Raivo, Raivo, Raivo. When will you ever learn? I’m starting to feel like my time and talent is being wasted upon you. I could had been targeting a world champion. I could had been going after someone that is a legitimate threat. But alas, I was asked to handle you, and unfortunate for you, the person who asked is someone that I wouldn’t mind returning the favor to me some day. He could had asked me for anything. He could had asked me to over throw an empire. He could had asked me to make someone disappear forever. Yet all he asked me was , “Raivo, mess him up a bit. Teach him a lesson.”
 
And here you are, another title shot, you’re just focusing on what is right in front of you. Honestly, you are making it far too easy for to do this job. I can’t keep count how many people I have seen that are just like you. Wide-eyed optimism believing all that they need to do to be a world champion is to be there and give it their all, but frankly, the industry just doesn’t work like that. Look at the current world champions. RIP, Jeff, Rebecca, each one ruthless, despicable, and wouldn’t hesitate to claw and cheat their way to be a champion. They would turn their backs on their friends and family if it means an opportunity to be a world champion. Hell, even Donovan T, your friend has red in his ledger and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to handle his business. That honestly what I admired about him. Quite calculated. I just know that around his presence, I’d have to be careful, like a snake just waiting to strike at the slightest mistake. Yet you, Raivo, just lash out regardless, wasting movement, energy, a subtle offense.
 
Perhaps this is hard to understand, but try you earnest to try to get it that thick skull of yours. I am doing you… a favor. After all, how many times do you have to lose, mere moments from winning a championship because being screwed out of it because mama once told stupid is as stupid does or how life is like a box of chocolate. Bitch, you ain’t Forrest Gump. You’re a fuckin Jenny, making mistakes over and over and over, throwing yourself at any opportunity that present itself and becoming lost in the moment. And you can’t help to stop for a moment and ask, “why?.... Why am I not an OWA World Champion yet?”
Being given opportunity after opportunity, only to lose to someone sleeping with the General Manger, someone whom is only the world champion to hurt them, and another in a lawless fuckery of non-sense where contracts and rules don’t matter. Do you have any idea how hard it is to win a game where people just keep changing and making up the rules, and Raivo. I’m trying to open your mind, perhaps a little too literally when I try to crack it open. But honestly, this is just getting embarrassing for you and your fans, but at least, now, you have a reasonable excuse for why you are such a weak and pathetic failure. … Me.
 
No Holds Bar. Raico, this might just be beginning of a new and better version of you, or the end. Perhaps you need a reminder of exactly who I am. I am one of the most dangerous and unpredictable man in this industry. I will not hesitate to cheat to win, when I really want it. Some may call what I do an art form. People can’t help but be amazed and stunned by my actions, my mystique. Look up. Look down. To your left. Right. Behind you. I can strike at any time, and you will never see me coming. That is unfortunately the nature of the business. This is the nature of man. Depravity is birthed by Greed. The Evil that men do, the question is, what evil can you do.
 
You want it, right? Revenge? You want to teach me a lesson? You want to make me disappear. Maybe you shouldn’t had gone taking challenges knowing there is a target on your back, but you continue to ignore me, thinking like I’m a bully that will leave you alone if you don’t acknowledge them. But there is an issue with that, Raivo. I don’t need you to acknowledge me. I don’t need the respect of a loser. Then why? Why are you doing this? To simply put, Raivo. You are nothing more to me than just a job. I don’t see you an a living human being. I don’t even remotely view you as a man. You are nothing more but a job that I need to finish and in the end, I’ll get my reward. I’ll be clean of a debt and even better be indebted too. Beating the living shit out of you will help me reach goals and ambitions beyond your comprehension.
 
Tell me, why do you want to be the world champion so badly? What do you have to gain from having that title. To be loved? Respect? Please, nobody loves or respects RIP. All you do is become a tool for this company to either build up the next idiot or to crush their dreams, and do you really think YOU have that in you? Do you think you have what it takes in your very bone and fiber to do whatever it takes to hold on to the championship? Nobody in the history of this company had more to prove and work harder to be the OWA World Champion, breaking every wall and barrier, crushing every opposition, breaking every rule to get there, and you truly think all you have to do is keep getting up and hit really hard?
 
Raivo, that age of wrestling you grew up end. The one you believe in. It doesn’t exist. The cruel reality is, it never existed. There is always someone, waiting around the corner waiting to use you, abuse you, and wouldn’t hesitate to toss you to the side. And shame on every single one of your fans for making you believe that its all real. They don’t know the truth, hell, they won’t want to believe in it. There are monsters everywhere in this industry, and I’m not afraid to admit that I am one. What makes me worse than everyone else, each and every week that I attack you, I do it with the full intent to incapacitate you. To send you to the hospital. To potentially end your career. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t take anything from me. I’m fuckin doing this on a whim because someone is out to get ya. Someone doesn’t like you. No, someone doesn’t believe in you, and they asked me to do the most humane thing to help you… To put you down. Raivo, this isn’t just no hold bars, no rules, no limits, no line too far to cross. This, my “friend”… is no mercy.
 
I suggest getting your affairs together, make amends, say your good byes. Because I intend to finish the job. Shame, you’ll never be the OWA World Champion. Not as long as I’m here. 

As Angelina Magnum sits by the pool of her palatial estate in Saint Tropez, a sigh of exasperation takes over. Her servant, Manuel, expresses his concern.

Manuel: Miss Magnum, you have been in this state for weeks now. Just staring out at the horizon while you sip your champagne. I have never seen you like this before. If you don’t mind me asking, what ails you?

Angelina: I’m tired, Manuel. I’m tired of the burden of expectation, I’m tired of everyone looking to me as someone who can provide answers. Answers to what? The remedy of their pathetic, gross little lives? That was never my intention. These people, these parasites, they’ve fooled themselves into thinking they like me. Auto-gaslighting is what it is. I let my guard down for one second, and all of a sudden I’m some sort of hero, someone that people think they should be rallying behind. I am a woman of class, dignity, I am never going to stoop to the level of the common folk just because they cheer for me a little.

Wrestling was never my endgame, world domination was. I’m not gonna turn down the opportunity to be on TV all the time and having my name ring out for all to hear. But people have had the wool pulled over their eyes. This is all about me, always has been, always will be. This is a world where if you’re doing right by others, you’re doing wrong by yourself. I see that now. I thought I could have it both ways. I thought I could suck up to the guttersnipe and continue to run the tag division with Bea, but that was a grave error in judgment. Look at the Black Lagoon, I mean really look at them. The fact they’re the champions right now makes me wanna vom. They are just ew. They are a team that we really should have done away with, but we slipped up. We didn’t have the level of focus required. I was busy chasing the high of appreciation, when what I should have been doing was sticking to the plan and being by Bea’s side at all times. What the hell was I thinking? A fan favourite? What’s a fan favourite really worth? You slave away, putting your body on the line for a few cheap pops, and then you go home to a family you haven’t seen in months, lie in your springy old bed, enjoying a few days of respite before you get to do it all again.

I’ve taken things for granted, Manuel. Look at this gorgeous place I get to spend my time in. This isn’t something I have because of the fans. I have this because of me. I have this because I have worked tirelessly to be hotter, more relevant, and just flat out better than other people. While they slave away in the rat race, chasing the fickle high of the hot crowd, I’ve been building an empire with my best friend. My best friend who I SHOULD have listened to and given my full, unconditional support. My best friend who has been the kindest, most amazing woman in the history of ever ever, who has been working to further the reach of our brand, while I’ve been meeting gross sick kids for Make-A-Wish.

Do you have any idea how depressing it is to spend the afternoon with a child who has cancer? I mean my GOD. The bald head with the ugly scar, the sheer anger I feel at seeing how amazing and slim their figures are. Why can’t I get cancer? I just want a little chemo, just something to get me a couple of sizes down for beach season. It doesn’t have to be one of the serious ones. I want a sexy cancer like breast or tongue. Something that really emphasises my best features, you know?

Manuel: Miss Magnum, you should know that my son passed away from leukaemia-

Angelina: Oh can it, Manuel! You always have to make everything about yourself, don’t you? It’s always something about your dead son or how I haven’t paid you in six months. I’m a very busy woman, OK?! I can’t be expected to keep track of all the comings and goings of my staff. You are supposed to stand there, refill my glass with bubbly, and listen to what I have to say. That is IT. Comprende? 

I have been so selfish in ignoring Bea’s needs, and you’re not helping by inserting yourself into the conversation. We had a plan, a GREAT plan. We were going to rebuild Odyssey in our image, really make those tag titles mean something to US. So we could say that we were the ones to measure up to, create a monument to our own brilliance. Now look at us. I can’t believe we let ourselves lose to those freaks Josie and Revy. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, we had to eat an L to Chad and Noah?! That isn’t easy to live down, you know. That really made me step back and look at my life. Readjust, reframe, reboot. I had to make some major changes, and those weren’t going to happen while I was looking to please people who saw me as a face on a t-shirt. I’ve signed enough autographs at airports, I even did a few cons! I had to go into a disgusting function room, stuffed with disgusting, smelly incels, handing me 8x10s to sign that they were 100% going to jerk off on later. It’s demeaning, it’s insulting. A woman of my calibre, of my standing in high society, reduced to a some poster child for horny virgins who can’t move on from a sport they’ve been watching since they were kids. 

A new direction, that’s what was required. That loss to those classless Kingdom creeps was the kick in the butt I needed to remember just who the hell I am. I am a GODDESS! I am a superior being, put on this Earth to BLESS people with my presence, not to cater to their every need like a broodmare. Angelina Magnum is a name that evokes greatness. People hear that name and they drop to their knees, barely able to contain themselves, ready to wait on my hand and foot, because that is what they are supposed to do!

What is the world coming to? Women like me used to be worshipped. Statues would be built, men would go to war. Do you think Helen of Troy would stand for the disrespect I have been shown? No, a thousand ships were launched because of how hot she was. If you are not living up to those standards, then I want nothing to do with you. Men should be enlisting in the army and dying in a desert for me. They should get one whiff of my scent and blow their own brains out on the spot, because they know they aren’t good enough to breathe the same air that I do. This isn’t up for debate and it isn’t open to interpretation. I am a higher evolved being, a shining star among dwindling specks of space dust.

And look at the disrespect we are being shown, look at the disgusting, pathetic situation we have been forced into. Where is our rematch? Where is our opportunity to correct the blemish on our record? The reality is that we should never have been in the ring with Chad and Noah, it was an outrage! We spent WEEKS going over strategies to get our titles back and detrone the troglodytes who took our belts from us, and this is the thanks we get for trying to restore some honour and glamour to a dying division? We now live in a world where MEN are competing for OUR titles. What happened to Odyssey being for the girls? What happened to having a little class? We’ve got freaks running around, calling themselves champions, we’ve got tweedle dee and tweedle dumbass worming their way into our spot, and then there’s that freaky perv Sena and his loli girlfriend throwing their hats into the ring too!

I just…I am going to SCREAM! I have never been so offended, so disgusted, so close to VOMITING everywhere before I’ve even eaten a meal! This is how this company backs its most incredible women? This is the world I am expected to live in? Bea has literally done nothing wrong EVER. She is literally the greatest human being on this planet and it is my sworn duty to support her in anything and everything that she does, and this is going to require more strength than anything I have had to do as of yet.

A gauntlet match? You’re telling me that we have to sit back and wait our turn? Or even worse, that we might have to have THREE MATCHES in ONE NIGHT? It is despicable, it is unthinkable, it is the single biggest miscarriage of justice since Rodney King. This is why the tag team division is in the dirt. This is why management here doesn’t have a clue what’s right for business anymore. Olympus has gone off to become its own thing because its executives are embarrassed to be associated with the joke this company has become. What was wrong with the way things used to be? Kingdom had its space where all the apes could beat their chests and hit each other with rocks. And Odyssey was a space where women like us had the chance to clean up, add some sex appeal and maybe a sprinkle of decency. But no, all of our efforts are being washed away, erased by incompetent bosses. We are being forced to share a space with the lowest of the low. Am I to lower myself? Am I to sink to a level so bottom of the barrel that women like Josie Grey and Revy have been able to carve out a couple of inches of relevance? 

Well, I guess it is time, time for The Powerbuff Girls to save wrestling once again! No distractions, no pandering to mouthbreathing autists with bad breath. This is about so much more than some championships, this is about securing a future for beautiful people. For every child who is made to feel different because they look so much better than every one of their peers. It’s a lonely life to lead, but somebody has to step up and make the sacrifice. The selflessness on display from Bea and I is just…it is immeasurable. So much humility and sacrifice in the name of being insanely hot, genetically superior, and filthy stinking rich. Let them send A MILLION teams! Let them come in their unwashed hordes! There is nothing more important now than regaining what is ours, to plant another pink flag in the ground and resume what was en route to being the greatest reign in the entire scope of time and space. We will never settle, we will never waver, we will rise above the obstacles that have been put in our way and achieve immortality because nobody else has the courage!

Manuel: Never a truer work has been spoken, madam!

Angelina: Wait, you’re still here? Get out of here! Can’t you see I’m monologuing?!

Manuel: Very good, Miss Magnum.

Angelina: And refill the olive bar! I can’t be hosting parties without proper martinis! Where the hell was I…oh, yes, being better than everyone. I’m just so used to it being a given that having to reiterate it is unusual. I am flying out to the States tonight to prepare, and Bea is going to reunite with the woman she met all those years ago, not the happy-go-lucky wimp who’s been calling herself Angelina Magnum for the last six months. I am never going to allow my kindness to be taken advantage of again. This is the start of a new era, an era defined by the most beautiful, talented, insanely awesome women ever. Everyone in this match, you’d better be taking notes on how trash you are, because we don’t want to shellshock you with the realisation when that bell rings. Welcome to our world. It’s pink, it’s fab, it’s glam, and it’s better than yours!

Welcome to my  State of the Union speech. I, Rebecca Lee McQueen, AKA, Hollywood Revy, AKA one half of the OWA Alpha Tag Team Champions, was graciously invited to the White House to partake in the celebration of Women’s History Month. I haven’t been here since January 4 years ago, but I am honored to hear that the most powerful man in the world is a fan of my work. We talked. We had lunch. We pounded a few brewskis. Got some ice cream. In a way, Joe and I, we are pretty much homies now. And he was cool enough to let me use this podium to shoot this promo, in which I can talk shit about my haters. With that said, I will say…. “Fuck Scott Oasis,” I’m endorsing Joe.
 I mean, the son of a bitch had the audacity in front of my OWA Women’s Tag Team title on Women’s History month to revoke it and convert it to the OWA Alpha World Tag Team Championship because he is too afraid to deal with the terrorists holding the OWA World title  hostage on Olympus. Not that I’m afraid of a bit more competition. Line up dem bodies, is what I say. Josie and I are ready. But, fuck man, all this just to add the cucks on Kingdom into this match up? What’s next? We gonna have to share the locker room with them? Will Noelle, Chastine, and Sienna be a part of the Athena cup now? All women here asked was for 2 hours every two weeks to show what we can do, and now we have to do this brand crossover with our tag titles, the world title. Like why the fuck can’t we have something nice? They already have two shows. Like yeah, I hear ya. “But Revy, how many times do we really have to see Black Lagoon beat the Powerbuff Girls? It will get boring.” But I still ain’t tired of humiliating them. I still had a couple of ideas. Then there was the Hex Girls. We wanted to defend against them too. And Tomomi and Taiguchi. If you told me he had a coochie, I wouldn’t question it. It’s 2024. But Noah and Chad? Just a month into Black Lagoon winning their newly acquired title?


