Queenstown, Singapore Last Call Bar

The swirling smoky scent of liquor surrounded Ned, flavoring the air in his lungs with each inhale. It tugged at his nostrils, surging a series of responses long since abandoned. A longing to cravings that had buried for months, grasping at the chance for breath, clawing the secure thoughts away. Ned didn’t usually find himself on this side of the planet, let alone in an environment that sapped at his convictions so heavily. But that’s what he did to keep up with Isaiah and, by extension, Isaiah’s father.

The thought of the Elder King lingered. His callous hands crafting a destiny for a son he had no love for. Ned had barely kept up with this crusade on crime, trying to apply his few months working with the FBI in this vigilante role, but it seemed every week that there was a new level of depravity he had to wallow in just to stop Isaiah from sinking to its depths.

It was a special hell to want better for Isaiah.

Ned’s finger traced across the rim of the glass in front of him, pressing as if to hope to find a sharp sliver to split the flesh. A rupture to the empty numbness of cold hands. Crucible was formed to forge all three of them into something better. Ned was Universal Champion once again. All of them had grown.

So, why didn’t it feel that way?

Shattering plates ringing yanked his thoughts away. Ned felt a surge in his pocket, glancing down to check his phone. A message from Orun’s King. A pit opened inside Kaye’s stomach as he read.

“Change of plans. Someone else will meet you for this assignment. You’ll know him when you see him.”

Ned shoved the phone away, unable to dwell further. This situation was so typical of this entire arrangement. A constant shattering of foundations. Endless testing for a war always in view and never occurring. He watched his glass intently, swallowing it in a single gulp, attempting to drown the overwhelming noise consuming the space around him.

Hushed. Numb.

But not simply within him. Ned looked up, only to hear a pronounced and bizarrely inaccurate Texas accent, the staff and patrons parting for an oversized gallon hat.

“I say, I say, this is a ponderous establishment!”

Ned closed his eyes, silently praying for the voice to pass him by. Spurs jingled against the splintered wood flooring. Kaye’s palms briefly slid past his cheeks, his eyes wide with the dread of confirmation.

“I ain’t never wrangled myself in a corral such as this!” The man announced with unsubtle confidence. The all-white suit was just out of the corner of Ned’s view; its blinding brightness was matched only by the various cow skull trinkets adorning it, obnoxiously polished.

“One sasparillee for meself!” He ordered, waving for the attention of a bartender, as if the words coming out of his mouth made sense to most native English speakers, let alone here. The man turned towards Ned, expressing exaggerated shock.

"Ain't you that thur ‘Ned Kaye’ from the television! I say, I say, I much enjoy your work, Mister Notorious! Perhaps I might offer you a glass of pure Texas oil?"

...

He glanced backward, quickly shifting back once he realized the patrons had already attempted to ignore him, removing his hat and nudging Ned’s shoulder, despite Ned’s gaze locked forward.

"Pst! Ned, it's me! Mark!"

Mark shoved the hat back on his head, embracing conspicuousness in pursuit of its opposite.

----

This is what it’s come to.

Stand-In?

Substitute?

MARK FLYNN. GODDAMN SPOT-FILLER.

…

Lemme remind you.

How many Universal champions have I beaten?

SEVEN of the last ELEVEN. ALMOST 70 PERCENT.

And that number’d be higher…

If One of those Eleven WEREN’T ME.



…

My ELO has been the XWF’s highest.

FOR. MULTIPLE. YEARS.

Check the numbers.



Me? NUMBER ONE.

American Storm?

CELLAR DWELLERS!

…

I.

Am a once-in-a-lifetime…

NO.

ONCE-IN-THE-HISTORY-OF-SPORT-LEVEL-COMPETITOR.

…

And I had to FORCE my way into a Universal Title match.

I had to burn a 24/7 briefcase. Wrestling’s most-prized possession.

THE. GOLDEN. TICKET.

…

Just to *share* a ring with SEB.

And his challenge-ducking ass.

…(bee-tee-dubs?)

(I can’t WAIT to hear SEB call Ned a coward for cashing-in his briefcase…)

(AFTER he called ME a coward for… exchanging mine for a match.)

(What I’m saying is, we all call him SEB because he’s too stupid to spell his full name).

…

Back to the numbers.

Mark Flynn.

