Cold and hard ground beneath his head. He feels it pressing his neck in a frozen tangle of stiff muscles... and he smiles...

Back in his pen at XWF HQ... camera man Gabriel Jacobs finally returns to his dream home.

It's all here. Everything he's ever needed for the basic minimum definition of human life...

Moderately limited to limited sunlight through barred windows.

One square meal when they remember. Approximately once every two days.

All the Doritos he could carry in his pockets of the green room when no one was looking.

One week, he managed to sneak Cool Ranch dust onto his finger when Tyrone blinked next to the bowl.

Was like sucking the finger of God himself.

He did it… He made it home. And it was more perfect than he could ever possibly imagine.

He snuggled down onto his hard mat floor. Snuggled against his own jacket as he tended to do in the pen to create some comfort around his spine. Twisting his neck, the collar that kept him restrained against the metal pole at the pen's corner only slightly preventing him from regular breathing.

It was perfect.

He closed his eyes for his customary hour of sleep a night.

But…

Wait…

Why did his pen smell like an alley? Why doesn’t have that lovely industrial waste scent from the chemical plant next door to the pen?

…

Oh God…

Gabriel’s eyes opened slowly, blinking lopsided...

Turns out that hard surface his head was resting on was concrete, his arms awkwardly twisted at his sides, his jaw twitching against the pavement.

Turns out that he was still in Singapore.

Turns out Mark Flynn is over him, smacking him in the face.

“Wake up, nameless camera man. C’mon, wake up.”

Turns out Mark Flynn is a dead man.

Gabriel is somewhere mentally between an arm bar and several mounted punches to the throat in his plan to mutilate Mark Flynn...

When he suddenly realizes he can’t move.

He tries to scream, but it comes out as a primal gurgle mixed with a sigh.

“Good. You’re awake… ish.”

Flynn steps back and leans over his fallen companion.

“Really sorry about having to knock you unconscious. Nothing personal, of course.”

Gabriel lets an “Arooooooo….” He’s not even sure what he meant…That... that might have been involuntary...

He’s feeling kinda fuzzy…

“All right.” Flynn says stroking his chin.

“Bad news. Plan B has the slightest hitch, teensiest little setback."

“In that I’m having difficulty finding Singapore’s black market.”

What, Gabriel thinks.

“Mlah?” Gabriel says.

“Yeah, I know. Really embarrassing. I assure you, this kind of thing never happens to me. I think there’s some cultural differences between Michigan and Singapore, but whatever it is, I looked high and low and couldn’t find the local ne'erdowells and vagabonds that usually participate in shady back-alley surgical operations of an involuntary variety.”

“So selling you for your organs THIS evening is a no go.”

…Oh hell…

“But don’t worry. We’re getting a fresh start tomorrow. Up and at ‘em early. Full breakfast of fruit and veggies off the street. And I’m going to borrow one of those fancy rickshaws from the locals so I can wheel you around. We’ll pick up a couple chicks that are into guys who don’t have kidneys and guys who take care of their kidney-less friends. It’ll be a fun little day out.”

Gabriel tries to bring his arms up to break into a sprint away from Flynn.

Instead, he just accidentally slams his head into the sidewalk.

“Now, now. You’re just a little cranky.”

“And also injected with enough horse tranquilizers to kill a polar bear or knock out a mastodon for weeks or make Jeff Hardy somewhat drowsy.”

Flynn pats the inside of his jacket pocket, which jingles with the sound of syringes.

“Never go to Singapore unprepared. I think that's the second lesson you should take from our encounter. The first being don't let someone else trick you into knocking yourself drowsy."

"By the by, what’s your blood type? I don’t think they’re going to ask, but I don’t want to seem all ‘Johnny-Come-Lately’ at this human trafficking slash organ trading game. I feel like we’ll get the best deal if I look like I know my shit.”

“Follow up question. How much do you think the average American gall bladder is worth?”

“Secondary follow up question, how much do you think your gall bladder is worth comparatively? You're probably tempted to be modest, but that's not our aim right now.”

Gabriel tries to howl for help, hoping that some series of phonetic sounds will equate to the Singaporean word for ‘POLICE! HELP! A PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER IS TRYING TO APPROXIMATE THE MARKET VALUE OF MY GALL BLADDER!’

Instead, he only managed to spill some saliva on the ground.

Flynn shakes his head as the spittle coagulates around Gabriel’s temple.

“Don’t try to barter your way out this deal, kid. I appreciate your offer but I need to get back to Warfare.”

"Zwa..."