And Bea, Bea. Like.. why you so obsessed with me? It doesn’t take a PH.D to know just how insanely jealous you are of me, but baby, there ain’t nothing to be jealous about. I mean, you know how you in every tag team, there is always that one that is better than the other. Like sure, I might be Hollywood, but Josie, man, she makes me look weak compared to her, because she is just so awesome like that. But between you and Angelina, you are clearly the smarter one between the two, and honestly, when it comes to looks and skill in the ring, it could go either way, but hey, atleast you didn’t settle to name yourself after a condom size…. Chad, Noah, google it. It’s real. I don’t think there is a shadow of a doubt that you are destined to do something great or better, I mean, clearly, you have more ambition, but yet you feel like you don’t really have much of a choice. I mean, look at the rest of the Odyssey roster, who else you would team up with? If you ask me, now that the tag titles are open for dicks, you should consider dropping Angelina and finding a new tag team partner, because in the end, it seems to me, its never gonna get through that skull of yours that Josie and I beat you. So its a matter of time before you start playing the blame game, and god knows Bea Harvitz can do no wrong, Even if it was her butler or whatever that screwed us out of the Metal Mayhem, and her for dropping her guard in the rematch of the titles. You want to know what makes me so cool and you so lame? 


Like gurl, you just need to chill. Like be more like Jennifer Lawerence and less like Brittany Spears. Next thing you know, I’ll beat your ass again and you’ll go crazy, be shaving your head and dancing with knives, and as hilarious as that would be, That just ain’t me no more. Sure, maybe at one point in my life, 2 years ago, I would slowly poison your mak- up and water til you lost hair, and made you believe you were being haunted by the ghost of Samantha Shockwave, but like you, pretending I have a PH. D in psychology or something, I don’t want to see you go through that. After all that we’ve been through, is it really that hard to accept that just for once, I got the better of you? Instead of going go this path that like all tropes in wrestling will lead you to become angry and alone, because Angelina just sucks so much now. She ain’t the Megan the Stallion she use to be. Now, she is more like … well.. Brittany Spears. But like Brit, she needs a friend now more than ever, and right now, all that is on your mind is me and Josie and her Sparks title. Like Gurl, you oughta check up on her or something…. Or distance yourself from her, I don’t care. I honestly just want you to leave us alone. Because all you do is blab and go on and on and on, when all you have to do is ask for a match for the title.Like this isn’t fuckin high school. Bullying me isn’t gonna lower my self-esteem. We are grown-ass adults here. Chad, questionable as I’m not sure his testies have dropped yet. But that’s ok, he needs to flex around the fact that he has a dick to stand out in Odyssey. You feel me?


Like ok, Chad! We get it. You have a dick. But just because you got and a Sena Taiguchi between your legs, that doesn’t mean you are hot shit. Pardon my Kat Williams, but word has it, even P.Diddy wouldn’t want to fuck you. Based on the way you talk, Chad, I can already tell you don’t wipe your own ass after shitting. You talk like when you take a piss, when the urine hits the bowl, it sounds effeminate. You have all the charms and charisma of a dry piece of toast. And to think Noah would latch so hard on your teat like Chad is some symbiote.saving what is left of his career prospects in OWA. Calling me a one trick pony. Why don’t you let go of daddy’s hand and come over here real quick and say that to my face? You look like the loser that someone would ask to prom to win a bet in a 2000’s movie, and funny enough, Chad plays up the loud mouth jock to a T. But really? Reducing yourself to this, could almost swear you lost a bet and are put up to this, dealing with Chad, but honestly, its just as believable that you don’t know what the fuck you are doing and just tagging along with him because them is prison rules…. He beat you, and now,..... you his bitch.  


You two really wanted tag team gold. Y’all have been a pair for months, yet you didn’t make the effort to go get them from Olympus, but the second Scott Hoasis turns the women’s tag team title intergender, y’all would quick to jump onto the show. I get it. I do. Y’all too afraid to step into Olympus and risk getting stabbed and what not. But I got some bad news for you and everyone else on Odyssey, Kingdom, and even Olympus. Josie and I, we ain’t chumps. We are champs! It no surprise that everyone is gonna want a piece of us. Heck, Josie has a wait list for her Sparks title too. I hear some of you whisper. But no, say it with your chest. Say it out loud. “This is the end for Black Lagoon.” Revy and Josie only beat Bea and Angelina once, there is no reason to believe they can hold off one, let alone 3 other teams. Through the grapevines, people a dreading what could be the shortest tag team reign in OWA history. I can see in their eyes. They want to see us fail, but with that, I say …….”We are only just beginning.”
 
Truly, it’s a damn shame to be this close to Odyssey 100. I remember Odyssey 69, when I challenged for the OWA Women’s Championship, now the OWA Alpha World Championship or whatever., and I lost. I couldn’t leave the world champ. I just couldn’t do it for the memes. But it would suck so hard if I don’t walk into one of Odyssey’s historic shows with a belt around my waist. To think that going into the 100th show, it could be Crouching Liger, Hidden Dragqueen could be the tag team champs. To think two basic bitches can be representing Odyssey as the tag team champs going into Odyssey 100. Even worse, The Powerbuff Girls could. I’m disappointed to say, Odyssey has changed so much since I was last here. And its all Llorona’s fault. But alas, I will get through this. We will get through this. Not just Josie and I, I mean everyone when I say the million and millions of people watching at home who believe in us.
 
This isn’t Angelina and Bea’s chance at redemption. This isn’t Tomomi’s chance to settle their beef with Josie. This isn’t Noah and Chad’s opportunity to convince us that they are more than just “tag team partners.” I ain’t here to judge. This is our time. To each and every single individual who has been marginalized, reduced to believe you had no shot, no chance, no story. Josie and I, we will not let you down. We will not let these tag titles that we won be reduced to a secondary participation title to the OWA World Tag Team Titles. Black Lagoon will be the first and the best tag team to set and raise the standard, and we’ll do so with doors open. We’ll take on all challengers, but beware, this isn’t a game. This isn’t a free pass to pad your stats. This is real. This is DAMN REAL! Y’all want a piece of Hollywood? Powerbuff Girls, We’re gonna bend ya like Beckham. Tomomi is gonna need the entire Joy Luck Club to beat us. And Noad and Chad, we’re gonna send both your asses hurting and packing to Brokeback Mountain.
 
Because at the end of it all, y’all ain’t got nothing on us.  At Dreamworld, we will be retaining our titles, and doing so, we are gonna put the entire locker room on notice. Josie and I, Black Lagoon, we will make Odyssey great again!  Just try and take it, and I can promise you all, there will be a bloodbath. I can’t promise Sena will be leaving this match alive. And Angelina, when it comes to whether or not that Alpha World Tag Team Titles will make you look fat….. “Gurl don’t blame the titles on that.”
 
With that said, I love all y’all, God bless America, and Fuck Scott Oasis! Don’t vote for him. 

The scene opens with an aerial view of a private island somewhere in the Caribbean: Big St. James (no relation to the other one), the lair of the secretive and powerful Misogynist Council. There’s a party going on, bonfires and shouting in the night, a gathering of all the greatest, most based women-hating individuals in the world: Mel Gibson, Andrew Tate, Ryan Gosling, Johnny Depp, Future Hendrix, even Sydney Sweeny are all present here, mingling with their peers, dancing,  drinking alcohol from halved coconut shells, and snorting all sorts of powdered substances. But rather than dwell on any of those other, lesser celebrities, the camera pans down to two men sitting on the beach at the very edge of the gathering, their faces shrouded in darkness.


“Well, that’s the thing, brah. I’m not! I was just at the strip club, snorting coke in the bathroom, when who should walk in but Mark Wahlberg himself! Like, bro, I’ve been a fan of his since he beat up that kid back in the 80s! So I caught a ride on his jet, you know how it is” says the other man, turning to face the distant campfire, the light revealing him to be none other than the most talented man on Olympus, Brody.


“Damn, I didn’t take you for one of those nerdy ‘um ackshually’ types! Not very Chad-like, if I do say so myself!”


“Don’t do me like that, man. And anyway, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You know, about losing your motivation, your drive for excellence, all that homo therapy shit you’ve been rambling about. I know just what you need. It’s the hottest new thing…” he rummages in the pocket of his swim trunks, pulling out a plastic bag full of blotter paper, tearing off a square, and offering it up to Chad.


“...nah, son. That shit is for babies. We’re all about macrodosing these days,” he explains, tearing off another square for himself.


“I wouldn’t worry about it, bro.”


“Nah, that’s you.”


“Let’s not ruin this moment by talking about that shithole, duderino.”


“Cool, cool, whatever you say, bro. Anyway, I’m gonna step away for a minute,” he says, pointing across the party at Sydney Sweeney, hanging out alone by the bar, “I’m trying to rub up on Sydney’s Sweeneys, if you catch my drift, if you pick up what I’m putting down, you feel me?”


“Nice. Anyway, don’t wander too far, bro! I’ve got a movie idea to pitch to you later… here’s a little preview: Jason Statham, but he’s transitioning to a woman, surgery and all. We’ll call it The TRANSporter.”


“Don’t I know it! Anyway, I’ve got to go try and suck on some of that tiddy meat. I’ll send that script to your office!”

With Brody gone to pursue his primal urges and a dose of acid making its way through Chad’s bloodstream, the actor wanders for what seems like hours, walking around the outskirts of the party, which rages on in the background. He’s waiting for something – anything – to happen, for the psychedelic experience he has been promised… but there’s nothing, no catharsis, no grand realization, not even any tracers in his vision.


“My fellow Chad, it is I, Chadwick Boseman…” says the approaching figure, stepping close enough for Ecclestone to see the iconic Black Panther armor and helmet… and not some Halloween costume, this is the real deal.


“Don’t be ridiculous. Merely a side effect of the LSD you’ve ingested.”


“I’ve come to tell you that the world of professional wrestling still needs your help. You can’t just walk away, not when you’re so close to reaching your goal. Not only do you have the coveted briefcase at your side, but the chance a lifetime directly in front of you: the golden opportunity to dunk on the lesser sex, and take the women’s world tag team championships from the hands of those hoes, straight into the clutches of the superior gender.”


“I know I’m right, Chad…”


“It really is, isn't it?.”


“Yeah, no problem.”


“Probably not, white devil.”


“Yes, Chad?”


“Wakanda Forever, brother,” the masked man says, making the trademark gesture as Ecclestone once again begins to stroll away.

The camera lingers on him as his figure recedes into the distance, before finally turning back to face the Black Panther once again. The costumed hero pulls his mask off, revealing himself not as the hallucinated ghost of Chadwick Boseman, but instead the very real Marvel Villain and domestic abuser, Johnathon Majors! Having succeeded in his task of tricking the despondent actor, he lifts his hand up to a wireless earpiece and speaks.

“It’s done. Yeah, he bought it. Chadwick Ecclestone will be appearing at Dreamworld, and winning the women’s tag team championships… just as you wanted, Mr. Gibson.”

A sudden scene change to a dim, smoky room, presumably somewhere on this very island. Mel Gibson, the greatest villain in Hollywood history and current head of the Council, puffs away at a cigar as he basks in the news of another mission completed.

“Good… good… just as I planned. You’ve done well, Majors. Go back to the party and enjoy any white women you so choose, courtesy of the Council,” he says into the speakerphone, before ending the call and bursting out in malevolent, gloating laughter.


We return to a view of the same abandoned theater that Chad announced his retirement in only days ago… but this time, it’s full to the rafters with fans waiting in rapt anticipation of the return of the king. Without any announcement or other expected bells and whistles, Chadwick steps out from the backstage area and moves towards the mic stand, to an explosive fanfare not heard in this country since VJ Day.


He pauses, letting the question soak in, allowing the audience to ruminate on his words and try to predict the wisdom to come. And finally, he opens his mouth, and delivers the Gospel of Ecclestone:


But the people don’t stop cheering.

Motivation and Redemption
Vs. Diantha Rosso & Ayla Rodriguez
Dreamworld

OWA Exclusive Backstage Odyssey went off air.

Backstage open with Devi Krysis sitting in the chair frustrated after losing to Ayla Rodriguez, but so far she's been nothing but losing matches after matches til this point she's about to snap. Jovana Slater walks in to try to get a word from Devi.

Jovana Slater: “Devi?”

Devi is still frustrated with her head down as Jovana tries to sit down beside her.

Jovana Slater: “Devi another loss for you tonight, it seems that your losing streak is still growing by the minute as we're 2 months into the new year. Where is your mind and your head going?”

Jovana leans the mic to Devi as she speaks.

Devi Krysis: “I don't know Jovana…I just. Don't. Know! Right now I'm not happy about going down with Ayla Rodriguez, she got lucky defeating me, my losing streak grows, grows, GROWS!” Devi growls in anger. “Jovana, maybe Ayla's sister is right. Matter of fact several people were right along. I'm not cut out for being here, I can't win the big one on the big stage cause I always choke every single time when I fought against Hall of Famer, Legends, and most importantly newbies. I don't know if OWA sees more potential in me. And it makes me want to snap and start to wreck everything and EVERYONE that towards me!”

Jovana Slater: “Well with few months ahead of Final Destination and you still have a chance to–”

Devi Krysis: “A chance?”

Devi let out a little laugh.

Devi Krysis: “A chance Jovana? Really! Do I have a chance to become a main event player? Do I have a chance to be part of Final Destination? NO!!! AS MUCH YOU WANT ME TO BE A PART OF FINAL DESTINATION, MY LUCK NEEDS TO BE CHANGE JOVANA!” Devi looked down at Jovana with rage. “I'm done being a punching bag to everyone in this company. I'm done with losing every single night. And I'm so done with management put me in fucking matches that I can't beat and can't possibly win! As far as I know….”

Devi paused for a few seconds.

Devi Krysis: “....I need…Motivation…”

Jovana Slater: “Motivation?”