ONE title opportunity in 2024.

That management did NOT want to give me.

Compare to…

Latoya and Razor.

Reminder: The WORST and THIRD-WORST XWF stars.

Statistically!!!

…



How many at-bats for Raisins and Latvia?

How many title opportunities?

…

This year?

1/13 → X-Treme shot for Razor

3/14 → R&L get SEPARATE qualifiers for the Revolution

4/6 → TV shot for Razor

4/12 → R&L get battle royal spots for the Revolution

4/20 → TV shot for Latoya

6/2 → Tag-title shot for R&L

6/17 → ANOTHER TV shot for Latoya

…

In 2024?

American Storm had NINE combined title shots in SEVEN MONTHS.

And shot OH-FOR-NINE.

…

So, OF COURSE.

Thaddeus Duke.

The latest MORON to GM Warfare.

Thinks the tag-title #1 contenders?

Should be Ray-Ray and Latté.

Cuz, TENTH TIME’S THE CHARM, RIGHT?!?

And Flynn?

MARK FLYNN… can sub-in.

…

What’s wrong?

Too dry?

Too data-driven?

Am I boring you with COLD, HARD EVIDENCE?

Here’s my dilemma.

I’ve heard through the grapevine.

That Thad watches my promos.

And Thaddy Boy thinks…

MARK FLYNN?

Full of shit.

Twists the facts.

DEE-LOO-SHUN-AL.

…

Thad.

Could you please show me…

WHERE’S THE FUCKING LIE?

SCOUR THE MOUNTAINS OF PROOF.

AND TELL ME I’M DELUSIONAL, YOU STUPID FUCK.

…

Razor and Latoya.

NINE title shots in SEVEN months.

And Mark Flynn had to burn a GODDAMNED BRIEFCASE to get ONE.

THE HIGHEST ELO SUPERSTAR FOR YEEEEEEEEEARS.

Apparently, less worthy than…

Anarchy champion.

Sean Parker.

…

Y’know.

He who lost on the big stage.

And decided he was done with the XWF.

Abandoned his belt.

Called it quits.

Lost his smile.

…

Can we call the Free-For-All Experiment what it is yet?

FAILURE.

I remember hearing, just outside the XWF office…

‘Genius!’

‘Free-For-All!’

‘Anybody can compete! A Uni shot on-the-line!’

And who walked through the XWF’s door?

Cypher! Mark Cross! Spencer Adams! Dickie Watson! Sloane Taylor! Joe Montouri!

And the money-men all thought!

‘Finally!’

‘HUGE NAMES!’

‘The XWF is back!’

…

Fast-forward six months.

Where’d that outside talent go?

Same place they always go.

Out the FUCKING door.

Because this isn’t *their* indie show, where they get standing ovations for being PASSABLE.

This is THE SUMMIT.

THE PEAK.

THE FUCKING MOUNTAINTOP.

And those ‘interfed stars’ that management salivated over?

Couldn’t stomach the high altitude.

Got Vertigo.

Scampered back to their SMALL PONDS.

…

And the XWF?

Better off.

Now?

The crowd’s in for a treat.

Thad, by complete accident, assembled…

THE SINGLE-GREATEST TEAM IN XWF HISTORY.

NED KAYE AND MARK FLYNN.

THE MOST DOMINANT WARGAMES DUO OF ALL-TIME.

We beat Dock/TK!

Bobby/Cunt!

Corey/Dolly!

Sidders/Cent!

WE DECIMATED those teams.

EVISCERATED THEM.

…

Also, Crash Rodriguez was there.

…

You want stars?

UNMATCHED WRESTLING TALENT?

Look no further.

Than Ned Kaye and Mark Flynn.

…

And Thaddy Warbucks.

Stacked THE most-competitive WarGames’s winning pair?

Against…

RAZOR BLADE?!?

And LATOYA HIXX?!?

…

Get ready.

Thaduken tried to book a title match.

Instead?

He scheduled an EXECUTION.

Mark Flynn may be the stand-in tonight.

But American Storm?

Won’t be PHYSICALLY CAPABLE of standing.

EVER.

AGAIN.

-----


“There I was!” Flynn declares, raising his glass enthusiastically, like a sailor spinning a big fish story…

“Burlap sack over my face!”

“Blade to my throat!”

