. I mean, for the love of Greatness, why would anyone choose to hold ReVolution in the biggest damn 7-11 known to man!?

The audience reacts, and Snow takes a moment to enjoy their hatred. Behind him, the other members of Fuck Yo u look amused, particularly Rich Rollins, but then, he looks amused a lot of the time.

Jason Snow: I’m not going to lie - you people smell funny and I can’t find a taco anywhere in the damn country. I don’t like being here, but so long as I am, you might as well take a moment to bask in my Greatness, for I assure you, this is the last time you’ll ever have the opportunity.

Second verse, same as the first.

Jason Snow: Now then, behind me, I’m sure you recognize my Wrestler of the Month Award for October of 2006. It is a life size statue of myself, and the work is so exquisitely done that the mere SIGHT of it, too, has been KNOWN to cause ORGASMS!

Snow points to the six-foot tall object, covered by a blue tarp, and then takes a moment to make sure the tarp is secure. Soon enough, his attention turns to the much larger object in the ring. It stands roughly fifteen feet high, towering over the three Fuck You members and the shorter, spicier, random hot girl. A leering smile spreads across our villain’s face, and he raises the microphone to speak once more...


Jason Snow: But this, peasants - this! This is a trophy to commemorate my G-reatness and Superiority, which I proved a-gain...

-he says the word with rolling eyes and a boredom-

Jason Snow: ...at GTT6, which as everyone knows, was also being hailed as the G-reatest Wrestler Ever tournament. And to no one’s surprise, I - in all my Superiority and Greatness - walked away with undeniable proof that I am, as I’ve always said, the G-reatest Wrestler Ever!

The audience erupts in another chorus of boos, and its in this moment, that Jason Snow turns to find the random hot girl staring at him. Immediately, he turns away from her, trying to shield his face from her eyes.

Jason Snow: Wench! Are you mad!? Look away, lest my unnatural raw sexatusion send you into such a spell that you’re foaming from your mouth and other places, your panties blown clear to the balcony!

The random hot girl obediently looks away, receives one final glare from Snow, and then he steps back toward the giant object, which he quickly uncovers, revealing a massive trophy beneath. In giant gold letters, a heading reads "GREATEST WRESTLER EVER: JASON SNOW." Snow can’t help but smile at this, and even his most venomous detractors in the audience seem a bit in awe.

Jason Snow: LOOK AT MY DAMN TROPHY!!!

Nova: That’s pretty sweet, man - I’ve got to say.

Everyone in the ring double-takes, having not noticed the (rising) star, and PRIME’s Universal Champion enter the ring. But there he is, looking stoned, and staring at Snow’s giant trophy in the background. And next to him, Jason Snow looks enraged.

Nova: So... why exactly wasn’t I invited down he-

Jason Snow: Silence, hippie!

The GTT6 Champion glares at the Universal Champion.

Jason Snow: Exactly how many GTT6's have you won!?

The Universal Champion glares at the GTT6 Champion.

Nova: I’m the Universal Champion! I’m the PTC Extreme Champion!

To prove his point, at least about the Universal Championship part, Nova gestures to the title around his waist. Snow raises an eyebrow, and then responds.

Jason Snow: That may well-be true, Hippie - but do you have a G-reatest Wrestler Ever(!!!) trophy?

Nova frowns.

Jason Snow: That’s what I thought, plebe! And therefore, I demand you march back to...

Snow, along with the other members of Fuck You, including Nova, all snap their eyes toward another figure sneaking toward the ring. He’s wearing a grey, baggy sweatshirt, and nods to the slave children as he passes them by, holding a can of something in either hand.

Nick: Does anyone know who this guy is?

Apparently not, but he has them all in a hypnotic trance, slinking his way up the stairs and into the ring. Through wide, horrified eyes, Jason Snow watches him shake one of the cans, and then spray paint the words: "STOP Child Slave Labour" right across the front of his treasured "GREATEST WRESTLER EVER" trophy. Deville and Rollins slowly exchange a look, realizing that their delusional stablemate is about to lose his fucking mind.

But our graffiti philosopher isn’t done there. He gets down on all fours and proceeds to tag his work, leaving his name in the center of the ring... It’s seen on the Wal-TRON as clearly as it’s seen by Nova, Deville, Rollins, some random hot chick, and Jason Snow...

The ESCO

When he’s finished, The ESCO stands up and looks proudly at his work - both his message of ethics and morality on the front of Snow’s trophy. He turns around, and starts trying to sneak away again, when he’s stopped firmly by Jason Snow’s outstretched hand. The ESCO looks down at his chest and frowns at Snow’s palm pressed there.

The ESCO: I really don’t understand why you have to be so intimidating. I was just spreading a good message.

Snow’s eyes blaze, and suddenly, young ESCO realizes that he’s walked into, and "tagged," a lion’s den. They circle him like vultures, even Nova, thanks to a particularly fowl mood. And then, when running from Snow, the ESCO runs directly into Angelo Deville’s elbow, sending blue and green mist from the cans in either hand. He turns groggily around, only to catch Snake Eyes right in the jaw, snapping his head back with such violence that his eyes roll back for a moment. And then he collapses in the middle of the ring.

Rich Rollins decides to take advantage of the situation. He picks up one of the cans of graffiti and writes "Fuck You," in large green letters across ESCO’s grey hoodie, and then, just for the fuck of it, spray paints his face blue.

Not exactly having been inundated with offers of rides from her fellow wresters in the PRIME locker room, at least not rides of the vehicular variety, Karina Wolfenden emerges from a banged-up taxi. With choking fumes being churned out, obscuring the lot full of far more glamorous rental cars, the K-Wolf wafts herself some cleaner air, then drags a pair of over-loaded rucksacks from the ramshackle taxi.

With the temperature still clinging to 20 Celsius, and the taxi not exactly having been equipped with the latest air conditioning technology, Wolfenden’s tongue almost hangs out as she pants through the heat, white vest stuck to her.

At the end of a hot, humid day, a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky with eerie timing.

"DON’T."

Chasing the thunder, an authoritative order comes from the wrestlers entrance, where the broad shoulders of even the new slim line Chet Worth can still fill the doorway.

After slithering her shoulders inside a rucksack’s straps, the K-Wolf scrapes the matted-down, multicoloured fringe from her face, letting Chet see her eyebrows gesture, huh?

Chet Worth: We both know how this goes, as let’s face it, it’s hardly the first time.

Not yet devoting her full attention to the PRIME CEO, the K-Wolf slaps some notes into the palm of the driver, then slaps the taxi on its way with a pat of the roof. After about 20 seconds, the fumes clear, and so does her view of Worth.

Chet Worth: Kriegman blows up your bike, so you hunt him down, pin him against a wall, and awaken some crazy demon thing from the deep, dark, depths of his screwed-up brain. He puts your head through a wall, so you decide to channel enough volts through him to power the WAL*Tron for the rest of this tour. Now he knocks you out, and nearly torches you… live on my TV show, should I add, just what the sponsors wanted… so now you’re going to storm into that building, and get your revenge.

Shrugging, the K-Wolf isn’t exactly about to deny his version of events.

Karina Wolfenden: That’s pretty much spot on.

Chet Worth: Now, there’s the problem. This is PRIME, this is sports entertainment, and this is MY company. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the overheads I have to pay each month, but in layman’s terms, they’re ‘fucking extortionate’.

Widening her eyes, Kari tries to usher Worth towards his point.

Chet Worth: I know that sometimes you wrestlers forget that this is a business, not somewhere to come and hang out once a week, or a bar-cellar fight club with your own little rules, but so we don’t close, we have to make money. Bizarre concept, I know. So, it would be greatly appreciated if you didn’t keep trying to KILL EACHOTHER without anyone having to pay 50 bucks to see it.

Seeing the veins start to bulge either side of Worth’s forehead, the K-Wolf, none too fond of being talked down to by someone she out-dates in PRIME by well over a year, simply has to jab back.

Karina Wolfenden: So if I pay you 50 I can just head on in and do what we both know I’m going to do, sans economics lecture?

Chet Worth: No, what you can do, for free, is do what the hell I say, or I’ll tear up your contract faster than you let Deville tear your clothes off.

Safe to say, Chet Worth wasn‘t intending to put Karina in her place so much as he was wanting to slam-dunk her into it. She may have not noticed, but the days of happy-fun-fun Chet Worth had slowly disappeared from PRIME.

Chet Worth: At Culture Shock, night one, you and that nut job can do anything you want to one another. You’ll have a match, no holds barred, falls count anywhere, no stupid little rules to stop you both finishing this without costing me any more thousands in fines. Between the bells, I couldn’t give a flying fuck what happens, we can wipe anything off the canvas with a bit of bleach. Hell, you can even swipe a couple of laptops and post little YouTube vids about each other until one of you cries. Bottom line is, YOU-DO-IT-THEN Not now.

And there’s that being talked down to thing again… although, as CEO, it is technically his job. But, what’s that to come between the K-Wolf and a wise-crack.

Karina Wolfenden: I don’t have a YouTube account.

Dropping his head to the side, Chet belts out a sarcastic slow-clap.

Chet Worth: You know what you do have, though? You now have an economy-coach-wheretheyputthefarmanimals ticket on the Indian Airways flight out of here tomorrow. I know your contract has 1st class travel written into it, but, hey, what authority do I have to do things officially around here?

Safe to say, that smacked the next wise-crack right off her lips.

Chet Worth: I’ll take that as you realising that you work for me, and I work for PRIME, the consequence of which being that when I tell you to do something, you nod, and smile like you don’t want to kick a few of my teeth out, ‘kay? Good.

Stepping aside, Worth lets the heavy doors swing to, forcing the K-Wolf to wince as they slam shut.

"I can't believe I'm about to do this..."

Troy stands in front of a closed locker room door, trying to rationalize in her mind what she's about to do. It's wrong on so many levels, and she's crazy for even considering it, but circumstances have dictated this to be a necessary evil. With this in the back of her mind, she grudgingly knocks on the door.

"PASS-PHRASE!"

Lindsay's slightly taken aback at the response that's shouted at her from the other side of the door. She puts her hands on her hips and glowers.

Troy: What the hell are you talking about?

Voice: No one enters without uttering the super-secret pass-phrase!

Troy: Oh for the love of God, it could be anything!

She scratches her head for a moment, trying to come up with something.

Troy: Hero to the Masses?

Silence.

Troy: The Next Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Nothing.

Troy (grumbling): The Sexiest Man Alive...

Crickets chirp, and are then squashed under her boot after she stamps it on the floor in frustration. Troy silently stands, thinking about what phrase could possibly be eluding her. After a minute, the light bulb goes off.

Troy: And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to ... Danny Ferguson!

Open sesame.

Lindsay walks into Danny's locker room and offers Dametreyus a glare for her trouble. The big man just shrugs as he closes the door behind her. Ferguson is standing with one foot on a step-stool while a stage-hand shines his boot.

Troy: A pass-phrase? What is this, Danny, a fort?

Ferguson: I knew we should have made it harder to guess. Next time, Jim's picking the phrase.

Dametryus: Awww damn, Boss...

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.

Ferguson: So what the hell do you want, Skankasaur? You come to take over for Jonesy over here?

"Jonesy": Well, come to think of it Mister Ferguson, my arms are getting a bit tired...

Ferguson: Do I pay you to talk, Jonesy?

"Jonesy": My name is Stevenson, and yes, you gave me an extra tip when I made fun of the black guy.

Dametreyus: (under his breath) Cocky-ass shoe-scrubbin muthafuc-

Ferguson: Oh. Well, give that tip back.

"Jonesy": But I-

Ferguson: Ok fine, but now I'm paying it for your silence. Just work the rag. I want Tony Gamble to be able to eat off this shoe when I'm rearranging his face with it.

Troy: Yeah, okay, I'm just going to get this over with.

She sighs deeply, clenching and unclenching her fists in preparation for what's about to come out of her mouth next.

Troy: I just wanted to say thanks, y'know, for the thing last week. I didn't think you'd actually do the right thing for the good of the company, since you're kind of a je--

Ferguson: You were just lucky to be in trouble on the night I decided to fuck up Fuck You's business. You'd make a good damsel in distress if Hollywood ever decided to let you in - not gonna happen with those tibias. Try shaving a good eight inches off your shins and then I can get you an audition.

Troy: Yeah, good thing you cut me off before I could tell you that you're kind of a jerk. I wouldn't want that to go unnoticed or overlooked after you actually showed some balls for once in your life. And since you did, there's a new part you're going to have to get accustomed to playing: team-player. You're not the only one who wants to watch them fall, so you'd better start adjusting your stance real quick.

Ferguson: A team, huh? And what team am I playing for with you at the helm, Legsay? The Rockford Peaches?

He dismisses Jonesey via slap on the head and takes his foot off the stool to face Troy.

Ferguson: Believe me, I'm ecstatic that you and I have the same enemies. Really, I am. I'm going to have my manager tell the street team to send you a MySpace friend invite. But just because we hate the same people doesn't mean I need to put on a PRIME jersey and fall in line. I don't know if you've noticed, but you guys' whole "take them on one at a time" bit doesn't seem to work. I think I'll do it my way.

Troy: It's YOUR way that's going to get us in trouble, ass. When the best we can do to find reinforcements in this war is a Brian Pillman wannabe with common enemies, and all he wants to do is fight like a punk instead of standing up and smacking people in the mouth like all us non-pansy citizens of the world would do, then we can't get any momentum on our own turf. You think you're going to be John Rambo, a one-man war machine, but you're just a distraction. You're Ralph Fucking Nader, Danny, and when the cloud settles you'll just be a joke whose insistence on having his own spotlight opened the door for his exact opposites to do the victory dance.

Ferguson: Oh, I'm sorry, I fell asleep during your monologue and woke up in Scarborough Country. Now if you-

At that moment, Blaine Blair enters the room, free of pass-phrase thanks to his position of moderate but respectable authority.

Blair: Danny, Lindsay, I-

Ferguson: Who the hell is this guy?

Blaine sighs, then cocks his head sideways at Danny, then turns to Dametreyus.

Blair: Is he serious?

Dametreyus: I'm finding it increasingly difficult to gauge.

Blair: Fine. Danny, Lindsay, I've come here with a message: Chet wants to see you both in his office immediately.

Ferguson: I-

Blair: Immediately.

With a shrug, Lindsay heads for the door, welcoming the opportunity to leave the Team Ferguson locker area. Danny gathers up his ring jacket and follows close behind.

Ferguson: You wanna hold hands while we skip down the hall to his office, Team Captain?

Troy: I'd rather castrate you with a plastic butter knife.

Ferguson: Aw, now you're starting to sound like one of my old cell block "team-players." Matter of fact, if you put your hair up...

With Troy already out of the room, Danny follows her, followed in turn by his bodyguards, who are followed by Blaine, who is followed by Jonesy.

NOTE: The writers of this segment do not endorse any of the material contained. If you’re offended by racism, don’t read this segment. Thank you.

"No Chance" by Dope.

And right off the bat, most – if not, all – of Calcutta are jeering the crap out of the man peering through the curtains now. Being flanked by The Fife Posse of Slash and Burnie McCoy, Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME walks down to ringside, dressed for combat, as are the Posse members themselves.

Nick: Well, as you may have heard, it seems that Son-

Richard: MR. SILVER, CHAIRMAN OF PRIME!

Nick: -ny Silver and his newly-formed Fife Posse asked for this airtime and now they’re getting it. I wonder why they’re dressed for combat.

The trio slowly walk up the steps one by one until they climb inside. Feeling the hatred and reveling in every moment of it, Sonny does a mock wave to the crowd as he has his Intense Hardcore Legend Title draped over one shoulder and the original Intense Title dragging across the ground. He allows Slash and Burnie to hold both titles over his shoulder and in the always-charismatic Silver form, waves for the OLD SKOOL MIC~! To appear. Once that happens, his *ahem* Corporate music ends. Before he begins what will most likely be a deadly spiel, an idea crosses his mind as he looks at the posse.

Silver: Hey, guys! This is awesome! This is where the magic happens… 7-11 started right here in India, if I know my history and geography, which I do.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Silver: Oh, shut up, you camel riders. When I want a Slurpee and a cab ride back to the airport, you can talk to me.

Nick: What a DICK! I can’t believe this guy claims to represent PRIME! I assure you, fans watching this at home and here in the arena. No WAY that this man is the figurehead of this great organization.

Richard: Sure he is! Chet’s a fat bastard poser and this guy rules us all! Don’t you know anything?

Burnie McCoy gets a little worried that the crowd might riot, Slash doesn’t let them get to him and remains stoic as ever, Sonny revels in the reaction.

Silver: But seriously, I’d like to welcome each and every one of you guys to my illustrious show, ReVolution! Tonight, we’re going to open the show with a little challenge to a certain man who made some ridiculous claims. I call him Disco Inferno, Dolemite, Shaft, and any variation thereof, but you people know him as…

He stops to shudder.

Silver: Asa Fountain.

That sound? That would be the roof blowing off the building… you know, if there WAS a roof… but seriously, where the FUCK was that MIC coming from? The world may never know. The King of Sports Entertainment continues.

Silver: Now, last week, I was a little bit busy kicking the ass of some overrated AWC rejects to give two squirts about what Asa was flapping his gums about… something about taking affirmative action against me or something. I dunno. He DID say something that made me laugh… he said… get this, Burnie and Slash… he said he was gonna take my title away and beat the shit out of me!

The trio laugh their ass off while the fans boo. Once the laughter ends, a serious sneer crosses the face of Sports Entertainment’s Greatest Icon.

Silver: Now, I don’t know what kind of messed-up, pot-induced world you live in, Asa Fountain, but this is the world that *I* rule, you old dinosaur. See, while you were collecting Food Stamps and robbing liquor stores, I was winning TITLES, Asa. You know what they are?

He shows off both titles to the camera and turns the spinner on his customized Intense Hardcore Legend Title.

Silver: THESE things. I retained against two dangerous bastards… as you can see from the bandages on my forehead… Chainz split my head open like a rotten fruit and I STILL won. THAT’S hardcore, Asa, something you know nothing about. So, here’s the score of this game, Asa Fountain. The three of us… vs. you… in a Gauntlet Match. In this order, you fight Burnie, Slash, then myself at the end of the line. If you somehow – and by, somehow, I mean you have an army of thugs waiting to pop a cap in my ass or trample me with the funk or something – beat me, I’ll entertain the thought of giving you a shot at this title… even though I’ll probably just knock you out and beat your ass like you owe me money, then just laugh in your face and tell you to piss off. I’m…

"Jungle Boogie" by Kool & The Gang.

There's that sound again. Explosion of the non-roof.

Nick: That's what I'm talkin' about! Here comes the Ayatollah of Funk n' Soula!

Richard: Awww, did Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME! hurt his feelings?

The trumpets of "Jungle Boogie" sound over the speakers as yellow and green lights whirl about the stadium. Sure enough, The Fro is here, clad in his usual olive green attire and prepared with a mic in hand. He stops at the top of the ramp, looking out to the people of Calcutta and soaking in their cheers. He waits for the place to calm down a little, then brings the mic to his bearded face.

Asa: Silver, what'd I tell yo' jive ass about runnin' ya mouth? You lookin' to get dropped in that ring again?

POP goes the crowd.

Asa grins at Silver, the fans of Calcutta behind him.

Silver – fuming silently – holds the hanging mic in his hand and stews for a moment before finally regaining his composure.

Silver: You attacked me from behind and lured me with beautiful women, you stupid bastard. Just like usual, you’ve just proved you can’t do anything by yourself. But… that’s neither here nor there, DAWG. What’s it gonna be? Accept my match or tuck your Afro between your legs and jive your ass into traffic?

Asa: Accept your match, huh? A gauntlet match? Me? Against you and your two goons? Tonight? Right now? In Calcutta? The Fro? Sonny Silver and his Lapdogs? GAUNTLET MATCH?

The fans roar out, standing behind Asa as he defiantly throws back as much shit as Sonny's given him.

Asa: Brotha, you must think I'm straight out my mind!

The crowd stirs a bit, confused. Why isn't Asa accepting?

Richard: Ha! I knew he was a bitch!

Asa is still grinning though, he's not finished.

Asa: Sorry, Sonny. A gauntlet match with yo' cheap ass ain't groovin' with me. But, lemme ask ya THIS, jive turkey...

Asa gleams his white smile.

Asa: Howsabout we keep it simple. You, and me beatin' yo stupid ass?

ZOMGCROWDEXPLOSION

Mr. Silver is taken aback, but soon the gears begin to turn in his head. A sly smile appears on his face, then he turns to whisper to Slash. Slash nods approvingly of whatever Sonny asks, then begins…

Silver: Well… Hold on a COTTON-PICKING MINUTE!

Nick: Oh, he didn’t just SAY that.

Richard: I heard him say it, dude.

Silver: Is the big, bad Asa getting a little bit testy of the superior athlete standing before him? I must say… from this angle, you’re acting very niggardly!

Asa's smile drops from his face. He waits for the boos of the fans to die out a bit before replying.

Asa: ...you mind repeatin' that, motha fucka?

Silver: Not at all. I said you’re acting very NIGGARDLY.

Burnie starts cracking up at the joke while Slash – a man of African-American descent – shrugs it off. Silver nods.

Silver: Slash gave me a free pass to say that and in return, I give him a pay raise. And Burnie… quit sniggering! That’s not cool!

Asa's free hand visibly forms in and out of a fist, the boos in the stadium rising once more. He relaxes though, a grin reforming on his mouth.

Asa: Real smart of ya, pullin' that race card to lure me in, Silver. Gotta hand it to ya! But you're forgettin' a few things. I'm the Sultan of Soul! The Most Happenin' Cat in PRIME! The coolest cat of all! And if you're thinkin' throwin' down some racist shit is gonna make me snap, you got another thing comin', jive turkey. Cuz I don't give a god damn about stupid motha fuckas like yaself, ESPECIALLY stupid white motha fuckas that think their word means a god damn thing 'round here!

Oh, my achin' eardrums!

Asa: You don't own shit, Silver. You ain't the boss of nobody but them mentally challenged jive turkies standin' at ya sides. Basically, and this is the last time I'ma tel ya. You...

Don’t…

Mean…

SHIT.

Silver takes in everything that’s said from his rival… then convenes with The Fife Posse. After much deliberation, the three guys finally come to terms on… well, something.

Silver: Asa… can you tell me the difference between a black man and a tire? If you put chains on the tire, it doesn’t sing.

The boos of the crowd are tremendous. Asa is once again angered, his jaw thrust out, teeth grinding, hand balling into a fist. However, he shakes it off and presents a weak smile.

Asa: Keep it up, Silver. I ain't hearin' that garbage fallin' outta ya mouth. In fact, I think I've wasted enough of my time. Keep it real, jive turkey.

Asa turns to leave.

Silver then fumes… it’s clear that this tactic is not working, but he makes one last-ditch effort to get him angered…

Silver: Then can you tell me why black people only have nightmares? Because we killed the only one that had a dream!

