Anger.

Righteous and furious anger.

A seed of pure unfiltered IRE, sprung root.

It would fill your lungs like a toxin. DENSE IN THE AIR, FUMES OF RAGE. Swirling around a nexus of injustice.

Embodied in a human form.

All at once, this effigy of enmity… is drawn…

Into an oddly familiar yellow office…

The Waiting Room.

The light awkwardly bright… Blindingly so.

The Presence… This raw spirit of righteous fury… surges forward…

At an unmanned secretary’s desk, the intercom buzzes.

“Excuse me. Please wait until your number is ca-“

As the apparition looms over the desk, the mechanical intercom is suddenly thrust into the air!

It levitates, held… Until…

KERUNCH!

The device is crushed like an accordion… Bolts, bits and grease drip from its oozing innards…

The intercom seems to bleed industry.

Thwack! It drops, clicking and whirring, onto the floor.

This Spectre of Vengeance… hears a shuffling behind the office door ahead. Above the frame…

The Office of Mark Flynn Success Story™

In a flash, the door’s hinges twist… They creak…

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee… The wood warps and splinters… Until…

KERACK! The door collapses in half.

“Chuck? That you?”

The spectre creeps forward.

Inside, a faceless creature flips through a folder at his desk.

He refrains from glancing up at this intruder.

“Chucky Nickles!” The creature brings his wrist up to his lack-of-a-face. “Hmm, You’re… early… I didn’t think I’d summoned you yet…”

The creature scratches its chin, puzzling over this… oddity.

As he does, the menacing phantasm looms closer… Hovering above the faceless creature…

Like an ancient judge’s blade over the wrist of a thief. Eager to split the offending appendage from its owner…

…Finally, the creature shrugs, shutting the folder.

“Ah, well. Time is money. Ready for your… Brand Evaluation?”

The creature glances up.

…

…And sees this nexus, this black hole of hatred… drawing open its maw…. A gaping-wide 20-foot mouth. Razor-sharp teeth…

A dollop of saliva drips off an incisor… And onto the folder.

The faceless one… peers curiously at the approaching vortex...

…

“…Hey…You’re not Chuck!”

SNAP. And at once, the Spectre’s Jaw shuts.

***

Through the lips. Past the gums.

Down the throat…

Into the beast’s bowels, Mark Flynn comes…

“...What?”

And then Flynn fell for hours.

For hours…

For four hours.

For fours hours, Flynn’s form fjorded down the tower.

Like rainfall, Flynn showers. Over his direction or speed? He has no power.

“Shit, shit! What the fuck is going on? Where am I?”

The reigning champ, a raining tramp. The ground below reining him, ever closer to a gruesome stamp.

Upon the ground, a future bloodstain to be found. A bony mound, gravity-bound, sure to make a squishy sound.

“...And why the fuck is someone rhyming?” Grunted Flynn, as his body kept climbing. Down faster and faster. Newton’s laws, his body’s master.

Falling without halt, down the trawl without fault. Dropping like a tree of pine, down and parallel to the line…

“WOULD YOU SHUT THE FU… Wait, did you say… Trawl? Line?”

Indeed, Flynn could see, before his eyes, as he flew out of the skies…

A thin width of piano wire. How did it get here, how did this transpire?

Our doomed non-flyer… Going lower, not higher. His corpse soon to be dumped on a funeral pyre.

“...Okay.”

…Ignoring the naysaying voice inside of his head, Flynn’s arms spread and he swam for the thread. Through the air, he did flap. His fingers did wrap. Clinging to the strand in the hopes that his bones would not snap.

Flynn wrapped his arm around the rope, tightening his elbow around its slope… He squeezes his bicep, brimming with hope! Will he survive? Nope.

“Shut up, you FUCKING HACK!” Shouted Flynn, berating his narrator with a verbal attack. Clearly, taken aback by the poet’s meter and skill! Despite his lashing out, the earth draws nearer still!