“And! A VETPLUS cattleprod, directed at my netherds!”

…

“Now!” Flynn sets down his ‘Texas oil’… “I know what you’re thinking, Nederick!”

“Flynn, there’s a Burlap sack over your face… How do you know the cattleprod’s brand?”

“You’re thinking that, right?”

…

Ned stares at Flynn. “No. I wasn’t thinking that. At all.”

“Well, the flexible shaft’s unique to VETPLUS… And, based on Prod Guy’s steady hand? He was holding a VETPLUS anti-slip handle! Made of polyureth-”

“Proceed.” Ned delivers a ‘get-on-with-it’ finger twirl.

…Flynn’s eyes twitches, irritated to be rushed through a gripping tale about cattleprod grips.

…But, he cheerily smiles.

“So, I’m assuming these guys are ‘federales’, right? Alphabet boys. American? North Korean? I’ve burnt bridges with both, I figure the arson bill’s come due… But, lo-and-behold! They say, if I don’t wanna meet my maker, I gotta work a gig…”

“With NED KAYE!”

Flynn smacks his knee!

“LAND SAKES, GINGER-NED MAN! To rustle some outlaws with my ol’ com-pa-dre?!? I nearly leapt outta my skin boardin’ their plane!” Flynn smiles ear-to-ear, lifting his mug! “Hopped higher than a June-Bug in Joplin!”

Ned squints, perplexed as Flynn guzzles ‘Texas oil’.

“It’s…” Ned purses his lips, proceeding carefully. “Been a while, Mark. You’ve…” Ned gestures up-and-down at Flynn’s snow-white cowboy outfit. “Changed.”

“I’m IN-CHARACTER, NED.” Flynn removes the cowboy hat. Like wearing it somehow obscures his identity.

“Right.” Ned nods with aplomb, as if he’s successfully navigated a lost ship back-on-course. “Which brings me back to my first question. WHY are you dressed like that?”

Flynn squints.

“Nederino! We’re on a classic Kaye-and-Flynn ‘hero’-ey mission! You always need a master-of-disguise!”

“...Pardon?”

Flynn strokes his beard, his blazer’s tassels waving along his arm. “Tex Oilman!” Flynn resumes his southern patois! “I figger you could use a dig-nee-fied businessman like muhself. One that might be willin’ tah drop CHIPS playing poker at this here establishment! Size up the local color! Gather intel! All-incognito-like!”

…Ned exhales. “Mark, I-”

“ERGH! I’m SO AMPED to team-up!” Flynn rubs his hands together. “I’ve been trapped in my own head for MONTHS, Neddy-Bear! I NEED some HERO SHIT! I even brought this…”

Flynn snags from his backpocket…



“...Difficult Riddles for Smart Kids?”

Flynn flicks the book’s cover. “Yeah!”

“...Why’d you bring that?”

“…In case we encounter a Riddle Guy? Obviously?”

“...Riddle guy?”

“Picture this! We’re in the villain’s lair… Searching for THE THING!”

“...The… thing?”

“And outside the treasure room is… A RIDDLE GUY! Asking what walks on four legs, then two, then three!”

…

“Or TWO guys, one liar, one truther!”

“…Truther?”

“OR! Like… brothers-and-sisters, I ain’t got ‘em… But… that guy’s…”

…Flynn squints, his eyes trailing up-and-right.

“He’s his own dad or something. Don’t remember. BUT!” Flynn waves his book. “That’s what the book’s for! Bad guys ALWAYS secure their precious THINGS with third-grade logic puzzles!”

“And the bookmark?” Flynn slips out a colorful paper sheet, covered in syrup.

“Denny’s kids’ menu! For planning our post-mission breakfast!” Flynn taps his head, like ‘see, thought of everything!’

…

“Mark. First, I would not describe this as heroic.”

…Flynn pffs loudly.

“Classic Flanders. Too humble to dub himself a hero. I getcha.” Flynn puffs out his chest. “We don’t do the right thing for praise or applause! We do it because…” Flynn extends his hand toward Ned, expectantly.

…

“Second. W-”

“Because it’s the right thing to do! Like you said in Tokyo!” Flynn raises his glass. “Cheers to that!” He swigs another ‘Texas-sized’ gulp.

