WARNING: UPON RETURNING TO THE UNITED STATES, MARK FLYNN PROVIDED A TAPE TO XWF SUPERSTARS OF HIS ESCAPADES, WITHOUT A CAMERAMAN IN TOW.
AFTER A LIMITED AMOUNT OF INFORMATION HAS COME FORWARD ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF XWF CAMERA MAN GABRIEL JACOBS, WE ARE FORCED TO DECLARE HIM HEAVILY ARMED. BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR GABRIEL JACOBS THE WORLD OVER. HE IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED OR TREATED WITH RESPECT. ANYTHING HE SAYS ON THE WORKING CONDITIONS OF XWF IS NOT ONLY SLANDER BUT ALSO MORE LIKELY THAN NOT SECRETLY TERRORIST PROPAGANDA DESIGNED TO TURN YOUR CHILDREN AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT OF MYANMAR.

THE FOLLOWING IS RATED TV-Y7.

“Mark Flynn weaves through the crowded streets of Burma. Beneath these streets lie a dark underbelly of crime, pollution, jay walking rings, pyramid schemes, prism schemes…”

“Sorry, real quick. First off, you might think you’re doing your dramatic inner monologue thing you do. You’re not. You’re speaking aloud. I can hear you.”

“Rhombotical schemes… Flobotical schemes…”

“Second, you’re still in Singapore. Burma is a completely different place.”

“Cubic schemes… Spherical schemes…”

“Third, Burma no longer exists. It’s now called Myanmar because of a military government takeover. I’d suggest that this implies that you don’t want to support a militaristic government. But, we both know you have no ethical qualms about that. Finally, I want you to be aware it’s currently Monday and we’re still stuck in Southeast Asia. You need to be on Wednesday Night Warfare in two days.”

“Dodecahedron schemes… Sodecahedron dreams… Banana Rama Fo Fama…”

Gabriel Jacobs realizes for the seventeenth time that morning that he is never going home. He continues to follow Mark Flynn, who decided to not sleep last night. Which meant Gabriel Jacobs didn’t sleep last night.

Of course, Mark Flynn had decided to use this time instead of sleeping…

To, while talking to himself, do the bunny hop straight down this heavily populated market street in Bur…

Dammit, now he’s doing it too…

SINGAPORE.

THEY’RE IN SINGAPORE!

THEY’VE BEEN IN SINGAPOE FOR 28 HOURS NOW!

THEY’RE GOING TO BE STUCK IN SINGAPORE FOR THE REST OF THEI-

Flynn suddenly jerks Jacobs by the arm into a nearby alley.

The two stop there, Flynn leaning over to catch his breath, although the reasoning behind this lack of energy is unclear.

Jacobs keeps his camera trained on Flynn.

It was the closest thing he could feel to vengeance. If Flynn was going to put him through this verbal Chinese water torture, fine.

Two could play at that game. This camera would never leave Flynn’s face. His every moment would be recorded, his every stupid thought etched into records for all eternity.

He hated Mark Flynn. He hated Mark Flynn with the white hot intensity of several thousand George Foreman Grills, available at your local Sears department store.

Gabriel Jacobs used to be able to curse. Now all he can do is drop product placements. That’s what this time together has done to him.

He used to be a fully functional human being with low self-esteem working for a company that hadn’t passed an ethical work standards test in the last decade.

Instead? Now? A broken shell of a man.

And he would never forgive Mark Flynn for this... He refused to play along with his stupid plans…

Flynn looked back and forth down the alley before turning and smiling back to Jacobs. “Ready for me to get back to Warfare?”

Jacobs leapt. Flynn going back means he goes back. Call him a saint, if you want, but he found it in himself that moment the Herculean strength necessary to pardon Mark Flynn. “Yeah! Buddy! What’s the plan?”

Flynn tapped the side of his head. “Plan B.”

Jacobs tapped the side of his head back. “What’s Plan B?”

Flynn tapped the side of his head in retaliation, grinning as if the duo was finally getting on the same page. “Plan B is what you’re doing now, but with the slightest more intensity… and density…”

Jacobs… taps himself one more time… “…I don’t think I understand what you mean... friend.”

Flynn tapped himself frustrated. “Turn around, close your eyes, keep tapping yourself in the head. But harder. And faster.”

“…Um…”

“C’mon. It’s part of the plan. It’ll help Plan B.”

