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(To Tyler Rayne) "Ass-kickin' at Ultraviolence, huh? Seem to remember ya gettin' REAL lucky when we fell offa that ladder. Whatever blows yer hair back...but if it's blood yer lookin' fer, come a little closer you fuckin' CUNT. I'll paint these fuckin' walls with yers.

Wade Elliott

ReVolution 248

18 Jul 2012 / Wells Fargo Arena, Tempe, AZ (seats 14,198)

And So, It Begins

The skybox is a scene not unfamiliar to longtime PRIME fans and athletes. They’ve been taken high above the arena to the luxury suites many a time before – with the A-List, with Danny Ferguson solo; with Lindsay Troy, Tyler Rayne, and Dan Ryan; with Devin Shakur, and various incarnations of stables that have roamed various arena halls. But this time, it’s a little different vibe.

Lisa Tyler and Blaine Blair stand in front of one of the large windows that overlook the Wells Fargo arena. It’s close to show time and the arena is very nearly full with fans who haven’t see this company tour in close to one year. Both look directly, sternly, into the camera. It’s Blaine who speaks first.

Blair: Truth be told, I didn’t think we’d be back here. Back anywhere, really.

BLT: Truth be told, after Shakur’s Reign of Terror, I didn’t want to be anywhere PRIME was.

Blair: Most people felt that way.

BLT: Some more vocal about it than others.

Blair: There’s no more worrying about that now, though.

Lisa smiles.

BLT: How things change.

Blair: We’re not going to call this a fresh start, or a clean slate. Some things you just can’t erase. Everything that’s happened, good and bad, has helped define this company and make it what it is.

BLT: What we are calling this is a fitting end to a storied history.

Blair: Devin Shakur no longer runs the show. He was on his way out, anyway – it was only a matter of time before Prometheus found a loophole to oust him.

BLT: His disappearance only helped matters along.

Blair: There are new sheriffs in town, committed to seeing PRIME go out on its own terms, its athletes concluding their tenures the way they want to, with no Overlord to spoil the show and rule with an iron fist.

BLT: This is for the fans that have stuck with us, for the fans that have come and gone and come back again.

Blair: This isn’t about titles. It’s not about crowning a defining anything, to put final belt-holders in an archive.

BLT: As far as our owners are concerned, the guys and girls who held PRIME belts before the hiatus are the last champions.

Blair: This is about fitting conclusions.

BLT: Resolving grudges.

Blair: Giving those who haven’t been around a chance to reconnect one final time.

BLT: Ending things on our own terms.

Blair: This is PRIME’s final run.

BLT: For better or worse.

Blair: We hope you’ve had as much fun as we have.

BLT: We hope to leave you with lasting memories.

Blair: Most of all, we’re just glad you’ve come back around.

BLT: This is an experience we hope you won’t ever forget.

Blair: We most certainly won't.

The PRIME*View lights up behind them and the crowd roars in response.

BLT: We’d better get down there.

Blair (smiling): After you.

The pair walk past the camera as the house lights in the arena cut out.

We're Back, Bitches!

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

The Risen Star, Nova, hits the Bourbon for Breakfast on a series of opponents: Danny Ferguson. Vangelus Olsig. Tchu.

Yeah, I get it
You're an outcast.

Sun Tzu stalks behind a felled Karina Wolfenden. As the K-Wolf struggles to a knee, the Rabid Panda drives her foot against the back of her head with the Marxecution.

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

Mitchell Quinlan enters the Sinan Erdem Dome in Istanbul to a nice ovation as he heads to the ring to take on Katterina Wylde.

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

Thug roC, in a clip from the first ever Colossus, hits the roCing Horse on Chris Chaos during a Leather Strap match for the roC-TV Title.

So paranoid...
Watch your back!

Oh my, here we go...

Clyde Walkins hits the Cyclyde on Tchu to win the Universal Title.

Another lose cannon gone bi-polar
Slipped down, couldn't get much lower.

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

Katterina Wylde is shown in a photo from six 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.

Dusk flies through the air and crashes through a table, but not before landing the Sunset on a prone Tony Gamble.

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

High Flyer hits the LOCOMOTIVE on Duke Williams. Mary-Lynn Mayweather goes for the pin, and Team V.I.A.G.R.A. are the new PRIME Tag Team Champions.

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?

Troy Douglas, running on adrenaline, lifts Hessian up for the "End of the Road."

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

"The Underground Pimp," Tyler Rayne, flashes his patented smile at the camera before dropping David Noble on his head with the "Varga’d" small-package driver.

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

Jason Natas hits a top-rope New York Minute on Bryan Dawkins for the pinfall win.

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

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

Flanked by Interns, Chandler Tsonda struts down a hallway. He lowers his Tom Ford sunglasses down his nose and gives the audience a wink.

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?

Dametreyus Fuqueiawytas and the Enemigo security guards stand in front of an exposed brick wall, mean-mugging for the fans (well, you can imagine the Enemigos mean-mugging behind their masks). The camera cuts away to Angelica Brooks and Matt Mills holding microphones in front of an unmarked locker room.

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

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

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

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

Lindsay Troy thwacks Devin Shakur over the head multiple times with a steel chair, then watches the (now former) Boss in Black crumple unconscious to the mat.

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

Matt Ward stares down at the pride and joy of his career – exclusivity – at being the only three time Universal Champion in PRIME's history.

Somehow I'm still here,
To explain,

Blaine Blair and Lisa Tyler sit side-by-side behind a desk. Their stoic expressions don’t hold for long before each give a small, sly smile.

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?

The Murder Show, Hessian, glares daggers through the camera while the strap of the Universal Title hangs loosely from his gigantic paw.

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

Thank You


The Wells Fargo Arena is shaking with aftershocks from pyro cannons and the tens of thousands of exuberant Arizona fans packed into the sold out building. ReVolution 248 marks the grand return of PRIME and even just the opening pyro spectacular and intro vignette are enough to set these people on fire. These addicts just got their first fix in months. The high will not die down soon. The camera pans down from the upper rafters, fans jumping and screaming and waving signs as it drops down to the announce table and the best commentary team in wrestling.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and Gentlemen, WE ARE BACK! Thank you so very much for tuning in. I’m Nick Stuart, and I would like to personally welcome you to ReVolution 248. We have an exciting evening of action and—

Richard Parker: Personally welcome them? You’re such a nerd. Are you going to each of their houses and shaking hands? Kissing their babies?

Nick: No. I was just trying to be nice, Dick. I’m excited to be back on television and I’m glad that the fans are so excited, too. This is a great ti—

Richard: You sound like a tool.

Nick: I read the lines that are written for me.

Was that a jab? Did Nick Stuart just take a shot at my shitty writing? That mother…

Richard: People, I would like to apologize for Nick. He doesn’t have a lot of friends and he doesn’t get out much. He’s not what you and I would call "cool."

Nick: Really?! Cool?! You’re gonna play that game? OK, Richard. Gloves are off. You wanna talk about cool? How about that collection of Cabbage Patch Kids you have, still in the box, lining the walls of your—

Richard: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you sooooo very much for tuning in! I’m Richard Parker, and I would love to personally welcome you to ReVolution 248! Seriously. I’ll come to your houses. Just get me away from this—

Our favorite color commentator continues speaking. We can see his lips moving. But no sound is being transmitted. The lights in the arena flicker. Richard Parker looks up at the lights and back down to the camera with an aggravated expression. He begins to speak quickly. Obviously a tirade of some sort. It takes a moment for him to realize his headset is not working. The monitors at the announce table flash with static. Parker throws his hands in the air, defeated. At the exact moment his arms reach peak extension, the entire arena goes black. The power inside Wells Fargo dies in a single, swift second. It is completely black. Even the green glow of the Exit signs has been extinguished somehow. That seems like it’s highly illegal, actually. There might be some sort of serious law breaking happening at this very—

The first drum beat drops like a bomb, the lights flashing to life to simulate the explosion. The house lights are just a flash. Doused in an instant. All of it forgotten in an instant. The ever-familiar guitar lick kicks in at the same time as the drums. The stage lights are moving erratically around the arena. Red and blue lasers chasing frantic lines in time with the music. Four spotlights blast giant, golden circles on the crowd. Every single person in the audience, the entirety of the sold out Wells Fargo Arena, is standing and bouncing with the music. It is a swarming sea of humanity. And each one of them throws a hand in the air to scream the first line of their favorite entrance song.


All four spotlights converge upon the same spot in the upper deck of the arena. There stands a man. Not just a man. THE Man.


Tyler. Mother. Fucking. Rayne.

The crowd is goin’ gorillas up in here. Just straight up fucking apeshit. The PRIME Minister flashes his trademark roguish grin and a wave of feminine voices swoons in response. He winks at no one in particular, the crowd as a whole, and begins the long march down to ringside. The entire arena swarms in his direction at once, like an ocean wave curling in on itself. So many people are reaching out toward him that, for handfuls of seconds at a time, he is swallowed whole. The camera cannot zoom in close enough to pick him from the writhing humanity. It follows his descent by following the crowd. As The Underground Pimp moves on, two dozen people will wash in to fill the void in his wake. The screaming has not stopped since the music kicked in, and astonishingly, only seems to get louder with each passing second.


Nick: Uh… I think our headsets are back on, Richard.

Richard: Ooooh. Welcome back, everyone! We’re glad you could join us for—

Nick: Just give it up, Rich. You know no one cares when he’s out here.

Richard: I know. I hate him. So much.

The crowd splits like the Red Sea, their Moses stepping forward to the railing of the mid-level seating. He props a single boot up on the rail, full-on Captain Morgan pose. Somehow in all that mess he managed to swipe a beer. Somehow he managed not to spill the damn thing. The arena is at a momentary pause. People still bob to the music, but they’ve all stopped swarming. Tyler and his loyal followers wait patiently for the hook. ..

Tyler Rayne: Come on!


For this round, the roll of "em" will be played by beer. Every gods damned cup of beer in the arena lifted into the air at once. And every gods damned cup of beer chugged at the same fucking time. Tyler leads by example, finishing his beer before the next line is over. Thousands of people follow suit. An entire army of loyal soldiers drinking hundreds of gallons of beer at once.


Richard: There’s a good message for the kids.

Nick: You don’t even like kids.

Richard: Dude. Babies. Chicks dig babies.

Nick: Not as much as they dig that guy.

He points out just behind them. Tyler Rayne is just about to drop down to the ground level when a couple of beautiful women throw themselves at him. Literally leaping into his arms. He catches them both. The blonde makes a move for his neck. The Asian is much bolder, moving straight in for the kill. Just before her lips touch his, Tyler performs a deft slide and push. Suddenly the hot Asian chick is making out with her sexy Swedish sorority sister. The crowd goes mother fuckin’ wild.


Richard: I really, really hate him.

The Golden Boy is on the move quick now, practically jogging toward the ring. Toward the announce table, actually. Directly toward the announce table…

Nick: Is he, uh, running at us?

Richard: Yes. He is running at us.

The commentators are too stunned to do anything. Tyler hits the barrier with a single hand, pushing himself up and hopping over it in a single bound. He clears the short distance from the barrier to the announce table, leaping between Nick and Richard, and slides right across. He hits the ground on the other side in a roll, somersaulting toward the ring, and leaps straight up. His boots land firm on the edge of the apron, though he does need to catch the ropes for balance.

Nick: Wow. Tyler Rayne may be looking better than we have ever seen him.

Richard: So. Much. Hate.

The Most Desired Man in PRIME steps through the ropes and walks straight up to Vince Howard. The two share a quick handshake and chest bump before Howard passes his microphone over to Rayne and steps out of the ring. So now it’s just Tyler Rayne and a microphone and tens of thousands of screaming fans.

Tyler Rayne: You mother fuckers missed me, didn’t you?


WEL-COME BA-ACK! clapclap clapclapclap WEL-COME BA-ACK! clapclap clapclapclap

He laughs and holds up a hand to try and calm them. It takes a minute for the cheer to die down.

Tyler Rayne: More of a welcome back for all us, really. I know I’ve been away longer than most, but we’ve all been missing PRIME for awhile. Fucking place was in a coma or something. But hey… one last run before we die, eh? And if we’re goin’ down, might as well do it in a great big fucking blaze of gods damned epic glory.


Tyler Rayne: Cameraman, can you, uh... can you come here for a moment?

The Underground Pimp points to one of the cameramen on the apron and waves him into the ring. The cameraman is a bit apprehensive. But who says no to Tyler Rayne? No one, that’s who. Get your ass in the ring, cameraman.

Tyler Rayne: I noticed when I jumped over his table with such marvelous finesse and goddess given athleticism, that Richard Parker there looks a bit… frustrated. Now I figure this is a night of celebration. PRIME is back in full force. I’m wrestling… um… uh… who the fuck am I wrestling again?


Tyler Rayne: Yeah. Him. So, anyway, Dick over there is being pissy and I want everyone in a good mood tonight. Cameraman, do you see that group of fine-looking women up there in Section C.

He points up toward the mid-level seats, where two entire rows are filled with women sheathed in various Tyler Rayne t-shirts, tanktops, and corsets.

Tyler Rayne: So what I need you to do is zoom in on that fantastic display of quality apparel…

The cameraman was doing it before Tyler even asked.

Tyler Rayne: …and on the count of boobs, those ladies are gonna take their tops off for Dick. Everybody ready now? On boobs. One… two… BOOBS!


Sure enough, every single woman in both rows pulls her top up, off, or down to reveal more breast than a bucket of chicken. Which, I guess probably only has like two in there. Maybe three. Which would be like that chick in Total Recall. Um… anyway. The women apparently came in a group. And well prepared. Most of the women in the top row have a letter painted on their tits to spell out one rather long sentence.

Nick: We want you in us.

Richard: Ho. Ly. Shit.

Only the women in the middle of the second row have painted. This sentence is much shorter, but just as to the point.

Nick: All of us.

Richard: He said that was for me, right? So they wrote that for me?

Nick: Whatever helps you sleep at night.

Richard: After seeing that many topless women, I don’t think I’ll be doing much sleeping.

Nick: Dear lord, man.


Tyler Rayne: Number one trend on Twitter, kids. Worldwide. OK. OK. So this whole thing has a purpose. Now mostly I just wanted to come out and see how many women I could get naked.


Tyler Rayne: But I also wanted to come out and say… thank you. To everyone. I’ve worked for a lot of different wrestling companies in my career. Lot of places that gave me money and gave me titles. Not a lot of places that felt like home. This… this place is home.


Tyler Rayne: Now I know I usually come out here and make dick jokes or threaten to maim someone in a terrible, disgusting fashion. But since, for the fucking life of me, I can’t remember what cumstain asshole I’m supposedly wrestling tonight… we’ll take a different approach. This is going to be my last run. After PRIME is over… so is my career.


Tyler Rayne: I appreciate that. Really. But it’s been a long road and I’m fucking tired, kids. Since I started here, I’ve thought that PRIME would be the last place I wrestle. I didn’t really expect it to be while the ship was sinking… but fuck it. I love this place. And if it’s done, then so am I. So for tonight, I want to get all this sappy bullshit out of the way. I want to genuinely thank everyone in PRIME for the work they’ve done. This cameraman. The dude that rigs up my pyro. Whatever sad monkey has the job of trying to spotlight me in the crowd. Lisa Tyler or Blaine Blair or whichever dispshit was dumb enough to employ some dude who traded solely in dick jokes for his first few weeks here. Lucky for you all, I’ve now incorporated gratuitous female nudity in my routine. Ratings booster, bitches.


Tyler Rayne: I want to thank all the men and women in the back who have made this place special. Especially the sorry sacks of shit I dropped in the Halo to get that little Golden Ticket thing that helped me cause so much trouble. Talkin’ to you, Hollywood. But mostly, I want to thank you…

He, of course, points out to the fans.

Tyler Rayne: …you completely insane mother fuckers. Every night I come out here and it’s like a gods damned circus. You fuckers… shit. I don’t even know. You people rioted for me. You started a fucking riot for me. Like, a literal riot. That’s some serious shit right there. And I won’t ever forget that. I come out here to have fun and entertain and you… you crazy bastards are willing to walk with me every stupid, beer fueled, tit flashing step of the way. I’ve done shit on this show that would have had me banned from some states if not for the overwhelming support from you fuckers. Do you guys even know how many times local governments have tried to sue me for some shit? It’s fucking ridiculous. But you people… you always have my back. No matter how many times I disappear or walk away, every time I walk back down that ramp you fuckers look like you’re having orgasms. I think some of you really do. And that’s fucking fantastic. That’s some shit no one else can ever say. You people, PRIME… this has been the best of my career. And I’m not ashamed to end it here. So truly and deeply… thank you. Everyone. Each. Fucking. One. Of. You.


Tyler Rayne: The proper response is "you’re welcome." Assholes.


There’s a momentary pause before the chant comes on again and a few of the more spirited fans take advantage to start their own chant.






Richard: Tyler Rayne is eighty percent of the reason we can’t be aired on basic cable.

Nick: Only eighty?

The chant is still going. Tyler is in the corner laughing. He tries to regain his composure enough to talk.

Tyler Rayne: You bastards will chant anything. For real, though… thanks. And from now on, I promise no more sappy bullshit. It’s all tits, beer, and blood until the end of this. Let’s burn this fucker down.


The PRIME Minister throws a single arm in the air, drops his microphone, and rolls back out of the ring. Another chant starts up on his way out. His music could be playing, but it’s too loud in the Wells Fargo Arena to tell.