And all of a sudden The Most Happenin' Cat in PRIME is charging down the ramp and sliding into the ring, ready to get the fists flying.

Nick: Looks like we got a match!

Asa grits his teeth and only stares holes through the Intense Champion standing in the corner alongside Slash McCoy while Burnie gets tackled out of his boots! All Asa has to do is go through the Fife Posse members first and he’ll get what he ultimately wants – the chance to beat the FUCK out of Sonny, who was taunting him the whole way out of the ring.

Referee Antonio Johnson (new guy) gets into the ring and calls for the bell as Asa gets off his target reluctantly, allowing a shaken Burnie to get back to his feet.

Nick: Asa better watch himself. Sonny lured him into this match for a reason.

Richard: Yeah, to prove his dominance. Sonny got into his head and now, he’s going to pay.

After a few moments, Asa and Burnie circle up and prepare themselves for combat when Asa turns and SOCKS Sonny right in the mouth! The King of Sports Entertainment goes flying off the apron and splatters against the mat, holding his jaw in pain while the crowd explodes! Silver takes a tumble to the mat while holding his jaw, then screams for Burnie McCoy to take him out.

The smaller of the Fife Posse nods and rushes at Asa for his first attack, but Asa sidesteps the 5’7" athlete, making him nearly crash in their corner. Luckily, Burnie has the luck to put on the brakes as he lets out a sigh of relief and points at his skull as if to say "I’m smarter than that shit."

However, he happens to forget about the tall black gut with fists of stone right behind him and eats a HUGE Boxing-style Uppercut that knocks him on his ass. Asa picks him up and whips him HARD across the ring, rattling the spine of the smaller McCoy brother.

Richard: Come on, Burnie! Don’t let your boss down in your debut match! Seriously!

Nick: Looks like Sonny may need to send these guys back… wherever they came from.

Richard: The Mean Streets of Fife, Washington, you twit! I went there last week. Some crazy shit, but I’m a tough guy, so I got out of there alive

Meanwhile, Sonny, checking his jaw for blood, sees none then regains his place on the apron, ready to fuck up Asa, but he wasn’t going to let Asa get to him… not now, not any night, he kept telling himself.

Silver: DESTROY THAT PIECE OF GARBAGE!

Asa: Okay.

Silver: NOT YOU! I MEANT BURNIE!

But it’s too late; Asa picks up Burnie McCoy and pummels him with several right jabs in the corner before burying a boot in his stomach, then taking him over with a big vertical suplex. McCoy kicked ferociously at the mat, holding his spine. Asa doesn’t bother going for the cover yet. Rather, he picked Burnie up by his natty hair and wrapped both arms around his throat in an attempt to choke the life out of his scrawny ass via a classic Sleeper Hold. Burnie flails about and tries to get back to his feet, but ingenuity hits and he breaks free of the submission attempt with a nasty jawbreaker that stuns the Ayatollah of Funk and Soula.

The dorkier member of the Fife Posse scurries away from Asa to take a quick breather before going on the attack with several big forearms to the head. He buries several boots into the chest of Asa and surprisingly has the strength to take Asa over before running off the ropes and DRIVING both heels into the boot of The Fromaniac with a huge dropkick! He goes for the cover.

ONE!

TW…

Not even a two-count and Asa powers him off. Froses starts to rise, but Burnie stays on the assault, striking him in the jaw with a nasty back elbow. With Asa stunned, Burnie whips him off one set of ropes. While Asa rebounds, Burnie leaps to the second rope and goes flying off, catching Asa right in the mouth with a HUGE Springboard Back Elbow. Burnie rolls through and then throws his body weight on top of him for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Burnie slams a fist into the mat and goes for a Sleeper Hold of his own. He keeps the hold locked on and hangs on for dear life like he’s about to fall off a boat in the middle of the ocean – which, let’s be honest here, people wouldn’t mind seeing right now for him being associated with Sonny.

Nick: Burnie’s a small guy, so he’s fighting for dear life with that sleeper hold here. And Richard, I did my research. Fife, Washington is a small town compared to places like Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia. It’s a simple little town that didn’t look tough to me.

Richard: Yeah, but you’re not down with it like me. I’ve seen the tough shit there.

Nick: Oh, Lord.

The New Orleans native, though, wasn’t about to give in right now when he had the chance to legally get his hands on Sonny in the ring. With the fans of Calcutta cheering him on, Asa slowly rises and throws several ‘bows into his stomach, stunning the midget. Finally, he tried for a whip, but Burnie catches him with a big eye gouge!

Laughing at his handiwork, Burnie throws Asa to the ropes again and leaps into the air, trying to snap him over with a hurricanrana, but Asa stays grounded. He runs toward the nearest empty corner and dumps Burnie HARD into the buckle with a Powerbomb!

While Burnie struggles to get his spine back into place after the high-impact maneuver, Asa measures him up and begs for Burnie to get back to his feet. Once he does so, Asa FLOORS him with a big kick to the head, then follows it up with a hard bulldog in the middle of the ring! Fountain wastes no time picking up Burnie and hooks him for a Reverse DDT set-up, only to bring his far leg up, slamming the smaller McCoy into the mat.

The SOUL TRAIN connects flawlessly as Asa hooks both legs of the henchmen, all the while not taking his eyes off Sonny.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Vince Howard: BURNIE McCOY HAS BEEN ELIMINATED!

One down, two to go.

Richard: NO! That wasn’t fair!

Nick: What wasn’t fair?

Richard: Um… (combs through Big Book of Heel Excuses) … Uh, it was a fluke! Yeah, he wasn’t ready!

Nick: Well, Burnie may be done for, but Slash McCoy’s up now and this guy is built like a miniature brickhouse!

Slash McCoy, clad in a generic gray one-piece singlet, black wrist tape, and boots, climbs into the ring. He was bigger and stronger than Burnie – stronger than Asa, it seemed – at a stacked 230 pounds and possessing a Chris Benoit-like physique.

The Human Wrecking Machine, as Sonny dubbed him, does a few stretches and some hand shuffles to loosen up the joints before coming face-to-face with Asa. Asa had the obvious height advantage over Slash, but Slash was ripped and also had youth on his side. This was gonna be interesting.

Richard: Come on, Slash! Score one for tha brothas!

Slash and Asa circle up, then lock up in the center of the ring. Slash – despite the height disadvantage – is able to push Asa into the corner and locks him there until the referee forces him to break it up. Slash backs off willingly and raises both hands to say "it’s all good." He offers a fake smile, then tries for a sucker punch on Asa, but the cagey veteran ducks and blasts Slash with a right of his own. Asa throws a few rights and bounces off the ropes for a clothesline. The Human Wrecking Machine ducks and when Asa comes back off the rebound, DRIVES him into the mat with a big side slam.

Nick: That’s POWER. We’ve mostly seen him sit in the background, but when he comes to the forefront, he looks to be pretty impressive so far.

Richard: That’s Slash McCoy, my dog! My homebizzle! My ni…

Nick: You know he’ll kill you if you finish that, right?

Richard: Uh… I was gonna say my "nizzle."

Nick: I don’t think you can say that, either.

Slash wastes no motion turning Asa over so he can pummel the Sultan of Soul with several crossface forearms. The referee starts to reprimand him, but the bigger McCoy brother backs off for a moment, then unleashes a few stomps into the back of the veteran.

Richard: Shit, this guy is relentless. He hasn’t given Asa any kind of opening yet since he started and if this keeps up, he could be out before he knows it.

Slash picks him up off the mat and hurls him into the corner with a big Irish Whip. He positions himself cross-corner, then runs with as much speed his body will allow. Everything is going Slash’s way.

Everything but his intended target moving out of harm’s way, making Slash collide chest-first with unforgiving turnbuckle!

Nick: Yikes! And there goes Asa with a BIG-TIME neckbreaker! If Fountain needed any kind of an opening, that was it.

Asa takes a moment to shake out the cobwebs from Slash’s earlier assault and slowly starts to feel the energy resonating from the fans in Calcutta. He does a few claps and a spin to get the fans back to life and on his side. Once Slash comes back around, Asa starts to Ali Shuffle around the Silver crony, then peppers him with some deadly right hands.

Richard: Stand still, Fountain, so he can beat the shit out of you!

Nick: No way! Asa’s back in this match and he’s CLOSE to getting his hands on Sonny, who’s looking none too pleased that his rival’s getting back into this.

He tosses Slash to the ropes and drives a big Kitchen Sink knee into his sternum. Slash shouts out in pain, but Asa continues the onslaught by whipping him to the opposite ropes and blasts him with another knee to the stomach. Once he brings McCoy to the center of the ring, he DROPS him hard with a Russian Legsweep in the center of the ring. The cover follows.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Asa looks a little shocked that the combination of hard hits doesn’t put Slash away, but he shrugs off his doubt and continues to pummel on Slash hard with several more rights to the head. The referee reprimands Asa with the magic five-count and at about the four and a half mark, gets off McCoy. He pulls him back to his feet and stuns him with a kick to the gut in the center of the ring.

Fountain bounces off the ropes and comes back with a rising knee to the head that sends Slash to his feet. Once Asa comes back around the second time, he floors the mighty McCoy with a big Spear.

Nick: SPEAR! That move nearly knocked Slash McCoy out of his shoes and into the next zip code. You can feel it now! Asa is mere moments from sending The Intense Champion packing.

Richard: Bullshit, Nick! Sonny’s been training in the Mean Streets of Fife! No way he’ll lose to this dancing freak of nature!

While McCoy tries to recover from the assault from the Sultan of Soul, said Sultan is getting ready to put the finishing touches on this match.

Richard: No! No! No! GET UP, SLASH! KILL HIM! GET UP!

While Sonny continues to bite his nails and freak out at the fact that his goons will no longer be able to shield him from the pain that was sure to come at the hands of Asa Fountain, he hops off the apron for a moment while on the inside, the crowd goes nuts.

Nick: THE FUNKADELIC! That move has gotta be able, folks!

The fans even count along when Asa uses his entire body weight to pin down Slash McCoy.

ONE!

TWO!

THR…BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

DING DING DING!

Nick: NO! WHAT THE HELL?! BULL!

Richard: YES! YES!

Vince Howard: AS A RESULT OF A DISQUALIFICATION, SLASH McCOY HAS BEEN ELIMINATED!

Wait, what happened?

Oh, yes. That.

Asa was on the ground, clutching the back of his head in pain. Then, the Wal-Tron played the instant replay:

Fountain had been blasted in the back of the skull with the Intense Hardcore Legend belt from Sonny just as he was about to complete the pinfall over Slash. Thus, Slash had been disqualified because of Sonny’s blatant interference, leaving Asa to win. The problem?

Asa Fountain is damn near out of it.

Sonny slides the belt out of the way. It’s now down to him and a nearly unconscious Asa. The fans try to rally behind Fountain, but he only now starts to come around.

Nick: Was this Sonny’s plan all along? Jump in when the moment presents itself!

Richard: Brilliant! At the cost of getting Slash McCoy disqualified, he’s clearly got the advantage over a dazed Fountain because this is the last match of the Gauntlet. That shot with the Intense Title took a lot out of him!

Nick: What a bastard!

Richard: What a genius!

Asa uses the ropes to get back to his feet while Sonny literally licks his lips, ready to strike down the constant source of his troubles since the New Year started. He stays in one place and grits his teeth now, begging for Asa to stand up so he can land the finishing blow…

Nick: Don’t turn around, Asa! Don’t… DAMN IT!

Richard: THE GREAT JESUS DRIVER!

Nick: DAMN HIM! ASA WAS RIGHT! THIS WAS A GODDAMN SET-UP!

Sonny – nonchalantly, mind you – puts all his body weight across Asa’s shoulders and even counts along with the referee.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

"No Chance" by Dope blasts over the speakers as the fans call for the head of Sports Entertainment’s Greatest Icon. Both members of the Fife Posse drag their fearless leader up and start celebrating with him as they exit the ring, both Intense Titles intact.

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER, MR. SILVER, CHAIRMAN OF PRIME!!!

Nick: What a load of crap! Asa’s been denied a title shot at Sonny simply because the bastard cheated. He’s afraid of Asa, that’s what all this is about.

Richard: Speculate all you want, dude. The bottom line is simply this: Asa Fountain just got beat in the middle of the ring by Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME!

Nick: That may be so, but he didn’t do it by any fair means.

As Asa finally comes around and fully grasps the situation, Mr. Silver dodged a HUGE bullet here tonight, but he was on cloud nine. He even spun the spinner on the Intense Hardcore Legend title one last time before Silver and the Posse leave the ring, trying to desperately evade a riot from the people of Calcutta.

Nick: Well, despite this travesty, we still have lots of show left, folks, including tonight’s main event, Nova defending the title against Angelo Deville. Stay tuned!

Devin Shakur had never looked over a piece of paper moreso than he is right now. He had to of looked over the one page more than sixty times. Everything for what he was about to do had to be perfect, just like she was in his eyes. The last time there had been what could be classified as an encounter, she had stepped over the flowers. This, for whatever reason, seemed to encourage Devin to get more personal with his next move.

He had learned Chinese and what was in his hands was a love letter.

Her locker room was just around the corner, but Devin’s eyes kept scanning the paper. Neither of them had a match, but he was hoping that she would at least read the letter. With a final scan of the paper, Devin folds up the paper, reaches into his back pocket, pulls out an envelope, sticks the letter inside, removes the protective strip, and seals the letter shut.

Devin turns and begins to walk down the hallway in a straight line, almost as if he is having his sobriety tested by a cop. Devin constantly looks over his shoulder to make sure that nobody is following him, although knowing his luck Pierce Lavelle has probably already put the moves on her. Devin quickens his pace, makes the turn, and stares at the locker room door for a second before crouching down, and flicking the letter underneath the door. Devin hears movement, gets up to a standing position, and makes a bee line down the hallway. Devin slides down the hallway feet first, and just as the door opens, Devin gets behind the safety of the wall where he was originally standing.

Sun Tzu eyes looked down the corridor that Devin just ran, and then the other way, half expecting this to be some kind of elaborate trap from Karina Wolfenden. Sun Tzu stares at the letter for a quick second, holds it up above her head to see if there is any powder inside, more specifically anthrax. After her eyes confirm that none is present, she tears the top off the envelope and starts to read the letter.

Devin can only imagine the thoughts running through her head at the moment. He dares not look around the corner for the fear of her keen instincts would catch his eyes. Throwing caution to the wind, after a few seconds pass, Devin maneuvers his body so that he’s lying down on the floor, barely able to look around the corner. She is still reading the letter and looks to be rather content about it.

A few more seconds pass before he sees her icy exterior melt into a smile. No matter what happened for the rest of the evening that would be his memory from this show.

And then she says it…

Sun Tzu: My baby Angie loves me…

…

Devin feels something in his throat. It takes a moment for him to realize it's his heart.

Sun Tzu: I knew it! I knew it knew it knew it! All those naysayers almost had me doubting our love myself. But now I know it's true! Anglo Deville and Sun Tzu... together for ever! I will have to teach him better Chinese though., his grammar is worse than a retarded monkey's.

Sun Tzu squeals with excitement and clutches the letter to her chest. She skips off down the hall, no doubt in search of one Angelo Deville.

Devin, now at a standing position, dusts himself off and has a vehement rage in his eyes.

Why the fuck didn’t I put my name?

You fucking moron, anonymous implies that it is a mystery.

Deville would have been more direct though.

But she doesn’t even have a clue who you are.

She’s making a goddamn assumption and you know what they say about those.

And you assumed that she wouldn’t assume that it was Deville, you dope.

Devin concludes the argument inside of his head and walks down the corridor out into the main hallway, one thought on his mind. He actually says this one out loud however.

Devin Shakur: Somebody get me Lorena Bobbitt’s number, I’m going to fucking castrate the >=) himself.

And now we go elsewhere.

Chet Worth (and by Chet Worth, I mean Pete) has been a horrible fedhead. In the recent weeks, Chet Worth's attention (And by Chet Worth's, I mean Pete's) has waned to the point of disintrest, and he could point to one thing, and one reason:

Caesar Vega.

Better Known as The PRIME Universal Champion, Nova.

Since the time Vega became champion, Worth's drawn distant, and has cared less and less about the company. It could be said that now that his sole real ally was Lindsay Troy and possibly Danny Ferguson, Worth simply didn't care about anything. Sirrajin was his beast; the great equalizer to the might of Angelo Deville and Rich Rollins. Matthew Ward, the Man known as Tchu, was gone, his tremendous skill countered by Deville, Rollins and Snow.

Sure, there was some measure of retribution when Steven Caldera destroyed Rich Rollins to the point where the son of a bitch who can't even say goodbye to his friends hasn't been seen since NC-17. But, it wasn't by his hands.

And so, we sit as Chet Worth stands frustrated in the middle of an arguing Danny Ferguson and Lindsay Troy, as Chet Worth stands with two belts in his hand.

Danny Ferguson: Those better not be what I think they are...

Chet Worth: Look, I read on the internet that some smark named HolzerhedRPCA said he wanted us to have tag belts.

Lindsay Troy: Now you're listening to internet fans? 

Chet Worth: Yeah. Anyways, you two are the new tag champions.

Lindsay Troy: There isn't a tag division to be champions OF, remember?  It's the reason why you vacated the belts in the first place.

Danny Ferguson: And you could offer to replace Daniel Craig with me in an upcoming Bond film, and I STILL wouldn't tag her hand.

Lindsay Troy: Oh trust me, dipshit, the feeling's mutual.  No way I’m touching you without a bottle of hand sanitizer at arm’s length.

Chet Worth: ENOUGH! GODDAMNIT, YOU TWO. You think I WANTED either of you two stuck like this? Christ, Ferguson. You'd be rotting in a fucking prison if it weren't for me. And you, Troy. You'd still be in small towns...

Lindsay Troy: Don't start that shit again, Chet.  You used it the first time as an ironic device dripping with sarcasm, but now it's starting to piss me right off...

Chet Worth: The point is... All of this is not what any of us wanted. But, it's what we've got to do.  There should be four of you standing here. Killian should be right next to you, Lindsay. And where is he?

Lindsay Troy: I have no idea. His numbers have been disconnected.

Chet Worth: See? And Tchu should be standing here too, but, he's not. It's you and me and you and Blair, who fucks up contract negotiations...

Danny Ferguson:  Who the shit is Blair?

Blaine Blair, who had remained remarkably silent thusfar, bristled at the statement, and let out a kind of pained, biting-my-tongue squeal.

Lindsay Troy:  I know our numbers are low.  And I know that  we can use all the help we can get, which means Danny and I need to work together, whether we like it or not.  But you can’t give us titles and hope it’ll make us play nice.  You can't just make a new Silver and GOLD out of thin air, Chet.  I could at least reason with Silver.  I can't reason with him.

Troy points an accusing finger at Ferguson, who scoffs.  He snaps his fingers and Dametreyus tosses him a roll of bills.

Danny Ferguson: I'll tell ya what, Legsay...the only reason you have to do is name a reasonable price.  I'll just buy your belt off you.

Chet Worth:  DANNY!

Lindsay Troy: Get bent, Fergbreath.  There's no way I'm going to let you sully the integri---on second thought, how much?

Chet Worth:  LINDSAY!

Danny Ferguson: Now you're talkin', sister.

Lindsay Troy: It's not like you're going to have any luck finding a replacement partner anyway, but watching you fall on your face is going to be worth it.

Danny Ferguson:  Well as much as it pains me to prove you wrong and then rub your face in it, please direct your attention to the large African-American man in the back of the room.

Eyes turn to Damtreyus, who looks noticeably uncomfortable with the attention.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas:  Boss, my family is of Dominican descent.

Danny Ferguson:  (rolling his eyes)  Dam, did you not hear me say African-American?  No one gives a shit about the specifics.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas:  But Boss, I don-

Chet Worth:  You know what, Danny?  Lindsay’s right.  If you think you can find a replacement partner, fine, go try it.  But it needs to be someone on the active roster.  I wouldn’t let you team up with him at Colossus, and I won’t let you do it now.

Danny Ferguson:  Is this some elaborate way of getting me to team with you again?  Because even if I am re-living my life all over again, I can’t change the past because the universe has a way of course-correcting itself and I will, eventually, have to team up with you whether I like it or not!  You can’t change it!  No matter what you do, YOU CAN’T CHANGE IT!

He drops to his knees in a decidedly overdramatic fashion, and his bodyguards pull him up by his arms as he sobs somewhat uncontrollably.  Troy, having watched the entire display, turns to Worth.

Lindsay Troy:  You’re saying this is our best chance right now?  Will you accept a resignation letter written in pencil?

Finally done, Danny rises back to his feet.

Danny Ferguson:  You know what?  I’m going to prove both of you wrong.  I’m going to find myself a damn partner tonight, and then I’ll be a champion again by myself!

Chet Worth:  Except with a partner.

Danny Ferguson:  Except with a partner!

He storms out of the office, slamming the door in the face of his bodyguards, who politely open and shut it behind themselves.  With the constant distraction of Team Ferguson now gone, Chet leans back in his chair.

Lindsay Troy:  You gave up on that idea pretty quickly.

Chet Worth:  Sometimes you need to let things run their course.  Danny knows we need him, and he’s throwing a bitchfit because he thinks he can get away with it.  Once he realizes that we’re HIS only allies...then the argument makes itself.

Lindsay Troy:  So you’re saying I still have to team up with him?

Chet Worth:  Eventually.

Lindsay Troy:  I’m glad I signed up for this...

As Troy and Ferguson leave, Worth turns around to a scowling Blaine Blair.

Blaine Blair: What's THAT supposed to mean? The contract thing.

Chet Worth: The whole CCW debacle. How did Deville find out?

Blaine Blair: Well, you know how the WWF is sports entertainment, so things they do are secret?

Chet Worth: Yeah...

Blaine Blair: Well, we're a real sport. So, our contracts are public record. And when you try and screw over one of your employees by booking them six weeks in advance, I'm sure they're going to try and get any...

Chet Worth: Save it.

Blaine Blair: I'm just sa--

Chet Worth: SAVE. IT. Blaine. Okay? Shut up. Okay?

Blaine Blair: Whatever, Chester.

Cameras off.

As ReVolution returns to ringside, Jason Snow is seen impatiently pacing back and forth along the ring ropes. "Headstrong" by Trapt blares out as Dusk leaps up onto the apron, forcing the referee to usher the Original Villain back towards his corner.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, from Los Angeles, California… weighing in at 250 pounds… DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSK!!!

Climbing the outside of the buckles, Dusk raises a solitary fist to the Indian fans, before hopping over the top rope and down into the ring.

As the bell rings, Dusk and Snow meet in the middle of the ring with a collar-and-elbow tie-up, which Dusk instantly dominates with his size and strength advantage. Feeling himself being forced back, Snow manages to manipulate his opponent’s grip just enough to transition into a side headlock.

