“...Hmm… His eyes are open. Is he… awake?”

“Unclear. He might be able to hear us! …Or he might be unconscious and his eyelids are spasming.”

“And... Is he… reduced in value?”

“I mean, as a combatant? Ehhhhh, debatable. He’s taken a severe beating. But his brain’s had so many concussions, it might not make a difference. It’s arguable he goes through his matches in a catatonic state!”

…

“Perhaps, you’d allow me to dissect his mind. Post-mortem. For science! …And fun.”

“No. I would… prefer not to kill him.”

“Bullshit. You say Whole mission is to kill him. You tell me ‘We Kill Mark Flynn’. We have him unconscious and now you say ‘we no kill Mark Flynn’.”

“Patience, my Russian associate. In business, one does not simply destroy one’s opponent. One… acquires their opponent’s assets. Builds, grows… draws strength from each victory. We have bested Mark Flynn, yes. And now we… appraise his… value.”

“What value? He fail to beat me. Knocked-out in one punch.”

“Indeed. Operation RoBoy’s first outing was a MASSIVE success!”

“WATCH YOURSELF, FXWer. I won fight with Flynn, not your toy.”

“Suuuuuuuuure, Popinski. It was your technique that won. Not your ROBOT-POWERED ARMS. How about you press your disconnect button, wake up Flynn, and try fighting again without my GENIUS invention?”

“You mean invention you stole from Flynn and wrote your name on? Invention, indeed. What have actually invented, ‘MAD SCIENTIST’?”

“After this, how about I invent a pair of scissors to snip your controller cord, Soda?”

“Gentlemen, please… At the precipice of our victory, this is no time for… squabbling.”

“Besides… A decibel louder… And you might…wake our dreamer…”

---

Splitting, pulsating, blistering headache. A dark cold place.

“Awwww, fuck…” Flynn mutters, as he squints his entire face.

Fun Fact: There are about 42 muscles in your face and it fucking sucks to get punched in all of them.

“All right… c’mon… Soda, you… Russian… Cyborg… Fuck.  Round 2. I didn’t lose to you if we’re still actively fighting.”

Flynn lets gravity drag his fists…

Forward right in front of him. Okay, means Flynn’s lying facedown. Not the best vantage to fight from, but not an unfamiliar one.

“I’ll… fuckin’... chew through your goddamned circuits, you…” Flynn tries to climb to his feet… And feels the floor… floor? Slip out from under him.

Like the ground and the earth are not one-and-the-same.

“...What the fuck?”

Flynn paws the ground. It kinda feels like a thin raincoat.

“...Nylon?”

…

“Am I in a tent?”

Flynn reaches forward… There’s a zipper.

He yanks it down… blasting himself in the face with a heaping helping of sunlight.

“AHHHHHH…” Flynn hisses like a vampire, realizing it’s daytime.

He crawls out of the tent, wandering onto the… sidewalk?

He knocks on it. Concrete. Yep, it’s a sidewalk.

Flynn stretches his way up to his feet. He glances left… Glances right.

He’s on… some kind of road.

“Where the fuck am I?”

…

Flynn pats his pockets. Something rectangular.

“Ah good, my phone. I can call NK to pick me up…”

Flynn fishes the shape out of his pocket… And groans as his fingers touch it.

“Ah, fuck. Those assholes broke my screen…”

Flynn’s fingers rapidly swipe across the screen.

…Rejected.

“Fuck! And they changed my screenlock? That’s diabolical.”

Flynn lifts the screen to his face… And wrinkles his nose disgusted.

“...And they changed my background to… scat pornography?!?”

As Flynn stares at the phone, the screen goes to sleep..

And… in the broken glass of the cell phone screen.

He sees…




His reflection.

Flynn pats his cheek.

The man in the mirror does the same.

“...OH WHAT THE FUUUUUU-”

---

Shaky hands scrambling down at his neck, reaching around the back of his head.

It’s gotta be some trick, some mask or makeup or…

“OW! FUCK!”

Nope, despite Flynn’s best efforts to tear off his face, he’s definitely actually in Gravy’s body.

Flynn bends over at the waist…Gathering his bearings.

“Fuck, okay. I’m in Micheal Graves’ body. I’ve been Freaky Friday’d…”

…

Flynn gets a smile on his face.

“Wait, this means I have a dick that wasn’t bit off by a clown woman!”

Flynn-Gravy excitedly loosens his waistband, taking a gander down south.

…His smile turns to a grimace.

“How the fuck is Gravy’s even smaller?”

Suddenly, footsteps. Down the street, Flynn spots a jogger in yoga pants and a visor running down the street

“...Sigh. Okay, let’s solve this one step at a time…”

As the jogger nears, Flynn-Gravy steps into the road to block her path, extending his hand towards her expectantly.

