We cut to the back to find a man with long red hair wearing a powder blue wrestling singlet and matching pants. The white fringe on the sides of his legs jostles back and forth as he raises a boot-covered foot and places it on a nearby stool.
The man remains silent as we see a massive arm rise up and begin to tie the boot’s laces together — on each wrist we see a fuzzy rainbow wristbands holding up two “bunny ears” as the man pulls the laces taught and stands up straight.
With his back still to the camera, the man pauses, looking down at the cement floor of the Epicenter. We watch as he takes several deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
From off to the side we see his hand reach out and snag something from off camera; we zoom out to see a crumpled Dragon mask being squeezed tightly. With a slight turn we follow the man’s gaze, panning right to see a massive “SHOOT: Project | Revolution” promotional poster hanging on the wall.
Sitting at the top is a photo of Mike de los Huesos with the Sin City belt over his shoulder, his back to a menacing LOCUST.
Underneath them, however, are two rows of fighters. Images of men and women with their arms crossed or gesturing to the camera.
Ultimo Muerte
Archer Quincannon
Tristan Keith
Izzy Sia
And every other member competing in Night One of the Firestarter. With his free hand he reaches down toward the corner of the poster and then yanks violently, tearing a huge chunk of the flier off. He lifts the scrap to his face – seemingly studying every image – as he stands back up and drops the torn paper, letting it slowly fall to the ground.
The man lifts the mask up and then turns around, giving us the first maskless shot of Daihm “The Dragon” Ferguson since his surprise return at Reckoning Day. His green eyes are on fire as he places the mask over his head and walks toward – and then past – the camera without giving it a single look.
As Daihm’s heavy footsteps grow quieter we turn and zoom in on the strip of poster… where looking back at us is a smiling, confident Joey “Golden” Burkhalter.
EP.: 221
DATE: 03.10.2025
ARENA: THE EPICENTER
The scene opens to a packed Revolution crowd, signs and smiling faces all throughout the arena, an air of excitement and suspense capturing the audience and the fans at home. The camera pans, showing Jason Johnson and Eryk Masters getting seated and situated when all of the sudden the lights in the arena go out and the crowd instinctively offers cheers and a nice pop! Then…
“WE CAME TO TELL THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH!!!”
The crowd goes into a frenzy as the man responsible for the darkness is revealed to be none other than the face that runs the place, the man in charge, the signer of checks… the REAL DEAL. And he’s not alone! With him is Dan Stein and both are dressed well to suit the occasion.
That occasion is the first night of the Firestarter.
The lights are back up now with the two standing at the top of the ramp, Real Deal has the microphone first.
Real Deal: Well hey.
The crowd pops and he smiles.
Real Deal: Been a minute since I’ve been out here in front of y’all, but I’m happy to report that I’m once again able to focus on SHOOT stuff on a more full time basis. I’m told that Scottie Barnes has been institutionalized and that whole unfortunate mess is behind us. The family of Barnes’ victim will be taken care of forever.
The crowd follows suit with the somber vibe, but Real Deal waves a hand, wanting to move forward.
Real Deal: BUT that’s not totally why we’re out here. We’re out here tonight to talk about the event that begins at this show and will end at a PPV that is going to be named FOR the event. A celebration, of sorts. And you know how we love to do celebrations… with WRESTLING TOURNAMENTS. Now, USUALLY this is my gig to get out here, get you all fired up, talk about what’s at stake and all of that, but this time?
He pauses and looks over to Dan Stein.
Real Deal: This time we’re going to do something a little different. The guy that we’re doing this event for is someone that was very close to that guy right there, so I think it’s only fair that he be the one to run this all down for you.
The crowd pops for “The Lights”, who takes the microphone from his boss. Real Deal retreats to the back leaving Stein on his own at the top of the ramp.
Dan Stein: Well well well… Gotta say, didn’t necessarily expect to get this honor, but this tournament is very near and dear to me. A little over a year ago, the world lost a guy who we all loved a whole lot, and that man is known as Pestalance, THE FIRESTARTER.
The crowd overwhelms Stein with their cheer, drawing an emotional smile from SHOOT Project’s Chief Operating Officer.
Dan Stein: Thank you all for that. Now, before I get TOO emotional… I’m going to talk through this. What we’re doing is kicking off a round robin tournament TONIGHT. We’re not going to mess around, this tournament is going to start taking shape immediately, and you all are in for some great action. So what’s at stake?
The crowd is hushed, hanging on his words.
Dan Stein: Why, a championship opportunity, of course! And not just any championship opportunity, but as this tournament is called the Firestarter, we thought it made sense to include competitors who are on their way up. So the winner of the Firestarter will receive a title shot at the PREMIER CHAMPION, VITO VALENTINO.
The crowd pops for that!
Dan Stein: This may not always be the case for this tournament, but we wanted to recognize both the efforts of the competitors involved and also Valentino’s effort as the champion. If he should lose that title prior to fighting the winner of the Firestarter, obviously the opponent will change, but as it is… we’re going to kick things off RIGHT NOW as Golden Burkhalter takes on Daihm Ferguson… a match where the NUMBER ONE SEED takes on the NUMBER TWO SEED. Time to shut up and fight!
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 1
(1) GOLDEN BURKHALTER
VS.
(2) DAIHM FERGUSON
Backstage
THE PUNCHIES ARE BACK - PART 1
Backstage at the Epicenter, the tension in the air is immediately shattered by the sound of a loud, obnoxious goal horn blasting through the hallway.
BWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!
Roy Vezina: LET’S GOOOOOOOOOOO, BOYS!
The Punch Line is back. And they’re back in style. Bursting through the doors like they just won the Stanley Cup, Roy Vezina, Harv Norris, and Rick Hull strut down the hallway like conquering heroes. Decked out in their custom SHOOT Project hockey jerseys, with their Tag Team of the Year patches sewn onto the sleeves, they move with all the grace of three dudes who just shotgunned a six-pack and are looking for a fight.
Roy, leading the charge, skates an imaginary puck across the tile floor, jukes an invisible defender, and rips an air slapshot directly into a production assistant’s chest. The poor guy staggers, dropping his clipboard as Roy cups his hands around his mouth like an arena announcer.
Roy Vezina: HE SHOOOOOOOTS… HE SCOOOOOOOORES! OHHH, WHAT A SNIPE, KID!
Harv Norris immediately throws both hands in the air like he just won gold in overtime. His Newfoundland accent is at full power. He SLAPS the production guy on the back so hard he nearly topples over.