Nick: Snow will be the first to admit that he gives up some wrestling knowledge to Dusk here.

Richard: Yeah, but when was the last time a side headlock won a match? Snow has gotten far enough not spending 5 minutes per match doing hammerlocks or reverse chinlocks.

Feeling Snow grind away at his temples, the Lost Soul drops to one knee, preventing Snow from getting the takedown. After taking a second to compose himself, Dusk plants his hand on Snow’s back and rises, pushing the Original Villain off into the ropes. As Snow rebounds, Dusk drops to the canvas, forcing the FU member to hurdle him, before hopping up and dropping a shoulder.

Building up speed, Snow barely spots Dusk in time to avoid the Back Bodydrop attempt with a leapfrog. Stamping the soles of his snake-skin boots into the canvas, Snow manages to skid to a halt, and as the two men turn to face one another, they both fire off their respective Superkicks - the Snake Eyes of Snow vs. the Lights Out.

Nick: Lately Dusk has been embroiled in a war with Jonathon Winters over the Superkick, but they might’ve both forgotten about Snow’s Snake Eyes!

Both contorting their bodies to execute the moves up close, their faces avoid the paths of one another’s boots, each catching the other on the chest and shoulder.

Richard: Seriously, Dusk should have to beg at Snow’s feet for the honour of receiving the Snake Eyes, let alone think he can go off and do his own.

As Dusk tries to get the upper-hand and lunges at Snow, the Original Villain sees no harm in going to the well twice, trying to catch Dusk unawares with a second Snake Eyes.

Somehow catching sight of a flash of snake-skin, Dusk Dusks under the kick, grabs a waistlock, and takes Snow up and over with a Belly to Back Suplex. As Snow bounces off his neck and shoulders, Dusk tries to roll him over for the pin, only for the Fuck You members to swat him away.

Richard: See the disrespect PRIME has running right through to its core? That man went and won GTT6 for this place, and someone like Dusk has the nerve to try and hold him down for a pinfall? That’s Chet Worth for you.

Nick: Chet saved his company from Nelson!

Stumbling to his feet, the GTT6 winner seeks sanctuary in the corner, but Dusk rushes in and connects with a forearm strike. With the PRIME fans urging him on, the Lost Soul scores with another trio of forearms, before the sound of a European uppercut connecting echoes out around ringside.

Grabbing a hold of Snow’s wrist, Dusk spins through into an arm-wringer, then whips the Original Villain across the ring and into the opposite corner. As soon as Snow’s back impacts off the buckles, Dusk charges across the ring and drives his shoulder into Snow’s ribs.

Nick: Both these men are happy to brawl it out, and that looks to be what we’ll get.

Richard: What we’ll get is Snow playing possum. Do you really think a man of his greatness can be winded by a few little shoulder charges?

Hearing the winded GTT6 winner wheeze, Dusk drives in another couple of shoulders, before grabbing Snow around the waist and lifting him out into a Northern Lights Suplex.

"ONE!

TWO!

T-NO!"

As Snow kicks out, he thrashes Dusk off him, as if being so close to his opponent soils him.

Slipping out under the bottom rope, Snow drops to the mats, and instantly snaps back at the Calcutta crowd who flock to the barriers. With the Original Villain distracted, Dusk lines him up through the ropes, then rushes across the ring and throws himself through the cables with a Suicide Dive.

Hearing a reaction from the fans, Snow snaps his head around to see the Lost Soul flying his way. Instinct taking over, Snow fires off his right foot, again calling on the Snake Eyes, and managing to connect with Dusk’s jaw in flight.

Richard: OH. HIS. GREATNESS!!!

Nick: Dusk… Dusk just dived at full speed right into the foot of Snow and his Snake Eyes!!!

Piloting systems shut down by the impact, Air Dusk crash lands into the safety barriers.

Trying to make it look as if he isn’t surprised in the least that he pulled it off, Snow spreads his arms and searches out the nearest camera, talking up the move.

Nick: I think your championing of Snow might not be needed, he’s seemingly doing a good job of that himself.

Richard: The mediums of sound a vision can do no justice to him, Nick. His greatness exists on levels the human body and mind just can’t comprehend.

Finally getting his focus back on the match, Snow grabs a handful of Dusk’s hair and throws his groggy opponent in under the bottom rope, then climbs up onto the apron. Grabbing the top cable, Snow slingshots himself back into the ring, coming down with a knee to the side of Dusk’s head.

Flattening his opponent out, Snow quickly hooks the leg.

"ONE!

TW-NO!"

Looking personally insulted that Dusk would kick out, Snow punishes him with a trio of knees to the side, before hopping up and raining down stomps. Reaching down, Snow drags a dazed Dusk up, then hoists him up over his shoulders.

Nick: Snow will always be famous for nailing that Snake Eyes out of nowhere, but when he’s in control of a match, he can be unrelenting. I won’t look like you’ll see it in any textbook, but it’s mighty effective.

Turning to the middle of the ring, Snow strolls a few paces, before Dusking his head and lifting the Lost Soul up and over, dropping him into a crude Backbreaker. Leaving Dusk draped painfully over his knee, Snow dusts his hands off, before pulling his opponent up as if for a Belly to Back Suplex, only to drive him into the canvas with a Blue Thunder Powerbomb.

"ONE!

TWO!

TH-NO!"

Relentless, Snow is dragging Dusk back to his feet within a second of the kick-out. Applying a ¼ Nelson, the Fuck You member again punishes Dusk’s side with knees, before switching down into a Gutwrench and heaving the Lost Soul over with a Suplex.

Deciding Dusk isn’t quite weakened enough for the X-Rated, Snow instead drags Dusk back to his feet and sets him up for a Suplex, but as he goes to list the Lost Soul, Dusk hooks his leg around Snow’s, blocking it. Not giving up, Snow again tries to lift his larger opponent, but once again its blocked.

Richard: Does he dare to defy the greatness of Snow? That’s… that’s… just send him back to Global until he learns his place!

Before Snow can try a third time, Dusk turns the tables, lifting Snow up for a Suplex, only to then push him off, forcing the GTT winner to crash land face-first against the canvas. Holding his face, Snow kneels up, only for Dusk to then connect with a Dropkick.

Richard: Not the face! How can Chet Worth allow this? I demand his resigns for this victimisation!

Holding his back, Dusk is slow to rise, giving Snow time to recover. Patting his face for blood, the GTT6 winner drags himself up by the ropes, but as he reaches his feet, Dusk is there to meet him with a flurry of hard forearms.

Pushing Snow’s face, bending him back over the top cable, Dusk then lights his chest up with a stinging chop. Hearing the reaction of the crowd, Snow refuses to let Dusk outshine him, and spins out to push the Lost Soul against the ropes, connecting with a chop of his own.

Nick: You could see it on Snow’s face that he wasn’t about to let Dusk milk any crowd reactions out of him. The one thing you’ll learn about Jason Snow is that the show always has to be about Jason Snow.

With the chops stinging both men alert, Dusk takes control once more, landing a harsh forearm uppercut. Grabbing Snow’s wrist, Dusk goes to whip the Original Villain across the ring, only for it to be reversed.

Using the momentum rather than being a slave to it, Dusk rebounds off the ropes with a furious Lariat, which the wily Snow rolls under. Rather than springing back to his feet, Snow flattens himself against the canvas, leaving Dusk to hop over him.

Nick: Dusk hovers around 250, so when he builds up a head of steam, he’ll take some stopping.

Richard: Well, the Snake Eyes will stop his head, as for the rest of the body, well, that’ll do what it has to.

Bursting up and stepping into the rebounding Dusk, Snow goes for a Hiptoss, only for the Lost Soul to spin through it. As Dusk’s feet touch down, he flings a back elbow at Snow, but only manages to graze the top of the ducking FU member’s head.

Both immediately sense that the other is in perfect range and again each fires off their Superkick. Nailing the Lights Out, Dusk snaps Snow’s head back, at the same millisecond that the Snake Eyes swats his jaw violently to the side.

Nick: Stereo Superkicks!!!

Richard: What? All I saw was the Snake Eyes and some poor imitation side-kick attempt.

As both men’s legs give out from under then, Dusk collapses first, while Snow sways back and forth, out on his feet… before dropping limply across the Lost Soul

"ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!"

As the referee calls for the bell, jeers start to pour down upon the ring, almost drowning out "Right Next Door to Hell".

Vince Howard: The winner of the match… JASON SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!

Shaking the cobwebs loose, Snow sits up, trying to remember where he is. After a couple of seconds to gather his senses, the Original Villain scrambles up, brushing himself off where he came into contact with the Lost Soul.

Dusk slowly pulls himself up, sore after his battle with Jason Snow. The crowd around him chants his name and he appreciates it. As he looks around, he can feel something is wrong. Then, as he turns around, he can see Jonathan Winters and Charity walking down the ring right towards him. Dusk backs up, ready for a fight with his enemy.

Nick Stuart: After that hellacious battle with Snow, now he has to focus his attention on Winters. I don’t think you could categorize that as something fair.

Richard Parker: I don’t think Winters gives a damn. These two men will actually be having their first match this upcoming weekend for PTC, thus the tensions are that much higher. The stakes are that much bigger. Winters knows that. Dusk knows that. Unfortunately, it’s Winters who has the upper hand right now.

Winters and Charity climb into the ring, but don’t look like they’re ready for a fight. Instead, they walk over to the corner and ask for a microphone which they’re handed. Dusk just looks on, wondering what Winters could possibly want.

Winters: Well, now that we have our little match done between you and Snow, it’s time to move on to more important things Dusk. Last week, I showed you how insignificant you truly are to me. Not even worth my time or effort of nailing you with a superkick. Do you see how far beneath me you are?

Dusk just burns a hole right through Winters as he looks through him.

Winters: I gave you your chance to leave this alone and give up the superkick as your finisher. Instead, you’ve chosen the path with the most resistance, the path least traveled. You’ve gone ahead and dug your own grave; I’m just here to put the soil on top of your worthless carcass.

Dusk, tired of hearing this, walks over to the corner and demands he be given a mic. As soon as he receives one, he looks Winters dead in his eyes.

Dusk: Your words, Winters, grow tiresome. Because, you see, we’ve got ourselves a little match right now. Remember, you’re standing in the ring of the Infinite Gauntlet champion for PTC. You have to come through me if you want this title so badly.

Winters: A title? I don’t want your title Dusk, but I’m going to take it. After the Infinite Gauntlet, after the Extreme Title match that we’ll be part of, you won’t want another piece of me. You will gladly give up the superkick and I shall be rid of you for good.

Dusk: Winters, you talk a lot of game for someone that does nothing.

Winters: Well, I guess it’s better than superkicking innoncent women.

Dusk takes a step back as Winters reminds Dusk of how he went to kick Winters, but instead kicked Charity by mistake.

Richard Parker: Damn true! That kick is a weapon that Dusk doesn’t know how to control.

Nick Stuart: Charity jumped in front of Winters to prevent the kick! That’s nonsense!

Richard Parker: He needs to learn how to control it if he’s going to use it, Nick!

Dusk: Listen, just because your little woman jumped in front of my kick to save you, doesn’t mean shit to me. That just shows how much of an idiot she is. This kick is mine Winters. I plan on proving that to you.

Charity then rips the microphone away from Winters and starts to yell at Dusk.

Charity: An idiot?! You call me an idiot?! You can’t control your damn kick or your tempers thus you decide to try to take your frustrations out on Winters! If you weren’t such a damn maniac then we wouldn’t have to be talking about this, but Dusk, you’re not in control. You were never in control.

Dusk: Listen, can I stop talking to the puppet and go back to talking to Winters?

Charity: You think you’re ready for this Dusk? Well, you know what, I guess you are ready for this!

Dusk then looks over and notices that Winters is no longer standing in front of him. As he turns around, he sees Winters heading right for him with a superkick! Dusk is able to duck it though as the fans pop for him! Winters then turns around slightly and…

BOOOOOOOOM!

LIGHTS! OUT!

Richard Parker: NOOOOOO! He just hit the superkick on Winters! NOOOOO!

Nick Parker: Look at the grin on Dusk’s face! He loves it! Winters is knocked out, Charity trying to revive him, and Dusk has gotten the better of Winters this week!

Dusk looks down at Charity and Winters, and drops the microphone at their feet before exiting the ring.

Nick Parker: Things are going to be very interesting over the next week with these two men as it was said before, Winters and Dusk will do battle for the Infinite Gauntlet title that Dusk currently holds and they’ll be part of the Extreme Title match, trying to take the title away from Nova! It’s going to be extremely tense between the two men.

Richard Parker: If I was a betting man, I would have to say that Dusk is going to get what’s coming to him this weekend. He’s walking down a path that no man has returned from.

Then, the scene fades to black.

The camera opens up to show Easton Hall standing against a PRIME logo backdrop. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his face, but his eyes peer out from the only two openings in his locks. He cracks his knuckles, glaring out dangerously.

Easton Hall: PRIME. You know what? Ever since I got here, people have been down on me. Easton Hall can't do shit. Easton Hall is worthless. So you know what I did? I knocked down some big motherfuck, took my first win. Still, it didn't stop. 'Easton Hall is a stupid fuck.' 'Easton Hall doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve that.' So I bankrupted all you geek marks' online cash and I did what nobody thought I was gonna do, I beat Karina Wolfenden. But still, it didn't – fucking – stop. Still getting hated on. Still being put down, passed over.

Easton sneers a bit.

Easton Hall: Y'know, sometimes this place sickens me. You put up talent, you show yourself to belong with the big dogs, and what? They still shit on you. 'Cause they don't know you? 'Cause they don't want to know? Look who's headlining shows here. Nova, Angelo Deville, Rich Rollins, Jason Snow – Fuck You. A group so inept and derived of ability that the only way they could get people interested, get people to watch names that nobody wants to watch anymore, is to put fuck in their title. But that's been said before, hasn't it? No, Easton, you're not original.

Easton Hall: Well, fuck being original, heard? I don't need to be original, because I'm the best. Plain and simple. I don't need to walk out there with a gimmick, with a fuckin' catchphrase, with a valet or a manager. You came out here to watch wrestling, and what I'm giving to you is exactly that. You want to watch a colorful character? Step into the ring wit me, I'll show yuh some fuckin' color. Yuh eyes'll be black and blue, god, yuh face'll be red, and around my waist – sooner or later – there's gonna be gold.

Easton strokes his jaw, finger brushing through his thick beard.

Easton Hall: So where have I been, then? Yeah, that's what you want to know. People have been asking me what I've been doing, why I'm off television. You think I'm scared of fighting, scared of my next match, 'cause it could be my first loss." Easton sniffed mockingly. "Yeah, fuck that. I'm coming back at ReVolution 120 and I'ma show all you people who still want to deny me how bad a misstep that is.

Easton pauses for a second.

Easton Hall: And first among your number is Captain Suleimon, isn't it? All you've been doing is blindsiding me and then bragging about it, 'cause you can't get it done in the ring. All you've been doing is blowing hot air while your castrated eunuch partner pretends people still care about him. All I've been doing… all I've been doing is waiting for a chance, Cap'n.

Easton Hall: You hit me in the back of the head, fine. You brag about it on the air, fine. You can keep doing what you do, putting up a façade, and I'll keep on waiting, biding my time, until you figure out that you're not gonna put me down. Until you realize there's only one way…" Easton snarls. "'Cause that's when I'm gonna kill ya.

Easton Hall: Where have I been? I've been preparing. I've been getting myself ready. 'Cause I know any day now, you're gonna get it through your thick fuckin' skull that you can't beat me. Any hour, you're gonna figure out that you can't seal it so easy. Any minute… any minute, Cap, and you're gonna step up and show that you were born with balls. But it's gonna be the last time you get that chance, 'cause after we go face-to-face, toe-to-toe, I'm gonna wreck ya so bad you'll be lucky if you can move your mouth enough to eat.

Easton out.

Nick: The ring is dressed up in garish Turk-ery, so you know what time it is.

Richard: Yep, my favorite non-sexual part of the show.

Nick: *sigh*

"The Turkish March" cues up and the Yuba Bharati Kirangan Stadium pours its boos out on the entering entourage of the flag-waving General Rahman, the militarily dressed Captain Suleimon and the menacing Jack Murphy. They head into the ring and assume their positions. Suleimon grabs a mic and starts spewing.

Suleimon: Welcome to another edition of ISTANBULLSHITTIN', live from... *shudder* India. India... a piece of dung coming out the anus of Asia!

Richard: Thank you for saying what we all were thinking!

Nick: You get used to the smell after awhile, but India's a nice country.

Richard: If you're leper.

Suleimon: Seriously, do any of you bathe? Or eat things that are less pungent than curry? For Allah's sake, join the Twenty-First Century people! Be something more than wastes in your lives, more than what Easton Hall is. That's right, you're all about as worthless as he is, and because of that, I'm challenging him to a match for ReVolution 121 in Yokohama. Why not next week? Well, the Bull and I have something planned for next week. But you uncultured, cow-worshipping retards heard the challenge this week.

BOOO!!!

Suleimon: Sure, boo me now, but only because I speak the truth, because the truth is always on my mind. Speaking of speaking one's mind, our next guest speaks his mind very freely and very often. And when he does, well, let's just say I agree with our next guest's Pierce Lavelle hating policy, but I disagree with his Jack Murphy hating policy. Please welcome Devin Shakur!

The beginning of "Burn" by Nine Inch Nails plays over the speakers as Devin Shakur makes his way out from behind the curtain into the eyes of the public. He looks to his left and then to his right before shaking his head at the belligerent fans. Shakur then makes his way down the aisle, barely acknowledging the presence of the people trying to reach out and grab him and shank him. Shakur walks over toward the stairs, slowly going up each one before reaching the ring apron. Shakur then steps through the ropes and is now officially an ISTANBULLSHITer. Suleimon hands Shakur a mic and then speaks into his own.

Suleimon: Let's get right to the point. You have this virulent hatred for anything involving... a certain company that myself and the Bull used to work for. Why is that so?

Shakur: The answer to that question is rather quite simple. You and the rest of the AWC ilk have come rolling through here and are trying a militant style take over of PRIME. First you have The Walking Disease Garbage Bag Johnny. I went to confession to ask for for forgiveness after fighting him and I'm an atheist. Then you have the epitome of a model citizen in Chainz. That's the kind of guy who I really want to give the spotlight to if I am the owner of an organization. He parades around a woman that has boobs so big that she could have saved all of the people who died on the Titanic. Then you have Mr. Murphy over here behind you who claimed I wasn't in his league. Hey Murph, how much hot sauce did you have room service put on that crow you ate after 118?

Murphy advances as to say something to Shakur, but Suleimon puts a hand on his chest.

Suleimon: Jack, let me take care of this... First off, don't you ever, ever dare to classify me and the Bull in the same category as mouth-breathers such as the Garbage Bag or Michael Sloan, whose only possessions should be a carton of cigarettes and a prison bitch in Easton Hall as he rots away in Sing-Sing! Secondly, the Bull and I... we do not represent that mongrel company here. We represent ourselves, a cleansing mission to rid this company of all the rabble and establish both our dominance and the purity of wrestling. The fact that you luckily slid by the Bull last week is but a fluke.

Shakur goes to say something, but he's interrupted immediately.

Suleimon: Now, onto specifics, what is it about Pierce Lavelle that grates on you most? Is it his effeminate demeanor, his pathetic attempt to hide his homosexuality by hitting on every woman in the company, the air of pretentious drama around him or is it something even different than those reasons?

Shakur: Purity of wrestling, sure, so that's his excuse for losing after he said I was out of his league? Roundhouse kicks as far as I know are accepted wrestling moves, so are knee strikes. He got beat by the better wrestler. Now onto Pierce Lavelle, he is simply put a nuisance standing in my way. He's one of the many who think that just because they were seen as high and mighty in the AWC that they can run over the likes of me without an afterthought...Right Murph? Or should I say...boy? Now, back to Lavelle. He's got his charisma, and he's got the belief that I can't derail him. I think I showed him that last week, when you least expect it, your life can change in the blink of an eye. He decided to turn his back to me, and I made him pay in spades for it. Now he knows that he's got a challenge. He's that one person who is going to let me in the door. Once I dispose of him, it is only a matter of time before I plague the rest of this federation and achieve universal supremacy.

Suleimon: You know something, you're beginning to annoy me. Here I am, giving you the easy way out, giving you a chance not to be confrontational, but there you go, throwing your fluke loss to the GREATEST wrestler in the world in our faces like it means something. Tell me, when you visit your friends' houses, do you go right in, track mud on their carpets, eat all their food and defile their mothers within the first half-hour of arriving? Do you?

Suleimon pauses momentarily, seemingly to let Shakur answer before he abruptly picks up where he left off.

Suleimon: You don't need to answer that because I know the answer by the way you've been carrying on since you've gotten here. Now, you have two choices. One, you can do things the easy way. You can shut up about the match last week, and we can have a grand old time trashing the not-so-good name of Pierce Lavelle, or two, you can continue being belligerent and suffer the consequences.

Shakur: We can go to talking about Lavelle anytime you want to shut YOUR yap about the loss. If anybody is to blame for me rubbing it in Murphy's face, it should be him. I didn't go into his locker room before the match and try to psyche out the opponent, that was him and he paid the price for it. The greatest wrestler in the world shouldn't need to tell me that he's going to beat me, it should already be implied. Now anytime you want to steer this conversation back to Lavelle, and the fact that he seriously needs to stop taxing a Russian woman's gimmick in terms of appearance-

And the fans go "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Shakur: I'll be more than glad to do such.

Suleimon just rolls his eyes and looks slyly at Shakur.

Suleimon: Well...

Just then, he's interrupted by "Map of the Problematique" by Muse over the PA.

Richard: Oh geez, don't tell me Pierce Lavelle is coming out to gay this party up.

Nick: I don't know, I don't see him...

Shakur turns around, but he doesn't see Lavelle anywhere. However, he feels the blunt end of a cordless microphone jabbing him in the back of the head. Shakur stumbles over from the mic shot from Suleimon, and the dastardly duo of the Bull and the Immolator of Istanbul go to work. Suleimon grabs Shakur and throws him to Murphy. The Sultan of Smackdown barks something to the Bull, and the Kildare native follows up with a kick to the gut of Shakur. The Plague doubles over and Suleimon heads to the top turnbuckle. As Murphy holds him, Suleimon drapes a leg right over the back of Shakur's head.

Nick: This is... an outrage!

Richard: I know you don't like it when sneak attacks like this happen, but they totally warned Shakur what was going to happen if he kept running his yap.

Both Suleimon and Murphy put the boots to Shakur, and then Suleimon calls over to Rahman. The elderly manager heads over to the table and grabs the bowl of hummus, bringing it over and handing it to Suleimon. The Great Captain takes the bowl of the Middle Eastern treat and dumps it all over the face of Shakur.

Nick: This is an embarrassment! Someone should do something!

