…

Okay.

Okay, okay.

…

We open on… A platform.

A podium.

Behind it, an American Flag billowing in the breeze. Waving triumphantly in the face of those that would challenge it.

Fucking majesticly defiant. Like a fucking bald eagle soaring to heights never imagined.

…

…Go ahead and pipe in an eagle screech for effect.



Oh My God. Just fantastic.

Now, picture this.

From Stage Left.

In military garb. Dressed like Patton himself. Who steps onto the scene? Like Caesar, a conquering hero, ready to take back his home from those who dare oppose him?!?

But the ‘RING GENERAL’. Mark Flynn.

Step-two-three-four. Across the stage with absolute precision.

And I walk across that stage.

I set my Great American, Red-White-and-Blue Universal Championship belt on the podium.

And I DECLARE WAR ON WARFARE ITSELF.

I swear that this day one of my campaign…

To wage ASSYMETRICAL and TOTAL warfare on the ENEMY.

MY ENEMY.

And who is that enemy?

But, every single unlucky bastard standing in the way of my DESTINY.

Bobby Bourbon?

Sidney Grey?

Raion Kido if he picks up the belt?

All DOOMED to be STRUCK DOWN.

By Superior Firepower.

And Superior Intelligence.

…

”Hmm.”

”...Hmmm? HMMM?!?”

***

The scene dissipates.

Flynn’s imagined military insignia disappears off his chest.

At the moment, he’s not standing on a podium, declaring war on the XWF.

He’s, in fact, just in his storage-unit-slash-home. Standing with a pad and pen in his hands.

In front of him, Irwin, his #1 fan (out of one total) sits at a small conference table (stolen from XWF headquarters, from when Flynn had a corner office and carte blanche to make ‘select executive decisions’ as Universal champion).

Flynn eyes his single fan furiously, enraged to a boiling point at Irwin’s ‘hmm’.

“What the FUCK is HMMM, Irwin? This is the narrative! I return to take back what is rightfully mine. Like a military commander, I EXECUTE FLAWLESSLY. This is the return angle. The one that takes me back to THE TOP OF THE XWF.”

…

Irwin rubs his chin.

“Hmm.”

…

“You keep hmming, I’ll break your goddamn arm, Ir-mano.”

Irwin purses his lips, struggling with every fiber of his being not to hmm again. (He likes his arm a lot.)

“...It’s just...” He finally begins… “Kinda been done?”

…

Flynn’s eyes narrow.

“I mean, it’s a good angle. It’s just… Thad already went that route. As a dictator-slash-wrestler of the Illuminautus State. The big military entrances, the stories about warfare. He kinda tapped that ‘ring general’ gimmick.”

“Oh, it’s been done before. It’s a tapped gimmick.” Flynn lets his wrists go limp, mocking his Simp, before sticking a finger in the nerd’s face. ”What the FUCK do I care what you think, Irwin?!?”

…

……

“Thad did it, though?”

Irwin nods.

…

Flynn tears the page off the pad, wads it up into a ball and tosses the ‘RING GENERAL FLYNN’ idea in the trash can.

“Lemme be FUCKING CLEAR, I-man.” Flynn scowls, as he flips through the pages of his padfolio… “That idea… was just me clearing my throat. Throwing one out to get the idea ball rolling. Cuz I’ve got a MILLION FUCKING IDEAS, Ir-dawg.” He points accusingly at Irwin, daring him to accuse Flynn of lying.

Irwin lifts his hands defensively. “I’m sure you do, sir. You’re great at recovering from setbacks.”

“GOD DAMN RIGHT I AM.” Flynn sneers. “That’s basically my whole deal. I get knocked down, I re-invent myself. The Beast, Robert Miles, Whore For Gold, Free-Win Flynn, The Optimal Path, THE SUCCESS STORY™…” Flynn cackles confidently, as he shuffles his pitch pages in his hands, looking for a winner. ”When I get knocked down? That’s when I’m most dangerous. Because when I’m backed into a corner? That’s when I churn failure into out gold, like a goddamn… SUCCESS… ALCHEMIST!!!”

