"I Fucking Hate You" by Godsmack.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The Sinan Erdem Dome comes unglued, over twenty-thousand strong jumping to their feet in unison.

Nick: That sound can mean only one thing, we’re about to be joined by the PRIME Hall of Famer, the Inhuman Being!

Richard: And perhaps most importantly, we’re about to be joined by the number one contender for the most coveted title in professional wrestling, the Universal Championship

As Richard finishes the statement, Matt Ward appears from behind the curtain, the roars of the crowd growing louder. Across his left shoulder rests the Elite Championship, and as he begins his march toward the ring, the arena lights reflect off its surface.

Nick: We’re just days away from the historic Universal Championship match that will take place on ReVolution 242 inside an old-school, roofed cage.

Richard: And that means two things. We’re sure to have a winner without any bullshit going down, and someone is gonna get hurt.

Nick: It’s the kind of match that can take years off of a man’s career.

The Inhuman Being steps between the ropes, cast in the glow of the blue lights that blink around the building. Crossing the ring, he takes a microphone from the hand of Vince Howard. The lights in the Sin Erdem Dome return to normal, and the sounds of Godsmack fade as the PRIME Hall of Famer comes to stop in the center of the ring.

Ward:I’ve been in this business a long time – probably too long – and I’ve seen a lot of things over the years. What I’ve seen over the last few weeks , though, is unlike anything I’ve witnessed before. What I’ve seen has pretty much made me sick.

Richard: What the hell is he talking about?

Nick: If I had to take a guess, I’d say it might have something to do with our esteemed Uni Champ.

In the ring, The Inhuman Being adjusts the title belt on his shoulder and paces back and forth for a moment.

Ward: To be honest, it’s the kinda thing that drives a guy like me nuts. The kinda thing that’ll drive anybody who’s ever busted their ass for something they cherish right up the wall. I’ve watched a man who’s fortunate enough to carry the most prestigious prize in this industry make a mockery of everything that is PRIME.

Richard: I disagree with that. The Construction of Destruction a mockery?!

Ward: I’ve watched our reigning Universal Champion put in half-assed efforts and disrespect everything that guys like Tony Rolo, Ignatius Lisieux, Karina Wolfenden, Nova, Lindsay Troy, Killean Sirrajin – guys like me-- have broken their backs to build into something worth being proud of.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Ward: The lackadaisical effort in the ring, the half-hearted representation of this company, the lack of pride in the gold he carries – it all makes me sick.

PRIME’s Wrecking Ball looks down at the canvas and bites at his bottom lip.

Ward: In just a few days, at ReVolution 242, I’ll have the chance to step into the ring with Hessian and attempt to do something that no man in this company’s long, storied existence has ever done. I’ll have the chance to make history and become the firs-ever three-time Universal Champion.

YYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Ward: Hess, I want to make something very clear to you. Being the Universal Champion might be vacation to you, but it’s serious business for me. It is everything that I bleed and sweat for. It is everything that I sacrifice for. I’ve had my fill of watching you make a joke of what so many of us in that locker room would give everything to have. Normally, wanting that title back around my waist would be enough. But next week is about more than that now. Now its about making history, now its about getting the title out of hands that don’t deserve to hold it. I crave it. I hunger for the chance to make history.

Nick: Strong words.

Ward: You may be the Construction of Destruction, you may be the big, mean, nasty, hardcore sonofabitch, but when they lock the door to that steel hell, you’re gonna find out just how dangerous hunger can be, and you’re gonna regret, even for just one moment, not cherishing what you had while you had the chance.

"Kingdom of the Worm" by Motorhead.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick: And here comes the Champion!

Richard: Ward's about to get himself sat on.

The Murder Show, strap in hand, ambles through the curtain to a similar ovation to that of the Inhuman Being. With a microphone in hand he scratches his rotund belly and yawns, stopping at the top of the ramp and bringing the mic to his lips with a chuckle. Before he can say anything Ward reaches back and with the prowess of a World Series pitcher sends his microphone hurling through the air towards the Champion.

The Murder Show continues to chuckle until the microphone gradually becomes bigger and bigger until finally he has to duck to the side out of its trajectory, grinding his teeth at the sound of static when it hits the floor. Regarding the Inhuman Being with a more serious tone this time, the giant brings the mic up again.

Hessian: Must kill you to see me with this belt Tchu, huh? Because you deserve it so much more than me, ain't that right?

Ward paces back and forth in the ring like a caged lion, mouthing obscenities at the giant as he brings the title up, staring at it lovingly before placing it over his shoulder.

Hessian: You got a nerve calling me out the way you do. Acting like you're the only goddamn wrestler in this business who busts his balls to get to the top. Newsflash pal, I've worked longer and harder than anyone in this business, you especially, to be able to call myself Champion.

Ward: (shouting from the ring) YOU'RE NO CHAMPION!!

The Murder Show cocks his head towards the Inhuman Being to hear him better, and begins to stalk his way towards the ring to more cheers from the crowd.

Hessian: This is my company now. I'm the first name people look up when they hear about PRIME, not you. The jealousy's killing you so you have to discredit my name however possible, and the thing is I couldn't give a crap what you think of me as Universal Champion. Fact of the matter is I'm where you wanna be Tchu, and you can say I'm losing it, you can tell me I'm not worthy...but when you're standing across from me inside that steel cage and my title and my reputation are on the line you're gonna have a different beast on your hands altogether.

While Ward mouths off in the ring and Hessian continues his rebuttal, an image appears on the PRIME*View that arouses a violent boo from the audience. Ward silences his tongue but continues pacing.

Hessian: Nobody got famous by losing twice, Tchu, but plenty got famous getting their ass kicked by the Murder Show. That's a fact, one I'm willing to prove next we-

"Next week you prove only your insanity. Both of you."

The arbiter of disaster and master of ceremonies and, most importantly, Jewel in the Crown Violence Jack seems to look through the big screen straight into Hessian's eyes while Ward, after initially appearing concerned, begins to smile at the sight of the giant gawking up at the Bringer of the Black Gospel.

Behind VJ stand Wilhelm Von Krauser, Blake Ender and the monstrous Hayate Sanada, who appears especially aggravated. Amidst their presence, strewn in tatters lies everything from broken wooden shelves to spare ring attire to even a shattered cell phone. Equally shocking are the remnants of half-eaten foods and what appear to be pills spread around the room. The Murder Show recognizes the raided environment as his locker room.

Hessian: You son of a bitch!

Violence Jack acknowledges the giant's ire with a narrowing of the eyes and a condescending shake of the head.

Hessian: Don't shake your head at me you prick!

The giant turns to Ward.

Hessian: You wanna know how things are gonna go down next week?

He turns back to V-Jack.

Hessian: You got until I get back there to get out of the building or I'm gonna pound some skulls hard enough that they feel it in Tokyo!

Violence Jack: Save your energy, old one. You know as I do that you cannot afford to indulge in such reckless abandon before your title bout. Not against these odds Von Kelsig.

Hessian: I'll take that bet you-

The giant is silenced by what at first appears to be the stern face of the Jewel in the Crown winner. With the power to his mic cut Hessian begins stomping on the ramp and thrusting his fists at the screen.

Violence Jack: That's your problem, you don't listen. Ward has one thing right; you're unworthy of that gold. Whether through gluttony or an absence of mind you do not fit the mould requisite of a leader. Von Kelsig you have struggled to attain glory all these years because you are not cogitative, rather an instinctual beast responding only to the stimuli that makes you so violent. You rarely, if ever, make the first move and that is your downfall. My position at Culture Shock is greatly benefited by the fact you are continually put under the microscope, under my eye. So, if the notion takes you by all means make your way back here and gamble your life away, or if you prefer to piss away your legacy against the man in the ring then make your move. Either way it only serves my purpose at Culture Shock when whoever takes the belt next week relinquishes it to me then.

The Bringer of the Black Gospel looks to the ring, seemingly staring straight at Ward before glancing back down at Hessian.

Violence Jack: Choose wisely.

The PRIME*View goes black and after another chorus of boos Hessian looks back and forth between the ring and the curtain, growing ever angrier.

Nick: The Champion is in one hell of a predicament Richard! This is one of his toughest challenges ever having to bulldoze through two of wrestling's finest before his reign has even really gotten started.

Richard: Judging by the look on his face he knows he's screwed. Either get gang banged by the Black Parade or be embarrassed professionally by The Inhuman Being.

The Champion gives Ward a final sneer before turning to the curtain and disappearing backstage to applause from the crowd.

Richard: And he's chosen the gang bang!

Nick: Hessian is taking off after Violence Jack and his followers, folks! This can't bode well for the Universal Champion as he faces Jacob McKail later tonight and then Ward next week for the title!

Richard: The challenge is immense but ultimately it's going to lead to a battle between The Hess Express and the Tchu-Tchu Train, and Nick, I cannot wait for that bell to ring!

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

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

Yeah, I get it
You're an outcast.

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

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

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

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

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

So paranoid...
Watch your back!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To explain,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow I'm still here,
To explain,

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

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

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

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



Those in the Sinan Erdem Dome are more jacked to see a program than a conference room full of steroided-up freaks bodybuilders vying for a chance at glory. These people are witnessing glory at its finest in ReVolution 241. Another twist on the long winding road to Culture Shock 2011, and the final rest stop for Matt Ward and Hessian as they prepare to duel for the Universal Championship at 242.

A wall of pyrotechnics engulfs the main stage while the hard camera gets a still shot. Did we mention the audience has jumped up and down so much Charlie Sheen's Ustream got interrupted because he thought the world was coming to an end and decided to snort 10 GRAM (7 gram? Fuck that, this is Armageddon) between Bree Olsen's tits because that's how he rolls.

Yeah, if you think we're taking the Craig Ferguson approach and ceasing ourselves from making Sheen jokes, man you must be as warped as he is.

After the awe-inspiring display of pyrotechnics that cost one half a day of Sheen's paycheck before he got DAS BOOT stops, smoke waives out into the audience, but none seem to mind as they are being featured for 15 seconds on television. Overhead cameras pan into the upper tiers of the building, capturing glimpses of all those who have jam packed the dome. A few are docile, but most are energetic and willing to do embarrassing things in hopes the camera operator will stop on him or her for a second longer. One person even dances like Tom Brady in that video. Eugh.

Once down in the lower sections, the operator slows down and catches a few signs for the home viewing audience.

"RIP Captain Suleimon: COD – Hummus poisoning"
"Hessian ate my baby."
"I'm with stupid. Please help by dialing 911."

The sign has a sign pointing down at the person holding it.

A hard camera switch features our normal commentary team of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker. It's safe to say Parker will never try to get his freak on during company time ever again, or at least when there is a high probability of being exposed on camera. Both men are wearing custom fitted, hand crafted, every minute detail tailor made to fit their tastes TOP OF THE LINE Wal*Mart suits.

As if Shakur is giving a budget to these two.

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

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

Go!

Nick: On the final night before all three PRIME Championships are to be decided, we welcome you to ReVolution 241 from Istanbul, Turkey! I'm Nick Stuart alongside the refreshed, because his mom flew all the way to Turkey to give him his lunch -

Richard: FUCK YOU, STUART!

Nick: Richard Parker.

Richard: You ingrates are never going to let that go are you?

Nick: If it happened to me would you?

Richard: Oh come ON! You can't use that on me, man.

Nick: Just as I thought. Folks, tonight we've got four exciting matches coming at you, as well as I'm sure, far more going on in the backstage area. We're scheduled to hear from the likes of Jacob McKail, Matt Ward, and we already heard from Hessian, and I'm sure Devin Shakur is going to prominently be featured on the tube.

Richard: Because he's the only one with some moral righteousness around here. He's the ONLY ONE who hasn't come up and made fun of me.

Nick: I'm sure he's made a ton of jokes behind your back, buddy.

Richard: I only believe what I see, Nick, and I haven't seen that. Everybody else, sure. They all want to kick The Park when he's down.

Nick: The Park?

Richard: That's what I call myself. And look at it this way, I'm not the ugliest person with the last name Parker. Yeah, I'm looking at you Sarah Jessica. GIDDY UP HORSEFACE! COME ON GIRL! COME ON!

Manual buzzer.

Nick: Our first bout features two people getting adjusted to the lay of PRIME's land in Katterina Wylde and Mitchell Quinlan. One of them has to walk away with a victory this evening. Who are you putting your money on, Rich?

Richard: No, don't you dare try and rope me in on this. I know you want me to say Katt, and because of her relationship to… to... I'M NOT EVER MENTIONING HER NAME AGAIN!

Nick: To She Who Shall Not Be Named. Great, now we have two of those around here.

Richard: Then you are going to hoodwink me into a conversation about my experience since I've refused to talk to the press. You know what, Stuart? I am a living legend in this business and I never have to explain my actions to you ingrates who don't know what it's like to be with a real woman.

Nick: How'd your wife feel about it when she saw the footage?

Richard: I told her I was on assignment. It was one of those in-depth pieces like WWFE used to do.

Nick: And she bought that?

Richard: IT WAS AN ASSIGNMENT! FOR THE LOVE OF HOYT, GO ON! WE HAVE OTHER STUFF TO TALK ABOUT IN THE BEST WRESTLING ORGANIZATION IN THE WORLD!

Nick: Your mom was doing well when I saw her earlier today. She even remembered my favorite lunch.

Richard slams his headset down and stomps over to where Vince Howard is sitting, orders him up, and plops into the chair, arms folded across chest, nose stuck in the air. Howard, being the quick thinker he is, moseys over to where Parker was sitting and dons the headset.

Vince: The previous temper tantrum was brought to you by Dunkin Donuts. The best donuts in the world and where Richard Parker stops for breakfast, brunch, lunner, and his 11 PM and 1 AM snacks.

Nick: And I'm pleased to be joined, at least for the first few minutes, by our illustrious ring announcer. So, since Richard couldn't answer my question without flying off the handle, Mitchell Quinlan against Katterina Wylde, who do you like?

Vince: I enjoy the flash and flare of Wylde, and Quinlan is a bit of an enigma.

Nick: You mean weird?

Vince: I'm trying to remain impartial plus I'm green at this.

Nick: You also might want to get a new chair.

Vince: But in the interest of realism, I am going to have to go Wylde. I think she's destined to breakout and come up with her first victory.

Nick: Our next contest will feature Lance Marshall going one on one against Brian Postal. For those of you who didn't watch 240 -

Vince: Go back to Al-Qaeda.

Nick: I can't tell whether you are playing the PBP or color guy in this scenario.

Vince: Just do the opposite of what I do.

Nick: I'll try. Folks, for those of you who didn't witness 240, Postal barely escaped in Casablanca with a victory over Quinlan, and collapsed before he could get up the rampway. He was stretchered out by officials and I'm still unaware of how he's going to compete this evening. I know the effects of that concussion cannot be fully healed, and Lance Marshall is not exactly the dullest knife in the drawer to be having a match against.

Vince: It's like he's walking into the den and will become The Lion's lunch.

A stomp from Richard Parker, who can apparently hear what is being said.

Nick: The medical staff came under fire last week in the Moroccian press after Postal's collapse, and the folks in the Turkish press haven't been so kind either. I don't think it should be put on their shoulders though, because Postal was able to convince the doctor to let him compete. It was he, and he alone, who asked to be brought through. Perhaps, there will be more than one doctor around this time, and convincing won't be as easy.

Vince: I've seen the work Lance Marshall is capable of doing when he is on his A-Game, Nick, and it is far less of a savory invite to walk in there against a guy like Mitchell Quinlan, who granted is a fine athlete, but Marshall is an absolute monster and man who is not going to take it lightly once that bell rings. Postal might be better off trying to find a substitute. Lord knows Shakur would probably approve of such.