Devi Krysis: “Yes! Motivation! A Motivation that I need to turn this shitty company upside down and upside in! Someone who can have my back more and no it's not Stark, it's someone who cares about me more than ever. If that Motivation that I really want can help rebuild myself and stop my losing streak, hell I want this to end, and it'll end once I have someone who really motivated me. I want to silence my doubts, silence the pain and misery, and silence all the losses I've put up with since my start of the company. Hopefully it'll come!”

Devi finishes her talk with Jovana Slater and she gets up and walks away. Scene fades.

— Present Day —


Matsuda's private Dojo
Tokyo
4:57pm

Scene opens at Matsuda's private Dojo in Japan as Devi out there training with Cloud Matsuda. As Devi felt like she was holding her rage inside after losing to Ayla Rodriguez in lucky fashion.

Devi Krysis (VO) “You….” Devi is sweating but she's really pushing herself cause knowing that she wants payback against Ayla Rodriguez and also wants a shot at Diantha Rosso. “You must be really lucky right now are you Ayla? You must be really clever, you got a 1-Up on Discus Devi, you're really on cloud nine right now aren't you?” Devi practices her strikes in the middle of Matsuda's private Dojo ring. “Lucky….Lucky….Lucky is like having a four leaf clover and St. Patrick's Day is over. Lucky is the type of person that you go to Las Vegas, hit the casinos, straight to the slot machines and hit a jackpot. Lucky is that you play your scratch off ticket and win millions of dollars. LUCKY IS WHERE YOU HAD A WIN OVER A WRESTLER AND GAVE A ENDORSEMENT TO A FORMER CHAMPION! That's who you are, Ayla Rodriguez. Now she's chosen by Diantha Rosso, a woman who carries Odyssey on her gigantic back now she chooses disciples or chosen ones for her Diantha’s Den, leaving me frustrated and embarrassed!”

Devi took a break for a few minutes to calm her down, wipe the sweat from her face with the towel and she's thinking about what Camilo said.

Camilo (VO) : Well, I am coming for seconds, because that woman has been underperforming so long and someone HAS to tell her! Hey, idiot, listen up! You ended up losing ANOTHER title match! How many matches like that are you going to lose before you realize that this whole wrestling thing isn’t for you? You have failed spectacularly in every single opportunity that was given to you, and when you finally get a title match thanks to the help of another person, YOU DROP THE BALL! You rather be completely stagnant in the position that you are instead of actually getting better! Like, seriously, what the hell was that?! Is that called a video or a short movie? You barely said ANYTHING about my sister, failing spectacularly on actually bringing a good point to the conversation, instead flopping around like a fish out of water and failing to get any air! You only get wins around here by beating other inexperienced rookies and wrestlers that are somehow worse than you! But there is no way in hell that my sister is going to get inside of that ring, and actually lose to an imbecile like you!

Devi Krysis: “Well Camilo I'm glad your sister got a win on me, but that's all you're gonna get is a win over me. But lightning will not strike twice regardless of whether your sister follows the guidelines with Diantha Rosso, what's she gonna guide her anyway? Money? Power? Or maybe….being an main eventer. Ayla Rodriguez may be a future and also a clumsy cunt I've ever met. But you gotta know your history when it comes to Diantha Rosso, hell she may accept you now but when you start improving under her guidance and win big matches like Clash of The Titans and main eventing Final Destination? That's where the jealousy is gonna sink in. So you don't have to listen to me, maybe….maybe you should listen to your paranoid sister Camilo cause she's already started to annoy me with her last promo.” Devi gets up and starts training again and this time she's using a grappling dummy. “That leaves with Dreamworld, a Tag Team match between a newly found duo vs. Me and NAMI! Which I'm looking forward to, because I want to get my hands on Ayla Rodriguez and I have no problem fighting a former champion of Diantha Rosso! This match is gotta feel important not just for NAMI but for me as well. Because my loser streak is growing and it needs to stop and it needs to end quickly because Odyssey it's celebrating its 100th episode, and what I need is not just a miracle, but a Motivation! A Motivation to guide me through the winning circle, a Motivation that helps me guide me through my run in OWA to a main event player and headline Final Destination. Not only that but I need to redeem..Redeem my career, my losing streak needs to be gone and gone for GOOD! even if I am gonna have help with my partner and friend NAMI to end your alliance before it starts.”

“Clock, it's ticking…”

*tick tock* *tick tock* *tick tock*

“It's ticking for my Motivation and Redemption! Dreamworld, my losing streak dies and so does this alliance. Ayla Rodriguez, Diantha Rosso start praying for your downfall see you real soon.”

Devi hits a Superman Punch and the scene fades.

We join Chad Ecclestone, dressed in his usual three-piece suit and fancy shoes, fully reclined on a leather chaise and somewhere in the middle of a lengthy, completely justified rant to an individual who remains out of sight for the time being.


His rambling complaints are cut short by a sound from off-screen, familiar to any Nintendo veteran:



Chad sits up and turns around to look at the source of the noise: infamous psychotherapist and Vice Presidential candidate, Dr. Bethany Hastings. She’s seated behind her desk, staring intently at the monitor, an N64 controller held in her hands as she navigates Bowser’s Castle, briefly glancing over at her patient to assure him that he’s not being ignored.

“Of course I am, I’m a professional! This just helps me focus when you pathetic wretches are spilling your guts on my carpet… but if you’d prefer, I’ll stop,” she says, dropping the N64 controller, alt-tabbing the emulator, and turning her attention fully towards Chad, “is that better?”


“Do you really think that’s going to help, Mr. Ecclestone?”, asks Dr. Hastings, her voice flat and disinterested.


“You know what I mean, Chadwick, you said it yourself earlier: they don’t respect you. They never will. And what’s worse, they don’t even appreciate you for the effort you put in entertaining them week in and week out. You think tap dancing for the crowd is going to make the slightest bit of difference? Do you really, truly, honestly think if you put on your best suit and do a nice soft-shoe routine for Oasis, he’s going to let you into the big house? Treat you like the star that you are? Let you sleep indoors and fuck his woman? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”


“The fact is, you’re too outspoken. Too much of a self-made man. You’re not one of these bums like Jeff X or Rebecca Filth, who would be nothing without the company’s PR machine granting some legitimacy to their worthless reputations. You’re a bonafide Hollywood celebrity, after all. You don’t need Oasis, you don’t need the Omega Wrestling Alliance, and you sure as hell don’t need some pathetic tag team belts… which, I should add, aren’t even the real ones! Those are held by Darkane and Lazarus Arjen over on Olympus, not a pair of women with a name ripping off a braindead Japanese comic book. And if you think–”


This time the sound is coming from Chad’s direction, as the actor has pulled out a Nintendo DS during Bethany’s monologue, tapping the D-Pad and buttons wildly as he stomps on Goombahs (the monsters, not Brandon Hendrix) and evades Koopa Troopas on the screen. Dr. Hastings sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose in exhaustion at being forced to deal with this moron.

“Chad, if you want to waste your time in this session, that’s your business. I’m happy to sit here, charge you three times my hourly rate – on account of you being a godless Hollywood liberal – and listen to you play children’s video games. It’s entirely your call, but I’m trying my best to help you out.”

Rolling his eyes, Chad closes the portable gaming system, putting it back in the pocket of his suit jacket with a petulant, childish groan.

“Wise decision. Now, back to the matter at hand: you say you want respect, to be treated as an equal, to have your contributions and efforts appreciated by the fans and co-workers you once claimed to despise, am I correct?”


“Pardon me?” snaps the Doctor, a sharp edge in her voice and a sudden fury growing inside her cold, analytical brown eyes.


“So quit,” she states smoothly, moving on from the disrespectful comment, likely chalking it up to the fact that Chad is probably – at least according to all visible evidence – slightly retarded.

This statement – two simple, short words – achieves the impossible: shutting Chad’s mouth for more than a minute.


‘It’s been said before,” mutters Dr. Hastings, completely brushing off the compliment, “but moving back to you, it’s obvious the only way to make them miss the bright, shining light of your immense, undeniable talent is to do one simple thing: walk away. As the saying goes, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Time to make them regret the shoddy treatment they’ve visited upon a man who came only to entertain and enthrall them. Time to make them realize you were a hero, one that they spurned and pushed away in their own idiocy and ignorance. Time to show Scott Oasis that you don’t need him, and that if he refuses to treat you like the legend you are, you're happy and willing to move on to greener pastures.”


“Now go out there, and do what must be done. Time for the Omega Wrestling Alliance to undergo a cold turkey Chad Ecclestone withdrawal. Only then will they realize the error of their ways.”


The bodyguard stands in stunned silence for a second, before leaning her head into her employer’s office and asking, “did he just call me ‘Pedro’?”

The Doctor isn’t paying attention, as she’s already picked the joystick up from her desk and is mashing buttons wildly.

“So long, gay Bowser!” she shouts, triumphantly lifting both arms into the air as she sends King Koopa hurtling into the abyss.


After the customary title card, the viewer is greeted with the sight of an empty stage within a large theater somewhere in the continental United States. The seats – floor and balcony – are empty, and the place is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The only illumination within is provided by a single spotlight, shining down on the center of the stage, the rest of the place swallowed by an impenetrable blackness.

click. click. click.

The sound of approaching feet is heard, heels clacking on the hard wooden floor, as someone walks towards the spotlight: revealed to be Chad Ecclestone himself, as he steps into the light, a strange, regretful expression on a face that is usually smug and arrogant. He carries a cordless microphone in one hand, and with a deep inhale, slowly lifts it to his mouth.


He takes the microphone away from his mouth, holds it horizontal in front of him, and lets it fall to the stage floor with a clattering noise that travels through the sound system as he steps away from the spotlight, back into the darkness, the clicking of his shoes on wood receding into the distance as the camera slowly zooms in on the fallen microphone…

…until the spotlight cuts out, leaving the screen in complete darkness for several moments, until two words – superimposed in white text – appear over the black void:

Allesandro, I won’t play stupid here; we’re absolutely going to savage each other. I been bustin balls and talking myself into trouble since we were rappin over the Grindin’ beat on lunch tables. If Emmy, Cloud, or Hendrix are any indication, you got thesaurus.com ballin’ in triple overtime looking for synonyms for the n word. You probably already called me a mutt, a big lipped ape, a nappy headed bum, you probably already said I’m only 3/5ths of the wrestler Brandon is, but I can’t tell the potentially record breaking champion going into a match he’s heavily favored in a damn thing. Instead, I’d like to ask you something:


Who taught you that when you don’t receive the love you deserve, you should make that a core piece of your identity? Can you even remember the moment when you laid everything out to bear for others to see you and their rejection made you snap?


If it sounds like a bar, bad news: it ain’t. I know my record; what the hell am I supposed to say to him? In 2024, I’m trynna lead with my actions and not my captions. Shit, if I’m keeping it a buck, jokes are just jokes. I honestly have a lot of respect for you. Believe it or not, GG wasn’t always GG. Before my armbands could be your hula hoops, I was a smartass kid in a Souf learning to assess men in twenty four seconds of the shot clock to distribute the ball and find the open man.


Nah, end that thought process right now, I wasn’t no damn center, I was a point guard and I was niiiiiiiiiiiiice. Stepback jumper had em all saying ooooooooooooh, kill em GG, kill em. Call me a stereotype or two dimensional if you want, but I genuinely believed the only way out was either on the court, on the field, or in a bodybag, and the Souf is big and vast, but it wasn’t big enough for me to let my nuts hang. I still say Kobe when I throw a baddy into a prison cell, I still say Rodman before I deliver some vicious backshots to some strange, the vision I learned on the court became how I viewed the world.


So when I look at you, do you know what letters come to mind?


Nah, not AD.


KD.


Yeah, Durantula, that Oscar Proud lookin’ boy, Kevin Durant. I look at a man who became a master of his craft only to be judged by people that don’t understand enough to even know how much they don’t understand. I see a man frustrated that his entire legacy on this planet can be reduced to a single statline: championships. You won the opportunity to win the American Dream Championship doing everything the right way, and do you remember what happened?


Everyone hated you for it.


With that opportunity in hand, you cashed in like you were supposed to, and if the footage Jamaican Blue found is true to the tale, that bih looked like showtime at the Apollo. They fucking hated your guts. If I’m keeping it a buck, no matter how bad things get between the two of us, I pray it never gets that bad. You don’t deserve to be treated that way. I’m not gonna suck you off for sympathy points when there’s plenty of unkidnapped mullatos walkin’ around you, but nobody could ever blame you for deciding that you didn’t need the approval of others. A symbol of your weakness became a symbol of your strength used as a weapon, and that’s some badass anime type riddim that I can’t pretend to hate.


Yeah yeah, let’s avoid all the pot calling the kettle a burnt crispy roach stuff, it’s funny to mention the way ya’ boy calls Cloud a dog, but whenever you call her a mutt, the Quentin Tarantino just jumps out of you.
Keep all the mind games as a B plot, cuz there’s too much respect for the journey you took to lose myself in a blind rage when you try turning me into another stepping stone.


I became a vicious monster to survive, and you became one by choice because you wanted to prove everyone wrong. I’ll acknowledge you by meeting you on your own grounds, but when you empty out every clip and run out of cards up your sleeve and I’m still standing, you’re gonna’ ask yourself: is GG becoming something new? Or is he becoming more like himself?


Bring all your toys. Hendrix tried to do you dirty mentioned all kinda personal, unverifiable details, but just know I ain’t scared about you using weak, limp knives to stab people when I’m hauling around a big, black, and bodacious buster sword that changes lives when I swing my hips. If you pop the trunk I’ll return the favor and they’ll be calling me Kyle Lowry with the way I’m a left-handed shooter. You’ve made your championship reign a memorial of hate, so i’m tossing it just like all the other confederate statues.




I ain’t Emmy, I ain’t Cloud, and I ain’t Hendrix. I’m HIM, no powderpuff girls. Try as you will to bait me into a hateful dick measuring contest, this match ends with my pussy in your mouth and a loving pat on the back as I start my story by leaving yours on a cliff hanger.

********************************************************************



With a ring, the duo step outside of the cold ass DC air, and back into familiarity. That bitch Elsa really singing and dancing like her old man was Joe Jackson, it’s cold as hell. On the other side of the glass, the smell of apricot oils and other beauty supply products envelop both Jamaican Blue and Golden Gauntlet in their warm embrace. Almost mesmerized, Blue reaches for a silk bonnet behind the counter, before one massive palm from his protege rubbing the top of his head as though one’s looking for the holes of a bowling ball remind him of his tragic fate: he is bald enough to make Ray Allen look like Basquiat.  


GG: We making this trip all for a durag? Old man Blue, you trynna get them 360 waves? Shits gonna been spinnininininin if we ever find out how to get a tidal wave in a desert.

Blue: Hahahaha. You think you’re cute. No, we didn’t come all this way for that. We’re trying to even the odds here, obviously we ain’t taking the biggest match of your career for a workload management game. Lord knows that fuckin’ Greyhound trip got my hemorrhoids actin’ up like some City Girls.