Harv Norris: JUMPINS, B’YS! DIS MAN JUS’ GOT ABSOLUTELY CLAPPED! SOMEBODY FETCH DA LAD A TIMMIES FER HIS TROUBLES!
Rick Hull? Silent. Focused. Absolutely chugging a Molson Tallboy as he walks like this is just another Tuesday night at the rink. He crushes the can in his fist, yeets it behind him, and immediately gets handed another one by an official Punch Line beer runner (where did this guy even come from?).
They stomp through the hall, chest bumping literally everyone they pass. A couple of backstage assistants glance at them and murmur.
Backstage Assistant: Are they seriously back?
Sound Technician: You can’t kill the Punch Line, buddy.
Backstage Assistant: Why do they have their own beer guy?
They reach their locker room door. It’s still got their 2024 Tag Team of the Year plaque bolted to the wall. The nameplate? Faded. But still there. The Punch Line stare at it like it’s the Cup Final. Roy takes off his sunglasses, nodding solemnly. Harv wipes a fake tear. Rick crosses his arms, still sipping his beer.
Harv Norris: B’ys… we made it back.
Roy Vezina: Through the fire.
Harv Norris: Through da flames.
Roy Vezina: Through corrupt officiating, an illegal stipulation, and clear anti-Canadian bias. And thanks to the most sacred of all laws, THE MAPLE CLAUSE, we now have what all great Canadian athletes fight for.
Harv Norris: Another chance to rub it in everyone’s faces?
Roy Vezina: DAMN RIGHT!
Roy kicks open the locker room door like he’s leading Team Canada onto the ice. Inside? Pristine condition. Everything exactly where they left it. The old gear, the broken hockey sticks, the beer-stained couch, a signed autographed pic of Don Cherry that Harv swears is worth millions. The camera catches the SACRED PUCK from their last match still sitting on the bench, untouched. It’s like the locker room knew they’d be back.
Harv Norris: B’YS, WE BACK IN DA BIG SHOW!
Harv rips off his jacket and full-on hip-checks the lockers, causing a thunderous CLANG that makes the cameraman jump. Roy kicks his feet up on the bench, grabs a water bottle, and immediately sprays it all over himself in slow-motion like he just won the playoffs.
Roy Vezina: S’good to be home, eh?
Rick Hull? Still hasn’t said a word. Just sitting there, crushing another beer like the stone-cold enforcer he is. Finally, after a long pause, he leans forward, cracks his knuckles, and nods.
Rick Hull: Alright. Who we fightin’ first?
The Punch Line EXPLODE into celebratory chaos. Beer cans pop, jerseys are thrown, someone is literally hockey fighting an invisible opponent in the background. The camera slowly fades out as Roy, Harv, and Rick toast their return with an obnoxiously loud GORDIEEEEEE! chant.
The 2024 Tag Team of the Year is back.
And every single person in SHOOT Project is about to remember exactly why.
Backstage
VIEWING PARTY GONE WRONG
The camera fades backstage into Aiden Vanity’s VIP lounge. He is seen lounging on a sleek black leather couch, one leg draped over the armrest, the other resting on the floor. He holds a bucket of gourmet popcorn in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. On the massive, wall-mounted flat-screen, a replay of Remy Garden’s match from Reckoning Day is just finishing up.
Aiden, fully invested, throws his head back, cackling so loud it might carry beyond the locker room walls. He slaps the couch in amusement as the final pin happens, Remy’s loss sealed for eternity.
The camera zooms in as Aiden wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye before picking up a golden remote and shutting off the television.He exhales, finally composing himself, and turns his attention directly into the camera, smirking.
Aiden Vanity: “Ohhh, man. That was better than any comedy I’ve seen in years. Are we sure the Oscars are over? Somebody needs to give Remy an award for Best Tragic Performance of the Year, because that was cinematic. The pain. The hurt. The shame.”
Aiden smirks as he leans forward, setting his popcorn aside and gesturing for the camera to come closer.
Aiden Vanity: “But you know what they say; karma always finds its way home, and on Reckoning Day, that was karma waltzing right up to Remy’s front door, slapping him in the face, and stealing his dignity in broad daylight. Why? Because he disrespected me. Me! A walking masterpiece, a wrestling icon, and a living legend in the making.”
He strokes his facial hair, lost in thought for a moment before his focus has returned.
Aiden Vanity: “Let’s rewind, shall we? This ungrateful little troll thought it was cute to disrespect my picture. My beautiful, flawless image. Do you know how long it takes to capture a shot that is perfect? Do you know how many artists wish they could sculpt something as divine as this face? But no, instead of admiration, instead of gratitude, Remy decided to be a petulant little goblin and treat my picture like garbage.”
Aiden clicks his tongue.
Aiden Vanity: “So what happened next? Oh, that’s right—he lost. Dreams shattered. Hopes crushed. And as you can clearly observe, it was must-see television.”
He leans back into the couch, taking another sip from his flute before flashing the camera a devilish grin. Little does Aiden realize that Remy Garden, apparently hearing Aiden’s laughter from the hallway, has arrived in his VIP room and is now standing just inches behind his couch.
Aiden Vanity: “Remy, I know you’re listening – and if you aren’t then you’re not just untalented, rude, and ugly; but you’re stupid as well.
Remy’s eyes go wide, his hands balling up into fists, as he takes another step forward, nearly standing right on top of Aiden, who still hasn’t realized the situation.
Aiden Vanity: So let this be a lesson! You don’t make a mockery out of Aiden Vanity. You don’t spit in the face of-
Remy coughs loudly, causing Aiden to stop mid-sentence – his face initially going white as a sheet before setting down his popcorn and turning around to look up at the very angry face of Remy Garden.
Remy Garden: “Oh… don’t let me stop you, cher. Please continue.”
Aiden Vanity: “Alright, alright, big guy, no need to get all—how do you say it? Cajun crazy on me.”
Remy closes the distance even further now, stepping over the back of the couch Aiden had previously been lounging on, causing the blonde-haired boaster to take a step back.
Remy Garden: “Seems like you’re the one with the crazed obsession, Vanity – If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were repressed. Sorry; I meant distressed. No, sorry again, I meant grotesque. Yeah. That’s the one.
Not Aiden’s face begins to turn red.
Remy Garden: “Normally I’m quite fond of other men having parts of me in their mouths, but I’ll thank you for keeping my name out of yours.”
Remy eyes Aiden before scoffing slightly and beginning to turn away from the scene, which only causes Aiden to seethe even more. Just as Remy is about to exit, he makes one final look over his shoulder to address Vanity.