Quinlan vs. Clyde Walkins

Nick: It’s the first match in PRIME in nearly a year, and what a great one to kick things off with! Mitchell Quinlan, one of the most promising up-and-comers in recent memory, takes on the former Universal Champion, Clyde Walkins. One half of The Forsaken, a decorated team in their own rights, having previously captured the PRIME Tag Team Championship, Walkins shocked the world with a victory over the undefeated Tchu over six years ago in a match that is even talked about to this very day.

Hey, Lindz. That’s two. Yeah, I’m counting forum posts. Still…84,998 to go.

Richard: Yeah, talked about because it was the biggest miracle since Jesus Christ himself turned water into wine. Give it a thousand years, and this guy will have his own religion.

Nick: Hey, don’t go giving him any ideas. But whatever you think of either man, both are formidable opponents and this opening contest should turn out to be one hell of a match.

Inside the ring, Vince Howard waits for the cheers from the crowd to die down before lifting the microphone to his lips.

Vince: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to ReVolution!

And then, like a ten-dollar whore, the arena receives a bad case of the clap again. When the applause and cheers settle for a second time, the ring announcer continues.

Vince: The first fight of the night is scheduled for one fall, with no time limit! Introducing first, from Brantford, Ontario, Canada…standing 6’3" and weighing 235 pounds…he is the Sin City Saint, Mitchell Quinlan!

"Forest For The Trees" by Danko Jones picks up, and an explosion of pyrotechnics precedes Mitchell Quinlan stepping out onto the stage. The fans continue cheering, while he raises his arms a few times and begins walking down the ramp towards the ring.

Nick: Here comes Quinlan, looking in good shape as he makes his way to the ring.

Richard: That’s really kind of a gay thing to say, don’t you think?

Nick: What is wrong with you? Can’t a man comment on another man’s appearance without someone else bringing sexual preference into it?

Richard: Not when it’s gay he can’t.

Vince: And his opponent, from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada…he stands 6’2" and weighs in at 310 pounds…a former PRIME Universal Champion, Clyde Walkins!

Yes, 310 pounds. Read my fucking roleplays. And for those keeping track, that technically counts as three.

Before Quinlan can reach the ring, because I’m a dick like that, "Now You’re A Man" bursts through the speakers and out comes the former Universal fucking Champion, Captain Clyderisma himself, the man who gave Tchu his first loss, Clyde Walkins.


Richard: Good lord, did he eat Farwell or something?

Nick: It does look like the former Universal Champion has put on a few pounds in the years since he last competed here.

Richard: A few? He looks like Adele! His entrance music should be "Now You’re Two Men."

At first, the fans kind of go quiet because, really, what the fuck? Dude looks like Vader when he tried to make a comeback to the WWE and then fell off the ring about twenty times. Assumedly, Clyde’s still trying to fit into his old tights, as the fabric is stretched to the point that most of the black looks gray and the red has faded almost completely. In short, it looks like someone tried to fit a frog into a worm. But it doesn’t take the crowd long to begin cheering for him again, as he plods his way down the ramp and to ringside.

Richard: Well, let’s see if fatty can even get into the ring. Are the steps reinforced?

Indeed they are, Richard. PRIME used half their ReVolution budget making sure those bad boys wouldn’t buckle under his weight or my incredible ego. After six years out of work, Clyde enters the squared circle for the first time, only to be met with a running double knee strike before the bell can even sound.

Nick: Quinlan wasting no time in gaining the upper hand on Walkins, which is a smart move considering Clyde has to be considered the favorite here.

Richard: Really? Even though he looks like someone trolled Gozer into turning into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man a second time?

Clyde’s moobs accidentally absorb most of the blow from the Eagle Place Dentistry, which, I mean, I guess makes more sense to be called the Eagle Place Mastectomy at this point, but the impact still knocks him back into the corner. Staying on the offensive, Quinlan charges in with a clothesline that causes Clyde to lean back and put further strain on the turnbuckles.

Richard: I don’t know how much more he can take.

Nick: Clyde does look to be in trouble, and Quinlan isn’t giving him a chance to recover.

Richard: I was talking about the ring post.

Sensing victory at hand, the Sin City Saint pulls Clyde out from the corner and tucks his head under an arm, driving him to the mat with a swinging neckbreaker. But Walkins doesn’t allow him the chance to make a cover, instinctively rolling onto his stomach and crawling to all fours.

Nick: Clyde showing his veteran instincts here, ensuring Quinlan won’t earn an easy victory.

Richard: I’m pretty sure that was unintentional and his fat just picked up momentum.

Quinlan keeps on him like Rosie O’Donnell on a cheeseburger, pulling Clyde the rest of the way up in a front facelock.

Nick: He could be going for his patented Fisher of Men Suplex here.

Hooking the near leg, Quinlan pumps his hips to try and lift the behemoth overhead, but Clyde manages to block the attempt by doing absolutely nothing besides being morbidly obese. Using the Little Lotta school of self-defense, Clyde counters a second attempt with a modified fisherman suplex of his own.

Nick: Back to School!

Unable to bridge for the pin, Clyde tries to use the ropes to help himself back to his feet. Unfortunately for the ropes, they’re attached to the turnbuckles and unable to nope right the fuck out of there, and you almost feel bad for inanimate objects that can’t feel pain, because if they could then this would be the equivalent of being drawn and quartered for them. Clyde mercifully gives up after a few seconds of futility, though, and instead focuses on hefting his own mass.

Richard: Jesus, it’s like watching a whale try not to beach itself. A fat whale.

Quinlan holds the back of his head as he reaches his feet around the same time Clyde does. Both men see each other at the same moment, but Clyde reacts faster…somehow…and slams Mitchell back to the mat with a scoop slam. Clyde takes a moment to catch his breath, then drops a meaty leg across his throat, holding that position for the cover.



Nick: Kick-out!

Richard: I don’t know how he did it. That leg alone must weigh sixty pounds.

The time spent in the ring is obviously taking its toll on Clyde, who somehow manages to be slower to his feet than Quinlan. Seizing the opportunity to get back on the offensive, Mitchell Quinlan locks in a rear naked choke, jumping on Clyde’s back in the hope of wearing him out. Clyde, however, has one trick left in his book and immediately rushes backward into the corner, sandwiching Quinlan’s body between his and the turnbuckles.

Nick: If you ever wondered what a bug hitting the windshield looked like up close, that’s pretty much it.

As Clyde turns around, he catches Quinlan staggering out of the corner with the newly-patented Clydewalk Slam. Standing over him in the middle of the ring, Clyde looks around at the cheering crowd, then down at his opponent, before waving a hand in front of his face.


And then in an act of copyright infringement six years in the making, he rebounds off the ropes, stretching them to their limit in the process, proceeds to do a little jig on the way back, dusts off a shoulder, and drops a fist squarely into Quinlan’s forehead.

Nick: Clyde Knuckle Shuffle! This could be it!

Quinlan, predictably, stumbles to his feet, holding his face all the while, only to walk into a boot to the gut. He’s then hoisted onto Clyde’s shoulders, but pushes off to avoid the F-U or Attitude Adjustment or whatever gay thing Cena’s calling it these days. Landing behind Clyde, Quinlan charges forward, aiming for the Northern Lariat.

Nick: Northern Lariat! But Clyde ducks it!

Richard: I think he’s winded. There’s no way that wasn’t accidental.

Spinning around after missing the lariat, Quinlan walks right into a three-quarter facelock bulldog.

Nick: Clyde Crusher!

An exhausted Clyde Walkins turns the Sin City Saint onto his back, smothering him under rolls of fat. Now he knows what Stedman Graham feels like.




Vince: Here is your winner…CLYDE WALKINS!!!

"Now You’re A Man" picks up for the second time in the night as Clyde rolls off of Quinlan, breathing heavily on the mat as his hand is raised in victory.

Nick: What a win for the returning Clyde Walkins. But it didn’t come easy, as Mitchell Quinlan tested his limits early on.

Richard: He tested the ring’s limits, too. Isn’t there a max capacity for that thing or something?

Getting helped up by the referee, Clyde takes to a corner to try and climb the turnbuckles in celebration, but gives up after a few attempts and instead settles for walking around the ring with his arms in the air. When that proves too much for him, he sits down against the nearest corner and uses one hand to wave at the crowd while his other arm props itself up on the middle rope.

Richard: I still can’t believe Grimace’s cousin used to be our Universal Champion, and that he just won. I keep thinking I’ve suffered a stroke and the past ten years have all been a hallucination.

Nick: Well, it certainly was an interesting way to kick off ReVolution, that’s for sure. And we’ve still got some great matches to go, including that spectacular main event between Nova and High Flyer.

Challenge: Issued

"Mills, kindly fuck off will ya? I’m not in the mood."

The voice belonged to Katterina Wylde as she stood angrily in her own locker room yelling at Matt Mills, who seems eager to get an interview rolling. There’s even a cameraman at the ready. The Dark Angel grows more impatient with the man as his persistence grows.

Matt Mills: Oh come on. Just a little interview? Please? Surely you have something to say to your adoring fans at this time? C’mon, surely there’s something.

Katt Wylde: You’re really starting to piss me off, you know that? I’m kicking back and enjoying the show…or trying to enjoy it in peace. Watch Ty kick some ass, and you come along and ruin my fucking night before it properly starts. Did I do something to hurt you in a past life? Because if I did, I guess it wasn’t severe enough to get you to leave me the fuck alone.

Mills was relentless. He’d been pestering her all damn day, after all. He wanted a word with her even if it kills him. And if he pushes to far, that may be the case.

Matt Mills: Oh come on, please Katt? Just a quick interview,,,and then I’ll leave you be. The people want to know what you have planned this time around.

The Dark Angel grits her teeth and tries not to allow the darkness to overcome her being. I mean really, he might be an annoying shithead but he doesn’t deserve to meet the beast within. Nobody does. We’ll explain that mystical malarkey later. Maybe. Maybe not.

Katt Wylde: Alright Mills. I’ve decided I have something to say, and so let’s not fuck around. Roll the camera.

Mills instructed the cameraman to start recording and he got into position, microphone in hand. The red light flicks on and Mills has a wide smile on his face.

Matt Mills: Hello everyone, Matt Mills here and I am standing next to the gorgeous Katt Wylde.

Katt Wylde: But you can call me Ms. Wylde, ya fuckhead.

Matt Mills: Very well, Ms. Wylde...when you were last here in PRIME, admittedly your win-loss record was…well, less than impressive. However, you did in that time make a lasting impression with some of your antics. What do you have in store for the fans going forward in this, the final run for PRIME?

Katt Wylde: It’s real simple, dick lick. So simple even a complete idiot like you can figure it out. Last time, I made the foolish decision to take my opponents for granted. I thought I was invincible, and evidently…well, I’m not. I used to be, though. And also evil. Can’t forget that. But that was years ago, and I was young and stupid. I also read some really old and fucked up books that made me into  a freaky weirdo sub-human vampire wannabe or something. Thankfully, I didn’t sparkle.

Matt Mills: Wait, what?

Katt Wylde: Nevermind. Inside reference.

Matt Mills: OOOOOOOOOOkay

Katt merely chuckled.

Katt Wylde: But like I was saying. Last time, I wasn’t ready. I am now. More that I have ever been, and I’m going to show the world that I used to be a symbol of fear around these wrestling rings across the globe. I still am. I’ve been 25 years old for the last 7 years. How the fuck did that happen? I’ve been dead. I’ve been a monster. I’ve married into a family of freaks. I had a lesbian affair with my brother’s ex-wife, which culminated in marriage and a bitter divorce. I’ve been the sex slave of Satan himself…

Matt Mills: Wait, really?

Katt Wylde: …and I have been a World fucking Champion more times than that asshole older brother of mine, Nathan who used to be something back in the day, but see they called me the afterthought. Now he’s faded into obscurity. They said I wouldn’t last. And I beat giants. Stood toe to toe with monsters. I’m a slayer. I’m a destroyer. A demon wrapped up in the body of innocence. The Dark Angel. Walking the fine line between good and evil. Always. Forever. Until the day I die. You want to see hell raised? I’ll bring hell. Every single wrestler in PRIME better watch their backs…well, unless I like ‘em. Wait…there was a point to this mad rambling. At least I think there was. Oh yes, I remember now. It’s real simple: This goes out to anyone from PRIME’s past, present or future. You have until Revolution 249, as I’m issuing an open challenge to a match at Revolution 250. I’ll be waiting in the ring for ya. I just hope you’re ready to find out just how fucking evil I can truly be.

She scoffs.

Katt Wylde: I hope to hear from one of you lucky, lucky people soon. But just remember, the second you let your guard down and turn your back…I will make you Fade to Black. Wonderful job as always Mills, ya useless fucking mic stand. You’re dismissed.

The Dark Angel pushes Mills and the cameraman out of her locker room, going back to watching the show on the monitor. Mills regains his composure and is still smiling like the proverbial Chesire Cat.

Matt Mills: There you have it, folks. A very determined and…somewhat mentally unbalanced "Dark Angel" Katt Wylde.

From inside the locker room, we hear Katt yell.

Katt Wylde: I heard that, ya worthless piece of prison currency!

Matt Mills: Uh…Let’s go back out to ringside.

Take Care Of Business, Then We Have Some Fun

"Good to see you, Troy!"

"Hey, Lindsay!"

"Ms. Troy, how are we tonight?"

Lindsay Troy makes her way through a winding backstage corridor, acknowledging old faces among the sizable work crew required to run a global wrestling behemoth the likes of PRIME.  Troy's already dressed in her ring gear, momentarily sans arm tape, her match with Jason Natas not that far off on the horizon. Not much has changed about her since folks last saw her on TV, which is to say she still looks damn good despite not adhering to a strict road-training schedule in months.

As satisfying as it is to see everyone after the tumultuous shut-down of a year ago, the Queen can’t help but sigh loudly with relief as she pushes open a set of double-doors leading into a silent parking garage. 

It can be overwhelming sometimes when you rock this hard.

The Hall of Famer scans the lot, her brow furrowing as she doesn’t see any sign of the person she’s looking for. 

Troy: Guess I'm not surprised, he's never on ti-


Suddenly an old beater Volkswagen Westfalia van squeals its tires around the corner and jerks into a parking space fifty or so yards away from Troy.  The driver’s door swings open and thick smoke billows out across the concrete ceiling of the lot as the "Risen Star" and former champion and hallowed executive (we’re gonna keep stretching that) Nova piles out.  He’s noticeably heavier than the last time he graced PRIME’s hallways, probably pushing 275.  He’s dressed in jeans and a sleeveless black t-shirt with The Little Engine That Could smoking a joint and the words "SUPERFLY EXPRESS" scrawled over the top in ‘70s Day-Glo font.  The long blonde locks that caused him to stand out years ago have been replaced by a wiry blonde horseshoe of hair that pokes out in all directions from the black cap snugged over Nova's bald head, and his woolly brown beard streaked with white hangs down to the middle of his chest.

He’s also sporting a full facemask.  And smoking an enormous blunt.  Troy meets him in the middle of the lot, waving a hand in front of her face.

Troy: Is that…?

Nova: Yes, Lindz, it’s weed.  I’m smoking weed, and I understand it’s illegal, but I can smoke it on national TV and no one in this building will do shit to me.

Troy: That NFW Drug Policy getting to you a little bit?

Nova: Lil’ bit.

Troy: You’re wearing a facemask.

Nova: You have boobs.

Troy: Seriously, what happened?

Nova: Flyer headbutted me and broke my nose.

Troy: Huh?  Thought you two were teaming up or something?

Nova: (Gesturing to his shirt) Yeah.  But I was dropping one of my patented pre-six-man-tag motivational speeches…

Troy: I know them well.  You have a gift.

Nova: …thank you.  Well I brought my A Game, and forgot that Flyer has trouble not headbutting stuff when he gets excited.  I gave him the business, and he broke my nose.

Troy: You didn’t say "It’s our time now," did you?

Nova: Twice.

Troy: Oh God.

Nova: Once at the beginning and once at the end.

Troy: Oh GOD.

Nova: To call it an "Our Time Sandwich" would not be an inaccurate statement.

Troy: Welp, I have no sympathy for you.

She stares at him wryly for a moment, hands on her hips, before laughing and throwing her arms around his shoulders.

Troy: Missed you, Caes!

Nova: (Grinning) How you been, girl? 

Troy: (Stepping back) Good.  Really good.  Better now that we got the lights back on this place.

Nova nods as he rips the blunt. 

Nova: I’m not in the practice of getting my ass kicked across multiple organizations anymore, but…it being the final hoedown and all, figured I owe it to this place to show up and represent. 

Troy: A lot of the crew felt that way.  Thankfully. 

Nova: Damn, really?  Here I was hoping for a few weeks’ national spotlight to fling Genericos around and come off like a rock star.
Troy: I think you’ll come off fine.

They both turn their eyes towards the doors leading into the building.

Nova: You just never forget the place where you took The Next Step.

Troy: Home is what it is, Caes. (Glancing down at her watch) And I think it’s time for you to go get settled in.

The Risen Star throws an arm over Troy’s shoulder and extends the other one out in front of him.

Nova: Ladies first.

They start to make their way inside.

Nova: You're sticking around to watch the main right? No big plans to hurry off to before the night ends?

Troy: Just a bar, somewhere. Which, of course you're invited out to.

Nova fist pumps and exhales a Yesssssss!

Troy: But yeah, I'll watch you and Jack punch each other in the face a few times before that.

Nova: Can always count on you.

The scene fades as Troy pulls open the arena door and the duo walk back into the madhouse.

Dusk vs. Thug Roc

Vince Howard: The next match is one fall...

Richard: Is this really a Dusk match?

Nick: Yes!

Richard: Oh man!

Vince Howard: Introducing first...