GG: …I’ve learned many lessons from you. I’d like the chance to return the favor. Lesson one: boundaries.

Jamaican Blue pays GG no mind, and ushers the giant to follow his lead. Each time Red passes a chair, each hair stylist offers him a wave and a smile.

GG: Okay, okay, I see you. This is the secret weapon, right? I’m finna let my hair out on hoes, right? AD think he’s the baddest, but he ain’t ready for GG AKA young Reezy with them Riley Cornrows, oh there ain’t a SOUL ready for that.

Imitating the objectively best character on the Boondocks and getting into a boxing stance, one hand from Jamaican Blue grasps his hand with a firm, solid embrace. A moment of takin’ the piss out of his elder feels suddenly childish when he realizes he’s the only one playing. Red continues along past the hair stylists to the hair dryers on either wall, until they reach the back of the store. His hands spread apart the beaded curtain, and the sound of loud machinery somehow becomes evident immediately. GG’s confusion becomes clear with a furrow of his brow, but Blue shakes his head and waves it off.

????: (with a raspy, slick voice) I’m sorry, are you here for business or are you journalists trying to spread my entire news and business to everyone tuned in for your programming? Would you like my government name also? Lord knows Zuckenberger has my fingerprints already, would you like my dental records?

Blue’s smile spreads from cheek to cheek like the cat that caught the mouse, and he leads the way. Behind the curtain is a different world. Different silks and velvets garments are scattered throughout the massive hardwood backroom, where black women that are either models or goddesses have an assembly line to organize them into various different boxes, in a line leading to a truck dock currently filled by a purple limousine.

Blue: How can we accept your help when you won’t take mine? I still think its weird to have all these angels doing labor for you when there’s plenty of qualified men to do the job. For examples, now that my nephew got fired from the Piggly Wiggl-




???: No, I do not want anyone’s ashy nephews in my fine establishment. Yes, this is a fine establishment. While I have no hatred in my heart for anyone, regardless of their sexual orientation, I believe my customers would prefer to smell the perfume and divine femininity when they receive their garbs, instead of eau de ball sweat. Young man, sorry for speaking out of turn, however your manager and I go back like murrays grease and wave caps, but he is still a knucklehead. If he’s ever told you stories of a Jenkins from back in our X-men days, allow me to reintroduce myself. You may call me Purple Reign.

GG: Oh, okay, I think I get it. He mentioned you before!  In order to become a champion, I have to dress the part? Old man Blue, you’re taking me shopping? You really got me flewed out?

Blue tries as he may, but he cannot reach GG’s mouth, so instead he bangs a fist on the wall that is GG’s massive chest.

Blue: No! In fact, this is the opposite, this isn’t a fashion shoe! If anything, we’re entering an arms race here. Do you think you’re going to become the American Dream champion by having the freshest fit?

GG proudly holds his fist in front of him while allowing the other to flip the cape he’s pretending the wear as he goes into his superhero lines.

GG: No siree, I’ll win by believing in myself and by remembering those who look up to me as their role model as a hero.

Purple Reign: Jamaican Blue, I may never understand your fondness for losers and being surrounded by them.

Purple Reign’s stature is small enough that a strong breeze would require him to change zip codes. A quick glance from Golden Gauntlet usually makes others quake in their boots; but even at six foot six and three hundred pounds, a tiny man in a purple suit stares him down. Since intimidation doesn’t work, Gauntlet pivots and takes a deeper look into his surroundings for something he can use. First, he eyes the bisexual lighting casting pink, purple and blue across the entire makeshift warehouse. Next, GG looks to the women sorting clothing, but one noticeably looks at him and mouths the word ‘ew’, so he pivots again to the shoes in her hands. Aha.

GG: Oh, I’m super sorry for being so disrespectful in your fine establishment. Riddle me this, Purple Reign: I’m assuming this isn’t a sweatshop licensed by Jordan, yet that woman’s holding something that CLEARLY appears to be an Air Jordan Retro Gratitude 2013 edition, yes? Can you make that make sense?

Purple Reign: Oh, excellent eye!

GG: Yes, and that leads to my next question. I’ve seen alot of Jumpman Logos in my life, but never one where he’s doing a finger roll. I may be a loser, but apparently I’m not a blind one. Would you care to explain?

Jamaican Blue’s eyes stare a hole into the side of GG’s head. Seeing his small friend reaching for his diamond studded pimp cane, Blue does his best to casually step between the two.

Blue: My GOOD AND TRUSTED FRIEND HERE has a very handy ability to replicate things! While hero organizations gave Purple Reign an extremely low ceiling, he decided to take on the one job harder than a US Marine: he became a black business owner. The more copies made, the lower the accuracy, so there’s always some extremely minor deviations that are much less important than his mission to remove capital from exploitative clothing makers AND give people access to luxury items at only 90% of the original cost!

With a scoff, GG takes a step forward which shakes the room.

GG: Ah, a bootlegger. Why do I need a counterfeitter?

Jamaican Blue raises a finger with a well-thought out retort in response, but a swift but gentle ruby studded pimp cane lowers his hand, then ushers him aside. While barely making a sound with how gentle and softly he steps forward, Purple Reign absolutely cleans GG’s clock using his pimp cane as a club, going right upside his head and sending the big man stumbling.

Purple Reign: As it was presented to me, Jamaican Blue decided to use a tried and true strategy: the triangle offense. With Blue as Phil Jackson, I’d be Scottie Pippen to make you look like Jordan. With my massive wealth, as your financier, you might stand a chance. All of your morals and beliefs mean absolutely nothing when AD comes to the ring with all of the Helldivers 2 stratagems. You may not understand how much power is required to go scot-free after attempting to murder someone on television-

His statement is interrupted by a massive hand cocking back, and formed into an overhead crossing hook that causes garments to go airborne due to the immediate force of wind following the blow. The blow lands with enough impact to cause a crater and leave wood and dust flying, while Jamaican Blue tries to get out of harms way despite his limp clearly indicating massive discomfort as his voice practically BLEEDS with whininess.

Blue: No…. No! Stop it, my stomach can’t handle it! Y’all got my hemorrhoids doing the Harlem Shake! Help!

GG: Hey, what was I supposed to do?  I ain’t making an entire thing out of picking on twinks, but you know that Chris Rock skit about the two kinds of black people? Well there’s bisexuals like myself, and then there’s f–


The dust doesn’t even begin to settle before three different pimp canes, one from the left, one from the right, and one from above, land at the same time. The noise at impact resembles glass breaking, and GG’s left in a dizzied stupor.

GG: God damnit! I’m seeing double! What in the shitload of fuck?!

As the dust dissipates, Purple Reign’s coy laughter mocks him. Where a man in a purple suit once stood, three suits from versace’s 2024 line that has yet to be released are filled by three different versions of Purple Reign, dressed in either purple, blue, or pink, respectively.
Purple Reign: Do you understand what it means to fight a powerful person? Your opponent will move heaven and Earth to defeat you, understanding the gravitas of his actions. You throw around your power like a child with a new toy. With strength no person could ever deserve, do you even have a reason for possessing it?

Like a Great White shark breaching from the ocean to ensnare its prey, all smoke is evacuated in a second of Golden Gauntlet’s mighty punch clearing the room. Both the Blue and Pink clones of Purple Reign try to step back, but get sucked into the vaccuum of wind of GG cocking his fist, and get deleted from the hemisphere by way of Falcon Punch. In their place, Purple Reigns wearing yellow and orange pimp suits take their place, with cane swings blasting both of GG’s kneecaps like police batons and putting him on all fours.

Purple Reign: Do you make it a habit to turn your back on your opponents?

GG’s not sluggish in swinging a backfist purely on instinct, but still isn’t face enough to avoid the crocodile print loafer landing with an axe kick that double dribbles his chin off the hardwood.

JB: Hey! No! Can’t we just talk about this?! I listened to an amazing podcast about the importance of patience and conflict resolution - I stopped listening because I didn’t agree with it, but maybe we should put it on?! Anyone have a cassette player?! It’s an emergency!

GG pries his carcass from the ground and scan the scene around him. Every fruity flavor of the rainbow suit surrounds him, with dozens of counterfeit Purple Reigns on each and every side of him.

Purple Reign: May I make a recommendation? There are plenty of pawn shops that’d accept the chance to help your golden gauntlet find a new home of someone worthy. A counterfeiter I might be, but I know the difference between a real hero and a fake one. A child without purpose doesn’t make a hero, it makes a cosplayer. You are yet another child with undeserved pow-

GG: You’re right. (he has to struggle to get words out, amidst the groans and grunts as he tries to get back to a stand.) I didn’t deserve to win the genetic lottery to become so big. I didn’ t deserve a mother and family who gave me a place to stay before this hero stuff paid the bills. I tried to get away from them because I thought I’d embarrass them, but even if they didn’t understand, they didn’t reject me. So…

On legs as shaky as Bambi’s, GG stands among the mob of pimp clones.

GG: I’ll never be worthy of arms this massive, but while I have ‘em, ANYONE and EVERYONE who has ever experienced fear and uncertainty, will feel safe and warm in my loving embrace. I have this immense power… to spread the love others gave me.

In a moment of silence that feels like a century, every eye in the room is on GG’s bruised and battrered state. With a hawkish guffaw, Purple Reign’s parade of laughing pimps fill the room with a mockery of GG’s ideals.

Purple Reign: Love?! Love!? You’re going to put our the forest fire of hatred with love? Lord, please allow me to say a prayer in honor of another victim of the public school system.

Each clone silently lowers their head in a moment of solitude with their Lord and Savior, before raising them again with a quick ‘amen.’

Purple Reign: May his ideals serve you better on the other side of the Pearly Gates. Let’s wrap this one up!

Each one of the canes are hoisted into the sky, and GG tries to find a specific direction to defend himself in, with attackers as far as the eye can see. He weakly cocks his fist and places a kiss atop his gauntlet. Jamaican Blue cowers in a folding chair in a corner of the room, as he sits atop a foam donut. Each of the canes drop like guillotine blades, and in their wake, flashing lights strobe in every which direction until the original Purple Reign is left surrounded by white, until the color begins to bleed in again.

Purple Reign: Now what in the name of Jesus and all his disciplines?

He looks around the unfamiliar scenery.





???: Oh, sorry I didn’t see you there. I’d offer to show you around, but my boys and I are about to perform.

Purple Reign tracks down the origin of the voice, just in time to see XXXTENTACION, PNB Rock, and JUICEWRLD rushing past while playfully shoving into each other. A stunned look falls upon his visage, and his jaw is almost to the floor. Thankfully, a hand offers Purple Reign a vial of medicine for his ailments.

Kevin Samuels: You seem like a black man in need of a little pick-me-up. In your new home, worrying isn’t allowed.

Purple Reign turns at the sound of barking, desperately searching for a sign of this being a bad dream. Instead, he’s greeted with a hand over his shoulders.

DMX: Ayo, finally! Everyone looked at me like I lost my damn mind when I said eventually we’d get someone dressed well enough to join the Spades table. Virgil said he only cuts motherfuckers without fashion sense, finally got someone to help me get my lick back!

Another firm hand reaches to Reign’s other shoulder. He turns in reaction to the touch, and sees his reflection staring back at him in gold.

GG: I’m a HUGE fan and I’d never dream of getting on your bad side, but there’s something I have to do, and I can’t do it without him. .

With a force Reign’s only witnessed on a TV screen when a superhero blasts a hole into a spaceship to suck a villain into the vacuum of the dark void of space, Purple Reign’s yanked through the ancestral plane, through the great void of white, and back onto a pile of collared shirts that’d be defined as polos if not for the man atop the horse clearly holding a baseball bat. Golden Gauntlet desperately sucks in air as if his life depended on soothing the burning in his lungs. Mist sizzles from his Golden Gauntlet, no matter how many frozen vegetables he applies to the ornate weapon.

GG: ……Please. Please. PLEASE tell me you weren’t sitting on those frozen veggies.

Blue: I know you eat like Saweetie in prison, but broccoli can’t hurt you!  

GG: I am not afraid of broccoli! I have a healthy respect for it! This gauntlet is used to harness and focus a power from the Gods! I don’t know which God it came from, but I imagine none of them wish to see it catch your Hemorrhoids!

Blue: THEY ARE COOTIES YOU DENSE MOTHERF- Oh, Purp, you’re awake!

Purple Reign rolls off the mountain of knockoffs and onto his ass, with his cane raised above him like a shield.

Purple Reign: WHAT ARE YOU?!

GG uses the hand that isn’t sore from using enough power to split atoms to stroke his chin.

GG: I’m a man intent on spreading love, in whatever form is necessary. Sometimes, it’s the gentle touch of me stroking your cheek, other times it’s the tough love of me balling my knuckles into a fist. I was skeptical at first but I admit… I have nothing even close to the utility of your talent. If we’re done here, will you offer me your guidance?

His hands raise, causing Reign to flinch and close his eyes in anticipation. After a delayed pause of nothing, he reopens his eyes to see GG’s fingers in the shape of a triangle.

Purple Reign: Tr-triangle offense? You… You…. I’ll turn you into a real hero. I’ll also throw in some gold veneers for any teeth scattered across my warehouse. I… believe that you are who you say you are. Besides, if you become the American Dream champion, I imagine those gauntlets will sell for a very pretty penny…..





*************************************************************************

You know what, I’ve tried really hard to just be polite and be calm about this Sword and Shield tournament. It’s the biggest tag tournament that I’ve ever been associated with. We’re two steps away from getting our hands on the World Tag Team Champs one more time to pry those belts off the Seventh Ward, but we’ve got three other teams to possibly deal with before we get that honor. 


After beating Tweetledee and Tweetledumbass on the last Olympus, this time we get our hands on some more big game as the DUDES ROCK or Cletus and Brody or whatever you want to call them. Good for them for beating Devi and NAMI to get this far. That’s great. And I’ve tried to be nice about it but you boys seem to have this thing on your mind where you think you’re going to just show up to Columbia, South Carolina and roll over us. Do you think you’re the first men to talk a big game to either of us? Hell, we almost knocked the Seventh Ward off their perch in our first match as a fucking team. And then, the next time out, we beat the heaviest tag team in OWA. We don’t scare easily. 


Now, I don’t think of myself as being intimidated by Brody as I am fucking confused….Did you call me Sena’s mom? Was that some kind of dig on me being his mentor and manager for a while? You…you don’t literally think I’m his mom, do you? I’m only thirty years old, man and Sena's ... .yeah, mid-twenties. Not happening. And….are you implying that me and Jeff….


DUDE….NO. Just no. 