Nick: A sound recommendation there, Vince. In our third match, we have the out of control and spiraling Hessian, our Universal Champion, squaring off against Jacob McKail, who got the jump on Seymour Almasy last week.

Vince: Must have felt good for him after being dragged through the mud earlier in the evening.

Nick: No doubt it did, and I haven't seen head or tails of Almasy ever since. He didn't fly with the rest of us to 241 and I still haven't seen him tonight, not even hiding in the crowd. It might have been responding to the bully that got McKail some recognition and Almasy off his back.

Vince: But he's going in there tonight against an even bigger bully, one who is ever-growing.

Nick: It's no secret Hessian, ever since acquiring the Universal Championship, hasn't exactly kept himself in tip-top shape. I wonder what he's hit the scale at, since unfortunately PRIME doesn't do weight-ins prior to bouts. He's getting bigger and sluggish.

Vince: You can imagine Ward is chomping at the bit to get himself in the ring with Hessian. I wouldn't be surprised, knowing Matt, if he isn't throwing room service to Hessian at all hours of the night to help him get bigger.

Nick: That's devious, but definitely out of Ward's repertoire. Hessian needs to focus on McKail this evening though, or he could find himself on a losing streak heading into his huge encounter. McKail is a former world champion, and can bring about some great performances if summoned.

Vince: The thing is, I don't think Hessian sees it in such a light. He's got what I call Tiger vision. He's only thinking about the majors. The title defenses. The matches that could lead to future contenders. He doesn't believe McKail is worthy enough.

Nick: If Hessian loses tonight, he might be seeing McKail sometime down the road. That is how he ought to look at it.

Vince: And in our Main Event, well, I guess it is a good thing I'm over here.

Nick: Roxy Phoenix receives, without a doubt, the biggest test in her PRIME career, when she goes one on one with Alexandra Pierce.

Vince: A Main Event clearly not made by the boss of our company.

Nick: I doubt it. Tyler Rayne and Lisa Tyler have been doing all they can to promote the fact Alexandra Pierce is in PRIME, featuring her in Main Event after Main Event. She hasn't suffered a loss since the King of Kings finale against Violence Jack. Can she keep the streak going?

Vince: I'd venture to say this one will be far higher of a wrestling match than expected.

Nick: Plus, all the major players, excluding Almasy, are in the building tonight, and I wouldn't put it past them to be in full force.

Vince: With that being said, let's take it backstage and I'll gear up for the first match.

Nick: Good talking to you, Vince.

Vince: Same to you, amigo.

"Ms. Pierce! Ms. Pierce!"

Camera-switch: outside.

The hurried voices beat the cut backstage, even. They come from a slight Turkish man with an expensive suit and smile that's probably costlier still. He approaches the woman as she nears the building.

Yes, that's right, kids -- it's time for the contractually mandated Alexandra Pierce Arrival Segment.

Pierce – dressed as she always is at this juncture of a show in jeans and a button-down blouse – stops, standing her suitcase up for all the time it takes to pin the man in place with her gaze. There's a reason they call this woman The Medusa, after all.

Our dapper gent stops, raising both hands in surrender.

Man: Sorry. Sorry, sorry.

Pierce: Who are you?

Alex tips her sunglasses down, frowning slightly.

Pierce: Devin sent you, didn't he?

Man: Ah... yes, man. My name is Eser.

He pronounces it "es-SARE".

Eser: I have been asked to be certain you are comfortable here at our wonderful establishment.

Pierce: I'm sure you have.

Eser: Yes, this is a wonderful arena, and—

Pierce: So you're a sycophant, then.

Eser: I am sorry, ma'am?

Pierce: You're here to be... nice.

He beams, white teeth flashing against dusky skin.

Eser: Yes, ma'am.

Pierce: Just... because?

Eser: Mr. Shakur believes that you have been treated unfairly, and he has asked me to be certain you are comfortable and happy.

Pierce: Great. Just... just great.

She continues to the building, and the man hurries past, tugging open the door.

Eser: This way, miss. I have secured you the finest of accommodations here at the building, as well as personal access to the training room for all your pre-match preparations, and—

Pierce: Stop talking.

Eser: Yes, ma'am. Of course, ma'am.

The door closes – and we cut away.

The moonlight floods the night skies, allowing the beauty of the arena to be truly captured. The fans were all inside and the show was about to begin as a black motorcycle rode up towards the Sinan Erdem Dome, stopping in the parking lot by a fire escape ladder leading up to the roof. The leatherclad rider got off the motorcycle, removing her helmet and revealing herself to be none other than "The Dark Angel" Katterina Wylde. She took a moment to listen as she could hear the excited fans within the building and smiled. Yes, she still had her issues with Jakob but she plans on putting them out of her mind and focus on that one thing that has eluded her since she arrived in PRIME…victory. Katt is about to begin her climb up the ladder when Matt Mills appears as if by magic with a cameraman in tow.

Mills: Katt, can I get a few…

Katt: No. You’re fucking up my chi, dude.

Mills: But I just…

Katt: Uh-uh. Off you fuck.

She breezes past him like a strong wind and scales the ladder, leaving Mills confused and his cameraman rolling footage of Katterina’s ass in skin-tight black leather pants as she scales to the top of the arena. As she completes her journey to the top, she wanders over to the edge of the roof, sitting down in a cross-legged position, looking down upon the parking lot below. She closed her eyes, and began some sort of meditation ritual, but it was immediately interrupted when she heard the sounds of Matt Mills screaming in pain from the ground on the parking lot. She turns to find Roxy Phoenix is already up ton the roof…throwing rocks at poor Mills, and by the sounds of it, she’s hitting him more than once.

Katt: Uh…Rox? He’s no use to us dead…okay, he’s no use to us period.

Roxy: You'd think with these all those prepubescent wrestling fans out there, they'd have Brooks on your ass secretly fulfilling their wet dreams... but then again, I already turned that bitch to the dark side.

Katt: Aw man. I was kinda hoping to pop that cherry…

Roxy: I just planted the seed. You can do the sowing.

Katt: Now I know what I'm doing later tonight...you're free to join us, you know...help me plough the field...

Roxy: Tempting offer. Happy hour beckons, so I may have to take a rain check. Besides, I'm having peen withdrawals lately with Ty being a bitch and all. He used to always be good for a lay.

Katt: He’ll come round eventually. Resistance is futile. Personally, I’m sick of peen. I’ve had enough problems with the "family" wanting me to return home to spend the rest of my days on a leash. I’m not the submissive type …except for that one time with you and that harness….

Roxy: I wish I had your same apathy towards men. There's just something that feels so damn amazing about a good, hard, thick cock pounding-- excuse me, I'm getting distracted.

Roxy combs her hair back, and she scoots close to Katt. Any normal friend would wrap an arm around the other for support, but Roxy was never comfortable showing physical intimacy on that level.

Roxy: When you slaughter Jakob, they'll know you're not fucking around. They may never take you seriously, but it's a start...

Katt: Trust me, Rox…when they the broken shell of a man he becomes after I get done with him, they’ll have no choice but to stand up and take notice.

Roxy: Let's hope it comes sooner rather than later.

Roxy: Let's hope it comes sooner rather than later.

Roxy notices Katt's deep reflection, and she becomes unsettled with the tense situation.

Roxy: Let's go do some body shots. It's the best way to prep you for your match.

Katt: Sounds like a plan, babe.

Roxy: All this whining over boys is making think about Jason... and I do not want to go there.

Roxy pauses for a second, and she scowls with a shiver of fury.

Roxy: Let's go back to throwing rocks.

Katt looks over the edge of the building to see Matt Mills and his cameraman still standing in the parking lot like a pair of stalkers waiting for the pair to descend down the ladder at the side of the building. The Dark Angel picks up a rock and flashes a grin in Roxy’s direction.

Katt: Right between the eyes.

She throws the rock down. Silence is all that can be heard…until…

Mills: OW!

Roxy: You sure I couldn't push him down the fire escape? Would he really be missed?

Mitchell Quinlan Vs Katterina Wylde

Out of the gate, this appeared to be a one sided melee. Katterina Wylde showed a fire she hadn't displayed in PRIME since her debut match, when she tried to get the jump on Hessian. She exploded from her corner and unleashed a flurry of strikes: elbows, forearms, punches, open handed slaps, shin kicks, backhanded chops, and even an occasional headbutt. She then mounted the second rope and held a hand out to the crowd, who is always encouraged to cheer when a hot woman asks: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten. Quinlan stumbled out of the corner and was met with a reverse hurricanrana that sent him underneath the bottom rope.

Nick: Wow, Wylde is out like a bat from hell. She's determined to prove herself here tonight.

Richard: I know what you are trying to do. You want to bait me in and get me suckered to say something sexist so you can bring up that harlot who will not be named.

Nick: I'm a play-by-play man, Richard, I only commentate on the action.

Richard: Stop giving me that smug attitude. I know the game you play.

Unafraid to take her game aerial, Wylde went off far side and soared over the top rope with a somersault plancha to the floor, taking Quinlan further off his game. She rose to a modest pop from the crowd, before grabbing Quinlan and bringing him under the bottom rope. She pulled him halfway inside and outside the ring before backpedaling toward the ring steps. A few quick paces forward and she exploded into a Shotei to the forehead that knocked Quinlan for a loop.

Nick: Straight down on the forehead, Richard. That is not going to make the guy who already is a few fries short of a happy meal feel any better.

Richard: If it had been done to his nutsack, he would have finished.

Wylde rolls in under the bottom rope and dragged Quinlan to center ring looking for a cover. She got two, and decided to go back to work. A pull of Quinlan's shoulders brought him up, and a knee to the midsection brought him over. She bent him over to gain more leverage when bouncing off near side and landing a Yakuza Kick straight to the head. Quinlan spun around, disoriented, long enough for Wylde to reach up and land a thunderous backstabber in hopes of putting the match away. One. Two. Kickout from Quinlan.

Nick: Wylde still trying for that pinfall.

Richard: I'd job to her in hopes she would repay the favor.

Nick: You are going to make the sexual references but no sell me when I try to bait you in?

Wylde, still persistent, brought Quinlan up to a standing position and jumped off the second rope, flipped back, and perfectly executed her Original Sin trademark maneuver. Next, there wasn't much left but to drop down and apply the Fade to Black, one of her patented finishing maneuvers. Quinlan tried squirming and making it to the bottom rope, but Wylde had such a strong, and more deceptive than anything, grip on Quinlan that he was left no choice but to either pass out or tap out, and to save himself quicker, he opted to tap out.

Winner: Katterina Wylde

Word spreads like wildfire through the corridors of PRIME’s backstage area. At times, it can be worse than an all-girl run beauty salon inside a high school (should one ever exist). Everybody knows everything within minutes of most all happenings. People are dishing on cellular phones, shouting down hallways, ducking into vacant locker rooms or a janitor’s closet (when Roxy Phoenix isn’t occupying it), and there have been a few instances where witnesses claim to have seen carrier pigeons flying up and down a hallway or two. So, hypothetically, it’s worse than the Chicago crime world in the 1920s when Capone ran roughshod.

Was there supposed to be a point somewhere to this? Oh. Yeah, there was. Anywho, the Turkish medical staff has cleared Brian Postal to compete against Lance Marshall and those in the concern are worried about his chances against Lance Marshall. Others with a secret bloodlust who want to see just about anybody get the living daylights beaten out of ‘em are thrilled for Marshall to flatten the newcomer like a bug.
One person who somehow fits into both categories is Devin Shakur, who has summoned the newcomer to his office for a meeting prior to his encounter with The Lion.

Postal casually stands outside the office and raps on the door three times. He looks up at the nameplate once again and sees a dark as night black logo with red letters staring back at him.
And three seconds later when the door swings open, he sees a seven foot biker staring down at him with a look of contempt.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Postal shouldn’t be surprised to see Daniels scorn him with this look, it’s his run of the mill given to everybody. He takes a step back, knowing full well he’d rather not compromise a chance to thwart Marshall’s momentum by getting into a donnybrook with a man who could qualify for Hell’s Angels.

Glancing around the huge shadow being cast by The Biker, Shakur gets a glimpse of who is outside his office.

Shakur: It’s alright, C, let him in.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Shakur: Yeah, I love you guys too.

Daniels ushers Postal forward, sliding his hand across at waist level. Postal walks by, hands at side, and moves to Shakur’s table, where The Boss points behind him at the chair while his eyes run over some paperwork Postal sits, maintaining a clam demeanour - at least that what he's trying for.

Postal: You wanted to see me, boss?

The Boss holds a finger up and skims the final paragraph before looking up to acknowledge Postal. It’s a stern stare that might not bode well for Postal’s future.

Shakur: The little birdies flying through the corridor told me you have been cleared by the medical staff to compete here tonight.

Postal: True story.

Shakur: And I know I didn’t make the match pitting you against Marshall.

Postal: No sir, Ms. Lisa Tyler was gracious enough to give me that booking.

The Boss folds his hands in a pyramid and places them under his chin.

Shakur: She’s the Nancy Reagan of safety around here. If a worker is hurt and they want to compete, she’ll respond with "Just Say No" to an urge. So something tells me… you had a bit something to do with changing her mind.

A sheepish half smirk crosses Postal’s face. He folds his arms and leans back into his chair.

Postal: Well mayhab I did and mayhab I didn't, boss. I'd-a come to you but you've been...busy in everyone else's business.

Shakur: I’m kind of a big deal around here, Postal, but it seems even if I wanted to stop it that I couldn’t…

Dramatic pause, arched high eyebrows, and extended left pointer finger from Shakur.

Shakur: Oh wait, yes I can. I could definitely take you out of the match right now and feed an Enemigo to that steroid balloon.

A moment of concern cheats across Brian's face.

Shakur: In fact, that’s what I’m going to do. C, how you feel about being a last minute replacement for our boy here?

Daniels: Against Marshall?

He snorts louder than a bull.

Daniels: Be mor’n willin’ta.

Postal holds his hands up like he’s being arrested by the police, or as if he’s telling everybody to calm down.

Postal: Woah, woah, cowboy.

The Boss is not impressed. Bad move by the newbie.

Shakur: Excuse me?

Since things are going south fast Postal reigns it in, and plays nice.

Postal: Pardon me. Sir.

Shakur: Something on your mind, Post?

Brian might normally make a stand about what his name is and isn't here, but this wasn't the time. He needed to play nice - his young career and shot at redemption was riding on PRIME.

Postal: Alright… Yeah, maybe tangoing with the 'Roid Monkey when I'm still technically recovering isn't the best idea, but… You’ve gotta level with me here, man.

Shakur: I level with the Board, son. You going out and getting slaughtered doesn’t get me money. Take it from someone who was in a distorted state of mind when he stepped in the ring with Marshall. My best kick at the time couldn’t take him down. I knew AT THAT VERY MOMENT I made a crucial mistake. I’m not watching someone else make the same mistake.

Postal: Look, I get Marshall is a big bad guy, and his leg's like, the size of my torso, but you talk about you making money? What about me making money? What about me getting a chance? My shot? Can you imagine... can you imagine the headlines if I was able to go out there and beat Marshall?

A quick ponder from Shakur. He has been looking for some type of revenge ever since Marshall knocked him off at Cataclysm, and has now decided to involve himself with Daniels.

Shakur: I’d rather put my stock in the workhorse over there.

Postal: Come on, Shak-Daddy, think about it. There are over 22,000 people out there expecting to see me walk down that ramp in ten minutes. Be reasonable.

Shakur: I’m being reasonable about your health. You collapsed after your match last week and that was against someone you defeated. Lance Marshall isn’t Mitchell Quinlan. He’s a bruiser. His clothesline feels like you just ran into a steel bar throat first. He’s on more steroids than one of those bodybuilders in a Real/Fake ad on a website, but he’ll exploit you worse than minimum wage.