…

(So… What happened when Bobby Bourbon knocked you down in that chess wrestling match? Cuz He sure got you the second time.)

…

Flynn’s eyes twitch, flickering and flittering with FURY.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!?!”

…Irwin is suddenly terrified.

“I-I-I… I didn’t say anything, sir!”

…

…Flynn flips through pages of his padfolio, (like a prospector digging for treasure in a dried-up creek bed… The once-plentiful gold? Completely and thoroughly mined up.)

“Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP.”

“...Are you… Are you talking to me, sir? Cuz… I still haven’t said anything.” Irwin offers.

“HA!” Flynn barks out suddenly. He tears a page of the board and stuffs it in Irwin’s face. “FOUND IT. THIS IS THE ROUTE I TAKE TO THE TOP. DESTINED FOR GREATNESS ONCE MORE.”

Flynn slaps the paper down on the table with AUTHORITY.

“The next phase of the Mark Flynn SAGA! Picture this…” Flynn spreads his hands wide, as if clearing the stage of all negativity, calling forth the theatre of Irwin’s mind.

***

A dark and stormy night.

The dingy city streets. You can hear the people screaming and crying out… For someone to set things right…

…Okay. Scene set, right? Now, voiceover…

He spent the last ten years of his life gathering scraps and bits of evidence, proving that the XWF and Theo Pryce have conspired to hold him down…

His chance at justice, lost forever, on a legal technicality…

…Mix in some long sweeping shots in a court room… Maybe add the sound of a gavel banging a few times.



…No, no, strike that. Just one big gavel strike. Cuz that’s how suddenly justice was severed. In one stroke.



YES! Okay, back to the voiceover…

His Universal title belt lost… His reign over…

Mark Flynn is truly a man with nothing left to lose.

…

And when you take everything from a man… When the path to justice is destroyed. There is no road to take… But Vengeance.

…And the man driven juuuuuust crazy enough… To take on the world. To take back what’s his.

“Oh, kinda like Whore for Gold?”

…

***

Immediately, the scene in Flynn’s head disappears once-more.

…Irwin is smiling, genuinely interested in Flynn’s pitch…

…

“Krhr… GRHGHGHRH…”

Flynn is so angry, like, he’s choking on pure bile building in his throat.

…Irwin’s face whitens.

Flynn simmers down juuuuuuust enough to clear the fury from his windpipe. “What the FUCK DO YOU MEAN LIKE WHORE FOR GOLD?!?”

“U-u-uh. Well…” Irwin stammers. I “I-i-it’s just… Familiar!” Irwin finds. “...But, like in a good way! It’s… uh… resonant with your whole journey!”

Irwin spins the piece of paper and takes a pen out of his pocket protector to start scribbling on it…

Flynn scoffs. ”I don’t NEED notes, Irwinner.”

…

…Flynn does peek over Irwin’s shoulder curiously to see what he’s writing…

“There!” Irwin finishes just as Flynn retreats back to his original position, just avoiding Irwin catching him being interested…

Irwin offers Flynn the pa-

THWIP! Flynn rips it out of Irwin’s hands…

Irwin is unsurprised (probably because of how thoroughly predictable you are, Flynn).

“Shut the fuck up…” Flynn mutters to himself…

…Irwin sweats, reaching to try and take back the paper, since it seems to make Flynn angry. “W-w-well, I just highlighted some parallels… If you replace ‘Theo Pryce’ with ‘Randall Cross’, ‘Bobby Bourbon’ with ‘Neonero’ and ‘Universal Title’ with ‘European Championship’...” Irwin shrugs acquiescently. “I-i-it’s just… Kind of a throwback. You got screwed outside the rules and went crazy. That was the setup to your 2013 Whore-For-Gold run…”

…

THUD! Flynn tosses the pad onto the table, infuriated.

“God…DAMMIT. This is the HOTTEST I’ve been in my ENTIRE CAREER!” Flynn fumes. “I had the THIRD-LONGEST UNIVERSAL TITLE REIGN in the modern era.”

(Tied for Third*. Still can’t beat Alias, huh?)

