EP.: 222
DATE: 03.24.2025
ARENA: THE EPICENTER
Backstage
THE CHAMP'S CHAMPION
We cut backstage to a hall of locker rooms, the feed focusing on one in particular. The nameplate is that of Laura Seton, SHOOT Project’s World Champion. The door is closed, though light seeps out from underneath. An obvious sign that the room is otherwise occupied. From the side of the feed, another SHOOT Project soldier appears. It’s Josh Kaine!
He pauses to the side of the doorframe, knocking firmly on the heavy door.
Josh Kaine: You in there, Ms. Laura?
He knocks again, smiling broadly when it opens just a crack. He has his mother’s brilliant smile, the older woman notices first upon opening the door. She should know, Jada Kaine’s been her best friend for the better part of a decade now. As Laura spots him, she has a small grin of her own.
Laura Seton: Hey, Josh! Good to see you again… come on in!
She opened the door just enough to allow him to enter. The younger competitor pulls her into a tight, but brief embrace and kisses her cheek before taking a seat on the bench next to her gear bag. He clearly doesn’t like seeing the cast on her arm, the blatant reminder of the comeuppance he had to deliver to X-Calibur tonight.
Josh Kaine: Just came to check in on ya. It’s gonna be a helluva match tonight and that bastard’s gonna get what’s comin’ to him.
He’s clearly more protective of the World Champion now than he’d been in weeks past.
Laura Seton: I appreciate the gumption on your end, but reel it in a smidge. X ain’t one for you to just blindly jumpin’ the ring with and start swinging.
She puts her casted arm on his shoulder as she finishes speaking, making sure to keep eye contact with him. Like it was her best way of being protective of him… at least of him from himself. Josh lets a hand rest over hers, gently squeezing her fingers reassuringly.
Josh Kaine: Ain’t jumpin’ into nothin’ blind, Ms. Laura.
His smile turns to one of comfort and he motions for her to join him on the bench. As she sits, he scoots over a bit to give her space. Not a lot, but just enough to ensure her comfort.
Josh Kaine: Ain’t all balls and brawn over here, yanno. Got some of Ma’s brains too. Been workin’ hard since the last show…with Lou, with Cormac…with Ma too, if you can believe it. She won’t get in the ring, but she’s real good with strategy and stuff. I ain’t in this just to win, Ms. Laura. I’m in this to make sure you don’t get bulldozed by bullies…and to deliver a whole buncha pain to X tonight. Don’t care if I win or not. That ain’t the point.
The smile stays in place as he continues.
Josh Kaine: Point is to show folks exactly what they get if they wanna throw in their lot with a fuckin’ bully. Trust me, after the hell Jada put me through in EWA…and the hell she gave me for even signin’ with SHOOT without tellin’ her first, facin’ off against X is gonna seem like a dream come true. It’ll be almost as nice as finally findin’ my sister. I don’t wanna reel it in, don’t want you to reel it in either. We’re a bulwark holdin’ back a tidalwave, we ain’t got no choice but to stand our fuckin’ ground. Ya hear me?
Laura Seton: Well, like I told you the other night, you’re getting a chance at something I never have: X-Calibur, one-on-one. If you don’t win, so be it, but this is where you can put yourself on track for whatever you want. Even this…
She moves her eyes towards the World Heavyweight Championship.
Laura Seton: And if I hadn’t fallen asleep, I would have told you that about as prepared as you can be, for better or worse. Maybe some still don’t see you as a threat–but you’re no joke.
Josh’s smile turns to a grin as he playfully bumps her shoulder with his own.
Josh Kaine: Even if folks do think I’m some joke, or just an idiot, it don’t matter none to me. More they underestimate me, the better my chances. I’ll be gunnin’ for that belt someday, but we got some mangey cowards to put down first. We’re a team, Ms. Laura, it’s past time to show the rest of the world.
He chuckles to himself, still grinning wickedly at her.
Josh Kaine: Next time you come over, I’ll make sure ya stay awake.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
MICHAEL COLLINS
ROWLAND COLLINS
VS.
RAIKO
NEMESIS
Backstage
PREMIER
Abigail Chase, still looking phenomenal after all these years—as ageless as Vanna White, even—appears on camera. Her long red dress seems to bring out a radiance surrounding her as she smiles.