"Hush, my dear perfect boy." Flynn's index presses Jacobs' semi-parted drooling mouth closed.

"Let us not sully our relationship with meaningless words. Acknowledgement of how difficult but necessary my choice is. Understanding and encouragement that your sacrifice must not be in vain."

"Assuring me that what's yours is mine. Both in your biological systems in your chest and the four dollars and seventy two cents that were in your right pocket."

"No need for such beautiful language, my angel clownfish child. I can see it in that compassionate nature in your eyes."

Flynn jingles his pocket, which judging by the sound.. now contains 72 cents...

Jacobs tried, after biting Flynn's index finger proved an ineffectual use of his already limited muscle control, in a last ditch effort of protest, Jacobs focused every facial tic, 24 years of experience with conveying emotion via cheek bone, lip and eye brow to hatefully stare into Mark Flynn's eyes and deliver pure hatred.

"No... No puppy dog eyes... You know those don't work on me..." Flynn wipes an errant tear from the corner of his eye.

Jacobs lets out a primal scream internally.

"LAWA..."

"Pardon?"

Summoning strength as Sampson before him, through the sheer power of non-verbal prayer, a higher power grants him the strength to deliver one powerful word. Not the power to move his face while he says it, but still...

"AZZOL..."

Flynn cups his hand around his ear.

"One more time?"

"YURAZZOL..."

...

Flynn's hand extends for his heart.

Flynn... is touched...

"My boy's first words... I've never been so proud."

"CUN... FAHU!"

Flynn weaves his fingers through his boy's hair.

"You are becoming a man, my boy."

"As a result, I've decided to take our friendship to the next logical level."

"DAI YUPEASHHHHHHHH..."

"That's right my boy. I'm adopting you. You're now my official unofficial son."

"GAFAKYUSU..."

"There, there, my boy. It's true what they say. The father doesn't truly become attached until his baby is revealed unto him."

"You skim the occasional parenting book while stuck in a Barnes & Noble. But, now that he's here... I would die for this breathing sack of beautifully expensive organs..."

Flynn carefully cradles his new 24 year old child's head into his arms and drags his adorable newly newborn 240 pound frame against the concrete wall.

Flynn carefully weaves his hands through his beautifully thinning raven locks, the owner of which has now lost his tongue from his mouth and finds himself incapable of retrieving it.

"I guess this is a new experience for both of us. I've never been a father before you and you've probably never had a father who's proud of you before."

Gabriel grumbles before shrugging a left shoulder up. True enough.

Flynn wraps his right limb around his new son's shoulder.

"Well, if you're going to my child, I can't go around calling you... I haven't been calling you anything resembling a name really, so that's beside the point."

Flynn beams with pride as he squeezes his perfect child's cheeks together. "What's your name, my boy?"

Gabriel with the last of his shoulder muscle forced his head back against the brick wall behind him.

"Grasarah..."

"Gabriel, eh?"

Gabriel tries to smile.

"Unacceptable. Your new name is Gregory Flynn And I call you Greggers and Greg and Charles if I forget name A. Charles is your name B."

Gabriel is too exhausted to respond.

"I think you'll be happy as Flynn, Gregory. I mean, you'll have to deal with our family history of crippling mental illness and being quietly executed by the federal government..."

"But, other than that, it also comes with a proud family history..."

Oh dear God. He's going to keep talking.

"Would you like to hear the story of your Great Great Grandfather Josiah Flynn?"

"Nehhhh..."

"Hmm. All right, I'll just tell you some other shit then..."

Fuck. Maybe Gabriel can gnaw his own arm off like a trapped coyote...

"Let me tell you of the days of High Adventure..."

***

A stage with a purple curtain, lined with two rows of empty chairs and a podium equipped with a microphone at center stage.

An empty club. The tables are lined with half-filled glasses of wine and martinis.

Yet. No audience.

Silence. Dead quiet.

Then, the spotlight focuses on stage right.

A shorter figure in a tattered suit steps up to the stage.

No applause.

He steps to the front, smiling and waving to the non-existent crowd before reaching the podium and whipping the microphone out of its stand.

He admires and nods the empty seats before him.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Flynn then turns to the chairs to his right.

"I'd like to cordially apologize to all parties itching and waiting and pleading to be the next sorry sack of shit that gets thrown into the wood chipper and gets shredded into an unrecognizable gruel of illogical motivations and obscure actions."

"As a result, I plan on gulping down three flavors of the month and hope their rancid swill texture mixes into something I can turn into something... enjoyable."