Flynn flexes his wrist! Around the rope, his grip tightens… HIS SKIN BURNS AND WHITENS! The friction it heightens! Drawing sparks against his flesh, which burns, reddens and brightens.

THE GROUND IS IN SIGHT! DEATH, THAT ETERNAL NIGHT… In the whites of his eyes, does Flynn’s see Heaven’s Light?

No, for if Flynn dies, surely Hellfire lies…

“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! I’M GONNA LIIIIIIIVE…”

…

“JUST SO I CAN MURDER YOU!”

Flynn roars with strife! He hangs on for dear life!

…

Here it comes!

…

Any second now!

…

…

Wait… In mid-air, Flynn’s come to a stop. As one might mid-hop. The ground remains distant, despite Flynn’s unfinished drop.

Flynn releases the rope… his hands oozing with blisters. His feet don’t touch the ground, but he remains floating in place… Clearly something’s a miss!

…Ter.

“Ha!” Flynn sneers. “That one sucked.”

Flynn now sits in a vacuum of space… A black hole to nowhe-

“Hey!” Interrupting rudely, Flynn cups his hand around his mouth.

“ORANGE!”

Says the Optimal Path zealot, as impolite as a…

…

Well, he’s as slimy as a…

….

Uh. UhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!

POP.

Above Flynn’s head, a LOUD POP!

Flynn glances up… A jet of black ink and flurry of pages flutter down past him…

…

…Flynn dusts his hands satisfied.

“Guess that killed that poet-in-my-head. Unexpected, but I’m glad he’s dead.”

…Flynn’s eyes widen.

“Fuck. Now I’m doing it.” He groans, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“MARK FLYNN!”

WHAM!

All-at-once, Mark Flynn is slammed to the Earth!

The rattle of a thousand chains… Like cobras, they crawl about the earth at Flynn’s feet.

“Shit! SHIT!” Flynn grunts, irritatedly, trying to swat away the metal bindings. But, as he does, the chains clamp onto his wrists! They bind his feet! They surround his ankles! They pile atop his feet, weighing him down oppressively!

Trapped like a prisoner!

“YOU ATTEMPTED TO IMPRISON ROYALTY IN YOUR YELLOW PRISON?”

Flynn squints perplexedly. “...Yellow pris-” Flynn’s eyes widen. “You mean my office?”

“AHA! A CONFESSION! YOU ARE HEREBY ACCUSED OF THE CRIME OF PLOTTING AGAINST THE QUEEN OF X-TREME!”

CLACK! A wooden gavel…

Through black mists before Flynn, a courtroom bench emerges from the shadows… Quaking and grinding, surging forward.

Sitting atop it… In the robes of a judge! With a gavel wrapped in barbed-wire!



JENNY MYST!

“BY DRAGGING ME INTO YOUR DOMAIN, YOU ATTEMPTED TO EXERT CONTROL OVER THE QUEEN OF X-TREME! THE PENALTY FOR WHICH…”

Beside Judge Myst’s bench… the clacking of squeaky wheels. A wooden platform is pushed forward… And sitting atop it…

Is a rusty… gnarled… dull guillotine. Blade wrapped in barbed wire.

“Is a SLOW and AGONIZING BEHEADING!”

…Flynn smiles.

“Oh! Jen-Jen!” Flynn smiles, adjusting his tie, a slick venomous grin spread across his face. “So, that big rage spirit that devoured me whole... That was you?” Flynn snaps his fingers and points. “Love it! A whole new look! Way to keep things fresh, Jenarino!”

THUNDER AND LIGHTNING CRACKLES OVERHEAD! Swirling black clouds hang above…

“YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS YOUR HIGHNESS OF VIOLENCE!” Jenny says as she smacks the gavel once more. As she does, lightning crackles in the wood.

Flynn’s eyes twitch at the idea of acknowledging someone as above him.

But, in this domain, Jenny has… all the power.

…Just behind Jenny, though. Is an empty trophy case.

