---

---

---

The last thing Maverick could remember before his vision went blank was how Chris Macbeth was so close to tapping out. He had him locked in the Pure Perfection Liontamer hold, and it only seemed like a matter of time until Macbeth would submit. I was wrenching the hold as hard as I could, bending back as far as I could, when all of a sudden--

THUD.

The chair hit Maverick in the back of the head, causing him to be powerless to Macbeth's furious assault on his ravaged body. Or more specifically, the Coast to Coast.

Wednesday Warfare Results Said:Macbeth then props the chair up against Maverick’s head and chest and crosses the ring to the opposite corner, heading for the top.

“No way, dude…”

“Highly unorthodox and high risk, coming up!”

Chris Macbeth steadies himself and leaps from the buckle… COAST TO COAST INTO THAT CHAIR!!!!

"GOOD GOD!"


"Is he dead, dude? Did he die? I couldn't watch."

Macbeth quickly drags Maverick to the middle of the ring and drops onto him for a cover…














ONE!





















TWO!





























THREE!!!!!!

Maverick has been eliminated

The next thing Maverick remembered was waking up in a hospital. He could still taste blood in his mouth, his ribs felt like a vacuum cleaner was shoved down his throat and put into "reverse," and his head felt like it was going to split open like a watermelon.

"What... the hell..." breathed out Maverick, his hand instinctively going to his head.

"You're awake, Master Solomon?" asked a familiar voice.

"GAH!" Maverick shouted, unexpectedly seeing his butler, Gerald at the hospital with him. He was currently sitting in a nearby chair, looking very concerned for his master.

"I came as soon as I heard off the rumor mill that you were injured. Concussion, broken ribs... They wanted to operate on you, but I insisted not. There would be no way you'd recover for Shove-It."

"Shove-It..." Maverick trailed off, his mind trying to figure what was at Shove-It. But then he remembered... "I COULD BE DOUBLE BOOKED?!"

Gerald nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. You'll be nowhere near 100%, but given your new obsession with trying to defeat Vincent Lane I figured you wouldn't appreciate it if I pulled you out of the match."

A deep breath resonated out of Maverick's mouth. First Luca with the most biased group of people sitting at ringside, and if he somehow managed to squirm his way out, he'd have to deal with Tush and Dick E. The latter shouldn't be a problem, but last Maverick checked, Tush was the Intercontinental Champion. But first things first... Maverick plucked the IV out of his arm.

Gerald nodded in response. "We'll have to sneak out quickly. You should still be dizzy right now, so follow my lead."

Maverick nodded, feeling the world spin around him. Slowly, shakily, he put one foot in front of him. Maverick blinked as he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Gerald hurriedly pressed onward.

Goddamn it. Gerald should have let them operate on you. You're in no shape to compete.

Maverick peeked outside to see if anyone was walking down the halls, then followed Gerald towards the elevator when the coast was clear.

No, Gerald did the right thing. I need to compete at Shove-It. There's going to be no other way I can get to Lane.

No, there's always the standard way. Instead of exploiting a tournament for a means beside the grand prize, you could always, y'know, win a few matches.

Is that a challenge? Maverick gritted his teeth in anger just before he got to the elevator, causing a ripple of pain to erupt in his head. Clutching at his skull, Maverick crouched down in pain.

"Master Solomon!" Gerald cried, rushing to his master's aid to get him to the elevator.

"I'M FINE!" Maverick managed to cry out. His breath was wild, he could hardly speak, and his entire field of vision was foggy.

Maverick, if you're serious about competing for Shove-It, get the hell up right now. Otherwise, I'm taking control and I'm getting you right back in bed.

"I can get up!" Maverick shouted to his mind-father, not realizing he said it out loud.

"Who are you talking to?" Gerald asked. "There's no one around." Maverick's eyes shot up in surprise, realizing he let the one thing that should have never come out, well, out: the fact that he might (possibly) be insane.

"No one. Just... came out of my mouth for some reason." Maverick dismissed the claims as he (somehow) managed to get to the elevator. Gerald, however, doesn't look convinced as the camera fades to black.

---

---

---

I'm going to do my promo.

No, you're not. As your father, I wholly recommend and even order that you aren't going to cut a promo.

Bullshit. You're not even my father. Just a fragment of my mind that essentially takes the form of him.

