EP.: 223
DATE: 04.07.2025
ARENA: THE EPICENTER
SINGLES MATCH
N/A
TRISTAN KEITH
VS.
AIDEN VANITY
IN THE RING
Tristan Keith quickly rolls out of the ring as Aiden Vanity stares daggers at his opponent. Vanity watches as Keith exits, waiting until he is fully up the ring and headed toward the back before turning around and holding down the middle rope to push himself to the outside when suddenly the lights in the arena go a bright shade of pink.
Aiden is stuck, mid-motion, looking up as pink and white petals begin to drop from the sky, a rush of perfume suddenly filling the air vents and flowing over the arena like the world’s biggest Glade plugin.
Jason Johnson: I know it’s cherry blossom season and everything, but this is a little overboard!
Eryk Master: Las Vegas doesn’t have cherry blossoms, Jason.
Jason Johnson: Then what is-
Anytime I need to see your face, I just close my eyes and I am taken to a place where your crystal mind and magenta feelings take up shelter in the base of my spine.
Sweet like a chic-a-cherry cola I don’t need to try to explain; I just hold on tight
And if it happens again, I might move so slightly to the arms and the lips and the face of the human cannonball
That I need to, I want to
HEY!
The lyrics to Savage Garden’s “I Want You” hit the speakers as Aiden Vanity’s initial annoyance is replaced with utter disgust. The blonde brute shakes the petals off of him like they were spiders as Remy Garden emerges from the back, a flowing pink gown around his shoulders and a microphone in his hand.
The fans in the immediate seats next to the rampway rush to the crash gates as Remy looks around, blowing kisses to the audience – even causing some to faint to the floor.
Jason Johnson: You see that! Remy Garden is a damned liability, Eryk!
Eryk Masters: The only ability to lie here is your own.
Jason Johnson: That’s right! I mean.. HEY!
The music fades as Remy pushes a lock of his auburn hair back and raises the microphone to his perfectly glossed lips.
Remy Garden: Bonne soirée, Aiden. Leaving so soon?
Aiden sneers, gesturing for his own microphone.
Aiden Vanity: You’re the one who’s going to be gone and sorry here in a minute, Garden. How dare you interrupt my meticulously crafted walk to the back. I practiced it in front of the mirror at least 50 times last night!
Remy smirks.
Remy Garden: Oh heavens. I’m so sorry. Is the mirror OK?
The crowd “Oooooooos” like a live crowd during a very special episode on ABC’s TGIF lineup as Aiden’s face turns an awful shade of red.
Aiden Vanity: My mirror is a symbol of the only thing worth looking at in this place! I’m surprised you had the balls to come out here to begin with after I embarrassed you last time. You must’ve really enjoyed getting your ass handed to you, huh? So unless you want me to turn your little bonne soirée into a bon voyage straight to the emergency room, I suggest you zip it and let me exit in the glamorous way I intended.
Remy crosses his arms and thinks for a second, looking wistfully toward the ceiling as Aiden taps his foot impatiently. Finally, the “Savage One” speaks.
Remy Garden: Glamor is reserved for those who’ve earned it, Aiden. All you’ve given these fans thusfar are some self-indulgent paintings that are about as oily as that skin of yours. And the only sore ass I see around here is the one I’m lookin’ at in the ring right now.
Eryk Masters: Ohhhhh Ohhhh no he didn’t!
Jason Johnson: Behave yourself, Eryk! This isn’t a drag show, it’s serious business!
Eryk Masters: Jason, we have matches tonight featuring a hockey team, a deer, a wasp, a dragon, and a dead man. Serious left hours ago.
Aiden is clearly furious, finally exiting the ring and making his way toward the rampway.
Aiden Vanity: You thought you could outsmart me, but you forgot something. I’m not just handsome, I’m smarter than you! Unlike you, I don’t waste my time playing kids games so unless you have an actual reason for coming out here and wasting my time, I’m out – and if you decide to stand in my way, then I can’t be held accountable for what happens next.
Aiden starts making his way up the ramp, but Remy is still standing there blocking Aiden’s way. He skids to a stop.
Vanity’s lips curl in disgust, and he places his hands on his hips. Rather than continue to engage with this silly cat and mouse game, Aiden turns on his heel and hops over the guardrail into the sea of fans.
But instead of a smooth getaway, he soon realizes the first few rows are Remy stans.
He spots a fan holding a sign that reads “Remy > Aiden”, snatches it then rips it in half before tossing the remains over his shoulder and walks off, avoiding the fans touching him as if they are contagious. The crowd begins to boo as Remy watches with an amused look on his face.
