Izzy Sia sits, but to call it ‘sitting’ carries an implication of stillness.
She’s a ball of energy, leg shaking, hands clearly engaged, picking at hor bottom lip absently. She is seated in a tight shot on one of the long benches that are a feature of every Epicenter locker room. She doesn’t waste time, which fits her direct mentality. She just starts talking, as if she’s continuing on an earlier point that we just missed.
Izzy: This is the moment, y’know?
She sighs, looking off to her left.
Izzy: I’ve eaten so much shit from day one. But that all feels so distant right now. I know it won’t, like at some point the elation is going to fade and I’ll remember how hard I had to work to get here. And I have to remind myself of that, because…I’m not going anywhere.
Sia’s eyes go downward as she chuckles, saying the next part as if she can’t believe herself.
Izzy: Except for New York. New place, new horizons.
The camera pans out, and for the first time, we realize she isn’t alone. Next to her, standing in his standard street gear of athletic wear and extremely loud and expensive sneakers on feet ( Adidas AE1’s, today ) is Joey Burkhalter, the golden one himself, a soft smile on his face as he handles what appears to be a set of…barbershop clippers? To the far end of the room, seated, taping his feet idly but watching the proceedings, is the hulking mountain of Nate Robideau, who has apparently come to watch his prized pupil hold a victor’s court.
Izzy: New me.
Burkhalter: Sure about this, Iz?
Sia nods slowly, her eyes drifting to the floor.
Izzy: I was living a life that wasn’t mine before I found this. I was me, but I was a version of me that other people expected. Prim, proper, studies on studies and violin and dates with boys that I never understood why they always made me feel so bad until realization hit me like a fucking train. I walked into that shithole in East Vegas that for some reason I still actually miss just a lump of skinny, confused kid. And over the span of what, over half a decade?
She claps both her shoulders in sequence and then extends her fingers so far the knuckles pop before she folds them into practiced fists.
Izzy: I’m chiseled from stone. Dangerous. Competent. Living a life that’s true to me and by my own terms. You gave me that, Kru Robideau. You too, Joey, even if you were a shitbag for like 6 months.
Robideau: Closer to 8.
Burkhalter: Nice of you two to assume I’m done being one, I guess.
He snaps the clippers on with a loud “bzzzz” and then off again, grinning.
Burkhalter: C’mon Iz. Take down the ponytail. Let’s get it.
With a big exhale, Izzy pulls the hair tie from the back of her head, letting her long black locks fall over her face. Without a word, she nods, and Joey turns on the clippers. The job that is executed over the next five minutes isn’t necessarily a military induction cut–he has to go over a few sections more than once–but Izzy doesn’t seem to notice or care. With every swipe of the electric cutters, tension eases from her shoulders bit by bit. With every buzz another tress of her hair pirouettes to various locations–her lap, her feet, the floor, the bench. And with every swipe she seems to transform in some fashion. First, she relaxes. Secondarily, the almost permanent furrow in her brow, her noted gaze of annoyance, seems to lighten up. Her hands go slack, the bounce of her knees lessens until she’s totally still. Her breathing comes in slow and deep, as if she’s entering some manner of meditative state–Joey even appears to be treating this sort of moment with a real reverence, not making jokes, not fucking about. Nate has stopped taping up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking with his unblinking gaze.
As Joey jets to the last of her hair, she shakes a little bit. Over the din of the clippers, she sniffles once. Slowly, he pulls away from her and flicks the machine off, his work completed: She’s been shorn down to a no-guard. With a hesitant hand, she reaches up and feels, running her fingers across her scalp from neck to forehead. When she raises her head, her eyes are wet. But she laughs. A laugh that’s contagious, as Joey’s raspy cackle joins along with Robideau’s thunder rumble chuckle. Burkhalter grabs her by the shoulder and rocks her back and forth, collapsing into a side hug around the shoulders.
Izzy: Thank you. Asshole.
Burkhalter: Don’t mention it, fuckface.
As these two enjoy a moment, Nate stands up and silently grabs a pile of her hair. A long section, maybe nearing a foot in length, which he deftly bundled together with a twist before binding it with athletic tape. What’s left in his hands is a circular ring of twisted black hair, two ends meeting at a bundle of tight cloth and adhesive. He holds it out to Sia, who clasps it and his hand at once.
Robideau: New you is a product of the old you. “The definition of definition is reinvention.”
He leaves the bound lock in her hand and cracks his neck.
Robideau: Excuse me. I have to get ready to tune up a couple of old-timers.
He strides out, and the feed shifts to the beginning of the end, Revolution’s Curtain Call.
EP.: FINALE
DATE: 06.02.2025
ARENA: THE EPICENTER
Vixtrola’s “Gunboat” begins playing throughout the Epicenter, an ensuing massive pop comes from the fans!
Eryk Masters: It’s been awhile since we’ve heard this particular song, and admittedly it’s one I need to get better used to, but we’re kicking the show off with it and the World Heavyweight Champion!
Jason Johnson: The new theme that’s not really “new” for our World Heavyweight Champion, yes, you best get used to it.
Fireworks go off at the top of the ramp as the opening of the song ends, Laura Seton appearing within the smoke, wearing her red leather jacket, jeans, and black boots with the SHOOT World Heavyweight Championship over a shoulder. The fans up the crazed cheering as she appears.
Jason Johnson: She was just cleared two weeks ago and let’s just say she wasted little time getting revenge on Joshua Breedlove.
Eryk Masters: She wasted little time going after Joshua Breedlove. Remember though, it was X-Calibur that broke her arm and actually put her on the shelf.
Jason Johnson: Regardless, she made an impact with raw aggression. Thunder rolling through as she smacked down Breedlove at CAPSTONE.
Eryk Masters: She left her Mark for sure, but she has some work ahead of her tonight. Not even back for a day and she was already announced for a defense here at Revolution: Curtain Call.
A smile on her face, Laura steps through the ropes and gets a mic thrown her way. She lets the fans finish their cheering before lifting the mic and speaking.
Laura Seton: And that’s why this is the greatest place to hold an event…
Another large pop from the crowd. Even as the cheering fades, she holds silent as she looks around the arena.
Laura Seton: … … You know… I have to say… it really sucks to be out here tonight. And it really sucks I have to defend the World Heavyweight Championship too.
The initial shock of her words passing, a number of boos begin filling the air.
Laura Seton: It sucks all of you are here tonight. And it sucks that we have all these festivities and whatever this evening. I’ll be honest:
This whole night sucks ass.
The arena now fills with boos as Laura stands mid-ring, looking rather disappointed. She tries to speak but gets drowned out. Instead of forcing things, she waits a moment for things to quiet down.
Laura Seton: It sucks because I’m really gonna miss this place.
A momentary vibe of surprise fills the air before a mixed reaction of cheers and a few chuckles.
Laura Seton: I remember the first time I came here. Talking with that man at the commentary table–
She points at Jason Johnson.
Laura Seton: Personalized tour of The Epicenter. Contract talks. Easing my fears of what you guys would do and how you all would view me coming in from LEGACY. You did well, Jason.
Her voice fades away as she looks around again, taking a mental spin through memory lane.
Laura Seton: Successful runs with the Sin City Championship. A warm welcoming back as I returned a few years ago. And of course, my two runs with…
She raises the World Heavyweight Championship to a loud ovation as she holds a proud smile. The cheers play out before the title goes back over her shoulder.
Laura Seton: I could go off on more tangents, but this isn’t all about me. There’s been so much that’s happened here in Vegas. So many legends that saw time in this very ring. Even SHOOT itself saw an evolution or two throughout the years out here. From what could have been a novelty act with loads of blood and blood money became a more traditional landing of professional wrestling. I don’t know what the future has, but the past is rich. It’s been an honor to compete in front of all of you.
Thank you, Las Vegas.
Another massive pop. Laura even eggs them on to cheer more.
Eryk Masters: It’s like she’s trying to get them to cheer themselves.
Jason Johnson: They deserve it. Without them, we’re all elsewhere, if not at home.