The newcomer delivers a loud sigh and almost looks ready to up and storm out of the office. He’s got a look in his eyes of a deer caught in the headlights. He was looking forward to going back out and displaying his talents and has always heard the mantra that folks in PRIME play through the pain.

Unfortunately for him, Shakur isn’t the dullest knife in the drawer and can practically read his mind. He adjusts his posture and keeps his hands folded pyramid style.

Shakur: There’s only one way I can see you going out there tonight.

Postal smiles, relieved, and is completely oblivious to the ruse he’s just been pulled into.

Shakur: You see, last week I was involved in a lot of business, and one of those problems has seen fit to once
again stick his nose in my business and be a thorn in my side.

It is about this time Postal realizes he’s one move behind The Devil in Black and has been conned.

Shakur: I’m referencing Little Boy Bruh, Bryan Dawkins.

BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Both guys jump out of their seats and turn to Daniels.

Shakur: Christian, would you stop with the soundboard?

Daniels: Sorry, chief.

The Biker stashes the tape recorder in his left jean pocket and chuckles while both men take a second and then get back to dealings.

Shakur: Anyhow, Dawkins isn’t someone I really want to focus on when I’ve already got a quagmire in Alexandra Pierce on my hands, let alone Troy, Rayne, and Hoyt knows who else roaming around here planning to overthrow me. I need someone to make sure Dawkins stays out of my hair for a while.

Now Postal is beginning to believe Shakur never intended to take him out of the match in the first place. It’s a passing thought, but one that briefly gives him some insight to the inner-workings of the man he’s sitting across the table from.

Postal: So you want me to, what, confront Dawkins?

Shakur: Yes and more. I don’t want you to just confront him. I want you to take him out long enough for me to eliminate Pierce.

Confliction appears on Postal’s face. He’s not entirely comfortable with the scenario being laid out. There’s even a hint of sadness... or resignation... in his expression, although he’s not trying to make himself an open book to The Boss.

Postal: Look boss, I didn't get into wrestling to be a thug.

Shakur: Then let me make it real simple for you, kid. You either go through with what I say, or I’m going to make sure you not only miss tonight’s action, but any action for the foreseeable future until Dr. James Andrews clears you to wrestle. And I don’t think with his clientele, you’ll be seen until after Culture Shock.

He’s clearly upset, and has silently joined the group of people willing to overthrow Shakur at some point in the future, which has been clearly established and even acknowledged by Shakur, but at the moment, he’s got to give in. Through clenched teeth Postal replies.

Postal: All I’ve got to do is get Dawkins out of your hair and in return I get a free pass?

Shakur: As many weeks as you want, kid. I’ll make sure you receive new ‘Get out of Jail Free’ cards each week, regardless of your condition. I know the need to get over in such a rigorous company with depth beyond depth on its roster.

Postal hangs his head and breaths heavily through his nose. After a moment he looks up at the Boss.

Postal: Fine.

Shakur responds by looking back down at his paperwork.

Shakur: You’ll see Postal, this is beneficial for both of us in the long run, and will get you the necessary exposure. Now go out there and knock ‘em dead.

Postal: Yeah.

It was the most vacant his voice has sounded all conversation. Shakur holds up a hand and runs his eyes back over the paperwork that’s paramount enough for him to ignore a man in a bind. Daniels escorts Postal out the door and shuts the door behind him.

Daniels: Gon get’cha fired one’em days.

Shakur: Let it. I can throw blame on Rayne and Tyler for this one if I need to.

Daniels: Who ya need me’ta summon next?

Shakur: I’ve got a meeting with Hessian soon so let’s make sure he’s somewhere in the vicinity.

The Universal Title jiggles over the mound of the giant's belly as he thunders down the corridor towards his locker room, pushing people aside where they haven't already leapt out of the way of the raging Champion.

He barrels through a set of double doors and slams against the concrete wall on the other side, bouncing off in the direction he needs to go. Ahead lies the last left turn before the locker room area, and grinding his teeth Hessian slows his pace to a jog, more out of exhaustion than anything else.

Scanning the area for any available weapons, the Universal Champion finds nothing and resorts to unbuckling his title and brandishing it ready to knock out the first man to meet him. Cautiously turning the corner, Hessian studies the hallway and the doors running down both walls decorated with the name plates of the more important members of the roster. At the end he recognizes a few familiar faces milling around the communal locker room, failing to spot either Violence Jack or his cronies amongst them.

Hessian: Sons of bitches.

Making a beeline for his locker room, the giant stops in front of the door and lowers the belt in confusion. Where his name should be emblazoned in gold hangs an intricately designed nameplate of onyx, embossed upon which is the name Violence Jack.

The Murder Show does a double take of the other locker room doors to reassure himself that this is his room, but when he turns back to the door bearing the name of Boston's Bastard Son he finds himself face to face with Hayate Sanada.

SMACK

A closed fist catches the giant on the chin sending him reeling back into Linsday Troy's locker room door. Slamming spine-first into the pine he flops forward and into a knee to the jaw from VJ's enforcer before hitting the ground.

"You have a penchant for war unlike most I've encountered. Shame it will serve only to part you from the Universal Title."

From behind the giant Asian comes Violence Jack, clad in his trademark robes and stoically regarding Hessian as Sanada grinds a boot into his face.

Violence Jack: Just know that every decision you made led to your own downfall. What you are about to receive is of your own doing. It would be a sin to deny you the fight you crave.

With those parting words V-Jack saunters down the corridor towards his own locker room, leaving Blake Ender and Wilhelm Von Krauser to emerge from behind Sanada and join him in bearing down on the fallen Champion with vicious kicks.

The Murder Show struggles to deflect half the shots, and begins to curl into the foetal position when he notices his belt lying between the feet of VJ's followers. Eyes wide with concern he reaches out and takes a heel to the shoulder sending a sharp jolt of pain through his chest, but regardless he grasps the belt and clutches it so tightly to his chest that it becomes his own heart beat with every kick to the gold plate reverberating in his chest.

No one teases the giant and the Champion keeps his mouth shut and eyes closed, taking the barrage of shots to his body and allowing the pain to flourish throughout while he uses every ounce of strength not beaten from him to grip the title so that his fingers whiten and the veins pop in his arms.

"Next boot to hit the fat man gets broken off the ankle and shoved up an ass sideways."

The threat draws the attention of all three who instantly ready themselves to take out Hessian's back-up. Panning down the hall leads not to some knight in shining armour, or a last action hero or even some dark gimmick dredged up from the past to offer the Champion their support. None of them. Just a Man in Black.

Devin Shakur: Now go back to Jack and stick to him like glue because if I find you laying out any more of PRIME's assets I'll not only reduce you to dust, I'll sue you for the privilege.

VJ's followers oblige without a word and take their leave of the giant, who by the time it's just him and Shakur left in the hallway is still clinging desperately to his title.

Devin Shakur: Maybe we should've booked that match for King of Kings after all.

The Murder Show chances a look around and glances up to see the Man in Black staring down at him. Feeling the blood rush to his face he pulls himself up off the ground, letting the title hang by his side as he clutches his torso and falls back into the wall groaning in pain.

Hessian: They were lucky to get away when they did.

Devin Shakur: You were easier to handle when you were swinging turnposts around and putting people through car crushers. Why is it as soon as you won that title you started getting into shit like this?

Hessian: Shit like this is the reason I'm Champion. So what if they got the jump on me one time?

Devin Shakur: Am I to assume as soon as we part company you're going to go order up another round of shots?

Hessian: Like hell I am. You're going to ban them from laying a finger on me until Culture Shock.

The Murder Show's hand tightens around the strap and Shakur sees it, meeting Hessian's gaze with a narrowed squint.

Devin Shakur: Jesus that's almost disappointing.

Hessian: What?

Devin Shakur: No, nothing. Don't worry about it Champ.

The Construction of Destruction half smiles and nods at the Man in Black, who only stares at the ground at Hessian's feet thinking the same thing as everyone else recently. Shakur hums under his breath before looking the giant in the eye again.

Devin Shakur: I'll see what I can do about the three amigos. Go prepare for McKail.

The Murder Show clenches a triumphant fist and hobbles away around the corner out of Shakur's sight. As soon as he disappears the Man in Black sighs and pinches his nose. A maniacal Hessian is bad enough, but a docile glutton ambling off with the company's biggest belt in his grasp and a God complex in his head is the worst. Not even the legendary Devin Shakur had words to sum that sight up, and looking back down in the direction Von Krauser, Ender and Sanada went off in he sighs and goes off in the opposite direction to continue his business.

Camera-switch: the training room.

They have similar habits, these two.

The man lying on the weight bench is named Lance Marshall; tonight (in just a few minutes, actually), he makes his singles debut in PRIME against Brian Postal. Right now, the final SCCW LiveWire Champion is working the weights in preparation, his even breathing the only noise in the room. The television is on, showing the broadcast, but it's on mute right now.

Those barbells that PRIME's new Lion is working with aren't toys, but he's not over-exerting himself this close to a match. An old promoter of his once told him to lift just enough to make the muscles stand out for the rubes, and while Lance might disagree with the terminology, the thought behind it is good.

Plus he doesn't mind the silence.

Of course, that doesn't last for very long. A thin, high-pitched man's voice precedes his interruption. His name is Eser, and he's the personally assigned body man for Alexandra Pierce. It's his job to give the Queen of Lies everything she could possibly need, though she's convinced his actual job is to be an obsequious pest.

Eser: The training room is this way. Around the bend, you'll have the peace and quiet you've requested.

Pierce: Will you be there?

Eser: Of course, of course. My job is to—

Pierce: Then I rather doubt I'll get any peace or quiet.

Lance sits up, wiping his brow with a towel. He chuckles as he hears the exasperation in a voice he knows all too well. The door opens, held by the thin Turk.

Eser: Ah, a joke. You're funny. No one told me you were—

He turns into the room and his frown is immediate.

Eser: I... I'm sorry, miss. I was told that the room would be unoccupied. I'll ask him to leave straight away.

Alex looks past the man and into the room. She lays a hand on his forearm.

Pierce: He's fine.

Eser nods once, sharply, steepling his fingers.

Eser: Yes, miss. Of course. Is there anything else you needed? Perhaps some water or a sports drink?

Pierce: Water would be fine. Bottled, please. And make certain it's cold.

His head bobs again, yanking open the door and bustling out.

Pierce: I swear I hate that man more than anyone I have ever had to wrestle.

Lance chuckles, dropping the towel and laying back on the bench for one last set.

Marshall: You can't give me a straight line like that, Alex.

Pierce: Oh, shut up. I'm not really that bad, am I?

Marshall: This is the first time your lackeys have ever been quite so... obvious. Not to mention that you were never really one for obsequious fawning.

Pierce: Devin assigned him to keep an eye on me, I'm sure of it.

Alex binds her hair back in a messy tail, crossing to the treadmills as Lance sits up again, returning the barbells to the rack.

Marshall: Yeah, but why?

Pierce: Why does Devin do anything? He's tried to browbeat me into doing something stupid, tried embarrassing me, and now he's sunk to annoying me.

Marshall: No, I meant... why do you matter to him so much? I get that Rayne hired you to bring Devin down, but why doesn't he just sit back and wait for you to do something?

The Spider steps up onto the treadmill, flipping the thing on. The hum of the motor and the repetitive steps of her running are added to the mix.

Pierce: You don't wait for someone else to attack you. A good villain doesn't sit in a corner and let the hero come to them. If he sat back and waited, all he'd be doing is looking over his shoulder.

Marshall: Yeah, but... you're not actually going to do anything, right? I mean, I've seen you with A—

Pierce: You're not allowed to say her name.

Marshall: You're kidding.

Pierce: Nope. It costs a thousand dollars every time you do.

Marshall: Hell. I've worked for some awful bosses, but not being able to say a name?

For those of you at home who are perverts, Alex Pierce is wearing a very firm sports bra, so there's no time for a pause and toss when she smiles.

Pierce: I'll take care of it.

Marshall: So you are going to do something.

Pierce: I'm considering my options.

Marshall: Because I don't want you to—

Pierce: I'm considering my option, Lance. When I signed on to work here with that stupid rule, I just – I just figured she'd come along eventually. I figured we'd see the world together. Maybe even wrestle side by side again. In my wildest dreams, I figured we might be the last two in the Halo, even. No offense, of course.

Lance stands, wiping his face with the towel again.

Marshall: None taken.

Pierce: And now she's... I can't say her name. I can't say her name, Lance, and I could give a fuck about a thousand-dollar fine, but she's adamant that I shouldn't give in. I can't say her name and now she's wrestling this weekend for another federation. I'm five thousand miles away, my daughter is back at school, and it will be May before I get to see her for more than a few days.

Marshall: Hey, my wife is sick and I'm here.

Alex sighs, stopping her pace. The machine carries her backwards to deposit on the tiled floor.

Pierce: Oh, God, I'm sorry.

Marshall: Don't worry about it. It's fine.

Pierce: It's not. Here I am, whining that my girlfriend won't be hired and that my daughter is back in high school, and Lani is—

Marshall: Really, Alex... it's fine. Get back to your workout. You may want to work on cardio – I saw Roxy wrestle at King of Kings, and you're basically going to be running a race.

Pierce: Postal took it to Hessian. And I can tell you from experience how much that hurts.

The Lion's smile is more than a little wry.

Marshall: Then we'd better hope I don't have any rust.

Pierce: I'm sure you'll do fine. It's... I'm glad you're here. Good to have a friendly face around here.

Marshall: Who would have thought you and I would ever be in a position where you'd say that?

Pierce: Ah, I used to think I could turn you. Lied awake at night trying to come up with a way.

Marshall: And you never found one?

Pierce: Well, you're still standing here, aren't you?

She steps back up onto the treadmill with a small smile.

Pierce: Good luck tonight.

Lance nods, tossing his towel in the hamper as he moves to the door.

Marshall: Thanks. You too.

Before he can leave, Alex calls after.

Pierce: How do you do it? How do you travel so much with—without Lani, without Zach?

Marshall: It's not easy. Back when I started, before Alanna and I were – before we were Lani and I – I had this stupid tour we were doing. We went through the northeast. Boston, Hartford, Providence. But Lani and I were just starting to date, and I didn't want to go. I love traveling, but I didn't want to go, you know?

Pierce: But you went?

Marshall: Lani told me... I remember we were out to dinner, and she looked at me and said, "Lance, your job is no different from a salesman or an executive. They travel, but they come home afterwards. As long as you call me every night and promise you'll always come home, I'll support you." So I call every night. No matter what time, even when Zach was a baby. I make sure that not a night goes by where I don't tell my wife and my son how much I love them. And I always, always, always come home.

Pierce: You left out the part where she became your manager so she could travel along with you.

The Lion chuckles, rich and amused.

Marshall: Yeah, but it's a lot better story if I do. Just call her. And go home after the shows. No matter if it's just for a few days or even a few hours, no matter what she says. She'll be happy to see you. Don't regret the time you're apart – just treasure the time you're together.

She ducks her head, reaching up to swipe the hair behind her ear.

Pierce: Thanks, Lance. Really. Thank you.

Marshall: My pleasure.

He tugs the door open, just in time to hear a voice calling down the hall.

Eser: I'm coming, Miss Pierce! On my way now, ma'am!

Marshall: And cut this kid some slack. Devin might have sent him, but he's not Devin.

Pierce: I'll... try to remember that. No guarantees.

The Lion ducks out of the room, his chuckle following.

Nick: Lance Marshall makes his PRIME in-ring debut against Brian Postal... coming up next!

Richard: But first!