Remy Garden: If you won’t willingly accept my Pose-prosal, Aiden… then I have to assume that, instead, you’re nothing but a Pose-r.
The Epicenter erupts as Aiden begins shouting wildly at Remy from somewhere in the crowd as he tries to find an alternate exit that doesn’t go through one Remy Garden… Aiden locks eyes with Remy one last time but Remy simply blows a kiss in Aiden’s direction before turning away from the crowd and letting his robe fall to the floor, revealing a full-bodied set of armor of mirrors just barely covering his chest, torso, and pelvic region.
Remy lifts a hand to the air and snaps his fingers forcefully, throwing his head back confidently as the arena goes dark and a single pink spotlight falls on the fighter. He raises his gaze – looking toward the camera.
Remy Garden: Category is… VANITY…
Remy points out towards Aiden in the crowd as we see a split screen of Remy’s cocky stare and Aiden’s furious sneer as the crowd erupts in cheers of “TEN!” “TEN!” “TEN!”
Eryk Masters: You were saying, Jason?
Remy Garden smiles and brushes his hair back as Aiden turns and continues his exit through the crowd, the fans shoving and laughing at him as he exits. Remy takes a bow under the spotlight as we cut away from ringside.
Backstage
AN UNDERSTANDING
Backstage
Rowland Collins sits in the training room with an ice pack on his shoulder. He’s wearing his wrestling trunks, ready for his match later in the night. The shoulder has kinesio tape on it. Standing next to him is head trainer, Bradley Kenneth Holzauer. Both men look at each other.
Rowland Collins: It’s fine, lad. Just tweaked it by lifting some furniture. Nothing to be worried about.
BKH: Are you telling me or yourself? Because it sounds like you’re telling yourself.
Rowland sighs, adjusting the ice on the shoulder. Just about that time, Michael Collins finds his way in the room. Rowland looks at his brother, Michael looks at the ice pack. Rowland pulls the ice pack off of his shoulder. Michael reaches for the ice pack and puts it back on the shoulder.
Michael Collins: If you need it, you need it, Brother.
Rowland nods. Michael smiles, but slowly gets down on Rowland’s level.
Michael Collins: But if it becomes a liability, you become a liability. And I can’t have that right now.
Michael pats his brother on the opposite shoulder.
Michael Collins: Let’s go.
Michael waits for Rowland to slowly stand up. Rowland drops the ice pack on the table he was sitting on and nods at BKH. He then looks at his brother.
Rowland Collins: Aye, let’s go.
The two men stare into each other’s eyes for a moment before turning and walking out of the room.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
SCOTT HUNTER
BRICK SUNSET
VS.
JANE
LOU
IN THE RING
NO MORE FREE PASSES
We come back from commercial and the arena is already humming with anticipation. Suddenly, a deafening goal horn rattles the rafters like the start of overtime in the Stanley Cup Finals. Red and white lights flash as the unmistakable blast of an over-the-top orchestral remix of Stompin’ Tom Connors’ “The Hockey Song” drops. The crowd immediately erupts in boos.
Through the curtain steps the one and only Punch Line.
Roy Vezina leads the charge like a proud, delusional team captain, decked out in a red-and-white sequined jacket with a massive maple leaf on the back and “CAPTAIN EXCELLENCE” stitched in gold. Rick Hull follows with slow, heavy stomps, fists clenched, eyes locked on the ring like he’s about to drop gloves. Harv Norris? He’s stick-handling an invisible puck the whole way down the ramp, grinning like a maniac.
Roy Vezina (hot mic): Las Vegas! Ohhh, you beautiful mistake of a city! You tacky, sweaty theme park for degenerates! We’re baaaack, and this time, you’re all gonna pay for your crimes against good taste!
BOOOOO!
The crowd’s hatred is palpable, but Roy drinks it in like maple syrup.
Roy Vezina: I haven’t seen this many gutted buffets and broken dreams since the last time I walked down Fremont Street, and believe me, even the pigeons look disappointed to be here!
Harv Norris: B’y, I’ve seen moose carcasses with more class than this crowd! This place smells like expired hot dogs and regret, ya greasy lot!
Rick Hull: [silent, arms crossed, nodding]
Roy Vezina: And what’ve we got lined up tonight, huh? A match with the Collins Brothers? A pair of pale, punch-drunk hobbits from across the Atlantic who look like they lost a pub fight and wandered into the wrong country? I’ve seen better competition in beer league hockey!
Harv Norris: Aye, me Nan could take ’em both, and she’s been dead for eight years, God love ’er!