Jacobs was desperate to try anything. He figured Flynn must have an actual plan and this was part of his stupid theatrics. If Jacobs just played along, he’d stop being crazy for five minutes and turn into the sociopath that always had a plan he was in his promos. Jacobs turned to face the wall and started jabbing his index and ring finger into the side of his head.

“Almost. Harder.”

Jacobs moves on to three fingers. He swings his hands into his temple, desperate for Flynn to do something...

He hears a rattling of stones down the alley.

“What are you doing… Buddy…?”

“All part of the plan, pal! C’mon, just a little harder!”

Jacobs could smell a rat… He open his eyes and turned around…

No one was there… An empty alley…

“Aw, you stopped. Guess I’ll have to carry out Plan B by myself…”

Jacobs calls out. “Flynn! Where are you?!?”

…

Jacobs backs up slowly from the wall…

“You proved you can’t bash your own head in…”

Jacobs feels his throat tighten and dry… Flynn’s voice bounces off the walls… He can’t hear where it’s coming from… The tapping against his skull has disoriented him...

“So, I’ll have to do your part. Just say one thing for me.”

Jacobs feels a rock smash into the back of his head.

Then… darkness…

“There’s no place like home…”

Fade to Black
Fade to Black
Fade to Black
***
Really, What’s left for me?

Sincerely?

What the F(RANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER!) are any of you little rugrats doing running around in my ring?

It’s starting to piss me off is what it’s doing.

I’ve been in this game for too long.

And every week, I’m forced into the ring with another rookie.

And every week, they pretend like they have a chance.

What do I gain from this garbage?

Honestly, what do I gain from pummeling nobodies like Chris MacBeth and KnightMask?

Even with his main event showpup Angelus in the ring, why is that idiot Witastick putting an opener match in the form of Crane vs Hartt? Right in the middle of the same ring as Flynn vs Angelus, the final screwjob?

You know why? Because no matter how much Angelus covers his ears with both hands and yells so he can’t hear the truth.

He is Witastick’s mutt. Witastick has a variety of dogs. He tends to keep them all on a variety of leashes. He walks down the street and shows them off and pretends not to notice when they start pissing all over themselves in an embarrassing fashion, trying to garner any kind of attention.

See Sebastian Duke joins the Black Circle.

And the only thing Witastick is more afraid of than one of his dogs losing.

Is putting one of his dogs in a fair fight.

Oh sure, Witastick. Put your two #1 contenders for the US Title against Mark Flynn and a slobbering mental midget. You might as well have strapped a soda machine to my back, at least I could have used it as a bludgeoning implement.

Yes, I didn’t just imply. I clearly stated that an inanimate object is a better tag team partner than current tag team champion Peter Gilmour.

You know what’s really tragic? These bleating nameless sheep that get cast into the fire week in and week out? Losing to me gives them infinitely more legitimacy around here than I get beating them.

All of a sudden, these kids are running around throwing up their fists like splitting a spleen on General Flynn’s sword means they’ve earned their spot in this unmarked grave and its something to celebrate.

MacBeth goes around screaming how he popped my legs over the top rope and they both hit the floor? Congratulations, kid. Well done. You want to talk conditions that aren’t ideal, in your case a blinded official? You want to talk about would have, should have, could have?

If Witastick had a half a brain, like he SHOULD HAVE, I COULD HAVE beaten your pathetic skull concave in a one-on-one match. Where if you get lucky and slip me over the top rope, I WOULD HAVE just slid back in and broken your leg.

Do you think I’m particularly interested in giving Peter Gilmour one more match against his personal kryptonite? I don’t care one way or the other. Gilmour can keep proving he’s developmentally challenged by looking at a record that says 0 wins and 3 losses and saying it proves that I can be beaten. Maybe if he keeps coming to class and grabbing his Mac ‘n Cheese Crayola crayons, he’ll able to scribble a coloring of a match where I don’t kick the sh(ITAKE MUSHROOMS) out of him from one end of the ring to the other. What a kooky imaginary world that will be, only something a mentally challenged kid who started sniffing the Expo markers before class started could possibly dream up.

I want you to listen to me very carefully, both of you gibbering idiots. Your trash talk has gone off the rails and into the space of ‘so bad it’s awful’ when you’re seriously just trading off who has worse names for their trademark moves.

Can’t we just agree to disagree and say that you’re both legitimately awful and incapable of coming close to my raw talent?

