September 29th, 2012 - 3:44 AM

A dimly-lit, faded-Saffron-colored hotel room. A general grime and brown residue about the fixtures.

As the analog clock’s minute flips… A stinging alarm buzzes.

A hand swats through the air to silence the buzzing.

Mark Flynn’s hand.

“...Phew. Okay.”

He sits up in bed, straining to open his eyes. He strains, shoving the meaty bits of his palms into his lids, trying to get the blood flowing.

“C’mon… Almost there, almost there...”

Flynn extends his foot, over the bedside, bending his knee as he does, trying to keep the floor creaking to a volume-minimum as he exits the sticky sheets.

He creeps along the floor, to the other side of the bedroom. To a mirror-dresser combination.

Sitting atop the chiffarobe is a head-mannequin. And resting on that… Is a mask.

Realistic skin-texture. Minimal features. Shaved-head. Low-maintenance disguise.

Flynn carefully picks up a corner of the rubbery, thin mask… And pressed it onto his cheek…

A drawer slips open. A little foundation to hide the mask’s edges.

Flynn sneers, a bad taste in his mouth as he smears, brushes off and blends color onto his neckline.

Mark Flynn isn’t an expert in movie-makeup-horseshit.

But… He will do anything.

ANYTHING.

To climb to the top of the ladder.

Taking the spot at the mountaintop that he’s owed.

That he’s EARNED.

With the lines set, Flynn rests his hands on his temples… And slides the mask’s eyes back into position.

He gazes in the mirror.



And sees Robert Miles. The charismatic enigma who somehow bartered a two-week long Heavymetalweight Championship reign into two 24/7 briefcases.

The man who, every night, finds a new way to piss off XWF Worldheavyweight Champion Tristan Slater.

Slater’s been annoyed… But confident. Irritatingly… And SMUGLY confident.

To be fair, he’s sporting a 22-0 record. He’s earned that confidence.

But this latest ploy? This is IT. Flynn nods as he checks the corners of his face for any gaps… A single out-of-place color splotch.

He’s gotten this far, playing each move absolutely perfectly. He can’t afford a mistake this close to the end-game.

Three hammering fists at the hotel door. 4:30 AM… Same time as always.

“Coach!” Calls out a gruff voice, in thick Russian patois. “Wakey-wakey. Is time! We hit gym! We train for Slater!”

‘Miles’ turns to the door… Opens his mouth as wide as he can, and mock-yawns with his eyes wide open.

“I’m up, I swear.” Flynn double-checks his face-lines… And catches a dangling cheek-patch.

“Just… uh…” Flynn says, in a perfect imitation of a half-awake layabout, while he stoicly dabs at his cheek. “*fake_yawn* Five more minutes.”

“Da, Coach. Is fine. Get your teeth brushed, meet me downstairs.”

Plodding footsteps.

Flynn sighs. He eyes the calendar in room’s corner Slater’s Tag-Title Defense… Monday.

Two days.

Two moves from checkmate.

---

September 29th, 2012 - 6:36 AM

The edge of a boxing ring.

Punch-punch-DUCK!

Punch-punch-DUCK!

‘Miles’ holds a pair of focus mitts. His employee, the six-and-a-half-foot, Soda Popinski, … With the technical precision of a Russian ballerina and the force of a Russian bear, wallops left, socks right, then…

Dips to dodge ‘Miles’ sweeping his head.

BZZZZZZZZ! A kitchen-timer in the corner goes-off!

Soda smiles.

“Yes! Drink break!”

Soda effortlessly dodges one last mitt-sweep, backwards-somersaulting into the corner. ‘Miles’ has been telling wrestling interviewers for his match with Slater he’s stronger AND faster than Slater. Stats-wise, Soda’s 37 pounds lighter… But he’s been boxing so long, his haymaker hits like a Howitzer.

The media’s been pointing out Slater’s got stamina like a marathon-runner. He’s been wrestling 30-40 minute matches, week-in, week-out.

‘Miles’ replied, Slater’s not running in a marathon. This is gonna be a dash.

Soda slides onto his chest, and reaches under the bottom rope. He retrieves a crumpled paper sack.

‘Miles’ shakes his head. “For fuck’s sake, Soda. I told you we need to start drinking WATER.”

Soda sneers squeamishly, as he lies on his back, popping off a bottlecap. “I no drink water, fish fuck in it.”

‘Miles’ grins in disbelief, easing himself down by the bottom rope, next to Popinski. “Seriously? You’re telling me you don’t trust filtration systems to get fish semen out of water… But you trust COCA-COLA’s nutritional benefits? Really?”

Soda shakes his head, opening his mouth to retort… Before realizing he’s still got beverage in his cheeks. He swallows the liquid, then passes the bottle to ‘Miles’.

“Is not Coca-Cola. Is Dobry.”