They reach ringside as Roy steps up to the apron, scowling at the sea of furious faces.
Roy Vezina: But let’s not forget the real embarrassment here… this crowd. Las Vegas! You neon cockroach colony! You dollar store Disneyland! We’re here to inject some real athleticism into this warehouse of washed-up Elvis impersonators and bad lip filler! And here’s the real sad thing, you people settled. You settle for mediocrity, for bums in shiny tights, while real greatness, Canadian greatness, was exiled over a technicality.
BOOOOOOOOO!
Roy Vezina (pointing at a fan): Hey, pal, you paid to boo us? You look like you paid in loose change and regret. I’ve seen more fight in a Tim Hortons line during double-double season!
Roy paces the ring, fired up.
Roy Vezina: You people would cheer a flaming garbage can if it had a six-pack and a tribal tattoo. You settle for mediocrity like it’s a Vegas wedding. Meanwhile, you boo the 2024 Tag Team of the Year, the only trio in this company with actual talent, discipline, and a functioning moral compass.
Rick flexes, Harv points to his bicep and yells “THIS IS MADE OF DONAIR MEAT!”
Roy Vezina: But the Punch Line’s back, baby. And now that we’re here? Things are gonna change. We’re not just raising hell, we’re raising the standard. No more free passes. No more sloppy seconds. From now on, you play like pros, or you don’t play at all.
Harv Norris (shouting to the crowd): And if ye don’t like it, we’ll shove yer slot machines so far up yer arse, ye’ll be pullin’ triple sevens every time ye hiccup!
Roy Vezina: Tag division, locker room, management, all of you, consider yourselves on notice. Harv and Rick are about to rip the luck right outta these Irish clowns, and then it’s open season. You’re either with us, or you’re on the receiving end of a five-minute major.
Rick slaps the turnbuckle. Harv lets out a battle cry. Roy throws his jacket to the floor.
Roy Vezina: So here’s how this is gonna go: Harv and Rick are gonna beat the Irish back into the Potato Famine, I’m gonna sit ringside and look amazing, and you’re all gonna leave here crying into your scratch-off tickets wondering why your heroes can’t keep up with real Canadian excellence.
The bell’s about to ring, and the crowd is frothing with hatred.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
MICHAEL COLLINS
ROWLAND COLLINS
VS.
HARV NORRIS
RICK HULL
Backstage
FIRE STARTED
Backstage
The camera opens on Pandora, walking in front of Ultimo Muerte to the ring, with a phone to her ear. She wears a red pantsuit that matches Ultimo Muerte’s red wrestling tights with black and gold decorations and trimming. Pandora has a phone to her ear.
Pandora: I understand.
She pauses. Maniacal laughter can be heard on the other side before inaudible speaking. Moments pass before Pandora speaks.
Pandora: I understand.
The voice on the other end laughs again. Pandora looks over her shoulder at Ultimo Muerte.
Pandora: We understand.
Pandora stops. Ultimo Muerte crosses his arms. The phone hangs up on Pandora. She turns to Ultimo Muerte and the camera moves to be between the two of them. Pandora taps Ultimo Muerte on the pec with her phone.
Pandora: You must win this match. Our leash is shortening. They are not happy with your performance at the last Revolution. You. must. win.
Pandora looks and Ultimo Muerte and sighs.
Pandora: Do not fail them. You must win The Firestarter or…
Ultimo Muerte looks at Pandora with his arms still crossed.
Pandora: We do not want to find out what will happen.
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER NIGHT 3
{5} IZZY SIA
VS.
(3) WASP
PROMOTIONAL VIDEO
A COSMIC DETONATION
The only sound: slow, labored breathing. Then… silence.
NARRATOR (V.O.) – calm, prophetic tone:
“In the beginning… there was silence. Then, a voice. Then, a vision. Then, pain.”
Quick flash cuts: Elijah writhing on the mat from months ago. Medics rushing in. A stretcher. A robe soaked in blood. A hooded follower dropping to their knees in grief.
NARRATOR (V.O.):
“Elijah Cassius Starborne, cast down from the heavens by mortal hands. Left broken. Forgotten by the flesh-born. But the stars…”
(pause)
“…the stars do not forget.”
Crescendo of a low, droning organ note. Cut to black.
Slow fade in: A massive night sky. Nebulae swirl. A silhouette sits in lotus position on a mountaintop. Robes flap in the wind. That figure turns — we catch a glimpse of piercing green eyes beneath dark, neat hair.