And then you called me hot? I appreciate the spirit, but Brody, if you’ve been paying close attention of late you would probably know by now that you’re not my type, like at all. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Hell, you’d probably have a better chance of catching Stephanie on the post-divorce rebound. But, besides all of that crap, which is a lot to process since I can barely tell if you’re serious or just stoned out of your goddamn mind, I’ll put you to ease with one little tidbit: I’m not gonna be involved in your little battle royal at all. Now, I’ll obviously be there, win or lose against you guys, but unless Tres Comas or someone else who has no business getting involved comes out there, I’m not looking to get in there at all. You see, Sena hasn’t done a whole lot in OWA, but what he has done, he’s done on his own. He didn’t need my hand-holding to be Outlaw Champion, he won’t need my hand-holding to get past you. So you don’t have to worry about it. 


But now, back to the match where you and I are going to be fighting and absolutely NOT holding hands. You and your bowling ball of a partner are impressive, but you’re still just really getting the bearings underneath you to form a successful team. Sure, me and Hana are a new team too, but we’ve already shown our work as a unit and both of us are former World Champions to boot. 


You’re talking a LOOOOOOOOOT of shit about us, making little racist jokes here and there, talking about you’re going to watch a bukkake video because you found out Hana Nakajima is from Japan. How very original and respectful of you. You know who else is racist around here? Allesandro Devione. And if there’s any way to really piss me off expeditiously is to remind me of that assclown. Congratulations, Brody! You’ve pissed me off to a point where I’m not sure if I can just approach this professionally anymore! Maybe that’s all part of your plan though. You see, Hana doesn’t really think that much of you. She respects your talent but thinks you’re very average. She sees through all the bullshit and has you whittled down to a mediocre son of a mediocre and apparently absentee father who has, so far, had a relatively mediocre wrestling career despite the fans being very much accepting of you. You see, me? I personally expect better from people like you. You have the talent to be elite, but you being a drug-sniffing simpleton gets in the way of that. Thankfully, Emmy Rehab is coming to town and I have a 12-Step Program for you to recover: 


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Maybe that won’t do much in the sense of getting you on the road to recovery and off the mediocrity merry-go-round, but at least I get to vent some of my frustrations on your face. And I really didn’t want to do that, but calling me a pug-faced bitch was a bit of a downer for me. I expected more from you, even though you are a bit of a stoner dude-bro idiot. You’re gonna wish you did just a little more training, bro. You may be slippery when wet, but call me Hall and Oates because I’m a Maneater, bitch. 


You do have a partner though, don’t ya. And while I don’t even think poor Cletus even knows what decade he’s in, he still going to have to answer for his handler’s bullshit and you being a partner. The way he handles pain isn’t too much of a problem. I mean, we weren’t exactly throwing knockout bombs to the Interracial Twin Towers, but they still went down. But the strength is what worries me. This giant ball of fat that you don’t think would be very strong is lifting all these obscenely large weights, doing all kinds of crazy shit. Maybe he doesn’t feel pain or his brain is too dumb to actually process it. Who knows? But one thing I do know is that he’s not immune to going to sleep. Hana and I are trained enough to know a few holds that can put even people like that down for the count. Honestly I would feel kind of sad about it if someone besides Brody was his partner. This would be almost a mercy kill. But since Brody’s on my short term shit list, Cletus, you’ve gotta suffer the consequences too, bro. 


And you’ve gotta suffer for that Kentucky Fried Chicken Colonel’s mouth too. I try to be polite when people address me for the first time. Even in situations where they’ve made it very plain that they’re to kick my ass, I tend to try to give respect in my own way. But yeah….Colonel, me and you just got on the wrong foot. Nevermind talking about Hana’s difficulties with her inner demons, figurative and literal. That’s fucking cliched at this point, I don’t care about that and she doesn’t either. What’s got me ticked off about you is this whole thing where you claim I stole money and service from Ty and Sena. Ty can get hit by a Mack truck at this point and Sena’s a big enough boy now to handle his own….but nah. You’re not skating off that easy. You insulted the way I came up in this sport. You see, Carlos Rosso himself asked me to look after Sena after he trained him. Not to take money from him, not to make him clean up the dojo and shit like that. But to teach him how to be a better wrestler, teach him how to be a better human being. The man who prepared me for this sport, a fourteen time world champion, put that responsibility on my shoulders. And for you to think that I’m some kind of charlatan, some snake oil salesman motherfucker like you makes me want to vomit. 


No, you’re not getting off easy. Now, I can’t hurt you during the match. What purpose would that serve? But what I can do is break your boy. He’s 400 pounds? Check the wiki, I’ve beaten super heavyweights before. Hell, I scratched my ass, snapped my fingers and beat two barely lifting a finger alongside Hana last week. We’re gonna break your boy down in front of you, and we’re going to break his heart. Oh, when the time comes, I’m gonna have a word with Big Bad Ty about the life decisions he’s been making of late. And THEY ARE NOT going to be words that he wants to hear. But for now, I’m going to focus my time on Olympus and beating the shit out of annoying, racist tag teams who have to recycle the same annoying shit for the Platinum Queens because they and their handlers barely have ten functioning brain cells between them. 


If you want to feel froggy and leap though, I’ll gladly stomp you out just to make a point. Hana and I are in this to get our hands on the Seventh Ward one more time, and you two assclowns will move or be moved. That’s not a threat, it’s an Emmanuelle Guarantee. 


That still leaves two other teams once we make it to the final though. Tres Comas, or as I call them, Dos Putos, or World’s Finest. As I’ve said before, none of them really instill fear in me. Poet seems to be more concerned about recruiting people into their little clubhouse than preparing for the opportunity of a lifetime. In typical Olympus asshole fashion, he thinks that it’s preordained that he and his little bosom buddy the Time Lizard are going to beat Stephanie Matsuda and Nobi. Are you sure you two can beat an all-star team, even with your clique’s usual bullshit? I honestly don’t think you can. Not having a brother or sister myself, I can’t really relate to his plight. As…average as his brother is in the ring, he’s doing things the way he wants to. If he wants to go out there on his own and fail, he should be allowed to without being pestered and annoyed by some dickhead wearing tights who also happens to be family. And it’s also funny to me that you’re in this tournament and me and Hana could face you. A lot of people thought I ducked smoke because I challenged the Seventh Ward instead of your punk ass, but I’ve honestly done you a favor. You get to cling to your title a little longer, build up a nice little resume for yourself…right before me or Hana comes and takes it. 


And then there’s old Reginald, still doing the weird psychopathic Englishman bit. Bro, we’ve had literal demons show up in OWA. Motherfuckers have gotten clipped. Ty’s managed to be the villain of the year so far just by being a spoiled chickenshit. Nobody cares about this shit, man. Pack it up and go back to the UK and see if you can get a cameo on Doctor Who. They still make that shit, right? Go see if SyFy is still making horrible movies. Just, go away. I’m tired of seeing your face, and if I see you in this final I'd be pretty disappointed for several reasons. One, you’re no challenge. Two, you don’t have anything I want so you’re of no interest to me. Three, that means that a team I had far higher expectations for managed to fuck up in spectacular fashion. Just do everyone a favor, lay down, go back to whatever Fortress of Solitude or Legion of Doom hovership you came from and go back to cackling maniaclally and making zero fucking sense. You’re not that great of a wrestler, but being a stooge doesn’t really suit you. 


And then, the World’s Finest. Stephanie, I don’t know what’s up with you lately. You’ve gotten divorced and your performance seems to have suffered. Sure, you’re doing your own thing in MGP, the land of Cuteness and Pixie Dust, but you’re not doing fuck-all around here. When I decided to jump on board with your World’s Finest Remix, I thought of you as a leader. An inspiration, someone that could inspire me to push myself harder. You know what I see when I look at you right now? A publicly cuckolded softie who has lost her swagger. And you know what? I’ve got just the cure for ya. Me and Hana are going to tap dance on your face and play double dutch with your arms and legs. You’re getting the Platinum Queens treatment. What is that treatment? We’re going to kick your ass.


Hana has made it pretty damn clear that she’s always thought of you as a bit of a megalomaniac, and as someone who thinks the center of the universe is wherever Emmanuelle is, I can recognize the signs. I have a fondness for you that the people who have spent the most time around you, the Aprils and Hanas of the world….just can’t seem to find. I wonder why that is? Were they just too small to step out of Stephanie Matsuda’s shadow? Or was Stephanie too much of a bitch when she played team captain? Guess we’re going to find out. What you’re going to find out, Stephanie, is while you’re waxing philosophical thinking about nonsense from years ago, Hana Nakajima has outgrown you and April Song ain’t walking through that door. There’s a melody to me and Hana’s wrestling, a method to our madness if you will, but I can guarantee you that just because I respect you SHIT IS NOT SWEET.


AND….BITCH!? 


DID YOU CALL ME APRIL!? SERIOUSLY!? 


WE’RE IN 2024, NOT 2021! GODDAMN! 


And Nobi, I’m sorry about you losing your title, bro, but guess what, you winning another one isn’t going to come at my expense. You’re a nice enough dude, but there’s no way that you, your friend, or any of these other two teams are going to stand up to the Queens. We’re taking the Sword and Shield trophy…and we’re gonna use it to go full Wonder Woman on the Seventh Ward and take our rightful place as the OWA World Tag Team Champions. You not holding back would be infinitely wise…because you already know how I’m coming. Reginald and Stephanie and even Poet, they know how I’m coming. The DUDES ROCK boys may not understand just yet, but they will.


They may have come into this tournament to make the Tag Team division their playground, but me and Hana aren’t in a mood to play. Two matches, two weeks, and a chance for us to be the best of the best. You may look down on us now, but understand, when it’s over, all six of you will only have one choice if you come across Emmanuelle and Hana Nakajima: 


BOW DOWN TO THE MOTHERFUCKING QUEENS!

Yeah. 

You are right, Sakazaki-san. I did say that you were playing right in the hands of your detractors. I’m not lying nor will I deny it. I have no reason to when I’m RIGHT. It’s the truth—a truth conceived not by Cloud, Nobi, or any of the half-assed existences on the roster. My assessment of you is a truth created by the heavens themselves. 

Your karma is appalling, Flame Emperor. 

Inevitably, during one’s life, three obstacles and four devils will appear before them. There is no middle ground in approaching them—you either advance or retreat. Surrender to devilish functions and drown in their combined darkness or strengthen your convictions in the face of their negativity. 

I’m not trying to save the doe-eyed Ryo that no longer exists. I’m trying to knock some sense into your head. I’m trying to save a sinking ship that no one else is strong enough to save. Ryo, you’re drowning in the poisons of vices. You let the likes of people like Cloud and Nobi pull you down into the depths of hell until your soul is black and irredeemable and what will that net you? The slight chance of payback? 

You’re right! It is the definition of insanity to do the same thing over and over again without reward! It’s horrible to live eternally in samsara! So why the hell do you keep doing it, Sakazaki?

Do you think things will change if you somehow manage to win my belt? Or will we be here once again months later, where you release your frustrations about how Nobi is screwing you over somehow, as if he’s in control of your own fucking body, or how everyone is screwing you over somehow? 

I won’t deny anything that I’ve said previously to you. You are strong and regardless of what people say in the back, we stand as some of the greatest talents that this roster has the pleasure of having...but there is no reality where I let you walk out of Olympus as the Icarus Champion. 

The worst version of Ryo Sakazaki doesn’t deserve to walk out as champion. 

Whatever metaphorical edge doesn’t exist because of Nobi. It exists because you’re an addict to your own misery.  You’ve swam so much in the ocean of suffering that the idea of being freed from it scares you. That’s why even in your hypothetical situation where you have the belt, you immediately worry about how Nobi will swoop in and take everything from you again. You begin to bitch about a deliberate sabotage for the likes of Nobi and Jacob Senn. I don't give a shit about those two—both of the men you mentioned got hoodwinked by the Tres Comas Club back to back! You're so worried about these decaying legends that you don’t have focus on what is the REAL villain of this story. 

You and I both know that the foundation of Olympus is rotten and in desperate need of being cleansed...but you’re not me, Flame Emperor. 

Despite the flames being yours to control, you have no desire in your bones to burn the mountain to the ground. You have no desire to actually fix the issues that keep you chained, that will have you spinning your wheels perpetually. I don’t even think you actually want to fulfill your vengeance. You might open your mouth and decry it but that’s all I see from you—complacency. You don’t care how fucked up the mountain is. It’s just another chip on your shoulder to complain about when you cycle through another round of samsara. 

You are fleeting embers that will be devoured by the sun. You are a horse that has grown too accustomed to the whips delivered by their master. You are a pitiful existence, Flame Emperor. You are not me. Our ambitions couldn't be any more different. The gap that exists between us couldn't be any more wider. 

Ryo, I will not leave your side. As severe as my words sound, I will never intend to turn my back on you. I still believe in you when everyone else in the roster seems content to cast you aside. But...it’s clear now that I have to be harsh. The only way your flames can be cultivated in something truly fearsome is through a conversation of violence. I have to beat you until you stop letting devils and obstacles darken your soul. 

I will give you nothing less than my all. I don’t care if we beat each other to near death. As long as we can understand better in the end, then I’ll endure whatever punishment the Emperor has for me and then overcome it. 

We will continue how we were, Ryo. You are my friend, you’re like a brother to me! I respect you! But...I want you to understand. I want you to understand how deeply people like Nobi have distracted your mind. How delusional you’ve become. How addicted you’ve grown to this plight of suffering without reward. 

Then...I want you to keep going. I want you to keep going with unwavering resolve and help me burn Olympus to the ground after realizing how distracted you were. You want to achieve your vengeance against Nobi and Cloud, be my guest! But you won’t get far with this broken mindset...and you'll realize why when I beat you. 

I am Olympus’s strongest champion—no naysayer can take that away from me! This belt, this belt that you once held, is a part of my identity as the strongest champion! It is the key to the innovation I will bring to this brand! Tenka Fubu—Under the sky, practice force! In our match, I will pull you from the depths of your torment and control your inferno. I will walk out of Olympus as the Icarus Champion. And after Dreamworld, when I put Baker down and take his title...

Stephanie is seen sitting on a park bench in her home of Minato, Tokyo. She paid no mind to the busy evening foot traffic that walked by. Her eyes were on the ground as she remained deep in thought. The camera zoomed in on her facial expression. It’s been a tough couple of months for Stephanie. She was still going through a divorce and was recently dethroned from her IIW Women’s World Championship. There were other concerns, but those would be addressed later. Stephanie sighed to herself before she started her conversation with the OWA Universe. 