Well, surely there's a reason why I was chosen to represent Robert.

Yeah. You're the insane part of me.

Harsh.

But true. And your fears about Shove-It are going to be misplaced. I don't know how, but I'm going to get past Luca, and then I'm going to get past Dick E. and Tush.

Bullshit. It's not healthy to delude yourself. You can hardly walk, how are you going to get past THREE competitors in one night?

Because. We're two in one. One of us gets hurt, we switch in.

Oh, you're going to willingly hand me the reins should you get too beat up? You'd do anything to get to Lane, huh?

You're damned right. Lane has humiliated me for the last time. He has tricked me, mocked me, played sneak attacks on me, ever since Day One, all because of one little Heavy Metal Weight Championship pin. You know, the belt that's retired.

Oh, I remember that now.

Exactly. And if I have to run a Gauntlet in one night, I'd rather have two of the three competitors be Luca Arzegotti and Dick E.

Oh?

I know what I said. And I'll explain my reasoning.

---

---

---

"Luca fucking Arzegotti, a man who was once revered at being 'four times better.'"

"Now he's just a, as what Fernando would call him, 'nilla.'"

"You act so conceited, you act like you're at the top of the card, no one can stop you. Yet, LeStrange and Nico LaVey, people you've referred to as 'fuck boys,' beg to prove otherwise."

"And I love how you try to trip me up with the most evident of traps. 'Title Shitter.' A nickname everyone has tagged me with. So Luca, I have to beg the question- how's it gonna feel when you get 'bodied' by a title shitter? How's it gonna feel how you spend all this time, bragging about how you'll knock me out, yet you're going to be destroyed by me in there?"

"That's right ladies and gents, unlike my claim with the fatal-four-way match, this match will clearly have me coming out as the winner. There's no question. Luca Arzegotti has fallen from grace so far this won't even be a challenge for me. Me, the man with a concussion and broken ribs."

"Now that I'm done explaining the audience how I'm going to 'body' you, I must ask you a few things, Luca."

"Why do you hide behind these 'memes?' These drugs, these lies? What happened that would have caused this chain reaction that would have saw Luca Arzegotti, superstar, fall to Luca Arzegotti, j0bber? Was it way back in your career, when you were playing in the back seat to the big boys in the Black Circle? Was it when your mind was addled when you thought you were a Mexican and were fighting for 'brown pride?' Perhaps you were done being outshined by Fernando and wanted everything to end. I don't blame you, if I were getting underestimated compared to my partner, I'd want my career to end. At least, with him."

"Also, yes, I do realize I may have lost to Gilmour. Yet, he did not pin me. The only reason Macbeth pinned me, was because he injured me. Yet, you're nothing. Just a sad, pitiful sack of misery. Washed up. And I think I'm gonna have to put you out of your misery."

"Now, Dick E."

"..."

"..."

"Who even are you? I'm not sure if you belong in the Senior Citizens Home or the Graveyard. You counted the Federweight pins for a while, but you sucked more than however many dicks Frodo sucks on the daily."

"How did it feel getting that free carry over to the quarterfinals? Unfortunately for you, it's the end of the line. You might have gotten a free pass last round, but now? There's nothing stopping you from you getting buried six feet under."

"Shit. You didn't even make anything for this week. Hell, I have an excuse. I was injured. What's your excuse? You had to stop to get a new pair of dentures? Get your prostates checked? Fuck. I feel like this is too easy. Go away, Dim clone. I'm not in the mood to deal with you."

"Meanwhile, we have Tush, who is the only viable competitor in this match besides me. And yet, all he really has is dick insults. Hell, his signature go-to insult that appears in the background of his promos is people 'who's going to receive his scaly dick.'"

"Might I ask why this is, Tush? Might you have something to tell us? I mean, surely this dick- receiving thing is more than meets the eye. I personally am not into that sort of thing, though I hear Dick E. is looking for a partner to accompany him in his twilight years. And then you make a poor parody of us, going by the most overplayed insults. Tush, you have nothing new. Nothing we haven't seen before. Shit man, are you even trying. Are you even interested in this tourney? Shit man. This is just getting boring. You guys aren't even worth anything now. Nothing new, nothing fresh or exciting. You guys are just dominoes I'm going to knock over to get to Lane."