ELIJAH CASSIUS STARBORNE (V.O.) – softly, coldly:
“They thought pain would humble me. They thought absence would erase me. But you cannot bury a prophet. You cannot silence the voice of the infinite.”
Cut: Flash of torches in the woods. The Celestial Order, larger now. More organized. More militant. Their silhouettes in worship, raising star-inscribed staffs.
ELIJAH (V.O.):
“I did not rest. I ascended. I transcended. I spoke with the void. And it… answered.”
Quick, chaotic cuts: Celestial symbols being carved into stone. Runes burning. A ring surrounded by smoke. A massive, robed figure — maybe Solstice — standing guard behind Elijah.
Cut to: Elijah standing in the center of the Celestial Sanctum. Arms outstretched. His white robes gleam under starlight. His eyes blaze green. He smirks.
ELIJAH (V.O.):
“You cheered when I fell. You prayed I would not rise. And now… your prayers go unanswered.”
Hard cut to black.
SFX: BOOM — like a cosmic detonation.
Text fades in — slow, glowing like it’s being carved in stardust:
STARBORNE
Cut to Elijah’s face, close-up. Calm, intense. He speaks directly.
ELIJAH:
“I return not to be adored… but to be obeyed.”
Final shot: The Celestial Order behind him. The stars overhead align unnaturally. The ground pulses with light. One word flashes on screen in sharp white:
“SOON.”
End.
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER NIGHT 3
(4) ULTIMO MUERTE
VS.
(1) GOLDEN BURKHALTER
Backstage
PREMIER
The night continues to move forward at a rapid pace, winding down Revolution to the final hour of its 223rd broadcast. Vito Valentino walks backstage, already in his ring gear, with a purpose attached to his powerful gait. Looking around at various SHOOT personnel, Vito wears the Premier Championship he has possessed for almost five months around his thirty-two and a half inch waist. Fists taped and arms swole, Vito searches like The Terminator looking for John Connor.
???: Looking for someone?
Vito stops in his tracks and the camera turns to the person who just spoke.
Joshua Breedlove.
Vito says nothing.
Joshua Breedlove: I think… wait, is this the first time you and I have ever been face to face? That’s like totally an interesting stat or something.
Again, Vito says nothing. It’s almost like he’s looking past Breedlove.
Joshua Breedlove: Hello? Um, Earth calling. You there, big boy? Come on, give the people watching this something to cheer about. Rocky and Apollo. If Apollo was better and ran an Empire of absolute killers.
Vito finally locks eyes with Breedlove.
Vito Valentino: Does it bother you?
Breedlove raises an eyebrow, looking left to right and right to left.
Joshua Breedlove: Que?
Vito Valentino: Does… it… BOTHER you?
Breedlove looks perplexed, but nods anyway.
Joshua Breedlove: Okay. If it moves whatever this is along, I’ll bite. Does huhwut bother me?
Vito Valentino: Does it bother you when someone doesn’t play into your bullshit and looks through you? I only ask ‘cause you seem like an impetuous child right now, beggin’ for attention.
Joshua Breedlove: You’re in the Empire’s dressing room…? My dressing room?
Vito chuckles.
Vito Valentino: Fair enough. But, I think I’ll keep doin’ it anyway. ‘Cause lookin’ through you, fills me with tingles. Now, if you don’t mind stepping aside…? I’ll even put on my good manners and say please.
Joshua Breedlove: Oh, you have an appointment? Running low on time to be somewhere? Why are you in such a hurry?
Vito sighs.
Vito Valentino: Look, this has been fun and all. Great snapshot for the rumor mill. But if you want to know? I’m actually looking for one of your guys. Y’know, my tag team partner tonight. In the championship showcase main event. A match of that magnitude, I kinda wanna be on the same page as my partner. Since I haven’t heard word one from him since this match was booked, I wanted to see if he was even in the building.
Joshua Breedlove: He’s in the building. Don’t you worry your shiny head about that.
Vito Valentino: Normally, hearin’ an associate of someone I need to get in contact with try’n placate my worries of them showin’ up would actually work, but since that associate is you? One of the biggest gaslighters and all around pieces of shit I’ve ever seen? Sorry. Not placated. Not fuckin’ placated at ALL.
Breedlove laughs, almost bowling over.
Joshua Breedlove: I have never heard the word “placate” used so many times in under one-minute–hell, thirty-seconds, even, than I did just now. You’re a riot, dude.
Vito Valentino: Nah. Not a riot.
Vito steps to Breedlove.
Vito Valentino(through his teeth, menacingly): A fuckin’ champion. Somethin’ you’re gonna get used to callin’ me. Fast.