"You're Now Tuned into the Motha f#ckin Greatest!"

Jay-Z's music hits the stadium and Thug roC emerges from the black curtains to a pop from the nostalgic crowd. Standing directly in front of the entrance way he takes a moment to scan the crowd and hear the cheers before suddenly throwing his arms into the air to excite the crowd even more.

Thug roC makes his way down the ramp and slides under the bottom rope. Quickly getting back to his feet, he charges to the opposite side of the ring and jumps onto the second rope and raises his hand high into the air while bouncing up and down. Thug roC turns and does the same on the east side of the ring until his music slowly fades out.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Arlington, Virginia... THUG! ROC!

Richard: They’re really pulling out all of the old timers, aren’t they?

Nick: Be nice.

Vince Howard: And his opponent...

#Th-th-that that don't kill me
#Can only make me stronger


Just like a roaring train, the fans all leap to their feet as the opening lines to "Stronger" by Kanye West rips through the arena! It doesn’t take long as from the back comes the Lost Soul himself, Dusk, who gets a loud reception from the crowd! He stands at the top of the ramp, feeling the adrenaline racing through his body as he hops up and down before running down the ramp like a streak of lightning.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Los Angeles, California and weighing in at 250 pounds, he is the Lost Soul… DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSK!

Dusk then slides into the ring as the fans continue to chant his name!

The crowd begins to hum, wondering if these two wrestlers will be able to still show the talent they had so many years ago. Dusk stands in one corner, his arms resting on the corners, while Thug RoC is in the opposite corner, stretching, ready for the match to start. The referee looks at both competitors, before signaling for the bell.




Nick: And just like that, the match is off!

Richard: Oh Joy. Can someone put a taser against my balls?

Nick: Many women would love nothing more than to make your wishes come true.

Richard: Except for your Mom, Nick! Whoa!

Dusk slowly moves out of his corner while Thug RoC comes rushing at him full force. Dusk catches Thug RoC off guard with a hip toss, using RoC’s momentum against him. As RoC’s body hits the mat, Dusk holds onto RoC’s arm and slams his knee into the shoulder of Thug RoC. RoC grimaces in pain as Dusk locks him into a modified arm bar, keeping the pressure on RoC before slamming his left knee into RoC’s shoulder again. Thug once again moans from the pain before he starts fighting his way back to his feet. Dusk continues to hold onto that arm again, but is met with a forearm shot to the face, which is more than enough to break the hold. Dusk stumbles away, grabbing his face in the process. As Dusk turns back towards his opponent, Thug RoC connects with a clothesline that sends the six foot four former PRIME Superstar to the mat.

Nick: And in the early goings here, Dusk is finding himself on the receiving end of Thug RoC connecting with a clothesline. You have to wonder what kind of shape these two are in.

Richard: That’s what she said!

Nick: ...

Richard: No?

Nick: No.

Richard: That’s what she said too.

RoC helps the rising Dusk to his feet before connecting with an uppercut to the jaw of The Icon of PRIME. Dusk stumbles into the ropes and the momentum sends him back towards RoC, who nails a knee to Dusk’s midsection. Before Dusk has a chance to react, RoC connects with a suplex that plants Dusk in the middle of the ring. RoC wastes no time as he goes to cover Dusk and the referee slides into position.



Richard: And RoC is unable to get the cover there. Come on now, far too early. Then again, it is Dusk and he does like to try too hard.

Nick: Bringing last decade to this decade, ladies and gentlemen, Richard Parker!

Richard: Just doing my best, Nick. Just doing my best.

Nick: That’s funny...

Dusk looks up at the ceiling as RoC looks over at the referee, who confirms that Dusk got his shoulder off the mat. RoC pulls himself up and brings Dusk along with him before pushing him into the nearby corner. RoC then rams his shoulder into Dusk’s midsection, causing a great deal of pain for the long retired wrestler. RoC then grabs Dusk’s arm and whips him across the ring, into the opposite corner. Dusk’s back cracks into the corner and he sits there as RoC slowly walks across the ring and once again, slams his shoulder into Dusk’s ribs. Dusk just stands in the corner, in pain as RoC once again grabs Dusk’s wrist and sends him back to the first corner. Dusk is in no shape to stop his opponent as RoC connects with another shoulder to his midsection as the fans just watch in, in shock as to how Dusk is at a complete disadvantage against RoC. RoC then sends Dusk flying across the ring again and the sound of Dusk’s back meeting the corner echoes throughout the arena. Instead of following up with another shoulder to Dusk’s ribcage, RoC runs full speed at Dusk, looking for a splash, but instead, meeting the boot of Dusk!

Nick: And Dusk able to catch Thug RoC off guard! Dusk, having spent many nights in the ring with some of the best this sport has to offer, is going to be able to reach down deep in a match like this.

Richard: And being familiar with loss after loss, it wouldn’t surprise me to watch him lose again.

Nick: We’ll have to see about that.

Dusk grabs the stunned RoC and whips him into the ropes before connecting with a back elbow that drops RoC to the mat, but not for long. Thug RoC starts to climb back to his feet, but is met with a knee to his jaw from Dusk who then gets on top of him and starts leveling him with fist after fist to the face of the man from Arlington, VA. RoC tries to cover up as the referee moves in and starts to pull Dusk off of RoC. It doesn’t take much to stop Dusk as he stands, bounces off the rope, and drops an elbow across RoC’s chest. Dusk then sits up, clearing his head from the moments ago beating he was taking from RoC. Dusk grabs his ribs and it is evident the rust that is showing in Dusk’s game as it has been a few years since he was in the ring. RoC begins to sit up, but Dusk is on top of his game as he bounces off the ropes and hits a dropkick to RoC’s chest!

Richard: Ho. Hum.

Nick: Dusk, pulling out some of his trademark moves here, even while showing off a great deal of rust.

Richard: That goes without saying. Being away from the ring for this long, you have to know that he is going to show some rust. Much like Thug RoC.

Nick: Still, both men are going to pour their heart into the ring.

Richard: That’s what she sa-- No?

Nick: No.

Dusk sits back up and starts clapping his hands, trying to get the fans into the match while he is breathing kind of hard, his body not used to this anymore, and neither is RoC’s. Dusk gets back up to his feet and makes his way over to the nearby corner. As he begins to climb the turnbuckles, he can feel the adrenaline rising in his body as the fans get up with him, remembering the way this man used to throw caution into the wind, time and time again, just to please the fans. Thug slowly makes his way to his feet as Dusk launches himself towards his opponent, going for a crossbody splash, but is met with a fist to the midsection again. Dusk hits the mat hard as Thug RoC pounces onto the Icon of PRIME, with stiff kicks to the back of Dusk’s head, one after another!

Nick: And Thug RoC unleashing some holy hell on the former PRIME Intense Champion!

Richard: You realize that was like thirty years ago, right?

Nick: Still, once a champion, always a champion.

Richard: Tell that to Pete Rose!

Nick: What the hell are you talking about?!

Richard: Just trying to throw out random statements, one match at a time!

Thug RoC nods at the referee’s suggestions and kicks Dusk squarely in the ribs, sending the former PRIME superstar rolling out of the ring. RoC points at the referee, wanting him to start counting Dusk out, and the referee starts the process as Dusk is on his knees, gasping at air. He looks up as the referee begins to count him out. The referee can only make it to four before Dusk rolls back into the ring, but as he does, Thug RoC is waiting for him and slams his foot into Dusk’s ribs again. With RoC’s focus in laser mode, he drops in elbow across Dusk’s midsection, causing him to grab his ribs in pain. He hoists Dusk up off the mat, knees him in the midsection, and then nails a Snapmere! Dusk sits right up, breathing in pain, before RoC nails him with a Spine Kick!

Richard: Okay, anytime I can watch Dusk just get his butt kicked, I love it that much more.

Nick: Glad to know you don’t hold any grudges.

Richard: Oh no, I hold many of grudges! I can’t wait to let you know all of my thoughts about Lindsay Troy tonight!

Nick: I’m sure we can’t wait.

Dusk is rolling around in pain as his body is feeling the beating he is taking. RoC walks over and grabs Dusk by the back of the head before pulling him up off the mat. RoC stuns Dusk with a well placed fist to his midsection before connecting with a DDT! With the former Extreme Champion on the ground, RoC goes for the cover, hoping he has finished off Dusk!




Nick: And Dusk able to kick out, even after that DDT! You have to wonder how much Dusk can take.

Richard: That’s what the gay man said. Whoa!

Nick: ...

Richard: No?

Nick: Knock it off.

With Dusk kicking out, RoC nods his head as he gets up to his feet. He looks down at the former PRIME superstar and grabs his left before locking him into a half Boston Crab! Dusk begins to grimace in pain, his back and ribs having taken significant damage in this match up to this point. He moans in pain, not wanting this match to be over quite yet. He looks at the referee, who is wondering if Dusk wants to tap out, but Dusk shakes his head, though he knows his body is not ready to take this much punishment. He begins to claw at the mat, hoping to get the strength to move to the ropes as RoC cinches in the half Boston Crab, trying to make sure the larger Dusk doesn’t have the energy to make his way to the ropes.

Richard: Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!

Nick: You are the least objective announcer ever in the world.

Richard: Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Nick: And now you are just ripping off other people’s catchphrases.

As the fans chant Dusk on, he can feel the adrenaline surging through his body, and he is able to inch his body towards the ropes before grabbing onto the bottom one. RoC immediately breaks the hold before dropping a knee into the side of Dusk’s ribs, causing immense pain for Dusk! RoC grabs Dusk by the left ankle and drags him back into the center of the ring. RoC then bounces off the ropes and goes for a leg drop across Dusk’s midsection, but Dusk manages to roll out of the way as RoC’s body collides into the unforgiving mat!

Nick: And Thug RoC missing the move! Dusk isn’t for dead yet.

Richard: Damnit. That means I’m going to lose my office pool.

Nick: I’m the only one in your office, Richard.

Richard: Exactly! By the way, you might be missing a hundred dollars from your wallet.

RoC starts to get up off the mat as Dusk is on his knees, trying to get the strength to get up off the mat. RoC walks over and slams his boot into Dusk’s mat, which knocks him down for a moment, but not for long as he starts to try and get up off the mat again. RoC then bounces off the ropes at full speed, hoping to drop Dusk back to the mat, but Dusk manages to explode from his position and connects with a shattering spinebuster to his opponent! The movement though leaves Dusk on the back as he grabs his ribs in immense pain! Dusk rolls around on the mat, wanting to get up desperately, but the pain is so much as he slams his fist into the mat, upset that his body is betraying him. RoC meanwhile is laying there, the wind knocked out of him, as he tries to figure out what just happened.

Nick: Where did Dusk get all of that energy?!

Richard: Viagara, Nick, Viagra.

Nick: That has nothing to do with it at all!

Richard: No, you idiot. I think this girl over there is giving me that look! Do you have any Viagra with you?

Nick: NO!

Richard: Nick...

Nick: ...fine. Here you go.

Richard: Thanks, buddy. Be right back!

Dusk, using the ropes, finally is able to make his way back up to his feet, but so does RoC. RoC is quick to the attack as he connects with two European Uppercuts that causes Dusk to hold onto the ropes, doing his best to not fall back down and give RoC the advantage again. RoC bounces off the ropes, determined to send Dusk back to the outside, but Dusk is ready for it this time as he flips RoC up and over, sending Thug to the outside! Dusk moves away from the ropes as RoC starts to pull himself up. Dusk wastes no time as he runs full speed off the ropes, leaps over the top rope, barely getting over it, and connects with a suicide dive to the outside! The fans cheer the daredevil move from Dusk, who is slow to get back up to his feet.

Richard: Oh Joy, another match where Dusk is throwing his body over a rope or doing something crazy.

Nick: That’s what he does, Richard.

Richard: And it gets old.

Nick: These fans would disagree with you!

Dusk connects with a punch to RoC’s jaw before whipping him into the nearby ring post! RoC stumbles backwards from the shot to the metal post and Dusk is ready for him as he connects with a German Suplex, with Thug landing firmly on the back of his head. Dusk continues to grab his ribs as he gets back up, determined to fight through the pain. Some of the fans pat Dusk on the back as he walks over to RoC and lifts him back up to his feet before smashing his face into the ringside barrier! RoC stumbles around for a moment before Dusk lifts him up from the side and slams him back first into the barrier! Dusk rolls back into the ring, breaking the count, but walks over to the nearby turnbuckle as RoC is laid out on the barrier, dazed from the vicious attacks from Dusk.

Nick: And Dusk is making his way to the turnbuckle and is climbing it.

Richard: Get your cameras ready, folks!

Nick: For the high flying move that Dusk is about to hit?

Richard: No, for the move that Dusk is going to miss on and thus end his career!

Nick: You are a sick individual.

On top of the turnbuckle, Dusk looks out at the crowd and then down at his opponent. He is grabbing his ribcage, still in a ton of pain, but throws that out the window as he leaps off the top turnbuckle and connects with a flying legdrop across the body of RoC as both men spill into the crowd from the vicious highflying move!



Nick: And Dusk connects! The fans are going crazy.

Richard: Boring.

Nick: One day, Richard, you are going to appreciate when he does something like that.

Richard: And one day, Nick, you will realize I could care less.

Both men are rolling around on the ground as the referee begins his count again. Dusk is adamant to fight through the pain as he grabs the barricade and pulls himself up. He is in pain, it is evident by the look in his face, and his body is taxed from this vicious match. Even the most basic of matches would be too much for either man as they are not used to this pace, not used to the action, and they are blowing up before everyone’s eyes. Both men have done this for many years though and are used to fighting through the pain. Dusk manages to get himself over the barrier and begins to climb back to the ring as the referee reaches seven. Dusk somehow manages to roll inside the ring and breaks the count.

Richard: Now, let’s see what Dusk does here. Oh, he exits the ring. So predictable.

Nick: It looks like he doesn’t want the match to end with a countout.

Richard: Dumb.

Dusk reaches over the barricade and grabs the stunned RoC, who is still trying to get back up to his feet. RoC is led back to the ring as Dusk follows in behind him and goes for the cover!




Nick: And Thug RoC somehow manages to kick out there!

Richard: I guess Thug RoC is determined to fight some more. Joy. Let’s wrap this up.

Dusk looks over at RoC, still stunned from the fact that RoC was able to kick out from that. Dusk grabs the bottom rope, using it to help him up. He walks around the ring for a moment, wanting to get his feet back under him, wanting to catch his breath. He looks over at RoC before moving over to him, grabbing him by the back of the head, but before he can move any further from that, RoC pulls him down and rolls him up into a small package. The referee immediately moves into position!




Richard: Oh come on! That was a three!

Nick: No, no it wasn’t!

Richard: Nick, shut it!

Dusk lays there on the mat for a moment as does RoC. Dusk is shocked by how close he came to the loss and is shocked by it. He begins to get off the mat and moves over to RoC, who is still feeling the pain of Dusk’s attack on him from earlier. Dusk begins to pull him up off the mat, but RoC manages to explode with an uppercut that rocks Dusk’s head back. Dusk though is ready for it as he slams fist to RoC’s face, but RoC refuses to go down without a fight and slams his elbow into Dusk’s chest and nails another uppercut that sends Dusk into the ropes. As Dusk’s momentum sends him off the ropes, RoC goes for a roundhouse kick, but Dusk manages to duck underneath it. As RoC turns around, he is met with a superkick!


Nick: LIGHTS OUT! LIGHTS OUT! This cold be it!

Richard: Oh, I don’t think so. Dusk is in immense pain!

Nick: This can’t be good.

The angle of the kick though has left Dusk in a pile on the mat, as he is grabbing his midsection and rolling around in pain. Even with connecting on the Lights Out, he can’t make the cover as he is in pain, with the referee checking on him to see if Dusk needs medical attention. Dusk waves the referee off as he lays on his back, grabbing his ribs in the process. Dusk looks up at the ceiling and rolls over onto his knees, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. He looks over at the prone RoC and makes his way over to him, wanting to put this match away, once and for all. He finally manages to drape an arm over RoC’s chest.




Richard: And Thug RoC kicks out again! Suck on that!

Nick: That girl has no interest in you, Richard.

Richard: Nick! Man, always putting me down!

As everyone in the arena is stunned, Dusk rolls over onto his back and just looks up at the ceiling. He desperately wants this match to be over. He sits up, grimacing in pain, and his body completely exhausted. He tries to get up, but his body betrays him as he is on his knees, looking over at his opponent who is barely moving. Dusk finally musters the strength to get back up to his feet, and drags RoC up with him. Dusk pushes him into the ropes and then whips Thug RoC across the ring, and then goes for a clothesline! Except, RoC ducks it and continues to go flying into the ropes. Dusk turns around only to be met with a flying forearm that sends both men to the mat. RoC, feeding off his adrenaline, rolls over onto his knees before he drives a knee into the jaw of his opponent.

Nick: And Thug RoC refuses to go down without a fight, as he is just letting Dusk have it at every turn.

Richard: Yipee.

RoC gets back up to his feet and stomps the abdomen area of Dusk. He then pulls him back up off the mat, both men absolutely spent, as RoC knees Dusk in the midsection before connecting with the roCing Horse! The fans explode from the surprise move as Dusk is laid out on the mat! With RoC, getting his bearings back after that Olympic Slam, on top of this match, he goes for a cover on Dusk!






Nick: And the roCing Horse can’t do the trick! Dusk is still going for it!

Richard: Joy. Can we wrap this up already? I’ve got a hooker in my hotel, I mean--

Nick: Just sit down and stay quiet.