 
“I didn’t know if I was ever going to get another chance at Tres Comas. Our beef feels like a lifetime ago, to be honest. I should have every reason to keep hating them. It’s easy to blame them for the ruination of my marriage. But no, that’s the easy way out. That’s the way to avoid responsibility. Monica and I were in trouble even before I reformed World’s Finest. The number of sins I’ve collected over the years finally caught up to me. Everything from losing the OWA Women’s World Championship to April Song just mere weeks before FD 4, to losing my family over my own selfishness. The thing is, I can’t turn back now. I’ve come too far in this business to allow my regrets to hold me back. When one approaches the finish line, you must decide if it’s going to be the end for you. Will this be your last race, or will you keep going? My determination is a blessing and a curse. It’s helped me obtain a resume most would be jealous of, but at the same time. It's created a hunger from within that demands more. There’s a voice from within that keeps telling me that ‘it’s not enough.’ That’s the thing – it's never enough. If there’s anyone on the opposition who knows what I’m talking about, it’s RD3. He and I go way back, since the days we were in the Land of the Elite. At separate times we migrated to Omega Country. We both saw gold, made alliances, and engaged in our feuds and rivalries. My war with Tres Comas was the first time we got to meet face to face, finally. While our paths to OWA were somewhat similar, what we did without time here was vastly different. I played hero and villain in the women’s division. I gathered allies old and new and waged a successful battle against Tres Comas. Poet and Reggie got to witness my cunning firsthand. And now, they’ll witness Nobi and I’s ability as a tag team. He’s another person I go way back with, someone I’m fortunate enough to call my friend and my brother. The only odd one out in this entire scenario is the aptly named Poet. The Artist and The Aristrocrat. What a pair, huh? As cute as the thought is, I must say you’re standing in our way. This Sword and Shield tournament means a lot to Nobi and I. This helped us not only bond as tag partners but as family. Nobi has always been a guiding light of sorts. Whenever I’m lost, he helps me see the light. I tend to get lost in my thoughts and delusions, but with you two? I see clear as day. If I can deny Tres Comas an accolade, I’m going to go for it. If I must fight each one of you two by two or one by one, I’m going to do it. The World’s Finest took you all down once; we can do it again. Certain weaknesses that were exploited against me can no longer be used again. Like my wife, I guess. Well in a few weeks she’ll be my ex-wife, so yeah....” 

 

Stephanie paused for a moment. 

 

“So yeah, THAT was depressing. So, while I’m at it, I want to circle back to April. “The Platinum Queens” huh? Like really? Is this like a Queens of Wrestling parody act or something? I mean come the hell on. Now, I haven’t had the chance to fight Hana Nakajima much. She was on the other side of that winner takes all title unification situation back at Tokyo’s Final Destination. We’ve always been to different dances with different partners, but now here we are. Hana, when I look at your career it reminds me a lot of myself. We’ve made certain choices, ones that hurt those around us. We sought our own redemption in our own way, and we’re both connected to Christopher Sabretooth in different ways. No, there’s no romantic involvement between us. But he was there for me when I needed someone to help exercise the darkness in my own heart. Through him and Softly I have a better understanding of the supernatural and the mysteries that exist within the folds of the universe. But despite our connections and similarities, Nobi and I may have to face you two at the finals. April and I fought so many times, that it’s become second nature for us. To be honest, I wouldn’t be the wrestler I am today if it wasn’t for April. As for Brody and Cletus? I don’t know much about Cletus, but Brody fought by my side before. Unfortunately, we’ll be facing each other as opponents. I can only wish you the best of luck my friend, because Nobi and I are going to make it to the finish line. 2023 wasn’t the best year for me, but I’ve seen better days, and soon they’re about to come.” 

 

As the camera fades, a poem appears on the black screen: 

 

The Delusional Stranger at Olympus  
 


By Cloud, 2024 


 


One day at a belt shop, 
I met a man selling championships, 
For money he wanted to swap, 
But I really wanted some legacies. 
 
"Got any legacies?" asked I. 
"For that's how I'll spend my money." 
"No legacies here!" said the guy. 
He seemed to find it quite funny. 
 
"We've got some lovely cakes, 
I'll give you a very fine price." 
"I'd rather have some snakes." 
The man blinked rapidly thrice. 
 
The man seemed exceptionally greedy, 
And his manner was strangely amused. 
He wasn't what I would call speedy, 
Great disdain he noticeably oozed. 
 
Like others, he thought I was odd, 
Some say I'm a bit delusional. 
Still he gave me a courteous nod, 
As if he thought I was plenty fusional. 
 
So in search of my goal I departed, 
But before the belt shop could I leave, 
The man came running full-hearted, 
"I can help you I believe." 
 
"Championships, legacies, you shall find. 
Cakes, snakes, you can get. 
You must now open your mind, 
And get down to Olympus Market. 
 
So to Olympus Market I decided to go, 
In search of the legacies I craved. 
The winds it did eerily blow. 
But I felt that the day could be saved. 
 
There were stalls selling rings, 
Defeat in many shades. 
There were even stalls selling wings 
People were scattered from many trades 
 
I was greeted by a peculiar lady, 
She seemed to be rather delusional 
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady. 
I wondered if she was at all fusional. 
 
Before I could open my mouth, 
She shouted, "For you, I have some legacies!" 
I headed towards her, to the south, 
Past some cakes and championships. 
 
"But how did you know?" I asked, 
"Do you want them or not?" she did say. 
Silently, the legacies she passed. 
Then vanished before I could pay. 
 
As I walked away, I heard a crackle 

PRESCOTT PENTHOUSE - DAY

We're in the incredibly spacious and luxurious kitchen this time. It looks fantastic here because money makes that kind of thing a possibility. And Prescott has tons of money.

MS. GRAVES is sitting in the breakfast nook, with her tablet and her coffee and it looks as if she’s having a pleasant morning. If she were a Disny Princess, there would be birds singing and everything.

RENFIELD is curled up in his hanging cat hammock because of course this rich ass cat would have something so ob obnoxious.

The peaceful morning of calm expression is then obliterated by the arrival of the man that pays for it all, the man that this entire studio audience is here to see….

REMINGTON IVORY PRESCOTT.

The studio audience pops the moment he stomps into the kitchen. He’s wearing some obnoxious black silky pajamas with gold dollar signs all over it. His signature scarf is hanging around his neck. He looks immediately annoyed.


Ms. Graves looks up from her tablet and smirks just a bit as she sips her coffee.




A visceral memory seems to have struck Prescott because the shudder that happens after that is a full body one.


Prescott opens a drawer on the cabinet he’s standing next to and pulls out a stack of hundreds. He starts fanning himself with the chump change.

The studio audience pops for this physical gag.


Prescott’s fanning slows down as he thinks about these words. Words that hit home it seems because the stack of cash gets tossed into Renfield’s hammock as Prescott resigns himself to his fate.



Ms. Graves takes a victorious sip of her coffee while Prescott makes a face. He moves on to taking a seat at the breakfast bar as well. Ms. Graves slides the tablet over to him while she moves about the kitchen to prepare his breakfast and coffee.





Ms. Graves stops in mid coffee pour and turns to look at her boss. Even Renfield raises his head at that suggestion. It takes a moment before Ms. Graves can function again and she walks Prescott's coffee over to him.






We swing the camera around with all the meta commentary possible and spot the studio audience. They look absolutely bored. So much so that panning back to Prescott is an actual relief.



CUT TO: COMMERCIAL BREAK


Jason Long. The Maverick. The "Devil". Whatever you're calling yourself these days. Listen, bud, I know that you believe that you're about to perform a feat that only a handful of individuals in this industry are capable of claiming but I'm sorry to say that you're going to be very sorely mistaken. While there is a list of a select few that have been able to get the best of me in my career both here in OWA and elsewhere, I would implore you to not count yourself as among them. Not yet. You have an incredible obstacle ahead of you and I do not think you've taken the time to actually consider what's in store for you once you climb into that ring with me and they ring that bell. It's going to feel like you're trying to ice skate uphill.

Now. With that being said and you being the stubborn jackass that you lack-of-honor types all seem to be, I'm going to take some time out of my incredibly busy schedule to try and get you up to speed onto what exactly you're going to be facing here in a couple of days. So do try to pay attention.

When I lost the Immortal Heavyweight Championship, I felt something shift inside of me. For the first time in a long time I realized that I cared about something other than myself. Sure, up until that point I had been walking around with Olympus on my back and I was doing everything I could to keep the brand afloat. While there was a lot of plotting and scheming going on behind my back. While my entire plan for this brand was sidelined in favor of some individuals that I still owe a foot or two up their asses, there has never been anything more important to me than this Immortal Heavyweight Championship. I vowed time and time again that if anyone were to ever take this from me that they were going to have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

That's exactly what the fuck happened.

Darkane, that sick son of a bitch, had to fucking MURDER me to walk away with MY belt. MY title. He had to put me in the fucking ground, send my shady ass all the way to the depths of HELL ITSELF just to be able to call himself the Immortal Heavyweight Champion. Him and his fucking pet magic jellybean had to use every mystical trick in the Necronomicon to stop my reign. And he did it. He actually did it. And you know what? I can't even be pissed off about it. If he wasn't such a waste of oxygen I would actually respect him for it. But he's about as much of a lost cause as sentencing Rebecca Filth to life in a convent. But I digress.

What you need to realize though, Jasey, is that the Immortal Heavyweight Championship changed me. While I was reigning, that title and I formed a bond. We were inseparable for an incredibly long time and being torn apart by an outsider that had no business being in a match with me in the first place was not going to stand. I couldn't just let it go. I refused to let fucking DEATH keep me from the love of my life.

So I came back and took her back. I clawed my way out of my eternal fate, beat the ever loving soul out of Darkane, sent Jacob Senn on a way way trip to Out Of The Fucking Way and I got back my Immortal Heavyweight Championship. I did that. People can sit here and scream about the Tres Comas Club all they want but I did that shit. There was no TCC when I was being tortured for my sins and transgressions. There were no tricks up my sleeves when I advocated my way back to the land of the living.

And what did I do when I got back here? What did I do, Jason? Hm? Who did I hand pick to give an opportunity of a lifetime to? Whom did I bless with my glowing presence and a chance to be a part of something greater than himself? Think real hard, ol' buddy ol' pal.

But you know what? That's my fault. For making a deal with a snake. I should've known better. So that's one I'm going to have to take on the chin.

What's disrespectful and disappointing, though, is that you want what I came back from the darkness for. You want the only thing that's keeping my heart beating. You want to ruin what could've been a whole new start to your floundering existence on an opportunity that you didn't earn and certainly don't deserve... just because you don't have anything else going on right now? Is this really the way you want the legend of Jason Long to end? With a whimper? With you staring up at the lights and seeing Yours Unruly standing tall and holding my Immortal Heavyweight Championship high above my head once more? Is that how you want to be remembered?

I don't know what kind of Mid Career Crisis you seem to be going through right now but I can assure you that since you've decided to put yourself in my crosshairs that I am not going to hesitate to pull the trigger on you. I didn't bring myself back to this mortal coil only to have someone with an ungrateful inferiority complex gunning for my title. I didn't put down Darkane and send Senn packing just to have someone not even from Mount Olympus reaching for the clouds that they will not reach. I didn't put Mark Michaels back in his place at the bottom of the fucking ladder just to have you try and fuck everything all up because you're not getting enough attention over there on Kingdom. What's the name of that group over there? Too Many Minorities? They're still the top act right?

Listen. Maybe I'm being a bit unfair. Maybe I'm speaking a bit too harshly about you. I shouldn't really be concerned about this. And truthfully, it's not a concern. You're not a concern. I really just want you to understand that you're forfeiting your life and your career by testing me like this. You couldn't possibly believe that I'm going to allow you to come to the only home in OWA that I've known and take something that will never belong to you.

This is not your story, Jason Long. Your story ended long before I found a way to make you relevant again. And as much as it pains me to have to put you back in your place, I'm starting to realize that you've done me a favor. You've given me a chance to show the world exactly the type of shit I'm on right now. You're giving me the chance to put this entire industry on fucking notice. You're going to be the example that I make to let everybody in these OWA locker rooms know exactly who I am.

So thank you, Jason. Thank you for being a shady fucking bitch with no morals and no respect for the game. We'll bury you next to the snitches in a coffin with your mask on it. Closed casket out of respect for what I'm going to do to you.

Next Olympus is when the world finally gets to see The Merchant of Violence in his purest form as he deconstructs the myth of Jason Long and shows to the entirety of the Omegaverse exactly what happens when a redundant bad apple meets a Necessary Evil.

Toodles.

So the time is ticking for Olympus. The time is nearing for Olympus. It’s about time The World's Finest are going to kick some asses and to kick more asses.

I’ve stated before that I obviously want to gain some sort of revenge against Poet and Reginald Dampshaw III. I believe Cloud Matsuda wants to kick their asses too. I can't wait to get my hands on them. I really want to get a piece of them. 

Now, I might be digressing, but we’re humans and we live in a place called the earth. And do you know what I'm thinking?

There are a couple of types of humans. Idiots certainly exist.

And Reginald Dampshaw III might be the biggest idiot I’ve ever seen in my life. 

Countless times I kicked your asses and countless times you keep asking more for it. Well, maybe each time I give you something, you turn into a bigger idiot than you already was, Dampshaw. That's my opinion on you. I don't think you’re going to ever learn because you’re an idiot.

But on the bright side, I do love giving a beatdown to idiots like you and that's what you’re going to get from me and Matsuda, Dampshaw.

Messing with me is one thing, but making me lose a title is a big mistake. 

Of course that applied to you too, Virgin Poet.

At first I felt sorry that you decided to join Tree Comas Club, I really did but now you’re proud of everything so far you’ve done with them and that's a reason why I don't need to hold myself back when Cloud and I get my hands on you. 

You know what? Maybe I shouldn't expect anything at all from you, Virgin Poet. After all, you didn't get any respect before you even came to OWA and now certainly you're not getting any respect here either.

And you think what the Tree Comas Club is giving to you right now is some respect?

What they’re giving to you right now is just an illusion, just another body they think they can use as a punching body-bag. The moment they no longer need you…..and Dampshaw, they’ll throw you away.

Ahem, look at what happened to Brandon Hendrix.

But I’m not so sure if my words can reach idiots right now. So Virgin Poet…. Dampshaw….I believe the only thing to communicate to you both is in the ring and for countless times, The World’s Finest are going to be happy to give a beating to any Tree Comas Club anywhere, anytime, and any place.

Now when we move on from you both, which I believe Matsuda and I can beat Virgin Poet and Dampshaw in this match, we’re going to face Latinum Queens or the team of Brody and Cletus.

Oh hi, Hana Nakajima, you’re a fucking bitch.

You left The World's Finest at Wrestleworld just because of some illogical feelings but I’ll tell you what, it is a good thing that I potentially could kick your ass when we meet in the ring.

“Potentially” only because you and Emmanuelle could lose to Cletus and Brody in this tournament. 