“Good morning, ma’am. Could I borrow your phone? Nothing weird, I’m just in a body-swap scenario and I need to look up the Wikipedia for the film Freaky Friday.”

As the jogger draws near, her face contorts into horror.

“Eeeeeeeeeeek! It’s the park pervert!” She cries out as her hands dig terrified into her pockets, as if seeking a means of self-defense.

Flynn-Gravy eyes himself up-and-down… and sighs begrudginly. “Ma’am, I guarantee this body’s eyes are immune to mace at this point. Just from sheer, CONSTANT expos-”

THWIP! The jogger retrieves a knife. Flynn’s eyes widen, he tries to catch her attack… But Gravy’s clumsy hands bounce off each-other, mistimed. The blade jabs into Flynn-Gravy’s abdomen.

“OHMYGOD!” Flynn’s stomach collapses inward as he falls to the ground, blood gushing down his ribs. “Oh fuuuuuuck, she-got-me…. Ohhhh, she-got-me-real-good…”

“HELP! SEXPEST!” The jogger wails, seeking assistance, leaving the knife jabbed in Flynn-Gravy’s gut.

“Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…” Flynn exhales, as he bleeds out… His vision clouds…

---

The moment he returns to consciousness, Flynn’s fists tighten and he swings a punch.

“AHHHHH! FUCK!”

…He inhales, expecting a throbbing pain in his new stabwound.

…But, nothing.

Flynn glances down and sees his abdomend pristine, no hole but his belly button.

…He also sees beneath him… A familiar nylon.

“...No fucking way.”

Flynn crawls outside the tent...

To the exact same scene.

Flynn groans, wrapping his head in his hands.

“OH C’MOOOOOON! I’m in a Freaky Friday AND A GROUNDHOG DAY?!?”

Flynn points into the sky accusingly, furious at whoever’s in charge.

“THIS… This is too many things!”

In the distance, Flynn-Gravy hears familiar footsteps… And sees the same jogger coming down the road.

He steps back onto the sidewalk and waves her through like a crossing guard.

“Don’t mind me! Enjoy this public park! Your tax dollars at work!” Flynn hollers aggressively, but while maintaining a defensive stance. The jogger avoids eye contact… But passes by.

Flynn watches her go… Then sighs with relief.

As she gets further away, however, Flynn sees… Just as the road’s end. Signage for the public library.

Flynn nods thoughtfully.

“...Okay. Plan B.”

---

“These are the worst hands.” Flynn grimaces downwards as he types, one key at a time. Any faster and his work is riddled with typos. “I just… I hate these hands.”

Flynn-Gravy sits in front of one of the library’s public computers.

The page loads. He sighs with relief.

“Finally, something going my way. Okay… Freaky Friday. Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis… switch BACK bodies? Fuck, is Gravy out there piloting me?”

Flynn becomes so angry at the idea of his body piloted by Micheal Graves, he almost vomits. He seethes with rage, as he suppresses his gag reflex…

“...Okay… Okay, Lohan and Curtis switch bodies back when the two exhibit selfless love towards one another.”

…Flynn again has to concentrate completely on suppressing his gag reflex, so as to not rage-expel his stomach contents like the girl from the Exorcist.

“I’m not going to ‘selflessly love’ Micheal Graves so… Onto Option Two.”

Flynn switches tabs…

“Groundhog Day. Bill Murray escapes the Punxsutawney time loop when he… becomes a good person.”

Flynn’s eyes widen. He presses his hands in front of his face thoughtfully.

“...Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-IT.”

Flynn brings his head down into his hands.

He sighs… Rubbing his scalp, looking again at the computer.

His eyes catch, in the top corner of the screen.

The Date: 8/10/22

Flynn squints perplexed.

“What the… I got knocked out for TWO MONTHS?”

“HIM! THERE HE IS, OFFICER! I WANT HIM OUT OF HERE!”

Flynn checks his six.

…Yep, that librarian and that police officer are definitely marching towards him.

“Oh, c’mon! A guy can’t look up the endings to decades-old movies anymore without the police getting called?”

The police officer leans in, respectfully but firmly. “Sir, this isn’t about how you were using the public computer.”

“Oh. Great.”

“You’ve been banned from this public library for… past indiscretions involving… drawing crude, sexual doodles in the margins of the library’s copies of… *throat-clear* the Bible.”

…

Flynn snorts, smiling.

“Okay, I’m not that guy. But that’s pretty funny.”

---

One policeman shove down the library’s frontsteps later…

Flynn stumbles at the bottom step, flopping onto his ugly, clumsy, Gravy-soaked hands.

“Fuck off! Public libraries are dead! Nobody fuckin’ READS anymore, let alone checks out BOOKS!”

The librarian huffs disgustedly as she slams the door behind her.

“YOU’RE WHERE HOMELESS PEOPLE TAKE SHITS TOO MEAN FOR THE GROOOOOOOOUND.”