And just like that, Dusk manages to get his right shoulder up, which sends the crowd into a raucous uproar! Dusk’s hands are on top of his face, dazed, as RoC looks over at his opponent, uncertain of what else he can do to put away the former Icon of PRIME! RoC walks over to Dusk and lifts him up off the mat. He connects with an elbow to the midsection before dragging him over to the nearby corner and smashing his head into the turnbuckle. RoC then pushes Dusk into the corner and hoists him up onto the top turnbuckle before following up after him, which causes everyone in the arena to look in surprise.

Richard: This can’t be good.

Nick: No, no it can’t.

Richard: Well, thanks for that lively commentary there.

With RoC and Dusk standing on the top turnbuckle, RoC connects with a fist to Dusk’s face and wraps his arm around Dusk’s neck.

Nick: Oh, this could be it for Dusk. This could be it!

Richard: I’ve been waiting for someone to say that for like the last five years!

Nick: You are a sick, sick man.

Richard: That’s what she said!

Everyone in the arena can see what is coming up next, but Dusk manages to block the superplex off the top rope! He connects with a fist to RoC’s ribs, knowing that he has to stop him or this is all over. Dusk connects with another shot to RoC’s ribs, which stuns Thug RoC. With both men standing on top of the world seemingly, Dusk stands up and nails a shot to the face of Thug RoC. Both men stand there dazed as all eyes are on them, their bodies standing perilously on the tiny turnbuckle. Dusk wraps his arms around his opponent and looks him in the eyes before launching himself off the top rope, with a belly-to-belly suplex to the outside of the ring!

Nick: ...

Richard: ...

Nick: The fans are just going crazy, but I don’t know if either man is conscious after that!

Richard: God, Dusk is dumb.

Both bodies are laying there, completely spent, completely in pain. The fans are looking on as neither man is moving that much. The referee is standing in the ring, looking down at them as he begins to start counting them.




Nick: And this could be it for both men.

Richard: Good! I heard some actual superstars are still left to see tonight.

Dusk is rolling around on the ground, desperate to get back up, while RoC is showing faint signs of movement. Dusk though is barely able to pull himself up, grabbing his midsection, knowing that his body is giving up on him.




Richard: Hurry up, ref!

Nick: The referee is counting both of these men out, and that might be a wrap for both of them.

RoC is grabbing at the barricade, the world coming back into focus as he would like nothing more than to get back into the ring. Dusk is on his knees, doubled over in pain, uncertain if he can pull it together in time to get back into the ring.




Nick: So close...

Richard: And yet so far!

RoC is looking at the ring, his body desperately trying to get there as Dusk is still fighting to get to his feet.



Nick: That does it!

And just like that, both men are counted out, thus resulting in a draw.

Vince Howard: As a result of a double countout, the match has ended in a draw!

Richard: Whoo! Match over! Let’s move on!

Nick: A heartbreaking draw for these two men, who put everything they had on the line here tonight, but years of not being in the ring, too much for either of them to overcome!

Richard: Yeah, yeah. Next!

The Student and The Teacher

Out of a Tarantino flick, our vantage point is from the ground level, as red high heel boots click on the tile at a slow and methodical walk. The boots stop for a second, do a stutter skip, and quicken their pace.

The tiniest of tiny attorneys, little miss Red M&M, Mary-Lynn Mayweather, is striding down the hallway with authority. She still wears her trademark red skirt suit and carries her wooden clipboard, but there’s something about her that’s different than the last time PRIME staff and fans alike had seen her. She stands taller, more confident, with head held high.

But all that changes when she reaches her destination. Sheepishly, she half smiles and raises her hand as if she’s in a classroom.

MLM: Uh… E-excuse…

She looks away; you'd think after all this time, after all the hours logged in a training facility, Mary-Lynn would no longer get all shy and star-struck. No such luck with the person who's attention she's trying to claim, at least.

Lindsay Troy, having left Nova to his own devices (probably a mistake), was winding tape around her forearm and chatting with a couple long-time crew guys when Flyer's Little Shadow approached. Upon hearing Mayweather's small, familiar voice, she excuses herself from the prior conversation and turns to face Mary-Lynn.

Troy (smiling): I thought we stopped with the dispensing of autographs after I put you through the ringer for six months up in Beantown.

Mayweather shakes her head from side to side, eyes bulging.

MLM: It's... not that. No. This is contracts, for other people's autograph... Actually…

She clears her throat.

MLM: Uh, well, Flyer said I should come spill coffee on you or drag your grandfather’s coffin behind me on a sled powered by Alaskan huskies... 

Troy (snorts): Nice to see Jack's still a charmer after all this time.

MLM:  But instead of being all roundabout, I'm just going to come out and say it. 

Mary-Lynn falsely stands upright, shoulders broad.  Troy notices the posture shift and stops taping up her arm. She rips the tape from the roll, pats it into place, then places her hands on her hips.

Troy: Alright, what's up?

MLM: I want to fight you.

The Queen's right eyebrow quirks skyward and tries, a bit unsuccessfully, to mask an amused smile.

Troy: What, right now?

MLM: Well-

Troy: Not so sure that's a good idea.

MLM: Actu-

Troy: But if you insist...

Before Mary-Lynn can react, Troy sends a hand toward the Tiny Attorney's face.  What was supposed to be something akin to a bop on the nose actually turns into something a little more forceful, which ends up drawing some blood.

MLM (recoiling): Gorramit!!  I meant in the ring.  The ring! And I meant next week!

She snots out a bloody blob onto the floor.

MLM: Great.  Not only did Hoyt Williams rub off on me, but now I'm prolly going to have to wear a face mask like Nova is right now, all because you couldn't wait for the qualifying statements.

Troy: Never underestimate the stylishness of a facemask.  

Mayweather frowns.
MLM: You’d be a horrible lawyer.

Troy: That's why I keep my sister around. (Smirks)  Sorry about that, half-pint.  At least we found out that I've still got it, though.  Or something like it - whatever the "it" may be.

MLM: The uncanny ability to still be a major bitch?

Troy: Did somebody say differently? I didn't think that was ever in question. C'mon, we'll get you some ice and I'll buy you a soda.

She throws her arm around her tiny protégé and the two walk off down the hall.

MLM: Can't we get soda for free in catering?

Troy: Hush.  You're spoiling the moment.
MLM smiles. The camera remains stationary as the two get further and further off in the distance.
MLM: Hey Troy.
Troy: Yeah kid?
MLM: Mmm… Ice cream.
MLM catches herself.
MLM: So is that a yes on the match?
Troy: Sure. We’ll work it out.
MLM smiles again.  After a semi-lengthy silence as MLM and Troy walk, Mayweather perks up.
MLM: And why is Joey Melton so weird?
Troy (laughs): Pretty sure we're gonna need longer than this broadcast to answer that question.

On that note, the camera goes elsewhere.

Troy Douglas vs. Tyler Rayne









"You Know My Name" by Chris Cornell crackles over the PA system, and the crowd roars as Troy Douglas makes his way down the aisle, saluting the fans with a nod of his head and a fist raised to the crowd.

Nick: Welcome back! We've got a good one coming up right now! Troy Douglas, Megatron, is in the building, and he's ready to go!

Douglas breaks into a run, slides into the ring and starts hitting the ropes to warm up.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, this next match is scheduled for one fall! First in the ring, hailing from Greensoboro, North Carolina, weighing in at 260 pounds, he is the man known 'round the professional wrestling world as MEGATRON ... TROOOY DOOOOOOOUGLLAAAAAASSSSS!!!

Richard: Him AGAIN? Really? I mean ... what's the point?

Nick: Troy Douglas, former Intense Champion--

Richard: And professional CHOKE ARTIST.

Nick: --retired from professional wrestling more than a year ago, several months after parting ways with PRIME, but he's back here now, and these fans certainly don't forget one of this industry's toughest competitors.

Richard: Wish I could.

Nick: Of course, Douglas doesn't exactly have things easy here tonight in his PRIME return.

BeepBeep…. Beep…. BeepBeep… BeepBeep….Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppp

Then a flatline, before bolts fire down, causing an explosion of pyro-technics. A voice booms through the arena, voicing-over the sick, introductory beats of Quarashi's "Stick em' Up.

"Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."



The crowd bellows as "Stick ‘em Up" tears through the arena, as countless red lasers rocket in all directions, putting on an impressive light show. They give way to a lone spotlight that illuminates a small area twenty rows up, right in the middle of the sea of fans.

Vince Howard: And his opponent! From Baja, California, weighing in at 221 pounds ... he is The Underground Pimp, the Golden Boy ... he is...



Yeah, his profile says "neutral," but y'all know the deal. This is Tyler-god-damned-Rayne. You know whose side they're on.

The Underground Pimp begins to fight his way to the ring, fans everywhere mugging him as he does so. The shrieking of women all around the arena pick up on every boom mic that PRIME owns.

Nick: These fans certainly haven't forgotten the Underground Pimp, Richard!

Richard: Just go back and listen to that last sentence, man. Seriously.

Rayne steps through the ropes, Douglas staring him down all the while. After a quick check of both men, the clanging of the ring bell echoes throughout the arena and Douglas immediately pounces, locking up with Rayne and driving the Golden Boy back-first into the turnbuckles. Douglas breaks cleanly, but punctuates his early salvo with a hard forearm to the chest that nearly knocks the wind out of Rayne.

Nick: Early statement from Douglas!

Richard: Those ain't the ones that matter, Nicky.

Rayne takes a moment to come out of the corner, and when he does, Douglas immediately tries to shove him back -- only to be kicked swiftly in the gut for good measure. Tyler follows up with another snapping kick and quickly hits the ropes, but Douglas slips under a wild clothesline attempt, grabs a rear waistlock and drags Rayne to the mat, transitioning into a grounded hammerlock. Rayne manages to wriggle free, only to get doubled over by a knee to the midsection from Douglas ... who quickly hits the ropes and comes off with a seated dropkick that sends both of Douglas' boots colliding with the side of Rayne's skull!

Nick: OOOOOOOOHHHHH! You could hear the impact of that dropkick in Alburqueque!

Richard: No, you couldn't. Moron.

Nick: Douglas with the cover, hooks the leg...



Nick: Not putting away Rayne anyway near that early, but it's hard to blame Douglas for taking the initiative.

Richard: I'll blame him. I'll blame whomever I want to blame, dagnabbit.

Nick: My partner, ladies and gentlemen, resorting to the language of 19th century prospectors.

Richard: That's MAH GOLD! MINE!

Nick: It's a good thing I'm getting paid for this.

Richard: They're PAYING you?!?! I need a new agent.

Rayne takes a second too long to get back to his feet, allowing Douglas to grab a side headlock. Rayne slips behind and shoves Douglas away, but whiffs on a roundhouse kick attempt and gets met with a pair of stiff Troy Douglas jabs that back the Underground Pimp against the ropes. Megatron sends Rayne off the ropes, catching him with a huge back body drop that causes the Golden Boy to bounce off the mat three times before finally rolling to a stop.

Richard: Great height, but I'm not too sure on the landing or the technique in the air. The judges may be harsh with this one.

Nick: I ... just ... whatever.

Douglas tries to maintain his momentum by scooping Rayne off the mat into a fireman's carry, but Tyler fights free with a series of elbows and slips back to his feet behind Douglas, where he catches Troy with a sharp elbow to the side of the head, followed by a quick snap neckbreaker that drops Douglas to the mat. Rayne quickly positions himself for a standing moonsault, and while he misses, the Underground Pimp lands on his feet and immediately takes off with a standing shooting star press that catches the unsuspecting Douglas prone on the mat.


Nick: What a display of agility from Tyler Rayne! COVER!




Nick: Douglas kicks out! Megatron was stunned, but he fights his way free!

Richard: Yeah, but he might not fight out of this one.

That's because as Douglas rises to his feet, Rayne meets him with a knee to the ribs that gives him the opening to lock in a Muay Thai clinch and start bringing on the knees with a vengeance. Douglas absorbs nearly a dozen blows to the head and body before he finally shoves Rayne away and backs into the corner for a rest. Rayne doesn't give him one, charging into the corner and leaping for a flying knee. Somehow, Douglas catches him and sets up for a powerbomb out of the corner, but Rayne's one step ahead once again, sending Troy to the canvas with a hurricarana.

Nick: Brilliant counter from the Golden Boy!

Richard: He's one step ahead of Douglas at every point right now, Nicky.

Douglas manages to get back to his feet, but is quickly met by a pair of jarring kicks from Rayne —— one to the ribs, and a crackling blow to the outside of Troy's right thigh. Hobbled, Douglas is easily whipped into the ropes, where Rayne sprints in and connects with a dropsault to the chest. As Douglas staggers out, Rayne swoops in with a quick DDT, then rapidly follows with a standing backflip that sees the Underground Pimp land with both of his knees crashing into Douglas' back. It's only a quick transition from there to a cover.




Nick: Douglas shoots the shoulder up! Rayne inflicting huge damage onto Douglas' surgically repaired neck and back, but Troy won't go down that easily.

Richard: But, down he will go, Nick. DOWN. HE. WILL. GO.

Nick: Thanks, Yoda.

Richard: Whozits huh?

Rayne waits for Douglas to get slowly to his feet, but pounces aggressively again with a couple of forearms and searing kicks. With Douglas struggling to breathe, Rayne hits the ropes and comes off with a flying spin kick, only to find himself being tossed high into the air by Douglas and met with a European uppercut on the way down!


Nick: Sweet mother of GAWD! Out of pure instinct and desperation, Douglas reacts and connects with that MASSIVE European uppercut!

Richard: Would you say it was a VERY European uppercut?

Nick: Maybe, MAAAAAYBE not.

Seeking to capitalize on his new-found momentum, Douglas whips Rayne into the corner and follows with a charge of his own, connecting with a gigantic running splash. Rayne wobbles out of the corner, right into Douglas' waiting arms, and its only a moment later when the Underground Pimp is laid out on the mat courtesy of a ring-rattling spinebuster.

Nick: Maximum impact on that spinebuster! Now Douglas grabbing Rayne's legs ... could be the Scorpion Deathlock right here!

Richard: Seriously?

Nick: Douglas trying to grapevine the legs for his signature submission hold, the hold he applies better than anyone in the wrestling world, but Rayne is fighting! He won't let Douglas turn him over and lock the Scorpion in!

Richard: Well, of course. Just letting him do it would be massively stupid ... not to mention painful.

Rayne pivots his hips over and over again, finally managing to shake Douglas' grip and send Megatron tumbling away. Both men quickly regain their feet, but it's Douglas who gains the advantage, cutting off Rayne's attempted forearm with a knee to the stomach, then flipping Tyler overhead with a gutwrench suplex! Rayne manages to get back to his feet quickly, but Douglas is right there waiting for him and hooks the Golden Boy from behind before sending Rayne crashing to the mat with a half-nelson suplex.

Richard: Ouchie McGouchie, little bro.

Nick: HYOOOOOOOGE Half-Nelson German from Megatron! Might be the opening he needed ... and he's going for the cover!




Nick: And it's Tyler Rayne who kicks out just moments after landing right on top of his HEAD!

Richard: Rayne's been through worse than this, Nick.

Nick: Understatement of the century there, partner.

Though frustrated by Rayne's kickout, Douglas signals to the crowd that it's time to put things away. He pulls Tyler to his feet and locks him in butterfly suplex position, setting up for the End of the Road '08.

Nick: Douglas wants to put it away! Trying for that DEVASTATING twisting underhook brainbuster -- BUT RAYNE FIGHTS FREE!

Richard: Got to get up earlier than that to catch Tyler Rayne, Dougie.

Rayne wastes no time striking back, connecting with a jumping kick that sends Troy bouncing off the ropes.

But that's exactly where Troy Douglas wanted to be.

Shaking off the cobwebs, Troy charges out of the corner with one arm —— looking to remove Tyler Rayne's skull from the rest of his body.

Nick: Here's that brutal lariat -- NO! NO! Rayne cuts him off with a flying knee out of NOWHERE!

Richard: I'm pretty sure it was out of SOMEWHERE. In this company, we obey the laws of physics.

Nick: Douglas staggers ... Rayne hooks him ... VARGA'D -- NO! Small package from Douglas! He's got Rayne down!




Nick: Not this time!

Rayne finds the energy to explode out of the small package, somersaulting to the far corner and pulling himself to his feet, while Douglas stands to his feet. Rayne catches his breath, but Douglas takes the advantage and moves in. The two lock-up, but Megatron has the obvious advantage, shoving Rayne into the turnbuckle. Troy gives Rayne a good knee to the stomach, doubling him over followed by a good chop to the shoulder blades. One more for good measure. He wraps up the Underground Pimp around the midsection and sends him for a ride with a text-book belly-to-belly suplex.

Richard: Rayne should send that clip in for a circus application with that tumble!

Nick: Woof, you are really rusty, aren't you?


But it's true, Megatron sent the Golden Boy a'tubmlin' pretty good, and he finds himself holding his lower back in a sitting position in the ring, which was just a little too long to pause against Megatron. Douglas comes in from behind, dropping to a knee and wrapping a strong arm around Rayne's throat with a modified triangle.

Richard: Tap, tap, taparooo, Rayne ol' buddy!

Nick: Oh...god, c'mon...

Rayne struggles, one arm caught in the hold and useless, and a position that doesn't lend a lot of leverage.

Richard: Just taaaap it in. Just taaaaaap it in!

Nick: Richard...please...you're not even making sense anymore.

Richard: Oh hey look, Rayne's fighting back.

Nick: Wha...

And fight back he is. 'Cause you know that crowd started chanting.


Just that burst the Hero of the Day needed. Rayne gets a knee underneath him, and starts pushing himself to his feet. Douglas holds on strong, but stands with him. The crowd roars as Rayne manages to get to a complete standing position, and starts twisting in the arms of Megatron.