Again, Laura lets the crowd noise fade organically.
Laura Seton: So with the rich history here, I’m honored and rather humbled that I get to be part of the final Revolution main event. And… this is where it gets tough. I talked with “Real Deal” about how to go about my World Heavyweight Championship defense. He wanted to pick my opponent, but I told him I had a better idea.
I’d pick my opponent.
I’m sure most of you are thinking/hoping I pick Joshua Breedlove.
Laura grins as the crowd cheers. She shakes her head.
Laura Seton: Well, that’s not gonna happen. Different show, different city.
I look around and there’s certainly legends in the making that we have right now in SHOOT. Folks that will be drawing money in New York for years after I’m gone.
But it’s not going to be one of those up-and-comers.
See, there’s still a handful of people on my “bucket list” to face. Some are no longer active, I’m looking at you, Sinnocence. Others are getting up there in age.
She has a couple blinks, a bit emotion beginning to settle in.
Laura Seton: My career goes back 25 fucking years. I’ve done a ridiculous amount and been with numerous companies. Traveled all over and wore out a frequent flyer card or two. It’s been quite the ride…
But I haven’t really done this alone. That is to say, “alone.”
Because fate has been funny, but it’s also been unfair.
Back at the start of my career… rewind ALL 25 years. ALL THE WAY BACK to May of 2000. There was an early match I had. One of the first five in my career. There was someone there. I bounced around like any other wrestler. That person was there so often. Even in my returns after years-plus on the side. Maybe a tag match or something convoluted saw us get our hands on each other for a couple minutes. But…?
I’ve never faced this person in a single’s match.
All this time, all these opportunities… Either I wasn’t on his level yet or one of us would leave or a company would close before we could get that match.
A quarter century in the making.
So Las Vegas, if this person accepts, you’re getting a blockbuster!
A couple tears form in her eyes from the excitement.
Laura Seton: The first time we face in single’s action… For the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Championship.
She takes a big breath, anticipating the reaction of the crowd, already abuzz. A handful of people seem to sit on their hands, feeling they know the choice, but await her announcement. Laura looks right into the camera lens.
Laura Seton: I want to face X-Calibur.
His name barely escapes her lips before the crowd nearly blows the lid off The Epicenter!
Eryk Masters: Laura wants X!??
Jason Johnson: Holy shit, Masters! THAT is a main event if there ever was one!!
“HOLY SHIT!!”
“HOLY SHIT!!”
“HOLY SHIT!!”
“HOLY SHIT!!”
The crowd. Has lost. It’s MIND.
Jason Johnson: I already said that, Vegas!!
Several moments later, thousands of fans transition from the most holiest of shits into straight up cheering on the situation.
Eryk Masters: This is NUTS!!
Fittingly enough, “25 Years” by Pantera hits. The sudden, clean, and methodical guitar riffs match X-Calibur’s gait as he emerges from the back through those red and black curtains.
Looking all around the Epicenter, it’s clear that there are mixed emotions running up and down every aisle and forward and back every row.
Wearing a plain SHOOT Project t-shirt with the legendary Spartan helmet in black and white, X-Calibur hops up onto the edge of the ring apron on one knee. Pulling himself the rest of the way into the ring, he locks eyes with Laura.
Stepping through the ropes, the Hall of Famer motions for a microphone from the time keeper’s area. A relay forms from Samantha, to cameraman, to X-Calibur as he is obliged. For a moment, he just hangs his hands off the ropes, balancing his elbows on the rope rope.
He looks out into the sea of fans all raging to the Pantera Classic, X raises the microphone to his mouth.
X-Calibur: Enough.
X turns to the backstage area and makes a throat slitting motion, signifying his desire for the production team to cut his music. Once they do, the fans become even more unglued.
“FUCK-X-CALIBUR!!”
Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.
“FUCK-X-CALIBUR!!”
Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.
Without so much as a morsel of emotion on his face, he simply absorbs it. All of it. Laura’s ready for anything, but X’s physical nature seems to be idling in an eternal state of calm.
It’s quite possibly the scariest thing one could ever imagine seeing inside a wrestling ring.
Nearly two-minutes go by until the fans settle down enough for X to be comfortable enough to speak to HIS challenger, the SHOOT Project World Heavyweight Champion.
X-Calibur: I could stand here and beg for your forgiveness, but I’m not gonna do that. I could stand here for as long as I want to, say fuck all about anything and just leave, putting speculation into your and everyone else’s minds, but I’m not gonna do that either.
I am, however, gonna say one thing…
The entire audience listens intently, clutching onto each and every word that is spoken like a struggling child hanging onto the hot metal monkey bars on the playground.
X-Calibur: …do you understand the why, now?
Laura’s head cocks a bit. She squints just a tiny bit and raises her microphone to her chapped lips. But before speaking, she lowers it, thinking about X’s words.
X-Calibur: Let me ask you again, Laura. DO you… UNDERSTAND… the WHY, now?
Laura says nothing. The crowd don’t really say much either, aside from the occasional outburst by the selfish fan who wants to be heard on a live broadcast.
Again, Laura goes to put the microphone up to her mouth, but can’t quite come up with any words.
X-Calibur: Heh. Figures. All these years later, and you still don’t understand. To be fair, I didn’t either until about ten years ago. But still. I stand before you now… and I understand.
I love you, Laura Seton.
Always have.
Always will.
The crowd collectively GASPS.
Eryk Masters: Holy hell. I did not expect THAT to come from X-Calibur’s mouth right now. Maybe EVER!
Jason Johnson: Yeah, I’m pretty speechless right now.
Eryk Masters: How can one who breaks your arm unmercifully like X did at Reckoning Day, say he loves anybody?!
X-Calibur: I love you, Laura Seton. But not enough to speak about regrets. Not anymore, at least. Not while my daughter lives and breathes. I did what I did and I would not take it back. Even if I could. Ever.
The booing heats up significantly.
X-Calibur: It’d be a waste of time snd energy, mine and yours, at this point.
I broke your arm.
You healed up like I knew you would.
And you’re even STILL the World Heavyweight Champion after all this time.
But… you honestly think THAT’s what I want?!
He shakes his head and snarls.
X-Calibur: I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR FUCKING TITLE!!
All I ever wanted was you. YOU, LAURA. YOU!!
An enraged X-Calibur lunges at Laura and gets in her face. Forehead to forehead, they stand in the middle of the ring. Neither of them giving an inch of space to the other.
X-Calibur: But if I can’t have you… then I’ll take what means the most TO you. I’ll take the World Heavyweight Championship, put it over my shoulder, and walk away from you. Forever. I’ll leave every single good thought I have about you right on this fucking blood-stained mat.
He pushes his head off of Laura’s.
X-Calibur: So want to give these loyal fans a great big goodbye hug? Fine. Let’s do it. Let’s leave it ALL in this ring and give the fans a curtain call they’ll remember for the rest of their goddamn LIVES.
TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
JOSHUA BREEDLOVE
NATE ROBIDEAU
VS.
REAL DEAL
EDDIE E.
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
MEMORIES OF A JOKER
Everything considered no one saw this one coming, As the scene cuts into a basement well furnished we see a few pictures on the wall, some which would be known to SHOOT faithful. A sofa rests against the wall, worn but still in pretty good condition, the camera moves a little as we hear a couple voices.
“You sure it’s in a good spot dear?” Says a male voice, a bit familiar
“Yeah, that should be enough to get this video for the show at least.” A female’s voice chimes in
“Alright” The man speaks again
The man sighs as we see a man walk into view, the familiar purple outfit would get a good pop from the fans as Johnny Napalm sits down on the sofa he gives that smile that people know from the man known as the SHOOT Project Joker. His face shows a bit of age now since it’s been 2013 since he graced Vegas with his presence. He looks great for a man in his forties. Napalm runs a hand in his hair for a moment remembering a few things, but he was gonna save that for a bit later.