Richard: C'mon now, as much as I like hearing Shakur make fun of that lame company that couldn't even stay open more than eighteen months, you have to admit he's made no friends since getting here.

Suleimon grabs his mic back from where he dropped it and gets right into Shakur's hummus covered face with it.

Suleimon: I told you there'd be consequences. You should have listened to us in the first place.

Suleimon throws his mic down to the chorus of boos raining down on him. He and Murphy raise each others' hands as we head to commercial!

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall!!!!

The lights in the arena fade down to black as the introduction for "You Don't Know" begins. The initial instrumental kicks in and red strobe lights begin to flash rapidly. The flashing then ceases and the pyrotechnic’s explode either side of the entrance way as the beat kicks into life. Paul Cain walks slowly from the back and stands with his shaved head bowed at the start of the ramp.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, hailing from Denver, CO weighing in at two hundred and thirty-five pounds...he is The Anarchist...PAUL CAIN!!!!!!

As Eminem and 50 lead the lyrics, Cain's head snaps up to face the ring as he begins to stride down the ramp. He's wearing a leather jacket on top of a T-shirt coupled with black pants and a scowl to match. As he makes his way to the squared circle, he blatantly ignores all of those around him as the hip hop anthem blares out with the bass extra high. He then sprints down the remainder of the ramp and dives under the ropes into the ring.

He aims one of his recently developed glares in the direction of Vince Howard, as he removes his jacket and throws it down to the mat while power walking towards the nearest ring corner. He scales the top rope and removes his T-shirt, tossing it to the floor and then standing, glaring around the crowd with his arms by his side and fists clenched. Having soaked up the atmosphere around him, he drops down off the ropes and then turns around to lean against the turnbuckles casually with his arms draped on the ropes ready to spring at his opponent.

Nick: My god, Cain looks PRIMEd for this one!

Richard: ...

Nick: What?

Richard: That’s so old, Noah used it regularly.

Nick: Noah Hanson?

Richard [sighs]: Watch Evan Almighty, it’s an autobiography.

Vince Howard: His opponent, hailing from Savu Savu, Fiji...weighing in at two hundred and eighty-seven pounds...GABRIEL AFEAKI!!!!

The arena descends into darkness... a few moments later, a black void greets the eyes of the fans as their gaze wanders toward the video screen. Immediately, there are two sets of silver points a few inches away from each other drawing outlines of the human eye. When the drawing is complete, the outlines open, revealing a pair of red eyes with white irises and no pupils. The infectious beats of T.I.'s 'Tha King' pervade the airwaves.

... and in case you forgot... I'm tha King!

The eyes flash to a dazzling white as pyro explodes with Gabriel Afeaki bounding out, hoody adorned, his rippling physique glistening in the flashbulbs.

THE FIJIAN LION HAS ARRIVED...

Afeaki walks with a relaxed step towards the ring and slowly makes his ascent up the ring steps. Gabriel Afeaki enters the ring, looks over at ring announcer and the assigned referee of the match, and walks over to the opposite corner of the ring, never once taking his eyes of Cain.

Richard: What? Doesn’t he trust Cain or something?

Nick: Would you? He’s from Denver.

Richard: What the hell does that have to do with anything?

DING! DING! DING!

The ref calls for the bell and takes a step backward, as the two competitors slowly emerge from the respective corners: this one’s underway! Quickly, Cain launches himself at Afeaki, looking for the upperhand.

Nick: Cain is starting things of quickly!

Richard: Let’s just hope he ain’t a quick finisher!

Nick: *sigh* You always have to lower the tone...

But Afeakie reacts quickly, taking a side step and allowing Cain’s momentum to send him face-first into the turnbuckle. Momentarily stunned, Afeaki whirls Cain around and promptly plasters him a serious of nefarious elbows, each more vicious and vibrant than the last.

Nick: ...

Richard: ...

Nick: Ouch!

Richard: Yeah...

After a while, Afeaki stops and Cain falls forward, propped up only by Afeaki’s chest. Afeaki grins, pointing toward the limp Cain and the crowd go wild.

AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI!

Without further hesitation, Afeaki launches Cain onto the mat with his Hane Goshi, spring him throw and the crowd go wild again.

AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI!

Nick: Afeaki has the clear upper hand here!

Richard: Yeah. Cain needs to pull his shit together.

Afeaki backs off into the corner, as Cain struggles to make it to one knee. He waves away the ref who’s buzzing overheard, asking him stupid questions like, "Are you okay?" Seeing life, Afeaki moves forward, idly barging the ref out of the way. He grabs Cain by his hair and hauls him to his feet. However, Cain reacts first, catching the Fijian animal with a vicious low blow.

Nick: Oh Jesus, I know how that feels!

Richard: I know. I’ve know your wife. Intimately.

Nick: WHAT?

Afeaki doubles over in agony and Cain struggles to his feet, catching the Fijian in the face with a vicious knee. But still, it’s not enough to knock him down. Afeaki stumbles backward towards the corner and Cain helps with a mid-section shoulder charge that sends him crunching into the turnbuckle.

Nick: Cain is no pushover.

Richard: Pfft. Insert another cliched phrase here.

Nick: So, you know my wife intimately?

Richard: Only the once. It was a dry month.

Cain takes a few steps back and charges at Afeaki again, this time producing a spectacular moonsault kick, catching The Fiji Lion squarely on the jaw. A globule of phlegm bursts of Afeaki’s mouth, as he slumps to the canvas in a heap.

Nick: Now THAT was impressive?

Richard: So were your wife’s boobs. Kept both hands warm.

Cain produces a toothy smile to the crowd and points at the stirring Akeaki, as he now struggles to the one knee. The crowd react in kind.

YOU’RE A DICK! YOU’RE A DICK! YOU’RE A DICK! YOU’RE A DICK! YOU’RE A DICK!

At the sound of this Cain’s smile widens, as he turns his attention back to the big Fijian, who’s now on his feet. Cain latches onto Afeaki’s arm and then promptly Irish whips him into the ropes. As the Fiji Lion bounds backwards, Cain jumps up into the air looking for some kind of Lou Thesz press-like manoeuvre, but Afeaki catches him midair and propels himself forward, hitting Cain with a modified spinebuster. Cain hits the mat and hits the mat hard.

Richard: Oh, that guy’s dead.

Nick: Seems like.

On his feet, Afeaki drags Cain by the feet away from the ropes and attempts to wrap Cain up in some kind of figure four move. However, Cain reacts quickly, placing his free foot on the big Fijian’s ass and pushing him away. Afeaki hits the ropes and rebounds back again, but this time Cain hits him low, taking he’s legs from under him, smoothly locking in a picture-perfect half Boston crab. As soon as Cain tightens his grip, Afeaki’s face is instantly awash in sheer agony.

Nick: He’s got that locked in pretty good!

Richard: All regale the spokesperson of the fucking obvious!

Afeaki pushes himself up off the ground with both arms, illustrating his highly impressive strength and begins to slowly crawl towards the ropes, looking to break the hold. However, as soon as he gets close, Cain releases the pressure and drags him further away from his goal. The ref hovers overheard all the while, constantly enquiring into his status.

Nick: Afeaki’s not getting any respite here!

Richard: Yeah, no doubt. Cain isn’t some kind of inexperienced newbie, ya know.

The ref asks the same damn annoying question again, prompting Afeaki to shake his head for an emphatic no and renew his journey toward the ropes. However, this time his speed increases and before Cain can react to drag him back, the Fiji Lion’s arm is already draped over the bottom ropes.

Nick: He finally made it!

Richard: I’d check my trousers if I were you. I think you come a little.

The ref taps Cain on the shoulder and orders him to break. Cain does so, but gets in the refs face for doing so, backing him into the corner. The ref stands his ground the best he can and only manages to dissuade the Anarchist with very sincere threats of disqualification.

Nick: Cain needs to get his focus and quick. What were you saying about him being a newbie again?

Richard: ...

Cain turns his attention back toward Afeaki, sizing him for a well placed boot to the face. Cain strikes, but the big Fijian is ready. He catches Cain’s leg, lefts him with brute forces and drops him to the canvas. However, he’s in no condition to follow it up straight away. He rises to one knee, the sweat pouring from him and his breathing is heavy. Cain uses the ropes to pull himself back to his feet, experiencing a rush of adrenaline. It’s this same force that prompts the Anarchist into throwing a wild punch.

Nick: Cain’s punching wild!

Richard: And Afeaki knows it!

He’s right. The Fiji Lion see the punch in advance and calculates the appropriate response, diverting the blow and quickly manoeuvring to Cain’s rear, locking him up in a lethal-looking Katahajime.

Nick: It’s all over. Ring the damn bell now.

Cain stands there helpless for a time, but then, realising this could potentially be the end of his match, uses all the bodyweight he can muster and charges backward into the turnbuckle, desperately hoping the impact will shake free Afeaki’s vice-like grip. It doesn’t. Instead, the Fiji Lion uses the momentum and his superior bodyweight, to swivel around on the spot and hurled him over his shoulder, releasing him in midair.

Richard: Holy shit!

Cain lands with a sickening thud and even the ref’s face contorts with disgust.

Nick: Di-did Afeaki just break Cain’s neck?

Richard: I don’t know. I’m not a chiropractor. Unluckily for Cain.

Afeaki, breathing heavily, briefly favours his lower back with hiss right arm, before stumbling over toward Cain and slumping down on top of him for the pin. The ref gets into position quickly.

OOONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!

TTTWWWWWWWWOOOOOO!!!!!
TTTTHHHH---

The ref ceases his count and Afeaki glares at the official questioningly, until he points to Cain’s foot haphazardly draped over the bottom rope.

Nick: The match isn’t over?

Richard: I told you this guy had balls. By the way, I think your wife does too.

Nick: I know. They’re mine.

Afeaki mumbles something about a slow count to the ref, under his breath and composes himself swiftly, rising to his feet and dragging Cain up along with him.

Nick: Cain still looks out on his feet here.

Richard: Well that’s what severe concussion will do to ya, Nick.

The Fiji Lion pastes him with an elbow to the forehead and then holds him up by the hair. Afeaki grins and the crowd respond again.

AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI!

The Fijian monster locks both arms around Cain’s waist and throws him over his shoulder, sending the Anarchist hurtling toward the other side of the ring helplessly.

Nick: Another Afeaki suplex?

Richard: There’s no out here...

This time the Fiji Lion, sizes Cain up perfectly, pulling him away from the ropes and making sure he hooks his leg. The ref makes the count.

OOONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!

TTTWWWWWWWWOOOOOO!!!!!

TTTTHHHHRRRRR---

Nick: KICKOUT!!!!!!

Richard: Fuck, kid, stay down!

Afeaki gets to his feet and curses to himself. He’s not happy about this and its visible for all to see. The ref gets out of the way quick, but the Fijian animal ignores him and, instead, heads for his unfortunate prey.

Richards: Get out of there, Cain! Get some air or something!

Afeaki bends over and grabs Cain by the hair, looking to drag him up for more punishment, but the Anarchist strikes. He drives his thumb into the big Fijian’s eye, prompting Afeaki to pull back, giving himself time to heal.

Afeaki: Fuck...

Cain rolls over and props himself up against the turnbuckle. As Afeaki composes himself and turns himself attention back toward Cain, the Anarchist pulls himself up using the ropes as leverage and lunges forward with a vicious heart kick. Afeaki falls to the ground and Cain joins him, falling forward and draping an arm over his chest.

OOONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!

TTTWWWWWWWWOOOOOO!!!!!

TTTTHHHHRRRRR---

Nick: You ain’t going to pin Afeaki like that!

Richard: No doubt.

Cain pushes himself up from the canvas and crawls over to the other side of the ring, whilst Afeaki pulls himself up by the ropes. The Fijian monster makes it to his feet first, but Cain closely follows him.

Nick: This has been a true battle right here!

Richard: Goes without saying, Nick.

Nick: Too late.

Afeaki lunges forward, throwing a forearm/elbow smash. However, Cain ducks under the blow and waits for him to turn. Upon doing so, Cain kicks him in the gut and quickly hauls the monster up onto his shoulders.

Nick: Oh god, Cain got him up!

Richard: You know what this means...

Cain whirls Afeaki around, the Fijian animal breaks loose of the grip, waits for Cain to turn around and hits a massive right hand bomb.

Nick: Jesus!

Richard: Fuck!

Cain’s legs fold underneath him and he hits the canvas in two seconds flat. Afeaki drops on his limp body and hooks both legs this time.

OOONNNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!

TTTWWWWWWWWOOOOOO!!!!!

TTTTHHHHRRRRREEEEE!!!!

Nick: Afeaki did it!

Richard: And with force!

AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI! AFEAKI!

DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the match…GABRIEL AFEAKIIIII!

Team Ferguson struts their stuff down the hallways of PRIME, with Danny, constantly leading the Purpose-Driven Life regardless of the quality of that purpose, is muttering/monologue-ing to himself.

Danny Ferguson: StupidTroythinkingIcantfindapartner. Of COURSE I CAN FIND ANOTHER PARTNER. I’m a goddamned tag team champion, an international superstar and I’m generally easy to get along with!

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, ain’t Lindsay a former tag team champion, too?

Danny Ferguson: (without looking behind him, rolling his eyes) Oh hey Dam, that reminds me, did the check for your consulting fee come through?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: (confused) ...Boss, I...you ain’t never paid me for consulting.

Danny Ferguson: There’s a reason for that.

They turn a corner toward the locker rooms and slow to a stop. In front of them, down the hall from the doors, is Sun Tzu, the former Intense Champion, current 5-Star Champion and generally happy person. Dressed in a schoolgirl outfit, which she pulls off more as "Battle Royale" than "Lolita", she spots Danny and her eyes go as red as her political views.

Tzu stomps towards Danny and company, and the superstar, oblivious, makes no move to stop her.

Danny Ferguson: (whispering out the side of his mouth) I thought we don’t get the Japanese ring rats until we get to China.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss...nevermind.

Sun Tzu: I thought I would find you here, you sniveling, glad-handing American disease monger?

Danny pauses, furrowing his brow at the shot.

Danny Ferguson: Is that from People? November 04? I was one of their Sexiest that year...apparently not sexy enough to get my own page, but you know how it goes.

He looks Sun Tzu up and down.

Danny Ferguson: Although maybe you don’t. I hope you have a good "personality" and gag reflex, darling, because the boys don’t settle for just anything. Although with that getup and your lack-thereof cup size, I’ll bet you could fool Chainz into thinking you’re 11.

Sun Tzu: I did not come here to be belittled by some hedonistic Capitalist miscreant like yourself! How dare you talk to me like this! I was already coming to find you because of how you spoke to my boyfriend, but now-

Danny Ferguson: Well that’s cute, really, but you’re not my type. I like the girls with more to grip up high and less to say even higher. But if you keep hanging around back here, play up the schoolgirl thing, I’m sure one of the boys will look to throw you a bone. I’m sure they’ll see that you’re a big fan, especially with this sweet looking replica belt...

He pats the 5-Star Championship, which had been slung over Tzu’s shoulder this entire time.

Danny Ferguson: ...that’s a pretty good copy. It’s even got that chunk of fingernail polish from when Chandler...I mean Ellie...spilled it. I’m amazed they go into that much detail. You really sho-

He’s cut off at the sound of a gun cocking, and finds himself staring down the business end of Kookoo Bear. Slowly backing away as Tzu trains Mister Snugglepants on his bodyguards, Danny’s eyes open wide.

Danny Ferguson: Hey, Dam?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: (swallowing hard) Yeah Boss?

Danny Ferguson: You didn’t think about stopping the whole gun-pointing thing? You know, as a bodyguard?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: I thought I was your consultant now, and in that capacity I feel it prudent to discuss the situation before we take further action.

Sun Tzu steps in close to Danny, and he backs up, which in turn makes the bodyguards back up. Keeping Kookoo Bear on Danny, she uses Mister Snugglepants to wave the guards up against the wall and out of the picture.

Sun Tzu: I assure you, you uneducated barbarian, that much like my 5 Star belt, my sweet little babies her are very real. And if your head’s current residence was not somewhere in your colon, you would know just how bad an idea it is to taunt the Artist of War.

Danny gives the pistol-packin’ mama a nervous smile. He furtively glances back and forth from the gun to his entourage.

Danny Ferguson: So did I, like, miss a memo here, boys?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Oh yeah, boss. While you were… on vacation, China sent a highly trained killer to PRIME in order stick it to America by beating up their wrestlers.

Danny Ferguson: And would this highly trained killer be standing across from me right now?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: That would be an affirmative, boss. Meet Sun Tzu.

Danny Ferguson: Charmed. And this boyfriend she mentioned?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: She thinks she’s dating Angelo De-

BLAM! There is smoke coming from Mister Snugglepants and a bullet-sized hole in the wall.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: She’s DEFINITELY dating Angelo Deville.

Danny looks back at the adorable Chinese girl with the very, very scary look in her eyes. He notices something he missed before… a great big button on her sweater with a great big pink heart that has a poorly Photoshopped picture of Sun Tzu and Angelo Deville side by side in it. Danny giggles nervously.

Danny Ferguson: Listen, Commie Chung, I-

The hammers on both guns cock simultaneously.

Danny Ferguson: (squinting and flinching, possibly this close to pants-wetting) I’m sorry I called you a ring rat and made fun of your tiny ta-ta’s…

Sun Tzu snarls and moves Kookoo Bear closer to Danny’s face.

Danny Ferguson: Did I say tiny? I meant perfectly sized. Huge racks are soooooo last year. Hideous, in fact. And I know me and Angelo have our differences, but that doesn’t mean I’m not pulling for you two crazy kids to go the distance. Did I say crazy? I meant totally rational and obviously deeply in love. People talk about you two more than Brad and Angelina. They call you… Sungelo. Yeah, Sungelo. All over the tabs. So are we cool?

Sun Tzu: Admit it.

Danny Ferguson: Admit what?

Sun Tzu: Admit that Hong Kong cinema is far superior to any of that sludge Hollywood puts out.

Danny’s heart is pounding in his chest. This goes against everything he believes in. But Kookoo Bear makes a very convincing argument.

Danny Ferguson: Fine. Hong Kong pwns Hollywood.

His head lowered to his chest, Danny knows what Peter felt like when he denied knowing Jesus. He looks up and sees Sun Tzu backing away, both guns still aimed on them. She finally disappears around a corner, buther voice can be heard until it too fades away.

Sun Tzu: Sun Tzu and Angelo Deville… Sun and Angelo... Mr. and Mrs. Angelo Deville... Angelo and Sun Deville…

Danny’s guards return to his side. Straightening his jacket and trying his best to look macho in the wake of getting punked like a sucka, he rolls his neck out and purses his lips.

Danny Ferguson: I guess I’m going to have to look somewhere else for a new partner, so we don’t have to deal with THAT again.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, you ain’t gon’ find too many people if you ain’t lookin in the locker rooms.

Danny Ferguson: I’d rather risk that than the alternative.

They head off in another direction.

Danny Ferguson: Anybody want to talk about why you two don’t carry guns?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: I’m a pacifist, Boss.

Danny Ferguson: Funny. You don’t look Samoan.

Cut away.

"Well ain't this a BITCH!"

The angered Sultan of Soul, Asa 'Fro' Fountain, slams his fist into a wall backstage, obviously angered at the outcome of his earlier gauntlet match against Silver and his posse. He breathes heavily, his nostrils flaring as he runs his hands through his massive black afro.

Asa Fountain: That jive turkey is gon' get one hell of a funkafied beatdown! Damnit, Asa! How'd ya let yaself get into a god-damn gauntlet match? This some jive shit...

Asa continues yelling at himself, the sounds of his rage carrying through the halls.

And who better for an angry black man to run into than an even angrier, compact-size manboy at a time like this? Nobody! Which is why Asa happens to chance across the Illustrious Face-Eater in all of his Face-Eating glory.

Now, the Face-Eater is fresh from incarceration in Barcelona, where of course he stabbed three Mexicans or whatever they are in that damn Spanish speaking country, and as a result has three tear drop tattoos under his left-eye.

Of course he's thugging. Of course he's hardcore. He's the Illustrious Face-Eater, and he just spent hard-time in a prison filled with people darker than he is. Granted, it wasn't long as a certain ginger asshole fucking movie-star, but he's still earned his Prison Stripes.

So who better to be able to sympathize with Facey's crazy-white-dude-prison-rage than a pissed-off Fro?

At the sight of Asa, Facey kind of gets nervous. Its because he automatically envies people of darker descent because of their black skin, which obviously makes them cooler than him. Damn them and their impeccable rapping skills and extra muscles!

Facey forces Asa to stop in his tracks, and looks up to the larger man's frame with a look on his face that reads "dumbfounded." Asa looks down on the tinier Facey, wondering what the crazy-motha fucka could want.

Asa Fountain: What the hell you lookin' at?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I, uh, I mean, keep it trill, yo.

Asa cocks his head to the IFE, confused at his ill attempts to speak "ghetto." He tips his aviators onto his forehead, revealing his squinting brown eyes.

Asa Fountain: Cat daddy, I'm in a real bad mood. If you want somethin', you'd best be speakin' some kinda english, ya dig?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Oh, word, bro! I speak ANGlish! AINT NO THANG! Dude, what's your name? What's your favorite Tupac album? Do you wear Michael Jordans? By the way, what is your position on blood diamonds?

Asa rubs his temples, confused, annoyed, and tired. He exhales, then looks back to Face-Eater.

Asa Fountain: What?

Facey can tell his natural non-blackness is too uncool for someone as jive as Asa Fountain, so he quickly attempts to salvage the situation by reciting his favorite Dr. Dre song.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: BANG BANG, CHICKA, BANG BANG!

Asa Fountain: What, you rappin' at me now? Brotha, I don't listen that shit. You know any Earth, Wind and Fire? George Clinton? Curtis Mayfield?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I know Keith Sweat... and K-Ci & Jo Jo!

He sees Asa shake his head in shame.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: ...and... AND ROGER TROUTMAN!

Asa's ears perk up a little.

Asa Fountain: Troutman huh? That's gettin' a little better, my man!

Facey blushes. A black man's approval? He can finally die happy! Asa begins to push past, chalking the last moment to a particular weirdness he didn't want to recall ever again.

That is, until the desperate Face-Eater, pathetic in his attempts to start a friendship by way of an internal Affirmative Action mechanism, calls out to him.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Heeeeey, you, uh.... you get down?

Asa stops in his tracks. He turns back to Facey, standing there like a puppy awaiting his master's approval. Asa looks back down the hallway, then takes a few steps towards the IFE.

Asa Fountain: Do I "get down?"

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Oh, sorry. How do you say.... Um, do you like to "TWERK DAT HUMBOLDT"?

Asa can't help but let out a hearty chuckle.

Asa Fountain: You askin' me if I like to hop on the dance floor with Mary?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Who the fuck is Mary and why the fuck is she danciiiiiiOOOOOOH! OH! I mean, uh, yeah. That's EXACTLY what I meant.