Now, I don't doubt your in-ring ability at all, Nakajima. You're always great in the ring, I’m just kind of thinking you could make a mistake and it cost you and Emmanuelle to move on to the final of this tournament. Well, it would be a bitch’s mistake, pretty much summed up who you are. 

But if I could give a little biased opinion on which teams I hope Matsuda and I are going to face when we beat Virgin Poet and Dampshaw, it is you both, Nakajima and Emmanuelle. 

Well, after all, you’re a traitor, Nakajima and that's why I’m somewhat hoping to get my hands on you too to smack bitch across your ugly face.

But on the bright side, I do hope I can face Emmanuelle too. Unlike Nakajima, Virgin Poet, and Dampshaw, Emmanuelle is someone I respect both as an in-ring performer and a human being.

So the respect I’m going to give to Emmanuelle is not holding myself back at all. Well, it not I have that as an option. Holding myself back against Emmanuelle is clearly a deathwish from my part and I don't think I want that.

And truth to be told, Emmanuelle has a crazy lot of talents and I believe one day she can win a world title here in OWA and that day may come soon.

But what she might want to delay now is to win the Tag Titles for sometime because even if she and Nakajima can beat Cletus and Brody, Matsuda and I are going to beat them both if we move on from Virgin Poet and Dampshaw which I believe The World's Finest can do it.

I've mentioned Brody and Cletus a couple of times at this point, so let's talk about both of them too. 

Let me use this opportunity to say Brody is a good guy, a good in-ring performer, and a very good human being. And I want to say Brody is probably a non-racist but I digress.

Joke aside, I believe you heard this a lot but there’s a reason why you hear this countless times because it’s the truth: you have a lot of untapped potential to make it big here in OWA. Not just OWA, this business in general even.

And I believe you’re going to keep hearing it until either you really realize it or somehow which I do not hope at all, you quit from OWA sometimes soon. I don't want the latter to happen at all, Brody. Not one bit. I still consider you as a honorary World Finest’s member after all.

I did say it I might be a bit bias when I said I want to face Emmanuelle and Hana Nakajima more, mainly because I want to kick Hana Nakajima’s ass for betraying The World's Finest in the past, but I do think you can do it too and move on to the final of this tournament instead. After all, you and Cletus are a new tag team and yet, you both managed to beat NAMI and Devi Krysis. It might be their return match, but they’re still a veteran tag team. It is still a good feat.

Now Cletus, I know you the least out of everyone that are still in this tournament, but I believe you’re a good guy as well. And my dude, you have a crazy raw power, you’re a very strong guy.

I don't know who this Colonel Kelvin ‘Big Kev’ Dubois is but he seems…. suspicious.

Well, Cletus, I do believe you can make it further in OWA with or without Brody but you might want to delay it because The World's Finest are going to win this tournament to eventually challenge for the Tag Titles instead.

Cletus, Brody, Emmanuelle, Hana Nakajima, Reginald Dampshaw III, and Virgin Poet….

I want you all to hear this again: Matsuda and I are going to win this tournament together because The World's Finest is going to shock the world.

I believe that's what Matsuda and I can do right now.

  



  

As the commercial fades, we see Tyler Kulina hanging at a Long Island party with his boys. 

  

  

It seems to celebrate his victory over Felix Hartley at Divine Retribution. As a reward, Auntie Aria decided to go half on a large Long Island home Kulina was interested in so he could be closer to his family on the East Coast. Tyler invited a bunch of people he met in his life, including some friends he made while chilling out in NYC and “The Island”. Tyler happily turns to the camera and points, wearing a shit-eating grin. 

  

“I told you I was going to win. I told you all that I was going to earn my way to a motherfucking title shot! I didn’t even need the assistance of the Tribunal, I did that shit on my own! It was like taking candy from a fucking baby, or should I say a condom from a whore? I don’t know man. When people underestimate it’s so fucking easy to get one over them. Everybody wants to be the strong one, but strength doesn’t mean SHIT if you don’t know how to utilize it, ya feel me? I’ll give it to my Stepmom. She’s one tough bitch. But god she couldn’t get over herself. And Dad? I can play that man like a goddamn fiddle and I don’t even have to try! And now? I have a shot at his Alpha Championship. A title I’m going to take right before his very eyes. And he won’t be able to do a GODDAMN thing about it. But first…I get to hang out with Uncle Mikey.” 

  

“I knew once I had Frontline’s attention, Bishop would be the first to step up. His battle buddy has been hurt after all! Now it’s up to Uncle Mikey to set things right by setting me right! The big bad Revnant is going to beat my ass on live television and show the world I’m nothing more than some punk kid who got lucky. But…was it luck? Maybe…just maybe she played into my hands. Maybe…just maybe I used that bitch as a tool against my father to get exactly what I want. I’m solo leveling out here against Frontline AND former Thotyssey members. I’m tanking THE FUCK out of the Kingdom roster. I told Auntie Aria I had it and now here I am living it up. Heh, I should teach a college class on this shit. But, I have to give it to Uncle Mikey though. The man’s been through everything. He’s even beat death itself! I think there was some kind of time-traveling shit involved or whatever, but whenever the odds are stacked against him, The Revenant comes out on top. But, this match isn’t about odds, Uncle. Hell, this war has nothing to do with math. It’s about justice. It’s about payback. It’s about showing the universe that you’re not that easy to kill.” 

  

“You know a thing or two about being hard to kill, my friend. You pulled a Jesus Christ and came back to us! But instead of seven days, it was more like several weeks. You’ve been stabbed, electrocuted, and thrown through nearly every damn table, wall, and cage, You’re a pure blood heavyweight with the attitude to match. You’re the baddest mother alive and I have nothing but respect for that. But, you’re my father’s best friend which makes you into the silver bullet I need to cause him as much pain as possible. Jeff is just full of holes, full of vulnerabilities, and ways to get under his skin. You’re a liability Uncle Mikey, and I’m going to demonstrate as much the moment that bell rings. I always wonder what it’ll take for a man like you to break. Sometimes I feel like you’re made from the toughest stone, maybe more than my father. This puzzles me to as why you continue to live in his shadow and accept his sloppy seconds. From winning the world title to running The Frontline, you seem to be used to Jeff X hand-me-downs. Shit, at least you got something, I never even received a birthday gift. Or child support. Then again, I refuse to live under that man’s shadow. Even when I figured out who he was, I kept the knowledge to myself because I knew that every news entity would make my life about him. They would strip me of my own identity and just make me the “son of Jeff X”. Much like they make you “sidekick to Jeff X”. It seems like we’re living in his world… which is why I need to destroy it.” 

  

“Uncle Mikey, you’re just another way for me to bring ruin to his life. You’re that one Jenga block that if pulled, would send the whole tower crumbling down. You’re the Draw Four Wild card left in my hand AFTER I called Uno. You’re the one thing I need to show Dad that…this isn’t a game. I’m not fucking around and if I have to burn the spirit of Frontline before his very eyes I’m going to fucking do it. This is a shame Uncle Mikey because I kinda like you. And your family…you have such a nice family…especially up close…” 

  

Tyler goes silent for a moment to let the tension hang in the air on purpose. 

  

“Loyalty can go two ways. It's a double-edged sword at best. It gives you trust and companionship but at the risk of losing everything. Your loyalty to my father makes you a target in my eyes, It also makes you put your neck out there though you have your wife and kids to look after. Wow, man. Jeff trying to make you a deadbeat like him. Now you’re involved in our business instead of staying home and being a family man. You should back away from this street fight while you can, Guile. This shit ain’t for you. That’s not a threat by the way, but a simple promise. So far I’ve been good at keeping my promises and it's earned me a shot at the Alpha World Championship. Jeff and Felix will be watching our match from the commentary table, but a lot can happen from the time they leave their seat to when they’re in the ring. He;, being several steps from me didn’t stop me from stacking their bodies. And this is me doing this shit on my own. Imagine if I invited my newfound family into this? I’m not looking for recognition or respect from you Uncle. I just need you to play the role of Jeff’s weak spot to perfection. I just need you to assist me in sending him a message that everyone around him will continue to suffer until I decide he’s paid the price…the ultimate price. You should be very familiar with that, Uncle Mikey.” 

  

The camera follows Tyler as he makes his way through the party to a more secluded area. Tyler paced back and forth a few times before speaking again. 

  

“This pro wrestling shit? I’m starting to figure it out. Once I’m done with this family feud shit, I’m gonna put on my chef’s hat and start cooking. Originally this was going to be a short-term thing. But, I think I want to get into the family business. But first, Dad gotta hand me the keys to his legacy one way or another. And then I shape this promotion into MY image.” 

  

As Tyler stops speaking, a young baddie appears from the side and wraps her arms around Tyler. He responds with an arm around the woman’s waist. He turns back to the camera with a sheepish grin. 

  

“I’d love to talk more shit, but I’ll save it for the ring. Anyways Unc, I’ll see you soon.” 

  


 

After a night of partying in his new place, Ty woke up in his new bed. The raven-haired baddie he was partying with (among other things) was still asleep as he exited the bed. Tyler yawned as he made his way down the stairs to make himself some coffee. Fun time was over, now it was time to focus on the task at hand. Ty was going to meet with Michael Bishop in the ring and that was not going to be no easy feat. He was one of the most experienced fighters on the active roster. All Ty had to do was find a way to outsmart him. As cunning as some of these tough guys and gals were, they took it too easy on him, because they all underestimated him. That was going to change real soon. At Dreamworld, everything will change. 

 

He just has to make Michael cry uncle.

“Think about it, bro,” said Brody, slumped nonchalantly in a chair, flip-flopped feet propped up on Wyatt’s desk. “A bug’s on its own from day one. Like, one minute your mom an’ dad are out there, doin’ whatever weird shit it is they do. I dunno; I’m not gonna sit here an’ try to get inside the mind of a fuckin’ bug, y’know? But they do some pretty weird shit. They’re out there doin’ it right now, bro. Fuckin’ thousands of ‘em!
 
“Anyway, the next minute, your dad bones your mom or jizzes all over some eggs she shat out or whatever. Like I say, I dunno how bugs work, but my point is from your first breath ‘til your last, you’re on your own, dude. You ever think about that?”
 
“So, with all that being said, the answer is still no.”
 
“Why?!”
 
“Because ‘Brody the Bug Boy’ is not a compelling nickname, you fucking dipshit. Wrestlers usually try to project something fearsome. Look at Diantha Rosso or Allesandro Devastation, for example.”
 
“Bugs are fuckin’ way more gnarly than dragons, dude! Bugs can survive a nuclear apocalypse, but where are all the dragons? Dead, dude. We fuckin’ killed ‘em. An’ then we took all their gold, dude. Fuckin’ pussies.”
 
“What about ‘Brody the Beast’?”
 
“Ehh.”
 
“OK, ‘Brody the Blade?’”
 
“Ehhhhhhh.”
 
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but—”
 
“Wait! That’s it!”
 
“What?”
 
“Brody, ‘The Bear of Bad News.’”
 
Wyatt sighed loudly as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps it was a mistake to seek your counsel on this.”
 
“I kinda want something positive, though. An’ I’m not hairy enough to be a bear.”
 
“How about we come back to this? After all, you have a lot on your plate after inexplicably signing up for that Battle Royal. I still have no idea what possessed you to do such a thing.”
 
“I wanna beat the best, bro!”
 
“You’re not ready for Allesandro.”
 
“I meant Razor Blade, but glad to hear you got faith in me, pops.”
 
“You know what I meant.”
 
“I mean, you pretty much just said it, dude.”
 
“Brody, you haven’t won a singles match since beating El Landerson, including a loss to Allesandro. By some measure of fortune, you’ve been paired with a partner with whom you have a chance to win the tag team titles, and you’re jeopardizing that by entering a Battle Royal, of all things, against rejects like Corey Matthis and Jake Keeton.”
 
“What are you talkin’ about, bro? Matthis just won the SJW European Championship.”
 
“Indeed, but not without the help of Tres Comas Club.”
 
“You think he’s in with them?”
 
“No. At least, not yet.”
 
“I guess I’ll keep my wits about me, then. I know that curly-headed fuck’s gonna try to help his fat fuck brother, an’ Emmanuelle has a history with OWA Asian Man #8. Maybe I oughtta get my boy Cletus ringside to watch my back.”
 
“The last thing you should be doing is distracting him. You’ve already drawn too much focus from the objective, which remains the Platinum Queens.”
 
“Yeah, no, I got this, bro. Don’t worry about it,” he said with a carefree attitude that irritated Wyatt. “Life is like a merry-go-round, you know? Just gotta keep movin’ forward.”
 
Wyatt rolled his eyes at the sentiment, though the irony in his son’s idiocy was not lost on him. They had indeed been going around in circles all week, and weariness had found fertile ground on Wyatt’s brow. He stood from his desk, the weight of their unresolved issues weighing like a millstone around his neck. Yet, with practiced ease, he made his way toward the ornate bar tucked away in the corner of his study and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey from a crystal decanter gleaming in the soft glow of lamplight. Yamazaki, a single malt from Japan, aged 18 years. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he paused for just a moment, savoring the intoxicating aroma. With a long, measured sip, he could feel his anger abating.
 
“Yo, Earth to Dad, do you copy?”
 
“Hmm,” Wyatt grumbled, looking toward Brody. “What were you saying?”
 
“Would you rather drink dog piss or eat cat shit?”
 
“Dog piss, probably. So, what’s your plan for the Platinum Queens? What have you been working on?”
 
“Yeah, it’s goin’ great, yeah. Makin’ lotsa progress. Crushin’ it, really.”
 
“What have you been working on?”
 
“A lot of things, a lot of things. Like, argh, so many things, you know? Where to even start?”
 
“At the beginning,” said Wyatt, his jaw clenching and nostrils flaring once again.
 
“Well, in the beginning, God created this dude called Jesus—”
 
“The beginning of the week, Brody.”
 
“Oh, the beginning of the week? Yeah, no, of course. You, uh, ever seen Rocky 4?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Exactly.”
 
“Exactly? What do you mean exactly?”
 
“You know how he got beat by a black man, so he went to a black man gym to learn their ways? Well, I went to Chinatown.”
 
“Why?”
 
“I just told you, dude. To learn their ways.”
 
“Whose ways? The Chinese? Hana Nakajima is from Japan.”
 
“Well then, I’ll go watch some Bukkake theatre tonight or some shit. Whatever.”
 
“So, yet again, you’ve done nothing?”
 
“I wouldn’t say nothing.”
 
“What would you say?”
 
“Ate dumplings an’ smoked opium.”
 
“You’ve truly outdone yourself, Brody. Nine potential opponents lie in wait, and you’re sitting around with your hand on your cock. Also, that was Rocky 3 you were describing. In Rocky 4, he fought a Russian who was on steroids.”
 
“I did that, too. Except I was the one on steroids, and the dude was Ukrainian. Same thing, when you think about it.”
 