Behind the scenes is usually where figureheads are at their busiest. They run around ensuring everything is slated to run smoothly in every facet of the program prior to airtime. One man elects to buck the trend, moving around like Pac-Man looking on the verge of capturing the last dot to ensure that everything on camera is running smoothly. He’s already had meetings with Brian Postal and Hessian in the span of ten minutes, and is standing in the hallway at the moment with Vangelus Olsig.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Olsig: Such obscene receptions should be reserved for peasants worthy of such. I, for one, am offended.

Shakur: It’s my standard MO. Now, look, I know Troy might not be in the building tonight…

Olsig: What?

Shakur: I was expecting to get run out of the building with torches and pitchforks for informing the folks of that.

Olsig: Think not of them, but rather of the greatness before you.

The Biker, standing just out of camera range, rolls his eyes at Olsig's ego.

Shakur: Sure thing. We know she’s going to be at ReVolution 242, and she’s going to have a match. So I’m going to need to make sure…

Olsig: What now?

Everyone's attention turns to the side where a large, menacing figure emerges from the darkness.Immediately Christian Daniels stands at the ready, his eyes a bit wide with surprise. Michael Sloan, or Chainz as he's commonly known in PRIME circles, stands in front of the trio. His cold blue eyes scan the area as his mind races with ideas.

Christian Daniels: Ya sick fuck. How da fuck you get-

Chainz: I have my ways Daniels, you of all people should know that.

The crowd boo's vehemently at Michael Sloan, quite possibly the only man on the PRIME roster more hated than Devin Shakur.

Olsig: Can you not see we're discussing important business?

Michael slowly turns his head to face Vaneglis Olsig. His stare is one of pure hate and evil.

Chainz: You're discussing my business.

His attention now focuses on Devin Shakur.

Chainz: You and your brother have a nasty habit of getting into my business. I assumed knowing the things you know that'd be the last thing you'd want.

Devin Shakur: I don't care where you've been or what you've done. We've been through the whole I'm a sick fucker, don't get in my way spiel before and you don't scare me.

Chainz: You might change your mind when you find yourself alone in a dark alley with me.

Christian Daniels: Fuck off Sloan. What we did we can do again you know.

Michael Sloan continues to stare at Devin Shakur as he speaks.

Chainz: You know Christian, you and my old friend Mary have a lot in common. You both didn't know when to keep your mouth shut and you both may wind up sleeping together, forever. Would you like that Daniels? I'm sure we could have a nice chat after the show, just you and me. Hell, one of us might never be seen again. Wouldn't that be fun?

Christian Daniels had been threatened before, but it felt different coming from a man like Michael Sloan.

Olsig: Am I to sit here and listen to this low life all night? My business is more important than any grudge you may have.

Chainz: Ah right, you're business. Stay away from Lindsay Troy.

Devin Shakur: I don't think she's interested in you Michael. Can't say I blame her.

Chainz: Your bounty is over with. Lindsay is mine and I'll be the one to break that bitch. I'm giving you a friendly warning to stay away, far away. You don't want to be near her when punishment comes.

Olsig: You threatening me?

Chainz: You have a chance to walk away. You don't and you've made your bed with her. I won't hesitate to turn my attention on you as well.

Both men stare at each other as Devin Shakur slowly backs away to the shadows nearby, a broad smile on his face.

Olsig: You're talking to a champion boy. You're talking to your better.

Chainz: You're talking to someone who doesn't care about wins and losses or PRIME in general. Like I said, stay away from the bitch or be broken with her. Your choice.

As quietly and quickly as he emerged, Michael Sloan slinks back away from the group. He turns and disappears down the hallway.

Christian Daniels: Fuck da prick.

With Sloan completely out of sight, Olsig turns back to Shakur who now looks confounded.

Olsig: What does of brute believes in such intrusion into the personal space of greatness such as I?

Shakur exacerbates his confounded expression and now gets irked.

Shakur: What, you think I knew about this? If I don't know about it, Olsig, it isn't something I'm expecting.

Olsig: Well, you are the alleged authority figure around here, so I suggest you do something to keep that beast in line.

Shakur: There are plenty of people who will line up to get a shot at him. I don't think he's going to be a concern of ours.

Olsig: You better be right, otherwise I'm going to take matters into my own hands.

Shakur: You take matters into your own hands and we're going to have a bigger problem than you'd like.

Olsig: No, Shakur, you'll have a bigger problem than you want. If I decide to go into business for myself, all bets are off. Nobody is going to be safe from my path of destruction.

Shakur: Don't threaten what you can't understand, Olsig. I'm already trying to make Pierce aware of that fact.

Both men are as close to throwing down as possible.

Olsig: I'd suggest you take your own advise.

And just like that, Olsig turns on his left foot and exits.

"RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The driving guitars of Muse's "Supermassive Black Hole" blast out over the PA system as The Lion, Lance Marshall makes his presence known at the top of the ramp.

Nick: What a specimen is the SCCW alumni, Lance Marshall.

Richard: You’re gross, Nick.

Nick: What are you, 12?

Richard: What are you, 12?

Lance prowls his way down the aisle, each step being made with deliberate precision. Even in a sport known for impressively developed individuals, Lance Marshall can still manage to give an audience pause. He is heavily muscled and incredibly defined, to the point where he’d make your average comic book powerhouse look small... and the sense of power radiating from him leaves no doubt that the muscles are not just for show. Clad in a pair of black wrestling trunks with a gold lion's head emblem imprinted on them and a pair of black wrestling boots with the same lion's head emblem on each, he makes his way down the aisle with a grace one would not expect from a man of his size.

Vince Howard: First, weighing in at 320 pounds...THE LION, LANCE MARSHALL!

Lance slaps at the hands lining the aisle, his eyes seem to almost burn with energy. As he approaches the ring, a smile slowly starts to creep along his mouth.

In direct contrast comes the pop-groove stylings of one Paul Simon…

BA DA BA BA, BA DA BA BA!

Brian comes in from the backstage spinning with arms wide open and gets a pretty decent pop from the crowd. He almost dances down the aisle, slapping the hands of those with ramp-side seats.

Nick: Brian’s making a solid name for himself among the PRIMEates, but I’m just glad to see him back.

Richard: After that embarrassing display last week I’m surprised he’s even showing his face.

Nick: He had a serious concussion, he’s been in hospital all week. He was in a coma for several hours!

Richard: Excuses…

Vince Howard: And his opponent, at 236 pounds… BRIAN POSTAL!

Brian slides into the ring, never breaking eye contact with Marshall.

DING! DING! DING!

The bell has barely rung when Marshall rushes Postal like a wildcat, fortunately Postal has the presence of mind to grab the Lion for a DDT as the 320-pound sculpted physique of Marshall connects with 236-pounder’s gut, stopping the devastation of the spear that was surely coming.

Nick: That’s some quick think--

Lance instead opts to throw his body into the upright position, essentially throwing Postal clear across the ring. While in the air Postal protects his head as he hits the canvas hard and slides clear out of the ring.

Richard: (Giddily) --ing.

A huge pop comes from the crowd as Lance prowls the ring and Postal grabs the ringside rail to pull himself to his feet. He doesn’t look hurt as much as amazed. Brian stands ringside, wide-eyed, looking at Marshall for a few seconds. Before nodding and throwing the Lion an infuriating thumbs up. Brian smiles and slides back in the ring.

Nick: What’s Postal smiling about?

Richard: I’m pretty sure he’s retarded...

The two men circle the ring. Postal stops first and holds out a hand for a shake, Lance just smiles before charging with a clothesline that could kill a man. Brian ducks it and comes up with the neckbreaker. Lance drops his left foot back to brace himself and hits Postal in the side of the head with a vicious elbow, causing Postal to release the hold and back away.

Nick: Great exchange here in the early part of this match.

Richard: Postal’s one cocky retard.

Nick: That’s really offensive.

Richard: What? I’m just saying that for a mentally handicapped comp--

Nick: Ugh. Stop grinning. You’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?

Richard: Yeah.

Postal and Marshall lock up with a collar-and-elbow. Marshall begins to overpower the smaller Postal rather quickly, but Brian drops out with with right hand and comes up with a brutal European Uppercut that knocks the Lion back a half step then follows with a pair of big right hooks. As Postal swings in with the third hook Lance grabs Postal’s wrist and yanks him in hard for the short-arm clothesline, turing Postal inside out.

Not wanting to give his foe a moment’s rest, Lance yanks Brian up by the hair and whips him into the ropes. On the return Postal gets lifted high in a Gorilla Press before being flipped down, back-first, onto Marshall’s knee. Brian goes bouncing away, arching his back up to try and alleviate the pain. Marshall comes up with a big jumping elbow drop, but Postal rolls out of the way just in time to avoid 320 pounds crushing down on him.

As Marshall is rising Postal comes running up from behind and plants Lance with a Jericho Bulldog, then he mounts the rolling Marshall and starts going crazy with lefts and rights as the crowd pops big for the underdog.

Nick: Postal with fury here.

Richard: Bet you like that.

Nick: Like what?

Richard: He mounted the specimen.

Nick: Honestly?

After a quick Eye Rake, Postal relents and back away from Marshall. The two men are once again standing in opposite corners of the ring staring each other down. Brain grabs the ropes in the corner behind his back and nods at Marshall before taking off at the Lion. Marshall begins moving forward, ready for whatever Postal may bring. But at the last second Postal drops to his back and baseball-slides between the feet of Marshall, hooking the legs as he goes, bringing the big man down on his face. Lance rolls forward onto his feet and turns to look at Postal.

The Lion comes at Postal with a hefty kick to the gut before picking him up with a half-chokeslam, half-spinebuster slam that sees Postal plummet almost 7 feet onto the canvas. Postal bounces almost 9 inches off the mat. Marshall lays into Postal with a series of stomps to the torso.

The match goes back and forth for another 5 minutes with no one competitor getting any decided advantage. Lance gets three near-falls and Postal two, but both men are still in the match and both men are getting tired - and it shows.

Lance grabs Postal by the head and lays some fist into his forehead, then he pulls Brian in and drops him with a DDT. Lance rises just before Brian who grabs his opponent and Irish Whips him into the ropes. On the return Brian hoists Marshall up on his shoulders, hollers out, and falls backward with a big-time Samoan Drop. Marshall is down and Postal climbs the ropes.

Nick: Brian looking to Go Postal here!

Richard: Maybe not.

Lance leaps to his feet and charges up the ropes after Postal, tackling Postal off the turnbuckle and to the ringside mats.

Crowd: HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Nick: Oh my god! Did you see that? These men could be dead!

Richard: Easy there, drama queen.

Marshall and Postal are laid out on the outside heaped against the barricade, just breathing.

Referee Tommy Giles starts the count.

ONEEEEE!

No movement.

TWOOOO!

Still no movement.

THREEEE!

More of the same.

FOURRRR!

Still no change.

FIVEEEEE!

Marshall rolls onto all fours.

SIXXXXX!

Postal grabs the barricade to get on his feet again.

SEVENNNN!

Lance on his feet as well.

EIGHTTTT!

Lance slides in the ring.

NINEEEEE!

Postal rolls into the ring.

As Postal is getting to his feet Marshall grabs him and hoists him onto his back.

Nick: Lance Marshall going for the Code Red!

CRUNCH! Postal gets dropped with the Lion’s Code Red. Lance scrambles for the pin and Giles counts it.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Vince Howard: Your winner: ‘The Lion’ Laaaaaaance Maaaaaarshaaaaall!

Nick: Another close effort against a seasoned, and easily favored competitor for Postal. But in the end the Lion is simply too much to overcome.

Big Bear lumbers down a corridor to a meeting he doesn't envision is going to go well. For the past few weeks, he's been in what many experts reference as a "slump." He's been out of practice ever since having his heart stomped on by Roxy Phoenix, and not much for the better ever since. The perception of him being an incredibly tough folk hero kind of individual has been shattered, leaving him a shell of a man that he once was.

Meandering through the main backstage area, he gets a few disturbing glances. They aren't glances on par with what Michael Sloan would get, but rather ones that suggest an inferior being is in their presence. A man who would be taunted instead of heralded. Bullied instead of holding an aura of intimidation.

Big Bear tries to act as if the reactions aren't bothering him, but inside they are. On the outside, he keeps his head down and trudges forward, exemplifying all the characteristics of a man who believes he's about to be handed a pink slip and sent packing. He figures not many federations would take an individual like him after the embarrassing performance he displayed and how he's carried himself. Or at least, that's what he figures.

Entering Shakur's wing of the building, Big Bear sighs and finds it quite the abberation that Shakur's door is cracked, almost as if he's expecting to see Big Bear. Curiosity kills the cat and Bear looks inside to find the lights inside the office dimmed and nobody around. Shakur is not sitting at his desk and nobody occupies either couch. He pushes the door open with his right hand and focuses on a folding chair in the middle of the room with a spotlight on the ceiling fixed and lit over the chair, giving off an interrogation room vibe.

Without warning, he's grabbed by the shoulders and shuffled into the chair. Normally, Bear would have enough strength to fend off his attacker, but he's not being attacked and most remaining strength was sapped when he was summoned by a stagehand earlier.

An individual slams the door, locking it on the way out. Bear, perking up, glances over his shoulder to see nobody at the door.

But when his head turns back around, he comes face to face with a crouched Devin Shakur, who is staring him in the face.

Big Bear: Wha-

Shakur: No. You don't do any talking. You just listen.

The Boss rises from his crouched stance and circles around Big Bear, making him uncomfortable to say the least. While he knows Shakur has a flare for the dramatics, he never envisioned being pink slipped like this.

Shakur: I remember a time not that long ago, when you walked in here with the attitude that you owned PRIME. You were a man who carried himself with a presence of confidence. A vibrant individual with a heart of gold and able to create shockwaves. Able to capture charisma as if you were vinegar and it was honey. I saw a man who beat Tyler Rayne and came within an eyelash of beating Jason Snow. An. Eyelash. Of. Beating. Jason. Snow. Let that sink in for a second.

Bear does, recalling the days after Colossus IV when he received an opportunity at Jason Snow, considered by many to be the greatest superstar ever to walk into PRIME, before he exploded onto the big time.

Shakur: You almost won. You almost became 5*Star Champion, and then after that you whittled down. You weren't as ferocious. You didn't display as much intensity in the squared circle as you once did. You got soft, and eventually you faded into obscurity, cameo here and there, mention here and there, public appearances and such, and then you came back at 231. You want to know why you had any success, Bear? It was because I. ALLOWED. IT.

Dropping back so he can stare Big Bear in the eyes, Shakur gets so close he can smell his rival.

Shakur: If I wanted to, you would have been wiped clean out of that ring, but I figured give the man a chance. Let him try and regain some of that intensity. Perhaps if he defeats a former Universal Champion, even though he DOESN'T HAVE THE TALENT ANYMORE, it might spark something within. It might ignite the beast who could once hang with Jason Snow... But it didn't. You fell all over yourself... For Roxy Phoenix?

Shakur rises back up, arms affixed behind his back, pace slow and methodical in a circle around the chair. He stops in front of Bear and looks down at him, shaking his head back and forth.

Shakur: What's the matter, Bear? You one of those saps who believe in love at first sight? Or was she just one who got your eye, figuring you could get her back and make her a conquest? I suppose I ought to encourage that, given it would be just what she wants, and that'd be what you probably want. Or did you really have feelings for her? I don't want you to answer, because it wouldn't be a lucid one. It wouldn't be valid either because your mind is warped. She has curves so dangerous it drove you off the road and off the cliff.

Bear wants to speak up, wants to give an answer about his feelings for Roxy, but is feeling something else inside him. Shakur is doing something to him he wasn't anticipating.