…

“Second. We’re not ‘gathering intel’ or ‘getting a THING’... We’re here to… ‘Send a Message’.” Ned stares down at the bar. “Someone pissed off Orun’s King. Now, we’re sitting in their establishment. And, momentarily, we’ll be fighting them.”

Ned recounts this like a grocery list. This fight’s as dull and unavoidable as ‘bread, milk, eggs…’

“Okay, fine, yes. BUT! Intel’s still key! Currently, WE have the advantage! WE know there’ll be a fight, Nedders! They don't!"

…

"...Yes, they do, Mark." Ned tilts his head towards the bar’s corner.

Mark’s fingers twist his beard whiskers, before obliging with a surreptitious side-eye.

A table of criminal scum and vicious mobsters circled Mark and Ned. Eyes fixed. Some sharpening knives… others actively loading their firearms.

The boss at the table’s head stares daggers as his underlings prepare for combat.

"Great hornytoads!" Mark mutters. "We've been made! When’d that happen?"

"Venturing a guess? Some time *after* the ang mo entered..." Ned points at himself.

“Ang mo?”

“Hokkien slur for ‘white guy’.”

“They call us that?” Flynn’s eyes widen, aghast. “Only WE call each other that!”

“...No, we don’t! You just found out it exists!”

“Exactly! We’re reclaiming it!”

…

“Anyway, they made us sometime *after* I showed up… And sometime *before* the appearance of Homeless Colonel Sanders."

"We-..."

...

Flynn's eyes narrow, preparing to summon a vicious retort.

...

"I got nothing. Touché."

Ned glances backward.

The target whispers something to his leftmost crony…

Then, his rightmost stooge.

Crony slides on brass knuckles.

Stooge disappears into the back alley.

Ned finishes his glass of tap water, nodding at Flynn.

“It’s time.”

…Flynn cracks his knuckles.

…

“...Okay, last thing.”

“Mark. He just sent for reinforcements.”

“ONE question, Ned!”

“…Shoot.”

“Why are we here?”

“I just said! To deliver a message from King Orun.”

“Yeah, yeah, Papa Prince, fine. But… what’re WE here for?"

...Ned squints.

“Like, what did THEY do?" Flynn raises his fist, smiling. "If I'm saying 'This one's for justice', I should know exactly what justice sub-type we're delivering! ...Are they arsonists? Human traffickers?"

...Flynn's eyes widen!

"JAYWALKERS?!?"

“...I don’t know.”

Ned really didn’t. It hadn’t occurred to him. He’d spent so much time trying to be what Isaiah needed him to be that he hadn’t considered the toll it took on himself. No time to. In the absence of purpose, he had slotted into what circumstance necessitated. The same feeling he expressed to Darcy in Vatican City. It tore at him, shredding his insides, yet he couldn’t be bothered to hurt. Like a hammer being smashed against a nail. No pain, merely unfeeling purpose.

...Flynn strokes his chin. "Make my own motivation, then?"

...Flynn snaps.

"Software pirates."

Flynn points at the gangster rabble, standing and squaring up!

"LOOK! A DONKEY KONG COUNTRY ROM IN HIS COAT!"

KERASH! Flynn smashes his glass against the bar, taunting the ruffians walking their way!

"DON'T STEAL VIDEO GAMES, SINGAPOREAN CRIMINALS! YOU WOULDN'T STEAL A BABY! IT'S THE SAME THING!"

"They don't speak English, Mark."

“Oh.” Flynn clears his throat. “电子游戏盗版和绑架是同等犯罪.”

…

“You can speak Mandarin?”

“ANG MOH!” One gangster calls out among the gathering mob, pointing bats and lead pipes… ITCHING to fight.

“THAT’S OUR WORD!”

“Mark.” Ned barks, rising from the bar, lifting his fists. “Get your head together.”

Flynn grins, removing his cowboy hat and blazer. “Ned, relax. Have fun.”

“It’s another classic Flynn-and-Ned adventure!”

FOUR HOURS LATER…

…

“Ned.”

“That was NOT a classic Flynn-and-Ned adventure.”

The bar had become silent as a grave.

Around the bar lay the unconscious bodies of maimed criminals…

Most surfaces drenched in blood.

As were Flynn and Ned…

Flynn’s spotless white cowboy getup was drenched in spatter…

His hand tremors, distraught from the depraved, vicious, all-out slaughter…

…

Ned…

Feels nothing.