Asa laughs again, then drapes an arm over the Illustrious-One's shoulder.

Asa Fountain: Let me tell ya somethin' 'bout me, my man. I'm tired, my head's hurtin', and I'm black. But most of all, I grew up in the 70's. So to answer ya question... yeah. I "get down." I "twerk dat humbolt."

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Great! Let's biggety bounce to my ride, fool, yo!

The two begin strolling down the hallway, both with smiles on their faces in lieu of such a pleasant and unexpected bonding. Facey turns up to mention to Asa...

The Illustrious Face-Eater: So, Church's Chicken is damn good!

Asa's smile fades. He stops the two of them in mid stride.

Asa Fountain: What the hell did you just say, jive turkey?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Um... your teeth are really white, nephew. I mean whizzite. Your teeth are whizzite.

Asa smiles again.

Asa Fountain: Oh. Well thanks my brotha!

The two carry on down the hall, taking a door to the parking lot where Mary is sure to meet them.

The lights flicker and then the stadium is completely dark. The spotlights filter downward, blanketing the arena in a sea of red. A howling wind is heard emanating from the sound system as the Wal*Tron lights up. A voice is heard whispering the words now visible on the screen.

Some of you know me and some of you don’t…

All the questions will be answered…

ONE LAST TIME!

The voice screams the last line and the Tron flashes to multiple images of arena’s for past PRIME events. Some of the greatest matches are shown as Saliva’s "Ladies and Gentlemen" rips through the speakers.

No this is not a Wrestlemania commercial, those damn song stealers.

As the screen flashes to scenes from the matches quickly, they become so quick that they blend into one another before the screen finally turns to black. New words show up on the screen in white.

Welcome to the show…

It begins again…

ReVolution 120.

The lights return to normal as the music stops suddenly. The fans are looking on in bewilderment.

Richard: What the hell was that?

Nick: Wasn’t on my schedule. I haven’t the foggiest.

Nick Stuart: This next contest…Is going to be out of this world insane.

Richard Parker: They are going to beat the holy fuck out of each other. They both are masters of no selling, they both are brawlers, they both can fly through the air, and they are both waste management aficionados…And we get to watch all of the chaos unfold.

Nick Stuart: Garbage Bag Johnny came up just short in terms of winning the Intense Championship last week against Sonny Silver.

Richard Parker: THE CHAIRMAN OF PR-

Nick stuffs a sock in Richard’s mouth.

Nick Stuart: And Trashcan Man has had an interesting time with K-Wolf for a while now.

Richard Parker: Maybe he’ll try to set Garbage Bag Johnny on fire.

Nick Stuart: That would be a sick sight. We would also like to apologize to our fans that this match might not be of top tier quality.

Richard Parker: The hell is you talking about?

Nick Stuart: Chris’s word processor was acting like a douche and it eliminated the match he had without him being able to save it, and he had to re-write most of it today.

Richard Parker: Who is Chris?

Nick Stuart: The guy writing this match.

Richard Parker: This is being written?

Nick Stuart: Yes, and it’s going to appear on the Internet.

Richard Parker: Dude, the Internet doesn’t exist. It’s all a big scam invented by Al Gore. You know he also helped fake the moon landing don’t you?

Nick Stuart: You are out of your damn mind.

Richard Parker: Just like he faked global warming in that movie of his.

Nick Stuart: You don’t believe global warming is real?

Richard Parker: You ever seen it happening in front of your face? Uh huh, that’s what I thought, shut up.

Trashcan Man is making his way down one of the corridors with a trashcan in his hand, ready for his match with Garbage Bag Johnny. Trashy makes his way near the gorilla position where stagehands are moving about as the show is in full swing right now. Unbeknownst to Trashy, standing behind him is Garbage Bag Johnny himself eating a sandwich in his left hand and carry a steel chair in the right. The drunk on rum bum…What? Tell Pete to start paying me and then I’ll get creative. Anyway, GBJ drops the steel chair in favor of the sandwich, which gets the attention of Trashcan Man who turns around and smacks GBJ in the head with his trusty trashcan.

…

GBJ takes another bite out of his sandwich and acts as if nothing happened.

GBJ: All you had to do was ask if you wanted some, but since you hit me in the head with the can…Ten bucks a centimeter.

Dean Malenko’s DID counterpart, the Man of a Thousand Personalities, proceeds to kick GBJ in his mini-trashcans and then slams him shoulder first into the nearby wall. Trashcan Man then delivers in a stiff right hand to the side of the head, sending him slumping even more. Trashy brings GBJ back up, pops him another time in the face, but GBJ does his best Undertaker impression and just stares at Trashy before delivering a head butt right to his nose, and then delivering a kick straight to the forehead of Trashcan Man, which causes him to stare at GBJ before giving him an extremely stiff lariat that sends GBJ back into the wall. Trashy kicks GBJ in the gut, grabs him by the hair, starts running, lifts GBJ up, and slams him back horizontally and back first into the wall.

Richard Parker: I give this match about ten to fifteen minutes before one of them runs the other over with a car.

GBJ seems to be only slightly stunned, making it back up to his feet almost as quickly as Trashcan Man did. GBJ opens up the always nearby broom closet, pulls out a mop, and once Trashcan Man turns around, he gets the handle of the mop broken over the top of his head. GBJ sees a slight window of opportunity, rushes forward at Trashcan Man and delivers a knee strike to the face, sending Trashy stumbling backwards. GBJ marches forward as the competitors stay in the area of the main hallway. GBJ reaches behind him, grabs the primary camera that is shooting the match, and throws it at Trashcan Man, who catches it, and just as he is about to throw it at GBJ, GBJ delivers a dropkick to the legs of Trashcan Man, sending Trashy down and sending his head into the camera. To add even more injury to the move, GBJ rushes over, jumps up as high as he can, and drops a leg across the back of Trashcan Man’s neck.

Nick Stuart: The one thing that Garbage Bag Johnny has going against him in a match like this is that if he hits a really big move to the head, there is a possibility that Trashcan Man could switch personalities, and go completely psychotic on his ass.

Richard Parker: True, but GBJ himself is a paranoid bastard so he could go ape bananas on Trashy.

Nick Stuart: You might not want to mention food during one of Garbage Bag’s matches, lord know he probably hasn’t eaten much the past couple of years.

GBJ pulls Trashcan Man up to his feet, kicks him in the midsection, puts Trash’s head in his right arm, and attempts to lift upward in a suplex, but Trashy backs out, and lays in a hard open hand chop right into the face of GBJ, sending him stumbling backwards, Trashy charges forward and delivers a Yakuza kick to GBJ’s face, sending him off his feet and slamming him into the wall. GBJ slumps down to the ground. Trashy goes over to the camera, makes sure that it is still working, walks over to GBJ, puts GBJ’s hands up, puts the camera into GBJ’s hands, and then Trashy makes sure that the camera is facing him. Trashy then runs about twenty feet backwards, charges forward, running full speed, and then proceeds to jump high into the air, and deliver a hesitation dropkick to the camera, which goes into GBJ’s face, causing him now to be in la-la land.

Nick Stuart: That’s going to be at least 50 grand out of Trashcan Man’s pocket right there.

Richard Parker: You could call that move ‘The World’s Most Expensive Dropkick’

GBJ is now busted open on the forehead, nose, and mouth. Trashy delivers another harsh kick to the face of GBJ, causing blood to fly out of his mouth. Trashy then brings GBJ up, bends his head down, drops an elbow to the neck, and then delivers another knee right to GBJ’s face. GBJ, in a burst of paranoia perhaps shoves Trashcan Man away, rushes forward, Trashcan Man charges at GBJ at the same time, GBJ uses one of Trashcan Man’s knees, once it is bent, to rise up, and deliver a Shining Wizard that sends Trashy back into another wall. GBJ then charges forward, Trashy stumbles forward, GBJ then slams Trashy into the wall, which causes Trashy to stumble. The referee is trying to get this back in the ring but there is no real shot to do that. GBJ hops up on a nearby water fountain behind Trashcan Man, and attempts a jumping bulldog, only for Trashy to grab his legs, run toward a ladder, and swing GBJ at the ladder.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

What part of his body connects with the ladder is not pretty. GBJ is now down beside the ladder, curled up in pain. The technician that was working on the lights is now climbing down the ladder to get away from the action. Trashy grabs GBJ up by the hair, elbows him in the head, headbutts him in the back of the head, pulls GBJ’s head back, elbows him in the forehead, then in the nose, then in the mouth, then finally in the throat, before lifting GBJ up into his arms, and tying his legs up in-between the rungs of the ladder. Trashy goes and grabs his trashcan about fifteen feet away, and places it on the throat of GBJ, who is trying to stop the blood from rushing to his head. Trashy goes around to the other side of the ladder and starts to climb up.

Nick Stuart: Garbage Bag Johnny is upside down in the ladder and Trashcan Man is going up to the ladder. A trashcan is on GBJ’s throat, what in the hell is Trashcan Man gonna do?

Trashcan Man is now sitting on top of the ladder looking down at his victim. Trashy takes flight, sticks out his right elbow, and before GBJ can get the trashcan off of him, the elbow crashes into the trashcan, which crunches up. Trashcan Man slams into the ground and is holding his hip in pain. GBJ inadvertently is untied from the ladder, and now out like he probably would normally be at this time of day. Trashy reaches down, grabs GBJ by his hair with his left arm, and begins to drag him out toward the parking lot apparently. GBJ meanwhile is able to grab a box of assorted items and drag them with him. GBJ looks in the bag and finds a TiVo remote. GBJ hits the big yellow button and all of a sudden everything stops. GBJ then releases himself from the grip of Trashcan Man, grabs a nearby chair, and slams it into his head. GBJ then hits the big yellow button on the TiVo remote again. Trashcan Man stumbles around like a drunk.

Richard Parker: Now that’s innovation.

GBJ grabs Trashcan Man, lifts him over the left shoulder, and starts jogging toward the bathroom. After a couple of seconds, GBJ kicks open the bathroom door, drops Trashcan Man, and delivers a hip toss into the stall, GBJ goes into the stall, grabs Trashcan Man by the hair, drops to his knees, and proceeds to give Trashcan Man a swirly.

Nick Stuart: Is this even a match?

GBJ lifts Trashcan Man’s head out of the toilet, slams his head into the side of the stall, and then attempts to repeat the swirly, but Trashcan Man is fighting it off, and elbows GBJ in the midsection, Trashy fights his way up to a vertical base, grabs GBJ by the head, and-

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Richard Parker: DDT INTO THE TOILET!

Nick Stuart: Never thought you’d say that would you?

Richard Parker: No sir I did not.

Trashcan Man yanks GBJ’s head out of the toilet, grabs him by the hair, and then gives him a hard whip into the door, which opens, and they are once again in the main hallway. Trashcan Man comes out into the hall, only to be met with a dropkick to the mouth from GBJ, sending Trashcan Man stumbling back to the door. GBJ comes forward, kicks Trashcan Man in the midsection, puts both of his arms behind the back, lifts Trashcan Man upward, and drops backwards with a double under hook pulling Piledriver. Garbage Bag Johnny slowly gets up to his feet, backs up about six feet, runs forward, flips in the air, and brings all his weight down on Trashy.

Nick Stuart: Need I remind you folks that this is not in a wrestling ring, this is on concrete and they are going to be feeling this in the morning.

GBJ brings Trashy up to a vertical base, spins Trashy around, hooks both of the arms under Trashy’s and behind his head, GBJ lifts Trashy up and connects with the Snap Dragon suplex. GBJ with the cover!

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

Trashcan Man somehow is able to kick out of that. GBJ seems undeterred, going over to the broom closet, opening it up, and pulling out the ‘Box of Sharp Objects’. GBJ looks inside, seems content with what is there, and before he can look down at Trashcan Man, Trashy has already kicked out GBJ’s legs, and the ‘Box of Sharp Objects’ comes tumbling down on his face. Trashy dives on top for the cover!

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

Garbage Bag Johnny somehow finds the ability to kick out. Trashy brings GBJ up to a vertical base, gives him an elbow to the top of the head, locks Johnny’s arms in a full nelson position, lifts him up and drops him down hard with a Full Nelson Slam. Again, GBJ is curled up in pain considering his junk took a big hit. Trashy brings the dazed GBJ up to a vertical base, clubs him in the back, GBJ rears his foot back and connects with a low blow, puts TCM’s head under his arm, lifts upward, holds Trashy there for a second, and drops him straight down in a brainbuster DDT.

Nick Stuart: Good Lord! How in the hell can be conscious after that.

Richard Parker: He might not be! COVER!

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

Trashcan Man, now working with about five concussions, kicks out. GBJ however doesn’t seem to mind, as he gets up and lays a hard kick to Trashcan Man’s head before lifting him up to a standing position. GBJ then lifts Trashcan Man up into a Fireman’s carry position, prompting Trashy to fight vehemently to get out, which he does, slide down the back, turn GBJ around, and delivers a Compactor Roaring Elbow that sends GBJ stumbling back near the sharp objects that lay on the ground. Trashy claps his hands and instantly a steel chair appears from the ceiling, Trashy throws it at GBJ, who cannot catch it in time, and takes the shot to the face. Trashcan Man goes into the broom closet, pulls out another trashcan, drops it, goes up to GBJ, delivers a bionic elbow, spins GBJ around, hooks him by the waist, and then throws him backwards in a release German suplex that has GBJ land upside down in the trashcan, which promptly falls over to a horizontal position.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Trashy then gets near the trashcan, turns his back to it, flips backwards, and connects with a moonsault atop the fallen trashcan, Trashy on top of GBJ for the cover.

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

Garbage Bag Johnny somehow manages to kick out while in a trashcan. Trashy brings GBJ back up to a vertical base, knees him in the midsection, and walks with him over to the Exit door. Trashy then slams GBJ’s head into the door, causing it to open, and both wrestlers to go out into the parking lot. GBJ manages to deliver a punch to the ribs, a right hand to the face, and then out of no where lands ‘The Garbage Disposal’ on Trashy, knocking him loopy. GBJ with the cover!

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

Trashy manages to kick out again which causes GBJ to scratch his head in a contemplative fashion before shrugging his shoulders. GBJ grabs Trashy off the ground, drags him over to the garbage dumpsters, and attempts to lift him up into the dumpster, Trashy manages to counter by kneeing GBJ in the face, hooking both of his arms behind his back, and then jumping backwards for a double underhook facebuster, Trashy gets to his knees and slowly crawls away from where GBJ is, and jumps onto the back of an 18 wheeler, Trashy jumps upward, grabs hold of the top, and manages to pull himself up to the top of the 18 wheeler. Trashy then turns around to jump, when much to his surprise, he does not find a prone GBJ laying there, instead when he turns around, he gets a right hand to the face from GBJ who climbed up the front of the eighteen wheeler. Trashy and GBJ both deliver right hands at the same time, causing both to stumble back, GBJ makes the move forward, kicks Trashy below the belt, bends down, lifts him up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, GBJ then looks over the left side of the 18 wheeler down into the dumpster before jumping off and delivering a Tragically Hipbuster down into the dumpster.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

"PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT! PRIME THAT SHIT!"

The referee has no choice but to jump up and look down into the dumpster. COVER BY GBJ!

"ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

"TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…GARBAGE BAG JOHNNY!

To say that Devin Shakur was having an off night would be one hell of an understatement. His attempt to express his feelings toward Sun Tzu had backfired, and now he had to find and beat the shit out of Angelo Deville. Not to mention the fact that Captain Suleimon had made it on his list of people to whoop. The only thing that could make the night worse would be if Pierce Lavelle brought his Russian woman looking ass into the equation.

Devin, now moving quickly through corridors, is hoping to find either of the aforementioned individuals, more particularly Deville. He makes a sharp turn out into the main corridor area only to be stopped by that familiar cane coming across his midsection from one Malachi.

Devin Shakur: If you really are a God, why do you pick now to interrupt me?

Malachi just simply smirks.

Malachi: Haven’t you ever heard of divine intervention?

Devin Shakur: That only happened in Pulp Fiction, and I don’t think I need to be stopped from doing what I want to do right now.

Malachi: Trust me, you do. The path you’re heading down is rather dark.

Devin Shakur: Deville can’t beat me in a fight, wrestling match maybe but not a fight. Suleimon probably doesn’t have the mental ability to throw a punch if he fought when the opponent was facing him

Malachi shakes his head as he looks at Shakur. He then changes his position, making sure he doesn’t put any pressure on his bad knee.

Malachi: You don’t understand. You spoke to me about how you loved the idea of protection, but it’s so clear that you also need guidance. Guidance that I can offer you. You’re like a bull. You might get them every now and then, but most of the time, they’ll tease you until they get you right where they want you.

Shakur: You don't think I'm capable of mind games?

Malachi: Your mind games consist of beating the hell out of Deville and Suleimon?

Shakur: They aren't worthy of my mind games, just encounters of the plenty with my fists. Do you have a point in all of this?

Malachi nods his head as he places his cane down on the ground and taps it for a moment. Then, he stops and looks right into Shakur’s eyes.

Malachi: Of course I do. There’s always a reason behind God’s madness. It’s to help you. I’m trying to help you from going down a path that you’ll only end up regretting when it’s all said and done. That’s why I came to you last week. This is why I’m coming to you this week.

Shakur: I doubt I'm going to regret beating someone up. I've already proven Suleimon's greatest wrestler in the world ain't shit, and I think I got a pretty good shot at Deville and his boys considering they are all focused on trying to Chainz Chet Worth

[PRIME Dictionary page 4: Term (Chainz)- See rape or fuck in the regular dictionary]

Malachi: Enough. You’re losing sight. You’re losing sight of the great picture. If you can’t see it, then I’m wasting my time.

Shakur: I'm goal oriented kid. Your goals and my goals as of right now don't align on the same page. Shit they probably aren't even in the same book. My goal is to deliver an asswhooping to somebody before this night concludes, and your goal is to build a regime to try and destroy Chainz.

Malachi: Kid? I’m your God whether you like it Devin Shakur. Your goal should be greater then delivering an asswhooping to somebody before the night is over. Your goal should be hurting somebody so bad, so emotionally, and scarring them psychologically that they kneel before you anytime they hear your name. My goal is to put people back on their path. That’s what I’m trying to help you with. Chainz just happens to be somebody in my way.

Shakur: You are my God whether I like it or not? Don't even get me fucking started on that. If you want to practice what you preach, why not go magically heal Paul Cain back to health so the two of you can deal with the problem that stands in your way. My way of getting people to kneel before me whenever they hear my name is through physical torture and that is what I intend to do. If I fail tonight, then that is what should be considered divine intervention.

Malachi just breathes for a second, noticing that Shakur is getting more intense by the second. However, he never removes his eyes from Shakur, wanting him to know how serious he is right now.

Malachi: You’re loosing your cool. You’ve got a long way to come, Devin. If you let me help you, then I will show you things you could only dream of. You need guidance. You need leadership. You’re filled with this rage, this anger that isn’t healthy for you. You’re loosing sight of your true mission in life. You’re losing your purpose.

Shakur stares over at Malachi and starts chuckling in laughter before closing the gap between the two of them.

Shakur: You have no fucking idea what my purpose is, son. I'm not a healthy person, I never have been, that was established from the moment I entered this world. I know rage, I know motivation, I know leadership, and I know how to turn that into success. They will drive me to the next level and they will allow me to complete my mission. Now if you'll kindly part from my path, I must go and do my work.

Malachi: So be it. Just remember, have faith.

Shakur tries to refrain from laughing as he walks past Malachi who just watches him walk away.

Malachi: So much potential. So little focus. So much work to do in such a short time. I’ve got much to do before I get through to him.

Then, the scene fades out.

Garbage Bag Johnny understands the delight of the foreign delicacy. He also understands that worldwide wrestling tours provide the perfect outlet to take advantage of foreign delicacies. That is why, this week in Calcutta, he's enjoying a nice stick with a bunch of soggy beef wrapped around it that looks like whole garlic cloves decorate it. In some parts, the beef looks particularly red and in need of an extra minute or two in whatever cooking device was used to create this dish.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Mmmmhmmmmm, that's good Iskender Kebab!

It just so happens that Danny Ferguson happens to be walking by the Bag-Man, who just happened to have a match with another roster member with a name having to do with Trash, who just so happens to be in every single segment on this fucking show.

Danny, of course, is a little upset. His return to PRIME has been a less than stellar experience, thus far, and finding formidable allies in his war against the talentless hacks of PRIME is more difficult than he imagined.

Coming across the Zero 2 Hero Hero with the weirdest looking dish he'd ever laid eyes upon, Danny figures his search is about to become even more hopeless.

Danny Ferguson: Tell me that isn't yogurt on that weird looking stick-meal. TELL ME THAT ISN'T YOGURT.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Nope! Yogurt always weirded me out. This is all whipped butter.

He takes a deep bite of lambchop goodness. Danny gags a bit.

Danny Ferguson: Euuuuchhhh. I may regret this, actually, I already am regretting this, but I'm going to cut the crap. How'd you like to be on my team, Kid?

Garbage Bag Johnny: If you're looking for a left handed middle reliever with a wicked curveball and a change up that makes babies cry, you've come to the right man.

Danny Ferguson: That's right. Team Ferguson. We provide benefits, including dental. Private jet transportation to each city we visit. And free Lamb Skin Condoms as far as the eye can see, thanks to my contract with Kolkata Love Gloves brand condoms. But I don't think that's exactly one of the finer selling-points on t his deal--

Garbage Bag Johnny: Private dental condoms, you say? Hmmmm, I think I'm going to turn you down, mister. I'm already signed with the Sect of Black Wisdom. They have a much better benefits package including an unlimited supply of free robes and use of Jack's Sam's Club card. I'll finally be able to buy hog maws by the barrel. Thanks for the offer, though!

Danny Ferguson: Ah, I see you've already sipped the purple Kool-Aid a bit too much. Well, if you change your mind, just find Chet Worth and kick him in the balls three times.

Both men are taken out of the moment for further down the hall runs an excited Illustrious Face-Eater.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: YES! YES! MY LIFE IS COMPLETE!

He skips down whimsically, until he arrives in front of a very eager-to-listen GBJ and a very I-want-to-stab-your-fucking-heart-with-the-bone-saber-of-prosperity Danny Ferguson.

Garbage Bag Johnny: What?! What happened?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I FINALLY DID IT! IT FINALLY HAPPENED!

Danny Ferguson: You've finally got the gender-issue with the court system cleared up?

Garbage Bag Johnny: You pooped on your own chest?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: NO, FOOL. I SMOKED WITH A BLACK MAN! AND IT WAS GLORIOUS!

Garbage Bag Johnny: A real black man? During real black history month? No way!

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I DID, and HE BLEW SMOKE RINGS!

Garbage Bag Johnny: Wow, just like in the movies! You're so lucky.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: I know!