Abigail Chase: Ladies and gentlemen, the SHOOT Project Premier Champion, and our resident SmashShow…Vito Valentino!
Holding the Premier Championship across his shoulder, Vito Valentino steps into the picture. The title glistens under the hot lights as Vito nods at Abigail through his trademark shades.
Vito Valentino: Thank you, Abigail. Appreciate the intro from a legend like yourself!
Abigail blushes a bit.
Abigail Chase: I appreciate that! Now, it is my understanding that you wanted to address the state of SHOOT Project? Or, more specifically, the state of the Firestarter tournament?
Vito Valentino: That’s correct, Abigail. I do indeed.
Abigail Chase: Well, the floor is yours Mr. Valentino!
Vito nods at Abigail, who hands him the microphone. Not known for wasting time or air, he stares into the camera and speaks.
Vito Valentino: Premier. First in importance, order, or position.
The SmashShow takes a beat.
Vito Valentino: Leading.
He stops and pulls his sunglasses up above his shiny bald head.
Vito Valentino: I don’t take the definition of the word ‘Premier’ lightly, ladies and gentlemen. It’s not lost on me that I hold one of the most important championships SHOOT Project has ever seen. With that in mind, I hope each and every one of the competitors in this Firestarter tournament understand its importance, too.
With a wave of the hand, Vito pauses.
Vito Valentino: I don’t mean that in a sense of “Holy shit! I’m in a tournament l! I got TV Time!” either. Everybody vyin’ for a shot at this better come into their respective fight with the expectation, or at the very least, the sheer knowledge that this title is the summation of two important pieces of SHOOT Project history. You see, while I wasn’t here to partake in any of these types of matches, I’m the kind of student of the game that has done his homework and understands what this championship represents.
He holds up the PREMIER Championship.
Vito Valentino: This? It represents the Iron Fist and Rule of Surrender. You open the history books and can plainly see from the ink dried on those pages that it reads as a who’s who of professional wrestling between those two title belts.
The SmashShow raises his hand with three fingers up: his pinky, ring, and middle finger.
Vito Valentino: Laura Seton, our current World Heavyweight Champion? Two-time Rule of Surrender Champion.
He closes his pinky.
Vito Valentino: X-Calibur, while an absolute piece of garbage for doin’ what he did to Laura, also happens to be a FOUR-time Iron Fist Champion—part of the stonework laid down on his path towards that Hall of Fame he always goes out of his way to remind us about.
He closes his middle finger.
Vito Valentino: Dan Stein, our beloved COO, and the very guy who saw enough of somethin’ in Big Meat Veet to sign him to a Soldier’s contract, is a Three-Time Iron Fist Champion and a Hall of Famer in his own right.
He makes a fist now and pounds it into the palm of his right hand.
Vito Valentino: I could list dozens of names but I think you get the gist. Point is this, folks: the Premier Championship is the consolidation of two very important paths to immortality. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, they’re career making moves for one’s career. And if I may be so bold? My ‘Premier’ predecessors? I don’t really think they understood that. I don’t really think they even cared what this championship stood for.
With a look of disappointment, Vito paused, thinking about the names who held the title before him.
Vito Valentino: To be honest, I think that’s precisely why none of them amounted to much of anything. RIA? Miranda DC? NC-17? Black Sheep? All talented in their own right, but at the end of the day…gone. In the prime of their careers, no less. With another loss or two? You can bet on it that CICADER and Moriton will be right behind them.
Vito shakes his head.
Vito Valentino: That’s why I stand before you, here and now, deliverin’ a State of the Premier Championship address. All of youse better take inventory of yourselves before you take one step further in the Firestarter. Do you have what it takes to be PREMIER? Do you have it in you to HONOR one of the fallen greats with whom its namesake has been chosen? Or are you just another flash in the pan who wants to quit when the goin’ gets tough?
He nods.
Vito Valentino: Mm. We’ll see. If you’re the latter, you can stop right now. There’s the door, so kindly fuck off and fade away into the oblivion filled with countless attempts at greatness.
Vito lets it sink in for a moment. Marinating on everyone’s mind like his Mama’s sauce in her five-cheese ziti.