Shakur: Trust me, kid, from what my brother who used to run in her wrestling companies told me, you aren't the first, and at the rate she's going, you won't be the last. Hell, at some point, I'm sure, just to make my life miserable, she's gonna come after me in that same fashion. Can you imagine the headline: Devin Shakur Fucks Roxy Phoenix; Tyler Rayne Livid. Wanna know why I'm not falling into that trap?

The Boss holds his right hand out and a gold band on the ring finger answers for him.

Shakur: I stick to my beliefs. Plus, Sunny would just as easy use the decorative swords over our bed to cut my testicles off as she would for fung shui. You abandoned your beliefs long ago. You lost sense of who you were. You were once somebody and now you are someone who wouldn't be fit to shine my shoes. Do you know why?

Moving back to his desk, Shakur lifts onto the desk and stares down at Bear, bent elbows on knees and hands on chin.

Shakur: It's because you lost everything. You lost everything when you assumed everything that got you here in the first place would still be able to carry you.

A nod of agreement from Bear.

Shakur: Even you know. So why did I call you in here? It's not to fire you. It's to reignite you. Now, it's no secret that I'm not a fan of anybody who associates with Tyler Rayne, more specifically someone who's not been my biggest fan, but if I'm going to be facing competition, it better be top flight. Not bottom of the barrel. It better be from a man who knows what he's capable of and can back himself up. A man exuding confidence. A man who could match charisma with Rayne. A man who could hang with Jason Snow. A man who just didn't give a fuck. A man who BELIEVED in Bustin Chumps as a philosophy rather than just a cute fucking catchphrase to sell T-shirts.

A stronger nod of agreement from Bear. He looks up at Shakur. This is one of the more particularly odd segments of an evening, but there's always a method to Shakur's madness.

Shakur: You went out there each week and fucking took care of business. It didn't matter if you won or lost, but rather, how you did it. Brutal. Intelligent. Grisly. Bloody. Earnest. Affirmatively. Rugged. Big. Bear. That's who you were. That's what you NEED to become. To be elite. To hang with the newer generation of wrestlers. And most importantly... TO SURVIVE.

Bear almost wants to jump out his chair in enthusiasm, and like someone with ESP, Shakur places a hand on his shoulder and leans in.

Shakur: So how do you do it? Progressively. You'll be sparked for the rest of the evening, and I damn sure expect you to go out there and show me something, but next week I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime. In a ladder match against Nitz Donnelly, you could become a champion. I don't give that opportunity to just anybody. Granted, Lisa Tyler might have made it official, but I'm not stopping her. What I'm doing is giving you a second lease on wrestling. A second chance to show you can be one of the absolute best in the world.

The hand still on Bear's shoulder, Shakur moves behind the chair.

Shakur: You don't take shit from anybody. You are a machine hellbent on running roughshod. You've got panache. You've got edge. You've got drive. You've got determination. You've got standards. You've got ethics. None of those involve succumbing to Roxy Phoenix. The next time you see her, I want you to tell her this. I want you to make it abundantly fucking clear that you aren't going to be taken lightly and fall victim to her wicked ways. You are Big Bear. You TEAR. SHIT. APART. Why? Because you can. And then you smile, because they got in your way. Because you can.

Hand now off the shoulder, Shakur meticulously moves around the chair and stares down at Bear.

Shakur: Get up.

Like a soldier ready for battle, Bear gets up and stands at attention. Shakur moves close to enough where they are eye to eye.

Shakur: I know there are whispers of my demise. They'll manifest at some point. I'll be standing out with an army ready to tear me apart limb from limb. I'm going to screw everybody in this company over because I can, and because I don't care what they think they can do to me... Half don't have the balls and the other half I've destroyed. But they'll all figure out how to get together and create a force great enough to take me down. I expect you to be on the front line of that army. I expect you to get a piece of me. But what I want you to do... Is thank me before you do it. Because you'll know deep down that I helped you walk out there each week and because I brought you back and because I gave you the edge you so desperately needed.

The Boss turns his back on Bear and goes over to his desk.

Shakur: Now get out. Go make me proud.

A silent Big Bear exits the room while Shakur keeps his back to the camera and Bear. A slow pan around shows Shakur with a macabre grin on his face.

Camera-switch: Catering.

An event like ReVolution 241 comes to an arena like the Sinan Erdem Dome once in a great while, so the arena has laid out quite the spread for the PRIME staff, a variety of chafing dishes prepped and an actual cook (little hat and everything) to whip up something on the fly.

It has been thirty-eight days since Tyler Rayne brought Alexandra Pierce in to tear apart Alexandra Pierce, and, if anything, the reaction of the people who put on the ReVolution broadcast has only grown sourer. Perhaps they were expecting more – perhaps they were expecting anything – but her impressive in-ring performances haven't brightened them in the least. Even there, standing in line for a snack before her main event match with Roxy Phoenix later on tonight, the interns and technicians and runners give the Queen of Lies quite a bit of room, scorn dripping from gazes and derision from whispered comments.

For her part, Alex tries her best to ignore them, dropping a scoopful of couscous onto a sturdy paper plate. But without the Redhead Who Shall Not Be Named and without her daughter, the distance and the isolation has started to wear on her. Her shoulders are down, head dipping slightly as one of the many men in the blue polo shirts accidentally bumps her.

Staffer: Watch it.

Pierce: Sorry.

She drops her head, left hand lifting to sweep the hair behind her ear. Her whisper is so soft that the microphones almost don't pick it up.

Pierce: Sorry you don't wear a bag over your head, asshole.

As insults go, it's not the best one around, but it's soon forgotten, in no small part due to the collision nearby and the dampness that follows.

Roxy: That son of a bitch spilled my drink.

She and Alex look at the sticky beverage dripping down her arms in some places while drying in others.

Roxy: Tsk. Tsk. I guess we'll have to take care of that...

The two men flanking Roxy lean in... awaiting Roxy's moist lips to meet Alexandra's arms. Her slender tongue to escape and lap at that dirty, dirty spot until it was perfectly clean. But she doesn't. She steals a batch of napkins from the intern holding her silverware. She bends over to get a close look at the patch of skin. Her hand extends out, and she places the napkins in the hand of the male who originally spilled the drink.

Roxy: Clean up your mess.

Staffer: But-

From his cold disposition towards Alexandra only seconds earlier, he certainly doesn't want to do her any favors in wiping her dry after dumping a soft drink on her. Roxy casts him a stern glare. She crosses her arms, and without any further delay, the intern does as he's been commanded.

Or at least he tries. She sets aside her plate, and a swift swipe of Pierce's hand knocks the offending man away.

Pierce: That's quite enough of that. I can clean myself up, thanks. Just—give me those.

The staffer sighs in aggravation, tossing the napkins at the Spider, who catches them against her chest.

Staffer: Shoulda stayed home with your girlfriend, Pierce. Roxy's gonna kick your ass tonight!

He looks over his shoulder to Phoenix for support, and then on to his fellows. A sparse burst of chuckles cuts through the dining room.

But Roxy doesn't laugh. The three interns saunter off to acquire a table, pleased with their recent comments. She looks at Alexandra, a smirk planted on her face.

Roxy: Don't pay attention to them. An intern's job requires a pulse and a social security number. The latter is negotiable.

Pierce: It's fine.

She dabs wadded up napkins against her arm.

Pierce: I'm used to it. They've been like that since I got here. All of them want to see if they can be the one to push me over the edge.

Roxy scoffs, grabbing a brownie off the tray. She bites into it, and with a swift gag in disgust, she returns it to the tray.

Roxy: Who fucking cares? They make minimum wage. Get your big girl panties on and deal with it. No one is going to be your friend.

Her gaze returns to the line of treats. Perhaps the adjacent batch of rice crispy treats will meet her sweet craving. She chomps on it. Nope, she chucks it square at a table. It smacks a seated referee mid meal. He surveys the room to find the culprit, but he finds none. He sees Roxy, and he passes her a flirtatious wave, while he gives Alexandra a discouraging scowl.

Roxy: What do we pay these people? This food sucks.

Roxy surrenders her quest to find a tasty treat to satisfy the sugar urge lurking in her mouth.

Roxy: I don't have any friends, and I certainly don't care. Life's too short to give a shit about everyone else. So you pissed someone off. I piss people off all the time. Get over it.

Pierce: I am over it. I've been over it.

Her tone makes it seem like that may not be the case.

Pierce: Sometimes it makes me question traveling five thousand miles, but that's neither here nor there.

She tosses the napkins into the trash. Part of her smile curls back onto her lips.

Pierce: Eventually, they'll get tired of it or realize I'm not the bad guy.

Roxy relishes in her comment, and she giggles with a deep wicked tone.

Roxy: Being the bad guy is not always too terrible...

Her tone grows serious, and her hand curves around Alexandra's back side. Roxy's fingers fall below Alex's hips gracefully tugging at the loose fabric.

Roxy: Trust me, being bad has plenty of fun moments...

The Spider twists out of Phoenix's grasp, stepping backwards.

Pierce: What are you doing?

Her hand lifts, swiping at her hair again. It's a nervous gesture.

Pierce: I've been the bad guy before. I've been the bad guy for years. The perks aren't worth the rest. I'm trying to be a better person. I'm trying very hard to. So while I appreciate the advice, it's really not necessary. Moreover...

And here's where her brow comes up.

Pierce: I am spoken for, thank you.

Roxy raises her own brow to complement Pierce's hesitation.

Roxy: I didn't ask to fucking marry you. There's no harm in fooling around.

She looks around at the patrons dining in the cafeteria. Where these the people that she wanted to please? What did it benefit her? So what if she had been the bad guy for years? Like it would hurt her for a few more? The perks were always worth it. Roxy loved being a bad girl, and she never regretted one moment of it.

Roxy: The perks are always worth it, love. Spitting in coffee here and there, wrecking up a marriage, stealing a car, breaking some bones... These people don't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. At the end of the day, all they are is a means to an end. A split second of amusement... it's just a shame you aren't willing to enjoy it anymore.

Roxy notices this nervous gesture, and she combs Alex's hair back. Her smooth fingers lingering on the skin of her soft shoulder. With a pleased sigh, Roxy nuzzles at her neck, and a whisper tickles Alexandra's ear.

Roxy: Suit yourself... but it can't be easy killing time with your girlfriend... miles... and miles away.

Alex pushes away this time, extricating herself with another step backwards. She comes forward again, her voice much rougher than it usually is.

Pierce: I never enjoyed it. No matter what you do or who you hurt, you're never going to fill up the emptiness, okay? You're never going to be satisfied, always looking for the next person -- the next victim. Always looking and searching, never realizing that the only way you'll ever truly be happy is if you find someone to be honest with.

Roxy rolls her eyes, but the Spider continues before she can even formulate her -- likely mocking -- response.

Pierce: I'm sure that sounds ridiculous now, but someday you'll realize I was right. Aimz--

Ding, there goes a $1000 from Pierce's paycheck for naming the Redhead Who Shall Not Be Named, courtesy of Shakur's edicts.

Pierce: Amy saved me, and I won't betray her. I'd sooner die.

Her breath comes sharply, visibly trying to calm herself. She's got a big angry red button with her lover's name on it, and she knows people will be happy to push it.

Roxy senses Alexandra's oversensitivity to the recent comments that were made. She doesn't apologize for her suggestive behavior, whether she offended Alexandra or not. Roxy isn't offended herself - Alexandra is just obsessed with pleasing everyone else but herself, and Roxy... feels slight pity for her. Slight pity.

Roxy: Someone's a bit dramatic.

Her arid tongue exits her mouth and remoistens her red lips. This does little to improve her dry mouth... but she flags the intern to make him aware of her parched throat.

Roxy: Take it from me, and you'll realize this in due time...in the end, everyone saves themselves. Your girlfriend will do it too when the moment comes, and this whole time you've been too far up her ass to save your own.

But Roxy still doesn't understand Alexandra's actions. She's obviously getting herself hot and bothered by the possibility of cheating on her girlfriend... and Roxy can read that, so she probes the Spider's den a little further.

Roxy: But hey, hey, you are getting way too upset over this. I told you, I don't want to be your girlfriend... I just want to have a little fun. Everyone's entitled to that.

She notices the intern approaching her with a drink. Roxy holds up her hand to halt him from approaching beyond his current position. She reaches into the cup to produce an ice cube. A struggled exhale releases from her lips as Roxy puts the ice cube to her neck. The sting of the freezing water meeting her neck causes her to shiver gently, and the sensation stimulates other areas of her frame to... perk up. Her body heat forces the cube to melt, and a tickle of water slowly dribbles down her cleavage.

Roxy: Don't be such a stick in the mud... I know you could enjoy yourself if you'd just relax.

Pierce: I am not a stick in the mud.

Roxy: Really.

A touch of amusement stains Phoenix's words as she smoothes her hand down her neck.

Pierce: It is not being a stick in the mud when you won't--

Alex's chuckle is a little bit wry and a little bit bitter. She lowers her voice slightly, but that's probably embarrassment.

Pierce: Exactly what do you expect me to do here? Am I supposed to invite you to my locker room? Or did you just want me to clear off a table with a swipe of an arm and throw you atop it? Is that what it would take for you not to consider me a stick in the mud?

She steps forward again, and she is rather close.

Pierce: I know what your game is. You remind me of my best friend for a lot of years. You're not interested in me more than what it takes to get a rise out of me, no more than the rest of these people are. If... if I did do something, it would curl your toes to have one of them snap a picture on their phone and post it on the Internet, just because you know it would hurt a woman you have never even met.

There's a growl behind her voice now, the dam threatening to burst.

Pierce: Let me tell you something. It's not being a stick in the mud to turn down a chance to hurt someone who knows me, knows what kind of monster I have been, and still stays with me. It's not being a stick in the mud because I won't react to... to your antics. It's not being a stick in the mud to not look at--

Her brows arch, fists balling.

Pierce: It's called being an adult. And I wish the people in this fucking place would learn to try it sometime.

Roxy: I don't discriminate. We can go to my locker room... the bathroom. Wherever. I like the idea of the table though - haven't done that in a while.

Roxy steps closer as well, to match Pierce's stance. The two girls are inches away, and these recently comments have gathered the attentions of those in the close surroundings. Roxy's fists aren't balled ready to strike - she has expert composure... she has a temper, no doubt, but she tries to maintain it in these situations. It takes little to set her off, but Alexandra's resistance could be considered to a fly buzzing about her face. Her hands meet Alexandra's shoulders in an attempt to relax her. This only upsets her more.

Roxy: Look, you don't know me, and I don't know you obviously. So why would I give a shit if some pap snapped some picture or not? I don't care about what gets on the internet or not... I prefer other ways...

Roxy's fingers trace up to Alex's chin, gracefully noting the slim lines of her chin all the way up to her ears.

Roxy: ... To curl my toes.

Alex smiles, almost softly, turning her face into Phoenix's hand. She slides her fingers up Roxy's arm, interlacing fingers.

Pierce: Well, when you put it that way--

And then she pulls the hand away, twisting violently at Roxy's wrist.

Pierce: The next time you touch me had better be in that ring, because if you ever put your hands on me like that again, I swear to whatever God might still be listening that you will draw back a stump.

A hard shove pushes the other woman backwards, and Roxy rubs at her wrist gently.

Pierce: I tried to be nice, Roxy. I tried to be nice and I tried to tell you where you were wrong, but you're obviously not interested in listening. So let me make this clear: I am not interested. I am not interested in dealing with you. I am not interested in a quick go-round in a bathroom. I am not really interested in talking with you anymore. So go back to your fawning horde of admirers, okay? We're done.