Facey then calms himself down, staring Ferguson directly in the eyes with a look of disdain on his face.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: TRYING TO GO BEHIND MY BACK?! GET MY FRIENDS TO SNEAK ATTACK ME, HUH?

Danny Ferguson: Actually, I was just--

The Illustrious Face-Eater: WON'T FUCKING WORK, FERGIE OF THE COOL B.E.P., BECAUSE MY HOMIES GOTS LOYALTIEZ, WORD IS BOND, BITCH.

It is as the Face-Eater screams at him, pointing vigorously, with saliva protruding from his mouth with each syllable, that Ferguson realizes the most pivotal person in turning the battle against the Fuck Heads on its heels...

...is the Illustrious Face-Eater.

It makes a tear fall from his cheek (do you dare doubt his acting skills?), coming to this realization, and he sulks down the hallway.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?!

Danny Ferguson: You are the Courtney Love to my Kurt Cobain. Does that make sense to you?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: ....are you saying these jeans make me look fat?

Danny disappears around the corner, Facey shrugs to himself before turning back to his friend.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: That guy is such a tool-bag. Did you know he tried to kill me?

Garbage Bag Johnny: No, but speaking of tool bags, I'm going on this really cool trip with this Sect of Black Wisdom I just joined. We're going out to the desert, I'm going to do some psychotropic drugs, and Jack's going to trepanate my skull with a power drill.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: If I had any idea about what you were talking about, I'd pretend I didn't anyways and tell you to go fuck yourself! Because, now, I MUST DEPART! Maybe theres another black dude here who likes to smoke. Devin Shakur? That sounds like a black dude's name. Maybe I'll go find him.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Before you go, let's stare in awe at this killer portrait I drew of a black dude in honor of Black History Month.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Sure, why not.

Garbage Bag pulls a portrait of funk legend George Clinton out of his robe and places it on an easel that he also has pulled out of his robe and unfolded. There is a lengthy pause as the two stare.

Garbage Bag Johnny: And time.

Facey and GBJ depart on their separate ways, GBJ packing the portrait and easel back robeside and finishing his whipped butter drenched beef kebab. It is as he takes the last bite that he looks back towards the Illustrious Face-Eater, confusion written on his face. GBJ reaches in his billfold for a photograph taken from one of those photo booths.

Garbage Bag Johnny: That's odd! I don't remember smoking weed with Adam and a black man back in AWC, but this photo booth picture proves that we did!

The camera focuses in on the picture which features GBJ and Adam Dick crammed into a photo booth with a black man in the first shot. In the second, the three of them are in the same position holding a bong. The third shot is obscured by heavy pot smoke, and the fourth features Adam and GBJ blazed out of their minds and nearly asleep while the black guy gives two thumbs up.

Then Johnny runs across another Kebab stand in the arena.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Oooh! Falooda! I love me some Falooda!

Meanwhile.....

So the Illustrious Face-Eater is running away from his friend, in search of more black people to exploit so he can be cool by association, once again. He walks past a darkened hallway, where a mysterious figure lurks in the shadows.

The mysterious figure watches the Face-Eater pass by, and just as he does, calls out to him.

The Mysterious Figure: Hey.

Facey stops, turning back to the dark hallways. He looks at the Mysterious Figure, unable to see his face.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WANTING FROM ME?!

The Mysterious Figure: Do you like to smoke weed?

The Illustrious Face-Eater: ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID!?! OF COURSE I LOVE SMOKING WEED!

The Mysterious Figure: Want to smoke some awesome shit? I got the Bomb Bomb B.G. Banging.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: BOMB BOMB B.G. BANGING?! THAT'S, LIKE, THE BEST WEED EVER!

The Mysterious Figure: Well, come with me, and I'll GIVE you some.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: You'll GIVE it to me?! And I don't even have to steal it! Alright, my kind of deal!

The Mysterious Figure steps out of the shadows, a devious smile on his face, as his frame encloses on the Face-Eater.

The Mysterious Figure: Come with me, NOW.

The Illustrious Face-Eater: Wait a second! YOU AREN'T BLACK! YOU WERE JUST COVERED IN SHADOWS! TRICKERY!

But it's too late. The Mysterious Figure quickly strikes Face-Eater over the head with a golden, oblong object. The weight of the object is obviously heavy enough to ground the small Face-Eater to the ground with little difficulty.

The Mysterious Figure grips the unconscious Facey by his ankles, and pulls him down the darkened hallway, disappearing within the shadows.

The Mysterious Figure: ...last time you drag my name through the mud...

Gasping heavily from his match with the Dirtiest Dude in PRIME, the Trashcan Man is sitting in the common locker room, his head leaned back and his eyes closed as he pours a bottle of water over his sweaty, bloody, and bruised face.

With a light groan, he blindly reaches over and pulls a towel off the bench next to him before wiping at his face, not so much removing the grime accumulated on his face as he rearranges it. Oblivious to the footsteps approaching him, he takes another bottle of water, spinning off the cap before taking a long, refreshing swig.

The clearing of a throat finally opens the hardcore legend's eyes as he gazes up at the Negasonic Lupine staring down at him in fury.

Karina Wolfenden: Evenin’, fellas.

She’s smiling just a little. Never a good thing.

Karina Wolfenden: I’m guessing word has travelled through the grapevine that Chet’s ordered me to not be all kill you-y, so how about whichever one of you was hitting the others last week starts again, huh? Oooooor, I can swipe some scissors from Blaine’s office, and one of you can run with them. Sound good?

Completely no selling Karina's words, the Trashcan Man rises to his feet and glances around. The locker room, apparently not wanting to be involved in what could turn out to be a nasty brawl had cleared out, leaving the two alone.

Trashcan Man: Listen, Karina... we've been needing to talk to you.

His grim expression is replaced by a confident smile as Jumpin' Jack Flash enters the fray.

Jumpin' Jack Flash: Would you like to go out dancing tomorrow night?

An exasperated sigh later, the Trashcan Man has retaken control.

Trashcan Man: No time for your nonsense, Jack. We've got to tell her the plan.

His eyes open wide as his mouth spreads into a familiar manic grin. A high pitched cackle escapes as Mr Smiley Face comes forward.

Mr Smiley Face: You're going to be... OUR HERO!

He clasps his hands in front of his chest and flutters his eyelashes at Karina, who takes a step back in confusion. Smiley's manic grin fades back into Jack's confident smile.

Jumpin' Jack Flash: Maybe you can wear a Supergirl outfit? The half top and the mini skirt... Growwwwl.

Karina Wolfenden: Make one more animal noise in my direction, ever, and I will bite something off your face.

Jack fades away as the Trashcan Man once again takes control.

Trashcan Man: Sorry Karina, I don't like inflicting Jack on you, but this is the only way we can keep Lazarus from listening in.

Back to the crazy smile.

Mr Smiley Face: If we keep flipping the channels, he can't catch us watching late night Cinemax softcore porn.

The confident grin.

Jumpin' Jack Flash: After all this is done, since you already dress like a fetish-hooker, we could go make our ow-

The grin is quickly replaced by the grim countenance of the Trashcan Man.

Trashcan Man: Please, trust us. We don't want to hurt you... and we definitely don't want Lazarus to hurt you. You're our best shot...

The wild manic smile again.

Mr Smiley Face: Help us Obi-Wan, you're our only hope!

Looking up at the heavens, in the form of a generic ceiling, the K-Wolf can’t believe she’s going along with the personas.

Karina Wolfenden: One thing. So long as whatever plan you have involves me being fully clothed and treating someone’s balls as a rather unfortunate stress-ball, I’m in. But once ’the exorcism’ is done, you assume there’s a restraining order slapped on you, by me, enforceable by castration. .

Tag to Jumpin’ Jack Flash, gulping as he looks down at his package. Back to the Trashcan Man.

Trashcan Man: He’ll obey. Now, here's the plan...

Vince Howard: The following match is for one fall, and it is for the PRIME Alias Championship!

The crowd roars it's approval the lights suddenly drop out, casting the arena into total darkness, broken only by a series of flashbulbs as fans try to catch a brief glimpse of whoever was going to come out first. "Map of the Problematique" by Muse blasts out over the speakers, it's driving beat accompanied by an explosion of pyro. The lights come up and the crowd gives a good sized pop to the man standing on the ramp with his head hung low.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, the challenger from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania... Weighing in at 235 pounds... he is PIERCE LAVELLE!!!

Lavelle slowly raises his head, a cocky smile lining his face as he starts to walk down the ramp.

Nick: And here comes one of our newest members of our roster looking for his first taste of gold in PRIME!

Richard: I'm getting sick of all these AWC rejects getting title shots.

Nick: Pierce Lavelle is an incredibly hot talent, and he's picked up some serious wins over the returning Trashcan Man and the Illustrious Face Eater.

Richard: Great, he beat up a has been sanitation engineer and a pot smoking jackass that was raised from the dead... but you know... not.

Lavelle rolls into the ring and climbs up on a turnbuckle, arms thrown wide as he soaks in the approval from the crowd.

Vince Howard: And his opponent...

"Faint" by Linkin Park blasts out over the arena as the crowd's approval suddenly turns to a nasty chorus of boos, all cast at the man who has stepped out onto the entrance ramp.

Vince Howard: From Bogata, Columbia, weighing in at 223 pounds... he is Infamous... he is Prince of Delusion... he is the Ariel Diva...

Nick: Diva?

Richard: Look at that mesh shirt... it's got kind of a Diva cast to it.

Vince Howard: He is the Alias Champion... VANGELUS OLSIG!!!

The Alias Championship belt thrown over his shoulder, Vangelus Olsig begins his walk down the ramp. Serenely ignoring the hate-filled howls of the fans lining the aisle, he strides regally to the ring, rolling in and coming to his feet, belt held high over his head.

Nick: Love him or hate him, you have to admit Vangelus Olsig has just come off a strong victory, winning that title in a hard fought match against Adam last week. And Chet Worth is not letting him have much time at all to enjoy his victory, having him defend against a tough competitor like Pierce Lavelle.

Richard: What, you think Olsig's gonna have a problem with this AWC pretty boy? C'mon, he held onto the Intense championship for what... a year or so? I'm predicting he'll hold on to the Alias title for at least as long.

Nick: Well, we'll see. It looks like the ref is about ready to start the action.

And indeed, the ref, after taking the belt from Vangelus and showing it to Lavelle, hands it off to the timekeeper and calls for the bell.

Nick: And here we go!

Both men start to stalk each other around the ring, circling as they attempt to feel each other out. Lavelle makes like he's going to shoot for a leg, but backs off as he sees Olsig plant the targeted limb and pull back his other leg for a possible knee strike. Olsig then rolls quickly to his left, trying to get to Lavelle's flank, but comes out of the roll to one knee to see Lavelle still facing him, arms outstretched, ready to counter any attempt at a grapple.

Nick: Both men showing each other some considerable respect, each not wanting to make the first mistake.

Finally they collide in a collar and elbow tie up, both men straining at each other. Lavelle starts to slowly push Olsig back, using his slight size advantage, but the Alias Champion suddenly shoots behind him in a rear waistlock. He tries to bring Lavelle down to the mat but the challenger hooks a foot behind Olsig's ankle, blocking the attempt. Standing switch, and suddenlty Lavelle has reversed their position. Olsig swings an elbow, striking Lavelle once, twice, and three times in the jaw, forcing the challenger to release the hold. Olsig takes advantage, slinging Lavelle into the ropes before sending him flying over his head on the rebound with a Japanese Arm Drag. He rises to his feet and wastes no time, turning his back to his opponent before leaping backwards into a picture perfect standing moonsault. He hooks a leg..

ONE!

TWO!

And Lavelle kicks out to the delight of the crowd.

Nick: Olsig's going for the quick win here, Richard.

Richard: That's why he's a champion, and Lavelle's federation crumbled.

Nick: What's with the AWC hate tonight?

Richard: Company loyalty, baby! Mr Silver signs my checks, and I bad mouth the competition!

Nick: He's not... never mind.

Olsig picks Lavelle up by his hair, slapping him on the back of the head when the challenger doesn't move fast enough for him.

Nick: Well, there goes that respect I was talking about earlier.

And this apparently is enough to fire Lavelle up as he drives a forearm into Olsig's abdomen, bending him over. He slams a couple of right hands into Olsig's jaw before slinging him into a corner. He charges at the champion, leaping into the air and connecting with a flying leg lariat, slamming Olsig's back into the turnbuckle before he stumbles forward, down onto one knee. Lavelle springs back to his feet behind the kneeling champion and somersaults over him, grabbing his head en route and delivering a sweet flip forward neckbreaker.

Nick: Shades of Mr Perfect there.

Richard: Why are you talking about him? He's deader than Anna Nicole Smith!

Nick: RICHARD!

Richard: What... ok, you're right. It's too soon.

Nick: I'd say so. Mr. Perfect didn't die THAT long ago.

The challenger then stands on the back of Olsig's legs, reaching forward and grabbing his arms before leaning back, bringing Olsig back for a Romero Special.

Nick: That's gotta hurt, it works on both knees AND both shoulders!

The ref checks with Olsig as Lavelle strains to lift him higher, putting more strain on his joints. Olsig shakes his head in denial as he tries to throw his weight left and right, doing what he can to break the hold. Lavelle rolls it back forward, trying to work his way up so he can increase the strain by locking in a full nelson. He tries to slither one arm underneath Olsigs, but when he releases the champion's wrist Olsig retaliates, reaching over his shoulder and digging his thumb into Lavelle's eye.

Richard: And that's why he was the Intense champion for a year, Nick. He can improvise with the best of them!

Nick: Well, with such an awkward position he couldn't get a lot of force behind it, but it was enough for Lavelle to release the hold.

Nick is proven right as the challenger, more startled than injured, falls backward clutching at his face. Olsig rolls forward, somersaulting to his feet. He shoots himself against the ropes and charges at Lavelle, sending them both tumbling over the top rope with a clothesline.

Nick: And the action has spilled to the outside!

Both men slowly rise to their feet after their bruising collision with the concrete outside the ring. Lavelle is the first up as he grabs the champion by the back of the head and slams him face first into the ring apron. Ignoring the ref starting the ten count, he tries for an irish whip, but the champion reverses, slinging Lavelle shoulder first into the steel steps.

Richard: Hah! Send him back to AWC!

Nick: AWC's closed!

Richard: Then to the unemployment line!

The champion rolls Lavelle back into the ring. Instead of following him in the conventional way, the Ariel Diva slingshots himself over the top rope, twisting in midair so he can catch the ropes, again slingshotting him into a high velocity split legged moonsault.

Nick: Ok... that was a pretty move!

The Alias champion hooks a leg and the ref counts...

ONE!

TWO!

THR... NO!

Lavelle kicks out and Olsig leaps to his feet, yelling at the referee.

Richard: That was a slow count! Olsig should be celebrating here, not having to tell the ref how to do his job!

Pushing the ref away in frustration, Olsig turns and picks Lavelle up, kicking him in the gut and putting him into a standing headscissors.

Nick: Looks like Vangelus is looking for the Sacrifice!

It does appear that way as Olsig lifts Lavelle up into the Crucifix Bomb position, doing an arrogant turn around the ring...

Nick: Maybe he shouldn't take so long...

Nick is once again proven right as Lavelle is coming to life, kicking his legs and rocking back and forth. Olsig drops him onto his feet behind him and turns in time to receive a kick in the gut of his own, bending him over in just the right position to take a thunderous DDT from the challenger.

Nick: Both men are down!

The ref starts the ten count...

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Richard: Get up, Olsig!

FOUR!

FIVE!

Olsig starts to stir.

SIX!

Now Lavelle begins to move around as Olsig raises to one knee, trying to shake off the effects of that DDT.

SEVEN!

Lavelle starts to pull himself up by the ropes as Olsig is now all the way to his feet. Ignoring the ref, he begins to kick at the half risen challenger, delivering several boots to his ribcage. He slings Lavelle into the corner and charges after him, leaping up into the air...

And hits the turnbuckle chest first as Lavelle has the wherewithal to sidestep the attempted corner splash. His breath blasted out of his lungs, he staggers back trying to regain his wind. Lavelle, smelling blood, climbs to the top turnbuckle.

Nick: The challenger's going high risk here...

He leaps off into a beautiful missile dropkick...

Which catches the ref squarely in the face as the Prince of Delusions pulls him in front as cover.

Nick: Whoa!

Richard: Dumb ref shouldn't have gotten in the way.

Lavelle, like a good babyface does, checks on the ref, trying to revive him as Olsig, like a good heel, decides to take advantage of the situation.

Nick: What the hell is he doing?

Richard: No ref, no rules Nick.

Olsig seems to be a believer in that particular platitude as he rips his title belt out of the timekeeper's hands and rolls back into the ring. He stands behind Lavelle, his belt clutched firmly in his hands, waiting for Pierce to turn around. Lavelle, oblivious (like all good babyfaces) to the danger behind him, shakes the ref, lightly slapping him, trying his best to wake him up.

Nick: Watch out!

Unfortunately for Lavelle, he apparently can't hear Nick's warnings over the roar of the crowd as he finally straightens up and turns round only to be blasted in the face with the very title he came to win that night.

Fortunately for Lavelle, however, his efforts to awaken the ref were in fact successful. The referee, who had risen to a knee just as Lavelle had turned around saw the whole thing and calls for the bell.

Vince Howard: Winner by disqualification... PIERCE LAVELLE

Vangelus Olsig rolls out of the ring, clutching his belt and pushing past the EMT's rushing past him to tend to the busted open Pierce Lavelle.

Nick: Well, Vangelus Olsig retains his belt in a less than honorable fashion.

Richard: Honorable or not, he's still the champion, and that's all that matters.

Nick: I guess that's all that matters to Olsig right now. We'll be right back.

The last shot before we cut away is Lavelle angrily pushing away the EMT's and rolling out of the ring, holding the guard rail as he makes his way back to the back.

Backstage, somewhat near the gorilla position, Danny Ferguson is foregoing any pre-match rituals in favor of making another desperate pitch for a replacement partner. The unwitting victim of his infomercial is Gabriel Afeaki, now cleaned up from his own match earlier and returning to his usual routine of roaming the less-populated areas of the stadium with his iPod on. He just preferred to be alone right now, so being cornered by Ferguson and his muscle is not what he wants to be doing right now.

Danny Ferguson: This is cash on the table, friend. Cash plus your first title in PRIME - well, I assume it's your first, since I don't know who you are and hopefully this place hasn't gone completely to shit in my absence. Do you know there's a gun-toting Chinese midget with my old belt? Anyway, the point is that you can't BUY the kind of push I'm offering you, and I'm saying I'll pay YOU!

The whole scenario seemed to familiar to GA. He'd been trying to hard to distance himself from AWC, from The Empire, and here comes someone else trying to buy him as a henchman, a second banana. He didn't want to owe anything to anyone in PRIME, much less the punk with the shit-eating grin in front of him.

Apparently, GA's facial expressions weren't getting the job done. He needed to go ahead and say it.

GA: No thanks, man. It just isn't my thing.

Danny Ferguson: Isn't your thing? Cash and titles isn't your thing? What job do you prefer, homelessness? This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, guy - you'll be kicking yourself if you don't take this.

GA: Thing is...I already got this 'once-in-a-lifetime offer' once in my lifetime...and now I'm kicking myself because I did take it. I try not to make the same mistakes.

Danny shrugs off the refusal and readies for one more pitch, but he’s interrupted by a third voice in the conversation.

Tony "The Grin" Gamble: Seems lonely on that side of the fence, huh?

Ferguson whirls to see Gamble leaning against a doorjam, his ‘natural’ smirk enhanced by the kind of mischievous kick-a-man-while-he’s-down grin that have made fans hate him. Danny sneers and tries to respond, but in the brief window of opportunity, GA has replaced his ear buds and shuffles away.

GA: Can’t help you, bro. Sorry.

Danny, torn between the two men for very different reasons, begs off and tries to catch GA as he disappears down a hallway, to no avail.

Danny Ferguson: Whatever you want, man! Money? Power? Respect? Slightly aggressive communist Asian ring rat?...Alright, dude, I’ll call you, ok?! We’ll work out the details!

He spins back towards Gamble, who has moved away from the door and is now right in his face. The change startles Danny, who backs up into his bodyguards, giving Gamble another chance to shoot his trademark expression.

Tony Gamble: I had a cup of coffee with being a good guy after Jewel In The Crown. Not my thing. Doesn’t look like it’s your thing either, superstar.

Danny Ferguson: My business is none of yours, Puck. Move along.

Tony Gamble: Oh, I’ll beg to differ in about...

He checks his wrist, which doesn’t have a watch on it, only tape. It’s just for effect.

Tony Gamble: 10 to 15. You’ve been running around all night trying to buy yourself a friend - you sure you’re going to be warmed up? I don’t want you to hurt yourself out there.

Danny Ferguson: Kicking your face in doesn’t require much stretching. And besides, all of my ‘running around’ has been because I’m trying to hang on to something of value. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Tone?

Gamble’s face sours. Despite what the disfigurement might tell you, he’s not happy. Sensing that he’s made a little wound of his own, Ferguson twists the knife.

Danny Ferguson: I mean, first your belt, then your chick, right? It sounds like you are having trouble keeping your eyes - and your hands - on the prize. What makes you think YOU are ready for our match?

Gamble's brow furrows at the comment, causing his eyes to narrow slightly as he steps one step closer to the witty redhead. Danny's bodyguards take a reluctant step forward. Though it's just for effect, the last thing they want to do is lose their jobs.

Tony Gamble: I guess you would be the man to talk to about keeping his eyes and his hands on something - the floor and your ankles respectively, from what I hear. But don't get too comfortable later when I have you on your back and your legs are up in the air, because you better believe that it's strictly business, superstar.

Tony takes a step back, his eyes never wavering from Danny's as his trademark smirk returns once more.

Tony Gamble: You made a real bad choice siding with Worth, fighting his fight ends one of two ways - none of which have a fairy tale ending. I'll see you in the ring in a few minutes, and you better believe that I am ready and know who my friends are.

Tony turns to walk away, but Danny is far from done.

Danny Ferguson: I wonder if Chainz made Violet choke as bad as you did against Tzu... Then again, at least no one can see that one.

Tony stops short, then continues on his way as he refuses to take the bait.

Lindsay fucking Troy.

Nova can’t get their encounter from earlier out of his head. Jason Snow’s GTT6 triumph was a celebration for them all, for the team they all wanted to go down in history as the most dominant ever. Not to mention the satisfaction Nova feels even now in knowing that Fuck You is less than an hour away from their inaugural domination of a PRIME main event.

It should be a good night. A great night.

But all Nova can think about at this moment…are the moments that opened his evening here at the Yuba Bharati Krirangan Stadium in Calcutta.

She knows how to get to him. There’s no doubting that.

Why can’t she just stay the fuck away? Doesn’t she know that Snow and Deville could ruin her? That visions of her broken body dance in Rollins’ head every night? Doesn’t she know that this is a fight that, barring divine intervention, she isn’t going to win?