“It feels somber hearing about SHOOT’s last show in Vegas. It kinda brings back memories of when I was there, let me tell you those people who were there back in 2013 were some of the best soldiers in the world. You couldn’t miss a show seeing all the feuds and wild shit that happened even though I was a part of a few of those wild moments, I remember bleeding like a wildman more than a few times. I even had a few times that the fans didn’t have my back, but that is when I got my act together. Former Tag Team Champion, Former Iron Fist Champion in an era of the Iron Fist era that had some of the most insane matches in the world. I made friends, some of those friendships formed after my time in SHOOT was over.”
Napalm shifts in his seat, he seems a little antsy sitting there.
“For years after I left, I always looked back at my days in SHOOT Project. These were some of my favorite memories. Revolution was a flagship for years seeing all the people come and go. Each one with something to prove, and I know I made my mark, I remember a few matches. Master of the Mat 2013, Rules Of Surrender gauntlet match. I was put into this match and no one gave me a chance to win that belt. I came out third. The first opponent I see is a person who is a legend in SHOOT, Maya Nakashima a former SHOOT World Champion and everyone thought I would not last, but I did, and he tapped along with four others before the person who won the belt made me tap. You get a bit of respect when you can pull something like that off after a rather wild six month reign as one half of the Tag Team champs. But, I didn’t rest on that impressive attempt. Following Revolution I won the Iron Fist title, and if that wasn’t wild, I had my wedding to Selena at RISE, another bright moment. I held the belt until just before SHOOT took a Vacation until 2020.”
Napalm leans back on the sofa
“Since then, I’ve been living a good life. Got a pub here in Boston that’s still going strong, Selena is still with me behind the camera. My lovely ray of sunshine of my daughter Jen is twelve now, and my son Alan is now seven. I always remember the Epicenter and all its moments I have seen, you never forget how much you miss the sport. Mind you I had a few issues, not with my health mind you. But, I am not gonna dive into that stuff. To the fans, and all the soldiers in SHOOT, no matter if they’re still around or have moved on to other things. We will always remember those memories that we made at the Epicenter. So for me and my family I say thank you Epicenter for your years of service.”
Napalm leans forward just about to close the video.
“Soon, SHOOT will move to the east coast. To a place I know well, New York. Who knows I might just have one final run in me. Even though some would still wish I stayed retired. But, I do know New York isn’t far away from Boston. So I’ll leave you with this.”
“Never say Never.”
IN THE RING
DADDY'S LEAVING TOWN
The Epicenter is packed to the rafters for SHOOT Project’s final show in Las Vegas. The crowd has been electric all night, a mixture of nostalgia and excitement for the promotion’s future.
Then—
BWAAAAAAAAAAAM!
The unmistakable goal horn blasts through the arena one last time, causing the crowd to erupt in thunderous boos. “Raise a Little Hell” by Trooper kicks in as red and white lights strobe across the entrance.
Roy Vezina struts out first, wearing a custom white tuxedo with red trim and a massive “GOODBYE LOSERS” embroidered across the back in glittering gold. He’s carrying what appears to be a makeshift trophy made from a garbage can spray-painted gold with “LAS VEGAS PARTICIPATION AWARD” scrawled on it.
Harv Norris follows wearing a tacky tourist outfit – Hawaiian shirt with casino chips printed all over it, oversized sunglasses, and a foam Statue of Liberty crown already perched on his head. He’s waving miniature Canadian and New York flags while chugging what might be his fourth Molson of the night.
Rick Hull emerges last, stone-faced as ever, but with one notable addition, he’s dragging a small rolling suitcase with “VEGAS MEMORIES” written on it. Without warning, he stops halfway down the ramp and kicks the suitcase violently into the crowd.
Roy snatches a microphone, his grin wider than the Grand Canyon.
Roy Vezina: Well, well, well! Las Vegas! Look at you! All dressed up and ready to cry because daddy’s leaving town!
BOOOOOOOOO!
Roy Vezina: Awww, did you think we’d get all sentimental? Maybe shed a tear? Tell you how much we’ll miss your charming personality and winning smile?
He dramatically wipes an imaginary tear.
Roy Vezina: I’d rather lick the floor of a Montreal bus station in August! Almost two years in this glorified sandbox, and what do we have to show for it? Sand in places I didn’t know existed and the lingering smell of desperation and knock-off cologne!
Harv Norris grabs his own mic.
Harv Norris: Y’know what Las Vegas is? It’s like if a slot machine and a port-a-potty had a baby and raised it on energy drinks and bad decisions, b’y!
The crowd’s hatred is palpable now.
Roy Vezina: But fear not, you walking fashion disasters! The Punch Line isn’t riding off into your tacky neon sunset. No, no, no! We’re upgrading! From the desert to the Big Apple! From fake Paris to fake authenticity!
Harv does an exaggerated impression of a New York accent.
Harv Norris: AYYYY I’M WALKIN’ HEAH! COFFEE AND A BAGEL! FORGEDDABOUTIT!
Roy Vezina: New York City! The only place with an ego bigger than mine! A city so full of itself, it named everything twice! New York, New York! So nice they named it twice! Unlike Vegas… so sad they built it once.
Rick Hull finally steps forward, takes the mic, and in a rare moment of verbosity:
Rick Hull: Vegas smells like failure. New York smells like success… and garbage. We prefer garbage.
He hands the mic back to Roy, who seems genuinely surprised at Rick’s small speech.
Roy Vezina: Rocket speaks the truth! But let’s be honest here, Las Vegas. The only thing you’ll miss about us is having someone actually worth watching in this ring. Someone with class, dignity, and the ability to go fifteen minutes without breathing through their mouth!
Harv Norris: Truth is, b’y, we tried to get SHOOT to move to Toronto! Or Montreal! Or even Winnipeg! But they said something about “market size” and “international appeal” and “please stop submitting petitions written in maple syrup.”
Roy Vezina: So New York it is! The city that never sleeps… probably because of all the car alarms and garbage trucks! But hey, at least it’s not a city built on quicksand and bad decisions!
Harv Norris: And the pizza! It’s almost as good as Halifax donair after midnight when you’re three sheets to the wind, b’y!
Roy pauses, looking almost contemplative as he surveys the arena.
Roy Vezina: You know what the saddest part is? We gave this town legitimacy. We gave this promotion class. We brought CANADIAN EXCELLENCE to your little desert experiment. And how did you repay us? With boos and jeers and knockoff Punch Line t-shirts that can’t even spell “Vezina” right!
Harv Norris: It’s V-E-Z-I-N-A! Not “Vagina” ya perverted lunatics!
Roy Vezina: But that’s fine. That’s just fine. Because when we step into the Pinnacle, when we bring The Punch Line to the city that actually matters, the whole world is gonna see what Las Vegas was too sunburned and slot-machine-addled to appreciate!
Rick Hull steps forward again and simply says:
Rick Hull: No more desert. More bodies to drop.
Roy Vezina: Right you are, Hully! So Las Vegas, as we stand here on this final night, for the last time in this glorified airplane hangar you call an arena, we want to leave you with one final message…
The three huddle together, and then in perfect unison:
All Three: THANK YOU… FOR NOTHING!
They throw their arms up with elbows bent in their signature pose.
All Three: GORDIEEEEEE!!!
Roy drops his mic on the garbage trophy, which makes a satisfying metallic thud. Harv tosses his mini flags into the crowd like confetti. Rick just glares, possibly the closest thing to a goodbye this crowd will ever get from him.
“Raise a Little Hell” blasts one final time as The Punch Line struts back up the ramp, Roy bowing dramatically, Harv blowing mocking kisses, and Rick walking backward, never breaking his intimidating stare at the crowd.
SIX-PERSON TAG TEAM MATCH
MATCH STIPULATIONS
JOSH KAINE
JANE
LOU
VS.
CROMWELL YARBURY
MURATAGI HANZO
CLEMSON DEAN
BACKSTAGE
TILLING TAINTED SOIL
*beep*
Remy Garden presses the giant red touchscreen button to exit out of his phone’s call screen and lets his arm drop, bringing the device to his side.