Roxy rubs at her wrist... so maybe the fly buzzing had a little bit of a bite. It was cute that she tried to get physical with Roxy, when all she was making strides to be nice herself, but she guessed that bitch didn't really want to move on. She is too consumed with the past. Rejection wasn't something that Roxy was used to or enjoyed hearing... the gloves have been thrown.

Roxy: Wow, Alex, I really should have considered your feelings... Let's start over. May be we can have a sleepover, paint each other's nails, and practice kissing boys with our hands...

Alexandra grows testy with Roxy's blatant ridicule. Roxy's hands meet her hips... a twist of the wrist was beginner's moves. Miss Pierce certainly hadn't been familiar with the Sofia Spitfire's temper.

Roxy: Yeah, I thought I was doing you a favor here. Extending an olive branch in your little shit storm... trying to help you get off with your dyke girlfriend out of the picture, but you know, I really am sorry that I wasted my time.

Roxy's palms leave her waist and she charges at the unsuspecting Queen of Lies. With one quick smack across Alexandra's face, Roxy's hands meet the Spider's throat. The men in the background are far too intrigued to make a move, waiting for one of the two women to produce a wardrobe malfunction. It is up to a small group of women looking on to leave the tense physical altercation and retrieve security.

Phoenix shoves Pierce up against one of the tables, just not in the way she might have wanted, bending Alex backwards. The limber Spider manages to swing up a knee, but Roxy won't let go. Sure enough, the yellow-masked Enemigos rush in to separate the two.

Roxy steps backwards, her arm against her -- and unsurprisingly, it's Alex that's ejected from the catering area via the means of much feverish pointing. The Spider gathers her plate, and if one can leave sullenly and angrily at the same time, she manages.

Cut away amidst a half-dozen men checking on the status of Roxy's poor arm. She yanks it away and storms off.

The last time Bryan Dawkins regularly roamed the halls of PRIME, Jason Snow was king of the mountain, Kaiser Vashaun was dominant, and Lindsay Troy and Tyler Rayne were far more powerful than they currently are.

Right now, he’s stuck in the darkest reign of PRIME with Devin Shakur as the overlord. It’s not exactly a favorable situation given he doesn’t have The Golden Contract in his pocket, and because Tyler Rayne has been constantly diverted from shows for weeks. Shakur is going to great expense and length to ensure Rayne doesn’t jeopardize his programming. With Troy absent and Pierce focused on a match with Roxy Phoenix, Dawkins feels somewhat alone.

He was also rumored to compete on the program, but Shakur shot him down in that department moments before the 241 line-up was released. Its clear Shakur doesn’t like anybody looking to compromise his grandiose plan of ruining PRIME before making the most money conceivable.

No worries though, Dawkins is still in high spirits, munching on a pineapple and sauntering toward Shakur’s wing of the building. It’s likely not to be a pleasant conversation he’s about to have with The Boss. He swings a necklace around his left index finger and gets past a few stagehands walking down the wing and pounds on the door with a fist.

Normally, Daniels would swing open the door and then shut it in Dawkins face, but the big man isn’t the one who answers the door this time. Instead, it is The Devil in Black himself, obviously prepared to go out for another meeting, considering he’s got a briefcase tucked in his right arm. He lets out a sigh when he sees Dawkins.

Shakur: Are you one of those door to door pineapple salesmen? I don’t have time for whatever you are trying to promote, so just get out of my way and we’ll be peachy keen with no caffeine.

Dawkins holds out a hand at chest level and stops Shakur in his tracks. Most wouldn’t have the courage to attempt something, let alone actually go through with it. Shakur stares down at the hand and then back at Dawkins.

Shakur: I swear if you got any pineapple on my shirt, it is coming out of your paycheck. You don’t want to know how much this shirt cost.

Dawkins: As much as that poodle haircut you got goin’ on, bruh?

Shakur: Look, what do you want? I’m incredibly busy and I’ve already made my intentions with you clear.

Dawkins: Yeah, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, bruh. I think this power has gotten a bit too much in your head.

Shakur: To the contrary, Dawkins, this power is making this company money hand over fist. We’re getting high ratings and it’s because of me. The more power I get, the better off this company is.

Dawkins: That’s not exactly what I meant, bruh. I meant, it’s turned you into nothing short of a coward.

A cock of the head from The Boss

Shakur: I’m not sure I heard that, can you speak into my good ear? I thought I heard you call me a coward.

Dawkins: You going emo on your ears too so you don’t have to hear? I can do sign language just as good, bruh.

Two middle fingers in Shakur’s face

Dawkins: I was watching the tube earlier –

Shakur: You mean in between re-runs of Hawaii-Five O and listening to Beatles albums?

Dawkins: -Stop playin’ comedy Shakur, it never was your strong suit, bruh. I’ve been in the ring with you. I know how you operate. I know how you operate in business, bruh, but sendin’ a rookie out to do your dirty work?

Shakur: What’s the problem with that? You’d rather I sent someone out a little more befitting of your caliber? Should I go back and get Dusk out of the archives?

Dawkins: You ever compare me to Dusk again and I’m gonna drown you in a bucket with Jay Mariotti’s picture at the bottom, bruh.

Shakur: Look, Dawk, let me put this in terms you can understand, bruh. I obliterated you over a year and change ago and you weren’t the same since. You didn’t win, even though everybody thought you were going to win.

Dawkins: Because you cheated me out of a victory.

Shakur: Yeah, and Brandon Youngblood doesn’t masturbate thirty times a day ambidextrous style to make sure his chops were as strong as they were. Tell me something we don’t know. Look, point of it is, Dawkins, I’ve got far bigger fish than you to fry at the moment, and dealing with someone like you when I’ve got to deal with such a wench like Pierce isn’t exactly in the cards for me at the moment.

Dawkins: So why send a rookie? Why not sent Daniels or Walczak or Hessian?

Shakur: Well, Daniels has a gripe with Lance Marshall and far be it for me to stop him from accomplishing that goal. Walczak and Hessian… Yeah, like I’m going to fall for the oldest trick in the book of letting you get anywhere near them and a shot at Championship gold. What exactly have you accomplished lately, Dawkins?

Dawkins: I came back when you never thought I could, bruh.

Shakur: Yeah, well that’s not exactly something to promote you over. Give me something else.

Dawkins: I ran down your lover last week and beat him to a pulp, had him scurrying out of the ring.

Shakur: You mean after a blindside attack? Yeah, that one is also worth something. Not much considering you cheated on that one.

Dawkins: Turnabout is fair play ain’t it, bruh?

A grin from The Bruh

Shakur: Real amusing, Dawk, real amusing. Alright… I tell you what, we’ll go ahead and give you something for the big dance at 242. You want to compete so badly then I’m going to give you the opportunity. It’ll be you going one on one against… Lance Marshall.

Dawkins has a conflicted look on his face, but gives a shrug of the shoulders.

Dawkins: Lookin forward to it, bruh.

Shakur: Hopefully you two idiots take each other out in the spirit of competition and I don’t have to deal with either of you in the near future. Now go terrorize Mills or something and get out of my sight. I’ve got a meeting to go to.

Shakur and Dawkins pass in the hallway. Dawkins got what he wished for in a match, but it might not have been against the easiest of opponents as he witnessed earlier. Shakur walks away grinning, examining his briefcase once again to ensure nothing slipped out.

The view opens on Roxy Phoenix, stretched across the black leather sofas. She is deep in repose, still adorned in street clothes. Well, not necessarily street clothes, but it certainly isn’t her wrestling gear. One of Tyler Rayne’s white dress shirts rests on her body. Due to his muscular torso, the long sleeve shirt dwarfs her. Two or three buttons keep the top closed on her top, but they it hardly covers her entirely. The camera focuses in on a black bra with red polka dots and a matching pair of bikini panties that fit her body exquisitely.

She’s had a busy day. From throwing rocks at lame interviewers, dining for sushi on a sexy Dark Angel as well as reciprocating when Katterina was hungry, and later enjoying a few other parts of Miss Wylde. Minutes ago, she tried to "welcome" poor outcast Alexandra Pierce by offering to take her in the bathroom and bend her over the sink, and teach her a lesson for all those naughty things she’d done in her previous years in PRIME… but needless to say, the Spider was too preoccupied in pulling the chaste routine to accept the friendly invitation for good sex in the absence of her girlfriend.

Now she is resting in anticipation for her first main event, she obviously had enjoyed herself after the fight broke out in the dining room. A pink vibrator with dual stimulation rests on the glass coffee table next to a half empty bottle of Grey Goose.
Her right arm falls off the couch to expose a new set of ink that she’d purchased on the inside of her right forearm. Highly decorative cursive script reads "Sofia," and centered, it stretches 2/3rds the length of her forearm.

A cigarette is sandwiched in between her red lips, and her previous exhaustion is evident as the tip has not been lit yet. Her hair is disheveled, whether it was as a result from her brawl with Pierce or the side effect from one of her powerful orgasms was still indeterminable.

The cameraman steps closer to Roxy. His faint pants in the background grow louder as he approaches her. He loses his footing, and he backs into the table. His misstep sets off the vibrator. He curses feverishly under his breath.

The loud buzzing causes Roxy to stir. The cameraman panics and quickly decides that he’d rather surrender his equipment than get a fat medical bill in the mail after she’d pulverize him for invasion of privacy.

He places the camera on the floor, slightly hidden behind the sofa. It was hardly entirely out of site, but at first glance, one wouldn’t notice it. He darts out the room, and he slams the door behind him.

The rough closure of the door fully wakes Phoenix. She flies to sit up, and her glance darts around the room to not find anything or anyone.

Resolved, she turns off the vibrator and returns it to the table. Soon another vibration comes from an object on the table. Her hands find the flat black iPhone next to the sex toy. The phone meets her ear.

Roxy: Zdrasti?

Her voice sounds rugged, and she clears her throat to protect her native tongue much more fluidly.

Roxy: Kak si?

She recognizes the person on the other end of the line, and her mood changes swiftly.

Roxy: What do you want? How did you get this number?

She sighs, and she buries her face in her hands in frustration.

Roxy: Lena… Changing my number again.

It is audible that the woman on the other end of the phone is upset. Loud crying and shouting erupts from the other end.

Roxy: Molia, momma. I don’t want to fight. Stop.

Exasperation continues to overwhelm her, and she attempts to relax by leaning back into the sofa and crosses her legs.

Roxy: I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to hear from you ever again.

Unfortunately, her effort to relax doesn’t last long. She flies forward again filled with rage.

Roxy: I’m not getting into this again. I had every right to leave, and you know what I left.

The anxiety worsens, and her grip on the phone tightens.

Roxy: You’re right, I’m a terrible daughter. Thank God, I’ll never be a mother to repeat your mistakes.

Furious with the direction the conversation is headed, Roxy hurls her phone at the wall. The cellular device breaks into hundreds of pieces.
The alcohol has had an effect on her mood because her face falls into her hands, and she begins to sob slowly. It is a rare event to see her in such upsetting sorts. She gives herself a quick shiver to shake the cries out of her system, and she unscrews the bottle of alcohol and takes a large swig only to cough from the rough gulp. The screws the cap back on and returns the bottle to its place on the glass coffee table. Her hand remains wrapped around the neck of the bottle, as she will likely guzzle another large amount of it soon.

She twists her head about to stretch her neck and awaken more to prepare for her impending match. This uncommon spectacle is stopped when she takes in the sight of the camera partially concealed behind the sofa frame.

Her face is a complex mixture of fury, terror, and embarrassment. No doubt, she will be entering her match fueled with an outrageous amount of rage. Her hands meet the neck of the bottle as though she were strangling a threat. She jumps up with the bottle and charges the camera. She takes a quick swing at the camera… and she successfully knocks it out.

Black fills the screen.

The arena lights dim down and green strobe lights flicker all around the arena, focusing mainly on the entrance platform just as the tones of Dave Grohl's voice ignites throughout the place.

Vince Howard: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The following contest is scheduled for one fall and has a ten minute time limit! Introducing first, hailing from The Bronx and weighing in at two hundred pounds, he is JACOOOOB MCKAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIILLLL!!

Can you hear me
Hear me screamin'
Breaking in the muted skies
This thunder heart
Like bombs beating
Echoing a thousand miles

Admist the smoke and the green strobe lights, Jacob McKail wanders onto the platform and the crowd treat him with mixed emotions.

Mine is yours and yours is mine
There is no divide
In your honor
I would die tonight

McKails continues down the aisle, his face focused and unrelenting, ignoring the crowd and their reaction to him the best he can.

Mine is yours and yours is mine
I will sacrifice
In your honor
I would die tonight
For you to feel alive

McKail leaps up to the ring apron with one perfect stride and propels himself overt he top ropes with notr perceivable effort.

Can you feel me
Feel me breathing
One last breathe before I close my eyes
This suffering
For receiving
Deliver me into the other side

Once in the ring, McKail proceeds to warm up a little, rotating his arms at random intervals and cracking his neck.

For you to feel alive
For you to feel alive
For you to feel alive
AHH

Nick: McKail's got a great opportunity tonight to make his mark in PRIME.

Richard: By wailing on a podgy old Viking?

Nick: By going toe to toe with the Murder Show only one week before his first title defence.

"Kingdom of the Worm" by Motorhead.

Nick: And here he comes now!

Vince Howard: Introducing his opponent! He hails from Detroit, Michigan and weighs in at...three hundred seventy pounds, he is the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIOOOOOOON...HEEEEEESSIIIIAAAAAANNNN!!

Richard: Jesus he's getting so fat even Vince had to double check his stats!

The Universal Champion emerges from behind the curtain, ignoring his usual entrance routine and carrying on towards the ring, still favouring his sore body after being attacked by VJ's troops.

Nick: Hessian doesn't look in the best of shape after what happened earlier tonight.

Richard: The only shape Hessian looks these days is a big wobbly round shape.

Nick: You're still as keen on taunting PRIME's wrestlers after what happened last week?

Richard: Hey, I'm down like a clown Charlie B-b-b-bbreehhhhh.......down like a clown Charlie Brehhh-eh-ehhhhh...Charlie Broooooeeeeehhh.

Nick: …

Richard: I'm down like a clown Charlie B-Brown.

Nick: This is HBO, not Comedy Central.

Richard: Could've fooled me when they put a joker like you behind the announce desk.

Nick shoots a peeved look at Richard while Hessian rolls under the bottom rope and rises on one knee with the title in hand to a sea of cheers from the fans. Handing the title casually to referee Elvis Nixon the giant heads to his corner and works out the kinks in his muscles as Nixon raises it overhead.

"I Fucking Hate You" by Godsmack.

Nick: Hold on a minute!

From behind the curtain Matt Ward appears, still in his wrestling gear and sporting a devious grin on his face.

Nick: What's he doing out here? He's not involved in this match.

Richard: He's been nothing but a shining example of what a Universal Champion should be Nick. Any business with that title is his business.

The Murder Show throws his arms up in outrage and growls at Ward as he makes his way to the bottom of the ramp and stops, folding his arms and cocking his head to the side, never averting his gaze from the angered Champion.

Nick: Whatever Ward's doing out here it's going to benefit Jacob McKail well as he goes one on one with Hessian here.

Richard: The Uni scene has descended into one big nightmare for His Pieness since his first two defences were announced. If you ask me Ward's in cahoots with V-Jack on this one.

Hessian doesn't waste time dealing with Ward, and storms straight over to Elvis Nixon and vehemently protests Ward's presence at ringside.

Richard: Strange. You think he'd just go attack Ward like he did Sanada and co. last week.

Nick: The Champ's behaviour has been causing a lot of people to scratch their heads in recent weeks. He's not the same hardcore monster we've known in the past.

Spitting in defiance as Nixon rules Ward's presence moot, Hessian raises a hand as if to strike the referee but stops short and stares over at Ward, his face reddening and veins bulging in his neck in fury. Across the ring McKail leans into the turnbuckle with his head hung low, watching the giant flailing his arms around like an outraged nun and biding his time.