Nova can’t help but grin to himself. People wouldn’t call her the Amazon if she backed down from those fights.

Nova: Fuck it all. Where can I get a drink around here?

------*~*~*------

Pierce Lavelle saunters through the halls with a displeased and exasperated look upon his face. His eyes are cast down to the floor as he moves.

He wasn’t sleeping, not after seeing Sloan and Devin Shakur’s surprise assault.

He’s unwilling to make eye contact with any of the workers or known faces. His mind is on far greater things. The stinging sensation in his neck had gone but his ego had been bruised by Devin Shakur’s surprise attack and he was unwilling to counter just yet. He needed to know more and he would with time, hopefully. He wasn’t going in blind any more with Devin Shakur – he learnt that the hard way. Michael Sloan had always been a menacing presence in his life and others and once again he’s plaguing his existence by threatening his daughter.

Like Paul Cain, Lavelle now feels the fear of having a loved one threatened so vigorously. That’s what hinders the idea of wrestling.

Why is it he plagues me like a swarm of locust everywhere I go? Lavelle thinks to himself with a frown on his lips. He enjoys it. Loves to play games. That's who Michael Sloan is.

Lavelle lets a smile cross his lips. Sloan had certainly pulled the blind fold down on him this time. The nerves of facing Vangelus Olsig course through his stomach like butterflies flapping their wings through the howling winds.

His first title shot in PRIME.

He’s to face a man who occupied his days wearing women’s blouses.

He needs a drink. A chance to remove all the ideas and worries…a chance to relax, even for just a moment.

------*~*~*------

The Universal Champion sighs with relief as he turns a corner to see a stocked bar in a lounge area. He approaches it and plops down on his stool, feeling ten times better before he even orders his drink. An Indian man dressed to the nines steps away from the wall.

Barkeep: May I help you, sir?

The Risen Star lights a cigarette.

Nova: That you can. Your best bourbon, on the rocks.

The bartender nods and turns away to find the necessary ingredients. Nova stares down at the bar top, running a finger across the cherrywood. Hearing a plop! that rings with the same desperate purpose as his own, Nova turns and stares, for the first time in person, on the features of one Pierce Lavelle.

Barkeep: Here you are, sir. And for you?

He hands Nova the glass and turns his attention to the former AWCer.

Lavelle: Your best whiskey, on the rocks, please. Thank you.

Feeling the gaze of the Risen Star on him, Lavelle turns on his stool.

Nova: Rough night?

His eyes deceive him just momentarily. Lavelle cast his eyes onto the Universal Champion, sat next to him, having a drink, his image more daunting in person…a man of legendary expectations.

Lavelle: Fantastic!

The bartender slides Lavelle’s drink into his hands and he takes a large swig, feeling his taste buds sting under its bitter bite.

Lavelle: I guess you aren’t here to make nice either. Problems with the desperate housewives of PRIME?

Nova turns to Lavelle, eyeing him a moment. The sarcastic pun toward FU goes unnoticed. Nova doesn’t exactly mind the comment. He takes a sip of his bourbon.

Nova: Just some things on my mind.

Lavelle lets a cocky smile line his lips, eyes staring toward the brown rich liquid in his glass.

Lavelle: It’s a woman and my guess is she’s got you right where she wants you …

Lavelle looks at Nova for a second and then takes another sip of his drink. Nova listens, sipping his bourbon, enjoying a fresh topic from the usual gambling and FU banter he’d become so accustomed to.

Lavelle: … because a man such as yourself, a champion no less, the king of the crop wouldn’t be moping on a bar stool unless there was trouble in paradise and wondering why you can’t make the feelings stop.

Lavelle slides the empty glass aside across the bar to the barkeep.

Lavelle: Another of whatever he’s having.

Nova grins as the barkeep slides Pierce back a glass practically identical to his first one.

Nova: What about you? What brings you to the watering hole?

Lavelle’s grin fades and his eyes grow dark for a moment, but with a shake of his head he reverts back to the jovial mood of moments before.

Lavelle: Some things on my mind, as well…thinking about my daughter.

Those four words hit Nova like a freight train full of hydrogen bombs.

Lavelle: Do you have any children.

The Risen Star stares down into his empty glass, fighting the impulse to leap on his fellow barfly and strangle him to death.

Nova: I…can we just sit and enjoy our drinks? Barkeep…another, please.

Pierce shrugs before nodding, and both men turn back to their drinks. For him, the silence is a little confusing, but acceptable.

For Nova, nothing has ever sounded better.

The crowd was alive. Very much alive. And vibrant. The night had taken them through twists and turns, and it wasn’t going to slow down as it raced towards the end. Out of one of the locker rooms steps Dusk who looks like he’s a man on a mission. He leaves the hallway where his locker room is and heads down another one, obviously looking for someone. He pulls open a few doors and looks outside, but after seeing that the person he’s looking for isn’t in that room, he moves on. After going down another hallway, he’s stopped by an assistant to Chet Worth or Blaine Blair or someone who has power, or thinks they have power that week.

Random Assistant: Can I help you with anything sir?

Dusk: Yeah, I’m looking for Garbage Bag Johnny.

Random Assistant: Have you checked his locker room?

Dusk just pauses for a second letting the absurdity of such a statement hit the assistant. Unfortunately, that moment never happens.

Dusk: This is Garbage Bag Johnny we’re talking about. Even if you did give him a locker room, he would forget about it in a second, and if you dare say anything about looking for him in a garbage can, I will pop you right in the mouth.

The assistant just shuts up and Dusk shakes his head at him before walking away, needing to find his… friend… before it becomes too late. As he heads to the catering area, he sees Garbage Bag Johnny standing at the table, making himself one of his trademark sandwiches. Dusk breathes a sigh of relief as he walks over to Johnny. Then, he sees Johnny is wearing a black druid robe and he frowns.

Dusk: Johnny!

Garbage Bag Johnny turns while mustarding up some bread.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Are you in charge of replacing the mustard? This one's almost out.

Dusk: What? No! Don’t you remember me?

Garbage Bag Johnny: I'm Garbage Bag Johnny. I don't remember anything. I don't really even remember if I like mustard this much.

Dusk pauses for a second and nods his head. He had just gone over this with the assistant, so he frankly shouldn’t have been as surprised as he had been. Dusk simply shakes his head and decides to try and jog Johnny’s memory.

Dusk: I gave you a sandwich. We even had a match against one another. Ring any bells?

Garbage Bag Johnny: The part about the sandwich sounds vaguely familiar. It sounds like something I would eat, but I've gotta be honest with you. I've been brainwashed recently, so most of the things I remember are about things like pledging loyalty to my new dark master.

Garbage Bag Johnny continues to try to get more mustard out of the bottle. He's squeezing with all his might, but all that's left is that really watery paste that isn't anywhere close to full on mustard.

Dusk: Yeah, we’ll work on that remembering and memorization stuff. But, that’s why I came to talk to you. All about this new dark master and Covenant stuff. This is just crazy talk Johnny. You’re better than that. You don’t need them.

Garbage Bag Johnny: You've got it all wrong, D-Unit. Violence Jack is a really cool guy. I think he can score me some Cradle of Filth tickets. You want me to see if he can get any extras?

Dusk: Cradle of who? Is that the new "it" indy band that no one’s heard of that will turn mainstream all of a sudden and all of the "loyal" fans will be pissed off that their band sold out? Wait, that’s not the point. No, I don’t want to go. Violence Jack, is evil. The Covenant is evil. You are not evil, GBJ. You’re the antithesis of evil.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Hey, man. I can be evil. Watch!

GBJ shoots some of the mustard remains at Dusk's shirt. It doesn't leave much of a stain because there's barely any mustard left. GBJ cracks and grabs a napkin to start wiping it off.

Garbage Bag Johnny: I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Let me wipe that off for you. Can you spare a dollar? Anything? I need to eat.

Dusk chuckles slightly as he takes another napkin and wipes the remaining mustard off of his shirt.

Dusk: See what I mean? You don’t belong with the Covenant. You’re the guy everyone sympathizes for. You’re the guy who the fans want to root for. You go down this road and you’re turning your back on the people who want to see you do well in this business. The Covenant, Violence Jack, they’re not good. Whatever he has planned for you, he’s just using you. Trust me when I say that. Now, take off that stupid robe and let’s go get some dinner.

Garbage Bag Johnny: I can't. I'm not wearing anything underneath it.

Garbage Bag Johnny then goes into a spasm. The brainwashing methods that VJ used start to kick in somewhere in his brain.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Wait a minute. What do you mean that Violence Jack and the Covenant aren't good? They're helping me out. My friend Adam's gone haywire, and I was hoping to use some good old Black Wisdom to fix him up right.

Dusk looks at Johnny strangely. Well, stranger then normal. It is Garbage Bag Johnny after all.

Dusk: Johnny, Black Wisdom? That stuff isn’t going to help. What’s gotten into you?! Snap out of it!

Garbage Bag Johnny starts to get offended.

Garbage Bag Johnny: What's wrong with BLACK wisdom? The color of the wisdom has nothing to do with anything. I suppose if it was a sect of WHITE wisdom that everything would be all fine and dandy!

Garbage Bag Johnny snaps back into his normal personage.

Garbage Bag Johnny: What was I just saying? Was it about a pancake eating contest?

Dusk: It was about me being a racist. Johnny, what the hell did they do to you? You’re acting stranger than normal and that’s saying something when it comes to you. When you don’t remember what you were talking about and you start spasming uncontrollably, don’t you think something is wrong?

Garbage Bag Johnny: Sorry, dude. I dropped a lot of acid back in the sixties.

Garbage Bag Johnny starts counting on his fingers.

Garbage Bag Johnny: And that was twenty years before I was born, man.

At the comment, Dusk starts laughing. He looks at his friend and just smiles.

Dusk: Listen, Johnny. I’m here for you. I respect you. The Covenant, you’re going down a messy road if you keep going down it. You need to find your roots. Your roots are with those fans out there, not them. I’m gonna make sure you don’t stray from that road.

Garbage Bag Johnny: Yeah, man. You're right. You've got to stick with your roots.

Garbage Bag Johnny whips the portrait of George Clinton, funk legend, out of his robe.

Garbage Bag Johnny: I painted this portrait of George Clinton to honor my African roots. I invite you to join me for a moment of silence as we look at the delicate brush strokes.

Garbage Bag Johnny unfolds an easel to place the portrait upon. He then bows his head in respect.

Dusk: Yeah, you got it.

The two then pay their respects to the great Funk legend for a moment before Garbage Bag Johnny puts it back in his robe.

Dusk: So, how about we go get some food? But, you keep that robe on. No one needs to see Lil’ Garbage Bag Johnny.

Garbage Bag Johnny: It sounds like a plan. I'm starving.

Garbage Bag Johnny tosses the sandwich behind him and Dusk and GBJ go off to get some food.

Nova is alone in the locker room, changing for his upcoming "match" with Deville. Of course, since you’re witnessing it and introspective monologues suck on wrestling shows, you know the privacy is doomed to be ruined. Thankfully, it’s by a dashing man in a dapper suit.

Angelo Deville: Good luck tonight, man. We’re gonna put on one hell of a show.

A snicker escapes Nova as he shakes his head, snatching his boot laces tight.

Nova: Yeah man. This’ll go down as the worst spat on match in the history of PRIME. Hogan and Nash might demand royalties, but fuck ‘em; you got lawyers, right?

The Deville smiles.

Angelo Deville: Oh, we’re not spitting on the match.

Nova blinks and looks up for the first time, squinting at his friend.

Nova: Run that by me again.

Heaving a great sigh, Deville steps forward, holding out a hand for understanding.

Angelo Deville: I’ve been waiting two years for this chance, and now that it’s here . . . I’m sorry, Wyatt, but tonight I’m walking out of here as Universal Champion.

Nova: What the hell are you talking about? Remember telling me this would be hilarious, "a perfect opportunity to poke Worth in the eye with his own dick"? What happened to that?

Deville sets his jaw and closes the distance, until he’s nose to nose with his best friend. The low pitch of his voice is a sharp contrast to Nova’s, but the intensity is the same.

Angelo Deville: I don’t know if you noticed this, Chris . . . but sometimes I lie.

The Risen Star snatches the Universal Title off the bench and holds it up as he moves closer to the Devil’s Don, his eyes narrowing.

Nova: Did you have this in your head all along, Doc? A plan to stab me in the back when opportunity knocked at Deville Manor’s door? Tell me, did you chuckle to yourself when Winters took me to the limit? Did you ‘self-high-five’ when Troy and I plummeted down onto the ring steps last week…another notch taken out of my belt to soften the champ up for your righteous victory?

The Crimson Angel can offer only a smirk.

Angelo Deville: Yeah, something like that.

Nova: Fuck you, Deville! What the fuck is this?

Angelo Deville: It’s up to you, man. If taking that belt from you ruins our friendship, believe me, I’ll miss it. But I don’t throw matches, especially title matches I’ve sweat and bled so much just to-

Nova: No! NO! I sweat! I bled! You…you left, Angelo. Twice. You come in full of piss and vinegar, stick around until you get hot, and then you disappear! So don’t give me this "two years" shit…I never left!

The Deville’s lip curls up as his cold blue eyes begin to smolder.

Angelo Deville: How long you been waiting to say that one?

The Universal Champion matches his gaze unfailingly.

Nova: A long time…and you know what else? I think I know the real reason you left. I think that you got so close to the Universal Title, it freaked you out. You were about to have to make good on everyone else’s hype…and you were afraid.

The swing catches Nova off-guard. Deville’s right hand relocates the Risen Star’s jaw in an instant, sending him stumbling back into a set of lockers.

Angelo Deville: I think you should be afrai-OOMPH!

Nova pushes himself away from the lockers, shooting out a leg that catches the Devil’s Don in his breadbasket. They lock up, flinging one another over the bench and against the lockers on the adjacent wall. Unbeknownst to them, the door opens.

Blaine Blair: (whistling) Okay, everyone ready in here for the…AIIIEEE!! SECURITY!

Blair drops his lover (read: clipboard), and several black shirts led by Sullivan Sawyer (yes, he still exists) pile into the room and pounce on the men. With enough manpower, at last they’re separated.

Angelo Deville: Five months of me is worth two years of you, Chris! And one night with the belt around my waist gives it more credibility than if Chet lined up contenders for you from now until the fucking Rapture!

Nova: PROVE IT! Prove something, anything, you fucking hot-air balloon!!

Security pull the Deville out of the locker room ("Hey! Why does he get to stay?!") and cautiously release Nova, who plops down on the bench, his precious title gripped in one hand.

Blaine Blair: Ummm…Nova? It’s almost time.

Nova: Fuck off, Blair.

Nick: What we’ve got here is a Pay-Per-View quality match as Tony "the Grin" Gamble takes on Danny Ferguson!

Richard: You don’t know if it’ll be that good.

Nick: What? A match with two big stars like this one? Not to mention there’s gotta be some bad blood when a card-carrying member of… that one bunch of guys, takes on one of their sworn enemies!

Richard: Yeah, it looks good on paper. But think about this… we’re in Calcutta. One bad bowl of curry could knock either one of these guys on their asses. He goes down with stomach cramps, the other one covers, and it’s all over. Would that be worth the price of a PPV?

Nick: I think that’s pretty unlikely, Richard.

Richard: That’s what happens in the real world, Nick. It’s not like there’s some guy in the back telling them what spots to hit or how long to wrestle. There’s no guarantee how "exciting" this match will be. Gamble and Ferguson are gonna be out there to win, not see how many stars some internet geek will give them. Really, if that’s what you want, go watch that scripted "mixed martial arts" garbage. This is pro wrestling and it’s for real, baby!

Before Nick can respond, the lights dim. Green and gold strobes flash as Me First and the Gimme Gimmes bust out with "Desperado."


Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out ridin' fences for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy
She'll beat you if she's able
The queen of hearts is always your best bet
And now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones that you can't get


Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… this bout is scheduled for one fall… first out... from Hollywood, California... DAAAAAANNY FERRRRGUSOOOOOOON!!!!

Danny Ferguson appears with his enourage, all of them looking very spiffy in green and gold. All the Calcutta papparazzi taking pictures proves "the Superstar" is as big in Bollywood as he is in Tinseltown.


Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, freedom, some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the night time from the day
You're losin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?
Away?


Danny Ferguson takes off his green and gold robe and tosses it to one of his boys, revealing a black armband with "ANS" written on it in pink letters. Ferguson thumps his chest twice and points to the heavens.

Richard: Look at that. One Hollywood icon pays respect to another. Anna Nicole Smith’s spirit may have left the Earth, but her implants will outlast all of us.

Nick: That was both poetic and offensive, Richard.

Richard: Thanks, man.

The arena fades to black...

Vince Howard: And his opponent... from Las Vegas, Nevada... TOOOOOOONY GGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMBLLLE!!!


"You think I'm funny... Funny how?"


The unmistakable voice of Joe Pesci irritates the eardrums right before Metallica's 'Better Than You' begins to blast through the PA System, the new calling card of PRIME's Jewel in the Crown; Tony 'The Grin' Gamble. He walks out at the same time the music kicks in, passing a quick arrogant glance toward the crowd before making his way toward the ring once the lyrics of the song kick in.



I look at you, then you me
Hungry and thirsty are we
Holding the lion's share
Holding the key
Holding me back 'cause I'm striving to be


Tony Gamble marches proudly down the small portion of ramp, no-selling the crowd's jeers and snide remarks as he remains focused on the ring. Up above his head on the Wal*tron, footage from Revolution 94 when Gamble locked The Illustrious Face Eater into his 'Smile For Me' submission and won the Internet Title plays.



Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you



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



Lock horns, I push and I strive
Some how I feel more alive
Bury the need for it
Bury the seed
Bury me deep when there's no will to be


He climbs the ropes and raises one fist up high; a wide grin painted on his face as he hears the negative reaction from the crowd. Another clip shows on the Wal*tron, this one from the Great American Nightmare; where Tony Gamble became the Five Star Champion by pinning Chandler Tsonda.



Better than you
Better than you
Better than you
Better than you



As his music dies down, Tony Gamble hops off the ropes… and walks right into a big right hand from Danny Ferguson! The ref quickly calls for the bell to start the match. And speaking of bells being rung, Ferguson hammers away on Gamble with rights and lefts. A massive haymaker sends Gamble staggering back into the corner.

Richard: Dan the man came to fight! And he’s not wasting a second!

Nick: After what happened last week with Gamble and his buddies, Ferguson is fired up!

Danny Ferguson backs to the center on the ring and charges into the corner. But he gets nothing but post, because Tony Gamble just barely gets out of the way. Gamble grabs Ferguson from behind and tosses him with a German suplex. His opponent on the canvas, Gamble checks his mouth for blood before putting the boots to the fallen Ferguson.

Nick: And just like that, the tide has changed.

Richard: That’s what you can expect from Tony Gamble. He didn’t become the Jewel in the Crown because of his looks!

After a few more stomps, Gamble backs up and motions for Ferguson to rise. Just as the Irish Superstar gets to his feet, Gamble takes him back down again with a dropkick to the knee. Tony Gamble runs the ropes and nail Ferguson with a shining enzuigiri. Danny Ferguson falls forward like he was shot execution-style. Gamble rolls him over and hooks the leg…





One…




Two…




Kickout!






Gamble pulls Ferguson up, then takes him back down with a side belly to belly suplex. "The Grin" steps through the ropes and waits for his prey. As soon as Ferguson is up, Gamble springboards off the top rope and bulldogs his head into the canvas. Again, Gamble rolls him over and hooks the leg…





One…




Two…




Kickout!





Nick: Gamble is all over Ferguson!

Richard: It’s this sort of tenacity that got "the Grin" into the most elite group in wrestling history. Those four rednecks that ran around Georgia twenty years ago would give up their social security checks to be even close to the level of Fizuck You!

Grabbing a fistful of Irish curls, Gamble pulls Ferguson up. He drives his knee into the gut of "the Superstar" until he bends of Gamble grabs one arm in a wristlock, then drives his face into the mat with his leg. Keeping hold of the wrist, Gamble locks a reverse armbar on Ferguson. Ferguson howls in pain as Gamble does his best to hyperextend his arm!

Richard: See, this is what happens when you spend several months in prison while being falsely accused of immolating another human being. Hard to knock off the ring rust. Fergie’s just a shadow of the A-Lister he once was.

Fighting through the agony, Danny reaches out with his free hand and grabs hold of the rope. The ref calls for the break, which Tony Gamble grudgingly does. But then he delivers a kick to the abused arm. Ferguson pulls himself up while trying to shake his arm back to life. Meanwhile, Gamble climbs to the top. He leaps at Ferguson with a oicture-perfect crossbody… but gets caught and powerslammed by Danny Ferguson!

Nick: Don’t count him out yet, Richard!

Richard: Great counter, but can he follow through? Or has being around Lindsay Troy and her goody-goody cooties dulled his killer instincts?

Ferguson is painfully flexing his arm as Gamble slowly rises. As soon as he’s on his feet, Ferguson takes him out from behind with a chop block. He stomps away at the leg before grabbing the ankle. Ferguson twists it around into a spinning toe hold. He lets go when Gamble screams in pain, but then grabs the leg again and locks on the spinning toe hold. Once more Ferguson releases it quickly as soon as Gamble howls only to lock it back on again. But this third spinning toe hold is kept on through Gamble’s screams and Ferguson keeps turning bit by bit, like he’s trying to rip the leg off!

Nick: How’s that for killer instinct?

Richard: Good to see he hasn’t forgotten his lessons from Funk U. Probably that’s what kept Fergie from being anyone’s bitch in the slammer.

Releasing the spinning toe hold, Ferguson drags Gamble up. He picks him up into the air, then drops him into a shinbreaker. Ferguson immediately follows up with a short-arm clothesline. Danny makes the cover and the ref makes the count…






One…




Two…




Kickout!






Ferguson grabs hold of Gamble with a front facelock, then takes him up and over with a vertical suplex. He then goes to one corner and lets the dazed and limping Gamble rise. Ferguson charges at him with a big boot aimed at his scarred face… but Gamble dodges and Ferguson is crotched on the top rope!

Richard: Ooooo! Might be a while before Danny stars in any more sex tapes with anorexic debutantes!

"The Grin" gives a sick smile as he sees the precarious position his foe is in, the dropkicks him off the ropes and down to the unforgiving concrete! Gamble limps through the ropes himself. He springs off the middy one and crashes down on Ferguson with an Aai moonsault! Both men lie dazed on the floor!

Nick:"The Grin" is all kinds of intense tonight!

Richard: Hey, you know what they say, Nick... no balls, no baby. And Tony Gamble looks like he can knock up every girl in Calcutta! Excpet the ugly ones. Have you ver notice Indian chicks are either insanely hot or they look those dolls made from dried apples?

Nick: You are a horrible human being, Richard.