"I am of course speaking of the trio of Blair Sully, Ann Thraxx and CM Punk..."

"Cyren's Lack of Personality Cult."

Flynn... sighs and shakes his head. The smile slowly drips as he itches the back of his head. He looks into the camera almost apologetically.

“Let’s get this over with.Tomorrow, I wanna stuff Madison through a fucking paper shredder until I can piece together his bullshit philosophy into something that makes sense."

Flynn, still feels a sour taste dripping down his throat and grimaces as his mind dips deeper into the bowl of bobbing crab apples...

His hand goes for his throat as he starts to physically taste the remnants of JP Corino, whose presence still lingers over this sorry excuse for a stable like a charcoal taste from an already sub-par meal...

He forces himself to swallow...

And stares deep into the camera...

"CM Punk."

"First off. Think up a different name for a promo."

"Paul Heyman and The Storm."

"Immediately followed by The Storm? Are you really so spent, Phil, that you couldn't think of a title more applicable to your topic? Something like 'Overrated WWE wrestler is now so far in over his head, he's submerged neck deep in shit'? Or 'Blah Blah Blah Look at Me'?"

"I'm sorry, Phil. But should you really be complaining about how everyone dines straight our Mystery's asshole like Dwayne?"

"When you're doing the same 'appearance fee', 'let me just drop my catchphrases and pick up my check' bullshit? 434 days and counting after you dropped the belt months ago?"

"Sorry if you're itching to bitch to about being oppressed because I'm bullying you, Superstar."

"But Ann 'What the Fuck Does 'Simply Deevil 'Mean? Is that a play on words? Between Evil and Dee? Devil and E? What the fuck are you talking about?' Thraxx hasn't bothered to show up."

"And Blair Sully no-showed her last four or five matches. Cyren sure does pick the ringers, doesn't he, Brooks?"

"Which brings me to the central thesis of my diatribe."

"What do you really think he sees in you, Phil?"

"Do you think your manager would be scoping for the best of the best and then not think twice about signing John Black?"

"Do you think for a moment that your pathetic little 'We're taking over the XWF' movement is anything more than the third best stable in its field against Sebastian Duke and Tyler Decker?"

"No, Punk. You're the latest stooge to fall for the false prophet."

"You'd think you'd be smarter since you've already been in that messiah role?"

"But here you are. Getting duped like Luke Gallows before you."

"Letting him trick you into thinking that the man who lost 9 of his last 10 matches."

"Actually knows how to make it to the top of the XWF anymore."

"Sorry, but you, Thraxx and Sully are the Muppet Babies of the XWF."

"You fantasize with your little cute rookie pals in the playpen how incredible it would be to actually take over the XWF."

"And you close your eyes, cross your fingers, pixie dust, the back of an unmarked ice cream truck..."

"And suddenly, you're there in your fantasy world. You're holding every XWF championship and even the ones JP made up before he got his contract incinerated."

"Visualize it, Punk."

"You're raising your arms over your head. Being cheered as the undisputed, King of the XWF! The people pump their arms with you! The pretzel vendor is toasting his goods in your honor."

"Smell that cinnamon butter, smell the odd rodent scent that comes with stadium food."

"You did it! Best in the World! Best in the W-"

Flynn bends over screeching into the mike. "WAKE UP, PUNK!"

Flynn paces up and down the stage like a lion clawing out of his cage...

"WAKEY WAKEY EGGS AND BAKEY!"

Flynn flips over the podium, the wood splinters as it collides with the stage...

The beast... Inching over the bars... And leaping into the crowd of terrified zoo patrons.

"YOU OVERSLEPT PUNK! OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EYES!"

Flynn stops. Center stage.

And spreads his arms wide.

"Embrace me, Punk. Embrace cold hard reality."

"Embrace your XWF counterpart."

"I drink and I smoke, but sincerely no one can touch me on the mike."

"I not only dig crazy chicks, I've got the old flame still carrying around proof of that little altercation."

Flynn leans in.

"And with two thirds of a dick, I fuck three times better than Sid Fucking Feder."

"Ask Flo, she's too strung out on pills to tell the difference between Madison's and mine anymore. About the same length now anyway."

Flynn tilts his head to the side.

"And while you were going around screaming about his you're the BEST. WRESTLER. IN THE WORLD..."

"I was compiling evidence to the contrary, beating the shit out of every straight from the Indies fuck like you who thought their shit was golden."

The King of the MidCarders extends his right hand. And smiles...

"Phillip Brooks."

"I'd like to cordially invite you..."

The spotlight shuts off...

"To The End..."