Remy Garden: Merde’
The Savage One is dressed to the nines, a long black sequin one piece with embroidered pink flowers bedazzled from calfline to neckline. All part of the pomp and circumstance of SHOOT Project’s final show in Vegas.
Curtain Call.
Sadly, the frivolity and celebratory rivalry was soured for Remy, and the show’s moniker seemed to hit a bit close to home…
Remy swiped to the right to reveal a string of incomplete calls. All of them sent – and seemingly ignored – by Aiden Vanity, who not only beat Remy one on one at Capstone, but was now positioned to take a self-congratulatory victory lap with two accomplices at his side.
Remy Garden: Stupid… stupid…
The Savage One places a hand to his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose when a knock comes at his dressing room door.
Remy narrows his eyes, but his desire to speak one on one with Aiden was enough to overpower his suspicions — which he would have been wise to listen to.
Remy Garden: Aiden thank goodness, I-
Remy freezes, a chill running down his spine as Ashley Leboucher is standing – prim, proper, and predatory – in the doorway.
Ashley Leboucher: Oh my… I hope I didn’t preempt some sort of sordid meeting between you and Monsieur Vanity; I’m beginning to get a bit jealous, Remington.
Remy sneers.
Remy Garden: The only thing sordid around here is you. You’re a damned weed – nightshade, more specifically. Refusing to take a hint and uproot yourself from my life. I have nothing more to say to you.
Ashley smirks and taps the tip of his pointer finger lightly on the side of his cheek before letting out a breathy sigh.
Ashley Leboucher: So much time away has dulled your senses, Remington. Nightshades are not all toxic … they bear fruit as well. Tomatoes… gooseberries… bell peppers… eggplants…
Ashley tries to step forward and cross the threshold, his voice smooth and sultry, but Remy is having none of it. Instead, he reaches to the side and begins to close the door, ready to slam it in Ashley’s face-
Ashley Leboucher: How I miss your mother’s eggplant parmesan… no one can cook quite like Miss Allana. Such a shame…
Remy’s body goes rigid, door stopping inches from its destination.
Remy Garden: What did you say?
Ashley holds a single hand up to his mouth with a look of forced shock.
Ashley Leboucher: Oh my! You mean you don’t know?
Remy’s blood begins to boil over, steaming and spitting like a true Cajun gumbo coming to temperature.
Remy Garden: I swear to God, Ashley… if you hurt her-
Ashley lowers his hand, soft smile slowly coming into view – as if he physically cannot restrain himself from savoring the moment.
Ashley Leboucher: She hurt herself, Remington; working long hours, slaving over meals, not to mention taking on the additional tasks of those other staff whom I had to let go…
Remy clenches his fist, visibly shaking.
Ashley Leboucher: …but truth is, I think after what transpired at Thanksgiving, what truly ailes her is a broken heart. Not having her sweet, dear Remy home…
Ashley’s somber voice drops an octave.
Ashley Leboucher: Where he belongs.
Remy raises a fist, ready to strike at Ashley, who doesn’t budge. Instead he simply gestures downward toward Remy’s other hand, still gripping his phone.
Ashley Lebocher: If it were me… I would stop spending so much time on these silly squabbles you have here Remy, and realize that a predator will never respond to an eager prey. And all you are doing by incessantly chirping on that phone of yours is embarrassing yourself… and making a mockery of your family.
Remy doesn’t follow Ashley’s gaze, his sights are locked solely on the man – the devil – standing in front of him. As Ashley raises his gaze back towards Remy, a gleam in his eye sparkles and the corner of his mouth raises in a smile.
Remy Garden: You’re not my family.
Ashley waives his hand dismissively but opts to take a step backward, slowly retreating from Remy’s doorway.
Ashley Lebocher: Maybe not by blood, mon cher, but if you don’t stop this foolishness and return home soon… I’ll be all you have left.
Remy goes to say something, but Ashley has already slunk away like a Bayou bloodsucker, melting into the shadows cast by the dying bones of the SHOOT Project Epicenter.
OUTSIDE
BONES BRIGADE 4 LIFE
Exterior, the SHOOT Project Epicenter loading dock.
Little happens to this structure without the crass knowing about it, so the fact that the gigantic crude tag–a skull with two bones under it smoking a blunt with the words “BONES BRIGADE 4 LIFE” on it, all in neon green–is still here clearly a design of the man upstairs deciding it added a little something to the area. It’s not massive by any stretch, no more than a 4 foot square of work, but it’s also where the Bones Brigade called a home away from home. The smoke spot outside of work, where they wouldn’t be bothered too much.
Mike de los Huesos is here in some fancy street gear for the occasion of this show. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and high waisted pleated black trousers, a double breasted coat of the same material across his shoulders. He’s wearing his fattest gold cuban link and then his smaller gold cuban link. He appears to be in a somber mood, though. Hands in his pockets. Looking at the concrete he himself tagged.
Mikey: We did this like, day two.
He chuckles, shrugging.
Mikey: Me and Devastatin’ Dave really didn’t think we’d make it. But we figured, y’know, chill here for a bit. Run out our contract, make some money, then we’d be back to hustling it on the independent scene. That suited us just fine.
Idly, Mike runs his hand across the concrete of the wall, across the paint that, though technically dried, still felt sticky after all these years thanks to the heat.
Mikey: We’re the children of immigrants, y’know? A little bit of that hustle is built into us, drilled into us. “They’ll see your name and your skin and hear the accent in your voice and you’ll have to work two, three times harder than everybody else. Just to be considered ‘one of the good ones.’” So leaving here with a couple TV credits would have been enough to command a higher rate. Honestly, I didn’t think I was built for being a signed talent long-term. Felt like it put a wall between me and the fans, at least more so than when we’d hock our shirts and take pictures with them after the show.
The Boneslam/Bonezone innovator holds his arms out, smiling with a little bit of melancholy in his brown eyes.
Mikey: But here I am still. Dave is doing his own thing. Kit has disappeared. The last time I heard from Randy the Shaman, you know what the fuck dude said to me? He said “Jamaica is calling to you.” I figured he meant I was about to take a vacation. But here I am strangely liberated from my title and we’re going back home. Back to where I thrive. So the long game worked out for me. Spent the last couple of weeks trying to figure out where I was gonna land–ended up signing a lease on a place a block from Tilly Park. Queens.
He scoffs.
Mikey: Jamaica Hills. Shit is wild.
Turning from the graffitti, he looks out to the sky. To the almost permanent burn of neon floating off the cityscape giving way to a bleak, sackcloth black sky.
Mikey: So yeah, I’ll miss the desert. Miss the magic. Miss the 24 hours of it all. And I’ll miss this loading dock, for sure.
His face adopts a sly grin, the energy of his promo work really taking hold.
Mikey: But I got a Fendi for you: Ain’t one of you gonna miss me. Cause I’m eternal. Kinda like that there. Yeah, we ain’t around. But what we represent, who we were? Laughing at death so hard you fuck around and end up riding with her? That’s eternal, too.
Slowly he reaches into the pocket of his suit coat and pulls out three items: a small statue of Santa Muerte, a gold coin, and a squat red candle. He sets them on the concrete–coin, candle, and statue, in that order. He kisses his fingertips and touches them to the coin, then pulls a lighter from his pocket and sparks the candle. Standing up, he gives them a reverent moment before crossing himself.
Mikey: See you in New York.
With that, Mike de los Huesos walks down the ramp of the loading dock.
Walks across the pavement.
Past the streetlights, into that great darkness.
SIX-PERSON TAG TEAM MATCH
N/A
HARV NORRIS
RICK HULL
AIDEN VANITY
VS.
CURTIS ROSE
ALEX VAKA
REMY GARDEN
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
NEWFIE LAUNDRY SERVICE
SECURITY CAMERA FEED – EPICENTER BASEMENT LEVEL
TIMESTAMP: 23:47:12 – REVOLUTION: CURTAIN CALL
The grainy black and white footage shows a dimly lit hallway in the bowels of the Epicenter. A maintenance closet door marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” sits at the end of the corridor, barely visible in the flickering fluorescent light.
