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+--- Thread: Consistency (/showthread.php?tid=47726)
Consistency - Mark Flynn - 06-14-2024
Previously....
Vision blurring.
Edges slowly blackening.
Like a picture fading-out.
His perception warps before his eyes…
The fabric of reality… Tearing… Coming undone… Like a paper doll in the ocean
…
The ocean climbs…
Mounting ever higher…
Flynn is crushed under the massive weight of the encroaching body…
Trapped.
A captive audience.
“REASON 35!” NK flips to the next page at his notebook, standing at a safe viewing distance to this Flynn’s pending doom. “That Mark Flynn will NOT be missed upon his death!”
Unfortunately, while this Flynn’s mouth had been engulfed by the ocean of subconscious.
His ears were still juuuuuust above the charging waters… Meaning the last message this Flynn would take in…
Was a fiery rebuke of everything he represented by his old tag-team partner…
The North Korean War Criminal.
“Was his inexplicable devotion to Denny’s! His championing of a greasy, lazy American eggs on undertoasted bread deceived MILLIONS of wrestling fans to clogged arteries! Heart disease! And broken top buttons on their American-style blue jeans! Mark Flynn was a false idol of capitalism at every level, even to that of the lowly franchise eatery! DEATH TO DENNY’S! DEATH TO THE MOONS OVER MY-HAMMY! DEATH TO MARK FLYNN!”
The War Criminal had been reading his list of execution-worthy grievances against Mark Flynn for what felt like an eternity.
In actuality, NK had been prattling on like this for…
…
Actually, this Flynn’s perception of time had completely evaporated.
As he felt his self swallowed into the blackhole of non-existence…
He had lost his tether to things like time and space…
When was anything?
Where was he at all?
What was he? He’d found himself thinking of himself as ‘this Flynn’ as the water crept higher and higher up his loosely-defined form…
And it was accurate.
Mark Flynn, in some form, would survive.
Arguably, it was what he was best at.
Shedding what didn’t work.
Starting fresh.
And, what didn’t work… Was *this* Flynn.
…Distantly, this Flynn hears another page turn.
“REASON 36! That Mark Flynn’s demise will be celebrated as a day of victory for the True Korean people!” NK barks, reveling in this Flynn’s helplessness. “Was that he OBSTRUCTED the collectivist dream!”
“YES!” NK nods emphatically, pointing at his own words on the page, passionately moved by his own writing. “Mark Flynn’s greatest crime was ROBBING from the world the ASCENT of the True Korean Vision! By climbing to the top of the wrestling world… I! The North Korean War Criminal! Would have wrested the planet from the shackles of individualist idolatry! That which has enslaved the western world from realizing its true potential!”
“By betraying me, MARK FLYNN DOOMED the planet to writhe, lost in its hopeless misguided to find purpose in SELF-fulfillment…” NK sternly stews, bitterly reliving his conflict with Flynn as he reads. “Rather than what would TRULY enrich its spirits, SHEDDING itself for the glory of the WHOLE! THE COLLECTIVE!”
“BUT ONE DAY!” NK points at this Flynn, as the tide creeps just beneath Flynn’s ear lobes… “The day of reckoning will come! Mark Flynn’s beaten corpse, gnawed-upon-and-found-distasteful by the noble North Korean muskrats will be paraded down the streets of Pyongyang! As the world observes and commemorates this event as one would the opening of the Heavens themselves! AS THE NORTH KOREAN WAR CRIMINAL PROVES THE FOLLY OF INDIVIDUALISM BY DEFEATING MARK FLYNN IN FRONT OF MILL…”
…
NK pauses.
He lifts the paper closely to his face.
“Millions… of eyes.” NK’s head bounces up-and-down as he reads, as if trying to refind the tune of a song…
“...For…” NK squints at his own words. “Without such a public, humiliating defeat at the hands of the champion of the collective, how will the world learn that Mark Flynn’s way so profoundly duped them…”
…
NK closes his notebook,
Slides it back into his front pocket,
And presses his fingertips together just under his nose.
“...Hmm.” He tuts thoughtfully.
…
“AH!” NK snaps his fingers! “I have pinpointed the issue!”
“Mark Flynn!” NK claps twice, as he stomps down the beach. “I must regretfully rescind your permission to be devoured by your own subconscious!”
…This Flynn can observe NK approaching closer…
But the War Criminal’s voice doesn’t get any louder in volume…
“This form of metaphorical execution… self-immolation as it were! By your own crisis of identity is an UNACCEPTABLE form of exit! Even if your absence WERE to benefit the world by sheer virtue of you not being in it… Your demise must be one of grand pageantry! Of showmanship! For your final defeat shall be what converts the entire world to the collectivist ideology!”
NK marches above Flynn on the beach… The tide licks at NK’s boots…
“As such, and with the utmost displeasure…” NK spits on his gloved hands… Rubbing them together.
…Which… That isn’t how gloves work.
“I must rescue you from your own pathetic death-metaphor!”
NK bends at the waist, hooking his arms under Flynn’s shoulder to drag him backward…
“FOR THE GLORIOUS LEADER!”
NK HEAVES!
…
HE HOS!
…
HE GIVES THE OL’ HEAVE-HO!
…
But, despite NK’s best efforts, Flynn doesn’t move a modicum.
…
“Hmm.” NK stands back straight, rubbing his chin. “Clearly, your obese American body is too great for even my perfect North Korean lifting regimen to surmount…”
“No matter! You must simply rise yourself up, Mark Flynn!”
…
“ASCEND!”
“STAND!”
“UP, I SAY! YOU MUST GET UP!”