Vito Valentino: If you’re the former? PROVE. IT.
FIGHT like you belong here!
WIN like you want to be here!
LOSE… but get up, dust yourself off, and stay here!
If Chad Kyle can stick it out for as long as he has, then so can the rest of you.
Chuckling at the mere mention of Chaddo Kylentino, he continues.
Vito Valentino: It’s a privilege and an honor to be the carrot danglin’ in front of the ravenous few taking part in the inaugural Firestarter. And just so you know? Burk? Izzy? Muerte? Fergie? The rest of you?
He leans in, pulls his sunglasses back down over his eyes, and smiles.
Vito Valentino: …I’m not about to let anybody take a bite out of it. No matter how close your wanting mouths get to that carrot.
Capiche?
I am the Premier Powerhouse of SHOOT Project, and I’m lookin’ forward to powerbombin’ someone soon. Very soon. Good luck, paisanos.
You could tell there was a wink underneath the dark lense of his sunglasses, but you couldn’t really see it to be certain. Removing the Premier Title from the perch of his shoulder, he holds it up for the camera to view before fading out to ringside.
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 2
(4) ULTIMO MUERTE
VS.
(2) DAIHM FERGUSON
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
A POSE-PROSAL
We cut to backstage where we find steam rolling out of a locker room shower, immediately fogging up the camera glass.
The cameraman reaches up to wipe clear the haze with a handkerchief, and as he pulls the cloth away, we find ourselves staring at a naked Remy Garden. Water droplets are visible, beaded on his cut chest and down the rest of his thin, but muscular frame. Thankfully for the censors, his unmentionables are covered by the steam as he reaches up and snags a white robe embroidered with black roses. A stark, desaturated look for a fighter who is normally awash in pinks, greens, and yellows.
Remy ignores the camera, at first, as he runs a brush through his auburn hair and lets it fall throw his fingers onto his neck and back. He pauses, tightening the sash around his robe, before turning toward the camera with a tense stare.
Remy Garden: Aiden Vanity you have looked to wilt this garden by digging in your heels but all you have served to accomplish is digging your own grave.
Remy cocks his head upward, confidently.
Remy Garden: You have besmirched my family name at the expense of your own, you have told falsehoods, and worse yet you have borne false witness. Dieu t’aide!
The hiss of Remy’s voice is akin to a snake or, perhaps, the steam that is slowly dissipating behind him. The “Savage” One runs a hand through his hair once again and scoffs toward the camera.
Remy Garden: That’s the difference between Pride and Vanity, no? Remy Garden has pride. Remy Garden knows he could beat you in a one on one fight, but why would I want to sully these perfectly manicured hands getting down in the mud with a pig like yourself? You don’t have pride, Aiden, but you make up for it with greed, gluttony, envy, and sloth.
Remy holds up his fingers with each and smiles at the camera.
Remy Garden: I guess that leaves me with lust…
Remy lifts his leg, his robe slowly opening but still avoiding any X-rated content.
Remy Garden: …and wrath.
Remy narrows his gaze and points toward the camera. Pointing past us and toward Aiden Vanity.
Remy Garden: You want me, Aiden? Get to the back of the line.
Remy winks and pulls his hand back into a fist.
Remy Garden: But you want to challenge Remy on the subject of pride? Of beauty and glamor? Well then…
Remy’s fist turns into a flat palm as he raises his other arm, and hand to create a vogue pose, framing his head dramatically.
Remy Garden: I challenge you to a pose-prosal. One night only. In the ring… we’ll let the fans vote on who is the sickest, sultriest, and salacious member of the roster.
Remy lowers his arms and crosses his bare chest.
Remy Garden: And I suggest you accept, cher, or else you might find yourself…
Remy chuckles as he looks confidently into the camera.
Remy Garden: De-POSED.
Remy winks at the camera and blows a kiss before the screen cuts to BLACK.
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
AIDEN VANITY
VS.
CHADWICK KYLE
BACKSTAGE
I HOPE YOU THINK I'M WORTH NOTHING
Towel over her head, Izzy Sia is sitting on some stairs, her shoulders high, elbows resting on her knees. Silently she sways back and forth, clearly putting herself in a zone. When she speaks, though, it’s almost a whisper, The Kamatayan using calm measured tones of someone who’s visualizing a fight in her head.