Remy Garden: “And trust me, Aiden. I wouldn’t spit on you even if you paid me to. You’re not worth the ef-”
Like a slow motion car crash we see Aiden Vanity rear his head back and hock a giant slob of spit at Remy, connecting with a splat on the former Sin City Champion’s forehead. And, in that moment, both men pause – Remy processing the scene and Aiden processing how he’s going to get the fuck out of there.
But it’s too late.
Remy roars in anger as he launches forward and wraps his arms around Aiden’s throat, the pair rolling over the edge of the couch and onto a glass table, cracking but not shattering the furniture, but instead knocking over the giant bowl of gourmet popcorn onto the floor – followed then by Remy and Aiden.
Aiden shields his perfectly sculpted face as Remy rains down a flurry of wild punches. He writhes on the carpet, dodging left and right as best as he can, but Remy’s weight bears down on him.
Aiden Vanity: “NOT THE FACE! NOT THE FACE!”
Aiden shrieks, his voice crackling in panic, kicking his friends wildly.
Remy Garden: That painting of yours won’t be the only thing with a giant hole punched in it much longer, Vanity!
Remy raises his clasped fists up in the air, straddling Aiden Vanity, and ready to drop an axe handle smash on the prone fighter only to be yanked off and onto his back by a SHOOT security guard. Soon, three more security swarm in followed by Lou Grimaldi who looks around the scene and then over to Aiden and Remy.
Lou Grimaldi: Look you too! I don’t care what freaky shit you do in the bedroom, but when you’re on SHOOT property, you need to keep it family friendly. And… consensual.
Remy blinks, and begins to protest before he’s lifted up and pushed back towards the doorway.
Lou Grimaldi: Go cool your jets, Garden. You’ve still got a match tonight, remember?
Remy looks back over to the cowering Aiden as he’s attended to by security and shakes his head in disgust before being led out of the room.
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: QUALIFIER FOR SEED 4
ULTIMO MUERTE
VS.
ARCHER QUINCANNON
Backstage
YOU SAY JUMP...
X-Calibur and Joshua Breedlove stand closely together away from everyone in the backstage area. Breedlove has this displeased look strewn upon his immaculate face.
Well, it would be immaculate were it not for a slight lump on his lip after the left cross X delivered to him in the closing moments of Reckoning Day. 👀
The camera is just far enough away so that Breedlove and X aren’t distracted by it, but not so far away that the camera couldn’t pick up what they are saying.
Joshua Breedlove: Look, understand you were all mad and like having a moment out there before you did what you agreed to do. But punching me in the face like that? That’s a “no no”, Mr. ‘Bur: I have photo SHOOTs for Faze this week and this lip feels like I got horse kicked in the mouth.
X shakes his head.
X-Calibur: You’re lucky I didn’t flip your fucking off-switch out there, “Mr. ‘Ua”. Because despite whatever delusions of Godhood and other such self-fellating bullshit you parade around here with, I most definitely could’ve.
Joshua Breedlove: No, you really couldn’t have. I know this big like, obstinate sarcastic bravado thing works for the Millennials and some kids out there, but I stay protected and you were in a ring with all… ALL… of my people. The math just ain’t mathin’, buddy.
X-Calibur: Like I said? Lucky.
There’s a tense moment between them, but Breedlove eventually smiles, looking frustratingly unbothered by X’s threats and skillset.
Joshua Breedlove: The funny thing to me is how argumentative and resistant you are for someone who took the Black envelope. I mean, you picked this, you know? Like this was your choice. I didn’t force you, you did it all by self. You should probably think about what that actually means instead of running your mouth and testing my patience.
X thinks on it for a moment, but much to the surprise of everyone watching at home?
X-Calibur: You’re right. I have thought about it. I don’t even know if I’ve slept more than a couple hours every other day since Reckoning Day. Because I did choose this. I could’ve easily given this whole deal a wide berth, stayed home, took care of Esper, and just kept making sporadic appearances. But looking at Esper? For everything you are “offering”? Sometimes we make decisions in life that aren’t easy for ourselves. This is one of those decisions. One of many I’ve made in my career.
X takes a beat and sighs.
X-Calibur: But don’t stand there and insult my intelligence or gaslight me, motherfucker. This all may be my decision, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be angry about it. With myself. With you or one of your fucking goons breaking into my house and placing a black envelope two-feet from where MY DAUGHTER SLEEPS.
X-Calibur’s fists ball up. Shaking.
X-Calibur: So if that is funny to you? So be it. It is what it is, and I stand by all my decisions. That being said? I realize it’s on me for giving you a fat lip. Maybe you deserved it, maybe you didn’t. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t honestly tell you, to your stupid fucking arrogant face, that it felt… haha… it felt fucking GREAT. But again, you’re right. I chose this. I… fucking… chose this. Knowing the consequences, I chose to pledge my fealty to the Emperor of an Empire that can change the trajectory of SHOOT Project. HAS changed the trajectory already. I chose the hatred from my fans and colleagues all for the future of my daughter. To me, that was an easy decision.
He pauses and looks right into the eyes of the Emperor.
X-Calibur: But rest assured, that fat lip I gave you? Won’t happen again. I got what I needed in that moment, and I don’t see needing to relive that punch in all its glory any time soon.
X pauses.
X-Calibur: But I want to make something crystal fucking clear with you, Breedster. I’ve been in this business too long to be trifled with or to have a done deal reneged spontaneously. I’m too old a cat to get fucked by a kitten like you.
X smiles and backs up, arms in the air.
X-Calibur: I’ve said my piece. You say jump. I’ll say how high. It’s time for business.
Joshua Breedlove: Great. We’ll start with you referring to me as either Joshua or Mr. Breedlove. Your choice, because I’m benevolent.
A great smirk forms on X-Calibur’s face.
X-Calibur: Fair enough, Mr. Breedlove. Fair enough. If that’s what you want? So be it. I’ll stick with Mr. Breedlove. Because I’m as accommodating and patient as you are benevolent, Mr. Breedlove.
X gives a sarcastic two thumbs up to Breedlove, err, Mr. Breedlove’s request slash demand.
Joshua Breedlove: Your generation, the olds, are just so sensitive. I’m confident that you will, after a lot of work and patience from me, be the Empire representative that I need you to be. And that you need you to be, if we’re really being honest here. Once you get there, though? I’ll make sure you have it all and get everything… and everyone… you want. Promise.
He grins.
X extends his hand.
X-Calibur: Then this is going to be a great era for SHOOT Project… Mr. Breedlove.