‘Miles’ eyes the bottle, turning it over in his hand, watching the bubbly liquid climb up and down the glass.

“Is made from fruit! And nectar! From Mother Russia! Is healthy.”

Miles guffaws, pointing the bottletop up and down at Dobry’s #1 superfan.

“Motherfucker, you drink 12 glasses of ‘DOBRY’ a day… and you’re PURPLE. This is NOT HEALTHY.”

Popinski sneers, grinning. “Haha, I am peak of physical fitness! Skin tone is… uh… how-you-say… familial. Genetic!”

“If I asked a DOCTOR what gene is connected to PURPLE skin, he’d have my fucking head examined.” Miles says, while speed-reading the bottle…

Suddenly, Miles’ eyes light up! He shoves the bottle back in Soda’s face.

“THERE!”

Popinski swats the bottle away from his face. “What? What you want?”

Miles shoves it right back in Soda’s eyes. “RIGHT THERE! LOOK AT THE LABEL! What’s it say?”

“...Uh…” Soda squints. “Coca-Cola… Hellenic… Bottling Company.”

“There! See! It’s still owned by Coca-Cola!”

Popinski scoffs. “Nyet! Nyet! Is… uh… is bottling company! Is regional, one for every continent!”

“BUT! Does Coca-Cola OWN the bottling company?”

Popinski blushes, rendering his cheeks a pale magenta. “... Some part… 20 percent… ish.”

“20 Percent! HA!” Miles jabs the bottle at the Russian’s chin triumphantly. “This ‘Russian’ soda is as American as Apple Pie.”

Popinski scoffs, wrenching the bottle out of his coach’s hands…

The two sit, Popinski sniffing at his beverage, as if searching for some hidden American flavor that he’s been ingesting… Miles sits, legs draped over the side of the ring, pleased with himself.

“...You hear any mud-slinging from Slater camp?”

Miles side-eyes Popinski… Nodding.

“Yeah. One of his PR nerds dug up that old match. Where that 107-pound geek knocked you out.”



Popinski turns red…dish purple. “IS SLANDER! That little Brooklynite CHEAT! His ‘star punch’ signature was a JUMPING ATTACK! Against boxing regulations! I was 24-and-2! I was BEST!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve told me already.”

…

Soda spins back on Miles, still hopping mad. “Did you know? Official in that match wasn’t even full-time boxing referee? He was professional plumber! Moonlighting as official!”

Miles snaps twice. “Hey, hey. Eyes. Eyes on me, right here.” He points at his mask face.

Soda sighs… Then meets his coach’s gaze.

“First off, You’re a wrestler now. Whining about rules getting broken? No longer an option. There’s no appeals process in wrestling. No officiating board, no instant replay, no reversing-the-result bullshit. Guy’s shoulders hit the mat and the zebra counts three? Done. No backsies, capiche?”

“Da. No-backsies.”

“Second. This sport is 95% mental.”

“Da, so is boxing.”

“So. Do NOT let Slater in your head. Let him underestimate you. The XWF booked Glass Joe and King Hippo in one-night-only gag matches? Thinks you’re a joke? Let ‘em say that.”

“Only takes one punch to prove ‘em wrong.”

…Popinski looks down, squeezing the bottle in his hand…

“You think I can do it?”

“...What?”

“You think I can beat undefeated man? This… unbeatable Tristan Slater?”

…

Miles points his index at the Russian.

“Listen. Slater *wants* you to think he’s unbeatable. These fucking guys get off on presenting that they’re these otherworldly supermen. That they’re ordained by fate to be the best. That they’re better than guys like us by some fucking… DIVINE birthright. That they’re INVINCIBLE.”

“They’re not. And it just takes one night. And a PLAN… to TAINT them with a loss. Spoiling their record… with a loss against a lowly mortal, some urchin, some… MID-CARDER… FOR-EVER.”

Popinski raises an eyebrow. “What is ‘Mid-carder’?”

…Miles’ eye twitches. The vein in his forehead strains… “...It’s an… industry term. Point is, we’ll get there. Together. I’ve got a plan. I’ve GOT… THE… PLAN. but it doesn’t work without you. You’re my ace-in-the-hole.”

“We’re capable of beating Slater. But, we’re fucked if you don’t believe in you like I do.”

…Popinski grins. He reaches into his bag, retrieving another Dobry. He extends it… to Robert Miles.

“За встречу! To our meeting, Coach.”

…Miles grins and taps it against Popinski’s.

Clink.

“You and me?

We’re a fuckin’ dream-team.”

---

October 1st, 2012 - 11:44 PM

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

”The Wrestling World was shocked today! Just 48 hours before the massively-hyped match between WVBA’s Soda Popinski and XWF’s Tristan Slater, ‘Robert Miles’, Italian DJ and Popinski’s agent revealed that his promotion of the match was a long-con RUSE!”