He quietly walks around the room to a few of the unaffiliated still around saying the one phrase he learned.

“Please get them to a hospital.”

Ned checked the pulses, relieved to see that none of the people he had put a hand on had the flicker of life smothered. An emotion he kept at bay. He sat back next to Mark after clinically checking over the people around them.

…

“Th… That one guy? I had his… Well, not ‘friend’, clearly. But, I had somone in a chokehold? And he just… He just cut his…”

…

Flynn dry-swallows, disgusted.

…

“And that one guy! Just walked in and SPRAY-FIRED? He didn’t even LOOK! HE STARTED FIRING BEFORE HE WALKED IN!”

“Let’s not discuss it.”

…

Ned glances at his phone.

King Orun sent a ‘checkmark’. Job complete.

“Transport’s en route.”

…

“No riddle guy.”

“...What?”

“There was no riddle guy, Ned.”

“...No. Clearly.”

…

“There was that one guy, who dropped in from the ceiling.”

“Who?”

“The little rail-thin dude, all dressed in questionmark spandex?”

“...Oh. Yeah, him.”

“But, he wasn’t a riddle guy. The only thing he got riddled with was BULLETS, NEDDLESWORTH!”

…

Flynn’s hands pounded the bar!

“What was his deal even! What was he here doing?”

“No clue. Survival, I guess?”

“...He didn’t match anyone else! My train of thought was ‘Violence, violence… Question-mark-spandex-guy? Where’d he get the outfit? Does he have his own tail-DEAD!”

Flynn’s hand spread in the air! “SO MUCH BLOOD! The real riddle’s for the coroner… Cuz he’s gotta reassemble teeth like a 3D puzzle to even TRY using dental records!”

…

“Did he have riddles!?! I’ll never know! The only riddle I have now is WHAT KIND OF GOD WOULD LET THAT SEQUENCE OF EVENTS HAPPEN?!?”

…

“Yeah.”

…

…Flynn’s hands shake as he reaches into his backpocket… Opening his child-friendly riddles book, CAKED with blood and bile.

“I'm in no mood for a brain-teaser.”

Flynn pulls out the paper menu, dropping the book to the floor.

Flynn spreads the menu on the bar…

…

“Mark, you’re hungry? Now?”

…

“...No.” Flynn mutters.

Still, he stares down at the menu.

…

“Ned?”

“...Yes, Mark?”

…Flynn slides it closer to Kaye… pointing to the Funny Face combo.

A chocolate-chip shortstack. Whipped-cream smile. Cherry eyes.

…Ned grimaces.

“I’m not feeling Denny’s tonight.”

Flynn points again.

"You ever realize... How much pain is behind those eyes?”

“...The pancakes’?”

“Yeah.”

Flynn raises the menu to Ned’s face.

…

"...No, Mark, I don’t see pain in the eyes of those chocolate pancakes."

…Flynn checks himself.

“It’s there. Why would that smile be genuine? What does *he* have to be happy about? He's about to die."

"He’s about to die… and he's never even lived. He's a stack of three pancakes. What's the smile for?"

...

"Maybe he's laughing at God's cruel joke making him."

"Good one, God. You sure showed me. A stack of three pancakes that just wanted to make a child smile.”

…

“Well.” Ned grabs his glass, squeezing it for support. “Maybe next time they try to rope you in, you can skip town.”

…

Flynn turns his head to look at Ned.

“...No.”

Flynn shakes his head.

“I’ll… *phew*...I’ll always come running, Ned October.”

…

“But… things have changed since Tokyo, huh?”

…

“Yeah.”

…

“Last mission… When it was you, me and Zay?”

“You were a green-as-gooseshit BOY SCOUT. Someone that’d offer a grandmother his BROKEN ARM to help her cross the street.”

Ned rolls his eyes at Flynn’s assessment.

“The guy that insisted everyone could be saved.”

…

Ned’s phone chimes.

“Transport’s three minutes out.”

…

“How’s the Uni feel?”

“Fine.”

…

“Y’know… I almost cashed-in onya.”

…

“What?”

“The briefcase I burned last month?”

“I almost used it on your first reign.”

…

“Well, ‘almost’, as in ‘thought about it’.”