For several seconds, nothing happens. Just the occasional shadow dancing across the concrete floor.
Then…
A figure appears at the edge of the frame.
Harv Norris creeps into view, moving with all the stealth of a moose in a china shop. He’s wearing his usual gear but has added what appears to be a janitor’s cap pulled low over his eyes. In his hands? A large duffel bag with “NEWFIE LAUNDRY SERVICE” scrawled on the side in permanent marker.
He approaches the closet door, looks left, looks right, then produces what looks like a bent coat hanger from his back pocket.
After thirty seconds of fumbling with the lock like he’s trying to start a frozen pickup truck, the door finally swings open.
Harv’s face lights up like Christmas morning.
He disappears into the closet.
For a moment, only his legs are visible as muffled sounds of rummaging echo from within. Towels start flying out of the closet – white ones, blue ones, some with the SHOOT Project logo embroidered in gold.
Harv emerges, arms full of premium hand towels, stuffing them into his duffel bag with the enthusiasm of a kid loading up on Halloween candy. He holds up one particularly fluffy towel, examining it in the light like he’s appraising a fine wine.
“Beautiful, b’y,” he mouths silently to himself.
He dives back into the closet.
More towels fly out. This time he’s got washcloths, bath towels, even what appears to be a bathmat with “EXECUTIVE SUITE” stitched across it.
Suddenly, footsteps echo down the hallway.
Harv’s head pops out of the closet like a prairie dog. His eyes go wide.
Two security guards round the corner, flashlights in hand, clearly making their final rounds of the building.
Harv freezes.
The guards freeze.
For three seconds, nobody moves.
Then Harv slowly raises one hand in an awkward wave, a towel still clutched in his fist.
“Evening, boys,” he appears to mouth.
The first guard points at him. The second guard reaches for his radio.
Harv’s survival instincts kick in.
He grabs the duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and takes off down the hallway like he’s breaking away on a two-on-one.
The guards give chase.
What follows is a slapstick pursuit through the basement corridors. Harv, weighed down by his bag of stolen linens, bounces off walls and stumbles around corners. Towels start spilling out of his bag, creating a trail of white cotton behind him like breadcrumbs.
He slides around a corner on the polished concrete floor, arms windmilling for balance.
The guards slip on the scattered towels, one guard going down in a heap while the other stumbles but manages to stay upright.
Harv glances back, sees the carnage, and actually stops running for a moment to point and laugh silently.
This gives the remaining guard just enough time to close the gap.
Harv realizes his mistake and bolts again, this time heading for what appears to be a service elevator.
He frantically mashes the call button as the guard approaches. The elevator dings and opens just as the guard reaches for him.
Harv dives into the elevator, his duffel bag catching in the doors.
For a moment, it’s another tug-of-war – the guard pulling on the bag while Harv pulls from inside the elevator. Towels spill everywhere.
Finally, the bag tears open completely.
Dozens of SHOOT Project towels explode across the hallway like confetti.
The guard stumbles backward, covered in premium linens.
Harv, now clutching just two towels to his chest like precious artifacts, waves goodbye as the elevator doors close.
The last image shows the guard standing alone in the hallway, knee-deep in scattered towels, speaking frantically into his radio while the other guard is still trying to untangle himself from a particularly large bath towel.
The timestamp shows 23:51:33 as the feed cuts to black.
FEED TERMINATED
A small text overlay appears: “INCIDENT REPORT FILED – SUSPECT DESCRIPTION: CANADIAN MALE, APPROXIMATELY 5’10″, LAST SEEN CARRYING STOLEN LINENS AND SPEAKING IN UNINTELLIGIBLE ACCENT.”
PREVIOUSLY RECORDED
THE FUTURE
“Did you guys think we’d ever all be out here, at the same time, in the same place, about to say goodbye to a city that’s been our home for two decades now?”
The scene opens to the top of the Epicenter, it’s nighttime sometime between when booking went out and when Revolution: Curtain Call was going to air, and the group up here… it’s a crew, to say the least. There’s wrestling’s past, present, and future all sitting together looking out over the Vegas skyline.
One last goodbye to Sin City.
Josh Johnson.
Jason Johnson.
Jonas Coleman.
Joshua Breedlove.
Jamie Johnson.
Jack Johnson.
Look at all those Johnson folks and how gratuitous this is.
“Can’t say I did, it’s a bold move. I think the last bold move like this was what, leaving Japan?”
That was Jason Johnson, talking to his brother.
“That was more scary than bold, I think. We really put ourselves at risk there. Not just financially, but also, you know, at risk of being murdered,” Josh replies, laughing.
“Yeah but if y’all hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t have met me,” Jonas Coleman kicks in.
“Or me,” Breedlove responds.
“Maybe, maybe not. There’s a lot of memories here. Lots of history. I won titles here, I think actually we’ve all won titles here. We’ve all fought wars here,” Real Deal says.
Thoughts go to past wars and the blood, sweat, and tears they brought. Thousands, if not millions of fans have come through here over the last 20 years, each taking a piece of the SHOOT Project with them. Each making the Epicenter their home, if even just for a few hours.
“I was buried in the desert here…” Jonas says, breaking the silence.
Jamie and Jack both laugh, Breedlove shakes his head.
“Sorry about that,” Real Deal replies.
“Was that one your fault or was it my fault?” Jason asks.
“You can both take the blame as far as I’m concerned,” Jonas says, cutting the discussion short.
“You got pretty well paid out of it though, didn’t you, Joanie?” Breedlove adds, chiding the former World Champion.
“Fuck off, Breedlove.”
“We all got pretty well paid,” Jack starts, “I actually like… found my passion here. Found my purpose. Found the rest of my family. Don’t think Peri and Mads are gonna miss this aspect of Vegas too much, though.”
“Probably not,” Jamie says.
Another pause as the group continues to think, or stew maybe, looking across the night sky. It’s warmed up in Vegas and the chill of the winter is long, long gone. Plumes of steam are everywhere, a reminder that something makes everything in some way or another.
The Real Deal stretches and starts to head away. Jason joins him.
“We’ve got some work to do before this all gets kicked off,” Jason says, “but you boys stay out here for as long as you want. We’ll see you inside.”
“Did he really just call us boys?” Breedlove asks, incredulous.
“I mean, two of us are members of his actual blood family, so yeah I think he did,” Jamie quips.
“You figured out what you’re gonna do yet, Jamjam?” Jack asked.
“I’m staying behind for awhile, working with you, Joey, and the rest of the folks at the Sanctum to keep things going. Y’all need an adult anyway,” Jamie replies, smiling.
“Fuck yes,” Breedlove says, “I’m glad to hear that. We need you two.”
They pause again, thinking about the future. Moving into a different part of the industry is scary for Jamie and Jack, but it’s also important. Important to understand how things really work, important to start making those connections, and most importantly… being able to stay involved while being removed from the dangerous parts.
The seedy parts that nobody in this group wants to discuss or even think about. Jack and Jamie start to head off, noting their desire to catch up with their Dad and uncle, leaving just Jonas Coleman and Joshua Breedlove.
“You thinking about my offer?” Breedlove asks.
“No, not really,” Jonas responds.
“What?! Why?! What are you going to do instead?!” Breedlove follows up, annoyed.
“Dunno, but it ain’t going to be me living in an office. That’s not my gig. If I’d wanted to do that, I would have taken one of the several offices that were offered to me here,” Jonas says flatly.
“That’s boring,” Breedlove replies, pouting.
“Maybe, but I think you and I both understand what it’s like to want to control your own destiny. Your fate.”
Jonas says that and trails off, Breedlove scowls.
“Well whatever, Joanie, suit yourself. If you wanna be a boring nomad with no roots or prospects or whatever, that’s on you. I’ll be in New York, becoming its Emperor,” Breedlove says that with a smile.
“I’ll be well suited, I can assure you,” Jonas responds. He then narrows his eyes and looks towards the other end of the roof.
“Is that Chick Grillbreast??”