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

“C’monc’monc’mon…”

“Miles was actually former Slater challenger, Mark Flynn, who cashed in a 24/7 briefcase he’d earned as Miles…And used it on Slater after he’d won the Tag Titles!”

Click. Pop. Fizz.

Popinski chugs through another bottle of fruity Russian pop with one hand, stress-guzzling, while he cradles a cell phone to his ear with the other.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

Popinski’s pacing his hotel room… Ignoring texts…

XWF Texts telling him if he tries to drop the match, strings will be pulled. He’ll be blacklisted from athletic competition (boxing, wrestling, hockey, curling, underwater basket weaving, quote ‘whatever the fuck you do’) for life.

From wrestling social media, If Flynn and Popinski were in cahoots. What it felt like being Flynn’s lapdog.

From Slater telling him to get his affairs in order… Cuz he’s not leaving Warfare alive.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

“Pick-up, Mister Miles. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Popinski’d been watching Madness to watch Slater in action, 48 hours pre-fight. Taking Coach’s advice to study Slater game-tape before Wednesday.

Popinski was shocked to see Robert Miles run down the ramp post-match.

He was flabbergasted when… ‘Miles’… took his face off.

Hotel’s front desk said ‘that bald guy you’re always with’ checked out five hours ago.

And declared Soda would be covering the bill.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

“C’mon, Coach. We are dream-team, yes? You played your plan… What do I do now?”

*click*

Popinski’s eyes widen with hope.

….

“The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Goodbye.”

That moment, it became obvious. Popinski wasn’t Robert Miles’ ace-in-the-hole.

He was Mark Flynn’s sacrificial pawn.

---

May 30th, 2022

”Soda Popinski!?!”

In some abandoned facility in Kentucky…

Mid-grappling this shadowy foe in this darkened room, Flynn got a glimpse in the light of a familiar face…

Ironic, since this was the first time Popinski was seeing the real Flynn. No secrets, no masks between them.

For the first time, Popinski was seeing his betrayer… The man who ruined his career… his LIFE. Face-to-face.

…

Flynn…

Grins.

Cheerfully.

Like he’s met an old friend.

“Long time, Soda. Still drinking 12 Dobrys a day?”

…Popinski glowers… Furiously.

“За встречу…”

“To our meeting, Mark Flynn.”

FWISH!

Flynn narrowly ducks a HUGE haymaker to the skull! Flynn cartwheels along the wall… creating distance from Popinski.

Who’s back to hopping… Closing in.

Fists up.

“It will be our last…”

***

Poker table.

Cards fly across the tabletop.

Sitting across from the camera.

Smiling ear-to-ear…

Mark Flynn.

”Well, Chuck.”

He reaches toward the pot with both arms

And pulls back a pile of gold… His trophy for the Cannabis Cup…

A smaller trophy which says ‘WarGames Coach of the Year’...

A check for $2.5 million dollars (with ‘Chronic’ Chris Page’s signature).

His Tag-Team Championship belt.

A Contract for a match for the XWF Universal Championship, signed by Theo Pryce.

…And a looseleaf sheet of paper that says ‘2022 Tag-Team of the Year…’

‘(Presumptive)’.

”Looks like one of us left Vegas a winner…”

Flynn reaches into the Cup Trophy… And retrieves a small slip of paper.

He opens it for the camera…

IOU ONE UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH - NICKLEMAN

“And the other went home a loser…” Flynn guffaws. “You dropped the TV Title, you lost THREE straight Uni Title Shots… Defeated by RAION KIDO. And you wrapped up the wrestling industry’s biggest weekend by eating your own move. From your retired boss. I’d say the only thing you could bet now is your last shred of dignity…”

…

“But, let’s face it, Chuck. Your wife took that in the divorce.”

Flynn pounds his knee, howling… He wipes his brow, so delighted he’s sweating.

“Let’s get honest, Chuckster. You’ve been a laughingstock for going-on a year now.”

“You asked before the Cannabis Cup… Why’s Flynn still with CCPE? How about the fact that I left with a Universal Title Match… And you walked away empty-handed and humiliated?”

Flynn leans back in his chair, so deliriously happy, he’s literally tickled pink.

“I WON FIVE MATCHES IN ONE WEEKEND, CHUCK. I CAME IN FIRST IN A FIELD OF THIRTY-TWO. YOU CAME IN THIRD… OUT OF FOUR!”

Flynn is pounding on the side of the poker table now! Chips fly everywhere out of the center, scattering everywhere.

“Let’s flip that question, Chuck. Why are YOU still a Bastard? Considering you already sunk that organization.”

“You think I don’t see why you challenged for my Tag-Title solo?”

“You’re out of fucking options.”