Confronting Hessian again, Nixon defies his outburst by laying down the law and reminding the giant who is officiating the contest. Lowering his head in defeat the Champion mutters a few cusses under his breath and retires to his corner with hands on hips. With a final pointed finger Nixon calls for the bell and Ward smiles, following Hessian's every move with his glare.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Without warning McKail sprints out of his corner towards the giant, who is still concerned with the Inhuman Being watching him from ringside, ready and poised to intervene in whatever manner he sees fit. McKail connects with a dropkick to the knee that brings Hessian down instantly on his back.

Nick: McKail takes Hessian down in the opening seconds!

Capitalizing immediately, Jacob hops up onto the top rope and without the usual two second pop pause launches off of the top and turns majestically in the air, bringing his full two hundred pound weight down on the chest of the giant.

Nick: FEARLESS FREEFALL!!

ONE!!

Richard: Incredible Shooting star press from McKail!

TWO!!!

Nick: He's not gonna get this this soon, surely not!

THREE!!!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Vince Howard: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Your winner...JACOOOOB MCKAAAAIIIIIILLLL!!!

Nick: I don't believe it! Jacob McKail just defeated Hessian in what, under ten seconds?!

Richard: The Champ let himself get distracted and McKail just pumped that advantage full of speed and rocked it harder than Christchurch!

As "In Your Honor" hits the PA, McKail stares in disbelief at the prone body of the Champion, then leaps to his feet fist pumping the air and scowling triumphantly. From ringside Ward watches with that devious grin on his face as Jacob throws his arms out and pouts, beckoning the response from the crowd before looking down to see Hessian stirring and making the executive decision to depart.

Nick: The giant is moving and he doesn't look pleased in the slightest.

Richard: No duh bruh, he just got royally embarrassed in front of the world and his opponent for the belt next week!

Smacking the mat and roaring like the Kraken, Hessian gets to all fours and glares at Ward, his eyes bugging out of his head and his arms shaking under his weight.

Nick: Ward is about to feel the full force of the Murder Show!

Richard: But he didn't do anything, Hessian let himself get distracted and he's suffered for it.

Nick: Well it appears Hessian is about to make Ward suffer for it too!

The giant slips between the ropes and lands on the mats, but suddenly grabs his knee, limping on his other leg and wincing in pain from McKail's dropkick. Ward is there to meet him with a stiff right followed by a kick to the gut and, as Hessian doubles over, applies a headlock, pulling Hessian back up and turning him around into the sleeper, which he immediately follows up with The Downfall, dropping Hessian like a sack of shit on the ground.

Nick: Downfall! Hessian is out cold!

Richard: Christ he was faster than stink off a sand coon on that one! Never gave Hessian a chance to breathe!

Nick: He had his chance but it looks like that dropkick on the old injured knee of the giant got the better of him!

Laid out on the mats, Hessian is powerless to stop Ward reaching down and retrieving the Universal Title and holding it high above his head, snarling at the Champion and placing a boot on his chest. The fans give a massive reaction of awe-inspired cheers and flashbulbs blind his eyes for a moment as thousands of pictures are taken simultaneously. With much less effort than when he picked it up, Ward tosses the title back onto Hessian's gut, turns his back on the giant and walks up the ramp and out of the arena.

Nick: It's not pretty and that's the way Ward likes it! Hessian is served with his final warning on the eve of his first title defence against the Inhuman Being!

Richard: The Murder Show is in a heap of trouble going into next week with Matt Ward gunning for his title and Violence Jack breathing down his neck!

Nick: We're going to find out at ReVolution Two-Four-Two if it's gotten to the giant, but my guess is losing the fastest match in PRIME history and recieving a finisher at the hands of your opponent won't spell fun and sunshine for the Hess Express! For now though let's take the action elsewhere as ReVolution Two-Forty-One rolls on!

Michael Sloan finds himself drawn to the shadows. Their cool and peaceful fingers reach out and drag him in. Hidden, he’s able to relax and see all; hear all.

Jackson: Can you believe Shakur man? He makes us run ragged around the arenas and cuts our wages at the same time.

Felix: Yeah, but what can you do about it? I’ve got three kids to feed and two of them on their way to college. I can’t afford to lose this job.

Jackson: How are the kids-

He’s not interested. While normally chatter regarding college age women would create lurid rape and murder fantasies in his mind there was enough fresh pussy around in PRIME to keep him busy in the upcoming future.

The future was far from his mind however; tonight he was more interested in the past. He loses count of how long he's spent coiled in the darkness, listening to passing voices and envisioning nightmare scenarios around their worries and desires and other random thoughts. Eventually however a thick thudding from afar draws his attention. Not a voice, just the footsteps.

There's only one man in the whole business with a step like what Sloan was hearing, and he recognized the gait as that of an old friend of his. When the footsteps were at their loudest he stepped forward, turning to their source and opening his eyes so that when the lights hit them and he laid them upon the man in front of him he felt as though he were looking at him for the first time.

Chainz: A-hem.

The focus of his attention stops dead in his tracks and spins on his heels, fist out ready to attack his stalker. At the sight of Michael Sloan standing before him, the Universal Champion's face drops in horror.

Hessian: How in the hell...

Chainz: Come now that's no way to-

A million questions race around inside the giant's head, but remembering the cameraman documenting this supposedly angled encounter the Universal Champion has to think of a way to talk himself out of murdering Sloan in front of a worldwide audience while saving face with the fans.

Hessian: You're back...

Chainz: For a while now actually.

Hessian: Your poor, poor wife.

Chainz: Poor you.

The giant smacks the title around his waist and snarls at the Monster from Hell's Kitchen, all the while scanning his body for signs of the abuse suffered at his own hand all those months ago.

Chainz: What? Pretty corset.

Hessian: Funny. You know exactly what this is and what it represents.

Chainz: Looks like it represents exactly what you're capable of-

Hessian: Damn right.

Chainz: -when I'm not around.

The colour drains from the Murder Show's face but he keeps a stiff upper lip, letting Sloan enjoy his little moment in silence before the Monster narrows his eyes.

Hessian: What the hell do you want? Why did you even come back?

Chainz: You don’t seem too surprised to see me. You take a guess.

Hessian: How could anyone guess at what goes on in your head.

Chainz smiles at that, prompting Hessian to just give up, waving off Sloan and turning away as Sloan steps back into the dark shadows.

Chainz: Why are you in such a hurry? I’m just starting to have fun.

Hessian: Have fun playing by yourself.

Chainz: Okay CHAMP, keep walking. The only thing that belt represents is how feeble and fat you've gotten.

The giant stops and winces, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. Reluctantly he turns back to the Monster.

Hessian: You think this is fun?

Chainz: I find it absolutely fucking exhilarating. Our time Von Kelsig will come, but for now I’m sick of looking at you, of dealing with you. My time will be better spent elsewhere.

Sloan begins to back away, prompting Hessian to throw his arms in the air in defeat. Hardly a few minutes have passed since he saw the man he thought he'd gotten rid off and already he was up to his old tricks.

Hessian: Just like that?

Chainz: What? You thought you were special?

The Monster tries to contain the demented cackle, though it escapes with ease between his thinned lips.

Chainz: That day, that nameless day where you finally grew some balls and became a man, that day defined you. That day forever changed your life. For me it was a Saturday, and a rather feckless one at that. You go and defend that title around your waist. I don’t need it. I’ve already taken so much more from you.

Michael Sloan begins to walk away.

Chainz: Just remember to watch your step and be careful. You never know when the lights will go out and you’re stuck in suffocating darkness. Then Angelus, I will make you the biggest trophy on my wall.

Everything about Michael Sloan is threatening; his voice, his walk, and most importantly his promises. Hessian stands silently as rage fills his body. He rid of Michael Sloan, but for the life of him he cannot fathom a fate befitting the Monster from Hell's Kitchen.

"McKail!" the voice screams – it is hurried, excited, out of breath and most definitely female, "Jacob McKail! Could I--" There’s heavy breathing now, bordering on physical exhaustion. "Excuse me, excuse me." Barely audible commotion from an unidentified third party and more heavy breathing. "Jacob McKail, could I get a few words with you?"

The shot opens now, sharp bright light stabbing away the previous state of pitch black. It takes a moment for the colours and the shapes to carry meaning, but once they do, it shows the back of a man furiously stomping along the backstage corridors of the Sinan Erdem Dome. As the female voice previously ascertained, it’s Jacob McKail of that there can be no doubt.

At first the cameraman struggles to keep pace with McKail’s furious stride and visibly loses distance.

"Quick!" The same female yells, still out of shot. "Keep up with him, you idiot!"

There's an audible sigh from behind the camera, but the pace does pick-up until the camera manages to jump in front of McKail and maintain the pace to keep up with him. But McKail doesn't even acknowledge the presence of the camera in the slightest; his attention his focused ahead of him and his eyes are burning with rage.

It isn't long before the source of the female voice, Angelina Brooks, comes into shot, defiantly jumping into his path, effectively stopping McKail in his tracks. He obviously isn't all that happy about it, but that doesn't seem to phase Brooks in the slightest.

Brooks: McKail, after what Seymour Almasy has just announced...

But McKail's patience is short and uncompromising and with nothing more than a grunt, he sets off again for his intended destination.

Brooks: But McKail, I--

McKail: Not this time, girl.

Brooks curses under her breath and then develops a look of outrage at the fact that the cameraman wasn't in hot pursuit.

Brooks: Well, at least go see where the hell he's going!

There's another audible sigh, before the cameraman sets off in McKail's direction, catching up to him just as he's storming through Devin Shakur's open office door, whereupon we find Shakur standing over his desk, examining some paperwork intently.

Shakur [without looking up]: Hello, McKail. I've been expecting you.

McKail: I should damn well hope so!

Shakur looked up from his paperwork and shot McKail an 'all business' look.

Shakur: Yes, I did see Almasy's little video message and yes I did sign that executive order.

McKail noticeably clenched his fists, until his knuckles were white.

McKail: An' why the hell would you do that?

Shakur shrugged.

Shakur: Because he asked. Look, McKail you attacked him backstage and beat him to a bloody pulp. He had every right to make the request and truth be told, I didn't object to it in the slightest.

McKail's eyes widened, enraged. He drew closer to Shakur's desk and slammed his fists down hard.

McKail: After all he's done to me over the past weeks, you're gonna hit ME with the restraining order?

Shakur nodded.

Shakur: That's about the size of it, slugger.

McKail: Hell, he was the one who started all this! He was the one who attacked me!

Shakur: Yeah and if you woulda come and asked for a restraining order at the time, I probably would've made that official too. But you didn't, did you?

McKail: That's 'cause I ain't a damned coward...

Shakur[interjecting]: Yeah? Well it seems like Almasy is. Besides, I gotta protect my investment.

McKail: What...?

Shakur: Almasy is a big time player, McKail. He can draw the crowds and there ain't no denying it. And you? Well you're a hobo aren't you? You're at the backend of your career just waiting for someone to put you out to pasture.

McKail shook his head and turned his back on Shakur, visibly having to restrain himself from caving the bossman's head in.

McKail: This ain't over.

Shakur[grinning]: Oh, I'm quite sure it is...

McKail leaves.

Tracy stands at attention in front of Lisa Tyler’s desk. The redhead looks at her with concern.

Lisa Tyler: Where is he?

Tracy: Who?

A cold, long stare greets her.

Lisa Tyler: Surely not even you’re that stupid.

A shadow falls over the two women as the newly returned Michael Sloan walks into the office and stands behind his wife. He places his giant hands on her small shoulders and gives her a light hug.

Chainz: No need to cover for me babe. Lisa’s really not nearly as intimidating as she tries to make herself out to be.

Lisa Tyler shakes her head in disgust. The past few months seemed like heaven without the alleged criminal Michael Sloan around. Now, as she looks into his eyes she knows he hasn’t changed at all.

Lisa Tyler: I’m not here to be intimidating. I’m here to put on a good product for our fans. A mission that I won’t let you ruin with your constant inappropriate behavior.

Chainz: Relax Lisa, luckily for you I have much more important business to take care of.

Lisa Tyler: You mean like Hessian, our Universal Champion?

The name illicit boo’s from the crowd.

Lisa Tyler: You know how I just told you I’m here to put on a good product? Well, having you attack our Universal champion from behind is not a part of that plan. It’s just not good for business.

Chainz: His time will come, but it is not now. I’ll let him stew in the own mess he’s created until his mind is weak and feeble like a baby. No need to strain myself when I know he’ll break himself down.

Lisa frowns. She never loves hearing Michael Sloan talk about babies.

Lisa Tyler: So why are you here exactly?

Chainz: That’s my concern.

Lisa Tyler: On my show.

Chainz: Mhm.

She’s talking to a wall and the frustration mounts on her face.

Lisa Tyler: Am I going to have to start asking Dam to keep you out of my office again?

Michael smiles that sick grin that still sends chills down her spine.

Chainz: Don’t worry Lisa, I know you’re a busy woman. There’s enough fresh meat around here to keep me busy for months. Hell, maybe even years.

The way his eyes glint and the corner of his mouth creases completely disgusts Lisa. She can once again feel the nausea working its way up her body as is customary to a Michael Sloan encounter.

Lisa Tyler: I’d warn you to stay out of trouble, but I fear my advice would fall on deaf ears.

Chainz: You’re smarter than you look Lisa. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got some things to do. Don’t we babe?

Tracy: We do? Oh yeah, we do.

Tracy’s completely clueless as Lisa rolls her eyes. She’s not upset as the two leave.

Camera-switch: backstage. Outside Devin Shakur's office, to be exact.

It's the call she'd been waiting for all evening, and she's waiting outside. Devin didn't ambush her in her locker room or arrange a chance meeting in the halls. No, the Boss in Black simply sent word to Eser, the aide-de-camp he'd hired to make her trip to Istanbul more comfortable.

The nervous toady had read it to her verbatim. "Please let Ms. Pierce know that I'd like to see her when she has a free moment." He hadn't demanded it, hadn't summoned her. He'd requested it.

Alex showed up immediately, but he kept her waiting. Not long enough to be rude, just long enough to let her know something was up -- as if the wording hadn't been enough of a clue.

She was just about to leave when the camera cut back. A moment later, Christian Daniels tugs open the door.

Daniels: Sorruh. Got held up'n all. He's ready t'see y'now.

Alex nods gently, turning sideways to skirt past the Biker without once putting her back to him.

"Thank you, Christian. Close the door on your way out, would you?"

The comment is Devin's, of course, again phrased more as a request. We find the Boss in Black behind his desk, head bowed by paperwork. Since Devin foists most of the bitch work on Lisa Tyler, this makes things even more suspicious. At this point, the Spider is on the verge of searching for ninjas.

Shakur: Please, take a seat.

Pierce: I'll stand, if that's okay.

Shakur: Well, can I offer you something? Tea? Water? Anything?

Pierce: I'm fine.

Shakur: You're really not going to make this easy for me, are you?

Pierce: Not in the slightest, no.

Shakur: You seem a tad apprehensive? Does something about this scenario trouble you, dear?

Pierce: Given that we've spent the last few weeks shouting at each other, you can surely understand any reticence I might have here, Devin.

Despite what she said, the Spider takes the chair opposing him.

Pierce: So what is it? Have you found a way to void my contract after all? Some unfair match so you all can cackle on stage while I'm getting obliterated?

With his legendary poker face working double time, Shakur shuffles his papers into a neatly organized single stack.

Shakur: Quite the contrary, Pierce. I've found a way that you can get exactly what you want while giving me what I want at the same time. I brought you in here to discuss business of a more... personal nature.