Tony Gamble is just a little bit quicker getting up. He grabs Ferguson by the arm and whips him hard into the steel steps! The fans cringe at the sound of a human body hitting unforgiving metal. He rolls him into the ring and quickly follows. Ferguson is on is feet, but visibly hurting. Gamble gives his a kick to the gut, then hooks his arms for a tiger driver. But Ferguson digs deep and counter with a back drop! Gamble gets up, but Ferguson gives a kick to the gut of his own. Ferguson lifts him up, then spikes him to the canvas with a classic piledriver! Danny Ferguson with the cover…




One…






Two…






Thr-NO!






The ref points to Tony Gamble’s foot on the bottom rope. Danny Ferguson slams his palms to the mat in frustration. He rolls out the ring and grabs a steel chair! Ferguson slides back in and set the chair up. He scoops Gamble up and positions him over the chair!

Nick: Wait… he isn’t gonna Box Office Bomb him onto that chair?

Richard: It sure looks like it!

Nick: But that’ll DQ him! Not to mention possibly cripple Tony Gamble!

Richard: War ain’t pretty, Nick. But it looks like Danny Ferguson knows how to fight one!

But before Tony Gamble can kiss his ability to nod good-bye, the ref puts himself between Danny Ferguson and the chair while giving him quite the tongue-lashing! The crowd doesn’t seem to like this, but what can you expect from a place known more for its prison than anything else? The ref grabs the chair and goes to toss it outside the ring. Just then, Tony Gamble slips from the grip of Danny Ferguson! As he staggers to get his footing, Danny Ferguson reaches into his tights. He nails "the Grin" right on his scar… with brass knuckles! Gamble drops to the canvas as Ferguson tosses the evidence away. The ref turns around as Danny Ferguson makes the cover…



One…






Two…






THREE!!!





Vince Howard: Your winner… DAAAAAAAAAAAANY FERRRRRRGUSON!!!



Tony Gamble is still dazed as Danny Ferguson is almost in tears. He points to his armband and then to the heavens.

Richard: That was for you, ya crazy doped-up bimbo!

Nick: Danny Ferguson has struck a major blow against the forces of… those guys! I’m sure we’ll be feeling the impact of this for weeks!

In the makeshift catering area backstage, a few workers linger, picking up scraps left by the workers. Since Titan St. James left, PRIME significantly decreased its food order, so there was less to eat after the workers were done. Still, they were out looking for something.

Into the frame, though, comes the rumbling mass of Team Ferguson, rather awkward in their movements since the bodyguards are carrying Danny. He makes several pained faces and wincing noises as he is brought to a table and laid upon it.

Danny Ferguson: Hurry! HURRY!

His apparent injury seeming unbearable, Danny grabs futilely at his leg while Jim Pibb runs off to find an implement of care. A commotion is caused as people begin to stare, wondering if Danny's return match was so strenuous that it put him right back on the shelf. Any of those fears are quickly assuaged as they realize the source of Danny's pain.

Danny Ferguson: God, it's cramping so bad! My thighs, they're on FIRE!

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, you ain't been using those muscles for a while, you's gonna hurt for a while.

Danny Ferguson: I don't pay you to tell me it hurts, I pay you to make it stop!

DT: Actually, Boss, you pay me not to let you get hurt to begin with.

DF: You asking for a pink slip?

As Pibb returns with some ice for Danny's aching legs, they are not alone. Just to the side of Danny's makeshift stretcher, Team Ferguson is nearly oblivious to the presence of yet another star and his entourage. Straight off the Mean Streets of Washington, Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME, and the inimitable Fife Posse. The McCoys are holding ice packs of their own to various parts of their body, still nursing the wounds from their Gauntlet Match against Asa Fountain earlier in the night. Mr. Silver, however, having done jack shit other than coldcock Asa in the back of the head with his title to win the match, just stands there and frowns at his subordinates while sporting one ice pack from the sucker punch Asa landed on him prior to the match.

Burnie McCoy: I didn't know hair could be that hard.

Slash McCoy: Afro-Sheen, dude. Believe it.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Well his hair wouldn't have been so hard if either of you understood the concept of SOFTENING HIM UP. YOU DAMN-ohgod

Sonny swoons a little, stops yelling and re-places the ice pack on his mouth. He repeats a few "woo-sah"s to calm his blood pressure. Danny, meanwhile, can't help but watch the scene.

Danny Ferguson: Hard to find good help these days, am I right?

Mr. Silver removes his ice bag and looks up to see Ferguson. Their respective support teams exchange angry looks for the slighting comment by Danny.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Absolutely...although Joey Abs called me looking for work, so maybe I could make the upgrade. Really, I should've never fired Brisco and Patterson, but the whole "sex with men" thing, I dunno, seemed....unprofessional.

Danny Ferguson: Of course.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: (enunciating to make sure Slash and Burnie hear, even though they are right next to him) I'm a powerful, rich man. I just wish I could find someone who could watch my back consistently.

The Fifers wave it off, but a light bulb goes off over Danny's head.

Danny Ferguson: Wait, you need backup?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: (seeing the same lighbulb) I mean, a reliable team-player would be nice...

Danny Ferguson: Interesting that you would use that word...what would you say if said team-player also brought the guarantee of being a champion as soon as the deal is done?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Well, I'd have to run it through corporate, but it seems like a savvy business move. I mean, I'm already the fucking awesomeist motherfucker this side of the Ganges, and I think more people need to be made aware of that.

Danny is nearly climbing off his table, he is so excited. Catching the hints, Sonny leans forward, too.

Danny Ferguson: You bet, and no better way than by becoming a double champion, right?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: I'm sure there's a better way, but since I'd just these two to find it, it'll never GET found, so I might as well bite on this one.

Danny Ferguson: (practically giddy) So you'll be my tag partner and co-tag champion?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Let me put it this way...

He twists his face into a grotesque scowl.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: YOOOOU'RRRREEEEEE HIIIIIRED!

Danny Ferguson: YESSSsss!

Danny jumps off the table, ignoring his pains and dancing a little jig.

Danny Ferguson: I knew I could do it! Take that, Troy! Think I can't find a better partner than you...well who's the damn tag team champ now, eh?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Wait, Troy? Lindsay Troy?

Danny stops dancing. This didn't sound good.

Danny Ferguson: Um...maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyybeeeeee.

That grotesque scowl? Now, it’s replaced by something just a little more human… a lot more human, actually. It might be compassion, but if you ask Sonny, he’d fire you and kill you. So for all intents and purposes, we’ll call it "badass concern." He looks down at the Superstar and points a finger at him.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Now, listen, Danny. As far as tag partners go… she was tolerable. You could do no wrong teaming up with her… take it from somebody that has before. For one of the women class, she has a LOAD of bravado. She was my tag partner, co-conspirator, and fellow Grand Shit Disturber in the fWo. In this battle you fight against the forces of Fuck You, you’re gonna need backup. And I guess she’s okay. Sure, she doesn’t really LOOK like a woman sometimes… though, there was this one time we went to dinner and she looked… decent. And she has HUGE knockers. Almost as big as my wife’s… where was I?

Danny Ferguson: You were about to tell me off, most likely.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Oh. Right. YEAH! NO DICE, FERGUSON! As much as I respect you as a fellow upholder of all things Sports Entertainment, I will have to decline. I’m afraid I must to back to my own supreme world now.

He turns to the Fifers and nods.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Come on, boys. Let’s go.

Slash and Burnie eye the bodyguards of D-Ferg, then the three turn on their heels and leave Team Ferguson to their own devices.

Danny Ferguson: (groaning) Oooohhhhhh I HAD IT!

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, maybe you should just take the loud dude's advice and team up with the ass-kickin' lady.

Danny Ferguson: I'd rather forfeit my newly-attained tag title than do that.

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas: Boss, ain't no one in this catering area who believes that to be true.

Danny Ferguson: You're right...dammit, you big lug, you're always right.

Now virtually alone in the catering area, Danny comes to grips with the harsh realities of his return to PRIME: with no more natural allies, he needed to suck it up and accept the forced ones. He turns and kicks a folding chair at one of the catering tables, letting it skitter across the floor with quite a cacophony.

Danny Ferguson: FUCK!

Easton Hall is walking backstage, his back to the camera. He's not dressed to wrestle as he might be on another day, but he still seems intent on being somewhere other than where the camera is.

"Easton!"

Easton stops and begins to ball and unball his fists, obviously angry. He doesn't turn around, though. Faith Rodriguez makes her presence known, walking onto the shot from where Easton just came from.

Faith Rodriguez: Easton, can I have a word with you?

The Dragon glances over his shoulder and slowly turns, hard eyes blazing into the PRIME interviewer.

Easton Hall: What is it?

Faith Rodriguez: Well, Captain Suleimon laid down a challenge earlier tonight, saying he wanted to meet you in the ring at ReVolution 121. Seeing as you made reference to it just before that—

Easton Hall: Suleimon wants to meet me in the ring? Yeah, I heard it. You want to know what I say about it?

Faith Rodriguez nods.

Easton Hall: I say bring it. You're in over your head, Ahab. But I kinda understand why you want to find me. You want to get those 72 virgins ASAP, huh?

Easton turns, but Faith steps forward.

Faith Rodriguez: One more thing, Easton. There have been rumors that you have been expressing distaste for Chainz's actions…

Easton's neck twitches a bit.

Easton Hall: Don't talk to me about Brian Lee. He's just getting my bad side. He's next.

Easton stalks down the hallway, away from any further questions from the PRIME employee.

The prison of mesh already surrounds the ring. In the old days, before the ingenious addition of doors to cages, fans would anticipate the lowering of the steel around the combatants almost as much as the battle itself. The adrenaline rush that came as the gladiators watched their doom cocoon them, locking them in a claustrophobic nightmare only escapable through the other’s pain and blood. It was pure and savage, a symbol that the fury was so wild it needed to be contained by an impenetrable wall. It was barbaric. Real.

Nowadays, like I said, the sumbitches have doors. And we have ad-time to sell.

Besides, this match isn’t being sanctioned inside a cage because of malignant hatred or bad blood, or to keep a scoundrel from fleeing a righteous ass-kicking, or even so the event has another obligatory "special" match. Nope. This time, on this night, it has but one purpose to serve: fucking Fuck You.

See, Worth likes to give at least as much as he receives. So when Nova and Deville promised to ruin this booking with mockery, by engaging a sham and having the match thrown out with neither suffering a blow to their dignity, the owner decided that was one bite of pillow too much. While Doc and Wyatt were busy thinking up the best way to perpetrate the no-contest, Worth sauntered in and made that dream impossible.

Tonight, in the cage, with the Universal Title on the line, there must be a winner. Perhaps more importantly considering the egos involved, there must be a loser. What was supposed to be another flippant feather in Fuck You’s cap now threatens to unravel its strongest alliance.

And the fans love that shit. Which is why, despite the thievery of that glorious anticipatory moment, they are on their feet and cheering with eager expectation.

Nick: Listen to this crowd, Richard!

Richard: I know! I bet it’s because we went a whole six match paragraphs without a word from you!

Nick: Ah, Richard. Tonight your asinine meanderings have no effect on me. Worth has really put the screws to FU by hijacking their plan, and everyone but you and your ilk is loving it!

Richard: You’re delusional. It’d take more than a title to break up Doc and Wyatt.

Nick: Oh really? That memo must not have reached either of them! I’ve long known that nothing could come between The Deville and his pride, and his confrontation with Nova earlier on proved it!

Richard: That’s called acting, Nick. It’s necessary for swerves. You’ll see.

Nick: Who are you trying to convince here? Deville wants that title, and if he has to crawl over his friend’s battered body to get it, it’s not like the betrayal will be a shock to his conscience!

Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones

Vince Howard: This is a cage match scheduled for one fall! AND IT IS FOR THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP!

Many of those cheering do a quick one-eighty, having been in attendance two weeks ago when The Deville showed up to insult their heritage and embarrass their champion. They knew he stole their title simply for a gag, that he had no intention of ever defending or honouring it.

Richard: Where’s the love? Where?! Angelo Deville is the greatest champion in the history of CCW, not to mention all of Asia! These--Wait! Is Japan part of Asia?

Nick: Yes . . .

Richard: By FAR the greatest champion Asia has ever seen! These morons should be grateful he lowers himself to represent them!

Vince Howard: Introducing first! Representing his newly-adopted hometown of Calcutta, India, he weighs in at two-hundred-forty-two pounds! He is The Devil’s Don! The Cadillac of Wrestling! He is the Champion of Calcutta Championship Wrestling! He is . . . ANGEEEEEEEELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO DEEEEEVIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!

The Deville saunters out onto the stage wearing a biting smirk, already surveying the audience with condescending eyes. Snorting in mock disbelief as the booing intensifies, he points to the thin gold belt around his waist, for all the world as if that should make the hatred wane.

Richard: He is YOUR champion, idiots! India’s favourite son!

Nick: Apparently India disagrees!

The belt falls into Deville’s hands as he unclasps it, then he thrusts it high into the air, again trying to bring his legion onside. Again the loathing grows. Bringing the belt down to stare at it, The Deville smirks, then viciously spits on the main plate before discarding the prize over his shoulder like a used tissue.

Nick: He just! Despicable! And you wonder why they boo him!

Richard: Hey, they were booing him first. Serves them right.

Security has to hold back the more ardent fans as Deville swaggers down to ringside, mouth moving incessantly to deride the raging horde surrounding him. A few cutting admonitions are levelled at the referee guarding the door, then Deville is stepping through, dipping under the ropes and popping up inside the ring, his eagle eyes scanning the cage for any sharp burrs that might prove useful in a pinch.

His music falters as the lights die.

Maggot Brain by Funkadelic

The abhorrence mutates to celebration as the Wal*tron springs to life with a stormy sky.

Vince Howard: And his opponent!

As thunder booms over the speakers and lightning lights up the darkened clouds on-screen, a voice can be heard speaking in soft, reverberating tones.

Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time…for y’all have knocked her up. I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe; but I was not offended, for I knew I had to rise above it all…or drown in my own shit.

The stormy sky fades, replaced by a field of stars. One of them shoots across the screen, and as the field comes together to form the word "NOVA," the music roars, Eddie Hazel's guitar screaming with emotion.

Vince Howard: Hailing from the very centre of the earth's core, in the heart of the Chronic! The P. Funk! THE BOMB!, and weighing in at two-hundred-fifty-six pounds! He is The Risen Star! The Universal Champion! He is . . . NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

The traditional spotlight falls on centre-stage but finds nothing. As the rest of the lights come on we find Nova already halfway to the ring, a gym bag slung over his shoulder and his normal nonchalance evaporated, replaced by a rare seething as he glares at Deville in the ring.

Nick: Nova has been forced to defend that title more often than any other Universal Champion in our history, Richard, and tonight he thought he’d cheated himself a reprieve! Instead, he actually has to fight Angelo Deville, in a cage, and even if he walks out of here tonight with the belt, it seems he’ll be short a friend!

Richard: Acting, Nick. Don’t make me tell you again.

Apparently seeking an Oscar, Nova almost knocks the outside ref to the ground by slamming the belt into his chest. He wastes no time getting into the ring, and his eyes never leave the one man he was supposed to be able to trust above all others. The man who earlier this night had let him know exactly how deep their friendship runs.

Anger and resentment fill the air as they stare each other down from across the ring, as the officials slam shut and lock the door. The music dies, but if anything the decibel level rises, everyone in attendance screaming for blood. Discarding the bag, Nova takes a few steps toward his challenger, uttering a few choice words through clenched teeth.

Nick: I can’t hear a word they’re saying, but if their expressions are any guide, I’d say they’re mostly of the four-letter variety!

The Deville meets the Champ halfway, his own mouth curling with obviously mocking slights as once again they find themselves nose to nose, eye to eye. As the bell rings, Deville shoves Nova, knocking him back a step, and spreads his arms wide in invitation.

Nick: I told you, Richard! Hopefully this will be the wake up call Nova needs! Bring him back to the light!

There’s no humour in Nova’s soft chuckle, and no hesitation as he lunges forward and returns the shove, backing Deville almost to the ropes. Nodding, The Deville begins to circle, and Nova mirrors him, both men gradually moving back to the centre of the ring. Except Deville, apparently seeking an early illegal advantage, is reaching into the back of his tights.

Nick: Watch out!

But Nova’s no rookie, and he’s certainly not ignorant to the wiles of The Deville. In fact, he has quite a bit of guile himself. He reaches into his own tights just before they meet, whipping the foreign object up between their faces in a flash.

Deville does the same thing, cupping his illegal weapon in both hands to cut out the wind, flicking the flame to life to light the cigarette now in Nova’s mouth.

Richard: Ahahahahahahahahaha! Watch out, Nova! WATCH OUT! HE’S TRYING TO SET YOU ON FIRE! Ahahahahahaha!

Nick: Goddamnit!

A grin seeps onto Deville’s face as Nova puffs contentedly. Outside the ring the boos are thunderous and unrelenting, the angry outburst of the robbed.

Richard: You’re way too gullible to be in this business, Nick. Seriously.

Nick: Maybe. And maybe, Richard, just maybe, I’m right. As you yourself said, swerves require acting, and this match isn’t over yet.

Richard: Please! These two are tighter than your ass-cheeks! Just admit you got hoodwinked! Again!

In the ring, Nova has turned his back on Deville, heading for the gym bag he left in the corner. As he rummages around inside, Deville circles the ring, laughing at the crowd through the mesh, talking all manner of shit and flipping them off from time to time. He gets around to Nova just as the champ busts out two inflatable chairs, a pump, a bottle of whiskey, and two huge steins.

Nick: What? What are they gonna do? Sit around and have a drinking contest?

The pump is one of those high quality deals, firing out hot air quicker than any chairman could ever hope to, so by the time Nova has poured for he and Deville, the chairs are ready. The duo drag them to the centre of the ring and sit, clinking mugs before leaning back and taking a sip, sighing contentedly as they survey the belligerent masses, stretching out their legs as if they’ve all the time in the world.

Richard: Stop trying to put this over as a real match, Nick. You were wrong. Deal with it. Just a couple of guys sharing time over a drink, sticking it to the boss.

Indeed, there is no chugging. Just casual sips and a pleasant, private conversation, interspersed by much laughter. This goes on for nearly two minutes before Bernie Roberts plants himself in front of them, urging them to cut the bullshit. Deville and Nova exchange a glance.

Angelo Deville: Did you bring a glass for Bern?

Nova: Shit. No. Totally slipped my mind.

Deville sighs and sets down his drink.

Angelo Deville: Guess we’ll have to rough him up then.

Roberts hightails it as soon as Deville braces to rise, ducking to the apron and whipping around with an admonishing finger already raised, only to find Deville never went past the balk. Cup back in hand, he and Nova toast again over much mocking laughter and pointing at the ref.

The boos begin to quiet, but only because some of the fans are leaving. Nova and Deville stare up at the sky uncaring.

Nova: We should demand more bookings in outdoor arenas, man. I could sit here all night.

Angelo Deville: Yeah. It was really quite nice of Chet to give us this security barrier. I imagine if we tried to pull this without the cage, we’d have a fight on our hands with three- or four-hundred pissed off locals. We’d have the definitive weight advantage, but still.

Nova: No doubt. We’ll have to send him a thank you card. Better yet, let’s toast him.

Angelo Deville: Good idea.

The two raise their glasses high.

Angelo Deville: To Chet Worth, for letting us show our respect for all the little promotions with this world tour.

Nova: To Chet Worth, the best double agent in the business.

~clink~

Nick: This is plain ridiculous! Are we really expected to sit here through this bull?

Richard: C’mon, Nick! This is going to explode in a jealous fallout any time now! Remember?

Nick: You’re as bad as they are. And that’s saying something.

Angelo Deville: So, whaddaya think? Time to give these rubes a show?

Nova: Let’s do it.

Standing up with another swig, they walk to the edge of the ring and set down their drinks, then kick the chairs out of the way and start limbering up. Then they kneel on the canvas, then lie down head to head. Arching their backs and spreading their arms out before them, they seem prepared to arm-wrestle.

Richard: Hahahaha! Here it comes! The action you’ve been waiting for!

Nick: Shut up.

Richard: They’re feeling each other out at this point, each man vying for the better approach . . . And they tie up! The Champ has the early edge, powering down The Deville, but OH! Deville breaks the grasp and shakes out his hand!

Indeed, Deville is acting like Nova is greased up.

Angelo Deville: Bern! Bern! Get over here! Nova’s too oily!

Nova: Oh, you wuss! I’m dry as any of your dates, dude!

The referee just shakes his head as the two prepare to lock up again, wishing he were anywhere else, like at a wrestling match.

Richard: Again Nova screams out of the gate! Deville’s trying to hold him back, but it’s a losing struggle! Down! Down! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh! Nova just pinned Deville’s wrist to the canvas, and these fans are in an absolute frenzy!

Nick: The fans are gone, Richard.

Angelo Deville: Cheater!

Nova: What!

Angelo Deville: Well, alright. Not cheating. But not on the level, either.

Nova: Elaborate.

Angelo Deville: I’m left-handed.

Switching arms, they lock up again, and this time, after another epic and valiant struggle, Deville pushes Nova’s hand to the mat. They rise and shake hands.

Angelo Deville: You are truly formidable, sir.

Nova: And you.

Angelo Deville: Quite.

Nova: Handstand race?

Angelo Deville: Thought you’d never ask.

They line up at the ropes and pivot forward onto their hands, then start walking across the ring, losing their balance as they try to kick one another over.

Nick: That’s it . . . I’m outta here.

Richard: You hear that, Worth? Leaving in the middle of an exciting title match! Dock him pay!

After the handstand races they do some leg-wrestling. After that a belching competition. Then a pose-down. Push-ups. Eventually they even bust out pads and pens from the gym bag and indulge a game of Draw Wars. Nova wins it with a Ray of Nothingness, which Deville claims is illegal, but the result stands. Then they have a contest to see who can draw Worth in the most compromising sexual situation. Deville wins hands-down by putting a woman in the picture.

Richard: Best. Match. Ever.

Finally they stand and retrieve their drinks, heading toward the door and demanding the referees remove the lock. Deville gestures with his mug.

Angelo Deville: After you, good sir.

Nova: Nay, I must decline. Please, sir, after you.

Angelo Deville: The gesture is flattering, but I insist.

Nova: And I insist more. Let it never be said the Universal Champion is not a gentleman.

Angelo Deville: Look man . . . If you don’t go out first you’re no longer the Universal Champion.

Nova opens his mouth to retort, then snaps it shut with a nod.

Nova: Excellent point.

The bell rings as Nova touches down and retrieves his belt, followed a moment later by The Deville, who raises the victor’s free hand high.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match and STILL Universal Champion! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Richard is on his feet applauding as the two make their way toward the ramp, ushered by neither cheers or boos in the empty arena.

Maggot Brain by Funkadelic

Richard: Best Universal Title contest I’ve ever seen! Match of the year candidate! Right here! Bravo, gentlemen! Bravo!