“I swear to whatever fucking deity you believe in. If you say ONE MORE WORD…”

Irwin shields his face with his hands. He would again claim he hadn’t said anything, but that would be saying words, which might risk Flynn snapping his limbs off…

…

Flynn exhales. He sits back at the table, burying his head in his hands…

“Fuck.”

…

“FUCK.”

…

Flynn spins back around to Irwin.

“Irwin.”

…

…Irwin is currently turning red from holding his breath. He doesn’t have the best cardiovascular health, so after only a few seconds, he’s already at his lungs’ limit.

Flynn sighs.

“You may speak.”

“HAAAAAAUGH.” Irwin gasps, as air rushes back into this nerd’s shriveled, wimpy airways…

“Irwin.” Flynn re-asserts. “You’ve made clear you have an encyclopedic knowledge of… just about every single piece of the XWF canon.”

“Uh… Pretty much. I mean, I’d usually fast-forward through the Peter Gilmour promos, but otherwise, I’ve seen just about everything else!”

Flynn snaps his fingers.

”Great. So, you’ve kept meticulous track of every single XWF Universal champion who ever reigned.”

“Yup!”

Flynn nods with relief. He might be out of the woods here.

“So… Okay. What do former Uni champs typically do… right after they lose the Uni Title?”

…

“…Typically?”

Flynn grits his teeth.

“I’m not trying to STEAL, Irwin.” Flynn sweeps his arm dismissively. “We’re just… gathering data points right now… ON AVERAGE, is there a trend among former Universal champs’ post-title loss?”

…

Irwin’s lip purse uncomfortably.

“...Uh. Y-y-yeah…” The words hang in Irwin’s gullet.

“Well, what do they do?” Flynn demands.

…Irwin shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Flynn SLAMS his hand on the table.

“OUT WITH IT.”

…

“They… usually…”
…

“Retire-slash-Disappear.”

…Throat-clear.

…

“For a while.”

…

“Or… Forever.”

…

……

“...Shiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

***

Finn Kuhn.

I don’t think I can come up an insult worse than your chosen moniker.

The King in Rags, huh?

What? Was ‘The Prince of Poor’ taken?

Couldn’t get the trademark on ‘The Duke of Dirt’?

The Monarch of Muck.

…

But, I suppose your awful nickname has a… designed purpose.

See, Finn Kuhn, has promised to become the very best. Even as he wears rags, he VOWS to take his seat on the throne.

Sworn to tear himself from the dredges and muck of the lower card and one day claim his rightful place as the One True King of the XWF!

…

At least, that’s what Finn says in his promos.

Every fucking time he presses the microphone to his filthy, raggedy mouth.

Spewing trash from his gob as he howls that he’s DESTINED to be King.

…

And yet.

What has he done to further his flimsy claim to the throne?

Don’t worry, Finny. That was rhetorical. I already have the answer.

Two FAILED TV title shots.

Losses to Peter Vaughn and Jason Cashe. Two men who failed to beat me the last times they tried.

And at March Madness? The Event where 32 superstars opted in for just a sliver of a chance at glory?

The Event where the Winner would LITERALLY be CROWNED King of the XWF! Finn’s FUCKING DREAM?!?

Finn didn’t even have the decency to lose.

He chickened out. Left his name off the sign-up list.

I guess to leave room for breakout performances from FUTURE LEGENDS like John Grayson and Jacoby Spencer.

…

Lemme be fucking clear, Finnegan.

I bet you think we’re alike.

We both swore to ourselves to climb to the top of the wrestling world.

We both swore to tear off the rags and rubbish we wallowed in our entire lives. And demanded what we felt we were owed.

EVERYTHING.

…

The difference, though, Finn-Finn?

I did it.

I took my spot at the top.

Because I have what you don’t.

The will to see what I want.

And fucking take it.

See, Finn. When we face-off in a submission match?

The same stipulation that won me the Uni Title over Kido?

It’s a battle of wills. It’s who wants it more. It’s who’s willing to endure more pain, more agony, more fucking TORTURE.

To SNATCH the victory.

And Finn. If you wanted victory a FRACTION of how badly I want it every time I enter that ring?

You wouldn’t be in fucking rags.