“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!?”
”Hmm?”
”I asked if you were listening.”
”I was. And I am.”
”Then, what was I saying?”
”...You were… Describing your plan. Us being intentional about messaging on this television appearance. You were talking down to me. As if my ability to have a crowd hanging on my every word wasn’t the reason we drew record-shattering ratings while I was on the roster.”
”Uh-huh. But, what *specifically* was I saying?”
”...”
”I was *describing* something, but what key word was I us-”
”I understand your question.”
”...”
”It was…”
”...”
”I’m certain it was something about the XWF Brand…”
”Consistency. The value of consistency.”
”Ugh. Boring.”
”What you call ‘Boring’ inspires confidence in the company. The investors, the shareholders, the board of directors… They don’t like surprises OR dramatic twists OR hostile takeovers.”
”They want a line going up.”
“They want what we say this week to be what we said last week.”
”Ticket sales? Up.”
”Merch sales? Up.”
”Talent? Happy.”
”Me? Bored.”
“If ‘stakeholders’ and ‘investors’ don’t like what I say, I’ll happily buy them out and pave their reserved parking spots. I could use eight or so to park my tank at the office.”
”...Look. Running the Iluminautus State? It’s a different animal than running a business empire.”
”Agreed. Which is why I’ll thrive in this much easier role, managing a simple wrestling show. A job where we only clock-in on a biweekly basis. Two hours every two weeks.”
”Incorrect. It’s hundreds of manhours to make those two hours both seamless and magical.”
”Effortless and life-altering.”
”A bi-weekly entertainment miracle.”
”...And instead of that, you want the word of the day to be ‘consistency’?”
”Yes. We want the shareholders to understand that Thaddeus Duke becoming Warfare GM is…”
“Business as usual.”
”Exactly.”
“Easily done.”
”...*snort*”
“What? What was that?”
”Thad, coyness does not become you.”
”It comes off as if you’re unaware of your own weaknesses.”
”What weaknesses?”
”First, you tend to reject and not want to hear criticism.”
”No. Wrong.”
…
”Incorrect.”
”Second, you have a flair for the dramatic.”
”Bite your tongue.”
”You’re used to the starring role.”
”Well, I am a star after all. There’s a reason they call our programming, The Thaddeus Duke Show.”
”...By ‘they’, do you mean ‘you’?”
”...”
”I don’t disagree. You are ‘a’ star. But, the general manager is NOT ‘the’ star of the program. Your job is to facilitate. To smoothen. To act as an invisible hand, directing the spotlight onto the talent.”
”I am the talent.”
”*sigh*”
”Don’t lecture me. Your rules of entertainment may aid the average pencil-pushing non-wrestler to acclimate to the role of general manager.”
”But I know *exactly* how to do this job. I know how to take a crowd of people sitting on their hands, and turn them into the type of fanatics who would sell a KIDNEY on the BLACK MARKET to get tickets in the NOSEBLEED section on a MONDAY night.”
”And it’s me.”
”The headline on every newspaper, blog site and early morning sports show is…”
”Thaddeus Duke is BACK. People are tuning in… not to see the stakeholders. Not to see the XWF investors.”
”But to see ME.”
”And nobody wi-”
*chirp*
…
![[Image: Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-49-03-PM.png]](https://i.ibb.co/PMx125n/Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-49-03-PM.png)
![[Image: Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-49-11-PM.png]](https://i.ibb.co/Ngh8csg/Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-49-11-PM.png)
”I assume that was…”
”Flynn.”
”Ah. I could tell by your irritated expression. Has he accepted your offer to co-GM Warfare?”
”He will.”
”...”
”Though, he’s been… acting quite bizarrely ever since I extended the offer.”
”How so?”
”Well, first, he texted back ‘WHAT DO I SAY?!? THE CHANCE TO CONTROL THE EPICENTER OF THE WRESTLING WORLD! WIELDING FATE IN THE PALM OF MY HAND LIKE A CHILD WITH A TOY AS I DEEM WORTHY AND UNWORTHY THOSE WRETCHED WHO BEG FOR MY BENEVOLENCE, WORSHIPPING AT MY FEET FOR A HUMBLE CHANCE TO COMPETE IN MY ARENA!?!”
”...Yes. That sounds like Flynn. What did he say after that?”
”At first, nothing.”
”Then, gibberish.”
”Then, odd requests for Works of art. Strange gifts. Symbolic acts to celebrate his saving the comp-”
*chirp*
![[Image: Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-58-59-PM.png]](https://i.ibb.co/CtSzQjQ/Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-58-59-PM.png)
”...And now, it’s this bullshit.”
”I empathize. Flynn’s internal reasoning can be… incomprehensible from the outside… When he solves a problem, a sane mind can’t understand his work. But his answers are frequently correct.”
”He’s intelligent. But, stubborn. Paranoid. And resistant to any authority figure.”
”That combination makes him particularly difficult to influence.”
”Meh. Not that difficult.”
”I’ve done it.”
”It took a few weeks, but I got Flynn to make his big return facing me at Relentless 2021.”
”Ah, yes.”
”And how did that turn out for you in the end?”
”...Shut u-”
*chirp*
![[Image: Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-57-26-PM.png]](https://i.ibb.co/yFgtGrY/Screenshot-2024-06-14-at-3-57-26-PM.png)
”Hmm. Curious.”
”...What?”
”...He’s acting like he has every intent to accept the offer as-is. But lacks the capacity.”
”...What does that even mean?”
”...”
”Never mind. Still developing a working theory.”
”Remain patient, my young padawan.”
”Ughhhh, is that some Star Wars, nerd bullshit?”