Something precious… purloined.

The X-Treme Title.

…Flynn grins. There you go. There’s my angle.

“I BEG your pardon, your majesty.” Flynn bows his neck respectfully. “I humbly apologize for this… crossing of wires.” Flynn places his hand over his heart, brows bent inwards, appearing profoundly apologetic. “I assure you… I would NEVER disrespect your crown.”

“However! Everything happens for a reason. And I see…” Flynn nods behind Myst, toward the vacant case. “Your rightful claim has been challenged. Perhaps, you’d welcome… an ally.”

“PRESUMPTUOUS!” The X-Treme Queen barks. “I NEED NO CONSORT TO FEND OFF CHALLENGES.”

Flynn squints irritatedly. “…Consort? Listen, you lit-” …Flynn exhales… And re-dons his grin. “Of course, your majesty. You and I know that. But… others? They whisper. They DOUBT.”

Myst’s eyes redden, bloodshot and furious. “WHO WOULD DARE QUESTION MY RULE?!?”

“You see, I surmise that your reign as queen has been… ENCROACHED UPON. Your kingdom of cruelty has been IMPUGNED with an unjust purloining…”

Rapidly, Myst hammers her gavel against the bench! So swiftly and violently that the wood splinters beneath the strikes.

“YES! CORRECT!”

“By a pretender to the realm of ruthlessness! A BEGGAR-THIEF.”

“YES!”

“MARF SWAYSONS!”

“OOOOOOH!” Myst slams the gavel again! Two bolts of lightning explode together overhead! “THAT COWARD! THAT PILFERER! I’LL SKIN HIM ALIVE! I’LL MAKE A ROYAL COAT OF ARMS… OUT OF HIS ARMS!”

“Of course, your Highness! But… Marf has an ally of his own. And the cunning little snakes plans to draw you into another ambush.”

…Myst inhales, ready to scream…

“Which is why the Optimal Path drew us together.”

Jenny eyes her prisoner suspiciously, but silently.

“The Optimal Path, in its infinite wisdom, drew the two of us together… That I might proselytize unto you.”

Jenny blushes, horrified.

“HOW DARE YOU? I AM A LADY, SIR! If you try to proselytize me, I’ll take your ‘proselytizer’ and…”

Myst pulls a string by the bench!

THWAK! The guillotine drops with a sickening thud.

“Watch your flirtations, KNAVE! If there’s one thing I hate more than thieves, it’s WORKPLACE HARASSMENT!”

“No… That word doesn’t me-…”

…Flynn exhales, still smiling.

“I only mean, your highness. That you seem… furious.”

“I AM.”

“Fueled by the purest rage!”

“YES!”

“But what use is rage… without direction? What use is pure unbridled fury… Without a funnel of FOCUS with which to channel it?”

…

“You see, the Optimal Path… it must… TAKE from you. It must HUMILIATE you. It must STRIP YOU DOWN TO YOUR LOWEST POINT.”

“And I think we both agree, Queen Myst, it doesn’t get much lower than Marf FUCKING Swaysons.”

“But… this SMALL misstep on your journey? it assures your reign will last eons. Like the mighty phoenix’s fire must die to BURN TWICE AS HOT IN REBIRTH…”

[orange]“Marf may have STOLEN what is rightfully yours… but now, you have the perfect opportunity to STRIKE HIM DOWN FOR IT. TO SHOW A WORLD OF HUNGRY BOTTOM-FEEDERS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK WITH THE GODDAMN QUEEN OF X-TREME.”

“SILENCE.”

…Jenny smiles.

“I have made a choice, KNAVE. YOU will aid ME in battle. YOU will guarantee I retake what is RIGHTFULLY MINE.”

Another satisfied customer.

Flynn claps. “An excellent idea, your majesty. Together, we’ll bring Marf and Charlie to their fucking knees…”

…Flynn smiles.

“Well, Marf. X-Treme Champ. It’s time for a hostile takeover.”