Nick: The Underground Pimp fighting his way out of that hold! He's almost loose!

Douglas has the strength advantage, but Tyler Rayne gets that mojo movin', that doesn't matter a whole lot. The wiley Rayne continues to twist until finally breaking the submission hold.

Richard: He's out!

Nick: But here comes Megatron!

Douglas abandons the submission attempt as The Golden Boy twists his way out, but he's got a back-up plan. He plants his feet, and swings his big arm hard for a heavy clothesline.

Nick: Big swing from Douglas...RAYNE DUCKS!

The Underground Pimp keeps his head low, dodging the home-run swing from Megatron. He keeps his momentum with a spin of his heel, and as Douglas turns around...


Nick: What a shot!

The crowd pops hard as Rayne jumps high and claps his right boot against Megatron's jawline. Douglas sees stars, visibly going limp for a moment as he falls to the mat.

Nick: Rayne on the comeback trail!


The Golden Boy climbs to his feet, obviously winded from the choke-hold. He studies the downed Douglas as he catches his breath, crowd chanting hard. They know what's coming.

Rayne's not that sure, but the crowd does!

Douglas gets to his knee, and Rayne, after a shake of the head, moves in, grabbing up Megatron and standing him to his feet, giving him a quick knee to the gut, shoving his head down and wrapping an arm around the back of his neck.

Richard: Here it comes, Nick!

The Golden Boy pulls up Douglas' left leg, takes a deep breath, and heaves back.

Nick: VARGA'D!


Douglas' head hits the mat hard with the small package driver. Not the cleanest application of the move in Rayne's career, but lay off him, Douglas is kinda big. The tired Rayne fore-goes his usual follow up pin, letting Megatron's body roll onto its back after the head-first collision with the mat.

Richard: That's NOT good for those injuries!

Nick: Sure isn't! Rayne for the pin!

The Hero of the Day clambers over Douglas, and hooks that leg.




Ding ding ding!



Nick: And The Golden Boy comes in strong with a victory in our first show back!

Richard: Tingles all over, Nick! Just...tingles!

Rayne throws a fist up in the air. He rolls out of the ring with "Stick em' Up," hitting those speakers, almost enough to drown out that adoring crowd. Douglas sits in the ring with his back against the turnbuckle, rubbing his head, while panties and bras fly at the Underground Pimp as he ascends the ramp.

Nick: Still to come, The Anti-Superstar, Jason Natas squares off with the Queen of the Ring, Lindsay Troy! Followed by Seymour Almasy vs. Sun Tzu, and in the main event, The Snowman, High Flyer, takes on the one and only Nova!

Richard: So ask your mommy to grab you another bag of pretzels, cuz you ain't goin' anywhere! This is PRIME! This is Revoloution 248! We're back!

Nick: On HBO!

Some Things Never Change...And Then Some Do. A Lot.

We find ourselves in a random backstage locker room. Let’s call it Room 409. Because every wrestler gets their own locker room, regardless of their stature in the company or viable space in the arena. That’s how it works, right? Any excess amount of locker rooms that shouldn’t theoretically fit just exist in hammerspace. This is what Hulk Hogan’s Rock ‘n’ Wrestling taught me, and this is what I choose to believe.

Now, inside this very special locker room are two very special people. Well, one very special person. Not special in the sense of being important, but more like special in the way you’d describe a retarded cousin if you didn’t want to use the term ‘retard’ and offend anyone. So one very retarded person. And his tag team partner.

Farwell: My god, you’re even more disgusting than ever. I don’t think exercise is for you.

A sheen of perspiration covers the elephantine body of one Clyde Walkins, whose partner watches in horror from a nearby bench as salty drops of sweat fall from literally everywhere and stain his attire. Clyde, meanwhile, nearly cries as he responds.

Walkins: I’m wet.

Farwell: Okay, step one: stop leaking on the floor. If you stain it they’re gonna make us pay to clean it. Next, you need to try and fit your fat ass in that shower and don’t come out until whatever that slime is that’s covering your body is gone, then we’ll cut you out of those tights and burn them with the Holy Fire so they can never harm another living soul.

Walkins: But I don’t wanna walk anymore! I think I have shin splints…

James, by this point, is exasperated.

Farwell: Oh, for the love of--shin splints?! You stood up for ten minutes! Now go!

Dejectedly, Clyde gives in without another word, hobbling toward the showers while whimpering an "ow" with each limping step. James shakes his head and mutters "shin splints" under his breath, before grabbing several sheets of a newspaper and pulling it over himself to form a makeshift blanket as he turns over to lie down on the bench. But before he can drift off to a Clydeless slumber, the locker room door opens and a flustered young man bursts in. Carrying a microphone, he’s obviously some sort of backstage announcer-reporter thing, and upon further inspection is revealed to be Matt Mills.

Mills: Oh, crap. Another wrong door.

James doesn’t even get up. He just waves his arm in a half-assed "go away" motion.

Farwell: I’m allowed! They said I could sleep it off in here.

Mills: I’m not security. I’m actually looking for Clyde Walkins. Do you know where he is? They sent me to try and get a word out of him, and I’ve been looking everywhere but can’t find him. It sounds weird because he’s huge and I’m pretty sure can be seen from space, but you have no idea how hard it is to find someone here. I keep opening doors and walking into the wrong room, like that scene from the Matrix. I’m not even sure I’m in Arizona anymore.

Realizing he’s not going to leave any time soon, James sighs and sits back up, turning to face the young announcer.

Farwell: He’s taking a shower. Well, I think he’s still taking a shower. I heard a loud thump just before you came in, so he might have had a heart attack. Either way, it’s probably gonna be a while.

James pauses, then eyes Matt up and down.

Farwell: Say, do you have twenty bucks on you? I’m a little short on cab fare, and the idea of carrying that bloated parody of himself to the airport isn’t really appealing. I’ll…make it worth your while.

Sensing the awkwardness in the conversation and change in demeanor of Farwell, Matt backs up a step and stutters out a nervous response.

Mills: Wh-what did you have in mind?

Farwell: Look, kid. I’m gonna cut to the chase here: that dick’s not going to just suck itself.

Without another word, Matt rips open the door and runs out of the room and right into another one. As the door slowly swings shut behind him, a startled cry is the last thing we hear from poor Mills.

Mills: Tony Rolo?! Nooooo!

Meanwhile, back inside Room…what was the number again? 128 or something? Anyway, back inside Room 128, another loud thump emanates from within the shower.

Walkins: Jaaaames…I fell…

James looks at the shut door, then at the entrance to the shower, and slowly hangs his head.

Farwell: Fuck…

Jason Natas vs. Lindsay Troy

The Arizona faithful buzz and rumble with continued excitement of PRIME's return show, janitorial staff still hard at work mopping up the puddles left at the feet of the screaming ladies in the arena after watching Tyler Rayne's victory over Troy Douglas just moments before.

Too graphic? Too effin' bad, this is HBO.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall and has a twenty-minute time limit. Introducing first -

"I aaaaam smellin; like the rose
That somebody gave me
On my birthday deathbed."

The PRIME*view flickers into life as a bold, black typeface flashes intermittently with action shots.


A short pause before the lyrics kick in again.

"I aaaaam smellin' like the rose
That somebody gave me
'Cause I'm dead and bloated!"

Finally Stone Temple Pilots kick in with "Dead and Bloated" as PRIME's Anti-Superstar appears at the top of the ramp, gazing disdainfully out across the hordes of jeering masses. Eventually Jason Natas begins his descent, cracking his knuckles as he walks down the ramp at a slow but steady pace.

Vince Howard: ...from NEW YORK CITY, weighing two hundred fifty-four pounds, The ANTI-SUPERSTAR, JAAAAAASOOOONNNNN NAAAAAAATAAAAASSSSSSS!!!!

Nick: Been a long time since anyone's seen or heard from Jason Natas.

Richard: Let's be honest, it's been a long time since anyone's seen or heard from anybody on this show tonight.

Nick: As far as you're concerned, I'm sure most people would've liked it to stay that way.

Richard: Hey pal, you can't silence this star. I'm active on BOTH Twitter and Formspring.

Nick: Doesn't Matt Mills have more Twitter followers than you?

Richard: TECHNICAL GLITCH. I've got Support working 'round the clock to restore my follower count to what it should be. Eat your heart out, Gaga.

Nick: Uh huh.

After reaching the bottom of the ramp Jason climbs up the ring steps and walks along the outside of the apron. With one hand on the top rope, he turns and offers a fierce sneer to the masses before eventually turning and entering the ring.

Natas stomps past Vince on his way to one of the far corners. He slouches against the turnbuckles and scowls at the stage.

Vince Howard: And his opponent –

All the lights in the arena go out, which sends the audience into a frenzy of cheers and screams. Cell phone screens and camera flashes start illuminating the blackness. Natas’ hulking figure is outlined in light; he taps his foot impatiently and slams his palms against the ring ropes.

He doesn’t have to wait for too much longer.

Music up…



That all-too familiar clavinet intro blasts through the Wells Fargo Arena and the crowd roars to its feet. Black, red and gold pyro explodes like cannon fire from the stage to signal the arrival of PRIME’s Royalty.

Greasy, slicked down body
Groovy leather trim
I like the way you hold the road
Mama, it ain’t no sin

Talkin’ ‘bout love
Talkin’ ‘bout love
Talkin’ ‘bout…





Lindsay Troy throws the curtain aside and strides out onto the ramp. She takes a moment’s pause to survey the crowd with chin held high and hands on hips. Grinning, she marches down the ramp and takes the time to slap a few hands along the way.

Vince Howard: From TAMPA, FLORIDA, weighing one-hundred seventy pounds, THE QUEEN OF THE RING, LINDSAAAAAYYYYYY TROOOOOYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!

Royalty is in the building.

Richard: You know, I liked it better when I didn't have to see her and could pretend she didn't exist.

Nick: Richard Parker - Hating on Draws since 2003.

Richard: Not all of them. Just the annoying, people-pleasers.

While Lindsay Troy's annoyingness level is up for debate, there's no question that the fans are quite glad to see her again. The Queen hops up onto the apron and climbs between the ropes, but before she can get herself to a vertical base, Jason Natas explodes out of the corner.

Ding ding ding!

Nick: Jason Natas wasting no time in getting this thing underway.

Natas makes a beeline for Troy, who looks over just in time before the train crashes into her. She ducks under an attempted clothesline by Natas and throws a foot toward his face after he turns around. Natas, though, catches the boot, whirls Troy around, and connects with the lariat he missed a moment ago. She crashes to the mat and Natas begins stomping away.

Richard: Y'know, I take it back. I did miss Troy...getting the crap kicked out of her!

Lindsay attempts to cover up, but Jason pulls her to her feet and tosses her into the nearby corner. He continues kicking her in the midsection, then leans in to grab her by the arm to shoot her across the ring.

Troy, however, has another idea. As Natas gets in close, she thumbs him in the eye. He staggers to the middle of the ring, holding his face.

Nick: Desperation move by Troy there.


Troy hops up to the top turnbuckle, waits for Natas to turn around, and launches herself across the ring. She connects with a missile dropkick and now it's Natas who crashes to the mat. Rather than go for the cover, Troy runs towards the ropes to get momentum, then flips forward and brings her calf across the Anti-Superstar's throat.

Nick: Front-flip legdrop! The cover!



Natas kicks out with such force that Troy goes momentarily airborne. She scrabbles to her feet and Jason rocks her backwards with a stiff right hand. He doesn't allow her to stumble too far, smelling blood in the water. Another right hand, which Troy manages to partially deflect, followed by a left, which she doesn't.

Richard: I think the missing teeth look could be good for her, you know?

The Anti-Superstar works the Queen back into a corner again. Once he has her dazed enough, he throws her arm over his neck and hooks her in a chancery. One fistful of tights later, Natas has her up, over, and down to the mat with a nasty vertical suplex. He stands up, cocks his arm, and drives his elbow into her sternum. The cover….




Natas glares at the ref, but Tommy Giles just shrugs his shoulders and reiterates that yes, it was a two-count.

Jason rips Troy off the mat by her hair (contrary to what Devin Shakur may believe, it’s not a weave, girl. He would know all about that, though, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down) and Irish-whips her into the ropes. Troy rebounds, ducks underneath a clothesline attempt, and keeps running to the other side of the ring. On her next pass-by, she baseball slides underneath a boot aimed at her face, darts up to her feet, and lands a standing dropkick to the chest of a turning Natas. Jason stumbles back a few steps, and Troy follows up with a knife-edge chop.


Richard: God, they STILL do that?

Nick: Apparently so.

Troy lands another chop, then another, and the fans reply accordingly. A snap-kick to Jason’s ribs finds its mark; while he’s hunched over, she brings him in with a side headlock and drives her fist into his skull. Natas, though, gets a surge of adrenaline – he clamps his arm around her waist and uses his strength to lift Troy off her feet. Jason kicks his legs up from underneath him and falls backwards onto the mat, taking Troy with him via a belly-to-back suplex. The impact causes Troy to release her hold on him, and the two briefly remain motionless on the mat.

The break in the action doesn’t last as Natas is back to his feet again. He pulls Troy to a vertical base, and then reacquaints her with the canvas again courtesy of a swinging neckbreakter. He covers:



Kickout by Troy.

The Anti-Superstar is unrelenting. He begins kicking Troy in the ribs over and over again.


Natas flicks his eyes to the audience and responds with a sneer.

This brief pause in his attack, though, gives Troy the small opening she needs.

Jason rears his foot back to land another punt, but Troy rolls out of the way. He stalks after her, but the Queen manages to get up to one knee. Natas goes for a headshot kick, but Troy catches his foot then swiftly brings a fist up to the back of his knee. Jason’s leg buckles and he goes down onto his back.

Lindsay quickly scrambles to her feet, grabs both of Jason’s legs, and flips him over into a Boston Crab.

Nick: Troy’s trying to get that submission locked in!

Richard: Fight it, Jase! FIGHT IT!

The Anti-Superstar does that just. He squirms the best he can, preventing Troy from really cinching it in deep, and crawls over to the ropes. He hangs on as Tommy Giles begins the count.




Richard: C’mon ref, make her break it!



The Queen finally releases her grip at four-and-a-half, which earns her a reprimand from Momma Giles’ Pride and Joy. She rolls her eyes at Tommy and moves to get Jason standing, only to find that he’s no longer where she left him. Rather, Natas decides to take a little breather on the outside of the ring, which he punctuates by kicking the ring steps in frustration.

Nick: Looks like Jason’s a wee bit aggravated at Troy’s resiliency.

Richard: Can you blame him? The only time Troy manages to stay down is when she and Rayne –

Nick: Really, Richard, we’re going there?

Richard: That’s what I hear, is all I’m saying.

Tommy Giles begins his count while Natas paces. With Giles’ back turned to her, and Jason not paying much attention, Troy climbs out of the ring without them noticing and creeps her way along the barricade. When she has Natas locked in her sights, she starts off at a run.

Nick: Look out!

Richard: Uh oh!

Lindsay launches herself onto the ring steps, leaps off the steel, wraps her legs around Natas’ neck and brings him over with a hurricanrana! The two superstars crash onto the padding that surrounds the ring – Troy ends up at the bottom of the entrance ramp.

Not wanting to lose the momentum, she gets to her feet and starts right back in on Jason. She shoves him against the ring apron and starts landing body shots of her own. When Natas goes to cover up, she grabs him by the wrist and whips him into the barricade. Fans jump backwards from the impact and Jason staggers away, holding his back.

Giles is counting again, up to four now, but Troy’s not paying any attention to him. She stalks after Natas, grabs him by the back of his head, and slams his face against the ring steps. The SMACK! of flesh against steel is cringe worthy, but if the Anti-Superstar really wants to brawl, then the Queen will oblige him.

Nick: Tommy’s gotten up to seven.

Richard: If that dope isn’t careful, she’s going to get herself counted out. Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Can we get Giles to count to himself?

Troy seems to realize that she’s three numbers away from a no contest, so she hops halfway into the ring to stop Tommy’s count, then slides back out again. This earns her another scolding, but she rightly gives no fucks about it. The motion of getting a fresh count, though, means Natas had a moment’s reprieve from Troy’s fists and feet, and he’s able to catch a breath or two.

Nick: Troy walking back over to Jason and – OH! Forearm shot!

Richard: Never turn your back on a pissed-off New Yorker. No, seriously. They’ll shank you.

Nick: Please, the closest you've been to getting shanked is when you accidentally pricked your finger with the sword of your Conan the Barbarian action figure.


The Queen reels, clutching her face and backing into the apron. Natas spits on the floor and shakes the sting off his hide. He stamps over to Troy, grabbing her by the shoulders and rolling her into the ring, climbing in after her. Lindsay climbs to her feet, turning to face the Anti-Superstar, but she's quickly met with the New Yorker's broad shoulder, slamming her into the turnbuckle.

Nick: Natas looking to return with a point! Relentless on the Queen of the Ring!

Natas doesn't stop there, however, gripping the ropes and thrusting his right shoulder into Troy's abdomen...



Three times, causing Troy to clutch her stomach and double over. He steps back, snarling, then after seeing her in her prone position, quickly throws an arm around her neck, gets a fistful of tights, and plants the place where she wears her crown into the mat with a heavy "thud."


He rolls her over and covers for the pin.





Nick: Shoulder up from, Troy! Even after all this time, still one of the toughest stars in the business! Woman or no!

Richard: Giles is awful slow with the hand, tonight, if you're asking me!