Flynn scrambles back to his feet. As he does, he raises up, bumping heads with some young asshole.

“Watch where you’re going, fuckface.”

Flynn goes to spin away… But the young man follows him excitedly.

"Dude, Micheal Graves! I just want to tell you that you're fucking awesome!"

Flynn squints perplexed. Apparently, Micheal Graves has… fans? Or ONE FAN.

One too many.

“You have the wrestling tastes of a slow child.” Flynn spits venomously, walking away. The young man tails him, bubbling with enthusiasm.

"For real man! You're feuds are some of the best things in the XWF!"

“Your*”

“...wut?”

“It’s ‘your’, the possessive adjective. Not ‘you’re’ as in the contraction. It’s no fucking surprise that YOU’RE a fan of Gravy given that you speak like English is YOUR third language.”

“...But… Wait, I’m talking. How can you tell if I used the right spelling? I SAID it!”

Flynn-Gravy sneers. “It’s HOW you said it. Your words drip with ignorance and excess chromosomes. I can fucking smell STUPID all-over you. Every sound you make, every muscle you twitch, every goddamn time you breathe out of your mouth, all I hear is an idiot doctor 20-some odd years ago, who didn’t have the societal decency to SMOTHER you the moment you bumbled out of your drunken mother’s vodka-soaked birth canal.”

“...Well… Fuck you, dude!”

Flynn scoffs. “Wow, what a devastating wit you wield. Who writes your comebacks? Oscar FUCKING Wilde?!?”

…The guy’s not getting anywhere trading verbal barbs, so he splits off.

Flynn exhales, satisfied.

“Good. Now, where was I?”

Flynn strokes his chin.

“Oh right! I was… uh… Becoming… A Good… Person.”

Flynn turns down the street at the wrestling fan whose day he ruined.

Flynn cups his hand around his mouth.

“Hey! Also… Uh… Don’t Do Drugs!”

The man points his middle finger backwards as he huffs away.

Flynn sighs, pinching his forehead between his hand.

Flynn takes a seat on the sidewalk, burying his forehead in his hands.

“Ffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Being Micheal Graves suuuuuuuuuucks…”

“Life got ya down?”

Flynn peers up and sees a familiar round-face, with a glass-eye, smiling down at him.

“Oh, Barn-Dog. That’s right, you hang out with this fucking loser.”

“Tired of fighting your way up the shitstream of life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wouldn’t MONEY solve all of life’s problems?”

…Flynn’s eyes light up.

“Barn-Dog! You’re a genius! I’ll SPEND my way out of this fuckin’ mess! I’ll BUY being a good person. …They sell that somewhere, right?”

“They definitely do! And with a simple BarnCoin purchase, you’ll be flush with digital cash! I just need a credit card num-”

Flynn-Gravy plants his hand onto Barn-Dog’s face, shoving the spherical snakeoil salesman straight to the street. After Flynn’s pie-face, Barn-Dog’s globe-body rolls down the street like a goddamn bowling ball.

Flynn smiles looking down at his hands, like he’s figured out what they’re good for.

“Fuck your cryptoscam bullshit, Barn. Unlike this fucking loser I’m occupying, I have a bank account.”

---

Later that very same day…

“Well, Mister… Flynn, you said? On behalf of the XWF Credit Union for employees, I would thank you for having an account with us…”

Flynn-Gravy tilts his neck smugly. “Full disclosure, you weren’t my first choice. Buuuut, I got banned from Bank of America after I allied myself with a North Korean War Criminal. And Wells Fargo… I mean, even I have standards.”

“Um… Yes. I would thank you. If this account were yours.”

…Flynn squints… Then remembers his current situation.

“Right. Yeah, look, I know I’m not myself… physically. Uh, but y’know, I got my account number and password. Ask me my security questions! Or Fuckin’... show me stopsign pictures…. Whatever you people do.”

“We will not be doing that again, Mister Graves.”

“I… Wait, Again?”

The teller grabs the remote on his desk and hits a button. The television in the corner fizzes to life.

Quote:Grainy CCTV Footage.

Micheal Graves is yelling at a teller about how he’s Mark Flynn. He points out his mangy beard and lice-ridden hair. But the teller is having none of it.

The teller stands up, directing Gravy to the door out of his office.

As he does… from the corner of the screen, who creeps in… But Charlie Nickles! He gets on his hands and knees behind the teller, who is still yelling ay Gravy when…

TABLETOP!

The teller goes ass-over-tea-kettle onto his head and elbows… As Charlie Nickles scoops off the desk two handfuls of cash from Flynn’s account… Graves and Nickles cheese it!

…Flynn squints perplexedly at the camera.

“...Wait, Nickels and Gravy robbed my account?”

“Well, a small amount of it.”

“...What?”