Breedlove turns at looks and sees the beefy former Soldier and shakes his head. He turns to look back at Jonas who is walking away.
“Are you kidding me, Joanie? That’s how you’re going to make your exit?” Breedlove shouts.
“Can’t believe ya fell for it, you idiot!” Jonas shouts back, and you can hear him laughing.
“Whatever man, enjoy mediocrity and irrelevancy!” Breedlove responds.
“Fuck off, Breedlove!”
Black.
TRIPLE THREAT MATCH
PREMIER CHAMPIONSHIP
PIGPEN MATSUMOTO
CHAD KYLE
VITO VALENTINO (c)
BACKSTAGE
SEWING SHATTERED SEEDS
We cut to the back and find Remy Garden, the Savage One, sitting alone on a single fold out chair with a damp white towel speckled with blood draped over his shoulders.
His focus – on the results of his match, on the interaction with his nemesis earlier in the evening, or what comes next – prevents him from hearing the footsteps slowly approaching his station until they are on top of him.
Remy looks up and sees a face that is familiar and yet… not. Staring back at Remy is none other than SHOOT Hall of Famer Ayumi Seppuku.
Ayumi Seppuku: Mind if I sit?
Remy realizes she is holding a folding chair of her own. He doesn’t make room for her, but he doesn’t stop her either – as she places her seat just inches away from his own. The pair stare off into the distance – all 10 feet between them and the other side of the lower concourse of the arena… but at least in this moment, it is just the two of them.
Ayumi Seppuku: I’m Ayumi by the way-
Remy laughs, not dismissively, but with some incredulousness.
Remy Garden: I know who you are… everyone knows who you are. But why you’re here right here, right now? C’est un mystère.
Ayumi sighs and leans her head back.
Ayumi Seppuku: Four years ago I gave up everything I had in Japan to come to Las Vegas, Nevada and hope against hope that I could make a difference here in SHOOT Project and, in the eyes of everyone here, they saw me at my highest highs and my lowest lows. I’ve been lauded, I’ve been hated, and everywhere in between…
Remy shoots a gaze sideways.
Ayumi Seppuku: I also lost more than I could ever know, breaking my back after falling from a ladder… while finding the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my wife, Zee. I’ve… done things that I will regret for the rest of my life but I’ve also experienced highs that some people can only dream of.
Remy scoffs.
Remy Garden: Listen… Madame Seppuku, I do appreciate you seeking me out and if it were any other situation I am sure we could bond over drinks and dinner, but SHOOT Project is headed to New York in just over a month… that’s the furthest I’ve been from–
Remy pauses.
Remy Garden: It’s… far. Maybe too far.
Ayumi looks and nods, but nothing more.
Ayumi Seppuku: That’s why I’m here.
Remy looks quizzically at Ayumi.
Ayumi Seppuku: It is going to sound … odd, given my history, especially as of late, but you’ve made me think a lot about family, Remy. I never knew mine – not really. Not the way you do. And… I dunno, maybe that’s for the best but it’s something I think that, even if I had to lose it, it would be worth it just to know it existed in the first place.
Remy sits in silence.
Ayumi Seppuku: I think there’s a bit of irony that Pride Month starts between our celebration of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, a wink and a nod that those of us who have no choice but to find our chosen families out in the wilderness… will always have the specter of our blood relatives never seeing us, or accepting us, for who we truly are.
Remy lowers his head, but Ayumi reaches over and lifts his chin up with her hand, looking into his eyes, which begin to water.
Ayumi Seppuku: But then again, maybe we never saw our parents, or accepted them, for who they are either. Or the choices they made… but as long as they are alive, at least there is the chance to make things right.
Remy sighs, his voice shaky.
Remy Garden: What… why…
Ayumi smiles weakly, clutching Remy’s hands tightly.
Ayumi Seppuku: I’ve got a lot to make up for myself… and maybe if I can help at least one person from going down the path I traveled? And the consequences I suffered, well… maybe that’s a start.
The camera zooms out as Remy and Ayumi continue to sit in somber silence before we fade out to black…
BACKSTAGE
RESPECT
The camera catches the SHOOT Project World Tag Team Champions, Michael and Rowland Collins, as they’re heading down for their match against the Unholy Cyber Army. They look pumped. They look ready. A voice calls from right of frame.
????: Yo, Irish.
Michael and Rowland turn around, and immediately drop into fighting stance as CJ Nelson and Jolene Walsh, the one and only Long Island Hardcore, step into our view.
Jolene Walsh: Relax, if we were gonna fight, we wouldn’t have gotten your attention first.
CJ Nelson: They look good on you. Better than I expected.
The Collins brothers relax, standing back up.
Michael Collins: Come to see us off, then?
Rowland Collins: We’re on our way to your neck o’ the woods, y’know.
Jolene: Oh, we heard. Can’t wait to see what the New York era of SHOOT looks like.
CJ: But it’s probably not gonna involve us.
Michael and Rowland look at each other with a mix of sadness and smugness.
Michael: Say it ain’t so!
Jolene: Hey, never say never, it is just a short train ride from home.
CJ: But after nearly 20 years, Vegas got its hooks in us. Y’know?
Jolene: That said, if anyone can keep the old tag team flame alive out there, it’s you two.
CJ and Jolene hold out their fists, and the Collins twins bump them right back.
Rowland: Thanks.
CJ: No need for that, you’ve earned it.
Jolene: Now go out there and kick some unholy cyber ass, huh?
A couple of knowing glances, and nods from the champions, and we fade back to ringside.
TAG TEAM MATCH
WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIPS
POWERDEVIL
SUPERBEAST
VS.
ROWLAND COLLINS
MICHAEL COLLINS
OUTSIDE THE EPICENTER
REAPING ROTTEN FRUIT
We find ourselves outside the SHOOT Project Epicenter, specifically in the back loading dock, as we see Remy Garden emerge from the staff entrance of the building.
Slinging a Dior to-go back over his satin robe-covered shoulders, the Savage One doesn’t even get the chance to take one step before a pair of headlights come to life and place him in the middle of a perfectly illuminated, spherical frame.
Remy raises his arm to block the glare as we hear a chipper, sing-songy voice.
Ashley Leboucher: Oh come now Remington. Please don’t dawdle. We have SO many miles we need to cover before we return to New Orleans.
Remy purses his lips and adjusts his to-go bag as he reaches into his pocket and feels the edges of a one way flight ticket to New York City. He pauses, unmoving as we hear the heeled footsteps of Ashley approach – and then, illuminated, we see his white mink fur coat reflecting like the very moon sitting millions of miles above him.
Ashley Leboucher: Do you need me to get your things?
Ashley pauses, before chittering with laughter.
Ashley Leboucher: Or perhaps you need help with one thing in particular?
Remy closes his eyes and swallows, choking down bile, as he steps forward, making his way toward what we now see is a stretch limousine, the Savage One looks on in shock.
Remy Garden: We’re taking this all the way to New Orleans?
Ashley chitters again.
Ashley Leboucher: Oh how you josh, Remington. Of course not – this is just to get us to the airport where the Leboucher jet awaits us. Then… well, it will be just the two of us with anything one’s heart could desire.
Ashley leans forward, eyeing Remy like a cut of meat about to be served, but Remy holds his ground.
Remy Garden: And my mother?
Ashley looks confused, forgetting for a moment why Remy was even agreeing to the flight in the first place, but quickly claps his hands together, mimicking something approximate to joy.
Ashley Garden: Yes, well I do hear she’s taken a turn for the better once word of your arrival reached her! Who knows, by the time we touch ground she may be back to her old self again. That would… make you happy?
Ashley has somehow moves even closer to Remy, enough to catch the scent of overripe cherries… just shy of turning and rotting away. It take everything he has not to vomit.
Remy Garden: Yes. Ashley… that would make me happy.
A flicker of light in Ashley’s eyes as we see him grab Remy by the small of the Savage One’s back, leading him towards the back of the limousine.
Ashley Leboucher: Splendid! Well, this is just… I don’t know what to say.