Izzy: There’s one thing Kru Robideau always says, and I try to take it to heart. ‘Win the fight before the first bell.’ Lots of folks…they think they’re doing that. Mess with your perceptions, fuck with your head, let some scary rep do the walking for them.
She raises her head, letting us see half of her face, as her eyes narrow and a sneer comes across her lips.
Izzy: What lazy, lazy bullshit.
The pride of Blackhawk cracks her neck, exhaling a dry laugh as she does.
Izzy: That’s the method of a snake, full stop. That’s lizard mentality. You want to be so low as that, that you owe your win to some fuckaround psychology stuff? Nah, when I say win before the first bell, when he says it, we mean to visualize. Meditate on how the win comes, what the win means, the path you’ll take. And that’s not just sucking your own dick, either. Visualize what you’ll have to endure to get there. No surprises, when you do that. See, I know I’m going to get hit. Hard. I know I’m going to struggle more than once. I know that at some point, you’ll attach yourself to me, and that’s game the fuck over, because I may be small…but so are the joints and tendons in your body that I will ruin, sure as the sun will rise.
She begins hopping on the balls of her feet, shaking out her limbs.
Izzy: I know I might bleed. I know I’m gonna be sucking wind. Every part of me is going to feel like it’s on fire. Do you? Have you prepared for this moment? Or are you just gonna keep fucking around until The Kamatayan teaches you new definitions of pain?
Sia stops bouncing, her hands balling into fists. We can see her muscles popping, new definition from hours in the gym, hours training, hours sparring, and hours taking beatings in Japan.
Izzy: The worst part about me is…I hope you aren’t prepared. I hope you think I’m worth nothing.
She pulls the towel to her neck and grins.
Izzy: It’ll make your screams for mercy all the fuckin’ nicer.
With that, Izzy Sia flips the camera a hard middle finger, then stalks off out of frame, presumably to her match. We cut away…
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
MOTION
The scene opens in grainy black and white, the familiar flicker of a security camera feed giving the image an eerie, almost noir-like quality. The footage is timestamped in the corner: LIVE – EPICENTER – Dan Stein’s Office.
For the first few moments, the office remains completely empty. Papers are neatly stacked on the desk, a few chairs sit untouched, and everything seems calm. The only movement comes from the faint flicker of a fluorescent light in the corner, casting an occasional shadow over the room. It’s the kind of footage where, if you stared at it long enough, you’d expect a ghost to appear.
Then, finally, motion.
Dan Stein enters the frame.
The COO of SHOOT Project strides in, briefcase in one hand, the other adjusting his tie. He drops the briefcase by his chair and settles in, flipping through a stack of paperwork on his desk. He leans forward, brows furrowed, clearly engrossed in whatever corporate nonsense awaits him.
But then…
The bathroom door creaks open.
From inside his personal bathroom, out steps a familiar figure:
Harv Norris.
He’s casual as hell, like a man leaving his own house. He stops in the doorway, stretching his arms above his head like he just had the best nap of his life. In one hand? A fancy, monogrammed SHOOT Project hand towel. The very same high-quality towel he had raved about before.
Dan freezes.
His head slowly turns toward the unexpected intruder.
Harv’s shoulders tense.
For a moment, neither man moves. The flickering light overhead makes the moment feel almost supernatural.
Dan steps forward.
Harv says something. His hands go up, palms outward, his body language pure innocence, like he’s negotiating a hostage situation.
Dan steps forward again.
Harv suddenly shuffles sideways, trying to make his way past him toward the exit.
Dan catches sight of the towel. His eyes narrow.
He reaches out.
Harv reacts instantly. He tightens his grip on the towel, his other hand instinctively grabbing onto the office chair for leverage.
Now, the two men are locked in a silent, desperate battle.
A tug-of-war over one single, premium SHOOT Project hand towel.
Dan yanks.
Harv yanks back.
Dan braces his foot against the desk, pulling harder.
Harv leans back like a man fighting a blue line slap shot, refusing to let go. His head jerks side to side, scanning for an escape route.
Dan pulls.