Breedlove extends his hand back, and they both share a moment where they stare at each other. The both of them fishing for any signs of disingenuousness.
It appears—at the moment anyway— that neither of them can find any.
We head back to ringside.
Backstage
WHAT I HAVE TO DO
We cut to the back to find Bellecose sitting alone on a random bench lining the hallways of the SHOOT: Project Epicenter. Her head is lowered as she slowly, methodically wraps and rewraps her hands with what seems to be gaffer’s tape.
Her pink hair falls to the side of her face, blocking her view as footsteps approach.
Voice: Hey.
We follow Belle’s gaze as she looks up to see Ayumi Seppuku, dressed in a blue, pink, and white striped hoodie with black sweats and slip ons. Hardly the image we’ve come to expect from SHOOT’s 2024 “Villain of the Year” so much so that even Belle seems to be a bit caught off guard by her friend and mentor’s appearance, though she quickly slides over to let Ayumi take space on the bench.
Bellecose: Hey.
Ayumi sits down next to Belle and sighs, leaning her head back against the cold cement wall behind her as she looks up at the ceiling.
Ayumi Seppuku: It should be me out there tonight against WASP. Not you. I’m the one she wants and … I’ve fucked it all up for us and-
Belle turns to Ayumi and puts a hand on her shoulder.
Bellecose: Don’t talk like that. Yes, WASP – and SWARM – may seem to have the advantage right now, but do you remember what you said to me after my match with her and Mike? That whatever we do, we do it together … this isn’t on you; it’s on us.
Ayumi goes to say something but decides not to. Instead she just nods and lets a brief smile emerge at the corners of her mouth while Belle turns her attention back to wrapping her knuckles.
Bellecose: Besides…SWARM are just a distraction anyways. Just like RAIKO said.
Ayumi turns to look at Belle, her smile faltering, as she sees that Belle is not looking at anything but her own fists. Slowly wrapping and unwrapping the tape in a hypnotic, ritualistic cadence.
Bellecose: You saw it too, right? At Reckoning Day? There are people out there who need us … who need HEXXXED. Those people in the stands – and at home – who see what’s going on in the world and feel helpless to stop it. Feel like there is no one fighting for them…
Bellecose speeds up the motion of her wrapping and unwrapping her hand as Ayumi watches intently. Nervously.
Bellecose: That’s what Daihm never understood. Even when he was with Judy and I. He was and has always been so bloody naive… ready to please anyone willing to show him the least bit of attention; even if it cost him his friends.
Ayumi’s expression falters even further with the mention of the younger Ferguson. Belle’s eyes are on fire now, her pace accelerating.
Bellecose: Him being there at Reckoning Day? Calculated. Another distraction. Trying to get you… to get us to hesitate and roll over so things can get back to “normal” and allow the fans the chance to “turn their brains off” and “escape” from the world for a few hours while people like us continue to have our rights stripped away, get harassed 24/7, and accused of being subhuman.
Belle sneers.
Bellecose: Fuck turning their brains off. They need their noses shoved in it. All of them.
Ayumi quickly reaches over to grab Belle’s wrist, causing her to stop her frantic ritual – but she doesn’t look at her mentor. Instead she pulls her arm away and keeps her gaze focused on the ground.
Bellecose: …
Ayumi looks genuinely confused as she gives Belle some distance.
Ayumi Seppuku: You’re not wrong, Belle. You’re not. And we’ll get there, but we have to-
Ayumi’s attempts at appeasement are cut off as Bellecose looks up from the ground, her blue eyes cold and defiant against the black face paint running from her right temple to the left. She takes a breath and stands up from the bench and looks down at Ayumi.
Bellecose: Have to what, Ayumi? Apologize in the middle of the ring at SHOOT’s biggest event of the year? In front of thousands? Tens of thousands!? You called me, RAIKO, and Judy-E back here for a reason and it wasn’t to bloody apologize!
Ayumi stands up now, too. And though she’s a few inches shorter than Belle, she sucks the air out of the room, her presence still emanating every ounce of what has made her one of the most recognized names in the business. Belle, for her part, does not back down.
Ayumi Seppuku: I’m not apologizing Belle; but I am atoning for what I did. What I did to Jamie, to Dan, to Barb, to Daihm … it was wrong. I was wrong. I am making sure that you, RAIKO, and Judy-E don’t make the same mistakes and turn your greatest assets into weapons to be turned against you!
Ayumi is visibly shaking.
Ayumi Seppuku: I’ve seen it, Belle! I’ve lived it. And what’s the fucking point in a revolution where everyone hates you in the end? Huh? Tell me that.
Belle closes her eyes and takes in a breath. Nodding.
Bellecose: I see.
Ayumi looks exasperated, throwing up her arms.
Ayumi Seppuku: What, Belle? What do you see?
Bellecose looks down at her taped fists and clenches them tightly before looking back up to Ayumi, a mix of frustration and pain in her eyes.
Bellecose: What I need to do.
Without another word, Belle turns and leaves, walking down the hall as Ayumi shouts after her.
Ayumi Sepuku: Belle! Hey! Belle! Come back! BELLE! BELLE!
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: QUALIFIER FOR SEED 5
TRISTAN KEITH
VS.
IZZY SIA
Backstage
THE PUNCHIES ARE BACK - PART 2
Backstage at the Epicenter, the night is in full swing. The matches are rolling, tensions are high, and somewhere in the bowels of the arena… The Punch Line is doing what they do best, being loud, obnoxious, and generally unbearable to be around.
Roy Vezina: Alright, let’s see what kinda high-class, premium, five-star meal our glorious employers are feeding us tonight, boys!
The camera pans to reveal the catering table. A sad-looking spread of lukewarm pasta, soggy sandwiches, and a suspiciously gray tray of what might be chicken. A lone tray of room-temperature hot dogs sits untouched in the corner.
Harv Norris: JUMPINS, B’YS! WOT IN DA SWEET MERCIFUL NAME O’ GORDIE HOWE IS DIS?
Harv grabs a hot dog and gives it a few aggressive squeezes like he’s checking for a fake puck. It does not bounce back. His face contorts in disgust.
Harv Norris: Oh, we in da trenches now, b’ys… we in da trenches now.
Rick Hull silently picks up a sandwich, peels back the bread, and stares at the contents like a disappointed father. There is exactly one slice of turkey, a sad excuse for lettuce, and a glob of questionable mayo. He nods to himself, then carefully sets it back down like he’s seen enough.
Rick Hull: I wouldn’t serve this to a beer league ref.