Ashley dabs his dry eyes with his handkerchief before slipping in to the limousine on the other side of Remy and closing the distance between the pair.
Ashley Leboucher: I know she’s missed you so much…
He “accidentally” slides a hand along Remy’s thigh and up to his knee before removing it quickly and laughing softly to himself.
Ashley Leboucher: But not as much as I have.
With a slam, the doors of Ashley’s limousine close and the headlight that had been pointed toward the Epicenter loading dock begin to peel left and then out toward the parking lot… and then the access road… and then, slowly, vanish out past the midnight horizon of Sin City.
INTERSTATE 15
THE HITCHER
The tires of the truck crunch to a stop along the dusty asphalt, and following soon after, a cloud of brown. There is a person we see from behind with their thumb outstretched, The crunch, the rumble of the engine, the odd cry of a vulture in the sky, the golden tones in the field of view–we know it’s the desert.
In many ways it’s always been the desert.
The figure we see standing is not a natural hulk, but their build speaks to a certain solidity. The outstretched arm bears golden-hued hair that glistens in the sun, broken up by a copious collection of scars, including a deep surgical gouge running from elbow to well underneath the dingy white t-shirt the figure wears. The arm drops, and with a grunt, they pick up what appears to be a military duffel bag.
A bag who’s bottom seems unnaturally wet, as if something inside has begun to ooze. And the way this person throws it into the bed, the hauling toss from the quads and hips, the sound when it hits…heavy.
The window of the late model F-150 rolls down, and the driver pokes his head out. Mid 40’s, worn, mustached. His voice is reedy and clear as he asks with a smile:
“Howdy stranger–where ya headed?”
The voice that replies is familiar. Like the creak of a cellar door. Like the sound a storm wind makes through willow trees. Like the death rattle of a starving beast. Like a rusted maul on a stone grinding wheel.
“East. Far as you can get me.”
He slaps the side of his door.
“Get ya as far as Trinidad. Tiny town in Colorado.”
The figure does not answer, simply nodding. With a slow walk that wouldn’t look out of place on the Golem of Prague, it slowly makes it’s what pas the driver’s side headlights, in front of the truck, and then to the passenger side. They open the door. They get in. We never see their face.
But we know their works. Her works.
As the truck shifts into gear, we hear that voice again–singing, now, but with no sense of warmth, no joy. Almost with a sense of weary finality.
“…come to your house and he won’t stay long…look around, your whole family gone…Death don’t have no mercy in this land…”
As the truck peels off in a cloud of dust…
…fade to black.
SINGLES MATCH
WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
X-CALIBUR
VS.
LAURA SETON (c)
IN THE RING
STYLE
Well…
This is it.
The House lights come up.
The television cameras move in on the announce team, both members standing tall and stoically against the surreal backdrop of this final “goodnight”.
Everyone in the building knows what’s next; knows what’s inevitable. A swell of support manifests itself in the form of “YEEEAHs”, “WOOOs”, fist pumps and of course…
“THANK YOU, SHOOT”
The cameras zoom-in on Eryk and Jason, ready to capture the night’s closing sentiments.
Eryk Masters: For Jason and I, this is just another show in what will be, hopefully, decades more. But (Pause) for this building; for these fans, and for the city of Las Vegas, it’s a bittersweet farewell. (Pause) And for SHOOT Project, it’s a new chapter. (Looking at his colleague) Or maybe a new book altogether, eh sir?
Jason nods with a tight, solemn smile.
In the background, the scene is very much like the end of a large sporting event or concert. Some fans continue to scream and shout, hoping for one final encore performance, while others begin to gather their belongings and shuffle out.
There’s music playing in the background and finality in the air.
Jason Johnson: That’s exactly right, Eryk. We’ve been in Las Vegas for almost 20 years. I think it’s what… since 2007? Eighteen years. I’ve worn a lot of hats during that time. Worked with a lot of folks in and out of that ring, but it’s EIGHTEEN YEARS, man. As my brother has said publicly, this is the right time. Pro wrestling is hot, it’s competitive, and for SHOOT to be able to execute on its promise to now and always remain at the cutting edge of the game this is the move we need to make.
A few fans in the front row behind the announcers are shouting and chanting “SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT”. Masters laughs and turns around to give the gang a few high fives for their support.
Eryk Masters: (Turning back around) Still, man. Gonna be hard to top Sin City and these incredible fans.
“Midnight
You come and pick me up, no headlights
Long drive
Could end in burning flames or paradise”
Jason Johnson: It was not an easy decision, and certainly not…
Jason gets distracted by a few fans off camera, doing “Fans” stuff. In the background, behind the team, some folks seem to stop what they’re doing and move back closer to the guardrails. Masters laughs and Jason shakes his head, laughing as well.
Jason Johnson: Looks like some of these guys want to keep the party alive.
Eryk Masters: And I LIKE IT, Jason.
Jason Johnson: (Talking a little more loudly, compensating for a crowd that won’t quit) Which is why it wasn’t an easy decision, and not one that we…
The lights go out.
The “house music”, (Taylor Swift’s “Style”) continues to play over the speaker.
The building rumbles, but without any certainty of why other than the wrestling fan’s perpetual desire to be caught off-guard.
… To be shocked
…To scream “Holy Sh*t”
Eryk Masters: (Awkwardly, but laughing) Heh. Did we have a hard stop that we blew past?
Jason Johnson: (Taking that suggestion seriously, speaking to the back) Are we off air, boys? We good?
“I should just tell you to leave ’cause I
Know exactly where it leads, but I…”
PINK SPOTLIGHTS CIRCLE THE ARENA
“…Watch us go ’round and ’round each time”
And just like that.
The desires are quelled
“DEFILER”
Appears on the video wall, and over all monitors in the Epicenter.
There is no word, way, or reason to describe the reactions.
In step with the chorus, JONNY JOHNSON walks out from behind the curtain.
“You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye
And I got that red lip classic thing that you like
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time”
“Cause we never go out of style
We never go out of style”
Juxtaposed against his boisterous surroundings and ambiance, this is a somber man who is showing the wear and tear of time. His face is gaunt, pained… his body lean and almost gangly. If a person didn’t know this man had been a professional wrestler, they’d never guess it.
“You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt
And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time”
“Cause we never go out of style
We never go out of style”
He’s suited up in black coat and slacks. White button-up shirt, black tie. His hair, worn short and messy; beard, lost and scruffy, are both more grey than blonde. His eyes, also grey, produce a blank, disaffected icy gaze that exudes a certain and dangerous fatigue.
“So it goes
He can’t keep his wild eyes on the road, mm, mm”
“Takes me home
Lights are off, he’s taking off his coat, mm yeah”
His path to the ring is without celebration or regard.
His eyes go nowhere.
He shrugs off welcoming fans reaching over the guardrails on an expedient and acrimonious stride to the ring.
“I say, “I heard, oh
That you’ve been out and about with some other girl
Some other girl”
He stops at the base of the ring where a stagehand greets him through shadows to hand him a mic. Jonny nods, takes the mic.
…And takes a breath.
“He says, “What you’ve heard is true, but I
Can’t stop thinking about you and I
I said, “I’ve been there too a few times”
Jonny gestures at a camera man nearby and seems to be asking that he follow him into the ring. Not knowing what else to do or say, the man obliges and follows.
“’Cause you got that James Dean daydream look in your eye
And I got that red lip classic thing that you like
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time
‘Cause we never go out of style
We never go out of style”
Jonny walks up the ring steps and into the ring, followed by the camera man.
The crowd reaction is unequivocally mixed, but maybe also moot.
“You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt
And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time
‘Cause we never go out of style (we never go, we never go)
We never go out of style”
The DEFILER: Okay…
He speaks, looking down at the mat, moving methodically to a specific position in the ring just off-from-center.
The DEFILER: Just uh… (Reaching out and gently grabbing the camera man’s arm) Right here… here and uhh… Yeah. Stay here.
He looks up and makes sure the camera man is on the same page. The man nods. This all caught by the traditional hard camera.