Harv plants his foot.
Dan glares.
Harv grits his teeth.
For one split second, it seems like the battle might never end.
Then…
The towel rips in half.
Dan stumbles backward, clutching one half of the towel in his hand, his face pure rage.
Harv, still gripping the other half, doesn’t hesitate. He bolts.
He dives for the exit, practically hockey-sliding through the doorframe on sheer instinct.
Dan lunges forward, but he’s too late. Harv is gone.
Dan stands there, his chest heaving, one half of his prized towel dangling in his hand. His jaw clenches. His fists tighten.
The camera holds on him.
Then, in frustration, he throws the ruined half of the towel onto his desk.
CUT FEED.
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 2
(5) IZZY SIA
VS.
(6) BELLECOSE
IN THE RING
THIS IS IT
The arena is hushed, not out of disinterest, but out of respect. They know what this is. They know why Austin Anderson is walking to the ring tonight. There’s no music, no pyro, no grand introduction, just him, dressed in a crisp gray suit with the top button of his shirt undone, his championship aspirations left in the past, but his presence still larger than life.
The fans stand and applaud, their cheers not those of excitement, but of admiration. They chant his name “AUS-TIN AN-DER-SON!” over and over again, as he steps through the ropes for the last time. He lets the moment breathe, his eyes scanning the crowd, soaking in the love, the appreciation, the finality of it all. He adjusts the microphone in his hand, exhales, and speaks.
Austin Anderson: Words, beautiful, intricate words, have always been my chosen weapon, my art, my means of cutting down my opposition and raising myself higher. But tonight… tonight, even I find myself searching for the right ones.
He pauses, adjusting his stance, choosing his next words carefully.
Austin Anderson: It has been weeks since I stood across the ring from Laura Seton. Weeks since I tested myself against a master of this craft, against a woman who defines what a world champion is. And in that match, in that war, I gave everything I had. Every. Single. Ounce. But in the end… she was better. And if I am to call myself a man of truth, a man of dignity, then I must acknowledge that on that night, I was second best. And that, my friends… that was the moment I knew.
He swallows, looking down at the mat beneath him, the mat that has been his home, his battlefield, his sanctuary.
Austin Anderson: I have fought wars. I have bled. I have bled for this business, sacrificed for this ring, for the chance to prove, time and time again, that I was the best. And for decades, I lived in a cycle of obsession, of hunger, of addiction. But at 52 years old… my body, my mind, my soul… they are telling me that it is time. And if I cannot give you my absolute best, if I cannot step between these ropes as Austin Anderson, The Absolute, then I will not insult this sport by giving you anything less.
The crowd begins to murmur, a wave of emotion sweeping through them as they hang on his every word. Some start chanting, “Thank you, Austin!” but he holds up a hand, shaking his head.
Austin Anderson: No. No, no, no. I thank you. I thank each and every one of you who ever bought a ticket to watch me perform. Who cheered me, who booed me, who believed in me, who despised me. Every one of you who let me live my dream night in and night out. You, you, kept me going, even when I felt I had nothing left to give.
He steps toward the ropes, leaning on them for a moment, as if saying goodbye to an old friend.
Austin Anderson: For years, I feared this day. I feared a world without wrestling. I feared a life beyond that curtain. But today, standing before you… I do not fear it. I embrace it. Because I walk away with no regrets. Because I faced the very best, and I did it my way. And tonight, I leave you not as a man who is broken, but as a man who is whole.
He straightens his posture, one final gleam of pride in his eyes as he looks around at the thousands in attendance.
Austin Anderson: This is it. My last promo, my last monologue. My final act. And if you remember anything about me, let it be this, I gave you my everything. And in return, you gave me something far greater… immortality.
He lowers the mic to the mat, the sound of it hitting echoing through the arena like a final heartbeat. He steps to the ropes one last time, pausing before exiting, turning back to take in the sight, his final vision of the ring he called home. He nods, a small, knowing smile crossing his lips, before stepping through the ropes and down the steps.
As he makes his way up the ramp, the chants swell once more “Thank you, Austin!” and he stops just before disappearing behind the curtain. One last glance over his shoulder. One last moment. And then, just like that, he’s gone.