***

"I'm BACK. After a small tantrum, some broken household appliances and some serious Ambien induced soul searching…”

”This promo's brought to you by Ambien! The only thing that’ll put you to sleep faster is Marf’s fucking promos!”

“This should-be-Main-Event was ME as X-Treme Champion with Marky Mark against the company's running joke and the world's biggest gold nosed title mark!

Marf, the bubbling pile of hot hippo shit, knows damn well that he can't beat me.

“FACT: Marf has lost EVERY SINGLE MATCH AGAINST Jenny Myst in his entire career.”

Marf knows damn well his ONLY chance at beating me is a cheap sneak attack when I’m not prepared.

Fact: Marf has lost SEVEN of his last EIGHT matches. He’s the LOSINGEST superstar to hold the X-Treme Title in the last year… YES, I’m including Big Preesh in those calculations. STILL FUCKING ACCURATE.

“If Alabama had a face, it would be Marf's. Think we'll let you take out all of your pent-up incel frustration on us? You’re an even uglier, less-talented Post Malone.

”Speaking of… Check out Post Malone’s new documentary on Hulu, Runaway! As in ‘Marf looks like an age-progressed teenage runaway. And he wrestles as if he learned how to fight by throwing bum fights for pocket change’.”

”Marf, when I turn you inside out like a sock puppet tomorrow night, I will take back what is mine. I will expose you for the puddle of stale Jello you really are.”

”Jell-O! Like a loss on Marf’s record, there’s always room for one more!”

"..."

"What? I AM THE XWF BRAND. I gotta squeeze in our sponsors somehow!"

”Speaking of squeezing and Marf's incel energy... Marfy, If you'd pulled your fucking weight on a tag-team… Ol’ Wolfie Ly-Ly might've tossed your bone around her doghouse once-in-a-while… instead of leaving you tugging on your ol’ knotted rope.”

"Do us all a favor, Marf: Kill yourself. Save me the trouble.”

”Haha, holy fuck! …Well,  we just nuked Marf from orbit. Just like we’ll do tomorrow night. Isolate the weak link. Penetrate his defenses. And EVISCERATE HIM.”

"Chuck and Marf probably think the stip is their advantage. They can pin either of us, but if we want the belt, we HAVE to pin Marf."

"NEWS FLASH, CHUMPS: We're going to pummel Marf like a cheap fucking drum."

"And there's not a thing you can do about it.

“I mean, the fuck is Charlie gonna do? How many matches he and Marf have won as a tag-team?”

“ZERO. Hell, Chuck even picked Marfy for his WarGames squad. They went out FIRST and SECOND. Had a 4-2 lead against Dick Powers’ JOB squad and they choked so hard that DOLLY WATERS look like a star by comparison.”

"I'll admit, I thought Charlie was a breath of fresh air in a company that had otherwise gone stale. I had high hopes for The Nickelman, until I realized he wasn't worth his weight in pennies.”

”Fun Fact! Char-Char’s weight in pennies is $523.09. More than he’s ever paid in child support! Sorry, Tyler! Bad Luck, Emily! Hope you’re scholarship material. Daddy gambled your college fund and LOST against a FUCKING SUCCESS STORY™.”

”Charlie isn’t good enough to be Universal Champion, so he settled for the Supercontinental. For someone who loves gold as much as you do, I didn’t think you'd settle for BRONZE.”

”A mid-level belt for a mid-level talent.”

”It shows just how petulant and pathetic you truly are. You’ve gotten your ass kicked so many times by Mark Flynn, it’s comical.

Flynn has your number, Charlie. You wanna know why?

Because you refuse to change.

Ex-fucking-ZACTLY!

Your same old tired shock-value attack, saying whatever you think will get a rise. We’re over it. EVERYONE's over it.

It’s been… TWO YEARS, Chuck. Since you took the XWF by STORM. In two short months… you turned heads. You grabbed the fucking audience by the short-hairs and screamed ‘CHARLIE NICKLES IS A FUCKING STAR’.”