The DEFILER: This is the guy, okay? (Pointing to the guy) Cut to this guy. (Gesturing to himself) Stay on my face… on my shoulders, or whatever the shot is… But just me. Don’t cut anywhere else. Okay? Yeah? Are we…
Are we good?
Okay… Okay.
The feed cuts to the camera in the ring, on Jonny, his bust taking up the frame. It’s hard to see anyone or anything else. The ring post is behind him, eliminating any discernable reactions from the crowd.
Notably, the music in the background fades and the lights are now all the way back up.
The DEFILER: (Speaking directly into the camera) I’ve thought about what this would feel like for a while. Ten years. I think the last time I stepped in a SHOOT Project ring was… October of 2014.
He pauses and looks down; keeps his head down a little bit longer than what feels normal before a joyless smile pops across his face.
He looks back up.
The DEFILER: Ten years, and boy THINGS SURE AREN’T GREAT! Ha… But everyone knows that. Right? If I’m here… If I’m here, that means things aren’t great. Because WHY… WHY THE…(sensing anger, taking a breath, slowing down) Why else, huh? Why else would an otherwise happy and successful person be here?
Beat.
The DEFILER: (Collecting himself) And all of that will come out over time. Reports, whispers. You’ll get it and you’ll have an opinion, but it all happened. And… and it happened a while ago, and… and there’s nothing we can do about it. So… so let’s just get this out…
I’ve thought about what I would say to this place, to the people. And depending on how much I’ve had to drink or what I’m putting into my body, or how I slept or how many phone calls went unanswered… or… or how many voicemails I’ve left… or… what someone said on reddit or the answer to a ChatGPT query…
Pause
That… that speech has ranged from a single and silent middle finger to the kind of lengthy , grandiose, and unhinged rant that I sort of built a career on. So we’ll see what we get I guess… I know what I want to say and where I want this to go, and… and I almost think… maybe just say it. Ya know? If you want people to understand, then the path to success is usually through succinct and efficient communication.
I’ll try.
Pause.
The DEFILER: Did you know that for a long time, if you’re the kind of person that looks at title histories on websites… which, newsflash, heh… ME. That’s me..
Did you know that for a very long time, if you looked at the history of the SHOOT Project World Title, you would NOT have seen the name JONNY JOHNSON? Forget that I’m a TWO-TIME champion… It just went from Adrian Corazon to Jester Smiles to Donovan King…
But that’s Two-Thousand Eight, man. I don’t want to make this about 17 years ago.
That would be insane.
They updated it recently, and now at least one reign is on there. Cool. I’m still a two-time champion. I lost a match and then won a rematch and a title… So that would be a second reign. But that’s… seventeen years ago. This isn’t about seventeen years ago.
That… would be. INSANE.
And that’s why I didn’t come back seven or eight years ago.
Pause.
The DEFILER: I came back now.
And… and WHY something that happened seventeen years ago is important NOW… Is that what I went through seventeen years ago and what I fought against and what I TRIED TO REPRESENT SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO is tied directly to a behavioral pattern that persists TODAY. NOW.
Everything that happened in Las Vegas will STAY in Vegas.
EveryONE that happened in Las Vegas will STAY in Vegas.
Every life put on the line. Every tear shed. Every blood dropped. EVERY. THING THAT ANYONE EVER DID THAT THEY FOOLISHLY THOUGHT MATTERED WILL STAY IN VEGAS.
And like it always does, SHOOT Project will wrap it all up in a nice bow, send it off to the fans and its investors and say “HERE YA GO, PAL! IT’S SHOOT PROJECT: LAS VEGAS. The complete box set for $299.99! WHAT A GREAT HOLIDAY GIFT! Or you can stream IT and other CLASSIC MOMENTS for 17.99 a month on SHOOTPROJECT DOT COM!”
Pause.
The DEFILER: (Smirking) But it’s a business. And get ready for the twist folks. I’m not out to get mad at a company being a company. That would be stupid.
I’m not out here to beef with the brass that made BUSINESS decisions that, yeah, sure may have held me back at various points in my career. And yeah, ONE HUNDRED that they may have backed wrong ponies… But… a business made a decision, which a business entity is ENTITLED to make and they lived with it. Twenty-five years in business? THEY EARNED IT.
I’m not mad at fans who pay money to BE FANS and have opinions. They PAY to BE FANS. That’s capitalism ONE-O-ONE. THEY EARN THE RIGHT.
And I’m sure as heck not mad at anyone who was ever better. Than. Me. I’m not here to get revenge on those who chose to war against me or those who took a stance and said quite bluntly, “FUCK YOU, SIR”.
To stand, in passion, for anything is noble.
He looks down and takes a longer pause, gathering his thoughts.
The DEFILER: (Still looking down) It’s… it’s the silence from everyone else.
He looks up and glowers intently at the camera.
The DEFILER: A lot of folks who have never stood for anything, and there are an embarrassing number of them in that locker room today and working in the back… Working office jobs… A lot of people who never mustered the courage to be anything more than a stupid, selfish, professional wrestler are going to leave thinking… OH BOY! WHAT GREAT AND WONDROUS OPPORTUNITIES TO LEACH LIKE THE RAT THAT I AM AWAIT ME NOW?
OH GOLLY! HOW COOL TO TELL MY STORIES SOMEWHERE SHINY AND NEW!
WHAT NEAT PLACES CAN I TALK TO PEOPLE ABOUT HOW I’M BETTER AT WRESTLING!
Pause
The DEFILER: (Taking a breath) A lot folks here had the chance to be something more and to stand up for what was OBJECTIVELY RIGHT… My right, THEIR RIGHT, ANYONE’S RIGHT. For eighteen years, people in that locker room had the chance to be something that mattered… To stand on the merit of their ideology and MAKE THIS MATTER.
But they’ll leave without saying goodbye.
They’ll leave without saying sorry.
They’ll leave knowing that so many people lost so much defending their hills… while they, themselves, simply hopped to more prosperous ones. Over. And Over. And OVER, AND OVER, AND OVER AND OVER UNTIL ALL OF THE HILLS WERE LEFT BARREN AND LIFELESS.
Until all the hills had become overwhelmed in nothing.
Until they WERE nothing.
Jonny moves closer to the camera.
The DEFILER: I’m a two-time world champion.
It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.
People have hurt themselves very badly doing things that they felt were right. That they believed in.
It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.
Men and women have been torn from their children, from their families over this.
It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.
People died… for… THIS.
It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing…
Pause.
The DEFILER: Las Vegas, New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Japan, Mexico, Europe… There will always be fans. There will always be a business. There will always be people better than someone else… And to those, I love you. I love you so much and I respect everything that you represent.
For the first time out here, Jonny seems at peace. He takes a long breath and nods his head.
Pause.
The DEFILER: But to the vast and worthless majority. The hard-carry has ended and you ABSOLUTELY, WILL NOT be afforded the privilege to just leave all of this nothing behind.
Pause. Jonny looks at the ground, making sure he stays where he wants to be.
The DEFILER: It is going to follow you.
It is going to find you.
And it will swallow you.
He looks back up, pointedly.
The DEFILER: “I” will swallow you.
“I” will find you.
“I” will follow you.
“I” am the nothing that you cannot just… leave behind.
Pause.
The DEFILER: Cause that’s the thing about nothing. You can take the sum of all existence, all of its parts. All of everything… heh… but, but multiply it by zero… have it stare into the face of nothing…
And the answer is always zero.
Beat
The DEFILER: So I will follow you through cities, through states, through countries, through continents, through planets, through universes, through the very end of time and space…
Until we are united.
Until we are finally at peace.
As nothing.
Together.
He takes a very long pause.
His grey stare fixates ahead, before seeming to lighten ever so slightly.
The DEFILER: Was that, okay? It’s been a long time… and um…. I guess… So I guess, uh… Geeze. I don’t know. I don’t know what else, right now.
Unmoving.
The DEFILER: See you in New York.
That’s it. Show’s over.