Jason would agree, it seems, teeth grit and shaking his head at Tommy Giles. He returns focus to the downed Queen, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling her to her feet, giving a stiff forearm shot to the back of her head, sending her reeling into the ropes. She rebounds, flying back across to the Anti-Superstar, who attacks with a big swing, looking for the clothesline. Troy manages to duck the attack, however, springing off the ropes, and as Natas turns, he finds the Queen catching him in a double underhook from mid-air, turning them 180 degrees and crushing his face into the mat.


The pop from the arena just woke up sleeping families in Philadelphia.



Richard: Oh, get over it, people!

The move even surprises Troy, who finds herself in a seated position, taking heavy breaths while the crowd bellows. Natas lies face down, stirring, arms lifting and planting palms into the mat. The Queen pushes hair out of her face, pushing herself to her feet. Natas gets himself to a knee, incredibly dazed by the maneuver, and Troy decides to strike. She strides over and delivers a strong knee to his dome, holding his shoulder to keep him from falling back to the mat.

Nick: The crowd is absolute going nuts for the Queen as she assaults the Anti-Superstar!


She helps Natas to his feet, laying in a storm of chops, punches and kicks, sending him into the corner.

A chop to the chest.






And another.


She grips his wrist, and heaves him with all her might across the ring. He lumbers at full speed into the corner, turning and colliding his back into the turnbuckle. Troy runs full tilt. Natas, as dazed as he is, finds the mental focus he needs as the Queen charges. He steps forward into the attack with a big swing. Once again Troy ducks, she plants her feet, almost skidding to a stop, turns...

And is met with a wicked evenflow DDT.


Richard: All hail the Queen! AHAHAHA

Nick: NEW YORK MINUTE! HUGE comeback from Natas! It does NOT look good for Troy!

Natas stands, still a little fuzzy from the previous attacks, and sees the Queen down for the count.

But what does he hear?


Natas snarls, and turns to the crowd. He picks his hands up to his sides, as if to say "really?"


He snorts, amused at the crowd's resolve for their hero. He even laughs a little, mocking with fake fist pumps along with their cheers.

And that was a mistake.

The Anti-Superstar spits toward the crowd, and turns his head back to finish the job...

Richard: LOOK OUT, JASE!

...and finds himself rolled up like a ball of yarn.


Indeed, all while Natas took the time to mock the crowd, the Queen had got her shit together, and flipped the Anti-Superstar square on his shoulders.




Ding ding ding!


"Trampled Underfoot," and it's playin' loud.



Richard: Seriously? Are you SERIOUS?

Troy pops up, giving Natas a couple condescending pats on the chest and cheek before rolling out of the ring. She climbs the ramp, tired, but smiling that perfect smile we all love so much. Natas sits in the ring, eyes wide, in complete disbelief at what just happened.

Nick: What a turn-around! Troy catching Natas with the oldest trick in the book!

The killer tunes of Led Zeppelin rock the arena, almost drowned out completely by the frenzied crowd as Troy turns and back-trots to the top of the ramp, a smirk on her face as she watches the Anti-Superstar jump to his feet and bellow at Tommy Giles, roaring bloody murder and shoving him in the chest.

Richard: What a joke! What a scam!

Nick: No such thing, Richard! All we got here is another victory for one of the greatest members of the PRIME roster, and an Anti-Superstar flipping out in the ring!

Indeed, Natas continues his tantrum, hands clutched to his head and and stomping around the ring. Obscenities a-plenty, but they do no good.


Nick: This night is NOT over! Just around the corner we have Sun Tzu vs. Seymour Almasy, and The Snowman, High Flyer, vs. the one and only Nova!

Richard: Yeah yeah, on HBO and whatever.

Nick: Stick around!

Kings of Old, Rivals of Old

"Mr. Greed" by John Fogerty hits over the PA system, causing a puzzled buzz throughout the arena. Even the announcers are a little bewildered.

Nick: (shuffling through some papers) Well folks, I’m at a bit of a loss right now. We’re scheduled to have Sun Tzu vs. Seymour Almasy next...

Richard: Way to do your homework, tool bag. First show back, under new management, and you’re already dropping the ball.

Nick: Well why don’t you enlighten us then?

Richard: I’m just the color guy. It’s YOUR job to know this crap.

As curiosity peaks, the crowd turns its collective head toward the stage. Soon a figure comes walking out from the back, dressed in a rather plain black suit over a white button up shirt. He stops at the edge of the stage and surveys the arena behind a pair of dark sunglasses. After a few moments he turns toward the entrance and gives a short nod of his head.

Nick: I don’t know who this guys is, but he’s apparently motioning to some---what the hell?

The announcer is stopped mid-sentence as another individual appears from the backstage area. There is a short gasp from the crowd, followed by a thunderous chorus of boos.


Nick: What in the world is HE doing here?

Richard: I have to agree, Nick. I never thought we would see him again.

The man our announcers are referring to is James Allen, previously known as "The Greediest Player in the Game" Tyler Nelson. Decked out in an immaculate hand-tailored grey suit accented by a maroon tie and pocket kerchief, the former "King of Greed" smugly scans the crowd with a slightly curled upper lip.

Nick: The last time we saw this…this man, he was being escorted out of the arena at King of Kings 2010 after it was revealed he was a con artist and a murderer who stole the identity of his victim, Tyler Nelson. I don’t know how he’s able to even walk the streets a free man, let alone show his face here in PRIME.

Richard: The justice system is broken, Nick. Sometimes the slime seeps through the cracks.

Allen waves his arm toward the ring, prompting the man who preceded him to head down the aisle. The bodyguard extends his arms out to the side as Allen follows closely behind, batting away the arms of the angry mob of fans. The crowd shows Allen no mercy with an unyielding verbal assault accompanied by a barrage of trash and just about anything else that isn’t bolted down. The man was already universally hated, but finding out the depths to which he had gone to gain such disdain was even more sickening. For his part, Allen simply looks straight ahead, only an arrogant sneer covering his visage.

As the crowd continues to verbally decimate him, Allen follows his bodyguard up the ring steps and slides through the ropes. He walks over and demands a microphone from Clay. The ring announcer presses a finger to his earpiece, furrowing his brow as he tries to listen over the raucous crowd. Finally, he shrugs his shoulders before complying with Allen’s demand. The man in the ring unceremoniously snatches the mic from Clay’s hand and immediately raises it to his mouth.

James Allen: Let’s get one Goddamn thing straight right now…

He glares as he defiantly jabs his index finger into his right breast.

James Allen: My name IS Tyler Nelson! And I AM ‘The Greediest Player in the Game!’

The crowd rains down even more boos as they don’t particularly care for Nelson any more than they care for a murderer. The man with the apparent identity crises angrily snarls back at them.

Tyler Nelson: I’m going to let you imbeciles in on one of the worst angles in wrestling history! I’m going to give you a little glimpse into what goes on behind that stage.


Tyler Nelson: Let’s take a trip back to 2009, the run-up to King of Kings. As some of you may recall, at least the ones with any brain cells left, that I had been toiling away with some bullshit angle where I was broke and got hired on as a backstage interviewer. I don’t even remember who’s idea that was, but I’ll tell you that at the time I could buy and sell each and every one of you worthless assholes five times over with the money lost in my couch cushions.


Nelson allows a slight smirk to sneak across his lips as he slowly begins to pace the ring.

Tyler Nelson: Being the professional that I am both in and out of the ring, I went along with it. I came close to choking that bitch Lisa Tyler about a dozen times, but I played the game. They kept telling me how it was going to pay off HUGE in the end. They kept telling me how ‘over’ it was going to get me after the whole angle played out. They promised me a MONSTER push when all was said and done. Just be patient.

The King of Greed pauses in the center of the ring, a disgusted scowl on his face.

Tyler Nelson: And I bought every word of it.

The crowd snickers for a moment at the thought of Tyler Nelson having one pulled over on him, then goes back to booing.

Tyler Nelson: I was the guy that I usually take advantage of! I was the chump! I was the sucker! I was the FOOL!

The crowd roars as Nelson hangs his head in shame. After a few moments he looks back up, his face starting to get red with anger.

Tyler Nelson: Fast forward to King of Kings. I’m booked in a match for the World Title against Jason Snow. Here’s where it all gets paid off, right? Being the patsy for months on end would finally be worth it. Here comes the huge push, the title run…the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

He methodically shakes his head back and forth.

Tyler Nelson: Not a fucking chance. They saw a big chance to stick it to me and they took it. They cooked up that bullshit identity theft slash murder angle and forced it on me right before the match. They said ‘This is all part of the master plan, Tyler.’ ‘Trust us’, they said.

Nelson raises his middle finger to the camera.

Tyler Nelson: What they really said was ‘Fuck you, Tyler Nelson!’


Nick: I can’t blame them, after everything that he’s done as an owner and a wrestler. His persona in the ring is exactly like his persona in real life. If Nelson is trying to get us to feel sorry for him, I don’t think it’s working.

Richard: They screwed DA BOSS~! I’m back on the bandwagon, bay-bee!!

Tyler Nelson: Right after I got backstage after that abortion of an angle, they handed me my walking papers. After all I’ve done for the sport of professional wrestling, after all I’ve done for PRIME, they dropped some punk-ass murder angle on me and then FIRE ME?!


Tyler Nelson: You see, they were scared of me winning. If I had beaten Jason Snow, they would have never been able to control me….and they knew that. I would have-

The gravelly husk of a voice sounds old, reminds fans that it’s not just the speaker, but the memories of the man it summons…are old.

They scream with the first syllable, before it has made anything so recognizable as a word.


"I said 'kiss me, you're beautiful'
These are truly the last days'"


Nick: CAN IT BE?!?!

Richard: I already filled my quota for Getting Excited About Asians This Year with Linsanity. NEXT!

Nick: Chandler Tsonda is back! The Model Citizen!

The PRIME*View’s white background shines searing light, upon which black typeface rolls out , each letter announced with the mechanical click of a typewriter.


Nick: Here to save us from this tirade! This is a historic day indeed!

Richard: Why doesn’t he go crawl back under whatever rock he was hiding. I finally just got Nelson back, and now this asstard is ruining it.


A cosmic display of neon green pyro lights up the arena.

Richard: This is tawdry.

Nick: Look at Nelson! He can barely stomach this pomp and circumstance for the former Universal Champion!

Atop the ramp, Tsonda takes it all in, that formerly money-making, but still-lady-pleasing grin splashed across his face. As the lights shift back to normal, the look on Nelson’s face: icy grin all the way. Chandler points to a few fans, smiling wide at the warm reception he’s receiving. The smile fades as he turns his attention toward the ring.

Chandler Tsonda: Is anybody else a bit…(Tsonda fakes an over-the-top, arms stretched out yawn) tired of this?


Tsonda mimes a pillow with both hands, putting his head down to emphasize the point. The crowd is a surging mass of cheersplosion.


Tyler Nelson: You’re an uninvited guest, Tsonda. I suggest you-

The Model Citizen cuts Nelson off.

Chandler Tsonda: No more talky for you.


Nick: Tyler Nelson and Chandler Tsonda have a long history, folks. If you recall, Nelson and his Army put Tsonda on the shelf for quite some time back at Great American Nightmare in 2009.

Richard: Could have been forever and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

Tyler Nelson: I don’t think so, you fuc–

Chandler Tsonda: Fermez la bouche.

Tyler Nelson: You probably think this is r–

Chandler Tsonda: ¡Cállate!

Tyler Nelson: What?

Chandler Tsonda: It’s Spanish for ess tee eff you.

Tyler Nelson: Ess tee what now?

Chandler Tsonda: Shut the part of your face that you usually use as a swab for hooker lady parts. It’s between your nose and your chin, and it’s littered with what local doctors are calling a world-class set of cold sores.


Tyler Nelson: That’s enough now, you gutter rat.

Richard: Damn right!

The crowd quiets to let Nelson speak, perhaps in the hope that Tsonda will cut him off again.

Tyler Nelson: Oh, this is so adorable. You came out here in hopes that I wouldn’t tell people our little secret, didn’t you, Chan Chan?

The steel gaze that comes from the top of the ramp is indicative of a more pensive Tsonda, the cerebral assassin who legendarily did battle with Jason Snow, with Devin Shakur, with men made of nothing but malice and ferocious drive to win.

Nick: "Our little secret?"

Richard: I hate that prick bastard. That said, if this becomes a swerve where Tsonda joins forces with Nelson, then I knew it all along and Tsonda is the T-1000 of kicking ass.

Nick: Terminator references?

Richard: Motherfreakin’ Terminator references, Nicky.

Chandler Tsonda: This is the part where I’m supposed to deny what you’ve got on me, or get down and beg you not to tell, or say some cool action hero thing like "I don’t care what you say to these fabulous motherfuckers in the crowd, they’ve got my back."


Tyler Nelson: These parasites will know soon enough.

Chandler Tsonda: Maybe so. But allow a brother a quick digression, an explanation if you will, of why I’m not going to do any of those things.

Tyler Nelson: I’ve already shattered their world by telling them the dirty truth about what this company has done to me. I know the movie villains always say this…but what’s a couple more minutes of you spinning your wheels before I tell these people how weak you really are?


Chandler Tsonda: Sure thing, guy. Anyway, there are plenty of people who, in the immortal words of Rick Pitino...aren’t walking through that door. A lot of the all-time greats couldn’t be summoned out of their cushy retirement communities for a final shot at Colossus glory. And I won’t lie…my initial reaction was "why the hell would I get back in the ring?"

Richard: That’s still my reaction.

Nick: The man’s a legend!

Richard: Like Nessie and Bigfoot, in that no one’s sure he ever even existed.

Chandler Tsonda: But I came up with one reason, gump. One life-affirming big, shiny, radiating epiphany about what still needed to be done. Because let’s be real…big homie at the top of the ramp right here (motions to himself) has done it all. Belts, women, that one weird plastic surgery in Singapore. I’m an accomplished man.

Tyler Nelson: BORED.

Chandler Tsonda: Easy, turbo, we’re getting to the point. The one reason isn’t that I wanted to come back and throw pineapples at cars with Bryan Dawkins.


Chandler Tsonda: The one reason isn’t that I want to take down cougars with…okay, now I’m going to give you a second so that when I say his name you don’t freak out but it’s the guy with the ninjas and the complex about thinking he’s Hugh Jackman and the Lindsay Troy deal…ya know, him.

The crowd is silent.

Chandler Tsonda: Okay, fine, with Tyler Rayne.


Nick: That is a serious ovation!

Richard: Have I mentioned I’ve taken up drinking heavily since Tsonda walked out here?

Chandler Tsonda: No it wasn’t to pal around like the Three Amigos of old. Though I will obviously do that. No, the one thing I legitimately couldn’t leave unfinished was something I had to come back to do.

Tyler Nelson: Good lord, what is it already so we can be done with this?

A gleam in Tsonda’s eye and a straightening of his face suggest the serious side of the man. In the ring, Tyler Nelson holds his hands up in exasperation, having seen his moment hijacked by the Viet Viper.

Chandler Tsonda: Fuck. You. Up.

Mic drop. By the time the sound hits, Tsonda is halfway down the ramp, moving with quickness that can only be the product of adrenaline, because that old carcass shouldn’t have such agility.

Nick: Chandler’s coming for Nelson!

Richard: It’s about to be a what? GIRLFIGHT! And also Nelson. I guess my point here is Tsonda’s a lady.

You can actually see the fight-or-flight response in Nelson’s head. Too late. The Vietnamese homing missile, CT model, is upon him.

A flying tackle that looks almost nothing like a wrestling move, but could be generously called a spear, knocks Nelson to the ground.


Nick: He’s taking it to him!

Chandler rears back with his right hand.

Richard: Yes!


He’s intercepted before he can land a punch by Nelson’s diving bodyguard. More than anything, the impact surprises Tsonda, allowing time for Nelson to scurry beneath the bottom rope. Tsonda half-gives chase towards Nelson, then whips back around to find the security guard, but he has already fled.

Nick: Nelson running from a fight? Feels like old times!

Richard: This isn’t over, Stuart. Not for one second.

Nelson and his guard are already escaping through the crowd. In the ring, Tsonda grins and nods his head. Whether or not it’s true, the Viet Viper would have the crowd believe that he expected this, that this is just the gourmet appetizer for what is to come.

Nick: Folks, I wouldn’t speculate too much, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve just seen the next chapter in a Nelson/Tsonda rivalry that could very well come to a head at Colossus!

Richard: I don’t hate the idea of Nelson putting Tsonda in an old folks’ home at the big show.

"Welcome Home" thrashes on the PA, and Tsonda keeps his stare on Nelson’s back until the Greediest Player in the Game has disappeared into the back.

"These are truly the last days." Last days indeed.

Sun Tzu vs. Seymour Almasy

Vince: The following match is set for one fall, with a fifteen-minute time limit! Introducing first, from Orphan’s Cradle…standing 5’7" and weighing in at 177 pounds…the final PRIME Intense Champion, Seymour Almasy!

The arena goes dark, as "Otherworld" by Nobuo Uematsu overtakes the sound system, and the fans in attendance immediately begin to boo. A shadowy figure can be made out in the black, but it’s obvious who it is by the way the camera flashes shine off the title belt around his waist. And because, well, they just announced his name. Pay attention. Fuck.

Nick: These fans still remember what Almasy did to Jacob McKail, culminating in that vicious match at Culture Shock one year ago. Not to mention the fashion in which he won that title around his waist. Speaking of which, are we even acknowledging those belts or their holders?

Richard: Jesus. You complain more about that than Lindsay Troy did. And you better damn well always acknowledge that man right there.

Entering the ring, the lights slowly flicker back on to reveal Seymour Almasy, the PRIME Intense Title held high overhead in one hand.