Roy Vezina: This is a damn disgrace! This is why Canadian athletes are superior, boys! Because we would NEVER accept this level of disrespect! What’s a man gotta do to get a butter tart around here, huh? Where’s the poutine bar? Where’s the beaver tails? I thought America was supposed to be about freedom and opportunity!
Harv Norris: Roy, dat freedom an’ opportunity died in dat meatloaf pan, b’y.
Harv leans down and sniffs at the pasta tray. He immediately staggers back like he just got hit with a cross-check. He waves his hand in front of his face, gagging.
Harv Norris: OH LAWD, SHE’S TURNIN’!
Rick Hull lifts a single crinkle-cut fry from the tray, holds it up for inspection, then snaps it clean in half without bending. He stares at it. Blinks. Then just shakes his head and drops it back onto the pile like it personally offended him.
Rick Hull: This is why this country loses in shootouts.
Roy Vezina: I mean, come on! What is this, Ruination catering?!
Both Harv and Rick freeze. A long silence fills the air. The three men slowly turn to look at each other like they just heard something forbidden. Harv clears his throat.
Harv Norris: Uh, b’ys, I hate ta break it to ya, but,uh,Ruination’s dead, b’y. Hasn’t been a ting since da start o’ da year.
Roy gasps in dramatic horror, clutching his chest like he just took a slapshot to the ribs. He leans on the catering table for support.
Roy Vezina: Oh my god… oh my god, we’re in a timeline where Ruination doesn’t exist?! B’ys, I don’t know if I can do this! I feel like I just got drafted by Arizona! I can’t live like this!
Harv wipes an invisible tear from his eye and puts a comforting hand on Roy’s shoulder.
Harv Norris: Stay strong, brother. Stay strong.
Rick Hull, meanwhile, has dumped the entire tray of fries into a garbage can without a single word. He dusts his hands off, then finally speaks.
Rick Hull: This night just keeps getting worse.
Roy Vezina: B’ys, we gotta turn this around. We gotta make SHOOT Project great again. And that starts with bringing some goddamn standards back to this locker room! We didn’t get named Tag Team of the Year just to sit here and eat… this.
Roy gestures aggressively at the sad catering spread. The camera zooms in on a particularly sweaty block of mystery meat.
Harv Norris: Christ, it’s lookin’ right at me, b’y.
Roy Vezina: Alright, that’s it! NO MORE! We’re going to the front office! We’re demanding real food! We’re demanding top billing! We’re demanding that everyone in SHOOT Project, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM, be reminded that THE PUNCH LINE IS BACK!
Harv Norris: An’ we ain’t just back, b’ys, WE’RE IN OUR PRIME!
Rick Hull: Also, I’m not eating until we get some damn gravy in this building.
The Punch Line STORM OFF like three men on a mission, leaving the devastated catering table behind them. A single fork slides off the edge and clatters onto the floor as the camera lingers on the tragic excuse for food.
IN THE RING
TEST ME
The arena goes dark. A spotlight illuminates the entrance ramp as the first notes of “Passenger” by Deftones begin to play.
♬ Here I lay still and breathless ♬
♬ Just like always, still I want some more ♬
♬ Mirrors sideways, who cares what’s behind ♬
♬ Just like always, still your passenger ♬
The crowd isn’t sure what to make of it, until…
…a massive X appears on the SHOOTron, followed by a swift, spontaneous explosion of purple fireworks That’s all it takes for the Epicenter to erupt into a chorus of raucous boos and jeers.
“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
Eryk Masters: Man. I’ve been waiting for this man to come out here and fucking explain himself.
Jason Johnson: Sounds like the rest of the fans in attendance are of a similar feeling.
Slowly, the figure of X-Calibur emerges from the entrance. Wearing black jeans, purple Under Armours, and…
Eryk Masters: Jesus… is that…
Jason Johnson: A Breedlove Empire shirt?! Godammit… it-it is, Eryk.
His head has been clean shaven, with the half-inch mohawk cleaned up an exception. His face is expressionless, but his dark brown eyes are filled with a mix of resignation and defiance.
Eryk Masters: in his twenty-five plus wrestling career, I have never, EVER witnessed X with this type of demeanor. Just this… mixture of despondency, hollowness, and a dash of regret.
Jason Johnson: Agreed. Yikes. And the SHOOT Faithful can sense it, too. Through the boos, they can sense this man is not the same anymore.
X-Calibur walks slowly down the ramp, ignoring the crowd’s hostility. He stops in the middle of the ring and looks around at the sea of angry faces. He raises his arms in a mocking salute, and the crowd responds with even louder boos.
Calling for a microphone, X makes a slashing motion with his thumb over his neck, signaling for the truck monkeys to cut his theme off. Taking a deep breath, he begins to speak. His voice is low and gravelly, like he hasn’t slept in days. It cuts through the noise of the crowd like a knife.
X-Calibur: You hate me. Obviously. Heh.
They continue their chants.
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
X-Calibur: I know. And, to be honest? I don’t blame you. I’d hate me too if I was just a fan watching on. I did a terrible thing at Reckoning Day. I’ve done terrible things, only to be redeemed after time and time again. My actions of evil are as cyclical as the fucking weather or a failed CK Butcher comeback. But I’m here to tell you that I’m not proud of what I did. I’m sorry for the pain I caused. I’m not expecting anybody to accept that, but… it needed to be said. Through all my bullshit, that’s the most sincere thing I can say.
The crowd falls silent. X-Calibur’s words have caught them off guard. They’re not used to hearing him express remorse.
X-Calibur: I know I can’t change what I did. But there’s something you should know. I’m not going to try. I can’t. Because this is bigger, more personal for me than anyone can ever imagine. I can try to make amends, but for what I need to happen? Making amends is an impossibility. I am not going to try and be a better person after destroying Laura Seton. What’s done is done, and if she comes back from that broken forearm or whatever it is I gave her, I’ll do it again. If I have to, I’ll break her fucking neck and make sure she NEVER comes back. That much I promise you.
“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
X-Calibur: Boo away. I don’t really give a fuck. I’m not asking for a second chance. I’m just giving it to you straight. I made a deal with the devil and I’m not ashamed of it. Mr. Breedlove and myself, combined with the rest of the Empire he’s built, are unstoppable. We’re a cheat code in the game of professional wrestling, at this point. And if you can’t handle that? I suggest you thin-skinned fans out there stop watching. Real Deal will probably fine me for saying that, but again, I’m just shooting you all straight. Take it or leave it.