”Padawan is. Patience is not.”
”Flynn is… clearly ‘processing’ your offer. In his own way.”
”The last thing you want to do is force his back to a wall.”
”…Oooh. I like that idea.”
”Hmm?”
”Forcing Flynn into a corner! MAKE him make a decision. Why haven’t you been giving me THAT advice this whole time?”
”Thad, I would sincerely advise against taking that tactic with Flynn. It WILL backfire.”
”See, given your affinity for nerd shit, I thought you’d be excited to hear me say I’d ‘use the force.’”
”…Nephew. I wish, just once, you would trust me when I tell you a stove is hot. Rather than you burning your hand to see for yourself.”
”Oh, dear Uncle. I’ve learned by doing my entire life. To do anything else would be…”
“Inconsistent.”
“EXPERIMENT FOURTEEN…”
A hand draws a white line of chalk on a chalkboard.
Across the words ‘Tell Thad we’ll take the job AND keep wrestling.’
“FAILURE.”
The Flynns harumph and guffaw and clammer and yammer, in anger and frustration with these fruitless experiments.
“OBJECTION!” Christopher K. Clinton raises a hand, trying to rise to his fe-
WHAM! Immediately, two Flynns (Ser Flynn, medieval knight, and Robert Miles, Italian DJ) both shove Clinton back into his chair.
…
Clinton clears his throat.
“Um.”
“Permission to object, your honor?” Clinton meekly raises his hand along with his plea.
…Free-Win Flynn (who seems to have declared himself the leader of this proceeding) nods.
…Clinton grits his teeth as he rises.
“Objection.” Clinton says, trying to exude calmness. He lifts his hands, side-eyeing both the Flynn’s who shoved him down to show he means no harm.
“Failure.” Finger-quotes. “Implies the experiment was unsuccessful. We successfully sent Thad the acceptance of his offer… ON THE CONDITION that Flynn still be able to wrestle.”
“Yes.” Free-Win nods. “However, that experiment did not achieve its desired goal… To accept Thad’s offer. And gain a foothold in controlling the XWF.”
“Ergo.” Free-Win taps the chalk against the line he’d drawn.
“Failure.”
The harrumphing and furious whispering resumes.
Clinton dry-swallows.
He’d been getting a… Non-subtle vibe of hostility from the other Flynns gathered here.
And Clinton had the funniest feeling the Flynns somehow blamed this decision-making gridlock on him…
“IT’S LAWYERMAN’S FAULT.” Screeches the Whore For Gold, pointing accustorily (while standing like a caveman, with the knuckles of his other hand dragging on the ground). “LEMME KILL ‘EM AND TAKE HIS BELT!”
…Clinton rubs his belt defensively… before again raising his hand to quell the hushed, angry whispers.
“Gentlemeeeen.” Clinton begins cautiously. “We all want the same thing here. Absolute, uncontested power over the wrestling world in the hands of Mark Flynn.”
…The Flynns look at each other, nodding. This statement is correct and uncontroversial.
“But! The purpose of these experiments is to figure out why we can’t get there.” Clinton claps his hands, drawing all eyes in the room on him. “We have THE offer! The GOLDEN TICKET! The KEYS to the KINGDOM on a SILVER PLATTER!”
“An offer that we cannot seem to accept.” Free-Win hisses, breaking the flow in Clinton’s speech.
The Flynns rapidly blink and resume their angry grumblings, broken free from Clinton’s hypnotic lawyer-patter.
“Yes! And in order to accept it… We must figure out WHY we can’t accept it. When we learn WHY…” Clinton delivers a finger gun to summon confidence from his fellow Flynns.
…
…
The assembled Flynns do not finish Clinton’s setup.
“We’ll learn HOW…”
…
*cough*
…
“To accept it.” Clinton snorts, trying to maintain confidence, (though it’s clear he really thought the group would finish his sentence for him. “The offer, I mean.”
“As far as I can tell…” Free-Win snorts, and immediately the Flynns snap to attention, following his every word. “The issue here is one of who is in control…” Free-Win grins a sinister grin as the other Flynns nod thoughtfully, considering this statement..
“And ever since you’ve been in the driver’s seat… Things have gone from BAD to WORSE.” Free-Win howls, as the rest of the Flynn slam their fists on the table and cheer.
…Clinton dry-swallows…
Ex-CEPTIONALLY tough crowd.
“Perhaps!” Free-Win speaks, and again the room falls to a hush. “The real solution is… Mark Flynn being driven by a Flynn once more!”
Another round of fists smashing and cheers!
…
“Wait!” Clinton smacks himself in the head. “That’s it! I’ve got it! It was so obvious!”
…The crowd mumbles… As Free-Win squints suspiciously at Clinton.
“What have you got, CLINTON?”
“I got IT. The answer.” Clinton excitedly pulls his phone out of his pocket, rapidly texting. “You were right! The real solution! The thing that drives Mark Flynn! It was in front of us the whole time!”
Clinton finishes typing and excitedly slides the phone across the table.
“There! Look and be amazed! THAT is what we text to accept Thad’s offer! This experiment is a GUARANTEED SUCCESS!”
…
The Flynns all rush to grab at the phone, eager to see the solution…
Until Free-Win snaps his fingers!
They all freeze… Before the phone is slowly slid down into his hands.
Free-Win drags the screen up to his face…
“...”
“It just says ‘Bye.’”
…
Free-Win glances away from the screen, back to Clinton. “How is that the solut-?”
…
The chair between Ser Flynn and Robert Miles.
Is empty.
…
And the doors to the board room just closed.
…
“Goddammit.” Free-Win squeezes the bridge of his nose! “GET HIM!”