Vince: And his opponent, from Beijing, China…she stands 5’8.5" and weighs 143 pounds…the Artist of War, Sun Tzu!

Red pyro fires from the entrance like an assault on the sky. As the beat of "Learn Chinese" drops, Sun Tzu, the Artist of War, steps through the cloud of smoke and makes her way down the aisle.

"Ya'll gonna learn Chinese
Ya'll gonna learn Chinese
Ya'll gonna learn Chinese
When the pumps come out, ya'll gon' speak Chinese!

Ya'll gonna learn Chinese
Ya'll gonna wanna be Chinese
Ya'll gonna learn Chinese
When the pumps go off, ya'll gon' speak Chinese!"

Sun Tzu stops near the ring, then leaps from the floor to the apron. She briefly sneers haughtily at the audience before stepping through the ropes.

Nick: And there she is, the Artist of War! Neither of these two are exactly loved by the PRIMEates here and at home, but you have to think she’d edge out Almasy in this one.

Richard: What exactly have you been smoking and where can I get some? It’s…for my glaucoma.

Richard pauses, then looks around nervously.

Richard: Anyway, Sun Tzu may be a hot Asian chick that can kick your ass, but…wait, where was I going with that again? I lost my train of thought.

Nick: I think you were about to say something to the effect of Seymour Almasy being Seymour Almasy, a step above everyone else, even attractive Asian women, et cetera, et cetera.

Richard: When have I ever said anything is above hot Asian chicks?! What is wrong with you, man?

As the bell sounds to signal the start of the match, Sun Tzu bounces on the balls of her feet, circling the ring with Almasy. The Dynast-King initially reaches an arm up for a test of strength, but instantly kicks Tzu straight in the stomach when she tentatively accepts the challenge.

Richard: Oooh! He just aborted every baby in a five-mile radius with that kick!

Sun Tzu sucks wind, but quickly recovers, only to catch a spinning backfist to the face from Almasy. She stumbles back into the ropes, holding her nose and accidentally stepping forward from the momentum, right into a northern lights suplex. Almasy flips to his feet upon impact, quickly hitting the ropes and returning to catch the Artist of War with a low lariat as she tries to sit up.

Nick: The Final Fantasy domina-


Nick: Sigh…fine. The Dynast-King dominating early on in this match.

Richard: Thaaank you. Was that so hard?

Almasy drags Sun Tzu to her feet, locking in a front facelock as the fans in attendance jeer him. Smirking as they do, he takes a few steps around the ring, dragging his opponent with him.

Nick: He looks like he could be going for the Burning Crusade here, but he’s wasting a lot of time.

Richard: Nothing involving the Dynast-King is ever a waste of time.

Maybe not before, but this definitely is. You see, all that showboating is generally never a good thing, and it’s a lesson heels never seem to learn. As Almasy lifts Tzu, he finds this out the hard way. Instead of landing a move named after…ugh…World of Warcraft, Seymour falls victim to a knee to the top of the head. Shifting her weight, Sun Tzu lands back on her feet and counters with a snap suplex.

Richard: No, damn it! You jinxed him!

Nick: Sun Tzu with a suplex of her own, but she needs to follow up quickly here!

Both wrestlers are back to their feet in seconds, with Sun Tzu charging in to capitalize, but she’s quickly put back down by a standing dropkick from Almasy. Even taking the time to pose for the fans afterward, the Dynast-King taps a finger to his temple to signify his intelligence. And then he instantly falls victim to an inside cradle when he reaches down to lift Tzu up.




Nick: Sun Tzu almost pulled out what would’ve had to be called an upset there.

Richard: Nick, if there’s one thing Brandy has taught me, it’s that almost doesn’t count.

Seemingly done showing off and paying for it, Almasy now focuses his attention solely on Sun Tzu, stomping on her back when she attempts to stand up. He takes a handful of hair, and if she was into this sort of thing it would totally be cool, but she probably isn’t, but then again you never know, she does seem like a freaky chick, and pulls her head back while his foot stays planted firmly between her shoulders. This, of course, prompts the referee to begin the mandatory five-count, at which Seymour releases at four.

Richard: Play time’s over. Now we get to see his true form.

Nick: Is that even the right reference?


Almasy continues the assault by bringing Tzu to her feet and locking her in an abdominal stretch, throwing fists into her midsection with his free hand, before switching position and driving her to the mat with a pumphandle drop. He immediately makes a move to the far ropes, stepping out onto the apron and gauging the distance, then jumping up to springboard off the top rope, driving an elbow squarely into Sun Tzu’s sternum.

Nick: Seymour Almasy is like a man possessed right now. It’s almost like he’s taken personal offense to Sun Tzu not allowing him to showboat.

Richard: Well, I hope she doesn’t take offense to losing, because it’s about to happen!

Calling for the end, Almasy scoops Tzu up off the mat and quickly hoists her onto his shoulders.

Richard: Birth by Sleep! Here it comes!

But Sun Tzu still has the presence of mind to reach out and grab the top rope, keeping him from moving her further into the ring or even executing the maneuver at all. Frustrated, Almasy instead opts for throwing her headfirst over the top rope, but Tzu hangs on to the rope and manages to land on the apron. The Artist of War deftly dodges a shoulder block through the ropes, jumping up and driving her feet down onto the back of Almasy’s head, and then vaults over the ropes with a slingshot sunset flip in one fluid motion, pulling him back into the ring and to the mat.



Nick: So close! Sun Tzu almost had Almasy again!

The Galbadian Destroyer rolls through after kicking out, but the resilient Sun Tzu is right up with him, ducking a lariat attempt from the holder of the Intense Title. With the fans rallying behind her, she drives a forearm into Almasy’s jaw once he turns around, then connects with leaping dropkick that knocks him through the ropes and to the outside.

Nick: This is bad news for Almasy, and watch out for Sun Tzu!

Just as Almasy stands up, Tzu comes flying over the ropes with a somersault senton, taking him right back down.

Richard: Illegal move! Get on that, ref!

Nick: Since when was the top rope illegal? This isn’t PRIME: Bill Watts Edition.

Sun Tzu delivers a few quick kicks to Almasy while he’s down, then hops onto the ring apron once more. Looking back to see her opponent getting to his feet, the Artist of War springboards off the middle rope and flips back into a moonsault, only to be caught across Almasy’s shoulders. The Dynast-King quickly throws her back up and into the Birth by Sleep, driving his knee straight into her face.

Nick: Sun Tzu with one high-risk move too many, and it could cost her here. Almasy is just crawling back in the ring to save himself, and it looks like he’s content to win via count-out.

Richard: A win is a win. He probably doesn’t want to embarrass her too much. You know how modest he is.

Nick: About as modest as you.

Richard: Naturally.

While Almasy rests inside the ring, the referee has no choice but to count Sun Tzu out.





Nick: Sun Tzu, amazingly, is showing signs of life. But is it enough?

Richard: No way! She’s out.



Almasy begins pacing inside the ring, urging the referee to count faster as Tzu pulls herself to her knees using the apron.



Nick: She’s almost there! Come on!


Richard: No! Stay down!

Just before the count of ten is administered, a battered and exhausted Sun Tzu crawls under the bottom rope.

Nick: Just in the nick of time, and Almasy does not look pleased at all!

Richard: How could he be with that slow count?

Once again looking to end the match, Almasy patiently waits for Sun Tzu to stand, then launches forward with the Euphoria Effect, but the superkick is ducked. Almasy turns around and steps right into an inverted lungblower, with Tzu immediately trying to finish off the Kowtow to Chairman Mao combination. But just like she evaded one of his signature moves, Almasy still has the wherewithal to counter hers, pushing through the pain to duck behind her attempted inverted STO and launch her overhead with a release dragon suplex.

Richard: Attaboy, Seymour!

Nick: A quick combination of counters has seen Almasy come out on top here again, but can he put the final nail in Sun Tzu’s coffin?

Holding his ribs, Almasy staggers to his feet with a look of rage in his eyes. He rips Sun Tzu off the mat and wastes little time in lifting her over his shoulders in an Argentine backbreaker rack, carrying her over to the near corner. Shifting her position, he then pushes her legs overhead for an inverted Death Valley Driver, but Sun Tzu somehow manages to grab the top rope with both hands and avoid being slammed into the turnbuckles, instead landing in a seated position behind Almasy. Before he can react, Sun Tzu pulls his head back into an inverted facelock, hooking an arm as she does so, then swings out into a double knee backbreaker, applying a dragon sleeper upon impact.

Nick: Sun Tzu with a tornado Snapdragon out of nowhere! This could be all she wrote for Almasy!

Almasy cries out in pain, but he’s unable to reach the ropes from this position or even fight out of the hold. As Sun Tzu wrenches further back, he knows he has little choice left, but continues to hold on. The fans are on their feet as the Artist of War squeezes as tight as she can, and Almasy’s face begins to go red.

Richard: Come on, don’t do this to me!

Finally, Almasy lifts a hand, readying to tap out. As the cheers grow, Tzu pulls back again, and within an instant the bell is rung.

Nick: She did it! Sun Tzu overcame the odds to defeat the Final Fanta--sorry, the Dynast-King!

Releasing the hold, Sun Tzu raises her arms in victory, but the referee immediately pulls them back down and shakes his head, waving his arms in front of him.

Nick: Wait, what’s going on here?

As the cheering starts to die down, confusion turns to disappointment as the referee leans through the ropes to address Vince Howard.

Vince: Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been informed that the time limit has expired. Therefore, this match has been ruled a draw!

The fans begin booing as an angered Sun Tzu verbally assaults the referee, motioning that Almasy tapped out. The Dynast-King, meanwhile, silently escapes to the outside to collect his belt, before backing up the ramp with a smirk on his face. As Sun Tzu notices him leaving, he gives her a half-shrug and mouths "better luck next time."

Nick: I can’t believe this. She was so close to victory after a hard-fought match and to have it end like that is heartbreaking.

Richard: I’ll tell you what’s even more heartbreaking: we didn’t get to see the part where Almasy escaped her little hold and went on to win the match.

Nick: You can’t be serious.

Richard: As a heart attack. He still had an ace up his sleeve; it’s just a shame we didn’t get to see it.

Inside the ring, Sun Tzu continues to look furious as the referee jumps through the ropes to escape her wrath, leaving a seething Artist of War with no outlet but a series of Chinese curses.


The shot cuts to a close-up of laces threading across a black boot. Zoom out to Nova, clad in his classic tights depicting a night sky with crackling lightning streaks down both legs. He stands up and takes visual inventory of himself.

Black forearm sleeves, fingerless gloves, elbow pads? Check.

Kneepads secure? Check.

Killer instinct? Totally in-tact.

Main event billing against his NFW tag team partner on the kick-off show for PRIME’s final tour?


As if on cue, the door to the room swings open and "The Neighborhood Lunatic" slides into the room, wearing his old school PRIME Straightjacket Baseball jersey and snow-like felt cargo pants. He seems to be in high spirits, checking his smart phone, but suddenly clips his knee on the edge of the bench and cartwheels end-over-end into a large pile of Generico jock-straps located absurdly just on the other side of the bench.

Flyer pops his head up through the pile, one strap sliding around to cup over his face like a surgeon’s mask as a loud laugh-track drowns out all other noise. The sound of the door shutting brings Nova to, and he looks up from tying his boot to see High Flyer staring at him quizzically.

High Flyer: Did… did you fall asleep tying your boot?

Nova: What? No. (Pausing) Nope.

The Risen Star lights a cigarette, and immediately a petite blonde with a clipboard pokes her head in.

Petite Blonde w/ clipboard: There’s no smoking in this building. Or any building.

Nova: Hey, I’m glad to BE back, sister! Keep watching!

She shakes her head and closes the door. Nova takes a drag and looks at Flyer, gesturing towards the door.

Nova: Why do people keep saying that, about the smoking? Everywhere I go.

High Flyer: Really?

Nova's expression doesn't change. Flyer chuckles and takes a seat on the bench across from Nova.

High Flyer: They just know we’re on fire.

They’re interrupted by thunderous cheering from ringside. Flyer nods, dry-washing his hands.

High Flyer: I must say, this is brilliant. We grab some PRIME *hey* real estate on national TV to spread the word about SUPERFLY EXPRESS, my chance to second you as an Ultratitle champion… Then we head home and straight COWABUNGA this in the tag division’s collective face! "What, you think WINS or LONGEVITY make a team? Cross-promotional PR makes a team!"

Flyer looks off fondly, his eyes glaze over.

High Flyer: (Nodding) Yeah. That’s what I’ll say.

Nova: Come on, that’s not why we’re here, Harmslice.

Flyer's taken out of his trance and blinks.

High Flyer: Weird. That’s not what my PR guy said.

Flyer sighs, grabbing Nova's pack of cigarettes. Nova instinctively smacks the pack out of the Lunatic's hand as it clatters on the floor.

Nova: Though I also must say, it will be MOST EXCELLENT to lay it down on the competition back in the Frontier and be all like, "New hot super-team on the block, step back, 10 million hits in the YouTub."

High Flyer: YouTub?

Nova: Yeah, YouTub.

High Flyer: YouTube.

Nova: It’s YouTub.

High Flyer: YouTube.

Nova: The YouTub. Like, "Come and watch me in the YouTub."

High Flyer: A bathtub? You think YouTube is a giant tub?

Nova: Of media.

The petite blonde pokes her head back in. Flyer reaches down and picks up the pack of smokes.

Petite Blonde w/ clipboard: They’re ready for you. And seriously, you could set off the fire alarm with that.

Nova: (Swerving his head around) And you could set off the fire alarm with THAT!

He and Flyer bring it up for a totally appropriate high-five. Nova snatches the pack of cigarettes out of Flyer's hand as they do.

Petite Blonde w/ clipboard: Maybe both of you at the same time! HA!

Flyer frowns. Nova shakes his head in a slow disapproving shake. High Flyer wraps his hand around the petite blonde’s waist and gently escorts her out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Nova turns to Flyer.

Nova: You ready to do this thing?

High Flyer: Oh yeah. I shouldn’t have shut that door. Now I gotta open it again. Or. After you!

Flyer steps to the side and offers Nova the door. Nova leans toward the knob, having to adjust his face-mask as it slips slightly over his mouth.

Nova: It’s really unfortunate that you broke my nose…

High Flyer: (interrupting) All stairs should be escalators!

Nova: … and highly suspect, too, given what I know about you and the proximity of time to this rare one-on-one match-up between us.

Flyer rolls his eyes. He leans back and starts messing around on his phone.

High Flyer: Yeah, it’s really weird that it took me this long to headbutt you.

Nova: Nice.

High Flyer: It’s how I say hello.

Nova: Nose is stiiiiiiiiiiiill broken…

Nova points to his mask. Flyer doesn’t notice.

Nova: You made me a LUCHADOR.

High Flyer: Hey. I got an e-mail from every top 40 radio station. Can you play that song again?

Nova: Will you get it moving already? I don’t want Crazy DP Chick coming back in with her instructive skit on workplace harassment.

Flyer examines his phone one last time.

High Flyer: Hmm. Maybe that’s Tony TEXTING radio stations.

Angle on Tony Davis is in the corner. He's wearing an uncharacteristic painted on sharpee goatee and playing ... a PLAYSTATION VITA!?! He’s wearing a dunce cap, courtesy of Dusk. His head slowly cranes up, almost campy. He leans forward, whispering.

Tony Davis: Psst. I'm evil now.

Back to High Flyer and Nova. Harmen throws his hand in the air, fingers pointed to the door.

High Flyer: Tag Teaming. HOOOO! HI-YAAAA~!!

Flyer charges the door and LOCOMOTIVES the door open. Nova follows as the shot cuts to a panning angle on the packed arena, fans clamoring for the Main Event.

High Flyer (Off-screen): I think I hurt my leg there, so we’re even.

Same As It Ever Was?

Y'know what happens in most locker rooms towards the end of a long (but successful) ReVolution broadcast?

Not much.  And why is that?

Because most of the talent has peaced out before the last match begins in order to get a head start on their post-show activities.  Drinking.  Partying.  Dancing shirtless in the cluhb (unless you're Devin Shakur, because no one wants to see that).  Some people, though, like to stick around until the very end.  Call it support for their fellow athletes.  Call it professional courtesy.

Call it a total buzzkill, if you're Tyler Rayne.

RAYNE: Still not sure I'm following the logic here, love…

(Cue the screaming ladies)


RAYNE: You'd rather stick 'round here, all by your lonesome, to watch Rider and…

The Most Desired Man in PRIME trails off, leaving the only woman who gets to fulfill that desire waiting ever so anxiously for his next line. Seconds tick by. Lindsay Troy raises an expectant eyebrow. Tyler’s face falls in total disappointment.

RAYNE: …I can’t even think of a clever nickname. I went straight to Fly Guy, but that’s so… lame. What happened to me? I used to be amazing at this. What, um… what were we talking about?

TROY: You were trying to convince me to leave early and get an early start on drinking with—

RAYNE: Right! That. Yeah. You’d rather stay here than come out to the bar with folks who are infinitely more fun and, not to mention, better looking?

Having changed into more comfortable post-show attire (jeans, tank, sandals), Troy flicks her eyes away from Rayne and back to the duffel bag, where she puts the last of her gear inside.

TROY: The alcohol will still be there by the time I get there, Ty.

RAYNE: Assume nothing.  Don't forget who you're talking to.


She zips the bag closed and crosses the room.

TROY: You think just because we've been away from this for awhile that I'd change my ways if I ever went back?

RAYNE: Well -

He takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

RAYNE: Sure have changed in other ways.

Troy's gaze softens and she returns the gesture.