SINGLES MATCH
SIN CITY CHAMPIONSHIP
KING OSO
VS.
MIKE DE LOS HUESOS (C)
Backstage
JUST HOW I DO
Backstage, in the production area most commonly used for interviews and pre-match bits, stand Joey ‘Golden’ Burkhalter. He’s broad, tall, healthy–wearing his wrestling gear and a black/red/gold track jacket, he looks every bit like the future of the industry he’s touted as being.
But he’s standing and looking a little nonplussed.
Burkhalter: The producer said he wanted me to do some kinda pre-fight talk, right?
He shrugs dismissively.
Burkhalter: …why?
Catching himself, realizing how that sounds, he waves his hands and backtracks.
Burkhalter: Look, I’m not saying I don’t care. Don’t get it twisted, don’t take it like that, but…You guys–and here I’m talking to everyone watching, follow–you guys all know me. You saw me on videos when I was like 15 in the first Blackhawk location, You saw me come up.
Now feeling more in control, Joey slaps his shoulders and smiles.
Burkhalter: You know what I am in there. But maybe this isn’t for the people at home, maybe it’s for my opponent. But I don’t need to give you a bunch of fancy words about how I’m gonna kick you so hard your soul leaves your body. I don’t need to convince you of anything. You know that line from government, “truth is self-evident”?
Mangled reference aside, Joey unzips his track jacket and discards it, stacking his torse and flexing everything in him until his abs pop and his biceps fire. He grins like the cocky young man he is.
Burkhalter: How about this truth? Looks pretty self-evident to me. Listen, you can claim that I’m green or a noob or whatever else you wanna say. But I’m an alpha dog, I’m the future. They don’t call me the New Aeon for nothing, losers. So mister production man, you want me to give the people at home a message? It’s this: you’re witnessing something big. I’m like crypto–best get in on the ground floor. Cause the upside potential is huge if you got diamond hands.
He peels off his jacket and begins rolling his shoulders, staying loose.
Burkhalter: And if you want me to give a message to the Wasp? It’s this.
Joey walks closer to the camera, sneering in his way that has always made everyone frankly despise him. But this time feels more considered. The difference seems to be he knows it, and either wants to cultivate it, or doesn’t care that much. Flipping his shaggy hair, he chuckles.
Burkhalter: Nothing personal, baby. This is just how I do.
With that, The Golden One shadow boxes a few jabs and a cross, before winking and walking off camera. We cut away…
SINGLES MATCH
THE FIRESTARTER: NIGHT 2
(1) GOLDEN BURKHALTER
VS.
(3) WASP
IN THE RING
IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT
The lights dim for a moment before blasting into a full-scale arena spectacle. The sound of blaring airhorns rips through the PA system, immediately followed by the unmistakable wail of a hockey organ playing “The Hockey Song” by Stompin’ Tom Connors. A trio of synchronized red and white spotlights circle the stage before converging on the entrance ramp.
And then – BOOM. A burst of confetti (colored like the Canadian flag, obviously) fires off as The Punch Line emerge from the back, looking as smug as ever.
Roy Vezina, dressed like a man who thinks he’s too good for the place, leads the charge, holding a Tim Hortons coffee cup like it’s a championship belt. Rick Hull, stoic and massive, walks behind him, arms crossed like a bouncer outside a sketchy rink bar. And finally, Harv Norris, rocking a stained Moosehead Lager hoodie, is chugging what appears to be a Molson Tallboy, which he proceeds to crush against his own forehead before tossing it into the crowd.
The boos are deafening. They walk to the ring, drinking in the hatred, taking their sweet time. As they step inside, Roy pulls a mic from his jacket pocket, adjusting his collar as if the air in the arena isn’t up to his standards. He lifts the mic, but the fans are already chanting…
GO HOME, PUNCH LINE! GO HOME!
Roy snorts, shaking his head as Rick Hull just cracks his neck. Harv leans against the ropes, scratching his belly, completely unbothered.
Roy Vezina: Ohhhhhh, buddy, if only I could. Trust me, if I had known what kind of sad state this company was in before we signed the dotted line, I’d be back home sippin’ on a double-double, watchin’ the Habs play like men, instead of standing here in the middle of this dumpster fire you people call a wrestling promotion.