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
“YOU SOLD OUT!!”
“FUCK YOU X-CAL!”
X-Calibur: Yeah, that’s cool. Anyway, If anyone in the back has a problem with what I’ve done? I welcome you to try and do something about it. Because I promise you, your face(s) will become my outlet for the frustration I feel over the choice I had to make, and when I break your body down with 25+ years of experience, your face(s) will become a wellspring for my brand of violence.
Test me with your accusations, and I will end you with the fucking truth.
X drops the mic as “Passenger” begins playing over the Epicenter’s state of the art sound system again.
Eryk Masters: Wow. That was unsettling.
Jason Johnson: VERY. I don’t even know what to say to all of that. I’m legitimately at a loss for words.
Before X can leave the ring, Deftones’ 2000 brooding classic is cut off cold by the distinctive voice of Layne Stayley sings Alice in Chains’ hit “Them Bones”. He doesn’t have any time or patience for decorum, solemnly acknowledging the roar of the crowd. Josh makes his way down the ramp, pausing briefly at the announcers’ table to grab a microphone before climbing into the ring. He stares daggers across the mat from the veteran wrestler, his expression of disgust all too clear.
Josh Kaine: I got a fuckin’ problem with you!
Eryk Masters: Waaaiiit a minute!!
Jason Johnson: Oh this is gonna be GOOD.
Josh Kaine: You know, X, Miss Laura wouldn’t like me bein’ out here like this…but just like my Ma, she’s got issues with folks helpin’ to fight her battles or askin’ for help. I don’t rightly give a shit right now. You broke her fuckin’ arm. You, you were one of her oldest friends in the business, stabbed her in the fuckin’ back and BROKE HER GODDAMN ARM.
The crowd cheers in agreement at the younger man’s outrage over X-Calibur’s actions toward the World Champion.
Josh Kaine: There ain’t no one lower than someone who betrays his friends. I don’t rightly give a fuck what Mr. Breedlove threatened you with–you coulda’ come to Miss Laura for help…you coulda’ asked anyone outside The Empire to help. Instead, you chose to show your little girl exactly how big a yellow-bellied backstabbing asshole her Daddy is.
He seethes from the other side of the ring, finally closing the distance between them. Josh glares up at the older man, no fear in his eyes before he spits at X-Calibur’s feet.
Josh Kaine: I’m gonna do what Miss Laura can’t right now. What the SHOOT Project audience and roster needs to see. Someone standin’ up to fuckin’ cowards and fightin’ for what’s right. You and me, in the ring next show. You got the balls to step in the ring with me? Or you gonna whine like a bitch ‘bout how you don’t care no more and run back to your hole with your tail between your legs like you did with my Ma in EWA?
He takes a step back, looking the older man up and down–that expression of absolute disgust and outrage firmly in place on his face.
X-Calibur: That’s fine. Think what you want there, Josh… number three, isn’t? I’ve lost count of them all at this point. Anyway. I understand your anger. I feel your frustration. I even sympathize with your plight for Laura being the victim of assault after assault for months on end. I really do. I wish I didn’t have to do what I did.
X shrugs.
X-Calibur: I just don’t care.
“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
X-Calibur: You want a match with me? Cool. Let’s do it! Bring your Jester Smiles cosplaying ass to the next Revolution. I look forward to breaking your body apart and leaving you for dead in a heap of regret and over-confidence. Mr. Breedlove and the Breedlove Empire can hold a great vigil for you afterwards, too, if your family requests it. Until then? Go drink as much calcium fortified almond milk as you can. ‘Cause them bones are gonna need every drop.
Josh shakes his head with a vehement “No!”.
Josh Kaine: Take a piece of your own advice, X; and go guzzle down a few more gallons of Breedlove’s nut milk. I ain’t the one with a weak stomach and a spine made outta balsa wood, you fuckin’ coward.
The son of Sinnocence drops his mic, backing up and maintaining eye contact until he hits the ropes. The crowd pops at Josh Kaine’s willingness to step up and fight the Hall of Famer. It’s clear that Josh doesn’t care how hard he has to fight. He will stand up for what he believes in and fight for what he thinks is right…including getting some much needed payback for Laura Seton.
Eryk Masters: Well, I have to hand it to Josh Kaine for having the courage to stand up to X-Calibur!
Jason Johnson: Yes, but is that a wise move on his part? Because standing up to X-Calibur doesn’t mean just standing up to X-Calibur. Not anymore. Now he’s going to have to contend with the Breedlove Empire as well as one of the most dangerous and diabolical competitors in SHOOT Project history.
Eryk Masters: I see where you’re going with that, partner. I dunno. Sometimes you just have to do what you believe is right, regardless of the expected outcome.
While Jason and Eryk debate Josh Kaine championing himself for Laura Seton on the next Revolution, X-Calibur nods with a slight smirk.
Then he slowly claps… approvingly?
X-Calibur: Your valor is astonishing. See you next Revolution…kid.
At this point, X drops his microphone as well and just watches Kaine until he disappears behind the curtain to Gorilla.
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 1
(3) WASP
VS.
(6) BELLECOSE
IN THE RING
Dennis Heflin waves for the bell as fans rise to their feet to watch as Belle Grant, aka Bellecose, has her arm raised in victory.
The HEXXXED member breathes heavily, watching as her opponent slowly sits up, clearly feeling the effects of the absolute clinic of a match the pair just put on in front of the sold out Epicenter crowd.
Jason Johnson: What an important win here tonight by Bellecose! Not only does she upset the odds-on-favorite WASP, but she finally puts a notch in the win column in the ongoing HEXXXED and SWARM saga.
Eryk Masters: There’s no question, there, Jason — but there’s still a big question about what Bellecose meant earlier tonight saying she knew “what she needed to do” after a tense confrontation with her teammate Ayumi Seppuku.
Bellecose continues to keep an eye on WASP as she pulls herself up and leans back against the ropes; still catching her breath. The HEXXXED member gestures for a microphone from ringside as she crouches down, her backside perched on the bottom rope and free hand reaching up and through to grab the top rope.
Belle cocks her head and lets out a dry laugh into the microphone as WASP finally manages to stand on her own two feet – standing firm across the ring from the HEXXXED member who violently maimed LOCUST at the penultimate Revolution before Reckoning Day.
Bellecose: Ayumi may not see you for who you are, WASP… and to be honest neither do RAIKO or NEMESIS. But I bloody see you — and I know your kind.
The crowd buzzes as Belle pulls herself back up from the ropes, swaying from side to side, in a sing-songy voice as WASP watches – stoic (or perhaps frozen).