The Flynns spring into action! They rush toward the door, slamming their hands against the doorknob!
…
BUT IT’S STUCK!
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door…
Clinton finishes buckling his belt tight around the knobs!
“Haha! You want my belt, ASSHOLES? You got it!”
Clinton kicks the door as it rattles, knobs held tight!
“And that belt is from the finest Italian leathersmith I could afford! That thing will nev-”
WHAM! After a particularly hard knock, the belt loosens one notch… Fraying at a seam.
…
Clinton starts running down the hall!
“GODDAMNED THAT BUDGET LEATHERWORKE-”
Fwhip… Something pulls Clinton into a janitor’s closet…
…The Flynns break the door down!
“Which way did he go?!?” Howls RECORD PROFITS™!
The Beast leans toward the carpeted floors… sniffing…
…
“HIS TRAIL GOES THAT WAY!”
The Flynns all charge after Clinton’s footsteps…
…
Past the janitor’s closet.
…Clinton sits in the dark.
…
Not sure what pulled him in h-
Suddenly, a match is struck.
![[Image: b121a79e23391576f4616db6174201802c4ed5f8.gifv]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d9d21dfbe8fa89d70b7fc08e6a8f1542/34f305074f5663b3-01/s400x600/b121a79e23391576f4616db6174201802c4ed5f8.gifv)
“Hello.”
“Fffffffff.” Clinton resists every urge in his body to shriek at the top of his lungs, covering his own mouth with his hand.
As freaky as this asshole is, he can’t scream… lest he reveal his location to that army of angry Flynns.
“For a moment there, I thought you were a goner.”
The Opponent makes this statement, not reassuringly, but as a matter of scientific fact.
He was certain Clinton would not survive.
Clinton eyes this weirdo suspiciously.
“...You weren’t in the room. Can you see what was happening from… somewhere?”
“I see everything. I have eyes everywhere.”
…
“What was your plan back there? Just hope 24 Flynns would act like chimps and get distracted by your shiny phone screen?”
…Clinton exhales, rubbing his right eye angrily. “Mark Flynn loves the big reveal of a puzzle he couldn’t figure out himself. I knew if I played up that I’d solved it… every Flynn in there would bite off their own arm if it meant getting a look at the answer they’d missed.”
“Which gave you the perfect window to exit.”
“I mean, ‘perfect’ enough. About ten seconds to get on the other side of the door and run…”
…The Opponent doesn’t blink.
…Clinton grimaces, very uncomfortable in the silence.
“...Is every Mark Flynn so predictable?”
Clinton clears his throat. “...I prefer the term ‘consistent’.”
…
The Opponent stares a hole straight into Clinton’s eyes.
As if trying to swallow him through the power of sight alone.
“So… You haven’t figured out why you can’t control Mark Flynn into accepting Thaddeus Duke’s offer?”
…Clinton grits his teeth, before tapping his nose.
“Not YET.”
…
“Would you…”
“Like me to give you the answer?”
…
”It’s because you are NOT in control.”
“...Then. Who is?”
…
”Mark Flynn’s CORE.”
Consistency.
It’s what separates the flashes in the pan from the actual talent around here.
SUSTAINED.
CONSISTENCY.
…
And I don't just mean winning every month.
I’m not just talking about dominating every time you’re booked.
I’m talking about a person’s CORE.
Their INNARDS.
What makes them them?
Are they FIRM on the inside?
Do they have a code? Do they have discipline? Do they have values?
Or does their ethos change depending on the time of day?
Does their ideology built on rock?
Or does it shift in the sifting sands?
…
For example.
Here’s Dionysus talking about my 2024, painstakingly recounting the handful of losses I’d suffered.
Sure sounds like a lot of words about how losing means you suck, right?
A lot of bluster and blather about how coming up short is evidence one is moving backwards.
Receding.
Failing to grow.
…
Anyway. Two weeks later, here’s Dionysus talking about his own losses. Surely, he’ll be consistent, right? And apply the same standard when he’s on the losing end?
By your own logic, ye-
…Oh.
Hmm. You mean like how I learned from losing to you?
Then KICKED YOUR FUCKING ASS the Warfare before your big Uni Match?
Or is it different because when *I* lose… It’s one step forward...
And two steps back?
Here’s Dionysus talking about Sisyphus. The joy of the struggle. Fighting onwards in the face of hopelessness.
Edges slowly blackening.
Like a picture fading-out.
His perception warps before his eyes…
The fabric of reality… Tearing… Coming undone… Like a paper doll in the ocean
…
The ocean climbs…
Mounting ever higher…
Flynn is crushed under the massive weight of the encroaching body…
Trapped.
A captive audience.
“REASON 35!” NK flips to the next page at his notebook, standing at a safe viewing distance to this Flynn’s pending doom. “That Mark Flynn will NOT be missed upon his death!”
Unfortunately, while this Flynn’s mouth had been engulfed by the ocean of subconscious.
His ears were still juuuuuust above the charging waters… Meaning the last message this Flynn would take in…
Was a fiery rebuke of everything he represented by his old tag-team partner…
The North Korean War Criminal.
“Was his inexplicable devotion to Denny’s! His championing of a greasy, lazy American eggs on undertoasted bread deceived MILLIONS of wrestling fans to clogged arteries! Heart disease! And broken top buttons on their American-style blue jeans! Mark Flynn was a false idol of capitalism at every level, even to that of the lowly franchise eatery! DEATH TO DENNY’S! DEATH TO THE MOONS OVER MY-HAMMY! DEATH TO MARK FLYNN!”