The boos get even LOUDER. Roy takes a step back and gives them a sarcastic little golf clap.
The fans hate them.
Roy waves a dismissive hand.
Roy Vezina: I mean, I really thought this place had standards. I thought SHOOT Project was supposed to be the home of the best wrestlers in the world. But the second we come back? The second we walk through those doors? All I see is mediocrity.
Harv suddenly grabs the mic from Roy, his thick-as-hell Newfoundland accent making half the crowd tilt their heads like confused dogs.
Harv Norris: Buddy, y’know what dis place reminds me of, b’y? A beer league. A bloody beer league! Y’ever seen a bunch o’ washed-up fellers wit’ big guts ‘n bad knees, pretendin’ like they still got it? Dat’s SHOOT Project.
The crowd groans in frustration, booing even louder. Roy takes the mic back, nodding as he points at the fans.
Roy Vezina: EXACTLY, Harv! See, that’s the problem, folks! The SHOOT Project used to be about greatness. It used to be about excellence. But you people – YOU PEOPLE – settle for less.
Rick Hull steps forward for the first time, adjusting his jacket. His voice is deep and even-toned.
Rick Hull: They reward failure. They celebrate losers.
Roy Vezina: Oh-ho-ho, do they EVER! Back home? We don’t celebrate second place. We don’t reward effort, we reward victory. That’s why we were the Tag Team of the Year in 2024. That’s why we’re the best thing going today. And that’s why you people can’t handle us.
Harv suddenly jumps in again, cutting off Roy with a slap to his chest.
Harv Norris: Ohhhhhh, buddy, ya see deir faces? Look at dem! Dere all real sore, b’y! Dere mad! Dey’re real choked! You’d t’ink we just told ‘em The Tragically Hip was overrated or somethin’!
The crowd ERUPTS in boos, Harv just grins, proud of himself. Rick Hull chuckles under his breath. Roy wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.
Roy Vezina: Aw, don’t cry, folks. It’s not your fault. You’ve been conditioned to accept less. You’ve been spoon-fed mediocrity for so long that the second REAL WINNERS walk through that door, you don’t know whether to cheer us or ask us to cover your shift at the Dollar General.
The crowd roars in anger, but Roy just shrugs, feigning innocence.
Roy Vezina: I mean, let’s be honest, this ain’t exactly an intellectual crowd. Half of you look like you’ve been up since last Tuesday, gambling away your unemployment checks on penny slots and buffet punch cards. The other half? I dunno if you’re here for a wrestling show or if you just wandered in looking for the nearest half-price Elvis wedding.
Rick Hull lets out a single, deep “heh.” Harv Norris, meanwhile, scratches his beard and grins.
Harv Norris: Buddy, I swear, I ain’t never seen so many people missin’ teeth in one place. An’ I come from a province wit’ a population of half a million an’ maybe six dentists total!
Roy places a hand on his chest, gasping in mock horror. He turns to the crowd and shakes his head.
Roy Vezina: Oh, and let’s not forget the so-called “tough guys” in the audience. Every time I come to Vegas, I see the same washed-up barflies who spent their best years getting thrown out of Buffalo Wild Wings for trying to fight a waitress over too much ice in their Bud Light.
The camera cuts to a group of angry-looking guys in the front row. Roy grins like the devil himself. Harv cups a hand to his ear, pretending he can’t hear them yelling. Rick Hull just stands there, arms crossed, unbothered.
Roy Vezina: And don’t even get me started on the women in this town. Holy hell! Las Vegas is the only city on Earth where you can meet a woman who looks 40 in the face and 19 on the license.
The boos reach nuclear levels. Roy smirks, running a hand through his hair.
Roy Vezina: Hey, hey, I’m just sayin’, some of you should’ve taken that casino money and invested in moisturizer.
Harv cackles, slapping his knee. Rick Hull just shakes his head. Roy takes a step toward the ropes, pointing at the crowd.
Roy Vezina: But that’s Vegas for you, huh? This whole place is built on losing. You people have been trained to be losers. That’s why you settle for a second-rate roster in a third-rate company with a fourth-rate fanbase. That’s why you worship the kind of guys that me and my boys used to bodycheck into the boards before breakfast. And that’s why, now that The Punch Line is back?