Pierce: My daughter is a minor, and nothing she signs can be considered—

Shakur: No, this has nothing to do with your daughter. Do you think I would have gone through such an elaborate setup if this was about your daughter? No, I'm here to talk about... Amy.

Nick: (OSV) I thought we weren't allowed to say her name.

Richard: (OSV) Is this when I can make lesbian jokes?

Alex rocks forward, her elbow to her knee.

Pierce: You're too late. She got gobbled up while you were busy being an asshole.

A faint smirk from The Boss.

Shakur: Yes, I'm quite aware that she's part of GCW and is being featured on its Pay-Per-View. However, it does not mean she is barred from exploring other places as a visitor.

Pierce: What do you want in return? What is this all about? You can't get to me, so you want to hurt the woman that I—

Shakur: Nothing so sinister, I promise. I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. You said some things and I said some things, now we have to work together.

Pierce: Together. You mean together like when your pet Rottweiler threw my girl into her birthday cake and stepped on her favorite pair of glasses? Is that the kind of togetherness that you're talking about?

Shakur: Nothing of the sort, dear.

Pierce: You can quit calling me that anytime now.

Shakur: Apologies. Pierce, we've been trying for weeks and weeks to see which one will make the move first, and it seems obvious neither of us will back down in our stance. So, I've decided to throw it by the wayside. An experiment gone awry. Can you imagine what would happen if we used our forces for good rather than evil? We'd be an unstoppable duo.

She leans back, her arms folding. Her smirk is a little bit superior.

Pierce: Really, Devin? That's kind of... I hesitate to say, "Kid's stuff," because I know how that sets you off, but... join me and I'll let your girlfriend come over and play? I'm through with being the villain for no reason...

Shakur: Oh, nonsense, Pierce, you would cherish being the villain for no reason. Alright, I tell you what, just to prove that I'm not being a complete and unbelievable tool... Next week, I'm going to feed you a bit of a bone. Your opponent, unlike what I originally wanted to do, is not going to be Lance Marshall, or Bryan Dawkins... But Brian Postal. I'm throwing you a rookie.

Pierce: The same rookie that went toe-to-toe with Hessian on short notice, beat Mitchell Quinlan, and nearly beat Lance? This doesn't sound like a favor.

She frowns slightly, and he smiles.

Shakur: Buck up, little trooper. You're the best wrestler in the world, remember? I'm sure you'll do fine.

Pierce: I'm sure. But – and forgive me if this is a little girly – but you can't say Amy's name and then expect me to muster up much objection to a match with someone I haven't said two words to.

Almost as if he expected the response, Shakur peels the top paper off his giant stack and slides it over to Pierce.

Shakur: This might do the trick then.

Pierce: What is that?

Shakur: A contract for Amy Campbell to appear at ReVolution 242, on camera, full display, on my dime, with permission faxed over from GCW. All she has to do is sign it.

Someone check the Guinness Book of World Records for "quickest amount of time a group of 22,000 people went dead quiet" because it probably just got broken when Shakur uttered those two sentences.

Nick (OSV): ... You've... No way. This... She hasn't been scheduled on a PRIME show in OVER 5 YEARS!

Richard (OSV): SHAKUR IS GOD!

Alex stands, taking the paper from him. She gives it a once-over to confirm its authenticity, but she's unable to hide her smile.

Pierce: If this isn't on the level...

Shakur: You'll bash my face in, I know. Feel free to have your lawyers look it over, just fax it in before we get to 242 and she's more than welcome. I'm not the bad guy here, Alexandra. I'm not the one who hired you with the express idea of you hurting someone.

She nods, but she's past listening. It's been ten days since she saw Amy for more than a few hours, and despite her plans for later (hey, isn't NC-17 this weekend? You'd better tune in for that!), she's hard-pressed to refuse.

Pierce: I'll take it to her.

Shakur: All I can ask.

Pierce: Thank—

She can't quite thank him for it as she retreats to the door.

Pierce: They'll want me out there for the main.

Shakur: Go, go. I hope to see both of you in Abu Dhabi.

She goes, goes, as requested. The camera swoops around to the Boss.

And that smile is not at all foreboding. Not at all.

Cut away.

A little bit of AFI and a little bit of My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, and our two ladies are in the ring. And, yeah, we're going to do this recap style, because when Nick says "Forgive us, folks, we're not going to be able to keep up with all of this," he's not joking.

DING! DING! DING!

As the bell rings, Foxy Roxy and the Spider come face-to-face in the middle of the ring. After their earlier encounter back in catering, there's little doubt there's some animosity there, and if you still had any, the resounding slap to the face delivered by Phoenix to Pierce's face should clear that right up for you.

The blow turns Alex, and Roxy wastes little time with the first of many running charges. Pierce ducks her head and Roxy leapfrogs over, continuing on past. She comes off the ropes on the other side, and Alex spins into a roundhouse kick, but the Sofia Spitfire has already dropped down into a slide. Roxy picks the ankle on the way past, unbalancing the GTT7 champion. Pierce drops facefirst, and Phoenix holds on as she pivots to her feet.

Roxy puts one boot behind Pierce's knee, lifting her leg up by the ankle to stomp down as she tries to ground the high flyer. Roxy keeps hold of the leg and hefts again, higher this time. This time, Pierce pivots onto her hand, swinging her free leg back to push Roxy off. Phoenix lets go of the ankle and Alex flips into a forward bridge. The Sofia Spitfire steps ahead quickly, and Pierce pushes up into a handstand and snatches Roxy in a headscissors, rolling forward into an awkward pin – the first of the match.

It only gets a one-count, Phoenix twisting out of the cover. She's up to one knee before Pierce is, a sharp backhanded blow to the midsection staggering the other woman. She shot up into a split-legged chin breaker, knocking Alex back into the corner, and then kipped up to her feet smoothly.

Roxy steps back in, lifting one leg to plant her boot against Pierce's throat. She leaned into the choke, watching Bernie Roberts as he lays down the count. She breaks the hold at four and three-quarters, stepping back with both hands in the air. Phoenix only goes far enough to give her room to charge again. She goes for a flying clothesline into the corner, but Pierce whirls out of the way and Roxy ends up straddling the middle turnbuckle. (The one thing this recap is missing is exactly how many perverted jokes Richard Parker made.)

Alex snaps a kick to the small of Phoenix's back and then springs off the middle rope to catch her in the chest. Roxy manages to keep hold of the middle rope, but that only puts her perpendicular to the mat and gives her farther to fall when Alexandra hits a springboard legdrop. Pierce pulls Phoenix's legs off the ropes, shooting the half for the two count. Despite Richard's claims, she didn't put her feet on the ropes, even though she clearly could have.

The Spider pops up to her feet, springing off the ropes for a baseball slide to Roxy's back that sends the Sofia Spitfire rolling out of the ring. Pierce stomps rhythmically on the mat in the ring as Roxy pulls herself up to her feet on the floor, dazed and seemingly unsure of where she was. Once her opponent is upright, Alex takes off running across the ring – Roxy sees her in the PRIME*View at the last second and dives flat, Alex sailing overhead to crash headlong into the barricade.

(This would be where the crowd chanted, but I'll skip it because that chant is stupid.)

A knife-edge chop straightens Alex up against the guardrail, and it seems to be her arm (perhaps her elbow?) that the Spider is favoring. Phoenix quickly realizes this, wrapping Alexandra's arm around the steel, pulling on her wrist. She kicks at the rail, threatening to hyperextend the elbow. A piston-like kneelift drives all the air out of Pierce's lungs, and Roxy tears Pierce upright by the hair, growling something that goes unheard. The second knee strike is to her face and leaves Alex's mouth bloody as Phoenix pitches her into the ring to break the count.

Roxy climbs up to the apron, grabbing hold of the top rope. She leans way back, and Richard yells about how spectacular this is going to be.

And when Alex gets up to her hands and knees, Phoenix leaps—and lands on her feet inside the ring, kicking behind her negligently, almost insultingly. Alex rolls onto her back and Roxy leaps backwards into a standing moonsault with a twist.

ONE!


TWO!


Alexandra slips the shoulder up before Roberts' hand hits the mat the third time, and Roxy pulls her back up to her feet. A double-thrust to the chest sends Alex back into the corner again, and this time there's no showboating – Roxy follows right up with a knee to the face. She pulls Pierce out of the corner in a bulldog that puts Pierce parallel to the mat. Nick Stuart notes here that this match has been all Roxy Phoenix so far. Roxy leaps to the middle rope, springing blindly back for a legdrop that gets a ton of ar.

It also misses, as Pierce rolls out of the way at the last possible second. Alex pulls herself up to her feet with the ropes, and as Phoenix gets to one knee, the Spider is already moving, hitting a step-up enzugiri that echoes through the arena. Pierce continues on to the corner, wiping her brow. She takes a running start, bounding to the top rope. She walks the top rope, perhaps for the rope-run shooting star press that beat Seymour Almasy in Casablanca.

Roxy isn't taking any chances, though. She rolls out of the ring to the floor. Pierce front-flips nimbly to her feet and charges again. Again, Roxy ducks. This time, however, Alex feints the dive, coming up short. Phoenix comes to her feet and Alexandra steps up to middle rope, firing herself between the top and middle rope in a double-footed kick that sends her opponent stumbling into the guardrail. Alex skins the cat back into the ring and when Roxy turns back around, she leaps into a corkscrew plancha.

Alex comes up to her feet to an impressive ovation from the Turkish crowd. She pops up onto the apron, waiting for Roxy to get to her feet. Phoenix is up and Alex points down. "Fuck you!" she shouts, charging forward.

The Sofia Spitfire is a step quicker, using the apron like a pommel horse to deliver a kick to Alex's leg. Overbalanced, the Medusa tumbles forward. She tries to catch herself – but uses the arm she'd injured earlier, and when she falls down to the floor, she's clutching it again.

Roxy pulls Alex up, grabbing hold of the injured arm. She jerks it out a couple times to soften it up, then runs at the ringpost. Phoenix jumps, sliding through the corner and pulls Alex shoulder-first into the steel. Clutching her shoulder, Desade slides into the ring for some space. But space is the last thing she's going to get, as Phoenix is on the apron a moment later. Roxy leaps into a tilt-a-whirl—into a Fujiwara armbar takedown.

Pierce howls in the middle of the ring. Roxy sneers. On commentary, Richard Parker reminds us that there's no one at ringside to help Pierce – Quinn didn't make the trip to Istanbul. Alexandra presses her free hand to the mat, trying to roll over. She swivels her hips, trying to stretch one of her long legs out to the rope. There's a lot of waving and a lot of "No!" shouting.

Finally, the Spider's toe touches the bottom rope and Bernie drops down to demand the hold be broken. Again, Roxy breaks at four, and Pierce clutches at her arm. Phoenix grabs a knuckle lock, twisting over again. She stands, smirking down like a predator toying with her prey. She drags Alexandra into the corner, stepping up to the top. She points down to the Spider. "You could have made this so much easier on yourself!" she says.

She leaps for the Twisted Phoenix 450° splash, and Alex rolls out to the apron. Roxy lands on her feet, turning on a dime to deliver a yakuza kick that Alex just barely manages to twist out of the way of. Her leg stretched over the top rope, Phoenix is in a precarious position, especially when Alexandra comes to her feet and delivers what's basically a guillotine to the foot. Roxy falls back to the ring, clutching her ankle while Richard screams about how Alexandra is sadistic.

Pierce slides back into the ring, stepping on the backs of Phoenix's knees. She hooks Roxy's feet behind her calves, and leans forward, slapping at Roxy's sides to bring her arms back. She hooks the wrists and rocks backwards (as is traditional, it's accompanied by a "whoa-ohhh!" from the crowd) into the Mexican surfboard.

Bernie Roberts steps in, asking Roxy if she'll give it up, but the other redhead refuses to submit. Alexandra lets go of Phoenix's arms, and Roxy describes a ridiculous arc before she hits the mat. Alex drags her over by her tights, draping herself over the Sofia Spitfire.



ONE!!!





TWO!!!




THR—


Roxy shoots up a shoulder at the last second. Alexandra slaps her palm against the mat, pulling Phoenix up to her feet. She maneuvers the back-to-back chickenwing, perhaps setting up for that impressive Master Mind spinning impaler that she's utilized previously, but before she can lock in the second arm (which is her bad arm), Roxy blurs into motion, twisting into the rolling cross-arm breaker.

Alexandra clasps her hands, trying to relieve the pressure, but that just leaves her face unprotected for the pair of brutal kicks, which breaks Pierce's grip. The cross-arm breaker doesn't last long as Alex rolls over, pulling Roxy up in a backwards roll. She pushes Phoenix off into the ropes, and drops down to let the Sofia Spitfire go over the top. On the next rebound, Pierce pivots into a shotei palm strike that turns Roxy for a loop.

Both Phoenix and Pierce are down, and that's when the number-one contender to the 5-Star Championship appears on-stage. Bernie Roberts lays down his count. At six, Alexandra Pierce rolls over, reaching for the ropes. At eight, Roxy Phoenix pushes up to her hands and knees. At nine, Pierce is up, and she doesn't wait to see if Roxy can get up. She launches herself across the ring, stepping up onto Roxy's back and drops down into an elbow drop.

Pierce pulls Roxy up, backing Phoenix into the corner. Her Irish whip is reversed, and Pierce is sent across the ring. Roxy follows closely on her heels. Pierce leaps up to the middle rope, flipping over Roxy. Roxy follows up, leaping onto the middle rope herself and back into an inverted facelock.

This would be where Richard Parker got to shout "She's gonna Deep Throat Desade!"

This would also be when Big Bear wandered down to ringside, scrubbing his hand against his hair. Roxy sees the big man coming (Big Bear is big enough that they probably could see him coming from the International Space Station) and releases the inverted DDT undelivered. She steps up to the middle rope, hollering at her would-be paramour. Alexandra rolls onto her side, glancing up at the commotion as she pulls herself into the corner.

Big Bear won't be riled by Roxy's shouts, but he dips his head, walking backwards. It's sullen and almost sad. Alexandra pulls herself up to her feet, again leaping to the top rope. She runs the top rope and leaps back, pulling Roxy back into the ring with a second-rope reverse mat slam. She reaches back for the legs.



ONE!!!






TWO!!!!





THRE—

But Roxy shoots the shoulder up. She reaches out for the ropes, her eyes gone glassy. Pierce is the first one up to her feet, however, and she waits for the Sofia Spitfire to get to her feet. Once she's upright, the Spider surges into motion. She goes for a corner splash, but Roxy moves aside and Pierce lands on the middle rope. Roxy follows, attempting a second-rope side Russian legsweep.

Alex elbows out of it, sending Roxy back down to the mat. Pierce waits as the Sofia Spitfire gets to her feet. Phoenix turns, and Alex does a head-and-shoulders fake. Roxy slides towards the corner for a blow that never comes, and when she turns to look for Pierce, she finds no Spider. Roxy turns back and Desade leaps to deliver the Spider's Kiss from the top rope.

Phoenix rocks back to her feet and then falls over like a felled tree. Alex hooks the leg.


ONE!!




TWO!!!




THREE!!!

DING! DING! DING!

Winner: Alexandra Pierce.

"Prelude 12/21" by AFI hits as Bernie again raises the Spider's hand. Another hard-fought match. Another victory. Alexandra Pierce has made the claim she's the best in the world, and thus far, only Violence Jack can gainsay her. Yet as the Spider comes to her knees, brushing the hair from her face, the question we're left with is this.

Was Devin Shakur serious? Will Aimz really be in Abu Dhabi for ReVolution 242? And if so, what does the Boss in Black have in store? These questions and more, plus ALL THREE PRIME Championships on the line... next time on PRIME.