They’re nearly nose-to-nose at this point. Vito stands steadfast, ready to throwdown. Some of the SHOOT personnel passersby stop and watch, ready to break up a wild backstage fight at a moment’s notice.
Joshua Breedlove: Sure. I might call you champion someday. But until that day, and just because it bugs you as much as looking through me apparently bugs me, I’ll pass. Skip it, you know?
Vito scoffs and snorts. Kind of a scoffsnort. Or a scort. A snoff?
Vito Valentino: Fine. That’s your decision. But if you’re goin’ to just stand here and waste my time then get the FUCK outta my WAY.
Vito presses his head into Breedlove, and for a second there’s a struggle before Vito’s bulging neck muscles push Breedlove’s head back. Breedlove looks like he’s going to just throw the first punch, but he remains calm, cool, and collected. The long game is his board and dice.
Joshua Breedlove: Wow, so amped up! No need to get all aggro! Just seeing what you’re actually made of! Or, at least, having a little look-see. Heh. A whiff, if you will. And I smell creatine and insecurity. And… what’s that? Ahh, patchouli. Nice.
Breedlove actually moves to the side, sarcastically pointing his arms in the direction Vito was moving in before stepping in his way.
Vito smiles and nods, then walks into that direction. Saying nothing.
We go to comm–
Joshua Breedlove: ACTUALLY? All of… this? It just gave me an idea! Since you just bored the viewers half to death and now they’re running to the bathrooms to empty their bladders, why don’t we get back some of that time next Revolution and have ourselves a little match?
Vito looks up with his back turned to Breedlove.
Vito Valentino: Oh? I’m listenin’.
Joshua Breedlove: First surprising thing you’ve said to me yet. So, yeah. You. Me. PREMIER Championship. That way I can call you something other than champion.
Breedlove smiles as Vito remains facing forward, but his head turns so that his ear is facing his opposition.
Joshua Breedlove: …former champion.
With that, Breedlove walks away from Vito, leaving him with the challenge lingering in the air… and a smile on his face.
NOW we go to commercial.
SINGLES MATCH
FIRESTARTER NIGHT 3
(2) DAIHM FERGUSON
VS.
(6) BELLECOSE
PROMOTIONAL VIDEO
A GLITCH IN THE SYSTEM
It begins in darkness.
Not silence—no, there’s a hum beneath it. Faint at first. Synthetic. Pulsing. Like the first beat of a rave that hasn’t started yet. The kind of sound you feel more than hear.
Raindrops fall in steady rhythm. Neon light ripples off slick pavement.
A low-angle shot follows a figure walking down a narrow alley in Osaka. His boots are barely touching the ground, like he’s floating just above reality. Each step sends tiny ripples through the puddles—each ripple glows faint pink, cyan, then fades. The walls around him are alive with digital graffiti—glitches in the brickwork that shift and rewrite themselves in Japanese kanji.
He moves with precision. Not cautious, not afraid. Calculated. Like a cipher being written in real time.
Voiceover—his voice—cool, steady, touched with distortion:
“They told me I was too fast to follow. Too bright to be taken seriously. Too… glitchy.”
The beat quickens.
A flash—static interrupts the scene. A montage bursts into life, like a memory being decrypted in pieces:
— Neon Blitz springboarding from the second rope into a hurricanrana, the ring ropes lighting up on impact.
— A camera flash mid-spin, catching his visor gleaming like a mirror reflecting the future.
— A close-up: blood on his lip, a grin underneath.
“But you can’t fix what’s not broken.
You can’t decode what you don’t understand.”
We’re back in the alley. He stops.
Overhead, a cracked neon sign sputters: SHOOT. The letters buzz, fade in and out like the system is rejecting his presence.
He looks up at it.
No words. Just a slow nod.
He pulls his hood down. The camera catches his face—half-covered by a chrome-rimmed visor, colors dancing across the glass like a digital aurora. His jacket whirs to life, LEDs chasing each other in hypnotic sequence down the sleeves. His gloves emit a soft electric glow as he clenches his fists.
“You don’t need to see me coming.
You won’t have time to.”
The lights around him flicker, short-circuiting. The city glitches again, for just a second—the alley stretches, pixelates, warps. And when it snaps back?
He’s gone.
All that’s left is the sound of the rain. And the rhythm.
A final flicker on the screen:
NEON BLITZ
The Glitch in the System
COMING TO SHOOT PROJECT
[END TRANSMISSION]
MAIN EVENT
CHAMPIONSHIP SHOWCASE
MIKE DE LOS HUESOS
VITO VALENTINO
VS.
KING OSO