The War Criminal had been reading his list of execution-worthy grievances against Mark Flynn for what felt like an eternity.
In actuality, NK had been prattling on like this for…
…
Actually, this Flynn’s perception of time had completely evaporated.
As he felt his self swallowed into the blackhole of non-existence…
He had lost his tether to things like time and space…
When was anything?
Where was he at all?
What was he? He’d found himself thinking of himself as ‘this Flynn’ as the water crept higher and higher up his loosely-defined form…
And it was accurate.
Mark Flynn, in some form, would survive.
Arguably, it was what he was best at.
Shedding what didn’t work.
Starting fresh.
And, what didn’t work… Was *this* Flynn.
…Distantly, this Flynn hears another page turn.
“REASON 36! That Mark Flynn’s demise will be celebrated as a day of victory for the True Korean people!” NK barks, reveling in this Flynn’s helplessness. “Was that he OBSTRUCTED the collectivist dream!”
“YES!” NK nods emphatically, pointing at his own words on the page, passionately moved by his own writing. “Mark Flynn’s greatest crime was ROBBING from the world the ASCENT of the True Korean Vision! By climbing to the top of the wrestling world… I! The North Korean War Criminal! Would have wrested the planet from the shackles of individualist idolatry! That which has enslaved the western world from realizing its true potential!”
“By betraying me, MARK FLYNN DOOMED the planet to writhe, lost in its hopeless misguided to find purpose in SELF-fulfillment…” NK sternly stews, bitterly reliving his conflict with Flynn as he reads. “Rather than what would TRULY enrich its spirits, SHEDDING itself for the glory of the WHOLE! THE COLLECTIVE!”
“BUT ONE DAY!” NK points at this Flynn, as the tide creeps just beneath Flynn’s ear lobes… “The day of reckoning will come! Mark Flynn’s beaten corpse, gnawed-upon-and-found-distasteful by the noble North Korean muskrats will be paraded down the streets of Pyongyang! As the world observes and commemorates this event as one would the opening of the Heavens themselves! AS THE NORTH KOREAN WAR CRIMINAL PROVES THE FOLLY OF INDIVIDUALISM BY DEFEATING MARK FLYNN IN FRONT OF MILL…”
…
NK pauses.
He lifts the paper closely to his face.
“Millions… of eyes.” NK’s head bounces up-and-down as he reads, as if trying to refind the tune of a song…
“...For…” NK squints at his own words. “Without such a public, humiliating defeat at the hands of the champion of the collective, how will the world learn that Mark Flynn’s way so profoundly duped them…”
…
NK closes his notebook,
Slides it back into his front pocket,
And presses his fingertips together just under his nose.
“...Hmm.” He tuts thoughtfully.
…
“AH!” NK snaps his fingers! “I have pinpointed the issue!”
“Mark Flynn!” NK claps twice, as he stomps down the beach. “I must regretfully rescind your permission to be devoured by your own subconscious!”
…This Flynn can observe NK approaching closer…
But the War Criminal’s voice doesn’t get any louder in volume…
“This form of metaphorical execution… self-immolation as it were! By your own crisis of identity is an UNACCEPTABLE form of exit! Even if your absence WERE to benefit the world by sheer virtue of you not being in it… Your demise must be one of grand pageantry! Of showmanship! For your final defeat shall be what converts the entire world to the collectivist ideology!”
NK marches above Flynn on the beach… The tide licks at NK’s boots…
“As such, and with the utmost displeasure…” NK spits on his gloved hands… Rubbing them together.
…Which… That isn’t how gloves work.
“I must rescue you from your own pathetic death-metaphor!”
NK bends at the waist, hooking his arms under Flynn’s shoulder to drag him backward…
“FOR THE GLORIOUS LEADER!”
NK HEAVES!
…
HE HOS!
…
HE GIVES THE OL’ HEAVE-HO!
…
But, despite NK’s best efforts, Flynn doesn’t move a modicum.
…
“Hmm.” NK stands back straight, rubbing his chin. “Clearly, your obese American body is too great for even my perfect North Korean lifting regimen to surmount…”
“No matter! You must simply rise yourself up, Mark Flynn!”
…
“ASCEND!”
“STAND!”
“UP, I SAY! YOU MUST GET UP!”
“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!?”
”Hmm?”
”I asked if you were listening.”
”I was. And I am.”
”Then, what was I saying?”
”...You were… Describing your plan. Us being intentional about messaging on this television appearance. You were talking down to me. As if my ability to have a crowd hanging on my every word wasn’t the reason we drew record-shattering ratings while I was on the roster.”
”Uh-huh. But, what *specifically* was I saying?”
”...”
”I was *describing* something, but what key word was I us-”
”I understand your question.”
”...”
”It was…”
”...”
”I’m certain it was something about the XWF Brand…”
”Consistency. The value of consistency.”
”Ugh. Boring.”
”What you call ‘Boring’ inspires confidence in the company. The investors, the shareholders, the board of directors… They don’t like surprises OR dramatic twists OR hostile takeovers.”
”They want a line going up.”
“They want what we say this week to be what we said last week.”
”Ticket sales? Up.”
”Merch sales? Up.”
”Talent? Happy.”
”Me? Bored.”
“If ‘stakeholders’ and ‘investors’ don’t like what I say, I’ll happily buy them out and pave their reserved parking spots. I could use eight or so to park my tank at the office.”
”...Look. Running the Iluminautus State? It’s a different animal than running a business empire.”
”Agreed. Which is why I’ll thrive in this much easier role, managing a simple wrestling show. A job where we only clock-in on a biweekly basis. Two hours every two weeks.”