Bellecose: What was it you said to Ayumi? That she was a stupid, selfish child? That your SWARM would feed?
Belle’s eyes flicker, not with a blue flame, but the fire of pure, distilled hatred as WASP clearly bristles at the HEXXXED fighter’s tone.
Bellecose: Feed… yeah, that was it. That was the word that’s been gnawing in my brain over these past few months.
The buzz of the crowd has gone silent, everyone hanging onto Bellecose’s every word.
Bellecose: The words of a woman who has never had to do without… who has never had to want for anything in her life… and who has convinced herself that experiencing even the smallest fraction of the physical and emotional pain some of us live with their entire lives makes you know what it’s like to live your life seen as an animal. To be hunted. To beg, and claw, and scratch for everything.
Belle sneers and bends down as there is movement suddenly from underneath the ring.
Jason Johnson: What the fuck is going on!? Is this more spooky shit (™)?
Bellecose: But you? You’re playing make believe. A little voyeuristic safari holiday for you and your “SWARM.”
The previously quiet fans are freaking out now as Bellecose has WASP utterly transfixed with her words; oblivious to what is happening right underneath her feet.
Eryk Masters: Dear God. What in the world!?
Suddenly, from underneath the ring, a rush of bodies – seemingly random men, women, and even teenagers explode from the underside of the ring, rushing out from all sides like basketball fans storming the court but in reverse. Every person who emerges is wearing a long white shirt with spray painted striped colors — some are rainbow; some are pink, blue, and gray; some are pink, yellow, and blue; others are black, purple, and green… every combination you could think of filling the Epicenter floor as a now panicked WASP spins around to realize she’s cornered as every inch of the floor from the barricades to the apron is filled and covered by a mob of people.
Bellecose: And that’s the ironic thing about ‘animals’ like us, WASP. We may not have a “SWARM” at our disposal. But we have the numbers to cause a stampede.
Bellecose lowers the microphone and points at WASP, immediately turning the crowd into a furious rampage. Dozens, possibly more than a hundred figures begin to claw and scratch at the fighter like hungry zombies – grabbing at every scrap of flesh and fabric they can. WASP tries to violently kick away the crowd and escape, but she has nowhere to escape to!
Jason Johnson: This is bad, Eryk! We need security out here!
Eryk Masters: To do what, exactly!?
The HEXXXED member throws back her head in laughter before thumbing at her nose and crouching into a striking position – grabbing a hold of the top rope to provide tension as she leans forward, stomping her feet on the mat as the crowd in the arena and on the floor are absolutely manic.
WASP, looking out into the crowd, trying to hatch an escape plan doesn’t see Bellecose as the HEXXXED member pushes herself off the ropes and launches herself forward.
Eryk Masters: WATCH O-
It’s too late.
Bellecose absolutely SLAMS WASP from behind, sending the SWARM member tumbling through the ropes and into the mosh pit of a crowd. We can hear her thrashing and shouting as the mob – the stampede – of people lift her up like a crowd surfer, locking her wrists and ankles in place as they begin to carry her away from the ring and up the rampway.
Jason Johnson: CLEAR THE BACK! CLEAR THE BACK! INCOMING!
Bellecose watches, a huge smile on her face, as she tucks a tuft of pink hair behind her ear and blows a kiss toward WASP as she is dragged out of sight.
Backstage
THE PUNCHIES ARE BACK - PART 3
Backstage, the halls are buzzing with activity. Production crew, wrestlers, and staff rush around, trying to keep the show moving smoothly. But none of that matters now. Because The Punch Line is on a mission. And like any good Canadian hockey team, they are LOUDLY announcing their presence to everyone.
Roy Vezina: OI, WHERE’S STAN?! WE NEED TO TALK TO STAN!
Harv Norris: Who da hell is Stan, b’y?
Roy Vezina: You know! The big boss guy! STAN! He runs this place!
Harv Norris: Roy, buddy… ye mean Dan Stein?
Roy Vezina: …That’s what I said. STAN.
Harv and Rick just exchange a glance. Harv shrugs. Rick Hull just takes a deep sip from his Molson and doesn’t argue. The Punch Line power-walks through the backstage corridors like three guys about to fight a ref over a bad call. As they move, their expressions start to sour.
Harv Norris: B’ys, wot kinda operation we runnin’ ‘ere? Everything looks dingy as hell, eh?
Roy Vezina: Yeah, for real, what is this, a community center in Moose Jaw?
Rick Hull: I’ve seen beer league locker rooms in better shape.
Roy stops in front of a sadly flickering SHOOT Project logo on the wall. He gives it a disappointed shake of the head and pats it like an old, broken Zamboni.
Roy Vezina: Buddy… get it together, eh?
They turn a corner and immediately stop dead in their tracks. In front of them, the catering table they left in shambles earlier has been restocked… with the exact same horrible food. The gray chicken, the soggy sandwiches, the stone-cold fries. It’s all still here, like an unkillable monster from a bad horror movie.
Harv Norris: JUMPINS, B’YS, IT RESPAAAAWNED!
Roy grabs a plate and holds it up to the light like a piece of forensic evidence. He sniffs the air. His face immediately contorts in horror.
Roy Vezina: Yup. Still smells like poverty.
Harv cautiously lifts the lid of a covered tray, peeks inside, and IMMEDIATELY SLAMS IT SHUT. He makes the sign of the cross over his chest.
Harv Norris: Dat’s an OSHA violation, b’y.
Rick Hull doesn’t say a word. He just picks up a lone crinkle-cut fry, snaps it in half again, watches it disintegrate in his hand, then drops the pieces and keeps walking. The camera lingers on the shattered remains like it’s a crime scene.
Rick Hull: This place is a disgrace.
They keep marching through the halls, Roy shouting at every confused staff member they pass.
Roy Vezina: WHERE’S STAN?!
STAN?!
OI, STAN, WHERE YOU AT, BUD?!
SOMEONE GET US STAN RIGHT NOW!
Finally, they reach the door to the SHOOT Project offices. A tiny, sad-looking nameplate reads Dan Stein – COO. Roy reads it, nods to himself, then confidently punches the door open. The three of them stomp in like a group of angry junior hockey dads demanding more ice time for their kids.
Roy Vezina: STAN, BUDDY, WE GOTTA TALK!
The camera fades to black as pure chaos begins inside Dan Stein’s office.
SINGLES MATCH
KING OSO
VS.