“You dropped two straight matches to me and wanted a third shake. But, despite being in a stable with five other guys… You’re outta partners.”

“Bourbsy fucking hates you. You can’t even harass someone nowadays without Bob-bo telling you to shut your trap and run laps.”


Above: Bastard Brotherhood

“Marf went to live on a farm somewhere… Or whatever TK told you, after they put one in his skull for fucking up Bobby’s WarGames stats.”

“BarnDog is probably on suicide watch now that cryptocurrency is tanking the whole financial sector.”

“And TK dodged WarGames so he wouldn’t lose his X-Treme Title… THEN DROPPED IT ANYWAY. The Bastards are beltless, winless… And hopeless.”

“Speaking of Bastards without belts… That shot for the Uni you promised…. Hahahahaha…”

Flynn takes Nickles’ IOU… and rips it in half. Twice. Paper strips flutter to the floor.

“Sorry, Chuck. Can’t bet what you don’t have. What you’ll NEVER have.”

“You’ll never win the big one because you’re a loser, Chuck.”

“People say ‘Nickles MUST be pretty good… because he keeps getting Uni shots’. Why would Theo and Vin keep throwing this guy in the main event if he didn’t deserve the spot?”

Flynn giggles, pointing down the barrel of the camera.

“Because YOU figured out a simple truism, Chuck. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. And, Chuck, despite being an untalented, mediocre PLEB in the ring… You do one thing well.”

“You. Fucking. SQUEAK.”

“And Theo and Vin give you what you want… Hoping you’ll take a thumping so humiliating, you’ll learn to shut the fuck up.”

“But, unfortunately, that taught you the wrong lesson. Like a Skinner experiment gone wrong, not a week goes by you don’t challenge Jason Cashe, Alias, Raion Kido, Jim Caedus… Because it works.”

“And you’ve gotten THREE… Count ‘em, THREE SHOTS at the Universal Title. And I had to beat thirty-one of the best wrestlers… across SEVEN different companies… To get ONE shot. In TEN YEARS.”

“You SQUAWK, Chuckster. Literally the ONLY time I’ve seen you silent?”

“When I asked YOU, to put your money where your mouth is.”

Flynn laughs.

“Remember the first loss you dropped to me? You and Bobb-o, angling for the tag belts. And NK and I challenged you to wager your #1 contendership.”

Flynn grins like the cat that ate the canary.

“That shut your mouth. Chucky Murder still jacked his jaw plenty that week… But he sure stopped gambling. All-at-once, upping the ante? How gutless NK and I are?… Left his lexicon.”

“And you know why, Char-Char? Because deep down, you don’t have the fucking stones to put it all on the line. That’s what keeps you trolling, begging for other people to bet their belts. Because you’re a law-of-averages kinda guy. Do you think you can beat Mark Flynn? Theoretically… If we fight one-hundred times, you’re betting ONE of those goes your way. But, you won’t do what it takes… to make it THIS.”

“FUCKING.

“TIME.”

“Cuz you always have another shot coming next week. Another chance to run your mouth. Like a whack-a-mole, no matter how many times you get smacked down, you’re gonna keep stepping back in line. IN FRONT OF ME…”

Flynn gets a steely look in his eye. Furious. Like he just uncovered a Gordian knot.

…

Suddenly, he gets a twisted grin on his face. He snaps his fingers.

“Hey hey. Just figured out what you CAN bet, Chuck. What you possess that STILL has value to me.”

“Your opportunities? Your future chances?”

“I want ‘em.”

“Not your lost #1 contender status. That’s already mine.”

“No, Char-Char. I want you to bet… your potential. Feel me? I want a ceiling over your head. A cage with a roof. This high. Never higher.”

“WHEN you lose, I want you to NEVER be able to challenge for the Uni again. You will FORBEAR… from EVER competing for the Universal Title.”

Flynn is smiling ear-to-ear, a sickening glint in his eye, as he points down the camera-barrel.

“Call it a favor for my ol’ pal, Theo. WHEN you lose? The Nickleman’s dream is dead. Bother ol’ Vaughnie for the SuperCon. Scrap with the other minor-leaguers for the Anarchy belt. Hell, go to Madness, compete with the fuckin’ Bing Bong Twinz on who can spew dumber shit. But, as far as the A-Show? The Main Title Picture? You’re out.”

Flynn reaches into his pile of recent winnings, and pushes his Tag-Team belt to the center.

“You wanna win my belt, Chuck? Put your goddamn money where your mouth is. Ante-up.”

“Cuz if you won't put EVERYTHING on the line Saturday? Your body? Your fucking soul?”

“Then, I’ve already won. Cuz I WILL. I DO. EVERY FUCKING MATCH.”

Flynn claps his hands…

The cards get shuffled.

“C’mon, Chuck.”

"You wanna play?"

“Let’s fuckin’ play.”

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