TROY: I promised Caesar I'd watch.  You know how promises go.

RAYNE: Yeah yeah. Like Willis in that Shyamalan movie.

He sighs. There was obviously no winning this one.

TROY: Just text me where you guys end up and I won't be far behind.  Alright?

RAYNE: Fine. But when you get there you have to catch up.

She pulls him in closer and smiles.

TROY: Tyler Rayne, are you planning to get me drunk and take advantage of me?

RAYNE: Fuck. Yes.

He closes the short distance between them and presses his lips to hers. There are more graphic descriptions of what happens here, but there may be kids reading so we’ll just leave it at "passionate kissing." The Queen of the Ring gives in, allowing herself to be backed up against the wall. Allowing him to have his way… right up until his hands find their way to the button of her jeans. She reluctantly pushes him back.

TROY: Later.

RAYNE: You ruin all my fun.

His expression says otherwise. The Underground Pimp flashes his patented (and trademarked) grin. Even one of the most dominant and willed competitors in PRIME cannot resist that shit. It’s like a Jedi mind trick. But sexy.

RAYNE: Don’t be too much later. I’m going to feed Tsonda shots like it’s his fuckin’ birthday. And you know what that means.

TROY: He dances shirtless in the club.

RAYNE: Fuck. Yes.

Lindsay watches Tyler close the door behind him, then drops down onto the couch and stretches out.  There's barely time to get settled comfortably before a knock on the door stops Troy's positioning.

TROY (mumbling): Ugh, seriously?

It's an effort to pull herself vertical, but once she's on her feet she strides over to her locker room's entrance.

TROY: Just because you wait two minutes doesn't mean I'm going to change my mind, Tyler…

Her hand falls on the doorknob and twists it open. What lies on the other side might as well be a ghost, the large frame and rugged visage of a man from the past in the doorway. Troy stands frozen, mouth slightly agape, hand still on the doorknob while the man across the threshold holds still, prepared and expecting her reaction.

TROY: ...Wade?


Nova vs. High Flyer

The camera pans around the interior of the Wells Fargo Arena and then zooms out as fans crowd the shot, freaking out over PRIME’s explosive, if temporary, re-emergence as an outlet of creative violence in their lives.

Nick: I can't believe what I just saw, Rich. The last time Wade Elliott was in PRIME, he was on the receiving end of a Narcissist's Noose onto the cement at Colossus VI.

Richard: Ugh, I can't wait for more moments when he's pining after that harpy Troy and growling around the halls all "RAR I'LL PUNCH YOU!" Oh wait...yes I can.

Nick: Richard's obvious hatred of Wade aside (Rich: He STINKS!), we've got a main event to call! And what a billing it is! In High Flyer we have one of PRIME’s most unpredictable and dangerous competitors, and Nova…well, I’ll try not to overstate the case when I say he’s a good friend and one of my favorites to ever lace ‘em up in this or any other promotion!

Richard: Alright, settle down there, Nick. It’s just Dr. Feelgood, with his child molester van and his "It’s all good, bro"…good thing PRIME avoided someone edgy or controversial or talented for the re-opening show…

Nick: It’s okay to smile, Richard! We’re back on, baby!

Richard: Ha, ha…alright, I admit, I’m even happy to see the stoner right now. And Flyer, now there’s potentially someone I can get behind. He broke Nova’s nose! I LOVE IT!

Nick: Bizarre, considering it happened in another promotion where they’re tag partners, but that sounds like the kind of madhouse Craig Miles would run…or whoever they’ve got over there…

The lights fade out and the fans’ buzzing grows louder as they wait for the first PRIME Main Event in 352 days to get underway. Thousands of tiny white lights strobe and move across the crowd in waves, creating a field of stars in the arena very familiar to veteran PRIMEates.

"Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time…"

Massive pop.

"…for y’all have knocked her up. I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, and I was not offended…for I knew I had to rise above it all…or drown in my oooooowwwwn shit."

As Funkadelic’s "Maggot Brain" Two spotlights illuminate the Risen Star, knelt in the center of the entrance platform. A lit cigarette wafts smoke up into the light, and the crowd’s roars of delight grow louder as Nova raises a fist slowly in the air.

Nick: It’s been a long year, fans! The last time we shot off pyro and listened to the sweet, sweet sounds of Vince Howard’s voice, defending Universal Champion Matt "Tchu" Ward took on Violence Jack and Hessian, only for Hessian to emerge victorious in what may have the brightest moment of the journeyman’s illustrious career! That was Culture Shock…2011!

Richard: Geez, maybe you could let Howard do his friggin’ job, Chatty?

A spotlight shines down on Howard in the ring as Nova stands and adjusts his facemask before making his way down the ramp, slapping hands, posing for photos, and on more than one occasion accepting random drinks from audience members.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring first…standing 6’weighing in at 274 lbs...from The Great Outdoors, arriving by way of a Crazy Train through the Astral Plan…he is a former Universal, Intense, and 5-Star Champion, and is the eleventh inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…he is the Risen Star…NOOOOOOOOVVVVAAAAA!!!

Nova reaches ringside and makes his way around the apron, continuing to slap hands and keep the party going with the fans.

Nick: In this SEVERE business, and the hyper-dramatic landscape of PRIME especially, you rarely see someone who enjoys this as much as Nova. He never went full-time again after that incredible – and highly controversial – run back in early 2007…but every time he’s returned home from exploits abroad, he has instantly reconnected with the PRIME fans!

Richard: Yeah, taking free tequila from drunken rednecks and signing boobs…it’s a moving bond they share!

Nova rolls under the bottom rope as the lights come up.


A light steam rises from the entrance as High Flyer emerges, parting through the smoke. He tosses a single hand in the air in his trademark devil horn taunt before tilting his head back and cackling to no one in particular. He looks like the first day he entered PRIME, snow felt pants and Straightjacket "Lunatic" baseball jersey.

At his side as always is the petite tiny attorney, Mary-Lynn Mayweather. She wears her finest skirt suit and carries a clipboard. She adjusts her emerald glasses and then politely waves to the screaming fans, shouting "Lun-a-tic!"

Vince Howard: And his opponent… standing at 6 feet and weighing in tonight at 225 lbs… from his Winter Home in Los Angeles California, he is the former 5-Star Champion, and three time tag team champion… a legend in his own right… He is your Friendly. Neighborhood… LUUUUUNATIC… HIGH… FLYYYYER!

Flyer smirks as he makes his way down the ramp, slapping fans hands. Mayweather walks a bit more cautious, not used to the crowd. Since her exit from PRIME, her biggest stage was on iPPV in front of maybe five hundred people.

Nick: High Flyer and his freebird tandem Team VIAGRA dominated the tag team division. Alongside the Princes of New England and Delta Ipselon Iota, they helped reinvigorate the dormant tag division and walked out of PRIME with three tag team title reigns. Not to mention, the Lunatic was the man to dethrone Tyler Rayne’s LENGTHY 5-Star Title reign!

Richard: C’mon Flyer! Just punch some kid in the front row! BREAK NOSES NOW!

Nick: And now Flyer’s making a lap around ringside. Perhaps telling Nova, Anything you can do, I can do better.

Richard: I bet you know that quote cause you porked a tiny orphan girl.

Flyer rolls underneath the ring and hops to his feet. Quickly, he rushes over to Nova and makes a go for his legs. Nova backs off, and Flyer stands, smiling. He shrugs as the official makes his final checks on the Lunatic.


Nick: And here… we… go!

Collar and elbow tie up, Nova catches Flyer in a side headlock. Flyer pulls Nova into the ropes and tries to shove him off, but Nova latches on tight. Belly to back suplex, but Nova floats over and cross body’s Flyer for a quick cover.


Flyer tosses a shoulder up as the two quickly get to their feet. Nova charges, and Flyer trips him up, diving on top for a pin.


No go, as Nova powers out. Flyer off the ropes, ducks a Nova clothesline, springboards off the middle rope.

Nick: Springboard Lou The- NO! Nova catches him! Spinebuster! Into a pin.


Nick: Only one as Flyer kicks out. Looks like these two might want to end this match quick. Perhaps to avoid injury as they prepare for their opportunity in New Frontier at the tag team championship.

Richard: You know, these two teamed up here in PRIME before they ever considered it in New Frontier.

Nick: I’m surprised!

Richard: I just read it off my cheat sheet.

Nick: No. You still surprise me that you can read.

Both men recover to their feet as Flyer holds the back of his neck. Nova, playing sportsman, allows him up. Back to a collar and elbow, and Flyer wins with a side headlock. He smiles wide, cackling with laughter until Nova lifts him and DROPS him with a belly to back suplex.

Flyer quickly slithers out of the ring, right next to Mayweather. Mary-Lynn drops a boxer towel over Flyer’s head and then pulls out a water bottle. She sprays indiscriminately in Flyer’s face, until the Lunatic smacks the bottle out of her hand. Mary-Lynn pouts as she lifts Flyer to his feet.

Nova off the ropes inside, SUICIDE DIVE!

Nick: Flyer tackles Mayweather! Nova hits NOTHING but guardrail.


Richard: He should learn not to attack a man named HIGH FLYER.

Nick: Flyer may be one of the more agile and athletic luchadors this sport has seen, but the true testament to his wrestling acumen is his uncanny ability to both deliver and counter high flying maneuvers.

Richard: You’re talking to wrestling fans. Stop using big words like acumen, testament, and luchador.

Flyer grabs Nova and tosses him under the bottom rope. Flyer climbs on the apron, as Nova winces and recovers. A slight trickle of blood seeps out from under his mask. As Nova turns, Flyer springs to the top.

Nick: Springboard Lou Thesz! And the Lunatic is laying into the Risen Star!

High Flyer: FUCK YOU!

Flyer looks for a killing punch but Nova blocks it, and SMALL PACKAGE.


Flyer kicks out. Catches a recovering Nova with a schoolboy.


Nova powers out. Back to a standing base as Flyer shoots himself off the ropes. Tilt-a-whirl by Nova but Flyer keeps tilt-a-whirling around.

Nick: Flyer! Shifting his weight and spinning around Nova with three, four, five rotations before…

Richard: A simple fucking arm drag.

Nick: Nova’s dazed. Flyer charges, FLAPJACK from Nova, but mid-air, Flyer adjusts and CATCHES Nova with a hurraconrada! Nova flails and lands face first on the middle rope.

Richard: Flyer’s sizing him up. What area code does High Flyer live in?

Nick: 42.

Flyer off the ropes, and looks for Rey Rey’s 619, but Nova drops down avoiding the blow. Flyer lands on his feet but Nova…

Nick: DEPANTS! Flyer’s stunned, spin around, THE LEGENDARY DEPANTS COMBO takes Flyer’s head CLEAN off his skull.

Richard: God! I’m blind! BLIND!

Nick: Nova lifts Flyer, In-Nova-tor! Corkscrew cradle suplex and Nova’s on top for the pin! One… Two! NO! Flyer gets a shoulder up.

Nova spins Flyer onto his back and hooks his arm with his leg. He’s going The Horizontal Face-Pull Neck-Stretch Inverted Hurt-Plex Lock Bomb, but Flyer wisely grabs the bottom rope. Nova backs off as Flyer uses the ropes to recover. He looks at Mary-Lynn on the outside and yells.

High Flyer: Hey Mary! Earn your paycheck! Give me your clipboard NOW!

A slight tug of war between the teacher and his mentor, as Nova slips behind and hooks Flyer. German suplex! And he’s got the hold cinched in and HITS another! And a THIRD with a release as Flyer crumples like an accordion.

Nova stands to his feet and ushers Mary-Lynn Mayweather up onto the apron.

Nova: Hey. Can I see that?

Mary-Lynn: You won’t like it.

Mary-Lynn hands over her clipboard. We see it’s a large marijuana leaf, with a big read "X" crossed over it. Nova’s eyes go wide, infuriated, as he tosses the clipboard to the outside. Flyer with a small package!



Nova powers out. Nova charges, whiffs on a clothesline as Flyer bounces off the ropes.

Nick: LOCOMO-NO! Nova ducks! Kick to Flyer’s shin doubles him over, DYING STAR DROP! Now THAT’S old school.

Richard: People saying old school is old school.



Flyer barely hooks the bottom rope with his hand as the official breaks the count. The crowd murmurs as Nick is the first to notice.

Nick: Is… is that Tony Davis walking down the rampway? With a painted on goatee?

Richard: I’ll be. And he’s dressed himself. That’s an accomplishment for Flyer’s other tag team partner.

Nick: Davis is busy playing his DS… wait… that’s a Playstation Vita.

Nova looks for a DDT but Flyer fights out. Boot to Nova’s gut, grasps his neck.

Nick: COLD SNOW! And now, Flyer grabs Nova and gives him HYPOTHERMIA(Double Underhook brainbuster).

Richard: Flyer’s on top for the pin, but Tony Davis is on the apron? I mean, he’s just playing his game but the official has been distracted.

Nick: Flyer may have had this thing, and he’s had to break the pin. He walks over to Tony, before Tony CLOCKS the referee with the Vita!

For the first time in Tony Davis’ career, he received a "PRIME THAT SHIT" chant from the PRIME-ates. Tony steps through the ropes and enters the ring. He never takes his eyes away from his broken shattered PS Vita.

Richard: Flyer’s stunned! He’s reasoning with Tony Davis. Which would be a wise decision if the degenerate was ever paying attention.

In that moment, Tony Davis remembered every time some adversary or Flyer himself broke his Nintendo DS.

He couldn’t help but smile. Flyer continues to jaw jack with his partner.

Nick: DAVIS JUST STRUCK FLYER IN THE SKULL WITH HIS VITA! Flyer’s busted wide! Davis picks up his brother-in-law, kick to the gut… EQUALIZIER!

Richard: Wait. What the?

Nick: That double underhook Tigerbomb just knocked High Flyer the FRAK OUT!

Nova recovers, clutching his head. The risen star notices Tony in the ring with the shattered remnants of his Playstation Vita and frowns. Davis meanwhile, just exits the ring. Before he drops off the apron, he turns back to Nova.

Tony Davis: You can HAVE him.

Without another word, Tony drops off the apron. Nova watches as Davis walks away.

Mayweather can’t help but interject. She rushes to Tony’s side and lightly grabs his arm. Davis flails, swatting Mayweather’s arm away and vicariously shoving her hard into the guardrail.

For a moment, he’s shocked at his own actions. But then, he turns to the ring, snarling. He tosses his broken Playstation Vita into the crowd and exits the ringside area.

Nick: I did NOT expect that.

Richard: And look at Nova. This is why I hate him. He should be taking advantage of the gifts God gave him!

Nova takes a seat in the corner, watching the unconscious High Flyer and the recovering official. He reaches into his tights and pulls out a smoke. Sitting in the corner, he lights up, and takes a deep inhale.

Nick: Tony Davis is NOT God.

Richard: He is to me NOW! All hail Davis!

Flyer is stirring, but he’s bleeding heavily from his forehead. He catches a glance with Nova before turning his head to the entrance ramp. He turns back to Nova.

High Flyer: Did…

Nova: Yup.

High Flyer: Really?

Nova: Yup.

High Flyer: I’ll be…

Flyer wipes the blood from his nose, and squints.

High Flyer: I think he broke my nose.

There’s a slight pause as our senior official recovers and stares dumbfounded at two opponents talking.

Nova & High Flyer: (together) Karma.

High Flyer: Yeah I know. Should we?

Nova: Lets.

Nova climbs to his feet. Flyer steps toward him and SLAPS the cigarette out of his mouth. Flyer smiles playfully before Nova lays in with rights and lefts. Irish whip, Flyer ducks a clothesline. Flyer off the other side…

Nick: LOCOMO-NOVA DUCKS! Kick to the gut! Nova’s got Flyer hooked! Is that… hesitation?

Richard: Doesn’t last long! BOURBON FOR BREAKFAST!

Nick: Center of the ring! I think High Flyer is dead!




Nova’s hand is raised as "Maggot Brain" by Funkadelic fills the arena. But Nova can not celebrate too long, concerned for the multiple lacerations his NFW tag partner has received this evening. Mary-Lynn Mayweather, herself worse for the wear, slides in to check on the recovering Lunatic.

Nick: The Superfly Express survived, at least if Flyer can remember his own name. But tonight may have very well marked the END, of Team VIAGRA.

Richard: I suddenly want to buy a Tony Davis t-shirt.

Nick: Nova and Mary-Lynn Mayweather are checking on the loopy Flyer.

Flyer’s eyes are wide as he stares at Mayweather. They widen slightly even more, as Mayweather nods. The three fall silent, as Nova lights up another cigarette. After a moment, he hands Flyer one. Flyer snatches it out of his hand as he shakes the cobwebs from his head. Flyer gets to his feet as Nova follows his lead. After a moment, Flyer smiles at Nova and extends his hand. The two shake, and then embrace center of the ring.

Richard: And a stunning display of sportsmanship from these two Legends. As PRIME counts down to the final Colossus, we have many unanswered questions.

Nick: We'll see you in Atlanta for ReVolution 249!

Cut-to logo, then black.


And So, It Begins


We're Back, Bitches!


Thank You



Challenge: Issued


Take Care Of Business, Then We Have Some Fun

NovaChris and Lindz


The Student and The Teacher

Ford and Lindz


Some Things Never Change...And Then Some Do. A Lot.


Murray, Lindz, Asa

Kings of Old, Rivals of Old

Rob, Will



Ford & NovaChris

Same As It Ever Was?

Lindz, Shane, and the Mystery Dude

Ford and Chris

Results compiled and archived with Backstage V2.

PRIME: Seven years of excellence! Live on HBO!