REMY GARDEN
Backstage
THE PUNCHIES ARE BACK - PART 4
Inside Dan Stein’s office, the tension is already at an all-time high… because The Punch Line is here, and Dan Stein is not.
The camera zooms in on Roy Vezina, pacing back and forth like a hockey coach losing his mind on the bench. His SHOOT Project jacket is half-zipped, his arms flailing every time he speaks, and his face is twisted in utter disbelief. Meanwhile, Rick Hull stands next to him, arms crossed, beer in hand, nodding along like the world’s most judgmental beer league enforcer. The only thing missing is the dramatic zoom-ins every time Roy drops another complaint.
Roy Vezina: Un-believable. B’ys, I am absolutely, gobsmacked. Stunned. Flabbergasted. SHOOKETH. We march in here, Tag Team of the Year, the most dominant force in SHOOT Project history, Canada’s greatest export besides Tim Hortons and universal healthcare, and what do we get?
He gestures wildly around the office, which is entirely empty. Papers stacked on the desk, a few framed photos of SHOOT Project champions on the walls, but most importantly, no Dan Stein. The man they came for is nowhere to be found.
Roy Vezina: Nothing! Nada! Zip! Zilch! The man doesn’t even have the decency to be in his own damn office! You know what this is, boys? You know what this is?
Rick Hull takes a long sip of his Molson, exhales through his nose, and nods.
Rick Hull: Disrespect.
Roy Vezina: EXACTLY! DISRESPECT! You’re telling me he’s got time to run this little circus, but he doesn’t have five minutes to sit down with The Punch Line? The saviors of SHOOT Project? The men who single-handedly brought dignity back to the tag division?!
Rick just nods again. Roy keeps pacing, now pointing aggressively at random objects around the office like they personally offended him.
Roy Vezina: Look at this, LOOK AT THIS! Is this an office befitting a man of power? A man of influence?! I see no vision! No character! Where’s the signed Bobby Orr poster?! Where’s the Heritage Classic jersey?! Where’s the goddamn cupholder for my beer?!
Rick Hull: Bush league.
Roy Vezina: BUSH LEAGUE! EXAAAAACTLY!
Roy rips off his sunglasses and throws them dramatically on the desk. He pauses, breathes, and adjusts his imaginary tie.
Roy Vezina: Alright. Fine. You know what? Fine. He wants to waste our time? That’s fine. We’ll just do things the Punch Line way. We’ll go out there, steal the show, and remind every single clown in this company that when we’re on the ice…
A flush echoes from the back of the office. Roy stops mid-rant. Rick squints. The two look at each other as the sound of running water follows.
And then, like a man stepping out of a spa retreat, Harv Norris emerges from Dan Stein’s personal bathroom. He’s wiping his hands on a SHOOT Project hand towel, looking refreshed as hell.
Harv Norris: B’ys, ye won’t believe dis but Stan’s got da good toilet paper.
Roy just stares. Rick, still holding his beer, nods approvingly.
Rick Hull: Quality TP?
Harv Norris: Top tier, b’y. One wipe, clean sheet.
Roy throws his hands in the air like he’s about to have a full-blown aneurysm. He is utterly beside himself.
Roy Vezina: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! YOU’VE BEEN IN THERE THIS WHOLE TIME?!
Harv Norris: Buddy, I been grindin’ tape in dere, gettin’ ready fer da big games ahead. Plus, y’know, all dis American food ain’t sittin’ well wit me stomach, eh?
Roy Vezina: Jesus Christ…
Rick Hull holds up a single finger.
Rick Hull: Single-ply or double-ply?
Harv grins, proud as hell. He holds up two fingers.
Harv Norris: Double. Dan’s a two-ply man.
Rick Hull nods respectfully. Roy, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to start tearing things off the walls. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales hard.
Roy Vezina: I… I hate it here.
Harv Norris: Well, I love it.
Harv pats Dan Stein’s chair like he just closed a business deal and walks toward the door. Roy lets out one final deep sigh and follows, shaking his head. Rick finishes his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it in Dan’s trash bin.
As they walk out, Harv reaches back inside the office, snags another hand towel off Dan’s desk, and stuffs it in his jacket. Roy sees it and loses his mind all over again. The camera fades to black as their bickering echoes down the hallway…
The Punch Line is back.
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 1
(4) FS
VS.
(5) FS
Backstage
THE PRE-FIGHT
Backstage, and here stands Mike de los Huesos, Sin City Champion. His belt is on his shoulder, newly back home after vacation, and his facepaint is as immaculate as his diamond studs and gold cuban link. But he’s not his usual wiseacre self, looking to the distance instead of the camera.
Talking like a man philosophical.
You gotta understand something.
I was never supposed to be here, right? Supposed. I hate that word, bein’ real. Cause y’know…supposed to who? Some random journalist? A fan with opinions about what sells? Some half-racist booker who conveniently thinks every worker of color just “doesn’t have it”?
Fuck supposed. But if you’re eyeballing the stats, it’s the tale of the tape. Bad neighborhood, fight against everything, remain true o wh I am and what I like–cause you can’t ever say Mike de los Huevos is anything but who the fuck he is–lose my mask, win a belt, lose that belt. That should be it. A little inspiring story about how one guy can overcome adversity and being an absolute knucklehead in his early 20’s, nut up, and reach heights never before seen.
He stands still for a moment, his gaze cast to the ground. It’s clear he’s searching for words, and he lets the uncomfortable silence hold as he measures them. When he speaks, it starts with a calm tone of rumination before he speeds back up to his normal barrage.
Maybe they put me on some heritage month montage. “Remember this guy?”
Maybe I get referenced by someone 20 years later. “This is the guy who inspired me, and no one loved him.”
But that wasn’t for me. I had to win this belt again. And yeah, here I am defending it again. Because what makes a fuckin’ champion isn’t how many times they win something they lose. What makes a champion is proving you’re the best, no matter who stands across from you.
I’ve beaten dudes bigger than me. Meaner than me. More experience than me. Faster than me. Better than me. Know how I do it?
I don’t got any give up in me.
And truth is, put anyone in there in front of me. I don’t care. I have never cared.
Grinning, Mike de los Huesos points to the camera with a skeleton-gloved hand.
Fuck supposed to. Fuck being a memory. Fuck being the flash in the pan everyone expects me to be.
You can’t kill what’s already dead, and I don’t fear death.
I fear being bored.
See you out there.
With that, Mike shoulders his belt and strides out of frame, his gold chain catching the light. We cut to the ring…
MAIN EVENT
SIN CITY CHAMPIONSHIP
LOCUST
VS.