…

“And what happened? 2020 Relentless - On the big boy stage, Lil' Chuckie took a huge dump in your shortpants. And since that day, you’ve been wallowing in a pool of defeat. Growth stunted. You’re a goddamned cartoon character.”

“And just like a cartoon. All the bluster and bravado? The jibber-jabber about your masterplan? Is setup to the punchline. Chuck steps backwards onto fire in an inferno match. Chuck gets dropped on his head by a retired executive. A CONSTANT STREAM of FAILURE. Like those playground insults you call 3D CHESS.”

“How many times are you going to mention the hair thing? We get it. I lost. I got my head shaved. I wore a wig. But hair, unlike your creativity, grows back. You sit stagnant, Nickles.

You get out-shadowed and out performed in a group.”

”The Bastards had an XWF record of 1-4 this year. Including 0-4 in Tag-Title Matches.

Your ass gets kicked when solo.

Chuck is 0-3 in Uni Title matches. 0-4 if I’m supposed to count Demos.

Tell me, Charlie, what have you accomplished? Really?

I’ll field that one, Jen. Let’s address Chuckie’s TWO WHOLE points.

POINT_1: He beat us last month

“No, you didn’t. Like a parasite, you sucked-off a victory Bobby and TK scraped together by exploiting Dolly as the weak link. Just like how we've spent eight minutes torching Marf like a marshmallow over a campfire.”

POINT_2: Chuck > Vaughnie > Flynn

“Vaughnie. A guy I’ve beaten as many times as I beat Chuck. Vaughnie, who had to grab a fistful of fights and dump his feet on the ropes to steal a win. Let’s get honest… SOMEBODY… Maybe James Fuckin’ Raven himself, decided they wanted BIG ratings on WGWF Brawl’s first night... So they RIGGED a match to hand-deliver Vaughn a victory over the MOST-DOMINANT UNIVERSAL CHAMPION OF ALL-TIME.”

“But, since then, Chuck? My game has been perfection. They had to scrub bits of your sidekick Marf off the mat two Savages ago. Last Savage, Dick Powers LITERALLY FUCKING DIED.”

“But. You wanna play the six degrees of failure game, Chuck? Let’s play.”

“You lost to Raion Kido with the Uni Title on-the-line. I became the first superstar to MAKE HIM TAP.”

“You lost your Relentless Uni Title Shot in a fucking EMBARRASSMENT. On the biggest stage of them all, Mark Flynn climbed the FUCKING MOUNTAINTOP AND SHOCKED THE WORLD.”

“You lost FOUR… Count ‘em. FOUR. Different Universal Title Shots.

I.

Needed.

One.”

…Flynn smiles.

“But, see. Even in your LIFETIME of failure. You and Marf, two fucking STOOGES. Identical in style. Two hardcore troglodytes whose idea of wrestling is ULTRA-VIOLENCE. Two idiots with ZERO CHEMISTRY. Too similar combine into a team larger than the sum-of-its-parts.”

“A MEDIOCRE PAIR.”

…

“Forever more, you'll be remembered for something greater. You’ll forever be etched into the history books. THE ANNALS OF LEGEND ITSELF.”

“Because, by striking at juuuuust the right time. In a flukey, temporary victory. Marfy brought together Jenny Myst… a being of entropy and chaos… one that can REND AND TEAR FLESH ASUNDER AT WILL.”

“And Mark Flynn. Whose laser-focus will guide that destruction.”

“Two pieces, fitting together perfectly. Like yin-and-FUCKING-yang.”

“Chuck. Marfy. Congratulations. Through your chaotic, messy, directionless attacks.”

“You brought together the deadliest weapon in the history of this sport.”

“The only problem?”

Flynn sneers. Myst smiles sweetly.

Together, the two point down the barrel of the camera.

“That weapon is about to blow your fucking head off.”

”That violent enough for ya?"