”Incorrect. It’s hundreds of manhours to make those two hours both seamless and magical.”
”Effortless and life-altering.”
”A bi-weekly entertainment miracle.”
”...And instead of that, you want the word of the day to be ‘consistency’?”
”Yes. We want the shareholders to understand that Thaddeus Duke becoming Warfare GM is…”
“Business as usual.”
”Exactly.”
“Easily done.”
”...*snort*”
“What? What was that?”
”Thad, coyness does not become you.”
”It comes off as if you’re unaware of your own weaknesses.”
”What weaknesses?”
”First, you tend to reject and not want to hear criticism.”
”No. Wrong.”
…
”Incorrect.”
”Second, you have a flair for the dramatic.”
”Bite your tongue.”
”You’re used to the starring role.”
”Well, I am a star after all. There’s a reason they call our programming, The Thaddeus Duke Show.”
”...By ‘they’, do you mean ‘you’?”
”...”
”I don’t disagree. You are ‘a’ star. But, the general manager is NOT ‘the’ star of the program. Your job is to facilitate. To smoothen. To act as an invisible hand, directing the spotlight onto the talent.”
”I am the talent.”
”*sigh*”
”Don’t lecture me. Your rules of entertainment may aid the average pencil-pushing non-wrestler to acclimate to the role of general manager.”
”But I know *exactly* how to do this job. I know how to take a crowd of people sitting on their hands, and turn them into the type of fanatics who would sell a KIDNEY on the BLACK MARKET to get tickets in the NOSEBLEED section on a MONDAY night.”
”And it’s me.”
”The headline on every newspaper, blog site and early morning sports show is…”
”Thaddeus Duke is BACK. People are tuning in… not to see the stakeholders. Not to see the XWF investors.”
”But to see ME.”
”And nobody wi-”
*chirp*
…
”I assume that was…”
”Flynn.”
”Ah. I could tell by your irritated expression. Has he accepted your offer to co-GM Warfare?”
”He will.”
”...”
”Though, he’s been… acting quite bizarrely ever since I extended the offer.”
”How so?”
”Well, first, he texted back ‘WHAT DO I SAY?!? THE CHANCE TO CONTROL THE EPICENTER OF THE WRESTLING WORLD! WIELDING FATE IN THE PALM OF MY HAND LIKE A CHILD WITH A TOY AS I DEEM WORTHY AND UNWORTHY THOSE WRETCHED WHO BEG FOR MY BENEVOLENCE, WORSHIPPING AT MY FEET FOR A HUMBLE CHANCE TO COMPETE IN MY ARENA!?!”
”...Yes. That sounds like Flynn. What did he say after that?”
”At first, nothing.”
”Then, gibberish.”
”Then, odd requests for Works of art. Strange gifts. Symbolic acts to celebrate his saving the comp-”
*chirp*
”...And now, it’s this bullshit.”
”I empathize. Flynn’s internal reasoning can be… incomprehensible from the outside… When he solves a problem, a sane mind can’t understand his work. But his answers are frequently correct.”
”He’s intelligent. But, stubborn. Paranoid. And resistant to any authority figure.”
”That combination makes him particularly difficult to influence.”
”Meh. Not that difficult.”
”I’ve done it.”
”It took a few weeks, but I got Flynn to make his big return facing me at Relentless 2021.”
”Ah, yes.”
”And how did that turn out for you in the end?”
”...Shut u-”
*chirp*
”Hmm. Curious.”
”...What?”
”...He’s acting like he has every intent to accept the offer as-is. But lacks the capacity.”
”...What does that even mean?”
”...”
”Never mind. Still developing a working theory.”
”Remain patient, my young padawan.”
”Ughhhh, is that some Star Wars, nerd bullshit?”
”Padawan is. Patience is not.”
”Flynn is… clearly ‘processing’ your offer. In his own way.”
”The last thing you want to do is force his back to a wall.”
”…Oooh. I like that idea.”
”Hmm?”
”Forcing Flynn into a corner! MAKE him make a decision. Why haven’t you been giving me THAT advice this whole time?”
”Thad, I would sincerely advise against taking that tactic with Flynn. It WILL backfire.”
”See, given your affinity for nerd shit, I thought you’d be excited to hear me say I’d ‘use the force.’”
”…Nephew. I wish, just once, you would trust me when I tell you a stove is hot. Rather than you burning your hand to see for yourself.”
”Oh, dear Uncle. I’ve learned by doing my entire life. To do anything else would be…”
“Inconsistent.”
“EXPERIMENT FOURTEEN…”
A hand draws a white line of chalk on a chalkboard.
Across the words ‘Tell Thad we’ll take the job AND keep wrestling.’
“FAILURE.”
The Flynns harumph and guffaw and clammer and yammer, in anger and frustration with these fruitless experiments.
“OBJECTION!” Christopher K. Clinton raises a hand, trying to rise to his fe-
WHAM! Immediately, two Flynns (Ser Flynn, medieval knight, and Robert Miles, Italian DJ) both shove Clinton back into his chair.
…
Clinton clears his throat.
“Um.”
“Permission to object, your honor?” Clinton meekly raises his hand along with his plea.
…Free-Win Flynn (who seems to have declared himself the leader of this proceeding) nods.
…Clinton grits his teeth as he rises.
“Objection.” Clinton says, trying to exude calmness. He lifts his hands, side-eyeing both the Flynn’s who shoved him down to show he means no harm.
“Failure.” Finger-quotes. “Implies the experiment was unsuccessful. We successfully sent Thad the acceptance of his offer… ON THE CONDITION that Flynn still be able to wrestle.”