Wyatt reached once more for the decanter, appreciating the cool glass smooth beneath his fingertips. And once more, he delighted in the perfume of the liquor. His anger began to give way to a sense of resignation, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since a doctor told him that Brody wasn’t autistic; he was just very dumb. It was a port within a storm.
 
“I don’t know how you do it.”
 
“It’s simple, really. I just lie on my back, lift my knees to my chest, and relax my sphincter. Then, I sorta just suck in air through my butthole and voila.”
 
“That is, verbatim, how you described it the last time, and once again I’m not talking about your ability to fart on command. I mean, I don’t know how you approach this business so flippantly when you know what is at stake. You’ve seen Remington Ivory Prescott and Darkane tear lumps from each other. You’ve seen a man get shot in the head.”
 
“Not like I’m facin’ either of ‘em, is it? Emmanuelle and Naka Nakajima ain’t got nothin’ on Dudes Rock. I saw they were on TV, didn’t really listen to what they said. Probably somethin’ about ponies or make-up or some shit. You know how it goes.
 
“Now, Sena. There’s a dude who makes a lotta sense. I agree, I have incredible swag, but it was a bit weird how he said I have – what was it, lustful overtures? – toward Emmanuelle. Shut up, nerd. Say it like it is: your mom’s hot. Don’t ever see your dad round here, though. Guess we know why you and Tyler Kulina were bros for a while there. Damn, that Jeff X is a dawg, bro. Respect.
 
“Sena was also right about me possibly fightin’ three big matches so close together. It’s gonna be a tall order, but like his mom will soon find out, I go like Lionel Richie, baby: Slippery When Wet. Or maybe that’ll be his mom, an’ I’ll be Flying High. Yeah, that’s it.
 
“My point is, the only dude worth worrying about in all this is Corey Matthis, an’ he has hair like a man from the past. So, forgive me if I’m not takin’ all this super serious.”
 
“Mmmhmm, I’m sure you have everything under control.”
 
“An’ don’t worry about Keeton, either. Dude was fuckin’ lackin’ at Game Over, an’ my boy Tatsuo put him away, too. He’s the answer to the question: what if a fat, old piece of shit came out of retirement to wrestle because his brother was doin’ well in the same company that he flamed out of?”
 
“Mmhmm, well, if you’re quite finished, I have business to attend to. I can’t sit around here listening to you talk nonsense all evening.”
 
“You’re not gonna get on my dick about training?”
 
“Would it change anything?”
 
Brody pursed his lips tighter than a white person walking past a person of color and desperately wanting them to understand that they’re one of the good ones.
 
“Thought not,” said Wyatt, returning to his desk. “And besides, it’s too late now.”
 
“Just trust me, dad. I got this.”
 
“Goodnight, Brody.”
 

Wyatt didn’t even look up from his paperwork as Brody left his study. Tomorrow, they would get on the plane for South Carolina, the last stop before DreamWorld.

COLUMBIA, SC

We’re greeted with the sight of Colonel Kelvin DuBois standing inside a room, where fake wood wallpaper covers thin walls adorned with stuffed deer heads, Confederate sabers, antique firearms, and state flags. He’s dressed in his Sunday best, a spotless tailored white suit befitting a former Kentucky Colonel, with a luscious velvet eyepatch covering his missing eye as the remaining one sparkles with mischievous intent. He spreads his arms wide, as if to greet the newly arrived viewer with the kind of Southern hospitality one would expect from a man of his impeccable upbringing and high status.

“Ah, good day! Normally I might be inclined to spend some precious minutes setting the stage, arranging the table, painting a picture, and all other relevant metaphors and similes. But today is not the day for pleasantries… primarily, I must admit, because I find my belly rumbling and my salivary glands yearning for some chicken fried steak, so I believe brevity is the order of the day. So, with that in mind let me cut to the chase and let y’all know a thing or two about a thing or two. Times are about to change up on Mount Olympus, a new age is on the horizon, a modern day Prometheus – yours truly, of course – is about to light a fire that burns away the rotten trees and uproot the fetid roots that are choking the life out of our beloved blue brand. And like any change throughout history, it is heralded again by the arrival of a few great men… namely, myself and my loyal hound dog, the human freight train, the Louisiana landwhale, the American Fatass, the unstoppable force known as… CLETUS!”

The wall behind Colonel DuBois suddenly explodes in a spray of plaster and paint, as the rotund titan bursts through it in a shocking entrance. Unfortunately nobody told him about the bracing 2x4 at the base of the wall, so rather than the dramatic arrival they had planned, he trips and goes sprawling face-first onto the floor, his massive gut luckily breaking his fall before his nose does.

“Oh, God…” mumbles the Colonel, covering his face with one meaty hand as he hides his frustration and embarrassment from the audience. It takes minutes for Cletus to push himself off the ground and stand up next to DuBois, brushing dust and bits of drywall off his face and sweaty, unclothed belly.

“ALRIGHT, BOSS. WE GOOD. MY BAD,” he bellows, slapping his manager on the shoulder so hard that the one-eyed Kentucky Colonel almost topples forward, only catching himself at the last second.

“Not so, I say, not so hard there, my boy!” shouts DuBois, before turning his attention back to the camera, “Now, where was I before that embarrassing turn of events… ah yes, I remember now, it’s all coming back to me, like memories of childhood rushing into my mind on a warm summer day spent on the porch with a Mint Julep and a pearl-handled revolver.

Short of Cletus’ debut in the Clash of Olympians, these coming matches are doubtlessly the most important of our short time here in the Omega Wrestling Ah-lliance. Forget about the Prestige Championship or that Interim Icarus belt… still not sure what the fucking deal with that last one is, to be honest with y’all, but that’s neither here nor there. The only thing that matters now is the #1 contendership for the Tag Team titles that’s waiting at the end of this fanciful little Sword and Shield Tournament. Earning that chance and subsequently dethroning Darkane and Lazarus Arjen – two legends of the brand by any definition of the word – would surely put a feather in the cap of…” he pauses, sighing, “...Dudes Rock.

I know, it’s a ridiculous name. I tried to argue against it, but the people have spoken! I wanted to call them Dem Boys, but I was swiftly voted down… and anyway, Wyatt was telling me the genesis of that word is somewhat in question. Apparently it’s in the process of being claimed by the Afro-centric crowd, and it might be ‘problematic’ – whatever the hell that means – if two white fellas go around using the name. But I’m not here to preach at you, I’m here to put the brand on notice. Everyone, from the Platinum Queens, to the World’s Finest, to the Tres Comas Club, to the Seventh Ward. Y’alls time is over, finished, done, dead, buried, and other such things!”

“BOSS,” interrupts Cletus.

“Not now, my boy! I’m just hitting my pace here, no time to slow down to wipe your ass, or whatever problem or idiotic request you’re about to present me with in this, my moment of truth! Y’see, a pair of good ol’ southern boys like Cletus and I never learned to take no for an answer, we weren’t raised to lay down and die when presented like a challenge, not like the rest of y’all with your soft underbellies and weepy-eyed, feminine attitudes. When we see something we want, we break down the walls – literally and figuratively, as Cletus so kindly demonstrated – and take it!

What, do any of you ignoramuses sitting at home really believe we’re going to be stopped, even by the fierce competition arrayed against us? Perish the thought, my friends, because it ain’t gonna happen, no sirree! First of all, regarding the so-called Platinum Queens that we’re set to face in the semi-finals, what chance could they possibly have against men like Brody and Cletus? Honest to God athletic prodigies, forged in the fires of strife and struggle, statuesque warriors carved from marble prepared to do battle with whatever demons and monsters this craven and depraved brand sees fit to send against them!

Speaking of demons, I am of course aware of Hana Nakajima’s history with such occult manifestations and ungodly powers. But we are not afraid, viewers, far from it! You know, I don’t often toot my own horn – wasn’t raised that way – but I simply must take this opportunity to highlight my past as a traveling preacher man, spreading the good word of the Lord to destitute and downtrodden communities up and down this great nation of ours… for a handsome fee from each parishioner, of course, but that hardly matters. Even a man of God like myself has to eat!

The point, I say, the point is, I have the Lord on my side and enough working knowledge of scripture to be utterly unconcerned with whatever infernal, satanic forces Hana might still be in league with. And even if she’s truly stepped away from her arcane ways, then Cletus will have no problem slapping some sense into her mouth without my – or Brody’s, for that matter – assistance. She’s got to be, what, 5’2”, 120 pounds at most? I don’t care how many Kung Fu stances she knows, it won’t be enough to stop a runaway train when it’s barreling down on her.

And Emmanuelle, maybe the worst of them all! Don’t get me wrong, though, I do respect the fact that she’d been stealing money from the former Dojo Boys under the guise of training, when all she really wanted was a few helpers to sweep up her training school and serve as bed warmers on whatever straw mat she sleeps on at night. I always recognize and appreciate a fellow swindler, but she needs to focus on cleaning up her own mess before she tries to create an entirely new one on the blue brand. How about you go and get that Kulina boy under control before you worry about winning more glory for your own old, decrepit ass, huh?

But that’s enough about them two, I’ve already wasted enough of my precious, precious breath explaining how little I truly think of our semi-final opponents. I feel my effort is best spent focusing on what comes after that. Unfortunately, there is some small level of uncertainty about who our next opponents might be, between the World’s Finest and the Tres Comas Club, those opposing groups of bitter rivals who I don’t doubt will sink to whatever levels are necessary to secure victory over the other.

Now, I’m a man who likes to hedge his bets, who likes to know what he’s getting into before leaping into the fray. Unfortunately, we have no way of being certain who we shall be fighting for the top contender slot, though I do have my suspicions on how this will all play out. Y’see, Nobi and Matsuda – fearsome foes they may be – are, I daresay, nearing the end of their relevance within this sport. Two individuals who have fought headline matches in damn near every country across the globe, who’ve accomplished all there is to do in this billion dollar industry. And yet, they still hunger for more. Such is the depths of their gluttony and avarice that they no doubt lay awake at night, fantasizing about stealing such an opportunity from a pair of men like Brody and Cletus, who are far more deserving of facing the Seventh Ward at Dreamworld.

You two call yourself the World’s Finest, without a hint of irony, without even the slightest understanding of how arrogant and cocksure such a name makes you sound… let alone how you’re setting yourself up to fall from a much higher precipice than you might otherwise have tumbled from. Oh, how devastating will your loss be – either to those textbook-reading, big-word-using goons from the TCC, or to Brody and Cletus if you managed to advance that far – when you realize that calling yourself the best doesn’t necessarily make it so.

At least Nobi has Hollywood to fall back on, and his never-ending quest of fulfilling every dying child’s wish of meeting a mediocre wrestling superstar and C-list actor before the cancer puts them six feet under. Hell, he probably spends more time with Make A Wish than he does wrestling these days… although I would be foolish to deny the fact that he’s been undergoing a bit of a resurgence of late. And sure, he may not be a bonafide Academy Award winning talent like that Chad Ecclestone fella, but he’s still got a niche in trashy action flicks and idiotic romantic comedies…

…but what do you got, Cloud? Hell, for a woman who places so much value on who she’s sleeping with at any given moment, you couldn’t even prevent Devione from kidnapping your latest bedmate and having his way with her, much like a Roman legionnaire might have had his way with a captured Gallic woman! What good are you, if you can’t even defend the ones you claim to love the most? Now, I won’t go through the entirety of your vaginal hit list – we don’t have all day here, we’re already late for third lunch – but anyone with an internet connection and the ability to read at a first-grade level can look up your Wikipedia page and scroll down to the tab listed ‘People Who Cloud Matsuda Has Fucked’. As long as they’ve got a day or two to get through the thousands and thousands of names, it’s all right there, so no need for me to repeat something so easily verifiable.

You’re washed up, used up, chewed up… and even worse for your odds here, that roast beef sandwich in your panties holds no appeal to either Cletus or Brody. Hell, that California boy is handsome as anyone I ever seen come outta that godforsaken dysgenic state, he ain’t interested in trash like you. And as for Cletus, well… the roast beef part might actually sound appetizing to him…”

“BOSS,” mumbles Cletus more urgently, once again brushed off by the Colonel.

“Don’t worry, my boy, I know you ain’t interested in someone as low-down as that Blasian brat, I was simply illustrating my point that her feminine wiles hold no sway with two red-blooded, meat-eating, chopstick-hating American sides of beef like you and your new partner!

Now, I already made it clear who I think we’ll be facing off against in the tournament finals, and that’s Alessandro’s two dogs, Poet and Reginald. As for the latter, I don’t have much to say… to be honest, I try not to think about the British whenever I can avoid it. A more despicable, disgusting, colonizing, Royal Family-worshiping group of shit-sniffing inbred morons I cannot imagine. Dampshaw, in case they don’t teach the Revolutionary War in your history classes over there, we don’t exactly cotton to royalists in America. South Carolina especially. You know that crowd is gonna be cheering for Brody and my boy Cletus, some real American heroes, instead of you and that pseudointellectual ruffian.

Ah, yes, the Prestige Champion. The man who was able to get one over on Cletus… and more than one over on our partner Brody. I bet you’re feeling cocky going into the semi-finals against the World’s Finest, considering you boys have had them on the run since you threw in your lot with Devione. What, you think everyone is impressed just because you got yourself a library card to check out a few poetry books? Oh, we bow and kneel before your superior intellect and proper grammar, your grasp of the English language truly makes you a worthwhile competitor to be feared by all… and it would, if this were a god dang spelling bee, instead of a wrestling match! I bet you think you’re slick, huh? Smarter than me and my boy? A shoe-in to ride into Dreamworld with a Tag Team Championship shot? Hell, I bet you even think you’d give them Seventh Ward boys a run for your money, should you manage to secure the contendership for yourselves.

Well, I’m here to tell you that you ain’t got a hope in hell of beating us, should you manage to make it to the finals. The only chance you boys have got, is if Daddy Devione opens up his chequebook and cuts Wyatt and I a fat bonus for taking a dive to you two… ahhh, fixed fights, that takes me back to my days spent rigging boxing matches, seems like only yester–”

“BOSS!” says Cletus again, tugging on DuBois’ sleeve to get his attention. This time, the Colonel turns angrily to glare at his client, face red with anger as he yells loud enough to send spittle spraying at the mongoloid’s face.

“WHAT? WHAT IS IT, YOU OVERGROWN RETARD? WHAT REASON COULD YOU HAVE FOR INTERRUPTING ME OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, WHILE I’M TRYING TO DO THE VERY JOB YOU PAY ME 90% OF YOUR EARNINGS TO DO?”

“PISSED MYSELF, BOSS,” replies Cletus casually, as DuBois falls silent and looks down at the spreading wet spot at the front of the American Fatass’ denim shorts.

“...sometimes you, I say, sometimes I wish I’d never dragged you out of that swamp, boy…”