He pauses, smirking as he looks at Rick and Harv.
Roy Vezina: You’re all just witnessing what real winners look like for the first time.
The crowd absolutely erupts in pure hatred. Drinks are being thrown, security is stepping in to keep people from jumping the barricade. Harv’s dying laughing, Rick is still unshaken, and Roy just basks in it like he’s the king of the world.
Roy smirks, taking a few steps forward, leaning on the ropes.
Roy Vezina: But don’t worry. We’re gonna fix this place. Whether you like it or not, The Punch Line is here to bring back standards. We’re here to clean up this bush-league disaster of a company. Because the way we see it? SHOOT Project has two choices: step up, or get left behind.
Rick Hull steps up beside him, nodding. Harv, still hyped up, pumps his fists like he’s leading the world’s worst hockey chant. The crowd is seething. They want nothing more than to see these three get their heads knocked off.
With that, they toss the mics out of the ring, Rick holds open the ropes for Roy and Harv, and they exit like they own the place. The airhorns blare one last time as they make their way up the ramp, soaking in the heat.
PROMOTIONAL VIDEO
THE WALKING ACCOLADE
“You know what I love? Tournament season. It’s everywhere. The NCAA is rocking and rolling, some Japanese wrestling tournament is coming up in the next couple of months, and we’ve got our own thing going here to honor a fallen Soldier, in the Firestarter.”
The tron lights up, showing the face to the words and it’s the one, the only, the incorrigible, the unfuckwithable, the walking accolade, the emperor himself… Joshua Breedlove.
The crowd, naturally, does not want to see his face and they let him know immediately.
Breedlove: I know, I know. My adoring fans, I know you wish I were there with you tonight, and really when you think about it… in some capacity, I am. You saw Mike do his thing earlier, my Collins Twins establish the Empire’s dominance over HEXXXED, and the New Aeon himself pick up another W in this whole Firestarter thing.
He smiles, black collared shirt and tie with a golden embroidered logo fully on display.
Breedlove: My influence is everywhere. You’ll see it later tonight, when X-Calibur grinds Josh Kaine into paste. The kid’s good, he’s just not… X-Calibur good. Just like he wasn’t Breedlove good. He might get there some day, but he keeps running his mouth and fucking with the bigger dogs. He just keeps getting bitten, it’s sad. Here’s what else is sad.
He gives the crowd no time to react, moving on with a grin on his face.
Breedlove: The World Heavyweight Championship situation.
The crowd BOOS hard.
Breedlove: Now, I saw that Laura Seton was in attendance. I saw that she’s got a cast on her arm, and that’s… well, that’s just sad. Sad for you guys, sad for her, sad for me. Only sad for me because I’m not there to make it worse, though. The World Heavyweight Champion is maimed and has not yet been forced to give up that belt. That’s interesting, don’t you think? I’ve been told she’ll continue to be out for a bit as well, and yet… no word about stripping her of the title.
He smiles.
Breedlove: I think they’re waiting for me. Waiting for me to make the challenge, you know? Waiting for me to say “I want Laura Seton in a match” because what Joshua Breedlove asks for, Joshua Breedlove gets. And yet… I’m not sure when I want to pick that spot. Do I pick it for April 20th, at the next major show? Do I wait and give her time to heal? Is she even ever going to be cleared to compete or should we eulogize her career?
He nods his head, mockingly.
Breedlove: Those are all important questions that need answers, and unfortunately, I’m not the man to give those answers. I do want a World title shot, I do want to take the belt off of Laura Seton, and I do want to end her career… it just, you know, it’s been weeks right? Maybe she’s hiding behind that cast. Maybe Laura Seton is so shook that she can’t even fathom defending the title right now… against me. So, I’m going to be in attendance at Revolution 223 and when I get there, I want an answer either from the champ herself or the SHOOT Project about what’s going on with that title, because as far as I’m concerned?
He smiles, the crowd boos, and he just shakes his head.
Breedlove: It’s just a matter of time before it’s back around my waist. I might want a match, actually. Let’s make that happen.
Black.
MAIN EVENT
SIN CITY CHAMPIONSHIP
X-CALIBUR
VS.