“Yes.” Free-Win nods. “However, that experiment did not achieve its desired goal… To accept Thad’s offer. And gain a foothold in controlling the XWF.”
“Ergo.” Free-Win taps the chalk against the line he’d drawn.
“Failure.”
The harrumphing and furious whispering resumes.
Clinton dry-swallows.
He’d been getting a… Non-subtle vibe of hostility from the other Flynns gathered here.
And Clinton had the funniest feeling the Flynns somehow blamed this decision-making gridlock on him…
“IT’S LAWYERMAN’S FAULT.” Screeches the Whore For Gold, pointing accustorily (while standing like a caveman, with the knuckles of his other hand dragging on the ground). “LEMME KILL ‘EM AND TAKE HIS BELT!”
…Clinton rubs his belt defensively… before again raising his hand to quell the hushed, angry whispers.
“Gentlemeeeen.” Clinton begins cautiously. “We all want the same thing here. Absolute, uncontested power over the wrestling world in the hands of Mark Flynn.”
…The Flynns look at each other, nodding. This statement is correct and uncontroversial.
“But! The purpose of these experiments is to figure out why we can’t get there.” Clinton claps his hands, drawing all eyes in the room on him. “We have THE offer! The GOLDEN TICKET! The KEYS to the KINGDOM on a SILVER PLATTER!”
“An offer that we cannot seem to accept.” Free-Win hisses, breaking the flow in Clinton’s speech.
The Flynns rapidly blink and resume their angry grumblings, broken free from Clinton’s hypnotic lawyer-patter.
“Yes! And in order to accept it… We must figure out WHY we can’t accept it. When we learn WHY…” Clinton delivers a finger gun to summon confidence from his fellow Flynns.
…
…
The assembled Flynns do not finish Clinton’s setup.
“We’ll learn HOW…”
…
*cough*
…
“To accept it.” Clinton snorts, trying to maintain confidence, (though it’s clear he really thought the group would finish his sentence for him. “The offer, I mean.”
“As far as I can tell…” Free-Win snorts, and immediately the Flynns snap to attention, following his every word. “The issue here is one of who is in control…” Free-Win grins a sinister grin as the other Flynns nod thoughtfully, considering this statement..
“And ever since you’ve been in the driver’s seat… Things have gone from BAD to WORSE.” Free-Win howls, as the rest of the Flynn slam their fists on the table and cheer.
…Clinton dry-swallows…
Ex-CEPTIONALLY tough crowd.
“Perhaps!” Free-Win speaks, and again the room falls to a hush. “The real solution is… Mark Flynn being driven by a Flynn once more!”
Another round of fists smashing and cheers!
…
“Wait!” Clinton smacks himself in the head. “That’s it! I’ve got it! It was so obvious!”
…The crowd mumbles… As Free-Win squints suspiciously at Clinton.
“What have you got, CLINTON?”
“I got IT. The answer.” Clinton excitedly pulls his phone out of his pocket, rapidly texting. “You were right! The real solution! The thing that drives Mark Flynn! It was in front of us the whole time!”
Clinton finishes typing and excitedly slides the phone across the table.
“There! Look and be amazed! THAT is what we text to accept Thad’s offer! This experiment is a GUARANTEED SUCCESS!”
…
The Flynns all rush to grab at the phone, eager to see the solution…
Until Free-Win snaps his fingers!
They all freeze… Before the phone is slowly slid down into his hands.
Free-Win drags the screen up to his face…
“...”
“It just says ‘Bye.’”
…
Free-Win glances away from the screen, back to Clinton. “How is that the solut-?”
…
The chair between Ser Flynn and Robert Miles.
Is empty.
…
And the doors to the board room just closed.
…
“Goddammit.” Free-Win squeezes the bridge of his nose! “GET HIM!”
The Flynns spring into action! They rush toward the door, slamming their hands against the doorknob!
…
BUT IT’S STUCK!
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door…
Clinton finishes buckling his belt tight around the knobs!
“Haha! You want my belt, ASSHOLES? You got it!”
Clinton kicks the door as it rattles, knobs held tight!
“And that belt is from the finest Italian leathersmith I could afford! That thing will nev-”
WHAM! After a particularly hard knock, the belt loosens one notch… Fraying at a seam.
…
Clinton starts running down the hall!
“GODDAMNED THAT BUDGET LEATHERWORKE-”
Fwhip… Something pulls Clinton into a janitor’s closet…
…The Flynns break the door down!
“Which way did he go?!?” Howls RECORD PROFITS™!
The Beast leans toward the carpeted floors… sniffing…
…
“HIS TRAIL GOES THAT WAY!”
The Flynns all charge after Clinton’s footsteps…
…
Past the janitor’s closet.
…Clinton sits in the dark.
…
Not sure what pulled him in h-
Suddenly, a match is struck.
“Hello.”
“Fffffffff.” Clinton resists every urge in his body to shriek at the top of his lungs, covering his own mouth with his hand.
As freaky as this asshole is, he can’t scream… lest he reveal his location to that army of angry Flynns.
“For a moment there, I thought you were a goner.”
The Opponent makes this statement, not reassuringly, but as a matter of scientific fact.
He was certain Clinton would not survive.
Clinton eyes this weirdo suspiciously.
“...You weren’t in the room. Can you see what was happening from… somewhere?”
“I see everything. I have eyes everywhere.”
…
“What was your plan back there? Just hope 24 Flynns would act like chimps and get distracted by your shiny phone screen?”