The teller realizes he’s revealed too much. He shrugs, as he jabs his thumb repeatedly onto the security button… ”Well, as YOU are aware, since you lost the tournament HE won… Mark Flynn came into possession of 2.5 million dollars.”

…

……Flynn salivates like a rabid dog…

“… I came into WHAT?!?”

To Be Continued…

---

Flynn sits in the War-Room.

Alone.

“Hey, Gravy.”

“C'mere. Take a seat.”

Flynn flips open a folder. Pictures of Gravy’s last few matches flop onto the desk…

“You know, Gravy. You *say* you’re unpredictable. But you sure cut the same exact promo five fuckin’ times.”

Flynn slaps his knee, delighted.

“Bet you’re riding real high. Winning TWO back-to-back matches.”

“First time you’ve done that in eight months.”

“...Also! First time you’ve WON in eight months!”

“Must feel good beating a…” Flynn double-checks his notes. “Geriatric sadsack who refuses to retire and… a guy who wins 30% percent of his matches.”

“Buuuuuut, Here’s where the gravy train comes to a screeching halt.”

“See, this has become my unofficial role around here. I topple the #1 contender for the Uni Title.”

“Check my fuckin’ stats. Before Vaughnie challenged Caedus? I beat Vaughnie.”

“Before Nickles challenged Alias? I beat Nickles.”

“Before the Fatal 4-Way at the Cannabis Cup? I beat Dolly AND Nickles.”

“Now. Let’s be clear. You’re a tune-up. Somebody to keep Kido in shape going into the biggest weekend of the year.”

“Like when Caedus fought that French Kid.”

“Or when Vaughnie fought a foot-fetishist.”

“That’s the level you’re at, Gravy. You’re a workout. Like Zumba or Pilates.”

“If you were at my fucking level? You would have made it to the Cannabis Cup Finals. Instead of rolling over for Corey Smith and losing in the first fucking round. Your record that weekend was 0-1. Mine was 5-0.”

“You lost to Char-Char? I beat him THREE FUCKING TIMES.”

“At this point, you’re used to dreaming big and watching someone else do the job, right, Gravy?”

“You jaw-jacked for months about ending Rob Main’s career? Sure, TK barely got a W. But, I finished Omega’s career.”

“See, the difference between you and me, Gravy? Is you are.” Finger-quotes. “unpredictable.”

“You ‘unpredictable’ guys pretend like your actions are IMPOSSIBLE to plan for.”

“NEWS FLASH, MIKE. Your unpredictability is MEASURABLE. CALCULABLE. TRANSPARENTLY OBVIOUS.”

“See, You… Are still human.”

“Prone to the same core fears, base urges, psychological needs as all the predictable people.”

“The only difference between the unpredictable and the predictable is the unpredictable are more prone to bad decisions.”

“Unnecessary risks.”

“INCOMPLETE PLANNING.”

“LACK.”

“OF.”

“FOCUS.”

“See, unpredictable people? Work off instinct. And instinct is VERY predictable… Once you’ve drawn blood.”

“Sure, you might ride a moped to the ring. Wear a big hot dog costume. Bring your big nailed dildo.”

“But, once I’ve wrapped my hands around your forearm, and twisted until your elbow joints are TORN IN TWAIN.”

“Your inclination? To survive at all costs.”

“Escape.”

“And when cornered? To weep out of your bleeding eyes, begging for a mercy that will never come.”

“I know first-hand. I’ve done it many… MANY TIMES.”

“My attacking my tag-team partner. Wasn’t UN-predictable. Chuck called it week-of. Corey called it a year ago.”

“And I DID IT ANYWAY.”

“I ENDED THE CAREER OF A MAN I CALLED AN ALLY. A MAN I CONSIDERED A FRIEND AND CONFIDANTE. BECAUSE HE STEPPED INTO MY PATH. HE IMPEDED MY VICTORY.”

“JUST LIKE I WOULD ANY MAN WHO STOOD BETWEEN ME AND THE MOUNTAINTOP.”

…

“So. Go ahead, Gravy.”

“It’s an X-Treme…er Rules match.”

“Bring a shopping cart of wacky weapons to the ring.”

“A couple kendo sticks.”

“Barbed wire.”

“All the shit Charlie tried to pull last week before he LOOOOOOST.”

“Be oh-so-predictably unpredictable.”

“I know you.”

“I’ve walked a mile in your shoes.”

“I’ve got the truest sense of who you are.”

“I’ve FELT your weaknesses. EXPERIENCED your gait. I know exactly which joints to snap that’ll topple you like a house of cards.”

“I even took a souvenir. You’re not the only thief around here…”

Flynn whips out of his pocket…



ANOTHER MATILDA! FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION!

“Gravy. You wanna talk about unpredictability…”

Flynn grins fiendishly, wielding the weaponized dildo.

“Betcha didn’t see that coming?”