Anyway, back to burying this sorry excuse for a company.

Do you think I care that Crimson Cobra knocked me upside the back of the head into a bay a few weeks back? Do you think there’s a rivalry brewing between me and someone who’s not enough of a talent in the ring to work as the ring crew that dry cleans my robe in between matches?

He’s now stepping through neck high mud on Madness. Watching as the black tar of decadence and failed opportunity swallows him whole. He’s the number one contender for the European Title and he gets to watch as JP Corino takes his big opportunity for a free belt against Jeff Hardy.

Isn’t that a laugh riot?

No?


Try this joke on for size, then.

The very next Warfare I had my job back. And the time it took me to get my job back was so compelling, they’re showing it like re-runs and it’s getting better ratings than some of the tripe these rookies are pumping out.

Do you get it, yet?

I’m untouchable.

I’m like Johnny Madison if Johnny Madison had the testicular fortitude to actually take on people that planned on showing up.

I’m like Mister Mystery except I’m also good at wrestling.

I’m like Tyler Decker except I’m also good at wrestling.

I’m like Donath- I feel like you get the gist of this little pattern.

Some people might suggest that in this little promo, I have yet to sincerely address my opponents or my tag partner. That, sure, none of these three mouth breathers has given me enough to turn into a decent promo but still, it’s expected of the United States Champion to wreck these three challengers to the throne in rapid succession.

You’re right, some people.

Allow me to address my fellow gladiators. The one’s who will make excellent lion food at the end of the night.

And let me establish just how little I care about a couple of you.

Benjamin Crane.

How F(RANKLIN PIERCE, 14TH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES)ing dare you.

I bring out the good, Glengarry crazy this week and you don’t even have the stones to pull out crazier? Don’t even have the decency to pull out a Lindsay Lohan joke like the one that picked up a win over Sid Feder, you talentless hack?

What’s this BS about you losing too much?

You don’t lose too much.

You lose exactly the right amount for someone of your skill level.

Honestly, the lack of respect from a loser like you is shocking. I’ve already beaten you. In the US Title Tournament. You pulled out every stop and I still found a way to take you out.

And instead, you act like we've never met before. Did I rock your head so stupid against the mat that you've developed amnesia?

If you actually drop another promo that shows a modicum of talent, I might be willing to let you tag in and beat up another one of your friend’s for no reason.

That was the only real part I enjoyed of your promo.

Not really a need to elaborate on that. Just wanted to clarify I enjoy it when you beat up non-wrestlers for no reason.

Ah, moving on.

Chris Hartt.

The Paladin.

The least talented man in a match that also involves Benjamin Crane.

Bravo. Should put that on a resume, I guarantee that credit is not often touted.

The real thing you should be aware of. The real monster in your closet that you might want to check twice for before tonight’s match.

Mark Flynn. The US Champion.

That world champion you were talking about with your nephew. The one you neglected to mention this week beyond the occasional name drop.

Happy to meet you.

When I get you in the center of that ring. I’m going to make you pray to whatever deity you represent as a paladin.

I’m going to press you onto your knees with my foot digging into your spine.

I’m going to force your arms behind your back, wrenching your shoulder blades until you can’t feel your fingers. All you can feel is purest, most blinding pain you’ve ever felt in your life.

And in that holiness that only suffering can provide, in that moment where you’re begging for not only mercy but The End…

You’re going to be praying ‘PLEASE… PLEASE…’

And not a word will come to your mind. You know you want it to stop and that you want it to be over. But, you can’t think of a way to say it that will give God the ability to help you…

The beauty of pain. Erases your mind. Prevents you from speaking.

That’s the real goal of me hurting you group of morons. I’m tired of you rookies. Sick as a dog.

Every one of you steps up. ‘HOPE YOU’RE READY FOR ME, MARK FLYNN. CUZ I’M GONNA CATCHPHRASE CATCHPHRASE CATCHPHRASE ALL OVER YOU!’

It's like a game of whack-a-mole that never ends.

I’m tired of Sebastian Duke and Angelus being called the biggest names on Warfare, getting the main event spots while I’m the one that’s the World Champion of Wednesday Night Warfare…

Speaking of Angelus…

…Heh…

You’re going to have to give me a little time, Anj…

We haven’t danced in a while…

And I’d like the moment you recognize your total inferiority and how little of a chance you truly have of taking my belt…

To be magnificent…