“Right after I beat SEB one-on-one…”

“I let myself think…”

“Should I cash-in on Ned?”

“It’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

…

“And I couldn’t sleep.”

“For WEEKS.”

“I felt guilty I even CONCEIVED the idea.”

“Because what would Ned think?”

“After all those people told him how stupid he was for trusting me?”

“Little mental countdowns, awaiting the day Flynn betrays Ned?”

“...I told myself.”

“Ned’d want you to do it right.”

“So, I didn’t cash-in on you.”

“I didn’t cash-in on SEB.”

“I exchanged it for a bonafide match.”

“Like I imagined you’d do.”

…

Ned’s eyes narrow.

“If you’re saying I disappointed you, th-”

“No! No, Nedders.” Flynn emphatically rejects that notion.

“You couldn’t disappoint me.” Flynn sniffs, trying to regain his composure. “You’re not a kid. You’re a man. You’re the champ.”

…

“I just…” Flynn exhales. “I think I’m reconciling the difference between who you are. And who I thought you were.”

…

“And… I’m… I’m glad. We’re pals, Ned. Amigos. I’d rather know the real you than keep some fake mental picture of who you aren’t.”

“I’m…” Flynn retches, holding up a finger… Before regaining his composure. “I’m glad we did this.”

…

Flynn gestures toward the horror show behind them. “Not THIS, specifically. But… y’know.”

…

And like a dam’s foundation breaking from the weight behind it, tears forced their way from Ned’s eyes, his breath becoming shaky and erratic, his body nearly falling from the pain.

“I didn’t want any of this! I try so goddamn hard to help people. That’s all I wanted to do was help Isaiah, Mark. To help you! To be the person everyone needs and I just keep being reminded of all the ways I fail… I try so hard, Mark. I don’t want to let anyone down and I just keep doing it. I keep-”

“I keep becoming me again.”

Mark silently hugged his friend as the tears rushed out, patting his back as he reassured him.

“Let’s get home, ang mo.”

The tonedeaf comment rumbled in Ned’s chest. Laughter breaking through the tears. Respite.

“Shut up, Mark.”

------

“Dreams.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about dreams lately.”

“The man who dreamed to be number one. The man who strived to climb any mountain at any time. Who dared to. Who dreamt of an audience celebrating alongside him once he returned to the place he dreamt himself at.”

“But that’s not where I awoke. I woke up with the Universal Championship in my hands and a world that seemed to hate me for getting it again. And so much of that started with you two, American Storm. Who shouted my name in the same breath as some horrid villain, some vile monster holding the Tag Team Championships hostage. And they cheered you and booed me.”

“They cheered you for it.”

“After Isaiah and I fought off the Bastards and beat them clean, something the former Universal and X-Treme champions failed to do! After defending this championship against Pantheon and even against you two! I poured my life into ensuring that the spirit of collaboration and ferocity this division deserves was honored while you waltzed out with hacky one-liners and cliche after cliche. Playing a game of madlibs more than talking to anyone. So, let me do what I’ve always attempted to and set an example for.”

“Latoya, Razor. Your crusade for these belts is over. It has been over for a long time, not for lack of trying. Mark thinks that you two are jokes and beneath him and everything at his level, including me, but that’s not what I see when I watch you two. I see passion, intent, and persistence. I see two people who could ascend to great heights, but bolt a ceiling on their rise because they’re too busy being marketable to be good. People’ll cheer you, remember you, and buy your shirts because they believe in that hope that you’ll it. And that hope is powerful. I hope you never have to watch it fade.”

“But it’s illusory. Something that you can hold, but not grasp. For the first time ever, I have to teach people to temper their hopes. And that’s uniquely painful for me. I want you to prove me wrong. I want for reality to shift and crack the ground beneath your feet, but you’re so busy trying to get tag title shots and not busy trying to win tag matches. And that hubris, that sheer lack of priorities is frustrating. Knocking on management’s door for a shot at these belts when we both know that you haven’t put in the honest work to try and synergize. You two might be tagging, but you’re not a team. You’re reflections of each other, limply going through the motions of this sport without chershing them for what they are. For what this is.”

“Reality is closing in. Your tenacity for trying to get these championships running into a level of talent and discipline you are not ready to absorb. Like trying to drink from a brick wall.”

“Get ready for the morning, American Storm.”