…Clinton exhales, rubbing his right eye angrily. “Mark Flynn loves the big reveal of a puzzle he couldn’t figure out himself. I knew if I played up that I’d solved it… every Flynn in there would bite off their own arm if it meant getting a look at the answer they’d missed.”
“Which gave you the perfect window to exit.”
“I mean, ‘perfect’ enough. About ten seconds to get on the other side of the door and run…”
…The Opponent doesn’t blink.
…Clinton grimaces, very uncomfortable in the silence.
“...Is every Mark Flynn so predictable?”
Clinton clears his throat. “...I prefer the term ‘consistent’.”
…
The Opponent stares a hole straight into Clinton’s eyes.
As if trying to swallow him through the power of sight alone.
“So… You haven’t figured out why you can’t control Mark Flynn into accepting Thaddeus Duke’s offer?”
…Clinton grits his teeth, before tapping his nose.
“Not YET.”
…
“Would you…”
“Like me to give you the answer?”
…
”It’s because you are NOT in control.”
“...Then. Who is?”
…
”Mark Flynn’s CORE.”
Consistency.
It’s what separates the flashes in the pan from the actual talent around here.
SUSTAINED.
CONSISTENCY.
…
And I don't just mean winning every month.
I’m not just talking about dominating every time you’re booked.
I’m talking about a person’s CORE.
Their INNARDS.
What makes them them?
Are they FIRM on the inside?
Do they have a code? Do they have discipline? Do they have values?
Or does their ethos change depending on the time of day?
Does their ideology built on rock?
Or does it shift in the sifting sands?
…
For example.
Here’s Dionysus talking about my 2024, painstakingly recounting the handful of losses I’d suffered.
Quote:And all the talk, all the build-up to Free For All led to Mark Flynn...coming up short against a man who walked out of the match all on his own.
Quote:But hey, this would not be the only shortcoming in Flynn's recent history, right? March Madness was right around the corner! At last, Flynn's opportunity presented itself in the form of the semi-finals, where...he was once again trounced by the man who would be king.
Quote:...But isn't the recurring theme of "one step forward, two steps back" not clicking in yet?
Sure sounds like a lot of words about how losing means you suck, right?
A lot of bluster and blather about how coming up short is evidence one is moving backwards.
Receding.
Failing to grow.
…
Anyway. Two weeks later, here’s Dionysus talking about his own losses. Surely, he’ll be consistent, right? And apply the same standard when he’s on the losing end?
Quote:Think back to each time I fell short in a title match during my tenure. Yes, we'll even count the gorilla, if that helps you.
Was there any signs of stumbling? Of continually failing to make expectations?
By your own logic, ye-
Quote:Of course not.
…Oh.
Quote:Because for me to succumb to my losses would mean the end of my career as it currently is. I can be disappointed in a loss, but then I must learn from it; see where I made mistakes, observe where I could have made certain moves.
Hmm. You mean like how I learned from losing to you?
Then KICKED YOUR FUCKING ASS the Warfare before your big Uni Match?
Or is it different because when *I* lose… It’s one step forward...
And two steps back?
Here’s Dionysus talking about Sisyphus. The joy of the struggle. Fighting onwards in the face of hopelessness.
Quote:It is like Sisyphus and the boulder; with each climb, he must have learned other ways to bring the boulder to the peak. While it would inevitably slide back down the mountain, he would no doubt remember what brought him there in the first place.
Quote:As we must imagine Sisyphus happy.
How nice. Let’s paint a big smiley face on Sisyphus’ face and pretend he’s delighted by his torture by a cruel, sadistic god.
…
Anyway, Two weeks earlier, Dionysus said THIS about repetitive behavior.
Quote:Have I ever told you the definition of insanity?
"Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
Kinda like Sisyphus, huh, Dion?
…So.
When your opponent struggles in the face of adversity?
Battling, retooling, improving...
They’re insane.
When you do it?
It’s growth.
…
Now, again.
Dionysus.
You may be rubbing your two brain cells together.
Trying to figure out why I’m talking about this at all?
Why does it matter that Dionysus's worldview changes based on whether he's thinking of himself or someone else?
Why does it matter that Dionysus has the BACKBONE of a CHOCOLATE ECLAIR?
That Dionysus.
HAS.
NO.
CORE.
…
Listen here, Hollowman.
I’ve told you once.
I’ll tell you again.
WORDS.
FUCKING.
MATTER.
…
When I see some hypocritical moron applying different standards to himself than his opponent?
I see a wrestler incapable of comprehending his weaknesses in that ring.
I see a fucking GOON who can’t look inward past the fucking GOLDEN IDOL image he’s painted in his own mind.
To see the vulnerable flesh and blood creature he truly is.
Too busy romanticizing his journey as a Greek myth.
To see he’s on a two-match losing streak.
Two steps back, huh, Dion?
…
Dion.
I’m not perfect.
I’ve lost a few matches this year.
One against you.
…
But NEVER.
At any point.
Did I compromise who I was.
Never did I apply a standard to an opponent that I wouldn't apply to myself.
…
Mark Flynn is a lot of things.
But he is above all else.
CONSISTENT TO A FAULT.
...
And my message has been as follows.
You're weak on the mic.
You waste precious breath on inefficient prattle.
But, even more unforgivable.
You're FUCKING VAPOR on the inside.
No substance.
No code.
Just an everchanging moral compass.
Valueless.
Rudderless.
…
And when I see your weak core.
Made of cotton fluff and candy floss.
…
I smell a crackable shell...
Housing a soft-shelled delicacy.
One that I can peel open.
And devour the sweet, soft, chewy innards.
…
Tastes like veal.
Delicious taste.
Exquisite consistency.
...
Dinner is served.
Bon appetit.